𝑀’

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.

It was ridiculous, really.

You had to remain beneath the shower long after there was any reason to. Long after the shampoo had disappeared down the drain and the soap had been washed from your skin. The water had long since turned cold, yet you never reached for the faucet. Instead, you stood there motionless beneath the relentless stream, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as icy water cascaded over your shoulders, your spine and your chest. You just welcomed the discomfort because it was easier to endure the ache of freezing water than the unbearable warmth that had settled beneath your ribs the instant your hands had touched Spencer again.

It had been so innocent.

He was injured, still izzy from the concussion and barely able to stand without swaying. You had simply done what anyone would have done, guided him carefully beneath the spray, steadied him when his knees threatened to buckle and helped him wash around the bandages the doctors had warned you to keep dry.

And yet your body had betrayed you with humiliating ease the moment your fingertips settled against the broad slope of his shoulder.

All because showers had never simply been showers with him.

They had been stolen mornings before work, when one of you inevitably wandered into the bathroom after the other with the flimsiest excuse imaginable. They had been quiet reunions after cases, when he returned home exhausted enough to barely keep his eyes open, yet somehow still found the strength to pull you beneath the water with him because seeing you was the only thing that truly convinced him he was safe. They had been conversations, laughter echoing off tiled walls, shampoo bottles exchanged absentmindedly between sleepy hands, arguments about whose turn it was to buy more soap dissolving into kisses.

Oh...the kisses.

You could remember every single one with a clarity so sharp it almost hurt.

Because Spencer had never kissed you carelessly. Every kiss carried the intensity of someone determined to commit a moment to memory before it disappeared forever. He always approached you slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, though neither of you ever did. His hands inevitably found your face first, cupping it with such impossible gentleness that it often left you wondering whether he truly understood how loved he made you feel with such simple gestures. His thumbs would brush absentmindedly over your cheeks while he looked at you for one lingering heartbeat too long, studying your expression as though there were something endlessly fascinating hidden inside it.

Then one hand would drift upward, disappearing into your damp hair while his fingers settled at the nape of your neck, slipping effortlessly between wet strands until his palm rested against your skin. He would tilt your head ever so slightly before his mouth found yours again, deepening the kiss. Outside the shower, the world continued to exist—cases, paperwork, deadlines, violence, grief—but inside those four tiled walls it all ceased to matter. There was only the rhythmic percussion of water striking porcelain, the damp curl of his hair brushing your forehead, and the slow rhythm of two hearts beating close enough that you sometimes couldn’t tell which belonged to whom.

Now, you could almost feel his hands finding your waist again. You could almost hear the quiet hum he always made whenever he was content, vibrating softly against your lips whenever he smiled into a kiss. It felt so vivid that your body leaned into the illusion before your mind could stop it.

Your eyes opened.

Oh.

The shower was empty.

There was no Spencer standing in front of you, no shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, no hazel eyes looking at you as though you were still the safest place he had ever known. There was only cold porcelain beneath your feet, pale steam clinging stubbornly to the glass, and the deafening absence of the man your body still remembered with humiliating precision.

Your arms wrapped instinctively around yourself, holding your own elbows so tightly your fingertips blanched white. You weren’t entirely sure whether you were trying to warm your chilled skin or keep your heart from splintering all over again.

Then your phone began to vibrate.

The insistent buzz shattered the stillness with startling violence, echoing across the marble countertop and pulling you so abruptly out of the past that you physically flinched. Your pulse leapt into your throat as you blinked through the curtain of water still clinging to your eyelashes. Through the fogged bathroom, the screen glowed brightly against the counter.

Penelope.

Your hand reached the faucet before your brain fully caught up. The rushing water disappeared instantly, leaving behind a heavy silence interrupted only by the rhythmic drip…drip…drip from the showerhead. You snatched the nearest towel, wrapping it hurriedly around yourself before crossing the room in damp footsteps and grabbing your phone almost before it had finished vibrating.

“Penelope?”

“There you are!” Garcia’s voice burst through the speaker with its usual sunshine, though underneath it lingered the unmistakable exhaustion that had settled over everyone since Spencer had been shot. “I was beginning to think you’d fallen asleep.”

You frowned, absently rubbing the towel over your damp hair as cold droplets slid lazily down the back of your neck.

