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The elevator walls seemed to be closing in on you as the seconds ticked by. Logically, you knew this was impossible—only a trick of the mind. Unfortunately, logic was nowhere to be found at the moment.
This was probably the last place on earth you wanted to be right now.
But—at least you weren’t alone. You weren’t alone and the walls weren’t actually closing in and help had to be coming eventually.
…Right?
In a different universe, maybe this particular scenario wouldn’t be so bad. Honestly, what are claustrophobic, confined quarters when you’re at least stuck in there with the object of your ridiculous workplace crush? I mean, the rom-com basically writes itself at that point.
In this universe, however, Spencer Reid hated you. No amount of love you had for him was going to change that.
You swallowed down the thought. Now was not the time to be thinking about your painfully, pathetically unrequited crush on a man who couldn’t even stand to look at you for more than three seconds, much less hold a conversation with you.
Honestly, despite the sting of his obvious rejection, it usually didn’t matter all that much in the grand scheme of things. Your job as the Bureau’s archivist didn’t often have you crossing paths with the BAU for longer than it took to exchange boxes of files down in the archive or paperwork back up in the bullpen. The only people you had spoken to, really spoken to, were Penelope and Derek. You and Penelope were often the only ones in the office during late nights, each on your own respective wild goose chase, and you quickly grew close. Shared midnight tea and scone breaks will do that to you.
Beyond that, your interactions with the rest of the team—and Spencer, in particular—had been fleeting at best. Every time you walked into the breakroom and he happened to be in there, he would flee as rapidly as possible, sometimes leaving whatever he had been doing half-finished: an abandoned crossword, a mug of tea quickly growing cold, the sad remnants of an unfinished muffin. If Spencer ever walked in while you were already in there—well, you were fairly sure that had happened more than once, but after the first time when he had knocked over an entire drying rack of dishes in his rush to leave unnoticed, he had gotten much more stealthy. You could almost pretend not to notice it happening, pretend that the shame of his obvious dislike for you didn’t make your face burn with embarrassment.
Now, though? Trapped with him in a service elevator that barely had enough room for the two of you and the tower of boxes you were transporting? It was impossible to ignore.
Someone on his team—Agent Hotchner, you were fairly sure—kept sending Spencer down to the archive any time the BAU needed to get into old records. They must have all been aware of his hatred towards you, because you were certain that they were just torturing him at this point, forcing him to interact with someone he clearly couldn’t stand. It almost would have been funny to see if it wasn’t you, if your heart wasn’t stomped on each and every time he looked as though he were being forced at gunpoint to have a conversation with you—if you could even call it a conversation. He would recite the record numbers of the boxes he needed with his eyes trained on the report in his hand, only looking up long enough to take the boxes and mumble a quiet thanks.
That was usually where the interaction would end, but tonight you had offered to help him carry the boxes up. They had needed more than usual, and it would have taken him at least two trips on his own. It was only polite that you helped—not to mention that you thought maybe you could somehow finally get more than two words out of him. What you had thought an elevator trip up eleven stories would accomplish, you weren’t quite sure. Maybe… maybe if you could figure out why he hated you, what you had done wrong—maybe then you could make it better.
That was the only explanation: you had done something wrong. Why else would he hate you? Spencer Reid was not a hateful person. Despite your limited exchanges, you knew that much for certain. He was a good person, a kind person. You knew that from all of the stories Penelope told you, from all the conversations you’d overheard between him and his team in the bullpen over the last year, from all the times you’d watched him wrap his arms around a frightened child.
He was good. And that made his distaste for you hurt all the more. You didn’t know what you could do to make it better, but you had to at least try.
At least, you wanted to try. But you couldn’t quite get the words out, couldn’t quite form a complete sentence. Then, after a few agonizingly silent minutes, the elevator ground to a screeching halt in between the fifth and sixth floors. The sudden clang of the gears was deafening, something that sounded almost like a shriek just barely audible above the din. The fluorescent lights flickered once, twice, and then they went dead.
Well, fuck.
The darkness lasted just a moment too long before the emergency lights powered on, bathing the tiny space in a soft, not-quite-bright-enough glow.
You took what you hoped would pass for a calming breath as your eyes adjusted to the darkness. This was fine. You were fine. You were—shit. Not alone.
