ghoulfucker

You stand beside your husband at the top of the dais, your hands folded neatly before you, your posture as composed as any princess of the realm ought to be. Years in King’s Landing have taught you well; how to hold still, how to speak little, and how to be watched.

And yet—

When they enter, something in you stirs.  The colors first. Gold. Rust red. The deep burnished orange of House Uller woven into silks and cloaks along with other Dornish houses. A piece of home, carried across leagues of dust and sand.

Baelor stands at your side, straight backed, composed, and every inch the prince he was born to be. His dark hair combed neatly, his expression calm and measured. The court sees a man in control. But you know him.

You feel the subtle tension in him as the Dornishmen approach. The faint tightening of his jaw. The stillness that is not calm but close to watchfulness.

“My prince,” one of the envoys said, bowing low. “We thank you for receiving us.”

Baelor inclined his head. “Dorne is always welcome to the Red Keep. We are kinsman all of us.” He said, his voice even. Diplomatic and controlled. But his gaze flickered briefly to you then. As if to measure something that you do not yet know what.

The introductions began. Names passed between everyone, lords, envoys, and sworn shields. You listened, polite, attentive as always, though your thoughts drifted, caught somewhere between past and present, missing home ever so slightly.

Until...

“My lady Y/N.”

The voice was familiar. Too familiar. It strikes through you like a blade drawn quick and clean. You look towards the voice and there he stands. For a heartbeat, the hall disappears.

He is taller than you remember. Bigger and sun kissed, but with the unmistakable look of a man shaped by sand and steel alike. But his eyes have not changed since you last saw them. They were warm and recognizing.

“Seven hells…” he breathes, a grin breaking across his face. “It is you.”

“Doran?” you said, disbelief softening your voice. “Gods… I had thought—”

“That I’d died in some foolish skirmish?” he laughed. “Not yet at least.”

You laughed too. Not some careful court laughter you’ve learned to wear like armor, but something older. Easier. You only ever laughed like that with your husband.

“I scarce recognized you,” you admitted. “You’ve grown into your armor.”

“And you,” he said, his gaze sweeping over you, not improper but lingering, “you have grown into a princess.”

There is warmth in his words and pride.

“Prince Baelor,” Doran adds, suddenly remembering himself, dropping into a respectful bow. “Forgive me. I am Ser Doran of House Qorqyle.”

Baelor stepped forward them. Measure and calm like always. “Ser Doran,” he says. “You know my wife?” There is nothing sharp in his words. Nothing to a fault and yet something beneath them curls.

Doran straightens then. “Aye, my prince. We were close, once. Sandstone and Hellholt are not so far apart as the maps would have it.”

You felt Baelor in front of you. He seemed still, almost too still.

“Is that so?” he said. Doran gave a simple answer, but his gaze shifts to you. You meet it and for a moment, the warmth of your sudden reunion falters.

“We grew up near one another,” you explain gently. “He was at Hellholt often.”

“Often enough to be chased out by your kin,” Doran adds with a crooked grin. “Though not always fast enough.”

You could not help it a laugh escaped your lips once again. Baelor hears it and sees it. The sound lingers in the air between you all, but something in his expression changed. Not openly and not in a way any courtier could name. But you saw it. A tightening in his shoulders and a slight darkening in his eyes. Interest sharpened into something else.

“Well,” Baelor says after a pause, his voice smooth once more, “it seems King’s Landing offers more reunions than I had expected.”

Doran nods. “A welcome one, my prince.”

Doran’s gaze flicked back to you. Just for a moment, but Baelor noticed.

The rest of the court resumes around you. Their voices rising, matters of diplomacy taking shape in front of you, but something has shifted. You felt it in the space between you and your husband. In a way his hand finds yours. It was not harsh, nor possessive, but firmer than before a almost grounding yourself to him. In a way he does not release your hand.

Later, as the hall began to thin and conversations break into smaller clusters, Doran finds you again. He does not single you out, but stands by you amongst the envoys House Uller has sent.

“I had wondered how you fared here,” he says quietly. “So far from the sands of home.”

“I fare well enough,” you answered. “Better than I once feared I would.”

His smile softens. “I am glad to hear this. I did worry when I heard you were betrothed and sent to King’s Landing.”

There was a pause.  A shared memory lingering unspoken between you both.

“Do you remember,” he began, “the cliffs beyond Hellholt? Where you swore, you’d leap into the river Brimstone before ever being caged in some Lord’s court?”

You huffed softly. “I was a foolish girl then.”

“But you were a free one,” he corrected.

The words hang in the air. They were not heavy but not light, either. You feel it again that shift in the air, a almost presence. You do not need to turn to know he is there. But you do.

Baelor stands a short distance away speaking with one of the representatives, but his gaze is not on them. It is on you. It is on the space between you and Doran. It is at the ease in your posture. The familiarity in your tone.

The way you look at another man and not as you look at the rest of the court. His expression was composed and impeccable. But his eyes were not. His mismatched gaze burned. Like embers waiting for a breath that would turn them into flames.

Baelor said nothing. Not yet. But you know your husband and you know the dragon has been disturbed.

The days that followed do not pass quietly.

Dorne lingers in the Red keep like heat trapped in stone, and with it comes memory, yours most of all.

You had not meant for it to happen. Not at first.

“Come,” you tell him on the second morning, the sun just beginning to crest over Blackwater Bay, casting a glow across the towers. “If you are to linger in the Red Keep and see its mysteries, you out to at least to see it properly.”

Ser Doran laughs, falling into step beside you. “And here I thought I had come for diplomacy, not some history lessons.”

“You came for both it seems.” You return lightly.

You showed him the winding halls first, the one courtiers rarely tread. The narrow staircases carved into the bones of the castle, the hidden turns and half-forgotten doors.

“Gods,” he muttered at one point, glancing around. “A man could lose himself in here for days”

“Many do,” you say. “Some never find their way out again and they say the dragons skulls down below will eat them whole.”

He grinned at that. “You always did like your stories dark.”

“And you always thought yourself too clever to heed them.”

“Aye,” he said, glancing at you sidelong, “and you always proved me wrong.”

There is ease in it, like it used to be. But this could be too much ease, perhaps.

It comes without thinking. The laughter, the shared glances, the old rhythm of your former life slipping back into place as though the years between had never been.

But King’s Landing is not Hellholt. Nor is it Dorne. And you are not the same girl Ser Doran once knew.

By the third day, it has become something noticed by others. It is not spoken openly, but it has been seen by eyes that shouldn’t.

“You spend much time with that Dornish knight, my lady.”  One lady murmured as you passed. 

“He is only an old friend.” You replied simply.

She smiled, thin and knowing. “Of course, my princess.”

You did not linger to hear her more, but you felt it in almost every moment.

And always there is him. Baelor did not forbid it. He does not question you and he does not so much as raise his voice. But he always watches.

If it is such a problem, you thought then surely your husband would tell you. But you feel it though in every room you enter the weight of his gaze, steady and unrelenting. At council, at supper, in the corridors where you path cross only briefly.

But he was always courteous to Doran. Flawlessly so.

“My prince,” Doran said one afternoon, bowing his head as Baelor approaches.

“Ser Doran,” Baelor replied inclining slightly to him. It was measured and polite but lined with ice.

“You have taken well to our halls, I trust?”

“They are… impressive,” Doran said, glancing briefly to you. “Though I’ve had an excellent guide.”

Baelor’s eyes shifted to you, but only for a moment.

“I do not doubt at all.” he said and nothing more. Yet the air tightened around you all the same.

You began to notice it then not just in Baelor, but in Doran as well. The way his posture shifts when your husband is nearby. The way his tone grows more careful as if he is watching what he says and his smiles become less easy.

But yet they do not clash and they do not argue. Something unspoken passes between them, sharp as drawn steel and you stand between it.

On the fourth day, you show Ser Doran the gardens.

“They are not much compared to the Water Gardens back in Dorne,” you warn as you lead him through the arched entry, vines curling along the nearby stones.

Doran exhales softly as he steps through. “No,” he said, “but they do have their own kind of beauty. I must say.”

The gardens of the Red Keep are quieter than the rest of the castle. The noise of court fades here, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves, the distant trickle of water from a carved fountain.

You walked beside him along the stone paths, sunlight filtering through branches overhead.

“I had wondered,” he said after a time, “if you missed it.”

“Dorne?” you asked.

“Aye.”

You didn’t answer right away trying to figure out what to say to him. “Sometimes,” you finally admitted. “The heat. The openness. The way the sky never seems to end. The sand.”

“And here?” he pressed.

You glanced around, “Here is different.”

He studied you then, but only for a moment. “And the prince?” he asked, quieter now. “Is he.. as you hoped?

Your gaze sharpened slightly. “He is my husband and the heir to the throne. He is everything I could want.”

“That is not what I asked you Y/n.”

You do not answer right away because the truth is not simple. And before you can shape it into a way you could explain about how much you love Baelor, you felt it. That shift.

Baelor’s presence.

You turn towards the weight of his stare .Baelor stands at the edge of the path, half shadowed by the greenery. He must have come quietly and waited since you did not hear him at all. But he was there long enough. He clearly had heard enough.

“My wife,” he said.

Your heart stirs at the sound of his voice, it being low, regulated, but carrying something beneath it now.

“Baelor,” you answered, stepping towards him. “We were just—”

“I see that,” he said. His gaze flickered briefly to Doran. His gaze was measurable and unreadable. But then he brought his eyes back to you.

“Walk with me. Please.” He said, with not an ounce of demand lingering in it.

You hesitated only for a moment before nodding. “Of course, husband.”

You turn back to Doran. “I will be back.”

He inclined his head. “No need to hurry.” But his eyes flick once towards Baelor and something in them tightens. You did not linger long enough to decipher what just transpired.

Baelor does not take your arm. Nor does he touch you at all. He simply walks with one hand behind his back, and you follow a half step behind.

Deeper into the gardens, away from the open paths, into the quieter places where fewer feet tread.  You know where he takes you before you even arrive. Of course you do.

That secluded corner, half hidden by the climbing vines and low hanging branches. The place you have come before when the world pressed too close, when duty gave way, if only for a moment, to something softer for you both to share.

He stops there and turns. For a heartbeat, neither of you speak. The silence stretches and before you could break the silence yourself Baelor speaks first.

“You have been busy,” he stated. His voice once again calm, too calm. You realized how much you actually hated how calm he could be.

You meet his gaze though, “I have been showing an old friend around the castle.”

“A friend…” he repeats. There was something in the way he said that word then.

“Yes. A friend.”

His jaw tightened, ever so slightly. “I had not known you kept such close company with men who are not your husband.”

There was venom laced in his tone. Your chin lifts meeting his gaze, “Nor had I known I required leave to speak with those I have known since childhood.”

His eyes darkened then. “That is not what I said.”

“No,” you agreed, “But it is what you meant.”

A flicker of something sharp and fleeting crosses his expression. He takes a few steps closer to you. Not enough to crowd you, but enough that you feel it.

“I have watched you,” he said, his voice lowering. “These past few days.

“I am aware, Baelor.” You replied.

His mouth tightened. “You laugh with him. Walk with him. Look at him as though this court does not even exist.”

“And what would you have me do?” you asked, a heat rising in you now. “Turn cold because I wear your name? Forget every life I had before you?”

“I would have you remember who you are,” he said, more sharply than before. “And what you are.”

Your breath caught. “And what is that?” you challenged.

His gaze holds yours, unflinching.

“That would be my wife.”

The words landed heavy between you two. He said them with no cruel intent, but it was filled with something deeper, laced with something raw than simple anger.

It was jealousy. At last, lay bare before you.

You searched his face then, really searched it and the way it lies beneath your husband. You finally saw the tension in him and the restraint. The way he held this in, day after day of watching you.

“Baelor…” you began, your voice softer now, intended to soothe the jagged edge of his jealousy.

But he stepped closer still, closing the last of the distance between you until you could smell the scent of leather and spices that clung to him. He loomed over you, his shadow swallowing yours.

“I do not like it,” he said plainly. No courtly phrasing. No careful mask. Just the truth of it.

His mismatched eyes, bore into yours, stripping away any pretense of diplomacy he usually carried. The wind stirred the leaves around you, the garden holding its breath as if the flowers themselves were spies at court.

“And I do not like,” he added, quieter now, a rough vibration in his chest that you felt more than you heard as if a dragon about to breath fire, “that I find myself caring so much that I cannot look away from it.”

There it was. Not a command nor an accusation. It was something far more dangerous. It was an admission of vulnerability from a man who was meant to not show weakness not the heir to the iron throne. He was not angry with you; he was just undone by you. The realization hit you with the force of a physical blow, knocking the air from you lungs. Your heart hammered against your chest, the frantic rhythm betraying your own composure.

You didn’t even think. You simply pounced. Something took over you, a desperate need to bridge the gap that separated you, to prove that the man you knew had known for some time meant nothing compared to the man standing before you. You reached for Baelor then, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his collar, and your lips crashed against his.

It was not gentle, more like a collision. His lips were hard and demanding, tasting of wine and frustration. He responded instantly to you, his restraint that he always has shattered like glass. One hand released from behind his back and grabbed the back of your neck, his fingers digging into your hair, tilting your heads back enough to deepen his kiss. He kissed you with a ferocity that bordered him fighting in a war, his teeth grazed your lower lip.

In the moments of your kiss Baelor had backed you slowly against the remnants of the stone wall that hid you from the pathways, pressing your back against the rough stone. The stone scraped against the silk of your gown, a grounding contrast to the heat that was blooming between your legs.

His hands were everywhere, roaming down your sides to grip your waist, pulling your hips flush against him. You could feel the hard ridge of his cock straining against his breeches, thick and insistent, demanding your attention.

“He acts with you as if he has a right to claim you,” Baelor growled against your mouth, his voice a low snarl that vibrated against your lips. “He looks at you with eyes that linger too long.”

“He is my friend,” you gasped, your head falling back against the wall as his mouth moved down the curve of your throat finding the sweet, sensitive spot he knows you love when kissed. But this time he bit down, sucking a mark into your sun kissed flesh, a brand of ownership that would be visible above the neckline of your gown.

“You only have one husband,” he countered, his hands roughly yanking up the layers of your skirts. The air rushed against your legs, raising goose prickles on your skin, but his touch was burning hot like a dragon’s. “And I will remind you of exactly who that is. In case you have forgotten my dear wife.”

His fingers delved between your thighs, finding you already so very wet for him. He groaned at the discovery, a sound of primal satisfaction. “So wet for me,” he muttered, circling your clit with his rough, calloused thumb. “Does your childhood friend make you drip like this? Does he make your thighs shake before he can even fuck you like I can?”

You cried out, your hips bucking against his hand to try and get more friction. “No, Baelor, only you. Just you.”

“That is right,” he grunted. He freed himself from his breeches, his cock sprung free. It is heavy and thick, already dripping for you too. He didn’t wait then. He hooked one of your legs over his arm, lifting it up and opening you up to him. He lined himself up with your entrance and with one powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside you.

You gasped, your walls stretching to accommodate him suddenly. He filled you completely, pressing against places deep inside that would make your toes curl. This time he really did not give you time to adjust. He set a punishing rhythm, withdrawing almost entirely before slamming back into you, his hips slapping against yours with a wet, obscene sound that started to echo in the quiet garden.

“This is mine,” he hissed in your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “This tight cunt of yours belongs to me. No one else gets to feel it squeeze them . No one else gets to hear you moan with pleasure like I can make you.”

He fucked you with the intensity of a storm, driving into you over and over, using the vines to anchor his thrusts. The stone dug into your shoulders still, but the pain only sharpened the pleasure coiling in your belly. You clung to his shoulders, your nails biting into the velvet of his doublet, holding on for dear life.

“Say it,” he demanded, his hand moving between your bodies to rub your clit in time with his thrusts. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,”  you moaned, the pressure building to an unbearable peak. “You, My Prince. You Baelor Breakspear.”

“That right.” He groaned. “You are the wife to Baelor Targaryen. Heir to the Iron Throne and you are mine. You are my princess and no one else’s.” His rhythm began to falter then, his thrusts becoming erratic and desperate. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he let go. And that was what you needed also for you to break. His cock throbbed inside you, pulsing as he spilled his seed deep within you. The heat of it was intense, flooding you, claiming you from the inside out and it felt amazing.

He held you there for a long moment, his chest heaving against yours, his softening cock still twitching inside of you as you still came down from your orgasm. He placed a kiss on your lips and then one to your forehead, then slowly he pulled out of you, a thick string of his cum connecting you to him before breaking and dripping onto the grass below.

Baelor reached down, his fingers coated in the mixtures of you and him. He looked you in the eye, his mismatched gaze still dark and possessive, and pushed his fingers back into your well fucked cunt, stuffing his cum deep as it would go. You moaned again at the sudden pressure from his fingers and the realization of what he was doing.

“Keep it there,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. He withdrew his fingers and smoothed your skirts down with practice grace, covering your legs once more. “Go back to your friend. Walk with him. Talk with him. But do not forget what you are walking with my seed dripping from you. Do not forget that you are full of me.”

He looked at you once more and pulled you into a tight embrace placing a kiss at the top of your head. As he let go, he gave your hand a squeeze and stepped back, adjusting his clothing, though his eyes still burned with a feral light that made you belly flip. You felt the wetness begin to seep out of you, a warm, sticky reminder of his possession.

By the time they sent for the maesters, you were burning as if being consumed by dragon fire. Heat flooded you so violently it felt as though your blood had turned to wildfire. Your skin was slick with sweat, your breath uneven, shallow. The world tilted, the walls bending, voices warping into something distant and unreal. And through it all, one voice remained.

“Easy...easy, my heart. I’ve got you.”

Baelor’s.

When you opened your eyes again, the world was dim.

Candlelight flickered weakly against stone walls. The air smelled of herbs. It was sharp, bitter, and a little overwhelming. You tried to move, but your body does not obey. It felt too heavy, too distant, as though it no longer belonged to you.

There is weight at your side. A warmth.

“…there you are.” His voice breaks on the words.

You turn your head slowly, painfully, and find him there.

Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, kneeling beside your bed like a man with nothing to lose.

His dark hair was a little disheveled, his eyes, gods his eyes. They were rimmed red, sleepless, frantic. He looked as though he had not moved in hours.

Perhaps he hadn’t.

“You frightened me,” he said softly, his hand already reaching for yours. “You frightened all of us.”

Your lips part, but no sound came. Your throat burned. Even breathing feels like swallowing fire.

“Hush,” he murmured quickly, leaning closer. “Do not try to speak. The maesters said—” his voice faltered. “They said to keep you still.”

As if you could do anything else. You felt his fingers close around yours—tight grounding, almost desperate. He pressed your hand between both of his, as though trying to will the warmth back into you.

“They are doing all they can,” he continued, quieter now. “They have given you milk of the poppy, tinctures, poultices, and things I cannot even name.” A strained breath escaped him. “But they still do not know what this is, my love.”

You see it then, the fear. Raw and Unhidden.

Baelor does not fear battle. He does not fear judgement, nor the gods, nor the weight of the crown.

But this? This unraveled him. “I told them they would find cause,” he said, more firmly now, as though he is convincing himself. “They must. They will.”

Another tremor wracks your body. Sharp and violent. A broken sound escapes your throat before you can stop it, and instantly he is closer, one hand coming to your face, the other tightening arounds yours.

“Easy. Easy my love, breathe,” he whispers urgently. “Stay with me. Just breathe.”

You try. Gods, you try. But each breath feels thinner than the last, slipping through your grasp like sand.

“I am here,” he said, over and over, voice low and steady despite the way it shakes at the edges. “I am here. You are not alone.”

Somewhere beyond him, you hear hushed voices, the maesters no doubt. The rustle of robes. The quite clink of glass.

“They say the fever may break by dawn,” Baelor continued, softer now, his thumb brushing weakly over your knuckles. “They say if it does—” He swallowed hard. “If it does, you may yet recover.”

May.

The word hangs heavy between you. His grip tightens. “But you will not leave me,” he said suddenly, fiercely. “Do you hear me? You will not.”

Your vision began to blur. The candlelight stretches and warps, shadows twisting along the walls like living things.

“You cannot,” he pressed on, leaning close again, his forehead nearly touching yours. “Not when I have only just begun to understand you. Not when there is still so much, I have yet to say…”

His voice breaks then. You have never heard it do that before, not in all your years of marriage.

“I have not been the husband you deserve,” he admitted in a whisper. “I have buried myself in duty, the burdens of being the Hand to the crown…and I left you to stand there alone beside me.” His breath trembled. “I thought there would be more time.”

Another wave crashed through you, stealing what little strength you had left. Your fingers twitched weakly in his grasp. He noticed. Of course he did.

Hope flared in his eyes, fragile and fleeting. He lifted your hand, pressing it against his cheek, holding it there as though it anchored him to this world.

“You remember the Water Gardens in Dorne?” he asked softly. “How you mentioned you wished to see it again?” A faint, broken smile touched his lips. “You said the roses there shamed all the other flowers there. I told you I would find those roses for you and bring them to King’s Landing and plant them there if it pleased you.”

His eyes searched your face, desperate for any sign, any sign flicker of yourself.

“We will go there again,” he continued. “When this has passed. I will take you to Dorne myself. No court, no council, no duties to steal me away from you.” His voice dropped, rough with emotion. “Just you and I.”

Your breathing stuttered. Fades. Returns. Each inhale is more fragile than the last. “Do not leave us,” he whispered.

It was not a command. It was a plea. His hand trembled where it held yours, his composure unraveling piece by piece, stripped bare before you.

“I cannot do this without you,” Baelor said, the words raw and unguarded. “I do not want a throne if it means your life. I do not want piety or glory, or praise of men—” His voice cracked again. “I only want you. I would give up the crown and everything else I hold dear if it means you are safe.”

The room felt colder now. Or perhaps you are simply slipping too far to feel anything at all. He leaned closer still, pressing his forehead gently to yours now, his breath warm against your skin.

“Stay,” he murmured, softer than the storm outside, softer than a prayer. “Stay with me, my girl. Just until dawn. Just until the light returns.”

His finger tightened around yours once again. Unyielding and desperate. As though, by sheer force of will alone, he might keep you here. And through the haze, through the fever and the darkness pulling at you, you felt it. His warmth.

The night does not pass easily. It stretches, endless, suffocating, heavy with the weight of every breath you are not certain you will take again.

Baelor did not move from your side. Not when the candles burned low and were replaced. Not when the maesters come and go in hushed urgency, their chains whispering as they worked. Not when the storm outside fades into a dull, distant hush. Yet he remained. Your hand never leaves him.

“My girl… stay with me.”

His voice came and went like the tide, something close, sometimes far, sometimes nothing more than a thread you clung to in the dark. There are moments when you hear nothing at all. Moments where the world slipped entirely from your grasp.

At some point in the night, the fever worsened.

You felt it before you could understand it. It was a sudden drop, a cold so deep it felt like drowning beneath the ice. The heat vanished and was replaced by something far more terrible. Stillness. Your body grows quiet. Too quiet.

The pain fades. The burning eased. The weight of your limbs disappeared, until you are no longer certain where you end and the darkness began.

It is …peaceful but wrong. You drift. Further and further. And then—nothing. No pain. No sound. No breath. The Stranger grasp held tightly to you.

Somewhere, far away, a voice breaks.

“No—no, do not do this. Not now. Not like this!”

Baelor. It reached you like a distant echo, faint and fraying. You would turn toward it, but you are not certain you could move.

“Maester!” he yelled, sharp with panic. “She’s cold! She was just burning and now—why is she—”

Voices answered him. Urgent. Uncertain. But you cannot hear them clearly. The Stranger blocks them. You are too far gone. The darkness is gentler here. It does not demand anything from you. It does not hurt.

It would be so easy to just let go. So easy to slip beneath it like floating beneath the surface of the water.

“My girl…”

Closer now. Rougher and breaking. “Don’t you dare leave me. I will fight the Stranger myself if I must.”

There is something in his voice, something raw and torn opened that cuts through the quiet of the darkness.

“I forbid it!” he spoke, though it sounded more like a plea than a command. “Do you hear me? You do not get to go where I cannot follow.”

A hand warm and trembling cups your face. You felt it, very faintly did you feel it.

“I have not finished this life with you yet,” Baelor whispered, his voice unsteadies, thick with emotion he no longer hides. “You promised me mornings. You promised me springs.”

A breath shudders out of him. “I am not ready to let you go.

Something pulled at you then. A Thread. It was fragile and familiar, like one you have felt for years. It was his voice, his touch, and just him. His love stronger than the Stranger’s hold onto you.

“Come back to me,” he murmured, softer now desperate in a quitter way. “Come back to me, my love. Please..”

The darkness shifted. It was not gone but it no longer felt absolute. You felt it again. The weight of your body. The ache in your chest. The shallow, fragile pull of breath.

Pain. Gods, the pain.

It rushed back all at one, sharp and overwhelming, tearing you from that still, quiet place. Your chest jerks then. A breath ragged, broken forces it way into your lungs.

“There!” Baelor’s voice cracked with something that sounds dangerously close to relief.

“She breathes! She breathes; do you see it?”

Hands move around you again, the maesters speaking in low, urgent tones. Something cool is pressed to your lips, A cloth against your skin. But you do not drift so far again. Not completely.

The rest of the night came in fragments. His voice. Always his voice keeping you here. It is low, steady, and tireless. You could tell he had been crying the way it laced in the way he spoke.

He spoke of small things and of nothing at all. Stories half told, thoughts left unfinished promises whispered into the dim light as though they might anchor you here like it did.

“I am here,” he said over and over. “I am here, my girl. I will not leave you. I am your husband first and you as my wife come before all of the realm.”

And he does not.

When dawn finally came, it does so quietly. No grand dawn. No sudden light. Just a slow, creeping gray that slipped through the windows and settled across the room.

The storm had passed for now.

Your eyes opened. It had taken some effort, more than it should have.

The world was hazy, softened at the edges, but it was there. Solid and real.

You felt weak. Like you were hollowed out, but alive.

Your gaze shifted slowly and it found him. Your husband. Baelor.

Curled at your side, half atop the bed, as though he simply gave in where he sat. His head rested near your shoulder, one arm still draped across you, his hand loosely held yours even in sleep. He looked different like this.

The strain of the night lingered in the tightness of his brow, the faint shadowed beneath his eyes. His grip though slackened was still there, tethering you to him.

Your chest tightened and you tried to speak. It barely worked. “…Baelor…” It is little more than a breath, but it was enough to stir him instantly.

His eyes opened wide and disoriented for half a heartbeat before they found you.

And then—“Y/n?”

Your name came out rough, disbelieving. He pushed himself upright too quickly, his hand tightening around yours, searching your face as though he was afraid you might vanish if he looked away.

“You’re awake,” he breathes. “Gods you’re awake.”

You managed the smallest nod. It felt like moving mountains.

His free hand came to your face, gentler now than anything you have ever known, brushing back the damp strands of your hair, as though he confirmed you were truly there.

“I had thought…” He stopped, swallowing hard. “There was a moment I thought I had lost you.”

But he didn’t. You were there because of him.

“Maesters!” he called suddenly, his voice ringing sharp through the chamber. “Come she wakes!”

There is a movement almost at once, robes, chains, and hurried steps.

They gather around you quickly, their hands careful but efficient, checking your heartbeat, your breathing, talking to one another in low, astonished tones.

“The fever has broken,” one said,

“By the grace of the Gods…”

“She may yet make a full recover.”

Baelor does not leave your side. Not for a second. His hand remained in yours, firm and warm, grounding you as the world slowly settled back into place.

“You hear that?” he said softly, placing a kiss to your knuckles. “You’ve best it. You beat the Stranger himself.”

His thumb brushed faintly where he kissed your knuckles. A habit now you think.

“You frightened me,” he added, quieter still. “Do not do so again.”

There is no reprimand in it. Only relief. Only something deep and unspoken lingered between you now, changed by the night you nearly did not survive.

His forehead rested gently against yours.

“Stay with me. Do not go where I cannot. Promise?” he whispered again.

He gestured wildly, knocking over a stack of return cards, and Robin groaned without looking up. You laughed. Loud and pretty. Eddie almost flinched at how the sound hit him.

It wasn’t like you were totally enamored with Steve. You weren’t leaning over the counter, you weren’t twirling your hair, and the second the bell rang when Eddie walked in you had immediately waved at him and the gremlins beside him.

You’d even raised your brows asking, "Want me to help you find something?"

The offer was right there on your lips before Dustin elbowed Eddie hard in the ribs and dragged him toward the horror aisle with Lucas tagging along.

Eddie hadn’t protested. He was trying to be hard to get. That meant not going to you, not claiming his usual spot against the counter beside you, not stealing a pen out of your pocket just to annoy you, not calling you sweetheart in front of everyone because he could. His body refused to move toward you, even though every instinct screamed that you were where he belonged.

From where he stood, half-hidden by the shelves, he watched Steve keep talking, watched you laugh again, head tipping back, your smile so easy it made his chest ache. Steve laughed too, bumping your shoulder with his.

He forced himself to look away, jaw clenched. Playing hard to get wasn’t supposed to feel like swallowing glass.

Dustin and Lucas were choosing between two nearly identical horror movies, whispering loudly to each other. They absolutely were not actually picking tapes. They were watching Eddie watching you. Waiting for this whole stupid plan to magically work.

He had survived bats from literal hell. He had survived the entire town hating him. But watching you laugh at someone else’s jokes while he pretended he didn’t care?

That might actually kill him. No, he couldn't wait anymore.

He hooked two fingers into Dustin’s jacket sleeve and yanked him out of the aisle hard enough that the kid stumbled into his side. Lucas looked up from the tapes, startled, but Eddie didn’t care. His eyes were still locked on the counter where you were, now leaning closer to Steve to see something he was pointing at in the register.

Jealousy crawled up Eddie’s spine.

“Hey, Henderson,” he muttered under his breath. “You sure Harrington isn’t in love with her or something? Would make sense why he gave me that torturous advice.”

Dustin scoffed immediately. “Are you kidding me? Steve? In love with her? Nope. Steve loves Nance. It’s sad actually. I’ve given up on him.”

Eddie blinked down at Dustin. “The. . . the reporter girl? The one with the eyes that could murder a man?”

“Yes,” Dustin answered flatly. “He’s been in a weird life-or-death pining spiral for like a year.”

Eddie opened his mouth, closed it, then frowned even deeper. “So he told me to act like I don’t care about the girl I like because he’s. . . emotionally stupid?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“You don’t see how that might be a problem?”

“Nope.”

Eddie stared at him, baffled.

“Listen, Steve doesn’t give sucky advice. Ever.”

Eddie snorted so sharply it sounded painful. “Henderson, the man gets rejected more often than the school janitor takes out the trash.”

“That’s because he keeps choosing girls he can’t have,” Dustin shot back. “Not because his strategies don’t work.”

Lucas chimed in reluctantly, eyes still on the tapes. “He’s not totally wrong. Steve actually knows what he’s doing with the whole. . . dating. . . thing.”

Eddie pointed toward you and Steve at the counter. “He knows what he’s doing? Look at him! He’s already in love with the way she organizes tapes!”

Dustin rolled his eyes. “Oh my god, man. That’s called friendship.”

“It’s called emotional intimacy and I don’t like it,” Eddie hissed.

“Dude,” Dustin said, grabbing him by both shoulders, eyes wide with older than his age confidence, “you play this right and she is going to be obsessed with you.”

Eddie swallowed hard. “She already was obsessed with me. Now she’s laughing at King Hair over there.”

“She laughed at you yesterday,” Dustin snapped. “In fact, she does that every day. Because she likes you.”

Eddie wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to. But the longer he watched you smile at Steve, the more something sharp twisted inside him.

Dustin tugged on his sleeve again, lowering his voice. “Look, man. If you want her to chase you, you have to stop orbiting her. Trust the process.”

Eddie breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. Trust the process. Trust the plan. Trust the child who didn’t understand taxes but apparently understood romance.

He watched as you tossed your head back laughing once more at something Steve said.

And then you looked over.

Your eyes found Eddie immediately. Your smile softened into something warmer. You lifted a hand and waved.

Eddie froze.

His heart was doing things medically inadvisable. He lifted his hand automatically to wave back before Dustin slapped it down.

“No!” Dustin whisper-yelled. “Hard. To. Get.”

