Realizing I can't just shut down and push everyone away the second I feel misunderstood if I want to actually grow as a person and learn to tolerate discomfort enough to try new things and make my dreams come true with my own two hands
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
description: following the events of drunken confessions. the next morning after spencer tells you he loves you, albeit drunk and half asleep, you don't know if he means it.
tags: fluff, gn!reader, hangover but i dont dwell on it, whiny!spencer (lol), so so soft, r is so unsure but she just needs reassurance.
a/n: omg my first pt 2 as per popular demand (3 people asked), happy reading!
wc: 1.6k
i love you.
three words that bounce from one end to the other in your head, like a pendulum, reverberating across the hard surface of your skull. it echoes through the small space of your ear canal, taking up entirely too much space. it repeats with the beat of your pulse, heart thudding in a steady rhythm.
suffice it to say, you barely slept. running the words over and over for some kind of clarity. instead you preoccupied yourself with watching spencer sleep, like you are now.
with the sunrise, came light. light that filtered through the curtains just enough that you could see his face. his lips are slightly parted, soft puffs of air that don’t quite reach you. they’re pulled down minutely, in a little frown, seemingly how his face falls when he's unconscious. it's sweet. his eyebrows twitch, creasing momentarily, you wonder if he’s dreaming, or if it's a nightmare.
your fingers itch to reach out and touch him, soothe the line. but he's so peaceful, you don't know if you want to wake him up. you never get to see him like this, without the weight of the world on his shoulders, unthinking. so you stall a bit, let the wave of serenity pass before it comes crashing down in the form of a violent hangover.
you probably stay like that for an hour, an hour spent admiring his features. it's easier than confronting what he said. he’d stayed in the same position all night, curled up on his side, facing you. you’re leaning on your elbow now, looking down at him from above. his face moves, nuzzling into the pillow beneath his head. it causes that same stubborn strand of hair to fall loose.
you give in and touch him this time, tucking the piece behind his ear. you trace a finger over his brow bone and then down the slope of his perfect nose. this causes him to stir, eyes fluttering open as he takes in his surroundings before they land on you. they instantly soften.
“morning,” you whisper, wary of your volume.
“hey,” he croaks, voice riddled in sleep. all his features pull up, twisted in a grimace as his head throbs. he rolls onto his back, bringing his fingers up to his temple, rubbing the pads of them in between his eyebrows.
“where's your aspirin?”
he hums in thought, or in pain, it's uncertain. “the um- drawer,” he points beside him aimlessly, eyes still closed. he's about to move to get it but you stop him, leaning over his body to reach the bedside table next to him. you reach over him, hovering awkwardly over his body. you shiver imperceptibly when his hand settles on your waist for support, an unconscious action, you suppose. when you find it, you give him a pill and he swallows, his hand falls back to his side.
“what time is it?” he grumbles.
“quarter to twelve,” you respond, barring a quick look at the analog clock that sat on his dresser.
he harrumphs, something of acknowledgement. you didn’t think he’d be this grumpy waking up but you don't mind, it's awfully cute.
“it’s so bright,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut further, if possible.
“your eyes are closed.”
“my retinas are burning,” he whines, throwing his arm over his eyes to shield him from the sunlight in a thespian flourish.
“so dramatic,” you huff as you get up to close the curtains, the smile in your voice irrefutably evident. you peek out the window first, your car is still parked outside, you stayed the night!
when you sit back down on the bed, his head seeks you out, laying gently on your lap. you card a hand through his hair, the action seemingly appropriate. he lets out a hum, satisfied.
“do you remember much from last night?” you ask, trying to come off casual, the question is loaded to say the least. plus, you don't know if alcohol affects an eidetic memory the same way. maybe he remembers everything, like always.
“no,” he says with a little shrug. “well, i remember going to the bar and morgan spilling a shot on his shirt but that's it.”
oh. so not that differently.
