Delulu world

Your hand glows now, a serene tinted blue against the dark fabric of his sleep shirt. The weight of your hand grounds him so surely that he feels it even when it isn’t there. Even states away, across the country, lying in a lumpy hotel bed with a distinct lack of you beside him. It’s there. He notices now that the finger beside your pinky seems bare, naked. Your skin looks uncharacteristically cold where a thin blanket of diamonds should be wrapped around it, dull where it should be sparkling. He makes a note to fix that as soon as possible.

As his eyes drift from your hand to your face, cheek smushed into his chest, he thinks his breath might leave him completely. It’s hard to believe he ever lived a life without you. Just the thought of it feels ridiculous, like picturing the tide without the moon- still and stagnant and dead. He had to have known you somehow, from somewhere. Perhaps the heaviness in his heart he carried until he met you was just him missing you from some far away place he can’t remember- a dream he once had or a life he once lived. As he lays with your head beneath his chin and your leg anchored over his like gravity exists solely to hold the two of you together, he decides that this is the only logical conclusion as to how he has survived this long at all.

Reincarnation isn’t something he necessarily believes in. But what else could it be? He has simply always known you. After all, he believes now that he would wither and die if he were to be without you- that he would succumb to some melodramatic malady the finest doctor on Earth couldn’t cure- so how else could he have made it this far? Perhaps in past lives the two of you were the whirlwind romance they wrote fairytales about, or upon which poets based their rhymes. Maybe you were together decades ago, smiling and twirling in the black and white rain of an old romance movie. The life he’s lived thus far can’t have contained enough luck to have brought you into it now. He’s sure that as long as life has lived on Earth he has loved you. Maybe even before then. Definitely before then.

His hand drifts along his chest until it finds yours and clasps it gently without his brain even asking. The scent of your heavenly shampoo beneath his chin has turned his brain to mush anyway, if he’s being entirely honest. His cold fingers ghost over your much warmer ones. The two of you always seem to operate that way, your bodies always naturally accommodating the other. He’s shocked he doesn’t catch hypothermia every time he’s away from you. Spencer lets your skin radiate, seeping warmth and love and joy into his until his fingertips are tingling. They stop when they find what they’re looking for, a small freckle just below your thumb. So small and so faint he can’t even see it in the dark but knows exactly how to find it nonetheless. The stuffy Texas hotel room he’d been swealtering in for 9 days for all its unbearable heat couldn’t stop him from freezing without your hand in his.

He recalls what a local officer had said to him. “I wish I had the luxury of getting away from my wife that often.” Luxury. That night Spencer had had one of his nightmares. He had awoken panting, sweat bonding his shirt to his skin so that it suffocated him. His hands trembled as he reached for you, as they fumbled in the darkness for the comforting smoothness of your skin beneath his fingertips- only for them to crash into a mess of rough, empty bed sheets. He waited for the coo of your voice, a sweet, enchanting magic to dispel his terror, but all he heard was silence. A loud, agonising silence that mocked him where he lay shaking. The stench of sweat and fear attacked his nostrils until he couldn’t even remember the smell of your shampoo, or of the candle you always blew out before bed- a soft, soothing lavender for his migraines. He suddenly felt his head begin to throb. Where he always had your arms to cradle him and rock him to safety, he now had nothing. Luxury. He let the word roll over his tongue. It tasted like bile in his mouth. If that was luxury then he would happily live as the poorest man in the world.

His thumb kisses the freckle beneath yours. It’s something he hears often. Men warning each other of marriage, couples warning about the monotony of the mundane- of what comes after. It’s one of the few things in the world he is truly incapable of understanding. He’s never known what people mean when they speak of ‘the honeymoon phase’ because he doesn’t feel he’s ever left it and he’s certain- he’s even ran the statistics- that he never will. People spit the word ‘mundane’ as if it were poison, yet to him it tastes like honey on his tongue. All he ever wants with you is the mundane. All he wants is to lay here each night tracing every freckle, listening to every breath- to every reminder that you’re here. You’re his.

In the morning Spencer will rise before you as his body has trained itself to do so that he can watch you wake. His heart will clench as your eyelids flutter open and your hazy eyes search the room before landing on him with a lazy smile that makes him bless the eidetic memory that until now he had sworn to be a curse. You’ll stretch, arms above your head as Spencer’s body freezes in their absence. You’ll crack the same sleepy joke you do every morning, swaddling his body in your arms once more as it thaws and he’ll laugh like he does every morning- not necessarily because it was funny, but simply because he loves you. It’s a sight he can never get bored of. It’s a sight he prays to every deity he knows of to be able to see for the rest of his life.

Now, as the moonlight bathes you in serenity, his hand drifts back over yours until he lands at your finger. The same one colder than the rest and bare beneath the knuckles. He loves you so much he cant breathe as his fingertips ghost over its base, envisioning a ring of diamonds that absorb the divine moonlight and reflect it in a dazzling kaleidoscope of radiant blue all over the room he’s so fortunate to share with you. He’s somehow been lucky enough to have you by his side so far, no doubt thanks to some cosmic intervention beyond his comprehension. Could he be so lucky as to love you not only until the end of this life but the next too? As many lives as God is willing to give him he will take. As many ways he gets to see you, as many languages he gets to tell you ‘I love you’ in, as many mornings just like the one he has lived a thousand times and that he is itching to live again- he’ll take it.

Spencer can’t wait. He needs to tell you the second you wake. He holds his breath for a moment, letting the rhythm of your breathing soothe him like a lullaby as his eyelids flutter shut. His hand is still curled around yours, tracing the skin where a ring will soon sit. Just the thought is enough to set his heart alight as he finally drifts away. His mind melts to a molten sea, sweeping away everything he’s ever known and leaving him dumbfounded in its wake until all that remains is three single words. The words he repeats every day like a mantra, a prayer- a tether.

I love you.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

You walked into the office, shrugging off the purple cardigan that was slightly bigger than your usual size and draping it over your chair. As usual, you placed your bag under your desk and turned on your PC before settling down, ready to focus for the day. Though, the second you spotted Spencer approaching, you instantly announced your daily fun fact.

“Did you know that peanut butter can be turned into diamonds? Fun fact.” From the corner of your eyes, you saw Emily pause at your statement. Spencer, on the other hand, grinned at your words.

“Good morning.” Spencer placed his coffee cup down on his desk first before coming to your side, holding yours out for you. You carefully took the ceramic vessel from him, muttering gratitude at his kind action. His other hand lingered on your back before withdrawing out of respect for the fact that you were both clocked in at work. 

His eyes soon noticed the clothing item that hung on your chair. 

“Was wondering where that one went,” your boyfriend murmured.

Boyfriend. Even after three months and having grown used to calling Spencer by that title, you still feel giggly at such a term. In fact, your lips curled right then while thinking of the word again.

You took in Spencer’s attire, specifically, the way that his purple button-up (coincidentally) matched the purple cardigan you had stolen from him two weeks ago. For a split second, you considered coordinating outfits deliberately with him, but in subtle ways.

“Hold on a second, peanut butter can what?” Emily double checked.

“I know, right?” you breathed out before reaching under your desk and pulling out an information-packed tome, dropping the heavy object onto the furniture’s surface. 

It was Rossi’s courtesy. A month and a half ago, the old man decided to give you a fact book in hopes you could still win this bet before eight months were up. Unfortunately, his gift was unable to aid you much in your intellectual combat against Spencer, and thus, failed to prevent Rossi’s loss of his bet on a victory before the eight-month mark. 

You carefully opened to the page where you had seen the fact and held it up for Emily to see.

“Well, would you consider having a peanut butter diamond ring?” she joked, though Spencer quickly jumped in.

“Actually, I would advise against it. Oftentimes, the lab-manufactured results are small. So they’re unsuitable for proposal rings.” His words almost felt personal with the way Spencer’s eyes fell to your hand, and you smirked teasingly.

“Why? You think I should have a big diamond instead of a small rock?” Instantly, your boyfriend’s ears grew hot, and you almost laughed at the way he started stuttering. 

“Well, I just—on average, women tend to prefer a sizable diamond ring when proposed to. But also, like—well, I mean—you—”

“Me?”

“With your finger size—”

“How do you know my finger size?”

“Your ring was next to a couple of coins the other day—”

“Oh? And you decided to notice and remember this information, why?” You smirked, enjoying the way your relentless teasing was turning Spencer into a mess. But in all honesty, you were not that surprised. Spencer’s brain often stored information that most tend to overlook.

“Yeah, Spencer. Planning to drop down on one knee soon?” Emily’s added effort to poke at Spencer only made him more flustered, though the genius eventually was able to overcome it and continued speaking.

“With your finger size, the most suitable—preferences aside—would be a 1.0-1.5 carat diamond ring, and the peanut butter manufactured ones would be nowhere near that. Besides, diamonds made of peanut butter are often discolored largely due to impurities such as hydrogen and nitrogen, which are non-carbon components, getting trapped during diamond formation processes that involve high heat. Meanwhile, diamonds are mainly made of carbon atoms.”

“Would you like to know my diamond size preference, Spence?” was your only reply, and those words had Spencer’s face blooming bright red. Once again, he stammered to organise his words, yet a sentence could not be strung together.

Together, you and Emily burst out laughing at Spencer’s speechless state. Though the two of you began shifting to get back to work. Emily returned to her own desk, amusement lingering on her face. Meanwhile, you slowly spun your chair back to your PC, your laughter replaced by a full-on smile.

Yet, Spencer did not move from his spot. In fact, the sight of you smiling and your eyes crinkling had Spencer’s gaze softening.

Eighty seven days since he had told you that you were his favorite fun fact, a title Spencer continued to frequently refer to you as.

Prior to the prospect of you two, Spencer had made peace with a mundane dating-less life, living in a repetitive monotone manner. But now that he has you, that kind of life sounded dreadful. With you, mundane things became highlights of his day and the staples of his boyfriend-adjusted daily routine.

But above all, every day, he got to learn new things about you, like where you like to read in your apartment, how you like to separate your laundry, or your preferred side of the bed. Each and every new detail he discovered folded into the wrinkles of his brain like all along, the organ was made just to hold facts about you.

The genius bit back a smile.

That afternoon, Spencer walked you to your car like always. But instead of saying goodbye and heading off to the metro station by himself like before, the genius got into your passenger seat, and the two of you left the office together. As you were driving both of you back to his apartment, Spencer’s eyes darted to your hand again.

Calling you his forever favorite fun fact instead?

Spencer found himself really liking the sound of that.

The corner of his lips lifted before he looked away.

Maybe someday.

・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・

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“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)

“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst. 

You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.

The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.

“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence. 

“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge. 

“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.

The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.

“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.

“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.

“I’ll get you someday.”

Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.

“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.

“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”

“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.

“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.

“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.

“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”

“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”

“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.

“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.

“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”

“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.

So, let the challenge begin.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”

“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.

“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.

“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”

“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze. 

“Well then, good luck.”

“Won’t need it.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”

Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.

Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.

You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.

“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.

“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”

Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.

Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item. 

Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.

“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.

“359 days left.”

“More than enough.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.

“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”

Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.

“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.” 

Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.

“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.

You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.

Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him. 

“I won.”

Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.

“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”

“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.

“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down. 

Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.

You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.

“Sore loser.”

“Cheater.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.

Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.

The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.

“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”

“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”

You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:

“Done!”

Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.

“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.

Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail. 

Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.

From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again. 

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.

“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior. 

He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.

To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee. 

He simply has always gotten it right.

It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.

“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”

Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.

Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.

His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.

Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.

“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.

“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.

“Maybe.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.

“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”

Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.

“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.

Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches. 

Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.

Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed. 

Why?

His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.

Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.

The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.

And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”

Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement. 

“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”

You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words. 

In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.

“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”

“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”

This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound. 

If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.

Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work. 

With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:

You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.

Both your phones started ringing at the same time.

“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.

“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.

After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.

“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.

“I know.”

A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.

“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.

“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.

“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.

The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.

“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.

Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.

“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.

“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.

By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”

Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly. 

Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.

Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze. 

“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.

The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf. 

The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.

Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:

“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.

“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”

“Nothing.”

Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work. 

Ah, the perks of being a profiler.

“Sure, pretty boy.”

“What was that loo—” 

The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.

Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.

Immediately, his body stiffened.

“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress. 

“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”

Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.

Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.

“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal. 

“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”

“In sickness and in health, as they say.”

Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.

Derek’s brows scrunched at that.

“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.

“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end. 

He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.

“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.

Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.

Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you. 

Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.

It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance. 

Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry. 

For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.

His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.

Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms. 

Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.

That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.

Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength. 

The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.

After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together. 

Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.

Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.

Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him. 

However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.

Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.

It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind. 

So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.

His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed. 

Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.

Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.

A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.

With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task. 

When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.

Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights. 

Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.

Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.

“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”

There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.

There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.

But maybe his probability was not entirely against him. 

“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”

You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.

“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…” 

Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again. 

“You’re my favorite October 12th.”

And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.

It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer. 

And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.

Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.

God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.

One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.

Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.

“Thank you.”

Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness. 

Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing. 

And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.

“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.

Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.

You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.

For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—  

A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.

First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song. 

It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano. 

Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.

Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.

“I thought you only listened to classical?”

“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.

Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.

Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures. 

You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.

You moved on with a quiet murmur.

“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”

“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.” 

“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that. 

“We should head up. It’s getting late.”

You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”

An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.

“Never.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”

“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.

“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”

Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.

The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.

This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.

An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.

Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.

“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.

Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event. 

You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.

“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.

“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.

“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.

“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”

You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust. 

The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.

Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.

Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.

You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two. 

“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”

Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.

That was kind of embarrassing. 

The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.

It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—

Oh.

You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong. 

Oh God. 

But were you really surprised though? 

A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.

You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.

And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.

Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.

Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.

The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.

You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.

“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”

“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10 to the power of 120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 10 to the power of 80, to 10 to the power of 82.”

He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.

“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”

“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”

“You’re tired.”

You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.

You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.

For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.

Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”

Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.

Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow. 

Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.

But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose. 

He wanted you to mean it.

You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering. 

You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.

But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.

Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.

One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.

“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.

Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course. 

Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both. 

“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.

“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”

You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:

Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason. 

Well, for no reason but you.

The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace. 

You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.

Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.

Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.

“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone. 

God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face. 

“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different. 

With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.

“I like you.”

Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.

“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.

Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?

You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.

But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer. 

Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.

Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.

Oh…?

Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.

In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.

Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.

His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light. 

