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You like to consider the online world as a vast socio-cultural landscape, entirely separate from reality but not removed from it. An ever-shifting space full of contradictions—curated perfection alongside messy authenticity, anonymity meeting identification. Some academics find it to be the perfect playground. Others, not so much.
You are one of the former. You think the digital space is both baffling and intriguing, which means you spend your precious spare time trying to understand it. But work and research keeps you busy, so the latest trends are often lost on you.
Spencer Reid is even worse at it.
Academic curiosity drives your participation. Spencer outright refuses. He considers his email social media.
Thus, getting him to commit to a hard launch post is proving to be a problem.
“But why?” he asks, sitting across from you at the spot you’ve accepted as your regular corner at The Brewery, brows knit in genuine confusion. “If you have to post one, then post it on your account. Why do I need to make my own?”
“So I can tag you!” you reply. This has been your third attempt at convincing him to make an Instagram account, even an empty, private one. You’re not even sure he knows what tagging means.
Truthfully, you’re not entirely sure what the purpose of a hard launch is, only that a lot of couples do it. From your observations and quick research (read: clicking on the first four, non AI-generated articles from Google), it’s meant to be both an announcement and a milestone. A combination of the inherently narcissistic look at us that tends to drive social media, and a more serious we’ve been dating long enough to know that we like each other and decided to make things exclusive. Equal parts celebratory and gloating.
Spencer doesn’t see the point of it.
“You can just write my name in the textbox.” he says, stirring another spoonful of sugar into his half-empty cup of coffee.
“Fine,” you relent, pushing your glasses up. “Damn it, I thought the third time was going to be the one to convince you.”
“Ah, third time’s indeed a charm, but in this case, it worked out in my favor.”
You get a very childish desire to pout, but that’s tamped down because you are a professional. Pouting is off the table, thank you very much. Instead, you let a sigh heave out, slow and annoyed.
Spencer’s teasing smile melts and blurs into affection and you’re forced to look back down at your tea again.
You hate how viscerally your body responds to him, always on the verge of burning when he’s near, your stomach roiling unpleasantly when he smiles just so. You are convinced that, deep in your soul, you still loathe him, and such physical reactions are mere evidence of this loathing.
Primal biology telling you to run far, far away and cancel this fake relationship arrangement.
Of course, you’re in too deep now. Might as well see this through, at least until your best friend’s wedding.
“Three’s an interesting number,” he starts when you make no reply, “It’s consistent across a number of mythologies and cultures, manifesting as a motif about—”
Your gaze flits back up, questioning. “What are you doing? Why the—what?”
He hesitates. “Erm, I thought you’d enjoy a discussion on the historical significance of the number. Since that expression didn’t simply spring from a vacuum. For centuries, the number three has always been present. Carl Jung even wrote about it, though I’m sure you already know that.”
“Are you trying to distract me by nerding out about the number three?”
“That, and steering the topic away from Instagram.”
A very unprofessional, very unserious, very loud snort leaves your body.
“That’s a new sound.”
“You’re keeping track of my… sounds?”
“I can’t help but remember everything you do.”
Another very unprofessional sound escapes, like a croak tripping its way out of your throat.
Spencer flushes. “No, no, I just mean, with my eidetic memory—”
“—Right, of course—”
“—not meant to be creepy—”
“—You’re the furthest thing from creepy.”
“It’s–I can’t exactly forget.” he runs a hand through his hair, chuckling lightly. “You. I can’t forget you. Or anything, really—”
“Spencer. I get it.” You do. You really, really do. It’s how his brain functions. Doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t make you special. “It’s fine, you don’t have to make me feel better about anything. I’ll post a picture by myself, if that’s the most you’ll let me do.”
“Yes, that’s–that’s fine. I just don’t want to make an account of my own.”
At the look of defeat on your face, he softens, hand reaching over the table. Presumably to touch yours. You cut it off by wrapping both palms over your teacup, and watch as he curls his into a fist in the middle of the table.
“Hey, it’s nothing personal, okay? I simply don’t want another avenue for students to find me.”
