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David Rossi loved hosting dinners.

Not because he particularly enjoyed cooking—though he’d spend the entire evening pretending he did, shooing away anyone who wandered too close to the stove with the indignation of a Michelin-star chef—but because dinner was one of the rare occasions when the people he cared about gathered for reasons that had nothing to do with bloodstained crime scenes or the worst humanity had to offer. Around his dining table, they weren’t profilers or agents or supervisors carrying the weight of impossible decisions. They were simply friends. They laughed a little louder, lingered a little longer over dessert, argued about books instead of behavioral patterns, and, for a few precious hours, remembered what life looked like outside the Bureau.

At least for the first twenty minutes.

After that, someone inevitably mentioned a case.

“You realize,” Morgan announced as he reached across the kitchen island and shamelessly stole a piece of warm bread straight from the basket, “this is exactly how horror movies start.”

Rossi didn’t even bother looking over his shoulder. He merely stirred the sauce with practiced ease, entirely unfazed by the theft.

“The difference,” he replied smoothly, “is that my guests survive dessert.”

Morgan laughed, surrendering with an exaggerated nod before tearing into the bread anyway.

The house was already alive with familiar voices.

Soft jazz drifted through hidden speakers, blending with the rhythmic clatter of pots and the comforting aroma of garlic, rosemary, simmering tomatoes, and freshly baked bread. Warm light spilled from antique lamps, reflecting against framed photographs and shelves lined with decades of books and souvenirs collected from places Rossi rarely spoke about. Every room carried that unmistakable feeling of having been lived in, a home that had witnessed countless celebrations, quiet conversations over late-night whiskey, and the occasional impromptu team meeting when cases refused to stay at Quantico.

Emily wandered into the kitchen, accepting a glass of wine from Rossi before immediately rolling her eyes at something Morgan said.

Garcia was already circling the living room in complete admiration, pausing every few steps to gush over a painting, a sculpture, or an antique clock.

“Oh my God, Rossi,” she gasped dramatically, “this lamp is gorgeous. It’s giving wealthy Italian novelist who solves crimes in his free time.”

“It was just a lamp until you said that.”

JJ slipped toward the patio with Henry balanced comfortably on her hip, the little boy already fascinated by the garden lights beginning to glow outside. Will followed behind carrying an impressive collection of toys that looked capable of entertaining an entire daycare, smiling patiently as Henry reached for everything except the toys he’d brought.

Hotch, unsurprisingly, had arrived exactly on time.

Not a minute early. Not a minute late.

His jacket was already neatly folded over the back of a chair, a glass of sparkling water in one hand as he quietly observed the controlled chaos with the smallest hint of amusement softening his usually unreadable expression.

And, of course, Spencer’s attention had been on you from the moment the two of you stepped through Rossi’s front door.

Before anyone could greet you, Spencer was already helping you out of your coat with the quiet attentiveness that had become second nature over the past several weeks. His hands were careful as he eased the fabric from your shoulders, lingering for just a heartbeat as if making sure you were steady before draping both your coat and his neatly over the rack by the entrance. It was such a small gesture that no one else would have noticed it.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, leaning close enough that only you could hear him beneath the lively chatter filling the room.

You offered him a reassuring smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.

“Perfect.”

The word came automatically, polished by repetition until it sounded almost believable. You’d said it to your mother over the phone earlier that week. To your coworkers when they’d commented on how pale you’d been looking lately. To the cashier who had apologized after you’d abruptly abandoned a shopping cart halfway through the supermarket because someone nearby had opened a container of tuna. You were becoming remarkably good at pretending everything was normal.

Spencer, however, had never been particularly easy to fool.

His honey-colored eyes lingered on your face for another moment, quietly studying you with the same careful concentration he reserved for unsolved cases and impossible puzzles. He noticed everything: the faint shadows beneath your eyes despite the makeup you’d carefully applied that afternoon, the way your smile didn’t quite reach them, the almost invisible hesitation before you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. For a second, you watched concern flicker across his expression, followed by the unmistakable impulse to suggest going home instead. You knew him well enough to see the thought forming before he gently pushed it aside. You had insisted you wanted to come. You’d been looking forward to seeing everyone. If he asked again, you’d only reassure him again.

So instead, he simply intertwined his fingers with yours for the briefest moment and gave your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it, silently reminding you that if you needed to leave, even five minutes after arriving, you only had to say the word.

Because the truth was…you hadn’t exactly been perfect lately.

For nearly eleven weeks, your body had seemed determined to reinvent itself overnight, transforming familiar routines into unpredictable obstacles and ordinary sensations into impossible challenges. Pregnancy wasn’t anything like the books had described. It wasn’t the glowing skin and sentimental smiles people loved talking about. At least, not yet. Right now, it was exhaustion so profound it settled into your bones no matter how much you slept. It was waking up starving only to burst into tears because the toast you’d been craving suddenly smelled unbearable. It was dizziness when you stood too quickly, headaches that appeared without warning, and emotions that shifted so rapidly they often left you laughing one moment and crying the next.

And the smells were by far the worst.

It was as though someone had turned every scent in the world up to an impossible volume.

Coffee, the rich aroma you’d once relied on every morning, now seemed so overwhelmingly bitter it made your stomach twist before you even entered the kitchen.

Garlic lingered in the air like smoke.

Perfume clung to strangers in grocery stores so intensely that you found yourself instinctively holding your breath as they walked past.

Gasoline from passing cars seeped through open windows with startling force.

Fresh paint, cleaning products, scented candles, everything had become an enemy.

Even the earthy fragrance of Spencer’s favorite loose-leaf tea, a scent that had always reminded you of rainy afternoons spent reading together on the couch, had betrayed you. One quiet Saturday morning, he’d barely begun pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves before your stomach lurched violently. You hadn’t even managed to explain what was wrong. You’d simply clamped a hand over your mouth and hurried toward the bathroom, leaving Spencer frozen in confusion beside the kettle.

When he’d found you a few minutes later, you were sitting on the cool tile floor with your knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in one of his oversized cardigans because you hadn’t had the energy to put on your own sweater after climbing out of bed. Your eyes were watery, your face pale with exhaustion, and the half-steeped tea sat forgotten in the kitchen.

He’d knelt beside you immediately, rubbing slow circles against your back until your breathing steadied.

“I think,” he’d said carefully, as though presenting a well-researched hypothesis, “we should buy different tea.”

The absurd sincerity of the suggestion had broken something inside you.

You’d laughed, the kind that left tears streaming down your face and your stomach aching until Spencer began smiling too, still entirely unsure what had been so funny.

An hour later, you’d taken the pregnancy test.

You remembered sitting together on the edge of the bathtub, your shoulders pressed together so tightly they might as well have been one person, both pretending not to stare at the little plastic stick resting on the counter. Spencer’s knee bounced nervously the entire time, though he’d deny it if anyone ever asked. When the result finally appeared, neither of you moved.

Positive.

You’d looked at him, and he’d looked at you.

For a long moment, there had simply been silence, stunned, breathless silence, as though neither of you trusted your own eyes enough to speak first.

Then Spencer had whispered, almost reverently,

“We’re having a baby.”

The memory still settled warmly inside your chest every time you thought about it.

Only the two of you knew.

No one else.

Not the team, your parents, or his mother.

No one.

It wasn’t because you weren’t excited.

God, you had never loved someone you’d never met quite so fiercely. And you had never been so afraid.

At night, when the apartment had gone quiet and Quantico seemed impossibly far away, the two of you often found yourselves lying awake long after the lights were off, talking in hushed voices about a future that suddenly felt both unimaginably distant and frighteningly close. Spencer wondered aloud whether babies recognized music before they were born and whether reading aloud during pregnancy had any measurable effect on language development. You debated names neither of you was ready to admit you genuinely liked. You imagined tiny knitted sweaters, impossibly small socks, sleepy mornings, first birthdays, scraped knees, school concerts, and the possibility—one that made you laugh every single time—that Spencer might accidentally teach your future toddler quantum mechanics before the alphabet.

Other nights, words simply weren’t necessary.

You would lie tangled together beneath the blankets, your head resting against his shoulder while he absentmindedly traced slow circles over your arm. Eventually, almost without thinking, his hand would drift lower, settling with extraordinary care against your abdomen. There was hardly anything to feel yet. At eleven weeks, your stomach remained almost perfectly flat, your dresses fitting exactly as they always had. If someone didn’t know, they would never have guessed. But Spencer touched you as though the slightest movement might disturb the tiny life growing there, his palm resting so gently against you that it sometimes made your chest ache. He would smile into the darkness with an expression so impossibly soft it stole your breath every single time, as though he could already sense the little heartbeat hidden beneath his fingertips. Sometimes he whispered things you weren’t sure he realized he was saying: little observations about fetal development he’d memorized from medical journals, promises about museums he’d one day visit with your child, absentminded thoughts about buying children’s editions of classic literature. Other times, he simply stayed there, smiling quietly, overwhelmed by the astonishing reality that someone already existed. Someone who belonged entirely to the two of you.

Every ultrasound photograph had become a treasure.

The first one lived inside an ivory envelope that had already begun to soften at the edges because neither of you could stop taking it out to look at it. Realistically, there wasn’t very much to see. To anyone else, it was little more than a grainy black-and-white blur surrounded by indecipherable shadows and medical measurements. Yet the two of you had spent embarrassing amounts of time staring at it as though it were the most extraordinary piece of art ever created. Spencer, naturally, had analyzed it with the same enthusiasm he brought to everything else.

Of course, once the initial excitement had settled, he had immediately begun worrying about where to keep the photographs.

Not because he thought someone was going to steal them.

Because he wanted them safe.

You still remembered finding him standing in front of his bookshelf one afternoon, head tilted thoughtfully as though he were solving one of the Bureau’s most complicated cases. He had scanned hundreds of titles before finally pulling out one of the thickest mathematics textbooks you had ever seen.

“They’re going inside my copy of Differential Geometry,” he’d declared with complete confidence while carefully sliding the envelope between two chapters.

You had stared at him, blinking in complete confusion.

“…Why that one?”

Without so much as lifting his eyes from the pages, he’d answered with absolute certainty.

“Statistically speaking, no one voluntarily opens my copy of Differential Geometry.”

You had laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

Weeks later, the ultrasound photographs remained exactly where he’d hidden them, tucked safely between chapters discussing curved manifolds and tensor fields, untouched by anyone except the two of you. Every now and then, usually late at night, Spencer would quietly retrieve the envelope before climbing into bed beside you, and together you’d study the tiny image all over again, smiling as though seeing it for the very first time.

You weren’t keeping the pregnancy a secret because you were ashamed.

If anything, the secret had become almost impossible to contain.

You loved this baby already with a depth that surprised you daily. Sometimes you caught yourself resting your hand absentmindedly against your stomach while reading on the couch or waiting in line for coffee you could no longer stomach. Sometimes Spencer would catch your eye from across the apartment, and without either of you saying a single word, you’d both smile, remembering the extraordinary little secret that existed only between you. It felt like carrying a universe inside your chest, one that threatened to spill into every conversation, every laugh, every quiet glance exchanged across a room.

But eleven weeks still felt fragile.

Delicate.

As though happiness itself had become something you were afraid to hold too tightly.

You knew the statistics.

So did Spencer...perhaps better than anyone.

The first trimester carried uncertainties neither of you could ignore, no matter how desperately you wanted to celebrate. So you had made a quiet promise together. Just a little longer. One more week. Maybe two. Long enough for the fear to loosen its grip. Long enough for the joy to feel louder than the anxiety. Then you’d tell everyone. Properly. Surrounded by the people who loved you most.

Which was exactly why tonight needed to remain wonderfully, blissfully ordinary.

Smile.

Compliment Rossi’s cooking.

Laugh at Morgan’s increasingly terrible jokes.

Listen to Garcia declare herself emotionally attached to another one of Rossi’s antique decorations.

Eat dinner.

Go home.

And above all else, pretend that beneath the soft fabric of your dress, your entire world wasn’t quietly growing one tiny heartbeat at a time.

***

For the first few minutes, everything went exactly according to plan.

The conversation flowed effortlessly around the table, moving from travel stories to teasing remarks about Rossi’s inability to let anyone else near his kitchen. The warm glow of candlelight reflected against crystal glasses, silverware clinked softly against porcelain plates, and the rich aroma of roasted vegetables, fresh herbs, garlic, and homemade pasta drifted through the dining room. It was warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Exactly the kind of evening you’d hoped for.

Then Rossi appeared beside the table carrying a bottle of red wine.

With practiced ease, he moved from place to place, pouring generous servings into each waiting glass until he eventually reached yours. Deep ruby liquid swirled elegantly into the crystal, catching the candlelight before he continued around the table without another thought.

Your smile froze.

Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost felt like missing the last step on a staircase.

Of course. Wine.

You hadn’t thought about the wine.

For one long second, you simply stared at the glass sitting innocently beside your plate, your thoughts racing far faster than they should have. Refusing it outright would be strange. Claiming you weren’t in the mood might invite questions. Pretending to sip it was risky, especially with Rossi proudly watching everyone’s reactions to the bottle he’d undoubtedly spent far too much money on.

Across the table, Spencer had arrived at the exact same realization.

His eyes drifted from his own glass to yours.

Then to you.

You watched the understanding settle across his face almost instantly.

Without either of you exchanging so much as a glance, he quietly reached across the table toward your place setting, his movements so natural they might have gone completely unnoticed.

“I’ll take yours,” he said casually, lifting the untouched glass before anyone could question it.

Morgan blinked. “You stealing her wine already?”

The question earned a few amused smiles around the table.

Spencer answered so quickly it almost sounded rehearsed.

“She’s driving.”

For a single heartbeat, the entire table fell into that peculiar silence that followed an answer no one had expected. You turned your head slowly to look at him, your expression carefully composed despite the disbelief bubbling beneath it.

Driving? You hated driving.

Everyone at the table knew you hated driving. Morgan had teased you about it for years after you’d once admitted that parallel parking made you feel like you were diffusing a bomb. Garcia had jokingly offered to create a color-coded GPS system “for emotionally distressed drivers.” Even Rossi had learned long ago that inviting the two of you over automatically meant Spencer would be behind the wheel on the way home. If given the choice between navigating rush-hour traffic yourself or spending an hour on public transportation with three transfers, you’d choose the train without a second thought. Spencer knew that better than anyone. Which was precisely why, judging by the fleeting look of horror that crossed his face, he realized what he’d said the exact moment the words left his mouth.

Your eyes met across the table for the briefest instant.

He knew. You knew.

Neither of you dared acknowledge it.

Fortunately, Morgan simply shrugged, entirely unbothered.

“Fair enough.”

The conversation drifted elsewhere almost immediately, someone making a comment about Rossi’s pasta sauce before Garcia launched into a dramatic story about accidentally adopting another stray cat she absolutely insisted she hadn’t meant to bring home. Around the table, laughter resumed, forks scraped softly against porcelain plates, and the comfortable rhythm of dinner settled back into place. You released a slow breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, allowing yourself to believe, if only for a moment, that perhaps the obstacle had been overcome more easily than you’d feared.

Or so you thought.

Barely ten minutes later, Rossi reappeared beside your chair carrying the bottle of red wine in one hand, his attention immediately falling to the untouched glass still sitting exactly where he’d left it. His thick brows drew together in mild confusion before his expression softened into concern.

“Oh, bambina,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he gestured toward the glass. “You haven’t touched your wine.”

Your heart lurched.

For a fraction of a second, your mind raced desperately through possible explanations. You weren’t feeling like drinking. You were waiting until dinner. You had a headache. None of them felt convincing enough, particularly not with Rossi watching you so expectantly.

Before you could utter a single word, Spencer calmly reached across the table, lifted your untouched glass as though it had belonged to him all along, and took a generous sip.

“I did.”

Rossi looked between both of you.

“You finished two glasses already?”

