𝖑𝖔𝖑𝖆

20, nerdy men 4eva.

[lolaffection]

BLUE LIGHT

at night, you’re velvethour, a sexy camgirl, giving lonely men and women a release in their intimate moments. by day, you’re a waitress at a local café, providing your customers the best coffee you can. one particular day, a weird customer walks in, and as the days pass and he keeps coming, you start missing serving his coffee on the days he didn’t come.

genre, tags and CWs: no use of Y/N, smut, fluff, very vague physical description of reader, dom!reader, sub!spencer, virgin!spencer, i pictured s2 spencer for this, porn with plot, edging, oral (f and m receiving), unprotected p in v, masturbation (f and m), dumbification, spencer calls reader ma’am, sex toys (cock ring, vibrators), a sliver of foot fetish (?), dacryphilia.

word count: 18.3k

a/n: hi everyone, finally this is out, and i’m already thinking of a part 2 where spencer joins her for a stream! hope you guys like it and pleaseee make sure to comment and let me know what you think!!!

The café feels exactly like it always does. Fresh espresso. Grinding beans. The low chatter of a Tuesday morning crowd. Sunlight slants through the front window, catching the dust suspended in the air, warming the exposed brick wall behind the counter. You're behind the register, apron tied, hair falling in soft waves past your shoulders. The morning rush has tapered off. Just a few scattered customers, a woman on her laptop near the window, an older man reading a newspaper, and—

The bell above the door jingles.

A young man steps inside, and he looks lost. He's tall — too tall for his frame, all gangly limbs and narrow shoulders. Dark brown hair falls across his forehead, uncombed. Round glasses perch on his nose. He's wearing a sweater vest over a button-up, corduroy pants, and he clutches a worn leather satchel like it's the only thing anchoring him to the earth. He stops just inside the doorway, eyes scanning the café with the frantic energy of someone who doesn't know where he is or why he came here. His gaze skips past the menu board, past the pastries in the glass case, past the other customers,

And lands on you.

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out. He swallows. Tries again.

"Uh. I—" He looks down at his feet, then back up at you, then down again. A flush crawls up his neck, mottling his cheeks. "I'm sorry, I think I took a wrong turn. I meant to go to—" He gestures vaguely. "Somewhere else. But I'm here now, and I, um. I'll just. Get coffee." He's already fumbling for his wallet, nearly dropping his satchel in the process. The leather slides off his shoulder, and he catches it against his ribs with a startled grunt.

Behind you, the espresso machine hisses. You smile. You're behind the counter. He's frozen in the doorway. A young, nervous man in a sweater vest who has absolutely no idea he just walked into the café you work at, miles outside his usual commute. And you — in your cream shift dress and apron, hair pinned back with a ribbon, have no idea who he is either. Not yet.

You smile at him, easy and warm. "You okay there?" He blinks. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"I—yes. Fine. Great. I'm great." He's already moving toward the counter, and his satchel swings wild, catching the edge of a chair. He stumbles, catches himself, face going crimson. "Sorry. Sorry, I'm—clumsy. I know. I'm aware."

You bite back a laugh, reaching for a cup. "What can I get you?"

"Coffee," he says, then winces like he's just answered a trick question. "Black. Please. Thank you."

You tamp the grounds, lock the portafilter into place, and start the shot. Espresso trickles into the waiting cup in a rich amber stream, filling the café with the familiar scent of coffee. You stop the extraction, place the cup on its saucer, and slide it toward Spencer with a smile.

When you turn back to the machine, behind you, you hear him fumbling with his wallet. Coins clatter. He swears under his breath, a soft, mortified shit, and then a sharp gasp.

You turn around.

He's standing there, coffee cup in hand, except he's not holding it anymore. It's tilted, brown liquid spilling across the front of his sweater vest, dripping down his corduroys, pooling on the floor. His hands are frozen in midair, wide-eyed, looking down at himself like he can't believe his own body betrayed him this badly. "I'm so sorry," he blurts. "I'm so—I didn't mean to—I'll pay for the cleanup, I'll pay for—" His cheeks are on fire. He looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole.

The café is quiet. A few customers glance over. You're holding a towel. But you know where this is going. And you have a choice in how you handle this first moment. A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. You hold the towel out, but you don't hand it over yet.

"First time drinking coffee?" His head snaps up. The joke registers a second too late, and something flickers across his face — relief, maybe, that you're not angry, mixed with embarrassment that's still burning hot across his cheeks. "I—no, I've had coffee before. I just—" He gestures at himself, at the spreading stain. "My hands do things without my permission sometimes. It's a medical condition. Probably." You let the towel dangle between you for another second before pressing it into his palm. Your fingers brush his. His whole arm goes stiff.

"You should probably blot it before it sets," you say, nodding at his sweater. "Cold water helps too. But the bathroom's just past the hallway." He stares at the towel like it's a foreign artifact. Then back at you. He's gripping it so tight his knuckles are going white. "Thank you," he says, and his voice cracks on the second syllable. He clears his throat. "I'll—yeah. Bathroom. Good idea." He takes a step back. Nearly trips over his own satchel. Catches himself. Backs away toward the hallway, still holding the towel, still red from collarbone to hairline.

You watch him go. Behind you, the espresso machine hisses. A customer clears their throat at the register. But your eyes linger on the corner where he disappeared. He'll be back, you think. And something in your gut tells you this won't be the last time you see him.

A customer steps up to the register. You ring them up, a latte, no foam, while your gaze drifts toward the hallway. A second or two passes. Then Spencer reappears, sweater vest dark and damp, the towel balled in his fist. He's still flushed, still avoiding eye contact, but he's walking toward you instead of the door.

"I can't believe I did that," he says, setting the damp towel on the counter. "I'm really sorry. Let me pay for the—"

"It's fine," you cut him off gently. "Happens all the time." He blinks. "It does?"

"No," you admit, biting back a smile. "But you looked like you needed to hear it." His mouth twitches, almost a laugh, almost a grimace. He shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks on his heels.

"I'm Spencer," he blurts, then winces like he's surprised the words escaped. You lean against the counter, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch him squirm. You smile and tell him your name. He nods. Too many times. He's mouthing your name to himself as he backs toward his table, coffee forgotten, satchel swinging, ears still red.

He'll be back, you think again. And he will be. Tuesday. Thursday. Every week, until the right moment snaps.

You pour a fresh cup, and slide out from behind the counter. The café is quiet enough that you can hear the soft scratch of his pen against paper before he notices you approaching. He looks up, and his eyes go wide. He snaps his notebook shut like you've caught him writing something incriminating. "I thought you might want an actual coffee to drink, instead of one you wore," you say, setting the cup down in the clear space beside his elbow. His mouth opens. Closes. He looks at the coffee, then at you, then back at the coffee. "You don't have to—I already made a mess, I should be paying for—"

"It's on the house." You lean against the edge of his table, close enough that he catches the faint vanilla scent clinging to your apron. "Consider it a welcome gift. For surviving your first coffee incident." He laughs, just a short, nervous puff of air. "It's not my first coffee incident. It's just the first one that involved an audience."

"Oh yeah? How many cups have you worn?"

His ears go pink. "I plead the fifth." A smile pulls at your lips. He's got a quickness beneath the stammering, you realize. The words stumble, but the brain behind them is running fast. You let the silence settle, just long enough for his gaze to flicker to your face and away again. Then you tap the edge of his table twice and push off. "I'll leave you to your books, then. Holler if you need a refill." You're halfway back to the counter when his voice catches you.

"Hey?"

You turn. He's gripping his pen tight, coffee untouched but steam curling past his glasses. "I'll be back," he says, and it sounds like he's reassuring himself more than telling you. "On Thursday. If that's okay."

You let the smile show this time. "I work Thursdays." He nods. Once. Twice. Then ducks his head back to his notebook, ears burning red.

Thursday comes.

He shows up at 10:47 AM, twenty-three minutes before your shift ends. He's holding a different book, wearing the same sweater vest, clean, this time. He stops at the counter with his wallet already out. "Black coffee," he says, and he doesn't drop it. You hand it over. Your fingers brush.

He stays for three hours.

Tuesday again. Thursday again. The pattern locks in like clockwork. He comes, he sits, he drinks his coffee slow, he watches you from behind the rim of his cup when he thinks you aren't looking. He never drops another drink. But he does start running out of books to read, because he's too busy glancing up to turn the pages. You let the rhythm settle.

Tuesday. Thursday. Tuesday again. He shows up like clockwork, always a little early, always a little nervous. He orders black coffee, finds his corner table, and spends the next few hours pretending to read while his eyes track you across the room. You feel his gaze on your back when you're at the espresso machine. On your hips when you bend to grab a napkin from the low shelf. On your mouth when you laugh at something a customer says. You never call him out on it. You let him watch.

The first week, he still flinches when you catch him. Ducks his head, turns a page he hasn't read, ears going red. The second week, he holds your gaze for a full three seconds before looking away, a victory, by his standards. The third week, he doesn't look away at all. He holds eye contact until you smile, and then he smiles back, small and uncertain, like he's not sure he's allowed.

He starts staying longer. His coffee goes cold while he works up the nerve to approach the counter for a refill. He never asks for your number. Never says anything beyond thank you and have a good day. But his voice gets steadier each time, and the stammer fades to a pause.

You learn he has three PHDs. You learn he works for the FBI, which sounds like a lie until he shows you his credentials by accident while paying. You learn he reads obsessively, that he can quote statistics at you with no warning, that he apologizes for rambling and then rambles again within the same breath. You learn that he looks at you like you're a book he desperately wants to read, but he's too afraid to open the cover.

It's four weeks in when he finally lingers at the counter after paying, fingers drumming against the ceramic of his cup. He says your name. Testing it. Letting it sit on his tongue.

"Spence." His eyes flicker. A flush of color at the new nickname.

"I was wondering," he starts, then stops. Starts again. "Do you ever get off work? I mean — obviously you do, everyone does, I'm not implying you live here—" A nervous laugh. "I just meant. If you ever wanted to. Get coffee. Somewhere that isn't here." The café hums around you. Warm light. The hiss of steam.

You lean your weight against the counter, letting the question hang. A half-smile tugs at your lips as you watch him process. "Are you asking me out, Spence?" His mouth opens. Closes. The tips of his ears catch fire.

"I—" He swallows. Adjusts his grip on his satchel strap. "I mean. Only if you—I wasn't trying to be presumptuous, I just thought—" A breath. He pushes his glasses up his nose. "Yes. I'm asking you out."

The admission comes out steadier than you expected. No stammer. He meets your eyes, holds them, and there's something surprising underneath the nervous surface, a flicker of the man he'll be in a few years. Confident. Direct. But the flush gives him away.

You let the silence stretch, watching him squirm, and the café hums warm around you both. A smile breaks across your face, warm and genuine. You reach for the spare napkin beside the register, pull a pen from your apron pocket, and scribble your number in neat digits. "Then yes," you say, sliding the napkin across the counter toward him. "You can pick me up after my shift ends at six."

He stares at the napkin like it's made of gold. His fingers close around it carefully, reverently, as if he's afraid the ink might smudge. "Six," he repeats. "I'll be here." He slips the napkin into his satchel, tucking it between pages like a bookmark, and backs away from the counter. He nearly collides with a chair. Catches himself. Flashes you a quick, embarrassed grin before turning toward the door.

The bell jingles as he pushes through, and you catch him looking back through the glass, napkin already in his hand, reading it like he's memorizing a equation. You watch him disappear down the street, and the café settles back into its afternoon hum. A customer clears their throat at the register. Right. Work.

The next hour crawls. You wipe down the counter twice, restock the pastry case, and catch yourself glancing at the clock more times than you'd care to admit. Six o'clock comes slowly, then all at once. You untie your apron, grab your bag from the back, and step out onto the sun-warmed sidewalk.

He's there.

Leaning against a lamppost across the street, hands shoved in his pockets, trying very hard to look casual. He's changed his sweater vest for a different sweater vest, oatmeal-colored, this time, and his hair looks like he's been running his fingers through it. He spots you. Stands up straighter. Raises a hand in an awkward wave.

You step out onto the sidewalk, and the late afternoon sun catches the dust floating in the air. He's still standing there by the lamppost, hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying very hard to look like he belongs on this street, in this moment, existing in your orbit. You cross to him, and he straightens like you've caught him doing something wrong.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi."

You two look at each other in silence for a bit. He rocks on his heels, then seems to remember he's supposed to have a plan. "I thought we could walk. If that's okay. There's a place a few blocks over, they have good pie. I checked the reviews. Statistically, it's the highest-rated dessert spot in a three-mile radius."

You bite back a smile. "Statistically?"

He flushes. "I like to be prepared."

You fall into step beside him, and he adjusts his pace to match yours, long legs shortening their stride, shoulders relaxing incrementally. The evening air is warm, carrying the smell of exhaust and blooming jasmine from someone's garden. He walks with his hands still in his pockets, elbow brushing yours every few steps, each touch sending a small jolt through his frame. He's quiet for a full block before he speaks again.

"I don't do this often," he says. "Ask people out. I don't—I'm not good at the social part. The timing. The words." A pause. His voice drops. "You make it easier." The words hang between you, honest and unguarded.

The pie shop comes into view ahead, it’s a narrow storefront with a red awning, warm light spilling through the windows. He slows, glancing at you sideways, gauging your reaction before he commits to opening the door. You slow your steps just a fraction, letting him reach the door first.

He does. His hand finds the handle, pulls it open, and then he catches himself, turns back, holds it wide, and gestures you through with an awkward little nod. The motion is stiff, like he's not sure if he's doing it right, but he remembered. "After you," he says, and there's a flicker of something in his eyes — pride, maybe, that he got it right.

You step past him into the warm glow of the shop. The air is thick with sugar and butter, the smell of baked apples and cinnamon. A few tables are scattered across the tile floor, half-full with evening customers. A jukebox in the corner plays something slow and jazzy. He follows you in, letting the door swing shut behind him, and hovers at your elbow like he's not sure where to direct you.

"Window seat?" he offers, pointing to a small table near the front. "Or, there's a booth in the back. If you want more privacy." His cheeks are already pink, like the word privacy slipped out before he could filter it.

You slide into the booth. The vinyl creaks. He sits across from you, too fast, knocking his knee against the table leg. He winces, mutters something under his breath, and settles into the seat with his hands flat on the table like he's trying to ground himself. A waitress appears. He orders coffee, black, and you catch the ghost of a habit. He looks at you across the table, and there it is again. That look. Like he's still figuring out how he got here.

"So," he says. "Pie."

You lean forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on your knuckles. The fluorescents catch the dark waves of your hair, the curve of your smile. "Tell me something interesting. Surprise me."

He blinks. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. You can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes, scanning through his mental database for something worth saying, something that won't make him sound like a textbook or a weirdo. "Statistically," he starts, then stops. Wets his lips. "The average person has about 1,460 dreams a year. Most people forget ninety percent of them within ten minutes of waking up." A pause. His voice softens. "But if someone wakes you up in the middle of a dream, especially during REM, you're more likely to remember it. And the dream feels more real than the one you'd have finished naturally." He looks at you, gauging your reaction, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his napkin. "I read a study once that suggested the dreams you remember most vividly are the ones you didn't want to leave. Your brain holds onto the ones that meant something."

The waitress arrives with two cups of coffee, setting them down between you. The steam curls up, and he watches it like he's embarrassed he just said all that. "I don't know why I told you that," he mutters. "That's not—I could have said something normal. Like about the pie." He picks up his coffee, takes a sip, and burns his tongue. He winces, sets it down, and tries to play it off like nothing happened.

You let his dream fact settle in the air between you, watching the way his fingers fidget with the napkin's edge. The coffee steams. The jukebox croons something low and nostalgic. "You read studies about dreams?" you ask, tilting your head.

He shrugs, a little sheepish. "I read a lot of studies. It's a problem. I retain too many useless facts, and my brain prioritizes them over useful things like—" He gestures vaguely. "Remembering where I parked. Or not spilling coffee on myself."

"You've only spilled coffee on yourself once."

"Once is enough for a lifetime of shame."

A laugh escapes you, and his mouth twitches into something close to a real smile. He holds your gaze a moment longer than he usually does, long enough that the air between you shifts, thickens. Then he looks down at his coffee. "I actually—" He stops. Starts again. "I need to tell you something." His voice is different. The nervous edge is still there, but it's layered with something heavier. His thumb traces the rim of his cup, once, twice. "I know this is going to sound—" A breath. He sets the coffee down and meets your eyes, and there's a vulnerability there that makes your stomach tighten. "I recognized you. When I walked into the café. I recognized you from somewhere else." The words hang.

He swallows. "You're a camgirl. Under the username—I'm not going to say it, I don't want to sound like I'm—" He runs a hand through his hair, messing it further. "I've been a subscriber for months. Since almost the beginning. I found your channel by accident, and I—" His voice drops. "I couldn't stop watching." He looks at you like he's awaiting a verdict.

The word slips out before you can stop it.

“Oh.”

It's small. Quiet. He hears it, and his face does something complicated, hope flickering through the cracks of his panic, trying to find a foothold. You sit back against the vinyl. The booth creaks. The jukebox croons on, oblivious. He's watching you. Fingers frozen on the napkin. He looks like a man waiting for the verdict on his own execution.

"I know that's—" He swallows. "I know that's a lot to drop on you. I've been trying to figure out how to tell you for weeks. Every Tuesday, every Thursday, I sat there thinking say something, and then you'd smile at me and my brain would just—" He gestures vaguely at his head. "Static." His hands are trembling slightly. He presses them flat against the table to still them. "I'm not telling you because I expect anything. I just—you deserved to know. Before this went any further." A pause. His voice drops. "I couldn't keep showing up and pretending I didn't already know who you were."

You lean back against the vinyl, arms crossing over your chest. The shift in posture makes him flinch, a small, barely visible thing, but you catch it.

"You've been watching me this whole time?" The words come out flat. Not angry. Not cold. Just... processing.

His throat works. "Yes."

"And you came to the café anyway."

"I came to the café because of you." He says it simply, honestly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I found your channel, and I—I liked you. The way you talk. The way you laugh. And then I saw you in person, and I thought I'd imagined it. So I kept coming back to make sure you were real." His hands are still flat on the table. He's not fidgeting anymore. Something in him has stilled, like he's braced for impact. "I'm not—" He stops. Chooses his next words carefully. "I'm not here because I want to watch you from across a room. I'm here because I want to know you. The real you. Not the channel."

The pie arrives. The waitress sets down two plates — cherry, lattice crust, steam rising — and refills his coffee without being asked. He doesn't look away from you. The silence stretches.

"How long have you known it was me?" Your voice is steady, measured. The crossed arms stay where they are.

He lets out a breath, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. He was expecting anger, maybe. Instead, he got curiosity. "The first time I walked into the café." He says it quietly, like he's admitting to a crime. "I recognized you immediately. Your hair. The way you smile. The way you tilt your head when you're listening to someone." A pause. "I almost turned around and left. I thought you'd recognize me—not from the channel, but from—I don't know. The universe has a sense of humor." He picks up his coffee, takes a sip. Sets it down. "But you didn't. And then you were nice to me. And I couldn't stay away." The pastry crust on your plate flakes as he pushes a piece around with his fork, not eating it. "I didn't plan to tell you tonight. It just—" He looks up, and there's something raw in his eyes. "I couldn't sit across from you and pretend anymore. You deserve more than that."

The vinyl squeaks as you push your chair back an inch. The sound cuts through the warmth of the shop, through the jazz, through the suspended moment between you. Spencer's face goes still. He doesn't look hurt — not yet. He looks like he's bracing for it.

You pick up your coffee, take a slow sip, and let the heat settle in your chest. Across the table, he's frozen, hands still flat on either side of his untouched pie. "I'm not running," you say, setting the cup down. "I just need a second to actually think, instead of reacting."

He nods. Too quickly. "Of course. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere." The words hang there, earnest and terrifying in their simplicity.

You look at him, really look. The nervous fingers. The too-big sweater. The way he's watching you like you're the only thing in the room worth seeing. He's been coming to your café for weeks. He's been watching you online for months. And in all that time, he's never pushed. Never asked for more than you gave. Just showed up, ordered coffee, and looked at you like you were something precious.

"Come home with me."

The words leave your mouth before you fully decide to say them.

His eyes widen. His fork clatters against the plate. "I'm not—are you sure?" The words tumble out of him, tripping over each other. He's leaning forward now, elbows on the table, and there's something raw and unguarded in the way he's looking at you—like you've just handed him something fragile and he's terrified of dropping it. "I mean—" He runs a hand through his hair, messing it further. "You just found out I've been watching you for months. You should be running. You should be—" He gestures vaguely. "Calling the police. Getting a restraining order. I've read the statistics on how women react to being told they've been recognized from adult content, and the numbers are not in my favor."

A nervous laugh escapes him. He catches it, swallows it. "I came here tonight expecting you to walk out. Not to—" His voice drops. "Not to invite me home." The coffee has gone cold in his cup. He doesn't notice. He's too busy looking at you like you're a puzzle he's desperate to solve, one he's been trying to piece together for months and still can't believe he's holding in his hands. "I want to say yes," he says quietly. "But I need you to be sure. Because if we do this, if I go home with you, I don't want it to be something you regret in the morning."

You push your chair back with a scrape, grab your bag from the booth beside you, and sling it over your shoulder. He watches the motion like it's happening in slow motion. "I'm sure. You coming or not?"

He's on his feet before he fully registers moving. His knee knocks the table. The coffee sloshes, his fork clatters to the floor, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's already pulling out his wallet, dropping a bill on the table that's easily double the cost of what you owe. "Yeah," he says. A little breathless. "I'm coming."

You grab your half-eaten slice of pie, wrap it in a napkin, and tuck it into your bag. A beat of silence as you turn toward the door, and he falls into step beside you like he's been doing it his whole life.

The evening air hits you both as you step out onto the sidewalk. The streetlights are flickering on, casting pools of orange light across the pavement. He shoves his hands in his pockets, walks close enough that his elbow brushes yours.

"My place is this way," you say, nodding left.

He follows.

The walk is short, ten minutes, maybe less. The neighborhood shifts from storefronts to quiet residential streets lined with old trees and parked cars. He's quiet beside you, but not the nervous quiet from before. It's the quiet of someone trying to memorize the moment. You stop at a narrow building with a green door. Fiddle with your keys.

"You still have time to change your mind," he says, voice low. You glance back at him. Streetlight catches the worry in his eyes, the hope he's trying to keep in check.

"Not interested." You turn back to face him, keys still in hand. The streetlight catches the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor in his shoulders. You reach up, slow, and let your fingers brush the collar of his sweater vest. Adjust it. Smooth it down. His breath catches. "You're shaking."

He looks down at himself, like he hadn't noticed. "I'm—yeah. I guess I am."

Your hand lingers at his collar for a moment longer than necessary. You can feel the rapid pulse at his throat beneath your fingertips. "I'm not going to bite," you say, a smile tugging at your lips. "Not unless you ask nicely."

His ears go scarlet. A strangled laugh escapes him. "Noted," he manages.

You let your hand fall, turn back to the door, and slide the key into the lock. The tumbler clicks, and you push it open into a narrow hallway lined with mailboxes and the faint smell of old wood. You glance back at him over your shoulder. "Third floor. No elevator."

He follows you in, and the door swings shut behind you both. The stairwell is narrow, the walls painted a faded beige that's seen better decades. Your footsteps echo on the worn treads as you climb, his shadow stretching and shrinking behind you in the dim light.

You pause on the first landing. Turn back. He's two steps below you, looking up, and the angle makes him seem younger somehow. Softer. His hands are still shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched just slightly, like he's making himself smaller in your space.

"Nervous?"

He lets out a breath, half laugh, half admission. "I think my heart rate is currently in the ninety-eighth percentile for a male my age in a non-cardiac-emergency scenario."

"That's a lot of words for yes."

"Words are my thing." He takes the next step up, closing the distance between you. He's close enough now that you can smell him, laundry detergent, something faintly like old paper. "But yes. Nervous." His eyes search yours, looking for something solid to anchor himself to. "I don't—" He stops. Starts again. "I've thought about this. About you. A lot. And now you're real, and you're here, and you're inviting me upstairs, and I don't want to mess it up." He says it like a confession. Like the weight of it has been pressing on his chest for weeks.

"Then don't." You turn and keep climbing, your footsteps steady on the worn stairs. Behind you, you hear him exhale, a shaky release of breath? and then his footsteps resume, quicker now, catching up.

He doesn't say anything. Just follows. The stairs creak under your combined weight as you round the second landing. Faint music bleeds through one of the apartment doors, some old jazz station, tinny and distant. The air warms as you climb, carrying the smell of cooking oil and fabric softener. Third floor. Your door is at the end of the hall, scratched paint and a brass number 3C. You dig your keys out again, and this time when you glance back at him, he's stopped a few feet away. Giving you space. Letting you set the pace.

You unlock the door. Push it open.

Your apartment spills out, small, cluttered, warm. A worn couch piled with thrift-store blankets. Books stacked on the floor because the shelf ran out of room. Fairy lights strung along the ceiling, casting everything in a soft, amber glow. The window is cracked open, letting in the cool night air and the distant sound of traffic. You step inside. Kick off your shoes. Turn to face him, still hovering on the threshold. He looks at you. At the warm glow behind you. At the invitation written in every inch of your posture.

"You coming in," you ask, "or are you gonna stand in the hallway all night?" You reach out, fingers catching the edge of his oatmeal sweater, and pull.

He stumbles forward across the threshold, not because you pulled hard, but because he was already leaning into your space, already halfway committed. The door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly he's inside your apartment, standing in the warm amber glow of your fairy lights, shoes still on, hands half-raised like he's not sure where to put them.

"Sorry," he says automatically. "My shoes—should I—"

"Keep them on. Off. I don't care."

He toes them off anyway, kicking them aside to rest beside yours by the door. The gesture is small, automatic, like he's physically incapable of tracking dirt into someone's home. You watch him take in the space. The books stacked on the floor. The half-empty mug on the coffee table. The laptop on the couch cushion, still open to your streaming dashboard, minimized, but he doesn't need to see it to know what it is. His gaze flicks over everything, cataloging, processing, and lands back on you. He looks like he's holding his breath. He says your name, and it sounds different in this space. Quieter. Like it belongs here. His hand lifts, hovers between you, and stops. Waiting. Asking permission without a single word.

You hold his gaze. His hand still hovers between you, frozen mid-air, waiting for permission it hasn't been given. "You've got questions. Ask them."

He blinks. The words land, and something in his posture shifts, a release of tension, like he's been bracing for something heavier and found soft ground instead. "I—" He stops. Licks his lips. His hand drops back to his side. "I don't want to make this weird."

"Too late for that."

A startled laugh escapes him. He rubs the back of his neck, glances around your apartment like the walls might offer him a script. "Okay. Right. Fair." A breath. He looks at you again, direct this time. "Do you do this often? Bring subscribers home?" The question hangs there. It's not accusatory. More like he needs to know where he fits in a pattern he doesn't understand yet.

You lean against the wall by the doorframe, arms loose at your sides. The fairy lights cast warm shadows across your face. "Not once," you say. "You're the first."

His throat works. "Why?"

The single word carries weight — genuine confusion, a man who can't reconcile the girl on his screen with the woman inviting him into her home, who can't figure out what makes him different from every other anonymous username in her chat log.

"Because you looked at me like I was a person." The words land between you, simple and honest. You don't look away.

He stares at you. The fairy lights catch the slight sheen in his eyes, the way his throat works as he processes what you've said.

"I don't—" He stops. Swallows. "What do you mean?"

You push off from the wall, taking a slow step toward him. He holds his ground this time, doesn't retreat. "On the channel, people watch me because they want to see something. A body. A fantasy. They type their requests, they tip, they move on." You stop a foot away from him. His ears are burning, but he doesn't look away. "And then you showed up at the café, and you didn't treat me like a screen. You spilled coffee on yourself and stammered through every sentence, and you looked at me like I was someone worth knowing." A pause. "Not someone worth watching. Someone worth knowing." The air between you feels thick, charged. Your apartment hums with quiet intimacy.