Eddie grimaced, trying to school his expression into the neutral, vaguely mysterious cool-guy face Steve had demonstrated. It probably looked more like he was constipated.

You raised both eyebrows at his weird non-reaction, confusion slipping across your features for just a second before Robin pulled you away to help reshelve a pile of returns.

After a few minutes, Eddie saw you coming. You rounded the end of the aisle with that determined little stride you got when you were trying to figure someone out, and Eddie’s lungs stopped working. His eyes snapped to Dustin and Lucas in full panic.

They both gave him the most useless encouragement in the world—two enthusiastic thumbs up—and then immediately backed away.

You stopped right in front of him. “Hey. Is everything alright?”

Eddie straightened, trying to pull on the casual attitude he had practiced in the mirror. “Yes,” he said.

“You sure?” you asked, tilting your head. “Because you didn’t wave back just now.”

“Oh, yeah. . . I had a, uh. . . a fly on my hand.” He pointed vaguely at his wrist. “Henderson was just swatting it away.”

You blinked at him, totally not buying it. “Right. . . the fly.”

He nodded aggressively.

You let it go. “Well, did you get the movie you came in for?”

“The what?”

“The movie you came in for,” you repeated gently. “You know, the reason you’re here.”

“Oh,” he coughed, scratching the back of his neck. “That was just for Henderson and Sinclair. They were planning a horror movie night.”

You nodded slowly. Then silence settled between you.

The kind that made your stomach twist. Things had been weird between you lately. He’d been a little distant and it was not like he was fully pulling away, but just not orbiting you the way he used to. Conversations were shorter. His jokes didn’t land the same, mostly because he wasn’t really telling them.

You kicked the toe of your shoe softly against the carpet, trying to think of what to say next, but Eddie beat you to it.

“So you and Harrington have been spending a lot of time together.”

“Oh, Steve?” you asked, taken aback. “Yeah, you know we work together, silly.”

Eddie muttered something under his breath, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

You took him in and suddenly it clicked.

“Are you jealous?”

His head snapped toward you defensively, cheeks already blooming red. “Ugh, why would I be jealous? You can flirt with whoever you want. I don’t care.”

You stared at him. “Who said anything about flirting? You didn’t think that was flirting, did you?”

Eddie scoffed, scoffed again, then nodded with false confidence. “Of course I know what flirting is.”

“Are you sure?” you asked.

He blinked, narrowing his eyes in offense. “Yes, I’m sure.”

You leaned in slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch. “Then why don’t you show me?”

Eddie froze.

“Huh?” he managed, voice cracking.

You met his eyes confidently because you were done with him pretending he didn’t want you. “If you know what flirting is,” you said softly, “show me.”

Eddie stood there, mouth opening and closing with absolutely no data processing happening behind his eyes. If an error message could appear on a human face, it would’ve been on his.

You waited, arms loosely crossed.

He cleared his throat, trying to remember every suave line he’d ever used in his life. Normally he could flirt with you without thinking. But now that you were asking for it? His brain emptied like someone had flipped a switch.

“So,” he started, leaning one elbow on a display shelf in what he hoped looked smooth. The shelf wobbled dangerously. “Uh. . . you come here often?”

You stared. “I work here.”

Eddie swallowed. “Right. So. That’s. . . that’s a yes.”

He tried again, standing up straighter, trying to channel his usual cocky grin. “You’re, uh. . . pretty. I mean, not pretty. I mean. . . you are pretty. Obviously. You’re so pretty it’s like. . .”

His hands waved helplessly in the air as if the right word might land on them.

“You know, sweetheart,” His voice cracked halfway through the word. “I’m. . . available. Like very available. Like, aggressively available.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. Not because you wanted to make fun of him but because this was the worst flirting Eddie Munson had ever done. It was almost endearing how hard he was trying to act like he didn’t care while caring more than anyone ever had.

“Okay, I can’t do this anymore,” he confessed, eyes finally lifting to meet yours. “I. . . look, Dustin said I should play hard to get. And Steve backed him up. And they both looked very sure of themselves, which is stupid now that I say it out loud.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Play hard to get? With me?”

“Yes! Which is insane, because I am very easy to get with you. If you asked me to jump, I’d already be in the air.”

He took a shaky breath, words tumbling out before he could stop them.

“Anyways, they said it because apparently girls don’t like guys who are obsessed with them too fast. And I was trying but it’s like trying to pretend I don’t need oxygen around you. I thought if I didn’t talk to you as much, if I acted like I didn’t care, you’d chase me. Instead I just got to watch you laugh with somebody else and it felt like my ribs were being pried open.”

Your heart cracked right open.

He kept going. “I wasn’t flirting just now because I didn’t want to flirt. I couldn’t because I’m so crazy about you it breaks my brain. I don’t know how to flirt with you when you’re staring at me like that. I don’t know how to pretend with you. Not about anything.”

You stepped closer giving him every chance to retreat. He didn’t. If anything, he leaned in.

“So you weren’t jealous because you thought Steve and I were flirting?” you asked softly.

“Yes, obviously I was jealous!” he hissed like he couldn’t believe you even needed the clarification. “I’m jealous of the air you breathe. It’s disgusting.”

You smiled, warmth blooming deep in your chest. “You didn’t need to play hard to get.”

He nodded miserably. “I know.”

“You didn’t need to pretend you didn’t want me.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve just told me.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “I was scared.”

You reached forward slowly and took his hand, threading your fingers together like you’d done it your whole life. Eddie sucked in a breath like you were electricity.

“Why would you listen to them?” you whispered.

He swallowed hard. His voice was small when he answered.

“Because I like you too much. And I didn’t want to mess it up by. . . liking you too much.”

You squeezed his hand. “You didn’t mess anything up.”

Eddie’s face split into the kind of smile that could’ve powered the town if someone hooked him up to a generator.

“So. . . ” he said, “does that mean I can stop playing hard to get?”

“You never played it well to begin with.”

“Thank god,” he exhaled. “It was killing me.”

You tugged him closer by his hand.

“Now,” you teased, “you wanna try that flirting thing again?”

Eddie leaned in confident, the way he always was with you.

“Oh sweetheart,” he murmured, “now that I don’t have to hide anything? I’ll show you flirting.”

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t hard to get. It was everything he’d been dying to give you all along.

When Robin joined the group, she tried to warm you up more to it. Despite warnings from the group, whispers of she doesn’t like that, she’d continued to offer you her friendly physical affections as long as you reassured her it was fine. It worked, to an extent. You would now at least return the hugs received (even if it took you a few moments to do so), and you wouldn’t hold your breath at a friend’s head on your shoulder or lap. It was all baby steps — timid movements in the right direction, an accomplishment of letting your softness flow through your fingertips as you tried to adjust. 

Argyle also tried to wear you down. A casual arm around your shoulder in greeting, frequently sitting close enough to you on movie nights that your side would press into his as you both enjoyed the pizza he’d brought. You still froze, still struggled to thaw, but you never shooed him away. You’d only exchange a secret smile with him, a private acknowledgement between you two that you knew what he was trying to do, and it was okay. Maybe it would work. Robin had, after all, made some baby steps. Maybe Argyle could help you take fuller strides. Maybe, just maybe, this could propel you. 

The night you drunkenly braided Argyle’s hair had been a memorable success, but it never progressed past that. The roots remained, the timid natured reigned, and so your friend group simply celebrated what little victories they’d earned and moved on.

They’d accepted you may never be a touchy person. And that was fine — all that you lacked in physical touch, you more than made up for in every other avenue in expression of your fondness. 

Until Eddie.

The moment he’d joined your circle, Argyle and Robin were already exchanging knowing looks. Eddie was touchy; the boy was practically starved for it. Overexcited hugs as greetings and the way his hand would reach for the nearest shoulder when he was overcome with joy for the small things. He couldn’t sit alone during movie nights, he’d often lounge with his legs stretched out over the nearest laps, he’d jokingly cuddle into people without a second thought.

And even more than that, his touch was wild and burning. Embers never to be contained. He was overwhelming, they all knew this and so did he, and they feared that if he attempted to embark on the same journey that they had that he may scare you away. That all the baby steps in the right direction would become leaps backward, sending you right back to where you started. 

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

You’d first noticed that Eddie treated you differently, more restrained, during a movie night. Argyle on one side, a small empty space on the other. You’d witness everyone endure Eddie’s cinematic cuddles on multiple occasions, and amongst your roots had bloomed buds of wistfulness. A strange yearning every time he’d tuck his face into the neck of whichever friend was nearest, jokingly squealing how he needed them to protect him. They saw him as a pest (a lovable one, but still) — and you’d never wanted to be pestered more in your life. 

That small space beside you was the last open seat. You thought surely, he’ll sit here. You were optimistic at the likelihood of Eddie sharing your space, of feeling his curls tickle your cheek and neck, at his breath on your shoulder. For the first time in your life, you were painfully giddy at the prospect of someone touching you. When he entered the room with Jonathan, carrying bowls of popcorn and loudly telling everyone to turn on the horror movie chosen for the night, your entire body had buzzed. You would have leapt off that couch and crawled inside his chest right then and there if it wouldn’t have been so startling to not only him, but your entire circle.

He took one look at the empty seat, a pitiful excuse for space, and had paled.

Please sit next to me. Please, please, ple-

“Spread your legs, Harrington,” Eddie had suddenly bursted out, throwing himself on the floor in front of Steve at the opposite end of the couch, “I’m using your knees as collateral from Krueger.” 

He chose the floor over sitting at your side. And it ached. 

You were unaware of the spiel that Robin and Argyle gave him, the staunch warnings from Nancy, the (sort of) joking threats from Steve and Jonathan. Eddie Munson had been warned off from touching you, was obeying those warnings, and it just left you miserable. 

You didn’t get it. You didn’t understand — his choices nor your feelings. 

But that night, the burn of Argyle’s arm brushing your shoulder from where it laid along the back of the couch became overwhelming. Until you’d scooted yourself into that space you’d carved out for Eddie, and pouted, like a goddamn child.

Argyle assumed it was just a bad day for touch.

No one realized the yearning blooming within you. You’d never wanted to take a baseball bat to Steve Harrington’s shins more than when you watched Eddie Munson wrap his fingers around them and bury his cheek against them. 

The second time, it stung even more.

Months passed and the yearning never faded. You told yourself, over and over, this will pass. This is temporary, and it will pass. 

But it didn’t. The more time you spent with Eddie amongst your friend group, the more you craved the same casual touch from him that he extended to everyone else. He wouldn’t even brush past you in enclosed spaces — he treated you like a traumatized dog, bound to snap and bite him if he made the wrong move.

You fucking hated it. You hated that you hated it.

You’d gone years without needing touch, so you cursed that unexpected sting in your chest that night at the bowling alley. When Eddie rolled his first strike (and reported it was his first ever), he’d hugged everyone.

Everyone but you.

When it came to what should have been your turn for a bear hug, your mind was buzzing with adrenaline. This was it. You pictured him wrapping his tattooed arms around your chest, lifting you at least a little bit, swinging you a little due to the force of his affection. You were convinced his high off of the strike was going to make him forget his mission to never touch you. Maybe he’d be embarrassed after. Maybe you could finally offer a small smile that said it’s okay, I’m okay with it.

He only stopped dead in his tracks, arms freezing for a second before they dropped, his lips pressing tightly together before he let them spread back into a smile, and only lifted his brows at you excitedly. 

That’s it. That’s all.

Fuck. 

“That was pretty metal, Eddie,” you tried to egg him on, bouncing on the soles of your shoes a little, practically begging him with your eyes to just hug you. 

He’d been bashful, grinning and hiding his face behind a random curl, nodding, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was.” 

If you’d known of the talks behind your back then that had ruined that moment, you would have wrecked absolute havoc on your friends. The need, the yearning, the want became impossible to handle. You used his strike as an excuse for him to cover your turn, saying he was on a roll right after exclaiming that if you didn’t go to the bathroom right that second, you’d piss yourself.

When you were alone in the stall, you’d silently screamed and tugged at the roots of your hair. 

You wanted him to touch you. You wanted him to catch you off guard in larger than life hugs. You wanted to feel every emotion that thrummed beneath his skin and you wanted to breathe in his cologne, to finally know how sturdy his chest felt beneath his shirt and if his rings really were as cold as Nancy always complained. 

You’d finally returned to the group, not able to have a full breakdown in the bathroom without worrying your friends with your absence. Subtly, you’d tried to tuck yourself into Robin’s side when you returned, sitting down a bit closer than you normally would have, just to fill the void. It was almost as if you were encouraging her to reach an arm around you, to let you curl up and press a cheek to her collarbone. Try to alleviate the need for human touch clawing its way through you.

“You okay, babe?” she questioned suspiciously when she felt you squished entirely up against her. There was plenty of space on the bench, there was no reason for your proximity.

No, you wanted to scream, I’m not okay. There is an itch beneath my skin right now that can only be scratched by the affectionate touches of the metalhead sitting across from us who’s joking with our friends, completely unaffected and unaware. He won’t even look me in the eye. And so now I’m trying to get you to just touch me, to just put a goddamn arm around me, to do anything to fill the gaping hole inside of me. But you can’t. 

It was an unfair situation to every single party and bystander involved.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied. 

You can’t, because the only person who can fill this gaping void inside of me is Eddie.

You were the farthest from fine. You were in flames. And no one would understand it, least of all you, because this wasn’t like you.

You didn’t crave touch. You didn’t need it to survive. So, what the hell was this that you were feeling? 

The craving for Eddie’s touch evolved into something more, and that’s when you knew that you were surely in trouble. 

Audible denial only worked for so long. Festering, longing, and yearning could only be withheld for so long until suddenly, with your mind on fire and your bones aching to the core, you realized that it was more than wanting Eddie to reach out for you. The want became a two way street. More often than not, you find your hands to be fists at your side, shaking with the effort to not bridge the gap. 

After a year of friendship, he had had no choice but to occasionally brush past you. Touches that must have been fleeting to him, but lingered for you. They’d settle into your skin, tender like a fresh bruise, ghosting over you at night when you couldn’t sleep. It was more than just touch, at this point. You wanted everything from Eddie. The denial of his touch had led to you missing out on more than just hugs and movie night cuddles — Eddie didn’t joke with you as much as he did the others, didn’t always turn to you in crowded rooms for comfort, wouldn’t call you up if he was up late and bored like he would Nancy, Steve, Robin, Argyle, fucking everyone in Hawkins except you. The distance was unbearable.

Because you did. You did look for him at every quaint hang out. You did seek him out in every room you entered and you did resist the urge to call him when sleep evaded you. You could imagine his voice over the line, a lullaby over the receiver as he’d ramble about his day. It was like a poison, infecting those roots you’d long since made friends with rather than try to dig up. 

You were fucked. Plain and simple. You had a big, fat crush on Eddie, and for once in your life, you’d learned of the panging hunger to be touched. 

“Does Eddie have a girlfriend?” you asked as you sat with Robin at a diner, having completely zoned out with the conversation between her and Steve, lost in your daydreams, “Or boyfriend? Just- Is he single?” 

Both of your friends went dead silent, staring at you in awe.

Robin cleared her throat, but remained choked up until Steve spoke, “Uh, yeah. He’s single. Why?” 

The way your eyes darted down to the table of the booth you three occupy gave it away.

Robin suddenly squealed, “Oh my gosh! You have a crush on him!” 

“Do not!”

“Oh, you so do!” she grinned wildly, leaning in close, “Tell us everything — now.” 

“Eddie?” Steve’s nose scrunched up, “Really?” 

“I don’t have a crush on him!” you uselessly defended yourself, “I just- Look, no, I know that look. You can’t tell him or meddle, Robin.” 

“How would I tell him or meddle if you don’t have a crush on him?” 

Steve was still confused, and Robin’s eyes glittered with mischief. You would have been better off keeping your mouth shut. 

You noticed the way Steve had gone silent, pointedly sipping on his coke rather than looking you in the eyes. As if he had something to say.

“What is it?” you asked him, furrowing your brows, already defensive. A stark contrast to the light-heartedness you usually treat your friends with, “You’ve got something to say. Say it.” 

“I just…” Steve sighed, looking off into the distance, “I don’t know. It’s a weird pairing, y’know?”

Your stomach threatened to sink. “What does that mean?”

“You two are just… different,” he continued on, and your stomach really did sink. Right along with your heart, “I mean, he’s really big on physical touch — it’s definitely his love language. And you…”

You don’t like being touched. You actually hate it. Avoid it ardently.

The unspoken ending to that sentence could have shattered your bones that day. You knew. You knew.

You stayed silent, unsure of what else to say. You couldn’t find the words to explain the yearning that invaded your chest all those moons ago, you couldn’t physically bring their hands to your chest and force them to feel the hunger that had begun to eat you alive. You couldn’t scream at your friends, I can change! I can change! I can change!

“I think they’d make a cute couple,” Robin finally broke the tense silence. Steve looked a bit regretful, but you both knew he was right, “Besides, touching is overrated.” 

To emphasize her point, she scooted away from Steve until she sat on the very edge of the vinyl seat they shared, a narrow air of separation between them. 

You smiled and laughed, and so did Steve, but the fact of the matter still remained.

Your roots have been there since the beginning of time. And maybe, they ran so deeply that you were a fool for thinking you could ever excavate them. 

“I need your help.” 

Robin looks up at you shocked. You’d never looked quite so determined, so one-track minded as you did in this moment, right in Steve Harrington’s kitchen. 

“You need my help?” she nearly yells, fumbling with the empty bowl she was about to fill with chips, “Are you sure you need my-“

“Positive,” you cut her off, “I need your help because you didn’t laugh in my face when I said I liked Eddie.” 

Her shock fades, an awful trace of pity in her eyes as she looks at you, “Oh, hon — Steve wasn’t laughing at you. He’s just a dingus, y’know? Doesn’t always think before he speaks, but he has the best of intentions-“

You wave a hand, physically dispersing her words into the air. That conversation at the diner last week didn’t phase you anymore. In fact, it fuels you the more you think about it.

“I know, I know,” you reassure her, walking closer so you can lower your voice, “But he was right. And I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”

“That sounds dangerous. Whatcha’ been thinkin’ about?” 

This is it. Now or never. Once you say it outloud, even to just Robin, it was cemented in fact.

“It’s not that I don’t like being touched,” you blurt out, heart racing at the admission, “I just… I don’t know. I’m not used to it. It wasn’t something normal growing up. And… okay, no, this is not meant to be a depressing deep dive into my childhood,” you pause and scowl at the way her face contorts with even more pity, “I’m fine. There’s nothing to be done to change what’s already passed. My point is, I don’t want to stay this way. I don’t want people treating me delicately. I’m tired of you guys not feeling like you can just- fuck, I don’t know, hug me. Like you can throw an arm around me while we joke around like you do Jonathan. Like you can’t take the seat beside me at the booth instead of Steve. Like you can’t be clingy and beg me to play with your hair like you do Argyle when everyone’s smoking.”

Throughout your speech, the pity transforms. With each word, you only grow more passionate, because it dawns on you just how much you miss out on. Your friends love you, you love them — that’s not up for debate. But sometimes, you see those small touches between them, and you feel like an outsider looking in. 

“I know I freeze up and I know I get awkward,” your voice finally chokes up, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to silently curse yourself for finally letting all these larger than life emotions wrap around you, “I know you guys think I’m better off if you leave it be. But I’m not. I’ll never get over it if you guys don’t push me. I’ll never get used to it if no one ever touches me.” 

“We know!” Robin starts enthusiastically, reassuredly, “We know that! And me and Gyle really do try, but we just don’t want to make you uncomfortable-“

“Do it,” you stop her in her tracks, eyes not wavering from hers, “Make me uncomfortable. Put your head on my shoulder, even if it makes my breathing stop for a couple seconds. Grab my hand when we cross a street, even if my palm’s clammy. I can’t grow without a little discomfort, Robs.”

There’s a standstill in the air. A realization settles deep in your bones — growth. That’s what you were craving. Eddie had opened up something entirely new for you, cracked open an age old wound in your chest you’d been unaware of. It left behind a hole, and you’d been so preoccupied with yearning to fill it, you hadn’t seen that the solution was the most obvious one: you had to outgrow the hole. Not fill it with others, but with yourself. You couldn’t live forever as nothing more than roots, buried deep beneath soil and always hiding in their solitude. Eventually, you had to bloom. 

“Okay,” Robin nods slowly, taking in your words and the deep breaths that are following. It’s obvious how much this means to you, how much it’s been bothering you, “You’re right. But… you’ve just gotta promise us, if we get overbearing, that you tell us-“

“Not just you and Argyle,” your mouth goes dry. Because this is where the road was leading the entire time, this was the end destination in mind for the entire drive of this conversation, “I want… everyone to do it. I know Nance, Jon, and Steve aren’t as big on the whole touchy thing as you and him but…” your voice finally breaks, and you can’t look her in the eyes now as you whisper, “Eddie is.” 

There’s a light behind Robin’s eyes that you’ve never seen before, but you can’t even bear witness to it, eyes zeroed in on the shiny packaging of the chips on the counter, “So this really is about Eddie?” 

You could keep denying it. Pretend like the boy hadn’t watered the first sprout that caused this entire revelation, like he hadn’t been the first to shine a light on all the things you’d ignored for years. But he was. He had built a fire inside of you without even realizing it, just by tending his own embers. 

You take a deep breath, “It’s like it burns him to touch me. Even just shuffling past me. I don’t think he’s ever sat beside me when we all hang out. I don’t… I don’t even know what he really smells like, Rob. Besides the weed and cigarettes when he smokes with you guys. How fucked is that? I’ve known him for a year and I couldn’t even tell you what kind of cologne he wears. Isn’t that… that’s weird, right?” 

“You know the things that matter, though, don’t you?” 

It hadn’t occurred to you, that perspective on the matter. “I… guess?”

“Tell me about him. Tell me about Eddie.” 

The others will be worrying about how long you two are taking in here soon. Eddie will probably be arriving with Argyle soon. But Robin waits patiently until your eyes finally find hers again, and she lifts her brows, encouraging you to tell her about your mutual friend as if she’s never met him. 

And so you do.

Once you start rattling off the minute things you noticed, they pour out of you, watering away at that once withered crush. You tell her about his favorite music, an easy thing to know about Eddie when he’s so loud and passionate about it. You tell her the first song he ever learned on guitar, Little Things by Willie Nelson. It had been encouraged by how much his Uncle Wayne enjoyed the singer. And he’d learned it on a worn acoustic guitar from his uncle. He’d never even performed it in front of the man, always either too choked up or too embarrassed for an audience. You tell her how his favorite subject in school was history, because it always gave him ideas for his DnD campaigns. His favorite color is red, deep and pulsing and eye-catching. The same shade of his electric guitar, lovingly nicknamed Sweetheart, but actually named Elvira. He’s a picky eater, probably the pickiest of your group, and yet also will eat just about anything the moment you propose it as a dare. He knows what he should do to take care of his curls, he just doesn’t, probably due to preferring to take his showers at night. He’s complained of falling asleep with wet hair more times than you can count. He had a lisp as a little kid. He buys a new mug for Wayne every Christmas, and the man acts surprised every year, as if he never saw it coming. He likes sour candy best. He hates movies where the dog dies. He loves musicals, and he would sooner die than admit that to the rest of the group. 

All devilish details that Eddie had revealed to you at some point or another, over drinks and over quick cigarettes. Over random bursts of trust and rare moments alone.

By the time you’re done with your rant, Robin is just smiling.

“God, you really like him,” she murmurs, looking across your forlorn face, as if each piece of him that you’d handed over willingly had actually been forcibly torn from you. As if it hurt to share him. 

You take another deep breath, and you can breathe a little bit easier, but you still feel the wisps of your roots still dug stubbornly into surrounding ground, “Yeah. I really like him.” 

A plan is devised. It turns out Robin was the perfect person to approach about this, because she has no shame — she’s willing to seem like a ‘bad friend’ for the sake of helping you reach your goal.

The first step is to guarantee that no matter what, Eddie sits next to you during the movie. 

The best way to accomplish this is to not make it a seat only beside you as you had that first time he’d rejected you, but between you and another person. Because then, if Eddie was still adamant on not indulging you, he’d have someone else to cling to. For now.

The second step would be for you to leave for the bathroom right before you all started the movie. Leave the room, leave all your friends to be gathered without you so that Robin could make an executive call with them all. She would bring up the fact that they all should try to push you a bit more with the entire notion of physical touch, that it’d be good for you, that you’d brought it up casually rather than as dramatically as you really had. 

During her explaining of this part of the plan, you discovered the conversations already had behind closed doors about this topic and you. 

You couldn’t even blame your friends. You were irritated, but it would pass. They couldn’t change it now, but Robin could help undo what those seemingly beneficial conversations had done. The distance it had created between you and Eddie.

“Who should be on the other side of Eddie?” you ask once you two have your plan and full bowls of snacks. 

“Me,” Robin declares, “I have a plan there, too. We’ll sit side by side at first, take up enough space on the couch so that Eddie thinks he doesn’t have a seat. Just trust me and play along when the time comes, yeah?” 

You nod.

There’s a knock at the door, perfect timing as you and Robin sat down the bowls of snacks on the table, ignoring Steve’s expected complaint of how long you two took. He runs off, going to let Eddie and Argyle in, as Robin takes her seat on the couch. 

Nancy and Jonathan are curled up on the loveseat. Steve had been sitting at the end of the couch that normally could easily seat four. Argyle’s favorite recliner was wide open, and you both knew he’d be jumping into it once he came to the basement. Everything was set perfectly.

Robin manspreads, an entertaining sight but one that forces you to try and do the same, lounging across the remaining space of the couch as casually as possible to make it seem as though another person could absolutely not fit.

You pray to God her plan works.

“Hello, brochachos!” Argyle yells as a greeting when he bounds down the stairs, immediately tossing a box of snow caps in Nancy and Jonathan’s directions before doing exactly as you and Robin had predicted, “Oh, fuck yeah! You guys saved my favorite chair for me!”

He specifically winks your way, as if you had been the one to do so. And you had, technically, but you appreciated that small effort to greet you specifically. 

You smile at him, shaking your head lightly as he throws himself down roughly. You can only imagine how on board he’ll be with Robin’s suggestion.

Argyle’s energy had you wondering if the boys had even smoked as they usually did before arriving, his eyes hardly pink rimmed and his smile not quite as dopey as usual. It became clear that they had smoked, but one of them had likely babysat their shared joints, when Eddie descends into the doorway behind Steve.

He’s all half-lidded eyes, lazy grin, comfort wrapped up in a worn band shirt and sweats. 

Yes, you wanted to break this stubborn boundary of yours with all your friends, but as you earned your first glance from Eddie, you knew that he would be the greatest reward. You don’t even care if the crush aspect of the entire ordeal never comes to fruition; you’d just like to imagine burying your face into his warm chest like you are now, and not feel weird about it. Not worry if he’ll push you away or be uncomfortable, or taken off guard, by it.

“Hey, losers,” he greets in a rough voice, no doubt gravelly from how much he might have smoked. 

You share a quick look with Robin, worried. High Eddie was always extra affectionate, but wouldn’t it be wrong to use that against him? Maybe you two should try another night, postpone the plan for another movie nigh-

You hadn’t even noticed that Steve had taken his original seat back and Eddie was glancing around the seating arrangement, seemingly lost, until Robin was suddenly shoving at you, “Babe, I love you, but scooch. C’mere, Eds. I’m in a cuddly mood.” 

And oh, that hurt. Which is why you suppose she didn’t tell you what exactly this part of the plan was. That hurt needed to break through your face, even if only for a moment, so that when you left the room, it made sense to discuss. 

Argyle catches that micro-expression the moment it graces your features. Even furrows his brows in response. Eddie even opens his mouth to argue, but you move too quickly for anyone else to comment.

You fumble with pulling up your body, scooting over as she requested until there was an Eddie-sized space left between the two of you. When Robin opens her arms wide, Eddie has no room to argue. 

“Well, if you insist, Buckley,” he teases, stepping carefully, hesitating for a second as he glances back down at you. Even through pink tinged eyes, you catch a flash of concern. “I’m always down for some cuddles with my favorite girl.”

And that also stings, reverberates like a slap to the face that had landed just a little too harshly. 

Robin scoffs, muttering a stern correction of, “Platonic cuddles, dipshit,” just as Nancy also laughs from where she’s tangled with Jonathan.

“Didn’t you say I was your favorite when I bought you a coke last week?” 

He probably did. He constantly made those jokes with Robin and Nancy. He never made those jokes with you. 

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t about respecting boundaries for Eddie. Maybe he just didn’t like you-

“You both wound me,” he sighs out as his body lands directly in that space you and Robin had organized, clearly favoring being close to Robin so that his thigh wouldn’t rub against yours, “I’ve officially changed my mind.” 

It almost happens in slow motion. Slowly, carefully, he lazily turns his head towards you, lips half lilted as his eyes sparkle in your direction, tongue darting out between his teeth before he drawls, “You’re my favorite, now.” 

For the first time in a year, you’re very clearly smelling his cologne, and the look in his eyes is setting you ablaze. The softness you are so used to bargaining out is being returned, an expression so delicate being aimed at you that you don’t know what to do with it. Senses overwhelmed with something woodsy, something musky, and something yearning. 

“How charming,” Nancy muses, leveling you with a soft and amused look. Not nearly as gooey as the look Eddie had given you, but still adoring, “Don’t listen to him. Clearly, he says that to everyone.”

“Yeah, but I mean it this time,” he argues. 

“Sure, you do,” Steve laughs from his end of the couch, “She’s not gonna go grab you a soda just because you’re kissing ass.” 

“Hey, you know what?” Argyle sits up in his chair, leaning towards you and pointing his finger in your direction, “You really are my favorite, and I’m a man of my word.” 

“I’m not getting you a soda, either, Gyle,” you flatly joke, narrowing your eyes.

He pours briefly, but shrugs, “Fair enough. I meant it, but fair enough.” 

On a limb, you stretch out a hand, and deliver a gentle smack at his hand still hanging limply in the air between you two. Robin is watching on proudly as Argyle looks taken back.

“Shut up,” you giggle, shimmying in your seat to get more comfortable. 

Eddie looks wildly around the room, completely stunned, wearing a look of betrayal, “What, you guys don’t believe me? She really is my favorite!” 

Lord only knows you were melting into the cushion of that couch. You weren’t used to this amount of attention, certainly not from Eddie, and certainly not so clearly in front of your friends.

If you could hardly handle his words of affection, how would you handle his touches of affection? 

“I believe you,” you finally say. Something in your mind screams at you, tells you now is your chance. All you’d have to do is shift your knee, and you could bump it to his in a joking manner. The perfect excuse. The perfect guise. You stare at your two knees for an eternity, though, and before you know it, the moment has passed. 

The ache echoes out across the hollow of every bone inside your body as he smiles, satisfied with your response before everyone moves forward with conversation.

You hate yourself. You should have bumped your knee to his. 

You don’t hear a single word exchanged amongst your friends. All you can hear is the roar in your ears that scorns you for another missed opportunity. 

Now is as good as ever to enact the second phase of the plan. 

“I’m gonna head to the bathroom before we start the movie,” you announce, standing a bit suddenly but trying to keep your voice even so it doesn’t seem to Eddie that his words had made you uncomfortable. They didn’t. They’d only fed that hunger, making you suddenly need more. It was your own stupid indecisiveness, what you didn’t do, that was upsetting you. 

Robin looks up knowingly, “Sounds good. Don’t miss me too much, babe.” 

Babe. Another thing your friends sometimes didn’t include you in — all the pet names, all the terms of endearment. It makes you smile. 

If anyone thought you might be rushing out due to the entire conversation that had just taken place, that smile would erase all their fears.

“I always miss you, baby,” you cockily reply, making a joking kissy face in her direction to seal the flirtatious manner of the interaction. 

Steve looks pleasantly surprised, Argyle is clearly mentally cheering you on, and Nancy looks plainly proud. 

But Eddie is looking up at you, doe eyes almost… sad. 

You try not to think of it too hard. 

You try to take your time once you reach the top of the stairs, rushing up but slowing as you walk to the bathroom.

You didn’t really need it, obviously, and you highly doubt anyone will be listening in on your footsteps above once Robin proposes the entire debate of it treating you so fragile anymore. In the middle of the hallway, your mind is made up. Instead of continuing on to that bathroom, instead of hiding away and feeding into the panic attack currently brewing despite your full faith in Robin, you retract to the kitchen.

