“pretty thing like you”
pairing: Clay Spenser x Reader
summary: You weren’t his. That was the problem. Because Clay Spenser had spent months convincing himself that the way he looked at you didn’t mean anything. That the coffee he brought you was just habit. That sitting beside you at briefings was coincidence. That watching your smile too closely was harmless.
warnings: (bc I forgot last time sorry!)
jealousy, mild angst, suggestive/spicy tension, kissing, alcohol/drinking, possessive-ish behavior but nothing toxic, reader gets flirted with, Sonny being Sonny (he’s funny in these idc), no use of Y/N.
Note: hiii this is the second piece of my first time trying imagines so I’m still figuring out my layout, but I had so much fun writing this one (I may or may not have done it in while not paying attention in my creative writing class lmao). jealous Clay has been living in my head rent free and I fear I had to let him out. hope you enjoy !! any suggestions help too, im still learning !!
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The first thing you noticed when you walked into the bar was the noise.
Not the ugly kind. Not the kind that made you want to turn around and leave before you even got your first drink. It was warmer than that. Familiar in a way that made the tightness in your shoulders ease before you realized you had been carrying it. Low music hummed from old speakers tucked into the corners, something country and worn around the edges. Pool balls cracked in the back room. Glasses clinked behind the bar. Men in boots laughed too loudly near the dartboards, and somewhere near the jukebox, Sonny Quinn was already pretending he knew all the words to a song he absolutely did not know.
Bravo had earned this night.
Everyone had.
The last few weeks had been a blur of long days, late briefings, delayed flights, bad coffee, worse sleep, and the kind of exhaustion that settled behind your eyes and stayed there. You weren’t a SEAL, but working around them had its own kind of gravity. Their stress filled rooms before they did. Their silence meant more than most people’s shouting. Their habits became yours before you noticed it happening.
And then there was Clay.
Clay Spenser, who had a way of standing in your orbit without ever admitting he meant to be there.
You found him almost immediately, which annoyed you because you hadn’t even meant to look.
He was near the far end of the bar with Jason and Ray, one elbow resting against the counter, a beer bottle loose in his hand. He wasn’t laughing at whatever Ray had said, but his mouth had tilted just enough that you knew he was amused. His hair was still a little damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends, and he had changed into jeans and a dark shirt that fit him unfairly well.
Unfairly because he looked good without trying.
Unfairly because you noticed.
And most unfairly because the moment his eyes lifted and found you across the room, something in your chest did that stupid, embarrassing little flutter it had no business doing.
Clay’s gaze stayed on you for half a second too long.
Then he looked away.
You smiled despite yourself.
Coward.
“There she is!” Sonny called, throwing one arm into the air like you had just returned from war instead of the parking lot. “The woman of the hour.”
You laughed as you made your way toward the group. “I’m pretty sure the woman of the hour is the waitress you’ve been harassing for extra ranch.”
“Harassing is an ugly word,” Sonny said, pressing a hand to his chest. “I prefer charming.”
“She moved tables to get away from you,” Ray said.
“Because she was overwhelmed by my charisma.”
Jason gave him a tired look over his beer. “That’s one word for it.”
You slid into the empty space beside Ray, but before you could even think about ordering, a fresh drink appeared in front of you.
Your usual.
You stared down at it, then slowly looked up.
Clay wasn’t looking at you.
Which gave him away immediately.
You bit back a smile. “Thanks.”
He shrugged, still studying the label on his beer like it held classified intel. “You always order the same thing.”
“That doesn’t mean you had to get it.”
His eyes flicked to yours then. Blue and sharp and softer than he probably meant them to be.
“Didn’t say I had to.”
For a second, the bar disappeared around the edges.
Just a little.
Just enough.
Then Sonny leaned forward between you both with a grin so wide it looked painful.
“Oh, look at that,” he said. “Did everyone see that? Because I saw that.”
Clay’s face went flat. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to say love is beautiful.”
Ray coughed into his drink.
You nearly choked.
Clay’s ears turned the faintest shade of pink, which almost made the entire night worth it.
