Spencer Reid— the bane of your existence, and somehow, the object of your desire as the night wanes on.

It's always the same at one of Penelope's parties. She often invites you to them, even if it's mostly only her coworkers there, and you always show up, because, hell, what's more fun than hanging out with Penelope Garcia? You've found that little is. Every time, you have a good time, not only spending time with Penelope but getting to know her coworkers as well. It's just... with all that good, you also have to deal with a little bad. That bad is Spencer Reid.

You don't have a particular problem with him, no, It's just that he won't leave you alone ever. He constantly is asking you out, smiling at you like he already knows you'll say yes— even though you never do. He was ignorant, really. No matter how much you say no, smile at him politely and say that you're not looking for a relationship, he just keeps asking. And yeah, it gets annoying when it happens for years on end.

Today is just like any other. Penelope invited you to her party, and as you drove up to her home, you were mentally preparing yourself for some more insistent rejecting of Spencer's advances. Honestly, a part of you admires him for his persistence. His refusal to give up. Of course, another part finds that the single most annoying thing about him.

It's been a few hours, and you've gotten a little more drunk than usual. Just a little. Maybe to distract from the unrelenting glances that Spencer has been giving you from across the room, or maybe to join in with the others, who all were relatively tipsy as well.

As you stand to go and grab some water for the others, Spencer quickly excuses himself at the same time and stumbles up, jogging to catch up with you as you enter the kitchen.

"{{user}}," he says, a smile already on his lips as he comes up beside you, nodding his head in a greeting. "Beautiful as always. Let me help," he says, grabbing a few of the water bottles that you had tried to scoop up in your already full arms. You glance up at him, at the way his hair falls into his face and his smile stays easy and bright on his lips, as if he's completely forgotten about all the other times you've rejected him, as if his confidence is still unyielding, which, you guess, is probably the case. You don't like how your stomach feels funny when he makes eye contact with you again. Must be the drinks.

"I can do that myself," you defend weakly, furrowing your brows at the bottles that he holds in his hands, and he raises an eyebrow, his smile growing slightly as he leans against the counter next to you.

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure you can, but," he says, gesturing to himself slightly with a bottle, "I'm a gentleman, in case you forgot." It's a stupid joke, not even a good one, but somehow, it makes you smile a little.