“…What?”

A brief pause followed.

“What do you mean what?” Penelope laughed, genuine amusement bubbling through the phone. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten.”

Your brow knitted together.

Forgotten…what?

Then, almost audibly, the pieces clicked together.

Dinner.

“Oh my God,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut in disbelief. “I did forget.”

“I knew it!” Penelope exclaimed triumphantly. “Morgan insisted you’d remember because you’re terrifyingly organized, but I told him trauma beats planners every single time.”

Despite yourself, a tired laugh escaped your lips. You pinched the bridge of your nose, still feeling the lingering ache behind your eyes.

“What time is it?”

“A little after six.

Six.

You had spent nearly forty minutes standing beneath freezing water trying to convince yourself your heart hadn’t just betrayed you.

“We’re only about ten minutes away,” Penelope continued brightly. “Morgan stopped to grab dinner because he refuses to believe either of you has actual food in that kitchen after…” She hesitated delicately before finishing more softly. “…everything.”

A helpless laugh escaped you.

“He’s probably right.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she laughed. “He’s absolutely right.”

Your gaze shifted toward the bathroom door. Beyond it, the house had settled back into its quiet rhythm. Somewhere down the hallway Spencer was exactly where you had left him. Maybe asleep beneath the comforter. Maybe stubbornly reading every line of his discharge packet despite strict instructions to rest. You could practically picture him with his glasses perched low on his nose, mentally cataloguing recovery statistics instead of allowing himself to simply exist for five uninterrupted minutes.

“I’ll be ready,” you promised.

“You don’t have to impress us,” Penelope replied, her voice gentler now. “We’re coming to see Reid…and maybe confirm neither of you has accidentally burned the house down.”

A genuine laugh slipped free this time.

“I think we can manage that.”

“Mmm.” You could almost hear her grin through the phone. “I’ll reserve judgment until I see the kitchen.”

The call ended with another round of affectionate teasing.

You lowered the phone slowly, your hand lingering around it for a moment as silence reclaimed the bathroom. The mirror in front of you had fogged over completely now, softening your reflection into blurred outlines and muted colors. Even so, you could still make out the evidence the shower had failed to erase. Your cheeks remained flushed despite the freezing water, loose strands of damp hair clung stubbornly to your temples and neck...but no amount of cold water had managed to wash away the memories that lingered beneath your skin.

With a slow sigh, you tightened the towel around yourself before reaching automatically for clean clothes. Familiar motions steadied your hands where your thoughts could not: soft sweater, comfortable jeans and dry socks. The ordinary ritual of getting dressed became something to focus on, each small task another step away from the woman standing beneath the shower only moments ago, remembering kisses she had no business remembering.

Ten minutes.

You should probably warn Spencer.

The thought arrived with enough practicality to interrupt the dangerous direction your mind had been drifting: dinner, just Derek and Penelope, familiar faces and voices. Normality, however temporary, you welcomed the distraction. Taking one final breath, you smoothed invisible wrinkles from the front of your sweater, more out of habit than necessity, before quietly stepping into the hallway.

The bedroom door stood slightly ajar.

You paused outside, lifting your hand to knock softly against the wood despite knowing he would almost certainly tell you to come in anyway.

“Spencer?”

No answer.

“…I’m coming in.”

You pushed the door open carefully.

Spencer was standing beside the bed.

Or, more accurately, trying to.

One hand remained firmly planted against the mattress to steady himself while the other was hopelessly trapped somewhere inside the sleeve of a pale blue button-down that had twisted itself halfway up his injured arm. His hospital sweatpants rested low against his hips, the loose waistband sitting carefully above the thick bandage wrapped around his upper thigh, while the rest of the shirt hung completely open, exposing the pale expanse of his chest and abdomen. And fresh bruises painted themselves across his ribs in uneven shades of violet and yellow, and every few seconds he paused, blinking faintly as though his brain needed another moment to remember how sleeves were supposed to work.

It was strangely endearing.

He looked up the instant he heard the door.

“Oh.”

There wasn’t a trace of embarrassment on his face, only relief.

“I appear to have encountered…” His gaze dropped thoughtfully to the offending sleeve. “…a surprisingly complicated engineering problem.”

The corner of your mouth betrayed you before you could stop it.

“You got stuck putting on a shirt.”

