CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid

37

We go over to my place after work on the subway, a route I haven't taken in a few weeks. The old one is getting boring now, and I need to switch it up. Estelle and I have not been here long enough for things to feel familiar. I still am not sure where all her complex cooking utensils go, and only now does that make me nervous. Dr. Spencer Reid, the man who knows everything, will surely notice my lack of familiarity with my own space.

His feet must be freezing when we get back to the apartment. Reid's rainboots cannot insulate against the snow on the ground. He waddles more than walks once we are off the subway. I offer to take his bag, but he tells me it's fine. His breath hangs around in the air more than I do, hurrying through the streets to get back to the warmth of my apartment.

Finally, we get to the door. My fingers fumble for the key, frigid even inside my pocket. If I had more time to think about this before I offered to let him come over for the weekend, I might have better thought of the words to say when we got here. Researched or something, created scripts, practiced them in the mirror for hours until I wasn't stumbling over my own keys.

Fuck, I need to practice making up things.

"Estelle's not home," I tell him. "She actually likes you. And she isn't very sympathetic usually."

The door swings open and I step inside. I flick the light on, moving over slightly so Reid can step inside as well. He moves in beside me, and there is barely enough room for the two of us pressed in the doorway, backs brushing against the walls of the hallway, nearly nose to nose, as much as you can be when we have such different heights.

"I like Estelle," he agrees. "She's come to more of my guest lectures, you know."

My face flushes, "I'm sure she's given you a hard time. Sorry about her."

"No more than you do."

I look up at him. Behind me, I lean my back harder into the wall. I can feel the light switch against my shoulder blades. He's so close to me, and with this much fabric and the heat of my apartment, I suddenly feel like I'm sweating.

"Dinner?" he asks. "We can order in. I don't mind paying."

I nod, and he steps past me into the apartment. I wipe at my cheeks, brushing away the heat, or at least trying to transfer it to my icy fingers.

Inside, there aren't many takeout menus. Estelle prefers to cook anyway. Using my phone, we look up different places, settling on Thai food. I don't care either way. I show him to Estelle's room while I call for takeout. I've never really been the kind of person to get nervous when making phone calls, but I can't imagine doing it now. I don't know why I'm worried about getting his order right, or why it would even matter. Soon enough, the order is done.

I sneak into the office Estelle and I now share. I crawl under her desk, I sit, and I breathe in and out. It's fine. So close to the ground, the air feels fresher. My eyes dart to the doorway once, twice, before I stand up.

This is ridiculous. I'm having a colleague over. He's a colleague. Besides, he's been in my hotel room before. No one knew then. My stomach twists all the same.

Finally, I text Stéphane.

Not important, but my coworker is staying over for the weekend because his apartment is flooded. Telling you in case he murders me or something.

I crawl out of the desk and stand in the kitchen, running my hands through my hair. I take in a deep breath, once in and once out, before turning around.