blair.

Spencer packed like he was preparing for impact.

Everything had a place. Everything had weight. He pressed his palm flat against the inside of the suitcase before zipping it, testing the distribution as if turbulence might rearrange the laws of physics mid-flight.

The bedroom light was too warm. You’d mentioned it before. It cast a honey-colored glow over the walls and made the space feel smaller than it was. He didn’t change it. He rarely changed small discomforts. He endured them.

You stood near the dresser, arms folded loosely, watching him move.

Three days, he’d said earlier. Possibly four.

Possibly.

He adjusted the strap on his satchel and paused, a small motion that betrayed his nerves. He hadn’t looked at you yet, but you knew him well enough to feel the weight of that silence.

“You didn’t tell me it was solo,” you said, low and careful.

He finally looked at you. “It was decided this afternoon.”

Information delivered in fragments. Clean. Efficient. Minimal.

“You’ll be alone with local PD?”

“Yes.”

You nodded, but something tight coiled in your chest.

Cases had been heavier lately. You could see it in him. The way he lingered in the doorway before coming inside. The way he washed his hands longer than necessary. The way he stared at nothing while you spoke, then blinked back into the room.

He hadn’t been cruel. Not distant in any obvious, dramatic way.

Just thinner.

Like parts of him were being rationed.

The quiet stretched.

“Spence,” you said softly.

He looked at you, fully. That guarded layer was there. Not cold. Not unloving. Just protected.

“You’ve been somewhere else lately." you said.

His jaw shifted slightly. “Work has been intense.”

“I know,” you said. And you did. You always knew when the cases were bad.

“I just,” You hesitated. “I don’t want to feel like I only get what’s left.”

That landed.

He straightened slightly. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“I’m not saying it is on purpose,” you whispered.

Silence.

“You think I care more about the job,” he said quietly.

“I think the job takes more from you than you admit,” you said.

He swallowed. His shoulders tightened.

“I don’t know how to do this differently,” he admitted.

Your chest ached.

You stepped closer, close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes. “I don’t need you to be different. I just need you to let me see you.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “I am letting you see me.”

“Not the hard parts,” you said.

A long pause stretched between you.

“I leave at six,” he said softly. Not leaving yet. Just stating the fact. But not facing the full truth.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” he murmured.

You nodded.

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

The air between you held the shape of words neither of you spoke.

You went to bed together later, the weight of unspoken things hanging heavy but familiar.

He pulled you close, arm around your shoulders. You fit against him, hand resting lightly on his chest.

You held each other to sleep.

And for now, that was enough.

Tomorrow, at six, he would leave.

But tonight, you were here. Together.

It had been two days since Spencer left. Two days since he stepped out at six in the morning leaving you with a kiss on the forehead and left the apartment feeling impossibly empty.

You sat on the edge of the bed, a stack of his folded sweatshirts in your lap. Each one carried the faint scent of him. Soap, his cologne, the warmth of his body lingering in the fabric. You pressed one to your cheek and closed your eyes, letting memories drift through you like pages in a book.

The night before he left, the quiet weight of the apartment had been different. You remembered the way he’d kissed your temple softly, how he’d murmured he’d call when he landed.

You remembered holding him to sleep afterward, the familiar press of his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing against your hand.

And then he left.

You tried not to think about him. Tried to keep busy. But every folded sweatshirt pulled you back to him. One was soft, stretched slightly at the sleeves from where he tugged at it when he was thinking. Another smelled faintly of his shampoo from the shower.

You pressed them to your face, smiling despite yourself, thinking of quiet mornings, shared coffees, his careful explanations of obscure statistics, the way he’d brush hair out of his eyes when he was nervous.

You sighed.

You couldn’t wait for him to call. There were days you weren't able to contact him during cases, you knew that. But you couldn’t let this drift. Not when your chest ached for him, not when your mind rewound every word you’d left unsaid.

You stood, stretching, sweatshirts still in your hands.

“I’m going to call him,” you whispered to the empty apartment. “I’m going to fix this. I have to. Because I love him too much to wait.”

You dialed. Your fingers shook slightly as the line rang.

The sound of his voice when he answered made your heart stutter.

“Hey.” he said, quiet, tired.

“Hi.” you breathed.

“Are you okay?”

You smiled, a little sad, a little relieved. “I’m better now. I missed you.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then his voice, soft, careful, like he was trying to measure every word so he wouldn’t break. “I missed you too. I’ve been thinking about you so much.”

You sank back onto the bed, holding the phone close. The world had fallen away. It was just you and him.

“I’ve been thinking too.." you said, voice low. “I don’t want us to drift like that again. Especially not before your cases.”

“I don’t either. I hate leaving you with bad thoughts about us,” he murmured. There was a faint smile in his voice you could hear, a warmth that made your chest ache and lighten all at once.