“well, i'm sure he’ll appreciate you remembering that,” you chuckle, ruffling his hair. with a long sigh, you decide to not bring it up. it’ll come back to him, surely. you’ll wait for him to come to you about it.
you lift his head off your lap and let him sink back into the pillows. “how about you freshen up and i’ll make you some toast?”
his eyes peek open, barely. “yes please,” he replies meekly, a small smile in tow.
-
you put slices of bread into the toaster on his counter, leaning against it as you wait. what happens if he doesn't remember? will you tell him? how do you even bring that up?
hey spencer! last night you told me you love me. do you?
the loud spring of the toaster startles you back to the moment. behind his bedroom door, you can hear the faint sound of his shower running and you remember you’re still in his clothes. god, you're gonna have to wear yesterday's clothes back home. you mindlessly take the hot toast out and set it on a plate, wincing when you hold them for too long. you put 2 more slices of bread in, for you of course.
you decide to make some eggs too, pulling the carton out of the fridge and getting a pan from beside his sink. you move with surprising ease through his kitchen, like you’d been there before. you haven't, but again, it's so easy with spencer, it apparently extends to his home too. you hum absentmindedly, cracking an egg into a bowl and beating it with a fork. you don’t know it yet but spencer's watching you, having finished his shower.
-
it all comes back to him slowly, as he puts on a new change of clothes, skin still a little damp.
asking penelope for a drink, drinking it, thinking, thinking about you, you showing up? maybe he was magic. you sitting with him, talking to him, taking him home. he remembers stumbling up the stairs, his arm thrown haphazardly over your shoulders and yours hooked around his waist.
“you're so nice, y’know?”
“yeah? you won't think so tomorrow morning.”
you tucked him in, stayed when he asked you to. you told him about your breakup and he told you, oh, he told you he loved you.
shit.
he has to make this right. he's quick to feed his arm into the last sleeve and walk out of his room. however, he stops when he sees you. swaying lightly, humming a tune he recognises from last night, standing there in his clothes. he thinks he might die. clearly, he wasn’t paying much at all when he woke up earlier. damn headache.
-
“i told you i loved you.”
your head snaps in his direction, unaware of his presence. you jump a little before calming. “yeah... you did,” you confirm, trying to keep your tone light. it wasn't a question but you still answer. he remembers.
“and you told me to tell you again when i wake up,” he recalls.
you chuckle quietly, “i didn't realise you heard that.”
“i did.”
you nod, slowly, expectantly, for him to say something else, anything else.
“i love you.” there it is.
“you mean that?” your voice comes out way smaller than you intended. he still hasn't moved.
“of course i do,” he says with a sigh, inching his way closer. you look like you're going to spook.
“okay,” you breathe, looking down at your fingers, you begin to ramble. “it's just, last night- you were drunk and sleepy and well, tired and i didnt know if you were being honest or just saying it on whim.”
he's suddenly in front of you and you can't look at him. he's fine with that, it makes it slightly easier.
“hey, i mean it. i love you. i’m sorry i said it how i did, it wasn't fair. and you don't have to say anything back, i just- want you to know.”
you look up at him now, eyes searching, and when you find sincerity in his eyes, you soften, muttering out a quiet “okay.” your lips twist to the side, trying not to smile, but glee fills out every nook and cranny of your body. he takes this as a good sign and lets out the breath he didn't realise he was holding, smiling back at you.
“so,” you start, seemingly casual. “how do you take your eggs?”
spencer laughs, amused by your change in topic. he nods toward the bowl of already beaten eggs, “scrambled.”
you nod, firmly. you pick up the bowl and move to the stovetop, but not before grabbing his fingers with your free hand and pulling him with you.
your thumb glides along the curve of his forefinger as you hold it between your bodies, waiting for the pan to heat up. you’re biting your lip so much, you think you might draw blood. you’re unbearably happy. and you think you’re doing a good job of hiding it but you’re not. spencer can see the way you giddily twitch by his side, opting on not saying anything about it as he smiles softly.