You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these. 

You pressed your lips harder against his.

Good lord, Spencer could do this forever. 

He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.

Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch. 

One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.

In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently. 

You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them. 

You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.

Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.

Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.

“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true.  Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”

Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.

“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.

“But?”

“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.

“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”

“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.

“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”

“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.

“When did you figure it out?”

“That you like me? At the orchestra.”

“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.

You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.

As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.

“I’m still gonna get you someday.”

Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.

“I’m counting on that.”

With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.

You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score. 

Day 187 status: unsuccessful. 

But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.

link to: epilogue/bonus bit

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⟡ navigation ⭒ masterlist

⟡ spencer reid masterlist

Greenwich, Connecticut — 4:33 PM

The Fitzwilliam estate sits behind wrought-iron gates and a quarter-mile of private drive, all rolling lawn and old-growth oaks. The main house is Georgian brick, three stories, with black shutters and a portico that could swallow a car. It looks like the kind of place where ambassadors retire and debutantes have their coming-out parties. Reid stands in the master bedroom, hands in his coat pockets, watching a forensic tech work a small floor safe in the back of the closet. The room is elegant; A four-poster bed, antique armoire, a watercolor of the English countryside above the fireplace. No signs of struggle. No signs of a second life at all. Morgan leans against the doorframe. "Anything?"

"Combination lock. Seven digits." The tech glances up. "Could be a date. Phone number. Could take a while." Hotch's voice carries from the hallway. "Prentiss, check the study for any ledgers or appointment books. Rossi, the guest wing. Look for anything that suggests long-term occupancy."

Reid's phone buzzes. He pulls it out.

You (4:24 PM): do you have enough to arrest him?

He reads it twice. Types his reply, then puts the phone away.

Morgan raises an eyebrow. "Everything okay?"

"Fine." He smiles, then pulls himself from the safe and crosses the wide, echoing hallway to the study. The room is paneled in dark walnut, floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with leather-bound volumes — history, law, a complete set of Burke's Peerage. A mahogany desk sits at the far end, neat and organized, and Prentiss is bent over it, flipping through a leather-bound ledger. She looks up as he enters. "Anything?"

"Seven-digit safe. They're working on it." Spencer moves closer, eyes scanning the spines. "What about this?"

"Appointment calendar. Two years' worth." Emily turns the ledger toward him, tapping a page. "Every other Thursday, marked in pencil. No location noted, but the dates line up with Naomi Evans's schedule and Julia Williams's." He leans in. The handwriting is clean, precise. 3:15 beside each date. A time, not an address. "Anything else?" Prentiss flips further back. "Same pattern going back four years. And—" She pulls out a slim leather journal from under the ledger. "This was locked in the bottom drawer. Personal diary."

Spencer takes it carefully, opening to a page near the middle. The handwriting shifts, it’s looser, the pages are marked, as if he wrote with a lot more force this time. A single passage catches his eye.

She asked about my wife. I told her the truth, that I love Eleanor. She smiled and said she understood. They always understand, in the beginning.

He reads it again. Then the next entry.

I bought the ring today. Not for Eleanor. For the next one. I'll leave it beside her so everyone knows she was loved.

Reid pulls out his phone, the diary still open in his other hand. He hits Garcia's contact.

She picks up on the first ring. "Oh, look who it is! The boy genius, emerging from the Connecticut wilderness to grace me with a phone call."

"Garcia. I need you to run something."

"You always need me to run something. The question is whether you deserve my help, given that you have been ghosting me on a very important matter."

Spencer frowns. "What matter?"

"The matter of a certain woman who has been occupying your text thread at frankly ungodly hours. I have sources, Spencer. I have logs. You think I don't notice when my favorite genius starts sending paragraphs at 3 AM to a mysterious number?"

Emily looks up from the ledger, one eyebrow raised.

Spencer’s ears go red. "That's— that's not relevant to the case, Garcia."

"Oh, it's extremely relevant to the case, because it tells me you have feelings and you're not sharing them with the team therapist like a well-adjusted adult."

"Garcia."

"I'm just saying! She's pretty. She's smart. She texts you about knitting and literature and you go all soft-eyed—"

"We are not having this conversation."

"You're having it right now, baby genius. You called me."

Reid pinches the bridge of his nose. Prentiss hides a smile behind the ledger. He sighs, a sound that carries the weight of the last three days. "Garcia. I'll tell you about it later. I promise."

There's a pause on the other end. When she speaks again, the teasing edge has softened into something gentler. "Fine. I'm holding you to that. Now, what did you actually call about?"

He glances at the diary in his hand. The pages are worn, the ink sepia-dark in the low study light. "I need you to cross-reference the name Theodore Fitzwilliam, Sixth Earl of Whitmore, against any property records, shell companies, or aliases tied to the hotels on our map. The Langham, the Pierre, the St. Regis, the Ritz-Carlton, the Greenwich Hotel."

"Already on it, sweet pea. The second Hotch sent me the warrant, I started digging. Give me ten minutes and I'll have more than you wanted to know."

"And Garcia—" Spencer hesitates. "The diary. It reads like a confession. He wrote about buying a ring. About leaving it beside the body so 'everyone knew she was loved.'" Silence. Then, quietly: "I'll fast-track the property search. You focus on that book."

He hangs up. Emily watches him with an unreadable expression. "A confession?"

"Of sorts." Spencer sets the diary on the desk, open to the entry he was reading. "He doesn't name names. But he describes the ritual." Prentiss reads the passage. Her jaw tightens immediately. "We need to get this to Hotch. Now."

"I want to photograph every page first," Spencer says, already pulling his phone out. "Evidence chain. If something happens to the original on the way to Quantico—" Emily nods. "Smart. I'll keep an eye on the door."

He lays the diary flat on the desk and works through it methodically. Page by page. The first entries are mundane — meeting times, expenses, a note about a tailor in Savile Row. But as he moves deeper, the tone shifts. The handwriting tightens.

March 12. She wore red. I told her it reminded me of the roses at Whitmore Hall. She laughed. I knew then it would be soon.

April 3. The ring is heavier than I expected. I practice holding it in my palm. Eleanor asked what I was thinking about. I told her: us. It wasn't a lie.

He photographs each spread. The leather creaks as the pages are turned. Some entries are crossed out, rewritten. He edited himself, Reid realizes. He chose his words carefully even in private. When Spencer reaches the last written page, he pauses.

June 9. I saw her today. The one from the Pierre, the girl with the soft hair and the sad eyes. She was buying fruit at a market in SoHo. She didn't see me. I stood across the street for ten minutes, watching her weigh oranges in her hands. She looked happy. I wanted to tell her she shouldn't be.

Spencer’s blood goes cold. The girl with the soft hair and the sad eyes.

You.

He closes the diary. The leather creaks softly in his lean hands. Forty-seven photographs, timestamped and saved. The last image sits in his camera roll — the girl with the soft hair and the sad eyes — and he forces himself to hold it together.

"We really need to get this to Hotch." Spencer’s voice comes out even. "And we need to warn her."

Prentiss is already moving. "I'll find him. You call her." She's out the study door before he can argue. He doesn’t. He pulls up your contact and presses call before he can overthink it.

It rings once. Twice. Thrice.

Pick up.

Four rings.

Please pick up.

A click. Your voice, uncertain: "Hello?"

He breathes out your name in relief and doesn’t waste his time, he doesn’t soften it. He doesn’t ease in. "Theodore Fitzwilliam kept a diary. In it, he describes watching you in SoHo. Buying fruit. He stood across the street and watched you for ten minutes." Silence on the line. You can hear your own breathing. "I need you to listen to me carefully. He's been observing you outside of bookings. That escalates his risk profile significantly. I'm going to arrange protective detsail—"

"I don't want protective detail." Your voice is quiet but steady. "I told you that already."

"He wrote about you. By description, but clearly enough that I knew it was you the moment I read it. He says you looked happy. He says he wanted to tell you that you shouldn't be."

The words hang in the air. You exhale, slow and deliberate.

"Where are you right now?" he asks.

"Home. On my couch. There's a half-finished sweater next to me."

"Good. Stay there. Don't open the door for anyone you don't know. I'm coming to you."

He hangs up before you can argue. Emily is already at the study door, phone in hand. "Hotch is authorizing protection. I'll coordinate with Martinez."

Spencer’s already moving past her, the diary tucked under his arm, heart hammering a rhythm he refuses to name. He’s halfway to the front door when he stops, phone already in hand. He pulls up Garcia's contact and hits call as he strides across the marble foyer.

"Miss me already?" she answers.

"Garcia. I need you to pull up the exterior cameras for her building in Manhattan. Traffic cams, building security, anything with a line of sight on her front door and fire escape."

"You're spying on your crush? Spencer, that's—"

"She's in danger. Fitzwilliam wrote about watching her in SoHo. I'm en route to her apartment now, but I need eyes on her location until I get there."

The playfulness drops from her voice. "Address?"

You give it to her. Keys click in the background.

"Pulling up now... got a street-level cam on the corner. Give me sixty seconds to find the building's internal system."

He pushes through the front door of the estate, past the forensic van, toward the sedan parked in the drive. Prentiss calls something after him and he waves without even turning.

"Building lobby cam is online," Garcia says. "No unusual activity. Elevator bank is clear. Her floor corridor is quiet."

"Keep watching. Call me if anything changes."

"Already locked in, baby genius. Go."

Spencer ends the call with Garcia and slides into the sedan, engine already turning over before the door's fully shut. The estate gates opens ahead of him, slow as molasses, and he’s through them before they're halfway there.

The drive to Manhattan is a blur of highway and tunnel, brake lights and merging traffic. The GPS clocks forty-two minutes. He makes it in thirty-one. He pulls up outside your building, a modest pre-war walk-up in a quiet stretch of Tribeca. The street is calm. A delivery truck idles at the corner. A woman walks her dog past the front steps. Nothing unusual. Spencer kills the engine and is out of the car before it's fully stopped. The lobby door is unlocked. He takes the stairs two at a time, heart pounding a rhythm he refuses to name. Third floor. Your door is at the end of the hall, painted a faded blue, a small welcome mat with a cat on it.

He knock. Two sharp raps.

"Hey. It's Reid." He stands in the dim hallway, hand half-raised to knock again.

The thought is strange and warm and terrifying all at once. You hear his breathing through the wood, quick, like he ran the stairs. You hadn't expected him to actually come. A text, maybe. A call. A police cruiser parked outside your building.

Not him. Not standing in your hallway in person.

The door doesn't open. The seconds stretch. Then he hears it, soft footsteps, a pause, and the click of a lock.

The door swings open.

You stand in the frame, barefoot, wearing an oversized cardigan over shorts. Your hair is pulled back loosely, a few strands falling across your face. You looks tired, like you’be been holding it together by a thread. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

"He wrote about me?" you ask quietly. "Yeah." Spencer keeps his voice low. "He did." You step back, holding the door open. "Come in."

He does. The apartment feels smaller with him in it — not in a bad way, just different. He stops in the center of the living room, hands at his sides, looking at your books, your tea, your half-finished sweater like he's trying to memorize the space. "How did you get here so fast?"

"I drove." He just stands there, hands at his sides. "Garcia is monitoring the cameras on your building. No unusual activity so far. But I wanted to be here." You cross your arms, looking at him with an expression he can't quite read. "You didn't have to come all the way out here just to babysit me."

"I know." He meets your eyes. "I came anyway.".

The words sit between you. You look away first, at the sweater on the couch, the soft grey and cream yarn. "Do you want tea? I was about to make a fresh pot."

You push off from the door and pad into the kitchen, filling the kettle without asking if he actually wants tea. He didn't say no. That's close enough. The kitchen is small, and you can feel him behind you, standing awkwardly in the living room, not quite sure where to land. You pull down two mugs, drop a bag of green tea in each, and wait for the water to boil. Behind you, the apartment is quiet. You hear him shift his weight. Then a soft sound, something like fabric being lifted. You glance over your shoulder.

He's holding the sweater. The one you finished this afternoon. It's draped over his hands, navy and maroon, soft in the low light. He's not looking at you. He's looking at the sweater, then at the couch, then back at the sweater. Measuring. He says your name, his voice is careful. "This is—" He holds it up. It's long. The sleeves would fall past your fingertips if you tried to wear it. "It's too big for you." The kettle clicks off. Steam rises. You keep your back to him, hands on the counter. "I know," you say quietly. You turn from the kettle, the mugs of steaming tea forgotten on the counter.

"It's for you. If you want it."

The words hang in the air between you. He's still holding the sweater, hands loose around the shoulders, like he's afraid to crease it. His expression shifts, something unreadable crossing his features before he schools it back to neutral. "For me?" His voice comes out slightly higher than usual. He clears his throat. "I mean, you made this. Today. While I was in Greenwich."

"I didn't plan it." You wrap your arms around yourself. "I just started knitting and didn't stop until it was done. And then I realized who I'd made it for." He looks down at the sweater in his hands. The soft maroon stripes. The navy panels. The careful seams. When he looks back up, there's something raw in his eyes, quickly hidden.

"I—" He stops. Starts again. "No one's ever made me anything before." The words land somewhere deep in your chest. You don't know what to say to that, so you say nothing. Just cross the room, take the sweater gently from his hands, and hold it up against his shoulders.

"It'll fit," you say quietly. "I measured it, at least I tried to, in my own way.” He goes very still. The words tumble out of you in a rush, like water breaking through a dam.

"I'm sorry if that's a lot. I just— I made it, I wasn't really thinking, I guess you were just in my mind and I don't want you to think anything wrong of me. I know a man like you would never want to be seen with such a dirty woman like I am and I—"

He says your name quietly, but it cuts through the spiral. You stop, mouth open, heart hammering. He's still holding the sweater, one hand pressed to the navy-colored yarn like he's grounding himself in it. "Stop." His voice is soft, but firm. "Just— stop for a second."

You press your lips together. Your eyes sting.

He takes a step closer. Then another. He's close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his irises, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. "I'm going to say something," he says carefully, "and I need you to hear it. Not deflect. Not apologize. Just hear it." You nod, barely.

"You're not dirty." He says it like it's a fact, like he's citing a theorem. "You're a woman who did what she had to do to survive. And you're kind, and you're smart, and you text me at 3 AM about Clarice Lispector, and you made me a sweater." He pauses. "A man like me would be really lucky to be seen with you."

