To Have and To Hold — Chapter 19
Summary: After meeting Y/N’s parents for dinner, Spencer wrestles with his insecurities — especially after overhearing a conversation about Parker’s possible return.
Couple: Spencer Reid / Fem!Reader
Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+)
Content Warnings: fluff, insecurity/abandonment issues, slightly angsty at some point?, giggly smut (my beloved), fingering, handjob, unprotected p in v, creampie??, overstimmulation (if you squint), MINORS DNI!!!
Word Count: 11.4k
I used to think fatherhood was one of those things that belonged to other men — men who hadn’t spent their twenties memorizing statistics in lecture halls, or their thirties learning what the inside of a prison cell sounded like at night. Men with sturdier hands, steadier lives.
I’d wanted it, once. A family. Kids. I just assumed the chance had been buried somewhere along with all the things I’d lost. And yet here I was — walking up the steps of an apartment building with a five-year-old girl’s hand tucked inside mine, listening to her animated retelling of a game she’d played at her friend’s house.
She chattered between breaths, skipping a little with each step, and I realized with a kind of quiet awe that this was the most ordinary, extraordinary thing I’d ever done: picking a child up from a playdate. Carrying her backpack in my free hand. Thinking about dinner plans. Like a dad. A real one.
“And then we played trivia and I won,” she announced proudly, swinging our joined hands for emphasis. Her curls bounced with every step, her cheeks still flushed from the excitement of the afternoon.
I glanced down at her, at the way her little sneakers scuffed against the concrete, and tried not to smile too hard. “Of course you did. You’re the smartest princess in the land.”
“I only won because I remember the things you sometimes say,” she added matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious explanation in the world.
The words landed heavier than she knew. My chest tightened as I looked down at her — this little girl with a spark in her eyes and syrup still faintly dried on her sleeve from breakfast — and realized she carried my words with her.
Filed them away like treasures. I’d spent so much of my life convinced the things I said were too much, but to her, they were useful. Enough to win a game. Enough to make her proud.
“Well, you have a great memory, Maddie,” I told her, the words rougher than I intended. My throat felt tight.
She beamed, puffing her little chest out with pride. “That means I’m like you.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I’d spent years avoiding comparisons, terrified of what people might see if they looked too closely — the addiction, the fear, all of the baggage I’ve gathered over the years. But she didn’t see any of that.
To her, being like me wasn’t a curse. It was something to celebrate.
“Yeah,” I murmured, then crouched down to carry her in my arms, “Maybe you are.”
Her arms immediately wrapped around my neck. She smelled faintly of crayons and apple juice, the ordinary perfume of childhood. I adjusted her backpack against my shoulder and stood, her small frame light against me but grounding all the same.
She rested her cheek against my collar, humming happily. “I’m tall now,” she declared, giggling as the hallway light flickered over us.
I let out a soft laugh, pressing a kiss into her curls before I could second-guess the gesture. “Yes, very tall. Practically a giant.”
Her giggle deepened, echoing down the stairwell, and for once I didn’t care if the sound carried. By the time we reached Y/N’s door, Maddie was still narrating her playdate adventures, her words spilling over one another in excitement. I shifted her higher in my arms, balancing the keys I’d fished from my pocket, and thought how natural it felt. Coming home with her. Unlocking the door like it was mine, too.
“Mama! We’re home!” Maddie’s voice rang out the second I nudged the door open, her excitement spilling into the hallway before I even stepped inside.
I set her down gently, and she tumbled forward with the eager clumsiness of a child still buzzing from the day. She shrugged off her backpack, letting it fall in a heap by the door, and held out her arms expectantly until I crouched to help with her coat.
“Arms,” I prompted softly. She lifted them high above her head, grinning as I tugged the sleeves free. Her shoes were next, velcro strips rasping as I loosened them. I lined them neatly against the wall out of habit, the way I used to straighten stacks of books — order where I could find it.
She darted off toward her room the moment her feet hit the floor. “I have to pick a dress for dinner!” she announced like it was a matter of state importance.
“You have to shower first, you know how Grandma gets when you’re covered in crayons and Play-Doh,” Y/N’s voice drifted from our bedroom before she appeared in the doorway, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she caught sight of us.
“No ‘buts,’” Y/N cut in gently, crouching to press a kiss to Maddie’s temple. “Quick shower, then you can wear your pretty dress. Deal?”
Maddie sighed, dramatic and world-weary, but nodded. “Deal.” She scampered toward the bathroom, muttering something about how she was already clean enough.
I lingered by the doorframe, still thinking about the walk home with Maddie — her small hand in mine, her laughter, the “I’m just like you” had slipped out of her mouth.
I glanced at Y/N, who was watching Maddie disappear down the hall, and for a second it was almost too much. The domesticity of it, the ease, the way it looked like a life I wasn’t sure I deserved but wanted more than anything.
“You survived the pick-up,” she teased lightly, turning back to me with a smile that eased some of the tightness in my chest.
She walked over to me, once close enough, she put her arms on my shoulders and leaned in for a kiss.
It made me weak in the knees every time. No matter how many times she leaned in, no matter how familiar the curve of her mouth had become to me. I felt myself soften into it anyway, my hands instinctively finding her waist, afraid to grip too tightly, afraid to let go.
When she pulled back, her eyes lingered on mine, searching the way she always did — like she could read the thousands of words knotted at the back of my throat. I wondered if she knew how close I came, every time, to telling her how much I’d love to get them both in my car and drive away into the sunset. Away from all the chaos in my life that threatens to affect them.
“You’re practically a full-time dad now. Picking her up from daycare, from playdates…” She teased, but it got a lump in my throat.
“I love you,” I murmured.
“Let’s hope you still feel that way after meeting my parents,”
Her reply was light, a tease meant to ease the moment, but it only made the lump in my throat swell. Meeting her parents. The words rattled around inside me like loose change, clinking against every insecurity I thought I’d managed to quiet.
I tried to smile, though it felt thin. “Parents usually like me… I think.” I said, tugging at the cuff of my sleeve, “until I start reciting obscure trivia about 18th-century literature over appetizers.”
She laughed softly, brushing her thumb across my jaw in a way that made me feel both steadier and more exposed. “They’re going to love you,” she said with such certainty that for a fleeting second, I almost believed her.
“My mom can come across as… well, she’s something, and she’ll also probably interrogate you. But you know enough about both of their interests, so they’ll definitely love you.”
I huffed a nervous little laugh, though my palms were already starting to sweat. “Interrogation I can handle.” I straightened my tie in the mirror, only to undo the knot a second later and start over. “It’s the… personal questions I’m not very good at.”
Y/N leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with that maddening mix of fondness and patience. “They’re just curious. They want to know the man who makes me swoon over the phone.”