For the second time, you wince. He’s right, and it’s a little silly that you didn’t consider that.
“I didn’t think of that.” you admit quietly. “Sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” His head tilts, curls catching the light. “Why’s it so important to you, anyway?”
You flush, averting your gaze from him—haloed and patient and entirely distracting. “It just seemed like something people did in normal relationships, you know.”
“I wouldn’t know, actually, no one in my circle is particularly fond of social media.” Spencer says, “Old friends, current colleagues.”
“It’s not like I spend all my time online,” you say, feeling a little defensive.
Spencer bridges the gap between your hands, fingertips landing on your wrist, his next words dipped in apology. “I didn’t mean to imply that.”
“I know,” you accept his warmth, even though it’s doing nothing to untangle the mess in your head right now. You stare at his hand, risk a glance up to his face, before glaring into your tea again. Finally, the words spill. “I don’t want them to think we’re just hooking up.”
“Oh? And who’s they?”
“Who else? The busybodies in the faculty.” You whisper the last part. The topic of your ‘relationship’ has shifted the rumors away from Spencer and his female students, but now, the speculation is about you. “I’d like to set things straight.”
You don’t tell him why it’s so important, why there’s a knot in your stomach every time he refuses. That you can’t afford getting a reputation for fooling around with a colleague. He could probably get away with it—he’s on track for a tenure position, with his amount of education and expertise across multiple fields.
You’re not even done with your PhD., studying a subject where opportunity is already quite scarce, up against savants and trailblazing thinkers. Geniuses. People like Spencer Reid, who, for his whole life, probably had grants and scholarship opportunities falling at his feet.
Spencer watches you with that indecipherable gaze, the one that makes the knot in your stomach tangle in on itself. You try not to shift in your seat, but restlessness overwhelms you anyway so you pull your glasses off and wipe away imaginary smudges.
“Would a public event count as a… a hard launch?” he asks suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
“If we attend something together, say… a dinner party where I introduce you as my girlfriend, does that count?”
“I suppose it does, yeah. It’s still a public declaration, just not online.”
“Okay, then you can make a post online, and I’ll take you as my date, so we have all bases covered.”
“And whose dinner party do you suggest we crash?”
“Not crash. And not a dinner party either,” his lips twitch. You try to figure out if it’s a smile or a wince, but he smooths his expression and continues. “The soirée this weekend. We might as well go together.”
The soiree. You’d gone to it when you were still new, bright eyed and eager, but now the thought nauseates you. It’s something of a tradition for faculty, meant to encourage mingling among departments. A night of connections.
Or, in your experience, three to four hours of elaborate peacocking and dick measuring contests.
You used to think it was worth it—it’s free, for one thing, fully catered with a buffet table for the attendees. But after a couple of times, it became clear to you that it’s a shallow night. Connections only work if you already know the right people to initiate you into new groups. Asserting yourself simply makes one look needy and desperate.
Besides, most professors use the night as an excuse to drink and try to sleep with the young, inexperienced hires.
“I guess now would be a good time to tell you I wasn’t planning to go.”
Spencer’s brow quirks. “Why not?”
“Carrie hates them, so I didn’t have anyone to go with me. And it’s not fun going there alone, everyone gets so cliquey.” Once again, some version of the truth.
“But I’m going,” Spencer says, smiling, “So you won’t be alone. And what better way to announce to everyone that this is a serious relationship than coming together as a pair?” He highlights the word serious with a conspiratorial wink.
You must look unconvinced, because he adds, "It would be good practice too. Facing people together. We need to do that before the wedding, make sure what we're doing is believable."
You hate that he makes sense. You hate that he took your problem seriously, why couldn’t he have been dismissive and condescending about this? Why did he have to find a compromise? Now, if you disagree, you’re going to be the unreasonable one.
With a sigh, you nod. “All right, fine. Only if you promise to keep me company the whole night. I don’t want to deal with anyone hitting on me.”
Spencer’s eyes twinkle, unfairly pretty. “I promise.”
