#and it ended in Such a heartbreaking way i think but it is just so beautifully done and so wonderfully represented

[reidsism]

➳ THE SOUND OF HEARTBREAK — S.R

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spencer reid x soft!bimbo!reader

in which, for all your love, you just can’t compare to the most beautiful girl in the world

wc: 13.5k (woah)

warnings: post maeve arc (so spoilers for 8×10 - 8×12), heavy angst, but so so much love and fluff before it! im picturing this taking place between s8 and s9 lol. also some of the bau aren’t like. super nice in this one soz :/

a/n: don’t stress abt the ending too much bc im already planning a part two (tbh a whole saga around these two icl). also yeah if u can’t tell, i don’t really like maeve im so sorry. i don’t think i do her any injustice here but this is like. me fixing stuff. sorta. kinda. not really. mostly just painfully. :,) also omg reblogs?! best part of my day fr

“Just as one day we will be separated by my death or yours. I know this must seem like a heaping up of obscurities to you. I can't say it in a more orderly and comprehensible way. I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.” -Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago.

The living room is quiet.

Spencer’s apartment is always quiet, peaceful, warm. How could it not be, surrounded by books you’d never heard of, shelves that reach the ceiling and lined edge-to-edge with copies of novels that are older than you, in languages you can’t begin to comprehend?

The chess table is still set up, mid-game, from where Spencer had been teaching you how to play the other day. He’d gotten a call from his boss that he had to come in, and Spencer had stared at the board for no more than a moment before saying you could continue once he was back, then he pressed a kiss to the space between your eyebrows—your glabella, as he had once mentioned—before rushing out the door.

It still feels strange, being in his apartment without him here. But he had called you from the jet on his way back, and asked if you’d be home when he got back. He sounded so sleepy, so sweet, you couldn’t help the murmur of assent from spilling from your lips.

He’d only given you a key a week ago, and you were beyond shocked when he had pressed it into your hand, the metal digging into your palm. This, between you, was still so new, so young. But he’d assured you that he trusted you, that he always wanted you around, that you having a key to his home wasn’t a matter of if, only when, and he’d prefer not to waste unnecessary time.

It’s late when the door opens.

Spencer is quiet when he enters, expecting to see you either curled up on his couch or lying asleep in his bed, but instead, you’re standing at one of his bookshelves, your hand outstretched to reach at the higher shelves.

He’s a bit surprised. The top three shelves on that unit are all foreign novels, ones he’s collected from his youth. Latin, German, Russian, Korean, and even a couple of thick Spanish texts that he used mostly to continue learning the language.

You’re silent, not even turning your head to acknowledge his presence, and Spencer wonders if you’ve even heard the door at all.

“Angel?” he prompts, causing your head to whip to the left so quickly he’s momentarily concerned you’ve given yourself whiplash. You tear yourself away from the shelf immediately, like the surface itself has burned you, and Spencer pauses. “You okay? You didn’t even hear me come in.”

You just nod, jerkily, tucking your lower lip between your teeth. “I was just looking,” you tilt your head to the shelf and shrug, pulling the sleeves of your sweater over your hands and crossing your arms over your chest. “Sorry.”

Spencer shakes his head, hanging up his messenger bag and coat on the hook by the door. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says, coming closer to you. “Are you curious about them? You can borrow a few, if you want.” He sits on the couch carefully, like he knows there’s something you’re not saying.

You shake your head with a sigh, glancing back over at his stacks of novels. “That’s alright, Spence.” He pats the cushion next to him and you seat yourself slowly onto the cool leather, crossing your legs under yourself. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’d get it anyway.”

Spencer furrows his brows. “I’m sure you would, actually. There’s no reason why you couldn’t, unless it was a language you don’t understand. But even then,” he tilts his head, scooching ever so slightly closer to you. “I can still read them to you.”

You sigh softly. “I know, honey. You know I love it when you read to me,” the corner of your lips twitch up, and it makes a slow grin pull at Spencer’s cheeks. “How was the case, anyway?”

Spencer shrugs. “Fine, as usual. It doesn’t matter anymore, anyway.” He rests his arm over the back of the couch, a silent beckon for you to curl into him like usual. “I’m home now. With you,” he presses the softest of kisses to your hairline. “Are you tired?”

You shake your head, “Not really. I’m sure you are, though. Want me to start the kettle?” Spencer can’t help the nod—he is tired. Exhausted, even. You just smile at him before standing and padding to the kitchen and turning on the stove, setting the metal kettle on the burner.

He hears the cabinets open and the sound of ceramic being placed on granite. You’re quietly humming to yourself, and Spencer closes his eyes. It’s nice, so domestic in a way he hadn’t expected. You peek your head around the corner for a moment. “Lavender or peppermint?”

He smiles, all warm and soft. “Lavender, please.”

You nod once, your head hiding behind the wall again before you peek back out. “Maybe take a shower, honey. It’ll help you relax, y’know,” you grin, teasing at him. “The tea’ll be done when you are.”

Spencer’s eyes crinkle as he chuckles, watching you turn back to the kitchen. He stands with a sigh before heading into his bedroom to grab pyjamas and a towel, then into the bathroom where he leaves the door open, just a crack.

You take the kettle off the burner before it has a chance to whistle, not wanting to disturb this quiet, peaceful comfort that has settled into the cozy warmth of your boyfriend’s apartment. You make his tea exactly how he likes it; black, with no less than four sugars.

You hear the water from the shower shut off just as you’re bringing the mugs to the coffee table—on coasters, cute little pastel ceramic ones shaped like fruit slices. You’d bought them at a flea market downtown years ago, and when you saw that he didn’t have any, despite all the coffee and tea he drinks, you didn’t hesitate to bring them over.

They might look slightly out of place in this warm, cozy place, but, well… Maybe you have that in common.

The bedroom door creaks open before you have the chance to spiral too far. Spencer emerges in a loose-fitting MIT tee and sweatpants. He meanders slowly to the couch before flopping down and grabbing his mug—his usual one, with “think like a proton, they’re always positive!” faded on the side. It’s starting to chip, but he got it for free at a physics convention in Anaheim back when he attended Caltech, and it’s been a memento since.

He smiles as he picks it up off the bright coaster before looking at you. He nods towards the bookshelf you were staring at earlier. “Can you grab that red one for me, angel?” he gestures to a large leather-bound hardcover on the second shelf.

You nod and reach up to grab it. It’s heavier than you’d expected, but you take it to the couch before curling into Spencer’s side.

This has become routine every night you spend here. You make tea, and Spencer reads to you on the couch until you’re either both passed out or too tired to continue, before heading to bed.

You get comfortable, pulling your knees to your chest as he covers you both with the plush throw blanket he keeps on the back of the couch. Spencer clears his throat before starting to read, flipping to some random page in the middle of the book. You don’t question it, just close your eyes and rest your head on his chest.

His voice is low, quiet as he begins to read. You’ve already begun to drift off by the time you start to register the words he’s saying. They’re not from anything he’s ever read to you before.

“I felt a mortal pity for the boy I was, and still more pity for the girl you were. My whole being was astonished and asked: If it’s so painful to love and absorb electricity, how much more painful it is to be a woman, to be the electricity, to inspire love. ‘Here at last I’ve spoken it out. It could make you lose your mind. And the whole of me is in it.’”

You sit up, peering at the pages that Spencer’s eyes are trained on. You can’t hold back the way your breath catches.

“Spence, what is this?” Your brows furrow as you sit up fully, removing yourself from the warmth of his embrace. You wrap the throw blanket around your shoulders tightly.

He glances up from the book. “Doctor Zhivago,” he says simply, as if that explains everything. At your slightly raised brows, he continues. “It’s a Russian romantic novel by poet and composer Boris Pasternak. It was first published in 1957, and—”

“No, I mean, what is that?” You shake your head, pointing at the page.

Spencer’s brow furrows. “The language? This is Cyrillic. It’s the Russian alphabet, and—”

You cut him off again. “I know what Cyrillic is, Spencer.” You can’t hide the bite in your voice. “I meant, what- how- why are you reading it in Russian?”

He shrugs, closing the cover softly. “I have both the original Russian and the English translation, but I prefer this version. The translation makes it clunky, it doesn’t get the tone quite right.”

You just blink at him. “I didn’t know you spoke Russian,” you whisper, curling deeper into the blanket. You hate this, the feeling of inadequacy that comes so frequently from being with a man like Dr. Spencer Reid.

He sets the book down on the coffee table. “I don't, actually. I can read it, though.” He glances sidelong at you. “Is that… a bad thing?”

You shake your head, finally looking at him. “No, of course not, honey. I just,” you sigh. “I don’t know. I feel like I can’t keep up with you sometimes.”

All the time.

Spencer purses his lips. “Well, I don’t need you to. Frankly, I don’t really want you to.”

And that gives you pause. “Really?”

He nods, reaching for you, and you allow him to cradle you in his lap again. “Really. This might come as a bit of a surprise, angel,” he grins, “but I do like you.”

Your face goes warm. You press your cheek into his chest. “I know.” It’s quiet, a murmur, a whisper.

Spencer presses a feather-light kiss to your head. It’s late and quiet and calm, and you’re so warm, cuddled into him and under this plush blanket, that it takes no time at all until you’re fast asleep.

The sun wakes you before you’re quite ready, the bright rays shining on your face.

You’re still curled into Spencer’s chest, his legs stretched out along the length of the couch, whereas you know it’ll hurt to stand after having your knees tucked up all night. The blanket is still wrapped around you, the warmth more suffocating than comforting now, but the weight of his arm slung around your waist is a welcome one.

You peer your head up to look at him, to take him in, in this peaceful state of relaxation. You love this part, when you wake before him and he doesn’t turn his face away when you admire him.

His face is smushed into the throw pillow, his hair wild and messy, thrown every which way like a halo around his head. He’s snoring so softly you can barely hear it, but you do, because there’s nothing about this man you can’t notice.

You try to ignore the tug in your chest. It almost hurts. He looks so peaceful and happy and loved, so relaxed in this sleepy state of the early morning. You almost feel guilty for the thoughts that run wild in your head. How is this real? How is he real? How the hell do you fit into this world—his world—full of chess and tea and comfort and Russian poetry and genius minds?

But then he stirs, and his arm instinctively tightens its hold on your waist, his large hand splaying out over your back. He stretches slightly and, before he even opens his eyes, there’s a smile on his lips.

“Morning, angel.”

Your heart stutters wildly in your chest. You almost feel like bursting into tears right there, collapsing into his chest and letting him comfort you in that way you know he will. But you swallow it back. Just smile at the dopey look on his face, his eyes still shut.

You press the softest of kisses to his cheek, and maybe it’s your mind, but you swear he looks confused for a moment, his brows pulling together as he inhales, his nose at your neck.

It’s your mind. It has to be; your feelings of inadequacy are making you paranoid. “How’d you sleep, baby?” you murmur, your lips brushing his cheek before you pull away.

Then he opens his eyes, his honey-brown irises taking you in so sweetly, scanning over your face as a soft smile overtakes his lips. “Best sleep I’ve gotten in a long while,” he grins, pressing a peck at your lips. “Do you want any coffee?”

You nod, allowing him to crawl out from under you and stand from the couch. He pads into the kitchen, leaving you with your mugs from last night and the red leather hardcover of Doctor Zhivago. You soften immediately. Spencer was reading you poetry. He’d never done that before, read anything romantic. Usually, he read something you were at least familiar with, the classics, stuff you somewhat remember reading in high school. But this warms your heart so much you swear it’ll melt right there in your chest, drip down your ribs like sticky-sweet honey.

You stand, stretching out your legs, and pick up the mugs before bringing them to the kitchen. Spencer’s standing at the counter, his back to you, his hands bracing the edge of the counter. You set the mugs down in the sink and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek on his back. “You okay, honey?”

Spencer nods, placing his hands over yours where they lay on his front. “I’m fine, angel. You can leave the mugs, I’ll wash them. Did you want to shower?”

You hum, pulling away from the hug but maintaining your hold on his hand. “Sure. Did you wanna join me?” you grin, “y’know, save water, and all that?”

Spencer’s neck flushes red, and he swallows harshly. “Not right now, sweetheart. But go ahead, take your time.” He gives your palm a squeeze when you pout. “Your coffee will be done by the time you’re back, and I don’t have to go in to work. Not unless I get a call.” He smiles when your face brightens. “So we’ll have the day, okay?”

You nod, a grin wide across your lips before you’re bouncing off to his bedroom. He hears the shower turn on a moment later, and he sighs heavily as he turns on the sink to wash the mugs.

Spencer can’t stop the quirk of his lips as he stares at your mug for a moment—a cute, bright pink one, tapered at the top like an upside-down strawberry. He takes extra care as he washes it, making sure to get soapy water around all of the molded leaves and seeds.

He exhales as he sets it aside. Runs a damp hand down his face. He needs to collect himself, but god, it’s so hard when he swears she’s hovering over his shoulder.

Spencer’s reading silently on the couch, sipping at the last bit of coffee in his mug. You’re on the other end, scrolling absently on your phone as you set your strawberry mug onto an orange slice coaster. You glance over at him, and you soften. “Spence?”

He hums, looking up at you. You’re lost looking into his eyes. He’s wearing glasses today, his thick browline ones that frame his face just right, and you wonder why he wears contacts so often. Why he doesn’t let himself look like this more frequently. He looks stunning in spectacles. “Angel?”

You blink at his prompting. “I was just wondering,” you shrug, glancing over your shoulder at the chess table behind you. “Did you want to continue?”

Spencer lets a smile slowly overtake his cheeks. He nods, setting down his mug onto a pink grapefruit slice coaster. “If you want, sure.” At your assent, he stands, holding out a hand.

Your cheeks flush with warmth as he helps you stand from the couch. You follow him to the table before seating yourself in the same seat as a week ago, staring at the pieces in concentration.

He smiles. “Do you remember where we left off? You nod, and he moves his rook up two places.

Your hand hovers over your knight, then your queen, almost shaking with uncertainty. Spencer watches you, his eyes soft but calculating, patiently waiting for your next move. You rest your fingers over a pawn and move it up one space with resignation.

“You know, angel,” Spencer says softly, all gentle comfort. “It’s not about making the perfect move. It’s about thinking a few steps ahead, but also,” he moves his rook up and takes the pawn you’d just moved, setting it to the side. “Trusting your instincts. You’ve got this,” he smiles so warmly at you, so reassuring. You still feel the slightest twinge of frustration and embarrassment.

Chess doesn’t come naturally to you, but you’re determined to figure it out. For him.

You bite your lip, glancing over the board. You’re sure his comment about trusting your instincts has something to do with the way you’d hesitated, but you’re still so confused about what to do. You glance up at Spencer again, his eyes fixed on the board, his hands gently tapping at the edge of the table.

“What should I do with my queen?” you ask, a little hesitant. “I feel like she’s… I don’t know. Not doing much.” God, how do you stop feeling so stupid about this?

Spencer just smiles, that warm, gentle expression that makes you feel like you’re the only one in the room. “That’s okay, sweetheart. Remember, your queen can move in any direction. Horizontal, vertical, or diagonal, but only as long as nothing is blocking her path. She’s powerful. You have to decide how to use her.”

You nod slowly, trying to picture it in your head. “So… I can go anywhere? Like, here?” you ask, pointing to a spot near his king.

“Exactly,” he says, his voice steady, his gaze never leaving the board. “But you’ll want to think about what happens after you move her. Like, does it leave you open to being attacked? Does it bring you closer to checkmate?”

You inhale shakily, trying to digest it all as you nod, but it’s a lot to process. You take a deep breath. You can do this. You look down at the board, then back at him, his gaze still so patient. “What if I mess up?” you ask softly, unable to hide the shyness in your voice, your tone full of the nervous doubt you try to push down.

Spencer chuckles gently. “You won’t mess up, angel. Even if you do, it’s just part of learning. I’m not going anywhere,” he smiles. “You’re doing great.”

His words warm you more than the mug of coffee you’d just finished, and you feel that familiar flutter in your chest. You allow yourself a small, shy grin before focusing on the board again. You move your queen exactly as he described, cautiously placing her diagonally across the board.

Spencer’s eyes light up a little, and his smile widens. “See? That’s the right move. You’re getting it. You’re really good at this,” and oh, how your chest positively aches at the pride in his expression.

Your heart skips a beat at his compliment, like it always does, and you let out a soft giggle. “I’m not that good, Spence,” you reply, trying to play it off.

He shakes his head, and you can see the admiration in his eyes. “You’re more natural at this than you think, trust me. Just keep practicing.” You sit back, watching him move a piece, and then he looks up at you, tilting his head. “It’s all about finding balance—taking risks, but also knowing when to protect what matters. Just like life.”

You blink at him, a little stunned by the way his words feel. Just like life? Maybe that’s what this whole chess thing is about—finding a way to balance your moves, even when things feel a little uncertain. Even when you’re just learning.

And then Spencer laughs softly, snapping you out of your thoughts. “You look so lost in thought, angel. Am I being too deep or introspective?” He gently pushes his glasses up his nose from where they’ve begun to slip down the slope of it.

You shake your head quickly, your heart racing as his eyes meet yours. “No, no! Not at all! I’m just thinking about how much you know.” You move your knight in an L-shape, like he taught you, and if the twinkle in his eye is any indication, you’ve made a good move. “Like, it’s crazy. You make it all sound so easy.”

Spencer just shrugs modestly, then picks up his rook and moves it up. “It’s just about seeing the whole board. Everyone has their own way of learning. Yours just happens to be different.” His eyes soften as he looks at you, and you feel your heart tug. “And I think that’s what makes you special.”

You bite down on your lip, trying to focus on the game again, but his words are ringing in your ears, making everything feel like it’s a little too perfect. The fact that he’s teaching you, patiently guiding you through something new, something you want to learn for him, feels so intimate.

You try to steady your breath as you make your next move, feeling your fingers brush against his as you capture his bishop. It’s a brief touch, but it makes your heart race. You chance a peek at him, and oh. His smile is so impossibly bright. You clear your throat and continue, tucking his bishop onto the table beside the board.

You’ve got this.

It's mid-afternoon when you pipe up again. “Y’know, the weather’s really nice today, Spence.”

He looks up from his book, honey-brown eyes tracing your nose from where you’re curled under his arm. “Yeah, I saw. It’s supposed to be pretty temperate until next week; then the rain is supposed to hit.” He lifts his arm from your shoulders and tenderly traces his knuckle down your jaw. “Did you want to go out?”

You shrug lamely, going shy and warm under his gentle gaze. “I don’t know, I guess, yeah. It’s really warm out.” Your eyes lock onto his. “I think we could go to the park or something?”

Spencer smiles, his hand gently gripping your chin as he presses a soft kiss to your lips. “That sounds great, sweetheart.” He stands, and pulls you up with him. He crouches to help you slip on your running shoes and ties the laces. You can’t tear your eyes from his lithe, slender fingers working the laces and, oh. Your heart beats wildly in your chest.

He stands and slings his messenger bag over his shoulder before grabbing his keys with one hand and yours with the other.

His fingers intertwine with yours, and you flush with warmth. He smiles at you as he leads you out of his apartment, locking the door with one hand before you head downstairs.

It’s warm and breezy, the air a perfect 75° outside, the wind just soft enough to sweep at your hair without messing it up. Spencer’s hand is still tangled with yours, and you can’t keep the smile off your face as he goes on some tangent about the differences between mallards and pintail ducks, because you’d just passed a pond and wondered why they looked so different.

You wish you were focusing, but god, you’re lost. So incredibly lost. Staring at his side profile, his brows raising and furrowing, his nose scrunching in that perfect way that makes you just want to bite it. He’s so animated, so enthusiastic about this, it’s a bit staggering.

You don't know when it happened, but now, looking up at him in this dreamy way, like he’s hardly real, like you’ve invented him to cover up the hurt from the meanness of those in your past, you’re sure of it.

You’re in love.

Somewhere between the way he reads to you and teaches you chess with all the patience in the world, between the way he remembers how you always take your coffee and kisses you first thing in the morning, between his warm linen sheets and the dusty scent of his books, you’ve fallen totally, completely in love.

And you don’t know why that invokes so much fear within you. Isn’t it a good thing, to fall in love with your boyfriend? To love him so wholly, so deeply, you aspire to learn the things he loves? To yearn for sameness, to relate to him, to keep up with his statistical rants about anything from the decline of leather-bound novels to the likelihood of walking past a serial killer without ever knowing it?

And then he looks down at you, notices the wistful, faraway look in your eyes as you just stare at him, and all he can do is laugh. He pulls you ever closer, pushes your hair back, and kisses your temple, and you positively melt. He’s so gentle with you, it almost hurts.

Then he’s tugging at your hand, and you look away from him for the first time since you arrived at the park. There’s a couple of tents set up along the path further ahead, and even though you groan through a laugh, Spencer looks so giddy, so excited, you can’t even think about ruining that. So you go along with him, his hand gently tugging at yours, before he stops at one tent towards the end.

Jewellry.

Spencer takes a while looking down at the display, before he picks up a simple gold necklace, a modest, tiny pink gemstone hanging off the chain. Spencer doesn’t hesitate before asking how much and pulling a twenty from his wallet.

You can’t tear your eyes from him. You feel like you haven’t so much as blinked in the last three minutes.

Spencer turns to you, the necklace hanging from his hand like it’s nothing more than a silly little trinket, and maybe it is. It’s probably some cheap, knockoff thing that’ll tarnish in a week, something that he paid far too much for, and you’re sure he knows that.

But he’s standing in front of you, holding it out with the sweetest, gentlest, most open expression you’ve ever seen on him.

And for that? The necklace might as well be twenty-four-carat gold and diamond-encrusted.

You blink at him, your brows furrowing upwards and eyes wide like a doe. “Do you want me to wear it?” you ask, sheepish and small and looking up at him like you’d give him the very earth itself if you could.

Spencer just smiles, all soft and warm and good. “I got it for you.” He shrugs, like this is nothing. Like it's casual and not like he’s holding your heart in his fist, like you trust him enough to not throttle it. “You can do whatever you want with it, angel.”

And, oh.

This is love. You’re certain of it. You’re so lost in the warmth of his eyes, the love pounding against your chest, that you don’t even notice the way he goes quiet, rigid, no longer looking at you, but through you. Like he heard something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Can you put it on me?”

Your soft voice breaks him from his trance, and immediately, the warmth returns to his gaze, his smile comes back so quickly it’s almost as if it never left. He nods, gently turning you around, and you pull your hair away from your neck.

Spencer is slow, reverent, as he drapes the chain around your neck. Careful as he clasps it. He even bends enough to press a soft, almost intangible kiss to your nape before stepping away.

And when you turn around, dropping your hair? Your palms go to his cheeks, clasping him like something precious between your hands, and you kiss him with all the love in the world.

All the love you’ve left unsaid.

You’re barely back inside his apartment when Spencer’s phone buzzes from its place in his bag.

You haven’t stopped toying with your necklace since he put it on you. The charm is almost glued to your fingers now; you’re unable to stop messing with it on your neck. It’s something so simple, but it feels like something more. Like something meaningful.

You’ve already seated yourself on his couch when he comes and plops beside you, a new, brighter grin on his face. “What was that, baby?” you ask softly, watching as he sets his phone face down on the coffee table.

“That was Garcia,” he smiles. “She invited us for drinks at Porter’s tonight.”

You blink. “She invited us, or she invited you?”

Spencer pauses, his hand momentarily ceasing its ministrations on your shoulder. “I mean, she invited me, and the team. But,” he sighs, turning to face you fully. “But, I think it would be nice. Introducing you to them.”

You inhale softly. “You sure? You don’t think it’s, like,” you glance down at your lap. “Too early?”

He shakes his head, his hand gently hooking under your chin to tilt your face up so he can look at you properly. “Angel, you already have a key to my place. I don’t think anything is ‘too early’ anymore.” His head tilts. “If you’re not ready to meet them, you know I wouldn’t force you to, right?” At your nod, he continues. “I would like for you to meet them. Really. They’re really important to me, and so are you. But if you don’t think you’re ready, or if you don’t want to, you don’t have to come. Or, I can stay home.”

Your eyes go wide, doelike and soft. Where on earth did this perfect man come from?

“Las Vegas,” he murmurs. You blink at him. He simply grins. “And I’m not perfect, sweetheart,” he turns bashful, his thumb gentle as it caresses your jaw.

“You’re so good,” you whisper, a whine in your voice. “Why- how are you so good?” You can’t help the tears that fill your waterline now, and Spencer immediately cradles you to his chest.

He shushes you softly. “I’m just normal, angel. I promise,” he chuckles. “I’m not doing anything that you don’t deserve.”

You sob impossibly harder.

“I would love to meet your friends, honey,” you pull away, your mascara smeared down your cheeks. Spencer’s hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb lightly brushing away the black smears from your skin like he’s doing something holy. Like he’s done it before, like he’d do it a thousand more times if you asked.

“You sure?” he whispers, careful, like if he speaks too loud this—you—might disappear. Like this is all some vivid dream he’s not quite convinced he deserves to wake up into.

You nod, just once. A little wobbly, but firm. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure, Spence.” Your fingers tug at the chain around your neck, the clasp digging gently into your skin. It stings, just a little. Just enough to feel real. To remind you, he gave it to you. Just today. That it means something. That Spencer is different.

“They’ll love you,” he smiles. He sounds so certain it almost breaks you in half. “I know they will.” You want to believe him. You want to let that live in your chest and take root. Because you’re not sure of much, really, but this? What you feel? It’s real. You know it’s real.

When he presses a kiss to your mascara-stained cheek, you close your eyes. Take it in. Take him in. He pulls away, looking at you warmly, openly, lovingly. “You can wear whatever you want. You don’t have to dress up,” he stands, his hand still warm where it’s clasped in yours. “We’re just going to a bar, and most of them are going straight from work.”

And maybe that’s exactly why you do want to dress up. You love Spencer. You want to make a good impression on his friends, his team, the people who keep him safe when he’s across the country chasing killers. Because you’re not just trying to impress them. You’re trying to seem enough.

In his bedroom, the light hangs low and golden and warm. Your dress hangs off your shoulders, and your hands tremble just slightly as you smooth it down again.

Spencer stands behind you, zipping you up with quiet hands and a look that could positively undo you. His touch settles at your hips, warm and grounding and real.

You study your reflection. “Is this okay, baby?” You catch his eyes in the mirror. Your voice is barely above a whisper, and you hate how small it sounds. How unsure. You can’t hide the way it trembles, the nerves that show through.

Spencer’s hands slide to your arms, trailing a path of fire before they cover your wrists, holding them steady. “Angel,” he whispers, turning you around gently. He looks at you like you’re an oasis in the middle of the driest of deserts. “You look beautiful.” He kisses you softly, tenderly. “I promise, they’re gonna love you. Please stop worrying.” His lips find that space between your eyebrows again, your glabella.

You know it means it. And that’s the worst part.

You’re still not used to someone holding you so closely, so gently, without an ounce of malice, of annoyance, of condescension.

You exhale shakily. You move your hands to the lapels of his blazer. Then to the knot of his tie. Then, finally resting them on his cheeks. Your eyes dart around his face, studying him like you haven’t already memorized the slope of his nose, the pink of his lips, the honey-brown warmth of his eyes.

Just in case. There’s a sinking in your gut you can’t explain. Let me remember you, it says, just in case.

“Thank you, honey.” You kiss him again, and when one of his hands finds the back of your head, you let him.

But then you sigh, pulling away. “If you ruin my hair, Dr. Reid, so help me,” you giggle, pressing a final kiss to his chin.

He chuckles softly. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart,” he grins before heading to the living room and pulling his messenger bag over his shoulder.

You grab your purse and glance one last time at your reflection. Not to fix anything, no. Just to see yourself. To pretend you might resemble someone worth loving in a room full of people who love him.

When you step into the living room, Spencer’s already waiting by the door, his hands wringing at the strap of his bag, his smile still impossibly wide.

He links your fingers with his again like it’s second nature. Like this is just what you do. Like you belong with him.

You pretend—for just a moment—that you do.

You know you’re nervous when you hardly remember the metro ride. Conversations blurred around you until they were nothing but mist in the background. Just the steady warmth of Spencer’s hand in yours, his thumb moving in slow, absent circles on your skin, like he was tracing something only he could see. You remember the vibration under your feet and the way he held you when you stumbled as the train stopped.

By the time you step off the train and into the buzz of the city night, the air is cool, crisp. There’s a dewy scent of rain on the horizon.

You don’t even remember the walk to the bar until Porter’s flashes in bright red neon.

Your pulse is back in your throat, and suddenly it all feels too fast. Too real.

The gentle tug on your hand has your head snapping to your left. Spencer’s brows are furrowed, his lips pressed together. “Just take a breath, angel.” His voice is soft, warm. His thumb runs tenderly across your hand again. ��It’ll be fine. Like I said, they’ll love you. I promise,” and oh. Oh, he looks so earnest. So sure. You can’t help the nod, the shaky exhale, the way your shoulders straighten out.

You blink. Look over at him again, a small smile quirking at your painted lips. “Okay, baby. I’m ready.”

He grins like sunshine.

Porter’s is busy; not packed, but there are enough patrons to have the bartenders ignoring attempts at conversation.

Spencer grins widely as a group of six, all settled around a circular booth, waves him over. His hand stays locked with yours until you get closer—then, he places it on the small of your back.

Their smiles start to… well. They falter, a bit, when they notice it. His hand, warm and steady on your back. You expected to surprise them, sure, but… You figured that for FBI profilers, they’d be a little better at hiding their shock.

And that means they’re not hiding it. They’re not trying to. If you can see their confusion, their surprise, their—is it discomfort?—then it’s intentional.

And that’s what stings the most. That this sudden tension, the glances, the raised brows, all point to you not fitting in.

They’re not impressed.

Spencer hardly notices it, though. You think it must be because he’s been so excited, but… really, how doesn’t he notice it? It’s like all the oxygen in the room has been sucked out, leaving six pairs of eyes staring at you like you’re other, like you don’t belong.

The blonde with wide eyes smiles at you, but it’s the kind that feels practiced, calculating. You’ve seen it before, more times than you can even remember.

The man next to her—broad, confident, handsome—raises a brow, his glass of whiskey stopping by his lip. He tilts his head when his eyes lower, meeting Spencer’s hand on your back.

Then the third woman, dark hair, a sharp gaze, pursed lips. God, she looks like Spencer when he’s trying to solve a crossword. You hate it, being studied like a puzzle yet to be solved.

And then Spencer says their names, and suddenly, for a moment, it clicks. “This is JJ, Morgan, Blake, Hotch, Rossi, and Garica.” Names you’ve only ever heard in fond little stories, in memories over takeout containers and sleepy mornings in bed.

You take a breath, willing yourself to breathe again. Your eyes land steadily on Garcia—Penelope. She’s already standing to hug you, her arms outstretched and a grin on her face. Spencer had described her as glitter and joy personified, and you can’t disagree. You think you love her already. “Oh my god, you’re real!” you giggle, “I was so sure Spence made you up!”

Penelope laughs with you, her hug warm and inviting, and you can’t help melting into it. She smells nice; like coconut and vanilla and citrus. You squeeze her back before pulling away, and her eyes are crinkled behind her wide pink glasses. “Oh, honey, I’m so real! But who are you, gorgeous? The Good Doctor���s been hiding you away from us!”

You smile shyly up at Spencer, watching as his hand returns to your back. “Uh, guys,” he glances down at you, all softness, before looking back at them. “This is my girlfriend.”

He says your name with reverence, dripping in pure affection, and the mood shifts yet again. Even Garcia freezes from her place next to you.

You wave timidly at them. “Hi,” you smile. “Spencer’s told me loads about you guys. He really loves you all, I can tell.”

And… there’s silence. JJ, Morgan, and Blake blink in unison. Like they’re sizing you up. Surprised in the worst way.

Your fingers reach up to your necklace again, gently pulling at it, tucking the charm between your digits again and again. You smooth your dress, tug it down. Maybe it’s too short? You bite your lip, check your posture, standing up straight. You hold back a sigh. You want to be enough. For them. For him.

JJ smiles a little softer, now. Her eyes more forgiving, just a fraction. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she says. “What do you do?” she asks, scooching over on the bench. Spencer slides in first, then pats the space next to him. You squeeze onto the seat, and try to ignore the warm weight of his hand settling on your knee.

“I work in a flower shop,” you say softly. Blake’s eyes brighten a bit at that, and she unclasps her hands.

“You’re a florist?” she presses, taking a sip of her margarita.

You shrug. “I guess, that’s what my nametag says,” you laugh softly, folding your hands in your lap, fingers fidgeting beneath the table. “But I dunno if I’m like, a real florist. I just do the arrangements.”

Spencer squeezes your thigh gently. You do your best to ignore it.

Blake’s eyes dull again, just slightly. “So, how did you two meet?”

You feel underwater. Your hearing is muffled, you can barely hear the sweet story Spencer’s retelling, of when he walked into your flower shop and you giggled and handed him the store’s card with your number scribbled on the back.

You can’t tear your eyes away from the surface of the table. You try to control your breathing. Keep the tears at bay.

You’re being ridiculous. Absurd. Your insecurities are making you paranoid; you know it. This happens all the time.

But then Spencer’s lightly shaking your knee, his head tilted low enough to catch your gaze. His eyes are worried. You grin at him. “Sorry, what was that, honey?”

He furrows his brows. “I asked what you wanted to drink, angel.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again. “Um,” you bite your lip, looking around the table at everyone’s drinks. Your eyes land on Garcia’s. “Penelope?” you prompt, and her head snaps over to you.

“Yeah?” She looks happy, a little buzzed.

“What’re you drinking?” you ask, nodding at her glass.

She grins widely. “Oh, sweetness,” she stands, holding out a hand for you. “Only the most delicious frozen strawberry daiquiri you’ll ever have! Come on,” she wiggles her fingers at you. “I’m due for a refill anyway, let’s go!”

You blink at her before taking her hand; it’s soft, and she closes it around yours in a way that feels so warm, so comforting. You barely get off the bench before she’s practically dragging you towards the bar.

She orders two frozen strawberry daiquiris, giving the bartender a flirty wink and an “extra pink, thanks, babe!”, before turning to you. “Oh my god, I need to know,” she says, gripping your shoulders like a lifeline. “How long have you and Einstein been together?”

You blink. “Um,” you furrow your brows. “Like, two-ish months, I think?”

Her face blanches, and suddenly, everything feels too fast, too sudden, like it’s the wrong answer, even though it’s not. You swallow your paranoia. “Spencer could probably tell you, like, the actual day, if you ask him. He’s really good with that stuff,” you add on, your voice low, a shy, proud little smile curling at your lips. He really is good with that stuff. Remembering the important things. Even something as simple as your favourite takeout place or the way you take your tea.

She pouts at you, her eyes softening, like she’s trying to make sense of what she’s hearing. It’s almost like she’s worried for you, like she feels sorry for you, but you can’t quite figure out why. “Oh, honey,” she sighs, collecting you into a hug you’re too confused to return. “I’m so sorry.” Her arms are too tight, too warm around you. You just stand there, stiff and unsure why everything feels so off.

Your brows furrow. “What do you mean, sorry?” you frown, your stomach doing a nervous little flip. “Everything’s been great. Spencer’s, like, sunshine in human form,” you try to laugh, but it comes out quiet, timid.

She sighs heavily, like she’s carrying a too-heavy weight on her shoulders, and then looks at you like she’s afraid to ask. “But… you don’t think this is, like, really soon?” She furrows her brows softly. “He doesn’t think so?”

You shake your head, confusion knitting your brows. You pull away from her grasp gently, suddenly feeling exposed in a way you didn’t before. “Penelope, what do you mean? Why would it be too soon?” You cross your arms over your chest, vulnerability eating at you. “Like… like me meeting you guys? ‘Cause I was worried about that, ‘cause it felt like, really early. But Spence said it was okay, ‘cause… like, I already have a key to his place, and I’m there, like, all the time, so—”

Penelope’s gasp is so sharp, so dramatic, that she covers her mouth with both hands in complete shock. “Oh. My. God!” Her eyes are nearly as wide as the frames of her glasses. “No- You- What?! You have a key? To his apartment?”

You nod slowly, and for some reason, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re saying the wrong thing. “Yeah? He gave it to me, like, a week or so ago,” you add, hoping it doesn’t sound as bad as you’re starting to feel it is.

And Penelope? Oh. She shifts like ice in the Arctic. Cold and imposing. You don’t think she even catches it, but she’s looking at you like you’re the villain in a story you didn’t even know existed. “That’s… so soon, sweetness.” Her eyes soften only slightly, and there’s a sympathetic lilt to her voice that feels less inviting and more pitiful. “What about Maeve?”

And you pause. Blink at her a couple of times, unsure if you’re dreaming, the weight of her words pressing on your chest. She stares at you, awaiting an answer. One you don’t have. “I-” you hesitate, like the words are too heavy to lift from your throat. “Who’s Maeve?”

Penelope frowns, her nose going red as though she can’t bear to see you confused. “Oh, honey,” she sighs, pulling you into her arms again, like she’s trying to shield you from the pain of her words. “Maeve was,” she starts, then pauses. “I feel like Reid- Spencer, should be the one to tell you.” She shakes her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. She pulls away from the hug, her hands still lingering on your arms.

You keep a trembling hand on her wrist. “Clearly, he never told me anything. Who’s Maeve?” you ask again, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “Is he-... Is he seeing someone else?”

You don’t want to be the fool again. Not again, not with Spencer. You swore he was different.

Penelope shakes her head, her arms smoothing over your shoulders in a calming motion. It doesn’t work. “No, no. Not at all, honey,” she whispers softly. She’s so… soft with you now. Her hands caress your shoulders like a mother comforting a child, explaining something you can hardly understand. “Maeve was Spencer’s girlfriend. They dated for, like, almost a year,” Penelope adds quietly, like she’s treading carefully around a wound that’s still raw.

That gives you pause. A year? That’s… serious. You feel the weight of its importance, like you’re not measuring up somehow. But Spencer’s not required to tell you about all of his past relationships, right? You know you haven't told him about yours, either.

But then Penelope sighs. “She died four months ago.” And the world goes still. You freeze, like the air’s been sucked right oout of your lungs. “She was kidnapped by her stalker, and she got shot. Right,” she pauses, swallowing hard. Her voice cracks as she continues, like she’s holding back her own pain. “Right in front of Spencer.”

And it’s there. A slow death, you can feel it creeping up on you. Your heart starts to melt against your ribs like thick, sticky honey. It burns you from the inside out, like acid; hot and relentless. “So,” your voice trembles, barely above a whisper. “So… I’m what?” You look into Penelope’s eyes, searing desperately for something to hold on to, but all you see is a deep, profound sadness. “I’m, like, a rebound?”

You wait. Penelope is silent. Her lips part, like there’s something she wants to say, to comfort you, to tell you no, he really loves you, but… She doesn’t. And when you see the minuscule shake of her head, you break.

