CHERRY FLAVOURED || Re-Write

EIGHTEEN

YN POV

(This is a terrible chapter, i am beyond sorry. have a lovely night!)

You woke up with a pain shooting through your chest and a heaviness in your breath. It was radiating through you to the point where you didn't even want to open your eyes in fear that someone had stabbed you in your sleep; or that somehow you actually died and everything that occurred prior was simply a dream in the after-life. But after a short minute of holding your breath to see if you were truly dead, you slowly opened your eyes. Thankfully, you weren't dead, just caught beneath Spencer's large head of tangled curls.

You sighed and attempted crawling up the couch. Spencer cooed and stirred like a child but would not let you go. His arms inched their way around your waist and you were trapped. You sighed and submerged a hand into his hair. You raked through the mount of curls and he visibly flinched.

"Reid," you hissed, following with a head scratch.

He stirred.

"Reid!" you said, even louder this time.

"Hm..." he finally murmured.

"Wake up, you're squishing me."

"Hm?"

"I can't breathe!" you whispered, only a tad bit louder.

The once asleep man instantly woke up and retrieved his tucked hands from around your back. He lifted himself from you and straddled your legs. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice raspy and in-and-out of consciousness.

You nodded and hiked up the couch. "Yeah, I just thought I was dying for a second."

He rubbed his eyes and jumped off the couch. He pulled you up next to him and took a good look at you: he observed your neck, chest, legs and feet. He was messed up on his own, with his fucked leg, but he managed to care more about you than the suggestive pain he was suffering.

"I'm okay," you assured, to which he simply nodded. He placed his hands on your shoulders and stroked the skin beneath your sleeves. "Seriously," you continued, but stopped as he pulled away and walked towards the kitchen. You followed behind him and sat down in one of the island chairs. You watched him look through the kitchen in silence, not even trying to utter a word to break the silence.

As Spencer rummaged through the pantry, you looked around the room: the old, dusty T.V. in the corner of the living room, which you wanted to call a television, as it seemed like the correct word to use; the shelf overfilled with ancient books; and the typewriter wedged into the corner of one of his lower shelves. His kitchen was plain, untouched, and rather boring. There were no pictures–just white panels and wood and sleek refrigerator doors. Spencer was unbothered, however, and walked about.

"You want coffee?" he asked as you found your way to his face.

You shook your head. "They suggest I don't. But water is fine."

He fetched a glass of water and placed it in front of you with a random toasted bagel smothered in cream cheese. "Happy Birthday," he said, and slid into the seat in front of you.

"Thank you," you whispered. You grabbed the bagel and stuffed it into your mouth. Spencer ate his food as well–a toasted bagel with grape jelly–and looked beyond you, possibly at the unsheathed window facing the empty road.

"When are you going back to work?" Spencer asked, finally looking at you.

You shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe in two weeks." He nodded. "What about you?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. When everyone stops hating me, maybe."

You scoffed and set down your bagel. You picked up your glass of water and stared at him over the rim. You swallowed down the water and sighed into your next sentence: "They don't hate you."