This is what you wanted. You want more than to just offer soft words and soft motivation, you want more than to be seen as the friend with a heart of gold, as the pedestal Argyle constantly puts you up on so eloquently. You want to be felt as it, too. 

To give Nancy well-deserved hugs when another one of her publications receive recognition, to give Steve’s hand a firm squeeze when he’s confiding in you about his home situation and the loneliness that follows. You want Robin to hide her face in your shoulder for safety during jumpscares and you want to occupy that recliner with Argyle when you both decide to succumb to snacking while your friends endlessly debate where you should all have dinner, making whispers of commentary jokes before Jonathan would decide to sit on the arm and join you two in the audience as he gave up the battle for Nancy’s sake.

You want Eddie to touch you. You don’t even care how at this point. You want brushing shoulders and knocking knees, you want knuckles bumping into each other on the street and you want him to cling to you when it gets late and he’s tired, but not too tired to keep himself surrounded with his favorite people. You want to truly be his favorite. Favorite person, favorite hug, favorite conversation. 

God, you want it so bad that your seams nearly burst. Your composure nearly breaks. 

What if he doesn’t want that? 

The moment your footsteps on the stairs have vanished, Robin springs into action.

“Okay, group meeting,” she says, clapping to garner everyone’s attention. Eddie jumps slightly at her side, Steve offers her a side-eye, and Nancy shifts her entire body in Jonathan’s arms to look at her fully, “We need to talk about her.” 

She doesn’t even have to say your name.

Unfortunately, Argyle takes it the wrong way, nearly leaping out of his chair, “Her? Nah, dude, we need to talk about you. Why would you shove her around like that? I bet if you had just asked politely, she would have cuddled yo-“ 

“Oh, I know she would have.” 

Everyone’s attention is now sharper on Robin.

“Yeah? Then why did you just toss her to the side for Ed-“ Argyle starts up again, and once more, Robin is quick to interject.

“Because she needs the push,” a slight lie, but small enough in the grand scheme of things, “We’ve gotta stop treating her like she’ll shatter if we touch her.”

Nancy finally moves to full sit up, face full of concern, “Robin, I get what you’re saying, but she’s never been the touchy type. And that’s okay. We’ve never minded.”

“What if she minds?” Robin persists. She hasn’t failed to notice Eddie’s silence, and turns to him, focusing her attack and determination, “Have you ever even sat beside her before tonight?” 

Eddie’s eyes widen, “You guys told me to take it easy at first! And I did, but I- it would just be weird now to change, wouldn’t it?” 

It’s in the way he says it. Not just as if he’s keeping your best interests in mind, but as if it pains him to say it. As if the worst possible thing would be to admit that things should stay the same.

It’s Robin’s in. A falter in his cool guy exterior he only seems to care about maintaining for you.

“She wants it to change,” Robin quietly confesses. Another half-truth, “Me and Argyle never fully got through to it, but we also… we just gave up on it. Like he was saying, if I pushed tonight, she would have said yes. But Eddie has never pushed her.”

“Where are you going with this, Robs?” the one person who could blow this speaks up. Steve, the man who had been there at the diner and heard your practical confession to liking Eddie.

Don’t blow this, Dingus.

“I think we take the leash off of wolf boy, here,” she jabs a thumb in Eddie’s direction, “Lay him on her.”

“I don’t want to make her uncomf-“

“You won’t. And if you do,” Robin remembers your speech from earlier. Those wet eyes and the way your voice cracked at the prospect of growth, “It’ll be good for her.”

He’s not convinced.

So Robin pushes, because she made a promise to you to aid in this self-gardening journey, and damn it she was going to keep her promise, “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. You being the dog in this metaphor might be the wrong choice, considering how she looks like a kicked puppy every time you don’t sit next to her.” 

A bit harsh, but the truth. You were always brimming with such hope when Eddie entered the room, only to wilt when he kept up the same exhausting routine of avoiding you. 

“She does?” he’s clueless, a goddamn blinded fool, “I- Gyle, does she really?” 

Eddie looks to his friend for backup, but Argyle only shrugs from his seat, “If you don’t give the poor dudette a hug tonight, I am. If Birdie here is being honest, and she wants it, then I’m first in line. She’s way gentler on my scalp than all of you.” 

“You just want your hair braided by her again,” Jonathan pipes up finally.

“So?” Argyle defends, “That shit stayed. My little skittish friend does not come to play when it has to do with hair.” 

They all fall silent, holding their breaths and listening for a moment if you’re heading back down to them. 

The house is a ghost town from above.

“I’m just saying,” Robin finally whispers, keeping her tone low and gentle, almost defeated, “We can’t put her in a box. She told me she’d like the change, so I’m changing. She’s a big girl. She can handle it. Besides, she smells really good.” 

Robin gives Eddie a pointed look at that, and sees the pink that rushes over the bridge of his nose and up his neck.

You had no idea. No fucking idea. But she did. She’d watched Eddie withhold himself, she’d caught the longing glances, and she’d listened to his endless rambles about you. 

“Okay,” is his quiet reply just before your footsteps sound on the stairs. 

When you appear in the doorway, you’re holding three cans of coke.

“I bring gifts for taking so long,” you offer, holding up one of the cans as you cradle the other two in the ditch of your arm, extending it to Argyle as you pass by him.

He takes it greedily, appreciation loud and unfiltered, “Thank you dudette! At least someone here loves me.” 

You turn your eyes wide as moons, almost comical, fighting back a smile, “Oh? Were they being jerks while I was gone?” 

“You have no clue.”

A warning glare comes from Robin.

Even if you were in on the plan, it was dangerous territory. 

When you approach the couch, Robin sees the first sign of the plan working when Eddie doesn’t shift out of the comfortable position he’d sunk into. He isn’t jumping to leave an entire cavern for you. He’s leaving just enough space for you, enough that when you sit, you’re closer to him than you were before the bathroom.

Baby steps. Silently, she is screaming at him to keep it up, all while your brain bursts into flames.

He didn’t flinch away. He didn’t shift to be further from me.

Whatever Robin had said was working.

“Movie time?” you ask as you settle into that comfortable space, the unfamiliar yet indulgent warmth of Eddie’s body heat now wrapping around you. 

Your roots stretch, apprehensive, but desperate for that sunlight. 

It’s one of your group’s usual scary movies. You enjoyed horror, and could handle your own pretty well. If you ever got too scared, you’d usually cling to pillows or blankets that you were left with rather than another person as the rest of the group would. But there were no pillows, no blankets, no security cushions aside from the boy sitting between you and Robin. 

When you hand him his coke, his fingers brush yours, and you don’t pull back immediately. Baby steps.

When the first tense moment appears on screen, Eddie mutters a soft “shit” and jumps a little, leaning more into your space rather than Robin’s, lifting some of his curls to curtain his eyes.

You glance at him rather than the screen, narrowing your eyes in the dark, “Does that really work?” 

Eddie looks at you quickly at your whisper. Normally, everyone scolded him to be quiet during movies, never entertaining his small comments.

You weren’t the only one taking baby steps tonight.

Tentatively, he drops the curl blocking his vision, before grabbing a thicker one, boyish grin as he offers it to you shyly, “Wanna find out?” 

“She’s here!” Argyle shouts as he opens the front door to you, hardly giving you warning before he’s leaping forward and gathering you into his arms, nearly crushing you into a hug.

Warmth. Tender. Softness.

Argyle’s hugs are always bone-crushing, and always welcome. And they always linger as he leaves his arm around your shoulder to guide you into the foyer and shut the door behind you two.

“She is?” another voice shouts as she comes barreling out into the entryway, greeting you with an excited squeal as she rushes forward to pull you out of Argyle’s arm.

Robin. 

She’s dressed up for the night — an impressively well put together Robin outfit, complete with yellow spanx and a black mask across her eyes.

“Jesus, Robs,” you laugh as she tightens her arms around you, almost as if she was trying to crush any bones that survived Argyle, “I can’t breathe.” 

“Don’t care,” she mumbles into your shoulder before pulling back, “Nice costume.” 

A bat onesie. Cheesy, but comfortable, and warm enough to battle against Hawkin’s autumn chill. It’s even complete with a headband that has two small, perky ears attached to it, peeking out between tufts of your hair atop the crown of your head. 

“Thanks. Wait till you see the killer fake teeth I packed.” 

“Eds will be pissed if your fangs are better than his,” Argyle notes as he starts to walk into the living room. You follow, Robin close behind, to find the rest of your friends all waiting.

A scary movie is already on the TV, a classic slasher revealed by the high pitched scream that rings out into the room from it. There’s a few indoor decorations about — plastic jack-o-laterns and fake webs that will no doubt give Steve hell when he tries to take them back down — and you can see a punch bowl on the counter by where Nancy and Jonathan reside. 

And the man of the hour is lounging on the couch, a high mountain of pile already in front of him on the table as he munches on a family pack of candy corn. 

“Eddie, isn’t the candy supposed to be for trick or treaters?” you question teasingly as you make a beeline for him. His previous focus on the movie vanishes, full attention now on you.

He’s dressed like a vampire. If the cape didn’t give it away, that small blood line marked from his lower lip in a shade of lipstick you would guess he borrowed from Nancy does.

“I am a trick or treater, sweetheart,” he retorts, popping more candy into his mouth for emphasis, “Besides, Harrington has full-sized candy bars.” 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

He snaps his jaw closed jokingly, the clicking of his teeth making you huff out a laugh as you collapse next to him. 

That woodsy cologne is there, one you’re so happily familiar with these days. 

Unlike Argyle and Robin, he doesn’t greet you with an overwhelming hug, or palpable excitement. His way of greeting is more subtle. His arm slowly lifts, going to rest on the back of the couch behind you, but quickly falling to your shoulders when you waste no time scooting closer into the space he’s opened up in his side.

You fit kind of perfectly. Like a void always meant to be filled. 

“So, Dracula,” you hum, warning your beating heart to slow from its racing when his palm cradles your shoulder farthest from him, “What are we watching?” 

Baby steps were a thing of the past for most of the group. They had become great leaps of faith after that fateful movie night. The way Argyle and Robin had crushed you was normal now. Passing touches and flirtatious jokes were regular between you and your friends. They had seen your boundary for what it really was, a roadblock, and bit by bit, they had broken it down. 

Eddie’s hesitation isn’t because he can no longer touch you. His hesitation whispered of something more, something different, something still delicate. Just as delicate as the fragile wings of the butterflies in his stomach that fluttered to life every time you entered a room. 

They weren’t new. And you still didn’t know they existed — that they had always existed. From the first moment he’d met you.

“One of the Halloween movies,” he tells you, leaning down to keep the conversation more private.

You felt his breath on your ear.  A new touch that happened more frequently now. One you sought after almost as vehemently as you had those first few points of contact. 

“Oh?” you play along, staying hushed, “How fitting.” 

“Very.” 

“I’m surprised you didn’t make them put on a vampire movie. You know,” you cut off, and motion to his costume. You bump your knee to his as you do it, “Given your attire.” 

“Zee night iz ztill young,” he puts on an obnoxious accent meant to mimic Dracula himself, pronouncing all his ‘s’s as ‘z’s.

You only smile, wide and generous and soft and tender, before you lift a hand to punch at the flared collar of his cape. You don’t even hesitate, not even when your knuckles brush the side of his neck.

“Pretty killer, right?” he jokes, trying to ignore the warmth flooding his cheeks.

“Very,” you hum in approval, hand dropping as you lean back into the heavy warmth of his arm around you. You almost reach the hand up to his bottom lip to trace that makeup there, slightly smeared and edges rugged already from his snacking, but you do withhold yourself at that line, “I like the makeup.” 

“Yeah?” he lights up with pride, “You know, I did the eyeliner all by myself.” 

You squint pointedly, leaning in just an inch closer to inspect the feathered charcoal on his waterline, “Really? Very impressive, Eds.” 

“Stop flirting,” Steve demands as he leaves the kitchen, “You’re going to give him a bigger head than he needs.” 

You both break apart slowly, letting space settle between you two and slowly fading back into the real world and out of that little bubble between you two. Eddie’s arm remains — his palm never leaves you, going so far as to give you a playful squeeze as his finger trails down your bicep.

A pathway of spring roses feels as though they bloom along that trail. Vibrant, full of life, open to possibility. When it came to you, Eddie had one Hell of a green thumb. 

“Stop ruining the fun, big boy,” Eddie looks up at your friend, poking his tongue out as his nose scrunches. Adorable. Painfully so.

Steve is dressed as Batman. His mask is discarded somewhere on the counter beside the punch bowl.

“We have plenty of time for fun,” Steve waves off the comment, coming to stand in front of the TV with his hands on his hips, “Am I forgetting anything? I have candy for any kids that come knocking, we’ve got punch thanks to Nance, I ordered our pizza-“

“You better have ordered one with pineapple,” Eddie interrupts, tilting his head sideways in your direction, temple brushing against one of your fake ears, signaling how it was your favorite. You burrow yourself deeper into his touch.

Steve subtly ignores him, “-I have the big speakers set up if we wanna listen to any music in the backyard. Am I missing anything?”

Predictably, he wasn’t. Steve always thought of everything.

The last few months had been nice. Finally getting to enjoy Eddie’s touch had been more than you ever planned for, reveling in the way the boy was so gentle with you even as he finally gave in. Once he started, it was as if you both could finally breathe. A weight had lifted from Eddie’s shoulders just from the simple adjustment of now getting to sit beside you at every function, his bouncing knee always pressing into yours. It had become a silly tradition for him to offer to share that wild head of hair during scary movies, demanding if someone else tried to sit beside you during horror movies in particular that you needed him and his curls to protect you. 

You had gone from yearning for touches, yearning for that contact, to your friends arguing over who would be indulged that night. 

They had taken it slower than you thought you wanted (save for Robin), but in the end, it had all worked out. You didn’t freeze anymore. Your aversion to touch had slowly, slowly, withered away with each hug, with each clasp of their hands on you, with each casual cuddle session they pulled from you. You no longer felt like an anomaly. And it wasn’t that your friends had ever meant to make you feel like an outsider, but it felt like finally being let into a club you’d mourned being left out of for years.

The day that Eddie had grabbed your hand during a casual conversation amongst everyone while out for lunch, letting his thumb trail back and forth over your knuckles in a soothing motion, you’d nearly cried.

Something so delicate yet so telling. A quiet action of affection you’d spent so long telling yourself you couldn’t have. Back rubs during hugs, letting Argyle braid your hair in return, resting your head onto Robin’s shoulder instead of only vice versa. They were all things you’d denied yourself of for so long. You regret it, but you couldn’t change anything in the past, only the now.

And now, you had the boy who had first sprouted such affectionate want within you wrapped up against you, leaning into you for comfort as he started to ignore Steve again.

“Wanna go out back and smoke while he mother hens?” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. 

You both slip away out the back door unnoticed, a new banter sparking up between Robin and Steve being enough distraction to allow it. Eddie wastes no time digging into his jean pockets once he’s outside, throwing the cape out widely before he pulls out his pack of cigarettes. 

“Want one?” he offers, flipping it open in your direction.

You just smile, shaking your head, “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.” 

You’d never really said that before to anyone in your group, only politely declining up until now. A small detail, but Eddie looks pleased to learn it all the same.

“Huh,” he curiously hums, pulling his own cigarette from the carton before tucking it back away, “I never knew that.” 

“I’ve never really told anyone,” you shrug.

“It is some big secret?”

“Nope.”

“Hmph.” 

This hum is muffled by the tip of the filter in his mouth, his hands now busy patting down his body for his lighter. 

“What?” 

His lips struggle to stretch around the tip of the cigarette without dropping it, solely from how wide his smile is, “I like learning new things about you.” 

For every thing you had once spewed at Robin that night, Eddie had learned of you tenfold. 

It was far past learning how your fingers fit between his or the smell of your perfume. He’d wanted it all; to know the inside workings of your mind, to be privy to all of your beautiful thoughts. The softness set in stone inside of you bled far past what could be felt in your fingertips or the care that shook your hand when you’d brush back stray curls out of his eyes. It fed deeper into you, into parts of you that Eddie could spend hours exploring without once growing bored. 

“You say that like I’m interesting,” you murmur half-heartedly, suddenly reaching out beneath his cape and tucking into his back pocket he could have sworn he already checked. His breath is the one that catches at your arm brushing against his waist from the reach, his body is the one that freezes up entirely just from proximity. A change of roles that you had never seen coming, but he’d always figured existed. You never understood the effect you had on him, and that was in part his fault. 

You produce his lighter like magic.

“You are interesting,” he insists as he plucks the lighter from you, flicking it three times to get a steady flame to burn the tip of his cigarette to life, “Don’t sell yourself so short, batty.” 

“Batty?” you snort, not moving away from him, even as he blows a thin and ghostly stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

He can only shrug, wrinkling his nose, “Yeah, I didn’t like it either. Had to give it a chance, though.” 

In the quiet solitude of Eddie nursing his cigarette and you watching the trees rustle with the last remnants of daylight, something sharper invades the soft space you two seem to brew whenever together. Between your innards that are gentle by nature, and Eddie’s silken attitude not only in actions but attitude towards you, the spaces occasionally left between you two were always something dulcet. Calm. Welcoming. You’d come to discover that maybe, that’s why you’d always yearned to burrow yourself so deeply into those spaces. It was a feeling of comfort and a feeling of home that you had always seemed out, but never found that fit quite as right as these moments.

“Hey Eddie?” you ask aloud as he finishes off the cigarette, stomping it out on the ground with his boot.

“What’s up?” he answers, making no move to go back inside.

You always liked these moments alone best. From the very beginning. Even before he felt comfortable enough to step closer to you, shoulder to shoulder with you now. He’s trying to squint and see what you’re finding so interesting in the array of colorful leaves in the distance, slowly being covered in blue shadows rather than golden light, without asking. 

You liked that. You liked it a lot; the way he always seemed to seek out your perspective on things. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did-“

“Fuck off,” your hand flies up, and smacks his shoulder. You never would have done that before. But you do now, relishing that contact even in the briefest of moments. The freedom to reach out and touch.

Once he stops laughing, clearly amused with himself, he turns to face you. Whatever he had been searching for in the trees is long gone, and your focus has moved onto him now, so it’s futile.

“Ask away, sweetheart.”

A deep breath for bravery, and you’re blurting out, “Did you really only avoid touching me when we met because... the others… they told you not to?” 

He wasn’t expecting that question. The crease between his brows makes that clear. You almost take your thumb to it, try to smooth out the worry. But you’re not quite there yet. Maybe one day you would be. 

It’s not as loaded of a question as he thinks it is. It’s cute to watch him assume it is, though. 

“I mean,” he starts his words slowly, carefully, “I guess.”

“You guess?” 

“I guess,” he repeats.

Your smile is sending him into a tornado of emotion. He almost curls his hands into fist, just as you used to do. 

When you broke down your boundary, it had split a crack through his dam. He knows he can reach out and touch you. He knows you’ll accept his physicality without complaint now. It doesn’t make it any less scary. 

For the same reason you don’t press your thumb into his eyebrow crease — having a crush just makes you hesitate like that. 

“I’m obviously a touchy guy,” he throws his arms out, aimlessly, and when they return his side, they almost nick yours. You wish they would brush yours, “But… between you and me, I always get nervous around pretty girls.”

The world slows. It doesn’t stop, it can’t stop for two youths who are trying to explore new and giddy feelings — but my God, can it slow to an absolute crawl, if only for the two of you.

“You think I’m pretty?” you tease, swallowing down just how much those words mean. You always have to remind yourself it’s worth it; being just friends is worth it now that you’ve learned the exact brand of cologne he wears and recognize the weight of his arm around you. 

“The absolute prettiest,” he breathes out, “I always have. Even if they hadn’t told me to hold back, I would have- Hell, I still do,” the Autumn air makes him honest, makes him brave, “I am- I would be- I just- It’s terrifying, the thought of fucking it up because you turn my brain to… mush.” 

Your eyes lift up to his forehead blanketed in his bangs, squinty and entertained, “You’re telling me it’s all just soup in there right now?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

Your friends are inside. There is candy to eat until your stomachs ache, and hugs to partake in until your bones have been crushed and pieced back together by threads of platonic affection.

Right now is anything but platonic. And it is time for something else to break, not your bones and not your boundaries. Something more. 

“I’m pretty sure your hand on my shoulder when we first met would have ended my entire world,” he confesses, starting the first crack.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. If you had hugged me every time you saw me, I don’t know if I would have ever found the nerve to leave my house.”

Another crack.

“And if I sat next to you every time we went out for dinner?”

“Wouldn’t have been able to eat a bite, I’m afraid.”

A spiderweb of cracks, all widening.

“And if I had laid my head on your shoulder during movie nights?”

“What the Hell is a movie?” he jokes, chuckling a bit nervously now, “Who knows? Certainly not me, certainly not when my favorite girl is curled up next to me.” 

One more crack, and the entire thing will finally shatter. You’re begging it to shatter. 

You bite your tongue on any remark about still being his favorite, because since that goddamn night, he’d never said Robin or Nancy were his favorites again. Never. He’d meant it. You were his favorite. 

“And if I just…” you pause as you step forward, leaning in slowly, and it takes everything in Eddie not to turn and run as your lips brush over his cheek as you whisper, “Kissed your cheek? Right here, right now?” 

He doesn’t respond, your lips press together and then press down. 

It shatters with a resounding snap that must be heard across Hawkins. Across Indiana. 

One moment, your lips are on his cheek, and the next, they’re on his lips. He turns his head quickly before any doubt or nerves or roots can interrupt the moment. 

Endless. Endearing. Warmth. Tenderness. Soft.

His lips are soft. So goddamn soft.

His hands are foreign things for a second, as if he’s in shock that he’d actually done it and kissed you. But they come back to life when your own lift to his neck, wrapping behind his neck and beneath the collar of that cape, pulling him in even closer to you. 

He kisses you. And kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Till you’re both dizzy and it doesn’t matter that the earth won’t stop spinning long enough for you two to live in this moment. 

It should be unfamiliar, especially to you, but it isn’t. It’s as if the two of you have done this dance before. In another life, in another world, on another Earth far away from here. Your lips know his in this lifetime, and they will know his in the next — this first meeting only allows for a sigh of relief in the Universe, and in you. 

He paused the kisses briefly, palms cradling your face with care and intention, “Do you know,” he places his lips onto yours one more time, as if fearful that spending too much time apart will let you vanish, “how often,” another kiss, deeper this time, “I’ve wanted to do this?” 

A final peck. A period to the end of a sentence that the two of you had taken your time writing.

“No,” you laugh earnestly, fingers digging into the soft skin at his nape, reveling in the slip of his curls between your knuckles, “Maybe you should tell me about it.” 

“Tell you about all the times?” he’s leaning back in, lips brushing against yours. Just a touch, but it shakes you to your core, “All the times I wanted to touch you, hold you, kiss you?” 

You capture his lips in yours, unable to resist anymore. You’ve spent months resisting — his lips and kisses, his touches and brushes, his warmth and sunshine. You’re done resisting.

“Every,” you pull back and catch the glint in his eyes. He’s done, too, the rubble of the shatter, “Single,” you peck one cheek, “Last,” you peck the other, now rosey, “One.” 

You finally kiss his lips again. Your fingers tug harshly on his curls, and his mouth falls open at the unexpected sensation. Instead of taking this any further and starting something you’d never want to end, you do the adult thing — you nip at his bottom lip, a bite of adoration that leaves him with a sting to remember. 

“Fuck,” he sighs out, chasing after you, but your hands press into his chest to keep him into place, “I- Sorry, was that too much?” 

“Too much?” you laugh breathlessly, shaking your head immediately. Once upon a time, it might have been too much. But now, it wasn’t enough. “No such thing, not with you.” 

“Careful,” his hands came up to cover your fists balled into the front of his shirt, moving so that his cape brushes against your sides now, “I’m known to be quite a handful, sweetheart.” 

You snort and grip his shirt even harder. “God, I sure hope so. You’ve been holding out on me, dracula.” 

“Oh, have I?”

His smirk and your smirk are perfect mirror images of each other. 

The last thing Spencer expects when he rushes to the hospital to check the patient records is being told “no" by the Resident Nurse. Which, of course, means his entire carefully planned line of reasoning is about to unravel. 

“But—” Spencer stammers, his hands half-gesturing in the air, “you don’t understand. We think the unsub has been targeting victims based on medical history. If I can just see—” 

“Doctor.” The nurse cuts him off, firm but polite. “Patient confidentiality.” 

Spencer opens his mouth to correct her—he isn’t technically a doctor in the hospital sense, though he has the degrees to back the title—but before he can, another voice drifts over from behind the nurse’s station. 

“Is there a reason you’re arguing semantics in the middle of the ICU?” 

Spencer turns. A woman in a fitted lab coat stands there, a stack of charts pressed against her chest, brows raised in mild annoyance. A pen rests behind her ear, her ID badge swinging as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. 

“I’m not—well, maybe I am,” Spencer admits, a little sheepishly. “I’m with the FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit. We’re investigating—” 

“Ah,” you interrupt, stepping closer. “Then you’ll want the oncology files. Room 312.” Your voice is calm, matter-of-fact, and carries the kind of authority that instantly disarms his argument. 

Spencer blinks. “How do you—?” 

“Because I’m about to pull them myself.” You extend a hand. “I spoke to an agent—I think, on the phone. A Penelope Garcia?” You wait until Spencer nods in confirmation. “Great, then you hounding poor Dot won’t do us any good.” 

Spencer’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “Right. Yes. Garcia mentioned she was reaching out to someone on staff, but she didn’t…specify.” No she hadn’t, by the way—Spencer vividly remembers telling her he’ll handle it, though a part of him is not surprised that she reached out anyway.  

The corner of your mouth twitches into a restrained smile. “She seems like she usually doesn’t. It’s part of her charm, I think.” You shift the charts in your hands, tucking one under your arm before extending the rest toward the nurse. “Dot, if you’d be so kind, I’ll take over from here.” 

The nurse’s shoulders relax a fraction as she hands them off, clearly relieved to be free of Spencer’s intensity. With a knowing shake of her head, she mutters something about “doctors and their egos” before disappearing down the hall. Spencer frowns faintly, unsure if the comment is aimed at him or you. Maybe both. 

“So,” you say, glancing at him, varily, “you wanted records. I have records. You’re in luck.” 

He blinks again, rapidly, trying to catch up. “You’re not a resident physician.” 

“No,” you say simply, sliding the stack of oncology files onto a nearby counter. “Medical physicist.” 

Spencer tilts his head, curiosity lighting up his face in a way you recognize instantly. “Radiation oncology? Treatment planning, dosimetry, linear accelerators—” 

“Someone’s been reading,” you interrupt lightly, arching a brow at him. “Or did you just memorize the entirety of Khan’s The Physics of Radiation Therapy for fun?” 

Spencer’s lips part in surprise, and then—against his better judgment—he grins. “Both.” 

That makes you pause. Not because you doubt him, but because the spark in his eyes tells you he isn’t exaggerating. “Well then, Doctor,” you say, your voice carrying just the faintest tease as you turn the first file toward him, “let’s see if two brains are better than one.” 

Spencer leans in, his tie brushing the edge of the counter as his eyes skim the first page. “The victim was undergoing radiation treatment,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “That explains why the unsub chose her—he’s fixating on patients with extended hospital stays.” 

You hum thoughtfully, sliding another file across to him. “Or,” you counter, “he’s not choosing them because of their stays. He’s choosing them because of their radiation schedules. That would make their movements predictable.” 

Spencer’s head snaps up, and for a split second, you see the flicker of excitement—the recognition that someone else is speaking his language. “Yes. Exactly! That would explain why the abductions happen in the evening, just before the patients return home.” 

“Patterns are easy to exploit if you know where to look,” you reply, flipping open the next chart. “And most of the victims so far had evening appointments.” 

The silence stretches between you for a moment, filled only by the soft shuffle of papers. Then Spencer clears his throat, awkward but genuine. “Most people don’t keep up with me like that.” 

You glance at him, your lips quirking. “Most people also don’t talk this fast.” He blinks, caught, then presses his lips together in an embarrassed smile. “Don’t worry, Doctor,” you add, teasing gently, “I can keep up.” 

“Sorry,” he smiles, albeit awkwardly, “sometimes I forget that I can get carried away.” 

“Don’t be,” you say, sliding the chart back into the stack. “Honestly, it’s refreshing. Most of my colleagues would rather I tone it down.” 

Spencer tilts his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Because you’re…too smart?” 

You huff a quiet laugh. “Because I don’t know how to shut up about, at least not about what I know most—which is physics. Not everyone wants to hear about dose distributions and beam energy over lunch.” 

His lips twitch into a grin. “I’d listen.” The words hang there for a beat longer than they should, and you catch the faintest flush creeping up his neck when he realizes how earnest he sounds. To cover, he quickly turns back to the file. “So, if the unsub is tracking evening appointments, he’d need access to this scheduling system. That limits the suspect pool significantly.” 

“Which means it’s someone who has access to scheduling?” You ask, canning the next page of notes. 

“Exactly,” Spencer nods, the cadence of his voice quickening as his mind works. “Hospital staff, maybe a technician or administrative employee. Someone who can see the patterns without raising suspicion.” 

You tap your pen against the file thoughtfully. “What if the unsub doesn’t work at a hospital at all?” You question as he gives you a confused look. “There are specialized clinics for chemo treatments. One of them actually shut down last year because the doctor who owned it was involved in Medicare fraud.” 

“Medicare fraud? How?” He asks, rows furrowing as he leans a little closer, his full attention fixed on you. 

You flip another page in the chart, eyes scanning quickly. “She diagnosed patients with cancer and started them on chemo—patients who didn’t have cancer, like, at all. From what you told me about your case, the timeline matches perfectly.” 

Spencer’s brow furrows deeper, his eyes darting across the chart in your hands. “So these patients were essentially…victims twice. And if she is subjecting them to further chemo treatments, it would explain why they have increased radiation in their bodies.”  

“Am I crazy with my theory, or?” You ou tilt your head, half-expecting him to gently dismantle it the way most colleagues do. 

But Spencer shakes his head almost instantly, eyes sharp with thought. “No—you’re not crazy. It actually makes sense.” His voice softens, as he nods, “I’ll ask Garcia to look more into it, there might be a link with the clinic that shut down and the unsub.” 

You let out a small breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Good. I was worried I was starting to sound like one of those conspiracy theorists with a corkboard and red string.” 

Spencer’s lips curve into the faintest smile, his eyes softening. “I think the white coat kind of prevents the whole conspiracy theorist thing.” 

“Well, I am a doctor two times over, so.” You shrug, feigning humility. 

“That’s true,” Spencer murmurs, his smile lingering. His gaze dips for a second, then flicks back to yours, warmer than before. For once, he doesn’t rush to fill the silence with facts or statistics—he just studies you, almost like you’re another puzzle he’s piecing together. 

You arch a brow. “What?” 

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the faint blush crawling up his neck betrays him. He clears his throat, fidgeting with the edge of the chart before blurting, “I was just thinking… maybe I could, um, listen to you talk about physics sometime. Outside of, you know, case files and murder investigations.” 

Your lips part in surprise, but before you can answer, he stammers on, his words tumbling out in a rush. “Like—dinner, or coffee, or—anything, really. I mean, if you want to.” 

You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Are you asking me out, Doctor?” 

You’d give any guy a chance until they disappoint you, and then you’re gone. You knew what you wanted from them, and if they couldn’t fulfill those ‘duties’ (as Emily jokingly puts it), then it wasn’t worth it. Spencer hates to admit it —to you or anyone else— but he loves how you detach from them. 

He likes how you lure them in with honey and how they drop like flies at your feet— that trap of yours working effortlessly. It feels strangely voyeuristic, which makes him feel like a creep, but he swears it isn’t like that. If he could describe it better, he’d say it was more like a form of admiration. He likes that you know what you want out of your relationships. The way you don’t stick around and accept bad behavior. It’s exceptional and incredibly intimidating. Maybe femme fatale would be a better title, though he doubts you’ve ever destroyed a man’s life, as that definition suggests. Distress? Most definitely. 

