no use of y/n/generalish descriptions , not proofread, first time writing in a while :,)
5,316 words
You and Spencer were just friends. Until you suddenly felt sick.
Clink!
Your eyes slid across the room, hazy with sleep against the music blasting. Your friends laughed loudly, glasses hitting against one another as stories passed through.
You followed along lazily, sipping at your drink as Shayne yelled loudly (albeit, jokingly) about something your mind wasn’t truly following. Though you nodded along anyways, letting a small smile sit on your face to look like you were enjoying yourself.
You were not.
Your head hurt, stomach killed, eyes straining as lights flashed and music bumped loudly. And across from you sat Spencer. He glanced at you a few times, though was deeply involved with a conversation with Damien (maybe about games?).
“Hello?” A hand waved in front of your face. You blinked, looking beside you. Olivia raised an eyebrow, scooting closer. “Jesus, what’s up with you?” She questioned, leaning in do you could hear her over everything else.
“Sorry. I’m just not feeling good.” You managed to say after a few moments, pulling the glass to your lips to hopefully cure your dry mouth.
Olivia nodded.
It had been a long week, so she understood. Countless shoots, late nights, long editing spurs, it easily tired out the whole cast and crew. “I can tell. You’re dead silent.” She hummed, mimicking you to sip her own drink. Your eyes peeling to it, a margarita glass sat between her fingers. You followed her hand with your eyes before looking back at her. “Yeah.” You managed to get out, an uneasy feeling settling in your stomach. It felt like a mix of sickness and anxiety, though you willed it away by sipping your drink once more.
“Just feeling kind of out of it.” You mumble again, looking away from Olivia. You met Spencer’s eyes. You two held eye contact for a few moments before he looked away.
Your stomach churned.
“Wow. If you two eye fuck each other again I’m gonna yack.” Olivia commented, her tone light as he elbows rested on the table. That seemed to snap you out of your trance, head snapping to her. Your eyebrows furrowed, mouth opening to argue before snapping shut once more.
Courtney, sat a few seats away called your name.
“You want a drink?” they questioned, grinning. Before you could answer, they reached across the table and grabbed your wrist, tugging you along. You clambered over Amanda, who followed close behind.
The three of you weaved through the crowd toward the bar, trading small talk as Amanda leaned against the counter.
The bartender, a middle-aged man, approached, already shaking a mixer. The three of your ordered your respective drinks and beginning to chatter amongst each other while the bartender began mixing drinks.
"You look like shit," Amanda commented off-handedly. Courtney swatted at her, though there was no animosity between them. You nodded sheepishly.
"Yeah. I just don't feel super good, honestly." You spoke, shrugging as you looked from the two to the group of your friends. "But I'm happy I came out. Probably going to dip out early though." Your eyes scanned the group, taking everyone in for a moment before locking eyes with someone sat down.
You looked back at the duo.
"Lame, but understandable." Courtney hummed, muttering a thank you to the bartender who slid them their drink. Taking a long sip, they set down the cup once more. "What's wrong? Your head?"
You nodded after a moment. "Yeah. It hurts. And my stomach feels.. off. I don't know how to explain it. I think I just need sleep." Amanda laughed in agreement.
"I get that. I'm running on like, no sleep." She commented, silently referencing the baby she had waiting for her at home. "And the stomach part. Sometimes the best cure for that is chilling at home with someone you love. Always cures it for me." Mimicking Courtney's action, Amanda reached for the drink the bartender was handing her. She took a sip, eyes rolling back. "Fuck, this is soooo good." She groaned, making you and Courtney laugh.
Once you got your drink, the three of you returned to the table. Seats shifted from everyone moving around, and you slid in beside Chanse. On the other side of him sat Spencer, who was mindlessly stirring the drink in front of him as him and Ian spoke.
Another hour of laughing and chatting passed between everyone before you stood. "Unfortunately, I am leaving." You announced, getting a chorus of noos and goodbyes. Grabbing your bag, you carried the empty glass to the bartender before leaving to order your Uber outside.
Barely having closed the door behind you, it opened again. Your head turned to see Spencer, smiling at you.
"Need a ride?" He questioned, holding up his keys with a grin on his face. You smiled back, matching his expression. The only real smile which seemed to fall on your face tonight.
"Yes please." You hummed, falling in a silent step with him around the bar.
It was a fairly silent ride home, small talk amongst the quiet music playing in the background.
"Thank you for the ride," You thanked him as he pulled in front of your apartment complex.
"Anytime," Spencer smiled at you. You two held eye contact before you got a flash of being lightheaded. With another note of appreciation, you left his car to make your way inside. You couldn't fight the smile on your face as you made your way into your apartment.
Your night routine was done on autopilot, minus the quick detour for a bowl of cereal before sliding into your bed. Your phone buzzed with a notification from Slack.
Spencer A
Hope you feel better!
Smiling, you hearted the message.
Thank you!
And thanks for the ride.
See you monday!
Saturday and Sunday passed by quickly. You spent most of those days at home, watching TV and relaxing. Quick exchanges with coworkers about work for the following week but relatively silent.
When Monday came, you felt exponentially better. You arrived to the Smosh office early with a drink from your favorite cafe near work. "Good morning!" You greeted Emily Rose as you entered, quick to shuffle into the morning meeting.
Everyone chatted about the shoots for the week, meetings, and schedules. Before long, you were out of the meeting, shuffling your way to your desk in the editing bay. Being a crew member truly had its perks, mainly for not filming and chattering all day.
On a Monday morning, you simply wanted to work in silence and get in and out.
After an hour or two of editing, you slid your chair back to stretch your legs. You stood, shaking your arms out slightly before grabbing the empty cup, which sat on the edge of your desk. Making your way through the office, you tossed the cup into the trash and carefully opened the door to the games set.
Stepping closer, behind the camera, you watched the group shuffle around cards and laugh at something Angela did. After watching for a few moments, your eyes trained themselves to Spencer. His back was to you, eyes following the group as they played the game to butt in occasionally to re-explain things or make a joke.
You smiled.
Suddenly, your knees felt a little weak. Finally deciding to return to work, you turned on your heels to return to your desk with shaky legs.
Spencer could feel your eyes.
He always could.
In the bar, while directing a shoot. Anywhere. He wasn't sure what it meant exactly. His body just seemed to know when you were around. Before you entered a room, moments before getting a text from you. It was weird, he knew that. But maybe it was just a coincidence that he could feel his whole body tense, muscles tightening, breath shortening as you arrived.
Strange, definitely.
Your friends seemed to notice, too.
"You always stop when Spencer comes near you." Bailey commented.
You two sat on a couch together in the office, scrolling your phones in silence except when occasionally showing each other something. Your head turned slowly, eyebrows furrowed as you stared at her. She looked back at you.
"Just saying." She shrugged, turning back to her phone to continue texting someone.
"The fuck does that mean?" You questioned, voice light and full of a weird, genuine concern.
Bailey paused before shutting off her phone to look at you. "Every time you guys talk, or he's near you." She continued, eyebrows furrowing. "Do you not notice?"
Your head shakes.
"Oh." Bailey says after a moment, as if taking in information. "Maybe it's nothing, then." She concludes, pushing herself off the plush cushion to leave you alone with your thoughts.
Your head swirled, though you pushed past the feeling to stand as well.
Windows down, music played as you drove down the winding streets of California. The weather started to lighten, heat cooling into the perfect temperature.
You hummed along to the music, car pulling to a stop as you pulled into Courtney and Shayne's house. A majority of the cast and crew gathered in their backyard, drinks passing and conversation flowing.
Entering through the front door, you gently put your keys onto their key hook and made your way through the house. A cat skittered past you, making you smile as you pushed into the backyard. Angela noticed you first, grinning and approaching to greet you.
"Fashionably late?" Angela mused, making you playfully roll your eyes.
"Something like that." You hummed, falling in step with her to approach Chanse and Trevor. Falling into conversation with the group, it wasn't long before Arasha stepped in to hand you your favorite seltzer. You took it appreciatingly, cracking the top to sip it and continue conversing.
You eventually peeled away to greet other people, stepping beside Ian, who chatted with both Damien and Spencer. Ian turned, offering a sweet smile. "Hey!" He greeted, pulling you into a gentle side-hug. Damien nodded at you and Spencer offered a small smile.
At that moment, it felt like the few drops of alcohol mixed hit your brain. You talked with the group for a while, telling a story.
"And she finally shut up and jus' walked away," Your hands moved frantically as the three laughed along with your story.
Spencer stared at you for a moment, laughing a beat too late and a beat too long. "No way!" He grinned, making you beam.
Your heart danced.
Groups migrated, people shifting as a few hours dragged. People began slowly flowing out, leaving a much smaller group of cast and crew. The sun began lowering, a gentle golden hue covering the back of the house and the grass.
"Its fucking cold." Courtney shivered, leaning beside you. You nodded in agreement, lifting the can to your lips. "Should I start a fire?" They questioned, head turning to yours.
"Yeah, I'll help you set it up." You nodded once more, taking another sip before setting the can down beside you. The two of you pushed off the wall, wandering to the other side of the yard. "Court, I don't think I tell you enough how much I love your house." You hummed.
Courtney smiled. "Thank you! I think it's perfect for us." Their eyes glanced across the yard, looking to where Shayne stood in conversation with Tommy and Angela. You nodded, following her eyes for a moment before landing on Spencer. You looked away quickly, back to the blonde beside you. "Like honestly, it is the perfect size and style for us." They continued.
"I agree, honestly. Its just so you." You mused, getting a small giggle from Courtney. The two of you picked up a few pieces of firewood, carrying them towards the firepit. After a few moments of adjusting the wood, Courtney turned to go get more along with some fire starter and a lighter.
You crouched beside the firepit, angling the wood slightly. Footsteps approached, though you didn't look up.
"Fire?" You turned, Spencer stood beside you. He smiled down at you, offering you a gentle hand to help lift you. You took it gratefully, pulling yourself up.
"Yeah. Court was cold, and the vibes are chilling out." You nodded, pulling down at the shirt you wore. Spencer nodded in agreement.
"That makes sense."
There was an air to your conversation. Something you couldn't quite place. You two lingered in silence for a moment, each edging to say something yet turning at the sound of footsteps.
Shayne and Courtney approached, Shayne carrying the firewood and Courtney the lighter, along with some s'mores items. "Hey, you two," Shayne hummed, tone light as he tossed in a few more pieces of wood.
Courtney placed down the food, handing Shayne the stuff to start the fire before plopping down in her seat. It wasn't long before the fire began, everybody beginning to meander over on their own accord.
You and Spencer followed Courtney's steps and sat down in two lawn chairs side by side. "S'mores?" He questioned, reaching over for two sticks and the other items. You shook your head, waving him off.
"No thanks. I can never get the marshmallows cooked how I want them and I just get mad." You joked, making him chuckle.
"Just tell me how you like it. I'll do it for you." Spencer didn't even look at you, sliding a marshmallow onto one of the sticks. He set down the other one on the side of him, looking towards you.
You smiled, feeling your cheeks flush. Maybe you were sick, again.
Though, maybe Bailey was right about how you act around Spencer. The thought hit you suddenly, making you freeze for a moment.
Spencer looked really good. Has he always looked this good?
"You sure?" You questioned, your mouth suddenly dry.
"Of course. I'm a pro, trust me." Spencer hummed, head cocking. You nodded, telling him how you liked the marshmallow before grabbing the graham crackers and chocolate off his lap.
In silence, you set up enough graham crackers and chocolate for each of you to make your own s'mores. He carefully handed you the stick with your marshmallow on it, letting you press your marshmallow between the graham crackers and chocolate to make your sandwich.
Spencer took back the stick, beginning to cook his own marshmallow.
"Thank you," You said after a moment, watching him cook his own. It wasn't long until he reached for the graham cracker bag, though you pushed his hand back. "I got yours ready." It was a simple gesture for him making yours.
Spencer paused for a moment before smiling.
"Thank you." He grinned, gratefully taking the already set-up chocolate and cracker to press his sandwich together. The two of you shared a quiet moment, munching on the s'mores as the rest of the remaining group spoke.
Though the moment didn't last long, Arasha dragged you into a heated conversation with Courtney.
Spencer was truly no idiot. He didn't act like one, either.
So when being in a room with you suddenly made it hard to breathe, it was extremely noticeable from his usual routine.
The two of you were friendly, sure. You chatted at work, helped with ideas, sharing the occasional meme. Not the best of friends, but friendly.
But lately, every time he is even near you seemed to stun his brain. Definitely strange. Spencer was not good at hiding that either.
"So.." Started Shayne suddenly, making Spencer's head snap up from the can he cracked open. Shayne was already looking at him, cup to his lips. Spencer's eyebrows furrowed. "You made them a s'more?" Shayne said after a moment, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back in the chair.
Spencer's face didn't change. "What?" He said after a beat.
"I don't know. Nothing." Shayne waved him off.
It only added to Spencer's confusion as he set down the can. "No, what?" He leaned forward.
Shayne shrugged. "I just.. didn't know you guys were a thing." His words were thought through. Planned. Spencer knew that. He knew Shayne.
Though the thought still made Spencer's heart lurch, it almost getting caught in his throat.
"What?" Spencer asked, voice full of a genuine shock. Shayne's eyebrow raised.
"Are you trying to sit here and tell me you're not a thing?"
Spencer ran a hand through his hair. "Shayne. We are not a thing. What? I've barely talked to them!"
Shayne didn't say anything for a moment. "You're fucking with me." He finally said, head shaking.
"Shayne. I'm being dead serious." Spencer spoke, head shaking. "Like, no. We are not a thing."
"Oh." Is all Shayne said, an uncomfortable air between them. "Uh, well. People think you are." He finally said after a moment, making Spencer let out a heavy breath.
"Who?" Spencer finally asked, pushing his glasses up. Shayne adjusted in his seat, feeling awkward.
"Just.. a few. People." Spencer's gaze was heavy. "Courtney, Bailey, Amanda... Arasha..." Shayne finally spoke after a moment of heavy silence.
Spencer let out a long breath. He didn't speak for a moment, shaking his head before standing. "Okay. Thanks." He was quick to leave the kitchen, door shutting behind him as he walked through the office to try and get to his desk quickly.
The thought of people thinking of you and Spencer together raced through his mind. What made them think that? He just made you a s'more. And sat together in silence. And, yeah, you were extremely attractive.
But nobody knows he thinks that.
Right?
You sat at your desk, fingers drumming at the wood as you waited for Adobe to load. There was a quiet buzz around the office as many people were in the filming docs or had headphones on to edit. You slid your headphones over your ears, clicking to start your project as a Slack notification appeared on your screen.
You hummed slightly, clicking on the notification to a text from Spencer.
Spencer A
Can you look at this?
karen_moose2.mov
You paused for a moment, taking in the text.
Spencer rarely, if ever, asked you to look at his edits.
Yeah, I got you
You typed back after a moment, mind swirling. Why was he asking you to look at the video?
It was a short clip, 10 minutes, of a video filmed a few weeks ago. It was a video you had helped Spencer and Alex produce a few weeks back, actually. It was one of your first times helping to produce a games video.
Looks good!
Maybe smooth edits from 2:44-2:57?
You texted after watching the video. Spencer's response was quick.
Spencer A
Thank you!
Thanks for helping produce.
Your idea was super good! Gonna be a good video.
You smiled at the text without a second thought. You were nervous about pitching the idea, but it worked out well, and the cast and crew (mainly Spencer) did truly seem to like the idea. Having Spencer compliment you like this seemed so personal. Your heart thumped, making you bite the inside of your cheek as you re-read the message again.
The feeling of your heartbeat speed up made you pause. Why did you react like that? Why is this feeling so familiar?
There was a moment of pause before you realized why you were feeling like this.
Oh.
You had feelings for Spencer.
Your coworker.
One of your bosses, technically.
Well. Fuck. That makes what Bailey and Olivia said make sense.
Your heart felt heavy all day. A wave of anxiety seemed to fill you, following you through editing and meetings the morning held. It wasn't long before you sat at your desk, everybody beginning to file out for lunch and coffee breaks. You stayed at your desk, eyes trained to the monitor in front of you.
It felt like your world had flipped in front of you in a matter of minutes. Thinking back on every interaction with Spencer over the past few weeks, everything felt different. The lingering eye contact, your stomach flipping every time he entered the room, and jokes from your friends. Everything held a different undertone, and it all made sense now. You were not sick, you simply had a crush. Okay, that's fine and all. But people noticed. And that means maybe Spencer did too. So, the smartest thing to do was stop talking to him. Because that would change everything.
So, you stayed at your desk for lunch. Worked right through lunch, actually. People came by to check on you, but every interaction ended quickly as you rushed to continue working. A glass slid onto your desk. Hot chocolate. You looked up, sliding your headphones around your neck. There, Spencer stood.
"Noticed you didn't stop for lunch." Spencer said after a moment, offering you a gentle smile. You smiled back on instinct.
"Yeah, thanks." You slid a hand around the mug to slide it closer to you. "Just, catching up on editing."
Spencer's eyebrow raised. "Catching up or ahead?" He mused, glancing quickly at your monitor. All you could do was offer a weak smile.
"Up. I think," You let out a breathy chuckle. There was a moment of silence, Spencer looking back at you. Your cheeks felt warm as you held eye contact, smile deepening on both of your faces. You swore you could almost see his cheeks flush before he cleared his throat.
"Well," Spencer started, looking away. "Don't burn yourself out. We need you." He said, looking back at you to smile before walking away to return to his desk.
You didn't respond, watching him walk away before looking at the mug. You smiled at it, cheeks warm as you sipped on the hot chocolate. Just how you like it, though you couldn't remember telling him how you liked it.
After a beat, someone giggled behind you. You turned, seeing Bailey smiling at you. You raised an eyebrow, making her shake her head.
"You really don't see it, do you?" Bailey questioned, making you shake your head. "He cares about you, more than you realize."
Your eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?" You questioned, making her arms fold.
"He kept asking me during lunch where you were. So nervous you didn't eat." Bailey told you, making you set down the mug on the desk behind you. "I hate to say this, I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I really think he has a crush on you." You froze, cheeks darkening. "I don't know. He asks about you a lot. Worries, cares." She continued as you sat in silence, taking in the information.
"What?" You finally asked after a moment, making her laugh again.
"I'm just saying. Its the little things, things you don't notice." Bailey shrugged, turning to continue her work. You didn't turn around yet, staring at Bailey before turning to return to your work.
Spencer noticed it quickly.
Interactions with you were cut short as you rushed away, the silence you held around the office, the way you seemed to shrink into yourself.
As much as it made him worry, it made him hurt just the same.
You couldn't hold a conversation with him, never meeting his eye, and always avoiding him in rooms.
Weeks had passed since he realized his feelings for you. He never said them out loud, not to any of his friends, and definitely not to you. But he was not a stupid man, and he knew you were pulling back.
Had he made himself obvious? Maybe somebody else said something and you thought he was a creep now.
Spencer held his breath when you entered the room. A curt good morning at the beginning of the day, a short goodbye before leaving, every sign pointing to you hating him. And in some way, he accepted that. Maybe that's all you ever were, maybe he read the signs wrong, or maybe his mind was just playing tricks on him.
Still, it hurt.
And other people noticed.
"Trouble in paradise?"
It was the same setting. Shayne and Spencer sat across from each other in the lunch room, Shayne mindlessly scrolling while Spencer popped open a can of Kickstart.
"What?" Spencer asked, though he knew what Shayne meant.
Shayne clicked his phone off to look at Spencer. "You know what I mean, Spencer." He tutted. Spencer didn't respond. "You and your partner have been dead silent. You're not slick, ignoring each other like that."
Spencer opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out.
"Listen, Spencer. I mean this as a friend. But you trying to be strong and not tell them how you feel isn't working for you. Remember when I tried doing that with Court?"
Of course Spencer remembered. Shayne was one of his best friends, and so was Courtney. They ignored each other, friendly on camera and dead silent off. It was palpable the tension the two held, knowing how they felt for each other.
"Yeah?" Spencer managed, swallowing. "That has nothing to do with-"
"Yes, it does." Shayne was quick to cut in. "I remember you telling me how you felt when we were like that. You told me, 'everyone knows you wanna fuck! Just fuck!', like it was the most obvious thing. And it was, and I told them how I felt. And look at us now," He flashed his hand, showing off his ring finger.
Spencer stared at the ring before meeting Shayne's eyes.
Spencer just stared at him. "I get you're scared, for whatever reason. But come on, Spence, I know you have a brain in your head. Just tell them how you feel. You know they like you just the same." Shayne stood after that, offering a smile. "Save yourself the heartache. Do it." That was all he said before leaving Spencer to his thoughts.
The office was darker than usual. Rain poured outside, clouds covering the sun. It was quiet, everyone trying to get through the day before the storm got worse.
You stood from your desk, packing away your items as the day came to a close. Many people had already left, finishing work early to leave before the weather got any worse. You chose to ignore it, hoping Spencer would leave early so you wouldn't catch him as you left.
The universe seemed to be against you as you and Spencer both left your desks at the same time, him a few paces behind you.
Your steps hurried without meaning to, weaving through people with rushed goodbyes for the day. Spencer caught up with you quickly, the two of you falling into a quiet step.
Just as you pushed open the door, Spencer cleared his throat.
"Hey." Spencer said, stepping into the rain.
You gave a flat smile. "Hey."
