Cynbx

You wake up before your alarm on Monday. For a second, you’re brain is completely empty. Calm and relaxed. Static. 

Then it isn’t.

Because Spencer Reid exists.

You groan immediately and roll over, shoving your face into your pillow.

“This is ridiculous.” You think to yourself. 

You met him one time. ONCE. It was one dinner party. One conversation. A ‘Three and A Half, Definitely Not Four Hour Long’ conversation that solidified inside your mind that this was something worth obsessing over.

You stare at your ceiling. 

Do you like him?

The question rolls through your head over and over again. It sounds so simple. Except every time you try to answer it, a follow-up question appears.

Like him how?

Like him? or… Like LIKE him?

Because there was a major difference. And you weren’t sure which question your brain was asking you. And it wasn’t clearing things up.

You liked Garcia.

You liked Emily.

You liked Morgan and JJ and Hotch.

You liked talking to all of them. You’d spent hours talking to Garcia, she was amazing.

So why was Spencer so different?

You groan again, rolling out of bed to shower.

_____

“I don’t even know anything about him.” you think as you run your brush through your hair.

Well, that’s not entirely true. You know a lot about him

You know he can identify Doctor Who merchandise from fifteen feet away.

And that he owns at least three different editions of DUNE.

You know he likes Issac Asimov.

And Arthur C. Clarke.

You know he can somehow make the history of science fiction publishing sound interesting.

And that he laughs quietly and smiles before he realizes he’s smiling.

And you know he talks faster when he’s passionate about something.

And that the pushes his glasses up when he’s excited.

You know all of that.

And yet somehow, you know nothing.

And you have to admit to yourself, Uncle Dave had a good point.

You don’t even know how old he is.

He looks young. But he’s old enough to be a Supervisory Special Agent in the FBI, and you know he was there since before your uncle returned. So you’re confused.

And you don’t even know if he’s single. 

Not that it mattered of course.

Of course it didn’t matter.

_____

You’ve replayed the same fifteen minutes of your lecture video four times. You couldn’t tell someone what the professor said if your life depended on it. 

Your brain keeps wandering. 

Back to the dinner…back to your room…back to Spencer sitting cross-legged on your floor for three and a half, not four, hours…back to the way Spencer’s face lit up when you understood one of his references without needing any further explainations…back to the way he–SPENCER would look at you surprised that you’d want to keep listening to him talk.

You close your laptop. Because clearly nothing productive is happening today.

____

Dinner with your uncle went great. He’d made a quick meal after work, just a normal spaghetti dish, nothing too special about it, but David Rossi made it, so it was still delicious.

That was something that you’ve always loved about living with your uncle. His cooking, no matter how much prep time he put into it, was always delicious.

You sit at your desk, laptop still closed. You’re debating whether or not to try to start watching the lecture video again. Falling behind in class sounds like a bad idea.

The sticky note stares at you from the top left quadrant of your desk. Exactly where you;d left it. Spencer Reid’s handwriting stares back at you.

‘Call if you want to continue the Asimov debate’ 

Followed by eight numbers.

You brush your fingers over it. You could call. Right now. If you wanted to. Nobody would stop you.

The worst thing that could happen is he wouldn’t answer.

Or maybe he’d think it was weird. Or maybe he’d answer immediately.

Somehow the ladder feels significantly worse. 

You stare at the number.

No.

If he wants to call, he can call. He has your number too.

That thought should make you feel better. Instead it makes you feel infinitely worse.

_____

You’re trying to fall asleep now. You’ve checked your phone seventeen times today. 

Not because you’re expecting anything, obviously. That would be ridiculous.

He has your number. And you have his. And if he wanted to call he would.

“But what if he’s waiting on me?”

No.

You barely know him. 

People don’t just call strangers.

Except you aren’t exactly strangers.

Except you kind of are.

But not really…

_____

A week goes by. 

You spend every morning convincing yourself you’re going to stop thinking about Spencer Reid. 

And you spend every night realizing you’ve failed.

Monday becomes Tuesday. Tuesday Becomes Wednesday. Then Thursday. And now it’s Friday morning. And it’s been 6 days since the dinner party. And your situation hasn’t improved at all. 

You don’t call him. He doesn’t call you. The sticky note remains exactly where it has been. 

Mocking you.

You tell yourself to be normal about this.

Then you immediately catch yourself wondering what he does when he isn’t working.

You wonder if he still wears his glasses at home. You wonder how old he actually is. And if he talks to everyone the way he talked to you. You wonder if he remembers your conversations. Or if he even thinks about you at all.

And that thought annoys you more than the others. Because there is absolutely no reason you should care.

You consider throwing the sticky note away. Not because you want to. But because you’re tired of looking at it.

You don’t throw it away. Obviously. But you think about it. And you don’t know if that is progress or pathetic. 

Or both.

You wander down to the kitchen and start making coffee. Your uncle has long since left for work, and you’re alone for the day. 

You’re staring at the dripping pot blankly when your phone rings in your pocket.

Your heart immediately leaps into your throat. Which is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. Because it could be anybody.

Your uncle. Your brother. A classmate. A telemarketer. Literally anybody.

Yet somehow your brain has already decided who it wants it to be.

You pull your phone out.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

Your stomach drops. Because of course it isn’t him.

You stare at the screen. The call rings once. Twice. Three times. You almost ignore it. Four times. Five times.

The last ring starts. You sigh and answer.

“Hello?” you say, disappointment painfully obvious in your voice.

The response is immediate. “Oh thank God, Hello gorgeous.”

You blink, confused. The voice is vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough for you to put a name to.

“Who is this?” You ask, voice more normal than disappointed now.

There’s a dramatic gasp on the other end of the phone. “Excuse me!?” The caller says, cartoonishly defensive.

“Should I know who this is?” You ask, beginning to wonder if this is just a prank call.

“Should you know–” They start to repeat what you say then cut themself off. “Honey I spent three and a half hours in your bedroom surrounded by tiny alien action figures and approximately seventeen thousand dollars of nerd memorabilia.”

Your eyes widen. “Garcia?” You say, excitedly. 

It wasn’t Spencer, but it was the closest thing you knew to him.

“PENELOPE Garcia, yes,” she says dramatically. “The one and only. Queen of computers and glitter. And wearer of fabulous shoes.”

You laugh. “Sorry I didn’t recognize your voice.”

“That’s alright sweetness, I’m more recognizable visually anyways.”

You can hear typing in the background.

“How did you get my number?” you ask, not upset, just genuine curiosity.

“Crime.” Penelope says immediately.

“Aren’t you supposed to solve that at the FBI?”

She laughs. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding… Mostly.”

“Penelope?” you question.

She sighs dramatically. “Fine, your uncle has emergency contact information and I did some snooping.”

“That’s horrifying.” you say. 

“I prefer impressive but take it as you will.” She laughs again.

You smile before you can think any further into how insane this is. It’s weird, you barely know her. But talking to Penelope feels like being swept into a tornado.

“So,” she says, slightly serious.

The word immediately puts you on edge. Because it sounds suspicious.

“...So?” you repeat. 

“So,” she says again.

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“I know that tone.”

She makes a noise like a playful annoyed groan.

“So, Y/N,” she says.

“So, Penelope,” you say.

“How often have you thought about Spencer Reid today?”

You choke on your coffee.

“WHAT?”

“You heard me.”

“Did you go digging into my uncle’s file for my number just to ask me about Spencer?”

“No, I went digging into your uncle’s file for your number because I was thinking about my favorite Rossi and then after saying hi I started thinking about Boy Genius.”

You groan. She laughs.

“Come on,” she laughs.

“No.”

“How’s the Asimov debate going?”

You stare at your mug and sigh. “Poorly.”

“Why?” 

“Because there hasn’t been an Asimov debate.”

