#its definitely hard to look at personally. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eu-nicola · 17 hours ago

Text

not yours part 1

summary: Rafe Cameron is the perfect boyfriend… but not yours, but Sofia’s. However, fate plays against you when you become the only person capable of understanding him in his darkest moments. What begins as a dangerous friendship soon becomes an attraction impossible to deny.

warnings: nothing for now

word counter: 9203

author’s note: english is not my first language

In the eyes of the Kooks, you were always a Pogue. You could have perfectly coiffed hair, impeccable clothes, and an air of confidence that many of them envied, but no matter how hard you tried, you were still one of “the others.” After all, you were born and raised on the other side of the island, where the houses were small, the streets dusty, and the rules of etiquette didn’t exist.

But that never stopped you. You always wanted more, you wanted to stand out, to shine as if the invisible line that divided the island didn’t exist for you. You liked being the center of attention, being the girl who walked into a party and made everyone turn to look at you. It was part of who you were. It entertained you, it filled you with energy. And maybe, deep down, you enjoyed a little bit of the scandal that a Pogue caused trying to be more than that.

The first time you met Sofia was at one of those parties that the Kooks organized on the beach. You arrived late, as usual, but perfect. The tight black dress you had chosen highlighted every curve. You made sure every hair was in place and that your makeup highlighted your eyes impeccably.

You saw her alone, sitting in a corner, with a half-finished drink in her hand. She didn't seem comfortable in that place, as if she was out of place. Maybe that was what caught your attention. Unlike other girls, Sofia didn't seem to desperately want to fit in. There was something authentic about her, something that intrigued you.

"What are you doing here alone?" you asked her as you sat down next to her. Your tone was casual, as if you had known her all your life.

Sofia looked up and smiled at you, shy but warm.

"I don't know... I think this isn't my place."

"Well, sometimes, what we think isn't our place ends up being the best place of all," you answered, and without waiting for an invitation, you stayed there.

From that night on, you and Sofia became inseparable. She was quieter, more reserved, but that worked. Your explosive energy was complemented by her calm, and soon you were doing everything together: from afternoons on the beach to nighttime escapades to places where the Kooks didn’t dare to go.

It was inevitable that Sofia began to integrate more into your world. But she also began to enter theirs. Maybe too much.

The first time she told you she was dating Rafe Cameron, you felt like the world stopped for a moment.

“Rafe Cameron?” you repeated in disbelief as you looked in the mirror, touching up your eyeliner.

You were in your room, getting ready for another party. The air smelled of perfume and freshly opened makeup. Sofia was sitting on your bed, nervously playing with the hem of her dress.

“Yeah… I know he’s not exactly the kind of guy you like.”

He wasn’t. He never was. Rafe Cameron was the perfect definition of everything you despised about the Kooks. Arrogant, controlling, with that air of superiority that drove you crazy. And although you didn't say it openly, you knew he looked at you with disdain every time you coincided somewhere. As if you were usurping a space that didn't belong to you.

You took a deep breath, adjusting the necklace that adorned your neck, and decided not to say what you really thought.

“If it makes you happy… then fine.”

Sofia looked at you with a mix of relief and gratitude. You knew how much your opinion mattered to her, and you weren’t going to be the one to take that happiness away from her, even though something inside you told you it wasn’t going to end well.

Later that night the party was at its highest point. Music was booming from the speakers, laughter and conversations mixed with the sound of the sea gently lapping against the shore. The dim lights and strategically placed torches gave an almost magical air to the private beach where the Kooks were celebrating once again. Everything was perfect, at least in appearance.

You were there, as always, impeccable. Every accessory was in its place, every strand of your hair perfectly arranged, and your smile was as dazzling as ever.

But from the moment you walked through the door, Sofia was glued to Rafe Cameron.

He was leaning against one of the makeshift bars, a bottle of beer in his hand and that cocky grin he never seemed to be able to erase. Sofia, beside him, looked different. More radiant, perhaps, but also more… restrained. As if he somehow controlled her every move.

It bothered you. You couldn’t help it. You had arrived expecting to spend the night together, like you used to before Rafe came into the equation. But there she was, practically glued to him, laughing at his comments, looking at him as if the rest of the party didn’t exist.

You sipped a glass of white wine and forced yourself to smile when a couple of acquaintances came over to say hello. You chatted, laughed, and pretended you didn’t care. Because at the end of the day, you understood. He was her boyfriend. If you had one, you’d probably do the same. If you had a Rafe Cameron who looked at you like you were the only important thing in the world, you wouldn’t leave him alone either.

Still, you couldn’t help the pang of discomfort that settled in your chest every time you saw them together. It was like Sofia was slowly disappearing into Rafe’s shadow.

Someone offered you a drink, and you accepted with a flirtatious smile, because that was what you did. You always knew how to have fun, how to attract glances, how to make sure no one noticed that something was bothering you.

But as the night progressed, you realized that your eyes kept returning to them. To Rafe, who had his arm around her as if to make it clear that she belonged to him. To Sofia, who didn’t seem to notice anyone else.

“Are you going to stay there all night, or are you going to dance?” a boy’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You turned around and recognized him by sight. A Kook, of course, one of those who always tried to get close to you when you were alone.

You smiled at him, playful.

“What if I tell you that I prefer to stay here?”

He laughed, but insisted.

“Come on, I promise you'll have fun.”

You hesitated for a second, your eyes looking back at Sofia. She was still glued to Rafe, oblivious to everything else.

“Okay” you finally agreed, putting your drink aside. “Let's see if it's true.”

You went out onto the dance floor and let yourself go. Because if there was one thing you knew how to do, it was enjoy the moment, at least in appearance. You danced, you laughed, you let the music envelop you. But every time you turned, every time you moved to the rhythm of the music, you could feel Rafe's gaze on you. It was a strange, uncomfortable feeling.

For an instant, your eyes met his. His gaze was intense, cold, as if he were evaluating you. It wasn't the first time he did it. He always seemed to observe you that way, as if he wanted to remind you that you didn't belong in his world, that you were nothing more than an intruder.

But you didn't give him the pleasure of looking away. You held his gaze, defiant, with a smile on your lips, as if you didn't care in the least what he thought. Because at the end of the day, if you had learned anything, it was not to show weakness.

The music continued, the lights continued to flicker, and the night continued.

When the music began to slow down and tiredness settled in your body, you decided that it was enough for that night. You had danced, drank, and smiled enough to keep up appearances. You looked once more to where Sofia and Rafe were, still together, as if the rest of the party didn't exist.

You sighed, resigned. It wasn't your place to interrupt that moment. You knew that if you came closer, Sofia would want you to stay, but honestly, you had no energy left to keep pretending that everything was fine.

"See you tomorrow," you murmured to a couple of acquaintances as you left. No one stopped you, because they knew that when you decided to leave, there was nothing that would make you change your mind.

You took the path to your house, enjoying the fresh air that calmed the heat accumulated on your skin. The silence of the night welcomed you with open arms, and it didn't take long for you to slip under the sheets, leaving behind the noise, the lights, and the discomfort that had followed you throughout the evening.

The next morning, your phone rang earlier than expected. Sofia.

"Good morning," you said hoarsely, still half asleep.

"Good morning," she answered, with an energy that made you frown. "Are you awake?"

“Now yes. What's up?”

“I'm at Rafe's house. I thought you could come. There's a pool, some food... We could spend the day here.”

You bit your lower lip, hesitating for a second. The idea of spending the day at Rafe's house wasn't exactly your ideal plan. The Cameron house had always seemed more like a display of power than a home. Every corner was designed to impress, to make it clear that they were the pinnacle of the Kooks. And although you knew how to move in that environment, it wasn't your favorite place.

“Sure, give me some time to get ready and I'll go.”

“Perfect. I'll wait for you.”

You hung up the phone and stood up slowly, stretching your arms over your head as you thought about what to wear.

You opted for a long, light white dress, which highlighted your tan and fell perfectly. You chose a white bikini as well, simple but elegant. You made sure your hair was styled to perfection, letting some soft waves fall to frame your face.

A touch of natural makeup, just enough to highlight your eyes and lips, but not over the top. You chose a small bag, where you kept the essentials: sunscreen, sunglasses, and your phone.