The two of you walked around the building to the parking lot.
"How are you?" He asked, swallowing.
"I'm good. Tired. How are you?" You returned, hugging your sweatshirt close.
"Yeah, I'm good." Spencer hummed, though his response felt awkward. Unfinished.
You nod, not knowing how to respond and willing the conversation to end.
"I've been meaning to ask you," Spencer started, your heart dropping to your stomach. "Did I do something?"
The rain was heavy, but you stopped without thinking about it. He stopped as well, looking at you through the droplets on his glasses.
"No?" You said after a moment, making him sigh.
"I'm not dumb, you know," Spencer mumbled, making you look away. "You literally won't talk to me. You ignore me whenever you can." He shifted his weight awkwardly.
Your heart shattered in your chest, his expression making you sigh.
"I'm sorry." You look at your feet, puddles making your lips press together. "I just, have been going through something." You can't say its a lie. Just not the full truth.
Spencer's lips press together. "Okay. If that's what you want to say." He looks away from you and walks away.
You take a few seconds, gathering your thoughts before hurrying to catch up to him. You reach a hand out, carefully grabbing his arm to stop him.
"Spencer, I'm sorry." You apologize, eyes meeting his. "It is not your fault. I'm just trying to work through something, and you did not do anything to make this happen."
Spencer nods after a second. "Okay." Is all he says. "Then can I ask you something?" Your eyebrows furrow but you noded.
"I know you said I didn't do anything, but I think you're lying." He says, making you bite the inside of your cheek. "You won't talk to me, only answer me on Slack, barely even acknowledge me. It hurts my feelings, if you want me to be honest."
You bite down harder. "I don't mean to make you feel that way. I just," The rain had completely soaked the two of you. "I can't tell you. And I'm sorry."
Now, you're the one walking away. Leaving Spencer alone in the parking lot, rain pouring down on him. You unlock your car, sliding into the seat with a heavy sigh.
This sucked.
Knock knock!
Spencer knocked on your window. Your eyebrows furrowed as you opened the door to step back into the rain with him.
"Whatever I did to make you feel like that, I'm sorry. Maybe its been a long week, maybe I'm tired, and maybe I'll regret saying this," Spencer started, barely meeting your eyes. "But I really like you. More than a friend, maybe more than I should."
Your heart felt like it stopped.
This genuinely could not be real.
Rain thundered down, street lights being the only thing that lets you two see each other.
"I don't know if you feel the same about me. But I can't stop thinking about you. Every joke I make, every time I drive, every funny meme, all I think about is you. And I don't know what to do about that or what it means exactly. But I really think I like you." Spencer rambled for a moment, and you could faintly make out a blush on his cheeks. "And I'm sorry. I'm sorry if this changes how you see me, if I ruin the friendship we have, but I can't not say anything. Coming into work every day and not knowing if you're gonna talk to me or ignore me is killing me." He finishes, hand reaching to scratch the beard on his chin.
You couldn't form a sentence.
Your mind raced, heart pounding.
Spencer looked at you finally, eyebrows knitted together. After a second, he took a half step back and opened his mouth.
You stepped forward at the same time, reaching out to grab his arm.
"Spencer." You finally managed, lump forming in your throat. "I don't-I'm not even sure what to say." You shook your head, letting his arm go to wrap your arms around yourself. He took a moment before stepping closer.
"Say anything." Spencer pleaded, voice soft.
Your breath fell short, making you swallow.
"I don't hate you. I feel the same way." The second part was softer, but he heard you. "I don't know when I realized. But, you're just so.. you." It came out in a breathy laugh, making Spencer smile slightly. "I like you. A lot. Maybe more than I should."
There was a beat, rain splashing off the car. "I think it's always been you. Somehow, every moment ended with you. Every smile, laugh, I always found you in them." You swallowed, holding yourself tighter.
Spencer paused, letting silence fall between you.
You felt awkward, just standing there staring at each other. Yet it also felt so normal.
You opened your mouth to speak again before Spencer stepped closer, pulling you into a hug. Your arms pulled around him, wet clothes clinging against each other.
And you didn't speak, but you didn't need to.
There was just silence amongst the rain and that was enough.
no use of y/n , fem pronouns/descriptions , not proofread just emotions
2,437 words
The flower petals brushed lightly against your legs. It tickled vaguely.
But nothing compared to the thump in your chest.
Spencer’s hand rested on your thigh, the other hand holding the wheel as you two drove into the sunset. It was a perfect day.
He picked you up with flowers, took you out to eat. Now you two were driving to a small beach outside of the city. It was quiet in the car, save for ‘Thought It Was Love’ by Ty Myers playing in the background.
“It’s beautiful.” You finally said after a moment, Spencer only removing his hand to put the car in brake. The sky was a mix of yellow and pink, clouds very lightly scattered.
It was the perfect summer night. Not too hot, yet not cold.
“It is.” He agreed.
You looked over to see him already looking at you. A smile pulled at your lips on reflex, warm blush heating your cheeks.
There was a another few beats of silence until Spencer took a deep breath.
“Will you be my girlfriend?” He finally asked, silence breaking.
Your heart thumped louder. You could hear it in your ears, blush spreading to your ears.
It was perfect.
“Of course,” You smiled, reaching over the center console to take his face in your hands and press a kiss to his lips.
The dinner table was set perfectly. You and Spencer had been together for 6 months, the day before Valentines.
Spencer wore an all black outfit, with his usual boots. The candlelight reflected on his beard, his face a gentle golden hue. You couldn’t stop smiling, legs crossed at the ankle.
“I swear, you get more beautiful everyday.” Spencer mused, looking at you with a goofy smile. A small, embarrassed giggle came from you as you rocked slightly in the chair.
“Oh stop,” You rolled your eyes, though there was no true animosity behind it. He shook his head.
“I swear.” He promised, grinning. “I must be the luckiest man in the world to be with you.”
Your cheeks warmed. You shook your head once more, reaching across the table to take his hand in yours.
“I love you,” You hummed after a moment, watching the way his lips pulled into a tighter smile. A true smile.
“I love you more.”
But relationships still have their ups and downs.
Your fingers gripped the steering wheel, not daring to look at the man beside you.
“Why can’t you just talk to me?” Your head shook fervently.
He’s crying. You can tell by the sniffles. You saw it from when he sat in the car.
“It’s not that easy,” He ushered your name, reaching over to grab your arm carefully. “I just get so lost in work. I’m so busy. I have so much to do.” Your head shook once more, pulling your arm back to look at him. He looked terrible. Pale skin, bags under his eyes, tear stains. “And I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.”
Of course you didn’t.
He iced you out for a week, angry at his own life and taking it out on you.
“No, Spencer, I don’t.” Your eyebrows knitted together, tears pooling at the bottom of your eyes.
Of course he was stressed. He’s a director and talent at work.
“I know. I know.” His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer over the center console. At his touch your shoulders shook, tears falling as you let out a sob.
“I’m sorry. I will be better.” Spencer promised, whispering as he rubbed your back. “I shouldn’t take my stress out on you. I shouldn’t shut you out. You just want to help me.”
You didn’t respond, shaking your head as you sobbed angrily. Your mind flashed memories of the texts.
The words.
‘I just need space’
‘I can’t deal with you’
Another angry sob.
He hugged you tighter.
“Just come inside. Lets go lay down,” Spencer cooed, still rubbing your back.
Of course you wanted to forgive him. Its almost been a year of you two being together now. There has been so much good.
“Okay.” You finally spoke after a moment.
Planes flew by overhead. You and Spencer sat in the car at the local airport, watching planes leave and go as the sunset. It was the perfect end to your anniversary. The two of you laid in the backseat, looking out of the sunroof. His fingers scratched your scalp, lulling you into sleep.
“I love you.” Spencer mumbled softly, a smile pulling onto your face.
“I love you more.” You said after a beat, the man pressing a kiss to your head.
The towel dropped onto the counter as you threw it behind you.
“I’m sick of this, Spencer.” You shook your head. “I hate feeling like this.” Your vision was blurry from tears.
Spencer stood across the kitchen from you, arms crossed. There was an emotion you couldn’t quite place on his face.
“You just use me. You, you say all these awful things to me. You make me feel like shit, and come back every night just to fuck. Do you know how that makes me feel?” You didn’t dare step closer, voice breaking. It was built up anger. The two of you had been snipping at each other for days. Weeks, even.
“I don’t fucking use you, dude.” Spencer hissed, emotion not matching your own. He crossed the kitchen quickly, though stood a few paces away. “You sound fucking crazy, I hope you know that. How can I use you? How?” He threw his arms up, exasperation in his voice.
“Because I don’t just want to fuck you, Spencer. When was the last time we went out on a date? When was the last time you got me flowers?” You stepped closer, a new venom in your tone. “When was the last time you didn’t show up here at midnight? Or asked me how my day was?”
Spencer laughed. Truly laughed at you.
“You’re fucking crazy! I love you. You know that. Sorry I’m busy at work, making a living for myself. Sorry you’re so fucking miserable being you. You need fucking help.” He shook his head, turning sharply on his heel and leaving the room.
It wasn’t until you heard his keys jingle and the front door slam until you actually let the tears fall. It was embarrassing the way your knees buckled. You held onto the counter behind you, sobbing angrily. You felt like a fucking joke.
You two never talked about the fights after the fact.
There was nothing to be said. A shitty apology for what you went through. A kiss.
That was the end of that.
You and Spencer strolled through the Home Depot. It was a strange date, I know. But perfect.
“This fridge is nice.” He mused, opening the door to go through the doors. “For our future house,” He hummed, pulling you close by the waist and pressing a kiss to your temple.
You smiled happily.
“It would be perfect. I wish it was black, though.” You agreed, resting your head on his shoulder. He nodded, letting out a hum deep from the back of his throat.
“Let’s find a black one.” Spencer took your hand, leading you through the rows of fridges until you found the perfect one.
The two of you wandered the store for a while, until finding the kitchen set ups. You moved through them happily, fingers ghosting over the marble counters.
“God, you are perfect.” You hadn’t realized he had stopped, just watching you. Hands deep in his jean pockets, smiling happily at you. “I can see it now. Us in the kitchen.” He continued, stepping closer to brush over the counters as well.
“Me too,” You agreed breathlessly, smiling back at him. Spencer stepped closer, pressing a kiss to your lips.
“I’m so lucky.” He whispered as you two parted, though not backing up very much.
The ice melted in the cup.
“You need to stop buying me shit. It makes me feel like a dick.” Spencer grumbled, not glancing at the cup.
“Are you being serious?” You asked, head cocking forward slightly.
“Yeah. I am.” Spencer finally looked over at you, peeling his eyes away from his monitor. “I am serious.”
You couldn’t stop yourself from rolling your eyes.
“Thats ridiculous. I hope you know that,” You mumbled. “I’m your girlfriend. If I want to buy you something, I can.”
Spencer let out a breath similar to a laugh.
“Well just stop. I don’t want it.”
Your fingers drummed on the table.
“Listen, I know you love him.” Olivia’s voice brought you back to reality. “But its just not healthy. You two do this once a month.”
You shook your head.
“It’s not normal. This game you two play, the ghosting then going back to normal.” Her head shakes, letting out a soft sigh. “You need to fix it or it's just gonna get worse.”
Three days.
Three days since you two last spoke.
Biting the bullet, you texted him.
‘i’m coming over’
He read it.
Didn’t respond.
You show up anyway, unlocking his apartment door with the spare key he gave you forever ago.
Spencer is already on the couch, elbows resting on his knees as he rubbed his face.
The tension is thick. Clouding the whole room.
You stood in the doorway for a moment. It takes a lot of courage before you walk over, sitting on the couch beside him.
“Why?” You finally ask, though he doesn’t look at you. “You keep saying you’re gonna change. Stop doing this to me. To us.” You emphasize the last word, eyebrows furrowing.
“Maybe I can’t change.” Spencer sighs, leaning back on the couch and looking at the ceiling. He says your name in a breathy tone, shaking his head.
“Yeah, you can. You don’t want to. You don’t even try. The second you’re tired, or upset, you take it out on me. I haven’t done anything.” You shake your head, heart heavy in your chest. You know where this is leading. You made up the decision in your head a long time ago. Before you wanted to. Not like you want to now, anyway.
“I can’t keep doing this, Spencer.” You finally sigh after a minute of no response. “This is killing me. Killing us.” You continue.
He doesn’t look at you.
“Okay.” He mumbles.
“Okay?” You shake your head. “Thats - okay.” You’re tired.
You two have been together for almost two years.You spent every holiday, birthday, big moment together. He doesn’t even care.
“I can’t keep doing this.” Your voice breaks. Your cheeks are wet, you realize. When did you start crying?
“I’m sorry.” Spencer lets out, finally looking at you. Those gorgeous eyes are brimmed with tears. “I don’t know if I was ready. Ever ready. For a relationship.” He admits, looking away again. “You didn’t deserve this.”
You’re blocked the next day. It’s summer again. Not the same summer from when you met, not the same summer from when you two celebrated your anniversary.
No, it's a different summer.
A lonely one.
It drags. It’s not long until that awful day that was supposed to be yours comes around.
Spencer is in a new relationship. He moved on after less than two months. It took him two months to get over you. Over two years together.
Your fingers line the rim of a glass. Your other hand holds your phone, a photo of Spencer and his new girlfriend. Celebrating Halloween. Then Christmas. Then Valentines.
The months have dragged. Disgustingly dragged on. With a heavy heart, you shut off your phone. You shut your eyes, willing the taste of alcohol to the back of your mind. Hoping you would open your eyes, and Spencer would be there.
It would all be a dream.
It was not a dream.
But it got easier. It has now been ten months since you broke up. Since you last talked.
Your shoes clicked on cobblestone as you walked the empty streets with your friends. They laughed happily about something, and there was a warm smile on your face. Everything had finally started to feel right again.
Your phone buzzed deep in your pocket. You almost didn’t check it, though you felt an urge to.
There was a string of texts.
‘i hope youre okay’
‘i hope the best for you’
‘im emabarresed of how i treated u, u didnt deserve that’
God you could’ve thrown up right there.
Ten months, almost to the day. And he just texts you.
You paused right in your spot. Everything in you told you not to answer. Don’t dance with the devil, you thought.
But, that's too easy.
So you answered, of course.
‘spencer?’
‘i am okay. hope ur okay.’
‘its okay. its all in the past.’
A pause. You could vaguely hear your friends calling your name, but it all sounded like gibberish at this moment.
The familiar buzz of a phone call.
“Spencer?” You asked, eyebrows furrowing as you stepped away from your friends.
“I’m sorry. I just, I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m so embarrassed for how I treated you.” His voice is shaky. “You were perfect. You were everything to me. You did so much for me and, and I fucked it all up. God,” He breathed your named. “I would do anything to go back, to do it again. Give you everything I gave her. What you deserved.”
Oh. They must’ve broken up.
“Its… okay.” You finally spoke after a moment, heart caught in your throat. “I, why? Why are you calling me?”
Spencer didn’t respond immediately.
“I fucked up. So bad. With you.” Spencer finally let out. His voice sounds wet, you can vaguely hear sniffles through the voice.
“I’m so sorry.” Spencer finally let out, a sob riffling through him.
No, you didn’t cuss him out. You didn’t call him names.
You let him cry on the phone, sobbing out apologies in a slur of exhaustion and pure emotion.
Your mind raced. You wanted to cry. To be angry. But there was a different feeling.
Something close to exhaustion, something near love.
You were blocked the next morning. Texts didn’t go through. Calls didn’t, either.
Your car was parked in the same spot from the day he asked you to be his girlfriend. The sunset, but it wasn’t as pretty as that night. The sky just shifted to a muted yellow, deepening as the moon rose.
The radio softly played ‘Thought It Was Love’ in the background. A sad memory to that once beautiful day.
I was gonna post them all separately but they i realized i got Angela and Amanda’s names backwards and had to delete the other posts so here’s Six of the Smosh Cast
Hey. Your brain needs to de-frag. Literally it needs you to sit there and space out.
If you want your memory or executive function to improve, stare out a window at the skyline or sidewalk or trees or birds on the electrical wires for like 20+ minutes per day. (With no other stimulation like a podcast or TV if you can manage but hey baby steps innit). If you're fortunate enough to have safe outside with any bits of nature, go stare closely at a 1 meter square of grass and trip out on the bugs and shapes of grasses and stuff.
Literally this will make you smarter. Our brains HAVE TO HAVE this zone out time to do important stuff behind the scenes. This does not happen during sleep, it's something else.
That weird pressurized feeling you get sometimes might be your brain on no defrag.
summary: what is a person if not memories? you vanished without a warning, leaving behind only a cold email and a trail of questions. as your friends search for answers that don't exist and pretend everything is fine for the cameras, they begin to realize that some absences leave marks only time might be able erase.
contents: everyone missing reader, female reader, no use of y/n, reader mentioned to drive a bike, kinda ambiguous what happened
no pairing, but a lot of of the platonic interactions/memories could be read as romantic if you wish so
word count: 7.9k
a/n: HEAVILY based on my desire to be missed and noticed, and also this art trend on tiktok. This thing was in my drafts for quite some time, and a day or two ago I saw a rendition of this tiktok “irl”, so that gave me a lil more inspiration to finish this uhh oneshot? Sorry for so many words
My apologies for any mistakes, grammar, spelling or punctuation – English is not my first language.
Also sorry for any inconsistency with the roles: Alex is still there and editing, Spencer is sometimes editing because i liked the imagined dynamic
⋆✮──────⊹₊. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ✦ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.₊⊹──────✮⋆
⋆✮──────⊹₊. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ✦ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.₊⊹──────✮⋆
Please come back.
The Smosh Pit set felt almost as usual: controlled chaotic energy, fed by coffee and a long day of shoots before this one. Another “Smosh reacts to fan compilations” video today. They rarely film them, so it should be a nice change of pace, right? Just to sit in front of the laptop with a group, rewatch old moments, riff or cringe for a bit, maybe offer a few interesting behind-the-scenes facts. Reminisce about past videos, be confused by the time moving both so fast and oh so slow. Nice and easy. And it was going just like that. Angela and Tommy were locked in a heated pseudo-argumentative discussion about a clip from ‘Flip 7’, their voices a familiar, comfortable static. Trevor watched them like a tennis match, half-smiling, ready to chime in with perfectly timed observation.
End credits played on the monitor before the gang, and while everyone praised the editing of clips, Shayne queued up the next obscuredly titled compilation. They watched a few clips and immediately dived into the discussion of the bit, the behind-the-screen logistics, how funny it was during filming.
Shayne leaned back in his seat, a comfortable smile playing on his lips as Angela, perched on the edge of her chair, slammed the spacebar and immediately turned to Tommy, lost in her point.
“Wait, wait, wait! Okay, no, we have to talk about this!” she insisted, her voice a familiar energetic crescendo. “You guys remember this shoot, right?”
Shayne stared at the screen.
Gods. She managed to hit the button exactly at the…
His thought trailed off. The conversation between Angela and Tommy continued, rapid-fire of accusations and laughter filling the room, but Shayne had gone quiet. His eyes were fixed on the freeze-frame Angela managed to pause on. It was a candid shot of the audience on the sidelines of that very shoot. And in the center of it, mid-laugh and unguarded joy on the face, were you. Head thrown back, dramatic Games set lighting catching the highlights in your hair, smile so wide it crinkled the corners of your eyes. The face of someone who had no idea the ground was about to give way beneath. Carefree. Present.
For a beat, the world narrowed down to that single image. The hum of the lights, the distant murmur of the Games Stage behind a wall, Trevor’s indignant sputtering – all the sounds of the set faded into background. The face on the screen is so familiar it’s almost painful to look at. Did anyone even watch the whole thing they subjected them to react to or what.
Your face keeps staring at him. Or maybe he stares at it. It's hard not to when you're so happy and chill and not M.I.A. His chest constricted. A punch to the sternum that stole the air from his lungs. Tommy’s eyes found Shayne, pleading him to take his side. And then trailed to the screen, snagging on the image on it.
“Right, Shayne? Shayne!”
Angela’s voice cut through the fog, sharp with the insistence of someone who’s been countlessly repeating themselves, yet not winning the argument. With great effort he dragged his gaze from the screen. Angela was half-turned in her chair, mouth open mid-sentence. As their eyes met, she almost immediately sensed the change of energy, and followed his line of sight back to the monitor. The moment her eyes landed on the freeze-frame… The change was instant. Like a lightswitch turning off. The animation drained from her face, replaced by a dawning, hollow recognition. Her mouth, still open, closed slowly.
Like a spell cast in real time. Everyone turned to stone the second they looked Medusa in the eye.
The playful argument with Angela now was a universe away. Trevor, mid-reach for a water bottle, froze, his eyes darting from the screen to Angela’s stricken face to Shayne’s unreadable expression. The silence that descended wasn't empty or light. More like a weighted blanket, with all the force of it concentrated directly on their chests, heavy and suffocating. For a few very long seconds, the loudest people in the room were the quietest.
Shayne had realized it a few days ago, a random psych degree factoid surfacing in his exhausted brain: they were grieving. The stages were all here, playing out in different ways. Angela’s frantic, loud energy was pure denial, a refusal to let the silence settle. Tommy had thrown himself into writing bits, a workaholic’s bargaining. Courtney kept checking her phone, hoping for a text that would never come, a state of perpetual, anxious seeking.