That got a laugh out of me, “You swoon?” The word felt almost foreign in my mouth, too romantic to belong to someone like me.
She arched an eyebrow, amused. “Don’t look so surprised. You ramble about constellations at midnight and quote poetry so effortlessly. Of course I swoon.”
My ears burned instantly, and I ducked my head to fuss with the knot of my tie again, though my smile gave me away.
“I… uh… thank you?” The words tumbled out clumsily, as if my mouth hadn’t caught up to the rush of heat in my cheeks. Compliments were landmines for me — I never knew where to step, never sure if acknowledging them would make me seem arrogant or if deflecting would make me ungrateful.
She only laughed, the sound warm enough to chase some of the tension from my shoulders. “You’re thanking me for swooning?”
I risked a glance at her then, and the expression she wore — soft, certain, entirely unbothered by my fumbling — made something sharp twist in my chest. Like maybe she saw me more clearly than I ever had myself, and didn’t flinch.
Before I could think of a reply, a patter of footsteps came skidding down the hall, followed by a triumphant declaration: “Ta-da!”
Maddie stood in the doorway, grinning ear to ear, her pink floral dress puffed out like a costume she’d been born to wear. She twirled once, nearly tipping over, then stuck her hands on her hips. “Ready for dinner!”
“No, you’re not. Your hair, sweetheart—” Y/N started, stepping toward her.
But Maddie cut in with a sudden spark in her eyes. “Can Spencer braid it?” she asked, already bouncing on her toes like the answer was obvious.
The question caught me completely off guard. My mouth went dry, and I glanced helplessly at Y/N. A braid. I could navigate the intricacies of quantum mechanics, recite poetry from memory, and reconstruct a crime scene from three pieces of evidence, but a braid?
Maddie all but shoved the brush into my hands, her grin wide with certainty. I turned it over like it was an unfamiliar piece of evidence, not a simple plastic tool. “I… I really don’t know how,” I admitted, heat creeping up the back of my neck.
“Here,” Y/N said gently, stepping behind me. She gathered Maddie Maddie’s hair and picked up a strand, moving slowly so I could follow. “It’s just three sections. You cross one over the middle, then the other over the middle, and repeat. See?”
Her fingers worked deftly, the movement natural, confident. Then she handed the strands to me. “Your turn.”
My heart thudded harder than it should’ve for such a simple task. I took the sections awkwardly, my fingers too long and clumsy, tangling almost immediately. “It’s a lot of hair,” I muttered under my breath, earning a laugh from both of them.
“You’ve got it,” Y/N assured softly, leaning close enough that her shoulder brushed mine. “Just keep crossing over the middle.”
Something in me eased at that. I tightened the elastic with shaking fingers, the braid crooked but intact, then she immediately ran to the nearest mirror to look at the braid.
She stopped, her smile shrinking slightly as she tilted her head one way, then the other, analyzing every twist and bump.
“She hates it,” I muttered to Y/N, my stomach sinking.
But before Y/N could answer, Maddie spun back around, her grin bursting wide again. “I love it!” she declared, throwing her arms out dramatically. “It’s special ’cause Spencer did it.”
Relief washed through me so sharp it almost made me dizzy. I exhaled, half-laughing, half-shaking my head. Y/N caught my eye from across the room, her smile softer than Maddie’s but no less radiant.
Maddie ran over to me and wrapped her arms around me. Her little arms squeezed tighter than I thought possible, her cheek warm through the fabric of my shirt. “Thank you!!!” she squealed, muffled against me.
For a moment, I couldn’t move. My hands hovered awkwardly in the air before I let them settle on her back, returning the hug as carefully as if she were made of glass. The force of it — not her tiny weight, but the sheer earnestness — nearly knocked the air from my lungs.
“You’re welcome, Maddie,” I whispered, my voice catching in my throat.
She pulled back just far enough to look up at me, eyes wide and shining. “You’re the best dad ever.”
I froze. The word hit harder than anything I’d prepared myself for — sharper than any interrogation, louder than any gunshot. Dad.
She called me Dad. I’d imagined it, sure — in those fleeting moments when her hand curled into mine or when her laughter filled the quiet places in me I thought would stay empty forever. But hearing it… hearing it spill from her mouth so casually, so certain, made the air around me feel suddenly thin.
She thought of me as her father.
I’ve read about this before. Some studies say kids in single-parent families often bond with a parent’s partner, sometimes even start thinking of them as their actual parent. It’s supposed to be a good sign, proof that the kid feels safe. But I never thought that would happen to me.
I mean, I never thought I’d be that person — the one a kid trusts enough to hand over a word like ‘Dad.’ It’s… overwhelming. I keep replaying the words in my head, wondering if she meant it or if it just slipped out. And then I look back to her little face, looking at me like she’d been sure of it all along, and— God, it terrifies me how much I want to live up to it.
My pulse thundered in my ears. I searched her face, desperate to make sure I hadn’t misheard, that it wasn’t just wishful thinking manifesting as sound. But her grin was unwavering, her eyes sparkling with that unshakable five-year-old certainty. To her, it wasn’t a mistake. It was the truth.
I couldn’t speak. My throat closed up, and for a terrifying second, I thought I might cry right there in front of her — ruin the magic of the moment with the sheer force of how much it meant.
“Maddie…” I finally managed, though my voice cracked on her name. It was all I could get out.
She only giggled, like she hadn’t just cracked my entire world open, and pressed her cheek back against my chest. Content. Certain.
Behind us, I heard Y/N’s quiet inhale — the kind you take when something holy happens in an ordinary room. When I turned just enough to glance at her, I expected to see surprise, maybe even panic. Instead, her expression was soft. Steady. Like she understood the weight of what had just been given to me.
I tightened my arms around Maddie, careful but desperate, as if holding her close could anchor me against the tide of everything I was feeling. Dad. She’d called me Dad. And no statistic, no study, no cautious reminder of biology could undo that.
For the first time, I believed I wasn’t just borrowing the role. I was living it.
Maddie wriggled free after a moment, skipping toward the door in her crooked braid and twirling dress, completely unaware she’d just handed me the one thing I’d thought I’d never have.
“We have to go, Grandma gets mad when we’re late,” Maddie announced, already slipping on her little shoes with the speed of someone who knew the routine by heart.
Her words snapped me back into motion, though the echo of Dad still thrummed in my chest like a second heartbeat. I rose slowly, smoothing my palms down my tie more to ground myself than out of necessity.
Y/N crouched by the door to help Maddie with the straps, her laughter soft when Maddie insisted she could do it herself. For a moment, I just stood there, watching them — the easy rhythm of mother and daughter, the way Maddie’s braid bobbed as she bent over her shoes, the way Y/N’s hand lingered protectively at her back anyway.