“you love me,” you tease, singsong, dragging out the ‘love’. your head leans against his shoulder.
“mhm,” he confirms. ”you’re never gonna let me live this down, huh?”
“nope,” you chirp, pressing a chaste kiss to his shirt.
a/n: scheduled post as i am away at a new years music festival with my friends :] i will be back with you all in a few days <3
The first time you saw Spencer Reid was during a lecture hall mix-up in your second week at the university. You had rushed in, clutching your notebook and hoping to secure a spot before the professor started, only to find yourself in a room filled with students much older than you. At the center of it all, there he was—leaning casually against the podium, flipping through a worn-out book with an intensity that made the rest of the world blur around him.
He wasn’t the professor, but he might as well have been. His sharp, confident voice cut through the murmurs as he corrected an older man’s calculation on the whiteboard with such precision that the room seemed to collectively hold its breath. You’d learned his name that day from the whispers: Spencer Reid. The prodigy. The genius with more degrees than anyone knew what to do with.
From then on, he became a background character in your university life—a distant figure who seemed too brilliant, too out of reach, to exist in the same world as you. You heard the rumors, the awe-filled anecdotes: he’d started college as a child prodigy, aced every test like it was nothing, and was now juggling multiple Ph.D. programs.
Your own academic pursuits felt mundane in comparison. Sure, you worked hard, but you struggled. Like now, for instance, staring at the red marks slashing through your latest assignment—a problem set for your advanced statistics class.
“You’ve got potential, but you’re missing the fundamentals,” your professor said when you approached him after class, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “I’m assigning you a tutor.”
“A tutor?” you echoed, your stomach dropping. Group study sessions were bad enough; working one-on-one with someone felt like an invitation for them to witness your shortcomings up close.
“Don’t worry,” he said with a knowing smile. “You’ll be in good hands. I’ve paired you with one of the best.”
You didn’t know what to expect as you walked into the library that afternoon, clutching your notes so tightly your knuckles turned white. The email from your professor had given you nothing but a time and a name: Spencer Reid.
Your heart raced as you reached the designated table tucked into a quiet corner of the library. There he was, surrounded by open books and a tower of index cards, his familiar mop of brown hair falling into his eyes as he scribbled something into a notebook. He looked up when you approached, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made you freeze in place.
“You’re here for tutoring?” he asked, his voice softer than you expected, though no less confident.
You nodded quickly, struggling to find your words. “Y-yeah, I’m… I’m Y/N. My professor said you’d be helping me with stats?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he gestured for you to sit. “Let’s get started, then.”
As you settled into the chair across from him, you couldn’t help but feel like you were stepping into another universe—one where Spencer Reid wasn’t just the untouchable genius you’d admired from afar but someone real, someone tangible, someone who, for the first time, was looking directly at you.
You weren’t sure what you expected Spencer Reid’s tutoring style to be, but it certainly wasn’t this. You’d assumed he might be aloof, perhaps brisk, throwing around jargon you’d struggle to keep up with. Instead, he was patient—meticulously breaking down concepts into manageable pieces while his pen skated effortlessly across his notebook.
Not that you could focus on much of it.
His presence was… distracting. The way his long fingers tapped thoughtfully against the edge of the table, the faint crease between his brows when he explained something particularly tricky, the way his lips pursed as he considered your answer before gently redirecting you to the correct one. All of it sent your mind spiraling into a whirlwind of thoughts that had nothing to do with statistics.
“Does that make sense?” Spencer asked, tilting his head as his hazel eyes searched yours.
You blinked, realizing too late that you hadn’t heard a single word of his explanation. Heat rushed to your face as you fumbled for a response. “Um, yeah! Totally. Makes sense.”
He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. “Really? Then can you explain why we divide by the square root of the sample size in this calculation?”
Panic flared in your chest. “Oh, uh… because it… balances the equation?” you ventured weakly.