People forgot, sometimes, that they weren't just funny people. They were actors. Good ones. The show, as they say, must go on. So for the past few weeks, they had been performing one of the greatest roles of their careers: Smosh Cast Member in a Video Where Everything Is Totally Fine. They laughed, they improvised, they played off each other's energy with practiced ease. But the fabric of their dynamic had a hole in it now, a very suspiciously person-shaped rip that no amount of quick wit or goofy antics could sew up. Every bit that would have been funnier with your input, every inside joke you would have understood with a single glance, every silence you could have filled with a quiet, supportive comment – all of it now served to highlight your absence.
Shayne wasn't in the mood for a playful crash-out. None of them were. ‘Upstairs’, in Ian and Anthony’s office, the higher-ups were still locked in meetings, debating the wording of a statement. The memory of the Defy collapse was now a long healed scar on Ian’s face, but Shayne really hoped to never see him this stressed again. So, for now, the mandate was a horrible, echoing silence. Ignore the elephant in the room. Pretend the empty chair is just a chair. They were all adrift, unsure of the script for a scene like this.
The show must go on. Both a mantra and a curse.
The silence in the studio stretched, becoming unbearable. Shayne looked back at his friends. Angela was blinking rapidly, her jaw tight. Tommy hadn't moved. Trevor was now staring at his own hands.
He couldn't stand the silence anymore. He couldn't stand the look in their eyes, a mirror of his own hollow dread. He couldn't fix this. He couldn't find her. He couldn't even talk about her. Couldn’t throw in a “Where’s Anthony?”-adjacent joke. But he could do this. He could give them a way out of this moment.
Slowly, without a word, he reached out and pressed the spacebar.
The video sprang up back to life, you on the screen finishing laughing, turning to someone off-camera. And all four of them just stared, watching, because it was the closest they could get to having you there at all. The werewolf crashout reaction dissolved into a new clip: a rapid-fire montage of them all falling over during a particularly funny TNTL bit. Laughter, bright and joyous, filled the silence, a jarring contrast to the weight in the room.
But no one was watching the new clip. All four of them kept their eyes locked on the screen, on the ghost of the woman they’d just lost, until the editor’s cut mercifully moved on to another shot, leaving only the echo of your smile behind.
The compilation ran its course. Then the next one started automatically. A Smosh Summer Games moment. There you were again, on the periphery of a shot, cheering someone on. A blink-and-you'll-miss-it appearance. A ghost, haunting the narrative.
Shayne's hand hovered near the keyboard, ready to cue the next segment, but it didn't fall. The studio clock ticked loudly in the sudden absence of their banter. Behind the cameras, the crew exchanged glances. Brennan, manning camera one, gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head to the floor director. Don't rush them. Just let them have this.
The weight of the unspoken pressed down on all of them. This part would be cut. Of course it would. Until a statement was made – until Ian emerged from that office with words that could somehow contain this – the show would go on. They'd film something else for this slot. A buffer. A Band-Aid. Everyone in this room understood the assignment: pretend everything is fine.
The silence stretched, elastic and uncomfortable. Then Angela's voice, when it came, was so small it barely qualified as a sound.
"I think I almost forgot her face."
It was a confession pulled from somewhere deep, raw and unvarnished. She wasn't looking at any of them. Her eyes were fixed on her hands, twisted together in her lap.
"I was trying so hard to replay the last time we talked. Just... normal stuff, you know? What she was wearing, how she laughed at something stupid I said. And I kept thinking, focus, just hold onto it. But everything kept..." She made a vague, crumbling gesture with her fingers. "Slipping."
"Yeah." Shayne's voice was rough. It was the only word he could manage, but it was enough. Held everything. Yeah, me too. Yeah, it's terrifying. Yeah, I hate this.
Trevor was the last one any of them expected to speak. He'd been so quiet, so still, that he'd almost faded into the background. But when he did, his voice had a distant, puzzled quality, like he was trying to solve a riddle he already knew the answer to.
"I saw her in my dream a few days ago."
Angela looked up. Shayne turned. Tommy leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
Trevor's gaze was fixed somewhere between the monitor and the middle distance, seeing something none of the rest of them could. "Everything felt normal. Comforting, even. We were just... hanging out. At a coffee shop, I think. Talking about nothing."
He paused. Swallowed.
"And then I heard my alarm. And suddenly I remembered."
"Remembered what?" Angela whispered, her voice barely a breath.
"That she's gone." His brow furrowed. "And then I tried to look at her. Really look at her, you know? To... I don't know, memorize her face, I guess. Before I woke up all the way."
He shook his head slowly, still searching for the words.
"But it was… it was like trying to look at something through a fogged-up window. I could see… pieces. I could see parts of her. Her eyes. That little crease she gets between her eyebrows when she's concentrating on a story. The corner of her mouth when she's about to smile but trying not to. But separately. Like puzzle pieces that wouldn't fit. Whenever I tried to take in her whole face, it just..." He made a soft, hissing sound with his mouth. "Turned to static. Like when you're a kid and you get too close to the screen and the picture dissolves into TV snow. And the harder I tried to focus, the worse it got."
Words hung in the air.
The memory played behind his eyes, fuzzy and insistent. He let himself sink into it, hoping that if he went back there, he might catch her this time.
The coffee shop materializes around him, warm and familiar. The smell of roasted beans, the hiss of the steamer, the low murmur of other conversations. You sit across from him, mid-laugh, head tilted back. He can see the corner of your mouth, curved up, the flash of teeth…
But your hand shoots up to cover your smile. What an awful habit. They miss your smile.
You lean forward to say something, share a funny observation about this morning’s clients. However, your hair falls across your face, obscuring everything else. You tuck it behind your ear, the motion is so, so achingly familiar.
But just as your face almost comes into view, a waiter appears between both of you, placing mugs on the table. The man's hand blocks everything. By the time he moves, you have already turned away, reaching for something in your bag.
Your face is still hidden, now by a pocket mirror, that you hold up, touching up your makeup.
The coffee shop walls begin to melt, running like watercolors in rain. The warm light shifts. The table in front of him changes—suddenly it's not a coffee shop table anymore. It's the conference table in the Smosh office. The lighting is totally different. Fluorescent. Harsh.
Everything changes seamlessly. Except for the obstacles, that is.
A hefty stack of papers sits directly in front of where you should be. Your name is on a sticky note stuck to the top page.
Another sticky note with some dumb message scribbled on top, jokingly attached to your forehead by someone from the cast during a brainstorming session. Spencer, probably.
Angela's painting from the charity livestream, the one she'd done from memory in twenty minutes. You hold it in front of your face – but it's bad, it's impressionistic at best, the features blurred and soft and your eyes of a wrong colour. Wait, what colour were they originally?
The overhead light catches the rim, creating a glare that bleaches out everything beyond it. Your hand appears at the edge of the table, fingers splayed, but the rest is hidden.
The last image hiding you is a simple plant with small blue flowers. It still sits in a tiny pot on your desk. A plant you'd brought in months ago, now being watered by friends and strangers alike.
A forget-me-not. The name hits him like a punch. What a cruel joke. A cosmic one. Was it planned? Has the universe, or your absence, or his own faulty brain, been preparing this all along? How long until even the pieces were gone?
He turns in circles, searching. The studio is full of you, saturated even – your laugh echoing in old videos, your ideas and silly drawings still scribbled on whiteboards, your presence still warm in the spaces between people. But you aren't there. You aren’t anywhere.
Please, he thinks, or maybe he says it out loud, in the dream where sound doesn't work right. Please come back.
Nothing.
Just the glare. The stack of papers. A coffee cup. The hand at the edge of the frame, reaching for something none of them can see.
Will we see you again? Please come back and smile. At least once more. Let us see your face again.
Trevor blinked and the fog in his head cleared slightly. He looked at his friends. Angela's eyes were wet. Shayne's jaw was tight, working. Tommy was staring somewhere in the distance.
No one had moved. No one had spoken. The silence was still there, heavy as ever, but something had shifted. They'd said your name. They'd talked about you. They'd admitted, out loud, that they were losing you in slow motion, frame by frame.
Shayne looked back at the screen.
"Is it okay," he said, his voice rough, "if we just... sit here for a while?"
"Yeah," came the soft reply from behind the cameras. "Take all the time you need."
They sat.
The next video never played.
***
Shayne knows that Ian is on a lookout for anything with your name on it. Hell, even Courtney is checking your socials at least once every two days.
It had become an unspoken ritual. A quiet tic that everyone pretended not to notice in others because acknowledging it would mean acknowledging the reason behind it.
Lunch breaks used to be loud. They still kind of were – but now there was always a beat of silence as everyone settled in, and then, like clockwork, between bites of food and Angela’s latest chaotic story, someone would pull out their phone. Not to scroll mindlessly, but to search. To check. To hope.
Courtney was the most obvious about it, but only because they cared so deeply about everything. Shayne had caught them multiple times, thumb frozen over their phone screen, refreshing your Instagram profile. The one that hadn't updated in weeks. The one where your last post was a stupid behind-the-scenes shot of someone's wig with the caption "deeply important content."
Spencer sat at the far end, laptop open despite the remnants of his sandwich growing stale beside it. His face was the focused mask of someone cross-referencing data. Twitter mentions. The Smosh subreddit. Discord servers. Searching for any whisper of your name. He never said anything when he found nothing. He'd just close the tabs and take another bite of his sandwich.
Arasha was quieter than usual, pushing food around her plate. Shayne knew she'd been checking your Spotify. Wondering if any playlists had been updated. If the music you were listening to could tell them something about where you were, what you were feeling. Nothing had changed there either.
And Shayne? Shayne had become an expert in reading Ian's face.
It was a skill he'd never wanted to make use of again. But every day, once the lunch rush settled, Shayne found himself drifting toward the hallway outside Ian and Anthony's office. Just close enough. Just casual enough. Like he happened to be passing by.
Today was no different.
He caught Ian mid-stride, the office door cracked open, Anthony visible at his desk with headphones on. Ian looked up, and their eyes met. Shayne didn't have to ask. He just raised his eyebrows. A question they'd both memorized.
Any news?
Ian's response was the same as yesterday. The same as the day before. A slow shake of the head. Lips pressing together like he was physically holding something in. Then his gaze dropped to the computer screen, and his hand moved to close the browser tab.
Police reports. State databases. Missing persons filings across California, Nevada, Arizona. Your name had been run through every public records system Ian could legally access. Nothing. No hospital admissions. No traffic stops. No unidentified person reports matching your description. Your license plate hadn't been scanned by a single automated camera in weeks. Not in California. Not in any neighboring state. Not in your home state, where Ian had quietly extended the search after the first week of silence.
(Sure, he told you countless times to get rid of your bike and get a normal car. But this is not what he meant! Not like that.)
No trace of a woman who had, for years, been a constant presence in their lives, now erased from every public system designed to track people.
Shayne nodded, just once, and stepped back from the doorway. The conversation was over. It had lasted three seconds, yet said everything.
***
Ian stays late now. Later than he used to, back before. Back when "late" meant answering emails, planning the next quarter. Now "late" means sitting in the dim glow of his monitor, the building empty around him, clicking through the same databases he checked three hours ago. Just in case. Just in case something updated. Just in case you appeared.
Ian knew this feeling. He'd known it when Anthony left. He'd known it during the Defy collapse, when every midnight brought new emails about unpaid invoices and expiring contracts, when the future of everything he'd built hung in the balance of legal jargon and signature lines. But this was different. This was so much quieter.
His office chair creaked as he leaned forward, the glow of the monitor painting his tired face in pale blue. He'd sent Anthony home hours ago. Told him to get rest. Promised he'd do the same.
He lied.
The browser was open to the same pages he'd checked at noon. At 6 PM. At 10. The name on the screen – your full government name, the one that was on contracts and payroll forms. It stops looking like a name after a while. He's typed it into so many search fields, stared at it for so many hours, that it's started to dissolve. The letters separate. They become meaningless shapes. A string of syllables that could belong to anyone. Could belong to no one.
He knew what this was. Semantic satiation, god damn it. It's a known phenomenon. Repeat a word enough times and it loses meaning, becomes abstract sound, just shapes on a screen. But knowing the term didn't stop the feeling. Didn't stop the cold dread that crept up his spine as your name started to sound like something he'd imagined.
First name. Second name. Last name.
He's scared to say it out loud. But in these late hours, when the name on the screen looks like something he imagined, a terrible thought creeps in. What if you weren't real? What if the past few years, all of the laughter, the shoots, the inside jokes, the quiet moments of genuine friendship, the way you'd quietly handle the new cast members' nerves before their first shoot… Was any of it real if there was no trace of you now?
The thought tightens his chest like a vise. His heart thuds once, hard, and then his hand moves before his brain caught up, scrambling for proof. He opens his inbox. He scrolls. Past the sponsorship deals, past the shoot schedules, past the endless cc'd threads, until…
There. Your name. Your email address. A real, tangible thing.
He clicks it open and the air leaves his lungs all over again.
Subject: Regarding my employment
He'd read it so many times the words were now etched behind his eyelids. But he will read it again and again, because reading it means you existed. Reading it meant you were real, sitting beside a laptop and typing these words with whatever was going through your head.
Ian,
I'm sorry for this abruptness. Terminate me, effective immediately. I’m aware this breaches my notice period.
Really sorry for disrupting the shoot schedule. Withhold my final pay to cover for it. If I calculated correctly, that should be enough.
Short. Cold. Hopeless. That was the feeling that stuck. Not angry, not scared, not even sad. Just... hollow. Like you'd already left before you even finished typing. And in a way, you did. Waited till the end of the quarter, prepared all the legal documents, did the math correctly.
It's hard to figure out the video release dates, but I know that there is some amount of time before someone notices or something happens. Make a statement later if something happens and put all the blame on me. I do hope that everything will go alright and neither the public nor you will hear about this. In that case, a statement of termination should be enough.
I attached a file with a few words and my signature. It's almost the same as this letter, but with a more polite wording. Release it to the public when needed, so it's clear that it was my decision.
Take care.
So unlike you that it feels like a ransom note written by a stranger. There's no warmth, no inside joke, no sign-off that sounds like you. Just... words. Arranged to cut ties as cleanly as possible.
Ian's jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
What or who were you running from?
He reads the line again. I do hope that everything will go alright and neither the public nor you will hear about this.
There is another interpretation to that sentence. One he refuses to let fully form. One where "everything goes right" doesn't mean you left cleanly. One where "neither you nor the public will hear of it" means there is nothing left to hear. No body. No story. No closure.
He can't finish the thought. He physically can't. His brain slams a door on it, locks it, throws away the key. He buries it. Deep. In the same place he'd buried the Defy collapse, the acquisition anxiety, every other fear he'd had to swallow to keep this ship running. But this one is different. This one has claws and scratches its way back up no matter how many times he pushes it down.
Ian closes his eyes. Rubs them with the heels of his hands until he sees stars.
Please come back. It's not the same without you.
It's the little things, he realized. That's what undoes him. Not the big moments, not the on-screen chemistry or the memorable bits. Small stuff: the way you’d bring anyone coffee or snack when they seemed low, the way you'd catch his eye across a crowded room during a chaotic shoot and give him a tiny, conspiratorial smile that said this is insane and I love it. The specific laugh you had for genuinely stupid puns in the background of a shoot.
Little things. And now their absence is a speck of dust in his eye. Constant and irritating. Impossible to remove. No amount of tears, (and there have been some, in this office, alone, in the dark), can wash it out. No liquid will help. It just sits there, a permanent grain of discomfort, a reminder that something is wrong, something is missing, something that might never quite be right again.
It was the cruelest irony, Ian thought as he finally shut down his computer. Everyone worried about their digital footprint. A lot of people panicked about being permanently visible, permanently searchable, permanently there, in the public lens.
You'd managed to do the opposite. Burrowed so deep, vanished and left no trace, that people were starting to question if you'd ever been there at all. Not aloud, of course. But the memories become mushy. The proof becomes harder to hold onto.
People forget faces. People misremember details. If you never come back, if no statement is ever made, if the world moves on and the videos keep posting and new faces fill the frame... How long until you become a rumor? A myth?
The attached file sits in his inbox, untouched. A statement. A termination. A clean break, if that's what this becomes.
Ian stood up. Grabbed his keys. Paused at the door and looked back at the empty office, at the chair where you'd sat for pitch meetings, at the corner of the whiteboard where your handwriting still lingered in the corner of a cancelled brainstorm.
"Please come back," he said out loud. Just to the empty room. Just to himself.
The office didn't answer.
***
The Games couch had never been comfortable. That was part of its charm: the sagging middle cushion, the mysterious stain no one could identify, the way you had to sit at exactly the right angle or risk your back complaining about it the rest of the day.
That long, beat-up sofa where cast members crashed between takes, where someone was almost always curled up with a stolen blanket. It was never truly empty during the day or the night. Except now it was. Spencer noticed it every single time now, even when he tried not to.
The first time he noticed it was at the ungodly hour on a Wednesday night. He and Alex were deep in the editing trenches, wrestling with a timeline that refused to cooperate, and he'd gotten up to stretch. Walked past the couch. Stopped.
You used to crash there the most during breaks. Not every day, but often enough that it became a thing. You'd curl up in the corner, knees to chest, hoodie pulled over her head like a turtle retreating into its shell, and just... vanish for twenty minutes. Sometimes Angela joined you when she felt like she had to “lie down for a bit”. Everyone learned to step around. Someone, probably Damien, had even taped a little sign to the wall above the couch: "Shh. Cryptid Napping."
The sign was still there. The cryptid wasn't.
Even Angela stopped crashing there.
He stood there longer than he meant to, staring at the empty cushions. The office hummed around him—servers, AC, the distant click of Alex's keyboard—but it felt hollow. Echoey. Like the building itself was holding its breath.
Please come back, he thought. No one naps on the Games couch anymore.
Back at his desk, the silence stretched. Alex was two monitors over, headphones on, focused on audio levels. Normally, this was Spencer's favorite kind of night: just him and Alex, deep in the work, the rest of the world muted. They'd bounce ideas back and forth, argue about game selections, debate which bits would land and which would crash and burn. You were often part of those debates. Not physically – you weren’t even close to an editor – but as a reference point. A compass.
He and Alex had always been the night shift crew. The editors, the troubleshooters, the ones who kept the lights on while everyone else went home. You had never been officially part of that – schedule too packed with on-camera work. But you were frequently around. Again and again showing up at midnight with snacks you'd "accidentally" bought too much of, pulling up a chair, providing commentary on whatever they were editing until they kicked you out for being too distracting.
Now it was just him and Alex. And the silence. And the empty chair beside.
Alex wouldn't say it. Spencer wouldn't either. That wasn't how they worked. But sometimes, in the long hours between renders, Spencer would catch Alex looking at the door. Just for a second. Just long enough to notice.
It was past midnight. The office was down to its usual night creatures: him and Alex. Three weeks ago, you would have been here too. Not really working. Just... present. Keeping them company during the graveyard shift. Stealing Spencer's dice when he wasn't looking. Reading on your phone, occasionally looking up to debate some ridiculous Game idea Alex had floated.
Spencer will never admit it, Alex thought, a small, sad smile tugging at his mouth, but sometimes I catch him staring at nothing. And I know. I know he's talking to you in his head. … I do the same.
He'd seen it happen. Spencer, mid-edit, paused with his hand on the mouse, his eyes unfocused. Probably debating game mechanics with a ghost. Probably imagining your voice arguing back. Probably missing the way you'd get excited about the weirdest, most obscure board games and insist they needed to be on the show.
There's a new shop, Alex said now, in the silence of his own head. Opened two weeks ago. A few buildings over from your favorite coffee shop. The one where you'd drag anyone who needed a break, the one with the good pastries.
He'd walked past it yesterday. Stared in the window at the shelves of boxes, the promise of new games, new mechanics, new bits waiting to be born.
Please come back and check it out. With me and Spencer. We need to stock up. The Games stage is looking bare, and your input would be... He swallowed. Your input would be so appreciated right now.
He could picture it. The three of them, wandering the aisles after hours, grabbing anything that looked remotely ridiculous. You, holding up a box with some absurd premise, that look on your face – the one that said this is either genius or a disaster, let's find out. Spencer pretending to be annoyed but secretly making a list. Alex egging both on.
I'll buy every stupid game you suggest, he promised the empty air. Every single one. And we'll test them. Just us three, right here in the office, after everyone's gone. Pizza and bad game mechanics and you laughing at us for taking it too seriously.
Just please come back.
Please come back with another ridiculous idea in tow.
***
It may sound silly, but Courtney feels that it was the coffee that did it for them. That she truly realised what happened only a few days after the news hit the office.
Courtney had been fine.
That was the thing she kept coming back to. In the first few days after the news, she'd been fine. Shocked, sure. Worried, obviously. But fine. She'd made calls, sent texts, checked socials, done all the things you do when someone disappears. Fine. Functional. Handling it.
And then came the coffee run.
Thursday. Normal Thursday. She stood up from her desk, stretched, announced she was getting coffee, took the usual orders from Amanda, Shayne, Angela.
Courtney ordered five drinks. Said it out loud to the barista. Waited. Paid. Carried the tray back to the office, cups balanced carefully, the familiar weight of the cardboard carrier digging into her fingers. She walked through the bullpen. Past Angela – gave her coffee. Past Amanda's desk – dropped hers off there. Past Shayne's – dropped off his. And then she was at your desk. Set the cup down on an empty desk.