It must have only been seconds since the elevator stopped, but it somehow felt much, much longer. You glanced over at Spencer. He was trying to readjust his grip on the stack of boxes in his arms. It looked as though one wrong move would send them toppling over.
“What do we do?” His voice was unnaturally high, an uncomfortable edge to it.
He was asking you what to do? You had no idea what to do. You were trying to talk yourself off the edge of a panic attack. You were trapped with a man who you desperately wanted to kiss and who desperately wanted to be as far away from you as possible. You swallowed thickly. “Hit the—the emergency button.”
“I obviously hit the emergency button,” Spencer said stiffly, the sharpness of his words making you recoil. “It’s not doing anything.”
You watched as he demonstrated, pushing the emergency button again. He was right. Nothing happened.
“Maybe,”—you exhaled slowly, willing yourself to remain calm—“maybe the power’s out.”
“Well, thanks. That's helpful.”
Alright. Guess he really did hate you. This was the most he had ever spoken to you, and he had made it abundantly clear that it was the last thing that he wanted to be doing. You averted your eyes, the muscles in your arms starting to strain with the effort of holding up the filing boxes. It was beginning to become apparent that you might not be moving any time soon, so after a moment of failed finagling, you unceremoniously dropped your pile onto the floor of the elevator. They landed with a thump, shaking the tiny elevator in a way that was not not terrifying.
“Jesus,” Spencer snapped. “Can you—can you not?”
You were starting to doubt your crush on this man. Maybe you were a terrible judge of character. You whipped around to face him. “Hey, man, it’s not my fault we’re trapped in here, okay? Could you maybe stop yelling at me?”
Spencer opened his mouth—not that you really wanted to hear what he had to say in response—but before he could get a word out, the elevator dropped. It was the briefest flash, maybe all of three seconds before it stabilized again, but it was enough to knock the wind out of you.
“Fuck.”
Okay, maybe you shouldn’t have dropped your boxes. Maybe. You gritted your teeth, preparing to apologize for your sudden outburst. “Look, I’m—”
The words died in your throat. Spencer refused to look directly at you. He seemed to be trying desperately to find anything else in the small space to focus on. His face was pale, the color drained out of it. His glasses were sliding down his nose, and with no free hands he had no way of pushing them back up. His knuckles were white, his grip on the boxes much too tight.
He was—oh. He was scared.
And you were a grade A idiot.
“Hey,” you said softly, taking a step closer to him. He still wouldn’t look at you, but the panic etched across his face made your heart hurt. “Hey, it’s okay.” You reached out tentatively and pushed his glasses back up. He flinched, and you pulled your hand back. What were you doing? You barely knew this man—but then, he looked at you. He finally, finally looked at you.
There was something about his gaze that threatened to undo you, and the two of you held eye contact for a moment too long—or maybe not long enough. He cleared his throat, shifting from foot to foot, and the spell was broken.
“How ‘bout you put those boxes down?”
Spencer let out a startled laugh, glancing down at the filing boxes as though he had forgotten they were there, that he had a death grip on them. He set them down, much more gently than you had.
You shoved the boxes into the corner where yours sat, trying to clear some room. “Come on.” You grabbed his hand. His eyes widened, but he didn’t pull away. “Looks like we might be here a while.” You sank to the floor, tugging him down with you. His hand remained in yours, and you tried to ignore your heart hammering in your chest.
“Did you—did you know that there are six elevator related deaths per year?” He reached out and pressed the emergency button again. Still nothing. “Not to mention ten thousand injuries requiring hospitalization.”
Well. Now you did.
“Gee, thanks, Spencer. That’s incredibly reassuring.” You huffed out a laugh, squeezing his hand. “But we’re going to be fine. Someone’s going to notice that we’re taking way too long and come find us. You came down to the archive like, what, twenty minutes ago?”
“Twenty-three,” he corrected.
“See? Someone’ll notice.”
He nodded, more to himself than to you. He paused. “You know my name?”
“Are you serious?” you asked. He nodded again. “Spencer, we’ve only worked in the same office for over a year. Do you—do you not know my name?”
“It’s Y/N.”
The soft, almost bashful way he said it almost made you forget—forget that he hated you. You wanted so badly to forget, but the words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. “Why do you hate me?”
