and I will hold on to you

You laughed softly before sending back a GIF of a woman's dress sliding down her legs. Then you locked your phone again. You'd be lying if you said it didn't make you feel things in your lower belly. Things you thought were dead before you met Reid.

The bell announced that break was over, so you cleared your throat, trying to compose yourself, and opened the classroom door to welcome your students back.

Spencer Reid remembered everything, especially when it came to you. He remembered that your favorite flowers were pink roses, that you only wore gold-colored jewelry, that you hated the smell of cigarettes and open-toed shoes, that if you could, you'd eat only pasta, and that your favorite animals were sharks. The last one still puzzled him.

On Saturday, he picked up Theo to drive him to JJ's. He watched as the boy hugged you extra tightly, promising he'd behave and call you before bed. You waved at them before heading back upstairs to get ready.

You picked out a nice baby-pink dress that hugged your curves just right, beige heels, curled your hair, and used your more expensive eyeshadows and lipstick.

You stood in front of the mirror for a moment longer than necessary, smoothing your hands over the soft fabric of the dress. There had been a time when getting ready felt more like an obligation than something enjoyable. Back then, you'd throw on whatever looked acceptable and leave it at that. Tonight was different. Tonight you found yourself actually excited. Excited to spend time with Spencer, excited to see what he'd planned, excited to catch the look on his face when he saw you. It wasn't really about the dress or the makeup. It was about feeling seen. About knowing there was someone waiting downstairs who would look at you like you were the most beautiful woman in the world, no matter what you wore.

"Baby? Are you ready?" Spencer called from the hall when he got back. He was dressed in a white shirt and suit jacket, dark slacks, and shiny shoes instead of his usual Converse.

"Wow," he mumbled the moment he saw you coming down the stairs.

"You like it?" you asked with a smile.

He nodded, his brain turning to mush.

"I love it," he finally said, taking your hand and helping you down the last few steps.

"Where are we going?" you asked after kissing him.

"Surprise. But you'll like it. I promise."

Once the two of you arrived at the parking lot, you looked outside, confused.

"Did we just get dressed up for a zoo?" you asked, staring at him.

Spencer only smirked and helped you out of the car without saying a word.

You looked at him again, more closely this time, but you weren't a profiler. You couldn't tell what he was hiding behind that expression.

A staff member greeted you and introduced himself before leading you inside through a side entrance. After a short walk through several corridors, you ended up in the aquarium section.

"Spencer, what's go—"

You froze the moment you saw what he'd arranged.

In the middle of the glass sea tunnel, surrounded by little sharks, were pink roses—at least four dozen of them—and a small dinner table.

"Surprise," he whispered into your ear.

You automatically followed him to the table, looking around in awe.

"You like it?" he asked, focused entirely on your face, wanting to make sure he'd done well.

"Like it? Spencer, I love it so much!" you yelped, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him.

He smiled against your lips before helping you into your seat.

"What's the occasion?" you asked after a moment, still looking around in amazement, especially when a small shark swam directly above your head.

"No occasion. I just wanted to do something nice for you."

The lie rolled off his tongue easily as the waitress served you pasta with your favorite cheese and broccoli sauce.

"Oh my God. I love you even more now," you sighed, picking up your fork.

"How was your day?" he asked eventually, and the two of you slipped into an easy conversation.

You were in the middle of a story about Theo chasing chickens around your parents' farm the moment he learned to walk when dessert arrived.

You looked at the chocolate and strawberry cake and nearly missed it.

Nearly.

You had to look again once your brain caught up with your eyes, stopping you mid-sentence.

There, written in neat white frosting, were four words you'd dreamed of seeing one day.

Will you marry me?

For a second, the entire world seemed to freeze.

The gentle music faded into the background. The movement of people somewhere beyond the tunnel disappeared. Even the sharks gliding above your head became nothing more than blurred shadows in your peripheral vision.

Your eyes stayed fixed on the cake.

Your heart was suddenly pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

No.

No way.

Slowly, almost afraid that looking away would somehow make the words disappear, you turned your head toward Spencer.

He wasn't sitting in his chair anymore.

Spencer had dropped to one knee beside you.

A soft gasp escaped your lips.

"Spence..."

His laugh came out nervous and breathless.

"Please. I-I do have a speech."

That was when you noticed it.

The slight tremble in his hands.

The way his shoulders were just a little too stiff.

The nervous smile he was trying very hard to maintain.

Spencer Reid—the man who could stand in front of serial killers and negotiate with terrorists without blinking—looked terrified.

And somehow that made your eyes sting even more.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small black velvet box.

Your breath caught.

When he opened it, the ring caught the aquarium lights immediately.

It wasn't the typical single diamond on a band. He knew you well enough to know you didn't like that style. This ring was unmistakably you.

A simple gold band.

Six small diamonds.

A sapphire surrounded by delicate stones that made the entire design resemble an eye.

Elegant.

Unique.

Beautiful.

Perfect.

The realization hit you all at once.

He hadn't just bought a ring.

He had chosen your ring.

He had paid attention to every casual comment, every passing remark, every time you'd pointed out jewelry in a shop window and said what you liked or disliked.

Of course he had.

Spencer always listened.

"From the moment I met you," he began quietly, "I knew I wanted you permanently in my life. It was like my heart had known you forever and my brain just needed time to catch up."

Fresh tears gathered in your eyes.

Across the table, blue light from the aquarium glass danced across his face, making his eyes look even brighter.

"I know I'm a lot sometimes," he continued with a small smile. "Sometimes too much. Sometimes not enough."

You immediately shook your head.

He smiled at the gesture before continuing.

"But what I can promise is that I'll love and cherish you every day for the rest of my life."

His voice grew steadier with every word.

"I want everything with you."

The tears finally slipped down your cheeks.

"I want to watch Theo grow up. I want to help him with homework. I want to embarrass him when he's a teenager. I want to teach him how to drive and be there for every milestone he'll ever have."

You covered your mouth with your hand.

Spencer's eyes softened.

"And I want all of that because it means I get to do it with you."

A tear rolled down his own cheek now.

"I want Sunday mornings making breakfast together. I want movie nights on the couch. I want vacations and arguments over what color to paint the walls. I want grocery shopping and school pickups and every ordinary moment in between."

His voice cracked.

"I want to grow old with you."

You could barely breathe.

"I want gray hair and wrinkles and reading glasses. I want to be eighty years old and still reaching for your hand without thinking about it."

A watery laugh escaped you.

Spencer laughed too, shaking his head.

"Honestly, I want every version of our future."

His eyes locked onto yours.

"And I don't care if it's perfect. I just want it to be ours."

The tears were flowing freely down your face now.

"Will you marry me?" he asked softly.

Then his expression turned hopeful and nervous all at once.

"Please?"

You stared at him for half a second longer.

At the man who had loved you so completely.

The man who loved your son like he was his own.

The man who remembered every tiny thing about you and made you feel cherished every single day.

The answer had never been in question.

"Yes."

Your voice came out shaky.

You laughed through your tears.

"Yes. Of course I'll marry you."

Relief flooded his face so quickly it almost made you laugh again.

You reached for him immediately, cupping his cheeks in your trembling hands before pulling him into a kiss.

The moment your lips met, Spencer smiled.

A real smile.

The kind that transformed his entire face.

The kind you knew you'd never forget.

When he finally slid the ring onto your finger, you noticed his hands were still shaking.

Only now, they were shaking from happiness.

"I'm so happy you said yes," he whispered.

You looked at him like he was ridiculous.

"Of course I said yes, honey. How could I not?"

His laugh was wet with emotion.

"You're the best man I've ever met," you continued, brushing away one of his tears with your thumb. "And I can't wait to grow old with you."

For a moment neither of you spoke.

You simply sat there together beneath the drifting shadows of sharks and the soft blue glow of the water, staring at each other as though nothing else in the world existed.

Spencer happily let you take a trillion pictures of the ring, him with the ring, the cake, and the entire setup.

But he knew he wouldn't need any of them.

The look on your face when you agreed to marry him was already burned into his memory forever.

On the drive home, you couldn't stop staring at the beautiful stone on your finger as it sparkled beneath the streetlights. It was, by far, the most beautiful ring you'd ever seen.

Spencer, however, decided that you looked best when the ring was the only thing you were wearing, as he reminded you three separate times that night just how much he loved you.

The next day, the two of you drove together to pick up Theo.

From the interaction between JJ and Spencer, you assumed he hadn't told her exactly what he'd planned, only that the two of you needed a night to yourselves.

You kept your hand hidden in Spencer's back pocket so you wouldn't spoil the surprise too early.

On the drive home, you half-listened to Theo's story about pizza night with the boys—and how corn was okay on pizza if there was salami, but broccoli was awful in every form. He also told you how Uncle Will had read them a bedtime story about flying dinosaurs.

You nodded and smiled at the appropriate moments, letting Spencer handle most of the follow-up questions.

Internally, you prepared yourself to break the news to your little boy, wondering how he'd react.

You knew he loved Spencer.

But would he be happy that it was about to become permanent?

Once you got home, you stopped your son before he could run upstairs.

"Theo, sweetheart, can you sit on the couch? Spencer and I need to talk to you about something."

He looked up at you, worry immediately appearing in his eyes as he walked into the living room.

He sat down, and you and Spencer took seats on either side of him.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked eventually.

You shook your head with a small smile.

"Not that I know of."

You squeezed his hand reassuringly.

He nodded but still looked uncertain.

"Remember when I told you that you and your mama are my family?" Spencer asked.

Theo nodded.

"Well, last night while you were at Auntie JJ's, I asked your mom to marry me. And she said yes. So how would you feel if we got married? We'd be husband and wife, just like Uncle Will and Auntie JJ."

You shot Spencer a grateful smile.

Theo looked at him, then at you, and then back at Spencer.

His small eyebrows furrowed as he processed the information.

"So..." he started slowly.

You could practically see the wheels turning inside his head.

"You'd be like my second dad?"

The question hung in the air.

Your breath caught.

You immediately looked at Spencer.

Neither of you had discussed this possibility.

Last night had been a whirlwind of tears, kisses, and celebration. On the drive home, you'd been so worried Theo might be upset by the news that you'd never even considered he might ask something like this.

For a second, Spencer simply stared at him.

The usually eloquent genius looked completely speechless.

You watched a dozen emotions flash across his face.

Surprise.

Hope.

Disbelief.

And then something deeper.

Something so raw it made your chest ache.

Because suddenly you realized this wasn't just a question for Theo.

It was a question Spencer had probably never allowed himself to ask.

Not out loud.

Not even in his own head.

He loved Theo fiercely. Anyone could see that.

He showed up for every school event he could attend. He helped with homework. He knew Theo's favorite cartoons, his favorite snacks, and exactly how many stuffed animals he insisted on sleeping with.

He loved him.

But he had always been careful.

Careful not to overstep.

Careful not to assume.

Careful not to take a place that wasn't his.

"If you want me to be," Spencer finally said, his voice quieter than usual, "then it would be the greatest honor of my life."

Theo stared at him.

"Really?"

Spencer nodded immediately.

"Really."

The little boy looked down at his hands for a moment.

When he spoke again, his voice was small.

"So you wouldn't leave?"

The question hit like a punch to the chest.

You saw Spencer physically freeze.

Theo kept looking at his lap.

"My other dad left," he admitted softly. "So... if you're my dad too, you won't leave, right?"

Silence filled the room.

Your heart shattered.

Spencer's eyes immediately filled with tears.

Without hesitation, he shifted forward on the couch until he was closer to Theo.

"No, buddy," he said gently.

His voice cracked.

"No. I won't."

Theo finally looked up.

Spencer swallowed hard.

"I can't promise that life will always be easy. Sometimes people have to travel for work. Sometimes things happen that we can't control."

He reached over and took one of Theo's small hands in both of his.

"But I can promise that I'll always come back."

A tear slipped down Spencer's cheek.

"I can promise that I love you."

Another tear followed.

"And I can promise that as long as you'll have me, I'll be here."

Theo stared at him for a few seconds.

Then another.

The room felt impossibly quiet.

Finally, a huge smile spread across the boy's face.

The kind that started in his eyes before reaching the rest of him.

"I do," he said immediately.

Spencer blinked.

"I do what?"

Theo laughed.

"I'll have you."

That was it.

That was the moment Spencer completely broke.

A laugh escaped him at the same time a tear rolled down his cheek.

You were crying now too.

Theo didn't seem to notice.

Or maybe he did and simply didn't care.

He launched himself off the couch and straight into Spencer's arms.

"Can I call you Dad now?" he asked as he wrapped both arms around his neck.

Spencer made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

You'd never seen him look happier.

Not once.

Not even last night when you said yes.

His arms immediately wrapped around Theo.

"You can call me Dad right now," he whispered.

Theo grinned.

"Great."

He squeezed Spencer tighter.

"Because you're already the best dad ever."

Spencer buried his face in the boy's shoulder for a second, trying and failing to pull himself together.

When he finally looked up again, his eyes were red.

"And you're already the best son ever."

Theo beamed.

Then, because he was eight and emotionally devastating one second and completely normal the next, he pulled back just enough to ask:

"So does this mean I can tell people I have two dads now?"

Spencer laughed through his tears.

"If you want to."

Theo nodded seriously.

"Cool."

Then he hugged him again.

Just because he could.

And watching them together, you realized something that made your eyes fill all over again.

Neither of them had been waiting for permission to love each other.

The bullpen was humming with chatter and the sounds of printers – nothing out of the ordinary. The morning sun has just risen past the windows, casting a golden filter over the room. Spencer loves this lighting. The way the case files glow metallic instead of just brown. The way the sunglow swirls in the pattern on the carpet under his feet. Sometimes, someone would even turn off the harsh fluorescent lights during this time, allowing him to properly bask in the shades of honey.

She and Spencer went to their favorite coffee shop before work, something they do at least three times a week. He’s just finished his last sip when he looks over at her and sees the way the sun refracts off her hair, painting golden streaks throughout it. She’s laughing with Penelope, and he can’t help but think that she looks like an angel.

His cheeks flush at the thought, and he averts his gaze from the side of her head. He shouldn’t think things like that. She’s his best friend. His best friend, who definitely doesn’t see him as anything more than a coworker she grabs coffee with and sometimes joins for movie nights.

Their moments together are the highlight of his week. The moment she leaves his apartment after a movie, a countdown begins in his head for the next Thursday night – hoping and praying she won’t be too busy to accompany him again. So, how could he tell her that he’s in love with her? It could ruin everything; he could completely lose her as a friend.

Spencer just can’t help himself from dreaming, though. She looks so beautiful all of the time, but especially in the golden morning light. Spencer loves this time of day, but he also hates it for how it illuminates his feelings for her. He tilts his head upward to take just one more glance at her, but freezes and jerks his gaze to the other direction when he meets her eyes. Great, now she knows you’re staring at her like a complete weirdo.

“Damn, Pretty Boy…” Derek approaches from behind him, and he jumps at the intrusion.

Turning around to look at him, he replies, “What?” 

Derek flicks his eyes up and nods his head in the direction of her, “You’ve got it bad.”

Spencer clears his throat and diverts his attention back to his desk, hoping to hide his increasingly darkening cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Everyone knows what I’m talking about. It’s getting kinda sad to watch.”

“It’s not sad.” He quickly retorts, “It can’t be anything, because there is no thing.”

Derek chuckles and raises his eyebrows, but Spencer wouldn’t know about the latter since he’s still pretending to work on a case he’s already finished. “No thing? So you weren’t just staring at the side of her head for the past hour?”

“That’s an overexaggeration.” He insists.

“Oh, so you weren’t deep in thought, imagining your future tiny geniuses?” Penelope appears in front of Spencer’s desk, and he has no choice but to drop his head onto the wood.

Voice muffled, he declares, “No! I was not!”

“C’mon, Babygirl,” Spencer naively believes Derek is going to defend him, before he adds on, “You know he has to mentally plan their wedding first!” The larger man reaches out to ruffle his hair, but Spencer snaps his head back up just in time to dodge it.

“I am not mentally planning anything, there is no planning, there is no thing!” He can hear his own desperation in his voice, and he’s sure he sounds a little hysterical.

“Okay, if you’re so insistent that it’s completely nothing, I’ll just go tell her that you’ve been crushing on her for months. No harm done if it’s not real, right?” Derek shifts his feet to face her desk and makes a few slow steps toward her.

Spencer’s face falls, his blood runs cold, “You wouldn’t.”

Even Penelope tells him, “Alright, let's not do that…” and tries to stop his movement by tugging his arm.

Derek slips out of her hold with ease, “I’m helping him! I’ll be his Cupid.” He then winks at the two of them. 

He’s getting closer and closer to her desk, and Spencer’s heart is beating closer and closer to his throat. Spencer looks at Penelope with a wild look in his eyes, and she gives him her best empathetic look while shrugging, conveying I tried.

Spencer rises from his chair, warningly saying, “Derek, don’t.”

But Derek keeps going, calling her name as he approaches her desk. Spencer’s feet are frozen to the floor, and the terrified look he sends Penelope tugs at her heartstrings. But there’s nothing they can do; Derek has already started talking to the woman Spencer’s been pining over since he first saw her.

Without thinking or realizing it, Spencer’s fight-or-flight kicks in and chooses flight. He bolts between the desks and jumps directly onto Derek’s back, wrapping his arms around his neck.

“What the – Reid!” Derek exclaims.

“Spencer?” His best friend inquires.

“Spencer!” Penelope calls from across the bullpen.

“I said, please! Do not tell her!” Spencer squeaks.

“Kid, get off me!” Derek attempts to pry Spencer’s body off his own, but it’s difficult to do so with the lanky man wrapped around him like a baby koala. 

People are starting to stare. Anderson peeks up from his desk at the ruckus, Emily speed-walks out of the break room, and even Hotch is peering through his office blinds. 

Derek successfully loosens the grip around his neck, but doing so sends Spencer’s body falling straight to the floor.  

He first lands on his back, which knocks the wind out of him, then his head bounces off the floor like a ping-pong ball. His eyes squeeze closed, he reaches up to his head with both arms, and he shifts onto his side in a fetal position.

Derek squats next to his crumpled body, “Jesus Christ, Reid, are you okay?!” 

Spencer attempts to nod, but the sharp pain on the back of his skull prevents him from doing so. He’s dizzy and trying to recall what he knows about concussions. Unbeknownst to him, a large group of his coworkers has circled around him.

Penelope hovers over him, “Spencer! Oh my god!”

Then, an angelic voice swirls in his ears, “Spencer? What happened?”

“I hit my head.” He mumbles, eyes still squished shut.

Delicate fingers meet his cupped hands on the curve of his skull. He focuses on how nice they feel on his skin – warm and soft.

“Can I see?” The angelic voice asks. He thinks he’d do anything that voice asked of him, no matter if it was dangerous or nefarious. So, he eases his grip.

He winces as the delicate fingers brush over the sore spot on his head, whining softly. 

“Oh, thank God, he’s not bleeding,” Penelope exclaims.

“He probably needs some ice,” JJ suggests.

“I’ll go and get it for him.” The angelic voice announces. 

“Wait…” Spencer slowly opens his eyes and flinches at the brightness. He blinks repeatedly as he tries to make sense of his surroundings. He lays eyes on his best friend kneeling beside him; the sunrays backlight her body, painting a halo around her. She really is an angel, he thinks.

“Hey, honey. How’re you feeling?”

Oh my god, she called me honey.

“You look like an angel.” He murmurs while reaching toward her hair, making her cheeks feel warm. His hand lands firmly against her head, not forcefully, just in a way that showed his current struggle with depth perception.

She looks around at the audience that has surrounded them, debating how to tell them all to leave Spencer alone. Penelope notices her imploring gaze and starts shooing everyone away, “The genius is alive! Let’s give him some space!”

Noticing that his pupils are slightly dilated, she shifts her body to shield the sunrays from shining in his face. 

Spencer suddenly realizes that he’s lying on the dirty floor and tries to sit up rapidly.

“Woah, let me help you.” She wraps a hand around his elbow and guides him to a seated position.

The movement sends a searing pain through his skull, but he insists, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine, Spence…” She gently disagrees. “Please, let me help you get some ice.”

“Okay,” Spencer agrees, so she hooks an arm around his waist and slowly pulls him to his feet. His legs wobble for a moment, like Bambi on ice. 

Slowly, but surely, they make it to the break room, and she ushers him into a chair. He’s eerily quiet while she gets a makeshift ice pack for him – a plastic baggie full of ice with paper towels wrapped around it. She feels a little like a school nurse.

Sitting across from him, she gingerly hands him the bag and gestures that he place it on his crown. Spencer follows her instructions, maintaining an eerie silence. He’s pretty certain that he’s not concussed, but he almost wishes he was. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to face this conversation with her. 

“So… What was that all about?” She inquires, leaning her elbow onto the table beside them and resting her head in her palm. God, she’s so beautiful.

His eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Didn’t Derek tell you?”

She has a matching crease in between hers. “Tell me what?”

“He didn’t tell you that I…” He lowers his gaze to where their knees meet. His heart feels like it could pound right out of his chest.

“That you…? He was asking me about the case I was working on.”

“Oh.” He can feel the tips of his ears burning.

“Oh?”

“It’s nothing.”

She chuckles, “You tackled Derek in the middle of the bullpen for nothing?”

“I wouldn’t really describe it as a tackle…”

She lightly giggles, and it sounds like music to his ears. How is he supposed to tell her how he feels when doing so risks his opportunity to make her laugh like that again? This is the worst day ever.

“I did hear you say something about not telling me something.”

Shit.

“Um…”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” She shrugs and stands to replace the paper towel on his ice pack. He mourns the loss of her warmth against her knee. “That was just… interesting to witness.”

With her no longer looking at him, he finds the confidence to attempt to tell her what just happened. He runs through a few different speeches in his head, debating how to even begin conveying the truth to her.

She’s returned to her seat across from him before he can settle on anything, leading him to blurt out, “I’m in love with you.”

She flinches at his sudden admission, taken aback by his bluntness. Her hand freezes with his ice mid-air, halfway to his head.

“What?” She breathes out.

He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch her reject him. “Derek said he was going to tell you that – That I’m in love with you and have been for a while… He said he was going to play Cupid.” His voice gets smaller and shakier as he continues speaking.

“Ohhh,” she realizes. “So that’s why you jumped him?”

“I didn’t– Well, I guess I kind of did– …Yes?”

Spencer peeks one eye open to look at her. He sees her smiling?

“Please don’t laugh at me.” He whines, covering his face with his hands. He wants to disappear. He wants to start this whole day over.

“Hey,” She coos, setting the ice on the table and grabbing his wrists, swiping her thumbs over the bones. “I’m not laughing, I’m sorry.”

Her touches simultaneously bring him comfort and make his skin tingle. He’s frozen, scared that any sudden movements will cause her to let him go. He can barely breathe.

He reluctantly drops his hands from his face in favor of looking at her, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that. I probably shouldn’t have said it at all. I embarrassed you, and I’m sorry. I just—Derek was going to—he was going to tell you, and I couldn’t let him and I panicked and I hit my head and now you’re here and I’ve ruined—” He’s panting and his throat hurts and his eyes are burning with unshed tears and he’s digging his nails into his palm.

“Spence…” She reaches forward to stop his attack on his skin.

He wants to twist his hand over to hold hers properly and never let go, but he refrains, figuring he’s made her feel uncomfortable enough today.

“It’s okay. I knew it was unlikely that you felt the same way.” His voice cracks, and he breaks eye contact with her midway through speaking. The grieving process for their friendship has already begun in his mind. No more coffee trips, no more movie nights, no more saving seats for each other on the jet, no more laughter or inside jokes. His entire body is in physical pain, and it has nothing to do with his fall.

“Can you look at me? Please?” She reaches with her other hand to hold both of his, and for the first time, he wishes that she wouldn’t. Or maybe he does, since this is probably the last time she’ll do it.

Her cheeks are flushed, “I’m not upset with you. And I’m not rejecting you. I just didn’t know, is all.”

His eyes widen with hope, and he blurts, “You’re not?!”

“I’m definitely not.”

“You’re definitely not?!” Spencer feels dizzy. 

“Spencer,” she laughs, and he could cry at the beautiful, intoxicating sound.

“Right, I should stop repeating everything you’re saying… But what are you saying?”

“I like you too.” She squeezes his hands. His breath catches in his throat. “I have for a while.” Is this a dream? “I thought you wouldn’t ever feel the same way.”

“That would’ve been the most illogical mistake of my entire life.”

She laughs again, and he really wants to kiss her. He seriously considers it until he remembers they’re still sitting in an FBI breakroom. 

“Can I take you on a date? Please?” His eyes are wide and so earnest.

“I would love that, Spencer.” She smiles.

This is the best day of his life.

“I wish I could kiss you right now. Is that too forward? That’s so brazen of me to say– I did hit my head–”

Her blush spreads down her cheeks, “Believe me, so do I… But unfortunately, it’s probably best if we don’t. I’m pretty sure Derek and Penelope are eavesdropping through the door.”

A small gasp and a high-pitched “Derek!” softly travels into the break room. Giving Spencer a knowing look, she then rolls her eyes.

She whispers to him, “I’m afraid we do have to give Derek credit for his Cupid skills now, though.”

Spencer groans, “I’d really rather not,” and she giggles.

Bells. You remember bells. Confetti; the environmentally friendly kind. A bouquet of purple flowers, frozen mid-air in a hazy memory, landing in the reluctant hands of Emily Prentiss in another.

Something moves. His fingers are in your hair now, brushing through the strands with such painful gentleness it doesn’t even feel real. This is just another later of a dream, more warm and fuzzy scenarios created by your unconscious. It has to be, because nothing that is real could possibly feel so…sacred. It’s too perfect. You feel as though you’re floating, lighter than air.

Until the ache sets in. It’s in your head, dull and heavy, dragging you back down to earth, clouding your mind with a fog that extends beyond simple drowsiness. And with it comes a sore throat. A dry mouth. Can you be hungover in a dream? Surely not, that would just be cruel. 

You groan. The sound reverberates in his chest, rattles his tender heart. You hear him chuckle.

“Ugh…time?” you mumble, voice hoarse.

“Ten thirty-two— no, thirty-three,” he says in a whisper, keeping his words soft, inoffensive, like he knows your condition without you needing to complain about it. He sounds awake, and he’s smiling—you can hear it.

With great effort, you raise your head, wincing as the light hits your face. His hand reaches out, casts a shadow over your eyes.

He isn’t smiling. He’s grinning.

“…hey.”

“Hey.” He tucks some of your hair behind your ear, brown eyes turned to gold in the sunlight; honey, like his voice. “How are you feeling?”

You lean into his touch, expression melting into a lazy smile. With a gentle sigh, you let your head sink back against his chest as you murmur, “’m good.”

Spencer’s arms wrap around you, holding you tight as he presses his nose to your hair. “Just good?”

“Great,” you correct, shaking your head. “Happy. The happiest.”

“That’s better.” He kisses the top of your head. “I’d feel like a failure if my wife weren’t the happiest the morning after the ceremony.”

His wife. You swear you feel the world tilt.

“I’d have to find a way to fix that,” he adds, letting his fingers trail down your spine.

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” he says. He’s trying to sound serious, and he isn’t doing a very good job. “That’s what Morgan kept telling me yesterday: happy wife, happy life.”

You huff out a short, breathy laugh. “And you’d take advice from Morgan?”

“Is it not true?”

“Oh, it’s true. Just…right message, wrong messenger, I guess.” You lift your head, meeting his gaze with a smile. “But I’m plenty happy. You’ve nothing to worry about there.”

“Good.” He fixes your hair again, smoothing any flyaways as he studies you with this look of intense focus, almost frowning, like he’s struggling to believe what he’s seeing, committing your every feature to memory in case you disappear. “And Morgan’s had some successful relationships.”

You hum. “Define successful for me, hon.”

