bethyeet-365

From the outside perspective of a house in the night, a person walking down the street would see a preview of a family through the crystal clear windows. The family seems to be standing in a circle; you would think they’re playing a game of heads up from the way their fingers are accusingly pointing at one another or balloon volleyball where a circular object seems to be thrown from across the room. 

That person would believe the thrilling sounds of screaming was out of amusement or the deafening stomps could be children running up and down the staircase playing a game of freeze tag. Only this time, in the game of freeze tag, it wasn’t actually a game that was being played. Instead, it was a living nightmare that actually kept you frozen in the middle of the hallway, watching the scenery play out in front of you. It wasn’t like the typical ‘Kevin is home alone and he’s trying to fake his family being around’. 

"We've been married for how long? Don't tell me what to do! You know what you did." Her pointer finger jabbing at his chest, the same exact hand that your father held when he was exchanging pledges now has a tan line. A tan line that holds allegiance which no longer exists.

At the exact moment, you saw your mother confronting the man of the house. Whose job was to provide security. A security's job is to protect and enforce a safe environment; instead they find something or someone to fill the gap of a beating heart that was never filled with commitment to begin with.

Sometimes you never felt secure. Your parents may have given you all the things you have ever asked for, but the one thing you craved more when you were a child was a family that went out to the park and played on the swings. Every other normal person gets to tell their story to their own kids about the childhood they lived. You just didn't know where to start.

Heavy but soft footsteps approach from behind. You knew that was your boyfriend, he was always expressing his thoughts but you didn't mind. You loved hearing his voice.

You hear Spencer call out to you. From your peripheral vision, he was standing next to the couch you were currently seated on as you didn't acknowledge him. You wanted to, but you were too caught up in your own mind of destruction. His words sounded distorted or gibberish because you weren't exactly listening to him.

"Love, are you okay? It's been 4 minutes and 13 seconds since I've been trying to get your attention. I apologize for my long explanation of Julius Caesar. Did you know that he had a love affair with Cleopatra and had a son? Before Cleopatra, he married Cornelia and Pompeia. The most interesting.. actually the weirdest thing was his last wife was a teenager named Calpurnia."

As he took a seat next to you, the soft cushion of the furniture sinking brought you back to reality. You find it funny that he was talking about some medieval figure that somehow correlates to your issue. Looking up to him, you notice the hint of worry and endearment in his eyes. How could looking into a person's eyes be a form of healing?

It felt like your throat was burning from the inside. Looking away from him, you rub your clammy hands on your thighs.

“You know you can tell me anything, right? I won’t judge.” He gives you a soft smile.

With a shuddering breath, you let out all of the insecurities that overtook the kindness of Spencer's affection.

"I guess.. I don't know what to do with my life. I'm not doing anything special nor do I have a really cool job that I get to enjoy. You have a profiling job in the fbi for the behavioral analysis unit and an IQ of 187. Not that I'm trying to be rude about it, it's just I don't feel like I'm on the same level as you. I mean, maybe it's just me being whiny right now but," You pause before the tears start streaming down your face out of frustration, embarrassment, and self-doubt.

"Spencer, I don't understand why you put up with me. I'm constantly worried about how I'm perceived and the wounds, not physically but mentally, from the strained relationship I had with my parents after their split is ruining ours." You gesture your hand between the two of you.

Spencer purses his lips. He, unfortunately, understands where you were coming from. Both of you were people that were abandoned and left craving for something that should have been established the moment a child was born.

He didn't believe that your vulnerability was affecting the relationship he has with you; he believed that being able to open up your emotions and fears to someone you care so deeply about was a form of extensive connection and an important aspect of a relationship.

His hand reaches out for yours. His thumb circling around your knuckle in consolation. The other hand moving towards your face to wipe away the tears.

"The amount of intelligence you have does not matter to me. Your well-being is more important. I wish you saw yourself the way I see you. I don't 'put up with you'. I support, respect, and care. Those are the types of qualities that should be shown towards a partner in a relationship. Did you know that your heart synchronizes with your partner's when you're in love? Technically if we hug, our hearts are actually closer together. Hugs release dopamine of good feelings and motivations. It also reduces blood pressure and reactivity to stress."

"You definitely don't need to be a profiler and be insanely smart, love. Perfection is who you are right now." He adds on as a final proclamation.

He keeps his gaze on you as his words sink in. Spencer waits for you to initiate a hug like he's a puppy lingering around for his owner. He would be engulfing you in his arms right now if it weren't for his concern of pressure.

You lean and wrap your arms around his body. His right hand was on the small of your back and his left hand holding your head towards his chest where you feel the beat of his heart increase by the second.

Pulling away after a couple of minutes, he ducks his head low to give you a soft kiss. Before he pulls away, you reach your hands to keep his head in place.

Spencer detaches himself from you and places his forehead against yours.

"C'mon, let's eat the left over lasagna and mac and cheese from Penelope's party." He stands up first and offers his hands to you.

Your insecurities and issues may still be apart of you, but Spencer was there to help overcome the struggles of living. Surviving is the hardest thing a person can do when all they have experienced was their own soul perishing in real time. Sometimes, all a person needs is a shoulder to lean on.

You learned that you have to love the bad parts of yourself and move forward.

Spencer Reid had solved murders faster than this.

He had identified offenders from a single blurry photograph and a handful of contradictory witness statements that should, by all reasonable standards, have led nowhere. He had built psychological profiles from fragments of behavior that other people dismissed as noise, from inconsistencies in tone, timing, geography, and motive that only made sense once his mind had already begun stitching them together. He had memorized entire textbooks after a single read and spent years accumulating knowledge so dense it might as well have been its own language. His mind was engineered, always moving forward toward understanding. It was what made him valuable at the FBI. It was what made him one of the best profilers in the bureau.

And yet, somehow, after two full days, he still had absolutely no idea how to fix his argument with you.

The realization was becoming increasingly frustrating.

Because unlike a case, there was no evidence board to organize. No witness interviews to conduct. No behavioral indicators he could neatly categorize and analyze until a solution presented itself. There was only silence. Two days of it.

Forty-eight hours.

Two thousand eight hundred and eighty minutes.

One hundred and seventy-two thousand, eight hundred seconds.

Not that he had been counting.

Not intentionally, at least.

The numbers just…appeared, uninvited, the way facts tended to do in his head when something refused to resolve itself.

The argument itself kept replaying in his head whenever he had a free moment, his mind returning to it with the same relentless persistence it reserved for unsolved cases. It happened during paperwork. During meetings. While standing in line for coffee. While brushing his teeth before bed. The memory would surface without warning, unfolding with such perfect clarity that it sometimes felt less like recollection and more like reliving it in real time. Every sentence was preserved in his memory exactly as it had happened. Every pause. Every look. Every slight hesitation between words.

He could remember the exact way your eyebrows had pulled together when he said something wrong. Just that small movement between your eyes that he had learned to recognize over time, the one that always appeared when you were hurt but trying not to show it. He remembered the way your arms had crossed over your chest afterward. He remembered the slight tension in your shoulders. The way your gaze had briefly dropped toward the floor before returning to him.

And he remembered your voice.

That was the part that haunted him most.

Not because you had been angry.

Because you hadn’t.

Spencer almost wished you had yelled.

He wished you had raised your voice, accused him of being an idiot, thrown every frustration directly at his face so he would have something concrete to work with. Anger was understandable. Anger was measurable. Anger had direction. He could have apologized for anger. He could have identified the source and addressed it.

But disappointment? it was infinitely worse.

That was the truly maddening part.

Spencer Reid’s entire career was built around understanding people.

Patterns made sense to him. Motives made sense to him. Human behavior, despite its complexity, usually made sense to him.

Yet somehow the further he examined the argument, the less certain he became. Every conclusion led to three more possibilities. Every explanation seemed incomplete. Maybe it had been something he said. Maybe it had been something he hadn’t said. Maybe it wasn’t about that specific conversation at all. Maybe it was something that had been bothering you for weeks and had finally reached a breaking point.

His mind chased possibilities endlessly, constructing theories only to discard them moments later, each one dissolving under the weight of another, quieter truth he didn’t want to examine too closely.

Which was unfortunate.

Because he missed you.

A lot more than he had initially allowed himself to quantify.

The absence was no longer just a shift in routine or a simple change in the office dynamic. It was everywhere now: seeping into the margins of his attention, slipping between case files, hiding in the pauses between conversations that used to include you so naturally he had never thought to appreciate them.

Cases felt longer, too.

Not because the work itself had changed, crime scenes still demanded the same precision, profiles still required the same mental architecture, but because he kept finding himself reaching for moments that weren’t there anymore. Small things. The insignificant things that should have been irrelevant in the grand structure of his day, and yet had somehow become essential without his permission.

He would turn slightly in his chair after spotting a pattern in a victimology report, already forming the sentence in his mind, already anticipating the way your voice, always quicker than people expected from someone who wasn’t even in the Bureau, would respond. You, Morgan’s younger sister, the civilian presence who had somehow become an unspoken part of their orbit at the work, drifting in and out of the bullpen with coffee runs, questions, or just the kind of energy that made the fluorescent lighting feel less oppressive.

And then the moment would collapse.

Because you weren’t there.

He’d look up from a report after discovering a strange historical correlation, something useless to most people, but exactly the kind of detail he knew would make you laugh and tell him he “needed a hobby that wasn’t trivia disguised as trauma” and his hand would already be halfway toward his phone before he remembered there was no message thread actively unfolding between you two at that moment. Only silence where there had recently been a rhythm.

Even coffee tasted worse, which he knew was irrational because, chemically speaking, the coffee was identical. Same beans, same machine, same burnt undertone that lingered too long on the tongue. And yet it felt different sitting alone in the break room, like the absence of your commentary had somehow altered the physics of it. Like taste, somehow, had become contextual.

Spencer sat at his desk, shoulders slightly hunched, a thin folder open in front of him that he had reread three times without absorbing a single line. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead with a mechanical patience that made the silence feel even louder. Around him, the bullpen continued its usual rhythm, papers shuffled, phones rang, the distant cadence of someone's laughter breaking briefly through the procedural monotony.

And still, none of it reached him properly.

Then, agent Morgan dropped into the chair across from him with the kind of familiarity that didn’t require permission, leaning back like he had already decided this conversation was happening whether Spencer was ready for it or not.

“Pretty boy.”

Spencer blinked, as if the word had taken a moment to travel through whatever fog had settled behind his eyes.

“What?” he replied, though it came out slightly delayed, like he had to retrieve himself from somewhere else before answering.

“You’ve been reading the same page for ten minutes,” he repeated, slower this time.

Spencer’s grip tightened slightly on the file before he corrected, almost automatically, “I have not.”

Morgan didn’t even bother arguing. He simply lifted a hand and pointed across the desk with an almost lazy precision.

“The paper is upside down.”

There was a beat of silence where Spencer didn’t move at all, as though his brain had to reassemble the last thirty seconds into something coherent. Then, slowly, he looked down.

The page was, in fact, upside down.

“…oh,” he said, softly. Not quite embarrassed, not quite resigned, just caught in the inconvenient reality of being observed too closely by someone who knew him too well.

Morgan let out a short snort, shaking his head like he’d just confirmed a suspicion rather than discovered anything new.

“What’s going on with you?”

Spencer didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he straightened the file, even though it didn’t need fixing, aligning the corners with unnecessary precision as if structure could substitute for composure. His eyes stayed on the desk, on the scattered papers that suddenly felt too loud in their stillness.

“I’m fine,” he said at last, a little too quickly, like the words had been waiting right at the surface and only needed the smallest excuse to spill out.

“Reid.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Reid.”

Spencer’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly at the repetition, the way Morgan’s voice had shifted from teasing to something sharper, more deliberate. There was no escape hatch in that tone. Only persistence.

He sighed, the sound quiet and tired in a way that didn’t belong to the report in front of him, and certainly not to the fluorescent-lit bullpen that usually kept everything neatly compartmentalized.

“What?”

Morgan leaned back again, studying him with a growing certainty that had nothing to do with profiling and everything to do with experience. The kind of certainty that came from knowing someone long enough to recognize when they were lying even before they opened their mouth.

“Girl?”

The single word hit the air like a thrown object.

Spencer froze.

Morgan’s grin widened, slow and unmistakably victorious.

“Oh my God,” he said, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees. “There is a girl.”

“No.”

It came out too fast.

Too practiced.

Morgan tilted his head. “That wasn’t a denial.”

“It was.”

“It was the worst denial I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Spencer dragged a hand down his face, pressing briefly at his eyes as if physical pressure might reset the conversation entirely. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. Derek Morgan wasn’t the type to let something go once he had it between his teeth.

“It’s not—” Spencer started, then stopped, because even he didn’t know what direction that sentence was supposed to go in.

“You got a girlfriend?”

“No.”

Morgan’s eyebrows lifted so high they practically disappeared into his forehead. “Oh.”

A beat.

Then, softer, almost delighted: “Secret girlfriend?”

The silence that followed wasn’t loud, but it was definitive. It filled the space between them in a way no words could compete with, settling over Spencer like gravity finally deciding to stop being generous.

Morgan blinked once.

Then twice.

And then he leaned back so abruptly his chair creaked, one hand flying up to his chest like he needed to physically contain his reaction.

“Oh my God,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t teasing. It was disbelief wrapped around amusement. “Reid. No. No way.”

Spencer lowered his voice immediately, shoulders tightening as he glanced around the bullpen like the entire building had suddenly become invested in his personal collapse. “Please lower your voice.”

“You have a secret girlfriend?”

“Technically,” Spencer admitted, reluctantly, as if even the word came with conditions he hadn’t fully agreed to.

Morgan froze for half a second.

That was worse than any reaction so far.

“Since when?”

“Five months.”

The word landed.

Morgan made a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh, choking slightly as he leaned forward again, eyes widening in genuine shock. “Five months?!”

Heads turned.

A few agents paused mid-step. Someone near the coffee station actually looked over their shoulder. Even the hum of the bullpen seemed to tilt toward them for a moment, like the entire room had decided this was more interesting than paperwork.

Spencer felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. He wished, with a kind of desperate clarity, that the floor would simply give up on him and solve the problem permanently.

Morgan, entirely unhelpful, looked delighted in the worst possible way.

“You’ve been dating someone for five months and nobody knows?” he asked, voice lower now but no less incredulous.

“It wasn’t intentional,” Spencer muttered.

Morgan gave him a look that said he did not believe in accidents of that magnitude.

“It absolutely was intentional.”

Spencer exhaled through his nose, a tired sound that carried the weight of someone who had stopped trying to win this particular argument.

“Can we not focus on that part?”

Morgan’s expression changed slightly at that, just enough to signal he’d caught something underneath the embarrassment. The teasing didn’t disappear, but it softened at the edges.

“Something happened,” he said instead.

Spencer hesitated.

It was subtle, but enough.

His eyes dropped to the desk. To the corner of the file he’d been straightening for no reason. To anything except his friend.

Morgan didn’t need more than that.

“You fought.”

“It was a disagreement,” Spencer corrected automatically, as if the phrasing might make it less real.

Morgan scoffed. “How long since you’ve talked?”

A pause.

Spencer hesitated just long enough to give himself away.

“…two days.”

Morgan let out a slow, low whistle, leaning back again like the situation had just upgraded itself from something interesting to an inevitable disaster.

“Damn,” he said simply.

Spencer rubbed a hand over his face, dragging it down like he could erase the entire conversation if he tried hard enough.

“I know,” he muttered.

“What happened?”

Spencer hesitated.

Normally, he would never have even come close to discussing his relationship with anyone at work. It wasn’t just a boundary, it was a principle. Something he kept carefully intact because once you started letting people in, even a little, they tended to see things you weren’t ready to explain. But Derek Morgan wasn’t just anyone at work. He was his friend. And worse, in this specific case, he was also your big brother, which meant there were layers of complication Spencer hadn’t fully accounted for when he started dating you in the first place.

So he spoke anyway.

Not your name. Never your name. Just fragments that still somehow felt too revealing.

He explained how he had missed a dinner he had promised would be just the two of you, no cases, no interruptions, no excuses waiting in the wings. He explained how it hadn’t been malicious, how time had slipped in the way it always did, like sand through fingers he didn’t realize were open until it was already gone. He explained how it wasn’t even the first time, and how that detail alone had changed the entire shape of the conversation when he finally walked through the door too late.

And then he admitted, less willingly, that when frustration came, when disappointment turned into something sharper, he had reacted instead of listening. That he had defended himself with logic, with context, with all the reasons that made sense in his head but apparently didn’t matter in the moment they were spoken. That somewhere between explaining and insisting, he had stopped hearing the part where it wasn’t about being right.

By the end of it, neither of them had apologized. Not properly. Not in a way that closed anything. Just a silence that stretched and hardened until it became its own kind of wall.

Derek listened the entire time without interrupting, which, in hindsight, should have been Spencer’s first warning.

When he finally finished, Morgan leaned back in his chair, exhaled through his nose, and looked at him with the kind of expression usually reserved for malfunctioning equipment or particularly disappointing case files.

“You were an idiot.”

Spencer blinked once. “What?”

“You were an idiot.”

“I don’t think that’s objectively—”

“You forgot dinner.”

“There was a case, and my mind was…occupied,” Spencer corrected quickly, almost reflexively, as if precision could soften the accusation.

Morgan pointed at him like that settled it. “Exactly. You don’t forget things. You remember license plates from twenty years ago, but you forgot a dinner you promised her?”

Spencer opened his mouth, then stopped. Closed it. Then tried again anyway, because not responding felt worse.

“I know,” he admitted quietly.

“And then instead of apologizing,” Morgan continued, “you gave her a lecture about why you forgot.”

“…yes.”

Morgan nodded once, like the case was already solved. “Yeah. Idiot.”

Spencer sank a little deeper into his chair, as if he could physically distance himself from the conclusion. “I wasn’t trying to upset her,” he said, quieter now. “Logically, if I explained the circumstances, she would understand why I missed it.”

Morgan let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Kid, women don’t always want logic.”

“That’s statistically impossible,” Spencer said automatically, because it was safer than sitting with the rest of it.

Morgan didn’t even acknowledge that.

He just leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, the humor in his expression thinning into something steadier, less teasing now, more grounded, like he was done playing with the situation and had decided to actually look at it.

“Sometimes they just want you to admit you hurt their feelings.”

Spencer considered that for a moment longer than most people would have. His mind, as usual, tried to systematize it, translate it into something measurable, something predictable. But it didn’t settle into a neat equation. It hovered instead, annoyingly unresolved.

“You know what she’s waiting for right now?” Morgan continued, like he was narrating something painfully obvious. “An apology. And flowers. Be classic about it.”

Spencer blinked. “…that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

The simplicity of it almost offended him on principle.

“But what if she’s still angry?” he asked, because of course he had to account for every possible variable. “Anger doesn’t resolve instantly just because an apology is issued. There’s usually a cooling period, sometimes followed by—”

“Reid.” Morgan cut in flatly.

Spencer tried again, more quietly. “What if she doesn’t forgive me?”

Morgan let out a short laugh, shaking his head like the question itself was exhausting.

“Trust me,” he said. “If she’s put up with you for five months, she’s not leaving that easily.”

That earned the smallest shift in Spencer’s expression. Not quite relief, but something close enough to soften the edges. A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth before he could stop it.

Morgan noticed immediately, of course.

And then, like he couldn’t help himself, he added casually, almost offhand, too casual to be innocent:

“What’s her name anyway?”

The shift was immediate and almost physical.

Spencer went still in a way that wasn’t simply silence, it was interruption at the level of thought. Like whatever careful, fragile structure he had been maintaining inside his head had just been tapped in the wrong place and was now threatening to collapse in on itself. His eyes lifted too quickly, then dropped just as fast, betraying him before he could even attempt to form something resembling composure.

“…What?” he said, but it came out too sharp, too reflexive, as if the question itself had accused him of something.

Morgan tilted his head, watching him with the slow, patient attention of someone who had just found something interesting and had no intention of letting it go. “Her name,” he repeated, softer now, almost conversational. “The mystery girlfriend you’ve been circling around for the last half hour.”

Spencer’s brain did something deeply unhelpful, like attempt to exit his skull.

“I—” he started.

Then stopped.

Then tried again, weaker this time. “I didn’t say she was— I mean, I didn’t specify—”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Reid.”

That single word cut straight through whatever remaining momentum Spencer had been clinging to.

He stopped.

The silence that followed felt too loud for a room that had only seconds ago contained casual conversation. Spencer’s gaze dropped, then flicked away again, as if eye contact had become structurally unsafe. He adjusted his grip on his bag strap with unnecessary force, like he could physically organize his thoughts if he held onto something hard enough.

“I should go,” he said quickly, already moving before the sentence had fully finished forming, chair scraping faintly behind him as he stood a fraction too fast.

Morgan leaned back in his seat, utterly at ease now, watching the whole thing unfold like it was entertainment he hadn’t expected to enjoy this much.

Spencer didn’t look at him. Didn’t dare.

He just grabbed his bag, too tight, too precise, like if he handled it correctly he could still salvage what was left of his dignity.

Behind him, Morgan called after him, voice edged with amusement that had fully settled in now, no longer restrained by sympathy or hesitation.

“Kid.”

Spencer froze, hand on the strap.

Morgan’s grin widened. “You’re worse at hiding things than you are at talking to women.”

Well, that wasn’t what his little sister could say.

***

Spencer Reid found you at your work just after midday, when the world inside your building was caught in that peculiar rhythm of motion without urgency. He stood outside for a moment longer than necessary, as if the threshold itself required preparation. The flowers in his hands were simple, chosen with intent rather than extravagance, but even that simplicity had been carefully overthought, the stems adjusted and readjusted until they were aligned in a way that made sense only to him. He shifted his grip once, then again, thumb brushing against the wrapping as though precision could somehow translate into reassurance.

When he finally stepped inside, the change was immediate. The hum of the place wrapped around him, warmer, more alive, and suddenly he was hyperaware of everything: his own footsteps, the faint rustle of paper in his hand, the way his presence seemed to interrupt a rhythm he hadn’t been part of a second ago. He saw you before you saw him.

That alone made his pulse jump.

You were mid-task, completely absorbed in whatever demanded your attention at that moment, posture angled slightly forward in a way that suggested focus so deep it made the rest of the room irrelevant. There was a pen in your hand, and your hair had fallen slightly out of place, soft strands escaping whatever attempt you had made earlier to control them. Your expression was set in concentration, the kind that made you look, for a fleeting second, unreachable. Not distant in an emotional sense, but sealed inside your own momentum, like the world would have to wait until you decided otherwise.

It hit him again then, that disorienting realization that never fully settled no matter how many times he experienced it: you were not an equation he could balance, not a pattern he could predict, not a hypothesis that yielded itself neatly to observation. You were real in a way his mind struggled to compress into something manageable. Not something to analyze. Not something to solve. Just you...existing in front of him with an immediacy that made everything else feel slightly out of focus.

He cleared his throat softly.

It was small, almost tentative, but it still felt too loud in his own ears.

Your eyes lifted.

There was a pause before you registered him fully.

It wasn’t immediate. First came confusion, like your mind briefly refusing to assign meaning to what you were seeing. Then recognition flickered through, softening that confusion just enough to make it real. And then something sharper settled in behind your gaze, like you were weighing the space between him showing up and him leaving again, and deciding which outcome you were prepared to tolerate.

Spencer swallowed.

“I—hi,” he started, and then immediately looked like he regretted choosing that particular arrangement of syllables. His shoulders shifted minutely, tension tightening and releasing in uneven pulses. “I brought…flowers.”

He lifted them slightly, like he was presenting something far more fragile than it already was. The bouquet tilted just a fraction in his grip, stems aligned with an almost anxious precision, as though even their angle might influence how this moment unfolded.

You blinked at them.

Then at him.

Then back at the flowers, as if your brain was taking a second longer than usual to reconcile intention with reality.

“…Okay,” you said slowly, the word drawn out with cautious neutrality, like you were waiting for the rest of the sentence to arrive and complete whatever meaning this was supposed to have.

Spencer nodded too quickly. “Yes. Right. They’re not— I mean, they’re not symbolic of anything negative.” He paused, corrected himself mid-thought, then continued with increasing urgency, “They’re actually meant to be apologetic.”

That made your brows lift slightly.

His grip on the flowers tightened a fraction before he forced it to relax.

“I missed our dinner,” he said suddenly, words spilling forward now that the threshold had been crossed. “And I know that wasn’t the first time, and I know I said it wouldn’t happen again, and I did try to come back but the case ran longer than expected and I should have called earlier, or at least sent a message, and I understand why you were upset because it’s not really about the dinner itself, it’s about—”

“Spencer.”

The interruption was quiet, but it landed cleanly.

He stopped instantly, like a switch had been flipped somewhere inside him. His mouth closed, the rest of the explanation collapsing unfinished behind his teeth. He looked at you properly then, as if realizing for the first time in the last thirty seconds that he hadn’t actually been speaking to resolve anything, you were supposed to be part of the conversation, not just the endpoint of it.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, simpler this time. “I shouldn’t have missed it. And I shouldn’t have made you feel like it didn’t matter.”

Spencer’s gaze stayed on you, careful now in a different way. Less defensive. More exposed.

Then, almost reluctantly, like the admission had to physically push its way out of him, he added, “And I…asked Morgan for advice, you should know it.”

There was a pause.

A very specific kind of pause, the kind that didn’t belong to silence so much as to realization. Like your brain had to double-check it had processed the sentence correctly before allowing any reaction to form.

Your expression changed first. Not immediately disbelief, but a slow recalibration, like the information had to be tested against reality before it was accepted. Then your brows lifted slightly. Then your mouth twitched, just barely, the smallest betrayal of something trying very hard not to become laughter too soon.

“Wait,” you said slowly. “You asked my brother for advice.”

Spencer nodded once, cautious now. “Yes.”

You laughed.

It started as something small, an exhale of disbelief that slipped out before you could catch it, but it didn’t stay small. It built quickly, breaking through whatever tension had been sitting between you a second ago. You pressed a hand briefly to your mouth, like you were trying to contain it, but it didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse. Your shoulders shook slightly as you looked at him, as if trying to reconcile the very serious man standing in front of you with the information he had just offered up so sincerely.

“You asked Derek,” you repeated between breaths, still laughing. “About us?”

Spencer looked mildly pained now, the way he always did when he realized a decision had aged badly in real time. “In retrospect,” he said carefully, “I recognize that may not have been optimal decision-making.”

That made you laugh harder.

“Oh my— Spencer,” you said, still smiling, still shaking your head like your body couldn’t decide whether to recover or continue. “That is the worst possible person you could’ve gone to.”

“I’m aware,” he said quietly. “He told me I was an idiot.”

That only made you laugh more, and something in his chest loosened at the sound, like a tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding finally shifted, fraction by fraction, into something less suffocating.

When your laughter finally faded, you looked at him again.

Still hurt, maybe. Still not entirely okay.

But softer now.

“And?” you asked.

Spencer hesitated, then held the flowers out a little more properly this time, like he was committing to the moment instead of escaping it.

“And,” he finished carefully, still holding the flowers out a little too formally, “he was…unfortunately correct about several things.”

You tilted your head, considering him for a second, then scoffed lightly as if the idea itself offended you.

“Derek is never correct.”

That made Spencer pause.

You stepped closer, and before he could recalibrate whatever internal system was trying to predict the next outcome, you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“You should just talk to me,” you said quietly, already pulling back slightly but keeping close enough that he could still feel you there. “We are adults.”

Spencer blinked once.

“I thought you were mad,” he admitted, voice thinner now, confused in that very specific way he got when reality didn’t match the model he had built in his head.

You exhaled through your nose, half amused, half exasperated, and lifted a hand to his face, fingertips brushing lightly along his cheek as if anchoring him back into something real.

“I was,” you said honestly. “Very much.”

That made his shoulders tense slightly, instinctively bracing.

“But I understand your work,” you continued, softer now, “and the shitty hours. I get it, Spencer. I really do.”

His eyes searched yours, still wary, still trying to calculate where the sharp edge was supposed to come in.

Instead, there was none.

Just you.

