there is no boyfriend as attentive as spencer. by virtue of his memory, he will remember the smallest of details, from the name of your childhood teddy bear and the first trip you took them on, to the story behind your favourite mug. nothing slips him by.
he is not one for grand gestures. that is not to say he is not a romantic, he is, incredibly so, but in his own way. his love language is quality time – he lives for the 20 minutes you spend in bed together talking before falling asleep, dissolving into tired laughter at the sheer absurdity of the topic. he will take an evening watching a documentary with you over a fancy dinner. he will always value an old, beaten up copy of your favourite book over a flashy gift. meaning is everything to him.
the info-dumping is a way of him inviting you into his world. the facts and rambles about his tv shows, books, and studies judge how you will react to that side of him – they are the easiest way for him to share himself with someone without feeling too vulnerable. it is hardly a secret that he internalizes his stress to handle things alone. if you care enough to let him ramble, he could then be encouraged to communicate more openly with time. it's a game of patience, but one well worth playing.
spencer is already smart enough for two people – he doesn't need someone that can match him intellectually. he needs someone who will accept him, rather than strive to impress him. he adores curiosity, at the very least, enough to remember perhaps a fraction of what he rambles about. that is more than enough for him.
no matter when you meet him, spencer is protective, and not just in the sense of his work. while that does, of course, play a part, he has waited for so long to share himself with someone entirely, that he doesn't then want to share you with others. not entirely. it presents itself in small ways – keeping you close, checking in with you, not hesitating to say something if someone makes you uncomfortable.
speaking of keeping you close, spencer craves your physical touch to keep him grounded, and the simplest form of that is locking your fingers. it keeps him from fidgeting sometimes, stops him rubbing his own fingers raw. his fingers link between your own, firm, his thumb drifting over the back of your hand whether you're curled on the couch or on the jet.
cuddles are a non-negotiable, to the point where he will inconvenience himself for the sake of keeping you at his side. yes, his arm fell asleep twenty minutes ago. no, he does not care come back.
be prepared to wake up beside a mad scientist each morning. spencer's hair is wild at the best of times, but the mornings take the cake. it will stick up at all angles, no matter how still he slept, resembling something not to far from einstein. careful where your eyes pause, however. if you're caught staring, you'll soon have messy hair to match.
if he ever senses you are feeling low, he prescribes magic. you can remind him he is not a medical doctor, and that you're not actually ill as he places a palm against your forehead, but his response is the same nonetheless – a course of magic should clear it right up. besides, how else were you going to get that coin out of your ear? that can't be making things better, after all.
he brings magic into every part of your life when he can, and his proposal is no different. he practises for hours, even if he knows the trick inside out, your ring between his fingers, getting shinier with each run, trialled over and over again so that when his hands shook (and he knew they would) he wouldn't make a fool of himself.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: spencer gets drunk and confesses his feelings to you. in detail. a lot of detail.
content warnings: spencer is very drunk, mention of nausea and headaches, talks of petnames, spencer is so so in love with reader, one very tiny mention of spencer's mom and dad,
a/n: sacrified my studying to post this on time. if i fail, i'm blaming spencer. anyways!! happy birthday to spencer reid !!! ily !!!
wc: 6.1k
One moment, Spencer had been beside you, and the next, he had simply vanished into the crowded bar.
“Looking after Spencer when he’s drunk is like being responsible for a five-year-old,” you muttered to yourself, weaving through the groups of people. You’d checked the restrooms, the hallway near the jukebox, and even the fire escape. Nothing.
Your frantic search brought you past the main bar, where Hotch was settling the tab. His eyes met yours, and with a subtle tilt of his head, he nodded toward a corner booth. You mouthed a relieved 'thank you' as you made your way towards said booth.
There he was. Spencer was seated at a table with a group of people you were certain he’d never met before tonight, a deck of cards in his hand. The last time you’d seen him, he’d been passionately explaining the material behind the rhinestones on Garcia’s favorite hair clip.
You stepped behind him, placing a gentle hand on the center of his back, between his shoulder blades. “Hi, Spencer,” you said, your voice soft.
