𝑀’

You were leaning against the doorframe, standard shift weariness settling deep into your bones, when Spencer emerged from the hallway. He had already swapped his sweater for a navy t-shirt, his hair slightly damp from a quick post-case shower. The faint, clean scent of cedarwood and lavender soap drifted with him.

"She’s refusing to settle?" Spencer whispered, stopping just beside you. His hand found the small of your back, his thumb rubbing gentle, reassuring circles through your shirt.

"She says the blanket is 'too loud,'" you murmured, smiling softly against his shoulder. "And that the story I picked wasn't long enough."

Before you could push yourself up to try round two, a tiny voice piped up from the bed.

"Spencer?"

Spencer paused, blinking through his wire-rimmed glasses. He stepped fully into the room, his long frame folding naturally as he crouched down by the edge of the mattress to bring himself eye-level with her. "Yes, Lily?"

Lily kicked her feet under the duvet, the fabric rustling. She looked from you to him, her eyes wide and full of that solemn, deliberate gravity unique to five-year-olds making a big decision.

"Can you read the book?" She held out a battered, hardcover copy of Where the Wild Things Are. "Mommy’s voice is tired. And you know all the big words."

A sudden, complete stillness washed over Spencer. For a man who could recall the exact casualty stats of a century-old train derailment without blinking, he looked entirely caught off guard. His breath caught, a tiny, sharp intake that made his chest expand, and his fingers twitched against his knee.

You watched his throat work as he swallowed, his hazel eyes darting to you for permission, for reassurance, for a map to navigate a moment he clearly hadn't prepared a script for. You gave him a warm nod, your heart swelling so fast it felt almost tight in your chest.

"I... I would be honored," Spencer said, his voice dropping, soft and careful, as if handling antique parchment.

He sat down on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under his weight, and Lily immediately scooted closer, tucking her small shoulder directly against his hip. Spencer froze for a fraction of a second, a habitual physical restraint borne from years of feeling awkward or out of place, before his posture visibly softened. He adjusted his legs, settling into the space beside her as if he’d been doing it forever.

He took the book gently from her hands. His long fingers brushed the worn corners of the cover.

"Did you know," Spencer began, his voice taking on that low, rhythmic cadence you loved so much, "that Maurice Sendak wrote this story in 1963, and he originally wanted it to be about wild horses, but he realized he couldn't draw horses very well?"

Lily tilted her head up, looking at him with absolute fascination. "He couldn't?"

"Not very well at all," Spencer said, a faint, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So he drew 'Things' instead. Which I think turned out much better."

He opened the first page.

You watched from the doorway as Spencer began to read. He didn't rush. Usually, when Spencer spoke about something he loved, the words tumbled out like water over a dam. But tonight, he held back the current. He measured every syllable, letting the sentence cadence rest naturally in the quiet room.

When he reached the line about the forest growing in Max's room, Lily leaned her head entirely against Spencer's arm. Spencer shifted slightly, lifting his elbow just enough so she could nestle comfortably against his side. The contrast was striking, his tall, slender frame clad in dark cotton, and her tiny form wrapped in pink pajamas, completely at ease in his space.

He's terrified of breaking something so delicate, you thought, watching the way he carefully turned the page with just his fingertips, and yet he's the safest place in the world for her right now.

His inner monologue, you knew, was likely a whirlwind, calculating whether his pitch was soothing enough, whether he was sitting at the correct angle, whether he was doing this "right." But on the outside, there was only warmth. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythms. The faint rustle of turning paper, the low murmur of his voice, and the soft sound of rain formed a perfect, unbroken sanctuary.

By the time Max was sent to bed without any supper, Lily’s eyelids were fluttering shut. Her breathing slowed, deepening into the easy, heavy rhythm of sleep. Her hand loosened its grip on the rabbit, her fingers resting lightly on Spencer’s knee.

Spencer kept reading, lowering his voice to a gentle, velvet whisper. He turned the last page, pausing on the final sentence.

He closed the book with a quiet thud. For several long moments, Spencer didn't move. He sat in the dim light, looking down at the little girl fast asleep against his side. The line of his shoulders eased completely, the lingering tension from his work week melting away in the simple reality of the bedroom.

He slowly, meticulously slid his arm out from under her, tucking the duvet up to her chin with practiced gentleness. He kissed the top of her head, a feather-light touch against her soft hair, before standing up.

He walked toward you on quiet feet, stepping out into the hallway and shutting the door until it clicked softly into place. In the faint light of the hall, you could see the faint flush on his cheekbones, the slight shine in his eyes behind his glasses.

"How did I do?" he asked softly, rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous habit he couldn't quite shake. "I wasn't sure if the trivia about Sendak was too dry for a five-year-old, or if my pacing-"

You reached up, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down into a deep, lingering kiss. Spencer let out a soft sigh, his long arms wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you flush against him. When you pulled back, his chin rested on top of your head as he held you, his heart beating a strong, steady rhythm against your chest.

"You were perfect, Spencer," you whispered against his shirt. "She loves you."

Spencer squeezed you a little tighter, buried his face in the crook of your neck, and breathed in deeply.

"I love her too," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I really do."

2- The Pigtails.

The scent of toasted sourdough and strong black coffee filled the kitchen, cut through by the sharp, crisp air drifting through the half-open window. It was 7:15 AM on a Tuesday, a race against the clock that you were currently winning, if only by a hair.

You were standing at the stove, turning over a couple of eggs in the skillet, while Spencer sat at the small wooden table in his crisp white dress shirt and loosened tie, mid-bite into a piece of toast while scanning a research paper on linguistic patterns.

Lily sat next to him, swinging her legs rhythmically so her light-up sneakers clacked against the chair rungs. A bowl of oat cereal sat before her, though she was currently more focused on dissecting a strawberry.

Suddenly, her legs stopped swinging. She wiped her hands on her napkin with great ceremony, picked up a pink plastic hairbrush and two purple elastic bands from the center of the table, and shoved them directly over Spencer’s paper.

"Spencer," she said, her voice carrying the absolute authority only a five-year-old could muster. "I need piggies today. For school."

Spencer paused mid-chew. He looked down at the bright pink brush resting on top of his academic journal, then at the purple bands, and finally up at Lily, his hazel eyes wide.

"Piggies?" he repeated, the word sounding entirely foreign on his tongue.

"Pigtails," you clarified over your shoulder, turning off the burner. You leaned against the counter, spatula still in hand, watching his brain instantly go into overdrive. "Two equal sections of hair tied on either side of the head."

"Right. Pigtails," Spencer murmured. He swallowed his toast, his hands hovering uncertainly over the brush. "Lily, usually your mom does your hair. I'm... well, my own hair isn't particularly complex to style, and I lack experience with structural tension in human hair-"

"Mommy's busy making eggs," Lily interrupted, leaning forward and placing a small, sticky hand over his thumb. "And you have long hands. You can do it."

Long hands. Spencer stared at his own fingers, long and slender, before looking back at her solemn face.

You saw the exact moment his anxiety melted into sheer, focused determination. A faint flush crept up his neck, but he nodded once, solemn as taking an oath. "Okay. Okay, piggies. We can do this."

He carefully set his paper aside, and shifted his chair closer to hers. Lily spun around on her seat so her back was facing him, quietly going back to her strawberries as if she hadn't just handed him a high-stakes engineering puzzle.

Spencer took the pink brush. His movements were ridiculously gentle, almost comical for a man who spent his days handling crime scene evidence. He held a section of her fine, soft hair between his fingers like it was spun glass, terrified that a single wrong tug would hurt her.

"If I pull too hard, you have to tell me immediately, okay?" he whispered, his voice dropping into that earnest register. "The pain threshold for scalp nerves varies, but-"

"It doesn't hurt, Spencer," Lily giggled, her shoulders shaking. "You're tickling."

A quiet, breathless laugh escaped Spencer’s chest. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, though his concentration remained absolute.

You stood by the counter, heart aching in the sweetest way possible as you watched him work. Spencer had his tongue tucked subtly into the corner of his lip, a habit he only fell into when he was intensely focused. He carefully parted her hair down the middle using the edge of the brush, his eyes squinting behind his lenses to ensure the seam was straight.

"According to basic geometry, symmetry is key here," he muttered to himself, his long fingers carefully gathering the left side into a neat bundle. "Positioning needs to be equidistant from the sagittal plane..."

He wrapped the first purple band around the hair. His fingers were large compared to the tiny elastic, and he fumbled slightly on the third twist, his brow furrowing. But he didn't give up. He adjusted his grip, secured the twist, and gently smoothed down the stray flyaways with the palm of his hand.

When he finished the second side, he leaned back, his hands resting on his knees, examining his work with the intense scrutiny of an art restorer.

One pigtail sat slightly higher than the other, giving her a lopsided, utterly adorable look.

"All done," Spencer said softly, sounding equal parts exhausted and triumphant.

Lily turned around, reaching up to pat the two low bunches bobbing on either side of her head. A huge, toothy grin spread across her face. "I love it! Look, Mommy!"

"It looks amazing, sweetie," you said, walking over to place a plate of eggs in the center of the table. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Spencer’s cheek. He smelled like cedar, toasted bread, and the sweet strawberry scent of Lily’s hair detangler.

Spencer looked up at you, his hazel eyes glowing with an unfiltered pride that made your breath catch.

"The symmetry was slightly off by approximately three centimeters," he admitted in a quiet whisper as Lily reached for her fork, entirely oblivious and happily shaking her head to watch the pigtails swing. "I think the elasticity of the rubber band threw off my tension control."

"Spencer," you murmured, reaching out to smooth the collar of his dress shirt, your thumb resting against his jawline. "She loves it because you did it."

Spencer looked from you to the little girl happily munching her breakfast, a soft, beautiful smile slowly washing over his face. He reached out under the table, his long fingers finding yours and lacing tightly through them, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

"I'll... practice," he said softly, his voice full of a steady warmth. "I'll get the symmetry right next time."

–

3 - The Drawing.

The late afternoon sun was slipping down behind the buildings outside, casting long, honey-colored rays across the living room rug. Spencer was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a chaotic spread of case files, thick medical journals, and a scattered pile of construction paper.

He was supposed to be reading a report on geographic profiling, but his focus kept drifting to the tiny artist sitting two feet away from him.

Lily was lying on her stomach, her light-up sneakers kicking rhythmically in the air behind her, deeply immersed in a brand-new box of sixty-four crayons. The nostalgic scent of wax and pencil shavings hung in the warm air, mixed with the rich aroma of garlic and tomatoes simmering on the stove where you were making dinner.

"Spencer," Lily piped up without looking away from her page, applying so much pressure to a bright blue crayon that the paper beneath it squeaked. "What color is your brain?"

Spencer blinked, his long fingers pausing mid-page-turn. "My brain? Well, biologically speaking, living brain tissue is actually a pinkish-gray color due to the blood flow, though people often refer to it as 'gray matter' because-"

"I don't have pinkish-gray," Lily interrupted flatly, completely unbothered by the anatomical breakdown. She held up a crayon. "I'm using lavender."

"Lavender is an excellent choice for a brain," Spencer agreed softly, a tiny, affectionate smile tugging at his lips.

You leaned against the kitchen doorway, wooden spoon in hand, watching the two of them. The contrast was lovely, Spencer in his vest and rolled-up sleeves, his long legs folded awkwardly to accommodate a five-year-old’s workspace, and Lily, entirely in her element, tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth in concentration.

For the next twenty minutes, the only sounds were the bubbling of the sauce, the rustle of Spencer’s case files, and the scribbling of wax against paper.

Finally, Lily let out a loud, dramatic sigh of satisfaction. She sat back on her heels, wiped her dusty hands on her leggings, and picked up the sheet of thick white paper.

"It's done," she announced. She didn't offer it to you first. She turned directly to Spencer, extending the paper toward him with two hands. "Look."

Spencer reached out, his movements instinctively careful, catching the paper by its edges so he wouldn't smudge her work. As his hazel eyes swept over the page, his whole body went entirely still. On the left was a figure with long hair, wearing a bright green triangle dress, clearly you. On the right was a smaller figure with two purple circles on either side of her head,holding a giant pink heart. And standing in the middle, holding hands with both of them, was a tall, gangly figure drawn in brown crayon. The figure had brown stick-leg trousers, and a massive purple cloud drawn directly inside its head.

At the bottom, spelled out in wobbly, backwards-D kindergarten handwriting, it read: MOMMY, ME, AND SPENSER.

A breath caught in Spencer’s throat. His eyes stayed locked on the paper, tracking over the shaky brown lines, the shared grip between the stick-figure hands, the lavender brain. His chest rose and fell in a slow, uneven hitch. To a man who spent his life analyzing human behavior, reading between lines, and looking for where he fit into a world that often felt too fast and too loud, the simple math of the drawing was staggering. He wasn't an addition to the margins. He wasn't drawn off to the side, or standing in the background. She had put him right in the center.

"That's... that's us," Spencer whispered. His voice was unusually thin, cracking slightly on the second word.

"Yeah," Lily said, leaning her chin on his knee and looking up at him as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "That's Mommy, that's me, and that's you. You're holding my hand so I don't fall in the mud, and I drew your brain lavender because you know a lot of things."

Spencer swallowed hard. You could see the subtle flush rising from his collar, painting his cheekbones, the faint shimmer of unshed tears in his eyes. His long, slender fingers trembled just a fraction against the edges of the paper. He looked up at you in the doorway, a helpless, overwhelmed expression in his eyes, a look that silently asked, How did I get to be this lucky?

You smiled softly, setting your spoon down and walking over to kneel beside them on the rug. You rested your chin on Spencer’s shoulder, your hand coming up to rest gently against the back of his neck, feeling the warm, steady pulse there.

"It's beautiful, Lil," you murmured, brushing a thumb over Spencer’s warm jawline. "Where should we put it?"

"On the fridge," Lily declared, already scrambling up to search for the strongest magnet. "At the very top so everyone can see it."

Spencer didn't move for a long moment, his eyes lingering on the three little stick figures standing together in a row. He slowly brought the paper up, pressing his lips gently to the top corner of the page in a silent, reverent gesture before handing it to Lily.

As she ran off toward the kitchen, Spencer turned his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His arms came around your waist, pulling you tight against his chest, his long frame sinking into you with a deep exhale.

"She drew me with you guys," he breathed into your skin, his voice thick with emotion, his heart pounding a steady, beautiful rhythm against your ribs. "Can I have it? I want to frame it and put it on my desk."

"Of course, Spence,” you whispered back, lacing your fingers into his soft hair. 

–

4- The Cake.

The kitchen counter looked like a flour bomb had gone off in a bakery. It was 10:00 PM on the eve of Lily’s sixth birthday, and Spencer was standing in the center of the disaster, wearing an apron that was too short for him, with a smear of pink buttercream across his left cheekbone. On a wire cooling rack in front of him sat the cake.

When Lily had asked him three days ago, holding his hand in the grocery store aisle and looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, if he could bake her birthday cake instead of buying one, Spencer had immediately plunged into research. He had read four different baking books, calculated the exact thermal conductivity of our oven, and cross-referenced flour-to-liquid ratios for optimal crumb structure.