Spencer set his pen down, leaning back slightly as he studied you. There was something disarming about the way he looked at you, like he could see straight through the flustered exterior you were so desperately trying to hold together. And, knowing Spencer Reid, he probably could.
“You’re nervous,” he said, not unkindly, but with the clinical precision of someone stating a fact.
Your breath hitched. “What? No, I’m fine!” you lied, your voice raising an octave.
He tilted his head, his gaze softening. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “A lot of people feel overwhelmed during one-on-one tutoring. It’s a different kind of pressure.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but the sincerity in his tone stopped you. He wasn’t mocking you or trying to make you feel small. If anything, he seemed… concerned.
“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable,” he continued, his voice almost soothing now. “Because if you’re too focused on feeling self-conscious, it’s going to be harder for you to process the material.”
You nodded, unable to find your voice. Spencer smiled—a small, reassuring curve of his lips—and slid his notebook closer to you.
“Let’s try this,” he said, switching tactics. “Instead of diving into the calculations right away, let’s talk about what you’re struggling with conceptually. No pressure, no judgment. Just a conversation.”
That did help, marginally. His calm demeanor and methodical approach were like a balm to your frazzled nerves. But every now and then, he’d catch you staring at him for a beat too long, your mind wandering to thoughts that had nothing to do with statistics. Each time, his gaze would flicker with amusement, like he knew exactly what was going through your head but was too polite to say anything.
By the time the session ended, your brain felt like it had been wrung out like a sponge—not just from the math but from the sheer effort of keeping yourself together in his presence. As you packed up your things, Spencer handed you a few pages of handwritten notes.
“These should help,” he said, his voice still as calm and steady as ever. “And if you have questions before our next session, feel free to email me.”
You nodded, clutching the notes like a lifeline. “Thanks. I’ll, um… I’ll do that.”
As you walked away, you could feel his eyes on you, warm and curious. And though you were mortified at how obvious your flustered state had been, a tiny part of you couldn’t help but hope he didn’t mind.
You were determined to be better this time. You’d spent hours poring over the notes Spencer had given you, even rewatching a few recorded lectures for good measure. If you couldn’t control the embarrassing way your brain short-circuited around him, the least you could do was come prepared.
But as you approached the table in the library’s corner and saw him already seated, legs crossed, pen twirling lazily between his fingers, you realized preparation could only take you so far. He looked up as you neared, his hazel eyes lighting up briefly in acknowledgment.
“Hi,” you managed, your voice sounding far too breathy for your liking.
“Hi,” he replied, a slight smile playing on his lips as he motioned for you to sit. “Ready to dive in?”
You nodded quickly, lowering yourself into the chair and flipping open your notebook. Spencer wasted no time launching into a review of last session’s material, but as he began sketching out a new problem, you felt your focus slipping again.
It wasn’t your fault, really. Who could concentrate with him looking like that? His hair was slightly messier than last time, a few stray curls brushing against his forehead. He chewed absentmindedly on the cap of his pen as he thought, the motion inexplicably captivating. And when he leaned forward to jot down a formula, the faint scent of his cologne hit you, warm and woodsy, leaving your thoughts spiraling once more.
“Did you catch that?” Spencer’s voice cut through your haze. You blinked, realizing you’d been staring—again.
“S-sorry. What?” you stammered, gripping your pen like it might anchor you to reality.
His lips quirked up, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I was asking if you understood why we’re using a t-distribution here instead of a z-distribution.”
“Oh! Uh… yes?” you said uncertainly.
Spencer chuckled, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “You’re lying.”
Your stomach dropped, and you immediately ducked your head, cheeks flaming. “I’m not lying,” you mumbled.
“You are,” he said, and though his tone was light, there was an unmistakable confidence in his words. “Your body language gave it away. You looked down and shifted in your chair when you answered, which is a pretty common tell.”
You groaned softly, mortified. “Okay, fine. I don’t know why we’re using it.”