“What?” Spencer’s face twisted in confusion. “I don’t—I don’t hate you.”
“Sure you—”
Something above you clanged, and the elevator dropped. Again, it happened in an instant, the sudden feeling of the floor being pulled out from under you stealing your breath.
Spencer squeaked, and you felt him shift closer to you. “Oh my god.”
You shut your eyes, inhaling slowly and counting to five. You exhaled, a nearly fruitless effort to calm your nerves.
“Oh my god, we’re going to die.”
You opened your eyes, turning to face him. “Spence.” He was trembling, his breaths coming out much too fast. It sounded like he was on the verge of hyperventilating. Your own panic quickly faded into the background, overshadowed by a sudden tender concern. “Hey, look at me.” You reached up, gently taking his face in your hands. You brushed your thumb across the apple of his cheek. “Look right at me. We’re not going to die, okay? We’re going to be just fine.” He nodded shakily, his gaze locked on yours. “Just–just focus on me. Take a deep breath.” You demonstrated, counting in your head and watching as Spencer mirrored your movements.
He exhaled as you did, nodding in time to your internal count.
You laughed, reluctantly dropping your hands from his face. “I guess I’m not surprised that the great Doctor Reid knows the square breathing technique.”
Spencer only smiled at you in return, a faint, shy sort of smile, before taking your hands in his again. He did it without hesitation, as though it were something he had done many times before. There was no telling how long the two of you sat just like that: in silence, breathing in tandem, hand in hand.
And then–“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Tell me something,” Spencer repeated. His voice was quiet, his breaths starting to come more slowly now.
“About what?”
“Anything. Tell me–tell me about you.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Well, if we’re going to die together, I should at least know a little about you.”
You choked out a cough, the gleam in his eyes catching you off guard. “Wow, Spencer! Was that a joke?”
“I believe it’s called dark humor,” he said.
“Damn.” You shook your head. “You’re funny, aren’t you? I’ve really been missing out.”
“You’re stalling.”
“I don’t know what to say! It’s a lot of pressure to put on a person, isn’t it? ‘Tell me about you before we fucking die!’”
Spencer laughed, bright and clear and so loud that it caught the two of you off guard. You locked eyes for just a moment before both breaking into peals of laughter. The strange, out-of-place joy of it seemed to echo off the elevator walls. You leaned into him without thinking, as though it was only the natural thing to do.
The laughter slowly subsided, replaced by a comfortable, almost familiar quiet. He shifted to make space for you, and you settled your head on his shoulder.
Spencer Reid did not do this. In all your time at the Bureau, you had never seen him shake a person’s hand, much less hug anyone outside of his team. It was just something you had noticed, had added to your mental inventory of Spencer facts—of which there were many.
You pushed the thought to the side, struggling to recall the question he had just asked you. Right. Tell him something.
“You still wanna know something?” you asked softly.
“Anything.”
You let out a low hum. “Okay… Well, once when I was thirteen I locked myself in my neighbor’s chicken coop.”
Spencer turned to look at you. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m going to need more detail.”
You rolled your eyes fondly. “I was feeding their chickens while they were on vacation, and the coop had the locking mechanism on the outside—for obvious reasons. You had to put it in some special position to keep it open, and I just completely forgot to do it and went in like I had every other time. The door shut behind me and bam I was locked in the chicken coop. Naturally I was in my pajamas and didn’t have my phone on me.”
Spencer chuckled. “Naturally. So how’d you get out?”
“I just yelled for my mom over and over and over. I figured someone would hear me eventually. It took a while, but she finally went outside to hang up the laundry and heard me screaming. She almost peed her pants laughing at me.”
“It must have been quite the image.”
“Picture it: me barely awake in my pjs, surrounded by chickens, almost in tears imagining my imminent death when they decide to revolt and eat me. It’s incredible.”
“God, that’s actually amazing,” Spencer said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Okay, so what’s worse: elevator or chicken coop?”
“Chicken coop.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You said that awfully quickly.”
“Well, I didn’t have you in the coop.” His eyes widened and you realized what you had just said. “Sorry, that was super blunt. I think the—the confined space is getting to my head. I don’t—I don’t have you, that’s not what I meant.”
