"Sit," Prentiss said from her desk, motioning for you to sit down.
You slowly walked up to the chair, hesitant to listen to what she had to say. You pushed the fear aside and pulled out the chair in front of her, cautiously sitting down. You wined your fingers together, placing them between your thighs.
You were nervous albeit having these meetings with Emily every week. Ever since she found out about your parents getting into a car crash, she invited you into her office to speak to you about how your brain turned to shit. She even invited you to hang out at her house, but you turned down her offer. You weren't that desperate for help.
"How are you?" She leaned forward in her chair, resting her forearms on the table.
"I'm good."
Her eyebrows snapped together, her face turning down into a frown at the two words. She didn't believe you, and neither did you believe in yourself.
She shook her head doubtfully, her eyes staring into yours. "You've been more preserved lately. You haven't participated in any of our conversations, you haven't joined in on any of our celebratory outings, and you've missed every girl night since last month. You aren't okay."
Your eyes were now downcast, looking down at your shaking leg and your cut up cuticles from the amount of times you picked at them.
You knew that continuously lying to yourself about being okay would someday work, so you tried it out. Everyday, you replaced your true emotions with false ones, especially when someone asked you if you were alright. There was no, "Actually, I feel like shit," it was, "I'm fine, don't worry," whilst your drained face provided a different picture.
"Is it because if Spencer?"
Your eyebrows snapped together, feeling offended by the assumption she made. Reid was an asshole and he surely messed with your emotions one too many times, but he was not the cause of your drop in self-esteem and everything fucked. A man would never be the reason for such a thing.
You would have told her that he was not the issue... But speaking about the true reason seemed like a terrible choice. Prentiss was your friend, a really close one at that, but she was also your boss. Telling your boss why your heart ached and your eyes teared every day was like calling to get fired.
"I don't know Prentiss. I keep my mouth shut at work because Spencer always has some stupid remark, but he's not the reason I'm so messed up in the head."
"You're not messed up in the head Y/N," she emphasized in a nurturing tone. "Your parents are in the hospital. Your dad's in a coma and your mom is suffering from memory loss, it's normal for you to feel this way."
You could have burned a hole through your chair by how hard you were digging your backside into the cushion. You were incredibly over the conversation and you'd barely uttered a sentence. Prentiss basically screamed out everything's wrong with you within a minute.
A knock snapped you back into the conversation at hand before you had a chance to think too deeply. You turned around to see Reid in the doorway, pivoting on his heels as he stared profusely at the both of you.
You wiped away the tear that threatened to fall down your cheek. You stood up, sending Emily a soft smile before exiting the room. You heard slight clacking behind you—footsteps. Someone was following you.
You swiftly turned around, facing Spencer. He almost had a look of sincerity spread across his face, one you believed was put on due to what he overheard. Instead of weakening you, you almost smiled.
"What do you want?"
"What do I want?"
"Yes. What the hell do you want? You're following me, you must want something," you retaliated, your hands crossing over one another on your chest.
The air between you was strong and sharp. If you breathed in in too hard you'd be done for.
He awkwardly stood in front of you, his light eyes now dark as he scanned your face. The silence took over and it was clear he wasn't going to break it.
You took in a deep breath, glancing around the room before speaking up. You were being the only adult at the moment. "I'm trying Reid. I know you're this genius with a higher IQ than me and you hold like three doctorate degrees and you're basically like this superhero, but I'm trying." You turned your head to the side, trying to gather yourself. You were fuming, completely over everything the day brought. It was too early to have such a foul mouth. "Every time I'm around you, I feel like the dumbest person in the room. I feel like, what's the point of giving information if the person right across from me knows it already."
Your eyes bored into him, his jaw clenching in a sense of anger. He didn't want to be the reason you felt that way, it angered him to his core. He didn't want to be blamed. If he was blamed it meant you thought about him at some point within your sadness.
"It's not my fault your an emotional mess," he growled, his hand coming up to comb back his hair.
You threw up your hands in exasperation, your heart lurching into your throat. God, he was so arrogant and stupid, he was cold hearted towards you but he was an angel in front of everyone else. He was a one sided asshole who had no—
"You know what, fuck you. I've spent every single day reading books on top of books in hopes that I'd know something you didn't. That I would top you before you had the chance, but no! I can't! Before I have the chance to say what I've learned, you fucking say it!"
You hadn't noticed how loud you were getting until you turned to see the multiple eyes on you. They gawker, stared at the cruel remarks tumbling out of your mouth. They probably thought you were the cruel one, the bully. However, you weren't done yet, so you let them think whatever you thought.
