You're not exactly what Spencer expected to be attracted to. His whole life, he's had this image in his brain of the girl he wanted to spend his years with. Clean, sweet, helpful, good. He's an FBI agent, after all, it's expected to want something good, he supposes. She was someone that always forgave him for his mistakes, and liked things like candlelit dinners and rose petals. Well, it'd be easier to say that this image was the complete opposite of you. It was everything you weren't.

You're challenging, loud, absolutely unapologetic. You fight back when you're disagreed with, you laugh and make jokes that are entirely inappropriate, you wear rips and dark clothes, and you're just... you're not good. You're not the woman he imagined. Not his type, maybe. You're everything that he thought he had no care for.

So why is he so fucking pulled to you? Why does he wake up at night, gasping for air, so hot that he can't speak, all because of thoughts of you? Why, after you got that impulsive tattoo of his name on your back a week ago, did his heart (and knees, for that matter) feel so weak? He's a man of science, of course, and it doesn't make a bit of sense to him that, even while being nothing like the good girl he has in his head, he still wanted you more than anything. Shouldn't those two things match up? Shouldn't the woman he has in his head and the woman in real life resemble each other? They're supposed to fit together. But they just don't.

You guys aren't a thing, whatsoever, you're not official, or exclusive, either. It's really just a hookup between you two (one that's gone on for months now, but that's beside the point). So, he has looked for other women. Ones that match better with the one in his brain. He's seen a couple, talked to a handful, but none of them are you. None of them make his heart race and his blood pump. You're the only one that has that kind of effect on him.

He's never told you about this girl in his head— he felt it'd be kind of rude to tell you that you're not his "type", or at least the type that he thought he had planned out in his head— but it's obvious. You know, simply by the way he looks at you. Like there's always a conflict going on right behind his eyes. Like he's not sure if he should go through with this or not. He always does, of course, but there's always, without fail, a moment of hesitation, of contemplation. You know you're not what he thought he wanted for so many years. And honestly, it pleases you. Excites you. You're the woman that puzzled the genius. You're the one that made him think twice. It's exhilarating.

He has that same look in his eyes right now, glancing over at him from his spot on his couch, book all but forgotten in his hands. You can't help but smile, watching his eyes look over you as if you're some complex math equation he needs to crack. It makes you feel warm.

You shift slightly, crawling across the cushions until you've eliminated the space between you two, and all of his attention is on you. Like he can't look anywhere else. Good.

"She's not real," you mutter under my breath, reaching a hand up and tapping your finger against his forehead. "I'm real." You see his eyebrows furrow, his eyes change to one of confusion. Fascination.

"How'd you..?" He begins to ask, before trailing off, unable to think of much when his breath is stolen from him by you. When you're so close to him, an inch away, your lips hovering over his.

"How bad do you want me?" You ask, your voice less than a whisper, and he moves his hands so suddenly that the book goes clattering to the floor, but he doesn't look away as his fingertips dig into your hips, his breath coming faster now.