“Having a favourable or desired outcome,” he says, not missing a beat. “Success is subjective, my love.”

“Mhm.” You nod slowly. “And Morgan’s idea of success is…”

“Intense, short-term relationships.”

“Right, of course. So, naturally, he’s the guy you’d go to for marriage advice.”

“I never said I sought him out,” he says, frowning. “I actually told him I wasn’t interested in any advice, or…pep talks. But he kept badgering me as I was getting ready.”

“That’s what the best man is for,” you muse with a solemn smile, “spewing unsolicited advice as he mops the sweat from your forehead.”

Spencer scoffs. “I wasn’t sweating.”

“You so were.”

“It was hot.”

“You were shitting yourself,” you say, brows raised. “Don’t lie to me, Doctor Reid.”

“Fine, Mrs Reid,” he concedes with a huff. “I may have been…shitting myself. A little bit. Figuratively.”

Mrs Reid. He’s trying to kill you.

You bite your lip, roll your eyes at the sight of his smug little smirk before trailing your fingers down his chest. Your wedding ring glimmers in the light as you draw lazy patterns along his skin. “I was shitting myself, too. Figuratively.”

“I didn’t notice,” he says. When you frown, he quickly adds, “I’m serious.”

“You’re a profiler,” you say.

“And you’re beautiful.”

He says it like it’s a fact. Concrete. Unchangeable.

You laugh. You have to; you might cry if you don’t. “And beauty is enough to render your years of profiling experience useless?”

“Only yours.”

Yup, definitely trying to kill you.

“You…” you shake your head, feeling your smile falter. It shifts into something raw, something fragile.

Spencer cups your cheek, holds you steady. Murmurs “I love you” in this agonisingly tender tone that only breaks you further. 

You lean into him, closing your eyes as you admit in this small, quiet voice, “I thought it was a dream.”

“The wedding?”

“Mhm.”

“The whole thing?” he asks, amusement seeping into his tone. “Even the staff threatening to kick Morgan and Garcia out for indecency?”

“I have a…vivid imagination,” you say. You fall silent for a moment, pursing your lips, before adding, “But…I doubt I’d have been able to come up with those, um, vows of yours. You’d have made a fucking incredible renaissance poet. Proper…dramatic.”

He’s grinning again, pride swelling in his chest. “You wanna hear them again?”

“Do you want to make your wife cry?” you ask.

“Only if they’re happy wife tears.”

“Sadist.”

“I said happy tears. Come here.” He grabs your waist, shifts you so you’re lying on top of him, chest to chest. “Let me recite my vows, please.”

You glare at him, barely able to contain your smile. “You just want to show off.”

“Pshh, no.” He shakes his head adamantly. “I just want to make sure that you know just how grateful I am…that I get to be the one to spend forever with you. It’s an honour.”

The way his voice softens with each word has you closing your eyes, fighting back the stupid tears that threaten to spill if you keep looking at him. He brushes his thumb against your cheek, touch so light it feels almost reverent.

“And I want to show off, just a little.”

He laughs as you swat his hand away, hisses like you’ve hurt him. You shake your head, try to speak but your voice comes out all wobbly, so you hide your face in the crook of his neck, and you sniffle when he hugs you.

“…just recite the damn vows.”

“Yes, ma’am. Anything for my beautiful wife.”

Three rapid knocks brought him out of his trance, and he glanced at the clock in alarm. Just after midnight. The thought of it being someone trying to mess with him opened a small pit of dread in his stomach. He really wasn’t in the mood for that, five minutes into his birthday. He ignored it, hoping maybe they’d think he was just asleep.

They came again. With a small groan, he dragged his feet through the five steps it took to reach the door, before pulling it open just an inch.

“Oh!” Spencer blinked at your beaming face, glancing down at your fuzzy slippers, then your pajamas, noting the way your arms were bent behind your torso, like you were hiding something behind your back. He opened the door wider. “…Hey? I thought you were asleep.”

“Yeah, well, I lied.” You shrugged. “Can I come in?”

Spencer moved out of the way as you pushed inside, brushing against him in the narrow space. You had a large plastic bag with you that you set down on the floor before immediately moving to clear his desk.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Spencer rushed to take over before you could mess up the extremely organized mess, grabbing a notebook out of your hands as you continued to grin up at him.

“What’s this all about?” He asked, his back to you as he cleaned up. When you didn’t answer and he only heard the rustle of plastic, he turned to face you.

Spencer Reid did not have a photographic memory. That was a misconception that many people, including some of his coworkers, would end up repeating, but his flawless recollection was (mostly) limited to information he read, not the things he saw. But he would never forget what you looked like when he’d turned around, finding you holding a birthday cake with an entirely unsafe number of candles piled onto a tiny four-inch cake.

The cake itself was nothing special—white buttercream frosting that left a waxy, sugary glaze on his tongue, rainbow sprinkles that crunched in his ears and a crumby vanilla cake that tasted vaguely of a chemistry lab. But in the candlelight, you glowed. A few strands of hair had come loose from the severe braid you slept in, framing your face in shiny wisps. Your glasses dipped on your nose, too loose from years of wear, leaving you looking up at him without the barrier. He swore he could see himself reflected in them.

“Happy birthday!”

It took him longer than it should’ve to refocus. He didn’t even recall telling you his birthday, but you must’ve seen it on his drivers license the numerous times he’d handed you his wallet at the corner store to pay while he loaded everything onto the counter. And now, here you were, standing in his cramped dorm with dirty laundry pushed to one corner of his unmade bed, standing in front of him in his ratty t-shirt and sweats he’d been wearing for far too long, while his mother probably didn’t remember the date at all.

He doesn’t remember what he said to you. The bout of photographic memory seems to end there. But he does remember the stupid crown with “Birthday Boy” in garish, glittery colours, the shirt with a corny science pun you’d given him as a present, and the waxy layer in his mouth when you’d finally left for the night, making him stay up far later than he was planning to.

He hadn’t thought about you in a while, even if he still wore that shirt around the house sometimes. Even if the crown was still sitting on the highest shelf in his closet, in a basket with all the other memorabilia he’d saved from his childhood and your time together. No, he hadn’t thought about you, but when JJ brought out the cake and the stupid hat, for a moment, it felt like you might be behind all this.

YOU HADN’T thought about Spencer Reid in a while. He graduated two years before you did, wrapping up his BA with a speed that should’ve pissed you off because it served to show just how far ahead of you he was in every way that mattered, but you had your own problems to contend with by then. You finished your degree and your teaching certificate, moved back to San Diego to be closer to your family and specifically, to keep an eye on your sister, got a job at a high school nearby and worked on your master’s part-time. In the rush of being an adult, you left your memories of Spencer in the dust.  

So when, during your lunch break, you received a call from a contact simply titled “Pennywise,” you frowned at the screen and let it ring more times than necessary, just to make sure it wasn’t a butt-dial. Eventually, though, curiosity won out and you pressed the answer button with a bread-crumb finger, holding the phone up to your ear as you worked to swallow your dry sandwich before saying: “Hello?”

“Um, hi, how’ve you been?” Much to your disbelief, Spencer’s awkward voice confirmed that the call had been quite purposeful.

“Oh, um, I’m good—” You gulped down the last bit of bread. “How are you?”

“I’m good, too. Great, actually.” He hesitated. “Listen, I’m in San Diego for work and um, we’re leaving tonight but I have some time in the afternoon, and I was wondering if you wanted to catch up? I mean, you probably get off work pretty late and you’ll be tired so no worries if not, but it’s, um, it’s been a while so…”

You nodded to save him from the rambling, before shaking your head. “I’m free after five today, actually, I’d love to catch up.”

You laughed, a short, polite sound. “Um, I’ve got this coffee place I go to pretty often, I can send you the location and you can let me know if it’s too far?”

“No, no, don’t worry about that. I’ll meet you there. Is six okay?” He asked.

“Six is perfect. I’ll see you then.” You hoped he could here the polite smile in your voice as you rushed to hang up, brows scrunching in bewilderment.

The last time you spoke to Spencer was at his graduation.  

HIS HANDS were sweating. Why were they sweating?

Spencer wiped them on his trousers for the fifth time in twenty minutes. Why was he twenty-five minutes early? He hadn’t even ordered, just slipped into a booth with his go-bag beside him, looking incredibly suspicious. The girl at the register had glanced at him far too many times for that to be a doubt.

There was no logical reason for him to be so nervous. Well, there was: your friendship hadn’t exactly concluded on the best note. It was clean, though. The second he’d left Georgetown, the curtain dropped. He never called, despite the bitter keep in touch you’d thrown at him with an overly formal handshake at his graduation. It was the first time you guys had spoken in a week.

From his seat near the window, the autumn sun blared down on him so he that he was squinting to see the busy street, waiting for you to step out of a taxi or walk up to the door or park your car. Did you drive? You used to hate driving. Loathed it. And when he drove, you’d fall asleep in minutes.

Holy shit, was that you? He squinted harder at the black sedan parallel-parking on the side of the street. He thought he saw a flash of your hair, but you were wearing sunglasses and your head was turned. You parked surprisingly smoothly, and he was just about to conclude that it couldn’t be you at all when the door swung open and a leg peeked out. Your whole body followed, in trousers and a button-down far too formal for a teacher. The door swung shut as you hauled a purse over one shoulder, and you gave the parking job an appraising once-over before heading inside.

You spotted him almost as soon as you stepped inside. Spencer curled his mouth in what you called his “white people smile,” a hand raised in a still wave before interlocking with the other on the table. You waved back, a small, energetic movement. Your sunglasses were still in your palm.

“Hey! Did you order yet?” You asked him, upbeat in an artificial way he’d never heard before. He frowned slightly before quickly correcting himself and shaking his head.

“No, thought I’d ask the regular,”

A laugh slipped from your lips, and Spencer found himself relaxing slightly. Now that was a familiar sound.

“’Course,” You slipped into the seat across from him, your own bag mirroring the positioning of his. “Sorry, I just got off work. Hard to switch out of the work voice, y’know?”

Spencer nodded, the smile still plastered onto his face. “No worries. So, what should I get?”

“Ooh, I have the perfect drink for you,” You leaned in excitedly, palms flat against the wood. Spencer watched as you scrunched one eye, head tilting just so. “I mean, if you’re still addicted to sugar,”

He laughed, throwing his own hands up in surrender. “Guilty as charged.”

Once you’d gotten your drinks (and he fought to pay for both), they slipped into the benign rhythm of conversation. You asked him about his work, about the case he’d just wrapped up, and listened with concern as he described, with as less graphic detail as possible, the string of rapes and the guy who’d been committing them.

“God,” You blew air through your mouth. “I mean, I saw it on the news, and some of my students were talking about it, but shit, that’s horrifying.”

“It is,” He nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. It was sweetened with (extra) condensed milk, and the dash of cinnamon wasn’t unpleasant. You still knew his tastes well.

“Job’s been good for you, though,” You said after a beat of silence. Spencer tilted his head, prompting you to continue.

You shrugged, bringing your cup to your lips. “I mean, you just seem more… confident, I guess. More sure of yourself. It’s good,”

 “Thanks,” Spencer found himself smiling at the simple sweetness of the compliment. At least, he tried to focus on the simplicity of it. Not on the memories it brought up. “So do you,”

It worked to distract you, at least. Take the focus away from himself. You leaned back, a similarly pleased smile crinkling the corners of your eyes. “Really? Thank God, ‘cause I seriously doubt my ability to keep a modicum of respect some of these days.”

“I mean, you work with the age group statistically most likely to not respect authority figures, so that tracks,” He noted the way your eyes twinkled when he mentioned statistics, and his cheeks warmed at your silent acknowledgement of the pattern of speech.

“Mhm,” You nodded once, before looking out onto the street. “Remember that time I forced you to come to a party with me?”

“God, how could I not?” Spencer balked, shaking his head as he laughed. “You spent thirty minutes getting ready only for us to leave fifteen minutes in. Terrible investment,”

You mimicked his laughter, resting your chin on your hand, which was extremely over-jewelled. Spencer noted the change, cataloguing the fingers decked in gold rings, some incredibly ornate in a style he couldn’t place, others simpler in the mainstream style. Thin gold bracelets hung off your wrist, a stack that contrasted the sleekness of the rest of your outfit. There was a reason he always associated you with gold.

“Listen, it was for the experience,”  You emphasized the word with a raise of your brows.

“Ah, yes. The beautiful experience of being far too close to a bunch of drunk kids who smelled like sweat.”

“Mm,” You swallowed the sip you’d just taken, holding up a finger. “Don’t forget the headache-inducing music,”

Despite everything, he couldn’t help but feel a fondness for the experience, as you’d called it. “It was probably the worst idea we’d ever had.”

“I’d ever had,” You corrected him. “You never came up with these stupid plans. Always too smart,”

Spencer shrugged, a smug expression on his face. “I don’t think intelligence could ever be a negative trait,”

“Of course not, I’m sure the FBI girls are obsessed with it,”

Spencer’s eyes flitted up to yours, before quickly looking away. You hadn’t said it with any malice, of course, you were just sarcastic for the fun of it sometimes. Despite that being a fact, a muscle in his jaw tensed, and you caught it. He needed to say something to diffuse the situation, change the subject, but with each passing second the tension just became more awkward, and it became more impossible for him to speak.

Thankfully, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He nearly jumped out of his seat as he pulled it out, not even glancing at the called ID before holding it up to his ear. “Yes?”

“Hey, just letting you know, we’re all at the hotel grabbing our stuff. Can you meet us at the airport in an hour or do you need a ride?” Morgan asked.

“Oh, yeah, no, I’ll meet you at the airport.” Spencer cut the call and looked back at you. You were staring at him with an inscrutable look, and he almost regretted the words that left his mouth next. “Hey, I’m sorry, but I must be at the airport as soon as possible. We’re trying to leave early. Another case, probably.”

Spencer had to stop himself from speaking further. But your face shifted in alarm and he was grateful for the distance between you two and the fact that he’d learned to lie so well.

“Oh, no, of course. I can drive you, if you want?” You were already standing, reaching for your purse. “It’ll be quicker than trying to get a taxi at this hour, I can assure you.”

Spencer blinked. You thought it was an actual emergency. Woops. “Oh, no, I’m sure—”

You sighed, exaggerating your exasperation before grabbing your cup. “I’m just returning the favor, alright?”

As he stepped outside, you pointed to your car. “I’m a pretty good driver now, I promise. Just look at that beautiful parking.”

Spencer nodded appraisingly, as if he hadn’t watched you do it. “Parallel, too. I’m proud,”

You shot him a self-assured grin, mimicking his shrug.

You went quiet as soon as the car was on the road, a small wrinkle between your forehead and the slight pursing of your lips indicating the hatred you still held for driving. Spencer held back the urge to laugh, angling his head towards the window instead, letting the bright world and the back taste of coffee wash away the remnants of the horrific case they’d just solved. It felt like a vacation of sorts. If a vacation was around two hours long, that is.

“You can put some music on, if you’d like,” You said at a red light, nodding towards a case of CDs.

“Do you have anything classical?” Spencer asked jokingly, meeting your eyes briefly as you threw him an incredulous look. Music had always been a point of contention between the two of you, Spencer’s fondness for the ancients making you roll your eyes and make another comment about him being pretentious. “You really should try it, it might help you relax a little.”

“I’m maneuvering a death trap that causes over forty-thousand deaths a year, Spencer,” You sighed as the light turned green, the tension returning to your shoulders with full force. “I’d be stupid not to be wary.”

“Well, there’s a difference between being careful and being terrified,” Spencer responded, raising a hand to gesture as he spoke. “Being wary of other people on the road is great, but being excessively anxious is likely to cause overthinking, potentially leading to worse reaction times, and possibly dangerously avoidant driving.”

“Is my driving dangerous to you right now?” There was a hint of a friendly threat in your voice, the slight tilt of your lips betraying your amusement.

“You’re leaving enough space for a car and a half at every stop,”

“I’m being safe,” You said, holding a wounded hand to your chest.

“Keep both hands on the wheel, please.”

He watched as you scoffed, but returned your hand to nine-and-two anyway. “Now who’s overthinking?”

Spencer simply raised a shoulder and let the silence stretch, more comfortable this time. Suddenly he found himself sorry for cutting their time together short, all because he didn’t want to approach the one topic that still lay like a casket between them. Maybe he could introduce you to his coworkers?

SPENCER WANTED to introduce you to his coworkers. You stayed quiet for a moment after parking, before asking him if he was sure.

He nodded rapidly. “Yeah, they’ll love you, trust me.”

“Fine,” You smiled, pulling out your car keys and unbuckling your seatbelt in one smooth move.

When you walked up to the group of FBI agents, still in the parking lot, you saw that there were only two of them. Spencer introduced them as Derek and Elle, respectively, and you shook their hands politely.

“So, how was Reid in college?” Derek asked, leaning in conspiratorially. “Was he secretly a ladies’ man?”

You cringed at the wording before laughing. “Hells, no. He had the demeanour of a mouse, ran away from anything of the sort.”

“Or maybe you just had a saviour complex,” Spencer added, not kindly, from beside you. You clammed up quickly at the jab, hitting far too close to home as your cheeks warmed. Elle frowned from her position beside Morgan at the sideways glance you threw at Spencer, before recovering.

“Or maybe that,” You shrugged, smiling at Derek as if it was a joke, and not the downfall of your friendship with Spencer in the first place. But it was too late, the tension you’d both worked to bury had come to the surface so that everyone in the circle noticed. You glanced at the watch in your hands.

“I should be heading back, I wanted to hit the gym tonight.” You wince apologetically, turning to Spencer. “It was nice seeing you,”

He nodded stiffly, that stupid white people smile on his face again as he crossed his arms. “Of course. It was great seeing you, too.”

“Take care,” You said, and you meant it. As you walked away, the heel of your boots clicking against the asphalt, you heard Spencer call out softly behind you.

“Keep in touch,”

the first thing anyone ever knew about steve harrington was that he was loud.

not loud in volume, though he could be, especially when he laughed so hard milk came out of his nose at age eight because you told him the punchline to a joke wrong on purpose, but loud in presence.

even as a little boy, steve had always seemed to fill every room he walked into, every backyard he ran through, every sidewalk he skidded his bike tires across. he was all scraped knees and crooked grins, wild hair that never sat flat no matter how much water he slapped on it, and a habit of speaking before he thought, then somehow charming his way out of whatever trouble that got him into.

and somehow, from the very beginning, wherever steve was, you were too.

your mothers liked to joke that before either of you could even walk, you’d already claimed each other. two little babies in matching sun hats sitting in paddling pools in neighbouring gardens, grabbing at each other’s hands with sticky fingers and refusing to settle unless you were side by side. apparently, steve used to cry when your parents took you inside for naps, little fists clenched, cheeks red, angry at the universe for daring to separate him from his favourite person.

some things never really changed.

you grew up attached at the hip in the kind of way people only are when history roots itself so deep between them that pulling apart would feel like tearing skin.

you learned to ride bikes together, both of you wobbling dangerously down your street while your dads shouted instructions that neither of you listened to.

steve crashed first, straight into a hedge, and you laughed so hard you tipped over too. he came out with leaves in his hair and a branch caught in his shirt collar, grinning like an idiot, and before he even checked his own scraped elbow, he was kneeling beside you asking if you were okay.

that was steve.

always checking for you first.

there were summers spent so thoroughly tangled together they blurred into one endless golden memory.

afternoons in his parents’ pool until your fingers wrinkled and your skin smelled permanently of chlorine, competitions to see who could hold their breath longest underwater, cannonball contests that ended with his mother yelling because water splashed onto her expensive outdoor furniture.

nights where you slept over so often that both houses stopped asking questions, your toothbrush permanently living in the bathroom connected to steve’s bedroom, one of his old shirts becoming your designated pyjama top.

you built blanket forts in his room and swore they were castles. you made secret handshakes that changed every month. you whispered under covers with flashlights when thunderstorms rolled in, talking about stupid things and serious things and everything in between.

you saw every side of each other.

the ugly sides too.

you saw steve cry the first time his dad called him a disappointment.

you saw him go quiet after, quieter than should’ve been possible for a boy like him, shoulders tense and eyes glassy as he sat on your bedroom floor staring at nothing.

you sat beside him and said nothing at all, just leaned your shoulder against his until he leaned back.

that became your thing.

when his parents fought, he came to your house.

when his father got cruel, he came to your house.

when business trips left that giant empty house colder than winter, he stayed at your house, eating dinner at your table and laughing with your parents like he belonged there, because he did.

your mother kissed the top of his head when he looked especially worn down, your father taught him how to fix things in the garage.

your home became the place he exhaled and you became the person he always looked for first.

always.

through bad haircuts and braces and acne and awkward limbs that grew too fast for your bodies to catch up, you stayed constant.

until high school came and suddenly, painfully, neither of you were awkward anymore.

you grew into yourself quietly, like spring unfolding. pretty in a way that didn’t scream for attention, but stole it anyway.

soft eyes that noticed everything. a laugh that was rarer now, but warm enough to make people chase it. intelligence that shone bright and effortless. kindness that lived in every small thing you did. helping someone pick up dropped books, remembering birthdays nobody else did, always offering your notes to the kids who missed class.

you were beautiful in the sort of way people didn’t fully understand until they looked twice.

steve understood immediately.

and steve, god, steve grew into himself like he’d been handcrafted for trouble.

broad shoulders. soft brown eyes hidden behind ridiculous lashes. hair that somehow always looked perfect. that stupid smile capable of making half the female population of hawkins forget their own names.

and steve knew it.

or at least, his ego did.

king steve, they called him.

captain of popularity.

girls hanging off his arm, boys desperate for his approval, parties every weekend. loud music, expensive beer stolen from his parents’ liquor cabinet, people packed into his house hoping to breathe the same air as him.

he played the part beautifully.

cocky grin, easy charm, careless laughter, pretty girls, empty conversations. but there were things everyone noticed that nobody understood.

how steve only went to parties if you were invited too, even when you almost never came. how he always looked around rooms like he was searching for someone. how if anybody talked badly about you, even as a joke, his entire face changed. how he got mean.

how no girl, no matter how gorgeous, ever lasted long.

how every relationship seemed flimsy compared to the quiet girl who sat beside him in class helping him pass english, who rolled her eyes at his jokes but smiled anyway, who knew where he kept spare house keys and which scar on his knee came from which childhood disaster.

what nobody knew was that steve harrington loved you so badly it ached.

it lived in him like breathing. natural, constant, unavoidable. it was in the way he memorised everything about you.

how you tucked your hair behind your ear when concentrating. how you chewed on pen caps while studying. how you always gave him the marshmallows from your hot chocolate because you hated them and he loved them. how your nose scrunched when you laughed for real. how you never noticed when boys stared because you were too busy living inside your own head.

it killed him a little, that obliviousness.

because steve flirted constantly.

he tested waters in stupid ways.

telling you about girls he hooked up with, watching your face for any crack in your expression.

there never was one.

just your soft, distracted little hums. sometimes a wrinkled nose if the girl sounded awful. sometimes advice.

advice.

jesus christ.

he’d stare at you, really stare, eyes warm and helpless and completely gone for you, and you’d blink back like he was just steve.

just your steve.

your best friend.

meanwhile, he was halfway to insanity.

what steve never saw were all the quiet ways you loved him back.

how you kept every note he’d ever scribbled you. how no boy ever compared, which was why you’d only dated twice and barely liked either of them. how every time he brought a girl around, something sharp and sour twisted in your chest. how you knew the exact shade of hazel his eyes turned in sunlight.

how you sometimes laid awake at night, staring at your ceiling, replaying the way he smiled at you that day or how his hand rested warm on your back guiding you through crowds.

how your mother’s teasing words looped endlessly in your head.

you and stevie were made for each other.

you’d laugh it off, call her crazy, then spend hours wondering if maybe she wasn’t. wondering if steve could ever look at you and see more.

wondering what it would feel like if he kissed you. wondering if kissing steve would ruin everything, or finally make sense of everything that already existed between you.

and every morning after, you’d wake up and slip right back into your place beside him like those thoughts had never happened at all.

best friends.

always.

completely blind to the fact that the boy beside you was one heartbeat away from loving you out loud.

and equally blind to the fact that you already loved him too.

-

life carried on the way it always had.

which was strange, really, considering there was this constant thing sitting between you and steve. neither of you touched it, neither of you spoke it aloud, but it lived there all the same. tucked into glances that lingered too long, into hugs that held just a second more than necessary, into the easy way your lives folded around each other like they were built to fit.

more days turned into more weeks, more weeks into more months, and everything stayed beautifully, painfully normal.

you still sat with him while he copied your homework answers in that messy handwriting of his, tongue poking slightly into his cheek in concentration like he was actually trying, even though half the time he was writing complete nonsense because he was too busy talking to focus.

you still spent lunches together. sometimes alone, sometimes with your few close friends, sometimes with whatever crowd steve had orbiting him that week, but even in a room full of people, his attention always drifted back to you.

always.

you were still the first number he called. still the person he showed up for without asking. still the person he looked for in every crowded room.

and he was still yours in all the ways that mattered, without ever actually being yours at all.

one night after dinner at your house, your mother insisting steve stay because she’d made too much food, as if she hadn’t been cooking with him in mind from the start, the two of you found yourselves in your bedroom, exactly where you always ended up.

lying on the floor.

side by side.

staring at the ceiling.

it was a strange little ritual you’d created years ago, one that somehow stuck. whenever something weighed heavy on either of you, whenever thoughts got too loud or life got too complicated, you ended up here. flat on your backs, shoulders nearly touching, eyes aimed upward like answers might be written in the cracks of your ceiling paint.

this was where the real conversations happened.

not the casual chatter, not gossip, not jokes, this was where truths lived. the ugly ones, the tender ones, the ones neither of you gave anybody else.

steve let out a long breath beside you, one hand resting on his stomach, the other tucked behind his head.

“he’s doing it again.”

you turned your head slightly toward him.

“your dad?”

he laughed once, humourless.

“who else?”

his jaw tightened, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“he’s on this whole thing about how i need to start learning the business now, so when he retires i can just… step in.” his voice hardened around the words. “like it’s some fucking honour.”

you stayed quiet.

you’d learned years ago that steve needed space to unravel before he needed comfort.

“he talks about it like he’s handing me a kingdom,” he muttered. “when really he’s handing me a prison sentence.”

your chest tightened.

because underneath the bitterness, underneath the anger, you heard what steve wasn’t saying.

he was scared, scared of becoming him. scared of looking in the mirror one day and seeing his father staring back.

steve scrubbed a hand over his face.

“i swear to god, i’d rather work in some shitty grocery store for the rest of my life than do what he does.”

that made you smile softly.

not because it was funny, though the dramatic way he said it was very steve, but because you knew him.

you knew this wasn’t about business being boring this was about morality. about goodness. about the way steve, despite all his pretending and ego and polished king-of-hawkins image, had the softest heart of anybody you knew.

he wanted to be kind, gentle. different. nothing like the man who’d raised him.

you reached your hand out between you, your pinky brushing lightly against his.

“what do you actually want?” you asked quietly.

“what?”

“after high school.” you looked back up at the ceiling. “college. life. what do you want, stevie?”

the room went quiet for a second, then two. then he laughed softly under his breath. not a happy laugh, the sad kind.

the self-deprecating kind.

“college?” he scoffed. “c’mon.”

you frowned instantly.

“don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“act like you’re stupid.”

he turned his head to look at you then, brown eyes soft in the dim lamp light.

“i’m not exactly ivy league material.”

“you’re smarter than you think.”

“i’m really not.”

“you are.”

there was firmness in your voice now, the kind that always made him listen.

“you just don’t try because somewhere along the line, somebody convinced you there was no point.”

his expression shifted. small, almost wounded, because you always saw right through him.

always.

you kept going, softer now.