He lets out a breath he's been holding for weeks. He says your name and it sounds different now — softer, like it belongs to something precious. His hand lifts again, hovers between you, and this time he doesn't wait for permission. His fingers brush your wrist, featherlight. "I've been trying to find the words for you since the first time I saw your stream," he says quietly. "I still haven't found them."

His thumb traces a slow circle against your pulse point. His thumb stills against your pulse point. You pull back — not far, just enough to break the contact. His hand hovers in the empty space where your wrist was, then drops slowly back to his side. The loss of warmth is immediate.

"Slow down, Spence. We've got time." He blinks. Processes. Lets out a breath that seems to carry half the tension in his shoulders with it.

"Right," he says. "Yeah. Time." A pause. He scrapes a hand through his hair, messing it further. "I'm not trying to rush you. I just—you're very—" He gestures vaguely at your entire existence. "And I'm very—" A gesture at himself.

"Very what?"

"Out of my depth," he admits. The confession is so earnest, so unguarded, that it makes something in your chest loosen. You let a small smile break through.

"Good thing I know how to swim."

He laughs, a real one this time, quiet and warm. The tension in the room shifts from electric to something softer. More breathable.

You turn and pad farther into the apartment, letting him follow or not. You settle onto the edge of your couch, tucking a leg under you, and gesture to the armchair across from you. "Sit. Talk to me. Tell me something about yourself, something that isn't about the channel, or the café, or how nervous I make you."

He hesitates for half a second, then crosses the room and lowers himself into the armchair like he's afraid it might bite him. He perches on the edge, hands resting on his thighs. "I can quote every episode of Doctor Who from the 2005 revival," he offers.

"That's not normal. That's a party trick."

"It's the only trick I have."

You let the silence settle, warm and unhurried, as the fairy lights glow above you both. You tuck your other leg up onto the couch, hugging your knee to your chest. The fairy lights catch the curve of your smile, the glint in your eye.

"Something about myself," you repeat, letting the words settle. "Okay. I've got one." He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. Ready. "I talk to my plants. Full conversations. I tell them about my day, I apologize when I forget to water them, and I've convinced myself they grow faster because of it."

His mouth twitches.

"That's not that weird. I've read studies on plant cognition. Some species actually respond to auditory stimulation."

"Wait, I'm not done." You hold up a finger. "I also name them after dead celebrities. I've got a fern named Bowie, a pothos named Prince, and a succulent named Betty White." He laughs, a real one, warm and surprised, like you've caught him off guard. The sound fills your small apartment, settles into the corners. "Betty White the succulent," he repeats, savoring it. "Does she get sun on the lanai?"

"She gets exactly four hours of indirect sunlight and a pep talk every morning."

He shakes his head, still smiling. "That's not weird, I think it’s endearing."

"Your turn, then. Something actually weird. No party tricks." He thinks. Scratches the back of his neck. The smile fades into something more thoughtful. "I can't sleep without background noise. If it's too quiet, my brain starts running simulations of worst-case scenarios." A pause. "I have a playlist specifically calibrated for falling asleep. It's ninety-three tracks long, and I've memorized the order."

"That's not weird either. That's just anxiety."

"Weird is subjective." He holds your gaze. "I think the weirdest thing about me is that I've spent my whole life trying to understand people through data, and then I met you, and none of the data applied." The room goes quiet. Not awkward, just still. The weight of his words settles between you, genuine and unguarded.

"That's the smoothest thing you've said all night." The compliment catches him off guard. His eyebrows lift, and a flush crawls up his neck, spreading across his cheekbones.

"I—" He stops. Ducks his head with a small, embarrassed laugh. "I didn't mean it to be smooth. I meant it to be true."

"I know." You let the words sit. "That's what makes it smooth."

He looks up at you through his lashes, and something in his expression shifts, it softens. The nervous energy that's been coiling through him all night settles into something quieter. More present. He doesn't fill the silence this time. He lets it breathe. The fairy lights hum above you. The window lets in the distant sound of a car passing, the faint rustle of leaves. Your apartment feels smaller than it did a moment ago, in the best way — like the walls have drawn in close to hold this moment intact. His hand rests on his knee, fingers curled loosely. A few feet of worn rug separate you. The space feels charged but not urgent, a live wire that doesn't need to spark yet. Across from you, he's stopped looking like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. He's starting to look like he belongs here.

The question leaves your mouth before you overthink it.

"Do you want to see where I do my streams?"

His head lifts. Something flickers in his eyes — surprise, maybe, or the weight of what you're offering. He doesn't jump at it immediately. Instead, he sits with the question, letting it settle.

"You'd show me that?"

"Wouldn't have asked if I wouldn't."

He holds your gaze for a long moment. Then he stands, slow, like he's giving you time to take it back. You unfold from the couch and pad past him, down the short hallway to the second door. You push it open and step aside.

The room is small, a converted bedroom, maybe eight by ten. A desk sits against the far wall, cluttered with a ring light, a high-end webcam, and a tangle of cables. The wall behind it is painted a soft rose color, a backdrop that reads warm and intentional. A few props sit on the shelf —a vintage hat, a silk scarf, nothing overtly sexual. The bed in the corner is made, neat, the same fairy lights strung above it. It's not a set. It's just a room where you work.

He stands in the doorway, taking it in. Quiet. Careful. "It's smaller than I imagined," he says, and there's no judgment in his voice. Just observation.

"It's not supposed to be big. Just enough space for me and whoever's on the other side of the camera." A pause. "You've seen more of this room than anyone else I've let in here."

His throat works. He tears his gaze away from the setup to look at you. "Why me?" he asks, and it's not fishing. It's genuine bewilderment. "Why now?"

"Because you asked to know me. Not just see me."

The words hang in the small room, settling into the space between the desk and the bed and the warm rose-colored wall. Spencer's breath catches, a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch. His hand, resting on the doorframe, curls slightly, fingers pressing into the wood like he needs something solid to hold onto.

"I did," he says quietly. "I do." He looks past you again, at the webcam, the ring light, the careful arrangement of the space. Then his gaze returns to you, and there's something raw in it, unguarded in a way he hasn't let himself be all night. He steps over the threshold, finally crossing into the room. The space feels smaller with him in it, not uncomfortably so. He stops near the desk, his fingers hovering over the edge of your ring light like he wants to touch but won't without permission.

"Thank you," he says, and his voice has gone soft. "For showing me." You lean against the edge of the desk, arms loosely crossed, head tilted. The fairy lights catch the curve of your shoulder, the glint of curiosity in your eyes.

"Now tell me, Spencer. What made you watch me, hm? What about me captivated you so much?" He flushes. The question lands direct and soft, and he doesn't dodge it. His hand drops from the ring light. He shoves both hands into his pockets, a nervous habit you've come to recognize. He looks at the floor, then at the wall, then finally at you, and holds.

"It wasn't the content," he says slowly. "I mean, it was—obviously. You're beautiful. But there's a lot of beautiful people on the internet. That's not what kept me coming back." He pulls one hand from his pocket, rubs the back of his neck. "It was the way you talked to the camera. Like you were talking to one person, not an audience. You'd laugh at your own jokes. You'd pause and think before answering questions. You'd—" He stops. Searches for the word. "You'd forget to perform, sometimes. And those moments felt real." He meets your eyes. "I've spent my whole life surrounded by data. By profiles and patterns. And you didn't fit any pattern I knew. So I kept watching, trying to figure you out." A pause. "I still haven't."

The room feels tighter. Warmer. His gaze hasn't wavered. The pity in your face is theatrical, your head tilting to one side as you watch him process the question. The fairy lights catch the mock-sympathetic curve of your mouth.

"So you really want me to believe you didn't sit there fucking your hand while you watched me shove a dildo in my pussy, Spence?" The crudeness lands like a slap. His ears go crimson, the color spreading down his neck, disappearing beneath his sweater collar. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"I—" He swallows. Looks away. Looks back. "No. I mean—yes. Obviously there were—" A strangled noise escapes him. "I'm a man. With working anatomy. And you're—" He gestures at you helplessly. "But that's not—" He stops. Presses his palms together like he's gathering his thoughts. "That was never the main event for me. It was a side effect. A biological response to—" He meets your eyes, and there's something painfully sincere beneath the embarrassment. "To watching someone who felt real. Who made me feel like I was in the room with her, even through a screen." His hands drop to his sides. "I'm not going to stand here and lie to you and say I never touched myself while watching you. That would be a statistical impossibility." A pause. His voice drops. "But I watched because I liked you. The other stuff was just—physics." He holds your gaze, raw and honest, waiting for your verdict.

Your finger traces along his jaw, featherlight, before hooking under his chin. He goes still beneath your touch—not frozen, but held. Present. "So my body wasn't the main attraction to you, hm?" Your voice drops, silky and teasing. "You're telling me you watched a camgirl for months because you liked her laugh? I'm not stupid, baby."

He holds your gaze. The flush is still burning across his cheekbones, but something in his eyes has steadied. He doesn't look away. "No one said you were stupid." His voice is quieter now, rougher at the edges. "And I never said your body wasn't a factor. I said it wasn't the main attraction." He lifts his hand slowly, giving you time to pull away, and covers yours where it rests against his chin. His fingers are warm, slightly calloused at the tips. "Your body is incredible. I'd be an idiot to pretend otherwise. But there are a thousand bodies on that site. I came back to yours because of the person attached to it." He swallows. "The laugh. The way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking. The way you say 'baby' like it's a test." His thumb brushes across your knuckles. "I didn't come to your café because I wanted to sleep with you. I came because I wanted to prove you were real."

You take a step forward, palm flat against his chest, and push. He goes down easy, too surprised to resist, the backs of his knees hitting the edge of your bed. He lands with a soft thump, hands bracing on the mattress on either side of him, looking up at you with wide eyes and a flush that's spread all the way down to his collarbone. You lean over him, one hand still pressed to his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your palm.

"You want to sound so smart, don't you?" Your voice drops low, honeyed and sharp. "So above everyone else, huh?" He opens his mouth. Closes it. His throat works. "It makes me want to take you apart." You trail your fingers up from his chest to his throat, light, teasing. "To make you beg. Make your brain melt, until you can't think. Until the only thing you can think about is fucking me."

His breath stutters. His hands grip the mattress, knuckles white.

"Ma’am—"

The word comes out cracked. He's looking at you like you're something he doesn't know how to hold, something he's terrified of breaking and desperate to touch all at once. You smile at the honorific, he learns fast. The fairy lights glow above you both. The room holds its breath. His chest rises and falls beneath your palm, rapid and shallow. The fairy lights catch the sheen in his eyes, the way his pupils have blown wide, the slight part of his lips as he tries to find words that won't come.

"I—" He stops. Swallows. His voice comes out raw. "That's—that's already happening. You've been doing that since you handed me that towel." His hand lifts, trembles, settles on your hip. Light. Questioning. "So if you're going to take me apart," he says, quiet, "maybe stop talking about it and do it."

The challenge hangs in the air between you. His fingers curl into the fabric of your dress, tugging you a step closer, until your knees bump against the edge of the mattress. He looks up at you — nervous, desperate, wanting — and waits.

Your fingers curl into his hair, the strands soft and disheveled between your knuckles. You tug, just enough to tilt his head back, to expose the long line of his throat, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. He lets out a sound. Small. Strained.

"Then say it." You lean in close, your mouth hovering near his ear. "Tell me what you thought about when fisting your cock. No big words, Spencer. I want the unfiltered you." A beat of silence. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths beneath your other palm.

Then he speaks, voice rough and low.

"I—" He stops. Swallows again. His hands grip the mattress like it's the only thing keeping him tethered. "I thought about the sound you made when you came. That little gasp you did that one time, right before you said my screen name." Your heart kicks. "I thought about how your back arched, how your fingers were gripping the sheets." His voice drops, cracking at the edges. "I thought about what it would feel like to be the one making you do that. To have you fall apart because of me."

His eyes meet yours, wide and raw and completely unguarded.

"I thought about your thighs. The way they looked when you—" He stops, ears burning. "When you spread them. How soft they looked under the ring light." He's trembling slightly. Not from fear. From the sheer weight of saying it out loud.

"Good boy." The words come soft, approving. You smile down at him, and something in his expression shifts, relief, maybe, or gratitude. "Now kneel."

He doesn't hesitate.

He slides off the bed, lowering himself to the floor in front of you. The movement is awkward—his knees hit the hardwood with a soft thud, and he settles back on his heels, hands resting on his thighs. He looks up at you from that position, and there's something raw in the way he holds your gaze. Vulnerable. Waiting. The fairy lights cast shadows across his face, catching the slight tremor in his jaw. He's breathing shallowly, his chest rising and falling beneath that rumpled sweater. His hands curl into loose fists against his jeans. From this angle, you're looking down at him. He has to tilt his head back to meet your eyes, and the position strips away any pretense of control he might have been holding onto. He doesn't say anything. He just waits, open, expectant, completely surrendered to whatever comes next. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. His eyes never leave yours.

"Take my shoes off."

He blinks, then ducks his head, his fingers finding the buckle of your left penny loafer. His hands are trembling — barely, but you feel it in the way his knuckles brush against your ankle. He works the shoe off slowly, setting it aside, then repeats the motion with the right. You step out of them, the hardwood cool against your bare soles. Then you lift your foot, pressing the arch against the front of his jeans. He inhales sharply, a ragged sound that cuts through the quiet.

You drag your foot down, feeling the denim stretch over his hardening length. His hands fly to his thighs, gripping tight, knuckles white. He doesn't stop you. Doesn't push away. "Look at you," you murmur, your toes pressing firmer against the denim, tracing the shape of him. "So smart. So many big words. And all it takes is this to make you forget every single one of them." He lets out a shaky breath, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on where your foot presses against him. His hips twitch — barely — a reflexive roll toward the pressure.

"S-sorry," he stutters, not even sure what he's apologizing for. You apply more pressure, your foot sliding up and down the length of him through the rough denim. The friction is dulled by the fabric, but the shape of him is unmistakable, thick, growing harder beneath your touch. His breath comes in shallow, unsteady gasps. "Don't be sorry," you say softly. "Just watch."

"Undo your pants. I want to feel you properly." His fingers fumble with the button of his jeans. Once. Twice. He gets it open on the third try, the zipper rasping loud in the quiet room. He doesn't push them down, just lets them hang open, his hips shifting forward on instinct, making room.

The waistband of his boxers is visible. Plain gray. A damp spot has already bloomed at the front. You slide your foot back against him, bare arch meeting heated fabric. The thin cotton does nothing to hide the shape of him, the heavy weight, the way he twitches at first contact. You drag your sole down his length, feeling every ridge, every throb of his pulse translated through the thin barrier. He makes a sound. High in his throat. His hands grip his thighs hard enough to whiten his knuckles. You press firmer, your toes curling around the head of him through the cotton. A wet spot spreads further, darkening the gray.

"Look at that," you say, watching your foot work him. "So desperate you're leaking through your boxers. And I've barely touched you." A shaky exhale. His hips rock forward, chasing the pressure, and he catches himself — stills, breath ragged.

"S-sorry—can't—"

"Don't apologize." You slide your foot up again, slower this time, feeling every inch of him. "And don't hold back. If you want to move, move. If you want to make noise, make noise. I want to see you come apart." You press down, right at the tip, and his whole body jerks.

You curl your toes into the waistband of his boxers, the fabric stretching thin against his hip. A single tug downward, and they catch, on his hips, on the half-hard thickness straining against the cotton. He lifts his hips on instinct, letting them slide, and they bunch around his thighs. He's bare now. Exposed.

His cock springs free, heavy and flushed, curving up toward his stomach. The head is slick, a bead of precum catching the fairy light, trailing a thin, glossy line down the shaft. He's not small, thick enough that your toes register the weight of him when you press back against his length, skin to skin.

He hisses through his teeth. The sound of it — skin on skin, the slight tackiness of him against your sole — fills the quiet room. You drag your foot down slowly, feeling every ridge, every twitch. The head catches against the arch of your foot, and his breath stutters.

"Please—" The word escapes him before he can stop it. He doesn't even seem to know what he's asking for. You slide your foot back up, slower this time, the friction damp and warm. His hips roll forward, chasing the contact, and this time he doesn't try to stop himself. His hands grip his thighs, knuckles white, head tipped back, throat exposed. The fairy lights catch the sheen of sweat at his temples.

He's trembling. Fully, visibly trembling.

"Look at you," you say, your toes curling around the head of him, pressing gently. A bead of precum slicks against your skin. "So smart. So widely studied. And now you can barely breathe." You pull your foot away, and the absence of contact makes him gasp, a small, desperate sound that cuts through the quiet. His cock throbs, untouched, slick with his own precum, twitching in the cool air.

You turn, leaving him there on his knees, and cross to the drawer beside your desk. The wood glides open. Inside, a neat arrangement of silicone and metal catches the fairy light. Your fingers find what you're looking for. You turn back, the cock ring dangling from your index finger. Black silicone. A gentle curve. Nothing intimidating, but the sight of it makes his breath catch.

"You know what this is, baby?"

His eyes fix on it. His throat works. He nods, once.

"Words, Spencer."

"It's a—" He swallows. "A cock ring."

"Good boy." You step closer, the ring swinging gently between you. "I want you to show me how you touched yourself while watching me. But first—" You hold it up. "I want this on you."

His pupils blow wide. His hands twitch on his thighs.

"I've never—" He stops. Starts again. "I've never used one before."

You tilt your head, a slow smile curving your lips. "Then I'll teach you." You reach down and catch his wrists, gentle, but firm. His hands lift from his thighs, and you guide them to his sides, pressing his palms flat against the hardwood. "Hands there. Don't move them."

He nods, breath shallow. His fingers spread against the floor like he's bracing for impact. You lower yourself in front of him, knees pressing into the floor. The position puts you eye-level with his cock — flushed, slick, curving up toward his stomach. The fairy lights catch the glisten of precum at the tip, a thin string of it threatening to drip onto his thigh.

You hold the ring up between two fingers, letting him see it. Black silicone. Simple. The inner ridge catches the light.

"Watch."

You bring it down slowly, letting the cool silicone brush against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh first. He shudders, a full-body tremor that starts at his hips and travels up his spine. You drag the ring up his thigh, tracing the crease where his leg meets his hip. His cock twitches, jumping toward the contact. You ignore it. Circle higher, tracing along his balls, the ring cool and smooth against the heated skin. He makes a strangled sound. His hands stay planted, but his fingers curl, nails scraping lightly against the wood.

"Please—"

"Please what?"

"I don't—I just—" His voice cracks. "Please."

You smile, slow and knowing, and finally guide the ring to the base of his shaft. He's thick enough that the silicone stretches slightly as you work it into place, snug against his skin. His balls lift, drawn tighter by the pressure. When it's seated, you let your fingers linger — tracing along his length, feeling the thrum of his pulse through the silicone, the trapped heat of him.

"There. Now show me." You sit back on your heels. Hands resting on your thighs. Watching.

The silence stretches. The fairy lights hum their soft glow. The only sound is his breathing — shallow, uneven, catching at the edges. He hesitates. His hands stay pressed to the floor, fingers spread, like he's waiting for permission. When you don't move, don't speak, don't even blink, he understands. Slowly, he lifts one hand from the wood. His knuckles are pale, bloodless from gripping. He wraps his fingers around himself, and the sound he makes is punched out of his chest, a raw, desperate noise that hangs in the air between you. His hand moves. An awkward, jerking stroke at first, like he's not used to being watched. The silicone ring presses against your memory, the way it held him snug, trapping the blood, making the veins stand out against his flushed skin. The second stroke is smoother. His thumb catches the head on the upswing, spreading the precum down his shaft. The sound of it — wet, slick — fills the quiet.

His head falls back. His jaw goes slack. His eyes slide half-closed, and then they snap open again, finding you. Holding on. He strokes again. Faster. His hips lift into his own fist, a shallow, desperate roll. A drop of sweat slides from his temple down his neck, catching in the hollow of his throat. The only sounds in the room: the wet slide of his hand, his ragged breathing, the soft creak of the floorboards as his weight shifts. He doesn't speak. Doesn't beg. But his eyes — locked on yours, pupils blown wide — say everything.

You get up slowly, deliberately, letting the motion draw his gaze away from his own hand. His cock twitches, left untouched and aching, the silicone ring still snug at his base. His fist hovers in the air for a moment before falling back to the floor, obedient. Your fingers find the hem of your dress. The cream fabric with its small brown flowers brushes against your thighs as you lift it, gathering the material inch by inch. The fairy lights catch the skin of your stomach, the curve of your hips.

He's stopped breathing. You can tell by the stillness of his chest, the way his mouth parts slightly, the way his eyes track every inch of exposed skin like he's memorizing it. The dress pools at your feet. You step out of it, standing before him in nothing but your bra and panties, white cotton, simple, unassuming. The contrast of it against your full curves, the way the fabric stretches across your chest, the dark shadow of your nipples pressing through. You reach back, unclasp your bra, and let it fall. Your breasts drop free, heavy and full, the nipples peaked in the cool air.

His breath leaves him in a rush.

Your thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties. You push them down slowly, letting the fabric drag across your hips, your thighs, your knees. You step out of them. Bare. In front of him.

"Tell me, Spence." Your voice is soft, almost gentle. "What do you think of my body? What does it make you feel?"

His mouth opens. Closes. He looks at you like you're something he's not allowed to touch, like you're a dream he's afraid to wake from. "Like I'm—" His voice cracks. He tries again. "Like I'm going to die if I can't touch you." The silence holds. His eyes are dark, desperate, fixed on the curve of your hip, the shadow between your thighs. "Like I'd burn the whole world down for a chance to taste you."

"No, no, baby." You coo the words, stepping closer until your knees brush against his. Your fingers find his hair again, gathering the dark strands, tilting his face up. "I want more specific than that. It shouldn't be too hard for you — you're so smart." His eyes search yours, caught somewhere between embarrassment and want. "Tell me what you see." Your thumb brushes along his temple. "Right now. Looking at me."

He swallows. His gaze drops from your face, down your throat, over the swell of your breasts, the curve of your waist, the shadow between your thighs. He takes his time, like he's memorizing, like he's cataloging every inch.

"Your—" His voice sticks. He clears his throat. "Your breasts. They're full. Heavy. The way they hang when you stand in front of me like this—I can see the weight of them. The way your nipples are hard.” His eyes flick back up to yours, checking. You give him nothing but silence and patience. "Your waist. The way it curves in, then out to your hips. The dip there, right above your hip bone—" His hand twitches on the floor like he wants to reach out. "I want to put my mouth there. I want to feel you shiver when I bite down." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Your cunt." The word comes out raw, like it costs him something. "It's—you're wet. I can see it from here. The way the light catches, the way your thighs are slick. I want my face between your legs. I want to taste you until I forget my own name."

He looks up at you, breathless, exposed. His cock throbs visibly between his legs, the ring dark against his flushed skin, a bead of precum pooling at the tip and threatening to drip.

"Good boy." The smile in your voice matches the curve of your lips. "That's exactly what I wanted."

You tug his hair — a firm pull that drags him up from his knees. He rises awkwardly, his joints protesting, his cock bobbing heavily between his thighs, still trapped in the silicone ring. Precum strings from the tip, a thin, translucent thread that catches the light before breaking.

"Sit on the bed."

He doesn't argue. He backs up until the back of his knees hit the edge of your mattress, and he drops onto it. The springs groan under his weight. He's sitting on the edge, legs slightly apart, hands braced on either side of his thighs, watching you with dark, hungry eyes. You step between his legs. The heat of him radiates against your bare skin. His breath hitches as your thighs brush against his knees, as you lower yourself slowly, deliberately, until you're kneeling on the floor in front of him. The fairy light catches the slick at the head of his cock, the way it throbs visibly under your gaze. He's so hard the veins stand out, a web of blue and purple beneath his flushed skin, the ring holding him taut and swollen.

You look up at him through your lashes. His chest is heaving. His hands grip the sheets on either side of him, white-knuckled. You lean in. Your breath ghosts over the head of him, warm and teasing, and he lets out a sound, a high, desperate, like it was punched from his chest.

"Spencer." Your voice is soft. "Look at me." His eyes find yours. Dark. Glassy. Barely holding on. You open your mouth and take him in.

Your hand finds the base of his shaft, fingers wrapping around the silicone ring, feeling the trapped heat of him, the way his pulse hammers against your grip. You hold him steady, anchored, and lower your mouth onto just the head. Your lips seal around the ridge, tongue pressing flat against the sensitive underside. He's slick with precum, the taste of him salt and bitter on your tongue, and you let it sit there, let him feel the wet heat of your mouth, the deliberate slowness of it.

His breath punches out of him. A sharp sound.

You keep your grip firm at the base, thumb pressing into the veins that stand out against his shaft, and work your mouth in tight circles around the head. Your tongue traces the rim, dipping into the slit, tasting him. The ring keeps him hard, keeps the blood trapped, and you feel the way he strains against your hand, desperate for more friction.

"Ma’am—" His voice is barely a whisper, cracked and trembling.

You hum in response, the vibration traveling through the sensitive tip, and his hips jerk, reflexive, uncontrollable movement. His hand flies to your hair, fingers threading through the dark waves, not pulling, just holding. Like he needs something to ground himself.

You pull back, letting his cock slip from your lips with a wet pop. A string of saliva connects your mouth to the head, thin and glistening. You look up at him. His eyes are glassy, his mouth parted, his chest heaving. The fairy lights catch the flush spreading down his neck, the sheen of sweat at his collarbone.

"You taste so good," you say, your thumb stroking along the slick head. "I could stay here all night." You drag your thumb across your lower lip, tasting him, watching the way his eyes track the movement. " You like to read, don’t you, Spence?"

The question catches him off guard. He blinks, trying to refocus, his voice rough when he answers. "I—yes. I love reading."

A slow smile curves your mouth. You rise to your feet, crossing to the cluttered bookshelf beside your desk. Your fingers find the spine, it’s worn, creased, the cover softened from rereads. The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin. You pull it out and hold it up.

"Then read to me." You toss the book onto the bed beside him. It lands with a soft thump, pages splaying open near his thigh. "Out loud." You sink back to your knees between his legs, your hand finding his shaft again, the silicone ring still snug and warm against your palm. "Start anywhere. I don't care. I just want to hear your voice while I do this."

He stares at you. At the book. At your hand wrapped around his cock. A flush spreads from his chest up to his cheeks. "You're—" He swallows. "You're serious." He reaches for the book, fingers trembling as he picks it up, fumbling to find a page. He clears his throat, voice shaky as he starts to read.

"'There was a wall. It did not look important. It was built of uncut rocks roughly mortared. An adult could look right over it, and even a child could climb it. Where it crossed the roadway, instead of having a gate it degenerated into mere geometry, a line, an idea of a boundary. But the idea was real, as real as the town itself. The wall was the second face of the town, a face it did not show to the desert or to the hills but only to the ship. To the ship it showed an impenetrable face.'"

His voice is warm, steadying as he finds his rhythm. You wrap your lips around the head of his cock, tongue pressing flat against the slit, and he stumbles on the next word. The book dips in his hands.

"Wh-when the—" A sharp inhale as you take him deeper. "Shit—when the ship—"

His fingers grip the pages. His voice cracks, breaks, tries again. The words come out strangled, half-moan, half-recitation, and you hollow your cheeks and pull back slow, letting him feel every ridge of you. You sink deeper. Your jaw opens wider, tongue flattening, throat working around the stretch of him as you take him past the head, past the ridge, into the wet heat of your mouth. The silicone ring presses against your lips, a cool barrier marking how far you've gone.

His voice breaks.

"—a face it did not sh-show to the—"

The book rattles in his grip. His hips twitch, a reflexive push that drives him deeper against the back of your throat, and you feel him—the weight of him, the pulse of him against your tongue, the salt-slick taste flooding your senses.

"Ma’am—" His free hand finds your hair again, fingers threading through the strands, clutching but not pulling. The book dips lower. His voice is shot through with static, barely holding the thread of the words.