You thumbed gently along his cheekbone, steadying him in a way no explanation ever had.

“I believe in communication,” you added, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Something in Spencer finally gave up resisting.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, but this time it didn’t sound like part of a defense. It sounded like the end of one.

You studied him for a second, still close enough that your hand remained on his cheek, thumb resting lightly as if you’d decided that was simply where it belonged now.

“Good,” you said simply.

Spencer blinked. “Good?”

“Yes,” you nodded once, like it was obvious. “Apology accepted.”

That seemed to short-circuit him for a second.

“Just like that?” he asked, cautiously, as if he was checking whether there was a second stage to this he hadn’t been briefed on.

You gave him a look. “Spencer. I already kissed your face. What more do you want from me.”

His ears went slightly pink at that, which only made you smile more.

“I—” he started, then stopped, recalculating. “That’s…fair.”

You finally took the flowers from his hands before he could overthink them into oblivion, your fingers brushing his in the exchange. He visibly tracked the movement like it mattered more than it should have.

“They’re pretty,” you added, glancing at them.

“I chose them based on color theory and—” he began automatically.

“I love that.”

That cut him off mid-explanation, and for a second he looked like he was about to defend himself out of habit. Then he saw your expression and the defense just didn’t arrive.

Instead, he exhaled a small breath that might have been a laugh if he was braver.

“I also panicked slightly,” he admitted.

You nodded seriously. “That I believe.”

A pause settled between you again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was comfortable in a way neither of you had quite figured out how to name yet.

Spencer glanced at you, then at the flowers, then back at you like he was still trying to confirm this wasn’t some alternate reality where he had successfully handled emotional confrontation without catastrophe.

You, on the other hand, looked entirely too pleased with yourself.

“You know,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “for someone who overthinks everything, you’re kind of cute when you’re trying not to implode.”

That made him freeze.

“…That is not a clinically recognized category of attractiveness,” he said automatically.

You smiled wider. “Didn’t say it was.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, then seemed to settle on the only safe response available.

“I don’t know what to do with compliments,” he admitted.

“That’s okay,” you said, stepping a little closer again, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I can help you.”

His gaze flickered to yours, softer now, less defensive and more present.

“That seems inefficient,” he murmured, but there was no real protest in it.

You lightly bumped your shoulder against his.

“I think you’ll survive.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, almost shy despite everything, he asked, “So…we’re okay?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, you reached up and gently fixed the collar of his shirt like it had been bothering you all day, smoothing it into place with casual care.

“Yeah,” you said finally. “We’re okay.”

***

When you got home, the apartment was quiet in that familiar, lived-in way: TV murmuring low in the background, something forgettable playing to an audience that wasn’t really watching. The kind of sound that filled space without demanding anything from it. Your brother was on the couch, stretched out like he belonged to it more than the furniture itself, one arm draped over the backrest, the other holding the remote in a loose grip that suggested he’d already stopped caring what was on.

He looked up the moment the door clicked shut.

At first it was automatic, half a greeting forming on his tongue, some casual comment ready to be thrown your way without much thought. But it never made it out. It stalled, visibly, the second his eyes actually focused.

The flowers came first.

Bright, unmistakable, slightly ridiculous in the way only something intentionally chosen could be. Then your expression, too alive, too soft around the edges, like you were still carrying whatever moment had just happened outside the apartment and hadn’t fully put it down yet. And then the smile. That was the real problem. Not just a smile, but one that kept threatening to turn into laughter every time you breathed, like it had gotten stuck halfway between contained and completely out of control.

Derek slowly sat up a little straighter.

Not alarmed exactly. More like recalibrating. Like his brain had just received new data that didn’t match any of the existing categories he had available.

“…Flowers, uh?” he said at last, drawing the words out carefully. He leaned back just slightly, like increasing physical distance might help him understand what he was looking at. “Should I be worried?”

You didn’t even hesitate.

The answer came too fast, too clean.

“Nope.”

A beat of silence followed that, heavy in its simplicity.

Derek stared at you for another second, then the flowers again, then your face, like he was checking for inconsistencies in a story he already didn’t trust. Slowly, very slowly, one corner of his mouth twitched.

“…Mm,” he hummed, leaning back into the couch with the long-suffering patience of a man who had clearly just missed a very important piece of information.

You didn’t stop.

You walked right past him like the conversation had already been filed away, resolved, and archived somewhere in your mind under done, the flowers cradled casually in your arms as you disappeared down the hallway. The door to your room was already half open before Derek could even find the next thought.

The apartment fell quiet again.

Not peaceful. Not normal.

Just…paused.

Derek stayed still for about three seconds, which, for him, was practically an eternity. Then he slowly turned his head toward the hallway like it might physically supply him with missing context if he stared at it hard enough. His brows pulled together, faintly at first, then deeper, like the situation was refusing to align itself into anything logical.

The smile on your face replayed in his head.

Then the flowers.

Then the timing.

Then the very specific, very suspicious absence of any emotional damage whatsoever.

Derek sat forward a fraction.

“…No way,” he muttered, almost to himself.

A pause stretched out, thin and sharp.

His gaze flicked toward the hallway again, then back, like he was assembling a puzzle he absolutely did not want to finish. Slowly, the realization stopped being theoretical. It settled. It clicked into place with the quiet horror of inevitability.

His eyes widened slightly.

Then he leaned back into the couch again, staring up at the ceiling like it had betrayed him personally and without warning.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, with absolute conviction—

The one that happened when you were working.

He didn’t know what woke him that night. Maybe some distant noise outside. Maybe the need to use the bathroom. Or maybe that hollow, unpleasant feeling of the empty space beside him.

When he opened his eyes, the room was submerged in darkness. He turned his head toward the bedside clock and discovered it was already quite late.

He let out a tired sigh before sitting up. He rubbed his face with one hand and searched for his slippers by touch. The thin line of light slipping beneath the door told him exactly where you were.

He found you in the same position he had left you in hours earlier; sitting in front of the computer, surrounded by papers, your attention fixed on a task that apparently still wasn’t finished.

When he had gone to bed, you had promised him you would finish soon and come back.

“Five more minutes,” you had said.

Clearly, those five minutes had already expired.

“Why are you still here?”

His voice, rough with sleep, made you jump slightly.

You looked up, and a guilty expression crossed your face.

“Sorry, sweetheart, it’s just... I haven’t been able to finish this. Five more minutes, okay?”

Spencer closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before nodding. He was still struggling to stay awake, but he crossed the room anyway.

Without saying anything, he headed to the bathroom and took care of his business.

You assumed that after hearing the toilet flush, the next thing would be his footsteps returning to the bedroom. That was why it surprised you to see him appear in the dining room again. And even more when he sat down across from you.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ll wait here. Five minutes.”

An incredulous smile appeared on your face. At first, you thought he was joking.

But then you met his gaze. Serious, determined, and just a little sleepy.

You frowned slightly.

“Love, go to sleep. I’ll be there in a moment.”

“I’ll wait,” he insisted.

He rested one arm on the table and let his cheek fall into the palm of his hand.

“Besides, I can’t sleep when you’re not there.”

You watched him for several seconds over the top of your screen. At that point, it was impossible to focus completely on your work when Spencer was sitting across from you, making such an obvious effort to stay awake.

He blinked more slowly than usual and, every so often, his eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment before settling back on you. His hair was messy from the pillow, and the marks of sleep were still visible on his face. He looked exhausted. Completely exhausted.

Guilt slowly began to settle in your chest.

“Spencer...”

“Hm?”

His response came a few seconds later, distracted and sleepy.

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

“You know I don’t want to be here.”

He lifted his eyes to meet yours.

“I know.”

“I’d rather be sleeping with you.”

“I know that too.”

You sighed and looked back at the screen. The document was still there, unfinished and urgent, waiting for you with the same indifference it had shown all night.

“But I need to finish this.”

“I know.”

The ease with which he answered drew a brief, tired laugh from you.

Because, of course, Spencer understood.

He understood deadlines. Responsibilities. The anxiety that came from leaving something unfinished, knowing it would continue taking up space in your head until it was done. He himself had spent countless nights awake, chasing a lead, reviewing reports, or analyzing the details of a case long after any reasonable person would have gone to bed.

“I’m not staying because I think you should leave it unfinished,” he said after a moment, with that characteristic calm that always managed to disarm you. “I just want to keep you company.”

You felt something tighten inside your chest. And looking up again was a mistake, because only seconds later you saw his head droop.

It was subtle. Such a brief movement that someone else might not have noticed it at all. His head dipped forward slightly, and his eyelids closed for a second before he quickly opened them again, as if hoping no one had seen.

“Spencer...”

“I’m awake.”

The denial would have been much more convincing if it hadn’t been accompanied by a yawn.

“Sweetheart, it’s past two in the morning.”

“And you’re still working.”

“Exactly. That’s my problem, not yours.”

“Your problems will always be my problems.”

The response was immediate, almost as if he had been waiting to say it.

“Please go to bed,” you murmured.

“In five minutes.”

You stared at him, unable to believe he was using your own tactics against you. He gave you a small, sleepy, faintly triumphant smile in return.

You tried to return to work after that conversation. For several minutes, you forced yourself to focus on the screen, reviewing documents and correcting details that, at that hour of the night, were beginning to seem increasingly confusing. Yet your attention inevitably drifted back to Spencer.

Not even a quarter of an hour had passed before, with a sigh, you pushed your chair back and stood up.

Spencer lifted his head when he heard you approaching, and a small smile appeared on his tired face.

“Finished?”

“Not yet.”

Before he could answer, you stepped between his legs. His hands found your waist almost immediately, as though the gesture was so natural he didn’t need to think about it. You rested your hands on his shoulders and closely observed the unmistakable signs of exhaustion on his face: the messy hair, the heavy eyelids, and that sleepy expression you rarely saw during the day. He was still wearing a gray pajama shirt and flannel pants.

“Hi,” he murmured.

“Hi.”

You leaned down to kiss him. It was a brief kiss at first, barely a loving brush of lips, but when you pulled away only slightly to look at him, Spencer leaned in again. Smiling, you gave him another kiss, slower this time. You felt his arms wrap around you with something close to relief.

They remained like that for several moments, enjoying the silent closeness both of you needed more than either was willing to admit.

“You know...?”

An amused smile appeared on your face before you had even finished forming the thought.

“If I didn’t know you so well, I’d say you’re a pretty manipulative boyfriend.”

Spencer let out a short laugh and shook his head.

“It’s not manipulation.”

“Yes, it is. You sit here, half asleep, refusing to go to bed so I’ll feel guilty.”

“I’m not staying so you’ll feel guilty.”

His tone was gentle, but sincere. The amusement slowly faded from his features as he looked up at you.

“I know you need to finish your work. I understand perfectly. If I were working a case and someone tried to make me leave it unfinished, I’d probably do exactly the same thing you’re doing.”

That drew a small smile from you because you knew it was true.

“Then why are you here?”

Spencer shrugged slightly.

“Because I want you to go to sleep.”

“Honey...”

“I mean it.”

His thumbs absentmindedly stroked your sides as he spoke.

“Tomorrow you’ll be exhausted, your head will hurt, and you’ll spend the entire day complaining that you should have gone to bed earlier.”

Your smile turned slightly sheepish.

“That’s happened once or twice.”

“It’s happened a lot more than twice.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t argue with him.

“I know you want to finish this tonight, but I also know you’ll feel a lot worse tomorrow if you’re still here three hours from now.”

For a moment, you simply watched him in silence. There was something deeply endearing about the way he said those things. They didn’t sound like criticism or impatience. Just concern.

When you saw him struggle against another yawn, whatever resistance remained in you finally crumbled.

“You win.”

Spencer blinked.

You leaned down to leave one last kiss on his lips before pulling away.

“I’ll shut down the computer and put all this away.”

“Good.”

“And then I’ll go to sleep with you.”

Spencer shook his head as he stood up and took your hand in both of his.

“Let’s go now. I’ll help you organize everything tomorrow.”

You knew that when your boyfriend got something into his head, there wasn’t a force on earth capable of changing his mind. So you simply closed your laptop and let him drag you toward the bedroom.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint light filtering through the curtains from the street outside. The moment he stepped through the door, Spencer kicked off his slippers and collapsed onto the mattress with a tired sigh. He seemed to have finally reached the limit of his energy. He settled beneath the sheets, rested his head on the pillow, and closed his eyes for a few seconds, as though the simple contact with the bed was enough to convince his body to surrender.

You, meanwhile, walked over to the closet to find something more comfortable to sleep in. As you changed, you couldn’t help glancing back at him from time to time. He was still awake, but barely.

One arm rested across his stomach, and his eyes were half-closed, fighting to stay conscious just to make sure you were actually going to bed.

The sight brought an involuntary smile to your face.

“You can fall asleep, you know.”

Spencer made an indistinct sound that could have been a response or simply a manifestation of pure exhaustion.

When you finished changing, you switched off the last light and walked over to the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as you settled beside him. You had barely rested your head on the pillow when Spencer moved toward you out of pure habit, still caught somewhere between wakefulness and sleep.

His arm found your waist and gently pulled you against him.

It was an automatic gesture. Familiar.

You let out a sigh as you settled beneath the sheets and rested your head against his chest. The warmth of his body, the steady sound of his breathing, and the calm rhythm of his heartbeat were infinitely more comforting than any unfinished work.

Spencer’s hand moved absentmindedly across your back in a slow caress before coming to a complete stop.

He’d been vibrating in the corner, a burly man with red-rimmed eyes and fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone bloodless. You register the shift in his weight a half-second too late—the draw of his arm back, the pivot of his hips, the ugly twist of his mouth. 

There’s no room to dodge.

His palm catches you high on the shoulder—a glancing blow meant to shove, not strike. A warning, maybe. Or the last thread of restraint from a man who hasn’t slept in days. But the momentum is brutal. You slam backward into the kitchen counter. The granite edge bites into your lower back, a hot wire of pain that lances straight up your spine. Then your head whips forward and then back—the crack of your skull against the upper cabinet is a sound you feel more than hear. A wet, hollow knock that echoes inside your own skull.

White-hot splinters through your vision, stars collapsing and reforming behind your eyes. Your teeth click together so hard you taste enamel. Then copper, hot and sharp, blooming across your tongue.

The room tilts.

Your knees buckle.

You catch yourself on the counter, one hand slipping on a forgotten dish towel as the world lists sideways. Warmth trickles from your scalp down the nape of your neck, a slow, alarming heat that doesn’t match the sudden cold in your fingers. You blink, and for one long second, you can’t remember where you are. The faces in front of you are smears of colour and grief.

Before you can even draw another breath, a blur of motion cuts through your peripheral vision.

Spencer.

Not the lanky, cardigan-clad genius who stammers through small talk and apologizes for existing in someone's personal space. Not the man who once spent ten minutes explaining the migratory patterns of monarch butterflies because he couldn't read your social cues, who carries paperback novels in his satchel like other men carry wallets, who still flushes when you hold his hand in the dark of your apartment where no one can see.

This Spencer moves like a spring uncoiling. Like something kept on a very short leash just got loose—all that coiled tension, all those suppressed instincts, snapping into terrible, beautiful focus.

He crosses the kitchen in three strides you don't consciously track. One moment he's across the room, and the next he's there, inserting himself between you and the father with a speed that makes Hotch's head whip up from across the room. 

His right hand shoots out, palm flat against the man's chest, and shoves. Hard enough that the father's back hits the wall with a dry, echoing thud—the kind that rattles the framed school photos hanging nearby. A child's smile. Maggie's smile. The irony doesn't escape you. Neither does the way Spencer's arm doesn't tremble. He's not straining. He's planted—weight distributed, centre of gravity low, the stance of someone who's been trained to hold his ground and forgotten to mention it.

"Keep your hands off her."

Spencer's voice is low. Stripped of its usual breathy pitch, stripped of the tentative upward lilt that turns every statement into a question. The stammer is gone. The apologetic half-smile is gone. In its place is something you've only ever seen in glimpses—when he reads a case file a little too closely, when he stares down an unsub who's made the mistake of threatening a teammate.

It isn't a plea or a warning.

It's a fact. Delivered with the cold certainty of a ballistic report. The kind of voice that makes seasoned interrogators lean back in their chairs.

"Reid." Hotch's voice cuts across the kitchen, not unkind but pointed. A reminder. We're still here. We're still watching.

Spencer's spine straightens almost imperceptibly. His chin lifts. When he turns toward the unit chief, his expression is perfectly neutral—open, cooperative, the eager young agent who quotes statistics and fumbles with his words and never, ever pushes back against authority.

Hotch studies him for a long moment. That gaze—the one that sees everything, the one that's made unsubs confess just by existing—sweeps over Spencer from head to toe, cataloguing, assessing. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because he gives a single nod.

"That was an assault on a federal agent."

His words come precise and clipped, each one landing like a hammer strike. No rambling. No tangential footnotes about statistical probabilities or legal precedents. Just steel. The kind of voice you've heard Spencer use exactly once before—on a hostage negotiator's training tape Hotch made the whole team watch three years ago. The one where a twenty-something Reid talked a man off a ledge in under four minutes, then vomited behind the squad car afterward.

"You raise a hand again, and I will personally ensure you spend the next forty-eight hours in a holding cell while we decide how many additional charges to file."

His jaw is set. A muscle ticks beneath his eye—the only sign that he's even breathing. The father is twice Spencer's width, built like a man who's swung a hammer for a living, shoulders rounded with years of manual labour and grief gone toxic. And yet he shrinks. His mouth opens, some bluster forming on his tongue—a denial, maybe, or a defence—something about not meaning it, about his daughter, about grief making him crazy.

Spencer cuts him off.

"Don't."

The word snaps through the air like a rubber band breaking. Sharp. Final. It lands in the small kitchen and seems to suck the oxygen out of the room. 

"Not a word." Spencer's voice hasn't lost its edge. If anything, it's sharper now—honed to a fine point. "You're going to sit down, and you're going to calm down. If you so much as look in her direction again, we're done here. And your daughter's best chance walks out that door with us."

The man sits.

It's not graceful. His knees buckle more than they bend—a controlled collapse masquerading as obedience. His back slides down the wall until he's a heap on the linoleum, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. The fight drained out of him in less than ten seconds.

The mother makes a sound—something caught between a sob and a gasp—and Hotch is already there, guiding her to a chair, murmuring something about cooperation and finding Maggie. His voice is low, practiced. The same voice he uses for panicked witnesses and grieving families a hundred times a year.

But you're not watching any of that.

You're watching Spencer's hand drop from the man's chest. You're watching his shoulders rise and fall once, twice—a deliberate breath, the kind he uses to ground himself during panic attacks, the kind he taught you to use after nightmares. You're watching the way his spine stays rigid even as his fingers curl into a loose fist at his side, knuckles still pale.

He's shaking.

Not much. Not enough that anyone across the room would notice. But you're close enough to see the fine tremor running through his forearm, the way his throat works on a swallow he's trying to hide. He just threatened a man twice his size into silence with nothing but his voice and his presence—and now he's trembling like a leaf in a windstorm.

Only then does Spencer turn.

His eyes find yours—and for a split second, the mask cracks. Beneath the steel is something raw, almost frightened. You did that to him. You realize it with a small, stunned jolt—the way your pain becomes his panic, the way he'd burn this whole house down if it meant you walked out unscathed. It's not a protective instinct. It's something deeper. Something that lives in his bones now, whether he's named it or not.

His fingers are cool against your heated skin as he tilts your chin toward the light—the overhead fluorescents, merciless and buzzing, the kind that make everyone look washed out and exhausted. He doesn't seem to notice. He's examining your head with the same hyper focused intensity he brings to cold cases and obscure scientific journals. But his touch is different. Softer. The pads of his thumbs brush the skin just below your hairline, following the ache you hadn't realized was radiating outward from your skull.

Feather-light. Almost reverent. Like you're something precious he's been trusted to handle.

His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, coming away with a thin smear of copper. You watch him look at it—that single red line across his skin—and something in his expression fractures. Just for a second. Just enough for you to see. The mask doesn't just crack; it shatters, and underneath is something raw and unguarded: a man who has spent his whole life being too much or not enough, who has finally found something he can't bear to lose.

"You're okay," he murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear.

It isn't a question. It's the same declarative certainty he used on the father—that same steel-and-ballistic-report finality. But this time, it's wrapped in something tender. Something that sounds like I need you to be okay dressed up as a fact. Like if he says it enough times, with enough conviction, the universe will have no choice but to comply.

You nod. Just once. Small.

His throat works as he swallows—a visible, effortful thing, like he's pushing down something that wants to claw its way out. Rage, maybe. Or relief. Or something else entirely, something that doesn't have a name yet, something that's been living in the space between you for months.

Then he blinks.

And the Spencer the team knows clicks back into place. The tension in his shoulders doesn't fully release—it's still there, a wire pulled taut somewhere deep—but he smooths it down, tucks it away into whatever internal compartment he's built for exactly this purpose. His expression cycles through three micro-corrections: softening the jaw, relaxing the brow, lowering the shoulders. A man putting on his own face again, like adjusting a mask before stepping through a door.

You've seen him do this before. In interrogation rooms, when a suspect hits too close to home. At crime scenes, when the victim looks like someone he loves. In the quiet hours of the night, when nightmares leave him gasping and he has to remember how to be a person before the sun comes up.

But you've never seen him do it this fast.

His hand finds your lower back. Warm. Steady. A pressure that says I'm here without a single word as he guides you a step away from where the father sits slumped against the wall, weeping quietly into his hands. The shift is subtle—just a few inches—but you notice. Of course you notice. He's positioned himself between you and the room.

Behind you, Derek Morgan stands frozen mid-step, one foot forward, having lunged a second too late. His eyes are wide—not afraid, exactly, but stunned. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He looks like a man who just watched his nerdy little brother body-slam a bully twice his size and isn't sure whether to be proud or deeply concerned.

"Did… did Reid just physically intimidate someone?"

The question hangs in the air. Not accusatory. Just genuinely bewildered. Like he's asking the universe to confirm that his eyes aren't deceiving him, that the laws of physics haven't somehow inverted, that Spencer Reid—who once apologized to a door he walked into—just made a grown man shrink.

A slow, incredulous smile spreads across Emily’s face. The kind she gets when she's witnessed something she'll be holding over someone's head for years. Her eyebrows have climbed so high they're threatening to disappear into her hairline.

"I think he just threatened a civilian with federal prison and gave him a time-out." She tilts her head, watching Spencer angle his body between you and the room—a human shield disguised as casual concern. "That's… actually impressive. In a terrifying sort of way."

She says it lightly. But there's something underneath. A question she's not asking yet. Her eyes linger on the space between you and Spencer—on the absence of distance, on the way he hasn't looked at anyone else since he turned around. Emily has spent too many years in deep cover, has read too many micro-expressions, to miss the way Spencer's hand is still hovering near your back, even though the threat is neutralized.

Curious, her expression says. Very curious.

JJ's gaze flicks between you and Spencer, her reporter's brain cataloguing every detail. The hand on your back. The way your weight has shifted slightly toward him. The blood on your lip that he hasn't let you touch again. She doesn't say anything. But her eyes narrow—just a fraction—and something shifts behind them. Noticing. Filing it away.

She's going to ask you later. You can already tell. Not at the scene. Not where anyone else can hear. But later. In the bathroom of the jet, maybe, or while you're both pretending to sleep on the flight home. JJ has a way of making questions feel like kindness, like she's not prying, just checking in. 

Spencer’s thumb has started moving. An unconscious back-and-forth, a tiny circle, a soothing pattern he probably doesn't even realize he's making. The heat of his palm seeps through your shirt, grounding you in a way that has nothing to do with the pain still pulsing behind your eyes.

"You need ice," he says finally, practical now, his voice climbing back toward its usual register. But his eyes haven't left yours. They're scanning—forehead, temple, cheekbone, lip—with the same intensity he'd bring to a crime scene, cataloguing every shade of bruise, every smear of blood. "And probably stitches. One suture, maybe two. The temporal region bleeds disproportionately to the severity of the injury because of the superficial temporal artery, so the amount of blood isn't necessarily—"

But Morgan isn't done.

"Reid," he says slowly, drawing out the name like he's testing the weight of it against his tongue. "You just put a man against a wall."

Spencer stiffens almost imperceptibly beneath the attention. His hand flexes against your lower back—a nervous twitch, fingers curling like they're searching for something to hold onto—before he remembers himself and lets it drop to his side. The absence of his palm is immediate. You feel it like a missing step on a staircase, like a word left hanging at the end of a sentence, like the hollow ache where a tooth used to be.

He clears his throat.

"He was a threat to a federal agent." His voice is carefully neutral. Clinical. The kind of tone he uses when citing case law or explaining blood spatter patterns to a room of sceptical local PD. But there's a faint flush creeping up the back of his neck—the one he gets when he's been caught doing something embarrassing. Or something revealing. "Protocol permits reasonable use of physical intervention to prevent further harm."

Morgan crosses his arms. His head tilts—that slow, assessing angle he uses when he's already figured something out and is just enjoying the process of watching someone squirm. The ghost of a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not mean. Just knowing.

"Uh-huh." He draws out the syllable, lets it hang in the air like smoke. "And the part where you haven't let go of her for three minutes straight? What protocol is that?"

Spencer opens his mouth. Closes it. His ears are turning pink now, visible even under the horrible kitchen lighting—that particular shade of red that creeps up from his collar and stains everything in its path. 

His hands are now shoved deep in his pockets, like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for you again.

You watch him cycle through approximately four different responses in the span of two seconds.

It was three minutes and seventeen seconds—too defensive, too precise.

She was injured—too obvious, too flimsy, too easy to poke holes in. 

“That's not protocol, that's—” He stops himself before he can finish that sentence, but the word hangs in the air anyway, unfinished and damning.

That's personal.

Morgan lets the silence stretch, patient as a cat at a mouse hole. His eyes flick to you—just for a second—and there's something softer there now. Not pity. Understanding, maybe. The kind of look that says I see you, I see both of you, and I'm not going to make this harder than it needs to be.

But he's not going to make it easy, either.

"You know," Morgan says, feigning casual, "I've known you for years, Reid. Watched you freeze up around witnesses. Watched you stammer through interviews. Watched you apologize to furniture." He pauses, letting the contrast sink in. "I've never seen you move like that. Not unless someone on this team was about to get shot."

Spencer's throat works. His hands are still buried in his pockets, knuckles pressing outward against the fabric—a white-knuckled grip on nothing. "Situations evolve. People adapt. It's not—" He stops. Swallows. "It's not indicative of anything beyond the immediate circumstances."

"The immediate circumstances," Morgan repeats slowly, tasting the words. "Right. So if it had been me who got shoved, you'd have done the same thing?"

The question lands like a grenade with the pin pulled.

Spencer's eyes dart to Morgan's face—searching, analysing, trying to figure out the trap. Because it is a trap. You can see it. Spencer can see it. The only correct answer is the one that incriminates him.

Yes, he could say. It would be a lie, and Morgan would know it's a lie, and the lie itself would be a confession.

No—well. No would be even worse.

Spencer says nothing. His silence is louder than any answer he could have given.

Morgan's grin softens into something gentler. Something almost fond. "That's what I thought."

"I don't know what you think you're implying—" Spencer starts, but Morgan holds up a hand, cutting him off.

"I'm not implying anything, kid. I'm observing." He takes a step closer, dropping his voice so only the three of you can hear. The kitchen feels suddenly smaller, more intimate, like the walls have leaned in to listen. "I'm observing that you just went full tactical on a civilian. I'm observing that you haven't looked at anyone else in this room for more than two seconds at a time." He ticks each point off on his fingers, slow and deliberate. "And I'm observing that you're standing so close to her right now that if I took a picture, it'd be Exhibit A in a 'why the hell didn't we notice this sooner' slideshow."

Spencer's jaw is clenched so tight you can see the tendon in his neck straining. His hands have come out of his pockets—when did that happen?—and they're hanging at his sides, fingers twitching like he's fighting every instinct to reach for you again.

"I—" He stops. Starts again. "It's not—"

He can't finish the sentence.