You shatter like glass, like crystal. Like you’re fragmented in tiny shards scattered across the sticky bar floor, and suddenly, Porter’s is too bright. Too loud. Too much.

The sob escapes you before you can stop it, crawling up your throat and across your tongue like bile. You cover your mouth with your hand, tears freely spilling down your cheeks relentlessly.

Penelope’s lip wobbles as she watches you push past her and run down the back hall, before hearing the slam of the ladies’ room door.

She stands there, still and frozen.

What did she just do…?

Her gaze slowly moves to the table. Nobody has turned around, nobody has noticed a thing. Spencer’s laughing at something JJ says, and the guilt gnaws at Penelope like a plague.

You stumble into the bathroom like a storm, leaning your back against the door like you can hardly hold yourself up on your own, your legs shaky and trembling like a fawn taking her first steps.

The bathroom lights are harsh, fluorescent, and unforgiving. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and recoil like you’ve seen a ghost. Your mascara is smeared down your cheeks, bleeding down to your jaw, inked like grief itself has manifested onto your skin.

Your lipgloss is mostly gone—just a faint shimmer clinging to the dip of your cupid’s bow, like it’s trying to hold on for you.

You can’t help the way you begin to sway, dizzy as your knees nearly buckle in your heels. You grip the sink like it might hold you upright, like you’re not actively falling apart. But the second you meet your own eyes again, something inside you cracks.

You can’t look at yourself.

You can’t look at her—the girl stupid enough to think she was someone’s forever, not just a placeholder for a ghost.

You stumble into a stall and lock the door behind you, the click too loud in this stifling silence. You sit down hard on the toilet lid, burying your face in your hands as the sobs come back with a vengeance.

You feel like a fool. You’d really thought Spencer was different.

You wish he was here.

You wish he wasn’t.

Penelope shudders a breath, wobbling back to the table with two frozen strawberry daiquiris in hand. Her smile is long gone, her face pale and blotchy and tear-stained. Her eyes are red behind her glasses.

She sets the glasses down on the table like she doesn’t know what else to do with her hands.

JJ’s brows knit together. “Garcia?” She leans forward from her seat. “Are you okay?”

But Spencer’s looking over his shoulder, eyes darting around for you. He’s already standing when he notes your absence, like a string inside him has been pulled too tight, too restrictive, too wrong. “Garcia?” he asks, his voice shaky and low. “Where is she? What happened?”

Penelope’s lip wobbles. She wrings her fingers together, avoiding his eyes. “I didn’t mean to,” she whispers. “I swear, I didn’t mean to—I just, I thought she knew, I thought you told her, and I—Spencer, I’m so sorry—”

Spencer’s heart drops to his gut. His mouth goes dry. “Told her what?” Penelope doesn’t answer. He takes a step closer, his throat going tight, his voice sharper now. “Penelope, what did you say?”

Her silence says everything. Her guilt fills the blanks. She shakes her head weakly at him, her hands coming up, her mouth opening and closing like she doesn’t know what to say. She sniffles.

Spencer’s eyes go wide. “Penelope,” he breathes out, horrified. His irises dart around her face. “What did you say to her?”

Penelope’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. No words come out. Her face crumbles as she looks at the man in front of her. Her own words play back in her head, your reaction playing like a film sheet behind her eyes. She collapses next to Morgan on the bench, tucking herself into the booth. “Bathroom,” she mutters softly, like a confession. Like it hurts.

Her glasses come off in one swift, clumsy motion as she covers her face with both hands. She’s wiping her tears, covering her guilt, trying to hide from the shame of what she’s done.

Spencer’s gone before anyone can even fully comprehend what’s just happened.

He doesn’t walk, he runs, tearing through the bar like it’s life or death, like he might already be too late. His heart’s in his throat, hammering loud against his ribs, and he doesn’t care who sees, doesn’t care how crazy he must look.

He just needs to find you. Needs to explain, to defend, to apologize.

Maeve’s ghost hovers over his shoulder like a curse.

There’s an incessant banging at the door to the bathroom.

You think it must be him—who else would knock on the door to a public restroom?

You do all you can to ignore it; you cover your ears, tucking your face as far into your lap as you can. Try to block it out. Block him out.

But then the door opens, and frazzled footsteps rush into the bathroom until they stop in front of the locked door of your stall. You can see his brown oxfords standing in front of the door. “Angel,” he whispers, slightly out of breath. “Please open the door… please?”

You inhale shakily, holding your hands tighter over your ears. You don’t want to hear him, his excuses, his lies.

“Go away,” you murmur, tears coating your voice, your throat clenching tight. “I don’t want to see you.”

Spencer sighs, crouching in front of the door. “Sweetheart, let me in, please. I don’t know what Garcia told you,” he knows it’s a lie. “But you have to believe me. I want you. Only you. I swear it.”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to hear more lies, Spencer.” You swallow a sob. “I know about Maeve.”

Spencer’s heart stops in his chest. “It- It’s not what you think,” he tries, his voice thick with tears he feebly attempts to hold back. But then you sniffle harshly, from under the door he sees you stand, planting your heels on the tile. He stays crouching, swiping at his red-rimmed eyes.

You open the door just a crack, eyes catching sight of his lowered form. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice is quiet, pained, tight. Spencer raises his head, meets your eyes. You look ruined. Makeup smeared, eyes red and puffy, lips bitten red and swollen.

He hates that he’s made you look like this. He hates that he still thinks you look gorgeous. Like a tragedy, beautiful and broken and raw.

“I,” he hesitates, eyes never leaving yours. He swallows. “I’m sorry,” he sighs simply.

Your face crumples again, and Spencer’s brows knit tight. His eyes stay locked on the way you tuck your lip between your teeth to hold in a sob, like he’s never seen anything more beautiful than the way you fall apart. “You should’ve told me,” you whimper, sniffling. “It’s not fair, Spence.”

He flinches at the crack in your voice. He bows his head. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know I should’ve, I’m so sorry, angel.” He can’t help the way he leans forward, just enough to rest his forehead against the softness of your tummy.

Your hand cards through his hair like you don’t hate him, like you never could, and it breaks you even more. This was a betrayal. You can’t forget that, even if the softness of his curls feels like home between your fingers. “Was I just a rebound for you?”

Your question is broken, tearful, and your chest stutters with a breath. Spencer’s head lifts slowly from your middle. He swallows. “No,” he breathes out, the word like acid on his tongue. His eyes are slow to meet your gaze. “No, angel. Never.”

Your eyes close, a shaky exhale exiting your nose as you purse your lips. “Then why didn’t you tell me?” You remove your hand from his hair, crossing your arms over your chest.

You’re closing off. Spencer stands from his crouch, his left knee clicking as it extends. He wrings his hands to prevent himself from reaching out for you. “I should’ve.”

You just shake your head, lifting your chin to eye him steadily. “I asked why, Spencer. Why didn’t you tell me about her if I wasn’t a rebound, a replacement?”

He swallows, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “I don’t know. I think I was still…” he shrugs meekly. “Hurting, I guess.”

Your arms fall to your sides. “I could’ve helped you.”

Spencer lowers his head, shaking it roughly. “No, you couldn’t.” His eyes squeeze shut. He swears there’s a cold spot on the centre of his back, like someone’s staring into him, through him. He tries desperately to ignore her presence. “I never really dealt with it, I just wanted to move on. And,” he raises his head again, his eyes pained as he looks at you. “I did. I started to. With you.”

He reaches out his arm, his shaky hand settling softly on your elbow. You sigh, setting your gaze to the floor, but you don’t pull away from him. Spencer thinks it’s a small win. He tests the waters by taking a small step closer, invading your space, and his heart thrums in his chest when you let him.

You can’t hold it back. You want to hate him. You want to hurt him, like he’s hurt you. You thought you’d finally found it, your forever, the man who would treat you like you’re something worthy of love, of respect, of kindness. Who doesn’t criticize your curiosity, but who lets it thrive, who answers your questions softly, with reverence in his voice, with love in the way he holds you.

You thought he was different. You really did. But you think it’s fitting, really. To still love him, even now, even after he’s shattered your heart in your chest, even after he’s killed you from the inside out.

You collapse into his chest, and Spencer doesn’t hesitate before wrapping his arms around you, holding you tightly, like he’s holding your very form together. Like if he so much as loosens his grip, you’ll break apart into tiny pieces on this dirty bathroom floor.

His lips go to your hair, his hand cradling the back of your head. He can feel the way the sobs wrack through your body, the way they shake against him, your form trembling as you fist the fabric of his cardigan, needing something to keep you grounded in reality—to keep you out of your head.

“I thought you were different,” you sob, broken and pained and whimpering into his shoulder. Spencer freezes. “I thought you wouldn’t hurt me. Not like them, not like before.”

He opens his mouth, but he can’t find the words. How does he respond to that? To your wailing of grief, of betrayal? Of admitting you’d believed in magic just to find out it was all sleight of hand? How does he acknowledge being the source of your pain, of hurting you so wholly that your knees buckle under the weight of it?

He doesn’t know. So he just holds you impossibly tighter, rocking your trembling form in his arms as he tries to find some way to fix this mess he’s caused.

You’re silent for too long. No longer sobbing, just quiet sniffling as you bury your head in Spencer’s chest, no doubt staining his cardigan with your makeup. He doesn’t care.

You pull back slightly, hands still fisted in the fabric. “I want to go home.” Your voice is quiet, raspy, like your throat itself is protesting you talking to him.

Spencer nods, petting your hair down softly. “Okay,” he whispers back. His gaze catches yours before you lower your eyes to his chest again, your hand instinctively going to wipe at the smudge of mascara. Your brow furrows, and your eyes fill with tears again as your thumb rubs at the stain, just to smear it around. Spencer gently wraps his hand around your wrist, and your eyes snap up to meet his. “It’s okay,” he nods softly. “Please don’t worry about it, angel.”

You sniffle again before pulling away, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I want to go home, Spence,” you murmur again. He nods, holding a hand out for you.

You don't take it, don't even look at it, averting your gaze to the floor again.

Spencer sighs, blinking away tears before he’s opening the door to the bathroom, and following you out.

He doesn’t touch you, even though his hand is hovering over your back, your head down as you stand by the front door. Spencer swallows roughly, grabbing his bag off the bench of the booth, avoiding the eyes of his team, who watch him silently.

Hotch’s eyes stay steady on the black stain on the front of Spencer’s cardigan, Garcia’s still got her hands on her face, and JJ is looking at you; small and feeble and shy, and still shaking with tears as you wait for Spencer. He holds the door open for you, whispers something to you as you both exit, and JJ heaves a sigh, taking a gulp of her drink. She and Blake share a look.

The back of the cab is quiet. Uncomfortable, stifling, suffocating silence. You’re seated on opposite ends of the backseat, Spencer’s eyes on you, your gaze out the window.

When the driver pulls up to Spencer’s apartment block, your brows furrow, your eyes going to Spencer, who’s already climbing out the door and opening yours. “I said home, Spencer,” you frown, ignoring his hand. “I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.”

Spencer flinches. “Please, angel. Just for tonight? So we can talk?”

You heave a sigh, glaring at him as you slap away his hand, stepping out of the yellow car and walking past him and into the building.

Spencer exhales, his hands wringing tightly on the strap of his messenger bag before following you up the stairs. You’ve already unlocked the door with your key and slumped onto his couch, sniffling as you lean down to take off your heels.

He doesn’t bother removing his bag from his shoulder, just closes and locks the door before rounding the couch and sitting on the coffee table, gently taking your foot and tucking it into his lap. His fingers undo the strap around your ankle, his hands slow as they pull off the offending shoe. He does the same for the other foot, then stands, picking up your heels as he heads back to the entrance to place them down beside his beat-up old converse.

Spencer hangs up his messenger bag, toes off his oxfords, and looks over at you.

You’re curled up on the couch, tucked into the corner, arms around your knees. Your gaze is fixed on one of his bookshelves, brows furrowed, lips pressed tightly together. Like you’re trying to understand something, trying to solve a puzzle he can’t see.

Spencer slowly makes his way over, sits cautiously beside you, his eyes following yours to the shelf. He doesn’t know if the book you’re staring at is the one his eyes are drawn to immediately, but he tears his gaze away like it’s burned him.

The Narrative of John Smith sits like a ghost on his shelf, its very presence mocking what Spencer’s tried so hard to build with you.

“I don’t know how to get over this,” you mutter softly.

Spencer looks up at you to find your eyes already on him. You shake your head gently, like the small motion of it is just too much. “I don’t know how to move on, now.”

He swallows, tucking his feet up under his legs. “I know.” His hands wring in his lap. “I don’t either. I just know that I want you.”

You scoff, avert your eyes. “If you did, you would’ve told me about her. Now you’ve just made me feel like an idiot,” you sigh. “Again.”

His lips turn, the corners of his mouth pulled into a pout. “Again?”

You sniffle again, shrugging. “I told you. I thought you were different. I thought,” you sigh, raising your head to stare at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

Spencer tilts his head. “You say that a lot,” he notes. “‘I don’t know’. Like you’re afraid to say what you’re thinking. Like you’re expecting to be wrong, or dismissed. Or left,” he catches your eyes when your head snaps back to his. “And I hate that. I hate that someone taught you to apologize for existing, for being curious, for not knowing. And I…” he sighs, blinking at you, his expression soft and gentle and guilt-ridden. “I hate that I did that, too. To you.”

You swallow a sob, your eyes going wide.

Spencer scooches a little bit closer to you, just enough that your knees knock against his. “I should’ve told you about…” He tries to say her name. His tongue freezes, paralyzed.

“About Maeve,” you whisper. Spencer tries to hide his flinch, like hearing you say her name is wrong. Like the mixing of these two aspects of his life shouldn’t be happening.

He nods jerkily. “About Maeve,” he tries to ignore the way his voice catches on the word. “I’m sorry that I didn’t.”

You nod, tucking your lip between your teeth. “I know you are,” you glance sidelong at him. “I know.”

Spencer exhales shakily. “And I’m sorry Garcia told you.”

“I’m not.” Your voice is shockingly steady as you say it. You shrug when he looks at you. “If she didn’t, I don’t know how long it would’ve been before you did. Honestly, Spencer,” you turn to face him. “Would you have ever even told me?”

He wants to nod, to tell you he would’ve, but he swears he can see her brown hair in the corner of the room, stalking, watching, waiting. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You wait. And then sigh heavily. “You’re not okay,” you murmur. “I can’t help you, you were right.”

And then you stand from the couch, head into his bedroom, and close the door.

Spencer hears rummaging, the sound of his drawers being opened and closed, then his shower starts, and he buries his face in his hands. Rubs his palms aggressively over his cheeks, pushing his hair away from his forehead.

He stands, peeling the cardigan off. He holds it out, his eyes locked on the black stain that’s, ironically enough, just over his heart. He exhales softly before putting it into the dirty laundry hamper in his bedroom. The bathroom door is closed, the sound of the shower muffled behind it.

He sighs. Drags his feet into the kitchen to start the kettle. His hands move on autopilot: setting the kettle onto the stove, the soft clanging of your mug and his being pulled out of the cupboard, just like always. He freezes when his fingers close around the handle of your pink strawberry mug. It looks like something Garcia would’ve picked out. Too bright, too bubbly, too you. His heart skips a beat.

You were right. God, you were right. He wouldn’t have said anything; not now, maybe not ever. He would’ve stayed silent, keeping you blissfully unaware. You would’ve never found out about Maeve had Garcia not told you anything. The guilt eats at him, gnawing on his chest like a disease, spreading through his ribs like rot.

His hands tremble as he sets it down on the counter beside his. The ceramic clinks too loudly in the silence. He rocks his head back and forth, like he can shake the memories out.

When he opens his eyes, he swears she’s there. Just there, at the edge of his vision, he catches a glimpse of her sweater. He pours the water from the kettle into your mug. It’s all he can do to stop himself from shouting at a ghost.

She haunts these walls—ones she’s never once stepped into. It drives him mad.

Spencer’s sitting on the couch with his hands in his lap and his head bowed when you re-enter the room.

He looks up as the couch dips beneath your weight. You settle in the opposite corner, as far as you can be while still sharing the same space. Spencer clears his throat, rubs his palms nervously over the tops of his thighs. “I made you tea,” he whispers.

You blink. Your strawberry mug sits neatly on an orange slice coaster. He reaches for his, and you see the grapefruit one under it. Your throat goes tight again.

You don’t want to cry again. You refuse to.

You sigh. “I didn’t really want any tea.” Your lips press together as you curl further into your corner. “But thanks anyway.”

Spencer flinches. It’s barely noticeable, just a twitch. But of course you catch it. There’s nothing about this man you don’t notice.

Or so you thought.

Because now he’s staring at you.

Or, not quite; he’s staring through you.

You swallow hard. How many times has this happened before without you noticing? Without knowing he was haunted? Broken? Grieving someone you never knew existed. Mourning the woman you replaced.

You avert your gaze again. You can’t keep looking at your boyfriend while he stares through you, at the woman he lost. “Spencer,” you say, quiet yet sharp. It snaps him out of his trance.

His eyes dart to the side of your face. His brows pull together, unsure, almost pleading. He swallows roughly. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, setting his mug down. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to,” he chews on his lip, shrugging. “I just… I thought you might want it. Like…” he trails off.

You know what he was going to say, anyway. Like every other night. Like routine. But if he thinks you’re about to cuddle up to him while he reads to you, he’s sorely mistaken.

But then you look at him. Just once. And he looks so broken, you can’t bring yourself to say it.

So you stand, slowly, achingly, like just leaving him there is enough to hurt. “I’m tired,” you mutter softly. Spencer’s eyes track your movement. He untucks a leg, like he’s about to follow you like some lost, desperate puppy. You hold up a hand. “I’d like to be alone for a bit. You brought me here,” you can’t help the narrowing of your eyes. “The least you could do is let me have that.”

Spencer gulps, sinks back into the couch with a jerky nod. “Of course,” he whispers. He doesn’t look away, not even when his bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

He turns back around, squeezing his eyes shut. He scrubs at his cheeks, as if trying to wipe the grief and guilt from his skin itself.

There’s rustling behind the door. Spencer pictures you crawling into his bed. He wonders if you’re cuddling his pillow, like you always do when he leaves for work in the morning.

Then he figures you’ve probably thrown it off the bed. The thought tugs harshly at his chest.

He sighs, pulling the throw blanket off the back of the couch and wraps it around his shoulders. He sits in silence, his mind running too loud, too fast, for even him to keep up.

There’s a chill to his left. He doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t want to face the visible manifestation of his guilt, his grief.

Spencer doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there. The tea cools in both mugs; the steam rising and fading, like breathing out a ghost. His apartment is too quiet. Too silent to have you just in the next room. Too quiet for a mind like his. It feels wrong. Suffocating. Smothering. His lungs ache like he’s drowning in it.

It’s been hours. Two cups of lavender tea, three hours lost in casefiles and novels and poetry, and none of it has helped him sleep. It hurts even more when he realizes it’s because you’re not there beside him.

Spencer stands with a quiet groan, dragging himself to his bookshelf. He stares at it, needing something else. Anything to get him to sleep, anything to quiet his thoughts, even if just for a moment.

He doesn’t mean for his eyes to go to it. Doesn’t even realize his hand’s already reaching, already pulling it off the shelf. His mind doesn’t catch up to reality until Spencer’s already sitting on the couch with The Narrative of John Smith open on his lap. Maeve’s handwriting stares back at him from the first page.

“Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone—we find it with another.”

The tears come before he even realizes he’s crying.

Spencer’s vision comes back slowly, like waking from a dream, walking out of a fog, seeing past the haze. He blinks, looking down at the book in his hands. He sets it down on the coffee table—careful, like it burns to so much as hold it.

He gulps. Two books sit side-by-side. Two mugs, four coasters.

He sighs, lying back on the couch. He listens, but the bedroom stays silent.

You wake early. So early that not even the sun is up, the birds aren’t even singing, and the stars are still twinkling in the darkness. You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling in silence. It’s so quiet here, the only sound is the crickets chirping softly outside the window.

You sit up, heaving your legs over the side of his bed with a heavy sigh. This room… you’ll miss it. It’s warm, comfortable. Smells like old books and clean linen and him.

Spencer.

Just the thought of him has you holding back tears again.

You shake your head, trying to push away your impending grief, and stand slowly. You open the drawer he’s dedicated to you, your hands trembling as you dress yourself. You avoid your reflection as you take the rest of your clothing out of the drawer and shove it into your bag. You grab your toothbrush and your makeup bag.

And you take one mismatched set of socks from his drawer.

You’re slow, quiet, as you creak open the bedroom door, your bag slung over your shoulder. You peek over to the couch. Spencer’s stretched out, long limbs draping over the armrest. His brow is pinched, mouth slightly agape, but he’s asleep.

You exhale a sigh of relief. Your eyes catch sight of the coasters—your coasters. Bright, vibrant, fruit slice circles of ceramic. They still look out of place. Still don’t belong here.

You can’t bring yourself to take them with you. They brighten up this warm, cozy space, this place that they just don’t fit in. You’ve related to them since you brought them over.

Oh well.

Spencer can decide what to do with them. You try to ignore the stinging in your chest when you imagine him throwing them out.

With a reluctant turn, you silently slip on your shoes, tug on your jacket, and sling your purse over your shoulder beside your bag.

You don’t leave a note. You wouldn’t know what to say.

You exhale as you crack the front door open quietly, allowing yourself just one last glance around the apartment.

You’ll miss it.

You close the door gently behind you, careful not to let it click. Your hands shake as you lock it, fingers trembling as you remove the key from your keyring. You slide it under the door. It catches on the floorboard for a second, then disappears into his apartment. Like it never belonged to you in the first place.

Your fingers go to the tiny pink gemstone on your neck. You tug at it gently. Rest your fingertips over the chain in something not unlike reverence, before lowering your hand.

You straighten your shoulders. You don’t look back.

Spencer wakes sluggishly. Like his body’s not quite his, his limbs tired and heavy. When he finally manages to sit up, he blinks the sleep out of his eyes. The door to his bedroom is open; he can see his bed made neatly. Too neatly.

He glances to the kitchen, expecting to see you standing at the counter, humming, pouring coffee into your favourite mug and smiling over at him, like you always do, every morning. But it’s empty.

Spencer’s brow furrows, knitting together tightly. He calls your name, soft, then louder. His voice shakes.

He rises slowly, like lost in a dream, his gaze drifting to the door.

Your shoes are gone, leaving his beat-up old converse and scuffed oxfords alone by the door. Your jacket’s not hung up beside his on the hooks. Your purse is missing from where you always hung it in front of his messenger bag.

Spencer rounds the couch, his hands trembling, panic rearing its ugly head, fear clawing at his chest. “Angel?” he tries again, his voice softer now. “Sweetheart, please… please answer me,” he whimpers, his throat going tight.

His gaze drifts down to the floor, like he’s hoping, just for a moment, that he’s wrong. That his peripheral was lying to him.

It shines, like some cruel joke, where it rests on the hardwood, the first rays of dawn catching it.

The spare key. The one he gave you. The one he thought meant home.

It gleams from the floor, tossed carelessly, just in front of the front door, like you’d locked it and slid it under the threshold when you’d left.

Left.

He doesn’t even know when you left. Doesn’t know if it was hours ago or mere minutes, but the air still feels thick with your absence.

Spencer stumbles, almost collapsing to the floor beside that key. The key to his home. To his heart. The key you’d left behind.

He staggers back to the couch, eyes hollow, locking onto the coffee table. Your coasters. And your mug. Just… sitting there.

You’d left them.

He swallows his sobs, choking on the grief that’s clawing its way up his throat. They look so bright. Too bright. Out of place here, in the dim silence of his apartment. You were, too. You brought a brightness to this warm, cozy place. One he didn’t know he needed until you’d taken it away. Like the sun setting, sinking slowly beneath the horizon, leaving nothing but a cold darkness in its wake. An emptiness he can’t escape.

Spencer reaches for the book left beside them. Flips it open to page 639 like muscle memory.

The Cyrillic stares back at him. He can hardly make it out through the tears clouding his vision. His voice cracks as he forces the quote out—the one he had meant to read to you just last night—his memory carrying him.

“I can't say it in a more orderly and comprehensible way. I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.”

He breaks down into a lump of broken sobs on his couch, clutching the red leather-bound novel to his chest like it’s the only thing holding him together.

This is it. Doctor Zhivago, bright fruit slice coasters, and a strawberry mug. It’s all he has left of you, when he never thought he’d have to face the reality of life without you again.

Your absence chokes him like a vice.

The air turns frigid; Spencer feels like he’s wrapped in a sudden chill, like the warmth that was in his chest is being stolen from his soul itself.

He won’t open his eyes—refuses to. He won’t face this ghost that haunts him, keeps him broken, that pushed you away. He can’t look at her brown hair and warm sweater and blood on her cheek.

He just hugs the novel closer to his chest and mourns once more, wailing his grief into the air like pain personified is being ripped from his chest, leaving him hollow, empty, alone.

[mariasont]

wow, ok, ok, ok, I did keep my promise and read this plastered straight from the bars (not a good decision bc i ended up sobbing through the entirety of it) … but i wanted to wait until the morning to give this the commentary it deserves bc ..... omfg. sam this is insanity (compliment ... maybe). i feel like im on tumblr premium i should not be reading this for free.

Spencer is looking at you like he loves you. He doesn’t know how to look at you any other way.

died dead

Flickering blue and white light… a buzzy drone in iambic pentameter. The sluggish pound and gush, pound and gush, of a failing heart.

shakespeare wishes he could write something like this #get fucked

If they did, they’d notice all the structural flaws. The deep cracks and the sagging floorboards and the mold you’ve been covering in paint.

get out of my phone. begging u to quit ur NRA career and pursue something else pls i cannot be looking in a mirror like this

You’re like… a lens I see the entire world through. I can’t do anything, or make any choice, without thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you. When we’re not together, it feels like I’m waiting for my life to start again. Nothing really counts unless you’re there to experience it with me, you know? I think of you as… I don’t know. Everything. You’re why I know it’s all real.

this is, bar none, my favorite line (call me a romantic .... idk)

You’re little more than a pulsing, glowing star, lightheaded at the depth and the pressure and the way that band of resistance he’d pushed past aches around him in time with the pound of your heart.

the way u write sex scenes is just .... yeah. not bc they're spicy (they are) but because they're narratively necessary. it's all ab power and need and who's taking and who's giving and it's so excruciating !!!! no one has ever written someone needing to be loved this badly and then ruining it in real time with such poetic accuracy.

and ALSO like u have a way of writing heartbreak that feels sooooo precise it doesn't even feel mean at first?? it just feels beautiful. and i would argue this is soooo much worse bc suddenly im like wow that's such a gorgeous line

EXHIBIT A:

That gleam is, of course, an illusion. It will shine so brightly you can taste it. It will convince you to reach just a little further. And it will wink at you from the impossible end of a bottomless pit. You don’t care. You tip over the edge and let the darkness swallow you whole. Nothing but stardust, now. You blow across the silent black ether.

and then seven paragraphs later i realize i've been BAMBOOZLED and BLINDSIDED into feeling every ounce of shame, longing, desperation ur narrator is radiating.

EXHIBIT B:

Your entire body waits in suspense, taut like a steel guitar string, for shattering glass, or splintering drywall, or a slamming door, or something. It doesn’t come. He’s still here. You know he hasn’t left. But he’s going to. This is it. The unforgivable thing.

like god im gonna walk into traffic and u 🫵🏼🫵🏼will be charged for non-negligent manslaughter

I LOVE IMPERFECT CHARACTERS !!!!!! I LOVE COMPLEX HUMANS WITH FAULTS AND IMPERFECTIONS AND I LOVE WHEN THEY LOVE AND ARE SIMULTANEOUSLY BAD AT LOVE RAHHHH

i hope ur proud of urself tumblr user nereidprinc3ss, u sick, brilliant woman. u wrote one of the most stunning, psychologically rich, soul-ripping (emphasis on this) pieces I've ever read, and I'm going to be thinking about it for the rest of my natural-born life. possibly longer. might be a ghost one day muttering "you're why I know it's all real..." in an abandoned house idk man can't predict the future

spring into summer

the highest highs and the lowest lows of your on-again off-again relationship with spencer reid, tracked through the seasons of a year.

18+ (smut, angst, fluff) warnings/tags: (spoiler tags at the bottom of post) reader gets drunk a few times, questionable consent (not between Spencer and reader), much codependence, softdom Spencer/sub reader, oral m receiving, finger sucking lol, deep pen piv/intense sex, mention of marks being left, praise tho dw he is soso nice and loves her, fighting/yelling/sex as reconciliation, general toxicity and lots of it DDDNE!! avoidant!reader, panic attacks, joke abt r being high off cough syrup when she’s sick and Spencer is taking care of her, implied trauma, IM MAKING IT SOUND CRAZY BUT THERE IS A LOT OF STRAIGHT UP FLUFF IN HERE GUYS PLS THEY ARE SO CUTE A BUNCH OF TIMES. wc 23k (!) longest nereid fic ever!also had to squish 167 lines together so the first half is a bit compact I apologize!! a/n: yeaaaah…. Thanks for being patient w me guys :”)) I miss posting sosososo much and I out genuinely probably days into this fic like once I was writing for 15 hrs straight. So. Yeah. I so so hope u enjoy and I love u miss u MWAH

February 17th

You don’t know when you last blinked. 

Flickering blue and white light washes deep into the backs of your eyes as you stare at some old film without watching it. A knight atop his steed warps and stretches gruesomely under your apathetic observation, and whatever noble speech he’s giving turns to monotone slurry before it hits your ears—old-fashioned English smeared in 1960’s transatlantia. A buzzy drone in iambic pentameter. The sluggish pound and gush, pound and gush, of a failing heart. 

Spencer said you’d love this movie.

“You okay?”

The question draws you from your fugue state, and you turn, eyes so dry they sting when you finally blink. He’s comfortable. You’ve been here for hours—enough time for his hair to tousle, enough time he decided to trade his contacts for glasses. When you look at him, there is only static. 

You must be having one of those nights again. Something in your body refuses to succumb to the comfort his presence should offer, regardless of how many hours you’ve spent together. Or days, or months. 

It’s awful because you fought to be here, sitting on his couch, sharing a blanket. You fought every instinct in your body for so long just to get to this point because you wanted it so badly, and now that you have it—now that you’ve had it, this weekend, and last weekend, and every weekend you haven’t been out of town on a case for months—you struggle to let it feel good. 

Spencer is looking at you like he loves you. He doesn’t know how to look at you any other way. 

Sometimes you don’t feel like this. Sometimes it’s easy.

That doesn’t make the guilt in the pit of your stomach any smaller when it’s not. 

The only thing you know is that you’ll want it again. This is what you’ll want tomorrow morning, or in an hour, or the second he’s gone. You’ll want it so badly you’d humiliate yourself for it. And humiliation in front of him is a fate worse than death. So you find ways to want him in the present. 

This is the right thing. 

“I’m fine,” you promise. His brow flickers. The knight’s shining armor makes a glare off the lenses of Spencer’s glasses. 

Before he can say anything, you lean into his side, dropping your head to his shoulder and settling your weight against him. Immediately he’s wrapping an arm around you like you knew he would, because he doesn’t have a choice. Not when it comes to you. You don’t give yourself time to feel bad about that. Instead, you press your lips to the bit of collarbone visible over the neckline of his shirt. A series of kisses litter the warmth of his throat. You take and take like an invasive species. A hand pushes into his hair. 

There’s hesitance in the way he kisses you back as you sling a leg over his lap. So you take more. You kiss him harder. You need his hands on you, you need him to hold you by your thighs or your hips or your waist like he’s not afraid. At least one of you mustn’t be so scared. 

Spencer only requires a few more moments before his will melts, and he grabs you how you knew he would. Like he’s going to make something of you. He’s going to make you his. He’s going to break you and put you back together stronger, and he’s going to tell you what you are. That’s all you need—you just need him to keep trying. This is a promise you need him to keep making. 

“Pause the movie,” you breathe into his waiting mouth. 

He’s warm. He keeps you safe. 

March 9th

The heat in your apartment kicks on with a rumble that seems to shake the whole place. It’s the first noise in minutes. 

Spencer is at your little wooden dining table, hair mussed, pajama pants rumpled, staring into a chipped mug half-full of black coffee. You stand in the kitchen, countertop digging into your hip as you watch him. Outside, the sky is still spilled winter ink. The only light comes from a lamp you’d bought with him months ago at an antique shop. The stove clock flicks from 1:31 to 1:32. 

The ringing silence is killing you. 

“Spencer—”

“I—” he stops and you watch his throat bob. “I don’t understand—”

“I explained it to you—”

“You explained what? That you—you don’t care about me as much as I care about you, and you want to be together, but you don’t want me to think of it as a real relationship, and you’re letting me know out of courtesy? What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Don’t twist my words. I do care about you. A lot. I just—when we started this a few months ago you knew where I was at with commitment, and we agreed we’d be honest and communicate about what we were feeling—and what I’m feeling is that I’m not ready for this to be more than what it is! You knew that was a possibility, I knew that was a possibility. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. It just means I’m not ready for… for labels, or telling the team, or—or putting pressure on ourselves to try and be something we don’t have the time to be right now.”

Spencer looks at you with something close to disdain. It’s sort of like a bullet to a flack-jacket—it won’t kill you, because you’ve made sure to protect yourself. But it hurts. 

“I make the time. That’s what you do when you care about someone. I mean—where am I, when we’re not on a case? I’m here. I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. Do you think I do that because it’s convenient for me? We have the same 24 hours. We have the same job. It’s not about time. Don’t insult me by saying that’s what this is.”

“I’m not trying to insult you.” The words come out an unsure waver—but it’s not because you don’t believe what you’re saying. 

I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. 

Why? Why would he do that?

Spencer is not gracious in the face of your silence. Maybe he interprets your inability to put words together—the way you froze as soon as he casually admitted something that feels so oppressive and suffocating—I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be—as your silent way of admitting he’s right, and you don’t care about him. 

But he’s not right. You just can’t breathe. Why does he care about you so much?

Someone would have to be looking very closely at you in order to care that much. To think you’re worth the trouble. But you’ve taken steps, your whole life, to ensure that nobody will ever be able to see you close enough. If they did, they’d notice all the structural flaws. The deep cracks and the sagging floorboards and the mold you’ve been covering in paint. 

You feel your throat closing as he stands. 

Yes. Leave. Get out. Don’t look at me. 

March 13th

“Spencer.”

The name drips from your lips like melted sugar. Like a term of endearment. Just saying it makes you warmer. It’s maple syrup in your veins. You try to tug your dress down your thighs and stumble in place. The bartender holding your phone twists his wrist to speak into the microphone. 

“Hey, man. Your girlfriend is wasted. Cabs aren’t running and you need to come pick her up before she throws up all over my bar or wanders into traffic or some shit.”

“I’m not—I’m not wasted,” you mutter, pushing hair out of your face. Neither of them are listening as the bartender relays your location and assures Spencer that an eye will be kept on you until his arrival. As soon as they’re done, you’re leaning forward over the bar. “Gimme him,” you whisper-shout, making a grabby-hand. 

The bartender passes you your phone with raised eyebrows. “He’ll be here soon.”

“But he’s—he’s not on the phone?” You realize, closing your eyes and frowning as the heartbreak processes. 

“Nah. Drink this and sit tight. And don’t fuckin’ throw up. Please.”

You sigh and sip on a lemon water, smearing lipgloss all over the rim of the glass and wiping a dribble off your chin after you swallow. “Spencer’s my boyfriend,” you tell the man, dreamily. 

“So you’ve told me.” 

“He’s so handsome… and smart… and we’re in the—the FBI. Can you believe that?” You cackle and slap the bar top. Mr. Bartender only hums an uh-huh as he focuses on making someone else a drink. 

When Spencer does finally arrive, you’re elated. Glitter courses through your veins. More than that, you’re relieved—you catch his eye and light up, and when he makes his way through the throng to you, you’re ready to melt all over him. You haven’t spoken to him in days. 

“You’re here!” You sing, hooking an arm around his back and resting your head on his bicep, looking up at him with big, bleary eyes. Spencer supports you with an arm and doesn’t let go even as he’s fishing out his wallet to settle the bill you racked up. “Wait, Spence—we should have one more drink.”

He’s not looking at you as he speaks. “Absolutely not.” And then, to the bartender, “Thanks, man.”

“Spencer,” you begin again, savoring his name on your tongue and admiring his profile as he walks you out of the bar. “I told everyone I met tonight that you’re my boyfriend.”

“I heard,” he says simply, scanning the street before you cross. Presumably the wind is whipping at your bare legs, but you don’t feel it. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because…” you hum thoughtfully. “Because I like you so much. And I liked thinking about you being my boyfriend.”

He doesn’t respond. Even now, even drunk as you are—a very small part of you knows this is cruel. Just last weekend you’d let him walk out of your apartment precisely because you weren’t willing to label things. 

In the morning, that will still be true. But this is just play-pretend. 

“Also, because—isn’t it—isn’t it crazy, that you’re the nicest, prettiest, smartest, best guy ever, and they believed me? I showed them pictures and told them about your degrees and everything and they still believed me. They believed—they believed when I said you’re my boyfriend. They didn’t even question it at all. Like, what? They thought I was good enough to deserve you.”

The sidelong glance he casts you then is like a grappling hook, and you stumble into his side. His brows are knit over eyes that have gone glassy black in the dark, illuminated only by the shifting reflection of each haloed street lamp you pass. It’s hypnotizing. “You think you’re not good enough for me?” He asks. 

You hiccup and clap a hand to your mouth, stickying your palm with remnant gloss. “Oops. No. I mean, yes.”

He’s on the verge of replying when the smell of something fried and sweet has you perking up like a bloodhound. A blinking neon sign behind him catches your eye. “Oh my god,” you interrupt. “They’re—holy fuck, Spencer. That donut shop across the street—oh my god. We have to go. Please? Pleasepleasepleaseplease?”

One thing about Spencer you know to be true—and, perhaps the characteristic of his that defines your entire relationship: he has a profoundly difficult time telling you no. 

Which is how you end up eating donuts in his bed. The ones you couldn’t finish end up in a paper bag on his bedside table—tomorrow’s hangover remedy—and you end up safely tucked under his comforter, in his shirt, smelling of his bodywash. His touch still burns everywhere, like the paths of his fingertips had etched glowing tributaries into your skin. 

All of this to say, you couldn’t possibly be happier with the way the night unfolded.  

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the complete black of the room after he flips the bathroom light off on his way out, but you manage to track him nonetheless. You relish in the familiar dip of the mattress under his weight, the careful tug of the blanket as he gets in bed with you. As he pulls you into him, without hesitation, it’s like ecstasy. Everything is okay again.

It doesn’t take long for you to get close to sleep—it’s been days since you’ve been able to. Just before you go under, Spencer secures you to him. He presses his lips to your temple. 

“I love you,” you mumble. You want to say it before you can’t. 

He strokes your hip. And then you’re gone. 

March 26th

“Did you mean it?”