---
The night of the soiree, you trade your usual wool slacks and button down shirts with the safest option in your closet—a classic little black dress and tights. You know they’d scoff if you came in your usual work clothes, but mumble snidely if you wore anything fancier. As usual, your presence requires a balancing act, one that you wish you didn’t have to adhere to, but you’ve mastered nonetheless. Not out of any love for these unspoken rules, but for survival.
It’s topped off by your vintage leather coat, and black heels you begrudgingly wore after a five minute mental debate in front of the mirror. Spencer would be picking you up, and the promise of not needing to walk or drive seems like a good enough trade off.
After a spritz of your favorite perfume and a prayer, you rush downstairs to wait for him outside. Braving the cold feels like a better alternative to inviting him up to your unit. Too intimate.
“Part of me was hoping you’d decide to ghost.” you say, arms crossed over your chest as he walks up to where you’re standing at the threshold of your apartment building.
“Ghost?” Like you, he’s traded his sweaters with a suit jacket, and tamed his wild curls somewhat, cutting a striking figure as he approaches you.
“Ghost, as in you don’t show up without explanation.” Squinting, you look past him and study his car. Ancient, sputtering there on your apartment building’s driveway. “Maybe we should take a cab instead.”
“I’ll have you know, my car is in pristine condition.” he says.
“It looks older than both of us combined.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Indeed, it’s a vintage model but I assure you—”
“Doctor,” a smile breaks across your lips, “I was exaggerating.”
He chuckles, breathless. Something in his posture is different, shoulders braced straighter than usual. His ears are pink, though that could be from the cold.
“I–I see. But it’s a perfectly safe car, and I’m a very cautious driver.”
“Don’t worry, Doctor Reid, I trust you.” you reply, tucking your hand into the crook of his proffered elbow. “You could’ve just honked, you know, you didn’t have to escort me like this.”
“I don’t wish to contribute to this city’s noise pollution.” Spencer says with a shake of his head. He reaches the passenger’s side before you, fumbling with the handle. “Besides, that’s rude.”
“I wouldn’t have minded, you shouldn’t have gone through the trouble.”
He squints, hovers over the door and studies you and the words you tossed so carelessly into the air. “It wasn’t trouble.” he says, “Why do you think a little effort is trouble?”
The door slams shut as you process his question, wondering whether he expects a response or if it’s rhetorical.
Once he settles in the driver’s seat, you answer anyway. “It’s not that. We’re just–we’re not an actual couple, Spencer, you don’t have to do that stuff when it’s just the two of us.”
Spencer blinks. Stares at you with those owlish eyes, and clicks his seatbelt in place. “I’d do it regardless. It isn’t an act, but if it makes you uncomfortable–”
“No, no.” you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to soothe out this conversation before it tangles into something. “I’m fine. Really. And I appreciate you doing that, it’s very… gentlemanly.”
He nods once, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, and pulls out of your driveway. Spencer does prove to be a very cautious driver, though you can’t help but watch him. There’s constant movement that wouldn’t normally be there—fingers tapping against the wheel, mouth twitching every so often.
“Everything okay?” you say.
“Yeah, why?”
“I don’t know, you have this… weird energy right now.”
“What? No, I don’t.” His voice goes at least an octave higher, words tumbling out so fast the sentence sounds more like one long, multisyllabic word.
“Uh huh.” your eyes narrow, “What’s the problem, Spencer? Was it because of what I said earlier?”
“No, you’re fine.”
“Then what? Are you nervous?”
Another twitch of his mouth. He keeps his eyes diligently on the road.
“It’s okay if you are. I know I am,” you admit softly, “But we already talked about the details of how we supposedly got together. You’ve got eidetic memory, you should be able to remember all of them.”
“Right.” The car stops at a red light, and he finally looks over at you. “We enjoyed each other’s company so much I decided to ask you out. I took you to the cinema where we watched Casa Blanca, and then went out for dinner after.”