His eyes are glued to you now as you brush a stray hair behind your ear, how your brows knit together when you’re concentrating, watching as your left hand plays with the chain of your necklace. Tearing his eyes away from you, he focuses on the map on his desk, circling the location of the recent body discovered earlier that morning. JJ leans over his right shoulder, her blue eyes looking at the work-in-progress geographical profile with silent intrigue. 

She leans away from him, folding her arms across her chest, getting lost in thought until her gaze lands on you. You were so focused a few minutes ago, but now you’re looking at one of the officers across the station. He was young, about the same age as Spencer, if she had to guess. His uniform is a little loose on him, the material around his arms droops, and his shirt hangs off his body in a way that makes it obvious he’s wearing a size too big for him. 

She watches with you as he tucks it into his pants nervously, his fingers adjusting his collar as he mutters something under his breath. He’s handsome, boyish, with decently styled brunette hair. His dimples pop when he gives one of his fellow officers a slight grin— just your average prey. “Don’t give him that look.” 

Your eyes are on her in seconds, and she holds back a laugh when she sees your offended expression. “What look?” You sound shocked, glancing at the young officer. “I was just people-watching.” 

“I think the word you’re looking for is hunting.” JJ counters as Emily walks in with a coffee in hand. 

“Oh? She’s on the prowl away from home? Down girl, down!” 

You frown, eyes narrowed as you look between the two women taunting you. “I’m not a dog. A girl can’t make an observation anymore?” 

Emily shakes her head as she pulls her coffee cup away from her lips, “Not when the girl is you.” 

Your frown deepens, looking at Spencer with a look that silently pleads for help. He can never resist that look— it’s one he knows well. He looks over his shoulder at JJ and gives her a light pout, “I don’t think that’s a fair assumption of her character.” 

JJ’s eyes shine with amusement. This is how the dance usually went. You’d be selecting some poor gentleman as your next meal, they’d tease you about it, and then Spencer would come rushing in to protect your honor— assuming you had any, to begin with. “Spencer the Valiant enters into the arena, ladies and gentlemen.” Her hand comes up to playfully ruffle his hair.

Spencer fails to dodge her efforts. “Don’t,” he grumbles as he swats at her hand as it touches his already messy curls. “Do that.” He can never catch a break when it comes to being teased by the team. 

You grin, watching Spencer flatten out his hair carefully, rearranging it until it’s slightly neat and wavy. You silently motion to him that part of his hair is still sticking up and watch as he blindly tries to fix it. Watching him struggle with his hair, you break the usual respect you show for his personal space, leaning over and smoothing down the cowlick with a soft chuckle. 

His cheeks are red, watching you lean away from him, his gaze awkwardly avoiding yours. “Besides,” You begin, looking at the young officer with a charming smile. “You and Will make it work, don’t you?” You ask, talking to JJ without looking at her. 

JJ scoffs a little, watching as the young officer looks up from his desk and across the station— he won’t last. You give him a little wave and flirty smile combo before looking at JJ. “Don’t even think about it,” JJ warns, but you technically don’t have to do anything. You shrug a little, looking down at the evidence pile on your desk. 

Not while the young officer stands up, smoothing out his too-big uniform and taking large strides over to you. You don’t have to look to know he’s coming. JJ shakes her head with Emily when he arrives at your side. When he clears his throat, you don’t look up from your task, twirling a pen around your fingers. 

The way you look up with gentle doe eyes and a polite smile on your lips as you turn to face him has Emily holding back a giggle. You blink a little, eyes reading the name tag on his uniform— David Miller. “Can we help you with something, Mister…” You trail off, acting as though you hadn’t just read his name tag. 

“Miller and I don’t need help from all of you, maybe just you.” His voice is slightly deeper than you expected, and he sounds confident— which is fine— you just thought he’d be the shy type.

You let out a soft ‘ah,’ nodding slowly like the idea just occurred to you. “Well, as sweet as that is,” you don’t even let the poor guy officially ask you out. You just openly assume. “I’m afraid we’re all swamped working on this case— myself included.” You watch his broad shoulders slump slightly— the action doesn’t even last a full second— and you sigh like you’re contemplating something. “But maybe we could get a coffee in the break room?” 

His demeanor brightens, eyebrows raising as he asks, “Now?” 

You shrug, looking at the clock on the wall, “Ten minutes.” Standing, you brush off your jeans, as if this sudden coffee date weighs heavily on you. “You coming?” As you walk towards the breakroom, the question hangs in the air, and you don’t even bother looking back to see if he’s following you. 

Three days later, Spencer watches you frown at David. Words can not describe how much he hates David. Well, many words could describe how much he dislikes David, but Spencer Reid is not a man to spit petty remarks at a man undeserving of them (though some may disagree). In truth, he only dislikes David because he envies him a little… he’s lying to himself. Spencer Reid envies that man with an intensity that rivals forest fires. 

Spencer watches as David’s lips form words he cannot hear— words he’s sure you know all too well— Stay. He watches as you give David a small, sympathetic smile. His gaze lingers on your plump lips as you lean in to press a chaste kiss to another man’s lips, and he can imagine the sticky, sweet tone of your voice as you tell him that you have to leave. 

Once you’re in the backseat, you relax your shoulders with a huff. Derek shakes his head at you in the front seat, staying quiet as the black SUV drives off towards the airport in this small Maryland town. Spencer knows that he should stop watching you, but it’s like he’s bewitched. 

Your lip gloss is a faint pink— messy. You probably left some of David’s lips. Spencer wonders if it has a taste; he’s seen you use a cherry lip balm a handful of times. He can imagine kissing you, slow and sweet to start, if he had the time, getting hungrier and hungrier with each press of your lips on his. He wonders if you’d let him drag his tongue on your bottom lip and let him get a taste of cherries and skin. Could he pull on that full bottom lip with his teeth– “Spencer!” 

He blinks, hazel eyes focus on yours. You chuckle, airy and slightly concerned, “Are you okay? You’re staring.” 

Derek barks out a laugh from the driver’s seat, “When isn’t he?” 

Spencer shakes his head, mainly at Derek’s idea of a joke, but also because he doesn’t want you to think something is wrong with him. His smile is unconvincing and quick: “I’m fine.” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, trying again. “Just thinking about you and David. H-He seems nice.” 

You shrug, hair falling into your face, “I guess he’s nice, yeah.” Then you lift a hand, waving the idea off like it’s bothersome. “I don’t think I’m going to see him again.” 

Derek groans out, “Surprise, surprise.” 

Spencer manages to keep the smile off his face, but his voice gives him away: “Why not?” he sounds elated. 

You move with your hands, throwing them up before letting them rest on your outer thighs, slumping a little in the seat. Your eyes search the car’s floor, as if it’ll help you find a good enough answer. Why not? He’s not what you envisioned in a romantic partner. He wasn’t gentle, well-spoken, or even stimulating.  

He seemed like a good conversationalist during that ten-minute coffee break, but he kept pushing for a late dinner with you. When you finally relented, you found he lacked any real substance. He was… dull, hot, but bland. He didn’t have strong beliefs like you, lacked wit, and seemed entitled. 

Sure, you could have let him take you home and given him something to remember you by. But, considering how dull he was over dinner, you doubted he could impress you in the bedroom. Why go looking for disappointment? 

You force a small smile, gentle eyes leaving the SUV’s flooring to look at Spencer. “Didn’t pass the benchmark, I’m afraid.” It’s meant to be a joke, but your delivery is slightly off. You sound somewhat saddened by the fact, and Spencer debates asking you what’s wrong. However, discussing your dating life is not his strong suit. Instead, he simply delivers a curt nod, lips drawn into a tight line as the car falls silent on the way to the tarmac. 

A week later, it’s one of those rare days when the BAU team stays in DC. Indeed, this week is a way to make up for lost time. Spencer has heard about two coffee dates, one dinner date, and how you’re going on a lunch date this upcoming Saturday. Not that you’re telling him necessarily; he tries his hardest not to ask about your dating habits out of fear that you’ll eventually catch on to his hopeless crush on you and break his heart before he’s mentally prepared for such a tragedy. 

No, he hears about your escapades from Penelope, Emily, or JJ. Mostly in passing gossip sessions, he hears when he shouldn’t be eavesdropping.  He’s not the biggest fan of gossip, especially when said gossip is about a coworker, but he can’t stop listening when it’s about you. 

The second he hears your name leave one of their lips, he pours his coffee a little slower in the break room or takes smaller bites of his lunch. He even held the elevator doors for the group of women on a handful of occasions so he could silently listen in. Morgan says he’s whipped (and after Spencer gets clarification on what that terminology entails, he nervously disagrees). 

He’s just a naturally curious person. His high IQ can be blamed here— you’re a constant question on his mind. He cannot solve you, and every time he thinks he’s close, you switch it up on him. 

Penelope is trying to be discreet—genuinely— she’s walking at a normal pace, a rested smile on her face, and the feathered flower pinned into her blonde curls shakes slightly as she approaches Emily’s desk. Her eyes look towards your desk, glad to find you lost in conversation with Anderson. Spencer watches her anyway.

Emily’s eyebrows raise as Penelope leans down and whispers something into the small space between them, which is effective because Spencer can’t hear anything (much to his dismay). Emily reels her head back, shocked as she mutters in disbelief, “No way.” 

Penelope beams, nodding quickly and letting out a drawn-out “Mhm!” 

Spencer wonders if it has anything to do with Anderson. Could they be alluding to the two of you getting together? Spencer would feel nervous about the idea, but you never dated coworkers. Besides, Anderson didn’t have that boyish charm you so adore. Spencer thinks he can mark him as safe.

But what else could it be? He’s trying his hardest not to stare at Penelope and Emily as they whisper to each other a few feet away, his eyes darting around the case file in his hands as his mind runs away with him. His gaze occasionally flits over to your desk, taking note of that polite smile you’re sporting. Yeah, you’re definitely not into Anderson. 

Something work-related? No, that sounds ridiculous the second he thinks it. He blinks, forcing himself to set down the case file and mull over all the probabilities. He feels like it’s too obvious to be a date. You go on those all the time. And he doubts it's a second date update because those never end well for you. However, there is a slight chance that this time, it did. 

He’s still in the process of analyzing every bit of information related to you when he hears an open laugh from Penelope as she follows Emily over to your desk. Anderson is nowhere to be seen as you settle back into your desk chair, barely looking up when Emily asks, “You’re taking a break from dating?”

“Derek is such a gossip.” 

“Don’t blame him, he can’t resist me.” Penelope sighs out. 

Emily dismisses the comment with a slight wave, “For how long?” 

You shrug, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, “I don’t know. Until I feel like talking to a man again?” 

“Oh my god, an indefinite hiatus!” 

You chuckle a little, “Why do you care so much?” You couldn’t imagine your dating life being that interesting. Then again, you have dated some questionable people.

Penelope gasps, hands reaching her chest, “Why do we care? You’re the only thing that saves us from boredom. You’re water in this gossip dessert. Don’t let us dehydrate, please, please.” Her palms press together as she begs you. 

A strange laugh escapes you, your shoulders shaking as you giggle. “Listen, I really need—” You gently swat at Penelope’s still clasped hands, “I need a break from all the disingenuous compliments and ploys to get into my pants—” you scoff. Spencer’s heart stutters in his chest; he’s empathetic towards your feelings. He wants what’s best for you, of course (that and this could be his once-in-a-lifetime chance to see you be wholly unattached, his chance). “I need to be alone and work on some things before I date again, simple as that.” Well, so much for his chance. 

“She’s so wise.” Emily turns to Penelope, her tone mocking. “Isn’t she so wise?” 

“Oh, on par with Buddha.” 

Your eyes shine with amusement, though you keep your tone serious, “Yes, laugh at me all you want for being a healthy person.” 

Two months later, your hiatus is still going strong. Spencer has not seen or heard of any flirty endeavors surrounding you, much to the other’s dismay. It’s true in a way, gossip is drier during your dry spell. There’s been no mention of terrible dates nor any mention of bad kisses on first dates, or worse, lousy lays. 

Spencer has never had any issues talking to you, but lately, he’s noticed you’re prone to daydreaming. You’ll stare off sometimes during a lull or mutter to yourself in the breakroom. He wants to ask how you're feeling amidst your break from dating, but it feels like such an intimate topic that he’s hesitant to approach it. 

So now, he’s watching you watch Emily flirt with some stranger at the bar. This week has been grueling, with case after case. It never gets easier, but moments like these—the whole team spending time together—make it less painful at the end of the day. Spencer’s nursing his whiskey, always a slow drinker, but his attentions are on you as you roll the straw of your mojito between your fingers. 

Eventually, after a quick sip of whisky, he gains the courage to ask, “Everything alright?” 

You jump at the sound of his voice beside you, but you still smile at him when you turn to look at him. You open your mouth for a moment, then close it again, then open it again, “Yes.” You say in a strange voice— a twisted mixture of confident and drained. 

Spencer raises an eyebrow, his expression letting you know that he doesn’t truly believe you. You laugh a little at that look of disbelief before your shoulders slump, and you mutter a soft, “I sort of miss dating.” 

“Sort of?” It's more confident, more teasing than he’d like, but it just slips out of him. His cheeks are tinted the prettiest shade of pink, and you try your hardest not to stare at him. 

Your eyes shift to the drink in your hands, fingers leaving the straw as you elaborate on the topic. “I don’t know. I didn’t think I would miss the flirty conversations or feeling wanted.” You trail off for a moment, eyes not meeting his for a moment. “Does that make me sound,” Your eyes finally reach his, “Conceited?” Your gaze is so full of worry that he has to stop himself from shouting his answer upon impact. 

Instead, he swallows down a shocked breath, shaking his head. “No! No, you’re not conceited. That’s normal, considering all the attention you…well, attract.”

“Great,” You murmur, frowning. “You think that I’m some shameless, attention-seeking seductress,” gazing downcast at your mojito. 

Spencer laughs nervously,  “What?” He can’t deny that the seductress part might be true— you could seduce a saint, he’s sure. “I think a lot of things about you when I think about you, but shameless, attention-seeking seductress is not one of them.” 

He’s melting at the look you give him. Head slightly bowed, looking up at him through those long lashes of yours, full lips in a slight pout. “Really?” 

“Really.” He squeaks, much to your delight— the alcohol is messing with your head. 

You sit a little straighter at that, sighing, “So, what do you think about when you think about me?” You ask, teasing Spencer wasn’t something you did often. The team teases him so much that you feel bad joining in. But you can’t help yourself, not when he’s looking at you with his gorgeous, honey eyes. All wide and deer-like, fuck, he’s pretty. 

You would feel bad for thinking about your coworker like this, but in the dim lighting of this bar, you find that you don’t mind. Truth be told, if Spencer Reid weren’t your coworker, you would have worked some charms on him a long time ago. He was so pretty, so receptive to new ideas, a genius, a man of his word. God, he was so sincere. Why is that such a turn-on? 

You drag your tongue along your bottom lip, lost in thought, a movement not lost on Spencer as he can’t seem to take his eyes off your lips. His mouth is dry, and his voice is caught in his throat as he stammers out a gentle, “What–” he clears his throat, trying to stop his voice from sounding so high, “What do I think about?” 

That slow smile makes his heartbeat skip a beat, he’s seen that smile before, and he’s screwed if you decide to do anything more than teasing him. “Yeah, you said you think lots of things when you think about me. I’m curious.” 

“Well, I, uhm,” He swallows, his tongue feels like sandpaper. His eyes shift down to his whiskey, his gaze shifting between you, his drink, and the table. “ I think you’re kind. You’re always willing to help a friend, like when you made all those meals for Penelope after she got shot.” Your expression softens at that, your teasing smile melting into something warmer. He takes this as a sign to keep going, “You’re considerate. I think you could make Hotch smile, I’m sure you have, all because of your sense of humor. You rarely judge people; you’ve never judged me. You’re empathetic, seeing you connect with people so easily, it’s— you have this gift for shifting your perspective, and I—” 

“Spencer,” You cut him off with a gentle touch of your hand on his. You’re quiet for a moment, eyes searching his, looking for some kind of sign of deception, but finding none. Your gaze warms him to his core, melting away anything cold residing within him. “Thank you.”

He lets out a soft stammer of confusion, about to ask you why you’re thanking him, but instead, he regains some of his composure and nods. “Anytime.” He hates how cold his hand feels when your fingers leave his skin. Everything about you is so warm: your smile, your laugh, your touch— and against all reason— he’s sure he could survive frigid winters as long as he spends them by your side. 

An hour later, you’ve ditched the idea of feeling sorry for yourself. You were seemingly determined to make your own fun. And you were. Penelope had bought a second round of drinks, and you chose something a little stronger than the mojito from before, and drank it fast. It wasn’t enough to get you drunk, but it did give you a slight buzz, feeling looser now as you spun around the dance floor with Penelope. 

Penelope’s sure that your voice will be gone from how loud you’re singing to the song the DJ just started playing, laughing harder as you place a finger to her lips, grab hold of both of her shoulders, and dance to the beat. 

Spencer isn’t a dancer, well, he can slow dance, but he doubts he could keep up with you right now. So, he lingers on the sidelines of the bar. He —like many of the men at this bar— can’t take his eyes off of you as you spin around in a sloppy circle. The way you move your hips in a circle has his head cocking to the side, focusing on the slope of your lower—

A chuckle can be heard beside him, making Spencer stand up straight, turning to look at Derek. Derek, who has the biggest grin on his face, is shaking his finger at Spencer. Spencer rears back his head, giving his friend an odd look. “What?” 

“Nothing.” Okay, so he’s lying. Derek stuffs his hands in his pockets, acting aloof as Spencer stares him down. Derek, however, has his attention on you and Penelope. “You know,” there it is, “She’s gonna need someone to walk her home.” 

“Who?” For a genius, Spencer can be incredibly dense at times. 

Derek sends a deadpanned look his way, eyebrows raising, waiting for Spencer to catch on. Spencer blinks, his brows furrowed in confusion, oblivious to what Derek is saying. Derek groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose before dragging his hand down his face. 

He then points over to you, Spencer’s gaze following his finger. “Ms. Vixen, Pretty Girl, the Man-eater of the BAU, the temptress of the —” Spencer holds up a hand, cutting him off. 

“I get it, okay?” Even though he knows that Derek’s joking, Spencer’s tone still comes out clipped. He forces his shoulders to relax. 

“She’s going to need someone to walk her home,” Derek says in a calmer tone, his shoulders shrugging slightly. 

Spencer stammers, flustered with the idea of walking you home. To be honest, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He wouldn’t let it. His imagination runs wild when it comes to you, and he daydreams about the oddest things— the taste of your skin, his palm on your lower back. “Didn’t she come with you and Penelope?”

Derek clicks his tongue, “Nope, she lives two blocks over, walked here.” 

“Oh,” He responds lamely, his arms crossing over his chest. He chews lightly on his bottom lip, thinking it over. He had his whiskey over an hour ago and had been nursing a water, but it didn’t matter much, considering he, too, walked here. “Well, I mean, I can’t assume, wouldn’t it be rude to think she’d,” He bounces around before he drops his arms at his sides. “You think she‘d say yes?” 

“What makes you think she’d say no?” 

“I don’t know,” Spencer tries to think of a good reason as to why he’s worried you’d turn him down, but finds nothing but his own insecurities. He knows that you’re kind; he knows if you didn’t want to do something, you wouldn’t. Spencer finds that very reassuring. “Just don’t want her to think I’m weird.” 

Derek barks out a sharp laugh as if he knows something that Spencer doesn’t. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Pretty Boy.” 

Spencer wants to ask why, but Derek looks away from him before he gets the chance. Spencer steals a glance over to the dance floor, watching as Penelope and you giggle yourselves away from the crowd. 

Your pupils are dilated, and Spencer is sure that if he pressed a hand to your cheek, your skin would be warm, either from the alcohol or light giggles still leaving your lips. He feels his lips twitch upwards at the sound of them, broken up with soft gasps of air as you and Penelope hold onto each other in front of them. His heart clenches in his chest as he hears your giggles die away, and your gaze meets his. He wishes he could keep you this giddy all the time.  

Your face relaxes into a gentle smile, and you let out a slow sigh. “Hi,” you motioned between Derek and Spencer with a wave of your hand. “What are we talking about?” 

Derek cuts Spencer off before he has the chance to embarrass himself. “We were actually discussing leaving,” Derek says, much to Penelope’s dismay. 

She’s frowning, and Derek knows he can’t tell the blonde his plan to get these two together, not yet, anyway. Spencer’s pining is evident to anyone with eyes, and you aren’t exactly smooth either, always choosing men who look strikingly similar to your lanky coworker. 

“It is getting pretty late,” You mutter, sobering up a little at the idea of walking yourself home at this late hour. 

Worry must be written across your face because Spencer is softly clearing his throat. “I can walk you home,” he offers in a soft voice. You don’t even question how he knew that you walked here. Instead, you can feel your cheeks flush. The idea is tempting, but it feels somewhat… intimate. 

“That’s okay,” You begin, “You don’t have to go out of your way–” 

“I don’t mind!” He’s leaning into you, nodding his head slowly. “I’d sleep better knowing you got home safe.” 

A little tiny voice inside of you is shrieking with delight at that, but you answer him in a reasonably calm voice. “Well,” you tsk, “if it’ll help you sleep better.” Your tone is flirtier than you’d like it to be. You’ll be the first to admit it: It’s hard controlling yourself around him, and being dehydrated and tipsy isn’t helping. “Let me grab my things.” 

Spencer is nodding, discarding his plastic cup of water and ensuring he has everything on his person before he looks at Derek, who has very clearly filled Penelope in by now in fast whispers. Derek gently taps a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, “Breathe. You’re just walking her home. Remember, you’re already friends with her. She won’t bite… hopefully.” 

Spencer prepares to shoot back that he doesn’t need the pep talk because nothing is going to happen, but his mouth snaps shut as you materialize by Penelope’s side. “Ready?” You rock back and forth on your heels, eyes shining. 

Spencer’s brows raise, smiling nervously as he hums a shaky-sounding, “Mhm.” 

The night air smells fresh and clean with the promise of summer, warm and refreshing. You dragged in a slow inhale through the nose and hummed. A cool breeze brushed over your shoulders for a moment, and you felt awake again, your slight from earlier replaced with a second wind of energy. You glance over at Spencer, who is still holding the bar’s exit door for Penelope and Derek. 

He doesn’t look bored or annoyed by the task, and though it’s the tiniest act of kindness, it makes you smile. You hug Penelope, tight and secure around her middle, muttering gentle goodbyes to her in a playful tone. Derek laughs when you bid him farewell in the same style, pulling away from the hug, smiling widely, and shaking his head. He then points at Spencer, “Stay safe,” his gaze moving to you. “Both of you.” 

You wave his worries off, nodding, “Dr. Reid, lead the way.” 

Spencer lets out a tiny scoff, waving his friends goodbye before doing exactly as you say. You seem incredibly awake, despite the last hour. His eyes are so focused on you as the two of you begin the short walk back to your respective apartments that he almost trips on a crack in the sidewalk, not even ten minutes in, and he’s already making a fool of himself. 

You pause your movements, hands raising in the air as if you’re preparing to catch him, “Everything okay?” Your tone gives away your amusement. 

He nods, “Yeah, yes, just distracted.” 

“How out of character for you.” You tease lightly, sighing out as you lower your hands. You let out a soft hum, thinking about a tune they played at the bar, when you see two bodies pressed up against a wall in the not-so-far distance. 

Your shoulders feel tense as you try your hardest not to stare at the couple as they kiss, soft sighs and moans of pleasure leaving one lover’s lips as you force your eyes straight ahead. Spencer, however, is staring. His eyes don’t stay on the couple long as he hears a frustrated sounding exhale from you. 

His lips quirk up when he sees you walking with a rigid posture. “Does PDA bother you?” He asks curiously, keeping his voice low as he passes the couple to his right. 

You shake your head, cheeks feeling warm at the sound of his voice. “What? No. I just,” You pause, unsure about how much you should be sharing with him anyway. Would he want to hear about how much you missed it, dating, kissing, sex, the touch of someone’s hand in your hair? Your eyes nervously glance at him, then the sidewalk, a soft laugh leaving you. “It’s going to sound so pathetic.” 

Spencer finds that highly unlikely, “Try me.” 

You bite your lower lip, considering it for a moment. It had only been two months, how could you be so… needy? You can feel the edges of your ears grow warm as the night air— you were so pathetic. How could someone become so touch-starved in such a short amount of time? How could you tell that to him? Then again, Spencer Reid was not quick to judge… though maybe he would be if he knew what you were thinking about right now. 

You're slow to smile, and your face looks a little shy and awkward. You speak in a hushed tone, “I think I miss it.” 

“Kissing?” 

“No, I mean yes, but more than kissing. Touching, heavy-petting, dates,” You dare not glance at him, “Sex.” You can’t stop yourself now, the words leaving you against your will. “I’ve just been stressed, irritable lately, and I think sex… took my mind off things.”

Spencer’s throat fills with cotton, and he tries to swallow normally, going shockingly quiet for someone who always seems to have something to say. It doesn’t last long as he feels the growing silence crawl under his skin— he can’t stand it. “That’s normal, for someone— well, anyone who hasn’t had it, sex, I mean, in a while.” He stops himself from asking how long it has been before continuing. “Regular sex can boost your immune system, am-among other things.” 

You grin, “Of course, it does.” You feel lighter hearing Spencer nervously ramble about sex, less judged, more listened to. You glance to your side, admiring the sharp slope of his jaw, the ends of his brown hair curling against his smooth skin. “Don’t stop on my account; I love learning.” 

Of course, you do.

It seems to be Spencer’s turn to stare daggers into the distance, following you as you take a left turn. “In some women, sex can lower the risk of heart attacks. Which is funny, Men’s likelihood of a heart attack goes up with continuous sexual activity.” He chuckles lightly, sparing a glance over his left shoulder at you. 

His knees feel weak seeing the way you’re looking at him. Your gaze occasionally glances at the sidewalk, but your eyes shine with curiosity. He’s always liked that about you. You’re always willing to listen to his random rants, never poking fun at him. No, it's not like you to laugh at someone for something as direct as knowledge, but you still smile at him. 

He keeps going, his hazel eyes focused on you. “Rhythmic stimulation,” He should not look at you as he says this, “During an orgasm, has similar brain activity to dancing.” Your eyebrows raise at that, mouthing a gentle ‘huh’. 

“So, what, like birds?” 

“Yes! Dancing has been a long-standing method of seduction, so I suppose it stands to reason that muscular stimulation, in that way, would make our brain activity act that way.” 

Your head tilts, trying to get the mental image of Spencer’s hands on your waist as you dance against him out of your mind. “I suppose it would. Though I wouldn’t consider orgasmic pulsing to have a steady rhythm.” 

Spencer feels his heart stutter against his ribcage, his jaw clenching as his mind graces him with the mental image of you under him, shaking, hips stuttering against his roughly. He blinks, the tips of his ears turning red as he struggles to find something interesting to say. “W-Well,” he squeaks, and he feels panic flood his system, watching your grin widen when you hear such an embarrassing sound. He coughs, fixing his shirt collar, “Oxytocin— endorphins really— are released when dancing, same with uh,” His mouth hangs open for a second as his gaze dips down to your lips, “Climax.” 

He’s your coworker, he’s your coworker, coworker, cowork— “Would you consider orgasms to have a steady rhythm?” Honestly? Not the worst question you could ask right now. You just hope that it comes off as you being curious instead of desperately horny. 

Spencer needs someone to put him out of misery, cheeks hot as he answers you, “I suppose that maybe, possibly, they could, yes.” 

Your chin tilts upwards, and a soft “Uh-huh” leaves you before the two of you are swept up in a slightly charged, albeit awkward, silence. You try to talk down the little voice in your head that seems to be screaming at you for making things so uncomfortable. 

Why did you ask him that? What did you expect? Was Spencer supposed to drag you into an alleyway and immediately make you cum? Well, on second thought, that’s not such a bad idea— enough! You try to think of a possible escape from this silence, but all your dirty mind can think about are more inappropriate questions and remarks— just your luck. 

“It wouldn’t be such a bad idea.” Spencer’s voice pulls you away from your thoughts. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” 

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea––” He clears his throat in an attempt to keep it from closing up, “Having sex, to help with your, uhm, stress problem.” He holds his breath, waiting for your reactions. Morgan told him that the worst thing a person can do is say no, but Spencer disagrees. Said person could scream at him, slap him for being brazen, or stop talking to him altogether. He wouldn’t blame you if you did. Why did he have to say that? Why would he suggest something like that so openly—

Your laughter makes his brain short-circuit. What kind of reaction is that? Did you think he was joking, or did you find his suggestion so funny that you’re laughing at him? His laughter escapes him in a nervous attempt at self-preservation. If he can play this as a joke, maybe you won’t tell Penelope, and then Penelope won’t tell Derek, and Spencer can live another day free of embarrassment. 

“I’m sorry,” You stammer, “Is the Doctor Spencer Reid suggesting that we sleep together for a dopamine boost?” 

He doesn’t know how to save himself from that; his poker face is not a good one, not when it comes to you. His emotions almost always show on his face; there’s no way you’d believe him if he lied. So, he mentally prepares himself for rejection. “Not necessarily, strictly, suggesting anything. I’m just saying that it could be beneficial to you— both of us— if you needed some help with your irritability, since you’re free.” 

“Are you saying that I have nothing better going on, so I might as well have sex with you?” He’s not exactly wrong, but you don’t need to admit it. 

His cheeks feel hot, burning as he rasps out a shrill, “No! No, speaking from a scientific standpoint, biologically it is one solution to your problem.” 

You let out a soft chuckle, breathy and short-lived. He can’t be serious, there’s no way he’s serious. Not Spencer Reid. And if he wasn’t joking, what would you even say? Sure, sounds like a great plan. Do you have a condom, or should we stop at the store? Better yet! Let’s do it raw to reap the full biological benefits of sex together. 

It’s not realistic. 

Spencer says odd things all the time. Once, he told you about how the spread of ringworms between animals and humans works, solely because of one off-handed comment. Not that you mind, you do enjoy learning, that was no lie. Spencer was a plethora of knowledge, and you trusted every little word that came out of that pretty mouth of his. 

He’s grown to be more than just your favorite walking, talking, human encyclopedia. Spencer Reid had the biggest heart, the best laugh, and the softest hazel eyes. He cares about other people intensely, is always willing to go out of his way to listen and help others, and is borderline selfless sometimes. Sure, that was part of the job, but Spencer made it into something more, something raw. 

So, no, he couldn’t be suggesting such a thing. Not your Spencer Reid. “You’ve got a weird sense of humor, Reid.” You mutter, your feet falling into sync beside him. You can see your apartment building coming into view and feel your body beginning to long for your bed. 

The rest of the walk is quiet, with soft mentions of summer plans and idle chatter. Spencer shouldn’t be so disappointed. You’re still talking to him, still laughing at his jokes, listening to his random facts mid-conversation. You’re willing to make everything go back to normal, ignore his odd suggestion, and go to bed. He should be grateful, and maybe a small part of him is, but the rest of him? The rest of him is so disappointed.

Not because you ignored him, but because you didn’t give him a proper yes or no. Even without a direct answer, he feels rejected, and he’s kicking himself for not being able to make a move like a normal person. 

He walks you up to your door, staring at the number four on the outside of your apartment door for longer than necessary as you dig through your bag to find your keys. When you find them, you hold them up with a proud smile. “They materialize.” You muse, your back facing him as you push the key into the lock. 

The last thing he wants tonight is for him to walk home regretting something. He could go home lamenting the fact that he didn’t make a move, or he could go home regretting the fact that he did. For him, one of those options is far worse than the other. 

Pushing your apartment door open, you begin to turn back towards him, “Thanks for walking me home, Spence, I appreciate it—” A jolt of energy zips through you as Spencer’s lanky fingers wrap around your wrist, yanking your body closer to him.  You barely have time to look down at your wrist before he’s inching closer, pressing his lips against yours in one swift movement. 

The kiss is timid and far too quick for your liking, and when he pulls away from your lips, he immediately apologizes. “I’m sorry! I know I should have asked you first, but I got so nervous with everything I said earlier and—” The rest of his rushed apology is tuned out as you stare up at him with wide eyes. 