“I was thirsty,” Spencer replied with complete sincerity, sounding as though that single sentence explained everything.

Rossi stared at him.

“You were thirsty.”

“Yes.”

“For wine.”

“Correct.”

For another beat, Rossi simply looked at him, clearly debating whether there was any point continuing the conversation. Eventually, with the resigned expression of a man deciding that Spencer Reid’s brain operated on principles beyond ordinary comprehension, he shrugged lightly and reached for the bottle once more.

“There.”

Deep red wine flowed smoothly back into your crystal glass until it sat nearly full again.

“There we go.”

“Thank you,” you offered with what you hoped was a perfectly natural smile.

Rossi nodded once before wandering toward the other end of the table to refill Morgan’s glass, already distracted by an entirely new discussion about baseball statistics.

The instant his back was turned, Spencer moved.

Without saying a word, without drawing attention to himself, he rested one hand casually beneath the edge of the tablecloth and, in one fluid movement, exchanged your freshly filled glass with his own half-empty one. The motion was so smooth it could have passed for absentmindedness, his fingers never fumbling despite the growing amount of alcohol already in his system. By the time Rossi looked back toward the two of you, Spencer was quietly lifting the newly acquired glass toward his lips while your place setting once again held one that appeared partially consumed.

No one noticed.

Well…almost no one.

Across the table, Emily’s conversation with JJ faltered for just a fraction of a second.

She didn’t say anything.

She simply took another sip of wine while her gaze lingered thoughtfully between the two of you before returning to her plate.

Another half hour slipped by beneath easy conversation and frequent bursts of laughter. Stories gave way to teasing, teasing turned into old Bureau memories, and before long the first bottle stood empty in the center of the table. Rossi noticed almost immediately.

“Well,” he announced proudly as he disappeared toward the kitchen, “that means it’s time for the good one.”

He returned carrying another bottle with the reverence of someone transporting a priceless family heirloom.

“This one’s from Tuscany,” he declared, carefully peeling away the foil. “I bought it during my last trip. You have to try it.”

The cork eased free with a satisfying pop.

You felt your stomach sink all over again.

One by one, Rossi circled the table, refilling each glass with generous enthusiasm.

Including yours.

Again.

You forced another smile.

“Thank you.”

Your glass remained untouched.

Again.

Spencer noticed before anyone else did.

Again.

Without hesitation, he reached over sometime during the next conversation, lifted your glass as naturally as though the two of you shared everything—which, technically, you did—and quietly added yet another serving to the growing collection he’d already consumed.

By now he’d finished one glass.

Then two.

Then three.

Now…four.

Under ordinary circumstances, four glasses of wine spread across an entire dinner might not have seemed particularly remarkable.

For Spencer Reid, it was becoming increasingly obvious.

A warm flush had spread across his cheeks, dusting the bridge of his nose with soft pink that somehow made him look several years younger. His posture remained perfectly straight, and his words retained the precise articulation that years of lecturing and endless reading had ingrained into him. If anything, he enunciated even more carefully than usual, each syllable pronounced with meticulous clarity. Spencer Reid, it seemed, was physically incapable of slurring his words.

Instead, he simply became significantly more talkative.

“Do you know,” he announced to absolutely no one in particular while thoughtfully examining his wineglass as though it were a fascinating scientific specimen, “that the average adult liver metabolizes approximately one standard alcoholic beverage per hour? Assuming average enzymatic activity and normal hepatic function, I’m currently operating at a significant biochemical disadvantage.”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, grinning so broadly it bordered on smug satisfaction.

“You drunk, pretty boy?”

Spencer looked genuinely offended by the suggestion.

“No.”

He paused.

Thought about it.

Then nodded once with complete seriousness.

“Probably.”

The table erupted into laughter.

Even Hotch lowered his gaze toward his plate to disguise the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You couldn’t help laughing too, though yours carried a distinct note of affection.

Spencer looked utterly adorable.

Hopelessly, undeniably adorable.

Across the table, however, Emily wasn’t laughing nearly as much.

She watched Spencer lift your glass instead of his own.

Again.

She watched you politely thank Rossi for every refill without drinking a single sip.

Again.

She watched Spencer volunteer to finish both glasses with increasingly enthusiastic determination.

Again.

Something about the evening refused to fit together.

Emily wasn’t quite sure what the answer was yet.

But she knew, with absolute certainty, that something wasn’t adding up.

***

By the time coffee replaced the wine, the evening had settled into that wonderfully unhurried stage that always followed one of Rossi’s dinners. Dessert plates had been pushed aside, empty bottles stood abandoned along the center of the table like evidence of a celebration well enjoyed, and the rich scent of freshly brewed espresso drifted through the dining room, mercifully replacing the overwhelming aroma of alcohol. Conversations had fractured into smaller ones, overlapping comfortably without anyone needing to follow every thread. Garcia and JJ were animatedly debating vacation destinations, Garcia insisting that every itinerary should be based entirely around bookstores and bakeries while JJ attempted, unsuccessfully, to convince her that beaches had their own merits. At the other end of the table, Morgan and Rossi had somehow wandered into a passionate disagreement over baseball statistics, each one accusing the other of remembering history incorrectly despite both sounding equally confident. Hotch sat quietly between them, one hand wrapped around his coffee cup, saying very little but wearing the faintest trace of amusement at the corners of his mouth as he watched the familiar chaos unfold around him.

Beside you, however, sat the true consequence of the evening.

Spencer Reid was undeniably drunk.

Not the loud, reckless kind of drunk that knocked over glasses or forgot people’s names. Spencer remained perfectly articulate. Every sentence emerged with the same impeccable diction he used while lecturing, every word carefully pronounced as though he were still delivering an academic presentation. If anything, the alcohol had only made him even more determined to enunciate correctly. His tie had been loosened somewhere between the second and third bottle, though neither of you remembered who had done it. His curls had escaped in every direction until they framed his flushed face in complete disarray. A warm blush stretched across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose, his eyes had taken on a dreamy softness you rarely saw, and he had developed the oddly adorable habit of pausing before every answer, nodding solemnly to himself as though consulting an invisible committee inside his own mind before reaching a unanimous decision.

Watching him was almost painfully endearing.

You couldn’t help smiling as your fingers found the middle of his back, rubbing slow, comforting circles through the fabric of his shirt.

“You okay?”

He turned toward you immediately, his entire face lighting up with such overwhelming affection that your heart threatened to melt on the spot.

“I love you.”

The words came so easily, so honestly, that several people around the table instinctively smiled.

You laughed quietly.

“I love you too.”

“No…” He shook his head with exaggerated seriousness, lifting one finger as though correcting an important scientific misconception. “I don’t think you understand the statistical magnitude of how much I love you.”

Morgan snorted into his coffee.

“Oh, this is priceless.”

Spencer didn’t even acknowledge him.

His complete attention remained fixed on you, his expression one of absolute sincerity as he searched painstakingly for the perfect description.

“You are…” He frowned thoughtfully, eyes drifting toward the ceiling for several long seconds before returning to you with visible satisfaction. “…my favorite person.”

Warmth spread through your chest so quickly it almost hurt.

God, he was going to destroy you.

“You’ve had enough wine,” you said gently, brushing one of his unruly curls away from his forehead.

“I have had…” He stopped speaking to count carefully on his fingers, restarting twice after apparently losing track somewhere around three. “…more wine than you.”

“Yes.”

He nodded proudly, pleased that you’d confirmed his calculation.

“Because you couldn’t.”

Every muscle in your body went rigid.

The smile disappeared from your face almost instantly.

“Spencer.”

He looked delighted with himself.

“I helped.”

Across the table, Emily glanced up from her coffee.

“So noble.”

“It was.” Spencer nodded once, completely accepting the compliment. “Because it’s a secret.”

Your stomach dropped so violently you were certain everyone could hear it.

Without thinking, you reached for his hand beneath the table, gently squeezing his fingers.

“Sweetheart—”

He leaned closer immediately, lowering his voice in what he clearly believed was an incredibly discreet whisper.

It wasn’t.

“We’re very good at secrets,” he confided with unmistakable pride.

The entire table continued talking.

No one seemed to notice.

Relief washed over you so suddenly you nearly laughed.

Then Spencer smiled thoughtfully, as though another important realization had just occurred to him.

“Although…”

Every instinct in your body screamed.

“Oh no.”

He looked around the entire table before announcing, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the dining room to hear with perfect clarity, “keeping a baby secret is significantly harder than I expected.”

Silence.

Morgan blinked once.

“A what?”

Garcia’s mouth slowly fell open.

JJ lowered her coffee cup so carefully it barely made a sound against the saucer.

At the far end of the table, Hotch’s eyes shifted from Spencer to you with the calm expression of a profiler mentally reorganizing every unusual observation he’d made over the previous several weeks: your sudden avoidance of coffee during morning meetings, Spencer’s increasingly protective behavior, the mysterious disappearances during cases to “find crackers,” the exhaustion, the nausea, the untouched wine.

Pieces quietly clicked into place.

Rossi simply stared.

His mouth opened slightly before closing again.

For perhaps the first time in anyone’s memory, David Rossi seemed completely incapable of finding words.

Emily, meanwhile, merely closed her eyes and a slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Oh,” she sighed, sounding more relieved than surprised. “I knew it.”

You buried your face in both hands.

“Spencer…”

He looked around the table with complete confusion, blinking at everyone’s expressions as though he genuinely couldn’t understand why the conversation had stopped.

“What?”

“You…” you whispered through your hands, shaking your head helplessly. “You just told them about our baby.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“I did?”

“Yes.”

A long pause.

He frowned thoughtfully.

“I wasn’t supposed to.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

He considered that information with remarkable seriousness, nodding slowly as though accepting constructive criticism.

For one suspended heartbeat, nobody moved.

Then Garcia exploded.

The delighted shriek that escaped her was so loud it probably startled every bird within a three-block radius. She launched herself out of her chair before anyone else had even processed what was happening, one hand already covering her mouth as tears filled her eyes.

“I can't believe it!” she squealed. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”

JJ was crying before she’d even reached you.

She wrapped her arms tightly around your shoulders, laughing and wiping away tears simultaneously.

“I am so happy for you,” she whispered.

Morgan shot to his feet with a bark of laughter, pointing triumphantly between the two of you.

“I knew something was going on!”

Emily looked at him flatly.

“You absolutely did not.”

“I suspected!”

She folded her arms.

“You spent the entire evening convinced Spencer had developed a drinking problem.”

Morgan hesitated.

“I was…close.”

Rossi finally recovered enough to laugh, a deep, warm laugh that echoed through the dining room as he crossed the room and pulled both you and Spencer into one of his characteristically overwhelming hugs.

“I’ve spent years trying to get this kid drunk,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief as he stepped back to look at Spencer with unmistakable affection. “Years.”

His eyes flickered toward you before returning to Spencer.

“I have to admit…”

He smiled.

“I didn’t expect this to be what finally loosened his tongue.”

Even Hotch stood.

He wasn’t particularly demonstrative, never had been, but the smile he offered the two of you was genuine enough to soften every sharp line in his face.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you leaned instinctively against Spencer’s shoulder, still half laughing and half hiding your burning face from everyone’s delighted attention.

Spencer looked down at you with sleepy affection, completely oblivious to the fact that he had single-handedly dismantled weeks of carefully orchestrated secrecy. He leaned over and pressed the gentlest kiss against the top of your head before sighing softly.

“I ruined the surprise.”

“You did.”

“I’m sorry.”

You looked up at him.

His expression was so genuinely remorseful, so heartbreakingly sincere despite the unmistakable haze of alcohol clouding his thoughts, that you couldn’t possibly stay embarrassed.

A smile spread across your face.

“I’ll forgive you.”

His eyes brightened immediately.

“You will?”

“Eventually.”

The relieved smile that followed was almost childlike.

“Good.”

He sat quietly for another few seconds, apparently satisfied that the crisis had been resolved.

Then he turned toward Rossi with complete seriousness.

You have to be. This is the brain's final mercy, the last, desperate gift of a system shutting down: a vision of the one person who makes you feel safe. You've studied this phenomenon, read case studies of mountaineers who see their families in the snow, of soldiers who whisper their lovers' names before the darkness takes them. The mind, in its infinite kindness, builds a bridge between here and nowhere, and populates it with the faces it loves best.

Of course yours would choose him. Not your mother, not the friends you've left behind, but Spencer—with his nervous hands and his brilliant mind and the way he always looks at you like you're a puzzle he's desperate to solve. He's the last thing your brain wants to see. The last thing it's letting you have.

This is how it ends, you think. Not with a bang, not with a scream, but with a lie. A beautiful, merciful lie wearing Spencer Reid's face.

He's saying something—his lips moving fast, the way they do when he's spiralling, when he's run three steps ahead of everyone else and can't slow down long enough to explain. You know that rhythm. You've watched him pace hotel rooms with that same frantic cadence, his hands gesturing at invisible diagrams, his words tumbling over each other like he's afraid they'll escape him if he doesn't get them out fast enough. But now, the words are muffled, distant, like you're hearing him from underwater, or through a wall, or from the wrong side of a dream you're already slipping out of.

His hand reaches for your face, and you almost laugh. A hallucination that touches you? That's new. Cruel, even. Your subconscious has never been this creative before—never this precise in its cruelty. It's one thing to see him. It's another thing entirely to watch his fingers trace the air between you like he's afraid you'll shatter.

Then his fingers brush your cheek.

Warm. Calloused. Impossibly real.

The sob you've been holding back cracks loose in your chest—a sound so raw and broken you barely recognize it as your own. It tears out of you like something that's been clawing at the inside of your ribs for hours, days, a lifetime. Every wall you've built, every careful detachment you've practiced, every clinical observation you've filed away—it all crumbles the second his skin meets yours.

"No," you rasp. Or maybe you just think it. Your throat feels shredded, raw from screaming—hours ago or minutes ago or maybe still. Time stopped making sense the second they threw you into this room, the second the door locked behind you and you realized no one knew where you were. "No, you're not—you can't be—"

He's already cutting through the ropes around your wrists. You feel the sawing motion—the blade of his pocket knife, you realize, the one he always carries, the one you've teased him about more times than you can count—and the rough fibres biting deeper into your raw skin before they finally fall away. Your arms drop like dead weight, the blood rushing back in pins and needles so sharp it makes you gasp. He catches you before you can hit the floor, his touch steadier than his voice, his thumbs pressing gently into the inside of your wrists where you'd feel your pulse if you had the strength to feel anything at all.

"I'm here." His voice breaks through the static, clearer now. Desperate. The kind of desperate you've only ever heard in his voice when he's talking about a case he couldn't solve—when the unsub slipped through their fingers, when a victim didn't make it, when he stayed up three nights running the numbers and still came up empty. "Look at me. I'm right here. I've got you."

His eyes are searching yours, that familiar intensity—the one that always made you feel like you were the most important thing in the room, in the world, in his entire sprawling, brilliant mind. 

You want to believe him. God, you want to. Every inch of you is screaming at you to grab onto his voice, his warmth, his impossible presence and never let go. To let yourself fall into the safety of his hands and pretend the last however-many-hours didn't happen. 

But the darkness is pulling at the edges of your vision—not sudden, not violent, but patient. Insistent. The way a tide pulls at a drowning person who's finally stopped fighting. 

But here's the thing about lies—sometimes they feel true enough to hold onto. Sometimes they're all you have left.

"Hold on," he says, and you've never heard Spencer Reid sound like this—like he's the one falling apart. Like he needs you to be okay more than he's ever needed anything in his entire life. More than he needed to solve his first case, more than he needed to prove himself, more than he's ever needed air or sleep or the answer to a question that's been eating him alive. "Please, just hold on. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I let them take you. I should've been faster. I should've—"

His voice cracks, splinters, and you realize with a dull, distant ache that he's crying. 