“There is no love,” Clay said.
Sonny looked at you, then back at Clay, then back at you again. “Sure. And I’m a shy, humble man.”
“You are neither of those things,” Jason said.
“I contain multitudes, Jace.”
Clay leaned back, jaw tight, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. He always tried so hard not to react to Sonny, which only made Sonny worse. And you, unfortunately, found the whole thing adorable.
Not that you would ever say that out loud.
Clay Spenser being adorable was dangerous information. The kind that could ruin a girl.
For a while, the night stayed easy.
You laughed more than you meant to. Drank slower than Sonny teased you for. Listened to Ray tell a story about one of Jason’s worst attempts at cooking. Watched Brock hustle some guy at pool without looking like he was trying. It was comfortable. A little messy. A little loud. The kind of night where nobody had to be brave.
But every so often, you felt Clay looking at you.
Not constantly.
Not obviously.
That would have been easier to handle.
It was worse because he was careful. He looked when he thought you wouldn’t notice. When Sonny said something ridiculous and you laughed, Clay’s gaze would dip toward your mouth for half a second before he caught himself. When you leaned across the table to steal one of Ray’s fries, he watched the way your hair fell over your shoulder. When you shivered because the bar door opened and a draft cut through the room, his attention sharpened like he was about to offer you his jacket.
He didn’t.
But he looked like he wanted to.
And that was the kind of thing that made your head feel warm.
“You okay?” Ray asked quietly at one point, nudging your shoulder.
You blinked, realizing you’d been staring at Clay’s hands wrapped around his beer bottle.
“Yeah,” you said too quickly. “Why?”
Ray’s smile was subtle. Too subtle. “No reason.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That married-man-knows-something look.”
Ray chuckled. “I don’t know anything.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It is,” he admitted easily.
Before you could threaten him, Sonny slammed his hand on the table. “Darts. Now. Everybody who isn’t scared.”
Jason sighed. “Why does everything have to be a competition?”
“Because friendship without competition is just people standing around.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “I’m getting another drink before this becomes a full Bravo civil war.”
Clay’s eyes lifted instantly.
“I’ll go,” he said.
It came out too fast.
Not desperate. Not strange.
But fast enough that everyone at the table noticed.
You paused, one hand already reaching for your empty glass. “I can get it.”
“I’m already up.”
He was not already up.
He was very much sitting down.
Sonny’s grin spread slowly. “Are you?”
Clay glared at him.
You stood before it could turn into another thing. “I got it, Spenser. Relax.”
That was your mistake.
Calling him Spenser.
Because his expression shifted slightly. Not enough for anyone else, maybe, but enough for you. His jaw flexed once, his gaze dragging over your face like he was trying to decide whether to argue.
Then he leaned back and lifted his beer.
“Fine.”
It should not have sounded like a challenge.
But somehow, with Clay, everything did.
You walked toward the bar trying not to think about how his eyes followed you the entire way.
The bartender was busy, which left you waiting near the far end of the counter, hip pressed lightly against the worn wood. You pulled out your phone for something to do, scrolling without reading anything. Your mind kept drifting back to Clay’s hand around that beer bottle. Clay’s eyes. Clay saying, Didn’t say I had to.
Ridiculous.
You were being ridiculous.
Clay was your friend.
Your painfully attractive, emotionally constipated, unnecessarily protective friend.
That was all.
Probably.
“You waiting long?”
The voice beside you pulled your attention up.
A man had stepped into the empty space to your left. He was handsome in a clean-cut kind of way, dark hair, nice smile, button-down shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. Not military, you didn’t think. Or maybe former military. Around this area, it was always hard to tell.
You smiled politely. “Not really.”
“Lucky you. I’ve been trying to get her attention for ten minutes.”
“Maybe she’s avoiding you.”
He laughed, and you immediately felt a little bad because it had only been a joke.
“Brutal,” he said. “You always this mean to strangers?”
“Only the ones blocking my view of the bartender.”
He put a hand over his heart. “Ouch.”