She goes silent. The typing stops. You immediately know what’s coming.

“What,” you say, nervous about her taking so long to answer.

“You haven’t called him?” She says, a little too loud.

“No.”

“Not once? Have you texted him?”

“No.”

“Email? Fax? Carrier Pigeon?”

“None of that.”

“Has he called you?”

You hesitate, slightly embarrassed. 

“No,” you say, voice quieter than before.

“I can’t believe him,” she says. “I should go scold him right this second.” 

“Don’t!”

“You need to call him.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“That’s not a reason.”

Her voice softens a bit. It’s not quiet, but she’s never quiet. 

“Y/N,” she says, “he talked about you for three days after dinner.”

Your stomach flips. 

“...what?”

“Three entire days, Honey.” your heart is doing something annoying. “He kept bringing up the thing you’d talk about. Even though I was part of the conversation too.”

“Penelope,” you start.

“I think it’d be good for him.”

You pause. 

“What would?” you ask her.

“A friend,” she says, all traces of her teasing tone are completely gone. “He doesn’t really have anybody outside of the team.”

That surprises you a little. You thought Spencer was funny. And smart. And kind. And… well… you stop that thought before it comes to fruition.

“I’ll think about it,” you say.

“That’s not a yes.”

“It’s not a no.”

“One more thing” Penelope says before the conversation can fully die.

“What’s that?” you ask.

“Spencer’s birthday.”

You blink. “What?”

“It’s his birthday.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t mention it being so soon.”

Penelope laughs. “Honey, his idea of a birthday celebration is staying home reading and pretending it isn’t his birthday.”

“Nobody is doing anything?” you ask, a little sad.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

You think for a second. Then another.

“No,” you say.

“No?” Penelope repeats.

“No.” 

“I think I like that no.”

“He deserves a birthday.”

“And birthday’s require celebrating.”

“And if he won’t celebrate on his own…”

“We force him!”

“Woah, I don’t know about FORCE,” you laugh.

Penelope pauses. Then you can almost hear her smile.

“Are you free tonight?” she asks, mischeviously.

_____

Read Part 4 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

_____

a/n: so I fear I am absolutely in love with writing this and I may or may not have about 15 parts in the beginning stages of an outline in my google docs rn... I literally cannot be normal about anything. But I hope you guys continue to like this (because I love it) and I hope you guys are ready for the ultimate slow burn of your life.

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You wake up around 9:30am. The early October light bleeds through the window, a warm tint from the reflection of the trees turning their fall colors. You shuffle downstairs, wearing a pair of fuzzy socks and an oversized t-shirt,

The smell of coffee fills your nose as soon as you hit the landing of the stairs. Your uncle is already awake, sitting at the kitchen island with a newspaper, a coffee mug, and an unlit cigar in his mouth. 

“Morning,” he says, voice muffled from the useless cigar.

“Morning,” you repeat, heading straight for the coffee maker. You find a little less than one mug full left in the pot, so you take it. You make yourself a bowl of yogurt, taking notice to the fact that your uncle hasn’t said another word, which is unlike him in the mornings. He usually tends to read the joke section of the daily newspaper aloud to you, and you usually fake laugh at the dry humor that only old people could possibly find funny.

He takes an unnecessarily loud sip of his coffee, clearly trying to draw your attention.

You look at him with one eyebrow raised. “Can I help you?” you ask. 

He removes the cigar from his mouth. “How old is Spencer?”

You blink. “What?”

“Spencer,” he waves his cigar, “how old is he?”

You stare at him. “What kind of question is that?

“A simple one,” he says sternly.

“I don’t know.” You weren’t lying.

“You don’t know?” he repeats.

“No. I do not know how old Spencer is.” You sigh and take a bite of your yogurt.

“You spent four hours talking to him last night.”

“It was NOT four hours.” 

It may have been four hours, you actually weren’t sure.

“It was absolutely four hours, Y/N.”

“It was maybe two.”

It was definitely longer than two, you knew that. But you also knew what your uncle was accusing you of. And you didn’t like it.

“Three and a half.” He says, argumentatively. 

You roll your eyes. “Why are we talking about this?” You knew why.

Your uncle shrugs, though it looks forced. “Just making conversation.”

“No you’re not,” you say. Now it’s your turn to accuse him of something. “You’re interrogating me.”

“I am not,” he defends.

“You are too, what do you really want to ask me, Dave?” You say, more brash than you mean to be.

He stares at you for a moment, likely trying to gather his words. He sighs. “You seemed to enjoy talking to him.”

You groan. “There it is.”

“What?”

“That,” you point your spoon at him. “You don’t care that I spent the same amount of time talking with Penelope.”

He pauses, searching for his words. “Garcia wasn’t in your room until midnight.” 

“Neither was Spencer,” you say.

That wasn’t quite a lie. Garcia left your room at 11:03pm to go talk to Morgan and Emily on the patio. Spencer was in your room until 11:57pm sitting cross legged on your bedroom floor with you debating whether Isaac Asimov or Arthur C. Clarke had the bigger impact on modern Sci-fi.

Your uncle gives you a look.

You point your spoon at him again. “Don’t.” 

“Don’t what,” he asks.

“Don’t do the profiler face.”

“I’m not doing the profiler face.”

“You absolutely are.”

“Well, tell me then, Y/N,” he says, treating this way more like an interrogation that you feel he should. “Why am I doing the profiler face?”

You stare at him. “Because you think I have a crush on Spencer.”

The words hang in the air. He doesn’t deny it. Which tells you everything you need to know.

“Oh my god,” you say.

“What?” he asks.

“Are you serious?”

“You spent a lot of time with him.”

“So?”

“So yo–”

You throw your hands up, anger building from being accused of something that he has no idea about. “There is no ‘so’!” you exclaim.

“There usually is…”

You groan. “I met him yesterday.”

“You talked for three and a half hours.”

“I also talked to Garcia for three and half hours, you still don’t seem to have a problem with that.”

He ignores your statement. “What exactly did you talk about for three and a half hours?”

You stare at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m asking.”

“You’re collecting evidence.”

His mouth twitches; not quite the reaction you’d expect of an innocent man. But you know your uncle. And you know he won’t let you leave the island until you speak.

“We talked about Doctor Who.”

He nods, “I know.”

“Science fiction books.”

Another nod, another “I know.”

“You weren’t even there.”

“I was sometimes. And this house isn’t exactly soundproof.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “We talked about old movies, books, TV shows,” you set your spoon down. “And do you know what we didn’t talk about?”

You can tell by his face he knows where this is going, but you’re going to make him sit there and take it. 

“What’s that,” he says. 

You smile. “Dating.” he blinks. “Relationships, anything romantic in the slightest.” You lean back in your chair. “He was just nice.”

“Nice?” Rossi echoes.

“Yes. Nice.”

“He stayed until midnight.”

“Because we were in the middle of a conversation.”

He eyes you. 

“About Isaac Asimov.”

He blinks. “Isaac Asimov?”

“Yes.”

“You stayed up until midnight talking about Isaac Asimov?”

“And Arthur C. Clarke.”

“You sound exactly like Reid.”

You smile. “I don’t know about that, I just think we’d be good friends.”

For a moment your uncle just stares at you. He studies you, saying nothing. Looking for a hint of anything to show. But it doesn’t. Slowly, the suspicion leaves his face. “Friends?” he says, assuring you meant it.

“Friends.” you answer immediately. And that seems to be exactly what he needed to hear. 

He nods at you, and picks his newspaper back up, burying his face in it.

“That’s it?” you say, mostly making sure it was okay to leave the island now.

“That’s it,” he smiles, turning off his attention from you for good.

You eye him suspiciously because that felt way too easy. But as far as your uncle is concerned, the crisis has passed. You and Spencer are friends. Nerdy friends. Like Spencer and Garcia. And it’s a harmless friendship with no ulterior motives on either end.