He turned to look up at you, and the transformation was instant. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy from the alcohol, but they crinkled at the corners as a genuine smile spread across his face. “Hi,” he breathed, his gaze fixed on you for a precious second before darting back to his cards.
You offered a small, apologetic smile to his new friends. They didn’t look annoyed, per se, but there was a distinct air of resignation about them.
Your eyes flicked down to Spencer’s hand. Ah. Of course. He was holding a straight flush. You’d lost him about thirty minutes ago, which likely meant he’d been unknowingly bankrupting these strangers for the better part of that time.
A young woman across the table caught your eye. Her expression was one of pure desperation. “Please help,” she mouthed, her gaze flicking meaningfully between you and Spencer’s cards, clearly hoping for an insider’s tip.
You gave her a sympathetic little smile and leaned down closer to Spencer, your voice dropping to a murmur meant only for him. “Spencer.”
He looked up again, and his eyes softened, the focus shifting entirely from the game to you. You brushed a stray curl from his forehead, your fingers lingering for a moment. His skin was warm.
“You’re a bit warm. That’s not good,” you chided gently. “How about we get some fresh air?”
Spencer was utterly dazed. What you couldn't possibly know was that his dazed state wasn't solely the product of the alcohol. It was the intoxicating combination of your proximity, your touch carding through his hair and your hand on his back. His long-standing crush was currently fussing over him, and his brain was short-circuiting beautifully.
“Okay,” he mumbled, his agreement pliant. He turned back to the table. “Sorry for not finishing the game.”
A chorus of relieved voices answered in unison. “Oh, no, it’s fine!”
You couldn’t help a small grin as the woman who’d pleaded for help mouthed a grateful, “Thank you.”
One of the men, who looked as though he’d lost a significant bet, shook his head and mumbled under his breath, “How could you ever play cards with him?”
You chuckled, slipping your arm around Spencer’s waist to help steady him as he stood. “Oh, trust me,” you said, “I’ve gotten used to it.”
As you began to guide him away, you heard the woman whisper conspiratorially to her friend, “Well, yeah, he’s cute. I’d also be fine with it if I was dating him.”
You paused, glancing back at her in confusion, but in that moment, Spencer stumbled, his full weight leaning into you. You caught him easily, your attention immediately returning to the task at hand. “Okay, easy there, genius,” you said, steering him toward the door and making sure he waved a clumsy goodbye to the team.
You managed to guide a wobbly Spencer out the heavy door of the bar. But the moment you cleared the threshold, his legs seemed to give out entirely. He simply folded, settling directly onto the sidewalk.
“Spencer!” you called out.
He looked up at you, completely unbothered, propping his chin in his hand with his elbow resting on his knee. “Hm?”
“Don’t sit on the ground. It’s dirty,” you chided, reaching for his arm.
“I don’t care,” he mumbled, his head already beginning to loll precariously in his palm. “The entire bar was dirty. It doesn’t matter now.”
You sighed, a fond exasperation washing over you. Arguing with a drunk genius was a losing battle. So, you gave in. You carefully lowered yourself to sit beside him on the concrete, ignoring the chill that seeped through your clothes. Gently, you took his arm from his knee and guided his head to rest on your shoulder instead. He leaned into the contact immediately, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he nestled against the curve of your neck.
“I’m cold and warm,” he complained, his voice a mumble against your skin.
You chuckled softly. “You drank a lot, and it’s cold outside,” you explained, carefully shifting to wrap an arm around his back to steady him. You pressed your free hand to his forehead again. He was still too warm. “We should get you home,” you murmured, your voice filled with concern.
“Okay,” he agreed easily, nuzzling even closer.
The smile that touched your lips was involuntary and full of affection. Getting him home, however, was where the real challenge began.
The short walk to your car was exhausting to say the least. You half-carried, half-dragged him, his tall frame leaning heavily on you as he offered slurred commentary on the urban planning of the sidewalk cracks. Getting him into the passenger seat felt like buckling a very large and completely uncoordinated child into a car seat.
The drive was quiet. But the grand finale was the stumble up the stairs to his apartment building. It was… an experience. Each step was a negotiation.
“Just one more, Spencer, come on.”
“These stairs are surprisingly loud,” he slurred, clinging to the banister with one hand and your shoulder with the other.
