hai ! Itâs been an absurd amount of time since I was active in this account so hereâs a little update / recap !!
I AM CURRENTLY TAKING REQUESTS!!
I havenât wrote on here in a very long time so let me assure you my writing has definitely approved ⌠so pls ignore any old works theyâre actually horrendous đ
I will write for any fandom that I know about , but hereâs a list of fandoms I know best
- HARRY POTTER (Golden Trio / marauders)
- STRANGER THINGS
-OFF CAMPUS
-NEVER HAVE I EVER
- TO ALL THE BOYS IVE LOVED
- THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY
- PERCY JACKSON
- GILMORE GIRLS
( GENUINELY ANYTHING MY MINDS JUST DRAWING A BLANK đ)
IT BE SO NICE IF YOU GUYS COULD GIVE ME SOME REQUEST TO KEEP ME BUSY. MUCH APPRECIATED đđ§¸
There's never a polite time, place, or way to say "ohh my fucking god you people never stop complaining about anything do you", but I think there should be.
hell is full. heaven is full. god created a new holding space for souls called hurgle and the only thibg to do here is this infinitely expading jigsaw puzzle of a finely detailed pigeon. we are just slowwwwwly creating little tufts of feathers for eternity . yesterday , greg found a corner piece
the people who go "we shouldn't be so open about nudity because it could trigger someone's dysphoria" are like two steps max removed from "fat people being fat in public could trigger someone with an ed". like peoples' bodies are not the problem here, trying to restrict someone else's body because of how you personally feel is indistinguishable from conservative praxis. i'm sorry if that sounds harsh but there is basically no interpretation of "we need to control the bodies of [demographic]" that does not fall down the slippery slope of fascism.
saw a few posts about mean!remus being too ooc, but let me tell you here folks, that ray of sunshine, picking lint off wool sweaters, holds the door open for you, brainiac boy is mean. not in the way you think. though both can coexist.
now indulge me when i say this:
remusâs biggest enemy is himself, which translates to emotional immaturity if and when he lets his guard down and merlin does this boy overthink. in an effort to save you from his hellish ailment, he overcorrects, hurting the both of you in the end.
heâll lead you on for years, knowing you look at him with puppy dog eyes, holding your hand as he walks you to class every morning because he likes the way your nails trace over the rough of his knuckles. heâll make you wear his clothes but laugh at anyone who suggests youâre his, and outwardly deny it while youâre settled on his thigh. heâll save you a muffin if he notices you havenât eaten but chooses the boys over the empty seat you save him in class in case you think too much of him possibly liking you back. heâll spend evenings reading sonnets to you at the black lake, your hair splayed out against his firm chest, but redirect the conversation and bail on you if you ask him on a date to hogsmeade. you see him at the three broomsticks with the boys after he told you he wasnât feeling well.
itâs always something about him not feeling well. or his mumâs sick and he needs to go home for the weekend. heâs probably told you his dog died about five times now, but out the window you see a black fluffy thing running circles around him as he walks the forbidden forest alone. heâs selfishâtaking the notes you save for him each time he disappears, and he remedies the crease in your forehead by hugging you like you might actually mean something to him.
remus is the type to kiss you breathless in the dark of the corridor after a party but shrug off your existence the next morning like youâre a cardigan thatâs suddenly suffocating him as the temperature spikes. heâll grab your waist and pull you into broom closets, making your eyes roll white with his touch so you donât see him look at you while he loses control. itâs what he hates most, more than himself.
remus knows youâre hurting because of him. but hurt is all he properly knows to give. itâs what heâs well-versed in, and godric forbid he be bad at something heâs spent his whole life being.
he doesnât mean to be mean. but he is. and thatâs who he is, to a fault.
summary: "drop everything now, meet me in the pouring rain."/"kiss me on the sidewalk, take away the pain." The first time you meet Spencer Reid, you swore that you could feel the sparks fly. You figured that it would be unreasonable to ever consider him to be anything more than a friend, and in a moment of selflessness you tell yourself that you are perfectly fine in that position. As time goes on, the line between romantic and platonic love begins to blur indefinitely. But it would be ridiculous to think that the resident genius would feel anything for you... right?
pairing: spencer reid x bau!fem!reader
genre: best friends to lovers, fluff, hurt/comfort, angst, slow burn, mutual pining, happy ending
warnings: rated 16+ for canonical criminal minds trauma, drugs/relapsing, torture, therapy, panic attacks/night terrors, guns, death, âźď¸always read each fic's individual warnings for triggersâźď¸
taglist [CLOSED]: here
playlist: here
status: complete
main masterlist || ao3
bonus! 00 â l.d.s.k
in other words, the first time spencer calls you 'angel'. // wc: 2.2k
part of my 2023-2024 milestone event! you can find it here!
01 â better than revenge
âsheâs not a saint, no, sheâs not what you think. sheâs an actress.âÂ
you thought you were past the immature arguments now that you're an adult. you thought you left those in high school, or even college. maybe you thought you did. apparently, spencer thought otherwise. // wc: 10.4k
02 â haunted
âsomethingâs gone terribly wrong, youâre all i wanted.â/âyouâre not gone, you canât be gone.â
it wasn't supposed to be like this. it was supposed to be a normal open-shut case. but people are unpredictable and you're left picking up the pieces as you work yourself to the grave. // wc: 10.1k
03 â labyrinth
âuh oh, iâm falling in loveâ/âthought the plane was going down, howâd you turn it right around?â
everything hurts. it's understandable, after everything he's went through. spencer wishes that he could erase every one of his scars. he wishes he could stop chasing the highs and embrace the lows. but at least he has you. // wc: 3.8k
04 â you are in love
âyou can hear it in the silence.â/âyou can hear it on the way home.â/âyou can see it with the lights out.â
spencer didn't think that something like this could happen. no, rather, he wanted to deny the fact that something like this could happen. but all he can think about is you. in other words; the four times spencer wants to kiss you, and the one time he wishes he did. // wc: 3.4k
05 â enchanted
âplease donât be in love with someone elseâ/âplease donât have somebody waiting on you.â
the line drawn in the sand that was once supposed to be an invisible boundary to never cross is washed away by the sand. these are the kind of lines where you could never go back to should you cross them; and yet here you are, so scared to see the ending as the two of you pretend that this is nothing. // wc: 4.9k
06 â untouchable
âcome on, come on, say that weâll be togetherâ/âiâm caught up in you.â
so close and yet so far. maybe in some twisted way, you are each other's romeo and juliet, doomed from the beginning. or maybe you are each other's hamlet and ophelia, the tragedy of a love that never really was. // wc: 4.3k
07 â wildest dreams
âheâs so tall, and handsome as hellâ/âhis hands are in my hair, his clothes are in my room.â
never in your wildest dreams did you think that you would be privileged enough to experience something so good. spencer reminds you that these things are reality. // wc: 3.3k
in which you're a little too drunk, and your boyfriend is here to help.
pairing:Â spencer reid x fem!reader
genre:Â fluff
tags: established relationship. idiots in love. alcohol/drinking. reader is wearing makeup and a dress. reader's bsf referred to by she/her if that means anything? fade to black (no literally. they fall asleep. "awwww" the crowd says). semi nudity but it isnât sexual, heâs just changing her clothes.
word count:Â 1.6k
a/n:Â shoutout to the affectionate yapper drunks we're the best. this was in fact written whilst i was intoxicated like two weeks ago at a party. the sober proofreading clean up was BRUTAL. but i did it. "we're proud of you lia!" we all say in unison. this was the fluff i was talking about in this post. i still donât remember all of that night but i remembered enough to finish this fic!
You had too much to drink. Way too much.
Not that you'd admit that out loud â you just haven't eaten a lot! you protested when your friends had scolded you. But they saw the sixth drink of the night get downed in mere minutes, on top of the drinks you had all drank before even leaving the house. That's when your protests turned into pregaming too hard, which turned into, okay maybe you're right, which eventually led to you sitting on the curb outside the club you had gone to.
Your knees tucked to your chest, your fingers fiddling with the phone charm hanging off the device, head leaning on your best friend's shoulder, who was waiting with you for the real thing you were scared of.Â
Your boyfriend.Â
Not actually scared of him, but he was very aware of how much you have had to drink â courtesy of your awfully typed drunk messages throughout the night that consisted of hiiii and i love youuuu and an incredulous amount of blurry photos of you and your friends.
He had indulged in your antics for an hour or two, amused by your attitude. But you said something briefly about being tired, and he had realised that you had had one too many, and offered to pick you up. Which, as your friends slowly started agreeing that they too were tired. you decided it was for the better.
You were rubbing your eyes â despite the makeup on them, successfully resulting in raccoon eyes, as you so graciously called it every time it happened (Spencer had adopted the phrase too, and loved to say it whenever you were crying with mascara on. It was a good way to cheer you up, usually).Â
You heard his car before you saw it â the God awful sound of his 1965 Volvo engine was loud, even over the music from the bustling clubs around you and your friend.
Then you saw it pull to a stop half a block away, and your lips pushed out into a pout as you â very awkwardly â pulled yourself up to a standing position. Thankfully, Spencer had already made it to you by the time you felt prepared enough to take a step, because his arm was slipping around your waist and keeping you upright milliseconds before you could fall.Â
"Hi," you chirped, grinning up at him.Â
"Hey there," he said, brushing the hair that had stuck to your face back, glancing over you, assessing your condition. "Do you remember how much you've had?"
"Yes, wait," you huffed, holding our hands out in front of you. "I had the tequila shots at home, then the vodka sunrise when I got here, then we all did a round of shots, thenâ"
"âSo, you've had too much," he cut you off, and you solemnly nodded your head. He looked past you at your friend, who was in just as much of a state as you. "Does she need a ride home too?"
If you were any less intoxicated, you would've smiled at the offer, as you usually did. Probably the best part about dating Spencer Reid â he was so likeable, he was close with your own friends.Â
You called her name, asked the question, and confirmed you had heard her answer with a nod when she explained she was waiting for an Uber home.Â
"I can drop her home," he pressed, eyebrows furrowing. "She's on the way. It's no problem."
But her Uber had arrived soon after he spoke, and both of you knew she'd just be losing money if she cancelled it now.
"I guess you're stuck with me," you said, at the same time he began to tug you along in the direction of his car.Â
"How terrible," he mused.
"Agreed."
He helped you into the passenger's seat, pulling the seatbelt over your body â despite your insistence that you could do it, clicking it into place. He wound down the window with the handle, which you graciously leaned your head against once the door had been closed for you.
You didn't really register the time between being in the car and getting to Spencer's apartment, the final drink you had drank settling into your body and disengaging you from the world around you until he was leading you in past his door (you hadn't even noticed he unlocked it?) and towards the bathroom.Â
"This isn't your bed," you had complained when he helped you up onto the counter, rummaging in the cabinets behind your head â his hand on the back of it so you wouldn't accidentally lean back and hit them.Â
"You're very observant," he replied, leaning back and nudging your legs apart so he could stand between them.Â
"Thank you."
You felt his breath on your face as he laughed, eyes following his each and every movement whilst he wet a cotton pad with micellar water. You smiled at that.
You had told him â in passing â a month ago that you could never go to bed in your makeup. No matter how exhausted you were. You were usually quite good with it, though you hadn't been in a state since then where you might've forgotten it until now.Â
And he remembered.
"Close your eyes," he said, and you obeyed immediately, your tongue poking out between your teeth as you grinned. "Why're you smiling?"
"You're taking my makeup off."
He hummed, silent for a few seconds as he pressed the cotton pad to your eye. "I should get you drunk more often. You seem to notice things a lot better."
"Shut it."
He laughed, again, and you found yourself joining as he pulled the cotton pad away from your eye, allowing you to blink it open.Â
"Oh, you look so pretty like this," he mused, and you knew your makeup was everywhere around your eye. He forced your eyelid closed again, so he could keep wiping the smudged makeup off.Â
"You're so mean to me," you grumbled.
"Why do you say that?"
"Just 'cause."
"Just 'cause?" he repeats back to you, and you nodded your head, providing no other explanation. He seemed to accept that, because he didn't say anything else as he moved to wipe off your other eye.
Eventually your makeup was off, and he helped you off the sink, turning you around so he could find the zipper of your dress.Â
Which had you laughing and turning around to face him.Â
"Take me on a date first, Dr. Reid," you said, catching his hands, and he stared at you in disbelief for a few moments.
He was stronger than you were, and while he usually didn't make a show of proving it, when he did, you were a swooning mess.Â
Like currently, as he didn't say anything, a sigh escaping his lips whilst his hands found your hips and turned you back around. One hand held you firmly in place, as the other tugged down the zipper of your dress.
"I'm getting you some clothes. Please, stay here," he said, his voice so close to your ear your knees wobbled for more than just your lowered control over your bodily functions.Â
Despite the want to defy him, like usual, you stayed put, eyes flickering around the bathroom you had been in so many times before, your dress pooling at your feet.Â
He returned with a t-shirt, resting it on the sink as his fingers found your bra and unclasped it, ignoring the way you danced your shoulders, wickedly grinning at him through the mirror.Â
"What?"
"I think we're moving awfully fast," you said. "I would like you to take me on a date first."
"I have seen you naked plenty times before," he answered.
"I held my tongue all the other times."
"I'm sure you did."
He tugged the shirt over your head, manoeuvring your arms through the holes, considering you were an expert at going limp in the worst of times, it seemed.Â
"And," he added, spinning you back around. "I have taken you on a date. Many. Thirty-three, to be exact."Â
"Thirty-four is the magic number I make my boyfriend's wait until they see me naked for the first time," you replied.
"I see. I will work on making it thirty-four, then."
"I think you just want to see me naked."
"You've figured me out," he poked your side again, causing you to crunch your body out of the way with a laugh. "C'mon, let's get you into bed."
You were incredibly complicit, nodding your head and bouncing on your heels in front of him, taking a dive into his bed and finding refuge in the side you always slept on â decorated by the (singular) silk pillow case you had forced onto his bed. Because it is so much better for your hair, as you had argued when he denied you of purchasing him one as well.Â
He thought it was stupid. You had the evidence to back you up. So then, he didn't like being wrong and threw a tantrum about it. Or something like that.Â
You stared up at the ceiling, staring at the constellation above your head, that was resting comfortably on his chest. He had rearranged them six months into your relationship, Orion mapped out on his ceiling with glow in the dark stars after you had briefly mentioned liking the constellation a lot. He said it took him a week to get it right, but he wanted to do it for you.Â
You tear up a little every time you see it. Which is perhaps too often.Â
"Did you have fun tonight?" he murmured, fingers entangling in your hair.
"I did," you responded, voice overwhelmed with exhaustion, followed by a quiet yawn, that he caught too. "You're tired."
"You're giving Sherlock Holmes a run for his money tonight," he said, and you huffed a singular laugh. "I am tired," he then added. "So are you."
"I am," you agreed.Â
"Goodnight, angel."
your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly âĄ
i dont think ive ever seen a character so strongly encased in the hetereosexual female gaze as spencer reid from criminal minds is. i log on to look at angst (because this guy has so much shit going on) and ii come to find hes just banging girls left and right???? and NONE of it is in character????? i hate you people
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Simmons!Reader
Summary: You never planned on having a casual fling with your brother's friend five years ago, nor did you expect him to fall in love with you, which forced you to end things abruptly. But now he's unexpectedly back in your lifeâolder, wiser, and fully intent on winning your heart.
