Seah

summary : spencer likes to see you in his clothes almost as much as you enjoy stealing them. but ruining his favorite cardigan might create irreparable damage word count : 2.3k pairings : spencer reid x gf!reader warnings : classic lovergirl move, reader puts on his cardigan because she misses him and hits the millenial mom pose in front of the window (iykyk). terrible sewing skills and people pleasing, hints of childhood trauma if you squint notes : based off this request, later!seasons spencer and cardigan by taylor swift reblogs do very little to promote fics, feel free to reblog if you enjoyed !!

saturdays are meant for resting.

preferably with your boyfriend's chest against your back as you lay comfortably under a warm blanket, and no other plans for the day. when the unwanted act of getting up and leaving the comfort of your shared bed is to be pushed back until it turns into an absolute physiological need you can no longer manage.

until then, the bed lures you in inevitably like a secluded bubble of bliss, a universal magnetic pull humanity has yet to explain.

however, saturdays with spencer are rare. every once in a while, you'll get to experience his face in the daylight as a change from the dim glow you usually see him under - leaving early in the morning, coming home late at night, you've learned to cherish the scraps of him you get to see.

but today the bed was yours alone, and you'd promised spencer between sleepy kisses you wouldn't move a finger and enjoy it enough for the two of you.

pairings: spencer reid x profiler!reader theme: fluff/suggestive content warnings: mentions of drug withdrawal and implied use!

a/n: this came to me in a dream

The filing room in Quantico had never felt smaller. Spencer Reid had always liked the room. It was quiet, tucked away from the bullpen’s constant noise and the shuffling footsteps of agents rushing past. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, and the shelves were stacked high with old files that smelled faintly of paper and dust. It was a good place to think. Unfortunately, thinking was the last thing he needed right now. His hands trembled. He hid them behind a thick folder he had pulled from the shelf moments ago, though he hadn’t actually read a single word on the page. The words blurred together anyway. Withdrawal did that.

The ache beneath his skin crawled like static electricity, a restlessness that made it impossible to sit still. His pulse beat harder than usual, each thump reminding him of something his body wanted desperately and no longer had. Just the word was enough to make his stomach twist. He hated knowing the chemical structure by heart. He hated that part of him still wanted it. Spencer had been trying everything, running statistics in his head, reciting random facts about astrophysics, solving complicated mathematical problems, but none of it stopped the sharp edge of craving that occasionally cut through his mind, and now she was here. She stood across from him, flipping through a stack of files with a soft concentration that Spencer found himself watching more often than he meant to.

She had volunteered to help him reorganize the records. She probably thought she was just doing him a favor. She had no idea she was currently the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. Spencer swallowed. He tried to focus on the folder in his hands. It didn’t work. The thought flickered through his mind again. He needed a distraction. The strongest one he could think of, actually, and before his brain had the chance to stop him, he spoke.

“Make out with me.” The words fell from his mouth like a confession he hadn’t meant to speak aloud. She froze; the file in her hands nearly slipped to the floor. Slowly, she looked up at him. “Excuse me?” Her voice came out in a single breath of disbelief. Spencer felt his ears burn. Of all the ways he could have phrased that request, he had somehow managed the worst possible version. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, a nervous habit he couldn't stop. “I realize,” he began quickly, “that was an incredibly abrupt request and lacking in appropriate contextual setup—”

“Spencer.” He stopped talking. She stared at him like she was trying to decide if he had just made a joke. The problem was that Spencer Reid rarely joked. “You just told me to make out with you, Spence. It's not exactly a normal ask.”

“Yes,” he said faintly. “And out of nowhere.” She reminds.

“Well… not entirely nowhere.”

She folded her arms. The two of them stood barely two feet apart in the narrow aisle between filing cabinets. “Explain,” she said. Spencer inhaled slowly.

“Distraction,” he said. She blinked. “What?”

“Distraction therapy,” Spencer clarified. “It’s actually a well-documented behavioral coping mechanism used in addiction recovery. When the brain experiences a craving for a substance, redirecting attention toward an alternative stimulus, particularly one that produces dopamine, can interrupt the craving cycle.”

She stared at him. “So your solution to your drug withdrawal is…” He cleared his throat. “Kissing.” Her eyebrows rose. Spencer rushed on, words spilling out faster the more nervous he became.

“There are neurological reasons for it,” he explained. “Kissing triggers dopamine release in the brain's reward center while simultaneously increasing oxytocin levels, which promotes bonding and reduces stress. In theory, the competing stimulus should temporarily override the craving signals.”

She blinked again. “In theory.”

“Yes.”

“And your research says that works?”

“Well,” Spencer admitted carefully, “most of the research involves nicotine addiction.” She pressed her lips together. “And you want to test this theory on me.”

“Yes.”

A beat passed. The silence stretched long enough that Spencer’s heart started to sink. He had completely miscalculated. Of course, she was going to say no. He had started to think of at least twenty ways to take everything back, but his breath hitched, and the words in his throat retreated in fear and regret. Then she spoke so matter-of-factly:

“Okay.”

Spencer blinked. “…Okay?” She stepped closer. Close enough that Spencer could see the tiny flecks of gold in her eyes. “Okay,” she repeated. “If it helps you, that is.” Spencer’s brain stalled. This was not how he had expected the experiment to proceed. “You’re sure?” he asked. She shrugged lightly. “You look like you’re about to crawl out of your skin.”

That was unfortunately accurate. “So,” she said softly, tilting her head, “are you going to kiss me, Dr. Reid, or are you just going to keep explaining the neuroscience behind it?”

Spencer’s breath caught. He hesitated only a fraction of a second before closing the remaining space between them. The moment his lips met hers, something inside Spencer’s chest loosened like a knot finally coming undone. The constant itch beneath his skin faded slightly, replaced by warmth spreading through his chest. For the first time in hours, his mind went quiet. Her hands came up to steady herself against his shoulders, and Spencer felt a brief flash of panic that she might push him away.

She didn’t. Instead, she kissed him back, and the distraction worked. Too well, actually. When they finally pulled apart several seconds later, Spencer looked slightly stunned. She looked amused. “Well,” she said, a small smile forming. “Was your hypothesis right?” Spencer blinked rapidly.

“I—yes. That appears to be the case.”

That was the first time it happened. It was not the last. Over the next few weeks, it became a pattern. Whenever the cravings hit, Spencer would disappear. Sometimes it was the archive room. Sometimes it was a quiet hallway. Once, it was a storage closet that barely fit the two of them, and every time, he would pull her inside. Every time, his hands would find her waist like a man clinging to solid ground, and every time, his lips would be on hers before either of them had the chance to overthink it. Like a man starved. Like someone who had gone too long without air.

At first, she had told herself it was just helping him, but there was something about the way Spencer kissed her that made her heart race in ways that had nothing to do with helping. He was always gentle afterward, almost as if retreating into his real form after transforming into a different person. He would step back, push his glasses up nervously, and mumble something about dopamine regulation before hurrying back to the bullpen like nothing had happened.

She would follow, trying not to think about how much she looked forward to the next time, because, unbeknownst to the man she had just kissed, she had liked him long before this. Long before the first kiss. She had liked the way his brain worked. The way he rambled about obscure facts when he got excited. The way he tilted his head when he listened carefully to someone. She had liked him quietly and safely.

But now, she was kissing him in empty rooms at work, and every time it happened, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered something she didn’t want to acknowledge. This wasn’t just a distraction. At least not for her. And sometimes, the way Spencer grabbed her hand and pulled her away when the craving hit made her stomach twist, because it felt less like affection and more like need. She pushed the thought away every time. Until the day she was talking to JJ. They sat together in the break room, coffee cups in hand, while the bullpen buzzed quietly beyond the door.

“You know,” she said casually, “Spencer’s doing really well lately.” She looked up. “What do you mean?” she asks.

“He’s been going to a support group,” JJ explained. “Every week. He told me he hasn’t thought about using it in months.” The words landed harder than expected. “Months?” she repeated.

JJ nodded. “He’s really proud of himself.” Her chest tightened slightly. Months. That meant Spencer hadn’t been struggling when he pulled her into the file room yesterday. Or the hallway last week. Or the storage closet two days before that. A strange mixture of warmth and irritation twisted in her chest.

That afternoon, Spencer did exactly what he always did. He caught her arm as she walked past him. “Hey,” he said quietly. She looked up. There was that familiar nervous look in his eyes. “Can we—” He glanced toward the empty conference room nearby. Her heart thudded. He was already reaching for the door. Inside, the room was quiet and dim. The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Spencer stepped closer.

His hand reached for her waist, but this time, she stopped him. “Wait.” Spencer froze immediately. “Is something wrong?” She studied his face carefully. “JJ told me something today.” His brow furrowed. “What?”

“She said you haven’t thought about using in months.” Spencer’s expression shifted. “Oh.” Her arms folded slowly.

“So,” she said carefully, “why are we still doing this?” Silence filled the room. Spencer looked suddenly sheepish. His hand dropped from her waist. “Well,” he said weakly.

She tilted her head. “Well?” Spencer adjusted his glasses. His cheeks turned slightly pink. “I may have… slightly misrepresented the ongoing necessity of the distraction technique.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Spencer.”

“It’s still technically beneficial,” he said quickly. “Kissing still releases dopamine regardless of the presence of a craving trigger—”

“Spencer.” He stopped talking. She waited, and after a moment, Spencer exhaled softly. The sheepish look on his face deepened. “I’m not very good at expressing my feelings,” he admitted. His voice was quieter now.

“I’ve spent most of my life analyzing human behavior rather than participating in it,” Spencer continued slowly. “Which means that when I realized I liked you, I had absolutely no idea what the appropriate method of communicating that would be.” Her heart skipped. “You like me.”

“Yes.” He said it simply.

“And now that we're here, having this conversation, I probably should have told you directly,” he added awkwardly. She stared at him.

“Instead, I created a behavioral excuse that allowed me to kiss you repeatedly without having to verbalize emotional vulnerability.” She blinked, then finally laughed.

Spencer looked relieved. “That… sounds like something you would do,” she admitted. “I realize it wasn’t the most conventional approach.” He confesses.

“No,” she said, smiling. “It really wasn’t.” Spencer rubbed the back of his neck nervously. Her smile grew. “You know,” she said, stepping closer, “you could have just said that.”

“Yes.”

“And I probably would have kissed you anyway.” Spencer’s eyes widened slightly. She laughed again. “You’re a genius, Reid, but sometimes you really overthink things.” She reached up and gently tugged the front of his tie.

let's not fall in love — spencer reid

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𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾! 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖽 𝗑 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

°❀.ೃ࿔* after the high of their very rom-com confession and first kiss in the rain, they finally decide that it's time to have the talk.

𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗈𝖽𝖾: fri(end)s - v

a/n: i feel so sappy about the fact that the next episode is the season finale for season one! this pair has grown so much on me, and you guys have made it an incredible experience to write them! :(

The walk back was the longest they had ever shared, yet every step felt electric. Their hands were locked tight, shoulders pressed together as if they were trying to merge into one person to ward off the chill. Neither made a move to pull away; the gravity between them was finally too strong to resist. The moment the door swung open, Walt Jr. pranced over to greet them with a wagging tail. She scooped him up immediately, using the dog as a shield to hide the fact that her smile wouldn't fade. Spencer noticed, of course. He noticed everything.

"Hey, get in the shower first," he suggested, his voice dropping an octave. A deep flush crept up his cheeks, darker than the chill of the rain could account for. "You were out in the storm longer than I was." She threw him a playful, shaky salute to mask the butterflies drumming against her ribs. "Aye aye, Captain!" While the water ran, Spencer sank onto the bench by the window, careful not to drip on the cushions. He stared out at the blurred streetlights, a permanent, dazed smile etched onto his face. He couldn't settle his heart. For years, he’d wanted this; he just hadn't been brave enough to name it. He was floor-to-ceiling in love with her, and the reality of it was finally settling in his bones.

When she finally emerged, smelling of soap and tucked into warm pajamas, she gave a small tilt of her head toward the bathroom. He nodded, passing her in the hallway where their shoulders brushed, a lingering, intentional touch that made his breath hitch.

Later, they found themselves on the living room floor, the space between them occupied by a snoring Walt Jr. The adrenaline of the rain had faded, replaced by a heavy, cozy silence. "So," Spencer said, breaking the quiet. "We should probably have 'the talk.'" She let out a puff of laughter. "Walt, I know how babies are made."

Spencer reached over, gently poking her side. "Not that talk, and you know it." She giggled, but the sound died down into something softer as she watched the rhythm of the dog’s breathing.

"I’m not sure how any of this works," Spencer whispered, his voice barely audible. "You’re technically my first... everything." She looked at him, her expression tender. "And you're mine."

Spencer’s heart hammered against his ribs. This was new territory. They had spent their entire lives mastering the art of being friends; they didn't have a map for this. When she looked at him, her eyes were bright with happiness, but he could see the faint shadow of fear behind them. She was terrified that crossing this line meant they could never go back if things broke.

Spencer had always been able to see right through her. He moved closer, pulling her into the crook of his arm. "We’ll make it work," he promised into her hair. "It’s you and me. We’ll figure it out together." She nodded against his chest. "I love you, too. I just never really said it a while ago, and I need you to hear it from me, really hear it, because I’ve loved you for a long time. I always have."

She looked up, searching his face for any sign of a bluff, but found only sincerity. "Always?" she whispered.

"Always," he confirmed. "Remember that one quiz bee I had to go to? My mom was stuck in that board meeting with yours, and I was standing there alone, sure I was going to fail because no one was in my corner. Then you showed up, all sweaty with your backpack unzipped because you’d run twenty-five minutes straight just to cheer for me."

She laughed softly. "the first time I cut class. It was the first and only time I ever got a lecture from the principal."

