Iris' Matcha Cafe : Always Almost
╭───────────────────────────.★..─╮
( ╹ -╹)? 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖺 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗅𝗇𝗎𝗍/𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖺𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗂𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 ! 𝖴𝗀𝗁 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖻𝖺𝖽
(ᴗˬᴗ)ꕤ.ﾟ𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾! 🩷 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀:
𝖥𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 / 𝖱𝗈𝗆-𝖢𝗈𝗆, 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖫𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖠 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝖢𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 / 𝖬𝗎𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖯𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖧𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝖤𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀!
╰─..★.───────────────────────────╯ 𝖶𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖮𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋? 𝖢𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖬𝖾𝗇𝗎!
pairings: spencer reid x reader
theme: fluff ; (slight angst but not really, it's just part of the pining)
content warnings: mentions of child abductions
They had always been like this. They came into the BAU almost at the same time, a year after the other. Spencer expected the usual, awkward introductions, polite nods, people skirting around him once they realized just how fast his mind worked, but not her. She didn’t flinch when he started talking about obscure statistics or niche facts. She didn’t blink when he went on tangents. Instead, she leaned forward, smiled, and said, “Actually, that’s only partially accurate—”
Just like that, she threw one right back at him. Spencer had blinked at her then, surprised, and then he smiled. Satisfied. From that moment on, it became their thing. For every fact he offered, she had one of her own. For every tangent, she followed without hesitation. For every quiet moment, she filled it effortlessly. It was a match made in heaven, to quote Derek Morgan. The team instantly saw a connection, but funnily enough, to the two people who should have noticed first, it wasn’t obvious.
To each other, they were best friends, lucky enough to be partners in crime. A duo paired together on cases because they worked well, because they thought the same way, but somewhere along the way, “partners in crime” turned into partners in everything else. They started doing things outside of work. Grocery runs that lasted longer than necessary because they debated over cereal brands. Late nights at the library that had nothing to do with cases. Stopping at random hotdog stands just because she said she was hungry, spending hours debating about how mustard sucks.
And still, even after everything, they'd succumb to the same quiet lie that they were, in fact, just best friends, because best friends know things, right?
They know their favorite colors and birthday wishes. They know coffee orders and the names of childhood pets. They know how to make each other laugh, how to fill silence without it feeling awkward. That’s all this was.
Best friends definitely notice when the other one is too quiet, but they don’t immediately know why. They'd recognize the difference between “I’m tired” and “something’s wrong” just from the way the words fall. She knew the exact tone his voice took when he was pretending he was okay. The kind no one else caught. The kind hidden in a half-second pause, in the way he exhaled before answering.
He knew her silences. Not just that she was quiet, but what each silence meant. The heavy ones. The distant ones. The ones where she wanted to talk but didn’t know how. The ones where she didn’t want to be asked, just understood. They were convinced that best friends could memorize the way someone exists when they’re not trying to be seen, but he knew how she looked first thing in the morning, hair a mess, voice softer, slower. He knew how she absentmindedly fixed her sleeves when she was thinking, how she tapped her fingers when she was anxious, how she always ate the same thing last on her plate like she was saving it. She knew him in pieces that no one else bothered to notice. The way he got quieter when he was overwhelmed, not louder. The way he overexplained when he was nervous. The way he needed reassurance but would never ask for it directly, just linger a little longer, talk a little more, stay a little closer.
But truthfully, best friends don’t learn from each other like that. They don’t instinctively reach out at the exact right moment. They don’t know which kind of hug the other needs without asking. They don’t hear “I’m fine” and understand the entire truth behind it, but they did.
She knew what comfort felt like to him, knew when to sit beside him in silence and when to gently pull him out of his head, and he knew the exact words that could steady her, the ones that softened the sharp edges of her thoughts without making it obvious he was trying. In the way his hand would hover for half a second longer than necessary before pulling away. In the way she leaned into him without thinking, like it was the most natural thing in the world. In the way they both noticed, neither of them said anything.
Because best friends don’t feel the shift in the air when they get too close. Best friends don’t have to look away first. Best friends don’t carry the quiet, constant awareness that this means more. They stayed, right there in the space between something and nothing. Calling it nothing more than a friendship. Even if they both know, but refuse to believe, that best friends wouldn't feel, hear, or see any of this, but two people whose hearts beat for each other would.