“That’s because they’re old,” you grunted, heaving him up another step. “And you’re drunk.”
“Correlation is not causation,” he retorted, though the argument lost all its impact when he immediately tripped on the next step.
By some miracle, you finally reached his door. Fishing the keys from his pocket, you unlocked it and guided him inside.
Somehow, with a great deal of coaxing and maneuvering, you managed to guide him into the bathroom. You positioned him to lean against the counter, his hands gripping the edge for support. You stepped into the space between him and the sink, gently nudging his knees apart so you could stand closer. He complied without protest, his dazed eyes fixed on you.
The air was thick with a new kind of tension. To break it, you focused on a simple task. Your fingers went to the knot of his tie, loosening it.
"Why did you wear a tie to the bar?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you slid the fabric from his collar.
Spencer hummed. "I don't know what else to wear."
"You can just wear a cardigan," you suggested, a soft smile playing on your lips as you folded the tie and set it aside on the counter. "You have nice ones."
"Would you like that?" he asked quietly, his head tilting.
"Would I like what?"
"You said that you love my ties," he stated.
"I do," you affirmed, slightly confused but sensing you were treading on delicate ground.
His next words came out in a rush. "I wanna look good for you, so I try to wear ties as much as I can." There was no shame, no blushing self-awareness. It was a devastatingly honest confession poured straight from his heart, facilitated by the alcohol flooding his veins.
"Spencer!" you breathed, your hands stilling as you stared at him in shock.
His face fell instantly, confusion clouding his features. "What? Do you not like them anymore?" he asked, his voice tinged with sadness. "I can wear something else."
"You can wear whatever you want," you managed to say, your mind reeling. A part of you felt a pang of hurt at the thought that his clothing choices weren't entirely his own. "Why would you wear something just because I complimented it?"
"Because I like it when you compliment my ties," he mumbled, his body swaying slightly. You instinctively steadied him by placing your hands on his waist, the contact sending a jolt through you. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a second before finding yours again. "Or when you touch them to look at the pattern. It makes me feel really warm on the inside when you do."
The air left your lungs. You stared, utterly speechless. In his inebriated state, Spencer Reid had just confessed his crush onyou to you. He had no idea of the magnitude of what he'd just revealed.
Needing a moment to process, you quickly grabbed the cup of water you'd set aside earlier. "Here, drink this," you instructed softly, holding the cup to his lips. As he drank, you used your free hand to gently brush the soft curls back from his fever-warm forehead.
You gently wiped the stray water droplets from his chin with your thumb, your touch lingering for a heartbeat. Needing to do something, anything, with your hands, you began to unbutton the top button of his shirt, just to give him a little more air. He sighed in relief.
In the quiet of the bathroom, his voice was small. "Are you mad at me?"
Your eyes snapped back to his. "No," you said softly. "Not at all, Spencer. I could never be mad at you for that." You cupped his cheek, your thumb stroking his warm skin. "I'm just… worried that you take my words too much to heart."
His response was soft. "I do."
A flicker of that earlier disappointment must have shown in your eyes, because he quickly continued.
"I remember that one time you told me you liked my eyes," he mumbled, his gaze drifting to a spot on the bathroom wall. "And ever since then, I like them more. You were right… they do look nice when the sun hits them."
"Yeah?" you asked, your voice colored with hope.
"Mhm," Spencer nodded, his head lolling slightly before he found your eyes again. "I also like my outfits more. I always hated them." He confessed this with resignation that broke your heart a little. "I didn't know what else to wear. People… people weren't always nice about my clothes. You were the only one who was ever nice to me about them. And you actually meant it." He gave you a tentative smile, one that grew just a fraction when he saw the genuine smile blooming on your own face.
"Well, I do love your outfits," you whispered, your hand moving from his cheek to smooth the collar of his shirt. "They're so uniquely you. It makes you look so handsome."
Spencer blushed, the red somehow deepening beneath the alcohol-induced flush. He ducked his head. "I can't get used to that," he mumbled into his chest.
"Used to what?" you prompted softly, tilting your head to try and catch his downcast eyes.
He finally looked up, his whiskey-colored eyes meeting yours. "Your compliments," he whispered, a confession as potent as any other he'd made tonight.