The tears spill over. You don't try to stop them. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. The tears keep coming, but quieter now. You sniff, once, and meet his eyes. "Try it on. Please."

He looks down at the sweater in his hands, then back at you. For a moment you think he might argue — deflect, minimize, do something academic and distancing. Instead, he shrugs off his coat and pulls the sweater over his head. It settles over his shoulders like it was made for him. Which it was. The maroon stripes catch the light. The sleeves end just past his wrists. The hem falls clean at his hips. He looks down at himself, runs a hand along the sleeve. When he looks up, his expression is open in a way you haven't seen before.

"It fits."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. "Yeah. It does." He stands there in your apartment, wearing something you made, and neither of you speaks. The tea cools on the counter. The city hums outside your window. The sweater looks right on him. Natural. Like it belongs. He touches the collar. "The stitch pattern, is this seed stitch?"

You blink, dumbfounded. "You know knitting?"

"I know a lot of things." A small, almost-shy smile. "I read a book on textile manufacturing once. Seed stitch, stockinette, ribbing. I know the theory."

"Keep it. I made it for you."

The words settle between you. He looks down at the sweater again, runs his palm along the sleeve like he's still processing the reality of it. When he looks up, something in his expression has shifted, something softer, less guarded.

"I will." His voice is quiet. "I'll wear it." The silence stretches for a bit. The kettle's long gone cold but neither of you moves toward the kitchen. "This is—" He starts, stops, tries again. "I don't have a lot of people who do things for me. Not like this. Not without wanting something in return." You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "I don't want anything from you, Spencer. I just—" You glance at the sweater, at him, at the floor. "I wanted you to be warm." He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough at the edges. "I am." His hand traces the sleeve again, slow, like he's memorizing the texture. He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s interrupted.

A knock at the door.

You both freeze. Your eyes meet his. That knock isn't anyone checking in. It isn't a delivery. Every instinct you've honed in this city prickles at the back of your neck. Reid holds up a hand, signaling you to stay still. He moves silently toward the door, steps light, and peers through the peephole. His body goes rigid.

He turns to you, face pale, and mouths three words: Don't. Open. The door.

Then the knocking comes again. And a voice — low, English, smooth as polished wood.

"I know you're in there. I saw the light. I just want to talk."

Theodore Fitzwilliam.

You step around Spencer before he can stop you, pressing yourself against the door. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "Who is it?" A pause. Then that voice again, warm, polite, familiar from a dozen hotel rooms.

"It's Edward. From the Pierre. I hope I'm not interrupting, I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd take a chance. I know it's irregular." Edward. Not Theodore. Not the Earl of Whitmore. A false name, smooth as silk. You feel Spencer’s hand close gently around your wrist, pulling you back from the door. He shakes his head, eyes urgent. Outside, Fitzwilliam waits. You hear him shift his weight, the soft creak of the floorboards. "Hey?" His voice is still pleasant, still patient. "Are you going to let me in?"

"I don't take clients in my house." Your voice carries through the wood, steady, calm. "I thought you knew that." He pauses. You can almost hear him considering his response. "You're right. Of course. I apologize— I overstepped." A warm, self-deprecating chuckle. "I suppose I just wanted to see you. It's been a while." You don't answer. You turn your head, slow, and meet Spencer’s eyes. Your face asks the question your voice can't: What do we do?

His jaw is tight. He holds up a finger — wait — then pulls out his phone, thumbs moving fast. A second later, yours buzzes in your pocket. You don't reach for it. Can't risk the sound.

Another knock. Softer this time. Almost tender.

"I know you're scared. I know the FBI has been asking questions. But I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to explain." His voice is gentle. Kind. The same voice that asked about your day, that poured your wine, that told you about his boat and his wife. The voice of a man who left rings beside dead women. You take a breath. Reid's hand is still on your wrist, warm and steady. "What do you want to explain?" you call through the door.

A pause. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. Almost vulnerable.

"Everything. The woman they found at the Langham, Naomi innit? I knew her. I cared about her. And then she was gone, and I couldn't—" A shaky exhale. "I couldn't save her. And now the FBI thinks I had something to do with it. With her death. With the other girl. They're tearing my home apart looking for proof of something I didn't do." He's good. You'll give him that. He sounds like a man on the edge of breaking. "I didn't know where else to go. You were always kind to me. You listened. You never judged. I thought—" A pause. "I thought maybe you'd be the one person who'd hear me out." Across the room, Spencer’s phone buzzes silently in his hand. He glances down, then holds it up for you to see.

Garcia (4:51 PM): Motion detected on your floor. Someone's in the stairwell. Two figures. I can't get a visual but they're not moving like cops.

Your blood runs cold. He's not alone.

Your eyes catch Spencer’s. You don't break the gaze. You lift your chin, just slightly, toward his phone. Call them. He understands immediately. He steps back, fingers moving over the screen, keeping his movements low and quiet.

You turn back to the door. Breathe. Find the voice you used in a hundred hotel rooms, the warm, professional, slightly distracted one. "I hear you, Edward." You soften your tone, let it tremble just a little. "I do. I can't imagine what this has been like for you."

"Then let me in." His voice is almost pleading now. "Please. Just — ten minutes. I'll tell you everything, and then I'll go. You'll never see me again." You glance at Spencer. He's on the phone now, speaking in near-silent murmurs, his free hand pressed flat against the wall. Still on hold. Still waiting. You need more time. "Ten minutes," you repeat, stalling. "Edward, you show up at my door unannounced, you want me to let you into my home, and you think ten minutes is going to make this right?"

A pause. Then, softer, almost hurt: "I thought you understood me." Something in his voice has shifted. The warmth is still there, but underneath it, a cold thread, thin as wire.

"I did understand you, Edward." Your voice softens, almost tender. "That's why this hurts." Silence. You press your ear close to the wood, listening for movement. A long, slow exhale on the other side.

"You always knew what to say." His voice is quiet now, almost sad. "I admired that about you. The way you could hold a room without raising your voice. The way you made a man feel like he was the only person in the world." He pauses. The floorboards creak as he shifts his weight. "That's why I came tonight. Not to hurt you, but to give you a chance." His tone hardens, just a fraction. "You've been talking to the FBI. I know you have. And I know you've told them things. But I also know you haven't told them everything."

Your blood goes cold. Beside you, Spencer’s fingers fly across his phone screen. He holds it up: Backup en route. 5 minutes.

Five minutes. You look at the door. At the man on the other side. At the man wearing your sweater, standing in your living room, trying to save your life. "Tell me what you think I haven't told them," you say, buying time. You catch Reid's eye and tilt your head toward the door. A single motion. He understands. He moves silently, his shoes barely whispering on the hardwood, and positions himself beside the frame, back pressed to the wall. His hand rests near his hip, where you know there's a holster. He meets your gaze. Steady. Ready.

You turn back to the door.

"Tell me what you think I haven't told them, Edward." Your voice is soft, curious. The voice you used for clients who wanted to feel heard. A long pause. When he speaks, his voice is lower. Something raw beneath the polish. "I think you haven't told them about the last time we met. The corner suite. The way you looked at me when I told you that I loved my wife." Your stomach drops. "You remember that night, don't you? You asked me why I cheated on her. And I told you— I told you the truth. That I loved Eleanor, and that was all. You smiled and said you understood.”

Spencer’s eyes are on you, sharp and questioning. You don't have an answer. You turn your head, slow, and meet his eyes. You lift your chin toward the door, then raise your eyebrows — a question you don't dare speak out loud.

Do you want me to open it?

His eyes widen. He shakes his head once, sharp and definitive. No. Then he holds up his phone. The screen glows in the dim apartment:

Garcia (4:53 PM): Backup is 10 minutes out. DO NOT ENGAGE.

You give him the smallest nod. Message received. You turn back to the door, heart pounding, and find your voice again. "Edward." Soft. Almost gentle. "I remember that night. I remember everything." A pause. You hear him breathe.

"Then you know I'm not a violent man." His voice is earnest, almost pleading. "I never raised a hand to you. I never raised my voice. I treated you with kindness. With respect."

"You did." Your throat tightens. "You were always gentle with me."

"I still am." A pause. "That's why I came tonight. To give you a choice. You can keep talking to the FBI, and I'll be forced to do something neither of us wants. Or you can open this door, and we can figure out a way forward together." The floorboards creak in the stairwell. Coming closer.

You straighten your spine, pulling your shoulders back. The fear is still there, coiled in your chest, but you push it down into the space you've always kept for that purpose. "You said you wanted to explain, Edward." Your voice is steady. "So explain." Another pause. You hear him breathe, slow and deliberate.

"I wanted to tell you about Naomi." His voice is quieter now. "The real story. Not what the FBI thinks."

"Then tell me."

"The night she died, I was with her." A long exhale. "I was in the hotel room. We argued. She wanted me to leave Eleanor. She said she'd go to the press, expose everything if I didn't. I told her I needed time." His voice cracks. "I left. And the next morning, she was dead."

Behind you, Reid's phone buzzes. He glances at it, then holds it up: Backup arriving. 30 seconds.

"Someone killed her after I left," Fitzwilliam continues. "Someone who knew about us. Someone who wanted to make it look like me." The stairwell creaks again. Closer now. You tense, listening past his voice to the sound of footsteps, more than one set, moving slow and deliberate. "I think it's the same person who killed Julia Williams. And I think—" He pauses. "I think they're coming for you next." Through the door, you hear it. A sound behind him — a muffled thud, a sharp intake of breath. Then Fitzwilliam's voice, suddenly strained:

"Run."

You press your eye to the cold metal of the peephole. The fisheye lens distorts the hallway, but you can see enough. Fitzwilliam is on his knees, hands raised. Behind him, two men in dark jackets have him pinned. One holds a gun to the back of his head. The other is already turning toward your door. Fitzwilliam's eyes meet yours through the peephole. There's no fear in them. No pleading.

He smiles.

Then the man beside him raises a fist and knocks, not the polite knock from before, but something harder. Official.

"FBI. Open up."

You pull back from the peephole, heart slamming against your ribs. Fitzwilliam smiled. He smiled at you through the door while a gun was pressed to his head. None of this is right. You grab Spencer’s arm and yank him toward the back of the apartment. "Fire escape," you hiss. "Now." He doesn't argue. Doesn't ask. He's moving with you, one hand going to his holster, the other catching the fire escape latch before you've even reached it. The window screeches open, cold air flooding in.

Behind you, the knocking turns to pounding. A voice, harder now: "Open the door! This is your last warning!" You swing a leg over the sill. The fire escape is old iron, bolted to the brick, three flights down to the alley. Below, a dumpster. A stray cat scattering. No backup in sight. Reid follows, landing light beside you, pulling the window shut behind him. The metal grate rattles as you both descend, footsteps clanging in the dark.

Above, you hear the door splinter open.

You're halfway down the second flight when Spencer’s phone is already at his ear, pressed tight, his other hand guiding you by the elbow past a railing that groans under your weight. "Morgan. It's Reid." His voice is low, urgent, barely carrying over the wind. "We're on the fire escape. Men at the door, they claimed to be FBI. They broke it down. Fitzwilliam was with them. He was on his knees, they had a gun to his head, but he smiled at herthrough the peephole. Something's wrong." He pauses, boots hitting the next platform. You're both moving fast, the metal trembling with every step. "I need you to check if any of our people were dispatched to her address in the last five minutes, even though I don’t think there were. If not, we have hostiles in her apartment wearing federal badges."

Another pause. Morgan's voice, tinny through the speaker.

"Stay on the line. I'll ask someone to check now."

You hit the ground. The alley is narrow, dark, reeking of wet cardboard and garbage. A single streetlamp flickers at the far end. You look up, your apartment window is dark, but you can see movement behind the glass, shadows passing back and forth. Spencer grabs your hand. "This way. We need to put distance between us and that building." You're both at the bottom of the fire escape, your sneakers hitting gravel. He tugs you forward, but you plant your feet. "Spencer." Your voice is low, urgent. "Do you have a weapon?" He stops. His hand drifts to his hip, there’s a shape beneath his jacket, barely visible in the dim alley light. "Standard issue. Fifteen rounds." He pauses. "I'm a better profiler than I am a shot." You don't know if that's modesty or accuracy. You don't have time to figure it out.

Above you, a window slams open. A voice, sharp and commanding: "They took the fire escape! Go! Cut them off at the alley mouth!"

Spencer’s hand finds yours again. "This way." He pulls you past the dumpster, past an overflowing recycling bin, toward a gap between two buildings so narrow you have to turn sideways to fit. Brick scrapes your shoulder. The smell of wet concrete and diesel fills your lungs. Behind you, boots hit the fire escape. You push through the gap and emerge onto a side street, quiet and dark.

"He smiled at me like he'd planned this." You hear your own voice, thin and distant. "Like he knew. Like he wanted me to see it."

Spencer looks at you, and for a moment, the mask slips, not the composed FBI agent, but the profiler, processing. Piecing together the fragments. "Fitzwilliam on his knees," he says slowly. "Controlled. Not afraid. He wanted you to witness his capture." His eyes find yours in the dim streetlight. "And then men claiming to be FBI arrive to pick you up. Men who knew exactly when to knock." He's connecting dots you hadn't even seen. "It was a trap. He led them here." His jaw tightens. "The question is whose trap, and who those men really belong to."

His phone vibrates. He glances down.

Morgan (4:57 PM): No units dispatched to your location. Those aren't our people. Get clear and stay dark. We're coming to you.

“He won’t escape, will he?” Your voice cracks on the last word. You hate it, you hate how small you sound, how exposed. But you can't help it. The image of Fitzwilliam's smile, the way his eyes found yours through the peephole like he knew you'd be watching, it’s carved into the back of your skull. "Please, Spencer." You realize you're still holding his sleeve, your knuckles white against the wool. "Tell me he won't. Tell me he doesn't just walk away from this." He looks at you. The streetlight catches the side of his face, the hollows under his cheekbones. "I can't promise you he won't slip through something," he says quietly. "He's wealthy. Connected. He has resources most people can't imagine." His hand covers yours, briefly, on his sleeve. "But I can promise you this. I won't stop. None of us will. We have a diary. We have a pattern. We have him on camera at the Langham. And now we know he's working with people who are willing to impersonate federal agents." A pause. "That's not a man who's going to walk away.” His phone vibrates again. He glances down.

Morgan (5:01 PM): One block east. Blue sedan. Moving to you now.