You look up from the transcripts you’d been studying—the latest victims both had behavioral issues at school. Spencer is across from you, on the other end of the big glass conference table at the Memphis field office. Binders and notebooks and thick Manila folders form a sort of abstract frame around him as he leans back in his chair, gripping the plastic arms. His eyes are laser-focused on you. How long has he been staring at you, thinking about this?

“Did I mean what?”

“When you said you loved me.”

The door is closed and the blinds are shut. You almost wish this were more public so you could reasonably (and urgently) change the subject. Instead, you laugh awkwardly and cast your gaze sideways as if something in your peripheral vision could save you. “When did I say that?” 

It is very clearly the wrong question to have asked. Spencer blinks and looks down through the table at nothing, brows knitting slightly like he’s accounting for new information and adjusting his frameworks accordingly. You swallow. The trouble is, you remember saying it with perfect clarity. You’d just been hoping he would let you off the hook for it. 

“Okay,” he says, after a few eternal moments with only someone’s ringing landline in the office beyond to bridge the gap of silence. 

“… Okay what?”

He picks up his pencil without making eye contact. Twirls it between nimble fingers. Pulls his chair close to the table like he’s going to settle back into his work. There are times where he is capable of immersing himself in whatever he’s reading completely and immediately, but you know this is not one of those times. The petulant flash of his eyebrows, the chin balanced on his fist to hide his mouth. And that perpetually tapping pencil. For all his genius and every one of his quirks, you know he can’t focus on reading and fiddle at the same time. You’re not a profiler for nothing. 

“Spencer.”

“What?”

The immediacy of it is almost enough to have you wincing. 

“I… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I asked you a question and you didn’t know what I was talking about, so it’s fine.”

“But you’re obviously upset.”

“I’m not obviously anything. You’re reading into it.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Oh my god. Says you.”

The pencil hits the table—as does the other hand. Spencer sits up straight and looks you right in the eye. Uh oh. 

“You responded to my question with another question to avoid giving me a real answer because you think I won’t like what you have to say. Am I wrong?”

Your face goes hot as your mouth opens and closes uselessly a few times. A moment passes and you hate watching that vindication, that hurt, freezing him over, more solid with each second you don’t speak. Mostly you hate that feeling in your throat—it’s either bile or the truth. You’re not sure which one will come out when you open your mouth. But you have to try. He’s backed you into a corner. You swallow. 

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, you are.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you huff mockingly, averting your eyes to the paper in front of you and strangling your pen as your cheeks positively burn. 

More buzzing silence. 

“Sorry,” Spencer tries, having softened considerably and now obviously remorseful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. You don’t have to… say anything before you’re ready. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Still avoiding his gaze, you hum. It’s a manic, anxious sort of sound. The nail of your thumb wears away between your teeth before you switch to picking at the dead skin on your lip. Your foot bounces as you read the name of the victim over and over again, just to have something to do. Kelly Shelton. Kelly Shelton. 

You don’t realize he’s rolled his chair over to you until there’s a gentle hand around your wrist. 

“Stop,” he murmurs, not letting go even when you look at him indignantly. He produces chapstick from his pocket, because of course he does, and presses it into your palm. His eyes are so big and so brown and so warm, almost calf-like, that it’s very difficult to stay mad. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me.”

“Yeah. It was.” You drop your eyes to where you’re fiddling with the lip balm. His hand still rests over your wrist. If he won’t let you pick at your lips, you’re at least going to chew on them—especially with the concession you’re about to make. “But… I mean… you held out for a while. I guess I’d probably be curious too.”

“So you do remember saying it.”

You look up at him with eyes that you hope effectively say don’t push your luck. At this, he has the audacity to smile—something smitten and stupid and cute. God, he really is easy on the eyes.

“If you tell anyone, you’re dead,” you warn, but it comes out all wrong when you’re fighting back a twisty grin of your own. “And they’ll never know it was me.”

“Noted.”

“Because I could really get away with it. Like, really. I know exactly how to throw off an investigation.”

“Easy, tiger. Put that on. I’m going to get you some water so maybe you’ll stop dessicating your lips.”

“Why are you so worried about my lips?” You ask his retreating back. 

Spencer barely looks over his shoulder as he clicks his tongue, like you should already know. “Vested interest.”

You slink low into your seat and try not to be flustered. 

April 15th

“That tastes like lawn clippings.”

You laugh at the face Spencer is pulling as he lets your gelato melt on his tongue. “No it does not! It’s so good! You seriously don’t like matcha?”

“Matcha is fine.” He points at your cup with his dinky wooden spoon. “That is grass.”

It’s the first warm night of spring, and you and Spencer weren’t the only ones who had an itch to get out of the house. Bars and restaurants have set up their sidewalk seating. Food trucks seem to dot every corner, and on this street alone there have got to be nearing a hundred people, milling about or seated, all talking and laughing. The two of you are ambling back toward his apartment. Efficiency has not been a priority of the journey. 

“The lady said it’s one of their most popular ice cream flavors. It wouldn’t sell if it actually tasted like grass. You’re just delusional.”

“Not ice cream.”

You frown and suck on the wooden end of your spoon, looking up at him through narrow eyes. His hair is getting long. “What?”

“It’s not ice cream. Gelato and ice cream are fundamentally different.”

“How?” 

“Gelato uses more milk, less cream, and usually doesn’t contain eggs. It’s also meant to be served at a warmer temperature. And they have entirely different regional origins. Thus, not ice cream. If your opinion is going to be wrong, you should at least try to get the facts right.”

Spencer is smiling at his cup when you shove against him. “If mine is so bad, let me try yours.”

“No,” he laughs, eating another pitifully small spoonful. “Because I know if you try mine, you’re going to realize it’s better, and then we’ll have to go back.”

“That is not going to happen. Just let me try! Please? I let you try mine!”

“Forced me to,” he mutters, smile still pulling at the corners of his mouth as he slows to a stop in front of a mostly-budded spindly tree. You stand toe to toe on the sidewalk as he scoops a bite for you and holds out the spoon. As soon as you lean forward to taste it, you realize he was completely right. His is infinitely better than yours. Spencer’s lips twist and his eyes sparkle at this recognition, and you’re pissed it’s so visible on your face. 

“You’re making me go back, aren’t you?”

“… No. Yours isn’t even good.”

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “Come on.”

“Mm… okay.”

You turn around, and immediately freeze. There, at the edge of the crowd of food-truck goers, you see a distinctly colorful and familiar silhouette. Penelope Garcia is facing away from you, but even from the back you’d never mistake her for someone else. Those metallic green platform heels had very nearly crushed your toes in the elevator just this afternoon. 

“We need to go.”

Spencer frowns when you turn right back around and he has to take a few quick steps to catch up when you feel no qualms about leaving him in the dust. “What? What happened?” He asks, craning his head to scan the crowd shrinking behind you. “Is that Penelope?”

“And Kevin,” you agree. 

“Oh. You don’t want to say hi?”

At first you think he’s joking. But when you feel his eyes on the side of your face for a moment too long, you meet his questioning gaze. “No, I don’t wanna say hi.”

A familiar pause. The one that always comes right before he starts a fight with you. “You don’t want them to see us together?”

You sigh. “I—no. You know I don’t want the team to know yet. And if Garcia finds out, it’s gonna be the whole team. They’ll just… they’ll make it weird.”

“I think you’re making it weird right now. We’re allowed to spend time together outside of work. I sincerely doubt that if they had seen us back there Penelope’s first assumption would be that we’re together.”

We’re not, you want to say—but you bite it back. Because, even if not by name, in effect you are. The only reason to remind him of that at this point would be to hurt his feelings. And you’re not cruel. Or at least—you don’t try to be. 

“I just—I’m not ready for that.”

“We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

“Can we please just drop it?” 

You didn’t mean to snap. Luckily your brisk pace has taken you far enough away that the ambient sounds of the city will surely muffle your voices before they reach your coworkers. 

Spencer is silent. Your gelato hits the bottom of a nearby trash can. 

Back at his apartment, things remain slightly tense. You don’t like it—his reticence, the physical distance he maintains. 

Spencer’s getting water in the kitchen when you wordlessly excuse yourself to his bedroom. A few minutes later, you emerge, padding quietly across the antique tile, and he turns around—eyes shamelessly scanning you up and down as he notes your lack of shoes. And pants, probably. 

“I thought you were planning on going home for the night.” He sets the glass down on the counter when you don’t stop coming. 

“Don’t feel like driving.” You wrap your arms around his middle and rest your cheek against his chest. “Can I stay?”

He’s quiet a moment. You don’t always reward him with overt, unapologetic affection like this. Especially not after the recurring what are we argument. “You know you can.”

“Thanks.”

After one more moment of hesitation, or reluctance, or something—his arms snake around you. You relax further into him, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m sorry about earlier. With Penelope.”

The thrum of his heart could lull you to sleep. 

“Me, too,” he murmurs—and there is something like grief laced into the words. You pretend not to notice. 

April 29th

“Sorry I’m late. Crash on the beltway,” you breathe as you blow into the roundtable room one morning, tossing your bag on the table and falling into a seat. 

JJ nods, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, yeah. Spence got delayed, too. Maybe it was the same one.”

You clear your throat and focus on flipping open a file. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Spencer is holding back a grin so bright that you can practically hear the crystalline twinkling as it fights to be freed. 

Later, you corner him by the coffee machine. 

“You have to stop doing that,” you mumble. 

He’s leaning against the counter, one hand in his suit pocket—your favorite suit of his—as he watches you smugly from behind his cup. “Doing what?”

The look you give him then could boil water. He maintains his innocence. 

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“Yeah, asshat. Making us late,” you hiss, only after a proprietary scan to make sure nobody’s standing close enough to hear. 

“Friday is statistically the most dangerous day of the week on the beltway in terms of vehicular collisions. But there’s nothing I can do about that. You look nice today, by the way. Had a good morning?”

The audacity on him. Your face burns as you try to think of a retort, but all the signals have been intercepted—playing clips from your rather leisurely morning in a hazy highlight reel that is most certainly not appropriate for the work place. But he doesn’t let you flounder for long. Instead, he’s pushing off the counter and standing too close, just barely resting a hand on the small of your back as he reaches up to grab your mug from a shelf and you try not get dizzy from the proximity. 

“I’ll bring the coffee to you, sweetheart. Go sit down.”

The words, the gesture, are all too subtle for anyone else to notice. They turn you into a puddle of idiot. He’s never called you sweetheart. He’s never condescended to you like that before. You’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to like it so much. 

A few minutes later, the mug hits your desk. With ten words, he’d reduced you down to something shy and nervous, and you look up at him as he slides the coffee toward you like he might do something else crazy and unreasonably attractive. “Thanks,” you murmur, accepting the drink and exerting excessive willpower in order to turn your attention back to the computer screen. 

Rossi calls from the catwalk. “You do deliveries now? Fantastic. I’ll take a cappuccino.”

“Yeah. I’ll get right on that,” Spencer mumbles, and makes a beeline for his desk. You hope his face is red. Serves him right. 

The rest of the day, you’re almost… clingy. At lunch, you silently slide your chair over to his and begin eating without a word. It’s not like you have anything to say, really. You just crave the comfort of his knee against yours. When he fleetingly rests his hand on your thigh under the desk, for the briefest of moments, you’re far too pleased. 

Soon, JJ joins you, and then Penelope. But you don’t mind. Sometimes the nature of your relationship with Spencer and the secrecy of it all is a major source of stress for you—but today, it feels more like an alliance. Something special between the two of you that nobody else gets to share in. 

You keep casting glances at him, just for the pleasure of the view. Hoping he’ll be looking back. The third time you make eye contact, he shakes his head subtly and smiles down at his salad. You bite back a grin of your own, and try to focus on the story Penelope is telling. Sometimes, keeping secrets is fun. 

May 3rd

When Garcia said the case was local, you didn’t think you’d know the final victim. You didn’t think you’d have to watch her die. 

After the EMTs clear you, Spencer takes you to your apartment. You don’t speak a word the entire drive. Not in the parking lot, not in the lobby or the elevator or the hallway. You don’t speak in the bathroom when he quietly asks if you want help getting out of your bloodied clothes. Gently, tactfully, he coaxes a nod from you, and then he’s unbuttoning your shirt. It’s not your blood. 

The shower is started. Do you want me to come with you?

Another shake of your head. He respects your wish for privacy, but leaves the bathroom door cracked. You’d never tell him how much you appreciate that. 

After the shower, after you’re dressed, Spencer brings you tea and sits on the bed with you. At some point he changed from work clothes into pajamas he’d left here, even though he didn’t ask if he could sleep over. You’re grateful. Maybe he noticed that you’d left all the lights off, and he doesn’t try to turn them on. You’re grateful for that, too. 

“We don’t have to talk about it right now. But we can, okay? We can talk about it whenever you’re ready.”

Another morose nod. You stare into the amber depths of your tea. Not now. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. 

“I just wanna go to bed,” you whisper. All the screaming has shredded your throat. The words come out like rice paper. 

Spencer holds you until the room fills with milky grey dawn light. And though neither of you are speaking, he doesn’t fall asleep. You can tell from his breathing that he’s staying awake for you. 

-

You’re supposed to take a week off, at the least. This is not something you want. Being alone for eight hours a day sounds like it’ll be the opposite of helpful—but so what. You can handle it. When Spencer calls to tell you there’s a case—that’s when the panic starts to well. 

You pick at your lip, and then when you remember how he’d scold you for it, switch to pulling a loose thread on your sock, phone poised in your free hand. “I’ll come in.”

“You can’t,” he says, voice tinny through the speaker. “You cannot be in the field right now. You know that.”

You sit up a little straighter, nails biting into the skin of your ankle. “What am I supposed to do—just—just rot here for however fucking long you’re—you guys are gone?”

Spencer sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to be alone. I’m… I’m considering sitting this one out, too.”

Your blood goes cold. “Spencer.”

A beat. “What?”

“You’re not staying behind for me.”

“I’m—”

“No. That’s not—that’s not what this is. That’s not what we do. You’re going to go do your job, and I’m going to stay here.”

“You just said—”

“I don’t care what I said! You’re not putting me ahead of the job! You’re not staying behind to check up on me. I’m an adult.”

“You don’t need to lash out. I’m just worried about you.”

“Worry about doing your fucking job. And don’t call while you’re gone.”

You hang up and throw your phone at the end of the couch. 

-

Spencer gets home at the end of the week to find his apartment broken into. The first clue was that the culprit forgot to lock the door after they used their key. The second and third clues were haphazardly untied and dropped in the middle of the living room. 

He finds you in the dark, curled up on his side of the bed under the blanket. Spencer drops his bag and rounds the bed to you, sitting on the edge and carefully taking your head into his lap, where, as if on cue, you begin to cry. For a long while, he doesn’t say anything—only pushes your hair out of your face with a gentle hand and fruitlessly wipes away tears. You’re not sure you’ve ever cried like this in front of him. 

Eventually, you try to breathe, pushing the heel of your palm into your eye as if you could forcibly hold the tears in. “I c-can’t believe that she’s gone,” you gasp. 

“I know, honey,” Spencer murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

You sob harder. “It sounds so s-stupid, but I can’t—I don’t underst-stand how she’s dead! I saw her last week!”

“It’s not stupid. Human brains struggle with loss because we constantly function under the assumption that people are still there even when we can’t see them. Your brain is trying to contend with two incompatible realities, and it’s exhausting, and it hurts a lot. I know it does, angel.”

“I just—I saw it happen—I haven’t slept, because—” A cleaving cry pushes through your sentence, cutting you off. The air in the room is vacuous around your grief. 

“I know,” Spencer whispers again. His voice is so tender it bruises more than it breaks. “I know. I wish you hadn’t. I’m sorry.”

The fact that you went days without talking or even exchanging a text goes unmentioned. Your outburst goes unmentioned. Still, Spencer wishes you had told him what was going on sooner. He would’ve come back in a heartbeat. You wish that, too. 

May 20th

Spencer is sick. Over the phone he insists that you don’t come over. So you show up at his door and use your key. What is he going to do? Get up from the sofa and physically remove you? Not likely, in his state. 

As soon as you enter the apartment, you see his head poke up from the couch. Then he groans, hoarse and congested, and drops back down. “I told you to stay away. I’m still contagious.”

“I brought you three kinds of soup,” you say, completely ignoring his bid to send you away as you breeze into the living room and sit on the coffee table across from him, paper bag in tow. “But I think you should start with this one. It’s chicken noodle with garlic, ginger, and turmeric.”

“Anti-inflammatories.”

You give him a dazzling smile. “Exactly. So you’ll get better quicker. I looked it up.” Spencer smiles at this too. Despite the sallow skin and the darker-dark circles, the brilliance of it still has the ability to fluster you—so you move right along. “Um—I also got—I brought honey-herb cough drops, like the ones you keep in your desk. Oh! And this immune-boosting tea. I don’t know if it works, but it sounded good. And… I brought you orange juice for vitamin C—and, okay—you don’t have to try this, but it’s one of those, like, immune-boosting shots? It’s just a tiny little bottle of ginger and turmeric juice, I think. It’ll probably taste bad. But I got one for me, too, so we can take them in solidarity. And maybe then I won’t get sick.”

Spencer just watches you for a moment. You smile awkwardly and pick at a thread on your jeans. “Sorry, I know this is a lot. Sorry if I overdid it. I can go, if you want—I just wanted to make sure you had—”

“Stop. This is amazing. You’re genuinely like an angel. Thank you.” Spencer reaches out and sets a hand on your thigh. The idea that he wants to show you affection but doesn’t want to risk your health is so endearing that you can’t help yourself—you slide to your knees in front of the couch and wrap your arms around him best you can. He chuckles and hooks an arm around your back, rubbing a few short lines over your shirt. 

After a moment you pull back, and press a fleeting kiss to his warm forehead—but you stay kneeling in front of him for a bit longer. Unwisely close, most likely. His eyes are bleary, glazed with illness and watercolor soft on you. 

“What are you gonna tell the team if you get sick?” he murmurs, gaze tracing your face in gentle lines. 

You hum, wrapping your hand around his forearm. “We were doing mouth to mouth resuscitation?”

-

Turns out the immunity shots were a gimmick, because the next week, you’re sick as a dog. The team doesn’t ask any questions—it’s completely reasonable that Spencer could’ve infected you without getting his spit in your mouth. 

“Guess what?” You ask from his couch as soon as he opens the front door, making a beeline for the kitchen to set down his groceries. 

“What?”

“Penelope called me today asking why I wasn’t home. Apparently after work she stopped by to bring me soup. I told her I was at the doctor’s, and she was like, at six PM? And I was like, yeah, she’s a weird naturopathic doctor, and then she started naming all the naturopathic doctors she knows.”

“Technically you are at the doctor’s,” Spencer reminds you as he comes to sit on the coffee table, much like you’d done last week. “You still sound congested. Are you feeling any better?”

You lean into his touch when he checks your temperature with a cool hand to your forehead. “A little, maybe.”

Spencer frowns as he brushes his thumb across your febrile cheek, sporting that little worried line between his brows that you find so cute. “You’re not coughing. Have you been taking that cold medicine?”

“Plenty.”

A slow smile blooms on his face in spite of the concern. “Oh. So you’re high.”

“No!” You giggle, though you’re definitely a little loopy. “And hey—even if I was, that’s medical malpractice on your part. One, you should never share prescriptions, and two, you should never let the patient administer her own doses when she’s really sleepy and out of it.”

Spencer lets you grab his hand, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Can’t leave you alone for even a day,” he scolds through a grin that oozes affection. 

“You know what would make me feel better, Dr. Reid?”

“What?”

“A kiss.”

“Can’t risk it. The virus could have mutated. It might reinfect me.”

“It wouldn’t do that to me,” you promise. Spencer smiles even wider, squeezes your hand tighter. 

“Yeah? Why not?”

“Because we go way back. Like to last week when you got sick.”

“Right. You’re getting cut off the cough syrup, Typhoid Mary.” At that he tries to get up, presumably to go make you dinner—but you refuse to let go of his hand. 

“Hey, wait.”

Spencer, now standing and still holding your hand, looks down at you expectantly. Your head lolls on the pillow as you blink up at him. “Love you.”

He smiles, softer now, and kisses your wrist, right where the feverish blood flows closest to the surface. “I love you.”

After that, it’s hard to feel too bad. 

June 6th

“Can you slow down?” Spencer follows you into the bedroom where you immediately begin yanking open drawers and shoving clothes into your duffel bag. 

“No, because you’re going to try and fix it, and I already told you I don’t want—”

“Jesus Christ—I’m asking you to stop for one fucking second so we can talk about this.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But I do. There are two of us in this relationship, and I want to talk about it.”

“And I just said I don’t.” Half the clothes you’ve accrued here are on his floor because they wouldn’t fit into the bag. Both of you stomp carelessly over them toward the bathroom. You’re grabbing products at blind from the medicine cabinet. 

“You are unbelievable. How many more times are you going to do this? How many times are we going to break up because you—”

You whip around, brandishing a toothbrush. “We’re not breaking up. We’ve never broken up because we have never been together. That’s the fucking problem—you always think everything means more than it does. You’re obsessive and clingy and smothering and so fucking exhausting to be around. If you want to talk about it, there. That’s why this is happening.” You shove past him and he tails you down the hall. 

“You’re pathetic,” he calls. “Truly. This is pathetic.”

“Stop talking to me.”

“You know what your problem is? You know why we keep doing this? You’re a coward.”

“Oh my god. Great, yeah, this again. Let’s have this conversation again, please.”

“If you don’t like it maybe you should fucking listen to me this time!” 

The yell rings. It might be hard for the average person to get him this angry. To you, it comes naturally. It comes like switching the shower water from hot to room temperature, washing cool down your neck and shoulders. 

“Goodbye.” You’re making for the door, and you get so far as to open it—but then, Spencer has his hand in a vice grip around your wrist, and he’s slamming the door shut. You startle, almost jumping back into him and then whirling around. He’s so close you can see the freckle in his iris. “What the fuck is your problem?” you shout—when he goes low, you go lower. “Let go.”

“I am not going to keep doing this with you,” he breathes, and his eyes are so dark, so full of gravity and swirling with anger—that for the first time, you actually sort of believe him. “I will say this one last time.” Your heart is pounding as his tongue darts over his lips. You’re frozen. Battered silence hangs all around, waiting to be broken and put back together for the umpteenth time this week. But he keeps his voice low. “I have been patient with you. You were taught that the people closest to you are going to let you down and hurt you. It is not your fault that those lessons are biologically ingrained into your nervous system. I understand that sometimes it doesn’t feel safe to let someone in, and you’re just doing what you think you have to do. But you are an adult. I’m done letting you use me as a scapegoat for your own attachment issues. I love you, and I care about you, and I’m never going to punish you for caring about me. I’m not going to hurt you for it, ever. But I am not your doormat. So I need you to understand that the smokescreens and the manipulation tactics are not going to work anymore. If you leave, it’s going to be because you are afraid. Not because I’m clingy or obsessive or exhausting to be around. You’re going to take accountability for what this is.”

Your wrist flexes in his hold. The words are like searing fire in your veins, in your whole body—burning you clean from the inside out. This is the worst thing he could have said to you. The worst thing he could’ve done while he made you look into his eyes like this. You’d rather be stabbed. If you could, you’d play dead. But you have a terrible feeling that he’s ready to stand here, watching you, for hours. For as long as it takes you to move again. 

“You need to let go of me,” you whisper. 

And he does. For a moment, you stand there, afraid to move, watching him wearily like he’s going to grab you and drag you deeper into some cave—somewhere he can wrap you in a web and keep you there to poke at forever. But he doesn’t. Not when your fingers twitch at the doorknob. Not when you twist it open. Nobody chases you down the hallway. 

He simply lets you go. 

June 11th

The team doesn’t know about your most recent split with Spencer. They never do. No matter how many times it happens, no matter how many brutal arguments you get into, no matter how many disgusting things are said, no matter how many of his dishes you shatter—always, without fail, the two of you will go to work the next morning, stand peaceably next to each other in the elevator, and your coworkers will remain none the wiser. How could they possibly suspect a breakup when they never knew you were together?

It makes you feel insane. It’s like the relationship is a shared hallucination, and the only person who’d assure you that you you’re not going crazy is the one person you don’t want to talk to. And, of course, it puts you into situations like this. You and Spencer have been tasked with going to the medical examiner. Just the two of you. Aside from the hum of the wheels spinning against the wide road and the purr of the engine, the SUV is silent. 

“Take a left up here,” Spencer eventually says. 

You shoot him an irritated glance from the driver’s seat that he does not reciprocate. “The GPS is on, Reid.”

“Yeah, but you have it on silent. You keep missing turns. It’s rerouted three times.”

You grimace, glancing between the road and the mapping system several times. “Wh—and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Spencer doesn’t respond. It’s probably for the best. 

Fifteen minutes later, car doors are slamming in almost-unison. LA is hot today—white sunlight bleaches the sidewalk and beams off the shiny car in death rays. You flip your sunglasses down over your eyes and breathe in the wind coming off the ocean, ruffling the towering palm trees and your shirt. You don’t wait for Spencer. All you can think about when you look at him is what he’d said to you against his door—how he’d laid out the truth bare and in turn made you feel stripped and humiliated. Little more than a specimen, belly up, for him to sink his scalpel into. 

“Hold on,” he calls from behind. For decency’s sake, you do. After all, he is your co-worker. You don’t take your hand off the knob as you watch him coming up behind you in the door’s paned reflection against a wide, aggressively cerulean sky. He’s got sunglasses on, too—too many layers of glass between your eyes and his. You wait for him to speak. He takes his sweet time. “We need to be functional.”

“We are.”

“We need to be more functional. No more avoiding talking on the job.”

You open the door, baptizing yourself in the freezing rush of lobby AC. “That was a you problem. I would have vastly preferred if you hadn’t spent the first five minutes of the drive not telling me that I was going the wrong way.”

“I know,” Spencer agrees, holding the door open above your head. “Sorry. You’re just… kind of scary, sometimes.”

A probable understatement. The corner of your mouth twitches as you flash your badge to the receptionist, and she picks up the phone to alert the examiner of your arrival. 

June 30th

The elevator door was sliding shut as you and JJ chatted about where the two of you were going for dinner—perhaps that new Mediterranean spot with the nice outdoor seating—and then, there was a hand. The door stopped and slid back open. Spencer clearly wasn’t anticipating that it’d be you and JJ, but only the briefest flash of hesitation is visible before he’s plastering on an awkward smile and stepping in. 

“Oh, Spence! We were just talking about going out to dinner—do you have plans?”

You bite your tongue at JJ’s invitation and stare at the glowing panel of buttons. Spencer falters—you can feel his eyes on you. 

“Uh—tonight’s not a great night for me, actually.”

“Are you sure? You cancelled on me last month. And the three of us haven’t gone out in a long time.”

That’s how you end up at a smooth wooden table in a stucco courtyard under a big blue umbrella, serenaded by the burbling of a central tiled fountain and some bouncy stringed instrument coming through a wall mounted speaker with JJ and Spencer. And then, because of course, JJ gets a call from Will—something about the kids throwing up—apologizes profusely, and then leaves. Leaves the two of you alone. Together. At a restaurant. 

Silence hangs from the umbrella. You get impatient under the pressure of it. “Wow. We’re already having so much fun.”

The sarcasm does not go over Spencer’s head. “In my defense, I tried not to come.”

You sigh, cheek squished against fist and studying the way sunlight bounces off the splashing water as you slurp forlornly from a straw. “Not your fault.”

“Should we go?”

You turn your attention back to him, squinting and nibbling at the end of your straw. “I don’t know. We already ordered.”

“So… you wanna wait?”

A shrug. “It probably won’t be that long.”

And with that, a silent treaty is signed. 

“You know,” you begin, fishing a strawberry from your glass, “JJ was right. I can’t remember the last time the three of us hung out.”

“September 24th.”

You nod. “Wow. So, like… eight months. We kind of suck.”

The reason you’d stopped going out as a group was as much the changing of seasons as it was the shifting in your dynamic with Spencer. Around that time you’d started to see him one on one a lot more. This truth goes clearly acknowledged, but unspoken, as he tracks a drip of condensation down your glass and then regards you with a cool sort of curiosity. 

“Eight months is quite a while, huh?”

You eye him right back and lean down to your straw. “Basically forever.”

Later, easy chit-chat dots the short walk to your vehicle—it’s been hours, and you haven’t run out of things to say. You could keep going, you realize once you’re standing next to your car. A month without his company, and you’re brimming over with stories and anecdotes you’d been saving for him. He’s the first person you think about when you hear a funny joke or learn something new. That doesn’t just go away when if you’re not on good terms. It simmers. Waits for inevitable release. 

The sky is a gorgeous cocktail of pink and purple and yellow. You tilt your head back and close your eyes, just briefly, breathing in, letting the setting sun soak through your skin. 

“Beautiful,” you observe once your eyes flutter open again, tracing the wispy edges of rose-colored clouds. 

“Very.”

You sigh, taking in just a bit more vitamin D—and then you’re looking back at Spencer. He’s already looking at you, gilded in the heavy aureate light. Studying, in that way of his.

“Are we good?” He asks, after a moment. 

You blink. And then you offer him a small smile. “We’re good.”

July 13th

The trouble of being friends with Spencer is this: once you allow yourself a taste, no matter how small, no matter how innocent—you’re overcome with the desire to bite down. You want him between your teeth and on the back of your tongue. Messy, starving, gnashing, you don’t care. You want and want and want. 

Victim number one of your relapse: the coat tree. It clatters to the ground and spills everything everywhere when Spencer stumbles against it, trying to walk backwards into the apartment after you blindly lock the door. Of course, he couldn’t see where he was going—he was too busy tracing the seam of your bottom lip with his tongue. 

“Shit,” he breathes, nearly tripping again as winter coats and scarves, dormant for summer, wrap around his ankles and threaten to pull him down. You giggle breathlessly, slipping off your own shoes as he kicks at the heavy fabrics like they’re going to bite. Then he’s pulling you back into him, deeper into the apartment, tongues clashing. It’s been a long time, and he’s demanding. Not that you mind—not at all. Though, when he pulls you the opposite direction of his bedroom—toward his desk, in fact—you’re certainly confused.

“Bed?” You whisper against his mouth. 

“Can’t. Rebinding books, they’re laid out on the bed while the glue dries.”

Okay. “Couch?”

Reluctantly, Spencer pulls away. You yelp in surprise when he grabs your hair and uses it as a handle to direct your attention toward the sofa. Also covered in books. It’s amazing, actually, the sheer volume of them when they’re not neatly tucked into the shelf. And he’s got them all memorized. You look back at him, a wave of renewed awe washing through your veins. He’s so fucking strange. You missed him awfully. 

Pressing close enough is impossible, then, as you kiss him hard. There is a blatant, unapologetic hunger in his touch which completely ignores the border that the hem of your short dress presents, grabbing the back of your thigh in a bruising grip. Your breath catches against his mouth at the way his fingers dig into you like you’re wet clay and he knows best, he knows how to make you into something better, as the slow ache crawls up the back of your neck and furrows your brow. Spencer’s not afraid to touch you. He knows exactly how to make sure he’s got all your attention.

Nobody else has ever been able to do that. From other hands, when you’re forced to go begging for the cheap version of what you really want, it’s little more than untrained violence. Spencer knows how to make it feel righteous. Nobody is ever him. That hand comes to slide up the front of your thigh, thumb skimming the hem of your underwear while he dives back into your mouth and you let yourself be completely washed out in the riptide of his desperate affections. All that you’d been missing for months—you want it now. You want to show him how much you missed him. 

“Spencer—” you gasp between kisses. He hums against your mouth, and you let your hand slide down his stomach to hook in his belt. “Spence, can I—please, baby—”

“You don’t have to beg me, honey. I’m gonna give you whatever you want.” Lips against your warm cheek, your forehead, as he lilts sweetly, breathily. “Anything.”

So you’re nodding, dizzy in your anticipation and your desire, wordlessly pleading for more of his mouth on yours while you take off a belt you’re intimately familiar with. The clinking metal wakes up a part of you that’s been asleep since the last time you’d had him like this. When you drop to your knees, he seems vaguely surprised, eyes soft and all love on you. 

“Really?” he croons, hand already at your temple, already smoothing baby hairs. Already being the person you want him to be, because he’s been waiting, because it’s natural. Your nod, your eyes, the way your hands find his legs—it’s all enough for him. You get what you want. 

The hardwood presses against your knees, shifting and squeaking beneath you. Spencer takes his time pushing your hair out of your face, gathering it between his fingers and holding it to the crown of your head with an impossible kind of tenderness as you move. He strokes your cheek, brushes his thumb feather-light over the soft line of your lashes, once, twice. The fabric of his trousers bunches in your hands where they rest on his legs—he’s so kind to you that it hurts, it makes you want to cry, it makes you want to stay here forever just so he’ll keep looking at you like that, so you never forget how his pinky feels against the nape of your neck or the heel of his palm feels against your temple as he plays and plays with your hair, as even when you’re the one on your knees, he worships you. Christens you his own little angel, angel, angel—whispered like he really believes it, like you’re a miracle. Spencer loves in a way that feels like soothing, that feels like an apology for all the bad things that have ever happened to you and a nullifying of all the bad things you have ever done. 

Afterward you press your forehead against his thigh, mostly to hide the welling of your eyes when there’s no longer any good excuse—partially as a kind of supplication. Never let me go again. Please. No matter what I say. I’m sorry. 

Spencer fixes himself, crouches to your level, drops your hair just to push it out of your face and make you look at him. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as your glossy eyes dart between his. But you don’t look away. You don’t want to. When a tear rolls down your cheek, he sees it, and there’s nothing you can do. And you realize you’re not sure you’d want to hide it after all. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “We’re okay. What do you need? What can I give you, sweetheart? Do you want to be done? Want me to move the books so we can sit down?”

“No, no—I don’t wanna be done. I just missed you so much. I was dumb before. I’m sorry.”

He softens impossibly at this, to the point where he’s hazy around the edges, melting into the warm ambient light. “You weren’t. You weren’t dumb. Come here, stand up. You’re never dumb—here, is this okay?” He’s sat you on his desk, shoving things aside to make room—casualties for a later consideration—and he’s already littering kisses over your neck. “I missed you too. I think about you all the time, angel, you don’t need to apologize, just… god, I missed you. Please let me touch you. Please.”

It’s hard to say no to that—what with the begging, and the pull of your lip between his teeth, and the heat of his breath fogging your brain. There’s not a lot of room to work with, but you manage to lean enough of your weight back that he can tug your underwear down your thighs. They end up on the floor, and you feel his hand sliding beneath your dress again, where you’re bare for him, and he doesn’t make you wait. 

“Oh my god, you’re perfect,” he mutters upon discovering just how ready for him you are. You hiss as he slips past the initial resistance. Spencer responds with his lips pressed to your head, but he shows no mercy with the slow rock of his hand, the drag against where you’re softest and where you need him the most, the exact right place to touch you. Your arching, squirming, whimpering, doesn’t deter him in the slightest. When your thighs clamp shut and you shift back, he follows you. When you look up at him, brow furrowed, lips parted—in disbelief but without the words to say it—he’s already looking at you. “I know,” he assures you. “That’s it, huh? Right here?”

Rapidly you nod. His exhale is almost one of relief. “Yeah,” he sighs, knowingly. Melting closer to kiss you again. 

It doesn’t bother him when your nails dig into his flexing forearm as you cum. Judging by the groan, you think he might like it. 

You’re barely recovered by the time he’s lining himself up to you, but you find your bearings quickly. It’s a slow, bated burn, when he finally does it. You’re both silent, tense, hardly breathing in anticipation. What has at times been a slip feels now more like an endless push—it is its own kind of back-arching, toe curling, deep-in-your-spine ecstasy, as he breaks you open slow. Your legs part wider for him, and your hips yearn to push against his.

His words burst forth with the same expelling of pressure, at the same time, as your first sudden cry. “Fuck, angel. Jesus.”

There’s a stinging point of light inside you that he’s pushing against. You close your eyes and watch it flash and spark. “Feels so good,” you promise, nothing more than a whisper. Whatever this is, this pain and pleasure, it’s landed you in some divine plane. You never want it to end. 

“Relax for me, honey. Let go a little.”

“I am, I am,” you defend on a quick exhale, looking down when he stops fighting to get in. “Please—why’d you stop? Please—”

“You’re not ready.”

“Yes, I am, fuck, please, Spencer!”

Something in you is desperate and starving and you need it now—you’ve needed it for a long time—but he doesn’t capitulate. Instead, he kisses you. Softly. Slow and sweet, like you have all the time in the world. You have no choice but to drown in it. It’s a short-circuit in your body when after a minute of this, after he senses the way you’ve dissolved, suddenly his hips are flush with yours. You gasp and a pencil cup clatters to the ground in your search for purchase. You’re little more than a pulsing, glowing star, lightheaded at the depth and the pressure and the way that band of resistance he’d pushed past aches around him in time with the pound of your heart. Spencer is leaning against you, gripping the edge of the desk behind you hard and breathing heavily against your neck. 

Words have every opportunity to pass from your dropped jaw, but you’re actually speechless. Your heartbeat is a white flashing in your eyes. The only verbal expression at your disposal: “Spencer.”

For a moment time suspends like that, and you wonder how the fuck you could ever have made any decision that would take you away from him, away from this. This is so obviously the only right answer. 

Slowly, he draws out, and you stop breathing. Come back. Come back. Your legs spell it out as they wrap around his hips. It’s just as slow on the uptake, and you loose a shuddering, rattling breath. Your body tenses and shifts, trying to pull you up and away from the feeling—but not because it hurts. It’s just so mind-numbingly fucking deep. Everywhere. The base of your spine, the tips of your fingers. Out. While you have a fleeting moment of sentience, you whisper his name a few times in quick succession. This successfully draws his attention and he lifts his head from your shoulder, pupils blown to hell as he’s already dragging back in. A too-honest, too-raw cry pulls from your soul, turns half disbelieving laugh as he presses against your deepest part and black spots dance in your vision. 

His eye darts to the way your knee pulls up, clearly beyond your control—the way your body tries to make sense of him, tries to respond to what he’s doing to you. You watch as it happens—that flash in his eyes. That shift into a kind of determination that always ends with you dead asleep on his pillow, face streaked with dried tears borne of sheer overwhelm. Spencer fits his arm around you and pulls you flush to him, the other hooking under your knee and holding you open. He sets a new pace, and it doesn’t take long to get you gripping at the back of his shirt and tearing up on his shoulder, making due with gasping sips of air and having completely given up on holding in the keens and the pleases and the occasional sob that to the trained ear sounds much like his name. 

You feel it coming—the searing heat, the pound of your heart, the drop of your stomach. It hits as hard as you knew it would. 