“you’re smart, steve. genuinely smart. not even just academically, you read people better than anyone i know. you remember everything that matters. you’re creative. funny. emotionally intelligent, even if you pretend you aren’t.” you nudged his shoulder gently. “and if i have to spend the rest of my life reminding you of that, i will.”

steve stared at you and god, there was that look again. that look that made your stomach turn over.

warm, completely devastating. then, because he was steve, he ruined the moment on purpose.

“well,” he sighed dramatically, “in that case, i’ll just follow you wherever you go.”

you snorted.

“oh yeah?”

“absolutely.” he folded his hands over his chest. “be your little house wife.”

that made you laugh properly.

bright and sudden.

the kind of laugh that always made him smile like he’d won something.

“house wife?”

“yeah.”

“you?”

“i’d be incredible at it.”

“you can’t cook.”

“i can make toast.”

“you burn toast.”

“crispy toast.”

you laughed harder and soon he was laughing too, that big, warm laugh that filled your whole room.

then the laughter settled into something softer. comfortable quiet. and somewhere in that quiet, the strange truth of it hung there,

every version of the future either of you had ever imagined always included the other. always.

sometimes you were neighbours with houses connected by a garden gate. sometimes coworkers. sometimes roommates in a big city. sometimes pen pals, a ridiculous idea born from sixteen-year-old steve drunkenly declaring he was moving to italy after eating pasta he called religious.

you still teased him for that.

but every dream, every joke, every passing thought about what came next, included us.

never 'me'. never 'you'. always us.

neither of you spoke about the deeper version of that dream.

the one with shared mornings. shared beds. children with messy hair and stubborn attitudes. a home that belonged equally to both of you.

but somewhere, buried deep, you’d both imagined it.

more than once.

steve swallowed hard against that thought.

then casually, too casually, he asked,

“how come you’re still single?”

you turned your head.

“you’re single too.”

a slow smirk spread across his mouth.

“yeah, but i haven’t always been.”

you rolled your eyes.

“neither have i.”

“middle school boyfriends don’t count.”

you laughed.

“according to who?”

“according to me.”

you shook your head, smiling, then shrugged.

“i don’t know.”

and that answer sat strangely warm in steve’s chest.

because maybe, maybe you liked being single. maybe there was nobody. maybe it wasn’t that you didn’t want him specifically.

weirdly, that hurt less.

he smiled faintly, staring back up at the ceiling.

then you asked quietly,

“why haven’t you settled down with anyone?”

his chest tightened because there were a thousand truths he could say. because i’m in love with my best friend. because nobody feels like you. because every girl i kiss isn’t you.

instead, he shrugged.

“i don’t know.”

and selfishly, your heart liked that answer far more than the possibility of him loving somebody else.

silence settled again.

then steve spoke, voice quieter than before, serious,

“promise me something.”

“anything.”

he turned his head toward you.

there was vulnerability there, raw and boyish and achingly honest.

“don’t forget me.”

your brows pulled together instantly.

“steve-”

“i mean it.” he swallowed. “when all this ends. when college happens, life happens… if we end up in different places…” his voice got softer. “don’t forget about me.”

your whole chest ached because forgetting steve harrington would be like forgetting your own name.

impossible.

you reached across the floor and took his hand fully. fingers threading together like second nature. like instinct. like home.

you squeezed once.

“never” you whispered.

and steve squeezed back, holding your hand in the dark like it was something precious.

something worth keeping.

“promise?”

you smiled softly.

“i promise.”

neither of you realised then just how much that promise would come to mean.

-

by the time prom season rolled around, steve was losing his goddamn mind.

he sat at the edge of his bed one night, elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the carpet while every thought in his head somehow circled back to you.

which, admittedly, wasn’t unusual. most roads in steve’s mind led to you, had for years.

but this was different, this was bigger.

this was prom.

the last school dance.

the final stupid, sweaty gymnasium decorated with cheap streamers and glitter and songs that would probably suck and punch that tasted vaguely like chemicals.

and steve wanted one thing.

just one.

you.

not in the way he’d had you before. showing up together because that’s what you always did, wandering in side by side because steve bringing you was as natural as breathing, dancing stupidly together in between him getting dragged off by friends and you laughing at him from the sidelines.

not as best friends.

not as what everyone already assumed you were.

he wanted to take you, really take you.

wanted to stand on your doorstep with flowers and nerves and sweaty palms. wanted to tell you you looked beautiful and mean it so hard it hurt. wanted to dance with his hands on your waist and know it meant something different.

wanted one night where he could pretend, or maybe, if he got lucky, not pretend at all.

so he came up with a plan.

a stupid plan. a deeply embarrassing plan. a plan that, in hindsight, made him want to throw himself directly into traffic.

he was going to make it obvious.

not say it, because apparently despite being steve harrington, king of confidence, he became a complete coward when it came to you, but obvious enough.

obvious enough that if you smiled a little wider than usual, blushed even slightly, acted flustered in any way he’d ask you.

simple. easy. foolproof.

except it was none of those things.

because monday morning, the second he pulled into your driveway, he already started acting insane.

normally, steve would pull up, lean dramatically on the horn once, and wait while you came out rolling your eyes.

his logic always being, your house is right there, you can hear the horn when i get in the car.

instead, that morning, he got out. walked to your front door. and knocked. actually knocked.

when you opened it, bag over your shoulder, hair still slightly messy from rushing around getting ready, he nearly forgot every coherent thought in his head.

you blinked at him then squinted suspiciously.

“…why are you at my door?”

he immediately panicked internally.

say something cool.

say something normal.

“felt like it.”

idiot.

your eyes narrowed further, mouth twitching like you were fighting a smile.

“okay…”

you kept looking at him funny all the way to the car, and honestly, fair enough.

but then he made it worse.

because when you reached the passenger side, he darted ahead and opened your door for you.

you stopped dead.

“what are you doing?”

steve leaned against the open door casually, like he wasn’t having a full body crisis.

“being nice?”

you laughed softly, confused and amused all at once.

“you are nice.”

“being nicer.”

you stared at him for a second then shook your head, smiling to yourself as you got in. that smile hit him like a truck.

holy shit.

was that wider than normal? was that flirty? was that polite?

what did that mean-

and thus began the longest week of steve harrington’s life.

because once he started, he couldn’t stop.

every class you didn’t share, he was waiting outside when the bell rang.

leaning against lockers trying to look casual, heart kicking up every time your face lit up when you saw him.

he carried your books.

your bag.

once, your stupid heavy history textbook that you always complained about.

he held doors open.

walked you to every class.

blew off tommy and half his friend group every lunch just to sit with you.

actually did his half of your joint assignment, not copied, not barely attempted, actually did it, and when you looked at him like he’d grown another head, he just shrugged like it was no big deal while internally screaming notice me.

he bought you lunch monday.

again on wednesday.

again on thursday.

sat in the library with you after school willingly.

willingly. the library.

for hours.

and every single thing you did made his brain short circuit.

because you just accepted it. completely. you didn’t question him much, didn’t pull away, didn’t act weird, didn’t reject any of it. you simply smiled that sweet little smile and let him fuss over you.

let him carry your things. let him buy your lunch. let him walk you around school like you were something precious.

and worst of all you looked happy about it. which should’ve been good. right? that should’ve been good.

except now steve was spiralling because what the hell did happy mean?

did you know what he was doing? were you oblivious? were you pitying him? were you just enjoying the attention?

meanwhile, you were living in your own version of insanity.

because steve had always made you feel special.

always.

from childhood to now, there had never been a moment where you doubted your place in his life.

but this?

this was different. this was soft, intentional. sweet in ways that made your stomach flip.

it felt suspiciously like being courted. like being wanted. like being his girl.

and god you liked it. liked it so much it scared you. so no, you didn’t question it. because if you asked, what if it stopped? what if he laughed and said he was just messing around? what if this tenderness disappeared?

so instead, you quietly soaked it in.

let yourself pretend just for a little while. let yourself imagine this was what loving steve openly might feel like.

which meant steve’s giant, ridiculous plan was failing spectacularly for one very simple reason-

the both of you were idiots.

by friday, steve was at breaking point.

he sat in his last class barely hearing a word the teacher said, knee bouncing under the desk.

what the hell was happening? surely by now, if you liked him, you would’ve said something. asked him what all this meant. given him something obvious back.

right?

unless you didn’t like him. unless you just thought he was being nice. unless this was normal to you because he’d always treated you well and you saw no difference.

jesus christ.

he’d spent an entire week acting like a lovesick freak and somehow ended up more confused than when he started.

the final bell rang and steve made a decision.

enough.

no more weird signals, no more spiralling, no more stupid plans.

he was asking you tonight.

flat out.

whatever happened, happened because he was absolutely not surviving another week of this.

what steve didn’t know was that at that exact same moment, sitting in class chewing the end of your pen and smiling stupidly to yourself remembering how he tucked your hair behind your ear at lunch you were thinking,

please don’t stop whatever this is.

please let me keep having this version of you.

even if it’s not real.

even if it’s only for a little while.

-

steve waited outside your last class.

again.

at this point, it had become routine. somewhere in his ridiculous attempt at flirting came a habit he’d accidentally fallen in love with.

there was just something about it.

the way your face always softened the second you spotted him leaning against the lockers. the little smile you never seemed able to hold back. the way you automatically walked toward him, like your feet knew where they belonged before your brain caught up.

it made something warm settle in his chest every single time.

so yes, even if his original reasons for waiting outside your classes had been pathetic and embarrassingly romantic, now he did it simply because he liked it.

liked being the person you looked for, liked walking beside you through crowded halls, liked carrying your books even when you insisted they “weren’t heavy.”

liked the feeling of everyone seeing you together.

he liked it far too much.

that friday, though, he was restless.

you noticed almost immediately.

the way his fingers tapped against his leg. the way his jaw kept tightening. the way he kept opening his mouth like he wanted to say something, only to close it again.

still, you didn’t ask.

if there was one thing years of knowing steve harrington had taught you, it was that when he was ready to talk, he would.

until then, you let silence be comfortable.

and it always was with him.

the drive home was dipped in golden evening light, quiet except for the radio humming softly in the background and the occasional sound of steve drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel.

when he took a corner too fast his hand instinctively shot out, catching your thigh for a second to steady you.

warm, solid, gone too quickly.

neither of you said anything but your stomach flipped anyway.

when he pulled up between your houses, you reached for the door handle-

“wait.”

your hand froze.

you turned back.

steve looked terrified, actually terrified.

your heart immediately started hammering.

oh my god.

oh my god.

was he-

this was it. this had to be it.

the weird week, the sweet gestures, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he’d been hovering close like he couldn’t help himself-

this was him asking you to prom.

your whole body went warm.

steve swallowed hard. right. just say it.

say prom.

“do you wanna go prom-”

your breath caught.

his heart launched into his throat.

“-dress shopping with me?”

silence.

steve internally punched himself in the face.

coward. absolute coward.

you blinked.

then laughed softly, trying to ignore how quickly hope had risen and crashed in your chest.

“are you getting a dress this year too, stevie?”

he huffed a little laugh, looking down, shaking his head.

“no, i mean…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “y’know, i’ll drive us to the city. we can get all fancy and buy expensive shit we probably don’t need. get ice cream on the way home.”

he looked up at you then.

hopeful. boyish.

impossibly handsome.

you smiled, a real one.

“that sounds nice.”

his shoulders loosened instantly.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

you opened the door, stepping out, then turned back with a grin.

“it’s a date.”

and walked away.

steve sat frozen in his car.

date.

date?

did you mean date date?

or date as in phrase?

people said that all the time.

right?

right??

he smacked his forehead gently against the steering wheel.

meanwhile, halfway to your front door, you were spiralling too.

why would you say it’s a date? why would you say that?

that sounds romantic. that sounds intentional. he’s going to think you meant it romantically.

except he doesn’t like you.

probably.

so now you sound insane.

great.

perfect.

wonderful.

still, somehow, both of you went to bed smiling because stupid was easier when it felt this good.

-

nice and early the next morning, steve was at your door.

knocking.

again.

except this time when you opened it, you were very much not ready.

hair wild, sleep still heavy in your eyes, oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder, soft pyjama shorts, bare legs and sleepy confusion.

steve forgot how breathing worked.

you frowned at him.

“why are you here?”

his brain completely short circuited.

“…shopping.”

you groaned.

“shit.”

you looked over your shoulder at the clock and winced.

“i overslept.”

steve finally recovered enough to shrug casually.

“i’ll wait.”

he walked past you like he belonged there, because he did, headed straight to your room, kicked off his shoes, and threw himself face down onto your bed.

dramatically, arms spread, muffled voice immediately rambling into your duvet.

“had the weirdest dream last night.”

you stood at your mirror trying to brush your hair while pulling on jeans.

“what?”

more muffled nonsense.

something about a shark. your third grade teacher. a ferrari. possibly italy.

you laughed.

“i understood none of that.”

he lifted his face slightly, cheek squished against your pillow.

“it made sense in dream logic.”

“sure.”

then face planted again, continuing to ramble while you got ready, his voice muffled into your blankets.

it was domestic in a way neither of you thought too hard about.

easy, dangerously easy.

soon enough, you were in the car headed toward the city.

the windows down, music loud. summer warmth creeping in. you stopped at a roadside place for breakfast sandwiches, then got back on the road. where steve immediately became unbearable.

“bite.”

you looked at him.

“…what?”

“feed me.”

“you have hands.”

“i’m driving. i need to concentrate.”

you stared.

he opened his mouth expectantly.

“bite.”

your eyes narrowed, he looked ridiculous.

you hated how cute it was.

with a sigh, you held the sandwich up for him. he leaned over dramatically, taking a huge bite, cheeks full like a chipmunk.

you laughed despite yourself.

“you’re such an idiot.”

secretly, steve loved the little annoyed crease between your brows. loved making you roll your eyes. loved that you always indulged him anyway.

shopping somehow started with your dress.

steve had expected torture. hours of standing around, fabric talk, waiting, boredom.

instead he got to watch you try on dresses, which was apparently heaven. every single dress had him losing his mind quietly.

blue. green. white. sparkly. simple. dramatic.

even the absolutely hideous monstrosity he tossed into your pile as a joke, some bright orange ruffled nightmare, looked unfairly cute because you came out striking poses and making ridiculous model faces until he laughed so hard he nearly cried.

“that one?” you asked, spinning.

“burn it.”

you grinned.

but then you stepped out wearing soft baby pink.

simple, elegant, gentle, completely you, and steve forgot how to speak.

you looked beautiful.

not pretty, not cute, beautiful. the kind that hurt to look at because it made wanting feel too big inside his chest.

you smiled shyly at your reflection.

“i kinda love this one.”

steve could only nod.

because if he opened his mouth, he’d probably propose.

when you disappeared back into the changing room after trying on the final dress, leaving the pink dress hanging outside, steve moved instantly.

straight to the register.

money down.

done.

easy.

when the cashier smiled warmly and said, “that’s sweet- paying for your girlfriend’s prom dress”

steve didn’t even think, didn’t correct her, just smiled softly.

“yeah.”

the word slipped out naturally like truth. he walked back holding the dress bag proudly. when you emerged and saw it, your face scrunched instantly.

“steve harrington-”

“don’t start.”

“i told you i was buying it-”

he shrugged, smiling.

“it’s our last prom, princess. gotta treat you right.”

princess. that stupid nickname. it hit you exactly where it always did.

that awful lovely feeling.

but you’d become very good at hiding it so you only rolled your eyes.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“and generous.”

“annoyingly generous.”

“you love me.”

you smiled softly.

“yeah.”

the quiet honesty of it made his chest tighten because you meant it one way and he heard it another.

then he grinned, standing.

“c’mon.”

you looped your arm through his without thinking.

“your turn.”

shopping for steve’s suit was, thankfully, much quicker.

mostly because he cared significantly less than you did.

he tried on maybe three jackets, two pairs of trousers, one shirt, then stood in front of the mirror shrugging like, yeah, this one’s fine, while you looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

“fine?” you repeated.

steve adjusted the collar lazily. “yeah.”

“fine is your final prom outfit?”

he looked down at himself.

navy suit. clean lines, fitted enough to make his shoulders look unfairly broad. white shirt, sleeves rolled halfway while he changed ties.

hair slightly messy from pulling shirts over his head.

beautiful, unfortunately.

he shrugged again.

“looks good enough.”

you stared.

“good enough” you echoed flatly.

his grin only widened “mhm.”

but then, then he did something so stupidly sweet that your entire brain briefly stopped functioning.

the woman helping fit him asked what colour tie he wanted, before she could even list options, steve answered immediately.

“baby pink.”

you blinked.

he looked over at you casually.

“to match your dress.”

simple, matter-of-fact. like it was obvious. like there was never another option.

to match your dress.

your heart practically punched through your ribs because it was little things. always little things with steve. the details, the quiet thoughtfulness, the instinctive way he always included you in everything.

the way matching your dress mattered to him.

not because it was prom, not because it was fashion, but because it was yours.

you stood there smiling like an idiot while he tried on ties, your mind spiralling somewhere far, far away.

and honestly?

you barely paid attention to anything else after that.

just him.

his hands fixing his cuffs, his soft smile when he caught you staring, the way he kept glancing toward you for approval.

god.

you were in trouble. deep trouble.

when you guys got in the car both taking a deep breath, pausing before the long drive home, you stopped him.

“steve?”

his hand froze on the key.

“yeah?”

your heart hammered.

this was insane, absolutely insane but suddenly you couldn’t keep waiting, couldn’t keep wondering. couldn’t keep pretending every soft thing between you didn’t mean something.

so you looked at him and did exactly what he’d been trying to do all week.

“do you wanna go to prom with me?”

steve blinked.

once.

twice.

“…what?”

you smiled nervously.

“prom.”

he laughed softly, confused.

“we always go together.”

you swallowed then forced yourself to say it.

“i mean… properly with me, steve.”

his entire body went still, heart pounding so hard he could hear it.

“what?”

god.

he looked so confused, so beautiful.

and suddenly courage, reckless, terrifying courage, grabbed hold of you. you leaned forward and kissed him.

soft, quick.

the second your lips touched his, your whole body lit up like lightning.

then panic immediately followed.

oh god.

what did you just do?

you pulled back instantly, mouth already opening to explain, apologise, ramble, but steve’s hand came up, cupping your cheek.

warm, gentle, and he pulled you right back in.

kissed you properly.

like he’d been starving. like he knew exactly what your lips would feel like because he’d imagined it a thousand times, but somehow it was still better.

so much better.

you could actually feel him melt, his whole body softened into it and then, that little sound.

a quiet sigh against your mouth.

soft, content, completely helpless. it shot straight into your chest. your new favourite sound. absolutely.

when he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard, smiling in complete disbelief.

then he said-

“i hate you.”

your eyes flew open.

“…what?”

he laughed breathlessly.

“i have been waiting my whole life for you to show literally any sign that you liked me.” he pulled back enough to look at you, eyes wide with mock offence. “and the one week i actually decide to try and something about it, you beat me to it.”

you burst out laughing then he did too, forehead dropping back against yours. then suddenly he leaned back fully, staring at you like you were insane.

“no, seriously- what?”

you blinked.

“what?”

“why now?”

you shrugged, cheeks warm.

“i’ve always liked you, stevie.”

steve’s jaw actually dropped.

“what?”

you laughed.

“i’ve always liked you.”

“then why didn’t you say anything?!”

you gave him a look.

“why didn’t you?”

he stared at you like the answer was obvious.

“because you never acted like you wanted me back. ever.”

you frowned.

“maybe you’re oblivious.”

steve scoffed so hard it was almost offensive then gave you the most irritated look imaginable.

“i do not wanna hear you call anybody oblivious. you are the most oblivious person alive.”

you gasped.

“no i’m not.”

“yes, you are.”

“i’m cautious.”

“cautious of what?”

you went quieter then.

honest.

“reading too far into things.” your fingers picked at your sleeve. “you could’ve just been being nice, y’know? i didn’t wanna lose you.”

steve’s whole face softened instantly.

his hand found yours.

squeezed.

“in no world do you lose me, idiot.”

your eyes rolled automatically, mostly because if you looked at him too long you might cry.

then, lighter, you said,

“been waiting your whole life?” you smiled. “dramatic ass.”

he laughed then shook his head.

“no, i’m serious.”

“right.”

“i am.”

“okay, sure-”

before you could argue, he grabbed your face again and kissed you hard. full of grin and relief and years of built-up wanting.

when he pulled back, he was smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.

“and yeah,” he murmured. “i’ll go to prom with you.”

he winked.

“it’s a date.”

you groaned, laughing.

“that line was awful.”

“worked the first time.”

you shoved his shoulder.

he caught your hand, kissed your knuckles and then finally started the car.

the drive home was spent sharing ice cream, stealing kisses at red lights, and smiling so much both your faces hurt.

and when he parked between your houses that evening for the first time going home next door didn’t feel like enough.

because now, finally, you knew exactly where home was.

and it was sitting in the driver’s seat, smiling at you like he’d found his whole world.

-

the week leading up to prom was, quite possibly, the happiest either of you had ever been.

which was saying something, considering you and steve had spent your whole lives making happiness out of ordinary things.

bike rides and late-night talks. pool days and movie nights. studying together, even when steve mostly just distracted you.

shared dinners. inside jokes.

the quiet comfort of simply existing side by side.

you had already built a life around each other long before romance ever entered the picture.

but now there was kissing. and, quite frankly, that improved everything.

the strange thing was, almost nothing about your relationship changed, and somehow, everything changed.

you still woke up most mornings to the sound of steve’s car horn, or, more recently, to the sound of him knocking on your front door because apparently now he liked seeing your sleepy face. you still rode to school together, still shared lunches, still studied in the library after classes, still spent evenings draped across each other’s bedroom floors talking about life until one of you fell asleep mid-conversation.

you were still you.

he was still steve.

best friends in every way that mattered.

except now, when he saw you, his face immediately softened into the most helpless smile. except now, his hand naturally found yours every chance it got. except now, when he dropped you off at home, you kissed him goodnight. except now, when he made you laugh, he looked at your mouth afterwards like he couldn’t help himself.

except now, he kissed you whenever the urge struck him, which was often.

very often.

because steve had apparently been suppressing years of affection, and now that he was allowed to touch you the way he’d always wanted he simply never stopped.

a kiss on your forehead when he saw you in the morning. a kiss on your cheek while waiting in line for lunch. a kiss against your temple while you studied.

a quick peck when he passed you in the hallway. a longer one when nobody was looking.

soft kisses, laughing kisses, hungry kisses that left you breathless, lazy kisses that happened just because you were standing close.

sometimes he’d stop mid-sentence, stare at you for a second, then kiss you like he’d just remembered he could.

when you’d laugh and ask what that was for, he’d just grin.

“been wanting to for years.”

as if that explained everything. as if that wasn’t enough to make your heart explode every single time.

steve, somehow, became even sweeter.

which you honestly hadn’t thought possible.

he was constantly touching you in little ways. fingers brushing yours, hand on the small of your back, absentmindedly tucking your hair behind your ear, resting his chin on your shoulder while reading over your work even though he wasn’t actually reading any of it.

he looked at you like you were his favourite thing on earth, like he still couldn’t quite believe this was real.

truthfully, he couldn’t.

steve had spent years loving you quietly, years convincing himself he was okay with just having you however he could get you.

best friend. neighbour. constant companion.

he had told himself that was enough.

it hadn’t been, not really.

and now he got to kiss you. hold your hand. hear you call him yours in little casual ways that made his brain completely short circuit.

my stevie.

mine.

god.

he’d never been happier.

and you felt exactly the same.

you weren’t even officially dating yet. somehow, neither of you had actually labelled whatever this was, but it didn’t matter.

you were his.

he was yours.

everyone knew it.

that was enough.

for now.

then prom night arrived.

you spent the afternoon at your friend’s house with your three closest girlfriends, all of you crowded around mirrors with makeup scattered everywhere, hairspray thick in the air, music playing too loudly in the background while laughter bounced off the walls.

it was chaos, beautiful chaos.

and, naturally, your friends spent most of it teasing you mercilessly.

“finally,” one of them said dramatically while curling your hair. “do you understand how painful it’s been watching you two circle each other for years?”

another snorted from where she was doing eyeliner.

“literally years.”

“it was embarrassing,” the third added. “for everyone involved.”

you laughed, shaking your head.

“we were not that obvious.”

three deadpan looks met your reflection in the mirror.

then all together-

“you were.”

one of them groaned dramatically.

“he looked at you like you hung the moon.”

you covered your face.

“okay, stop.”

they only laughed harder but beneath the teasing was genuine relief. everyone who loved you had been waiting for this, waiting for you both to finally stop being idiots, waiting for the inevitable.

because to everyone else you and steve had always been a love story waiting to happen.

later, after hugs and promises to meet at prom, you headed home to get dressed.

and when you finally stepped into your baby pink dress, the same one steve secretly bought for you, you stared at yourself for a long moment.

soft curls framing your face, makeup gentle and glowing, the pink bringing warmth to your skin.

for once, nerves hit.

not because of prom.

because of steve.

because you wanted him to look at you and feel what you always felt when you looked at him.

then, a knock at the door.

your stomach flipped instantly.

you carefully made your way downstairs, hand lightly gripping the banister so you wouldn’t trip over your own feet and halfway down, you froze.

your mother had already opened the door.

steve was standing inside.

flowers in hand, pink flowers, the exact shade of your dress, suit fitted perfectly, tie matching you exactly like he’d planned, hair done but still somehow perfectly messy, looking so unfairly handsome it almost knocked the breath from your lungs.

then he looked up and froze. completely.

his whole body went still, flowers slackening slightly in his hand. mouth parting, eyes wide.

you nearly froze too but you also nearly missed a step, so survival instincts forced you forward.

when you reached him, smiling shyly, steve still looked stunned.

then softly, so softly,

“you look so beautiful."

his voice full of awe.

you felt your cheeks warm.

“you look handsome.”

that snapped him into a grin.

your mother immediately started gushing.

“oh, look at you two-”

your father, already prepared, handed her the old camera.

same tradition every dance, same photo spot every year.

except this year felt different, this year felt important.

steve’s hand settled naturally on your waist.

firm, warm, possessive in the gentlest way. you tucked into his side and both of you smiled brighter than you ever had before.

click.

perfect.

the second you stepped outside and the front door shut behind you steve kissed you. immediately. like he physically couldn’t help it.

you laughed softly against his mouth when he pulled away.

“what was that for?”

he shrugged, smiling.

“sorry. i feel like i have to all the time now.”

you blinked.

he looked adorably sheepish.

“i waited too long before.”

your whole chest melted.

you stood on your toes and kissed his cheek.

“good job i don’t mind.”

his smile widened impossibly.

the drive there was perfect. madonna played loudly, steve complained-

“this song again?”

-while secretly singing every word.

badly. using one hand as a fake microphone. you laughed until your stomach hurt and when he caught you looking at him with that soft smile he winked.

god.

you were doomed.

prom itself was… nice.

crowded, hot, loud. friends dragged you apart almost immediately, his crowd calling him over, yours pulling you in. reluctantly, you separated. but only briefly. because, like always, you found your way back to each other.

effortlessly, like magnets, just in time for the slow dance.

his hands found your waist, yours looped around his neck. you swayed together beneath dim lights, forehead resting lightly against his, smiling softly at nothing and everything.

it was perfect, too perfect, too short. because when the song ended, steve frowned.

“that’s bullshit.”

you laughed.

“what?”

“not enough dancing.”

before you could ask what he meant, he grabbed your hand and started pulling you through the crowd.

out the doors, into the parking lot.

you were laughing the whole time.

“stevie- what are you doing?”

he just laughed breathlessly.

“trust me.”

he dragged you to his car, opened the door, turned the radio on, shoved in a cassette, then david bowie filled the warm night air.

steve dramatically bowed.

held out his hand.