In complete amazement, you stare at him like that for what feels like forever. You’d blame it on the alcohol for the way that you find his pathetic ramblings adorable, or for the way you’re reevaluating your conversation from earlier, when you laughed him off. And then there was that little, insistent voice in your head that demanded another kiss, claiming the feeling of a dim spark. 

And who were you to deny it?

Spencer’s hands are moving with him as he talks, finger trembling as he explains that he “....couldn’t go home ruminating on the what-ifs and I needed to do something, and Morgan says that confidence is key and I was trying—” Your fingers hook into the collar of his shirt, pulling him down to your level with a rough yank.

Your lips meet his in a sloppy kiss for just a moment before he kisses you back, and when his head tilts ever-so-slightly to the side, it becomes something else entirely. His lips are softer than you expected, hungrily meeting yours. Spencer kisses like he’s starved for attention, for touch. His hands find purchase on your hips, holding you in place with both hands, like he’s scared you’ll disappear. 

The way the palms of his hands squeeze at your waist makes you weak at the knees. The kiss has seemingly shifted from tender to needy in a matter of seconds, his lips pressing against yours with a delicious roughness. When you pull away, you can feel your bottom lip tingling, a feeling that leaves you a little lightheaded. 

The soft pink of Spencer’s lips is the first thing you’re looking at before pushing him deeper into your apartment. His feet stumble as you force him into your apartment, the flat of your palms on his chest. When the door shuts behind you, the two of you are left in the dark of your apartment. Moonlight seeps through your living room curtains, illuminating the room with a softness so close to ethereal that it leaves Spencer wondering if he’s dreaming.

He’s sure you’re about to tell him that this is a bad idea and send him home, before you let out a frustrated groan and ask him, “Are you sure this is alright?” 

Holy shit. 

He can feel a faint squeeze in his lower abdomen, licking his lips as he tries to think clearly, for your sake and his. “I want this.” He’s clear with his feelings for once. “And I can promise you I want this and much more.” 

As his eyes adjust to the dim lighting, he can see the shine in your eyes. You're staring up at him with the eyes of a woman lost between admiration and awe. You nod slowly, your left hand grabbing his right, “Then don’t keep me waiting.” And while your tone is playful, he can’t help but take it to heart, letting you guide him toward your bedroom. 

A soft giggle can be heard from you as you press a quick kiss to his lips, then another, and another, until the back of his knees are hitting the edge of your bed. You lean in slower now, with the tempting promise of a sweeter, sensual kiss—one where Spencer can enjoy the taste of your lips in full. Your lips brush against his as your hands press against his chest, his balance wavering, and then he’s pushed down on the edge of your bed with a light groan of disappointment. 

His head is spinning from the teasing brush of your lips, his eyes lingering on them as you smile down at him, the look of innocence. “Did you think I’d make this easy for you?” Your teasing words shoot an electric shiver down his spine, a breathless laugh leaving him as your hands rub his shoulders.

“I don’t believe easy is in your vocabulary.” 

“Oh?” You muse, your hands stopping the gentle massage of his shoulders, your left hand leaves a trail of fire up his neck to his chin, tilting it up slowly. Your head cocks to the side, he’s never seen you this smug. Were you like this with everyone else? Or is this just for him? He’s too scared to ask. “Care to elaborate?” 

Spencer swallows slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. “You like the challenge. You like having to work for it. I used to think it was because you wanted to be intellectually stimulated, but seeing you like this makes me think that you get off on it. ”

You try to hide your smile, the grip on his chin slacking as your thumb traces a soft pattern on his lower jaw. “God forbid a girl has a bit of fun.” He cracks a smile with that, letting out a low hum as he raises his hands to pull you closer towards the bed, your knees hitting the edge of the bed that lies between his thighs.

Spencer’s pleading eyes almost make you cave, those soft chocolate pools of desire almost too alluring to resist. Almost. Although you guess he deserves a little treat before the night begins. You lean down, cupping both cheeks to press a slow kiss to his lips. Spencer matches your energy, not taking the kiss up a notch until you do, one of your hands straying to the root of his hair and pulling lightly at his brown curls while your tongue slowly slides against his bottom lip.  

Fighting back a groan, Spencer eagerly parts his lips for you. Your tongue drags against his, exploring his mouth at a torturous pace. Spencer can feel his cock, begging for some friction, jump inside his pants as you softly suck on his bottom lip. He’s breathing hard, your mouth swallowing most of his groans and sighs, until your teeth pull at his bottom lip and he lets out a sweet, quiet whimper. 

You pull away, and Spencer can feel himself spiraling before you push his hair back and whisper a breathy, “So good, baby.” His genius mind is out of commission after that, and whatever energy, whatever brain cells he has left over are now yours to use as you like. “Lean against the headboard.” 

It’s a direct order that he immediately follows. He’s kicking off his shoes as fast as possible, moving around on your bed until his back hits the headboard. 

His enthusiasm both excites you and amuses you, your eyes rolling with a playful shake of your head. He watches as you crawl over to him on the bed, swallowing hard as his eyes take you in. He’s waiting for his alarm to go off and for him to wake up in bed, without you, alone, and painfully hard. 

You let out a short laugh, seeing his wide-eyed expression, “You’re sure you still want this?” You ask as you reach him, your eyes on his. 

Spencer’s answer is a quick, “Yes!” which makes you smile wide at him, “Are you?” His fingers are itching to touch you, but he keeps them in his lap, fidgeting. 

You let out a playful hum as you swing a leg over his lap, carefully straddling him. “Yes," you answer, looking down at him. You lean in, teasing his lips with a light brush, leaning away whenever Spencer tilts his head up in a vain attempt to kiss you thoroughly.

“Patience is a virtue.” Your lips brush against his as you whisper, kissing the corner of his lips, much to his dismay. 

Spencer would say he’s not usually this needy, but he doesn't have ample experience to draw from anyway. He can only blame his neediness on you. You who is grinning from ear-to-ear as you kiss his cheek, you who is hovering over his lap, you who is laughing when you see his pleading expression. You mutter something that Spencer can vaguely make out as disappointed, “Greedy.” Before your lips press firmly onto his. 

He could spend hours kissing you. In fact, if nothing else happens tonight, he’d walk home happy knowing he kissed you like this. Your languid kisses easily turn hungry as Spencer slides his hands to your waist, guiding you to sit on his lap. He can feel a ghost of a smile against his lips, his hands squeezing gently at your sides as you resume your earlier task of exploring his mouth with your tongue. 

You swallow a groan from Spencer as you take a moment to suck on his tongue, his hand gripping your waist tighter. Letting out a muffled hum of pleasure, you grind your hips down on his with almost perfect precision. 

Spencer’s back goes rigid, feeling the way your hips grind against his, unsure if it’s okay for a moment before lust wins out against logic. His large hands tighten around your clothed hips, pulling your hips down against his until he’s rutting his hips against yours like a dog in heat. He can feel your grin against his lips again, and he’s already whining by the time you pull away from him. Your hips lean away from his, sitting up on your knees. 

His eyes look dazed, lust and confusion dancing in them as he tries his best not to come off as anxious, “Why’d you stop?” His breathy voice sends a shiver down your spine, right to your core. 

“You want to take my clothes off, don’t you?” You leave his lap, moving to the side of his outer right thigh to properly strip. 

His parted lips snap shut, nodding as fast as he can, immediately playing to your whims. You raise an eyebrow, “You need to learn to let a girl have her fun with you.” You muse as your hands reach for the edge of your top. Spencer’s heart rate doubles as he watches your fingers curl around the bottom hem. 

His gaze darts between your fingers and your face, but his brows knit together, clearly confused. “What do you mean?” You’re pulling your top off painfully slow, and he’s debating asking you if he can do it for you. 

Your top is passing your midriff. “If I’m on top,” His breath catches in his throat as he sees the bottom swell of your breast, “And if I want to tease you, learn how to take it.” 

“Jesus Christ,”  He shifts under you, your words reminding him how his erection is going ignored. “I’m going to need a good teacher.” It’s meant to be witty, but his tone sounds so strained that he’s surprised that you aren’t laughing at him right now. His eyes, not knowing what to stare at, barely meet yours before the sight of your lace-covered breasts enthralls him. 

His strained, whiny voice has your body feeling hot all over. Making a mental note to make this man whine some more, you throw your top off to the side of the bed, hands making a beeline for your pants. “Oh, how exciting.” You slide out of them, leaving you in your bra and panties. “Your first lesson.” 

Spencer, feeling awkward that he’s still fully clothed, begins to pull his shirt off. But when he goes to undo his pants, your fingers cover his. Your fingers are quick to pull his pants down to his thighs, and Spencer kicks them off without needing to be told. 

You were a professional; you didn’t sleep with coworkers, no matter how tempting. Spencer Reid, however, is your forbidden fruit. His hazel eyes, wide and soft with need, make your chest clench with affection. You can feel some part of you salivating for another taste of him, knowing you’re too far gone to listen to reason. 

Your gaze is slow to drop to his lap, eyes flickering across his bare chest, then down to the bulging outline of his cock against the thin material of his boxers. You hesitate, just for a moment, hand hovering in the air before you gently trace the outline of his cock through his boxers— undeniably pretty. 

“Just for me?” Your head is bowed, eyes looking up through your lashes. Spencer lets out a shaky sigh, nodding a wordless response. You drag your index fingers roughly against the tip of his clothed dick. “Words, Spence.” 

“Yes,” He whines, groaning as your hands pull down his boxers. “It’s all for you.” 

“Very good.” Then, you're pulling his boxers down, gaze hungry as you expose Spencer’s hard cock inch by inch. You shift slightly to help him pull his boxers off, but your eyes are locked onto his cock. Red, hot tip with a slight curve towards his stomach, thick and twitching. You swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth slowly, and millions of ways to tease him immediately come to mind. 

He tries to stop himself from feeling hot under your intense gaze, fighting the urge to beg you not to stare. He’s about to cave when you reach your left hand into your panties. A gentle groan leaves your lips as you swipe your fingers along the entrance of your warm cunt, “I can do that—” Spencer begins, but you’ve already stopped touching yourself, pulling your left hand away from your heat, fingers covered in your slick. You wrap your hands around his length, and Spencer has to stop his hips from immediately bucking at the feeling of your slick-covered hand.

“What was that, pretty boy?” Your hand slowly begins to move up and down the length of his cock. 

Usually, Spencer would say something in rebuttal to that nickname, but the only thing you can hear right now is the sounds of him letting out tiny moans. He sputters, trying to reply, but your grip grows tighter as your hands move down his length, and all you get is a pathetic-sounding whine. 

Leaning in to press a wet kiss to his shoulder, you watch as Spencer’s hips jolt when your index finger does a quick sweep over the pretty pink head of his cock. “Feels so much better than your hand, huh?” You read his mind, looking up at him. 

Spencer’s head nods, breathing picking up as your lips suck on the sensitive skin of his neck as your hand steadily strokes him. “I–” You pick up the pace, teeth dragging against his pulse point. “Mmm, I’ve fantasized about you touching me like this.” He has no reason to lie, not now. He has pictured what it could feel like to have your fingers wrapped around his cock instead of his own, how you’d spread the pre-cum around the head of his cock, how you’d look licking his cum off of your hand. 

His breathy admission earns him a soft groan, “Often?” You sound excited as you pull away from his neck. The idea of fulfilling one of his fantasies leaves you with an oddly triumphant sense of pride. Truth be told, he was fulfilling your fantasy: having Spencer Reid whining and moaning at your touch—a guilty pleasure on lonely nights. 

Spencer doesn’t want to look you in the eyes when he answers, but he does anyway, your lustful gaze making it hard for him to look away. “Yes.” 

You let out a satisfied sounding hum, looking away from him to lean down closer to his cock, for a second he’s sure you’re about to take him into your mouth. But, he isn’t disappointed when he sees a long trail of spit leaving your lips and coating the head of his cock. 

Your hands helps coat your spit all around his cock and he’s in heaven. His head leaning back against the headboard as your hand brings him closer to the best orgasm he’s ever had. “ I-I’m, oh god,” He pants out, head rolling to the side to catch your gaze. “I won’t last very long if you keep this up. I’m not as experienced as,” His mouth falls open mid-sentence as you move your hand faster, letting out a cry of pleasure. 

“I’m not, shit—” He swallows hard, “I’m not as experienced as I’d like to be, can–can’t last that long with you doing that!” He practically shouts at the end of his sentence. 

“With a cock this pretty,” You give his length one last pump, “I find that hard to believe.” Carefully letting go of his cock, after all you want to have fun too. If Spencer thought his cock was being ignored before, he wasn’t expecting this. He whines, feeling the warmth of your hand leave him, his breathing heavy. 

Your hand, covered in remnants of spit, dips into your underwear where you haphazardly smear the spit against your folds. Spencer’s heart skips a beat, enjoying the show you make of pulling your panties off your body. He almost sobs when you straddle his lap again, carefully sitting with your dripping core pressed directly onto his aching cock.  

You let out a shaky groan when Spencer’s hips buck into yours, a wild look in his eyes that makes him seem more animalistic than needy. You can feel your walls squeeze around nothing as the head of his cock slowly grinds up into your clit. You bite your bottom lip to muffle a low moan, shuddering above him. 

Your lips part, staring down at him with half-lidded eyes as Spencer’s brows furrow and eyes flutter shut with every needy rock of his hips. His hands grab at your hips, pushing and guiding you down to meet his. It’s not nearly enough and the both of you know it, the desperate urge to fill your sopping cunt to his heart's content growing with every pleasured sigh that leaves your lips. 

“Please,” Spencer’s hands move to swell of your ass, gripping the skin hard as he uses your pussy lips as his personal toy. His breath is hot against your chest, lips leaving sloppy kisses below your collarbone. To him, you’re ethereal, a seraph, as you grind your pussy lips against his length and he desperately needs to be inside you. He needs to know how the cunt of an angel feels as soon as possible. “Let me fuck you.”

Fuck. It’s not a question, nor a demand, but a plea. His wording makes you groan, the idea that he has to beg to fuck you like this, that you have control over him like this. You’ve imagined Spencer in bed a handful of times, assuming that he’d be timid, yes, but fantasies are nothing compared to hearing that desperate plea.

You reposition your knees, pressing your chest into his face as you reach between your legs to guide him to your entrance. Spencer’s hands knead against the plump skin of your ass as you slowly sink down on him, a shaky exhale can be heard from the both of you. The fact that you haven’t been stretched out on his fingers dawns on you as you struggle to relax around the girth of his cock. 

And Spencer seems to have the same thought, his hands snaking up your back to unlatch your bra. Once off, his lips sucking and nipping at the skin around your right nipple before his lips latch around its aroused bud. Your discomfort is partially forgotten as the flat of his tongue drags against the sensitive bud. A gasp, followed by a small, “Mhmm, that’s it.” Your hands leave his shoulders to push his hair back and away from his face as he focuses on his task, threading your fingers into his brown locks. 

Your core swallows the rest of him whole, and you experimentally grind your hips down on his cock. His eyes, previously half-lidded, widen for a second before looking up at you. His lips still attached to your breast, eyes silently pleading for more, for anything, he has you teasing him with a light clench of your walls around him. 

“Remember what I told you, Reid,” Spencer remembers… well, practically everything. But memories are hard to conjure when he’s buried deep inside you, velvet walls pulsing around him. Leaning away from your breast, a trail of spit still connects your skin to his tongue. “Learn how to take it.” You playfully scold, right thumb trailing down from his hair to swipe at the spit on his lips. “You can do that, can’t you?”

Spencer’s lips twitch into a soft smile, your thumb tracing a soft pattern against his bottom lip. “I can do that.” He confirms with a gentle tone, eyes searching yours. The man beneath you looks lovesick, drunk on your touch, perfectly content to spend his days doing whatever you tell him, obedient. 

The thought that he’ll do anything you say. The first move from you is a gentle roll of your hips, followed by a slow exhale. The sting of discomfort readily gets replaced with pleasure as you begin to ride him. Your palms move to grip the headboard behind Spencer’s shoulders, tilting your head to the side to carefully observe him, getting off on every little reaction he shows you. 

A quick, lust-filled smile graces your lips as you move your hips up and down at a slow and steady pace. Spencer’s head tilts back slightly, soft sighs of pleasure leaving his parted lips everytime your hips sink down on his cock. “Is that good?” 

You're teasing him, and he’d be dumb not to notice it; he knows that you can see—feel— how much he’s enjoying this, hear it even. Nevertheless, his head nods quickly as he rasps a mewl of a “Yes, so good.”

Canting your hips closer, you pick up the pace. The slight change in your position has his cock brushing against that sweet spot inside your pussy that has you shivering ontop of him, electricity coursing down your spine. Your eyes flutter closed, chasing after that feeling, panting as you use Spencer’s cock to bring yourself closer to your climax. 

Spencer’s hips meet yours now as you ride him faster, the slapping and squelching of skin meeting skin can be heard alongside a cacophony of sinful-sounding moans and pants. Spencer’s head is thrown back, brows drawn together as he staves off his orgasm, wanting to drag this out for as long as possible. “Oh, god,” your name falls from his mouth in a string of pathetic-sounding moans, “Oh, Mommy—” He squeaks as he realizes the words that have escaped the dirtiest parts of his mind. His rosy cheeks turn slightly pale, eyes peering open to see your reaction. 

Your cunt squeezes him tighter when his worried eyes reach yours. Your gaze isn’t filled with disgust, but darkened with desire. “What was that baby?” You gasp out, hips expertly snapping down onto his. Spencer’s mouth falls open to shamelessly repeat himself, but it’s too much for him. His words choking in the back of his throat as cries of pleasure replace them. 

Pouting, you snap your hips down onto his with an abrupt stop. Spencer lets out a strangled sounding sob as you tilt his chin up, “Oh, Spencer, baby, do you need to say something?” You’re breathless and so, so, so, so close, but you need to hear him repeat those words before you cum. 

Spencer’s chest softly heaves, blinking away the confusion in his eyes as you squeeze your tight walls around him, his hips struggling against yours.  It’s hard to tease him properly as the head of his cock keeps grinding into your g-spot, your mind becoming hazy with pleasure.  But you can’t risk stopping, not when you’re this close. Your lips part, a whine threatening to leave them as you speak, “I’m so s’close, you can handle a little more. Just a-a little longer.” Your voice trembles for a second, but it coaxes a gentle moan out of him nonetheless. 

His cock feels desperate to empty into you as you deny him his orgasm with another sharp, “Not yet.” He feels he must obey your demand, his head becoming lightheaded whenever you order him around. He can feel tightening around him, walls fluttering against him with every second you get closer to your climax. 

Spencer can feel his eyes prickle with tears, his bottom lip trembling, “I need to cum. Need to cum, let me cum, Mommy.” 

You let out a broken laugh as he finally says the words you were so desperately waiting for, “You’re the one who asked for this, Spence.” You managing to speak so coldly to him while vigorously bouncing on his cock has him letting out another weak sob, “Look at you, you can barely handle it.” Your moans are becoming louder and slightly animalistic. “Let me use you while I can.” 

You do exactly that, using him as you feel your orgasm crashing on you, your hands move to his shoulders, nails dragging against his skin as you loudly cry out for him. When your hips stutter against his, your body shuddering and melting into pleasure, Spencer is quick to buck his hips erratically up to yours, helping you ride out your orgasm to the fullest. 

Spencer is quick to follow, grabbing your hips tightly to pull himself out of you with a curse, his seed coating your pussy lips and inner thighs. “I’m sorry,” He pants out, the ends of his hair sticking to his forehead, “I’m sorry, I’m–” 

“Spencer, it’s okay.” You exhale, panting lightly as you look down at him with a lazy grin. 

He’s quiet after that, his grip of your hips loosening as you dip your head to look at him, forehead slowly pressing against his. You let out a little laugh, exhausted and giddy, “You good?”

He lets out a soft ‘mhm’ that tells that all his energy has left him. You can’t judge him; your body is suspiciously close to crashing. You can hear him mumble your name, and you move your head away from his, “Yes?” 

“Are you—” He stops, licking his lips, “I’d like it if we could be—” He struggles to find the right words, anxiety and exhaustion making him into a simpering fool. 

But you’re grinning, so he must be doing something right. He’s about to attempt his messy request to be the only man in your love life when you mutter a soft, whisper-like, “I’d love to be exclusive with you, Dr. Reid. On one condition.” 

You smooth his hair back, out of his face, “We keep this between us until we’re ready to tell the team, I don’t need a team of profilers in my love life— not while we’re together.” 

Spencer can feel his chest tighten, watching as you move to hold your pinkie finger towards him. He links his pinkie around yours, “Deal,” He laughs.  “Now, let’s get you cleaned up.” 

Spencer finds acting normal around you increasingly difficult, especially when you keep leaving flirty notes telling him to meet you in the supply closet in ten minutes on his desk (for the fourth time this week). Ever challenging when you insist that your ‘innocent’ little rendezvous won’t lead anywhere, but your plump lips kiss his so hard that they’re swollen in seconds. 

He knows the team knows something is amiss, but he can’t think to worry about it as his head finds a place between your hips, your fingers threading into his hair as you bite your swollen bottom lip in a weak attempt to quiet yourself. 

JJ and Emily note your absence this fine Wednesday morning, something Derek doesn’t find too interesting until he sees that Spencer is also missing. But who is he to ruin it for Spencer? He’s sure the boy genius has you on a mini-coffee date at some café across the street. 

Well, he was sure, until he rounded the corner to see you stumble out of a supply closet, your hair ruffled and makeup smudged. He almost calls out your name when he notices Spencer tailing behind you, his cardigan ruffled and hair equally tousled. Derek’s jaw drops open, waiting and standing in awe as you blow Spencer a kiss and head in the opposite direction toward the bathrooms. 

The second Spencer turns to see his friend, the smile drops away from his face, and the color leaves his cheeks. Morgan’s smile is reminiscent of the Cheshire cat’s as he draws out a proud “My man!” and Spencer feels dread fill his soul. He’s never going to live this down.

“Police just got a 911 call about a break in, but there’s a witness this time. She was home when it happened and it looks like he didn’t expect that and tried to knock her out before escaping. I think it sounds like our unsub. Morgan and Reid, I need you to go check out the scene and interview the witness, see what she remembers.” Hotch explained.

Morgan and Reid nodded as Garcia spoke up, “I just sent the address to your phones, it’s a house on Hillcrest so it's not that far from here.”

Spencer froze. he had to have heard wrong, she did not say Hillcrest, “Did you say Hillcrest?”

“Yeah, Hillcrest Drive. It’s like, a 15 minute drive, not that far.”

He felt his heart drop to his feet, a sinking feeling building in his gut. That was the street you lived on. He tried to ground himself with logic, the probability of it being your house is only 10%, but he was dreading asking the fated question.

“Garcia, what’s the house number?”

“Reid, I already sent it to your pho-“

“Garcia, what is the house number,” he spoke again. 

Please don’t say 1159. Please don’t say 1159. Please don’t say-

“1159.”

Fuck. The color drained from his face, and the nausea was building to a head quickly. Spencer hurriedly tried to think through the last time he spoke to you. Last night? This morning? He doesn’t check on you as much as he does when he’s not on a case, but oh my god why can’t he remember the last time he saw you.

“Reid,” Hotch bellows, finally breaking spencer out of his trance, “What is it? What do you know?”

He shook his head, “Nothing. Morgan, let’s go.” he grabbed his jacket and booked it out the door.

Morgan, Garcia, and Hotch all looked at each other in concern, before Morgan spoke up, “I’ll see what’s up.” The latter two nodded softly, though the worry didn’t let up in their eyes.

Morgan walked up to the car to find Spencer repeatedly trying to call someone on the phone, clearly unable to get through and getting really frustrated.

Spencer was alerted by Morgan’s presence hearing the car unlock but he didn’t even look at him, just immediately got in the car and strapped his seat belt. Morgan joined him in the drivers seat giving him a wary look before turning the car on and pulling out of the bureau.

“Okay Reid, spill it. It’s obvious you know who lives here.” Morgan speaks up.

“Just drive, please.”

“Because if you know something, something that could help the case, it would be helpful if we knew.”

“Morgan, just drive.” he borderline yells.

He raises his eyebrows at his raised voice, “Listen kid, i’m just trying to help you. I can see you’re upset but we’re on the same side, you know that.”

Spencer takes a shaky breath, feeling another shade of guilt at yelling at one of his friends, for something he didn’t even know about. He’d kept you a secret for many reasons— your relationship with him was still new, and he just wanted to keep you to himself for a bit. After what happened with Maeve, he felt especially more responsible at keeping you safe and making sure you didn’t get tangled up in his line of work.

Some job he did of that.

The one thing he regrets about how he handled the Maeve situation, was not asking for help until it was almost too late. For not doing anything about her stalker when he was part of one of the most famous fbi teams built to find people like that. He’d always live with that guilt, but he vowed not to do that with you.

He loved you so much. You were so kind, and smart, and beautiful. A breath of fresh air after feeling lost in a dark tunnel for so long. You were so understanding when he explained what he did for a living, and what had happened to him and people he cared about as a result. He still remembers what you said to him when he told you that you could have an out, if you wanted.

“Any risk is worth taking if getting to be with you is the consolation prize.”

Tears welled up in eyes thinking about the memory. If you were willing to take any risk, then he should be able to as well.

He cleared his throat, and Morgan’s ears perked up, “My uh, my girlfriend lives there. Where the unsub, at- attacked.” he voiced softly.

Morgan looked at him for a beat while driving, Spencer missing the way his face dropped. He tightened his hands on the wheels, and without hesitation he turned the lights and siren on and shifted gears to speed up.

__

The car pulled onto your street and the first thing Spencer sees is the flashing light of the ambulances. Morgan doesn’t even put the car in park before Spencer’s bolting out hoping he can find you quickly.

He’s asking all the paramedics he’s passing if they’ve seen you or know if you’re being treated, were you transferred to a hospital and he didn’t know. The tunnel vision slowly overtaking him until he hears a voice breaking through like sunlight call out his name.

He whips his head in the direction he heard it come from, and he’s never been more grateful to be met with the beautiful sight of you. You watch his eyes widen and let out a sigh before running over to where you were sitting in the back of the ambulance. He’s definitely not thinking when he goes in to hug you, not even knowing the extent of your injuries. He’s overtaken by the desperate need to hold you in his arms so he knows you’re safe and okay.

“Hi,” you choke out muffled, “Funny seeing you here.”

He pulls back to inspect your face, taking note of a small cut above your left eyebrow and the beginning splotches of a bruise forming on your lower jaw. His heart aches so much looking at you, knowing what happened to you and who did this to you.

“Hi, honey,” he lets out tearfully, “Are you okay? I mean, of course you’re not. But what did the paramedics say? Did they give you anything? Are you sure they checked all your injuries? You know what, let me go call the guy over. I’ll be two seconds.” his panicked ramble fading off as he rounds the truck you’re sat in to find the emt.

Upon his extensive questioning of the man who treated you, he found out that you had sustained a minor concussion from when the unsub swung at you with an umbrella, superficial cuts caused by a broken vase you threw to defend yourself, and a dislocated shoulder from getting shoved into the wall.

You were okay, but at what cost.

The EMT leaves you two and Spencer sits himself next to you on the rig. He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you as tight as he can and the other hand cradles your head into the crook of his neck, holding you so tight he’s hoping he can squeeze the bad memories out of you. It’s at this moment of feeling safe and sound in his arms when the adrenaline of your attack wears off.

Spencer hears a small whimper and feels a few hot tears trickle down his neck, your breathing gets faster as you’re attempting to beat your body’s fear response. The slow build up of sobs starting to rack your chest, and he immediately holds you tighter.

“It’s over, baby, they won’t hurt you anymore. I promise.”

You sniffle, “I know, I just can’t believe this happened. To me. To us. It’s not fair to you.” trailing off the last two words.

“To me? Wh- what do you mean?”

You take a deep breath, “I don’t mean to bring it up again, I just know how eerily similar this is to a past experience you’ve had. and I hoped that I wouldn’t be in a position to make you feel that way again. I don’t know why this happened, I'm sorry.”

He looked down at you incredulously, genuinely unable to believe that you were sitting next to him on an ambulance, beaten up with bruises and scars after a home invasion attack, worried about how he would feel when he got to you. It was enough to finally let the swell of tears saved up in his eyes fall.

“Oh sweetheart,” he chokes out, realizing you’ve been trying to be brave for him this whole time, “What happened is not your fault, do you understand me? My job is to always worry about you and your safety. When Garcia said the address I…I couldn’t even process it, I don’t even know how I got to the car,” he shook his head, “But I am the last person you need to push your emotions down for. I will always take them in stride and love you even more for that, okay?”

“Okay,” you take a shaky breath, “I love you.”

“I love you.” he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head.

Both of your heads look up at an approaching figure, who you quickly recognize to be SSA Derek Morgan. You knew Spencer hadn’t told the team about you yet, so you tried to sit up independently as fast as you could before he came over and suspected something.

Spencer’s grip didn’t let up when he bent down and whispered, “It’s okay, he knows.” You look up at him with wide eyes when derek finally reaches you.

“Reid, I already talked to the detectives and we’re good to go when you’re ready,” he turns his body to you and gives you a comforting smile, “Hi sweetheart, I’m Derek Morgan, it’s nice to meet you.”

Spencer rolls his eyes at the nickname while you giggle softly, “Hi Derek, I’ve heard so much about you. It's nice to finally meet you too.”

“I wish it were under better circumstances,” he sighs, “Listen, I know it’s all still really fresh for you, but it might help the case if you’re able to come in for a cognitive interview, or even talk to a sketch artist.”

Spencer doesn’t miss a beat before protesting, “Absolutely not. We can do it later, it’s fine.”

“Reid-“

You look up at him placing your hand on his chest, “Spence, It’s okay. I want to help, please.”

He rests his hand on top yours and gives it a light squeeze, “Okay, but i’m not leaving you alone for a second.”

“I didn’t think you would.” you smile.

“Alright lovebirds, you can have your private time later, we should go now.” Derek teases.

Spencer groans, “See, this is why i didn’t say anything.”

“You think I’m bad? Wait till Penelope meets her.”

__

The three of you pile into the car before starting the drive to Spencer’s apartment so he could get you a change of clothes and other things you might need. You end up falling asleep in the back seat, the final stage of your shock sinking in like a rock. Spencer checks on you from the rear view mirror and sees you passed out, and smiles.

“She’s cute,” Derek starts, “Can I ask how long?”

“Nine months.” he replies, fishing for something out of his pocket.

“Pretty boy hid a girl from all of us for nine months? Maybe we’re not as good profilers as we thought.”

“Imagine that,” he laughs, and gestures to the item in his hand, “Look.”

Spencer’s holding out a well loved photo booth strip with three pictures, of you and Spencer from the time you went to a local county fair. You’re sitting in his lap, mostly due to the cramped space and the expansive limbs. The first picture is the two of you holding up finger guns attempting to be as back to back as you can. The second picture, you intended it to be a normal one where you both smile at the camera, but spencer couldn’t take his eyes off you and the picture captured the love struck gaze he had on you. The last one you were about to tell him the idea for it, when he grabbed your face and pulled you closer to kiss you, neither of you knowing when the final picture snapped.

The edges were worn out and frayed, clearly broken down by the oils on his fingers from pulling it out frequently. It was his most treasured item, a constant reminder of what was always waiting for him when he got back from grueling cases, and how lucky he was to have you in his life.

“You look really happy, kid.” Derek says, thinking about the many times he’s seen his friend at rock bottom, the things that have been so brutally taken from him, and the suffering he’s had at the hands of his job. His heart warms for his friend, who seemed to finally catch a break.

You offered a small, apologetic smile to his new friends. They didn’t look annoyed, per se, but there was a distinct air of resignation about them.

Your eyes flicked down to Spencer’s hand. Ah. Of course. He was holding a straight flush. You’d lost him about thirty minutes ago, which likely meant he’d been unknowingly bankrupting these strangers for the better part of that time.

A young woman across the table caught your eye. Her expression was one of pure desperation. “Please help,” she mouthed, her gaze flicking meaningfully between you and Spencer’s cards, clearly hoping for an insider’s tip.

You gave her a sympathetic little smile and leaned down closer to Spencer, your voice dropping to a murmur meant only for him. “Spencer.”

He looked up again, and his eyes softened, the focus shifting entirely from the game to you. You brushed a stray curl from his forehead, your fingers lingering for a moment. His skin was warm.