It struck me, as it often did, how lucky I was to be woven into this picture. How improbable. How precious.
“Ready?” Y/N asked, straightening up and slipping on her own coat.
Maddie nodded so hard her braid nearly unraveled. “Ready!”
We slipped into the car. Y/N immediately handed Maddie the portable DVD player with the headphones and her stack of old cartoons, a silent signal I recognized by now — she wanted to talk without Maddie listening in.
Maddie accepted it with glee, already humming along with the opening theme before her seatbelt clicked into place. Within seconds, she was lost to the glow of the tiny screen, her giggles muffled under the oversized headphones.
The car settled into a quieter rhythm, just the faint hum of the engine and the occasional burst of canned laughter from Maddie’s cartoons. My pulse, though, hadn’t steadied. I adjusted my cuffs, then my tie, then my cuffs again.
“She called me Dad,” I murmured, unable to stop the words from escaping into the space between us.
“Are you… are you uncomfortable by it?”
She was silent for a moment. I thought she might’ve actually be angry about it, that my fears had materialized and I was overstepping. Invading their family.
“As far as I’m concerned… you’re the closest thing she’s ever had to a father… If she wants you to be that for her, and she does… I’m happy it’s you.”
Her words hit harder than I expected — not sharp, but steady, like something anchoring me in place. I blinked against the burn behind my eyes, my grip tightening on the steering wheel.
Happy it’s me. After everything — every failure, every ghost, every moment I’d convinced myself I wasn’t built for this — she still wanted me here. Maddie wanted me here.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be… good enough at it,” I admitted quietly, my voice low so it wouldn’t carry past the hum of Maddie’s cartoons in the backseat. “But I want to be. More than anything.”
Y/N reached across the console, her hand finding mine where it gripped the wheel. She didn’t say anything right away, just rested her palm there until I exhaled, until the tension in my shoulders eased.
“You already are,” she said simply.
I turned my hand over, lacing our fingers together, and let the silence stretch — not heavy this time, but full. By the time we pulled up to her parents’ house, my nerves about the evening hadn’t vanished, but something steadier pulsed beneath them.
The house came into view as I turned onto the quiet street — larger than most, its white trim glowing under the porch lights, every hedge perfectly manicured. It wasn’t ostentatious, but there was no mistaking it: this was money. Old money, probably. The kind you inherited alongside good china and a name that opened doors.
A wrought-iron gate framed the drive, the kind I’d only ever walked past in neighborhoods I didn’t belong to. The front lawn stretched wide and symmetrical, the kind of careful landscaping that required gardeners, not Saturday afternoons with a push mower. Even the windows gleamed like they’d been polished for this exact moment.
My stomach tightened. I eased the car into the drive, headlights cutting across the elegant sweep of a front porch, two stone urns flanking the steps, each overflowing with flowers that had clearly never been neglected a day in their lives.
It looked exactly like the kind of place you’d picture when someone said family home. Stable. Secure. Generational. The kind of place I’d never belonged in.
I tugged at my tie, then at my cuff, my palms damp. “This is… really nice,” I muttered, though my voice cracked slightly.
Y/N glanced over, her mouth curving into a small, knowing smile. “Don’t be nervous. They may be pompous jerks, but They’re just people.”
From the backseat, Maddie kicked her feet against the seat, tearing off her headphones with a squeal. “Grandma’s house!”
Her excitement filled the car, lightening everything, but my chest still felt tight as I parked. Because no matter how much I wanted to believe Y/N, walking into that house felt less like visiting a family home and more like stepping into a test I wasn’t sure I could pass.
The tires crunched softly over the perfect gravel as I shifted the car into park. My fingers lingered on the steering wheel longer than necessary, knuckles pale against the leather. Y/N slipped out first, smooth and unbothered, the kind of ease you only had if you grew up walking into houses like this.
I opened Maddie’s door, and she practically launched herself into my arms, still buzzing with excitement. Her little hand slid into mine the moment her shoes touched the ground, tugging me toward the front steps with no hesitation. For her, this was simple: family. Safety.
For me, each step up the stone path felt heavier. The windows glowed warm, curtains pulled back just enough to give glimpses of chandeliers and polished wood floors. Every detail screamed of wealth, of belonging to a world that had rules I’d never been taught.
At the top of the stairs, I hesitated, adjusting my tie one more time. My heart thudded uncomfortably against my ribs.
Y/N looked back at me, her hand already on the brass knocker. Her smile was soft this time, steady, like she could feel my pulse from where she stood.
Moments after knocking, the door swung open, and a short woman with a bobbed haircut appeared. She wore a white knit cardigan, fastened neatly with gold buttons, paired with a matching skirt that fell just below her knees. Everything about her posture was crisp, deliberate — like she was a painting carefully arranged on the wall rather than someone answering her own door.
“Y/N. You’re late again.”
“Nice to see you too, mother.”
She turned her gaze to me, and I felt my body go cold. Her eyes swept over me once, head to toe, her brow arching with a precision that made me feel like I was already failing some unspoken test. Despite profiling for a living, I couldn’t tell if she was assessing or dismissing — if the tilt of her chin meant approval or quiet disdain.
I swallowed, forcing myself not to fidget with my cuffs again. “Hello,” I managed, my voice thinner than I’d meant it to be. “Thank you for having me.”
Her mouth curved, but not into a smile. “Spencer, was it?”
Maddie came to my rescue by cheerfully jumping in front of me, “Hi Grandma!”
The woman didn’t crouch, didn’t scoop Maddie into her arms the way Y/N always did. She simply extended a manicured hand, patting the top of Maddie’s head as if she were smoothing the wrinkles out of a tablecloth.
“Hello, Madelyn. That’s a lovely dress you chose,” she said, her voice warm enough on the surface, but clipped at the edges — polished like everything else about her.
Maddie beamed anyway, spinning once so the skirt flared around her knees. “It has pink flowers like your teacups!”
“That’s lovely, sweetheart.” The words were smooth, distant at first glance, but held a soft tone to them.
Maddie bounced on her toes, excitement practically spilling out of her as she tugged at Y/N’s hand. “Can we go see Grandpa now?”
Y/N smiled down at her daughter. “Of course, baby.”
Her mother stepped aside gracefully, one hand still resting on the door as though she were the gatekeeper of the entire house. I felt her eyes on me again as we passed, a quiet weight pressing between my shoulder blades. Not openly hostile, not openly welcoming — just… calculating.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of polished wood and something floral, maybe lilies. The foyer was immaculate: high ceilings, a chandelier glinting above us, a table lined with perfectly arranged photo frames. Everything in its place, everything curated. The kind of order that didn’t leave much room for accidents — or for people like me.