“I did.”

His agreement was so completely sincere, that any teasing remark died before it reached your lips.

“The statistical probability of this occurring under normal neurological conditions,” he continued gravely, giving the twisted sleeve another experimental tug that accomplished absolutely nothing, “is relatively low.”

“But you’re not under normal neurological conditions.”

“No.”

He sighed softly.

“I’m also making a conscious effort not to elevate my right arm beyond approximately forty-five degrees because you specifically instructed me not to.”

Your smile threatened to become an actual laugh.

“I did, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

For a moment neither of you spoke.

The room settled into a gentle silence broken only by the quiet rustle of fabric and Spencer’s careful breathing. Without the distraction of conversation, your eyes finally lingered on him properly.

His curls were still damp from the shower, darker than usual where they curled untidily against his forehead and temples. Tiny droplets continued their slow journey down the graceful line of his neck, slipping across his collarbone before disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You noticed the faint tension around his mouth every time he shifted his weight, the careful way he unconsciously favored one side.

He looked so tired that your chest tightened painfully.

“May I…” Spencer hesitated and his fingers loosening around the stubborn fabric before he lifted his eyes to yours. “…ask for assistance?”

You didn’t answer with words and simply crossed the room before he had the chance to regret asking.

“Turn around.”

He obeyed immediately.

The mattress shifted softly as he pivoted, careful of his balance, until his back was facing you. Standing this close to him again felt profoundly unfair, close enough to catch the clean scent of his shampoo mingling with the sterile trace of antiseptic ointment lingering around the bandage on his upper arm. If you leaned forward the smallest fraction, your forehead would rest naturally between his shoulder blades, exactly where it had countless times before.

You refused to let yourself think about that.

Instead, you focused on the shirt tangled stubbornly around his arm.

“Relax your shoulder,” you murmured, already gathering the twisted fabric between your fingers.

“I’m trying.”

Very carefully, you eased the sleeve down over the thick white bandage, lifting the fabric millimeter by millimeter so it wouldn’t catch against the gauze. Your fingertips barely grazed his skin, more conscious of where you weren’t touching than where you were. Every adjustment required you to stay close enough to feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing beneath your hands.

Spencer remained perfectly still, just as he always had.

It had always been like this with you. Whether you were standing in front of him before an FBI banquet, frowning in concentration as you straightened the knot of his tie because he insisted yours somehow always looked better, brushing away invisible flecks of lint from the shoulders of his jacket before a case, or sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with one of his favorite cardigans pooled across your lap while you patiently stitched together the sleeve he’d torn climbing a fence after a foot pursuit, Spencer had never once flinched beneath your hands.

Now, once his injured arm was finally eased through the sleeve, the rest came naturally. You guided his other hand into the fabric with care before lifting the shirt over his shoulders, settling it carefully against his back. The cotton fell into place with only a few stubborn wrinkles remaining, and almost without thinking, your palms smoothed over them in slow strokes, flattening the fabric the same way you had done hundreds of times before.

“There,” you murmured softly.

Spencer turned to face you, allowing you to finish what you had started. The shirt still hung open, revealing the pale skin beneath and the fresh bandage wrapped around his shoulder. Your fingers found the first button automatically. Then the second. Then the third. One by one, you worked your way upward with precision, each button sliding through its place beneath fingertips that remembered the task far better than your mind wanted to admit.

By the time you reached the last button, there was nothing left to fix.

The shirt sat perfectly against his chest. Every crease had been smoothed away. Every edge lay exactly where it belonged.

You should have stepped back.

Instead, your hands remained there.

Your fingertips rested lightly against the soft cotton over his heart, feeling the steady rhythm beneath it. Perhaps it was truly his heartbeat...or it was only your own pulse echoing loudly enough to convince you it belonged to him. You couldn’t tell anymore.

Only then did you realize how close you had drifted.

Close enough to count the impossibly long lashes resting against his cheeks. Close enough to notice the tiny scar tucked beneath his jaw, the one you’d kissed absentmindedly so many times throughout your marriage that you’d eventually stopped seeing it altogether. Close enough to catch the faint scent of cedar soap lingering in his damp curls, fresh from the shower.

A loose curl had fallen across his forehead and before you could think better of it, your hand lifted entirely on instinct.