You let go of his sleeve. The wool slips through your fingers, and you take a step back, giving him room. "Okay." Your voice is steadier now. "You know what you're doing. I'll follow your lead." He blinks, like he wasn't expecting that. Something flickers across his face — surprise, maybe, or gratitude — before he masks it. He gives you a single nod, then turns, scanning the street with quick, efficient movements. "Morgan's one block east. We move fast, stay close to the buildings, keep to the shadows." He points toward a narrow gap between a laundromat and a bodega. "Through there. Comes out on Broome. He'll be waiting." He looks back at you, and for a moment, he's not Dr. Spencer Reid, genius profiler. He's just a man in a sweater you knitted, standing in a dark street, trying to keep you alive. "Stay behind me. If I tell you to run, you run. Don't look back. Don't wait for me." He holds your gaze, waiting for your answer.

You ask, quietly: "What's the plan after we meet him? What happens next?"

His focus doesn't waver. He's already mapping routes in that mind of his, already three moves ahead.

"Morgan's driving. We get in, we don't stop moving until we're at a secure location. Hotch will have already started coordinating a safe house by now." A pause. "Then we figure out what Fitzwilliam actually wants. Because that display at your door—" He shakes his head. "That was a performance. He wanted to be seen. Wanted you to see him taken. There's a reason for that." He glances down the alley, then back at you. "We'll regroup, debrief, and compare what we know with what Fitzwilliam's diary says. Somewhere along the way, he made a mistake. Left a clue. We find it, we find him."

A car engine rounds the corner, low and steady. Headlights sweep the opposite wall, the blue sedan. Morgan.

"Ready?" Spencer asks. You nod once. "Ready." He moves, and you follow. The blue sedan pulls up to the curb, and the back door swings open before it's fully stopped. Morgan's face appears in the front seat, sharp, alert, scanning the street behind you.

"Get in. Now."

You slide into the back, Spencer’s right behind you, the door slamming shut before either of you has fully settled. Morgan's already pulling away, tires gripping asphalt, the sedan eating up the street. "Anyone on your tail?" His eyes flick to the rearview, checking. "Not yet," Spencer says. "But they know we went out the fire escape. They'll be sweeping the block." Morgan mutters something under his breath, takes a hard left, then another. The streets blur past, the dark storefronts, a bodega with its neon sign buzzing, a man walking his dog who doesn't even glance up. Normal. The world going on like you didn't just watch a man smile while a gun was pressed to his skull.

Morgan's phone is mounted on the dash. It buzzes.

Hotch (5:03 PM): Safe house secured. Sending coordinates. Prentiss and Rossi are en route.

Morgan glances at the message, then at you in the rearview. "You okay back there?" The question hangs in the air. You're not sure how to answer it. You say it to the back of Morgan's head, but your voice is hollow. "He smiled at me through the door, Morgan. Like it was a game." His eyes find you in the rearview. The easy confidence he usually carries is gone, replaced by something harder. He takes a turn, slow and deliberate, before answering. "A man like that, he's been playing games his whole life. Born into money, titled, never told no." His knuckles flex on the wheel. "He's not used to people slipping through his fingers. That smile? That was him telling you he's not worried. That he's got moves you haven't seen yet."

"He had a gun to his head," you say. "And he smiled."

"Because he knew those men. Because he arranged it." Morgan's jaw tightens. "The question is whether they're his private security, his family's connections, or something else entirely."

Spencer shifts beside you. The sweater brushes your arm. "Something else," he says quietly. "If they were his men, he wouldn't have needed the FBI cover story. He would've just taken her. The fact that they pretended to be federal agents means someone is trying to control the narrative. Make it look official." Morgan's phone buzzes again. Hotch's coordinates flash on the screen. "Then we figure out who they are from somewhere safe." He glances back at you. "You still with us?" You look down at your hands. They're trembling, fine, shallow tremors you can't seem to stop. You wrap your arms around yourself, press them into your ribs like that might steady them. It doesn't. Morgan waits. The car hums beneath you, streetlights sliding across the interior in amber streaks. "I'm here," you manage. It comes out smaller than you meant.

The sedan slows as Morgan takes another turn, pulling into a narrow street lined with brick buildings. Warehouses, maybe. Loading docks. Not the kind of place anyone would look twice at. He pulls into a bay between two buildings, kills the engine. The sudden silence is thick. Through the windshield, you see a steel door set into the brick, a single light above it buzzing faintly. "Safe house," Morgan says, unbuckling. "Prentiss and Rossi are already inside. Hotch is on his way." He turns to look at you, full face now, no rearview. "You walk in there, you're not alone. You got the whole team behind you."

Spencer opens his door, cold air flooding in. He waits, looking back at you. You nod. The motion feels mechanical, but it's enough. You unbuckle, push the door open, and step out into the cold night air. The steel door in front of you is plain, unmarked, designed to be overlooked. Spencer falls into step beside you as Morgan leads the way, knocking twice, then once, then twice again. The door swings open.

Emily is on the other side. She takes you in with a quick, professional sweep, checking for blood, for injuries, for the thousand tiny signs of trauma she's been trained to read. "You okay?" she asks. Not pressing. Just offering the question, leaving room for whatever answer you have. You step inside. The safe house is sparse, there’s concrete floors, a couple of worn couches, a small kitchen with a fluorescent light humming overhead. Rossi is at the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand. He gives you a nod, silent, acknowledging. The door clicks shut behind you. Bolted. Locked.

For the first time in what feels like hours, you can breathe. You find a corner. A concrete wall, a worn armchair that's seen better decades. You sink into it, and the moment your body stops moving, something in your chest gives way. Your hands are still shaking. You press them flat against your thighs, feel the denim beneath your palms, try to anchor yourself to something real. The fluorescent light hums overhead. Someone's moving in the kitchen, Rossi, pouring a second cup. Morgan's voice, low, on the phone in the next room. You don't cry. You're not sure you have the energy for it. You just sit, staring at the crack in the opposite wall, letting the silence settle around you like dust. A soft sound. Spencer lowers himself onto the arm of the chair beside you. Not crowding. Just present. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't tell you it's going to be okay, doesn't offer hollow reassurance. He just sits there, the wool of the sweater brushing your shoulder, a quiet anchor in the room. The minutes pass. The hum of the light. The distant murmur of voices. Your breathing, slowly, unevenly, finding its rhythm again. You turn your head. He's still there, a silhouette against the pale wall, the sweater hanging loose on his frame. "Tell me something," you say. Your voice is rough, like you haven't used it in hours. "Anything. Distract me."

He blinks. For a second, he looks caught off guard, like he wasn't expecting to be asked for anything, let alone conversation. Then his brow furrows, the way it does when he's sorting through the endless catalogue of his mind. "Did you know," he starts, slowly, "that the average person has about 60,000 thoughts per day? And that approximately 80% of them are negative, or at least repetitive. It's a cognitive bias called the negativity bias — we're wired to dwell on threats and unpleasant experiences because, evolutionarily, our survival depended on it." He pauses. Glances at you, like he's checking if this is working. "But there's also research suggesting that novelty can interrupt that cycle. New information, new stimuli, it forces your brain to redirect resources away from the rumination loop." Another pause. "That's why I'm telling you this. It's not just random trivia, it’s also my coping mechanism."

Some seconds of silence stretch.

"I mean, it is also random trivia. But it serves a purpose." You smile, getting more comfortable in the chair. “Keep going, I liked it.”

A flicker of something crosses his face. Encouragement, maybe. Relief that he's helping. "Alright." He shifts slightly on the armrest, getting comfortable. "Do you know why we associate knitting with grandmothers and cozy fireplaces when it was originally a strictly male profession? In sixteenth-century Europe, knitting guilds were exclusively male. Women weren't allowed to join. The first knitting machine was invented in 1589 by William Lee, an English clergyman, and he tried to get Queen Elizabeth I to grant him a patent. She refused, she said the machine would take work away from the poor." You glance down at your hands. They've stopped shaking, you realize. Somewhere between his voice and the trivia, the tremors faded. "She told him," Spencer continues, "to 'consider what the invention would do to the poor.' Lee moved to France, died in obscurity. His machine eventually became the framework for the modern textile industry." He pauses. "So, in a way, your sweater is the descendant of a failed Elizabethan patent and a profession that once excluded you." He says it with a faint, almost shy curve at the corner of his mouth. Like he's offering you a gift, wrapped in facts and history and the careful architecture of his mind.

Your fingers find the loose thread before you're fully aware of what you're doing. A small thing, barely visible — a strand of maroon wool working itself free near the cuff. You smooth it down, press it flat against his arm, and the gesture feels more intimate than it should. He goes quiet. You don't look up at him, but you feel the shift in his posture, the way he stills, like he's afraid to move and break whatever this is. "It's a good sweater," he says, after a moment. His voice is softer now. Less lecture, more... something else. "The tension is consistent. Even stitches. You clearly know what you're doing." You huff a breath, almost a laugh. "I've been knitting since I was twelve. First thing I ever made was a scarf that was somehow both too short and too wide. I wore it anyway for three winters."

"Because you made it."

You look up at him. "Because I made it." He holds your gaze. The fluorescent light hums. Somewhere in the other room, Morgan's voice rises and falls on the phone. But here, in this corner, time feels like it's slowed. Spencer clears his throat. "I've never had anything like that. Something someone made for me." He sighs. "Thank you. I don't think I said it properly earlier."

You look away.

The corner of the room suddenly becomes very interesting, the crack in the plaster, the way the light catches the dust motes floating in the air. Anything but his face, the earnestness in his voice, the way he said thank you like it cost him something. The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, but full. Laden with something neither of you has a name for.

Rossi's voice cuts through, low and unhurried from the kitchenette: "Hotch is five minutes out. They found fibers in Fitzwilliam's car matching the rug from Naomi’s apartment."

The words land like stones in still water. Reality seeping back in. Emily appears at the edge of your vision, leaning against the doorframe. She looks at you, then at Spencer, then back at you. There's something knowing in her expression, but she doesn't comment. "There's food, if you want it," she says. "Nothing fancy. Rossi makes a mean grilled cheese." You shake your head before the offer's fully left her mouth. "I'm not hungry." Prentiss doesn't push. She just gives a small nod, the way someone does when they understand that insistence would only make it worse. She disappears back into the kitchen area, and you hear the low murmur of her voice joining Rossi's.

The corner holds you. The armchair holds you. You pull your knees up, wrap your arms around them, and stare at the crack in the wall. Spencer hasn't moved. He's still there, on the arm of the chair, a quiet presence at the edge of your vision. He doesn't fill the silence with more facts, more distractions. He just is.

Minutes pass. The lock on the door clicks. Hotch steps in, coat collar turned up against the cold, a manila folder tucked under his arm. He takes in the room with a single sweep: Rossi at the counter, Prentiss by the window, Morgan emerging from the back room, and you, curled in the corner with Reid at your side.

He doesn't comment. Just sets the folder on the table and flips it open. "We've got a positive ID on the men who posed as FBI. Off-duty NYPD. Paid detail, routed through a shell corporation." He looks up. "One of them lawyered up within the hour. The other gave us a name: Julian Fitzwilliam. Theodore's younger brother."

You're still in the corner, arms wrapped around your knees, but something in your chest hardens. You look up at Hotch, at the folder open on the table, at the evidence spread out like a hand of cards. "His brother." Your voice comes out stronger than you expected. "That means there's a connection. A paper trail. Accounts, properties, alibis." You pause. "You need to catch him. Please. Don't let him slip away through his family's money and his title and his smile. Don't let him become another unsolved case that gets filed away and forgotten." Hotch holds your gaze. There's no pity in his expression, no soft reassurance. Just a calm, measured assessment.

"We have a team executing a warrant on the Greenwich estate as we speak. Another at Fitzwilliam's city residence. We're tracking his known associates, freezing accounts linked to the shell corporation, and cross-referencing every property under the Fitzwilliam family trust." He flips a page in the folder. "If he's still in the country, we'll find him within the next twelve hours."

"And if he's not?"

Hotch's jaw tightens. "Then we make sure there's nowhere left for him to run."

You push yourself upright, just slightly, enough to see the folder from where you sit. The edge of it catches the light, pages spilling out.

"What else did the diary say about me?"

Hotch's expression doesn't change, but there's a beat of hesitation. A fraction of a second where he weighs something. Then he reaches into the folder and pulls out a photocopied page, slides it across the table toward you. You don't move to take it. It lies there, face-up, the handwriting elegant and measured. Looping cursive, the ink pressed deep into the paper.

She watches everything. That's what makes her dangerous. Most of them don't see the details, my cufflinks, the crest, the way I hold my glass. But she does. She sees me the way no one has in years.

I find myself wanting to be seen by her.

I find myself wanting her to see all of it.

The script continues, but the next line has been redacted. Thick black marker, a rectangle of ink.

She's going to be the last one.

The room is very quiet.

Spencer's voice, low: "That was on the page after the description of Naomi’s murder." Your hand moves before you tell it to. Reaches out. Slides the photocopy across the table until it's right in front of you.

She's going to be the last one.

You read it again. The words don't change. They sit there, elegant and damning, in that looping cursive. "The last one." Your voice is barely a whisper. "He meant me." You look up at Hotch. "Who redacted that line?"

"The bureau's legal team," he says. "The line after it contained specific details about the method, they sealed it to prevent copycats and preserve the integrity of the investigation."

"But you read it."

A pause. "Yes."

"So you know how he planned to do it."

Hotch holds your gaze. "I do."

He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. The weight of what he's not saying fills the room like smoke. Morgan shifts by the door. "Hey." His voice is careful, measured. "You're in the safest place you can be right now. We've got eyes on every port, every airport, every car registered to the Fitzwilliam family. He's not getting to you."

You look back down at the page. At the redacted block. At your name, implied but never written, sitting in the white space between his words.

The last one.

You let the words sit. They hang in the air like smoke, curling around the edges of the room, settling into your chest.

The last one.

You look up from the page. "What do I do now?" It's not a rhetorical question. You're not asking for reassurance or comfort. You're asking because you need a direction, a task, something to move toward other than sitting in a corner waiting for a man with a family crest to find you. Hotch studies you for a moment. Whatever he sees, it makes him reach into the folder again, pulling out a smaller photograph. He slides it across the table. It's a man. Late twenties, maybe. Dark hair, sharp features, a suit that costs more than your rent. Standing on a dock somewhere, sunlight catching the water behind him. He's laughing at something off-camera, carefree and unguarded.