“Well, get used to them, handsome,” you smiled as you guided the cup back to his lips. He drank obediently, but his eyes never left you, watching you intently over the rim. You held the gaze and it felt strangely intimate.
Once he’d finished, you set the cup aside and turned to grab his toothbrush. The small bathroom cabinet offered two different tubes of toothpaste. You weren't sure which one he liked more.
“Who were you talking to in the bar?” Spencer’s voice was quiet.
“When?” you asked, your hand hesitating between the two options before settling on the mint.
“In the booth. There was a guy… you were laughing with him.” His tone was carefully neutral, but the specificity gave him away.
You looked up from the toothbrush, the paste forgotten in your hand. You gave him your full undivided attention. “I don’t even know who that was, Spencer.”
“You seemed comfortable with him,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the countertop.
You watched him for a long moment, studying the slight downturn of his mouth, the way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes. Understanding began to warm your chest. “Spencer,” you began softly, leaning a hip against the counter to face him fully. “Were you jealous?”
His head lifted, his eyes searching yours. “Maybe,” he finally mumbled. “You touched his arm… like, five times,” he whispered, as if confessing a grave misdeed.
Your heart squeezed. You tilted your head, your voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “Do you want me to touch your arm?”
“No. Yes,” he stammered, frustration creasing his brow. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to touch me. And I know you touch me a lot.” His eyes flickered down to where your hand was resting on his waist, your thumb unconsciously making soothing circles against the fabric of his vest. “You’re doing it right now.”
You followed his gaze, a soft smile gracing your lips. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I am.”
He opened his mouth, trying to articulate the tangled mess of feelings, but his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. The alcohol was a thick fog, making it impossible to find the right words.
You understood. “But you want it to mean something,” you supplied gently, your thumb stilling its motion. “When I touch you, you want it to feel special. You don’t want it to be something I do with just anyone.”
Spencer stared at you, his expression a mixture of relief and wonder that you had somehow untangled the knot he couldn't. “I guess so,” he mumbled.
You understood completely. Your casual friendly touch with that stranger had, in his eyes, devalued the currency of your affection. It made the way you cared for him seem ordinary, when to him, it was everything.
He fell silent for a long moment, processing his own words. Then, he shifted uncomfortably against the counter. "That sounded… oddly possessive," he mumbled, a flicker of clarity breaking through the alcoholic haze. "I didn't mean it like that," he corrected himself worried.
Honestly, you hadn't taken it that way at all, but you stayed quiet.
"I just… like you. A lot."
You took a sharp breath at the directness of the words, your heart stuttering in your chest. But you remained outwardly calm.
"And sometimes," he continued, "I think you like me back. Because of your gentle touches and your really nice compliments." He explained it so sweetly, that a smile inevitably formed on your face. "And Morgan tells me you like me," he added, offering a sheepish smile.
"And then I get hopeful," he whispered, the smile fading, "but then I see you compliment Morgan's shoes, or I see you touch that guy's arm in the bar, and then I just think… how could you like me? That you're just kind like that. That you're just nice to people, and that I'm just… imagining it all." He finished with a tired sigh, rubbing his eye.
You had stayed quiet throughout his entire confession, letting him pour out the insecurities he usually kept locked behind a wall of facts and statistics. Now, you slowly placed the forgotten toothbrush on the counter, bristles up to keep it clean. Your hands came up to cradle his face, your thumbs stroking his warm cheeks.
"I do like you," you whispered, the words finally breaking free. "Very much so. And the compliments I give you are genuine, and they are special. They're just for you, Spencer."
Spencer blinked at you, his eyes widening. "You like me?" he asked, his voice full of awe.
"Very much so," you affirmed, your smile softening.
"Oh," he breathed, a dazed smile spreading across his face. "That's good." He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a second, utterly content with the feeling of your hands on his skin.
You smiled, but the expression became more careful, when Spencer's gaze drifted downward from your eyes. He was staring at your lips, his head tilting as he leaned in slowly.
Gently, you pulled back, just an inch.
He froze, his eyes snapping back to yours, now wide with fear and confusion at the rejection.