He had not, however, factored in the reality of cake assembly. The result was... a visual marvel, though not in the way he had intended. The two layers had slumped to the left, giving the cake a distinct six-degree tilt. The pink frosting, which Spencer had meticulously colored, was uneven, partially melted on the right side because he’d gotten impatient and frosted the bottom layer before it had fully cooled. To compensate, he had tried to construct a stabilizing buttress out of rainbow sprinkles and white chocolate chips, which only made it look like a charmingly chaotic pastel meteor.

"It’s structural failure," Spencer muttered for the fourth time, pacing the length of the kitchen rug, his hands flying in frantic, sharp gestures. "The specific gravity of the buttercream exceeded the load-bearing capacity of the sponge. I should have leveled the crowns with a serrated knife. Why didn't I level the crowns?"

You leaned against the doorframe, a mug of warm tea between your hands, trying desperately to keep your laughter from bubbling over. "Spencer, honey, it’s fine-"

"It’s not fine!" he squeaked softly, stopping in front of the counter and staring at the leaning tower of sugar with horror in his eyes. "It’s asymmetrical. It’s slumping. She’s six tomorrow, and six is a very important age for spatial perception! What if she looks at it and feels disappointed? What if she wanted a smooth, professional cake like the ones from the bakery?"

He ran a flour-covered hand through his hair, leaving a white streak across his forehead. He looked so genuinely panicked, his brain spinning out in a hundred catastrophic directions, terrified of failing the little girl who had stolen his entire heart.

You set your mug down, stepped up behind him, and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his back. "Spencer. Look at me."

He turned in your arms, looking down at you with a mix of exhaustion and deep anxiety.

"You baked a cake from scratch after a twelve-hour shift," you whispered, reaching up to gently wipe the flour off his brow. "You stayed up until ten o'clock making pink frosting because she said pink was her favorite color this week. It’s perfect."

"It's leaning," he insisted, though his posture softened slightly as he rested his forehead against yours, letting out a long, shuddering breath. "I just... I want her day to be perfect."

The next morning, the breakfast table was decorated with streamers, a small stack of wrapped presents, and the center of attention, the cake, now sporting six bright pink candles.

Lily came bouncing into the dining room in her birthday sash, her light-up sneakers flashing red and blue. She halted right in front of the table.

Spencer stood rigid beside her chair, his hands tucked nervously into his back pockets, his entire body tense. His eyes darted from Lily’s face to the cake and back again, practically hyperventilating as he waited for her reaction.

Lily walked slowly around the table. She leaned in close, her eyes wide, inspecting the leaning structure, the avalanche of sprinkles on the downhill side, and the thick, uneven swirls of pink frosting.

Spencer swallowed hard. "Lily, I- I know it's a bit crooked. The thermal density of the lower layer was slightly off, and I didn't let it cool long enough, so if you'd rather we go to the bakery and get a regular-"

"It's a castle," Lily breathed out, interrupting him completely.

Spencer froze. "A... a what?"

"It's a leaning castle!" Lily clapped her hands together, a massive, toothy grin bursting across her face. "Like in a story! It's wonky on purpose so the dragons can't climb up it!"

She turned around, threw her tiny arms straight around Spencer's thighs, and buried her face in his knee.

"It's the coolest cake ever!" she shouted into his trousers. "Thank you, Spencer!"

Spencer’s entire frame went lax with relief. The air rushed back into his lungs, and a breathy, unbelieving laugh spilled out of him. He quickly dropped to one knee, bringing himself down to her level, his long arms wrapping around her small shoulders, pulling her into a tight, warm hug.

"You... you really like it?" he asked, his voice thick, burying his face against the side of her head.

"I love it more than anything," she declared, pulling back to point at the side that was slipping. "Can I eat the big pile of sprinkles first?"

Later that afternoon, after she had opened a brand-new scooter from you and a massive set of advanced art supplies from Spencer, Lily spent the entire evening ignoring her new toys. Instead, she sat at the kitchen island with a paper plate, carefully eating a second slice of the leaning cake, talking animatedly about how the chocolate chips were "defending the pink tower."

Spencer sat on the couch across the room, a light blanket thrown over his legs, watching her with a warmth that lit up his whole face.

Once Lily was done, and finally ran off to play with her new toys, you sat down beside him, resting your head on his shoulder. Spencer raised his arm, wrapping it around you and pulling you close, his thumb tracing patterns over your arm.

"See?" you murmured softly, looking at the half-eaten, wonderfully ugly cake sitting on the counter. "I told you."

Spencer smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head, his heart beating slow and steady against your side.

–

5- The Daddy & Daughter Lunch.

The flyer had been stapled into Lily’s orange homework folder, slightly crumpled at the edges. Printed in bright, bold bubble letters across the top, it read: ANNUAL DAD’S DONUT LUNCH!

You were standing by the front door, slipping on your shoes for work, when Lily marched over and held it out to Spencer. Spencer was sitting on the hallway bench, balancing his coffee mug on one knee while lacing up his worn leather oxfords. He took the bright blue paper, his eyes scanning the text with his usual terrifying speed, three seconds flat.

Then, his gaze hit the second line: Bring your Dad or special father-figure to school for a donut and storytime!

His breathing faltered. His long fingers tightened on the edge of the paper, crumpling the corner just a fraction. "My teacher said we can bring our dads," Lily explained, leaning her elbows on his knee, her eyes looking up at him through her messy morning bangs. "Or our special person if we want. And I want you to come."

Spencer’s head snapped up, his hazel eyes wide. His gaze darted frantically to you, full of an overwhelming, heart-stopping panic. Dad. The word hung in the hallway, heavy and luminous.

Spencer had spent his whole life carefully defining his boundaries, keeping himself in neat, predictable boxes framed by statistics, logic, and distance. But over the last year, those boundaries had been completely dismantled by a six-year-old girl.

"Lily..." Spencer’s voice cracked softly. He swallowed, his adam's apple working hard against his crisp collar. "I... I would love to, but are you sure? The flyer says 'Dad,' and I don't want your classmates to be confused, or for you to feel like-"

"You're my Spencer," Lily interrupted with the ironclad logic of a six-year-old, stomping her light-up sneaker for emphasis. "And you do my piggies, and you made my dragon cake, and you live with us. So you have to come eat a chocolate donut with me."

Spencer looked down at her, his throat visibly tight. A faint flush spread across his cheekbones, his chest rising and falling in a slow, shaky breath. He carefully folded the flyer along its original creases, his hands trembling slightly as he tucked it into the inner pocket of his tweed jacket, right over his heart.

"Okay," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll be there."

At 11:45 AM on Friday, the elementary school cafeteria was a chaotic symphony of screaming children, squeaking sneakers, and the heavy smell of powdered sugar and floor wax.

Spencer stood just inside the double doors, looking out of place among a sea of men in construction boots, polo shirts, and suits. He had taken a long lunch break, rushing straight from a briefing. He wore his grey trousers, a dark green vest, and a tie that he had re-tied three times in his rearview mirror before walking in.

He was wringing his long hands, his eyes darting anxiously over the sea of tiny tables, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Then, a high-pitched scream cut through the noise.

"SPENCER!"

Before he could react, a tiny blur in denim overalls launched herself across the linoleum and slammed directly into his legs. Spencer caught his balance, dropping instantly to his knees despite the hard floor. Lily threw her arms around his neck.

"You came!" she squealed into his shoulder.

Spencer’s arms wrapped tightly around her small frame, burying his face in her hair, smelling faintly of green apple shampoo and playground dust. The suffocating anxiety that usually gripped him in loud crowds completely evaporated.

"Of course I came," he murmured into her hair, his voice steadying. "I promised I would."

He stood up, letting her drag him by two fingers toward a tiny wooden table with chairs that were far too small for a six-foot-two FBI agent. Spencer awkwardly folded his long legs, his knees practically knocking against his chin as he wedged himself into the small plastic chair.

On the table sat two pink paper plates, each holding a chocolate frosted donut with sprinkles.

"This is Mason," Lily announced proudly, pointing to a boy across the table who was currently smearing strawberry jam on his napkin. "And his dad, Mr. Dan."

Dan, a broad-shouldered man in a baseball cap, offered a friendly nod. "Hey there. Nice to meet you."

"Spencer Reid," Spencer said automatically, extending a long hand across the tiny table to shake Dan's.

"Are you Lily's dad?" Mason asked through a mouthful of donut, tilting his head. "You look different than her."

Spencer froze. His posture went instantly rigid, the old, familiar insecurity flaring up in his chest. His fingers twitched on his napkin as he searched his vast mental encyclopedia for a gentle way to explain step-parent dynamics and non-biological guardianship to a kindergartener.

Before he could utter a single syllable, Lily piped up, taking a massive bite of her chocolate donut.

"He's my Spencer," she said simply, chocolate smudged on her upper lip. "He knows everything about space, and he does my hair, and he's the smartest guy in the whole world."

Dan chuckled, leaning back in his tiny chair. "Sounds like a pretty great dad to me."

Spencer’s breath caught in his chest. He looked down at Lily, who was happily swinging her legs under the table, completely unbothered, pushing the chocolate donut toward him.

"You have to eat the sprinkle side first," she instructed sternly. "It makes it taste better."

Spencer let out a soft, breathy laugh, a sound so full of unadulterated relief that his shoulders dropped three inches.

"Is that a scientific fact?" he asked, his hazel eyes shining behind his lenses.

"Yes," Lily said solemnly. "I tested it."

"Well, I can't argue with data," Spencer whispered, leaning down to take a bite.

For the next forty minutes, Spencer sat in the middle of the loud, sticky cafeteria, happily letting Lily chatter about recess, showing him her favorite rock from the playground, and wiping a streak of chocolate off his nose with a thin paper napkin.

When the bell rang for the kids to line up for class, Lily hugged his waist tightly once more. "Thanks for coming to my lunch, Spencer."

Spencer crouched down, his long hands framing her tiny face, his thumb gently smoothing over her rosy cheek.

"Thank you for inviting me, Lily," he said, his voice dropping into that warm, grounded register, his heart swelling so large it felt like it might burst right through his vest. "It was the best lunch I've ever had."

As she skipped away to join her line, turning back twice to wave, Spencer stood up in the hallway. He reached into his jacket, his fingers brushing against the folded flyer in his pocket. He smiled, a real, radiant, unfettered smile, and walked back out into the afternoon sun.

–

+1- All About My Dad.

Spencer was sitting at the kitchen island, his tie loosened and the sleeves of his blue dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. He was intently focused on annotating a stack of academic journal articles, his red pen moving in quick, precise bursts. Beside him, a mug of chamomile tea let off a thin curl of steam.

You were stirring a pot of soup at the stove when the front door clicked open, followed immediately by the familiar, thumping sound of light-up sneakers on the hardwood.

"Mommy! Spencer! Look!"

Lily burst into the kitchen like a tiny whirlwind, her yellow raincoat dripping slightly onto the floor, her backpack swinging wildly off one shoulder. In her hands, she held a large sheet of bright pink poster board, carefully folded in half to protect whatever was inside.

Spencer immediately capped his pen, shifting in his stool to give her his full attention. "Welcome home, Lily. How was-"

"We did a big project today," Lily interrupted, out of breath as she scrambled up onto the stool right next to him. She set the poster board flat on the island, smoothing her hands over the paper with immense pride. "For Family Week. Mrs. Gable said we had to make a poster about our dads and present it to the whole class."

Spencer’s movement faltered. His hand remained resting on the edge of the counter, his posture subtly stiffening. You turned around from the stove, holding your breath. You knew how carefully Spencer treaded around these topics, how terrified he was of overstepping or taking up space he thought wasn't rightfully his.

"A poster about dads?" Spencer repeated softly, his voice gentle, though his hazel eyes darted nervously to you for a fraction of a second before returning to her face. "That sounds like a very nice project, Lil. Did you... did you write about a family member?"

"No," Lily said, looking at him like he was being exceptionally silly. "I wrote it about you."

Spencer stopped breathing entirely. With a grand flourish, Lily flipped open the pink poster board.

Across the top, spelled out in bold, rainbow-colored bubble letters cut from construction paper, it read:

ALL ABOUT MY DAD

Directly beneath the title was a large drawn picture. It featured Spencer- drawn extraordinarily tall, wearing a brown vest and a lopsided smile. Standing right beside him was Lily, holding a  pink cake.

All around the drawing, filling every available inch of the poster board, were Mrs. Gable’s neat handwriting transcribing Lily’s dictated answers:

My Dad's name is: Doctor Spencer

How old is my Dad? 100 years old (he knows everything)

My Dad's job is: He helps people and solves big puzzles and reads very fast

My Dad's favorite food is: Coffee with six sugars, chocolate sprinkle donuts and mommy’s chicken soup.

My Dad is really good at: Doing my piggies, reading long books without stopping, catching bad guys and being smart.

Why I love my Dad: He hugs me tight when I get scared, he holds Mommy's hand, and he is the smartest and best Dad in the whole wide world.

Silence stretched across the warm kitchen, broken only by the simmering of the soup on the stove and the steady drumming of rain against the glass.

Spencer stared at the board. He didn't move. He didn't blink. His hazel eyes tracked slowly across every single word, over the wobbly rainbow letters at the top, over the brown crayon lines of his vest, down to the bottom sentence.

My Dad.

His chest hitched, a sharp, ragged intake of air. You watched the flush creep rapidly up his neck, flooding his cheeks. His eyes glistened, brimming with sudden, overwhelming tears. His long, slender fingers hovered over the poster board, trembling slightly, terrified to touch it as if the ink might smudge away into a dream.

He spent his life analyzing human nature, collecting data, searching for logic in a world that often made no sense. But no equation in his vast, brilliant mind could have prepared him for the weight of those three little letters.

"Lily..." Spencer whispered, his voice cracking so hard it barely carried across the counter. He swallowed, his throat working heavily as he tried to find his words, but for the first time in his life, the genius profiling agent was entirely speechless. "You... you made this for me?"

Lily tilted her head, reaching out her small hand to pat his arm, her thumb brushing against his rolled-up sleeve.

"Of course I did," she said softly, her eyes shining with uncomplicated devotion. "I love you, and you are my daddy."

The word hit him like a physical tide.

A quiet, breathless sob caught in Spencer's throat. He buried his face in his hands for a brief second, his shoulders shaking as the suffocating joy of the moment broke through every defense he had ever built. When he lifted his head, tears were spilling freely down his cheeks. He didn't even bother to wipe them away.

He slid off his stool and dropped straight to his knees on the kitchen floor, bringing himself eye-level with her. He reached out, his long arms wrapping tightly around her small frame, pulling her so close to his chest that she was practically buried in his shoulder.

"I love you too, Lily," Spencer choked out into her soft hair, his hands cupping the back of her head with a tender, fiercely protective grip. "I love you so, so much."

Lily wrapped her tiny arms around his neck, resting her chin on his shoulder, completely unfazed by his tears. "Don't cry, daddy. It's a good poster."