Content: (18+) >12k words, reader has commitment issues, heâs the softest softdom iâve ever written, female oral, fingering, unprotected p in v, a little squirting? teeth rotting fluff and a chaotic ending because who am i without my crack humor
A/n: This is for @imagining-in-the-margins FWB writing challenge and somewhat a celebration post for 7k milestone. Idk how that happened but tysm :( I hope you like this as much as I did writing it because matt simmons is so underrated??? Iâm also freaking nervous with this i havenât posted a new fic in a while so please please please be nice i feel like throwing up
Surprise has a way of stopping time. Although you're not sure you can call it that. What youâre experiencing is more than just surprise, itâs the kind of feeling that makes you freeze in place. Itâs not just a jolt to the systemâitâs a full-body takeover. Your breath catches, your heart skips, and your thoughts scatter like leaves caught in the wind. How could they not, when the last person you expected to see is standing right in front of you, clad in the most questionable clothes?
You almost laugh at how absurd he looks. Heâs wearing an oversized hoodie with a tacky âWashington D.C.â print sprawled across the front. Itâs baffling why heâs draped in that shapeless thing over his freakishly tall frame, but itâs too hard to focus on something so trivial when youâre still grasping with the reality of seeing him again. You really canât believe it. Spencer Reid is here. The Spencer Reid.
The guy whose heart you broke five years ago.
You should have seen this coming. In fact, you kind of did, when your brotherâs friends came rushing into the hospital room, their voices a chorus of âoohsâ and âaahsâ as they crowded around the newborn cradled in Kristyâs arms. You exchanged polite greetings when they noticed youâPenelope even pulled you into a tight hug, gushing about how amazing you lookedâand thankfully, there was no sign of him.
But youâd almost allowed yourself to believe he wouldnât show up. When the small space became overly crowded, you stepped out into the waiting room to catch your breath⌠only to find him standing a few feet away with JJ.
And just like that, all the air seems to vanish from your lungs.
You had a plan, of course. In the back of your mind, you always knew a chance meeting was inevitable, whether you liked it or not. And that plan was simple. Youâd offer him a polite smile. Exchange a few words, nothing too personal. Youâd be friendly but distant, always make sure to keep the kind of composure that says youâve moved on, and that the past is just that: the past.
But those well-laid plans seem fragile now, almost naive as you suddenly caught his smile. Now how do you stick to a script when your heart is starting to rewrite all the lines? Or blur the lines specifically, when the past and present merge so seamlessly that youâre reminded of the first time that same smile had charmed you.
Youâre suddenly thrown back to that day five years ago, when your brother had thrown a barbecue cookout to celebrate some joint investigation his team had wrapped up. You didnât know the detailsâdidnât really care to, if you were honestâbut Matt had called you and insisted that you join him.
You hadn't thought much of it at the time. It sounded like another family gathering with a few new faces. But that was the day you met Spencer, and what began as a simple introduction quickly spiraled into something much more complicated. Really complicated. Because as charmed as you were by his smile, he had wanted something more from you when all you could offer him was your body.
So you ran away.
Although not very far, because apparently, heâs standing a few steps away from you, five years later. And the worst part? Heâs now very much aware that youâre here. You watch as his jaw slacks open as he takes a double-take. Youâre rooted in place. JJ, on the other hand, tugs his sleeve as she notices his demeanor slowly shutting down. She turns around to see whatâs caught his attention, and when she spots you, a huge smile spreads across her face.
"Hey! You're here!â You force yourself to look away from him as she moves forward. You reciprocate the hug she throws at you. "How are you?â
Youâre not entirely sure how to answer. How do you even explain that your heart just did a triple backflip and landed somewhere near your stomach? Or that youâre seconds away from having an internal existential crisis because, of course, the universe would choose this moment to throw Spencer Reid back into your life?
There's really no good way to sum that up. So instead, you plaster on a smile that probably looks more like a grimace and reply, "Good. Iâm good.â
JJ doesnât seem to notice the strained edges in your voice. âItâs so nice to see you again! How long has it been?â
Thereâs a moment of silence as you try to gather your thoughts. But before you can respond, Spencerâs voice suddenly cuts through the quiet. Itâs soft, almost hesitant, as if heâs been holding onto this detail for far too long, but every syllable rings in your ears.
"Five years," he says. "Five years, three months, and seventeen days."
Your stomach does another flip. JJ raises her brows, her eyes darting between you and him. You carefully meet her gaze. "Actually, you and I met up last year.â
âOh, right!â She exclaims, her face lighting up as the memory clicks into place. âYou were in town for a conference, right? I totally forgot about that.â
âYou were in town last year and you didnât tell me?â
God, heâs making it terribly hard for you to keep your composure. You throw him a sidelong glance. âI didnât know you wanted to see me.â
His expression shifts slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He looks at you as if your words sounds ludicrous to him.
âI always want to see you.â
You can't decide what surprises you more, the fact that he still wants to see you after all these years, or how easily he says it. The words roll off his tongue so casually, so effortlessly, as if the weight of your shared past doesnât cling to them. And to make matters worse, he's saying this right in front of JJ, who is now staring at him, clearly scrutinizing the significance behind his words.
You quickly shift your attention to her, forcing another smile. "So, are you going to head inside?"
JJ blinks at you. âOh, yeah, I probably should.â She turns to Spencer and gives him a quick but knowing glance. "See you on Monday, Spence."
You glance at him. âYou're not going to see the baby?"
"Spencerâs got something he needs to take care of,â JJ chimes in. Thereâs a slight edge to her voice, like she knows exactly what that âsomethingâ is, but she doesnât elaborate. She gives him one last look before heading inside.
You catch yourself looking up at him again. âYouâre leaving?â
Spencer pauses, studying you carefully, his brow furrowing just slightly like heâs trying to read between the lines of your question.
âI was,â he says softly.
Thereâs a sudden tightness in your chest. âRight.â
âBut now I donât want to.â
There it goes again, the butterflies in your stomach. This is exactly why you didnât want to see him. You knew that once you looked into his eyes, heard his voice, it would stir up everything youâve spent five years trying to bury. Youâd told yourself it was better to pretend that whatever happened between you was nothing more than a stupid choice. But now, standing here with him so close, you can feel all those walls you built crumbling down with just a few words.
You finally look at him, like really look at him. Itâs impossible not to notice how heâs changed over the past five years. There are faint lines around his eyes now, signs of age that wasn't there before. His hair is longer, a little messier. It curls around his ears in a way that makes him look almost boyish, yet undeniably charming which suits him more than you'd like to admit.
But even with all the changes, his smileâgentle and just a little shyâremains the same. That smile reminds you of a time when things were simpler, where it was enough to convince you that you didn't have to keep your guard up all the time. But then you remember the reason you walked away, and his smile becomes a little harder to look at.
Because while he's changed, grown, matured, so have you, and you're not sure if there's room for the person you are now in the space that once belonged to both of you.
His eyes scan you in the same way youâre assessing him. âYou look good.â
Your mouth twitches at his words. You didnât expect him to be so straightforward. âThank you.â
âYouâre even prettier than I remember.â
The sigh you let out is long and weary. He really knows how to push your buttons.
âSpencer. Donât.â
âWhat?â
âYou canât just say things like that afterââ You hesitate, crossing your arms. "After everything. What happened to 'Hi, how are you?â. Or maybe something simple like âWhat have you been up to? Anything new?ââ
He blinks, clearly taken aback by your abruptness. âOkay. Hi, how are you?â
You cast him a wary glance. âGood.â
"What have you been up to?"
"Work."
"Anything new?"
"No."
He pauses again, his eyes searching yours before he asks, "No new boyfriend?"
You frown. âHuh?â
âGirlfriend?â
"Spencer."
"Are you seeing anyone?"
"Spencer."
He smiles sheepishly, his shoulders sagging slightly. "You're right, that was inappropriate. I didn't think I would see you again, itâs throwing me off a bit."
âYou didnât think I would be here for my newborn niece?â
His smile turns into a grimace. "I guess I wasn't thinking clearly." He shifts on his feet, fidgeting with his fingersâa small, familiar tic that you hadnât seen in years. âIâm sorry. I didnât mean to make things weird.â
âItâs fine,â you reply, though thereâs no real bite to your words. His nervous energy is making it hard to stay annoyed. Your eyes narrow on his oversized hoodie again, the casual, almost careless choice that seems slightly out of character for the Spencer you remember.
He seems to notice you staring so blatantly. âWhat?â
âYou look funny.â
A hint of surprise flashes across his face. âYou think Iâm funny?â
âDifferent,â you correct. âDid you raid someoneâs closet on your way here or something?â
"Oh⌠I had to change my clothes. I got wet at the park earlier.â
You glance towards the window with a frown. "It's not even raining."
"I ran through the sprinklers."
The cease on your forehead deepens. Even that sounds so unlike him. Spencer Reid doing something that carefree in public?
âYou ran through the sprinklers? Alone?"
You notice his expression shift as the question leaves your lips, something very subtle, but youâve known him long enough to catch it. The way his eyes flicker, the slight hesitation before he answers, makes it obvious. Thereâs a hint of something unspoken in the way he looks at you, and suddenly, it all clicks into place.
He wasnât alone.
You look away. It's ridiculous, you think. To feel this somewhat⌠jealous when it should be the last thing on your mind because, really, what right do you have? What you had with him wasnât even a relationship to begin with. But despite all the logic in the world, you canât help the pang in your chest, the twist of something bitter and familiar curling in your gut.
"It's not what you think," he slowly says.
You force a small, awkward laugh, trying to brush it off. "I wasnât assuming anything. Itâs none of my business, anyway."
"No, really, it's nothing like that." he insists, scrunching his nose in the way he does when he's trying to think. "I mean, I did meet someone at the park, but itâs not like⌠what you might be thinking. We were just talking, and⌠and then there were these sprinklers and it wasnât really planned or anything, then sheâwell, technically, we werenât even alone the whole time because there were other people around, and itâs not like weââ
âSpencer, you donât have to explainââ you begin, but then something dawns on you. âWait, is this what JJ was referring to? Did you⌠Did you have plans?â
You notice his Adamâs apple dip as he swallows. "Kind of," he admits. âBut it wasn't anything serious. It was just, you know, a casual thing.â
You can't help the way your stomach knots. Casual could mean anything. Maybe a simple coffee between two friends, or even a lighthearted conversation over lunch. But in your experience, at least in the book you and Spencer had written together in the past, casual had always meant sex. And now, hearing him say it about someone else feels like a punch to the gut you hadn't expected.
You suddenly feel foolish for letting your mind go there, for assuming that whatever he meant by casual was the same thing it had meant for the two of you back then. It's been five years, and so much has changed. Maybe casual means something entirely different for him now, and you're the one stuck in the past, reading into things that no longer hold the same weight.
He must have noticed the slight falter in your expression, the way your eyes momentarily cloud over with something you canât quite hide. He takes a step forward. "Itâs really nothing.â
You take a step back. âEven if it is, itâs really not my business.â
âBut itâs not,â he urges. Heâs suddenly so persistent, and you canât help but feel the embarrassment gnawing you at how easily he can read your mind. It's one thing to wrestle with these feelings privately, but having them so clearly acknowledged makes it all the more humiliating. You canât believe you let yourself get so worked up over something that shouldnât matter this much.
You eye the exit door. âI need to go.â
"Right now?â His brows knit together in confusion. âBut your familyâs here."
Youâve only spent a few minutes with him and youâre already running away.
"I just remembered I have to take care of⌠something."
The excuse sounds weak even to your own ears, but you donât wait for his response. You quickly turn on your heel, and when he calls out your name with concern, you force yourself to keep moving, scurrying off down the hallway.
Me: I'm heading back first
Big bro: You okay?
Me: Bad headache
Big Bro: You didn't eat anything, did you?
You scoff. What is it about your brother always zeroing in on eating whenever you complain about feeling off?
Me: You know I did. Just not much
Big Bro: Thatâs what I thought. Thereâs some leftover dinner in the fridge. And check the second drawer in the kitchen, there should be some ibuprofen
Me: Yes, Dad
Big Bro: Donât get smart with me
Me: đŤĄ
Big Bro: Drink lots of water
Me: Yes, sir. Anything else on your mind while youâre giving out parental advice?
Big Bro: Iâm just trying to keep myself from dragging you out of my house if you collapse
Me: đ
Big Bro: The kids are staying with Kristyâs parents, Iâll drop by tomorrow morning
Me: Okay
Big Bro: Call me if you need anything
You toss your phone down on the bed, then let out the most exasperated sigh. Spending your Saturday night in your brotherâs guest room is the last thing you expect to be doing, let alone faking a headache just to avoid confronting a situationship from the past. You honestly thought youâd outgrown this kind of avoidance, but here you are, slipping back into old habits as if no time has passed at all.
Ironically, your mind stumbles into the past, and you remember a conversation you once had with Spencer. It was during one of those nights when you both were tangled in each otherâs arms. You could faintly remember the conversation started with him talking about his work.
He never actually told you the details of his cases, but he liked to share his thoughts on the different complexities of the human mind. And on that particular night, he was rambling about the psychological concept of avoidance, which he claimed to have detected the first time he spotted the bad guy. He went on at how people often retreat into familiar behaviors to protect themselves from discomfort.
At the time, you had brushed it off with a joke, teasing him about overanalyzing everything when the situation had already played out. But now the irony isnât lost on you. Youâre doing exactly what he once explained. Itâs almost laughable if it didnât sting so much to realize how right he was.
A sharp ding from your phone pulls you out of your thoughts, and one glance at it tells you exactly whoâs messaging. The name on the screen makes your chest tighten, but you donât even give yourself a moment to consider responding. You quickly turn the phone to silent, push yourself off the bed, and head straight for the kitchen. True to your brotherâs words, thereâs leftover pizza in the fridge, but the idea of reheating it doesnât seem appealing to you.
You reach for the bottle of wine instead.
The red liquor tastes like butter, or something close to it. Itâs similar in the way the liquid melts over your tongue, spreading warmth through your chest and settling comfortably in your belly. By the time you're sipping the second glass, you feel more relaxed, but then the sharp sound of the doorbell ringing cuts through the calm.
You glance at the door from the position of the couch. You have a strong feeling about who it is. But as much as you're sure of the who, what really gnaws at you is the why.
You hesitantly make your way toward the door, and sure enough, when you pull it open, Spencer is standing at your brotherâs doorstep. The corner of his lips turns upward in an awkward, almost apologetic half-smile as if heâs unsure of how to begin or whether he should even be there in the first place.
You lean against the doorframe. âDid Matt tell you I was here?â
He gives you a pointed look, his eyebrows raising slightly. âNo, but it wasnât hard to figure out.â You throw him the same questioning look, and he explains, âThis is the only place youâd stay in town because not only do you hate staying alone at a hotel, but Matt wouldnât let you even if you tried.â
You canât believe he still remembers your offhand comment about sterile hotel rooms. Itâs one of the reasons you used to prefer staying at his apartment whenever you were in town.
âWhy are you here anyway?â You ask. âI thought you had plans.â
He pauses for moment as if deciding how much to say. Finally, he clears his throat. âCan I come in? Iâd rather explain it inside.â
"I don't think you owe me any explanations about what you do with your time," you reply, crossing your arms.