“may i have this dance?”

you laughed so hard your cheeks hurt then placed your hand in his.

under stars, in a mostly empty parking lot, next to his car, you slow danced.

giggling, stepping on each other’s feet, swaying dramatically, kissing halfway through because neither of you could help yourselves.

it was perfect. better than prom itself.

afterwards, breathless and smiling, you both looked toward the building, then at each other and silently agreed-

fuck prom.

ice cream was mandatory, then home.

summer air still warm enough that sitting in his back garden felt perfect.

until suddenly steve gasped, shot upright and ran to the pool, crouching beside it staring in dramatically.

you followed quickly.

“what? what?”

he waved urgently.

“come look.”

you leaned closer and he shoved you in. cold water swallowed you whole. when you surfaced gasping, steve was doubled over laughing.

that little bitch.

fine.

game on.

you frowned dramatically.

“ow- steve-”

his laughter stopped instantly.

“…what?”

you grabbed your arm.

“i think i hurt it-”

panic overtook his face.

“shit- how?”

he reached down and his hand out.

the sweetest idiot alive.

you grabbed it and yanked.

he crashed in beside you with a loud splash. when he surfaced, hair plastered down, face full of betrayal, you were laughing hysterically.

he looked annoyed for exactly two seconds before pulling you into him, arms wrapping around your waist holding you close in the water.

laughing softly now too.

then he kissed you.

forehead resting against yours after, smiling wide.

then quietly, like truth he’d been carrying forever,

“i love you.”

your eyes opened.

you smiled.

“i love you too.”

his face softened so completely it almost broke you.

then he hugged you hard like he never wanted to let go.

later, dripping wet, climbing out of the pool steve paused. looked at you seriously, then “that means you’re my girlfriend now, by the way.”

you smiled.

nodded.

“okay.”

he frowned jokingly.

“…okay?”

you blinked.

“what?”

he shoved wet hair back.

“i always thought you were perfectly happy being single.”

you smiled softly.

shrugged.

“maybe i was just waiting for you.”

he rolled his eyes immediately, tugging you into his side as he walked you both inside.

his lips pressed briefly to your temple.

then quietly, certainly, “you always had me.”

his arm tightened around you.

“always.”

-

"good morning, spence !"

when you entered the tiny kitchenette space to make your ritualistic daily coffee, your voice sounded cheerful. oat milk, lots of ice and a dash of vanilla syrup. iced latte was your fuel, and spencer didn't need to turn around to see look. he knew the way you liked it by heart like a catchy melody stuck in his head. he felt your presence in the room before you even spoke.

the lack of reaction made you frown when no one greeted you in return.

"morning," he answered simply. his hair looked particularly soft and ridiculously good in the way he'd decided to style it today - brushed back, curls rebelling agaisnt gravity - but you wished he'd turn around to hand you your mug. just like he always did.

today, he didn't.

the ice cubes hit the bottom of the glass and clinked, highlighting the unusual silence stretching between you. his shoulders looked slumped from behind, and you couldn't help but crane your neck to look over his tall figure.

it wasnt coffee he was drinking.

in his personal labeled mug, the one that had its spot on the shelf next to yours for convenience and unspoken rules - the first one to arrive makes coffee for two - was some sort of sloshy, pale mixture.

"holy fuck, what is that thing ?" you exclaimed in a voice too high for his sensitive self. too early to be the center of attention, too.

"nothing. i mean it isn't nothing, but it's nothing important"

judging by the knot your brows formed, he could tell you'd never accept to drop the subject.

"i have my fitness test this afternoon, i got the email last week and... i don't know, i guess it's not exactly a moment i look forward to."

"oh... none of us do, really."

your answer is simple, not inconsiderate. he knows you too well to be sure the latter would've included an eye roll and some giggling.

you move to the tiny fridge to find the bottle of oat milk kept on the top shelf, and feel the need to break the silence. "and drinking vomit is the best form of suicide you came up with ? babe, you could've made it work with the toaster"

there it is, the confirmation. you don't take him seriously, never have and probably never will.

"it's not vomit !" he retorts, crossing his arms to show how offensed he was. "it's a shake. with fruits and stuff... and protein as well"

by the sudden tilt of your head, lips parting and hand stilling mid pour, spencer felt his cheeks burn.

"they're full of micronutrients and can provide an energy boost, especially in the morning which is great for-"

"i know what a smoothie is, reid."

he looks down bashfully. “of course you do… i’ll let you have the space”

taking a couple steps to the right to give you the privilege of having the counter space, the conversation quietens when he sees you stare, dumbfounded and curious.

“this isn’t you.” you say in matter of factly tone. nothing is easier than knowing him. “you hate cold drinks…”

even coffee, actually. your beloved ice cubes you luckily always find in the freezer don’t interest him. and even though he’d never tell you he’s the one to refill the mold behind your back, he’d rather drink the coffee scalding hot.

“i do, but morgan recommended it.“

you sigh, rolling your eyes. “of course he did. what for, you know you could run backwards and the bureau would still keep you. you’re an asset to our team”

the little dimples of his you love so much make an appearance under the neon lights of the kitchenette, and you decide to keep going.

“morgan is just a cocky flirt.” your arms cross, droplets of condensation forming on the outside of the glass.

“aaaaand if you want my opinion, he’s probably suffering from some undiagnosed bigorexia. which to be honest, is really common in men”

not spencer, though. never spencer.

instead he shifts on his feet, and the distance between you seems like too much as a tight feeling in your chest urges you to protect him from all external forces.

“it’s not exactly like he forced me to do anything.” he retorts under his breath.

“i just think maybe… maybe i could put on some muscle. to be more efficient on the field.”

but his eyes are soft.

his eyes are soft as he opens up to you, the only person who ever listened. his slender fingers linger next to you, on the handle of the utensils drawer, and he looks like an absolute dream without even realising it.

when every breath and step he takes nearly undo you, how on earth could he possibly think he’s not enough.

“you’re perfect.”

those oh so perfect brown eyes look up and you melt.

“coffee is too good to be replaced with a bland protein shake you don’t even like. and you get too cranky when you’re lacking caffeine.”

it all comes to you naturally, too naturally. the reassuring words. the protective feelings when it comes to your beloved colleague.

“you hate exercise and there’s not a single reason why you should force yourself to do something you don’t enjoy for the purpose of changing yourself. it’s silly.”

swiftly you grab the handle of the mug with one hand and flick his forehed with the other.

"ouch- hey !" he exclaims in a high pitched voice. "what's that for ?"

“bringing you back down to earth. seriously,” the first sip you take is cool, the ice slightly melted already. “it’s not worth it.“

seconds pass before he actually says something, rubbing the spot you just hurt to make you feel bad about it.

now, his eyes find yours again. it doesn’t take a trained profiler to notice the change of posture.

“it does sound stupid when you say it like that…” he admits, chin higher and lips pursed.

you laugh, a full on burst of laughter at his self awareness.

“because it is. it’s so- unlike you.”

quieter, the sound of his chuckles mimic you. something warm contrasting with the iced drink you sip on.

“it’s not. i’m actually dying for a chocolate donut right now.”

this isn’t who he is.

the guy who cares about his physique more than anything and bends to society’s expectations. and amongst the false excuses he made and lies he tried to give you, you saw the truth immediately.

spencer is spencer. the guy who likes his coffee black with a donut on the side and calls it breakfast. he knows how you like your coffee and trades the opportunity to sleep in for more time with you in the morning.

He’d been vibrating in the corner, a burly man with red-rimmed eyes and fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone bloodless. You register the shift in his weight a half-second too late—the draw of his arm back, the pivot of his hips, the ugly twist of his mouth. 

There’s no room to dodge.

His palm catches you high on the shoulder—a glancing blow meant to shove, not strike. A warning, maybe. Or the last thread of restraint from a man who hasn’t slept in days. But the momentum is brutal. You slam backward into the kitchen counter. The granite edge bites into your lower back, a hot wire of pain that lances straight up your spine. Then your head whips forward and then back—the crack of your skull against the upper cabinet is a sound you feel more than hear. A wet, hollow knock that echoes inside your own skull.

White-hot splinters through your vision, stars collapsing and reforming behind your eyes. Your teeth click together so hard you taste enamel. Then copper, hot and sharp, blooming across your tongue.

The room tilts.

Your knees buckle.

You catch yourself on the counter, one hand slipping on a forgotten dish towel as the world lists sideways. Warmth trickles from your scalp down the nape of your neck, a slow, alarming heat that doesn’t match the sudden cold in your fingers. You blink, and for one long second, you can’t remember where you are. The faces in front of you are smears of colour and grief.

Before you can even draw another breath, a blur of motion cuts through your peripheral vision.

Spencer.

Not the lanky, cardigan-clad genius who stammers through small talk and apologizes for existing in someone's personal space. Not the man who once spent ten minutes explaining the migratory patterns of monarch butterflies because he couldn't read your social cues, who carries paperback novels in his satchel like other men carry wallets, who still flushes when you hold his hand in the dark of your apartment where no one can see.

This Spencer moves like a spring uncoiling. Like something kept on a very short leash just got loose—all that coiled tension, all those suppressed instincts, snapping into terrible, beautiful focus.

He crosses the kitchen in three strides you don't consciously track. One moment he's across the room, and the next he's there, inserting himself between you and the father with a speed that makes Hotch's head whip up from across the room. 

His right hand shoots out, palm flat against the man's chest, and shoves. Hard enough that the father's back hits the wall with a dry, echoing thud—the kind that rattles the framed school photos hanging nearby. A child's smile. Maggie's smile. The irony doesn't escape you. Neither does the way Spencer's arm doesn't tremble. He's not straining. He's planted—weight distributed, centre of gravity low, the stance of someone who's been trained to hold his ground and forgotten to mention it.

"Keep your hands off her."

Spencer's voice is low. Stripped of its usual breathy pitch, stripped of the tentative upward lilt that turns every statement into a question. The stammer is gone. The apologetic half-smile is gone. In its place is something you've only ever seen in glimpses—when he reads a case file a little too closely, when he stares down an unsub who's made the mistake of threatening a teammate.

It isn't a plea or a warning.

It's a fact. Delivered with the cold certainty of a ballistic report. The kind of voice that makes seasoned interrogators lean back in their chairs.

"Reid." Hotch's voice cuts across the kitchen, not unkind but pointed. A reminder. We're still here. We're still watching.

Spencer's spine straightens almost imperceptibly. His chin lifts. When he turns toward the unit chief, his expression is perfectly neutral—open, cooperative, the eager young agent who quotes statistics and fumbles with his words and never, ever pushes back against authority.

Hotch studies him for a long moment. That gaze—the one that sees everything, the one that's made unsubs confess just by existing—sweeps over Spencer from head to toe, cataloguing, assessing. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because he gives a single nod.

"That was an assault on a federal agent."

His words come precise and clipped, each one landing like a hammer strike. No rambling. No tangential footnotes about statistical probabilities or legal precedents. Just steel. The kind of voice you've heard Spencer use exactly once before—on a hostage negotiator's training tape Hotch made the whole team watch three years ago. The one where a twenty-something Reid talked a man off a ledge in under four minutes, then vomited behind the squad car afterward.

"You raise a hand again, and I will personally ensure you spend the next forty-eight hours in a holding cell while we decide how many additional charges to file."

His jaw is set. A muscle ticks beneath his eye—the only sign that he's even breathing. The father is twice Spencer's width, built like a man who's swung a hammer for a living, shoulders rounded with years of manual labour and grief gone toxic. And yet he shrinks. His mouth opens, some bluster forming on his tongue—a denial, maybe, or a defence—something about not meaning it, about his daughter, about grief making him crazy.

Spencer cuts him off.

"Don't."

The word snaps through the air like a rubber band breaking. Sharp. Final. It lands in the small kitchen and seems to suck the oxygen out of the room. 

"Not a word." Spencer's voice hasn't lost its edge. If anything, it's sharper now—honed to a fine point. "You're going to sit down, and you're going to calm down. If you so much as look in her direction again, we're done here. And your daughter's best chance walks out that door with us."

The man sits.

It's not graceful. His knees buckle more than they bend—a controlled collapse masquerading as obedience. His back slides down the wall until he's a heap on the linoleum, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. The fight drained out of him in less than ten seconds.

The mother makes a sound—something caught between a sob and a gasp—and Hotch is already there, guiding her to a chair, murmuring something about cooperation and finding Maggie. His voice is low, practiced. The same voice he uses for panicked witnesses and grieving families a hundred times a year.

But you're not watching any of that.

You're watching Spencer's hand drop from the man's chest. You're watching his shoulders rise and fall once, twice—a deliberate breath, the kind he uses to ground himself during panic attacks, the kind he taught you to use after nightmares. You're watching the way his spine stays rigid even as his fingers curl into a loose fist at his side, knuckles still pale.

He's shaking.

Not much. Not enough that anyone across the room would notice. But you're close enough to see the fine tremor running through his forearm, the way his throat works on a swallow he's trying to hide. He just threatened a man twice his size into silence with nothing but his voice and his presence—and now he's trembling like a leaf in a windstorm.

Only then does Spencer turn.

His eyes find yours—and for a split second, the mask cracks. Beneath the steel is something raw, almost frightened. You did that to him. You realize it with a small, stunned jolt—the way your pain becomes his panic, the way he'd burn this whole house down if it meant you walked out unscathed. It's not a protective instinct. It's something deeper. Something that lives in his bones now, whether he's named it or not.

His fingers are cool against your heated skin as he tilts your chin toward the light—the overhead fluorescents, merciless and buzzing, the kind that make everyone look washed out and exhausted. He doesn't seem to notice. He's examining your head with the same hyper focused intensity he brings to cold cases and obscure scientific journals. But his touch is different. Softer. The pads of his thumbs brush the skin just below your hairline, following the ache you hadn't realized was radiating outward from your skull.

Feather-light. Almost reverent. Like you're something precious he's been trusted to handle.

His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, coming away with a thin smear of copper. You watch him look at it—that single red line across his skin—and something in his expression fractures. Just for a second. Just enough for you to see. The mask doesn't just crack; it shatters, and underneath is something raw and unguarded: a man who has spent his whole life being too much or not enough, who has finally found something he can't bear to lose.

"You're okay," he murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear.

It isn't a question. It's the same declarative certainty he used on the father—that same steel-and-ballistic-report finality. But this time, it's wrapped in something tender. Something that sounds like I need you to be okay dressed up as a fact. Like if he says it enough times, with enough conviction, the universe will have no choice but to comply.

You nod. Just once. Small.

His throat works as he swallows—a visible, effortful thing, like he's pushing down something that wants to claw its way out. Rage, maybe. Or relief. Or something else entirely, something that doesn't have a name yet, something that's been living in the space between you for months.

Then he blinks.

And the Spencer the team knows clicks back into place. The tension in his shoulders doesn't fully release—it's still there, a wire pulled taut somewhere deep—but he smooths it down, tucks it away into whatever internal compartment he's built for exactly this purpose. His expression cycles through three micro-corrections: softening the jaw, relaxing the brow, lowering the shoulders. A man putting on his own face again, like adjusting a mask before stepping through a door.

You've seen him do this before. In interrogation rooms, when a suspect hits too close to home. At crime scenes, when the victim looks like someone he loves. In the quiet hours of the night, when nightmares leave him gasping and he has to remember how to be a person before the sun comes up.

But you've never seen him do it this fast.

His hand finds your lower back. Warm. Steady. A pressure that says I'm here without a single word as he guides you a step away from where the father sits slumped against the wall, weeping quietly into his hands. The shift is subtle—just a few inches—but you notice. Of course you notice. He's positioned himself between you and the room.

Behind you, Derek Morgan stands frozen mid-step, one foot forward, having lunged a second too late. His eyes are wide—not afraid, exactly, but stunned. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He looks like a man who just watched his nerdy little brother body-slam a bully twice his size and isn't sure whether to be proud or deeply concerned.

"Did… did Reid just physically intimidate someone?"

The question hangs in the air. Not accusatory. Just genuinely bewildered. Like he's asking the universe to confirm that his eyes aren't deceiving him, that the laws of physics haven't somehow inverted, that Spencer Reid—who once apologized to a door he walked into—just made a grown man shrink.

A slow, incredulous smile spreads across Emily’s face. The kind she gets when she's witnessed something she'll be holding over someone's head for years. Her eyebrows have climbed so high they're threatening to disappear into her hairline.

"I think he just threatened a civilian with federal prison and gave him a time-out." She tilts her head, watching Spencer angle his body between you and the room—a human shield disguised as casual concern. "That's… actually impressive. In a terrifying sort of way."

She says it lightly. But there's something underneath. A question she's not asking yet. Her eyes linger on the space between you and Spencer—on the absence of distance, on the way he hasn't looked at anyone else since he turned around. Emily has spent too many years in deep cover, has read too many micro-expressions, to miss the way Spencer's hand is still hovering near your back, even though the threat is neutralized.

Curious, her expression says. Very curious.

JJ's gaze flicks between you and Spencer, her reporter's brain cataloguing every detail. The hand on your back. The way your weight has shifted slightly toward him. The blood on your lip that he hasn't let you touch again. She doesn't say anything. But her eyes narrow—just a fraction—and something shifts behind them. Noticing. Filing it away.

She's going to ask you later. You can already tell. Not at the scene. Not where anyone else can hear. But later. In the bathroom of the jet, maybe, or while you're both pretending to sleep on the flight home. JJ has a way of making questions feel like kindness, like she's not prying, just checking in. 

Spencer’s thumb has started moving. An unconscious back-and-forth, a tiny circle, a soothing pattern he probably doesn't even realize he's making. The heat of his palm seeps through your shirt, grounding you in a way that has nothing to do with the pain still pulsing behind your eyes.

"You need ice," he says finally, practical now, his voice climbing back toward its usual register. But his eyes haven't left yours. They're scanning—forehead, temple, cheekbone, lip—with the same intensity he'd bring to a crime scene, cataloguing every shade of bruise, every smear of blood. "And probably stitches. One suture, maybe two. The temporal region bleeds disproportionately to the severity of the injury because of the superficial temporal artery, so the amount of blood isn't necessarily—"

But Morgan isn't done.

"Reid," he says slowly, drawing out the name like he's testing the weight of it against his tongue. "You just put a man against a wall."

Spencer stiffens almost imperceptibly beneath the attention. His hand flexes against your lower back—a nervous twitch, fingers curling like they're searching for something to hold onto—before he remembers himself and lets it drop to his side. The absence of his palm is immediate. You feel it like a missing step on a staircase, like a word left hanging at the end of a sentence, like the hollow ache where a tooth used to be.

He clears his throat.

"He was a threat to a federal agent." His voice is carefully neutral. Clinical. The kind of tone he uses when citing case law or explaining blood spatter patterns to a room of sceptical local PD. But there's a faint flush creeping up the back of his neck—the one he gets when he's been caught doing something embarrassing. Or something revealing. "Protocol permits reasonable use of physical intervention to prevent further harm."

Morgan crosses his arms. His head tilts—that slow, assessing angle he uses when he's already figured something out and is just enjoying the process of watching someone squirm. The ghost of a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not mean. Just knowing.

"Uh-huh." He draws out the syllable, lets it hang in the air like smoke. "And the part where you haven't let go of her for three minutes straight? What protocol is that?"

Spencer opens his mouth. Closes it. His ears are turning pink now, visible even under the horrible kitchen lighting—that particular shade of red that creeps up from his collar and stains everything in its path. 

His hands are now shoved deep in his pockets, like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for you again.

You watch him cycle through approximately four different responses in the span of two seconds.

It was three minutes and seventeen seconds—too defensive, too precise.

She was injured—too obvious, too flimsy, too easy to poke holes in. 

“That's not protocol, that's—” He stops himself before he can finish that sentence, but the word hangs in the air anyway, unfinished and damning.

That's personal.

Morgan lets the silence stretch, patient as a cat at a mouse hole. His eyes flick to you—just for a second—and there's something softer there now. Not pity. Understanding, maybe. The kind of look that says I see you, I see both of you, and I'm not going to make this harder than it needs to be.

But he's not going to make it easy, either.

"You know," Morgan says, feigning casual, "I've known you for years, Reid. Watched you freeze up around witnesses. Watched you stammer through interviews. Watched you apologize to furniture." He pauses, letting the contrast sink in. "I've never seen you move like that. Not unless someone on this team was about to get shot."

Spencer's throat works. His hands are still buried in his pockets, knuckles pressing outward against the fabric—a white-knuckled grip on nothing. "Situations evolve. People adapt. It's not—" He stops. Swallows. "It's not indicative of anything beyond the immediate circumstances."

"The immediate circumstances," Morgan repeats slowly, tasting the words. "Right. So if it had been me who got shoved, you'd have done the same thing?"

The question lands like a grenade with the pin pulled.

Spencer's eyes dart to Morgan's face—searching, analysing, trying to figure out the trap. Because it is a trap. You can see it. Spencer can see it. The only correct answer is the one that incriminates him.

Yes, he could say. It would be a lie, and Morgan would know it's a lie, and the lie itself would be a confession.

No—well. No would be even worse.

Spencer says nothing. His silence is louder than any answer he could have given.

Morgan's grin softens into something gentler. Something almost fond. "That's what I thought."

"I don't know what you think you're implying—" Spencer starts, but Morgan holds up a hand, cutting him off.

"I'm not implying anything, kid. I'm observing." He takes a step closer, dropping his voice so only the three of you can hear. The kitchen feels suddenly smaller, more intimate, like the walls have leaned in to listen. "I'm observing that you just went full tactical on a civilian. I'm observing that you haven't looked at anyone else in this room for more than two seconds at a time." He ticks each point off on his fingers, slow and deliberate. "And I'm observing that you're standing so close to her right now that if I took a picture, it'd be Exhibit A in a 'why the hell didn't we notice this sooner' slideshow."

Spencer's jaw is clenched so tight you can see the tendon in his neck straining. His hands have come out of his pockets—when did that happen?—and they're hanging at his sides, fingers twitching like he's fighting every instinct to reach for you again.

"I—" He stops. Starts again. "It's not—"

He can't finish the sentence.

Steve sags a bit. "C'mon, you know that's not what I mean."

Not even a hint of a smile at your dig — which tells you he's probably pretty serious then.

"Secondly, what dinner is this? What could be so important that you have to show up with a faux-girlfriend on your arm?"

Steve properly slumps this time, a loud groan accompanying the languished movement. His forehead presses against the counter-top and you bite your tongue to avoid making an unhelpful, teasing comment about it. Instead, you refill the glass in your hand and wait patiently.

"I…" Steve begins, his voice muffled against the counter-top.

"MybrotherisintownwithhisfiancéeandI—"

"Steveeee," You interrupt as you give in to the urge, leaning over and poking him in the head. "If you want my help, please stop mumbling into the counter and tell me the problem."

He doesn't move for a moment, still face down, but you can see the rise and fall of his back as he sighs deeply. He shifts, twisting so his face is no longer hidden. It's noticeably pinker than it was a minute ago.

"My brother is in town next week." He explains. "With his fiancée. And my parents really love to kick up a fuss whenever he gets brought up, whether it's, yanno, like, about jobs and shit or whatever."

Steve waves a careless hand out. He rises from his slumped position, tucking his chin into the palm of his hand.

"And, like, this time it was about relationships. It was all," Steve's voice pitches up, whiny and nasally. "When are you going to get a serious relationship like Brandon, Steve? When are you going to settle down, Steve? When are you going to stop being a disappointment, Steve?"

He huffs another sigh, this one tinged with more defeat. You feel your face twitch in sympathy.

"So, just to get them shut up I…" Steve averts his gaze to study the counter-top suddenly. He draws an idle circle with his free hand. "I said that I was actually dating someone."

You take in his words. "But you're not."

"Thank you, genius. I had no idea." Steve straightens up with a scoff, throwing his hands out. Dragging them down his face, another groan warbles out of him.

"But now they're expecting me to show up to this dinner with someone — someone I'm dating — and I cannot admit I lied. So, please, be my girlfriend for one night."

You snort. His distress, a disaster of his own making, is just a tad bit funny. Just a little. A smidge. "Dude, chill. Just say your girlfriend is sick and she can't come."

Steve laughs mirthlessly. "That's like the adult equivalent of saying oh you don't know her, she goes to another school. No, I can't do that! C'mon, please."

His hands clasp together, raised in a plea.

"Think of it as one hugely, massive favour."

You take a moment to think it over.

"When is it?"

"This weekend, Saturday, 5 o'clock."

"Dress code?"

"Formal. Duh."

"How many people?"

"Uh, my mom, my dad, my brother, his fiancée. Maybe my uncle? Four or five."

Saturday was only a couple days away. He'd left it awfully late to ask—and you're not exactly sure who else would step up for the job if you said no. For the first time since he threw out the insane suggestion, you properly consider it — and feel your face screw up instinctively.

You? Pretending to be Steve's girlfriend?

Sure, to some girls that probably sounded like a dream come true, but it hadn't ever been like that between you and Steve.

You weren't even sure if you could picture it, being tucked under his arm, receiving delicate kisses on the head instead of noogies. Your nose wrinkles again at the oddity.

It wasn't like people didn't like to speculate — men and women can't just be friends, after all — but getting on Steve Harrington's kiss list had never really been a priority to you. Would you even be able to pull it off?

Your mind casts out to the girls that Steve tends to date, nit-picking as you try to think of what separated you from them. While Steve would certainly vehemently deny it, you're pretty sure you can pick a pattern out from the array of girls. A type that you certainly wouldn't see yourself fitting into.

Steve just… doesn't go for girls like you.

Steve, watching you closely, sees the hesitation sink in. He leans forward again, bargaining face on.

"You can veto every movie we watch for the next month."

You squint at him. Raise your chin an inch, forcing yourself not to smile too obviously. It's not often you get to see Steve looking ready to actually grovel for something.

He narrows his eyes, catching onto your deviousness. "Fine. I'll pay for your shakes for the next month, too."

You take another moment to think it over, exaggerating the hmmm sound you make. You tap your finger against your chin, indicating you're not quite convinced yet.

Steve leans further forward, his expression inching toward a bitchy disbelief. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

He looks as though he might start another slew of scoffing, his tongue pressed into his cheek, before he seems to re-evaluate what's at stake here.

He says, "I will drive you up to Indianapolis on—" He holds up one finger. "—one occasion when you ask."

Grinning, you stick out your hand for him to shake.

"You've got a deal, mister."

Steve sighs, his shoulders sagging in relief as he drops his hand to rest in yours. You give it a firm shake and just when you can see the thank-you forming on his lips, you tug his hand forward. You grin wider, almost taunting.

"I would've done it just for the shakes, just so you know."

Steve does scoff this time, ripping his hand back from yours. "You're an awful friend."

You bite down your smile, already dreaming of the free shake you'll be sipping all the way out to Indianapolis. You take a sip of your water and raise your brows at Steve over the lip of your cup.

"Hey. Don't you mean awful girlfriend." You wiggle your brows, not failing to see the hint of pink that colours Steve's cheeks.

Despite the colour in his face, Steve manages to deliver a long, unimpressed stare at you.

His eyes flick down your figure, clearly turning your words over in his head, then back up. As though he's actually realising what he's asked you to do.

He huffs another sigh, running his hand down his face. "Jesus Christ. This is an awful idea."

"Hey, it's your idea, not mine."

—

A stray blouse flies from the closet, landing in an unceremonious lump at the foot of your bed.

You toe at it gently, narrowed gaze travelling from the murky colour up toward the closet, to the perpetrator currently tearing your wardrobe apart. He doesn't even pause, hands still digging, almost resembling a dog burying a bone.

Sighing, you drop your head back, hair splaying against your pillow. The water-stain on your bedroom ceiling greets your sigh with silence.

You had thought that, while sure, yeah, the Harrington's are a fancy bunch, it ultimately wouldn't be that much of a hassle to step in as Steve's date.