Usually he’s a little more talkative—but that comes later. With you pushed over his desk, and his arm around your chest, and his lips pressed to your ear. Blindly you reach back for him—you need him, you need something—and without question he catches your hand, pressing it hard into the dark surface of the wood. His thumb strokes at your hand, his fingers curl with yours, and Spencer continues with those murmurings, like spells—things nobody who knew him would ever imagine him saying. Things that have you making promises, breathing uh-huh’s, telling him you love him. Things that have your vision going black and your throat tightening around choked moans. He’s never had you this vulnerable before. You’re dizzy, drunk on it. This time when the end comes, it’s a heavy crash. It pulls you under. It does whatever the fuck it wants with you and tumbles you in its current forever because he’s not stopping, still slowly closing in on his own peak. There are moments where it goes beyond good. It’s just complete and utter sensation, on all fronts—thoughts come as colors and textures instead of words. You don’t even feel tethered to your body anymore, your grip on reality tenuous at best. 

Eventually all the crashing does end, and you whine brokenly, and he shushes you softly, and finally, finally, stills inside of you. 

Slowly, you come back to yourself. It’s dark outside, now. You can hear weekend traffic on the streets below. His apartment is clean (aside from the shit that got knocked over and the books on the couch) and it’s sticky summer warm, and it smells like home. It’s safe. And everything is okay. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so okay in your life. 

Spencer adjusts his hold on you when your weight signals that you want to lie flat on the desk, face pressed against your forearm, catching your breath in the wood-lacquer darkness. He follows you down, arms braced on either side of your head. His weight on your back is a comfort, as are his lips at the nape of your neck. 

“Okay?” he murmurs. Two gentle syllables, marked with exertion. You nod against your arm. “Not ready to talk?” Another nod. Another okay. 

For a stretch of time, he’s pressed his face against the back of your shoulder. You’re still seeing dancing colors behind your lids. 

The twinkly laughter comes as a surprise. “I don’t know where to put you, baby. All the places for lying down are covered in antique books.”

There’s not much air in your lungs. You spend it on laughter.

August 3rd

Spencer corners you outside the bathroom. 

“Who was that?” He demands, eyes worrisomely clear on you, voice alarmingly steady. You glance around to see if any of your coworkers can see the way he’s practically got you up against the wall down the dark passageway. The way he’s looking at you. Like he owns you. 

“Who was who?”

“I’m not willing to play stupid with you right now. Answer me.”

It’s easier to hurt your feelings these days. They’re closer to the surface. Sometimes it makes things feel really, really good. Sometimes your eyes sting at the smallest of provocations—things you would’ve brushed off without a second thought a year ago. You meet his eyes and swallow. “You’re being a fucking dick.”

Spencer is unfazed. His response is whip-fast and too loud, even among the chatter and laughter and music and clinking glasses. “Did you sleep with him?”

“What? What is your problem?” you hiss, pushing Spencer just hard enough to get some breathing room. 

“Why won’t you answer the question?”

“God, are you—you know what? No. You are so fucking out of line right now. Fuck off.”

You leave Spencer in the hallway and emerge into the bar. It’s bustling tonight. The whole BAU is here, scattered around, but suddenly, you feel aimless. Your nervous system is rattled after being accosted as soon as you left the bathroom, on what had previously been a good night. So you stand there, looking around and fiddling with your bracelet. 

It’s one Spencer recently gifted to you. A simple, delicate chain, but clearly well-crafted. The clasp is the only real ornamentation—two interlocking circles of equivalent circumference. There is no tail of wider chain loops to create an adjustable size—it is exactly what it is, and it fits you perfectly. To some, it’d be an underwhelming gift. No lavish stones, no poetic engraving, no garish costume-jewelry gold. But it means more to you than you could ever explain to somebody else. More than you’d ever feel comfortable explaining to somebody else. Spencer knows that. Two interlocking circles. 

When he gave it to you, you had a panic attack. Jewelry felt like a big step. But you didn’t do your usual thing where you start a huge fight and then dump him, and he didn’t take offense to your overwhelm. He only comforted you, and when all was said and done, you held out your wrist, and he put the bracelet on for you, and kissed the back of your hand. You haven’t taken it off since. It’s quickly become something of a talisman—you worry at it when you don’t know what to do with your hands. Even now. When you feel like punching him in the face. 

Did you sleep with him? What an asshole. What a fucking asshole. Spencer grovels and simpers and promises he’ll never hurt you, and then he goes and does something like that. The him in question—the one who recognized you when you were ordering a drink, and who held you up for maybe five minutes—is nowhere to be seen. That’s for the best. The recognition was not reciprocal. But rather than humiliate yourself in front of this man who knew your name by admitting you couldn’t place his face, you’d played along. Laughed awkwardly at his jokes like you knew who he was.

You don’t get why Spencer is so angry. He’s not the type to get jealous just because you spoke to another man. Sure, the man was perhaps a little over-familiar with you. He was flirty.

But Spencer is so overreacting. 

Before you can stop yourself, you’re looking back in his direction. 

He’s still in the dimly lit hallway. He’s watching you, hands in suit packets, and for all that you’ve seen his face, all the times you’d swore to commit every bit of it to memory—you can’t read his expression. 

That only pisses you off worse. 

You pointedly turn away, carving a path through the Friday night patrons toward the jukebox. 

The machine takes your quarter, but there’s something of a queue, and you realize you’re in too much of a bad mood to stand around getting jostled by drunk people who are having way more fun than you are. 

That’s how you end up out front, letting the rough stone wall bite into your bare arm and watching the cars go by, surrounded by patrons who’d stepped out for a smoke. 

Maybe you shouldn’t let Spencer ruin your entire night because of some stupid outburst. But you can’t shake it. 

Is that what he thinks of you? That you sleep around? That you cheat? Sure, the two of you haven’t explicitly had the commitment talk. But you thought it was pretty fucking implied. 

The moon is a bright white spotlight overhead. Despite the season, a breeze nips at all your exposed skin, and you cross your arms against the chill. Earlier, in your classy-enough white minidress and blue pumps, you’d felt beautiful. Now you just feel gross. 

Spencer comes out a few minutes later. 

“They’re playing your song.”

You can tell by the way he stops a few feet away that his tail is between his legs. Your head rolls toward him. 

“I can hear.”

It’s true—the buzzy, bouncy twang is distinctive even through a wall, and every drum beat is clear as day. So is the cheer that goes around as a bunch of drunk Generation X-ers and millennials recognize the synth riff. 

Spencer narrows his eyes and searches for the words. “I can’t help but feeling it’s slightly… pointed.”

What? Playing a song called Love Will Tear Us Apart? 

Pointed? 

Surely not. 

You don’t bother using your words—the exaggerated faux-bafflement on your face gets the message across. 

Spencer nods, looking appropriately contrite as he steps closer. You let him. 

“You were right,” he murmurs, speaking just for you now. “I was out of line.”

“Oh, really? Thanks for telling me. I hadn’t noticed.”

He says your name gently. You shut up and cast your glare sideways, watching a crumpled plastic cup make its way down the sidewalk. 

“I’m sorry. I just—I know you’re beautiful. I know people notice you. But we’re not usually in environments where I have to watch it happen. Or… or maybe it just goes over my head. That’s entirely possible. Either way, I’m not used to seeing you get hit on, and I couldn’t tell if you knew the guy, or if… maybe you were just hitting it off, and—I—I panicked, because we’ve never really had that talk before. I know what you are to me. But I’ve never clarified what I am to you. I’m not going to push you on the labels thing. You know I’m not. We should be on the same page about this, though.”

You sigh. Fiddle with your bracelet and watch it glint. “Spencer, I swear that guy—”

“I don’t care about that guy. It wasn’t about him. I’m sorry. I just want you to know that regardless of what we call it, it matters to me that we’re not doing this with anyone else.” His voice takes on that intimate tone—just barely more than a whisper. You look down as he grabs your hand, and drags it back up to his heart. Your breath catches. “You are my person, and I need that to be clear. Is that okay with you?”

His sincerity has stunned you speechless, and the proximity isn’t helping either, so you can only let your fingers catch on his lapel and nod—quick, eager little dips of your head. Yes, yes, you think. I can’t say it like you can. But yes. Please. That’s what I want. 

“Yeah?” he asks quietly, mirroring your nod and fondness twitching at the corners of his mouth. 

What you want to say is, oh, god, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. It burns inside of me, all the time, and I don’t know what to do with it all. I love you I love you I love you. 

Instead, you say, in your smallest voice, “Yeah. Yes.”

The way he slips his hand behind your neck and kisses you against that wall, under the full August moon and between clouds of cigarette smoke, cools your blood. It’s the only thing that works. 

Later in bed, you watch him sleep, that same moonlight casting silver through his hair as you comb your fingers through it, again and again. 

Before he’d fallen asleep, you’d asked him a question that had been on your mind since the bar. 

Spencer?

Hm?

What am I to you?

It’d caught him off guard. He held your hand, pressed the circles of your bracelet just to your racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, and mapped your face with darting eyes, with an intellect that can’t read minds no matter how much he wishes it could. 

Do you actually want me to answer that question?

You’d nodded. 

Is the answer going to freak you out?

At this you’d shaken your head no—which was an assurance made in haste. But you were too curious. You needed to know. 

Spencer weighed something internally for a long moment. 

You’re like… a lens I see the entire world through. I can’t do anything, or make any choice, without thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you. When we’re not together, it feels like I’m waiting for my life to start again. Nothing really counts unless you’re there to experience it with me, you know? I think of you as… I don’t know. Everything. You’re why I know it’s all real. Why it matters. 

It was so much, you had to hide in the curve of his neck. It made you nervous. The bigger it is, the harder it falls. 

But, because it mattered so much to you—because he matters so much—you found the courage to whisper against his neck: Me, too.

It was a really scary thing to admit. Scarier than when you tell him you love him. He kissed you for your bravery. 

Now, he’s asleep. 

You trace the moon-glow line of his cheek. 

Spencer lies sleeping next to you like a Renaissance angel as hot tears burn a scar down the bridge of your nose, and you bargain with god. Let me be good enough for him. Let me be someone else. Anything. I’ll do anything, just—please. Take this feeling away. Make me into a girl who deserves this kind of love. 

God does not answer. 

August 19th

Something is off. 

It started when you and Spencer didn’t take the same car to the airfield. 

Of course, that’s not unheard of—but it is uncommon. If it’s at all possible, he’ll slide in next to you. Today he didn’t even wait—got engrossed in a debate with Emily and followed her right into an almost-full SUV. 

So you stood there, blinked, and climbed into the other car next to Rossi. You didn’t say a word for the whole fifteen minute drive, watching the muddy fields and warehouses roll by beyond the window. 

Spencer isn’t doing anything wrong. 

It’s just that it’s been nearly a week since you’ve spent a night with him. And it’s starting to make you feel restless. There have been crack of dawn doctor’s appointments, and nights where one or both of you are too tired to drive to the other’s place, and preexisting plans with other people. All valid reasons to raincheck. 

But you’re not used to sleeping alone anymore. It’s not what you do. It feels like a really big deal to you that you haven’t had a sleepover for so long, and he hasn’t mentioned it, or given any hint that it’s bothering him the way it’s bothering you. 

God, when was the last time you spent more than two or three nights apart?

The last time you broke up, you realize. 

That is a sobering thought. 

On the jet, it’s not much better. Again, Spencer doesn’t wait for you before boarding. You’re slamming the car door, and he’s already walking up the steps in animated conversation with JJ. 

There is an old, familiar pang in your chest. 

No. No, please—I’m past this. I’m too grown-up for this. 

He loves me. 

But there’s that old paradox, again. If nobody except Spencer knows that you’re dating Spencer—and he’s not acknowledging it—are you really even together?

By the time you get on, he’s at the table. The three seats around him have been filled. You eye each of your coworkers and try not to feel burning rage, because they didn’t do anything wrong. 

Instead, you sit on the far end of the couch, and you pick your nails. 

The whole first day at the precinct is pretty much the same story, though you’re able to engross yourself deeply enough into the job that it doesn’t bother you so much. 

It’s only when the day is over, and you’re showered, and you’re sitting on your perfectly made hotel queen bed, that loneliness turns into gnawing, tearing panic. 

You catch your breath as it hits you—as the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and dread washes out the shell of your body. It’s bad. Worse than you would’ve imagined. 

What is wrong with you?

Why can’t you ever just be alright?

You don’t know if the solution here is to go to Spencer or to remain locked in your room like a psych-patient in a padded cell. 

Panic makes you unreasonable, you think. Pushing off the bed to pace. Moving helps. Moving tells your body that you’re evading the threat, and the panic attack ends sooner. 

Something you’d learned from Spencer, of course. 

Spencer. 

Unreasonable, right. You’re not entirely dependent on him for your mental stability. You have developed implicit expectations, sure—you’re used to being alone with him every night, so you can talk about your days and drink tea and be close. That’s not a bad thing. It’s a routine you’ve developed, and one you’ve come to rely on. Surely it’d be disregulating for anyone if it suddenly changed without warning. It’s not because you’re obsessive, or sick, or overly-needy. And it’s normal for couples to take a few days apart. 

Not obsessive, not sick, not needy. It’s normal. This is normal. 

This becomes your mantra as you pace the patterned carpet, eyes closed, lips moving, like if you stop the panic is going to catch you and swallow you whole. 

For a few minutes, it works. 

Then, for no apparent reason—it stops working. 

And it’s like watching a dam explode from the valley below. 

For a second you don’t know if you should run to the bathroom and throw up or go to Spencer’s door, and then you’re questioning if it’s late enough to go to his room, if maybe someone on the team might be out in the hallway—but your brain is screaming, if you do not go see Spencer, you are going to die. Who gives a fuck about your fucking coworkers. 

You tap lightly at his door. 

He doesn’t answer right away, and the brightly lit hallway seems to stretch on forever. You’re so profoundly anxious that there is a moment of hysterical, perverse humor. Look at you. About to die in a hotel hallway, barefoot and in pajama shorts, if he doesn’t open this fucking door. And of course. Of course he’s not going to open it. This is great stuff. Really, awesome material. Perfect. 

Just as you’re gripping the door frame to stop the building from spinning, just as you’re really, seriously about to pass out—the lock clicks. The door opens. 

Glasses. Sweatshirt. Spencer. 

“Hey! I was just about to—” he stops. Perhaps notices your slumped posture, how you’re white-knuckling the door. Maybe the sheen of sweat on your face. “Hey, okay—come here.”

Spencer wraps an arm around you and helps you in, closing the door and then leading you to his bed. 

“You look like you’re gonna pass out,” he mutters, laying you down carefully—ideally to get the blood flow back to your head. You blink. 

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine.”

You say it because you’re embarrassed. Spencer says your name with an edge that wants the truth. 

“It was just a panic attack.”

This doesn’t satisfy him. 

“Do you often pass out from panic attacks?”

“Um… not never.”

Your vision clears. Your ears stop ringing, and you push yourself up to sit against the headboard. Spencer has a bottle of water locked and loaded, holding it out for you as soon as you’re settled. 

The way he’s watching you as you drink, with so much unabashed and scrutinizing concern in that knit brow, is almost too much. You look away and screw the lid back on. 

“What triggered it?” He asks. 

“I don’t know, I was just sitting there—I was literally just sitting there, and suddenly my brain was like, by the way, you have five minutes to live, and—and I don’t know. I tried walking it off and breathing and stuff. I’m sorry I came here. It’s not your problem.”

“You’re not a problem. This isn’t a problem. You should’ve come before it got this bad.”

When he sets his hand on your knee, you close your eyes and try not to let it feel like medicine. 

It’s not his job to fix you. That’s not what he’s for. 

“Yeah,” is all you say. 

A pause. 

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

It’s clear he’s putting the pieces together. You sigh and fiddle with the bottle cap. Untwist. Twist. Untwist. 

“I… don’t know. I was overthinking.”

“Overthinking what?”

You flash him a look, because he knows he’s pushing you—but he’s unrelenting. 

Spencer’s hair is a corona of unruly curls. He hasn’t shaved in a few days. You don’t want to have this conversation—you want to put your head in his lap and fall asleep to the hotel TV. 

“It’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense. I just—I don’t know, we didn’t talk all day, and—”

You take a quick, shuddering inhale, and close your mouth. Because you realize you’re about to cry. And now you can’t even soften the blow of your insanity—you can’t tell him, I know I’m being crazy, I know nothing is wrong, I know it’s okay for us to not talk for a day or to spend a few nights apart and it doesn’t mean you hate me. 

But you can’t say any of that. It wouldn’t be true, anyways. You don’t know any of those things. 

Spencer is observing you and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. You look down at your folded legs to hide your wobbling chin. 

There’s no hiding the plunk of a fat tear as it hits the mattress, or the subsequent bloom of saltwater grey turning the sheet into a ghostly, sad little garden. You wipe your face with a furious, punishing hand, and speak hoarsely. “Sorry.”

Spencer catches your wrist before you can take out your own eye. “Stop.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, snatching your hand away though you desperately crave the contact. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I don’t know—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything is fine.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t—you need to stop doing that. Minimizing everything all the time. If everything was fine, you wouldn’t have had a panic attack and you wouldn’t be crying now.”

“Everything is fine,” you assert. Anger—not at him—begins seeping through your tone, burning you at the edges. “Everything is fine, but I’m obviously not, and I’m sick of getting so fucking upset about nothing all the time.”

“Tell me why you’re upset.”

“Because I’m crazy! Because we haven’t been together all week, and you didn’t sit next to me in the car today, or on the jet, and—and ever since I actually stopped holding you at arm’s length, I’m so fucking involved, and I care so much, and I knew this would happen. Before, it wouldn’t have mattered if we didn’t spend the night together for a week, because I wasn’t all in, and I knew if I was always giving you just a little less than you were giving me that the dynamic would be in my favor, and I would never have to feel like I was the unwanted one. But I can’t do that anymore, because—’cause I let myself care all the way, and I was so afraid of this happening, and it’s happening. I don’t have any fucking control over myself anymore. I’m so worried, all the time—it’s like, I have a doomsday clock inside of me, but instead of the end of the world it’s measuring how close you are to breaking up with me at any moment. Which is fucked, I know it’s fucked. I know I can’t read your mind, but I don’t have any perspective anymore. And the worst part is that it’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know the more insane and hyper-vigilant and codependent I get, the likelier you are to actually break up with me. It was never a problem before. It was never this scary because if I was the one who kept breaking up with you it meant I was in control, but I don’t wanna break up with you at all. I’m terrified of it. But it—it’s like my karma, I—”

“Okay. Slow down.” Your head snaps up—wide, teary eyes on Spencer. You almost forgot he was there. “Breathe. Just—take a deep breath.”

Fuck. You drag your hands to your face, fully prepared to curl in on yourself and die rather than face your own humiliation. 

“No, no—look at me. Come on.”

“I’m going insane,” you sniffle as he peels your hands away and forces you to look at him. “I c-can’t say anything that will make me sound less crazy.”

“You’re not crazy. Your nervous system is just shot, and you’re probably exhausted. Did you eat? I didn’t see you have dinner.”

Guilty, you shake your head. You didn’t realize he was paying attention. 

“I’ll call room service,” he decides. 

“I’m really not hungry.”

Spencer ignores this and picks up the phone anyway. You sit back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, staring at nothing as he orders something you’ll like. Waiting for the click of the phone back in its cradle. 

When the call is over, there is tremulous silence. A tension you’re not sure how to go about breaking. 

Spencer does it for you—finding your ankle and carefully pulling your leg straight, so he can run the length of it back and forth with his hand. You watch it go, like waves rolling in and falling back on sand. 

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend enough time together this week. I missed you, too. I absolutely do not want to break up. Not one part of me wants that.”

“I should be able to know that without you telling me.”

“But you aren’t, yet. You’re going to learn.”

“But—until I do—you’re gonna have to—to reassure me constantly. I’m going to be exhausting and irritating and you’re going to get sick of me.”

He regards you. 

“It makes me really sad that you feel that way. I think you severely underestimate how much I like you.”

“Why, though?” Immediately you’re rolling your eyes and throwing your hands up. “See? Fucking right there. Already. I’m already doing it.”

Spencer is holding back a smile when you look at him. You shrink. 

“No, no—” he laughs, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you.”

You end up nearly lying down, with him over you. Breathing in his mint and eucalyptus bedtime smell. The smile fades slowly, as he thumbs over your cheek, your lips. Your lids flutter at the relief of it all. 

“I’m hoping… we’ll never have to do a week like that again. I didn’t like it very much, either.”

You lean into his palm, and don’t speak for a long while. 

“Spencer?”

“Hm?”

“Can—” you swallow involuntarily. You’re scared to ask. But you know what the answer will be. “Can we… I know I’ve messed up a bunch of times, but—can I be your girlfriend? We don’t have to tell anyone, I just… I want to be your real girlfriend.”

The slow blossom of his smile is like a swell in your favorite song as he grins down at you. 

“You’ve been my real girlfriend for a while.”

“I know, but… I want you to tell me that’s what I am. I want to know that when you think of me, you’re thinking about your real-life serious girlfriend.”

He hums. 

“And am I allowed to tell other people that you’re my real-life serious girlfriend?”

You chew your lip. “Some of them.”

“Which ones?”

He’s angling for something, and you know what, but you’re not sure you’re ready for that particular step. 

“I don’t know. We’ll find some.”

“I have a few in mind.”

“We can’t,” you murmur, hugging his arm to your chest. “Not yet. They’ll—it’ll change things. But… but maybe we don’t have to hide it quite as much.”

“Like… no running away when we see someone we know in public?”

You nod. “And I have a rule.”

He strokes your hair. 

“What’s that?”

“You have to always save a seat for me in the cars and on the jet. Always. Capiche?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You tilt your chin up. He kisses you. 

Now that you’ve got him, you’re not going to let go. 

September 1st

“You’re delusional. Truly, you’re acting insane.”

“For wondering why you had to stay three hours late at work to review one interview transcript you could’ve done during lunch?”

Spencer drops his bag onto a chair and rounds the counter, pushing a hand through his hair. You remain leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed.

“It is not that simple.” He insists. “You’re being paranoid and unreasonable. Again.”

“Or you’re being defensive.”

Spencer’s eyes narrow, like he’s just now seeing you for the first time since he got home. That is to say—his home. 

“Am I being accused of something?”

Words catch in your throat. Normally you’d hurl a ridiculous indictment as a matter of anything being possible—but not this time. It would be abjectly absurd to accuse him of cheating at anything other than cards. 

“No,” you huff after a weighty moment. 

“So what? What’s the point of this? I come home after staying at work three hours late listening to a man recounting in excruciating detail how he killed and ate an entire family because nobody else wanted to do it, and as soon as I walk through my own front door you start a fucking fight with me? Over nothing?”

The sudden slope in volume is startling as it rings off the walls like a gunshot. Rarely does he raise his voice before you have the chance to. 

For the few moments you’re stunned into silence, you take note of a few things you hadn’t before. The pound of his heart in his throat and just beneath his eye. Exhaustion evident in the strain of his voice and the mess of his hair, hanging over his face limp in some places and frazzled in others. The fragile glaze over his eyes, even as they widen and crackle with heat. It takes a lot out of a person to sit and listen to what he listened to for as long as he did. Even Spencer—even a man who can intellectualize and pathologize any human atrocity into microscopic pulses of electricity coursing through grey matter. 

It gets to him like it gets to everyone. You know that. 

Fuck. 

The most embarrassing part is that you started this fight because you missed him, and you still haven’t quite figured out how to not be afraid of that feeling. Sometimes when you miss him it feels like a threat to your autonomy, and by extension, your safety. You sure as hell don’t know how to just admit this to him. 

So instead you pick fights. Not as much, anymore, but sometimes when you’re in need of comfort and just can’t ask for it, you’ll start pushing your luck with inflammatory comments. You’ll trigger a meaningless argument. Spencer will eventually whittle your fighting words down to a simple, familiar truth. He will realize that this is your way of telling him you need something, and then you get the sweet after: where he rewards you for nothing, where he tries to apologize for a conflict you’d created with gentle touches and murmured words of comfort. Sun after a storm. It’s easy to accept affection and tenderness if you’ve intentionally scratched open all your old wounds—if you’ve earned it through trial by blood. 

Tonight, he’s not having it. You sense no reality where this ends with a sweet kiss and whispers so soft you can hardly hear them. 

Which means you need to backtrack. 

So you swallow your pride and your shame and your fear. Choke on it, really. But the words come out all the same. 

“I’m sorry.”

Spencer’s chest is still rising and falling quickly. The purple paisley silk of his tie catches your eye. It’s all astray. You want to fix it. He could breathe better if you took it off. And there’s no way he’s not bothered by his hair falling over his face. 

How can you make this go away?

Could it go in the other direction these quarrels sometimes do? Maybe it could end with you achey and tired in his arms, after he kisses the marks around your wrists, the little purple splotches on your hips and the starburst clusters of broken blood vessels on your thighs. Here, too, he’ll end up being sanguine—there’ll just be more steps in between. 

Just as you’re running scenarios in your mind, calculating outcomes and trying to chart the best plan of action, his tongue darts over his lips. It’s enough to stop you in your tracks. 

Why hasn’t his brow relaxed? Those eyes, still darting over your face with a kind of urgency—is that hunger or dissatisfaction with what he sees?

“You should go.”

A beat. 

This does not process instantaneously. You blink and shake your head as if you could clear it that way. 

“What?”

Spencer’s eyes are a forge on you, but he diverts them to the wall. Sparing you from the edge of a glowing sword. You don’t know how you’d prefer it—cool to the touch and sharp enough to cut, or soft and burning and prolonged. He’s probably decided he’s being civil. Doesn’t realize it lasts so much longer this way. 

“I think you should go home for the weekend.”

“Why?” It bursts from you, trembling and affronted. 

“Because I can’t—” he stops himself. Shutters his eyes and takes a deep breath that doesn’t seem to do much of anything. “I am not in the right headspace for this. I need you out of here.”

“What do you mean, this?”

“You. This thing you always do. I do not have it in me to make you feel better about yourself right now.”

It would’ve been quicker to just kick you in the stomach. 

For a moment you’re too stunned to speak as he blurs through a thick cloud of tears. 

“You are such a fucking asshole.”

The words come out too hurt, too quiet.

Spencer is unfazed—leans in closer as if to make sure you understand. Lowers his voice, and the tremor there is not the kind that comes from hurt feelings. You don’t know what it is. 

“Go. Home.”

It’s the kind of quiet that you’re afraid will culminate in a burst eardrum or something worse. He’s not like that, you know he’s not. Even at his worst. Even when you push him to his absolute wit’s end. But you can already hear it. Feel it. Ghost echos that have been rattling around in your head for years. 

A part of you—a rather large part—wants to cover her ears hard and sink to the ground, or otherwise apologize and beg him to love you again. 

But you are an adult. He’s asked you to leave. 

So you do. With an awful pulling in your gut and a hollowing in your chest like a sinkhole falling into itself. 

The static starts outside his door. The raking breaths. That awful warmth on the back of your neck and the greying of your vision. 

You stumble to the stairs and cover your face, letting the waves of panic wash over your shoulders. 

Was that a breakup? Does he still love you? Did he ever? If love can be so quickly taken away, was it ever really there? See, this is why—this is exactly why you’ve done what you’ve done, why you’ve been the way you have and treated him the way you did for so long. Because of this inevitability. Because of your nature, and what happens when a child tells himself he can enjoy a broken toy just the same as a regular one, until he keeps playing with it, and it keeps breaking worse and worse until it’s completely unusable. 

Something snaps inside of you. Gears grind and groan. The static doesn’t go away, it only gets louder, and it sounds a whole lot like his name over and over again—so you’ll just have to drown it out. 

-

It’s hot in this place, and it’s loud—so loud you can feel the throbbing techno beat in your teeth. The flashing lights wash over you like a tide of blood, rising and falling, filling your lungs. 

Whatever is coursing through your veins is not enough to dull the ache. In the middle of the dance floor, and you’re still thinking of Spencer. Spencer. Spencer. With every beat of your heart. Not enough alcohol. Not enough anything. 

It’s so hot in here—sweat drips down your spine and the room is spinning, but all the writhing, shadowed bodies prop you up as you stumble toward the bar. No chance in hell the bartender would keep serving you in the state you’re in, so you find someone to buy the drinks for you. 

And you fall, fall, fall—chasing some wicked, Cheshire gleam at the bottom of that glass, and the next, and the next. 

That gleam is, of course, an illusion. It will shine so brightly you can taste it. It will convince you to reach just a little further. And it will wink at you from the impossible end of a bottomless pit. 

You don’t care. You tip over the edge and let the darkness swallow you whole.

Nothing but stardust, now. 

You blow across the silent black ether. 

September 5th

You’re practically dripping from Spencer as he locks your door.

“Help me out, a little?” he grunts as you make no effort to support your own body weight. 

“Sorry sorry sorry. I’m up.”

He breathes a laugh and walks you deeper into the apartment. It’s a slow process. 

“If I set you down on the couch… are you going to be able to get back up?”

“I don’t know,” you sing-song, stumbling, giggling, and grabbing onto him tighter. “Let’s find out.”

Your ankles threaten to buckle all the way across the room, but he holds you fast. 

“Easy,” he murmurs as you slip your arms from around his neck and drop heavily to the cushions. You blink at him, exhausted, admiring the view. At some point, you’d managed to pull off his tie and undo the first few buttons on his shirt before he’d caught your hands and given you a warning look. Looking at him now, you have absolutely no regrets.

Spencer kneels in front of you, undoing the delicate ankle strap on your shoe. Your blood is pleasantly warmed as you let your head loll to your shoulder—warmer with every sweet way he handles you. Carefully. Like it’s an honor. 

After he slips the heels off, he presses a kiss to the top of each knee. You lace a hand through his hair. “Excellent view.”

There’s a lazy sort of smirk on his face when he tilts his head back up toward you. 

“I’m sure. Don’t get any ideas.”

You grin. 

“Too late.”

Spencer slides a gratuitous hand up your leg, fingertips just brushing the short hem of your dress, and raises his other. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Easy. Six.”

He snorts, pressing his face against your thigh, and you melt into a puddle of giggles. 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! It was three. See—hey, you can make me say my ABC’s backwards, and I’ll walk in a straight line—”

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

Even that sweet, placating kiss to your thigh isn’t enough to temper the immediate and profound disappointment you feel at his proclamation. “What? Why?”

“Oh—why am I not going to sleep with a woman who couldn’t get up the stairs on her own?”

“Nonono, I’m dead sober. Please?”

He pushes off the ground, towering above you once more, and leans down to press a kiss to your lips. “Sorry. You’ll have to go find someone just as drunk as you.”

You linger there, your head tilted up, so he hangs in your silence, suspended less than an inch above you. 

“What?”

It comes out thin, with the crane of your neck. Quiet because your blood is frozen in your veins. 

Spencer pauses only briefly and then drops one more kiss to your mouth. At the contact your eyes flutter, in spite of yourself. 

“Nothing, baby. It was a joke.”

Then he’s up again, moving toward the kitchen. 

“Why would you joke about that?”

Spencer stops at the end of the couch and gives you an odd look. “Did it bother you?”

“Yes. Don’t—you can’t say stuff like that.”

Why are you breathing so quickly?

Now you’ve really got his attention. He turns fully back toward you, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Spencer doesn’t say a word. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. 

There’s a long stretch of silence. You can hear a faucet dripping and try to match your inhales to each plunk of water. 

“What’s wrong?”

One blink of hesitation and you realize your name is halfway signed on your own death sentence. 

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing, you clearly—”

“Oh my god, I said it’s nothing. Just let it go. Jesus.”

And that final utterance, that subtle roll of your eyes, was practically a flourish of the pen. 

You haven’t gone the offense-as-defense route in a while. 

Immediately, something about Spencer’s demeanor goes cold. 

“Did something happen?”

The question is quiet enough to chill your bones and dry your throat. 

“Nothing. What? Nothing happened. I just don’t think it’s funny to joke about stuff like that.”

Fuck. Fuck. There may as well be a giant blinking sign over your head that says I’m lying. 

You watch it wash over him. 

The worst part is that he doesn’t say anything. He stands there for a moment—and then he turns, walking toward the kitchen again. For a moment, you’re frozen. Then you panic. 

“Spencer,” you call, and it breaks down the middle as you try to get up and sit right back down. He will not want to be followed. You take in a deep, grating breath, digging your nails hard into the sides of your legs and staring at the ground, willing the room to stop spinning. Willing your lungs to fill with air. 

Your entire body waits in suspense, taut like a steel guitar string, for shattering glass, or splintering drywall, or a slamming door, or something. It doesn’t come. He’s still here. You know he hasn’t left. 

But he’s going to. 

This is it. 

The unforgivable thing. 

Maybe five minutes later, you hear movement. When he reenters the living room, you keep your head down, tracking him only with your eyes. A yawning chasm seems to open up between your spot on the couch and where he stands, across the room. 

For a moment, neither of you speak—and then both of you try at once. More silence follows. You cover your face with your hands.

“We weren’t together,” you mumble into the cup of them. 

“What did you say?” 

His tone bites. 

“We weren’t together.”

“In your mind we were never together, so I don’t really know what you mean by that.”

“No, we—we got in a really big fight—”

“When?”

You swallow. Because you work together, you should be familiar with this part of him—this relentless part, this I-will-run-you-into-the-ground part. But you’re not. 

“Spencer…”

Spencer recognizes this type of quiet. This quiet which means things can only be worse than they seem. The punishing anger is quickly slashed and bled until you feel it swirling around at your feet like water waiting to be swallowed down the drain. Displaced by massive grief, so heavy that you hear the break. The word is small. Too small to be a real question—it is a plea for mercy on a dying breath. 

“When?” 

You try to inhale and choke on it. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t think we were together—”

He snaps. “We are always together. You know exactly what we are. Take some fucking responsibility.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper, desolate. “I didn’t.”

A tremulous pause. Your skin is crawling and you can’t get out of it. 

“What does that mean? What do you mean, you didn’t mean to?”

Snippets come from a reel you’ve been working hard to bury. The blisters on your palms burn. There is blood and dirt caked into the half-moons of your nails, too heavy and too fresh. 

A phantom ache has taken up residence in your bones. It throbs. 

You only shake your head.  

Spencer comes to you again. Gets on his knees for the second time this evening, sets his hands over your legs again in some backwards sort of supplication. Some bastardized retelling of a sweeter story from a few minutes ago. Like he’s pleading with you to recant, rewrite—to fix it so he doesn’t have to leave. 

“What do you mean? Just tell me what happened,” he begs. 

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why?”

The pain in his voice pounds at the base of your skull. 

Words dance on the tip of your tongue. Because there is too much I don’t remember. 

But something deeper in your gut keeps them tethered. Pulls hard. Shame, perhaps. There is no excuse for what you did. There is no explaining it away. No circumstance in which you are innocent. A girl goes dancing. Looking for something. She gets drunk. She chases the thing she’s looking for into dark corners and down alleyways. She needs to know what it is she’s chasing—she needs to hold it by the throat and squeeze, thumb against hammering pulse, until it doesn’t have so much power over her.  

She wakes up in a stranger’s bed. That’s the part of the story that matters. 

“I just can’t.”

The words are too quiet, but he hears. Your lungs burn in the pulsing silence that follows. 

No solution. 

He gives you a few minutes in the dark living room to change your mind, to say the right thing. It doesn’t come. 

So he gets up. 

“Wait, wait wait—” your heart is pounding as you stumble off the couch and follow him, barely avoiding tripping over your own feet. He’s at the door. How did he get there so quickly? You catch the wall just behind him. “Spencer, wait.”

The tear in your voice is desperate enough you flinch. 

But it gets him to turn around. 

He looks exhausted. 

The pallor of his skin—the shadows exaggerating where his cheeks sink in and where the troughs beneath each eye get darker in purple half moons.

You fucked up so badly. 

How much more of you can he handle?

Is this the one thing to push him over the edge, for good? 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t—I can’t explain it, but it wasn’t right—I didn’t—” heat wells behind your eyes as you flounder and dig your grave helplessly, flexing and clenching your hands. “I’m never, ever gonna do that again. Something was—I wasn’t myself that night, and it’s not going to happen again, I don’t know why I did it. I was stupid, and I love you so much, and—please. Please, don’t go. I really need you not to go.”

Spencer regards you, gaze flickering up and down, swallowing. His eyes are all foggy and waterlogged. It makes you feel sicker.

“I know you’re sorry.”

Your chin wobbles. 

There’s nothing to fight with in his words. There’s nothing to scratch or kick or bite or cling to. 

“You’re gonna leave?”

A beat. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna come back?”

It hangs in the air between you for a very long time. 

September 12th

When you see him at your door a week later, you’re not sure what to say. Spencer has hardly spoken to you at work. It’s not that he’s been cruel, he just… he’s been distant. Understandably so. 

This lack of words, you realize very quickly, is not going to be much of a problem. 

What he wants to do with you does not require a lot of speaking. 

In fact, you start to suspect he doesn’t want to hear you talk at all. It would be hard to form words when he’s kissing you like this.

But you have to try, don’t you?

“Spencer—”

He pulls away, leaves you reeling and head sparkling with fresh oxygen. Disoriented. Desperate to have him in any way you can. A thumb presses against the seam of your lips and you open for him without hesitance. 

He has you against the back of your door, locking it with one hand and pushing down on your tongue with the other thumb. You wish you could do more than let it happen. Do anything but suckle like a lamb. Make him talk to you. Fix it while you can. 

But for the first time in a week he’s close and he’s looking at you like he wants you and you could cry. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he whispers, eyes darting rapidly over your face like he’s hungry for the sight of you. “You are going to listen to me. If I ask you a question, you can say yes, or you can say no. If we need to stop, or if something doesn’t feel right, you tell me. Otherwise, you don’t talk. Do you understand me?”

Your delirious nod is not enough for him as he slips his thumb from your mouth and grips your jaw, angling you carefully upward so as to look right at him through shuttered eyes. 

“Do you understand me?” He repeats lowly, and your breath catches. 

“Yes.”

Those eyes slow, taking you in, that gaze dripping from you like honey. Just barely, he strokes the line of your jaw. He ducks to kiss you again and this time it is not so urgent. 

“Do you want this?” Spencer asks just shy of your own mouth, soft without warning. 

The fabric of his coat bunches in your fist. 

Only if you still love me, you want to say. But you know why he doesn’t want you to talk. So you can’t say things like that. So he doesn’t have to tell you of course I do. Please spare me the humiliation of admitting it. 

“Please,” you whisper. A trembling breath. More than a plead for sex. You are asking that he be kind. Perhaps it’s more than you deserve, but you can’t do this if he doesn’t touch you like he loves you. Not with him. 

You are asking for him to fix something big, something thus far unspoken and which you don’t totally understand yourself. It’s too complicated. He shouldn’t have to do this for you. He doesn’t owe you anything. 

Erase it, you want to say. Make this feeling I can’t talk about go away. I know you love me enough to do it. 

All this, with one please. 

Spencer exhales. And he kisses you again. 