You brushed it back with a tenderness so deeply ingrained it no longer felt like a conscious decision. Your fingers slipped gently through the still-damp curls before settling for the briefest moment against the side of his face, your thumb barely grazing his cheekbone and his eyes closed.

When Spencer finally opened his eyes again, they didn’t wander. They found yours immediately, searching your face with a softness that felt almost vulnerable, as though he were looking for evidence that this wasn’t another concussion-induced dream. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you seemed capable of it. So the silence stretched between you, delicate enough that even breathing felt like it might disturb it.

Then, so carefully it felt more like a question than a movement, Spencer lowered his forehead until it rested lightly against yours.

You didn’t pull away and your noses brushed, featherlight, and for one suspended moment the rest of the world simply ceased to exist. His breathing mingled with yours in slow rhythms, his eyelashes rested against his cheeks once more, eyes closed as though he couldn’t bear to look at you and risk discovering you’d disappeared and the distance between your mouths dwindled until there was almost nothing left of it, only the smallest sliver of trembling air separating two people who had once known each other so completely that kisses had never required thought.

“You…” Spencer whispered, your name caught somewhere behind the single broken word, his voice little more than a breath that ghosted across your lips.

One of his hands lifted hesitantly, slowly enough that you could see him thinking through every inch of the movement. It trembled hovering beside your waist without quite daring to touch you. His fingers curled faintly in empty air, stopping just short of your sweater, waiting for a permission neither of you knew how to ask for.

Oh.

And then the doorbell rang.

The sharp sound cracked through the silence with almost violent force, followed immediately by the unmistakable boom of Morgan’s voice from the front porch.

“Pretty boy! If you’re unconscious again, I’m kicking this door down!”

The moment shattered so completely it almost hurt.

You stepped back too quickly, your hand slipping from Spencer’s cheek as though waking from a dream. His own hand dropped immediately to his side before it had ever reached you, fingers curling into his palm instead. And for a heartbeat neither of you moved, you simply stared at one another, both trying to remember how to exist inside a room that suddenly felt ordinary again.

“I…” You cleared your throat, though it did nothing to steady your voice. “They’re here for dinner.”

Spencer blinked once, twice, as though the sentence had to travel a much greater distance than it should before making sense.

“…Right.”

Another impatient knock rattled the front door.

“Derek Morgan,” Penelope called over his shoulder, “stop traumatizing the recovering patient!”

A small breath escaped you, somewhere between relief and disappointment, because the interruption had arrived at exactly the wrong moment…or perhaps exactly the right one. You weren’t sure anymore.

“I’ll let them in.”

You had almost reached the doorway when Spencer spoke again.

“Thank you.”

You looked back.

He wasn’t talking about the shirt.

But you simply offered a small nod before leaving the room, carrying the weight of another unspoken conversation with you as Morgan knocked dramatically for what was undoubtedly the third time.

***

The front door had barely swung halfway open before Penelope swept inside in a whirl of bright colors and floral perfume, two grocery bags hanging from her wrists and somehow still managing to gesture animatedly while she talked. Behind her came Morgan, nudging the door shut with his foot as he balanced enough takeout containers to feed an entire squad rather than the handful of people expected for dinner.

“There they are!” Penelope announced triumphantly, already smiling before she’d properly crossed the threshold.

Then she stopped.

“…Huh.”

You frowned before you could stop yourself.

“What?”

Penelope didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she continued studying the two of you with the exaggerated seriousness of someone examining evidence at a crime scene.

“You both look…” She narrowed her eyes dramatically. “…different.”

Morgan finally looked up from the stack of containers he’d been carefully preventing from collapsing, following Penelope’s line of sight. His gaze landed on Spencer first, then shifted to you, lingering just long enough for a slow grin to begin spreading across his face.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I was just about to say the exact same thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied a little too quickly.

“Uh-huh,” Morgan drawled.

Penelope abandoned the grocery bags on the entry table and wandered closer, circling the two of you with the kind of open curiosity that only she could somehow make seem affectionate rather than invasive. She hummed softly to herself as though mentally cataloguing every tiny inconsistency.

“Okay…” she murmured. “Let’s see…Spencer’s wearing a clean shirt.” Her finger lifted thoughtfully. “Which is impressive considering a few days ago he could barely lift one arm.” Another finger. “And…”

Her smile widened.