"When I saw you holding that Go Spencer board, the one covered in so much glitter I was picking it out of my hair and clothes for two weeks, I knew right then. I wanted to be with you for the rest of my life. I just didn't have the words for what that meant yet."

She squeezed him tighter, the memory flooding back. She remembered the burning in her lungs as she ran, thinking only of reaching him.

"And remember high school?" He adds. "When I was the youngest, and the seniors were relentless? You walked me to every single class, your hand in mine, so they couldn't get to me. You didn't care if they teased you, too. From the first time you took my hand, I knew I never wanted to let go."

Her eyes brimmed over, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. She had spent so long convinced she was just the best friend, and hearing the truth felt like a dam breaking.

"Hey, hey... why are you crying?" Spencer murmured. He shifted on the floor, kneeling so he could fully cradle her face in his hands. His thumbs moved in slow, rhythmic circles over her cheekbones, catching her tears before they could fall. "I just..." she choked out a watery, overwhelmed laugh. "I spent so long being afraid that I’d never be more than just a friend to you. That I wasn't... enough."

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his, finally letting the old ghosts out. "Remember that night when the whole team crashed our apartment? I couldn't help but notice how you looked at JJ. I stayed up that night wondering if I could ever be the right person for you. She was everything: smart, beautiful, composed, poised. She was the blueprint of a perfect woman. It made sense if you liked her, but seeing the way you watched her made my stomach turn with jealousy. I kept asking myself: Why can't he look at me that way?"

Spencer’s hands stilled against her skin. He let out a long, heavy breath, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. "I looked at her because I couldn't look at you," he admitted, his voice a low, pained confession. "I knew that if I let my eyes linger on you for even a second too long, I would fold. Instantly. I work with the best profilers in the world, and they would have seen right through me. I was terrified of losing what we had, so I buried it. I wanted to keep what I felt for me, and me alone, until I was brave enough to tell you."

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his expression fierce and certain. "And here I am. Telling you that I love you, and I don't think I can stop saying it."

She let out a soft, breathless laugh, the tension finally leaving her shoulders as she settled back against his chest. The warmth of his sweater and the steady thrum of his heart beneath her ear felt like home. "We broke our rule, you know," she whispered, her finger tracing idle, nonsensical shapes against the fabric of his shirt. "We swore we’d never fall in love."

"That was bullshit," Spencer countered with a soft huff of a laugh, his arms tightening around her. "We both knew that rule was broken long before we even made it. We were just too hard-headed to admit the truth."

"Well, it is us," she said, tilting her head back to grin at him. "We’ve never been anything less than stubborn, over-analytical smart-asses."

"Indeed," he agreed, his eyes softening as they raked over her face, memorizing this new version of her, the version that was his. There was a long, comfortable beat of silence, broken only by the rain drumming against the roof and the soft snores of the dog between them. Spencer cleared his throat, a flash of that familiar, endearing boyish nerves returning to his face.

"So... how does this go? Does this mean we’re... boyfriend and girlfriend?" She arched a brow, a playful glint returning to her eyes. "Spencer Walter Reid, are you trying to get with me?"

"Maybe I am," he whispered, a shy, crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. She laughed, the sound bright and clear, chasing away the last of the heavy rain-chill. "Yeah, I like the sound of that. Boyfriend and girlfriend."

"We need to tell momma about this, apparently, they've been on about us since we were kids." She says making Spencer chuckle. "Figures, nothing gets past them anyway. No matter how hard we try to outsmart them." He states. "We'll Skype her tomorrow and tell her everything."

Spencer didn't say anything else. He simply leaned down and pressed a long, lingering kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of what had always been his home. They stayed there on the floor, tangled together with their dog, letting the rest of the world melt away until there was nothing left but the two of them and the quiet certainty of always.

The morning light was a stark, beautiful contrast to the storm from the night before. When Spencer finally drifted awake, the house was filled with the rich, nutty aroma of brewing coffee. He followed the scent into the kitchen, his footsteps silent on the hardwood.

She was standing by the counter, bathed in the pale gold of the early sun, waiting for the pot to hiss its final drop. Spencer didn’t hesitate. He stepped up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her back against his chest. She gasped, the ceramic mug in her hand wobbling dangerously. "You can't do things like this, it's very distracting, I almost dropped my favourite mug," she whispered, though she leaned her head back against his shoulder, closing her eyes.

"I have no plans on stopping, so you better get used to it," he murmured, his voice still gravelly from sleep. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of her shoulder, feeling her shiver in his arms. The domestic peace was short-lived as Walt Jr. came into the room, his claws clicking on the floor. He let out a sharp, happy bark, jumping up against Spencer’s leg to demand his share of the morning affection.

"Hey, buddy. Good morning to you, too," Spencer laughed, reluctantly releasing her to scoop the dog into his arms.

She turned around, watching them with a softened expression, before wrapping her own arm around Spencer’s waist and resting her head on his shoulder. They stood there in the quiet kitchen for a long time, basking in the warmth of the sun spilling through the window. "I want to stay like this forever," Spencer said, his voice surprisingly steady.

She giggled, poking his side. "Hey softie, who are you, and what did you do to my whiny Walt?"

"He's gone!" he said, catching her gaze. "Whiny Walt is permanently replaced by Smitten Spencer." He leaned down, catching her lips in a quick, tender kiss that left her beaming. As he walked over to pour himself a cup of coffee, he leaned against the counter, trying to look casual despite the nervous energy thrumming in his fingers. "I was thinking... if you’re not busy later tonight, we should go on a date."

She looked at him, genuine shock crossing her features. "A date? An official one?" Spencer nodded, taking a slow sip from his mug. "Mhm. Just you and me. At the most romantic, high-end restaurant in the city."

"Bistro L’Hermitage?" she asked, her eyebrows shooting up. Spencer walked back to her, catching her by the waist and pulling her flush against him. "Wingstop."

She let out a dramatic, theatrical gasp. "Oh, Spencer! You really do know the way to my heart." She laughed, pulling him down for another kiss, her heart soaring.

The rest of the day was a blur of giddy energy. When she finally got home from work, Spencer was already there, the light from the hallway catching the sharp lines of his button-down. "I'm home." she chirped. "You ready for our date?" Spencer peeked through the bedroom door, a shy, proud smile breaking across his face. "Ready as I’ll ever be."

"Let me just freshen up, okay? I want to be ready when we devour those chicken wings."

"Take your time," he called out.

She retreated to her room, blasting music to match her mood. She rummaged through her closet until she found the perfect outfit, something that felt like her, but a little better. She even spritzed on her favorite perfume, a detail that felt slightly ridiculous for a wing joint, but she didn't care. For the first time, everything felt like it had finally clicked into place.

Mid-way through getting ready, a sharp knock-knock-knock sounded at the front door. Walt Jr. began barking frantically.

"Walt? Can you get that?" she shouted over the music.

No answer. A few seconds later: Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Spence! The door, please!" she raised her voice, laughing to herself. When there was still no response, she sighed, smoothed down her clothes, and marched to the front door. She swung it open, ready to scold him, only to find Spencer standing on the welcome mat with a massive, vibrant bouquet of flowers held out in front of him.

Her laughter echoed in the hallway. Spencer gave a mock-solemn bow. "M’lady," he chirped. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a large, gourmet dog cookie, waving it toward the puppy. "And for you, little gentleman."

"I didn't even hear you go out!" she said, taking the flowers and burying her nose in the petals. They smelled like spring and new beginnings. "How could you with that obnoxiously loud music of yours?" Spencer teased, stepping inside. "I’m genuinely concerned you’re slowly going deaf."

She laughed, rolling her eyes, hooking her arm through his. "You ready to go?"

He offered his elbow with a flourish, looking at her with an intensity that made her breath catch. It was a look of total, unadulterated devotion. "Let’s go eat those wings."

Finally, the wait was over. Everything they had ever wanted wasn't just a dream anymore; it was real, it was messy, and it was theirs.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

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taglist: @idcalol @xmiaacxio @itspalaly @matcha-kitty13 @cafters @frankiebeeslyshouse @butdonttrustmeimmentallyinsane @ivynotreally @astronnovaa @unalivebread @lezliesley @siennnaaa1202 @thyblood @jackierose902109 @hiddentattooodyssey

pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader (eddie diaz x fem!reader)

theme: angst ; hurt to comfort

content warnings: none

a/n: inspired by Speak Now by Taylor Swift and Jackson Avery's world-stopping scene at April Kepner's wedding! Also, yes, it's Eddie from 911, this is a crossover if you squint, but I really just can't think of a guy's name, and Eddie is the other loml

"Do you, take Edmundo Diaz to be your lawfully wedded husband? Do promise to love and cherish him, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, for richer for poorer, for better for worse, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him, for so long as you both shall live?" The pastor asks. Everyone was in tears looking at her while she was looking at him, her heart was sound and sure, until the doors opened.

"No, she doesn't,'' Spencer announced, standing at the dead center of the chapel, before she could speak. All eyes were on him; he could feel it, but in that moment, he didn't care. "Spencer Reid, stop this right now." He can hear Aaron and David calling out to him in soft shouts from one of the pews, but nothing mattered to him more than her. She had her eyes on him. Filled to the brim with tears that she's trying not to let fall.

It was five years ago when they met. She was new to the team, and instantly, he knew she was the one. Who else could match his wit with comedic timing better than she could? Unlike everyone else, she actually listened to what he had to say. She encouraged him to keep going rather than cutting him off or shunting him aside to annoy the next person. She willingly asked questions to keep him talking because she loved the sound of his voice. For the first time in a long time, someone actually cared about what he had to say, no matter how long it took him to finish. No one else understood him, at least, not the way she did.

It took him one year, three months, and thirty-six days to ask her out on a date, and it took her only two seconds to say yes. It was a whirlwind after that; everything moved so quickly in their favor that she believed it was fate. Until it wasn't. When Spencer went to prison a year after, she stood by him faithfully. However, as soon as he was released, he was withdrawn, almost numb to the fact that her love for him had withstood everything. Meanwhile, his love for her had been left to wilt, rot, and die. She tried her best to be there for him after his release. She visited his home to bring him food, found him a therapist for his PTSD, but nothing seemed to budge. One night, she went to his house with food and a movie, but when Spencer answered the door, he was half-naked. She could see the silhouette of a woman in the living room, and her heart broke. What they had, or what she thought they had, meant nothing to him.

"Spencer, who is that?" she asked, but Spencer pulled the door behind him to conceal it before she could look further. "It's none of your business. Could you please stop coming here?" he said coldly, leaning against the door frame.

"You're not being fair," she said, her mouth quivering. "Fair? Fairness went out the window when I was put in jail. You should have known that the moment I stepped behind bars, it was over between us." How could she have known that? Every single day of her life, she had spent fighting for him so she could go back to fighting with him.

“You loved who I was. I don’t know if I’m him anymore,” Spencer continued, officially breaking her heart. "You know what? You're right. Fuck you," she said, before dropping the bag of food at his feet and walking away.

Ever since that night, she made a vow to herself: forget Spencer Reid. He would no longer be a part of her system. So she went out and dated a lot. Until she met Eddie Diaz. Perfect Eddie, who was a firefighter. Eddie, who would do anything for her without hesitation. Eddie, who was all-in on loving her, even on the days she felt she didn't deserve it. He was perfect, but a part of her heart still felt hollow, as if something were missing. Eddie was the "right" choice. He was a steady hand in the dark, a man who built things rather than breaking them. He was kind, and he was there, but as she sat across from him at dinner, watching the candlelight catch the honest warmth in his eyes, she felt the familiar, cold ache of comparison.

Eddie took care of her, but he didn't challenge her. He would listen to her talk about a new theory or an obscure historical fact with a polite, supportive smile, but he didn't jump into the fray. He didn't interrupt her with a counterpoint or debate the validity of her sources until three in the morning. No one leveled with her like Spencer. No one argued the soul of a thing with her like Spencer. With Eddie, she was cherished and cared for, but with Spencer, she was seen.

She hated herself for the hesitation. It felt like a betrayal of the man who actually showed up for her. Then, it happened. Eddie reached across the table, his hand covering hers, and pulled out a small black box. He spoke of a future, of safety, and of a love that didn't end. It was everything she had ever told herself she wanted.

"Yes," she said, the word feeling heavy in her mouth.

She leaned in to kiss him, closing her eyes tight, trying to drown out the memory of another man's silhouette and a voice that used to be her favorite sound. She told herself this was the final blow. By wearing Eddie’s ring, she was letting the wound finally heal and close. If she committed to the "perfect" man, the ghost of Spencer Reid would finally have no choice but to leave. She wasn't just saying yes to Eddie; she was saying a final, desperate no to the man who had already let her go.

The bullpen was buzzing with its usual frantic energy when she walked in, the diamond on her finger catching the harsh overhead fluorescent lights. It felt like a lead weight, yet she made sure to move her hand just enough for Penelope to catch the glint. Within seconds, the office was filled with gasps and cheers.

"Oh, my goddess!" Penelope squealed, grabbing her hand. "Eddie did it? He actually did it?" The team swarmed. JJ gave her a tight, knowing hug, and Prentiss offered a proud, supportive smile. They were happy for her. They loved Eddie; he was the safe harbor she deserved after the storm of the last few years. She smiled until her cheeks ached, repeating the story of the proposal like a script she had memorized. Every "yes" she uttered to their questions was another nail in the coffin of her past. She was healthy. She was fine. She was moving on.

"I have to go grab those files from the archives," she excused herself, needing a breath of air that didn't feel like it was being sucked out of the room by a dozen congratulations. She turned the corner near the breakroom, her head down as she adjusted the ring, which felt slightly too loose, or perhaps her skin was just trying to reject it. She wasn't looking where she was going until she slammed into a solid chest.