His voice is low and slow. The term of endearment immediately makes you lightheaded. But of course, Spencer’s never been aware of how attractive he is. He’s so frustratingly perfect and hardworking, never mean to you and always sugary sweet. Smart and attentive, gentle and kind, without a doubt. Even when he’s busy with a case.

That is when you decide to set your little plan in motion.

You take one tentative step into the living room. The only source of light is an old stable lamp, casting a warm, yellow light onto Spencer’s side profile. His skin is milky and smooth, like an iced cake. “I can’t sleep without you.” You whisper into the dark, hoping he’d hear the desire in your voice.

That makes Spencer look up at you. He looks somewhat dumbfounded, still not comprehending he just looks so attractive sitting there, legs spread, on the sofa, hunched over stacks of papers, occasionally gnawing on the pen in his hands. The eyes behind the black-rimmed glasses spur open in surprise as your boyfriend opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. “I—”

Spencer’s eyes follow your figure as you make your way toward his sitting frame. “Don’t say anything,” You coo. Your hand slides over his chin in a smooth glide. His faint stubble itches your skin, and you love the sensation. It makes him more domestic, more yours. “Just focus on me.” Almost automatically, you find your place on his lap as your knees dig in the material of the sofa underneath you. The doleful sound of your boyfriend’s pen clattering to the ground echoes through the room, as well as his heavy breaths in your ear.

He looks fucking pathetic under you: his eyes are zeroed in on your lips, brows scrunched up in pleasure, breath coating your wet lips. “Baby, I’m—”

You both don’t say anything for a moment. Tension lingers in the air with a knowing weight. “That’s enough work for today, okay?” You plant a lingering kiss to the corner of Spencer’s mouth, taking longer to fully pull back. Your boyfriend’s hands rest on your lower back with a magnetic force, tracing the line of your spine and the sensitive skin of your sides, as if caressing you grounds him.

“I’m starting to feel neglected. Like you don’t love me.” Another kiss to his pretty nose. The motions between you are so deliberate, so calculated. Spencer’s chest rises and falls in quickening intervals as his hands roam over your skin.

You continue to pepper dots of kisses all over his face, except for his lips. “I’m so sorry. So sorry,” He breathes out, voice desperate and broken. He cranes his neck up so that his lips hover over yours. “Let me make it up to you.”

The air is pulled taut between you when you finally allow him to kiss you. His lips cover yours with warmth and delicacy, they feel sweet and his kisses are sticky and precise. His gentle hands wander all over your back, around your waist, on your hips, up your ribs. It makes your breath hitch in a silent gasp, as your hands travel to the short brown strands of his hair. You lightly tug on the locks to move Spencer’s lips to yours like how you want it.

A pitchy mewl is swallowed in your kiss when you feel your boyfriend’s hands creep under the hem of your tee, on your bare skin. And in that moment, it feels like you’re completely losing yourself in his lips, his smell, his hair, the comfortable feeling of his thighs supporting you from under. Spencer feels the same.

He’s addicted to the taste of your lips, the feeling of your plush skin under his fingers. The little pulls of his hair, and how you subtly demand to control him. It makes him lose his mind, all of his paperwork completely forgotten. “I just miss you,” you whisper again as you pull away to catch your breath. “Your dorky jumpers,” your nails scratch lightly over his fabric-covered chest. Shivers run down Spencer’s spine. “Your cute face.”

Your hands cup his face again to bring his face closer to yours. And Spencer closes his eyes for a long moment. You’ve completely convinced him to disregard his work and come back to bed. His slender fingers clamp around your waist. “Yeah, yeah— I’ll come to bed.” He whispers with frantic, enthusiastic nods of his head.

And let’s say, when you two finally fall asleep, the sun is already up.

You’d been with Drew for a little over six years now, which still sounded surreal whenever either of you said it out loud because somewhere between filming a television show, navigating the chaos of sudden fame and surviving a global pandemic, the two of you had somehow built an entire life together almost by accident. 

It had started with the deeply irresponsible decision of developing feelings for your coworker and then, instead of doing the sensible thing and ignoring them, you acted on it at the exact moment the entire world shut down and your show premiered. Looking back now, it felt insane that it had worked at all.

Things could have gone so differently. The show could have flopped before anyone even learned your characters’ names, never making it past a first season and the forced proximity of quarantine could have driven you apart just as easily as it had pulled you together. You liked to argue that the first few months of your relationship counted as long distance, mostly because it amused you to watch Drew react every single time.

“But remember how we’d have dates on the stairwells sat on different floors?” you’d insist, trying not to laugh at the look on his face.

Drew always remembered.

He remembered selfishly feeling relieved that you officially got together after Valentine’s Day because by then he already knew he’d be in love with you by the next one and he had been irrationally impatient waiting for it to become socially acceptable to tell you. Of course, he hadn’t actually managed to wait. A few days before, somewhere between laughter and affection, the words had nearly slipped out anyway before he caught himself halfway through.

He remembered leaving peeled oranges and clementines in your trailer every morning while you sat through hair and makeup. He also remembered how you’d eventually walk onto set and immediately look for him, thanking him from across the room with a smile that completely ruined every attempt the two of you made at keeping the relationship private. The fruit always had one slice missing because he insisted on taste-testing them first to make sure they were good and sweet enough for you.

He remembered every Mother’s Day card he’d ever written for you too, each one signed with some variation of “To the mother of my future children,” because even back then, long before either of you seriously talked about marriage, he had already decided there was no version of his future that existed without you in it.

He remembered the first time the word “baby” accidentally slipped out during a meeting with the Pate brothers, the immediate silence that followed and then the way they both burst out laughing while you covered your face in embarrassment. Neither of them had even looked surprised.

“Everybody knew this would happen,” they’d told you both through their laughter.

You remembered everything about him too.

You remembered exactly how he took his coffee and which karaoke song would always get him dramatic enough to stand on furniture by the second chorus. You remembered the passage from a book that once made his eyes unexpectedly water while he pretended he was fine and you remembered the specific pitch his laughter reached when something genuinely caught him off guard.

You remembered every dream he’d ever admitted to having, every ambition he tried to downplay, which was exactly why, the moment you met Luca Guadagnino, you immediately launched into an unprompted speech about how talented and criminally underrated Drew was as an actor. Drew had stood there mortified while you praised him with complete sincerity and later that night he kissed you like he still couldn’t believe someone could actually speak about him that way.

You also remembered how much he loved when you pressed kisses against his beauty marks, lingering over each one like you were memorizing them individually and you remembered the afternoon he wondered out loud whether you’d do the same thing with a tattoo someday.

You’d been lying on the beach in Barbados during filming for season three, the sun warm enough to sink laziness into your bones while the rest of the cast shouted and laughed somewhere closer to the water. Drew had been stretched out on his back in the sand while you rested with your head against his stomach, absentmindedly tracing shapes into his side as waves crashed quietly in the distance.

“A tattoo?” you repeated, smiling as you lifted your head just enough to look at him properly.

He shrugged, trying to sound less serious than he actually was. “Been thinking about it.”

Before answering, your eyes flicked quickly toward the others scattered across the beach just to make sure no one was paying attention, then you shifted positions entirely, rolling onto your stomach beside him. Drew immediately turned onto his side to face you, propping his head up with one hand while the other brushed loose sand from your back with slow, absent movements that felt far too affectionate for two people still pretending not to be that insufferably perfect couple.

His fingers drifted until they found the strings of your bikini, toying with them lazily while his eyes stayed fixed on your face.

You were close enough that the warmth settling beneath your skin no longer felt entirely caused by the sun overhead.

“If you undo those, you’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.”

His chest shook with laughter as he immediately let the strings go, though the grin on his face only widened. You were both staying in a hotel room while filming, which made the threat fairly meaningless.

“We don’t have a couch,” he reminded you.

“The floor then,” you decided instantly. “And without a pillow.”

The look he gave you after that was so openly full of love that you had to glance away for a second just to steady yourself. He’d eventually untie those strings later anyway, most likely once you were safely back in your hotel room and no one else could interrupt, so for now he seemed content simply teasing you with the possibility.

“You serious about the tattoo?” you asked again, watching him nod. “After all these years someone has finally envied the amount of time Chase spends in the makeup chair covering his,” you teased, smiling when his laugh immediately broke free again.

“No, I couldn’t do that,” he admitted. “At least not immediately. So we’ll keep it to one tattoo.”

You nodded slowly. “Do you already know what you’re getting?”

He shrugged again, but this time there was something else in his expression when he looked at you, his eyes impossibly bright beneath the afternoon sun.

“I have an idea,” he said softly before leaning in to press a kiss against your shoulder.

Your relationship had grown larger than either of you ever expected, your careers expanding so quickly that entire months slipped by in airports, hotel suites and temporary apartments, which meant that whenever you actually managed to carve out free time from filming schedules and press tours, you spent it together without hesitation, fiercely protective over those quiet stretches of normalcy you’d built with one another. 

Somewhere along the way, the conversation about tattoos had slipped behind more urgent priorities, yet it never fully disappeared, instead settling into the back of your mind where it resurfaced every single time your lips brushed over the constellation of beauty marks scattered across his skin or whenever you absentmindedly traced shapes against his arm while half asleep beside him. Eventually it reached a point where you couldn’t stop thinking about it at all.

The restaurant you’d chosen the night before your flight was hidden behind an unmarked hallway, one of those places celebrities quietly passed between themselves because photographers never lingered there and the private room you were seated in glowed warmly beneath low hanging lights that made everything feel softer around the edges. Dinner had stretched for hours because neither of you wanted the night to end, empty plates abandoned long ago while the remains of dessert sat untouched between you, both of you comfortably wine drunk and laughing too much at jokes that probably weren’t all that funny.

When you reached into your purse, Drew immediately narrowed his eyes at you from across the table, already shaking his head before you’d even pulled anything out, which only made you break into laughter.

“I’m not letting you pay,” he said, already reaching for his wallet.

“Put that away, they already have my card,” you replied with a grin, watching his shoulders sag dramatically before you finally pulled out an envelope and slid it across the table toward him.

“That’s why you were flirting with me on the way here,” he accused, taking another sip of wine while pointing lazily at you. “It was all strategic. You just wanted me distracted enough to forget how to behave like a good man.”

You tipped your head back laughing, unable to stop yourself. “I always flirt with you.”

He shook his head immediately. “No, tonight was excessive. You were laying it on thick.”

“I was always paying, it’s your birthday, you idiot,” you said fondly, pushing the envelope closer again when he still didn’t grab it. “Will you please open it before you make me choke laughing?”

He finally took it from you, though not without another suspicious glance first. “Is this your way of telling me you don’t want matching Christmas pajamas anymore?”

“That’ll come through a scheduled email,” you deadpanned. “Just read it.”

His laughter faded into curiosity as he unfolded the letter, eyes slowly scanning over the page while you watched him over the rim of your wine glass. First came the amused smile when he understood you’d organized a scavenger hunt around your shared home for him, one letter to uncover each day leading up to his birthday with a small present tucked away beside it. Then his expression changed the moment he reached the final page, he reread the line another time just to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood it.

“A tattoo appointment?” he repeated, brows pulling together as he looked back up at you.

You nodded casually despite how long you’d spent planning the whole thing. “You’ve talked about it for years. It’s only a consultation, there’s no pressure to actually do anything, but I figured if you still wanted one…” you shrugged lightly. “Now you can stop saying ‘maybe someday.’”

He stared down at the paper again before lifting his eyes back to yours, mouth twitching into a grin. “What if I pick something absolutely horrible and you hate it?”

You laughed immediately. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair. “A giant lion across my chest…really detailed and aggressively masculine."

Your shoulders shook with laughter. “Then I’ll encourage you to grow enough chest hair to cover it.”

“I doubt it, because then it’ll turn into a sensory thing,” he continued completely seriously, already too entertained by your reaction to stop now. “Like one of those textured educational books for children but with a very realistic mane. True to the animal.”

Your face twisted in immediate disgust. “Why are you like this?”

He only shrugged lazily, completely pleased with himself. “No idea. Why do you like it?”

The grin he gave you made it impossible not to laugh again,and for a moment he just sat there quietly watching you with that same expression he always wore whenever you did something thoughtful for him, like he genuinely still couldn’t believe someone cared enough to know him that deeply after all these years. It softened him every single time.

“You know I’m absolutely finding all of those letters and presents before you even board your plane tomorrow, right?” he asked eventually.

You sighed dramatically into your wine glass. “Unfortunately, yes.”

The next few days unfolded how they often did whenever work pulled the two of you into different countries and schedules, in a rhythm you’d perfected over the years. 

You buried yourself in filming during the day and every free moment somehow circled back to him, whether it was a quick phone call between takes, voice notes sent at ridiculous hours of the night or the two of you sitting on FaceTime while pretending distance didn’t exist. On his birthday, you’d balanced your phone against a wine bottle in your hotel room and had dinner together through a screen, laughing over the way he’d spent half the day dodging increasingly dramatic messages from Chase asking if he’d “finally committed to being inked.”

He told you all about the consultation afterward, how surprisingly emotional it had felt sitting there discussing permanence with a stranger while thinking about all the things in his life that already felt permanent to him. He admitted the appointment had gone well, maybe too well, because now he was stuck actually making a decision instead of treating the idea like a hypothetical fantasy he could joke about forever. 

Apparently Chase had attempted to help but quickly became useless because every tattoo suggestion somehow turned into a speech about symbolism and artistic expression, which only made Drew more indecisive. By the end of the call, he still hadn’t committed to anything and you had fallen asleep later that night smiling to yourself because even after six years together, he still talked you through every thought in his head like your opinion mattered most.

You came home two days after his birthday, exhausted from travel and running almost entirely on airport coffee but the second you spotted him waiting outside the terminal, all of that exhaustion softened around the edges. You’d turned down the car service your team offered because the two of you had established that tradition years ago, whenever one of you landed and the other was free, you picked each other up. No exceptions.

Nothing about him seemed unusual once you slid into the passenger seat beside him. He wore a sweatshirt despite the warm weather, his hair slightly messy from waiting around too long and he looked entirely too pleased to see you, grinning so hard it bordered on ridiculous. 

The entire drive home passed in that easy flow the two of you always slipped into, conversations overlapping and circling back as you tried to cram several missed days worth of thoughts into one car ride.

His forearm rested lazily over the center console while your hand wrapped around his bicep, fingertips absentmindedly stroking the spot while you talked about everything you hadn’t had time to properly explain over the phone. You told him stories from set, he followed with dramatic retellings of things JD had done while you were gone and every few minutes one of you remembered another detail worth sharing, making the conversation restart all over again.

Once home, the routine continued naturally. You disappeared into the bathroom for a shower while he unpacked your suitcase for you, the door left wide open so conversation could continue uninterrupted between rooms. You shouted stories over the sound of running water while he replied from the bedroom, your voices weaving together alongside the soft sounds of drawers opening and hangers sliding into place. At one point you laughed so hard you had to lean against the shower wall and moments later his laughter echoed right back from the closet.

Eventually though, the adrenaline of travel wore off and exhaustion finally settled into your bones properly. By the time you stepped out of the shower wrapped in your robe, skin still damp, the house had gone quieter. You stood in front of the mirror slowly working through your skincare routine, movements sluggish now that your body realized it was finally home.

Drew wandered back into the bathroom a few minutes later already dressed for bed, sweatpants low on his hips and his chest bare, looking soft in the warm lighting. “Suitcase is empty,” he announced casually as he came up behind you, rubbing his hands slowly up and down your arms before pressing a kiss against the side of your head. “I’ll do the laundry in the morning.”

You blinked once, then again.

For a second you thought exhaustion was playing tricks on you because something unfamiliar had caught your eye when his arm moved over your body, but then his hands moved again and there it was.

You turned around so fast in his arms that he immediately started laughing at your expression.

“You got the tattoo?” you exclaimed, all traces of tiredness vanishing instantly as you grabbed his arm and twisted it gently toward the bathroom light. “And you lied to me!”

His laughter deepened as your fingers carefully brushed over the fresh ink, your touch impossibly gentle as you traced the fine delicate lines. The design was subtle, elegant enough that it looked like it had always belonged there and the second your eyes properly focused on it, your entire face softened.

“Is that my birth flower?” you asked quietly, looking back up at him without releasing his arm.

He nodded immediately, eyes warm as they stayed fixed on you. “In an attempt to make something I love last forever,” he admitted softly.

Something in your chest gave out at the words. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was six years of loving him layered on top of moments exactly like this one, but suddenly all you wanted was to be close to him. You melted forward until your forehead pressed beneath his chin, arms slipping around his waist while his immediately curled around you in return without hesitation.

“Welcome home,” he murmured against your hair.

“I missed your birthday,” you whispered into his skin, guilt still lingering despite how many times he’d told you not to feel bad about it.

“You didn’t miss anything,” he replied gently, tightening his hold around you. “You were right under my skin, where you were always meant to be.”

You had been dating Drew for a little over six years now, somehow he still knew exactly what to say to make you fall in love with him all over again and that was your “why”. 

You didn’t know it yet, but you’d soon have to add a massive ring to the list of reasons you couldn’t imagine leaving.

Utensils clinked softly in the otherwise quiet kitchen as you scooped ice cream into a bowl, the small, repetitive motion familiar in a way the rest of the night hadn’t quite been, your thoughts drifting somewhere far from the noise as laughter and overlapping voices from the living room filtered in, distant and muffled, belonging to a different world entirely. The cold air from the freezer brushed against your skin as you lingered there, stretching out the quiet before stepping back into everything.

Drew paused at the doorway as he took you in, your back turned to him but your posture gave everything away, from the slight stillness in your shoulders to the way your movements felt just a little too controlled and he instantly understood that you were trying to gather yourself after being surrounded by so much energy all at once. He didn’t say anything right away, just stood there watching, because he knew you well enough to recognize when you needed a second to breathe, even if you hadn’t said it.

“Are you gonna come in or just stand there and stare?” you asked, voice cutting gently through the quiet as you finished scooping your bowl, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips before you turned around to meet his eyes.

Drew exhaled a soft, breathy chuckle at being caught, pushing himself off the doorway as he stepped inside, the distance between you closing slowly because neither of you wanted to rush something that had already been sitting beneath the surface all night, it always was.

“Want some ice cream?” you asked softly, tone casual even as your eyes lingered on him.

“I’m okay,” he replied, though his gaze never left yours, tracking every small movement as you turned back toward the freezer, placing the tub away before bringing the spoon to your lips, absentmindedly nudging it between them as if you needed something to occupy yourself.

You grabbed your bowl and hopped up onto the counter while Drew moved to lean against the kitchen island directly across from you, far enough for the space between you to feel safe.

He just looked at you and you looked right back but neither of you spoke.

You took your time, scooping small bites of ice cream and bringing them to your lips, the quiet stretching between you but never becoming uncomfortable, because it never was with him. It could have passed as a conversation all on its own, one that didn’t need words because everything was already being said in the way your eyes held onto each other, in the way neither of you seemed capable of looking away. But the longer it lasted, the softer it became, until it nudged it’s way through your thick skin and threatened to reach your heart.

“Don’t do that,” you said finally, your voice quieter as you broke eye contact first, looking down at your bowl as if that would somehow save you.

He might have missed it if he hadn’t been watching you so closely, if he didn’t already know exactly what you meant without needing you to explain but still, he had to ask.

“Do what?” he asked, tone light and careful.

You would’ve believed him if this hadn’t been familiar territory, if you hadn’t stood here before, in moments just like this one, balancing on the edge of something neither of you ever let happen.

“That,” you said, pointing at him with your spoon before taking another bite, giving yourself a second to breathe. “Come in here and look at me like that…” you continued. “And then expect me to go on about my night when I know what you want to say.”

He shifted slightly where he stood. 

“It’s never something you don’t want to hear,” he said with the faintest shrug, trying to downplay something that carried far more weight than he let on.

“Which we both know is the problem,” you replied, lifting your gaze to meet his again, the air between you tightening just a little. You both stilled, caught in that familiar push and pull, a game neither of you ever fully committed to winning or losing. “So tell me something new,” you added, almost as a challenge.

“Something new?” he echoed, a quiet chuckle slipping past his lips as he glanced around the kitchen, buying himself time.

You didn’t rush him, never did. Because you both knew that rushing this would only lead to the same place it always threatened to go, to words that would spill out too fast, too honest, ending in what neither of you were ready to untangle once it existed out in the open.

So you let the silence stretch again, watching him think, waiting and hoping he would pick something easy for you to stomach.

He cleared his throat, jaw tightening like he was choosing his words more carefully than usual only to fail. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t know you so well…” he admitted and when his eyes lifted back to yours, there was nothing casual left in them, nothing you could brush off or pretend not to understand. “Then I wouldn’t know exactly why you don’t want me to look at you like I’m…allegedly looking at you.”

“Alleged, huh?” you echoed, your tone lighter than the moment deserved, though it carried that edge of deflection you always leaned on when things got too close.

He nodded once, a faint, almost ironic smile tugging at his lips. “I’m trying to help you out.”

You let out a soft chuckle, scooping up another spoonful of ice cream more for something to do than anything else, the cold sweetness barely registering as you tasted it. “By gaslighting me.”

It could’ve stayed playful, could’ve lingered in that safe space where everything between you always hovered but the way his expression changed, how the softness disappeared and something far more serious settled in its place, made your stomach dip. It made you wish instantly that you’d chosen your words more carefully.

“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing all these years?” he asked, voice steady like he had thought about this more than he was ready to acknowledge.

There was no accusation in it or anger, because you both knew it was true. You had spent years circling around what neither of you dared to name, convincing yourselves that it was easier and safer, better this way.

“Drew–”

He shook his head before you could finish, already knowing what you were going to say, that rehearsed speech and he didn’t want to hear it or maybe it was because he knew if you said it, he might actually listen.

“Something new, right?” he cut in, gesturing faintly between the two of you, his hand dropping back to his side as if the motion itself cost him something. “This…halfway thing…it’s not working.”

You let out a small laugh but it came out uneven, more surprised than amused, your arms lifting slightly from your sides as your brows pulled together. “Since when?”

He glanced down at his watch, the gesture absurd in the middle of something like this but it only made the tension sharper.

“Right now,” he said, looking back up at you. “Since right now…I could also tell you it has never worked but that’s something you already know.”

Your lips parted but no words came out right away, your thoughts catching up slower than your reaction and after a second, you nodded faintly, more to yourself than to him.

“You should’ve taken me up on the ice cream,” you said instead, the deflection barely held.

He exhaled quietly, a hint of a defeated smile crossing his face. Yeah, maybe he should’ve.

“We both know it wouldn’t have shut me up.”

Your eyes flickered toward the doorway, the instinct automatic. You were searching for an exit, a distraction, anything that might interrupt this before it went too far because you couldn’t. Whether you were thinking about stepping out or just hoping someone else might walk in, you knew it wouldn’t actually solve anything, because whatever this was, didn’t stay contained to rooms or moments.

“They won’t come in here,” he said softly, catching the movement, reading you the way he always did. “Even if they did…I don’t think I could let this go right now.”

There was a beat, his gaze unwavering.

“Just like I can’t let you go.”

Those words made your chest tighten.

“Nope,” you said quickly while shaking your head, the response instinctively meaning to pull everything back before you could fall too far. “Drew, we made promises. Good ones…solid ones.”

A nervous chuckle slipped out, your grip tightening around the bowl in your hands.

“I would know, I was there,” you added, your voice softening despite yourself. “And I think about those all the time.” Your eyes met his again, confliction flickering behind them. “You can’t do this,” you said, more gently now but no less firm. “It was part of the agreement.”

“I was wrong,” he admitted, the words leaving him as if they had been sitting heavy on his chest for far too long. His voice was rougher now and it sounded a whole lot like regret. “So fucking wrong.”

That confession made your chest tighten and without really thinking about it, you set your bowl and spoon aside on the counter, the quiet clink barely registering as your full attention moved to him. “Did you know that then?” you asked, searching his face. “Before you went and agreed?”

He let out a breath that kinda sounded like a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Who the fuck knows?” he questioned, shaking his head but he couldn’t untangle what he had been thinking back then. “We were younger and fucking terrified…terrified of getting things wrong and of messing this up.”

As he spoke, he stepped closer, closing the distance one careful movement at a time until he was right in front of you, both hands bracing themselves on the counter on either side of your legs, caging you in without touching you, the heat of him close enough to feel.

You met his eyes, drawing in a slow breath as you tried to steady yourself, already knowing this moment wasn’t something you could walk away from unchanged. “I’m still terrified,” you confessed quietly, the honesty slipping out before you could soften it.

He nodded immediately. He had expected that answer. “I know, baby.”

“It doesn’t mean that I’ve stopped wanting it,” you added, your voice a little stronger now, needing him to hear that part just as clearly. “Wanting you.”

Again, that same gentle nod. “I know.”

You swallowed, nodding once yourself as if sealing the thought. “And I’m not going anywhere… I’ve told you that so many times before–”

“I wanna go where you’re going,” he cut in, his voice low but certain, the words coming faster because they had been held back for too long. “And I also want to watch you go and have the certainty that you’ll come back to me.”

He paused there, searching your face, needing to see how it landed.

“Me,” he repeated, softer this time but far more intentionally so the meaning was unmistakable, no longer something that could be tucked safely behind friendship. “I want to say what comes after ‘I love you’ and stop counting the twenty-seven seconds of a hug until you pull away because you think something that can’t be undone will happen at the thirty-second mark.”

Your lips twitched despite everything, a small, helpless smile breaking through the tension. “You should unlearn me a little,” you murmured, though there was no real conviction behind it.

He shook his head immediately, expression softening. “My heart’s so full of you that most days I have trouble convincing myself that it belongs to me,” he admitted, the vulnerability in his voice sincere and overwhelming. “That’s what comes after ‘I love you’… and I do. I love you.”

The words settled between you but this time, neither of you tried to deflect them.

“And I’m hoping to tell you all about it when they leave,” he added, giving you space even as he stood so close. “But only if you want to hear it. Only then.”

Your hand lifted instinctively, coming to rest against his face, your thumb brushing softly over his skin as you took him in. He seemed on the edge of something, having finally run out of ways to hold himself back.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you whispered, though your touch didn’t pull away.

“But those are the best kind.”  Drew smiled softly and he couldn’t help but breach the distance. He leaned in, slow enough to give you time and to let you stop him if you wanted to but you didn’t.

Your lips met his in a kiss that had been waiting for years, slow and careful at first, then deepening naturally as if it were something you both already knew by heart. Your arms slipped around his shoulders as he guided you closer to the edge of the counter, his hands finally finding your sides, finding home there as the distance between you disappeared completely.

You both smiled into it with relieved happiness after finally crossing the line that had made a home in the space between you for so many years.

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You offered a small, apologetic smile to his new friends. They didn’t look annoyed, per se, but there was a distinct air of resignation about them.

Your eyes flicked down to Spencer’s hand. Ah. Of course. He was holding a straight flush. You’d lost him about thirty minutes ago, which likely meant he’d been unknowingly bankrupting these strangers for the better part of that time.

A young woman across the table caught your eye. Her expression was one of pure desperation. “Please help,” she mouthed, her gaze flicking meaningfully between you and Spencer’s cards, clearly hoping for an insider’s tip.

You gave her a sympathetic little smile and leaned down closer to Spencer, your voice dropping to a murmur meant only for him. “Spencer.”

He looked up again, and his eyes softened, the focus shifting entirely from the game to you. You brushed a stray curl from his forehead, your fingers lingering for a moment. His skin was warm.

“You’re a bit warm. That’s not good,” you chided gently. “How about we get some fresh air?”

Spencer was utterly dazed. What you couldn't possibly know was that his dazed state wasn't solely the product of the alcohol. It was the intoxicating combination of your proximity, your touch carding through his hair and your hand on his back. His long-standing crush was currently fussing over him, and his brain was short-circuiting beautifully.

“Okay,” he mumbled, his agreement pliant. He turned back to the table. “Sorry for not finishing the game.”

A chorus of relieved voices answered in unison. “Oh, no, it’s fine!”

You couldn’t help a small grin as the woman who’d pleaded for help mouthed a grateful, “Thank you.”