“Exactly. Dinner at that Italian restaurant in Dupont Circle.” They’re half truths—you two have been hanging out a lot after all, and you both have seen Casa Blanca, and enjoy the restaurant. Just never been there together. “I doubt they’d ask anything beyond that. We’re a new couple.”
He nods, as the car thrums to life again. It’s quiet the rest of the ride. The kind that makes you shift, not necessarily in discomfort, but charged with something you can’t quite name.
Upon leaving the car, Spencer escorts you once again, but this time you accept it without comment. The venue is located on the second floor, and any assistance is welcome when walking up flights of stairs in your heels.
It’s a familiar scene. Professors, instructors, teaching assistants, even some plucky undergrads, all idly milling in the large conference hall, which is all done up and decorated elegantly. Tables line one side of the wall, some with neatly arranged hors d'oeuvres and drinks, the others yet to be filled. You know from experience that a large buffet will follow once people are more settled.
Your hand, still tucked in Spencer’s right elbow, curls in on the fabric of his blazer. He must feel it, because his left hand comes up to cover yours, warm and reassuring.
“Why don’t we see if anyone from the English department is here?” he suggests, leading you around the outskirts of the crowds. You nod, scanning around for someone from your department. The only person you want to see is Carrie Myers, the Shakespearean professor, but you know for a fact she wouldn’t be here. Still, you wouldn’t complain if you found a familiar face.
Hell, you would even take seeing your advisor, even if that meant getting questioned over your dissertation.
Before you even make it through one side of the hall, a stout man corners Spencer. He’s smiling, and speaks with a low voice, full of curiosity.
“Dr. Reid! How nice to see you join us,” his gaze slides over to you, “With…one of your grad students, I presume?”
You flush. You introduce yourself, colder than usual, even though the man seems well meaning. “He’s not my advisor, I’m with the English department.”
“Ah! My apologies,” the older man flinches.
Spencer clears his throat. “This is Dr. Mendez, he’s a professor on anthropology.”
“Yes, yes. It’s lovely to meet you, the English department tends to be… a little insular. I’m glad you came.” The older man, Dr. Mendez, replies. He reaches out a hand, looking so genuinely contrite and welcoming you find yourself smiling in reassurance.
“It’s a pleasure.” you say, shaking his hand, “I normally don’t attend, either, but Spencer has been quite persuasive.”
Dr. Mendez’s eyes flicker to where you and Spencer are connected, and he lets out a pleasant little chuckle. “I see. Well, you two are more than welcome to join us at our table. I believe Dr. Joaquin is arriving in a while.”
Your eyes widen. “Dr. Joaquin, as in the Linda Joaquin, the professor emerita?”
“The one and only.” Dr. Mendez winks, “Come find me later, both of you! She loves picking apart the ideas of teachers from different fields.”
“We would be more than honored.” Spencer says, waving as Dr. Mendez parts with a hearty laugh.
“How’d you know Dr. Mendez?” you ask once the old man is out of earshot.
“Back when I was a profiler, I’d consult with him on certain cold cases to gain a different perspective.” Spencer replies, guiding you to the refreshments table. His brow is furrowed. “Does that happen often? Professors and their graduate students?”
You snort. “More than you think. Why else do you think it’s become such a cliche?”
He considers for a moment, filling two cups with a deep pink iced tea. “I guess that’s better than dating the undergrads.”
“Mhm, I suppose. But only if there’s no husbands or wives involved.”
“Married professors—”
“Keep your voice down, oh my god!”
“Sorry,” he winces, looking around as if to make sure nobody heard the two of you gossiping, “I guess I never noticed these kinds of relationships happening when I was still getting my degrees.”
“Makes sense, considering you were, what, 16 when you were in college?”
“How’s that relevant?”
You fight back a smile. “No offense, Spencer, but if you’re still a little oblivious at 40, then I can’t imagine how bad you were at 16.”
His eyes narrow. “I’m 38.”
“My point still stands.” you grin, cocking your head to one side. “38, huh? All this time, I thought I was ‘dating’ a forty year old. No wonder your car is what it is.”
