RUBATOSIS. spencer reid

| thirteen

SYLVIA CONNELLY.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Those words came out a little more hostile than I meant them to. Too bad the asshole deserved it—I mean, who the hell did he think he was? I felt like my face was on fire, and my entire body was burning up as well, and all Spencer did was button up my shirt.

And first of all, why?

What, were my tits really that distracting? Not like I could really give a fuck if they were—but I just thought Spencer out of all people would actually think for a moment how I was interpreting all of this. Because quite frankly, I felt objectified.

I watched Spencer through narrowed eyes. He was silent for a couple of seconds, which only made me more and more annoyed with him by the second. It was like everyday he just got more and more unfamiliar (not like I was familiar with him in the first place,) and I despised it. I despised everything about his change.

But this? This wasn't like him at all. And it pissed me off. I knew Spencer enough to know that he still respected people, including me, which was why this was incredibly offensive. I wasn't necessarily disgusted by him, just absolutely irritated.

Well, that was until I heard his response.

"It was distracting me." Spencer replied. His eyes were narrowed, lips going dry after licking them over and over again. But the only thing I could see was the hickey on his neck that stood out like black against white.

It infuriated me, seeing that thing. But not in comparison to the rage once I had heard his answer.

Me? Being distracting? That was by far the most disrespectful thing Spencer Reid has ever said to me. For two years, our banter stayed relatively civil (kind of) but this—him telling me what to do with my body—I despised it. Even more, I despised how flustered I was, and how my heart was slamming against my sternum at how close he was to me. It was when I realized that some gross part of me was satisfied knowing the man actually could glance my way.

But I hated this feeling. I hated that look in his eyes, as if he ruled over me or something. Spencer looked at me with so much contempt that I felt like some kind of toy to him. If we weren't in public I would've slapped him for being such an asshole.

I mean, was this how he got women to sleep with him? Pathetic.

I hated this Spencer. This one was just a fucking mask, because I knew he was insecure and hurt inside. But I didn't care—he wasn't mine to fix.

I matched the same intensity as his with my stare. I stared, and stared, until I wasn't even sure how much time had passed. Slowly, I released the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, reaching up to unbutton my shirt again. Four buttons. One more than how I had it before, just to infuriate him a little.