Maddie’s shoes clicked happily against the marble floor as she skipped ahead. I followed, my pulse quickening with each step deeper into their world, wondering what kind of reception her grandfather would give me — and if it would be warmer than this one.
I followed more slowly, pulse still tight in my throat, until we reached the living room. There, in a high-backed armchair angled toward the flat-screen, sat a man with silver at his temples and a hardcover book on his hand. The television was on, muted, something news-related flickering across the screen — but the moment Maddie launched herself into view, his whole face broke open into a grin.
“There’s my girl!” he said, setting the book aside and opening his arms. Maddie dove into them, wrapping herself around his middle. He chuckled, the sound warm and unrestrained, patting her back with a fondness that felt like sunlight after the sharpness of the foyer.
Still proper — his shirt pressed, cufflinks gleaming, posture straight — but there was no stiffness in him as he kissed the top of her head. His affection didn’t look practiced. It looked lived-in.
I lingered at the threshold, backpack still clutched in my hand, watching the scene unfold like I was peering into a life I’d never known but always craved.
“Spin around, let me see this dress,” he said, setting Maddie back on her feet. She twirled, the skirt fanning out, and he clapped as if it were the grand finale at a ballet. “Beautiful. Just like your mama.”
Y/N smiled faintly at the words, sliding her hand into the crook of my elbow to tug me forward. “Dad, this is Spencer.”
His eyes found me then — sharp, assessing, but not unkind. He rose from his chair with an ease that spoke of years of discipline, smoothing the front of his shirt as he extended a hand.
“So,” he said, his voice steady, clipped in that practiced way men of his generation carried. “You’re Spencer. The FBI agent.”
The words landed heavier than they should have. That was all he knew about me — my job title and the fact that I was dating his daughter. Nothing about the hours I’d spent learning how Maddie liked her bedtime stories, or the way my heart clenched every time Y/N smiled at me. Just FBI agent.
I shifted Maddie’s backpack to my other hand, wiped my palm discreetly against my pants, and stepped forward to shake his hand. My grip was firm, though my pulse thrummed like it was trying to break free. “Yes, sir. Spencer Reid. It’s… it’s an honor to meet you.”
I left Spencer with my dad — who had already steered him toward the bookshelves in the corner, his version of small talk — and slipped quietly into the kitchen. The smell of rosemary and garlic, a unusual contrast from the lemon smell that coated the house, greeted me before my mother did. She was standing at the counter with her usual precision, slicing bread as if even that required her full attention.
“You’re cooking?” I asked, more surprised than I meant to sound. Cooking had never really been her domain — she was more likely to order from a caterer or fuss over presentation once everything was prepared by someone else.
Her knife didn’t slow, each slice of bread coming out perfectly even. “Your father insisted,” she said simply, arranging the pieces in a neat row on the cutting board. “He said it would make things feel… warmer.”
I almost laughed. Warmth wasn’t exactly her specialty, but I didn’t push. Instead, I reached for the salad bowl, tossing it gently to give my hands something to do. The silence stretched long enough for my pulse to quicken.
Finally, she spoke again, her tone clipped but probing. “He seems polite.”
“Spencer?” I asked, though we both knew who she meant.
Her eyes flicked up at me, sharp as the knife still resting in her hand. “Yes. The agent.”
“Why? He is an agent, isn’t he?”
“I mean… yes, but it feels like you’re reducing him to that.”
She arched a brow, the faintest hint of challenge in the curve of it. “Well, you didn’t tell me anything else about him.”
The air in the kitchen tightened, the lemon-and-rosemary scent suddenly too sharp. I set the salad tongs down a little harder than I meant to. “He’s more than his job, Mom.”
“Then what is he?” she asked evenly, not unkind, but probing — as though testing the foundation of something I’d built.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. The truth was there, waiting, but it felt too fragile to hand over. So instead, I took a breath, my fingers curling against the counter. “Parker reached out.”
That stopped her. The knife paused midair, pressed gently into the loaf without slicing through. Her gaze sharpened further, though her voice dropped into something quieter. “What did he say?”
“He wants to meet Maddie.” The words tasted bitter coming out, like I’d bitten down on something I’d tried to swallow whole. Saying them aloud made the possibility real, and I hated how much that scared me.
My mother set the knife down with deliberate care, lining it up perfectly against the cutting board before turning her full attention on me. For once, her posture wasn’t just composed — it was heavy, like she was bracing herself too.
I leaned against the counter, fingers gripping the edge until my knuckles ached. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t want him anywhere near her, not after what he did. Not after the way he left.” My throat tightened, heat prickling behind my eyes. “But if he pushes for it legally…” I shook my head, staring down at the polished granite. “I can’t stop him, can I?”
It felt unnatural to stand there, admitting weakness. To be the one asking instead of insisting, to be the daughter seeking guidance instead of bristling against it. But I couldn’t shake the fear — not just of Parker, but of what it would do to Maddie if he walked back into her life with all his entitlement and halfhearted claims to fatherhood.
My mother exhaled, the sound quieter than the slicing of bread had been, but infinitely more weighted. She crossed to the sink, washed her hands, then stood still, staring out the window above it as though the dark lawn beyond might hold an answer. When she spoke, her voice was clipped, but not cold. “I never liked Parker. Not before, and certainly not after he abandoned you with a child to raise on your own.”
“Mom… I don’t know what to do. He knows where I work. He found the cafe… and he texted me this morning. He found my phone number… He probably has a P.I. on me… what if he’s building some sick case against me?”
“You have to calm down, Y/N… You know your father and I won’t let anything happen to you or Maddie.” She says, her attitude back to her usual coldness that only helps to make me feel more vulnerable for seeking help from her out of all people.
I hated that I’d come to her for comfort. Hated that I’d cracked open in this kitchen, the rosemary and lemon air clinging to me like proof of my weakness. I never asked her for advice — not when Parker left, not when I found out I was pregnant, not in all the years I’ve been piecing a life together with Maddie on my hip. And yet here I was, spilling my fear into her cutting board silence.
“He doesn’t care about her,” I whispered, as if saying it too loudly might make it truer. “He doesn’t even know her name. And now he wants to… what? Play father? What’s he trying to get out of this?”
My mother studied me in that way she always had — like I was a puzzle she could solve if she stared long enough. But this time, when she spoke, there was no ice in it. “That’s exactly why you don’t give him the chance to dictate the terms. If you cave to panic, if you make decisions out of fear, he wins.”
“So what? I let him meet her so he won’t get the chance to take legal action?” My voice cracked on the words, shame rushing hot through my chest. I hated the way it sounded — desperate, cornered.
My mother didn’t flinch. She set the towel down on the counter with deliberate precision before answering. “Yes. On your terms. Where, when, how long. You hold the reins, not him. That way he can’t claim you’re denying him outright.”