He glares, then turns away, carrying both cups of iced tea. “If you’re going to be rude, you can get your own drink.” Despite that, his voice remains light, teasing.
“Hey!” you laugh, tugging his elbow gently, “I’m sorry, don’t leave me.”
He relents without protest, smiling at you as he relinquishes one cup. His fingers brush against yours at the exchange, and suddenly your throat feels more parched than usual. You lift it to your lips and half of the contents slide down your throat, chilly yet still useless.
“Would you like to part ways and mingle on your own, or shall we follow Dr. Mendez?” Spencer asks.
The promise of speaking with a professor emerita has you intrigued, so you slip your hand into his arm again. “You promised to keep me company all night, Dr. Reid.”
“I did.” he grins, already scanning the crowd for signs of the older professor.
“So be prepared to get sick of me.”
Spencer tilts his head to catch your eye, grinning that stupid, dimpled smile of his. “I think the statistical probability of that is very low.”
---
It’s fun. Surprisingly.
You’re aware that this night’s success is partially because you’re hanging on Spencer’s arm—he’s the one everybody wants to meet. The impressive and distinguished one that leaves everybody in awe, and you’re his delightful girlfriend, teaching English and still earning her stripes.
However, the part is exhilarating, even if it’s only tonight. Because being with him opens doors. People with influence, none of the sleazy hotshot faculty trying to take you home, or older professors talking at you. Spencer buffers you from the worst, and gives you room for the best.
And for that, you lean into the part with gusto, clinging to his arm the whole time, beaming at every academic that introduces themselves to him first, always him, you’ll come second, but that’s okay. Better second than none at all. It’s not real, anyway.
This whole night is a facade, the same as your relationship, but it is a lie that bears benefits.
Tenured professors actually take you seriously, giving you advice and advance information that make your head swarm with ideas and schedules and research you’re itching to dive into.
Spencer, for his part, stands beside you like the perfect boyfriend, gently nosing at your temple every once in a while, as if to say I’m here, I’m with you, jumping in when asked, but he seems content to let you do the talking once you’ve been introduced.
The two of you flit from one group to the next, anthropology to psychology and somehow make it over to the maths department, speaking with two older professors of statistics who found a kindred spirit in Spencer.
Your feet are killing you, but for once, it’s actually worth it. A small part of you is actually quite glad to have come.
The ladies from statistics decide to adopt the two of you for the night, ushering you to their table. Spencer seems excited to continue with the conversation with them, so you excuse yourself and head to the bathroom.
As you wash your hands, you find Leah Ryan exiting one of the stalls. Despite being from the engineering department, the two of you know each other by virtue of being roughly the same age, and being in the same situation: female PhD candidates balancing between teaching and conducting research for your respective dissertations.
Having those things in common means there’s only two ways your relationship can go: being in complete, genuine support of each other, or entering into a soul consuming competition. It is simply how these things go. There’s a limited amount of opportunities, limited funding and scholarship grants if you aren’t rolling in money.
Leah, however, belongs in a completely different field, which automatically eradicates any competition, meaning you’d simply get to bond over the workload and fatigue and the inevitable male colleagues who never take you seriously.
“Leah, hi!” you grin, happy to see a familiar, friendly face.
“Hey,” she leans in, pressing her cheek to yours and imitating the sound of kisses being exchanged. “I saw you’ve been with Dr. Reid all night! So the rumors are true, then? You’re dating?”
“We are.” you punctuate that with a nod, as if the double affirmation would make your relationship more truthful. “It’s still pretty new, but it’s been really nice.”
“I’m glad!” Leah squeezes your upper arm, then leans in and lowers her voice conspiratorially, “A lot of people were saying he’s another one of those types, you know, but I hope for your sake he’s not. You deserve better than that.”
Those types. Blithely going from one romantic entanglement to the next, with no regard from whatever broken hearts are left in their wake. There are more of them working in the university than one would expect.
“I’d like to think I’m a good judge of character.”
“That’s true. He also seems so smitten with you, so that’s good.”