And its fortunate he believes that. Because you need to prepare yourself for the day he finds the sticky note with Spencer Reid’s phone number on your desk, exactly where he left it the night before.

But that’s a problem for another day.

_____

Read Part 3 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

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BUY ME A COFFEE

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a/n: guys i fear i fell in love with the original prompt and now i’m stuck on writing rossi!reader. i wish i could be normal and just write a one shot but i get so attached :( anyways this might be a lil substory for a while i really like it, i always forget how much i love writing family dynamics and i always feel like i can’t really do much of that in the a-z bc i try to keep that as self-insertive as possible. i hope at least some of yall fw rossi!reader bc its here to stay for a bit i think.

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You moved in with your rich uncle David Rossi a few months after turning 15. It was a strange thing, as you abruptly lost your parents, and you moved states away to live with your rich godfather who the last time you saw was five years ago at your older brother’s graduation. You barely knew the guy, you knew nothing of Virginia, and honestly, it was weird.

It was strange being in a four bedroom mansion with a man you barely knew, albeit are related to, in a new state with people you didn’t know. For the first few years he was home all day every day, but last year, your Uncle Dave returned to the FBI in the unit he founded: the Behavioral Analysis Unit. 

He was much busier now. Sometimes you wouldn’t see him for weeks on end. But you were older now, out of high school and working on a journalism degree at an online university. You warmed up to your uncle over the years, after all, he’s been all you’ve known as a parental figure for the last five years. And as much as you thought you wouldn’t in the beginning, you’ve come to love him. 

_____

You got back home at around 8:00pm. You had a test that had to be taken with a proctor today, and ended up meeting some friends for dinner afterwards. You were a bit intimidated to walk into the house. Your Uncle Dave had warned you that he was hosting a dinner party for his team tonight at 7:00, so you knew there was a dining room full of professional FBI agents waiting for you to walk through in your flannel pajama pants and super old grey Doctor Who hoodie with paint stains on it. 

But you had to go inside, surely FBI agents weren’t judgemental, and if they were, well, whoops. You take a deep breath before opening the front door, a loud suction sound echoing as you closed it from the weight of the giant door that leads into the giant house. You hear the banter of the team quiet as you enter. It was almost silent, but there was one voice that continued on.

You heard a voice deeper and more sharp speak over the other, the words “Reid.” filling the dining room, hushing the other voice. 

Your uncle had mentioned Reid multiple times over the last year since he returned to the FBI. He described him as a genius, but you weren’t so sure. I mean, of course he was probably incredibly smart to be in the FBI, but you were sure your uncle and the rest of the team were just as smart as him, people were likely just impressed by him because he’s the youngest on the team.

You hear your uncle’s voice echo from the dining room. “Y/N? Is that you?”

You blink, almost wishing he didn’t acknowledge you. “Yeah,” you respond.

“Why don’t you come in here, I want to introduce you to the team,” he says. 

You knew he wasn’t going to let you leave the corridor without stopping by. You take your hair out of the bun you have it in. At least if you’re going to be introduced to FBI agents your hair could look good.

You walk into the dining room. At the long table you see a tall man in a black suit and tie with dark hair. His face looks serious, but his eyes greet you. “Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief,” Rossi introduces him as.

“Hotch is fine,” the man echoes, giving a polite nod. 

“Derek Morgan,” your attention shifts as your uncle continues around the table. The man sitting beside Hotch is tall as well, muscular, and bald. But he pulls it off well. He leans back comfortably in his chair, one arm draped over the back of it. Unlike Hotch's stern professionalism, he looks completely at ease. His sleeves are rolled up slightly, his tie loosened just enough to suggest that dinner parties aren't something he takes particularly seriously.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he says, smiling. 

"You too,” you say, smiling back.

There's something immediately easy about him, the kind of person who could probably hold a conversation with anyone.

"Derek thinks he's charming," a woman across the table says.

Morgan points at her.

"Ya think?"

Your uncle shakes his head. “That’s Emily Prentiss,” he says, the woman who spoke smiles. She has dark hair that looks like it always does what she wants it to do. She looks effortlessly put together.

“Hi,” she says. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

You blink. "My name's come up?"

Emily glances toward Rossi. "Occasionally."

Your uncle looks mildly offended. "I don't talk about her that much."

"No," Morgan agrees. "Mostly just things like, 'My niece is using all my expensive paint supplies,' or 'My niece left seventeen coffee mugs in the living room.'"

"It was like four,” you say.

"Jennifer Jareau, JJ," your uncle continues. 

The blonde woman beside Emily offers a warm smile. She seems kind immediately. Not fake nice. Actually nice.

"It's good to meet you," she smiles.

"You too."

Then your uncle gestures farther down the table. "Penelope Garcia."

The woman lights up."At last!" You blink. Garcia points at you dramatically. "The mysterious niece."

"There is nothing mysterious about me,” you giggle.

"Honey, that’s exactly what a mysterious person would say," she says.

You laugh.

Garcia beams like she's accomplished something. She looks exactly like the kind of person who fills every room she walks into. Bright colors. Bright smile. Bright personality. Everything about her feels larger than life.

"It's nice to meet you," she says.

"You too."

"Also, I love the pajama pants," she says, her voice so genuine, almost like she’s envious of them.

You glance down.

"You're the only one."

"Nonsense. Confidence is sexy."

“Watch it,” your uncle says. He’s been very overprotective of you since you moved in. A little too overprotective in your opinion, but he didn’t want to hear it.

He gestures to the last person at the table. “And of course, Dr. Spencer Reid.”

Your attention drifts toward the youngest man at the table. Spencer Reid. The genius. The rambler. The one your uncle complains about, albeit affectionately.

He's quieter now that the attention is on him. A little awkward. A little more than a little awkward when she gives a small wave.

His eyes flick toward you before quickly looking away again.

Then back.

Then away.

And that's when you notice him looking at your hoodie.

Not your face.

Your hoodie.

Specifically the faded blue police box printed across the front.

His eyes widen. "...Is that a first edition Bad Wolf Tour hoodie?"

You blink. There is absolutely no chance anyone should know that.

"What?" you say, shocked. 

"The stitching," he points. "The original merchandise run had different lettering than the later reproductions."

The entire room goes silent. You stare at him. Spencer stares at you.

"You know that?" you finally ask him.

Spencer looks confused. "Of course."

You immediately turn toward your uncle. "Why have you never told me the FBI hired cool people?"

Morgan nearly chokes on his drink. The thought of someone referring to Spencer Reid as cool was asinine. 

Spencer visibly brightens. "You watch Doctor Who?"

You laugh. "Watch it? I own a sonic screwdriver."

Garcia gasps. "No."

"Yes," you say, smiling.

"No," she says in the same tone.

"Yes."

Spencer pushes his glasses up. "You own which one?"

You pause, then smile. "The Fourth Doctor's."

Spencer immediately points. "Best one."

"Exactly,” you say

"Exactly."

Garcia slams a hand onto the table. "OH MY GOD."

Emily starts laughing. "There's three of them."

Morgan looks horrified.

"There are three of them," JJ agrees.

Rossi looks deeply exhausted, like he regrets inviting you, but of course, in a humorous way. Rossi takes a seat next to Hotch, leaving an open seat between him and Spencer, and across from Garcia.

“Please can she stay,” Garcia says, facing your uncle and motioning to the chair in front of her. 

He blinks and looks at you. “It’s up to you,” he says. 

Garcie looks at you, putting her hands together in a fist and doing a begging motion.

You smile, and pull out the chair. “For a little while,” you say.

Maybe twenty minutes later Spencer is explaining the history of Gallifreyan language structures while you and Garcia are actively participating. Not pretending to participate, actually participating.

