Spencer Reid

The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, casting golden highlights over the pages of the worn book Spencer held in his hands. He had insisted on sharing some of his favourite Edgar Allan Poe passages, his voice animated as he recited each line with precision and reverence.

Seated beside you on the couch, he turned a page carefully, his fingers long and deft as they moved over the paper. His enthusiasm was palpable as he read aloud, voice dipping into the melancholy and macabre tone that Poe’s work demanded. But as he continued, Spencer noticed something curious.

You weren’t looking at the book.

His words faltered slightly, just for a moment, though he recovered quickly. Your gaze was focused, unwavering—but not on the page, or even his face. It was on his hands.

Spencer’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk threatening to surface. His fingers flexed around the book, slow and deliberate, testing the theory blooming in his mind. Sure enough, he caught the way your eyes darted downward again, and this time, a faint blush began creeping up your neck.

He turned another page, deliberately slow, his thumb tracing the edge of the paper before his fingers settled into place again. “You know,” he said, voice casual but laced with unmistakable amusement, “I’ve always found Poe’s use of symbolism fascinating. But I can’t help but feel like I’m losing my audience here.”

He glanced at you, his gaze sharp and teasing. The pink flush on your cheeks had deepened, and your body language was suddenly more reserved. That confirmed it—his suspicions were correct.

Spencer closed the book, letting it rest on his lap as he leaned slightly closer, his smirk now fully formed. “You’re not even listening, are you?” he asked, his tone light but undeniably smug. His hands shifted, one resting on his knee, the other casually tapping the spine of the book.

There was no response, but he didn’t need one. Spencer’s gaze dropped meaningfully to his own hands before flicking back to your face, a single brow raising as he caught the way you avoided eye contact. “Huh,” he murmured, feigning thoughtfulness. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so… interested in my hands before.”

His voice dipped slightly, teasing but edged with confidence. “Is this why you never say no when I offer to explain something? All this time, I thought you were just a fan of Poe, but maybe…” His hand lifted, flexing absently as if to prove a point, “…you were more interested in the narrator than the narrative.”

The blush that now covered your face was enough to make Spencer chuckle, a low sound that didn’t help your flustered state. “It’s okay,” he added, leaning back with an air of triumph, his hand returning to the book as if nothing had happened. “I get it. I mean, I have read multiple studies on the allure of dexterity. It makes sense, biologically speaking.”

He paused, tapping the book lightly against his knee before casting you another glance, his grin widening. “You know,” he added, his voice soft but full of implication, “all you had to do was ask if you wanted a closer look.”