"—the—the desert—or to the hills—but only to the ship—"

You hum around him, a low thrum of approval, and his whole body jerks. The sentence collapses into a moan, raw and unguarded. The book slips from one hand, landing open on the bed beside him, forgotten. You pull back slowly, letting him feel every inch of the retreat, the drag of your tongue along his underside, the suction of your lips as they reach the head. A wet pop as you release him entirely. He's breathing hard. His eyes are glazed, his cock slick and swollen, the ring dark against his flushed skin, a string of saliva connecting your mouth to his tip.

"Keep reading," you say, your voice rough. "I didn't say you could stop."

He fumbles for the book, hands shaking, pages crinkling under his desperate grip. He finds his place, clears his throat, and starts again — voice cracking on every other word as you lower your mouth back onto him.

Your free hand slides up his thigh, fingers trailing through the coarse hair at his groin, finding the heavy weight of his balls. They're drawn tight against his body, pulled up by the ring at his base, warm and full in your palm. You cup them gently at first, feeling the weight, the heat. His breathing stutters above you. The words on the page falter.

"—the idea was real—re-real as the town—"

You roll his balls in your palm, testing the weight, and then you squeeze — just a little, just enough to feel him buck against your grip. His cock throbs against your tongue. A bead of precum spills onto your taste buds.

"—fuck—" He catches himself. The book rattles. "—as real as the town itself—"

You wrap your lips around his shaft again and sink down, taking him deeper this time. Your hand keeps working his balls in a slow, rhythmic roll, feeling them shift and tighten. A wet, muffled sound escapes your throat, a hum that vibrates through him. He forgets the next word entirely. Just stops. His head falls back, the book slipping from his other hand, landing on the bed with a soft thud.

"Spencer." You pull off just enough to speak, your lips brushing his slick tip. "Keep reading. If you stop again I'll stop too." You keep your rhythm steady, mouth sliding down his shaft, hand rolling his balls in a slow, deliberate grip. He's trembling above you, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The book lies forgotten on the bed, pages crinkled, spine bent.

His hand finds your hair again, fingers threading through the dark strands, clutching. His hips start to rise, a shallow, unconscious roll that presses him deeper against your tongue. "Ma’am, I'm—" His voice is shot through. Raw. Barely there. You feel it, the way his cock swells thicker in your mouth, the way his balls draw up tighter in your palm, the way his thighs begin to shake. He's right there. Hovering. A breath away from falling apart.

You pull off.

His cock slips from your lips with a wet, empty sound. He's left throbbing in the cool air, slick and desperate, the silicone ring holding him hard and aching. A thin string of saliva breaks between your mouth and his tip. A sound escapes him. High. Strangled. Almost pained.

"Why—why did you—"

You look up at him, your lips wet, your eyes dark. He's a mess. Flushed down to his chest, hair disheveled, pupils blown so wide there's barely any iris left. His hands grip the sheets, white-knuckled.

"Because I'm not done with you yet." You stroke him once, slow, thumb dragging over the slick head. He jerks, a full-body shudder. "You don't get to come until I say so."

You rise from your knees, leaving him aching and slick on the edge of the bed. His eyes follow you, desperate and questioning, as you cross to the drawer again. Your fingers find the smooth silicone of your vibrator — a curved wand, unassuming, powerful.

You climb onto the bed. Not beside him. In front of him. You settle onto your back, propping yourself against the pillows, legs loosely parted. The fairy light catches the gleam between your thighs, the wetness already gathered there. You hold the vibrator up, let him see it, then trail it slowly down your stomach, over your hip, between your legs.

"Watch," you say, your voice soft. "And don't touch yourself. Don't touch me. Just watch."

The vibrator hums to life against your clit. The sound fills the quiet room — a low, steady buzz that cuts through his ragged breathing. You bite your lip. Your hips shift, pressing into the vibration, chasing the sensation. Your free hand moves to your breast, cupping the weight, thumb circling your nipple.

His breath catches. His hand twitches on his thigh, but he doesn't move it. Doesn't reach for himself. Just watches, eyes dark and hungry, his cock still slick and aching between his legs, the ring keeping him hard and desperate. You let your head fall back, a soft moan escaping your lips. The vibrator presses firmer, circles tighter, and the wet sounds of it fill the room.

"Tell me," you breathe, eyes fluttering open to find him. "Tell me what you see."

His throat works. His voice comes out wrecked. "I see—I see you falling apart. And I can't—I can't touch you."

"Good boy."

You let the vibrator do its work, a low, steady hum that fills the room, drowning out the ragged sound of his breathing. Your hips rock into the pressure, the silicone slick against your clit, tracing tight circles that send sparks up your spine. Your free hand finds your breast again, cupping the weight, thumb rolling over the peaked nipple. You pinch lightly, and a soft moan escapes you, genuine, unfiltered. His eyes are fixed on the space between your thighs. On the glisten of your wetness catching the fairy light, on the way the vibrator presses and pulses against you. His hands are still planted on his thighs, white-knuckled, trembling with the effort of keeping them there. His cock stands heavy and slick, the ring dark at his base, a bead of precum pooling at the tip, threatening to drip onto his stomach.

He looks like he's barely holding himself together.

You let your head fall back, eyes fluttering half-closed, focusing on the sensation building low in your belly. The vibrator presses harder, circles tighter. Your hips begin to roll in a desperate rhythm, chasing it. "That's it—" you breathe, more to yourself than to him. "God, that's good—"

The vibrations push you higher. Your thighs tense. Your back arches, pressing your chest up, and a broken moan spills from your lips. The sound of it — wet and wanting — cuts through the quiet.

He makes a sound. Strained. Hungry. "Please," he whispers, the word escaping before he can stop it. "Please—let me—I need—" He doesn't know what he's asking for. He just knows he's dying to give it.

Your thumb finds the switch. The vibrator cuts off with a soft click, the silence rushing back in, filled only by his ragged breathing, the creak of the mattress as you shift. You reach for him. Your hand finds his wrist, tugging him forward, and he goes without resistance. He crawls up the bed, limbs awkward and eager, until he's hovering over you, his eyes dark and questioning, his cock brushing against your thigh, hot and slick.

"Taste me," you say, your voice low, rough. "You've been watching long enough."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He slides down your body, mouth dragging across your stomach, your hip, your inner thigh. He's trembling, his hands, his breath, the way his lips press against your skin like he's starving. When he reaches the apex of your thighs, he pauses, looking up at you.

The fairy light catches the sheen in his eyes. He's asking permission, even now. You thread your fingers through his hair, grip tight, and guide his mouth where you want it.

His first taste is hesitant, soft, an exploratory stroke of his tongue through your folds. Then he groans against you, a low, desperate sound that vibrates through your clit, and his hesitation evaporates. His mouth presses firmer, tongue circling, lapping at the wetness gathered there. He moans into you, the sound muffled and raw, and his hips grind against the mattress, seeking friction he's not allowed to have. His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider, and he dives in like a man drowning.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, a sharp tug that pulls his mouth away from you. He makes a sound, a broken, desperate noise, as you drag him up by the roots, his lips wet and glistening, his eyes dazed.

"You want to taste me?" you ask, your voice low. "Then let me ride your face."

He doesn't resist. You guide him up the bed, pushing him onto his back, his head hitting the pillow. His cock stands slick and heavy against his stomach, the ring still dark at his base, precum pooling in the dip of his navel. You swing a leg over his chest, straddling his face. The position puts your cunt inches from his mouth. He looks up at you from between your thighs, pupils blown wide, mouth parted, breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.

You lower yourself.

His tongue meets you immediately — eager, desperate, flat and wet against your folds. You sink onto his mouth, grinding down, feeling the way his nose presses against your clit, the way his tongue slides through your slick heat. His hands fly to your thighs, gripping, holding you in place. A groan vibrates through you, deep and raw.

You roll your hips against his face, using him, taking what you want. His tongue works in frantic, uncoordinated strokes, chasing your rhythm, trying to keep up. He moans into you, the sound muffled and filthy, and you feel the vibration right against your clit. Your head falls back. Your fingers stay twisted in his hair, holding him in place. The room fills with the wet sounds of his mouth working you, your soft gasps, the creak of the mattress.

"God—" you breathe. "That's it. Keep going."

He obeys. His tongue presses harder, circles tighter, and his hips buck helplessly beneath you, grinding against nothing, desperate and aching.

"I'm close—"

The words tumble out of you, breathless and broken. Your hips pick up the rhythm, grinding harder against his mouth, pressing down until his nose is buried against your clit and his tongue is flattened beneath you, struggling to keep up with the pace you're setting. He moans into you. The sound vibrates through your core, and you feel it, that tight coil low in your belly, winding tighter with every roll of your hips. His hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the flesh, holding you steady as you ride his face. His tongue works frantically, desperately, lapping at you between gasps. He's barely breathing, but he doesn't pull away. Doesn't stop. Just takes it, takes you, lets you use his mouth however you need.

"Fuck—right there—"

You angle your hips, grinding your clit against the bridge of his nose, and the pressure hits perfect. A sharp gasp escapes you. Your thighs begin to tremble, clamping around his head, and he makes a strangled sound — half protest, half encouragement. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping your hips, guiding your movements. He's letting you take what you need, and the surrender in it — the way he's giving himself over to you completely — pushes you closer.

"That's it—" Your voice is barely a whisper, ragged and raw. "Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."

Your head falls back. The coil tightens. Breaks. Your thighs are still trembling, the aftershocks of your orgasm rippling through you as you loosen your grip on his hair. You pull him up, not gently, a firm tug that drags his mouth away from your cunt, his lips slick and swollen, his chin glistening. He comes up gasping, eyes dazed, pupils blown. His mouth is open, wet, tasting of you. You kiss him.

Your lips crash against his, and you taste yourself — salt and musk, the sharp tang of your own arousal coating his tongue. He makes a sound against your mouth, a broken, desperate noise, and his hands find your waist, pulling you down against him. You lick into his mouth, slow and deliberate, tasting yourself on his lips, his tongue, his breath. His cock presses against your thigh, hot and slick, the ring still snug at his base, and he grinds up against you instinctively, seeking friction. You break the kiss, just barely, your forehead resting against his. Your breath mingles with his, warm and uneven.

"You taste good," you say, your lips brushing his. "I taste good."

He lets out a shaky laugh, barely there, more air than sound. His fingers dig into your hips. "Ma’am—" His voice is wrecked, raw. "Please. I need—I need to be inside you. I need—" He can't finish the sentence. His hips roll up again, desperate and aching, and his eyes are glassy, pleading, completely undone.

"Not yet, baby." You pull back from the kiss, your voice soft, almost soothing. His lips chase yours for a breath before he catches himself, his eyes fluttering open, dark and confused. "You need to be patient, okay?"

Your hand finds his hair, fingers threading through the damp strands, stroking gently. He leans into the touch like a cat starved for affection, his breath still ragged, his hips still twitching with the need for more. Your other hand slides down his stomach, slow and deliberate, tracing the line of hair that trails below his navel. When your fingers wrap around his cock, he gasps — a sharp, punched-out sound. But you don't grip him. You just hold him, feel the weight of him, the thrum of his pulse against your palm.

Then you brush your thumb across the head. Light. Barely there. His whole body jerks. A bead of precum slicks your thumb, warm and sticky, and you spread it in a slow, teasing circle around the sensitive ridge. He chokes on air, his hands flying to your hips, gripping tight. He mumbles out your name.

"Shhh." You press a kiss to his jaw, then his throat, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse against your lips. "I know. I know you're desperate. But I want you to feel this. Every second of it."

Your thumb keeps its slow, maddening path — circling the head, tracing the slit, spreading the slickness of him until he's glistening under the fairy light. Your other hand stays in his hair, stroking, grounding him. He's shaking. His breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps. His cock throbs against your fingers, trapped and aching, the ring keeping him hard and hungry.

"Look at me," you say against his throat.

He does. His eyes are glassy, dark, completely undone. Your thumb keeps its slow path — circling the slick head, tracing the sensitive ridge where the flare meets the shaft. His breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling in a rapid rhythm beneath you. You watch his face. The way his brows draw together. The way his lips part, a thin sheen of sweat at his temple. The way his eyes glaze over, unfocused, lost in the sensation. Your other hand strokes his hair, gentle and grounding, a counterpoint to the teasing pressure of your fingers on his cock.

"Just feel it," you say. "Don't think. Just feel." He nods, a jerky, desperate motion. His hips twitch, trying to push into your hand, and you let him — just a little — letting the head slide against your palm, slick and hot. His breathing quickens. His thighs begin to tremble. That familiar tension builds in his body, the way his muscles lock, the way his jaw goes slack. You feel him swelling against your fingers, his cock throbbing harder, the ring holding him at full, desperate attention. A sound escapes him, high and broken, a whine that cuts through the quiet.

"Oh God—I'm—" His hips buck. His back arches.

You stop.

Your hand lifts away entirely. The cool air hits his slick skin, and he gasps, a shuddering, broken sound, his cock twitching helplessly against nothing. He looks at you. His eyes are glassy, rimmed with desperation. His chest heaves.

"Please," he whispers. The word cracks. "Please, Ma’am. I can't—I can't keep doing this. I need—"

His voice dies. His hand finds yours, trembling, and he presses it back against his stomach, not quite guiding it lower, just holding on.

"Shhh." You press your lips to his, soft and slow, a gentle brush that soothes the ragged edge of his breathing. "I'll take care of you, baby. You just have to wait a little more, okay?"

He whimpers against your mouth. Actually whimpers.

"You've waited this long to be touched." Your thumb traces his jaw, tilting his face toward yours. "I'm sure you can wait a little bit more to come, huh?"

He swallows. Nods. His eyes are wet at the corners, glassy and desperate, but he nods. Your free hand finds the vibrator where it lies abandoned on the bed. The silicone is still warm from your body. You bring it up between you, letting him see it, letting him recognize the curve of it, the memory of how it sounded against your skin.

Then you press it against the tip of his cock.

He jerks — a full-body spasm, his back arching off the mattress. The vibrator hums to life against the sensitive head, right where your thumb had been teasing moments before. The sensation is electric, foreign, overwhelming.

"Oh—fuck—"

His hands fly to your wrist, gripping but not pulling you away. Just holding on. His hips buck, trying to escape and chase at the same time. The silicone vibrates against the slick head, spreading the sensation down his shaft, making his cock twitch and jump against the pressure.

"Look at you," you say, watching his face contort. "So sensitive. So desperate."

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His eyes are fixed on where the vibrator meets his skin, watching himself be taken apart by a toy, by you, by the sheer relentless pressure of it. His thighs are shaking. His chest heaves. A thin sheen of sweat makes his skin gleam under the fairy lights. And you hold the vibrator steady. Unrelenting.

You drag the vibrator down, the silicone humming against his slick shaft, tracing the underside until it reaches the base. The ring catches the edge of it, vibrating against the silicone, and he gasps — a sharp sound.

Then you press lower. The vibrator settles against his balls, the curved head fitting perfectly against the heavy, drawn-up weight of them. The vibration spreads through the thin skin, deep into the sac, and his whole body seizes.

"Oh—fuck—"

His hips buck, trying to escape, but there's nowhere to go. You press firmer, letting the vibration thrum through him, watching the way his balls tighten and jump against the silicone. The sound of it fills the room, the low, insistent buzz layered over his ragged breathing. His hands grip the sheets, twisting, pulling. His head thrashes side to side on the pillow. A thin sheen of sweat makes his chest gleam, his nipples peaked, his stomach tensing and releasing in quick, involuntary spasms.

"Please—please—I can't—"

You hold the vibrator steady. Unrelenting.

"Yes, you can." Your voice is soft, almost tender. "You're doing so well, Spence. Taking everything I give you."

A sob hitches in his throat. Not from pain — from the sheer overwhelming pressure of it, the way the vibration seems to travel through his entire pelvis, through his cock, through the ring still holding him hard and aching. His balls are tight, pulled up close to his body. The vibrator presses against them, and you watch the way they jump, the way his whole body trembles on the edge of something he can't quite reach.

He's crying. Just a little, the tears are slipping from the corners of his eyes, tracking into his hairline. His mouth is open, breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. He's completely, utterly undone. You hold the vibrator steady against his balls with one hand, the low hum resonating through the delicate sac, feeling them jump and tighten against the silicone. Then you lower your mouth onto his cock.

The taste of him hits you immediately — salt and precum, the lingering slickness of your own saliva from earlier. Your lips seal around the head, tongue pressing flat against the sensitive underside, and the vibration travels up through his shaft, making him twitch against your tongue. A sound tears out of him. Broken. Raw. His hands fly to your hair, clutching, holding, not pulling. His hips jerk, a desperate, uncontrolled movement that drives him deeper into your mouth. The vibrator buzzes against his balls, and your throat works around the head of him, and he's caught between both sensations, utterly overwhelmed.

"Ma’am—I—I—"

His words collapse into a moan, high and trembling. His thighs shake on either side of your head. His cock throbs against your tongue in time with his racing pulse, and you feel the vibration spread through his entire pelvis, the way his muscles lock and release in quick, involuntary spasms. You hollow your cheeks, pulling back slow, letting the ridge of his head drag against your lips. The vibrator never wavers, pressed firm against his balls, the low hum filling the spaces between his gasps.

You take him deep again, your nose brushing the dark silicone ring at his base. The vibration travels through your mouth now, a strange, electric hum that buzzes against your tongue, and he sobs. His grip tightens in your hair. His hips begin to move, a shallow, desperate thrusting into your mouth, chasing the heat of you, the vibration of the toy, the overwhelming pressure of it all.

He's babbling now. Fragments of words, your name, please, I can't, please—

You pull off with a wet pop, your lips dragging against his slick skin until only the tip remains, then nothing. The vibrator lifts from his balls. The sudden absence of sensation leaves him gasping — a broken, keening sound that cuts through the quiet. His cock throbs in the empty air, slick and desperate, the ring still dark at his base. His hips buck once, twice, chasing contact that isn't there.

You sit up, looking down at him. He's a mess — tears tracking into his hairline, lips swollen from biting them, chest heaving with ragged breaths. His hands are still tangled in your hair, frozen mid-clutch.

"Not yet," you say, soft but firm. "You need to beg properly before I let you finish."

He stares at you. Blinks. His throat works, a dry swallow.

"I—" His voice cracks. He tries again. "Please. Please let me come."

You tilt your head. "That's not begging, Spence. That's asking politely." A flush spreads down his chest. His cock twitches, a bead of precum welling at the tip, threatening to drip onto his stomach. His hands slide from your hair to your shoulders, gripping like you're the only thing keeping him tethered.

"Please." His voice is raw, scraped clean of pride. "I'll do anything. I'll—I'll read to you every night. I'll memorise every inch of your body. I'll worship you however you want—" His hips roll, a desperate, involuntary thrust toward nothing. "Please. I need to come so bad it hurts. I need you to let me fall apart. I need—I need you." He's trembling. Completely undone. His eyes are wet, glassy, fixed on yours with an openness that leaves nothing hidden. "Please, Ma’am. Let me come for you."

A slow smile spreads across your lips. You lean in, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead, your touch light and tender.

"You've been very good, baby." Your voice is warm, genuine. "So good for me."

His breath catches. A tremor runs through him.

"I'll even let you choose." You trail your fingers down his cheek, his jaw, resting them against his chest, feeling the frantic pound of his heart beneath your palm. "How do you want to cum? And where?"

He stares at you. Blinks. Like the question is too big, too much, after all the denial.

"I—" He swallows. His throat works. "I can—I can choose?"

You nod, still smiling. "Within reason. I'm feeling generous."

His eyes search yours, raw and open. His cock twitches against his stomach, slick and aching, the ring still dark and snug at his base. His hands find your waist, hesitant, trembling.

"I want—" He stops. Starts again. "I want to be inside you. I want to feel you around me when I come. I want to—" His voice cracks. "I want to watch your face. When I fill you." He says it like a confession. Like he's afraid it's too much to ask.

You lean down and press your lips to his. Soft. Slow. A kiss that says yes. His mouth melts against yours, relief flooding through the trembling tension in his body. His hands find your waist, sliding up your back, pulling you closer like he's afraid you'll disappear.

You reach between your bodies without breaking the kiss. Your fingers find his cock — slick, hot, throbbing against your palm. The silicone ring is still snug at his base, and you hook a finger under it, sliding it off. He gasps against your mouth as the pressure releases, blood rushing back, his cock swelling fuller, heavier in your hand.

You guide him to your entrance. The head presses against your slick folds, and he breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale, his forehead falling against yours.

"Look at me," you whisper.

His eyes find yours. Dark. Wet. Completely open. You sink down. The stretch of him, the thick, heavy fullness of him sliding into you, draws a sound from both of you. His mouth falls open, a broken moan that mingles with your own sharp exhale. Your walls grip him, slick and tight, and he fills you inch by inch until you're seated flush against him, his hips pressed to yours, his cock buried deep. He's trembling beneath you. His hands grip your hips, hard enough to bruise, but he doesn't move. Doesn't thrust. Just holds you, looks at you, breathes you in.

"Ma’am—" His voice is wrecked, barely a whisper. "You feel—I can't—"

He shakes his head, words failing him. His thumb traces a slow, reverent circle on your hip. You're full of him. Connected. And the way he looks at you, like you're the only thing in the world that matters, makes your chest ache.

"Take what you need, Spence." Your voice is soft, your lips brushing his, your hips settled flush against his. "You've earned it."

For a moment, he doesn't move. Just stares up at you, chest heaving, eyes searching yours like he's waiting for the punchline, for the teasing denial that never comes. Then his hands slide up your back, pulling you closer, and he thrusts.

The first movement is deep, slow — a rolling press of his hips that drives him harder into you, seating himself impossibly deeper. A broken sound escapes him, muffled against your shoulder. His fingers dig into your skin. He sets a rhythm. Awkward at first, still trembling, still overwhelmed. But you roll your hips against him, matching his pace, guiding him, and he finds it—a steady, desperate rhythm that fills the room with the wet sound of your bodies meeting. He watches your face. The way your lips part. The way your eyes flutter half-closed. The way you take him, inch by inch, stroke by stroke.

"Ma’am—" His voice cracks. "I'm not gonna last—" You cup his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

"Then don't." You press your lips to his ear, your breath warm against the shell of it. "I want you to look at me when you come."

A shudder wracks his entire body. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. His are dark, glassy, rimmed with red, pupils blown so wide there's almost no iris left. He nods. A jerky, desperate motion. He can't find words. His hips roll up into you, deep, a grinding press that drives him as far as he can go. The angle shifts, and his cock drags against a spot inside you that makes your breath stutter. He feels it. His eyes widen, a flicker of awareness cutting through the haze. He does it again. Slower. Watching your face this time, tracking the way your lips part, the way your lashes flutter.

"There," you breathe. "Right there." He keeps that angle. Rocking into you with a steady, desperate rhythm, his hands guiding your hips to meet his thrusts. The wet sound of your bodies meeting fills the small room, layered over his ragged breathing, your soft gasps. His pace quickens. His movements lose their precision, growing sloppy, frantic. His brow furrows, his jaw going slack, and you see it building, the way his eyes glaze, the way his grip turns bruising.

"Look at me," you remind him, soft but firm.

His eyes snap to yours. Wide. Desperate. Gone. He comes with a broken sob, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you. His release is hot and heavy, flooding you in thick, pulsing waves, and he doesn't look away. His eyes stay locked on yours, wet and raw and utterly vulnerable, as he shudders through every last drop.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you down against his chest. His face buries in your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. He doesn't say anything. Just holds you, trembling, spent, completely yours.

You press your lips to his forehead, feeling the sweat-dampened skin, the slight tremble still running through him. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, burying his face in the curve of your neck.

"You did so well," you say against his skin. "So good for me, Spence."

He lets out a shaky breath, his grip loosening just slightly. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, holding you there. The room settles around you both, the hum of the fairy lights, the distant sound of traffic filtering through the window, the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest. He shifts beneath you, wincing slightly as he softens inside you, but doesn't pull away. Doesn't let go. His thumb traces a slow, absent pattern on your lower back.

"That was—" He stops. Clears his throat. His voice is raw, scraped clean. "I don't have words."

You lift your head just enough to look at him. His eyes are still glassy, but clearer now. A flush lingers across his cheekbones. He looks at you like you're something he's still trying to understand.

"That's okay." You brush a strand of hair from his forehead. "You don't always need words."

You press one last kiss to his collarbone before untangling yourself from him. The air hits your skin, cool against the lingering heat of his body, and he makes a small sound of protest, his arms tightening for a moment before letting you go.

"Don't move," you say softly.

You pad across the room to your small bathroom, the hardwood cool under your bare feet. The faucet groans as you turn it, hot water running until steam rises. You grab a clean washcloth from the towel rack, wet it, wring it out. The warmth seeps into your palms.

When you return, he's exactly where you left him, sprawled across your bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest still rising and falling in deep, slow breaths. The fairy lights cast soft shadows across his skin, picking out the sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone. You sit on the edge of the bed. He peeks out from under his arm, watching you through half-lidded eyes as you fold back the sheet.

"Lift up," you say gently.

He complies, raising his hips just enough for you to slide the cloth beneath him. You clean him with slow, careful strokes, wiping away the evidence of what passed between you, tender and methodical. He hisses slightly when the warm cloth brushes his sensitive cock, still flushed and softening. He watches you the whole time. Silent. Vulnerable.

When you're done, you toss the cloth aside and lie down beside him, your head finding the hollow of his shoulder. His arm wraps around you immediately, pulling you close, his lips pressing into your hair.

"Stay," he whispers. It's not a question.

You shift in the crook of his arm, tilting your head to look up at him. His eyes are half-lidded, his breathing finally steady, his hand tracing absent patterns on your shoulder.

"Do you want to stay the night?"

The question hangs in the soft air between you. His fingers pause on your skin. He looks at you, attentive, like he's searching for the catch, the joke, the moment you pull away. But you don't. You just wait, your hand resting flat against his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

"I'd like that." His voice is quiet, rough around the edges. "If—if you're sure."

A ghost of a smile touches your lips. "I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't."

Something in his expression softens. His hand cups the back of your head, guiding you up for a kiss, slow and warm, tasting of sleep and surrender. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark and open.

"I don't have anything to wear," he says, a note of absurdity creeping into his voice. "I didn't exactly plan for this."

You laugh, quiet and genuine, the sound filling the small space between you. "I might have an old t-shirt somewhere. It'll look ridiculous on you."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "I think I've earned ridiculous."

You smile down at him, something warm blooming in your chest. "Stay put. I'll find you something." You slip out of bed again, padding to your closet. The old t-shirt you dig out is faded navy, soft from years of washing, the collar stretched. You toss it at him, and it lands across his chest.

He pulls it on, the fabric hanging loose on his lanky frame. The sleeves hit mid-bicep, the hem riding up to show a sliver of his stomach. He looks down at himself, then back at you, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. "Ridiculous," he confirms.

You laugh softly and climb back into bed, pulling the blanket over both of you. He turns off the lamp on your nightstand, plunging the room into dimness, only the faint glow of streetlight filtering through the curtains. The fairy lights are still on, a soft golden chain across the wall.

He shifts, pulling you against his chest, your back to his front. His arm wraps around your waist, his nose burying in your hair. His breath warms the nape of your neck. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The quiet settles around you like a second blanket, full of everything that happened, everything that was said, everything that shifted between you.

"I'm glad you gave me a chance," he says, barely above a whisper. You cover his hand with yours, lacing your fingers together against your stomach. "Me too."

His arm tightens around you. His breathing slows, deepens, evening out into the rhythm of sleep. The weight of him against your back, the steady beat of his heart against your spine, and it pulls you under, warm and safe and full. You close your eyes, and let yourself follow. Sleep comes easy. Not the restless, half-aware drifting of a mind still running, but the deep, boneless kind. The kind that pulls you under like a tide, warm and inevitable.

You wake once, sometime in the deep hours of the night, to find he's shifted. He's turned toward you in his sleep, his face buried against your shoulder, his hand splayed across your stomach. His breath is warm and even against your skin. The fairy lights have dimmed to a soft amber glow, their timer about to give out.