Which is apparently a completely new experience for Spencer. Most people tune him out after about three minutes. You ask follow-up questions. He answers them. Then you answer one of his. Then Garcia’s. 

Then suddenly you're discussing science fiction literature, paradoxes, alternate timelines, and whether the Weeping Angels or the Silence are more terrifying.

The rest of the table slowly stops paying you guys any attention altogether.

Eventually Morgan stands. "I'm going outside."

"Same," Emily follows.

Then Rossi and Hotch.

JJ lasts another five minutes before quietly escaping too.

Nobody ele announces it. They just leave one by one. Until only you, Spencer, and Garcia remain.

"So wait,” Garcia looks at you. "You actually collect stuff?"

You grin, "Want to see?"

Garcia is already standing. 

You lead them around the house and upstairs to your room. You linger on the doorknob before opening it, turning to face them. “Now, when Uncle Dave told me he was inviting you guys over I specifically asked for him to leave my room out if he did a tour. So you two should feel extra special.”

You open the door, and you watch as Spencer’s eyes widen and Garcia’s face all but explodes.

A shelf spans one wall: books, action figures, collectibles, replica props, years worth of obsessive collecting fills the shelves.

Spencer walks closer. His eyes land on a rare figure. Then another. Then another. "You have the discontinued Face of Boe set," he states.

"Still in the box," you brag.

"They only made twelve thousand," he says.

You smirk. “I know.” 

"You know,” he says, in awe. Spencer looks genuinely impressed. Which somehow feels better than it should.

“Can I touch?” Penelope asks, looking at you wide-eyed.

“As long as you don’t break,” you smile.

Garcia is already holding a collectible and taking pictures. "You are officially my favorite Rossi."

“Yeah, well Dave is kind of a loser,” you joke.

_____

Downstairs, the rest of the team is sitting on the patio chatting and listening to faint excited yelling coming from the second floor.

Morgan glances up. "Should we be worried?"

Rossi takes a long sip of wine, "No."

"Really?" Morgan says?

"About what?" Rossi asks.

There’s a pause.

"...Maybe Reid?" Morgan says sternly.

Emily nearly chokes on her drink. "What?"

Rossi looks up.

Morgan is staring toward the second floor. "You heard me."

"You think Reid is a threat?" JJ asks, sounding amused.

Morgan shrugs. "Normally? No."

A loud burst of laughter echoes faintly from upstairs. Garcia's unmistakable voice follows. Then Spencer's. Then yours.

Morgan points upward. "Tonight? Maybe."

Rossi's eyes narrow slightly. The sound of Spencer laughing isn't unusual. The sound of Spencer laughing repeatedly is. Emily notices the expression immediately.

"Oh no," JJ says looking at Rossi.

"What?" Rossi asks.

"You just profiled something."

"I didn't profile anything."

"You absolutely profiled something," Emily says, staring at Rossi.

Hotch quietly takes a sip of his drink. "He's profiling it right now," he says.

"I am sitting on my patio," Rossi states.

"You've got the look," Hotch says

"What look?" Dave is starting to get annoyed.

"The look you get when you're about to tell us something nobody wants to hear,” JJ says.

Rossi looks toward the second floor again. The house falls quiet for a moment. Then another round of excited voices drifts downstairs. Spencer's voice, Your voice. Spencer's again. A pause. Your laugh. Rossi’s stomach drops.

Morgan grins. Rossi slowly turns toward him. “No,” he says.”

“No?” Morgan repeats.

Emily is trying not to smile. “You know,” she says, “now that I think about it…”

“Don’t,” Hotch says, trying to let the situation dissolve.

"She did sit next to him." 

"Emily." Hotch says with a warning tone.

"And she's the only person I've ever met who voluntarily asked follow-up questions during one of Reid's monologues," Emily continues.

"Emily." Hotch scolds her this time.

"Several follow-up questions," Morgan adds.

"She was looking at him a lot,” JJ joins in.

"You think so too?" Rossi asks.

"I'm just making observations,” she says.

"You're all making observations with no proof to back them up.” Rossi says, trying to lie to himself.

Upstairs another burst of laughter rings through the house.

Emily winces. "Yeah, that's not helping."

"No," Morgan agrees. "It's really not."

Rossi's jaw tightens. It isn't that Spencer is a bad guy. If anything, that's the problem. Spencer is brilliant, kind, a little awkward, and completely incapable of manipulating anyone. If Rossi had to pick someone on the team to trust with his life, Spencer would make the list.

That doesn't mean he wants him anywhere near his niece.

Those are entirely different things.

"You guys are overthinking this," Hotch says.

"They're just talking,” Rossi says, siding with Hotch.

"They've been talking for almost an hour,” JJ adds.

"They have a shared interest. And Garcia is there"

Morgan snorts. "A shared interest."That's how it starts."

"Unfortunately, he's right,” Emily says, siding with Morgan.

Rossi looks horrified. "You're all insane."

"Maybe," Emily says. "But if I walked upstairs right now and asked Garcia who Y/N has spent the entire night talking to, who do you think she'd say?"

Rossi doesn't answer. Because he already knows the answer. And he hates it. A lot.

Hotch finally sets down his glass. "I don't think you have anything to worry about."

Rossi relaxes slightly. 

Then Hotch continues. "Yet…"

The relaxation immediately disappears. Rossi stands. The entire team watches him.

"Where are you going?" JJ asks.

"Checking on them." Rossi says.

Emily grins. "Checking on them,” she mocks.

"Yes."

"See? He hates it." Morgan laughs

"I do not hate it."

"You absolutely hate it."

Rossi pauses. "I have to believe it to hate it. And I don’t believe it."

That only makes everyone laugh harder as he heads back into the house, already preparing himself for whatever he's about to walk into upstairs.

_____

"Yeah, well Dave is kind of a loser," you joke.

The sound of someone in the doorway clearing their throat fills the room.

All three of you jump. Your uncle stands there with a glass of wine in one hand. "You invite people into your room and immediately start slandering me?" He says, a joking tone.

"You walked into my room uninvited,” you say.

"It's my house,” he states.

"It's my room,” you argue.

"It's my house."

"It's my room."

Garcia points between the two of you. "This is exactly how I imagined your relationship."

"You imagined our relationship?" you ask.

"Frequently,” she says.

Spencer laughs quietly. You immediately glance toward him. His hand flies up to cover his mouth like he hadn't meant to laugh out loud.

Which somehow makes it even cuter.

Not that you're thinking that.

At all.

Definitely not.

Your uncle notices. Because of course he does. He's a profiler. And unfortunately a good profiler. His eyes narrow slightly.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing,” he says.

"That wasn't a nothing face."

"It was a nothing face."

"It was absolutely not."

Rossi points toward Spencer. "You."

Spencer freezes. "What?"

"Stop encouraging her."

Spencer looks genuinely confused. "I haven't done anything."

"Exactly."

Emily appears behind Rossi. One look into the room and she immediately starts laughing. Morgan's head appears over Emily's shoulder.

Somehow your entire room has become a spectator sport.

Garcia immediately points. "Everybody out."

"You don't have authority here," Morgan says.

"I have passion."

"That's not the same thing."

"It should be."

While the argument continues, Spencer wanders toward your bookshelf. His attention lands on a worn hardcover sticking out from the shelf. His expression changes immediately.

"You have this?" He says in awe.

You glance over. "Oh, yeah I do."

The book. A first-edition collection of Isaac Asimov stories. You'd spent nearly a year hunting it down online.

"It took forever to find."

Spencer carefully pulls it from the shelf like he's handling a museum artifact. He holds it in front of him and looks toward you with puppy dog eyes.

Your heart does an annoying little thing.

"You've read it?” He asks, voice so delicate.

You snort. "I own it."