“Your hair’s wet.”

You instinctively reached for it and your fingertips found damp strands immediately.

“It hasn’t dried yet.”

“No,” Penelope agreed brightly. “It really hasn’t.”

Morgan’s attention shifted to Spencer, whose curls were still dark with moisture despite his best efforts to towel them dry. A tiny bead of water escaped one stubborn curl near his temple, tracing a slow path down the side of his neck before disappearing beneath the neatly buttoned collar of his shirt.

Morgan watched it happen and his grin became positively dangerous.

“And his hair’s still dripping.”

Spencer, entirely unaware of the significance of the observation, reached up absently to smooth the offending curl back into place.

Morgan’s eyes flicked between the two of you again.

“Were you two showering?”

Your heartbeat climbed into your throat.

“No,” you answered instantly.

“Well…” Spencer began at exactly the same time.

Both of you stopped.

Morgan’s eyebrows climbed so high they practically disappeared beneath his curls, while Penelope clapped both hands over her mouth in delighted horror.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, this just became significantly more interesting.”

“I helped him shower,” you corrected immediately, the words tumbling over one another with enough speed that even you knew it sounded suspicious. Folding your arms across your chest, you forced yourself to slow down. “His stitches weren’t supposed to get wet, and the doctor specifically said someone needed to supervise him because of the concussion—”

Morgan nodded solemnly through the entire explanation.

“Perfectly reasonable.”

Relief began settling into your chest.

Then—

“I just hope nothing happened that elevated his heart rate.”

Your head snapped toward him.

“Derek.”

“What?” he asked with flawless innocence, adjusting the stack of takeout containers in his arms. “I’m talking about the patient’s recovery.” He turned toward Spencer with exaggerated professionalism. “So…how was the assistance?”

Spencer blinked.

Then, with complete sincerity that only made everything worse, he answered, “It was very helpful.”

Morgan barked out a laugh.

Penelope made a sound somewhere between a squeal and a cackle before immediately rescuing you from the conversation, slipping her arm through yours and steering you toward the kitchen before you could formulate a rebuttal.

“Come on,” she declared, patting your arm with exaggerated sympathy. “Let’s leave the children unsupervised while we find plates.”

“I’m older than both of you,” Morgan called after her.

“Yes,” Penelope replied over her shoulder without missing a beat as she opened the first cabinet she came across. “And somehow you’ve made that everyone else’s problem.”

The two of you disappeared into the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and closing as Penelope accepted the stack of plates from your hands. The kitchen looked almost untouched by time, with the pale blue kettle still rested on the stove beneath the little shelf Spencer had insisted on building himself despite having absolutely no business handling power tools. Even the tiny chip in the corner of the butcher block remained exactly where it had always been after the two of you had accidentally dropped an entire cast-iron skillet during your first attempt at making homemade pasta. Most people would’ve looked at the room and simply seen a kitchen but Penelope saw six years of your life.

“It’s almost exactly the same,” she murmured, the observation slipping from her lips so quietly it barely sounded like a question.

You followed her gaze almost reluctantly. It wasn’t that you hadn’t noticed before. Time had moved forward everywhere else but inside these walls, it had simply…settled.

“I suppose it is.”

Penelope looked at you then, studying your face with the kind of gentle concern only someone who had known you for years could wear.

“I thought you would’ve sold it.”

A quiet laugh escaped through your nose, though there wasn’t much humor in it.

“So did everyone else.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

The answer came easily.

You reached into the drawer for the cutlery, carefully separating forks from knives more because your hands needed something to do than because the task required any concentration.

“I bought an apartment instead.”

Penelope blinked.

“I know that,” she said. “But why keep both?”

Your hands slowed.

“It’s closer to work,” you answered first, almost automatically. “The apartment makes more sense. It’s twenty minutes from the courthouse instead of almost an hour. I practically live there now. But this place…” You said and glanced around the room again. “I couldn’t sell it.”

Penelope waited.

“It wasn’t because of Spencer.” Your fingertips rested against the edge of the counter, tracing absent circles across the wood worn smooth by years of dinners, paperwork, birthday cakes, late-night coffee and ordinary conversations. “I mean, my life happened here, so much of who I became happened inside this house.”

Your eyes wandered toward the dining room.