I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, blinking against the sting in my eyes. It wasn’t the advice I wanted. I’d hoped — foolishly, maybe — that she’d tell me to slam the door in his face, to shield Maddie like I’ve always done. But she wasn’t wrong. And the fact that she wasn’t wrong made me feel even smaller.
“I don’t want him anywhere near her,” I whispered, my hand curling into the fabric of the dish towel like I could wring the fear out of myself. “He doesn’t deserve her.”
“No,” my mother agreed, softer than I expected. “He doesn’t. But this isn’t about what he deserves. It’s about what you can live with. What keeps Maddie safest.”
Her words settled like lead in my chest. Unwanted, but undeniable.
“Let him meet her. In a public place… A park, an arcade… for an hour at most, and you bring Spencer.”
“Bring Spencer? are you crazy? I don’t want him to meet the man who destroyed me.”
“You bring him ’cause he’s a fed. He’ll keep the two of you safe.” My mother’s tone was steady, matter-of-fact, as if she were suggesting an umbrella for rain, not escorting me into the same space as the man who had torn my life apart.
I shook my head, heat rising to my cheeks. “Spencer isn’t—he’s not some bodyguard I can just parade in front of Parker. He’s…” My voice trailed off, tangled between the words I couldn’t say out loud. he’s mine. Ours.
Her expression softened a fraction, though her eyes stayed sharp. “He’s the man Maddie trusts. And so do you. If Parker’s going to try and play at being a father, then let him see what a real one looks like.”
The words landed like a stone dropped in still water, sending ripples through me I couldn’t control. My throat tightened, and I hated how much sense it made — hated the thought of Parker seeing Spencer at all.
I looked down at my hands, twisting the edge of the dish towel between my fingers. “It feels like giving Parker power, letting him even stand near her.”
“It isn’t,” my mother replied, her voice clipped but not unkind. “It’s you setting the rules. You choosing who’s there. You staying in control. That’s how you protect Maddie.”
I swallowed hard, the words sticking like splinters in my chest. For a moment, I wanted to argue — to reject her advice the way I always did. But instead, all I could do was nod faintly, my eyes stinging as I whispered, “I don’t want her to get hurt.”
“She won’t,” my mother said, and though her tone was brisk, her hand brushed against mine again, startling in its gentleness. “Not while you’re her mother. And not while Spencer Reid is in her corner.”
Her words stunned me more than I wanted to admit. My mother was not generous with her reassurances — not to me, not to anyone. For years, I’d learned to read her affection in the smallest of gestures. a perfectly packed lunch when I was a child, an extra sweater folded into my bag before school trips, the way she insisted on lemon polish until the house gleamed. But this… this was different.
I let out a shaky breath, blinking hard to keep my vision clear. “You really think he’s good for her?”
Her expression softened at the edges, though she still carried herself with the composure of someone who never let their guard down fully. “I think she already decided that for herself.” She straightened the bread she’d sliced into an immaculate row, as if arranging her emotions into order as well. “Children don’t pretend about love the way adults do. If she calls him her father in everything but name, it’s because he’s earned it.”
The splinters in my chest shifted, sharper and yet strangely comforting. My mother was right — Maddie had already chosen. And maybe I had too, long before I realized it.
She turned back to the counter, signaling the conversation was over in her way. I wiped my hands on a dish towel, grounding myself, and forced my shoulders back. If nothing else, tonight I would stand steady in front of Parker’s ghost, because Maddie deserved that much.
By the time we carried the food to the dining room, the atmosphere had changed. Maddie was laughing at something my father said, Spencer sitting beside her with that polite half-smile he wore when he was trying to hide his nerves. On the surface, it looked warm. Normal. Almost idyllic.
But as I slid into my seat, I noticed the way Spencer’s hand lingered a little too long on his water glass, his gaze downcast more often than not. He was quieter than usual — and I told myself it was nerves. Just nerves.
Even as something in me whispered otherwise.
Dinner began pleasantly enough. My father had coaxed Spencer into a conversation about Russian literature, and to my surprise, Spencer’s voice carried steady as he described the layers of symbolism in war and peace*.* Maddie, half-listening, swung her legs beneath the table and interrupted only to announce that “Spencer can braid hair now.” The room softened with laughter, even my mother’s.
But then the questions started to sharpen, slipping in between bites of roast chicken and sips of wine.
“So, Spencer,” my mother began, her tone polite but laced with that familiar edge. “You’ve never been married? No children of your own?”
I nearly dropped my fork. “Mom…” I hissed, shooting her a warning look.
Spencer shifted in his seat, cheeks coloring as he shook his head. “No, ma’am. I… I suppose my work kept me too busy for much of that.”
My father hummed thoughtfully, clearly trying to smooth the air. “It’s demanding work. I imagine it takes a toll.”
“It does,” Spencer admitted softly, his eyes flicking down toward his plate.
The conversation should have ended there, but of course it didn’t. My mother leaned forward, her gaze narrowing as though she were cross-examining him. “And you’re confident you’re ready for this? For Y/N. For a child who isn’t yours?”
Heat rushed to my face. “Mom!” This time my voice came out sharper, a crack in the calm. Maddie’s fork froze midair, her eyes wide.
Spencer looked at me quickly, as if to reassure me before answering. His voice was quiet, but steady. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
The table fell silent, my mother’s lips pursing, my father watching Spencer with a faint glimmer of respect. And in the space between their gazes, I reached under the table to brush my knee against Spencer’s — a silent apology for the interrogation, and a thank-you for holding his ground.
He smiled faintly and looked back to his food, but it didn’t reach his eyes. That was when the whisper I’d felt earlier — that quiet tug of unease — turned into screams.
Something was off. His fork moved mechanically, lifting food without tasting it, nodding politely at my father’s anecdotes, but the light in him was dimmed. He was too still, too careful, like he was balancing a glass of water to the brim and terrified of spilling a drop.
I tried to tell myself it was just nerves, that meeting parents for the first time would do this to anyone. But I knew him. I knew the rhythm of his silences, the way he withdrew when his thoughts began to spiral. And what I saw now wasn’t simple shyness. It was distance.
My chest tightened as I reached for my glass, masking the way my hand trembled slightly. The dinner table buzzed on, Maddie humming happily to herself between bites, my parents slipping into their usual back-and-forth about travel plans. On the surface, it was warm, even idyllic.
But beside me, Spencer was a shadow of himself.
And I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever was pulling him away from me in that moment wasn’t just nerves — it was something deeper, something I wasn’t seeing yet.
Soon enough, dinner ended. We got back in the car, Maddie almost instantly falling asleep in the backseat, her head tipped against the window, her braid unraveling at the ends. The rise and fall of her little breaths filled the silence between us, softer than the hum of the tires on the road.