One of the men, who looked as though he’d lost a significant bet, shook his head and mumbled under his breath, “How could you ever play cards with him?”

You chuckled, slipping your arm around Spencer’s waist to help steady him as he stood. “Oh, trust me,” you said, “I’ve gotten used to it.”

As you began to guide him away, you heard the woman whisper conspiratorially to her friend, “Well, yeah, he’s cute. I’d also be fine with it if I was dating him.”

You paused, glancing back at her in confusion, but in that moment, Spencer stumbled, his full weight leaning into you. You caught him easily, your attention immediately returning to the task at hand. “Okay, easy there, genius,” you said, steering him toward the door and making sure he waved a clumsy goodbye to the team.

You managed to guide a wobbly Spencer out the heavy door of the bar. But the moment you cleared the threshold, his legs seemed to give out entirely. He simply folded, settling directly onto the sidewalk.

“Spencer!” you called out.

He looked up at you, completely unbothered, propping his chin in his hand with his elbow resting on his knee. “Hm?”

“Don’t sit on the ground. It’s dirty,” you chided, reaching for his arm.

“I don’t care,” he mumbled, his head already beginning to loll precariously in his palm. “The entire bar was dirty. It doesn’t matter now.”

You sighed, a fond exasperation washing over you. Arguing with a drunk genius was a losing battle. So, you gave in. You carefully lowered yourself to sit beside him on the concrete, ignoring the chill that seeped through your clothes. Gently, you took his arm from his knee and guided his head to rest on your shoulder instead. He leaned into the contact immediately, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he nestled against the curve of your neck.

“I’m cold and warm,” he complained, his voice a mumble against your skin.

You chuckled softly. “You drank a lot, and it’s cold outside,” you explained, carefully shifting to wrap an arm around his back to steady him. You pressed your free hand to his forehead again. He was still too warm. “We should get you home,” you murmured, your voice filled with concern.

“Okay,” he agreed easily, nuzzling even closer.

The smile that touched your lips was involuntary and full of affection. Getting him home, however, was where the real challenge began.

The short walk to your car was exhausting to say the least. You half-carried, half-dragged him, his tall frame leaning heavily on you as he offered slurred commentary on the urban planning of the sidewalk cracks. Getting him into the passenger seat felt like buckling a very large and completely uncoordinated child into a car seat.

The drive was quiet. But the grand finale was the stumble up the stairs to his apartment building. It was… an experience. Each step was a negotiation.

“Just one more, Spencer, come on.”

“These stairs are surprisingly loud,” he slurred, clinging to the banister with one hand and your shoulder with the other.

“That’s because they’re old,” you grunted, heaving him up another step. “And you’re drunk.”

“Correlation is not causation,” he retorted, though the argument lost all its impact when he immediately tripped on the next step.

By some miracle, you finally reached his door. Fishing the keys from his pocket, you unlocked it and guided him inside.

Somehow, with a great deal of coaxing and maneuvering, you managed to guide him into the bathroom. You positioned him to lean against the counter, his hands gripping the edge for support. You stepped into the space between him and the sink, gently nudging his knees apart so you could stand closer. He complied without protest, his dazed eyes fixed on you.

The air was thick with a new kind of tension. To break it, you focused on a simple task. Your fingers went to the knot of his tie, loosening it.

"Why did you wear a tie to the bar?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you slid the fabric from his collar.

Spencer hummed. "I don't know what else to wear."

"You can just wear a cardigan," you suggested, a soft smile playing on your lips as you folded the tie and set it aside on the counter. "You have nice ones."

"Would you like that?" he asked quietly, his head tilting.

"Would I like what?"

"You said that you love my ties," he stated.

"I do," you affirmed, slightly confused but sensing you were treading on delicate ground.

His next words came out in a rush. "I wanna look good for you, so I try to wear ties as much as I can." There was no shame, no blushing self-awareness. It was a devastatingly honest confession poured straight from his heart, facilitated by the alcohol flooding his veins.

"Spencer!" you breathed, your hands stilling as you stared at him in shock.

His face fell instantly, confusion clouding his features. "What? Do you not like them anymore?" he asked, his voice tinged with sadness. "I can wear something else."

"You can wear whatever you want," you managed to say, your mind reeling. A part of you felt a pang of hurt at the thought that his clothing choices weren't entirely his own. "Why would you wear something just because I complimented it?"

"Because I like it when you compliment my ties," he mumbled, his body swaying slightly. You instinctively steadied him by placing your hands on his waist, the contact sending a jolt through you. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a second before finding yours again. "Or when you touch them to look at the pattern. It makes me feel really warm on the inside when you do."

The air left your lungs. You stared, utterly speechless. In his inebriated state, Spencer Reid had just confessed his crush on you to you. He had no idea of the magnitude of what he'd just revealed.

Needing a moment to process, you quickly grabbed the cup of water you'd set aside earlier. "Here, drink this," you instructed softly, holding the cup to his lips. As he drank, you used your free hand to gently brush the soft curls back from his fever-warm forehead.

You gently wiped the stray water droplets from his chin with your thumb, your touch lingering for a heartbeat. Needing to do something, anything, with your hands, you began to unbutton the top button of his shirt, just to give him a little more air. He sighed in relief.

In the quiet of the bathroom, his voice was small. "Are you mad at me?"

Your eyes snapped back to his. "No," you said softly. "Not at all, Spencer. I could never be mad at you for that." You cupped his cheek, your thumb stroking his warm skin. "I'm just… worried that you take my words too much to heart."

His response was soft. "I do."

A flicker of that earlier disappointment must have shown in your eyes, because he quickly continued.

"I remember that one time you told me you liked my eyes," he mumbled, his gaze drifting to a spot on the bathroom wall. "And ever since then, I like them more. You were right… they do look nice when the sun hits them."

"Yeah?" you asked, your voice colored with hope.

"Mhm," Spencer nodded, his head lolling slightly before he found your eyes again. "I also like my outfits more. I always hated them." He confessed this with resignation that broke your heart a little. "I didn't know what else to wear. People… people weren't always nice about my clothes. You were the only one who was ever nice to me about them. And you actually meant it." He gave you a tentative smile, one that grew just a fraction when he saw the genuine smile blooming on your own face.

"Well, I do love your outfits," you whispered, your hand moving from his cheek to smooth the collar of his shirt. "They're so uniquely you. It makes you look so handsome."

Spencer blushed, the red somehow deepening beneath the alcohol-induced flush. He ducked his head. "I can't get used to that," he mumbled into his chest.

"Used to what?" you prompted softly, tilting your head to try and catch his downcast eyes.

He finally looked up, his whiskey-colored eyes meeting yours. "Your compliments," he whispered, a confession as potent as any other he'd made tonight.

“Well, get used to them, handsome,” you smiled as you guided the cup back to his lips. He drank obediently, but his eyes never left you, watching you intently over the rim. You held the gaze and it felt strangely intimate.

Once he’d finished, you set the cup aside and turned to grab his toothbrush. The small bathroom cabinet offered two different tubes of toothpaste. You weren't sure which one he liked more.

“Who were you talking to in the bar?” Spencer’s voice was quiet.

“When?” you asked, your hand hesitating between the two options before settling on the mint.

“In the booth. There was a guy… you were laughing with him.” His tone was carefully neutral, but the specificity gave him away.

You looked up from the toothbrush, the paste forgotten in your hand. You gave him your full undivided attention. “I don’t even know who that was, Spencer.”

“You seemed comfortable with him,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the countertop.

You watched him for a long moment, studying the slight downturn of his mouth, the way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes. Understanding began to warm your chest. “Spencer,” you began softly, leaning a hip against the counter to face him fully. “Were you jealous?”

His head lifted, his eyes searching yours. “Maybe,” he finally mumbled. “You touched his arm… like, five times,” he whispered, as if confessing a grave misdeed.

Your heart squeezed. You tilted your head, your voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “Do you want me to touch your arm?”

“No. Yes,” he stammered, frustration creasing his brow. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to touch me. And I know you touch me a lot.” His eyes flickered down to where your hand was resting on his waist, your thumb unconsciously making soothing circles against the fabric of his vest. “You’re doing it right now.”

You followed his gaze, a soft smile gracing your lips. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I am.”

He opened his mouth, trying to articulate the tangled mess of feelings, but his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. The alcohol was a thick fog, making it impossible to find the right words.

You understood. “But you want it to mean something,” you supplied gently, your thumb stilling its motion. “When I touch you, you want it to feel special. You don’t want it to be something I do with just anyone.”

Spencer stared at you, his expression a mixture of relief and wonder that you had somehow untangled the knot he couldn't. “I guess so,” he mumbled.

You understood completely. Your casual friendly touch with that stranger had, in his eyes, devalued the currency of your affection. It made the way you cared for him seem ordinary, when to him, it was everything.

He fell silent for a long moment, processing his own words. Then, he shifted uncomfortably against the counter. "That sounded… oddly possessive," he mumbled, a flicker of clarity breaking through the alcoholic haze. "I didn't mean it like that," he corrected himself worried.

Honestly, you hadn't taken it that way at all, but you stayed quiet.

"I just… like you. A lot."

You took a sharp breath at the directness of the words, your heart stuttering in your chest. But you remained outwardly calm.

"And sometimes," he continued, "I think you like me back. Because of your gentle touches and your really nice compliments." He explained it so sweetly, that a smile inevitably formed on your face. "And Morgan tells me you like me," he added, offering a sheepish smile.

"And then I get hopeful," he whispered, the smile fading, "but then I see you compliment Morgan's shoes, or I see you touch that guy's arm in the bar, and then I just think… how could you like me? That you're just kind like that. That you're just nice to people, and that I'm just… imagining it all." He finished with a tired sigh, rubbing his eye.

You had stayed quiet throughout his entire confession, letting him pour out the insecurities he usually kept locked behind a wall of facts and statistics. Now, you slowly placed the forgotten toothbrush on the counter, bristles up to keep it clean. Your hands came up to cradle his face, your thumbs stroking his warm cheeks.

"I do like you," you whispered, the words finally breaking free. "Very much so. And the compliments I give you are genuine, and they are special. They're just for you, Spencer."

Spencer blinked at you, his eyes widening. "You like me?" he asked, his voice full of awe.

"Very much so," you affirmed, your smile softening.

"Oh," he breathed, a dazed smile spreading across his face. "That's good." He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a second, utterly content with the feeling of your hands on his skin.

You smiled, but the expression became more careful, when Spencer's gaze drifted downward from your eyes. He was staring at your lips, his head tilting as he leaned in slowly.

Gently, you pulled back, just an inch.

He froze, his eyes snapping back to yours, now wide with fear and confusion at the rejection.

"You're drunk," you said softly. You kept your hands on his face, brushing over his cheekbones. "I'm not kissing you when you're drunk."

He processed this, then nodded slowly. "That makes sense," he conceded. But his eyes, full of longing, lingered on your lips a moment longer.

You offered a soft reassuring smile, quickly grabbing the toothbrush to give him a task. Applying a stripe of toothpaste, you held it up for him. To your relief, his motor functions seemed to return for this familiar routine. He took it and began brushing, his eyes never leaving you the entire time.

Under his unwavering gaze, you began to feel warm yourself. You weren't sure if it was the intensity of your conversation or the bright bathroom lighting, but you found yourself fixing your hair behind your ear before shrugging off your thin autumn jacket, letting it rest on the counter beside his tie.

Once he was finished, he slumped against the counter. He looked utterly exhausted.

"Okay," you said softly, reaching out your hand. He took it without hesitation, his fingers lacing with yours. "I know you're going to say you're not hungry, but I just want you to eat one thing before bed. I barely saw you eat anything at the bar." You had a feeling you knew why, the mysterious man had introduced himself just as the food arrived, and Spencer had promptly vanished. That's when you had lost him.

"Okay?" you prompted gently.

Spencer nodded, a sleepy smile touching his lips. "Okay," he agreed happily, letting you lead him by the hand to his small kitchen.

There, he simply leaned back against the counter, his hands coming up to rub at his tired eyes again.

"Stop that," you whispered, gently pulling his hands away. "You'll make them redder."

"Sorry," he mumbled as he let his hands drop.

You started rummaging through his cabinets, finally finding a sealed package of cookies. Ripping it open, you handed him one. He took it obediently and began to nibble. Yet, even in his drowsy state, his gaze was a magnet, drifting from your eyes down to your lips once more.

"I can't wait to kiss you," he mumbled around a mouthful of cookie.

The blunt confession made a fond smile form on your face. "Oh, really?" you asked amused.

He sounded oddly flirty, a side of him so rarely seen, and it sent a wave of warmth through you.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. He reached for another cookie, his movements slow. “The first time I thought of kissing you was when you wore that peach lipgloss.”

You thought for a second, a smile playing on your lips. “Lip oil,” you gently corrected.

“Lip oil. Right,” he repeated, filing the information away with a serious nod. “It smelled really nice. And you looked… really pretty.” The simplicity of the compliment, delivered with such honesty, struck you deeply.

You had been honestly at a loss for words throughout this entire conversation. Giddy joy was bubbling up inside you, making you want to jump on the bed, scream into a pillow in sheer delight, and kick your feet in the air like a thirteen-year-old girl with her first crush.

“Well,” you said, your voice soft and slightly flustered, “I’ll make sure to wear that lip oil when we kiss.”

His eyes, which had been half-lidded with exhaustion, widened with happiness. “Yeah?” he asked, his entire face lighting up.

“Mhm,” you nodded, your heart swelling as you watched him. The mere idea of genuinely planning your first kiss was exciting him so visibly, that it was almost too much to bear.

He took another happy bite of his cookie, then paused, his brow furrowing in a look of deep concentration. “Am I still drunk?” he asked. “I ate and drank.” Apparently, alcohol also had the temporary side effect of lowering his iq.

You couldn't help the soft giggle that escaped you. “Yes, Spencer. You’re still very drunk,” you said, your voice fond as you handed him another cookie to keep him occupied.

“Right,” he mumbled, his shoulders slumping in disappointment. The logical part of his brain had confirmed the truth, but the hopeful, lovesick part was clearly impatient for the sober morning to arrive.

You smiled softly, watching the flicker of insecurity cross his face as the initial euphoria faded, replaced by a more sobering self-awareness.

"You do want to kiss me too, right?" he asked quietly. "You're not just going to kiss me because I'm being weird right now. And drunk. And saying lots of things I shouldn't be saying?" Spencer spoke slowly. "I really, really don't want you to feel like you have to kiss me or force yourself to do something you don't want to. I get it if you just wanna stick with us confessing to each other." He stared at you intently, his hazel eyes searching yours for the absolute truth.

"Spencer," you said, your voice full of certainty, "I'd love to kiss you, and I'm not doing you a favor. I really want to kiss you."

"Okay," he quieted down, a relieved smile finally gracing his lips again, the worry melting away.

"Can I hug you?" he asked softly after a moment. "I don't think I'm too drunk to not hug you." His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to gauge his own sobriety for such an important task.

You smiled, your heart feeling impossibly full. "Yeah, come here." You held up your arms, and he fell into them. He tried his best to hold his own weight, but his coordination was still lacking, causing him to lean into you more than he probably intended. You didn't mind in the slightest.

"You feeling better?" you asked softly, your fingers gently brushing through his curls. You were talking about the alcohol, the dizziness and the overwhelming nature of the night.

"Yeah," he mumbled into your shoulder, his voice muffled and content. "Cookies helped."

"That's good, honey," you said, the endearment slipping out naturally as you brushed a hand over his back.

He stood there for a long moment, before he pulled back just enough to look at you. "Are you going to call me that when we're boyfriend girlfriend?" he asked, his tone utterly serious.

You bit your lip, hard, to stop the laugh that was about to come out. You stood there, trying to compose yourself at his adorably formal phrasing. "You mean 'honey'?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly with suppressed amusement.

He nodded, his expression earnest.

"Do you like it?" you asked softly.

"Yes," Spencer mumbled, a faint blush returning to his cheeks.

"Okay," you said, your smile so wide it almost hurt. "Yeah, I can call you that when we're boyfriend girlfriend." You couldn't stop yourself from the fond tease of repeating his chosen label.

Spencer squinted his eyes. "You're making fun of me," he mumbled, though there was no real hurt in his tone.

You giggled out loud as you held onto his waist for balance, both of you swaying slightly. "I'm sorry," you managed between soft laughs. "I just—why did you say 'boyfriend girlfriend'? It's so formal."

Spencer was smiling a bit at the sound of your laughter, but his eyebrows furrowed in genuine confusion. "Isn't that the term?"

"It just sounds a little funny, that's all," you explained, your giggles subsiding into a warm smile.

Spencer chuckled along. "Okay. Yeah, maybe it does sound a bit odd," he conceded. "Is 'couple' a better term?"

"Yeah, honey, it is," you affirmed, your voice fond.

He felt a new kind of warmth spread through his chest, one that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the way you said that word.

"Should I call you an endearment, too?" he asked carefully.

You tilted your head, your smile softening. "I don't know. Do you want to?"

Spencer shrugged, a small shy gesture. "It would be nice," he admitted, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. "It'd be my special word for you."

Your heart melted. It was clearly very important to him and you found it incredibly endearing. "Well, do you have any in mind?" you asked softly, finally taking the cookie box from his loose grip and putting it away, noticing he hadn't taken any new pieces.

Spencer stayed quiet, staring into the distance as he thought. After a long moment, he looked back at you, his expression nervous. "Would you like… 'sweetheart'?" he said, the word sounding gentle and sweet on his tongue.

You smiled, touched by the old-fashioned sweetness of it. "Would you like to call me 'sweetheart'?" you asked, wanting to hear his reasoning.

He nodded, a little more sure now. "Yeah. I think so. My aunt's husband used to call her that. And she loved it. She would fluster every time." He didn't mention how his aunt and her husband were the only couple he'd ever seen growing up who genuinely seemed to love each other, a beacon of what a relationship could be amidst the chaos of his own parents. He didn't have the words for that yet, but the memory was a good one.

You smiled fondly. "I would love that," you said, your voice sincere.

"Okay," he whispered.

Spencer seemed happy, and utterly exhausted. "Come on, let's get you to bed," you said quietly, leading him by the hand toward his bedroom. He followed willingly, his fingers laced tightly with yours.

In his room, you grabbed a set of pajamas from a drawer and handed them to him, turning your back to give him privacy to change. Once he mumbled a quiet "done," you turned back to find him swaying slightly on his feet. You guided him into bed, gently maneuvering him onto his side, a precaution against the alcohol still in his system. He complied without protest.

Soon enough, you were standing above him, looking down at his sleepy form with a fond smile. His eyes were closed, his breathing beginning to even out. "I'll come by tomorrow, okay?" you whispered, not wanting to startle him.

His eyes flew open immediately. "What?"

"I'll come by in the morning. I'll bring you some food for your hangover," you explained, softly brushing a stray curl from his forehead.

"You're not staying?" he asked, his voice filled with disappointment and surprise.

You looked at him, a little taken aback. "You want me to?"

"Yeah," he nodded. Now that he had you here, he never wanted you to leave.

You watched him, sensing the unspoken thought. Your smile was soft and understanding. "Okay," you whispered. "Well, move aside, sleepyhead."

To your luck, you were wearing clothes comfortable enough to sleep in. You slipped into the bed beside him, turning onto your side to face him. He watched your every movement. Now you were face to face, sharing the same pillow.

"Thank you for taking care of me," Spencer whispered. This time, he was the one to reach forward, his fingers gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. It was a careful touch, one he had been too nervous to initiate all night, the hug being the only bravery he'd allowed himself. His palm cupped your cheek, his hand big and warm, almost engulfing the entire side of your face.

"Any time," you mumbled, leaning into his touch. "I had fun, you know."

He raised a questioning eyebrow.

"I mean," you grinned, "it got my long-time crush to confess his feelings to me."

Spencer blushed but still scooted closer. You let him. The two of you watched each other for a long time. But sleep was clearly trying to claim him. His blinks were becoming longer, his breathing deeper. He tried to fight it, wanting to cherish this new reality of being able to simply look at you, but the exhaustion was winning.

As if reading his thoughts, you whispered softly, "Sleep, Spencer. I'll be here in the morning."

Reassured by the promise of a lifetime of mornings to come, he finally let his eyes drift shut, a smile on his lips as he surrendered to sleep, your hand still resting gently in his.

When morning came, it arrived with a pounding against the inside of Spencer’s skull. He stayed perfectly still, staring at the ceiling of his apartment. Any movement, even the subtle shift of his eyes, sent a fresh wave of nausea through him.

He laid there for long minutes, when the memories of the previous night came rushing back. Your hand on his back in the bar. Your hands cradling his face in the bathroom.

The confession about his ties, his eyes, his…feelings.

His mouth fell open in a silent gasp of horror. He sat up abruptly, a move he instantly regretted as the room tilted violently. He looked to the side of the bed.

It was empty.

A cold dread washed over him. He had done it. He had shattered your perfect friendship. But then his eyes landed on the nightstand. Your hair clips were there, placed neatly beside the lamp. You must have taken them out before bed. A spark of hope flickered in his chest.

He carefully swung his legs out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. There, draped over the counter next to his tie, was your thin autumn jacket. You were still here.

And then the terror returned, tenfold. He wanted to run. To flee his own apartment and hide from the vulnerability he had so carelessly displayed. But as he stood there, paralyzed by shame, another memory surfaced.

He had been fumbling with his pajama pants, the fabric seeming to conspire against his alcohol-slowed fingers. You had had your back turned to him, giving him privacy, and your voice had been soft.

"Spencer?"

"Hm?"

"Promise me something. Please don't regret a single thing tomorrow."

He’d been too focused on the monumental task of getting dressed to fully process it, mumbling a quick, "Yes, i promise," just to satisfy you.

He took a shaky breath and splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it bringing more snippets of the night back. "I can't wait to kiss you." "It'd be my special word for you." "Sweetheart." Shame heated his skin, but he fought it, clinging to the memory of your promise and his own.

He grabbed his toothbrush, squeezing a generous amount of toothpaste onto the bristles. The minty taste was a welcome assault. He could hear sounds coming from his kitchen. You were in his kitchen.

He brushed his teeth for ten full minutes. He scrubbed harshly, wanting to erase every last trace of the night's indiscretions, wanting his breath to be perfect.

Because he remembered, with agonizing specificity, the conversation about kissing. And he was determined to be ready.

Spencer slowly tiptoed towards the kitchen once he was done, hovering in the doorway as he silently watched you. You were at his stove, humming softly as you flipped a golden-brown pancake.

Soon enough, you felt his presence and turned, a warm smile immediately gracing your features. Spencer’s eyes darted instinctively to your lips, then away, a flush creeping up his neck.

“Good morning,” you said, turning off the stove.

“Morning,” he whispered, his voice rough with sleep and regret. He stood there, awkward and embarrassed, but trying his best to hold his ground.

“How’s the headache?” you asked, your tone sympathetic.

“Bad,” he admitted, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. “Like, really bad.”

You nodded and moved to the counter, grabbing a glass of water and some vitamins. “Here, take this.”

As you handed them to him, your fingers brushed against his. Spencer froze slightly at the contact, a difference from the way he’d leaned into your touch just hours before. He took the vitamins and swallowed them quickly, his eyes darting everywhere around the kitchen, anywhere but at you. Unlike yesterday

“I made you pancakes!” you announced, trying to cut through the tension.

Spencer glanced at the small stack on the plate. “Thank you,” he said with a weak, strained smile. “You really didn’t have to do that. I’m so sorry for… for last night.” He stuttered over the apology, the words heavy with shame.

You gently took the empty glass from his hands and then, before he could retreat, you took his hands in yours. They were trembling slightly.

“Spencer,” you said, his name sounding so sweet coming from you.

“Hm?” he mumbled in response, still looking determinedly at a point over your shoulder.

“What did I tell you yesterday?” you prompted, your voice patient.

He looked away, his jaw tightening. He remained silent, the weight of his embarrassment seeming to press him into the floor.

“Spencer,” you said again.

He finally relented, the words a defeated mumble. “Not to regret what I said.”

“Exactly!” you said, your voice brimming with warmth. You released his hands, only to bring your own up to gently frame his face, guiding his gaze until he had no choice but to meet your eyes.

His worried hazel eyes finally locked with yours. And what he saw there wasn’t pity or regret. He saw your happy eyes, shining with affection. The tension in his shoulders began to dissolve.

“So, will you please listen to me?” you asked, your voice soft.

Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, the ghost of his embarrassment still lingering, but then he nodded. “Okay,” he sighed, the sound full of relief. “I’ll try my best.”

He saw you open your arms slightly and he let himself fall into the hug, his own arms wrapping around you tightly. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, closing his eyes. “God,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin. “I can’t believe I said all of that.”

You held him close, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. “It’s fine,” you whispered. “Honestly, it progressed our relationship in ways it hadn't in the past few years.”

Spencer let out a genuine chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours. “Guess so,” he conceded, finally pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes immediately darted down to your lips, and a knowing grin spread across your face.

“Peach lip oil,” he whispered as he noticed you were waiting for him to acknowledge it.

“Yup,” you confirmed, your grin widening. “Had it in my bag. Thought I could put it to good use.”

A deep blush colored his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. “Right. Yeah,” he breathed, his gaze locked on yours.

Your hands slid down his chest, smoothing the soft wool of his cardigan. “So,” you began, your own voice dropping to a slightly flustered whisper. “You’re sober.”

Spencer nodded, watching you. “Completely.”

“If you’d like,” you said, your heart hammering against your ribs, “you can kiss me now.”

A slow, wondrous smile spread across Spencer’s face. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I’d like that very much.”

His hands came up to frame your face, his touch infinitely more sure than it had been last night. His thumbs stroked your cheeks as his eyes flickered down to your glistening lips and back up. He smiled fondly, and then, gathering his courage, he finally pressed his lips to yours.

It was nice. More than nice. It was soft, and warm. A happy hum vibrated in his throat, and you echoed it with one of your own. The kiss broke several times, because neither of you could stop smiling. When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his, both of you simply smiling.

"I've wanted to do that for two years," Spencer breathed.

You felt your heart swell, your smile widening. "Yeah," you whispered back. "Me too."

A look of pure wonder crossed his face, and he leaned in to capture your lips once more in a sweet affirming kiss. When he pulled back again, his expression was slightly dazed. "I'm not dreaming, am I?" he asked softly, his eyes searching yours.

You shook your head slowly, your hands coming up to cradle his jaw. "No, honey," you whispered. "You're not."

The term of affection had an immediate and delightful effect. A charming blush spread from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. You couldn't help the wide grin that spread across your face.

"Yeah," he mumbled, a blissful smile finally breaking through his flustered state. "Definitely not dreaming."

Her eyes linger on you a little bit longer this time, and you have to mentally brace yourself for impact.

This is it. This is how you’re going to die.

Your life starts to flash before your eyes, and all of your regrets start flooding into your mind. Your gaze lands on Spencer again, but this time, you feel more relaxed.

His hazel eyes search yours, but all you can muster is a half-assed small smile that barely touches your lips.

Not telling him how you feel about him is one of your biggest regrets. He’s your best friend—has been for the past twelve years.

You’ve seen him through it all: getting tortured, his drug addiction, his migraines, the condition of his mom worsening, the death of his girlfriend, getting framed for murder and being sent to prison…

And yet, through it all, you’ve always been there for him. Even when he pushed you away. Even when he’d made it clear through his actions that you’re strictly platonic. Even when he became so detached from everyone close to him after he’d gotten out of prison.

You’ve loved him through his worst and have seen him at his best.

You simply couldn’t imagine a life without Spencer.

So, yeah, you’d take the bullet. Especially if it meant protecting him.

You see Melissa’s finger on the trigger. You know it’s coming.

Except it doesn’t.

The phone to the shop rings, and Melissa jumps at the sound.

By the fourth ring, Spencer speaks up.

“Answer it, Casey,” he says.

You think back to how Spencer would’ve reacted to this whole situation twelve years ago. Scared out of his mind, so unsure of himself and the impact of his words.

But when you’ve done this job for so long, you see a thing or two and take the lessons you’ve learned along the way with you for the rest of your life.

Now he exudes a kind of confidence that once ceased to exist in him. Now, he’s so… sure.