“Hey.” He reached out and tilted your chin up towards him, and you finally met his eyes. “You do have me.”
You could almost pretend that the heat that rushed to your cheeks as he held your face in his hand was simply from the proximity of his body against yours—almost. The sudden realization that you could just lean over and kiss him if you really wanted to washed over you—and god, did you want to. You had wanted to for so long, but that had all been based on some distant, far off crush. This, this right here, was something more. It was the way he smiled down at you, the almost familiar warmth in his eyes, his hands on your skin.
You wanted to kiss him—but you couldn’t. Instead you settled back into his side. “Okay,” you said. “Your turn. Tell me something.”
There was a heavy moment of silence. You looked up at Spencer expectantly. “I—I don’t know what to—” he said.
“See? A lot of pressure, right?”
He nodded sheepishly.
“Hmm,” you hummed. “I guess I can help you out. Let me think of a prompt… okay. What’s your perfect day?”
“Perfect day?”
“Yeah. What does your perfect day look like?”
Spencer’s eyes lit up. “Oh, okay. I can do that!”
You laughed, wishing you could commit that look on his face to memory. “Glad I could be of assistance. So?” You motioned for him to continue.
“My perfect day… I think it would start with sleeping in, until at least noon—”
“As is only right.”
“And it would be a perfectly sunny fall day. Not too hot, not too cold. And then I’d go downtown for a coffee—oh and a scone! The coffee shop I go to has the most delightful maple scones!”
You grinned at his pure enthusiasm.
“And then I’d go to the bookstore down the street. Maybe the plant nursery too—I never buy the plants because I’m afraid I’ll kill them, but I like to look.”
“I find it hard to believe that you don’t have a green thumb. I thought you were a genius,” you said.
Spencer elbowed you gently in the ribs. “Hey!”
“Anything else for this perfect day?”
He tapped his chin, deep in thought. “Honestly I think I’d just want some good Thai takeout and one of my new books. Maybe outside if the sun’s still out,” he said.
“Excellent.”
“I—I know that’s probably a boring answer to your question. Sorry.”
You shook your head. “No, not at all. It… it honestly really does sound perfect. I’d love a day like that.”
“Me too,” Spencer said quietly. “I’d love a day like that with you.”
You blinked up at him, but he avoided your eyes. A million thoughts ran through your head, a million things you wanted to say to him, but nothing would come out. You squeezed his hand instead. He squeezed yours back.
The time passed like this, the two of you nestled against one another, sharing stories back and forth. There was no telling how long you’d been stuck—your phone was down in the archive, his up in the office. Your conversations flowed without pause, only accented by the occasional clang or creak. You tried not to read too much into those moments when Spencer, startled, would shift even closer to you.
He was just scared. You were scared too, truth be told, but somehow it didn’t really seem to matter. You could almost ignore your situation, ignore your surroundings, as long as he was pressed up against you, your hands interlocked. In the nebulous time that had passed, this had somehow become the norm: his hand in yours.
You wondered briefly if you had found a crack in the space-time continuum. In what universe did something like this happen? Was it only in this tiny elevator, suspended somewhere between real life that the two of you were like this? Maybe the moment you stepped out, the spell would be broken. Maybe he’d never look at you again—never touch you again.
The thought brought sudden tears to your eyes, and you blinked them away. Ridiculous. What a ridiculous idea. It was the elevator getting to you: the dim lights, the claustrophobic quarters, the uncertainty of when you’d get out. You pushed it aside best you could, turning your focus back to Spencer.
“–and that was the last time anyone tried to surprise Hotch. Safe to say we all learned our lesson that day.”
You laughed. “The mental image of that is astonishing. I want to frame it, honestly. Hang it up over my mantel.”
You had heard this story before, actually. Penelope had told you not long after it had happened, the two of you cackling over steaming cups of tea at the idea of Hotch chucking a bag of oranges at Derek and Emily in the name of self-defense. Truthfully, it didn’t matter that you’d heard it already. You were more than content to listen to anything Spencer said.
“If you get the flying oranges painting, then I get the chicken coop painting.” He raised his eyebrows, studying you as if in the midst of the most important legal battle in the world.