Of course, the team didn’t buy it, not even for a second. They were renowned profilers; it was an insult at this point. It took one glance, Spencer looking at her from across the room like she was the only thing grounding him, to know there was something there. Something quiet, constant, waiting to finally happen.
It took a life-threatening case and five years of knowing for Spencer to realize. It was an out-of-town case in Idaho, a case of multiple child abductions. Hotch has ordered them to stay put, behind the big pine tree that hides both their bodies well, to not be heroes, but she was too determined. When she saw the live feed of the children being tortured and maltreated, she just couldn't stand it. So when she heard one of them scream in pain, she jumped into action. Too quick to be stopped by Spencer. One second, she was there, beside him. The next, she wasn’t, then she was in his arms, barely conscious, his hands shaking as he tried to keep her with him. “Stay with me,” he had whispered, voice breaking in a way no one had ever heard before. "Please." With all his might, he held onto her stomach to try to stop the bleeding himself. He can't let you go, not like this. His heart didn’t stop racing even after she was safe. Didn’t stop aching even after the case was over, because for the first time, Spencer Reid understood something terrifyingly simple: He couldn’t lose her. Not now, not ever.
So after that day, he had a quiet determination to keep her in his space, to let her know how he truly feels, the feelings he's always had but refused to believe he did.
The first time was during a stakeout.
It had been a long day already, one of those cases that clung to the edges of Spencer’s thoughts, refusing to settle. The kind where every detail mattered, every second stretched thin with anticipation. They’d been chasing patterns for hours, piecing together timelines, narrowing down possibilities until it led them here. Stakeouts were a test of patience and focus. Spencer knew this. He could recite, almost verbatim, the psychological effects of prolonged stillness, the way the human brain compensated for boredom by heightening awareness or drifting into tangents. She was the latter. Beside him, she had her knees pulled up slightly against the dashboard, one arm loosely wrapped around them as she talked, soft, easy, unfiltered. Her eyes drifted outside the window from left to right, over and over; she could get motion sickness just by the way she was looking.
“…and I’m just saying, if you really think about it, cereal is technically soup.” Spencer blinked, glancing over at her. “Cereal is not soup.”
“It has all the qualifications,” she argued, completely serious. “Liquid base, solid components—”
“The definition of soup typically involves a cooked element,” Spencer countered automatically, his tone calm but firm. “Cereal is neither cooked nor savory, which are key factors in most classifications.” She turned to him, narrowing her eyes playfully. “So you’re saying sweet soups can’t exist?”
“I’m saying cereal is distinctly categorized as a separate food group.” She gasped softly. “That sounds made up.”
“It’s not made up, it’s factual. You're just stubborn." He spews but laughs anyway. He loved their exchanges, it could range from informative to mind-boggling to not making any sense at all, btu he didn't mind. “Admit it,” she interrupted, leaning a little closer, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “You just don’t want to say that I might be right.”
Spencer paused and looked at her. The dim glow from the streetlights filtered through the windshield, casting soft shadows across her face. Her eyes were bright, alive with amusement, completely unbothered by the tension of the case, the long hours, the weight that usually sat heavy in moments like this. She made it feel lighter; she made everything easier. Like the world narrowed down to just this car, this moment, this conversation. Spencer felt something in his chest tighten. This is it, he thought. He had spent so long thinking, analyzing, overanalyzing, calculating probabilities, outcomes, risks, even if he knew that waiting for the perfect moment often resulted in missed opportunities. Still, he wanted it to be perfect in his mind, because he didn’t want this to be another thing he overthought until it slipped away.
So he took a breath and opened his mouth. “I—there’s something I’ve been meaning to—” But as fate was cruel, Hotch’s voice cut through the radio. “Guys, we need you inside. Now.” The words landed like a sudden jolt, sharp and immediate.
Spencer froze. For a split second, everything in him stalled, the thought, the courage, the fragile thread of momentum he had just managed to gather, all gone. He swallowed, the moment slipping through his fingers faster than he could hold onto it.
“…Copy that,” he said, pressing the button. The radio crackled briefly before going silent again. Spencer exhaled slowly, leaning back against his seat. Of course. Beside him, she shifted, already reaching for the door handle. “Duty calls,” she said lightly, flashing him a quick smile.