“See? That’s progress.” He grinned, and you could swear there was a hint of mischief in his expression. “But I can’t help noticing that your attention seems… elsewhere.”
Your head snapped up at that, your wide eyes meeting his. “What? No! I’m paying attention.”
Spencer tilted his head, his smile widening slightly. “Really? Then why do you keep staring at me?”
Your heart practically stopped. “I’m not—I wasn’t—I mean—” The words tumbled out of your mouth in a flustered mess, and his grin only grew more pronounced.
“It’s fine,” he said smoothly, cutting off your babbling. “I just couldn’t help but notice. You’ve been doing it since last session.”
Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “I wasn’t staring,” you lied weakly.
His gaze held yours, unwavering and far too knowing. “You were,” he countered, his voice low and teasing now. “But I’m curious—why?”
“I wasn’t—” You stopped yourself, realizing you were only digging the hole deeper. “I’m just… thinking.”
“Thinking?” His eyebrows lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “About the statistics, or something else?”
You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole. “The statistics,” you said firmly, though your voice wavered.
Spencer let out a soft chuckle, the sound warm and almost smug. “If you say so.”
He leaned forward again, his elbows resting on the table, and you felt the air shift between you. “For what it’s worth,” he said, his tone softer now, “it’s not a bad thing. People observe things they find interesting.”
The words hung in the air, and you swore your pulse echoed in your ears. You couldn’t tell if he was being matter-of-fact or if there was a deeper implication in his statement, but the knowing glint in his eyes kept you from relaxing.
“Let’s try again,” he said after a beat, tapping his pen against the notebook and effortlessly shifting the conversation back to math. But the playful smirk that lingered on his face for the rest of the session made it clear: he wasn’t letting you off the hook that easily.
When you arrived at your usual table in the library, Spencer was already there, meticulously arranging his materials. His long fingers smoothed out the corner of a page in his notebook, and he glanced up as you approached, offering a small smile that made your stomach flutter despite your best efforts to stay composed.
“Hi,” you greeted softly, sliding into your seat.
“Hi,” he replied, his voice warm and low. “Ready to tackle some more statistics?”
You nodded, pulling out your notebook and pen. He scooted his chair slightly closer—not enough to be obvious, but enough that you could feel the faintest brush of his knee against yours under the table. You froze for a moment, unsure if it was intentional, but Spencer didn’t react.
“Okay,” he began, leaning toward you to sketch out a problem. As he wrote, his shoulder nudged yours lightly. The contact was brief, but it left your skin tingling.
“Let’s start with this,” he said, his pen gliding smoothly across the page. “We’re calculating confidence intervals today. Do you remember the formula from last time?”
You stared at the problem, willing yourself to focus, but the warmth of his proximity made it difficult. “Uh… I think so?”
“Let me jog your memory,” he said. His hand moved toward your notebook, his fingers brushing against yours as he adjusted it to face him. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through you.
“Sorry,” he said casually, his eyes flicking to yours for a moment. “Didn’t mean to invade your space.”
“No, it’s fine,” you replied quickly, your voice higher than usual. You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t a big deal, that the contact had been accidental. But then he leaned even closer, his arm grazing yours as he explained the formula.
“See how the standard error fits into this part?” he asked, his voice calm and steady.
You nodded, though you weren’t sure what you were agreeing to. It was impossible to concentrate with the way his sleeve brushed against yours, the subtle movement sending a ripple of awareness through you.
“Let’s work through this part together,” Spencer continued, his tone patient. He slid his hand over the notebook, his fingers brushing against yours again as he pointed to a specific number. The touch lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, but his expression remained neutral, as though he hadn’t noticed.
You couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose or if you were imagining things. Either way, the warmth radiating from him was making your thoughts hazy.
“You okay?” he asked suddenly, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you.
“Yeah! Totally fine,” you said quickly, though your face felt like it was on fire.