A wet, breathless laugh burst from Spencer’s chest, a sound so full of pure, unadulterated happiness that it made your own eyes overflow. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands framing her cheeks, his thumbs gently wiping away a stray speck of glitter from her nose. His heart was pounding a strong, steady rhythm, anchoring him completely to this room, to this life, to this precious family.

"It's the best poster ever made," Spencer breathed out, his smile radiant. "In the entire history of the world."

You stepped over, kneeling down beside them on the hardwood floor. Spencer reached out with one long arm, catching your waist and pulling you tightly into the fold, resting his forehead against yours as Lily giggled, squished happily between the two of you.

His body burns. 

Maybe it always has, he just never quite managed to notice it. Mere months ago he would consider that possibility entirely unrealistic - he is, after all, the one with eidetic memory; how could he not observe that, especially about himself? But however important intellect and perceptiveness might be to Spencer and how much he values those parts of him, the last few weeks have him doubting every step, every carefully measured decision he is expected to make.

His body burns.

The bruises have started to fade away at last, his system breaking the hemoglobin down into bilirubin and turning the angry purple-red blooming across his skin into a sickly shade of yellow. He is healing, finally, though the pain lingers more than he would have expected.

Whenever he stretches his limbs too much the damaged tissue still hurts, his scratches and cuts stinging as he meticulously applies the disinfectant every forty-five minutes. It's overkill even for him, but it has been a long time since Spencer had found this much comfort in a compulsory action as this. Breathing is much easier when he has something to fixate his brain on and not be drowned by the endless flow of information inside his mind, though even then he still could tell with pinpoint accuracy where the boot met with his ribs repeatedly.

(But the craving stays. It never gets chased away by something as mere as the chemical smell of the disinfectant.)

His body burns.

Spencer can't say what started it. Was it the first hit that Hankel - Charles - landed on his head? Was it when he was dragged into the car, half-awake and half-conscious? Was it when he looked into the eyes of Tobias and saw nothing but despair? Was it when the needle pierced his skin and the inside of the skull went completely silent for the first time in his life?

Spencer doesn't know. His whole life has been nothing but chasing after what no one could answer and he was excellent at it - but when he needed it the most to make sense, the truth fell out of his hands like it was sand.

His body burns and the vials in his pocket only amplify it and at this point, he doesn't even know if he wants it to stop or to go on forever until he is reduced to a pile of meaningless ash.

The need eats its way deep into his body, down to his bone and marrow, emptying him until there is nothing left of the man who was taken to that cold, dirty cabin. Nothing satisfies the hunger completely as nothing satisfies him either; not sleep, which is filled with creaking floorboards and the smell of burning fish organs; not the books that are piled in a strick order from floor to ceiling as he paces around his apartment like a caged animal.

Spencer knows all that is there to know about PTSD and what it does to people - what it makes them to do, hell, half of his job is spent around people like that - but he can't find solace in statistics and data anymore. Old coping mechanisms all fail and talking about it sound even less desirable than getting shot in the head, he thinks as he shifts on your couch, the soft cushions threatening to swallow him whole.

The vials click against each other in his pocket at his restless movements.

He wants it so much sometimes he forgets how to breathe. The last dose he gave to himself was almost eight hours ago and he can already feel the nausea creeping back in. He has to shot up one soon, he thinks as he feels his hand itch closer to his pocket. Just one. Then it will be easier.

Spencer already knows how the rest of it will go. He will take the vials out and then the needle - which is still somewhere hidden in his coat with an appropriate wrapping - and then tying the scarf around his arm to make his veins pop out more. After that, there will be the familiar pin-prick into the soft skin of his arm and then in one to five minutes the opioid will attach itself to the receptors in his brain and then cut off all signals of pain in his body, leaving behind all but the bliss of the absolute nothing.

He can already feel the outlines of the vials with his fingertips when something fells to the floor in the other room, the clanking followed by your quiet swearing and Spencer pulls his hand away like it has been burned.

No. Not now. Not here.

There is someone in front of him and he is afraid to look up.

Raphael stands above him, his face half-hidden by the dim shadows of your living room but Spencer can see the cold judgment in his eyes when he finally raises his head. He knows he is a sinner, an animalistic fear rushes through him as he goes to grab his elbow with an intent to cover up, but deep inside he knows that not his hand nor the long sleeved shirt he wears will hide what he had done from the relentless gaze of the man - Archangel? Devil? His tormentor? - staring down at him.

Raphael opens his mouth and there is fire where his tongue is supposed to be and Spencer squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the strike that will come.

The world tilts to the left ever so slightly when he looks up again. Raphael is gone by then but he doesn't let himself succumb to the false hope that he will stay that way. The archangel always came back and this time won't be an exception.

Your voice finds him, sweeping in all the way from the kitchen. You hum a catchy tune and the sound worms itself into his head and he swallows the urge to tell you to shut up for once. There are already more than enough people he sent away when they wanted to help and tried to pity him. You don't deserve that tone.

You still don't know that he died, Spencer feels a bitter taste gather on his tongue as he tries to think coherently again, the sound of your voice simultaneously comforting and maddening in is ear.

Spencer thought he knew death. All different kinds and methods of it, his daily work consistenting of getting into the headspace of murderers and victims alike, but it is completely different when you are the one looking down the gaping barrel of a revolver. He still remembers how it felt - the helplessness as he slowly choked on his own vomit and saliva as Charles Hankel looked down at him like he was the scum of the earth and how he thought that dieing must hurt while he tried to dig his own grave into the cold, hard ground of the cemetery.

Before that, Spencer had always been moving on a theoretical plane. Sure, he was out in the field and in the line of fire more than he cared to dwell about but it wasn't until his own, seemingly inevitable end was in front of him, when his own mortality stared right into his eyes with the face of TobiasCharlesRaphael that he understood what was it really like to know that you will die here tonight.

(Spencer dig his own grave that night. It doesn't get any more final than that.)

He didn't, but the terror remained. And that is precisely why Spencer will never tell you what happened in Atlanta, no matter how hard you pester him.

The kitchen is alive and warm just around the corner and he can hear your steps as you open cupboards and turn on the kettle. His left temple throbs, the memory of his own clotted blood still sticking to his hair and skin.

He shouldn't do it here. It isn't right and it isn't safe - Spencer knows how addiction works, how the places where you use will be forever tainted with that memory and while he knows he isn't an addict - addicts don't have self-control and Spencer has been nothing for his entire life if not the carefully catered version of himself - there is no need to risk it.

Instead, he forces himself to look around.

Your apartment changed since the last time he was here. It's much more regulated and organized - albeit previously he stepped in when you were still cleaning up from last night's party which he couldn't make it because he was too busy two states away chasing a man who skinned people for fun. But he promised to say hello and that was why he came straight from the airport after not even bothering to go home. The headquarters were much closer to your place than his, so he directed himself towards you as soon as the jet hit the ground and successfully managed to ignore all of Prentiss' whistles and Morgan's smug face.

Not like it's like that at all. You aren't his partner and you never would be.

(Besides, you always said you like when he comes straight to you. That the scent of the jet fuel lingered on him and it made you feel like you were part of something too. Part of his life in another way.

He never told you how glad he was that you will never see what his job really consists of.)

But you still welcomed him with a beaming smile you seemed to specifically reserve for him and Spencer could feel his face get flushed as he breathed in the smell of cheap booze and the detergent you tried to drown it out as you rambled about what happened since he was gone in a voice that was hoarse from sleep.

Dr. Spencer Reid doesn't drink. He values his neurons and what he can do with them too much to destroy them with neurotoxins.

(Instead, he numbs himself until he can't form a coherent thought anymore.)

Still, he thinks, if you ever offered him a drink, he would accept it. It wouldn't mean any good, he stares at the pictures displayed on the wall, your face smiling at him from every corner of the room, drinking isn't beneficial or non-destructive at any amount. You shouldn't drink either, as he warns you repeatedly but you only laugh his concerns away and put a hand on his arm.

"Please, I'm only young once, handsome. Can't you let me enjoy it as I want to, Reid?" Your grip tightens a little. "You know that not everybody can stay as responsible and logical as you do it all the time!"

Spencer doesn't want to stay responsible and logical, Spencer just doesn't want you to die. But he has known you long enough to know that no matter how many times he brings up the deterrent statistics of nationwide diagnosed AUD amongst people in your age group, you will do as you see fit. So, he stays quiet and only wrinkle his nose in disapproval when he spots an occasional can of beer or half-drunk wine bottle on your nightstand.

Your books are reorganized, he notices. It isn't anything similar how he would do it but it is an improvement, given the previously downright catastrophic state your bookshelves have been - he is certain that if she wouldn't be convinced that you were a government agent or an alien sent to take her son away, his mother and you would find common ground fairly easily.

For some reason, that is the thought that scares him the most.

The kettle sings in the kitchen and his heart beats along with the strange rhythm, the warmth of your living room enveloping him as he is part of you home but Spencer still feels like a dirt stain on the carper, something unclean smeared onto the cleanliness of your living room, an impurity that has no right breathing in the same air as you do. The vials burn in his pocket and he wants to sob but crying is a sign of weakness and he cannot be weak-

-and then he is back in the cemetery again, the single light bulb dancing above him in the cold breeze, it's the will of God says Raphael, the single round shining in the scattered light as he slides it in with a click and spins the cylinder of the revolver, the sound whirring into his foggy brain. Blood clots on the side of his head, the metallic smell mixing together with the stench of the burning fish and the screens flash in front of him, all the lives he - no, not him, Raphael - holds in his hands and then he chooses and two people are dead.

He watches the life drain out of them and then watches Gideon who tells him that wasn't his fault, that he is strong, that he won't break but Spencer knows that he hasn't been whole for a long time, some vital part is missing from him. Maybe he lost it even before he came to the BAU.

Tobias Hankel's eyes are two black holes, swallowing all light from the universe Spencer once understood and he wishes to fall back into the haze of hydromorphone. He feels the belt tightening around his arm and lets his head fall back as he feels the cut bite of the needle as it sinks into him along with the cold realization that nothing ever will be the same.

His mother looks at him as the men he called take her away, her eyes full of pleading and desperation and he can't forget her; Tobias looks at him with sadness running deeper than his bones and tells him no one can save them.

Spencer believed him then. Still does. What makes it worse that nobody else seems to think the same.

He can see the hurt flaring up in Prentiss' eyes when he barked at her concern. He can do his job perfectly and even if there would be something to criticize - there isn't - then sure as hell not the newbie will tell it straight into his face.

(Deep down, Spencer knows she only wants to help. That makes it worse.)

Footsteps come towards him but before he could turn around, something soft falls onto his head, obscuring his view. It takes an embarrassingly long time until Spencer realizes that you threw a towel at him.

"Sorry for not being here earlier," your voice is slightly muffled by the material on his head. "I just wanted to make some tea for you." Spencer feels the couch dip under your weight as you sit down. He takes the towel off and glances at you.

Your thigh is mere inches away from his, he notes purely out of profiling instinct. Also, you decided to wear shorts tonight. Spencer glances away before the analyzer in him notices more than he already had.

"That's for your hair." You explain, pointing at the towel in his hand as you look him up and down, surprise evident on your face. "You still haven't changed? Good God, Spencer, you are going to be sick if you aren't careful!"

"Why would I have to change?" He asks, his words sharp. You stare at him with confusion in your eyes.

"Uh, because you are dripping onto my couch?"

Spencer looks down. His clothes are beyond ruined. His shirt is crumpled and big droplets from his hair are falling down, making it even more wet. How did he even get like this? Was it raining when he left home? He can't remember.

"Oh." He mutters.

"Oh." You echo him, grabbing a pile of clothes from the small table in front of you and holding it out for him. "Now go and change, Spencer, before I call your boss and tell him that you aren't being concerned enough for yourself." It's an empty threat and you both know it, but Spencer almost smiles at the thought of you scolding Hotch.

"Yeah, before I forget!" You call after him as he opens the bathroom door. "There is a sweater amongst those that you left here before and I think I accidentally slept in it once or twice. Tell me if that bothers you!"

"No, no, it's perfect." Spencer says with what he hopes is the voice an unbothered person would use. "If it made you happy then I'm glad."

"Aww, you are so sweet, Reid. No wonder why all—" You would continue further but at that point, Spencer had long shut the door behind him. He is still cold and the frantic racing of his heartbeat does little to help him change, so he lists and categorizes all bird species native to states Alabama, West Virginia and California and tries not to think about the fact that you have slept in his clothes.

Repeatedly so.

When he emerges from the bathroom minutes later, you are still sitting on the couch, watching some nonsense documentary on the TV. Half of him hopes that you won't notice him, but you immediately turn to him as he steps out and shine a smile at him that makes his spine feel like molten glue.

"So? What do you think of my updated place, pretty boy?" You tease him as he sits down and his stomach does somersaults. Morgan will pay for teaching that nickname to you, the irrational anger flares up inside him again for a second. Though it does sound much better from your mouth and Spencer is sure that if you only called him that for the rest of his life, he would die as a happy man.

He fights the urge to drop to his knees right there, the vials be damned but he looks in your eyes and realizes you are still waiting for an answer. So he clears his throat.

"It's… unique. Very you." He says, the words fumbling out of his mouth. "I think you managed to encapsulate both your taste and the evident style of the apartment and merged it into a space which is simultaneously both comfortingly familiar and excitingly new. I especially like what you did with the windows! The old curtains were too thick and cut out all the sunlight, while these," he waves towards the windows. "let in much more natural light and enlarging the otherwise small space. Studies also have repeatedly shown that regular exposure to sunlight can decrease the possibility of mental health issues, so it's not only beneficial for the eyesight but also your brain. Not that only light will be the sole reason for your mental stability, but it is an important factor…" He only slows down as he spots the smile playing on your lips. "Oh… was that a hypothetical question?" He squints at you.

"Yeah, but I love to hear you talk. You can continue if you like." You grin at him. "But only after you drink some tea. You will definitely get sick is you continue rambling like that."

He scoffs.

"I don't want to drink tea." It's childish, really, but he can't help it. The nausea curls up in his stomach again and his fingers also begin to tremble. "I'm fine."

You glare at him and Spencer feels his heart jump again.

"Drink." You say with a tone that doesn't take no for an answer. You press the cup into his hand and Spencer swears that you linger a second longer than you should have. Or you don't. He doesn't know. His profiling skills are worth absolutely nothing the moment you look up at him, your lashes casting soft shadows on your face in the dim light.

He swallows and tightens his grip around the cut as he brings it up to drink.

Next to him you lean back, shifting in your seat. Your shorts ride further up and Spencer almost chokes on the hot tea.

At least he knows that his libido hasn't suffered seriously because of the hydromorphone, he thinks and for a split second, his relief almost drowns out his guilt. Opioids do have that long-term effect on their user. But it all comes crashing back when you stretch out yourself and he has to tear his eyes away from the way your top slides up.

Dr. Spencer Reid is a clever man. Terrifyingly so, his intellect alone is enough to make even the most seasoned agents stop and listen whenever he speaks up on a case. He is undoubtedly a genius, a once-in every generational talent, a prodigy that even the great Jason Gideon speaks about with open pride.

But Spencer Reid is still just a man. A very confused one at that.