“Honey… are you okay?” I asked, keeping my voice low, careful not to disturb the dreams of our daughter.
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hands stayed tight on the wheel, knuckles pale against the leather. Streetlights flickered across his face in passing intervals, carving shadows into the set of his jaw.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, frayed around the edges. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
But I didn’t believe him. Not with the way his shoulders were still wound up, not with the hollow note in his tone. He’d been carrying something since before dinner, and my mother’s interrogation had only pressed it deeper into him.
I reached over, brushing the back of my hand against his arm, a silent offer of comfort. “You were wonderful tonight. Maddie was so happy. My dad really liked you. Even my mom—” I huffed a laugh, trying to soften it. “That’s a miracle in itself.”
His mouth twitched like he wanted to smile, but it didn’t quite make it there. Instead, he tightened his grip on the wheel, eyes fixed straight ahead.
And though I let the silence settle after that, I couldn’t ignore the way he held Maddie’s hand tighter than usual when we carried her upstairs later — like letting go, even for a second, was a risk he couldn’t take.
By the time we pulled up to my building, Maddie was deep in sleep, her lips parted, her small fists curled around the blanket we kept in the backseat. Spencer turned off the engine but didn’t move right away. He sat there for a moment, staring through the windshield as if the night beyond it might offer him some kind of answer.
I reached back, brushing a strand of hair from Maddie’s face. “She’s out cold,” I whispered.
That seemed to bring him back. He nodded, then slipped out of the driver’s side to open the back door. His movements were careful, reverent almost, as he unbuckled her seatbelt and gathered her into his arms. She didn’t stir — just melted into him with the trust only a child could give, her head lolling against his shoulder.
I followed them up the stairs, watching the way his hand cradled her back, the other steadying her legs. There was something in the sight that stole my breath — something I hadn’t had words for until tonight. He looked like he belonged. Like he’d been carrying her home his whole life.
Inside, the apartment was warm and dim, the familiar hum of the fridge filling the silence as Spencer set Maddie gently on her bed. She stirred faintly, mumbling something incoherent as she woke up.
She was half awake as Spencer helped her change into her princess pajamas, mumbling sleepy protests that dissolved into yawns. I stood by the doorway, my chest aching, my heart melting as I watched him — really watched him — being her dad in every movement. The patience in his hands as he guided her arms through the sleeves. The way he pulled the blanket up to her chin and smoothed it down as if he could tuck safety into every fold.
He bent low, brushing a kiss against her forehead. “Goodnight, Princess,” he whispered.
And through the haze of sleep, she smiled faintly and murmured back, “Goodnight, Dad.”
The word hung in the room like something holy. Fragile, incandescent.
Spencer went still, so still I could see the breath lock in his chest. For a moment, I thought he might break — cry, laugh, collapse under the weight of it. Instead, he only nodded, his lips pressing together as if to hold the moment inside him.
I pressed a hand against the doorframe, steadying myself as tears blurred my vision. Hearing it again — here, soft and certain, woven into the quiet rhythm of her bedtime — it felt different. Permanent.
She drifted off moments later, her breathing even and soft. Spencer lingered a moment longer, watching her as though memorizing every line of her face, before he finally rose. His eyes found mine across the room, and in them I saw both awe and fear — like he’d been given something too precious, too impossible to hold, and didn’t know how to keep it safe.
He brushed past me and made his way to the living room. I followed a few paces behind, confusion knitting in my chest as he reached for the satchel he’d left by the couch. He busied himself with straightening the strap, with anything that kept his eyes from mine.
“You’re leaving?” The question came out softer than I intended, laced with the ache of something breaking before I understood what it was.
His hand stilled on the strap. For a moment, he didn’t answer, just stood there with his back to me, shoulders hunched in a way that made him look smaller. When he finally turned, his eyes were darker than they’d been at dinner, shadowed with something raw.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Parker texting you?”
The words hit like a slap, sharp enough to steal my breath. For a second, I could only stare at him, the satchel strap still twisted in his hands, his knuckles white around it. His eyes — God, his eyes — weren’t angry exactly, but wounded in a way that made my chest ache.
“I—” My throat closed around the explanation, the excuses I’d been rehearsing in my own head all day. “I didn’t want to ruin tonight.” The words spilled out in a rush, brittle and uneven. “Dinner with my parents was already… I knew you were nervous, and I didn’t want you to have to add that to the list of things on your mind.” I pressed a hand to my chest, willing the sting behind my eyes to stay put.
“I was gonna tell you… I’m sorry I didn’t do it before.”
Spencer’s shoulders sagged, but the look in his eyes only deepened. “You don’t get it,” he said softly, almost to himself. “I walked into that house tonight trying to prove I could be enough for you. For Maddie. And then I hear his name, his rights, his chance to just… walk back into her life because biology gives him the privilege. And all I could think was—” His voice cracked, raw and thin. “What if when she meets him she decides that I’m not worth it anymore?”
My chest caved at the words. “Spencer…”
He dropped his gaze, fingers tightening on the satchel strap again, as if readying himself to bolt. “I’m not blind. He’s her father on paper. I’m just—” He swallowed hard. “I’m just the man who reads her bedtime stories and tries to braid her hair. What if that’s not enough when he finally meets her?”
I stepped closer, my hand brushing over his knuckles until the strap loosened slightly in his grip. “You’re not just anything,” I whispered fiercely. “You’re the man she runs to when she scrapes her knee. The man she wants at every game and every story time. You’re the one she calls Dad You’ve been more of a father to her in months than Parker has been in her entire life.”
He finally lifted his eyes to mine, and I saw it there — the fragile hope tangled with fear, the desperate need to believe me.
“He’s gonna meet her. I can’t stop it from happening, especially if I want any sense of control within the situation.” I said again, firmer this time. “But you’re not replaceable, Not to me. Not to Maddie.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, the flicker of pain in his eyes slowly giving way to something else — something shakier, but steadier too, like a man standing on new ground he wasn’t sure he deserved to claim.
“You really believe that?” His voice was barely above a whisper, as though saying it louder might shatter the fragile truth between us.
I nodded, not looking away, not letting him retreat into the dark corners of his doubt. “With everything I have.”
For a moment, neither of us moved. The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the soft tick of the clock on the wall.
“Now, put the bag down… come to bed. I’ll show you how much I mean it,”
The corner of his mouth curved, not soft this time but mischievous — boyish, hungry. He let the bag drop with a dull thud, then closed the distance between us in two long strides.
Before I could gasp, his arms were around me, lifting me off the ground as though I weighed nothing. A surprised laugh escaped my throat, but it melted quickly into a kiss as I wrapped my legs around his waist, clinging to him as he held me effortlessly.