For a long moment, you just watch him. The way the shadows settle in the hollows of his face. The way his brow is smooth, uncreased, free of the nervous tension that marks his waking hours. He looks younger. Lighter. Like the weight he carries — the books, the words, the desperate need to prove himself — has been set down, just for a little while.

You brush a strand of hair from his forehead. He stirs, murmurs something unintelligible, and presses closer. You let yourself sink back into the warmth of him. Into the quiet. Into the certainty that this, whatever it is, is only the beginning.

The last fairy light flickers and goes dark. The room settles into shadow.

And you sleep.

[lolaffection]

so frustrating when a fic you thought would be bomb flops, killing myself in 3…. 2….

[marcidstars]

they should’ve given him more PhDs as the show went on actually

[lolaffection]

no bc why didn’t they do that, in my mind he has like nine atp

[lolaffection]

spencer reid x you x derek morgan…? anyone feel me???

next delirium from my mind ™

His hands are wrapped around his cooling mug like it's the only solid thing in the room. He opens his mouth, closes it, and for a moment you think he'll deflect with statistics or a tangent about witness statements.

"I want to watch." The words come out rough, scraped from somewhere deep. He doesn't look away from you. “I want to watch you the way I do in my head. When you're not looking. I want to see what you look like when you're not holding back for my sake." His voice shakes, but he pushes through. "And I want him-" A gesture toward Derek, helpless. "I want to see what he does when he's not being professional. When he's not the guy who catches the unsub."

Derek's gone very still at the table. You can't read his face.

“I want to know," Spencer says, quieter, "what it looks like when the two people I love most in the world stop pretending they don't see each other."

The kitchen swallows the words. Somewhere in the house, the refrigerator kicks on with its familiar hum. The evening has gone full violet, the counter lights casting the three of you in warm pools.

Derek exhales, long and slow. "Reid." Just that. His voice is rough in a way you've never heard. "You know I'm not gonna be gentle with her just because you're watching, right?"

Spencer's jaw tightens. "I'm counting on it.”

[lolaffection]

writing spencer smut where you make him read a book to you out loud while you blow him 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

[lolaffection]

coming out in a few hour bbys. 🫦

[lavendercoldfoam]

OMG WE BOTH USE GOTH RAVE FOR OUR THEME ILYSM AND HOLY FUCK HOW DO U WRITE SM OMG

i am SO fucjing excited to dig into this when i’m done painting my dog :) (lwk gonna bribe myself w it so i’ll write </3)

[lolaffection]

omg girl we literally over here twinning

and i had a lot of these already made just waiting to be edited and released, i just got the courage to do it now!!

and rlly take your time but im sooooo anxious to know what you think of it

[lolaffection]

cuck bisexual spencer is haunting my mind

[lolaffection]

writing spencer smut where you make him read a book to you out loud while you blow him 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

[lolaffection]

coming out in a few hour bbys. 🫦

[lolaffection]

BUILD GOD, THEN WE’LL TALK PT.2

things escalate, the unsub shows at your door, you’re his next target. luckily, spencer is there with you, and you have the whole bau at your side, eager to help you.

genre, tags and CWs: no use of y/n, fluff, angst(?), suspense (?), reader steps up to workkkkkk, death threats, manipulation, mentions of murder (ofc), lots and lots of unraveling investigation, innacurate geography again, mutual pining, eventual smut.

word count: 16k……..

A/N: this is so freaking long i had to turn it into a trilogy, i promise the smut is coming next part, ill make it worth the wait. same warnings, i tried to fix most of the mistakes, but if they’re still there, just pretend you didn’t see it lol!!

Greenwich, Connecticut — 4:33 PM

The Fitzwilliam estate sits behind wrought-iron gates and a quarter-mile of private drive, all rolling lawn and old-growth oaks. The main house is Georgian brick, three stories, with black shutters and a portico that could swallow a car. It looks like the kind of place where ambassadors retire and debutantes have their coming-out parties. Reid stands in the master bedroom, hands in his coat pockets, watching a forensic tech work a small floor safe in the back of the closet. The room is elegant; A four-poster bed, antique armoire, a watercolor of the English countryside above the fireplace. No signs of struggle. No signs of a second life at all. Morgan leans against the doorframe. "Anything?"

"Combination lock. Seven digits." The tech glances up. "Could be a date. Phone number. Could take a while." Hotch's voice carries from the hallway. "Prentiss, check the study for any ledgers or appointment books. Rossi, the guest wing. Look for anything that suggests long-term occupancy."

Reid's phone buzzes. He pulls it out.

You (4:24 PM): do you have enough to arrest him?

He reads it twice. Types his reply, then puts the phone away.

Morgan raises an eyebrow. "Everything okay?"

"Fine." He smiles, then pulls himself from the safe and crosses the wide, echoing hallway to the study. The room is paneled in dark walnut, floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with leather-bound volumes — history, law, a complete set of Burke's Peerage. A mahogany desk sits at the far end, neat and organized, and Prentiss is bent over it, flipping through a leather-bound ledger. She looks up as he enters. "Anything?"

"Seven-digit safe. They're working on it." Spencer moves closer, eyes scanning the spines. "What about this?"

"Appointment calendar. Two years' worth." Emily turns the ledger toward him, tapping a page. "Every other Thursday, marked in pencil. No location noted, but the dates line up with Naomi Evans's schedule and Julia Williams's." He leans in. The handwriting is clean, precise. 3:15 beside each date. A time, not an address. "Anything else?" Prentiss flips further back. "Same pattern going back four years. And—" She pulls out a slim leather journal from under the ledger. "This was locked in the bottom drawer. Personal diary."

Spencer takes it carefully, opening to a page near the middle. The handwriting shifts, it’s looser, the pages are marked, as if he wrote with a lot more force this time. A single passage catches his eye.

She asked about my wife. I told her the truth, that I love Eleanor. She smiled and said she understood. They always understand, in the beginning.

He reads it again. Then the next entry.

I bought the ring today. Not for Eleanor. For the next one. I'll leave it beside her so everyone knows she was loved.

Reid pulls out his phone, the diary still open in his other hand. He hits Garcia's contact.

She picks up on the first ring. "Oh, look who it is! The boy genius, emerging from the Connecticut wilderness to grace me with a phone call."

"Garcia. I need you to run something."

"You always need me to run something. The question is whether you deserve my help, given that you have been ghosting me on a very important matter."

Spencer frowns. "What matter?"

"The matter of a certain woman who has been occupying your text thread at frankly ungodly hours. I have sources, Spencer. I have logs. You think I don't notice when my favorite genius starts sending paragraphs at 3 AM to a mysterious number?"

Emily looks up from the ledger, one eyebrow raised.

Spencer’s ears go red. "That's— that's not relevant to the case, Garcia."

"Oh, it's extremely relevant to the case, because it tells me you have feelings and you're not sharing them with the team therapist like a well-adjusted adult."

"Garcia."

"I'm just saying! She's pretty. She's smart. She texts you about knitting and literature and you go all soft-eyed—"

"We are not having this conversation."

"You're having it right now, baby genius. You called me."

Reid pinches the bridge of his nose. Prentiss hides a smile behind the ledger. He sighs, a sound that carries the weight of the last three days. "Garcia. I'll tell you about it later. I promise."

There's a pause on the other end. When she speaks again, the teasing edge has softened into something gentler. "Fine. I'm holding you to that. Now, what did you actually call about?"

He glances at the diary in his hand. The pages are worn, the ink sepia-dark in the low study light. "I need you to cross-reference the name Theodore Fitzwilliam, Sixth Earl of Whitmore, against any property records, shell companies, or aliases tied to the hotels on our map. The Langham, the Pierre, the St. Regis, the Ritz-Carlton, the Greenwich Hotel."

"Already on it, sweet pea. The second Hotch sent me the warrant, I started digging. Give me ten minutes and I'll have more than you wanted to know."

"And Garcia—" Spencer hesitates. "The diary. It reads like a confession. He wrote about buying a ring. About leaving it beside the body so 'everyone knew she was loved.'" Silence. Then, quietly: "I'll fast-track the property search. You focus on that book."

He hangs up. Emily watches him with an unreadable expression. "A confession?"

"Of sorts." Spencer sets the diary on the desk, open to the entry he was reading. "He doesn't name names. But he describes the ritual." Prentiss reads the passage. Her jaw tightens immediately. "We need to get this to Hotch. Now."

"I want to photograph every page first," Spencer says, already pulling his phone out. "Evidence chain. If something happens to the original on the way to Quantico—" Emily nods. "Smart. I'll keep an eye on the door."

He lays the diary flat on the desk and works through it methodically. Page by page. The first entries are mundane — meeting times, expenses, a note about a tailor in Savile Row. But as he moves deeper, the tone shifts. The handwriting tightens.

March 12. She wore red. I told her it reminded me of the roses at Whitmore Hall. She laughed. I knew then it would be soon.

April 3. The ring is heavier than I expected. I practice holding it in my palm. Eleanor asked what I was thinking about. I told her: us. It wasn't a lie.

He photographs each spread. The leather creaks as the pages are turned. Some entries are crossed out, rewritten. He edited himself, Reid realizes. He chose his words carefully even in private. When Spencer reaches the last written page, he pauses.

June 9. I saw her today. The one from the Pierre, the girl with the soft hair and the sad eyes. She was buying fruit at a market in SoHo. She didn't see me. I stood across the street for ten minutes, watching her weigh oranges in her hands. She looked happy. I wanted to tell her she shouldn't be.

Spencer’s blood goes cold. The girl with the soft hair and the sad eyes.

You.

He closes the diary. The leather creaks softly in his lean hands. Forty-seven photographs, timestamped and saved. The last image sits in his camera roll — the girl with the soft hair and the sad eyes — and he forces himself to hold it together.

"We really need to get this to Hotch." Spencer’s voice comes out even. "And we need to warn her."

Prentiss is already moving. "I'll find him. You call her." She's out the study door before he can argue. He doesn’t. He pulls up your contact and presses call before he can overthink it.

It rings once. Twice. Thrice.

Pick up.

Four rings.

Please pick up.

A click. Your voice, uncertain: "Hello?"

He breathes out your name in relief and doesn’t waste his time, he doesn’t soften it. He doesn’t ease in. "Theodore Fitzwilliam kept a diary. In it, he describes watching you in SoHo. Buying fruit. He stood across the street and watched you for ten minutes." Silence on the line. You can hear your own breathing. "I need you to listen to me carefully. He's been observing you outside of bookings. That escalates his risk profile significantly. I'm going to arrange protective detsail—"

"I don't want protective detail." Your voice is quiet but steady. "I told you that already."

"He wrote about you. By description, but clearly enough that I knew it was you the moment I read it. He says you looked happy. He says he wanted to tell you that you shouldn't be."

The words hang in the air. You exhale, slow and deliberate.

"Where are you right now?" he asks.

"Home. On my couch. There's a half-finished sweater next to me."

"Good. Stay there. Don't open the door for anyone you don't know. I'm coming to you."

He hangs up before you can argue. Emily is already at the study door, phone in hand. "Hotch is authorizing protection. I'll coordinate with Martinez."

Spencer’s already moving past her, the diary tucked under his arm, heart hammering a rhythm he refuses to name. He’s halfway to the front door when he stops, phone already in hand. He pulls up Garcia's contact and hits call as he strides across the marble foyer.

"Miss me already?" she answers.

"Garcia. I need you to pull up the exterior cameras for her building in Manhattan. Traffic cams, building security, anything with a line of sight on her front door and fire escape."

"You're spying on your crush? Spencer, that's—"

"She's in danger. Fitzwilliam wrote about watching her in SoHo. I'm en route to her apartment now, but I need eyes on her location until I get there."

The playfulness drops from her voice. "Address?"

You give it to her. Keys click in the background.

"Pulling up now... got a street-level cam on the corner. Give me sixty seconds to find the building's internal system."

He pushes through the front door of the estate, past the forensic van, toward the sedan parked in the drive. Prentiss calls something after him and he waves without even turning.

"Building lobby cam is online," Garcia says. "No unusual activity. Elevator bank is clear. Her floor corridor is quiet."

"Keep watching. Call me if anything changes."

"Already locked in, baby genius. Go."

Spencer ends the call with Garcia and slides into the sedan, engine already turning over before the door's fully shut. The estate gates opens ahead of him, slow as molasses, and he’s through them before they're halfway there.

The drive to Manhattan is a blur of highway and tunnel, brake lights and merging traffic. The GPS clocks forty-two minutes. He makes it in thirty-one. He pulls up outside your building, a modest pre-war walk-up in a quiet stretch of Tribeca. The street is calm. A delivery truck idles at the corner. A woman walks her dog past the front steps. Nothing unusual. Spencer kills the engine and is out of the car before it's fully stopped. The lobby door is unlocked. He takes the stairs two at a time, heart pounding a rhythm he refuses to name. Third floor. Your door is at the end of the hall, painted a faded blue, a small welcome mat with a cat on it.

He knock. Two sharp raps.

"Hey. It's Reid." He stands in the dim hallway, hand half-raised to knock again.

The thought is strange and warm and terrifying all at once. You hear his breathing through the wood, quick, like he ran the stairs. You hadn't expected him to actually come. A text, maybe. A call. A police cruiser parked outside your building.

Not him. Not standing in your hallway in person.

The door doesn't open. The seconds stretch. Then he hears it, soft footsteps, a pause, and the click of a lock.

The door swings open.

You stand in the frame, barefoot, wearing an oversized cardigan over shorts. Your hair is pulled back loosely, a few strands falling across your face. You looks tired, like you’be been holding it together by a thread. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

"He wrote about me?" you ask quietly. "Yeah." Spencer keeps his voice low. "He did." You step back, holding the door open. "Come in."

He does. The apartment feels smaller with him in it — not in a bad way, just different. He stops in the center of the living room, hands at his sides, looking at your books, your tea, your half-finished sweater like he's trying to memorize the space. "How did you get here so fast?"

"I drove." He just stands there, hands at his sides. "Garcia is monitoring the cameras on your building. No unusual activity so far. But I wanted to be here." You cross your arms, looking at him with an expression he can't quite read. "You didn't have to come all the way out here just to babysit me."

"I know." He meets your eyes. "I came anyway.".

The words sit between you. You look away first, at the sweater on the couch, the soft grey and cream yarn. "Do you want tea? I was about to make a fresh pot."

You push off from the door and pad into the kitchen, filling the kettle without asking if he actually wants tea. He didn't say no. That's close enough. The kitchen is small, and you can feel him behind you, standing awkwardly in the living room, not quite sure where to land. You pull down two mugs, drop a bag of green tea in each, and wait for the water to boil. Behind you, the apartment is quiet. You hear him shift his weight. Then a soft sound, something like fabric being lifted. You glance over your shoulder.

He's holding the sweater. The one you finished this afternoon. It's draped over his hands, navy and maroon, soft in the low light. He's not looking at you. He's looking at the sweater, then at the couch, then back at the sweater. Measuring. He says your name, his voice is careful. "This is—" He holds it up. It's long. The sleeves would fall past your fingertips if you tried to wear it. "It's too big for you." The kettle clicks off. Steam rises. You keep your back to him, hands on the counter. "I know," you say quietly. You turn from the kettle, the mugs of steaming tea forgotten on the counter.

"It's for you. If you want it."

The words hang in the air between you. He's still holding the sweater, hands loose around the shoulders, like he's afraid to crease it. His expression shifts, something unreadable crossing his features before he schools it back to neutral. "For me?" His voice comes out slightly higher than usual. He clears his throat. "I mean, you made this. Today. While I was in Greenwich."

"I didn't plan it." You wrap your arms around yourself. "I just started knitting and didn't stop until it was done. And then I realized who I'd made it for." He looks down at the sweater in his hands. The soft maroon stripes. The navy panels. The careful seams. When he looks back up, there's something raw in his eyes, quickly hidden.

"I—" He stops. Starts again. "No one's ever made me anything before." The words land somewhere deep in your chest. You don't know what to say to that, so you say nothing. Just cross the room, take the sweater gently from his hands, and hold it up against his shoulders.

"It'll fit," you say quietly. "I measured it, at least I tried to, in my own way.” He goes very still. The words tumble out of you in a rush, like water breaking through a dam.

"I'm sorry if that's a lot. I just— I made it, I wasn't really thinking, I guess you were just in my mind and I don't want you to think anything wrong of me. I know a man like you would never want to be seen with such a dirty woman like I am and I—"

He says your name quietly, but it cuts through the spiral. You stop, mouth open, heart hammering. He's still holding the sweater, one hand pressed to the navy-colored yarn like he's grounding himself in it. "Stop." His voice is soft, but firm. "Just— stop for a second."

You press your lips together. Your eyes sting.

He takes a step closer. Then another. He's close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his irises, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. "I'm going to say something," he says carefully, "and I need you to hear it. Not deflect. Not apologize. Just hear it." You nod, barely.

"You're not dirty." He says it like it's a fact, like he's citing a theorem. "You're a woman who did what she had to do to survive. And you're kind, and you're smart, and you text me at 3 AM about Clarice Lispector, and you made me a sweater." He pauses. "A man like me would be really lucky to be seen with you."

The tears spill over. You don't try to stop them. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. The tears keep coming, but quieter now. You sniff, once, and meet his eyes. "Try it on. Please."

He looks down at the sweater in his hands, then back at you. For a moment you think he might argue — deflect, minimize, do something academic and distancing. Instead, he shrugs off his coat and pulls the sweater over his head. It settles over his shoulders like it was made for him. Which it was. The maroon stripes catch the light. The sleeves end just past his wrists. The hem falls clean at his hips. He looks down at himself, runs a hand along the sleeve. When he looks up, his expression is open in a way you haven't seen before.

"It fits."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. "Yeah. It does." He stands there in your apartment, wearing something you made, and neither of you speaks. The tea cools on the counter. The city hums outside your window. The sweater looks right on him. Natural. Like it belongs. He touches the collar. "The stitch pattern, is this seed stitch?"

You blink, dumbfounded. "You know knitting?"

"I know a lot of things." A small, almost-shy smile. "I read a book on textile manufacturing once. Seed stitch, stockinette, ribbing. I know the theory."

"Keep it. I made it for you."

The words settle between you. He looks down at the sweater again, runs his palm along the sleeve like he's still processing the reality of it. When he looks up, something in his expression has shifted, something softer, less guarded.

"I will." His voice is quiet. "I'll wear it." The silence stretches for a bit. The kettle's long gone cold but neither of you moves toward the kitchen. "This is—" He starts, stops, tries again. "I don't have a lot of people who do things for me. Not like this. Not without wanting something in return." You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "I don't want anything from you, Spencer. I just—" You glance at the sweater, at him, at the floor. "I wanted you to be warm." He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough at the edges. "I am." His hand traces the sleeve again, slow, like he's memorizing the texture. He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s interrupted.

A knock at the door.

You both freeze. Your eyes meet his. That knock isn't anyone checking in. It isn't a delivery. Every instinct you've honed in this city prickles at the back of your neck. Reid holds up a hand, signaling you to stay still. He moves silently toward the door, steps light, and peers through the peephole. His body goes rigid.

He turns to you, face pale, and mouths three words: Don't. Open. The door.

Then the knocking comes again. And a voice — low, English, smooth as polished wood.

"I know you're in there. I saw the light. I just want to talk."

Theodore Fitzwilliam.

You step around Spencer before he can stop you, pressing yourself against the door. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "Who is it?" A pause. Then that voice again, warm, polite, familiar from a dozen hotel rooms.

"It's Edward. From the Pierre. I hope I'm not interrupting, I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd take a chance. I know it's irregular." Edward. Not Theodore. Not the Earl of Whitmore. A false name, smooth as silk. You feel Spencer’s hand close gently around your wrist, pulling you back from the door. He shakes his head, eyes urgent. Outside, Fitzwilliam waits. You hear him shift his weight, the soft creak of the floorboards. "Hey?" His voice is still pleasant, still patient. "Are you going to let me in?"

"I don't take clients in my house." Your voice carries through the wood, steady, calm. "I thought you knew that." He pauses. You can almost hear him considering his response. "You're right. Of course. I apologize— I overstepped." A warm, self-deprecating chuckle. "I suppose I just wanted to see you. It's been a while." You don't answer. You turn your head, slow, and meet Spencer’s eyes. Your face asks the question your voice can't: What do we do?

His jaw is tight. He holds up a finger — wait — then pulls out his phone, thumbs moving fast. A second later, yours buzzes in your pocket. You don't reach for it. Can't risk the sound.

Another knock. Softer this time. Almost tender.

"I know you're scared. I know the FBI has been asking questions. But I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to explain." His voice is gentle. Kind. The same voice that asked about your day, that poured your wine, that told you about his boat and his wife. The voice of a man who left rings beside dead women. You take a breath. Reid's hand is still on your wrist, warm and steady. "What do you want to explain?" you call through the door.

A pause. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. Almost vulnerable.

"Everything. The woman they found at the Langham, Naomi innit? I knew her. I cared about her. And then she was gone, and I couldn't—" A shaky exhale. "I couldn't save her. And now the FBI thinks I had something to do with it. With her death. With the other girl. They're tearing my home apart looking for proof of something I didn't do." He's good. You'll give him that. He sounds like a man on the edge of breaking. "I didn't know where else to go. You were always kind to me. You listened. You never judged. I thought—" A pause. "I thought maybe you'd be the one person who'd hear me out." Across the room, Spencer’s phone buzzes silently in his hand. He glances down, then holds it up for you to see.

Garcia (4:51 PM): Motion detected on your floor. Someone's in the stairwell. Two figures. I can't get a visual but they're not moving like cops.

Your blood runs cold. He's not alone.

Your eyes catch Spencer’s. You don't break the gaze. You lift your chin, just slightly, toward his phone. Call them. He understands immediately. He steps back, fingers moving over the screen, keeping his movements low and quiet.

You turn back to the door. Breathe. Find the voice you used in a hundred hotel rooms, the warm, professional, slightly distracted one. "I hear you, Edward." You soften your tone, let it tremble just a little. "I do. I can't imagine what this has been like for you."

"Then let me in." His voice is almost pleading now. "Please. Just — ten minutes. I'll tell you everything, and then I'll go. You'll never see me again." You glance at Spencer. He's on the phone now, speaking in near-silent murmurs, his free hand pressed flat against the wall. Still on hold. Still waiting. You need more time. "Ten minutes," you repeat, stalling. "Edward, you show up at my door unannounced, you want me to let you into my home, and you think ten minutes is going to make this right?"

A pause. Then, softer, almost hurt: "I thought you understood me." Something in his voice has shifted. The warmth is still there, but underneath it, a cold thread, thin as wire.

"I did understand you, Edward." Your voice softens, almost tender. "That's why this hurts." Silence. You press your ear close to the wood, listening for movement. A long, slow exhale on the other side.

"You always knew what to say." His voice is quiet now, almost sad. "I admired that about you. The way you could hold a room without raising your voice. The way you made a man feel like he was the only person in the world." He pauses. The floorboards creak as he shifts his weight. "That's why I came tonight. Not to hurt you, but to give you a chance." His tone hardens, just a fraction. "You've been talking to the FBI. I know you have. And I know you've told them things. But I also know you haven't told them everything."

Your blood goes cold. Beside you, Spencer’s fingers fly across his phone screen. He holds it up: Backup en route. 5 minutes.

Five minutes. You look at the door. At the man on the other side. At the man wearing your sweater, standing in your living room, trying to save your life. "Tell me what you think I haven't told them," you say, buying time. You catch Reid's eye and tilt your head toward the door. A single motion. He understands. He moves silently, his shoes barely whispering on the hardwood, and positions himself beside the frame, back pressed to the wall. His hand rests near his hip, where you know there's a holster. He meets your gaze. Steady. Ready.

You turn back to the door.

"Tell me what you think I haven't told them, Edward." Your voice is soft, curious. The voice you used for clients who wanted to feel heard. A long pause. When he speaks, his voice is lower. Something raw beneath the polish. "I think you haven't told them about the last time we met. The corner suite. The way you looked at me when I told you that I loved my wife." Your stomach drops. "You remember that night, don't you? You asked me why I cheated on her. And I told you— I told you the truth. That I loved Eleanor, and that was all. You smiled and said you understood.”

Spencer’s eyes are on you, sharp and questioning. You don't have an answer. You turn your head, slow, and meet his eyes. You lift your chin toward the door, then raise your eyebrows — a question you don't dare speak out loud.

Do you want me to open it?

His eyes widen. He shakes his head once, sharp and definitive. No. Then he holds up his phone. The screen glows in the dim apartment:

Garcia (4:53 PM): Backup is 10 minutes out. DO NOT ENGAGE.

You give him the smallest nod. Message received. You turn back to the door, heart pounding, and find your voice again. "Edward." Soft. Almost gentle. "I remember that night. I remember everything." A pause. You hear him breathe.

"Then you know I'm not a violent man." His voice is earnest, almost pleading. "I never raised a hand to you. I never raised my voice. I treated you with kindness. With respect."

"You did." Your throat tightens. "You were always gentle with me."

"I still am." A pause. "That's why I came tonight. To give you a choice. You can keep talking to the FBI, and I'll be forced to do something neither of us wants. Or you can open this door, and we can figure out a way forward together." The floorboards creak in the stairwell. Coming closer.

You straighten your spine, pulling your shoulders back. The fear is still there, coiled in your chest, but you push it down into the space you've always kept for that purpose. "You said you wanted to explain, Edward." Your voice is steady. "So explain." Another pause. You hear him breathe, slow and deliberate.

"I wanted to tell you about Naomi." His voice is quieter now. "The real story. Not what the FBI thinks."

"Then tell me."

"The night she died, I was with her." A long exhale. "I was in the hotel room. We argued. She wanted me to leave Eleanor. She said she'd go to the press, expose everything if I didn't. I told her I needed time." His voice cracks. "I left. And the next morning, she was dead."

Behind you, Reid's phone buzzes. He glances at it, then holds it up: Backup arriving. 30 seconds.

"Someone killed her after I left," Fitzwilliam continues. "Someone who knew about us. Someone who wanted to make it look like me." The stairwell creaks again. Closer now. You tense, listening past his voice to the sound of footsteps, more than one set, moving slow and deliberate. "I think it's the same person who killed Julia Williams. And I think—" He pauses. "I think they're coming for you next." Through the door, you hear it. A sound behind him — a muffled thud, a sharp intake of breath. Then Fitzwilliam's voice, suddenly strained:

"Run."

You press your eye to the cold metal of the peephole. The fisheye lens distorts the hallway, but you can see enough. Fitzwilliam is on his knees, hands raised. Behind him, two men in dark jackets have him pinned. One holds a gun to the back of his head. The other is already turning toward your door. Fitzwilliam's eyes meet yours through the peephole. There's no fear in them. No pleading.

He smiles.

Then the man beside him raises a fist and knocks, not the polite knock from before, but something harder. Official.

"FBI. Open up."

You pull back from the peephole, heart slamming against your ribs. Fitzwilliam smiled. He smiled at you through the door while a gun was pressed to his head. None of this is right. You grab Spencer’s arm and yank him toward the back of the apartment. "Fire escape," you hiss. "Now." He doesn't argue. Doesn't ask. He's moving with you, one hand going to his holster, the other catching the fire escape latch before you've even reached it. The window screeches open, cold air flooding in.

Behind you, the knocking turns to pounding. A voice, harder now: "Open the door! This is your last warning!" You swing a leg over the sill. The fire escape is old iron, bolted to the brick, three flights down to the alley. Below, a dumpster. A stray cat scattering. No backup in sight. Reid follows, landing light beside you, pulling the window shut behind him. The metal grate rattles as you both descend, footsteps clanging in the dark.

Above, you hear the door splinter open.

