nina cried power [SPENCER REID]

thirty-two.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO:
NINA'S CONFESSION

please listen to the clip above as you read. it adds atmosphere to the whole chapter and i'm super proud of it

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The next morning, Nina wakes up to the soft clicking sound affect of an iPhone being turned on and unlocked. She had been dozing as it was, half in her dreams and half aware of the pillow and blankets swamping her, but the mundane reality of the sound makes her come out of the fantasy in her head.

Blinking herself awake, she remembers the night before and, against her back, recognises the warmth radiating from someone else. The presence of another body, and the soft lull of deep, sleep-hazed breathing, hangs like a promise in the air.

Spencer.

Sun slants in through the curtains on the other side of the bed behind her; in the square of winter sunlight reflected on his white bedroom wall, she watches his golden shadow sit up. He stretches, lion-like, the shadow of his curly hair a mess. She can see his nose, raised like a hare as he yawns, double-chin somehow made adorable.

Then the shadow-head turns -- he's looking at her, she realises, and she closes her eyes at the last second to feign sleep.

When she dares to open them again, his shadow has its back to her, leaning over his knees on the side of the bed. He's motionless, aside from one hand that lifts to scratch his head.

Watching him, Nina doesn't know why she's afraid or why she's actually holding her breath. What does she have to fear from Spencer? He looks so peaceful and calm, half-asleep still; does he do this when he wakes up alone, before work, she wonders. Does he drink coffee and do his hair in the mirror? She could watch him do that, too, and be just as fascinated.

"I guess I can't pretend to be asleep forever," she says aloud, deciding.

Rolling onto her back, he tilts his head and looks down at her. Awkward smiles are exchanged.

Like they've been on a drunken night-out where too many mistakes were made, they almost can't look at each other, Spencer's eyes darting between her face and an indistinct spot on his bedside table. But she can't blame him; she'd taken his hand last night, spoken about them with the word 'us'. If he wasn't awkward, she would be confused.

"You need a coffee," she says instead, hoping to diffuse the tension. "You look rough."

It relieves her when he smiles and asks how many sugars she takes.

The tension is over until breakfast ends. Then it comes back in full force, swinging toward her like a punch in the stomach: sudden and robbing her of breath.

"What now?" she asks once she's put her plate in the sink, voice suddenly airy and invisible. Her back is to him, hands on the chest of the sink, head bent. She knows what's now.