"Julian Fitzwilliam," Hotch says. "Theodore's younger brother. He's the one who hired the off-duty officers. We picked him up an hour ago at JFK with a one-way ticket to Zurich." Rossi sets down his coffee. "He's not talking. Got a lawyer from his father's firm on speed dial. But he's scared. You can see it in the booking footage."

"He's your way in," you say. Not a question.

Hotch nods. "We need to flip him. Get him to turn on his brother before Theodore's lawyers bury us in injunctions and jurisdictional appeals." You sit back. The armchair creaks beneath you. "You're telling me this for a reason. What is it?" Hotch doesn't look away. That's the thing about him, he never flinches, never deflects. When he speaks, it's measured, each word chosen with care. "Julian Fitzwilliam lawyered up before we even finished reading him his rights. He's not going to talk to us." A pause. "But he might talk to you."

The room tightens. Rossi sets down his coffee. Morgan straightens by the door.

"Let me be clear," Hotch continues. "I'm not asking you to do anything dangerous. You'd be in an interview room at federal plaza, with agents on the other side of the glass. But Julian is twenty-four years old. He's scared. He's in over his head. And according to his phone records, he spent the last three days trying to contact Theodore, all calls unanswered." Prentiss speaks from the window. "He's a disposable asset. His brother left him holding the bag. If there's anyone who might understand what that feels like, it's you."

The words land. You think of Naomi, of Julia. Of all the women who trusted men who promised them something more. Of a twenty-four-year-old kid on a dock in Zurich, laughing, not knowing he'd be left behind the same way. "I'll do it. Let me talk to him." The words come out before you can second-guess them. Before the fear can catch up and clamp around your throat. You say them, and they hang in the air, and somehow they feel true.

Hotch doesn't react. Not visibly. But there's a shift in the room. Rossi picks up his coffee again, Morgan's shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. Prentiss gives you a look that might be respect.

"Alright," Hotch says. "We'll have you at federal plaza by eight tomorrow morning. You'll be in an observation room first, watch the interview through the glass, get a feel for him. If it feels right, you go in."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then you don't. No pressure. No obligation." He closes the folder. "You're not an agent. You're a witness. A civilian. You have every right to say no at any point." He says it like he means it. Like he wants you to know that this isn't an order, isn't a manipulation. Just an offer, laid out plain.

Morgan clears his throat. "There's a bed in the back room. Nothing fancy, but it's clean. You should get some rest before tomorrow." You don't feel tired. But your bones ache with a weariness that has nothing to do with sleep.

"Thank you." You hold Hotch's gaze. "I'll be ready." He gives a single nod. No further ceremony. He's already pulling out his phone, probably coordinating with the team at federal plaza, setting the pieces in motion. Morgan gestures toward the back room. "C'mon. I'll show you where you're crashing."

The room is small, a twin bed with a thin mattress, a nightstand with a lamp, a window that looks out onto a brick wall. Basic, but safe. Morgan lingers in the doorway.

"Door locks from the inside. Reid's gonna be on the couch right outside. If you need anything—"

"I know."

He holds your gaze for a second, then nods and pulls the door shut. The lock clicks into place. You sit on the edge of the bed. The sheets smell like detergent, nothing else. Clean. Anonymous. You lie back, still fully dressed, and stare at the ceiling.

Morning comes faster than you expect. Gray light filters through the window. A soft knock at the door. "Good morning." Spencer's voice, low. "Hotch is here. We leave in twenty." You sit up. Your neck is stiff from sleeping in a weird position, but something in your chest feels different. Steadier. You open the door. He’s is there, wearing the sweater. He hands you a coffee.

"Black. One sugar." You take it. Your fingers brush his.

Federal plaza is a forty-minute drive. You spend it watching the city wake up, the coffee warming your hands, knowing that in a few hours, you'll be sitting across from a man who might help you catch the one who wants you dead.

"Tell me about Julian. What do I need to know before I go in?"

Reid's quiet for a moment, organizing his thoughts. The car hums beneath you, streetlights fading into the gray morning.

"Julian Fitzwilliam, twenty-four. Second son, which in aristocratic families means he inherited nothing and answers to everyone. His father is Lord Alistair Fitzwilliam, Ninth Earl of Whitmore. Julian's been described by staff as 'nervous,' 'eager to please,' and 'easily led.'" Reid glances at you. "He graduated from Oxford with a degree in art history, spent the last two years managing the family's London properties. No criminal record. No history of violence."

"Sounds like the perfect patsy."

"Exactly." Spencer's fingers tap against his thigh. "Phone records show Theodore called him seven times in the week before Celeste's murder. Each call under three minutes. We think he was giving instructions. Julian made the arrangements, the off-duty officers, the cover story, the car." A pause. "But he's not the one who killed anyone."

"So he knows he's expendable."

"He's starting to figure it out." He looks at you. "That's why he might talk to you. You're evidence that his brother is a killer. You're proof that Julian backed the wrong horse."

"How do I get him to trust me?"

Spencer considers this longer than your other questions. His fingers tap a syncopated rhythm against his thigh as the car hums through midtown traffic. "Trust is about perceived common ground. Shared vulnerability." He turns toward you. "Julian has been surrounded by people who have power over him his entire life. His father. His brother. The family lawyers now. He's never been the one in control."

"So I give him control."

"Not exactly. You make him feel like he has it." Reid's brow furrows. "The difference is subtle but important. You're not going to manipulate him. He's been manipulated enough. You're going to be the first person in this entire process who treats him like a person making a choice, not a loose end to be tied up." The car slows. Federal plaza rises ahead, gray and imposing. "He wants to be seen," Spencer says quietly. "The same way you did. The same way Naomi did. That's what Theodore offered both of you, the illusion of being truly seen." A pause. "Be real with him. That's how you get him to trust you."

Morgan pulls up to the secure entrance. The glass doors reflect the overcast sky. You take a breath. The air is cold and tastes like exhaust and wet concrete. You step out of the car. The building rises in front of you — glass and steel, federal insignia above the doors. People in suits walk past with the brisk efficiency of people who belong here. You don't. But you're here anyway. Morgan leads the way through security. Badge, metal detector, guard who nods at him like they've done this a hundred times. Spencer stays close, a step behind you, the weight of his presence steadying. The elevator hums as it rises. Fourth floor. The hallway is beige and fluorescent, lined with doors that all look the same. Morgan stops at one, buzzes in.

The observation room is small. A one-way mirror. A table with two chairs on the other side. A microphone and speakers on this side, turned low. And on the other side of the glass, already seated, is Julian Fitzwilliam. He looks younger than his photograph. Dark hair disheveled, shirt wrinkled, no jacket. He's sitting with his hands on the table, fingers laced together, staring at them like they might hold answers. He's not crying, but his shoulders are tight, coiled, like a man waiting for a blow.

Morgan glances at you. "You want to watch for a bit?" You don't take your eyes off Julian through the glass. "What has he been told about me?" Morgan glances at Hotch, who's entered quietly behind you. He answers. "Nothing. We've kept your name out of the interviews, out of the paperwork he's seen. As far as Julian knows, you're a witness who spoke to his brother at the Pierre. He doesn't know about Naomi’s diary entry. He doesn't know you're the last one on Theodore's list."

"Good." The word comes out firmer than you expected."He's been sitting alone for about forty minutes," Prentiss adds from the corner. "We brought him in at 6 AM, read him his rights, left him with water. No interrogation yet. He's been alternating between staring at his hands and checking the door." You watch him through the glass. He picks at his cuticle now, a nervous, repetitive motion. He looks up at the door again. Swallows. "His lawyer arrived ten minutes ago," Hotch says. "They've been in consultation. The lawyer's name is Lucy White, corporate defense, high-end. She's already filed a motion to suppress the JFK arrest."

"He's not going to talk with her here."

"No. But she'll step out if he asks her to."

The room is quiet. Everyone's looking at you.

"I want to go in. Just me and him."

Hotch's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "His lawyer is in there. She's not going to leave just because you ask."

"Then don't ask." You turn to face him. "Tell her she can watch from here. That she'll have a direct line to the room. That nothing I say is confidential. But Julian and I talk alone." Hotch holds your gaze for a long moment. Then he nods once, pulling out his phone. A minute passes. Two. Through the glass, you watch Lucy stand, lean down to say something to Julian, he nods without looking up, and then she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her. Julian is alone now. Hotch looks at you. "The microphone will be on. If you need us to intervene, just say the word 'break.'" He pauses. "Take your time. There's no rush." The door to the interview room is down the hall. Gray metal. A small window with wire mesh. You can see Julian through it, still staring at his hands.

Morgan steps aside. Reid meets your eyes, gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. The hallway stretches ahead. The door waits. The metal handle is cold under your palm. You turn it, and the door swings open with a soft click. Julian looks up. He's younger than you expected up close. Twenty-four, but he looks eighteen—dark circles under his eyes, a tremor in his hands that he's trying to hide by gripping the edge of the table. His shirt is expensive but rumpled, the top button undone, tie missing. You step inside. The door closes behind you with a quiet thud. He doesn't speak. Just watches you cross the room, pull out the chair across from him, sit down. The table is laminate wood, scarred with the ghosts of countless interviews. You set your hands flat on it, palms down.

You introduce yourself, telling him your name.

He blinks. "I know." His voice is rough, unused. "They told me you were coming."

"Did they tell you why?"

A second passes. He shakes his head. Just once, small. You let the silence sit. Let him fill it if he wants to. The clock on the wall ticks. Somewhere beyond the glass, you know they're watching. But here, in this room, it's just the two of you.

"I'm not here to trick you, Julian."

He holds your gaze for a moment, then drops it back to his hands. A muscle in his jaw works. "That's what they all say." His voice is flat. "The agents. The lawyers. My father." He looks up. "Everyone says they're not trying to trick me. Then they ask me to sign something, or say something, or admit to something I didn't do."

"I'm not asking you to sign anything. I'm not recording this." You gesture at the glass. "They are, on the other side. But I'm not."

He stares at you. There's something raw in his expression, not exactly suspicion. More like confusion. Like he's trying to fit you into a category and can't.

"Then why are you here?"

It's the question you've been waiting for. The one that matters. You could tell him about Naomi. About the diary, the redacted line, the smile through the peephole. You could make him afraid of his brother, could use that fear to turn him. But Spencer's voice echoes in your head: Be real with him.

"Because I want to understand," you say. "How someone ends up in a room like this, waiting for a brother who isn't coming to get him out." You rest your hands on the table. The laminate is cool and scarred beneath your palms. "Your brother killed someone I knew." Julian's face does something complicated. The color drains, then rushes back. His hands stop fidgeting and go still, flat against the table like he's trying to ground himself the same way you are.

"Who?" The word comes out barely above a whisper.

"Naomi Evans." You watch him. "She was my friend." He closes his eyes. Just for a second. When he opens them, there's something wet at the edges, but he blinks it away. "I didn't know," he says. "I swear to God, I didn't know he was going to—" He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.

"But you knew something." He doesn't answer. His eyes drop to the table, to his hands, to anywhere but you. "Julian." You keep your voice even. "You hired the men who came to my apartment. You booked the car. You made the calls. You knew something."

A long silence. The clock ticks.

"He said he was being followed," Julian finally says, voice cracking. "He said someone was trying to extort him. That he needed protection, needed people he could trust. He said—" A shaky breath. "He said if I didn't help him, I'd be next." Your voice comes out quieter than you expected, but it holds. "Can you tell me everything?" You pause, swallowing. "Believe me, I'm just as scared as you are. I'm not an officer. I'm not FBI." A breath. "I'm just like the girls your brother killed. I'm an escort too."

Julian's eyes widen. Just a fraction, but it's there, the crack in his composure. He looks at you differently now, not as an interrogator or a victim or a pawn, but as someone real. Someone sitting across from him in a beige room, hands flat on a scarred table, admitting something that could ruin her.

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he laughs, it's a short, hollow sound, more exhale than humor. "He told me you were trying to trap him. That you were working with the police to fabricate evidence." Julian shakes his head. "He said you were dangerous. Calculating. That you'd say anything to put him away."

"I'm sure he did."

"He said you seduced him. That you were obsessed." Julian's voice drops. "But you're just... you're just a person."

"I'm just a person," you echo. "And I'm scared, Julian. I'm scared of what your brother is going to do next. I'm scared that if we don't stop him, someone else is going to die." You hold his gaze. "Help me stop him. Please." You smile softly at him, encouraging. "What did he promise you in return for your help?" Julian's fingers curl against the table. He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he looks past you, at the blank wall, at the ceiling, anywhere but your face.

"He said he'd make Father see me." The words come out thin. "I'm the second son. The spare. Everything goes to Theodore, the title, the estate, the respect. I've spent my whole life in his shadow, and Theodore knew it. He told me if I helped him handle this 'problem,' he'd put in a good word with Father. That I'd get a seat on the family trust. That I'd finally matter." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I'm twenty-four years old, and I still let my big brother promise me pocket change like I'm a child." He looks at you then, really looks at you. His eyes are wet, but he's not crying. Not yet. "What did he promise you?" Julian asks. "The night you met him. What did he offer?"

"Nothing." The word lands flat between you. "I was just work to him." Julian blinks. Like that answer didn't compute. "He talked to me for an hour at the bar," you continue. "Ordered me a drink I didn't ask for. Asked about my life, my dreams, my favorite books. Made me feel like I was the most fascinating person in the room." A pause. "And then he tipped me and left. Like I was a transaction he'd completed." Julian's hands have gone still on the table. "I spent weeks thinking about him," you say. "Wondering if I'd said something wrong. If I'd missed a signal, a chance. I thought I'd failed." You meet his eyes. "But he was just gathering information. Building a profile. Deciding if I was worth killing."

The word hangs in the air. Killing. You've said it out loud now, in this room, to this man.

"I'm sorry." Julian's voice cracks on the word. "I didn't know. I didn't—" He stops, presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. When he looks up, there's something new in his expression. Not fear. Not guilt. Something closer to resolve.

"He has a property. Upstate. A hunting lodge under a different name, not Fitzwilliam. Something else. He told me once that if he ever needed to disappear, that's where he'd go."

"Can you give me the address?"

Julian hesitates. His eyes flick to the mirror, then back to you. He's weighing something — loyalty, fear, self-preservation.