You're halfway down the second flight when Spencer’s phone is already at his ear, pressed tight, his other hand guiding you by the elbow past a railing that groans under your weight. "Morgan. It's Reid." His voice is low, urgent, barely carrying over the wind. "We're on the fire escape. Men at the door, they claimed to be FBI. They broke it down. Fitzwilliam was with them. He was on his knees, they had a gun to his head, but he smiled at herthrough the peephole. Something's wrong." He pauses, boots hitting the next platform. You're both moving fast, the metal trembling with every step. "I need you to check if any of our people were dispatched to her address in the last five minutes, even though I don’t think there were. If not, we have hostiles in her apartment wearing federal badges."

Another pause. Morgan's voice, tinny through the speaker.

"Stay on the line. I'll ask someone to check now."

You hit the ground. The alley is narrow, dark, reeking of wet cardboard and garbage. A single streetlamp flickers at the far end. You look up, your apartment window is dark, but you can see movement behind the glass, shadows passing back and forth. Spencer grabs your hand. "This way. We need to put distance between us and that building." You're both at the bottom of the fire escape, your sneakers hitting gravel. He tugs you forward, but you plant your feet. "Spencer." Your voice is low, urgent. "Do you have a weapon?" He stops. His hand drifts to his hip, there’s a shape beneath his jacket, barely visible in the dim alley light. "Standard issue. Fifteen rounds." He pauses. "I'm a better profiler than I am a shot." You don't know if that's modesty or accuracy. You don't have time to figure it out.

Above you, a window slams open. A voice, sharp and commanding: "They took the fire escape! Go! Cut them off at the alley mouth!"

Spencer’s hand finds yours again. "This way." He pulls you past the dumpster, past an overflowing recycling bin, toward a gap between two buildings so narrow you have to turn sideways to fit. Brick scrapes your shoulder. The smell of wet concrete and diesel fills your lungs. Behind you, boots hit the fire escape. You push through the gap and emerge onto a side street, quiet and dark.

"He smiled at me like he'd planned this." You hear your own voice, thin and distant. "Like he knew. Like he wanted me to see it."

Spencer looks at you, and for a moment, the mask slips, not the composed FBI agent, but the profiler, processing. Piecing together the fragments. "Fitzwilliam on his knees," he says slowly. "Controlled. Not afraid. He wanted you to witness his capture." His eyes find yours in the dim streetlight. "And then men claiming to be FBI arrive to pick you up. Men who knew exactly when to knock." He's connecting dots you hadn't even seen. "It was a trap. He led them here." His jaw tightens. "The question is whose trap, and who those men really belong to."

His phone vibrates. He glances down.

Morgan (4:57 PM): No units dispatched to your location. Those aren't our people. Get clear and stay dark. We're coming to you.

“He won’t escape, will he?” Your voice cracks on the last word. You hate it, you hate how small you sound, how exposed. But you can't help it. The image of Fitzwilliam's smile, the way his eyes found yours through the peephole like he knew you'd be watching, it’s carved into the back of your skull. "Please, Spencer." You realize you're still holding his sleeve, your knuckles white against the wool. "Tell me he won't. Tell me he doesn't just walk away from this." He looks at you. The streetlight catches the side of his face, the hollows under his cheekbones. "I can't promise you he won't slip through something," he says quietly. "He's wealthy. Connected. He has resources most people can't imagine." His hand covers yours, briefly, on his sleeve. "But I can promise you this. I won't stop. None of us will. We have a diary. We have a pattern. We have him on camera at the Langham. And now we know he's working with people who are willing to impersonate federal agents." A pause. "That's not a man who's going to walk away.” His phone vibrates again. He glances down.

Morgan (5:01 PM): One block east. Blue sedan. Moving to you now.

You let go of his sleeve. The wool slips through your fingers, and you take a step back, giving him room. "Okay." Your voice is steadier now. "You know what you're doing. I'll follow your lead." He blinks, like he wasn't expecting that. Something flickers across his face — surprise, maybe, or gratitude — before he masks it. He gives you a single nod, then turns, scanning the street with quick, efficient movements. "Morgan's one block east. We move fast, stay close to the buildings, keep to the shadows." He points toward a narrow gap between a laundromat and a bodega. "Through there. Comes out on Broome. He'll be waiting." He looks back at you, and for a moment, he's not Dr. Spencer Reid, genius profiler. He's just a man in a sweater you knitted, standing in a dark street, trying to keep you alive. "Stay behind me. If I tell you to run, you run. Don't look back. Don't wait for me." He holds your gaze, waiting for your answer.

You ask, quietly: "What's the plan after we meet him? What happens next?"

His focus doesn't waver. He's already mapping routes in that mind of his, already three moves ahead.

"Morgan's driving. We get in, we don't stop moving until we're at a secure location. Hotch will have already started coordinating a safe house by now." A pause. "Then we figure out what Fitzwilliam actually wants. Because that display at your door—" He shakes his head. "That was a performance. He wanted to be seen. Wanted you to see him taken. There's a reason for that." He glances down the alley, then back at you. "We'll regroup, debrief, and compare what we know with what Fitzwilliam's diary says. Somewhere along the way, he made a mistake. Left a clue. We find it, we find him."

A car engine rounds the corner, low and steady. Headlights sweep the opposite wall, the blue sedan. Morgan.

"Ready?" Spencer asks. You nod once. "Ready." He moves, and you follow. The blue sedan pulls up to the curb, and the back door swings open before it's fully stopped. Morgan's face appears in the front seat, sharp, alert, scanning the street behind you.

"Get in. Now."

You slide into the back, Spencer’s right behind you, the door slamming shut before either of you has fully settled. Morgan's already pulling away, tires gripping asphalt, the sedan eating up the street. "Anyone on your tail?" His eyes flick to the rearview, checking. "Not yet," Spencer says. "But they know we went out the fire escape. They'll be sweeping the block." Morgan mutters something under his breath, takes a hard left, then another. The streets blur past, the dark storefronts, a bodega with its neon sign buzzing, a man walking his dog who doesn't even glance up. Normal. The world going on like you didn't just watch a man smile while a gun was pressed to his skull.

Morgan's phone is mounted on the dash. It buzzes.

Hotch (5:03 PM): Safe house secured. Sending coordinates. Prentiss and Rossi are en route.

Morgan glances at the message, then at you in the rearview. "You okay back there?" The question hangs in the air. You're not sure how to answer it. You say it to the back of Morgan's head, but your voice is hollow. "He smiled at me through the door, Morgan. Like it was a game." His eyes find you in the rearview. The easy confidence he usually carries is gone, replaced by something harder. He takes a turn, slow and deliberate, before answering. "A man like that, he's been playing games his whole life. Born into money, titled, never told no." His knuckles flex on the wheel. "He's not used to people slipping through his fingers. That smile? That was him telling you he's not worried. That he's got moves you haven't seen yet."

"He had a gun to his head," you say. "And he smiled."

"Because he knew those men. Because he arranged it." Morgan's jaw tightens. "The question is whether they're his private security, his family's connections, or something else entirely."

Spencer shifts beside you. The sweater brushes your arm. "Something else," he says quietly. "If they were his men, he wouldn't have needed the FBI cover story. He would've just taken her. The fact that they pretended to be federal agents means someone is trying to control the narrative. Make it look official." Morgan's phone buzzes again. Hotch's coordinates flash on the screen. "Then we figure out who they are from somewhere safe." He glances back at you. "You still with us?" You look down at your hands. They're trembling, fine, shallow tremors you can't seem to stop. You wrap your arms around yourself, press them into your ribs like that might steady them. It doesn't. Morgan waits. The car hums beneath you, streetlights sliding across the interior in amber streaks. "I'm here," you manage. It comes out smaller than you meant.

The sedan slows as Morgan takes another turn, pulling into a narrow street lined with brick buildings. Warehouses, maybe. Loading docks. Not the kind of place anyone would look twice at. He pulls into a bay between two buildings, kills the engine. The sudden silence is thick. Through the windshield, you see a steel door set into the brick, a single light above it buzzing faintly. "Safe house," Morgan says, unbuckling. "Prentiss and Rossi are already inside. Hotch is on his way." He turns to look at you, full face now, no rearview. "You walk in there, you're not alone. You got the whole team behind you."

Spencer opens his door, cold air flooding in. He waits, looking back at you. You nod. The motion feels mechanical, but it's enough. You unbuckle, push the door open, and step out into the cold night air. The steel door in front of you is plain, unmarked, designed to be overlooked. Spencer falls into step beside you as Morgan leads the way, knocking twice, then once, then twice again. The door swings open.

Emily is on the other side. She takes you in with a quick, professional sweep, checking for blood, for injuries, for the thousand tiny signs of trauma she's been trained to read. "You okay?" she asks. Not pressing. Just offering the question, leaving room for whatever answer you have. You step inside. The safe house is sparse, there’s concrete floors, a couple of worn couches, a small kitchen with a fluorescent light humming overhead. Rossi is at the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand. He gives you a nod, silent, acknowledging. The door clicks shut behind you. Bolted. Locked.

For the first time in what feels like hours, you can breathe. You find a corner. A concrete wall, a worn armchair that's seen better decades. You sink into it, and the moment your body stops moving, something in your chest gives way. Your hands are still shaking. You press them flat against your thighs, feel the denim beneath your palms, try to anchor yourself to something real. The fluorescent light hums overhead. Someone's moving in the kitchen, Rossi, pouring a second cup. Morgan's voice, low, on the phone in the next room. You don't cry. You're not sure you have the energy for it. You just sit, staring at the crack in the opposite wall, letting the silence settle around you like dust. A soft sound. Spencer lowers himself onto the arm of the chair beside you. Not crowding. Just present. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't tell you it's going to be okay, doesn't offer hollow reassurance. He just sits there, the wool of the sweater brushing your shoulder, a quiet anchor in the room. The minutes pass. The hum of the light. The distant murmur of voices. Your breathing, slowly, unevenly, finding its rhythm again. You turn your head. He's still there, a silhouette against the pale wall, the sweater hanging loose on his frame. "Tell me something," you say. Your voice is rough, like you haven't used it in hours. "Anything. Distract me."

He blinks. For a second, he looks caught off guard, like he wasn't expecting to be asked for anything, let alone conversation. Then his brow furrows, the way it does when he's sorting through the endless catalogue of his mind. "Did you know," he starts, slowly, "that the average person has about 60,000 thoughts per day? And that approximately 80% of them are negative, or at least repetitive. It's a cognitive bias called the negativity bias — we're wired to dwell on threats and unpleasant experiences because, evolutionarily, our survival depended on it." He pauses. Glances at you, like he's checking if this is working. "But there's also research suggesting that novelty can interrupt that cycle. New information, new stimuli, it forces your brain to redirect resources away from the rumination loop." Another pause. "That's why I'm telling you this. It's not just random trivia, it’s also my coping mechanism."

Some seconds of silence stretch.

"I mean, it is also random trivia. But it serves a purpose." You smile, getting more comfortable in the chair. “Keep going, I liked it.”

A flicker of something crosses his face. Encouragement, maybe. Relief that he's helping. "Alright." He shifts slightly on the armrest, getting comfortable. "Do you know why we associate knitting with grandmothers and cozy fireplaces when it was originally a strictly male profession? In sixteenth-century Europe, knitting guilds were exclusively male. Women weren't allowed to join. The first knitting machine was invented in 1589 by William Lee, an English clergyman, and he tried to get Queen Elizabeth I to grant him a patent. She refused, she said the machine would take work away from the poor." You glance down at your hands. They've stopped shaking, you realize. Somewhere between his voice and the trivia, the tremors faded. "She told him," Spencer continues, "to 'consider what the invention would do to the poor.' Lee moved to France, died in obscurity. His machine eventually became the framework for the modern textile industry." He pauses. "So, in a way, your sweater is the descendant of a failed Elizabethan patent and a profession that once excluded you." He says it with a faint, almost shy curve at the corner of his mouth. Like he's offering you a gift, wrapped in facts and history and the careful architecture of his mind.

Your fingers find the loose thread before you're fully aware of what you're doing. A small thing, barely visible — a strand of maroon wool working itself free near the cuff. You smooth it down, press it flat against his arm, and the gesture feels more intimate than it should. He goes quiet. You don't look up at him, but you feel the shift in his posture, the way he stills, like he's afraid to move and break whatever this is. "It's a good sweater," he says, after a moment. His voice is softer now. Less lecture, more... something else. "The tension is consistent. Even stitches. You clearly know what you're doing." You huff a breath, almost a laugh. "I've been knitting since I was twelve. First thing I ever made was a scarf that was somehow both too short and too wide. I wore it anyway for three winters."

"Because you made it."

You look up at him. "Because I made it." He holds your gaze. The fluorescent light hums. Somewhere in the other room, Morgan's voice rises and falls on the phone. But here, in this corner, time feels like it's slowed. Spencer clears his throat. "I've never had anything like that. Something someone made for me." He sighs. "Thank you. I don't think I said it properly earlier."

You look away.

The corner of the room suddenly becomes very interesting, the crack in the plaster, the way the light catches the dust motes floating in the air. Anything but his face, the earnestness in his voice, the way he said thank you like it cost him something. The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, but full. Laden with something neither of you has a name for.

Rossi's voice cuts through, low and unhurried from the kitchenette: "Hotch is five minutes out. They found fibers in Fitzwilliam's car matching the rug from Naomi’s apartment."

The words land like stones in still water. Reality seeping back in. Emily appears at the edge of your vision, leaning against the doorframe. She looks at you, then at Spencer, then back at you. There's something knowing in her expression, but she doesn't comment. "There's food, if you want it," she says. "Nothing fancy. Rossi makes a mean grilled cheese." You shake your head before the offer's fully left her mouth. "I'm not hungry." Prentiss doesn't push. She just gives a small nod, the way someone does when they understand that insistence would only make it worse. She disappears back into the kitchen area, and you hear the low murmur of her voice joining Rossi's.

The corner holds you. The armchair holds you. You pull your knees up, wrap your arms around them, and stare at the crack in the wall. Spencer hasn't moved. He's still there, on the arm of the chair, a quiet presence at the edge of your vision. He doesn't fill the silence with more facts, more distractions. He just is.

Minutes pass. The lock on the door clicks. Hotch steps in, coat collar turned up against the cold, a manila folder tucked under his arm. He takes in the room with a single sweep: Rossi at the counter, Prentiss by the window, Morgan emerging from the back room, and you, curled in the corner with Reid at your side.

He doesn't comment. Just sets the folder on the table and flips it open. "We've got a positive ID on the men who posed as FBI. Off-duty NYPD. Paid detail, routed through a shell corporation." He looks up. "One of them lawyered up within the hour. The other gave us a name: Julian Fitzwilliam. Theodore's younger brother."

You're still in the corner, arms wrapped around your knees, but something in your chest hardens. You look up at Hotch, at the folder open on the table, at the evidence spread out like a hand of cards. "His brother." Your voice comes out stronger than you expected. "That means there's a connection. A paper trail. Accounts, properties, alibis." You pause. "You need to catch him. Please. Don't let him slip away through his family's money and his title and his smile. Don't let him become another unsolved case that gets filed away and forgotten." Hotch holds your gaze. There's no pity in his expression, no soft reassurance. Just a calm, measured assessment.

"We have a team executing a warrant on the Greenwich estate as we speak. Another at Fitzwilliam's city residence. We're tracking his known associates, freezing accounts linked to the shell corporation, and cross-referencing every property under the Fitzwilliam family trust." He flips a page in the folder. "If he's still in the country, we'll find him within the next twelve hours."

"And if he's not?"

Hotch's jaw tightens. "Then we make sure there's nowhere left for him to run."

You push yourself upright, just slightly, enough to see the folder from where you sit. The edge of it catches the light, pages spilling out.

"What else did the diary say about me?"

Hotch's expression doesn't change, but there's a beat of hesitation. A fraction of a second where he weighs something. Then he reaches into the folder and pulls out a photocopied page, slides it across the table toward you. You don't move to take it. It lies there, face-up, the handwriting elegant and measured. Looping cursive, the ink pressed deep into the paper.

She watches everything. That's what makes her dangerous. Most of them don't see the details, my cufflinks, the crest, the way I hold my glass. But she does. She sees me the way no one has in years.

I find myself wanting to be seen by her.

I find myself wanting her to see all of it.

The script continues, but the next line has been redacted. Thick black marker, a rectangle of ink.

She's going to be the last one.

The room is very quiet.

Spencer's voice, low: "That was on the page after the description of Naomi’s murder." Your hand moves before you tell it to. Reaches out. Slides the photocopy across the table until it's right in front of you.

She's going to be the last one.

You read it again. The words don't change. They sit there, elegant and damning, in that looping cursive. "The last one." Your voice is barely a whisper. "He meant me." You look up at Hotch. "Who redacted that line?"

"The bureau's legal team," he says. "The line after it contained specific details about the method, they sealed it to prevent copycats and preserve the integrity of the investigation."

"But you read it."

A pause. "Yes."

"So you know how he planned to do it."

Hotch holds your gaze. "I do."

He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. The weight of what he's not saying fills the room like smoke. Morgan shifts by the door. "Hey." His voice is careful, measured. "You're in the safest place you can be right now. We've got eyes on every port, every airport, every car registered to the Fitzwilliam family. He's not getting to you."

You look back down at the page. At the redacted block. At your name, implied but never written, sitting in the white space between his words.

The last one.

You let the words sit. They hang in the air like smoke, curling around the edges of the room, settling into your chest.

The last one.

You look up from the page. "What do I do now?" It's not a rhetorical question. You're not asking for reassurance or comfort. You're asking because you need a direction, a task, something to move toward other than sitting in a corner waiting for a man with a family crest to find you. Hotch studies you for a moment. Whatever he sees, it makes him reach into the folder again, pulling out a smaller photograph. He slides it across the table. It's a man. Late twenties, maybe. Dark hair, sharp features, a suit that costs more than your rent. Standing on a dock somewhere, sunlight catching the water behind him. He's laughing at something off-camera, carefree and unguarded.

"Julian Fitzwilliam," Hotch says. "Theodore's younger brother. He's the one who hired the off-duty officers. We picked him up an hour ago at JFK with a one-way ticket to Zurich." Rossi sets down his coffee. "He's not talking. Got a lawyer from his father's firm on speed dial. But he's scared. You can see it in the booking footage."

"He's your way in," you say. Not a question.

Hotch nods. "We need to flip him. Get him to turn on his brother before Theodore's lawyers bury us in injunctions and jurisdictional appeals." You sit back. The armchair creaks beneath you. "You're telling me this for a reason. What is it?" Hotch doesn't look away. That's the thing about him, he never flinches, never deflects. When he speaks, it's measured, each word chosen with care. "Julian Fitzwilliam lawyered up before we even finished reading him his rights. He's not going to talk to us." A pause. "But he might talk to you."

The room tightens. Rossi sets down his coffee. Morgan straightens by the door.

"Let me be clear," Hotch continues. "I'm not asking you to do anything dangerous. You'd be in an interview room at federal plaza, with agents on the other side of the glass. But Julian is twenty-four years old. He's scared. He's in over his head. And according to his phone records, he spent the last three days trying to contact Theodore, all calls unanswered." Prentiss speaks from the window. "He's a disposable asset. His brother left him holding the bag. If there's anyone who might understand what that feels like, it's you."

The words land. You think of Naomi, of Julia. Of all the women who trusted men who promised them something more. Of a twenty-four-year-old kid on a dock in Zurich, laughing, not knowing he'd be left behind the same way. "I'll do it. Let me talk to him." The words come out before you can second-guess them. Before the fear can catch up and clamp around your throat. You say them, and they hang in the air, and somehow they feel true.

Hotch doesn't react. Not visibly. But there's a shift in the room. Rossi picks up his coffee again, Morgan's shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. Prentiss gives you a look that might be respect.

"Alright," Hotch says. "We'll have you at federal plaza by eight tomorrow morning. You'll be in an observation room first, watch the interview through the glass, get a feel for him. If it feels right, you go in."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then you don't. No pressure. No obligation." He closes the folder. "You're not an agent. You're a witness. A civilian. You have every right to say no at any point." He says it like he means it. Like he wants you to know that this isn't an order, isn't a manipulation. Just an offer, laid out plain.

Morgan clears his throat. "There's a bed in the back room. Nothing fancy, but it's clean. You should get some rest before tomorrow." You don't feel tired. But your bones ache with a weariness that has nothing to do with sleep.

"Thank you." You hold Hotch's gaze. "I'll be ready." He gives a single nod. No further ceremony. He's already pulling out his phone, probably coordinating with the team at federal plaza, setting the pieces in motion. Morgan gestures toward the back room. "C'mon. I'll show you where you're crashing."

The room is small, a twin bed with a thin mattress, a nightstand with a lamp, a window that looks out onto a brick wall. Basic, but safe. Morgan lingers in the doorway.

"Door locks from the inside. Reid's gonna be on the couch right outside. If you need anything—"

"I know."

He holds your gaze for a second, then nods and pulls the door shut. The lock clicks into place. You sit on the edge of the bed. The sheets smell like detergent, nothing else. Clean. Anonymous. You lie back, still fully dressed, and stare at the ceiling.

Morning comes faster than you expect. Gray light filters through the window. A soft knock at the door. "Good morning." Spencer's voice, low. "Hotch is here. We leave in twenty." You sit up. Your neck is stiff from sleeping in a weird position, but something in your chest feels different. Steadier. You open the door. He’s is there, wearing the sweater. He hands you a coffee.

"Black. One sugar." You take it. Your fingers brush his.

Federal plaza is a forty-minute drive. You spend it watching the city wake up, the coffee warming your hands, knowing that in a few hours, you'll be sitting across from a man who might help you catch the one who wants you dead.

"Tell me about Julian. What do I need to know before I go in?"

Reid's quiet for a moment, organizing his thoughts. The car hums beneath you, streetlights fading into the gray morning.

"Julian Fitzwilliam, twenty-four. Second son, which in aristocratic families means he inherited nothing and answers to everyone. His father is Lord Alistair Fitzwilliam, Ninth Earl of Whitmore. Julian's been described by staff as 'nervous,' 'eager to please,' and 'easily led.'" Reid glances at you. "He graduated from Oxford with a degree in art history, spent the last two years managing the family's London properties. No criminal record. No history of violence."

"Sounds like the perfect patsy."

"Exactly." Spencer's fingers tap against his thigh. "Phone records show Theodore called him seven times in the week before Celeste's murder. Each call under three minutes. We think he was giving instructions. Julian made the arrangements, the off-duty officers, the cover story, the car." A pause. "But he's not the one who killed anyone."

"So he knows he's expendable."

"He's starting to figure it out." He looks at you. "That's why he might talk to you. You're evidence that his brother is a killer. You're proof that Julian backed the wrong horse."

"How do I get him to trust me?"

Spencer considers this longer than your other questions. His fingers tap a syncopated rhythm against his thigh as the car hums through midtown traffic. "Trust is about perceived common ground. Shared vulnerability." He turns toward you. "Julian has been surrounded by people who have power over him his entire life. His father. His brother. The family lawyers now. He's never been the one in control."

"So I give him control."

"Not exactly. You make him feel like he has it." Reid's brow furrows. "The difference is subtle but important. You're not going to manipulate him. He's been manipulated enough. You're going to be the first person in this entire process who treats him like a person making a choice, not a loose end to be tied up." The car slows. Federal plaza rises ahead, gray and imposing. "He wants to be seen," Spencer says quietly. "The same way you did. The same way Naomi did. That's what Theodore offered both of you, the illusion of being truly seen." A pause. "Be real with him. That's how you get him to trust you."

Morgan pulls up to the secure entrance. The glass doors reflect the overcast sky. You take a breath. The air is cold and tastes like exhaust and wet concrete. You step out of the car. The building rises in front of you — glass and steel, federal insignia above the doors. People in suits walk past with the brisk efficiency of people who belong here. You don't. But you're here anyway. Morgan leads the way through security. Badge, metal detector, guard who nods at him like they've done this a hundred times. Spencer stays close, a step behind you, the weight of his presence steadying. The elevator hums as it rises. Fourth floor. The hallway is beige and fluorescent, lined with doors that all look the same. Morgan stops at one, buzzes in.

The observation room is small. A one-way mirror. A table with two chairs on the other side. A microphone and speakers on this side, turned low. And on the other side of the glass, already seated, is Julian Fitzwilliam. He looks younger than his photograph. Dark hair disheveled, shirt wrinkled, no jacket. He's sitting with his hands on the table, fingers laced together, staring at them like they might hold answers. He's not crying, but his shoulders are tight, coiled, like a man waiting for a blow.

Morgan glances at you. "You want to watch for a bit?" You don't take your eyes off Julian through the glass. "What has he been told about me?" Morgan glances at Hotch, who's entered quietly behind you. He answers. "Nothing. We've kept your name out of the interviews, out of the paperwork he's seen. As far as Julian knows, you're a witness who spoke to his brother at the Pierre. He doesn't know about Naomi’s diary entry. He doesn't know you're the last one on Theodore's list."

"Good." The word comes out firmer than you expected."He's been sitting alone for about forty minutes," Prentiss adds from the corner. "We brought him in at 6 AM, read him his rights, left him with water. No interrogation yet. He's been alternating between staring at his hands and checking the door." You watch him through the glass. He picks at his cuticle now, a nervous, repetitive motion. He looks up at the door again. Swallows. "His lawyer arrived ten minutes ago," Hotch says. "They've been in consultation. The lawyer's name is Lucy White, corporate defense, high-end. She's already filed a motion to suppress the JFK arrest."

"He's not going to talk with her here."

"No. But she'll step out if he asks her to."

The room is quiet. Everyone's looking at you.

"I want to go in. Just me and him."

Hotch's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "His lawyer is in there. She's not going to leave just because you ask."

"Then don't ask." You turn to face him. "Tell her she can watch from here. That she'll have a direct line to the room. That nothing I say is confidential. But Julian and I talk alone." Hotch holds your gaze for a long moment. Then he nods once, pulling out his phone. A minute passes. Two. Through the glass, you watch Lucy stand, lean down to say something to Julian, he nods without looking up, and then she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her. Julian is alone now. Hotch looks at you. "The microphone will be on. If you need us to intervene, just say the word 'break.'" He pauses. "Take your time. There's no rush." The door to the interview room is down the hall. Gray metal. A small window with wire mesh. You can see Julian through it, still staring at his hands.

Morgan steps aside. Reid meets your eyes, gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. The hallway stretches ahead. The door waits. The metal handle is cold under your palm. You turn it, and the door swings open with a soft click. Julian looks up. He's younger than you expected up close. Twenty-four, but he looks eighteen—dark circles under his eyes, a tremor in his hands that he's trying to hide by gripping the edge of the table. His shirt is expensive but rumpled, the top button undone, tie missing. You step inside. The door closes behind you with a quiet thud. He doesn't speak. Just watches you cross the room, pull out the chair across from him, sit down. The table is laminate wood, scarred with the ghosts of countless interviews. You set your hands flat on it, palms down.

You introduce yourself, telling him your name.

He blinks. "I know." His voice is rough, unused. "They told me you were coming."

"Did they tell you why?"

A second passes. He shakes his head. Just once, small. You let the silence sit. Let him fill it if he wants to. The clock on the wall ticks. Somewhere beyond the glass, you know they're watching. But here, in this room, it's just the two of you.

"I'm not here to trick you, Julian."

He holds your gaze for a moment, then drops it back to his hands. A muscle in his jaw works. "That's what they all say." His voice is flat. "The agents. The lawyers. My father." He looks up. "Everyone says they're not trying to trick me. Then they ask me to sign something, or say something, or admit to something I didn't do."

"I'm not asking you to sign anything. I'm not recording this." You gesture at the glass. "They are, on the other side. But I'm not."

He stares at you. There's something raw in his expression, not exactly suspicion. More like confusion. Like he's trying to fit you into a category and can't.

"Then why are you here?"

It's the question you've been waiting for. The one that matters. You could tell him about Naomi. About the diary, the redacted line, the smile through the peephole. You could make him afraid of his brother, could use that fear to turn him. But Spencer's voice echoes in your head: Be real with him.