"That doesn't answer the question."

"Of course I've read it."

His eyes light up. And suddenly the rest of the room disappears again.

You spend the next ten minutes debating science fiction authors. Garcia contributes enthusiastically despite admitting she's only read half of them. Emily eventually drags Morgan back downstairs.

Until only Rossi remains leaning against the doorway.

Watching.

Spencer doesn't notice. He's too busy explaining why certain science fiction writers accidentally predicted modern technology. You don't notice either. You're too busy listening.

Actually listening.

Not politely waiting for him to finish. Not pretending to understand.

Listening. Asking questions. Arguing back Engaging.

Rossi watches the interaction for another minute. Then quietly smiles to himself. Because in the year he's worked with Spencer Reid, he's seen people react to him in one of three ways.

Confusion. Intimidation. Or boredom.

He's never seen someone look at Spencer like he's the most interesting person in the room. And judging by the way Spencer keeps glancing at you when he talks, he's never seen Spencer look at someone like that either.

Rossi takes a sip of wine. Then immediately decides this is absolutely not becoming his problem tonight. Unfortunately, he knows it's already too late. But maybe, in the morning, he can decide to forbid you from ever seeing the boy genius again.

Or he can at least try…

_____

Read Part 2 Here! 🕰️ (releasing 06/04/2026)

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BUY ME A COFFEE

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a/n: to any of my fans (joking tone, but on a real note i know most of you guys follow me for the Spencer Reid A-Z Series) i promise i will be posting more parts to that soon. but i also have a ton (over 100) recommendations in my inbox, and some of them i would really like to try to do, so i will be posting some one shots as well for a while. my inbox has some pretty old recommendations (as early as 2023) and i am aware that people often tend to fall in and out of being into fanfics and stuff, so i will likely not write from any specific requests from anything more than a year ago (2025). but please feel free to send me requests, either for my A-Z series or just for one shots and i will try my hardest to be much more timely about them for at least the next few months while i’m on summer break!

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Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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The storm rolled in around midnight, soft and lazy, rain tapping the windows in a rhythm that matched the quiet pulse of the apartment. You were already awake, curled on your side with one hand splayed protectively over your belly, watching the ceiling fan spin shadows across the nursery doorway.

Spencer stirred beside you, warm and long and sleepy, his hand automatically reaching for your waist before he was even fully conscious.

"You okay?" he murmured, voice heavy with sleep.

You nodded. "Just... can't get comfortable. She's kicking like she's trying to rearrange my organs."

He shifted onto his side, propped up on one elbow, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "Do you want more pillows?"

"No," you said quietly, leaning into him. "I think I just... want you."

There was a beat, a flicker of surprise in his sleepy eyes, and then something much deeper replaced it. Understanding. Hunger. Tenderness that pulsed like gravity.

"Yeah?" he asked, thumb brushing the hem of your tank top.

You turned to face him, hand sliding up his bare torso. "Yeah. I miss you."

His brow furrowed. “You have me.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But I miss the way you touch me when you’re not scared of hurting me.”

Spencer cupped your cheek and kissed you, slow and careful, reverent. “I have to be.”

“I just want you.”

His hands were warm on your hips as he pulled your tanktop over your head, scattering kisses down the line of your throat, over your collarbone, and across the soft swell of your breasts. They were heavier now, more sensitive, and he took his time with them, palming them carefully, peppering kisses across the curve of one before taking the other into his mouth with a soft groan.

You arched beneath him with a whisper of his name, fingers threading through his curls.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured against your skin. “I didn’t know it was possible to want someone more after watching them grow a life.”

Your breath hitched. “You say things like that and expect me not to cry.”

“I mean it,” he said, kissing the underside of your breast, then lower, brushing the curve of your belly reverently. “You’ve never looked more attractive.”

You rolled your hips gently into his touch, needing more, needing him.

“Spencer,” you whispered, voice breaking, “please.”

He moved slower than usual, not out of hesitation, but because every second felt sacred. He took your underwear off, his fingers trailed the inside of your thigh with reverence. When he settled between your legs, he looked up at you like he was asking for your soul.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice soft. “I need to know it’s okay. I don’t want to…”

You pulled him into a kiss that answered for you. “I’ve never wanted you more."

He slid into you inch by inch, one hand gripping your hip, the other braced against the mattress beside your head. The stretch was different now, fuller, slower, but you welcomed it.

“Okay?” he asked, barely breathing.

“Yes,” you whispered. “God, yes.”

He moved like he was reading every breath you took, his hips rocking into you slow and deep, his body angled carefully to avoid putting weight on your belly. Every few thrusts he’d pause just long enough to kiss your forehead, your nose, the corner of your lips.

“I love you,” he whispered against your jaw.

“I love you too.”

“You feel like…like everything.”

You cupped his face, dragging your thumb across his cheek. “You can go a little faster. I promise I’m okay.”

He groaned and buried his face in your neck, adjusting just slightly. His rhythm quickened, still careful, still smooth, but with that rising urgency you’d been aching for. You tightened around him, breath catching, body humming with the need that had been building for days.

“That’s it,” he whispered, mouth hot against your throat. “You’re doing so good. You feel so good, sweetheart. I’ve missed this. Missed you.”

You whimpered and rocked your hips up to meet his, loving the feel of his stomach brushing just barely against yours, loving how grounded he made you feel even while you were unraveling in his hands.

“I’m close,” you gasped.

“Me too,” he said, cupping your face, kissing your mouth, your cheek, your temple. “Cum with me. Please. Please—”

Your orgasm rippled through you, slow and deep, like a wave crashing against sand. Spencer came with a choked moan, hips stuttering, breath caught in his throat as he buried himself inside you one last time.

He stayed there for a long moment, nose pressed to your cheek, both of you trembling in the afterglow. When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to cup your stomach gently and kiss the stretch of skin just above your bellybutton.

“I didn’t hurt you?” he asked, eyes searching yours.

You shook your head, smiling. “You made me feel so good.”

He pulled you into his arms, tangling your legs as much as he could around the curve of your body. 

“I needed that,” he whispered into your hair. “Not just the sex. You. I needed to feel close.”

“You’re always close,” you murmured. “Even when I’m yelling at the fridge because I dropped a pickle.”

He chuckled. “I’m really glad I get to do this with you.”

“Me too,” you said, resting your head over his heartbeat. “I think she is, too. She stopped kicking.”

Spencer blinked, looked down at your belly, and kissed it again like a thank you.

“You’re safe, baby girl,” he said softly. “You’ve got her. And you’ve got me.”

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next chapter: *link*

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

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a/n: I've had this post in my drafts for about a year now and am finally posting it. I'm going to do my best to post more, I am going to start posting a mix of my A-Z series and one shots from requests in my inbox. So here's this for now, and tomorrow you can expect a one shot request :)

also guys please feel free to send some requests, either for one shots or a-z! i have qutie a few right now, but many of them are from years ago so i'm not very keen on using them. i'd love some more, i love your guys' ideas! feel free to be as detailed as you can, i love trying to do things like this!

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Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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taglist:

“I have nightmares each week about that Friday in May 

One phone call from you and my entire world was changed”

He had already listened to her sing, and it had always been beautiful, but it had never been so serious, so deep, so… sad. There was a kind of crack in every high note, like she was crying.

“Trust that you betrayed, confusion that still lingers 

Took everything I loved and crushed it in between your fingers”

Trying to make as little sound as possible, Spencer opened the door and left his bag at the entrance, as always. He took off his shoes silently and walked barefoot closer to Cécile’s open door. 

“And I doubt you ever think about the damage that you did

But I hold onto every detail like my life depends on it”

Spencer looked at her fingers dancing on the keyboard she had laid on her bed. He remembered her face when, some days before, she came home with that massive box and a massive smile on her face; she had just stated, “I felt inspired, and then my first paycheck arrived.” He couldn't help but chuckle at that. 