"If I give it to you, I need protection. Real protection. Not just a phone number and a promise." His voice is steadier now, like he's finally found something solid to hold onto. "My family will disown me for this. My father will—" He stops. Swallows. "I'll have nothing."

You hold his gaze. "You'll have your freedom. And you'll have the truth."

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he reaches into his pocket — slow, so the agents on the other side of the glass don't misinterpret it. He pulls out a pen, grabs a napkin from the table, leftover from the water they gave him, and writes something down. Slides it across to you.

Grey Birch Lodge, 147 Hollow Road, Kerhonkson, NY

"The name it's under is Watson," he says quietly. "Jonathan Watson. He bought it five years ago with cash from a trust our grandmother left him. No paper trail back to Fitzwilliam." He looks at you. "He'll have a plan. A way out. He's been preparing for this his whole life."

The napkin sits between you, ink bleeding slightly into the paper. An address. A name. A thread to pull. Your fingers rest on the napkin, the ink still wet at the edges. But you don't take it yet. Instead, you look at him, really look, past the rumpled shirt and the dark circles, past the fear and the guilt. "Is there anything else you haven't told me?" you ask. "And I don't mean about the case." A pause. "Anything you want to tell me. Even if it's small. Even if it doesn't matter." You hold his gaze. "I'll listen."

Julian's mouth parts slightly. He wasn't expecting that. He blinks, once, twice, and for a moment he looks so young it hurts. He looks down at his hands. When he speaks, his voice is different. Softer. "I used to paint." He almost laughs. "Haven't said that out loud in years. I studied art history at Oxford because it was the only thing my father approved of that I actually liked. But I used to paint. Landscapes, mostly. There was this spot near the estate, a cluster of old oaks by a creek. I'd go there and paint the light through the leaves." He traces a scar in the laminate with his thumb. "I haven't painted in two years. Theodore told me it was a waste of time. That I needed to focus on something useful." He looks up at you. "I don't even know why I'm telling you that."

"Because you needed someone to hear it."

He holds your gaze for a long moment. Then he nods, just once, and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"You should paint again, Julian. When this is over."

Julian's breath catches. He looks at you like you've said something in a language he thought was lost. "You really mean that."

"I do." You slide the napkin into your pocket, the address safe against your thigh. "You're not just the spare son. You're not just your brother's errand boy. You're someone who sees light through oak leaves." A pause. "Don't let him take that from you too."

He doesn't answer. But his jaw works, and his hands uncurl, and when he meets your eyes again, there's something less broken in them.

The door opens behind you. Lucy White steps in, sharp-eyed, a notebook in hand. She looks at Julian, then at you, then back at him. "We're done here," she says. It's not a question.

Julian looks at you. "Will I see you again?"

You stand, the napkin pressing against your leg. "I hope so. On the other side of this."

You walk out. The door clicks shut behind you, and the hallway is empty except for Spencer, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. He looks at you, questions in his eyes. The door clicks shut behind you. The hallway is quiet, fluorescent lights humming overhead. You lean against the wall beside him, and let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. Your shoulders drop. Your hands, still pressed against your thighs, finally stop trembling. He doesn't say anything. He just stands there, shoulder near yours, presence steady. The sweater you made him is soft gray in the harsh light, and you notice he's not wearing his FBI jacket over it. Like he wanted it visible.

A door opens further down the hall. Hotch emerges, phone in hand, already moving. "We've got the address. Morgan's pulling up satellite imagery now. If Sterling's there, we'll have eyes on the lodge within the hour." He stops, looks at you. "You did good in there."

The words settle somewhere in your chest. Warm.

Hotch's phone buzzes. He glances at it. "Rossi's coordinating with the state police. We're moving." He looks between you and Reid. "You two alright?"

You push off the wall, steadying yourself. "Is there somewhere safe I can wait?"

Hotch considers you for a moment. "There's a safe room in the basement of this building. Bulletproof glass, reinforced door, direct line to the front desk. No one gets in without clearance from me or Morgan."

"Good. That's where I'll be."

Reid shifts beside you. "I'll—"

"No." You turn to face him. "You need to go. You're the one who can look at that satellite imagery and know what you're seeing. You're the one who can profile the lodge, figure out where he'd hide, how he'd run." A pause. "I'll be fine in a concrete box with a phone. Go do your job."

He looks at you like he wants to argue. But something in your expression must convince him, because he gives a small, reluctant nod.

"Keep your phone on you."

"I will."

Morgan appears at the end of the hall, jacket on, keys in hand. "Hotch. We leave in ten."

Hotch nods, then gestures for you to follow. "This way. I'll get you settled."

The safe room is exactly what he described, small, gray, and impenetrable. A chair, a desk, a phone, a monitor showing the hallway feed. You sit down, and the door closes with a heavy hydraulic hiss. The lock engages.

You're alone. Safe. For now.

The phone on the desk blinks. A direct line to the team's channel. You can hear the crackle of movement, orders being given, a car engine starting. Then Spencer's voice, low: "ETA to Kerhonkson is ninety minutes. I'll check in when we arrive."

The line clicks. Silence settles around you like a blanket. You sink into the chair. It's standard government-issueunforgiving, molded plastic, definitely not designed for comfort. You don't mind. Sleep isn't coming anyway. You close your eyes.

The room is silent. No humming, no distant voices, just the thick quiet of concrete and reinforced steel. You try to focus on the sound of your own breathing. In. Out. The rise and fall of your chest. But the silence has edges. Every creak of the building, every distant footstep from the hallway beyond the door, your brain snags on them, trying to place them, trying to decide if they're threats.

He smiled at me through the door.

You push the thought away. Breathe in. Breathe out. You're in a concrete box with a phone. They're going to find him.

You try to picture the lodge. Satellite images. A roof in the trees. Spencer's voice, low, feeding coordinates to Morgan. You try to imagine them moving through the woods, approaching the door, weapons drawn.

What if he's not there?

You open your eyes. The room hasn't changed. Gray walls. Gray desk. Phone blinking silently. You could call. Ask for an update. Or you could sit here, alone with your thoughts, and wait.

Ninety minutes later. Kerhonkson, NY.

The sedan winds through narrow roads lined with bare trees. Winter branches claw at a gray sky. Morgan drives, eyes fixed ahead. Spencer’s in the passenger seat, satellite images spread across his lap, the address burned into his memory. "Grey Birch Lodge," He says, mostly to himself. "Thirteen acres. He could have multiple exits, a vehicle cache, supplies for a extended stay."

"We'll find him." Morgan's voice is steady. "He's not expecting us."

They're not doing the typical approach. No sirens, no lights. Two unmarked cars, state police staged a mile down the road. Rossi and Prentiss are in the second vehicle behind.

The trees thin. A dirt road branches off the main route, a rusted sign half-hidden by overgrowth: PRIVATE ROAD — NO TRESPASSING.

Morgan kills the headlights. They roll forward in near-darkness. The lodge emerges through the trees. Two stories, stone and timber, smoke curling from a chimney. A black SUV parked out front.

"He's here."

They stop a quarter mile out. The quartet moves through the woods on foot, spread in a loose formation, breath fogging in the cold. The snow crunches under they’re shoes, but they’re careful, measured. Prentiss signals from the left flank. Rear door, she signs. No movement from inside. They take position. Morgan counts down on his fingers.

Three. Two. One.

The door goes down.

The man inside is not dressed for escape. He's sitting by the fire, a crystal glass in hand, a book open on his lap. He looks up as we flood the room, he’s calm, almost amused.

Theodore Fitzwilliam.

He sets down his glass. "I was wondering when you'd find this place."

Morgan reads him his rights. Spencer watches his face. No fear. No surprise. Just the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. The same smile you described. The one that says he planned this.

But as the cuffs click shut, Spencer notices something else. A flicker. A crack in the porcelain. He didn't plan for Julian to talk. He didn't plan for her.

He pulls out his phone. Types a message.

Reid (6:14 PM): We have him. He's in custody. You're safe.

He hits send and follows the rest of the team out into the snow.

The phone buzzes against the desk. You grab it before the screen fully lights up. You read it twice. Three times. The words don't change. You set the phone down, press your palms flat against the cool metal desk, and breathe. A real breath this time, a deep, full breath, the one that reaches the bottom of your lungs.

The door hisses open a few minutes later. Emily stands in the frame, coat dusted with melting snow. "Figured you'd want to see him brought in." She gestures down the hall. "They're pulling up now."

The holding cells are in the basement. You watch through reinforced glass as Theodore Fitzwilliam is processed — fingerprints, mugshots, the cold machinery of justice grinding into motion. He looks smaller than you remember. Diminished by the fluorescent lights and the orange jumpsuit. He doesn't look up. Doesn't scan the observation window. He knows you're watching. He just doesn't care anymore.

You don't move from the glass.

They lead him down the corridor, two guards, one on each arm. Fitzwilliam walks with his head high, that same measured stride you remember from the bar, from the doorway of your apartment. He passes the observation window without turning his head. Without slowing. You watch his back recede. The orange fabric of the jumpsuit disappears around a corner. A door clangs shut. The lock engages.

He's in a cage.

You let out a breath. Your reflection stares back at you from the glass, you’re pale, hollow-eyed, but still standing.

Prentiss appears at your side. She doesn't say anything. Just stands there, arms crossed, watching the empty corridor with you. After a long moment, she speaks. "Rossi's already talking to the DA. With Julian's testimony, the physical evidence from the lodge, and the diary, they're looking at multiple counts of first-degree murder. He's not getting out."

You nod. Your throat is tight.

"He wanted me to be afraid," you say quietly. "He wanted me to know he was coming for me. That's why he showed up at my door."

Emily is quiet. Then: "He wanted you to be afraid. But you're still here." She lets that sit. Then she pushes off the wall. "Reid's upstairs. He asked me to tell you he's in the break room if you want to see him."

You turn from the glass.

The break room is at the end of the hall, it’s small, fluorescent, smelling of old — and bad — coffee and microwaved leftovers. You push the door open.

Spencer is sitting at a table, elbows on the surface, a cup of untouched tea cooling in front of him. He's leaning forward like he's still reading something, but the table is empty. Just his hands, his breath, the silence of a man who's been running all day and has finally stopped. He looks up when you enter. His eyes find yours, and something in his posture shifts, he relaxes, like a knot pulled loose. "Hey," he says. Quiet.

You cross the room. The chair scrapes against the linoleum as you sit down across from him.

"Hey."

Neither of you speaks for a moment. The tea steams faintly between you. Somewhere in the building, a phone rings and goes unanswered.

He looks at you. "Are you okay?"

It's such a simple question. Such an impossible one. But he asks it like he really wants to know the answer, not just the polite version. "I think so." You hold his gaze. "I think I will be."

He nods slowly, like he's testing the words. "That's—that's good. That's really good."

The way the words leave his mouth, soft, careful, like it actually matters to him, makes something settle in your chest. "You should drink your tea," you say, nodding at the cup.

He looks down at it, almost surprised. "Oh. Right." He picks it up, takes a sip, and makes a face. "It's cold."

A laugh escapes you. It's small, rusty from disuse, but real. "Of course it is. You've been sitting there staring at it for—" You glance at the clock on the wall. "Probably an hour."

"Forty-three minutes, actually." A faint flush rises to his cheeks. "But I was thinking."

"About what?"

He sets the cup down. His fingers trace the rim. "About what you said. In your texts. About writing." He looks up. "Have you ever thought about actually starting? The novel, I mean."

The question catches you off guard. You've told yourself that story so many times — someday, when things are settled, when I have time, when I'm safe — that it's become a kind of lullaby. A dream you hold close but never examine too closely, afraid it might dissolve.

"I have a folder," you say. "Full of notes. First chapters I never finish." You trace a scratch on the tabletop. "I get about twenty pages in, and I start second-guessing everything. The voice isn't right. The pacing is off. Who am I to write a novel anyway?" You look up. "So I start something new. Convince myself this time will be different."

He is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "That sounds like fear, not lack of ability."

You blink. "What?"

"Statistically, most first drafts are abandoned because of self-doubt, not because the writer lacks skill." He says it matter-of-factly, but his voice is gentle. "The fact that you keep starting means you have something to say. You just haven't trusted yourself to say it yet." The fluorescent hum fills the space between you. "What would you write about," he asks, "if you weren't afraid?"

The question lands somewhere deep. You think about the stories you've carried: the girls in foster care, the women you've known in this city, the ones who disappeared into men's lives and were never seen again. Naomi. Julia. The ones who didn't get caught.

"About people who get overlooked," you say slowly. "Women who exist in the margins. Who survive anyway."

He looks at you like you've just handed him something precious.

"That's the first time I've said that out loud."

Spencer's expression softens. He doesn't look away. "It's a good thing to say."

Your throat tightens. You look down at your hands on the table. "I've been carrying it for so long. The idea of it. Like a—a stone in my pocket. I don't even remember when I started. It's just always been there."

"Maybe it's time to take it out of your pocket."

You look up. His eyes are earnest, brown and warm in the flat fluorescent light. "What if I fail?"

"Then you fail." He says it simply. "And you start again. That's how it works." A pause. "I've had papers rejected. Theories I spent months on, dismantled in peer review. It doesn't mean I stop."

The comparison makes you smile. "It's a little different. Your work saves lives."

"So could yours." He says it without hesitation. "Stories save lives. You told me you read Le Guin and Butler and Plath. Didn't they save yours?"

You open your mouth. Close it.

Yes. Yes, they did.

Reid looks at you, and for a moment he doesn't speak. Then a small, quiet smile touches his mouth.

"When this is all over, will you read the first thing I write?"

"Yes." He says it like it's obvious. Like there was never any other answer. "I'd like that."

You feel something warm spread through your chest. You look down at the table, at your hands, at the cold tea between you. "Okay," you say. "Then I'll write it." The words hang in the air. A promise. A thread pulling you forward into something new.

Emily appears in the doorway. She knocks twice on the frame, a soft courtesy. "There's a car waiting to take you home whenever you're ready. And I've put in a request for a protective detail for the next few days. Just in case."

You nod. "Thank you."

She looks between you and Reid, a hint of something knowing in her expression. "Take your time. Car's not going anywhere." She disappears. The door swings shut.

The room feels smaller than it did a minute ago. Or maybe it's just that the quiet is deeper now, weighted with the shape of what comes next.

"Walk me out?" Spencer stands. Pushes his chair in. "Yeah. Of course."