Back at Quantico, he is celebrated as a mastermind, as an example of how all profilers should be.

Here, on your couch, he is just scared.

He knows that there is a real possibility of you liking him; no matter how small that might be. He isn't stupid or dense to that degree, no matter how much his coworkers baby him. It comes with his appearance, he supposes, the way he is still all long limbs and knotty joints, like the kid who always got the short end of the stick back in high school. Spencer doesn't say that had never happened but still. He is twenty-five years old and even if Morgan would laugh at what he calls - or rather, doesn't call - his dating history, he thinks he knows when a person likes him.

Or so he thought. Because the doubt keeps creeping in - what if this is how you act with all your friends? He certainly isn't around you enough to know what is your attitude around people your age and behavior is built by patterns, after all. What if he isn't as special as he wants himself to be? What if all he is to you is the weirdo FBI wannabe who can't even hold a single conversation without rambling about something completely irrelevant? And now he is also a junkie, wouldn't that be a funny story at your parties—

"Hey," your touch on his arm is light, and while most of the time, Spencer doesn't prefer physical contact, now he wants to press himself as close to you as he could. "You are overthinking something again, aren't you?"

"Yeah," he mutters, shame coiling in his stomach. Here he is making wild hypotheses about your ulterior motives and all you want to know if he is alright. "Sorry. I know you don't like it. " He adds, his hand clutching at his arm again.

"You absolute dumbass. I love you." You say it with such an ease and familiarity that for a moment, Spencer believes you. "but you always overthink everything. That is the curse of the job you choose. And it doesn't bother me as much as it worries me, Spencer. You do know that you can talk to me about anything, right? Anything, really. I'm here to listen. Just if you want to, of course."

"Mhm. Will do." He nods, staring at the TV before him. You look at him for a little longer, then turn forward with a sigh.

"Alright. Tell me if you need anything else." Spencer nods again. The marks on his arm itch. It's bone deep and he knows he could flay his arm in search for the source of the rot and still would only find the hunger that floods in his veins. Still, he rubs it and the need flares up in him again.

He briefly wonders that if there will be a time when the ache after the hydromorphone will be stronger than the ache after you, but the thought only makes him more nauseous so he just slides closer to you.

 Not like he doesn't crave you now, he thinks, it seems ridiculous to even consider that as an opinion. But Spencer can't deny that since he has been dead, it changed. Now, he wants you to tear open the buttons on his shirt and open up his chest and crawl into the space between his lungs to where his heart beats increasingly faster and replace it with your warmth, a place between his spine and sternum which is entirely and exclusively yours. That and another set of vials would mean the perfect world for him, he thinks, dizziness setting over his mind as sweat runs down his back along with the remaining water from his hair.

He has to leave soon. He doesn't want you to see him at his lowest.

If it was up to you, he would be sent to detox. Or at least a Narcotics Anonymous, and you would do it because you thought you loved him, the same reason he sent his mother away when she needed him the most. And maybe that would be the best course of action, if Spencer was an addict. But he isn't, his grip tightens around his arm, he is undoubtedly in control.

("I don't want it." He whimpered again and and again and it was a lie and it is a lie when you lean against him, your body warm and solid and he wants more, to press you even closer until he doesn't know where he ends and where you begin and he is a sinner and a liar and a bad friend for wanting you and an even worse son who sold out and betrayed his mother and he deserves nothing but to—)

"Hey." You tap lightly on his hand which is clasped around his elbow. He shivers at the contract. "What's up with that? You have been scrathing yourself for the last five minutes. Is there something wrong?"

"Oh, that? It's just a bruise that I got on my last case. Morgan almost managed to close the car door while my arm was still inside." He only hopes you don't notice his fingers shaking.

"Oh, my great hero, what trials you have to go through every day!" You lean closer to him, your arm pressing against his. "Thank you for protecting us every day!" There is a dimple on your face when you smile like that, Spencer notes and fights down the urge to run his thumb over it. "And tell Morgan I will kick his ass if he manages to injure you again."

"Realistically, you would get absolutely obliterated by him." He lets it slip and watches as the smile on your face widens. "Not only he is more experienced with hand-to-hand combat, but unsurprisingly, he also has his service weapon on him at all times. I think once he even tried to take a shower with it."

"Whatever. You didn't come over to talk about Derek Morgan, did you?" Your eyes skim over his face. "To be fair, I was surprised that you came. I honestly thought you didn't want to see me in the near future by the way you ditched every call I made to you. And I know, I know," You held up your hand when Spencer tries to interrupt. "Your job is hard. I get it. I just worry, you know? This must be hard for you, all those people you have to deal with, the things you have to think about every day… I know you want to do this, but you are also my friend, Spencer. And I don't want you to lose yourself in such a shitty place. Is everything alright? You look like you sleep even less than you did before. Did something happen? You know you can tell me anything, right?"

He wants to tell you. He really does but then the guilt creeps up from his stomach and he chokes on his words. You can't see him weaker than he already is.

"I'm fine, I promise. It's nothing serious, just the stress, I think." He says instead. "It's nothing, I swear."

You press your lips together and it seems like there is much more that you want to say to him. But you don't. The warmth in his chest only grows at the sight of that.

"Okay, whatever you want, genius." You sigh. "At the end of the day, you have a doctorate and only have my opinions. But seriously, if anything is going on, you can tell me anytime. Call or text is okay, if that's better for you."

Spencer wants to remind you that he has three doctorates, not just one but you look up at him from under your lashes and for a moment, he completely forgets how to breathe.

When he can induce his lungs and trachea back to work, you are already fussing over his arm.

"Can I do anything about that? It seems painful by the way you grasp at it."

"It's fine, it's just a bruise. The discoloration of the skin will disappear approximately in two weeks along with the pain. Surface wounds aren't that serious either and fortunately the hit didn't affect the deep tissue or the bone underneath it."

"Fine," you huff. "Then let me do just this. Take your hand off and hold up your arm."

He obeys without thinking and you lean closer. Much closer than he expect you to. Before he can react, your lips are almost touching his arm and Spencer swears he can feel the warmth of your breath on his skin even through the thick material of his sweater. And then, right before he puts his hand back, your lips brush against his shirt for a fraction of a second.

Spencer lets out a whimper, a pitiful sound and he can only hope that you don't hear it over murmur of the TV.

It's just a peck, not even a full-blown kiss. The building doesn't collapse on his head and the world doesn't stop turning nor his heart beating but Spencer knows that something has changed in him fundamentally when you pull back and laugh at his dumbfounded expression.

"What? Now it will heal much faster that I kissed it better. And don't even try and come up with a scientific breakdown of why what I said is wrong on all levels, or you don't get to chose what we watch tonight."

"I wasn't going to say anything!" He protests just for the sake of it as you reach for the crumped cardboard box where all your old DVDs reside. "But I want to watch Star Wars, if you insist on me picking."

You grimace up at him from the floor.

"Again? We must've watched it for like, a thousand times? Didn't you said that you want something more grounded than swords made out of light and psychics?"

"Actually, this would be the eighth time we watch them together and the fifteenth time I do, and while the existence and work of the Force is utterly unrealistic, you could and can build lightsabers in the form of plasma blades with and appropriate core and hilt. Though kyber crystals do not exist, you can try and replace it with something else. I think I still have the one I made when I was eleven hidden away amongst my old stuff."

"Mhm. Of course you did that. Whatever you say, handsome." You grin and hold up six DVD cases. "Should we start with the OG trilogy or the prequel one?"

"Please." Spencer frowns. "The original, of course." He feels offended enough that he almost doesn't notice how your fingers flex as you put the first movie into the player.

"Okay, I think it soon will start." You sit back next to him. "Do you need anything else? More tea? Something to eat?"

Two more ampoules in my pocket and for you to never leave my side, Spencer thinks, but he can't say that out loud so he just shakes his head. You nod and turn back to the screen where the familiar yellow text has already started to roll up, followed by the familiar boom of the soundtrack. He tries to pay attention - not that he needs it, he knows the full script by heart, even the director's notes - but all he tries to do is to scoot closer to you. You don't seem to mind.

Spencer Reid has never felt this lost in his life. There is a fire inside of his body that never stops burning and there is an ache in his heart that only your presence can ease. The only thing he knows surely is that he loves you and you let him so, even if it's without realizing the full scale of his feelings. And that is enough to silence the burning in his veins, even if it's for a short time.

On the screen, the Devastator catches up to the Tantive VI and pulls it into captivity. You lean against him, your head falling onto his stiff shoulder.

You came around the corner from the kitchen, wiping your hands on a dishtowel. The tension in your shoulders dropped the second you saw him intact, alive, and home. "Spencer," you breathed, stepping forward to wrap your arms around his middle, burying your face against the crook of his neck. He stayed still for a fraction of a second before his hands found the small of your back. His grip was tighter than usual, almost desperate, though his posture remained strangely stiff. The scent of rain, stale coffee, and gunshot residue clung to his wool coat.

"Hey," he whispered. His voice was raspy, stripped raw.

You pulled back just enough to look up at his face. His eyes were wide, dark, and distant, fixed on a spot somewhere past your shoulder.

"I heard," you said gently, reaching up to frame his jaw with your hand. His skin was pale and cold. "JJ called me from the plane. She couldn't give me details, but she said... she said everyone made it out, and that you saved Hotch."

Spencer blinked, the words washing over him without quite landing. He unbuttoned his coat slowly, methodically, hanging it on the hook by the door as if following a script. "Yeah. I... I had to shoot him."

"Come sit down," you said softly, taking his hand. His fingers were trembling, not the quick, restless movement of his usual fidgeting, but a fine, uncontrollable tremor.

You led him to the sofa. He sat rigidly on the very edge of the cushion, elbows resting on his knees, staring down at his hands. You sat on the coffee table in front of him, wrapping both of your hands around his, rubbing your thumb across his knuckles to warm him up.

"It was Philip Dowd," Spencer said quietly, his voice dry and flat. "He had us trapped in the hospital room. He took away my gun earlier, mocked me for failing my firearm qualification... he called me a kid. He thought I was harmless."

You didn't interrupt. You just listened, keeping your steady weight anchored across from him.

"Hotch... Hotch started kicking me," Spencer continued, the words coming faster now, driven by that familiar, rapid cadence, yet entirely devoid of emotion. "He was playing along with Dowd's hero-complex narrative, pretending to vent his frustration at me so Dowd would drop his guard. He was giving me an opening. He was telling me where his backup gun was strapped to his ankle." He looked down at his hand, the hand you were holding, and flexed his fingers slowly. "I took the ankle holster. I aimed for his head. I shot him. Point blank."

The silence in the living room stretched, heavy and thick. You waited, giving him space to process, knowing how his mind worked in hyper-drive, analysing every micro-second of the event.

"Spencer," you gently prompted. "How are you feeling?"

He finally lifted his head to look at you. His dark brown eyes were wide, searching your face with a harrowing kind of panic, not because he was overwhelmed by emotion, but because of the absolute absence of it. "That's the thing," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "I'm not. I don't feel anything."

Your heart ached for him, but you kept your touch steady. "What do you mean?"

"When Gideon talked to me after... he asked if I was okay. People always talk about the guilt, or the trauma, or the weight of taking a human life. They talk about the horror of the moment," Spencer explained, his speech speeding up as his rational brain tried to solve an unsolvable equation. "Adrenaline spikes, the body triggers an acute stress response, often followed by remorse or psychological distress. But I watched the light leave his eyes, and I... I felt relieved. I felt calm. I killed a man today, and I don't feel guilty at all."

He pulled his hand out of yours and covered his face, breathing heavily. "What does that mean? Am I breaking down? Am I becoming desensitised? I'm supposed to understand human behavior, I'm supposed to have empathy, but right now I feel like an absolute blank."

You reached out, gently pulling his hands away from his face and holding them back down in his lap. "Spencer, look at me," you demanded softly.

He hesitated, then lowered his gaze to meet yours.

"You didn't execute someone in cold blood," you told him, every word deliberate and firm. "You were trapped in a room with a man who was actively murdering people, who was about to kill Hotch, and who would have killed you next. You didn't kill him out of malice or anger. You stopped a monster from taking more lives."

"I know the logic," he said, frustration bleeding into his tone. "I know the justification. But the emotional disconnect-"

"-is your brain protecting you," you finished softly, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. "You've been through a high-stress trauma. Your body spent hours in a state of hyper-vigilance, and then you had to make a split-second decision to save your friend's life. Your mind isn't feeling guilty because you didn't do anything wrong. You feel numb because you're exhausted."

Spencer stared at you, the frantic light in his eyes dimming just a fraction, replaced by a vulnerability he only ever showed behind closed doors with you.

"You aren't a bad person, Spencer," you whispered, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss against his forehead. "You aren't cold, and you aren't broken. You're just human, and you brought everyone home alive today."

A long, shuddering breath escaped his chest. The tension holding his spine rigid finally snapped, and he leaned into you, resting his heavy head against your shoulder. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his lap as if anchoring himself to the only thing in the world that felt real right then.

"Stay with me?" he asked against your neck, his voice small, stripped of all academic shields and profile logic.

You had made the biggest mistake of your life by mentioning your dating life around Spencer Reid in the middle of breakfast at work.

It wasn’t even supposed to become a conversation. It was supposed to be one of those rare moments before the day inevitably descended into ringing phones, half-empty coffee cups, case files spread across every available surface, and Garcia announcing that someone had been murdered in a way that was somehow both horrifying and creatively disturbing. For now, though, the BAU was suspended in that brief pocket of normalcy that existed before the first case of the day. The bullpen was still relatively quiet, and the small break room smelled like burnt coffee, toasted bread, and whatever suspiciously sugary pastry Garcia had brought in that morning. You had been sitting at the table with your coffee warming your hands, enjoying the illusion that you might actually get to finish it while it was still hot.

Naturally, that illusion lasted approximately seven minutes.

It had started with Garcia complaining about the modern dating scene, which, considering her tendency to treat every minor inconvenience as a personal betrayal from the universe, had been fairly inevitable. She was halfway through describing the latest dating disaster of one of her friends when Morgan had decided to contribute his own entirely unsolicited expertise, proudly bragging about his ability to get numbers at bars as though he were presenting evidence before a jury. JJ had laughed at him, Rossi had offered some dry comment about how little had changed since his own dating days, and somehow, the attention had shifted toward you.

JJ had been the one to ask.

“So, are you seeing anyone now?”

You had shrugged, taking a sip of coffee as though the question didn’t deserve much thought.

“Not really.”

Morgan immediately looked offended on your behalf.

“Not really?” he repeated, stopping halfway through pouring sugar into his coffee just to turn toward you. “What does that mean?”

You glanced at him over the rim of your mug.

“It means I’ve gone on a few dates.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

Garcia gasped dramatically, a donut still in her hand.

“Nothing?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “They’re nice. They’re just…not exactly memorable.”

There was a collective murmur of sympathy around the table, although you suspected at least half of it was amusement. Morgan shook his head like you had personally disappointed him, while Garcia immediately began asking whether any of them had at least been attractive, and JJ was trying not to laugh into her coffee.

You were about to answer when a quiet voice came from beside you.