“He does?”
Leah tilts her head to the side. “Why do you sound so surprised? He’s your boyfriend, he should be smitten.”
“Of course, yes,” you’re glad your voice doesn’t crack as you speak, “I, um, I wasn’t expecting people to notice.”
“That he looks at you like you gave him the solution to the Hodge conjecture?”
You blink.
“That is to say, like you’ve performed some sort of miracle. Jesus incarnate. Like he’d devote his life to you, like the apostles did with Jesus.”
“Have you ever considered abandoning engineering and shifting to creative writing?”
Leah rolls her eyes, following you as you walk out of the bathroom. “I’m just saying. He’s besotted, and I’m very happy for you.”
Wow, Spencer Reid’s a better actor than you anticipated, if people are this convinced of his performance. Who would have thought?
“Thanks, Leah. Let’s hope it lasts.” you reply, glancing around. Spencer’s gotten up from the table and is now escorting Professor Miller, one of the ladies from statistics, to the refreshments table.
Leah follows your gaze and smiles.
Spencer chooses that exact moment to look over his shoulder and, like a big, stupid cliche, catches your eye all the way from the other side of the room. He smiles, nods once in acknowledgement, before focusing once again on Professor Miller.
There it is again, that uncomfortable feeling in the pit of your stomach.
An average English speaker knows somewhere around 20,000 to 35,000 words in the language. You’ve dedicated your life to this language, its expressions and borrowed words and the literary worlds created from them, and yet you still can’t put a name to this.
Leah giggles. “Well, if a serious relationship is what you want, then I hope it lasts too.”
“Mhm hmm.” Spencer’s holding two plates, patiently following Professor Miller as she picks and chooses through the available dishes.
“Honey, you’re not even looking at me anymore.”
Your gaze snaps back to Leah, sheepish and mortified. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be, this is adorable. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this before.”
“Like what? Distracted? I don’t think that’s cute.”
“No, not that. Smitten.” Leah smiles.
Warmth floods through your body, lingering at your toes and the very tips of your fingers. You nudge the conversation to something more neutral, until it coasts past Spencer Reid, and Leah’s excitedly telling you about the essay she’d gotten published recently.
By the time you part from her, Spencer is back at the table with Professor Miller. He is completely rapt on the conversation, but immediately turns when he feels you return.
“Hey.”
You tug your chair closer and sink into his side.
“Hey,” his voice warms with concern. An arm instantly wraps over your shoulders. Its weight is reassuring and you curl into him a little deeper. “Are you okay, darling?” he keeps his voice low, just for you so there's really no need for the endearment. A part of you is glad he said it anyway.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“It’s just been a long night.”
“We can go after they serve dinner.” He rests his chin atop your head, so you’re tucked perfectly against his neck.
Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t be so brazen, but the constant socializing has completely drained you. You’re tired, and he’s warm, and you’re in no mood to think about fake dating and PDA boundaries.
Professor Miller breaks her passionate discussion on the statistics of motorcycle related accidents to swoon.
“Oh, you two are making me think of Gilbert and I,” the older lady presses a hand to her chest, eyes growing misty. “Although, at your age, we were already married.”
Warmth floods your cheeks. You feel Spencer’s gulp against your cheek.
“We’re a long way from that.” you manage to say, giggling lightly.
“We’ve only started dating last month.” Spencer adds with a nervous chuckle.
“Hmph, you young people like to dawdle and waste so much time.” she rolls her eyes.
You shake your head, pulling away to sit straight. “We just want to make sure it’s right.”
She sighs and gives you a look. Spencer presses his lips to your forehead, light and sweet, like he’s not entirely sure he should be doing this, and you’re all saved from further conversation by the announcement of the main course.
You grit your teeth through the whole thing, lining up for the buffet and piling on so much food on your plate some of it threatens to spill over. A couple of people chuckle discreetly when they see your plate, but you’re determined not to stand for the rest of the night. If being seen as a glutton is the price to pay, you’d happily accept it.