Like nothing had almost happened. Like she hadn’t just been seconds away from hearing something that had been sitting, heavy and persistent, in his chest for longer than he wanted to admit. Spencer nodded, forcing a small smile of his own. They stepped out of the car together, the night air cool against his skin, grounding him back into reality. The building loomed ahead, quiet and unassuming, the kind of place that blended into the background until you knew what to look for. Spencer adjusted his posture slightly as they approached, slipping back into the rhythm of the job. A faint echo of what could have been said, what almost was. He glanced at her as they walked. There was no trace of their earlier conversation, no sign that she had even noticed the shift in his tone before the interruption. Maybe she hadn’t, or maybe she had, and chose not to press.
The second time was at Rossi’s house.
It was supposed to be a celebration, life, survival, making it through another case that could have easily gone the other way. The kind of night where the tension finally slipped off their shoulders, where laughter came easier, where no one had to think about profiles or victims or worst-case scenarios. Rossi always insisted on hosting these things. Said it was important. Insisted it reminded them they were still human. The house was warm with light, music playing low in the background, the hum of conversation spilling from every corner. JJ and Emily were in the kitchen, arguing over something trivial. Morgan was manning the grill like it was a personal mission. Hotch lingered nearby, quieter than usual, but not untouched by the ease of the night.
Spencer found himself outside. With her. Nothing out of the ordinary. The two were magnets that pulled each other no matter how far the other one was; they'd always find a way to clip on to each other. The backyard was calmer, tucked away from the noise inside. String lights hung lazily between the trees, casting a soft golden glow. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of smoke and fresh grass. She was already in one of the hammocks when he stepped out, gently swaying like she had all the time in the world.
“Hey,” she said, tilting her head at him. “Escaping?” Spencer replied, stepping closer. “Just… temporarily relocating to a less chaotic environment.” She smiled. “So yes?” Spencer smiles. She always knows.
She shifted, patting the space beside her. “Come sit.” He hesitated for only a second before easing himself down next to her. The hammock dipped, causing her to lean into him slightly to balance. Neither of them moved away. The quiet wrapped around them easily, like it always did. She tipped her head back, looking up. “You can actually see the stars tonight.”
Spencer followed her gaze. “That’s because light pollution is relatively lower in this area compared to central D.C., though it’s still significantly higher than rural regions—”
“Spence,” she interrupted, smiling. He paused. “Right. Stars.” She laughed softly, taking a sip from her bottle before nudging his shoulder lightly. “You ever just look at them without turning it into a lecture?”
He considered that. “…Occasionally.”
“Liar, nothing is not a lecture to you."
“I’m not lying,” he said, a little defensive. “I just… process things differently.”
“I know,” she said, gently nudging his arm. She got him like no one else did. With her, he could unravel. He could show every part of him that most people hated, and she'd celebrate them, loudly, proudly. The hammock swayed again, slower this time. Spencer felt the moment settle, the quiet, the closeness, the way everything seemed to narrow down to just the two of them. He glanced at her. She was still looking up, eyes tracing constellations she probably didn’t know the names of, but appreciating them anyway.
Spencer swallowed. “Do you… believe in that kind of thing?” he asked suddenly. She glanced at him. “What kind of thing?” He shifted slightly, searching for the right words. “Like… people assigning meaning to stars,” he said. “Constellations, mythology, or even the silly astrology, the idea that certain things are connected.”
She hummed softly. “You mean like fate?”
“Yes. Or something adjacent to it.” She turned onto her side a little, facing him now, more engaged. “Well,” she said, thoughtfully, “I think people like the idea that things mean something. That there’s a reason certain things just line up. That everything makes sense if you really think about it.” Spencer nodded slowly. “Historically, humans have used stars for navigation, storytelling, and even emotional grounding. It’s a way of making something vast feel personal.”
“Exactly,” she said, pointing at him slightly. He watched her, feeling something shift in his chest again. “Do you think,” he started carefully, “that people can be like that too?” She blinked. “Like stars?”
“In a sense,” he said. “Like fixed points. Things that, no matter what variables change, remain constant.” Her expression softened. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I think some people are like that.”
Spencer’s heart picked up. “And do you think…” he hesitated, then pushed forward, “that those kinds of connections are predictable?”
She smiled a little. “You’re asking if love can be calculated?”
“…Not calculated,” he said. “Just you know, anticipated?” She studied him for a second. Then shook her head gently.“No,” she said. “I think love kind of just… happens. Usually, when you’re not paying attention.” Spencer let out a small breath.
