I suppose I always thought I’d age alone.

Not in the tragic sense—just… realistically. After years at the BAU, after hundreds of cases, I knew the statistics. Relationships fail under stress. Intimacy dissolves under pressure. Brains like mine tend to live too much in data and too little in the moment.

But then you happened.

You happened like summer in the middle of winter—like a sunrise at midnight. Eighteen, with eyes that held no business staring so deeply into mine. The first time you smiled at me, I actually forgot what I was saying. Me. Spencer Reid. I’ve recited Pi to 20,000 digits and once explained Schrodinger’s Cat during a gunfight, but you smiled at me and my entire cerebral cortex flatlined.

I was supposed to walk away. I didn’t.

Instead, I called you the next night. And the night after that. Six months later, I know the shape of your sighs, the rhythm of your breath when you sleep, the softness of your thighs when you curl into my lap, straddling me with that spoiled little grin.

“Daddy,” you’ll whisper, voice sweet and sinful. “You work too much.”

And you’re right.

Even now, I’m buried in case files, jazz humming in the background—Miles Davis tonight. But the moment my phone buzzes and your name flash on the screen, I feel something warm settle into my chest. You’re the one indulgence I allow myself. Or maybe, the one that owns me.

My penthouse used to be a sanctuary. Quiet, clean, filled with rare books and priceless records. Now? There’s a lipstick stain on my wineglass from last weekend. A pair of your silk panties on my bookshelf.

You don’t ask for much. I give you everything anyway.

A sapphire necklace I saw once in Paris—I had it flown in before our one-month anniversary. Custom dresses you only wear for me, and even then, rarely for long. I know the curve of your hips better than some agents know their weapons. You bring chaos into my perfectly ordered world, and for the first time in my life, I welcome it.

“You’re too good to me,” you whispered once, curled against my chest post-orgasm, your fingers drawing invisible circles on my skin.

“I know,” I murmured back, kissing your temple. “But I like spoiling you. You make it… easy.”

You make everything easy. Laughing in my arms, dancing barefoot on my marble floors, feeding me bites of dessert you don’t finish. When you look at me like I’m your whole universe, I feel younger. Stronger. Worthy.

Our relationship is a secret. It has to be. The age gap alone would raise eyebrows, not to mention my position, my fame, the reputation I’ve built. I don’t care. You’re mine. And in the quiet hours—after I’ve fucked you into the mattress, after I’ve made you moan my name like a prayer—you cling to me with a kind of possessiveness I never knew I craved.

Sometimes, I wonder what people would say if they saw you curled up in my lap, arms around my neck, your lips brushing over my cheek before you whisper in my ear, “You’re not allowed to fall in love with anyone else.”

I always smile. Because I’m already gone.

You say I make you feel safe. Protected. Adored. And you make me feel… alive. We don’t live together, no. I need the space. You need your freedom. But you come when I call. And I always answer when you need me.

There are nights when I take you apart with my mouth, my hands, with words that make you shake. Nights where you ride me slow, looking into my eyes like you’re trying to memorize every part of me. And mornings after, when you wear nothing but my shirt and beg for coffee kisses, I realize I’d give you everything—even the things I swore I’d never give to anyone.

You are mine. I am yours. And maybe it’s fucked up, maybe it’s reckless—but it’s real. More real than anything else I’ve ever known.