You looked at yourself one last time in the mirror, adjusting the dress and the necklace that discreetly glistened on your collarbone.

You grabbed your keys, placed your sunglasses on your head, and left the house.

When you arrived, Sofia ran out to greet you before you could knock on the door, her radiant smile lighting up her face.

“You’re here!” she said excitedly, extending her arms towards you.

“Of course I do!” you replied with an equally wide smile as you walked over to hug her.

The hug was warm and genuine. Sofia had always had that energy that made you feel welcome, like everything else disappeared when you were together. She pulled away slightly to look at you.

“You look amazing.”

“You do too,” you said sincerely, noticing how her face glowed despite the simplicity of her outfit. “You always look good when you’re happy, though.”

Sofia blushed a little and laughed softly. You knew exactly why she was so happy. You didn’t have to be an expert at reading gestures to figure it out: Rafe.

“Come on, we’re in the back,” she said, taking you by the arm and leading you to the pool.

They walked through the house until they reached the spacious backyard. The pool sparkled in the sun, surrounded by lounge chairs, umbrellas, and luxurious furniture. Everything was perfectly arranged, as if they had taken the scene from a magazine.

And there he was.

He was sitting by the pool, a beer in his hand, sunglasses covering his eyes. He looked carefree, like the whole world revolved around him. His hair perfectly combed, body relaxed but always in control.

Your eyes met his for a brief second as you crossed the garden. His gaze was cold, distant, as always.

“Hi, Rafe,” you said in a polite tone, keeping the smile light.

He barely raised his hand in a vague greeting, not even bothering to take off his glasses.

“Hey.”

Nothing more. A short, dry greeting, as if you were there out of mere courtesy. Then, he turned his attention back to the conversation he was having with one of his friends, as if your presence was insignificant.

You expected it. Rafe had never treated you with more than minimal courtesy, and that was when he felt like it.

You took a deep breath and turned to Sofia, who didn’t seem to notice her boyfriend’s coldness.

“Come on, I’ll show you where to put your stuff,” Sofia said excitedly, leading you to one of the lounge chairs.

After you put all your stuff down, Sofia spoke to you again.

“Come on, let’s go to the pool,” Sofia said, pulling you by the hand. “It’s hot, and the water is perfect.”

You nodded and took off your white dress, revealing the bikini you had chosen so carefully.

The afternoon passed more peacefully than you had anticipated. The sun bathed the pool in a golden glow, and the soft music coming from the strategically placed speakers made everything seem like something out of a postcard. You and Sofia spent hours laughing, swimming, and enjoying the cold drinks you had brought. At times, the awkwardness that had accompanied you upon arrival seemed to fade away.

Rafe and his friends were nearby, but they kept their distance, busy in their own bubble of conversations.

At some point, Sofia stood up.

“I’m going inside to get something to eat.” Do you want me to get you something?

“No, I’m fine,” you replied with a smile. You didn’t want to move. The sun, the water, and the atmosphere had relaxed you more than you expected. Sofia gave you a quick smile before disappearing through the sliding door into the house.

You were left alone, enjoying the moment. The cold glass in your hand, the soft murmur of the water in the pool, and the warmth of the sun on your skin. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the tranquility envelop you.

However, that calm was interrupted when you felt a slight tug on your hair. You frowned, opening your eyes. You had leaned against one of the umbrellas, and without realizing it, one of the fringes at the edge of the fabric had become entangled in your hair. You pulled gently, trying to free it, but it didn’t work. The lock of hair was still firmly caught.

You sighed, frustrated. Normally, Sofia would be there to help you in a second, but now she wasn't. You tried once more, this time with a little more force, but you only managed to get it more tangled.

"Perfect..." you murmured sarcastically, resigned to waiting for Sofia to return.

"Trouble?"

The male voice, low and slightly amused, startled you. Rafe.

He was a few steps away from you, with his hands in his pockets and that expression on his face that seemed to mix boredom with curiosity. He was watching you with those cold blue eyes that had always made you nervous, as if he was entertained by your little fight with the umbrella.

"Nothing I can't handle," you said quickly, trying to keep control. You didn't want to give him the pleasure of thinking you needed help. You gently tugged on the lock of hair again, but it still wouldn't come loose.

"Yeah, sure. You're handling it perfectly," he replied in a sarcastic tone, as he moved a little closer.

You looked at him, trying to keep your composure.

“Sofia will be here in a minute, don’t worry.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow, stopping right in front of you. The proximity made your skin crawl slightly.

“Or I can help you.”

For a moment, you were tempted to turn him down again. The idea of accepting Rafe Cameron’s help was… strange. He wasn’t exactly the kind of person to selflessly offer help. But the reality was that Sofia would probably take a little longer, and you didn’t want to be stuck there anymore, humiliating yourself in front of him.

You sighed, reluctantly giving in.

“Okay… but don’t make it worse.”

“Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

That’s exactly what worries me, you thought. But you didn’t say anything.

Rafe moved behind you, and you felt his hands move closer to your hair. His fingers were surprisingly deft and precise, touching just enough to untangle the trapped lock of hair. You were surprised by how gently he worked, without tugging or causing pain. His closeness was undeniable, and for an instant, you were aware of the warmth of his body, the faint scent of mint, and something else you couldn’t quite place.

“Almost…” he murmured as his fingers slid through the last knot. Finally, the lock of hair came free.

You pulled away slightly, turning to face him.

“Thank you.”

He simply nodded, wearing that neutral expression he always seemed to carry with him. Before he could say anything else, you pointed towards one of the lounge chairs.

“Can you pass me the brooch I left there?”

Rafe calmly walked over to the lounge chair, picked up the small white brooch, and handed it to you. There were no snide comments or haughty looks this time. It was strange.

“Thanks again,” you said as you pinned your hair back, trying to ignore the slight nervousness the interaction had left you with.

“You’re welcome.”

And that was it. No more words, no lingering stares. Rafe returned to his spot by the pool, as if nothing had happened. You stood there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. There was something about his expression that didn’t fit with the image you had of him.

But you decided not to think about it too much.

Then the night came faster than you had expected. The party at the Camerons’ continued, but the atmosphere was much more relaxed. The pool lights created a soft glow over the water, reflecting the stars that were beginning to peek out in the night sky. You and Sofia retreated from the hustle and bustle of the party, looking for a respite.

“That was great, wasn’t it?” Sofia said, her voice filled with an energy that couldn’t be hidden.

You nodded as you walked over to one of the chairs near the pool, sitting down to enjoy the cool night air.

“Yeah, it was fun. Although, you know, always a little awkward with… some of the Kooks,” you replied, glancing sideways at Rafe, who was still talking to his friends in the distance.

Sofia laughed softly, as if those social tensions didn’t affect her as much as they did you. For her, being with Rafe was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re staying, right?” Sofia asked, with an eager look, as if she needed to hear the affirmative answer.

You didn’t know what Sofia had in mind for the next day, but her excitement was contagious. You looked at Rafe from a distance, and although you didn’t say it out loud, you knew that if Sofia asked you for something, you would do it.

“Sure, why not?” “I want you to come with us tomorrow,” you replied, though a small spark of doubt lit up inside you. What exactly were they going to do the next day?

“Perfect,” Sofia said with a satisfied smile, as if she had achieved what she wanted. She then leaned slightly towards you, lowering her voice. “I want you to come with us tomorrow. Rafe is going to go racing on his motorcycle. He said he has no problem with you staying the night, if that’s okay with you. Would you like to join us tomorrow?”

You sat there thoughtfully for a moment. The idea of spending another day with Rafe, back in his world of privilege, seemed strange to you. But it was also hard for you to say no to Sofia, especially when you saw how excited she was.

“Okay. What does it matter?” you replied, resigned to the idea of spending the day with them.

The next morning came quickly, and the sun was already rising high when you woke up. The Cameron house was quiet at that hour, with most people still sleeping after the party the night before. When you checked your bag, you realized you didn't have anything suitable for what Sofia had proposed. The shorts and the t-shirt with the embroidery seemed like a comfortable option, but nothing too dressed up.

Sofia walked into the room you had stayed in, seeing that you were still getting organized.

"Are you ready?" she asked with her usual enthusiasm.