“Shut up,” Casey snaps at him. Spencer is seemingly unfazed as Casey rips the cord from the phone, single-handedly disconnecting any contact with everyone on the outside.

He aims his gun back on Melissa. You need to think quick, because he’s becoming more unstable as each minute passes. But he gets too impatient, and he shoots her in the leg.

“If Melissa doesn’t want to play truth or dare, then I will,” you say, standing up on your knees. Anything to divert his attention from Spencer and Melissa.

You feel Spencer’s eyes on you, but you don’t dare break eye contact with Casey.

Casey huffs in disbelief, walking over to where you are to grab you harshly by the shoulder to yank you up to full height.

“Fine. Agent, truth or dare?”

Good. He’s finally distracted.

“Truth.”

Casey assesses you. “If you lie, I swear to god I’ll kill him,” he sneers, pointing the gun back at Spencer.

“Understood.”

“I want you,” he says, rounding you like you’re prey, “to say something you’ve always been afraid to say. Something you’d never dare to say out loud. Not even to him,” he points the gun at Spencer. “Tell me your deepest, darkest secret.”

You see Spencer shift slightly from the corner of your eye while Casey’s undivided attention is on you. You don’t dare look at him, though. It’d be a dead giveaway.

You wrack your brain trying to think of something that could pique his interest. When you take too long to answer, he points his gun back at you, shoving you back to the ground. You flinch as your back and head hits a sharp edge of the counter.

“Come on!”

“Okay! Okay,” you plead; the first time all night you’ve shown any vulnerability toward him. Your eyes shift to Spencer, and he’s already looking at you with a subtle furrow in his brow.

You know that micro expression like the back of your hand. He’s worried.

And what you’re about to say next might completely ruin your friendship with him forever.

You swallow before your voice goes soft around the edges as you call his name.

“Spencer,” you start, taking in a shaky breath. Tears well in your eyes, and you close them before opening them back up to look at him. The words are thick like molasses in your throat. It feels impossible to choke them out, because you’re putting everything on the line with him here.

The last thing you ever want to do is lose him, but you might if you don’t confess how you’ve felt for over a decade.

So you take a deep breath. Now or never. Then: “I’ve been in love with you for a very long time.”

You instantly see his devastatingly handsome face soften at your words. You see the confusion and the hurt, too.

You also know well enough by now that he probably has a million questions running through his mind, and if you both get out of this, you’d have to answer every single one of them. You owe him that.

“How long is a long time, agent? Explain it in detail,” Casey says. You glance up at Casey and he waves his gun in a ‘go on’ motion, quirking a brow at you.

You roll your lips into your mouth before looking back to Spencer.

“It started shortly after I’d joined the BAU. I’ve always had a massive crush on you,” you huff a small laugh in disbelief. “I’m surprised you’ve never picked up on it. But looks aside, I got to know you. The real you. You quickly became my best friend and the one person in this whole world I trust more than anyone. All of your quirks, your expressions, your moods, your jokes, your brilliant mind, the way you see the world. All of it—it’s always drawn me in, and the more I’ve had the privilege of seeing every side of you, the more I’ve fallen in love with you.

“I can’t,” a tear slips down your cheek as you inhale deeply. “I can’t live in a world where you’re not in it, Spence.”

The silence that settles around you is like a punch to the gut. Spencer stares at you forlornly, and it makes you nearly sick to your stomach.

You’ve fucked it all up, you think.

“Hot damn,” Casey laughs with a sick smile twisted onto his lips. “Sounds like you’ve been holding that one in for a long time.”

Your eyes snap back up to Casey. “Can you let us go now?”

His amused expression turns stone cold in a millisecond.

“Your confession was cute, I’ll admit that. But it’s not enough to keep you alive. Say your goodbyes now.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs so hard you swear to god it’s going to pop out of your chest. A cold sweat catches on your brow, and you tense as Casey cocks his gun. You squeeze your eyes shut and prepare for the worst once again.

You hear a gun shot, but you’re completely unscathed. You open your eyes, seeing Spencer holding a smaller gun in his hand with bloody palms and a very dead Casey Pinkner on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

You let out a heavy breath as you stare at the unsub. You don’t even notice Spencer standing up, coming over to you to help you up from the ground and cutting the duct tape off of your wrists.

You turn around to face him, looking up into his eyes. His expression, for once, is unreadable to you.

You swallow, averting your gaze to his upturned palms in your hands.

“You’re bleeding,” you whisper the obvious.

“I’ll be fine,” he says. It’s so matter-of-fact that it throws you off a little. It’s a stark contrast from the intensity of the scene that just unfolded moments ago.

You gently drop his hands before raising the covers to the pawn shop up again, rushing to help Melissa as Spencer helps her daughter.

“We need medics in here,” you say as the back door of the shop opens.

The medics come take Melissa and her daughter while you and Spencer head outside to your team.

“Kiddo, you’re bleeding,” Dave says, guiding you to another medic on the scene.

You feel the back of your head, and a small bout of blood coats your fingers.

“Fuck,” you sigh, following the medic to the back of the ambulance. You sit on the bumper of the rig, letting the EMT assess your injuries and checking for any signs of a concussion.

You look at Spencer from across the lot, and his eyes lock onto yours like a magnet as an officer is bandaging up his hand.

You look away reluctantly, gazing out at the Los Angeles skyline.

“Alright sweetheart, the cut isn’t too bad. You don’t have a concussion which is good news, but just take it easy okay?”

You nod at her. “Thank you,” you say, shooting her a soft smile before getting up from the bumper.

Your phone rings, and Penelope’s face shows up across the screen.

“Hey Pen,” you say, stepping away from everyone.

“Oh my god, what happened in there?!” She asks, and you wince at the decibel of her ecstatic voice.

“What are you talking about?”

Because, truly, you didn’t really have a clue as to what she meant.

“The unsub- he- had a gun pointed at you and you said something to Spencer that was apparently jarring because his facial expression changed and—”

“Woah, how did you see that?”

“The shop had cameras in it. I was able to hack into them so we had visual, but no audio.”

“Oh.”

“So tell me!”

You hear footsteps approaching behind you.

“I can’t talk about this right now, Pen. I promise I’ll tell you later.”

“You better or I’ll hunt you down myself.”

You laugh at that. “I know you will. I’ll see you when we get back.”

“Garcia?” Spencer’s voice murmurs from behind you.

You turn around to face him, giving him a soft smile.

“How’d you know?”

“You said see you when we get back, so I just assumed it was her.”

“Yeah, it was. I guess she had visual inside the store and saw what the unsub did. She was just worried,” you say.

You feel bad not telling him the whole truth but you really don’t want it to turn into a whole awkward thing.

Well, more awkward than you already felt.

“How’s your head?” The underlying tone of worry is woven into his voice, and your heart melts a little at that.

He’s always shown interest in well-being, especially where you’re concerned.

“I have a tiny headache but I’ll be fine.”

He nods before pursing his lips, looking down at his shoes before speaking.

“Listen… did you really mean what you said in there? Or was that just to get the unsub to lay off as a distraction?”

“Spence—”

“Hey you two, you ready to go home?” Emily asks, nodding her head back to the SUV’s.

You glance up at Spencer with a shy smile.

“We’ll talk later, okay? I promise I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

There really was no point in hiding anymore since you’d already laid all of your cards out on the table not even an hour prior.

He nods once. “Okay.”

-

It’s the day of Dave’s wedding, Penelope invited you over to her place to get ready together.

You’d been busy the past few days, so you really haven’t had a chance to talk to her or Spencer. You briefly wonder if he’s been thinking about you as much as you’ve been thinking about him.

“So, what is it that you told the good doctor? Must’ve been something good, because the unsub was certainly distracted.” She dusts some setting powder across her forehead as she looks at you through the mirror.

“Um,” You gnaw on your lip and fiddle with a loose string on your pajama pant bottoms. “I told him how I feel about him.”

She turns to face you fully.

“What?”

Her undivided attention is on you. Jaw slack, eyes widened in pure disbelief.

“Like full band-aid ripped off, heart on my sleeve, whole deck of cards on the table.”

“Oh my god! How have I never known about this?!”

Guess you were much better at hiding your feelings than you thought.

“I didn’t want my feelings for him to ruin our friendship.”

“Are you kidding me? Had I known that you felt that way I would’ve played matchmaker much sooner. I’ve always thought you two would be perfect together.”

“Pen,” you whisper, shaking your head. Her saying that completely feeds into the imagery that runs through your mind every single day of you and Spencer in a loving relationship. Something much deeper than what already scratches the surface.

“Oh sweets,” she sighs, bringing you into a hug. “Have you talked to him about any of this? Aside from, you know, the whole confession?”

She holds you at arms length, assessing you.

“No. We’ve all been so busy, but I’m willing to be a completely open book about it to him now. Being put in a situation like we were in,” you pause, looking up at the ceiling as you try to recollect yourself. “It really puts a lot of things into perspective. Twice I thought I was going to die that night. The first time, all of my regrets played in my head over and over. My biggest one, though? Never telling Spencer how I feel. I couldn’t go out without telling him. And now? I didn’t die and he knows the full truth, so it’s difficult to navigate where to go from here.”

Her face softens at your little speech. “You two will figure it out. You always have and always will.”

“Thank you.”

She beams at you. “Of course, my pretty. And hey, if you ever need me to be matchmaker… I’ll gladly do so.”

-

Dave’s wedding was short and sweet. The reception was being held at his house, and everyone seemed to be having a great time. Eating, drinking, dancing, laughing.

And you were trying to enjoy yourself, really. But Spencer’s gaze kept landing on you, and it was making your body hot—mostly in nervousness.

You casually slip away from the crowd, walking outside onto the backyard patio for some fresh air.

Breathe in, breathe out.

“Hey,” Spencer says from behind you. You freeze at the sound of his voice, taking a deep breath before turning to look at him.

“Hey, Spence.”

“You look beautiful,” he notes, and your whole body heats at his words. You’re wearing an emerald green floor length chiffon dress with silver heels. Penelope insisted the dress looks striking on you, so you simply took her word for it.

“Thank you. You clean up really well yourself.”

He softly smiles at that before running his eyes over your body.

“Can we talk now?” He doesn’t beat around the bush. He walks up to you, brows furrowed with a serious expression now painting his features.

You look back at everyone inside, and it seems nobody has noticed you two have gone missing.

“Yeah.”

“I have so many questions,” he starts, shaking his head. “But, first and foremost: did you mean what you said?”

You take a half inch step closer to him, searching his eyes briefly. “Every single word.”

He pauses, seemingly contemplating your words. Then: “Why?”

You rear back at that.

“What do you mean why?”

He clocks the hurt look on your face, and he shakes his head again before stepping closer to you, barely leaving any space between your bodies. You’re so close that you could just lean up and kiss him. And you want to. So, so fucking badly.

“I mean, why have you never told me your feelings toward me? Why’d you keep it a secret for so many years?”

Oh. Your shoulders relax a little at that.

“It never seemed like the right time. You were always so closed off about getting close to anyone romantically, and when you finally allowed yourself to, you’d been hurt in the end. Not by choice, of course, but that same wall you let crumble down came back up faster than the speed of light. I also never felt fully ready to tell you. The last thing I ever wanted to do was ruin our friendship if you didn’t feel the same way, and I personally wasn’t ready for rejection or a relationship, if it were to have gone anywhere.”

He nods, and you can see him actively processing your words. “And now?”

You furrow your brows in confusion.

He elaborates. “Are you ready now?”

“I’d like to think so.”

His eyes trail down to your lips, then slowly back up to meet your gaze.

“I know I’ve never been the easiest when it comes to emotions and feelings, especially romantically, so I do apologize for making you feel like you couldn’t come to me and open up about how you really feel. I just—I guess I’m just still having a bit of a hard time wrapping my head around why you’ve kept it in for so long. I just need to know this is real, because fuck, I feel the same about you.”

You gasp at his unexpected counter confession. He grabs your waist gently, pulling your body into his. You practically melt into his touch.

“This is real, Spence. It has been since I first met you all those years ago,” you sigh, resting a hand on his chest. “When I was so certain Melissa was going to shoot me, every single regret I’ve had in my life ran through my mind. But never telling you how I felt sat at the forefront, and it’s like nothing else mattered. Not the what if’s, not the dating other guys to try and get over you, not the thought of rejection if you didn’t feel the same way, not even the devastating thought of losing you as my best friend. I needed you to know—”

Before you can finish your words, Spencer grabs your face and smashes your lips to his. You gasp at the initial contact, but immediately melt into him after as your hands slide up his chest, draping your arms over his shoulders. You move one hand to cup the nape of his neck, bringing you two impossibly closer.

His lips on yours felt cosmic. It felt like a dam breaking, water rushing to flow freely. It felt like time stopped, and only you two existed in the world.

It felt like a very, very long time coming.

Your lungs burn from lack of oxygen, so you reluctantly pull away. You don’t move your body an inch, though, as you stare up mesmerized by his intense gaze.

His fingers move back down to your waist, giving you a soft squeeze.

“I’ve wanted to do that for what felt like an eternity. Your lips always look so soft, I just had to confirm for myself.”

You laugh at that, leaning your forehead onto his chest. His chuckle vibrates his whole body, and you look back up at him.

“So what does this mean for us?”

The idea of you and Spencer being an us coming to fruition sounds nearly foreign to you. You’ve spent so long thinking about it that it sounds… unreal coming from your mouth. Like some kind of sick, twisted dream that you can’t wake up from.

Except this is very real.

“No more missed opportunities. I want you, angel. If you’ll have me.”

“I want nothing more than to be yours, Spencer Reid.”

He smiles at you, leaning down to kiss you again. This time, it’s more raw passion and want than anything else. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip and you happily let him in. Making out on Dave’s back patio definitely wasn’t on your bingo card tonight, but it only proves to yourself that you want nothing more than to have all of Spencer in the most intimate way possible.

You softly moan into him, and his fingers flex against you as he pulls you closer.

“Well it’s about time,” you hear Dave’s voice, and you gasp as you abruptly pull away from Spencer. He keeps his grip tight on you though, refusing to let you go.

“Sorry, Rossi—” you start, but he shakes his head with a chuckle.

“Don’t be sorry. Only took you two over a decade to figure it out for yourselves and let this happen,” he says, wagging his index finger between the both of you. “I’m glad it finally did, though. You two look good together.” He winks at you both before heading back inside.

You huff a laugh in disbelief.

“You wanna head out?” He asks. His eyes are a shade darker and they flicker briefly with an expression you’ve never seen before. Lust, perhaps?

You lick your lips as a surge of delicious desire curls low in your belly.

You lean up to kiss him once more—because you finally can.

“Take me to yours, pretty boy.”

-

Morgan is leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight enough that his knuckles have gone pale. He looks like he’s aged ten years since this morning. 

“He woke up once,” he says quietly. “Couple seconds. Doctor said that’s good.”

You nod without looking away from Spencer. “Good.”

“He’s gonna be okay.”

You try to hum some sort of acknowledgement, some half-hearted agreement you don’t entirely mean because at this point you can’t really know if that’s true, but no sound comes out. Instead, you reach for Spencer’s hand.

His fingers are warm. The plastic hospital bracelet brushes your wrist when you thread your fingers through his, and you feel almost burned by it. Spencer is supposed to have ink smudged on his hands and paper cuts from case files and maybe chalk dust from a man impromptu lecture no one asked him to give. He is not supposed to look fragile under a hospital blanket.

Morgan studies your face for a second, then stands.

“I’m gonna grab some coffee,” he says.

You don’t point out the fact that he already has a half-full coffee cup in his hand. You just nod.

At the door, he pauses. “He was asking about you earlier. Before they brought him here.”

Your grip tightens around Spencer’s hand.

“Just thought you should know,” he says.

Then he leaves, and the room gets even quieter.

You sit there with Spencer’s hand in yours and stare at his face until the anger sharpens again, because anger is a much easier emotion for you to deal with than fear. 

“You absolute idiot,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

—

You had been with Rossi and Emily when you found out.

The day had already felt a bit off-kilter since it started. Anthrax in a park in Annapolis. Dead civilians, sick children, hypermasculine military personnel taking over the BAU and breathing down everyone’s necks. Dr. Kimura from the CDC explained the intensity of this strain in a voice so calm it made the information hard to process. The team had swallowed Cipro in a lame attempt at some sense of control, then scattered across the Washington metropolitan area trying to build a profile before the unsub executed another attack.

You went with Reid and Dr. Kimura to the hospital earlier. You noticed the way his inflection turned clinical as he talked about infection rates and symptom onset, the way his eyes stayed focused on the numbers in the patients’ charts because if he let himself see them as people for too long, he’d feel all of it. You saw the way his focus faltered around Abby, a young woman who just wanted to go on a bike ride around the park and was now experiencing aphasia and severe respiratory distress as she tried to stay alive long enough for a cure to be found. You desperately wanted to touch the back of Spencer’s wrist as you walked beside him in the hallway, but you chose not to, because you were surrounded on all sides by sick people and your relationship did not belong in the middle of it.

You regretted that choice later.

Of all the stupid things to regret, that was the one your brain kept returning to. The touch you hadn’t taken. The two seconds of warmth you’d decided could wait.

By early afternoon, you and Emily were with Rossi following a lead away from the rest of the team, chasing down information on Dr. Lawrence Nichols, a disgraced military scientist who’d been downgraded to working on the flu. Emily was having a tough time with the casual deception a case like this required, so you were talking with her beside the parked SUV when Rossi got a call from Hotch. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as his expression changed and his gaze flicked quickly toward you before it shifted away again.

It was small. Practically nothing. A slight narrowing of his eyes. An almost imperceptible shift.

But still, your stomach went cold.

“What?” you asked.

Rossi lifted one finger, still listening to Hotch on the other end.

Your voice came out sharper. “Rossi.”

He lowered the phone. “Morgan and Reid went to check out Nichols’ house.”

You waited.

Rossi’s jaw tightened. “Nichols is dead. The house is contaminated with anthrax.”

For a second, your hearing went thin, and the whole street seemed to drop underwater. Emily shifted beside you. A car passed behind the SUV, tires hissing against pavement, and all of it reached you half a second late. Emily said something, but you didn’t catch it. Your eyes were fixed on Rossi because you knew there was more coming. You’ve been around the block enough times to know that people always pause before saying the worst part out loud, as if a few seconds of silence can soften the impact of devastation.

“Reid discovered the body and the exposure site inside,” Rossi said. “He sealed himself in before Morgan could enter.”

All at once, heat rushed up the back of your neck. Your hand went tight around the car door handle you hadn’t realized you were holding. Somewhere at the edge of your vision, Emily went still.

“Is he in decontamination protocol now? Or is he already at the hospital?” 

Rossi didn’t answer fast enough, which was an answer in itself.

You turned away from both of them and walked three steps before bending forward, hands braced on your knees as you searched for breath.

Emily approached cautiously.

“I’m fine,” you snapped automatically.

“That’s not what I asked. I said Hotch wants to talk to you.”

You straightened slowly, smoothed your hands down your blazer, and took the phone from her.

“Tell me exactly what’s going on,” you said too fast as soon as you got the phone up to your ear.

Hotch did. He gave you all the facts he had: Nichols had been dead for days. There was anthrax spilled in the lab and the AC was blasting it through the house. Definitely a homicide, and whoever killed Nichols was likely responsible for the recent attacks. Reid had gone inside and accidentally stumbled upon the scene, shutting Morgan out before he could follow him inside. Kimura and the CDC team were on their way with protective equipment and a decon shower, but Reid was refusing to leave, instead insisting on working the profile from inside since he was already exposed. 

Already exposed.

Those words had a sharp, horrible finality to them. 

“What do you mean, he’s refusing to leave? You’re his boss, Hotch. Make him leave.”

Hotch’s voice stayed even, but there was strain under it. “He believes there may be an antidote or identifying information on the partner inside the house. He’s continuing to work the scene until one or both of those things are located.”

You pinched the skin between your brows. “Get him on this call for me.”

Emily turned fully toward you then. Rossi was watching with the careful stillness of someone standing near a live wire. Hotch said nothing.

You swallowed hard. “Hotch, transfer me to Reid’s phone, now. I think we all know he won’t answer if I call him myself, and I need to talk some sense into him.”

“He’s working.”

“Hotch. Please.”

The silence that followed was very, very loaded.

Then Hotch said, “Give me a minute.”

You lowered the phone a little and stared at nothing for a second. Your chest felt too tight, your blood too loud, every part of your body braced for impact. Emily came to stand beside you, but she didn’t try to touch you, and you appreciated that more than you could say.

“He’s going to do everything he can to find the cure and track down the unsub and get out of there,” she said.

“I know.”

“He’s Reid. If there’s something in that house to find, he’ll find it.”

“I know.”

And you did know. That was the problem. You knew him so well there was no room to be surprised. Spencer would knowingly stay in a room full of anthrax because people were dying and he had a chance to stop it. He would put his lungs and brain and life on the line to prevent the person responsible for the prior attacks and Nichols’ death from taking any more lives. You’d expect nothing less from Spencer Reid, and right now, you hated him for it.

A muffled voice came through the phone before you could fully catch your breath.

When you lifted it back to your ear, you heard movement first. Then Spencer.

“Hi.”

He sounded too normal.

You gripped the phone so hard your fingers hurt. “Do not hi me right now, Spencer Reid.”

A tiny pause. Then, softer, “Okay.”

“Are you symptomatic?”

“Not really.”

“Spencer,” you said.

“I’m okay right now,” he said, before you could ask again. “Kimura’s team is coming in soon. We’re currently in a limited window where I’m still useful and the scene is still viable.”

“Oh, goodie. Well, as long as you’re useful, everything’s just fine then,” you bit out.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “you know what I mean.”

Emily looked away. Rossi did too, like they were granting you privacy by pretending not to hear the sharpness in your voice.

Spencer was quiet for a second. You pictured him inside Nichols’ house, phone held close, hair falling in his face. You pictured powder on the floor, sealed doors. You pictured him alone in there.

“I found a second workspace,” he said. “There’s a bunch of notebooks filled with different handwriting, so it definitely doesn’t belong to Nichols. Whoever this desk belongs to is probably our unsub.”

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you leaned your forehead against the SUV door and forced yourself to breathe through your nose. “You need to go to the hospital.”

“I will.”

“Now, Spence.”

He paused. “I’ll go as soon as I can.”

Your throat tightened. 

“You do realize you’re a person too, right?” you asked. “Not just a brain with a badge and a duty to uphold.”

Despite everything, you heard the faintest breath of a laugh. “I’m aware.”

“Great. Then act like it.”

“I am acting like it,” he said, and there it was, his signature stubbornness. “Leaving now wouldn’t make me safer in any meaningful way if we still can’t identify the unsub and still don’t have an antidote for the strain. If I can figure it out from in here, there’s a chance we can save the patients at the hospital, and me.”

You pressed your free hand over your eyes.

“Don’t do that,” you said.

“Do what?”

“Make sense.”

His quiet inhale caught slightly. Maybe from the anthrax, or maybe from you. It was hard to tell.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“But you’re still staying.”

“For now,” he said.

You sighed softly and rubbed your temple with your free hand. “You’re so frustrating.”

“I know.”

“And arrogant.”

“I can be, on occasion.”

“And so ungodly, unbelievably stupid.”

“Well, technically, I’m quantifiably a genius, although I don’t believe—”

“Spencer.”

“I know you’re angry with me,” he said quietly.

“You have no idea how much.”

“Well, I think I have some idea. I know you.”

“No, you really don’t.” You looked down at your boots. “Because if you did, you’d be walking out of that house right now.”

His voice went softer. “If I thought walking out was the thing most likely to get me back to you, I would. I promise you, I would.”

That took every bit of air out of you.

Spencer didn’t rush to fill the silence. He just let the words sit there, awful and sincere and completely unfair.

Then he said, “I’m not trying to scare you.”

“Well, you’re doing a damn good job for someone who isn’t trying,” you replied. You blinked hard, furious at your body for even considering tears when rage was so much more useful.

“Listen to me,” you said. “Find what you need to find, and then you get the hell out. No extra detours or noble self-sacrificing bullshit. Got it?”

“I’ll be careful,” he said.

There was more noise on his end now. Another voice. Hotch, maybe, through the sealed door closing him inside. 

“I have to go,” Spencer said, pausing before he added: “I love you.”

You dug your fingernails into your palm.

“Don’t say it like that,” you whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re only saying it in case it’s the last thing I hear from you.”

He took a shaky breath. “I’m saying it because it’s true,” he said firmly. “And because I want to say it. That’s all, okay? I love you.”

You swallowed, and when you spoke again, your voice was steadier than you felt. “I love you too. Stop being a hero and get back to me.”

“I will.”

The line clicked dead a second later.

You kept the phone against your ear long after there was nothing left to hear.

—

The next time Spencer let himself think about you, really think about you, he was sitting on the floor with poison in the air and sweat cooling at the back of his neck.

By then, his body had started showing signs of distress. The cough had come first, small enough that he tried to classify it as irritation from the environment, from dust, from the pollen in the garden outside. Then came the ache behind his eyes, the heat under his skin, the faint tremor in his hand that he could ignore if he kept it busy, if he kept turning pages, pulling drawers open, reading notes, forcing pieces of Dr. Nichols’ life into order.

He was aware of each symptom with miserable precision. He knew exactly what they meant. He also knew the unsub was still out there with a larger attack planned, so his personal awareness changed nothing. His body could be evidence later. Right now, he had work to do.

Still, there came a point when he had to step back and admit how serious things had gotten.

Garcia’s voice shook through the phone when he asked her to record a message for his mother. She tried to be brave about it. He could hear the effort it took, could picture her sitting at her desk with all that color and joy around her while despair leaked through anyway. 

He recorded his message to Diana as steadily as he could.

He said all the things a son should say when he’s trying very hard to say goodbye without sounding like he’s saying goodbye. He kept his voice gentle. He tried not to cough in the middle of it. He nearly failed once, clearing his throat to get the urge to pass. When he finished, Garcia was silent for a few seconds.

“Okay,” she said finally, and he could hear the tears in her voice. “Okay, I got it.”

Spencer swallowed. He was covered in a sheen of sweat. His throat hurt. Everything hurt, actually, in a diffuse, widespread way he disliked for its lack of specificity. “Garcia?”

“Yeah, boy wonder?”

He closed his eyes.

He had been trying not to ask. He had been trying to tell himself that the message to his mother was already indulgent enough, that he did not have the right to take more time away from the case for something that served no immediate operational purpose. But the thought of you never getting to hear his voice again if this went badly kept pressing against the inside of his ribs until it became impossible to ignore.

“Can you, uh, record one more message for me?”

Garcia inhaled sharply.

“Oh,” she whispered, understanding immediately. “Of course. Yeah, of course I can.”

Spencer opened his eyes and looked around the room. Papers were spread across the floor in front of him, Dr. Nichols’ handwriting scrawled across margins and folders and binders. Somewhere outside, people were moving around in protective suits, building a perimeter, preparing to come in as soon as they could. Out in the field somewhere, you were trying to work despite your fury and fear. He knew that with the same certainty he knew his own name, the same certainty with which he could recite the periodic table in order by atomic number. You were angry because you were scared. You were scared because you loved him. That thought — that you loved him — probably should have brought some comfort; instead, it made his chest ache worse than the cough did.

“Ready whenever you are,” Garcia said, softly enough that it almost didn’t sound like her.

Spencer tried to take a breath deep enough to steady himself. It caught halfway down. He turned aside, coughed hard into his elbow, and waited for the room to stop tilting.

Then he looked down at his hands, at the pale dust along his cuffs, at the pulse ticking too fast beneath his skin, and began.

“Hi,” he said simply, because every other possible opening sounded wrong — either too formal, or too casual, or too final. He let out a breath that was almost a laugh and tried again. “You’re going to hate this. I know that. You’re probably already furious with me, and you’ve got every right to be, so if this message makes you even more furious, I’m sorry.

“I just need you to know that I wasn’t trying to be a martyr. I know you’ll think that’s what it was, some ‘noble self-sacrificing bullshit’ like you called it earlier, but that’s not what this is for me.” He paused, eyes stinging. “I keep thinking if I find the right thing fast enough, if I can connect the dots, then maybe we can stop the next attack and everyone at the hospital would have a chance. Maybe I would, too.