You've seen Spencer Reid cry exactly twice—once when a victim's mother broke down in front of him, and once when he thought no one was watching, staring at a photograph of someone he couldn't save. You'd never imagined you'd be the reason. You'd never imagined he'd sound like this—like the world was ending and he was the only one who knew it.

You try to lift your hand to his face. Just to touch him. Just to feel the sharp line of his jaw, the warmth of his skin, the proof that he's real even if you can't quite believe it anymore. But your fingers won't cooperate. They feel heavy, distant, like they belong to someone else—like they're already packing up and leaving, checking out of a body that's decided it's done fighting. So you just look at him. At the blood on his collar that isn't his. At the way his hands shake as he checks your pulse—two fingers pressing into your wrist, searching for a rhythm you're not sure is still there—and your pupils, and the cut on your temple that you'd almost forgotten about.

He's checking for a concussion, you think, and the clinical detachment of it almost makes you smile. Of course he is. Even now, even like this, he's running through the protocols. He's cataloguing my injuries. He's trying to save me the way he saves everyone—with his brain, with his hands, with every piece of knowledge he's ever crammed into that beautiful, impossible head.

But you can feel the fight leaving you, seeping out through the wounds you can't see, through the blood you can feel pooling beneath you, through the exhaustion that's been building for hours—days—a lifetime. It's not a violent surrender. It's quieter than that. It's the way a candle flickers before it goes out, the way a song fades at the very end, the way a breath leaves your lungs and you realize you don't have the strength to pull another one in.

You try to keep your eyes on him—on the panic in his brows, the way his mouth keeps moving like he's reciting something, a prayer or a passage or maybe just your name over and over. You watch the words form on his lips, watch them stumble and break and reform, the fear in his eyes, the desperation, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the universe that matters—it's almost too much to bear. It's almost worth dying for, just to know you were loved like this.

But your eyelids are so heavy. Heavier than the ropes ever were. Heavier than the weight of everything you've been carrying, everything you've been pretending wasn't slowly crushing you.

You could fight it. You know you could—if you tried hard enough, if you clawed your way back to the surface, if you let his voice be the thing that pulled you up. But you're so tired. Tired in a way that goes beyond your body, beyond the pain and the cold and the blood. Tired in a way that feels like it's been building your whole life, like you've been running toward this moment and didn't even know it.

Just a moment, you tell yourself. Just one moment to rest. I'll open my eyes again. I'll fight. I just need—just one moment.

So you let them drift closed, and you let yourself pretend. Just for a moment. Just until the light goes all the way out.

Spencer feels you go limp in his arms, and the world stops.

Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. It stops—the way a heart stops when the electricity cuts out. One second there's noise, chaos, the distant echo of Emily's voice barking orders through the comms, the flicker of fluorescent lights overhead, the acrid smell of concrete and rust and blood. The next, there's nothing but the terrifying, suffocating stillness of your body going slack against him. Heavy. Too heavy. The weight of someone who's no longer holding themselves up, no longer fighting, no longer there in the way that matters.

"No," you hear him say, but it's distant now, like you're already halfway somewhere else—already crossing a threshold he can't follow you through. "No, no, no—stay with me. Please. You have to stay with me. Please."

He shakes you gently, then harder, his fingers finding your pulse point like a lifeline—pressing into the side of your neck with a desperation that borders on frantic. He's done this a thousand times. A thousand victims, a thousand assessments, a thousand clinical observations filed away without a tremor. But this is different. This is you. And his hands are shaking so badly he can barely find the right spot.

It's there. Faint, thready, but there.

He almost sobs with relief. Almost. The sound catches in his throat, strangles itself before it can escape, because there's no time for relief. There's no time for anything except the next heartbeat, the next breath, the next second of you still being here.

"Help!" His voice tears out of him, raw and desperate, ragged at the edges in a way he's never heard before. It doesn't sound like him. It sounds like someone who's already lost everything and is just now realizing it. "I need help in here! Now!"

He can hear boots pounding against concrete somewhere in the distance. Rossi's voice, calm and clipped, coordinating the response. JJ shouting something about the ambulance. The crackle of radio static. But none of it matters. None of it reaches him. All that exists is the space between your heartbeats and the terrifying weight of your head against his shoulder, your hair tangled beneath his fingers, your skin cooling against his palms.

He presses two fingers to the side of your neck again. Counting. Always counting. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand—

Your pulse stutters.

A beat. Then nothing. Then another beat, weaker than the last.

No.

"Spencer—" someone says. JJ. Her hand is on his shoulder, warm and grounding, but Spencer can't look away from your face. Too pale. Too still. Your lips are tinged with blue, and there's blood—so much blood—seeping through his fingers where he's pressing against the wound he can't even see, the one he's terrified is the one that matters.

"She's crashing," he hears himself say, and his voice sounds hollow, clinical, like he's reading an autopsy report for a stranger. Like he's already detached himself from the reality of what's happening because if he feels it—if he lets himself feel the weight of you slipping away—he'll shatter into pieces too small to put back together. "Her pulse is weak and irregular. She's lost too much blood. She needs a hospital now or she's going to—"

He can't finish the sentence. The word die lodges in his throat like broken glass, cutting him from the inside out. He can't say it. He can't even think it, because thinking it makes it real, and if it's real, then there's a version of the future where you don't exist, and that version isn't one he can survive.

"Ambulance is one minute out," Rossi says, and Spencer nods, numb, pulling you closer even though he knows he shouldn't move you, even though every rational part of his brain is screaming about spinal precautions and haemorrhage control and all the protocols he's memorized and taught and followed for years.

He doesn't care. He'll take the risk. He'll take all the risks. He'll spend the rest of his life making deals with a god he doesn't believe in if it means you open your eyes again.

"Come on," he whispers, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice breaking on every syllable. "Come on, you're not done. You're not done fighting. You can't be done—not yet—not when I haven't—"

He stops himself. Swallows. His eyes burn, but he doesn't let the tears fall—not yet, not while there's still a chance, not while he can still feel the faint flutter of your pulse beneath his fingers.

Not when I haven't told you.

The thought hits him like a bullet, sharp and devastating. All the words he's been too afraid to say, all the confessions he's buried and the careful distance he's maintained because losing you felt inevitable—but not like this. Never like this. He always imagined he'd have more time. That he'd find the right moment, the perfect words, the courage to look you in the eye and tell you that you're the only thing that's ever made sense to him. That you're the reason he gets up in the morning, the reason he fights, the reason he believes in something bigger than the darkness.

He never imagined he'd be holding you while you slipped away, begging you to stay while the words he should have said died on his tongue.

"One minute," he says again, like a mantra, like a prayer. He's not sure if he's talking to you or to himself. "Just one minute. You can hold on for one minute. You're the strongest person I know—you've survived worse than this—you've survived everything—"

His voice cracks again, and he presses his lips to your forehead, desperate and trembling. "Please. Please don't leave me. I can't—I can't do this without you. I don't want to do this without you."

Dear Parent/Guardian

This semester our school will be hosting its annual Career Day presentations. We would like to invite you to speak-

“What are you doing?” You startled, your head snapping up as you stared at your husband in the doorway like a deer in headlights. You hadn’t heard him come downstairs.

Holding the paper up in the air, you watched as he almost winced. “How come you didn’t tell me about this?”

Spencer cleared his throat, making his way towards you. He attempted to shrug it off, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. “I just didn’t think it was important.”

“You mean you don’t want to do it?” You tried to meet his gaze as he dropped it, his silence answering for him. “But you love being a professor. I would’ve thought you’d be jumping at the chance to teach people about teaching.”

He was standing across from you now, arms folded as he swallowed nervously, eyes glued to the floor. The lump in his throat choked him, his body beginning to sway subconsciously as he debated just how much he should let you in. You knew this face well- it was the face he gave you before he told you he was worried he was too much for you, and again before he told you he wasn’t sure he’d be a good father. It was the face of insecurity.

“That’s not the job she wants me to talk about.” His voice was small as it left him, cracking around the edges. When he looked up again he landed on the picture of your daughter pinned up on the fridge, gazing up at him behind the camera like he was her entire world. “I just don’t think I can do it.”

“Why not?” You nudged softly, but you knew. Your daughter only knew bits and pieces about Spencer’s life in the FBI, tiny snippets of stories with happy endings and memories with the team- with her aunts and her uncles. But that was it. That was all she knew, and all he ever wanted her to.

“How-” He started, voice breaking off. “How can I stand there and encourage those kids to go down the same path I did?”

“Spence,” you tried to step towards him, but his arms instinctively wrapped around himself like a barrier, “she just admires you. You did a lot of good when you were on the team.”

“Yeah, and saw a lot of things I shouldn’t have.” He snapped, eyes flickering to you apologetically before dropping back down. When he spoke again it came out broken, low and scared. “Things I don’t want her to see because she grew up and decided she wanted to be like me.”

Tension brewed over the kitchen like a storm cloud, the two of you standing within arms length of each other but not reaching out. Your heart ached to see him like this, to see all the fears he thought he’d left behind with his badge rear their ugly heads again, rabid and drooling at the opportunity to send him spiralling once more. Before your daughter was even born he’d considered quitting, worried about the nights away, about playing a passive role in her life at the hands of the job. Even worse, he dreaded the thought of the two of you falling into the hands of danger and meeting a fate he’d seen far too often. You’d tried to reassure him and convince him that would never happen and he believed it, just barely, for a while. But then he was sent to prison.

His anxiety had never quite recovered since. The wounds had definitely begun to heal- thanks to your little girl. He was her best friend in the whole entire world as well as her father. He did everything he could for her, made up for every night he spent across the country with all the bedtime stories and tea parties she could ever dream of. But every time she fell, every time she cried or got hurt you saw it. That little flicker of doubt in his eyes the telltale sign of that little voice in his head telling him this was confirmation that he wasn’t good enough, that he can’t protect her. And it only amplified whenever she called him her hero. He’d been through hell, faced and even experienced death too many times. Yet nothing scared him more than the idea that his perfect little girl would want to follow in his footsteps.

“I was so young when I was recruited by Gideon.” Spencer spoke finally, his whispers barely audible despite the stark silence. “I was directionless. I’d been so focused on caring for my mother I hadn’t given any thought to what I was going to do for myself. I was sold a life I didn’t want and I didn’t realise until it was too late. I can’t in good conscience stand up there and do that to those kids.”

“I know that. I know that Spence, and I wish with everything in me that things could have been different for you. But she doesn’t know that.” You stepped forward, risking taking his hands in yours. “She means well. All she knows is that her daddy saved people.”

“Really?” Spencer recoiled, brows pinching together so tight it looked painful as his hands shot back to his side. “Does she know I almost missed her first birthday because I was in prison? Does she know how many times she could’ve been in danger because of me? How many times I almost didn’t make it home to her at all?”

His mouth opened to speak, but his throat felt glued shut. In an instant he was just a scared little boy grappling to keep things under control. Desperate to take it back, to prove himself right- but nothing came out. Some hero. You watched as he tried to blink back tears, stinging hot and acidic as they pooled in his eyes. A drop escaped despite his efforts, burning a trail down his face before he hastily rubbed it away as fast as it had appeared.

“How can I stand up there and talk about how much of a hero I am when I failed her so many times?”

You pursed your lips, your own eyes threatening to spill as his bottom lip began to tremble. “Stay here for a minute, okay?” You said softly, offering him a gentle kiss on the cheek, right where the tear had stopped, before heading to your bedroom.

After swinging the closet door open, you crouched down and began searching for the worn edges of the box you knew was hidden back there somewhere. You rifled through folded blankets and old sweaters before your fingers finally grazed it, sighing in relief as you dragged it out into the light. You flicked through paper after paper, colourful squiggles and bright paintings shedding glitter into your hands until you found it. It paralysed you for a moment, your eyes locked on the childishly messy handwriting staring back at you before you finally rose to your feet.

When you returned Spencer had collapsed defeated into a chair, his elbows on the table as he cradled his head in his hands. He stirred as he heard your footsteps, an instinct reaction built into him by now. Big wet eyes gazed up at you, fear and insecurity swimming in them, yet they softened at your appearance all the same.

“Found it.” You smiled gently, taking the seat beside him and holding out the card you’d retrieved.

Gingerly he took it, turning it over but not daring to look at your daughter’s message inside. “What’s this for?”

“Do you remember this day?” You pointed to the drawing on the cover.

It was the kind of abstract crayoned piece only a parent could decipher, all wonky lines and uneven proportions- but still the most moving piece he’d seen in a long time. It was him, long limbs and wild hair, holding in his hands a teddy bear. It was white, a polar bear, with a scarf around his neck. Large in Spencer’s doodled hands because that’s how big it appeared in his daughter’s much tinier ones.

“Of course I do.” Despite himself, a wet chuckle escaped him as he thought back. “I drove all the way across town to find that bear after she lost it.”

“Exactly.” You whispered. “She couldn’t stop crying when she realised she’d left him behind. I tried to calm her down and distract her with a different toy, then I said we’d get her a new bear-“

“Rookie mistake.” He winced, shaking his head with a small smile.

“Oh, she started wailing. But then you-“ you poked at his cheek, right where his dimple was beginning to show, “told her you’d go looking for him. You said you weren’t going to come home until you’d searched everywhere. You marked on a map every single place we went that day even if we were only passing through.”

“She was worried sick about him.” Spencer’s shoulders drooped. No matter how long ago it was, the image of his little girl’s tear stained face always hurt him. “She kept saying that he was scared and that he’d think she left him behind on purpose. I had to at least try to find him.”

“And you did.” You traced the scribbly doodle of the bear on the card, knowing she was likely upstairs playing with him as you spoke. “That’s what she means when she calls you her hero. When she says that you save people.”

Spencer fell quiet. He toyed with the edges of the card, something within him still stopping him from opening it and facing his daughter’s heart poured out on the page in her favourite glittery pink pen. Instead he just stared at himself mapped out in crayon, at the smile drawn onto her teddy bears face and the matching one on his.

“Sure she doesn’t fully understand yet.” You spoke up, angling yourself toward him. “She doesn’t know how ugly it was, or how much you got hurt. She doesn’t know how rocky things really were sometimes. But she knows that you went out there and brought her bear home and that you’d do it again in a heartbeat. On some level she knows that that’s what you did at work- you brought families back together.”

“I didn’t always.” He said, voice hollow. “She doesn’t know that.”

“Spence,” you cupped his face in your hand, gently turning him to face you properly, “I know you’re spiralling imagining her growing up and joining the bureau or doing something crazy like that because of you- but that’s not what she wants.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but you cut him off.

“What she wants is to be smart and kind like you, she wants to be the kind of person who makes a difference in people’s lives and does good in the world.” Tucking a stray curl behind his ear, you pressed a kiss to his forehead, smoothing out the crease between his brows. “And she thinks you’re cool and just wants to show you off to her friends.”

He huffed a tiny laugh, but he didn’t smile. “I still don’t think I can do it. So she won’t want to grow up and do what I did, but what if some other poor kid does? I can’t be responsible for that.”

You hummed, letting go of his face and letting his gaze drift back down to the unopened card in his hands. “I think you should talk to her. I think deep down she doesn’t care if you talk about the FBI or about teaching or about some part time job you had when you were sixteen. She just wants everyone to know how much she admires you.”

With a deep breath Spencer let the card fall open, tears springing to his eyes once more. She was always an articulate kid, it comes with the territory of being Spencer Reid’s daughter, and like him she wore her heart on her sleeve when it came to the people she loved. The words blurred on the page as he wiped tears away thinking of the little girl upstairs playing without a care in the world, totally oblivious to the power she had over him.

“I admire her too.” He whispered. The card closed, the teddy bear’s scribbled eyes staring up at him again. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Good.” You smiled, playfully bumping your shoulder against his as you felt him finally relax. “You don’t need to prove how much of a hero you are to those kids. You just need to be her hero.”

Spencer looked up at the picture of her on the fridge, her eyes bright and sparkling as she grinned at him, her cheeks rosy and warm in the sunlight spotlighting her. “I can do that.”