"You're drunk," you said softly. You kept your hands on his face, brushing over his cheekbones. "I'm not kissing you when you're drunk."
He processed this, then nodded slowly. "That makes sense," he conceded. But his eyes, full of longing, lingered on your lips a moment longer.
You offered a soft reassuring smile, quickly grabbing the toothbrush to give him a task. Applying a stripe of toothpaste, you held it up for him. To your relief, his motor functions seemed to return for this familiar routine. He took it and began brushing, his eyes never leaving you the entire time.
Under his unwavering gaze, you began to feel warm yourself. You weren't sure if it was the intensity of your conversation or the bright bathroom lighting, but you found yourself fixing your hair behind your ear before shrugging off your thin autumn jacket, letting it rest on the counter beside his tie.
Once he was finished, he slumped against the counter. He looked utterly exhausted.
"Okay," you said softly, reaching out your hand. He took it without hesitation, his fingers lacing with yours. "I know you're going to say you're not hungry, but I just want you to eat one thing before bed. I barely saw you eat anything at the bar." You had a feeling you knew why, the mysterious man had introduced himself just as the food arrived, and Spencer had promptly vanished. That's when you had lost him.
"Okay?" you prompted gently.
Spencer nodded, a sleepy smile touching his lips. "Okay," he agreed happily, letting you lead him by the hand to his small kitchen.
There, he simply leaned back against the counter, his hands coming up to rub at his tired eyes again.
"Stop that," you whispered, gently pulling his hands away. "You'll make them redder."
"Sorry," he mumbled as he let his hands drop.
You started rummaging through his cabinets, finally finding a sealed package of cookies. Ripping it open, you handed him one. He took it obediently and began to nibble. Yet, even in his drowsy state, his gaze was a magnet, drifting from your eyes down to your lips once more.
"I can't wait to kiss you," he mumbled around a mouthful of cookie.
The blunt confession made a fond smile form on your face. "Oh, really?" you asked amused.
He sounded oddly flirty, a side of him so rarely seen, and it sent a wave of warmth through you.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. He reached for another cookie, his movements slow. “The first time I thought of kissing you was when you wore that peach lipgloss.”
You thought for a second, a smile playing on your lips. “Lip oil,” you gently corrected.
“Lip oil. Right,” he repeated, filing the information away with a serious nod. “It smelled really nice. And you looked… really pretty.” The simplicity of the compliment, delivered with such honesty, struck you deeply.
You had been honestly at a loss for words throughout this entire conversation. Giddy joy was bubbling up inside you, making you want to jump on the bed, scream into a pillow in sheer delight, and kick your feet in the air like a thirteen-year-old girl with her first crush.
“Well,” you said, your voice soft and slightly flustered, “I’ll make sure to wear that lip oil when we kiss.”
His eyes, which had been half-lidded with exhaustion, widened with happiness. “Yeah?” he asked, his entire face lighting up.
“Mhm,” you nodded, your heart swelling as you watched him. The mere idea of genuinely planning your first kiss was exciting him so visibly, that it was almost too much to bear.
He took another happy bite of his cookie, then paused, his brow furrowing in a look of deep concentration. “Am I still drunk?” he asked. “I ate and drank.” Apparently, alcohol also had the temporary side effect of lowering his iq.
You couldn't help the soft giggle that escaped you. “Yes, Spencer. You’re still very drunk,” you said, your voice fond as you handed him another cookie to keep him occupied.
“Right,” he mumbled, his shoulders slumping in disappointment. The logical part of his brain had confirmed the truth, but the hopeful, lovesick part was clearly impatient for the sober morning to arrive.
You smiled softly, watching the flicker of insecurity cross his face as the initial euphoria faded, replaced by a more sobering self-awareness.
"You do want to kiss me too, right?" he asked quietly. "You're not just going to kiss me because I'm being weird right now. And drunk. And saying lots of things I shouldn't be saying?" Spencer spoke slowly. "I really, really don't want you to feel like you have to kiss me or force yourself to do something you don't want to. I get it if you just wanna stick with us confessing to each other." He stared at you intently, his hazel eyes searching yours for the absolute truth.
"Spencer," you said, your voice full of certainty, "I'd love to kiss you, and I'm not doing you a favor. I really want to kiss you."