"Almost. I just... don't have anything to wear," you mentioned, looking at the clothes you had brought, a little out of place for a motorcycle ride.

"Don't worry!" Sofia said with a mischievous smile. "I'll lend you something. Those shorts are fine, you just need a comfortable t-shirt, right?"

Before you could answer, Sofia turned around and pulled a white t-shirt out of her closet. It wasn't anything over the top, but the edge of the t-shirt was adorned with small floral embroidery. Which might look plain, but it looked incredibly nice.

"Here, this should fit you well," she said as she handed you the t-shirt.

You looked at her, grateful, as you put it on. The fabric was soft and cool, something you needed for the morning heat. Then, you pulled on your shorts, arranged your hair the best way you could, and looked at yourself in the mirror.

When you left the room, Sofia was already ready, her hair perfectly coiffed and her energy bubbling.

“Let’s go!” she said, running towards the door. There was no way you could cope with her enthusiasm.

The two of you headed to the beach, where Rafe was already there, next to his bike. It was a sight in itself. Rafe’s bike, shiny and almost imposing looking, contrasted with his relaxed stance, as if the bike was an extension of him.

Rafe glanced at you briefly when you arrived, his expression somewhat unreadable.

The race began with a roar, and the feeling of speed on Rafe’s bike was electrifying. The wind whipped through your face as the sound of the engine mixed with the adrenaline in the air. Rafe was incredibly focused, and Sofia was smiling non-stop.

As you continued down the road, you realized how skilled Rafe was. Every turn was taken with astonishing precision, and his ability to maneuver the bike quickly was evident. You and Sofia shared excited glances, both shouting words of encouragement, though you knew the real show was watching him.

Finally, when the finish line was in sight, Rafe hit the gas. The bike roared as it took the final turn, and it wasn't long before he crossed the finish line with an undisputed victory.

You and Sofia burst into cheers, though it was clear that Rafe's victory was what really mattered to her. She looked proud, and with good reason. Rafe had won in impeccable fashion, and the feeling of excitement was palpable.

Sofia stepped forward to hug him, while you stayed a step behind, observing the moment. Rafe's face reflected satisfaction. He didn't seem surprised by the victory, as if it was something expected.

You stared at Rafe for a moment, observing his relaxed face as he talked to Sofia about the race, but you quickly decided to leave those thoughts behind. There was something in his attitude that didn't quite fit, and you knew it wasn't worth wasting time on things that didn't make sense. The excitement of the day had already reached its peak, and you preferred to enjoy the moment.

You turned around, looking at Sofia, who had already begun to plan what they would do next.

"Let's celebrate!" Sofia said enthusiastically, interrupting your brief moment of introspection.

It wasn't an invitation, but an affirmation, and before you could respond, she had already taken you by the hand, gently pulling you towards where the others were. The celebratory atmosphere was in full swing: loud music, laughter, and an air of satisfaction permeating everything around them. When they arrived, everyone was there, enjoying Rafe's triumph, and even though you weren't part of that inner circle, you couldn't help but be swept up in the energy emanating from them.

You sat next to Sofia on one of the lounge chairs by the pool, watching as people gathered around Rafe to congratulate him. The way he accepted the congratulations, calm and almost distant, seemed so natural to you, as if he was already used to being the center of attention. But something in you told you it wasn't that simple. There was an invisible barrier between you and him, as if the distance wasn't just physical, but emotional as well.

But that night, you decided to let it be. You sat there, enjoying Sofia's company, and without thinking too much about it, you began to soak in the atmosphere.

People started moving towards the dance floor, the music was getting livelier, and everyone seemed to be in a good mood. Sofia, still full of energy, looked at you with a knowing smile.

“Shall we dance?” she asked, without waiting for an answer, already getting up from the lounger.

You stood up after her, feeling that, at least for that night, you should enjoy yourself without thinking too much about anything else. Somehow, by surrounding yourself with the happiness of Sofia and the others, the feeling of awkwardness began to fade.

The day continued with a festive atmosphere, the music vibrating in the air. You and Sofia had completely let loose, laughing and dancing without a care, until suddenly Rafe approached her. On his face was a subtle smile, one of those smiles that you only see when someone has a deep connection with another person.

“Dance?” he said to Sofia, and she was quick to smile, her eyes shining.

You watched them as they glided to the center of the dance floor, their bodies moving to the beat of the music as if they were one. Something inside you, a mix of admiration and envy, stirred. There was something about the way Rafe looked after Sofia that made you think you might have misjudged him. After all, not everyone was willing to show that kind of tenderness in public. Maybe Rafe wasn't as cold as you had initially thought.

You stared for a moment, but you didn't let yourself get caught up in those emotions. You decided not to think about it too much. Instead of just standing there watching, you let yourself go with the energy of the party and joined one of Rafe's friends who was nearby. He was outgoing and not afraid to chat, so the conversation flowed naturally.

You laughed, you enjoyed yourself, and everything kept moving forward without your mind stopping on the images of Sofia and Rafe. But when you looked at yourself, you noticed something that worried you: the way that, with each encounter, you began to see more clearly how attentive Rafe and Sofia could be to each other. It wasn’t just a physical attraction, but something deeper, a connection you hadn’t anticipated. There was an understanding between them, something that seemed to flow effortlessly. And that, somehow, bothered you more than you wanted to admit.

Days passed, and as time went on, you started to see yourself closer and closer to them. Outings became common, and although at first you were a kind of guest in their circle, little by little you began to feel like you were part of it. You saw yourself walking along the beach with them, sharing laughs while watching Rafe throw out a sarcastic joke that made you laugh like never before. The atmosphere between the group was relaxed, fun, and you seemed to fit in perfectly. Almost as well as if you were one of the Kooks, as if you had always been part of that life.

But something kept nagging at your head, a small knot in your stomach that kept growing. You realized that every time Rafe and Sofia looked at each other or subtly touched each other, a pang of jealousy ran through your body. How had you not noticed that before? How had you not seen how happy it made Sofia just to have him by her side? It was like a spark always surrounded them, and you wanted to be a part of that, of that security and affection that was evident on the surface.

You thought to yourself that maybe, just maybe, you had misjudged him. Rafe wasn't just the arrogant boy you had met at the beginning. There was something about his attitude towards Sofia that made you question everything you thought about him. You could see how he cared for her, how he took his time to make sure she was comfortable, how his eyes always looked for her in the middle of the crowd.

One afternoon, when everyone was on a terrace, and Rafe had approached to offer you a drink, you realized how much your perception of him had changed. There was a softness in his gaze, one you hadn't noticed before, and although it was something that confused you, you also admired it. You felt foolish for having kept yourself distant all this time, and a little jealous too, because deep down you knew you wanted something like that for yourself.

However, you just smiled and thanked him for the drink, not saying anything about what you were really thinking. It was easy to look at everything from the outside, but much harder to deal with what you felt on the inside. You were surrounded by friends, but the small discomfort you felt in your chest never completely went away. You wondered if you could ever be as lucky as Sofia, if you would ever find something that made you feel as alive and safe.

That same day at night, after several hours of laughter, music, and drinks, the atmosphere at Rafe’s house was still lively. Sofia, as always, was in her element, enjoying the company of the two of you, but you already felt the energy starting to drain away. You had drunk more than you thought, and although it wasn’t enough to lose control, you did start to feel fatigue building up in your body.

“I’m going to sleep,” you said to Sofia, who looked at you with a cheerful smile.

“Sure, honey. The room is ready for you. Get some rest” he answered, still smiling.

You walked towards the stairs as you entered the halls of the house. It was a large and luxurious space, and the room you used when you stayed there was decorated with sophisticated details.

But before you reached the room, suddenly, you ran into Rafe. He was coming down the stairs, with a glass in his hand, apparently in a good mood, without the arrogant air he used to have. He stopped when he saw you and, as if he hadn't seen you coming, both of you collided a little. It was a strange moment: your body brushed against his, almost as if you were going to trip, but you managed to keep your balance with difficulty. However, what really made you feel uncomfortable was the look you exchanged. The air between the two of you became heavy for a moment, as if something had happened unintentionally.

Rafe, with a knowing smile on his face, was quick to let out a small laugh, as if he found the situation funny, and that only increased your discomfort. Your face instantly flushed, and for a second you thought you had gotten yourself into one of those awkward situations you always try to avoid.