That's how your past five days should've been spent, except your boyfriend had been called in for an unexpected case. He'd been gone on cases before, but either you weren't living with him, or he'd only been gone a couple days; never has long as he'd been away now.

You tried to occupy your thoughts when you were home. Opting to read one of the many books in his apartment, but nothing seemed interesting. Your friends invited you out, but when you got there it was hard for you to have fun without thinking about him. The weekend wasn't any better as you just stayed home all day.

It was like you were a zombie in your body. You'd spent so much time around him and had started to build your life around him to the point nothing felt right without him.

Of course you could call him, and he called you, but it was very rare. The case he was on was consuming all his time. Which left you to lay on the couch waiting for him to call. You would've called him, but you didn't want to bother him while he was working.

Luckily, tonight your phone rang as his contact popped up.

"Hey," you answered, sitting straight up on the couch.

"Hey," he said back.

You hadn't realized how much you missed the sound of his voice till it was back in your ears.

"How's your case?" you asked, settling back onto the couch.

"It's definitely something," he answered, sounding exhausted.

"Are you any closer to catching the guy?"

He paused for a moment, sighing over the phone, "Truthfully, I don't know."

"I don't think I've ever heard you say 'I don't know,'" you teased, trying to stay positive.

It was really getting to you how long it had been since he last saw you.

He let out a much needed chuckle, "I guess even I don't know everything."

"I doubt that," you said, "how were croissants invented?"

"Do you really think I know how croissants were invented?" he questioned as he laughed.

"I know you do," you told him, knowing no matter what you asked he knew the answer.

"Their origin traces back to 13th century Austria where they were known as kipferl, a crescent shaped bread roll," he answered, "but just because I know that doesn't mean I know everything."

"I think it does actually," you argued.

"Fine, ask me something else."

You thought for a moment racking your brain for any weird questions you'd wanted to ask him, or the history of something random.

"How far apart are we right now?"

"2,642 miles," he answered immediately, barely letting you finish your sentence.

You smiled at his answer. Only he would know the exact amount of miles between you at any given time. You wouldn't put it past him to know the exact time it would take him to get home to you once he was on the jet.

There was a moment of silence before he broke it.

"I miss you," he uttered, his voice more gentle now.

"I miss you too," you told him.

"I promise I'll be home the moment I'm done with this case," he promised you.

"What are you going to do, invent teleportation to get here faster?" you teased.

"That's not a bad idea," he joked as you could practically hear him smile.

You giggled at his answer, "That genius brain of yours can do lots of things, but I don't think it can invent teleportation."

"Are you doubting me?" he said, sounding offended.

"It's not doubt, it's the truth," you retorted.

"Didn't you just say I know everything?" he questioned, pointing out your contradiction.

You paused for a moment, trying to find your words.

"I plead the fifth," you finally said.

You could hear him laugh over the phone, making your heart skip a beat. You missed the sound of his laughter filling the apartment. You missed him just being there.

His laughter stopped suddenly as you could hear someone talking to me. He let out an audible sigh before speaking again.

"I have to go," he told you, sounding disappointed he had to hang up the phone.

"Alright," you said, wishing you had more time to talk to him, "will you call me before you get on the plane?"

You asked, since that was probably going to be the next time you could talk to him.

"I will, I promise," he swore, before adding, "I love you."

"I love you too," you said before hanging up the phone.

Suddenly, everything felt too silent. No longer was his voice in your ear, now it was replaced by a dull ringing. The air felt still as you just sat on the couch. You didn't know what to do. You felt like a hollowed out version of yourself. It was as if every bit of who you were was scooped out and replaced with maggots.

Eventually, you decided to just go to bed. The sun hadn't even started to go down, but there was nothing for you to do. There was nothing else you wanted to do.

The empty bed was cold as you laid on your side. You tried just laying down and closing your eyes till you realized that wasn't working. You stared up at the ceiling, trying to decide what to do. You decided to get out of bed and walk over to your shared dresser.

You opened up your boyfriend's drawer, grabbing out one of his sweaters. It was his favorite and smelt entirely just like him. He'd secretly been leaving it at home for moments like this. When you missed him he wanted you to have something to keep you comfort.

You slid the sweater onto your body, wrapping yourself in its warmth. You laid back down onto the bed, this time on his side, breathing in his scent that was still left on his pillow. You wrapped yourself in the blanket, once again closing your eyes. This time sleep came easier than before and you were out like a light.

You didn't know how much time had passed, but sometime in the middle of the night you were awoken. Your eyes slowly fluttered open, adjusting to the dark.

"Hey, I didn't mean to wake you," an all too familiar voice said.

Immediately you recognized it, waking up more at just the sound of him.

"Spence," you said, sleepily, "I thought you weren't getting back till later."

You were sat up in the bed now, while he looked down at you. He'd changed into his pajamas, no doubt trying to get into bed without waking you, but was unsuccessful.

"I didn't think so either," he told you, his voice low and soft, "but right after we got off the phone we caught the guy and were able to come home."

While he explained his mysterious appearance you moved over in the bed, allowing him room to lay down. He swiftly got comfortable on his side of the bed, making the mattress dip from the weight you'd missed.

"You were supposed to call me," you said, pouting.

"I know," he said, looking at you, "but I thought it'd be better to surprise you."

You looked back at him. It didn't feel real that he was back. You thought if you blinked he might disappear, or you'd wake up and it would all be a dream.

"I mean, it's not a bad surprise I guess," you teased, wanting nothing more than to reach over and rest your head on his chest.

"You guess?" he said, copying your pout, "what can I do to make you forgive me?"

You pretended to think for a moment, even though you knew exactly what you wanted.

"I can forgive you, under one condition," you told him, already inching closer.

"What's your condition?"

Instead of answering with words, you instead leaned over, pressing your lips against his. He quickly kissed you back softly. His hands moved up to your waist, supporting your weight as you leaned over top of him. Your hands cupped the sides of his face as you lowered yourself onto his chest. You kept your lips connected, moving in soft motions till you pulled apart.

"I like your condition," he said with a smile, keeping his hands on your waist.

He leaned forward this time, planting an even softer kiss on your lips. You'd missed this, the gentle kisses in the middle of the night. Him holding you like his life depended on it. You stayed kissing till it felt like no time had passed at all.

Once you pulled apart, you laid your head down on him, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck. His arms immediately wrapped around your middle, pressing you against him.

Your eyes started to feel heavy again as you laid there with him.

"I love you," he whispered to you right as you were about to fall asleep, making you question if he really said it or not.

Either way you still mumbled a soft, "I love you too," back as he kissed the top of your head, and you fell into a soft dreamless slumber.

BONUS CONTENT:

"Someone's anxious to get home," Morgan teased.

They were all done with the case and excited to get home, especially Spencer. He hadn't been able to sit still the entire time they'd been on the jet. He'd gone between reading his book, to looking out the window, to staring off into space. All with the same dorky smile on his face. He also hadn't stopped bouncing his leg and fidgeting with his hands the entire time.

"What?" Spencer asked, not fully paying attention to the conversation.

The team chuckled at his reaction.

"Nothing, you just haven't been able to sit still this entire time," Morgan told him, leaning back in his seat.

"Sorry," Spencer apologized, making the face he usually did when embarrased.

"It's fine," JJ told him, "I bet she's missed you too."

"What?" Spencer repeated, this time his ears turning red.

"You've been miserable this entire case cause you haven't been able to see her," Emily pointed out.

Spencer knew it was true, but hadn't expected the team to notice.

"I haven't," he argued, knowing full well he was lying, "and it's normal for someone to miss their partner, especially after being apart for so long."

"There's not much normal about you," Morgan joked, laughing at his own taunt.

"And five days is not that long," Emily added.

Spencer just frowned, "It feels like it," he grumbled, "JJ, did you ever miss Will during long cases?"

She shrugged, "I mean I still do, but I got used to it," she told him, "I know he'll be at home waiting for me."

Spencer just nodded, thinking over her words. He'd missed you and he'd hated every second of it, but part of him didn't want to get used to it. He didn't want to know what it was like to constantly miss you.

He knew the moment the jet landed he'd get home as quick as he possibly could and have you back in his arms. That thought made him smile as he looked out the window of the jet, watching it start to make its descent.

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Your previous assessment turns out to be wrong—the bullpen is empty.

It isn't that you're expecting fanfare when you arrive, but total solitude feels too pointed. A planned statement without a single word uttered.

Elizabeth Prentiss had it drilled in your head that clothes and grooming are the first things people notice about someone, the first shot at making an impression and controlling people's perceptions. It's a lesson you've taken to heart. Not a single hair out of place, shoes gleaming, makeup minimal. Every single inch of you screams effort and maintenance. You are burnished stone, shiny and always ready to face a crowd.

It's all a little embarrassing to be dressed to the nines, and have no audience.

You glance at your phone. Check the date, the time—all correct. You're here earlier than required, but not enough to enter a room without a single soul to greet you. You resist the urge to frown, though the suspicion keeps ringing in your ear. This isn't worth getting wrinkles over, not yet. One phone call to the Section Chief should clarify this—though you think it's way too early in the day to be dealing with Erin Strauss, and you loathe the thought of seeming incompetent—so you swipe through your contacts for her number.

"Oh my gosh, you're here!" a voice comes from your right, too bright and loud for such an hour. "I mean, they said we're getting a transfer, but you're a little early and–oh, this must be so confusing. Hi, I'm Penelope Garcia."

Thank god. You do not want to call Erin first thing in the morning like some sort of lost child seeking comfort from a parent.

A flurry of colors enter your peripheral, and you pocket your phone as you turn. Penelope Garcia. She's tall, click clacking in her stilettos—a vivid pink that matches her lips, quite a stark contrast to your sleek navy ones—and wearing an outfit that would probably get a memo if she didn't work in a department that tends to bypass the smaller bureaucratic rules.

"Hi, Penelope." you muster up some warmth and smile back at your savior. "I can see why the BAU needed me to transfer this year." you gesture around the empty room.

She laughs, and the expression seems to complete her entire look. Vivacious and bright, like sunshine slanting through windows in the spring.

"Oh, you have jokes. We're gonna get along very well. No, the team flew to Colorado last night on an active case."

"I wasn't informed of that."

"I'm sorry, that was supposed to be my job, but it slipped my mind with everything else happening." she ushers you to the staircase, talking a mile a minute. "You get your own office, of course, as the new liaison. It hasn't been cleaned out since JJ became an official profiler— both Hotch and I have our own offices—we filled in the position for time being, but Hotch wants to be more present for his son, and I really can't do it anymore, not with the other tech analyst stuff. So now you're here! We'll have to get the name on this nameplate replaced, of course, and oh my god I totally haven't let you introduce yourself yet."

Your smile falters slightly, but Penelope is too busy rattling the old doorknob to notice. Introductions. Yes. Normally, you carry your name like an honor, volunteer those facts with pride, but the circumstances here are… complicated.

"Don't tell anyone, but I was trying to open your file, but you're like, super secret for some reason. Usually Agent Strauss tells us who the new agent is, but for you it's all sealed." she adds.

For good reason. The door finally opens, releasing a muted scent of must and old paper. Your nose wrinkles in disgust, but you follow Penelope inside without complaint. It's dark and moody, even after she flicks on the light, filled with boxes of old files, probably archival cases. Jennifer Jareau's nameplate sits on the table, covered with a thin layer of dust, and you get an odd sense of intrusion.

You shouldn't be here. You don't belong here. Emily kept it secret from you for a reason and you should keep it that way.

"So, mystery agent, to what name are we changing the sign outside?"

It's almost cartoonish, the consecutive expressions on her face once you finally say your name. Once she catches that damning word—Prentiss. It's a gradual shift, a slow blink of incomprehension, before the similarity registers, her pretty eyes widening in realization. And then, confusion. It would've been funny if you weren't on the receiving end of it.

Penelope Garcia wears every emotion clear as perfectly polished glass. You file that thought away for later.

"Yes, that Prentiss."

You're prepared for it. Have a script memorized for any questions. It doesn't even offend you when Penelope laughs, disbelieving and shrill.

"She never told us she had a… a sister?"

"Emily does have a habit of keeping secrets, doesn't she?" you say lightly, a feeble attempt at humor even though the words feel like nettles clawing up your throat.

Penelope blanches, deflates, and it's an interesting thing to witness, like watching the sun get blocked by a large cloud in real time and feeling the subsequent shade. She flounders, hands waving vaguely by her side, clearly unsure of what to do, how to handle this information that's been unceremoniously dumped upon her.

"How… why?" She finally manages, a fragile whisper drifting in that dusty room. "Who else knows?"

You blink, considering. The answers to that lies with Emily, but you can make guesses. And Penelope's line of questions isn't outright hostile, which is good. You can work with curiosity. That's easy to win over, though no less dangerous. Penelope isn't all cotton candy and rainbows, of that you're certain.

"She's the only person who can answer that." You shrug, and your smile is only slightly strained. "I think Agent Hotchner knows, but I'm not sure and he's not here to confirm."

Penelope nods, taking it all in with a crease between her perfectly plucked brows. "That's… right, of course. Um, so this is your office and—"

She's cut off by a phone call, the identical tune that's programmed into every federal-issued phone. You both reach into your pockets in unison, but it's Penelope who has to answer.

"Garcia… Yes sir," she smiles apologetically and angles her body away.

For the second time today, you feel like you're intruding. Almost like a kid playing dress up, strategically choosing an outfit that excudes confidence and respectability, only for everything to be too big. You smooth your hands over your blazer to reassure yourself it's not the case. It's tailored to perfection, hugging the curve of your waist and flaring slightly at the hips, snug without being inappropriate.

Still, your stomach turns as Garcia murmurs into her phone. You swivel, focusing your attention to the table, running your fingers over the files stacked on a neat pile and pretend not to hear. Penelope's voice is lowered, but she doesn't leave the room, so you really can't be faulted if you catch snippets—murmurs of she just arrived and I'll send it as soon as I can.

"Duty calls?" you say after she says goodbye, glancing over your shoulder.

Penelope nods. "Yes. Unfortunately. But Hotch says you can shadow me while they're gone. I can brief you on the case, if you want?"

Shadowing someone when you're a fully competent agent with a long list of credentials should feel like an insult, a slight to your skills. Maybe if it came from someone else, it would land that way, but Penelope just sounds genuine and slightly nervous.

So you nod. "Lead the way."

You did not expect to spend your first few days in solitude, nor did you expect to be summoned by the Section Chief not even a week into your transfer, yet here you are.

Erin Strauss' office is almost identical to your mother's. Well lit and perfectly kept, with a shelf of impressive books just behind the expensive reclining chair. Credentials framed and hanging proudly on the walls. Upon her desk lays a nameplate bearing her name and title, a telephone, and a neat stack of folders perfectly aligned. A cursory glance tells you nothing of her life outside the Bureau, no pictures of her family, of friends, none of the colorful trinkets that litter Penelope Garcia's office.

Impersonal. Perfectly contained and professional, just like your mother's.

It makes you feel even more on edge.

Your mother's offices, whether it's stationed at home, or across Europe, or the Middle East, were always a place to keep your guard up. There is no telling what invisible flaw will catch Elizabeth Prentiss' keen eyes, or earn her clipped, mildly disproving tone of voice. The Section Chief's office carries the same atmosphere.

In that regard, you feel like you've been trained all your life to face the likes of Erin Strauss.

Poised in your pantsuit and heels, you face her like she's another journalist asking for a statement. Polite neutrality, lips curled in the lightest hint of a smile.

"How are you finding the BAU, Agent Prentiss?" If the familiarity of the name bears any ill feeling, Erin Strauss doesn't show it.

"Well enough, there's really nothing of note so far."

She tilts her head, waiting for more.

"Ma'am, my transfer occurred while they're all on an active case in Colorado. There's not much else to tell you, unless you want to hear about how I've spent the last three days cleaning out Agent Jareau's old office."