"Okay," he quieted down, a relieved smile finally gracing his lips again, the worry melting away.
"Can I hug you?" he asked softly after a moment. "I don't think I'm too drunk to not hug you." His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to gauge his own sobriety for such an important task.
You smiled, your heart feeling impossibly full. "Yeah, come here." You held up your arms, and he fell into them. He tried his best to hold his own weight, but his coordination was still lacking, causing him to lean into you more than he probably intended. You didn't mind in the slightest.
"You feeling better?" you asked softly, your fingers gently brushing through his curls. You were talking about the alcohol, the dizziness and the overwhelming nature of the night.
"Yeah," he mumbled into your shoulder, his voice muffled and content. "Cookies helped."
"That's good, honey," you said, the endearment slipping out naturally as you brushed a hand over his back.
He stood there for a long moment, before he pulled back just enough to look at you. "Are you going to call me that when we're boyfriend girlfriend?" he asked, his tone utterly serious.
You bit your lip, hard, to stop the laugh that was about to come out. You stood there, trying to compose yourself at his adorably formal phrasing. "You mean 'honey'?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly with suppressed amusement.
He nodded, his expression earnest.
"Do you like it?" you asked softly.
"Yes," Spencer mumbled, a faint blush returning to his cheeks.
"Okay," you said, your smile so wide it almost hurt. "Yeah, I can call you that when we're boyfriend girlfriend." You couldn't stop yourself from the fond tease of repeating his chosen label.
Spencer squinted his eyes. "You're making fun of me," he mumbled, though there was no real hurt in his tone.
You giggled out loud as you held onto his waist for balance, both of you swaying slightly. "I'm sorry," you managed between soft laughs. "I just—why did you say 'boyfriend girlfriend'? It's so formal."
Spencer was smiling a bit at the sound of your laughter, but his eyebrows furrowed in genuine confusion. "Isn't that the term?"
"It just sounds a little funny, that's all," you explained, your giggles subsiding into a warm smile.
Spencer chuckled along. "Okay. Yeah, maybe it does sound a bit odd," he conceded. "Is 'couple' a better term?"
"Yeah, honey, it is," you affirmed, your voice fond.
He felt a new kind of warmth spread through his chest, one that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the way you said that word.
"Should I call you an endearment, too?" he asked carefully.
You tilted your head, your smile softening. "I don't know. Do you want to?"
Spencer shrugged, a small shy gesture. "It would be nice," he admitted, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. "It'd be my special word for you."
Your heart melted. It was clearly very important to him and you found it incredibly endearing. "Well, do you have any in mind?" you asked softly, finally taking the cookie box from his loose grip and putting it away, noticing he hadn't taken any new pieces.
Spencer stayed quiet, staring into the distance as he thought. After a long moment, he looked back at you, his expression nervous. "Would you like… 'sweetheart'?" he said, the word sounding gentle and sweet on his tongue.
You smiled, touched by the old-fashioned sweetness of it. "Would you like to call me 'sweetheart'?" you asked, wanting to hear his reasoning.
He nodded, a little more sure now. "Yeah. I think so. My aunt's husband used to call her that. And she loved it. She would fluster every time." He didn't mention how his aunt and her husband were the only couple he'd ever seen growing up who genuinely seemed to love each other, a beacon of what a relationship could be amidst the chaos of his own parents. He didn't have the words for that yet, but the memory was a good one.
You smiled fondly. "I would love that," you said, your voice sincere.
"Okay," he whispered.
Spencer seemed happy, and utterly exhausted. "Come on, let's get you to bed," you said quietly, leading him by the hand toward his bedroom. He followed willingly, his fingers laced tightly with yours.
In his room, you grabbed a set of pajamas from a drawer and handed them to him, turning your back to give him privacy to change. Once he mumbled a quiet "done," you turned back to find him swaying slightly on his feet. You guided him into bed, gently maneuvering him onto his side, a precaution against the alcohol still in his system. He complied without protest.
Soon enough, you were standing above him, looking down at his sleepy form with a fond smile. His eyes were closed, his breathing beginning to even out. "I'll come by tomorrow, okay?" you whispered, not wanting to startle him.