"I don't know what you want. Do you want me to keep my mouth shut, to go by Agent Y/L/N now, to leave?"
"Yes! Oh my God, please leave. We don't need you here!" he pleaded. His eyes were poking out of his head, two centimeters away from your own protruding eyeballs. The veins in his forehead exceeded their maximum strength and they seemed to leak out of his skin.
Ouch.
It all hurt.
You didn't want it to hurt. You wanted to pick yourself up after the punch and lurch at his throat, ripping him to pieces. He was a shitty man who deserved nothing but to rot in hell. But it still hurt, as much as you hoped he would magically burn. You felt your throat dry up and your eyes begin aching from the tears.
The hate was extreme. You sure as hell hated him, but you didn't want him to leave. You enjoyed the competition, as much as it stressed you out.
You looked over his shoulder, noticing Prentiss standing outside of her office.You tilted your head, asking her if you could leave with only the gleaming of your eyes. She nodded. You glanced up at Spencer one last time, attempting to make him feel the worst he could.
You spun on your heels and cascaded down the stairs, running past Luke's fingertips against your arm. He would probably call you sooner or later, so you didn't think it was a big deal.
You walked past the glass doors and into the elevator, the doors closing as you squeezed yourself into the corner. The tears weren't rolling in, which was a surprise to you knowing how sensitive you were.
As soon as the elevator doors opened, you ran as fast as you could into your car. You turned it on immediately and sped out of the parking lot. Without a thought, you were already at your house. You weren't even sure how you drove thirty minutes, how or when you stopped at the red lights, or if every light was green. But you were home... so it didn't even matter.
You turned your car off and stepped into the cold air. The breeze chilled every heated part of your body—especially your steaming head. You began calming down, unwinding from the early day you had. Everything would be fine.
You walked up to your apartment and fumbled through your bag, taking out your small key from beneath the pile of papers and books. You pushed the key inside the lock and twisted it, opening the door and tiredly strolling in.
You threw your bag on the floor and waltzed to your room, quickly taking your shoes and clothes off. You opened your drawer and took out a pair of sweatpants and a Yale sweatshirt, sliding them both onto your body. You then crawled into bed, submerging yourself beneath the piles of comforting sheets.
You stared up at the ceiling, the soft sounds of your fan drifting you to sleep.
Stupid Reid—why the hell did he have to be such a jackass? You had the same question reverberating off the walls of your brain. Every hour of the day, although you attempted washing him out of your memory, he popped back in, announcing his presence in the uttermost blatant manner. He was sick and twisted and you hated him, yet he found a home in your mind.
You were fucked. In some way, you were truly fucked.
You were awoken by a loud knock at the door. It bled through your bedroom door and into your eardrums. You sat up and rubbed your eyes, clearing your mind of the sleeping fog.
There was another knock.
Then another.
Then you groaned and decided it would be best if you got up. So you did. But you took your time to get to the door, and as you unlocked the first lock, there was another half knock.
You opened the door to a hopeful Luke, his smile livening as he saw you across the threshold of your apartment. He looked down your body, at the hoodie and sweats, at the puffiness of your face and how tired you appeared. No lies could hide the way you truly looked.
"Hey." He grinned, his hands placed behind his back as if he was hiding something.
You sighed and on the exhale, you unleashed a smile. "Hi," you uttered, a yawn taking over your words.
You stared at him for a short moment, taking in his tall, toned body, his brown eyes and plump lips. He gleamed beneath the flickering lights of your building. Everything about him shined and glistened and you were—you were confused. There was no lie about it.
You moved aside and let him walk in, closing the tall door behind you. He was still in his work clothes, which meant he came here right after he got out.
"So, what are you doing here?"
"Oh I can't come visit the impeccable Y/N Y/L/N?" He chuckled, placing the two pints on ice cream on the counter. He opened your silverware drawer and took out two spoons, handing both the spoon and pint of ice cream to you.
You took them from his hands and moved into the living room, sitting criss-cross on your couch. He sat down next to you, the intoxicating scent of his cologne filling your nostrils.
"You okay smart girl?" he asked, turning his body over to yours. He took a scoop of his butter pecan ice cream, holding it close to his mouth before enclosing the silver with his lips.
You shook your head, tired of the repeated question. He meant well, you knew he did, but sometimes you wondered why people would ask that question when they knew you were far from okay.
Maybe because they didn't know what to ask. You tried believing that, but now you just thought people were too lazy to ask any other question. Of course you weren't okay, it was plastered across your face like a tattoo. All people had to say was, "You're not okay, huh? Tell me about it."
"Wish people would stop asking that question," you scoffed, taking a bite of your cookies and cream ice cream.