“I passed the bar while living here, and I painted that wall three different colors before deciding I liked the first one after all.” You shook your head softly. “I planted those herbs because I thought keeping basil alive couldn’t possibly be that difficult.”

Penelope smiled.

“I loved my husband and being married.” You added and your fingers curled against the countertop. “I’m not going to erase six years of my life because they ended badly.”

Penelope reached out instinctively, but you shook your head before she could touch your hand.

“Honey...”

“No.” You stopped her and smiled sadly before she could say anything else. “I know where this conversation is going.”

“Do you?”

“You think this…” You gestured vaguely toward the living room where Spencer and Morgan’s voices drifted faintly through the wall. “…means something.”

“I think,” Penelope corrected softly, “that he still looks at you like you’re the first beautiful thing he’s ever seen.”

You looked away.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to him.”

“It didn’t matter enough.” You inhaled slowly. “He left.” Your voice remained calm, almost frighteningly so. “He looked me in the eye, signed divorce papers, and walked away.”

Your gaze settled on the wedding photograph that no longer sat on the sideboard because you’d packed it away months ago.

“I begged him to stay.”

Penelope closed her eyes briefly.

“I remember.”

“And he still left.”

You shook your head.

“So whatever he felt…” Your voice caught for the first time. “…it wasn’t enough.”

Penelope stepped closer. “He loves you.”

You laughed softly.

“If that’s what love looks like…” Your eyes stung. “I don’t think I want it anymore.”

The words hung between you, heavy and terrible.

After a long silence, you forced yourself to straighten the stack of plates, needing the distraction.

“I’m taking care of him because he’s hurt.”

Penelope didn’t answer.

“He’ll recover.” You picked up the serving bowl and started toward the dining room. “He’ll go home and I’ll go back to my apartment.”

Penelope watched you for a long moment before speaking, her voice so gentle it almost broke your heart.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

You stopped, but you didn’t turn around.

“That man doesn’t need a nurse. I think he just needs you.”

You closed your eyes.

“Let’s talk about something else,” you said suddenly, forcing another smile onto your face before she could answer. It settled on your lips too easily, practiced from years spent standing in courtrooms where feelings were liabilities instead of truths. “How’s your life going?”

Penelope looked at you for a long moment.

She knew that smile.

It was the one you wore whenever you had already made up your mind. The one that politely informed everyone around you that the discussion was over, whether they agreed or not. She had watched you use it on stubborn witnesses, difficult judges, reporters outside courthouses, and, years ago, on Spencer himself whenever you refused to let him know how frightened you really were.

So she let the subject die.

“Oh, don’t get me started,” she sighed dramatically, accepting your escape with theatrical reluctance as she reached for the serving bowl in your hands. “My dating life continues to resemble an FBI behavioral profile titled Serial Disappointments.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“That bad?”

“Sweetie, at this point I’m considering marrying my computer. At least it already knows all my passwords.”

The laughter that followed was quieter than before, but genuine enough to drift through the open doorway separating the kitchen from the living room. It mingled with the clink of ceramic plates, the scrape of silverware against the countertop, cabinet doors closing softly, and the low whistle of the old kettle settling on the stove after being nudged aside. For a brief moment, the house sounded almost exactly as it used to.

Alive.

The sound carried farther than either of you realized.

Out in the living room, Morgan’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly as your laughter reached him through the hallway. He waited until your voices dissolved back into indistinct conversation before turning away from the kitchen and looking across the room at Spencer.

“So.”

Spencer looked up from where he’d been staring toward the hallway for the better part of five minutes.

“So.”

Morgan leaned back against the couch, crossing one ankle over the other as though the conversation were casual.

“How’s it going?”

Spencer instinctively reached toward the bandage on his arm before stopping himself.

“The headache’s improving. The dizziness is mostly positional now. My short-term recall appears unaffected despite the initial concussion symptoms, although I suspect the fatigue will—”

Morgan held up a hand.

“I’m not talking about that.”

“No?” Spencer frowned.

“No.”

Morgan gestured subtly toward the kitchen, where the muffled sound of you and Penelope debating where the serving bowls were kept floated through the house.

“I’m talking about…that.”

Understanding dawned slowly.

“…Oh.”

Morgan settled into the armchair opposite him.

“So?”