“Wow, I didn’t see you coming,” he said, still with that carefree smile. His tone wasn’t mocking, but somehow his laugh felt like mockery.

Your mind raced and you didn’t know how to react, you just muttered something that didn’t make much sense, like an “I’m sorry” or an “excuse me,” and without thinking much, you rushed to the bedroom. The door closed behind you, and you instantly felt the awkwardness take over you. You lay down on the bed, covering your face with your hands and thinking about how you had handled the situation.

For a moment, you stood there, trying to calm your breathing, but Rafe's laughter still echoed in your head. You knew it hadn't been anything serious, but still, something about his attitude made you feel like you'd made a mistake by being so close to him. Why did it have that effect on you? The thought of being so close, in such a strange situation, didn't leave you calm.

In the end, you just sank into the comfort of the bed, trying to drown out the uncomfortable thoughts.

The next morning you woke up at dawn, although the sun hadn't yet reached its highest point. You felt a little disoriented at first, the echo of the laughter from the night before still echoing in your head, mixed with the feeling of discomfort that the encounter with Rafe had left you with. But, in the end, you got up the courage to get up and made yourself comfortable a little. You changed into something more comfortable but decent: a simple t-shirt and some shorts. You wanted to dress casually, but you also knew that it wasn't the time to be disheveled.

You walked down the stairs and headed towards the kitchen. The house was quiet, as if everyone was still deep in their rest after the night. You decided to sit in one of the chairs, looking at the soft lights that filtered through the window, observing the garden that stretched outside. Everything was so quiet that it brought you peace.

You were waiting for Sofia, you knew that she would soon appear, probably with a dazzling smile and something interesting to tell, but time passed and it wasn't her who appeared. Instead of Sofia, it was Rafe who entered the kitchen. At first you didn't notice him at all, but when you looked up, your eyes met his. He was still wearing the shirt he had worn the night before. Rafe looked at you with a slight smile, as if nothing strange had happened the night before.

"Good morning," he said, his voice low and calm.

You felt a knot in your stomach, and without thinking about it too much, shame washed over you again. You remembered what had happened the night before: the laughter, the unexpected shock, how uncomfortable you had felt. You blushed and, with a sigh, decided to talk about it, as a way to let go of what was weighing you down.

“Hey, Rafe... I'm sorry about last night,” you said quickly, not knowing if it was really necessary, but you needed to get those words out. You felt stupid for having created such silly tension, but you couldn't shake the feeling of discomfort anymore.

Rafe raised his eyebrows for a moment, as if he didn't understand why you were apologizing, but his expression quickly softened.

“You don't have to apologize,” he replied, smiling calmly. His tone was so relaxed that it reassured you, almost as if the situation hadn't been as awkward as you thought. “It was nothing.”

That, in a way, relieved you, although you still felt a little embarrassed inside. But what really surprised you was how you kept talking to him, as if all of that had never happened. Despite the initial awkwardness, something about his presence made you feel calmer. You realized how easy it was to talk to him. The words flowed naturally, without the nerves you had felt before. They talked about trivial things at first: the house, his life, they had even talked about what you had thought of him when Sofia said they were dating.

The conversation slowly relaxed, without tension. You found yourself smiling more than you had planned, enjoying the talk without the awkwardness from before having room to grow. Rafe wasn't pressuring, he didn't make awkward comments, he just spoke with an ease that made you feel at peace, as if there were no expectations.

A few minutes passed, or maybe more, and you were surprised by how much you were enjoying talking to him. You had never imagined that you would have such a relaxed conversation with someone like him.

You were about to make one more comment when Sofia finally appeared. She entered the kitchen with a big smile, clearly full of energy, as always.

“Good morning!” she exclaimed, approaching the table and hugging you immediately. “How was your night? Did you rest well?”

She and Rafe looked at each other for a moment, exchanging a knowing smile that made it obvious how comfortable they were together.

“Yes, everything is fine,” you said to Sofia, smiling. “Just resting.”

Sofia looked at you curiously, as if she felt there was something more between you and Rafe, but she didn’t say anything. The feeling of being there with them, as part of the group, grew stronger. It was strange how the dynamics of that house absorbed you little by little, even when you weren’t completely sure where you fit in.

A few days had passed since that conversation in the kitchen, and although the calm between you and Rafe remained, something in you urged you to step away a little. You didn't have a specific reason, you just felt the need to disconnect from it all. You had your own business to attend to, things you had put aside while enjoying the company of Sofia and the others.

Rafe's house, the parties, all of that was left in the background as you immersed yourself in your own thoughts. The days passed without you going near Rafe's or Sofia's house, without you seeing them or even caring about how they were spending their time. You kept yourself busy, focused on other things: personal tasks, things you had had to put off because you were caught up in the flow of the Kooks' social life. You found yourself returning to your routines.

It had been a while since you disconnected a little from everything. The need to return to your own space had faded, and now, at the end of those days of silence, something was urging you to return. You thought about Sofia and how, even though you had been away, you knew she was still your friend. The idea of her now living with Rafe, as quickly as she had, seemed a little strange to you, but in the end, it was her life, her decisions. You decided it was time to go back, to meet them, although you didn't know exactly what to expect.

Arriving at Rafe's house, the stillness in the air made you feel that something wasn't right. The door was ajar, and inside, there was an unusual calm. Everything was silent. You assumed that Sofia wouldn't be home; she had probably gone out.

But as you moved towards the living room, you came across a scene you hadn't expected. Rafe was there, alone, in the center of the room. His posture tense, his hands shaking slightly. The first hint of something strange was that the phone in his hand was still in the air, dangling in his hand. It looked like he had received a call that had left him shaken. You could clearly see his labored breathing, his eyes scanning the room as if he was looking for something or someone, but at the same time as if he couldn't find it. The atmosphere in the house felt heavy, laden with something dark that you couldn't quite place.

You didn't know what to do. You didn't want to interrupt, but you couldn't just leave either. You assumed the call he'd received had left him in that state, though you weren't sure what it had been. The silence between the two of you was awkward, and as you thought about what to do, you cautiously approached.

You called his name.

"Rafe..." you said softly, trying not to startle him any more than he already was.

He glanced at you quickly, and his gaze, far from the arrogance he usually had, was filled with anxiety and some anger. His face was marked by a concern you hadn't seen before, and for a moment, he didn't seem like the Rafe Cameron you knew.

The tension in the air increased, and when he opened his mouth to speak, his voice sounded raspy, almost desperate.

"Go away!" he shouted, his tone a little higher than expected. The sound of his voice, so full of anxiety, made you take a step back, although, despite the sudden fear, something in you told you that you shouldn't leave.

You stood there, motionless for a moment, feeling your heart beating faster than normal. Rafe's panic was palpable, and the last thing you wanted to do was push him further. But, at the same time, you knew you couldn't just leave him like that.

"Rafe," you said, this time with a calmness that you didn't feel, but that you knew you needed for him to calm down. "I'm not going to leave."

His expression changed for a second, and he stared at you, as if trying to process what you had just said. A couple of seconds of tension filled the space between the two of you, but you didn't let him speak, taking advantage of the moment to move a little closer to him.

"It's okay, I understand that you don't feel well," you added, almost in a protective tone, although you said it without really knowing why. You didn’t know him as well as Sofia, but somehow, you cared for him more than you thought.

He took a deep breath, still shaken, and for a moment you thought you wouldn’t make it. But then, something in his gaze changed. His body, which was so stiff and tense, relaxed just a little, as if he was letting the words you had said reach him.

You moved a little closer, this time without him asking you to.

“How can I help you?” you asked softly. You knew that, in those moments, sometimes all you need is someone to be there, without pushing too hard.

Rafe looked at you a little confused, as if he wasn’t sure how to handle the situation, and then lowered his head, with a grimace of frustration.

“I don’t know…” he murmured, his voice still deep. “It’s just that… I got a call…”

You could see on his face that whatever had happened on that call had really affected him. You didn't say anything else, just waited for him to gather his thoughts, for him to feel ready to talk.