You'd have to dig through your closet for the nicest thing you owned (and seldom wore) and you and Steve would concoct a ludicrous story that could be the next John Hughes film.

It would take an hour, tops.

A severe underestimation. Maybe the promise of one hugely, massive favour should've tipped you off.

"Are you being serious right now?" You moan from your place on the bed. You shift your head forward again, eyeing your best friend across the room.

Steve, still buried in your closet, makes a loud harumph in answer. His voice comes out muffled against the clothes, too swamped amongst the fabric. "—Y'know, this wouldn't be so hard if you actually had anything wearable in here—"

You make a noise of indignation, tipping your head further forward. Your necklace shifts, the pendant sliding down the chain and hitting the comforter beneath you.

"And just what are you trying to say?"

Steve pauses for a moment, his hands halted on a pair of coat-hangers. He leans out from the clothing and lets his head loll back, his hazel eyes forming a flat stare.

"Har har." Steve says sarcastically. He turns back to the closet, the coat-hanger in his hand scraping as he pushes it along, assessing each piece with quick, attuned eyes. "I'm just saying you have a lack of clothing that my mother deems acceptable."

He turns back for a second. "Which is a good thing, by the way."

You hum in agreement, letting your head flop back onto your pillow. You've seen the pantsuits Cynthia Harrington wears.

Steve continues his barrage through your wardrobe, making a noise of disapproval every couple of seconds.

You also can't say you had expected to get started so soon; as in immediately post fake-girlfriend proposal. It occurs to you that perhaps you've said yes to something bigger than you expected.

"You're taking this really seriously." You comment.

"Yeah, well," Steve reaches in and tosses another blouse, this one pale-blue, on the bed by your feet. "I know you've met my parents before but they're, like, different when Brandon comes around."

"Different?"

"Like worse. Way, way worse." He draws a line with a flat hand. "Brandon makes them just so—"

His hand curls up, forming a fist. He sighs, dropping it to rest on his hip. For a long moment, he stares into your wardrobe.

You push up on one elbow, brows knitting together. "Steve?"

Steve jolts lightly at your voice, torn out of his thoughts. He reaches out and plucks another blouse from your wardrobe, a maroon pleated one that you'd sworn you had thrown away. It's horrendous and definitely picked out by your mother. He turns and chucks it on the bed, crumpling atop the others and looks up at you, hands perched on his hips.

"Just, like, the smoother this dinner goes, the better, okay?"

You sit up completely, catching the seriousness leaking into Steve's voice. Damn. He actually sounds pretty worked up about the whole thing.

You smile, aiming for comfort. Even if you hadn't quite grasped what you had said yes to, Steve was still your best friend.

His parents were… difficult on the best of days. It was clear he was going for the least eventful, head-down approach as he could for this.

You could do that.

"Okay." You nod, more serious this time, eyeing the blouses on the end of the bed. You miss the relief that shutters across Steve's face. "We got three days til Saturday. What do you need me to do?"

"You can start," Steve says, spinning back to face your chest of drawers this time. His eyes flash over, with a hint of mirth. "By telling me if you even own a skirt that goes below your knees, you scandalous woman."

You laugh and get to your feet, wandering towards your drawers to pull open the bottom most one. Fishing around, you try to recall if you have anything church-worthy, tongue poking out your lips.

A hideous woollen skirt gifted to you for Christmas a couple years ago springs to mind. You shiver.

"Below the knee, huh?" You say. "You better start telling me about the role I'll be playing if I can't even turn up as myself."

You're only half joking. Your fingers curl around the scratchy fabric and you wrinkle your nose in recognition. Tugging it forward, it escapes the confines of your drawers and splays out with a sudden poof. You get the joy of remembering just how ugly it really is.

Twisting, you hold it up to Steve who has taken your place on your bed, laid back.

"Think this'll do?"

Steve's head perks up and he locks onto the skirt in your grasp. "Ugh, it's awful. Perfect."

You drop the skirt, abandoning it to take your place next to Steve on the bed. The springs creak slightly as your weight joins Steve's, the bed dipping and forcing you closer together. A smile sneaks onto his face.

"Okay, but for real," You jab a finger into the softness of Steve's side and he makes a little noise of complaint. "You've gotta tell me what I'm expecting for this, dude. It would be, like, catastrophically mean of you to send me in there blind."

Steve sighs — something he's really doing that a lot recently — and rolls toward you, propping his head up with one arm. The edges of his polo stretch as his bicep bulges. He frowns down at your comforter as he thinks.

"I don't know if I actually can prepare you for it." He admits, raising his gaze to look at you through his lashes. "Like, I think we're gonna have to just come up with a story and fend off the questions as best we can."

Another thought occurs to you. You frown. "Wait, don't your parents, like, know about me already?"

Steve's gaze darts away, this time staring at your comforter with a greater intensity. He gives a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah, well, that's why it'll work. They basically already ask me when we'll be getting together."

Your brows jump. A teasing grin taunts your mouth but you forsake it for a more helpful approach.

"Alright, then," You say. "Then let's do better than fending off the wolves. If I'm gonna be your fake girlfriend, I'm not gonna half-ass it. Let's knock the socks off your parents."

Steve's eyes jump up, meeting your stare and it takes another moment before he realises you're being genuine. You grin, poking him in the side again.

"And Brandon."

"Yeah?" Steve smiles. He sounds a tad awed at your dedication, his eyes roaming over your face gently. After a moment, he shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts. "Okay. Uh, we have to come up with a backstory first."

"And it has to be one that your parents will believe too."

Steve nods, then pauses, a frown knitting together his eyebrows. "Wait, when did we get together? We can't have just started dating that's— like, almost as bad as showing up without a girlfriend."

You blink, perturbed. "What?"

"Oh, hey mom and dad." Steve says, his tone sardonic and flat. "Oh yeah, this is my girlfriend who I somehow started dating just one week ago, coincidentally just in time for this family dinner."

You cringe a little. He does have a point.

"Fine." You say. A little worry burrows into your brain — the longer you make your 'relationship', the more details you have to construct, to remember, and recall correctly.

You worry your bottom lip. "How long is long enough though? If it's too long, we have to remember more things."

Steve's mouth twists in thought. He gives a hmm.

"I think the last time you saw my parents was… sometime around New Year's Eve, right? They had that party, d'ya remember?"

You wrack your brain and find a memory with glittering fireworks and greasy hot-dogs. Steve had too much champagne and emptied his stomach into a bush. Faintly, the memory of passing by Mr and Mrs. Harrington fits in there— only for a moment.

"Yeah," You say.

Combing over the last years' events, you try to think if there's anything else you would've seen them at.

Graduation? You try to smooth out the wrinkles of that memory too; sunny day, sweltering gown. You hadn't remembered seeing Steve's parents there. "'Cos they didn't come to graduation, did they?"

"Nope." Steve says, popping the p. He rolls back to lie flat on your bed, folding his hands to rest on his chest. "What about after one of my basketball games? The final one of the season." He proposes, eyes tracking back to you.

You laugh without meaning to, spurred on by Steve's surprise.

"Really? At your basketball game? That's when the sparks went flying and we got together?"

Steve's mouth drops open an inch in offense. He throws his hands up. "What? That's, like, totally romantic." He defends. "Besides, it's a good reason for our friendship to have changed."

"You lost that game."

"I still scored!"

"Fine." You appease, laughing lightly. "We got together after you lost the last basketball game of the season."

Steve wrinkles his nose again. "Well, don't put it like that."

You laugh again, soft and light.

"Who asked who?"

"I asked you." Steve says.

You nod, carefully trying to commit the detail to memory. Your head spins as you try to think up the variety of different questions you might get asked at the dinner.

What sort of questions might his parents ask? Or his brother? They'll probably want to know the basics — how you got together, how it's going. You might get a shake-down to see if you're worthy of dating a Harrington.

Then, of course, there is the matter of ensuring you're a convincing couple. In love enough to be brought along to an exclusive family event.

That means… getting touchy. The thought sends a jolt through your stomach— will you have to kiss?

You bury the thought. You'll cross that bridge and have it's subsequently unavoidable, awkward conversation when you get to it.

You're not sure who'll you will have more trouble convincing; Brandon or Steve's parents. But from what you know of Steve's family, you'd bet none of them know him that well.

For all you know, this could well be a walk in the park. Maybe the easiest free trip to Indianapolis ever earned.

"What's Brandon like?" You ask, trying to get a better sense of who you'll be fooling. "Do you think he'll ask many questions?"

"He's…" Steve's eyes shift from you to the ceiling, his mouth forming a flat line. "An asshole, like my dad. He's got this amazing talent for getting under my skin. Which usually includes undermining just about anything I have going for me in my life. Or—" He gestures to you with a sigh. "—what I actually don't have going."

He rolls his head in your direction, his mouth twisted into a bitchy frown.

"He used to always rat on me to our parents when I was kid. He once got me in trouble for going to see Tommy just because he didn't want to walk me over. Said I disobeyed authority." Steve makes quotations with his fingers.

Your brows raise in disbelief. "Isn't he, like, fifteen years older than you?"

Steve huffs a mirthless laugh. "Yep. Told you, asshole. So, yes, he'll probably ask questions but I don't think he'll expect I'd do something as desperately pathetic as faking a girlfriend so hopefully we'll fly under his radar."

Reaching out, you whack Steve on the arm, relishing in his annoyed ow!

Eyes narrowed, you wait til he's looking at you with his what gives? face before you say, "What you're doing is not pathetic, nor is it desperate. It is an act of survival against your shitty family, okay?"

Steve stares at you for a moment before his shoulders seem to melt, the tension leaking from them. He flops his head back.

"Okay." He murmurs in agreement.

"Alright," You say. "Now, let's get this story straight. We got together at the final game of the season, which would mean we've been together for nearly…"

STEP TWO: THE ACT

Your legs itch and you fight the urge to readjust your tights for the umpteenth time.

Steve, in the driver's seat beside you, drums his hands against the steering wheel too rapidly to be casual. He keeps darting one hand to his mouth, teeth worrying at his thumbnail.

You'd reach out and smack him to get him to stop but you're beginning to feel the lurch of nerves yourself. The drive from your house to Steve's has never seemed so, so entirely too short.

"Okay, uh," Steve's throat clicks, clammed up from his silence for too long.

He hadn't spoken much when he had picked you up, other than to laugh at your joke at the mismatch of yourself and your prim outfit.

You'd ended up finding a double-breasted blazer in your mom's closet and you look almost ready to run as the local mayor. You're even wearing tights.

"We got together the 20th—"

"—of June, last year." You finish for him.

Steve nods, his face still facing forward. His eyes look a tad unfocused, even as he reaches out to adjust the collar of his dress shirt. "Right. So we've been together for, uh, about ten months."

You nod encouragingly, checking the details in your head. "You asked me out. Our first date was—"

"—at The Hawk." Steve cuts in, parroting off your memorised answers. "We saw Labyrinth and, uh, then I drove you home."

That part isn't technically untrue. You and Steve had gone to see Labyrinth together back in June of last year, but it certainly hadn't been a date. You find the details lend themselves quite easily regardless.

"That's when we had our first kiss." You remind him, even if it makes your face heat minisculy. "What did you get me for Christmas?" You quiz.

"Uh," Steve's hand rabbits against the steering wheel, nerves evident. He finally breaks his stare from the road to glance at you, his brows furrowed together, eyes worried. "Fuck, I can't remember."

"It's fine," You stress, waving a hand. "You got me tickets to Billy Joel and we drove out to Indianapolis for the concert in April."

Steve nods a bit too manically, his perfectly coiffed hair coming a bit loose. The houses flashing by the window gradually get bigger, fancier. He bites his thumbnail again and this time you do reach out and tug his wrist away.

"Thanks." He murmurs.

He turns the wheel, the engine droning as the car takes the corner to enter his street. Your nerves hike a mile higher and you tug at your tights fruitlessly again. The street is lined with nice cars — not unexpected for Steve's neighbourhood.

What is unexpected is the sheer volume. You and Steve peer out the car windows, eyes wide, as you take in the full street. When you swallow, your throat feels particularly dry.

You turn to Steve. "I thought they said it was a family dinner?"

Steve, his eyes darting from car to car, either trying to find a park amongst the packed sidewalk or maybe just panicking like you are, takes a moment to meet your eyes. He looks a lovely shade of chalky white.

"They definitely did."

There's a free space down the end of Steve's street, the driveway already full with two cars, neither you can recognise.

Steve's foot hits against the brake too abruptly and the car jerks to a stop, rocking forward. You grip the edges of your seat tightly as Steve kills the engine. For a moment, neither of you make a sound.

"What if there's more than just family in there?" Steve croaks, turning slowly to face you.

The paleness in his face has pitched toward something greener. He swallows heavily, twisting back to stare out the windshield and his hands on the wheel tighten. "Oh my god, this is— this isn't gonna to work."

"Steve."

"Valentines, we did Lover's Lake," Steve mutters to himself, eyes still out the window. "Fuck, this is so stupid."

"Steve," You try again. His own panic is worsening your own and if he continues to spiral, you fear you might never make it out of the car and you did not wear itchy tights for that to happen.

"You got me the Michael Jackson record for my birthday," He rattles off again, almost absentmindedly, as though his mind can't pick between panicking about trying to remember all the details or the apparent extra guests.

"This is— oh my god, we're never gonna convince them."

"Steve." You say firmly. His head snaps around, broken from his mutterings. He blinks at you.

You take a deep, exaggerated breath in. Steve follows instinctively, his shoulders rising as he inhales.

"We will convince them." You insist earnestly.

Offering out your upturned hand, you wait for Steve to shift to place his bigger hand in yours. When he does, your fingers curl around it, cradling it.

You can feel the rabbit of his pulse at your fingertips and you meet his eye as you say, "We know each other—really well. We're best friends. We've practised, we look the part, okay? Now, all we have to do is… be a couple for an evening. It's going to be fine."

Steve swallows and for a moment, he doesn't say anything. Then his breath bursts out in a release of tension, his hand finally squeezing yours back. "God, what would I do without you?"

"Crash and burn, probably." You tease, thankful when unease hanging on his frame is replaced by something more familiar.

Steve makes an appalled noise, tightening his grip on your hand so you can't pull it back. His other hand moves, his fingers dancing across the ticklish skin on the inside of your arm til you shriek out in laughter, yanking your hand back.

Your laughter seems to have dimmed the nervousness a bit. You glance over your shoulder, down the street, and track an older couple dressed primly entering the Harrington home. As you turn back to Steve, you swallow to gather your nerves.

"Ready?"

Steve doesn't look like he is, his shifting, unsure eyes and stressing hands. He pushes his palms against his slacks and takes a sharp inhale, before meeting your eyes. "Ready as I'll ever be."

You count the steps up to the doorway without even meaning to, arriving at the Harrington doorstep in approximately 47 steps. The maroon double doors before you seem taller than usual. Steve raises his hand to knock and then halts, his attention shifting to his upraised hand.

He quickly tucks it back against his side, except this time with his elbow held out for you.

A faint pang of surprise in your chest, coloured with something softer, nicer. You’ve seen somewhat what Steve’s like on his dates and you’ve certainly heard plenty of the aftermath. But you’ve never been on one, of course.

As you loop your arm to nook in his, you find yourself unexpectedly eager to find out exactly what it’s like to be Steve Harrington’s date.

Steve knocks on the door, then twists the knob and lets himself in.

Despite seeing the earlier guests, there’s little to prepare you for the room full of people that stand on the other side of the door. Moving on instinct, clinging to Steve’s arm, you step through the threshold and into the lion's den.

Your nerves fry. Never mind lion's den; you feel more like a fly caught in a web. Frog boiling in a pot? No, that doesn't work because you know exactly what you were signed up to when you said yes to Steve.

Well, not precisely. You survey the crowd, counting at least three times as many people as you were expecting with nervous eyes.

Your little white lie with Steve just graduated to having an entire audience. No pressure, right?

“Steven.”

The croon of Cynthia Harrington greets the pair of you.

You feel Steve stiffen up beside you, his shoulders rolling back, his entire body straightening up. His throat bobs as he swallows nervously.

“Mom,” Steve says. His voice is a bit dry and he swallows again. “You didn’t say there were going to be this many people here.”

He’s polite enough to not word it as an accusation. His niceties don’t work, bouncing off the painstakingly sculpted smile of a businesswoman.

“Please, it’s a networking event, I’m not sure what you expected.” She adjusts her diamond earring, swaying and heavy, as she speaks dismissively. “I told you this, Steven.”

You never hear anyone call Steve Steven other than his parents.

“No, Mom, you didn’t.”

There’s a barely restrained bite in his words.

That catches Cynthia’s attention. She stops her roaming gaze to focus on her son, not even glancing at you. After a moment, she gives an exasperated huff.

“Well, why else would we be back, Steven? Your father is trying to close business with Mr. Collings.”

The sting isn’t even for you — in fact, you don’t even think she realises she’s dealt it — but you feel it all the same. Steve’s arm looped with yours tightens, a minuscule motion.

Though you know he thinks they’re all assholes, it doesn’t stop Steve from hoping they’ll come back for him.

“Right.” Steve says, voice tight. “Sure. Of course.”

You’re just thinking about dragging him away from this barbed conversation, clearly pricking all his sensitive spots, when Cynthia’s sharp gaze slides over to you.

Her eyes gleam in recognition and her posture changes.

“Oh, is this the girlfriend you’ve spoken of?”

This time you’re the one who stiffens up. It’s momentary. You know that Steve’s likely freaking out too and at least one of you has to pull yourself together.

The most winning smile you can manage glides onto your face.

“That’s me.” You squeeze Steve’s arm with your hand. It's half in genuine comfort, half in show.

Cynthia regards you for another long moment before she manages to straighten up further, as though pinched.

“Oh! Yes, I recognise you. Remind me of your name, dear?”

It’s a struggle not to grit your teeth. Steve and you have been friends for nearing ten years now.

Still, you relay it politely for her. Your smile feels a bit wooden now.

“Oh, Steven. How nice.” Cynthia says, a touch of patronisation in her tone. Her beady eyes slice back to yours. “He had such a crush on you for the longest time, it’s—”

“Mom.” Steve hisses, cutting her off. Another unexpected jolt of something warm in your chest. Wait, really?

You chance a glance up at Steve. His ears are tinted pink.

You’re not entirely sure what to make of how that makes you feel, so you shelve it for later. Maybe when you’re not being thrown to the sharks by Steve’s awful parents.

Okay, too many animal metaphors. Falling asleep to the Discovery Channel last night is definitely taking its toll.

“We’re gonna mingle, find Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. He moves forward, past his mother, and tugs you with him. Your legs itch with the reminder of your scratchy tights.

“Alright, Steven. Make sure you say hello to your brother!”

Steve huffs, loud enough that you hear it, and you let him lead you through the throngs of middle-aged people. He stops when he reaches the kitchen, finally unwinding his arm with yours.

He does it so he can shove his hands in his hair, a stressed motion from Steve if you’ve ever seen one.

“God, okay, that went well.” He says sarcastically.

“Stop. You’re ruining your hair.” You reach up and rescue his lochs from his harsh grip, fingers around his wrists to tug his hands away. You’re far too aware of how long it had taken him to do.

Steve lets you. When you focus on his face, you notice the pink from his ears is also on his cheeks.

The question jumps off your tongue, unbidden.

“Was she telling the truth? About… the crush? Or was she just trying to tease you?”

The pink dips closer to scarlet. Steve sighs, his eyes closing for a moment.

“I— she- yes,” He admits. Your heart shudders at the revelation. Steve’s eyes open and he twists his hands so he can hold yours in them. “But, like, not now. In the past. Years ago, I promise.”

For his sake, you do your best not to take it too seriously. Even if you wanted to pry, now is not the time nor the place to do so.

However, you can’t resist a small, teasing grin. Steve catches it and his embarrassment gives way to exasperation instantly.

“You likeeed me,” You say in a sing-song voice.

Teasing is not unfamiliar in your friendship with Steve and getting to joke around, even at this strange party, feels nicer. Steve groans dramatically, his eyes closing and his hands pushing against your hands to shove you away.

A new voice interrupts.

“Liked? I sure hope he likes you now, being his girlfriend and all.”

You and Steve both snap out of your easy joking, remembering that you’re supposed to be presenting as a couple. Head turning to who had spoken, it only takes a couple of seconds for you to place who it is.

He looks a little bit like Steve, but not really.

The eyes are different, not as slanted and he hasn’t got any of Steve’s beautiful moles. But the nose, the mouth, put together with matching brown hair and tan skin, you know who this is without having to ask.

“Brandon.” Steve says. The name is stilted in his mouth.

Brandon smirks, his same hazel coloured eyes dragging a long, scathing once-over of his younger brother. He doesn’t look impressed, if his disinterested expression is anything to go by.

Then he does the same to you.

It’s almost tangible, the prickly feeling of his gaze raked over your body. Searching, hunting, nearly making you want to perk up to gain his approval.

God, Steve was right on the money. This guy is like his father but worse.

“The eye-candy of the month, huh?” He says to you, chuckling as if he’s made a joke.

You consider, then make the decision to throw all pleasantries out the window. You don’t smile back.

“Actually, Steve and I will be coming up on one year soon.”

Tangling your hands back together as you say it, you lean into Steve’s side. It’s warm, smells of his cologne. Only when you gaze up at him, do you let a smile grace your lips. It’s soft and genuine.

Steve smiles back down at you, crooked and lovely.

“I’m surprised anyone could settle him down,” Brandon continues and you turn back to him, fighting the urge to narrow your eyes. It doesn’t escape you how he’s jumped from one slight dig to the next.

He’s clever with it. Polite enough that Steve can’t exactly bring it up as an issue.

Brandon continues, swirling his crystal tumbler of whiskey idly. “Surprised he wanted to. Little bro always seemed like such a womanizer. Didn’t think he’d want just one chick.”

He leans in and socks Steve on the shoulder, hard, when he says the word womanizer. He’s grinning.

You have to admit, Brandon’s far too good at this — good at getting under your skin. If you hadn’t been forewarned of his behaviour, if you actually were Steve’s girlfriend, it would certainly rub you the wrong way. He’s certainly doing his best to sprinkle grit and strife between you two.

And you know it hurts Steve to hear — Sure, maybe when he was a thick-headed freshman, with no clue about the world, he had acted that way.

Nowadays... Anyone who knows Steve, even a little bit, knows he wants the real deal, more than anything.

“Not anymore,” Steve says, though it’s not nearly as confident as he usually is. He clears his throat and casts his gaze around. “Where’s Ariel?”

“Ah,” Brandon hums, looking around himself. He takes a long sip of his whiskey. “Not sure. I think I left her in conversation with the Erickson’s from across the street. She’s been pleading with her eyes to be saved but hey, she’s gotta learn sometime, right?”

Your lip curls up in distaste before you remember yourself. Fingers intertwined with Steve’s, you clutch them tighter for some semblance of strength.

You’ve got to get the two of you out of here before you start outright sneering at this man — which is very much not the heads-down approach Steve had asked for.

“Babe,” you say, effectively dismissing Brandon’s comment as you look up at Steve. He looks down at you and squeezes your hand. “Can we grab a drink, please? I’m feeling thirsty.”

Steve murmurs his affirmation and you both turn back to Brandon to bid a polite goodbye. His left eye twitches just once, the only indication that he’s put off by your subtle rejection.

“Well,” Brandon fixes his features, his smirk sliding back into place. “Don’t let me keep you. What was your name again, sweetheart?”

“I didn’t say.” You say, forcing the politest, more nonchalant expression on your face. You let him stew in the awkwardness, waiting for him to break and ask.

He doesn't. Brandon just smiles, though this time it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He holds out his hand and despite how you don’t want to, you place your own in it to shake it.

“Well, it’s been real nice getting to meet you. I hope I’ll see more of you later tonight.” He smiles like a promise. His grip tightens in the handshake.

You grip his hand tighter, matching his strength, and for the first time in the whole conversation, you match his perfectly fake smile.

“Not if I see you first,” You say, spoken pleasantly enough that the meaning of your words doesn’t sink in until you’ve pulled back. You urge Steve somewhere, anywhere that’s not here.

“C’mon, let’s get that drink.”

There’s a punch-bowl out in the living room, thankfully. Displayed next to it is a large jell-o mould, arsenic green, and jiggling gently whenever someone bumps the table. Rich people stuff, you assume.

You eye it curiously as Steve quietly ladles a cup for you, then himself.

The punch is pineapple flavoured but peachy in colour. You sniff the cup Steve gives you hesitantly before you take a small sip. It’s nice. Mostly juice.

You peer up at Steve over the next sip and the cup hides your near hiccup of surprise when his hand slides along your waist. His hand, warm and large, settles on the small on your back and urges you closer.

“That was— wait, this is okay, right?” He pulls his hand back an inch, hovering over your waist. You nod without having to think about it.

“Okay,” He sighs in relief, resting it back down. His thumb moves, soothing along the fabric almost absentmindedly.

He grins at you, “That was, like, amazing to watch. The whole —not if I see you first— just, god, his face. Amazing.” His hand on your waist squeezes lightly. “You’re amazing. I didn’t know you could be so snobby.”

He says the last word slightly too loud and you laugh, worriedly stealing a glance around the room. No one’s paying you much mind. You do notice, however, that Brandon’s meandered into the living room now.

You sidle closer, tucking up under Steve’s arm.

Surprise touches Steve's features; his brows raising a bit, lips parting, and cheeks colouring that ruby colour once more.

It’s as if, despite all your previous agreements, he’s forgotten that you’re supposed to be acting like a couple.

As if he’s forgotten that couples act like this. In love, that is.

“Are you finding this weird?” He murmurs, volume control on this time. It’s said just to you, muffled into your hairline.

From afar, you think it might look like he’s kissing your forehead.

You take another sip of the punch, peering at his dress shirt, and consider his question. It’s not weird, per se. You tell him as much.

“I think it’s just new,” You look up at him — closer than you usually ever see him. His lashes are long and spidery. His hazel eyes are lighter under the lights. “Just different to what we’re used to. It’s… nice, I think.”

“You think?”

You expect Steve to tease you for your own unexpected soft answer but instead, his response comes out with a strange reverence.

If you had to pick a word, something traitorous would maybe call it hopeful. Wait, traitorous? Wait, hopeful?

"Yeah," You shrug a little, no big deal. "I mean it's not that much different from how we already are, right? Just a little more..."

Steve's thumb swatches along your back, more intentionally this time.

"Touchy?" He provides.

You nod and pretend the strange acknowledgement isn't making you feel a tad more flustered.

The touchiness is really quite nice. It’s sweet to have an anchor in this freaky social situation, very much unlike the aforementioned and abandoned Ariel. Steve’s hand on you is a grounding touch, a constant soft reminder of the person who has your back—literally.

And the person is Steve — which, again, isn’t really that different from what you’re used to. He sorta always has your back anyway.

You suppose it hasn't really crossed your mind before, not in depth at least, the small changes that would occur if you and Steve really did date.

How different would it really be?

Chin tilting up, you slyly steal a look at him as Steve scans the party. He's probably planning escape routes, jaw clenched subtly. He's clean-shaven, not a whisper of that stubble that you think suits him rather well.

Would you still be friends, if the two of you dated?

The question feels silly the moment you think it, even if it's only spoken in your mind. You wrinkle your nose lightly and hide it behind another sip of punch. There's an easy answer to that.

Of course you would. It's like you just said: not that different from how you are now. Same teasing dynamic, same loyal history, same sharing embarrassing secrets and same driving around doing nothing, loving it.

Just more. More of this.

Steve squeezes your side warmly, his head twisted to look back down at you. He's asked you a question you realise.

"Hm?"

"I was asking how long do you think it's acceptable to wait to fake a heart-attack to get us out of here?”

Amusement draws your eyebrows up. You grin up at Steve. "A heart-attack? At your youthful, healthy age? C'mon, Steve, they'll never believe it."