His eyes flew open immediately. "What?"
"I'll come by in the morning. I'll bring you some food for your hangover," you explained, softly brushing a stray curl from his forehead.
"You're not staying?" he asked, his voice filled with disappointment and surprise.
You looked at him, a little taken aback. "You want me to?"
"Yeah," he nodded. Now that he had you here, he never wanted you to leave.
You watched him, sensing the unspoken thought. Your smile was soft and understanding. "Okay," you whispered. "Well, move aside, sleepyhead."
To your luck, you were wearing clothes comfortable enough to sleep in. You slipped into the bed beside him, turning onto your side to face him. He watched your every movement. Now you were face to face, sharing the same pillow.
"Thank you for taking care of me," Spencer whispered. This time, he was the one to reach forward, his fingers gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. It was a careful touch, one he had been too nervous to initiate all night, the hug being the only bravery he'd allowed himself. His palm cupped your cheek, his hand big and warm, almost engulfing the entire side of your face.
"Any time," you mumbled, leaning into his touch. "I had fun, you know."
He raised a questioning eyebrow.
"I mean," you grinned, "it got my long-time crush to confess his feelings to me."
Spencer blushed but still scooted closer. You let him. The two of you watched each other for a long time. But sleep was clearly trying to claim him. His blinks were becoming longer, his breathing deeper. He tried to fight it, wanting to cherish this new reality of being able to simply look at you, but the exhaustion was winning.
As if reading his thoughts, you whispered softly, "Sleep, Spencer. I'll be here in the morning."
Reassured by the promise of a lifetime of mornings to come, he finally let his eyes drift shut, a smile on his lips as he surrendered to sleep, your hand still resting gently in his.
When morning came, it arrived with a pounding against the inside of Spencer’s skull. He stayed perfectly still, staring at the ceiling of his apartment. Any movement, even the subtle shift of his eyes, sent a fresh wave of nausea through him.
He laid there for long minutes, when the memories of the previous night came rushing back. Your hand on his back in the bar. Your hands cradling his face in the bathroom.
The confession about his ties, his eyes, his…feelings.
His mouth fell open in a silent gasp of horror. He sat up abruptly, a move he instantly regretted as the room tilted violently. He looked to the side of the bed.
It was empty.
A cold dread washed over him. He had done it. He had shattered your perfect friendship. But then his eyes landed on the nightstand. Your hair clips were there, placed neatly beside the lamp. You must have taken them out before bed. A spark of hope flickered in his chest.
He carefully swung his legs out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. There, draped over the counter next to his tie, was your thin autumn jacket. You were still here.
And then the terror returned, tenfold. He wanted to run. To flee his own apartment and hide from the vulnerability he had so carelessly displayed. But as he stood there, paralyzed by shame, another memory surfaced.
He had been fumbling with his pajama pants, the fabric seeming to conspire against his alcohol-slowed fingers. You had had your back turned to him, giving him privacy, and your voice had been soft.
"Spencer?"
"Hm?"
"Promise me something. Please don't regret a single thing tomorrow."
He’d been too focused on the monumental task of getting dressed to fully process it, mumbling a quick, "Yes, i promise," just to satisfy you.
He took a shaky breath and splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it bringing more snippets of the night back. "I can't wait to kiss you." "It'd be my special word for you." "Sweetheart." Shame heated his skin, but he fought it, clinging to the memory of your promise and his own.
He grabbed his toothbrush, squeezing a generous amount of toothpaste onto the bristles. The minty taste was a welcome assault. He could hear sounds coming from his kitchen. You were in his kitchen.
He brushed his teeth for ten full minutes. He scrubbed harshly, wanting to erase every last trace of the night's indiscretions, wanting his breath to be perfect.
Because he remembered, with agonizing specificity, the conversation about kissing. And he was determined to be ready.
Spencer slowly tiptoed towards the kitchen once he was done, hovering in the doorway as he silently watched you. You were at his stove, humming softly as you flipped a golden-brown pancake.
Soon enough, you felt his presence and turned, a warm smile immediately gracing your features. Spencer’s eyes darted instinctively to your lips, then away, a flush creeping up his neck.