A few minutes passed in which the silence stretched out, and in that time, you were simply there, in the same room, giving him space, but showing him that you weren't willing to abandon him. Finally, he looked up, and in a low voice, he said:

“Thank you…”

You looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, you could see Rafe without the layer of arrogance and superiority that he always showed. You realized that, in that moment, he wasn't the self-assured boy that he had always been. He was just a person, vulnerable, dealing with something that he couldn't handle on his own.

You stayed with him as long as he needed, making sure that he wasn't alone in that moment. You didn't know what had happened with the call, or what was going to happen next, but a part of you understood something new about Rafe.

After that moment, something changed between you and Rafe, something that neither of you had anticipated. From that night on, you became the only person capable of understanding him in his darkest moments, without the need for words, without the typical facade of security that he used to have. What happened between you was something silent, almost imperceptible, but enough to leave a mark on both of you.

At first, Rafe didn't admit it out loud, he didn't even make it clear in his gestures, but there was something in his behavior that was beginning to change. The days passed, and while Sofia continued to be busy with her things, you began to see a side of Rafe that you had never imagined. He became quieter, more introspective, but instead of the usual practical jokes and air of arrogance, there were now moments when he looked simply lost, as if you were the only one in the world who understood what he was really feeling. And you, somehow, began to understand it too.

There was something about the way he looked at you when his thoughts seemed to be beyond his control, when the shadows of his past or his problems came back to haunt him. There was something that told you not to judge him, something that urged you to stay calm and empathetic, even when the situation seemed out of place. Whenever he seemed on the verge of losing control, you knew what to do, how to approach him without making him feel vulnerable or weak. You knew when to step back and when to offer him your company without needing to talk too much.

One afternoon, several days after that first meeting when you calmed him down, Rafe came home late, more undone than usual. He had had a fight with some of Sofia’s friends, and although no one in the house mentioned anything, you knew. It was as if everything he was trying to hide was crudely on display for you. When you entered the living room, he found you staring at the floor, shoulders slumped, and that expression only he could put on: a mix of repressed rage and deep sadness.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, without pushing. You knew those words, though simple, could have more impact than you thought.

Rafe looked up, a little surprised by the calmness of your voice. Normally, he would have responded with a wry smile or a scathing comment, but instead, he looked at you and just said,

“I’m not.”

The tone was low, almost inaudible, as if he were revealing something he had never let slip before. You sat next to him without saying anything else, not forcing him to speak, but willing to stay there if he needed to vent. At that moment, you knew something had changed between the two of you.

The silence stretched out, but it wasn’t awkward. You knew Rafe didn’t need you to tell him what he should do or how he should feel. He just needed time, the space to be vulnerable without feeling judged, and in that space, you were the only one who could understand him. You didn’t need words to recognize the small gestures that betrayed him: the way his hand shook slightly or how his breathing quickened when something affected him too much. Those small details were what allowed you to see what others didn’t.

As time went by, Rafe began to seek you out more often. Although he didn’t say it directly, you began to notice that there were times when he would simply approach you without a clear reason, without looking for a conversation, just so you would be close. On more than one occasion, he found you sitting on the couch, lost in your thoughts, and without saying anything, he sat next to you. No explanations were needed, because you both understood that just being together, without the need for words, was enough.

There were days when he couldn’t hide what he felt, and without warning, the walls he had built around himself began to crumble. One day, after a particularly bad fight with Sofia, he came into the house, late at night. His face was tense, but there was something different about him. He didn’t yell, he didn’t hurl reproaches, but he just stood in the doorway, staring at you in silence, waiting for you to say something. And you did, you knew that what he needed was something that no one else gave him: reassurance.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” you asked calmly, as you always did.

Rafe took a deep breath, letting the weight of his thoughts surround him for a moment. Finally, he slumped down on the couch, eyes closed, not wanting to show what he felt. But you knew. You knew that, even if he didn’t say it, he was seeking comfort, not in words, but in the way you looked at him, in how your actions offered him respite.

“Sometimes…” he said, in a whisper, while looking straight ahead, not really seeing you. “I feel like I'm alone, even when I'm surrounded by people.”

You didn't need to say anything else. You knew that what he had revealed wasn't something he wanted to share with many, but with you, he felt safe. Sometimes, just knowing that someone understood him gave him the comfort he so desperately needed.

That was the dynamic between you: you didn't need to always talk, or understand everything. You just needed to be there, to be the only one who, in his darkest moments, could offer him a soft light, without pressure, just letting time and space do their work. And in that silent understanding, you became the only person capable of understanding Rafe in his entirety, in his most fragile and dark moments, when no one else dared to enter.

Despite everything you shared with Rafe, there was something inside you that you couldn't ignore. A desire, an attraction that, even though you tried to hide it, kept emerging with every gesture, with every word he said to you in those moments when his guard was down. You found yourself watching him more than you should have, noticing the little details that had previously gone unnoticed: how the light played in his hair, the way he laughed, or how his tone of voice changed when he was relaxed, when he felt like he didn’t have to be the same old Rafe, the one everyone admired or feared.

At first, you tried to ignore it. You said it was just the closeness, the way things had developed between the three of you, and that it was a passing phase. But it wasn’t just that. Every time he smiled at you or looked at you in a warmer way, you felt a tug in your chest that you couldn’t control. There was something else in you that was building, something that terrified you.

You thought about Sofia, how happy she was with him, how much she had supported you in everything, and it tormented you to feel what you felt for Rafe. You felt guilty, like you were betraying a friendship you had cared for for so long. She didn’t deserve that, you thought. Sofia had always been loyal, fun, and even though she could be impulsive and a little blind at times, you saw her happy, devoted to Rafe, trusting him in a way you never could.

There were times when, after talking to Rafe, you were left alone, with thoughts running wild in your mind. You couldn’t stop thinking about him, about the way he made you feel special, about how his closeness disarmed you, how there was something in his fragility that attracted you, a side that no one else saw, but you did. You felt at a crossroads, trapped between what you felt and what you knew you couldn’t do.

It wasn’t just a physical attraction, it was something deeper. Something that made you want to hold him longer than a friend should. Something that asked you to be there for him in a way that went beyond friendship. It was the desire to be close to him, to take care of him, to become his refuge, and it terrified you how much you loved him without being able to control it.

At first, you tried to suppress it. Every time you felt that need to be closer to him, to share more moments, you tried to convince yourself that it was just a phase, that it was because of the closeness of the last few months. But the more you denied it, the stronger that feeling became inside you, like it was an undercurrent that grew every time he looked at you with those dark, intense eyes. Those eyes that disarmed you, that seemed to see beyond your facade, beyond your friendship.

Sometimes, you felt like you were walking on a tightrope. You knew that every moment you spent with Rafe, every conversation, every gesture, brought you closer to something you couldn't allow yourself. But you couldn't help it. The desire, the attraction, everything you felt for him, was growing inside you, and no matter how many times you told yourself it was a betrayal, that you should stay away, you couldn't stop thinking about what happened when he was around.

Every time Sofia left, every time Rafe was left alone with you, that feeling grew stronger, as if the air between the two of you became thick and charged with something neither of you dared to mention. It scared you, it made you uncomfortable, but you couldn't stop it.

206 notes · View notes

notlongtolove · 3 days ago

Text

in eternal lines

spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place. but when the deadlines are looming, it takes everything in you not to snap. because while you’re good at literature because you have to be, spencer's great at it because, well, he’s spencer.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst, comfort, fluff... i don't know anymore

content: student!reader gets kinda pissy and snappy but she has a 3000 word essay due and a fever so go easy on her. and spencer is spencer, so patient, so kind :'

word count: 5.2k

note: as a literature major this was extremely self-indulgent... i'm sorry. i love lit student reader and i hope you guys do too! also aptly titled after the one and only sonnet 18 because it was the first poem we were given read in uni <3 (reader is basing her essay on george macdonald's 'the princess and the goblin' and isaac watts' 'divine songs' if anyone is curious; but don't read too deeply into her lines about it because i submitted that essay weeks ago and it's been relinquished it from my mind oops)

a line: You’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through.

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. - william shakespeare

You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would sift through pages of Whitman’s dense poetry with you or debate whether Rossetti was really referencing Eve’s bite of the apple in Goblin Market? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place.