“You’re a bit warm. That’s not good,” you chided gently. “How about we get some fresh air?”

Spencer was utterly dazed. What you couldn't possibly know was that his dazed state wasn't solely the product of the alcohol. It was the intoxicating combination of your proximity, your touch carding through his hair and your hand on his back. His long-standing crush was currently fussing over him, and his brain was short-circuiting beautifully.

“Okay,” he mumbled, his agreement pliant. He turned back to the table. “Sorry for not finishing the game.”

A chorus of relieved voices answered in unison. “Oh, no, it’s fine!”

You couldn’t help a small grin as the woman who’d pleaded for help mouthed a grateful, “Thank you.”

One of the men, who looked as though he’d lost a significant bet, shook his head and mumbled under his breath, “How could you ever play cards with him?”

You chuckled, slipping your arm around Spencer’s waist to help steady him as he stood. “Oh, trust me,” you said, “I’ve gotten used to it.”

As you began to guide him away, you heard the woman whisper conspiratorially to her friend, “Well, yeah, he’s cute. I’d also be fine with it if I was dating him.”

You paused, glancing back at her in confusion, but in that moment, Spencer stumbled, his full weight leaning into you. You caught him easily, your attention immediately returning to the task at hand. “Okay, easy there, genius,” you said, steering him toward the door and making sure he waved a clumsy goodbye to the team.

You managed to guide a wobbly Spencer out the heavy door of the bar. But the moment you cleared the threshold, his legs seemed to give out entirely. He simply folded, settling directly onto the sidewalk.

“Spencer!” you called out.

He looked up at you, completely unbothered, propping his chin in his hand with his elbow resting on his knee. “Hm?”

“Don’t sit on the ground. It’s dirty,” you chided, reaching for his arm.

“I don’t care,” he mumbled, his head already beginning to loll precariously in his palm. “The entire bar was dirty. It doesn’t matter now.”

You sighed, a fond exasperation washing over you. Arguing with a drunk genius was a losing battle. So, you gave in. You carefully lowered yourself to sit beside him on the concrete, ignoring the chill that seeped through your clothes. Gently, you took his arm from his knee and guided his head to rest on your shoulder instead. He leaned into the contact immediately, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he nestled against the curve of your neck.

“I’m cold and warm,” he complained, his voice a mumble against your skin.

You chuckled softly. “You drank a lot, and it’s cold outside,” you explained, carefully shifting to wrap an arm around his back to steady him. You pressed your free hand to his forehead again. He was still too warm. “We should get you home,” you murmured, your voice filled with concern.

“Okay,” he agreed easily, nuzzling even closer.

The smile that touched your lips was involuntary and full of affection. Getting him home, however, was where the real challenge began.

The short walk to your car was exhausting to say the least. You half-carried, half-dragged him, his tall frame leaning heavily on you as he offered slurred commentary on the urban planning of the sidewalk cracks. Getting him into the passenger seat felt like buckling a very large and completely uncoordinated child into a car seat.

The drive was quiet. But the grand finale was the stumble up the stairs to his apartment building. It was… an experience. Each step was a negotiation.

“Just one more, Spencer, come on.”

“These stairs are surprisingly loud,” he slurred, clinging to the banister with one hand and your shoulder with the other.

“That’s because they’re old,” you grunted, heaving him up another step. “And you’re drunk.”

“Correlation is not causation,” he retorted, though the argument lost all its impact when he immediately tripped on the next step.

By some miracle, you finally reached his door. Fishing the keys from his pocket, you unlocked it and guided him inside.

Somehow, with a great deal of coaxing and maneuvering, you managed to guide him into the bathroom. You positioned him to lean against the counter, his hands gripping the edge for support. You stepped into the space between him and the sink, gently nudging his knees apart so you could stand closer. He complied without protest, his dazed eyes fixed on you.

The air was thick with a new kind of tension. To break it, you focused on a simple task. Your fingers went to the knot of his tie, loosening it.

"Why did you wear a tie to the bar?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you slid the fabric from his collar.

Spencer hummed. "I don't know what else to wear."

"You can just wear a cardigan," you suggested, a soft smile playing on your lips as you folded the tie and set it aside on the counter. "You have nice ones."

"Would you like that?" he asked quietly, his head tilting.

"Would I like what?"

"You said that you love my ties," he stated.

"I do," you affirmed, slightly confused but sensing you were treading on delicate ground.

His next words came out in a rush. "I wanna look good for you, so I try to wear ties as much as I can." There was no shame, no blushing self-awareness. It was a devastatingly honest confession poured straight from his heart, facilitated by the alcohol flooding his veins.

"Spencer!" you breathed, your hands stilling as you stared at him in shock.

His face fell instantly, confusion clouding his features. "What? Do you not like them anymore?" he asked, his voice tinged with sadness. "I can wear something else."

"You can wear whatever you want," you managed to say, your mind reeling. A part of you felt a pang of hurt at the thought that his clothing choices weren't entirely his own. "Why would you wear something just because I complimented it?"

"Because I like it when you compliment my ties," he mumbled, his body swaying slightly. You instinctively steadied him by placing your hands on his waist, the contact sending a jolt through you. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a second before finding yours again. "Or when you touch them to look at the pattern. It makes me feel really warm on the inside when you do."

The air left your lungs. You stared, utterly speechless. In his inebriated state, Spencer Reid had just confessed his crush on you to you. He had no idea of the magnitude of what he'd just revealed.

Needing a moment to process, you quickly grabbed the cup of water you'd set aside earlier. "Here, drink this," you instructed softly, holding the cup to his lips. As he drank, you used your free hand to gently brush the soft curls back from his fever-warm forehead.

You gently wiped the stray water droplets from his chin with your thumb, your touch lingering for a heartbeat. Needing to do something, anything, with your hands, you began to unbutton the top button of his shirt, just to give him a little more air. He sighed in relief.

In the quiet of the bathroom, his voice was small. "Are you mad at me?"

Your eyes snapped back to his. "No," you said softly. "Not at all, Spencer. I could never be mad at you for that." You cupped his cheek, your thumb stroking his warm skin. "I'm just… worried that you take my words too much to heart."

His response was soft. "I do."

A flicker of that earlier disappointment must have shown in your eyes, because he quickly continued.

"I remember that one time you told me you liked my eyes," he mumbled, his gaze drifting to a spot on the bathroom wall. "And ever since then, I like them more. You were right… they do look nice when the sun hits them."

"Yeah?" you asked, your voice colored with hope.

"Mhm," Spencer nodded, his head lolling slightly before he found your eyes again. "I also like my outfits more. I always hated them." He confessed this with resignation that broke your heart a little. "I didn't know what else to wear. People… people weren't always nice about my clothes. You were the only one who was ever nice to me about them. And you actually meant it." He gave you a tentative smile, one that grew just a fraction when he saw the genuine smile blooming on your own face.

"Well, I do love your outfits," you whispered, your hand moving from his cheek to smooth the collar of his shirt. "They're so uniquely you. It makes you look so handsome."

Spencer blushed, the red somehow deepening beneath the alcohol-induced flush. He ducked his head. "I can't get used to that," he mumbled into his chest.

"Used to what?" you prompted softly, tilting your head to try and catch his downcast eyes.

He finally looked up, his whiskey-colored eyes meeting yours. "Your compliments," he whispered, a confession as potent as any other he'd made tonight.

“Well, get used to them, handsome,” you smiled as you guided the cup back to his lips. He drank obediently, but his eyes never left you, watching you intently over the rim. You held the gaze and it felt strangely intimate.

Once he’d finished, you set the cup aside and turned to grab his toothbrush. The small bathroom cabinet offered two different tubes of toothpaste. You weren't sure which one he liked more.

“Who were you talking to in the bar?” Spencer’s voice was quiet.

“When?” you asked, your hand hesitating between the two options before settling on the mint.

“In the booth. There was a guy… you were laughing with him.” His tone was carefully neutral, but the specificity gave him away.

You looked up from the toothbrush, the paste forgotten in your hand. You gave him your full undivided attention. “I don’t even know who that was, Spencer.”

“You seemed comfortable with him,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the countertop.

You watched him for a long moment, studying the slight downturn of his mouth, the way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes. Understanding began to warm your chest. “Spencer,” you began softly, leaning a hip against the counter to face him fully. “Were you jealous?”

His head lifted, his eyes searching yours. “Maybe,” he finally mumbled. “You touched his arm… like, five times,” he whispered, as if confessing a grave misdeed.

Your heart squeezed. You tilted your head, your voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “Do you want me to touch your arm?”

“No. Yes,” he stammered, frustration creasing his brow. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to touch me. And I know you touch me a lot.” His eyes flickered down to where your hand was resting on his waist, your thumb unconsciously making soothing circles against the fabric of his vest. “You’re doing it right now.”

You followed his gaze, a soft smile gracing your lips. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I am.”

He opened his mouth, trying to articulate the tangled mess of feelings, but his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. The alcohol was a thick fog, making it impossible to find the right words.

You understood. “But you want it to mean something,” you supplied gently, your thumb stilling its motion. “When I touch you, you want it to feel special. You don’t want it to be something I do with just anyone.”

Spencer stared at you, his expression a mixture of relief and wonder that you had somehow untangled the knot he couldn't. “I guess so,” he mumbled.

You understood completely. Your casual friendly touch with that stranger had, in his eyes, devalued the currency of your affection. It made the way you cared for him seem ordinary, when to him, it was everything.

He fell silent for a long moment, processing his own words. Then, he shifted uncomfortably against the counter. "That sounded… oddly possessive," he mumbled, a flicker of clarity breaking through the alcoholic haze. "I didn't mean it like that," he corrected himself worried.

Honestly, you hadn't taken it that way at all, but you stayed quiet.

"I just… like you. A lot."

You took a sharp breath at the directness of the words, your heart stuttering in your chest. But you remained outwardly calm.

"And sometimes," he continued, "I think you like me back. Because of your gentle touches and your really nice compliments." He explained it so sweetly, that a smile inevitably formed on your face. "And Morgan tells me you like me," he added, offering a sheepish smile.

"And then I get hopeful," he whispered, the smile fading, "but then I see you compliment Morgan's shoes, or I see you touch that guy's arm in the bar, and then I just think… how could you like me? That you're just kind like that. That you're just nice to people, and that I'm just… imagining it all." He finished with a tired sigh, rubbing his eye.

You had stayed quiet throughout his entire confession, letting him pour out the insecurities he usually kept locked behind a wall of facts and statistics. Now, you slowly placed the forgotten toothbrush on the counter, bristles up to keep it clean. Your hands came up to cradle his face, your thumbs stroking his warm cheeks.

"I do like you," you whispered, the words finally breaking free. "Very much so. And the compliments I give you are genuine, and they are special. They're just for you, Spencer."

Spencer blinked at you, his eyes widening. "You like me?" he asked, his voice full of awe.

"Very much so," you affirmed, your smile softening.

"Oh," he breathed, a dazed smile spreading across his face. "That's good." He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a second, utterly content with the feeling of your hands on his skin.

You smiled, but the expression became more careful, when Spencer's gaze drifted downward from your eyes. He was staring at your lips, his head tilting as he leaned in slowly.

Gently, you pulled back, just an inch.

He froze, his eyes snapping back to yours, now wide with fear and confusion at the rejection.

"You're drunk," you said softly. You kept your hands on his face, brushing over his cheekbones. "I'm not kissing you when you're drunk."

He processed this, then nodded slowly. "That makes sense," he conceded. But his eyes, full of longing, lingered on your lips a moment longer.

You offered a soft reassuring smile, quickly grabbing the toothbrush to give him a task. Applying a stripe of toothpaste, you held it up for him. To your relief, his motor functions seemed to return for this familiar routine. He took it and began brushing, his eyes never leaving you the entire time.

Under his unwavering gaze, you began to feel warm yourself. You weren't sure if it was the intensity of your conversation or the bright bathroom lighting, but you found yourself fixing your hair behind your ear before shrugging off your thin autumn jacket, letting it rest on the counter beside his tie.

Once he was finished, he slumped against the counter. He looked utterly exhausted.

"Okay," you said softly, reaching out your hand. He took it without hesitation, his fingers lacing with yours. "I know you're going to say you're not hungry, but I just want you to eat one thing before bed. I barely saw you eat anything at the bar." You had a feeling you knew why, the mysterious man had introduced himself just as the food arrived, and Spencer had promptly vanished. That's when you had lost him.

"Okay?" you prompted gently.

Spencer nodded, a sleepy smile touching his lips. "Okay," he agreed happily, letting you lead him by the hand to his small kitchen.

There, he simply leaned back against the counter, his hands coming up to rub at his tired eyes again.

"Stop that," you whispered, gently pulling his hands away. "You'll make them redder."

"Sorry," he mumbled as he let his hands drop.

You started rummaging through his cabinets, finally finding a sealed package of cookies. Ripping it open, you handed him one. He took it obediently and began to nibble. Yet, even in his drowsy state, his gaze was a magnet, drifting from your eyes down to your lips once more.

"I can't wait to kiss you," he mumbled around a mouthful of cookie.

The blunt confession made a fond smile form on your face. "Oh, really?" you asked amused.

He sounded oddly flirty, a side of him so rarely seen, and it sent a wave of warmth through you.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. He reached for another cookie, his movements slow. “The first time I thought of kissing you was when you wore that peach lipgloss.”

You thought for a second, a smile playing on your lips. “Lip oil,” you gently corrected.

“Lip oil. Right,” he repeated, filing the information away with a serious nod. “It smelled really nice. And you looked… really pretty.” The simplicity of the compliment, delivered with such honesty, struck you deeply.

You had been honestly at a loss for words throughout this entire conversation. Giddy joy was bubbling up inside you, making you want to jump on the bed, scream into a pillow in sheer delight, and kick your feet in the air like a thirteen-year-old girl with her first crush.

“Well,” you said, your voice soft and slightly flustered, “I’ll make sure to wear that lip oil when we kiss.”

His eyes, which had been half-lidded with exhaustion, widened with happiness. “Yeah?” he asked, his entire face lighting up.

“Mhm,” you nodded, your heart swelling as you watched him. The mere idea of genuinely planning your first kiss was exciting him so visibly, that it was almost too much to bear.

He took another happy bite of his cookie, then paused, his brow furrowing in a look of deep concentration. “Am I still drunk?” he asked. “I ate and drank.” Apparently, alcohol also had the temporary side effect of lowering his iq.

You couldn't help the soft giggle that escaped you. “Yes, Spencer. You’re still very drunk,” you said, your voice fond as you handed him another cookie to keep him occupied.

“Right,” he mumbled, his shoulders slumping in disappointment. The logical part of his brain had confirmed the truth, but the hopeful, lovesick part was clearly impatient for the sober morning to arrive.

You smiled softly, watching the flicker of insecurity cross his face as the initial euphoria faded, replaced by a more sobering self-awareness.

"You do want to kiss me too, right?" he asked quietly. "You're not just going to kiss me because I'm being weird right now. And drunk. And saying lots of things I shouldn't be saying?" Spencer spoke slowly. "I really, really don't want you to feel like you have to kiss me or force yourself to do something you don't want to. I get it if you just wanna stick with us confessing to each other." He stared at you intently, his hazel eyes searching yours for the absolute truth.

"Spencer," you said, your voice full of certainty, "I'd love to kiss you, and I'm not doing you a favor. I really want to kiss you."

"Okay," he quieted down, a relieved smile finally gracing his lips again, the worry melting away.

"Can I hug you?" he asked softly after a moment. "I don't think I'm too drunk to not hug you." His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to gauge his own sobriety for such an important task.

You smiled, your heart feeling impossibly full. "Yeah, come here." You held up your arms, and he fell into them. He tried his best to hold his own weight, but his coordination was still lacking, causing him to lean into you more than he probably intended. You didn't mind in the slightest.

"You feeling better?" you asked softly, your fingers gently brushing through his curls. You were talking about the alcohol, the dizziness and the overwhelming nature of the night.

"Yeah," he mumbled into your shoulder, his voice muffled and content. "Cookies helped."

"That's good, honey," you said, the endearment slipping out naturally as you brushed a hand over his back.

He stood there for a long moment, before he pulled back just enough to look at you. "Are you going to call me that when we're boyfriend girlfriend?" he asked, his tone utterly serious.

You bit your lip, hard, to stop the laugh that was about to come out. You stood there, trying to compose yourself at his adorably formal phrasing. "You mean 'honey'?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly with suppressed amusement.

He nodded, his expression earnest.

"Do you like it?" you asked softly.

"Yes," Spencer mumbled, a faint blush returning to his cheeks.

"Okay," you said, your smile so wide it almost hurt. "Yeah, I can call you that when we're boyfriend girlfriend." You couldn't stop yourself from the fond tease of repeating his chosen label.

Spencer squinted his eyes. "You're making fun of me," he mumbled, though there was no real hurt in his tone.

You giggled out loud as you held onto his waist for balance, both of you swaying slightly. "I'm sorry," you managed between soft laughs. "I just—why did you say 'boyfriend girlfriend'? It's so formal."

Spencer was smiling a bit at the sound of your laughter, but his eyebrows furrowed in genuine confusion. "Isn't that the term?"

"It just sounds a little funny, that's all," you explained, your giggles subsiding into a warm smile.

Spencer chuckled along. "Okay. Yeah, maybe it does sound a bit odd," he conceded. "Is 'couple' a better term?"

"Yeah, honey, it is," you affirmed, your voice fond.

He felt a new kind of warmth spread through his chest, one that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the way you said that word.

"Should I call you an endearment, too?" he asked carefully.

You tilted your head, your smile softening. "I don't know. Do you want to?"

Spencer shrugged, a small shy gesture. "It would be nice," he admitted, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. "It'd be my special word for you."

Your heart melted. It was clearly very important to him and you found it incredibly endearing. "Well, do you have any in mind?" you asked softly, finally taking the cookie box from his loose grip and putting it away, noticing he hadn't taken any new pieces.

Spencer stayed quiet, staring into the distance as he thought. After a long moment, he looked back at you, his expression nervous. "Would you like… 'sweetheart'?" he said, the word sounding gentle and sweet on his tongue.

You smiled, touched by the old-fashioned sweetness of it. "Would you like to call me 'sweetheart'?" you asked, wanting to hear his reasoning.

He nodded, a little more sure now. "Yeah. I think so. My aunt's husband used to call her that. And she loved it. She would fluster every time." He didn't mention how his aunt and her husband were the only couple he'd ever seen growing up who genuinely seemed to love each other, a beacon of what a relationship could be amidst the chaos of his own parents. He didn't have the words for that yet, but the memory was a good one.

You smiled fondly. "I would love that," you said, your voice sincere.

"Okay," he whispered.

Spencer seemed happy, and utterly exhausted. "Come on, let's get you to bed," you said quietly, leading him by the hand toward his bedroom. He followed willingly, his fingers laced tightly with yours.

In his room, you grabbed a set of pajamas from a drawer and handed them to him, turning your back to give him privacy to change. Once he mumbled a quiet "done," you turned back to find him swaying slightly on his feet. You guided him into bed, gently maneuvering him onto his side, a precaution against the alcohol still in his system. He complied without protest.

Soon enough, you were standing above him, looking down at his sleepy form with a fond smile. His eyes were closed, his breathing beginning to even out. "I'll come by tomorrow, okay?" you whispered, not wanting to startle him.

His eyes flew open immediately. "What?"

"I'll come by in the morning. I'll bring you some food for your hangover," you explained, softly brushing a stray curl from his forehead.

"You're not staying?" he asked, his voice filled with disappointment and surprise.

You looked at him, a little taken aback. "You want me to?"

"Yeah," he nodded. Now that he had you here, he never wanted you to leave.

You watched him, sensing the unspoken thought. Your smile was soft and understanding. "Okay," you whispered. "Well, move aside, sleepyhead."

To your luck, you were wearing clothes comfortable enough to sleep in. You slipped into the bed beside him, turning onto your side to face him. He watched your every movement. Now you were face to face, sharing the same pillow.

"Thank you for taking care of me," Spencer whispered. This time, he was the one to reach forward, his fingers gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. It was a careful touch, one he had been too nervous to initiate all night, the hug being the only bravery he'd allowed himself. His palm cupped your cheek, his hand big and warm, almost engulfing the entire side of your face.

"Any time," you mumbled, leaning into his touch. "I had fun, you know."

He raised a questioning eyebrow.

"I mean," you grinned, "it got my long-time crush to confess his feelings to me."

Spencer blushed but still scooted closer. You let him. The two of you watched each other for a long time. But sleep was clearly trying to claim him. His blinks were becoming longer, his breathing deeper. He tried to fight it, wanting to cherish this new reality of being able to simply look at you, but the exhaustion was winning.

As if reading his thoughts, you whispered softly, "Sleep, Spencer. I'll be here in the morning."

Reassured by the promise of a lifetime of mornings to come, he finally let his eyes drift shut, a smile on his lips as he surrendered to sleep, your hand still resting gently in his.

When morning came, it arrived with a pounding against the inside of Spencer’s skull. He stayed perfectly still, staring at the ceiling of his apartment. Any movement, even the subtle shift of his eyes, sent a fresh wave of nausea through him.

He laid there for long minutes, when the memories of the previous night came rushing back. Your hand on his back in the bar. Your hands cradling his face in the bathroom.

The confession about his ties, his eyes, his…feelings.

His mouth fell open in a silent gasp of horror. He sat up abruptly, a move he instantly regretted as the room tilted violently. He looked to the side of the bed.

It was empty.

A cold dread washed over him. He had done it. He had shattered your perfect friendship. But then his eyes landed on the nightstand. Your hair clips were there, placed neatly beside the lamp. You must have taken them out before bed. A spark of hope flickered in his chest.

He carefully swung his legs out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. There, draped over the counter next to his tie, was your thin autumn jacket. You were still here.

And then the terror returned, tenfold. He wanted to run. To flee his own apartment and hide from the vulnerability he had so carelessly displayed. But as he stood there, paralyzed by shame, another memory surfaced.

He had been fumbling with his pajama pants, the fabric seeming to conspire against his alcohol-slowed fingers. You had had your back turned to him, giving him privacy, and your voice had been soft.

"Spencer?"

"Hm?"

"Promise me something. Please don't regret a single thing tomorrow."

He’d been too focused on the monumental task of getting dressed to fully process it, mumbling a quick, "Yes, i promise," just to satisfy you.

He took a shaky breath and splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it bringing more snippets of the night back. "I can't wait to kiss you." "It'd be my special word for you." "Sweetheart." Shame heated his skin, but he fought it, clinging to the memory of your promise and his own.

He grabbed his toothbrush, squeezing a generous amount of toothpaste onto the bristles. The minty taste was a welcome assault. He could hear sounds coming from his kitchen. You were in his kitchen.

He brushed his teeth for ten full minutes. He scrubbed harshly, wanting to erase every last trace of the night's indiscretions, wanting his breath to be perfect.

Because he remembered, with agonizing specificity, the conversation about kissing. And he was determined to be ready.

Spencer slowly tiptoed towards the kitchen once he was done, hovering in the doorway as he silently watched you. You were at his stove, humming softly as you flipped a golden-brown pancake.

Soon enough, you felt his presence and turned, a warm smile immediately gracing your features. Spencer’s eyes darted instinctively to your lips, then away, a flush creeping up his neck.

“Good morning,” you said, turning off the stove.

“Morning,” he whispered, his voice rough with sleep and regret. He stood there, awkward and embarrassed, but trying his best to hold his ground.

“How’s the headache?” you asked, your tone sympathetic.

“Bad,” he admitted, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. “Like, really bad.”

You nodded and moved to the counter, grabbing a glass of water and some vitamins. “Here, take this.”

As you handed them to him, your fingers brushed against his. Spencer froze slightly at the contact, a difference from the way he’d leaned into your touch just hours before. He took the vitamins and swallowed them quickly, his eyes darting everywhere around the kitchen, anywhere but at you. Unlike yesterday

“I made you pancakes!” you announced, trying to cut through the tension.

Spencer glanced at the small stack on the plate. “Thank you,” he said with a weak, strained smile. “You really didn’t have to do that. I’m so sorry for… for last night.” He stuttered over the apology, the words heavy with shame.

You gently took the empty glass from his hands and then, before he could retreat, you took his hands in yours. They were trembling slightly.

“Spencer,” you said, his name sounding so sweet coming from you.

“Hm?” he mumbled in response, still looking determinedly at a point over your shoulder.

“What did I tell you yesterday?” you prompted, your voice patient.

He looked away, his jaw tightening. He remained silent, the weight of his embarrassment seeming to press him into the floor.

“Spencer,” you said again.

He finally relented, the words a defeated mumble. “Not to regret what I said.”

“Exactly!” you said, your voice brimming with warmth. You released his hands, only to bring your own up to gently frame his face, guiding his gaze until he had no choice but to meet your eyes.

His worried hazel eyes finally locked with yours. And what he saw there wasn’t pity or regret. He saw your happy eyes, shining with affection. The tension in his shoulders began to dissolve.

“So, will you please listen to me?” you asked, your voice soft.

Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, the ghost of his embarrassment still lingering, but then he nodded. “Okay,” he sighed, the sound full of relief. “I’ll try my best.”

He saw you open your arms slightly and he let himself fall into the hug, his own arms wrapping around you tightly. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, closing his eyes. “God,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin. “I can’t believe I said all of that.”

You held him close, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. “It’s fine,” you whispered. “Honestly, it progressed our relationship in ways it hadn't in the past few years.”

Spencer let out a genuine chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours. “Guess so,” he conceded, finally pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes immediately darted down to your lips, and a knowing grin spread across your face.

“Peach lip oil,” he whispered as he noticed you were waiting for him to acknowledge it.

“Yup,” you confirmed, your grin widening. “Had it in my bag. Thought I could put it to good use.”

A deep blush colored his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. “Right. Yeah,” he breathed, his gaze locked on yours.

Your hands slid down his chest, smoothing the soft wool of his cardigan. “So,” you began, your own voice dropping to a slightly flustered whisper. “You’re sober.”

Spencer nodded, watching you. “Completely.”

“If you’d like,” you said, your heart hammering against your ribs, “you can kiss me now.”

A slow, wondrous smile spread across Spencer’s face. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I’d like that very much.”

His hands came up to frame your face, his touch infinitely more sure than it had been last night. His thumbs stroked your cheeks as his eyes flickered down to your glistening lips and back up. He smiled fondly, and then, gathering his courage, he finally pressed his lips to yours.

It was nice. More than nice. It was soft, and warm. A happy hum vibrated in his throat, and you echoed it with one of your own. The kiss broke several times, because neither of you could stop smiling. When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his, both of you simply smiling.

"I've wanted to do that for two years," Spencer breathed.

You felt your heart swell, your smile widening. "Yeah," you whispered back. "Me too."

A look of pure wonder crossed his face, and he leaned in to capture your lips once more in a sweet affirming kiss. When he pulled back again, his expression was slightly dazed. "I'm not dreaming, am I?" he asked softly, his eyes searching yours.

You shook your head slowly, your hands coming up to cradle his jaw. "No, honey," you whispered. "You're not."

The term of affection had an immediate and delightful effect. A charming blush spread from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. You couldn't help the wide grin that spread across your face.

"Yeah," he mumbled, a blissful smile finally breaking through his flustered state. "Definitely not dreaming."

Overwhelmed by happiness, he pulled you tightly into his arms, burying his face in your hair. You held him just as close, feeling the last of his tension melt away.

Then you shrugged off your jacket, and he seized the opportunity. “Here, let me,” he murmured, carefully helping you out of the layers, his fingers brushing lightly against your shoulders.

“Thank you,” you said, your smile bright.

But then, before he could overthink it further, you stepped closer. “Hi,” you said again, softer this time, and wrapped your arms around him in a tight hug.

Thank god, you’d taken the hard choice away from him.

Spencer froze for half a second before melting into it, his arms circling your waist as he buried his nose in your hair. You smelled like vanilla and something uniquely you and he could’ve stayed like that for hours. When you pulled back, your hands lingered, cupping his face.

“I’ve been counting down the minutes for movie night,” you admitted, scrunching your nose adorably.

Spencer’s hands lingered at your waist, his fingers flexing slightly against the fabric of your sweater as if unsure whether to pull you closer or let go. “You could’ve come over sooner,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

You grinned, tilting your head up to press a quick, teasing kiss to his lips before bending down to grab your bag. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

Spencer blinked. His brain short-circuited. Logically, he knew kisses were a normal part of dating. Expected, even. But the suddenness of it, the way your lips had brushed his so casually, left him frozen.

Should he have kissed you back? He hadn’t. And now it was too late.

You didn’t seem to notice his internal crisis, already wandering further into the apartment with an amused smile. “Wow, Spence,” you laughed, running a finger along the dust-free surface of his bookshelf.

Guilt twisted in his chest. He didn’t want you to think he hadn’t liked the kiss, god, he had, but now the moment was gone, and trying to initiate one now would just be awkward, right?

Right.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to step closer, stopping beside you as you picked up a novel from his coffee table. You hummed curiously, flipping it over to read the synopsis.

Spencer fidgeted. “If you want,” he started, then cleared his throat, “you can change already. Get comfortable.” And yes, this was your first time sleeping over. “We can order takeout. Watch movies. Just… relax.”

“Sounds perfect,” you smiled, setting the book down before grabbing your bag again.

And then, without hesitation, you headed straight for his bedroom, already familiar with the layout of his apartment. You'd been here plenty of times. This time was just a bit...different.

Spencer stared after you, heart pounding. He exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair.

Okay. Okay. He could do this.

Spencer let out a slow breath as he sank onto the couch, his fingers drumming against his knees. He wiped his palms on his slacks, again, then adjusted the hem of his sweater, tugging it nervously over his wrists. And then you walked in.

Oh. He was suddenly very glad he was sitting down.

You looked perfect. Your oversized sleep shirt was adorned with a bright red strawberry, and your white pajama pants pooled around your ankles as you padded across the floor. The sight of you in his space, dressed so domestically, sent a warm rush through his chest. You flopped onto the couch beside him, immediately scooting closer until your knees bumped his.

“You even cleaned your room,” you mused, grinning.

Spencer blinked, momentarily distracted by the way your hair fell over your shoulder. “Well, yeah,” he admitted, voice soft. “You were coming over.”

Your smile widened. “That’s sweet. You’re sweet.”

His face burned. Sweet. You called him sweet. And then, because his brain was apparently determined to short-circuit tonight, he realized he was staring. Was he allowed to stare? Probably not this much. But, you were just so… pretty.

Wait. He should say that. Right?

Compliments were important after all. He’d read that in a relationship handbook. Communication was key.

But before he could overthink it further, his mouth moved faster than his brain.

“You look really pretty.” Cringe. Too blunt. “I mean—you are really pretty. But you look extra pretty right now?” He winced internally. Extra pretty? What was he, twelve? “Not that you’re not usually—I just—” He cut himself off with a frustrated shake of his head.

But you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you were beaming, slightly flustered, as you glanced down at your pajamas. “Thank you,” you said, smoothing the fabric with your fingers. “I got these just for movie night with you.”

Spencer’s fingers twitched against the couch cushion as he nodded. “Well—they’re very nice,” he managed, voice quieter than he intended. You studied him for a long moment, your gaze so tender it made him look away. Then, slowly, you straightened up.

“Spence.”

He mirrored you instinctively, spine snapping upright. “Hm?”

Your smile was patient, fond. “You don’t have to be nervous.”

Caught.

Spencer’s breath stuttered. He had been nervous, palms damp, pulse rabbiting, brain spinning in frantic circles, but he hadn’t realized it was that obvious. (Which was ridiculous, really. Of course it was. You knew him better than anyone.)

“I know it’s my first time staying over,” you continued, voice warm as sunlight, “but I promise, there’s nothing to worry about.” Your hand found his, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “I love spending time with you. And like I mentioned, I was very excited to come over today.”

Spencer swallowed hard. You were excited. The thought sent a rush of warmth through his chest, but it tangled with guilt. He hadn’t meant to make this awkward.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, shoulders hunching slightly. “I didn’t mean to—I just—” He exhaled, frustrated with himself. “I want everything to work out.”

Your expression softened. “Well, it’s going perfect so far,” you said, squeezing his hand. “You’re here, I’m here, and we’ve spent plenty of time together before. This time’s no different.” You leaned in, your voice dropping. “Just another day with you.”