"Sorry, I—" The apology died in her throat. Standing there was Spencer. He held a stack of files against his chest, his eyes widening behind his glasses. For a second, the old rhythm returned; she waited for him to spout a statistic about the probability of workplace collisions or the kinetic energy of their impact.

Instead, there was only a heavy, suffocating silence. Spencer’s gaze dropped to her hand, which was still resting against his arm to steady herself. The ring was impossible to miss. She saw his throat hitch as he swallowed hard, his eyes flickering from the diamond back to her face.

"You're engaged," he said. It wasn't a question; it was a realization that seemed to physically wind him. "I am," she said, her voice stronger than she felt. Spencer looked like he wanted to argue, to tell her that "need" and "love" were mathematically distinct variables, or to remind her of the nights they had spent debating the very foundations of commitment, but he just tightened his grip on his papers. The fire she used to spark in him was gone, replaced by a hollow, haunting resignation.

"Congratulations. I bet he’s a good man," Spencer said quietly, his voice cracking just enough to tear at the edges of her resolve. "I hope he gives you the life I... the life you deserve." He stepped around her, his shoulder brushing hers, a ghost of the contact they used to share. As he walked away, she looked down at the ring. It was perfect. Eddie was perfect. So why did she feel like she had just signed a confession for a crime she didn't commit?

She knew inviting Spencer was a mistake. A hundred things could go wrong, but the most certain was that if he looked at her, she would be undone. She knew how fast she would cave, yet it felt cruel, unfair even, not to include him. So, she placed the ivory invitation on his desk in passing, never meeting his eyes. Spencer watched her walk away, his facade finally shattering. With trembling hands, he traced his name, written in the handwriting he knew better than his own. A single tear hit the paper.

On the night before the wedding, Spencer found himself standing outside her bridal suite. He drove here convinced that it was needed, he had to take a chance. It took him one hour, twenty-seven minutes, and four seconds to find the courage to knock. It took her only one second to answer. She stood there in her pajamas, hair pulled into a messy bun, a glass of wine in her hand.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice breathy and guarded. "You can't do this," Spencer said, his voice cracking. "You can't marry Eddie."

"And you can't tell me what to do, Spencer," she countered, crossing her arms. How dare he march up here now and demand anything of her? "Please. Just... don’t."

"Give me a good reason not to," she challenged, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Eddie is a good man, Spencer. He’s sure of me. He’s been all-in since the very beginning. You left me drowning when all I ever did was try to keep you afloat."

Spencer ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "You don't understand! I did it for you. I couldn’t live with the guilt of what loving me was costing you. I saw you breaking, and I couldn't be the reason for it anymore!"

"Bullshit," she snapped, looking at the ceiling to force back the tears. "You decided for me. You decided I couldn't handle it. Don’t you dare try to decide for me again. I know what I want." Spencer’s eyes flickered, dark and desperate. He took a step toward her, causing her to flinch back. "Do you? Do you really love him?"

She looked at him in disbelief, her breath hitching. In that moment of hesitation, he knew. He saw the crack in her armor. "I do, Spencer," she whispered. "I love him."

"Bullshit," he repeated, his voice a low growl of grief.

"Fuck you! You don't get to come here and stop me when all you did was push me away!" she screamed, the years of pain finally boiling over. "You had your chance and you blew it because you're a coward, Spencer! You couldn't fight for me the way I fought for you! So go! Leave! Don’t you dare show your face tomorrow!"

She slammed the door, leaving Spencer standing with his broken heart in his hands.

The truth was, prison hadn't made him love her less; it had made him love her so much he believed she deserved someone better than the broken man he had become. She hadn't known that the "other woman" she saw that night was actually Emily Prentiss. Emily had been there, begging Spencer to fight for the woman he loved, but Spencer had been stubborn. He had decided it was time for her to move on to someone who wasn't "unwell."

Emily had hated it. She had watched her two best friends fall apart, and she had finally reached her limit. Days before the encounter in the hallway, Emily had grabbed Spencer by the lapels and hissed the words that finally broke his trance: "Spencer, you think you're being a martyr by letting her go, but you're just being a thief. You're stealing her choice and calling it a sacrifice."

That was why Spencer had spent the last 500 days in therapy and NA meetings, fighting the ghosts of his forced addiction and trauma, every single one of them. He had spent 500 days of sobriety trying to become worthy of her again. He had finally felt ready to tell her... until he bumped into her in the hallway and saw the ring.

Now, the chapel was a sea of white lilies and hushed breath. She stood at the altar, her hand trembling in Eddie’s steady grip. The priest reached the pivotal words, the formal invitation for any soul to speak now or forever hold their peace. The silence that followed was heavy until the heavy oak doors at the back of the church groaned open.

The sound of his footsteps on the stone floor was rhythmic, agonizingly slow. "No," Spencer’s voice echoed, cutting through the stagnant air like a blade. "She doesn't." He had to try again, one last time. He needed to make sure what she said the night before was true before he finally let go.

The gasp from the pews was collective, but she couldn't look away from the man standing in the center of the aisle. Spencer looked like his soul was withdrawn, and yet his eyes were wild and burning with a clarity she hadn't seen in years. Her knees felt like they were turning to liquid.

"Spencer, what are you doing?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the roar of her own pulse. "I’m stopping the clock," Spencer said, his voice gaining strength as he moved closer. "I spent five hundred days counting every second of my sobriety, every minute of my recovery, just so I could be the man you deserved. I thought if I fixed myself, I’d be a gift worth giving back to you. I was wrong."

He stopped just a few feet from the altar, his hands dropping to his sides in a gesture of total, vulnerable surrender.

"I’ve spent my life studying the laws of the universe, but I ignored the only one that matters: Entropy. Everything falls apart if you don't hold onto it. I let go, and I’ve watched the world go cold ever since." He took a shuddering breath. "I know you love him. He’s the safety I couldn't provide, but I also know that when you look at him, you’re looking for me. I know that when you argue with him, you’re missing the fire we used to start. Don't choose safety over the soul, because it has always been you for me. It’s always been us."

The silence that followed was deafening. She looked at Eddie, her heart fracturing in real-time. Eddie didn't look angry; he looked weary, like a man who had been holding a heavy door shut and finally decided to let it swing open. "It’s okay," Eddie whispered, his voice thick with a devastating kindness.

"Eddie, I'm so sorry," she sobbed, the tears finally breaking free. "I tried. I swear I tried to love you enough."

"I know," Eddie said, a sad, knowing smile touching his lips. "I always knew I was standing in someone else’s shadow. I thought if I loved you more than you loved me, I could drown out the ghost of him, but I can't outrun a haunting, can I?"

He leaned in, pressing a soft, final kiss to her forehead, a release, a cue to let go. He slowly let go of her hands, stepping back to give her the space he knew she had already taken in her heart.

She didn't look back. She ran. She moved past the gasping guests, past Penelope’s shocked face and Emily’s knowing nod, and collided with Spencer. He caught her with a strength that told her he was finally whole again. Without a word, they turned and ran out of the chapel together, leaving the "perfect" life behind for the beautiful, chaotic truth that had been waiting for them all along.

The heavy oak doors of the chapel swung shut behind them, muffling the gasps of the wedding guests and the frantic clicking of heels on stone. Outside, the air was crisp, tasting of rain and freedom. She didn't care about the silk hem of her dress dragging through the gravel or the way her veil snagged on a rosebush as they sprinted toward his old, familiar car. Spencer was laughing, a sound she hadn't heard in years, a bright, breathless noise that felt like the sun breaking through a decade of clouds.

He threw the passenger door open for her, and she piled in, a cloud of white tulle and adrenaline. He scrambled into the driver's seat, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the keys. "Where are we going?" she gasped, pressing her palms to her flushed cheeks, her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird finally set free.

Spencer turned the engine over, the car roaring to life, and looked at her. Really looked at her. For the first time since he’d stepped behind bars, the shadows in his eyes were gone. "Anywhere but here." She laughed, a sob of relief catching in her throat. "That’s not a destination, Spencer."

"It is today," he said, reaching across the center console. He didn't just take her hand; he interlaced their fingers, his thumb tracing the space where Eddie’s ring used to be. "I spent days calculating the exact words to say to you, and I realized something on the drive over."

"What?"

"Logic is a defense mechanism," he whispered, his voice dropping into that low, intimate register that always made her world go still. "And I don’t want to be defended anymore. I just want to be with you. Even if it’s messy. Even if we have to argue about the probability of us making it every single day for the rest of our lives."

She leaned over, resting her forehead against his, the scent of his familiar soap and old books finally grounding her. "I missed your rambling, you idiot."

"I missed you listening," he countered, a small, cheeky smile tugging at his lips. "Though I should point out that running away from your own wedding has a ninety-two percent chance of creating a very awkward HR meeting with Prentiss on Monday." She pulled him into a kiss. "I'll take those odds," she murmured against his lips.

Spencer shifted the car into gear, and as they pulled away from the chapel, leaving the perfect life in the rearview mirror, they didn't look back. They just drove, two broken people finally heading in the same direction.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Spencer Reid Fanart

let's not fall in love — spencer reid

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𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾! 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖽 𝗑 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

°❀.ೃ࿔*

𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗈𝖽𝖾: i like u - niki

a/n: If you guys can tell me which Grey's Anatomy character her speech was based on, I officially love you because they are my favourite character of all time. (Also, Rest in Paradise, Eric Dane. HE was gone too soon.

The air in the apartment had taken on that crisp, almost freezing edge, the kind that invited wool blankets and closed windows. For her, it was the "sweet spot" of the year. She leaned back against the sofa, maintaining a calculated distance from Spencer. On the screen, the opening credits of He’s Just Not That Into You began to roll. It was her doing; a choice so pointed it was practically a weapon, yet he hadn't even flinched. Between them sat Walt Jr., who had expanded significantly over the last month, a direct result of her spoiling the puppy with every treat in the store. It had sparked a three-hour debate last week about canine obesity; the only time they’d actually raised their voices in months. She’d eventually promised to swap to baby carrots, but the victory felt hollow.

Walt Jr. was currently wedged into Spencer’s side, snoring softly as Spencer’s thumb traced rhythmic, absent-minded circles on his fur. She watched them, her chest aching. She loved this view, but ever since her birthday, ever since she had closed her eyes and desperately wished her feelings for him away, she felt like she was looking at her own life through a store window.

"Walt," The nickname slipped out before she could catch it. She was trying to be more formal lately, to build the wall she needed to survive, but the name was second nature. He didn’t turn his head; his eyes were fixed on the flickering blue light of the TV. "Yeah?"

"I have a work trip next week. Walt Jr. has a vet appointment on Tuesday. Grooming on Thursday, and I arrive on Friday," she said, her voice sounding practiced and thin. "Yeah. No problem," he replied. The words were flat, falling into the space between them like stones.

"I have to tell the vet about the carrots, right?" Spencer added after a beat, trying to joke around their now chubby little hotdog. "Or are we letting him keep the 'heavyset' look for the winter?"

"He’s not heavyset. He’s well-loved. There’s a distinction." Spencer chuckles. "There’s also a clinical definition of 'obese,' but sure. Let's go with well-loved."

"Hey, I bought the organic carrots," she defended, though she didn't look at him either. "The ones with the stems still on. He likes the crunch. I feel like in his last life, he was a bunny."

"I’m sure he appreciates the aesthetic. Very 'farm-to-table' of you."

"I try."

"I know you do." That's when the conversation hit a dead end. Usually, this would have devolved into a long-winded joke, but the awkwardness since her birthday made everything feel clumsy. Spencer tries so hard not to look back at her, but he could feel her pulling away, and realized then that he’d give anything for the easy, effortless air they used to share. By the time her trip arrived, the pretense of business had vanished. It was a getaway, pure and simple, and the only way for her to gain the clarity she desperately needed, and what better place to do that than home.

Vegas usually felt like a heartbreak. Everything in this place reminded her of her mother, but today, it felt like a heartbeat. Truthfully, though, Nevada will always be home to her, especially when she is in the quiet room that holds a woman who feels more like home than her own blood. When the door opened, the air shifted. Diana wasn’t lost in the fog today, her eyes sharp and clear. It was the last day of her trip, and she decided that the best way to spend it was with one of the people she loves deeply, and one who deeply adores her. When Diana saw the bouquet and the travel-sized chessboard, her face didn't just light up; it fractured into a look of pure, soul-deep recognition and love. "Oh, my darling," Diana breathed, her voice a fragile melody. Her arms were stretched out to her, already wanting to pull her in immediately. "Momma," she replied, the word slipping out with the ease of a decade-long habit. It had started as a joke between her and Spencer, trading because they resonated with each other's mother better than their own, until the titles just stuck.

They sank into their rhythm. They talked about the chaos of the city, the grind of work, and the delicate balance of Diana’s new medication. The highs were perfect, beautiful days like today, but they both knew the shadow that lurked on the other side of the peak. Then they talked about how much she missed Spencer, how she's proud of him for taking on the world like she meant for him to. She listened to Diana with her heart pounding in her chest. She adored him, his passion, his intellect, but most of all, she loved how much he loved those around him, especially his mother.

"So," Diana said, her eyes shimmering with a sudden, playful light. "I heard you and Spencer finally moved in together."

"We did," she said, offering a practiced laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. Her chest felt tight, like a wire was being wound around her ribs. "I had to practically drag him. I told him it was purely logistics—cutting the rent in half, no awkward 'getting to know you' phase since we already know where the other hides the bodies. A win-win, right?"

Diana let out a soft, melodic chuckle, the sound of a woman who had read between the lines of every story she’d ever been told. "Well, that's wonderful, honey. I’ve always known you two would end up together. Took you guys long enough,"

The air in the room seemed to vanish, leaving her lungs hollow. "End up together?" she echoed. Diana’s smile faltered, her brow furrowing as she searched her daughter’s face. "Are you... are you not together?"