"Because I want to understand," you say. "How someone ends up in a room like this, waiting for a brother who isn't coming to get him out." You rest your hands on the table. The laminate is cool and scarred beneath your palms. "Your brother killed someone I knew." Julian's face does something complicated. The color drains, then rushes back. His hands stop fidgeting and go still, flat against the table like he's trying to ground himself the same way you are.

"Who?" The word comes out barely above a whisper.

"Naomi Evans." You watch him. "She was my friend." He closes his eyes. Just for a second. When he opens them, there's something wet at the edges, but he blinks it away. "I didn't know," he says. "I swear to God, I didn't know he was going to—" He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.

"But you knew something." He doesn't answer. His eyes drop to the table, to his hands, to anywhere but you. "Julian." You keep your voice even. "You hired the men who came to my apartment. You booked the car. You made the calls. You knew something."

A long silence. The clock ticks.

"He said he was being followed," Julian finally says, voice cracking. "He said someone was trying to extort him. That he needed protection, needed people he could trust. He said—" A shaky breath. "He said if I didn't help him, I'd be next." Your voice comes out quieter than you expected, but it holds. "Can you tell me everything?" You pause, swallowing. "Believe me, I'm just as scared as you are. I'm not an officer. I'm not FBI." A breath. "I'm just like the girls your brother killed. I'm an escort too."

Julian's eyes widen. Just a fraction, but it's there, the crack in his composure. He looks at you differently now, not as an interrogator or a victim or a pawn, but as someone real. Someone sitting across from him in a beige room, hands flat on a scarred table, admitting something that could ruin her.

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he laughs, it's a short, hollow sound, more exhale than humor. "He told me you were trying to trap him. That you were working with the police to fabricate evidence." Julian shakes his head. "He said you were dangerous. Calculating. That you'd say anything to put him away."

"I'm sure he did."

"He said you seduced him. That you were obsessed." Julian's voice drops. "But you're just... you're just a person."

"I'm just a person," you echo. "And I'm scared, Julian. I'm scared of what your brother is going to do next. I'm scared that if we don't stop him, someone else is going to die." You hold his gaze. "Help me stop him. Please." You smile softly at him, encouraging. "What did he promise you in return for your help?" Julian's fingers curl against the table. He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he looks past you, at the blank wall, at the ceiling, anywhere but your face.

"He said he'd make Father see me." The words come out thin. "I'm the second son. The spare. Everything goes to Theodore, the title, the estate, the respect. I've spent my whole life in his shadow, and Theodore knew it. He told me if I helped him handle this 'problem,' he'd put in a good word with Father. That I'd get a seat on the family trust. That I'd finally matter." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I'm twenty-four years old, and I still let my big brother promise me pocket change like I'm a child." He looks at you then, really looks at you. His eyes are wet, but he's not crying. Not yet. "What did he promise you?" Julian asks. "The night you met him. What did he offer?"

"Nothing." The word lands flat between you. "I was just work to him." Julian blinks. Like that answer didn't compute. "He talked to me for an hour at the bar," you continue. "Ordered me a drink I didn't ask for. Asked about my life, my dreams, my favorite books. Made me feel like I was the most fascinating person in the room." A pause. "And then he tipped me and left. Like I was a transaction he'd completed." Julian's hands have gone still on the table. "I spent weeks thinking about him," you say. "Wondering if I'd said something wrong. If I'd missed a signal, a chance. I thought I'd failed." You meet his eyes. "But he was just gathering information. Building a profile. Deciding if I was worth killing."

The word hangs in the air. Killing. You've said it out loud now, in this room, to this man.

"I'm sorry." Julian's voice cracks on the word. "I didn't know. I didn't—" He stops, presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. When he looks up, there's something new in his expression. Not fear. Not guilt. Something closer to resolve.

"He has a property. Upstate. A hunting lodge under a different name, not Fitzwilliam. Something else. He told me once that if he ever needed to disappear, that's where he'd go."

"Can you give me the address?"

Julian hesitates. His eyes flick to the mirror, then back to you. He's weighing something — loyalty, fear, self-preservation.

"If I give it to you, I need protection. Real protection. Not just a phone number and a promise." His voice is steadier now, like he's finally found something solid to hold onto. "My family will disown me for this. My father will—" He stops. Swallows. "I'll have nothing."

You hold his gaze. "You'll have your freedom. And you'll have the truth."

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he reaches into his pocket — slow, so the agents on the other side of the glass don't misinterpret it. He pulls out a pen, grabs a napkin from the table, leftover from the water they gave him, and writes something down. Slides it across to you.

Grey Birch Lodge, 147 Hollow Road, Kerhonkson, NY

"The name it's under is Watson," he says quietly. "Jonathan Watson. He bought it five years ago with cash from a trust our grandmother left him. No paper trail back to Fitzwilliam." He looks at you. "He'll have a plan. A way out. He's been preparing for this his whole life."

The napkin sits between you, ink bleeding slightly into the paper. An address. A name. A thread to pull. Your fingers rest on the napkin, the ink still wet at the edges. But you don't take it yet. Instead, you look at him, really look, past the rumpled shirt and the dark circles, past the fear and the guilt. "Is there anything else you haven't told me?" you ask. "And I don't mean about the case." A pause. "Anything you want to tell me. Even if it's small. Even if it doesn't matter." You hold his gaze. "I'll listen."

Julian's mouth parts slightly. He wasn't expecting that. He blinks, once, twice, and for a moment he looks so young it hurts. He looks down at his hands. When he speaks, his voice is different. Softer. "I used to paint." He almost laughs. "Haven't said that out loud in years. I studied art history at Oxford because it was the only thing my father approved of that I actually liked. But I used to paint. Landscapes, mostly. There was this spot near the estate, a cluster of old oaks by a creek. I'd go there and paint the light through the leaves." He traces a scar in the laminate with his thumb. "I haven't painted in two years. Theodore told me it was a waste of time. That I needed to focus on something useful." He looks up at you. "I don't even know why I'm telling you that."

"Because you needed someone to hear it."

He holds your gaze for a long moment. Then he nods, just once, and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"You should paint again, Julian. When this is over."

Julian's breath catches. He looks at you like you've said something in a language he thought was lost. "You really mean that."

"I do." You slide the napkin into your pocket, the address safe against your thigh. "You're not just the spare son. You're not just your brother's errand boy. You're someone who sees light through oak leaves." A pause. "Don't let him take that from you too."

He doesn't answer. But his jaw works, and his hands uncurl, and when he meets your eyes again, there's something less broken in them.

The door opens behind you. Lucy White steps in, sharp-eyed, a notebook in hand. She looks at Julian, then at you, then back at him. "We're done here," she says. It's not a question.

Julian looks at you. "Will I see you again?"

You stand, the napkin pressing against your leg. "I hope so. On the other side of this."

You walk out. The door clicks shut behind you, and the hallway is empty except for Spencer, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. He looks at you, questions in his eyes. The door clicks shut behind you. The hallway is quiet, fluorescent lights humming overhead. You lean against the wall beside him, and let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. Your shoulders drop. Your hands, still pressed against your thighs, finally stop trembling. He doesn't say anything. He just stands there, shoulder near yours, presence steady. The sweater you made him is soft gray in the harsh light, and you notice he's not wearing his FBI jacket over it. Like he wanted it visible.

A door opens further down the hall. Hotch emerges, phone in hand, already moving. "We've got the address. Morgan's pulling up satellite imagery now. If Sterling's there, we'll have eyes on the lodge within the hour." He stops, looks at you. "You did good in there."

The words settle somewhere in your chest. Warm.

Hotch's phone buzzes. He glances at it. "Rossi's coordinating with the state police. We're moving." He looks between you and Reid. "You two alright?"

You push off the wall, steadying yourself. "Is there somewhere safe I can wait?"

Hotch considers you for a moment. "There's a safe room in the basement of this building. Bulletproof glass, reinforced door, direct line to the front desk. No one gets in without clearance from me or Morgan."

"Good. That's where I'll be."

Reid shifts beside you. "I'll—"

"No." You turn to face him. "You need to go. You're the one who can look at that satellite imagery and know what you're seeing. You're the one who can profile the lodge, figure out where he'd hide, how he'd run." A pause. "I'll be fine in a concrete box with a phone. Go do your job."

He looks at you like he wants to argue. But something in your expression must convince him, because he gives a small, reluctant nod.

"Keep your phone on you."

"I will."

Morgan appears at the end of the hall, jacket on, keys in hand. "Hotch. We leave in ten."

Hotch nods, then gestures for you to follow. "This way. I'll get you settled."

The safe room is exactly what he described, small, gray, and impenetrable. A chair, a desk, a phone, a monitor showing the hallway feed. You sit down, and the door closes with a heavy hydraulic hiss. The lock engages.

You're alone. Safe. For now.

The phone on the desk blinks. A direct line to the team's channel. You can hear the crackle of movement, orders being given, a car engine starting. Then Spencer's voice, low: "ETA to Kerhonkson is ninety minutes. I'll check in when we arrive."

The line clicks. Silence settles around you like a blanket. You sink into the chair. It's standard government-issueunforgiving, molded plastic, definitely not designed for comfort. You don't mind. Sleep isn't coming anyway. You close your eyes.

The room is silent. No humming, no distant voices, just the thick quiet of concrete and reinforced steel. You try to focus on the sound of your own breathing. In. Out. The rise and fall of your chest. But the silence has edges. Every creak of the building, every distant footstep from the hallway beyond the door, your brain snags on them, trying to place them, trying to decide if they're threats.

He smiled at me through the door.

You push the thought away. Breathe in. Breathe out. You're in a concrete box with a phone. They're going to find him.

You try to picture the lodge. Satellite images. A roof in the trees. Spencer's voice, low, feeding coordinates to Morgan. You try to imagine them moving through the woods, approaching the door, weapons drawn.

What if he's not there?

You open your eyes. The room hasn't changed. Gray walls. Gray desk. Phone blinking silently. You could call. Ask for an update. Or you could sit here, alone with your thoughts, and wait.

Ninety minutes later. Kerhonkson, NY.

The sedan winds through narrow roads lined with bare trees. Winter branches claw at a gray sky. Morgan drives, eyes fixed ahead. Spencer’s in the passenger seat, satellite images spread across his lap, the address burned into his memory. "Grey Birch Lodge," He says, mostly to himself. "Thirteen acres. He could have multiple exits, a vehicle cache, supplies for a extended stay."

"We'll find him." Morgan's voice is steady. "He's not expecting us."

They're not doing the typical approach. No sirens, no lights. Two unmarked cars, state police staged a mile down the road. Rossi and Prentiss are in the second vehicle behind.

The trees thin. A dirt road branches off the main route, a rusted sign half-hidden by overgrowth: PRIVATE ROAD — NO TRESPASSING.

Morgan kills the headlights. They roll forward in near-darkness. The lodge emerges through the trees. Two stories, stone and timber, smoke curling from a chimney. A black SUV parked out front.

"He's here."

They stop a quarter mile out. The quartet moves through the woods on foot, spread in a loose formation, breath fogging in the cold. The snow crunches under they’re shoes, but they’re careful, measured. Prentiss signals from the left flank. Rear door, she signs. No movement from inside. They take position. Morgan counts down on his fingers.

Three. Two. One.

The door goes down.

The man inside is not dressed for escape. He's sitting by the fire, a crystal glass in hand, a book open on his lap. He looks up as we flood the room, he’s calm, almost amused.

Theodore Fitzwilliam.

He sets down his glass. "I was wondering when you'd find this place."

Morgan reads him his rights. Spencer watches his face. No fear. No surprise. Just the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. The same smile you described. The one that says he planned this.

But as the cuffs click shut, Spencer notices something else. A flicker. A crack in the porcelain. He didn't plan for Julian to talk. He didn't plan for her.

He pulls out his phone. Types a message.

Reid (6:14 PM): We have him. He's in custody. You're safe.

He hits send and follows the rest of the team out into the snow.

The phone buzzes against the desk. You grab it before the screen fully lights up. You read it twice. Three times. The words don't change. You set the phone down, press your palms flat against the cool metal desk, and breathe. A real breath this time, a deep, full breath, the one that reaches the bottom of your lungs.

The door hisses open a few minutes later. Emily stands in the frame, coat dusted with melting snow. "Figured you'd want to see him brought in." She gestures down the hall. "They're pulling up now."

The holding cells are in the basement. You watch through reinforced glass as Theodore Fitzwilliam is processed — fingerprints, mugshots, the cold machinery of justice grinding into motion. He looks smaller than you remember. Diminished by the fluorescent lights and the orange jumpsuit. He doesn't look up. Doesn't scan the observation window. He knows you're watching. He just doesn't care anymore.

You don't move from the glass.

They lead him down the corridor, two guards, one on each arm. Fitzwilliam walks with his head high, that same measured stride you remember from the bar, from the doorway of your apartment. He passes the observation window without turning his head. Without slowing. You watch his back recede. The orange fabric of the jumpsuit disappears around a corner. A door clangs shut. The lock engages.

He's in a cage.

You let out a breath. Your reflection stares back at you from the glass, you’re pale, hollow-eyed, but still standing.

Prentiss appears at your side. She doesn't say anything. Just stands there, arms crossed, watching the empty corridor with you. After a long moment, she speaks. "Rossi's already talking to the DA. With Julian's testimony, the physical evidence from the lodge, and the diary, they're looking at multiple counts of first-degree murder. He's not getting out."

You nod. Your throat is tight.

"He wanted me to be afraid," you say quietly. "He wanted me to know he was coming for me. That's why he showed up at my door."

Emily is quiet. Then: "He wanted you to be afraid. But you're still here." She lets that sit. Then she pushes off the wall. "Reid's upstairs. He asked me to tell you he's in the break room if you want to see him."

You turn from the glass.

The break room is at the end of the hall, it’s small, fluorescent, smelling of old — and bad — coffee and microwaved leftovers. You push the door open.

Spencer is sitting at a table, elbows on the surface, a cup of untouched tea cooling in front of him. He's leaning forward like he's still reading something, but the table is empty. Just his hands, his breath, the silence of a man who's been running all day and has finally stopped. He looks up when you enter. His eyes find yours, and something in his posture shifts, he relaxes, like a knot pulled loose. "Hey," he says. Quiet.

You cross the room. The chair scrapes against the linoleum as you sit down across from him.

"Hey."

Neither of you speaks for a moment. The tea steams faintly between you. Somewhere in the building, a phone rings and goes unanswered.

He looks at you. "Are you okay?"

It's such a simple question. Such an impossible one. But he asks it like he really wants to know the answer, not just the polite version. "I think so." You hold his gaze. "I think I will be."

He nods slowly, like he's testing the words. "That's—that's good. That's really good."

The way the words leave his mouth, soft, careful, like it actually matters to him, makes something settle in your chest. "You should drink your tea," you say, nodding at the cup.

He looks down at it, almost surprised. "Oh. Right." He picks it up, takes a sip, and makes a face. "It's cold."

A laugh escapes you. It's small, rusty from disuse, but real. "Of course it is. You've been sitting there staring at it for—" You glance at the clock on the wall. "Probably an hour."

"Forty-three minutes, actually." A faint flush rises to his cheeks. "But I was thinking."

"About what?"

He sets the cup down. His fingers trace the rim. "About what you said. In your texts. About writing." He looks up. "Have you ever thought about actually starting? The novel, I mean."

The question catches you off guard. You've told yourself that story so many times — someday, when things are settled, when I have time, when I'm safe — that it's become a kind of lullaby. A dream you hold close but never examine too closely, afraid it might dissolve.

"I have a folder," you say. "Full of notes. First chapters I never finish." You trace a scratch on the tabletop. "I get about twenty pages in, and I start second-guessing everything. The voice isn't right. The pacing is off. Who am I to write a novel anyway?" You look up. "So I start something new. Convince myself this time will be different."

He is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "That sounds like fear, not lack of ability."

You blink. "What?"

"Statistically, most first drafts are abandoned because of self-doubt, not because the writer lacks skill." He says it matter-of-factly, but his voice is gentle. "The fact that you keep starting means you have something to say. You just haven't trusted yourself to say it yet." The fluorescent hum fills the space between you. "What would you write about," he asks, "if you weren't afraid?"

The question lands somewhere deep. You think about the stories you've carried: the girls in foster care, the women you've known in this city, the ones who disappeared into men's lives and were never seen again. Naomi. Julia. The ones who didn't get caught.

"About people who get overlooked," you say slowly. "Women who exist in the margins. Who survive anyway."

He looks at you like you've just handed him something precious.

"That's the first time I've said that out loud."

Spencer's expression softens. He doesn't look away. "It's a good thing to say."

Your throat tightens. You look down at your hands on the table. "I've been carrying it for so long. The idea of it. Like a—a stone in my pocket. I don't even remember when I started. It's just always been there."

"Maybe it's time to take it out of your pocket."

You look up. His eyes are earnest, brown and warm in the flat fluorescent light. "What if I fail?"

"Then you fail." He says it simply. "And you start again. That's how it works." A pause. "I've had papers rejected. Theories I spent months on, dismantled in peer review. It doesn't mean I stop."

The comparison makes you smile. "It's a little different. Your work saves lives."

"So could yours." He says it without hesitation. "Stories save lives. You told me you read Le Guin and Butler and Plath. Didn't they save yours?"

You open your mouth. Close it.

Yes. Yes, they did.

Reid looks at you, and for a moment he doesn't speak. Then a small, quiet smile touches his mouth.

"When this is all over, will you read the first thing I write?"

"Yes." He says it like it's obvious. Like there was never any other answer. "I'd like that."

You feel something warm spread through your chest. You look down at the table, at your hands, at the cold tea between you. "Okay," you say. "Then I'll write it." The words hang in the air. A promise. A thread pulling you forward into something new.

Emily appears in the doorway. She knocks twice on the frame, a soft courtesy. "There's a car waiting to take you home whenever you're ready. And I've put in a request for a protective detail for the next few days. Just in case."

You nod. "Thank you."

She looks between you and Reid, a hint of something knowing in her expression. "Take your time. Car's not going anywhere." She disappears. The door swings shut.

The room feels smaller than it did a minute ago. Or maybe it's just that the quiet is deeper now, weighted with the shape of what comes next.

"Walk me out?" Spencer stands. Pushes his chair in. "Yeah. Of course."

You walk side by side down the corridor, past the holding cells, past the bullpen where agents are still typing reports and making calls. A few of them glance up as you pass, not with suspicion, but with recognition. You're the one who helped. The one who sat in the room with Julian. The one who sent them to Kerhonkson.

Morgan is by the elevator, coffee in hand. He gives you a nod as you approach. "Get some rest, doll face. You've earned it."

"Thanks, Morgan."

The elevator doors open. You step inside. Spencer follows. The doors close, and you're alone with him in the small, humming space. The numbers tick down.

"What happens now?" you ask. "For me, I mean. Do I need to testify?"

"Eventually. There'll be a trial. But the DA will walk you through it. You'll have a victim advocate assigned to you." He pauses. "And I'll be there. If you want."

The elevator reaches the lobby. The doors slide open. Outside, through the glass doors, you can see the street. Streetlights. A car idling at the curb. The world going on like none of this happened. You stop at the glass doors. The city glows beyond them, cold and indifferent, but you don't step through yet. You turn to face him. "I'll miss you, you know." Your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. "You're an amazing friend, and person overall, I mean."

A beat. You let out a breath.

"Thank you. For everything."

Spencer stands there in the fluorescent lobby light, hands at his sides, looking at you like he's trying to memorize the moment. His jaw works for a second, like he's testing words and discarding them. "You're welcome," he says finally. Quiet. Earnest. "And for what it's worth, I'll miss you too."

The words settle between you. Simple. Real.

He clears his throat. "I have your number. So I can send you updates. About the case. And also to check in. If you want."

"I'd like that."

You let the silence be felt for a second. A car horn sounds somewhere out on the street.

He shifts his weight. "Get some rest.”

"You too, Spencer."

His name on your tongue feels different now. Familiar. Like something you're allowed to keep.

You push through the glass doors. The cold hits you immediately, sharp and clean, a slap of winter air that clears your lungs. You pull your coat tighter and step onto the sidewalk. The city spreads out before you: taxis gliding past, a couple laughing on the corner, steam rising from a grate. Normal life, humming along.

The car is idling at the curb. Black sedan, government plates. The driver nods as you approach and opens the rear door. You look back once. Through the glass, Spencer is still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you go. He raises a hand, a small wave, tentative.

You raise yours.

Then you get in the car. The door shuts with a solid thunk. The heater hums. The driver pulls away from the curb, and the FBI field office shrinks in the side mirror until it's just another building in a block of buildings.

The drive to Tribeca takes twenty minutes. You watch the city pass — the lit windows, the bridges, the river glimpsed between buildings. Your apartment building appears. The driver pulls up.

"Need me to walk you up, ma'am?"

"No. I'm okay."

You climb the stairs to your floor. The hallway is quiet. Your door is still sealed with yellow crime scene tape, but Prentiss told you they'd cleared it. You duck under the tape, fit the key in the lock, and step inside.

Everything is exactly as you left it. The book facedown on the armchair. The half-empty mug on the counter. The city lights through the window. Your apartment. Your space. Your life, waiting for you to step back into it.

You stand in the middle of your apartment for a long moment, coat still on, keys in your hand.

Then you set the keys down. You shrug off your coat. You walk to the small desk by the window, the one piled with library books and half-empty notebooks, and you sit. The laptop is cold. You flip it open. The screen glows to life. You open a blank document. The cursor blinks at you. Steady. Patient. Waiting. Your fingers hover over the keys. The city hums beyond the glass. A siren wails somewhere, fades.

You think about Naomi. About Julia. About the girls who never got to tell their own stories. You think about what you said in the break room. Women who exist in the margins. Who survive anyway.

You start typing.

There are things we don't tell the men who pay for our time.

The sentence stares back at you. Honest. Unflinching. You read it again. It's not perfect. It might not even be good. But it's yours.

You keep going.

The words come haltingly at first, then faster, like water finding its current. The cursor races across the screen, sentences stacking, paragraphs taking shape. A woman appears on the page — not you, not exactly, but someone who carries the same weight. Someone who knows what it's like to be seen without being known.

The city darkens outside. Your fingers keep moving.

taglist: @goldenlinguistics1114 @sammy4sstuff @sweet-t33a @boiiitskhloe @violent-cupids @hiddentattooodyssey @lavendercoldfoam @underpaid-therapist @geni-627 @tostellify

previous chapter | next chapter

[lolaffection]

is there a volunteer here to give me opinions on the crazy shit i’m writing??? bc i really need to know if im going too far.

[lolaffection]

writing spencer smut where you make him read a book to you out loud while you blow him 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

[lolaffection]

btw this is spencer x camgirl!reader…

i might have a problem with spencer and sex workers wtf just noticed that lmao

[0jai0]

[lolaffection]

writing spencer smut where you make him read a book to you out loud while you blow him 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

[sweet-t33a]

i miss jason gideon (dad)

save me jason gideon (my dad)

[lolaffection]

BUILD GOD, THEN WE'LL TALK

when high-end escorts start showing up dead in hotel rooms, the bau goes to nyc to investigate, and a crucial witness starts getting a little too close with spencer. the problem? she’s an escort too.

genre, tags and CWs: no use of Y/N, a little bit of angst(?), some mentions of sexual stuff, a little bit of fluff, lots of investigation and police procedures, murder, mentions of literature, reader is kinda insecure, no physical description of reader besides having long hair, texting between you and spencer, some innacurate usa geography (i don’t live there). reader knits and crochets, eventual smut (i think that’s all, let me know if that’s more.)

word count: 8.5k (sorry)

A/N: hi everyone, super sorry for the long wait, i was figuring out how to post and make this cute, i’m sorry but this is extremely long and i got very carried away, i hope you guys like it, i tried to fix most of the mistakes but if there’s still anything please spare me a bit, english is my third language, so… part 2 will be out soon!!

The city that never sleeps has a peculiar way of swallowing its dead.

Your phone buzzes for the third time this morning, a news alert. You don't need to read it, you saw it an hour ago on the morning feed, scrolling bleary-eyed over cold coffee. Naomi Evans. Twenty-seven. Found in a hotel room, strangled, dressed in her regular “work clothes”, and by her side, a wedding ring in a little velvet box. Naomi didn't wear a ring, you'd know, you were friends, you worked the same industry; luxury hotels, private dinners, the kind of men who write checks that clear before the sheets are cold. Naomi was your friend, or as close to one as two women in this line of work can be.

You look around your studio. It's small, clean, and deliberately modest. A fatigue-green couch you found at a thrift, books stacked on milk crates, plants by the windowsill, lavender hanging upside down your window to dry, crochet blankets over the sofa and the bed, nothing flashy. Nobody that stepped into your apartment would guess what you do for a living, nobody that saw you on the streets would either.

Naomi had been with a new client, she mentioned him twice — once with that particular giddiness you'd learned to recognize in yourself and every other girl in this life. The kind that comes from a client who blurs the line, who stays past the hour, who texts in the morning, who promises things you know he’ll never keep. “He's different!” she'd said the last time you grabbed drinks, a bar in SoHo, her laughing behind her glass. “He told me he's going to leave her.” You nodded, smiled, you told her that they always say that, that it didn’t work like that. Now she's dead, and a wedding ring is in an evidence bag somewhere, and you know her better than the cops ever will. You know what hotel she preferred, the alias she used, the stupid shit she'd laugh about when she'd had too much champagne. You know the shape of the men she went to bed with.

Hours pass, you can’t take her out of your mind. You keep ravishing your mind for memories that could help the police, you need to have something, and you did; she had a booking two nights before she died, she told you about it, the same client that she liked so much. Tall, silver-haired, always wore cufflinks with a family crest. “He's the one”, she whispered. The memory settles in your chest like cold water. Tall. Silver-haired. Cufflinks with a family crest. You don't know his name. Naomi was cagey about names, you both were, you had to be. But you know the hotel she worked out of when she wanted to be discreet: The Langham on Fifth. You know her favorite color, you know what she would dress to go out with you when you two just wanted to feel like normal girls without all the pressure on your shoulders, you know how her voice would get softer, her eyes glimmering with hope, when she talked about that man, and you knew how your stomach would turn when you saw her that way.

You're still staring at the ceiling when a knock comes at your door.

"Ma'am? We're with the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions about Naomi Evans." The voice comes through the door before you can even get up. You pull the door open, stepping aside. "Come in."

Two figures step past you into the apartment. The one who spoke first is a woman. She's pretty, dark hair, sharp eyes, the kind of quiet authority that fills a room without effort. She scans your space once, cataloging the crochet blankets, the stacked books, the clean counters. The man behind her is taller, lankier, with hair that looks like he's been running his hands through it. You can’t help but wonder if the FBI is hiring people based on their looks now. His gaze lands on your bookshelf immediately and softens with interest.

"I'm Agent Emily Prentiss," the woman says, showing her badge. "This is Dr. Spencer Reid. We're with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit." Reid offers a brief nod, already tilting to read a spine. The Left Hand of Darkness. "You have good taste," he says, almost to himself. Prentiss's eyes return to you. "We're running down everyone Naomi was close with. Her phone logs show you two talked frequently." A pause. "When's the last time you saw her?"

You sigh, closing your door and moving to the kitchen (two steps from the couch, the whole apartment is that size), you can’t do this now, not without coffee. “Before we start, would you want something to drink?" You try to be polite. “Coffee? Tea? Water?” You offer. “Coffee would be great, actually," Prentiss says, settling onto the edge of your couch with the ease of someone used to making herself comfortable in strangers' homes. Reid tears himself away from your bookshelf. "Tea, if it’s not too much trouble. Otherwise coffee's fine." He takes the armchair, pulling out a small notebook that looks like it's been folded and unfolded a hundred times.

You fill the kettle, watching as the water starts to boil. It makes you want to put your hand inside, feel the warmth, feel something, anything at all. You snap out of your thoughts, the coffee's already made, a half-pot from this morning, still warm, you pour Prentiss a mug, black, and drop a bag of black tea into another for Reid. "When's the last time you saw her?" Prentiss asks again, wrapping her hands around the mug. You lean against the counter, coffee in hand. The ceramic is warm through the sleeve "Last week. We got drinks in SoHo." You pause. "She told me she was seeing someone, it was regular. She was really excited about him, told me he was going to leave his wife for her."