"Maybe I don't owe it, but I want to give it.â
âWhich isnât necessary.â
âBut appreciated, I hope.â
You find yourself caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. You tell yourself not to read too much into it, but there's a part of you that can't help but soften at his words. Maybe it's the way his eyes reminds you of melted chocolate as he stares at you that makes you want to let him in, despite your better judgment.
You pull the door open. âFine, but take your shoes off. Kristyâs very serious about hygiene.â
He does as heâs told and tucks away his shoes on the rack by the door.
âDo you want anything to drink?â
He shakes his head slightly, offering a small smile. "I'm good, thanks."
You nod and gesture toward the living room. He follows you, and as you both approach the couch, he instinctively moves to the far end, settling down cautiously as if not wanting to invade your space. You take a seat on the opposite end.
âSo, what do you want to talk about?â
He leans back slightly, resting his hands on his knees. You can tell he's trying to gauge your mood, figure out how much to push and when to hold back. "Do you remember when we went on that date at the street fair?"
You frown, remembering how you had missed your bus home in one of your trips here and ended up wandering at the fair with him. âThat wasnât a date.â
"Fine. Do you remember when we went to the street fair together not on a date?"
âI remember."
His shoulders relax a bit at your response. âYou spent ages deciding what to eat and you ended up choosing that little Korean stall in the corner. We had to walk a bit further to get there even when your shoes were hurting you.â
You think back, internally scolding yourself for wearing those damn boots that day. âYou thought I was being ridiculous.â
"I didn't think it was ridiculous. I just didn't get it at first. Your feet were practically covered in blisters."
"I really wanted kimchi."
"I could tell, and it took me a while to understand why you went through all that trouble. Now I do.â
You glance at him, sensing there's more behind his words. âWhy are you bringing this up?"
He meets your gaze. His brown eyes looking a little more golden underneath the dim light. "I guess this is me choosing.â
âThat youâre craving for Korean?â
He gives a soft, genuine laugh, the kind that starts in his chest and reaches his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. âNot exactly,â he says and leans a little closer. âWhat Iâm trying to say is, thatâs how I feel right now. I'm here because I want to be, not because it's convenient, but because itâs you.â
Thereâs a subtle flutter in your chest, and your skin prickles with a familiar warmth as he speaks. Your heart beats a little faster, not enough to be alarming, but just enough to remind you that youâre not as unaffected as you pretend to be. You can feel your palms start to sweat, and thereâs that almost imperceptible hitch in your breathing that you hope he doesnât notice.
âSpencerâŚâ You donât even know how to start. âItâs been five years."
He nods slowly. âI know.â
âNo, I donât think you do. A lot of has changed since the last time we saw each another, and youâre here acting like we both separated on good terms? Don't you hate me?â
His brow furrows slightly. âWhy would I hate you?â
âBecause I broke your heart. Iâ" Your voice falters as you struggle to find the right words. "The moment you told me you were falling in love with me, I... I ran. I couldnât handle it. I pushed you away like a coward.â
âYou weren't a coward, you were scared. And maybe I didnât understand that back then, but I do now.â
You shake your head. âBut I hurt you.â
The sigh he lets out is heavy, yet there's something deceptively calm about it, almost as if heâs already made peace with the past. âYou did what you thought you had to do, and sure, it hurt. But Iâve had a lot of time to think about it, and I realized that I donât blame you for needing space. It wasnât about me not being enough, it was about you needing to protect yourself.â
His words start to chip away at the wall youâve built around your heart. âI thought youâd hate me,â you admit quietly.
âI could never hate you."
You lower your gaze, your fingers fiddling nervously with the edge of the cushion. âAlright, letâs say you choose me. Now what? What is it that you want?â
He pauses for a moment, his fingers curled into his palms. He looks away briefly, taking a deep breath as if gathering his thoughts, then returns his gaze to you. âI want another chance.â
If you were surprised to see him at the hospital earlier, this is something entirely different. Thereâs something akin to panic fluttering in your chest. Itâs amusing, really, how the human body reacts before the mind fully comprehends as if your heart knows whatâs coming before you do. You can feel it in the way your breath catches, in the way your stomach knots with a nervous energy you canât quite shake. Because how do you even react to that?
You finally turn to face him, leaning your head against the back of the couch. This moment feels like some sort of dĂŠjĂ vu, and just like the last time, your mind is already bracing itself, preparing to give him the same answer you did back then.
âYou know itâs never going to work.â
He mirrors you, but instead of the frustration or sadness you half-expected, thereâs a gentle smile on his lips. âYou sound so sure.â
âThatâs because I am,â you reply. âI know what youâre asking for right now, and we donât function like that. Not in the past, at least.â
âHow did we function?â
âBased on sex.â
âAnd what do you think Iâm asking for now?â
âMore than sex, which isnât going to work."
âWhy not?â
âBecauseââ you start, but the words catch in your throat. Youâre not even sure how to explain. The fears, the doubts, the past... all of it feels too big, too overwhelming to articulate in a way that makes sense.
âBecause the idea still terrifies you?â
You frown, caught off guard by the directness of his question. âNo.â
The smile stretches even more across his face. âThen give me one good reason why you think so.â
"Oh I can name a few."
He studies you, his eyes narrowing slightly as if heâs trying to read every thought racing through your mind. âLetâs make a deal then. You give me those reasons why we canât work, and Iâll give you reasons why we can.â
Youâre quiet for a moment, considering his offer. Itâs bold, almost reckless, and yet... thereâs something in his eyes that makes you want to accept the challenge.
"And if your reasons arenât good enough?"
âThen weâll deal with that when we come to it,â he replies softly. âBut Iâm willing to bet we wonât have to.â
"You really think you can convince me?"
"I can try." He leans a little closer, just enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from his body. "So, whatâs your first reason?"
Thatâs too easy, too obvious. âYouâre one of my brotherâs closest friends,â you point out. âWhat happens if this doesnât work out? I donât want to put him, or us, in that position.â
He doesnât miss a beat. âThat didnât stop us in the past.â
You scoff. âSpencer, we were sneaking around behind his back. Itâs not exactly the same thing. This⌠whatever this is, it would be out in the open, and thatâs a whole different level of complicated.â
âIt would be different, yes. But that doesnât mean it has to be a problem. If anything, it shows how serious we were then, and how serious we could be now.â You scrunch your nose at his response. âNow whatâs next on your list?â
"Uhh.. the distance! Youâre in D.C., and Iâm not. Itâs not like I can just drop everything and move closer.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYouâre a three-hour drive away, maybe two if I take the expressway. And honestly, with how much we both travel for work, I donât see how thatâs an issue.â
His reasoning is so undeniably logical you feel a flicker of annoyance, not at him, but at how easily heâs dismantling your arguments.
âYou didnât even want to visit me back then.â
"You were the one who didn't want me to. You kept saying it was easier for you to come here.â
His words hit harder than you expect. You remember all the times you insisted on making the trips yourself. You'd convinced yourself it was about convenience, but with him calling you out on it, you realize it wasn't about convenience at all. It was about keeping things on your terms, maintaining a safe distance even when that distance wasn't physical.
"Well, I had more flexible hours," you claim. The excuse is flimsy, and the way Spencer looks at youâpatient, but not fooledâmakes it clear that he sees right through it.
You try to think of your next reason, although the words seem to get stuck before they even form. You know you can easily rattle off more excuses, but something about the way heâs looking at you makes it harder than it should be.
âThatâs it? Youâve only thought of two? I was expecting a bit more of a challenge.â
You scowl at him. "I didnât say I was done."
"Take your time," he comments, leaning back slightly, still wearing that infuriatingly patient smile.
You huff softly, trying to regain your footing. "Okay, how about this? Sex."
There's a beat of silence. "What about sex?"
You feel the words forming, but they sound ridiculous even in your own mind. Still, you force them out of your mouth. Your subconscious is urging you to come up with more excuses to keep him at armâs length. "That was all that we had. What if⌠what if we just fall back into the same patterns?"
âDon't you think that's a reason why we can work? If we were only ever about sex and we're still here, doesn't that show there's something more between us?"
âOr it just means we had a strong physical connection. That doesnât necessarily mean thereâs something more.â
âYou really believe that? That all we had was just physical?â
âYes,â you retort, though the confidence in your voice wavers slightly. Your eyes flicker away for a split second before you meet his gaze again. âThatâs all it ever was and I donât know if it can turn into something youâre trying to imply.â
He lets out a low, amused sound, as the corners of his mouth twitches upward. âYouâre deflecting.â
âIâm being realistic,â you shoot back. âWhat if we try, and it doesnât work? What if everything falls apart because we werenât good at anything but the sex?â
His eyes light up, and suddenly heâs wearing the most boyish grin youâve ever seen on him. âSo you're admitting the sex was good?"
You stop yourself from rolling your eyes.
âYou know what I mean. What we had was...â Wild? Passionate? Crazy-hot-mind-blowing sex? ââŚintense. But intensity isn't enough for a relationship. What if the rest of it doesn't hold up?"
He leans in closer, his hand hovering near yours on the couch.
âBut what if it does?â
All you can do is stare at him.
âYouâre giving me all these reasons to push me away again,â he continues. âBut Iâm here because Iâm not afraid of those doubts. Iâve always wanted to give you more than what we had because you deserve something real. I want us to be real this time, and I think you do too, even if youâre scared to admit it.â
His words are affecting you more than you like to admit. You can slowly feel it in the tension building between you, itâs surprisingly not the uncomfortable kind, but the sort that pulls you in, that makes you want to move closer even though every instinct tells you to stay put.
And then it happens. You feel a slight tremor in your leg, an involuntary movement that causes it to brush against his. The contact is so light it's almost like it didn't happen at all, but it did. He noticesâOf course he doesâand now thereâs a certain gentleness in his gaze like he knows exactly what's going on inside your head. He doesn't push, doesn't rush, just watches you with those impossibly kind eyes.
And in the softest, most careful voice, he asks, âCan I move closer?"
Your heart is pounding now, the rhythm echoing in your ears, in your chest, in the pulse at your throat. The sensation travels downward, a slow, steady beat that moves through your body, inching its way down your spine, tightening in your stomach before it settles low in your abdomen. Itâs a heat that spreads outward until it reaches your core, leaving you acutely aware of every inch of space between you and himâand how much you want to close that distance.
You find yourself nodding. He shifts closer. âCan I touch you?â
You really want to say something witty, something that might deflect from the weight of the situation, but the words wonât come out. You can only manage another nod. He moves slowly, carefully, giving you every opportunity to pull back. But you donât. You canât. Youâre rooted in place as his hand reaches for you.
His palm gently rests on your jaw. Your eyes flutter closed against your consciousness, and the tension thatâs been coiling in your chest slowly unwinds, replaced by a sense of calm. When his thumb slides across your cheek, he speaks again. His voice is so close it's as if the words themselves are brushing over your lips.
"Can I kiss you?"
You inhale sharply. The word "Yes" hovers on the tip of your tongue, but you don't need to say it out loud. He can already see the answer in the way youâre leaning into him, and his mouth is on yours in an instant.
The reality is, youâve kissed Spencer before. Plenty of times, actually. You know the feel of his lips, the way they can be both gentle and demanding, the way he tastes faintly of coffee or something sweet when heâs had a treat. You also think back to those hurried kisses in the past when time was short and the world was pressing down on you. Or the playful pecks that came with laughter. Even the desperate, heated moments when the need to feel something, anything, was too overwhelming to resist.
This kiss, however, isnât like any of those. This one is slow, and achingly tender. His movements are unhurried. The way his lips glide over yours carries a deep sense of care, like heâs trying to memorize every soft curve. Just as you begin to melt in his arms, he pulls away slightly, not very far, but enough to hover close that you can still feel the heat of his breath on your lips.
Thereâs a tense silence as the tip of his nose brushes gently against your cheek. You can tell heâs giving you the space to decide what happens next, and there are a lot of scenarios running in your head. You could push him away, repeating history all over again. You could be in denial and pretend all of this never even happened. But something inside you snaps.
Maybe itâs the way heâs holding back, so gentle, so careful, too afraid of pushing too far. Or maybe itâs the realization that you donât want him to hold back, that you need more, that youâre tired of resisting what youâve both been dancing around for so long. Before you can second guess yourself, youâre clutching onto the fabric of his hoodie, tugging him closer.
He tenses for a moment, but the hesitation is gone almost as soon as it appears. His mouth finds yours again, and he lets out a deep, relieved sigh. You feel the soft, insistent push of his tongue against the seam of your lips. You hold onto him, parting your mouth eagerly before he slips his tongue with a desperation that catches you off guard.
Then his hands seem to be everywhere all at once, tracing the curve of your spine, sliding down to the small of your back, and brushing along the edge of your jaw. His fingers then tangle in your hair, tugging gently while his other hand skims over your waist. But when his hand slips inside your shirt, calloused fingers brushing your soft skin, you slowly pull away. âW-Wait.â
His eyes widen slightly, and you can feel the shift in his body. âIâm sorry, I didnât mean toââ
âNo, no,â you say quickly, tugging him closer again. âI just⌠I think we should continue this conversation somewhere more⌠private?â
He pauses for a moment. âReally?â
âIf you want to.â
A subtle smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. âAre you trying to seduce me for sex?â
Youâre oscillating between being incredibly turned on and equally mortified. In a sense, yes, thatâs what youâre asking. But you didnât expect him to be so blunt about it. You donât think heâs ever been this direct in the past, and now youâre wondering if you missed something before, or if heâs just tapped into a level of confidence youâre struggling to keep up with.
âWould it be inappropriate if I said that I am?â you ask hesitantly, and you canât help but wince a little as the words leave your mouth.
âSince when have you been worried about being inappropriate with me?â
âWell, Spencer, if you havenât noticed, thereâs a five-year gap since the last time we slept together.â
His hand on your waist tightens slightly. âFive years too long, if you ask me.â Then he pulls you closer until thereâs barely any space left between you. âYou do realize this is you giving me a second chance, right?"
In a way, you do. You've spent so much time convincing yourself that you were better off keeping your distance. Walking away in the past was easy, but now⌠now it feels different. The years have stretched on, and the excuses youâve made have started to wear thin. Especially when just being near him is starting to stir memories you thought youâd buriedâsome good, some less soâbut all intense, all Spencer.
Maybe he's right. Maybe five years is too long to pretend that whatever was between you didn't matter.
You slowly meet his gaze. âI realize.â
âAnd youâre okay with that?â
You hesitate, not out of doubt, but because of the sheer gravity of what you're about to say.
"Maybe."
His sigh is audible when he hears your answer, and without missing a beat, he brushes the barest, lightest, most gentle of kisses on your lips. âMaybe is good.â Kiss. âI can takeââ Kiss. Kiss. ââmaybe.â
You think you should say something more, but all coherent thoughts scatter the instant his lips meet yours again. You return his kisses, hesitant at first, but quickly falling into a rhythm that feels achingly familiar. It doesnât take long until his lips move into something more urgent. Thereâs a hunger there, a pent-up longing that he can no longer hold back. His tongue flicks against yours, teasing, coaxing, and you know you need to stop him before he starts to undress you right there on the couch.
You reluctantly pull back. âBedroom. Now.â
He doesnât need to be told twice. He pulls you to your feet, and youâre practically dragging him to the guest bedroom. When the door closes behind you, heâs quick to guide you toward the bed, his hands firm on your hips as he steers you backward. The moment your legs hit the edge of the bed, he pauses, his hands lingering on your waist, and for a moment, he just looks at you.