Her lips thin, unamused. "I would have hoped you'd made yourself more useful. Your last unit chief sung praises about your initiative."

"I've helped Penelope Garcia contain the online panic, and looked through Facebook—"

"Facebook?"

"Part of the background check." You smile. "I've been helping the team from behind the scenes as much as I can, which is ironic considering my job is to be their public facing representative."

Her shoulders draw back, almost imperceptibly, but you catch it. You always do. Noticing these things come like breathing to you by now. You do not know the section chief well enough to put a name to this shift, but your instincts, honed by years of people watching, tell you Erin Strauss is an administrative agent first and foremost.

Read: she values agents who will play along, who move within the red tape.

Meaning, that straightening of her posture is her offense materializing, and she thinks your comment, no matter how carefully worded it may be, isn't as innocuous as you'd tried to make it sound.

"But I'm learning a lot of valuable insights from Agent Garcia." you add quickly, hoping the save is satisfactory.

"Such as?"

Such as they don't trust you. At all. At least, the few agents who know of your existence—Hotch, who you've only talked to on the phone, and Garcia, who is kind but acts skittish when there are lulls in the case and she's forced to socialize with you. You can't blame either of them, considering your identity, and the circumstances of your abrupt transfer. Fuck's sake, who assigns a new agent to a team while they are in an entirely different state?

None of this had been your fault. You've been caught by the red tape too—you'd requested this transfer last year, when Emily still worked with the team, but for whatever reason, they delayed and kept you stuck in the California office. Your mother had warned you about that—she had less sway in the west coast—but at the time, all you had wanted was to get as far away from the Prentiss legacy as you can.

But the BAU is too busy to care about specifics. And even if they weren't, you know the wound is still too fresh. Emily coming and going—dying, but surprise! not really— carrying secrets the whole time.

Terrorists. Espionage. You.

No, you definitely don't blame the team for their distrust.

But Section Chief Strauss is looking for an answer, and that feels too personal to divulge.

"Such as the growing degree of these new social media websites in relation to serial killing. Platforms like Facebook and Twitter make it easier to map victimology, track social circles and routines. So many people volunteer the information online, in ways that would take investigators week to uncover decades ago." you reply instead, deliberately keeping the topic about work.

"That can't be all you're learning from this."

You resist the urge to sigh. "Not necessarily, but a victim's social media presence offers access to a lot of things. I'm not learning anything necessarily; I'm helping out. Garcia's workload is only going to increase with all these new websites, after all."

"Interesting." But Erin Strauss sounds the complete opposite of interested. The word slips out absentminded. Unimpressed.

Your ears prick at that sound. The slow drag of syllables, the flat tone. You've heard it one too many times; in your world, it indicates the beginning of criticism. What you could improve, how poorly you're doing. For a fleeting moment, Erin Strauss morphs into your mom and suddenly you're sixteen and sobbing from anxiety.

You blink. Clear your throat. The woman in front of you is not your mother, and you fixate on the graying strands of Strauss' hair, silver melting into blonde, to keep your focus.

She's waiting for something; people in positions like to do this—drop hints, let the silence stew until it grows so unbearable the subordinate slips. Talks without an objective and stumbles into whatever is needed from them. A secret? A confession, maybe?

You can tell Erin Strauss is good at this game. Has the patience and cool authority to circle around it, stare you down for hours, if necessary. Unfortunately for her, your job is quite literally meant for this.

"Very interesting indeed, ma'am." You smile, syrupy and bright.

She gives up. "Has anyone mentioned Agent Prentiss?"

Ah. A name, then, and perhaps a story attached. No matter where you go, Prentiss carries a significance.

Your smile doesn't waver, though your brows furrow innocently, projecting a sense of confusion. You aren't above taking advantage of these social dynamics; Director Strauss clearly relishes in her power, though she would never flex it explicitly.

"Nothing beyond the usual surprise, though I must reiterate they're on an active case, and I haven't met the rest of the BAU yet. Besides, Emily has transferred, I don't understand why she's relevant to my work with this team." You say, blinking like a helpless baby deer.

She makes a sound that's half sigh, half groan. Director Strauss' next words are careful, but impatient, as if she's speaking to a dolt. "She's relevant because this unit has experienced difficulties regarding… personal loyalties."

There it is. It is easy to ignore the borderline patronizing tone that colors her voice when she plays right into your hand and reveals information like this. Personal loyalties? What on earth could that mean? Beyond what happened with Doyle, had Emily done anything else? Had the other members?

"And you're making sure I won't become another one?"

Strauss says nothing, but that's answer enough. So this team is loyal, perhaps to a fault, but Strauss isn't just worried about that—she wants to information. About the team. Perhaps from a fresh set of eyes.

You could almost respect it, if she'd say it outright.

"By all means, ma'am, be blunt and tell me what exactly you're looking for so I can give you better answers the next time you decide to check in." you say.

Erin Strauss looks caught, both by your audacity, and the unexpected call out. Her mouth parts, then clamps shut, a little like a fish, before her gaze sharpens like steel.

"I am not looking for anything."

"My apologies, then. For a moment, I was worried you got the wrong sister. Emily's the one trained in espionage, not me."

You wait for the subsequent chill, for the air to grow cold. Instead, Erin Strauss huffs, frustrated but… amused.

"You're just like you're sister."

You bite back a smile. Better Emily than your mother.

"Most people seem to mean that as a criticism."

For the first time since entering the office, Strauss' mouth twitches into something resembling a smile. "Merely an observation. And maybe a warning—your name inevitably carries assumptions, agent. This team might embrace you for it, but that loyalty usually comes at a cost."

The team does their best to welcome you, considering the circumstances. At their arrival, there's confusion and betrayal stitched into their very being, stiffening their handshakes and freezing their cheeks so their smiles never quite reach their eyes. It's all so awkward you find yourself thinking Strauss is wrong—your family name isn't making them embrace you. It's acting more like a wall, involuntarily erected and keeping you away from certain members of the team.

Alex Blake has it easy. She receives you with open arms, aware of the history but detached enough to evade the awkwardness. She's kind and warm, but is close enough to your mother in age that you're always half expecting some form of criticism to fall from her lips whenever she asks your opinion over something—usually language related, her field of expertise. Nothing ever does; in fact, she seems eager to know your thoughts, engages in your ideas with genuine curiosity. It always takes you by surprise. You are always braced for the ball to drop, ramrod straight and perfectly polished, just in case her eyes wander to your hair, or a smudge in your make up.

David Rossi just seems happy you know they have a new liaison. Told you that job drove poor Garcia to tears, like he's warning you about the horrors you're about to face. Once in a while, a syllable slips and you know Emily's name was at the tip of his tongue. Instead, he shifts and calls you kid like you're 23 and green, instead of someone with years of experience under your belt. Somehow, the word never drips with condescension, and the familiarity with which he says it tells you he probably called your sister the same thing. At some point, you begin to welcome it.

With Derek Morgan, things get a little complicated. He looks at you like he's looking for traces of Emily, but he's not sure if he actually wants to find them. Some days, it seems like the similarities—your manner of speaking, the sharp intellect, the obvious rich kid background—gives him relief. Even brings a fond smile on that handsome face, however reluctant it may be. Other days, he can't look you in the eye, choosing to address the files in front of him instead of you, as if even a glance is risky. Part of you understands; your presence is not only new, it is secrecy personified. Emily's mysterious past made even worse. You don't push. You value workplace dynamics over being fully accepted, and if this is the inch he's willing to give, then you'll be content. For now.

And your predecessor. JJ, trained in communications and appearances, and you can tell she was good at her job because you can't quite get a read on her. She spent an entire year fooling her teammates, so every interaction with her is tainted with layers of this knowledge. You never know if anything she says is genuine. Or perhaps it's your resentment manifesting as distrust. She knew your sister was alive. If her feelings mirror yours—after all, Emily trusted JJ with her "death," but still kept her little sister a secret—she doesn't show any hint of it. Every interaction with JJ is warm, if a little awkward, and you can never tell if it's because she's smoothed over the rough edges, or if they were never there to begin with. Maybe the problem lies only with you.

Spencer Reid doesn't have a social life. At least, that's what you've concluded from the short amount of time you've spent here. He stays in the bullpen almost as late as you do, but somehow manages to avoid you entirely. It's easy to do, considering you spend the evenings holed up in the liaison's office, and he's always bent over paperwork—Rossi's and Morgan's, never his own. According to Penelope, it's a playful arrangement between them, though Spencer never tells you about it. Never tells you anything, really. He doesn't talk to you unless it's directly related to the job, so everything you know about Spencer is from observation. Gangly and smart—the type to make you know it, too, with his constant statistical tangent and information dumps, aka unbearable. Currently, his avoidance means you've never had to be on the receiving end of his rambles, of which you are thankful.

"How were your first three weeks so far?" Aaron Hotchner's office is surprisingly more homey than the Section Chief's had been—pictures of his son on the desk, a couple more family pictures displayed proudly on the shelf behind him. Ironically, it feels more imposing, but that might have more to do with Hotch's presence than the decor.

If you opened the dictionary and looked for the word 'impassive' you're almost certain a picture of Hotch is provided there instead of a linguistic definition. But maybe you just haven't learned to read him yet. That'll come with time. So far, he's made no mention of Emily, but talked about your mother, which is so much more embarrassing. It seems like you're stuck chasing away the shadows of two impressive women before you, and doomed to fail no matter what you do.

"It's been going well, sir. I think I'm adjusting to your team's rhythm."

"Our."

"Sorry?"

"Our," Hotch looks up from the file. His eyes are pitch black, but warm. "You're part of this team now too."

"Right. I'm adjusting to our team's rhythm." When you smile, it's not forced. Hotch is perhaps the last person you expected to accept you explicitly, but the relief it carries breaks past your usual politeness. Still, Erin Strauss' voice lingers in the back of your head like a broken record. This team might embrace you for it, but that loyalty usually comes at a cost. Any efforts to silence it is futile.

Your new chief responds with a friendly nod.

"And yes, I'm inclined to agree. The request for your own nameplate should come in today." Hotch says, thumbing through a file one his desk. "Along with that, I think you're ready to take over fielding the cases on your own."

You blink; the only reaction you allow yourself to express. He and Garcia had been easing you into the job, allowing you to handle the older cases—closed ones, some needing follow ups and check ins—while they taught you the ins and outs of going through the newer reports that come in. What you need to look out for—not just victimology, but time frames and geographic patterns. Cases involving children get prioritized, but only if there's an existing pattern, otherwise they get redirected to ViCAP. While it's true that you've slipped into the team's rhythm near seamlessly, you hadn't expected them to give you full reign after only a couple of weeks.

"If you're certain, sir, then I would be more than willing to do it." Your back straightens even more, if that's possible.

"I am. Your work prior to this unit has been exemplary, and I'm allowed to overrule the probation period on account of the skills you've shown. And you've been doing a good job, agent, I see no reason to keep you under our supervision."

You nod, "Thank you sir. Honestly, I was beginning to think Garcia was going to lock me in her techno cave to start organizing her glitter pen collection."

Hotch's mouth curls up for a fleeting second, but vanishes before it becomes a full smile. "Garcia knows not to waste your skills on her collection, as expansive as it is."

A stack of files slide towards you, teethering comically from the action. "I trust that you'll choose with vigilance and care. It's easy to get overwhelmed by the cases that come in, but quantity does not always dictate urgency."

"That's noted, sir." With a last nod, you rise and step out of his office. Your heart pounds, but you're unsure if it's from nerves or excitement. Likely both. Likely both, and then some. Because as you leave Hotch's office, you catch Spencer and JJ, heads bent together like they're sharing a conspiracy, take one glance at you and jump apart.

Your smile is plastic. Erin Strauss' words ring in your head, louder this time, as you lock yourself in your office.

series masterlist.

He looks entirely out of place among the mini plastic chairs and colored alphabet rugs. He's clutching a leather satchel and his hazel eyes wide as he takes in the vibrant noisy room. Behind him stands Penelope Garcia, beaming in a bright green blazer, practically buzzing with excitement.

"Hi, everyone!" Garcia sings out, waving out her hands enthusiastically. "We're from the FBI!" A collective "ooooh" from the kids makes you smile.

You stand up, brushing a stray speck of yellow glitter off your dress, and smile. "Welcome! Class, this is Miss Garcia and Special Agent Reid. They're here for Career Day to tell us how they help keep people safe."

Spencer clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks down at a stack of flashcards in his hand. "Uh, actually, Miss Garcia is a Technical Analyst, not a field agent. And my title is Supervisory Special Agent, though-"

"He's a super-brain spy, kids," Garcia cuts in smoothly, throwing an affectionate arm around Spencer's shoulders. "And he's very excited to be here."

Spencer flushes, his eyes darting to you. "Uh.. yes. I brought visual aids."

You can't help the soft laugh that escapes you. "Well, Agent Reid, the floor is yours. Why don't you sit right here?" You gesture to the only available seat near the font - a bright yellow plastic chair.

Spencer stares at the tiny chair for a long second. You can practically see his brain calculating how his six foot one frame is going to fit. With extreme care, he folds his long legs and you bring a fist against your mouth to prevent from spilling out a laugh.

A little boy named Clyde scoots closer to him. "Mister policeman," You're quick to gently remind your students to call adults using their appropriate title names.

"Clyde, his name is Agent Reid, I think he would rather be called that." You bend down to meet his height. Spencer's hand touches your shoulder and it startles you a bit.

"I'm so sorry for scaring you, but it's totally fine," he says your name, keeping his stare on you for a bit before Penelope clears her throat. You stand up and move to the side to let him guide the class.

"Go ahead, Clyde." Spencer smiles at him, his hands clasped together as he leaned towards him. You were certain he was going to fall off the tiny chair if he moved even a little bit closer.

"What does FBI mean?" His little hands going up to his face, squishing his cheeks upwards that made it more chubby than it actually is. "FBI means the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was actually founded in 1908 by Attorney General Charles Bonaparte. What's more interesting is he was the grandnephew of Napoleon. Bonaparte."

You intervene gently, hoping you weren't being rude to interrupt his question and answering moment. You offer Spencer a sympathetic smile before talking to him. "They might want to hear a little bit about what you do everyday, Spencer. In kids terms, just to make it easier for them to understand."

Spencer blinks, his eyes locking onto yours. The look of panic from his furrowed eyebrows melts into something softer at your comforting tone. He swallows hard and nods.

He puts his flashcards away in his satchel. "Well, my job is like solving a big puzzle. Imagine you come into the classroom and someone took the goldfish crackers. I look at the clues left behind, it could be crumbs on the table or a footprint in the sandbox. To figure out who took it, I use my brain to help people who are lost or scared."

A little girl with pigtails raised her hand. "Mister policeman, do you have a badge?"

"I do." Spencer carefully pulls his FBI credentials from his jacket pocket, holding it out. A dozen tiny hands instantly reach out to poke the gold seal. He doesn't pull away, instead a smile forms on his face as he watches their eyes light up with wonder and excitement.

"Do you a carry a juice box in your bag?" another child asks, pointing to his satchel. "No, mostly books and case files," Spencer replies, his voice drops to a gentle tone he gets when he's comfortable. "But did you know that reading books actually changes the way your brain works? It creates new pathways, which makes you better at solving puzzles."

For the next twenty minutes, Spencer completely captivates the room. He manages to explain behavioral analysis through the lens of sharing toys and understanding feelings. Garcia watches from the back, leaning against the cubbies with a soft, knowing smirk on her face as she looks between you and Spencer.

When it's time for them to go, the children groan in unison. "Alright, friends, let's give a big thanks to Agent Reid and Miss Garcia," you lead, and the classroom erupts into a chorus of high-pitched thank yous.

"Thank you Mister Policeman and Miss Garcia!" Even though you said 'Agent Reid', they still called him that.