When the time for desserts comes, you look at Spencer with wide, desperate eyes. “I don’t think I can stay another minute.”
“You don’t want dessert?”
“Spencer, if I stand, I’m convinced my toenails will crack and bleed.”
“I’ll get it for you, you don’t have to stand.” he says, already pushing his chair back.
“No, you don’t have–”
“Darling,” he squeezes your hand, eyes pleading, “Let me. It’s no big deal, really.”
He’s gone before you can protest, and returns with dessert for the whole table. He comes back carrying two plates piled high with slices of fruit, and tea cakes and sugar cookies, one for the stat profs to share, the other for the two of you.
“Dr. Reid, you are a sweetheart.”
He shakes his head with a smile, bashful and blushing, the very picture of a sweetheart.
Professor Miller gives you a pointed look. “Missy, gentlemen like this are a dime in a dozen in this day and age. Do not let him go.”
You suppress a laugh. “I will keep that in mind, ma’am.”
It never occurs to you to worry. That, if people are this convinced, maybe it should be a cause for concern. All sorts of complications could arise from this. But tonight, you’re riding a high, you’re exhausted, and there’s no room for your usual rationality.
---
At last, at last the night dwindles.
Well, not for the rest of the attendees, most of whom are now pleasantly buzzed and wandering around like bees in a garden. Even the statistics professors have left your table to converse with more people.
You and Spencer have decided an Irish goodbye is the best way to escape, given that you’re starting to slump. Literally, your ankles and toes feel like jello, if jello also stung and throbbed incessantly. You’re convinced your toes would burst if you tried to say goodbye to all the people you’d met from earlier in the night.
Spencer tugs you closer to the wall just as you reach the top of the staircase. “Hey, I think you should take off your shoes.”
“Huh?”
“Take off your shoes, wearing high heels for extended periods of time can cause a variety of foot problems. You’re already in pain, continuing to walk on them might–"
“They aren’t that high, Spencer. I can walk to the parking lot just fine.”
“We’re going to have to go through at least two more staircases before we even get outside.” Spencer points out. “Just take them off.”
“And what, go barefoot?”
“No, I’ll carry you to the car.”
He says it so plainly. No bells and whistles, no grand gestures, looking at you with so much sincerity shining through his eyes you find yourself just staring back at him.
Then you laugh.
“No.”
“No?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t carry me.”
He frowns. “I’m stronger than I seem, you know.”
“That’s not what I–look, you don’t need to do that, Spencer. Really. I can walk.”
And, because apparently the universe loves it when you make a fool of yourself, you stumble not even three steps away. Spencer’s hand curls around your elbow like it's a reflex to catch and straighten you.
“Please.” he breathes, and you don’t really understand why he’s the one begging to carry you, only that it makes your stomach churn.
“I don’t want you breaking your back on my behalf, old man.” you reply, turning to weak jokes instead of confronting this head on.
“Unless something terrible happens, the possibility of fractures from piggyback rides are statistically low,” he explains, “I’d be more likely to pull a muscle or pinch a nerve than break a bone.”
“Figure of speech, Spencer. But fine, if you insist.” you grumble, holding onto his arm for leverage while you wiggle your feet out of your heels. The tension on your toes and ankles eases automatically once you're planted firmly on the ground. You bend to collect your heels and look at him awkwardly. “Uh, how do we do this?”
Spencer takes the shoes from your grasp, moves a couple of steps below you until you’re eye to eye. Then he turns, and crouches slightly, one hand keeping himself balanced on the wall.
This is so ridiculous. So, so ridiculous. It’s not even anywhere in your list of rules because you never thought you’d even be in this position. You shouldn’t be in this position, and yet…
You brace yourself on his shoulders, and hop. Both arms slide loosely around his neck, dress riding up as your legs bracket his hips. Spencer’s arms hook under them, securing you on his back.
Mentally, you’re just thanking the version of yourself from four hours ago, who had the foresight to wear tights with this dress.
“Ready?” Spencer asks.