You walk side by side down the corridor, past the holding cells, past the bullpen where agents are still typing reports and making calls. A few of them glance up as you pass, not with suspicion, but with recognition. You're the one who helped. The one who sat in the room with Julian. The one who sent them to Kerhonkson.

Morgan is by the elevator, coffee in hand. He gives you a nod as you approach. "Get some rest, doll face. You've earned it."

"Thanks, Morgan."

The elevator doors open. You step inside. Spencer follows. The doors close, and you're alone with him in the small, humming space. The numbers tick down.

"What happens now?" you ask. "For me, I mean. Do I need to testify?"

"Eventually. There'll be a trial. But the DA will walk you through it. You'll have a victim advocate assigned to you." He pauses. "And I'll be there. If you want."

The elevator reaches the lobby. The doors slide open. Outside, through the glass doors, you can see the street. Streetlights. A car idling at the curb. The world going on like none of this happened. You stop at the glass doors. The city glows beyond them, cold and indifferent, but you don't step through yet. You turn to face him. "I'll miss you, you know." Your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. "You're an amazing friend, and person overall, I mean."

A beat. You let out a breath.

"Thank you. For everything."

Spencer stands there in the fluorescent lobby light, hands at his sides, looking at you like he's trying to memorize the moment. His jaw works for a second, like he's testing words and discarding them. "You're welcome," he says finally. Quiet. Earnest. "And for what it's worth, I'll miss you too."

The words settle between you. Simple. Real.

He clears his throat. "I have your number. So I can send you updates. About the case. And also to check in. If you want."

"I'd like that."

You let the silence be felt for a second. A car horn sounds somewhere out on the street.

He shifts his weight. "Get some rest.”

"You too, Spencer."

His name on your tongue feels different now. Familiar. Like something you're allowed to keep.

You push through the glass doors. The cold hits you immediately, sharp and clean, a slap of winter air that clears your lungs. You pull your coat tighter and step onto the sidewalk. The city spreads out before you: taxis gliding past, a couple laughing on the corner, steam rising from a grate. Normal life, humming along.

The car is idling at the curb. Black sedan, government plates. The driver nods as you approach and opens the rear door. You look back once. Through the glass, Spencer is still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you go. He raises a hand, a small wave, tentative.

You raise yours.

Then you get in the car. The door shuts with a solid thunk. The heater hums. The driver pulls away from the curb, and the FBI field office shrinks in the side mirror until it's just another building in a block of buildings.

The drive to Tribeca takes twenty minutes. You watch the city pass — the lit windows, the bridges, the river glimpsed between buildings. Your apartment building appears. The driver pulls up.

"Need me to walk you up, ma'am?"

"No. I'm okay."

You climb the stairs to your floor. The hallway is quiet. Your door is still sealed with yellow crime scene tape, but Prentiss told you they'd cleared it. You duck under the tape, fit the key in the lock, and step inside.

Everything is exactly as you left it. The book facedown on the armchair. The half-empty mug on the counter. The city lights through the window. Your apartment. Your space. Your life, waiting for you to step back into it.

You stand in the middle of your apartment for a long moment, coat still on, keys in your hand.

Then you set the keys down. You shrug off your coat. You walk to the small desk by the window, the one piled with library books and half-empty notebooks, and you sit. The laptop is cold. You flip it open. The screen glows to life. You open a blank document. The cursor blinks at you. Steady. Patient. Waiting. Your fingers hover over the keys. The city hums beyond the glass. A siren wails somewhere, fades.

You think about Naomi. About Julia. About the girls who never got to tell their own stories. You think about what you said in the break room. Women who exist in the margins. Who survive anyway.

You start typing.

There are things we don't tell the men who pay for our time.

The sentence stares back at you. Honest. Unflinching. You read it again. It's not perfect. It might not even be good. But it's yours.

You keep going.

The words come haltingly at first, then faster, like water finding its current. The cursor races across the screen, sentences stacking, paragraphs taking shape. A woman appears on the page — not you, not exactly, but someone who carries the same weight. Someone who knows what it's like to be seen without being known.

The city darkens outside. Your fingers keep moving.

taglist: @goldenlinguistics1114 @sammy4sstuff @sweet-t33a @boiiitskhloe @violent-cupids @hiddentattooodyssey @lavendercoldfoam @underpaid-therapist @geni-627 @tostellify

As the phone rang, part of you hoped he wouldn’t answer. When he asked you about it the next time you saw him, you’d wave it off as a butt dial and he’d be none the wiser.

“Hello,” he said through the phone, leaving your plans quashed.

This was awkward, you had been on four dates with the guy over the span of two months, and now you were calling him in the middle of the night. “This isn’t a booty call,” You blurted, cringing inwardly and banging your head back on the passenger door of your car.

Spencer laughed lightly, “I didn’t think it was, what’s going on?”

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” You asked, his job had a lot of long hours, and you didn’t want to bother him if he was catching up on sleep. If he was even home, “Wait, where are you?”

There was a rustling on his end of the call, “No, I wasn’t asleep, I’m at work. We just got off of a case.”

You let out a sigh of relief, at least you weren’t being a total nuisance. “Sorry, I don’t mean to bother you. I just… my tire blew out on the highway and my jack broke and no one else is answering their phone,” you told him, verging on rambling.

“You’re kind of cutting out, where are you?” He asked, he sounded concerned, and if there was a moment where you weren’t sure you still had feelings for him, it was fleeting.

Looking to either side of you for a mile marker, you stood up, looking at the ground so you didn’t step on any metal, “I don’t really know. There aren’t any signs, I’m somewhere on 28, I think?”

Spencer cleared his throat, “Do you have your location on your phone?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think I have enough service to check it,” you said, all you could see were trees.

You could hear him talking to someone, holding the receiver away from his mouth, “That’s fine, I’ll have someone look, just stay on the phone.”

It would seem that dating someone in the FBI does have its perks, “Oh, cool.” You overheard Spencer explaining your situation to someone, hearing the other person in the room say something about Reid’s girlfriend and you couldn’t help but smile. The two of you were very unofficially official.

“Hey, I’ll be there in half an hour,” An elevator dinged in the background. “Is that alright?”

You hummed, leaning your hip against the front of your car. “I mean, I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

Another ding of the elevator, “Will you do me a favor?”

In exchange for this? You’d do just about anything within the realm of legality, “Name it.”

“Get in your car and lock the doors,” he responded. “Turn your hazards on because right now you’re a sitting duck. If someone doesn’t see your car, they could hit you.”

As a favor, he was asking you to make sure you’re safe, “Okay, I’m getting in now, should I leave the car running?”

You heard the sound of a car lock disengaging through the phone, “As long as the cooling system on your car is in good shape, it shouldn’t be a problem to leave it running while you wait. Just remember what I told you about the hazards.”

Nodding despite the fact that he can’t see you, you got in the car, turning the key in the ignition before pushing the button for your hazard lights, “Okay, I’m in the car.”

“I can’t drive and be on the phone at the same time, but I’ll be there soon. Don’t unlock the doors for anyone except for me,” he told you, and you thanked him for his help before hanging up and settling yourself in your driver’s seat.

You pulled the hoodie you kept stashed in your car over your head, your school mascot—a panther—proudly displayed in the front, and made sure your car doors were locked. If you said you weren’t a little unnerved, you’d be lying to yourself.

Spencer had a worrisome job; it was something you were aware of before he ever asked you on that first date. It became alarmingly obvious to you when he revealed that he’d been shot a few months prior, which was an appropriate second-date conversation with an FBI agent. It made sense to you that he’d be concerned about you, in your idle car, on the side of the road, but you wondered if there was a case that he was thinking of. Someone with a flat tire who had met an untimely demise.

Shuddering, you turned up the heat in your car, flipping through radio stations until someone knocked on your window. You jumped at the noise, hitting your head against the roof of the car before looking outside to see Spencer. Sighing in relief, you unlocked your car door, and he opened it for you, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Is your head alright?”

You peered up at him, casually leaning over your car door. “You cut your hair,” you observed. You’d seen him just last week, where his hair still touched his shoulders, and now it was considerably shorter.

Self-consciously, he reached up a hand and thumbed one of the tendrils, “Yeah, it just got too long—and heavy.”

Resisting the urge to ruffle his hair, your head bobbed, “I like it. Did you do it yourself?”

“You can tell?” He asked, following you around the back of your car to your busted tire. Spencer sets his tire jack down before looking back at you, putting his hands on his hips.

Grinning at him, you shrugged, “I teach kindergarten, I’m basically a professional at noticing DIY haircuts.”

On a towel that you had previously set out, the two of you sat along the side of your car, and you tried to ignore the fact that Spencer still had his weapon holstered. It made sense, he’d come straight from work, but you wondered if there was a reason he didn’t leave it in his car. “Where’s your lug wrench?”

“I can change it myself,” you insisted, “I just needed a different car jack.” You gestured to the pieces of yours that were now all over the side of the road.

Alarm flashed on Spencer’s face, “Nothing fell on you, right?”

You shook your head, “No, just a cut from the metal.”

Holding out your hand, you let Spencer take a look at the cut on your palm. “When was your last tetanus shot?”

Blinking rapidly, you frowned at him, “Uh, when I was in college?”

“That might need stitches,” he responded, letting you take your hand back. “I’ll change your tire, I don’t want you using that hand for anything,” he informed you, pushing the hydraulic jack beneath your car.

Butterflies swarmed in your stomach as you watched him take your old tire off, muttering under his breath about how your old jack was practically an artifact, seeing how it literally fell apart under pressure. “How was your case?” You asked softly, fully aware that you were likely opening a can of worms by asking about work.

Spencer’s movements faltered slightly at your question, “It’s closed. We were in Boise,” he answered tactfully, leaving out any case details and cluing you into the fact that he didn’t want to talk about it. “What are you doing out here?”

You sighed, leaning back on your hands and watching him work, “I had a meeting with the other schools in our conference. It’s annual, and this year they happened to pick the school furthest away from mine.”

“Well, I suppose it worked out well that your tire blew out so close to me, then,” Spencer said, swapping out the busted tire for the donut and looking over at you. There was something nervous in his eyes, and you didn’t know if it was related to work or you.

Humming, you tried to watch the tire rather than just watching him, “Is there something bothering you?”

He was tightening the lug nuts on the spare tire, “Are you driving home after this?”

You furrowed your brows, “Yeah, where else could I be going?”

“It’s almost a two-hour drive to your place from here,” he reminded you, his tone laced with concern. “You won’t get home until almost one in the morning,” the displeasure in his voice was plain, but you don’t have anywhere else to go. “Plus, you really shouldn’t travel that far on a spare tire, they’re not made to travel far distances.”

Crossing your arms in front of your stomach, you let your shoulders slump forward, “So, what do you suggest I do? Get a hotel?”

Spencer mumbled something inaudibly, trying to finish tightening the bolts on the tire before sighing, “You can stay with me,” he blushes, a swipe of pink across his cheeks.

Your lips parted in surprise, “Uh, I don’t… I’m not…” you faltered. Utterly failing to come up with a good enough reason to tell him no, “I don’t want you to feel inclined. This isn’t what I was looking for when I called you for help.”

He let the car down, staying quiet while the two of you cleaned up, and Spencer swatted your hand away when you tried to pick things up. “So, you can come back to my place tonight. My work-issued first-aid kit has your name all over it,” he told you, eyes flickering down to the cut on your hand.

“Okay,” you breathed, unable to conjure a reason to refuse his hospitality.

He was grinning at you, hair just barely brushing his eyebrows, “So tomorrow, maybe we can get coffee and drop your car off to get a new tire?”

You smiled back at him, “That sounds great, date number five.”

“You know where you’re going, right?”

“Yeah,” you’d been to his place once to pick him up, “Hey, Spence?”

He turned around, fishing his car keys from his pocket. He looked ready to respond to you, but you pressed your lips to his before he had a chance to speak.

You kissed him softly, whispering against his mouth, “Thank you for coming.”

He chuckled lightly, gently resting a hand on your waist, “Thank you for calling.” 

it was the first time since the pair of you started dating that he'd had to go away, and whilst you missed him greatly, you hadn't expected him to miss you so much.

it started small, with texts.

I saw a dianthus plumarius today.

what's that?

oh sorry, garden pinks. they

made me think of you. :-)

well thats very sweet, dr reid :)

he'd message you things like this almost daily. small trinkets he saw that reminded him of you, random facts in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep on the uncomfortable hotel mattress.

you'd found it a little odd, the sudden influx of texts. whilst spencer usually had some random anecdote or fact to tell you, it had never been so much as this week. he even scolded you over text when you replied during your work hours, despite the fact that he spent most of the case texting you underneath the table like a highschooler.

you thought that he was being clingy over text; you weren't prepared for what he'd be like when he got home.

he'd gotten home at about half ten that night, the sound of keys jangling in the lock notifying you of his arrival. perking up from the couch, you scamper over to the door, just in time to see him toe off his shoes and shrug off his coat. it was a warming sight, seeing the spaces that had felt so empty for so long (a week) be refilled.

he notices you then, head tilting towards you like a curious puppy. despite the tiredness in his eyes, you see that familiar flicker of affection ignite. dragging his feet, he closes the short distance between you two, wrapping you up in his arms. "hi, honey."

his voice is so warm, so full of sleepy tenderness, and you feel butterflies fill your stomach, burying your head into his shoulder. his shoulders are tense for just a second, before they deflate with the aid of your hug.

he doesn't leave your side for the rest of the evening.

or the rest of the weekend.

saturday morning, you decide to bake for your bookclub that afternoon. he spends the entirety of it with his arms looped around your waist, head resting on your head the entire time, pressing kisses every two seconds.

when you try to move to the fridge for the eggs, spencer weighs you down. "spence- i can't move."

he flusters a little, blushing as he hesitantly removes his arms from around you. "oh. sorry." he flexes his hand, scratching the back of his neck bashfully.

he's basically a wreck when you have to leave. he's seconds away from begging you to let him come with you, but he has some dignity.

staying home, for that dreadfully long hour, is like hell. he's restless, he cant stay still for a second. he tries to watch doctor who, but he cant seem to pay attention. he tries teaching your cat to do tricks, but juno is uncooperative and he keeps getting frustrated.

so he sits on the couch, bouncing knees, and stares at the door until he sees you walk through.

sunday is a similar affair. you both decide to stay in, and spencer spends it with his head in your lap, or braiding your hair. he even goes to far as to sitting next to the tub whilst you have a bath, reading to you from whatever obscure russian novel he'd reading.

laying in bed that night, with spencer's arms wrapping around you from behind, cheek pressed against you back, you realise. you realise that spencer is just as clingy as you, just as needy for affection, he just needs an opening.

and so you grant him that opening, here and there. you lay your legs over his when sat on the couch, you link your pinky with his on walks, you borrow his sweaters without asking.