“My undying love, now I hold it like a grudge

And I hear your voice every time that I think I'm not enough

And I try to be tough, but I wanna scream

How could anybody do the things you did so easily?”

Oh, Spencer knew what this was about. He knew and wasn't supposed to know. James Peterson. 

“And I say I don't care, I say that I'm fine

But you know I can't let it go

I've tried, I've tried, I've tried for so long

It takes strength to forgive, but I don't feel strong”

Cécile fell silent and took a deep breath, while Spencer held his, still magnetically attracted to her singing. He didn't want her to notice him standing there before the end of the song. 

“The arguments that I have won against you in my head

In the shower, in the car and in the mirror before bed

Yeah, I'm so tough when I'm alone and I make you feel so guilty

And I fantasize about a time you're a little fuckin' sorry

And I try to understand why you would do this all to me

You must be insecure, you must be so unhappy

And I know in my heart hurt people hurt people

And we both drew blood, but, man, those cuts were never equal

And I try to be tough, but I wanna scream

How could anybody do the things you did so easily?

And I say I don't care, I say that I'm fine

But you know I can't let it go

I've tried, I've tried, I've tried for so long

It takes strength to forgive, but I don't feel strong”

A sob seemed to be on the verge of escaping from her lips, but they just trembled, and her eyes became glossy before she started singing again, this time in a higher pitch and a sadder tone. 

“Ooh, do you think I deserved it all?

Ooh, your flowers filled with vitriol

You built me up to watch me fall

You have everything and you still want more

I try to be tough, I try to be mean

But even after all this, you're still everything to me

And I know you don't care, I guess that that's fine

But you know I can't let it go

I've tried, I've tried, I've tried for so long

It takes strength to forgive, but I'm not quite sure I'm there yet

It takes strength to forgive, but…”

The last note lingered in the room for moments that felt like hours, then the girl straightened her back and looked up from the keys, only to see Spencer's usual flat smile and head tilted a little to the right. He looked like a puppy that had just destroyed a designer shoe: conscious of his action, but too aware of his immunity to actually care. 

“Spencer, you scared me!” 

“It's a great song, y’know? Did you write it?” he asked, ignoring her remark. 

She softly nodded and hid her ears under her hair, like she always did when she was embarrassed. Spencer had noticed it the first day, after his long ramble about her “profile”, and asked himself if she knew that it was totally pointless since the redness also radiated to her cheeks and chin. 

There was a moment of silence. Cécile looked at Spencer with her head tilted, uncertain in front of this sudden loss of words. 

“C’mon. Ask me.” 

“What?” 

“You know what. You want to ask me what the song is about.”

“Is it about that ex-boyfriend that you mentioned?” 

The girl laughed and rolled her eyes, “Yeah, right, I forgot about your genius, I-remember-everything-you-have-ever-said thing.” 

But he was not distracted by her witty remark, he still wanted to hear her answer, even if he knew perfectly what it was.

“You haven't exactly said a lot.” he said, biting his bottom lip, uncertain. 

“Touché”

“I'm sorry, I - I just… It was just a joke, Morgan always says they don't land.” 

“No, no, you're right. Really, it's just that -” her voice broke when she looked at him, at his brown eyes, like the ones of a doe, looking right back at her. She had to look down to her crossed legs on her bed to stop the tears. 

When she felt her eyes less watery, Cécile looked up and found Spencer still looking at her with his oh-so-gracious expression, with his brows in a worried frown, but with the look of a man that could wait forever. 

“It's just that, you know, I really, really thought that coming here I could pretend that nothing happened. I thought that Washington was far enough. But he's back! He's back and not just in my mind and I don't know what to do. Now I feel like I should pack and leave again!”

“Who is back, Cécile?” What a liar, he accused himself. Of course he knew, but he needed her to say that name so that he could feel that weight off his chest. 

“Him! My ex-boyfriend, his name is James, James Peterson.” 

There it was. Cécile didn't notice, her vision blurred by the tears, but Spencer let out a sad but relieved sigh. 

“What do you mean when you say he's back?” he asked, pretending once again. 

“I know that you've noticed, Spencer.” the girl said, recomposing herself and tucking her hair behind her ears, overwhelmed, “He texts me and calls me at least once a week and I go to the bathroom to cry. Doesn't take a profiler to notice.” 

Spencer felt guilty all of a sudden. He had always thought that it would be better to mind his own business and not ask, but now that Cécile was talking about it, he started to wonder if maybe he should’ve stepped up and asked. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” the boy asked, after a long, reflective silence. 

Cécile hesitated: she wanted to, really. But wouldn't Spencer start to see her differently, like the rest of the people that knew about this? Wasn't the aim of her move to have nobody know about what happened to her? The logical thinking she had put against every emotion to try and deal (unsuccessfully) with all her past was telling her that, no, she should respond with a dry “No” and send Spencer away, but… she was already crying and he was the only person that she trusted in the whole city right now. Her heart, pounding in her chest, started to tell her that Spencer was her friend and she deserved to let out some emotion sometimes. 

Now sitting on the couch, the two roommates seemed like patient and therapist: Spencer was sitting straight and composed, listening to every word, like he was taking mental notes in his mind (he was), and Cécile, finally vulnerable, was scrunched up against the armrest, a pile of tissues in her lap, talking non-stop, crying but finally happy to let those secrets out. 

“We were together for a little more than a year before I broke up with him.” she said, running out of breath. “He was perfect, you know? He was all that I ever dreamed of, when he wasn't angry, or jealous, or just completely absent because of his stupid football games. But I kept telling myself that those were just moments and I had my moments too, and that apart from our moments we loved each other so much: I was completely in love, like desperately.” 

Spencer nodded, those images from James’ Facebook appearing so vividly in his mind: his roommate, now sitting in front of him on the couch, kissing that black-haired boy in the campus park, in a slightly blurry selfie; their photos at Christmas; them hugging on the football field after a match, James tired and Cécile proud. They definitely looked like they were in love. 

“With time it became obvious: those moments weren't moments, they were James being James. The moments started to be all of our relationship, with some little sparks of romance, that made me cling to him like a child.” Her voice broke and Spencer scrunched his mouth in a sad and empathetic expression. “The funny thing is that I studied those things, I studied the psychology behind misogyny and toxic masculinity and manipulation and all those things, but still: when I had his behaviour in front of me all I could do was find excuses.” 

“One day, we were fighting - like our third fight that week - and it just became too much for me. I didn't even plan it and I regretted it the moment I said it but I just screamed <<Maybe we should just break up! You don't even love me!>>, and he got so mad I was scared he could hurt me that time: he started accusing me of cheating on him and that I was the one who didn't love him. But unfortunately I did, and I think I still do. - Oh God, this is so embarrassing!” 

The blonde girl let out a sarcastic laugh and said “Anyway, he really thought that I didn't love him and that I cheated on him since he decided to get his revenge.” 

Cécile started to talk more slowly, getting to the part she was ashamed of. Spencer tried to swallow the pit in his throat, before saying “What revenge?” and feeling like a big, fat liar. 

“The next day, a photo of mine - y’know what kind of photo: the kind that you send to people that you trust, the only people who should see it and who you know would never send it to anyone -” She was red in the face and she tried to cover it with her hair once again. Spencer tilted his head to the side in a slight frown, trying to look surprised. “anyway, that intimate photo was on every single student’s computer and cell phone. It started to go around so much that even professors started seeing it: the people who should have done something! The people who should have punished him! I could feel their eyes on me constantly, their judgment during lectures, in the hallways, in the library, during exams, even when I was alone, when nobody could see me, it was like I was being watched constantly.” 

All of a sudden the tears started flowing again; but this time, they were tears of rage and fear. 