Spencer awkwardly but carefully lifts himself out of the tiny chair, smoothing down his tie. Garcia gives you a quick, warm hug. "You are an angel for handling this many tiny humans daily. I'm leaving Spencer's card on your desk. For.. legal verification of our visit. Obviously." She winks, entirely unsubtle, and heads for the door.

He stands still behind you, his satchel slung over his shoulder. He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit you've quickly learned to recognize.

"You were amazing with them," you say, stepping closer to him. "Not many people can switch from serial killer statistics to a goldfish cracker concept that quickly."

Spencer's cheeks turn red again, a soft smile turns up at his lips. "Thank you. I was significantly more intimidated by them. They're unpredictable, but you're incredible at what you do. The patience and emotional intelligence required to manage a classroom of this development stage is amazing."

'Well, it helps when I have FBI agents dropping by to assist," you tease softly. Spencer's breath catches slightly, his eyes dropping to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes. "I, uh.. Garcia wasn't lying about the card. It has my personal cell phone number on the back. In case you have any follow up questions about federal law enforcement or... anything else."

"I might just have a few questions." you give him a warm smile. He gives you a small smile, his dimples showing. "I look forward to answering them."

With one last look, he turns and walks out the door, tripping slightly over a plastic building block on his way out. He recovers with a quick embarrassed wave. You watch him go, walking back to your desk to put away the card in your purse and heading towards the front of the classroom to see your kids giving you cheeky smiles.

pre-school teacher!reader masterlist | masterlist

back at the police department, when the team gathered around the makeshift conference room with no AC, he swore he could feel his braincells decompose. there was no way he was making it to the end of the day in that lifesize oven.

this is why he practially jumped up when hotch sent him on the hunt for a particular book. some obscure science fiction novel he must've mumbled about in a heat caused haze.

at least he got to be outside.

the first bookstore he saw was the one that caught his eye.

a few blocks near the park, between a coffee shop and a vintage store, was a ridiculously old building that looked straight out of an animated movie. the bricks were cream colored, hidden behind leaves of ivy and numerous flower pots that were somehow surviving the heatwave.

he was glad to have a reason to go in.

usually, he drove past bookstores and libraries he dreamed to visit in the black sedan, and could only promise himself he'd go once the case was over, which almost never happened.

the little bell above the wooden door made a clear noise when he pushed it open, stepping into the cozy atmoshpere. the first thing that hit him was the freshness of the air - slightly smelling of the distinct scent of books he loves so much, and a hint of something sweeter.

lavender, maybe. he too, a look around.

it wasn't too vast of a space, but the aisles weren't narrow either. rather welcoming, inviting, books on the shelves stacked just right in a way that scratched his neurodivergent brain.

naturally, he felt compelled to profile the person who owned the place.

his eyes roamed over the titles of the books as he took a couple of steps further. the titles were highlighted by the giant windows, that bathed the store in sunlight. yet, the temperature was more than delightful.

"looking for anything in particular ?"

someone said right behing him.

it took him a moment to realize the saccharine words were destined to him. he was the only one to be book shopping of all things, on this blazing day.

"i'm just looking around, thank y-" he turned to face her and gesture the shelf in front of him - the book he was searching for on full display - but froze.

she was beautiful, the girl standing before him.

suddenly, the outside heat felt like nothing compred to the one spreading on his cheeks, shades of pink matching those of her flowy sundress. it almost reached the floor, cascading down your hips where the fabric hugged her skin.

staring, he was staring. get a grip, reid.

"yes, actually." the lie came out smoother than intended. good, a semblance of dignity in front of such an ethereal presence was all he hoped for. "is that... the fiction aisle ?"

"yes, all the way to that shelf over there" she pointed to the opposite side, her smile rather amused than anything.

real smart, genius.

for someone who was searching for a book, he didn't make it sound like he even knew how to read. the sign just above his head listed the different sections of the bookstore, how pathetic.

she added kindly, her hand smoothing the fabric of the dress - the dress of the undoing. "but we also have a vast selection of non-fiction books over there, and a little cafe area"

"o-okay."

"if you need something fresh to cool down, or..." she shrugged, and it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen. kindness radiated out of her so easily, he wanted to say yes desperately.

or at least to say something, anything.

but on top of forgetting how to read, he'd also seemed to have lost his speaking abilities.

so he did what perhaps was the most insensitive thing to do and grabbed the book from the shelf, muttering something along the lines of a poorly enunciated thank you before heading to the checkout.

sliding behind the counter, their fingers brushed when she took it from him gently, giving him the change in return.

"you'll like it," she spoke, carefully placing it in a brown paper bag. "it's not my favorite genre, but the plot unfolds pretty nicely."

he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and manages to say.

"not mine either, really. it's for scientific purposes, but i usually stick to classics or true crime novels"

"me too !!" she says enthusiastically.

as he took the bag from her, it appeared to him that small talk might be the closest thing he'd ever get from her, and suddenly regreted the way he dismissed her out of nervousness.

"this place is nice,"

she looks up, smiling at the compliment. not bad, he thinks, does he sound too eager ?

"thanks you, i’ve been working here for a while... not alone, usually, but it’s hard to attract people with that heat”

“not for you,” he answers, instantly biting his lip.

“what ?”

attract as in interest, in books. shoot, the haze in his mind was completely unlike anything he’d ever experienced and made him stupid.

“i mean, uh… you’re great. a great salesperson, basically. you’ve got the social cues down”

she let out a genuine chuckle, closing the cash register as the coins clinked.

“don’t you ?”

“no, not really…" he hints at in a bashful tone, slightly shifting positions to lean against the counter in an attempt to appear nonchalant.

the rays of the sun are filtering through the glass, hues of gold spreading around her, reminding him of an angel's halo. bright is the smile she gives him, the magnetic field around her promting him to get closer, closer.

"there's nothing wrong with choosing books over people, trust me" she says as she hands him the bag.

"less disappointing"

he nods, brain too focused on how they almost touched for the second time today. outside, the hot weather is almost nagging him, knowing he'll have to rush back to the police station. spend his day locked in yet another enclosed office, bathing in the discomfort of his own sweat and loneliness.

but he should be getting going.

so, reluctantly, he disappears with an ironic sound of the silver bell as the door closes.

every step he takes is unsure and reluctant, as if his body contemplated betraying him by turning back around. the urge was too strong, similar to the desire he felt to be near you, the scent of sugar and roses you emanated.

except the bell rings not too long later.

you had barely found the time to catch your breath - that had been taken away by the handsome boy on aisle three earlier this morning, the only person in the whole town who’d actually thought it would be smart to come here today of all days - that the sharp sound was heard again, pulling you out of your daydreams.

rays of sunlight hit your eyes, his figure appearing like a mirage in the light.

“you’re back,” you exhaled breathlessly.

quickly, you got up from the shelf you were rearranging. kids picture books, sorted by themes instead of colours.

“i’m back,” he said at the same time.

your brows met halfway, nerves wracking. surely, you couldn’t have spent so much time reading under your breath, nostalgic about your favourite childhood book.

a gasp escaped from your lips.

“you didn’t like the book ? no. it was the wrong one ? what’s wrong ? i forgot the change ?”

shy stranger chuckled again, a sound you couldn’t get enough of. “no, it was the right book and you got everything right.”

“then what ?”

frankly, you could’ve forgotten a dollar or two. it happened often when your preference for literature over maths showed. or when a handsome client with eyes of gold showed up.

“actually… i finished it.”

somehow, he looked bashful.

like it was a truth he hated to admit, disguising the unique parts of him under a joking tone he didn’t quite master. crossing the store to approach you tentatively as if you were in the middle of something, his eyes never left yours.

“the book ?”

“yes, the book.”

stupid question. and incredibly intelligent man, or so it seemed.

his mouth opened once before he spoke, gathering the whirlwind of thoughts as they rushed through his mind.

“twenty thousand words per minute. that’s my usual reading speed,” he explains, like it’s the most natural thing ever.”

“if you minimise factors such as the environment or time of the day. usually, my brain is more active in the early morning.”

you nod along.

“so,” in an attempt to understand, you put your hands on your hips. the little dimple on your right cheek is probably showing, you think. it always does when you’re intrigued.

he almost stares, you notice before he says again.

“so, i was wondering if you had any recommendations. you said classics, right ?”

classics.

jane austen, dostoevsky, maybe some hugo or brontë. the energy he brought felt like a calm breeze, a yearning soul perhaps. looking at his hazel eyes and tall frame felt like discovering a puzzle part you didn't know was missing.

oh, you had plenty of suggestions for him. questions too popped up in your mind as he leaned against the shelf, tilting his head in silent obsrvation.

caramel curls were sticking to his temples, rebelling from the way they'd carefully been pushed back earlier.

he took the silence as an opportunity to ask, round eyes pleaing. "you said something about fresh drinks ?"

the world seemed to stop when you giggled, his inner thermostat skyrocketing.

that's what it was.

it was the expression on your face he wanted to decipher.

your thoughts that he truly wanted to read.

"sure, i'll get you some iced tea" flowing dress creating a delicate movement at every step, you made your way to the coffee station.

"right, i'll just... wait here"

books, fresh air, you. eveerything here seemed perfect, he never wanted to leave, followed you after a couple of seconds as if a magnetic force had pushed him to.

the rest would just have to wait.

౨ৎ if you liked this, try reading you're in my way now

a really awfully good looking guy who had once blushed at your words when you rode the elevator with him and filled the silence by complimenting his thesis.

of course you knew who he was.

if he were to step a foot on in your department, you were pretty sure applause would echo off the walls. this guy had done more fore crime solving using linguistics than your entire team ever had, and his endless knowledge sort of terrified you.

and maybe since then, he'd started to use the east wing elevator abnormally often. and maybe you'd exchanged numbers. for the sole purpose of keeping eachother in the loop during important cases, of course.

and maybe you were tired today because you'd spent all night exchanging texts, and your brain was beginning to turn into mush from the hours of sleep it'd been denied in the previous weeks.

all because of the boy who stood on the other side of the room from you right now, with his arms crossed and brows knit together while he listened to something the unit chief was saying.

"the unsub we're looking for seems to be leaving hidden messages on the crime scenes," agent hotchner explains, not bothered in the least by the number of people hanging onto his every word.

then, he adds.

"the letters have been collected, and as of now they're our primary focus. we believe an in-depth analysis might help us with the profile."

all around the bullpen, the air was charged.

agents taking notes while the team just stood there, shoulders high and gazes unwavering, like a silent affirmation of their superiority.

you wouldn't have appreciated it, the condescendance lingering in the air, aiming to make you and your colleagues feel somewhat impressed.

not if it wasn't for spencer.

the boyish brunette who was leaning against a desk - his desk you presumed, based on the precise alignement of the books displayed - whose eyes on you could be felt from miles away.

prentiss spoke up next, arms crossed in authority.

"with this guy, danger is imminent. he's escalating, and that's why we called the IB. we need more experts on the case."

something the woman said didn't quite register in your mind, your attention focused on keeping your gaze away from spencer.

a blonde one you recognized as penelope led you to the conference room, and you simply followed like a stray puppy yearning to get his owner back.

no one needed to know.

not as the team gathered around the round table, specifically asking you to join the meeting in hopes of receiving your expertise. in the room of qualified profilers trained to spot miscalculated glances and fleeting touches, with eyes like lasers piercing through the illusion of lies, you had to pull yourself together.

spencer made it a difficult task.

“i was thinking i could quickly go through all the letters the unsub wrote to try to find a pattern. i'd just need access to the archive room to find old files, i've worked through a similar case before.”

quick words, evidently suggested like he’d invented the alphabet himself. you almost smiled when you remembered something he said two days ago, in that exact same nonchalant tone.

“studies prove key elements such as sharp angles, uneven pressure or stilted writing can reveal traits linked to psychopathy." he adds, apparently finding the watch around his wrist more interesting than you, sitting across from him.

hotch asserted himself once more.

"actually, the bureau wanted the input of a real language analyst for this task," he said, sharp jaw nodding in your direction. the focus in the room shifted on you as he said your name.

the smile you gave felt forced, pressured by the half a dozen pair of eyes on you. only one made your heart beat faster for all the wrong reasons, and they belonged to the one who knew you as more than a name on a badge, a piece of chess in the game.

"morgan, you'll help her with the profiling. everyone else, i need you on the field"

morgan ?

the man in question gave you a welcoming grin, and though you were hoping for someone else, you nodded in return. for some reason you swore you heard spencer swallow, adam's apple sticking out, and you felt your a slight pinch of something that almost tasted like disappointment.

you weren't a profiler.

you couldn't have known - and he was grateful for that - that the reason he kept his gaze down and hands to himself came from an irrational part of his brain he didn't know existed.

the one that was jealous.

so he gathered his files and abruptly got up, leaving you with morgan as the rest of the team headed back to work, without even looking back.

turns out the dark skinned man had more to himself than flirtarious smiles. you two worked side by side all morning and he helped you delve into the files.

and before you knew it, you'd managed to keep spencer in the back of your mind for hours.

at lunchtime, while snacking on a granola bar, you caught yourself rambling about the meaning of commas in the unsub's letters. your excitement was contagious.

"gee," derek laughed, cutting you off with a chuckle to remind you he couldn’t keep up.

"you're like a female version of reid or something."

you stopped chewing. looked up, alerted. attempted to wipe away some unwanted crumbs and dreamy grin that had appeared on your lips a little too naturally.

"i'll take that as a compliment."

"trust me, pretty girl" he said, giving you a reassuring wink that might've led you to think he knew more than he let on, "that's a compliment."

the door opened.

he stared. spencer.

files in his hands and mouth opened like he was about to say something but lost all ability to form proper words when he heard the exchange. you felt your hands tighten around the empty plastic wrapper.

morgan’s head turned towards you, then reid.

the tension was painfully obvious, he’d heard the last two sentences and that was already more than enough. a little too interested in the newbie to realise his friend was just being welcoming.

“i was just coming here to say we found a new body with another note displayed on the crime scene,” spencer spoke after what felt like ages. he still didn’t look at you.

“-but i guess you’ll do a great work without it, since you make such a great team.”

morgan whistled, attempting to ease the tension with yet another uneeded comment.

“woah, someone’s jealous.”

with a friendly pat on spencer’s very much tense arm, he left, leaving you and your male copycat in a very awkward situation.

suddenly, the conference room felt smaller.

the space, tight. tighter than the shirt sticking to your skin you suddenly felt trapped in. droplets of sweat clung to the back of your neck and you kept your chin down, eyes piercing through the documents laid out on the table.

he didn’t move, not until he cleared his throat and closed the door behind him. “i didn’t know your intention was to befriend the whole BAU," he snarked.

"i didn't know you had such a problem with me being in your life."

your sharpness made him flinch. daring words, toying with the feeling in his heart he was too much of a coward to properly name. nobody he'd ever met had acted this way towards him. with brutal honesty, confronting him with raw emotions he'd be tempted to conceal.

spencer's eyes were locked onto yours when you spoke. he looked vulnerable in this light, but the anger bubbling beneath his ribs didn't stop him from saying.

"i- that's not what i meant" he stuttered, looking both confused and indignated.

you'd pushed your chair out of the way to get up, almost reaching his height now. there was no escape from this conversation - and you'd very much rehearsed it in your mind anyway. now was time for the real deal.

"i think you did,"

of course, in your head, it wouldn't happen here, out of all places. feelings didn't match well with your work, and now in the conference room was far from the appropriate time.

"i think you're jealous" you affirmed with confidence, crosing your arms to prove your point, "jealous of the fact that i was assigned the task, and that derek had to supervise and not you."

gee, even hearing you call him by his first name made him boil.

"m’not jealous. i have three PhDs”

you laughed. indeed, even with academic degrees up his sleeves, he could still be very oblivious.

“not of the case, idiot.”

he knew what you meant.

and paused. swallowed again.

you bit your lip in waiting, almost facepalming yourself at the honesty of your words - you got that way when you were nervous. and you were really nervous now.