âHaving second thoughts?â You tease. The sarcasm drips sweetly in your voice, knowing full well heâs been trying to win your heart the entire evening.
âNo,â he mutters. âIâm trying to see if you are.â
You draw back from his arms just enough to climb onto the bed and lay down in the middle. âDoes it look like I am?â
He shakes his head with that cute, bashful smile. Although thereâs nothing bashful about the way he pulls off his hoodie and tosses it carelessly onto the floor. The shirt underneath is crumpled, and his hair is even messier, sticking up in ways that make you want to run your hands through it.
âCome here,â you motion for him. Without hesitation, he crawls between your legs and leans in for another kiss. His hair feels like the smoothest silk when you finally reach for it. Thereâs a slight dampness from the faint sheen of sweat on his skin, the way it curls just slightly at the ends, brushing against your forehead as he dips his head to capture your mouth.
You donât think you can ever get tired of kissing him. Thereâs a familiarity in the way he moves. His lips mold perfectly to yours, soft yet demanding, as if he knows exactly how to draw out the deepest parts of your desire. And you feel it everywhere. In your pulse, in your veins, all the way down to the spot between your legs.
It intensifies even more when his lips begin to trail down your neck. You feel the first warm rush of arousal pooling in your panties when he presses an open-mouthed kiss to your throat, the fluttering veins below your jaw with so much intensity as if he's taking every one of your heartbeats for himself. Your grip tightens in his hair as he marks another spot near your collarbone.
âIâve missed this so much,â he murmurs as he slowly nips down your neck. âIâve missed you.â
You can only hum a reply, your voice catching in your throat as your head starts to spin from the way his hands are now trailing down your side. He reaches the hem of your shirt and pauses, fingers lightly tugging at the fabric.
âCan I take this off?â He asks, pulling back slightly just enough to look down at you. With his messy hair falling into his glossy brown eyes and swollen wet lips, how can you possibly say no to him?
Without a second thought, you nod, your fingers already moving to help him with the fabric. His eyes never leave yours as he slowly lifts your shirt. It slides up over your skin, and you raise your arms to let him pull it off completely, tossing it aside without a care. Your bra comes off next, and when that follows to the floor, his eyes sweep over your body.
Thereâs a certain look in his gaze. Devotion would be too strong of a word, but itâs something closeâsomething softer, yet just as intense. Youâve seen desire before, felt it in fleeting touches and heated glances, but this is different. This feels different. Itâs as if his gaze is reaching into the spaces between your thoughts, gently pulling at the threads that hold you together to unravel you in the most tender of ways.
He kisses the spot between your breasts.
âYouâre always so pretty.â
He gives a soft peck just above your heart.
âSo incredibly beautiful.â
Then his tongue flicks along the delicate curve of your chest, making a slow, teasing trail upward until he takes one of your nipples into his mouth. He sucks gently, rolling it around with his tongue, and youâre mesmerized by the lewd scene of him drawing your flesh between his lips. Your fingers instinctively find their way back into his hair, tugging on the soft strands as he continues to lap at your sensitive skin.
He then shifts slightly, his mouth releasing your nipple with a soft, wet sound before moving to give the same attention to the other. While he suckles and nibbles on one hardened peak, he rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger, sending a rush of pleasure straight to your core. If you thought you were wet before, youâre certain youâre drenched by now. Your panties cling uncomfortably and the growing desire makes you ache to peel them off.
He must sense your growing need because his kisses trail lower, down to your stomach, while his fingers toy with the waistband of your leggings. His touch is teasing, slipping just under the elastic, and you instinctively lift your hips, silently begging for more. He takes his time as he slides the fabric down your legs, his knuckles brushing against your skin before discarding them somewhere in the room.
Your attention is on him as his palm dances along your inner thigh, and the closer he gets to where you ache him the most, the more your breath hitches in your throat. When his thumb brushes over the wet patch on your panties, your hips buck against him. âSpencerâŚâ
He glances over at you and lets out the most appreciative sigh. You really are beautiful. Eyes full of lust, skin flushed with his marks. Youâre a vision of longing, and every part of him is consumed by the sight of you. âYes?â
You squirm under his gaze. âArenât you⌠going to take them off?â
A slow, teasing smile spreads across his face. âWhat, these?â He gives a playful tug at the edge of your panties, his fingers just barely slipping beneath the fabric before pulling away. âAre you sure you want them off?â
You try to hold back your groan when his thumb finds your clit. âYes. I-Iâm sure.â
He grins, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you, but instead of giving in immediately, he begins to circle your clit slowly with his thumb, watching your reaction closely. âOn a scale from one to ten, how sure are you?â
Now heâs starting to get on your nerves. You canât hold back the small huff falling from your lips. He simply laughs then slowly takes off the last piece of your clothing. The cool air instantly hits your skin as he grabs your knees, spreading your legs apart. He skims along your naked body and when you notice where his gaze settles, you swallow hard, suddenly feeling very shy.
It's kind of ironic, you think, how you've gotten this far, and now, of all times, you're suddenly blushing like a damn teenager. It's as if your brain is catching up to everything your body already knowsâthat this is real, and it's happening. You can't help but laugh at yourself a little. Here you are, all tangled up in each other, practically begging him to get you naked and yet you're acting shy now?
He seems to notice the shift in your mood, his hands pausing on your thighs as he looks up at you with concern. He tilts his head slightly, his brow furrowing. âDid I do something wrong?â
You quickly shake your head. âIâm suddenly feeling very self-conscious.â
He studies your face for a moment. âDo you want me to stop?â
âNo!â you blurt out, more forcefully than you intended, your hand instinctively reaching out to grab his wrist. âI⌠I guess Iâm not used to feeling this exposed in front of you.â
He shifts slightly, moving closer so heâs eye-level with you, his hands still resting gently on your thighs. âWeâve done this countless times before.â
âI know, but that was years ago. Things feel different now⌠like thereâs more at stake, maybe?â You let out a sigh. âItâs silly.â
âItâs not silly,â he reassures you. He soothes the skin behind your thighs. âBut you donât need to feel self-conscious with me. Youâre beautiful, and I just want you to feel as good as you make me feel.â
If he keeps talking to you like that, thereâs no doubt youâll end up giving him your heart on a silver platter by the end of this. He shifts lower down your body. âWe can go as slow as you want,â he continues, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another. âJust tell me what you need.â
You take a deep breath as his soft stubble grazes your skin. âI need you.â
âThen youâll have me.â
You watch with heavy lids as he drags his lips along your skin until he presses the most tender kiss on your cunt. He really wasnât lying when he said he could go as slow as you want because every kiss is achingly gentle, barely more than a feather-light touch. Itâs the kind of softness that makes you writhe beneath him, and before you know it, your fingers are tangling in his curls while your hips buck against his face.
Thereâs a slight vibration on your skinâit could be his laughter, or maybe just a hum of contentmentâbut you donât bother deciphering it. Youâre too lost in the sensation as his tongue breaches your folds. You peer down and watch as he trails the tip of his tongue through your wetness, slowly tracing up and down your slit until he flicks it against your clit.
Youâre honestly gone after that. Youâre not surprised, though. If thereâs one thing Spencer Reid is good at, itâs knowing exactly how to use his mouth. Sure, heâs a bona fide genius who spouts off random facts and quotes obscure literature, but his mouth? His mouth is a whole different level of expertise. Itâs almost unfair how good he is. Itâs like heâs studied you, memorized every little thing that makes you go crazy, and now heâs putting all that knowledge to devastatingly good use.
And itâs not like heâs doing it just for your pleasure. It brings him the same deep satisfaction. His eyes are closed, and he seems to lose himself in the act, savoring every taste, every reaction, every subtle shift of your body beneath him. Itâs as though heâs completely immersed in finding an almost insatiable need to drink in everything about you. His tongue delves deeper, swirling around your entrance before sucking gently on your folds, pulling the soft skin into his mouth.
You find yourself pressing his head closer to your heat. His eyes flickers up to you. âYouâre back.â Your response is simply another push of his head. âOh. Needy, are we now?â
"Mhm," you manage to squeak out, feeling a rush of wetness seeping out of you. He leans in, his tongue catching a bead of moisture before it drips further, dragging it between your slick folds.
Your grip in his hair tightens.
âSpencerâŚâ
âI know, I know,â he murmurs, his lips curling into a smile before his mouth descends again, this time focusing on your clit. His tongue flicks over the sensitive nub before he gently sucks, pulling it into his mouth with a slow rhythm that has you gasping. Each motion is perfectly timed and you feel yourself growing even wetter under his attention. His tongue swirls, then flattens before he sucks a little harder.
It doesnât take long for you to feel that familiar coil in your stomach. The pleasure builds steadily, the tension winding tighter and tighter until it slowly overwhelms you. Spencer seems to sense it too, his hands gripping the back of your thighs a little tighter, pushing them further apart as he continues with unwavering focus. Heâs not rushing, though, heâs savoring it, but his slow motion is enough to make you snap.
Your hips jerk against his mouth, and he doesnât miss a beat, holding you steady as he continues his ministrations. Heâs relentless in his gentleness, coaxing every ounce of pleasure from you, even as youâre left gasping for air. When you finally come down from the high, Spencer finally lifts his head and places a final, soft kiss on your inner thigh.
âDo you still feel self-conscious now?â
It takes you a moment before you can answer. You smile lazily at him. âNot after that.â
He grins and pulls you up into a sitting position. âDo you think you can give me another one?â
âSpencer,â you breathe out. âEven if you gave me thousands of orgasms, Iâd probably ask for more.â
The laugh he lets out is warm and infectious, the sound vibrating through you in a way that makes you smile even wider. âWell,â he starts, slipping his hand down your thigh. âThe human body is capable of experiencing multiple orgasms in a relatively short period of time, especially for women. So technically, you could keep asking for more, and I could keep giving them.â
âEven up to a thousand?â
âMaybe not to that extent.â He pulls you close, and you lean your weight against him. âHold on to me.â
You do as youâre told and somehow you find yourself in a new position. When he spreads your legs apart, your senses go on high alert again. âSpence?â
He kisses your cheek, your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. âTry to relax.â
A gasp escapes your lips as his fingers dive between your thighs. Try to relax? Try to relax? Men and their audacity to tell you what to do, especially when they're the reason you're so wound up in the first place. Because how are you supposed to relax when his fingertips are brushing ever so gently over your clit? How are you supposed to calm your breathing when heâs spreading your arousal up and down your folds?
And how are you supposed to keep your composure when he suddenly fills you with, not one, but two of his fingers?
You feel yourself slipping and he tightens his other arm around your waist. âTold you to hold on.â
Heâs starting to annoy you, but you listen to him and bury your face in the crook of his neck. You take a deep breath as he starts to move his fingers. Soap, you decide. It must be his soap, because he smells clean and crisp, almost like fresh linen and a hint of something peppery. Itâs almost distracting if it werenât for the way his fingers are curling inside of you.
Then you feel that sensation again, the kind that ripples through every nerve of your body. At first, itâs manageable, an intensity you think you can handle. But when he suddenly changes his technique, everything shifts. His entire hand moves in a fast, up-and-down motion that catches you completely off guard, and before you know it, youâre whining, your grip tightening on him as your head falls on his shoulder.
The rapid pace makes your head spin. It feels like heâs pulling the control right out of your hands, leaving you questioning your own limits. Youâve seen yourself getting wet, youâve felt yourself become drenched before, but youâve never experienced anything like this. You never realized your body could produce this much liquid. Itâs not an overwhelming amount, but more than youâve ever seen from yourself, and it splatters against his hand, dripping down your thighs.
He doesnât stop, doesnât even flinch when your nails claw into his shirt. He keeps going, and going, and going, until the only thing you hear is your rapid breathing against his neck and the slick, wet sounds heâs coaxing out of you. Youâre overwhelmed (in the best way, of course) but you canât stop yourself from cursing as the sensation intensifies, multiplies even.
It's not until your body starts to go limp that he finally takes pity on you. He slows down, his fingers pumping lazily inside you. âGood?â
âHow did youâwhen did youââ you exhale a long breath. âI canât feel my legs.â
He slowly withdraws his fingers out, only to rub your essence over your puffy clit, and your hips jerk once more before he finally stops. You're a trembling mess once you sink into the mattress.
âI donât think Iâve seen you do that before.â
âI donât think Iâve ever done that in my life.â Your eyes suddenly feel incredibly heavy that you can't resist letting them flutter close.
He kisses the tip of your nose. âStill up for another one?â
You peer through one eye, and when you catch him starting to undress himself, your other eye shoots open. The nod you give him is eager. His smile widens as he shrugs off his shirt, and you canât help but let your gaze drop to the line of hair trailing down his stomach. You wonder what it would feel like under your tongue.
"Wait."
Your eyes snap back up to meet his. "What?"
His face twists into a grimace. âI donât have a condom.â
Shit. Neither did you.
You roll onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow and resting your head in your hand. âAnd youâre realizing this just now?â
âI was too focused with you."
And by that, he means giving you the most intense orgasm of your life. You watch as his fingers hover over his belt. âYou really didnât think of bringing one when you decided to come over?â
âMy intention coming here wasnât exactly for this.â
âWell, it would be great if you at least considered the possibility." You study his face and blurt out the first thing on your mind, âI donât want to stop.â
He shifts his weight on the bed. âMe neither.â
âI mean⌠we could have sex without using one. Weâve done it before. Once.â
He recalls what you're referring to and lets out an amused laugh. âAre you sure? Didnât you freak out when you realized your period was late?â
âThat was a coincidence! I was stressed out at that time, but Iâm safe nowâI think.â You pause, brows furrowing as you start calculating your cycle in your head. âYeah, Iâm pretty sure Iâm not ovulating.â
âPretty sure?â
You give him a look. âNo, Iâm actually sure. I know my body, and Iâve done the math. See?â You gesture vaguely, as if the numbers and facts are floating in front of you. âNo ovulation in sight.â
The corners of his mouth twitches into a smile. âAlright then,â he murmurs, and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your lips. âNo ovulation in sight.â
âNone,â you confirm before tugging his belt. âCan you please take off your pants now?â
He compliesâwith incredible speedâand when heâs finally as naked as you, your mouth waters at the sight of him. His cock is painfully hard, thick, with a bead of arousal glistening at the tip. You try to reach for him, but he has other plans. He crawls over your body and slips between your legs. He then grips the back of your thigh with one hand, pulling it up slightly to open you to him, while the other holds himself from the base.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The moan you let out is lewd. âFuck, Spencer.â
An airy laugh slips out from him as he rubs the head of his cock around your clit. âSo needy.â
You wiggle your hips. âHurry up.â
He only hums in response, before easing his hips back just enough to drag his swollen tip through your slick outer lips. The underside of his cock splits your folds open with each stroke, and your head is spinning. Itâs almost sweet how heâs taking this slow, but at this point, youâre so close to just shoving him inside you. You let out a frustrated whine when he pulls back, only to thrust forward just enough for the head of his cock to nudge at your entrance.
Your walls squeeze around him.
âO-OhâŚâ His mouth falls open slightly as he stares down at where your bodies meet. âI⌠I donât remember you being this tight.â
You follow his gaze, watching the way your outer lips swallow him inch by inch. âI-Itâs been a while.â
He pushes further, and your nails dig into his shoulders as he stretches you in a way that feels almost too much, and you can't help but tense when he thrusts further. He wraps your leg around his waist before leaning down, propping his weight on his elbows.