“That would explain the statistical unpredictability.” She laughed. The air between them had changed. It was softer. Full of something unspoken, something just beneath the surface. Spencer looked at her again, studying every blemish, every spot on her face like stars that connected beautifully.
He didn’t want to miss it. Now, he thought. Now. This was his moment! “Hey,” he said softly. She turned to him immediately. “Yeah?”
His heart pounded, loud and insistent. “I’ve been wanting to tell you—”
“Guys!” Penelope’s voice rang out from inside, bright and impossible to ignore. “Game time! And no one is allowed to say no!” Again, the moment cracked right down the middle. She lit up instantly, her attention pulled away. “Oh! Yes,” she said, already moving. Before he could react, she grabbed his hand, her fingers warm and familiar around his wrist.
“Come on, Spence,” she grinned. “You’re not getting out of this one.” And just like that, the moment was gone.
He let himself be pulled up, the hammock swaying wildly for a second before settling again behind them. Spencer stood there for half a heartbeat, watching her as she tugged him toward the house, completely unaware of how close he had been. He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head with a small, almost amused smile. Inside, the noise hit them all at once again. Penelope was already setting up some kind of chaotic game. Morgan cheered as they walked in, immediately pulling her away from Spencer to join whatever team he had decided she was on. “Hey!” she protested, laughing. “I didn’t agree to this!”
“Too late!” Morgan shot back. Spencer lingered near the doorway for a second, watching. She caught his eye across the room, and just like that, the frustration in his chest softened into something warmer. Something patient. Something hopeful.
Maybe it wasn’t the right moment. Maybe it never was. But it would be eventually. Right?
He just had to get there before something else interrupted. Spencer stepped further into the room, the noise, the laughter, the life of it all wrapping around him again. As he glanced at her one more time, he held onto the thought.
The third time felt perfect. Or it seemed to be.
She was at his apartment, curled up on his couch like she had always belonged there. Which, in some ways, she did. It had become routine, after long cases, after exhaustion settled into their bones and the world felt a little too heavy, they would end up here. Shoes kicked off by the door, takeout containers scattered across the coffee table, the soft glow of his TV filling the room as they worked through episodes they had missed. Doctor Who nights. It was their thing, uninterrupted hours of nerding out to the insanely absurd sci-fi show. It was something comforting and predictable. Spencer liked predictability. He needed it, and yet nothing about the way his heart behaved around her was predictable anymore.
“Okay, but you have to admit,” she said, pointing at the screen as the episode played, “the Eleventh Doctor has the best emotional arcs.” Spencer shifted slightly beside her, adjusting his posture in a way that was entirely too aware of her presence.
“Well, if we truly look into the statistics of it, David Tennant’s era ranks higher in audience retention and emotional engagement,” he replied, because of course he did. She turned to him slowly. “Oh my God,” she said flatly. “You did not just bring statistics into this.”
“I always bring statistics into anything,” He retorts. “That is so deeply unfair.”
“It’s not unfair, it’s accurate.” She laughed, nudging his shoulder lightly.
Spencer felt it like a shockwave. It was insignificant, by all measurable standards, but it lingered in his skin. Settled somewhere deep in his chest until it felt too full, too tight, too much. He swallowed. This has to be it, because if it wasn’t now, if it wasn’t here, in the quiet of his apartment, in the safety of something familiar, something theirs, then when?
He glanced at her. She was still watching the screen, completely absorbed, her expression shifting with the story like she felt everything too deeply, too openly. Spencer felt something twist in his chest, because if this was just a coincidence, then why did it feel so deliberate? Why did it feel like something, some invisible force, some unseen variable, kept stepping in at the exact moment he tried to cross that line?
He exhaled slowly. That didn’t make sense. There was no empirical evidence for fate. No measurable data support the idea that events were being guided toward or away from a specific outcome. The glow of the screen dimmed slightly as the credits rolled, the hum of the apartment settling back into focus. Spencer turned to her. This is it.
He ignored the part of his brain that started listing probabilities. Ignored the creeping doubt that whispered about patterns and outcomes and the possibility, however irrational, that this would go the same way as the others. Maybe this time was different. It felt different.
“You know,” he started, his voice quieter now, less certain, “the Doctor talks a lot about fixed points in time.” She turned to him, giving him her full attention immediately.