You laughed softly, relieved, your hand pressed to your chest. “I love you, Spencer.”

“I love you too,” he whispered. “More than anything.”

And for the first time since he’d left, the knot of worry in your stomach loosened, just slightly. You could picture him on the other end of the line, sitting somewhere alone, probably holding his own hand over his heart, thinking of you too.

The call was spent softly and carefully, laughing over tiny jokes, reminding each other of moments only the two of you shared, and it mattered more than anything.

By the time you hung up, the apartment felt fuller again, alive with his presence even though he was miles away.

And you were still worried. How could you not? But you felt closer than you had in days. You felt ready to fight for this, for him, for the quiet love that held you both together even when the world tried to pull you apart.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The absence of Spencer made every sound sharper. The hum of the fridge, the creak of the floor, even the shadows felt heavier.

You moved through the room lightly, almost embarrassed at how much hearing his voice had lifted you. Even over the phone, it lingered in your chest. His soft tone. The careful cadence. That faint laugh you could still hear in your head.

You replayed it while brushing your teeth. The tilt of his head. His fingers fidgeting. You smiled, fragile but real. Relief that was temporary, but enough.

Back in bed, for the first time in two days, you slept without waking every hour. Without counting minutes. Without imagining him alone. You felt comforted.

Then the phone rang at 2am.

It wasn’t him.

Your heart stopped.

“Hello?”

“Is this…?”

It was Agent Jareau.

She never called you directly. Not at this hour.

Your stomach dropped.

“There’s been an incident,” she said carefully.

Your chest tightened.

“What kind of incident?” you asked.

“An explosion at the site they were investigating,” she explained.

While you slept. While you dreamed. While you were thinking of him.

“He’s missing."

A/N = sorry for no posts...

You were on the couch.

Bonnet on.

Face mask fully applied; green, thick, unmistakably alarming.

Wrapped in his oversized hoodie and a fluffy robe like you were preparing to hibernate.

A candle flickered on the coffee table beside a mug that smelled faintly like chamomile.

Silence.

You looked up slowly.

Your eyes widened.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, immediately slapping both hands over your face. “No. Nope. You were not supposed to see this. Spence, please pretend I’m not here.”

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

“…Is that.." he said carefully, "A bentonite clay mask? Or charcoal?”

You made a muffled noise through your hands that might’ve been a scream. “Why are you like this.”

“I’m just asking,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him, voice gentle but curious. “Charcoal is better for oil absorption, but clay masks tend to-"

“Reid.”

“Yes?”

“I look like a swamp creature.”

He tilted his head, studying you in that familiar, earnest way that made your chest ache. “I wouldn’t say that. More like… someone engaging in restorative self care rituals.”

You peeked at him between your fingers. “You’re not weirded out?”

“Why would I be?” He shrugged out of his coat, setting his satchel down.

“Statistically, people who maintain routines like this report lower stress levels. Also,” his lips twitched "it’s kind of… nice.”

Nice.

Your embarrassment softened into something warmer, quieter.

“You’re allowed to laugh..." you muttered.

“I’m not laughing,” he said immediately. “I mean I admit.. I didn’t expect to come home to… this.” A beat. Softer. “But I like that you feel comfortable enough to do it here.”

You dropped your hands fully now, resigned. “I’ve got ten minutes before I can wash it off. If you make fun of me, I will never recover.”

He glanced at the mask, then at the small timer on your phone. “Actually,” he said, pulling out his watch, “most masks shouldn’t exceed twelve minutes. I can set a timer if you want.”

You stared at him.

Then smiled.

“…You’re unbelievable.”

“I get that a lot.”

He sat beside you, careful not to touch the mask, shoulder brushing yours.

And just before the timer went off, he added softly,

“If it makes you feel better, I wouldn't mind.. participating in your self care next time...”

Two weeks later, the bathroom looked like a crime scene of self care.

Two robes, Two face masks; yours a pale pink, Spencer’s a dubious grey that made him look like he’d lost a fight with wet cement.

Lotions, creams, a diffuser humming softly on the counter.

Spencer stared at his reflection, blinking slowly. “I look… unsettling.”

You glanced at him from where you were rubbing lotion into your arms. “You look relaxed. And slightly haunted.”

He exhaled. “That tracks.”

You shuffled closer, bumping his hip with yours. “Okay, lotion step. Don’t rush it. You have to warm it up first.”

“I know,” he said defensively, rubbing his hands together a little too fast. “Friction increases-"

“-blood flow, yes, I know,” you laughed. “But gentle, Spencer. You’re not polishing a table.”

He tried again, slower this time, carefully smoothing lotion over his arms with intense concentration. You watched him for a second, smiling.

“You’re taking this very seriously huh?"

“Well." he said, earnest even through the mask "if we’re doing it together, I want to do it correctly.”