“Good morning,” you said, turning off the stove.
“Morning,” he whispered, his voice rough with sleep and regret. He stood there, awkward and embarrassed, but trying his best to hold his ground.
“How’s the headache?” you asked, your tone sympathetic.
“Bad,” he admitted, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. “Like, really bad.”
You nodded and moved to the counter, grabbing a glass of water and some vitamins. “Here, take this.”
As you handed them to him, your fingers brushed against his. Spencer froze slightly at the contact, a difference from the way he’d leaned into your touch just hours before. He took the vitamins and swallowed them quickly, his eyes darting everywhere around the kitchen, anywhere but at you. Unlike yesterday
“I made you pancakes!” you announced, trying to cut through the tension.
Spencer glanced at the small stack on the plate. “Thank you,” he said with a weak, strained smile. “You really didn’t have to do that. I’m so sorry for… for last night.” He stuttered over the apology, the words heavy with shame.
You gently took the empty glass from his hands and then, before he could retreat, you took his hands in yours. They were trembling slightly.
“Spencer,” you said, his name sounding so sweet coming from you.
“Hm?” he mumbled in response, still looking determinedly at a point over your shoulder.
“What did I tell you yesterday?” you prompted, your voice patient.
He looked away, his jaw tightening. He remained silent, the weight of his embarrassment seeming to press him into the floor.
“Spencer,” you said again.
He finally relented, the words a defeated mumble. “Not to regret what I said.”
“Exactly!” you said, your voice brimming with warmth. You released his hands, only to bring your own up to gently frame his face, guiding his gaze until he had no choice but to meet your eyes.
His worried hazel eyes finally locked with yours. And what he saw there wasn’t pity or regret. He saw your happy eyes, shining with affection. The tension in his shoulders began to dissolve.
“So, will you please listen to me?” you asked, your voice soft.
Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, the ghost of his embarrassment still lingering, but then he nodded. “Okay,” he sighed, the sound full of relief. “I’ll try my best.”
He saw you open your arms slightly and he let himself fall into the hug, his own arms wrapping around you tightly. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, closing his eyes. “God,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin. “I can’t believe I said all of that.”
You held him close, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. “It’s fine,” you whispered. “Honestly, it progressed our relationship in ways it hadn't in the past few years.”
Spencer let out a genuine chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours. “Guess so,” he conceded, finally pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes immediately darted down to your lips, and a knowing grin spread across your face.
“Peach lip oil,” he whispered as he noticed you were waiting for him to acknowledge it.
“Yup,” you confirmed, your grin widening. “Had it in my bag. Thought I could put it to good use.”
A deep blush colored his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. “Right. Yeah,” he breathed, his gaze locked on yours.
Your hands slid down his chest, smoothing the soft wool of his cardigan. “So,” you began, your own voice dropping to a slightly flustered whisper. “You’re sober.”
Spencer nodded, watching you. “Completely.”
“If you’d like,” you said, your heart hammering against your ribs, “you can kiss me now.”
A slow, wondrous smile spread across Spencer’s face. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I’d like that very much.”
His hands came up to frame your face, his touch infinitely more sure than it had been last night. His thumbs stroked your cheeks as his eyes flickered down to your glistening lips and back up. He smiled fondly, and then, gathering his courage, he finally pressed his lips to yours.
It was nice. More than nice. It was soft, and warm. A happy hum vibrated in his throat, and you echoed it with one of your own. The kiss broke several times, because neither of you could stop smiling. When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his, both of you simply smiling.
"I've wanted to do that for two years," Spencer breathed.
You felt your heart swell, your smile widening. "Yeah," you whispered back. "Me too."
A look of pure wonder crossed his face, and he leaned in to capture your lips once more in a sweet kiss. When he pulled back again, his expression was slightly dazed. "I'm not dreaming, am I?" he asked softly, his eyes searching yours.
You shook your head slowly, your hands coming up to cradle his jaw. "No, honey," you whispered. "You're not."
The term of affection had an immediate and delightful effect. A charming blush spread from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. You couldn't help the wide grin that spread across your face.
"Yeah," he mumbled, a blissful smile finally breaking through his flustered state. "Definitely not dreaming."