“That’s probably because you’re using dating applications.”

You slowly turned your head.

Spencer was sitting beside you, one leg tucked beneath the chair, a book open across his lap as if he hadn’t been listening to the conversation at all. He had one hand curled loosely around his coffee mug, the other resting against the edge of the book, and there was something almost absurdly innocent about his expression.

He hadn’t even realized he’d said anything particularly offensive.

You stared at him.

“I’m sorry?”

Spencer blinked and finally looked up from the page.

“Dating applications are statistically inefficient.”

Morgan’s eyebrows shot up, Garcia abandoned her donut entirely, JJ lowered her coffee and across the table, Rossi’s mouth twitched.

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Garcia murmured, settling back into her chair as though she’d just been handed front-row tickets to a show.

Spencer seemed to realize, belatedly, that he’d acquired an audience. His eyes moved from Garcia to Morgan, then briefly to JJ before settling back on you. There was a tiny crease between his eyebrows, the one that appeared whenever he was trying to determine why everyone was looking at him like he’d said something strange.

Instead of stopping, however, he elaborated.

“Most dating applications rely heavily on physical appearance and brief self-descriptions, which creates a significant selection bias. There’s also evidence that the abundance of potential partners can actually decrease satisfaction because people perceive alternatives as unlimited, which can make commitment more difficult.”

Spencer continued, completely unaware that he had just turned your perfectly harmless breakfast conversation into a dissertation on why your love life was apparently suffering from a flawed methodology.

“The paradox of choice is particularly relevant here. When people are presented with too many options, they can become less satisfied with the choice they eventually make because they’re more aware of the alternatives they rejected.”

You continued staring at him.

There was something almost surreal about hearing Spencer discuss your dating life in the language of behavioral economics. You’d complained about bad dates plenty of times. It wasn’t unusual. Over the past few months, you’d mentioned—more than once, admittedly—that you were probably going to delete the application you had been using because every man on it seemed to possess the exact same three photographs, the same aggressively vague profile, and the same inexplicable fascination with hiking.

You hadn’t expected anyone to actually remember.

Certainly not Spencer.

And yet, somehow, without you even realizing how much attention he’d been paying to those conversations, Spencer Reid had apparently taken every complaint you’d made, filed it away somewhere in that frighteningly enormous brain of his, and connected it to an entire body of psychological research. So now he was explaining the possible causes of your romantic misfortunes as though he had been invited to present his findings at an academic conference.

Finally, he paused.

“What?”

You blinked slowly.

“You’ve thought about this.”

Spencer’s expression softened into immediate confusion, his eyebrows drawing together ever so slightly. For a second, his gaze dropped toward the open book on his lap, as though perhaps the answer could be found somewhere between the pages.

“I’ve read about it.”

“Of course you have.”

There was a beat of silence.

He frowned slightly, clearly unable to understand the particular tone you’d used. He glanced at you again, his eyes moving carefully over your face as though he were looking for some indication that you were joking.

“Why is that surprising?”

“Because most people don’t research why dating apps are statistically inefficient before breakfast.”

“I wasn’t researching dating applications specifically.”

“You weren’t?”

“No.” He glanced down at his book again, thumb slipping between the pages to hold his place. “I was reading an article about decision-making and behavioral economics, and it referenced several studies on modern courtship.”

You stared at him for another moment.

Of course he hadn’t searched for statistics about bad first dates or relationship satisfaction or the psychological consequences of swiping through hundreds of strangers. He had simply been reading something completely unrelated, stumbled across a study about courtship, remembered it, and somehow managed to retrieve the information at exactly the right moment.

You didn’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.

Eventually, you sighed.

“Somehow that’s worse.”

Morgan laughed from across the table, the sound escaping him before he could quite disguise it behind his coffee. He shook his head, eyes dropping toward the cup as though he had suddenly found something fascinating in it.

Spencer looked between the two of you.

“I don’t understand.”

There was no sarcasm in his voice. No defensiveness. He genuinely didn’t understand why everyone seemed to find his explanation funny, and that somehow made it even more difficult to keep a straight face.

“Don’t worry,” Rossi said dryly, reaching for his coffee. “You will eventually.”

Spencer looked at Rossi for a moment, apparently trying to determine whether that was an actual answer or simply another example of the older man’s tendency to make deliberately cryptic observations. Whatever conclusion he reached, he didn’t ask. Instead, his attention returned to you.

You turned toward him fully, narrowing your eyes slightly, although by then you weren’t entirely sure whether you were annoyed or simply amused by the fact that he had managed to transform a casual conversation over coffee into an impromptu lecture on human behavior. He hadn’t meant to embarrass you or to criticize your choices. If anything, he seemed genuinely interested in solving what he had apparently identified as a problem.

“What?” he asked.

The question was so genuinely confused that you almost laughed.

“Nothing,” you said, perhaps a little too quickly.

Spencer didn’t answer.

You turned back toward your paperwork instead, deliberately giving him your back in the universal language of conversation over. You picked up your pen and dragged the tip across a sentence you’d already highlighted, pretending to reread it with considerably more interest than it deserved. Behind you, Spencer remained still for another second. You could practically feel his gaze on the back of your head, his mind undoubtedly running through the possible meanings of your expression and tone.

But eventually, whatever conclusion he’d reached seemed sufficient.

He lowered his eyes to the book resting against his thigh and turned the page with one finger.

The room slowly settled back into its familiar rhythm. Morgan’s spoon scraped softly against the bottom of his coffee cup, followed by the quiet clink as he set it down. Garcia unwrapped another piece of pastry, the crinkling paper sounding unusually loud in the lull before she took a bite. Somewhere near the corner, the vending machine hummed continuously, its mechanical vibration blending with the muffled sounds drifting in from the bullpen.

And, just for a few seconds, you managed to convince yourself that the conversation was actually over.

Four seconds passed.

Then Spencer spoke again.

“You could try meeting people in person.”

Your pen stopped halfway through the sentence and a short laugh escaped you before you could stop it, and you turned toward him again.

Spencer was still looking at his book.

He’d said it so casually, so matter-of-factly, that you almost wondered whether he’d forgotten that he was talking to you at all. His thumb rested against the edge of the page, keeping it from turning, while his eyes moved across the text with the same concentration he’d had before. He looked completely unaware that he’d just offered what sounded suspiciously like romantic advice.

“Okay, Spencer,” you said, turning your chair slightly in his direction. “Our king of social skills. And where exactly am I supposed to meet people?”

He blinked at you.

“Social environments.”

“Very helpful.” You said, then rolled your eyes and turned back toward your paperwork, but he had already begun considering the question more seriously. You heard the faint rustle of his clothes as he shifted in his chair, and when you glanced sideways again, his book had been lowered slightly.

“Bars, bookstores, museums, academic conferences, community events—”

“Do you hear yourself?” you interrupted, turning toward him again, genuinely offended now.

“Yes.”

“And you’re still talking?”

“Yes.”

The answer came without hesitation.

Spencer didn’t even seem to understand that there was supposed to be a different answer. He simply looked at you over the top of his glasses, completely serious. There was no trace of embarrassment in his face, no realization that he’d just walked directly into the joke you were making. If anything, he seemed mildly confused by your continued amusement, as though he’d provided a perfectly reasonable answer and was now waiting for you to explain why that wasn’t sufficient.

There was a tiny pause.

Then you smiled because you couldn’t help it, it was like something about him made it impossible not to.

“I just mean,” he added after a moment, his voice quieter now, “that real-life interactions provide more reliable behavioral data.”

“Behavioral data?”

“Yes.”

You leaned closer, lowering your voice as though you were sharing some great secret with him, despite the fact that everyone else at the table was still within easy listening distance.

“So you’re saying I should stop using dating apps and start profiling men in bars?”

“No.” Spencer immediately frowned. “Profiling is different.”

“Right.”

“It would be inappropriate to profile someone recreationally.”

Morgan snorted so violently into his coffee that he had to set the cup down before he choked on it. Garcia immediately covered her mouth with one hand, her shoulders shaking as she fought against the laugh threatening to escape. Even JJ had to look down at the table, biting the inside of her cheek in a futile attempt to compose herself.

You lasted only a second longer.

Then you laughed too, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair.

“Of course it would.”

Spencer looked around at everyone.

His gaze moved from Morgan, who was still recovering, to Garcia, whose eyes had begun to water from trying not to laugh, and then to JJ, who was suddenly very interested in the coffee sitting between her hands.

“What?”

“Nothing,” JJ said, far too innocently.

He looked unconvinced but eventually returned his attention to you.

There was something almost endearing about the way he approached everything with absolute sincerity. Spencer could explain criminal behavior, statistical anomalies, linguistic patterns, and the psychological effects of trauma without blinking, but put him in a conversation about something as ordinary as flirting and suddenly he seemed to be operating from a textbook that had been written for an entirely different species.

And, unfortunately for him, that made you want to tease him.

“You know what, Spencer?”

His eyes flicked toward you immediately.

“Maybe you’re right.”

He straightened slightly.

The movement was subtle, but you caught it. His shoulders lifted a fraction, his posture becoming a little more attentive, and something about the reaction made you smile. Spencer always seemed to become more animated whenever someone accepted one of his conclusions. It wasn’t arrogance. If anything, it was the opposite. He simply liked knowing that something he’d explained had been useful.

“About what?”

“Dating apps.”

Something shifted in his expression.

“Really?”

There was a quiet note of interest in his voice that made you almost laugh.

“Yeah.” You nodded thoughtfully, pretending to give the matter considerably more consideration than it deserved. “Maybe I should learn how to flirt in real life.”

Spencer nodded almost immediately and you could practically see his brain rearranging the problem into something he could analyze, something with identifiable variables and a measurable outcome.

“That would probably increase your chances of establishing a meaningful connection.”

You bit the inside of your cheek because you knew if you didn’t, you were going to laugh.

“Well,” you said slowly, turning the pen between your fingers, “if you’re such an expert…”

His eyebrows rose.

The change in his expression was almost imperceptible, but you saw it. His attention sharpened, the hand holding his book became still, and he looked at you with the cautious curiosity of someone who had suddenly realized there might be something hidden beneath your words.

You leaned back in your chair, watching him.

For perhaps the first time since the conversation began, Spencer seemed to understand that he had walked himself directly into a trap.

“You should teach me you how to flirt in real life.”

Silence.

Morgan’s head turned so quickly that his chair gave a quiet squeak against the floor. Garcia’s mouth actually fell open, the piece of pastry she’d been holding forgotten halfway between the plate and her lips. JJ stopped with her coffee halfway to her mouth, her eyes widening as she looked over the rim of the cup. Somewhere near the doorway, Rossi had been lingering with a file tucked beneath one arm, but he took one look at the expressions around the table and apparently made a very deliberate decision that he wanted no part in whatever was about to happen. Without saying a word, he turned around and walked away.

Even Hotch glanced up from across the bullpen.

Spencer, however, seemed completely oblivious to everyone else.

“Me?”

You nodded, fighting the smile threatening to give you away.

“Yes, you.”

He looked genuinely alarmed now.

“I don’t think I’m qualified to teach you that.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“You just gave me a ten-minute lecture on human mating behavior.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.”

“That wasn’t about mating behavior.” His response came much faster this time. His eyebrows drew together, and he shifted slightly in his chair as though physically repositioning himself might somehow make the distinction more convincing. “It was about the psychological implications of digital courtship environments.”

You smiled.

“See? You’re already an expert.”

Spencer opened his mouth and closed it.

For once, he seemed genuinely at a loss.

His gaze dropped slowly to the book in his lap, and he stared at the page as though the answer to this particular problem might be hidden somewhere in the text.

“I suppose I could…”

You laughed before he could finish.

“I was joking.”

“Oh.”

It was only one syllable, but it landed differently than you expected. You were still smiling, already turning back toward your paperwork, so you didn’t notice the subtle change in his expression. You didn’t see the way his eyes remained on you for another second, or how the faint anticipation that had appeared in them disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived. You didn’t notice the small breath he let out before lowering his gaze to the book again, his fingers absently smoothing the corner of the page.

You certainly didn’t notice that, for the briefest moment, Spencer Reid looked disappointed.

Anyway, you should have.

Because the following morning, you found him standing beside your desk with a notebook.

Not a normal notebook, either.

A genius notebook.

It was one of those narrow black notebooks with slightly worn corners, the kind he carried everywhere because apparently having an eidetic memory wasn’t sufficient reason not to keep written records. Several colored tabs protruded neatly from the side, each one labeled in his impossibly precise handwriting. The pages were already crowded with notes, diagrams, underlined phrases, and tiny references written in the margins.

He held it against his chest with one hand while the other rested lightly against the edge of your desk. His posture was perfectly straight, his expression so serious that for a moment you genuinely thought something had happened.

You looked from him to the notebook.

Then back at him.

“What’s that?”

“My notes.”

You blinked.

“Your notes?”

“Yes.” He said it as though the answer were completely self-explanatory.

You glanced at the notebook again, then at him.

“About what?”

Spencer hesitated for half a second before opening it.

“Flirting.”

You stared at him and he stared back.

There wasn’t even the slightest trace of embarrassment on his face. If anything, he looked almost expectant, like someone who had spent the previous evening preparing for an exam and had now arrived with all his materials neatly organized and ready to be graded.

“You actually took notes?”

“You told me I should teach you.”

“I was kidding.”

“I know.”

The answer came so matter-of-factly that it briefly left you without anything to say.

Spencer didn’t seem bothered by the distinction between a joke and a serious suggestion. If anything, he seemed to have filed your comment away somewhere in that impossible mind of his, alongside approximately seven thousand other pieces of information he’d apparently decided were worth remembering. He simply turned the notebook around and held it out for you.

You looked down.

At the top of the first page, written in Spencer’s precise, almost unnervingly tidy handwriting, was:

REAL-LIFE FLIRTATION: A PRACTICAL GUIDE

Underneath, in smaller letters:

Objective: Increase probability of romantic interest through appropriate interpersonal behavior.

You slowly looked up at him.

“Spencer.”

“Yes?”

“This is insane.”

His eyes dropped briefly to the notebook before returning to you.

“I thought it was organized.”

You stared at him for another second.

“It is terrifyingly organized.”

That didn’t discourage him. If anything, the faintest hint of satisfaction appeared at the corner of his mouth, as though terrifyingly organized was, in his mind, a fairly impressive compliment. He glanced down at the open notebook again, turning it slightly so the pages faced him, and for a moment you had the distinct impression that he was considering whether he should write your assessment down as well.

Instead, he simply said, “I started with eye contact.”

You stared at the page.

“You started with eye contact?”

“Yes.”

He turned the page.

At the top, beneath a neatly underlined heading, was the first entry:

1. Eye Contact — Maintain for approximately 3–5 seconds.

You pointed at it.

“Why three to five seconds?”

“According to several studies, prolonged eye contact can increase perceived intimacy, although context is important. Too little can communicate disinterest, while excessive eye contact can be perceived as aggressive or uncomfortable.”

You looked at him, and he looked completely serious.

“You researched how long you’re supposed to look at someone?”

“Yes.”

“For flirting.”