Your heart did a small, stupid flip.

Once you were both sufficiently moisturized, you reached for the spray bottle and curl cream. “Okay. Hair time.”

His eyes widened. “Hair time?”

“Yep. You said you wanted to see why I take so long.”

“I didn’t realize it involved… techniques.”

You guided him to sit on the edge of the tub while you stood between his knees, gently misting his hair. “You have natural waves. You just don’t treat it right.”

“That’s… not the first time I’ve heard that..." he murmured.

You raked curl cream through his damp hair, scrunching gently. He flinched at first, then visibly relaxed as you moved onto the mousse.

“This feels… nice..." he admitted, his hands pulling you closer by your waist.

“See?” you said softly. “No brushing. No aggressive towel drying. We diffuse, we scrunch, we let it live.”

He tilted his head as you worked, face mask cracking slightly when he smiled. “You’re very… confident about this.”

“I’ve suffered enough trial and error for the both of us.”

When you finally stepped back, you both caught sight of yourselves in the mirror with matching robes, matching masks, his curls starting to form, your bonnet already on.

There was a pause.

Then Spencer said, very quietly,

“If anyone at work could see us right now…”

“They’d never believe it." you replied.

He huffed out a laugh, reaching for your hand. “Good.”

You leaned into him, foreheads touching carefully so the masks didn’t smear.

Domestic. Ridiculous. Perfect.

“Okay,” you said, peering at his hair like a scientist examining a rare specimen. “Now we diffuse.”

Spencer stiffened. “The… machine?”

“The gentle airflow device,” you corrected solemnly, lifting the diffuser. “Very important. Very serious.”

He watched you attach it to the hair dryer with suspicion. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

You turned it on low heat because you were both very intentional people and began hovering it near his curls, scrunching softly. The noise filled the bathroom, but Spencer’s grin was unmistakable even under the mask.

“This feels like being petted,” he said once you turned it off.

You gasped. “I was going to say pampered.”

“I don’t object to either.”

You laughed, full and unfiltered, nearly dropping the dryer. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet" he said, standing and gently tugging you closer by the sleeve of your robe, “you’re still doing my hair.”

“Because you’re compliant.”

“Because I trust you.”

That did it. You felt your cheeks warm as you reached up to adjust a curl that had flopped dramatically over his forehead. He watched you with that soft, open look that made everything feel smaller and safer.

“Do I look different?” he asked.

You tilted your head. “You look… cozy.”

He smiled. “I feel cozy.”

You both caught sight of yourselves in the mirror again, and this time you couldn’t help it, you snorted.

“Oh my god,” you wheezed. “We look like we’re about to host the world’s calmest podcast.”

“Or join a very specific cult,” Spencer added thoughtfully.

You doubled over laughing. “Stop-my mask is cracking!”

He reached out instinctively, thumbs hovering near your cheeks. “Don’t move. If it dries unevenly-"

“It’s fine!” you giggled, swatting his hands away gently. “It’s just a mask.”

He paused. “Can I-"He gestured vaguely. “Boop?”

“…Boop?”

He nodded seriously. “Just once.”

You rolled your eyes, still smiling. “Okay. One boop.”

He tapped your nose carefully, mask and all, then immediately flushed. “That was… better than expected.” You adore his fascination by the masks.

You laughed again, leaning into his chest.

He wrapped his arms around you, robe sleeves bunching awkwardly, face mask cool against your temple.

You stayed like that for a moment, swaying slightly, giggles fading into soft breaths.

Then the timer on your phone went off.

You both groaned in unison.

“Mask removal already?” Spencer sighed. “We were in a good phase.”

“Don’t worry,” you said, squeezing his hand. “Next time, we add under eye patches.”

His eyes lit up. “There are patches?”

You grinned. “Oh, Spencer. You have no idea.”

By the time you both crawled into bed, the apartment felt quieter somehow. Calmer. Like the world had finally agreed to leave you alone.

Spencer lay on his back, hair mostly dried now, curls doing exactly what you promised they would. You turned onto your side to look at him, chin propped on your hand, smiling without even realising it.

He caught you.

“…What?” he asked, already smiling back.

“You." you said simply. “Your hair worked.”

He lifted a hand, touching a curl cautiously, like it might disappear if he acknowledged it. “It’s… softer than usual.”

“Told you.”

A beat passed. Then another. The kind that felt warm instead of awkward.

You scooted closer, tucking yourself into his side, your head resting against his shoulder. He adjusted immediately, arm curling around you like it had always known where to go.

“This was a good night right?" he said quietly.

“Yeah," you agreed. “A really good one.”

He tilted his head so his temple rested against yours, noses brushing just slightly. You both smiled again, small, sleepy smiles that didn’t need words.

“You make things feel…” He paused, searching. “Normal. In a good way.”