It was only when she straightened up, when her hands were empty, when she looked at the paper cup sitting next to the plant and nothing else, that it hit her. Not when she'd ordered. Not when she'd carried it. Not when she'd walked through the bullpen, mentally checking off names.
Now. Here. Staring at an iced latte with your favourite syrup and an extra shot that no one was here to drink.
She didn't know how long she stood there. Minutes, maybe. Long enough for the condensation to bead on the cup. Long enough for the ice to slowly start melting. Long enough for Shayne to find them.
"Courtney?"
They didn't turn. Couldn't. Just kept staring at the cup on an empty desk.
"I..." Her voice came out wrong. Thin. "I forgot. I just– I forgot she wasn't– "
Shayne didn't say anything. Just came up beside them, stood there, a wall of quiet presence. Didn't touch her, didn't rush her, didn't offer empty comfort. Just stayed.
"I carried it all the way here," they whispered. "The whole way. And I didn't realize until–"
"I know."
"I know she’s gone. I've known for days. But my hands didn't. My hands just…they just kept doing the thing. The habit. And I didn't notice until I was already…"
"I know."
She finally looked at him. His face was soft and sad. Contorted into complicated emotion. He'd been there. He'd done the same thing, probably, in his own way. They all had. That was the cruelty of habit – it didn't care about news or grief or absence. It just kept going, kept reaching, kept expecting.
"What do I do with it?" They looked back at the cup. "I can't just throw it away. That feels wrong."
Shayne considered. Then: "Alex's order is pretty similar."
Courtney nodded. Picked up the cup. Walked it to Alex's desk.
He was editing, headphones on, focused. Looked up when she approached. Saw the cup. Saw her face. Understood immediately – she could see it in his eyes, the moment of recognition, the piece clicking into place.
He didn’t say anything. Just reached and took the weight off her hand
"Thanks, Court."
She nodded. Smiled. Not a real smile – just a robotic facial expression, not an emotion. Walked away.
Alex looked at the cup.
Iced latte. Some syrup. Extra shot.
He took a sip.
It was good. Perfectly made, exactly right, the kind of coffee he'd have ordered for himself if he'd had the brainspace to think about it. But it wasn't his. And every sip carried that knowledge, that weight, that absence.
The coffee left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.
He drank it anyway. Drank all of it. Because throwing it away felt worse, and because some part of him, (some illogical, grieving, human part), thought that maybe drinking it was a way of keeping you here. Of absorbing some small piece of you into himself.
It didn't work. The cup ran empty. You were still gone.
But for a few minutes, with the warmth in his hands and the taste on his tongue, you felt closer. And that was something. Even with a bitter aftertaste.
Please come back, Courtney thought that night, alone in the room, staring at her phone. At your contact. At the messages that were delivered but not read.
Please come back so my hands remember you right. So they stop reaching for you in coffee shops and crowded rooms and quiet moments when I'm not paying attention. So the habits stop hurting.
Please come back so this bitter taste fades.
***
The bullpen was never truly empty. Even at midnight, even on a Friday evening, there was always the hum of servers, the blink of standby lights, the ghostly presence of half-finished edits waiting on hard drives. Spencer had learned to work alongside these ghosts. They were comfortable. Familiar.
This new one was not.
He'd stayed late to troubleshoot a rendering issue. Boring and technical, exactly the kind of problem he could lose himself in. But somewhere between one caffeine crash and the next, his feet had carried him here. To your desk. Or what used to be your desk.
Negative space in the office landscape, a papercut that wouldn’t heal and kept stinging.
He'd gotten good at not looking at it. At taking the long way around to his station. At training his peripheral vision to blur that particular spot into insignificance.
But today, something made him stop. Maybe it was the stupid little plant still sitting there, somehow alive despite weeks of neglect. Maybe it was a little nightlight on the edge, luring him closer, like a moth to a flame. Probably it was just that his brain, traitor that it was, had finally run out of ways to avoid the question that had been nagging at him since week one.
When did you smuggle out half of this stuff?
He stood there, arms crossed, head tilted, doing the math. You didn't drive a car. Never had, not in all the time he'd known you. Just that motorcycle, the one you'd park at the very edge of the lot, the one with the helmet that always had a fresh sticker on it. The one a lot of people jokingly told you to get rid of and get a car. (Not him though, he always thought it had its charm.) So when, how, did you transport a fucking box? A box big enough for books, for trinkets, for the accumulated debris of years at a desk?
You couldn't transport a box of books and trinkets on a bike. Not in one trip. Not without someone noticing, without someone offering help, without someone seeing you strap a box to the back.
Which meant you'd done it in pieces. Small loads. A few things a day, tucked into a backpack, ferried out like a prisoner slowly tunneling under the wall. How long have you been planning, methodically erasing yourself while they all laughed and filmed and had no idea? How many trips had it taken? Had anyone held the door for you on the way out, smiling, completely unaware they were helping you disappear?
His eyes drifted to the one thing you hadn't taken.
A forget-me-not. It was still there.
… How symbolic.
Sitting on the corner of the desk, barely clinging to life. Someone had watered it recently, probably Olivia or maybe Courtney. They'd been doing that. Keeping it alive. But the plant was already damaged with days of neglect. Wilted around the edges, leaves and flowers that once were vibrant and lush now were faded, limp and drooping. Only the center stem, holding a cluster of small flowers, seemed to be almost alright. It was a little uneven and pale but it kept growing, kept reaching towards the lights above.
Why didn’t you take it with you?
A few options, each painful in its own way.
Is it a little memoria of you? The only one besides the videos or memories? Maybe the only thing you were willing to leave. In spite of your “clean break” and no note, at least a little something to hold onto and remember? A little subconscious sprout of wanting to be remembered breaking through your conscious silence.
Or did you go somewhere where you won't be able to care for something as mundane as a plant? Somewhere with no windows. No sunlight. No future that included watering schedules and new leaves and the quiet satisfaction of keeping something green.
He pushed the thought away. It came back. It always came back.
Could it be a promise of return? A tiny green anchor, a string tied to your desk. Ariadne's thread that could help you find your way back from the awful labyrinth.
Spencer remembers a conversation you had ages ago. You, him and a small group of your friends ventured out of the state for some obscure festival – he couldn’t exactly remember now. He sorta remembered the town. Quaint buildings, a main street with one traffic light. But the details were soft, blurred at the edges, the way memories get when they're years old and not quite important enough to preserve.What he remembered clearly was the fountain.
He'd wandered off from the group. Needing a minute, needing quiet, the usual reasons – and found himself in a small square. Cobblestone. Old lampposts. And in the center, a fountain. Not a big one, not fancy, just stone, ivy, water and the soft sound of it falling.
You were already there – sitting on the edge, legs crossed, watching the water catch the light. You didn't turn when he approached, only shifted slightly to make some room. You sat together in comfortable silence until someone called out in the distance. Time to go. He immediately got up, but you stayed, reaching into your pocket. Pulled out a coin – a quarter, he thought, or maybe a dime, something small and silver. You held it up to the light for a second, then tossed it into the fountain. A small splash, a glint of metal sinking, and then nothing.
Spencer raised an eyebrow. "Why'd you do that?"
"Don't you know?" You tilted your head toward the water. "You're supposed to leave something so you can return. It's the rule."
Spencer prays that it’s the latter. A little token that will help you magically return. Find your way back.
He looks at the desk once again, still not sure what exactly made him come here. After all, he kinda hates it with his whole soul now.
The empty desk had been awful at first. When the news hit, when Ian's terse and tense all-hands email landed in their inboxes, when the confusion gave way to disbelief gave way to the hollow realization that she was just gone. Everyone had avoided this corner like it was haunted. It was obvious how people were taking the long way around an empty space where a real person used to be. Steering clear of a void, cold, hopeless and hollow.
But now, after a few months? Now it was almost worse.
Now it was touching. Too much like something Spencer refused to name.
His eyes moved across the surface, cataloging like it was his first time seeing it. And in a way, it was.
A small stack of books of your favorite genre, Shayne's handwriting on the sticky note attached to the top one. For when you need to escape somewhere cooler than here. God.
A few blind box figurines, still sealed in plastic; a dozen postcards from different places. Some from sites you’d talked about wanting to see, others holding special memories from locations you’ve been to with others.
Different keychains: from your favourite characters on acrylic to plastic ones, (probably referencing some inside jokes). And a metal one, with the engraving of an eight-point star. Oh. A guiding star.
An aromacandle, the scent labeled "French Balsam", an offering from the “candle bracket” shoot. Arasha's doing, probably, or Chanse's. A small battery powered nightlight, shaped like a mushroom, glowing faintly even now. Polaroids beside ceramic cats. Hairclips next to pressed flowers.
A pack of your favourite gummies and some little wrapped candies someone had left in the pencil holder, (Amanda probably, she always had those), were slowly going soft. Going bad. They sat there, untouched, because of course you weren't here to eat them.
Please come back before the sweets on this table go bad.
The thought was stupid. Childish. It wasn't about the candy. It was about time, about the fact that the world kept moving, kept decaying, kept proving that you'd been gone long enough for perishable things to perish.
Gifts and sacrifices in a summoning for their favorite cryptid.
The thought was almost dark humor, the kind Spencer usually excelled at. But it didn't feel funny. It was too close to the truth he didn’t want to name.
It's a memorial, his brain supplied anyway. It's a fucking memorial.
The word made his insides churn.
Memorials were for dead people. For the gone-for-good, the never-coming-back. Memorials were where you left flowers and cried and said goodbye. And you couldn't be dead. Simply couldn't. You were just... somewhere else. Hiding. Running. Doing whatever the hell you did to make yourself disappear so completely that they couldn’t find even a single trace.
But the desk sat there, accumulating tributes like offerings at a shrine. And Spencer hated it with every fiber of his being.
His hand moved before he decided. Into his pocket, past the usual debris of his life: receipts, a charging cable, the remnants of a granola bar, his keys. Past until his fingers closed around cool plastic. A D20.
His favorite. The purple one with gold numbering, the one that rolled crits more often than any dice had a right to. The one you always, always stole for any shoot that needed dice. Fantasy-themed video? Gone. D&D bit? Vanished. You'd swipe it off his desk with this little smirk, and you'd bicker (playfully, always playfully, sometimes heightening the drama for the cameras), about ownership and theft and whether you needed to ask permission for the hundredth time.
You never asked. And secretly, Spencer never really minded.
He looked at it now, sitting in his palm. Then at the desk. Then back at the dice.
This was stupid. Sentimental. Exactly the kind of thing he made fun of in movies.
He set it down next to the plant.
For a second he just looked at it there, purple and gold against the ceramic pot, both standing out and getting lost amongst the other trinkets. And something in his chest cracked open. Just a little. Just enough to hurt.
Please come back, he thought, the words haywire and angry and desperate. Please come back so this isn't a fucking memorial anymore. So I can steal this back from you and pretend to be mad about it. So we can go back to being annoyed by each other in the ways that matter.
He turned away. Walked back through the bullpen. Sat at his station and stared at his monitors without seeing any of them. In his head, memories were still replaying, mixing with thoughts of his friends and how they were holding up. All the little details and habits that he, just like others, pretended not to notice.
What is grief if not love persisting?
***
The building was quiet. Holding its breath.
In the bullpen, a plant waited for water it would receive tomorrow.
In the office, a screen saver cycled through photos of shoots and sketches and moments frozen in time. A face laughed on repeat, soundless and bright.
In a bedroom across town, someone woke up from a dream they couldn't quite remember, reaching for a shape that dissolved the moment their eyes opened.
And in all of the different minds, a hundred different memories and echoes flickered and faded and fought to stay alive.
What is a person if not the space they leave behind?
What is a person if not memories?
⋆✮──────⊹₊. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ✦ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.₊⊹──────✮⋆
a/n: oof. i went a little overboard with it, didn't I? anyway, thank you for reading!! Hope it wasn't too much lol. Please tell me what did you think! :]
Summary: A murder case brings a grieving woman into Detective Spencer Agnew’s office — and into his life. As the truth fractures and suspicion shifts, Spencer is forced to confront a far more dangerous question than who committed the crime: What happens when the person you love is standing at the center of the case?
Warnings: Crime, Murder, Blood, Grief, 1960s AU, Detective AU, Murder Mystery, Romantic Tension, Emotional Angst, Mutual Pining, Unreliable Narrator
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The day your world ended didn’t look any different at first.
Grey light seeped through the thin curtains of your apartment, turning the white wallpaper the color of dirty dishwater. Somewhere down on the street, a bus wheezed to a stop, and a woman shouted at a dog that refused to move. The radio on your kitchen counter crackled out the tail end of a Motown song before a too-cheerful newscaster’s voice took over. You didn’t really hear any of it.
Your fingers were busy with buttons. Top to bottom, mindless, automatic. The soft green of your peacoat was one of the few pretty things you owned. It hung just right, cinched at the waist, skirt brushing your knees. You’d found it on the discount rack months ago, and convinced yourself it made you look like the women in the magazines—put-together, mysterious, a little too glamorous for your neighborhood.
This morning, the color looked wrong against your skin. Too bright. Too alive. You stared at your reflection in the cracked mirror by the door. Your eyes were too wide. Your lipstick was too neat. You hadn’t meant to make it so neat.
Your stomach rolled. For a second you thought you might be sick, right there in the little hallway with the slowly peeling baseboards. Instead, you swallowed, pressed your lips together until they hurt, and focused on doing something simple. Gloves. One finger at a time.
You pulled on the soft leather gloves carefully, the way you always did, tugging them snug so there were no wrinkles. Your breath shook as you smoothed the cuffs down over your wrists. The motion felt ritualistic, almost comforting. Almost.
On the radio, the newsman’s tone shifted. “…police are investigating what appears to be a homicide on—” You flicked it off.
Silence pressed in like cotton on your ears. You could hear the ticking of the little wall clock by the kitchen door. Seven forty-three. How was it only seven forty-three?
You picked up your purse. The leather strap was cool, pressing against your palm through the glove. You hesitated.
You didn’t have to go to him, you thought. You could wait. Let the police handle it. Let some faceless department man assign your tragedy a case number and file it in a metal drawer.
Except you knew how things worked in this city. How quickly people disappeared between folded forms and typewriter ribbons. How fast the world forgot.
And you could not let this be forgotten.
You needed someone who wouldn’t forget. Someone stubborn. Someone smart. Someone with eyes sharp enough to cut. You needed him.
You’d heard his name before, spoken in that careful mix of respect and irritation people reserved for someone who did his job too well.
Detective Spencer Agnew.
You’d already dialed his office once—standing at the payphone on the corner with your gloved hand wrapped so hard around the receiver your knuckles ached. The woman who answered had a nasal voice and a bored tone. “Detective Agnew’s office.”
You’d said your name. The words “it’s my—” had stumbled out. Then you’d lost the shape of the sentence entirely.
The woman’s voice softened a fraction. “Miss? Are you in danger?”
“No,” you’d lied, because you weren’t sure what counted as danger anymore. “No, I just— I need to speak with him. It’s… it’s about a murder.”
That had gotten you a pause, a quick rustle of movement, the faint clack of something set down—probably a nail file. “Come by. He’ll see you.”
Now, standing in your doorway, you wondered if she’d meant it. Maybe you’d arrive and find the door locked, the office dark. Maybe this was all some bizarre dream you’d wake from, and—
You shut that thought down viciously.
You opened the door. The hallway smelled like cabbage and dust and the faint, bitter sting of someone’s cheap cologne. Your boots clicked on the stairs. It took every bit of willpower you had not to turn around and lock yourself back inside.
Outside, the city waited with its usual indifference. The air was damp and cool, full of exhaust and the distant scent of bread from the bakery two streets over. You pulled your coat tighter and stepped into it anyway.
~~~
His office was on the third floor of a building that had been old even before the war. The brass directory plaque in the lobby was half tarnished, names in flaking black paint listing lawyers, insurance men, a dentist, some kind of “export company” you suspected was more glamorous on paper than in reality.
SPENCER AGNEW, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. SUITE 3B
You traced the letters with your eyes, then started up the stairs. Each flight creaked under your weight, the banister smooth from years of hands. Light filtered weakly through the stairwell window. Rain clung to the glass in thin, stubborn streaks.
On the second-floor landing, you passed a woman in a pencil skirt and a beehive hairdo, her arms full of files. She gave you a quick once-over—coat, gloves, too-bright eyes—and her expression flickered, almost but not quite sympathetic. Then her heels clicked away down the corridor.
By the time you reached the third floor, your breath was shallow. Not from the climb. From the way each step felt like it was carrying you toward something you couldn’t take back.
Suite 3B’s frosted-glass door stood half open. The gold lettering on the door was faded and peeling. It read Agnew & Associates, though rumor had it there weren’t any associates anymore, as Agnew’s old partner Alex Tran had allegedly seen enough gore and retired to the coast. Now it was just Spencer and a stack of unpaid bills.
You paused with your gloved hand on the frame. Voices drifted from inside. A woman’s—sharp, amused, the same one from the phone—and a man’s, lower, edged with sleep and cigarettes.
“I’m telling you, if you keep turning away work like this, you’ll be shaking cups on the sidewalk,” the woman said.
“I’ll start with yours,” the man replied. There was the rustle of paper, the clink of ceramic. “This coffee is a crime scene.”
“You need to arrest someone,” she shot back. “We’ve got a live one coming in. Murder case. Sounds real tragic. Try not to scowl at her so hard she faints.”
“Since when do you care about my bedside manner, Angela?”
“Since it affects my paycheck.”
You swallowed, suddenly aware of how your pulse thundered in your ears. You could leave, you thought. Just turn around, walk away, pretend you never—
“Door’s open,” the woman called; her voice carried easily. “You can stop hovering out there, hon.”
You froze.
The door creaked further as she nudged it with her hip, a file tucked under her arm. She was short even in the neat heels she wore, in a navy dress with a wide collar and a brooch shaped like a starburst. Dark hair swept into a neat updo, but her eyeliner was smudged. Her gaze took in your green peacoat, your trembling hands.
“Like I said,” she muttered over her shoulder. “Live one.” She stepped aside so you could enter.
The office was smaller than you’d imagined. A scuffed wooden desk sat near the window, its surface cluttered with files, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, and a typewriter that had seen better decades. There was a coat stand in the corner draped with a trench coat and a fedora, an old sofa whose springs probably complained, a coffee pot on a side table, a filing cabinet with a drawer that wouldn’t quite close.
And the man behind the desk. He wasn’t what you’d expected either.
Detective Spencer Agnew was younger than the detectives you’d seen in newsreels or on magazine pages. Maybe in his early thirties. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, showing forearms dusted with dark hair and multiple tattoos, and a faint old scar near his wrist. His tie was loosened, crooked. His hair—dark, wavy, badly in need of a comb—fell into his eyes, which were currently narrowed against the thin rays of morning light.
Those eyes flicked up as you stepped in.
For a moment, he just looked at you. Not the look people gave you on the street, quick and dismissive. Not the soft, pitying look you’d gotten from the uniformed policeman standing over—
You shoved the image away so hard it made you sway.
No, his gaze was assessing, careful. Like he was taking you apart and counting the pieces. He stubbed out his cigarette in the overfilled ashtray.
“You got robbed?” Detective Agnew asked.
“What, sorry?”
He gestured to your hands. They had been clasped together, except for your right pointer finger rubbing your left ring finger. A nervous habit of yours. You had to clear your throat to answer.
“Oh no, sorry. I’m not married.”
“Alright. You the one who called?” he asked. “We weren’t expecting you so soon.”
Your mouth refused to cooperate again. You nodded instead. Angela—apparently—clicked her tongue. “She has a name, you know, Agnew. Miss…?” She looked at you expectantly.
“Topp. Miss Topp.” Hearing it out loud felt strange. Like it belonged to someone else.
Spencer’s expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. “Have a seat, Miss Topp.” He gestured toward the chair across from his desk. “Angela, can you get us some fresh coffee?”
Angela snorted. “From where? Heaven?”
“Somewhere with drinkable water would be a start.”
She rolled her eyes affectionately. “Don’t mind him,” she told you. “He’s allergic to being polite.” But there was something like gentleness in her gaze as she added, “You want anything, sweetheart? Water? Tissue?”
You hadn’t realized your eyes were wet until she said it. You blinked hard. “I—I’m fine,” you lied. Angela’s lips pressed together, but she nodded and swept out, pulling the door mostly closed behind her.
You lowered yourself into the chair. The wood creaked under your weight. Your knees felt like they might give out, so sitting was a small mercy. Spencer leaned back slightly, studying you. Up close, you could see faint stubble along his jaw, the hollows under his cheekbones, a few lines near his eyes that didn’t seem old enough to belong there.
“Miss Topp,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry for whatever brings you here. Angela mentioned it was about a murder.” Your throat clenched. This was it. The word sat heavy between you. You swallowed.
“It’s my…” You groped for the right shape of the truth, your mind skidding over options. Your tongue picked one with a will of its own. “My—brother.” The word wobbled, but it held. “My older brother. He is—”
Dead. Gone. On the floor with—
Your stomach lurched. You dug your nails into your palm through the glove.
“…he was found this morning,” you forced out. “The police were there when I arrived. They—it looked like—like someone had broken in, but they… they said they’re not sure. They’re asking questions but no one—no one’s really explaining anything and I—”
The words clogged. Your breath started coming too fast.