Both agents go still. The shift is subtle, but you catch it. Reid's pen hovers over his notebook. Prentiss's eyes sharpen. "Did she mention his name?" Prentiss asks. "She never said his name," you say, wrapping your fingers around the warm mug. "But she mentioned the Langham. Said he always booked the same suite." Prentiss's eyes meet Reid's — a brief, loaded exchange that tells you this means something to them. Reid scribbles in his notebook. "When was this?" Prentiss asks. "A few days before she died. She called me after their last date." You pause, turning the coffee mug in your hands. "She sounded way happier, said that she thought he would propose.” You think back. The call had come late—past midnight. Naomi's voice had that hushed quality, like she didn't want to be overheard. I told her I was happy for her, and to call me if she needed anything. She said she would." You let the silence linger for a second. "That was the last time I heard her voice." You lean forward, setting your mug down on the counter. "There's something else. The cufflinks. He wore a family crest." Reid's pen stops. Prentiss's attention narrows, her head tilting slightly. "Naomi mentioned them more than once," you continue. "She thought they were romantic, said they made him look distinguished. Old money. Silver, with some kind of engraved emblem. She didn't know what it meant, but she said she'd seen them up close enough to draw them." Prentiss exchanges another look with Reid. This one's longer. "Do you remember anything else about the crest?" She asks, her voice measured. "Colors? Shapes? Animals?"

"A bird, maybe." You open your eyes. "Or a lion. Something upright. I'm sorry, I only saw them once, when she showed me a photo. She was obsessed with them."

"Can we pull up some family crest databases?" Reid asks Prentiss, already half-rising. "If it's a legitimate noble or merchant crest, we could narrow down the family name." She nods slowly, then turns back to you. "We'll need you to look at some images. Help us identify it." She pauses. "And Miss, we appreciate you talking to us." Reid's already pulling out his phone, scrolling through something. "I can pull up a database of registered family crests. If we can narrow down the bird or lion motif, cross-reference it with New York-based families with significant wealth..."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Emily says, but there's a flicker of something like approval in her tone. She turns back to you. "You said she showed you a photo of the cufflinks. Do you still have it? Any text exchanges, saved images?" You think back. Naomi had sent you a picture, you remember that now. It was a mirror selfie, arm outstretched, his hand visible on her waist, the cufflink catching the light. "Maybe," you say. "She sent me a photo a few weeks ago. I don’t think I've deleted it." Spencer's head snaps up. "Can we see it?" You push off from the counter, crossing to the small desk wedged near the window. Your laptop sits there, a beat-up silver thing with a cracked corner and stickers layered over the lid, there’s a faded daisy, a Brooklyn Public Library barcode, a Panic At The Disco! logo old peeling sticker. You flip it open, the screen lighting up to your desktop: a photo of a cat you don't own, saved because it made you laugh. "Give me a second," you say, clicking into your messages. "We mostly texted, it was surface-level stuff, regular banter. But the photo…" You scroll, there’s grocery lists, some stupid memes, a new dress she bought, and then… "Here." You turn the laptop toward them. The photo is a mirror selfie, she's in a champagne silk robe, her hair loose, her smile soft. Behind her, a man's hand rests on her waist. The cufflink catches the light, just as you remembered, silver, ornate. A crest in the center: a winged figure, maybe a griffin, standing upright with a sword raised in one claw. Reid leans in immediately, eyes sharp. "That's rare, not a generic design at all." He's already pulling out his phone again. "It’s a specific heraldic crest. The griffin rampant with a sword."

You stare at the photo a moment longer before speaking. "She told me he was married, that he treated her like a princess, that he would leave his wife for her." Your voice is flat, careful, calculated, even. "I told her it doesn't work like that." You pause, sighing. "Once these guys know us as whores, that's all we'll ever be to them." The word lands in the room, plain and unadorned. You don't flinch at it. Neither does Emily, she's definitely heard worse, you can tell. Spencer's pen pauses, but his face doesn't change. He's looking at you, not with pity, but with the focused attention of someone who's taking you seriously. "I hate it," you say, quieter now. "But I know what I am."

The silence stretches long enough to be uncomfortable.

Prentiss breaks it first. "What you are is a woman who's trying to help her friend." She holds your gaze. "And that’s more than enough. Most of the girls in your line of work wouldn’t have trusted us enough to say a word, and you did.” Reid clears his throat. "The griffin crest is a good lead. If we can match it to a family name, we might be able to pull financial records, property holdings." He flips a page in his notebook. "Did Naomi ever mention specific locations? A summer house, a family estate, a private club?" "There's a private dinner club in Midtown," you say. "She said he took her there." Emily's eyebrows lift. "Do you know the name?" You shake your head. "She was cagey about it. Said it was member-only, the kind of place where you need an invitation to know it exists. The only thing I remember is that she mentioned a fireplace there.” Spencer's fingers are already flying across his phone. "There are a handful of private clubs in Midtown that fit that description.” He starts listing names, you try to recognize them, but nothing comes to mind. "Most of them require membership by invitation or sponsorship. If our unsub is a member of one, it would explain how he maintains a veneer of respectability." "Would they give you a list of members?" you ask. Prentiss's smile is thin. "They wouldn't give us a list without a warrant. And we don't have enough for a warrant yet."

"But if you had a name—" your voice falters, knowing that this guy is so settled in high society makes your hope that he’s caught drop to a very low number. "We'd have a place to start." She studies you. "Did your friend even mention any names?’

"No name. But I know what hotel suite he booked. That might be on a registry." Emily's eyes glint with something like renewed focus. "Which hotel?"

"The Langham on Fifth. He always booked the same suite, the Imperial, I think she called it. Top floor, corner view." You cross your arms, leaning back against the counter. "She told me once that he had a standing reservation. Every other Thursday, like clockwork." Spencer's already typing. "A standing reservation under a false name, or his real one?" You shrug. "She never said. But if it's the same suite, same night, every two weeks, someone at the front desk has to know his face. Hotels like that, they remember the ones who tip well." Prentiss nods slowly. "It's a lead. A good one." She pulls out her phone, glancing at the time. "I can have a uniform check the registry, see if any name matches the crest we're pulling. But we need to be careful, if he's connected, tipping him off could bury the evidence."

Emily offers a small, genuine smile, the first crack in her professional composure since she walked in. "Good." She stands, pulling a card from her coat pocket and setting it on your counter. "My direct line. If you remember anything else, anything at all, you can call me, day and night." Spencer closes his notebook, tucking it back into his jacket. "I'll start cross-referencing the crest with registered family heraldry. If we get a match, I'll have a name by the end of day." He pauses by your bookshelf, fingers brushing the spine of a worn paperback. "You might want to hold onto that photo. Don't share it with anyone, including the police." Prentiss gives him a look. "Reid."

"Just being thorough." He shrugs, unapologetic. "If this man is as connected as the evidence suggests, local precinct leaks are a real concern." Emily turns back to you, her expression settling into something more serious. She glances around your apartment, at the quiet modesty of it, the deliberate distance you've kept between your life and your work. "Stay low. Don't tell anyone we talked. And if he contacts you somehow, if he even knows your name, you call me immediately." The weight of what you've stepped into settles over the room like dusk. You nod. "Of course. Whatever helps." Prentiss's smile is brief but warm. She starts heading for the door, Reid trailing behind her with a final glance at your bookshelf. "Stay safe."

The door clicks shut.

In the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Spencer's already pulling out his phone, scrolling through the image you showed them. Emily waits until they're halfway down the stairs before she speaks. "She's sharp." He nods without looking up. "Observant. Good recall of details. The crest identification alone, most witnesses wouldn't remember a cufflink from a photo they saw weeks ago."

"She's also beautiful," Prentiss says, her tone light. Almost offhand. Reid's thumb pauses mid-scroll. "I- what does that have to do with anything?" Prentiss reaches the landing and turns, one eyebrow arched. "Nothing. Just an observation." She resumes walking. "You seemed interested in her books."

"They're good books." His voice is a half-octave higher than usual. "Le Guin. Butler. She has Parable of the Sower. That's not exactly airport reading."

"So she's well-read and beautiful." Spencer stops at the building's front door, holding it open for her with pointedly exaggerated politeness. "Are you profiling me, Agent Prentiss?"

"I'm observing, Dr. Reid." She steps past him into the late-morning light. "There's a difference." Prentiss pauses. Something shifts in her expression. "It's a shame," she says quietly. Reid looks up. "What is?"

"A woman that smart, that clearly well-read, having to subject herself to that life." Prentiss shakes her head. "The clients. The danger. The way the world looks at her." She walks through the door, letting the late-morning light spill in. "She deserves better." Spencer follows her out onto the sidewalk, tucking his phone away. "The life he's offering, her friend's client, it's a pattern. Charm, promises, isolation, then.." He stops himself. "Then death." Prentiss finishes the thought. She looks up at her window, visible from the street. "She's not just a witness, Reid. She's a target. If he finds out she talked to us…" "Then we make sure he doesn't." His voice is firm. "We find him first."

The next night, you're working.

The Pierre on Fifth. A client who's been booking you for six months, married, lonely, doesn't want conversation. He leaves by ten, as always, pressing an envelope into your hand at the door. You're fixing your hair in the suite bathroom when you hear it. Commotion. Raised voices. Curiosity gets the best of you, You step into the hallway. A door's open three suites down. Hotel security is barking into a radio. And there, emerging from the chaos with a familiar economy of motion, is Agent Prentiss, Doctor Reid’s behind her, badges out, faces set in grim recognition. Their eyes land on you. The world narrows to a point. Your bare feet meet the hallway carpet as you step out of the suite. Emily spots you first, she has a flicker of recognition crossing her face before she masks it. Spencer’s head turns, following her gaze. And then you see the rest of them.

A tall man in a dark suit stands near the open door, speaking in low tones with hotel security. His face is all sharp angles and authority, Hotch. Beside him, a man built like he could break someone with his hands, moving with the coiled energy of someone who's always watching the exits. Morgan. And farther down the hall, an older man in a leather jacket kneels by the body, his expression unreadable. Rossi. A woman lies on the floor, sprawled at an angle that tells you everything, she’s blonde, young, you think you might have seen her before. And beside her — stomach drops — a small velvet box lies open, a wedding ring catching the light. Spencer reaches you first, he calls your name, his voice is low, urgent. "What are you doing here?"

"I had a booking. Sixth floor." You meet his eyes. Reid's face goes through several micro-expressions: surprise, concern, calculation, before settling into something carefully neutral. Behind him, you see Emily’s head snap toward you. She excuses herself from Hotch and crosses the hallway in quick, measured steps. "Hey." Her voice is tight. "You were working here tonight?" You put your hair behind your ears, and Spencer notices your hands trembling. "Client checks out by ten. I was fixing my hair when I heard the commotion." You gesture vaguely toward the suite behind you. "I didn't know… I just heard a lot of voices." Morgan appears at Prentiss's shoulder, assessing you with dark, sharp eyes. "You know her?" he asks her, low. "Naomi Evans's friend. We interviewed her yesterday." Prentiss doesn't look away from you. "Same night, same hotel. I don’t think that's a coincidence." Hotch approaches, his presence carrying a quiet weight that silences the hallway. He looks at you like he’s measuring, not unkind. "Ma'am," he says, "we're going to need to talk to you. Now." Down the hall, Rossi rises from beside the body, his leather jacket creaking. He catches your eye and holds it for a long moment before turning to Hotch. "Same signature. Ring box. Strangulation. She's fresh, maybe an hour."

An hour. While you were three suites away, with a man who pays you to pretend he exists. Your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. "Haven't I told you enough?" The words hang in the fluorescent light. You feel the tears coming before you can stop them, a hot, sudden pressure behind your eyes that spills over before you can turn away. "I can't take this anymore." Your voice cracks. You press the heel of your palm against your mouth, muffling a sob. "Are we just- is this just going to keep happening? Are they just going to keep showing up dead?" Prentiss steps forward, her hand hovering near your elbow, not touching, but there. Spencer looks stricken, his notebook hanging forgotten at his side. "I told you everything," you manage, the tears coming freely now, shame and grief braiding together. "I told you about the cufflinks, the hotel, the crest, everything and she's still dead. Another girl. Another ring." You look at them, at all of them, Hotch's controlled stillness, Morgan's clenched jaw, Rossi watching you with the weight of decades. "What's the point? What's the point of any of it if they just keep dying?" The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

Morgan's voice cuts through the silence, low and steady. "You're not alone in this." You look up at him through the tears. He's "We’re only here now because you were willing to give us valuable information, we have a pattern now, we’re not trying to scrape our way through the leads.” He holds your gaze, a hint of carefulness behind his eyes. "We can help you, really, if you need time.” Rossi straightens from beside the body, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. "He's right. This isn't on you, You. This is on the man leaving these rings." Prentiss steps closer, her hand finally settling on your shoulder, a warm, grounding weight. "We're going to find him. But we need you to let us do our job. And maybe let us get you a coffee while we do it." Hotch gives a short nod toward the stairwell. "There's a break room on the second floor. We can talk there, away from this."

The hallway feels too bright, too cold, too full of ghosts. But Morgan's words have steadied something in your chest. You wipe at your face with the back of your hand, but the tears keep coming, quieter now. "I need to work," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "But I don't feel like I can do this anymore." You look down at your hands, the same ones that fix your hair before a client arrives, the same ones that count cash in hotel bathrooms. "I'm so afraid it'll be me next." The words hang in the air. Spencer shifts on his feet, hands tucked into his pockets, looking like he wants to say something but doesn't know what. Prentiss's hand stays on your shoulder, steady. Rossi breaks the silence first. He steps away from the body, wiping his hands on a handkerchief, and walks over to you. His voice is rougher than you expected, older, worn in by years of scenes like this one. "You're afraid because you're smart." He tucks the handkerchief away. "Fear keeps you alive. But it doesn't have to keep you frozen." Morgan crosses his arms. "You don't have to go back out there tonight. We can have someone drive you home."

"Or," Emily adds, her tone careful, "you could come down to the field office. Sit with us while we work. You don't have to talk. You don't have to do anything. But you don't have to be alone."

"I can't afford to miss a night. Rent's due." The words land plain and unadorned, there's not much you can do, it's just a fact.

Derek exchanges a look with Prentiss. Something passes between them, something like a silent conversation you're not privy to. Then he reaches into his jacket, pulls out his wallet, and extracts a card. "Call this number tomorrow." He holds it out to you. "It's a victims' advocacy fund. They provide emergency financial assistance to witnesses cooperating with federal investigations." He pauses. "Tell them Derek Morgan referred you. They'll expedite it." You stare at the card. Your hand doesn't move. Emily gently takes it from Morgan and presses it into your palm, folding your fingers over it. "It's not charity, it’s support for people helping us catch a killer. You’re not any less for accepting help.” Rossi watches from a few feet away, arms crossed. "And in the meantime, consider this a work night that got cut short. Go home. Sleep. We'll call you tomorrow." Hotch's voice cuts in, practical and grounding. "We'll have an officer walk you to your apartment. Just to be safe."

Spencer steps forward, hesitant. "The advocacy fund also covers counseling, if you need it." He adds quickly, "Not that you have to. But it's available." The card is warm in your hand. The hallway is quiet except for the distant murmur of hotel staff and the soft crackle of a radio. You sigh, feeling your dress start to itch, your hands trembling, your eyelids twitching in nervous ticks. “I really need to go home." Prentiss's mouth tightens, but she doesn't argue. Morgan looks like he wants to, but a glance from Hotch holds him back. "If anything happens to me," you add, meeting each of their eyes in turn, "I'll call you." The weight of your choice sits in the space between you and them. A uniformed officer appears at the end of the hall, and Hotch gestures him over. "Officer Roberts will walk you to your apartment," Hotch says. "He'll stay outside until morning. Just in case."You nod. The officer is young, his face is serious, but you can sense how uneasy he feels behind it all.

Reid steps forward, pulling a card from his pocket. It's different from Emily’s, handwritten on the back, a phone number in neat script. "My personal cell," he says, quieter than before. "If you can't sleep. If you think of something. If you just need someone to talk to." You take it. Pocket it without looking.You smile softly at him. Prentiss holds your gaze a moment longer. "We'll call you tomorrow. Stay safe.." You turn and follow Officer Roberts toward the stairwell. Behind you, the BAU team's voices resume. As you leave, the stairs swallow the sound.

Your apartment is dark when you key in. The officer takes a post by the building entrance. Inside, the familiar smells of lavender and coffee greet you. The card from the advocacy fund sits on your counter beside Reid's number. You sink onto the edge of your couch, the springs creaking beneath you. The card with Spencer’s number it’s between your fingers, staring at you. You pick up your phone. Type. Delete. Type again. Your thumb hovers over send. Then you stop thinking and let it go.

you (11:47 PM): hey. it's me. i know it's late. i just, i hate that i have to do this. i hate that this is my life. i grew up in foster care, no one taught me how to be anything else. i used to dream about writing books. going to college. having a family. normal shit. but who's gonna want me after this? no man wants to marry a whore.

You stare at the screen for a long time, chest tight, regretting it already. You're about to toss the phone aside when three dots appear.

Spencer Reid (11:49 PM): Hey. I'm glad you texted.

Another pause. Three dots again.

Spencer Reid (11:50 PM): The first thing you said to me was that you know what you are. But I don't think you do. You're a woman who risked her safety to help a friend. Who noticed details no one else did. Who gave us our only lead in a case that would have gone cold.

Spencer Reid (11:51 PM): You survived foster care. You're still here. You're still fighting.

Spencer Reid (11:52 PM): And for what it's worth, the right man wouldn't care about what you've done to survive. He'd care about who you are.

You type slowly, the glow of your phone the only light in the room.

You (11:56 PM): i don't believe you. but thanks for saying it.

You watch the three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Spencer Reid (11:58 PM): That's fair. You don't have to believe me. But for what it's worth; I don't say things I don't mean. It's a problem, actually. Makes small talk difficult.

Spencer Reid (11:59 PM): I grew up in Las Vegas. My father left when he found out my mom was sick, and I think I took care of her more than she took care of me. I know what it's like to feel like the world has already decided what you're worth.

You stare at the screen. You didn't expect that.

Spencer Reid (12:00 AM): You mentioned writing books. What kind of books?

The question catches you off guard. It's so normal. So human. Like you're just two people talking at midnight instead of a witness and an FBI agent connected by a string of dead women. A breath escapes you; half laugh, half disbelief. But something about the quiet of your apartment, the late hour, the fact that he asked, loosens the knot in your chest.

You (12:03 AM): it's dumb. it’s about this woman who goes back to the house where she grew up after her mother dies, expecting to clear it out, but the place ends up forcing her to confront everything she’s been trying to outrun. idk, i think is really about memory, grief, identity. it’s quiet and very introspective, i can’t manage a lot of characters at the same time, and as she sorts through the house, she’s also trying to figure out who she is beyond everything she’s inherited. i don’t know how to end it though..

You (12:04 AM): maybe because i don't know how to end that story for myself either.

You watch the dots appear immediately this time.

Spencer Reid (12:05 AM): That's not dumb. It reminds me more of a psychological literary novel than anything else. The house almost sounds like a character in its own right. Gaston Bachelard wrote that "the house shelters daydreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace." Memory has a way of attaching itself to places, and sometimes we don't realize we're grieving a version of ourselves until we walk back into the rooms that made us.

You stare at the paragraph, then type a response slowly.

You (12:08 AM): you really just quoted a french philosopher at me over text at midnight.

Spencer Reid (12:08 AM): I told you. I have a problem with small talk.

A laugh escapes you, real, unexpected, cracking through the grief. You cover your mouth with your hand, surprised at yourself.

You (12:10 AM): okay dr reid. fair enough. so what are you reading right now?

You (12:11 AM): or are you not allowed to have hobbies when your job is chasing serial killers

You curl deeper into the couch, pulling your knees up. The phone glows in the dark. Outside, the city hums. The officer is somewhere downstairs.

Three dots appear immediately.

Spencer Reid (12:12 AM): I'm rereading "The Anthropologist" by Leonard Cohen. It's a small book, more of an extended essay, really. He writes about the nature of longing and how we try to fill the spaces inside ourselves with work, with love, with meaning.

Spencer Reid (12:13 AM): And I do have hobbies. I go to the shooting range. I solve Rubik's cubes when I'm thinking. I watch old B-movies. But yes, mostly I read.

You read it twice. The Leonard Cohen thing catches you off guard. You didn't expect an FBI profiler to be quoting a poet-songwriter at midnight, but Spencer is different, you've come to notice that.

You (12:15 AM): longing and filling spaces. that's heavy for a tuesday night.

You (12:16 AM): do you ever read things that aren't about the human condition? like, just a fun book?

The banter sits warm in your chest for a moment, but the image of the blonde girl in the hallway flickers back: the velvet box, the ring, the stillness of her body.

You (12:18 AM): hey. the fitzwilliam name. and the new girl. have you guys found anything yet?

You (12:19 AM): sorry. i know you're probably not supposed to tell me. i just, i can't stop seeing her.

Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear. You're about to set the phone down when they return.

Spencer Reid (12:21 AM): I can't give you details. But I can tell you we're running the Fitzwilliam name through property records, business registrations, and any known aliases. If he's in New York, he's left a paper trail somewhere.

Spencer Reid (12:22 AM): The new victim's name is Julia Williams. Twenty-four. She was an escort too, working out of the Pierre. Same M.O. No wallet, no phone found at the scene. The ring was the only thing left behind.

You read the name. Julia Williams. Twenty-four. Someone's daughter. Someone's friend. Maybe someone who had a novel she never finished too.

You stare at the screen.. Twenty-four. The name prickles at the back of your memory. You scroll through your mental catalog of faces, hotel rooms, clients who wanted two at once. And then it hits you, a warm spring night, a suite at the Mandarin Oriental. A client who paid triple to have you both.

You (12:26 AM): julia. i knew her.

You (12:27 AM): someone booked us together for a threesome once. about six months ago.

You (12:28 AM): she was quiet. sweet. she chain-smoked on the balcony after and told me she was saving up for nursing school.

The three dots appear but take longer than before.

Spencer Reid (12:30 AM): That's… I'm sorry.

Spencer Reid (12:31 AM): Can you remember anything about the client who booked you both? Any details at all?

You close your eyes, pulling the night forward. The suite. The champagne. The client, he was older, distinguished, silver hair. He'd been polite, almost gentlemanly. The kind of control that some men wore like cologne.

You (12:33 AM): silver hair. tall. wore cufflinks. i didn't see them clearly that night but…

You (12:33 AM): he could be the same man. i don't know for sure.

You (12:34 AM): but he knew how to make two women feel like the only people in the room.

The dots disappear. The night feels heavier.

The confession about Julia sits heavy in the digital space between you. You stare at the ceiling for a long moment, then pick up the phone again.

You (12:36 AM): i'm sorry for deflecting, but i wanted to talk about the books.

You (12:37 AM): there's this author. brazilian. her name is clarice lispector.

You (12:38 AM): she wrote about the small moments. the ones that don't seem like anything until you look closer. a woman standing at a window. a cockroach dying (?). the space between two people who don't know how to reach each other.

You (12:39 AM): i wanted to write things like that. maybe a mix of her and sylvia plath. the quiet and the scream.

Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again.. Then:

Spencer Reid (12:41 AM): Lispector's "The Hour of the Star" is one of the most remarkable novels I've ever read.

Spencer Reid (12:42 AM): You're the first person I've met who's brought her up in conversation.

Spencer Reid (12:42 AM): You should write that book, really.

Your throat tightens. You type, delete, type again.

You (12:43 AM): maybe someday.

You (12:44 AM): if i live that long.

You type, delete, and finally send:

You (12:46 AM): i'll try to sleep. i'm sorry for bothering you, for venting like that. i just couldn't be alone with my thoughts.

You nearly put the phone down, but three dots appear immediately.

Spencer Reid (12:47 AM): You're not bothering me. That's what the number is for.

Spencer Reid (12:48 AM): Get some rest. I'll be here if you need to talk again.

You stare at the words for a long moment. Then you set the phone face-down on the nightstand, pull the blanket up to your chin, and close your eyes.

In Spencer’s hotel room, the last of your texts sit on his phone as he reads them again. He'd typed and deleted three responses before settling on the one he sent. Professional. Kind. Safe.

He'd stared at the ceiling for another hour after that. Thinking about Clarice Lispector. About a woman who reads Le Guin and wants to write like Plath. About the way her voice cracked in the hallway when she said “Are we just going to keep showing up dead?”

At 3:14 AM, his phone buzzed with the property records hit. He forwarded it to the team chat and sent her the update, it was brief, factual, professional courtesy, it’s what he told himself.

His phone sits dark on the hotel nightstand. He's been lying in bed for the better part of an hour, the ceiling tiles counting themselves above him. He replays the texts.

clarice lispector. i wanted to write things like that.

He'd felt something catch in his chest when he read it. The same feeling he gets when he finds a rare first edition in a used bookstore — recognition. The quiet thrill of discovering someone who sees the world the way you do. He thinks about the way she said “once these guys know us as whores, that's all we'll ever be to them.” No self-pity. Just a fact she'd accepted so thoroughly it had become part of her posture.

The right man wouldn't care about what you've done to survive.

He'd meant it when he typed it. That's the part that unsettles him. He'd meant it so completely that he'd stared at the words after sending them, startled by his own certainty. He doesn't know her. He's spoken to her twice, exchanged late-night texts about dead women and Brazilian authors. That's not enough to feel this — this pull, this concern, this urge to call and make sure she's actually sleeping. But here he is. 3:47 AM. Thinking about a woman with sad eyes and a half-finished novel. He turns on his side. Forces his eyes closed. But when he finally slept, he dreamt of rings and hotel hallways and a woman standing in a doorway, barefoot, crying.

Morning comes grey and indifferent. Your phone has a text from Spencer, sent at 3:14 AM.

Spencer Reid (3:14 AM): We found a property in Connecticut under the Fitzwilliam name. Estate in Greenwich. Hotch is getting a warrant now.

Spencer Reid (3:15 AM): I'll update you when I can.

Sunlight spills through your thin curtains. The officer is still outside, a shape in the doorway down below. The coffee maker stares at you from the counter, waiting.

You peel yourself off the bed, stretching and getting started with your morning routine. You brush your teeth, wash your face, do your hair, apply some light makeup and get dressed, until your phone buzzes. It’s him..

Spencer Reid (8:47 AM): Just got to Greenwich. The estate is gated, three acres, main house, guest cottage. Grounds team is sweeping the perimeter. I'll let you know if we find anything.

Spencer Reid (8:48 AM): Did you sleep?

Your thumbs move before you've fully decided what to say.

You (8:49 AM): barely. you?

You (8:50 AM): good luck at the estate.

You don't open your laptop. You don't check the news. You sit on the couch, pull out your yarn basket, and start knitting. The rhythm takes over. Loop, pull, twist. Loop, pull, twist. Your hands move on their own while your mind drifts somewhere distant, the hotel suites, silver cufflinks, a girl on a balcony chain-smoking and talking about nursing school. The yarn bleeds through your fingers, navy-blue and maroon, a pattern you started weeks ago without a plan. The afternoon light shifts across the floor.

Your phone buzzes once. Twice. You don't check it.

Hours pass. You finish the sleeve, then the other. You seam the shoulders, weave in the ends. It's only when you hold it up that you see what you've made. A sweater. Simple, soft. A man's size. Long enough for someone lanky, with sleeves that would reach past his wrists. You stare at it in your hands.

Oh.

Your face warms. You set the sweater down carefully on the arm of the couch, heart rabbiting against your ribs for no reason you're willing to name. Your phone glows from the coffee table. Three unread messages from Spencer Reid. You reach for the phone, the sweater still warm in your lap.

Spencer Reid (12:14 PM): The estate is empty. Furnished, maintained, but no one's lived here recently. The grounds team found tire tracks in the back drive, they were fresh. Whoever he is, he knew we were coming.