Then, your fingers carded gently through his hair, brushing the strands back from his forehead. A shiver raced down his spine and you grinned. “I’ll allow goosebumps,” you teased.

He chuckled loudly, the kind of chuckle that only you could pull from him. Before he could second-guess it, he let himself lean into you. Spencer’s thigh brushed against yours as he tilted his head back, resting it against the couch. His eyes never left you as your fingers continued their gentle path through his hair. This was so terribly domestic and it made him feel all warm on the inside.

He wanted to kiss you. Was that appropriate? Was this the right moment ? You were close. You were meeting his gaze, your lips curved in a soft smile. It had to be appropriate. All he’d have to do is lift his head, just a few inches. But before he knew, your hand slipped from his hair, and the moment shattered.

Spencer sat up abruptly, clearing his throat. “So, uh—what food do you want to order?”

The night unfolded in a blur of takeout containers and half-hearted attempts to follow the plot of whatever DVD he’d grabbed. Not that it mattered. The movie was just background noise to the real event which was you.

His apartment had never been this loud. Never this alive.

And Spencer, well, his cheeks hurt from smiling. From blushing, too, every time you leaned further into his space, tucking yourself against his side. It took him five full minutes to work up the nerve to slide his arm around you. But once he did? Heaven.

Your vanilla shampoo filled his senses and the urge to press his lips to your forehead was so sudden, it nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

Instead, he held perfectly still, hyperaware of the way your yawn vibrated against his ribs, the way your body molded to his as you slumped deeper into his hold.

Spencer leaned in slowly, holding his breath as his lips grazed the crown of your head in the lightest possible touch. So light you didn't even seem to feel it. He pulled back, pressing his lips together to stifle the frustrated sigh building in his chest.

Then you giggled.

A bright sound that startled him from his thoughts. Your shoulders shook against his side as you chuckled at something on screen, something he'd completely missed because he hadn't been watching the movie at all.

Your laughter did something dangerous to his heart. It fluttered wildly against his ribs. And in that moment, drunk on the sound of your joy, Spencer threw caution to the wind. He pressed a kiss to your hair, firmer this time, letting his lips linger just a second longer in the soft strands. The happy hum you made in response sent a warm feeling through his body, all the way to his tingling lips.

He was still smiling when you tilted your head up, your nose brushing his jaw before you pressed a feather-light kiss there. It lasted barely a heartbeat before you turned back to the movie, but it was enough to make his breath catch.

You smiled to yourself as you looked at the screen. You'd noticed the way his fingers twitched when he wanted to reach for you, the way his gaze would drop to your lips and then dart away. You saw the battle he waged with himself every time. But you never said anything. You gave him the precious gift of time and space to learn this new language of touch at his own pace.

That brief kiss to his jaw was a reward for his courage and the way his smile bloomed under your touch was your prize in return.

The movie's credits rolled in silence as you stretched against him, pulling back. Spencer immediately felt the absence like a physical ache. But then your fingers were in his hair again, smoothing down the strands his nervous habits had tousled throughout the evening.

"Great choice of movie," you murmured around a yawn. You were serious, though it didn't seem like it. But it was quite late after all.

Spencer's smile came unbidden as he nodded. "We should clean up," he said, his eyes lingering on the scattered takeout containers. You followed his eyeline to the mess and nodded.

"Definitely."

The domestic rhythm of tidying up together felt strangely intimate. In the kitchen, your shoulders brushed as you worked side by side, you scraping leftovers into the trash while he organized the recyclables.

"The fries were so good," Spencer found himself saying. "We should order from that place again."

You beamed at him over your shoulder, water from the sink dripping off your fingertips. "Agreed. Yes. I loved them."

When you turned off the faucet, Spencer reached automatically for the towel, your hands bumping as he gave it to you. Before he knew it, you put the towel away and your arms were looping around his waist, your chin settling against his chest. "You want to go to bed?" you asked, the words muffled against his sweater.

Spencer looked down. The harsh kitchen light should have been unflattering, but you glowed beneath it. His hands came up to cradle your upper arms, thumbs brushing absent circles against your skin. The motion pushed your shirt up slightly, revealing a patch of goosebumps. "Yeah, we can go to bed," he murmured. Then softer. "Are you cold?"

You tilted your head back just enough to meet his eyes. "Mhm. Only a bit."

Spencer's fingers twitched at his sides when you stepped away. The empty space between you suddenly felt vast. "I can give you a sweater. Or a cardigan." His voice cracked slightly. "I have… several. In my closet. In my bedroom."

His hands flexed uselessly. He should take yours, shouldn't he? Lead you there properly. That's what people did in films , reached for their lover's hand and guided them gently to bed. Before he could overthink it, his fingers closed around yours. You laced them together as he turned toward the hallway. Spencer hoped you wouldn't notice his sweaty palms.

He led you to his bedroom where you stood before his closet. "Wait, can I pick one please?" You turned with those devastating puppy eyes that made his knees weak. As if he could ever say no to you.

"Yes, of course," he murmured, already smiling. While you deliberated, Spencer's gaze flickered to the bed, mentally calculating which side you might prefer. He busied himself with straightening the already-perfect blankets, sitting gingerly on the edge of the mattress to let you know you had all the time in the world to choose.

Your delighted gasp pulled his attention back. "Can I have this one?"

You gave the blue cardigan a playful wiggle, and Spencer was moving before he'd consciously decided to, drawn to you like gravity. "Of course," he repeated as he helped you slide your arms into the sleeves. His fingers trembled slightly as they worked the buttons.

When he reached the middle buttons, he became acutely aware of your gaze studying his face. Spencer concentrated on not combusting under your observation.

Each successful button felt like a small victory.

The moment he fastened the last one, you surged up to press a fleeting kiss to his lips , there and gone before he could process it. The sudden contact left him blinking, his hands frozen at your waist.

Three hours. It had been three hours since you'd kissed him at the door and his body reacted like a man starved, every nerve ending sparking back to life. The realization struck him like lightning, he'd been waiting for you to make every move.

How selfish that seemed now.

Your lips had already retreated, but his traitorous hands remained on your waist, thumbs pressing unconsciously into the soft wool covering your hips. Spencer stared blankly at the cardigan buttons, suddenly miles away.

He wanted to kiss you properly. Not some chaste peck, but something that would convey all the words stuck in his throat. But was that appropriate after such a casual gesture? Maybe your brief kiss was intentional, a boundary set. His teeth worried at his lower lip as the questions multiplied.

The cardigan sleeves pooled slightly over your hands as you tilted your head. "Spence."

When he finally met your gaze, his eyes were filled with uncertainty. You could see the overthinking that always seemed to short-circuit his courage.

"If you want to kiss me," you murmured, tracing soft patterns over his rapid heartbeat, "you can."

Spencer's breath stuttered. "Huh?" The syllable escaped before he could catch it and he immediately squeezed his eyes shut in mortification. Of all the eloquent responses his genius mind could conjure, that was what came out?

You smiled softly. "Let me rephrase," you whispered, your palm flattening against his chest. "I want you to kiss me."

For a heartbeat, Spencer simply stared. "Oh. Okay. Yeah. I can do that."

His hands rose and craddled your jaw. The first brush of his lips was careful. You answered by pressing closer and something in Spencer felt encouraged. The kiss deepened all at once, his fingers tangling in your hair as he poured every unsaid word into the contact. All the kisses he'd missed, all the touches he'd hesitated to give, they lived in the way his mouth moved against yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, Spencer chased you instinctively. His forehead came to rest against yours, noses bumping. "Sorry," he whispered, the words feather-light against your lips, "for not kissing back the last two times."

Your giggle sent vibrations through his chest. "Spence, you don't always have to kiss me back." Your fingers played with the collar of his sweater. "I'll always catch you off guard with little kisses." You paused. "Unless you don't like that?"

He shook his head before you'd even finished speaking. "No," Spencer breathed, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. "I like it. I like… you."

The confession was clumsy and inadequate for all it carried. But the way your eyes lit up told him you understood anyway.

"I like you too." Your whisper danced across his lips as you stole one more fleeting kiss before pulling back. Spencer swayed slightly, still drunk on the taste of you, as you gestured to the bed. "Ready to sleep now?"

He nodded, his thoughts moving through molasses. The simple question of which side of the bed to take suddenly felt monumental.

"What side do you prefer?" you asked, standing before the mattress.

Spencer's fingers twitched at his sides. "Oh. I don't… I don't really have a side." The confession slipped out before he could stop it. "I've never shared a bed with anyone before." His ears burned at the admission, but your expression was understanding. "So it's up to you, really."

Your gaze flickered to the left side, the side with the stack of books on the nightstand and the indentation in the pillow he'd never noticed. "I'll take the right side," you decided with a smile.

As you climbed in, a delighted squeak escaped you. "So cozy," you sighed, burrowing into the blankets with another happy squeal that made his heart stutter. Spencer moved to join you, his brain once again running.

Couples cuddled. He knew this objectively. But the mechanics of it - the when and how and do-you-even-want-to of it all, left him paralyzed. Should he reach for you? Was there some unspoken rule about who initiated? What if you preferred space? What if-

"Do you want to-" he began, then faltered. 'Cuddle' sounded juvenile in his mouth, a word too small for the enormity of what he wanted.

You rescued him effortlessly. "Cuddle? Yes. Definitely."

Before he could overthink it, you were there, your head finding its home in the hollow of his shoulder. The tension bled from Spencer's muscles all at once.

Emboldened, his hand slid down to cradle the back of your knee, gently hitching your leg over his hip. The quiet sigh you let out against his throat was reward enough, but then your lips brushed his pulse point and Spencer was certain he'd discovered some new law of phyics.

A comfortable silence settled between you in the lightened room. You hadn't mentioned the night light. He appreciated that more than words could express.

As his fingers carded absently through your hair, Spencer realized that he could overcome any fear with you like this. Even his fear of the dark. Any fear except one; the thought of nights without this, without you curled into his side like this. The very idea made his chest tighten painfully.

"Can I ask you something?" Your voice was muffled slightly against his shoulder.

Spencer hummed, tilting his head down to see your face better. "Yeah, sure."

The hesitation in your next words had his fingers stilling in your hair. "Are you… scared of kissing me?" You met his gaze briefly before looking away. "Or is it—I don't know." A nervous stutter. "Is it just that it's new to you? Or do you not really like affection in general?"

Spencer answered before you'd even finished. "No, no, not at all." His hand fell still against your scalp. "I love kissing you." The admission burned his cheeks, but he pressed on. "And I don't mind physical touch with you." He emphasized those last two words, willing you to understand just how singular you were in this.

Yet your brows knitted together, eyes fixed somewhere on his collarbone rather than meeting his gaze. "But you're so hesitant all the time."

He swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of every point where your bodies connected, your knee still hooked over his hip, your fingers curled loosely in the fabric of his sweater.

For a long moment, he simply breathed you in, the vanilla scent of your shampoo and the warmth of your skin, gathering courage. When he finally spoke, the words came trembling.

"I'm hesitant when it comes to… the timing of physical touch. Not the touch itself." His fingers flexed against your back. "I love when you hug me, kiss me, or just… touch me in general." A flush crept up his neck. "But I don't know how to do it back to you."

The confession spilled out faster now.

"I never know what’s okay," he admitted, voice quiet. "Like… if I hug you at work, will that embarrass you? If I take your hand in public, will you hate the attention? Even when it’s just us, I worry I’ll kiss you at the wrong time." His throat tightened. "I don’t want to push too much. Or seem… clingy."

Your fingers tightened slightly against his chest, but you remained silent. The floodgates opened fully then, months of overthinking pouring out in a rush.

"I don't even know if I can call you sometimes. What if you're asleep? My mom asks about you, and I never know if 'girlfriend' is appropriate. You feel like so much more than that." His nose brushed yours accidentally, the contact sending a spark through his nervous system. His fingers found your hair again, twisting the strands absently. "I don't know when to compliment you because I don't want to seem overbearing, but you just—" His breath hitched. "You look so beautiful all the time it's physically painful not to. I have no idea how many dates per week are appropriate. Books suggest once or twice, but what if you want more? Or less?"

Spencer closed his eyes. "You're the first girl I've ever been with. And I just—" His throat worked around the words. "I don't want to ruin it."

By the time he finished, his chest heaved as if he'd run a marathon. You sat up immediately, needing to see him properly, needing him to see you seeing him. Spencer stayed frozen on his back, watching you with anxious eyes as you processed everything he'd confessed.

"Oh my god, Spence," you murmured, shaking your head slightly. The mattress dipped as you shifted, sitting up straighter, one hand resting lightly on his ribs for balance. You crossed your legs beneath you, taking a breath before meeting his eyes again.

"Is this what you think about all the time when we're together?"

Spencer swallowed. "Well, not the entire time," he hedged, voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe like… seventy-eight percent of it?"

You exhaled sharply, half-laughing, half-horrified. "Please don't do that," you said, your palm smoothing over his chest, feeling the rapid flutter of his heartbeat beneath your touch. "Don't overthink what we are. Or physical touch. Or affection." Your thumb brushed absent circles against his collarbone. "I love kissing you. Whenever, however you want to. I love hugging you in any way you want. You can hug me at work. You can kiss me at work—"

Spencer's eyebrows shot up.

"—yes, even at work," you confirmed, grinning. "You can call me your girlfriend. You can compliment me until your voice gives out. We can go on dates seven days a week if you want." Your voice softened. "You're not ruining anything by showing me how much you like me. Okay?"

Spencer stared at you like you'd hung the stars. "…Okay," he breathed, nodding.

You smiled, leaning back down beside him, your fingers gently turning his face toward yours. Then you kissed him, once, twice, three time, soft lingering presses of your lips against his.

"Please don't think so much." Kiss. "Which—" Kiss. "—I know is a huge ask." Kiss.

Spencer made a quiet and overwhelmed noise, his hands fluttering to your jaw, trying and failing to catch up with your teasing rhythm. You laughed against his mouth, finally letting one kiss linger long enough for him to properly reciprocate, his lips moving clumsily but desperately against yours. When you pulled back just enough to speak, your forehead stayed pressed to his.

"It'll get easier over time, I promise," you whispered. His fingers tightened slightly against your skin. "And I'll wait. Okay?"

Spencer stared at you. "Okay," he whispered, the word barely more than an exhale against your lips. Then, before he could second-guess himself, his arms were around you, pulling you against him. Your head found its familiar place in the hollow of his shoulder, your legs tangling with his beneath the blankets.

"Thank you," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with more emotion than those two simple words could contain.

You answered with a sleepy pat to his chest, your fingers splaying over his heartbeat. "No need to thank me," you mumbled around a yawn.

Spencer pressed his lips to your forehead in response, lingering there just a beat longer than necessary. The action felt different now, not something to overanalyze, but simply something he wanted to do.

Not proofread, sorry about all the tense swapping lol

You cross the threshold to the anthropology museum, looking around for people you know. The foyer is done up with beautiful, flowing, draperies, chandeliers lighting your path, and signage promoting the donation opportunities throughout the night. The museum you work at holds these galas every year. Everyone gets dressed up, there’s performers, catering, an auction, all kinds of things to help with funding. You’re dressed in a body hugging, deep purple dress. It’s a little low cut in the front and back, and floor length with it flaring a little at your thighs. When you’d asked about dress code your boss had said to wear the fanciest thing you own. Your friends had told you purple was your color, so you settled on this. You felt particularly confident in it. It accentuated all the right things and, in comparison to what you normally wore to work, you looked like a completely revamped you. A new, sparkly, self assured, version of yourself. Your heels clicked quietly on the waxed floors, drowned out by the chatter of other patrons around you, as you made your way into the main event space.

Once you breached the large entryway to the main exhibition hall, you spotted your small group of friends. Four of them were crowded around a table, chatting away, as you approached and looked for an entrance into the group. You pushed your way into your spot next to your closest colleague and he greeted you immediately, warmly saying your name, “hey! I was just about to go get some champagne for everyone, do you want some?” You shake your head politely, “oh no thanks, I just got here, but maybe later!” He nods and steps away, leaving you room to slide in next to your other work friends and join the conversation. It’s the usual gossipy stuff, this guy’s here, but not with his wife, that guy's been lying about how big of a donation he gave the museum last year, that woman has already had an entire hors d'oeuvre trays worth of champagne, etc. You don’t typically participate in workplace gossip, but gossip about the towns ‘rich and famous’ that spend their time bragging about yachts and expensive fossil collections they know nothing about? That’s fair game. Sadly, the number of people here to actually do good is outnumbered by the number of people that simply need a PR boost, so you don’t mind as much. You listen intently to what everyone has to say, occasionally throwing in a comment about this or that, and laughing at jokes. One of your friends is telling a story about a particular influencer when something suddenly catches her attention. “So then he says- wait a sec,” she turns and squints into the crowd, looking for something. “Oh hey, guys, look,” she points into the throng of people. You see your friend who went to get drinks, chatting happily with a group of guys. You hear someone say ‘he’s talking to,’ someone, but before you can process the name your group is shifting away from your table.

You follow them, wanting to be included, and wait awkwardly as everyone greets each other. You’ve seen some of these people before, at various outside-of-work events that you’d been invited to. There’s a short man you’ve seen at barbecues and a red headed guy you met once at a group movie night, but the rest are mostly new to you. One man catches your eye, there’s something familiar about him, but you can’t quite place it. He’s also incredibly handsome, you assume maybe that’s why he catches your eye. One of your friends starts introducing you to the group, rattling off names and where you might have seen them before, but you’re slightly distracted. The man you can’t quite place is tucked behind two of the other party members, watching you. It seems that your friend has suddenly remembered he’s there and addresses you directly. He says your name, causing you to focus slightly harder on what he’s saying while still trying to place this man's face.

“-don’t you know Spencer,” he asks cheerily. Spencer. You roll the name around in your mind as you try to attach it to his face when it finally clicks. You let out a contemplative exhale, “huh.” ‘That was supposed to be an inside noise,’ you think, shaking your head slightly to get your thoughts in order again, “uh yeah, I do. I just haven’t seen him in forever.” You laugh a little, shaking off how caught off guard you are by his presence and his face. He reaches his hand out to greet you, a confusing twinkle in his eyes as they make their way down from your face to your hand. He smiles brightly at you, “yeah it’s been, what, almost twenty years at this point?” “I- uh, yeah, I guess so,” you chuckle, “time sure flies, huh?” “Yeah,” he says quietly, looking down at your dress as his hand remains in the air, frozen in a cute wave. You finally release each other from the prolonged eye contact and the group goes back to socializing. Your mind races as you try to think of what he looked like the last time you saw him. You find yourself thinking, ‘when did you get hot,’ which feels rude in a way, but you can’t help noticing how different he looks now. The last time you saw him was on the news when you were 24, now 29, he looked like a different person from the nervous kid you saw on your tv.

You find yourself side stepping around your friends and Spencer follows your movements, moving closer to you once he can. You look at each other, nerves getting the better of you before you finally speak, “I haven’t seen you since we were, like, 10!” He laughs, the sound is warm and welcoming, threatening to make you blush. “Yeah, I’ve always wondered what happened to you.” Your brain glitches slightly, he wondered? You had always wondered about him, but when you saw him on the news with his fantastic big job with the FBI you decided that he'd probably rather let the past remain the past. You hadn’t tried to reach out because you figured that even if, by some miracle, he did remember you that he wouldn’t want his childhood coming back to visit. “I- really? I’ve always wondered about you,” you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your right ear. “If I had known you moved here I would’ve said ‘hi’ sooner,” he laughs, sounding a little nervous. “Oh yeah, I’ve been here since I was 23. I moved here after I got my doctorate,” you blush slightly. “You have a doctorate? I bet you got a pretty cool job, you always were smart when we were kids,” he smiles so genuinely you’re almost drawn aback. You chuckle slightly, holding your arms at your sides to gesture around you, “yeah, it’s pretty glamorous as you can tell.” He blushes slightly now, eyes going wide, “wait is that how you know him,” he gestures behind you at your friend. “Yep, we’re colleagues,” you giggle at his shocked expression. “That’s amazing,” his whole face lights up with a smile that you can’t help but mirror. At that moment, a server walks by with champagne. Spencer grabs two glasses off the tray and hands you one. Lifting his glass in a celebratory gesture he grins softly, “here’s to doctorates and reuniting.” You smile, clinking your glass against his before you take a deep sip. You chat a little bit about your job at the museum as you drink your champagne. You feel your face heating up as the alcohol makes its way through your body, your smile and laughter easier to find as you loosen up. You are by no means drunk, but you have gotten to the point you’d call ‘buzzed’ where everything seems more fun, more silly, less serious. You decide that’s a good place to stop. ‘After only one glass of champagne,’ you think to yourself, marveling at how much of a lightweight you are.

You notice your childhood friend seems to be feeling the same way, his dimples making an appearance every time he smiles at one of your jokes or even just most of the things you say, joke or not. As you discuss your job an idea hits you. You can physically feel your face light up with this light bulb moment, and you laugh despite yourself, “do you want to see my area of expertise?” His face brightens with a smile wider than you’ve seen from him yet, “absolutely!”

With that, you take his hand and lead him out of the main exhibit hall. You unclick a velvet rope, leading him down a darkened hallway towards your room of displays. As you walk you’re suddenly hit with a memory and an upsetting realization. Spencer doesn’t like touching people and you’ve been holding his hand for a whole minute at this point. You drop his hand quickly, looking back at him with concern, “I’m so sorry, I completely forgot about the germ thing. I just spaced on that entirely, We have hand sanitizer stations all over back here if you need-” He cuts you off with a chuckle, “I appreciate the concern, but it’s alright. It’s you so I’m more comfortable with it than a total stranger.” ‘Oh,’ you think, ‘it’s me so it’s okay.’ You try to not let out a maniacal giggle at him making an exception for you. You still don’t take his hand again, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, so instead he grabs your hand. You look back at him, a little shocked, but he just offers you a soft smile. You return it, trying to thank him silently, and continue to lead him down the hallway.

You reach your favorite room, the one you’ve helped curate, and lead him inside. Once past the entry, you step back as if giving him room to take everything in. Your specialization is medical history, particularly the 1500s-1900s, and this room travels through all 400 years of your favorite topic. Medical equipment from different periods covers the walls, curiosity cases with displays of ancient medication and remedies form smaller hallways to guide your path through the room, mannequins with medical dress from different time periods and locations are littered throughout. You glance at Spencer to see him absolutely enraptured as he looks around the room. “Wow, it’s amazing,” his voice is soft, awestruck in his slightly tipsy state. “Why thank you,” you take a small bow, snorting a laugh as you do. “I can’t believe you turned into such a nerd,” he laughs, turning to look at you. Your mouth falls open and you use your hand that isn’t holding his to lightly punch his shoulder, “heeeyyyy, at least I’m a professional nerd.” “Still a nerd though,” his laugh floats through the air, light and carefree as you naturally ease back into your childhood dynamic of lovingly teasing each other. “I think you’ll find that we’re both nerds, Dr. Spencer Reid,” you reply, closing your eyes and emphasizing the ‘Dr.’ to prove your point. “Oh I’m not arguing that, I know what I am,” he chuckles.

You laugh together as you start leading him through the exhibits. You share tidbits of information, fun facts, and lengthy descriptions of your favorite items. The entire time he watches you, listening attentively, his eyes practically beaming with admiration. You try to ignore the butterflies fluttering in you as he watches, focusing on regaling him with the tales of horrible ailments from the past. You’re well aware that he probably knows most of this already, remembering how he was as a child and how much he knew even then, but he listens to you speak anyways, only interrupting to ask occasional questions. “So we never figured out what caused it,” he hums, looking at the plaque about ‘the sweating sickness.’ “Basically,” you shrug vaguely, “we have theories, like it could be relapsing fever or hantavirus pulmonary syndrome, or even anthrax-” He jumps slightly when you mention anthrax, you assume it’s just the germiness freaking him out. “-but we don’t actually have an answer. We probably never will, honestly. We’ve tried to recreate it, but there’s never been a successful attempt.” “Huh,” he holds his chin thoughtfully. Looking at him, you notice the soft blush spread across his nose and cheeks. You find your mind drifting to other, less clinical, topics.

“What do you think it is,” he looks down at you, snapping you out of your own mind. “Uh- I- well,” you stammer, surprised, “personally I have, like, three different theories that I like. All for different reasons, of course.” He chuckles a bit, “well, look at you, not picking just one. Very rebellious.” He grins at you, “you haven’t changed a bit.” “You have,” you giggle, twirling your fingers to dispel some of the tension in your body. “Me? How have I changed,” he lets out a shy laugh. “You’re a lot more at ease with yourself for one thing,” you gesture at him, “and you know how to dress now.” “Hey, I was 10, what 10 year old knows how to dress,” he laughs almost raucously. “I could’ve figured out how to put on that suit you’re wearing at that age probably,” you turn away, mock smugness oozing from your tone. “Oh really,” he challenges you, “if I remember correctly, you were still wearing care bears t-shirts at that age.” Still facing away from him, you cross your arms over your chest, “The Care Bears Family tv series, from 1986, is a classic. I’d wear those shirts now if they were made in adult sizes.” Spencer waltzes over to stand in front of you again, causing you to open your eyes which you had closed as part of your stuck up act. “I’m sure you can find something that’ll fit you,” his voice is syrupy sweet in mocking as he looks down at you again. You lean towards him, slightly elevating yourself onto your toes, in challenge, “I feel like you’re mocking me now.” “Only a little bit,” he chuckles almost darkly as he leans towards you. “You talk a big game for someone who’d probably wear a doctor who t-shirt unironically,” you squint, leaning closer to him. “As if you wouldn’t,” he squints back, a smile playing on his lips. At this rate you’re maybe five inches from each other's faces. The butterflies in your stomach have turned into a frantically buzzing hoard of cicadas, so nervous to be this close to him. You watch his eyes flick down to your lips, so quick it’s almost imperceptible. A sudden flood of words runs through your head, ‘oh god are we gonna kiss? Do I want us to kiss? I totally want us to kiss. Does he?? Did I imagine that? Ohmygodohmygodohmygod-’

Suddenly a light from a phone peeks around the corner into the room. “Oh my gosh, there you are! We’re about to start the auction, we need help presenting items,” one of your colleagues says, mildly exasperated. You and Spencer jolt away from each other, turning to the sound of her voice so quickly she doesn’t even notice how close you were not even a second earlier. “Oh shoot, I’m sorry, I got totally distracted,” your face flushes in embarrassment. “Clearly,” she laughs, “I’ve been looking for you for thirty minutes. The auction starts in ten.” Spencer's arm shoots up to see his watch. You peek over his arm to see how long you’d just been talking. Almost an hour and a half, you’d just been talking about medical history. “I- uh, yeah, you know how I get talking about this stuff,” you smooth your hands over your hips, adjusting your dress nervously. “Well, come on,” your friend gestures for you to follow her, so you do. You don’t grab Spencer's hand this time, heart still pounding from whatever that was before you were interrupted. He doesn’t grab you either as you follow your friend back down the twisting hallways.

Returning to the main event hall, you wave at Spencer as your friend drags you to an employees only section, “see you in a bit, hopefully!” He waves back and watches you go before returning to the group he was with previously.

The auction drags on at a snail's pace. You just reunited with your childhood best friend and all you want to be doing is catching up. He’s missed so much in your life and you’re sure you’ve missed so much in his. It feels like each item takes an eternity, and once they’re finally settled on, you have to package them up and that takes even longer somehow. By the time you’re finished, it’s after 11:30 and you’re itching to get back on the floor.

As you sneak out of the employees only section, you spot Spencer. He’s chatting with a group of people you don’t recognize, checking his watch way more than he should be. You sneak your way over to him. When you reach him you simply tap his shoulder. He spins around to face you, immediately glowing when he lays eyes on you, “hey! How was the auction?” “Soooo boring,” you groan, “it felt like it would never end.” “Yeah, I watched since I thought you would be presenting the items, but you never came out,” he chuckles. ‘He was watching to see if I came on stage,’ you think, a blush creeping onto your face again. “Yeah, that’s what I thought I would be doing too.” Spencer turns and excuses himself from the conversation before turning back to you. He places one hand against the small of your back and leads you away from the group. You feel like your heart might just soar out of your chest with how hard it’s beating. When you get a distance away from everyone else he asks quietly, “how late do you have to stay?” “O-oh, I can leave whenever now,” you stammer before steadying yourself, “now that the auction’s over, I’m free to go.” “You hungry,” he smiles that warm smile at you again. “Starving,” you grin back. With that he leads you towards the entrance, hand still pressed to your back.

You decide to take your car to a nearby diner, since Spencer rode with a group he won’t be leaving with now. Once inside the diner, you’re placed in a booth in the farthest corner. Dim and secluded.

“So, what brings you to town,” you ask, dipping a fry before putting it in your mouth. Spencer chuckles, “my supervisor forced me to take some time off so I wanted to come visit some friends.” “You’re not that far from home though, how come you don’t visit more often,” you stir the milkshake you, very impulsively, decided to get. “I just never have time, my jobs very demanding,” he sounds almost wistful. “Yeah? I want to hear all about that,” you smile softly at him. What follows is approximately four hours of debriefing and catching up. By the time you’re finished and leaving to drop Spencer off, it’s after 4 am. “Do you want to go back to your hotel, or do you want to just crash at my place since it’s closer,” you don’t think much of the offer, but he blushes slightly at your suggestion. “Well, I am a bit worried about you having to drive me all the way there and then get yourself home with how tired you are.” He gives it a moment of thought, “yeah, I can stay with you if you’re alright with it.”

Pushing the door to your apartment open, you set your things down and unclasp your heels, hastily kicking them off. At this point in the night, your makeup is slightly smudged, you’ve removed your false eyelashes, and you’re wearing Spencer's suit jacket. He unties and removes his dress shoes before standing to his full height. Your dress had covered the fact you were wearing heels and now Spencer was seeing you at your true height for the first time. He looks down at you and chortles quietly, “did you stop growing at 15?” You blush, glaring up at him, “16,” you mutter. He laughs loudly, as if this is the funniest thing he’s ever seen. You excuse it with what time it is and how giddy you’ve both been, in general, to be reconnected. “I’m not that short, okay,” your voice sounds irritated, but you can’t help smiling, “5’6 is above average for a woman.” As you try to argue your case the irritation turns to fighting back laughter. He places one hand flat atop your head and the other on his own head before moving his arms to show you the height difference. “Uh huh, not short,” he tightens his lips to try and keep the laughter in. You slug him on the arm, “whatever! Let me show you around.” You give him the tour of your apartment, ending up in your bedroom. “-and this is my room, it’s got one of my favorite features,” you point to a big bay window that’s decked out into a reading nook, “and all the comfiness you could ever want since I splurged on my bed and bedding.” “I have some pjs I can loan you, probably, since I’m assuming you aren’t wearing any under the suit,” you chuckle. Spencer shakes his head slightly, “I forgot to wear my pajamas under my suit,” he giggles and follows you when you tread over to your dresser.

You pull out one of your oversized sleep shirts and a pair of shorts for him. He accepts them readily, blushing slightly when he sees what the shirt says. ‘Two Seater’ is printed on it in bold red letters with an arrow pointing up and down. “Um, it’s from a gag gift, white elephant, type party. It’s really comfy and pretty funny so I sleep in it,” you rub your hand on the back of your neck awkwardly. “I’ll try it on,” Spencer chuckles again. You offer to step out of the room, but he insists on giving you the space to get changed in your own room, so you remind him where the bathroom is.

Something you hadn’t thought of quickly becomes an issue when he leaves. You can only get the zipper about halfway down your back before it stops. When Spencer returns, decked out in the shirt, you awkwardly start to ask for help. “I- um, could you, uh- I-,” you stammer, no doubt making the situation worse. He quirks his eyebrows in a silent question, waiting for you to continue. “I’m stuck,” you finally resign yourself to the truth. His face drops slightly, a blush creeping over his features again, “i-in the dress?” “Yeah,” you turn so your backs to him, “can you help me out of it?” “O-oh, yeah, of course.” His fingers deftly trace over the fabric to the zipper, holding one side taut while he goes to unzip it. What you don’t see is his reaction. As every new inch of skin is revealed he seems to only get redder and redder. When he reaches the end of the zipper he gets a peek of, what appears to be, a very nice thong and he almost loses it right then.