It was harmless.
That was the thing.
It was just harmless bar conversation. The kind people had all the time. You weren’t encouraging anything serious. You weren’t leaning in too close or touching his arm. You were just smiling, because that was what polite people did when someone spoke to them.
But across the room, Clay did not think it looked harmless.
Not even a little.
At first, he only noticed because he was already watching you.
He told himself it was because he liked to keep track of people. Situational awareness. Training. Habit. He noticed exits, blind spots, hands, waistbands, body language. Watching you was part of that.
A lie.
A complete, pathetic lie.
Because he wasn’t watching everyone else like that.
He wasn’t tracking the way Sonny moved through the room with half a basket of fries in his hand. He wasn’t watching Ray line up a dart throw. He wasn’t checking the bartender, or the door, or the guy by the jukebox.
He was watching you.
And then the guy stepped beside you.
Clay’s fingers tightened around his beer.
Ray noticed first.
Of course Ray noticed first. He had a gift for seeing things people were trying to hide, especially when those things were painfully obvious to everyone but the two idiots involved.
Ray followed Clay’s stare, then made a small sound under his breath. “Ah.”
Clay didn’t look away. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Then don’t say ah.”
“I can say ah.”
“Ray.”
Ray leaned one shoulder against the wall, gaze flicking between you and Clay with amusement that was calm enough to be irritating. “You good?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
Clay dragged his eyes away from the bar for half a second. “I look fine.”
“You look like you’re trying to decide if murder is worth the paperwork.”
Clay scoffed, but it lacked conviction. “He’s just talking to her.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“She can talk to whoever she wants.”
“Correct.”
“She’s not—” Clay stopped.
Ray’s brows lifted.
Clay looked back toward the bar, disgusted with himself.
She’s not mine.
That was what he had been about to say.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
You weren’t his.
He had no claim. No right. No reason to feel like something hot and ugly was twisting beneath his ribs because another man made you laugh.
Except the laugh wasn’t even the worst part.
The worst part was that you looked relaxed. Comfortable. Pretty under the warm lights with that little smile on your face and your hair falling loose around your shoulders.
Clay hated that he noticed the pretty part first.
He hated that he had been noticing it for months.
He hated that he knew exactly how you took your coffee. Exactly how your voice changed when you were tired. Exactly how you pretended not to be cold until your fingers started curling into your sleeves. Exactly how you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.
He hated that he cared.
Because caring meant losing control.
And Clay Spenser had spent most of his life surviving by keeping control.
Then the man beside you leaned closer to say something over the music.
Clay went still.
Not visibly, not to anyone who didn’t know him. But Jason knew him. Ray knew him. Sonny, unfortunately, knew him well enough too.
Sonny came back to the table with a fry in his mouth, took one look at Clay, then followed his line of sight.
His face lit up like Christmas morning.
“Oh, this is good.”
Jason closed his eyes. “Do not.”
“This is spectacular.”
“Sonny.”
“No, no, I need to observe this in its natural habitat.”
Clay didn’t even dignify him with a response.
The man at the bar said something that made you laugh again.
It wasn’t a big laugh.
It wasn’t even your real laugh, not the one Clay liked best. The real one came out of you when you weren’t trying. When Sonny said something stupid or Ray deadpanned a joke so dry it took you a second to catch it. That laugh was brighter. Messier. It made your eyes close sometimes, made your head tip back.
This laugh was polite.
Clay knew that.
He still hated it.
Sonny leaned closer to Jason and stage-whispered, “He’s gonna break the bottle.”
Clay looked down.
The bottle in his hand was, in fact, in danger.
He loosened his grip with a sharp exhale.
“I’m getting another drink,” he said.
Jason didn’t look impressed. “You still have one.”
Clay looked at the bottle.
Then back toward the bar.
“I want another.”
Ray’s mouth twitched. “Sure you do.”
Jason set his own drink down and gave Clay the kind of look that had made grown men straighten up mid-argument.
“Don’t make it weird.”
Clay’s eyes flashed. “I’m not gonna make it weird.”