“And I keep thinking about you. I don’t know if that helps or makes it worse, but I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I thought about you being mad at me, and about the way you must’ve been rolling your eyes when we were on the phone earlier, and about your apartment, and the coffee you pretend to like when I make it too sweet, and the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

A cough broke through him. He bent forward, eyes squeezed shut, one hand braced against the floor. It took too long to stop. When he lifted the phone again, his voice had gone hoarse around the edges.

“I wanted more time with you,” he said. “I wanted more ordinary days. That’s— that’s what I keep coming back to, which is strange, because technically, ordinary days are the least remarkable kind, but I think those are the ones I’ll miss the most. You at my desk stealing pens, and you pretending not to smile when I say something you think is ridiculous, and you falling asleep before the end of a movie and denying it in the morning. 

“And if you’re hearing this, I know you’re going to want to do the thing where you decide this proves some terrible theory you’ve always had about what happens when you let people matter too much, but…”

His eyes burned. Because of the fever, maybe. Heartbreak, definitely.

“Don’t do that. Please, please don’t do that. Don’t let this be the reason you shut everyone out. I know it took a lot for you to let me in, and I know asking this is unfair, and I hate that I can’t say it to you in person, but I need you to keep letting people love you. You have to let them stay.”

He coughed again, violent enough this time to make his whole chest seize. 

“The team loves you,” he said. “You know that. Garcia will smother you with affection and care packages. Morgan will check on you constantly and won’t even pretend to act cool about it. JJ will know when you’re lying about being fine before you can finish a sentence, so don’t try. Emily will sit beside you casually and pretend she isn’t worried, because she knows you hate being handled.” A faint, broken smile pulled at his mouth. “Rossi will feed you, so get ready to eat a lot of pasta. Hotch will give you space and somehow still make sure you’re never truly alone.”

He swallowed hard.

“And Elle… Call her. Please. She was there once when you needed her. Let her be there for you again.”

The words felt intrusive, maybe, as if he was reaching into parts of your life he had no right to touch. But if this was all he got, if this recording became the last shape his love ever took, he needed it to be honest.

“I don’t want you to be alone,” he said, voice breaking. “I don’t want you to decide that losing me means you were right to keep the door locked. I can’t bear it, so please, do this for me.”

He pressed his thumb into the crease of his palm until the tremor in it settled.

“I love you. I know you know that. I know I say it all the time now, probably too much, and if I get out of here you can complain about that for the rest of our lives and I won’t argue with you. But if I don’t,” he said, forcing himself through it, “then I need you to know that loving you was never something I regretted. Not for one second. And being loved by you was… it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

A sound came suddenly from outside the room. Movement. Voices. The heavy plastic rustle of protective equipment. He looked up and saw shapes gathering beyond the doorway, bright orange suits and face shields and Dr. Kimura’s focused eyes as her team entered the house.

He looked back down at the phone. There was so much more he wanted to say. There would always be so much more. That was the terrible thing about loving you — no matter what he said, it could never be enough to cover it.

“I have to go,” he said. “I’m going to try very hard to make sure you never have to hear this.”

Then, quieter:

“I love you. I really, really love you. Keep letting people in, okay?”

Garcia made a tiny broken sound through the phone, then cut the recording and the call before he could hear her cry.

—

The day stitched together in pieces after that.

Rossi and Emily kept you updated as information moved through the team, and Morgan called whenever there was a concrete update on what was going on in the house. Garcia called once too, telling you they had a name now — Chad Brown — and that Reid had been right about Nichols not working alone. There was a protégé. A student. A man with knowledge and access and ideology and rage.

You remember standing with your arms folded so tightly across your chest that your shoulders started to ache. You remember Emily offering you water and you pretending not to hear her. You remember Rossi telling you to sit down, not as an order, but in that low, paternal way of his that made you want to be even more difficult on principle. You remember staring at your phone until your eyes burned, as if your fear could force Spencer’s name to appear on the screen.

Mostly, you remember waiting.

When Hotch finally called, his voice was steady. They had Brown. The attack on the Metro had been stopped. Reid and Kimura’s team found what they needed. Reid was out of the house and had been decontaminated. Paramedics had transported him to the hospital where the treatment was being prepared, and Kimura was hopeful, and they would know more soon. 

“Is he conscious?” you asked.

“Last we heard, yes,” Hotch said, and the words scraped through you. “Morgan is on the way to Walter Reed now to see what’s going on.”

You wanted to ask if Spencer had asked for you, but you didn’t. It felt too naked, somehow. Too pathetic. So you just said, “I’m on my way,” and Hotch didn’t waste anyone’s time pretending he could stop you.

Garcia found you before you made it out of the building.

She looked wrecked. Her mascara had smudged at the corners, and she had one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee she clearly hadn’t touched. She stopped in front of you like she wanted to hug you, then thought better of it, although it looked like that decision pained her immensely.

“He really, really loves you,” she said quietly.

The words were so abrupt, so earnest, that for a second you could only stare at her.

“I know,” you said.

Garcia nodded too fast. “I know you know. I just—” Her mouth trembled, and she pressed it together. “I just needed to make sure. I wanted you to hear it.”

Something about her face made your chest tighten. There was more to it — something she wasn’t saying, something she was holding back. You could see it in the way she looked at you, nervous and guilty and gentle all at once.

But Penelope Garcia, for all her usual glitter and gossip and inability to mind her own business, could keep a secret when it really mattered.

So you let her.

You just reached for her hand, squeezed once, and pushed through the doors to the parking lot.

—

Now, as you sit in an ungodly stiff chair next to his hospital bed, Spencer’s fingers move against yours.

It’s small. Barely anything. An involuntary twitch, maybe. But it’s enough of a movement to assume it could mean something bigger if you’re desperate enough, and apparently you are, because you go still so suddenly Morgan looks up from the cup of red Jell-O he’s been eating with a plastic spoon.

“Reid?” Morgan says.

Spencer’s brow furrows.

For a second, nothing happens. Then his eyes open slowly, heavy and unfocused at first. He blinks up at the ceiling like he’s trying very hard to decipher what type of room the ceiling belongs to.

Morgan moves, relief breaking over his face. “Hey, kid.”

Spencer’s gaze shifts toward him. It takes effort. Everything about his movements right now looks like it takes effort.

His voice comes out rough. “Are you eating Jell-O?”

Morgan cracks a wide grin. “Man, you almost die from a bioweapon and this is what you wake up concerned about?”

Spencer blinks slowly. “Is there any more Jell-O?”

Your laugh escapes before you can stop it. It’s small and wet and humiliating, and Spencer’s eyes move immediately toward the sound.

The drowsy confusion in his face shifts, turning into something so relieved and so sorry that all the air you just got back leaves you again.

“Hi,” he says.

You swallow. “Hi.”

Morgan looks between the two of you for half a second, then pushes himself out of his chair. “I’m gonna go tell Dr. Kimura that Sleeping Beauty here is awake,” he says. “And apparently find more Jell-O.”

Spencer’s mouth twitches faintly. “Green, if they have it.”

“You’re lucky I’m pretty much obligated to be nice to you right now,” Morgan tells him sarcastically, but his hand lands on Spencer’s shoulder for a second before he leaves, firm and warm and full of things he’ll probably never say out loud.

Then the door closes behind him and the room is quiet again, but it isn’t the same quiet as before, because Spencer’s awake now. His eyes are open. His fingers are caught between yours, weak but there, his thumb making the smallest attempt to move against your skin.

There’s too many feelings to parse through. Relief, first. Relief so enormous it can barely fit inside your body, but somehow it does, pressing against the anger and terror and frustration you also feel, against all the miserable little aftershocks of the day. 

For a moment, you just look at him.

He looks terrible. Pale, sweaty, hair mussed, lips dry, throat probably raw from coughing and whatever else his body has been through. He also looks alive.

You want to kiss him.

You want to hit him.

You settle for tightening your hold on his hand and saying, very evenly, “I’m so mad at you.”

Spencer closes his eyes for a second.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t,” you say, because the calmness is already slipping. “You really, truly do not. I possess levels of anger right now that are previously unrecorded in modern psychiatry.”

His mouth curves faintly, but it fades almost immediately. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

Spencer looks at you for a long second, too tired to dress the truth up into anything gentle. “I’m sorry for what it did to you,” he says. His voice is rough and low, dragged out of a throat that still isn’t ready to cooperate. “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, and I’m sorry that when I did, I couldn’t tell you what you wanted to hear.” He pauses, breathing carefully. “But if I had left before we found what we needed, people could have died.”

You stare at the bed rail.

You know the exact reason behind the choice he made, because you’ve made choices with the same bones. Spencer’s been on the other side of this with you before. Not with anthrax in your lungs, obviously, but in basements and alleys and warehouses and too many places where you put the job before your own safety without a second thought. 

You hate that. You hate him a little for making it impossible to be purely angry.

“I know,” you say, voice quieter now. “I know you’re right. Or close enough to right that I can’t even enjoy being mad at you properly.”

Spencer gives you a weak, exhausted almost-smile. “I’m sorry for that too.”

You look back at him, and the sight of him ruins you all over again.

“You could have died, Spencer,” you manage to say in a hoarse whisper.

His expression changes. The humor disappears, what little there was of it. His fingers tighten around yours with visible effort.

Your voice shakes, and that irritates you enough to make your eyes burn. “I know you. I know you weren’t actually trying to be some self-sacrificing hero, even though you have a very irritating talent for landing there by accident. I know I probably would’ve done the same thing, which is frustrating because it makes my moral high ground very unstable.” You inhale, careful and shaky. “But I was so scared, Spencer. I was so scared I couldn’t pretend to be normal about it.”

He looks at you like that sentence hurts him worse than anything else.

“I thought about that too much,” he says.

You frown. “About what?”

“You. Being scared.” His eyes drift down to your joined hands. “I thought about you being angry, and about you pretending you weren’t afraid because Rossi and Emily were there. I kept thinking…” His brow creases faintly, concentration pulling through the haze. “I kept thinking if I could just find the answer, then maybe I’d get back to you before anyone else could see your fear. I knew you’d hate it if they could.”

You let out a breath that breaks in the middle. Your free hand lifts before you really decide to move, fingers hovering near his face. He watches you do it, quiet and trusting, and that almost makes it worse.

You brush his hair back from his forehead, and his eyes close.

The simple trust of it dismantles you a little. You had spent the whole day imagining him behind sealed doors, breathing poisoned air, making logical arguments while his body betrayed him by degrees. Now he’s here, under your hand, alive and exhausted and still somehow trying to be gentle with you when he’s the one in the hospital bed.

“I love you,” you say. “And I genuinely hate you right now.”

Spencer’s eyes open again, slow and soft. “That seems pretty fair.”

Your laugh comes out wet. You look away, but he squeezes your hand before you can get far.

“I love you too,” he says. “And I know it doesn’t make it better, but I was trying to make sure I could get back to you. That was the point. I know it looked like I was choosing the work over everything else, but I wasn’t. The work was my way out.”

You turn back toward him.

He looks exhausted by the length of his own words, breaths a little uneven, but his eyes stay on yours. 

“I know,” you whisper, because you do. “I know, Spence.”

You lean forward carefully, giving him time to shift away if he needs to, but he doesn’t. He tilts his face up the smallest amount, and you press your mouth to his.

The kiss is soft by necessity. There’s no heat in it, not really — not the kind the two of you are used to. His lips are chapped and warm and careful beneath yours, and for one long, holy second, all you can focus on is that you get to do this again. You get to kiss him in a hospital bed and hate the reason for it, but you still have him here to kiss. You get the fragile press of his mouth, the weak squeeze of his fingers around yours, the proof that his body is still a living thing and not a memory you’ll spend the rest of your life surviving. It isn’t enough to undo the day, but it gives your fear and love somewhere to go. It’s a promise made with whatever energy he has left.

When you pull back, your forehead rests near his temple.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you murmur.

“I know.

“If you ever do that again, I will murder you myself.”

“I know.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I know.”

You pull back enough to glare at him. “Normally you’d argue with at least one of those.”

His tired smile is tiny and perfect. “I’m conserving my energy.”

The door opens after a soft knock, and Dr. Kimura steps in with Morgan hovering behind her, a green Jell-O cup in one hand and a fresh coffee in the other.

“Look who I found,” Morgan says.

Spencer nods at Dr. Kimura before his gaze flicks to the Jell-O. “Is that for me?”

Morgan chuckles. “Yeah, kid, it’s for you.”

You wipe quickly under one eye with your thumb and try to regain whatever dignity you can scrape off the floor.

Kimura checks Spencer over. Vitals, pupils, lungs, cognitive questions he answers with enough impressive precision to make Kimura’s eyebrows lift. Morgan stays near the doorway, and you don’t let go of Spencer’s hand the entire time.

Eventually, the room settles again.

Morgan leaves the Jell-O on the tray and tells Spencer not to be a pain in the ass to you or any of the nurses. Dr. Kimura tells him he’s on the mend but needs a lot of rest, and Spencer nods, probably because he knows you wouldn’t give him a choice anyway.

Once it’s just the two of you alone in the room again, your anger has gone a bit quieter. It’s still there, and knowing you, it’ll probably stay there for a while, tucked stubbornly behind your ribs, ever-present but currently overshadowed by disgusting amounts of relief and love.

Spencer’s eyes are already slipping closed.

“Sleep,” you say.

“Will you stay?”

You sit back and wrap both hands around his. “Yeah, genius, I’ll stay. Obviously.”

The corner of his mouth turns up into a crooked, sleepy smile. “Good.”

It takes less than a minute for him to fall asleep again.

This time, watching him sleep doesn’t feel like waiting for the floor to disappear beneath you. His breathing is still rougher than you’d like, and his face is still too pale, but the monitor keeps a steady rhythm. Alive. Alive. Alive. His fingers are warm under yours, and there’s a green Jell-O cup sitting unopened on the tray because, apparently, even near-death experiences cannot kill Spencer Reid’s bizarre snack preferences. You know he’ll ask for a spoon as soon as he’s awake again and his appetite comes back.

You do not know about the recording.

You do not know that somewhere, locked carefully behind Garcia’s cyberdefenses, there is a version of his voice trying to love you through the worst possible outcome. You do not know that he spent the better part of what might’ve been his last hour on earth trying to make sure you would be okay. 

But maybe it’s better you don’t know.

You don’t need the version of him that said goodbye. You need this one: alive, stubborn, fever-warm, breathing steadily with Jell-O waiting untouched beside him.

His fingers twitch against yours again in sleep.

You keep holding on. You hold on, and you stay. ᝰ.ᐟ

this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️

“Can I come in?”

Spencer’s voice lights your face with one of those involuntary, almost girlish smiles that you’re never quite able to fend off. It’s the kind of smile you’d expect from a highschooler whose crush just said hello to her by the lockers, and not from a grown, mature woman such as yourself—if you can call yourself that.

“No.”

Damn it, you can hear it in your voice.

You don’t know what it is about him that makes you so…kittenish, almost. You’ve never been a particularly bashful person; you don’t blush easily, you don’t smile at the sound of someone’s voice, your stomach doesn’t do somersaults when you catch someone’s eye. You’ve always been confident. Unaffected. Some would go as far as to call you aloof.

Every relationship you’ve ever had has settled into a kind of mundanity, and that isn’t at all meant in a negative way. Sparks dim, honeymoon phases fizzle out, butterflies go into hibernation—it’s normal.

And your relationship with Spencer Reid, by that logic, is decidedly abnormal. You live with him, have lived with him for over a year now, and yet every time he walks into the room you still find yourself staring. Transfixed. Your heart flutters, your stomach flips, and your lips curl into that cursed smile. It’s disgusting, really, how much you like him.

You aren’t surprised when the bathroom door opens. Steam rushes out into the dimly lit bedroom, and Spencer pokes his head in. He, too, is smiling like an idiot. And he, too, is desperately trying not to; he’s trying to pout, by the looks of it, and he isn’t doing a very good job.

“What’s up?” you ask.

“Nothing.” He shrugs and steps into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. “I missed you.”

“I’ve only been in here for—”

“Forty-three minutes,” he says, “and fifteen seconds.”

“And you can’t last forty-three minutes and fifteen seconds without me?”

Spencer puts his entire face into that pout: he frowns, closes his eyes, juts out his bottom lip far beyond what should be natural, and he crosses the room with his arms outstretched like a touch-deprived, attention-seeking zombie as he wails, “no.”

You press your lips together, suppressing a grin as his hands settle on your shoulders. He pulls you into a hug, pressing your body flush against his.

“Ugh, Spence— I’m all wet…”

“Don’t care.”

He mumbles this into the damp skin of your shoulder, just above your collarbone, and he presses a kiss to where the words landed before pulling back to gaze at you. 

You tilt your head slightly, looking up at him with mock sympathy. “How on earth do you survive without me at work?”

“I languish,” he whines. “I sit at my desk, and I wither away.”

“You…” you sigh. “…are so dramatic.”

“I thought it was one of my charms?”

“Maybe. The—” he cuts you off with a peck on the lips, and you gently push him away. “The shower’s free. Go on.”

Spencer hums, acknowledging your words, but he doesn’t move.

“Just one more minute,” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help but smile at his affections—and you do allow him one more minute before pushing him away. You scan the bathroom in search of your lotion, but Spencer grabs the bottle before you can.

“Thanks—”

…and he holds it out of your reach as you try to take it from him.

Your face falls, and you cross your arms. “What?”

“I was thinking…maybe I could help you,” he poses, keeping his voice light and innocent on the off chance that you might not see straight through him.

“Help?”

“Get the, uh…hard-to-reach areas,” he clarifies with a smile.

“Uh huh.” You nod, eyeing him sceptically. “You just want to feel me up.”

Spencer’s jaw drops, and his mouth contorts into this comical, overly surprised ‘o’ shape. He shakes his head adamantly, brown hair falling into his eyes as he says, “that’s not— …the only reason.”

You click your tongue, trying to keep up your façade of mild disinterest even as you begin tugging at your towel. “At least you’re honest.”

Spencer does not try at all to hide the way his gaze fixes on your body as you remove your towel, trailing over every inch of you before putting on this big, stupid-looking grin. He leans in to kiss you—properly, this time—anchoring one hand at the back of your neck whilst the other keeps a tight hold of the lotion bottle. You let him have his way for a moment or two, or three, before pulling away.

“Hey,” you snap your fingers, donning the sternest expression you can muster, “moisturise me.”

He sighs, puffing air into his cheeks before pressing one final kiss to your forehead. “Okay, Lady Cassandra,” he mutters, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. “Turn around for me.”

You turn away as he pops open the bottle of lotion, and you hear it sputter as he squeezes some onto his hand. The pause that follows as he sets the bottle aside is oddly anticipatory, and then his hands come, gently, into contact with your back. 

That’s another thing about Spencer Reid—he’s more or less a human radiator. His hands are always warm, no matter the conditions. You seek him out for warmth in the winter, snuggling up to him at any chance you can get, and you avoid him like the plague in the summer. He does, however, have a profound fondness for cuddles, so you often end up toughing it out and letting yourself overheat—for his sake.

His touch alleviates a tension you didn’t know you were carrying. You feel your shoulders loosen as you breathe out a quiet sigh. Spencer works the lotion into your skin with great care, working in sections as he advances down your back until he’s crouching behind you, massaging lotion into your sides, your hips and, finally, your ass.

“Your favouritism is showing,” you mutter.

“I—” Spencer scoffs. “I’m just ensuring that there is even coverage—”

“You’re ensuring that you get to fondle my ass,” you interrupt, correcting him. You’re sure he can hear the smile infiltrating your voice. “Meanwhile my legs are drying up.”

You hear him huff, and his hands briefly leave your body as he squeezes more lotion into his palm before turning his attention to your right thigh. He tends to each leg separately, and even throws in a brief, unexpected calf massage before rising to his feet.

“You’re very…shiny,” he notes as he picks up the bottle for a third time.

“This is how I stay silky smooth.”

One at a time, Spencer works his way down your arms. He stops at your wrists, avoiding your hands—clearly, you’ve complained one too many times about hating the feeling of lotion on your palms. “I don’t moisturise like this,” he says, “and I’m silky smooth.”

“You can always be silkier and smoother.”

“Mhm. And would you do this for me? Slather me in lotion until I’m all slippery?”

“Ew. Don’t say it like that. But yes, I would…slather you, if you asked me to.”

Spencer leans in to kiss your cheek as his hands trail down to your stomach. “So kind,” he murmurs, grinning. “How lucky I am to have someone so willing to smear lotion all over me.”

“I hope you’re grateful.”

“Always.”

His lips meet the side of your neck just as his hands move up to your chest. He squeezes you, gently, just enough to make your breath catch just before your hands close around his wrists, and you pull his hands away.

“And we’re done,” you announce, turning back to him.

Spencer frowns. “But I didn’t do your collarbones.”

“I can do my own collarbones—”

“Please?”

He’s pouting again, staring at you with those big, stupid brown eyes like you’re depriving him of something sacred.

“…fine.”

Spencer steps forward, and he carefully massages the last of the lotion into your collarbones with a proud smile. His fingers dance along your skin, touch so light it almost feels reverent.

Crushes are supposed to subside with time. The giddiness, the novelty, it’s all supposed to wear off within the first few months of dating. And yet every time you find yourself like this, face to face with him, close enough to feel his breath on your skin, giddiness is all you can feel.

As much as you try to hide it, you have the biggest crush on your boyfriend. And you can’t see it going away any time soon. You don’t want it to go away. Ever. 

“There we go.”

Spencer backs up a little to admire his work—or, more accurately, to admire you—with a grin that almost stretches from one ear to the other, splitting his face with a joy that is almost infectious. Almost. 

“Thanks, Doc.” You give him a nod, maintaining a perfectly neutral expression as you gesture to the shower. “Now go, it’s your turn.”

“Actually, I was wondering if—”

“I’m not showering with you, Spence,” you say. That damn pout returns full force as you turn him down, but you don’t let it dissuade you. “You just emptied half a bottle of lotion onto me. That’s like, four dollars.”

“But—”

“Shower. Now. You stink.”

“I don’t stink.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Well, actually, statistics show that couples often enjoy each other’s natural body odour, so—”

“Yes, but you have work tomorrow. I doubt the BAU will appreciate your stench as much as I do.”

“Fine.”

He begins fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, hurriedly undoing them as you turn to leave. He catches you by the arm before you make it to the door, and he presses the shirt into your hand with a sly smile.

“I love you.”

Barely able to bite back a smile of your own, you take the shirt off his hands. It’s warm, worn, and smells unapologetically of him. You slip it on like it’s your own.

“I love you, too—and don’t take too long, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Seeing the things you saw every day never got easier. It never dulled. Not truly. No matter how many cases you closed, how many reports you filed, or how many reassurances you whispered to yourself that it was “just part of the job,” the images lodged themselves stubbornly behind your eyes. They resurfaced in the fragile, half-lit space between waking and sleep, where logic dissolved, where the world felt unmoored and memory ran riot. Some nights, they came at you in jagged shards. Faces without names, eyes wide with terror, blood that would not wash from your hands, screams that looped endlessly in your mind, refusing to be silenced. Other nights, the horror didn’t take shape, didn’t insist on narrative. It simply pressed down, a dull, omnipresent ache inside your skull that pulsed with every heartbeat, dragging your thoughts through viscous fog. Hours after the case had technically concluded, you still felt it there, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness, leaving you unsteady, as if your brain itself had lost the ability to process the world normally.

Pretending you were fine, the practiced mask you showed the victims’ families as they sobbed into your shoulder, had long become second nature. But pretending you weren’t in love with your coworker required a level of discipline you could only maintain for so long.

Especially not here, wedged into a booth at a dimly lit bar with the low hum of conversation pressing in from all sides. The room was full of profilers, which somehow made everything worse. Too many observant eyes. Too many people trained to notice the smallest deviations in behavior, the slightest changes in posture or tone. You nursed your drink carefully, letting the cold glass ground you, while Emily sat close enough that her knee bumped yours every time she shifted, and Penelope hovered on your other side like a bright, determined force of nature, utterly committed to the idea that you were going to have fun, whether your nervous system agreed or not.

Morgan and JJ laughed loudly at something Penelope said, and for a moment you let yourself smile along with them, letting the music and the alcohol blur the sharp edges of the day. They kept refilling your glass, kept asking questions, kept dragging you into conversations that required just enough focus to keep your thoughts from spiraling back to the case. It was sweet, really, their way of anchoring you to the present, but it also made the knot in your chest tighten. Because Spencer wasn’t there. And without him across the room, without the subtle weight of his gaze finding you instinctively, you felt off-balance, like you’d lost a familiar point of reference.

But he had taken a few days off. A minor injury, he said, just a cut and a bruise above his eyebrow, the result of protecting you from an unsub who had come too close. Now he was away, tending to his mother, and the world felt off in his absence. It was selfish, of course, to miss him this much. And yet, every instinct in your body longed for him: the quiet presence across the table, the faint scent he left on his coat, the way his nervous energy somehow steadied your own. You traced the rim of your glass absentmindedly, wishing for him to materialize from the crowd, wishing for the familiar tilt of his head, the low hum of thought behind his eyes.

Damn.

“That guy definitely wants something,” Emily said beside you, leaning in with a grin as she gestured toward the bar. You followed her gaze to the man who had been stealing glances at you all night, confidence written into his posture. A moment later, a bartender appeared, setting a sleek, expensive-looking drink in front of you with a nod in the man’s direction.

You barely hesitated before sliding the glass away. “I’m not interested, thanks,” you said, firm but polite, pushing it back toward the bartender.

JJ raised her eyebrows, amused. “Wow. Not even a sip?”

“I didn’t ask for it,” you replied, shrugging, though your fingers curled a little tighter around your own glass.

Penelope gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Do you realize how hot you have to be for strangers to just send you drinks? You’re wasting valuable flirting potential.”

Emily laughed. “She does this every time. Completely unfazed. It’s impressive, honestly.”

“You know,” Morgan said suddenly, eyeing you over the rim of his bottle, a teasing glint in his eyes, “this would be a lot easier if you just had a boyfriend.”

JJ nodded along, grinning. “Seriously. It’d save us all the trouble of watching men strike out all night.”

You rolled your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “I’m doing just fine without one.”

“Uh-huh,” Morgan said, clearly unconvinced. “Sure you are. You turn down free drinks, avoid flirting, and spend half the night staring at the door like you’re waiting for someone.”

JJ tilted her head, studying you with that calm, perceptive expression that made suspects crumble. “You know,” she said slowly, “you don’t act like someone who’s single.”

Oh.

You laughed, a little too quickly. “There’s no correct way to act single.”

Morgan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Sure there is. And you don’t fit it. You turn down drinks, avoid flirting, and spend most of the night talking about work or—” he paused, grinning, “—Reid.”

“What? I do not,” you protested.

Emily smiled into her glass. “You do. Constantly. Did you even realize you quoted one of his fun facts earlier?”

“That was relevant,” you said defensively. “And we’re friends.”

“Friends,” Penelope echoed, drawing the word out. “Interesting. Because the way you say his name is not very platonic.”

You rolled your eyes, but your face felt warm. “He’s my coworker. We work well together. That’s all.”

“Oh no,” Morgan said, shaking his head. “You don’t just work well together. You orbit each other. It’s painful to watch.”

JJ nodded. “You finish his sentences. He checks your reactions before he answers questions in briefings. And don’t think we haven’t noticed how you always end up sitting next to each other on the jet.”

“That’s coincidence,” you said immediately.

Except it wasn’t.

Not really.

Coincidence didn’t explain the way your fingers found each other in the narrow space beneath the shared blanket on long flights, skin brushing just once before intertwining. Didn’t explain the quiet weight of his hand resting against your knee when the lights dimmed and everyone else slept. Didn’t explain the chess table in hotel lobbies, the board between you like plausible deniability while his thumb traced slow circles against your knuckles. The way you both froze at the slightest sound, then smiled innocently when someone passed by.