“Thank you,” your voice is soft, unsure. “No pro-problem,” he stutters, looking away from you. He quickly turns and steps out of the room to let you get changed. You slip on some comfortable pjs, take your hair down, and remove what’s left of your makeup. When you’re ready, you open your door and poke your head out, “you can come back now.” He shuffles back into your room and you notice that he has one hand to hold up the shorts you gave him. You flick your head down at his hand in question, “whatcha doing?” “Oh uh, they’re a little big on me, I just don’t want them falling off,” he looks away embarrassed. “Oh, I guess I am a bit more shapely than you, huh,” you giggle, “you don’t have to wear them. I just figured you’d be more comfortable that way.” “Well I don’t really have anything else, so it’s alright,” Spencer smiles at you. You tilt your head slightly, jokingly, “what? Are you not wearing underwear or something?” You immediately erupt into laughter as Spencer's face turns almost crimson. “I’m kidding,” you gasp between fits of laughter, “but seriously, if you wanted to just wear a shirt and underwear I won’t really care.” “I might, just because,” he lets go of the fabric and it immediately falls to the floor, “of that.” Now you’re both laughing, you doubled over and Spencer covering his face as his shoulders shake with the sound. As you start to calm down, you stick out your hand for him to hand you the shorts. He does and you put them away in your dresser again.

With the late hour, and the returned ease of your childhood friendship, you’ve all but forgotten how flustered you were at your friend's changed appearance earlier. You flick off the light to your room, move your covers and climb into bed, scooting over to the far side of the bed and clicking on the lamp on your nightstand. Spencer stands there looking at you and in your exhausted state, you can’t piece together why he’s just sitting there. “Are you…coming? Or do you sleep standing up now,” you snicker. “Oh! I- uh, you want me to sleep in here,” his eyebrows shoot up in question. “Yeah? I’m not making you sleep on the couch and I’m not sleeping on it either. It’ll be just like when we used to do sleepovers," you laugh slightly. “Alright,” he shrugs before padding over to the bed. When he slides under the covers with you, you realize your mistake. Yes, you used to have sleepovers together where the two of you would share a bed. Yes, it was totally fine then and you were perfectly comfortable with it. You were also 10 the last time that happened. He scoots under the blankets, pulling them over himself as he gets comfortable.

Once he’s settled, he looks over at you, “thanks for not trying to drive all the way across town this late just for me.” “I would have, but I’m also glad you’re staying tonight,” you smile, sincere and soft. “I’m glad I am too, we missed out on so many good sleepovers growing up,” he huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I missed you Spencer,” your voice comes more serious than you intend, but he just smiles wider. “I missed you too,” he says your name like he’s been holding his breath, waiting to say it for years, just never having the opportunity to speak it outloud again. Something that feels more tense than reignited friendship hangs between you, you swim through the tension in your brain, watching him as he studies your face. When it gets to be too much, you finally pipe up, “I hope you sleep well, Spence.” He blinks quickly, like your voice surprised him, “ye-you too.” With that, you turn out the light and both quickly drift off to sleep.

Your dreams are haunted with memories of your childhood friendship. They mix with the confusing way you now see Spencer, older and different, but still the same person you trusted all those years ago. You feel confused, unsure of how to parse through these new feelings and rectify them with the vision you already had of him. How much has truly changed? You’re awoken briefly, only a few hours into your slumber, to realize that you hadn’t shut the curtains and now the sun is rising. You stir, preparing to get up and close the curtains, when you realize the position you’re in. Sometime in the past few hours you and Spencer had moved. His arm ended up under your head, one of his legs was wrapped around yours, and his cheek was pressed against the back of your head. Your room is drenched in early morning sunlight, it turns everything a warm honey color. Lighting on Spencer's exposed skin, it illuminates all the tiny details you hadn’t noticed last night. Freckles and scars and peach fuzz that makes him feel so much more real than he has in years.

You sigh heavily and force yourself out of bed. Detaching your back from his chest, you tiptoe across to the window. You pull the curtain shut quietly and drown your room in darkness once again. Spencer hasn’t woken up or even moved, so you climb back into bed. Afraid that you’ll wake him, and not really upset about the previous position, even if you won’t admit it to yourself, you let yourself lay on his arm again. ‘His arm is stretched across my whole pillow, so there’s really no other way to do this without waking him up,’ you reason with yourself. You rest your head softly against his skin. You make sure only your head is touching him, putting distance between your bodies, but the sleeping man behind you clearly has other ideas. Still sleeping, he wraps his other arm around your waist and pulls you flush against him. He tucks his leg back over you and nuzzles his face into your neck before letting out a muffled sigh. Your whole body tenses, your face turning scarlet red as you heat up and those stupid butterflies return to your stomach. You try to wriggle from his grasp, but he holds you tight, and eventually you drift off to sleep again.

The next time you wake up, you’re alone. You’re awoken by the muffled sound of clanging in your kitchen. You roll over to see that Spencer isn’t there and has, at some point, remade his side of the bed. You roll out of bed, smoothing your hair and clothes before leaving your room. You find Spencer, rushing around your kitchen, looking for something. He doesn’t seem to notice you until you giggle at his frantic demeanor. He squeaks a little in surprise before spinning on his heel to face you, “oh, good morning!” Your laugh makes it hard for you to reply, but you manage a, “hi!” “I hope you slept well, I uh, I figured you’d be hungry,” he gestures to all the items you’d been too distracted to notice splayed across the countertop. “Also I was hungry,” he mutters, sounding embarrassed. Your kitchen island has numerous steaming takeout containers laid on it, along with napkins and to-go cups of coffee, but no utensils. As you open your mouth to ask, he interrupts, speaking quickly, “I can’t find forks.” You laugh again, “that drawer, in the back,” you point at a small drawer on a far side of the kitchen. He quickly grabs two forks and two butter knives, handing you one of each. He opens the take out containers and you’re delighted to see he took it upon himself to order you pancakes, eggs, and other breakfast staples. “Spencer, you didn’t have to get breakfast,” you smile softly at him, saying he didn’t need to, but already putting some pancakes on your plate. “I would’ve made breakfast, but I don’t know where anything is in your kitchen,” he laughs nervously. You beam a smile at him, almost baffled by his kindness. The two of you eat, in between bites you continue filling each other in on the years missed. You learn about some of the more gruesome aspects of his job, only after you have to reassure him that you can handle hearing about it, of course. There are certain topics that seem to be hard for him to talk about and when those come up you find yourself subconsciously reaching out for him. It’s a simple gesture, placing your hand on top of his, but it seems to help him through the tough subject matter. After you’re finished with breakfast you decide to show him one of your favorite pastimes and, very confidently, tell him you’ll defeat him at a fighting game.

Now seated on your couch, you watch your avatars bounce around the tv across from you. Your confidence was well earned, as you wipe the floor with him while he’s still trying to figure out the combos. You make it through four rounds of him frantically smashing buttons to defeat you before he claims to need a break. “Okay, okay, give me a second here,” he rises from the couch, pressing his palms to the center of his back and stretching, “I’ve been slouching this whole time and it’s killing my back.” “Uh huh,” you reply sarcastically, “I’m sure that’s your problem.” Spencer links his fingers together and stretches his arms up to the ceiling, raising onto his tiptoes. When he arches his back his shirt raises, revealing a few inches of his lower stomach. The most delicate sigh slips past his lips and you feel your whole face burn as it turns a deep pink. You turn back to the tv, trying to shut out the chorus of ‘ohmygodohmygodohmygod,’ running through your brain. You fight the urge to bury your face in your hands and scream as he sits back down, his knee brushes against yours. “You ready,” he asks, looking at the side of your face as you’re still turned away from him. “Yep,” you almost yell, immediately hitting start on the next round. You’re distracted, there’s no way to deny it, the game is the last thing you’re thinking about. You’re completely zoned out, thinking about less than appropriate things, when Spencer interrupts your spiral. “Are you just letting me win now, or did I get better suddenly,” he laughs, a smooth sound that rushes over your brain like cool water. “Oh, s-sorry, I got distracted,” you try to snap out of it, shaking your head slightly as if that’ll help, and tune in to the game again. Much to your dismay, and Spencer's delight, you’re too far behind at this point and he wins this round. When the big ‘player 2 wins’ banner appears on screen Spencer leaps from the couch in excitement. Arms thrown in the air, he hops slightly as he boasts, revealing that sinful bit of skin again. Your eyes flick between his smiling face and your current distraction, but you ultimately watch the pure glee on his face as he celebrates. Butterflies return to your gut, fluttering and threatening to leak out of your throat as you’re enraptured by his joy. “I forgot how competitive you are,” you cackle. “Well here’s your reminder,” his lips curl into a wide smile, still laughing and celebrating a little as he speaks. “Whatever, I’ll get you next round,” you glare jokingly at him. “We’ll see,” he says, singsongy as he sits back down.

You do beat him the next round, and the one after that, until you let him win one and he calls you out for taking pity on him. “It’s not pity! Your celebrating was just adorable and I wanted to see it again.” You notice a barely perceptible blush wash over his face, “you think I’m adorable,” he laughs. Spencer plays it off as a joke, but you wonder about how pink his cheeks have turned. “Yeah, you’re a giant dork,” you try to cover it up as well, hoping your laughter covers the nervousness. He smiles sincerely before doing a more subdued version of his celebration dance.

Around 1 in the afternoon, you finally decide to take Spencer back to his hotel. Pulling up to the front of the hotel, you say your goodbyes. “When do you leave again,” you ask, wishing you could just keep him at your apartment until he goes back home. “In three days,” he says solemnly. “Okay, well, you’ve got my number now so next time you’re free let me know,” you smile softly as he hesitates with the door handle. “I definitely will,” he smiles back, but there’s a sadness to it. After a moment more of hesitation he opens the door and climbs out. “See you later,” he says your name like he’ll never see you again. “See you later, Spencer.”

—-------------------

That evening, as you’re doing some reading, your phone buzzes to life. A text from Spencer illuminates your screen, ‘I’m going out to eat with some friends tonight, would you care to join us? -S.R.’ You force down a giddy laugh that threatens to erupt from you and quickly type a reply, ‘I’d love to! Where should I meet you and when? Also you don’t have to sign your messages, I know who this is lol’ The next text is a maps location of a restaurant, followed by, ‘we should be there around 7 pm. I’ll keep in mind that I don’t have to sign off. - Your beloved childhood friend, S.R.’ You chuckle at his clear teasing with that sign off, ‘I’ll see you tonight! - your favorite bestie’ Looking at the clock you realize it’s already 6, so you decide to force yourself away from your book to get ready. After researching the restaurant you decide to wear nice pants and a casual, but pretty, blouse.

Pulling up to the restaurant, you see Spencer waiting outside to greet you. “Hey spence,” you raise your hand to wave as you walk down the sidewalk towards him. “Hey,” he shouts back, waving meekly. “Where are we sitting,” you smile up at him, excited to be seeing him again even if it’s only been a few hours since you saw him last. He takes your hand in his and leads you into the restaurant, “this way.” Your heart soars when he touches you. You try to tamp it down, remind yourself that this is your friend, but you catch yourself staring at your hand in his anyways. Getting to the big circle booth, he introduces you to his friends. Some you met last night, but others are new. You join the five other people sitting at the table, sliding into the booth before Spencer follows you, and you can’t help but notice that he doesn’t drop your hand. Sitting in the booth, you join in the conversation, only distracted by Spencer's warm grip on you. Your mind races as you try to decipher why he’d be continuing to hold your hand under the table. ‘I mean, he did say he was more comfortable with me. Maybe he does like physical affection after all, just from specific people only. I’m okay with being an exception, I just wish it came with less confusing emotional responses.’ As if he notices you zoning out, he squeezes your hand softly. You glance at him, only turning slightly, and are greeted with a warm smile. You smile back, to confirm you’re alright, and then return to the conversation. Your table orders and the waitress informs you that they have a full bar, pointing to the bar in the corner, and that you just go up and order as if it were a regular bar. As soon as she leaves, the others at the table start discussing what they’ll drink and Spencer volunteers to be the gofer. Once everyone’s gotten their orders straight he releases your hand and leaves the table. Someone asks another party member about their job and you tune out for a moment, deciding you don’t need to hear about the joys of accounting. Your eyes travel around the room, eventually landing on Spencer as he waits at the bar. He’s leaning on his forearms against the bar, finger absentmindedly swirling across the wood of the counter. He sweeps his hair out of his face with one hand and lets out a heavy sigh before shifting his weight to his other hip. You can’t help where your mind goes looking at him, ‘I could look you up and down all day,’ flashes through your brain and you snap your attention away. Against your wishes, you think, ‘it’s time to get interested in accounting, I guess.’

The next time you let your eyes slip over to Spencer you notice him struggling to pick up the drinks. Raising your hand to recuse yourself from the conversation, you interrupt as politely as possible, “I’m going to go help Spence with the drinks, be back,” and then you slip out of the booth. As your shoes click across the tiled floors to him, he looks up and notices you, an immediate smile taking over his features. “Hey, you looked like you needed help,” you smile, taking a drink from his hand. “Maybe just a bit,” his grin falters for a second, “actually I wanted to talk to you real quick anyways.” Your heart jumps a little bit, nerves surging through you. “I’m sorry for holding your hand earlier, I didn’t ask and I should have. At first I was just enjoying holding your hand and then you looked overwhelmed so I thought it might help ground you,” his eyes dart away in embarrassment. “Oh,” relief washes over you and you try to hide it, “no, it’s totally alright, I don’t mind. And it did help ground me.” You offer him a reassuring smile and he nods. “Good to know,” his smile returns. You carry the drinks back to the table and take your seats. As you sip your drink, his hand finds yours under the table again. The night becomes a routine of going to get drinks, bringing them to the table, and drinking while you hold hands. By the fourth round your mind is wandering. Spencer is sat next to you, talking about tide tables for some reason that you don’t even remember because the tangents gone on so long, his right hand flitting through the air as he punctuates what he’s saying. You listen, head resting on your left hand, occasionally nodding as he speaks. He sneaks a glance at you and tightens his hold on your hand, sending a little burst of excitement through you. Sober you would already be putting a leash on the ideas running through your head, but slightly tipsy you is letting them take over. He makes a figure eight sort of motion with a finger in the air and the thought, ‘take me to naked twister back at your place,’ immediately rings through your mind. While you were zoning out, he somehow got onto the topic of Greek mythology, “-so Zeus takes his lightning rod, pulls it back, and launches it-” ‘I bet your light rods, like, bigger than Zeus's,’ your face immediately flushes at the thought, snapping you out of your day dreaming momentarily. “-but then in abrahamic mythos, when christ rises-” ‘Thank the lord, the fine you has risen,’ you just sigh at that one. “Jesus fucking christ,” you mutter under your breath. “What’s up,” someone from across the table asks. “Oh nothing, I just remembered I have to be up early tomorrow,” you hope your cover story is believable. “Do you have to leave soon,” Spencer asks, eyebrows pulling together like he wants the answer to be ‘no.’ “Probably in a bit, yeah, it is almost 10,” you smile apologetically. “I didn’t realize how late it had gotten,” one of his friends comments, “we should probably all head out soon, actually.”

Even if you’d only played poker twice before.

“Alright,” Morgan said, leaning back in his seat like he owned the table. “Winner gets the chair. No complaining, no demanding a rematch. Everyone in?”

You nodded. “You’re all going down,”

Reid’s eyes had darted up at that, a little smile tugging at his lips. Not mocking, not pitying—just soft. Warm. Like he already knew how this would end.

Three rounds in, you should have been out. You knew that. The flush in your hand wasn’t nearly enough, but when you placed your bet, Spencer glanced at you over his cards, cheeks twitching like he was holding back a grin. And then, miracle of miracles, he folded.

Morgan blinked. “Reid. You had her. I saw you,”

Spencer coughed into his sleeve. “I didn’t,”

Rossi chuckled. “Kid, you’ve got a tell bigger than this plane,”

You tried not to grin as you scooped the chips. “Guess I’m better than you thought,”

“Beginner’s luck,” Emily muttered from across the table. But you could see it—the faintest crack of amusement in her eyes.

You won hand after hand, each one easier than the last. Spencer’s pile of chips dwindled in a way that didn’t make sense, not when you knew, knew he could count cards like other people counted change.

Finally, it came down to you and him. Just you and Spencer Reid, staring each other down across the table while Morgan provided commentary like some sort of self-appointed sports broadcaster.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s the showdown of the century. On my left, the genius banned from multiple casinos in Vegas for being too damn good. On my right, the rookie who’s barely played more than two hands in her life. Place your bets now,”

You snorted, trying to keep your poker face steady. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,”

“I’m just saying, don’t let him hustle you,”

But Reid didn’t hustle you. He pushed all his chips in with a quiet “all in,” and you matched him with trembling fingers, your pulse thudding in your ears.

When the cards hit the table, you couldn’t believe it.

You’d won.

You actually won.

The table erupted—Morgan groaning in disbelief, Emily shaking her head, Rossi chuckling like he’d seen this coming a mile away.

And Spencer just sat back, smiling at you like you’d hung the stars.

“Congratulations,” he said softly.

Your heart did a funny little flip.

You pushed away from the table, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I’m making victory coffee. Anyone want?”

A chorus of “me”s followed you as you headed to the kitchenette. You set about fiddling with the tiny, temperamental machine, still buzzing with adrenaline. Not just from winning, though. From the way Spencer had looked at you, as if losing hadn’t been a loss at all.

Back at the table, Morgan slid into your abandoned seat, leaning across the table toward Reid.

“Ain’t no way,” he said, voice low. “Ain’t no way you lost fair and square,”

Spencer blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’ve been banned from casinos in Vegas, kid. You’re telling me she—she, who’s played maybe twice—took you down like that?”

Reid flushed, fiddling with the corner of a chip. “It’s possible. Statistically—”

“Statistically, my ass.” Morgan jabbed a finger at him, grinning like the cat who’d found the cream. “You knew what cards she had. You let her win,”

Spencer opened his mouth, closed it again. Then hissed, “Shut up. Shut your mouth, Morgan.”

Morgan’s grin widened. “Oh, you’re whipped. Whipped.”

Reid ran a hand down his face. “I am not whipped.”

“You so are,”

“Shut up before she comes back.”

Morgan leaned back, hands up in mock surrender. “Your secret’s safe. For now,”

But the smug grin never left his face.

At the kitchenette, you poured coffee into two mugs, humming under your breath. JJ appeared beside you, sliding an empty cup into your hands.

“Nice win,” she said, voice teasing.

You shrugged, trying to play it cool even as your cheeks warmed. “Spencer always lets me win,”

JJ’s brows arched, like she wasn’t expecting you to acknowledge it. “Does he now?”

“Mmhm.” You passed her a steaming mug. “Doesn’t mean I’m giving up that chair, though,”

JJ laughed, patting your shoulder. “Fair enough. You earned it… sort of,”

When you returned with the mugs, Spencer glanced up, his eyes lighting in a way that made your chest squeeze. You set one in front of him, and the gratitude in his smile was almost enough to make you forget about the chair entirely.

Almost.

Because the chair was yours now. And no amount of teasing, or Morgan’s knowing smirks, or the little voice in your head whispering that you’d only won because Spencer couldn’t stand to see you lose, was going to take that victory from you.

You’d won.

And tomorrow, you’d be sitting in the best damn chair in the BAU.

With Spencer Reid smiling at you from across the bullpen like you were victory enough for him.

“It was Garcia’s party. I wouldn’t worry about being too much,” he reassures you, giving you a little smile that you definitely would’ve missed if your eyes weren’t so unabashedly fixed on him. “You matched all her decorations.”

You beam. “You should've taken some for your cheeks when I offered! Then we could’ve matched.” 

He scoffs out a soft laugh, face flushing vaguely red under the yellow glow of the streetlamps. “Uh, I don’t know if that’s really my style; I’d probably stick out like a sore thumb.”

You pout. “Um, rude. You don’t like my glitter? Fine. Got it. I personally think you would’ve looked ado–” Your sentence falters into a small gasp as your heel catches on uneven pavement, ankle twisting sharply. “–ow. Ow. Fuck. Stupid ground. Stupid ankle.”

Spencer's hand is at your elbow instantly, steadying your swaying. (Alcohol or stumble induced, he isn’t quite sure.) “I think it might be your heels. Not the ground.” He gestures to a bench. “Sit.”

You glower at him. “I’m fine.”

He gives you a look as he takes a seat, that stupid one that quells any type of disagreement. “Come here. Or you’re sleeping on this thing.”

You plop down, propping your foot onto your thigh. “Is it sprained?” you ask, a lot meeker than you intended, flexing it softly and trying not to wince.

He peers at it. “It’s hard to tell. You’re probably better off removing your heels for the rest of the walk, though.”

“Going barefoot? What about like… tetanus? Won’t I get tetanus?” Your eyes flit up to his.

Spencer’s lips twitch, not looking up. “Have you had your tetanus vaccine in the last five years?”

“I don’t fucking know!” You lean toward him, full of your tequila-induced drama Spencer has become all too familiar with over the years, forehead finding his shoulder. 

He barks out a genuine laugh at that, hand coming up to cup the back of your head, gently brushing the nape of your neck. “Don’t laugh at me, asshole, ‘m vulnerable. And now I’m hurt. You hate me.” You tuck your head further into his chest, however, despite your words. 

He’s warm, for god’s sake.

“I don’t hate you. I will personally escort you to the doctor to take your tetanus shot tomorrow if you’re still worried then, okay?”

“What if it’s too late? I could wake up dead,” you whisper, trying not to jolt when you feel his warm fingers brush the strap of your heel. “That would suck.”

“That’s not typically how that disease works. It won’t kill you.”

“How does it work?” You keep your gaze focused on his hand, eyeing it dubiously.

“Your muscles would tense up, especially your jaw. You wouldn’t be able to open it.” His voice is soft, and he gently starts working on the strap.

You smile crookedly. “I'm sure you would like that.” Spencer can’t help but indulge, brushing his hand over your calf, internally marveling at its softness. (At you.)

“Now that’s not true.” He taps your knee twice, and you switch your legs so he can take off the other heel. “Who would talk to me at parties, hm?”

“You’re right. Gotta think r-rationally.” You’re mumbling now, cheek squished into his shoulder.

“Alright, honey, we gotta get you into bed. Think you can make it that far?” He points a few blocks down. 

You’re already up and walking, quite confidently for a girl who now has a limp, but Spencer chooses not to comment, sparkly heels dangling from his grasp.

He returns his hand and keeps it firm on your arm until you’re safely flopped on top of his covers, a bag of ice resting against your swollen joint, three pillows stacked neatly underneath. Everything in his room is so neat. 

Well, except you. God, what must you look like right now? 

You blink and shove the thought out of your mind, and focus instead on how Spencer’s thumb is tracing over your ankle, so delicately, like he’s scared of injuring it all over again with his touch. “Keep it elevated, okay?”

“I’m still in my skirt. There’s still glitter all over my eyes,” you mumble in protest.

“Just for fifteen minutes. That should be enough for the swelling to go down so it won’t hurt so much when you get ready for bed,” he explains quietly. You nod softly, too tired to argue.

You hadn’t anticipated this level of softness to come from him when in the comfort of his own home. He fits into it perfectly, though. The quiet yellow shine coming from his bedside lamp bounces off his sage-green-almost-grey quilt and onto the many stacks of books organized in an order you are not coherent enough to decipher. 

It’s lovely (and you, decidedly, don’t fit in. A speck of polyester, artificial man-made sparkle, sitting amidst a room that truly glows from the inside out.) You’re suddenly hit with a wave of realization that you could be having a field day in here, in his bedroom, gathering more prizes of knowledge into Spencer’s psyche like the two of you had done together in so many other people’s sanctuaries before. And yet. There’s just one too many tequila shots in your system to fully grasp this opportunity, and you’re a little too preoccupied with how Spencer’s sheets smell exactly how you expected them to, or how much comfier his pillow is than yours. You feel invasive enough just by being here.

He comes back in, two Advil in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “Having fun in here?”

“Mm. I could be having more fun. You’re lucky I’m nice.” 

“I’m lucky you’re injured,” he corrects, nodding his head to the water still in his hand. You take it and drink dutifully, rolling your ankle in a circle.

“It’s like, so numb. Can I please get undressed now, Doctor Reid?” you ask before giggling softly at what the question sounded like. “Not like that.”

He huffs a little and opens the top drawer of his dresser, and tosses a nicely folded tee shirt your way. “Knock yourself out. In the bathroom though, please.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and silence floods the room. Spencer sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and scrubs a hand through his hair. His pulse hasn’t varied from 105 beats per minute in a little while. He shouldn't have let it go this far tonight.

(But what is this far? Letting himself touch you a little too gently, maybe a little longer than he would normally? Speaking a little too kindly? Granting the restless ache in his chest a fleeting, forgettable moment to breathe?)

Why does he feel so guilty for things so innocent?

…

He knocks on the bathroom door a little while later. “You alright in there?”

You hum. His bathroom is quiet, admittedly less glowy than his bedroom. Everything is very un-Spencer. All sharp corners and clinical tiles you know he must dislike. 

You force yourself to catalogue these details. For Morgan. He’d probably be mad if you didn’t have any interesting details to share about your sleepover. You try to come to a conclusion as to why it might be like this, but, as Spencer would tell you, alcohol tends to disrupt synaptic plasticity, reducing neuronal communication and recall.

Much too tipsy to think like a profiler.

Spencer says your name, waiting for a response. 

“Oh. I’m okay.” The door opens with a creaking sigh and there you are, haloed in the harsh light, donning his favorite CalTech tee and the shorts you wore under your skirt. He does not look at you. Not properly.

Until he does, (and immediately regrets not doing it sooner.) He swallows all the words he could (would) say in another lifetime, (the look at yous and my pretty girls), and clears his throat.

“You, uh, missed some glitter. Can I help?” 

You nod softly, and hoist yourself up so you’re sitting on his sink counter. He dampens a rag with warm water and brushes it against your cheeks, still so careful–gentle in the way someone is with something fragile, with something they’ve convinced themselves they’ve no right to keep as their own. The shimmer of the stubborn glitter catches the light as he rubs at it, and he allows himself to stare in the name of focus. (In the name of the curve of your jaw. The line of your mouth.)

(Your breath feels like it's burning every time you inhale.) 

“How’s your ankle feeling?” he murmurs quietly as he works.

“‘s okay. Happens a lot. Used to it.”

“Yeah. That makes sense. If you sprain it once, it’s up to 70% more likely it’ll get injured again.”

Spencer touches your chin, angling your face so he can see it better. You glance down at his hand. So close. Have you ever been this close to him? 

“You’re quiet. You’re normally a lot more chatty when you’re drunk,” Spencer murmurs.

You gnaw on your lip. He’s right, of course. But your words normally spill so freely in bars. Or on the sidewalks outside of bars. Or in your own apartment. You’ve never been drunk here, in Spencer’s cold, pristine bathroom, where the unforgiving white light washes over everything and your face is stripped of all disguise. 

“Hey,” he starts, sensing you folding in on yourself. “You’re drunk. You’re practically allowed to say anything you think, no consequences. No pressure to say the right thing,” he encourages softly. 

Well, fuck. 

Of course Spencer knows just how to reassure you. It’s Spencer. The thought warms you and breaks you in equal measure. Your best friend. The person you shared everything with. Below all this avoidance and fear in both of your independent hearts, you’re simply two kindred spirits who understand each other supremely, a consistent and permanent truth you seem to have forgotten tonight.

So he somehow knows even better than you do that you’re so concerned with saying and doing the correct thing– all the time, with every action you take– that you frequently choose to say nothing at all, paralyzed with fear. How lucky are you to have someone who knows you so well? And uses this knowledge to your benefit, when he could just as easily hurt you? 

How rare is it to have someone like him? And what even is the right thing to do, in this situation? Would it be to keep pushing down your feelings, so you can be sure you’re not making a mistake? Staying safe, responsible, despite the fact that you know Spencer knows how you feel about him? And you too would be kidding yourself if you didn’t notice the way he looked at you. (It doesn’t seem like the right thing to deny two people what they want, does it?)

Does it?

All of a sudden, tears are in your eyes, and your lip is trembling. Spencer's eyes flash with fear, and his hands are now holding your face. 

“Hey, hey, what’s going on? What’re you feeling?”

You hiccup, so unsure, tipsy mind overwhelmed with images of Immanuel Kant and universal duties and all the time you’ve spent telling Spencer all your secrets and the night four months ago when you realized you were in love with him and you’re just so tired. You’re tired of considering and reconsidering every little aspect of your life. You’re tired of putting up countless walls in the name of being a good person when really, you're just terrified of someone seeing you on that deep of a level. Even Spencer. Especially Spencer. 

“I don't wanna lose you.” you wipe away a tear. “And I don’t know what to do.” A little piece of your mind is absolutely mortified at your tears, feeling like a little kid who has yet to learn the adequate language to convey what she wants. But another part of you is relieved to be letting it all out. Maybe if you were sober, you’d be able to make your thoughts more understandable, for Spencer’s sake. But you’re drunk, and your heart decided now is the perfect time to give up, and that’s that.

You exhale softly, tucking your head into the crook of his neck. “I don't know if it’s gonna hurt or help everything.”

“If what’s gonna hurt?”

“Talking.”

Spencer’s quiet for a moment. His hand is so firm, rubbing your back, sole goal being to soothe your frayed nerves. 

“About?”

“Us.”

Spencer exhales, hearing your clearly overwhelmed tone of voice and short answers. One hand goes to the back of your head, cupping it softly. “I want you to be more comfortable when we talk about this, okay? Can we go sit on the couch and get you a glass of water?”

…

You’re curled up next to him. The room is quiet except for the perpetual buzz of the city outside, but it’s muffled, making it feel so far away.

“What if I tell you I love you,” you whisper, voice barely there, “and you wanna stop being my best friend?”

Spencer is quiet for a little while.

“This... this isn't about that. I don’t think that’s what you’re scared of,” he whispers. “You know I love you too. I know you know that, you’re so smart. I know you figured it out.”

Your throat tightens, fingers fiddling with the fabric of your shirt. “I think this is about you being honest with yourself, and then the good parts will follow. I promise. The only thing I want from you is your bravery. You don't have to worry about anything else, okay? Not about if it’s right or wrong. Not about what might happen. I think you have to be honest anyway.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek.

You’re quiet for a long while.

“I love you.”

…

You wake up hours later upon the filtering of soft, pale sunlight through curtains, surrounded by a sage-green-almost-grey quilt. You’re the perfect temperature, and you have plenty of room to stretch about in Spencer's bed, which you must've crawled into at some point.

Still, despite its lovely peace, you sit up, wincing at the soft throbbing behind your eyes, and swing your legs over the side to search for Advil, ankle only protesting softly. Not sprained. On your way to the bathroom, you spot Spencer at the couch, crossword in hand, pen tapping idly against the margin. He glances up. 

“Hi.”

“Hey, you,” he murmurs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sleep okay?”

You nod, standing perfectly still. “You, uh.. Still talking to me?”

He blinks. “Why wouldn't I be?”

You look up at him imploringly, and he softens. 

“Yes, I’m still talking to you.” He opens his arms and you shuffle your way over to the couch, nestling your way in, head falling naturally into the space between his shoulder and jaw, as if you’ve done it a million times before. (You haven’t.)

His arm curls around you, thumb brushing back and forth.

“You didn’t say I love you back,” you whisper.

Spencer exhales through his nose, into your hair. “I didn’t wanna do it when you were drunk, honey.”

You peek up at him. “I’m not drunk anymore. I have a headache. Classic hangover sign.” 

That earns a quiet laugh. “You’re right.” His thumb traces over your cheek, slow. He looks at you clearly, no hesitation. “I love you too.”

The words hang there, perfect. 

Then, softly, he adds on another blow. Not because he’s a cruel man, no. But because he loves you so much, and he knows exactly what you can handle. “Can I kiss you?”

You nod instinctively, quickly, but he doesn’t move.

“Words, sweet girl. I want to hear it,” he pleads, so gentle.

You exhale, meeting his eyes.

“You can kiss me.” He leans in slowly, giving you every possible second to back out. His nose bumps yours, (the two of you clearly out of practice), and his lips finally meet yours in a faint, gentle press. It’s barely even a kiss at all, but he makes up for it with the next one.