âNeed you to relax,â he murmurs, his lips ghosting over the pulse fluttering wildly in your neck. You do as he says. Breathe in, breathe out. Clench, unclench. And then you feel him easing inside you, oh-so-deliciously slow, until you squeak out a gasp when he finally fills you completely.
Because fuck, he stretches youâwrenches you open, and youâre consumed by his heat, the pressure, the sheer size of him. It overwhelms your senses, and all you can do is sing out a filthy moan. He follows your tune with a melody of his own, though his voice trembles, sounding more like heâs in pain as if heâs trying to hold himself back.
âYouâre so warm,â he groans, his breath hot against your skin. âYou okay?â
You nod and wrap an arm around his shoulders. âMore than okay.â
âDo you think I can move?â
âPlease.â
Thereâs no hesitation in the way he pulls back, only to sink into you again. His hips roll against yours in a way that feels both achingly slow and unhurried, like heâs savoring every second to memorize the way you feel around him. Itâs like he canât quite believe this is happening, that youâre giving him the chance to be tangled up with you in this position again.
And truthfully, neither can you.
But here you are, two bodies moving in perfect harmony, intertwined in the most primal, human way. Flesh against flesh, breath against breath. Even your heartbeats sync in the same rhythm. The world beyond seems to dissolve, leaving nothing but the pull of desire that draws you deeper into the moment, into him, until the boundaries of where you end and he begins blur into something undefinable.
Itâs nonexistent. Youâre glued to him, fused in a way that feels as if this is exactly where you belong.
No more running away, you decide.
âKiss me.â
Heâs in no position to decline, and within a heartbeat, he captures your lips in the sweetest kissâwell, as sweet as it can go. Because even though he tastes like honeyed warmth, his hips continue to pound into you, hitting that deep, tender spot inside. You whine against his lips. A needy, breathless sound that has him faltering for just a second, his hips stuttering against yours.
âYou feel soââ he chokes on his words. âGod, youâre so perfect.â
Youâre perfect, you want to say, but you stop yourself, biting down on the words before they escape. Itâs not that you donât believe it. You just canât bring yourself to admit it out loud. Not yet. Instead, your need wins out, pushing past everything else.
âMore,â you gasp between shallow breaths.
He rests his forehead against yours. âYeah? You want me to go faster?â
You whine in approval.
The instant he pulls back, his tip barely teasing your entrance before slamming into you again, a sharp gasp escapes your lips. He repeats the motion. Once. Twice. By the third time, he doesnât hold back, driving his hips hard and fast, the wet sound of your bodies slapping together echoing off the walls.
You turn into a putty mess. You can barely think, let alone form words, your mind clouded with nothing but the feeling of himâinside you, around you. Your whole world narrows down to this moment, to the way he fills you so perfectly. His forehead stays pressed against yours the whole time, his lips hovering above yours he murmurs, âTell me if itâs too much.â
But itâs not. Itâs everything. Maybe even not enough. âIâŚâ you gasp when a certain angle from him hits a deep spot inside you. âOh, Spencer⌠harder, p-please.â
Heâs more than happy to oblige.
He shifts slightly, then snaps his hips forward with a sudden, forceful thrust. He repeats the motion. Over and over again. His pace is relentless now, and he starts to pant, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts, every exhale brushing against your lips. Thereâs a tension in his body, a taut strain in muscles, but he doesnât stop. He canât stop. And you canât help but moan softly into his mouth, swallowing each of his gasps as his control starts to slip away.
âWhere do you wantââ His voice falters. âCan Iâinsideââ
You nod frantically. âYes. Yes.â
Itâs enough to push you both over the edge.
The sensation starts as a gentle warmth in your fingertips, slowly winding its way through your body. It weaves through your limbs, spirals up your spine, before gathering intensely at your core. Youâre shaking, trembling, and you instinctively reach out for something to ground yourself. One hand threads into his curls, the other clutches his jaw.
Then it happens. His cock moves in a frantic rhythm, sending you spiraling deeper into intense pleasure for the third time tonight. Your inner walls tighten around him as your orgasm crashes through you, gripping him so tightly that it pulls a raw, breathless groan from his lips. He slams into you with uneven thrusts as he presses your body flat onto the bed, until he stops and shudders, spilling hot, white liquid deep inside you.
You donât think youâve ever felt something this intense beforeânot even with him in the past. Every inch of your body is buzzing as his warmth spreads through you, reaching places you didnât even know existed. You cling to him, your nails softly grazing his back as he finally lets out a satisfied hum, his lips moving to pepper kisses along your face.
He starts with your left cheek. Two gentle kisses. He moves to your right, giving a light peck that lingers just a moment longer, almost as if heâs blowing a warm breath against your skin. You giggle as the air tickles you. Then finally, he settles on your lips with a sigh that merges into a kiss. Itâs soft, sweet, and tenderly slow.
You let out another laugh when he finally pulls away.
âWhat?â
His curls fall messily on his forehead and you reach up, brushing it back. âYouâre starting to grow on me.â
He quirks an eyebrow. âI grow on you?â You simply nod. âLike fungus?â
Your fingers pause in his hair. âLike what?â
"You know, fungus. It grows on things. Like mold or mushrooms,â he explains and gives you a smile. "Am I growing on you like that?"
Youâve been apart for so long that you almost forgot how his brain works. His unexpected comparison sparks your amusement, so you decide to humor him. âDepends on what kind of mushroom you are.â
He looks thoughtful for a while. âThere's this mushroom called mycorrhiza. It forms a symbiotic relationship with trees and helps them grow by improving water and nutrient absorption."
âAnd that makes you what, exactly?â
âEssentially indispensable.â
âSo youâre claiming youâre good for me?â
A slow, confident grin spreads across his lips. âIâm saying Iâm exactly what you need.â
You burst out laughing. Your cheeks might actually ache from smiling this much. âThat was pretty smooth.â
He looks incredibly pleased with himself. Then after a quiet moment, he buries his face in the curve of your neck. You close your eyes, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against yours, and a sigh escapes your lips. Itâs like all the time you spent apart melts away in that single breath, and something inside you relaxes, as if heâs managed to sneak back into the parts of you youâd forgotten existed.
Maybe he is right. Maybe, after all this time, heâs exactly what you need.
You wake up to the sound of clatter. Itâs loud, jarring, and it echoes around the house. You stir in bed, stretching your limbs before tensing when you feel something poking your back. Your hazy mind immediately snaps into alert, and you open your eyes fully, glancing toward the window. Sunlight is already pouring into the room, far too bright for how early you thought it was.
You quickly turn over to the other side.
âSpencer. Spencer!â you hiss, shaking his shoulders urgently. âWake up! We overslept!â
He groans softly but doesnât move. Another loud clatter bounces off the walls, and your heart pounds wildly in your chest.
âSpencer,â you whisper sharply, eyes widening. âI think Matt is home.â
That finally gets his attention. He blinks his eyes open. âWhaâ?â
Youâre already halfway out of bed, rushing to the window to peek through the curtains. Sure enough, you spot your brotherâs car parked in the driveway. âYep, heâs here,â you mutter under your breath, the panic rising as you turn back to Spencer. âAnd now heâs going to kill us.â
âHeâs not going to kill us,â he mumbles, but even by his voice, you can tell heâs not entirely convinced. You watch as he finally slips out of bed, scrambling to pick up his clothes scattered across the floor. âWe talked about this last night. Itâs not going to be as bad as you think.â
You shoot him a look before quickly pulling on your own clothes.
âThereâs a big difference between telling him, and him finding out that his sister is sleeping with his friend while he was away taking care of his wife and baby.â You yank your shirt over your head. âIn his freaking house.â
When you put it that way, Spencerâs heart sinks a little. Although Matt isnât a violent person, he has twice the muscle he does, and itâs not hard to imagine him being a lot less forgiving in a situation like this. He canât help but picture the worst-case scenario even though Mattâs always been the reasonable type.
Until now, maybe.
âDo you think I should climb out the window?â
You stare at him in disbelief. "Spencer, youâre not sixteen.â
âActually, Iâve never been in a situation like this,â he admits, pulling up his pants. âMy biggest concern when I was sixteen was getting my first PhD.â
You forgot how ridiculously smart he is. Smarter than most people, definitely smarter than you. âWell now youâre getting firsthand experience.â You start pacing around the room. âLetâs just try to stay calm.â
âThatâs kind of hard to do when your brother could walk in while Iâm half-naked.â
You look at him in horror. âThen put your damn shirt on!"
Before he can reply, there's a noise from outside the roomâa quick shuffle of steps, light and rapid, as if someoneâs rushing down the hall. You barely have time to react before the door is wrenched open.
But it's not your brother.
It's far worse.
You feel your stomach drop when your eyes lands on the small figure of your nephew, standing there with wide eyes. His gaze shifts back and forthâfrom you, disheveled and clearly flustered, to Spencer, whose bare back is facing the door, still fumbling with his pants. From little Jake's point of view, it must look like the most confusing sight, because he quickly retreats, bolting down the hallway.
âDad! Help! Thereâs a strange man in Auntieâs room!â
You donât know whether to laugh or panic. The fact that Jake didnât recognize Spencer without his usual suit is almost comical. You glance at him, noticing how his body has tensed, his back straightening in alarm.
âWho was that?â he whispers, turning to you with wide eyes.
"Jake.â You blow a strand of hair that falls across your face. âWho apparently thinks you're an intruder."
The blood seems to drain from his face. âHe didnât recognize me?â
Your eyes flick over his appearanceâhis wild, tangled hair sticking out in all directions, bare chest still slightly flushed from sleep, and pants barely zipped. âNot when you look like this, no.â
But before he can respond, you hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway, heavier this time.
Your heart leaps into your throat.
âShit.â
âI should have climbed out the window.â
The idea of him dangling from the window is even more absurd. You glance toward the door. "Okay, wait here. Let me talk to Matt first." Your eyes flicker to his bare chest again, and you let out the most exasperated sigh. "And please, for the love of God, put on your shirt."
You donât have time to wait for his response as you rush out of the room, quickly closing the door behind you. You take a second to catch your breath, trying to compose yourself, when a noise down the hallway draws your attention. Only then do you notice Matt cautiously advancing towards your way, his back against the wall.
Thatâs when you spot the gun in his hand.
âSeriously?â you hiss, staring at him in disbelief. âWhat the hell, Matthew!â
He looks at you, equally surprised. âJake said there was a strange man in your room!â he replies defensively, tightening his grip on the weapon. âWhat was I supposed to think?ââ
Your eyes shift toward your nephew, whoâs peeking around the corner, his little head barely visible as he watches the scene unfold. This is definitely not how you expected your morning to go. A simple, awkward conversation was one thing, but having to disarm your brother while explaining this mess was an entirely different level.
âThereâs no intruder, Matt. Put the gun down.â
He looks past you, his eyes zeroing in on the closed bedroom door. âThen whoâs in there?â
You bite the inside of your cheek. Thereâs no easy way to explain this. How do you even start? That Spencer is standing half-naked in the guest room, trying to gather his dignity after being mistaken for an intruder by a six-year-old? You never thought you'd have to introduce Spencer to your brother this way, in his own house, under these chaotic circumstances.
You can feel Matt's eyes boring into you, waiting for an answer. All you can think is how ridiculous this all must look, and how there's no good way to smooth over the fact that, yes, Spencer Reid, his friend slash teammate, is behind the door. And the most absurd part? A part of you is more worried about the look on Matt's face than the fact that he's holding a gun.
âPlease donât be mad.â
You hold your breath as you slowly reach for the doorknob. You push the door open and let out a small, relieved sound when you see Spencer fully dressed, looking almost presentable, except for the wild hair that refuses to settle. He gives you a small nod before stepping out of the room.
âUncle Spencer?â Jakeâs small voice cuts through the tension. Mattâs gaze darts between you two, his jaw tightening as he puts the pieces together. You can see the moment realization hits him full force.
âReid?â Mattâs voice is incredulous, bordering on betrayed. âWhat the hell is going on?â
âI can explain,â you say cautiously. âItâs not exactly how it looks.â
âNot exactly how it looks?â Matt echoes, his eyes narrowing at you, then shifting back to Spencer. âYouâre in my guest room looking like you just rolled out of bedââ
âFully clothed now,â Spencer cuts in quickly, which only earns him a frown from Matt.
âNot helping,â you mutter under your breath, shooting Spencer a look before turning back to your brother. âFine, itâs exactly how it looks like. So⌠uh, surprise?â
You watch so many emotions flashing in his eyes. Mattâs always been a good brother. Sometimes annoying, but always reliable. He doesnât usually get angry at youâquite the opposite, actually. Heâs calm, level-headed, and more prone to offering advice than raising his voice. But now? The frustration is clear in his eyes.
Heâs not mad exactly, but heâs definitely not happy either.
âSurprise?â Matt repeats, his voice flat. His gaze flick back to Spencer, whoâs now shifting his weight awkwardly beside you. âThis is how you decided to tell me?â
âOkay, itâs not how we planned it, obviously.â
âClearly,â he deadpans.
You put on the best, innocent-looking face you can muster.
âMaaatttt,â you try again, deciding to use a different approach by being cute this time. âDonât be so harsh.â
To your relief, it actually works on him, like it usually does whenever you try to charm your way out of trouble. His tough exterior falters because, no matter what, youâre still his baby sister. His face softens for a moment, shoulders dropping as he lets out a sigh.
âIâm not mad, okay? But I am your brother. And you,â he adds, pointing at Spencer. âYouâre supposed to be my friend. I feel like I shouldâve known about this before⌠well, before finding you like this.â Your shoulders slumps at his words. âHow long has this been going?â
Now that is a tricky question. Explaining that you and Spencer occasionally had sex five years ago definitely isnât something your brother needs to hear right nowâor ever, really. You can almost feel Spencer tense beside you, probably having the same thought.
You clear your throat. âLast night.â
"Last night?" Matt looks at you as if youâre crazy. It might be the most disapproving look heâs ever given to you. "You're telling me this just started last night?"
"Butâ" you quickly add, holding up a hand to stop his train of thought. "Weâve been talking for a while, itâs not like it happened out of nowhere. Last night was just the first time we decided to actually do something about it."
âRight under my roof?â Mattâs brows pinches upward. âYou lied about having a headache, didnât you?â
âWait, you had a headache? Why didnât you tell me?â
Youâre not sure you can handle two men pestering you at the same time. You focus on your brother instead.
âLook, we didnât plan anything yesterday. Things just⌠happened,â you say, trying to explain without making it sound worse than it already does. âBut itâs not only about last night. For what itâs worth, we were planning to tell to you. Just not like this.â
Your brother cocks an eyebrow. âSo this isnât a one-time thing?â
Spencer doesnât hesitate. âGod, no,â he says. You feel an arm snake around your waist. âI care about her. A lot.â
Matt stares at Spencer for a long moment, his face a mixture of frustration, concern, and something else. Acceptance, maybe. He looks back at you. âIs this what you want?â
You feel Spencerâs grip tighten on your waist. Heâs also waiting for your answer.