Of course, Spencer’s not good with enforcing rules. Not when you’re opening up to him in this way. Even now he looks at you like you’re a marvel. Touches you like you’re a miracle. As soft and as careful as you could’ve asked for if you’d used the words—he may as well be tracing love letters into your skin. 

All you can do is try and respect his wishes. You hurt him, badly, you know you did. Don’t add salt to those wounds. He needs you to be predictable right now. No sudden movements. No derailments. To the best of your ability, you are quiet and good and gracious and docile. 

But you are only human. Those times you gasp his name under your breath, he just holds your hand tighter. A plead or two are lost against his skin or into the sheets. He takes pity on you—murmurs gentle questions just to give you an outlet. Kisses your teary cheeks as you give your shaky answers. 

He loves me, you think, in absence of the words, over and over, until you feel it, until your whole body is buzzing with it. Until you’re buoyant and nothing is hard anymore. 

Afterwards, his stillness is what draws you back. His heart pounds against yours, he’s exactly the weight and the pressure you need. But he’s still. The momentum of the passion is wearing off, and you can sense it. 

So you allow yourself one quiet, distressed little chirp. One nervous bid for reassurance. Spencer comes to his senses and quells you with a chaste kiss. 

And then he’s out of bed. The weight of all the air in the room, the heavy cold, comes crashing down—pressing into your skin, your stomach, all at once.  

Suddenly you’re paralyzed, unable to look away from the ceiling as he dresses, grabs the glass from your nightstand and disappears into the bathroom. A few moments later he returns bearing a cloth and a full cup. The cup hits the nightstand. The edge of the bed dips. He slides one hand up your calf like always, and you acquiesce, letting the weight of your leg fall against him. A warm washcloth finds your inner thigh. 

Your mind is screaming, deafening static. 

“You okay?” Spencer asks gingerly after a few beats of silence. There is a hesitance, there. A feigned lightness, like he’s afraid of asking. Afraid of opening up this line of conversation and too good not to. 

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth as he cleans up any evidence of his having been here. 

“You got up pretty quick.”

More static. Something fights its way up your throat and you swallow it down. 

“Yeah. An old professor of mine is town. We have dinner plans.”

You don’t know what to say to that as he retrieves a few things from your dresser and returns. Normally he’d slide underwear up your thighs for you and pull a shirt over your head, but today you’re grabbing the garments from him before he has a chance. 

“I can do it,” you mutter, hurrying to yank the clothes on under his measuring gaze. Under other circumstances he might take offense to this. Might at least ask you about it. Now he only stands to give you space and pockets his hands. 

Because he knows. He knew the whole time. 

He’s not sticking around. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. Dust particles swirl through thick beams of molasses light, pouring in from the windows and warming rumpled sheets. How long was he here?

You hug your bare legs to your chest and settle your chin over folded arms, mapping dust like stars in a galaxy. “Why’d you even come?” you murmur.  

The world quiets down. Waits with you, holding its breath for his answer. 

“I don’t know.”

Light glares off the floor in a blinding white pool. Sends shooting pains into the back of your eyes as you fiddle with your own shirtsleeve. 

“Were you trying to… hurt me back, or something?”

“No.” The answer is firm and immediate. “No, I am not trying to hurt you.”

You say nothing. Wood creaks under shifting weight, but you’re not looking at him as he sighs. 

“You have to give me some time.” Your name on his tongue is reprimand, a thing he shouldn’t have to tell you. “It’s been a week. I don’t have any of this figured out. I’m not thinking straight.”

“You were thinking straight enough to drive over here and tell me not to talk while you fucked me.”

“I—” he sighs. At a perpetual loss with you. “I told you it wasn’t well thought out. I’ve been spiraling. All week. I’m not sleeping, I’m not making good choices. I mean—you—you fucked me over!” The words burst out, the way they do when he curses. “I haven’t had anybody to talk to about this. You are the only person. Do you see why that would be difficult? You hurt me so much and I miss you and I’m furious and you’re the only one I can talk to about any of it. That’s insane, right? I think you owe me some grace.”

“Did I owe you that, too?”

You gesture toward the unmade sheets and then bury your face against your arms once more. 

Humiliated. Like usual. 

Spencer is stunned into silence for a moment. 

“No. No, you didn’t. Did I—did I make you feel that way? If that didn’t feel right—”

“No,” you assuage tearfully. “I just wish you t-told me you weren’t going to stay, ’cause I wouldn’t have—I just can’t do that with you.”

“Can’t do what?” he asks, sitting on the bedside once more, hand twitching but ultimately leaving you be. 

“I can’t have sex with you if you’re gonna leave after. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t know that. But, like—you are the one person who can’t—I just really really can’t do that with you, because—” you stop yourself and change course with a shuddering breath, pressing your palms to weeping eyes. “I’m sorry. I know this is literally all my fault. I don’t get to ask for things. I know that.”

Fireworks dance against the back of your lids. Spencer is quiet. 

Then there are hands around your wrists. A thumb smoothing the delicate skin under your palm. You hiccup a gasping cry and melt toward him. It might be the most you get from Spencer, so you focus on the small touch until it burns. His voice is soft—a balm you don’t deserve. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” you sniffle, hands falling an inch, then two, as you go lax under his touch. “You don’t owe me an apology. Just—I can’t do that with you again until… until we have things figured out.”

The stroking thumb stops, and then restarts. 

“Okay.”

Finally, you open your eyes. Can’t make sense of the neutrality on his face.

“What?”

He only shakes his head. Nothing. 

Too tired to push him, you let your hands fall to your lap, and he keeps hold on your wrists. Sweeping. The lines he makes entrance you. 

“I’m sorry I put you in this position,” you whisper. 

No response. Back and forth. 

“I know you’re mad at me. You really, really have the right to be mad at me. I’m sorry for making you be nice to me. That’s so stupid, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for—”

“Angel.”

You bite your tongue and sink your gaze. What a ridiculous petname it is, now. How terrible of him to keep using it. 

“Sorry.”

Afraid to tell him he can leave, and too ashamed to let yourself enjoy his presence while it lasts, you remain in limbo. His silence does not tell you exactly how much he hates being here, but you think if the tables were turned, you wouldn’t be able to stomach it. Is it really better, his lingering, if it’s not because he loves you? With each pass of his thumb, you imagine him hating you more. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. 

“I’m not going to do this again,” he murmurs, jarring you from your obsessive contemplation. 

Now, when you look up, he’s focused on your wrist. 

“… I know.”

“No, honey. I mean… it needs to end.”

This sinks in slowly, with a heat in your face and the back of your neck and a sick tide rising in your stomach. 

The first thing you feel is panic. Drops of adrenaline in your bloodstream like you’ve just realized you’ll need to run for your life. 

“Why? Because—if this is because I said I can’t sleep with you until—”

“That was completely appropriate. You were right. It’s not good for either of us.”

“So why does that mean we can’t try again? I mean—I know you need time. You can have it. You can. We always do this, and then we get back together and it’s better. I already did the worst thing I could do—we’ll get better.”

The breath he takes is quiet, uneven and pronounced. The kind of breath you take when something hurts more than you thought it would. 

“You’re asking me to get over something I haven’t even fully wrapped my mind around.”

You falter. 

“No, I’m—I’m just telling you I’m going to wait, and you can have as long as you need—”

“Stop,” he says, more sad than angry. “You need to stop.”

“I can’t stop,” you whisper, closer to forlorn every second as you tear up and spill all over again. “I have to try.”

Spencer’s voice shakes as he speaks. “Do not do this to yourself. There is nothing you can say, alright? This needs to be over, so it’s going to be over. It’s not good for us.”

“But—but… you can’t just say it’s over, Spencer, we put so much—I’ve been trying so hard. I know I keep messing up, I’m sorry, I’m trying so hard. I don’t know what happened, I’m—I can do more, I know I can.”

“You can’t—this isn’t going to work. You can’t fix it.”

“But I love you. I want to be with you. I did it all for you, all the hard stuff, not for me, I just—I love you. I want you.”

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until he’s wrenching your hands from your face once more and pulling you into him. 

“I know you love me. I wish we were better for each other, angel, I do. But it’s not supposed to feel like this.”

It’s not supposed to feel like this. 

You shudder a cry. 

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you, really. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want that. You d-didn’t deserve it. I’m so, so sorry, Spencer, I ruined everything, I—”

“Shh. Just… I’ll stay for a little bit longer, okay? Just a while.”

And he does. Until the room goes dark, and the stars watch silently from above.

October 29th

It’s not going to be warm enough to enjoy the outdoors for much longer—but today, the beams of sun are still thick through the turning leaves, still gold when you close your eyes, and the sweet smell of autumn is enough to keep you out criss-cross on Rossi’s swing. 

The seal on the glass door suctions open and then slides shut again, and Penelope is joining you. You accept the mug of apple cider, holding it carefully in your lap. 

“What a gorgeous day,” she sighs, and you hum in agreement. “Probably one of the last good ones. I saw rain on the forecast later this week.”

“It begins,” you mutter. 

“Yeah. And I haven’t even found a suitable mate to hibernate with yet.”

Your brow knits. “You’re not with—”

She pauses mid-sip as you turn to look at her. Right—you weren’t supposed to have seen her with Kevin last spring. Your face warms and you try to play it off. “Oh, right. You guys broke up forever ago.”

To her credit, she doesn’t actually confirm or deny. Instead, a quiet settles. Or—a sort of quiet. Down the yard, in grass that is still lush and green, JJ and Spencer are playing some sort of game with Henry and Michael. One that seems to invoke a lot of delighted screeches from the young boys as they run around and fall over and get back up. 

“What about you?” Penelope asks. 

Apple and clove melt on your tongue and warm your throat. 

“What about me?”

“Are you hunkering down with anybody?”

“No,” you admit without fanfare. Garcia doesn’t respond—probably hoping to get more information out of you. You hesitate, and then go on. “I mean—I was seeing a guy. But it ended a little while ago.”

She speaks her pity gently, in a tone like the velveteen undersides of flower petals. 

“You didn’t tell me.”

You shrug. 

“It wasn’t… official.”

“How long were you seeing him for?”

“It would’ve been a year next month.”

This time, she’s silent for too long. 

When you finally glance over at her, she’s not looking at you, as you would’ve expected. 

She’s… looking at your feet. 

You glance down, ready to be very confused—and then you see the problem. 

Your jeans have ridden up. One sock is striped purple and green. The other, brown, dotted with horseshoes and cacti. They’re visibly too big for you. 

Quickly you try to tuck them further under yourself. But you’re sure it’s too late. 

You could explain this. You could say you forgot to bring socks on a case, and Spencer let you borrow a pair. 

Before you can, she speaks. 

“I worried that maybe you guys had split up.”

You flash her an alarmed look. “What?”

Penelope glances toward the house to make sure nobody’s about to come outside. 

“I mean… honey, you guys weren’t very subtle. I don’t think anyone who lacks my perceptive genius and emotional intelligence would have noticed, but I noticed. Like, I really noticed.”

You swallow, opening your mouth before you’ve decided your plan of action. Deny? 

“When?”

“Well, everyone always knew that you liked each other. But there was this one time—and this was a total invasion of privacy, and I will never do it again unless I have to—where, you know, you… weren’t answering your phone about a case, and I got worried, because no offense, but this team kind of has a track record when it comes to going missing, and so… I checked your location… and it pinged at Spencer’s apartment… who had just told me he didn’t know where you were. And then you both showed up. I’m so sorry, but in my defense, I was not trying to snoop—”

“Penelope, it’s fine.”

“Well—okay—and there’s this other thing that I haven’t told you about because it would’ve been mutually assured destruction, so I kind of don’t ask don’t telled it, which was… me and Kevin saw you guys on a date last spring. And me and Kevin were not supposed to be on a date. And you were not supposed to be sharing spoons—spooning, if you will—with Spencer. But I did see it. And I didn’t tell you and I felt really squicky about it for a long time and I’m sorry.”

You blink. Try to process. 

“You didn’t tell anyone else?”

“No! God, no! I like to gossip, I don’t like to ruin people’s relationships.”

“Who’s ruining whose relationships?” JJ asks breathlessly, carrying a tuckered out Michael on her hip and holding Henry’s hand as she approaches. Your head snaps up. Spencer is trailing a few feet behind her, eyeing you. 

Heat blooms in your cheeks. 

“Theoretical conversation,” Penelope supplies quickly. “Are we finally ready to harass Rossi about dinner?”

JJ looks anything but convinced—and in typical fashion, lets it go. 

“I think we are. What do you think Michael—pizza?”

“Pizza!”

Everyone cheers at that—aside from you and Spencer. Penelope hurries inside after JJ and the boys. Spencer lingers. You quickly try to get your shoes back on before he can tell that you’re wearing his—

“Nice socks.”

You sigh, pausing just a moment before you finish pulling your boot on. 

“Sorry. I need to do laundry.”

You stand, and Spencer opens the door for you. “What socks you choose to wear are none of my business.”

Halfway inside, you pause, glancing up at him. “Do you want them back?”

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. 

“That’s okay. I have a pair just like them at home.”

This is the first time you’ve exchanged more than a few work-related sentences since he ended things for good. 

It’s sort of ridiculous, after all the melodrama. 

It’s sort of a relief. 

January 1st

Garcia’s New Year’s party was a success. There’d been the most FBI agents you’ve ever seen crammed into her apartment at once. There was a chocolate fountain, three kinds of champagne, and an elaborate charcuterie setup spanning nearly the entire counter. At midnight, you’d popped a confetti gun and blew into a noise maker and cheered and jumped around and hugged your friends. 

An hour and a half later, you’ve taken over as impromptu host—Penelope is decidedly out of commission, snoring atop her bed, still in heels and sequins. 

“Bye, guys! Happy new year!”

You wave as the last stragglers head out the door.

When you close it, and turn around: “Holy shit.”You wade through confetti and streamers and napkins, kicking a few balloons out of your way. Any flat surface is covered in sparkly plastic cups and champagne flutes. “We trashed the place.”

From the kitchen, Spencer chuckles. “It’s pretty bad.”

You frown when you notice him stacking plates. “Hey, you don’t have to do that. I told Garcia I’d handle clean up.”

He checks his watch. 

“The odds of being involved in a fatal car accident are up 208% percent right now, and they won’t be going down for a few hours. Plus, my own blood alcohol content is probably hovering around point zero four, which is well under the legal limit to drive, but I’d prefer for it to be zero flat.”

You shrug and make your way over to the record player, which had finished up A Night At The Opera a while ago. “If you want to ring in the new year by helping me clean, I won’t stop you. Blue or Abbey Road?”

“Neither?”

“Boring,” you accuse, and put on Coltrane. The jazz comes slow and crackly and warm through the speakers. 

Spencer steps aside as you enter the kitchen and hunt for trash bags under the sink—compostable, because it’s Garcia. 

When you stand back up, you’re unprepared for how close he’s going to be—barely an inch separates you and you stumble on your quest to pop backward. “Whoop—” instinctively, he reaches out and steadies you. You grasp onto his arms, eyes flickering up to his and laughing nervously. “Hey.”

Spencer’s gaze is warm and easy on you as he pulls a little smile of his own. “Hi.”

A stuttering inhale. 

A moment that is just too long. 

His fingers seem to relax against your arms, just fractionally, for just a split second. Like he could hold you. Like you could stay this way. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, releasing your grip on him and stepping back. 

“You’re okay.”

A lazy sax solo traces its golden fingers around your thrumming heart until your skin is buzzing. His eyes are the same color as the music. Just as soft. Just as leisurely as they vamp the distance between your own. 

Bio-derived plastic dampens under your fingers as you flee to the living room. 

The next fifteen minutes are spent kneeling in front of the coffee table, cleaning drips of chocolate and splashes of champagne, and trying not to think about the way his eyes caught on your lips. 

Spencer doesn’t miss you. Not like you miss him. Apparently he even went on a date a few weeks ago. 

And with the way things ended, you’re lucky that he doesn’t despise you. Being on decent terms should be enough. Letting your perpetually smoldering want trail its smoke under his nose isn’t fair. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to his mystery girl. He’s trying to move on, and you don’t have the right to drag him down.  

But, just—that one little moment. One touch, and you’re totally thrown off your game. Now, you’re reading into the silence. You’re wondering what he’s thinking about you. If he’s thinking about you. 

Later—much later—the living room has been mostly cleaned. You’re taking the final trash bag to the kitchen when you notice something on the ceiling fan and pause, frowning up at it. 

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here?”

He appears. “What’s up?”

You point at the fan. 

“I think somebody put a cup up there.”

Spencer makes a face and reaches up to grab it. He reads the name Sharpie’d on the side and snorts, before showing it to you. 

Kevin, scrawled next to the worst smiley face you’ve ever seen. 

“How do you mess up a smiley face?” you laugh. 

“I’m sure he’d be able to tell you.”

You suck your teeth. “God—do you think they’re together again?”

“Kevin and Penelope?”

The trash bag drops to the ground as you flop onto the couch, exhausted. Spencer crushes the cup and tosses it in, standing just in front of you, studying you as he thinks. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t entirely surprise me. They’re pretty good at remaining inconspicuous.”

You hum, slinking lower in the faux-leather. Maybe some friendly chit-chat is in order. Friends ask each other questions, don’t they? “Speaking of inconspicuous relationships… I heard you went on a date.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and picks his words in silence for a moment—you hate that. You hate feeling excluded from whatever internal conversation he’s having. Knowing that he’s measuring how much truth he’ll dole out to you. 

“Who’d you hear that from?”

You track him with your eyes as he takes a seat next to you. 

“Did you?” you ask, ignoring the question—more focused on the stubbled line of his jaw. 

Spencer considers his answer for a moment, head reclined on the back of the couch, charting the glittery paper stars suspended from the ceiling. 

“I did. Two, actually.”

Two dates? With the same person?

“How’s that going?”

He approximates a smile. 

“You’re not being very subtle.”

“I’m just curious. You don’t have to answer.”

Spencer meets your eyes. Studies them in turns, like there’s a secret language etched into the fractals of pigment.  

“I like her,” he decides. And your stomach sours. 

“But you didn’t bring her tonight?”

Spencer rolls his head back toward the ceiling—and very nearly his eyes, as he dryly reminds you, “We’ve been on two dates.”

“If you like her, you should’ve brought here. You could’ve kissed her at midnight and sealed the deal.”

A ditch in the conversation. The perfect depth and width for hiding a body, as something in the air changes. Drops a degree or two. Thickens. 

“What are you doing?” he murmurs, looking back at you and finally putting an end to your game. Your face gets warm. Oops. Too far, maybe. 

“I’m being supportive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Is that allowed?”

“You’re sure it’s not surveillance?”

“Yes!”

Even to you, you sound overly defensive. 

“Fine.” A moment passes. He’s staring at you, in this lazy sort of way. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You didn’t bring anyone either.”

“Well… I’m not seeing anyone.”

It’s embarrassing to admit. You pinch at the fabric of your skirt, worrying the glitter sewn into black like drops of silver. Stars, or beads of rainwater. 

“Why not?”

“Do I need an excuse to be single?”

“Just curious. Is that allowed?”

Evidently the look you cast him then is not as withering as you’d it to be. Not if he’s so unfazed. Still reading you like a familiar book. 

“God, this is frustrating,” he mutters, as if to himself, tongue darting over his lips and frowning like you’re a question he doesn’t have the answer to. Your own brow pinches, ready to be offended. 

“What is?”

“I just… I thought I’d stop wanting to kiss you by now.”

Behind the safety of a bone cage, tucked where he can’t see, your heart does a somersault. It probably shows in the way your spine straightens, the catch of your breath. 

“Oh. I’m… I’m… sorry.”

Spencer cracks a dry smile. 

“You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?”

“Well—I don’t know. Because… I don’t know. it just seems like… the wrong thing to want. You have a girlfriend.”

The softening of his eyes, the tilt of his head, all spell pity. Like you’re naive. 

“That’s not what she is, honey.”

Honey. You try to remember to breathe. To think.

“Then what is she?”

He hums. 

“Not you. As much as I tried to tell myself that was for the best.”

Scratch somersault. Back handspring. Or maybe a round-off. You swallow. Pick at your nails. 

Did you think this into existence? Was all your desire really so loud?

“Spencer…”

“What?”

“That’s… that’s not fair.”

His eyes are melting glass on yours, voice lowered in a way you’ve sorely missed. “How so?”

It takes you a moment to remember yourself. “Because I’m—I’m trying to be better. I’m really trying. I don’t want anyone to get hurt ’cause of me. So if this girl likes you—”

“Angel. Nobody’s getting hurt. She knew I had someone else on my mind.”

“You can’t call me that,” you whisper brokenly. But he’s close enough you can feel his breath. You don’t know how he got close like this—when you gravitated toward him, charmed as a snake by a flute. When the inevitable outcome limited itself to brilliant, disastrous collision. “We can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because we’re not together.”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

All your air comes out at once. “This is so stupid.”

“You’re so pretty.” Delicately he cups your jaw. Strokes the tips of his fingers along the hollow of your cheek. “I was thinking about it all night. Noticed the glitter as soon as I saw you. Did Penelope do it?”

“Spencer, please.” Breathless. Pathetic. Desperate for him to put you out of your misery, one way or another. 

His throat bobs. “Come here.”

So you do. You lean in, one hand balanced on his knee, the other on his shoulder, and your lips brush so softly it can’t even be called a kiss. Still it sends a high-voltage shock through your whole body. He tastes like champagne as you kiss him deeper, as his hand wanders to the back of your thigh and hoists you across his lap. The other roots in your hair and your head spins. 

“Missed you so much,” he breathes into your mouth, not even bothering to pull away, or even to stop kissing you really. Mellow ivory and brass do a good job of concealing your soft breaths. Less so the undignified noise you make when Spencer shifts you roughly on his lap to pull you closer. 

“This isn’t a nice thing to be doing on ’Nelope’s couch,” you gasp between kisses, gripping at the front of his shirt like someone’s going to try taking him away from you. He alters his course from your mouth to trail down your neck. Lets fingers dip just beneath the hemline of your skirt until you shudder. 

“Then we’ll stop.”

Your jaw drops in a silent squeak as he nips at a delicate spot on your throat. 

The problem is that with the two of you, there is never any stopping. Not definitively. Never permanently. You can say it as emphatically as you’d like. You can even sort of mean it. But the cosmos has other plans. 

Outside, silent snow falls from a blue-black sky. There is nothing but the headlight glare from the occasional passing car. The popping and crackling of distant fireworks set off by the over-imbibed, ringing twelve o’clock in hours after the bloom of the new year. It must be midnight somewhere, you suppose. 

It’s just like you and Spencer, to be in the wrong place at the right time. It’s like you to slip through time-space cracks until you find each other in the accordion folds of the universe. 

It’s basically tradition.

spoilers: reader kinda cheats on Spencer but the consent there is questionable seeing as she was incredibly intoxicated

if u read this far WOW ily I hope u liked it :D I put blood sweat and tears into this bad boy. also shout-out @aliteralsemicolon for helping me so much with this fic she is a very helpful and willing consultant I think this never would've seen the light of day without her!!!

[pinkpurplesunrises]

We were never meant to break, but we did anyway (and still found our way back)

5000 words – the long story – Alexia Putellas x Reader – This may be heartbreaking but I promise you it'll be okay - Angst, Smut and Fluff - Mentions of grief and stillbirth. Please read with care.

I'm a little nervous to upload this. Had it on my computer for a while. Took a lot of patience and hours. Just needed to write a good ending and my brain was finally able to do so. Didn't have more words in me. This is it. I hope it's alright.

Alexia looked different under the soft gold of Barcelona’s morning light.

Like time had touched her gently, letting her age but not harden. You hadn’t seen her in nine months. Not since the night everything broke like thin glass between you.

She was the first to speak in the newly opened coffee shop, her voice quieter than you remembered. ‘’You cut your hair.’’

You almost smiled. Almost. ‘’You didn’t.’’

There was a pause. Not uncomfortable, just loaded. Like both of you waiting for the offer to reach back in time and pull something familiar out of the silence.

You breathed to the ache in your chest. ‘’I didn’t think I wanted to see you again.’’

Alexia flinched. Just barely, but you saw it. You always saw it.

She nodded, eyes dropping to the floor for a moment. ‘’That’s fair.’’

There wasn’t anger in her voice. Just acceptance. Like she’d already had this conversation a hundred times in her head and knew she didn’t get to rewrite the ending. Not this time.

You let out a soft laugh, dry and hollow. ‘’How convenient that we both moved to a new place and still ended up in the same damn coffee shop.’’

She looked up at you again, lips twitching like she wasn’t sure if she was able to smile at that. ‘’I guess Barcelona’s not as big as we thought.’’

You shrugged, crossing your arms. Not out of defiance, just to hold something in place. Just to ache the anxiety running through your veins. ‘’Or maybe the universe has a messed up sense of humor.’’

Alexia didn’t disagree. She never did when you were right, even when it stung.

You step up when the barista calls your name, the scrape of the cup against the counter louder than it should be in your ears.

Alexia doesn’t move. She just watches you. Like she’s scared any sudden motion will break whatever fragile thread’s holding this moment together.

You grab the cup. It’s warm. Steadying. You don’t look at her yet, not really. Just past her shoulder, toward the window and the way the light filters in like it doesn’t know how tired you are of mourning.

‘’I should go,’’ you say softly. Your voice doesn’t shake, but your fingers do.

Alexia swallows. ‘’Yeah. Of course.’’

But still, you don’t move.

Not right away.

You stand there, heart thudding, breath tight in your chest. You know she’s still looking at you, and that’s somehow worse than if she’d already turned away. It’s been nearly a year, and she still makes you feel like your ribs can’t quite contain everything that lives beneath them.

You force a breath and turn, eyes blurring just enough that you have to blink fast before you speak.

‘’It’s almost been a year,’’ you murmur. ‘’And I’m still sorry… that my body betrayed us like that.’’

You don’t wait for a response. You just walk out, because if you don’t, you’ll shatter. Again.

Behind you, Alexia doesn’t follow.

Not yet.

Alexia didn’t realize she was still holding her breath until the door shut behind you.

The clink of the bell above it barely registered. What stayed, what pressed like a stone beneath her sternum, was your voice. Quiet. Raw. That last line ringing through her like a wound that never properly healed.

‘’I’m still sorry that my body betrayed us like that.’’

She stood there, in the middle of the coffee shop, like some ghost of herself. And then she left. Left before she started crying in public again. Like last spring. Like the night she said something so cruel, so stupid, that she watched you close yourself off in real time.

By the time she reached her mother’s apartment, her fingers were shaking again. And she felt nauseous.

Not from the coffee. Not from the early morning chill or the sprint upstairs. From everything.

From the look on your face when you saw her. From the sound of your voice when you said you still were sorry. From the fact that after all these moments, you still thought it was your fault. And part of her had let you. It’s almost been a year. And I’m still sorry that my body betrayed us like that.

The sentence repeated in her head over and over again, each time bringing a fresh wave of sickness. She barely made it up the stairs before she had to brace herself against the wall outside her mother’s door, swallowing back bile and shame.

This had started happening more often since that night. Since the silence became the only thing between you.

She knocked with the back of her hand. Weakly.

The door opened almost instantly. Eli must’ve already known.

‘’Alexia,’’ her mother said softly, no questions, no scolding. Just recognition.

Alexia didn’t respond. Just shook her head once, lips pressed tight, and bolted toward the bathroom.

She didn’t make it all the way. She sank to her knees in the hallway, one arm braced against the wall, the other gripping her stomach like she could somehow hold it all in. But she couldn’t.

Eli was beside her in seconds, crouching down, pulling her hair back gently and resting a steading hand on her back.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t loud. But it was emptying. The kind of sickness that came from a place no medicine could fix.

After a while when her body had given up and she was just left there, hollow and trembling, Eli passed her a glass of water and a damp cloth for her face. She didn’t speak, didn’t rush. She just sat with her daughter in that quiet, aching space where love didn’t ask for explanations.

After a long pause, Alexia finally found her voice again. Raw and thick with guilt.

‘’She was at the new coffee shop,’’ she said quietly, eyes unfocused, staring at the ground. ‘’She was right there… and I couldn’t…’’ Her voice broke, and she pressed her palm against her eyes to stop the tears from coming. ‘’I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t make it right.’’

Eli didn’t respond immediately. She just helped Alexia sit up, one hand steadying her shoulder as she guided her to the couch. Her movements were slow, deliberate, like she knew how fragile Alexia was in this moment.

‘’Come on,’’ Eli whispered, her voice soothing. ‘’Let’s get you comfortable.’’

Eli adjusted the pillows behind Alexia, making sure she was settled just right, before moving across the room. The soft click of the lighter echoed in the quiet room as Eli lit the small candle. It’s warm glow casting shadows on the walls, and turned the flickering light toward the table. The light danced on the surface, drawing Alexia’s attention to the framed ultrasound photo resting beside it.

For a long moment, Alexia didn’t move. She just stared at the photo, eyes blurred with unshed tears. The silence in the room pressing down on her like a weight she couldn’t shake off.

She’d tried so hard to bury that part of herself. The part that carried the weight of what they’d lost. She’d thrown herself into her games, into the chaos of her professional life, hoping it would silence the emptiness. But it didn’t.

Eli came back to her side, her presence steady and solid. She didn’t push Alexia to speak. She simply sat down beside her, the silence between them comfortable in a way that only years of shared grief could create.

Finally, Alexia broke the silence. Her voice low, barely a whisper. ‘’I can’t stop thinking about what I said. About how I let her walk away.’’ She let out a shaky breath, rubbing her hand over her face. ‘’And now… now I think she blames herself for everything. I didn’t fix it, mamá. I made it worse.’’

Eli’s arm found its way around Alexia’s shoulders, a steady comforting weight. ‘’You were both lost, Alexia. You were both hurting. You never got a chance to heal together.’’

Alexia leaning into her mother’s warmth. ‘’I just wanted to fix it so badly. But I pushed her away instead. And now…’’ She paused, her breath catching in her throat. ‘’I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me.’’

Eli kissed the top of her head gently. ‘’It’s not about forgiveness, querida. It’s about healing. And that can’t happen until you’re both ready.’’

Alexia picked up the ultrasound photo, her fingers tracing the edges softly as if it might slip away if she touched it too hard. She felt the ache of the past settling deep in her chest again. The photo was a reminder of what she lost. Not just a child, but everything that came with it: the plans, the future she’d imagined with you.

With a deep quiet breath, Alexia set the photo down again. The weight of the moment too much to hold for long. ‘’I just want her back,’’ she whispered, her voice cracking, her eyes welling with tears.

Eli didn’t try to stop the tears. She simply held her, quiet and steady, knowing that sometimes the only thing you could do was be there. The pain wouldn’t go away. It never really did, but being here with her mother in this safe space gave Alexia a fragile thread of hope.

Back across the city the quiet followed you home like a shadow.

Your apartment was small, modest, lived-in. The kind of place where the furniture didn’t match and the walls were soft with memories. You dropped your bag near the door and toed off your shoes. The silence pressing in as if it had something to say.

Baya greeted you at the threshold, slow and curious. Her tail curling against your ankle like she knew something in you had cracked open again. You bent down, pressing your face to her fur, eyes still hot from the tears you’d barely kept in back at the coffee shop.

‘’Hey, girl,’’ you whispered against her fur. ‘’I saw her.’’

“I actually saw her.”

Baya only blinked, but it felt like enough.

You stood again and drifted toward the kitchen counter, placing the now-cold coffee cup down like it weighed a thousand pounds. Your throat still burned from everything you hadn’t said. From the way her eyes followed you as you walked out.

You hadn’t planned to say that last thing. The truth that had clawed at your ribs for nearly a year. It’s almost been a year. And I’m still sorry that my body betrayed us like that. It came out too fast. Too sharp. But it was true.

Your hands trembled slightly as you opened a window, letting the cool air hit your face. It helped, a little. Just enough.

You moved to the bookshelf, not for a book, but for the small flat box tucked between them. You didn't open it. You just held it, pressing it to your chest. Inside was the same photo. The one they printed when you weren't sure if it was still real, before everything fell apart. You hadn't looked at it in months. Couldn't bring yourself to.

Baya brushed against your legs again, and you sank to the floor slowly. Curling into yourself on the rug. Your apartment smelled like lavender and old tea. It was small. Yours. But it still felt like something was missing.

You'd Baya for almost four years now.

She wasn't planned. You'd found her through a rescue center just outside the city, all winy limbs and wide eyes. Something in you had clicked the moment you saw her. You hadn't even asked Alexia before filling out the papers. Just texted her a photo and wrote, her name's Baya. She comes home tomorrow.

Alexia had replied with: You adopted a cat? Without asking? You hate sleeping with fur in the bed.

And then a minute later: She's kind of cute though. I call the name 'Tigre' if she claws me once.

She’d rolled her eyes for days. Claimed she didn’t want a cat. Didn’t like them. Said she was a dog person. But within a week, you’d walked in on her stretched out on the couch with Baya curled on her chest like she’d always belonged there.

“She was cold,” Alexia had muttered, stroking the tiny kitten’s ears like it wasn’t the fifth time that week.

And from that point on, Baya was as much hers as she was yours.

She’d scoop her up and carry her around the apartment like a baby. Let her sleep on clean training kits. Left her little dishes of chicken when she thought you weren’t looking. Once, after a hard away game, Alexia had laid face-down on the bed for two hours. Baya curled up in the small of her back like she knew how to anchor her.

That was just… who Alexia was. Even when she was tired. Even when she said she didn’t care.

She always did.

You pulled your knees in tighter, resting your cheek against them, the ache behind your eyes dull and steady. So many pieces of your life still had her fingerprints on them. Even now.

Baya padded over and curled up at your side, purring low and warm. You reached out and stroked her back, your fingers moving slow.

“I know,” you whispered. “I miss her too.”

She'd been confused, after it all happened.

Your belly had been full one day, and then it wasn’t. Alexia had been home, and then she wasn’t. The laughter, the warmth, the weight of two people living and dreaming under one roof. Gone.

And Baya, for all her quiet intelligence and feline pride, couldn’t understand why the energy in the apartment had changed so suddenly. Why the crib box stayed unopened. Why you barely moved from the bed. Why you sobbed into her fur some nights and wouldn’t let her go.

She waited by the door for days, her tail flicking every time keys jingled in the hallway that weren’t yours. She wandered into the bedroom at night, meowed at the emptiness on the left side of the bed. She sniffed at the small pile of folded baby clothes you couldn’t bear to throw out.

She mourned with you.

She just couldn’t say it.

And you… you hadn’t had the words either. Not when Alexia said what she said that night. Not when she looked at you like it was your fault her heart broke.

So you left the apartment you once called home and came here. Smaller. Quieter. Yours. But not whole.

You turned your face into your knees, closing your eyes against the sting building behind them again.

Nearly a year, and still, the silence hadn’t learned how to soothe you.

Neither had the coffee shops. Or the sun. Or the passing time.

It had been six days since she saw you.

Six days since you walked out of that coffee shop with shaking hands and eyes glassy with everything you didn't say. Six days, and Alexia still hadn't forgiven herself for going after you.

The apartment was quiet now. She was back home, her real home, the one you'd picked together. The walls still held the shape of your laughter in them, somehow. It was cruel, how sound could linger after everything else had gone.

She sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees. Her phone dangling from her fingers. No notifications. She hadn't expected any.

The nausea had eased some, but it still came in waves. Especially when she thought of you. Of what she's said that night.

She could still see it. Your face. That look right after the words left her mouth. The way you crumbled so quietly it took her days to realize it was the last time you'd let her see you fall apart.

Her mother had told her to stop torturing herself, but Alexia knew that was easier said than done.

It had been almost a year, and still, her mind replayed the same moment over and over: Her own voice, too sharp. Too cruel.

Your silence, like a blade.

She hadn’t meant it. God, she hadn’t meant it.

But grief made monsters out of people. And that night, Alexia had let hers win.

Now, with the house too quiet and your ghost in every corner, she didn’t know what to do with herself.

She reached over, picked up the folded onesie from the drawer she never opened anymore, pressed it to her chest, and let herself fall back on the bed.

It was soft. Still smelled faintly of lavender and that detergent you insisted was the only one that didn't smell too clean. She had argued, said the baby wouldn't care. That they'd throw up on it anyway. You'd just smiled, hand already resting over your swollen stomach, and said... humor me.

You'd been five months along when you found it.

Tiny. Pale yellow. With a stiched little bee in the centre. You held it up in the shop like it was some kind of treasure, eyes wide with the kind of hope Alexia hadn’t let herself fully lean into yet. Not then. It terrified her, how ready you were to love something so small, so vulnerable, so not here yet.

Still, after that day, she started calling her mi abejita.

Her little bee.

She’d whisper it against your belly when she thought you were asleep, her hand spread wide across your skin, anchoring herself to a future that scared her just as much as it thrilled her.

Sometimes she'd hum, quiet and low in her throat, the way her mother used to do when she was small. And she's imagine a baby cradled in your arms with your same sleepy smile, the onesie soft and warm around their tiny limbs.

Abejita, she’d say with a grin whenever she came home from training. Crouching down to kiss your stomach before she kissed you. You'd always roll your eyes. Pretend to scoff at how she made everything a nickname, but your hand would always find hers. Always.

And then one day, your belly was still.

And the nursery door stayed closed.

She hadn’t said abejita since.

Couldn’t.

Now, holding that soft yellow fabric to her chest, Alexia felt the name bloom and break all over again inside her.

After a long pause, Alexia sat up slowly, pushing herself to her feet. The onesie lay crumpled in her hands as she stared at the empty space across the room, the weight of everything pressing down on her chest.

She needed to say something. Needed to tell you she was sorry, that she hadn’t meant the things she said. But the words wouldn’t come. They never did.

With a shaky breath, she grabbed her phone from the nightstand and unlocked it. She started typing, her fingers hovering over the screen for what felt like hours. Finally, she began. Just simple words, just a simple I'm sorry. But she couldn’t do it. She deleted it. Again.

Instead, she stared at the screen. She thought of you. How you used to look at her when you smiled, the quiet way you held her. How you used to laugh at her silly nicknames for everything, how abejita used to make you roll your eyes, but never in a bad way.

Her thumb hovered over the message again.

"I miss you."

She couldn’t send it. Not yet. But it was the first time in months she allowed herself to write it.

Alexia stared at the screen for another minute before locking her phone and tossing it back onto the bed.

She sat there for a while longer, the weight of everything pressing down on her chest. Still, the thought of reaching out felt like a lifetime away. Like something she didn’t deserve to do yet.

The next weekend, you didn’t expect to find yourself standing outside the stadium. You couldn’t even explain why you were here, the crowds buzzing around you like a memory you didn’t want to remember but couldn't shake.

It all started when you stumbled upon an old pair of tiny FC Barcelona socks. Blue and garnet, with the faded emblem just visible enough to make your chest tighten.

They must’ve slipped from one of the boxes you had yet to go through. You hadn’t thought about that in so long, the way you used to laugh when Alexia came home from training with tiny gifts for a future you were both so excited about.