Sonny snorted. “Buddy, you were born making it weird.”
Clay stood.
Jason muttered something under his breath.
Ray looked entertained.
Sonny looked thrilled.
And you, poor thing, had no idea any of it was happening.
At the bar, the man had managed to get the bartender’s attention first and had ordered for both of you despite your polite protest.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said.
“I know,” he said, smiling. “Wanted to.”
It should have been sweet.
Maybe from someone else, it would have been.
Instead, all you could think about was Clay saying those exact words in a different shape.
Didn’t say I had to.
You hated yourself a little for comparing them.
The man slid your drink toward you when it arrived. His fingers brushed yours briefly against the glass. Accidental, probably. He smiled again.
“So,” he said, “are you from around here?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
He laughed. “A suspicious woman. I like it.”
“You should. It keeps me alive.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Dangerous job?”
“Dangerous coworkers.”
That made him laugh harder.
And then, just as you reached for your drink, you felt it.
A presence behind you.
Warm. Familiar. Close enough that your body recognized him before your brain caught up.
Clay.
Your spine straightened without permission.
He stepped into the space at your right side, not touching you yet, but close enough that his shoulder almost brushed yours. The scent of him cut through beer and smoke and cologne in the room. Clean soap. Warm skin. Something faintly like cedar from whatever detergent he used.
Your stomach tightened.
You looked up. “Hey.”
Clay’s eyes flicked down to you.
Soft for one second.
Only one.
Then they lifted to the man beside you.
“Hey.”
The man glanced between you both, smile polite but curious. “Friend of yours?”
You opened your mouth.
Clay answered first.
“Yeah.”
One word.
Calm.
Too calm.
The man nodded. “Good to meet you. I’m Mark.”
Clay didn’t offer his hand right away.
Not rudely.
Just slowly enough that you noticed.
Then he did, grip firm, expression unreadable.
“Clay.”
Mark tried to hold his gaze and almost managed it.
Almost.
You fought the urge to laugh because this was absurd.
Clay wasn’t doing anything technically wrong. He wasn’t threatening the guy. He wasn’t being openly rude. He was just standing there with that quiet, lethal stillness of his, the kind that made people suddenly remember they had somewhere else to be.
“You need something?” you asked Clay.
His gaze dropped to you again.
There was something in his eyes you couldn’t quite place.
Annoyance, maybe.
No.
Not annoyance.
Something heavier.
“I was getting a drink.”
“You still have one.”
His jaw flexed.
Behind him, somewhere across the room, you heard Sonny laugh.
Clay ignored it.
Mark glanced down at your drink. “I was actually just asking if she came here with anyone.”
The sentence landed strangely.
Not because of what Mark said.
Because of what it did to Clay.
Nothing changed at first. Not on the surface. His face stayed neutral. His shoulders stayed loose. But his eyes sharpened, and the air around him seemed to draw tight.
You felt it like a hand around your wrist.
Clay looked at you.
Not Mark.
You.
“Did he?”
There was a question under the question.
A dangerous one.
You swallowed.
You could have teased him. Maybe you should have. You could have said, Why, jealous? and watched him stumble around denying it. You could have laughed and brushed it off.
But his expression stopped you.
Because Clay didn’t look playful.
He looked like he was standing on the edge of something and had no idea whether to step back or fall.
“I came with Bravo,” you said quietly.
Clay’s eyes held yours.
“That right?”
Your pulse skipped.
Mark, bless him, finally started reading the room.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat lightly. “I should probably get back to my friends.”
You turned to him quickly, guilt blooming. “Oh, you don’t have to—”
“No, no, you’re good.” He smiled, but this time it was a little awkward. “Nice meeting you.”
“You too.”
Clay didn’t say anything as Mark walked away.
You waited until he was out of earshot before turning fully toward Clay.
“What the hell was that?”
Clay’s face gave you nothing. “What?”
“That.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You scared him away.”
“He left on his own.”
“Because you looked at him like you were choosing a place to hide the body.”