He smiled, his expression soft but unreadable. “Good. Let me know if I’m going too fast.”
You nodded, gripping your pen tightly to ground yourself. But Spencer didn’t make it easy. Every time he reached for the notebook or gestured toward your notes, his hand would brush against yours. Once, he leaned forward to grab a pen, his shoulder pressing lightly into yours for a moment that felt both casual and deliberate.
By the time the session was over, your nerves were shot. Spencer handed you a fresh set of notes, his fingers grazing yours yet again as he passed them over.
“These should help,” he said, his voice soft and steady. “You’re doing better than you think, by the way.”
“Thanks,” you murmured, clutching the notes to your chest.
“Same time next week?” he asked, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than usual.
You nodded, too flustered to say much else. As you walked away, you replayed the session in your mind, questioning every subtle touch, every quiet moment of proximity. Was it intentional, or were you imagining things?
The worst part was that you couldn’t tell—and that you didn’t really mind either way.
You weren’t sure why you’d agreed to have Spencer tutor you at your place. The library felt safer somehow, more neutral. But when he’d suggested it—citing the possibility of fewer distractions—you’d found yourself nodding without a second thought.
Now, as you sat across from him at your small dining table, you were second-guessing every decision that had led to this moment.
“Nice place,” Spencer said as he set his bag down and took in the cozy, slightly cluttered room. His eyes lingered on a stack of books by the couch. “Suits you.”
“Thanks,” you replied, fidgeting with your pen. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting company, so it’s kind of messy.”
He gave you a small smile, his gaze warm and easy. “It’s fine. Ready to get started?”
You nodded, grateful for the excuse to focus on something—anything—other than the fact that Spencer Reid, in all his impossibly distracting glory, was sitting in your home.
For the first few minutes, you managed to keep things professional. Spencer explained a complex concept with his usual precision, and you actually managed to follow along. But then he leaned closer, pointing out a detail in your notes, and you felt that now-familiar flutter in your chest.
“You’ve got the right idea,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You just need to be more precise here.”
He tapped the edge of the page, his hand brushing yours in the process. The contact was brief but enough to make your breath hitch.
“You okay?” he asked, glancing up at you with those impossibly perceptive eyes.
“Yeah, fine,” you said quickly, though your voice betrayed you.
Spencer’s lips quirked, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours under the table. It felt so casual, so natural, that you couldn’t decide if it was intentional.
For a while, he kept his focus on the notes, but his proximity seemed to grow with each passing moment. The air between you felt charged, like static electricity, and you could feel your resolve slipping.
“So,” Spencer said suddenly, leaning back in his chair and studying you with an intensity that made your pulse race, “how are you finding these sessions so far?”
“They’re good,” you said quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Really helpful.”
“Helpful,” he repeated, his voice laced with something you couldn’t quite place. “You sure about that?”
“Of course,” you replied, glancing up at him.
His eyes locked onto yours, and the weight of his gaze was almost too much to bear. “You seem… distracted sometimes.”
“I’m not distracted,” you said defensively, though the heat rising to your cheeks said otherwise.
Spencer leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice dropped slightly, the teasing edge unmistakable. “Are you sure? Because I get the feeling you’ve been paying more attention to me than the math.”
Your stomach flipped, and you looked down, trying to steady your breathing. “That’s not true,” you muttered.
“Isn’t it?” he asked, his tone soft but insistent.
Before you could respond, he reached out, his fingers grazing yours as he took the pen from your hand. The movement was slow, deliberate, and it left your skin buzzing.
“Relax,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just helping.”
You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. He leaned closer, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.
“Spencer…” you began, your voice shaky.
“Yes?” he murmured, his gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest of moments.
You couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The tension between you was palpable, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you.
Spencer’s hand moved slightly, his fingers brushing against yours again. This time, the touch lingered, deliberate and unmistakable. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he said softly, his voice low and steady.