âItâs what I want.â
Spencerâs thumb brushes over you as Matt lets out a long breath, his grip on the gun finally relaxing. âThis feels weird.â
âIn a good way?â
âIn a bizarre kind of way.â Mattâs falls falls on Spencer again. âIâm still trying to process this, but if you hurt herââ
âI wonât,â Spencer promises. âI swear.â
âGood, because you know I can put you back to prison if you do.â
Oh, he knows. Spencer understands exactly what he means, after all, Matt was one of the few people who helped clear his name during one of the most horrific moments of his life. Even if thereâs a slight jab in his words, Spencer can tell heâs being dead serious. Especially with that gun still attached to his grip.
You, on the other hand, are hearing this for the first time. âWait, what?â you blurt out. âPrison? You went to prison?â
Spencer merely shrug. Matt finally lowers his weapon, shaking his head as if he canât quite believe this is happening. âI need coffee,â he mutters, turning toward the kitchen.
âWaitâŚâ Jake finally peeks out from behind the wall. You blink your eyes, forgetting heâs even there. âDoes this mean Uncle Spencer is your boyfriend now?â
You feel three pair of eyes on you. Mattâs gaze is sharp. Spencerâs expression is cautious. And then thereâs Jake, looking up at you with the straightforward curiosity only a child can have. To him, things are simple. Either you are, or you arenât, and in hindsight, it really is a straightforward question. But nothing about this situation has been straightforward.
You look at Spencer for a fraction of a second. You can see the nervous hope reflected in his eyes. Maybe Jakeâs question isnât just his⌠maybe itâs Spencerâs too.
And sure, maybe it doesnât have to be so complicated. Maybe it really is as simple as sayingâ
âYes.â You can feel your heartbeat in your ears. âI suppose he is.â
If youâve ever seen Spencer being happy, it pales in comparison to this. His eyes light up, and he looks at you like youâre the only person in the world. A genuine, almost boyish smile spreads across his face as you feel his warmth seep into your skin. Thereâs so much affection in his gaze it makes your chest tighten. Heâs not just happy. Heâs beaming.
Matt clears his throat awkwardly. âCome on, kiddo, letâs grab what your mom needs and get back to the hospital.â He glances back at you. âYou guys coming?â
You nod absentmindedly. âSure.â
He throws you both a look. Not hateful, but definitely not warm either. You see him grip his gun from the corner of your eye, more out of habit than necessity, before steering his son away with a firm hand on his shoulders.
âThat went better than expected,â Spencer mutters the moment your brother is out of earshot.
ââItâs not going to be as bad as you thinkâ,â you mock, reciting the words he said to you half an hour ago.
âIt wasnât.â
âSpencer, he held a gun.â
âHe thought I was an intruder. I wouldâve done the same thing,â he points out, his tone surprisingly calm as he holds you by your waist. âRelax, okay? Heâll come around us. Eventually.â
âYouâre awfully optimistic about this.â
âHe likes me.â
He does have a point. Matt has always had a soft spot for Spencer, but youâre not sure how far that can go after what just happened. âI think you might have lost a few brownie points today.â
He considers the truth in your words. âMaybe,â he admits with a shrug. âBut at least I earned a few with you.â
âBecause of the boyfriend thing?â Heâs grinning so wide that his eyes practically disappear into crescent moons. You poke the slightest dimple on his cheek. âDonât act so smug. Iâm still trying to process the fact that Iâm dating an ex-felon.â
âI was framed,â he explains, and the way he says it so nonchalantly only deepens your confusion. He tries to smooth your frown with a kiss. âIâll tell you everything on our first date.â
âWho said Iâll go on a date with you?â
âYou will,â he simply says, like itâs the most obvious thing in the world.
âAnd what makes you so sure?â
Because heâs always been sure. The man who doubts everything, who overanalyzes every situation, looks at you with a certainty that makes your heart swell. Youâve seen that look beforeâthe one that says heâs considered every possible outcome and decided this is the one that matters most. Thereâs something magnetic about it, the way he seems to know exactly what he wants, and right now, itâs you.
âBecause Iâm your mushroom.â
Heâs so silly, yet thereâs something so perfectly Spencer about it that makes the idea of not going on a date with him feel impossible. You shake your head, unable to suppress your smile.
âYouâre ridiculous,â you mutter, but the warmth in your chest tells you heâs already won your heart.
i want him so bad. and not even in a sexual way. i just want him to lay his head on my chest while i play with his hair. i want him to ramble on about the most random things like "did you know kangaroos have three vaginas?" and i'd soak up every single word this man says. i'm so down bad for this little nerd. please please please, i want to be able to love him. LORD IF YOU ARE LISTENING ANSWER MY PRAYERS đ
đŹđŽđŚđŚđđŤđ˛: spencer had heard rumors that a few female students secretly had a crush on him, but he always dismissed it as a joke and never intended to engage in any kind of relationship with them. that is, until a certain bright and quiet one caught his attention.
đđ¨đ§đđđ§đđŹ/đŠđ¨đđđ§đđ˘đđĽ đđ°: professor reid x student!female reader, spence's pov only, uni looks like a f1ucking hogwart just for the vibe, reader having some daddy issues and revealing some past experiences, father's death anniversary, trauma dumping actually but it's not a self-insert story i just really got into it lol, age gap, fingering, insane sexual tension during their convos, kinda socially awkward reader who's also an irony queen from time to time, talking, lots of talking blah blah
đ/đ§: a special dedication to my beloved girlies who feel that if they ever crossed paths with spencer reid theyâd be too stupid to talk to him. it's also a request i got from one of you <3 hope you'll enjoy it
đ°đ¨đŤđđŹ: 8.9k
Dr. Reid didnât notice her right away.
Alright, fine. Dr. Reid did notice her. His analytical mind placed great importance on everything happening around him. He observed the faces of his students, instantly committing their names to memoryâhe wanted to know who attended his lectures. A more accurate statement would be that, at first, he didnât pay her any special attention.
She struck him as quiet. And she was quiet. Silent and observantâthat was the impression he had of her. When he formed that opinion, he wasnât thinking about her yet. While reading, he didnât wonder whether the book he had chosen would appeal to her, nor did he consider which aspects of it might draw her into the depths of discussion, making her usually tightly pressed lips come alive with unceasing words. Arriving at the university with a briefcase in hand, his coat tightly wrapped around him, he didnât fixate on the ever-thickening layer of snow or brush its delicate flakes from his hair. His mind was entirely absorbed by thoughts of whether her clothing was suited to the weather and if she might be cold. Most importantly, when he formed that opinion, his gaze, upon entering the lecture hall, didnât immediately begin searching for her faceâunassuming and half-hidden among the othersâbefore heâd even greeted the rest of the students.
Because when he formed that opinion, she was just a student, like all the others.
His lectures with her group were held twice a week, at a time when everything outside the window slowly began to gray, and they usually ended with a sense of relief for all the students, as another day of study came to a close. Reid always stayed a moment longer in the room, ready to answer any lingering questions or offer help with any issues. These questions often repeated. Sometimes, when he felt particularly tired, he didnât have to exert much effort in his responses. That didnât mean, of course, that he was ignorant. It was simply that his lips seemed to know the right words; he didnât need to fully wake up or concentrate.
It was the same that late November afternoon. She approached slowly, almost shyly, to his desk, waiting for the moment when everyone else would finally disappear through the door. As if she were embarrassed that her question might reach unwanted ears. He lifted his gaze to her, immediately noticing her retreat and uncertainty, and smiled gently, encouragingly, to embolden her. And the question she asked had the effect of caffeine injected directly into his veins.
His brain immediately sprang into action, so absorbed and genuinely intrigued. Surprised, even. He answered her question, of course, but when he felt the penetrating, eager gaze of her eyes on him, he couldnât shake the feeling that everything he said was inadequate and couldnât satisfy her curiosity. He even became somewhat stressed and lost his train of thought. A slight hint of amusement stretched her lips, but, luckily for him, she ignored it, sparing him any embarrassment. They discussed a topic unusually connected to the lecture, and he hadnât felt so intellectually engaged in a long time, though it lasted only a quarter of an hour. Afterward, she disappeared through the door like everyone else, thanking him for the answer before she left.
He didnât hide the fact that his thoughts returned to that conversation. And when, after another lecture, she approached him again in that same characteristic manner, he hoped she would pick up where they left off. That they would continue their discussion exactly at that interrupted point. But her question was about something else, something equally fascinating, and at that moment, in that instant, he completely erased everything from his mind that had come before, fully absorbed in what they were now discussing.
Slowly, it all stopped being solely about criminology lectures and started touching on every possible tangent, from literature to more mundane matters, like current events at the university. But no matter what they were talking about, he approached it with the same level of engagement. He was pleased that it had become their little ritual.
Being, letâs not shy away from the word, a genius, meant that it was hard for him to find someone on the same intellectual level. And he didnât say this with disdain for others, absolutely not. Spencer always enjoyed those little chats with others, truly cherished the time spent with his close ones. He just sometimes needed that kind of intellectual stimulation.
With the second week of December, something changed.
It was probably something about her general mood. Well, this month was often exceptionally depressing for a large portion of the population, but it didnât seem like that was the issue. She had once mentioned to him that she really valued winter.
 âReally?â he asked then, resting one hand on the desk. Usually, their conversations followed the typical, unspoken arrangement of their bodies in relation to each other. He, more relaxed, often prone to gestures, and she, much less expressive. Her hip didnât tilt to either side, she maintained a straight posture, and liked to hold something in her handsâlike a notebook. When she had nothing, her fingers gently brushed the edge of the desk. Spencer couldnât help but constantly lower his gaze to her hands and analyze their subtle movements. When he spoke, they remained still, frozen in focus. When she spoke, they would move in fluid, wave-like motions to the sides. He tried not to stare too much, as he was sure that if she caught him, sheâd stop. But he liked those moments of uncontrolled naturalness in her. âWhat do you like about it so much?â
Her facial expressions were fascinating. Complex, like the world depicted in some novel. At the same time, difficult to decipher; sometimes, he had to guess what some small gestures meant. She blinked rarely, and when she did it more often than usual, it seemed to substitute for a shrug or uncertainty.
âI think itâs mostly how short the days are. When one of them turns out to be a failure, you donât have to wait long until the new one begins.â
âWhen a day feels like a failure, you donât have to write it off completely. Maybe sometimes itâs worth trying to fix it, at any moment you find yourself in.â
âThatâs very wise advice, professor. But not for me,â she scoffed. âWhen something goes wrong, Iâd rather start over right away than linger in that bad streak. Even when I make a mistake while taking notes, I...â
âYou tear the page out and start writing on a clean one,â he blurted out the end of the sentence, his back straightening slightly when he realized he had said it out loud.
He had noticed how she did that, not once or twice. However, he was slightly embarrassed by the fact that he had admitted to staring at her during lectures. And he didnât do it on purpose! Most of all, not obsessively. It just happened that the longer they knew each other, the more their private conversations continued, the more often his gaze drifted toward her. Sometimes, while analyzing a topic, he was so curious about what she thought, specifically what she thought, that he simply couldnât stop himself⌠although usually, he still couldnât read much from her face.
At his observation, her hand resting on the edge of the desk froze.
âExactly,â she admitted, giving him a gentle smile. He looked at her more closely then, noticing the slight radiance on her face. That expression suited her. It wasnât as if she always wore a completely serious or sad face. More often, though, she hid her emotions instead of eagerly presenting every little feeling she had. She cleared her throat, and Spencer immediately dropped his gaze. âI hope the sound of tearing paper doesnât throw you off rhythm.â
âOf course not,â he reassured her quickly. âDonât even worry about it. The only thing that throws me off rhythm is conversations.â
âThat doesnât happen often, though,â she replied. âI mean, others donât talk to each other when youâre speaking. Itâs completely different in other classes.â
This comment surprised him immensely; he frowned and asked what she meant by it.
"Maybe it's just my observation," she noted at the start. "Maybe it's about the way you speakâyouâre... you're very engaged in the topic, and listening to you is so pleasant that others don't feel the need to make silly remarks or interrupt. Or maybe..." She suddenly stopped, a tension flickered across her face, as if she desperately wanted to pull back from what she was about to say.
"Or maybe...?" He couldn't stop himself, so curious to hear the end of the sentence. Then he noticed her discomfort, her gaze fixed on the desk, embarrassment washing over her. His curiosity wasnât worth making her feel that way, and he quickly scolded himself. "It's fine, you don't have to continue..."
"Or maybe I just think that others are quieter because of how focused I am," she blurted out in one breath, pressing her lips together in embarrassment. Spencer felt an unidentified shift in the rhythm of his heart, beating against his chest. "On you. On the lecture, of course."
"On the lecture," he repeated, his voice strangely husky. He swallowed, trying to clear it, struggling to find the right words. "I'm... I'm really glad that you find everything I say so interesting."
"Of course I do," she replied carefully. "Criminology is my passion, and it's the field I want to explore as deeply as I can. And you're a huge authority to me. Like, Iâm sure, to all the other students too," she added hastily.
As December progressed, their conversations became a bit less lively and shorter. Or maybe it was just some mistaken impression of his? Maybe he had grown to like them so much and looked forward to them so eagerly that no matter how long they lasted, it would never be enough for him? He felt strange with such a thought and immediately reprimanded himself. He shouldn't be placing so much importance on his meetings with his student.Â
She shouldnât occupy his thoughts as much as she did.
Brilliant, now he was starting to pin all the blame on her.Â
Pathetic.
Looking back, that day was exceptionally bright. Snowflakes fell relentlessly from the sky, twirling in a dance-like motion and tracing delicate patterns in the air. A thick layer of snow on the windowsills cast a white glow across the room and seemed to shield the interior from the intrusion of any potential darkness.
Spencer had promised himself he wouldnât look at her the moment he walked into the room. And yet, he did. Though she might have seemed like a loner, she had a small circle of friendsâthree, to be precise. A quiet girl, a guy, and, finally, another girl who was their complete opposite, always seeming to voice the thoughts of their entire group aloud.
Before his arrival, they seemed to be discussing something. She was only half-listening, her eyes fixed on the book she was reading. When she did respond, which was rare, her lips barely parted. Meanwhile, as she turned the pages, her hands gripped them so tightly it looked as if she might tear them apart.
He mentally noted the detail, curious about what kind of book could evoke such emotions in her. He desperately needed to know the title. Or maybe it wasnât about the book at all? It didnât matter. He had to find out anyway.
Reid couldnât make out the writing on the coverâsimple and black, like some kind of journal. Throughout the entire lecture, it lay closed right under her nose. Craning his neck and trying to identify it he probably looked like a total idiot. It was only after some time that he reminded himself, sobered by the thought that, based on what she had once told himâand assuming it had been a sincere admissionâhe was, in some way, an authority figure to these students. He ought to focus on passing on as much of his knowledge to them as possible in return.Â
When the class finally came to an end, everyone began heading for the exit. She usually packed her things at a very slow pace, making sure to be the last one in the room, apart from him. She wasnât doing anything wrong; she had the right to stay and talk to her professor, but she still approached it with some caution. Maybe she didnât want to raise the curiosity of her friends? In any case, that day she didnât slow down as she made her way to his desk. She followed the other figures toward the exit, arm in arm with a friend who was saying something to her. Spencer was surprised to notice that she didnât turn toward him even once.
Before he could understand what she was doing, he called her name. Loudly.