Spencer’s gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. He reached into a drawer and took out a handkerchief, sliding it across the desk toward you. It was clean, crisp, white. You stared at it stupidly for a second before realizing your vision had blurred completely.
You sniffed, taking it with shaking fingers. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. His voice was steady, firm but not unkind. “Take your time.”
You pressed the fabric to your face. It smelled faintly of starch and smoke and something like cedar. The inside of your skull felt loud. Too loud. You could hear the clock on the wall ticking. The soft hum of the city outside the window. Your own uneven breathing.
You’d rehearsed this, you realized distantly. Without meaning to, you’d gone over what you’d say, how you’d look, the way your voice would break. You’d pictured this moment in the hazy space between panic and resolve.
Now, sitting under his gaze, it didn’t feel rehearsed at all. It felt like jumping off a building.
“His name is Shayne,” You said, the syllables of your brother’s name wobbled in your mouth. “He—he worked at the paper. The Gazette. Late nights, all the time. He… he lives—lived—just off Sixth, near the river. Second-floor apartment.” Your hands twisted in your lap, glove leather creaking faintly. “The police— they asked me questions but I don’t think—I don’t think they care. Not really. It’s just another body to them.”
Something flared in Spencer’s eyes. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “But I understand the feeling.”
He leaned forward, forearms resting on the cluttered surface, fingers laced loosely. “Start from the beginning, if you can. When was the last time you saw your brother?”
You’d known that question was coming. You had prepared for that one.
“Last night,” you said. “Around eleven, maybe a little after. I stopped by his place after my shift. I brought him some dinner.” Your voice steadied as you slid into the familiar grooves of the story. “He was working on something. He wouldn’t tell me what, but he said it was important. That it might finally…” You swallowed. “Finally change things.”
“Change what?” Spencer asked.
“The city,” you said. “He always thought he could—” Your lip trembled. It wasn’t hard to let it. “He was always chasing some story. Always trying to pull something rotten up into the light. I told him one day it was going to get him hurt.”
You hadn’t meant for that last sentence to sound so bitter. Spencer’s gaze flicked over your face, sharp. You forced your expression back to broken instead of angry.
“How was he when you left?” he asked.
You blinked. The room seemed to tilt for a moment. “Fine,” you said quickly. “Tired, but fine. He said he’d go to bed soon. I—I locked the door behind me like always. He’s—he was careful, but the building’s not in the best neighborhood.”
“Did he say anything about being threatened? Nervous? Anyone following him?” You hesitated, watching the way his fingers tapped once against the desk, a tiny rhythmic motion.
“He… he mentioned a name,” you said slowly. “Someone he thought was watching him. I didn’t catch it, exactly. It sounded unique. European, maybe.” You let your brows knit. “Something-to? Or-anto? I’m sorry, I…”
You trailed off, letting the apology fill the space where a more precise answer might have made too neat a picture. Spencer hummed thoughtfully. “And this morning?” You tightened your grip on the handkerchief.
“I went by before work,” you said. The words felt like they were pulling threads out of your lungs. “I usually don’t. Not that early. But I had— I don’t know, a feeling? He didn’t call last night like he said he would. I thought maybe he’d overslept.” Your breath hitched. “The door was… open. Not wide, just a little. Enough.”
Enough for you to see the way the light hit the floorboards. Enough to smell the faint metallic tang in the air. You closed your eyes. The memory slammed into you like a wave. The room in disarray. The overturned chair. The record on the turntable skipped, needle clicking against the same groove. His body sprawled on the hardwood, one arm flung out at an unnatural angle, shirt dark with—
You made a small, choked sound.
“I called the police,” you managed, voice thin. “They came, they… they told me to wait in the hall. They said they’d… handle it. But I heard them talking. I heard them saying things about robbery, about maybe it was—maybe he owed money.” Your jaw clenched. “He didn’t. He wouldn’t. They don’t know him. They don’t know anything.”
You realized too late that your voice had gone hard on the last word. Spencer noticed. You saw it in the brief lift of his brow. He didn’t comment. Instead, he flipped open a notebook and began to jot something down with a short, stubby pencil.
“Did they take a statement?” he asked without looking up.
“Yes.”
“Did you mention the name? The possible tail?”
Your mind flicked rapidly back over the morning. The cramped hallway. The officer with the sagging belt and bored eyes. The questions that had felt like accusations.
“Yes,” you said carefully. “But he just scribbled something and told me they’d be in touch.” You let your voice wobble. “I don’t think they will be. He—my brother—he rubbed people the wrong way. He made noise. He made enemies. I think they just think…” You swallowed. “That he brought it on himself.”
“And you don’t?” Spencer said. The question should’ve been obvious. Still, it felt like he was shining a flashlight directly into your face.
You met his gaze. For a heartbeat, the room narrowed to just that point of contact. His eyes were darker up close, like a storm, with flecks of something lighter near the center. Intelligent. Tired. Relentless.
“No,” you said, softly but firmly. “Whatever trouble he was in… he didn’t deserve to die on his floor like that.”
The words came out truer than you’d expected, even with everything they left out. For the first time, a crack appeared in Spencer’s professional distance. A muscle in his jaw ticked. He glanced down, then back up.
“Nothing you’re telling me sounds like an accident,” he said. “Your brother was onto something. People who hate light don’t take kindly to someone carrying a torch.”
“Will you help me?” The question burst out before you’d finished thinking about it. You leaned forward slightly, fingers tightening on the handkerchief. “Please. I—I know you don’t know me. And I don’t have much money, but I can—”
“Stop.” He raised a hand. “This isn’t a bargaining table, miss. I’m trying to figure out if I can actually do anything for you before we talk about payment.”
You froze, mouth half open. Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Something smaller. “That being said, my landlord will weep if I tell you I’m working pro-bono.” His tone softened, just barely. “We’ll figure something out.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Relief washed through you, dizzying, bright. Almost… dangerous.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
He nodded once. “I’ll need to see the scene,” he said briskly. “Before the cops trample whatever they haven’t already. I’ll also need whatever you can tell me about your brother’s work. Stories he was chasing. Names he was dropping. People who might want him quiet.”
He tapped his pencil against the pad. “And I’ll need honesty from you. All of it. Even the parts that don’t paint you or your brother in a flattering light.” A chill danced up your spine.
“Of course,” you said. The lie tasted like sugar and smoke. “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”
Something flickered in his gaze. Not mistrust, exactly. Something adjacent. A wariness that seemed less about you personally and more about the universe at large.
“Good,” he said. “Because if you’re not telling me the whole story, I’ll find out anyway. And I won’t be happy about it.”
Your fingers tightened in your lap. “I understand.”
The door swung open again behind you. “Coffee,” Angela announced, her voice cutting through the thickening tension like a knife through frosting. She carried a tray with two chipped mugs and a small sugar bowl. “One for you, one for Grumpy.”
She set a mug in front of you and one in front of Spencer. She was a little harsher with the latter. “Careful. It’s hot,” Angela said to you. “Probably tastes like tar, but it’s what we’ve got.”
“Thank you,” you murmured, wrapping your hands around the ceramic. The heat sank slowly into your gloves, a delayed comfort.
Angela glanced between you and Spencer, eyes sharp. “So?” she asked him. “We taking the case, boss, or are we gonna let the boys in blue butcher it?”
Spencer glanced at you once more. For a second, something like a question hung in the air, unspoken. Do I want to step into this? Do I want to invite this storm in?
Then he nodded. “We’re taking it.”
Angela’s smile was quick and fierce. “Then I’ll start a file. Miss Topp, I’ll need you to write down your address, your brother’s, and any numbers we can reach you at. Do you have work today? Someone we’d contact if you don’t show?”
The practical words grounded you slightly. “Yes. I—I work at the bookstore on Willow. Mr. Padilla’s the owner. I told him I might not be in today, but… I don’t know.” Your head felt like it was full of rocks. “I can write it down.”
Angela slid a notepad and pen toward you. Your handwriting looked foreign—tight, cramped letters marching across the page. You listed your own address, your brother’s, and the bookstore’s number. You hesitated, then added the diner you sometimes went to after work, the name of the landlady in your building. You’d never seen your life condensed like this before. It looked accidental. Tangential. Small.
Spencer stood, reaching for his jacket. The trench coat was a familiar shape, beige and wrinkled, the kind you saw in every detective movie. On him, it looked less like a costume and more like a second skin. He shrugged into it with practiced ease, grabbed his hat off the stand, and settled it on his head. Standing, he seemed taller, the lines of fatigue replaced by a focused energy.
“I’ll head to the scene now,” he said. “If you feel up to it, you can come and walk me through what you saw. If you don’t, I can send Angela with you another time and work from the cops’ reports until then.”
The thought of going back there made something in your chest seize. The hallway. The door. The—
“I’ll come,” you said, surprising yourself. “I… I need to go back anyway. There are things I should collect.”
Spencer studied you for a moment, then nodded slowly. “All right. We’ll take my car.” He glanced at Angela. “Can you call the Gazette and see who his editor was? I want to know what he was working on last.”
“On it,” she said, already reaching for the phone. “Try not to get shot before lunch. I made ham sandwiches.”
“I thought that smell was the radiator,” he muttered, but there was a shadow of fondness in it.
As you stood, your knees wobbled. Spencer’s hand shot out, steadying you briefly at the elbow. The contact was light, impersonal. It still sent a strange jolt through you.
“You all right?” he asked.
You nodded too quickly. “Yes. Just… just tired.”
“Then lean on the walls if you have to,” he said dryly. “They’re sturdier than they look.” You managed a small, watery huff that might have been a laugh in kinder circumstances. He opened the door and gestured for you to go ahead. As you stepped into the hallway, Angela caught your eye.
“If he starts brooding too hard,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “just ask him about the news. He’ll rant for an hour and forget he was supposed to be scaring anyone.”
“I heard that,” Spencer called.
“You were meant to,” she replied, unfazed. Her gaze softened as it returned to you. “Hang in there, sweetheart.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded. Then you followed Spencer down the stairs and out into the brightening morning.
His car was an old black sedan with rust creeping along the edges, parked crookedly at the curb. He opened the passenger door for you with an absentminded gentlemanliness that didn’t quite match the rumpled collar and the cigarette already between his fingers.
You slid in, the vinyl seat chilly against the backs of your knees. The interior smelled like smoke, coffee, and faintly of paper.
He rounded the hood and got in on the driver’s side, flicking his lighter with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. The tip of the cigarette glowed, briefly illuminating his face before he cracked the window and let the smoke stream out.
“Address?” he asked, starting the engine. It coughed, sputtered, then settled into a gravelly rumble.
You gave it, each number tasting like metal. He nodded, pulling into the street. For a while, the only sounds were the car’s engine, the rattle of loose change somewhere under the dash, the faint murmur of a jazz station bleeding through the static on the radio.
You watched the city slide past through the smeared window. Corner stores setting out displays, children walking to school in shrieking clusters, men in hats and women in scarves moving with purpose. Steam rose from subway grates in lazy ghosts.
None of it felt real. It was like staring at sets on a soundstage—constructed, temporary, waiting for someone to call cut.
“Tell me about him,” Spencer said suddenly.
You turned your head. “My brother?”
He nodded, eyes on the road. “People become more than names in reports when I know who they were. Helps me remember what I’m working with. And for.”
You looked back out the window, tracking a pair of pigeons picking at something by a lamppost.
“He was… loud,” you said slowly. “Not in volume. Just in presence. He walked into a room and it changed shape around him. He always had ink on his fingers. He’d bring home these stacks of clippings and notes and spread them over the kitchen table like he was assembling some giant puzzle only he could see the edges of.”
You could almost see him there now, hunched over his notes, glasses sliding down his nose, muttering to himself. The memory pinched something deep in your chest.
“He believed in things,” you continued. “Too much, maybe. He got angry about injustice, about people being stepped on. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut even when everyone told him to.” Your lip twitched. “Especially then.”
Spencer made a thoughtful sound. “A man like that makes enemies fast.”
“He made friends too,” you said automatically. “People at the paper. Neighbors. Kids on the block. He’d slip them coins for the movies when he was flush, fix radios when he wasn’t. He… he wasn’t perfect. But he was good.”
Silence stretched for a beat, thick with all the ways that goodness hadn’t saved him.
“I’ll need names,” Spencer said finally. “The ones he called friends and the ones he called bastards.”
You nodded, throat tight. “I’ll make a list.”
“Good.” He took a drag on the cigarette, then added casually, “And tell me about you.”
You blinked. “Me?”
“Most cases, you want to understand the dead, you start with the living attached to them,” he said. “You’re not just a footnote in his story, miss. You’re a lead.” The word made your pulse leap unpleasantly.
“There’s not much to tell,” you said quickly. “I work. I go home. I read. I…” You shrugged, helplessly. “I’m not the exciting one. That was always him.”
“Everyone’s interesting if you look from the right angle,” he said. The corner of his mouth twitched again. “Even people who think they’re boring.”
You shook your head, a small, automatic movement. “If you say so.”
“I do,” he said. “But we can get into your life story later. Right now, I just need to know if there’s anyone who might use you to get to him. Someone who knew you were close. Someone who might want to hurt you to send a message.”
You stared at the blurred reflection of your face in the windshield. For a moment, something cold and sharp slid along your spine.
“Not that I can think of,” you said. “He had… arguments. With bosses, with sources, with anyone who didn’t move as fast as his brain did. But no one who would…” You let your voice thin. “No one who’d kill him. I can’t imagine it.”
Spencer didn’t answer right away. The car turned onto a narrower street, one you knew too well. The buildings grew shabbier. Paint peeled faster. Windows cracked and never quite got repaired. Laundry hung on lines between fire escapes, limp in the damp air.
Your brother’s building loomed at the end of the block. Three stories, once-white brick now the color of old teeth. A uniformed officer leaned against the stoop railing, cap low, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. Yellow tape stretched across the front door like a bad joke.
The car rolled to a stop at the curb. Spencer flicked his cigarette out the window, crushing it under his heel as he got out. He came around to your side and opened the door again, offering a hand. You stared at it for a moment, then took it. His palm was warm, grip firm but not rough. He steadied you as you stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Ready?” he asked quietly.
No, you thought. “Yes,” you said.
His hand lingered a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary before he let go.
As you walked toward the building, the officer straightened. “This is a closed scene,” he barked, then stopped as his gaze slid over Spencer’s badge, flashed quick from the inside of his coat.
“Gonna make you look real good if I find what you boys missed,” Spencer cut in, not unkindly. “You want that, or you want to stand here and argue jurisdiction with a grieving family member in front of the neighbors?”
The officer’s gaze flicked to you. Your eyes stung. The handkerchief in your fingers crumpled.
He shifted uncomfortably. “I— Yeah. All right. Don’t touch anything. They’re sending the photographer back this afternoon.”
“Wouldn’t dream of stepping on your toes,” Spencer murmured. He ducked under the tape, holding it up for you.
As you followed him into the dim, stale-smelling stairwell, you felt his eyes on you again, measuring, weighing. You wondered what he saw.
A woman in a green peacoat. Gloves too neat. Pain too sharp and clean around the edges. A sister who’d lost everything. A witness. A client. A liar.
You straightened your shoulders, one hand brushing the banister. The wood was rough, familiar, worn by countless trips up and down.
Whatever he saw now, you thought, would shape how he looked at you from this point on. How closely he listened. How carefully he questioned. You felt the shape of your own heartbeat, fast and steady at once.
Upstairs, behind the door that hung open by an inch, the scene waited—silent, still, already starting to fade in everyone else’s memory but yours. And somewhere between those four walls and this man at your side, you were going to have to make sure the story you’d begun this morning held together.
For his sake. For yours. For the truth that could never really be told.
You stepped onto the first stair. Behind you, Spencer’s footsteps followed, solid and steady, the sound of a man walking toward a puzzle he didn’t yet know had been made just for him.
The stairwell smelled like damp concrete and old cooking grease. Somewhere above, a radio played softly—tinny and cheerful in a way that felt wrong for a place where someone had died only hours before. Spencer’s footsteps were slow and deliberate behind you, his presence steady, grounding in a way that almost made this easier. Almost.
Your brother’s door stood ajar at the end of the second-floor hallway, just as you’d said. A thin sliver of light spilled out across the worn carpet like a blade.
The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.
A couple of neighbors hovered near their doors, pretending not to stare. An older woman with curlers in her hair crossed herself when she saw you. A man in a work jacket shook his head slowly, lips pressed thin. The officer from outside lingered near the stairwell, arms crossed. Spencer gave him a curt nod, then turned to you.
“Take your time,” he said softly. “Walk me through it like it happened.”
Your pulse thundered in your ears. You stepped forward.
Each footfall felt louder than the last as you approached the door. The smell hit you before the sight — metallic, faint but unmistakable, mixed with stale cigarette smoke and spilled liquor. Your stomach clenched, but you forced yourself not to falter.
“This is how I found it,” you said, voice trembling just enough to sound real. “The door wasn’t wide open. Just like that.” Spencer nudged it gently with his shoe until it swung wider.
The apartment was small — a narrow living room with a sagging couch, a low coffee table, stacks of newspapers and folders piled along one wall. A cheap lamp lay on its side near the window, shade cracked. A record player sat in the corner, the vinyl still turning slowly with a soft, rhythmic click.
Click. Click. Click.
Your chest tightened.
“He liked jazz,” you murmured. “Always said it helped him think.”
Spencer glanced at the player, then the scattered papers. “Looks like thinking got interrupted.”
Your brother’s body lay near the center of the room. He was on his back, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath him, the other stretched toward the doorway as if he’d been reaching for help. His shirt was dark with dried blood near his chest.
The sight hit you all over again, sharp and brutal. Your breath hitched.
Spencer moved past you slowly, his gaze scanning everything — the overturned chair, the knocked-over lamp, the scattered papers. He crouched near the body, careful not to touch.
“Multiple stab wounds,” he murmured. “Chest and upper abdomen. Not sloppy… but not clean either.”
“They said robbery,” you whispered.
Spencer’s eyes flicked briefly to you. “Did they say what was missing?”
“Some cash,” you said quickly. “His wallet, I think.”
He hummed quietly. “Funny.”
Your stomach tightened. “What?”
“Robbers usually grab what they can see,” he said. “Jewelry, watches, radios, anything they can pawn quick.” He gestured around the room. “Your brother’s watch is still on. That record player could fetch something. So could that camera.”
You followed his gaze to the small camera on the desk by the window. Your fingers curled inside your gloves.
“I don’t know,” you said softly. “Maybe they panicked.”
“Maybe,” he said, but his tone didn’t quite believe it.
He stood and walked slowly around the room, eyes sharp. The scattered papers weren’t random. They were spread in a rough pattern, some knocked over by struggle, but others deliberately pulled from stacks. Spencer knelt by them.
“These aren’t just a mess,” he said. “Someone was looking for something.”
Your heart thudded.
“He always kept things everywhere,” you said quickly. “He was messy.”
Spencer gave you a look. “Messy people don’t sort like this.”
He picked up one folder carefully with two fingers. Inside were typed pages covered in handwritten notes, names circled, arrows drawn between paragraphs.
“City contracts,” he muttered. “Construction companies. Payoffs.” Your breath caught — not with surprise, but with something dangerously close to relief. Good. He was seeing it.
“So he really was onto something,” you whispered.
“Oh yeah,” Spencer said quietly. “Something that’d make a lot of folks nervous.” He flipped another page.
“Look at this timeline,” he continued. “Your brother was connecting payments to a big businessman’s company."
Your nails dug into your palms. “That sounds like him,” you said.
Spencer’s jaw tightened. “Sounds like a motive.”
He stood again, scanning the room. “Any enemies you can think of tied to this stuff?”
“I told you about that name,” you said slowly, hesitant. “The one he mentioned. I wish I could remember it better.”
“That’s alright,” Spencer said. “We’ll get it eventually.”
He moved toward the small kitchen area just off the living room. You followed a few steps behind. The sink was full of dishes. A half-finished cup of coffee sat cold on the counter. Spencer leaned down, inspecting the floor.
“There’s hardly any blood trail,” he said. “Which means he was probably stabbed right where he fell.”
“That’s… normal, isn’t it?” you asked.
“Sometimes.” He straightened slowly. “But usually you see more signs of movement. A stumble. A smear. A trail toward the door.”
He turned to you. “But your brother was right by the entrance.” Your mouth felt dry.
“So maybe he opened the door for someone,” you said.
“Exactly,” Spencer replied. You forced your brows together.
“But wouldn’t he open the door for someone he knew?”
Spencer held your gaze. “Most people don’t unlock doors for strangers in neighborhoods like this.”
A heavy silence stretched between you. Outside, a car honked somewhere down the block. Spencer exhaled slowly. “So whoever killed him,” he said, “was probably someone he trusted enough to let inside.”
Your pulse hammered. Spencer stepped closer to the door, inspecting the lock.
“No sign of forced entry,” he muttered. “Latch is fine.”
He straightened and looked at you again. “Did your brother ever mention expecting company last night?”
You swallowed. “He said he had a source,” you said carefully. “Someone who was supposed to bring him documents.” That was true. Just not the way he thought.
“That makes sense,” Spencer said. “Source comes in, argument breaks out, things turn ugly.” He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Except…”
Your stomach twisted. “Except what?”