The corner of Clay’s mouth almost moved.
Almost.
“Dramatic.”
“Accurate.”
He looked down at his beer, then at your drink, then at the spot where Mark had touched your fingers against the glass. Something crossed his face so quickly you almost missed it.
But you didn’t.
Oh.
Oh.
Your irritation softened into something much more dangerous.
“Clay.”
He didn’t look at you.
You stepped a little closer, lowering your voice because suddenly this conversation felt private in the middle of a very public room.
“Were you jealous?”
His eyes snapped to yours.
“No.”
Too fast.
You raised your brows.
“No?” you repeated.
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That.” He gestured vaguely at your face.
“My face?”
“That look.”
“What look?”
Clay leaned in slightly, and the space between you changed so fast your breath caught. His voice dropped low, rough around the edges.
“The one where you already decided I’m lying.”
Your stomach flipped.
For a second, neither of you moved.
The music kept playing. People kept talking. Somewhere, Sonny yelled about darts. But all of it felt far away now.
Clay’s eyes searched your face, and you realized with a quiet, terrifying clarity that he was closer than he needed to be.
And he knew it.
And he wasn’t moving back.
“You are lying,” you said softly.
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
There it was.
So quick it almost didn’t count.
Except it did.
It counted so much your knees nearly forgot their purpose.
Clay looked away first, dragging a hand over his jaw. “Forget it.”
“No.”
He laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “No?”
“No. You don’t get to do that.”
His eyes came back to yours, sharper now. “Do what?”
“Walk over here like some jealous boyfriend, scare off a guy who was just talking to me, then tell me to forget it.”
The word boyfriend hit the air between you like a match.
Clay’s expression darkened.
Not angry.
Not exactly.
But the kind of look that made heat crawl up your neck.
“I didn’t say I was your boyfriend.”
“I know.”
His jaw clenched.
You should have stopped.
You really should have.
But your heart was beating too hard, and he was looking at you like that, and months of almost-something had been building under your skin for too long.
“You made that pretty clear, actually.”
That did it.
The shift was immediate.
Clay’s eyes narrowed slightly, but there was hurt there too. Hidden under the jealousy. Under the restraint. Under every careful wall he kept between you and whatever he was so afraid to admit.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
You looked down at your drink, suddenly wishing you hadn’t said anything.
Because this was the part that hurt.
Not Mark. Not the bar. Not Sonny’s teasing.
This.
Clay acting like he had no right to care while caring anyway. Clay showing up beside you every time someone got too close. Clay remembering your drink and your coffee and your favorite seat in the briefing room, but never saying anything real. Clay looking at you like he wanted to touch you, then pulling back like wanting was a sin.
“It means,” you said slowly, “you don’t get to be jealous if you’re not going to do anything about it.”
Clay went very still.
Your stomach dropped.
Maybe that was too much.
Maybe you had pushed too hard.
For one painful second, he said nothing. He only stared at you, eyes unreadable, shoulders tense beneath his shirt.
Then his hand moved.
Not to grab you.
Not to claim you.
Just to rest lightly at the edge of the bar beside your hip, close enough that his knuckles brushed the fabric of your shirt.
Your breath caught anyway.
“You think I don’t want to?”
The words were quiet.
So quiet you almost didn’t hear them beneath the music.
But you did.
Your entire body went warm.
Clay’s eyes stayed on yours, and now there was no pretending. No friendly excuse. No accidental anything.
“I think you’re very good at acting like you don’t,” you whispered.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“I have reasons.”
“I’m sure you do.”
His mouth tilted faintly, but it wasn’t a smile. “That sounded a lot like judgment.”
“It was.”
His eyes warmed for half a second.
God, he was close.
Too close.
Not close enough.
•¥•¥•¥•
tags: #clay spenser #clay spenser x reader #seal team #reader insert #second person pov #jealous clay #protective clay #slow burn #angst #bar jealousy #everyone knows except them #sonny quinn is a menace #jason is tired #ray sees everything #touch her and die energy #soft possessive clay #yearning #he’s down bad your honor