Spencer Reid (12:52 PM): We found a locked study. Forced entry. Inside: newspaper clippings. Local obituaries. A map of Manhattan with pins at the Pierre, the Langham, and three other hotels. He's been planning this longer than we thought.

Spencer Reid (1:47 PM): Hey. I know you're probably processing. Just, please, check in when you can. So I know you're okay.

The last message is two hours old. You look at the sweater folded on the couch. At your phone. At the grey afternoon light slanting through the window. You type and send before you can second-guess it.

You (3:52 PM): i'm okay. sorry, i was knitting. lost track of time.

You (3:53 PM): the other hotels. do you know which ones?

You hit send and set the phone down, heart doing an annoying little flutter that you firmly ignore. The sweater sits on the arm of the couch, soft and navy and maroon. You drag your eyes away from it. The phone buzzes almost immediately.

Spencer Reid (3:54 PM): The St. Regis. The Ritz-Carlton Central Park. And the Greenwich Hotel in Tribeca.

Spencer Reid (3:55 PM): He has a pattern. Every other Thursday. All high-end. All hotels with private entrances and staff trained to be discreet.

Spencer Reid (3:56 PM): Do you remember any other regulars? Anyone who booked you consistently at a specific hotel?

You stare at the question. Every other Thursday. High-end hotels. Private entrances. Your mind sifts through the calendar, the appointments, the repeat clients. There are a few who book regularly. A hedge fund manager who always takes the penthouse at the Mandarin. A tech executive who prefers the Four Seasons downtown. And one more.

A man, early sixties, silver hair. Always the Pierre. Always the same corner suite with the view of the park. The last Thursday of every month. In all this time, you didn’t even think that Naomi’s guy could have been seeing other girls too, even less if the other girl was you. You'd always thought of him as safe. He talked about his wife and his boat and never stayed past midnight. Your fingers move before your brain catches up.

You (3:57 PM): there's someone. regular at the pierre. last thursday of every month. corner suite, park view. early sixties, silver hair. he talks about his wife and his boat and he's never stayed past midnight.

You (3:58 PM): i never thought, idk… he seemed so normal. boring, even.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. You grip the phone, waiting.

Spencer Reid (4:00 PM): Last Thursday of every month. That's consistent with Naomi's schedule at the Langham. It is a different hotel, but the timing it’s the same.

Spencer Reid (4:01 PM): Can you describe him? Anything specific. Build. Accent. Distinguishing features.

You close your eyes. The Pierre. The corner suite. The way he'd pour you a glass of wine and ask about your day like he actually cared.

You (4:03 PM): tall. broad shoulders but not heavy. english accent, upper class, like private school english. blue eyes. and he had a habit of touching his wedding ring when he talked about his wife.

You (4:04 PM): i never saw him angry. never even raised his voice. he was gentle.

You stare at the word. Gentle. The same word someone probably used to describe Naomi’s killer at a dinner party. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, then move.

You (4:06 PM): do you think it could be him? the same man?

You (4:06 PM): i need to know.

The three dots appear instantly, then vanish. A full minute passes. You watch the cursor blink. When the reply comes, it's measured, careful in a way that feels practiced.

Spencer Reid (4:08 PM): The pattern fits. Same frequency. Same hotel tier. Same demographic, older, wealthy, English. We're running the Fitzwilliam crest through English peerage records now, but if this man also uses that crest...

Spencer Reid (4:09 PM): It could be him. But we need more than a description to be certain.

Spencer Reid (4:10 PM): I need you to think carefully. Did he ever mention his name? A nickname? Anything at all?

You search your memory. The corner suite. The wine. The way he'd ask about your day. But names were currency in your world, real ones were guarded, traded only when trust was earned. He'd been careful. You realize that now. You pause, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Something stirs in the back of your memory. A moment, small, almost forgotten. You're in the corner suite. He's pouring whiskey, talking about a sailing trip. His phone buzzes on the nightstand. He glances at it, smiles, a real smile, not the polite one, and mutters, almost to himself: "She calls me Teddy. No one else does."

He'd said it with such fondness you'd felt a small pang of something. Envy, maybe. That his wife loved him that much. You type slowly.

You (4:12 PM): teddy. his wife calls him teddy. he mentioned it once, said it like it meant something to him.

You (4:12 PM): i don't know if that helps. but it's the only name i ever heard.

The dots appear. Disappear. Then a long stretch of silence. Two minutes. Three. You're about to put the phone down when it buzzes again.

Spencer Reid (4:16 PM): Theodore Fitzwilliam. Sixth Earl of Whitmore. His wife's nickname for him, according to a 2003 Tatler profile, is Teddy.

You stare at the screen.

Spencer Reid (4:17 PM): You just gave us our suspect.

The phone is in your hands. The name hangs in the air between you and the screen: Theodore Fitzwilliam.

Your thumbs move before you decide they will.

You (4:19 PM): god, i let him touch me.

You (4:19 PM): every time. he'd pour the wine and ask about my day and i'd let him put his hands on me because he was gentle and he never made me feel like i was just

You stop. Delete the last line. Start again.

You (4:20 PM): i let him into the bed with me. for months. and now i find out he might have killed naomi. might have killed julia.

You (4:20 PM): what does that say about me?

You send it before you can think better of it. Your chest feels tight. The sweater is still on the arm of the couch, soft and grey and warm, and you want to throw it across the room. You want to hold it to your face. Three dots appear. Pause. Then:

Spencer Reid (4:22 PM): It says you were doing your job. It says he was good at hiding who he really was.

Spencer Reid (4:23 PM): It doesn't say anything about you. It says everything about him.

You stare at the words. Your eyes sting. You blink hard, once, twice, and look away. You read his message once. Twice. Your throat loosens, just a little.

You (4:24 PM): do you have enough to arrest him?

The dots appear quickly this time.

Spencer Reid (4:25 PM): Not yet. The tire tracks and the map are strong circumstantial evidence. The obituaries connect him to a pattern. But we don't have physical evidence tying him to the crime scenes yet. No DNA. No witnesses placing him at either hotel on the nights of the murders.

Spencer Reid (4:26 PM): We're pulling financial records now. If he paid for those suites with a card under his name, or if we can place him in the city on those dates, we can build a case.

Spencer Reid (4:27 PM): The warrant for the Greenwich property came through. Forensics is going through the house room by room. If there's something there, we'll find it.

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. His name is Theodore Fitzwilliam. He's an earl. He kills women in hotel rooms and leaves wedding rings beside their bodies. And somewhere in Connecticut, FBI agents are tracking through his house like ants through a sugar bowl. Your eyes drift back to the sweater.. Your hand moves before you tell it to. The sweater is soft in your grasp, cashmere blend. You run your thumb along the seam you finished, the one that would fall at the shoulder of someone tall. Someone lanky. Someone with clever hands and an eidetic memory and kind hazel eyes. You fold it carefully. Once. Twice. Smooth the collar. It sits on your coffee table like an accusation. You could finish it. Sew the buttons on. Block it properly. Let it become a thing that exists in the world, finished and usable and his.

Or you could stuff it in the bottom of your closet and never look at it again.

Your phone glows. Another message from Spencer.

Spencer Reid (4:32 PM): Forensics found a hidden safe in the master bedroom closet at the Greenwich property. They're cracking it now.

Spencer Reid (4:32 PM): I'll keep you updated.

taglist: @goldenlinguistics1114 @sammy4sstuff @sweet-t33a @boiiitskhloe @violent-cupids @hiddentattooodyssey @lavendercoldfoam

next part

[lolaffection]

hi everyone!! i just want to announce that my spencer x prostitute!reader is going to be up tomorrow

it’s kinda long and has a lot of the investigation of the case that they’re working on unraveling until spencer and reader actually get it on, there will be smut! so don’t worry about that, but it is a little slowburnish, so i wanted to ask you if you think it’s better for it to be one part or two, either way they’ll be posted one right after the other, let me know!

[lolaffection]

thinking about some one shot plots to start writing again, pls vote and let me know which ones you guys like best!

plot 1 — single mom!reader being caught in the middle of a case after her daughter’s disappearance, and spencer can’t help but look after her, maybe even after everything is ok.

plot 2 — librarian!reader and professor!spencer, where he nourishes a crush for months, until they get stuck together in the library after a snowstorm.

plot 3 — waitress!reader works at spencer’s favorite 24h diner, he always comes in after every case, orders the same thing, and you only engage in small talk, until one day he comes in devastated, and you can’t bring yourself to let him go home on his own.

plot 4 — neighbor!reader, where you keep receiving spencer’s packages. what starts as awkward hallway encounters slowly turns into a routine neither of you want to break.

plot 5 — museum curator!reader, where the BAU is called to investigate a murder connected to a new art exhibition. you’re the museum’s curator and you know every piece inside and out, while spencer can’t help but ramble about the history behind them. eventually, hotch has to remind you they’re actually there to solve a case.

🪼

plot 1

plot 2

plot 3

plot 4

plot 5

Voting ended onJul 26

[freelancelobotomy]

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 CARMEN [s.r.]

— ᨳଓ Pairing: Spencer x Pianist!Reader

⋆˙⟡♡WC: 4k

.✦ ݁˖ Summary: Haunted by his past, Spencer is cynical about love until he crosses paths with a the university’s newly hired Piano player for their orchestra’s pit. Drawn into her world, he begins to open up—only to face a devastating heartbreak that upends their lives and pushes them both down an entirely new, unpredictable path.

⊹܀˙CW: Spencer’s focalization, MINORS DNI!!!, SMUT, ANGST, Age-gap, Blowjob, 69, P in v, dacryphillic tone, Breeding!Kink, your favorite character isn't perfect and is still a man, Bisexual!Spencer, use of "good girl" and "atta girl," no use of y/n, Fem!Reader, AFAB reader descs, mentions of drugs and death.

♪‧₊˚A/N: Back from an unnecessarily long hiatus my bad guys. I hope you like this one bai

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

⤷ ゛Spencer ˎˊ˗ hates pretty girls. Well, not literally anyway. More in a… sort of perverted way. As a profiler, he knows it's because of childhood development. Girls never looked his way because he was 12 years old and in high school and 14 years old at Caltech. The ones he liked were always older, and he’s only just figured out what to do with his hair. There's always been this feeling he’s never known but always craved. 

He wasn't fully sure then, but he assumed it was some sort of kinky thing. But ironically, whatever it is, he got farther away from it when he had sex. 

It didn’t help that he only started casually having it during his addiction. It wasn’t that he hated being...dominated all the time; it's just he never felt completely safe or comfortable whenever he did it with a particularly beautiful woman. That's why he used to prefer fucking guys because he liked being dominant and they didn't pigeonhole him into being a sobbing, overstimulated “Please Mommy” character he always used to be whenever a pretty woman took him home.

Morgan says that he's acting like a chick, but Spencer knows it’s because sometimes it makes him feel like he’s on the goal post again, naked, tricked by Alexa Lisbon, the prettiest girl at his high school. So when he became a professor and met you, some pianist for the university’s pit for their musical, he felt the same. Resentful. But he would watch you walk to your car through his office window at dusk every day. 

He’d make up stories about you in his head: She probably grew up with two parents in the home, enough money for lessons. Private school. Lives her life in the clouds because that's where angels like you naturally reside. He knew he was being unfair because he hadn’t actually met you yet. He’d wonder how your first meeting would be if you guys had one.

Whenever he thought about you, he would think about murder. The way the men he’d catch at the BAU would tie you up. Or drown you. Bury you in, I don’t know—multicolor aquarium pebbles because of some sick niche fascination a freak developed through trauma. By just walking around and existing as yourself, Spencer felt as if you were foolish. 

He knows that it was his misogyny talking and that it was pathetic to think that he was your protector by just watching you all the time, but he couldn’t help it. As much as he envied your radiance, he wanted to make you his more than anything. 

Once you’d brush him off with a nice to meet you, you'd then scan the room to find a more interesting, more influential person to try to network with. He’d then bring up his 3 degrees and watch your jaw drop. Ohhh, how he’d love to imagine your jaw dropping and then taking him, all of him. He couldn’t stand women like you. Respected, nice enough to get somewhere in the world, easily laughable, carefree, and oh so beautiful. It killed him inside because he felt so immediately vulnerable with them. It felt like you were manipulating him when you probably hadn’t even noticed him before—

“Excuse me,” a voice called from behind him in the parking lot. Footsteps? No, heels against concrete echo behind him. They’re getting closer. He turns around, and it's you. Finally, it's you.

“You dropped this.” You smile at him. It's happening again to him. He fights the feeling of his head lolling backwards like the first time he tried Dilaudid, slumped, and you’ve said five words to him. His wallet is in your hand, but that's the third thing he looks at. First, it’s your beautifully manicured nails, then it's your clunky, completely childish Star Wars watch on your wrist. The laughter drums out of his lungs, like a deranged lunatic. He knew that he’d got it all wrong in that moment. He was yours. And that he would be for a long time, if not forever.

“You always treat me like I’m some dumb baby! Well, I'm not Spencer; I’m a grown-ass woman.” You’d yelled at him during your first fight. Before you guys had ever fucked. It’s true he babied you. How could he not? He adored everything about you. Even in that moment, your lips were in this cute pout, and your arms were tossed open, giving him a perfect view of your pretty tits.

“I know," he responded, his voice crackly and quiet. “I’m sorry, baby—honey." He corrected himself as the phrasing seemed inappropriate at the moment.

“I get that there is a major difference between us because of how young I am and how you’re older than me, but I can handle myself. I don’t need your money, and I don’t need ‘sorry’ gifts. I need you to change. Stop canceling dates last minute for cases. Just… don't make them or break up with me if you don't have the time.” Then you started to cry. Spencer stepped closer, holding your face in his hands, kissing where your tears fell on your cheeks. “I could never leave you, honey; I’m sorry.”

“You want me to treat you like a grown-ass woman? Fine.” He’d said, slapping his cock on your face before grabbing the back of your head and shoving your mouth towards his balls as he pumped his hand up and down his cock. You started kissing them before inhaling deeply.

“You’re so fucking disgusting,” he whispered as he began rubbing his tip on your plush lips, smearing precum on your mouth and chin before you opened your mouth, taking him all the way until you gagged.

“Oh,” he sighed, tutting. “Look at you, pretty. All drooling and fucked out, and I haven’t even touched you yet.” You begin bobbing your head on his dick, your drool pooling out the corners of your mouth and bubbling & everything before you'd pull back on it and swirl your tongue on the head.

“Awhh are you tired, slut? ‘S it too big? Want me to help you, gorgeous? Here,” Spencer’s hands took fistfuls of your hair, and he started humping your face, face-fucking you.

“I know it's a lot, honey, but since you're such a big girl now—mhm, fuck. And wanna give head, You can take it, yeah?" He feels your mouth widen while your lips still slurp around his dick, the back of your throat widening. Spencer shudders from pleasure. “Atta girl, fuck—" he breathed. “You’re gonna make me come. Ah, you’re so good; you’re such a good girl,” he moaned, his eyes falling to your hips that were grinding into the floor. “Do you want me to make you feel good while you suck me off, baby?” He pulled you off his dick so you could speak. You nodded.

“I need a yes or no, baby; use your words.” “Yes,” you said, grabbing his cock and kissing the tip before rubbing your lips up the side of his shaft. Spencer’s eyes screw shut, and his jaw drops. He thought back to those bitter days alone in the office and laughed to himself. You switched it around and won again. Licking a fat strip from his base to his tip brings him back, wincing. "Fuck—sit on my face, please." Spencer helped you stand up, kissing you before walking both of you backwards towards the bed.

“Put your full weight on me, sweetheart,” he breathed, frustrated with you practically hovering your hips over his face, taunting him. You hesitantly lowered your ass to his mouth while leaning forward to suck his dick.

His big hands hooked around your hips, pulling you down so he could lap at your pussy even deeper. Both of your hands pumped up and down the rest of his cock that couldn’t fit in your mouth; he had sucked harshly at your clit. As his tip hit the back of your throat, you moaned around it, the vibrations of your voice making him jerk his hips and quicken the pace of his licking. At this point, Spencer was making out with your pussy, hands roaming your ass, before a deafening smack cracked through the lewd sound of slurping and whining. The pinpricked stinging your skin made you clench around nothing and turned your blowjob into more of a lazy handjob featuring a couple of kitten licks.

It wasn’t a question of whether the neighbors could hear you; it was a question of whether they could make sense of your non-intelligible babbling or not.

"Spence—oh my godd— 's too much, please, please," you’d cut yourself off with a wanton moan that could only be successfully mimicked if someone experienced Spencer’s mouth on them.

Spencer's flattened tongue finds your syrupy opening and laps at your cunt. He loved you before then, but finally tasting you… God. He’s got a PhD and 3 BAs, but he’s never been so devoted to something—someone—before.

He needed you so bad it felt like every grain of his worldly flesh was on fire. Spencer has never been religious, especially due to the card he was dealt growing up, but how could he not have been in that moment, nourished by ambrosial nectar and kneeled on by a goddess? He moaned into your pussy as you started to cry from overstimulation, which only worsened his need for you.

You were even more beautiful when you cried. He could imagine your face now, your plush lips in a cute pout, your entire face flushed with your eyes screwed shut, brows pinched together. He slurped at you again, humming contentedly as you ran down his chin.

You hiccuped his name, still running your hand up and down his cock, index finger teasing his tip as your drool dripped down from your bottom lip to his balls.

Not even Moses, standing at the threshold of the Red Sea, had felt reverence at this intensity before. Your body felt red hot against his hand, like how sustained violins played with freshly rosined bows hit your ears. 

Callused hands found fistfuls of fat on your ass as you regained your senses and started sucking on the head of his dick, whining, spit bubbling around his dick.

He started sloppily fucking your fist, your hand tightening around his shaft as he throbbed in your hand and circled your clit with his tongue.

His. You were his. Your sobs, the rasp in your voice from his cock being stuffed down your throat, and your sweet weeping cunt parked on his fucking face. His his his his.

He wished he could have talked you through it. Told you that you were his pretty, sweet girl that tastes so good. But he was focused. His hands massaged your ass, thighs twitching and shaking, and you were about to come again. 

“Ohh baby sosogood'mclose” 

He’d wanted to smile at your incoherence, but he was on a mission, his hands now spreading your ass cheeks apart, swiveling his head in a transient figure 8, wrecking you on his tongue. More tears welled in your eyes as the slippery feeling of Spencer's wet, hot mouth, his tongue pushing between and sucking at your cunt, got to you.

Your body writhed in ecstasy, shoulders wracked with sobs as your pussy gushed on Spencer's face. He softly licked at your swollen, puffy petals as your desperate hips rolled against his face. 

It’d been three years since the two of you had broken up. You’d gone through two boyfriends since Spencer ended things via letter. A culmination of fights over the same things he promised to change. He decided to cut his poor, pretty woman loose after he had to cancel a double date because ‘the enucleator claimed another victim across state lines’ so he’d embarrassed you in front of your work friend. You’d gone to a bar after being stood up, where you ran into your ex. He didn’t know what happened after your meeting, and he never wanted to know, so he simply broke up with you to avoid finding out, leaving the apartment you shared and all his belongings there. Went on sabbatical at the BAU, too.

Spencer had mourned your essence, beauty, jokes, and smile every day since. Even though he was the one who ended it, he felt as if he were just excommunicated from his awaiting him, engraved by a medieval manufacturer that coincidentally shares a name with you, glaring against the sun. 

You were his biggest mistake that he ruminated over until its hippocampus rotted out his skull and its necrotic flesh cannibalized itself before metabolizing in his bones. His eidetic memory had never been crueler; he saw you everywhere, in everything. 

You ruined his life.

The only warmth he’d known since you was his right hand. He hadn’t even dared to try with another. He knew that any man or woman who dared to be your runner-up would be met with flaccid indifference. And his heart ached so sourly beneath his ribs that he could barely get up in the morning for work, let alone seek flesh to please him or another love to paralyze him while he was still reeling from the last one. He couldn’t think of how you reacted when you got the letter, what you're doing now, or what you'd say if you went back. Until.

One day after work, his legs propelled him away from his new front door and towards his car that he hadn’t warmed up in three months. He drove and drove as chilled pebbles from the sky cascaded from the ether onto the hood of his car and his windshield. 

As he drove up a familiar hill, the hail turned into rain. Rain that dowsed him as he stepped out of his vintage Volvo. And he trekked up familiar stairs.

Violins started again with each watery step he took into the blue night. The freezing water seeping into his Converse, soaking the edge of his pants that flood him since you're not there to hem them anymore. 

Until he's at the door. He wants to knock, but he feels as if he were a phantom that would noclip through the door and see something he wouldn’t want to see if he tried. You against the wall, the strap of your favorite nightgown slipping off your shoulder, exposing the swell of your warm breasts to the cool air and the delicate swan-like curve of your neck to his chaste kisses. Or someone else's. 

He knocks. No answer. He knocks again and again. 

“Baby, please," he says to himself, completely blinded by lovesickness and longing to feel your warmth again. 

He runs his hands against the ice-cold doorknob. He envied a doorknob. Then your car seat and the curtains in your once-shared bedroom that get drawn whenever you change. He stares blankly at the door until—

He sees you abstracted by the glass of the front door. It swung open, and, by God, there you are. 

Candy apple red dress on. Tight, hair cascading down in those pretty waves you’d do whenever you had a concert. He drinks in the sight of you. And your face. Jaw dropped, the way he likes, gobsmacked. 

“What are you doing here?” You say, breathless.

You’re not quite eye level with him, but you’re close. He looks down. You're wearing pretty strappy heels. Sexy. You look sexy. But for who? He wanted to cry at the thought.

“I miss you." His voice croaked out, almost drowned out by the buckets being poured out from above.

You look away from the door, expression hard and unreadable. “You left me,” you say, quietly.

His ears are ringing at the sound of your voice.

“I know.” Is all he can say. Soaked. His hair, glued to his face by the rain.

“So why are you here? " You look up at him. You do your makeup a little differently now; your hair is a shade darker too. But you still look like his baby that he was stupid enough to walk away from out of pride.

“Because I love you. And I'm a fool for ever leaving you.”

You look down again before taking a step closer to him. He can smell your perfume. He got it for you for your second anniversary, sending a thrill through his body and blood straight to his

“Fuck you.”

“Honey, please," his voice cracks. You fold your arms.

“I have places to be, Spencer.” You huff, trying your best to keep your voice steady.

He falls to his knees and begins to cry, pathetically grasping at the fabric of your dress.

“Don’t go. I'm sorry—please, you have no idea… I’ve thought about you every day…every second.”

“Get up.” You say dryly.

“I can’t. I walked away from you once; I won't ever do it again. I love you and I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry, baby; please forgive me. It was cruel of me to leave you over something so insignificant after all the times I left you alone... by yourself—" He wipes his face with your dress, hiccuping and gasping for air as he cries. He looked up at you with puppy-like, watery eyes and a sniffling pink nose.

“You just wanted to spend time with me, love me, and I—took your love for granted and left you because I felt discarded for a moment when I had been making you feel that way for years, and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.” He wipes his running nose on the back of his hand.

“I don’t deserve you. I'm sorry, my love, my beautiful girl. I let you down and left you. But I promise, honey—I—I’ve changed. I won’t ever… ever make you feel that way again.”

You wipe away a tear you didn’t realize fell from your eyes before your hand finds his hair. “I love you so much." He sobs when he feels your touch before bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it.

“I promise, please give me another chance… please," sniff. "I'm sorry."

“Oh fuck!” You moaned as Spencer's dick hit your cervix. Your hands find Spencer's shoulders, freshly curled hair haloed around your head as your mouth hangs open. "Ngh—oh my goddd, you’re so big," you groan, Spencer's forehead against yours. “It’s okay, I’ll make it fit, baby…” he reassures you, brushing hair away from your face. “Missed me, didn't you, pretty…hm?” moan. He’s not talking to you; he’s talking to your cunt. "I missed you, sweetheart," he whispers reverently, grabbing your face and angling it so he could lick from your clavicle to your jaw. "Mmm, and how you taste ‘nd how you shiver against my touchy ‘n–” one of his hands squishes your breasts. “These pretty heavy tits. Made to fit in my hands, God—" Spencer cuts himself off with a cymbal as you clench around him, which only makes his hips roll into yours faster.

“Nobody makes me feel like you do, Spencer," you whisper.

“Fuck! Say my name again, honey—....pleasepleasples”

“I love you, Spencer.”

“Does that big dick feel good, princess? Are you gonna cum on it?” He teases. You nod, but Spencer cranes your head to look down at you getting fucked by him. The burning knot in your stomach starts to build as Spencer whines in your ear.

“Y-you looked so pretty in that dress, wearing the perfume I bought you… Mmm, you like watching me fuck you like this?” 

“I love fucking you raw."

Spencer shudders when you say that, taking a deep breath.

“Keep saying shit like that and I'm gonna hold you down and breed you."

“You feel so s’good raw I don't even care," you moan, running your hands down the side of his face, palms prickled by his slightly grown-out facial hair. He stares into your eyes, vision unfocused, brows pinched together, mouth agape, completely pussy-drunk and hanging on your every word.

“You won’ be m-mad if I come inside you?? Make you take this dick and fill you up with my cum?? No???” He asks, breathless.

You look at him, eyes half-lidded and dark, smirking as you wrap your legs around his waist.

He looks down at him fucking you before he meets your eyes again, his brows furrowed.

Spencer pulls all the way out, then pushes back in as far as he can, feeding you rough, deep strokes. You choke out a sob as he hits that gummy spot inside of you that turns you into liquid.

“Are you gonna cry for me like you used to, angel?” moan “As I get you pregnant and fucking mate you like a bitch in heat?” He huffs, breathing heavily as you moan in response. “Miss me that bad that you wanna make up for lost time by giving me babies, huh, gorgeous?” Plap, plap, plap. “Fuck, I'm so close. I'm going to give you what you want. I’ll give you everything that you want.”

‘Iloveyous’much” you whine as you come undone on his cock, clenching down and creaming on his fat dick.

Stars dance in your bleary vision as Spencer lets out a wanton moan from his diaphragm, hot, seedy ropes of his come shooting into your pussy.

Both of you are heaving as Spencer pulls out. He plants a chaste but loving kiss on your forehead before you scootch up on the bed to kiss him on the lips, both of your hands finding the sides of his face. Spencer sighs, melting into your touch. The happiest he thinks he’s ever been.

The next morning Spencer wakes with you not by his side, terrified. Until he hears piano keys, a sustained melody pouring in from the living room. He shoots out of bed to find you, but he quiets his footsteps as he hears you begin to sing. His footsteps softly pad into the archway of the living room, watching you just from out of sight, behind you. The toaster springs up two cinna-strudle cream cheese pastries, the ones he introduced you to after your first grocery store shop together after you moved in. Your voice is as soft as chiffon but sweet and piercing, like a siren's. You weren’t trying to sound good, but you just… did, only singing the words to help keep the melody of the song:

Mon amour, je sais que tu m'aimes aussi. Tu as besoin de moi, tu as besoin de moi dans ta vie. Tu ne peux vivre sans moi. Et je mourrais sans toi. Je tuerais pour toi

Or according to Spencer’s sleepy translation:

My love, I know you love me too. You need me, you need me in your life. You can't live without me. And I would die without you. I would kill for you.

Spencer walks up behind you; you turn around on the piano bench, startled by the creaking of floorboards under the weight of his steps.

“Spencer! God—" You laugh breathlessly. “What's your problem? You scared me…Jesus." 

You giggled. He could shed a tear. 

He did actually, and he fell to his knees, resting his head in your lap, arms wrapped around your waist.

“Oh–okay.” You laugh again. "Someone's clingy this morning.” 

Spencer buries his face into your thighs, leaving sleepy kisses near your hips as your fingers raked through his mousy brown curls.

“I love you,” he says, his voice wrecked from the night before. He picks his head up from your lap when you stop petting him. You press a kiss into his cheek, holding his face in your hands.

“I love you too, baby.”