RUBATOSIS. spencer reid

| twenty one

SPENCER REID.

DID I END UP LISTENING TO
Derek Morgan and about every voice inside my head telling me that this was probably the worst idea ever? No, I didn't. I didn't call me and Melanie's date off, and honestly couldn't decide whether I was proud of myself for resisting or just completely fucked.

And as I treaded up the stairs (instead of taking the elevator, so that I could stall and plan my attack), I was wondering what the hell I was even doing all of this for. It was like every step I took was closer to my inevitable doom that had taken the form of Sylvia Connelly—I couldn't escape it. She was going to absolutely crush me after hearing I invited Melanie over—I mean, either that, or it was going to crush her. Maybe a little bit of both—I didn't know. I didn't know how tonight was going to play out.

Melanie was arriving in fifteen minutes—hell, I couldn't even back out anymore. If everything went my way, Sylvia and I would just be cuddled up under the sheets, peacefully sleeping by now—but the reality was, she didn't want me anywhere near her and I wanted to repay the deed for making me feel so small all the time. So basically, this was about my insecurities and blown up ego—I was upset at her for hurting me, thus I had to return the favor.

My heart pounded heavily inside my chest as I unlocked the door with my key, stepping through the threshold. I was immediately greeted by the lingering scent of Sylvia's perfume from this morning—obviously it was not good because I could already feel my resolve shattering. She smelled like fresh flowers—not the tacky and artificial kind that Melanie smelled like—but the delightful, breathable kind that made you want to plunge yourself in it.

I composed myself and turned the corner to see Sylvia casually laying on the bed, still wearing her work clothes. Her legs were crossed over the other and a laptop was sitting on her thighs. The woman, unsurprisingly enough, didn't even acknowledge my presence, regardless of me trying to be as loud as possible entering. So I cleared my throat softly, and finally her gaze snapped up to mine, my stomach being filled with butterflies at the sight of those large hazel eyes of hers. But her gaze was just....

Cold.

I clenched my jaw at her condescending expression, my ego bruised as ever. She was messing with my head, and now it was my turn. This was a war now—some kind of competition to prove whatever the hell we needed to prove—that I've silently declared between us. A competition to prove that she was as nothing as she made me feel for the past two years.

And I wanted to ruin her.

That sickening thought made me wonder when I became such an angry person. When did I start to only see the negative and horrible things in others and myself? I was just filled with so much hate for the world, wishing to regain the slightest amount of power by reciprocating to others what I felt inside. It was such a stupid and petty way to cope, and absolutely ineffective.