"No, Momma," she said. Her voice remained steady, a testament to years of practice, even as her heart performed a slow, agonizing roll in her chest. She forced a smile to mask the sharp, sudden dejection. "Still just best friends. Same as it’s always been." Diana didn’t let her retreat. Instead, she reached out, catching her hands and squeezing them with a strength that felt grounded. Her gaze sharpened, shedding the fog of her illness; in that moment, she wasn't a patient, she was a mother who saw through every mask.

"You do know Spencer loves you, right?" Diana said, her voice soft but immovable. "I’ve known since you were children. I see it in every letter he writes, I hear it in the way his breath hitches whenever he speaks your name." The silence that followed was heavy, vibrating with the truth they were both finally touching. The wall she had built, the one labeled just friends, didn't just crack; it disintegrated. A hot, stinging tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek.

Then, the air between them fell quiet. She tried so hard not to make a sound, but the feelings she had were overwhelming, and it pushed her to finally say it aloud. The thing she had so desperatelytried to push down. "I love him, Momma," she whispered, the words coming out as a broken prayer. She closed her eyes, letting her forehead rest against their joined hands. "I love him so much it hurts."

Diana pulled her closer, drawing her into a familiar scented embrace and smoothing her hair. "I know, darling," she murmured, her voice like a soothing balm. "For so long, I’ve known. Your mom knew, too. We used to talk about it over coffee while you two played in the yard, joking about what we'd wear at your wedding." Diana had a smile on her face, soft and endearing, then she continued, "We were just waiting to see when you guys would finally break."

She couldn't speak. She just gripped Diana’s hands back, her knuckles white, and gave a small, jerky shake of her head. "How about one game before I have to head out?" she whispered, desperately trying not to cry even more than she already was, forcibly plastering a smile on her face. After not one, but four games that she all lost, she hugs Diana goodbye, and before she walks out, she gets called. "Darling?" She turns back. "Don't forget to pay her a visit before you go," She smiles. "Of course, Momma."

So off she went. It was the perfect time to sit there. She places a small packet of chocolate milk on the headstone and opens one for herself. "I miss you," she starts, staring straight at where her mother's name was written with Mother just below it. It was her best role to date. "I'm sorry I haven't been here for our routine Golden Girls marathon on Saturdays. I've been busy at work. I'm sure you've seen my struggle, and I know that it was you who helped get me that solo project. I know how much you hate it when people step all over me," she laughs at the statement. She remembers crying in one of the stalls, whispering to her mom to help her get through it, then, instantly, the next day, she was given her dream project. "Thank you," then she was quiet. Her eyes loom over her feet for a moment, then up at the sky. The sun was finally setting. It was the perfect mix of hues; her mom called it the tangerine, watermelon, grape punch skies because of how perfectly the oranges mix into the pinks and purples. From when she was little, up until her mother died, it was natural for them to lie on the grass in their backyard together when either of them had a very long day. There was no need to say a word, just one look, and their feet moved before they could think. It was their way of saying to each other, I'm here without having to say it aloud. She set the empty carton down and lay on the grass, imagining that she was beside her, and instantly, tears started to fall. "I don't know what to do, Mom," her voice broke. "I'm so in love with Spencer, and Momma told me you knew too. You should have told me! You know I don't deal with my emotions well." She says, her eyes never breaking contact with the darkening sky. Just then, a strong gust of wind blows her way, making her giggle. "Apology accepted, Mom." She says, finally sitting up to face the stone, wiping her cheeks dry. "Can you tell him I love him for me? Like how you would apologize on my behalf for ripping one of his hardcovers?" She looks around expectantly for a reponse but nothing comes. She grins. "I'm guessing that's a no?"

There was silence again. The sky had completely shifted from an ombre to black, lit up by tiny little stars. "I need to go mom, I have a plane to catch." She whispers, tapping the stone as she stands up. "I love you, okay? I'll talk to you again soon." Then she walks away.

On the flight home, she stared out at the horizon forming in her window, Diana’s voice looping in her head like a broken record. Spencer loves you. She tried to rationalize it. Of course, he loved her. They were a collective unit, two halves of a whole life. It was an unconditional friendship, but as she breathed in, the lie fell apart. Living under the same roof had stripped away her defenses. It was the way he knew exactly how she took her coffee, the way he stayed up until she got home, the way the apartment felt empty if his lanky frame wasn't draped over the couch. It was the way that she had always been in love with Spencer, even before she realized.

The ache in her chest wasn't dejection anymore; it was a demand. She wasn't going to wait for a someday that might never come. When she got back to that shared apartment, she wasn't just going to walk through the door. She was going to tell him. She didn't want to let fate take its course because she might just end up losing him to somebody else, and in her heart she was determined that no matter what his reponse it, she owed him this type of transparency.

The key turned in the lock, and she barely had her bags dropped before the familiar scent of old paper and Spencer's musky scent hit her. It was the scent of home. "Hey, doofus," she called out, defaulting to the bestfriend banter they're used to despite her voice wobbling with a mix of exhaustion and a sudden, sharp hope. "Miss me, or did you finally replace me with a pile of encyclopedias?" From the kitchen, a low, melodic laugh drifted out. Spencer appeared in the doorway, a spatula in one hand and a dish towel slung over his shoulder. His hair was a mess, that specific, ruffled look he got when he’d been thinking too hard. "The encyclopedias were surprisingly poor conversationalists," he teased, his eyes lighting up in a way that made her pulse skip. "But our son? He’s been a disaster. I practically had to pry him off your pillow every morning just so I could make the bed. He’s been staging a hunger strike in protest of your absence."

Right on cue, Walt Jr. came barreling down the hallway. He let out a series of frantic, joyful yips, spinning in circles until he collided with her shins. "Walt Jr.! Oh, I missed you too, my best guy!" She dropped to her knees, laughing as the dog tried to lick every inch of her face. "Mommy’s back. I promise, no more trips for a long, long time." Spencer leaned against the doorframe, watching them. His expression was soft, dangerously soft. "I made pancakes," he said quietly.

They eventually migrated to the small kitchen table, the sun highlighting the dust motes between them. Walt Jr. was anchored firmly to her feet. It felt like the beginning of something they’d been dancing around for years. She looked at him, really looked at him, and cleared her throat, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"Spencer? I... I need to tell you something. About my birthday, and why I’ve been acting so—"

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. The sharp, rhythmic vibration of a BAU page cut through the sunlight like a blade. Spencer flinched, his eyes darting to his phone on the table. Hotch's name flashed on the screen. The vulnerability in Spencer’s expression vanished, replaced instantly by the distant and firm mask of the job.

"Sorry, I... I have to take this," he murmured, his hand already hovering over the device. He looked back at her, guilt flickering in his gaze. "Wait, what were you saying? Is it important?" She felt the confession die in her throat, the weight of it turning into a cold lump of lead. She forced a small, tight smile and shook her head, reaching for her coffee mug to hide the way her fingers were shaking.

"No," she said, her voice sounding horribly hollow to her own ears. "No, it’s okay. Go ahead. It can wait. It’s not a big deal."

"I... I have to go," he murmured, already standing, the moment shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. "We’ll talk when I get back? Tonight. I promise."

But tonight never came.

The silence in the apartment was deafening. Spencer was stuck at the office again, another Friday night lost to the BAU's bureaucracy, and she was left alone. She sat on the sofa, the weight of Walt Jr. resting against her legs, a small comfort against the storm brewing in her chest. Her gaze was fixed on the DVD case she’d borrowed, a documentary on human behavior. It was exactly the kind of thing he’d always wanted to watch with her, but she’d always vetoed it. She had teased him, claiming it was too long, that the sixty-year-old British narrator talked at a glacial pace, and that three hours of "unbearably slow" footage was more than she could handle. In reality, she just wasn't sure she could sit that close to him for that long without breaking, but tonight, the teasing was over. She had sat in the suffocating grip of grief and fear for far too long. After that conversation with Diana, clarity finally came, sharp and painful. She was convinced. This was the right thing to do.

10:32 PM. The digital glow of the clock pulsed. 10:32 PM. She stared at the numbers until they blurred, wondering if this was the universe's way of telling her to stay put. To stay silent. To keep the peace. She stared longer, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Then, 10:35 PM. Fuck it. The decision snapped, she knew what she had to say can't wait any longer. She gently moved Walt Jr. aside, lunged for the nearest hoodie she could find, and burst out the door. She didn’t wait for the elevator; she took the stairs, hit the pavement, and just ran. She ran until her lungs burned. She ran as the sky finally cracked open, the rain turning from a drizzle into a torrential downpour. She didn't stop, even as the water soaked through her clothes and her shoes splashed through deep puddles. She ran until she saw it: the familiar, looming silhouette of the BAU.

Drenched, shivering, and gasping for air, she stood on the sidewalk. She looked up at the glowing windows of the office, watching the raindrops slide down the glass like tears. Then, the doors opened. Like a twist of fate, Spencer walked out. He looked tired, his head down as he fumbled with his umbrella, trying to shield himself from the deluge. Then, he looked up and saw her.

"Spencer," she choked out.

He panicked instantly. He shoved at the slider of his umbrella, pushing and pulling, but the mechanism jammed in his haste. Realizing it was useless, he didn't hesitate; he ripped off his jacket and stepped into the storm, holding the fabric over both of them like a makeshift roof.

"What the hell are you doing out in the rain? You’re soaked! You’re going to get sick!" He was frantic, his eyes searching hers for an explanation. She just stared at him, her chest heaving. "What? Answer me... say something!"

"I love you," she blurted. The words hung in the humid air between them. She immediately slapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.

"Oh god, that just came out. That’s not how I wanted to say it, but shit—I love you! Oh god, I can't stop saying it. I've been trying not to say it, trying so fucking hard to mash it down and forget it because you're my best friend, and best friends don't say I love you, at least not in the way I love you. I'm supposed to be so good at words because I'm a writer, words are my forte, but with you, all of it goes out the window because all I really want to say to you is I love you. And yes, I know JJ is a wonderful girl who is perfect for you, but I love you! She's perfect, smart, blonde, tall, and I think she really likes you, and you might really like her too, but I can't help it. I love you. I'm so in love with you, and you're in me, stuck in my head, in my system like a damn disease! And I hate that I love you, and I can't think of anybody else except for you, and I can't sleep, I can't eat, and you know how much I love to eat, I can't breathe, and I love you all the time, and I'm sorry, I never meant for this to happen...I just... love you."

The words poured out of her in one jagged, desperate breath. She was trembling, completely spent, her secret finally laid bare under the flickering streetlights and the thunder rumbling above them. Spencer stood frozen. His eyebrows furrowed, a thousand thoughts clearly racing through his genius mind, but for once, he was silent. Then, slowly... surely... he took a step toward her, closing the agonizing gap between them, dropping his jacket on the puddled concrete, letting himself get drenched too.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, her voice breaking. He didn't answer with words. He reached out, his hands wet from the rain, cupping her face, and pulled her into a kiss.

It was a kiss that should have happened yesterday. It was a kiss that should have happened a lifetime ago, but here they finally were.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

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let's not fall in love — spencer reid

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𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾! 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖽 𝗑 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

°❀.ೃ࿔* 𝖮𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖲𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗈, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝗈 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 (𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍) 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍.

𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗈𝖽𝖾: 𝗎𝗋𝗌 - 𝗇𝗂𝗄𝗂

a/n: happy 400 followers! oh my god you guys this is insane! I did not expect to receive this much love because I only came here to have fun, but still, thank you; from the bottom of my heart, I am grateful for every like, comment, reblog, and follow. I absolutely adore you all. So in turn, here's epsiode 9! my only ask for this is that you guys listen to the song while you read because it makes it hit different fr. enjoy and again, thank you!

After the gala, the rest of her week felt fleeting, and yet she was tied down to a feeling that was never meant to be there.

She woke up before the sun, a feat usually reserved for Spencer and his heavy books, which she deemed impossible to hold even with both hands. Sleep had been a lost cause for two nights. Every time she closed her eyes, she was back in the gala, the weight of his hands on her waist, the way his pupils had blown wide when he pulled her close, the agonizing, millimeter-wide gap between their lips that had almost…

Never mind. She stood in the kitchen, the only light coming from the blue glow of the coffee maker. She stared into the dark living room, mentally dissecting every second of that night. Was she manufacturing a spark where there was only a flicker? Was she hallucinating the way he’d looked at her? The ding of the toaster made her jump, shattering the silence. Habit took over. Without thinking, she reached into the cabinet for two mugs. Two plates. Two slices of bread. It was muscle memory, a domestic rhythm they’d perfected over months of living in each other’s world.

Ten minutes later, the floorboards creaked. Spencer emerged from his room, looking disheveled in wrinkled sleep pants, Walt Jr. tucked under his arm. It had been his night for puppy duty.

"Oh. You’re…awake," Spencer blinked, squinting at her through his uncombed curls. He set the puppy down, and the golden retriever mix immediately skidded across the floor to her feet. "Barely," she murmured, scooping Walt Jr. up to hide the flush on her cheeks. "Couldn’t sleep."

She slid a plate of perfectly browned toast across the island and nudged a steaming mug toward him. "Here. Drink up, Dr. Bedhead." Spencer stared at the breakfast, then back at her, his eyes narrowing with deep suspicion. "Why are you being so nice to me lately? Are you dying? Is this a 'final request' situation?"

She snickered, rolling her eyes as she leaned against the counter. "If you want me to punch you in the jugular instead, just say the word. I can accommodate you." Spencer took a cautious sip of the coffee and sighed dramatically. "Ah, there she is. Much better. My world makes sense again."

They sat in a comfortable, sun-drenched silence for a few minutes, the only sound the clinking of forks and Walt Jr. sniffing the baseboards. "I have a case," Spencer said suddenly, his mouth half-full of toast. "Hot springs, Oregon. We’re wheels up in an hour. It’ll probably be a week."