And then, as if some invisible force was pushing you, you found yourself walking. Just walking. Until you were here.

Outside the stadium.

The sound of the fans, the buzz of excitement, the occasional shout as people hurried in. It was almost too much. Too alive for the space inside you that felt so empty.

You didn’t plan to go in. You hadn’t even bought a ticket.

You were just standing there, watching, like a ghost.

The world around you seemed to move in a blur, and for a moment, you considered turning back. Going home. Pretending you hadn’t been pulled here by the quiet pull of memory.

And that’s when you saw them.

Alexia’s mother, Eli, and her younger sister, Alba, weaving through the crowd, both with bright smiles and eyes that searched the sea of faces around them. You froze. Your heart skipped, then thudded painfully against your chest as they drew closer.

“Oh,” Eli said, her voice warm, familiar. Her gaze softened when she spotted you, but there was something unreadable in her expression. “What a surprise.”

Alba, the younger of the two, gave a shy, cautious smile. “You’re here?” She asked, glancing at the entrance, her voice uncertain. “Are you going in?”

The question hung in the air for a moment, and your throat tightened. You didn’t know how to answer. You didn’t even know why you were here.

“No,” you replied quietly, shaking your head, trying to hide the wave of emotion that had rushed over you. “I... I’m just here. Standing outside, I guess.”

Eli's eyes softened even more, and she stepped closer, her tone gentle. “I understand.” She said it like she didn’t need you to explain any more. Like she knew, and that somehow, in some way, she was here for you.

Alba looked between the two of you, almost unsure of what to say next, but Eli gave her a small, knowing nod.

“Sometimes it’s the first step,” Eli added, her voice quiet but firm, like she was offering something deeper than just a simple observation. “Just standing here. Even when you don’t know why you’re here.”

You nodded, the words slipping into your chest like a small, heavy stone. It was hard to breathe. But you didn't look away. You let the moment sit. You let it breathe. And just for a second, in the stillness of it, you could almost hear her. Alexia. Right there with you, her presence an echo in your bones.

You looked down at the tiny socks in your hand, the ones you hadn’t even realized you were still holding.

Without thinking, you pressed them into Eli’s hands. She blinked, surprised at first, but then looked down at the socks, her fingers brushing over the soft fabric.

“These...” you trailed off, unsure of what you were saying, why you were saying it. The words felt foreign. “For Alexia. Just... tell her... I don’t know. Tell her I’m sorry. Or that... I don’t know. Just give them to her, please.”

Eli’s gaze softened even more, and for the first time, you noticed the pain behind her eyes, the shared weight of everything unspoken. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to.

“I will,” she said simply, her voice steady.

And that was it.

No grand gestures. No promises.

But somehow, it felt like a first step.

The match had ended hours ago, the sounds of the cheering crowd still echoing in her mind, but now the stadium was quiet. Alexia stood at the back of the locker room, her body sore, her thoughts clouded with a heaviness that hadn’t left her since the moment she’d stepped onto the field.

She tried to focus on the game, tried to lose herself in the adrenaline and the sharp concentration that came with being on the pitch. But every time the ball came near her, every pass, every goal, her mind flickered back to you. How you used to cheer for her, your eyes bright and full of pride. How you would bring her small tokens of love after every match. Sometimes a coffee, sometimes a handwritten note tucked inside her locker.

But it wasn't just the little thigns that made her heart ache. It was the bigger things, the things she has allowed herself to dream about. How, when you'd sit together on quiet nights, you would talk about the future. About bringing your future daughter to the stadium one dat, a tiny Barcelona jersey on her back. Holder her up to see her mami play.

You'd laugh at how she'd probably be more interested in the snacks than the game, and how you'd support Alexia from the stands, together as a family.

Little bee. Abejita.

Her chest tightened, and she could feel the familiar ache deep inside her. The ache she’d tried to ignore, but no matter how hard she pushed, it was always there.

“Alexia,” her mother’s voice broke through her thoughts. Eli’s steady presence was a comfort, even when it felt like nothing could fix what had been broken.

She turned slowly, her hand still gripping the locker as if it could steady her. Eli stood there, Alba beside her, both of them looking at her in that quiet, knowing way they always did when something was wrong.

Eli didn’t say anything right away. She just looked at Alexia, letting the silence stretch between them. It wasn’t judgment, not really. It was more like she was giving Alexia the space to break if she needed to.

“You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready,” Eli said softly, her voice like the calm after a storm. “But I think you know what’s in your heart.”

Alexia swallowed hard, the weight of her emotions threatening to spill over. She had spent the entire match trying to bury everything. Bury the memories. Bury the guilt. But it all came crushing back now, unstoppable. She wanted to say something, to explain, to apologize. But nothing felt enough. The words wouldn't come.

It was Alba who spoke next, her voice quieter than usual, almost uncertain. “We saw her, Ale. Outside the stadium.”

Alexia’s heart stuttered. “What?”

Eli nodded, her eyes soft but tinged with a sadness Alexia had come to recognize all too well. “She was standing outside, near the entrance. Just... standing there.”

“She gave me this,” Eli continued, holding out the tiny pair of FC Barcelona socks.

Alexia’s breath hitched in her throat. “She gave you those?” The words tasted bitter on her tongue, and she quickly blinked away the sting behind her eyes.

Eli looked at her, her expression a mixture of understanding and something else, something softer. “Yes. She asked me to give them to you.”

Alexia didn’t know how to respond. She couldn’t breathe. The socks in her mother’s hands seemed to hold all the things she couldn’t put into words. All the things she had wanted to say but hadn’t been able to.

Her hands shook as she reached out, gently taking the socks from her mother, holding them in her palm like they were something precious.

“I don’t know what to do,” Alexia said, her voice barely a whisper. She didn’t look up at her mother or sister, keeping her gaze focused on the soft fabric between her fingers. She didn’t want them to see how fragile she felt.

Eli stepped closer, her hands reaching to rest on Alexia’s shoulders, grounding her. “You don’t have to know yet. You don’t have to have all the answers. But you know, I can see it in you. How much you love her, how much you want to fix this.”

Alexia felt something inside her crack, the weight of everything breaking open. Her mother was right. She did want to fix it. She wanted to reach out, to somehow make things right again. But every time she tried to take that step, the fear gripped her. Fear that it was too late, fear that she had already destroyed everything.

“You don’t have to go back right now,” Eli said softly, as if reading Alexia’s mind. “But I think it’s time to stop running from it. She gave you a way back.”

Alexia looked down at the socks again, the softness of them almost too much to bear. “She still wants me to... come back? Even after everything I said?” Her voice cracked, the guilt making her stomach twist.

Alba stepped forward now, her young eyes filled with a wisdom Alexia had always admired. “She gave you those socks. That’s a sign.” She smiled faintly, though it was tinged with sadness. “She still cares. I think she’s just waiting for you to take the first step.”

A silence hung in the air, but this time, it felt different. It felt like a possibility.

She told herself she would try to find you the next day.

After the game, after the conversation with her mother and sister, after holding those tiny socks to her chest for what felt like hours. She knew. She had to try. No more running. No more waiting for signs she was too scared to follow through on.

But that night, as she finally drifted into restless sleep, her body aching and her heart just as sore, her mind pulled her somewhere else.

You were there.

Not in the way you had been outside the stadium, hesitant and hurting, but in the way she remembered you. Glowing. Soft. Heavy with life and laughter and something so close to joy, it made her breath catch even in the dream.

You were on top of her, hips rocking slow, full of warmth and reverence. Her hands were splayed across your belly, round and full. Your skin hot beneath her palms. Her eyes couldn't look away.

"Do you still like it when I ride you like this?" you asked, your voice teasing and breathless. But it wasn’t just playful. It was searching too. Needy in the way heartbreak always was.

She tried to answer but her throat caught. She nodded, her hands tightening on your hips as you moved, the weight of you grounding her in a way nothing else had since.

You leaned in, brushing your lips along her jaw, your belly pressing against her chest. She swore she could feel the faintest movement under her hands. Like the dream version of your daughter was still there, still alive between you.

You kissed her again. “We could’ve had this forever,” you whispered.

And then you were gone.

Alexia woke with a sharp gasp, her skin damp with sweat, legs tangled in the sheets. The ache between her thighs was real, but it was nothing compared to the aching in her chest. She pressed a hand to her stomach, then to her heart.

Maybe it did.

It was the 14th of the month.

One more month.

One more month since everything fell apart. Since the bleeding. Since the stillbirth. Since the silence. Since the words that should never have been spoken. Since the goodbye that was never really said, but lingered in the air like smoke in a house that used to feel like home.

You didn’t mean to go to the valley that morning. You just drove.

No destination. No playlist. Just the ache in your chest and the silence of a car that had once carried soft humming, lazy conversations, Alexia’s laugh when you'd mispronounce a Spanish word. It was automatic, muscle memory, the road pulling you toward the one place that still felt like it belonged to both of you.

The valley hadn’t changed. The grass was wild again, yellow and green in patches. The air smelled of damp soil and eucalyptus. A few wildflowers had managed to push through the dirt like they always did. Resilient things.

You parked and stepped out, the wind curling around your coat. Your boots sank slightly in the soft earth as you walked toward the ridge. The same one where you used to sit with her, her hand always reaching for yours. Her head sometimes resting on your shoulder when she was tired, which was often.

Baya hadn’t wanted to be left alone that morning. She meowed at the door when you grabbed your keys, her eyes wide and alert. But you had to go. Just this once. Just for a little while.

You sat down slowly, hugging your knees to your chest.

The wind moved around you like it remembered. Like it knew.

You didn’t cry. You just... breathed. Let yourself feel the ache without fighting it. Let the memory of her hands settle in your lap like something you were finally brave enough to hold again.

It was the 14th.

Almost a year.

And you still weren’t sure if you had healed, or if you were just getting better at carrying the weight.

You hadn’t meant to bring the ultrasound photo.

It was still tucked inside that old journal you barely opened anymore, the one with the fraying spine and soft pages that had soaked up more grief than ink over the past year. But when you reached into your bag, it was there. Right between a folded tissue and an old receipt from the coffee shop neither of you had stepped into since.

You took it out with careful hands, like it might tear just from being touched again. The little curve of a shape in that black-and-white blur. The tiny heartbeat that had lit up the screen like a miracle. You traced your thumb across the corner without meaning to.

“You would've almost be walking by now,” you whispered.

You placed the photo gently in the grass beside you, weighted with a stone, the wind catching at its edges like it, too, didn’t want to let go.

You didn’t hear the footsteps at first.

The wind had picked up, and your ears were full of it. Until they weren't. Until the quiet sound of shoes crunching on fresh grass made you stiffen just slightly, not turning around, but not breathing either.

You knew that step.

Alexia stood a few meters back, uncertain, her hands deep in the pockets of her jacket. Her hair was tucked messily into a bun, her cheeks pink from the wind, and her eyes. God, her eyes, already glassy when she looked at you.

And when you finally turned to see her, you saw what she was holding.

The onesie.

The socks.

She didn’t say anything. She just knelt in the grass beside you slowly, like any sudden movement might break the air between you.

You watched her hands fumble, nervous, careful. She placed the tiny socks down beside the ultrasound photo. Then the onesie, folded like a prayer.

No words yet. Just things you both had once bought for a life that had never arrived. And still, somehow, here you were. Carrying it all, together again, in the only way you knew how.

Her voice was barely a breath. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

You nodded. “I didn’t know you would either.”

A pause.

“I think… I think we needed to be.”

It was silent for a while.

The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled, only witnessed. The wind rustled through the grass around you, tugging gently at the corners of the ultrasound photo, the folded edge of the onesie. Baya wasn’t there, but somehow, it still felt like the three of you. Four of you. Together again in some impossible aching way.

Alexia sat beside you with her knees drawn up, arms around herself like she was holding in something too fragile to name.

Then she broke.

She tried to hold it in. You saw it. The way her jaw tightened, the way she blinked too fast. But it cracked through anyway, as soft and sudden as a prayer:

“Our abejita…”

Her voice cracked on the last syllable, and it was over. Her shoulders caved in, her hands trembling as she reached out, not for you, but for the space between the socks and the photo.

“Oh God,” she gasped, covering her mouth. “I... she was real. She was ours.”

''Our abejita...''

You didn’t realize you were crying until the wetness blurred your vision. Your throat burned. You wanted to say something, anything, but you couldn’t. You could only cry. Because hearing Alexia call her that again, our little bee, it did something to you. Ripped you open and, somehow, stitched a piece of you back together all at once.

And even now, almost a year later, the words she’d screamed at you that night came flooding back like a fresh bruise to the chest.

“Your body was never ready for this. You ruined this.”

You had never heard her sound so angry. Never heard her say something so cruel. And she hadn’t meant it, you knew that now. But that didn’t mean it hadn’t split something deep in you. Because you believed her. For a long time, you did.

“I didn’t mean it,” she whispered, as if reading your mind. “I swear to you. I was scared, and broken, and angry at everything but you. But I didn’t know how to hold it. I let it turn into something sharp, and I threw it at you because you were the only person close enough to catch it.”

She looked at you then, fully. No walls, no defenses. Just tear-streaked eyes and open hands.

“I am so sorry.”

It was almost unbearable, the honesty in her voice.

“I killed everything when I said that,” she continued, voice shaking. “And you... you were already in pieces, and I made it worse. I didn’t know how to stay. I hated myself for what happened and instead of protecting you, I punished you for it.”

You pressed your hand against your chest, as if that could steady your breathing.

“She’s not gone,” you said softly, eyes on the little things you had both brought. The photo, the socks, the onesie still faintly smelling of clean cotton and what-ifs. “She’ll always be with us.”

Alexia made a soft sound, half a cry, half a breath. Her hand inched closer to yours on the ground.

You nodded, eyes wet. “No matter where we go, or who we become. She's part of both of us. We made her real.”

Alexia’s lips trembled as she closed the gap between your hands, her pinky brushing yours.

“She was love,” she said. “Even if it was short.”

You leaned into her shoulder just slightly. Not a promise. Not a reset. Just a quiet return to something that had never really stopped mattering.

The wind moved gently through the valley again, and somewhere, in the quiet between your bodies, the ache felt a little less lonely.

You didn’t talk much after that.

Just sat there for a while longer, letting the silence hold both your grief and whatever it was that had started to bloom between the cracks again. And when you stood, brushing the grass from your coat and gathering the little things you both couldn’t bear to leave behind, Alexia didn’t ask what came next.

But when you looked at her, really looked, you knew you couldn’t let her walk away again.

“Come home with me,” you said, gently. “Just for a bit.”

Her eyes flicked up, unsure, guarded again for a moment like she didn’t trust herself to hope. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I don’t think I could take being alone tonight. And… I think maybe you can’t either.”

She hesitated, but only for a second. Then she nodded, and followed you to the car.

The drive back was quiet. Not awkward. Just... tender. Like you were both trying not to breathe too loud, afraid it might startle the fragile thread that had formed between you again.

When you opened the door to your apartment, the lavender hit first. Then the warmth. Baya was already padding over with soft little steps, tail high, eyes wide with curiosity.

And as soon as she saw Alexia, she stopped.

Her ears perked. She stared for a long beat, and then walked right over like it hadn’t been nearly a year.

Alexia dropped to her knees without a word, arms opening instinctively.

Baya pressed into her chest, letting out a low, whiny meow that sounded so close to a question, and a forgiveness, all at once.

Alexia’s head dropped forward, her forehead resting against Baya’s soft fur. You watched her shoulders shake.

“I missed you Baya,” she whispered to the cat, and maybe to you, and maybe to something else entirely.

You closed the door quietly behind you. Took a breath.

It wasn’t fixed. Nothing was. But watching the two of them, your past and your maybe, staring back at each other like they'd both been waiting for this.

It felt like something had come home.

The months that followed were soft, hesitant, like a dawn breaking after a long, difficult night. Neither of you rushed. Neither of you knew exactly how to begin again, but somehow, in the quiet moments, you found your way back.

It wasn’t perfect. You both knew that. There were days when the silence felt too thick to bear, when one look or one word would send you spiraling into a place you weren’t sure you’d come back from. But then, there were moments when Alexia would brush her fingers across your hand as you sat in the kitchen, a reminder that she was still there. Still with you.

And you? You slowly learned how to trust again. Not all at once, but piece by piece. There were mornings when Alexia would wake up early, as she always did, and bring you coffee without a word.

Placing it beside you on the couch as she sat next to you, pulling you close with that quiet strength you’d always loved. She wouldn’t rush. She wouldn’t demand anything. She just was there, and somehow, that was enough.

At night, you’d fall asleep with your head resting on her shoulder, her steady heartbeat under your ear. You remembered how it used to be, how safe you had felt in her arms before everything had come crashing down. And every night, you’d wake up to find her still there, steady as ever, like she hadn’t moved an inch.

There were conversations that had to be had. Real ones. Hard ones.

Alexia would sit across from you, hands in her lap, eyes soft but still heavy with guilt. “I’m not going to lie,” she’d say, voice steady but thick with emotion. “I’m scared, too. I don’t know how to make things right, but I want to. I want us to be whole again.” You tried couples therapy. Which helped a lot with regaining trust.

You'd listen. You’d feel the weight of her words, of her vulnerability, but there was a flicker, tiny, almost imperceptible that reminded you of the woman you had loved so deeply before. It was there, and that was the start of it. That was where you began.

You both took things slowly, learning how to be in each other's lives without the expectation that everything would be fixed overnight. But what you found, what you built, was trust. It wasn’t the same as before, not entirely, but it was a new kind of trust. One that came with an understanding of each other’s broken pieces, the shared acknowledgment of your wounds, and the slow, steady work of mending them together.

One afternoon, Alexia took you to the beach, a place you hadn’t visited since the pregnancy. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it until you stood there, the waves crashing against the shore, the salty air filling your lungs. She held your hand, her touch grounding you as the world seemed to fall away.

“We never went for a walk on the beach with her.” she asked, her voice soft.

You shook your head, the memory still sharp, still tender. “No. We didn’t.”

“She’d have loved it here,” Alexia murmured, her voice thick with both regret and longing. “The sound of the waves... the feel of the sand. She’d have loved the ocean.”

You squeezed her hand, your heart heavy but somehow lighter all at once. “We’ll take her with us. Every step. She’s still with us.”

Alexia nodded, pressing a kiss to your forehead. And in that moment, everything felt like it was beginning to settle into place, even if the pieces would never fit perfectly. The pain of the loss was still there, sharp and ever-present, but it no longer defined you. And neither did the past.

You started building something new together. One step at a time.

Two years later, everything had changed. Slowly, quietly, but with a depth that no words could quite capture. The pain of loss had softened, like waves smoothing over rough rocks. But it had never left.

You and Alexia had taken the leap. Adoption. Your sweet, bright little girl, now three years old, had found her way into your arms. She was perfect. And though there were days when fear still lingered, fear that you might not be enough, or that you might fail her.

Those fears had, over time, slipped away. You had become a family. Not in the way you had first imagined, but in the way life had ultimately unfolded. And it had been more beautiful than either of you could have hoped.

Alexia stood beside you, her fingers lightly brushing against your own. The years had softened her edges, but the strength you had always admired was still there, deep in her eyes, in the way she moved, in how she cared for your little one.

And then there was her family, Eli and Alba, standing just a few steps away. Sharing quiet smiles as they watched you all. You were all here, together. And this moment, this place, felt like a soft landing.

The sun was setting, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold, and the air smelled of salt and fresh flowers. You walked slowly to the spot where you’d always imagined this moment. Where you’d been together before, and where you would be again.

Alexia had picked a few flowers along the way, yellow and white ones, the same ones you had always picked when you came here. The same ones you had brought to the valley to remember your lost child.

She would’ve liked these,” you said softly, your voice barely a whisper.

Alexia paused, kneeling down to gather more of the delicate blooms. She smiled faintly. “I think she would’ve. Yellow, for our little bee.”

You crouched beside her, feeling the weight of it all. The bittersweetness, the peace, and the love that still flowed, undying, between you both.

Your daughter toddled over, her small hands holding her own bouquet of flowers. Tiny, but perfectly picked. She had always been fascinated by nature, by the way things grew, and how something as small as a seed could bloom into something beautiful.

You watched as she knelt down by the sand, carefully arranging the flowers in a circle. She spoke to herself as she worked, and you smiled when you heard what she said.

“Perfect... just for abejita.”

Alexia’s breath caught in her throat at the sound of the word, but when she looked at you, you only smiled gently, reaching for her hand.

“She’s always here,” you said softly, watching your daughter. “In everything we do. In everything we create. She’s part of us.”

Alexia nodded, her hand squeezing yours, the simple act of holding it a promise. A soft, unspoken promise that everything, everything, would be okay.

Together, you all placed the flowers by the sand, a quiet memorial that spoke of love, loss, and life continuing on. Your little girl’s laughter echoed in the wind, the sound of a future that was still bright, still full of hope. And even though the past would always be there, woven into the fabric of your family, it didn’t hurt the same anymore.

Your love for your daughter, for Alexia, and even for the memory of the little one you lost, would never fade. It was there, in every petal you placed in the sand, in every flower you picked together, in every laugh, every soft touch, every quiet moment shared between the three of you. It was all real. All still there.

“She would’ve loved it here,” Alexia said softly, watching your daughter run toward the waves, her little feet leaving footprints in the sand.

“She would’ve loved it,” you agreed, your voice full of a tenderness that only grew with time.

"She’s still with us."

''Our abejita.''

----------------------------------------------------------

Please let me know what you think of it. I would love to hear your thoughts.

[allisonrw96]

Saw 8x16 and my hand slipped. Obviously there are spoilers here for Don't Drink the Water. Once I sleep and reread it, I'll decide if it should go on AO3 or not and add a link if needed.

Heartbreak Like an Earthquake

The four of them play cards together after the dishes are done. It's a game that Buck only half knows how to play and the other three rib him about it before they play a face up hand so he can learn the rules and how to win. He doesn't win. But he knows how now. For next time.

He never bought a bed for Christopher's room because taking ownership of that part of the house felt different than taking ownership of the rest of it, but he still has the air mattress he hauled from house to house and the duct tape patch he put on the side seems like it's holding strong. Christopher puts himself to bed, reminding Eddie and Buck that he knows where it is still, but he doesn't snark at Eddie when he finds him waiting in the hallway to give him a hug after he brushes his teeth and he goes unprompted to the living room to give Buck one last hug too.

After that it's just Buck and Eddie, sitting at opposite ends of the couch that squeaks under their weight and that they slide on every time they try to lean back.

"Did you get any sleep at all last night?" Buck asks, handing Eddie the mug that Eddie doesn't need to know he stole on Eddie's moving day.

Eddie sips the tea to test it and exhales a too hot breath before answering, "Not really."

"Good," Buck replies.

They share a sidelong glance and then they both laugh, fussing with the strings of their tea bags and trying to get comfortable.

It feels like that's all Buck's been doing for a month now. Trying to get comfortable. Or at least, trying to find a position that doesn't hurt, doesn't take his breath away, doesn't make him want to sit down and never get up again. He doesn't quite manage it now either, but he feels... He's not hiding it. His grief is a beanbag chair that he's nestled into with no intention of getting up any time soon and there's relief in the surrender.

"I'm sorry that I didn't call you that night," Buck says to his mug but not missing the way that Eddie stiffens beside him. "And I'm sorry that I didn't call you any of the days after. Or answer when you did."

"You texted. I know you were busy."

Giving interviews to government officials. Endless interviews and statements that ranged from accusatory to perfunctory and that Buck can't remember at all now. He thinks he cried in at least one. He knows he cried with Hen at her hospital bed and with Maddie outside Chimney's. He knows that Ravi came over with a pizza and that Buck threw it all up later and the days passed, the days passed, the days passed. And then someone told him it was time to get back to work.

"I didn't- I couldn't say it. And I couldn't talk about anything else either. Those first couple days. I couldn't say anything. But I should have tried."

When Eddie answers, his voice is tight. "I should have been there. On the call, at the hospital, here with- I should have been here."

"Why weren't you?"

All their texts. One drunken voicemail that was just Buck's name and then a ragged, wet breath before the call ended. For weeks, Buck expected the next message to include flight details. None of them did. After Athena announced the date, Buck researched the flights himself, sending the cheapest and the fastest options to Eddie, half angry and half afraid that if he didn't do it, Eddie might not.

"I was going to be here for the funeral. Christopher agreed to stay with my parents and they agreed to take him and I packed a bag and waited for the call. As soon as I knew which days everything was happening I was going to head to the airport.

"And I kept waiting. Radio silence from you. Radio silence from Chimney and Ravi. I started thinking you were gonna have the funeral without me. Started thinking I deserved it. It was my fault I wasn't there anyway. By the time I starting getting pissed enough to realize I didn't need an invitation to get on the plane, you sent me the flights."

"You're here now."

For now. Buck thinks but stops himself from saying. It would be mean for the sake of seeing Eddie flinch and once he reaches past all the parts of himself that do mean it, he can get to the core that doesn't. It was never Eddie's fault that he had to leave. And he has every reason to already be gone now. But Buck sent him a list of one way flights and Eddie booked one and he stayed. He still hasn't booked another even though he has his offer and he knows what day he's expected to report. It's a hope that he's so angry to feel because it's going to hurt so much worse when it gets ripped away, but it's one that Buck can't help but cling to.

"For all the good it's done," Eddie says, sipping his tea like he wishes it was something stronger.

"Hey. You being here is doing us good. It's doing me good."

"Getting screamed at by a raging asshole in your own kitchen over who's the most sad is part of your grieving process?"

"No." Turning to face Eddie, Buck takes in the shadow cast over his body, the way the bitterness of his last words is still lingering in his expression. He looks and he remembers other shadows that he had to help Eddie fight back and he waits for Eddie to look over at him. It takes a while.

Slowly, Buck says, "'Getting to be there for my best friend when he finally tells me how he's really feeling after having to watching him walk around for weeks like he didn't just have his heart ripped out' is what's part of the process. I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner."

"I don't remember getting to that part."

"Well I had to get through the "Wanting to punch you in the face for spitting in mine" part out of the way first. I was going to try the talking part again this morning, but..."

Eddie winces and Buck finds he doesn't feel as guilty about that as he would have thought.

"But the asshole had to get one more shot in. Buck, I'm-"

"I know you are," Buck says. He doesn't know where Eddie got the money for another plane ticket and he doesn't know how he knew how badly Buck needed to feel something other than the feeling of bobbing in an open ocean beside a sinking ship, trying desperately to reach people who keep floating further and further away. But he supposes that Eddie's always been his anchor and maybe he shouldn't be surprised at all. "I forgive you."

In the dark, Buck can't see Eddie's jaw twitch like he wants to refuse the forgiveness like he usually does, but he knows it's there by the sound of the strong exhale that takes the place of whatever he wants to say and the way he looks back down at the tea.

"Did I really spit on you?" he asks, looking back at Buck with his eyebrows knitted together.

A laugh pops from Buck's mouth like double bubble bursting and he says, "Uh, you shouted like six inches from my face so yeah. I was in the splash zone. I kind of regret encouraging you to drink more water."

"Jesus," Eddie says, rubbing his hand over his face.

Still laughing, Buck plucks his teabag out of his mug and Eddie slides over a coaster to catch it, leaving his own to steep just a little bit longer. It's not everything that there is to say, but Buck can feel a part of himself snapping back into place. They're going to be okay. They're always going to be okay.

A memory bubbles up, one that he's surprised to even remember. He and Eddie had gotten into it on a shift one day. Buck can't even remember what the problem was but he knows he prayed they would catch a fire just so he could turn the hose on Eddie and blow him down the block. It had made Ravi nervous--he was still so green back then--enough that he worked up the courage to ask Bobby if he was going to do anything about it.

"If it interferes with the job, I'll separate them," Bobby promised. "But I won't have to. They'll be back in each other's pockets before we leave tomorrow morning."

"Before dinner," Hen had countered, holding up a ten for Bobby to call or raise, and Buck had been so furious that the stairs rattled under his feet as he stormed off. This wasn't like that. This was serious.

And he still thought maybe it had been. He and Eddie still went out to breakfast the next morning anyway, unspoken apologies passing between them like the keys between their hands as they walked out the door.

It's not a bad memory, but it hurts all the same. Bobby knew all of them so well. Sometimes it seemed like he knew everything. But he can't have seen this coming. He can't have known what his death would do to all of them or he never would have trusted Buck to-

He draws in a shaky breath that gets Eddie's concerned attention immediately. He sets his cup down before he shifts closer to Buck, making sure both of his hands are free when he asks, "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Buck answers, the same way he's been answering for weeks. But this time Eddie doesn't look away from him and Buck lets the second half of the sentence finally escape. "I'm just thinking about Bobby. I can't seem to stop."

"You don't have to stop. I think about him too."

In his eyes, Buck can see the part that Eddie isn't saying. He thinks about him the same way that Buck just did, the same way they all do, but he also thinks about what he would have done if he was there. What he might have said. What Bobby would have said. Worrying and worrying and worrying over the void that will always exist in place of a goodbye. Now that Buck knows, a little, what Eddie's gone through, he can't imagine how he's bearing up under it.

If Buck was the one with an empty place where a memory should be, he thinks it might kill him. They'd given him oxygen that night. A sedative. But having to hear it later, he thinks... Yeah. He might not have made it. It might be worse than the burden he's carrying now: a promise that's too heavy for his shoulders and one that he's closer and closer to dropping every day.

"He told me-" Buck starts and then stops. Is he making this moment about him? Should he be asking Eddie more questions instead? But he is who he is and Buck can feel the words slipping out of his mouth without any hope of stopping them. "I wasn't being a martyr by picking up paper towels and eggs," he says with more of an edge to the words than he intends.

"Buck-" Eddie sighs. "I know you weren't."

"I forgot," he shrugs. "I forgot you said you'd pick up the groceries and so I went and did it because that's what I always do when I have a Thursday off and because if I don't have something to do every second of every day I think I might go out of my mind. I stand in the middle of a room and I don't know how to move or where to go if I did. And I don't want to have to figure out what to do. I don't want to do anything at all. I want to lay down on the floor and stay there and I can't.

"So I did your laundry. And I could tell you were mad about it, but I swear I didn't give a shit about your socks on the table and I wasn't trying to make you feel guilty for making me clean up after you; I just had to do something or I..."

"Hey. Hey. Look at me." Buck hadn't realized he'd stopped, but when he raises his gaze he finds Eddie's warm brown eyes and more worry than he knows what to do with. "I never should have said that. I was mad and I-"

"I know. It's okay."

"No, it's not." Eddie lets out another sharp breath and moves closer still until their knees are touching and his hand slides off the back of the couch and onto Buck's shoulder.

"We've been worried about you. All of us. You think you're hiding how you're feeling but you are shit at it. Everyone can see that you are two steps away from exploding only you won't talk about it. You're too busy making the rest of us talk, giving out grief assessments like you're the department trauma counselor and we're not making it through the stages of grieving fast enough for you.

"So we've all been tiptoeing around you because no one wants to be the one to set you off and, yeah, I got pissed. Because you were the first person I wanted to tell about the gig in El Paso." Eddie gestures between the two of them with his free hand and Buck's face flushes hot with shame. "You and me, we're supposed to be able to talk about things, but since Bobby died, we haven't talked about anything. I know what it's like to be the one stuck in the middle of that room and I know you'd never leave me there alone. So why are you locking us out and pretending that's what we're doing to you?"

He's close again, breathing heavy again, one hand hot on Buck's shoulder and other finger burning where it taps against his chest with the last words of Eddie's sentence. This time instead of the urge to hit back, Buck only wants to crumple.

"I was there with him. When he died. Did someone tell you that?" Eddie nods and Buck says, "He made me leave. But before he did he told me- He said that I would be okay. And he said that the team would need me."

Tears prick at his eyes again and Eddie's grip gets tighter and before he can say something, Buck plows ahead and says, "But he was wrong. I don't know if he- he thought I was stronger or smarter than I am or if he was just lying so I'd have a reason to..." His throat catches and Buck ducks his head to cough, clearing the river of snot that will be unleashed as soon as he actually starts crying.

"I've been trying to be there for everyone, trying to make sure everyone is okay, but no one is and I don't know how to fix it. There was an earthquake and I thought Bobby would give me an answer but he's still just gone and I'm trying to hold everyone together, but they keep moving away or pushing me away and if I-I-I can't-" his voices hitches and Buck's shoulders shake with stuttered breath- "It's the only thing he asked me to do, but he didn't tell me how and I'm letting him down. I'm letting everyone-"

"No, you're not. You're not."

Buck's head his still bowed to his chest when Eddie takes the mug from his hand and then drags him into the fiercest hug he's ever received. It's too tight to be comforting and the angle is wrong and their chins and elbows and hands are all too rough and too sharp. The hug hurts and Buck twists his fingers in Eddie's shirt to keep him from pulling away.

"You're not letting anyone down," he says to the side of Buck's head. "Not Bobby, not any one of us. We all need you. Okay? Christopher needs you. I need you. I'm always going to need you."

Eddie's hands are fists at Buck's back and his knuckles slide over Buck's shoulders, a steady, soothing, grounding pressure that keeps Buck from drifting away as he lets himself cry for the first time since the funeral.

The whole time, he's aware of a gentle murmuring nearby. It never evolves into more reassurances or even any words at all, but the sound is one of safety. It's the kind of noise you'd make at an infant--the kind Buck sang to Jee-Yun when she was too small for words and the world beyond her parents was nothing more than a wide, often-terrifying confusion. Eddie hums like that to him now, rocking him back and forth, and Buck feels the comfort in the part of him that's still too small and terrified for words.

Once he makes it back to himself, Buck sniffs without pulling away and says, "I'm sorry."

"I know. It's okay."

"No, I was supposed to be there for you and I wasn't. I quizzed you, Eddie. Who does that?"

Laughter rumbles against his cheek and Buck sits up again, surprised to find Eddie's eyes wet and ringed with red.

"Did you ever think that maybe when Cap said we were going to need you that he meant the real you? Not superhero you, not expert you, not captain you, but just you?"

Buck doesn't answer. He doesn't think Eddie needs him to.

"You know when I saw your Jeep at the airport I think it was the first time in weeks I felt like I could actually breathe?"

Eddie's smile when he'd seen him had the same effect on Buck. A relief so sweet that it almost ached. When he'd gotten out of the car to help Eddie with the bags he definitely did not need help with, Eddie had pulled him into a hug and Buck had finally felt something other than numb. It was where he'd found the strength to start being the Buck he thought Bobby would want.

"And then after the funeral I saw you slip Athena a bottle of water. Heard you ask Ravi to keep any eye on Tommy. Watched you take the kids outside to give them a break from everything."

"None of that was a big deal," Buck says, squirming. "I was just-"

"Being you?" Eddie replies raising his eyebrows in that softly challenging way that wins Buck to his side every time. "I know. And I bet that's what Bobby was counting on."

Eddie holds Buck's gaze for a beat longer before pulling them slightly apart and reaching for Buck's mug on the table. Buck accepts it, but doesn't drink, curling his hand around the still warm cup and thinking that he never told anyone about the worst parts of his coma. There was a moment then where he thought Bobby's death might kill him too, but it hadn't. And it had been Bobby, even the Bobby who was a hurt, broken stranger, who had helped Buck look inside himself and find what he needed to live.

"Is that enough?"

Buck still isn't sure. But he figures he owes it to Bobby to keep trying until he is.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah, Buck."

"Bobby asked about you all the time. He kept calling Ravi "Eddie" for like the first month that you were gone. It was an accident at first, but after that I think he just wanted to rile Ravi up. He wanted me to convince you those caffeine drinks were going to kill you. He sent me articles." As he speaks, Buck watches Eddie go still, then watches grief fill his eyes even as he manages a wet laugh at Bobby's hatred of energy drinks.

"He tried to tell me it counted as driving under the influence."

"Yeah, I think that was one of the articles," Buck laughs. Licking his lips before speaking again, he says, "He loved you, Eddie. And he was so proud of you. Not- not just for going to get Christopher, but for everything. And I think. If you had been there. He would have wished you weren't. He would have wanted you to be safe. He would have wanted you to keep living.

"There wasn't anything you could have done."

Sitting back, Eddie sniffs back his emotion and wipes harshly at his eyes before turning to Buck and saying, "I know."

"I know you weren't there and I can't imagine what it would be like not knowing, but I promise-"

"I do know," Eddie croaks, his eyes wide and heartbroken and as honest as Buck has seen them since he's been home. "If there was anything that anyone could do, you guys would have done it. And so would he."

This time when they embrace, they fall into it together. Eddie's arms are tight around Buck and Buck's face is buried in the crook of Eddie's neck. Feeling Eddie exhale and his body soften and relax under Buck's touch, Buck feels something in himself unwinding too. And there, just for a moment, it feels like Bobby is in the room with him, looking in from the doorway, and smiling.

[starkerobsession]

Peter gets drunk at a party - part 1

Follow-up to this texting post I made

..

Tony pulled up at the location Peter had sent to him 20 minutes prior. He jumped out of the car and rushed inside, wondering what sort of state he’d find Peter in. The boy was drunk, and Tony suspected it was probably his first time being drunk too so he dreaded to think how Peter would be coping right now.

When he got inside the building, he scanned the room. A lot of drunk kids. Some sort of high school party. Tony missed those days. He couldn’t see Peter anywhere so started going room to room, walking in on a shocking amount of teenagers making out.

Eventually he opened a door and found Peter. The kid was sitting in the corner alone staring at his phone. It took Tony a minute to realise he had tears in his eyes. Tony hesitantly walked over to him, glancing down at Peter’s phone screen and seeing that Peter was looking at a photo of them both together, his thumb on Tony’s face.

Tony reached down to place his hand on Peter’s shoulder gently.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

Peter let out a quiet heartbreaking sob. “I- I just… I wish… I love him, and I- he’s so hot and such a- a daddy and I want him to be my daddy but he- he’s just so out of my league and I’m just a- a kid. A stupid kid. I just want him in me, I-” Peter stopped abruptly when he looked up and realised who it was he was talking to. He stared up at Tony with tear-stained eyes, looking utterly bewildered. Tony tried not to laugh - it was adorable.

They stared at each other for a good minute before Tony thought it best to break the silence. “How about we get you home?”

“Y-yes. Home. Okay.”

Peter tried to stand up but stumbled, almost falling over. Tony grabbed his arm and helped him stand, grabbing the phone that slipped out of Peter’s hand and placing it in the kid’s jeans pocket. He helped him walk out of the room.

Peter’s head fell back against Tony’s shoulder as he stared intently up at him. “You’re hot,” Peter mumbled quietly. Tony tried not to smile. He couldn’t. He continued walking the boy to the car, trying not to think about the revelations Peter had let slip out tonight. Ignoring the way it made him feel inside.

“Mr Stark your beard would feel sooo good against my thighs, you think? Your beard is so…” Peter reached up to touch Tony’s beard, smiling softly. “Am I touching your face for real?”

Tony let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, kid. For real. Hey, look, we’re almost at my car. Have you been drinking water like I said?”