“i don’t think i’ve ever been jealous before.” he said, to himself more than you.

never had he encountered someone to be jealous of. he had the brains, the world seemed to like him. see something even he couldn’t sometimes. he was never jealous of the living because he spent most of his time in a world of his own.

and then he met you.

“there’s a first time for everything” you said with a reassuring smile, much softer now. time for trust, trusting someone and allowing them to see behind the illusion. for love, and letting someone in.

barely blinking, your mesmerising eyes are deeply focused on his now.

“i don’t think i liked it, though.”

“being jealous ?”

he nods, admitting. “you’re smart. and so good at what you do, i swear you made the room light up when you walked in.”

the distance between your bodies fades as he takes another step towards you. he nervously talks with his hands.

“and you could be a profiler !” he lets out, “i’ve never met anyone from another department who has enough talent to hypothetically join a higher rank and willingly refuses to even think about it.”

your lips part, a silent gasp.

“and it just hurts to see you here- here with everyone being so…”

the curious angle of your head makes him smile when you question. “so what ?”

“so perfect !”

it almost pains him to admit it. that the beauty you exude makes him ache, tugging at his sensitive heartstrings more often than he’d like to admit. when the elevator door close, or late at night while staring at his phone in hopes of engraving the pixels or your texts in his brain, he admires the closest to perfection the universe has ever created.

you.

"spencer," you let out in an amused giggle. "i'm not interested in your friends. or your job, for that matter."

he puffs some air into his cheeks, bashful. "i know. my brain just... likes to stop working when you're around, or something."

right, or something. with a playful nudge of the arm, you add.

"i am interested in you, though"

his eyes widen, pupils dilating. the little amount of oxygen left in the room is enough to make him slightly choke, which he covers by his hand. germ thing, sure.

"in me ?"

"yeah." someone has to say it, and you will if it means putting an end to the wrenching state of not knowing what you are. "-if you are, that is. unless i completely misunderstood the situation and you're actually jealous of my linguistics diploma-"

he calls your name, almost offended "i speak four languages !"

"i speak five. not that we're counting"

no bother mentionning you're also learning two. he's overwhelmingly close to you, and the smell of his cologne makes you melt little by little.

he utters quietly. "see ? perfect."

there's not exactly much he could do to make this conversation better. like, better than any debate you had over the phone, and yet he adds.

"i really am interested. and i'd like to see you sometimes... outside of work"

"and the elevator"

he laughs. a genuine sound you could get drunk on, and with a rush of adrenaline, reaches forwards to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"just us. on a date. no work and no elevators involved, i promise"

jealousy looked good on him, earlier when he came in with clenched fists and a dark gaze. but nothing, no other expression could match the one he was wearing on his face. pools of hazel softened around the edges, spencer looked truly enamored.

and that ? that looked even better.

“Ugh!”

Spencer jumped as you all but threw your heavy bag on the chair, and ripped off your coat, huffing like an angry rhino. Your shirt was wrinkled, hair falling out of its normally pristine updo, and the entire cuff of your right pant leg looked to be soaked. In what, Spencer couldn’t tell; what he, and any passerby, could tell, was that you were not in a very good mood this fine February morning. Spencer hesitated, glancing nervously across the way at Derek, who shrugged, but didn’t look particularly keen to cross your path.

Spencer was torn. He had always been rather taken with you, and found you incredibly difficult to read as a result of that. It seemed his schoolboy affections clouded his normally sharp mind and observational skills, as Emily would say, slashing his IQ of 187 down to 60. He found himself equally eager to talk to, be around you, listen to you, as he was terrified at saying the wrong thing. Over the years you’d worked together, however, it became easier to chat, and the two of you had found a comfortable friendship. 

You were snippy, direct, confrontational, with a sense of humor that rivaled Emily’s in dryness, yet you also cared deeply for those close to you. It had been hard to tell, at first, for Spencer at least, whether or not you liked the group. But over time, they had come to understand the little things, the things you did to show you cared without saying it outloud.

You brought Rossi expensive bottles of Italian wine, the real stuff (i.e. Rossi approved) on his birthdays, and never failed to entertain his ramblings, being something of a wine connoisseur yourself. After a particularly hard case, you would sit next to Derek on the plane with your own headphones on, knowing exactly when he needed quiet company, space, or a listening ear. You almost always let Emily drag you out when she was desperate, nevermind your disdain for the loud, sticky, sweaty clubs she frequented.

While quiet around those you weren’t too comfortable with, you could yap up a storm, something you always did with Penelope, no matter how tired. You always made yourself available when she needed to vent, and had a lifetime of pop culture knowledge to gossip with, and the second JJ felt the burnout, you were right at her side, rocking baby Henry to sleep like a pro so that she and Will could have a night to themselves. With the ever stoic Hotchner, you appeared to have a special place in his heart, one that allowed you to float above the rougher, less pleasant aspects of his personality, and the only one brave enough to put your foot down when he was behaving badly.

Then there was Spencer. You had never once made him feel unwanted, or stupid. Sure, you teased him, but with a gentle touch the others didn’t have, that comforted him. You teased everyone, it came naturally to you (“I grew up with an older brother, what do you want me to do?” you would always say whenever someone hassled you about it) but you took special care with Spencer. Your voice would soften, every jab accompanied with a sweet smile, or goodhearted chuckle. He could feel your protective gaze sweep over him, pick him out of the group and check that he was okay, with the simplest of glances.

You never made him feel weird, knew exactly where to toe the line, and took him seriously. You carried hand sanitizer everywhere, an extra pair of sunglasses, or a tube of sunscreen, watching over him like he was a special bloom, and you needed to prune and protect his precious petals.

It was these things that had Spencer feeling okay about his extra level of attention on you.

He knew what it was like to feel overwhelmed, overstimulated, or just plain tired and grumpy. Socializing was not your strongest suit, and you were forced to do quite a lot of it with your schedule. So, likewise, he carried snacks and water, knowing how often you got buried in a case and forgot to be hungry. He would never tire of the glow in your eyes as he handed you goldfish, or trail mix, always saying something like “Oh my god, I didn’t realize how hungry I was!” every time without fail.

He stocked up on moisturizer during winter, knowing you tended to pick at your cuticles when your hands got dry, or tea bags because the police precincts tended to run solely on coffee, which gave you a headache.

He held a special type of fondness when it came to you, that much was clear. He used to blush fiercely whenever Derek or Emily would send him that knowing look, or hand you snacks discreetly only when no one else was around; but as time went on, he learned to tune them out. All he really cared about was getting those fleeting moments in the sun, when you would say “Thanks Spence!” or “You’re the best!”.

Though you seemed totally oblivious to every obvious display of preferential affection, the team had designated the two of you as each other’s people. You could talk him down from a nervous ramble, and he could smooth the bumps when you were in a funk. Which, decidedly, you were in now.

“Um,” Spencer cleared his throat, after a pointed look from JJ across the bullpen, “What’s wrong?”

You growled into your freshly brewed tea, slumping down in front of your computer.

“Valentine’s day,” you spit out, eyebrows stuck in a permanent burning glare.

“Uh, Valentine’s day isn’t for another five days,” he said, pointing to his watch. “It’s currently February ninth.”

Your piercing daggers snapped to his innocent face.

“Yes, thank you, Doctor Obvious,” you sighed sarcastically. “But I hate that stupid holiday, and the week before it might be worse than the day itself.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed.

“Elaborate?” he requested. 

You sighed heavily, leaning back with a worn expression.

“Valentine’s day creates an expectation,” you drawled. “I don’t usually fall victim to the ridiculous societal pressure of finding someone; I mean, I get through New Years fine! Christmas fine! But I always find myself down in the dumps when I spend this damned holiday alone. The week before the fourteenth is spent scrambling around, desperately trying to find anything with lips just to save face and feel good about yourself.”

Spencer blinked. True, he had never had a valentine before — he had never even done more than kiss someone (information he was taking to the grave) so maybe he wasn’t the best person to talk about this with, but he was sure you were being dramatic. 

“That’s bleak, Pretty Girl,” said Morgan from the desk diagonal to yours.

“But true,” you said, sipping tentatively at your scalding tea. “And it’s so much harder now that I’ve cut myself off from dating apps. After what happened the last time I was this desperate.”

“What was the straw that broke the camel’s back?” asked Emily with a mischievous curiosity, coming back from the kitchenette with a fresh brew. “I know there was that guy with the scooter —”

“— the guy who wore sandals to a four star restaurant,” JJ chimed in.

“The one who called his mom ‘Mommy’,” said Derek.

“The one who yelled at a waitress,” Emily speculated.

You groaned, placing your head on your desk and covering it with your arms.

“Yes, okay, I redownloaded those apps way too many times,” you said. “But even those weren’t as bad as this one.” They all gathered ’round. “Well, we got dinner. Just a little pizza place, it was okay, but we got to the end. I was ready to split the check but he argued that he had a surprise for me, and since he would be paying for that, I should cover dinner.”

There was a general round of disgusted and sympathetic noises from the group. To your credit, you seemed a little perkier, now able to laugh at this dilemma.

“Yeah. So, I pay, pretty much already prepared to give the ‘it’s not gonna work out’ speech after this ‘surprise’ unless it was, like, and yacht, or something,” you continue. “But no. No. It was certainly not a yacht.”

“Oh, oh, it was a strip joint!” Emily guessed eagerly.

“No, it was just a crummy ice cream joint, right?” said Derek. “Just to get out of paying for dinner?”

“Worse,” you said, harrowingly. 

“A sex toy shop!” said JJ.

“Worse!” you said. “It was an improv show.”

There was, again, a minor uproar of disgust and laughter from the group.

“Wait, wait, wait, there’s no way you would actually prefer a sex shop to that!” said Derek skeptically. “C’mon now.”

“Well obviously it would suck, but at least I could run like hell outta there!” you said, laughing along with your friends. “But with the show, I knew I never wanted to see him again, but now I gotta sit through this show, in this tiny ass theater!”

“What did you do?”

“I told him I was going to the bathroom, and booked it. But I sat sweating in that seat for a good fifteen minutes before I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Improvers should be ashamed of themselves,” said Emily. “That’s not something you broadcast, people! That’s something you hide forever, wait until you’re married and it’s not as easy to get away.”

“Best part was, he was friends with one of the ‘performers’, and he got the tickets for free,” you said, shaking your head. Then you made them all jump. “Hey Hotch!”

They all spun to see the statuesque figure emerging from his office.

“You used to do improv, didn’t’cha?” you said delightedly. “Back in highschool?”

None of the others would have dared tease him that way, but he just ignored you.

“Briefing room, now.”

Still laughing slightly, you gathered your things and joined Emily to walk up together. Spencer began to collect his things too, feeling a strange mixture of giddiness and shameful jealousy; he very much realized how ridiculous it was to be jealous of a bunch of guys who had done nothing but waste your time and upset you, but, said a little voice in the back of his head, at least they’d had the balls to ask you out in the first place. 

Shaking his head, he made towards the briefing room, but found his path blocked by Derek Morgan.

“Pretty Boy,” he said in a low and serious voice, glancing behind him. “Please tell me you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

Spencer blinked vacantly, glancing around, too, thinking maybe there was some visual clue as to what the hell Derek was referring to. He shook his head hopelessly. Morgan groaned dramatically, flopping his head forward and rubbing it like a fed-up dad dealing with a frustrating toddler.

“This is your chance to ask her out!” he said.

Spencer spluttered, his head on a swivel as he made sure no one was looking their way. He could already feel his cheeks heating up. Sure, he knew Derek knew, but no one had ever proposed so directly the idea of him and you actually getting together. Just the thought made him sweat behind the knees. When he found his voice again, he shushed Derek.

“What are you talking about?!” he asked, eyes bugging a bit, as he pulled Derek to the side.

“Dammit, Reid, use that big brain of yours, will ya?” asked Derek exasperatedly. “She just poured her heart out to you about how much she wants a guy! A guy who is nothing like those previous Tinder guys! A guy who’s nice, and cares, and would never take her to an improv show!”

“I — I — she wouldn’t want — she still doesn’t like me!” Spencer stammered. “Just because I’d never mistreat her doesn’t mean she would go out with me! And even if she said yes, just because of desperation, that would just be sad! And it would get awkward, and we’d never be friends the same way again!”

“Man, you’ve been thinking about this too long,” Derek tsked. “You’re letting the worst case scenario cloud your mind! What if she says yes? I know you’ve thought through that possibility.”

“I —”

Yes, Spencer had imagined such a situation before. Where he asked you out, and you said yes. He knew that you didn’t like getting too fancy on a first date — you said it created a tense, expectant environment — so he’d take you out to a movie, something classic. A small, local theater, showing a rerun of one of your favorites: Rear Window, Fatal Attraction, Thelma and Louise, perhaps. Then you’d go get some sushi from the little place on Quincy Street, and you’d laugh at him for his poor chopstick skills before going over to your place, because of course you’d insist on including your cat, Tina. Then yes, hopefully, maybe, if everything went well, there would be a goodnight kiss.

But most importantly, he would never, ever, take you for granted. If he ever got the chance, he’d be there ten minutes early, pay for everything, and choose things he knew you liked. He’d get you flowers, a bouquet of lilies, anemones, tulips, and baby’s breath, and make sure you knew how beautiful you looked.

“Look, man,” said Derek when Spencer had been silent for too long, “you’ve been sitting at that desk, pining after this girl for like four years now. You have a chance to make it a reality, so just take it!”

He patted Spencer on the back and joined the rest in the briefing room. As Spencer blindly followed, and sat down, ready to start another gruesome case, he couldn’t totally drag his mind away from you. Yes, there was a chance you’d say no (a big one, in his opinion), but perhaps this was the perfect time. There was an opportunity to play it off, as a friendly gesture, should you say no… 

Spencer was still feeling a bit hesitant as they loaded onto the jet. He took his normal seat across from you, while Emily was directly to your left, as usual. Spencer expected Derek to take the seat across from Emily, but to everyone’s confusion, he stopped short and grabbed the brunette by the arm.

“Prentiss, I need to talk to you,” he said firmly. 

She gave him a confused stare.

“We’ll go over the case in a second, I just got my coffee,” she said, cradling her steaming cappuccino carefully.

“I seriously need to talk to you, like right now,” he said more urgently, grabbing her cup from the top and pulling her from her seat.

You stared after them as Derek dragged Emily to the back of the plane where JJ, Rossi, and Hotch were talking, Emily’s protests evident. You looked at Spencer.

“What the hell was that all about?” you asked, flipping open the case file.

“Um…” Spencer stalled, meeting Morgan's eyes across the aisle. The incorrigible man sent him a wink, and a thumbs up, and Spencer sighed. “I don’t know.”

You shrugged, pulling a water bottle from your bag and taking a sip. Spencer would have longed for some water, his throat suddenly felt very dry. He cleared his throat, steeling himself for what he was about to do, and all the ways it could possibly go wrong.

“Ya know, I’ve never had a valentine,” he blurted out, cheeks immediately pinkening. You glanced up at him.

“No? Well, I’d be a little shocked if you had, Spence,” you mumbled, taking another sip.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, you spent most of your school years and career surrounded by people much, much older than you,” you reasoned. “If twelve year old Spencer had a sixteen year old valentine in high school, I’d be seriously concerned.”

He breathed out a relieved, but nervous laugh.

“I see your point – b-but that’s not the case anymore, is it?” he said awkwardly, trying desperately to avoid looking at Derek, and now Emily, egging him on. “I mean, you’re only one year older than me.”

“Mm, yeah, I guess that’s true,” you said distractedly, looking back at your casefile. Spencer wiped his hands on his slacks — it was time to bite the bullet.

“So – so, if you want –,” he stammered again, “I mean, we could spend – we could be each other’s valentines? I mean like, we could hang out, or whatever you wanted to do — there’s a drive in theater near work, and they’re playing Roman Holiday — or we could get take out, or —”

He stopped at the sound of your giggles, light and relaxed, eyes sparkling. You were laughing at him, and he didn’t know why. He could feel sweat gathering at his brow, and his cheeks were hotter than ever.