You paused, pretending to mull over the offer. “Hmmm…” He narrowed his eyes, and you tried not to laugh as his glasses slid down his face, completely undoing his attempt at a serious expression. “Okay, fine. Deal.”
Spencer nodded, flashing you a self-satisfied smile at winning this imaginary auction.
He was exactly the person you had thought he was. That realization settled over you all at once. He was kind and good and so, so wonderful. It made you wonder how you had missed out on this for so long, how you had been so close, yet so far away.
“God.” You let out a sigh. “Why did it take a broken elevator for us to finally talk to each other?” You could have been–well, at the very least, maybe you could have been friends all this time. That would have been better than nothing. That would have been better than the weirdness, than the strange, heavy silence.
“I don’t hate you,” Spencer said softly. It wasn’t what you had just asked, but it was somehow an answer in itself. It had been so long since you had said that to him that you had nearly forgotten that it had happened at all. You had almost thought he hadn’t heard you when you had asked, the distraction of the dropping elevator erasing any memory of that moment.
“Really? Because it sure seemed like it.”
He shook his head so adamantly that you worried his glasses might go flying. “No, no it’s not that. It’s just that you—you make me nervous.”
You furrowed your brow. It didn’t make any sense. Why on earth would you make him nervous? If anything, it was the other way around. “Really? Why is that?”
“I… I think it’s pretty obvious.” His voice was quiet, much closer to the way it had been all those times before, before these last few hours had forced the two of you to finally speak.
“Not to me.”
“You really don’t know?”
You shook your head, watching as something not quite readable flitted across his face. “Is it because I’m such a raging bitch?”
Spencer barked out a sharp laugh, completely caught off guard. “You know that’s not it.”
“Spencer. Please. You’re going to have to say more than that. I am unfortunately not a mind reader.”
“I–I can’t,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re… you’re making me nervous right now!” The near-petulant look on his face made you bite back a laugh.
“And why is that?” you asked.
“I don’t…”
You shook your head. “Mm–mm. You are not getting away with this. Don’t make me resort to violence.” You leveled your gaze at him, but he just pursed his lips and looked away. “Alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” His eyes flashed back up to you, but it was too late. You poked him right in the ribs, lightly, but just hard enough to elicit a shriek.
“Hey!” His hands flew to his side, his protests immediately undercut by the high pitched giggle he let out. “Stop it!”
“Not”—poke—“until”—poke—“you”—poke—“tell”—poke—“me!”
“I…” He opened his mouth to speak but seemed to reconsider it.
You raised your hand in the air. “Don’t make me do it again.” He was silent still, and you made a mock-jabbing motion. “I’ll—”
“Okay, okay, fine! You really want to know?” Spencer spoke rapidly, as though if he paused for even a millisecond he’d lose his nerve. “It’s because I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, and I have a big, stupid crush on you!”
You could clock the exact moment that his brain caught up with the words that he had just spoken, his eyes going wide with shock. You blinked at him. It felt like the whole world had gone blurry, the universe you had thought you’d known splintering into one where he would say that—to you.
“…A big, stupid crush?”
“Derek’s words,” he muttered under his breath.
“Oh.”
Spencer buried his face in his hands, his elbows dropping to rest on his knees. “I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said—”
“Spencer.”
He shook his head. “Mm-mm.”
“Spencer,” you repeated. He peered up at you through his spread fingers, embarrassment swimming in his eyes. “Guess what?”
“What?”
You gently tugged his hands away from his face, tucking your finger under his chin and tilting it up towards you.
“What?” he asked again, though the word was scarcely more than a whispered breath.
You gave no response. Your hand slid to rest on his neck; you could feel the gentle thrum of his pulse beneath your touch. His eyes searched yours, a tremulous sort of hope flashing in them and instantly quieting any doubt left in your mind.
A beat of silence, then another. It must have been just a moment, but it seemed to stretch on into eternity—broken only when you pressed a kiss to his lips.
You started to pull away, as quickly as you had leaned in, but Spencer reached for you, his hand finding the back of your neck and gently tugging you back towards him.
His lips met yours once more. He kissed you softly at first, then more fervently, a simple sort of urgency taking hold. His pulse fluttered rapidly beneath your fingers, and you were somehow certain that your heart was racing in time with his.