“Yeah?” Spencer nodded, his fingers fidgeting slightly against his knee. “Moments that, no matter what, are meant to happen. That can’t be altered without consequences.” She tilted her head, listening. “And I think…” He hesitated, the words catching slightly in his throat. “I think meeting you was kind of like that for me.”
Her expression softened instantly. Something that made his chest tighten even more. Spencer swallowed. “I just, I feel like you see me in a way that—”
And for a second, everything aligned. The timing. The setting. The quiet. Just them, their moment. They stared at it like it had personally betrayed him. Like it had broken something fragile and rare and perfect. “Oh, come on!” he groaned, dropping his head back against the couch in frustration. It didn’t make any sense! She laughed beside him, completely unaware of the magnitude of what had just happened, of what had almost happened. “Don't be a sourpuss, Spence. Maybe it’s important,” she teased lightly.
Spencer let out a disbelieving breath. Of course, it was important. He grabbed his phone, answering it a little more abruptly than usual. “Reid.” Morgan’s voice came through, steady and familiar. “We got a case, pretty boy. Wheels up in thirty.”
Spencer closed his eyes. Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes, and he was expected to pack up, leave, shift gears entirely like this, like this hadn’t just happened again. “Yeah, see you in the jet,” he said finally. He hung up. Silence filled the space for half a second. Then reality rushed back in. He stood, moving automatically, grabbing his bag, his mind already splitting into two directions. She stood too, already adjusting, already transitioning the way they always did.
“Race you to the jet?” she said, like this was normal. Like everything was normal. Spencer let out a hollow huff of a laugh. “You always cheat.”
“You have a statistically significant advantage in speed—”
“I just don’t overthink it,” she shot back, already moving toward the door.
And that hit something deeper than it should have. He followed her out, locking the door behind him, his thoughts louder than they had any right to be. Overthink? He didn’t overthink. He analyzed. There was a difference, at least he convinced himself there was, but if he was being a hundred percent honest, the lines were blurring. The probability of interruption in a job like theirs was high. Unpredictable schedules, urgent calls, and external demands were expected. It was normal. So why did it feel intentional? Spencer reached the car, watching her slide into the passenger seat like she always did, like this was just another day, another case, another routine. Like his world hadn’t just tilted slightly off its axis.
He got in, starting the engine, the familiar motion grounding him just enough to function, but his mind didn’t stop. It couldn’t, because for the first time in a long time, Spencer Reid didn’t have an answer. Not even to a question that would be so simple. What if every interruption wasn’t random? What if it was… correction?Adjustment? What if the reason he couldn’t say it was because he wasn’t meant to?
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. No. That wasn’t how the world worked; that wasn’t how anything worked. There was no grand design keeping him from confessing his feelings. No invisible force decides outcomes. Just a chance? But then why did it feel like this? Why did it feel like something kept pulling him back, stopping him at the exact moment things were about to change? Why did it feel like the universe was telling him not this, not now, not ever?
He glanced at her briefly. She was looking out the window, watching the city blur past, calm and steady and completely unaware of the storm building in his mind. Spencer felt something in him falter. If this, whatever this was between them, was only ever supposed to stay right here, in this space of almosts and almost-confessions and almost-changes, then what was he supposed to do with everything he felt?
She glanced at him suddenly, catching his expression. “You okay?” she asked, softer now. Spencer blinked. Forced himself back. “Yeah.” She studied him for a second, like she didn’t quite believe that, but she didn’t push. Will it always be like this? he thought. Spencer Reid, who had always trusted logic, always believed in answers, in patterns, in things that could be explained. It scared him more than it broke him.
Will there ever be a next time?
It was quiet on the jet. Not the kind of quiet that felt empty, but the kind that came after everything. After the adrenaline, after the tension, after the long hours of thinking too fast and feeling too much. The kind of quiet that settled into your bones, heavy but earned. The team was exhausted. JJ was asleep a few seats down, her head tilted awkwardly against the window. Emily had her eyes closed, though Spencer knew she wasn’t fully asleep; she never really was on flights like this. Morgan was slouched back, arms crossed, breathing steady. Even Rossi had gone still, a rare moment of peace for someone who carried so much history in his eyes.
