Killer Affair | Spencer Reid Short Story

Knowing You

Gwen

There's a rhythm to being with him, a quiet steadiness that I never expected. It's strange—relationships, in my experience, always felt like a battle. Every touch, every conversation, a negotiation of power. But with Spencer, it's different. He doesn't demand anything from me. He just... listens, like he wants to know everything, but he's willing to wait until I'm ready to tell him.

I don't know why I keep coming back to him. Maybe it's the softness in his eyes, the way he looks at me like he can see something worth saving. Or maybe it's the way he laughs, this little huff of air that makes him look like a kid again. Whatever it is, I'm here, week after week, dinner after dinner, movie after movie. And little by little, the walls around me are coming down.

Tonight, we're at his place again. He's sprawled on the couch with a book, and I'm next to him, legs tucked up, pretending to scroll through my phone but really watching him out of the corner of my eye. The silence between us is comfortable. Safe. It's like we're both here, in our own worlds but still connected. I can't remember the last time I felt this way.

"What are you reading?" I ask, breaking the quiet.

He glances up, looking a little surprised, like he forgot I was here. He holds up the book—*A Study in Scarlet.* Sherlock Holmes. Of course.

"You ever read it?" he asks, his eyes lighting up in that way they do whenever he's talking about something he loves.

"No," I say honestly. "But I like watching you read it."

It slips out before I can stop myself, and I see his expression change, a soft blush creeping into his cheeks. He's always so composed, so meticulous in his words, but I catch these moments where he's just... Spencer. The shy, awkward genius who can't quite figure out why I keep showing up at his door.

"You can borrow it, if you want," he says, a little flustered. "I mean, if you're interested."

I smile, reaching out to take the book from him. Our fingers brush, and he doesn't pull away. Neither do I.

For a moment, we just sit there, fingers entwined around the spine of the book, caught in this quiet intimacy. It's ridiculous, really, how something so small can feel so significant. But in this moment, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

The night stretches on, and eventually, we end up curled together on the couch, my head resting on his shoulder, his arm draped around me. He's playing with a strand of my hair, absent-mindedly twirling it between his fingers, and I let myself relax against him, sinking into the warmth of his touch.

"Tell me something about you," he murmurs, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "Something real."

I stiffen, but he doesn't let go, just keeps his hand resting gently on my shoulder. He's asking for a piece of me, and I know that if I don't give it to him, he might start to pull away. And for the first time, I don't want that. I don't want to lose him.

"My dad left when I was six," I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "My mom... she wasn't really around after that. I had to figure a lot of things out on my own."

There's a silence, and for a moment, I regret saying anything. But then his hand tightens on my shoulder, just enough to let me know he's there.

"I'm sorry," he says, and there's so much sincerity in his voice that it almost breaks me. "That must have been really hard."

I swallow, forcing myself to keep it together. "It was. But I got used to it."

"You don't have to be used to it," he says softly. "Not anymore."