“Water?”

“So you haven’t.”

“Haven’t what? Are you holding me Mr Stark? For real?”

“Yes, for real.”

Tony heard Peter giggle and then he felt Peter’s face nuzzling against his chest. God he hoped Peter couldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating right now.

“Did you really fuck me back there, Mr Stark? Like… for real?”

Tony cleared his throat, trying not to think about fucking Peter. “Uh, no, Peter. That one’s in your head.”

“Oh,” Peter said quietly, sounding disappointed. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“It’s okay,” Tony said softly, trying to ignore how good the word “daddy” sounded on Peter’s lips.

They reached the car, and Tony helped Peter into the back seat, pulling the seatbelt across him to fasten it because Peter was clearly in no state. As he was leaned over Peter to fasten the seatbelt, he stilled when he felt something wet against his neck. It took him a second to register that Peter was kissing his neck. Or attempting to in his drunken state. It was sloppy and all over the place and as soon as Tony realised what Peter was doing he tried to back out of the car and ended up slamming his head against the roof.

“Peter!” Tony hissed. “That’s enough!”

Peter was smiling sheepishly, looking totally out of it. “‘Kay, Daddy. Enough. Enough’s enough. That’s a funny word - enough. Enough enough enough…”

Tony shut the car door, allowing Peter to distract himself with his drunken monologue. He stood for a moment outside the car, mind reeling about what had happened. From the texts where Peter had called him “daddy” and said he loved him, to the crying and the hallucinations of Tony fucking him, to the kissing… Tony couldn’t quite believe his night had turned out this way. Was he complaining? No. But Peter was extremely drunk and Tony needed to see how Peter felt about these things sober.

Truth was, for the longest time, Tony had wanted Peter. He’d been fighting the feelings every day due to guilt and disgust in himself. But the fact that Peter might actually want him back….

No, that was a thought for another day. When Peter wasn’t drooling on Tony’s backseat and giggling to himself about the complexities of the word ‘enough’.

Tony got into the car and started driving. It took a few minutes before Peter’s mumbling finally stopped, and Tony glanced in his rearview mirror to see the boy was completely knocked out. Tony smiled. Peter looked so adorable. His head was back against the seat, mouth wide open. He was snoring softly. Tony tried not to think about what he could shove into that mouth. He also tried not to think about how Peter would definitely let him right now.

He continued driving, deciding that Peter would be spending the night at his and he’d have to come up with an excuse to tell Peter’s aunt, because the kid was in no state to go home and lie successfully about not drinking.

And then in the morning, he’d sit Peter down and talk to him about everything.

..

(There will be a part 2)

[tryandbehappy]

Why I don’t think the ending will be tragic. Why I don’t believe Nick is going to die.

And why I still think we’re getting our endgame.

Maybe not flying-off-into-the-sunset kind of endgame,

but still something emotionally satisfying and earned.

Let me explain.

First of all this show has never been about cruelty for cruelty’s sake. It’s not Game of Thrones. The writers on The Handmaid’s Tale always maintain a certain emotional balance. Yes, it’s dark. But they always give you hope.

They let you breathe.

Take Season 4. it ends with June and the others taking justice into their own hands. Killing Fred. It was kinda glorious.

Second. just look at the structure.

If they were planning a devastating ending, they wouldn’t have dropped the emotional crisis in episode 6. They’d save the gut-punch for episodes 9 or 10, build us up with softness and peace, then rip it all away.

But here? They hit us in the middle. That means they have time to rebuild.

Episode 6 was full of happiness and intensity:

— Flashbacks

— The proposal !

— Nick finally making the decision he’s been avoiding for seasons

And then boom heartbreak. That’s not a finale move.

That’s mid-arc writing. Classic structure: break them, give space, bring clarity, reunite.

Heartbreak after heartbreak and then ending with a tragedy would be emotionally exhausting and the audience will be tired.

Third! and most important this show has always put love at the center. Revolution is the backdrop.

She values it the most, she believes in it, it’s her meaning and also the way to live and survive.

So no.

I don’t think we’re headed for a brutal ending. Not death or betrayal . I think we’re headed for healing.

For something hard-earned and honest.

So stay strong, osblaines. The heartbreak had a purpose. Now we wait for the return.

[gnabhanji04]

“everyday it will rain” part 1:

pairings: bf!bangchan x gn!reader

genre:angst,heartbreak,

exes to lovers , second chance romance

Warnings: talks of depression

Summary: you and chan broke up after 4 years. you wrote one last goodbye text to him wanting to get back to the way it was, hoping he would respond.

Notes: finally finished writing this after my horrible writers block lmaao we are sooo back! Hope u all enjoy and let me know what you think and what I can improve:))

Tags: @channiesbaby1433 @zerillia @astrolexi @wishpid :))

You and chan have officially broken up after 4 years of dating. nothing really extraordinary happened between you guys. you guys just decided it would be best to part ways since chan is going on tour with the boys soon. you weren’t sure about long distance. you were scared it was going to affect your relationship in the end.

It’s been 2 weeks since the breakup and you’ve been miserable than ever, you were in the darkest point in your life. you couldn’t get up from bed, you couldn’t make food, you were unable to do normal everyday things. almost everything you see and touch reminds you of him.

~fri may 2nd 2025~

3 weeks gone by, you start to feel slightly better than you were before. you haven’t thought about chan that much at all. as you were done shopping, you got in your car and turned on your radio. the radio started playing a familiar tune, you recognized that tune before. It was a bruno mars song you and chan used to play in the car when you were together. It was called “it will rain” by bruno mars,

the song began playing with the words “if you ever leave me baby, leave some morphine at my door”. every word, every letter, every verse, you remembered how the whole song went. you and chan used to sing it together. you guys would take turns as a duet. he would sing the first verse, you would sing the second verse, then you both scream out the words together while holding hands. It was a beautiful moment you would never forget. chan would always tell you how beautiful you sang.

“Cause there will be no sunlight if I lose you baby and there will be no clear skies if I lose you baby”

when the chorus started playing you started tearing up again, reminiscing of all the moments you guys spent together. but you were also listening to the lyrics closely and you resonated a lot with it. there wouldn’t be no sunlight without chan, without him the sun never shines. there wouldn’t be no clear skies, everyday it would rain.

when you arrived home you couldnt stop crying, you turned off the radio, got out of the car and grabbed your groceries. and as soon you rushed inside the house you couldn’t take it anymore. you threw the bags on the ground and started bawling uncontrollably you missed him so much, it hurts not seeing his face everyday, it hurts not getting to hold him and never letting go, it hurts not being to say I love you anymore.

you wanted to text him and say how much you missed him, how much you missed his touch and how you’re dying to go back to the way it was. you decided to text him one last goodbye before you lay down.

Channie

Y/n

Chan hi..it’s me

you’re probably never gonna see this cause you might have me blocked but I just wanna say I miss u and I wanna go back to the way things were between us

I miss us

Pls talk to me

…

you went to put your phone down at first and then you heard a ring. it’s from chan.

*incoming message from channie*

Stay tuned for part 2

[chogiwow]

the heartbreak series | enhypen hyung line

pairing: enha hyung line

genre: angst, hurt-no-comfort :>

wc: 1.1k+

warnings: heartbreak, unrequited feelings

a/n: a revamp of an older fic !

— between the lines, a confession that has been lent; heeseung

you don't want to sit beside heeseung in his ridiculously small studio, with your elbows touching and legs bumping against each other under the table.

you watch as his fingers flit over buttons and dials, adjusting sound levels with practiced ease – catching the way his hair falls messily over his brow, the way his lips press together in concentration.

you want to tell him how much you've liked him ever since you could remember, how his smile feels like sunlight cracking through your ribs, warming up the parts of you you didn’t even know were frozen. you want to tell him that his dimples are proof of gentle things, that the scrunch of his eyes when he laughs makes you feel like you’ve done something right just by being there to witness it.

but instead, you help him record a song that he's going to give to someone else, a confession he's been planning for over a month – penning down inked regrets now belated. his voice drips with sincerity as he sings, soft and earnest, and you watch the words leave his lips, knowing they were never meant for you.

you help him write him lyrics about love and someone else's smile that makes his heart go crazy, painting scenes of sun-drenched days and warm embraces that don’t belong to you. will never belong to you.

you pass him the sheet music, your handwriting etched into the margins, your own feelings penned in metaphors he’ll never decipher. and when he thanks you, voice soft and gaze tender, you don’t tell him how you wrote him your heart, pressed neatly into every lyric. 

you wonder, almost bitterly, if he would ever realize that he was merely passing on your own confession – borrowing from the parts of you you’ve kept hidden between the lines.

— tell you that i love you, one last time; jay

you smiled as wide as you could when you saw jay suited up at the end of the aisle, a nervous smile on his lips.

his hair is slicked back neatly, the tie you picked out for him knotted perfectly under his collar. he looks beautiful, in that achingly familiar way, the kind that leaves bruises on your heart just by existing.

you frown, but not because you specifically asked him to smile, rather because your own eyes threatened to tear up. back straight, you gulp down the lump in your throat when you hear the sound of music floating in.

holding his gaze, you mouth, "i love you," the words slipping past your lips as if they were always meant for him, as if saying them now could somehow make up for all the times you never did. he smiles back gratefully, eyes softening, before mouthing it back with a sincerity that nearly breaks you. for a second, you think he means it. for a second, you think that the world might tilt in your favor.

but then the music swells, and he turns, and you watch the man you've loved all this time say those words out loud to the person he exchanges vows with. the syllables float gently from his lips, landing softly on someone else's heart, the weight of them pressing heavy against your own.

you keep smiling, even when your vision blurs and your chest tightens. you smile because you were always meant to, because someone needs to be happy for him even if it isn't you. so you clap when they kiss, you laugh when they sway to their first dance, and you sit quietly as he walks away from you, hand in hand with the person he was always supposed to choose.

and you accept that this was the last time he'd ever say those words to you, the last time they'd be yours, even if they never truly were.

— leave you under the rain, you never loved me that way; jake

the confession had gone awfully wrong. 

you never meant for this to happen, and you didn't even understand why jake would be so worked up to follow you. but perhaps that had always been the problem, him following you no matter where you went.

tears bleed into the rain kissing your face harshly, and you're reminded that you just walked into him kissing someone else. why were you jealous indeed, what reason did you have to be so?

jake doesn't like you that way, and it's clear when even under the darkening sky you can clearly see how his face morphs into a horrified expression, lips stuttering the words you had been so painfully aware of all this time.

“wait!” his voice cracked through the rain, raw and pleading, but you kept walking. the sky was bruised and dark, matching the hollow ache in your chest. “please, just stop.”

you did. just long enough for him to catch up, his breath ragged and uneven. his eyes were frantic, searching yours for something you weren’t willing to give. “it wasn’t what you think,” he stammered, but you just shook your head.

“it doesn’t matter,” you whispered, voice breaking like splintered glass. “you don’t love me that way.”

the words left you colder than the rain, colder than his silence as he opened his mouth and closed it again, the confession dying on his tongue. and when you finally walked away, you decided you’d let the rain comfort you tonight.

— a dying plant, hands that never really fit together; sunghoon

the ticking of the clock is too loud in your ears. you try not to flinch when it strikes the hour, the hollow echo bouncing off the empty walls. your eyes are trained on the single potted plant on the windowsill, leaves withering and dried up. it used to be vibrant – green and full of promise. now, it’s brittle and cracked, a testament to things left unattended.

sunghoon apologizes, voice soft and barely there, but you never look at him. you can’t blame him; you know that. but the pettiness in you won’t let you forgive it either. he doesn’t love you anymore, and there’s nothing you can do to change that.

you were looking forward to the blooms in spring, to the soft petals unfolding under sunlight, a sign that things could still grow, still flourish. but sunghoon squeezes his way out of those four walls that have closed in around you, slipping past your grasp without so much as a backward glance.

you pick up the clay pot with shaking hands, the edges flaking off into your palms, and toss it into the bin. the soil scatters, flecks of dirt staining your fingertips. your hands feel empty – bereft of touch, calloused and cold from the cruel winter creeping through the cracks.

you wonder if he would have held your dirty hands, if he would’ve cared enough to brush the dirt away. bereft of his warmth, you wonder if someone else keeps his hands warm now.

[otp-after-dark]

6x07 – Shattered: This love was never meant to be easy. But real love is choosing someone — even when they’re at their worst.

Alright I'm here to offer a little bit of hope despite cussing the writers every few minutes during that episode.

I knew this episode would break my heart — and it did. But it also laid bare everything this story has been circling for years.

And despite how painful it was, I’m still holding onto the belief that all of this — the silence, the anger, the devastation — is building toward something. A resolution. A sacrifice. A moment of truth. Because I refuse to believe that the story they want to tell ends with tragedy or conditional love.

💥 Nick: Fractured and Finally Honest

This episode cracked something open in Nick — and it needed to.

For the first time, he says the things we’ve all known were simmering beneath the surface:

“You pretend like I’m not a Commander or an Eye unless it suits you.” “You never cared what I did when I helped you.” “One of those men was nineteen.” “You didn’t face it. And now you have to.”

He’s not just lashing out — he’s finally drawing a line.

Nick has lived with guilt. He’s held her pain. He’s sacrificed his own soul to keep her breathing. But he’s done hiding who he is to keep her comfortable. And it’s long overdue.

“You’re just like them.” “And you love me. So what does that make you?”

That last line gutted me.

Because it’s the truth. The heart of their entire dynamic.

Nick is not clean. He’s not perfect. But he has never stopped loving her. And now, June has to decide: Can she love a man with blood on his hands — just like she asked him to love her?

Or was this love only real when it was wrapped in denial?

💔 "Not without her." – Nick Blaine, Devastated

Nick’s scene with Rita broke me. This man — who has always held himself together, who has carried everything in silence —finally says it:

“She thinks I’m a monster.” “Not without her.”

He doesn’t just miss her. He doesn’t just love her. He doesn’t believe he’s a good man without her love.

That’s not co-dependence. That’s grief. That’s heartbreak. That’s a man who gave everything and was left standing in the wreckage.

Rita reminds him of who he is — and he can’t hear it. Because right now, he doesn’t feel like that man.

And yet, buried in all that sorrow is the seed of where I think we’re going:

Doing the right thing whether or not he ends up with her.

That’s the arc. That’s the full-circle moment coming. Nick’s redemption isn’t about earning June’s love. It’s about believing he’s still worth something even without it.

🛑 June: Not a Hero Right Now

This is where it gets hard.

Because I love June. But in this episode?

She’s not the hero.

She’s angry. She's hurt. She's unraveling. And instead of seeing Nick’s truth — of finally acknowledging everything he’s done for her —she walks away.

Yes, she’s shattered. But so is he. And the lack of grace she gives him in this moment is devastating.

Because she of all people should understand what it means to make impossible choices in order to survive. She’s done it. Over and over.

And if she can’t give Nick even a sliver of that empathy — if she can’t acknowledge that his love for her is the thing that’s kept her alive —then she’s not as emotionally honest as we thought she was.

❤️ Moira: The Friend She Needed

Moira continues to be one of the few characters who shows up with real empathy.

No judgment. No emotional manipulation. Just care.

She sees June. She sees the devastation. And she reminds her — gently — that Nick has been there.

Always. Even when June wasn’t ready to admit what that meant.

❌ Luke & Lawrence: The Bad, the Worse, and the Manipulative

Luke’s behavior in this episode is... a lot. And not in a good way.

From the start, his dynamic with June has always carried an undercurrent of control masked as concern. But here? It fully crosses a line.

“Don’t be in love with a fucking Nazi.”

That’s not love. That’s emotional abuse. It’s not about protecting June — it’s about punishing her for loving someone else. And the worst part? He’s not wrong that Nick has done terrible things. But the difference is: Luke says it to wound her. Nick says it to be honest with her.

Let’s be clear: June didn’t come to Luke because she wants him. She came to him because she’s angry and heartbroken over Nick. Luke is winning by default — not by love. And he knows it.

His outburst doesn’t come from moral clarity — it comes from jealousy, desperation, and the inability to accept that June’s heart has always belonged to someone else.

And June? She doesn’t push back. Not because she agrees. But because she’s shattered, and Luke’s rage is easier to hide behind than the pain of what just happened with Nick.

She’s not choosing him. She’s surviving him. And that’s not a love story — that’s emotional resignation.

The truth is: If you love someone enough to almost leave the country with them — you don’t stay with someone else out of guilt or fear. But that’s exactly what June is doing.

This relationship is over. It has been. She just hasn’t admitted it yet.

And Lawrence? A manipulator in full swing. He uses their love now because it suits his strategy — the same way he used it in Seasons 4 and 5. And frankly, I’m done rooting for his peace plan. He doesn’t care about June or Nick — just power.

🔮 Where We’re Going

This episode hurt. But it clarified so much.

Nick and June were never going to survive on a fantasy. It had to break. Because the real question was never do they love each other — we know they do.

The question is: Can June love Nick for who he is? Not who she wants him to be?

Because he’s always seen her fully. It’s time she did the same.

And I still believe she will.

Because this story? It’s never been about perfection. It’s about choosing love anyway.

Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s painful. Even when the world tells you to let it go.

There’s something bigger coming. And when it does — Nick Blaine will still be standing. Not for power. Not for politics. But for her.

[mikkomacko]

https://www.tumblr.com/mikkomacko/781366328000937984/stopp-jersey-is-so-cute-love-that-shes-got-that

does it ever get really bad that reader has a hard time with jersey and kinda breaks down?

You knew life with Nico wasn’t going to be easy, not with the type of life he lived. But everyone has issues adapting to married life and then adding kids into it so you never cared. You love Nico. You can handle the unsteadiness that comes with his career because he’s worth it.

Sometimes though, you think you were stupid for ever believing that you could manage everything.

You think of the other wives, the ones with two or three kids, how they always seem fine. Put together, perfectly styled and primped every time you see them. Their kids, while rambunctious, never uncontrollable.

Never like this, like Jersey.

Pacing up and down the hall, you bounce her in your arms and pat at her bottom, cooing in what you hope is a soothing matter. Not that it matters because you’re sure she can’t even hear you over her blood curdling screams.

It feels like it’s been hours of this, of you fighting with her to swallow down bites of pasta that she just spit up all over you and the table. Of you wrestling her into the bath as she flailed around, screamed and splashed water and bubbles at you. More fighting and wailing as you dressed her for bed.

You know exactly what it’s about too, but in case you somehow forgot, her raw cries of “papa!” are serving as good reminder, albeit a little heartbreaking.

Jersey doesn’t fight you now, curled into your chest and hugging her arms to her little body. But she won’t calm down either, screeching and hiccuping in your ear.

“My papa,” she wails, pressing into your already damp shirt. You tuck your nose into the top of her head, shushing her as best you can as tears of exhaustion and frustration burn at your eyes too.

“I know baby, I know.” You soothe, your own voice cracking. “Go to sleep my love, daddy will be here in the morning,”

“Want him now!”

You can’t help it. You’re so tired, so lost as to what you can even do to help. Honestly you have no idea how she’s even awake still, the time bleeding into the middle of the night by now. And you know most of this tantrum is coming from that, but some of it is also the fact that the Devils team flight back from Canada had been delayed by a storm and Nico’s arrival time of 6 pm just kept getting pushed back.

To the point that once Nico had told you they were boarding, you’d left your phone somewhere in the kitchen with the mess of her dinner. You’d been delaying forcing Jersey into getting ready for bed, whatever little bug she’s been nursing all week making her congested and grumpy, and combative. You couldn’t put it off any longer now though.

You have no idea when the flight actually took off, if it’s landed yet, if he’s mid-air right now. Calling isn’t an option either way even if he isn’t on the flight. You doubt he’d be able to calm Jersey down enough to be able to get her to hear him.

Still pacing up and down the hall with her, you squeeze her into your chest and cry. From another point of view it might be funny, the two of you wailing at each other, exhausted and hostile but clinging to each other because Nico isn’t here to help yet, to do what he does best.

Make you two happy. Like mother like daughter, you suppose.

You’re sniffling back sobs when a figure appears at the end of the hall, and the fact that you didn’t even hear him unlock the door or drop his things makes you startle.

“Baby what?” Nico asks, almost frantic as he takes in the tears in your eyes, listens to Jersey still screaming.

“Nico,” you whimper, unsure of what to even do. He seems to know though, rushing down the hall and laying a hand on Jersey’s back, cupping your face in the other. His eyes examine you for a moment, quickly turning to Jersey when he realizes the most concerning thing about you right now are the bags under your swollen eyes.

“Hi leibling,” he murmurs, tapping his fingers on Jersey’s back and you see him wince when she lets out another ear ringing cry.

“Papa!”

Happily, you hand Jersey over to him, your clothes feeling damp and sticky without her sobbing into your neck now. Nico holds her up for a moment, strong hands around her middle and he looks her over for any physical signs of distress. Then he’s snuggling her into his chest, her chubby arms wrapping around his neck.

“It’s ok sweet girl,” he murmurs, shooting you a worried look. You want to stay and help, to do something but the heartbreaking sounds of your baby crying, knowing you can’t do anything to help her is going to make you spiral if you stay here any longer.

Wiping at your wet cheeks, you duck around Nico and Jersey, moving into the kitchen to clean up the dirty dishes and dried splatters of food. Faintly, you can hear him pacing with her the way you did, her cries already quieting to little hiccups as he voices unintelligible things to her.

Five minutes. It took him five minutes to do what you couldn’t do in three hours.

You’re harshly scrubbing at one of Jersey’s sippy cups, ears ringing with so much failure and embarrassment that you don’t realize you’ve begun crying again until Nico is coming up behind you, his chest warm and strong as he reaches around you to pry the items from your hands.

Gripping the edge of the counter instead, you squeeze your eyes shut and force yourself to take deep breaths, hoping it’ll curb whatever breakdown you’re having.

“Oh baby,” he murmurs, nudging you back by the hip and that’s all it takes for you to turn around and bury your face in his neck the way Jersey had just minutes ago.

He rubs your spine soothingly, pressing kisses to your temple as he shushes you almost the exact same way he’d done for her. Two minutes. You give yourself two minutes to be pathetic and a baby and just cry in your husband’s arms before pulling back enough to dry your face.

“I tried to call,” he says, lips pulled down in a frown as he runs his fingers through your messy hair, still drying from when Jersey smacked her hand across the surface of the bath and drenched you.

“Phone was in here.” You whisper, voice weak and tired. “Didn’t hear it over her.”

He hums, cupping the back of your head and drawing you in to press his lips to your forehead.

“How long was she crying?”

Self deprecatingly, you laugh. “Hours, I don’t know. She was grumpy all week. Today just seemed to really do it.”

You don’t tell him it was because she missed him, because she’d been hearing that he’d be home by a certain time and when he wasn’t it all snowballed. It doesn’t matter. You should’ve been able to handle it.

“I’m sorry you were alone,” he says, “that you had to do all that by yourself.”

“I didn’t do anything,” you bite back, staring at the wet splotch on his shirt from Jersey’s tears. “I cried Nico. She needed to go to sleep and to eat and to take cold medicine and all I could do was cry.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he gasps, thumbing at the sore spot on your jaw from clenching your teeth. “You got her fed, didn’t you? And she was bathed and dressed. That’s enough baby, she may not have been asleep but she wasn’t hurt. And maybe she wasn’t happy about it but she was taken care of. She was just tired. And like her mama, she gets a little watery when she’s tired.”

Barely, your lips quirk into a smile.

Nico ducks down to meet your gaze, eyes so warm and earnest when he murmurs, “you’re a good mother, y/n. The best, I swear. You shouldn’t be expected to do everything and yet you do it with minor casualties,” he lightly winces and you can’t help but giggle. “You pull the slack for me when you shouldn’t have to. I can’t ever tell you how much that means to me, to our girl.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, bumping his nose into yours. “Wouldn’t want to be standing here with anyone else covered in food and baby snot.”

“Oh shut up!” You attempt to pull away from him but he holds you tighter, silencing your grumbling with his lips. He kisses you for a moment, soft and sweet in the middle of your half cleaned kitchen.

“Let me put you to bed baby,” he says after stepping apart, nudging you with a hand on your back. “Take care of this in the morning, yeah?”

His bags get forgotten by the door. The stove light stays on, dirty pans and leftovers reflecting the warm glow. The bathtub stays scattered with toys and the shavings of underwater Crayon that you didn’t wash down.

Nico barely gets you into a change of clothes and wipes down your face and neck with a warm rag before you’re fighting to keep your eyes open. And then, once again like mother like daughter, all he has to do to get you to sleep is hold you tucked into his chest.

[c0wboylikeharry]

THE PACT (h.s fanfic)

(masterlist)

chpt 3

harry styles x fem!reader

summary: Y/N and Harry have always had a complicated relationship. They're friends, then they're not. They like each other, then they despise each other. But something deep inside can't let them stray too far apart, even as everything changes around them. Through the trials and tests of life, the heartbreaks and joys, can Harry and Y/N find their own way? Or will they stick to the drunken marriage pact they made in a time of desperation?

word count: 7.1k

warnings: n/a

a/n: this is one of my favorite chapters. it’s a long one, but it’s all very worth it!! lots of angst…

.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.

3 | PROM

It’s going to rain. It’s going to rain and Harry is running late for pictures. No one is happy. On the day you’re all supposed to be having the night of your lives. You’re all miserable out in the cold, in a random grassy field, waiting for a stupid boy to show up. You knew you should’ve told him pictures were 30 minutes earlier than they were so he’d show up on time.

The rest of the boys are too busy playing a game of catch to even really notice the dilemma. If you girls weren’t following such a strict schedule, they’d probably stay out here all night. But now the schedule has been thrown off. Who knows if you’ll even make it to the dinner reservation? Or even Prom at this point!

Leah’s the most mad. Partly because of the hours she spent getting ready, and the other because she’s been looking forward to this night her whole life. You’d know since she’s told you exactly that since the day you two met. All of it has been planned to a tee since she was a little girl. What she didn’t know—or couldn’t control—was how she was asked.

You’re sure she was expecting something grand. Something to show off to everyone and tell her future children about. And, while everyone did know, it wasn’t spread by word of mouth. More so…right in front of their faces.

In the middle of lunch one day, an announcement rang through the speakers. At first, everyone froze, thinking it was some sort of natural disaster or zombie outbreak. What no one expected was for Rock Your Body by Justin Timberlake to begin blasting through the shitty speakers on a random Wednesday afternoon. After that, it was like time moved in slow motion.

Wayde had jumped up from his seat next to Leah at our table, and you think that’s when she clued into what was happening. Her face went white when he stood on the bench and started vigorously dancing along to the song. The entire lunch room erupted into cheers—or screams of fear—at what they were witnessing. He was mouthing all the words and everything, it was truly a performance. But it didn’t end there. No matter how much you wish it did.

Ronan was next to jump in, officially making it a cringy flash mob. Though, it wasn’t choreographed in the slightest. Just some teen boys ‘rocking their bodies’ in front of the whole school. But you had to give it to them, they were shameless. The rest of the group was dying laughing, embarrassed to no end that those were your friends. You were seriously considering making that sentence obsolete.

Ryan reluctantly pulled himself up onto the bench, despite Frankie practically begging him not to. He was the stiffest with his moves, but that made it better. His face was beet red as he tried his absolute hardest to follow the beat.

The absolute—and you don’t say this lightly—worst, was when you felt Harry start to rise from his seat beside you. You’d never moved faster than when you slammed your hand down onto his thigh to try and keep him seated. “Not you too,” you muttered, a plea. Anyone could tell he was embarrassed about what he was going to do, but he still leaned over and whispered, “I have to.” You couldn’t understand how Wayde convinced Harry to do it. “Is he blackmailing you?” He couldn’t even muster a laugh because of how ashamed he was. But he’d met his deadline, and your hand fell back to your side as he stood up onto the bench.

For how nervous he looked, he sure did go all out. Gyrating hips, body rolls, and even some pops and locks. It sure was a sight to see. And you had front row seats.

But, to everyone’s disappointment, that wasn’t even the end of it. Oh no. Somewhere in between the final chorus and the outro, these teen boys started stripping themselves of their shirts. Yes, you’re being dead serious. In the middle of school. Where people eat. The image is still burned into your brain. As their shirts started falling all around the table, with Harry’s landing straight on your head, a message appeared. With one letter painted on each of the boys chest, clear as day, “P R O M?”, the question was finally popped.

At that point, everyone was inconsolable. Especially Leah, who had tears streaming down her face. You’re still not sure if it was happy tears or tears of laughter and embarrassment. Yours were definitely the latter. But you could tell she had enough of the public humiliation from the speed in which she shouted, “Yes!”

When the boys finally rejoined society, after the song had ended and the whole lunchroom cheered for their social suicide, they were still shirtless. Which…you guess you weren’t gagging at the sight. It still made your cheeks bright red regardless. Especially when Harry reached for his shirt and caught you staring. “Was it really that bad? You look shell shocked,” he had asked at your blank stare. “It was horrible.”

But you’re a liar. It wasn’t that horrible. Not at all.

After that fiasco, Ryan ended up asking Frankie with a simple poster outside her door. No one else was involved and that was for the best. After Wayde’s show, everyone needed a break. That’s why Ronan simply asked Quinn over text one day. As simple as it could be.

And then there’s you. Who’s here alone. Which is totally fine. You’re totally fine. Definitely not thinking about the scrapbook you made when you were little that detailed exactly how this night would go. And the fact that nothing has gone to plan. Especially the part about going with the captain of the baseball team. You should just burn that scrapbook in a fire, honestly.

Despite Leah’s claims about you and Harry, everything went back to normal the next day. Prom was never brought up again, you still got annoyed with him every day, and Leah never brought it up again. Tonight is the last night you should be thinking about something as ridiculous as that. Especially since the boy in question is not even here, and is pissing everyone off.

Probably, most of all you.

“I’m here! I’m here!” The sound of screeching tires and brakes sound off throughout the entire field, stealing everyone’s attention.

Harry comes stumbling down the dirt path, abandoning his bike on the sidewalk. He sprints to your group, effectively wrinkling his suit. Now, if you’re being honest here, the sight could make up for all the time he wasted. In a hopeless romantic kind of way! Not because of anything else. But seeing him—or anyone!—run through a field in a tailored tuxedo… It’s a sight for the big screen. You can just picture it. All slow motion set to swoony music.

“Fuck you, Harry! Shouldn’t have even showed up!” And the movies ruined by Leah’s unashamed use of profanity.

“I’m sorry! I had to make a pit stop!” He yells, stopping a few feet away to hunch over and catch his breath.

“Was your pit stop in the official itinerary? No! It wasn’t!” Leah continues with her rage fueled rant.

“Leah, I will make it up to you, okay?” Harry gives up on his fight, slowly walking closer like you’re all rabid animals he doesn’t want to spook.

“Let’s just get these photos over with,” she grumbles, turning away from Harry all together. “Wayde! Get your ass over here!”

Everyone slowly starts to congregate in the middle of the field. There’s no professional photographer here anyway, just Quinns digital camera. Wayde and Leah are up first, quickly getting into the classic couple poses. You can tell she’s been training him since he asked her to Prom. Off to the side, Ryan and Frankie discuss how they’ll pose. All while you silently stroll toward the group, wondering if you should even get your picture taken. It’d be kind of awkward to stand there all alone. You’d probably just shrivel into the dirt below your feet.

“Y/N! Wait up!” Harry calls for you from a few steps behind, forcing you to slow to a stop.

When he catches up to you, you finally get a good look at him. Dressed in an all black suit, down to the dress shirt underneath, and no tie. He looks…nice. Okay, he looks good. Very put together. A vast difference from how he normally looks. Not that you’d ever say this out loud. Besides his physical appearance, you notice he’s hiding something behind his back.

“What’s up?” You cross your arms in front of your chest, feeling exposed to the elements.

He clears his throat. “Uhm… I like the dress.” His eyes dart back and forth between you and the grass below. “Very, uh… Pretty.”

Despite choosing this dress, it’s hard for you to believe his words. It’s blue chiffon that hugs you in places you didn’t know you had and is strapless, which scares you. But, yeah, sure…pretty.

“Thanks,” you mutter shyly, matching his hung head stance.

“I, uhm… My pit stop was actually to, uh…” His nervous rambling makes you anxious. He’s never acted like this. Normally he’s overly confident in his words, even when they’re loud and wrong. “I got you this.” With your eyes pointed down, he whips out whatever he had hidden behind his back. It’s hard to tell what it is at first, mostly thanks to the slight tremble in his hands, but as soon as your eyes register it, your throat goes dry. “You shouldn’t be the only girl without one.”

Staring down at the small, plastic box, a delicate, white corsage rests inside. It’s really, really pretty. And you’re really, really confused.

“Harry,” you breathe his name, unable to tear your eyes away from the flowers.

“D-don’t say anything,” he cuts you off, opening the box, “let’s just keep this between us.”

“Yeah,” you whisper back, subconsciously holding out your wrist, “wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re actually a nice person.”

“Would really mess with my asshole reputation, y’know?” As he speaks, he lifts the arrangement out of the box with a light touch. Fingertips brushing over your skin as he ties it around your wrist.

“Well, we can’t have that, now can we?” Neither of you acknowledge what he’s doing, but from both of your heavy breathing, you’re very aware.

“No…” he speaks just above a whisper, having finished tying it off, and yet his thumb continues to trace patterns on your skin, “we can’t.”

You can’t tell if the goosebumps that are rapidly arising on your skin are from his words, or the chill in the air. Hopefully, it’s the latter.

“You didn’t happen to buy a matching boutonnière, did you?” His hands drop from your, now limp, wrist, pulling his eyes up to your face.

“I…did,” he mutters, but his eyes won’t meet yours. “But we wouldn’t want people to think we’re going together, would we?”

Your shoulders raise slightly, staring at his apprehensive expression. “We’ll see how the night goes.”

That makes his eyes snap to yours. For a reason you're not one hundred percent sure of. Sparkling green eyes dancing between your own, like he can’t decide which to focus on. Or like he’s trying to decode a secret message within them. To which, there isn’t any. You have no idea what you’re thinking right now. Your brain has given up and is letting your other organs decide how tonight is going to go. So far, your heart has stepped up as the new leader. And you’re not hating how it’s running the show. How could you when it’s the reason a slow, lopsided grin grows on Harry’s face.

“Oh my god! It’s raining!” Leah’s shriek is about the only thing that could’ve broken you out of the moment.

Because, yes, it is in fact raining. But you wouldn’t have noticed. If that bubble hadn't popped, you’re sure you would’ve stayed and allowed yourself to get drenched before you took any notice of the weather.

“Shit, we should go,” Harry mutters, narrowly avoiding the growing raindrops.

You nod in agreement, lifting your dress from the soon to be soaked dirt and carefully stepping toward where you parked. It was a struggle to walk out here in the dirt, you can’t imagine how much harder it’ll be when it all turns to mud. Harry’s already a good distance ahead, trekking it to the car.

“Y/N, come on!” Harry calls back, watching your struggle.

“You try walking on toothpicks in the dirt!” You yell back, hobbling.

Even from the good ten feet of distance between you two, you can hear his huff. Your first reaction is to yell at him again, because why is he complaining? But when your eyes raise to the scene, he’s hurriedly rushing back to you.

“Get on my back,” he instructs, turning around and bending at the knee.

“What? No!” you protest, attempting to take another step—bad idea—and feeling your heel jam into a patch of mud. Lovely.

“Y/N, just get on my back.”

“Fine!” you groan, hiking up your dress and leaning forward to wrap your arms around Harry’s neck. “You better not drop me.”

His hands snake behind your calves, sending a chill down your spine. This time, it’s definitely not because of the cold weather. With one little jump, he’s hoisting you off the ground and onto his back. You let out a small, surprised shriek from the altitude change, clinging onto him tighter. His light laugh rattled from his back into your ribs. “I’m not going to drop you. But if you choke me out, I will.”

“Noted,” you reply, giving his neck a teasing squeeze.

And just like that, you two are a winning horse off to the races. Your opponent being the vastly approaching rain storm. You can’t help the uncontrollable laughter that spills from your mouth during the bumpy ride. This is something that would only happen to you.

When you reach the car, Harry drops you off at the passenger side of your truck. You don’t question it. Until you do.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You drag the now rain spattered material of your dress into the cabin of the truck.

“You’re wearing heels, and I’d very much not like to die tonight,” Harry replies, pushing the damp strands of hair out of his face.

“I drove here in heels, idiot.” You roll your eyes, but gasp when a realization hits you. “Wait! You can’t drive! You don’t have your license!”

“Got my license a month ago, idiot,” he mocks.

“Wait— What?! Then why have I been lugging your ass home every day?”

He shrugs softly. “Thought it was just sort of our thing?”

You can act mad all you want, but on the inside, you think his words are kind of sweet. Sure, now you’ll start charging him gas money or making him drive when you’re too tired, but still. The idea of you two having a “thing” doesn’t disgust you as much as you thought it would. Odd.

“Uh… Y/N,” Harry clears his throat after being eerily quiet for the past couple of minutes. “I, uh… I know this is very last minute, but—“

“Yo! Harry! Were you just gonna leave your bike here to rust?!” Ryans booming voice breaks into the back of the truck cabin, cutting Harry off. “I’m tossing it in the back!”

Everyone slowly trickles into the truck, all except Wayde and Leah who drove here separately. They all chatter about what the rain ruined or certain pictures they got.

“Sorry, I drove them here,” you mutter to Harry, seeing his shocked face at the ruckus. “What were you saying?”

He snaps out of his trance. “Oh, uh, nothing. Just wondering if you had the directions to the restaurant.”

“Oh! Yeah, I’ll pull them up.” You immediately fumble for your phone, letting Harry’s terse tone roll off your shoulders.

As he pulls the car away from the curb, he almost whispers, “Cool.”

.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.

Apparently your group wasn’t as creative as they thought when it came to picking a restaurant. So far, you’ve spotted at least fifteen of your classmates.

It also doesn’t help that you all arrived a little late. Prom starts in an hour and you haven’t even ordered yet. Some of your classmates have already gotten their checks!

You’re all squished into a half-moon booth, conversing over one another. You got stuck with an edge seat, but you don’t really mind. You can make a quick escape if need be. Harry is sitting beside you, squished by Ryan. He doesn’t really seem interested in conversation, just mindlessly scrolling through his phone. It leaves you on a deserted island, trying to clue into the conversations happening on the other side of the table.

Though, you do have something that could break him out of his funk. You snatched it from your truck when you noticed he’d forgotten it inside. Feels like he’s earned the right. Discreetly, you crack open the package under the table. For some reason, you want it to be a surprise.

“Harry,” you nudge him with your elbow, finally getting him to look up, “I think you’ve earned this.”

His expression of confusion quickly morphs to pleasant surprise as you pull the boutonnière out from its hiding place. “And to what do I owe the honor?”

“Well, you were a trusty steed that saved me from disaster.” The decoration spins between your fingertips, a nervous action.

“So… I’m your knight in shining armor, is what you’re saying?” He smirks, a dangerous look.