And as much as he didn't want to think about it, the rage in those eyes resembled so much the one in Elle Greenaway’s eyes the last night he had seen her. 

Spencer didn't know what to do: he looked at her clumsy fingers drying her tears like the ones of a child that doesn't know how to express what they're feeling; in Cécile’s microexpressions there were so many emotions that even a great profiler like Spencer was having trouble. With a slow movement, he dried his slightly sweaty hand on his pants and placed it shyly on her leg, in sign of silent comfort. 

Cécile smiled forcefully and continued. “It got too much too quickly. I couldn't go to lectures, I couldn't take my exams, I couldn't leave the house: everywhere I went I felt naked, watched, examined. My friends turned their back on me when I stopped talking to them, but I am not going to blame them for that, I was impossible to deal with. I don't know how to explain not feeling safe even in the one place where you should always be safe, your own home. So, after two months of never leaving the house, panic attacks every day and losing all my friends, I decided it was time to leave. My family tried to stop me, but I could stay one more day in Chicago, or I think I would’ve ended up killing myself. I thought about it one time.” 

Spencer breathed heavily from his nostrils, sadness creeping in. 

“I am so sorry, Cécile. You're safe now.” He said, controlled, dry, like he did a million times to the victims that he encountered on his cases, but this time he didn't say it out of protocol, he did because he didn't know what to do. He said that because the only thing that crossed his mind was to start to cry and hug her and confess that he had searched her past because he couldn't mind his business. 

But protocol didn't seem to work either. 

“No! I'm not, Spencer!” She responded, yelling. “I thought I could be, but he decided to text me and call me and I'm so fucking scared that I don't even have the courage to block him!”

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not! I'm scared and I hate myself because I keep finding excuses!” she continued screaming. 

Maybe protocol wouldn't work this time. So he tried the second option. With slow, almost unnoticeable movements, he got closer on the couch and hugged Cécile shyly, hands trembling and scanning for a reaction. 

For once, Spencer didn't think about the chemical reactions occurring or germs passed during embraces; he only cared about her sobs and screaming stopping. Breathing heavily into Spencer's sweater, Cécile slowly stopped trembling and noticed that her tears had stopped: for the first time in months she felt grounded, understood, finally safe. 

Spencer didn't know what to say, so he bit his bottom lip, holding back his tongue, scared to say the wrong thing again. Then, he just repeated, “I'm sorry.” 

Cécile lifted her head from Spencer's shoulder - disappointed to abandon that comforting smell of wool and coffee - to look him in the eyes. They weren't those grounding and sure eyes anymore that had looked at her before, when she was in her bedroom; these eyes were worried and sorry, really sorry. She stared at him so long she started to notice her own reflection in his glasses lenses. 

This time she was the one that could find the words.

“Thank you, Spencer.” 

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

@hiddentattooodyssey @the-anarchist-public @cynbx @grassisalwaysgreener

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ see next chapter ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ (link will be added) 

“Uh-huh.” Morgan chuckles, swivelling toward JJ and Prentiss like a talk show host inviting audience participation. “Tell me I’m wrong. Between the two of us—genius boy and yours truly—who do you think gets lucky more often?”

But before anyone can answer, Reid clears his throat.

“That's an entirely misleading metric,” he says.

Morgan's grin widens. “Oh, is it?”

“Yes, actually.” Reid sets his pen down with a soft click, and the team recognizes the signs immediately: the slight straightening of his spine, the way his fingers begin to tap a staccato rhythm against the table, the subtle tilt of his head as he shifts into lecture mode. He's about to do the math out loud.

“First of all,” Reid begins, holding up a finger, “‘getting lucky’ is a subjective, self-reported measure, which introduces significant recall bias and social desirability bias. People overestimate. Significantly. By as much as forty percent in some studies.” Another finger goes up. “Secondly, you're comparing two data points—you and me—without controlling for variables like opportunity, environment, or personal standards. You have a tendency to equate quantity with quality, which is statistically unsound.”

Morgan groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Here we go.”

Reid ignores him entirely, already mid-stride into the argument. His voice picks up speed—not quite rambling, but close, the way it does when he's genuinely enjoying himself. “Let's say, hypothetically, you sleep with a different woman every week. Generous, but possible. However—” He holds up a finger, ticking off points like a professor during office hours. “—you've also mentioned, on multiple occasions, that you don't ‘mix work with play’ and that you need at least one night to decompress. That leaves Friday and Saturday as your only viable windows. So let's assume sexual encounters occur on Friday or Saturday night. That's roughly two opportunities per week—but even then, not every weekend yields a new partner. You have off weeks. You get sick. Sometimes,” he adds, with the faintest hint of smugness, “women say no.”

Morgan's smirk twitches. “Okay, first of all—”

Reid tilts his head, gaze going distant as he does the numbers behind his eyes. His fingers twitch like he's physically calculating in the air. You've seen him do this a hundred times—map a geographic profile, run a probability tree, recite the entire history of some obscure piece of trivia. 

“Accounting for statistical probability of rejection, scheduling conflicts, and the inherent inefficiencies of the modern casual dating landscape—which, by the way, is heavily skewed by algorithmic dating app fatigue—your actual frequency likely drops to one new partner every ten to fourteen days. Optimistically.”

JJ is already grinning, resting her chin on her hand like she's watching her favourite courtroom drama. “I feel like I should stop you both,” she says, “but I really want to hear where he's going with this.”

Prentiss leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “Oh, he's going somewhere. You can always tell when he does the head-tilt.”

Morgan points a finger at Reid, though his voice has lost its edge—there's genuine affection underneath the exasperation. “Alright, fine. Let's say I'm one every two weeks. What's your number, pretty boy? Hm? When's the last time you even—”

“That's not the point,” Reid interrupts, a little too quickly.

He presses on, gaining momentum now. His voice picks up that familiar, rapid-fire cadence—the one that makes unsubs' heads spin and makes the rest of the team feel like they're sitting in on a TED Talk they didn't buy tickets for. His fingers have resumed their tapping, faster now, keeping time with the race of his thoughts.

"Now, consider a person in a committed, cohabitating relationship. Let's establish a baseline: the average frequency of sexual activity for couples in the early stages of domestic partnership—say, the first two years—ranges from three to five times per week, depending on variables like work stress, health, and general compatibility. Let's take the conservative estimate: every other day."

Morgan opens his mouth—to argue, to deflect, you're not sure—but Reid holds up a finger without looking, and Morgan closes it again.

"Now," Reid continues, "multiply that over a four-week month. The partnered individual is engaging in sexual activity approximately twelve to sixteen times per month. The single person cycling through weekly encounters—assuming one new partner per week, which we've already established is an overestimate—is averaging four times per month."

Morgan crosses his arms, jaw tight. He's not offended—they all know him well enough to recognize the difference—but he's definitely recalibrating. "So you're saying—"

He delivers the final blow with clinical precision, but there's something softer lurking underneath. 

"And you're not even accounting for quality of experience, emotional investment, or—most importantly—long-term satisfaction metrics," Reid continues, his voice quieter now, less performative. "A single meaningful connection, maintained over time, statistically outperforms high-frequency, low-retention encounters in nearly every category of reported happiness. The Harvard Grant Study—one of the longest longitudinal studies on human development—found that the single strongest predictor of life satisfaction wasn't career success or financial security. It was the warmth and consistency of close relationships."

He pauses. Swallows. 

"So, really, the question isn't who ‘get’s lucky’ more." His voice drops, barely above a murmur now. Intimate, almost. Like he's forgotten anyone else is in the room. "It's who ‘get’s lucky’ enough."

For a beat, no one speaks.

Then Prentiss raises her coffee cup in a slow, deliberate toast. "I believe you just got murdered by math, Morgan."