He pointed toward the door. “If there was a struggle, I’d expect scuff marks. More overturned furniture. Broken glass. But most of this looks staged.”
Your breath hitched. “Staged?”
“Like someone wanted it to look like a robbery gone wrong,” he said. “But whoever did this was controlled. Efficient enough to kill him fast.”
He turned back to the body. “And personal enough to use a knife.”
The word hung in the air. Personal.
Spencer crouched again, studying your brother’s hand. “See this?” he said softly.
You leaned closer despite yourself. Your brother’s fingers were curled around something small. Spencer gently pried them open. A scrap of fabric.
Green.
Your heart nearly stopped. It was tiny — barely more than a thread cluster. But unmistakably the same shade as your coat. Spencer frowned.
“Looks like he grabbed onto something during the attack,” he murmured. Your mind raced. You forced yourself to breathe.
“That… that could be anything,” you said quickly. “Maybe from a neighbor. Or a curtain.” You gestured to the dark green fabric by the windows. Spencer studied the small piece, bringing the fabric closer to his face.
“Maybe.” But his voice wasn’t convinced. He slipped the scrap carefully into an evidence envelope.
“You said you found him this morning,” he said casually.
“Yes, a little before seven.”
“And you were working last night?”
“Yes. The bookstore closed at ten.”
“So you went to your brother’s after work around eleven,” he said. “Then went home. Then came back in the morning.”
“That’s right.”
He nodded slowly. “Long night.”
“Yes,” you whispered. His eyes lingered on you. Something shifted. Not accusation. Not yet. But interest. Calculation.
“Do you remember what you were wearing last night?” he asked. Your pulse jumped.
“The… the same coat,” you said, gesturing weakly. “It was raining.”
“Same gloves?”
“Yes.”
He hummed. “You don’t change much, huh?”
“I— I like it,” you said softly. “It was a gift.”
He studied you for a long moment. Then looked away. “Alright,” he said. “We’ll go with the robbery angle for now. But I don’t buy it.”
You released a breath slowly. “Thank you,” you said. “For taking this seriously.”
He gave a small half-smile. “That’s the job.”
Another officer appeared in the doorway. “Detective, photographer’s on the way back. Lieutenant wants everyone clear in ten.”
Spencer nodded. “We’re almost done.” The officer left. Spencer turned back to you.
“You should probably grab anything important now,” he said gently. “Clothes, photos, papers. The place’ll be locked up after this.”
You nodded numbly. You moved toward your brother’s bedroom. Inside, the small space was neat compared to the living room. Bed made. A dresser with a framed photo of the two of you on top. You picked it up.
You both looked younger. Happier. His arm slung around your shoulders, both of you laughing. Your throat tightened. Spencer lingered in the doorway, watching you..
“You were close,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” you whispered. “He was all I had.” The truth and the lie tangled together.
“If you think of anything,” he said softly, “anything at all that seems strange or small or stupid — you tell me.”
“I will.”
“I mean it,” he said, meeting your eyes. “Little things solve big cases.” Your lips trembled.
“I trust you,” you said. Something flickered across his face — surprise, warmth, and something heavier.
“You shouldn’t,” he said lightly. “But I appreciate it.”
You gave a small sad smile. “You’re the only one helping me.”
He didn’t respond right away. Then quietly, “I won’t let whoever did this walk away.”
Your chest tightened. Neither will I, you thought.
You tucked the photo into your purse. As you stepped back into the living room, Spencer glanced once more at the evidence envelope in his hand — the green fabric. Outside, the sounds of the city pressed in again — life moving forward, indifferent. Inside, the first real cracks had formed.
And the game had truly begun.
~~~
The precinct was suffocating. It was louder than Spencer’s office — phones ringing, typewriters clacking, officers shouting names across the room. The kind of place where tragedies stacked up so fast no one had time to feel them properly.
You stayed close to Spencer as you walked inside, your fingers brushing his sleeve once by accident. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he subtly shifted so you were shielded from the bustle, guiding you with a light hand at the small of your back.
“You okay?” he murmured.
You nodded. “It’s just… a lot.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It always is.”
Eyes followed you. You felt them — curious, tired, some sympathetic, some suspicious. Spencer led you past a row of desks toward a smaller hallway.
“Lieutenant’s letting me use one of the interview rooms,” he explained. “I want you close while I talk to our first lead.”
“Who is it?” you asked.
“A man named Ian Hecox,” Spencer said. “Construction foreman. His company’s been tied to a couple of the contracts your brother was sniffing around.”
Your pulse fluttered. “Do you think he did it?”
“I think he had motive,” Spencer replied. “And means.” He paused before a metal door with frosted glass. “But motive doesn’t make a murderer. People do.”
He opened the door. Inside sat a man in his late thirties with slicked-back brown hair and cracked glasses, wearing a wrinkled suit that looked expensive once. His jaw worked slowly as he chewed gum, eyes hard and irritated.
Ian Hecox.
“About damn time,” Hecox snapped. “I told the other cop I didn’t do anything.”
Spencer gestured for you to sit at the small table along the wall.
“You don’t mind if she stays, do you?” Spencer asked calmly. “She’s family.”
Hecox’s gaze slid to you. Something flickered there. Recognition. Quick. Almost too quick. Your stomach tightened.
“She looks upset,” Hecox said flatly. “Real shame what happened.”
Spencer took the chair across from him. “Let’s start simple,” Spencer said. “You know a man named Shayne Topp.”
Hecox scoffed. “Half the city knows that loudmouth.”
“Careful,” Spencer said softly.
Hecox leaned back. “Yeah, I knew him. He came around asking questions. Made accusations. Thought he was some kind of hero.”
“What kind of accusations?” Spencer asked.
“That my company was paying off some busy business man,” Hecox said, rolling his eyes. “Which is ridiculous.”
Spencer slid a folder onto the table. Inside were copies of your brother’s notes. “Funny,” Spencer said. “These seem pretty detailed for ridiculous.”
Hecox’s jaw tightened. “You don’t have proof of anything.”
“Not yet,” Spencer agreed. Silence stretched.
Spencer leaned forward slightly. “When was the last time you saw him?”
Hecox hesitated just a beat too long. “Couple weeks ago.”
Spencer tilted his head. “Try again.”
Hecox frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we know he had a source meeting last night,” Spencer said. “Someone he trusted enough to let into his apartment.”
Hecox’s gum stopped moving. “You saying that was me?”
“I’m asking,” Spencer said calmly. “Was it?”
Hecox’s eyes flicked to you again. Then back to Spencer.
“No,” he said quickly. “I was home.”
“With who?”
“My wife.”
Spencer scribbled something down. “What time?”
“All night.”
“Anyone else see you?”
Hecox bristled. “You calling me a liar?”
“I’m calling you a suspect,” Spencer replied evenly.
Hecox slammed his palm on the table. “I didn’t kill him! He was annoying, sure, but I wouldn’t risk my neck over some newspaper punk!”
Spencer didn’t flinch.
“Funny thing about anger,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t usually feel dangerous until it’s too late.”
Hecox glared. “You got nothing.”
“Maybe,” Spencer said. “But if you did meet him last night, and if that meeting got heated—”
“I didn’t knife him!”
Spencer studied him. Then, calmly, “You know what kind of knife killed him?”
Hecox froze. Your breath caught.
“I—I don’t,” Hecox said stiffly.
“Good,” Spencer said softly. “Because I didn’t mention a knife.”
Hecox’s face flushed. Spencer leaned back slowly.
“That’s quite the slipup, Hecox.”
The room went silent. Hecox swallowed. “You cops always twist things.”
“I’m not a cop,” Spencer said lightly. “Which means I don’t have to play nice.”
Hecox shot to his feet. “You don’t have anything on me!”
“Sit down,” Spencer snapped. The command rang sharp and cold. Hecox hesitated, but sat. Something in Spencer’s voice made him obey. Spencer lowered his tone again.
“You were angry at him,” Spencer said. “You were being exposed. Your company was bleeding money because of his stories. You show up to scare him, things go wrong—”
“I didn’t go there!”
“Then why did he write your name three times in his notes?” Spencer asked.
Hecox clenched his fists. “Because he was obsessed with me!”
Spencer stood slowly. “Then you won’t mind us checking your alibi.”
Hecox sneered. “Go ahead.”
Spencer held his gaze another moment. Then turned to you gently.
“Why don’t you wait outside,” he said softly. “I’ll be just a minute.”
You nodded, rising shakily. As you passed Hecox, his eyes burned into you. And for just a second—you thought you saw fear.
Out in the hallway, the noise felt louder. Your hands trembled slightly, and you tried to get your breathing to slow down. Spencer stepped out a moment later, closing the door firmly behind him.
“You alright?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” you said. “He scared me.”
“That’s because he wants to,” Spencer said. “Bullies always do.”
He hesitated. “You noticed the way he looked at you?” You nodded slowly.
“He recognized you. Or he recognized the situation,” Spencer said. “Either way, it tells me he’s hiding something.”
“Do you think he killed my brother?” you asked softly.
“Because men like Hecox hire people to do their mess,” Spencer said. “They don’t usually get blood on their own hands.”
He sighed. “And there’s something else.”
“What?”
“The murder felt personal,” he said. “Angry, yes — but also intimate.”
Your pulse thudded.
“Like someone who knew him,” you whispered.
“Exactly.” He looked at you. “Someone he trusted.” Silence stretched between you.
“I trusted him,” you said softly. “And he’s gone.”
Spencer’s expression softened. “I know.” He hesitated, then gently placed a hand over yours. The warmth shocked you.
“You’re doing great,” he said quietly. “I know this is hard.”
Your breath wavered. “Thank you for staying with me.”
“Of course,” he replied. “I’m not going anywhere.” The words landed heavier than he probably meant them to. Something twisted warmly in your chest. And painfully.
A young officer approached. His name tag read Officer Evarts.
“Detective, we checked out Hecox’s alibi,” Evarts said. “Wife confirms he was home, but neighbors say they heard a car pull out around midnight.”
Spencer’s jaw tightened. “Car description?”
“Dark sedan. Older model.”
Spencer nodded. “Same kind he drives.” The officer walked off. Spencer exhaled slowly.
“He’s lying about leaving,” he said. “But not necessarily about where he went.”
“So he could’ve gone somewhere else,” you said.
“Exactly.”
“Or someone else went to my brother’s place,” you whispered.
“Yep.” Spencer studied you for a moment. “You’re thinking.”
“I just…” you swallowed. “I keep wondering if my brother knew who it was.”
“That scrap of fabric suggests he did,” Spencer said quietly.
Your heart pounded. “You think it’s from the killer’s clothes.”
“Most likely.”
You forced yourself to look down at your coat. Spencer followed your gaze. Then frowned faintly.
“Green’s a popular color,” he said casually. “Doesn’t mean anything.”
You nodded quickly. “Yes. Of course.” But something had shifted. A seed of doubt. Tiny. But real.
Spencer cleared his throat. “I’m going to run down a few more leads,” he said. “I don’t want you alone tonight.”
Your breath hitched. “You don’t?”
“Not with whoever did this still out there,” he said firmly. “You can stay at my place if you want. Or Angela’s. Somewhere safe.” The idea of being close to him sent a strange flutter through you.
“Your place is fine,” you said softly. He looked surprised. Then nodded.
“Alright.” A small smile tugged at his lips.
“Guess you’ll get to see how thrilling a detective’s life really is. Cold takeout and terrible radio stations.”
You managed a weak laugh. “That sounds… nice.”
As you followed him toward the exit, you felt the weight of everything pressing down. The lies stacking up. The clues inching closer. The warmth of his hand still lingering on yours. Spencer was protecting you. Trusting you. Falling just a little. And all the while…
You were leading him straight into the game.
~~~
The rain hadn’t let up. It slid down the windows of Spencer’s car in long, lazy streaks, blurring the neon lights of storefronts into smears of color — reds melting into blues, streetlamps glowing like distant stars. The windshield wipers kept a steady rhythm, back and forth, back and forth, like a heartbeat. You sat in the passenger seat, hands folded tightly in your lap.
Everything felt unreal. Hours ago, you’d been in his office, shaking and desperate. Now you were riding beside him through the sleeping city, the man who was supposed to find your brother’s killer — the man who had unknowingly been sitting across from one. Spencer glanced over at you every so often, careful not to stare.
“You holding up okay?” he asked gently.
You nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”
“You’ve been running on fumes all day.”
“I don’t think I’d be able to sleep even if I wanted to,” you admitted.
He sighed quietly. “I figured as much. That’s why I thought… well, it’s late. I didn’t feel right dropping you back at that empty apartment alone.”
Your throat tightened. “Thank you,” you whispered.
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “It’s just common decency.” But you could tell there was more than concern. Something warmer.
The car turned onto a quieter street lined with brownstones and small apartment buildings. Rain pooled along the curb, reflecting the glow of streetlights.
“This is me,” Spencer said, pulling into a narrow parking spot. You looked up at the building — modest, brick, with a flickering light near the entrance. It suited him. Nothing flashy. Just steady. Inside, the hallway smelled faintly of old wood and cigarette smoke. Spencer led you up one flight of stairs, his footsteps echoing softly.
When he unlocked the door, warmth spilled out. The apartment was dim, lit mostly by a lamp near the couch and the soft glow of a streetlight through the window. Music drifted lazily from a record player — something slow and mournful, a trumpet crying softly in the background.
You paused in the doorway. “It’s nice,” you said quietly.
He snorted. “That’s one word for it.”
“It feels… cozy.”
“Give it time,” he teased. “The charm wears off when the radiator starts banging like a drunk at two in the morning.” You smiled. It felt strange — smiling. But it also felt good.
“Make yourself at home,” he said, setting his keys down. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
You slipped out of your coat and draped it carefully over a chair. The apartment felt intimate — not just small, but personal. Every item told a story.
Stacks of case files on the coffee table. A worn couch with a blanket folded over one arm. Books lining a shelf — crime novels, poetry, old detective magazines. And that framed photo. You drifted closer. Spencer and a woman stood in front of a Christmas tree, both laughing, his arm slung casually around her shoulders.
“You look happy,” you said softly. He glanced over.
“That’s my sister,” he said.
“She’s pretty.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that. It’ll go straight to her head.”
You chuckled quietly. “When was this?”
“Couple years ago. Before I started pulling too many late nights.”
You traced the edge of the frame. “It must be nice… having family.”
His expression softened. “It is. Even when they drive you crazy.”
Your chest ached.
The kettle whistled from the kitchen. Spencer hurried to turn it off, pouring hot water into two chipped mugs.
“Tea okay?” he asked.
“Perfect.” He handed you one carefully, fingers brushing yours. A spark ran up your arm. You both felt it. He cleared his throat quickly.
“So,” he said, sitting on the couch, leaving space beside him. “You wanna talk about anything? Or just sit quietly?”
You sank down slowly next to him, holding the warm mug close. “Quiet sounds nice.” For a while, you just listened to the rain and the soft music. Your shoulders slowly relaxed.
“You know,” you murmured, “I haven’t been anywhere that felt safe in a long time.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “I’m glad you feel safe here.”
“With you,” you corrected gently.
He turned toward you. The lamp light caught the seriousness in his eyes. “I’ll always try to make sure you are.”
The words made something twist painfully in your chest. If only he knew.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you whispered. His breath hitched — just barely.
“Well,” he said softly, “you don’t have to find out.”
Later, when the clock on the wall ticked past midnight, exhaustion finally crept in. “I should set you up in the bedroom,” Spencer said. “You need rest.”
“And you?”
“I’ll crash on the couch.”
You frowned. “You don’t have to.” The thought of being alone in a strange room made your stomach twist.
“Spencer?” you said quietly. He paused. “I don’t think I can sleep by myself tonight.”
He studied you for a long moment, something a little too close to pity and understanding in his gaze. Then he nodded. “Okay.”
The bedroom was simple but clean — crisp sheets, a neatly folded blanket, a small lamp casting warm light. You hovered awkwardly. He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’ll turn around so you can change.”
“Spencer,” you said softly. He looked at you. “Stay.”
Something passed across his face — hesitation, desire, concern. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
Slowly, carefully, you slipped off your heels, then your dress, folding it neatly. The air felt cooler against your skin, but his presence was warm. You felt his gaze — respectful but lingering.
“You’re… beautiful,” he said quietly, like the word surprised him.
Your heart fluttered. “Thank you.”
He quickly changed, keeping his back mostly turned. When you both slid into bed, the space between you felt too large. The rain hummed against the window. The music faded in the other room. You shifted closer. Your fingers brushed his hand. Neither of you pulled away.
“Spencer? Can I be honest?”
“Always.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this close to someone this fast.”
He let out a soft breath.
“Me neither.” He turned onto his side to face you. “Guess tragedy has a way of breaking down walls.”
You nodded slowly. “I feel like I can tell you anything.” The irony burned.
“I’m glad,” he said quietly. You studied his face — the faint shadow of stubble, tired eyes softened by concern.
“Why are you really doing this?” you asked. “Going so far for me.”
“Because you came in scared,” he said. “Because you’re hurting. And because… I care.”
Your throat tightened. “Already?”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Already.”
His hand slowly lifted, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. You leaned into the touch instinctively. The moment thickened.
“I shouldn’t,” he whispered.
“But I want to,” you replied.
He smiled faintly. “That makes two of us.”
He leaned in slowly. This kiss wasn’t just gentle. It was aching.
Soft lips meeting, pulling back slightly, meeting again — testing, learning. His hand slid to your waist, warm and steady. You sighed softly into his mouth. He deepened the kiss just a little — still careful, still tender. When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless.
“I’m not taking advantage of you,” he said quickly. “That’s the last thing I want to do.”
“I know,” you said softly. “I do want this.”
He nodded, eyes dark with emotion. “Okay.”
You nestled closer, your head resting against his chest. His heartbeat was strong beneath your ear. He wrapped his arm around you protectively. Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance. For a moment, everything felt peaceful. Safe. Normal.
And it almost made you forget the blood on your hands. Almost.
Spencer stared at the ceiling, holding you like something precious. “I’ll solve this,” he whispered. “I promise.”
Your fingers tightened in his shirt. “I know you will.”
And the truth hung between you — silent, heavy, waiting.
Morning crept into the room slowly, pale and uncertain, filtered through rain-streaked windows. The city outside was quieter than it had been the night before — not asleep anymore, but not fully awake either. Cars hissed over wet pavement. Somewhere down the block a radio played softly through an open window.
You stirred beneath warm covers. For a moment, you didn’t know where you were. Then you felt it. The steady rise and fall of a chest beneath your cheek. The solid warmth of an arm wrapped around your waist.
Spencer.
Your breath caught softly. He was still asleep, his face relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen before. Without the weight of the day pressing on him, he looked younger — softer. The lines of worry around his eyes smoothed out.
You watched him for a long moment. This was dangerous. Not just because of the lie. But because you liked this. The closeness. The care. The way he held you like something precious. A dull ache settled in your chest. You shifted slightly, careful. But Spencer’s arm tightened instinctively.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.
“Sorry,” you whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I’ve been awake for a bit. You were having a bad dream,” he said softly, his thumb brushed small circles against your side without thinking. “You kept saying Shayne’s name. You sounded scared.”
Shame burned behind your eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” he said gently, fully awake now. “Nothing to be sorry for.” He studied your face. “Nightmares happen after trauma.”
You nodded slowly. “I just… I hate feeling weak.”
“You’re not weak,” he said firmly. “You’re human.” His gaze softened. “And you’re stronger than you think.”
Something in your chest tightened painfully. “Thank you.”
He smiled faintly. “Come on. Let’s get you some coffee before I head in.”
The kitchen filled with warm smells — dark coffee brewing, toast popping up from the toaster, the faint sweetness of jam. Spencer moved with easy familiarity, sleeves rolled up, hair still slightly rumpled from sleep. You leaned against the counter watching him.
“You’re good at this,” you said quietly.
“Making breakfast?”
“Taking care of people.”
“I didn’t always have a choice growing up,” he admitted. “When my dad died, my mom worked a lot. I learned quick.”
“I’m sorry,” you said softly.
“It’s alright,” he said. “It made me who I am.” He poured coffee into two cups.
“You don’t have to come with me today,” he added gently. “I can drop you home first.”
The thought of being alone made your stomach knot. “Oh.” He noticed instantly.
“But,” he continued slowly, “I was thinking it might be better if you stayed with me.”
“Why?” You ask. His expression turned serious.
“If someone murdered your brother, there’s a chance you’re in danger too,” he said quietly. “They might think you know something. Or they might not want you talking to the police.”
A chill slid down your spine. “So you think they could try to hurt me?”
“I don’t want to scare you,” he said carefully. “But yes, it’s possible.”
“I don’t want to be in the way,” you say, your fingers curled around your mug.
“You won’t be,” he said instantly. “I’d rather have you close where I can protect you.”
Protect you. The words wrapped around your heart.
“Okay,” you whispered, a small smile on your lips. “I’ll come.”
~~~
The streets were slick and shining as Spencer drove. Sunlight broke through clouds in thin beams, reflecting off puddles and shop windows. The city felt alive again.
“First stop is Hecox,” Spencer said. “He wasn’t saying something yesterday. Probably because you were there. Didn’t want to say anything untoward in front of a lady.” Your pulse quickened, remembering the way Hecox recognized you.
“We need to get to him first, before anyone else does.” Spencer muttered. Your hands clenched. They already had.