“Shut up,” you mumble and roll your eyes. Leaning closer, you take charge. “May I?”

“Please,” he whispers.

Delicately, you reach for the breast pocket of his jacket. The needle is so thin, you fear it’ll break trying to stick through the thick material. You can feel his eyes on your calculated movements, and you’re sort of hoping no one else is watching this oddly intimate moment.

But a throat clearing alerts you of outsider onlookers. You force your hands to freeze. Maybe if you stay still enough no one will see you?

“Lacy…” Harry’s soft voice pulls you from your bubble. The breathlessness of it could’ve been enough to make you drop the flower all together.

For a second, you think he’s making a bad joke. Bringing up his ex as you’re essentially knighting him as your Prom date. But his statue-like stillness tells another story. You nervously tear your gaze toward the head of your table. And lo and behold, there she stands in all of her glory. Lacy.

Just as you’d expect any bombshell to dress, she’s in red. It compliments her tan skin beautifully, which just isn’t good for anyone else’s self image. You swear she has a golden aura looming around her.

“Hi,” she whispers, smiling as her eyes connect with the boy beside you. The boy with your matching boutonnière half attached to his lapel.

“W-what are you— How are you?” Harry stumbles over his words. But who wouldn’t when you’re in the presence of such an enigma.

Subconsciously, your hands drift onto your lap under the table, picking at the fresh manicure that cost you $80. What a crazy thing insecurity is.

“I’m good…yeah,” she replies, and only then do you notice that your whole table has gone silent. She knows how to command a room. “And you?”

“I’m…uh—good, yeah.” You can feel Harry shift in his seat beside you. Did he just scoot away?

“You look great, Harry,” Lacy continues on while you wonder where the hell your waitress is when you need her. “You all do, really.”

Being as you are a courteous person, only slightly petty, you finally allow your attention to raise to her. A mumble of ‘thank you’s’ rolls out from your group, but yours is the quietest. The smallest. Because that’s how you feel.

“So, uh… What’s up?” Harry finally asks the burning question on everyone’s tongue.

“Oh, uh,” she laughs lightly, “just wanted to come and say hi.” You could cut the awkward tension with a dull butter knife. “And, uhm… Just that I’m happy everything worked out for you, Harry.”

Her cryptic words leave you more confused than when she showed up at the table. And that’s saying a lot. Your eyes dance around the table, trying to gauge if anyone else is just as confused as you are. But your investigation comes up inconclusive. In fact, instead of being stumped like you, they all look…nervous?

“Oh, yeah… Thanks,” Harry replies quickly, like the anxious energy around him is making him antsy.

“Okay,” she sighs, “you guys have a great night!” And just like that, she’s rushing back to whatever lab they created her in.

The table tries its hardest to get back to the groove they were in before her interruption, but it’s stiff. Forced. There’s something there. Something you can’t put your finger on. Was it something you missed that day you faked being sick to skip a Math test? Peering beside you, the real show that something has shifted is Harry doing up his own boutonnière. No longer needing your help like he previously begged for.

“What the hell was that about?” you find yourself blurting, hoping at least one person will give you answers.

All the conversations stop once again, eyes hesitantly drifting to your face. Only a few of them have a good poker face. Or maybe they're all in the dark too? The one expression that piques your interest is Leah’s. Thinking you don’t notice her, her eyes flick from your face to Harry’s, and then back to you. As if that didn’t happen, she just shrugs.

“I don’t know?” she mutters, totally unconvincing.

Are you seriously going to have to hold all of your friends hostage until one of them spills? You’re willing to do it. Prom isn’t even a priority for you anymore.

“Sorry about the wait, guys! Have you all decided on what you’re getting?” Okay, the secret is your second priority. You’re starving.

.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.

Prom. The night every young girl is introduced to through any kind of media. The night they dream about for ages. How they’ll do their hair, what color dress they’ll wear, who their date will be. Watching the You Belong With Me music video over and over and self inserting. An unbridled fantasy that even if you say you don’t care about, you secretly really do.

Prom. The night you went into with low expectations and even lower standards. How amazing would a dance in your school’s gymnasium really be? Not good. That’s the answer. You tried not to get too excited, because you knew you’d be let down, but that little girl still lives inside of you. She was still praying for a novel worthy night. Most let down by not getting to have your own You Belong With Me moment. Especially not the popular, hottest guy in school, love interest. Because, no, the whole room didn’t still when you walked in. No one even noticed the door opened. You walked in completely under the radar.

You’ve accepted your fate of being a wallflower at dances. The only difference this time is the fact that usually your friends would take shifts “babysitting” you. Four on the dance floor and two looking after little ol’ you. This time, they’re all out there, getting their grind on. But you’re not completely alone. Harry’s here too. Sat in silence at a lone table at the edge of the room.

He’s been pretty silent since you left the restaurant. Well, really since Lacy showed up at your table. You never got your answers as to what she was talking about. But… You think you have an inkling. Given Harry’s sour mood, you’re pretty sure it has something to do with not being here with her. Kind of sucks given your matching corsage and boutonnière, but it’s fine. She doesn’t even have a date, so maybe he has an in.

“I’m gonna grab some punch, do you want any?” Harry stands from the table, an abrupt motion.

Your eyes flick over to the nearly full cup of punch he grabbed not thirty minutes ago. “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

“Cool,” he mutters before fleeing the scene. Leaving you actually alone at the table.

It feels colder, if that makes sense. Like the loneliness has materialized itself and is finding ways to torture you. It’s very rude.

You sigh loudly, because no one is around to judge. Resting your head on your palm, you stare out into the sea of swaying bodies. You lost your friends there an hour ago. You tried to dance with them, but as soon as the first slow song came on, you took it as your cue to leave. For some reason, Harry followed. He could have his pick of fellow lonely girls looking for a knight to save them, but no. Pretty stupid move on his part.

As your eyes continue their journey around the room, you spot Harry at the punch table. Your heart does a weird little thing in your chest, probably something you should get checked out. You know it’s not because of him in general…maybe. And it’s not because of his disinterest and constant flees to get more drinks. But, you’re pretty sure, it’s because of who he’s standing with instead.

Red dress, tan skin, golden aura. Lovely.

It would make sense for her to stake her claim on a wallflower and invite him to dance. She is that considerate after all. He’s probably informing her that your guys’ little matching flowers are just a joke between you two. A friendship thing, if you will. In fact, you wouldn’t be surprised if he just ripped it off and dropped it into the punch bowl.

For some reason, that thought alone brings your anger to a boil. You watch as he waves bye to Lacy and starts to make his way back to the losers table. Probably to let you know that he just won the lottery. To break the news that unfortunately he has a very pressing issue to attend to. To inform you that, yes, you will be spending the rest of tonight alone while he dances with the one that got away.

You try to hide your burning gaze as he approaches, darting your eyes to the other side of the room. And that’s when you spot him.

Jackson, walking back from the dance floor—moderately sweaty—and taking a seat at a table a few feet away. You’ve heard the rumors that he’s here alone. Just his baseball friends. Perhaps this is your You Belong With Me moment?

Immediately, you rise to your feet. But, to your demise, that’s the exact moment Harry arrives back at your table. You have to act fast. You need to rip the bandage off before he can. What’s that thing people say? Hurt them before they can hurt you? Leave before they leave you? Yeah, that one. You can tell from the look on his face that he’s about to come and break, what he thinks is, heartbreaking news. But you’ll beat him to it. A taste of his own medicine, if you will.

It will royally suck if Jackson turns you down.

“Hey,” Harry mutters as he reaches you, placing his drink on the table. He eyes you skeptically, questioning why you’re standing.

“I’m gonna go ask Jackson if he wants to dance,” you blurt, not being able to even look at Harry as you say it.

Only when the silence grows between you do you peer over at him. Having stopped midway through lowering himself down into the folding chair, his face is pinched. Why he was even planning on sitting when he’s got a hot date to attend to, you’re unsure. Perhaps he thought if he broke the news in a more formal setting, it wouldn’t hurt as bad.

“Really?” he finally speaks, a tone full of distaste. As if he has the right.

“Yes, really. I’m bored and I’d like to at least dance with someone at my one and only Prom.” You hold your ground, not letting his negativity sway you.

“And of all people, you chose Jackson?” You nod assuredly, watching him scoff and shake his head. “You’d choose that asshole before—“ he stops himself, forgetting his plans to sit. “Y’know what? Forget it.” He shrugs, a downturned smile on his face. “I’m out of here.”

“What?” Your entire facade drops as his shoulder knocks yours in his exit. “Harry!”

He doesn’t turn back at your plea, continuing his fast pace toward the exit. You’re not exactly sure what to do. Obviously, you want answers out of him, but he doesn’t really seem in the mood to talk to you. Plus, what happened with that supposed dance with Lacy? Did you just read that conversation wrong? Jesus, what has this night turned into.

You find yourself rushing forward, toward where he fled. He’s got a good advantage on you, longer legs and no heels. Who knows if you’ll ever catch up to him? But you push yourself to your limit and hurry your steps, your heels clacking against the waxed floors. You reach the doors and burst through them, but the hall is practically empty. Just a few stragglers who hate loud music, and the stoners, who you could smell from a mile away. The main exit is down the hall, you have to keep going.

Racing down the hall, you get a couple stares from the kids in the hall. Looking like a madwoman chasing after a boy who probably wants nothing to do with you right now. Is this a mistake? Probably. You continue anyway.

If he’s already across the parking lot, you know you’d have to give up before your heart did. You’d give him a call later. But you’re dying to know now.

The doors scream as you push them open, alerting anyone within a one-hundred-foot radius of your presence. And while there’s not a lot of people to alert, there is one.

Harry.

Pacing in circles near the entrance, his head hung and his fingers toying with his bottom lip. He looks stressed. And mad. Not a good mix. You’ve never dealt with him when he’s like this. You’ve never been the reason he’s like this. It makes you want to turn around and let him cool off, let him come and find you when he’s ready to talk, but you lose that chance. As his eyes raise to you, you swear you can feel all the blood in your body freeze.

“Back so soon?” he snaps, a face full of anger. “Lover boy didn’t want to dance?”

“I didn’t ask him.” You shrug defeatedly, wishing he would tell you what’s wrong instead of deflecting. “You’re not dancing with Lacy?”

“Why the fu— Why would I be dancing with her?” he scoffs, morphing his face into a painful contortion.

“I don’t know? I saw you two talking and thought maybe she asked you.”

“Even if she asked, which she didn’t, I wouldn’t.” He won’t stop pacing, as if his mind is working a mile a minute.

“What even happened between you two? You never told me but it seems like everybody else knows!” You force out a fake bark of laughter.

That’s when his steps halt, scarily so. Right in front of you, just a few feet away, as his eyes bore into your soul. “Are you blind, Y/N? I know you’re a smart girl, but are you seriously this naive?”

“Stop dancing around the question, Harry!” you groan, this situation feeling oddly familiar. “Just this once, tell it to me straight! I don’t know why I’m the only one who’s been left in the dark?! Did she say something about me? Do you think I’ll be hurt because I’m some fragile little—“

“We broke up because of you!” he cuts you off, yelling so loud you’re certain the record scratched inside.

“B-because of me?” Your eyebrows pinch together. “What the hell did I do?!”

“Nothing! You did nothing!” He throws his arms out by his sides, a sign of distress. “Do I have to fucking spell it out for you?”

You’re not sure if it’s because of the stress of the situation, the whole being yelled at thing, or the realization slowly setting in, but your eyes glass over. Blurring your vision of Harry in front of you.

“Apparently I’m so naive, so maybe you should,” you quote his hurtful words, holding your head high despite it.

“I didn’t mean it like that and you know it!” His finger is pointed right at your face, an outburst.

“Tell me, Harry! What part did I play in you and Lacy breaking up?” You hope he can’t hear the way your voice is wavering.

“Because you’re you!” he yells, forcing the birds to migrate westward early. “You’re you and she’s… She’s not you.”

You hadn’t even realized that you weren’t breathing until you took a sharp intake of breath at his confession. His…raw and surprising confession. Although, perhaps it’s just surprising to you.

“Harry—“ you whisper, hardly even audible over the music rattling inside.

“No! No! I’ve held my tongue and been patient for long enough and I’m so over it!” he groans in frustration. Through your blurry vision, you watch him run through every nervous tic he has as if he’s preparing for battle. “I really thought you would’ve picked up on it by now… I thought— I thought you knew?”

Like a puzzle being pieced together inside of your brain, it all starts to connect. And yet, you still find yourself muttering, “How could I have known?”

“Was I not obvious enough? Fuck— I mean, everyone knew! Even Lacy!” he won’t lower his voice, but you won’t make him. It seems like he needs to release his anger.

“Exactly, Harry… You were with her—“

“For hardly three weeks!” he cuts you off, nearly a shriek. “And in only two, she picked up on it!”

“But how was I supposed to know when you were going around dating other people?” your defense is weak, but at least you’ve found your voice again.

“Going around—“ he scoffs. “It was one girl! One girl who I only dated to try and take my mind off of you!”

“Well, that’s kind of shitty of you and rude to Lacy—“

“Since the first day of school it’s like you’ve been this pesky, little parasite in my brain that I couldn’t get rid of!” Don’t really like being compared to a parasite, but you’ll hear him out. “I thought that I was just making something out of nothing, so I pursued Lacy!”

“And?”

“And obviously it didn’t fucking work! You— You were still there. I felt shitty for dragging Lacy into it, but she understood.”

“Is she just a perfect fucking human being or soemthing?” Somehow, you find humor at a time like this. Luckily, he lets out a breathy laugh. “So… What she said at dinner tonight…”

He sighs loudly, shaking his head. “She assumed because of the stupid corsage that we were going to Prom together. And that we were, like… together and shit.”

“Is that what you wanted? To go to Prom together, I mean.”

“Clearly, that is what I wanted, Y/N!” And he’s back to yelling, okay.

“Why didn’t you just ask me then?”

“I did! On multiple fucking occasions at that!” He’s pacing again, though this time his movements are more frustrated. “But how could I get through to you when it was all “I hope Jackson asks me to Prom” this, and “I’m fine with going alone to Prom” that?!”

“Maybe you weren’t clear enough…” Your words are dangerous, but you’ll take the risk.

“Did you want me to get on a table and flash mob you into going with me? Is that what you needed?” When you shake your head no, he continues, “Exactly.” He sighs. “You were so caught up in your own world, you couldn’t even see what was right in front of you.”

This is definitely an inappropriate time to be thinking about this, but Harry is totally having his You Belong With Me moment. Down to the cheer captain. Wait. Does that make you the swoony love interest? Are you jealous that he’s living out this fantasy instead of you? Okay, no. Focus. What did he say again?

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Harry,” you sigh, defeated and still a bit confused.

“I just want you to be honest with me.” He finally seems like he’s calming down. “Tell me if it was all one-sided. Tell me if I’ve made a complete ass of myself tonight.”

Oh, God. You don’t know what to say. Obviously, you like Harry. But do you like Harry? Sure, you find him hot. Anyone with working eyes could tell you that. And he’s funny. Not in a cracking jokes kind of way, but one that always knows how to make you laugh. He’s also very kind, even if he puts up an opposing front. He’s thoughtful, giving, and selfless. And though it used to pain you to admit, he’s one of your closest friends these days. But could he be something more? Okay, fine. You’ve thought about kissing him more than any other guy friend you’ve had. And that romantic dream you had about him didn’t just happen once. But has it become something you’re yearning for? Something you want for real?

You think…you do. The more you think about it the stupider you feel about your own feelings. As if a code has been cracked and the truth is sitting right in front of you. Except, it’s been there all along. You were just too blind to see. You had just brushed it off, or repressed it. In fear, you guess. Of what? You don’t know. But you can’t lie and say that his confession doesn’t feel like weight hasn’t been lifted off your chest. Like a secret you didn’t even know you were hiding was just spewed and yet…everything worked out.

Shit. You like Harry. You like, like Harry. What is wrong with you? You like Harry, and Harry likes you back!

“It…wasn’t one-sided,” your confession comes out just above a whisper, but he heard you loud and clear.

His pacing stops again, it sort of scares you. You both know that you know now. Where do you both go from here? His eyes are lit up like the fourth of July. Full of relief and hope. It’s quite a beautiful sight. He’s quite a beautiful sight. And you really, really like Harry.

“You’re not just saying that?”

“N-no,” you stumble on your words despite the truth behind them.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” He looks genuinely pained as he recites your words from earlier.

“I…don’t know,” you sigh. “I think I was just afraid of ruining our friendship.”

“Fuck our friendship,” he spits out quickly. “I don’t want to be just your friend. I never wanted to be just your friend.”

“I don’t want to be just your friend, either,” you parrot him, your voice small and frail, nervous for what’s to come.

“Please, Y/N… Let me ruin our friendship.”

“Okay?” You laugh lightly at his pleading tone. “I don’t really know how you’re—“

And just like that, his lips are on yours. A simple embrace. Just two lips pressed together. Both of you suck in a sharp intake of air through your noses from the surprise. You say it’s simple, but it’s anything but. Your school doesn’t have the budget for fireworks, but you’re certain they’ve just set some off. It genuinely feels…electric. Which is horrendously cliche, but true. As if your body has been set on fire. And that only grows when one of his hands grabs your face to pull you closer, all while the other is snaking around your waist. Your hands instinctively land on his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat beneath your palms. It’s innocent and delicate, but—God—does it feel intense. Like you’re breaking some sort of rule. Every light touch is addicting, and this is nothing. In fact, you find yourself almost screaming in protest when he pulls away.

“Fuck,” he whispers, his breath fanning over your face. “What did we just do?”

“We? Don’t blame me! That was all you! You’re the one that wanted to ruin our friendship in the first place!” you tease, watching as his classic, lopsided, dimpled grin pops out.

Fuck. You really like, like Harry.

“You wanted to ruin our friendship just as much as I did. Don’t lie,” he jokes, making you smile until your cheeks ache.

“Okay, I guess I sort of did.” You roll your eyes playfully, earning a small pinch on the back from it. Hell, you might never stop rolling your eyes if that’s the punishment.

“So… Do you just want to head out of here, or…?”

“Excuse you, but I think there’s something you’ve been wanting to ask me.” You push back from his chest, forcing eye contact. Though his told hold on you never falters. Who knows if he’ll ever let go.

“Right,” he sighs, smiling. “Y/N Y/L/N, will you do me the honor of going to Prom with me?”

“Meh, could be better.” You shrug and watch his jaw drop. “Maybe I should grab my phone so Justin Timberlake could set the mood?”

“Absolutely not,” he laughs, surprising you when he leans in to peck your lips once. It’s very domestic. Something you’ll have to get used to. Kissing Harry in general will be a learning curve. But you don’t think it’ll be too hard.

“Yes, Harry Styles, I would love to go to Prom with you.”

He sighs happily, as if your words were the cure to everything. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to hear those words come out of your mouth.”

“Well, maybe if you just asked me like a regular person—“ You teasing words are cut off by his lips attaching to yours. Now you’re certain you’ve been transported into a rom-com. Getting cut off by a kiss? Someone write this down! You’re the one to pull back this time, having one more request. “I believe you owe me a dance.”

“Lead the way.”

Prom is something you’ve dreamed about your entire life. You knew how you’d style your hair, what color your dress would be, and who your perfect date would be. Prom isn’t anything like you planned, and yet, somehow it’s exceeded your expectations.

[flyfreeskylark]

I’ve been thinking a lot about Bix today. Yesterday, before Andor S2, episodes 7-9 aired, I was thinking to myself, oh gawd! Bix is gonna die in these episodes because she’s not around in Rogue One and has clearly been gone for some time. I’m glad they didn’t kill her off. I wouldn’t be surprised if she died fighting off screen because this is a Rogue One prequel after all, and it’s a story about the true cost of war where no one outruns death.

In S1 of Andor, Bix is a badass. She exhibits tons of agency and likes to be busy, industrious and contribute to the cause and community. We see people try to take these things from her: Gorst’s torture and being hunted down and assaulted as a refugee in the first arc of season 2. I don’t like seeing her as a punching bag because a) I love her, b) no one deserves that, and 3) abuse is too often used as an impetus for character growth in women, or worse, for the men in the story. I hate this trope so much because it justifies the abuse, implying that the cost is worthwhile when actually, it absolutely is not. But that’s not what happens in the story. Nobody is unaffected by abuse, badass Bix included, and we see the realistic effects of PTSD in episodes 4-6. Their relationship is strained; Cassian is controlling and paranoid and Bix is disconnected and struggling with addiction. I do love that she gets revenge on Gorst and kills the rapist because this is fiction and why the hell not.

I love that in the third arc (ep 7-9), Bix and Cassian have built a real, beautiful home together, full of love, where they are free to come and go. Seriously, I love that treehouse. They both so desperately wanted this in the second arc after all the trauma they’ve both been through. But it’s still not perfect. Cassian is still controlling and dissatisfied with his work for the rebellion. Bix is still a bit isolated, and crucially, she’s unfulfilled. I’ve seen a lot of criticism that her character really fell flat in this arc because all she does is hang around the house being beautiful. But I think that’s the point and one of the reasons she leaves. She knows that Cassian loves her so fiercely and just wants to protect her. He thinks the best way to do that is to leave the fight and find a nice, quiet home. But from what we know of Bix from season 1 and the first arc of season 2, Bix thrives when she is productive, in community and helping others. She knows that Cassian’s perfect idea of the future is not what she wants or needs.

I think you could interpret the force healer’s vision as the reason Bix leaves. WE ultimately know how Cassian is the messenger because of Rogue One. I did love the suggestion from the healer that maybe Bix was his home because it’s a beautiful idea, but we know that it’s ultimately not true. Cassian said, “Welcome home” to Jyn because he was welcoming her to HIS home. I hope we see how that’s been established in the last three episodes. I didn’t love the implication that Bix left so he could fulfill his destiny as the messenger because this show and Rogue One are the antithesis to the concept of destiny. I want to believe that the force healer could see the future as a result of their choices, rather than their fate. Yes, Bix forces Cassian to choose the Rebelion by leaving him, and maybe that’s not fair. But by leaving, Bix also chooses the future that SHE needs that will fulfill her: fighting in the rebellion. In the end, it also fulfills Cassian. And it’s heartbreaking.

[thelovetheystole]

My *little* wish list for Robert's return.

If it's a dream sequence:

I want Robert to literally be John's worst nightmare, I want one liners and smugness, and I want a scene with Aaron obviously.

Just a big chemistry bomb that John is forced to observe and relive.

If it's prison scenes:

Would love for Mack to be the one to contact Robert to help talk sense into Aaron.

I want to see how Robert's doing, so I need more than just one visit. If it's John who visits him, I want Robert to put so many ideas and fears in his head he won't know what to do with them.

I want a Robron scene where it's perfectly clear they still love each other, and I won't accept any kind of closure. I need to feel that if when they meet again in the future, nothing has changed.

Wouldn't mind hearing a 'you know, I know' in there too...

Finally, I need a little hint that he's working on his appeal so he can go get Seb.

If it's scenes where he's out of prison:

I need Robert to be allowed to be angry, especially at his sister who apparently stopped calling and checking on Seb, and has now simply replaced one brother with another. Planning a wedding and acting like she's never taken part in anything of the sort before.

I wouldn't mind some classic Robron arguing, their spark is just as good when they fight. But again, it needs to be obvious the love is still there. (It always is.)

A showdown with John would be great, but not if they let John "win" in any way. Give Robert a break, please.

I want a heartbreaking goodbye scene between them if Aaron decides to go through with the wedding or is already married by the time Robert appears and I want the door to be left wide open for a return.

I don't think the two of them leaving together is likely to happen at all, not even for a little bit of time, so I don't have any expectations on that end.

[n0t-evenhere]

Here we peeps, this is officially the end of the Star at night series! I feel so excited because this is the first time I have ever, EVER finished a series. Usually I burn out, lose momentum, or I just start feeling like I’m not doing it right but, I’ve done it. It feels so good too! Thank you for Al the support and love through out this series! I can’t wait to write more for you guys! I didn’t know what to draw for this one so I just did a low quality sketch of moment through out the story. I hope you enjoy anyway!

⚠️ warning ⚠️ blood, death, gore, emotional turmoil, manipulations, and I think that’s it.

“The Star At Night”

Finale “Last stand + Epilogue” 

Ray

You cradled the body so close to you. The warmth slowly leaves Joe’s body. Heartbreaking, even the sight of it made Ray pause. He hung on to the final thoughts of Joe. A dying wish. “A painless death. Quick” The heaving screams and crying of agony came to a pause, you had turned to face him. Brows furrowed upwards, a mix of anguish and anger. “Why?! Why would you do this?!” You scream at him. “You and your team were committing a crime.” Ray responded flatly. “A crime! A crime met with death?! Not even a kind death, you have tortured every. Single. Person here! How could you?! The- the government won’t let you get away with this. The NAHA will get you and you’ll be done for!”

The words echo in his mind, good questions. He’s willing to answer since they are marked by death.

You pov

After getting it all off of your chest. The questions, the small threat at the end, you lay your head back down on Joe’s chest. You couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. To move. To even make a run off the exit. Everyone you truly loved was here. You could never leave them. “(You).” Binary Star said softly, softly enough it could fool anyone into believing that he didn’t just massacre a whole group of people in such a cruel way. You didn’t look, you didn’t want to. You couldn’t. “You are a fool. Naive. Ignorant even.” He started to say. “The government, the NAHA, they don't care about you. Only on a surface level.” He paused, you still listened though. He had more to say. Besides, this is the first time in a bit that you actually have gotten to slow down. To really realize everything you had. Was gone.

“Crime is crime. Punishable. You open yourself up to it the moment you step into this place. As for the NAHA…who do you think sent me? Called me during my shift. Lead me to you. Even before that, I was called last night. Said cri was on the rise again. Fear was losing its grip on the criminals. He said to make an example out of someone. To bring that percentage down. That just so happens to be you.” You looked up, really? The NAHA had sent him, and told him to make an example out of criminals to scare the others? You thought it was a choice. As if reading your mind he responded. “Yes; I was sent but I chose you. You and your team were to be the example. That’s why I made it so messy. Party anyway. I’ll admit, I’m angry. Not directly at you necessarily.”

Binary Star paused, seeming to consider something. “Maybe it's general anger. I didn’t want to be here. It was supposed to be my day off. I’m tired. I feel like everyday I get closer and closer to a ledge I can’t even see, but I want it. I long for it but…I keep distant ma because part of me feels…hope. A small sliver but it’s still there. I’m tired. (You.) I’m lost…empty it feels like.” He started sauntering over to you, in reflex you scoot back to try and get to your feet. It was too late, he was much faster, not that you didn’t already know that. In a flash Binary Star was by your side before reaching out and taking a hold of your throat. Not to cut off the air, but as if just to hold you.

Your feet lifted from the ground, he too left the ground. “I can’t get behind your crime. I can’t find it within myself to say that what you are doing is okay. No matter why you do it. I grieve your loss. (You.) I know it hurts to lose the people you love. More than you know.” His words dropped with a deep ache that was in the past. Way before even tonight had been planned. Went past anything you could possibly know. “I guess there is a spot of light. You’ll see them soon. Your loved ones. I’ll even grant Joe’s final wish.”

You brows furrow, “wha-“ your words cut off by a sharp painful sensation. Blood bubbled up in your throat before you threw up the coppery substance. Then came the wet coughs, blood staining your lips and chin, the pain lessened quickly. Ray wasn’t holding you anymore but you were still suspended in the air. He was watching you. Your eyes began to get fuzzy, your vision going dark. Your head feels heavy, your head falls forward without much strength to fight it. Your eyes see a marble spear once pristine now covered in blood, protruding through the left center of your chest. Your heart. It’s through your heart. You had never really given too much thought to how you would die. This felt good though. It felt like letting go.

“(You.)” a voice? “(You) come on.” Looking up you see a familiar face. “Joe?” You asked confused as Joe’s hand reached out to you. “Yea, come on kiddo. Can’t stay here.” Taking his hand you nod. “Where is everyone else?”

Joe smiled warmly. “Waiting for you.”

The star at night

“Epilogue”

The museum was now quiet. No crying. No screaming. Just complete and utter silence. Ray took a deep breath. Slow and deliberate. No time to rest, it’s right back to it. The biggest part was over. Now just to clean up. A shower, a shower to wash off the blood. Mmmm, no. He needed to call Hershel, so he did.

Hershel: “Yes?”

Ray: “Hershel, it’s done. Dive dead at the museum.”

Hershel: “Were you smart about it? Did you use-“

Ray: “No. I didn’t use Red Diamond. I’ve done this before Hershel. I know how this works.”

Hershel: “Alright, great. We’ll get a cover up. Clean up, and be back in 20 minutes.”

Ray: “Fine.”

With that call done, Ray took a quick fly home. He still needed to wear the suit, so he hopped into the shower with it on, scrubbed away what he could, cleaned his face, and hair. All of it. The NAHA had all hero suits made in a way that you could shower with to get blood off for situations like this. Part of his 20 minutes was him trying to dry his hair as quickly as possible. “Shit.” He didn’t think about how he would wash out the blonde spray. “No, no, it’s fine.” People will notice but, it’ll be fine in the grand scheme of things. He figured he’d just dry on the way there with his flight. With five minutes to get back. Leaving the bathroom and going to his balcony, he leaped off and flew back to the museum.

The place was buzzing with life, a stark contrast to what was before. Hershel was talking to someone, a PR worker of some sort. Oh, and his PR handler who was really just Hershel’s assistant is what it felt like. “Hershel.” Ray called out to let him know of his presence. Hershel turned slightly to meet his gaze, his body relaxed, hands in his pockets. “Ah, Ray. We were waiting for you. There is one last thing we need you to do to get the story right.” Ray sighed. “And that is?” Hershel whistled, a group of men pulled a tied down villain known as Canadian Strong man. Ironically, his brother, Strong man, was a hero. Yet lacked canadian in the name. A stupid name in his opinion but, whatever. “Let me go you bastards!” He shouted trying to break the locked metal around his torso and arms.

Hershel continued on, “based on everything here, Canadian strong man is the perfect fit to be used for the cover up. So, we need you to mess this place up, make it a battlefield. Then kill him. Do it quickly.” Hershel demanded. “WHAT?! KILL ME?!” Hershel looked at the Canadian strong man. “Oh please, death will be the best thing you ever get.” With that Day bust through walls, lasered objects and walls before coming back to the small group, he stood before the villain held down, his eyes glowing a sharp brilliant red before a short beam went straight through his head. “Good, now, let’s get the police involved. Get them down here. Ray, you stick around. Keep to the story as usual.” Yes, of course. As usual. He thought.

Adrianna POV

It sucked that the museum was across town. Adrianna had been working as a journalist for a while, she worked for a small company. “The Now” was its name. Honestly she was lucky she even got the job. She’d loved to work for a bigger company but that required experience and so far, she’s only had two years. Either way, tonight was a mix of job and hobby. On the side, for personal reasons, she did hero specific journalism on the side. She had a blog called “the truth bringer” , a blog where she exposed hero’s. Exposed them for what they really were. The idea that hero’s were clean and untainted was unfathomable. Sometimes hero’s become powerful and become different people.

Make no mistake, it wasn’t out of hate for hero’s. It was out of her love to protect the citizens. To open their eyes to what the reality is. To take off the rose tinted glasses. Even so, she also knew that heros were a necessary evil. Especially with the alien attacks that have been happening more frequently. There were still other reasons as to why she did this, she knew there were but, she’s just never really thought about them.

Pulling up her in her car had slowed, the place was crawling with officers and yellow tape. Great, just great. She wished she could have been notified earlier than she was. Adrianan had an outside source. Someone online named “speckle-067” whoever they were, they tended to notify her of these kinds of things. Even at 2:30 in the morning. Turning off the lights and taking the key out of the ignition she grabbed her mini recorder and shelved it into her back pocket while clipping the microphone onto her bra, keeping the wire hidden in her t-shirt that had a Deftones logo.

Looking around she found the coast to be clear for now. So without tiem to waist, she ducked under the yellow tape and entered the premises. She kept her head on a swivel as she walked through, at least everyone seemed occupied. Adrianna didn’t know the details of what happened inside, she just knew from Speckle-067 that something went down. Just as she reached the opening of the museum, a hand gripped her shoulder and yanked her back spinning her around making her yelp in surprise. There he was…the golden man of heros. He had a smile on his face, but his eyes looked up and down with suspicion. “I’m certain you aren’t supposed to be here Ms. nosey. I also believe it’s past your bedtime.”

Adrianna scoffed, “Well, I’m a night owl for one, and technically I am on work so…I can be here. Mr. Star. Besides, it’s a race. Gotta get here before other people do.” He cocked his head to the side. “Right.” Adrianna’s silvery green eyes wandered to the window. Her heart stopped, she saw at least two dead bodies. One pierced through the heart on a tall statue, and the Canadian StrongMan hunched over, his head burned through. Adrianna looked up at Mr. Star. “Would you-“ he sighed. “Let me guess. You want me to tell you what happend? Of course you do. Fine. I’ll bite.” He said with his usual smile.

“I had the night shift tonight, I was notified of a burglary gone wrong. Cameras picked it up. The NAHA has eyes everywhere so they sent me here. When I arrived, Canadian StrongMan had gotten greedy, killed his team and…well,” Binary Star looked through the window. “I had to stop him. I couldn’t let him get away, he put up a good fight.” Adrianna’s brows furrow. “Right, but…Canadian strong men aren't like that. He is not the type to work with other people. He’s a “El solo lobo” as he put it back a few months ago when he tried to destroy a police station.” His red eyes looked down at her and blinked once or twice. “People can be unpredictable, Adrianna. You can’t put all your ideas in one basket.”

Ray’s Pov

Adrianna gears were turning in her head, Ray knew that much. He could even read her mind. Questioning his story. Adrianna’s eyes wandered down and paused. Her hand reached out and slid down his slide. His body tenses, what the hell? He had half a mind not to zap her right then and there. Break her neck. Then again, in her mind, there was no sexual intent behind the touch. Before he could dig further she spoke. “Your suit is damp.” She noted out loud. She began to think. If he had fought with Canadian strongman…why was he so…clean? This woman doesn’t miss a beat does she. Her brows furrowed even more. “What?” Ray asked, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“You're bleeding.” She stated. “What?” Adrianna circled about him, he was bleeding? When did- oh. Fuck. Adrianna was already looking at the wound. “A stab wound?” She questioned. Ray turned around. “I’ve had a busy night. I’ve felt more than just this you know. She nodded. “Yea…dealt with is definitely a word I would use.” A double meaning, suspicion. “You know, Mr. Reporter, I’m starting to think you are stalking me.” Ray noted, a distraction. “What?” She asked, great. It worked. “Well, every time I have an event, or arrive at a crime scene, you seem to always be there. Obsession is not a healthy thing Ms. Nosey.” She blinked a few times in bewilderment.

Before she could even respond a commotion came from behind the two. Adrianna looked past Ray, before he too turned around. A woman. A young woman at the door, tearing herself away from the cops. “LET ME GO! I-I HAVE TO SEE THEM!” The woman looked just like the two older people he had just killed. A few short seconds passed before the frantic words turned into screams of anguish. Adrianan stood there for a moment. It was clear that we both knew that she must be family. “Camila! Come back!” The officer shouted only to be ignored, a bit late for that.

Adrianan tried to step past Ray but he gripped her arm. “And where are you going?” He questioned. “To go see that woman.” Ray frowned. “I don’t think now is the time for an interview.” Adrianna shook her head in disgust. “Wow, you really think that low of me. No, you jerk. She needs someone. She is clearly by herself.” Adrianan huffed, jerking her arm away. Before rushing inside. Well, that was a surprise. Usually journalists practically jump on this kind of stuff. Ray walked into the doorway to watch it all unfold.

Adrianna held the woman tenderly, in a motherly way. Camilla didn’t pull away. In fact, she clinged to Adrianna like a lifeline. He didn’t have to be close to hear what she was saying. “Carmilla? Is that your name?” Carmilla nods sobbing uncontrollably. “Okay, okay.” Adrianna nodded, brushing the hair out of Carmilla’s face. “I’m right here, I’ll stay here as long as you need me. I won’t leave your side.” Carmilla just hung onto her as Adrianna comforted Carmilla. A strange sensation flooded his chest. She’s not what he thought she was. Not at all. How strange. She couldn’t really be that different. Hershel sidedly came up out of seemingly nowhere and put a hand on his shoulder. “Make sure to send Mrs. Carmilla some flowers at some point. From Binary Star.” Ray sighed. “I’ll do that.”

[agentnoun]

Having finished the game a few days ago, I have to amend this. It's not one of the best RPGs I've ever played. It's one of the best games I've ever played, full stop.

No spoilers here, don't worry.

This one's an all-timer, folks. Its story is just so overwhelmingly human. There are precious few games written as well as this one, with so much maturity, grace, complexity, and emotional honesty. It's a beautiful story from beginning to end, heartbreaking yet hopeful, melancholy but so very alive.

And on top of that the game's just plain fun! The combat's a blast, the environments are gorgeous and enjoyable to explore, the music is beautiful, unique, and memorable, the character building is deep and varied.

It of course has flaws. Everything does. The relationship system is sort of half-baked and I don't think was necessary--while there are some excellent character moments in it, those could have just been a part of normal camp scenes and side quests. The game balance starts to get shaky partway through Act II and falls apart entirely by endgame. But hey, this is a JRPG. With all the love in the world for that genre, I'm pretty sure that "balance that completely falls apart at endgame" just comes with the territory. (Pro tip: if you want to have a challenge for the final story bosses, take off the Painted Power pictos the game gives you. And if you want to have a challenge in the postgame, where you really do need to be using Painted Power, don't equip the "Stendhal" ability--if you've gotten that one, you know what I mean. Not that challenge is the only way a game can be fun, but just in case that's important to you! It's also fun to do over a billion damage in one hit.)

It's just plain really, really, really good everyone. I'm so glad this game was made.

Just gonna add my voice to the growing chorus of people saying Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 is one of the best RPGs I’ve ever played. This has so far exceeded even my highest expectations. Moving, beautiful, melancholy, funny, warm, haunting.

Please play it if you haven’t!

[turtleblogatlast]

[ cw: death mention / family death mention / ]

Mhmm I sure love thinking of the reality where we did get more time to really know Karai and her dynamics with the bros. Losing her hit hard in the finale, but it would’ve hit much, much harder had we known Karai longer and really saw her relationships develop with everyone.

I especially would have been interested in her dynamic with Leo, as past iterations often have the two of them clash in ideals and the like while still sharing many characteristics. Two sides of the same coin, and all that. Her specifically being the bros’ Gram-Gram also adds a whole new dynamic as well.

Imagine how interesting it would be, to have Karai start off on Leo’s side for once, showing wholly just how alike the two are at their cores and bonding as family without the worry of betrayal or animosity that other iterations suffer through, only to have Karai die anyway. Their parting hug and the desperate look of horror Leo wears later on would have hit that much harder, I feel.