And she was right beside him. She had taken the window seat, like she always did. He had watched her enough times to know the way her expression softened as the plane lifted, the way her eyes followed the slow fade of the ground below, the way she seemed to find something calming in the distant blur of lights and movement. It grounded her, or maybe it reminded her how small everything was.
Spencer understood that. More than he probably should. They hadn’t spoken much since takeoff. There was a comfort in the silence, in the shared space between them. A familiarity that didn’t demand constant conversation, that didn’t require effort.
But Spencer’s mind was anything but quiet. He had spent the entire time thinking, calculating, regretting? He was truly unsure. He had lost hope just quite a bit. Somewhere between the third interruption and the weight of everything he couldn’t explain, something in him had shifted, because no matter how many times he ran through it, no matter how many variables he adjusted, the outcome had remained the same. He tried.
Something stopped him. Again, and again, and again.
Spencer exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting toward the window. She was still watching the city below, her expression soft, thoughtful. The reflection of the lights danced faintly across her face, making her look almost unreal. Then she moved. It was small, but Spencer felt it immediately. Her head tilted slightly, her body shifting just enough to make his body go still. Every muscle locked in place, his breath catching somewhere between his lungs and his throat.
Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t do anything that might ruin this. He prayed to whoever was listening for this moment to last forever, because if he wasn't meant to say anything, maybe he could bask in the feeling for a little bit more.
“I like you.” Just like that. She said it so matter-of-factly that it was like being bathed in ice-cold water. No buildup. No hesitation. No overthinking.
It came out quieter than he expected. She huffed a small laugh, like she couldn’t quite believe she had said it either, but she didn’t take it back. “I like you, Spencer,” she said again, a little softer this time. “I have for a while. I think I always have."
His heart leapt. There was no other way to describe it.
One second it was there, steady, controlled, the next, it was racing, crashing, overwhelming in a way he had never quite experienced before.
“I—I tried to tell you,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Multiple times, actually. It’s kind of ridiculous how often I’ve been interrupted—”
“I know.” Her hand found his, gently brushing her fingers against his knuckles. Spencer stopped. “You… know?”
She nodded, her expression softening even more. “I figured it out,” she said. “You’re not exactly subtle when you’re nervous.”
Spencer frowned slightly. “I am—”
“You start over-explaining things,” she cut in gently. “And you don’t look at me directly. And you pause a lot, like you’re trying to find the perfect way to say something that doesn’t need to be perfect.” He stared at her.
She was right. “And after the last time…” she continued, her voice quieter now, more vulnerable. “I just, I couldn’t let you get interrupted again. You looked like a baby deer who got lost.” Something in Spencer’s chest shifted. Like something that had been out of place for too long had finally found where it belonged. All the waiting for the right moment, the perfect words, the scenario where everything aligned just enough for him to say it without hesitation, and she had just said it.
Spencer let out a soft breath, something close to a quiet laugh slipping past his lips. “I think I might have… overcomplicated it,” he admitted.
“Just a little," she smiled, "but that's just something you do on a daily so I don't mind.” He shook his head slightly, still trying to process, still trying to catch up to something that felt so simple and yet so overwhelming. “I thought—” he started, then paused. “I thought maybe there was a reason I couldn’t say it.”
Her brows furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—” He hesitated, then pushed through it. “Three times. I tried three times, and every single time something stopped me. And I started thinking maybe it wasn’t just coincidence. Maybe it was… something else.”
“Like fate?” she asked softly.
He nodded. “Or the lack of it,” he admitted. She watched him for a moment, then she smiled, a smile that was gentle, understanding. The one he fell in love with, even without knowing. “Or maybe,” she said, “you were just waiting for me.”
Spencer blinked. That hadn’t even crossed his mind.
“I don’t think things were stopping you,” she continued. “I think you were just trying too hard to make it perfect.”
“And it doesn’t have to be perfect, Spencer,” she said softly. “You can just… say it.” The words settled over him. Spencer swallowed, his gaze dropping briefly to where her hand rested near his before lifting back to her face. He didn’t overthink it this time.
“I like you too,” he said. Her smile widened, softer, brighter, like something had finally clicked into place. Spencer felt it too. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, lingering just long enough to mean something. She leaned into him again, her head settling back against his shoulder like it had always belonged there. The tension that had been sitting in his chest for weeks, months, if not years at this point, unraveled, slipping away into something lighter. Something steadier.