You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you found yourself leaning ever so slightly toward him, your body betraying you before your mind could catch up.
That was all the confirmation he needed.
With a slow, careful movement, Spencer closed the distance between you, his hand resting lightly on yours as he tilted his head. The kiss, when it came, was soft and tentative, like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you leaned into him, your heart pounding as you let yourself get lost in the moment. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours, his expression a mix of curiosity and something deeper.
“Still distracted?” he asked, a small, teasing smile tugging at his lips.
Your heart thundered in your chest as his words hung in the air. You couldn’t decide if the heat coursing through you was from the kiss or the way he was looking at you—like you were the most fascinating puzzle he’d ever encountered.
“Very,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
His smile widened slightly, but it wasn’t the smug grin you expected. It was softer, almost tender, though his eyes still carried that flicker of mischief.
“Maybe we should take a break,” he murmured, his voice lower now, almost inviting.
You nodded, your breath catching as he stood and motioned toward the couch in the living room. You followed him, your nerves on edge but your body moving of its own accord.
The moment you sat down, the tension between you snapped like a rubber band. Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, as though giving you one last chance to stop him, before leaning in again.
This time, there was nothing tentative about it. His lips met yours with more certainty, his hand sliding up to cup your jaw as he deepened the kiss. You melted into him, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as the kiss grew more fervent.
Spencer shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours as his free hand settled on your waist. The pressure was light, grounding, but it sent a shiver down your spine all the same. His thumb traced a small, absent-minded circle against your side, and the simple motion made your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.
You tilted your head slightly, allowing him to angle the kiss more deeply. He responded immediately, his fingers threading into your hair as he pulled you closer. The world outside your apartment ceased to exist, leaving only the heat of his body and the intoxicating pull of his lips against yours.
When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. Spencer’s forehead rested lightly against yours, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he caught his breath.
“I think,” he said after a moment, his voice rougher than usual, “we’ve officially crossed into not studying territory.”
You laughed softly, your hands still clutching the front of his shirt. “You think?”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm, before leaning back just enough to meet your gaze. His fingers lingered on your waist, and the way he looked at you made your heart skip a beat.
“You’re full of surprises, you know,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your cheek.
“Me?” you replied, raising an eyebrow. “You’re the one who—”
Before you could finish, he kissed you again, effectively silencing any protest. This time, it was slower, more deliberate, like he was savoring every second. You sighed against his lips, your hands sliding up to his shoulders as you gave in to the moment.
Spencer’s hands, steady but careful, slid down from your waist to rest on your hips. He shifted closer, and you felt the subtle press of his body against yours, his touch firm but never overwhelming. When his knee nudged between your legs, your breath hitched, the pressure sparking a warmth that spread through you like wildfire.
You froze for half a second, unsure if the movement had been intentional, but Spencer didn’t pull back. Instead, his lips moved against yours with more intent, and his hands tightened ever so slightly on your hips, guiding you just enough for the tension between you to crackle and deepen.
“Is this okay?” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and low, sending a shiver down your spine.
“Yes,” you whispered, your hands gripping his shoulders more tightly as you let yourself lean into him.
Encouraged by your response, Spencer deepened the kiss, his knee pressing more firmly between your thighs. The sensation was maddeningly slow, his movements deliberate and measured as though he was testing every reaction. You gasped softly, and he swallowed the sound with a small, satisfied hum.
His hands slid up your sides, his thumbs brushing against your ribs just beneath the hem of your shirt. The touch was gentle, but the heat of his palms against your skin left you trembling.
He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear as he murmured, “I’m going to ask you a question from one of our sessions. If you get it right, I’ll keep going. If you don’t…” His hands stilled against your skin, and he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his smirk growing. “Well, I’ll have to stop.”
Your mouth went dry. Was he serious? The challenge in his eyes told you he absolutely was.
“Spencer…” you started, your voice shaky with anticipation and a tinge of frustration.