“Yes.”

You slowly nodded.

“Okay.”

Spencer seemed satisfied with the response and turned the page.

2. Compliments — Specificity appears to increase perceived sincerity.

Another page.

3. Light Touching — Situational. Must be reciprocated.

Another.

4. Smiling — Apparently important.

You stopped reading and looked at him.

“Apparently?”

Spencer’s eyebrows pulled together.

“I don’t smile very often.”

“I’ve noticed.”

He gave you a mildly offended look, the kind that suggested he wasn’t sure whether you’d just insulted him.

“I don’t think that’s necessarily a negative.”

“No,” you said, letting your smile widen. “It’s adorable.”

Spencer froze.

It was almost comical how completely still he became.

His fingers stopped moving against the notebook, his shoulders stiffened, his eyes widening just slightly behind his glasses. For a second, he looked as though he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. Then, slowly, a faint flush began creeping across his cheeks.

“See?”

His ears turned pink and you laughed.

“That was a compliment.”

“I know.” His voice was quieter than before.

“And you survived.”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations.”

He looked down at his notebook, seemingly uncertain what to do with the information. His thumb traced the edge of the page once, twice, before he glanced at the section he’d just written.

“Should I write that down?”

You laughed so hard you had to cover your mouth.

“What?” he asked.

“You cannot make a field note every time someone says something nice to you.”

“Why not?”

“Because then your notebook is going to be seventy pages long by lunch.”

He considered that.

“That’s possible.”

You shook your head, still laughing.

“God, you’re impossible.”

He looked down at his notebook again and you did the same, noticing how there were already more tabs than you’d initially noticed.

You narrowed your eyes.

“Spencer.”

He looked up.

“Yes?”

“How much of this did you write?”

His expression remained perfectly innocent.

“I stayed up until approximately two forty-three.”

What?

Then, after a moment, added, almost as an afterthought, “But I did sleep for three hours afterward.”

***

The first experiment happened two days later.

You were standing by the coffee machine, waiting impatiently for it to finish producing a cup that had already taken far too long, watching the last few drops fall. The machine hummed and clicked behind the counter, occasionally making a concerning gurgling sound that suggested it was one inconvenience away from breaking down completely. You had one hand wrapped around your mug, the other resting against the edge of the counter, when Spencer approached from somewhere behind you with his notebook tucked securely beneath one arm.

You noticed him from the corner of your eye but didn’t immediately look over.

By now, you had learned that Spencer had developed a very particular way of appearing beside you whenever he’d decided something needed to be tested. There was always the notebook, that thoughtful expression, and the faintly expectant look that told you he’d been thinking about something for far longer than you had.

“Can I try something?” he asked.

You glanced at him suspiciously.

There was something about the careful way he’d phrased the question that made you instinctively straighten. Your fingers tightened around your coffee mug as you turned toward him, studying his face.

“Why does that sound threatening?”

“It isn’t.”

“You’re holding the notebook.”

Spencer looked down at it as though he’d genuinely forgotten it was there.

“That doesn’t make it threatening.”

“With you, it does.”

He opened his mouth, presumably to argue the point, then seemed to reconsider. His lips pressed together for a moment before he simply nodded and stepped closer. But not close enough to be inappropriate, just close enough that you became suddenly, acutely aware of him standing there.

You noticed details you hadn’t been paying attention to a moment earlier: the faint scent of coffee lingering on his breath, the clean smell of laundry and paper that always seemed to cling to his clothes, the soft rustle of his shirt as he shifted his weight. His fingers curled more securely around the notebook beneath his arm, and his shoulders squared slightly as though he were preparing himself for an important task.

You watched him expectantly.

Spencer looked directly into your eyes.

One second.

Two. Three. Four. Five.

You raised an eyebrow.

Six. Seven. Eight.

By the time he reached eight, you were beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

Not because his expression was threatening, quite the opposite. Spencer looked intensely focused, his hazel eyes fixed on yours with the same concentration he usually reserved for difficult puzzles, complicated equations, or the face of a suspect whose behavior he was trying to understand. There was nothing flirtatious about his expression, nothing overtly suggestive.

And somehow, that almost made it stranger.

There was something deeply intimate about being looked at for that long without either of you saying anything. You could feel yourself becoming increasingly aware of the distance between you, of the quiet surrounding the coffee machine and the fact that neither of you had looked away.

He didn’t seem to notice any of it, he was busy counting. His mind was somewhere else entirely, measuring seconds and observing your reaction as though you were a variable in an experiment.

“Spencer.”

He didn’t look away.

“Yes?”

“You can stop staring at me now.”

He blinked, as though he’d forgotten you were an actual person rather than a particularly cooperative participant in his research.

“Oh.”

He immediately looked down and you laughed.

“What was that?”

“Eye contact.”

“That was not eye contact.” You shook your head, still laughing. “That was an interrogation.”

“I was testing the upper limit.”

“The upper limit?”

“Yes. I wanted to determine how long prolonged eye contact could be maintained before it became uncomfortable.”

You stared at him.

“You almost saw my soul.”

Spencer’s mouth twitched.

“I don’t think that’s scientifically possible.”

He wrote something down and you leaned over.

Five seconds appears socially acceptable. Eight seconds causes discomfort.

You stared at the sentence for a moment, then slowly lifted your eyes to Spencer, who was standing beside you with the most serious expression imaginable, as though he’d just recorded the findings of an important psychological study.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Oh.”

You laughed again, unable to help yourself. There was something so completely sincere about the way he accepted everything you said that it made it almost impossible not to laugh. Spencer watched you for a moment, his head tilting slightly as though he were trying to solve another small mystery. His eyes followed the movement of your face, lingering on your smile with a quiet curiosity, and you had the distinct impression that he was trying to understand why your laughter seemed to happen so often whenever he spoke. He didn’t ask, though. Instead, after another second, his attention returned to you.

Only this time, something was different in his gaze.

It happened gradually enough that you almost didn’t notice the change. The intense concentration he’d worn while counting seconds softened, the slight tension around his eyes disappearing as his gaze settled on yours. There was no notebook between you now, no pen poised to record another observation, no stopwatch, no invisible scale measuring the appropriate duration of eye contact. He wasn’t counting anymore.

His gaze moved briefly over your face—the curve of your cheek, the corner of your mouth, the loose strand of hair near your temple—before returning to your eyes.

Three seconds.

Four. Five.

And suddenly you forgot what you had been about to say.

You swallowed and he noticed.

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asked.

“No.”

He studied your face for another moment.

“Your heart rate increased.”

There were several possible responses to that observation. You could have laughed, told him he was being ridiculous or just pointed out that announcing someone’s physiological responses in the middle of a conversation was perhaps the least effective way of making them feel less self-conscious.

Instead, you simply looked at him.

“You cannot say things like that.”

His forehead creased further.

“Why?”

“Because you’re making me nervous.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“I’m making you nervous?”

“Yes.”

The realization moved slowly across his face, and for a moment, Spencer looked genuinely surprised, as though the possibility had never occurred to him. His lips parted slightly, his eyes remaining fixed on yours while his brain apparently worked through the information. You could almost see the moment he replayed the last few seconds in his head, searching for the exact thing he’d done that had caused your reaction.

Then his gaze dropped toward the notebook.

“No, don’t you dare.”

He had already reached for his pen.

You reacted on instinct, catching the notebook before he could open it properly and pulling it toward yourself.

“Stop documenting my suffering.”

“But this is useful data.”

“Spencer, you’re impossible.”

And then he smiled.

It was so small you might have missed it if you hadn’t been looking directly at him.

The corner of his mouth lifted first, followed by the faintest softening around his eyes, and suddenly there was something almost boyish about his expression.

You paused.

“There.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“You smiled.”

The smile disappeared almost immediately.

“Oh.”

“And that one actually worked.”

His eyebrows pulled together.

“Worked?”

“You’re supposed to smile when you’re flirting.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

“You were.”

“I was conducting an experiment.”

“You were flirting experimentally.”

“That isn’t a recognized category.”

“It is now.”

He looked down, apparently finding the notebook suddenly very interesting, but you caught the tiny movement at the corner of his mouth. He was trying not to smile again.

And somehow, that was even more endearing.

For a second, neither of you said anything. You watched him attempt to compose himself, his thumb moving absently along the edge of the notebook while he seemed to consider your argument with far more seriousness than it deserved.

Then, very quietly, said, “I suppose I should test it again.”

Before you could answer, he looked up and smiled.

Not the polite smile he gave strangers or the awkward, slightly crooked one he used whenever Morgan teased him. This one was different, more soft and real.

Your brain promptly stopped functioning and his smile faded.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“You’re staring.”

“I know.”

The admission came out before you could soften it, and something about that seemed to catch his attention. His gaze moved slowly over your face, lingering on your expression as though he were piecing together a particularly interesting puzzle. Then his eyes settled on your cheeks, and his eyebrows lifted slightly.

“You’re blushing.”

You looked away for half a second, suddenly fascinated by the coffee machine, even though you’d already been staring at it for the better part of five minutes.

“I know.”

When you looked back, his face was still faintly pink from the compliment you’d given him earlier, but now his expression had shifted into genuine curiosity. He tilted his head slightly, studying you with the same fascinated attention he’d shown when you’d been the subject of his experiment, except this time there was something softer beneath it.

“Is that a positive response?”

You stared at him for a beat.

“Unfortunately.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Unfortunately?”

“Because now you’re going to become insufferable.”

A tiny smile returned to his mouth, and you immediately regretted admitting that you’d noticed.

“I don’t think that’s statistically likely.”

“You have a notebook about flirting.”

His gaze dropped toward the notebook still trapped in your hand.

“That is fair.”

You finally handed it back to him, shaking your head as you reached for your coffee. Spencer accepted it without protest, slipping the pen behind his ear with an absentminded little motion before tucking the notebook securely beneath his arm. You thought that might finally be the end of the experiment, but when you lifted your mug, you caught him still watching you. His attention remained fixed on you, thoughtful and strangely intent, as though he’d reached another conclusion while you’d been distracted.

“There’s another technique.”

You narrowed your eyes over the rim of your coffee.

“What technique?”

“Compliments.”

“No.”

The answer came so quickly that Spencer blinked. You immediately took a small step backward, and his forehead creased in confusion.

“I haven’t tried it yet.”

“Spencer.”

“I need a control for you.”

“You are not running a clinical trial on me.”

He looked genuinely confused by your objection, his eyebrows drawing together as though you’d just introduced an entirely unreasonable complication into an otherwise perfectly straightforward experiment.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a person.”

“I know you’re a person.”

“You’re treating me like a lab rat.”

“I would never do that.”

The sheer sincerity of his answer almost made you laugh. He wasn’t joking. He genuinely seemed offended by the comparison, his expression earnest and slightly perplexed as though the ethical distinction between you and a laboratory animal was so obvious that he couldn’t understand why you’d brought it up in the first place.

You folded your arms.

“Fine. One compliment.”

Spencer nodded immediately, apparently relieved to have reached an agreement. He shifted the notebook beneath his arm and looked at you.

And then he thought.

You watched his eyes move briefly toward your hair, then your face, then back to your eyes. His lips pressed together as he considered his options, and there was something almost absurdly serious about the concentration on his face. He looked like he was trying to solve a particularly difficult equation rather than tell someone something nice.

You raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“I want to make it specific.” he explained.

“Okay.”

“You have…”

He paused and you watched him struggle.

Spencer Reid, who could recall obscure facts after hearing them once, who could identify patterns other people didn’t even notice, who could explain the statistical probability of almost anything, was apparently incapable of producing a compliment on demand.

Finally, he said, “You have very nice hair.”

You laughed and he immediately frowned.

“That wasn’t effective.”

“No, no, it was.” You quickly reassured him, still smiling. “It was just…”

“You laughed.”

“Because you’re nervous.”

“I am not nervous.”

“You’re turning red.”

“I have naturally high peripheral circulation.”

You stared.

“That’s the excuse you’re going with?”

“Yes.”

You smiled into your coffee.

“Try again.”

He swallowed and this time, he didn’t look at his notebook.

“You have a really nice laugh.”

Your smile faltered and Spencer continued.

“I like hearing it.”

Oh, that was different.

For a second, the bullpen seemed to recede into the background: the distant voices, the ringing phones, the hum of the coffee machine. You simply stared at him, suddenly far too aware of the warmth rising beneath your skin.

Spencer seemed to realize what he’d said at exactly the same moment and his face went crimson.

“I—”

“That one worked.”

He nodded quickly.

“Good.”

His hand went for the notebook almost automatically, and you watched as he opened it to the page he’d been using throughout the morning. For once, his movements weren’t quite as precise as usual. His fingers fumbled slightly with the cover, and when he finally took up the pen, the neat, controlled strokes you’d become accustomed to were replaced by hurried lines, just a little messier around the edges. Spencer seemed to notice it too, because his mouth tightened briefly as he looked down at what he’d written, as though he were silently judging his own handwriting.

You leaned closer, curiosity getting the better of you.

“What did you write?”

He hesitated.

It was barely a second, but you noticed. His thumb remained pressed against the edge of the page before, with a small sigh, he turned the notebook toward you.

Specific compliments: effective.

You looked at the line, then you noticed the sentence he’d added underneath in smaller handwriting.

Particularly when sincere.

Your eyes lifted slowly to his but Spencer was already looking at you.

Neither of you said anything. The bullpen seemed to fade into the background for just a moment, leaving only the quiet hum of the coffee machine and the faint rustle of paper between you. There was something different in his expression now, more uncertain than usual, as though even he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d written that second line.

Then, quietly, he closed the notebook.

“I think that’s enough research for today.”

You smiled, watching him tuck the pen between his fingers.

“Why?”

“Because I’m beginning to think this experiment has a confounding variable.”

“What variable?”

His eyes lifted to yours.

For once, Spencer didn’t have a scientific explanation ready. No statistic, no psychological theory, no carefully memorized study that could rescue him from the question. He simply looked at you, his expression suddenly softer and his fingers tightening slightly around the notebook.

“You.”

Your heart skipped.

He seemed to realize what he’d said at exactly the same moment. His eyes widened, and a faint flush immediately returned to his cheeks.

“I mean—you’re the subject, so obviously—”

You laughed softly.

“Spencer.”

“Yes?”

He looked at you cautiously, almost suspiciously, as though he wasn’t sure whether you’d caught him saying something he hadn’t meant to say.

“You're good at this.”

He blinked.

“At flirting?”

“Yeah,” you said, letting your smile widen. “At flirting.”

For a moment, he didn’t answer and just looked at you.

You watched the realization settle over his features, followed by something almost shyly pleased. His mouth curved into the smallest smile, one that he seemed unable to suppress despite himself, and his eyes dropped briefly toward the floor before returning to yours.

“Oh.”

You shook your head, laughing quietly.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Why not?”

“Because, statistically speaking, my previous experience would suggest that—”

You groaned.

“Spencer.”

He stopped immediately, his lips pressing together as though he’d just realized he was doing exactly what he always did whenever a conversation became too personal: turning it into a statistic.

Then, after a beat, he smiled again.

“Sorry.”