“I don’t know.” Spencer said and looked toward the kitchen doorway without really seeing it.

“You don’t know how it’s going?”

“I don’t know what it means.” His voice had quieted considerably. “She’s being kind.”

Morgan nodded.

“But she would’ve done this for anyone.” Spencer added.

“Doubt it.”

Spencer finally looked at him.

“She would’ve helped anyone. We know she’s that kind of person.” Morgan started and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “But she didn’t bring just anyone home, she brought you.”

Morgan didn’t answer immediately.

He simply sat there, elbows resting against his knees, listening as another burst of your laughter drifted from the kitchen. It was softer this time, almost muffled beneath the sound of cabinet doors opening and Penelope’s dramatically offended voice insisting that you had absolutely moved the serving bowls since the last time she’d been here. Spencer smiled before he realized he was doing it, the expression appearing so naturally that it seemed completely disconnected from conscious thought. It was small, but Morgan caught it anyway.

“You still look for her,” he said quietly.

Spencer didn’t answer.

His eyes remained fixed on the kitchen doorway, not really looking at it anymore but listening, waiting for the next sound of your voice the way someone waits for a familiar song to begin again.

“You hear her laugh,” Morgan continued after a moment, “and you stop listening to everything else in the room. You’ve been doing it all evening.”

Spencer lowered his gaze to his hands, fingers absently turning the edge of the blanket draped across his lap. For a long moment he seemed determined not to respond, as though silence alone might be enough to keep everything inside him contained. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped so low Morgan almost had to lean forward to hear it.

“I never stopped loving her.”

There wasn’t any drama in the confession.

No tears or visible breaking apart.

And Morgan wasn’t surprised.

He’d known long before the divorce papers had ever been signed. He’d known because he’d watched Spencer stay at Quantico long after everyone else had gone home, volunteering for every case that crossed the bullpen whether the team needed him or not. He’d watched him bury himself beneath reports, research, lectures, consultations and anything that filled enough hours to postpone returning to an apartment that had become unbearably empty. He’d watched him show up to Rossi’s Sunday dinners with the same polite smile every week, only to spend the evening unconsciously staring at the chair where you used to sit before eventually inventing an excuse about paperwork or an early meeting and leaving before dessert was served. And Morgan had seen heartbreak before. Hell, he’d lived through his own.

But Spencer hadn’t healed from losing you.

He had simply become frighteningly efficient at functioning while carrying the wound.

“I kept waiting for it to get smaller,” Spencer admitted, still staring down at his hands. His thumb drifted unconsciously over the scar across the back of one of them. “People always say grief changes. That eventually it becomes…manageable.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “I thought I’d stop walking past bookstores and wondering whether she’d already bought whatever was in the front window before I had a chance to recommend it.” His voice caught almost imperceptibly. “I thought eventually I’d stop missing her every time the world reminded me she existed.”

Morgan let him speak.

He knew Spencer well enough to recognize how rare this was. Spencer didn’t confess things. He analyzed them, categorized them, buried them beneath statistics and probabilities until they became manageable enough to survive.

“I kept working,” Spencer continued quietly. “More cases. More lectures. More consultations. It made sense mathematically. The fewer hours I spent alone, the fewer opportunities I’d have to think about…” His voice faded. “…her.”

Morgan nodded slowly.

“I know.”

“No.” Spencer shook his head. “I don’t think anyone did.”

Morgan looked at him carefully.

“So why’d you leave?”

Spencer didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, his eyes settled on the scar crossing the back of his own hand, his thumb absently tracing it.

“My mother’s neurologist changed her medication.”

Morgan remembered.

He remembered every frantic phone call Spencer had excused with, “It’s nothing.” Every morning he’d arrived at Quantico looking like he hadn’t slept. Every case where his coffee had gone cold because he’d spent the night in a hospital chair instead of his own bed. He remembered watching Spencer lose weight without seeming to notice, watching exhaustion settle permanently beneath his eyes while he insisted everything was under control.

“It stopped working,” Spencer murmured, his attention never leaving the scar beneath his fingertips. “Around the same time… I started getting migraines.”

“You never told anybody.”

“I told myself they were stress.”

“Were they?”

A bitter smile crossed Spencer’s face.

“I still don’t know.”

Silence stretched between them.