"Got it," she said, trying to sound more enthusiastic than she felt. "Walt Jr. has a vet appointment and a grooming session on Wednesday, but I’ve got it covered. We’ll have a wild week with music and none of that heavy cement-like book of yours that doesn't even have any kissing, while you’re gone."

Spencer didn't smile. He put his toast down, looking at her with a strangely heavy expression. "I know you’ll take care of the dog. What I mean is… I’m going to miss your birthday."

The air in the kitchen suddenly felt very thin. "Oh," she said, her voice sounding far away even to her own ears. "Honestly, that didn't even cross my mind. Don't worry about it, Walt. I’ll manage. It’s just sugar and balloons. I think I’ll survive."

She said it with such a practiced, matter-of-fact shrug that Spencer actually winced. Because if she had to be honest, she knew, the moment he said it, she knew he would miss her birthday, but who was she to contest? He looked like he wanted to say something, something about that night, or the birthday, or why his hand was twitching, as if he wanted to reach for hers.

"I'm sorry," he settled on, his voice quiet. "What? Why are you being sorry? Why are you being nice now? It’s creeping me out, Walt," she teased, reaching out to pinch his arm as he moved to head back to his room to pack. "Go away. Shoo. Save the world, Superman," she laughed, shooing him away.

She played the part so perfectly that, for a split second, she almost convinced herself it didn't hurt. That was Monday.

On Tuesday, she stopped for the largest coffee she could find. She’d spent the better part of the night staring at the wall dividing her room from Spencer’s, convinced that if she just thought about him hard enough, he might actually appear. That lasted five hours until, suddenly, the room was bathed in gold. The sun was up, and she hadn’t slept a wink. At work, she sat slumped at her desk, trying to squeeze out a single line of copy. But every five minutes, her eyes drifted to the framed photo of Spencer, fast asleep with Walt Jr. sprawled across his chest.

Wednesday was a blur. She went to work, came home, ate, and decided the most "practical" move was to sleep in Spencer’s bed. She spent the entire day convincing herself it was for the dog. Since it was technically Spencer’s day with him, she told herself she was just being courteous, letting Walt Jr. sleep in a bed that still smelled like his father. It was the dog who missed him, after all. Not her. It could never be her.

Thursday was the busiest day of the week. Her boss called her in and finally handed her a brand of her own. It was a massive career win, the kind of step she’d always been clawing toward, but the only person she wanted to tell wasn't there to listen. She tried to celebrate, but the smile didn't reach her eyes; it didn't even reach her heart. On the way home, she stopped at a bookstore and bought a rom-com she’d been eyeing for months, one she’d previously felt she "didn't deserve" yet. She added a boba and a rice bowl from a food truck near the apartment. She bought everything she wanted because she deserved it, yet something still felt missing.

When she got home, she found Walt Jr. tucked away in Spencer’s walk-in closet, asleep on a cardigan that had fallen to the floor. She carried the dog back to her room, then hesitated. She walked back to the closet, picked up the cardigan, and put it on. She felt half-insane, like someone who should be locked away for doing "stalker things," but she would never ever admit she was doing it because she missed him. She sat on the floor with Walt Jr. in her lap and the book in her hand, determined to lose herself in the story. Eventually, the night won, and she drifted off right there on the floor.

She woke up to the sound of silence on Friday, her birthday, not the peaceful kind, but the heavy one that reminds you exactly how much space you’re taking up alone. She stared at the ceiling of their apartment, watching the gray morning light crawl across the walls in slow, indifferent stripes. Even though they had separate bedrooms, the entire place was a map of Spencer. The stack of books on the coffee table with spines she wasn’t allowed to crack; the lingering scent of coffee and old paper in the kitchen; the way the air felt thinner without his constant, low-frequency humming.

She rolled onto her side, her heart performing its daily, pathetic ritual of hope as she checked her phone. 7:12AM, 20 new messages, but none of them were from the only person he wanted to hear from.

She dragged herself into the kitchen, still wrapped in one of his cardigans, a tactical error. It smelled like him, that specific mix of laundry detergent and something intellectual and warm that she could never quite name. It felt like a hug from someone who wasn't there to give it. By noon, the "birthday" part of the day felt like a mounting fever. Her phone buzzed at 3:00 p.m. with a text that was quintessentially him:

Spencer: Happy birthday. I’m sorry I’m not there. I’ll call when I can.

A courtesy. She stared at the screen until the light timed out, feeling the familiar, sharp ache of being "the roommate." The girl who shared his rent and his grocery list, but never his internal monologue. She typed out I miss you and deleted it. She typed Come home and deleted that, too.

“Thanks. Solve it fast, genius,” she finally sent. A safe joke, the usual banter. She spent the entire day with Mamma Mia on repeat to try to mask the silence that was weirdly coming from her. She always loved her birthday; she loved celebrating and the whole extravaganza, but now that she's an adult living an adult life, she was by herself.

As evening bled into night, the apartment began to feel like a cage. She bought a small, sad chocolate cake from the corner store, not because she wanted it, but because the ritual felt mandatory. At 11:45PM, she sat at the kitchen island in the dark, the glow of a single candle casting flickering shadows against the cabinets.

She closed her eyes, her hands trembling as she made the only wish that mattered. She didn't wish for him to love her; she was too tired for that. She wished to be indifferent. She wished for the stutter in her pulse to stop whenever he looked at her. She wished to wake up and see him as just a man, just a best friend, just a person who lived in the room down the hall, the same way she did before.

Please, she thought. Then the flame vanished, leaving a thin trail of gray smoke and a wish that felt like a betrayal of her own heart. She sat in the dark, waiting for the peace that was supposed to come with a decision. Instead, she heard the frantic rattle of the front door.

Spencer burst in, looking like a whirlwind of beautiful, unintentional chaos. His hair was a mess, his tie was stuffed into his pocket, and he was clutching a bouquet of supermarket carnations in one hand and a foil-wrapped baked potato in the other.

"Hey! I’m not late," he panted, checking his watch with a triumphant, dorky grin. "It’s 11:54. Technically, I’ve bypassed the statistical probability of missing the date entirely." She stood frozen by the counter, her heart performing a traitorous somersault. "Spencer?" she called out as if checking to see if she was seeing things.

"I finished my paperwork in the car and caught the last flight, Hotch said they could manage everything without me," he said, stepping into the kitchen and flooding her space with the scent, his scent. He set the potato down, it was still warm, and offered the flowers with a shy, proud look. "I know I still owe you this potato, so here it is, and the flowers... well, the selection was limited at the airport, but the color palette felt right for you."

She took the flowers, her fingers trembling. This was the problem. He did things like this, crossing state lines for a potato, and then looked at her with those clear, earnest eyes that held absolutely no romantic subtext. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them. He tilted his head, genuinely confused. "Doing what?"

"This," she gestured vaguely to the flowers, the potato, his exhausted face. "Coming all this way. Spending 4 or 5 hours on a plane, for a birthday."

"It's not just a birthday, it's your birthday, and you're my best friend," he said simply, as if it were a law of physics. "Why wouldn't I?" The words felt like a physical blow. Ah, a best friend. To him, this wasn't a grand romantic gesture; it was just the logical conclusion of their lifelong friendship. He was being Good Spencer, the man who cared deeply and showed up for people, unaware that he was currently dismantling every wall she had just spent the day building.

She looked down at the carnations so he wouldn’t see her eyes welling up. Why are you doing this to me? she thought bitterly. Why can’t you just be selfish? Why can’t you be forgetful so I can finally move on?

"Are you okay?" he asked, stepping closer. He reached out for her hand. His touch was light and tender, the kind of touch that meant everything to her and nothing to him. "Did I startle you? I know the sensory transition from a dark room to—"

"I'm fine," she lied, her voice thick. She forced a watery laugh, stepping back to break the contact. "It’s just... the potato. It’s a lot of carbs for midnight, Walt."

He beamed, missing the heartbreak in her voice entirely. "Actually, the complex carbohydrates will probably help you sleep better after the adrenaline spike of my arrival, and anyway, since when did you care about carbs at midnight? I've seen you devour an entire loaf of bread at two in the morning."

He started toward the cabinets to find a plate, humming a tuneless little melody, completely at home in her space. "Come on, let's eat!" She watched him, clutching the flowers like a lifeline, realizing with a sinking dread that her birthday wish had already failed.

He was right there. He was perfect, and he didn't have a clue.

She sighed to herself, her gaze fixed on the blown-out candle. It had melted to half its original size, a silent witness to a wish that hadn't come true, but really, deep down, she knew: she had always seen him this way. He was more than just the best friend she’d grown up with; he was the boy who had accepted her, flaws and all. He was the one she had always been in love with.

She hadn't been ready to admit it then, and she wasn't ready to admit it now, either.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

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let's not fall in love — spencer reid

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𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾! 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖽 𝗑 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

°❀.ೃ࿔* 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖲𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌-𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗈𝖽𝖾: 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 - 𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗇

a/n: hi! guess who traded sleep for a new chapter because she's a recovering (not really) chronic people pleaser? ok but this is seriously the last one for like the next few days 'cause idk how to write chapter nine :( anyway, i have a current fixation on dylan minnette because I scoured my old playlists for inspiration on the next few chapters which reminded me the existence of wallows. leading me to watch his cover of espresso about 7 times last night.

“Hey Walt, are you free tomorrow night?” she asked, hopping up to sit on the kitchen counter. Spencer didn’t look up from the stove. “I hate how you ask that like you don't know I get interrupted even when I’m taking a shit?”

She let out a loud cackle. “Oh my god! Spencer Walter Reid talking about bodily excretions? Who have you become?”

He waved her off with a greasy steel tong. “Why are you asking?”

“Well, there’s this company gala I have to go to, and—”

“You need me to watch Walt Jr.? That’s a non-issue, I—”

“Will you just let me finish?” She snatched a crumpled tissue from her pocket and chucked it at his head. “No. I need you to come with me.”

Spencer’s blood ran cold. “Go with you? Why? Isn’t that just, and I quote, ‘a fancy party filled with snooty old women and drunk old men who want to get in their pants’?”

She laughed, the sound nostalgic. She’d said that years ago, back when their mothers dragged them to every social event in the city. They would spend hours and hours together outside the venue with Spencer's travel chess set and a deck of cards she stole from her mom's study. “Precisely why I need you. I don’t want to become one of your unsubs when I have a literal child waiting for pup cups in the other room right now. You know how violent I get when I’m pissed off.”

“Yeah, our two-dollar throw pillow didn't stand a chance when they got your pizza order wrong,” Spencer teased.

“Because who the fuck puts pineapples on pizza? I specifically ordered the one without, and they sent me a tropical forest! It was the only topping!” The sound of her voice progressively increases in the memory. Spencer chuckled, but as the sizzle of the frying chicken filled the silence that followed, his chest tightened. “So? Will you go?” she asked, her voice dropping a literal octave. “Oh, and there’s also this guy, Ricky from HR. He keeps asking me out and doesn't know how to take a 'no.' I need him to see you. I need him to think we’re together.”

The air left Spencer’s lungs. Together. Even if it was a lie, the word tasted addicting, like he needed her to say it over and over and over. He forced a dry chuckle. “Why don't you just say yes to one date, then?” She made a gagging sound. “Oh god, no, thank you. He’s so full of himself. He keeps a bowl of condoms on his desk for ‘emergencies.’ Like, what kind of emergency, Ricky? A filing crisis? Need to jack off while we make a storyboard?”

Spencer laughed, finally turning to face her. He looked at her for a beat too long before nodding. “Fine. But you’re coming with me to buy a suit. I don’t have anything gala-worthy, and you're paying for it too.” He didn't mean the last one, but she finally beamed, a real, radiant smile. “Deal. I need a dress, too. Let’s make a day of it.” And there a deal was made, they were going to pretend. Fuck his life.

They spent the day drifting from malls to thrift stores, hunting for clothes that are (1) presentable and (2) affordable, which seemed like an impossible mix to find nowadays. Finally, they stumbled into the Macy’s clearance section. They looked at the neon "Prom" signs and burst out laughing. It wasn't like they had a choice; their bank accounts didn't exactly support high-end boutiques. She scanned the area, snatched the first dark blue suit from a rack that had a 70% off tag on it, and shoved it against Spencer’s chest, praying it would fit him. “Go try it on. I’ll be right here finding something to match.”

Spencer nodded, disappearing into the maze of fitting rooms. While he was gone, she found a long, shimmering gown in the exact same shade of midnight blue. When Spencer finally stepped out, he felt like an imposter. He was never the type to suit up and attend such a posh event. He would much rather be invited to a Science Expo or Doctor Who convention. He stood before the three-way mirror, fumbling awkwardly with the buttons and the stiff collar. Then, the door next to him opened.

The dress looked like it had been made for her. Her hair was still up in a messy claw clip, and her face was bare of makeup, but to Spencer, she looked ethereal. She caught his reflection and beamed. “Well, well, well, Walt. Looking dapper over there, huh?”

He ducked his head, trying to hide the flush creeping up his neck. She stepped up beside him, their shoulders almost touching in the mirror. “Whoa. We actually look legit.” Taking a gentle spin around.

“Not bad for Macy’s,” he managed to say, staring straight ahead at his own reflection, terrified that if he looked at her, he’d give himself away. Luckily she was already halfway out of the rooms screaming, "Do you think they have suits for dogs?"

The next evening, the house was filled with the sound of music. She’d plugged her iPod into the old speaker dock Spencer had found for her at a garage sale while out on a case. She hummed and danced as she applied her makeup, twirling every so often to watch the way the gown caught the light. In the other room, Spencer was sweating. He’d been wrestling with his tie for thirty minutes. Every time he closed his eyes to try and focus, his mind always made its way back to the Macy's fitting room where she was standing beside him in that god-awfully beautiful midnight blue dress. He was pulled back to reality by a soft knock as she pushed open his bedroom door.