“Spencer—” I breathed against his skin, but he was already moving, carrying me down the short path to the bedroom. His lips found my neck, feather-light at first before nipping playfully, and I tilted my head back with a low sigh, threading my fingers into his hair.
The careful, nervous man who’d fumbled with buttons and words all night was gone. In his place was someone surer, quicker, like all that emotion had burned off into something hungry, something impatient.
My back brushed the doorframe as he guided us into the room, his mouth still at my throat, and I felt the hum of his laugh vibrate against my skin when I tightened my hold around him.
My back hit the mattress before I realized he’d even set me down, his weight following after, bracing himself above me with one arm. The other trailed down my side, not tentative but sure, like he’d been waiting for the chance to just let go.
I laughed when he kissed me again, too eagerly, our teeth knocking slightly. “Smooth,” I teased breathlessly.
He groaned against my lips, burying his face in my neck like he could hide his grin there. “I was going for suave.”
“Statistically speaking… I got nothing” his voice muffled against my skin, and I laughed so hard I almost pushed him off me. He retaliated by tickling my side until I squealed, then silenced me with another kiss — deeper this time, but still threaded with laughter.
Clothes came off in a trail that was more chaotic than graceful. He got tangled in his own shirt, cursing under his breath in a way that made me laugh so much tears pricked my eyes. “Don’t laugh,” he groaned, struggling with a sleeve.
“You look like you’re fighting for your life.”
“I am fighting for my life,” he shot back, finally yanking it over his head and tossing it aside before collapsing on top of me again, both of us breathless with laughter.
His weight pressed me into the mattress, his chest still heaving from the effort of wrestling his shirt. I was laughing so hard my stomach hurt, and he kissed the corner of my mouth mid-giggle, missing his mark entirely.
“Terrible aim,” I teased, grinning against his jaw.
He huffed, feigning indignation before dipping down again, this time catching my lips properly. The kiss was warmer, slower, but when I sighed into it, he smiled — and the curve of his mouth ruined the seal, making me laugh all over again.
“And yet…” he murmured between kisses, now heading to my neck, “…you keep letting me try.”
His hand snuck downward, slipping beneath the waistband of my bottoms, then lower, beneath the thin fabric of my panties. The contrast of his touch and the grin still tugging at his mouth made me gasp — then laugh again, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably.
“Spencer!” I whispered, half scandalized, half breathless.
He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, his expression a mix of mischief and awe. “What?”
I bit my lip, trying to smother another laugh, but it slipped out anyway, shaky and giddy as his fingers teased me. The absurdity of it — the way he was both brilliant and clumsy, tender and bold — made my heart ache even as my body leaned into him.
When I whimpered, his eyes darkened, but the soft smile stayed, grounding the moment. He pressed another kiss to my throat, his voice low against my skin. “See? Not terrible aim this time.”
“Don’t get smug,” I started, but the words broke on a startled gasp as he slipped a finger inside me, quick and almost too proud of himself.
I smacked his shoulder, laughing even as my breath hitched. “Spencer! You can’t just—”
He grinned against my neck, utterly unrepentant. “What? Effective entry.”
That made me laugh so hard my head tipped back into the pillow, the sound tangled with a moan I couldn’t hold in. He froze for a second, startled, then his smile spread slow and certain.
“Oh,” he whispered, like he’d just solved some impossible equation. “That’s a good sound.”
“Just keep going, you—” My words dissolved into another gasp as his hand obeyed, adding in a second finger, the laughter in me giving way to something heavier, needier.
His grin lingered, but his focus sharpened, his movements steadier, more deliberate. The air between us changed — still warm, still threaded with affection, but no longer light. Each brush of his fingers stole the breath from my lungs, each kiss along my collarbone grounding me deeper into the mattress.
I clutched at his shoulders, my earlier giggles fading into sighs, soft sounds that made his jaw tense with concentration. He watched me closely now, those quick, brilliant eyes that never missed a detail, like every reaction was a secret he was determined to learn by heart.
My nails curled against his shirt, dragging faint lines down the cotton as another cry slipped out of me, raw and unrestrained. His lips brushed my temple, a quiet counterpoint to the relentless rhythm of his hand.
“Spencer,” I breathed, the name breaking apart in my throat.
He kissed me then, slow and deep, his free hand cradling my face like he was terrified I might slip away if he didn’t hold on. Every movement of his fingers matched the kiss, pulling me closer and closer to unraveling.
My hands slipped to his shirt and began unbuttoning it, fumbling at first before finding their rhythm. He didn’t stop me — didn’t even pause — just shifted closer, his mouth moving against mine, deeper, hungrier, as if every button I freed unraveled him too.
The fabric gave way, falling open to reveal the heat of his skin beneath. I traced the lines of his chest with shaking fingers, and he shivered, pulling back just enough to look at me. His pupils were blown wide, his hair mussed from where my hands had tugged through it, and the sight of him like that — undone, waiting — sent another wave of need rushing through me.
He pulled his hand away from my heat to finish undressing, and despite the sharp ache of losing him, I pushed up onto my elbows and tugged my bottoms down in a rush, followed by my bra. The room filled with the rustle of fabric, the scrape of breath, the uncoordinated clumsiness of two people too desperate to care about grace.
Then he was back over me, his hands finding my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they peaked under his touch. The sensation was sharp, electric, pulling a gasp from my throat as my head fell back against the pillow. My eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed, my body arching into him instinctively.
He kissed down the line of my neck, following the shiver that ran through me, his breath hot against my skin. Every stroke of his thumbs sent another wave crashing through me, each one stealing the air from my lungs and replacing it with sound — sighs, moans, little fragments of his name.
“God, you’re beautiful like this,” he murmured, voice husky, almost reverent, even as his movements stayed steady, purposeful.
I caught his wrist, not to stop him but to anchor myself, nails digging lightly into his skin as pleasure built fast and heavy, curling in my stomach. He smiled against my collarbone, and I could feel it — that quiet satisfaction in knowing what he was doing to me, in drawing me apart piece by piece.
His fingers left my breasts, trailing down to his own crotch, and before he could take over, I reached for him. My hand slid over his, guiding, helping, our fingers brushing until I wrapped around the length of him myself.
His breath hitched instantly, his eyes squeezing shut, a shudder running through his body like he wasn’t prepared for the jolt of sensation.
And in true Spencer fashion, he blurted out, “Your hands are small,”
“Spencer!” I laughed, half exasperated, half breathless, swatting at his chest with my free hand.
His eyes flew open, wide and sheepish, his curls falling into his face as if they might hide him. “Sorry—” he choked out, the apology breaking into a groan when my hand tightened around him instinctively.
“Don’t apologize now,” I teased, dragging my thumb over him, slow and deliberate. “Just… shut up and enjoy it.”