Your chest softened. “You make things feel safe.”

His thumb traced absent little circles on your arm, slow and gentle. “We should do this again.”

"The masks or the cuddling?”

“Hm? Don't we cuddle every night already?” he questioned, a little shy.

You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I suppose you're right.”

The room dimmed as he reached over to turn off the lamp, but even in the dark you could feel his smile when he pulled you closer, your legs tangling naturally.

No rush. No noise.

Just the steady rhythm of breathing and the quiet certainty of being exactly where you were meant to be.

And before sleep took you both, Spencer murmured, barely above a whisper,

“Goodnight.”

You smiled into his chest.

“Goodnight, Spencer.”

A/N = Thank you for the request, it's so adorable I can imagine Spencer being such a caring boyfriend. 🥹

You don’t remember the walk to the elevator. You don’t remember pressing the button or stepping inside. You only remember the weight in your chest, the kind that feels like your body is holding its breath for you because you can’t.

You left without a coat even though it was cold, and the chill outside was sharp enough to make your skin sting, but you welcomed it. It felt real. It felt like something that could keep you grounded when everything inside you was splintering.

All you wanted was distance and enough space for your heartbeat to slow down, for the echo of your own voice to stop replaying in your skull.

You stood on the sidewalk, the city lights blurring into thin streaks of colour, and waited for the tears to come. They didn’t. You weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.

When you got home, you didn’t bother turning on the lights. You kicked your shoes off somewhere near the door and sank into bed still wearing your work clothes. You stared up at the ceiling, replaying every moment you wished you could take back. You expected your phone to buzz, half-dreading it, half-needing it… but nothing happened. The silence that followed was a cruel thing. It meant he wasn’t reaching for you, not even out of confusion or regret. And that, somehow, hurt more than anything you had said.

You didn’t sleep. Hours passed in slow, suffocating inches, and when the sun finally rose, you felt no different. Just tired. Just empty. Just done pretending.

You walked into the BAU that morning like someone wearing your skin. People looked at you differently, too softly, too carefully. Garcia’s greeting was fragile around the edges, and you bypassed her with an apology that never reached your tongue. Morgan didn’t give you his usual grin. He just nodded once, a look in his eyes that said I heard more than I ever wanted to. Blake gave you a sympathetic smile before looking away, and it was possibly the kindest way she could have acknowledged you without making everything worse.

Hotch noticed you the moment you stepped into the bullpen. He didn’t approach, didn’t pry but instead just watched you long enough to see the change, the way you carried your heartbreak like a shield.

"Briefing in five,” was all he said, voice low, like he was afraid if he spoke too loudly you might break.

And then Spencer walked in.

Late. Disheveled. Unsteady in a way you had never seen from him without pain somewhere behind it. His eyes were rimmed with the kind of red that only sleepless nights could paint. His tie was crooked like he’d put it on while his hands shook. When he saw you, he stopped. Not dramatically, instead just a small, startled pause, the kind that said he had already imagined this moment a hundred different ways and none of them prepared him for the real thing.

He didn’t walk toward you.

For the first time in years, he didn’t. And something inside you recognised that as a new kind of loss.

But you knew his intention was out of kindness. He knew there was space needed between the both of you, or else the tension would’ve felt suffocating throughout the room.

You sat through the briefing with your eyes fixed on the folder in front of you, pretending that every word wasn’t floating past unheard. Spencer spoke once, his voice cracking on a number he’d normally say without thinking. You didn’t react. You didn’t look up. But every second that passed between his question and your refusal to acknowledge him rang louder than any statistic ever could.

Work carried on, as it always did. You threw yourself into paperwork, focusing so hard you could almost pretend nothing inside you hurt. But every breath felt like a reminder that pretending wasn’t working anymore.

You waited to make coffee until you were sure he wasn’t around.

Except he was.

He stood a few feet away from the machine, holding a cup he clearly wasn’t drinking, staring at the floor like it had the answers he couldn’t find. When he noticed you approach, he looked up too fast, eyes wide with something that might have been fear or guilt or both. For a second, neither of you moved. It was painful, how familiar this place was and how strange you suddenly felt in it.

You stepped around him carefully, like he was something fragile and you couldn’t risk touching it.

“Excuse me,” you whispered your first words to him since last night and the way his breath hitched made your heart twist violently. His sleeve barely brushed yours as you turned away, and that tiny contact burned more than any confession ever could.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to apologise. Didn’t try to fill the void. He just stood there, silently unraveling, and you kept your eyes on the coffee stream as if staring hard enough could block out memories of every time you’d filled a second mug for him.

The day moved on, but nothing felt normal. The team walked on eggshells, everyone speaking softer, moving slower, terrified of pushing either of you over an edge you both hovered dangerously close to. You stayed quiet, forcing your face into calm you didn’t feel, and Spencer kept his head down, hands shaking whenever they weren’t busy.