So yes, you love your boyfriend. But when deadlines are looming, and submission dates are bearing down on you, it takes everything in you not to snap. Because while Spencer can dissect poetry and prose with an ease that seems almost otherworldly, you sometimes feel the weight of comparison pressing on you. You’re good at it too—of course you are, you have to be. You’re pursuing a degree in it forgodsakes. But Spencer? He’s great at it because, well, he’s Spencer.

And while you can hold your own most days, a fair challenger when you come back from a particularly intriguing lecture too layered to dissect by yourself, there are times you feel like you’re running to keep up. Spencer will pull references from texts and obscure sources you haven’t even heard of, leaving you struggling to connect the dots. And that’s just literature. When he dives into his other passions—you don’t even bother to compete. Instead, you resign yourself to the couch, nodding and asking questions during the rare moments you can sort of follow the thread of his thoughts.

Having an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory does have its perks. Everyone knows that.

Your friends see it too. Like today when one of them stopped by between classes to return an essay you’d been stressing over for days.

“Well, don’t you look fantastic,” she teased, smirking. “Guessing those leftovers weren’t as ‘fine’ as you thought?”

“Don’t even start,” you mutter, weakly grabbing the paper from her hands as you lean on the doorframe. You flip through the pages marked in red ink quickly with the little strength you have, eyes scanning briefly through the comments before you’re on to the next page, next page, next page. They’re not what you’re looking for.

And then you see it. There on the last page, a definite red circle around it: B+.

You’d expected it of course. B+—your ever-reliable benchmark. It's a mark of consistency you've been forced to be contented with. It wasn’t horrendous. It wasn’t amazing. It was fine. But you’d worked hard on this one. You’d hoped, maybe, for something more. You’d expected it, and yet, you don’t know why you still feel a pinch of disappointment.

“How’d you do?” you ask grimly, fighting the nausea creeping up your throat.

“Same,” she replies nonchalantly, scrolling through her phone.

You nod, trying not to dwell on the fact that she’d seen your grade before you did.

“Oh, you know it’s always the same,” she adds with a wry smile. “Solidly subpar, as per tradition.”

The phrase stung a little more now than it had when you’d coined it back in your first year. Back when, after a string of middle-of-the-road grades, you’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through.

“Whatever, it was only 20% anyway,” she shrugs.

“Yeah…” you reply weakly, though the disappointment still gnaws at you. You can’t quite shake it. Maybe it’s because deep down, you know you do care—no matter how often you tell yourself you’ve accepted the fate of being perpetually average. You still want, so quietly, so desperately, to be something more. You’ve always had a love for literature: the way words flow across a page, imbuing meaning into simple phrases, transforming them into art. You’ve always admired the beauty of it. But passion doesn’t translate to academic brilliance, and appreciation doesn’t equal A grades. It’s a hard truth you’ve come to learn.

“How was class?” you ask, trying to steer your mind away from its current spiral. “We still on Faerie Queene?”

“Mhmm,” she hums, rolling her eyes. “Kristoff’s still rambling on and on about virtue and chastity. Ha. Imagine me living in those times—at the rate I ghost men, I’d be a certified whore.”

“Well, actually, they’d probably get to you first,” Spencer interrupts as he steps out of the bedroom, his tone slipping into that familiar, matter-of-fact cadence. “Virtue and chastity were considered to be absolute truths in the 16th century. A woman’s value was intrinsically tied to her perceived purity, which of course, was a reflection of her family’s honor.”

If you weren’t so ill, you would’ve laughed at her face—eyes wide, mouth slightly open in disbelief.

“And then there’s the public shaming,” he continues, leaning casually against the doorframe with his hands tucked into his pockets already miles deep into his thoughts. “In fact, the entire allegory of Book III revolves around chastity as a cornerstone of moral virtue. Witch trials in the late 16th and 17th centuries often targeted women who were thought as sexually deviant or independent, framing their ‘sins’ as some sort of evidence that they were consorting with the devil—”

He pauses, glancing between you and your friend. “So yeah… considering all that, if you’d ‘ghosted’ a few men back then, they probably would’ve gone straight to accusations of witchcraft or worse.”

Your friend stares at him, “...Right. Good to know,” she says, blinking slowly.

“But you know, Edmund Spenser intended The Faerie Queene to be a moral guide for young men,” he adds as an afterthought, realizing he’s just indirectly affirmed your friend’s self-deprecating joke. Spencer shifts awkwardly but can’t help himself by continuing, “It was meant to instil chivalric virtues to shape a model English gentleman. So technically, your interpretation is, um, modern at best.”

Her expression—equal parts baffled, impressed, maybe even a little scared—almost makes you forget how sick you feel.

“So…” she says after a pause, “I’m guessing you’re Spencer?”

“I am,” he replies simply.

“Well,” she says, drawing the word out, “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

Spencer offers a smile, “Likewise.”

“Anyway… I’m off.” She slings her bag over her shoulder, “Essay’s not gonna write itself. This one’s 30% by the way. God, I hate Kristoff but Burton’s a close second for sure.”

You wince at the reminder, the weight of your unfinished work pressing on you. The brief called for at least three secondary sources, and you’ve barely scratched the surface.

“Feel better soon, sweetie,” she says, offering you a sympathetic look. You manage a weak smile in return.

“Bye Spencer,” she says, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “Take care of her for me, will ya?”

“Will do,” he says curtly, giving a small wave as you close the door behind her.

A moment later, your phone buzzes. He’s cute, her text reads. Another follows immediately: And basically a walking Wikipedia.

You start typing a response, but another text pops up before you can send it: Don’t dog on us for using ChatGPT now. You huff and click your phone off instead, tossing it aside.

Therein lies another source of stress. Spencer is always happy to help you untangle a difficult text or interpret a dense poem, but he draws the line when it comes to your academic work. He never interferes directly. You’ve seen it yourself—The first time you handed him your laptop to review an essay, he’d made his comments verbally, pointing at sections on the screen while explaining his critiques in detail, but never actually touching the keyboard. You’d brought it up during an argument once, after a particularly crushing grade. Your frustration had spilled over: You’re smarter. You type faster. Why can’t you just fix it? But Spencer had only responded with something about “academic integrity” and the importance of maintaining the “code of conduct.” The conversation ended there, and after that, you stopped asking.

Even yesterday, when you managed to scrape together 300 words for a draft, you’d handed your laptop to him, and again, he was careful to keep his boundaries. Too drained to make edits in real-time, you’d expected—maybe hoped—that he might step in more directly. Instead, Spencer quietly switched the document to “suggesting” mode, marking up your draft with precise yet detached annotations, never infiltrating or overstepping your own words. Spencer Reid is and always will be a stickler for rules. You try to hold yourself to the same standard. You steer clear of AI, no matter how tempting it might be. You know better. Well, that and because Spencer would never let it slide.

But now it’s late and the thought of letting some website churn out polished, perfectly phrased sentences for you in seconds has never felt more tempting. The nausea has faded, leaving behind a fever in its place. Spencer’s in the living room, reading. You’d banished him to the couch—even the faint sound of pages turning, not to mention the speed at which he reads, was enough to derail your already fragile train of thought. You’d felt bad of course; he’d made soup for you earlier, fed it to you and everything. But with this essay worth 30% of your grade and your 300 words barely scratching the surface of the 3,000-word requirement, you don’t have it in you to be oh-so-sweet and ever-so-grateful. Not right now. You’ve nailed down the introduction—a quick overview of historical context, a sweeping statement on the authors’ intents. But now, the real challenge looms: The thesis. And you’re utterly stuck.

This essay argues that… that…

You groan in frustration, flopping back against the pillows. So much for children’s literature. You’d chosen this class thinking it’d be an easy ride—fairy tales and picture books, how hard could it be? Yet here you are, being tasked with dissecting the significance of form and language. Now, the simple language and pretty pictures are anything but your friend, doing nothing to help further your argument. Your head throbs, your mouth feels like sandpaper, and the brilliant points you’d thought of in last week’s class are nowhere to be found, lost in the haziness of your mind. With a defeated sigh, you peel back the sheets and shuffle out of the bedroom, laptop in hand, every joint aching in protest. Spencer looks up from his book as the rustle of sheets catches his attention. His heart aches slightly when he sees you in the doorway, clutching your laptop and looking every bit as pitiful as you feel. He sets his book to the side.