Steve's expression twitches closer to bitchy as he considers your rebuttal. You take another sip of punch. He relents.

"Fine. What else? I’m not above faking haemorrhoids.”

The punch in your mouth comes back out in a surprised splutter, thankfully landing mostly back in your cup. A drop of it streaks down your chin.

Your surprise quickly morphs into a glare, eyes shifting up to deliver it to your best friend.

The shit-eating grin on Steve’s face tells you that his timing was not accidental.

“You’re unbelievable,” You hiss because what happened to the polite, head down, and not eventful approach that Steve had all but pleaded from you?

He reaches for a napkin for you without asking — and then tugs you in closer with the hand around your waist, brings the napkin up to your face. He hovers, giving you a moment to realise what he’s doing, before he dotingly swipes away the streak of juice.

“Careful now, honey,” He says, giving the petname a teasing intonation.

How he managed to pick the petname that does actually make your heart perk up in your chest is beyond you. Maybe he knows you better than you think.

“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?” You ask, brows raised, pretending to be annoyed. Your bitten-back grin gives you away. “Making me spit my punch and then just sprinkling in a petname—”

“—like you didn’t do that first, with Brandon in the kitchen.” Steve interjects. He crumples the napkin and drops it back on the table.

“Okay," You say. "Fair."

"We forgot to discuss that, actually," Steve says. He sounds casual but he looks away, studying the punchbowl rather intently. "What... like, do you like to be called? In a relationship?"

It is an oversight both of you managed to miss, which makes you feel a little foolish now. You focus on the question.

"I like honey," You admit gingerly. A tepid smile threatens at your lips and when you look up at Steve, he's already turned back to watch you closely. "It's a bit old-fashioned. Sounds more like something you say if you're married but...I think it's nice."

"Yeah," Steve says softly. "Me too."

Something hums brightly in your chest at his gentle expression, his fondness zeroed in only on you. You break his gaze to swallow, your mouth suddenly dry.

"What about you?"

Steve chuckles. "Don't like babe."

"Too late."

“Yeah, well, obviously.”

There’s a beat and you think if you’ve ever had this conversation before. Sweetened preferences didn’t usually make it into your gossip sessions. This is new territory.

“I like sweetheart too,” Steve says, somewhat offbeat. As if he’d thought for too long if he’d say it or not.

He peers down at you, a scrunch in his nose. “Not like Brandon says it though. He might’ve ruined that one for me.”

“He can ruin this dinner, but not that.” You decide for him. “C’mon, sweetheart. We look like we’re stealing all the punch.”

Using your hand in his, you lead him away from the punch table and weave through the people milling about the living room. A touch of resistance makes you glance back. You can see a pink glow painted on Steve’s cheeks.

Your feet come to a halt, twisting back to properly face him. You can’t resist the urge to tease. “Oho, you weren’t kidding- you do like that one.”

“Oh, shut up,” Steve murmurs, his tongue pressed into his cheek and his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t believe I raised you so poorly as to address a lady like that, Steven.”

You jump at the intrusion, realising you’d unluckily managed to stop right beside Mr. Harrington. Fuck, why are all of Steve’s family so good at sneaking up on you? You chalk it up to their snakeish tendencies.

“Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. Then, with a quick swallow, he corrects himself. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Harrington is not what you’d call an impressive man. Sure, his suit is tailored to fit and you have no doubt his overwhelming cologne costs more than three paychecks combined — but in substance? He lacks. Severely.

You’ve met him thrice.

Every time, you wonder how someone as wonderful as Steve, can come from someone like him.

Though, it certainly explains the god-awful ‘King Steve’ phase Steve had gone through in his freshman and sophomore year. You shiver at the memory.

“It was warranted, Mr. Harrington, believe me,” You jump in to move the attention of Steve’s father back to you, easily shouldering the blame. A smile, cool and collected, graces your face. “I was teasing him, after all.”

Mr. Harrington grunts in disagreement. “Hardly an excuse to speak so crudely, especially in front of guests.”

Opening your mouth to defend him again, Steve speaks first. “You’re right, sir. I apologise, it won’t happen again.”

Steve still shoots you a thankful glance. You clamp down your half-formed response and squeeze his hand instead. He squeezes back.

Maybe the two of you should’ve learned morse-code with all the squeezing you’re both doing. You hadn’t anticipated holding his hand for this long.

You could let go. You don’t really want to — and you’re pretty sure, neither does Steve.

You can’t remember the last time you held his hand.

“Your new girlfriend, I presume?” Mr. Harrington nods to you.

Steve barely gets a moment to respond when his father is waving him forward, stepping back to open a circle of middle-aged men behind him.

“Come, there’s a few associates I’d like you to meet, Steven.”

There’s no question, only a demand. Despite how it feels like stepping into a pit of vipers — damn you, Discovery Channel — you and Steve join the circle.

“Gentlemen,” Mr. Harrington addresses the four men before you, a wry smile on his face. “My son, Steven.”

Then, as an afterthought, with a glance your way. “And his girlfriend.”

“Oh? Not fianceé?” One of the men speaks up. He’s balding, his hair combed over in an attempt to cover his ruddy coloured scalp.

“I’m afraid you’re thinking of my other son, Brandon.” Mr. Harrington says, words suddenly imbued with a proud tone. Steve’s hand grows rigid in yours, though you don’t think he’s even noticed. You send a squeeze back.

A different man speaks up. This man has all his hair, but also has a pot-belly that threatens to send buttons on his dress shirt flying.

“Ah, well, fianceé to be, I bet.” He says, speaking directly to Steve and ignoring you. “Soon it’ll be the ol’ ball and chain. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, son.”

Then the fucker winks at you—as if you’re in on some big joke. A deep, miserable pity dawns in you for their wives.

“Actually,” Steve begins. There’s an edge in his voice.

You glance up at him concernedly — sure, these guys are douchebags, but you know that. Throwing in the polite and heads-down approach in front of his father might be the worst timing ever.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Steve says. The bite in his voice has receded and instead, he sounds calm. Polite. “My girlfriend is one of the best things in my life. She’s smart, talented, beautiful— and why she chooses to waste her time with me is a mystery to me.”

He speaks as though he believes every word he’s saying, a hundred percent. You realise you’re holding your breath when Steve turns to look down at you. His hazel eyes are soft, genuine.

“She makes me a better person. She’s… She’s my best friend.”

The line between your genuine friendship and this fake concocted act blurs entirely — and suddenly, you can’t tell what is real and what is not.

Worse, you’re not sure which you'd prefer more.

Does he really think all those things about you?

Steve, who should probably, definitely take up an acting gig after this, plants a quick, nimble kiss on your forehead to sell his loving words.

He turns back to his father’s business friends.

“Believe me, if I ever get so lucky as to marry her, I’d be the ball and chain.” He chuckles. “Not the other way around.”

You’re still holding your breath, heart stuck somewhere halfway up your throat. The businessmen before you show varying amounts of surprise and annoyance—none more of the latter than Mr. Harrington himself.

It doesn’t matter. Steve’s said it all in that perfectly polite way that’s so often been used against him. Something within you glows hotly with pride.

“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us,” Steve says politely. He drops your hand to re-link your arms once more, then nods to them. “I need to reapply my haemorrhoid cream.”

You’re pretty sure Steve turns you both away from the conversation as fast as he does, knowing that you’re gonna laugh. You do, his last sentence so unexpected it turns your laugh into this foul half hacking, half coughing noise.

Steve pats your back, expecting it, raising his voice as he walks you forward, “There, there.”

There’s a little smugness in his tone. You wait until you pass back into the front hall — now Cynthia Harrington free — to unlink your arms and smack him on the chest.

“Asshole!” You exclaim, but you’re already laughing. Steve’s laughing too, the sound bright and honeyed amongst the dull murmur of the event. God, the looks on their faces.

“I didn’t think you would actually do that.”

“Hey, it got us out of the conversation, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but,” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, gaze falling from his for a moment. “I mean, won’t your dad…?”

Steve sighs and then shrugs. “I think I’m done trying to impress people like that. If you’re not up to standard to them, why the hell would I care about their opinion of me?”

Your heart feels a little wobbly at that. Steve has always been devastatingly earnest; it’s just less often directed at you. The two of you are used to teasing.

You fall back on it. “Awww,” You coo, gripping his forearms and leaning forward with a coy grin. “You got haemorrhoids for me, honey? That’s so romantic.”

Steve narrows his eyes, trying and failing to suppress his own smile.

“Hey. Fake haemorrhoids, thank you very much.”

“Eh, what’s the big difference?”

“One is my bleeding heart, the other is my bleeding ass, is the big difference.”

He can barely get through the sentence before his laugh takes over. You dissolve into laughter too, cheeks beginning to ache with the force of your grin.

“Steve? Leaving so soon?”

The sweet bubble of laughter around you and Steve pops at the sound of Brandon’s voice. He’s in the doorway that leads to the kitchen and at your attention, he steps toward you, slow and deliberate.

“Yeah, actually,” Steve says. His eyes track Brandon with every calculated step his brother makes til he stops, a few metres from you both.

“Y’know, I heard that hasty exit in front of dad. Did you know that was in front of Mr. Collings? Y’know, the one guy dad’s trying to close a deal with?”

Shit. You swallow heavily. You didn’t know that. You know neither did Steve.

Beside you, Steve grows tense. When he swallows, you hear his throat click from dryness.

Brandon watches and revels in the tiny reactions, his smirk growing. He tucks his hands into his suit pockets casually.

“I talked with mom, too. Learned some interesting stuff, especially about your pretty lady here.”

He nods to you, hazel eyes slicing across to meet yours. Your nerves start to stand on end, something threatening in his calm demeanour setting you off. You grip Steve’s forearms tighter.

“That she is the best friend you’ve been mooning over all these years. And I just thought—” Brandon clicks his tongue. “Man, what are the chances that we don’t hear a thing about you two getting together until this conference? Crazy timing, if you ask me.”

He tilts his head to the side, examining the two of you closely. His smug nature is far, far too much like that of a predator toying with its prey.

“It’s like- wait, no—”

Brandon cuts himself out, fishing a hand out his pocket to gesture to you, grinning smugly like something is funny.

“Is he paying you?”

You recoil back, so baffled and taken aback by the cruel mockery Brandon jumps to make of his younger brother. To make of your best friend.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap.

Brandon blinks, surprised, and a bit of his smugness dries up. He draws his hand back, holding it up defensively.

“C'mon, like it's not just the kind of pathetic move he’d pull. I haven’t even seen the two of you kiss.”

He chuckles as if the idea is ludicrous.

STEP THREE: THE KISS

You act without thinking — turning back to Steve, your hands reach up to tightly grasp the collar of his dress shirt.

You see Steve’s hazel eyes widen ever-slightly, then you’re pulling him down, pressing up on your toes, and kissing him.

And… oh.

He’s not half bad at that, you think. It takes Steve a moment, but then his arms circle your waist and after a tentative moment, he kisses back gently, deepening the kiss. Not bad at this at all.

For one brief, precious second, you’re kissing your best friend.

And it's entirely incomparable to any kiss you've experienced before—immeasurable in passion and utterly undoing in a thousand ways.

Steve breathes a little heavier, his cheeks flushed, when you break away. You sink back down off your tiptoes, hands dragging off Steve’s rumpled collar to rest on his chest. You turn to face Brandon.

He doesn’t look so smug anymore. He looks ticked off. Good.

“Brandon, you’re an asshole.” You state plainly. “I hope one day, soon, your fiancée realises what a cruel and shallow bully you really are. And I hope she leaves you for it. Truly.”

The ticked off expression on Brandon's face veers closer to aghast and offended—as if he can’t believe you have the gall to speak to him that way.

“I hope you realise what a stain you are on other people’s life and I sincerely hope that I never have the displeasure of meeting you again.”

Moving to grip Steve’s hand in yours, you move towards the door without a goodbye.

STEP FOUR: THE AFTERMATH

It’s bright outside. Stepping out feels a bit like waking from a stress dream, where in reality, the sun is shining and things that were driving you nuts aren't really problems you actually have.

You stall on the front doorstep, where you were just an hour or so ago.

Well, that didn’t go… awfully, you think. In fact, you’re feeling quite happy with serving Brandon a perfect brand of his own medicine.

You’re about to open your mouth and say as much when Steve drops your hand, brushing past you to head down the stairs, “C’mon, let’s go.”

Your stomach drops at the tone of his voice, a prickly disappointment draped over his words. You’d think you’re reading into it — if Steve wasn’t currently heading for the car, not even waiting for you to catch up. A dead giveaway.

Tights itching from the hasty movement, you quickly follow him and puzzle for a moment. He’s mad. But at what? It takes only a moment to hazard a pretty good guess.

Before the dinner, the awkward conversation of how touchy you two would be had been breached. You and Steve both agreed; no kissing. Even with how close the two of you were, it felt like strange territory to cross into. An unspoken line not to cross.

By kissing him, you’d broken that rule.

Guilt wells up within you. Your moment of telling Brandon to suck it suddenly feels tainted by the sliminess of kissing Steve without permission. You pull at your tights uncomfortably, trailing behind Steve on the sidewalk.

As you reach his car, you swallow the lump in your throat, and speak up.

“I'm sorry, okay?"

Steve, who's reached the driver's side door, looks up and over the top of the car. Then furrows his brow.

"What?"

"For..." The word gets stuck in your throat like wet paper. "Kissing you when we said we wouldn't do that. That was-" You inhale sharply and study the trim along the edge of the car window.

"I just really couldn't stand how he was talking to you. And I thought that would shut him up."

You glimpse back up at Steve. He's softened a little at your words, the crease between his brows gone now. His eyes dart away, a muscle in his jaw working tightly.

"Yeah, well, you were right. It worked."

Steve seems to hear how short his words sound right after he says them, especially as you rear back an inch. He gives a sigh, his eyes falling shut for a moment. "Look, I'm not mad about the kiss, okay?"

His particular wording isn't lost on you.

"But you are mad." You press.

"I'm not."

You step closer to the car, desperate to understand. He is mad but he's not mad about the kiss? Does that mean he is or isn't mad at you?

"You sound mad."

Steve makes a sputtering noise, like he's torn between denying it or not. You catch it, pressing your hands against the car window to lean in even closer.

"So, you are mad. At me? Are you sure it's not because of the kiss?"

“Yes. No." He's furrowing his brow again, confused between how to answer your question correctly. He pinches the bridge of his nose with another sigh. "It’s- no, I'm not mad at you.”

Still not an exact answer. You eye him warily, your guilt still lingering at the front of your chest, aching painfully. It forces out your next words, reminiscent of a rambling apology. You take a step back from the car and begin to pace.

"It's okay if it is the kiss, Steve. I- I mean, we said we wouldn't and I broke that- and I don't want you to ever feel like—"

“I just— I didn’t want our first kiss to be like that!”

That halts your pacing, feet quite suddenly rooted to the spot. You turn rapidly back to Steve, your eyes wider than they were a moment ago, heart jammed back up your throat. Did he just say...?

Steve realises what's escaped him a moment after you do. His hand leaps to cover his mouth as if he can smother the secret he's just let slip.

His eyes crush closed. He smushes his hand against his face more forcefully as though he's trying to push the words back into his mouth.

"What does that mean?" You ask softly. "Steve?"

He clears his throat, dragging the hand down and off his face sluggishly. "That, ah, no- nothing!" He deflects, hands making a crossing motion. "It means—zilch. I just, ah, you know- it's—"

He's thought about it before—about how he'd want a first kiss between the two of you to go.

A glow in you dissolves, the saturated sweetness of it riding through your veins like a sugar rush. You have a sudden wish you weren't wearing such a ghastly outfit for this conversation.

"Steve," You interrupt him. You round the front of the car slowly, stopping with still some distance between you. Let him meet you in the middle. If you're right about all this, that is.

"If there's even a small part of you that wants to do that again," Your breath shudders at your inhale. "You need to tell me."

"A small part?" Steve echoes your words, his tone incredulous. He rounds the car to meet you, his hands out in front of him, flexing into fists. "Don't— don't say what I think you're going to say, if you don't mean it."

He pauses in front of you, eyes blazing with a fierce emotion as he stares down at you. He studies your face and then groans, tipping his head back and burying his hands in his hair.

"It's a big part, y/n. A huge fucking part of me wants to kiss you again and has wanted to for awhile." Steve stresses. His hands sag down from his mussed hair to hang off his neck before he gestures back to the Harrington house.

"What I said in there? About my crush on you being ages ago? I lied. I've had a crush on you for years and I don't think I ever stopped and so if you don’t mean what I think you mean, please don’t… Don’t give me hope.”

There's desperation in his final plea.

A thousand emotions course through you, all competing for your attention. You squint incredulously at Steve, half tempted to sock him for the feeling of a kept-secret. You're best friends for gods sake. Years. Years, he said.

A tremble takes your heart. You open your mouth and try to find the right words.

"Wha... You never said anything."

It comes out a little insulted.

Steve stares at you, flabbergasted. "You never seemed interested!"

"I didn't think I was your type!"

Though it seems impossible, Steve's eyes widen further, his hands shifting to hold out before him, fingers spread wide.

"Are you saying you've thought about it before!?"

"No!" You exclaim, suddenly stressed. You run your hands across your face agitatedly. "I mean, yes. Of course, I've thought about it before!”

Your fingers splay against your cheeks, pulling an expression not unlike the painting The Scream. You're not sure you've ever been this stressed, this undone before.

“Every day through fuckin' high school someone asked me if we were a thing. I just... hadn't, like, considered it til today. Properly."

"Okay, okay," Steve breathes in deeply.

He brings his hands together, clasping them, and he rests them against his forehead. For a second, he stares at the ground before he meets your gaze, dropping his hands.

"And... now?"

Fuck. Right. Cards on the table, you guess.

"Like," You don't know where to put your hands now. They drop off your face and hang loosely at your side. "I told you, I hadn't really, like, thought about it — but we were in there and it just wasn't that different!"

It's a heavy effort to keep yourself looking at Steve. There's no decoding the expression on his face, not when you're already frantically trying to unscramble your own feelings.

"If we did actually, yanno—" You stumble over the words, a fierce and bumbling heat flaming your face. "—date and be—I don't know—boyfriend and girlfriend, like, I guess what would actually change? And now I think we've just been one step removed from dating this whole time!"

Steve takes an almost quivering breath in and takes a step forward, bringing you both closer. He asks the million-dollar question.

"Would you... want that?"

"I," You flex your hands anxiously. "I don't think we can go back to the way things were." You say truthfully.

Something crestfallen ripples across Steve's face. It's hidden away in the next second. You gulp involuntarily. You feel so nervous you can feel it's fizzing inside you, bubbling like a freshly carbonated drink.

But more than that, it feels like you're balancing on the precipice of something good. Like waiting for news on whether you get something you desperately want.

And there it is; the true revelation.

"And I don't think I want to."

The admittance hangs between you, strung out and tinged with your apprehension and Steve's disbelief. He stares at you, brown hair tousled and messy, pink lips parted in his surprise.

He's your best friend and he's been waiting all this time. Holding the torch quietly, the flame flickering low sometimes, but always burning, always for you.

How the hell did you miss it?

"You..." He croaks. He reaches up and tugs at his tie as if it's suddenly too tight around his neck. "You mean that? You'd want to, like, date me?"

What you really want is to kiss him again. To chase away the tender look of disbelief in his eyes with a passionate press of your mouth against his. But you won't kiss him without asking twice in one day.

"I would like to try," You say. It takes a lot of courage to not lose your nerve. You rock up onto the balls of your feet to let out some of the rampant nervous energy.

Steve clocks it, some part of his brain that knows you, and all your tells well, finally coming back online. You're as nervous as he is, and maybe just as unsure.

But you want to try.

That's about all Steve's ever wanted. A chance for more between you.

He closes the distance between you, his hands shifting up and sliding along your neck to cup your jaw. It's ticklish enough to make you shiver and Steve smiles at the motion. He draws your faces closer and you push up on your toes to reach properly, magnetically drawn in.

He pauses just before your lips can touch.

Your eyes scan his face and he does the same to yours, both of you drinking in the intimate closeness. This close, you can see the tiny quiver hidden in his lips.

Fondness percolates between you, sweeter than sunlight and softer than a daydream. You can't resist the smile that toys at your mouth. Steve smiles too.

You're excited.

His pupils are blown wider than usual, only a ring of hazel around them. It might be your new favourite colour.

"I imagined," Steve murmurs lowly, his eyes now trained on your lips. "Our first kiss would be more like this."

The kiss is different from the one in the hallway. There's no surprise in it, no hesitance — Steve cradles your face between his hands preciously and kisses you so fiercely you ache.

He kisses with painstaking reverence. With an unfaltering adoration. Steve kisses you as though he envies anything that's ever touched your lips.

You grapple to find purchase on his suit jacket, your fingers curling around the material and pulling him closer without breaking the kiss. Steve hums into your mouth, his nose pressing against yours. You're both trying to pull each other closer.

"That was-" You breath heavily against his mouth as the kiss breaks. Your eyes open. Steve's gazing at you through his lashes, honey-eyes doting.

"You-" You try again, realising you haven't finished your sentence. You can barely get a word out, a relentless grin overtaking your lips. "I mean—you thought it- like that?"

"I hoped." Steve whispers. He's grinning too, not yielding any of the nearness between you. His thumbs on your jaw swatch softly across your skin.

God, he'll undo you entirely. This newness, this intimacy, it's ruining you. You capture your bottom lip with your teeth and bite it meanly to try to contain your grin.

"So, like, you wanna try? For real?" You say, matching his whisper. Speaking too loud feels like it breaks the moment—and you want to savour it as long as you can.

You can't even imagine how Steve must be feeling, waiting all those years. You take your feelings and multiple them tenfold. It's dizzying. It only endears you even more.

"Like, being boyfriend girlfriend?"

Steve's eyes crinkle in happiness as he scrunches them closed for a moment. His nose scrunches a little too at the motion. He takes a deep inhale and opens his eyes.

"Dating, boyfriend girlfriend, sweethearts, I don't care what you call it." He breathes. "Yes. Yes, to all of it."

Then he kisses you again, stealing the affection off your lips with an ardour that threatens to make your knees weak.

You kiss and kiss until you and Steve are both smiling too much to properly continue.

Only a couple days ago he'd asked the same question you had asked him, except as a begged request to help his ruse. He's the only one you'd have said yes to, you know now, the only exception.

One can only wonder how the two of you would have carried on if you had said no — never gone along with his frankly ridiculous plan, never showed up on his arm to fool an event full of people, never kissed him just to piss off his brother.

Never known the true depths of affection Steve held for you.

As you crowd in closer — your lips skimming across his gently, hearing the hitch in Steve's breath before you kiss him once more— you're thankful you'll never really know.

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@sunlitide @citrinesparkles @bigfrogs

Robin’s head popped up from behind the stack of cassettes. She squinted at the girl, then at you, then back at the girl with confusion, clearly not buying the idea that a girl was looking for Steve.

“Yeah,” she said. “We’re familiar.”

Then she turned toward the shelves and called out, “Dingus, you got a customer.”

There was a beat of silence, then Steve’s head appeared between two rows of VHS tapes. He blinked at the front counter, clearly not expecting an audience, then pushed himself upright and walked over with the cautious expression of a man approaching a trap.

You tilted your head toward the girl and stepped back slightly, joining Robin at the counter. Both of you leaned casually against it as you looked between the two.

The girl looked relieved and nervous at the same time. “Steve?”

Steve nodded once. “Yeah. Hi. That’s me.”

She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I’m from Karen Wheeler’s neighborhood. I was just wondering if you would be free for a shift tonight.”

Steve glanced at you and Robin, confused, then back at her. “For what?”

“For babysitting my little sister. Mrs. Wheeler told my mom that you take care of Mike sometimes, so. . .”

The silence that followed was so complete you could practically hear Robin’s brain short-circuiting beside you.

Steve stared at the girl like she had just informed him he was being drafted into a war. His eyebrows lifted slowly in disbelief. Meanwhile you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you were fairly certain you would leave a mark.

Steve turned his head toward you and Robin, eyes wide, silently asking if you were hearing this too. You and Robin, without missing a beat, immediately arranged your faces into identical masks of confusion and shook your heads as if this was brand new information.

Steve faced the girl again. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t babysit. I’m not a babysitter.”

“Oh. Oh, okay. I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just you’re always hanging around the kids, so. . . ”

Robin leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “They’re his friends.”

You nodded gravely. “Yeah. He is friends with a lot of kids.”

The girl laughed nervously, giving Steve a look that hovered somewhere between suspicious and concerned. She nodded a few times, clearly unsure how to respond to that information, then murmured another apology before backing toward the door.

The bell chimed again as she left, and the moment it clicked shut behind her, the store fell into silence.

Steve stood there, still processing. You and Robin lasted exactly one second.

Then you both burst out laughing.

You had to grab the counter to stay upright as the laughter doubled over on itself. Robin clapped a hand over her mouth and wheezed, sliding halfway off the stool. Steve stared at you two, offended.

“Are you kidding me?” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the door. “Babysitting? Again? Why does everyone think I—”

“You literally drove them to school in your car,” Robin managed between gasps. “You packed them snacks. You have a designated seat for Dustin.”

“It’s called being a good friend,” Steve said defensively.

“You have a car seat indentation in your backseat,” you added, wiping at your eyes.

He pointed at you. “You are not helping.”

Robin leaned against you, still laughing. “I can’t believe someone actually came in to hire you for a shift. Steve Harrington, available weekends and holidays, comes with free hair tips.”

Steve dragged a hand down his face. “I hate both of you.”

You straightened, trying to compose yourself, though the grin refused to leave your face. “No, c'mon. Think about it. You could make extra money.”

“God knows you need it,” Robin said. “That’s how you get girls, you know.”

Steve groaned loudly enough that a customer browsing near the comedy section glanced over. He walked up to the counter and planted himself beside you, dragging a hand down his face again like maybe if he pressed hard enough he could erase the last five minutes of his life.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

Robin grinned, pleased with herself, and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder that was far more patronizing than comforting. “I’m just saying, dingus. You’ve got a niche. Lean into it.”

“I’m going to throw you out,” he said.

“You can’t,” she shot back. “We work here.”

Then she pushed away from the counter and wandered toward the back room, still laughing to herself under her breath.

That left you and Steve at the front counter. You picked up a stack of returned tapes and began scanning them in, sliding each one across the counter.

Steve leaned beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours as he crossed his arms and stared out at the empty aisles. Then, after a moment, he followed you as you moved around the counter to shelve a tape. And then again when you stepped toward the register. And again when you circled back to the returns bin.

“I just don’t understand,” he began, voice low and indignant. “How did I go from King Steve to some girl walking in asking if I’m free for a shift tonight. A shift?”

You nodded sympathetically, though the corners of your mouth kept twitching upward. “It is a big change.”

“I didn’t change,” he said immediately. “I did not change. I am still the same person. I just. . . happen to know some kids.”

“You drive them everywhere,” you said, moving a tape into its case and snapping it shut. “You helped Will with his project for three hours.”

“That was one time,” he insisted. “And he was struggling.”

You hummed thoughtfully, sliding another cassette into place. “Sounds like babysitting to me.”

He groaned again, louder this time, and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. Then he straightened and leaned closer. “I used to be cool,” he said. “I used to walk into a room and people would be like, oh wow, Steve Harrington. Now I walk into a room and people are like, hey, can you watch my kid for a few hours.”

You glanced at him, taking in the slump of his shoulders and the way he looked personally betrayed by the universe.

It was difficult to take him seriously when he was pouting in front of a shelf labeled Family Favorites, but you softened anyway, because beneath the theatrics there was always something earnest about Steve when he got like this.

“You’re still cool, Steve,” you said, nudging a tape flush with the row before stepping back toward the counter. “You’re extremely cool.”