“Ready.” His hair tickles your cheek, and the scent of cedar and cinnamon hits your nose. He walks slowly, slightly hunched over so his center of gravity isn’t all out of sorts with the extra weight on his back. One step at a time, down, down, as careful as he is with driving.
“I don’t understand you,” you mumble into his hair, happy that he’s looking away. Maybe if you don’t see those eyes of his, you can finally get through this conversation without sounding like a fool. “You don’t have to go out of your way for me. I doubt people will notice.”
“I’m not doing it to prove anything to other people.” he replies softly.
“No? Then… then what’s the point? I’m not your actual girlfriend.”
“You’re not,” he agrees, sounding just as pensive. He’s quiet for a moment, bracing himself on the railing. You can’t blame him, these stairs are steep. “But you’re still my friend. And you’re in pain. If I’m in a position to help, I’d like to do that.”
“Hm. Maybe you just like being needed.”
He laughs. “I don’t think you need me.”
“No, I don’t…” you hum in agreement, “Maybe not needed then. Maybe… useful.”
He’s quiet. You wonder if you’ve overstepped, an apology already forming on your lips.
“Maybe you’re right.”
It’s loaded with years of history and emotional baggage you don’t quite understand, and aren’t sure you should have access to. Your words suddenly feel too mean, even though you don’t intend them to be. You feel his arms flex around your thighs, and mistake it for tension.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to analyze you.” you whisper as he carries you out the door and into the chilly night air.
“It’s okay.” he opens the passenger’s side, before easing you from his back.
You slip into his car quickly, feeling small and confused, the high of the soiree crashing like a wave, brilliant but fleeting. He’s quiet for the whole drive, like he’s turning over in his head your last conversation, as if hidden behind your words, he’ll find another facet of himself he’s never quite considered before.
“I know this thing is transactional,” you say finally, when he turns into your street, “We’re in this silly fake relationship thing because it helps us both, but Spencer, I hope you know that’s not how I see you. Us. Like, beyond this arrangement, you’re my friend too, and it’s not because you’re useful to me.”
He keeps his eye on the road, but you see his mouth pulling taunt, followed by a bob of his throat.
“And I hope you don’t feel like you need to be useful. Or like, a perfect gentleman or whatever. I’m fine. I’m pretty low maintenance, if you haven’t noticed.” you continue, staring at his profile as he pulls into your driveway.
Spencer finally looks at you, eyes still golden even in the darkness of his car. “I appreciate that. Trust me, I don’t think you’re using me either.”
“Okay. Good.” you smile.
“I enjoy doing things for other people,” his eyes flit over your face, and maybe it’s a trick of the light–or dark–but you could swear they linger a second too long at your lips. “And, well, you’re allowed to accept it…when people do things for you. When I do things for you. You don’t have to worry that I’m somehow inconveniencing myself, darling, I just like doing it.”
Your stomach lurches again, violently, toes curling into the carpeted floor of his car. Darling. darlingdarlingdarlingdarling.
“Right… because you like to help your friends, and we’re friends.”
Spencer’s mouth parts, but nothing comes out. Then he blinks, once, and nods.
“Exactly–yes, that’s what friends are for.” he says, voice reedy and cracking at the edges.
“Yeah. Yeah.” you nod. Clear your throat. Eject your seatbelt off, mechanical and rigid, trying to focus on getting out of his car, and not how close he is, not the freckles on his face and the flecks of warm green in his eyes. When did he get this close? “And, um, thank you for tonight. For playing along with everything.”
“Of course.” he hasn’t moved, blinking slow and sluggish while your movements grow clumsy from your rush.
“People really bought it.”
He hums, finally leaning back, placing both hands on the wheel. “Then we’ll have no problem doing the same thing for your best friend’s wedding.”
“Yeah.” you have one foot out the door, but some indecipherable thing compels you to stay. You clear your throat. “Drive safe, Spencer.”
“I will. Sleep well, darling.”
You don’t bother reminding him you’re alone. Like he said, you’re allowed to enjoy things. And selfishly, ridiculously, the little pet name just happens to be one of them.