The Villains Must Win-Chapter 148: Reid Graves 28

One afternoon, as they walked across campus, a group of students approached.

"Hey, Reid," one of them said, twirling her hair. "There’s a study group tonight. You should join us."

Tabitha stepped in, her smile polite but her eyes sharp. "Oh, Reid’s calendar is pretty full. We’re working on a . . . special project together."

Reid blinked. "We are?"

"Yes," Tabitha said, linking her arm with his. "It’s called ’How to Keep Your Girlfriend from Committing a Felony.’"

The group laughed nervously and dispersed.

Reid turned to her, amused. "Jealous much?"

Tabitha shrugged. "Just proactive."

One evening, she confronted Reid.

"Do you ever regret being with me?" she asked.

Reid looked at her, surprised. "Why would you think that?"

"Because you’re basically a walking brain with cheekbones now, and I’m still the girl who needs a calculator to split a bill and once cried during a chemistry quiz."

Reid gently took both her hands in his, his fingers warm and slightly trembling—whether from nerves or excitement, Tabitha couldn’t tell. His gaze locked with hers, earnest and full of affection, like he was about to say something life-changing. Or propose. But she was 85% sure it wasn’t a proposal. Hopefully.

"Tabitha," he said, his voice soft but steady, "you’re the reason I smile every day."

Her eyes widened slightly. Was he rehearsing for a rom-com audition?

"You’re fierce, funny, and you keep me grounded," he continued. "You remind me to eat, to sleep, and not to argue with professors who carry tasers. I wouldn’t trade you for anything."

Tabitha blinked. Her lips twitched.

"Not even for a lifetime subscription to Scientific American and unlimited data storage?"

Reid smirked. "Not even for that, though it’d be a tough choice."

A warm grin slowly spread across her face as the gnawing doubt in her chest deflated like a cheap pool float. Her fears, which had been coiled like snakes under her ribs—fear of being left behind, of not being enough, of some sexy nerd groupie stealing her Reid—finally loosened their grip.

"Good," she said, nodding solemnly like a medieval queen passing judgment. "Because if you ever break my heart, I’ll have no choice but to build an AI boyfriend. He’ll play D&D, cook like Gordon Ramsay, and never forget an anniversary. And let’s be real—science isn’t ready for that level of perfection."

Reid snorted. "You barely filled out your dorm application right. You listed ’emotional support lasagna’ under allergies."

Tabitha shrugged. "It was emotionally traumatic. I trusted the cafeteria. They betrayed me. I’ve been in a toxic relationship with marinara ever since."

Their laughter chased away the tension, melting it faster than unattended ice cream in August. For once, Tabitha didn’t feel like the chubby girl dating a guy from the Honors Building. She just felt . . . herself. Seen. Valued. Loved by a science nerd who couldn’t flirt to save his GPA but somehow made her heart glitch like a buffering robot.

As they wandered back to the dorms, she swung their joined hands and elbowed him lightly. "By the way, I’m allowing you one fan club. Max five members. All must be over 80 and legally blind."

Reid groaned. "Great. There goes my stats professor. She said I had ’excellent form’ solving that regression problem."

"She can regress to knitting scarves and leave my man alone," Tabitha said, flipping her hair with the flourish of a woman who just passed her exam with a passing grade.

College life wasn’t exactly a montage of latte art and sweater weather. Assignments stacked up like a cursed game of Jenga, Reid basically moved into the chemistry lab, and Tabitha once tried to punch her calculus notes into submission.

But they made it work—with midnight snack raids (Pop-Tarts: the emotional support pastry), synchronized pre-exam breakdowns, and a solemn agreement that whoever spotted the first cockroach had to scream loudly enough to summon the RA and the building’s original ghost.

Tabitha remained vigilant. Like a chubby Batman in leggings and dry shampoo, always ready for the dramatic reappearance of Gwendolyn the Ex or Roman the Mistake. But as semesters passed and no unwanted plot twists emerged, she let herself exhale. Just a little. Maybe, for once, this Chapter was hers.

Her story—with Reid.

And if anyone dared try to hijack it?

Well.

