I try not to think of my ex-boyfriend while on dates, but sometimes it can't be helped. Today for instance. If it weren't for that damn letter, which I have already shredded, my attention could be fully devoted to chess. As it stands, I can't concentrate on the move Spencer made with his knight because my mind is thinking of the call from Luc Levesque which could be coming in at any point in the next few days. He said he'd like into it, as he always does, and I suppose if he does call it's of little importance because Spencer doesn't speak French and Luc's English is scratch. It's fine. Maybe I'm not, but this is fine.

"You're not paying attention," Spencer pulls back from the board, reading his hands on his knees.

He's right. So, I shake my head, "no."

"What are you thinking about?" he asks. "Are things going well with Bastian?"

We have avoided talking about my brother storming into the bullpen last week. Roommate troubles, was how I explained it to the team. Morgan went on a tangent about his personal space and the distraction was thankfully enough. Of course, that probably wasn't substantial for Spencer. He has his eyebrow quirked casually, and I'm nowhere as good at reading people as he is, but this doesn't feel casual.

"I quit therapy," I tell him.

He cocks an eyebrow, "yeah, we haven't had a chance to... well, I suppose it wasn't going well then. Why did... was it a bad fit for you or something else?"

Right, I had only barely mentioned therapy to him. I did tell him though. At least that managed to come out.

"Bad fit," I sigh. "She was... well, she'd talk to me about things I didn't think were relevant. And four what I was paying her, it wasn't worth it."

If he can tell I'm lying, he doesn't say anything. He just nods. Dating a profiler should've been on my last list of things to do. Maybe it was, but it's Spencer. I've come to expect that he can read me. It's difficult to imagine not having him with me, but I've never been imaginative. Even this part of him, the part that notices all the things that I want to hide. It's him and therefore it's mine.

Maybe I hate what we've become, but it's entirely my fault.

"Do you want to keep playing?" he asks.

When I said, he moves me into checkmate, in just the one move. I stare at the border and stifle a laugh. I was in check for three turns, and he announced it but I had forgotten.

"Do you always go this easy on me?" I laugh when his face starts to flush. "Don't answer that."

He grins back at me. It's a flash, too rapid to really think about deeply. I get up.

"Do you want water?" I call out to him as I enter the hallway.

"Yes, thank you," he calls back.

I cross the threshold into his kitchen and move to the freezer. My fingers crack the ice tray. I pull out a cube and stand over the sink. Cool water seeps in between the cracks in my fingers. I close my eyes. Without trying, I can feel my pulse. I swear it is so strong that it's even in my eyelids. It whooshes in my ears, the sound of waves hitting the shore. As much as I like travelling, I've never desired to go to the beach. Too much sand, too hot, and the smell of sunscreen is horrific. Worst of all is the sun. I prefer DC. I prefer Québec, even. Any place that is cold. After dinner, we blew out the candles, so now I stand in the dark, my hand freezing, and then my body goes rigid.

It's not grounding. I'm below ground. I'm in a basement.

Warm hands snake around the front of me. Spencer leans in, and I smell his coconut shampoo. I drop the ice, and it clatters in the metal sink.

"You doing okay?" his voice is quiet, muffled by his face nuzzled in my hair.

I avoid nodding so as not to knock out his teeth.

"Not really," I admit. "I've missed you. I've felt... well, I enjoy your company to say the least of it."

He squeezes my waist tighter. There is no music playing, but he shifts his weight back and forth. We still dance sometimes. Never is he as practice or a smooth on his feet as he was at Caro's wedding. Even now, just rocking, he's less fluid. More solid and lanky and himself. My Dr. Spencer Reid.

"Wait," I pull from his grasp. "Just... one second."

I hurry back into the living room and put on the record player. Jazz music colour smooth rhythm at a snapping piano. I move back into the kitchen, smiling.

We never go on dates that I plan, mostly because I'm cursed by God. Every time I could concot something it is foiled. Picnics on the roof of my building, tickets to see a film an hour away. Work will always call him in. If it's my doing, it's corruptible. Tonight, he started swaying first.

I get to the kitchen, having hurried and I braced myself against the doorway. My hair swishes around me. It took me a minute to put on the jazz music, but I wasn't expecting him to do anything in the meanwhile. Perhaps grab a glass of water, but even then I wouldn't have been surprised if he just waited. However, he has lit a row of candles and place them in a candle holder on the kitchen counter. Even if he looks less like himself in this lighting, he takes two steps to meet me at his gate is unmistakably anything but his.

"I've missed you," I tell him. "Not just on the cases, but even just stepping into the other room."

Spencer smiles.

My brain moves faster than my body does. I think, I want him beside me before I make myself take the step, but then I'm in his arms and we're dancing in tandem. He's grown sloppy, but he's grown. Despite myself, I've grown too. It's labour, all of it. Work. I should have written that into my speech at Caro's wedding. It's not work like crunching numbers or like redoing my bathroom. It's like Spencer attending dance classes. The labour we do is an art. I've never been imaginative before him, but I would have become a photographer to record his jawline, or a composer to write the melody of his voice. I'd quit my job and become a professional dancer while he fun was a bit beside me.

I'm a fucking workaholic.

"You're so wonderful," he looks down at me. "I mean, when you smile. It lights up a room. And your hair is fire red and your freckles are like embers and somehow it's your smile that is the brightest."

I blink back tears. My neck twist up; I'm onto the tips of my toes and I kiss him. He's so warm. It spread into me, his warmth. Like a hirth. It spreads into my face and my neck in the deepest pit of my stomach.

I am Québecoise, But I am not the soil, cold and dry, passed down from the weight of snow. I'm warm and breathing, near clutching the collar of his shirt. I've lost my breath somewhere along my travels. It's fine. So long as I don't lose him.

"Colette," he murmurs.

I move back and kiss him deeply.

His touch is usually so light. He's like falling snow. How could he ever see me as a flame? He is warm and natural, and he becomes a windstorm, hands tangling in my hair, body pressed up to mine, stumbling until my back slammed into the wall. I let out a gasp and he stops. Spencer pulls back to pour his eyes into mine.

"You're..." he pants. "You're okay?"

I like him when he rants from all but just as much breathless.

"Yeah," I manage, smoothing my hair back into place.

He leans forward and grabs my hand, stopping it in its tracks. Spencer leans down, smoother kiss into my forehead, then my temple and down my cheeks.

"I like the way you look," he whispers. "With your hair... um..."

I exhale, almost a laugh but still as breathless.

"I..." he hesitates. "I haven't... ever."

We pull back. His forehead tips down to mine.

"Me neither," I whisper.

By my definition, it's true. I never remember it happening Australia or deciding to do it. Only the sweaty sticky mornings cling to my memory. Lukan I never. The rest doesn't count. It wasn't sex.

"You didn't..." he stops. Spencer kisses my cheek. "Sorry, I shouldn't have assumed."

I gently tilt my head, not quite a nod to spare us from slamming our heads together.

"Not tonight," I whisper. "But maybe some other time?"

Spencer nods back, just as gentle. Just as him.

~~~~~

I've given up on editing, but this is sweet, I guess. Idk. Whateves.