That earlier thought flitted through your mind—this was some sort of mistake, some parallel universe—but then Spencer’s hands were on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer to him, and it was suddenly perfectly clear. This was real. You were here, and he was here, and he was kissing you. It was somehow both exactly like you had imagined it and unlike anything in your wildest dreams. You reached up and tugged on one of his curls—just because you could, just because you wanted to know what it felt like—and he sighed into the kiss.
There was a sudden screech of metal on metal, and you almost thought you had imagined it from pure lack of oxygen. Spencer jerked away, his eyes snapping open, and you both seemed to realize what it was at the same instant.
“Is that—”
“Are we—”
You nodded, relief and disappointment flooding you in equal measure as the elevator rose slowly. Voices were audible in the distance. This precious, unbelievable moment was about to come to an end. You felt a rising wave of panic at this being it—the end. You didn’t want to go back to how things had been. You couldn’t.
And then Spencer kissed you again, light and quick, as though he had done it every day of his life.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Since it looks like we might actually make it out of here alive… Do you want to go out? Like—on a, um, a date? With me?”
The tremble in his voice made your heart clench. How could he ever think you would say no to him?
“Of course, Spence.” You interlaced your fingers with his, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “There’s absolutely nothing I’d like more.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. In fact,” you said, “I think date number one should be the perfect day.”
He nodded, a brilliant smile spreading across his face. The startling realization that you could just lean in and press a kiss to that face hit you. It seemed absurd, somehow. You had spent so long wondering what it would be like, if there was ever a world in which you could do it, and now here you were.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“I was just—”
The elevator doors slid open. “Oh, hey! There they are!” Fluorescent lighting flooded the tiny space, and you bit back a laugh at how absolutely ridiculous Spencer looked, his hair wild and face flushed. “You two alright?”
You blinked against the harsh light. The figures in front of you slowly came into focus. “Derek? Agent Hotchner?”
“Hotch,” he corrected kindly. “Sorry you were stuck in there for so long. The alarm didn’t go off and alert us, and then it took a while to get a repairman out this late.”
“It’s okay,” you said. More than okay, if you were being honest. You realized then that you were still sitting on the floor of the elevator, both you and Spencer looking wildly guilty of exactly what you had just been doing.
Spencer seemed to come to the same realization. He stood up, holding out a hand to you. You accepted it gratefully, and he helped you up.
“The records—” You turned to the boxes.
Derek shook his head. “No, no, we got this. It’s late, you guys should go home. We’ll get everything set up in the conference room and deal with it tomorrow.”
Thank god. You nodded. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
You patted your pockets, cataloging the things you’d need to get home. A trip to the bathroom, desperately. Your bag and phone—back down in the archive. You eyed the service elevator. Not today, bastard. You’d take the stairs, thank you very much. Or maybe just the main elevator, if you were being honest.
You glanced back at Spencer, but he was talking quietly to Agent Hotchner—Hotch. It felt wrong to walk away, but what was there left to do? These strange few hours had passed and now they were over. You headed for the main doors.
And then: “Wait, wait!” You turned just as Spencer caught up to you, his lithe fingers wrapping around your wrist. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just—um, feel free to say no, but do you—”
“Yes.”
He laughed. “You don’t know what I was going to ask.”
“I don’t care. The answer’s yes.”
He beamed at you. “Okay. Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to—to come home with me.” His eyes widened. “Not in like a, uh, a weird way, but just to… hang out?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Spencer, I’ll hang out with you any time, anywhere.” You paused. “Except maybe no more elevators.”
“Agreed.”
“Meet in the lobby in fifteen?”
Spencer nodded, flashing you that beautiful smile that you had quickly come to know and love. You resisted the urge to kiss him right then and there, opting instead to give his hand a tight squeeze. His cheeks reddened, and you stifled a laugh.
You headed back towards the bullpen entrance, suddenly on a mission. An unfamiliar giddiness had taken hold of you, and you said a silent thanks to whatever entity was responsible for the strange, wonderful events that had transpired today.
The glass doors swung shut behind you, and Spencer watched until you disappeared from view. He was still grinning, his cheeks aching from the pure joy of it.
“Pretty Boy!” Derek patted him on the shoulder, startling him out of his reverie. “You okay?”
Spencer simply nodded, stars in his eyes. “I think I just fell in love.”