It was awful.


It was necessary.

At some point in the late afternoon, you caught him staring. Not the casual way he used to glance over when he needed grounding, but a quiet, almost desperate stare like he was studying the person he’d known for years and suddenly couldn’t recognise anymore. His eyes held questions he didn’t dare ask. Yours held answers he would never want.

That was the shift.

The moment you understood that whatever you had been to each other; confidant, safe haven and constant was gone. Replaced by a silence thick enough to suffocate.

You wondered how long it’ll take until things are back to normal, back to how they were when you sat next to each other casually, knees touching, eyes locking, feelings unravelling naturally. Was it even possible for it to be normal again? Probably not, you think. Not with Maeve around anyway.

And the rest of the afternoon passes like that. In fragments. A question answered without thought. A file closed. A pen clicked absentmindedly against the desk until JJ gently reaches over and stills your hand with two fingers, offering a look that asks are you okay? without forcing you to answer.

You nod. Of course you do.

You’ve always been good at nodding.

It’s strange, the things you notice when you stop orbiting someone. The way the bullpen sounds different when you’re not listening for his voice. The way time stretches when you’re no longer waiting for a glance, or a shared look that says did you hear that too? You hadn’t realised how much of your day had been built around him until you removed yourself from the equation.

Spencer doesn’t come near you again. Not deliberately. Not accidentally. When he moves through the space, it’s like he’s learned a new geometry, one that bends around where you stand. You catch glimpses of him in reflections, in glass, in the periphery of your vision, but never directly in front of you. He speaks when necessary, keeps his tone careful, measured. Professional.

It shouldn’t hurt.


But it does.

Not sharply. Not the way it used to.


It’s duller now. Heavier. Like a bruise you keep pressing just to make sure it’s still there.

At some point, you realise something else too: you’re not bracing yourself anymore. Not for his footsteps, not for his voice, not for the inevitable way he used to lean toward you without realising it. Your body isn’t anticipating him the way it always has. And that realisation leaves you feeling unsteady in a way you can’t quite name.

When Hotch dismisses everyone for the evening, you don’t wait. You gather your things quickly, efficiently. No lingering. No unnecessary goodbyes. You’re halfway to the elevators when you hear your name. Soft. Careful.

You stop a few feet from the elevator, close enough that the brushed metal doors reflect a version of you that looks intact. Your hand lifts, hesitates, then falls back to your side. Your body doesn’t feel like it belongs to you anymore. It feels like something you’re borrowing until the weight in your chest decides what to do.

Behind you, footsteps slow. Not rushed. Not abrupt. Careful. Like he’s afraid even the sound of them might push you further away.

“Hey.” Spencer says quietly. Just one word. Soft. Unarmed.

You don’t turn around.

“I’m-” He exhales, the sound uneven. “I’m sorry.”

The word lands differently than you expect. Not sharp. Not relieving. Just heavy. You close your eyes for a moment, letting it pass through you without reacting.

“You didn’t do anything.” you say quietly. It isn’t forgiveness. It isn’t absolution. It’s just a fact.

“I know,” he says quickly. Then, slower, like he’s choosing honesty even though it scares him, “But intent doesn’t really change the outcome…”

That makes you turn. Just slightly. Enough to see him standing there with his hands clasped together, knuckles pale, shoulders drawn inward like he’s bracing for impact. His eyes flick up to yours and then away again, like holding your gaze for too long might hurt you more.

He looks wrecked. Not in a dramatic way. In a quiet, unraveling one.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

The question is barely above a whisper. He already knows the answer. You can hear it in the way his voice cracks around the word okay, like he’s hoping you’ll lie so he doesn’t have to sit with the truth.

You give a small, tired breath. “I don’t think that’s a fair question right now.”

He nods immediately, like he deserves that. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just-” He stops himself, frustration flashing across his face before softening into something closer to helplessness. “I don’t know how to fix this. And I know that saying that doesn’t help.”

It doesn’t. But it hurts differently than dismissal would have.

“I don’t need you to fix it. There is nothing to fix to be honest..” you say quietly. “I just needed you to know.”

“I do,” he says. Too fast. Too earnest. “I do know. I just… I wish I’d realised sooner. I wish I’d been less oblivious.”

That word makes something twist inside you.

Oblivious.

You look back at the elevator doors, at the way your reflection fractures slightly where the metal bends. “I didn’t tell you.” you say. “You can’t blame yourself for not seeing something I kept hidden.”

“But you shouldn’t have had to hide it…” he replies.

There’s no argument in his voice. Just grief.

The elevator dings softly behind you, doors sliding open like an interruption neither of you asked for. You step back without thinking, the space between you widening again, safer that way.

“I need to go.” you say.

