Wild Nights, Wild Nights || s.reid

17. To Pity Those That Know Her Not

Spencer didn't dream often. It was mostly because he just didn't sleep enough for his REM sleep cycle to produce a vivid enough dream to warrant remembrance. But when he did remember his dreams, they were nightmares more often than not, and it was always the same scenario. Spencer would "wake up" in a dark void, trapped in a slowly shrinking invisible box that suffocated him, without enough oxygen to even try and shout for help. Sometimes, if his mind was feeling especially cruel, he could hear yelling in the distance. They varied between the sound of his mother shouting at nothing during one of her episodes when he was a child, and his teammates or loved ones calling out to him for help.

At this point, Spencer had become so used to his recurring hell that it didn't faze him as much as it used to when he awoke.

But when he woke up in your apartment, he thought he might have woken up into a dream instead.

He'd never been here in the morning. Actually, he hadn't been here since you were ill.

If this was your safe haven, if this was the place you occupied most, he never wanted to leave. As long as it meant being beside you, he'd never go outside again.

Your bedroom door was still cracked open, and your side of the bed was cool. From where he was, he could see condensation coating the walls of your master bathroom, and filtering in from down the hall, he smelled fresh coffee and heard the sounds of you delicately humming a familiar melody.

Chopin's Nocturne opus 9 no. 2 in E flat, he immediately placed.

He didn't think it was possible for him to be more attracted to you than he already was.

He was wrong.

Spencer rubbed his eye and then looked at his wrist watch: 7:57am. He needed to start moving if he wanted to be on time.

But even though he knew that the rational thing would be to just hop into your shower immediately and get ready for the day, he couldn't yet. In fact, the idea of disrupting his typical morning routine by not doing so made Spencer's gut twist in displeasure. But he couldn't ignore the pull he felt towards your main room, towards your voice, towards you.

So Spencer slowly stood from your bed and padded across your room and down your hall, where he found walking around your kitchen. Your back was to him as you crossed the space to your unnecessarily sophisticated coffee-espresso machine, which was brewing a small pot of coffee on one side, and two shots of espresso on the other. You had wireless earbuds shoved into your ears, so you didn't notice his presence. Your hair was still wet from your shower, and you were half dressed in your outfit for the day: slim fitting black slacks and a white camisole. You hadn't turned on any of the lights, illuminated by nothing but the sunlight filtering in through the windows.

Between the glow of sun around you, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, and the lovely sound of your humming, Spencer was certain that he actually was dreaming. No one was this ethereal before 8am on New Year's Day. No one.

Then you turned around and spotted him. You jumped a bit, ripping your earbuds from your ears as you gasped in surprise.

Everything felt so domestic that he thought his heart might give out.

"Hi, good morning," you said.

He pressed his lips together in a smile. "Good morning."

And then the two of you stared at each other.

He wanted to ask what had happened to you the previous night—or, more specifically, what had happened to you when you went to Rossi's backyard, why you were crying, and why you looked like you were suffocating in your own mind. He wanted to ask what your mysterious 3am phone call with Preston was about. He wanted to ask if you were just okay.