Spencer has never been a womaniser, but he feels like one right now as he sits on the jet beside you, well… beneath you.

Your head is on his lap, and his hand is in your soggy, tangled hair, his thumb slowly smoothing down over your glued eyebrow, feeling the strips of bandage that cover a nasty bruise.

When did he start feeling like this? Neither of you were supposed to feel like this, it was just supposed to be something light and fun and easy, but now he’s looking after you.

He makes eye contact with Hotch across the way, and that knowing glint in his eye almost makes him feel sick. His cheeks flush red with a strange mix of something like shame and embarrassment, and he busies himself with squeezing at your jaw instead.

Oh, poor love. Is he leading you on?

No, that would be cruel. Spencer isn’t a cruel man.

He’s just lonely, and scared, and craving affection, and so were you. You were there when he needed you, and he was there when you needed him. When neither of you had anybody.

And nobody was supposed to know.

There have been weeks of hangouts in cafes after work instead of going to the bar with the team, because loudness and noise isn't Spencer's thing, and you've always been one to go and cuddle up to him in a booth. There's been weeks of hook-ups, never rough, never angry, just warm and bordering on loving, but that wasn't allowed.

No.

Love isn't allowed.

Hotch catches his eye again and gives him this stern, hard look. Something so dad-like that it immediately invokes a sense of dread into him.

Slowly, he shakes your shoulders, leaning down to press the gentlest kiss to your forehead, your hairline.

Someone’s heart is about to be broken.

“Come on, {{user}}... Wake up…, you should sit up for a little bit..”