“I know,” he answers. Then, after a beat, “I’ll give you space. But… I’m here. If you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or yell at me. Statistically, yelling can be cathartic.”

You almost smile. Almost.

“Goodnight, Spencer.”

“Goodnight.” he says, barely audible.

The doors close between you, cutting him off mid-breath. As the elevator descends, you finally let your shoulders sag, the tension draining just enough to leave you exhausted.

He didn’t chase you.

But he didn’t let you leave unseen either.

And neither of you spoke about it since.

He stands there long after the elevator doors have slid shut, staring at the cold metal in front of him, though he doesn’t really see it. His hands are loosely clasped in front of him, then fall to his sides, then he fiddles with the edge of his tie as if the movement could untangle something knotting inside. He knows the team won’t notice. The hallway is empty. It’s quiet. Safe. And yet he can’t move. He’s frozen in the way you get when you realise a moment has shifted, irreversibly, and all you can do is watch it slip through your fingers.

Her words echo in his head, repeating themselves, rearranging into patterns he’s desperate to solve. “You can’t blame yourself for not seeing something I kept hidden.” And he feels a tightness behind his sternum he hasn’t felt before, not like this. Not this sharp, precise, and unfamiliar. He thinks maybe he could memorise the exact cadence of how she said it, how the syllables curved into the quiet acceptance, and somehow keep it safe. Or maybe he just wants to stop feeling it altogether because it’s unbearable.

He takes a slow, uneven breath. He hates the way his chest tightens when he thinks about how close he was to saying the wrong thing. Or worse, the thing that would make her feel worse. He hates that he even has to think about it at all. He should have said more. He should have… done something. But what? What could have fixed it? Words feel meaningless now, and yet they are all he has ever had. He knows the difference between empty apologies and measured truths, and he hates that both of them feel inadequate.

Eventually, he moves. Not because the feeling has resolved, but because routine has always been the thing that carries him when he can’t. He gathers his bag, straightens his coat, and heads out into the cold with the practiced awareness that he has somewhere to be, someone waiting for him. Maeve. The name settles into him with familiarity, with comfort, with something that should feel steady. As he unlocks his door later, steps into the warm, familiar quiet of her presence, he tells himself that this is where he belongs tonight. And yet, as he listens to her voice and answers when spoken to, a small part of him remains standing in that hallway, staring at an elevator door that closed a little too cleanly, holding the shape of a feeling he doesn’t yet have a name for.

Three months pass.

Time doesn’t announce itself when it’s healing something or when it’s burying it. It just moves forward, pulling everyone with it. Whatever tension once lingered in the bullpen fades into something less sharp, less noticeable. People stop glancing between the two of you. Conversations resume their usual rhythm. The night that once felt like a fracture becomes a quiet, unspoken thing, tucked away where no one touches it anymore.

Including you.

On the surface, very little changes.

Spencer never stopped talking to you, whether it was about the case or conversations on the flight about how you’re gonna spend the weekend, he continued a flow which eventually got casual again. Now he jokes, rambles and still forgets himself mid sentence when he’s excited. He doesn’t avoid you, doesn’t treat you like something fragile he’s afraid to break. If anything, he seems relieved to fall back into the familiar pattern you’ve always shared; easy conversation, shared looks, mutual understanding that doesn’t require explanation.

He’s been more careful, especially in the beginning but not distant. Never distant.

And yet you still notice the difference between now and to before.

He keeps a respectful space now, just enough that it never feels accidental when you’re close. He doesn’t linger beside you after briefings the way he once might have. His gestures are thoughtful rather than instinctive, offering help verbally instead of reaching for you, standing beside you instead of leaning in.

It’s subtle but you don't miss it.

What remains completely is his gentleness. The way he still listens like what you’re saying matters, even when the room is loud and busy. The way his smile softens when you speak, familiar and easy, never lingering too long. It’s the same Spencer you’ve always known and that almost hurts more than if he’d changed at all.

You still love him.

That truth hasn’t shifted, no matter how much time has passed. It’s quieter now, tucked deeper inside you, but it’s there all the same. You feel it in the smallest moments, in the instinctive way your attention gravitates toward him, in how his kindness still lands somewhere tender inside your chest.

And you’re not stupid.

You notice the things he doesn’t realise he gives away. The faint smiles that appear when his phone lights up. The mornings he comes in with his tie crooked, hair slightly mussed, collar just a little off as if he dressed in a hurry, distracted, hands not entirely steady. Once, you catch the faint mark along his neck when he leans down to pick up a file. It’s not obvious. Anyone else would miss it.

You don’t.

Other days, it’s the opposite. His tie is perfectly knotted, symmetrical down to the millimetre. Probably mixed by her. His sleeves are crisp. His posture rigid. Those are the days he’s trying harder, you think. Trying to compartmentalise. Trying to be who he’s supposed to be at work,.