“Hm?” he prompted, his hands sliding down slightly but remaining just beneath your shirt, a silent reminder of what was at stake. “What’s the formula for calculating a confidence interval?”
You stared at him, your mind scrambling to recall the formula you’d seen so many times in your notes. But all you could focus on was the way his fingers were still, waiting, as though they held the key to your ability to think.
“Um,” you began, your voice faltering. “It’s, uh, the mean… plus or minus… the critical value?”
Spencer’s smirk widened, his head tilting slightly as though he was considering your answer. “Close,” he said, his hands retreating slightly. “But not quite. Want to try again?”
“No, wait!” you exclaimed, your cheeks flushing as you tried to focus. “The mean plus or minus the critical value times the standard error?”
He hummed softly, his fingers resuming their slow circles. “There it is,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “See? You can focus when you want to.”
Your heart pounded as his hands slid higher, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to the underside of your bra. The sensation was enough to make your breath hitch, but you barely had time to react before he spoke again.
“Next question,” he said, his tone taking on a slightly firmer edge. “What’s the first step in solving a regression problem?”
Your brain felt like it had been set on fire. How were you supposed to remember academic concepts when his hands were touching you like this?
“I—I think…” you stammered, biting your lip as you tried to focus. “The first step is… identifying the variables?”
Spencer’s brow lifted, his expression a mix of amusement and approval. “Good,” he said, his hands sliding back down to your waist. “But don’t forget to check your assumptions first. Details matter.”
You let out a soft whine of frustration, but the sound turned into a gasp as his knee pressed gently between your legs again, reigniting the fire building in your core.
“You’re doing well,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw as he spoke. “But I think you can do better.”
The challenge in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your resolve crumbling under the weight of his attention.
“What’s the difference between Type I and Type II errors?” he asked, his tone almost clinical despite the heat radiating from him.
“Type I is… rejecting a true null hypothesis,” you managed, your voice shaky. “And Type II is failing to reject a false one.”
Spencer grinned, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth. “Excellent,” he said softly. “You’re such a quick learner when you try.”
The praise made your heart race, warmth blooming in your chest as his words sank in. You barely had a chance to respond before his hand slid lower, resting on the bare skin just above the waistband of your pants.
“You deserve a reward,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine.
“A reward?” you managed, your voice breathless and unsteady.
He chuckled softly, his lips moving to your neck, pressing a series of slow, deliberate kisses along the sensitive skin. “For all your hard work,” he murmured against your skin, his fingers toying with the elastic of your waistband. “Don’t you think you’ve earned it?”
Your only response was a soft, shaky nod, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as though it was the only thing keeping you grounded.
“Good girl,” he said, the words barely above a whisper, but they sent a jolt through your entire body.
His hand slipped beneath the fabric of your pants, his touch deliberate and teasing as he traced the edge of your panties. He paused for a moment, his lips ghosting over your ear as he murmured, “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“I don’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling but filled with certainty.
That was all the permission he needed. His hand slipped lower, his fingers sliding beneath the fabric of your panties to find your most sensitive spot. The first touch was light, almost experimental, but it was enough to make you gasp softly, your body arching into him.
“That’s it,” Spencer murmured, his voice filled with quiet satisfaction. “You’re doing so well.”
His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, the pressure just enough to leave you trembling in his grasp. His other hand slid up to cup your jaw, tilting your head slightly so he could capture your lips in another searing kiss.
The contrast between his steady, controlled movements and the growing intensity of his kisses was intoxicating, leaving you completely at his mercy. He broke the kiss just long enough to study your face, his eyes dark with desire but filled with a surprising tenderness.
“Look at you,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
The praise made your cheeks flush, but before you could respond, his fingers pressed more firmly against you, drawing a soft whimper from your lips.
“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a featherlight kiss. “So responsive. So perfect.”
His words and touch combined left you completely undone, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. All you could do was cling to him, your hands gripping his shoulders as he continued his slow, deliberate exploration.
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