The building was narrow and worn, bricks darkened by age and rain. Inside smelled of damp carpet and old smoke. Spencer took your hand lightly as you walked down the hall.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” you whispered. You reached Hecox’s door. Spencer knocked firmly.
“Hecox! It’s Agnew!” Silence. He knocked again. Nothing. A familiar dread curled in your gut.
“He won’t answer,” you murmured.
Spencer frowned. “How do you know?”
You hesitated just a fraction too long. “I just… my brother mentioned he was a heavy sleeper. Hecox was often late for his interviews.”
Spencer shrugged. “Let’s check with the landlord.”
Before you could move there was a crash echoing down the hallway. A door slammed. Fast footsteps.
“That’s him,” you said urgently. Spencer’s eyes sharpened. He opened his mouth to say something, but a scream from the other side of the door cut him off.
“They’re trying to kill me!”
Spencer motioned for you to stand back. He raised his leg and with two swift kicks the door burst open under his boots. Inside the dark living room was Ian Hecox on the floor, a dark assailant on top of him. The assailant had one hand on Hecox’s collar, the other reaching for something in his waistband.
“Agnew, help!” Hecox screamed. “It’s them! They’re working togeth-” A shot rang out, stopping Hecox short. He fell back to the floor, limp.
“NO!” Spencer yelled.” The assailant turned towards Spencer, eyes wild and gun raised.
Time slowed. You saw every movement. Just like before.
“Spencer!” you screamed. The gun fired.
Spencer lunged, throwing you behind him. The bullet tore into the wall. Plaster exploded.
You screamed as Spencer tackled the man hard. They slammed into the floor. The gun skidded away. Spencer wrestled him down, cuffing him quickly.
You collapsed against the wall, sobbing. Spencer rushed back to you. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” you gasped. “No, I’m okay.”
He cupped your face, eyes frantic. “You sure?”
“Yes.”Relief flooded his features. He pulled you into his arms tightly.
“I thought—” he swallowed. “I thought I lost you.”
“I was so scared.” You confess, your fingers clutched his shirt.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured fiercely. “I’ve got you.”
Minutes later you were outside, cool air hit your flushed skin. Policemen and paramedics walked by and into the building, closing off Hecox’s apartment as a new crime scene. Spencer walked up to you, ending his conversation with an officer.
“You’re shaking,” he said softly, wrapping his coat around your shoulders.
“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “That was so close.”
“You were brave,” he said.
“You saved me.”
“No,” he said firmly. “I did my job.”
“But you put yourself in front of the gun.”
He met your eyes. “I’d do it again.”
Your breath caught. “Why?”
“Because I care about you.”
The confession hung heavy. Before either of you could think too hard, you leaned in. This kiss was desperate. Relief pouring into it. His hands framed your face as he kissed you back deeply. When you broke apart, both breathing hard—
“I can’t lose you,” he whispered.
“You won’t,” you said softly. As you both walked back to his car, Spencer frowned thoughtfully.
“What’s wrong?” you asked.
Spencer just hummed. “It’s just odd. Why would anyone want to kill Hecox after your brother? They weren’t working together. They didn’t like each other.”
“I’m not sure,” You whispered, voice soft. “This might be a small piece in a bigger plot. Maybe someone more powerful is working behind the scenes.” Spencer looked at you.
“You got some good detective instincts, you know?” Spencer said. “This isn’t the first time you’ve shown them.”
You forced a laugh. “I’m just lucky, I guess.”
“Yeah, must be luck.” If only he knew.
Spencer opened the car door for you.
“We’re getting close,” he said confidently. “I can feel it.” So could you.
~~~
The precinct was just as noisy as the day before, humming like a beehive kicked too hard. Phones rang endlessly. Typewriters clattered in uneven rhythms. Cigarette smoke curled thick in the air, clinging to everything. Men in trench coats leaned over desks littered with folders and half-empty coffee cups. Spencer guided you through it all with a gentle hand resting against your lower back.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“I think so,” you whispered. “It’s just a lot. Being back here again.”
“Stick close,” he murmured. “I’m here for you.”
Across the room, a body lay on a gurney covered with a sheet. It was quickly wheeled down the hall and towards the morgue. Hecox.
Spencer stiffened beside you. “He’s dead,” he said quietly.
“Just brought in,” an officer said grimly. “I’m sorry, detective, but the paramedics couldn’t do anything for him. You were too late.” Your knees nearly buckled. Spencer caught you instantly.
“Easy,” he said softly. “I’ve got you.”
Your voice shook. “He didn’t make it.”
“Yeah,” Spencer said darkly. “Someone didn’t want him speaking.”
You and Spencer were allowed back into the interrogation rooms an hour later. The assailant Spencer tackled in Hecox’s apartment was sitting at a table behind a pane of one-way glass. A tall, rough-looking man — long legs stretched out, hands cuffed, face carved with scars and arrogance.
“Name’s Bowe,” an officer muttered. “Low-level muscle. Known to do dirty work.”
“Can I go in?” Spencer asked. The officer nodded. He motioned for you to stay outside. Spencer walked in, slowly. Pulled out a chair and sat down. You watched through the glass, seeing Bowe lean back in his chair and smirking.
“Detective.”
“Bowe,” Spencer replied calmly.
“You’re famous,” Bowe laughed. “Didn’t think I’d meet you like this.”
Spencer placed a newly acquired photo of Hecox’s body on the table. “You killed him.”
“Didn’t mean to,” Bowe said lazily. “He panicked.”
“Funny way of handling panic,” Spencer replied.
Bowe shrugged. “He started yelling. Didn’t wanna make a scene.”
Spencer leaned forward. “You put a bullet in his chest.”
“Wasn’t the original plan.”
“What was?”
Bowe tapped his fingers across the table’s metal surface. “Scare him.”
“Who ordered that?”
Silence. Spencer slid another photo across. Your brother’s apartment. The mess. The blood.
“Funny thing about panic,” Spencer said softly. “It doesn’t make people hire hitmen.”
Bowe’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Spencer stood suddenly, slamming his palms on the table. “You murdered a man who was about to expose a killer.”
Bowe flinched. Then sneered. “Man talked too much.”
“Of course he did. A man about to expose Hecox was just murdered. He’d want to cover his ass.”
Bowe’s eyes flickered. Spencer noticed and lowered his voice. “Who sent you?”
Bowe hesitated. Then sighed. “Damien Haas.”
There it was. Spencer’s eyes darkened. “The developer? Haas pay you to kill Hecox?”
“Just to scare him,” Bowe snapped. “Rough him up a little.”
“But you went too far.”
“He ran!”
“You still pulled the trigger.”
Bowe looked away. “Plans change.”
Spencer stared him down. “Did Haas order a hit on someone named Shayne Topp?”
Bowe shook his head. “Nah. That wasn’t him.”
“You sure?” Spencer asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Yeah,” Bowe muttered. “Haas hated him. Said Topp had ruined him. Wanted him scared. But murder? That wasn’t him.”
“Then who was it?”
“I dunno,” Bowe shrugged. “Haas said it had to be someone close.”
Spencer came out of the room furious. “Haas hired him,” Spencer said tightly. “Admits it was intimidation. Claims he didn’t want Hecox dead.”
“But Bowe said Haas didn’t kill my brother,” you whispered.
“Could be lying,” Spencer said. “Or telling the truth.”
You hugged yourself. “What if there’s someone else?”
“Let’s go talk to Haas.” Spencer said, taking your hand and leading you outside.
Damien Haas’ office was on the top floor of his company’s building. It was big, held up by steel and made of only windows. It smelled of expensive cologne and cigar smoke. He stood behind his desk like a king guarding a throne, pulling open each drawer and searching through them. When he saw you and Spencer enter, his face hardened.
“You again?” Haas hissed. “What the hell do you want this time?”
Spencer hesitated. “Mr. Haas, I don’t believe we have met.”
“Not you, I meant her— oh, nevermind.” Haas spat, his hand patting his pockets. “To what do I owe this displeasure, Detective Agnew, is it?”
“If it’s going to be like that then I’ll skip right to the chase. Your man Bowe murdered a man this morning. Someone by the name of Ian Hecox. Ring a bell?”
Haas froze. “What?”
“Shot him in the living room of his own apartment.”
“Idiot,” Haas muttered under his breath. Then louder: “Allegedly, I told him to scare him. I wouldn’t order a man’s murder.”
Spencer looked at you. You were frozen, rubbing your left ring finger again with your other hand. Haas watched you both, his eyes narrowing. “What’s she got to do with this? You know she’s—”
“And what about my brother? Shayne Topp. Did you kill him?” You cut Haas off quickly. Haas just chuckled and turned back to rifling through the contents of his desk.
“You know as well as I do that I had nothing to do with your brother’s murder, darling.”
“As well as I? Nevermind. Why go after Hecox then?” Spencer jumps in.
“I hired him to build some things in town. He was using my money to buy cheap supplies and then pocketed the difference. I needed to teach him a lesson.” During his entire confession Haas’ eyes had not left your face. You felt something sink to the pit of your stomach.
“I won’t lie though,” Haas carried on. “I have no love for Shayne Topp. His more recent investigation into my company has been a thorn in my side for months. I’m not sorry he’s dead.”
You felt like you were about to throw up. You swallowed hard. Haas studied your face.
“Is your girl alright, Agnew? She looks like she’s seen a ghost.”
Spencer quickly stepped between you and the man. “Watch it. She’s just lost her brother, and only family.”
“Apologies,” Haas sneered. “I am a little distracted today. I seem to have misplaced my wallet.” Haas’ eyes flickered to you. Then quickly back to Spencer. He smiled.
“Well, nevermind, I’ll have to be more careful. Good luck finding your killer, detective. Topp was a paranoid man. He knew what he was doing when he put his nose in other people’s business.” Haas laughed. “He wouldn’t let someone get close enough to kill him unless they knew him personally. Family, maybe.”
You quickly looked up at Haas with that. He was just smiling, an odd twinkle in his eye.
“What’s that?” Spencer asked, pulling Haas’ attention away from you.
You turned to see what Spencer was pointing at. A black suit jacket was laid across the back of Haas’ office chair. A green handkerchief peeking out of the front pocket.
“A gift,” Haas said, almost sounding bitter. “From my ex wife. I haven’t had the heart to throw it out yet.”
“May I see the handkerchief?” Spencer asked, his hand already outstretched.
“Do you have a warrant, detective?”
Spencer said nothing.
“Hmm. As I thought. If you don’t mind, I am a very busy man and I have business to attend to, seeing as my main construction foreman is now dead.”
“Well, thank you for your time.” Spencer grumbled. “We’ll be going. Good day, Haas.”
“Good day, detective.” Haas waved you both out the door. “Darling.”
~~~
“I need to go back to your brother’s apartment.” Spencer told you once you had both made it back to the car. “I feel like I’m missing something.”
“Okay.” You whispered. Spencer’s head turned towards you, worried etched on his face.
“Are you alright?” He asked.
“Fine.” You gulped for air.
“We don’t have to go back. I understand if it would be too stressful to see your brother’s apartment again so soon. I can drop you back at the office and Angela—”
“No! No, I’m truly fine.” You cut Spencer off. “Haas was just a little… disconcerting.”
“Well, don’t worry, we don’t have to speak to him again.” Spencer reassured you. You just nodded.
Everything felt wrong once you reentered your brother’s apartment. It was too quiet, especially now the police and your brother were gone. The curtains barely moved. Dust hung like thick ropes in the light. The air felt thick and smelt stale. You stood in the doorway, unsure if you could muster the strength to enter yet again.
“Take your time,” Spencer said. “I’m right here if you need me.”
You stepped inside. Again, memories flooded your brain. The laughter, the papers, the argument. And now… blood where his body was the day before. Crimson soaked the carpet and stained the floor boards underneath. Your breath hitched.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Spencer rushed to your side, immediately taking you into his arms. You collapsed into his chest.
“I just— I can’t—” You whimpered into Spencer’s chest.
“I know, I know,” Spencer whispered into your hair, then kissing you on top of your head. “You’ve been so brave. Can you be my brave girl a little longer?”
You nodded. Spencer pulled out back a little to look into your eyes. You nodded again and whispered a small yes.
“That’s my girl,” He placed his hand on your face and wiped your dry cheeks. “Help me look for anything we missed the first time. You know this place better than I do.”
You stepped back, looking around. The living room carpet had an upturned corner, now flattened from your brother’s body having laid on it for so long. The flipped corner now pointed towards the coffee table.
“He staggered first,” you said softly. “Tried to reach the coffee table.”
Spencer paused. “How do you know that?”
Your heart raced. “I— I just pictured it. Look how the carpet is upturned.” You pointed. Spencer nodded slowly.
“Yeah, makes sense.” He walked around the carpet and on the edges of the body outline. “He landed here, between the coffee table and the door. On his back…”
Spencer laid down right on top of the chalk outline. He placed his arm out towards the door, just like how your brother did. He looked for the door, studying it, Then, turned his head the other way to look under the coffee table.
“There’s something under here.” Spencer reached beneath the table and pulled out a piece of paper. The last page of a contract.
“Look!” Spencer shot to his feet. “The signature.” In extremely neat cursive was the name M. Damiam Haas in pitch black ink.
“Oh no…” You whispered.
“Oh yes!” Spencer exclaimed. “Signed Mister Damien Haas. I knew Haas was dirty, just didn’t have enough proof. This looks like the end of a hit contract. We could take this to judge and get an arrest warrant as soon as tomorrow afternoon!” Spencer turned to you, his face was jubilant. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, more than fine.” You hurried to answer him. “I didn’t think we’d solve it this fast.” Spencer just grinned.
“Not solved yet, but so close. Come on, let’s go home.”Spencer slipped the contract into an evidence bag. Then, taking your hand into his, started to make his way out of your brother’s apartment. On the threshold, he froze.
“Spencer?” You asked, ice filling your veins. “What is it?”
“There’s something here, too.”
“What? Can’t we just leave?”
“No, look.” Spencer backed up to stare at the doorway trim. He pointed to the side of it. There, only visible if you looked at it from the right angle, was a fingerprint.
“Someone missed a spot.” Spencer whispered.
Spencer reached into his pocket and started to pull out his fingerprint dusting kit. You grabbed his wrist. He looked at you, confused.
“That must be a police officer’s. The intruder wore gloves.”
Spencer stared. “Right.” A pause. “We can’t be too sure, though. It won’t take a second.” Spencer gently lifted his wrist from your grasp, and started to dust the print.
It only took him five minutes to dust and lift the print, putting the evidence in yet another bag. You decided maybe it was time to ask the neighbors, as you were both too busy the day before. The older man across the hall from Shayne’s apartment answered the door after the fifth knock.
“I saw someone leaving that night.” Mr. McCrary said, wringing his hands nervously. “About 30 minutes after we heard a big commotion coming from Mr. Topp’s apartment.”
“You didn’t check on him?” Spencer asked.
“Oh Miss Arasha said she did. She lives just down the hall. She knocked on the door and Mr. Topp said all was well.”
“Hmm, well then, did you get a good look at who left?”
“It was a woman,” McCrary said. “Well, I think it was a woman. Maybe a man. Had a lady’s coat pulled tight around them.”
“Anything else you can remember?” You asked. Mr. McCrary just looked at you, his eyes squinted.
“Looked a bit like you, miss.” He pointed at you.
“That’s not possible, sir.” Spencer immediately stood in front of you..
“I’m sorry,” the old man said quietly. “Must’ve been mistaken.” Spencer wrapped up the conversation with him. Afterwards, you trembled.
“Well, he wasn’t much help, was he.” Spencer said, returning to you.
“You don’t believe him, do you?”
“No,” Spencer said firmly. “Of course not. Your brother sounds like he was a kind neighbor. McCrary is just mourning him. Grief plays tricks.”
He wrapped his coat around your shoulders. “People see what they expect.”
You leaned into him. “Thank you.”
“Always,” he said softly.
Spencer finished his evening investigation speaking with the rest of the neighbors while you sat in the car. He wanted to corroborate Miss Arasha’s story while giving you a break. It wasn’t long before you both were headed back to Spencer’s apartment.
You sat stiffly in the car, the rumble of the engine the only sound between you two. Soft rain streaked the windows, causing the glow from the streetlights to distort.
Spencer placed a hand on your knee. “You’ve been so strong.”
You froze. “I don’t feel it.”
“You are.” Silence stretched. Then—
“Bowe killing Hecox has changed things.” Spencer said. “Haas looks guilty as hell, the contract page we found only adds to the case against him, but something does not add up.”
“Like what?”
“Some of the clues don’t point outward. They don’t point to a robbery gone wrong. They point inward.”
Your pulse thudded. “Meaning?”
“It’s been in front of us all along,” Spencer sighs. “Someone close. Someone who knew his habits. His apartment.”
“You mean me?”
“No,” Spencer shook his head. “That witness is wrong. There has to be someone else. A partner maybe?”
You looked at him. He met your eyes. “You believe me?”
“With everything I’ve got.”
Emotion welled in your chest. Relief. Joy. Guilt. “Spencer, you’re the only thing keeping me together.”
He reached up, pulling his hand from your face to cup your cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
The space between you disappeared. The tension gone. Warmth seemed to fill the car. His hand felt your face and slipped into your hand, finger intertwined.
“We are going to solve this,” he said softly. You smiled faintly.
“I know.” Because you already had.
~~~
The rain from that night hadn’t stopped in three days, soaking the city in gray and washing the streets clean but somehow making everything feel dirtier. Neon lights bled across puddles. Tires hissed along wet pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed — a lonely, mournful sound that never seemed to stop anymore.
Spencer sat in his car across from Damien Haas’ warehouse, having received a search warrant that morning. The building loomed ahead, a hulking silhouette of brick and steel. Only a few lights burned inside, dim and flickering like tired eyes that refused to close.
Beside him, you were wrapped in his coat. Your green coat had already soaked though from the torrential downpour. It was too big for you, the sleeves hanging past your hands, the collar brushing your cheeks. You smelled like rain and his cologne — a strange mix of comfort and sorrow.
“You don’t have to do this,” Spencer said quietly. His voice was gentle, but firm — the voice he used when he cared too much.
“I want to,” you replied softly. “I don’t want to be alone.” His jaw tightened.
“If they killed your brother,” he said slowly, “they might be after you too.”
You looked at him then. Really looked. The dark circles under his eyes. The tension carved into his face. The way worry seemed to live in his shoulders now.
“I feel safer with you,” you whispered. Something shifted in his chest. He reached out, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.
“Stay close to me, sweetheart.”
Inside the warehouse, the air was cold and smelled of metal and oil. Footsteps echoed as officers spread out. Shadows stretched between towering stacks of crates. The warehouse had been deemed condemned quite about a month ago, suddenly halting its usual operations.
Spencer moved cautiously, one hand near his holster. You followed close behind. Your heart beat fast — not from fear. From knowing.
You’d been here before. Not like this. But enough to recognize the layout. The loose boards. The places someone could hide something important. You forced yourself to breathe slowly. To act unsure. To play the part.
A glint of dark red near the floor caught your eye.
A cloth. Half-stuffed beneath a crate.
“Spencer,” you called, letting your voice tremble. He hurried over. He crouched, pulling the fabric free. It was stiff. Stained with dried blood.
“This was used to wipe something down,” Spencer said grimly. You hugged your arms around yourself.
“Like a knife?”
“Possibly.”
“Like the one used to kill my brother?”
“Most likely.” His eyes hardened. “This confirms it. Boys, bring Haas in! He's right in the middle of this.” Or right where you wanted him.
Back at the precinct, tension filled the air like smoke. It took hours, but the cloth tested positive. It was your brother’s blood. Spencer stared at the report for a long moment, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.
“Damn it,” he muttered. You stood beside him, fingers twisting together.
“So it was Haas,” you said quietly.
“Haas hired some muscle. Threatened the witness. Framed Bowe to avoid the blame. But now we have blood evidence.” He rubbed his temples. “Everything lines up.”
Relief softened your features. “Then it’s almost over.” He glanced at you. Something about the way you said it. Almost peaceful.
“Almost,” he echoed. But doubt was a stubborn thing. It crept in when Spencer least expected it.
Later that evening, he stood alone in front of the evidence board. Tacked to the board with red push pins were photos and evidence of the crime scene. Your brother’s apartment. Hecox’s Body. Bowe’s mugshot. Damien Haas glaring into the camera. Old McCrary’s statement.
And your photo. Pinned near the center. Spencer hadn’t put it there consciously. It had just ended up there.
In his hands were the evidence bags. The fingerprint. The last page of the hit contract. And the torn green fabric.
He studied the fingerprint again. It was clear. Precise. The only one to be found out of place in the apartment. Suspicious. Not Bowe’s.
Spencer looked at the signature on the contract. The cursive was delicate. A light hand had written it. Not Haas’.
He lifted the bag containing the green piece of fabric. The fabric was wool. Thick. Not cotton or silk. Not a handkerchief.
The witness’ words —Mr. McCrary’s words— echoed in his head. Someone who looked like her.
Bowe’s confession replayed in his memory. How it had to be someone close.
He remembered what Haas said. He wouldn’t let someone get close enough to kill him unless they knew him personally. Family, maybe. Someone who loved the victim, maybe. Someone who knew his routines. His apartment. His habits. His breath hitched.
“No,” Spencer whispered, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t.”