“You ready?” she asked. He looked at her like a deer in headlights, holding the crumpled silk tie out to her like a white flag. She chuckled, stepping into his space. “For a genius, you really struggle with the simplest tasks, don't you?”

She reached up, looping the fabric around his neck. As she focused on the knot, Spencer couldn't help but stare. She looked stunning with her hair done and her makeup perfect, but he realized he still preferred her exactly as she was yesterday, messy hair, tired eyes, and just simply her. She finished the knot and looked up, meeting his eyes with a smile. It was the kind of smile that made him want to drop everything and kiss her. He had to physically shake the thought away, forcing himself to believe that they could never be that.

“Thanks,” he rasped. “Let’s go.”

They bid their dog, Walt Jr., a long farewell, filling two water bowls and leaving a fresh mountain of food. He practically had to pry her away from the oblivious puppy who only wanted to lie on his soft cushion. Spencer checked the puppy pad one last time before they stepped out.

The atmosphere at the gala was a suffocating mix of expensive perfume and forced laughter. Spencer felt like he was wearing a costume, but she, she looked like she belonged in a different world entirely. As they stepped into the ballroom, she instinctively slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. The contact sent a jolt through him that felt almost like a physical ache. He kept his spine stiff, his eyes scanning the room with the practiced caution of a man on a case, but his mind was entirely focused on the warmth of her hand through his suit sleeve. "There he is," she whispered, her voice tightening. "Ten o'clock. God, look at that awful tie, he's looking like he’s about to sell someone a used car."

Spencer looked. Ricky from HR was already making a beeline for them, a smug, predatory grin plastered across his face. Spencer felt a sudden, protective surge of adrenaline. He didn't just want to play the part; he wanted to be the barrier between her and anything that made her skin crawl. So, he moved his arm away from hers and snaked it onto her waist, pulling her close. Her breath hitched. "Remember," she breathed deeper, leaning closer until her hair brushed his jaw. "We’re together."

"I know," Spencer rasped. The lie felt heavy on his tongue. It felt wrong, not because he didn't want it to be true, but because of how much he did. It felt like a betrayal of their friendship to stand here and let his heart beat this fast for a performance. He felt like a thief, stealing glances at the way the ballroom lights danced in her eyes, memorizing the scent of her perfume while pretending it was all for show.

"Hey! You made it!" Ricky’s voice was loud, cutting through the music. He ignored Spencer entirely at first, his eyes raking over her dress. "You look... wow. I didn't think you'd actually show up with a plus one."

"Ricky, this is Spencer," she said, her voice smooth and convincingly affectionate, pulling herself flush against his side. "My boyfriend."

The word hit Spencer like a blow to the solar plexus. He forced himself to look Ricky in the eye, offering a nod that was more of a challenge than a greeting. "Spencer, huh?" Ricky finally looked at him, his grin faltering slightly as he took in Spencer’s height and the cold, unyielding set of his shoulders. "What do you do? Besides holding her purse?"

"He’s a federal agent," she chimed in. She sounded so proud you’d think he’d personally caught Zodiac, and for a second, Spencer’s ego actually fell for it. "FBI? Bold career choice," Ricky smirked, though he still managed to put some distance between them. "Don’t keep her under house arrest all night. Some of us were looking forward to a dance."

"I think she’s reached her quota for charity work today," Spencer said, his register dropping so low to one he didn’t know he possessed. Ricky stayed just long enough to look pathetic, then mumbled a pathetic excuse and dissolved back into the shadows.

As soon as he was out of earshot, she let out a long, shaky breath, her posture slumping slightly. "Oh my god, thank you. You were perfect." She laughed and looked up at him, her eyes bright with relief and a spark of genuine gratitude. Spencer looked back, and for a second, the room faded away. He looked at the curve of her lips and the way she was still warm against his body. How her eyes sparkled like the chandeliers above them. It felt wrong to feel this way, to be standing in a room full of people, wearing a suit, pretending to be the man he desperately wished he actually was.

"You okay, Walt?" she asked, her smile softening into something more concerned. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Just the suit," he lied, forcing a small, tight smile. "It's a bit restrictive." Trying to pull the collar from his neck to make it more plausible.

"Well," she said, taking a step away from him, sliding her hand down to lace her fingers with his like it was something matter-of-fact, "We’re stuck in it for at least two more hours. Want to go find the 'expensive' appetizers and judge their outfits?"

He looked down at their joined hands. It was a lie. It was a deal. It was a performance. He repeated in his head like a broken record. "Lead the way," he said, following her into the crowd, knowing that the hardest part of the night wouldn't be the snooty guests or the HR guys, but the moment he had to let go of her hand.

The night stretched on, a blur of forced smiles and expensive appetizers. She had to dig her nails into her palms to keep from snapping when her bosses made comments about her dress that felt less like compliments and more like catcalls. Every time her expression began to shift into something dangerous, Spencer was there, a steady weight squeezing her hand, grounding her.

The moment they were out of eyeshot, she dropped his hand. The contact vanished instantly, and a rush of cold air enveloped Spencer's fingers. She smoothed her dress, absentmindedly, not noticing the way Spencer stayed frozen for a heartbeat. How his arm hung at his side, his hand suspended in the empty space where hers had just been, nor how his palm instinctively flexed in a slow, silent aching, memorized the warmth he wasn't allowed to keep. How Mr. Fucking Darcy of him. He groans quietly, rolling his eyes at himself. He can't be doing this right now; he didn't want to crash so hard when he was one hundred feet in the air, imagining the impossible, hoping it would become true.

Between the insufferable social interactions, they found sanctuary in each other. They tucked themselves into a corner to people-watch, returning to the easy rhythm they shared at home. "Oh god, why is she wearing fur?" Spencer whispered, nodding toward a woman across the room. "It’s eighty degrees in here. In theory, she should be passing out." She took a long sip of her champagne, eyes sparkling. "Well, you need to look the part to get the part right?"

Spencer looks at her, astounded. "She’s not rich?"

"Not even close," she murmured. "See her shoes? They're knockoffs, that's not Louboutin Red. She’s just here to scout for the next guy who can fund her Nordstrom habit."

Spencer chuckled, the sound low and warm, but as the upbeat music faded, a slow, melodic string arrangement began to fill the ballroom. Couples drifted toward the center of the floor. They watched them for a moment, both of them staring straight ahead, though they were acutely aware of each other’s heartbeats. She caught him looking at her in the corner of her eye. Spencer nudged his knee against hers, a silent, playful challenge. "Wanna dance?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. Her heart hammered against her ribs so loudly she was sure he could hear it. "Sure."

They walked to the center of the floor, the overhead disco ball scattering tiny, shimmering stars across their skin. She looped her arms around his neck, and he settled his hands on her waist. For a moment, Spencer made himself believe that it wasn't an act anymore. They swayed slowly to the orchestral version of True by Spandau Ballet. Too in the nose, don't you think? She kept her gaze fixed on his tie, afraid that if she looked up, she’d shatter, but Spencer couldn't look away. He traced every detail of her face, the arch of her eyebrows, the length of her lashes, the soft curve of her cheeks. Finally, his eyes landed on her mouth. Her lips were a perfect burgundy, with glitter from the gloss she had put on before they left.

He thought about how they looked when they were covered in Cheeto dust on movie nights, or smeared with butter after dinner. He thought about how many times he’d wondered what they would taste like. Lost in a daze, the noise of the gala faded into a hum. The only thing that existed was the space between them, a space that was rapidly disappearing. Without realizing it, his head began to tilt, dropping lower. Her eyes snapped to his, wide and searching. Does she want this, too? He wondered, his breath hitching. Her heart was going a million miles per hour, the air between them thick with everything they had never said.

Bzzzzzt. The sharp vibration in Spencer’s pocket was like a gunshot. They jolted apart, the spell breaking so violently it left them both breathless. Spencer fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking. "It’s Hotch," he said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his professional mask. "I... I have to go. A case."

"Oh. Yeah. Of course," she said, smoothing down her dress, her face flushing a deep crimson. "Duty calls."

"I'll drop you off first," Spencer said, reaching for her hand to lead her out, his instinct to protect her still surging. She stepped back, a small, tight smile on her face that didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, no, it's okay. I'll catch a cab. I think I saw Laura earlier; I’ll find her and hang out for a bit."

Spencer felt his chest deflate. The rejection, even though it was practical, stung. "Oh, Okay. Text me when you get home?"

"Of course," she promised. He turned and walked away, his strides long and hurried. She stood alone in the middle of the dance floor, the "stars" from the mirrorball still dancing over her blue dress, watching his back disappear into the crowd. She wanted to run after him. She wanted to beg him to stay.

But the pretending was over, and the truth was now much, much harder to face.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

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let's not fall in love — spencer reid

series masterlist | ! 𝗎𝗉𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 !

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𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾! 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖽 𝗑 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

°❀.ೃ࿔* 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 '𝗌𝗈𝗇', 𝖶𝖺𝗅𝗍 𝖩𝗋.

𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗈𝖽𝖾: 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗍? - 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗌, 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗈

a/n: I may or may have thought the next chapter would be the valentine's special, thank god I had the chapters queued lmao oh also, I saw someone comment in the last epsiode about one of the members seeing what was happening with the two and walt jr., and I got all giddy because I was already editing this episode!! also i know Jeid is not everyone's cup of tea, it's not mine either, but for the story's plot, it needs to occur.

What started as a quiet Friday afternoon spiraled into the most chaotic and confusing part of their week. Work had let out at three p.m., a reward from her boss for finally landing that whale of a client. On her way home, she’d stopped at Spencer’s favorite cart and grabbed a pair of giant baked potatoes. It was her turn to pick the movie; Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride was already cued up.

"Is the TV set?" Spencer asked, emerging from his room in the matching pajama set his mother had gifted him. She snorted. "Oh god, Walt. You look like you’re posing for a Hallmark Christmas card."

"Don’t even start, mom gave me this for Christmas," he shot back, though a grin tugged at his mouth. " You need to stop teasing, or I’ll buy you and Walt Jr. the exact same set."

She cackled as a way to poke fun at him, but a treacherous part of her heart actually loved the mental image. Nope. No way. "Fuck off. But yes, TV's set, and I already reheated the potatoes."

Spencer claimed his usual spot on the left side of the couch, scooping up Walt Jr. "You wanna watch with Daddy?" he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of the dog’s head before placing him on the empty space between them. She settled at the opposite end and hit play. As the movie started, she reached for her potato, but Walt Jr. wobbled over to her side. She leaned back, melting. "Hi, buddy," she cooed, lifting the small dog onto her lap and giving him the belly rubs he clearly demanded.

Spencer’s focus began to drift. The animated screen faded into the background as he watched the two of them, a small, involuntary smile forming. When he caught himself staring, he snapped his head back toward the TV, though his eyes kept darting back. Suddenly, her stomach let out a loud, traitorous growl. Without breaking eye contact with the screen, Spencer reached over and scooped the dog from her lap. "Okay, bud, let Mommy eat first."

Her cheeks flushed hot. She moved swiftly to push the feeling down, hiding behind a mouthful of potato. She still hadn't processed what had happened between them last week when she first brought Walt Jr. home, and she was doing her best to keep it that way. As the movie played on, a chill drifted through the room. Too lazy to grab a sweater, she curled her knees to her chest and hugged herself, though a shiver still escaped. Spencer noticed. Slowly, he shifted Walt Jr. to one side and lifted the edge of his fleece blanket.

"Hey," he said quietly. She looked at him, startled. She raised an eyebrow, a silent 'What are you doing?'

"Communal property," he replied simply. He scooted closer, closing the gap until their shoulders brushed. Their hearts seemed to beat in a frantic synchrony, speeding up at every accidental touch, settling only when they pulled away. Spencer moved Walt Jr. to the space between them, and the sight made her ache with a smile. The movie was forgotten; the only thing that mattered was their dog, the blanket, and the heat radiating between them. She leaned her head onto his shoulder, having done this a thousand times before, but tonight, the air felt charged. It scared Spencer, the weight of her head feeling heavier than usual, but for once, he didn't pull away.

Little did they know, on the other side of the door stood a group of people trained specifically to notice things they weren't supposed to see. A few weeks prior, Spencer had been buried under a mountain of geographical profiling data and hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. Afraid he’d pass out and miss a check-in, he’d begrudgingly handed Morgan a spare key. Now, Morgan was using that key for "extracurricular" purposes. She was on a trip back home, so he didn't have her to shake him awake when his alarm sounded.

"I’m telling you, the kid is hiding something," Morgan whispered, sliding the key into the lock. "He’s been dodging drinks for a month."

"He’s going to kill us," JJ murmured, though she didn't move to stop them. "Or," Garcia squealed, clutching a bottle of expensive wine, "he’ll be so touched by our house-warming spirit that he’ll finally show us where he keeps his library!" Morgan turned the key with a soft click. They crept inside, the flickering blue light of the TV guiding them toward the living room. They rounded the corner just as Morgan took a deep breath. "Surpri—"

The two figures on the couch bolted apart like they’d been hit by an electric shock. Walt Jr., startled out of a nap, began a frantic round of high-pitched barks and whimpers. "Oh no, no! Shhh, it’s okay, honey," she immediately crooned, scooping the dog into her arms to soothe him.

"What the hell are you guys doing here?" Spencer demanded, scrambling to his feet, his hair a mess and his face rapidly turning a shade of crimson that rivaled a stoplight. "Morgan, give me that key," Spencer snapped, holding out his hand. "We agreed that was for emergencies only. A gas leak! A wellness check! Not a home invasion!"

"Oh, come on, Junior G-Man," Morgan said, his eyes already locked on the girl on the couch. He crossed his arms, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. "I’d say this qualifies as a wellness check, because I’m seeing some things that definitely require an explanation." He wiggled his finger towards them.