Another small pause took place. You could feel his intense stare ghost down your cheek and neck, down to your chest and back to your eyes. It was as if he was studying you. Well, not as if—he was. He was studying you, like you were some kind of suspect who'd been manically lying.
"You don't have to please everyone Y/N, you're perfect as is," he assured in a sweet tone, his hand snaking down to your thigh, gripping it gently.
"I just want him to like me. To stop thinking I'm some sort of competition. Because I'm not." You dug your spoon into the pint of ice cream and spun it in a circle. You didn't pick it up, you simply gathered it, forming the balls into snowmen.
"Hey, Y/N... look at me for a sec." He set down his ice cream and hooked his fingers underneath your chin, the cold touch of his fingers sending shivers down your spine. "You're amazing. You're a doctor, you went to Yale, you're twenty-nine and apart of the FBI. That isn't enough for you?" He bobbed your chin with every word, forcing you to understand the words that fell from his lips.
You bit down on your lip, guilt coursing through your body. He reminded you of how intelligent you truly were, and it made you sick in the best way possible.
You stared down at his lips. The air between you was sucked into the atmosphere, your bodies inching together by the force of a changed gravity. You could feel your lips trembling, your eyes flying to his plump lips. Everything between you was telling you to kiss, kiss, kiss—
You leaned in and softly kissed his lips. The ice wall was shattered so passionately that you had to press your lips once more to feel how real it was. You also had to swallow his hair strands with your fingertips, assault his neck with your nails.
It felt wrong in a way, but he seemed so invested in how you felt. He wanted to solve the problems you faced everyday. You had to kiss him. You had to feel wether the kiss was simply due to you being a horny mess. You wanted to know if the only reason you felt like kissing him was because you wanted to get back at Reid.
Maybe you wanted to kiss Luke to make sure you really only wanted to kiss Reid. Maybe you weren't deeply thinking about Reid because you wanted to be his friend, but because you wanted to... like him. To just like him. And have him like you back.
In a non-platonic way.
Luke reciprocated the kiss, your mouth opening up to allow his tongue inside, the sweet flavor of ice cream filling your mouth.
Everything felt nice. Your body felt instant heat, running down your body to your core. Your hands felt tight, inflamed, heavy. Your chest was plump, needy, as were your lips.
However, two seconds later, you felt tears trickle down your eyes. For some stupid fucking reason, you were shedding too many tears to count.
You couldn't contain yourself. You didn't know where they came from, or why you could have felt the need to shut down and cry, but you broke away as soon as the tears hit your joined lips. You turned away and slid a hand over your mouth, the other letting go of his hair. You planted your free hand on your stomach, holding back the aching feeling.
"I'm sorry, I can't. Luke I—I'm sorry." You shook your head, embarrassment dancing across your head and body.
"Shh, it's okay. It's okay." He placed a strand of your hair behind your ear, taking the ice cream from your lap and placing it on the center table. He grabbed your hands and lifted you up, taking you to your room.
He was being overly sweet, even for how terrible you treated him just them. You'd broken the sensual kiss you had because you started crying. Crying stupid tears.
You sat on the edge of your bed, Luke moving in next to you. You looked down at your lap, taking in a sharp breath to gather your words.
"I just don't know what I want." You gulped the guilt in your throat. "I guess..."
"You don't have to explain yourself princess, I get it." He patted your leg before standing up, messing up your hair slightly. "Get some sleep, you need it."
You nodded slowly, wishing, hoping, he'd return and you could tell him everything. But you let him go because you self-assassinated to the extreme.
He shut the door behind himself as he wandered down the hall to your entryway. You couldn't breathe until he left, like he choked you of your ability to catch a breath.
You let out a sigh once the door jingled shut.
You could now think properly.
Firstly, you knew he liked you. By the way he looked at you at work and how badly he scowled at Reid whenever he pushed you around made it painfully obvious... But you knew it couldn't work. Luke was attractive—he could be on the cover of male Play Boy—but those feelings you had weren't for him.
They were for someone you loathed.
You stood up and walked into the kitchen, picking your phone up from the marble top island. You turned it on and saw a message from an unknown number. You typed in your password and opened the messages app, clicking the conversation.
Unknown: Hey it's Spencer. We need to talk. Meet me tomorrow in Lydia's Diner at 10 o'clock.
It wasn't a question, it was a demand. You were sickened by the dominance in the tone of the message, but you held one too many questions to ignore him.
You would make the conversation about everything you stored in your head. You would explode into a fury of questions, spitballing them at every second.
The first question you asked—without his answer —would be:
Why did this text sound so urgent?