The tension breaks—but not entirely. JJ snickers. Morgan rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head, but there's no heat in it. "Man, I just asked a simple question."

"You asked a misleading question," Reid corrects, but his voice has lost its sharpness. He's retreating back into himself, the way his shoulders curl inward slightly, the way his gaze drops to the case file again. Like he's said too much. 

Morgan blinks, his smirk frozen mid-spread. He holds up a hand like he's stopping traffic. "Hold on. Hold on." His eyes narrow, processing, replaying something in his head. "You're talking about you."

Reid's mouth opens, then closes. A faint flush creeps up his neck—not the blotchy, embarrassed red of someone caught in a lie, but something softer. Pinker. The colour of someone who hadn't meant to say as much as he just did. His hand drifts to the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture he doesn't even realize he has.

Prentiss leans forward, delighted, her elbows on her desk like she's settling in for a season finale. "Reid. Are you telling us you're in a serious, every-other-day relationship?"

"That's… not what I said." He adjusts his satchel strap, suddenly very interested in the grain of his desk. His fingers find the edge of a case file and straighten it unnecessarily. Then straighten it again. The file doesn't need straightening. Everyone knows it. No one says anything. "I was speaking hypothetically. Broad statistical trends. Aggregate data."

"Uh-huh." Morgan plants both hands on his desk and pushes up slightly. His grin is slow, dangerous, and utterly delighted. "You just compared yourself to me. Which means you're the one having sex every other day. With a girlfriend." He drags the word out like he's tasting it for the first time. 

JJ crosses her arms, mock-offended, though her eyes are warm. "Spencer Reid, how long has this been going on?"

Reid swallows. Hard. His gaze flickers to the window—not looking for an escape route, but for a moment of stillness. A place to land. When he looks back at the team, they see something they don't often get from him: not deflection, not a lecture, not a rapid-fire recitation of unrelated facts to change the subject.

Genuine, quiet vulnerability.

"Several months," he admits, low enough that they have to lean in to hear.

The word lands like a stone in still water. Ripples spreading outward. Morgan's smirk softens at the edges. JJ's arms uncross. Prentiss sits back slightly, her teasing expression fading into something more careful. More respectful.

No one pushes. Not yet.

But they're all looking at him differently now. Like they're seeing a new version of Spencer Reid—one who exists outside the bullpen, outside the case files, outside the lonely apartment they'd all quietly assumed he went home to every night.

"Kid." Morgan shakes his head, and there's something different in his voice now—not teasing, not needling. Something almost admiring. "I take it back. Every single thing. Every joke, every 'maybe try a bar sometime,' every time I said you'd die alone surrounded by books." He squeezes Reid's shoulder, a brief, grounding pressure. "You've been holding out on us."

Reid ducks his head, but the smallest smile tugs at his lips—shy, yes, but unmistakably real. It's not his knowing smirk or his closed-off court testimony expression. It's something softer. Something private, accidentally spilled. Like he's been keeping a secret so long that the act of letting it see daylight feels physically strange—but not unwelcome.

"You asked about frequency," he says, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug that's almost bashful. "I just answered the question."

"You really did," Prentiss says, grinning wide enough to crinkle her eyes. "In excruciating detail."

JJ tilts her head, studying him like a case file she's only just realized she misread completely. Her gaze is warm but probing—that particular JJ look that says I see you, and I'm not letting you off the hook that easily. "And for the record," she says, her voice gentle but pointed, "I'm going to need to meet this person. Several months and you never even mentioned her name? That's practically classified information. I'm officially offended."

Reid opens his mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to recite something about privacy and healthy relationship boundaries, maybe to quote a study on the importance of keeping certain parts of one's life separate from one's workplace—but then he catches something over Morgan's shoulder.

His words die in his throat.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft, mechanical chime—the kind of sound so familiar it usually doesn't register anymore. But tonight, it cuts through the bullpen like a bell.

And there you are.

Standing by the elevator bank, keys looped loosely around your fingers, a worn file folder tucked under your arm. You've clearly just come up from the archives—there's a faint smudge of dust on your sleeve, pale grey against the fabric, and your hair is slightly askew from leaning over old case boxes, a few strands escaping to frame your face. The overhead light catches the curve of your jaw, the concentration in your brow.

You're not looking at them yet.

Your attention is still on the files in your hands—a thick stack, dog-eared and labeled in fading marker. You're flipping through them absently, lips moving just slightly as you read, your thumb holding your place in whatever document has captured your focus. 

Reid forgets how to breathe.

It's not dramatic—not in the way movies make it seem. There's no swelling music, no slow-motion montage. Just the sudden, startling realization that he has been holding himself together all evening, and now, seeing you, every carefully constructed wall is coming down.

You look tired.

He notices it first because he always notices it first—the slight droop of your shoulders, the way you're blinking a little too slowly at the pages in your hand. You've been in the archives for hours. Probably forgot to eat. Definitely forgot to drink water.

But you're also smiling. Just a little. A small, absent curve of your lips as you read whatever case file has captured your attention. It's the smile you get when you've found something good—a lead, a connection, a piece of the puzzle that was missing.

He loves that smile.

He loves the dust on your sleeve and the mess of your hair and the way you bite your lower lip when you're concentrating. He loves that you exist in the same building as him, the same world, the same moment.

He loves you.

And now everyone is about to know it.

Reid's flush, which had been fading to a manageable pink, returns with interest—creeping up his neck, flooding his cheeks, brushing the tips of his ears. But here's the thing that makes Morgan's eyebrows climb: Reid doesn't look away. He doesn't duck his head or pretend to read something.

Instead, that small, proud smile stays.

Grows, even.

Morgan is the first to put it together. Of course he is. He watches Reid's face change—watches the shyness give way to something steadier, something almost protective—and then he follows Reid's gaze across the bullpen.

His eyes land on you.

His smirk doesn't just return. It blooms.

"No," he breathes, barely above a whisper. Then, louder, disbelieving: "No."

Prentiss notices Morgan's reaction before she notices you. She glances at him, then at Reid, then follows the sightline like a guided missile. When she finds you—dust-smeared, distracted, muttering to yourself over a case file—her eyebrows climb.

She doesn't say anything. She just tilts her head, watching, cataloging, filing away every micro-expression on Reid's face for later analysis.

But her silence is louder than words.

The bullpen feels suspended. Held breath and half-finished sentences. Even the ancient coffee maker seems to have stopped hissing, as if it, too, is waiting.

Morgan turns back to Reid, slow and deliberate, like a man approaching a wild animal he's just realized is actually a house cat. His expression cycles through about six different emotions in the span of two seconds—confusion, disbelief, dawning recognition, and finally, something dangerously close to pride.

"You told us you were 'helping her with research.'" He makes air quotes, fingers curving with theatrical emphasis. "That's what you said. 'The archives are extensive, Morgan, and she's new, and it's purely professional, Morgan, stop reading into things, Morgan.'"

Reid's flush deepens—creeping up from his collar, brushing the tips of his ears, painting his cheekbones in soft, tell-tale pink—but he doesn't deny it. He doesn't deflect. He doesn't launch into a rapid-fire lecture about privacy or workplace relationships or the statistical unlikelihood of his personal life being anyone's business.

"I was helping with research," Reid says quietly. "That's how it started."

"And then?" Prentiss prompts, leaning forward like she's watching the season finale she didn't know she needed. Her coffee cup is still frozen in her hand, forgotten. She doesn't blink.

Reid's eyes don't leave yours.

The bullpen falls away. The desks, the case files, the amber glow of the lamps—all of it fades into background noise. There's only him. Only the way he's looking at you like you've rearranged his entire understanding of the universe.

"And then," he says, and his voice catches slightly—just a breath, just a fracture, but you hear it. You always hear it. "I realized I didn't want to stop."