He made a face that said he appreciated the effort but did not believe a word of it.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered, following you as you moved. “You know yesterday I asked Henderson if he wanted to hang out, and he said he had a meeting with Eddie. This is how it starts, I’m telling you. First they stop needing rides, then they stop calling, then suddenly everyone forgets me and I end up dying alone.”

You leaned against the counter and folded your arms. “Well, that is a bleak projection for your future.”

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I’m aging out. I can feel it. I peaked in high school and now I’m. . . I don’t know. A former peak?”

You tilted your head. “I’ll tell you what, Steve. Get a girlfriend. That’s always a popularity boost.”

He blinked at you, clearly not expecting that response. “I can’t just date a girl to get popular,” he said, frowning. “That’s disrespectful to her. And also to me.”

You shrugged, entirely unconcerned. “Well, looks like you are in fact going to die alone then.”

He let out an offended noise and turned away from you, pacing a few steps down the aisle. You reached for your water bottle on the counter and unscrewed the cap, taking a sip as he continued muttering to himself.

Then he stopped abruptly.

You glanced up just in time to see him staring at a display near the register, eyes narrowing in thought. He reached out and picked up a copy of Her Cardboard Lover from the return pile, turning it over in his hands. His expression lit up and you immediately felt a sense of dread as you realised he had just had an idea.

“Oh no,” you said, watching him. “That’s never good.”

He turned toward you, still holding the tape, clearly pleased with himself. “I just had an idea.”

You raised your bottle again and took another sip, bracing yourself. “That sentence has never once led to anything positive.”

He stepped closer to the counter, enthusiasm building. “Okay, hear me out. You said I should get a girlfriend, right?”

You nodded cautiously, swallowing your water. “Hypothetically.”

“So,” he continued, gesturing between the two of you with the tape, “you could be my pretend girlfriend.”

You choked.

The water went everywhere. It sprayed forward in a completely uncontrolled burst and hit him square in the chest before you could even process what had just come out of his mouth. You doubled over coughing, clutching the counter for support while trying not to inhale the rest of it.

Steve recoiled, looking down at his now very damp shirt with startled offense. “Okay,” he said, blinking at you. “I see you’re shocked.”

You coughed again, wiping at your mouth and trying to catch your breath. “You—” you started, then had to stop because you were still half choking. “You cannot just— say things like that while I’m drinking water.”

He held his hands up defensively, though he was trying not to laugh. “I didn’t know you were going to—”

“You just proposed a fake relationship out of nowhere,” you said, straightening and grabbing a napkin to dab at the front of his shirt. “That’s not a casual suggestion, Steven.”

He watched you fuss for a second, then shrugged. “It makes sense. You literally just said I should get a girlfriend. This solves the problem. You help me look less like the town babysitter, I help you with. . . whatever you need help with. It’s mutually beneficial.”

You stared at him, napkin still in hand, trying to decide if he was serious. He looked entirely earnest. Hopeful, even. Like he genuinely thought this was a reasonable plan and not the beginning of a very bad plan.

“You are unbelievable,” you said, though there was a reluctant laugh tugging at your voice.

He smiled a little, encouraged. “Come on. It’s not that crazy.”

You stared at him for another second, still holding the napkin against his shirt. “You’re right,” you said. “It’s not that crazy.”

His face lit up immediately, hope flaring so fast it was almost impressive.

“It’s stupid,” you finished. “Completely dumb. I can’t date you.”

His expression fell with equal speed. “Why? What’s wrong with me?”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the immediate wounded offense. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Then why not?” he pressed. “Are you dating someone?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“It’ll be weird,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “And totally wrong. And honestly I’m still not seeing how this is benefiting me.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Uh. By. . . by. . . by—”

He trailed off, clearly searching for a reason and coming up completely blank. You watched him flounder for a moment, then slowly took a breath and leaned back against the counter, thinking maybe that was it. Maybe he would realize it was ridiculous and drop it.

You exhaled, relieved.

Then he straightened abruptly, eyes widening like a light bulb had gone off over his head.

“Your mom,” he said.

You turned immediately toward the front door. “Where?”

“No, not that,” he said quickly. “I meant your mom. You told me she’s always pestering you to get a boyfriend. And I’m in her good books.”

You looked back at him, suspicious. “How do you know you're in her good books?”

He gave you a look that was almost smug. “Sweetheart, she sent me home with leftovers last time I dropped you off and told me to drive safe and call if I needed anything. She literally said that I was the best thing you'd brought to their life.”

You blinked. “She did?”

“That’s not the point,” he said quickly, waving a hand. “The point is, this is a win-win situation. Your mom gets off your back. People stop trying to hire me for babysitting shifts. Everyone benefits.”

You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek. The logic was annoyingly sound. Still, you frowned. “I don’t know, Steve. I mean, won’t people think it’s weird?”

He scoffed immediately. “Oh, please. We’re always together. You know the first thing Max asked me when she met you?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “What?”

He leaned in. “She asked how I got someone like you.”

Your head snapped toward him, surprised. “She did?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Looked at me like I’d pulled off some kind of miracle.”

You stared at him for a second, then folded your arms, trying very hard not to look pleased. “I always knew Max was my favorite.”

He grinned a little, encouraged by the shift in your expression. “See? People already assume we’re together. We just. . . don’t correct them.”

You looked down at the counter, tapping your fingers against the surface as you thought. It was ridiculous. It was definitely ridiculous. But it was also. . . convenient. And maybe a little tempting.

He watched you like he didn’t want to push too hard and scare you off. For once, Steve Harrington was being patient. That alone should have been a red flag.

“You’re really serious about this,” you said.

He nodded once. “Yeah. I am.”

You sighed, tipping your head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. Then you looked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “This is a terrible idea,” you said.

He brightened immediately. “So that’s a yes?”

You pointed at him with the hand still holding the napkin. “This is temporary. Strictly pretend. And if this gets weird, we end it immediately.”

He nodded quickly. “Deal.”

You drew in a breath. “We should probably set some ground rules. . . before this gets weird.”

He straightened, suddenly attentive in a way that suggested he was taking this far more seriously than he had any right to. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Ground rules. Good. Love ground rules.”

You leaned your hip against the counter and folded your arms, already slipping into a very official tone. “Rule number one. This is only for appearances. Public settings, social situations, my mom, your reputation. That’s it. No unnecessary PDA when we’re alone.”

He nodded immediately. “Right. Only when people are watching.”

“Exactly. Rule number two. No using this as an excuse to mess with each other. No embarrassing stories and no making up fake details about my life for fun.”

He held up his hands. “I would never.”

You gave him a look.

“Okay,” he amended. “I would try very hard never.”

“Rule number three,” you continued, ignoring that. “If either of us wants out, we say so. No dragging this on for the sake of appearances.”

“Agreed,” he said.

“Rule number four,” you added, thinking it through. “No over-the-top physical stuff. Hand-holding is fine. Maybe the occasional arm around the shoulder. Nothing that’s going to make this weird.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded again. “Yeah. Okay. Is kissing on the table?”

You gave him a look and he raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, no kissing.”

“Rule number five,” you said, tapping the counter. “We keep this between us for now. We tell Robin, obviously, because she’ll figure it out in five seconds anyway. But no big announcements.”

He nodded. “Right. Slow rollout.”

You took a small breath. “And finally,” you said, “we don’t let this mess up our actual friendship.”

He stilled a little at that, then nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

From the back room, you heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching.

Steve heard them too. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to you. “One more rule,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you were really listening. “No falling in love.”

You blinked once and then laughed and waved a hand like he’d said something completely absurd. “Trust me,” you said. “That won’t be a problem.”

He nodded, but there was a brief, unreadable look on his face before it smoothed over.

A second later, Robin rounded the corner from the back, arms full of tapes and eyes already narrowed in suspicion. She took one look at the two of you standing a little too close at the counter and stopped mid-step.

“Okay,” she said. “What did I miss?”

Four days later, everything had spiraled in ways you absolutely had not prepared for.

The news that you and Steve were dating had spread through Hawkins like wildfire. You had expected questions. Stares. Instead, people had accepted it with such normalcy that it almost felt insulting.

On your second day walking into Family Video together with his arm slung around your shoulders, you had overheard a girl near the new releases whispering to her boyfriend, “Oh my God, they’re finally official,” only for the boyfriend to shrug and say, “Haven’t they been dating since high school?”

You had nearly dropped the tapes you were holding.

Steve had just stared into the middle distance like he was trying to decide if that was flattering or deeply confusing.

The moms, however, reacted exactly as expected. They stopped asking Steve to babysit. Completely. Instead, they asked about you. Every conversation he had with a suburban mother now began and ended with questions about how you were doing, whether you liked pasta salad, and if you preferred carnations or roses. One of them had even sent him home with a container of cookies “for you both,” which he had delivered to you.

The party knew, of course. You had told them immediately, mostly because Robin insisted that if they found out any other way she would personally sabotage the entire operation. Their reactions had been. . . mixed.

Max had looked between you and Steve, then shrugged and said, “Yeah, that tracks. I would not, for a second, believe it was real.”

Dustin had demanded to know why you had not informed him sooner, because he felt like this was information he deserved as someone who had been “emotionally invested” in Steve’s life for years.

Mike and Will had exchanged one long, knowing look that made you deeply uncomfortable.

Lucas had just smirked. Jane had nodded once, like she had already knew what it would end in.

Nancy had been suspiciously quiet, which somehow felt more alarming than any actual reaction and Jonathan had raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

Eddie had laughed for a full thirty seconds straight and then clapped Steve on the back like he had just accomplished something monumental.

Robin, of course, had been the only one to say what needed to be said.

“This is a terrible idea,” she told you both flatly. “This is going to bite you in the ass. I am going to be there when it does. I will not say I told you so, because I'm going to be wearing a shirt that says that.”

You had both ignored her.

That, in hindsight, might have been a mistake.

Because right now, four days into this arrangement, you were sitting at your family’s dining table with Steve beside you, and the situation had escalated into a level of awkward that even you had not anticipated.

Your mother was thrilled. She had made enough food to feed an entire neighborhood and kept smiling at Steve like he had delivered wonderful news to the household. Every few minutes she asked him if he wanted more pasta, more bread, more salad, more of literally anything.

Your father, on the other hand, was silent, which was actually his worst reaction.

He met Steve’s eyes from across the table and slowly stabbed his pasta with his fork.

Steve visibly gulped.

You saw it out of the corner of your eye. He shot you a quick look. You gave him a small, encouraging smile that you hoped looked reassuring and not at all like someone who was also internally panicking.

Your mother set down another dish with a bright expression. “Steve, sweetheart, do you want more garlic bread?”

“I’m good,” he said quickly. “Thank you. This is great. Really great.”

Your father watched him take a bite of pasta.

You shifted slightly in your seat and, without thinking too hard about it, let your knee bump lightly against Steve’s under the table. He glanced at you again, and this time his expression softened just a little.

“So,” your mother said cheerfully, settling into her seat. “How long has this been going on?”

Steve did not even hesitate. “About two months,” he said at the exact same time you said, “Last week.”

Your mother’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Your father slowly looked up from his plate.

Steve froze, mid-chew, eyes widening as he realized what had just happened.

You felt your stomach drop straight to the floor, take a brief walk, and then sit down somewhere near the radiator to rethink your life choices.

You both turned to look at each other at the same time.

“Two months,” Steve repeated quickly. “I mean—no. Not two months. I meant. . . we started, uh, hanging out more two months ago. But dating like she said. Last week. Technically. But I’ve—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and then, as if something in his brain simply snapped into survival mode, blurted out, “I’ve just been in love with her for a really long time.”

You blinked at him.

Your mother blinked at him.

Your father did not blink at all.

Steve turned to you with an expression that said please go along with this or I will actually pass out at this table. You nodded immediately, a little too quickly, like a bobblehead that had been shaken with enthusiasm. “Yes. That. He has. For. . . a long time,” you said. “It was very. . . slow burn.”

Your father set his fork down with a clink that sounded like a warning bell.

“Look, Harrington,” he said, and Steve physically straightened in his chair. “Let’s get one thing clear. I don’t like you now. I used to like you when you were just a boy who came over to hang out with my little girl and watch matches with me. You were harmless then. Annoying yes. Very loud. But now that you're dating my daughter I don’t like you.”

“Okay,” Steve said immediately. “Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.” He kept going, nodding faster with each repetition, like if he stopped agreeing he might be escorted out of the house. “That’s fair. Totally fair. I get that. Very reasonable position to have.”

You nudged him under the table, both because he was spiraling and because you needed him to stop saying okay before he said it so many times it lost all meaning. He startled slightly at the contact and glanced at you. You gave him a look.

“Dad,” you said. “Steve is very good to me. You know that. He. . . he never even lets me do any work during our shifts.”

Your father’s head snapped toward you. “Why?” he asked immediately. “I thought you wanted to get a job to be independent. Is he not letting you work? Is that what this is? That’s it. I’m going to get your job changed. Actually, you don’t even need to do a job. You can quit. You don’t need to work there at all.”

Your eyes widened in horror as you realized you had made a catastrophic error. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant,” you said quickly, nearly knocking your glass over in the process. “I meant he’s helpful. He’s very helpful. Too helpful, actually. Sometimes annoyingly helpful.”

“Honey, calm down,” your mother said to your father, placing a hand on his arm. “She clearly meant that Steve is helpful at work. He helps her. That’s a good thing.”

You nodded vigorously. “Yes. Exactly.”

Steve jumped in with enthusiasm. “Super helpful,” he said. “I am extremely helpful. If helpfulness were a sport, I’d have a trophy. Several trophies. A shelf, maybe.”

Your father stared at him.

You tried again. “He also. . . brings me lunch sometimes,” you added weakly.

“You can bring your own lunch,” your dad said. “You don’t need him bringing you lunch. You’re perfectly capable of bringing your own lunch.”

You closed your eyes briefly. This was going so badly. This was going so, so badly.

Steve must have seen the panic starting to creep into your face because he sat up a little straighter.

“Sir,” he said, and you almost choked because Steve Harrington never called anyone sir unless he was in very deep. “I know you don’t like this. And I get why. I really do. But I care about your daughter a lot. I always have. I. . . I love her. And I’m not going to let you maker her quit her job or stop doing anything she wants to do. I just try to make things easier for her when I can. That’s all.”

Your heart was pounding so loudly you were certain everyone could hear it. You watched your father’s face, searching for any sign of what he was thinking. He held Steve’s gaze for a long, long moment. Long enough that you started mentally preparing a speech about how this was all a misunderstanding and also possibly a joke and no one needed to panic.

Then, finally, your father gave a small, slow nod. He picked up his fork again, twirled some pasta around it, and leaned back slightly in his chair. “All right,” he said.

That was all he said. But the fact that he had not thrown Steve out of the house felt like a miracle.

You exhaled so hard you almost saw stars.

You turned your head toward Steve and mouthed, oh my god I can’t believe that worked.

Steve looked at you, eyes still wide, and mouthed back, me too.

By the time your next shift rolled around at Family Video, the fake dating had apparently entered what Steve liked to call the “method acting” phase.

He held doors open for you, pulled out your chair during lunch, and had started calling you “baby” in a tone that sounded suspiciously natural. You were beginning to suspect he was enjoying this a little too much.

You were sorting through the new arrivals when he leaned against the counter beside you, one arm draped across the surface, looking far too pleased with himself.

Robin stood behind the front counter scanning tapes with the focused expression of someone trying very hard not to get involved in whatever nonsense you two were currently doing.

“Baby, can you hand me that pen?” Steve asked, even though the pen was literally in his own hand.

You stared at him. “You are holding a pen.”

He glanced down, then back up, unfazed. “Right. Just checking if you were paying attention.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why are you pretending right now? There is no one here. We are alone. Robin is emotionally unavailable to both of us and also immune to whatever this is.”

Robin, without looking up from the register, said flatly, “I am not immune. I am suffering. Internally.”

Steve leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We have to stay consistent,” he said. “If anyone walks in, we’re supposed to look couple-y. That’s the whole point. We can’t just turn it on and off like a light switch. That’s how people get suspicious.”

You opened your mouth to argue that no one in Hawkins was conducting a surveillance operation on your relationship, but before you could, the bell over the door jingled.

A woman walked in, scanning the aisles. Steve straightened immediately, posture shifting into what you could only describe as Boyfriend Mode.

Robin plastered on a customer service smile and went to help her find whatever tape she was looking for, leaving you leaning back against the counter while Steve hovered nearby with an air of suspicious fondness.

You were about to move away, because standing this close felt unnecessary and also mildly dangerous to your composure, when Steve stepped forward and placed his hands on the counter on either side of your waist.

You blinked up at him in confusion. He didn’t look away. He was looking at you like you were the most interesting person in the room, which was deeply unfair considering you were currently holding a stack of VHS tapes.

Then you noticed the customer.

She was watching the two of you with open curiosity as Robin searched for her order behind the counter. Her expression had that soft, knowing look people got when they saw something they considered adorable. You realized, with dawning horror, that Steve was performing.

You looked back up at him. He was still looking at you.

His expression softened in a way that did not look entirely like acting. Slowly, he reached up and tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so gentle and so unexpectedly real that your brain short-circuited for a full second.

“Want to go on a date tonight?” he asked.

You stared at him. “What?”

He didn’t break eye contact. “I was thinking Enzo’s,” he continued smoothly. “My dad can get us in. Is 8 good for you?”

Your heart did something deeply unhelpful. You knew this was part of the act. You knew there was an audience. You knew this was for show. And yet the way he was looking at you made it feel. . . not entirely like a performance.

“It’s perfect,” you heard yourself say, smiling before your brain had a chance to catch up.

He grinned, that familiar, warm grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than was reasonable.

Your chest felt suspiciously full. Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

The moment your lips made contact, your entire brain rebooted.

Your eyes widened. His eyes widened. Time paused.

You pulled back slowly, horror flooding in as you realized what you had just done. Steve looked genuinely stunned, like someone had unplugged him from reality for a second.

You stared at each other, frozen, while somewhere behind you Robin said, “Found it.”

You cleared your throat. “I—um—back room,” you said, to no one in particular.

Then you slipped out from between his arms with speed and walked—very calmly, very normally, not at all like you were internally screaming—toward the back room. The second the door swung shut behind you, you pressed your hands to your face and stood there in stunned silence, heart racing like you had just sprinted a mile.

Out front, Steve remained exactly where you had left him, one hand still on the counter, staring at the space you had just vacated with an expression that could only be described as completely and utterly shell-shocked.

By the time evening rolled around, you had already changed outfits three times and rejected at least six more. You were not nervous about the date itself. You were nervous about the part where you had kissed Steve Harrington on the cheek in the middle of a work shift like a person who had completely lost control of her own motor functions.

You paced once across your room, then again, rehearsing under your breath. “Hey, about earlier,” you muttered. “That was. . . just for the customer. Obviously. Purely professional cheek-kissing.” You paused, grimaced, and tried again. “I’m sorry I kissed your face without warning. That was weird. I am weird. We are pretending. Let us never speak of this again.”

You stopped in front of your mirror and sighed, dropping your shoulders. Nothing you said sounded normal. Nothing you said sounded like something a person who had not impulsively kissed her fake boyfriend would say.

You were mid-practice apology number eight when the doorbell rang.

Your head snapped up. For a second you froze, then you moved quickly, slipping out of your room before your mom or dad could beat you to the door. You smoothed your hair back with one hand as you walked down the hallway, telling yourself to act normal. This was normal. This was a normal fake date with your very normal fake boyfriend whom you had definitely not kissed.

You opened the door and immediately stopped.

Steve was standing on the porch, mid-sentence, apparently delivering a nervous speech to absolutely no one. He had one hand gesturing vaguely in front of him and the other holding a bouquet of flowers that you recognized instantly as your favorites.

He didn’t notice you at first, too busy whispering to himself. “Just say it like a normal person,” he was muttering. “Hi, you look nice. Don’t trip. Don’t say anything weird. Definitely don’t—”

He looked up.

He stopped talking.

For a full two seconds, he just stared at you like his brain had temporarily left the building. You looked back at him, then at the flowers, then back at his face again. He was still staring.

You lifted your hand and snapped your fingers lightly in front of him. “Hello,” you said.

He blinked hard, snapping out of it. “Right. Hey. Sorry. It’s just—” He thrust the flowers toward you. “These are for you.”

You took them, the soft scent of them immediately familiar. “They’re my favorite,” you said, a little surprised despite yourself.

“I know,” he said quickly. Then he paused, rubbed the back of his neck, and added, “You look beautiful. Really. Like, totally out of my league, which you obviously are. Max has told me every single day for the past week. Repeatedly.”

You couldn’t help it. You smiled. You stepped a little closer and leaned in just enough that your voice wouldn’t carry into the house. “You don’t have to compliment me so much,” you murmured. “My parents are in the other room. No one’s watching.”

He looked genuinely confused. “No, what? No. I meant that,” he said, brow furrowing slightly like the idea that he wouldn’t mean it had not occurred to him.

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps approached from the living room. Your father appeared in the doorway. He looked Steve up and down with the solemn expression.

“Harrington,” your father said. “Have her home by eleven.”

Steve straightened immediately. “Yes, sir. Absolutely. Eleven or earlier. Definitely not later,” he said.

You gave your dad a quick smile, trying not to laugh at how stiff Steve suddenly looked. Your father held his gaze for another long second, then nodded once and stepped back.

You turned back to Steve. He exhaled slowly, like he had been holding his breath the entire time. You adjusted your grip on the flowers and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind you.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded, still smiling a little. “Ready.”

You sat across from Steve in a booth near the back, the flowers he brought resting in the center of the table between you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Steve fiddled with the edge of the menu even though he had already looked at it three times. You traced the condensation on your water glass with your fingertip, trying to decide how to start.

The silence wasn’t awkward exactly, but it was different from your usual easy back-and-forth at work.

You cleared your throat softly. “Okay,” you said, leaning forward a little. “Before anything else, I should probably apologize for earlier. At work.”

Steve blinked at you. “What?”

“The kiss,” you clarified, gesturing vaguely toward your own face. “I didn’t plan that. It just kind of happened. Which is not a sentence people should have to say in general, but especially not to their fake boyfriend.”

He stared at you for a second, then shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize for that,” he said, almost immediately. When you gave him a look, he added, “It was just. . . part of the act. Right?”

“Okay,” you said slowly, smiling a little. “Okay, good. Then we’re good.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “We’re good.”

You leaned back in your seat, and then your smile shifted into something a little more mischievous. “Well,” you said, tapping your fingers lightly against the table. “Since we’re pretending this is a real date. . . I feel like I should get the full experience. Show me. How is Steve Harrington on a date?”

He blinked again, clearly caught off guard. “What?”

“Come on,” you said, gesturing toward him. “You cannot tell me you don’t have moves. You were King Steve. There were definitely moves.”

He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “I do not have moves.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That is a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” he insisted. Then he paused, thought about it, and immediately broke. “Okay, fine. I have. . . some moves.”

You leaned forward eagerly. “I knew it. Go on. Impress me.”

He straightened in his seat. “Alright,” he said. “Usually, I start simple. Eye contact. Maybe I lean in a little and say something like. . .” He paused, then tilted his head just slightly and looked at you with a soft, almost shy smile. “I was going to wait until the end of the night to say this, but you look really nice. I can't concentrate on anything besides your eyes.”

You blinked. “Okay,” you said, a little surprised. “That was actually good.”

He looked pleased. Encouraged. “Right? Okay, next one. Classic move. I casually bring up something thoughtful. Like, I remember a small detail you mentioned once. Favorite movie. Favorite snack. Something like that. Shows I’m attentive.”

You rested your chin in your hand, watching him with interest. “You’re very prepared,” you said.

He nodded, smiling at seeing you impressed.

You laughed. “Alright, my turn,” you said. “Let me show you how I work.”

He leaned back, folding his arms loosely. “I’m ready.”

You tilted your head. “So,” you said. “Where’d you grow up?”

He blinked. “That’s your move?”

“Just answer the question,” you said, trying not to smile.

“Hawkins,” he said.

“And were you close to your parents?” you asked, your voice softening just slightly.

He shrugged. “My mom, yeah. But only when I was little. My dad’s. . . around. In theory.”

You nodded sympathetically and reached across the table, lightly touching his wrist. “That must be tough,” you said.

He started to nod along, falling right into it. “Yeah, it is. Sometimes I think—” He stopped suddenly, eyes widening. “Wait. Nice move.”

You grinned. “Thank you.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, that was good. That was really good.”

You sat back, satisfied. “I’m full of surprises.”

He watched you for a moment, still smiling, and there was something softer in his expression now. You didn’t notice. You were too busy feeling pleased with yourself.

“So,” he said after a second. “What’s your finishing move?”

You tilted your head, thinking. Then you smiled slowly and leaned in just a little. “Well, that is for another time,” you said as you winked.

He froze.

For a split second, he looked completely undone. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. He swallowed and looked away, trying very hard to recover.

You didn’t notice. You were already reaching for your water glass, entirely unaware of the way he had just melted across the table from you.

You sat perched on one of the tall stools behind the counter, elbows on your knees, stacking VHS tapes into a tower that was already leaning at an angle that suggested it would not survive the next five minutes.

You were in the middle of adding what you were fairly certain would be the final, ill-advised layer when Steve walked in from the aisle, wiping his hands on his jeans. He slowed when he reached the counter, watching you for a second with a look that hovered somewhere between fond and nervous.

“Hey,” he said.

You didn’t look up right away, concentrating as you balanced one more tape on top of the tower. “Hey,” you replied.

He leaned on the counter. “Can I ask you something?”

You nodded, still focused on the tower. “Sure.”

There was a pause. You felt his gaze on you in that way that made it clear he was choosing his words very carefully. “Last night,” he said slowly, “after the date. . . did you feel something?”

You glanced up at him, blinking. “Yeah,” you said.

His eyes widened immediately. “You did?” he asked, a little too quickly. “Because I got home and I was, like, really freaked out. I mean, not in a bad way. Just in a—”

“I think it was the noodles,” you said thoughtfully.

He stopped. “The noodles?”

“Yeah,” you continued, nodding. “They were really weird. My stomach felt weird for, like, an hour after. I thought I was going to have to lie down.”

He stared at you. “Right,” he said. “The food. That was what was weird.”

You hummed in agreement and turned back to your tower, completely unaware of the internal spiral he had just pulled himself out of. He lingered there for a second longer, watching you stack another tape.

Robin appeared from the back a moment later, carrying an armful of tapes. She set the tapes down with a soft thud and glanced between the two of you.

Steve straightened immediately. “Robin,” he said. “Hey. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

She narrowed her eyes. “That tone never leads to anything good, but sure.”

They disappeared into the back room together, leaving you at the counter with your towe. You added another tape. The tower wobbled dangerously.

In the back room, Steve immediately started pacing.

“I think I broke the rules,” he said.

Robin leaned against a stack of boxes, folding her arms. “You think?”

“No, I definitely did,” he admitted. “I have feelings. Like, real ones. And I know we said no falling in love and I wasn’t going to and then I did anyway and now I don’t know what to do.”

Robin stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then she sighed the kind of sigh that suggested she had been waiting for this exact confession for days.

“Finally,” she said.

Before he could react, she shrugged off her jacket and pulled it over her head. Steve blinked in confusion.

“Rob, hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”

She tugged off the short-sleeved shirt underneath, revealing a long-sleeved one beneath it. Then she turned around.

Across the back, in bold marker, were the words: I TOLD YOU SO.

Steve stared. “You seriously had that printed on a shirt?”

She turned back around, looking entirely satisfied. “I like to be prepared.”

“Robin,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “This is not helpful.”

“This is extremely helpful,” she corrected. “You broke your own ground rules. You made the rules. And then you broke them.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “It just. . . happened.”

She pointed at him. “That is exactly what I said would happen. I said this was a terrible idea. I said fake dating leads to real feelings. I said you two are idiots. And now look at you.”