Both versions tell you the same thing.

They’re still together.

The knowledge doesn’t surprise you. It doesn’t knock the air from your lungs the way it once might have. It simply settles, familiar and heavy, a constant presence you’ve learned to carry. You don’t ask him about her. You don’t let yourself wonder what their nights look like, what his laughter sounds like when he’s with her.

You already know enough.

And yet, sometimes late at night, when the day has finally loosened its grip on you, the thought slips in uninvited: Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the shape your life takes; loving someone quietly, steadily, knowing he will never choose you, and loving him anyway.

The idea doesn’t feel dramatic anymore.

It feels possible.

And maybe that’s the hardest part of all.

It happens on a night that doesn’t feel important at first.

There’s no case pressing down on your shoulders, no adrenaline still buzzing under your skin. Just paperwork that ran longer than expected and the soft hum of the bullpen lights, dimmed low enough to make everything feel almost private. JJ is there with you both, leaning against a desk, shoes kicked off under her chair, talking about something inconsequential Henry, maybe, or a failed attempt at baking that made Spencer ask too many earnest follow-up questions.

He’s himself tonight. That’s what strikes you first.

Not careful. Not withdrawn. Not heavy.

He’s rambling a little, hands moving as he talks, spiralling from one thought into another the way he always does when he forgets to monitor himself. He interrupts JJ once, apologises immediately, then does it again without realising. You catch yourself smiling before you can stop it, and when he notices, he smiles back; automatic, familiar, gentle.

Like nothing ever cracked between you.

JJ checks her watch eventually and groans, standing up with a stretch. “I should go before Will starts thinking I’ve been kidnapped.”

She squeezes your shoulder as she passes, then gives Spencer a look that’s fond and knowing and just a little too perceptive. “Don’t stay too late.”

When the doors close behind her, the quiet shifts but not in a bad way. It settles.

You don’t move farther away from each other. You don’t move closer either. You’re just… there. Sitting at neighbouring desks, shoulders angled in without thinking, sharing the same small pocket of space like you’ve done a thousand times before.

Spencer exhales, rolling his shoulders once. “She’s right, you know. About staying too late. Statistically speaking, prolonged work hours significantly increase the likelihood of cognitive errors and—” He stops, glancing at you. “—or we could just… ignore that entirely.”

You smile, small but real. “You usually do.”

“That’s because the data is… inconvenient,” he says, deadpan.

You laugh, soft and warm, and it’s enough to make him grin automatically, the way he always does. Before you realise it, the conversation slips into something easy and familiar.

You notice him now; the slight tilt of his head as he talks, the way his hands move as though they can’t help illustrating every thought, the way he forgets himself in the middle of a sentence. And you feel it, that same pull you always feel when he’s like this, the same heart-thrum that’s lived quietly under your ribs for years. You haven’t allowed yourself to feel it fully in months. Not since the confession. But now, watching him unravel slightly, immersed in what he loves, it’s like time has folded over itself and you’re back there, before anything changed.

He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping on the desk. “I watched this documentary last night. About-well, it was… um… about medieval monks and memory palaces, sort of a-no, it was more than that, it was specifically about how they used complex visualisations to memorise entire texts and there was this segment on how-wait, I think I’m saying this wrong-they, um… they mapped physical spaces to abstract concepts? Something like that. And they had this rule, which I found fascinating, that if you-oh!-you’re supposed to… no, the way they describe it is that if you want to remember a scripture, you visualise it as part of a room, or a series of rooms, and then each object in the room correlates with a concept or… yes, never mind, that’s not quite right, but it’s something along those lines.”

You raise an eyebrow, smiling, letting him continue. But truthfully you did not understand what he was going on about, “You stayed up watching monks organise their imaginary rooms?”

“Technically, yes,” he says, nodding quickly, “but it’s not what it sounds like! It was academically rigorous. And also, they had to memorise texts in Latin, which is not trivial-um, and their training apparently improved recall by something like 37% over standard rote memorisation, which is-well, it’s statistically significant, at least from the data I could find. Oh! And there was a comparison with modern memory champions who use similar techniques, though I might have missed a step in the method they actually use-wait, that’s not exactly right either. The point is-well, I found it fascinating.”

You shake your head, quietly laughing. “I can’t believe you stayed up for that.”

“It’s not about staying up,” he protests, raising one hand in mock indignation. “It’s about the pursuit of knowledge and also, the historical context is remarkable. I mean, to memorise entire texts and retain them decades later without writing them down! It’s… extraordinary. Though I suppose the monks themselves-” He pauses, noticing your expression. “-well, maybe they wouldn’t be impressed by my… uh, binge-watching habits.”