"We just wanted to see the new place, Spencer!" Garcia chimed in, though her eyes were darting between the rumpled blanket and the "mystery girl" with intense curiosity. "You’ve lived here for months and haven't even given us a tour!"

"And now I think we know why," Emily added, leaning against the doorframe with a knowing grin. "Pretty boy’s been hiding a pretty girl."

"It’s not—she’s not—" Spencer stammered, his brain clearly short-circuiting. "She’s my best friend! We’ve known each other for an unfortunately long amount of time." She snickered, standing up with Walt Jr. tucked under her arm. She stepped beside Spencer, offering a playful, sympathetic look to the group. "Hi. I’m the person Diana officially appointed to make sure Spencer remembers to eat things that aren't sugar-based, and this," she said, angling the dog toward them, "is our beautiful, traumatized son, Walt Jr."

The tension in the room snapped instantly. "Oh my god!" Garcia practically vibrated, rushing forward to offer a hand for the dog to sniff. Morgan laughed, stepping up to shake her hand before gently stealing the dog from her. "Walt Jr., huh? Nice to meet you, kid. You've got a much better fashion sense than your dad." He gestured to Spencer’s matching pajamas.

As Garcia and Emily pulled her toward the kitchen to "help with the wine" which was really just a pretext for an interrogation, Spencer stood frozen in the center of the room. He was a genius, a man who could remember the population of a random city in 1954, but he couldn't think of a single way to explain why they had been sharing a blanket. He knew his team. They were profilers. They had seen the synchrony, the shared warmth, and the way they had jumped apart. He was never going to hear the end of this.

When the three women finally emerged from the kitchen, after a "thorough" questioning session, they found Spencer and Morgan sitting cross-legged on the living room floor. Walt Jr. was sprinting in chaotic circles between them, a blur of fur and excitement. She smiled at the sight, the tension from earlier finally beginning to ebb. JJ stepped up, gracefully taking the empty glasses from her hand. "Don't mind them," JJ whispered with a wink. "Morgan’s just trying to see if the dog is smarter than the owner. So far, the dog is winning." She's so beautiful. She thought, her eyes following JJ, tracing her entire body with a look.

"Okay, spill!" Penelope announced, plopping down on the sofa and patting the cushion next to her. "We need the origin story. How did the two of you actually become best friends? And don't give me the 'we just met' line, I’ve seen how you two look at each other. That's decades of data even my pretty brain can't fathom." She and Spencer caught each other’s eyes. A private, knowing laugh passed between them, a silent language they’d perfected long before Spencer ever joined the FBI.

"Well," she started, taking a seat and tucking her feet under her. "Our mothers were best friends. It was a match made in academic heaven. Or hell."

The university halls always smelled like old paper, floor wax, and the faint, ozone scent of a chemistry lab. Her mother was a Professor of Chemistry who saw the world in precise equations, while Diana Reid was a Professor of Literature who saw the world in prose.

They were faculty minions, ones who were able to assist their mothers because of how intellectually gifted they are. At twelve years old, Spencer would wait until Diana started her lecture, then slip out the back door to sneak into her mother’s Chemistry lab, mesmerized by the reactive properties of elements. Meanwhile, she was doing the exact same thing, sneaking out of the lab to hide in the back of Diana’s classroom, losing herself in the romanticism of the Brontë sisters.

They finally collided during a faculty mixer. While the adults traded pleasantries over cheap punch, they found themselves tucked away in a quiet corner with a dusty chessboard. "Scholar's mate?" she had asked, sliding a pawn forward.

Spencer had looked up, his hair even shaggier back then, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. "Not if I can help it. I've calculated 121 opening variations, and none of them end in me losing to a girl in a denim jumper." Three hours later, she trapped his King. From that day on, their bond was forged in the quiet aisles of the university library. While other kids were out at parks, they had their own private universe.

"I’m going to be a writer," she had declared one afternoon. "I want to write stories that make people feel like they’re traveling through time." Spencer, barely thirteen and already knee-deep in quantum mechanics, hadn't even looked up from his beaker. "Writing is just... subjective interpretation of data. I’m going to be a theoretical physicist. I want to explain the 'how' of the universe."

She had thrown a crumpled piece of paper at his head. "And science is just a story told with numbers, Walter. Don't be a snob."

To bridge the gap, they made a pact to have a weekly knowledge exchange. Every Saturday, they traded roles. He spent hours explaining the elegance of the periodic table, showing her how dopamine was the literal chemical formula for the love she liked to write about. In return, she forced him to analyze the symbolism in Frankenstein, arguing that Victor Frankenstein was the ultimate cautionary tale for a scientist without a soul.

"You see?" she’d whisper, pointing to a passage. "Science discovers the fire, Spencer, but literature teaches you not to burn the house down."

He had grumbled, but he had listened. When the world fell apart, and her mother passed away when she was only seventeen, Spencer was the only person who stayed. He sat with her in the silence of an empty house, holding her hand when she couldn't breathe, and when Diana’s health began to decline, she returned the favor, making sure Spencer ate and slept while he carried the weight of his mother’s world.

"And that’s it," she said, her voice softening as she took a slow sip of wine. "We’ve been stuck at the hip ever since." The room was silent for a beat. The team, people who spent their lives analyzing the worst of humanity, looked at them with a newfound softness. Even Morgan’s teasing smirk had turned into a genuine, respectful smile. "So," Morgan said, breaking the silence. "You’re telling me, boy genius actually lost a game of chess?"

The spell broke, and the room erupted into laughter. Spencer’s eyebrows furrowed, his face turning a familiar shade of pink. "It was one time! And I was twelve! My mind was preoccupied with the socio-economic implications of the Cold War!"

"Yes, but you were already in high school at twelve," she countered, leaning forward to poke his shoulder. "I was in sixth grade, and I still trapped your King in twenty moves. Admit it, Walt, I’m the superior strategist."

She stuck her tongue out at him. Spencer rolled his eyes, but the look he gave her was purely adoring. "But to redeem him," she added, looking at the team, "Spencer knows more about the Romantic poets than most English majors, and I can tell you exactly why your baking soda volcano is a thermodynamic failure."

"She’s not exaggerating, she's the only one who knows how to do physics magic aside from me," Spencer added, his voice regaining its steady, professorial clip. "She once edited a thirty-page paper of mine on string theory. She told me the math was 'exquisite,' but my sentence structure was 'an affront to the English language and a personal insult to the concept of the semicolon.'"

Morgan doubled over, slapping his knee. "An affront! Kid, she’s been profiling you since the sixth grade! No wonder you’re so terrified of her."

"I have to keep him humble," she joked, nudging Spencer with her elbow. "He was already a genius; if I didn't criticize his grammar, his head wouldn't have fit through the front door."

"I don't know, Reid," Emily chimed in, swirling her wine. "I think you met your match." Spencer shook his head, a soft smile playing on his lips. "She’s the only person I know who can make me feel like a total amateur and a genius at the same time."

The look they shared was heavy with history, a mix of shared grief, childhood dreams, and a deep, intellectual intimacy. The team was starting to realize that "best friends" didn't even begin to cover what these two were to each other. The night stretched on, the apartment filled with the kind of warmth that only comes from good wine and even better company. The team took turns regaling her with "Reid in the Field" stories, like the time he tried to explain the history of a specific grain of sand while in the middle of a high-speed chase, or his infamous "whistle-blowing" incident.

"He really hasn't changed," she laughed, leaning into the sofa as Morgan acted out a particularly frantic Spencer moment. "He used to do that at the grocery store. I once had to drag him away from the cereal aisle because he was lecturing a stranger on the glycemic index of corn puffs."

"Hey, it’s a public health concern!" Spencer defended, though he was smiling as he topped off JJ’s glass. As the clock neared midnight, the team finally began to gather their coats. The air was lighter than it had been in years, the "Profiler" wall finally dropping in favor of genuine friendship.

"We’re definitely coming back," Garcia declared, giving her a fierce hug that smelled like vanilla and expensive perfume. "And Walt Jr. is coming to the office for 'Take Your Fur-Child to Work' day. It’s a rule I just made up." Once the door finally clicked shut, the silence of the apartment felt heavy and sudden. Spencer let out a long, shaky exhale, leaning his forehead against the wood of the door for a second before turning back to her.

"I am so, so sorry," he said, already moving to pick up the stray wine glasses and empty containers. "They’re invasive, they’re loud, and they clearly have no respect for the sanctity of a spare key. I’ll change the locks tomorrow."

She laughed, picking up a plate to help him. "It’s okay, Spence. They’re great. They’re exactly what you need."

"Still," he muttered, taking a plate from her hand. "They ruined movie night, and Morgan definitely ate your dinner."

"He did," she said, mock-pouting as she followed him into the small kitchen. "You know that means you owe me a giant baked potato, right? With extra chives and cheesy garlic ranch. That's the price for my silence regarding your secrets."

Spencer chuckled, the sound low and tired but happy. "Deal. Tomorrow night. I’ll even get the XL jug of good lemonade."

As they stood side-by-side at the sink, the domesticity of the moment should have felt perfect. She looked at him, the way his hair was messy from Morgan’s ruffling, the way his shoulders finally looked relaxed. She was genuinely, deeply grateful that he had found a family in the BAU, but as she rinsed a glass, a small, sharp ache bloomed in her chest.

Throughout the night, she had been watching. It was a habit born of a lifetime of knowing him. She had noticed how, every time Morgan told a joke or Walt Jr. did something cute, Spencer’s eyes hadn't sought hers first. He had looked at JJ. He’d watched JJ’s reactions, his face lighting up when she laughed, as if he were subconsciously checking to see if she was enjoying herself.

She pushed the feeling down, scrubbing a plate a little harder than necessary. Who was she to be jealous? she told herself. She was the one who knew his favorite book, the one who held him when the world got too loud, the one who had been there for the "before."

But as Spencer bumped his shoulder against hers in a friendly, familiar gesture, she couldn't help but wonder if being the "before" meant she would never be the "always."

"You okay?" Spencer asked, noticing her sudden quiet.

"Yeah," she lied, forcing a bright smile as she handed him a wet dish. "Just thinking about that potato. Don't think I’ve forgotten."

"Never," he promised.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

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! 𝗎𝗉𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 !

let's not fall in love — spencer reid

series masterlist | ! 𝗎𝗉𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 !

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𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾! 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖽 𝗑 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

°❀.ೃ࿔* After finally finding a sweet little two-bedroom, one-bath apartment that fits both their budget and their dreams, moving day arrives, and so does the chaos. Boxes pile up, furniture doesn’t fit the way it did in their heads, and nerves run high as they take their first real step into living together. Between Spencer’s obsessive labeling system and her instinct to wing it, the day becomes a mix of stress and laughter.

𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾!

a/n: if it's not obvious yet, I had just watched the movie adaptation of PWMOV and i absolutely adore emily bader's poppy! I've been such a huge Emily Henry fan and this adaptation was beyond any expectation i had! I'm excited for Funny Story. Anywaaaay enjoy!

The apartment smells like fresh paint, cardboard, and the kind of optimism that only exists before the couch is assembled wrong.

Sunlight spills through the wide living room window in uneven stripes, catching dust motes and the sharp edges of unopened boxes. The place is empty in a way that feels loud, every footstep echoing, every sound exaggerated. It’s a sweet little two-bedroom, one-bath apartment on the second floor, with creaky floors and a kitchen just small enough to force proximity.

Although everything seemed to be perfect, it was undeniably nothing but a blob of absolute chaos. Boxes are stacked everywhere by the door, under the window, lining the walls like a cardboard city. Some are neatly labeled in black Sharpie with military precision. Others are scrawled with loopy handwriting or vague descriptors like misc, probably kitchen?, and do not open unless desperate. It was obvious who owned what.

Spencer stands in the middle of what will eventually become the living room, hands on his hips, surveying the scene like a general who has lost control of his troops.

“I think,” he says carefully, nudging a box with his socked foot, “that’s the last of it.”

From somewhere down the hall, possibly the bedroom, possibly the kitchen, perhaps the void, her voice rings out.

“The last of it?” she calls. “I hope it is, Spencer, because you have fifteen boxes. Fifteen!”

“What? That’s not excessive, it's a normal amount of stuff!” he replies automatically.

She appears in the doorway, hair pulled up in a messy bun, a smudge of dust on her cheek, holding a roll of packing tape like a weapon. She looks at the stack nearest him, then at him, unimpressed.

“You are one person,” she says. “One. Singular. What do you need fifteen boxes for?!”

“In fact,” he says, “the average person owns—”

“No,” she interrupts, pointing at him. “Do not cite statistics at me on moving day.”

He blinks, mouth snapping shut, then mutters, “I was going to say book ownership correlates with—”

“What,” she asks sweetly, stopping her best friend from sputtering even more boring facts that might put her to sleep. “Are all of these anyway?”

Spencer glances down at the nearest box. Then the next. Then several more.

“Books,” he says.

Her stare deepens.

“Mostly,” he adds.

She laughs, the sound bouncing off the bare walls. “You know what? Fine. When the floor collapses under the weight of your precious paper rectangles, I’ll haunt you. I'll sprinkle ghost pee on all your first editions."

“The building was constructed in—”

“Spencer. Ghost. Pee."

He stops. They stand there for a second, the hum of the city drifting in through the open window, the promise of something new hanging between them. This is the first time the apartment has been quiet since they unlocked the door that morning. The first time it feels real.

They’re really doing this. No dorms. No temporary stays. No, “just crashing for a while.” This is theirs.

Spencer clears his throat. “We should… start unpacking.”

She grins. “Already ahead of you.”