And somehow, much to your own annoyance, he was suddenly the most attractive person in the room.

He was quiet, not in the way that he was usually quiet, this silence was something more profound. His mind was still spinning in its usual break-neck rapid speed, only this time he wasn’t filing through criminal profiles, statistical anomalies, or geographical mapping models. This time, he was thinking about dirt. 

A small patch of earth far away from the BAU, the dark interrogation rooms, the air in the cabin of the jet, away from the spilled blood and broken spirits. Something that was rich enough to grow things, something that he could tend to, use his fingers for something gentle instead of wrapped around the trigger. Spencer never let himself dream of a life, something beyond cold probability. He knew the numbers like the back of his hand, the odds of passing on his mother’s illness, the average lifespan of an agent in a behavioral analysis unit, the mathematical improbability of finding someone who could see every broken, hyper-fixated piece of him and choose to stay anyway. He had calculated his future down to a lonely zero. He had accepted it. 

Then he met you. Or rather, he bumped into you on a crisp autumn morning outside the library. There was never anyone there earlier than him, so when he had pushed open the heavy, oak double doors, and walked smack-bang into you, spilling your coffee onto the linoleum floor. Somewhere through panicked apologies and using his scarf to wipe the spilled drink from your shoes, he had offered to buy you a replacement. You hadn’t left his side since. 

He shifted slightly, pressing his lips into the crown of your head, inhaling the scent of your honey shampoo, the faint trace of sweat on your glistening skin, and something so comfortingly you underneath it all. He pictured a house, not a white brick, modern house, but an old, weathered cottage, somewhere deep in the countryside, surrounded by open air and trees that turned auburn when the weather turned. It would have a porch, something that wrapped around the side of the house, and a swing that creaked under his weight. He would spend his weekends with his long legs stretched out, reading his way through a stack of vintage paperbacks, with you pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder and your hands curled around a steaming mug of tea. 

A lump formed in his throat, the feeling not brought on by fear, but by something he never dared to allow himself before now. Hope. 

He imagined a little girl with your laugh, or a boy who had a habit of talking too fast when he was excited. He saw them running down a long hallway lined with mis-matched bookshelves and family photos in clashing frames, barefoot with wild hair. He pictured teaching them to play chess in the kitchen, carefully explaining the opening moves while you watched from the doorway with that affectionate smile you always gave him when he got overly passionate. He imagined waking up in the middle of the night not to the jarring, dread-inducing ring of a bureau phone calling him to a crime scene, but to the gentle pitter-patter of small feet seeking comfort from a thunderstorm. He would protect them. He would protect you. He would spend every waking breath ensuring that the dark, jagged world he spent his days fighting never touched a single hair on any of your heads. 

“Spence,” your voice was soft, bringing him back to the moment as you lifted your head out from where it had been tucked against his chest, your gaze meeting his in the dewy morning light. “You’re thinking.”

He smiled, his mouth curving softly as his fingers stilled against your lower back. “I am,” he replied simply, his fingers moving to gently brush a stray hair away from your face before brushing lightly down your cheek. “I’m calculating.”

“You always are,” a sleepy smile spread across your face. “What are the odds this time, Dr. Reid?”

He shifted, letting out a breathy laugh as he rolled onto his back to stare up at the dark beams of the ceiling, a quirk you noticed when he was saying something hard for him to admit, something he was terrified of being judged for. “I used to think a life, a real one, with a small house with too many books, kids who trailed mud in from the garden and waking up…” He swallowed, before turning to face you again, his eyes glistening in the early morning glow. “Waking up like this every morning for the rest of my life. I used to think it was an impossibility for me.” He admitted, his voice dropping into a confessional whisper. “I thought it wasn’t meant for me. But when I’m with you… I don’t care about the odds anymore. I just want to build that life with you.”

You reached up, cupping his jaw, feeling the slight roughness of his morning stubble under your palm. You kissed him softly, a slow, deep press of lips that tasted like promise and quiet mornings. When you pulled back, your eyes locked onto his, steady and full of an unwavering certainty that settled the restless, brilliant mind of Spencer Reid once and for all. “How many?” You asked softly.

Spencer shrugged, rolling to lay his arm over your waist again, his fingers resuming their lazy patterns across your spine. “One or two.” He murmured. “I wouldn’t want them to be lonely.”

“Of course not.” You smiled, resting your forehead against his. “And they could play chess together that way.”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his nose scrunching slightly. His heart bloomed at the display of you knowing him so well, that you knew what he was thinking without him having to verbalise it. “Yeah. Exactly.” He agreed, his voice gentle.

“Better get practicing then.” You murmured, ducking your head to press your lips against his neck. 

that's what bothered him even more.

"spencer," your voice echoed from the hallway, the sound of his first name pulling him out of his thoughts. it felt like a bucket of ice brutally poured over him. you never called him that.

sure, you were here.

litteraly, you were.

he wasn't alone anymore, gazing at the sky through the jet’s window while he thought of you, or waking up from a nightmare in a shitty motel room, the squeaky mattress nothing like the one he usually shared with you.

in a way, there was no reason for him to be sitting there, creases under his eyes highlighted in the dim light.

spence, come to bed.

you have a week worth of cuddles to make up for, genius.

in another universe, that's what you would've said.

"don't let the light on if you fall asleep" you said instead.

because in this universe, he messed up.

put the role of agent first without realising it, and before he could get a chance to apologise, he'd traded romantic dinners for briefings, and late night conversations for additional hours.

the stars aligned, the entire universe participated in the series of events that led you to him all those years ago, so much that he'd unintentionally started to take it for granted.

you.

as if a constellation could be any less majestic on this day, for the simple reason its discovery went back thousands of years.

as if you didn't shine as brightly now, hair falling over your nightgown, with a sleepy expression that revealed pent up exhaustion, than you ever did.

"i won't," he croaked out in an embarrassingly weak voice.

he left, he was the one to be blamed.

cowardice, a sin. one he'd taken from his life's blood, dangerously repeating his father's actions unconsciously although he’d never admit the resemblance.

to a woman's love and honesty, a relationship built on trust, he responded with scribbles on a sticky note left on the bedside table before going away.

case out of state. love you.

"okay..."

he'd forgotten you were here, too busy analysing the lack of a crucial vowel he omitted. maybe that's why you were acting so cold. because he didn’t properly say those three words.

"i'm going to bed."

pushing yourself from the doorframe, you informed as you turned back around.

"wait-"

his hand reached out in the air, in a way that would appear romantic if it was just another day. the air in the room shifted, and it wasn’t from the cold breeze of the night that his throat closed.

your head tilted, spencer’s lips parted.

"could you... come here ?"

the space next to him felt like an invitation as he scooted over, a little spot he gestured at with the back of his hand. it was embarrassing enough for him to say the words out, to admit he needed you close.

but all the arguments in the world be damned, the files were the last things he wanted next to him right now.

you saw it.

a subtle shift in his eyes. the way his brows scrunched, searching for your reaction. he looked younger under this light, innocent, even.

"we don't have to solve this today,"

"no, this isn't about... that"

in a couple of long strides, you were at his side. lowering yourself onto the couch close enough that you could touch him if he asked.

"i don't wanna talk." he shook his head and stammered "i mean yes ! i do, i know i messed up... i just... need you to be next to me right now."

there it was.

the hint of the smile he loved so much. it threatened to show in the way your lips almost curved upwards, but you just nodded.

your voice was softer. "okay."

thankfully he didn't have to make the first step. quietly, anticipating his demand, your fingers laced together and interlinked, resting on top of his thigh. he welcomed your touch with a relieved breath.

"not ready to sleep just yet ?"

he shook his head. the nightmares clouded his mind, lingered around him in the posture of his shoulders and the way his clenched jaw stuck out in the darkness.

"no, not now."

you knew, so much that he didn't need to say a single word.

it was more than a simple hand holding situation. reassurance, comfort. the sleepiness you felt earlier dissipated instantly and you melted deeper into the couch, watching the way his curls lazily framed his sleep etched face.

"i'm not angry, yknow," you played absentmindedly with the fabric of a pillow, the cotton offering a distraction from the way his head tilted to find your gaze. "not that angry anyways... i missed you too much to care about fighting."

‘’you won’t look at me since i came back and you almost flinched when i touched you earlier" he recalls matter-of-factly, like his heartstrings didn’t tug when he felt you stiffen in his presence. ‘’i can tell when you’re angry,’’

"and..." he reminds you "i get it. you have every right to be"

across the room, you could swear the framed pictures were staring at you – nagging looks of the gallery of your love, displaying different moments of your shared story that now appeared distant.

‘’it’s just easier to be angry than to miss you while you’re away. then i can pretend not to care about whatever dangerous situation you put yourself in again.’’

his eyes trail to were yours are and land on a particular cherished memory.

to anyone else, that picture woud’ve appeared unworthy of being exposed. it’s far for perfect, from the angles that weren’t quite right to the blurry background, revealing how unintentionally perfect it turned out to be. The shot was owed to penelope, probably, hence why nothing other than your smile and spencer’s matching one seem to be taken into account.

it shows you, laughing after one too many drinks in rossi’s garden. same glint in your eyes, but younger features. innocent in the way that shows life hadn’t quite revealed all its tricks on you yet. and by your side, with a hand carefully draped around your hip like the world would fade without your anchor, is him.

soft, adoring.

looking at you like you hung the moon and completely falsified his of gravity, altering the chemistry of his neural pathways in a way that could never be undone. at this very moment, when you laughed at something he said - that must’ve involved statistics and unintentional rambling, like it always did - nothing else mattered.

‘’not for me," he counters in a low breath, like it pains him to admit it. "you might've gotten a couple of days of denial while i was away-"

impossible to tell him that no, you didn't. spending ever waking moment hoping he'll return and yell at you, fight with you again, or critisize your coping techniques with fancy psychological vocabulary that would've been once again way too accurate.

"-but it hurt me to know that we were on bad terms."

"why thank you, genius. that's so kind of you"

genius.

he took it like a punch to the gut. the kind of nickname related to teasing, playful banter about his immense incomparable knowledge you were so fond of. now, it only sounded insulting.

"i left. we fought and i had to leave. and i-" spencer's voice faltered for a second, anxiety creeping in. there was a truth he hated to admit, words we couldn't bear pronouncing out loud in fear they'd come true.

"i couldn't forgive myself if those were the last words i ever said to you."

there it was.

the dagger being held over him, the possible hypothesis that had made him shiver beneath the thin motel sheets. the covers were so harsh he'd closed his eyes and imagined the heat of your soft skin instead of the empty spot next to him.

right now on the couch, your lips parted. spencer was never scared, he'd grown into a confident agent whose weakesses never showed, hidden away in the secret garden of his that ony he had the key to.

you ducked your head shamefully.

he gets up in one swift motion, cearing his throat as to erase his confession. "i’m gonna make some tea"

just like that, the moment dissipated.

he gets to the kitchen before you could react and there's nothing for you to do but look at him from the couch, maneuvring behind the counter with a surgical precision that should make up for his crumbled facade. you see him grab two mugs carefully, the whistle of the kettle drowning out the leftover tension in the open space.

as the water got closer to reach the point of boiling, spencer was too busy replaying the conversation to hear your socked feet against the tiles.

until he felt your touch.

hesitant at first. your arms slide around his middle from behind, and the fact that you can't see his face doesn't keep you from catching his reaction. his body language speaks for itself.

shoulders sag in relief, and you carefully draw yourself closer until your forhead mets the cotton fabric of his shirt, soft and smelling of him from the years of wearing it.

"i'm sorry you felt like i wasn't there for you," your arms tighten their grip on him and you admit.

he shakes his head, hands stilling against the counter. steam lazily curls over the mugs and he adds. "no. i'm sorry i wasn't there for you. physically. emotionally."

he turns around, to wich you can finally tilt your head up and met his eyes. for the first time tonight, and he counted, your enchanting irises turn to him.

"we should talk to eachother more." it's honest. the kettle clicks. "statistically, is a major factor when it comes to reasons for divorce, the numbers sometimes reaching seventy percent-"

"we're not married" you remind him, unable to suppress a twitch of your lips.

spencer only shrugs sheepishly, though heat creeps up his cheeks.

"better be prepared, i guess"

you giggle fully this time. and it reverbates in the tiny space illuminated by nothing but your smile and the faint light over the stove.

"i need to find a better balance between you and the job. to be... okay with not always being dr reid all the time."

even in those moments, the quiet conversations between two individuals too trusting to hide parts of themselves from one another, he was honest with you. the struggle between this shift of identity wasn't new, no, it was what he got for putting others before himself and dedicating his life to helping the world with the use of his intellect.

but you never saw him as dr reid.

the diplomas and PhDs and FBI rewards he'd accumulated were nothing but mundanities that came with your boyfriend. spencer. the one whose casual and relaxed side only you got to see once he came bck from work, or during his rare days off.

"i just need you," you explain, your hands flat on his chest. "to be yourself. to be a boyfriend. a best friend."

to be there. alive. happy.

that's what he knew you were thinking. "i will"

the promise feels real this time, sworn with not only words but sealed by a kiss. he leans into you hesitantly, only to grace your lips when he feels you melting into him.

"you're-" you breathe out, smiling and kissing the corner of his mouth again, because how could you resist after going so long without his touch. "crazy- to think i know how to keep my mind of you"

spence meets you halfway, aiming for another kiss. a smaller peck this time. the grip of his hands tighten around your waist and he gives you a heartwarming dopey smile brighter than anything.

"i'd apologise for that, but it wouldn't be very honest.... i like to know you think about me..." he explains, brows scrunching telling you he's searching for the right words. "it makes me feel nice to know there's someone waiting for me when i come back."

after all, coming back to an empty apartment was all he'd known for years. dust collected on the shelves for however long the case had lasted, and the feeling of sudden emptiness in his heart matching with... well, the one in his fridge.

here, he was wanted, expected, needed. and most of all, loved.

"smooth," your nose bumps against his playfully. "but i won't settle for just words, baby. i need actions."

he nodded solemnly. baby again, not just first name basis.

you pinch his side, aiming for the skin beneath his prominent ribs. the efect is immediate, followed by a sharp gasp.

"-hey !"

"i'm serious," you warn, pupils getting visibly smaller like a cat about to hiss. he can't take you seriously like this, the flames of your pretend anger are nothing more than a modest spark. you're not even mad at him anymore, you just want him to smile again.

"you need to find a way to distance yourself from the BAU sometimes. it would be healthier for you to leave cases and bad guys away from, well," you vaguely gesture to the kitchen space with the two long forgotten mugs behing him.

"i perfectly know how to do that-" he retorts in a high pitched voice that betrayed his words.

"my files and all other aspects of my work life," he says, pointing to the coffee table in the living room space. "are over there. and you, my personal life, are right here."

your brows raise in amusement, shifting the attention away from the smile that threatens your lips. "seriously ?"

spencer shrugs. "i have established a boundary between work and life - that boundary being defined by the kitchen island."

"oh, dear" you sigh, shaking your head. the tea has gone cold when you grab your mug and his eyes don't leave your figure moving gracefully under the dim light. "you've got a long way to go."