You had learned how to hide. How to make it look accidental. How to pull away a second before it became obvious.

Emily raised an eyebrow. “Is it? Because I’ve taken three different seats to test that theory, and somehow you two still end up shoulder to shoulder.”

Your stomach dipped. You forced a careless shrug, lifting your glass as if this were amusing rather than terrifying.

“The jet isn’t exactly spacious,” you said. “Statistically, proximity is inevitable.”

Penelope leaned in closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “Also, he brings you coffee. Not just coffee, your coffee. No one memorizes an oat-milk-to-cinnamon ratio like that for a friend.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “He’s thoughtful. That’s just how Spencer is.”

“Exactly,” JJ said gently. “Thoughtful. Kind. Loyal. And completely in love with you.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “He is not.”

Morgan smirked. “Kid looks at you like you’re the only stable thing in his universe.”

Emily added, “Like you make the world quieter for him.”

Penelope sighed dreamily. “Like if the universe ever collapses, it’ll be because you weren’t holding his hand.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands for a second. “You’re all being ridiculous.”

“Are we?” JJ asked softly. “Because I’ve seen him panic when you’re hurt. He forgets procedure. He forgets everything except you.”

Morgan nodded. “I’ve never seen Reid jealous before. Then some consultant flirted with you and suddenly he’s giving me a ten-minute lecture on territorial behavior in primates.”

You stared at your drink. “We’re just friends,” you repeated, quieter now, like saying it enough times might make it true in the way they needed it to be.

Emily clinked her glass gently against yours. “Then you should start to date him.”

You smiled, a reflex more than a reaction, and let your gaze drop to your hands. If only she knew. If only she knew that “starting” had happened months ago, not with a confession or a dramatic moment, but in the slow accumulation of small things. In conversations that stretched past midnight because neither of you wanted to be the first to say goodnight. In the way Spencer learned the exact cadence of your voice when you were tired and adjusted himself accordingly, by speaking softer, moving closer, offering presence instead of solutions.

By the time the night stretched into that hazy, in-between hour where the music grew louder and the conversations looser, the team had clearly decided this was no longer casual teasing.

This was a campaign.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, lifting his bottle like he was delivering a closing argument. “Okay,” he said, grinning, “let’s be logical about this. You have to date Reid, and we have reasons. One: free lectures on literally anything. Guaranteed safety on trivia nights. And if you ever forget a birthday? He won’t. Ever. Man’s brain is a steel trap.”

You scoffed lightly, even as your heart gave an involuntary, traitorous flutter. “I don’t need to date someone for trivia night.”

What you didn’t say was that Spencer already remembered the dates that mattered, without prompts or reminders or jokes made at his expense. He remembered the day your fingers brushed for the first time, both of you startled by how electric something so small could feel. He remembered the anniversary of the case that left you hollowed out, the one that made your hands shake for days afterward. He remembered the exact time you had once texted him I can’t sleep, the message sent in the dead of night when you were sure no one would answer, and how he’d shown up at your door less than twenty minutes later, hair rumpled, jacket half-zipped, eyes dark with concern, holding two mismatched mugs of tea like they were offerings meant to ward off your fear.

And of course, he remembered the first time you kissed. That quiet moment before a case, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin, his hands trembling slightly where they rested at your waist. The way he’d paused, breath warm against your cheek, asking softly if this was okay, as if you might change your mind at the last second. The way the world had narrowed to just the two of you when you hadn’t.

Penelope leaned across the table then, bracelets chiming as her eyes sparkled with unfiltered conviction. Her voice dropped, earnest and conspiratorial all at once.

“Wrong,” she said. “You need to date someone who adores you. And Spencer Reid?” She pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “Worships the ground you walk on. Respectfully. With footnotes.”

You swallowed because that wasn’t exaggeration. Not even a little. Spencer loved you the way he loved knowledge: with reverence, with humility, with a kind of awe that treated you as something to be understood and safeguarded rather than claimed. He asked before touching you, even after months together, even when your body already knew the shape of his. Asked if he could hold your hand, if he could kiss your shoulder, if it was okay to stay the night. Every question spoken softly, like consent was not just a rule but a philosophy he lived by.

And when you teased him for it, when you smiled and told him he didn’t have to ask every time, he would flush, ears going pink, eyes impossibly sincere as he said, very seriously,

“I never want to assume I have the right to you.”

The memory settled heavy and warm in your chest, almost painful in its tenderness. You stared down at your drink, the ice melting slowly, and wondered how long you could keep pretending this was all just hypothetical.

JJ laughed. “Two, he’s amazing with kids.”

Oh.

Oh no.

You choked on your drink, the burn sharp as it went down the wrong way, coughing as you leaned forward, eyes watering slightly.

“Why,” you managed, setting the glass down harder than necessary, “are we talking about kids?”

Emily shrugged, smirking. “Because I’ve seen him with Henry. He kneels to talk at eye level, explains things like they matter, and somehow turns explaining space-time into a bedtime story.”

Your laughter never came.

Instead, your thoughts slipped traitorously inward, drifting to a quiet night you rarely let yourself linger on for too long. The room had been dark except for the thin spill of streetlight through the curtains. Spencer had been staring at the ceiling, hands folded tightly over his chest, voice unsteady in that way it only ever was when he let himself be vulnerable with you. He’d said he wasn’t sure he’d ever be good enough for a future like that. Not just kids, but the whole fragile idea of permanence. A house. A dog. A life where someone depended on him in ways he might fail.

You’d rolled onto your side then, traced the familiar line of his jaw with your thumb. You’d told him that he was already the gentlest person you knew. That gentleness wasn’t weakness. That it was rare. Necessary.

He’d gone quiet after that. Too quiet. When you looked at him, his eyes were shining, glassy in the dark, like no one had ever named that part of him before. Like no one had ever framed him as enough. And then, hesitantly, like he was testing the safety of the idea, he’d started talking about names with interesting meanings, about how parenting shaped a person forever, about how words and care and patience could alter the entire trajectory of a life. You’d listened, heart aching in that hopeful, terrifying way, knowing how much trust it took for him to even imagine it out loud.

Morgan snapped his fingers sharply, pulling you back to the present.

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “That man is dad material.”

“Oh my God,” you groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead. “We are not doing this.”

“We absolutely are,” Penelope said. “So, three, picture it. Reid as a husband? He’d over-research wedding venues. Color palettes. Statistically optimal cake flavors.”

JJ nodded thoughtfully. “He’d cry during the vows. And then apologize for crying.”

Emily added, “And then quote something obscure but devastatingly romantic.”

You stared at them. “You’re all insane.”

Morgan grinned. “You’d be insane not to marry him.”

“I am not marrying Spencer Reid,” you said quickly, and stopped. Because the word yet pressed so hard against your teeth it almost slipped free.

Penelope gasped. “Wow. You didn’t even hesitate. That denial was practiced.”

Because it was. Because you’d rehearsed it in your head every time you watched Spencer fall asleep beside you, glasses carefully set on the nightstand, one hand curled loosely in your shirt like he needed proof you were real. Because you already knew what forever would look like with him, and loving him in secret felt safer than risking a world that might take him from you.

JJ smiled into her glass. “Four, you already defend him like a spouse.”

“That is not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Emily said easily. “Every time someone underestimates him, you go feral.”

Morgan laughed. “Remember that sheriff who called him ‘the kid’? You verbally disassembled that man.”

“He deserved it.”

“Exactly,” Morgan said. “Wife behavior.”

You buried your face in your hands again. “He’s my friend.”

“Friends don’t memorize each other’s stress tells,” JJ said gently. “You know when he’s about to spiral before he does.”

“And he knows when you’re pretending you’re fine,” Penelope added. “He brings you books instead of asking questions.”

Emily tilted her head. “You know what that’s called?”

You peeked through your fingers. “Don’t say it.”

“Domestic,” Emily said.

The table erupted in laughter.

Morgan wasn’t done. “Five, let’s talk logistics. You’d never argue over directions. He already knows the fastest route everywhere.”

JJ laughed. “Your kids would be terrifyingly smart.”

“Okay, absolutely not,” you said quickly. “We are shutting that down right now.”

Emily smirked. “Too late. I’m picturing curly-haired little geniuses who quote Shakespeare.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “And carry FBI badges at career day.”

You shook your head, cheeks burning, heart doing something dangerously unprofessional in your chest. “This is ridiculous.” And so lovely to imagine.

“Is it?” JJ asked softly. “Because every reason we’re giving you…you already know.”

For a moment, the teasing eased, not gone, just quieter. The music filled the space between you, the bar lights blurring slightly at the edges. You took a slow sip of your drink, staring down at the condensation on the glass.

Penelope smiled at you, gentler now. “We just think you deserve someone who looks at you the way Spencer Reid looks at you.”

Morgan nodded. “Like you’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”

You nodded slowly, still silent, heart pounding.

If they only knew that you already were.

That the man they were trying to convince you to date was the one who kissed your temple before briefings, who texted you goodnight even when you were in the same building, who held your hand in the dark when the world felt too heavy. That you were already his, in every way that mattered.

You took a slow breath, forcing your expression to stay neutral, even as your chest overflowed with something secret and devastatingly sweet.

Because they could give you a thousand reasons to date Spencer Reid.

And not a single one of them would come close to the reasons you already loved him.

The night unraveled slowly, the way nights like that always did, as if no one quite wanted to be the first to admit they were tired. Laughter faded into softer smiles, jokes trailed off mid-sentence, and the table became crowded with empty glasses and half-forgotten napkins, evidence of a shared attempt at normalcy. The music blurred into something distant and indistinct, no longer demanding attention. You said your goodbyes in a haze of hugs, promised Penelope—twice, because she insisted—to text when you got home, and accepted one last lingering look from Emily and JJ. It wasn’t accusatory. Just fond. Observant. It settled in your chest like a question they didn’t ask.

The cold air outside wrapped around you immediately, clearing the last traces of alcohol from your system. You breathed it in deeply as you walked, shoulders drawing up, the city quieter now, lights reflecting softly off damp pavement. By the time you reached your apartment building, the exhaustion you’d been holding at bay finally settled in. The familiar hum of the hallway lights greeted you, and you moved on autopilot, unlocking the door, slipping inside.

Your shoes came off just past the threshold. Your keys landed in the ceramic bowl by habit. You sighed, long and deep, body sagging as if it had finally been given permission to rest.

And then you froze.

There was a light on in the living room.

Not harsh. Not alarming. Just warm and unmistakably familiar. Your heart skipped, then stuttered, then began to race in earnest as you moved further inside, steps slow, breath shallow with anticipation. You didn’t call out. You didn’t need to.

Spencer was there.

He sat on your couch, leaned forward slightly, hands clasped loosely between his knees. A book rested open beside him, forgotten, a marker of a thought interrupted. He looked up the moment you appeared, eyes softening instantly, like he’d been waiting for this exact second. His curls were more unruly than usual, falling into his eyes, and his jacket had been folded neatly over the arm of the couch, as if he’d taken care to make himself small in your space. He stood too quickly, movement a little uncoordinated, nerves evident in the way his shoulders squared.

“Hey,” he said softly.

The sound of his voice wrapped around you and your chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, even as your body betrayed you, carrying you toward him without hesitation.

“I came back early,” he said, swallowing, fingers flexing as if he didn’t know where to put them.

Your brows furrowed. “Spencer, you were supposed to be with your mom until tomorrow.”

“I know,” he said quickly, then slowed himself down, forcing a breath. “I was. But you sounded tired earlier. On the phone. And you said your head hurt.” His gaze flicked to your face, so careful. “And you paused before answering, which you only do when you’re trying not to worry me.”

You stopped in front of him, hands already reaching for his sleeves, grounding yourself in the warmth of him.

“So I changed my ticket,” he finished, voice quieter now. “I thought…statistically, after cases like this, you’re more likely to minimize how bad you’re feeling. And I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Something in you melted completely.

You stepped into him, resting your forehead against his chest, breathing him in. His arms came around you immediately, no hesitation this time, no uncertainty. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gentle in your hair, the other settling at your waist. He held you like he was anchoring you to the present, like he knew exactly how fragile you felt.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured, voice muffled against him.

“I know,” he murmured, pressing his cheek lightly against your hair. “I wanted to.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye, careful not to touch where you were still sensitive from the headache.

“I want to take care of you,” he said again, quieter this time, like a promise meant only for you.

Your chest ached. Because this was who Spencer Reid was. He loved quietly, deliberately. He showed up. He noticed. He acted.

It was the thousandth reason to love him as you already did.

He pulled back again, eyes scanning your face with practiced concern. “Did you eat something there?”

You huffed a soft, tired laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s not an answer,” he said, lips twitching.

“Barely. There’s no real food in a bar.”

He nodded, already turning toward the kitchen. “Okay. I made that instant soup you like just in case. It’s…not burned.”

You watched him move through your space like he belonged there, because he did. His shoes lined up neatly by the door. His glasses case on your coffee table. His presence woven so seamlessly into your apartment it felt wrong when he wasn’t there.

While he reheated the soup, you leaned against the counter, watching the careful way he stirred, the way he tasted and adjusted, brow furrowing in concentration.

“You didn’t have to come back early,” you said again, softer now. “I know you wanted to be with your mom.”

He glanced at you, expression earnest. “I know but she was okay, probably even tired of me talking so much about you. And I wanted to be here when you got home. And I figured…after nights like this, you usually can’t sleep.”

Your throat tightened, the words sitting heavy for a moment before you let them out.

“They were talking about you all night.”

Spencer paused mid-motion.

The ladle hovered above the pot, a thin ribbon of steam curling up between you. His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, like his body had registered the information a second before his mind caught up.

“Oh,” he said.

You smiled faintly, watching the way his fingers tightened around the handle. “They think we should date.”

That did it.

His ears flushed immediately, color blooming so fast it felt almost unfair. He swallowed, blinked once, then again, like his brain was rapidly sorting through several possible responses and rejecting all of them.

“Oh,” he repeated, voice cracking just slightly, traitorously.

You stepped closer, leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder. He smelled like soup and clean cotton. His body relaxed at the contact even as his mind clearly did not.

“They gave me reasons,” you added softly. “Lots of them.”

He resumed moving, carefully this time, ladling soup into a bowl with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.

“Were they…logical?” he asked.

You laughed under your breath. “Painfully so.”

That earned you a shy smile, the corner of his mouth lifting as he set the bowl down with great care, adjusting it so it was perfectly centered on the counter.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “They’re not wrong. I mean—about the logic. Not about the…dating part. Because we already—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, flustered. “I mean, it would be redundant.”

“I know,” you said gently, reaching for his hand, threading your fingers through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed your knuckle automatically. “They don’t.”

He nodded, lips pressing together in thought as he handed you a spoon, making sure it wasn’t too hot.

“Maybe we should…tell them someday,” he said carefully, like he was testing the idea for structural integrity.

“When we get married,” you replied easily, absentmindedly studying your bare finger like you could already see it there. Like it was an inevitability, not a joke.

Spencer’s brain left the building.

He froze completely, eyes widening, breath catching so sharply you were genuinely concerned he might tip over. The spoon in his hand clinked softly against the counter.

“What?” he said, voice several octaves higher than usual.

You looked up at him, amused, soft, devastatingly calm. “Imagine their faces when they get the invitation.”

He stared at you like you’d just proposed rewriting the laws of physics.

“You’re drunk,” he said faintly.

“I’m in love,” you corrected, crossing your arms behind his neck, pressing yourself closer. You kissed his cheek once. Then again. And once more for good measure. “So in love.”

He made a small, helpless noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, hands lifting instinctively to steady you at the waist. His ears were fully red now, eyes bright, and smile completely unguarded.

“Now I need to know,” he said breathlessly, “exactly what they told you, because this amount of affection is…unusual. Even for you.”

You laughed, forehead resting against his.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. This was ridiculous.

You were an FBI agent. You’d been working this case for days. Tracking leads, analyzing evidence, losing sleep alongside the rest of the team. How could anyone seriously believe you’d be involved in the very crime you were trying to solve?

You clenched your jaw. Hotch better be out there. If anyone could bulldoze through bureaucratic nonsense, it was him. You could practically picture him now. Stone-faced, arms crossed, deploying his prosecutor’s tone against whatever theory these cops had cooked up.

But until then, you were alone. Shivering. Exhausted. And so done with this night.

You pressed your lips together, teeth sinking into the soft flesh to keep the tears at bay. Don’t cry. Don’t give them the satisfaction. But frustration clawed at your throat, and just as the first traitorous tear threatened to spill—

The door slammed open.

Not the careful click of a hesitant officer. Not the bored push of routine procedure. This was a sharp, violent sound—metal cracking against the wall like a gunshot.

And there he was.

Spencer Reid, usually all gentle hands and quiet steps, stood rigid in the doorway, his chest rising too fast. His eyes locked onto you before scanning the room like he was memorizing every detail for later dissection.

“Spencer.” His name left your lips in a breath, half-relief, half-disbelief.

He was kneeling in front of you before you could blink, one hand hovering just above your knee like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if you were hurt. “Are you alright?” His eyes darting over your face, your cuffed wrist, the way your shoulders hunched inward. You opened your mouth to answer, but the bald officer chose that moment to stride back in, arms crossed, his smirk already twisting your stomach into knots.

Spencer didn’t even glance at him.

Instead, his fingers moved to the buttons of his cardigan, shrugging it off before draping it over your shoulders. His hands lingered for a second, adjusting the fabric with care, tucking your hair free so it fell loose around the collar.

You wanted to lean into him. To bury your face in his shoulder and let him shield you from the officer's glare. But the cuff around your wrist kept you in place. A harsh reminder of where you were.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, fingers curling into the cardigan’s sleeves.

Spencer wasn’t saying much. You weren’t sure why, until he turned his head toward the bald officer.

And then he exploded.

“You arrested her on nothing.” His voice was sharp.The officer opened his mouth, but Spencer continued immediately. His hand still on your shoulder, thumb brushing absent, soothing circles against the fabric. “No evidence. No witnesses. No justification beyond a hunch dressed up as police work.”

The officer bristled. “We had probable cause—”

“You had nothing.” Spencer’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp enough that the man flinched. “She’s an FBI agent. She’s spent the last 72 hours working this case with us, and you—what? Decided to skip due process because it was convenient?”

A stutter fractured his words, anger tangling his usually precise speech. “Th-this isn’t procedure. This is laziness.”

The bald officer stared back, mouth half-open like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find a foothold in the wreckage of Spencer’s logic. And as terrible as the situation was—yes, thank you, being dragged out of bed at 3 AM and cuffed to a table was definitely a personal low—you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.

Spencer’s chest rose and fell too fast, his curls in disarray (more than usual, which was saying something). His jaw was set, his eyes burning with something fierce and unyielding, and—

Oh.

Oh no.

Because the only coherent thought your sleep-deprived, adrenaline-jittery brain could muster was: Spencer Reid is terribly attractive right now.

You knew it was wrong. Knew you should be focusing on the fact that you were still handcuffed to a table, but the way he stood there, all righteous fury and trembling intensity, made your stomach swoop in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

“Uncuff her. Now.”

Yep. There it was again. That voice—usually soft, bookish, all rapid-fire facts and hesitant smiles—had gone dark, and God, it shouldn’t have been as compelling as it was.

The officer hesitated, and Spencer snapped.

“Section 1983 of the Civil Rights Act prohibits false arrest under color of law. Miranda v. Arizona requires probable cause beyond circumstantial conjecture, which, given the lack of physical evidence or witness testimony, you clearly don’t have—”

He was rambling now, a torrent of legal precedent and biting sarcasm, and you should have been paying attention. Should have been cataloging every flaw in the officer’s case.

Instead, you were too busy thinking, I’m in trouble.

It wasn’t helping that Spencer hadn’t stopped touching you—his hand still on your shoulder, fingers now brushing the sensitive dip near your neck.

“Okay, okay!” The officer finally snapped, palms raised in surrender as Spencer’s rapid-fire legal citations chipped away at his resolve. Fumbling with the keys, he unlocked the cuff.

You winced, rubbing your wrist where the metal had bitten into skin. “Ouch.”

Spencer tracked the man’s retreat with a glare, waiting until the door clicked shut before whirling back to you.

But you were already on your feet, crashing into him before he could speak.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you—” The words tumbled into the curve of his neck, your arms locked around his waist. A tremor ran through you, violent enough that your teeth nearly chattered—had you been shaking this whole time?

Spencer’s breath hitched. Then his hands were on your back, sweeping slow, firm circles over the fabric of his borrowed cardigan. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get here earlier. They wouldn’t let me in, and I’m pretty sure they only caved because I cited Johnson v. Louisiana 1998, but I should’ve—”

“Don’t be sorry.” You muffled the words against his collarbone, clinging tighter. His sweater smelled like cheap station coffee and the faint trace of his shampoo.

His rambling stuttered to a stop. For a heartbeat, he just held you, his cheek resting against the side of your head. Then, softer: “…Are you hurt?”

Yes. No. Mostly just distracted by how unfairly hot you look when you're angry. You bit your lip to stop the completely inappropriate thought from slipping out.

Instead of answering, you clung to him tighter, your fingers pressing crescent moons into his back. "Thank you, Spencer. Again. Seriously." 

The words brushed against his neck, your lips accidentally grazing skin as you spoke. Through the fog of exhaustion, you almost missed the way his breath hitched - almost.

Oh. Interesting.

When you pulled back, his smile was soft but his ears were pink. Double interesting. 

(Maybe you filed this interesting sight away for later, like the way his curls were rebelliously mussed or how his sleeves were rolled up to reveal forearms that had no business being that defined on a man who called crossword puzzles ‘thrilling.’)

His hands stayed at your waist. Then he noticed the lingering tremors in your shoulders.

Without a word, his fingers moved to the front of the cardigan, buttoning it for you. Each slow click of a button felt strangely intimate. His knuckles brushing your stomach.

"You're freezing," he muttered, and you felt his fingers fumble with the cardigan buttons. His usual dexterity abandoned him; the third button took three tries.

You bit your lip. God, even his knuckles were attractive. This was absurd. You’d just been falsely arrested, and yet here you were, mentally composing sonnets about the way his eyelashes cast shadows in the light.

Spencer tilted his head. "You okay?"

No. You’ve ruined me.

You grin like a fool in love (because really, who are you kidding? you so are).

You’d experienced the most perfect day of your life yesterday surrounded by everyone you love, and the most unforgettable night spent with your man. The smile he wore all night shined brighter than any sunny days you’ve ever seen, and you made yourself a promise to etch the image in your mind forever.  

You stretch slowly in his arms, taking in your surroundings. 

Two empty glasses of champagne on your bedside table, one with your lipstick print on it, sits next to your phone with a plethora of unread text messages from the girl’s group chat at the BAU. 

Your eyes catch on to your white heels and wedding dress strewn across the floor haphazardly, with his dress shoes and tux to match. 

Your matching lacy set that Penelope insisted you get for your wedding night isn’t too far from your dress. 

The way Spencer’s hungry eyes scanned you when he slowly slid your dress off of your body, only to find you in the pretty lingerie, did something absolutely unspeakable to him. 

Something deeply carnal had unfurled low in your belly at the sight of him as he fell to his knees in front of you, hands traveling slowly and deliberately down your body, kissing you below your navel and the apex of your thighs. 

Marveling at you. 

Worshipping you. 

His hazel eyes glowed in the soft light that emanated from the lamp in the corner of the hotel room, so expressive and full of love. 

You still feel the press and drag of his lips on your skin. His tongue everywhere that made your back arch and toes curl in pure bliss. His sweet whispered words as he made love to you for the first time as his wife. 

How he got rougher toward the third round as you kept begging for him to not stop. 

A kiss to your shoulder brings you back to reality. 

Spencer stirs, lips trailing from your shoulder to your collarbone. You softly laugh as you turn and run your fingers through his curls, revealing his handsome sleepy face. 

“Good morning, my angel,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep. 

“Good morning my handsome husband.” 

He grins widely at that, burying his face into your neck as he pulls you closer into him. 

“My wife,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your skin once again. “I can’t believe you’re all mine.” 

He lifts his head again, moving down to kiss your forehead. 

“Well believe it, Mr. Reid. You’ve got me for eternity,” your voice goes soft around the edges, and you know you’re looking at him with pure adoration. 

“I love the sound of that.” 

His hand slides down your bare body, and goosebumps raise on your skin at his touch. 

He sports a shit-eating grin because he knows just how much his touch alone affects you. 

“What was on your mind a few minutes ago? Your breathing increased quite rapidly.” 

You glare at him with fake unamusement. Ever the profiler. 

“Are you profiling your wife now?” You tease, bringing your face closer to his. 

He hums, hand sliding lower—close to where you want him. 

“It’s in our nature at this point,” he defends. 

“What do you think I was thinking about?” 

“I have a few ideas,” he quips, and you raise an eyebrow. 

You falter for a second as his fingers brush your mound, and you shiver. 

“Well you are a genius.” 

He huffs a laugh and leans in to kiss you softly as his fingers brush over your slick folds. Your legs fall open for him, and he grins against your lips before he slides his middle finger through your slit, bringing it back up to circle your sensitive clit. 

You gasp against his lips, but his mouth chases yours and kisses you deeply. Urgently. Your hands curl into his hair, tugging gently as your hips start to writhe with need. 

“I think,” he parts his lips from yours, voice sounding wrecked, “that you were having flashbacks about last night.” 

“Maybe I was.” 

“I was too.” 

“Spence,” you gasp as he slowly adds one finger into you, shortly followed by another. 

“My beautiful wife,” he whispers, switching positions so he’s now on top of you. 

Your gaze meets his, eyebrows threaded together, jaw slack at the feeling of his fingers working in and out of you expertly. 

Your fingertips trace down his back, one hand trailing around his front until you brush the wiry hairs above his stiff length. 

“I need you,” you breathe. And it might be a tad bit selfish considering all of the work he put in last night, but he doesn’t see it that way. 

He wants to please his wife over and over and over again at every opportunity he can possibly get. 

So that’s what he does. 

“Need me to what, angel?” He smirks, his fingers slowly sliding out of you as his other hand covers yours around the base of his cock.

He slowly moves your hand up his silky flesh. His eyes fall closed and he hisses at the sensation, shakily exhaling before opening his eyes back up to look at you. 

You’re both a trembling, wanting mess at this point, that same carnal desire wrapping herself around you both as she sinks her claws into your flesh. 

Your heart is pounding against your ribcage, and you almost want to laugh at how ridiculous it is that you still get like this with him. A trembling, needy mess with a hint of nervousness and enough yearning to last a lifetime.  

And you also hope that very specific feeling never goes away. 

With that feeling also sparks a hint of boldness, and you do with that what you can muster. 

“I need you to fuck your wife into this mattress, Dr. Reid.”

His eyes darken as soon as the word “Doctor” slips past your lips. Your bold choice of words hit home for him too, but something about you calling him by his title sends him soaring over the edge every single time. 

He groans at that, head hanging between his shoulder blades as he guides himself toward you, pushing into you slowly at first. He slides his hands up your arms, pinning your wrists above your head. 

He’s got that look of control and determination in his eyes. It makes the rumbling flame low in your belly spread into a full-fledged forest fire. 

You gasp as he reaches the hilt, and he’s hot and heavy in you. You’re breathless, and Spencer gives you a moment to collect yourself. 

It’s not long before the sweet words from last night that still hung in the atmosphere quickly dissipate, swapped out with far more intense vows of pleasure. 

It’s a side of Spencer you only ever got to see in the bedroom, but you love that it’s reserved for you and only you all the same. 

With his words, he picks up the pace of his hips significantly, practically pistoning in and out of you. 

A string of curses and whines flies past your lips, head tossed back against the pillows. He releases your wrists and your hands immediately fly to slide down his back, nails unintentionally scratching his skin. You wrap your legs around his waist, and it isn’t long before you completely succumb to the feeling of him once more. 

“Spencer—oh god oh god oh god,” you cry. He moves his hands to hold your hips down, fingers digging into your flesh. He leans down to kiss you, love and desperation tightly packed into the moment. It’s almost like a gut punch with the realization of how much love this man truly pours into you. 