You laugh again, softly, and he grins, eyes lighting up. The sound is familiar, comfortable, like the last three months of distance never happened. You realise you’ve been holding your breath without knowing it, and now you can’t stop noticing him, every detail, every habitual twitch, every small motion that always made your chest tighten in ways that were impossible to rationalise.

It’s not romantic, not yet. Not officially. And still, your heart aches quietly, a steady rhythm under your ribs, pulling your gaze to him as he rambles, as he waves his hands to explain something you only half understand, as he fumbles mid thought in the way that makes him impossibly, painfully human. You see him, really see him, and the love you’ve carried for months and years, shines in your eyes. It’s soft, unspoken, and completely undeniable.

When he pauses, catching himself mid rant, you lean back slightly, smiling softly, and for the first time in months, it feels like the two of you are exactly where you used to be: safe in the same orbit, a little closer than strangers but far enough apart to breathe.

And you notice it: the old, effortless rhythm, the small laughter, the way he trusts you to follow him even through tangents that make no sense. The way he always has. And for a moment, it’s almost too much. Almost enough to make you forget everything else, everything that’s hurt, everything you promised yourself you’d contain.

In the moment, sitting there, laughing at something small, gentle, and familiar, the feeling is unmistakable: for the first time in months, it feels like it used to. Like before everything broke, like before confessions, like before pain.

And then it starts again. A small joke. A playful jab at something Spencer said, and he laughs, low and quiet at first, but it builds. He counters, teasing, making a ridiculous face, mimicking one of Garcia’s quirks, and you can’t help but burst out laughing, loud and unrestrained.

He’s sitting slightly angled toward you, you toward him, knees almost touching, shoulders brushing lightly without either of you realizing it. He tells a ridiculous hypothetical about the weirdest case he’s ever read, you counter with a more ridiculous one of your own, and the laughter builds until it’s uncontainable.

Your shoulders brush now. The faint warmth of him is unmistakable. And for a heartbeat, just a fleeting, suspended heartbeat, everything outside that small bubble of air between you fades.

Then his phone buzzes sharply against the desk. He glances down, face tightens slightly. Maeve.

He exhales, almost reluctantly, and mutters, “I… should take this,” standing abruptly, breaking the moment.

You nod, heart sinking slightly, forcing your features into neutral calm, though every fibre of your body remembers the closeness, the warmth, the laughter, the way his presence has always felt like home.

He answers the call, stepping a little away, glancing at you apologetically over his shoulder before disappearing into the hall. The room suddenly feels emptier, quieter, the laughter and shared joy hanging like a fragile echo.

And in that silence, you can’t help but think that no matter what happens, no matter how far apart you feel, these moments, these small bursts of closeness, are the ones you’ll keep holding onto.

A/N = Here it is... I hope you enjoyed reading and I'm so sorry it took so long! I lost the first part 2 that I've written so I had to rewrite it fully by memory :(

Regardless I hope you guys had an amazing Christmas if you celebrate! I myself spent it with my family and been enjoying the breaks I get.

Let me know your thoughts and ask me questions in my inbox !!

“They put tinsel on Hotch’s door..."he murmurs, voice low with disbelief. “I’m fairly certain that violates at least three unspoken rules.”

You smile, stepping up beside him. “It’s Christmas. Even the BAU pretends to be festive once a year.”

He glances down at you, lips twitching. “Statistically speaking, forced cheer increases stress levels by-"

“You’re doing it,” you interrupt gently.

“Doing what?”

“Talking instead of feeling.”

That earns you a look. Not annoyed, just… caught.

Spencer exhales, shoulders dropping a fraction. “Right. Yes. Sorry.”

You reach out, brushing your pinky against his. It’s small, barely there, but his fingers curl around yours instantly, like he’s been waiting for permission.

Outside, snow starts falling. Slow and quiet, the kind that makes the world feel hushed and safe.

"Come on let's go home." You take his hand into yours, pulling him towards the elevator.

Later, you’re both sitting on the couch in his apartment, the lights low except for the soft glow of the Christmas tree in the corner. It’s not flashy, just warm white lights and a few carefully chosen ornaments. One of them is clearly handmade.

“Garcia gave me that,” he says, following your gaze. “She cried when I hung it up.”

You laugh softly. “Of course she did.”

Spencer hands you a mug of hot chocolate, fingers lingering as you take it. “I, um… I don’t usually like holidays,” he admits. “Too many expectations. Too much noise.”

“But?” you prompt.

“But,” he continues, quieter now. "This one is manageable when you're by my side.."

You lean your head against his shoulder. He freezes for half a second—then relaxes, resting his cheek against your hair.

The tree lights reflect in his eyes, softening the sharp edges the world so often gives him.

“Merry Christmas Spence" you whisper.

He smiles; not the polite kind, not the awkward one but something real and private, just for you.

“Merry Christmas.” Spencer replies.

And for once, the world feels still enough for him to enjoy it.