"but i'll help you"

his head tilts up, hopeful. he's not alone anymore, really, he never was. not when he has a home - not just a flat, a real home - warm and full of love he shares with a woman who can read him like the back of her hand.

"you will ?" spencer's words linger in the air, promises untold he yearns for you to confirm. you nod, handing him his own mug to match yours.

"yeah, because i love you. and also, i can't sleep without you next to me" you add honestly. being home lone had never felt so boring than when it involved spencer leaving. apparently, you didn't need social battery to spend time with him.

he plants a soft kiss on your temple, a brush of his lips that leave you grinning.

and the next morning, you wake up by his side with limbs completely tangled and trapped in a form hold, that same smile is on your lips. the shine filters through the curtains, casting hues of gold over the angelic figure of a deeply asleep spencer. the pent up exhaustion from the past weeks events finally released, he looks the most relaxed you've seen in a while - and you let him rest.

because even without words, without meaningful eye contacts or grand gestures, you know he loves you too.

and the sticky note on the bedframe proves your point.

the sentence is carefully etched on the paper this time, elegant letters written in the peculiar handwriting you've learned to recognize after seeing it in letters and work files you sometimes got to see. three words, he got it right this time.

i love you, with an i. always have and always will.

that's what bothered him even more.

"spencer," your voice echoed from the hallway, the sound of his first name pulling him out of his thoughts. it felt like a bucket of ice brutally poured over him. you never called him that.

sure, you were here.

litteraly, you were.

he wasn't alone anymore, gazing at the sky through the jet’s window while he thought of you, or waking up from a nightmare in a shitty motel room, the squeaky mattress nothing like the one he usually shared with you.

in a way, there was no reason for him to be sitting there, creases under his eyes highlighted in the dim light.

spence, come to bed.

you have a week worth of cuddles to make up for, genius.

in another universe, that's what you would've said.

"don't let the light on if you fall asleep" you said instead.

because in this universe, he messed up.

put the role of agent first without realising it, and before he could get a chance to apologise, he'd traded romantic dinners for briefings, and late night conversations for additional hours.

the stars aligned, the entire universe participated in the series of events that led you to him all those years ago, so much that he'd unintentionally started to take it for granted.

you.

as if a constellation could be any less majestic on this day, for the simple reason its discovery went back thousands of years.

as if you didn't shine as brightly now, hair falling over your nightgown, with a sleepy expression that revealed pent up exhaustion, than you ever did.

"i won't," he croaked out in an embarrassingly weak voice.

he left, he was the one to be blamed.

cowardice, a sin. one he'd taken from his life's blood, dangerously repeating his father's actions unconsciously although he’d never admit the resemblance.

to a woman's love and honesty, a relationship built on trust, he responded with scribbles on a sticky note left on the bedside table before going away.

case out of state. love you.

"okay..."

he'd forgotten you were here, too busy analysing the lack of a crucial vowel he omitted. maybe that's why you were acting so cold. because he didn’t properly say those three words.

"i'm going to bed."

pushing yourself from the doorframe, you informed as you turned back around.

"wait-"

his hand reached out in the air, in a way that would appear romantic if it was just another day. the air in the room shifted, and it wasn’t from the cold breeze of the night that his throat closed.

your head tilted, spencer’s lips parted.

"could you... come here ?"

the space next to him felt like an invitation as he scooted over, a little spot he gestured at with the back of his hand. it was embarrassing enough for him to say the words out, to admit he needed you close.

but all the arguments in the world be damned, the files were the last things he wanted next to him right now.

you saw it.

a subtle shift in his eyes. the way his brows scrunched, searching for your reaction. he looked younger under this light, innocent, even.

"we don't have to solve this today,"

"no, this isn't about... that"

in a couple of long strides, you were at his side. lowering yourself onto the couch close enough that you could touch him if he asked.

"i don't wanna talk." he shook his head and stammered "i mean yes ! i do, i know i messed up... i just... need you to be next to me right now."

there it was.

the hint of the smile he loved so much. it threatened to show in the way your lips almost curved upwards, but you just nodded.

your voice was softer. "okay."

thankfully he didn't have to make the first step. quietly, anticipating his demand, your fingers laced together and interlinked, resting on top of his thigh. he welcomed your touch with a relieved breath.

"not ready to sleep just yet ?"

he shook his head. the nightmares clouded his mind, lingered around him in the posture of his shoulders and the way his clenched jaw stuck out in the darkness.

"no, not now."

you knew, so much that he didn't need to say a single word.

it was more than a simple hand holding situation. reassurance, comfort. the sleepiness you felt earlier dissipated instantly and you melted deeper into the couch, watching the way his curls lazily framed his sleep etched face.

"i'm not angry, yknow," you played absentmindedly with the fabric of a pillow, the cotton offering a distraction from the way his head tilted to find your gaze. "not that angry anyways... i missed you too much to care about fighting."

‘’you won’t look at me since i came back and you almost flinched when i touched you earlier" he recalls matter-of-factly, like his heartstrings didn’t tug when he felt you stiffen in his presence. ‘’i can tell when you’re angry,’’

"and..." he reminds you "i get it. you have every right to be"

across the room, you could swear the framed pictures were staring at you – nagging looks of the gallery of your love, displaying different moments of your shared story that now appeared distant.

‘’it’s just easier to be angry than to miss you while you’re away. then i can pretend not to care about whatever dangerous situation you put yourself in again.’’

his eyes trail to were yours are and land on a particular cherished memory.

to anyone else, that picture woud’ve appeared unworthy of being exposed. it’s far for perfect, from the angles that weren’t quite right to the blurry background, revealing how unintentionally perfect it turned out to be. The shot was owed to penelope, probably, hence why nothing other than your smile and spencer’s matching one seem to be taken into account.

it shows you, laughing after one too many drinks in rossi’s garden. same glint in your eyes, but younger features. innocent in the way that shows life hadn’t quite revealed all its tricks on you yet. and by your side, with a hand carefully draped around your hip like the world would fade without your anchor, is him.

soft, adoring.

looking at you like you hung the moon and completely falsified his of gravity, altering the chemistry of his neural pathways in a way that could never be undone. at this very moment, when you laughed at something he said - that must’ve involved statistics and unintentional rambling, like it always did - nothing else mattered.

‘’not for me," he counters in a low breath, like it pains him to admit it. "you might've gotten a couple of days of denial while i was away-"

impossible to tell him that no, you didn't. spending ever waking moment hoping he'll return and yell at you, fight with you again, or critisize your coping techniques with fancy psychological vocabulary that would've been once again way too accurate.

"-but it hurt me to know that we were on bad terms."

"why thank you, genius. that's so kind of you"

genius.

he took it like a punch to the gut. the kind of nickname related to teasing, playful banter about his immense incomparable knowledge you were so fond of. now, it only sounded insulting.

"i left. we fought and i had to leave. and i-" spencer's voice faltered for a second, anxiety creeping in. there was a truth he hated to admit, words we couldn't bear pronouncing out loud in fear they'd come true.

"i couldn't forgive myself if those were the last words i ever said to you."

there it was.

the dagger being held over him, the possible hypothesis that had made him shiver beneath the thin motel sheets. the covers were so harsh he'd closed his eyes and imagined the heat of your soft skin instead of the empty spot next to him.

right now on the couch, your lips parted. spencer was never scared, he'd grown into a confident agent whose weakesses never showed, hidden away in the secret garden of his that ony he had the key to.

you ducked your head shamefully.

he gets up in one swift motion, cearing his throat as to erase his confession. "i’m gonna make some tea"

just like that, the moment dissipated.

he gets to the kitchen before you could react and there's nothing for you to do but look at him from the couch, maneuvring behind the counter with a surgical precision that should make up for his crumbled facade. you see him grab two mugs carefully, the whistle of the kettle drowning out the leftover tension in the open space.

as the water got closer to reach the point of boiling, spencer was too busy replaying the conversation to hear your socked feet against the tiles.

until he felt your touch.

hesitant at first. your arms slide around his middle from behind, and the fact that you can't see his face doesn't keep you from catching his reaction. his body language speaks for itself.

shoulders sag in relief, and you carefully draw yourself closer until your forhead mets the cotton fabric of his shirt, soft and smelling of him from the years of wearing it.

"i'm sorry you felt like i wasn't there for you," your arms tighten their grip on him and you admit.

he shakes his head, hands stilling against the counter. steam lazily curls over the mugs and he adds. "no. i'm sorry i wasn't there for you. physically. emotionally."

he turns around, to wich you can finally tilt your head up and met his eyes. for the first time tonight, and he counted, your enchanting irises turn to him.

"we should talk to eachother more." it's honest. the kettle clicks. "statistically, is a major factor when it comes to reasons for divorce, the numbers sometimes reaching seventy percent-"

"we're not married" you remind him, unable to suppress a twitch of your lips.

spencer only shrugs sheepishly, though heat creeps up his cheeks.

"better be prepared, i guess"

you giggle fully this time. and it reverbates in the tiny space illuminated by nothing but your smile and the faint light over the stove.

"i need to find a better balance between you and the job. to be... okay with not always being dr reid all the time."

even in those moments, the quiet conversations between two individuals too trusting to hide parts of themselves from one another, he was honest with you. the struggle between this shift of identity wasn't new, no, it was what he got for putting others before himself and dedicating his life to helping the world with the use of his intellect.

but you never saw him as dr reid.

the diplomas and PhDs and FBI rewards he'd accumulated were nothing but mundanities that came with your boyfriend. spencer. the one whose casual and relaxed side only you got to see once he came bck from work, or during his rare days off.

"i just need you," you explain, your hands flat on his chest. "to be yourself. to be a boyfriend. a best friend."

to be there. alive. happy.

that's what he knew you were thinking. "i will"

the promise feels real this time, sworn with not only words but sealed by a kiss. he leans into you hesitantly, only to grace your lips when he feels you melting into him.

"you're-" you breathe out, smiling and kissing the corner of his mouth again, because how could you resist after going so long without his touch. "crazy- to think i know how to keep my mind of you"

spence meets you halfway, aiming for another kiss. a smaller peck this time. the grip of his hands tighten around your waist and he gives you a heartwarming dopey smile brighter than anything.

"i'd apologise for that, but it wouldn't be very honest.... i like to know you think about me..." he explains, brows scrunching telling you he's searching for the right words. "it makes me feel nice to know there's someone waiting for me when i come back."

after all, coming back to an empty apartment was all he'd known for years. dust collected on the shelves for however long the case had lasted, and the feeling of sudden emptiness in his heart matching with... well, the one in his fridge.

here, he was wanted, expected, needed. and most of all, loved.

"smooth," your nose bumps against his playfully. "but i won't settle for just words, baby. i need actions."

he nodded solemnly. baby again, not just first name basis.

you pinch his side, aiming for the skin beneath his prominent ribs. the efect is immediate, followed by a sharp gasp.

"-hey !"

"i'm serious," you warn, pupils getting visibly smaller like a cat about to hiss. he can't take you seriously like this, the flames of your pretend anger are nothing more than a modest spark. you're not even mad at him anymore, you just want him to smile again.

"you need to find a way to distance yourself from the BAU sometimes. it would be healthier for you to leave cases and bad guys away from, well," you vaguely gesture to the kitchen space with the two long forgotten mugs behing him.

"i perfectly know how to do that-" he retorts in a high pitched voice that betrayed his words.

"my files and all other aspects of my work life," he says, pointing to the coffee table in the living room space. "are over there. and you, my personal life, are right here."

your brows raise in amusement, shifting the attention away from the smile that threatens your lips. "seriously ?"

spencer shrugs. "i have established a boundary between work and life - that boundary being defined by the kitchen island."

"oh, dear" you sigh, shaking your head. the tea has gone cold when you grab your mug and his eyes don't leave your figure moving gracefully under the dim light. "you've got a long way to go."

"but i'll help you"

his head tilts up, hopeful. he's not alone anymore, really, he never was. not when he has a home - not just a flat, a real home - warm and full of love he shares with a woman who can read him like the back of her hand.

"you will ?" spencer's words linger in the air, promises untold he yearns for you to confirm. you nod, handing him his own mug to match yours.

"yeah, because i love you. and also, i can't sleep without you next to me" you add honestly. being home lone had never felt so boring than when it involved spencer leaving. apparently, you didn't need social battery to spend time with him.

he plants a soft kiss on your temple, a brush of his lips that leave you grinning.

and the next morning, you wake up by his side with limbs completely tangled and trapped in a form hold, that same smile is on your lips. the shine filters through the curtains, casting hues of gold over the angelic figure of a deeply asleep spencer. the pent up exhaustion from the past weeks events finally released, he looks the most relaxed you've seen in a while - and you let him rest.

because even without words, without meaningful eye contacts or grand gestures, you know he loves you too.

and the sticky note on the bedframe proves your point.

the sentence is carefully etched on the paper this time, elegant letters written in the peculiar handwriting you've learned to recognize after seeing it in letters and work files you sometimes got to see. three words, he got it right this time.

i love you, with an i. always have and always will.

the info-dumping is a way of him inviting you into his world. the facts and rambles about his tv shows, books, and studies judge how you will react to that side of him – they are the easiest way for him to share himself with someone without feeling too vulnerable. it is hardly a secret that he internalizes his stress to handle things alone. if you care enough to let him ramble, he could then be encouraged to communicate more openly with time. it's a game of patience, but one well worth playing.

spencer is already smart enough for two people – he doesn't need someone that can match him intellectually. he needs someone who will accept him, rather than strive to impress him. he adores curiosity, at the very least, enough to remember perhaps a fraction of what he rambles about. that is more than enough for him.

no matter when you meet him, spencer is protective, and not just in the sense of his work. while that does, of course, play a part, he has waited for so long to share himself with someone entirely, that he doesn't then want to share you with others. not entirely. it presents itself in small ways – keeping you close, checking in with you, not hesitating to say something if someone makes you uncomfortable.

speaking of keeping you close, spencer craves your physical touch to keep him grounded, and the simplest form of that is locking your fingers. it keeps him from fidgeting sometimes, stops him rubbing his own fingers raw. his fingers link between your own, firm, his thumb drifting over the back of your hand whether you're curled on the couch or on the jet.

cuddles are a non-negotiable, to the point where he will inconvenience himself for the sake of keeping you at his side. yes, his arm fell asleep twenty minutes ago. no, he does not care come back.

be prepared to wake up beside a mad scientist each morning. spencer's hair is wild at the best of times, but the mornings take the cake. it will stick up at all angles, no matter how still he slept, resembling something not to far from einstein. careful where your eyes pause, however. if you're caught staring, you'll soon have messy hair to match.

if he ever senses you are feeling low, he prescribes magic. you can remind him he is not a medical doctor, and that you're not actually ill as he places a palm against your forehead, but his response is the same nonetheless – a course of magic should clear it right up. besides, how else were you going to get that coin out of your ear? that can't be making things better, after all.

he brings magic into every part of your life when he can, and his proposal is no different. he practises for hours, even if he knows the trick inside out, your ring between his fingers, getting shinier with each run, trialled over and over again so that when his hands shook (and he knew they would) he wouldn't make a fool of himself.