You were grieving. Broken. You clung to him like a lifeline. You trusted him. You loved him — he was sure of it now. And he loved you.
This was paranoia. The job messing with his head. That’s all.
~~~
The officers brought in Haas just after midnight looking angrier than a disturbed hornet’s nest. The interrogation room buzzed with tension. They had put him in the same one that had held Bowe. It felt appropriate.
Haas sat stiffly in the chair, hands cuffed and placed in his lap, eyes sharp as knives. Spencer stood across from him.
“Haas.”
“Agnew.”
“You lied to me.”
“I did no such thing.”
“I will admit,” Spencer started to roll up his sleeves. “You were somewhat truthful. It made it harder to detect your lie. But you lied all the same.”
“I did not.”
“Let’s go over the facts together, shall we? You hired Bowe. And you ordered Hecox intimidated.”
“Yes,” Haas snapped.
“You also wished Shayne Topp dead.”
“Yes.”
“And blood from Topp was found in your warehouse.”
Haas’ face drained of color. “What?”
“A warehouse that was extremely profitable, but suddenly shut down in the past month. A little convenient, don’t you think?” Spencer slid the evidence bag with the blood-soaked fabric across the table.
“I haven’t been there in ages,” Haas hissed. “I did not put that there.”
“Then who did?” Spencer asked. Haas’ jaw tightened.
“All the evidence is pointing to you, Haas.” Spencer supplied the contract paper. “Your signature is on that page. It was found in Topp’s apartment.”
Haas leaned forward to get a better look. His eyes widened.
“It is the last page of a hit contract. Taken out on Shayne Topp.” Spencer pulled out the chair across from Haas and sat down. “It was found in his apartment. Other contracts were found in his place too. Documents filled with scandal and involving one Ian Hecox. Your favorite foreman. Now dead.”
Haas looked up at Spencer, panic in his eyes. “Soneone is framing me.”
Spencer leaned in. “Who?”
Haas’ gaze flicked past Spencer, desperately looking around the room for an answer. He looked to the walls, the ceiling, and finally, his eyes rested on the one-way glass. A slight smirk crossed his lips, almost imperceivable.
“That girl.”
Spencer’s eyes flickered to the glass, and then back to Haas. Behind the glass, you stood with baited breath, every word Haas spoke filling you with dread. You fled to Spencer’s office, not wanting to hear anymore.
“The one you always have with you.” Haas pointed desperately at the glass. “Topp’s sister, right? She’s too perfect. Always knowing things. Always around.”
“Enough!” Spencer slammed his hands on the table.
“I bet she was the one who found the cloth,” Haas pressed one. “The one in my warehouse. She probably pointed out some details at the crime scene. Some that one wouldn’t know without some training. Knew things she shouldn’t.”
Spencer’s heart pounded. “You’re trying to save yourself.”
“I’m trying to tell you the truth,” Haas snapped. “You’re the one who wanted it so badly.”
“You’re desperate.”
“You care for her,” Haas sneered. “It’s obvious. That’s why you can’t see it.”
Spencer stormed out, enraged. You were sitting in the break room when he returned. The lamp casting a soft light across your face. You looked tired. Vulnerable. Beautiful.
“They’re charging Haas,” he said, breaking the gentle silence. Your eyes widened. You rushed forward, wrapping your arms around him.
“Thank you,” you whispered into his chest. He held you tightly. But his mind was elsewhere. Running. Connecting dots.
“You did good,” he said softly.
“We did,” you corrected. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “It’s finally over.” He stared at you. So close. So warm. So real.
“Yeah,” he said. “Almost.”But doubt curled tighter around his heart.
As you rested your head down against his shoulder, his eyes drifted past you — to the evidence board visible through the glass of the break room.
To your photo. To the fingerprint. To the words: Someone close.
His grip tightened slightly. You didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.
~~~
The city before dawn felt like a ghost. Streetlights buzzed faintly, their yellow glow bleeding across wet pavement. Fog curled low along the sidewalks, rolling lazily between buildings like smoke from a thousand unseen cigarettes. Somewhere far away, a train horn moaned — long and lonely.
Spencer stood outside Shayne’s apartment building, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. He told himself this was procedure. One last check. One final sweep to make sure everything added up. After all, Haas was in custody. Bowe had confessed. The evidence was stacked neatly in a row. The case was practically closed. And yet—
Something in his gut twisted violently. A feeling he couldn’t shake. A whisper that kept repeating the same words over and over.
Someone close. Bowe hadn’t said it casually. Haas had hinted at it.
Spencer exhaled slowly and pushed through the front doors. The hallway was dim, lit by flickering bulbs that cast long shadows along the peeling wallpaper. It smelled faintly of bleach and old wood. Someone had tried to scrub the crime away. But no matter how hard you cleaned, death always lingered.
Spencer unlocked the door to Shayne’s apartment. The hinges creaked softly. Inside, the space was quiet. Too quiet. Evidence tags still marked where blood had been found, where furniture had been shifted, where Shayne’s body had lain. It felt like walking into a memory frozen in time. Spencer moved slowly. Carefully. Like any sudden movement might wake the dead.
The living room first. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots. He stopped at the darkened patch in the carpet — the place Shayne had fallen. He crouched. Ran his fingers lightly along the wood that had been under the upturned carpet.
You had brought up Shayne’s odd placement so close to the door on his first visit to the apartment. That he must have opened the door for someone he knew. At the time, Spencer had thought you were trying to be helpful, trying to avenge your murdered brother. Now it felt a little too on the nose. A little too much like a confession. His throat tightened.
“How did you know…” he whispered. He stood slowly and crossed the room. The record table was flush against the wall, the record still on the player but no longer turning. The mirror above the table caught in the pale morning light. Spencer leaned closer.
There. A faint smear along the frame. Barely noticeable. Dried blood. Missed during the cleanup.
Someone had wiped quickly. Sloppily. In a panic. Someone who had loved Shayne enough to try and erase what they’d done. To wipe away the guilt. Spencer’s hands curled into fists.
You had known the person who killed your brother wore gloves. You wore gloves. You had been wearing them the same day you met Spencer, and had confessed to him you had worn them the last time you had seen your brother alive.
You had known Hecox wouldn’t answer the door. Had passed it off as your brother telling you he was a heavy sleeper. But it had been moments before Bowe killed him.
You knew exactly where to find the blood-soaked cloth in Haas’ warehouse. Had been the one to show Spencer, but he had not seen where you pulled it from. Whether it was from a hidden place in the warehouse or from your own pocket.
You had known too much. Always too much.
Spencer took a step back from the wall, turning to face the living room again. He let his eyes wander. The cracked lamp shade. The folded carpet. The blood. Something felt off.
His eyes went to the bookshelf. One book sat crooked, just slightly pushed forward. Spencer’s instincts flared. He crossed the room and pulled it free. Behind it was a narrow hollow space carved into the wall. Carefully tucked inside was the wallet.
Shayne’s wallet. Pristine. Not robbed. Hidden.
Spencer sucked in a sharp breath. You had been the one to tell him it was missing. Not the officers. You. Just like you’d introduced so many other “leads.”
Everything was still there. Money. Cards. ID. Someone hadn’t taken it. They’d concealed it in a secret spot. Like a keepsake. Or evidence to be used later. Someone who knew the apartment. Someone who had spent countless hours here. Someone Shayne trusted. Loved. Spencer staggered back a step.
“No…” His voice cracked.
And then there was the fabric. The small green scrap he could picture so clearly. Clutched in Shayne’s hand. The only thing Shayne had managed to grab before dying. Spencer had found it himself. Not you. Possibly the only thing not found by you.
The color was a perfect match to your coat. The same coat you wore when meeting him. The same coat wrapped around you when you cried against his chest. The same coat he’d smelled on you when he held you close. His chest tightened painfully.
Every clue except that one had come from you. You’d carefully guided him. Fed him truths mixed with lies. Let him think he was leading the investigation. But really…you had.
The realization crashed down all at once. Spencer’s knees buckled. He slid down the wall, breathing hard. His heart pounded so loudly it filled his ears.
All the suspects. All the interrogations. All the nights spent chasing shadows. And the killer had been beside him the entire time.
Laughing softly. Crying in his arms. Kissing him. Letting him protect her.
A broken laugh escaped his throat. “My God…” He dragged his hands through his hair. “You played me.”
He felt sick. Not just betrayed. But stupid. Blind. He had ignored every instinct because of how you made him feel. Because he loved you.
He pressed his palms to his eyes. The grief hit him in waves. For Shayne. For Hecox. For the woman he thought you were. For the future he’d imagined — late nights together, coffee in diners, laughter after the case was over. All of it smoke. All of it lies.
Someone close.
It had always been you.
By the time Spencer reached his apartment, the sun was creeping above the skyline. Soft pink light painted the clouds. You were curled on the couch, wrapped in his coat, sleeping peacefully. Your hair spilled across your face. Your lips parted slightly with each breath.
For a long time, Spencer just stood there. Watching. This was the last moment you were still innocent to him. The last moment before everything shattered.
He quietly closed the door. Sat in the chair across from you. Studied every detail. The faint crease between your brows. The slow rise and fall of your chest. The softness of your hands clutching his coat like a lifeline.
“I wanted to believe you,” he whispered. Tears burned his eyes. “I wanted it to be anyone else.” He stayed like that for what felt like hours. Holding onto ignorance. To the woman he loved. Finally, gently, your eyes fluttered open.
“Spencer? You’re back.” You smiled sleepily, but something in his face made your smile fade. “What’s wrong?”
He stood. Walked to the table. Set the wallet down between you.
“Where did you find that?” you whispered.
“In Shayne’s apartment,” he said softly. “In a secret spot only someone who’d been there a lot would know.” Silence stretched thick and heavy.
“You told me it was stolen,” he continued. “You told me before the police did. Just like you told me about the gloves. Just like you knew how Shayne fell. Just like you always knew where the evidence was.” You sat up quickly.
“And the fabric,” he whispered hoarsely. “Found in his hand. It’s from your coat.” Your eyes shifted. Nothing moved, but the light behind them seemed to darken.
“So,” you said, voice void of warmth. “You figured it out.”
The apartment felt unfamiliar in the early morning hours. What had once been warm — filled with late-night laughter, shared meals, soft music playing while you leaned against Spencer’s chest — now felt hollow. The shadows stretched long across the floor, warped by the thin sunlight slipping through the blinds. Dust floated in the air, catching in the glow like tiny ghosts of moments that had existed only yesterday.
The wallet sat on the table between you. Small. Ordinary. Yet it held the weight of everything.
Spencer hadn’t moved it since he’d placed it there when he first entered the room. He hadn’t even touched it again. It was proof. The final piece that had snapped everything into place. The one that had been missing for far too long.
You sat quietly on the couch, keeping his coat around you, the fabric still faintly smelling like his soap and coffee. Your posture was calm — too calm — like someone who had already accepted the inevitable. Spencer stood across from you, hands braced against the back of a chair, knuckles pale. His mind was still racing.
Every memory replayed differently now.
He thought it had been intuition. Or a drive to avenge your brother. Or even grief. Now he saw it for what it was. Control and lies.
“You were never just the grieving sister,” he said quietly. The words felt heavy leaving his mouth. You lifted your eyes slowly to meet his. There was no fear there. Only sadness.
“I built the whole case around protecting you,” he continued, his voice thick. “I was so sure you were the one person who couldn’t possibly be involved.” His chest tightened painfully. “But you were tricking me the entire time.”
“I won’t insult your intelligence by denying it, Spencer.” There was no denial. No anger. Just a quiet acceptance. It made Spencer hurt more.
“I couldn’t understand how you always knew where to look,” Spencer went on, still trying to come to terms with your quick confession. “You always had another suggestion. Another idea. Another piece of information. Always making sure I never suspected you.”
He shook his head slowly. “I thought you were helping me.”
“I was,” you said softly.
“But not the way I believed.”
“No.” The word was barely audible. Spencer closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they were glassy.
“Help me understand,” Spencer’s voice shook. “Tell me what I’m missing, because some things don’t add up. Was Bowe ever ordered to kill Shayne by Haas?”
“No, Haas never told him to kill my brother.” The room felt colder. “He was just supposed to scare Hecox.”
Spencer’s jaw clenched. “Don’t lie to me now!”
“Honest! Those were Haas’ orders. They just got… changed.”
“By you.”
“Yes.”
The confession landed quietly but thundered in his chest. The gears started to work overtime in Spencer’s head, trying to find the answer among the evidence. “You turned intimidation into murder?”
“Yes.” The silence afterward stretched long. Spencer dragged a hand over his face, exhaustion settling deep in his bones.
“And Hecox?” he asked quietly. “Why the change of heart?”
“He stuck his nose where it didn’t belong.” You spat. “He overhead Shayne and I.”
“Overheard what?”
You looked down at your hands, folding them neatly in your lap, not wanting to see the judgement in Spencer’s eyes. “The plan,” you said softly. Spencer took a slow step closer.
“What plan?”
“The plan to destroy that bastard Damien Haas!” All gentleness from your voice evaporated.
“Why?” demanded Spencer. The word wasn’t accusatory. It was broken.
“Because he fucking deserves it!”
“You don’t even know the man! You met him for the first time during this investigation!"
“Of course it wasn’t.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Spencer demanded, frustration increasing by the second.
“Damien is my ex-husband."
Spencer froze. The word almost stopping his heart. The case, the puzzle pieces, they all fit differently now. They were all jagged. The gears stopped. The game was never fair.
“Haas is your ex-husband. You were married?”
“Yes. I’m surprised you don’t remember me, detective. It was quite the scandal. Of course, dear Damien paid off the papers to keep things quiet. Didn’t want future wives getting any ideas.”
“What are you talking about?” Spencer racked his brain, trying to remember, but the only thing that came to his memory was Haas’ hostility towards you during his first visit with him. And the words he spoke in the interrogation room. She’s too perfect. Always knowing things. Always around. “He left you.”
“Yes,” you let out a shaky breath. “I wanted the best life. He had money. Power. Everything.”
“And insurance policies worth millions.”
“We were going to make it look like an accident.” Spencer’s stomach twisted at your words. “But then my brother dearest started digging. He wanted proof of wrongdoing to make it seem like Damien deserved it. To make himself feel better.”
“And let me guess, he found none.”
You gave a hollow laugh. “Damien was clean. Cleaner than anyone expected, giving his reputation.”
“That scared Shayne, didn’t it.”
“He realized what we were becoming.” Your voice wavered. “He wanted out.”
“And Hecox overheard. He was going to tell Haas.”
Your nod was slow. “I couldn’t let that happen.”
“So you framed him.”
“Yes. I forged documents,” you whispered. “Made it look like Hecox was somehow involved in Shayne’s meddling.”
“So Haas would send Bowe. And then you rewrote the contract.”
Another nod. Spencer leaned back against the table. His legs felt weak. “Your legal name. Is it still Haas?” Yet another nod.
“So the page of the contract I found. It was from you. It was your signature.”
“Yes.”
“And Shayne?” he asked quietly. You took a shaky breath.
“I went to him first, to give him one last chance.” You explained. “I knew him, knew what he was doing. I knew he wouldn’t find anything on my ex-husband. Shayne has too good a heart and wouldn’t have gone through with it. He wouldn’t help me. I begged him to reconsider.”
“And he wouldn’t”
“He said it was over,” you whispered. “That he was scared. That he wanted to do the right thing.” Tears slipped down your cheeks. “I felt like he was choosing Damien over me.”
“You fought. And you killed him.”
Your lips trembled. “I didn’t plan to.”
“But you did.”
“Yes.”
The word shattered the air. Spencer turned away, crossing the room towards the window. He couldn’t look at you. Not with all the weight of the confession crashing down at once. Hecox and Shayne. Two men now dead. Haas. An innocent man framed. The woman he loved. A fraud.
All connected by a web of lies.
He rubbed his face, pressing his palms into his eyes until there were bursts of light underneath them. He stood there, breathing hard.
“You let me hunt you,” he whispered. “You stood beside me while I chased ghosts.”
“I never meant to fall in love with you,” you said softly behind him. “That wasn’t part of the plan. You were just so sweet.”
“Why did you involve me at all?” Spencer demanded, hands curling into fists. “You would have gotten away with it if you hadn’t.”
“You are the best,” You said simply. “And I have to have the best.” He turned slowly. Your eyes were red now, matching his.
“I loved you,” he said hoarsely.
“And I loved you,” you whispered. “Every moment was real.”
“That’s what hurts the most,” he said. His voice cracked.
Silence settled between you like a living thing. Somewhere in the distance, sirens began to wail. Faint. But coming. The consequences finally catching up.
Spencer crossed the living room the three strides, quickly sinking in the armchair across from the couch. His strength seemed to leave him all at once. You just stayed there, perched on the couch cushions. Still as a statue, and still in Spencer’s coat, unable to let go just yet. He didn’t know if he wanted you to keep, wanted it back, or wanted to burn it.
“I should arrest you. You’ve destroyed lives.”
“Yes, I have.”
“And I still…” His breath hitched. “I still love you.”
You silently slithered off the couch, his coat falling to the floor. Something stabbed his heart at the sight. You knelt in front of him. Took his trembling hands, tears streamed freely now.
“This isn’t fair,” Spencer whispered.
“No.” You agree. “But love never is.”
The sirens grew louder. Lights flickered faintly against the walls, red and blue bleeding through the blinds like a pulse. Spencer’s heart lurched. And against his better judgement, he decided to give you a choice.
“This is your chance,” Spencer whispered. “Go.”
You looked at him, searching his face, as if you were memorizing it. “You’re letting me walk away?”
His jaw tightened. “I can’t be the one who cages you. I love you too much. ”
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you leaned in. The kiss was soft. Desperate. All the things neither of you could say pressed into the space between your mouths. It tasted like grief and forgiveness and something unfinished.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered against his lips.
“So am I,” he breathed.
You pulled away first. Then stood. Every step toward the door felt like tearing something loose from his chest. You reached for your coat — your green coat — lifting it from the rack and slipping it on with steady hands. The fabric settled around you, familiar, unmistakable. It covered you like a shroud. You paused, your hand on the door handle. You turned back.
“Thank you,” you whispered. “For loving me.”
Spencer tried to speak. Nothing came out. You opened the door. Cold air rushed in. And just before it closed — just before you disappeared — his eyes caught on something small. Easy to miss. A detail his mind snagged on to too late. A jagged edge along the hem of your coat. A place where fabric should have been. Where green was missing.
The door shut softly. The sirens roared past.
Spencer sat there long after, staring at the empty space you’d left behind, his heart pounding not with certainty — but with something far worse. Doubt.
When he finally moved hours later, it was out of habit — the same one that had guided him through decades of crime scenes and long nights. He reached for the wallet. He needed to double check. Just needing to close the case. Just to put things to rest. Spencer turned it over in his hands.
That was when he saw it.
The leather on the front was worn smooth from years of use. Whatever had once been embossed there had been nearly erased by friction — pockets, palms, time. The gold that had once filled the lettering was gone entirely. But not all of it.
Spencer tilted it toward the light. Squinted. There — faint, indented into the leather — were letters that refused to disappear.
D. Haas.
His breath stalled. Slowly, inexorably, memory rose. Damien Haas’s office. All glass and steel and quiet authority. Haas standing behind his desk, distracted — opening drawers, patting his jacket pockets, his attention fractured in a way Spencer had found strange at the time.
“Apologies,” Haas had said. “I seem to have misplaced my wallet.”
Then — almost as an afterthought — the look. First to you. Then to Spencer. A glance so brief it barely registered. A flicker of recognition. Or calculation. Haas had smiled then. “Well, nevermind, I’ll have to be more careful” He had said.
Spencer’s hands tightened around the wallet. If it had been Haas’. If it had left his possession before Hecox’s death. If it had found its way into Shayne’s apartment…
Then the story Spencer had chosen — the one that let him understand you, forgive you, love you — was no longer the only version that fit the facts.
Haas hadn’t just known too much. Hadn’t just been the ex-husband. He had been in the room. He had been close to Shayne too, hadn’t he? Had been his brother-in-law. Someone Shayne would have opened the door if Haas had come to call.
And you? You might have been complicit. Or you might have been convenient.
And what of the finger print? He had never been able to truly figure out who it matched to. He wanted to believe it was yours, believe the easy story you had given him. But hadn’t you worn gloves?
And the knife used to kill Shayne. Where was it? He hadn’t been able to find it. The cloth used to clean the weapon was so conveniently placed in Haas’ warehouse, but the offender that made the stain was nowhere in sight.
Spencer closed the wallet slowly, placing it back down on the table. For a long moment, he just sat there, elbows on his knees, the weight of it resting uselessly in his hands. His chest ached — not with clarity, not with resolution — but with the sickening sense that he would never know the truth. He would never know which version of you was real. Or what version of you he had loved.
The killer. The innocent. Or the woman who had been standing in front of him the whole time.
Outside, the city kept moving. Tires hissed against wet pavement. Somewhere a radio played, distant and indifferent. Life continuing, unbothered by the quiet wreckage left behind. Damien Haas would sleep well tonight. Scott free. Spencer knew that.
And somewhere — anywhere — you were already gone, carrying whatever truth belonged to you alone.
What broke him wasn’t that he might have been wrong. It was that he had loved you enough to stop asking. Enough to choose you over certainty. Enough to live the rest of his life wondering if the last time he touched you was an act of mercy…