She wasnât the only one who turned around, but she was the only one who stayed. He tried hard to read the expression on her face. She seemed a little distracted, her gaze moving from the door to him, and he began to suspect that maybe she had simply forgotten about their brief conversations. He deeply hoped that was the case. Not that she had any problems, or that he had said something she didnât likeâŚ
âYeah?â she asked, tightly holding a thick book against her chest. He still hadnât figured out which one, and it still intrigued him. âDo you want to talk about something, professor?â
Reid suddenly realized in panic that he hadnât prepared any topic. He had called her over spontaneously, not even really knowing why. Usually, it was her who approached him with a question, and the conversation would flow on its own⌠but the weight of her gaze left him no time to think.Â
"Well..." he began, nervously swallowing and feeling like a small, pathetic boy. "Actually, no... actually, I just wanted to know... if you had any questions. About the lecture, I mean."
He leaned one hand on the desk, hoping he didnât look as deeply embarrassed as he felt. What the hell was happening to him?
"I don't have any," she replied. Spencer almost sighed in disappointment, barely managing to stop himself. She had been standing very close to the closed door, turning toward it as if making sure no one was behind it. Then, suddenly, she timidly stepped closer to him. "To be honest, I wasn't really focused today. I guess... itâs just not my day."
 His brows furrowed in brief concern.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Do you need me to explain something in more detail? It's... really no trouble for me, and I donât want you to fall behind."
"Please don't worry about it, professor," she assured him. Her fingers tightened around the book she was holding, and the sigh that escaped her lips carried with it a small... smile? "Thank you for that, but I'll just take notes from someone and catch up on my own. I don't want to take up your time..."
 "It's really no trouble..."
 "...And by the way... I don't feel too well. My focus is nonexistent so it wouldnât make much sense."
"Alright," he gave in, and for a moment, they both fell silent. Looking at her face, he tried to find any signs of illness, a developing cold, or maybe the flu. She did look a bit pale. She shifted from foot to foot, and he realized he had been staring at her and quickly shook his head. "Sorry for holding you up. You should go and try to rest. HaveâŚhave something warm to drink. It will do you good."
She wasnât gazing longingly at the door, impatient with his words and eager to leave, as he had thought she would. In fact... she seemed to be looking at him with a hint of hesitation.
"Itâs not that... I canât focus at all," she began. "Itâs just that more complicated topics canât settle in my mind. Related to studying, mostly. But that doesnât mean I want to shut myself off completely. Honestly, I think I could use a bit of conversation..." A sudden laugh escaped her lips. "Sorry, really. I didnât mean to bother you with... nonsense. I should probably talk to a friend, not a professor, if I just wanted to chat..."
She flinched, as if about to turn and leaveâalmost run away. Spencer straightened abruptly, wanting to stop her.
âNo, waitâdonât go. You can talk to me. What is it? Is something bothering you?â
Her gaze wandered aimlessly around the room for a moment before she finally shook her head.
"Nothing specific. Stress, the end of the semester, you know. Everyoneâs only talking about that, and I just want to think about something else for a moment. Anything."
"I completely understand," Reid admitted. Leaning back against the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chest, he studied her more intently. A flicker of doubt sparked within himâwas it really just that? Something inside him tugged, eager to uncover everything weighing on her mind and causing such a somber mood. But he knew her well enough by now to realize that a direct question would only make her retreat.
He paused, considering what he would want to talk about if he needed to distract himself from a troubling thought.
"Does... does literature fall under those complicated topics you canât quite settle in your mind?"
She dropped her head with a sudden laugh. A fleeting sense of satisfaction washed over him, as if heâd just achieved some long-term goal. Odd, but pleasant.
âNo,â she replied. âLiterature is actually a topic I could talk about even in the middle of the night, freshly woken from sleep. In theory, at least. In practice, Iâd probably start mixing up names so much you wouldnât even know which work I was referring to. I mean, they wouldnât. The person who woke me up wouldnât knowâI didnât mean you specificallyâŚâ
This time, it was him who started laughing as she, embarrassed, tried to untangle herself from her own words.
"I got the general message."
"Thank God. You know, I've been thinking lately that if I just kept my mouth shut every time I said something stupid, Iâd save myself from a tonâno, an enormous amount of incredibly awkward social situations."
It amused him that she had pointed out a problem he himself often dealt with. He opened his mouth to say something, but almost immediately had to close it again. He nearly blurted out that he found all her moments of embarrassment genuinely endearing and didnât want her to hold back from speaking around him just out of fear of self-embarrassment.Â
Before he could even decide if it was the appropriate thing to say, she spoke again.
âSo⌠why did you ask about literature?â
He was so lost in thought that for a brief moment, he almost forgot that he had even brought up the topic. It wasnât until his gaze once again landed on the book she was holding that he snapped back to reality.
âI spent most of the lecture wondering what you were reading,â he admitted, still standing with his back to the desk, leaning on it with his hands, trying to hide their brief, slight tremor. Maybe he had said it too directly⌠or perhaps it was just his usual tendency to overanalyze every word he said to her. Quickly, he added, âBecause Iâm sure Iâve never seen that book before. I donât recognize the cover at all, although I know there can be different editions. Whatâs the authorâs name?â
She gave him the name with a strange expression. Spencer furrowed his brows, but she beat him to it, speaking before he could say anything.
âThatâs right, itâs my fatherâs book.â
Honestly intrigued, he tilted his head to the side.
"I didnât know he was a writer. And... to be completely honest, Iâve never heard of him..."
To his surprise, she laughed. Not shyly and genuinely as before, but with a bitterness that lingered in her voice.
"Itâs not that he was a writer. He just really, really wanted to be one. But no publisher was really interested in what came out of his office. Which doesnât surprise me much. Anyway, in the end, he gave up and printed that one copy just to have something to proudly put on the shelf."
He felt that they had stepped onto some unstable ground, one that required him to tread carefully. Or perhaps even retreat if it might cause her any pain. And it seemed that it did. However, Spencer felt too concerned to pull back.Â
âWhy are you reading his book, anyway?â he asked cautiously. Her face remained expressionless, and he wondered if she even caught the gist of his question. Most likely, she didâwithout a problemâbut he felt an inner need to add something more, to keep the conversation flowing smoothly instead of making it feel like an interrogation. âMaybe⌠maybe itâs just my completely wrong assumptionâcorrect me if Iâm offâbut you didnât exactly look⌠like you were enjoying it much.â
She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. She forced herself to stay calm, forced herself to appear at ease. But it was too lateâthe enigmatic shield that had protected her from all sides had been cracked, and her expression turned transparent, everything behind itÂ
"He's gone. Two years ago, in December," she admitted, her voice lacking overt despair, though tinged with the unmistakable weight of layered pain. She seemed uncomfortable sharing itânot with him as a person, but with him as her professor. "A few days before Christmas. Last year... I donât know why, maybe just to torture myself, I started reading it. And this year, the same thing. The month started, and somehow, subconsciously... I just woke up with the book in my hands at one point. Thatâs... for context. Forgive me if this doesnât interest you at all. I probably said too muchâŚâ
âNo, you didnât. Donât think that,â he assured her, instinctively taking a step forward, closer to her, though he couldnât quite explain why. The conversation had drifted into an unexpected territory, but this was exactly what he had wantedâto know what had been weighing on her. âAt least⌠at least now I understand whatâs been making you feel the way you do lately. I wonât keep catching myself trying to guess whatâs behind it anymore. And I wonât worry so much, now that I know.â
âWorry,â she repeated immediately after him, before the echo of his previous words had a chance to dissolve into the void. Her tone was the kind used to point out someoneâs grammatical slip-upsâsharp, quick, decisive. As if she simply couldnât help herself.
Spencer froze in place, just one step away from her. Now that he was finally this close, he could have taken a proper look at the cover of the book she was holding, but suddenly, it didnât matter at all. His focus was entirely on herâher words, her face, and the quiet weight of the troubles she carried.
He didnât know what he should do, his hands falling limply at his sides. He imagined what it would feel like to gently touch her cheekâhe could do it, all it would take was moving his hand forward. That was all that separated them. Just that small distance and some ingrained barrier in his mind, shaking its head in disapproval and conjuring painfully vivid images of her pulling away before his fingers even grazed her skin, leaving him as quickly as she could.
âItâs not that⌠reading this book is such a complete torment,â she began with a sigh, relaxing her posture slightly as his shadow loomed just above her. She held the book out toward him, so close that she didnât even have to extend her elbow. She had clearly changed the subject. âYou can⌠check for yourself. Itâs decently written. At times, good. It has some insightful points. Page 814, for example. Verse 6.â
Surprised not only by the request but also by her precise instructions, Reid took the book from her without hesitation. It was incredibly thick and heavy, with no interesting illustrations on the cover, only the authorâs name written in fancy font. Though his reading speed was impressive, instead of absorbing the information on the following pages, he focused on reaching the one she had pointed out.
The mentioned quote was underlined with a black line, as if drawn with a ruler.
"It is impossible to prove your loyalty under favorable conditions. For it to happen, something must shake your world, the walls of your home must begin to crumble, and challenges must materialize outside. Only then, in that most difficult moment for both of you, can you finally prove to the other person that you will never leave them, and that your love will never reach their back."
"I love this quote," she said before he could formulate any thought. Surprisingly, there was no trace of irony in her voice. "Honestly. It's accurate and aligns with my personal worldview. But at the same time, it amuses me incredibly..." She scoffed bitterly. "...That it came from the pen of a guy who, after sixteen years of marriage, got another woman pregnant. Oopsie. A bit of hypocrisy, don't you think?"
Completely shaken by the confession, Spencer placed his hand on her shoulder. He didn't care that she had said it all in a tone dripping with sarcasm, not in the form of a broken lament. He still felt that he had to, felt that he needed to offer her some form of support, even if it was as weak as touching her hand.
She seemed to be in shock. Those earlier words had almost escaped from her lips on their own, and she kept them slightly parted, as if hoping they would return. And when they didn't, she must not have expected his reaction. Or maybe she was counting on a response just as sharp as her tone, a snicker or a biting retort. Not a touch, not a tender furrowing of his brow.
Her bottom lip trembled, and her cheeks flushed with a delicate redness.
 âSorry, really. Can I... can I open the window? I think I need some fresh airâŚâ
Instead of responding, he guided her toward the window, his hand resting on her back, hovering just at the edge of touch. She closed her eyes, feeling the winter chill against her face, and sighed. Spencer, though reluctantly, stepped back a couple of paces, giving her space. But he couldn't stop himself from studying her face. He hadn't noticed it before, too focused on her mind, but now he saw that her face, her presence, was just as beautiful.
Was it just a simple statement of fact, or a thought that had emerged from the unpredictable corners of his inner self?
They spent a moment, maybe even a few minutes, in silence. After that, she hesitantly turned to him over her shoulder.
"Oh no, don't you dare apologize again," he warned, extending his hand in a firm gesture.
"But I should," she said. "You're my professor, and I just came to you and started unloading about my life. It's not even just inappropriate anymore, it's simply pathetic."
"As long as I don't consider it inappropriate or pathetic, then it isn't. And you place too much importance on the fact that I'm your professor. Maybe... it would help you if you stopped seeing me only in that context, and started... seeing me as, say, a friend. And if that's too much, then at least as a genuinely interested conversational partner?"
The corners of her lips suddenly trembled.
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"Well, I think we could argue about the definition if we wanted to."
âThereâs no need for that,â she said, turning fully away from the window and leaning on the windowsill with her elbows. A few traces of a blush still lingered on her face, adding so much charm that Spencerâs thoughts began to wander in such a dangerous direction that he had to look away. âBut⌠I need to know. Is that⌠what you really think of me? A conversation companion? A slash, a friend?â
âIâm not sure⌠if I understand,â
 One of her nails bent as she nervously tapped it on the windowsill.
 âI just want to know if you think of me as someone more than an annoying student who bothers you after every lecture.â
Reid was momentarily taken aback.
âYou thought I thought of you like that?â
Unfazed, she blinked.
âYou tell me.â
"He didnât know how to put it into words without it sounding inappropriate. In the end, he decided to stop worrying about propriety and just be honest.
"Not once, since you started coming to see me, have I thought you were irritating. But more than once, Iâve thought that youâre truly fascinating, and I even... I even found myself eagerly awaiting what youâd want to talk about next."
Her head tilted slightly to the side as she listened to him. The old, familiar impenetrability returned to her expressionâher eyes slightly narrowed, her lips... perhaps on the verge of an uncertain smile?
He never got the chance to find out. Immediately after his words, someone interrupted them, completely shattering the atmosphere inside.
"Are there any more classes here?" asked the man responsible for cleaning, peeking inside. "I thought they were over..."
"Because they are," Reid quickly replied, only now noticing that, indeed, darkness had fallen outside. Their classes had taken place in the afternoon, and the conversation had stretched so long that early winter evening had already begun. "We were just... just leaving."
"Well then, I guess goodbye," she said once they were outside. "It really got late, and I need to rewrite my notes..."
For some reason, he felt incredibly disappointed.
*
The last lecture before the Christmas break took place in a dreamy atmosphere. Everyone's spirit was already outside the classroom, far from criminology-related topics, surrounded by family and loved ones.
As usual, he couldn't stop glancing in her direction. He was incredibly pleased that nothing had changed since their memorable conversation, and their routine of chatting after every class remained untouched. Or perhaps something had changed? Their mutual ease with one another had grown, as had the range of topics they navigated. His impatience for their conversations had grown as well...
That day, he waited for her to approach his desk with her characteristic, slow, perfectly controlled step. He watched, almost hypnotized, as she did, adjusting her bag on her shoulder before standing up from her seat. But when she was right in front of him, one of her friends, the loud one, suddenly grabbed her hand.
"Don't tell me you're planning to bother him again," she scoffed. "We were supposed to go out and eat together before I head home, remember?"
"Oh," her friend hesitated, casting an apologetic glance at Spencer. They were too close for him not to overhear their conversation. He felt a selfish frustration rising within him. "Actually, sorry, I forgot. But...Can you give me a minute?"
Her friend rolled her eyes but nodded, and after a moment, they were left alone in the room.
"You're not staying to chat, or has my deduction skills gotten worse?"
"Unfortunately. I mean, unfortunately, I'm not staying. For long. I just wanted to... wish you a Merry Christmas."
Sometimes, when he talked to her, he forgot there was a world outside of their conversation, and that such a thing as months existed, and one of them was December. Christmas, right.
"Merry Christmas, to you too. I hope... I hope you'll have a really nice time."
He didn't know what else to add. Everything he said could lead to a long discussion, and outside the door, her friend was probably waiting for her to join her. So he stayed silent, a little awkwardly. She gave him an equally awkward smile. Awkward, but sincere.
Her feet shuffled in place, as if they wanted to stay in the room, not leave.
She waved goodbye once more to break the tension and disappeared through the door.
Spencer let out a heavy sigh. Maybe he should've said something. Suddenly, so many possible topics came to his mind. For example, the holiday party, the ball, organized by her department. Was she planning to go? What about Christmas itself? Was she going to spend it with her family? How was she feeling? How had her day gone? Did she enjoy the lecture? They were short questions, ones she'd probably answer just as briefly. He could have asked any of them.
But it was too late. They won't see each other until the beginning of the new semester.
He overanalyzed the interaction for a few more hours, later that evening, on his way to the university library. The corridors were almost empty; the students had either left or were attending the Christmas ball that had just begun. It might have sounded a bit serious and pompous, but such an event was indeed organized every year by a different department. It shouldnât be confused with a student party, as formal attire was required, and the music was usually classical or instrumental versions of traditional carols. It was a way to thank the students, faculty, and university management for completing another semester.