He groaned. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Well,” she said. “Step one is admitting you like her. Which you’ve done. Step two is figuring out if she likes you back. Which. . . I’m pretty sure she does. Step three is not panicking and making it weird.”

He blinked. “You think she likes me?”

Robin gave him a look. “Steve. She built a rule system for fake dating with you and then kissed your cheek at work. Use your brain.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering that.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Cool. Cool. I get that. I understand what you’re saying. I see why you would think. . . that is a good option.”

Robin narrowed her eyes, already suspicious. “There’s a ‘but’ coming.”

“But,” he continued, lifting a finger, “what I was thinking is that I’m just going to ignore her until the feelings go away. And then, maybe a few years later, when she’s married and I’m still alone, I’ll confess everything and it’ll be, like, a funny story.”

Robin stared at him. The kind of stare that was so long and so flat it felt like it should have been accompanied by a dial tone.

“Why do I even try with you?” she said finally. “I don’t understand. I genuinely do not understand.”

Steve frowned slightly. “Maybe be a supportive friend,” he suggested. “Like I was when I found out you were a lesbian.”

Robin threw her hands up. “I would be supportive if the idea wasn’t idiotic,” she shot back. “How are you even planning on ignoring her? She is your fake girlfriend. Who you have very real, growing-by-the-second feelings for. You literally work together.”

He paused, considering that. His eyes flicked toward the door like he could see you through it. Then his expression shifted as another terrible idea formed.

“Uh,” he said. “Okay. Okay. New plan. I’ll break up with her.”

Robin’s face went completely blank. “You will what.”

“I’ll break up with her,” he repeated, nodding. “End the fake dating. Problem solved. Then I can. . . you know. Emotionally recover in private.”

She pointed at him slowly. “You are on your own,” she said. “I am not a part of whatever idiocy you’re about to pull.”

He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Okay,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

He started for the door.

Robin watched him go with the expression of someone witnessing a car drive slowly toward a brick wall and choosing not to intervene. As he reached for the handle, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called after him, “I hope she smacks you in the face.”

Out front, you were still crouched by the counter, restacking tapes into something that would hopefully resemble order. You didn’t look up right away when the back room door opened. Steve stepped out, stopped, and then immediately forgot every single word he had rehearsed the moment he saw you sitting there, completely unaware, humming softly to yourself while you worked.

He stood there for a second, frozen in place, the weight of his extremely bad plan settling in.

Steve opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He had walked out of the back room with a plan, a very bad plan but still technically a plan, and now he stood there in front of you with absolutely no words available to him whatsoever.

You were crouched by the counter, focused on restacking the tower that looked like it would collapse if someone so much as breathed in its direction. You were humming under your breath, something soft and absentminded, and the sight of you like that made the idea of breaking up with you feel not just impossible but actively stupid.

He swallowed. Tried again.

Still nothing.

You finally glanced up when you felt someone standing there, and your face brightened automatically when you saw him. It wasn’t even a big reaction, just a small, easy smile, the kind you gave him all the time without thinking. It landed somewhere directly in his chest.

“Oh, hey,” you said. “Did Robin finish yelling at you?”

He blinked. “What? No. I mean—yes. I mean, she always yells at me. That’s just. . . baseline.”

You nodded, accepting this as fact, and turned back to your tapes. “Makes sense.”

He stood there another second, staring at you, and then the moment passed. The words he had rehearsed dissolved completely. He cleared his throat, said something about helping at the front, and did not break up with you.

He told himself it was temporary. Just until he figured things out. Just until he stopped feeling like his entire internal system short-circuited whenever you smiled at him.

Except the opposite happened.

Over the next few days, instead of pulling away, he got worse.

Much worse.

He hovered. He leaned. He stood too close. He called you “baby” and “sweetheart” with increasing ease, like the words had always belonged in his mouth. If you moved around the counter, he moved with you. If you reached for something, he handed it to you before you could grab it yourself. He rested his hand lightly at the small of your back whenever customers came in.

You, for your part, shrugged it off as him being very committed to the bit. If anything, you found it impressive. He was excellent at pretending. In fact, he was so good at pretending that somewhere along the way you stopped thinking about the rules as much. You stopped noticing when his hand lingered a second too long. You stopped questioning why he always chose the seat next to you. You stopped wondering why he looked at you the way he did when you laughed.

Instead, you started getting used to it.

Then you started liking it.

You found yourself leaning into his side without thinking. You waited for him to walk in before starting your shift. You caught your reflection in the glass one afternoon with his arm slung over your shoulders and thought, distantly, that you looked. . . happy.

Because that was the strange part. Even though it was fake, even though you knew the entire arrangement was built on a ridiculous agreement behind a Family Video counter, you felt. . . special. Sought after. Like you were the center of someone’s attention in a way that was warm and constant and strangely comforting.

And sure, technically he was the only guy paying you that kind of attention. And yes, technically it was fake. But he was Steve Harrington, and he was very convincing, and after a while the line blurred in a way you didn’t examine too closely.

At group hangouts, it only got worse.

Steve always ended up beside you. On the couch, on the floor, at the counter in the Byers kitchen, leaning against the wall at the arcade. His knee pressed against yours. His arm draped across the back of your chair. His hand resting near yours, close enough to touch.

No one questioned it.

That was the wildest part.

One afternoon, you overheard two people at the grocery store talking about you and Steve like this had been inevitable. Another time, you caught a guy at the arcade nudging his friend and whispering something about Harrington being down bad.

And Steve’s feelings, meanwhile, were not going away. They were not being ignored into submission like he had optimistically planned. If anything, they were growing at an alarming rate. Every time you laughed at something he said, every time you leaned into him without thinking, every time you called his name across a room, something in his chest tightened.

He told himself to cool it. To pull back. To reestablish boundaries.

He did not do that.

Instead, he found himself sitting a little closer. Holding your hand a little longer. Looking at you when you weren’t paying attention and then quickly looking away when you were.

From across the room one evening, Robin watched him resting his chin on the back of your chair while you talked with Max and Lucas. She stared for a long moment, then dragged a hand down her face.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered to herself. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

She stared at Steve for a full ten seconds, watched the way he leaned over the back of your chair like some kind of lovesick housecat, watched the way his eyes followed your face while you talked to Max and Lucas, and then finally made a sharp beckoning motion with her hand.

“Steven,” she said. “C’mon. We need to talk.”

He blinked, pulled from whatever soft, dangerous thought spiral he had been in, and looked at her like she had just spoken in another language. “What? Why?”

Robin did not answer. She just kept staring at him with a look that suggested he had about five seconds before she dragged him out of the room by the collar.

He glanced back at you automatically. You were still talking, laughing at something Max had said. His expression softened for a second, something almost helpless passing through his eyes, and then he stood up.

“Uh. Yeah. Okay,” he muttered.

He followed Robin into the kitchen, and the second they were out of earshot, she spun on him.

“Oh my God,” she said, hands flying up in the air. “Oh my God, Steve. I cannot watch this anymore. I cannot be a witness to whatever this is.”

He frowned, already defensive. “What is what?”

She stared at him. “This. The staring. The hovering. The yearning happening in real time every time she breathes in your general direction. Get your shit together.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do not lie to me,” she said immediately. “Do not lie to me in this kitchen where I have supported you through every single terrible romantic decision you’ve ever made. You are down bad. You are embarrassing. You are one soft smile away from writing her a sonnet which you do not even know how to write!”

He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Because unfortunately, she was not entirely wrong.

Robin stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You need to either ask her out for real or break up with her. Those are your options. Pick one. I am begging you to pick one.”

He looked past her toward the living room and his shoulders sagged.

“I can’t just ask her out,” he muttered. “What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if this is all just. . . pretend for her?”

Robin stared at him for a long moment, something like exasperated affection flickering across her face. “Steve,” she said, “she agreed to fake date you. She built a whole rule system with you. She looks at you like you hung the moon half the time. And you’re telling me you think she feels nothing?”

He swallowed. “I don’t know. I just. . . what if I ruin it? What if I say something and it gets weird and then I lose her completely?”

“You’re going to lose her anyway if you keep doing whatever this is,” she said. “You’re either going to confess and maybe get the girl, or you’re going to keep fake dating her until one of you dates someone else for real and then you’ll both be miserable and I will have to listen to you pine for the rest of my natural life.”

He let out a long breath, staring down at the floor. His mind ran through every possible scenario, every possible disaster, every possible version of you pulling away from him with that polite smile that would absolutely destroy him.

He knew what he needed to do.

He just. . . didn’t want to do it.

Robin lingered for exactly half a second after him saying it.

When he did not immediately sprint back into the living room and confess his undying devotion or fake-break up or do literally anything useful, she gave him a tight, expectant nod.

“I hope you chose good,” she said, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at him in a deeply unnecessary gesture. “Like, really good. Because if you mess this up, you're a dead man, Harrington.”

Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and walked off.

Steve stood there for another minute, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole out of pity. He ran a hand through his hair, then both hands, then rubbed his face in a way that suggested he was trying to physically push his feelings back inside his chest where they belonged. None of it worked. Eventually he let out a long, resigned breath and followed her out.

The living room looked exactly the same as it had five minutes ago, which felt deeply unfair considering his entire life had apparently changed in that time.

You were still on the couch with Max and Lucas, leaning forward as Max told some story about school. You were laughing, shoulders relaxed, completely unaware of the emotional apocalypse currently happening in Steve’s ribcage. The sound of your laugh hit him square in the chest and stayed there.

He stood there for a moment, just watching you, and his expression did something soft and miserable at the same time. It was the look of a man who had found the best thing in his life and was about to hand it back for entirely noble and incredibly stupid reasons.

He cleared his throat, which came out quieter than intended. Then he tried again.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Uh. . . if you could. . . I mean, if you’re not busy. We need to talk. For a second.”

Max and Lucas both went still in the way people do when they sense drama. You turned toward him immediately, still smiling, like of course you would go with him. The sight of that almost made him abort the entire plan on the spot.

“Yeah, sure,” you said, pushing yourself up from the couch. “Give us a minute?”

Max gave you a very slow look, then glanced at Steve with the kind of suspicious intensity usually reserved for crime investigations. Lucas followed suit, squinting slightly. Steve tried not to visibly panic under the scrutiny.

You didn’t notice any of it. You just walked over to him, still in a good mood, and nudged his arm lightly as you passed.

“What’s wrong?” you asked as you guided him a little farther down the hallway for privacy.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, then took them out again, then shoved them back in like he couldn’t decide where they belonged. For a second he just looked at you, and the words got stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

You tilted your head, smile softening into concern. “Steve?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Right. Okay. So. I, uh. . . I think we should. . . end this. The relationship. The fake one. I mean.”

The words came out clumsy and rushed, like he was trying to outrun them. You blinked once, the smile on your face staying exactly where it was, polite and a little confused.

“Oh,” you said. “Okay. That’s. . . sudden. Did something happen?”

He felt like the worst person alive. “No. I mean, yes. Not bad. Just. . . I think we’ve done what we needed to do, right? For the whole. . . fake dating thing. People definitely bought it. Mission accomplished.”

You nodded slowly, still wearing that same friendly expression. It didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore, but he either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

“Right,” you said. “Yeah, that makes sense. We did a pretty great job, if I do say so myself. Very convincing.”

He forced a small smile that looked like it physically hurt. “Yeah. Exactly. So, we should probably stop. Before it gets. . . weird.”

There was a brief pause. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, hands clasped loosely in front of you.

“Is that the only reason?” you asked. “Or. . . is there something else?”

He hesitated. This was the part Robin had told him to be honest about. This was the part that was supposed to make it better. He took a breath that felt like swallowing glass.

“I, uh. . . I kind of like someone,” he admitted, eyes dropping to the floor. “For real. And I think it’s. . . I think it’s getting complicated, doing this with you while that’s happening. It’s not fair to you. Or them.”

The words hung in the air between you.

For a split second, something flickered across your face. It was quick. So quick he almost missed it. Then your smile returned, perfectly supportive.

“Oh,” you said again. “Well. That’s. . . good. I mean, not good for me, I guess, but, you know. Good for you. That’s exciting.”

He nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I mean. I think so.”

You let out a small breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Wow. Okay. So. We’re breaking up. Fake-breaking up. That we somehow made real enough to need a real breakup conversation for.”

He winced. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag it out.”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly. “Really. It’s fine. We always knew this wasn’t permanent.”

Inside, it felt like someone had quietly knocked all the air out of your lungs. He liked someone. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? Steve Harrington liking someone was about as shocking as the sun rising. You had always known this would end. You had always known it wasn’t real. Still, the words sat heavy in your chest, confusing.

You kept smiling because that was what you did. You kept it light because that was easier than asking questions you weren’t sure you wanted answers to.

“So,” you said, clapping your hands together once in a bright, slightly forced motion. “We’re good? Still friends? Still. . . video store coworkers who argue about movie recommendations?”

He looked up at you then, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Always.”

“Great,” you said, nodding. “Then we’re good.”

There was a small, awkward moment where neither of you moved. Then you stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. He froze for half a second before hugging you back, arms tightening just a little too much, like he was trying to memorize what this felt like. You pulled away first, still smiling.

“I’m gonna head back out there,” you said. “Before Max assumes you murdered me in the hallway.”

He huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”

You walked back into the living room like nothing had happened. Max looked up immediately, eyes narrowing.

“Everything good?” she asked.

“Yep,” you said brightly, grabbing your bag. “Just. . . remembered I have to be up early tomorrow. I think I’m gonna head out.”

Lucas frowned. “Already?”

“Yeah. Rain check on movie night. You guys pick something terrible without me.”

Max watched you for a second longer than necessary. “You sure you’re okay?”

You smiled,. “I’m fine. Promise. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You said your goodbyes quickly, waved once, and slipped out the front door before anyone could press further. The cool night air hit your face and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your smile faded the second you were alone.

Inside, Steve stood in the hallway, staring at the spot where you had been. He could hear the front door open and close. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to go after you, to fix it, to say the thing he should have said in the first place. Instead, he stayed where he was, rooted to the floor by his own terrible decision.

He had wanted to do the right thing. He had wanted to be honest. Somehow, he felt like he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

The next few days were, in a word, terrible.

Not movie montage terrible where everything was set to a sad song and you stared out of rain-streaked windows looking beautiful. It was the much less glamorous version where you stayed in pajamas until noon, forgot to eat actual meals, and kept wandering into rooms only to forget why you had gone there in the first place.

You called in sick to work on day one with a voice that sounded suspiciously normal and then called in again on day two with a voice that sounded even more normal, which made you feel worse somehow, like you were committing a crime against customer service by not showing up.

You told yourself it was fine. It was fake. The relationship had always been fake. This was the plan. It had a beginning, middle, and end, and you had known the end would come.

What you had not known, apparently, was that the end would feel like someone had removed a very specific, very loud presence from your daily routine and left behind an echo that would not shut up.

You missed the way he hovered. You missed the way he reached for your hand without thinking. You missed the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room even when you were both fully aware that the entire thing was supposed to be an act.

It turned out that fake attention still registered as attention to your brain, and your brain had decided to get extremely attached to it in a very embarrassing fashion.

By day three you were pacing around your room with the phone pressed to your ear, rambling to Nancy.

She had called to check in once and had made the mistake of asking how you were doing, which opened a floodgate that did not appear to have an off switch.

“Okay, but here is what I do not understand,” you were saying, pacing. “He used to be all over me. In a supportive, very attentive fake boyfriend way. He was committed to the bit, Nance. And now suddenly he has this iron willpower and emotional restraint and I am supposed to just. . . adjust? Overnight? It feels like I went from being the most sought-after girl in Hawkins to the least sought-after girl in the land in the span of forty-eight hours.”

Nancy made a soft sound on the other end that might have been sympathy and might have been her trying not to laugh.

“I mean, I know it was fake,” you continued quickly, flopping onto your bed. “I know it. I was there. I signed the fake dating contract in my head. But it turns out that when someone spends weeks holding your hand and looking at you like you hung the moon, your brain does this really fun thing where it goes, oh, this must be real. And then when it stops, your brain goes, wow, you must be deeply unappealing actually.”

“You are not deeply unappealing,” Nancy said.

“I am currently sitting in what can only be described as my most unflattering pajamas,” you went on, staring at the ceiling. “These pajamas are not tempting anyone. And apparently he is out there on some love journey for another girl, and good for him, truly, but also, why now? Why after I got used to him hovering like a very tall, very concerned golden retriever?”

Nancy let out a small laugh. “You miss him.”

You groaned loudly. “I miss the attention. Which is worse. I miss feeling like someone was always a little bit focused on me. Even when I knew it was pretend. And now he is probably being very respectful and very normal and very emotionally mature about this other girl he likes”

There was a pause on the line, then Nancy said, “You could go back to work.”

You buried your face in a pillow. “I cannot. I cannot face him while I am like this. What if I look at him and my face does something? What if he is completely fine and I am the only one acting like we just broke up for real? Which, to be clear, we did not. We fake broke up. From our fake relationship. That somehow managed to hurt my real feelings.”

Nancy hummed thoughtfully. “You know he did not want to hurt you.”

“I know,” you said quickly, rolling onto your back again. “I know that. He was being honest. He likes someone. That is normal. People are allowed to like people. I am not the center of the universe. But also, this feels extremely inconvenient for me personally.”

Silence stretched for a second before you added, “It is just weird. He is not there. He is not hovering. He is not texting me about dumb things or asking if I want snacks. And now I am sitting here realizing that I got used to being. . . wanted. Even if it was pretend. And it turns out I liked it. A lot. Which is humiliating.”

Nancy’s voice softened. “It is not humiliating to like being cared about.”

You stared at the ceiling for a long moment, phone warm against your ear. “Yeah,” you admitted. “Maybe not. Still feels a little pathetic though.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Nancy said. “Why don’t you ask Robin?”

You blinked at the ceiling. “Ask Robin what?”

“I mean,” Nancy continued, warming to the idea, “I honestly do not buy that Steve just suddenly woke up one morning and decided to break up with you because he liked someone else. That feels. . . abrupt. Suspiciously abrupt.”

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, interest sparking through the fog of self-pity like someone had flipped on a light switch. “Wait.”

Nancy kept going, a little triumphant now. “Maybe she knows something. They tell each other everything. If there was a conversation that led to him making that decision, she was probably part of it.”

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, suddenly very awake. “Robin definitely knows something. Steve only decided to break up with me after talking to her. That is extremely suspicious. That is practically a neon sign.”

“There you go,” Nancy said, pleased. “See? Maybe I am good at giving advice.”

You grabbed the phone cord and started pacing again. “Yeah, sure, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but you might be onto something. I am going to call her right now.”

Nancy laughed. “Okay. Tell her I said hi.”

“Sure, bye, Nance,” you said quickly, already pulling the phone away to dial.

You hung up before she could respond and immediately started punching in Robin’s number. The line rang once. Twice. Three times. You paced a tight circle near your bed, free hand twisting in the hem of your sleeve as your heart did something annoyingly fast and anticipatory. On the fourth ring, the line clicked.

“Hello?” Robin’s voice came through.

You did not bother with a greeting. “Robin, what did you do?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, on the other end of the line, you heard a small, startled noise that sounded very much like someone who had just been caught doing something they were absolutely not supposed to be doing.

“Oh oh,” Robin said.

You pounded on Steve Harrington’s front door like you were trying to break it down. You knew his parents were out of town, which meant there was no one to shush you, no one to open the door halfway and ask you to keep it down. There was only him, and right now that was the entire problem.

You knocked again, your heart thudding in your chest with a mix of anger, relief, and something that felt suspiciously like nerves. For a split second you wondered if he would not answer, and you would have to yell through the door like a deranged person.

Then you heard shuffling on the other side, a thud, a muffled curse, and finally the lock clicking open.

The door swung inward and there he was.

Steve stood in the doorway looking tired and rumpled, hair sticking up in several directions. His T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, his eyes heavy with sleep, and for a brief moment you might have felt a pang of sympathy at the sight of him if you were not currently fueled by the kind of righteous indignation that erased all other emotions.

He blinked at you, clearly trying to catch up. “Sweeth—” he started automatically, then stopped himself mid-word as he realised you two had 'broken' up. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

You did not answer. Instead, you stepped forward and hit him square in the chest with both hands, not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to make a point. He stumbled back half a step, eyes widening.

“You tell me, Steven,” you said. “How is that girl you like doing?”

He stared at you, still half-asleep and entirely unprepared for this conversation. “Good?” he said cautiously, like he was answering a trick question on a test he had not studied for.

You crossed your arms. “Uh-huh. Really? Because I know for a fact that she is doing terrible.”

He blinked again. “I’m. . . confused.”

You leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “You idiot. I talked to Robin.”

The change was immediate. The sleepiness vanished from his face, replaced by dawning horror. “Oh.”

His eyes widened fully now, like someone who had just realized the carefully constructed house of cards he had built was currently collapsing in real time. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more.

“Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay, wait, I can explain—”

“Explain what?” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “Explain why you decided to break up with me because you ‘liked someone else’ instead of just saying that you liked me? Explain why you thought the best possible plan was to break my heart and your own at the same time? Explain why you are, in fact, the dumbest person I have ever met?”

He winced at that but did not argue. “I panicked,” he admitted, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I thought if I said it out loud and you didn’t feel the same way, it would ruin everything. I didn’t want to lose you. So I thought if I just. . . ended it first, then at least I could keep you as a friend and not—”

“You thought breaking up with me would make it less likely that you would lose me?” you interrupted, incredulous. “That is your genius plan? That is the master strategy you came up with?”

He looked deeply embarrassed. “In my defense, it sounded better in my head.”

You stared at him, equal parts furious and exasperated. “You should have just told me. You should have just said it. Especially because—” You stopped, took a breath, then glared at him harder. “Especially because I liked you too, you absolute idiot.”

He froze. Completely. Like someone had hit pause on him mid-motion.

“You. . . what?” he said.

“I liked you too,” you repeated, throwing your hands up again. “I was going to apologize for the kiss and then maybe tell you that I didn’t want it to be fake anymore and then you went and broke up with me because you ‘liked someone else,’ which, by the way, is apparently me, which makes this entire situation even more ridiculous.”

He stared at you, stunned, relief and disbelief warring across his face. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I thought you were just. . . being nice. Or pretending really well. Or—”

“Steve,” you said, exasperated. “I kissed your cheek at work. I went on a real date with you. I missed you when you stopped hovering. I called Nancy and spent an hour spiraling about how pathetic it was that I missed your attention. What part of that says ‘just pretending’ to you?”

He opened his mouth again, clearly trying to explain himself for the thousandth time. “I just didn’t want to mess it up,” he said. “You mean a lot to me and I thought if I pushed too hard—”

You did not let him finish. You stepped forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him.

He made a small, startled noise against your mouth before immediately kissing you back, hands coming up instinctively to hold your arms like he needed to make sure you were actually there and not some sleep-deprived hallucination.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little faster, standing very close in the doorway of his house.

He blinked at you. “So,” he said, still holding your arms. “You. . . like me?”

You gave him a look. “Yes, Steve. I like you. A lot. Unfortunately.”

A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Okay,” he said. “Good. Because I really, really like you too.”

You exhaled. “Next time,” you said firmly, pointing a finger at his chest, “we are talking about our feelings like normal people. No more terrible plans. Agreed?”

He nodded immediately. “Agreed. Absolutely agreed. I am done with terrible plans.”

You studied him for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time. He smiled into it, and held your waist, pulling back just for a second.

“I swear if this turns out to be a dream, I'm killing myself.”

“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)

“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst. 

You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.

The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.

“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence. 

“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge. 

“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.

The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.

“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.

“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.

“I’ll get you someday.”

Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.

“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.

“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”

“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.

“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.

“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.

“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”

“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”

“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.

“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.

“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”

“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.

So, let the challenge begin.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”

“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.

“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.

“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”

“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze. 

“Well then, good luck.”

“Won’t need it.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”

Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.

Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.

You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.

“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.

“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”

Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.

Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item. 

Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.

“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.

“359 days left.”

“More than enough.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.

“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”

Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.

“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.” 

Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.

“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.

You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.

Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him. 

“I won.”

Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.

“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”

“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.

“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down. 

Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.

You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.

“Sore loser.”

“Cheater.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.

Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.

The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.

“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”

“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”

You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:

“Done!”

Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.

“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.

Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail. 

Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.

From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again. 

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.

“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior. 

He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.

To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee. 

He simply has always gotten it right.

It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.

“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”

Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.

Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.

His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.

Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.

“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.

“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.

“Maybe.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.

“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”

Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.

“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.

Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches. 

Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.

Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed. 

Why?

His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.

Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.

The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.

And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”

Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement. 

“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”

You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words. 

In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.

“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”

“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”

This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound. 

If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.

Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work. 

With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:

You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.

Both your phones started ringing at the same time.

“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.

“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.

After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.

“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.

“I know.”

A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.

“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.

“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.

“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.

The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.

“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.

Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.

“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.

“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.

By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”

Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly. 

Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.

Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze. 

“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.

The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf. 

The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.

Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:

“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.

“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”

“Nothing.”

Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work. 

Ah, the perks of being a profiler.

“Sure, pretty boy.”

“What was that loo—” 

The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.

Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.

Immediately, his body stiffened.

“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress. 

“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”

Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.

Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.

“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal. 

“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”

“In sickness and in health, as they say.”

Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.

Derek’s brows scrunched at that.

“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.

“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end. 

He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.

“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.

Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.

Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you. 

Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.

It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance. 

Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry. 

For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.

His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.

Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms. 

Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.

That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.

Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength. 

The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.

After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together. 

Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.

Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.

Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him. 

However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.

Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.

It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind. 

So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.

His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed. 

Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.

Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.

A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.

With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task. 

When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.

Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights. 

Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.

Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.

“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”

There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.

There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.

But maybe his probability was not entirely against him. 

“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”

You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.

“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…” 

Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again. 

“You’re my favorite October 12th.”

And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.

It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer. 

And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.

Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.

God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.

One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.

Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.

“Thank you.”

Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness. 

Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing. 

And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.

“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.

Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.

You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.

For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—  

A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.

First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song. 

It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano. 

Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.

Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.

“I thought you only listened to classical?”

“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.

Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.

Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures. 

You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.

You moved on with a quiet murmur.

“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”

“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.” 

“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that. 

“We should head up. It’s getting late.”

You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”

An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.

“Never.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”

“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.

“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”

Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.

The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.

This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.

An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.

Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.

“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.

Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event. 

You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.

“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.

“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.

“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.

“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”

You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust. 

The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.

Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.

Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.

You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two. 

“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”

Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.

That was kind of embarrassing. 

The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.

It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—

Oh.

You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong. 

Oh God. 

But were you really surprised though? 

A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.

You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.

And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.

Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.

Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.

The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.

You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.

“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”

“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 1080to 1082.”

He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.

“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”

“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”

“You’re tired.”

You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.

You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.

For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.

Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”

Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.

Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow. 

Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.

But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose. 

He wanted you to mean it.

You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering. 

You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.

But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.

Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.

One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.

“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.

Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course. 

Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both. 

“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.

“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”

You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:

Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason. 

Well, for no reason but you.

The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace. 

You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.

Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.

Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.

“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone. 

God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face. 

“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different. 

With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.

“I like you.”

Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.

“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.

Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?

You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.

But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer. 

Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.

Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.

Oh…?

Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.

In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.

Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.

His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light. 

You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these. 

You pressed your lips harder against his.

Good lord, Spencer could do this forever. 

He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.

Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch. 

One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.

In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently. 

You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them. 

You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.

Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.

Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.

“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true.  Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”

Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.

“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.

“But?”

“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.

“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”

“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.

“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”

“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.

“When did you figure it out?”

“That you like me? At the orchestra.”

“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.

You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.

As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.

“I’m still gonna get you someday.”

Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.

“I’m counting on that.”

With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.

You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score. 

Day 187 status: unsuccessful. 

But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.

・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・

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