“How’s it going, honey?” he asks sympathetically, even though he already knows the answer from the state of you.

“It’s barely going,” you admit with a yawn, tears prickling at your eyes from the force of it. They only add to your overall air of defeat as you cross the room and crawl into his lap, laptop balanced precariously on the armrest. “Brain’s foggy, can’t think straight,” you murmur in incomplete sentences.

“Finalized your thesis yet?” he asks again, his voice gentle but patient. You shake your head, sinking deeper into his chest—It’s a silent surrender, as if giving in to the exhaustion and frustration that’s been building up. Spencer notices, brushing your hair gently away from your face, his hand cool against your hot skin. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “You’re burning up, hon,” he says softly, voice full of concern. “Why don’t we get you to bed, take a break for tonight, hm? You can work on this tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. The thought of putting everything off feels like both a relief and a burden. The idea of sleep has never seemed more appealing. But then, the thought of letting this drag on for another day—of pushing the finish line even further out of your reach fills you with dread. But you know you’re not in any state to be working on anything right now, let alone something worth 30% of your final grade. You know that you can’t focus, not when your body feels like it’s ready to give up and when your mind can barely hold onto a coherent thought. “Tomorrow, okay?” Spencer prompts again, calm and gentle. You know he’s right, so, despite the gnawing anxiety in the back of your mind, you nod. “Okay.”

Spencer doesn’t push, just gives you a small, reassuring smile as he stands. Every movement feels like a chore as he guides you back to bed but the warmth of the blankets and the prospect of rest is more than enough motivation. He tucks you in, his touch comforting and steady. You feel like a weight has been lifted, albeit temporarily. Either way, it’s enough for now. You close your eyes, the thought of picking up where you left off tomorrow seeming almost bearable.

You wake to the sunlight filtering through the curtains. It takes a moment for your brain to adjust to the new day, the stress of yesterday not entirely gone. But as you sit up, stretching slowly, mind less hazy and joints less achy, you feel a renewed determination, a flicker of focus that was nowhere to be found last night. Your mind is still whirling with fragments of ideas, half-formed arguments, and theoretical connections when Spencer strolls in with a cup of something warm for you.

“Tea.” he announces, handing it to you with a small, triumphant smile. “Decaffeinated.”

You frown, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Need coffee.”

“Studies say caffeinated beverages stimulate the colon,” he counters matter-of-factly.

“Eww,” you groan, wrinkling your nose at him. “Why’d you have to say it like that?”

“Exactly like that,” he replies without missing a beat, his tone precise and measured. “You’ve just recovered, and everyone knows caffeine is a gastrointestinal irritant.’

You huff, taking the mug from him. “Fine, but if I don’t finish this essay, it’s on you.” Spencer raises an eyebrow, completely unbothered by your protest. “Somehow, I think you’ll survive.”

You grumble under your breath but take a tentative sip of the tea anyway. It’s not what you wanted, but you can’t deny that he’s probably right—he usually is. The warmth seeps through the mug into your hands, grounding you just enough to pull your laptop over from the bedside table. Its practically empty screen blinks back up at you, as though it’s been waiting patiently all night. Hi again. Still here. Still empty.

Spencer takes a peek at your screen and you can’t help but glare half-heartedly at the mug in his hands. Of course, it’s coffee. He’d get to enjoy caffeine while insisting you couldn’t. Typical.

“So, I was thinking…” you start, deciding to let the injustice slide for now as you scroll through your document.

“Hmm?” He looks up, his gaze meeting yours over the rim of his cup.

“What if I say that MacDonald’s pedagogy was more effective for children because Watts’s text was too directive. That works, right?” You look up, scanning his face for some form of agreement.

“That’s hardly arguable honey,” his words land softly, but you still feel your shoulders sag. “It’s an observation.”

"But—look at the words they use! It's so different. Here, look at the tone," you insist, nudging your laptop toward him. "There has to be something to be said about that, right?"

Spencer leans in, glancing at your screen before looking back at you. His expression is calm, composed, and maddeningly reasonable. "Watts’s text was meant to be read as a textbook. Of course it’s directive. You know that."

Do you? You think you don't know much at this point. You don’t know what you know, and you don’t know what you don’t know. You groan, dragging your hands down your face as if you could physically scrape the frustration away. Darn you, Isaac Watts. Darn you, pedagogical learning. Darn you, whoever had the audacity to name this course a simple exploration into the history of children’s literature.

Before you can wallow further, Spencer slides your laptop away. “How about we brush our teeth before crying over educational theories for children in the 18th century?” he suggests, his voice light. You sigh dramatically, dragging yourself to your feet like it’s some Herculean effort. When you shuffle back from the bathroom, hair slightly damp from washing your face, Spencer has taken over your spot on the bed, laptop resting on his legs as he scrolls through some article. He glances up when you flop down beside him with an exaggerated sigh.

"Feel better?" he asks, the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips.

"Not at all," you grumble. You don’t let him know that the brief pause in frustration has given your head just enough space to try again.

It’s been hours, but you’ve finally narrowed down your thesis. It’s not amazing—far from it—but it’s something. It’s arguable, at least. Spencer’s been relegated back to the living room, his presence a vague hum in the background as you attempt to focus. You’d claimed you worked better in bed, though Spencer’s tried (and failed) to prove with statistics and studies that it’s just a placebo effect, a lie your brain insists on believing.

But right now, none of that matters. You have a thesis and on that note, an essay to begin. Or, at least, the faintest glimmer of one. And that’s when you hit a wall. Again. You sit cross-legged, laptop perched on your knees as you stare at the cursor, blinking like it knows you’re stuck. You wish it would stop judging you. You drag yourself—and your laptop thats become an extension of your body at this point—into the living room like a child seeking comfort. Spencer barely looks up from his article when you slump into the couch next to him.

“What about this?” You straighten your back, determined to sound confident this time, even if you're not sure where you're going with it. “What if I say that MacDonald’s use of fantasy is critical because it creates like, an emotional bridge and that makes it more effective for moral teaching and—”

“Well, yes," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Spencer doesn’t even look up from his article. "But that’s kind of a subpoint, honey.”

You stiffen, irritation rising like bile in your throat. “It’s not a subpoint. It’s a point.”

He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking up, finally meeting yours. His tone isn’t dismissive, but it might as well be. “How is that significant? What does it build toward?”

You grit your teeth. “Ugh, you sound like Kristoff.” You mutter, more to yourself than to him. You know it’s not fair to snap, but your patience is paper thin. You can feel the fever creeping back into your skin, and you’re not sure if it's the heat or the mounting pressure, but suddenly everything feels like a little too much.

“Fine,” you say, swallowing your frustration, trying again. “What if I say that MacDonald’s narrative style is more progressive because it like, engages the reader’s emotions directly? And that’s why Watts’ text feels scarier?”

Spencer pauses. For a moment, you think you’ve finally hit something solid, his eyes narrowing just enough to show he’s intrigued. “And how are you planning to argue that?”

“Well, um… um—I… I don’t know!” You exhale sharply, throwing your hands up in exasperation. You sink back against the cushions, frustration seeping into your bones. “Something about how MacDonald’s vibe is all nice and charming while Watts is all like, ‘learn this or else’.

“Sure I guess…” Spencer acknowledges, nodding slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But you’ll need more than vibes and a strong dislike of Watts to support it sweetheart.”

“Gee, thanks,” you say bitterly, rolling your eyes.

He chuckles softly, a sound that’s too calm, too collected, and somehow that makes it worse. He’s not wrong, but you’re still pissed off. You take a breath, steeling yourself for the next round of dissection. “Okay, then what if I say that MacDonald lets kids think for themselves, and Watts... doesn’t. Because of his moral authority and intellectual agency and whatever.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rise, just a fraction, but it’s enough. You feel a flicker of something—relief, maybe? It’s hard to say. His voice has shifted, just slightly, less detached now, more engaged. “You can build on that.”

“Really?” you ask, suddenly more hopeful than you’d like to admit.

“Really,” he confirms, leaning back in his chair. But then he tilts his head and furrows his brows in a way that makes you want to throw your laptop at him. “But you’ll need to define those terms and back it up with examples. Otherwise, it’s just a claim.” Of course.