He overanalyzed the interaction for a few more hours, later that evening, on his way to the university library. The corridors were almost empty; the students had either left or were attending the Christmas ball that had just begun. It might have sounded a bit serious and pompous, but such an event was indeed organized every year by a different department. It shouldnât be confused with a student party, as formal attire was required, and the music was usually classical or instrumental versions of traditional carols. It was a way to thank the students, faculty, and university management for completing another semester.
Initially, Reid had planned to stop by briefly, but after feeling strange for a few hours and sensing a migraine coming on, he decided to skip it. He definitely preferred to spend the evening among the shelves and books. He rarely admitted it to others, but the reason he chose this particular university was not the salary offered, but the richness of their libraryâs resources.
He had hoped that spending time there would help distract him from a certain student, who had progressively been occupying his thoughts more and more. In fact, she already had a room in his mind. A room. A damn palace with seven bedrooms, each dedicated to a different day of the week. What he hadnât expected, however, was to see her almost immediately after stepping into the library. Fast asleep in one of the corners, her face resting on a small table with four seats around it, only one of which was occupiedâhers.
Reid couldn't help but chuckle at the irony of it.
Before he had a chance to think about it, before the thought even crossed his mind that perhaps she didnât want anyone disturbing her in the middle of her late-night solo study session, he moved closer, carefully stepping so as not to wake her. It didnât take long for him to realize that he could probably jump up and down, and it wouldnât make a difference. Both of her ears were plugged with headphones, effectively shutting her off from the sounds of the outside world.
Despite this fact, he carefully sat down on the edge of the table to her left, so close that her limp hand, resting on it, ended up parallel and very close to his leg. First, he glanced at the textbooks spread out before her, then at the thick book by her father, the one she still read every day. Finally, his gaze fell on herâon that face, deeply asleep. Unable to resist, he lifted his trembling hand and gently tucked the strands of hair that had fallen onto her face behind her ear.
The moment his fingers brushed her skin, she jolted awake with a startled flinch. Spencer blushed, realizing only then what he had done. To avoid embarrassing himself, he quickly cleared his throat and spoke up.
âSorry to wake you. But this probably isnât the most comfortable place to nap.â
She straightened up, blinking in confusion.
âDid I fall asleepâŚ?â Her gaze locked on him, and she shook her head, now fully awake. âOh, I definitely fell asleep. I didnât even notice you coming up.â
âMaybe I was sneaking around too much. Anyway, what were you working on before you passed out? Studying, reading?â
Still rubbing her tired face, she looked at her things.
âI guess a bit of both. I had some catch-up work I wanted to do. Then I decided I had enough, and my brain just couldnât absorb any more new facts or information. So, I started reading.â She nodded toward the book.
Reid stared at her for a moment longer.
âYou know⌠Iâve been thinking about it lately,â he began. It was a little hard for him to focus on speaking when she rested her chin on her hand, looking at him from beneath her lifted lashes. Her eyes were puffy, mascara slightly smudged under her eyelids, but she still looked⌠well, it was hard to put it into a single word. âAbout your dadâs book, I mean.â Actually, he'd mostly been thinking about her, but that topic had popped into his mind for a moment. âAnd that quote you read to me once. It seemed pretty good, and Iâm surprised no publisher wanted to release it. Whatâs it actually about?â
He felt confused by the sudden amusement that appeared on her face.
âWhatâs going on?â He furrowed his brows.
She shook her head, trying to suppress her laughter.
âJust so you know, Iâm not laughing at you,â she quickly reassured him. âItâs just when I imagined your reaction⌠okay, just listen. My dadâs novel is about a young student, a poor one, who, in a moment of desperation, decides to murder a woman from whom he borrowed money. And then for the next thousand pages, he alternates between hating himself and trying to justify his actions in his own eyes.â
Spencer was silent, his brows lowering more and more.
âSorry⌠I really donât want to accuse your dad of plagiarism, but this sounds likeâŚâ
âCrime and Punishment, I know. And it is plagiarism. Well, he preferred to call it inspiration, and, to be fair, not everything is the same. The story takes place in New York instead of Petersburg, the main characterâs name is different, but everything else⌠itâs the same, only longer. Every chapter stretched to its limits, with reflections on every possible subject. Itâs almost twice the length of the original.â
Not knowing how exactly to respond, he did what felt most natural. He laughed, and she followed with a quick chuckle.
âSorry, this is so absurd. Why... why did he actually do it?â
âI ask myself that question every day, believe me. He was kind of a Dostoyevsky wannabe. On his desk, he kept a photo of me and a collectorâs edition of The Brothers Karamazov. He even... he even tried to force me to study Russian philology instead of criminology, but, well⌠you can see how that turned out. And if this sounds absurd to you, guess what the main characterâs name is?â
âYou mentioned itâs different. But I have no idea, probably something more in line with American standardsâŚâ
âOh, very much. Rodney Rozzleknock. Now I bet youâre not surprised nobody wanted to publish it?â
For a moment, they sat in silence, he alternately shook his head in disbelief and hid his face in his hands. This was probably the most absurdly funny thing he had heard in a long time, and if it werenât for the actual version of the book they were talking about being right in front of him, he wouldnât believe it existed.
"So that's why you know so much about Russian literature," he said. They had once had a brief conversation on the topic, and he had actually been impressed.
"It wasnât knowledge I willingly acquired. And by the way, what are you doing here, Professor?"
He shrugged. She hadnât used that title for him in a while, but hadnât yet started using his first name either, and he wasnât sure how to suggest it.
"I was planning to drop by the ball for a bit, but I decided Iâd rather spend some time among books. Speaking of which, the ball. Didnât you want to go?"
He assumed that she might be similar to him in that regard and didnât really care for events like that. But, to his surprise, a certain, not so obvious expression crossed her face.
"Actually, I would have gone if I had gotten an invitation."
"I donât understand," he furrowed his brows. "You donât need an invitation. Your department organized it, you were all invited just by the fact of it.â
Her lips parted in shock, and a short Oh escaped.
"In that case... I guess it doesn't matter anymore. It's too late. My friend won't be there, the rest of my friends have probably already gone, and I wonât be able to find them in the crowd, and..." She sighed, a bit embarrassed. "And I guess I'm just kind of too shy to show up there alone."
Reid watched her in silence for a moment. A foolish thought crossed his mind. Foolish, but... was it really? He had no idea how she might interpret it, whether sheâd even want to, or what sheâd think of him.
âIâd be happy to... go with you,â he blurted out, nervously swallowing the lump in his throat as soon as the words left his mouth. His eyes stayed fixed on her, searching for her reaction.
And she... burst into laughter, probably assuming he was joking.
âWait... seriously?â she asked, straightening her shoulders, her tone suddenly more incredulous. âBut... how do you even imagine that? Itâs already started, Iâm completely unprepared, and itâs formal attire onlyâŚâ
"Iâll need to change too. But it wonât take long, and the ball goes on late. Weâll only be a little late," he reasoned logically, realizing he was actively trying to convince her. He hated these kinds of events, but this was a chance to spend time together... Besides, he was doing it for her. Why should she miss out on something she clearly wanted to attend just because of a misunderstanding and a bit of shyness?
"Yeah... but Iâll still have to deal with everything else. I lookâ"
Before she could finish, he leaned in and gently wiped the smudged mascara from under her eye with his thumb.
"You look perfect. Just right for the ball. So?"
Her eyes widened at the gesture, and a sharp exhale escaped her lips.
âOkay. Okay. I think... I think we can do this... Why not? Just give me fifteen minutes. Thirty. Thirty minutes...â
As she spoke, she hastily gathered all her belongings into her bag, glanced at him for a brief moment, then disappeared in a rush, not even looking back over her shoulder.
Spencer, on the other hand, felt as though he had been glued to the table he was perched on. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest.
Did he just... ask the girl he liked to a ball?
And she said yes?
He still couldnât quite believe it, even when, exactly thirty minutes laterâalmost as though sheâd measured the time with a stopwatchâthey met again at the entrance to the gymnasium, now transformed for the occasion.
The floor had been covered in polished wooden panels, and the walls were draped with light-colored fabrics, adorned with strings of glowing garlands shaped like snowflakes. In the corner of the room, a small stage, decorated with sprigs of evergreen, hosted a modest orchestra of students and members of the college choir, playing gentle holiday tunes live.
The scene was beautiful, almost magical, but Spencer only took it in once as they entered. For the rest of the evening, his attention was solely on herâbecause, once again, he couldnât find the words to describe what he was seeing.
And that didnât happen very often.
"Do you think... do you think any of the other professors might disapprove of you being here with me?" she asked hesitantly as they made their way along the edge of the gym, skirting the buffet and staying far from the crowd dancing in the center.
For a moment, Spencer didnât process her question. He was too focused on the way her lips moved as she spoke, too focused on her. Shaking himself out of it, he replayed her words in his mind.
"I⌠uh⌠no, I donât think so," he replied, stumbling over his words. "Why would they? Weâre both adults."
She still didnât look convinced. Her brow furrowed, her gaze darting between the dance floor and him. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm, keeping them connected in the growing crowd, though she kept adjusting her grip as if unsure about the contact.
When Spencer tried to pull away, thinking she might be uncomfortable, she surprised him by grabbing his arm again, more firmly this time. Her insistence sent a strange, electrifying warmth through him.
He sighed softly, acutely aware of how close they were nowâso close that their hips nearly brushed with every step. "Besides," he added, trying to sound reassuring, "this is a ball. Everyoneâs here to have fun. No oneâs going to pay any attention to us."
She nodded, as if trying to convince herself of the same thing, though her gaze drifted once more to the couples twirling around the dance floor. He felt a pang of apprehension, hoping she didnât want to join them. That would be a disasterâheâd only manage to humiliate himself in front of her.
"Iâm not much of a dancer," he blurted out quickly. "Okay, thatâs an understatement. Iâm a terrible dancer. Youâd⌠youâd really rather not see me try, trust me."
For a moment, she stayed silent, her expression unreadable. Then, a small smile tugged at her lips.
"I, on the other hand, am a pretty good dancer," she admitted, attempting to sound modest. But after a beat, she rolled her eyes at herself and added with a wry laugh, "Okay, fineâIâm very good. My dad was a Dostoyevsky fanatic, but my mom? She was obsessed with dance. She practically dragged me to lessons for years. She thought it was a terrible shame not to know how to danceâespecially for a man. No offense, of course."
Spencer ducked his head with a soft laugh.
"None taken. Listen, I believe you're a fantastic teacher... but I also believe I'm a lost cause. I might accidentally step on your feet..."
"You should pray that I don't step on your feet," she retorted with a laugh, extending her foot and tapping the heel of her shoe for emphasis. "But I think you should at least give it a try. After all, itâs a ball."
Spencer looked at her for a moment, caught between amusement and mild dread, before finally shrugging with a resigned grin.Â
Earlier in life, he hadnât had many opportunities to dance, so he was relieved that the piece being played by the school orchestra turned out to be incredibly slow. He could only cautiously mimic her movements, trying not to hurt her. However, focus came with difficulty as his nostrils were constantly filled with the sweet, distracting scent of her perfume and her body itself.
âYouâre doing great,â she whispered softly, briefly lifting her gaze to him. He stared at her face for a moment, so close to his, cursing in his mind when she lowered her gaze againâŚ
All evening, he had to fight with himself to avoid doing anything foolish.
But when, at midnight, they found themselves in his office, it became incredibly difficult.
Especially when she was slightly leaning against his desk, just in front of him, and the blush of dance-induced fatigue covered most of her neck. He wanted to touch that particular spot on her skin, expecting the blood to be pulsing there very quickly.
Her breath seemed quickened too, and every sound that escaped her lips drew him closer and closer to her. To the point where he thought he might lose his mind.
âThank you for tonight,â he said, hoping that if he focused on the words, on speaking them, it might somehow sober him from this state. âI really... didnât expect to have such a great time at the ball.â
Speaking wasnât helping; the way her gaze wandered over him certainly wasnât helping. The way the dress fit her body... none of it was helping.
"I'm glad," she said softly, the redness now covering not just her neck but most of her cheeks as well. She took a deep breath, as if calming herself. "You know, I felt a little guilty because I had the impression that you went there just for me."
"Well, I considered going alone... earlier," he confessed. "But in the end, I changed my mind, and I'm glad I did, because otherwise, I wouldn't have run into you, and I wouldn't remember any of this so clearly. Thank you," he repeated, and before he knew it, he was standing even closer to her, closer than propriety would dictate. Unable to fight it any longer, he reached for her hip, hidden beneath the fabric of her dress. She sharply inhaled, seeming embarrassed by her own reaction. He started to pull back, but then she lightly perched herself on the edge of the desk... and his hand slid down her body, gently grazing her knee. â"Really, I would like to thank you..."
His throat went dry, a nervous sweat rose on his neck. He felt her knee, then her thigh under his finger, his whole hand under the fabric of her dress, heading higher and higherâŚbut suddenly stopped, when her trembling hands began to untie his tie.
"Probably... probably you're uncomfortable," she explained, swallowing. She looked at the collar of his shirt, at the place where his hands were, but couldn't bring herself to look him in the eyes. "It's a bit... stuffy in here."
He could feel the moisture on his fingers even though his fingers didnât even get inside. He hesitated right there, glancing uncertainly at her face. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing heavily, exhales escaping her lips with a quiet hiss.
"Are you okay?" he asked, making sure. He didn't like the fact that her eyes were closed; he couldn't read many emotions from her face, and he needed to be certain that this was what she wanted. Her face didn't even twitch at his question. "I won't do anything more if you don't answer me."
She swallowed, their faces were inches apart, and he could see and hear it.
"What... what would you like me to answer?"
"Just that you want this," he whispered.
"I want this...Spencer."
It was probably the first time she addressed him by his name, but the state he was in didnât allow him to trust his memory too much. He hadnât expected himself to ever think like that. In any case, it acted like a catalyst for him. Barely had the last syllable left her lips, his finger sank into her.Â
One, and soon after, another.
His name escaped her lips again, but this time, halfway through, it turned into a sweet, pleading moan. For a while, no sound other than their restless breaths could be heard in the office. Her moan tore through the surroundings, pierced the air, and lodged itself there forever. Just as it became lodged in his ears, tickling them from within. He wanted to hear it again...He quickly found the rhythm that most often caused it.
She spread her legs wider which allowed him to get closer, to gain better access. At first, both of her hands were gripping the edge of the desk, her knuckles almost white. With each of his movements, stronger and gradually faster, they began to loosen slowly, until they finally released completely. Surprised, she sighed, not knowing where to place them, and threw them around his neck.
âIs⌠is this how youâre thanking me for today?â she asked, her voice high, he could barely understand her through the chaotic breaths. He was so focused that he didnât even notice she had opened her eyes.Â
Her beautiful eyes. So pleading, begging him not to stop.
"Are you taking this as a form of thanks?"
She nodded, and at the same moment, she closed her eyes again, tilting her head back. Spencer groaned at the sight of her exposed neck, the blush covering it. He leaned to taste her warm skin, pressing his lips against it, then sighed directly into her, as a shiver ran through her entire body.
He had a feeling that if one more sound escaped her lips, he would simply lose his mind. Barely managed to speak again, his voice completely out of place with the words he intended to say, so high, almost crying.
"That's... that's not enough to thank you, don't you think?"