His lips separate from yours, moving close to your ear as he rasps his next words. 

“You have me completely at your mercy, my beautiful wife. Especially when you say my name like that.” 

“I love you Spencer,” you say, looking into his eyes as he thrusts into you relentlessly. He sits up for a beat, bringing your ankles over his shoulders. The new angle nearly has you seeing stars, and you’re pretty sure the whole floor of this hotel knows exactly what you two are doing… for the fourth time in the last ten hours. 

He pauses for a second. You look at him with confusion before he kisses you again, and you completely melt into the mattress beneath you. 

“I love you too, angel. So fucking much.” 

He thrusts into you a few more times, reaching down to rub your clit to send you over the edge. 

That’s it, my pretty girl. So good. So fucking good. Look at you, my sweet angel.

It’s then that you completely unravel for him, his words having you at his mercy. Your breathless pleas encourage him to come too, and he follows suit not long after. 

You’re panting as his thrusts eventually slow and he slowly pulls out of you. You hiss at the loss of contact, trying to catch your breath. He pulls you into his side, kissing the crown of your head as he traces light patterns on your skin. He brings your left hand up to his line of sight, admiring the pair of rings that adorn your ring finger. He leans up to press his lips against your rings, and you can’t help the absolute love-struck girlish smile that spreads across your lips. 

You bask in the peaceful bliss of your little “day-after-I-do” bubble, enjoying the time you have with him away from the chaos of your daily lives. 

Until it’s shortly interrupted with the shrill ringtone from your phone that makes you both jump. 

You groan and pick it up, seeing Penelope’s bright smile in her contact picture flash across the screen. 

“Hey Pen,” you answer, shifting in Spencer’s arms. 

“Hiya gorgeous, are you both still wanting to have breakfast with us all? JJ, Emily and I have been trying to text you but I figured I’d just call.” 

“Oh, sorry about that. I was, uh, a little busy.” 

Spencer hums in amusement at your words, lips peppering your shoulder with kisses. 

Penelope chuckles on the other end of the line. 

“Guess that little white number I told you to get was worth it after all, huh?” 

Your body heats at her words. “You have no idea.” 

She laughs at that, and Spencer’s hand starts to trace your body again. He leans his head down to kiss your chest, playfully nipping at one of your breasts. You try to swat him away, but his mouth is already closing around a nipple. You inhale sharply and push him off gently. You glare at him, but he just smiles foolishly before innocently shrugging at you. 

“Give us like thirty minutes to freshen up, and we’ll meet you all down for breakfast.” 

“Sounds good, sweets. I’ll see you lovebirds soon!” 

She hangs up before you can say anything else, and you groan as you toss your phone back on the nightstand. 

“You know you have to behave yourself in front of everyone, right? I know they’re our friends, but we also work with them, Spencer,” you half-laugh-half-chastise him. 

“You’re so hard to resist though, Mrs. Reid.” 

You fawn over your new last name. 

“At least try. For me.” 

He kisses your forehead. “Anything for you.”

He sits up and stretches, and you gasp in horror as your eyes land on the red scratch marks that travel all the way down his back. 

“What?” he asks, turning his head to look at you. 

“I’m so sorry, Spence. Your back,” you whisper, trailing your fingertips over the red marks. 

He tosses you a smirk. “Just means I did something right.” 

You roll your eyes, tossing the sheets away from you before playfully throwing them his way. He heartily laughs at that, catching the sheets before flopping back down on the bed next to you, scooping you up into his arms. 

You both wish at this moment that you could just stay in bed all day and order room service. You know you’ll have to face the impending doom—better known as the relentless teasing you know your friends have fired up for the both of you—sooner rather than later. 

Even though your little bubble with just you and him being wrapped up in one another was short-lived and you have to face reality once again, you have comfort in knowing that you’re going out into the world as Spencer Reid’s wife. 

As a sickeningly, maddingly, ardently in love married couple. 

As Mr. and Mrs. Reid. 

The bag sat on the faded floral couch of the Château.

“Sarah dropped that by for you,” John B said, kicking his boots off by the door. "She figured since you’re still waiting on your stuff to get ‘shipped’ or whatever, you could use some actual girl clothes instead of my old stuff."

“Yeah... she texted me... Thanks, John B, she is so sweet...” you muttered, pulling the drawstring open. “You definitely got the lotto with her.”

He smirked and nodded, getting into his room.

You felt a sting of shame. John B didn't know the truth. He thought your luggage was lost in transit or delayed by some bus line error.

He didn't know about the diner at the stop on Grandy.

He didn't know how you’d spent your last savings on a ‘new you’ wardrobe.

Clothes that were supposed to make you look like a girl someone would actually want to talk to.

And he definitely didn't know about the guy with the ‘bad boy’ smirk who had sat across from you.

You’d tried so hard to be flirtatious, to be the kind of girl who could hold a stranger's gaze, that you’d handed him your trust, and your bag for two minutes while you went to the counter. When you came back, he was gone. Your ‘new self’ was gone too.

You’d come back to the island after 3 years away, hoping to reconnect with the girl you used to be before your parents moved for work. But two weeks back in the marsh, and you felt more like a ghost than a resident. You were ‘John B's cousin.’ You were “the one who left.”

Borrowing John B’s oversized clothes had been convenient, you wouldn't attempt to try to be visible anymore, but it didn't help the ache in your chest every time you saw JJ.

You’d known JJ, Kiara, and Pope since you were kids, but coming back as an adult, if 18 is being an adult, felt different. JJ was louder, more reckless, and devastatingly handsome.

But his gravity always seemed to pull toward Kiara. You watched the way they leaned into each other, the inside jokes, and you’d convinced yourself they were already a ‘thing.’

You didn't want to be the pathetic cousin who made things weird by asking.

“You okay?” John B asked, coming out of his room.

“Yeah,” you lied. “Just thinking about the job i can't seem to get. I need to pay Sarah back for these, somehow.”

“Don't worry about it. You're family. Sarah’s glad to help.”

Later that afternoon, after a long shower, you finally tried on the clothes.

You were finally able to wear a pair of denim shorts.

The clothes you'd borrowed from John B were t-shirts and pants from when he was fourteen, it wasn’t that you wished to wear revealing clothes, again, you were done trying to be visible. But the heat was becoming more intense as the summer approached.

You put on the shorts and a simple cotton tank top, and headed outside to the hammock.

With your legs hanging off the side, it felt refreshing. It was the first time you’d felt the breeze on your skin in weeks.

You spread the local paper across your lap, a red pen in hand, determined to find a way to earn your own keep. Knowing that finding a job on the island was hard, you had to do it old school, circling every number you could call.

The Wreck... Some Old Stuff Shop... Boat Something... Fancy Boutique... You circled the numbers with focused, steady lines.

Suddenly, you heard a voice.

It was Sarah. It made you jump, nearly tipping the hammock over. Sarah was standing at the bottom of the porch steps, a wide, genuine grin on her face. “Those legs could kill, girl! Seriously, they are like... sexy sexy. Why have you been hiding them from me?” She said the finale part playfully.

The word sexy hit you like a physical blow. You froze, looking down at your legs, exposed, and then back at Sarah. Your heart started thudding against your ribs, a cold, panicked sweat breaking out.

“What?” you whispered, your voice small.

“You're stunning,” Sarah said, getting close to you. “Those shorts were made for you. Promise i only wore them once, they are all yours.”

Your throat tightened, a hot, stinging pressure building in your eyes. “I... nobody has ever told me that before,” you said, your voice cracking just a bit, not enough for her to notice, not enough to expose your real feelings.

“Seriously, you have like, model legs. They're so toned and... sexy!!”

Sarah laughed playfully. “Wait until JJ sees you. Seriously, he’s going to go crazy.”

“JJ?” you asked, your heart skipping a beat. “Why would he... he- care? Why him?” You were almost inaudible.

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Duh, because you’re sexy as hell and he hasn't been able to see you like this yet. And... since he’s already crazy for you, this is just going to make him lose his mind.”

The world felt like it was spinning. You stared at her, your grip tightening on the newspaper until the edges crinkled. “What? Sarah... what are you talking about? Are you... joking with me? Because it’s really not funny.”

“I'm not joking!” she said, her smile faltering a bit at your tone.

“You have to be,” you said, your voice rising as the panic set in. “I know... he has something with Kiara. I’m not blind, Sarah. I’ve seen them. And what's with the ‘compliments’? Trying to be nice? You don't have to lie to me.”

Sarah’s face dropped. She looked at you with genuine confusion, then sadness. “Why would you think I'm lying to you?”

“Because nobody says those things to me!” you snapped, the frustration finally bubbling over. “Not my parents, not the people at my old school... nobody! So don't tell me... JJ is 'crazy for me’ when he’s been attached to Kiara’s hip since the second I got here. It’s mean!”

You felt the tears starting to burn again, and you looked away, desperate to hide how much her ‘joke’ had actually hurt.

Sarah looked at you, her eyes softening with genuine worry. She moved closer, sitting on the edge of the hammock and placing a steady hand on your shoulder. “I'm really serious, girl,” she whispered, her voice low and sincere. “I’m not playing a joke on you. What is it? You can tell me... I’m right here.”

The wall you had built up for years finally crumbled. Seeing that she wasn't laughing, realizing that she actually meant it, made the embarrassment hit you even harder than the anger.

A sob broke from your throat, and you leaned into her. Sarah wrapped her arms around you, holding you tight while you cried into her shoulder, finally letting out the weight of the last two weeks, or maybe a lifetime.

After a moment, she pulled back just enough to wipe the tears from your cheeks with her thumbs. “What's wrong, girl? My god... you are truly beautiful. I need you to know that.”

Suddenly, a loud crack echoed from the woods, the sound of a dry branch snapping under a heavy boot. Then, the familiar voices of the boys began to drift toward the porch.

Your heart jumped into your throat. You scrambled to sit up, blinking back the rest of your tears. “Can we talk about this later?” you whispered urgently to Sarah, your voice still thick. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

Sarah gave you a quick, reassuring nod, her eyes promising that this wasn't over. “Of course.”

You quickly wiped your face, smoothed down your hair, and took a deep breath, trying to look like you’d just been relaxing in the sun. Sarah stood up and joined John B as he climbed the porch steps, followed by JJ and Pope.

“Hey, we're headed over to the Wreck for some dinner,” John B said, slinging an arm around Sarah. He looked at you, noticing the slight redness around your eyes. “You coming?”

“I think I’m gonna stay here,” you said, forcing a small, tight smile. “I still have a few more job leads to call, and honestly, the heat just has me a bit sick.”

JJ was standing at the back of the group, leaning against the railing. He didn't say anything, but his eyes were locked on you. He looked like he wanted to say something, his mouth opening slightly before he bit his lip and looked away.

John B opened his mouth to protest, but Sarah gave him a sharp, knowing look, the kind of look that told him to drop it immediately.

He looked confused, glancing between his girlfriend and his cousin, but he knew better than to argue with Sarah.

“Alright,” John B said slowly. “We'll bring you back some shrimp, okay?”

“Thanks, John B,” you muttered.

As they walked down the steps, JJ lingered for a second. He gripped the strap of his backpack, his knuckles white, before finally following the others toward the Twinkie.

You watched them go.

As the Twinkie rattled down the dirt path, JJ stared out the window, his mind a chaotic mess of guilt and adrenaline.

He hadn't just heard a conversation, he’d heard a confession that changed everything.

When Sarah had said loudly words like sexy and legs, his usual Pogue curiosity kicked in.

He’d leaned in just enough to catch a glimpse through the brush, and damn, Sarah wasn’t lying. You looked incredible.

But then the conversation took a turn that made his blood run cold.

He heard the panic in your voice when Sarah mentioned him. He heard the way you dismissed the idea of him ever wanting you. And then, the Kiara comment.

“Hell nah”, he thought, it wasn’t that he didn’t love Kiara, she was his sister, his ride or die. But she wasn't you.

You were the one who had occupied every corner of his mind since the day you left the island three years ago.

You were the one he’d been terrified to approach when you came back, scared that his mess of a life would just bring you down.

He’d been using Kiara as a shield, a way to keep things ‘normal’ because he didn't know how to tell you he wanted something more, than the friendship they were trying to rebuild. He didn't know how to tell you that he had been holding his breath since the moment you stepped off that bus.

After a couple of hours, the sound of the Twinkie pulling into the gravel driveway broke the silence of the Château.

You were already settled in for the night, dressed in a hoodie and a pair of pajama shorts.

John B, Sarah, and JJ tumbled in.

“We brought the leftovers.” JJ said, holding up a brown bag from The Wreck. He then placed the bag onto the coffee table in front of you.

The dinner sat heavy and warm in your stomach, a rare comfort.

JJ had been on his element all night, cracking jokes that made everyone ache from the stomach.

But his head was confused and spinning in thoughts. He watched you laugh at one of his dumb comments, and it killed him to think that just hours ago, you were crying.

He acted the same, but there was a new weight to his gaze. Every time you laughed, he lingered a second too long, watching the way your eyes crinkled.

Eventually, the food was gone and the yawns started. John B and Sarah headed toward his room, and JJ started moving toward the sofa. He’d given you his room the day you arrived, insisting he preferred the couch anyway.

“Night, JJ,” you whispered, heading into the bedroom.

“Night.”

He watched you shut the door, wishing he had the guts to follow you.

But the weight of the day and the constant replay of your voice in his head finally wore JJ out, he fell into a heavy sleep on the sofa, his arm draped over his eyes.

Sarah waited until John B’s breathing evened out into a steady snore.

She slipped out of bed, her feet silent on the floorboards, and crept into your room.

You were lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling with your headphones pressed tight to your ears. The music was loud enough to drown out the world, loud enough that you didn't hear the door creak or Sarah’s soft footsteps.

It wasn’t until she waved her hand in your line of sight that you jumped, pulling the earphones down around your neck.

“What’s wrong?” you whispered, your heart hammering.

“Oh, nothing... nothing,” Sarah murmured, biting her lip. She looked at you for a second. “I just... You want to keep going with our chat? Is it okay?”

You hesitated a moment, but then nodded. She climbed onto the bed, tucking her legs under her as she sat facing you. As the two of you spoke in hushed, jagged whispers, Sarah felt a pang of guilt. She looked at you, always so steady, in the 2 weeks she had of knowing you, she thought you were fine, but she realized that no one had ever truly seen the repression boiling underneath.

You kept talking, the words coming easier in the dark. You told her the truth about the clothes. You confessed the dangerous things you’d done, the heights you would jumped from and the risks you would taken just to feel like you had some spark of beauty or worth that people would notice

Sarah’s eyes filled with tears as she listened to the depth of your pain. She reached out, gripping your hand tight. She hadn't realized how much you were hurting right in front of them. The two of you sat there together, the honesty of the moment was palpable, until the tears exhausted you both. Slowly, Sarah curled up on the edge of the mattress beside you.

The next morning, the sun had barely started to peek through the windows in the Château’s when JJ’s eyes snapped open. Usually, he was the last one up, but today, his mind wouldn't let him rest. He felt a desperate driving need to do something. He wanted to show you he saw you, even if he wasn't ready to say the words yet.

He moved quietly through the kitchen, the smell of bacon and pancakes filling the air. He put extra care into one specific plate, stacking the golden brown pancakes just right and picking out the best fruit. It was meant for you, only you, but as he looked at the lone plate, he realized how painfully obvious that would be. With a sigh, he quickly made enough of the same for everyone just to cover his tracks.

Balancing your plate in his hand, he walked and gave a soft, hesitant knock on your door.

“Come in,” a voice whispered.

JJ blinked, frozen for a second. That wasn't your voice.

He pushed the door open slowly, his confusion deepening when he saw Sarah sitting up against the headboard. You were still dead to the world, curled into a ball under the blankets, your face looking soft and peaceful in sleep.

JJ didn't let a single sound out. He just looked at Sarah, his jaw tight, and his lips moved in a silent question: “What happened?”

Sarah’s expression softened into a sad, knowing smile. She looked down at you, then back at JJ, and mouthed back, “It's okay.”

JJ lingered for a moment, his gaze fixed on you. He felt a surge of protectiveness so strong it made his chest ache. He carefully set your plate down on the desk, making sure not to clink the ceramic. Without a word, he slipped back to the kitchen and returned a minute later with a second plate and some juice for Sarah.

He didn't try to wake you. He just gave Sarah one last lingering look, silently thanking her for being there when he hadn't been.

He pulled the door shut, leaving you to sleep while he went to wait in the living room, his heart pacing a mile a minute.

JJ couldn't sit still. He began pacing the length of the living room, his boots thumping softly. He ran his hands through his hair, his mind racing through every mistake he’d made, every time he’d looked at Kiara just to avoid looking at you.

The smell of bacon finally did its job. A door creaked open, and a very disheveled John B stumbled out, rubbing his eyes.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the food on the table and then looked at JJ, who was currently vibrating with nervous energy.

“Uh... JJ?” John B croaked, squinting at the stove. “Did you... did you cook? Without burning the house down?”

“Eat your eggs, JB,” JJ snapped, though there was no heat in it. He didn't stop pacing.

John B picked up a piece of bacon, looking at his friend with deep suspicion.

“You’re up before ten... You made breakfast. You’re pacing like a junkie. Dude, are you okay? You’re acting like the police is at the front door.”

JJ stopped. He looked at the closed bedroom door where you were sleeping, then back at John B. He took a shaky breath, the weight of the secret finally feeling too heavy to carry.

“I can't take it anymore,” JJ blurted out, his voice low but intense. “I need to ask you something. And I know... I know she’s your cousin, and there's like, a code or whatever, but-”

“JJ,” John B interrupted, a small, knowing smirk forming on his face as he chewed.

“-no, seriously, because if I mess this up, it’s not just me and her, it’s the whole group, and I don't want to make things weird between us, but I-”

“JJ!” John B said louder, stopping him mid-. “You're down bad for her. I get it.”

JJ blinked, his mouth hanging open slightly. “I didn't even finish-”

John B let out a short laugh, leaning against the counter. “You didn't have to. I’ve seen the way you look at her. I’ve seen you... Honestly? I was wondering when you’d finally admit it.”

JJ shifted on his feet, looking uncharacteristically shy. “So... you’re not- not gonna... punch me?” He asked nervously laughing.

“Man, I’ve seen you at your worst and your best,” John B said, his expression turning serious for a second. “I know how you'll treat her. I approve.” He got close, a hand on his shoulder. “Just... don't break her heart, okay?”

JJ looked back at your door, a newfound determination settling in his chest. “I’m not gonna break it, JB. I’m gonna try to fix it.”

John B let out a huff of a laugh, dropping his hand. “Okay, whatever that means, Shakespeare,” he muttered, still a bit confused by JJ’s sudden poetic intensity.

He didn't know about your breakdown on the hammock yesterday or that Sarah had spent half the night holding you while you cried, Sarah hadn't breathed a word of it.

John B looked around the kitchen, grabbing a glass of juice. “Speaking of... have you seen Sarah? I woke up and the bed was empty. I figured she was out here helping you with this five star buffet.”

JJ’s nodded toward your room. “She's in there. With her.”

John B’s brow furrowed, his toast halfway to his mouth. “In there? Why?”

JJ just shrugged. “I think they had a long night, man. Just... let 'em sleep.”

A little while later, the bedroom door finally creaked open.

Sarah stepped out first, carrying the empty plates. You followed right behind her, looking soft and sleepy. You’d ditched the heavy hoodie.

Seeing you like this, bare shouldered, eyes still half closed, and looking so comfortable in his space, made his throat go dry.

He’d seen you a thousand times, but today, everything felt different. Everything felt fragile.

Sarah walked straight over to the kitchen island, a huge, knowing grin on her face. As she set the plates down, she reached out and playfully messed up JJ’s hair, her fingers ruffling the blonde strands.

“Thanks for the breakfast, J,” she said, her voice bright. “Best service in the cut.”

You walked up beside her, your voice still a bit husky from sleep. “Yeah, thank you, JJ. It was really sweet of you.”

JJ tried to find his usual swagger, leaning back against the counter and shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the fact that they were shaking.

He looked from Sarah to you, his gaze lingering on your face just a second longer than usual.

John B looked between the three of you, sensing the weird, heavy energy in the room but unable to put his finger on it. “Okay, since everyone’s fed and happy... what’s the plan for today?”

“Actually, yeah,” you said, shifting your weight as you grabbed a glass of water. “I was gonna ask... could someone maybe drive me to the Figure Eight side? Near the country club?”

Sarah’s eyes lit up instantly. “Oh my god, yes! She had a callback for that job at the boutique.” She looked at you, practically vibrating with excitement.

You gave a small, shy smile, feeling everyone's eyes on you. “Yeah... that. I just need to drop off some paperwork and do a quick interview.”

John B grinned, leaning over the counter. “No way! That’s huge. Yeah, sure, we can all go, pile in the Twinkie-”

“Oh, no,” you interrupted quickly, waving your hands. “I don't want to mess with all your plans for the day. It’s a long drive and you guys probably want to hit the marsh. If someone could just drop me off, I can find a way back.”

JJ, who had been uncharacteristically quiet while watching you, finally spoke up. He pushed off the counter, his blue eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

“Of course you aren't messing with our plans,” JJ said, his voice firm and surprisingly steady. “We have none. You are our plan.”

He caught himself a second later, realizing how heavy that sounded. He cleared his throat, a faint flush creeping up his neck as he added a casual shrug. “I mean... it could be fun. Right? A little road trip to the fancy side? See how the other half is doing?“

Sarah chimed in, her mind clearly working a mile a minute, “What about this? We all head to my house. JJ, you drop me and John B off, then you drive her to the boutique. While you’re doing that, we’ll prepare some stuff, and we can have a nice picnic double date by the beach when she’s done.”

You were just finishing your glass of water when the words "double DATE" left Sarah’s mouth.

You sputtered, nearly choking as the water went down the wrong way. You coughed, your face turning a bright, frantic red.

“I- I mean!” Sarah added quickly, waving her hands as she realized she’d been a bit too obvious. “Not a date date. I just mean... because it's the four of us. Pope and Kiara said yesterday they were gonna be fixing some boats with Heyward all day, so it's just us.”

JJ was unusually silent, but he didn't look annoyed or uncomfortable. Instead, he was watching you cough, a small, amused smirk playing on his lips, though his eyes held that same new, softened look from earlier.

John B, seeing you nearly choke, jumped in to smooth things over. “Yeah, exactly! It's a Pogue Plan. It's a plan,” he said, giving a thumbs up that was a little too enthusiastic, and corny, definitely corny. You nodded quickly, grateful for the escape, and hurried back to your room.

Sarah followed right on your heels, closing the door behind her. She went straight for the bag of clothes she’d brought over, digging through it until she pulled out a stunning, delicate floral dress. “This,” she said decisively. “Boutique employee vibes.”

As you pulled it on, the soft fabric felt different against your skin.

Sarah stood behind you, looking at your reflection in the mirror, and wrapped her arms around your waist. “So, so pretty,” she whispered, her chin resting on your shoulder.

A small, genuine smile touched your lips. You were actually starting to believe her.

When you both finally stepped out of the Château, the humid air hit your face.

The boys were already in the Twinkie, the engine humming. JJ was leaning his elbow out the window, but the moment his eyes landed on you in that dress, his entire posture shifted. His hand stopped mid air as he went to adjust his cap.

“Geez,” he breathed out, not loud enough for you to hear. He slumped back into the passenger seat, dramatically clutching his chest right over his heart.

He looked over at John B with wide, mock panicked eyes. “John B, tell everyone i love them. I think I’m having a heart attack. Cardiac arrest, whatever it is, it’s aching.”

John B just laughed, shaking his head at his friend’s antics. You and Sarah reached the van, and once everyone was inside, John B drove toward Sarah's House.

JJ practically flew out of the van the second the tires stopped at Tanneyhill. He was at your door in a flash, pulling it open with a extending his hand, like he was escorting royalty.

“My lady,” he said, those blue eyes fixed on yours with a playfulness that made your stomach flip.

You laughed, the sound bright and easy, as you placed your hand in his and stepped out.

He kept his grip just a second longer than necessary before turning to Sarah, extending the same hand “Just courtesy, you are obviously not my lady,” he whispered under his breath. Sarah rolled her eyes and swiped at his arm, hitting him playfully as she climbed out. “Asshole,” she whispered back.

JJ didn't miss a beat. He swung around to the driver's side as John B hopped out. JB tossed the keys through the air, JJ caught them mid flight with a sharp snap of his wrist. “Preccieate that,” he grinned.

He didn't head for the driver's seat just yet. Instead, he walked back to the passenger side to open the door for you, fully committed to his ‘gentleman’ act. You couldn't help it, you smiled again, playfully bowing in your floral dress before sliding into the seat.

In his excitement, or maybe because his hands were still a little shaky from looking at you, JJ slammed the door shut. It was a bit too loud and a bit too hard, the metal clanging through the quiet Figure Eight neighborhood.

“JJ! A thousand times I've told you!” John B screamed over his shoulder while entering the property, his voice full of frustration.

JJ looked momentarily panicked, but he was already laughing as he yelled back, “SORRY!”

You were giggling in the passenger seat as he jogged around the front of the van and hopped into the driver's seat.

JJ didn't pull away immediately. He took a second to adjust his cap, his eyes darting to you and then back to the road.

“Been a while since I drove you somewhere,” he said, with some kind of charm. “I promise not to go more than ten over the limit... five? I don't know, I can't really make promises. But I gotta be careful... there’s precious cargo today.”

You instinctively looked over your shoulder toward the back of the van. “Precious cargo?” you asked, wondering what kind of gear or equipment he could be talking about.

Then you looked back at him and saw the way he was watching you, soft, steady, and completely focused. You realized he was talking about you.

“Don't be silly,” you said, your heart doing a little flip. You turned forward, trying to hide your blush. “You know I trust you. I’m sure you can do better than that time... I drove us back home from the marsh when we were thirteen.”

JJ’s eyes widened and he immediately covered his mouth with his hand, letting out a muffled, “JESUS.”

“I totally forgot about that,” he said, shaking his head. “And for good reason! I was traumatized. I think I still have the mark where I hit my shoulder back there.”

You were shocked for a second, the memory flooding back. It had been a disaster. There had been blood, you could barely reach the pedals, and the rain was so thick you couldn't see the road.

“But we survived, I guess,” you said softly, a small smile playing on your lips.

JJ nodded, his expression turning a bit more serious as he looked at you. “Yeah. We always do.”

He finally pulled out of the driveway. “So,” he said, glancing at you. “You nervous? About the job?”

“Technically I still haven't got it,” you said, twisting a loose thread on your floral dress. “So... I don't know.”

JJ scoffed, a confident smirk playing on his lips. “Technically, you're perfect for it.”

“Why?”

“Did they ask for a picture of you before calling for your info and the interview?” JJ asked, his eyes staying on the road but his grin widening.

“Yes...” you answered slowly.

“Okay, well, that's it. You got the job.”

“What do you mean?”

JJ let out a short, airy laugh and shook his head like the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. “Oh, I don't know,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, sweet tone again.

“Think about it. Those Figure Eight boutiques? They don't hire 'attendants.' They hire 'faces.' They want someone who makes the clothes look like a million bucks."

He glanced over at you, his blue eyes bright and sincere. “So, being the prettiest girl in the OBX... a 'model employee' in a literal sense... doesn't ring any bells for you?”

You sat there in total shock, the words echoing in your head. Prettiest girl in town. He didn't just say you were "fine" or "okay", he said you were the prettiest. Your heart was hammering so hard against your ribs you were sure he could hear it.

You looked out the window to hide the massive, shaky smile forming on your face, feeling the heat radiate from your cheeks. You were accepting a compliment, you were feeling a compliment.

JJ glanced over, noticing your silence. He reached over and briefly squeezed your hand, the one that was currently white, knuckled on the seat, before returning it to the wheel.

“I'm serious,” he added softly. “They'd be idiots not to hire you.”

how i wished this request wasn't anonymous ☹️ it's a real good request and my first one thank you so much !! i hope i made something you would enjoy 🤞🤞 PLEASE keep making them people 🫰

i had so much fun writing this, definitely will do a part 2 JUST patience please !!