“God, you’re making this so much harder than it needs to be!” you snap, the irritation rising in your throat. “I get it, okay? I need examples. But you’re not even letting me work out a point before you just, I don’t know, shit all over it.” Spencer’s eyes widen, and for a second, you almost feel bad for snapping at him.

“I’m just trying to help,” he says gently, but there's something in the way he says it—just a little too patient—that makes you bristle. You hate how right he always is, how calm he always looks, how much care he always has in his eyes even when you’re acting out.

“You’re trying to help?” you repeat incredulously, shaking your head. “You’re poking holes in everything!” Even in your feverish haze, you know you’re being cruel—but you just can’t help it. All you can think about is how everything is slipping away, how your thoughts won’t line up, how your head is starting to hurt again. You’re not even sure if you’re angry at him anymore, or just angry at everything else.

Spencer doesn’t answer right away. He glances at your screen again, a mess of quotes and bulletpoints. “I just want to make sure it’s solid, honey,” he says finally, his tone softer.

You scoff. “Yeah, well, you tore apart whatever solid lead I thought I had after two hours of work in just about five minutes, so thanks for that,” words tumbling out before you can stop them. Spencer’s silence hangs heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speak. “Just… just let me get through this.”

Spencer sits there for a moment, just enough for you to feel the weight of the tension shift in the room. “I’m not saying you can’t get through it. I just want you to get through it right,” he says carefully, his voice quiet but insistent. “That’s all.” There’s no judgment in his voice, just care.

But the heat, the fever, it’s all swirling inside you, and you can’t hold it together much longer. “Of course you are…” you mutter bitterly, already regretting everything you’ve said. It feels like every step forward just leads you straight into another wall, and you’re just too tired to keep going. It’s not that you want to push him away or that you don’t appreciate his help. You’re just too irritable, too exhausted. You just want the whole damn essay to be done—and you wish you didn’t need his help to make it happen. You want to yell, to throw something, to demand that the world stop spinning long enough for you to catch your breath. But all that comes out is a hollow, defeated sigh.

You feel like you're drowning and you don’t want to drag him under with you. “I’m just…” You stop yourself, swallowing hard, trying to gather whatever little strength you have left. “I’m just so tired.”

Spencer looks at you, eyes full of concern, but it doesn’t help. You don’t want sympathy. You want to be better—to be able handle all of this. You want to be able to write this damn essay on goddamn children’s books without falling apart. And it doesn’t help that you’re falling apart in front of Spencer. The same Spencer who can recite verses from Paradise Lost at the drop of a hat. You’d almost burst into tears the last time he did it after it had taken you an entire week just to decipher and analyze a single chapter with any real confidence. You can’t help but feel that pang of inadequacy every time he breezes through something you’ve struggled with, even if he doesn’t mean to make it look so effortless. You hate yourself for it. You can’t find a way to shake the feeling that you’re not doing enough, not good enough. Not for yourself, not for him. You feel the sting of it, it’s pressing on your chest, suffocating.

“I just… just feel like I can’t keep up with any of it.” You don’t say it with any anger, just exhaustion. It’s not even directed at him anymore—it’s just the fact that you feel so stuck, so far behind where you should be, where you so badly want to be. “Like I can’t keep up with you.”

Oh. Spencer feels his heart sink. He’s always prided himself on being able to read people. He should’ve known better. He’d been so focused on helping, so intent on pushing you to reach the level he knows you’re capable of, the level he knows you want to be at—even if you keep telling yourself you don’t. The fever, the deadlines, the constant pushing—he should’ve known that it was all too much.

“You don’t have to keep up with me honey, I’m right here with you,” he says, trying to get you to look up at him. You can’t meet his gaze. You feel guilty for snapping, for letting the frustration slip out, but you’re not rational enough right now to pull yourself out from this spiral of self-pity. It’s easier to stay here, in the anger, the frustration, than to face the embarrassment of it all.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with regret. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.” Spencer takes your hand, cautiously, testing the waters. He knows you don’t exactly want to be touched right now. He knows it makes you feel coddled. He pauses, waiting for your reaction. When you don’t push him away, he gains the confidence to cradle your face gently. You don’t resist, your tired eyes meeting his, heavy with sadness and Spencer thinks he can actually feel his heart break.

“You’re doing just fine sweetheart. You’re not falling behind. You’re just stressed. And sick.” He knows you’re feeling fragile, like any comfort might smother you so he threads forward lightly. “This essay? You’ll get it done. I promise.” It sounds right, and yet it doesn’t really help. It doesn’t stop the doubt that’s eating at you, the sense that you’re just not measuring up to everything you want to be. You feel like you’re barely treading water, no matter how hard you swim, the shore never gets any closer.

But for now, Spencer’s words are enough to quiet the panic—a buoy in your sea of sadness threatening to pull you under. You cling to it, knowing you’ll have to start swimming again soon. But for this moment, you allow yourself to stop. A beat. A pause. A breath��Just for now.

It’s only the next day that you manage to get the words on the page, not in any smooth, brilliant way, but they’re there. The sentences form, sometimes haltingly, sometimes with more confidence, until the essay is painfully but finally done. Not perfect, but it’s done. Relief washes over you, even as exhaustion lingers.

The moment you hear the front door open, you practically leap up, laptop in hand, meeting Spencer before he can even take his shoes off. He raises an eyebrow, setting his bag down as you both settle onto the couch. Without a word, you hand over the laptop, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You wait with bated breath as he begins to scroll, your laborious effort displayed in black and white. The sound of the touchpad clicking feels louder than it should in the quiet room. He asks a few questions, here and there—clarifications, mostly. Questions you answer with ease, surprising even yourself with the confidence in your responses. He nods along, his expression thoughtful, but not critical. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Spencer looks up, eyes bright, a proud smile on his face. “It looks great, honey. You did a really good job.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face at his praise. “Really?” Spencer leans in, cupping your cheek gently, and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Really.” When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours for a moment, his hand still cradling your cheek. “You worked so hard on this,” he murmurs. “So proud of you.”

Your chest tightens, but in a good way, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning forward to kiss him again, this time slower, savoring the comfort he always seems to bring. “Now," he pulls away just enough to smirk, "can I have my bedroom back, or should I just start setting up camp on the couch?” You laugh, rolling your eyes, but it’s full of affection. “Don’t even start.” Spencer chuckles, his arm slipping around your waist as he pulls you closer, the tension of yesterday long forgotten.

When you get your paper back, you flip through the pages, one after the other, looking for the feedback, waiting for the corrections, the marks that tell you where you inevitably went wrong.

Next page. Next page. Next page.

And then, there it is. On the last page, in a definitive red circle, unmistakable: A.

It’s an A.

A goddamn A.

It doesn’t feel like a one-time fluke, not exactly, but you can’t shake the thought that this might be the only time you break through the glass ceiling you’ve spent so long looking up at. And who knows, maybe you’ll never push past it again. But for now, you allow yourself to relish in this singular moment of triumph. It’s enough. It’s more than enough.

Because now you know that the other side is real, and that you can get there. But Spencer, the genius, the enigma, who’s always been a step ahead of everyone in everything academic, has always known.

And while everyone knows that an A in an essay that’s only a partial percentage of your overall grade isn’t anything compared to what he’s achieved, nothing compared to the academic milestones he’s already crossed—Still, he’s here, celebrating with you. You can see it in his eyes, even if he knows you’re not one to make a big deal of these kinds of things. His quiet joy is evident in the way he grins that little grin of his, the one that’s only for you.

So, in summary, in essence, in all the words and ways you could possibly use to phrase a conclusion—You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would read through your entire syllabus for the semester (frustratingly quickly), just because he knows you understand better when you can talk things out? Who else would patiently stick around, exiled to the couch in their own home, while you’re exhausted, irritable, and buried in deadlines? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—though brilliant and boundless—isn’t the only reason why you fell for him.

Because when the world feels too heavy, when the never ending lines of poetry and prose become too difficult to untangle by yourself, Spencer’s there reminding you—ever so gently, ever so steadily—that you can make it through, one word at a time.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer x reader #spencer x self insert #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x reader angst #spencer reid x reader comfort

293 notes · View notes