“I’d love to spend Valentine's day with you, Spence,” you said with a kind smile, and he lit up, butterflies erupting at the pit of his stomach. “It’ll be fun! Can you believe I’ve never been to a drive-in theater?”

Spencer actually did know that. You’d mentioned it before, something he may or may not have taken note of.

“Me neither,” he said, relaxing immensely at your lack of rejection. “I’ve also never seen Roman Holiday, which I figured you’d want to fix.”

Before you could jump into a tirade, Hotch led the rest of the team over and they began going over the case. Spencer couldn’t keep the smile off of his face, even as the crime scene photos were laid out before them, and this time he didn’t falter when he met Derek’s proud grin.

“And thanks, by the way, for asking, Spence,” you said quietly once the plane had touched down in Arizona, while the rest of the team filed off. “It means a lot, and I’m really excited.”

With that rare verbal expression of gratitude, you left him dizzy in his seat.

♡ ♡ ♡

You managed to finish the case in three days, touching down in Virginia midday on February twelfth. Arizona had been a balmy break from harsh weather, but you had never much minded the brisk cold on the east coast. The team regrouped in the office, finishing up some paperwork, but Hotch didn’t keep them that long. Garcia was the first out, followed closely by JJ, who wanted to spend the holiday with Will before they got called away on another assignment.

Spencer watched them go happily, unencumbered by any embarrassment, jealousy or dread – for he had his very own holiday plans this time around.

He had been uncharacteristically giddy the past few days, mentally planning his evening with you. You had already offered to drive, which was probably best, and he had bought the tickets and secured snacks. The latter was a bit nerve-racking, as your favorite snacks always depended on the mood you happened to be in, so he went the safe route and got all of them. That, paired with some fuzzy blankets, and he had his dream date. The date he had fantasized about, not daring to voice until now. 

While Spencer happily packed some books away in his bag, you came flouncing in from the kitchen.

“Good news,” you said, plopping down across from Spencer. “You are no longer tied down this Saturday.”

Spencer furrowed his brow.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s this guy from college, Dean, who I went on a couple dates with back in the day,” you said contentedly, sweeping things haphazardly into your own bag. “One of those things, never the right time, yada, yada, yada, but he’s in town for a couple weeks on business, and he called me up! So boom, valentine’s problems solved: I have a date, and you must no longer feel obligated to entertain me. You can watch Dr. Who in peace, crack open a couple of books, get Thai, guilt free!”

You flung out your arms happily, looking at Spencer like you expected him to sigh in relief, or cheer at his fortune. His heart sank to the bottom of his stomach, friendly butterflies squashed.

“What?” he said quietly.

Your expression faltered, as confused with him as he was with you. Morgan and Emily looked on with pained expressions.

“I really do appreciate the offer,” you said genuinely, “and I’ll totally watch Roman Holiday with you sometime! But, ya know, I don’t need the favor anymore, I got a date. My sorrows will be Dean’s problem now, you don’t have to look after me. I don’t wanna ruin your night.”

Spencer swallowed, feeling a prickling sensation behind his eyes. All his joy from a second ago melted away in an instant, leaving him feeling slightly nauseous. He wished desperately that Emily and Morgan weren’t there to witness this devastating blow.

“You —” he cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t have ruined my night,” he murmured. “I like spending time with you.”

Your lips turned downward, and you stepped closer to him.

“That’s not what I meant at all!” you said quickly. “I love spending time with you, Spence, I just don’t want you to feel obligated to waste your Valentine’s with me because I felt bad. And it’s all fine, because you don’t have to worry anymore, right?”

“Right,” he said quickly, shrugging his coat on and slinging his bag over his shoulder with lightning speed. 

He couldn’t stand any more of his coworker's pitying stares. It was all stupid, he thought, in hindsight; you’d see it as a friend helping a friend. He’d never explicitly said the word ‘date’, after all. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Spence,” you said, bewildered, and placed a hand on his arm. He shrugged it off. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he bit out, the word sounding much colder than he intended in his attempts to mask any hurt.

No one, let alone profilers, would be convinced by that curt answer, but he was out of the door before anything could be said.

“Spencer!” you called after him, confused and worried.

You turned to find Derek and Emily looking at you with such reproach, you’d have thought you had just killed a puppy. You let out a frustrated breath, shrugging your shoulders hopelessly.

“What the hell did I do?” you asked. “I didn’t think he’d care that much. We hang out all the time! He knew I was looking for a date!”

“You’re an idiot,” sighed Emily, shaking her head in disappointment. “A stone cold idiot.”

You gawped.

“What? Why?”

“Because that was the date!” said Derek heatedly, standing and approaching you. “It’s valentine’s day. Spencer asked you to see a romantic movie, at a drive in theater, on Valentine’s day. Are you seriously this dense?”

“I —” you stammered, uncannily like Spencer. “I didn’t — you think he thought that was a date?”

Emily buried her face in her hands, while Derek looked like he was restraining himself from banging his head against the wall, but it was neither of them who spoke up.

“Yes! By god, woman, yes!”

You all spun around to see Rossi, coming down the stairs. He grabbed your shoulders and shook you, looking exasperated. You were too surprised to protest.

“That poor kid is practically in love with you! How does such a good profiler not realise this?”

“Okay!” you said, pulling out of Rossi’s grip at last, and rubbing your temples. “I’m sorry! But outside of the horrifying world of violent crimes, I’m not good at people! Despite my many failed attempts, I’ve only ever been in one serious relationship, and I’ll never, ever, assume someone likes me romantically unless they come up to me and scream it in my face!”

“Oy vey,” Rossie sighed tiredly. “Well, now that I’ve done it for him, will you please get this over with?”

You wanted to scream.

“Get what over with?”

“Oh my god, girl!” Emily cried. “You love him too!”

You froze. You? Love Spencer Reid? Well, he was charming, no denying it — you had always had a soft spot for rambling nerds. And adorable, but again, undeniable! With his gangly tall frame, his angular nose, his soft hair, his even softer, big brown eyes — but, come to think of it, tall and skinny were not conventionally attractive traits.

Most people’s dream men didn’t look like pale Victorian ghosts. And most of your friends were rather annoyed with his incessant infodumping, walking away and giving you tired looks that you did not reciprocate. Perhaps it was not normal to be drawn to a person like that, to feel elated by their very presence, or to think of them in everything you see. How many times have you thought Spencer would love this song! when listening to the radio, or picked up some Milanos when you were grocery shopping, just because you knew of his obsession, or decided on a book to buy based on what Spencer might think?

You sank down onto your chair, weak kneed. Even when Spencer annoyed you, you loved him. He was in your head the second you woke up to the second you laid down; he silently influenced your decisions; he was your motivation, your inspiration, your joy; he had become a most permanent fixture in your life — all without you realizing it.

“Oh my god,” you breathed.

“There she is,” said Rossi, patting her on the back.

“Oh my god,” you repeated blankly.

You really were a fucking idiot. A dumb fucking stone cold idiot.

“What are you all doing here?” asked the voice of Aaron Hotchner, descending from his office. “And what’s wrong with her?”

“She finally realized she’s in love with Reid,” said Emily.

“About time,” Hotch muttered, grabbing a stack of files off her desk and retreating back up the stairs. “I might as well grab the rest of her paperwork; she won’t be getting anything done tonight.”

You shot up suddenly, nerves on fire.

“Where’s Spencer?” you asked breathlessly, turning on the spot, searching for that familiar head of fluffy brown hair.

“He left, like a while ago,” said Emily. “Like, before you had your epiphany.”

“Right,” you said, smoothing down your sweater anxiously. “Right. And he – okay, yeah. He thinks — oh god, he thinks — ah shit, I gotta go!”

You grabbed your coat and bag, throwing them on clumsily. You bolted for the elevator, then paused, turned on your heel and came skidding right back.

“Wait, what do I do?” you said urgently. “My last boyfriend asked me out over the phone! And I never liked him this much! And he really planned the first date, and everything, I didn’t really have to think! Oh god. What if he just hates me? Oh man, I dated my last boyfriend for two years and I never once felt this panicked! How do I make him not so mad? Guys seriously, what the fuck do I do?!”

“You know Spencer better than anyone,” said Emily, clearly and calmly, placing her hands on your shoulders. “And he could never stay mad at you that long, anyway. Just do what feels natural.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” you hissed, as Emily slowly walked you backwards towards the elevators. “I need specific directions for this to work! Rossi, you managed to get, like, six women to marry you! What should I do?”

“Follow your heart!” he said with a smile. “Emily’s right, you know Spencer better than any one of us, so use that information.”

“I don’t —”

“Do something with books, or incredibly complex puzzles, or chess!” Derek chimed in. “Trust in the universe!”

With a final push, Emily shoved you into the elevator and pushed your button.

“Believe in the unknown!” she said.

“Think outside the box!” Derek shouted.

“I hate you all!” you yelled.

♡ ♡ ♡

Spencer made his solemn way home that day, eyes downtrodden, and stopped by a gas station to pick up a pint of Ben & Jerry’s to wallow in. Stupid, pathetic, and lonely didn’t even begin to describe his feelings, as he keyed into his apartment. His apartment he rented, alone, by himself, forever, probably. 

It was too good to be true, he told himself as he grabbed a spoon and collapsed onto his couch. He flicked on the TV, not even bothering to channel surf as he popped a Lactaid and dug into his cookie dough, something he was sure to regret later. 

Just a couple hours later, the ice cream carton sat empty on his coffee table, his work pants discarded, as he sat with his head hanging over the back of his couch, staring at his fish. You had been with him the day he picked them out — he had been complaining about how impossible it was to keep a pet with their work schedule, and you had suggested some fish. You picked out two shiny beta, a blue one and a spotted one, and named them Laurie and Michael, from the Halloween franchise.

He had gone into a rant about how most beta fish sold in pet stores were actually males, due to their colorful appearance. You had said “Spence, they’re fish. They don’t understand the concept of gender. Her name is Laurie, alright?”

Spencer was just accepting he’d lead a loveless, childless, fishful life, when he heard a knock at the door. He glanced at it over his chin, sighed noncommittally, and brought his eyes back to the fish, unwilling to face a landlord, or worse, Derek’s pity. The knock came again, as he expected, but this time accompanied by a voice that sent him straight up.

“Spence, it’s me. I know you’re in there, please open the door!”

He shot to his feet, glancing around at his nightmare of a living room, and his pantsless legs. He scrambled to his room, hip banging painfully against the doorframe, and pulled on some pajama pants — or would that appear pitiful? He didn’t want you to know how much he’d been moping. Should he put his work pants back on? Or no, he wanted to appear casual and relaxed.

“Spencer!”

He needed to make up his mind. He slid his slacks up his legs and scrambled back to the living room, gathering trash at random and depositing it into the kitchen trash can. With a final sweep of the room, he opened his door, cheeks flushed and fly down, and wholly unprepared for the sight before him.

You stood at his door, shivering slightly, looking just as flustered as he did. Your eyes were wide and nervous, hair a bit flyaway, and holding a bouquet of flowers.

“Hi,” you squeaked.

“Hi,” he said back, dumbly.

“Um,” you glanced around his creaky hallway. “Can I come in?”

Cursing himself, Spencer scuttled aside, and you squelched inside — one look at your shoes told him you had met more than one puddle on your journey over here. Indeed, when you toed off your boots and padded to the living room, as you had done countless times before, little moist footprints were left in your wake.

He closed the door, filled to the brim with nervous energy, and completely at a loss for what you might be doing there. You didn’t sit on the couch, but turned abruptly to face him. It was quite a picture, you dripping in his living room, all frazzled, holding a large bouquet of flowers that looked quite out of place with your rumpled outfit.

“Um,” you said again, fidgeting with your hands, uncharacteristically shy. Then you thrust the bouquet at him, eyes darting about, landing anywhere but his face. “These are for you.”

Spencer took the flowers gingerly, utterly flabbergasted, and admired it: there were some anemones, as he had planned for his own, as well as some lilies and dahlias. It was beautifully done. He tried to say so. He tried to say anything, but the words got stuck in his throat.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” you said quietly. “I’ve never gotten flowers for anyone before. Is this okay?”

Spencer forced himself to swallow heavily.

“I’ve never really thought about it,” he croaked. “I’ve never received flowers, either. They’re lovely.”

“Right,” you said gruffly, crossing your arms tightly. “I just… wanted to apologize for trying to blow you off earlier.”

His cheeks were plunged into fire again, and he found himself just as unwilling to meet your eyes as you were to meet his.

“It’s not a problem,” he muttered, playing with a lily petal. “You’re allowed to cancel plans on Valentine’s day. ’S’not like it was a date,” he added slightly bitterly.

“What if it was?” you said. His eyes snapped to you, and you shifted uncomfortably. “I mean, it is Valentine’s day, after all. I wouldn’t wanna be left without a Valentine.”

“Yeah, well you have Dean for that,” he said, eyes falling once more.

“No,” you said. “I cancelled on him.”

Spencer wanted to look at your face, get an impression of what you were thinking, but he had never been good at reading you anyway, and he kept his gaze glued to a notch in his coffee table leg.

“How come?” he asked, failing miserably at a nonchalant voice.

“Because — because I sort of realized that you were the only one I wanted to be spending Valentine’s day with,” you said softly.

The words certainly caused a flurry of warm butterflies in his chest, and a big part of him was shouting hurray, that this was all he’d ever wanted to hear from you in the first place. But another part of him reminded him of the pain you had caused earlier. He scoffed and shook his head.

“I don’t want your pity,” he said in his best attempt at a hard voice. “You talked to Morgan, didn’t you?”

Your brow scrunched, half in confusion, half in annoyance.

“Yes, I did,” you said. “He told me you liked me. He told me you meant for it to be a date. He told me that you had liked me for years.”

The embarrassment of this whole ordeal had never completely dissipated, but it flared at that information, along with a burning desire to push Derek’s expensive car off a cliff.

“Yeah, so,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “So you feel bad for the dumb little kid, and his dumb little crush, right? Had to rush over here and mend his wounds, take care of him ‘cause he can’t take care of himself? Well, believe it or not it’s not the first time a girl’s rejected me,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “And I don’t need your pity, I don’t need to pretend to like me back, because that’s just — worse. So just go home.”

He thrust the bouquet back at you, but you didn’t take it. You stared directly at him, with fire and hurt of your own.

“Derek also told me that I liked you too,” you said stubbornly. “I thought surely that that was something I’d be aware of, but he was right. I do like you Spencer, a fucking lot. I don’t know how I didn’t realize it until now. I don’t do relationships very often. I’m not good at navigating these sorts of things. But I do like you, romantically. I think you’re fucking adorable, and I would like to go the the drive in theater with you this Valentine’s day. And if you don’t want to, fine, don’t go, and I’ll walk out this door and try and move on, and not make it awkward, but I want you to know that I like you, Spencer Reid. So will you go to the movies with me or not?”

You had a scary sort of determined look in your eye, and Spencer was sure he’d never had such a lovely proposition presented to him in such an aggressive manner. He wasn’t sure how to proceed. He did want to go to the movies with you, more than anything. He just never assumed you would want to, too.

“Yes,” he said, still looking more shocked than delighted. “I’ll go to the movies with you.”

“Good,” you huffed, moving your hands to your hips, nodding once like a job well done. “I’ll be here at seven on Saturday, okay?”

“Okay,” he said faintly. “I’ll… be here.”

You shuffled back to the door, slipped your shoes on, and made a move to open it but stopped. Turning back around, you leaned up and pressed a sweet kiss to his burning cheek, which only caused it to flush more.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Spencer.”

His face finally broke out in a long awaited smile as you waved, and shut the door behind you. He brushed a hand over the spot and felt the residue of your strawberry lip gloss.