You’d parked yourself on the edge of his mattress, holding yourself back from swinging your legs as you bit back a grin. You’d been picturing him in his pyjamas, a soft shirt and baggy pants so different to the usual crisp ironed silhouette of his work clothes. You wondered what his hair looked like in the morning, tousled from his pillow as he tried to sleepily smooth it back. Butterflies danced in your stomach as you pictured waking up beside him, seeing his flushed cheeks and hearing his lazy morning rambles inches away from you as you lay anchored to his chest.

With a hop, you sprung up from the bed, practically skipping over to the drawers across the room. With a flourish you pulled one open, eager to see what he slept in. Oh, you sighed, wrong drawer. Your lips melted into a small smile as you took in a mountain of colourful socks, oddly unorganised compared to the rest of his bedroom. Stripes and polka dots in every colour piled on top of neons and silly cartoon pictures, a set of ‘days of the week’ socks each highlighting a different star in the Big Dipper catching your attention the most.

You were sliding the drawer closed when you caught a glimpse of something in the back, poking out between two pairs of dinosaur socks. Something brown and fluffy, two beady glass eyes staring up at you.

“Who’s your friend?” You asked, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. In your hands you held an old, well-loved teddy bear. Its fur was a little matted with age but still soft in its little brown curls, and on its chest sat an embroidered comet with its threads surprisingly still mostly in tact.

Spencer’s eyes widened in the mirror, his cheeks turning red almost instantly. “Where did you find that?” He tried to feign indifference, but his voice wavered.

“Stashed away in your sock drawer.” You turned the bear over in your hands so that he was looking at you. Were you just getting tired or did its eyes look sad? “What was it doing in there?”

“No idea.” He shrugged, moving to take it from you. “Must’ve forgotten he was there.”

Cocking a brow at him you hid the bear behind your back, trapping him between you and the doorframe and out of Spencer’s reach. “He?”

“It.” He corrected himself. You brought the bear forward, gazing down at his little face as Spencer brushed past you into the bedroom. His little glass eyes definitely looked sad.

“‘He’ implies an identity.” You said, following Spencer as he perched on the edge of the mattress. “He’s clearly important. Why were you hiding him from me?”

“I was embarrassed. I didn’t want you to think I was-” he paused, brows creasing as he searched for the right word, “uncool.”

You smiled at him, a little loose and sappy. This was the man who first said hi by complimenting your edition of Great Expectations that he saw peeking out of your bag on the subway. The same man who called his mother before your first date to ask her what flowers he should bring you. He once took you to a chess tournament and commentated on every match with low whispers in your ear, sprinkling in a handful of sassy comments and tutting about moves he believed to be, what he called, ‘idiotic and completely incomprehensible’. ‘Uncool’ wasn’t even a word that came to mind.

“I think he’s very cool.” You shifted closer until your knees were touching, the bear resting in your lap as you toyed with him. “What’s his name?”

“Carl.” Spencer answered fondly, finally allowing a boyish grin to grace his face.

You nodded in recognition. “Sagan.” It made perfect sense. You recalled him telling you a childhood story about him making a salt model of the universe, intended as a birthday gift for his hero. You were pretty certain he could work Carl Sagan into any conversation given the opportunity.

“Well thank you for formally introducing us.” Propping the bear up with your hand, you tilted his head sadly to the side. “He must hate me.”

“He doesn’t hate you.” Spencer frowned.

“Oh, I bet he does. I bet he was thinking who is this mean, mean person I’m being shoved into a dark, scary drawer for?” The bear’s head bobbed in your hand as you jostled him like a puppeteer until your boyfriend reached over, taking him from your hands. He was gentle, handling his little best friend with a carefulness you’d only ever seen reserved for you. His gaze was loving, suddenly belong to a much, much younger version of him.

“Yeah. I’m sorry about that, Carl.” He murmured, voice tender. His fingers hovered over his fur, the familiar softness transporting him somewhere else.

You’d never quite seen this look on his face before. Spencer was someone who often acted older than he was, desperate to be seen with the sense of maturity he thought he ought to carry. There were always cracks in his mask, of course, he was far too passionate about things to keep it hidden for long. Whenever he was rambling, especially about something- for lack of better words- nerdy, there was that twitch of his lips that often gave way to a bright grin, that little glimmer of excitement in his eyes as his words poured from his brain faster than his mouth could keep up. It was almost that look you saw on his face now, but quieter. Gentler.

“How long have you had him?” You asked softly as his fingers moved to trace the embroidery on the bear’s chest.

“Since I was eight. He was the only toy I kept when…” He trailed off, flashing you a small smile, weaker than the one he wore earlier, before continuing. “I never could outgrow him.”

“Who could? Look at his little face.” You cooed, staring at the bear’s glass eyes once more- significantly less sad-looking in Spencer’s hands. “Where’d he come from?”

“Science museum gift shop.” He chuckled, face lighting up at the memory. “My mom took me. They had an interactive astronomy exhibit I’d been desperate to go to- not that I said anything. She found a flyer for it in my room and for my birthday she surprised me. It’s one of my favourite memories with her. We didn’t get many days out like that.”

His voice trailed off, his thoughts going with it. The room you were both in disappeared before his eyes, rearranging itself into the bedroom of his younger years. Toys were a scarcity, limited to models he’d made himself. They’d been replaced long ago by notebooks, pages and pages of poems and songs copied out to calm his mother. He’d told you about it once briefly, how he did it to soothe her paranoia. There was no time for toys when he was growing up so fast, but still in his small hands he held Carl. When he was too fretful to fall asleep, his door cracked open enough to hear Diana down the hall, his bear stayed awake with him. When he came home from school late and the sky outside the window was black, he had someone to confide in.

It was less and less often that he got good days with his mother, but Carl served as a reminder for every single one, most of all that day at the museum.

“I guess you could say he’s my oldest friend.” Spencer smiled with an embarrassed laugh, clearing his throat as he tried to steady his expression.

“Well, I’m very honoured to finally meet him.” You reached out, shaking his little paw between your fingers. “I take it he doesn’t usually live in your sock drawer?”

“No, no- he takes the left side of my pillow usually. Sometimes he sits at my desk when I’m working.” He wrinkled his nose, debating whether he should say more. “He, uh. He sits on the other side of the board when I play chess by myself. He’s pretty good at it.”

You laughed, feeling your cheeks ache as you leaned into him and propped your head on his shoulder. You’d been prepared to see him in his pyjamas, you were working up to being prepared to sleep in the same bed. What you hadn’t been ready for was meeting your boyfriend’s teddy bear. If it was even possible you loved him even more now, heart swelling as you pictured him coming home to his little roommate. Did he talk to him about his day? Tuck him in before he left for a case? Does he miss him when he’s away?

“You know I have a childhood bear too?” You said, your voice lazy as your cheek melted into the fabric of his shirt. “You’ll have to bring Carl over sometime, we can have a double date.”

Spencer’s shoulder shook beneath you as he laughed. “Yeah, I think he would love that. It’s about time.”

He turned his head to look down at you, and you tried your best to meet his eyes from your perch. His face looked so soft, relaxed in a way you rarely got to see. He was always at his most beautiful like this, completely unguarded, the mask that etched a crease between his brows and a frown on his lips comfortably lifted and leaving him looking impossibly young. You lifted your head, pressing a gentle kiss to his warm, flushed cheek.

“I can’t wait.” You smiled, rising to your feet and extending a hand to him. “Now come on. I am desperate to see your pyjamas.”

“I still don’t understand your infatuation with this.” He sighed, shaking his head fondly. But still he took your hand, letting you pull him up before following you as you skipped over to the drawers once more.

"Just on a break, amore," He pulled away from the hug gently, "Could you guys make some space for me?" He looked at the others on the couch, who were sitting directly next to you. "Huh?" One of the engineers raised an eyebrow, "The couch is basically empty?" He looked puzzled and gestured to the countless empty seats surrounding you and your little group. "No," Kimi furrows his brow, "I meant next to Y/n." At this, you giggle and the engineer sighs, "Fine." He shuffles to the left slightly, leaving a Kimi sized space for him to slide into. "That's better," he rests his head on your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist. "Wow, did you really miss me for the two seconds you weren't near me?" You chuckle at his neediness. "Yes. I don't have time to waste," Kimi deadpanned, lifting his head to look you in the eye, pulling a very serious face. "You're silly," you plant a little kiss on his forehead and turn back to the nonsense you had open on your phone.

"Kimi. I said five minutes." Came the voice. Neither you nor him had even noticed the door had opened and someone else had entered. "Hmm?" Kimi looked up from your phone, realising who it was. "Oh. Yes, I'm sorry, I'll be right there." He smiles at the trainer, but doesn't make any moves to get up. "Go on," You whisper to him, "You're at work Kimi, we can hang out afterwards for as long as you like." Kimi sighs, unhooking his arms from around you and standing up begrudgingly. "Training's not over yet." The trainer holds the door open for Kimi, ushering him out first, before firmly shutting the door behind them. "You're lucky he's a driver, because if he was a surgeon, he would've already found a way to attach himself to you!" An engineer piped up the second they had left, causing laughter to erupt in the room.

Kimi was never afraid of showing some pda, he wanted everyone to know you were his girlfriend.

"Mate, you actually need to get off her." George groaned, "We don't want to see this." Kimi was in the middle of peppering your face with kisses - he had just finished a race in pole position and ran to where you were before commencing the proper celebrations. "Shut up, she's my lucky charm," He rolled his eyes, and finished by giving you a longer kiss on the lips. "We get it, she's your girlfriend." George teased, smiling, before turning to his family and friends who had just come down. "We get it, she's your girlfriend" Kimi put on a faux British accent, one of the worst you think you'd ever heard, you try to hold in your laugh but fail miserably. "If he had a girlfriend as beautiful and lucky as you, he would understand me." Now it was your turn to roll your eyes, "You didn't win because I'm lucky, you won because you trained hard." Kimi shushed you, "You're still lucky." He placed another kiss on your head, ignoring the distant "ew" from someone else in the garage.

The second something went wrong, or if he had a bad day, you would always be the first thing Kimi needed to feel better.

"Kimi, don't be so hard on yourself. It happens sometimes," George was sitting beside Kimi on a bench in the garage after a poor result on the track - arguably the poorest. "I DNF'd George," He had his head in his hands, occasionally rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. "You aren't the first to do it and you certainly won't be the last." George patted his shoulder, trying to provide the most comfort he could. "That's not the point. I disappointed the team. How can we come out on top if I keep messing up?" Kimi faced George, pure hurt visible in his eyes. "You won't."

"I need to find Y/n." His voice was muffled, having assumed his original position, hiding away from the world. As if knowing he needed you, you came into the garage, somewhat dishevelled from what George had assumed was a scramble to get here. "Kimi??" You rushed over to him, sitting on his other side, placing your hand on his back. Without saying a word, he pulled you into an almost suffocating hug, burying his face into your neck and sighing deeply. "The race was not good." He mustered up the courage to say after a few seconds of recharging in your arms. "I know, they can't all be." You rubbed your hand up and down his back soothingly, "You're still brilliant at what you do. This doesn't change what people think of you." Kimi only hummed in response - his eyes were shut, he was simply just basking in your presence. "Thank you," he eventually pulled away, smiling at you, "I think that hug fixed me."

"See, who needs doctors?" You jab him in the arm playfully.

AT HOME —

Kimi always made it impossible for you to get up in the morning.

"Five minutes pleaseeee," Kimi tightened his grip on your waist, willing you to lie back down. It was seven in the morning, usually a very early start but for you, it was just the time you got up before work to make sure you were ready on time. "Kimi, please," you sigh, squinting a little in the dim lighting to look at him. His eyes were still shut, as if he was conserving energy, and his hair was tousled, sticking up in all directions. You found him irresistible in this state, he looked so sleepy and warm and cute, it was very difficult to deny him. "It's only five minutes," he huffed, voice still gravelly from having woken up to your alarm, "This many," He sleepily held up his hand to show five. "I know how many five is silly," you laugh softly, lying back down on your side so he could spoon you. "I knew I could convince you," he pulled you closer so your back was flush with him. "Only five minutes though, okay?" You stretch a little to look at his face. "Sure." He cracked one eye open, a cheeky smile forming on his face. "I'm serious. I have a big girl job I need to get to." You try to say as flatly as possible, until a smile sneaks onto your lips. "Your favourite job is being my girlfriend." He deadpans.

"Yeah yeah, you don't even pay me," You roll your eyes playfully. "Whatever, can sort that in the morning." He was falling back asleep, mumbling into your hair. You decided to let him win this one, he wanted it so badly he was almost willing to argue that you stayed in his sleep.

Kimi always wanted you to wear his clothes, so at least some part of him could always be with you.

You were standing in front of your closet, eyes heavy from having just woken up, with a thousand outfit options to work through. "What do I even wear?" You sigh to yourself, moving a few hangers around. Kimi, who was in bed, stirred at your remark and opened his eyes, "Check my closet." You half smiled at this, "That doesn't really narrow down the options though, hmm."

"Take my blue jumper," He rubbed his eyes and yawned, "You know the one."

"I have plenty of my own clothes, Kimi." You giggle, "Go back to sleep."

"No. I have solutions-" He began sitting up in bed to look at you fully, "Either I listen to you complain you can't choose clothes for another half an hour, or you just take the jumper." He paused before adding, "Which will keep you warm and smells like me."

"Hmmm, this is a convincing argument indeed," you scratch your chin jokingly, knowing you were typically freezing, "But I think I have decided."

"I decided before you." Kimi slipped out of bed and opened his closet door, grabbing the jumper and pulling it over your head in one swift movement. "Wha-" you barely had any time to process what was happening. "See? Warm, cosy, smells like me. What more could you need?"

"It is pretty cute," you smooth down your hair, looking in the mirror.

"You're pretty cute." He sticks his tongue out at you, "Even more so in my jumper."