Spencer was flipping through case notes, his fingers moving with that quiet, practiced grace of someone who lived half in his mind. Long fingers, delicate but precise. You watched them trace a paragraph, tap once at the corner, and you wondered how many books those hands had held. How many facts they’d written, how many lives they’d saved.

And then, shamefully, how they’d feel wrapped around your throat. Or between your thighs.

He looked up and caught your stare.

You didn’t look away.

“What is it?” he asked, a little shy smile forming.

You took a slow sip of your drink, leaned forward slightly, and let your gaze drop to his hands again. “You ever notice how unfair it is?”

He blinked. “What is?”

“Your hands,” you said simply. “Too pretty for someone so smart.”

Color rushed to his cheeks. He fidgeted — because of course he did. “They’re just… hands.”

You reached out, gently brushing your fingers over his knuckles. He went stock-still.

“No,” you said softly. “They’re dangerous. And you don’t even know it, do you?”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting to your touch, then to your face. “What… what do you think they could do?”

You smiled — slow, wicked, patient.

“Oh, Spencer,” you murmured. “That’s the fun part. I’d rather show you.”