She had a binder labeled Contingency Plans, a second one called Plan Bitchery, and a glitter-painted baseball bat named Destiny.

Because some girls wait for a fairy tale.

Tabitha? She writes her own. And if fate tries her, it better come wearing armor.

Years passed. And passed. And passed.

So many, in fact, that Tabitha finally let her guard down.

No signs of Gwendolyn or Roman. No dramatic entrances. No surprise lead arcs. Just . . . life. Work. Adulting.

Somewhere along the way, Tabitha stopped glancing over her shoulder, and their names faded into the "meh" section of her memory.

More than five years had gone by. Reid had evolved from "that cute nerd in Chem 101" to a full-blown, lab-coat-wearing, multi-degree-holding consultant for the FBI. Seriously. The man had so many letters after his name, it looked like his email signature was trying to solve Wordle.

His insight was sharp, his analysis nearly always the key to cracking cases—and honestly, the FBI had stopped pretending they weren’t just deeply emotionally dependent on him.

And Tabitha?

Well.

Let’s just say the agents at Quantico knew her by name, and by snack preference.

"Hey, Reid, your girlfriend’s here," one of the agents called out, voice echoing through the bullpen.

A hush fell over the homicide investigation as every head turned.

In walked a woman with glossy black curls, five-inch heels, and a fire-engine-red bodycon dress that looked like it had been sewn onto her with prayer and witchcraft. Her waist was absurdly tiny, her curves were not safe for work, and her walk had the kind of confidence that made coffee mugs get nervous.

Someone whispered, "Is she a model?"

Another muttered, "Did we just get visited by an Instagram filter?" freewebnσvel.cѳm

Reid didn’t even look up from his laptop. "If she’s carrying a tote bag full of highlighters and beef jerky, that’s my girl."

The woman sauntered over, dropped a kiss on his cheek, and pulled a granola bar from her cleavage.

Yup.

Tabitha.

Still hot. Still chaotic. Still his.

Somehow—don’t ask her how—Tabitha had burned enough calories during her thesis days to emerge on the other side not just with a Master’s degree, but with abs, cheekbones, and the kind of walk that made people stop mid-sentence and rethink their life goals.

By the time she strolled into Reid’s FBI crime scene, she looked like she moonlighted as a Victoria’s Secret angel who’d learned PowerPoint just for fun. Apparently, late-night ramen, caffeine-induced pacing, and fighting her thesis advisor on proper citation format was the ultimate workout regimen.

Naturally, Reid’s colleagues were suspicious.

Not of her, of course. No, no. They were suspicious of him.

"Okay, but seriously, Reid," one agent whispered over coffee one day, "she’s way out of your league. Blink twice if you’re holding her family hostage."

Another agent started a betting pool on whether Tabitha was actually a Russian spy, a CGI experiment, or part of a very elaborate Witness Protection plan.

Reid, meanwhile, would just adjust his glasses, sip his black coffee like a man hanging onto his dignity by a thread, and mutter, "We took a statistics class together. I help her study. This is my reward."

But jealousy? Oh, he had that in spades.

The moment any of his coworkers looked at her for longer than 2.3 seconds, Reid would go full petty. He once borrowed Agent Thompson’s laptop to "optimize some forensic software" and returned it with a virus so aggressive it started playing Baby Shark every time the shift key was pressed.

Another time, he rewired the office Wi-Fi so that if anyone Googled "Tabitha plus Instagram," their screens would flash "ACCESS DENIED: GET YOUR OWN GIRLFRIEND" in Comic Sans, followed by an auto-download of 74 Rick Astley MP3s.

No one risked it after that.

There was even a rumor that Reid had developed an AI script that could detect compliments about Tabitha within office emails—and automatically change them to, "Reid is the true beauty in this relationship."

Was it childish? Yes.

Was it effective? Also yes.

But the best part?

Tabitha knew. She knew everything.

And every time she caught him pretending to be chill about it, she’d lean over during lunch breaks, flash that smug little grin, and whisper, "Aww, is someone being a possessive nerd again?"

To which Reid would deadpan, "I love you like FBI loves red string conspiracy boards. Violently. Obsessively. And with a questionable number of pins."