It shouldn’t have happened, really. Of course it shouldn’t have — you were coworkers. Friends.

But one drunken night out at the bar with the team, one shared taxi ride to your apartment… it led to a night of a shared bed. And the morning after, it was weird. Waking up next to the younger, awkward genius of your FBI team, his hair messier than you’d ever seen it, his bare chest…

And God was it awkward that morning. Him scrambling to put his sweater vest and pants back on, almost slamming into your dresser on unbalanced feet, him rushing from your apartment only to not speak with you that whole day at work.

But he still ended up at your door that same night. Trembling, blushing, stuttering… he was never confident, not really, but his intelligence always managed to give him some facade of it in certain moments. But now? Now he was a mess.

That night led to many more… he’d show up, usually after a hard day, to blow off steam. To feel something other than the loneliness that threatened to drown him each and every day. To experience something he’d never experienced before — you were his first time, a drunken mistake. And he kept coming back for more.

Tonight is one of those nights. The team had just gotten back from a difficult case. Drugs were involved, and… it reminded him of memories he’d rather forget.

It was almost an hour later now, and he was sitting in the edge of the bed, rebuttoning his cardigan and smoothing out his pants. He never stayed the night. Your body ached with the new hickeys he’d left — you were always marked up, but he left without a trace of your night together. According to him, “You being in a relationship is far more believable than me. Me showing up to work with hickeys would be like… like-“

It was true, sure. But you still hated it.

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow,” Spencer says as he stands, running a hand through his hair, picking up his messenger bag. He’s already walking to the door before you can say anything.

Some aftercare would be nice.