And that’s where everything goes wrong. Spencer has a plan. At least he had one. He’s already mapped out the unpacking process in his head, room by room, category by category. Kitchen first, then bathroom, then bedroom, then living room. High-utility items prioritized. Fragile items are handled with care. Books alphabetized by author, then by genre, then by subject matter, then, if necessary, by publication date.

He opens the box labeled KITCHEN – ESSENTIALS and exhales, relieved. This, at least, is familiar. Meanwhile, she has a already decided to stick with It goes where I take them.

She breezes through the apartment wearing sunglasses she got from one of her bags, rushing like a hurricane of good intentions, carrying armfuls of random objects and depositing them wherever feels right. A lamp on the counter. A throw pillow on the dining chair. A mug on the windowsill because “the light looks cozy there.” Spencer watches her place a stack of mail on the TV stand, where there is no TV yet, and physically flinches.

“That doesn’t go there,” he says.

She doesn’t even look at him. “It lives there now.”

“No, it—”

“Spencer,” she says, waltzing past him, “we do not live in a museum.”

“This isn’t about aesthetics,” he insists. “It’s about functionality.”

“Functionally,” she says, “I function best when I don’t care.”

She starts humming as she opens another box. Then singing.

"Hey baby! You gotta remember—”

Spencer freezes. “Oh dear god,” he mutters.

She cranks up the volume on her phone and spins into the living room, belting, “I’m forever your girl—”

“Can we just,” he grunts, lifting a heavy box, “get back to unpacking like normal people?”

“Nope!” she chirps. “Not until I see your hips move.”

“What?” He nearly drops the box.

She sets her phone down on an unopened box, the music echoing through the bare space, then grabs his arms and pulls him into the center of the room.

“Come on,” she says. “Loosen up, Walt.”

“Don’t call me Walt!”

“That’s not loosening up, Walt.”

He resists at first, stiff as a plank, shoulders tense, expression deeply offended by the concept of rhythm. His eyes were narrowed, looking at her who was already feeling the music in her bones. She sways dramatically in front of him, exaggerating every movement, laughing when he scowls.

“I don’t dance,” he says.

“Okay Chad Danforth, that’s a lie,” she replies. “You just don’t dance publicly.”

“Who's Chad—”

She wiggles her eyebrows, singing exaggeratedly, “Baby, pick your head up. Come on and look me in the face~."

Something in him breaks. Just a little. He exhales, shoulders dropping, and, tentatively, moves. A small shift of weight. A hesitant sway. He's cringing so much inside that he hates dancing.

Her eyes light up. “YES. Go, Walt!”

“This is humiliating.”

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

“I hate this. I hate you.”

She laughs and spins him once, and he stumbles, then laughs too, soft and surprised, like he didn’t mean to let it out. The stress melts away. It’s just them, dancing badly in an empty apartment, the future wide open.

The sun is already sinking by the time they admit defeat in the quiet, mutual understanding that comes from sore backs, dusty hands, and the fact that the couch is still missing one critical screw.

They stand in the middle of the apartment again, surrounded by half-opened boxes and mismatched furniture. The place looks lived in now, even if it’s not finished. A lamp glows warmly in the corner. Someone (her) has put fairy lights along the window because “it felt right.” Someone else (him) has re-positioned them twice to make sure they’re evenly spaced.

Spencer checks his watch. “We’ve been unpacking for nine hours,” he says.

She squints at him. “Why would you tell me that?”

“For time awareness.”

“I was happier five seconds ago when I didn’t know.”

He exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We didn’t even get to the bedroom.”

She gestures vaguely down the hall. “That’s future us’s problem.” Waving her hand. Future Spencer does not like that answer, but present Spencer is too tired to argue.

She drops onto the floor with a dramatic groan, sprawling out between two boxes labeled BOOKS – NONFICTION (A–M) and BOOKS – NONFICTION (N–Z).

“You did not need to alphabetize your boxes,” she says, staring up at the ceiling.

“Yes, I did.”

“No one was going to steal your books mid-move.”

“That’s not the point.”

She props herself up on her elbows. “You know what is the point?”

He braces himself. “What?”

“We are not sleeping on the floor tonight.”

“We don’t have the bed assembled,” he points out. “And the couch is—”

“A crime scene,” she finishes. “I know.”

She looks around, then her eyes land on the two rolled-up mattresses leaning against the wall. The ones they optimistically bought weeks ago, convinced they’d have everything set up by now.

A slow smile spreads across her face. “Oh,” she says.

Spencer narrows his eyes. “What?”

She jumps to her feet, suddenly energized. “Mattress in the middle of the apartment!"

He blinks. “Spencer,” she says, already dragging one out. “Tell me that’s not romantic.”

“It’s highly impractical.”

“So is your entire personality, and I love you anyway.”

He pauses. Then clears his throat. “I guess we can… temporarily utilize them.”

She beams. “Look at you, using fun words for fun activities.”

They wrestle the mattresses into place, laying them side by side in the center of the living room. It’s crooked, uneven, and surrounded by boxes like some kind of cardboard fort. The fairy lights cast a soft glow over everything, turning the mess into something almost magical.

She flops down first, arms spread wide.

“This,” she declares, “is the peak of adulthood.”

Spencer lies down beside her more carefully, staring up at the ceiling.

“We’re sleeping in the middle of our apartment,” he says.

“Our apartment,” she echoes, smiling.

He doesn’t correct her.

They brush their teeth in turns because the bathroom is still half-blocked by boxes. She steals his shirt and hoodie because hers is buried somewhere under KITCHEN – MAYBE? He went on a tangent about how they have to talk about this taking of things and how they shouldn't do that, but she was too engrossed in not caring to listen. When they finally crawl onto the mattresses, the exhaustion hits all at once.

She sighs happily, rolling onto her side to face him. “Today was a lot.”

“Yes,” he agrees immediately. “You disrupted my entire system.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You placed kitchen utensils in three separate rooms.”

“Freedom is scary.”

He huffs out a laugh despite himself. “You sang for forty-five minutes.”

“Only because you refused to dance properly.”

“I danced.”

“You wiggled.” She snorts, pulling the hoodie sleeves over her hands. “Admit it. You had fun.”

He hesitates. Then, softly, “I did.” Her smile gentles.

The apartment hums around them, cars passing outside, the building settling, the quiet intimacy of a shared space that’s still learning their shapes.

“Hey, Spencer?” she murmurs. “Yes?”

“Thank you for doing this with me.” He turns his head to look at her. Really look at her. Hair messy, eyes tired.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he says.

She blinks, clearly not expecting that. “Wow,” she says. “Was that a feelings moment from you, Walt?”

He rolls his eyes. "Why are you the way that you are! I was trying be nice to you and was trying to make a statement."

She grins and scoots closer, their shoulders brushing. “I’m holding you to it.”

They lie there, side by side, hands almost touching. Almost.

“Tomorrow,” she says sleepily, “we tackle your boxes of books.”

“All ten?” he asks.

She groans. “Oh, God."

“I’ll need your help organizing,” Spencer says casually, already doomed. “By title, author, and ISBN.”

He pokes her arm for emphasis. She lets out an immediate, dramatic groan. “Absolutely not. I would rather eat drywall.”

“You're not getting out of this. You disrupted my organizing flow so I'm disrupting your fun-filled day!"

“This is a threat.” She turns her head toward him, squinting. “If anything, we should organize them by color, but then again—” she gestures vaguely in the dark “—all your books are some variation of sad brown. You need to start reading romance or smut. Get your groin involved.”

“I don’t want to read—”

“—anything that makes you feel something?” she cuts in. “Tragic.”

He exhales through his nose. “You’re helping.”

“I refuse.”

“You live here.”

“Regrettably.”

“Then you’re helping.”

She groans again, louder this time, burying her face in the pillow. “This is emotional terrorism.”

He smirks in the dark. “What happened to being forever my girl?”

She snorts. “I didn’t realize that contract included unpaid labor.”

“Oh, it absolutely does.”

“Well then,” she says sweetly, “you’re forever my headache.”

There’s a beat. “Oh, but you love me,” he says, already smiling.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts a little closer, their arms brushing.

"Don’t push it, Walt.” He closes his eyes anyway, grin still there.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

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! 𝗎𝗉𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 !

let's not fall in love — spencer reid

series masterlist | ! 𝗎𝗉𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 !

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𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾! 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖽 𝗑 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

°❀.ೃ࿔* 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖲𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝖱𝖾𝗂𝖽, 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖥𝖡𝖨 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾, 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗃𝗈𝖻, 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽: 𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖥𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗃𝗈𝖻𝗌, 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝖽𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅, 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇: 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌.

𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾-𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗌, 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗈𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝗌𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗋𝖾 “𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌.”

𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾!

They were sitting on the floor of her childhood bedroom when everything changed, which felt rude, honestly, because she’d expected something more cinematic. A lightning strike. A dramatic phone call at the very least.

Instead, there was the floor and Spencer Reid beside her, knees drawn up awkwardly because he never quite knew what to do with his limbs when they weren’t attached to a desk or a gun. She stared at her phone, thumb hovering over her bank app like it might accuse her of something.

“Okay,” she said, voice thin. “So that’s… bad.”

Spencer leaned over, peering at the screen with interest that was equal parts concern and morbid fascination. “How bad is bad?”

“Well,” she said slowly, “if I buy groceries and pay rent in the same week, I will not survive.”

He frowned. “You're being dramatic,”

“Welcome to adulthood, everything here is dramatic,” she replied flatly.

They sat in silence for a moment. Outside, a siren wailed. Somewhere upstairs, someone was practicing violin with the confidence of a person who had never been told to stop.

Spencer cleared his throat. “Well, my situation is marginally better.”

She laughed, sharp and humorless. “Of course it is. The FBI pays you in government secrets and vague prestige.”

“Actually, the salary is quite modest when adjusted for cost of living,” he said, then paused. “Also, my apartment has no windows.”

She turned to him. “You’re kidding.”

“I am not,” he said solemnly. “It’s technically a ‘garden-level unit,’ which is a euphemism.”

She snorted. “You’re a profiler. You chase serial killers for a living, and you live in a basement.”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s ironic.”

For a moment, they sat in a silence they were used to. That was when the words escaped her.

“We should move in together.”

They hung in the air, fragile and reckless. Spencer blinked.

Then he looked at her the way he did when the world stopped making sense, eyes darting like he was searching for footnotes in real time.

“…I’m sorry?” he said carefully. “I want to be very clear about what you just proposed before my brain invents fourteen worst-case scenarios.”

She rolls her eyes. “I said we should move in together. It totally makes sense!”

He stared. “You mean—” He gestured vaguely between them. “Together together?”

“Oh my God, Spencer!” she said immediately. “I know you’re in love with me, but not in that way, dumbass.”

That did it. Spencer’s ears went red instantly. “I am most definitely in love with you.” She scoffed. “Keep saying that to yourself. I see how you look at my boobs.”

“I do not—” He stopped, exhaled, then snickered despite himself. “I just look at your boobs because they’re so weirdly asymmetrical. Like… why is the left one kind of deflated?”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

"YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!”

She shoved him hard enough that he tipped sideways, laughter bursting out of him as he hit the floor.

"DID I MAKE FUN OF YOU WHEN YOUR BALLS DROPPED LATE?!" She screams, smacking him on the arm over and over.

“Hey—hey! Stop it, I’m joking!” he wheezed.

She smacked his arm once again, but she was smiling now, which was unfair because he didn’t deserve that mercy.

“Anyway,” she said, regaining composure, “I meant roommates. We share costs. Less stress. Less awkwardness.”

Spencer pushed himself upright, expression sobering. “How does that entail less awkwardness?”

“We already know everything awkward about each other.”

“That’s… unfortunately true,” he admitted. “I know you cry during commercials.”

“You alphabetize your spices.”

“Only because you don’t.”

She pointed at him. “Compatibility.”

Spencer didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted around the room. He thought of his own place: the damp walls, the silence, the way he sometimes talked to himself just to hear a human voice.

He said slowly, “You're right, it makes sense.”

Her eyes lit up. “I'm right? I mean—I am right.”

“Yes. Financially efficient. Emotionally—” He hesitated. “Safer.”

Something in her softened. “And,” he added quickly, “I would feel better knowing you’re not living somewhere the toaster is actively hostile.”

In college, she’d been crammed into a five-person dorm with barely enough space to walk, let alone breathe. One night, their faulty toaster sparked a small fire, filling the room with smoke and panic. Shaken, she called Spencer to come get her, and that night, she ended up sleeping safely in his dorm instead.

“That toaster has issues,” she defended.

“It tried to kill you.”

“It was having a bad day.”

He smiled then. The kind he never noticed himself saving just for her.

“There would have to be rules,” he said.

“Oh absolutely,” she agreed. “No serial killer talk at dinner.”

“That’s unfair.”

“No FBI case photos on the fridge.”

“Also unfair.”

“No correcting my grammar unless I ask. You have so little faith in me, I am a copywriter, need I remind you?”

He winced. “That one will be difficult. I'm not even sure how you were able to land a job. I had to proofread your final essay because you couldn't spell 'embarrassment'.”

She nudged his knee with hers. “Double letters confuse me! And that was so long ago, I've improved.”

He looked at her, really looked. At the girl who had always been there. Who believed in him when being “weird” wasn’t charming yet. She was finally getting her dream job and was terrified she’d fail at it.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “I'll tone it down."

She hesitated, then added, lighter than she felt, like it was a joke she’d practiced. “And let’s not ever—ever—fall in love.”

Spencer blinked. The air shifted. Then he smiled, easy, unbothered, like the words hadn’t landed somewhere tender and dangerous in his chest.

“That's easy,” he said. “Deal.”

She grinned, relief loosening her shoulders. “See? Totally safe.”

“Extremely safe,” he agreed.

“So,” she grinned, “roommates?”

He took a breath. “Roommates.”

Neither of them acknowledged the way the word settled between them, heavy, dangerous, and absolutely doomed.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

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