A helpless laugh rumbled out of him, muffled against my shoulder as his body trembled under the rhythm of my hand. “They’re also warm, and… oh god.” His words stumbled into a groan, his whole body shuddering as he rocked into my hand.
I laughed breathlessly against his jaw, kissing the corner of his mouth. “And?”
“And it feels really good” he managed, the words tumbling out in a rush before his head dropped back against my shoulder, another groan vibrating through his chest.
I grinned, biting at his lower lip just enough to make him gasp. “Good” I whispered, stroking him slower now, savoring the way his breath caught at every pass.
Spencer’s hands tightened on my hips as he shifted above me, the weight of his body caging mine in the best way. He brushed my hand aside gently, his own breath shuddering as he guided himself against me. The heat of him pressed at my entrance, the anticipation making my chest rise and fall in quick, uneven bursts.
My eyes found his — wide, dark, unblinking — and for a second, it felt like the world had gone still. No laughter, no noise, just the unbearable stretch of silence before everything broke.
And then he pushed in, slow, steady, his jaw clenching as he buried himself inside me. The sensation made me gasp, my head tipping back, my fingers clawing at his shoulders as my body welcomed his.
“Spencer,” I whispered, the word coming out half a moan, half a plea.
He pressed his forehead to mine, his breath hot and ragged, his eyes never leaving mine. “God… you feel…” His words trailed off into a moan as he sank deeper, our bodies joining fully.
My body stretched around him, every nerve alight with the fullness of him, the burn and the heat blurring into something delicious. My eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment I just let myself feel it — the way he filled me completely, the way the world narrowed to nothing but this.
Spencer’s grip on my hips tightened, his fingers pressing into my skin like he needed to hold me there, needed to anchor himself to me as much as I was to him. His first thrusts were slow, deliberate, drawing a gasp from my throat.
“This feels way better than your hands,” he mumbled against my skin, his voice rough, broken by the rhythm of his thrusts.
I let out a breathless laugh, my nails dragging down his back. “Hey, I put a lot of effort in with my hands.”
His answering whimper was half amusement, half surrender, his lips brushing my ear as he thrust harder, deeper. “Then remind me to thank them later,” he murmured, and the ridiculousness of it had me giggling even as pleasure coiled low in my stomach.
The sound seemed to drive him mad — his pace quickened, his mouth crashing against mine in a kiss that was all teeth and heat. My laughter dissolved into gasps, then into moans that filled the space between us.
Every movement stole a little more of me, left me trembling, clinging to him, desperate to keep him as close as possible. And through it all, the glint of his grin lingered, the curve of his mouth pressed to mine, like even in the mess of it he couldn’t help but be delighted by us — by this.
His movements grew faster, harder, his body seeking release with a hunger that made my pulse race. I met him with equal urgency, my hips rising to match his, our rhythm messy but perfect, our bodies locking together like we’d been made for this exact collision.
The tension in him snapped first. With a strangled cry, Spencer spilled into me, his body convulsing as waves of pleasure tore through him. His hands… one squeezed my ass, while the other gripped my waist, almost bruising, grounding himself in the only thing he could hold — me.
But even as his body trembled, I didn’t stop. I kept moving against him, small desperate rolls of my hips that drew him back into rhythm. We were still joined, still burning, our breaths sharp and shallow as the urgency shifted to me.
“Y/N,” he rasped, voice ragged, forehead pressed to mine. His body was still twitching with aftershocks, but he matched me, thrust for thrust, driving me higher. The heat of him still inside me, the weight of him above me, the sound of him breaking apart under my touch — it was enough to push me closer, pleasure coiling tighter with every movement.
My nails dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto as the tension coiled painfully tight in my belly. Spencer kissed me through it, his lips clumsy and wet, his breath ragged against mine.
Then his hand slid between us, slipping lower until his fingers found my clit. The first press was tentative, almost testing — but when I gasped and arched into him, he groaned and circled harder, syncing his touch with the relentless thrust of his hips.
“Spencer—” I choked out, my voice breaking as the world blurred around me.
“Come on, pretty girl,” he rasped, his forehead pressed to mine, his eyes half-lidded but burning. “Let go for me.”
The added pressure pushed me over the edge fast, the rhythm of his hips and the maddening swirl of his fingers colliding into a perfect storm. The tension snapped, my body clenching around him as a cry tore out of my throat, sharp and helpless.
Waves of pleasure ripped through me, leaving me trembling beneath him, my back arching, my breath shattering into broken sobs of his name. His thrusts slowed, but his fingers stayed on me, working me through every last shiver until I finally collapsed, boneless, beneath his weight.
Spencer kissed me then, softer, reverent, his lips catching the tears I hadn’t realized slipped free. His hand left me only to lace our fingers together, grounding me as I came down, our bodies still joined, our chests heaving in sync.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. The only sound was our uneven breathing, the faint hum of the city outside seeping through the window. His body was still heavy over mine, still inside me, our heartbeats stumbling in the same broken rhythm.
I turned my head just enough to brush my lips against his temple, tasting the salt of his sweat. He sighed, a shaky, content sound, and pressed his mouth to my palm when I cupped his cheek.
“You called me pretty girl,” I whispered, my voice hoarse but steady now.
“You are the prettiest girl,” he said without hesitation, his voice rough with exhaustion but certain. His thumb traced lazy circles over the back of my hand, like he needed the contact as much as I did.
The warmth of his words sank deeper than I expected, threading through the leftover ache in my muscles and the buzz in my chest. I kissed him softly, slowly, my lips lingering over his, savoring the quiet after everything we’d just shared.
When we broke apart, he settled against me, his breath evening out, his body still wrapped protectively around mine. I could feel his smile against my hair as he whispered, “Prettiest girl in the world.”
“I love you,” I murmured into the space between us, the words slipping out as naturally as breath.
His hold around me tightened, steady and certain. “I love you too,” he whispered back, no hesitation, no doubt.
Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
Taglist: @Tokalotashiz @livbonnet @jakiki94 @23moonjellies @saskiaalonso @ellaomalalaalala @deltamoon666 @person-005 @reidssoulmate @quillsandcauldroncakes @blog-du-caillou @codedinblack @imaginationfever13 @measure-in-pain @lunaryoongie @Marcelaferreirapinho @Reidrs @tiredqueen73 @scarlettoh @reidsjuno @un-messed @Happydeanpotter @ravenclaws-stuff @Ortega29 @rhinelivinglife @Skye-westwood @xxfairyqueenxx @pablopablito01 @Frickin-bats @alrat13 @ozwriterchick @willoweve13 @emneedshelp @ellebelle2016 @sukieskook @randomhuman112 @apobangpo-0613 @nnab
theartofmadeline
ellievsbear
gummygunk
origamiaround
kaledo-art
vaporwave