“My memory is…” Spencer swallowed, searching for words he had probably never imagined saying out loud. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever trusted about myself. Intelligence changes. Knowledge expands. Skills deteriorate if you don’t practice them. But memory…” His eyes finally lifted, hollow with something Morgan had never seen in them before. “Memory has always been the constant. It’s who I am.”

Morgan didn’t interrupt.

“Then one morning I walked into Hotch’s office…” Spencer’s expression unfocused, replaying the memory with agonizing clarity. “I reached for the doorknob, walked inside…” His breathing caught almost imperceptibly. “…and I couldn’t remember why I’d gone there.”

He laughed once, but it sounded broken.

“It lasted three seconds.”

Morgan didn’t interrupt.

“Three seconds,” Spencer repeated, almost to himself. “Objectively insignificant. Most people would’ve forgotten it happened before lunch.”

“But you couldn’t.”

“Because I couldn’t afford to.”

His fingers tightened until the tendons in his hand stood out beneath his skin.

“After that…” He exhaled slowly. “I started watching myself.”

The confession sounded almost ashamed.

“Every headache became evidence. Every forgotten word. Every misplaced file. Every moment I lost my train of thought halfway through a sentence.” His jaw tightened. “Every time I walked into a room and needed a second to remember why.”

His breathing became slow, deliberate.

“I was profiling myself.”

Morgan felt something twist painfully in his chest.

“I made lists and I tracked sleep deprivation, migraine frequency, vocabulary retrieval, episodic recall, processing speed.” Spencer’s voice had become frighteningly clinical, as though retreating into science somehow made the memories less terrifying. “I compared my cognitive performance against my own baselines.”

“And what did you find?”

“I found exactly what fear wanted me to find.”

Another burst of laughter floated from the kitchen.

Without thinking, Spencer turned toward the sound.

“When she’d talk about our future…” His entire expression softened before grief quietly erased it again. “She’d already picked baby names.”

Morgan closed his eyes briefly.

“She wanted a little boy who looked like me.” A faint smile appeared despite everything. “She used to wonder whether he’d inherit my curls or her smile. Whether he’d spend afternoons buried in libraries because of me or come home covered in paint because of her.”

The smile vanished.

“And all I could think about…” His voice almost disappeared. “…was whether he’d inherit schizophrenia.”

A long pause.

“Or Alzheimer’s.”

The living room became impossibly still.

“I stopped imagining birthdays.”

His gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the room.

“I started imagining neurologists.”

Morgan said nothing.

“I couldn’t stop seeing her twenty years from now.”

“Forty.”

“It didn’t matter.” Spencer’s voice was barely audible now. “Every version ended the same way.”

His throat tightened.

“I kept seeing her sitting beside my hospital bed exactly the way I used to sit beside my mother’s.” His eyes closed. “Watching me disappear a little at a time. Correcting my memory. Introducing herself to me over and over until one day…” His voice broke for the first time. “…until one day I forgot she had ever been my wife.”

The silence that followed felt sacred.

“I loved her too much to ask her to survive that.”

“I know,” Morgan said softly.

Relief flickered across Spencer’s face, but it lasted less than a second.

“But that’s not what happened.”

Spencer frowned.

“You didn’t save her from watching you get sick.” Morgan leaned forward, his voice calm but unyielding. “You made her watch the man she loved walk away without giving her a reason.”

The words landed with visible force.

“You didn’t spare her grief, Reid.” Morgan shook his head slowly. “You just chose a different version of it.”

Spencer looked away.

“You know what she spent the last two years believing?”

Nothing.

“She believed she wasn’t enough.”

Spencer shut his eyes.

“She believed somewhere along the way you stopped choosing her. That every promise you made together meant less to you than it did to her.” Morgan’s own voice thickened despite himself. “She came to me, you know.”

Spencer looked up.

“She asked if I’d noticed when you started pulling away. Asked if maybe there’d been someone else.” He shook his head slowly. “She kept trying to find a reason because the truth made even less sense.”

Spencer’s face folded inward.

Morgan had seen Spencer cry but somehow this was worse because there weren’t any tears. Just the horrifying realization that every nightmare he’d imagined for you had been replaced by one he’d never considered.

“I thought…” He whispered.

“I know what you thought.”

Morgan’s eyes glistened.

“You thought if she hated you, it’d be easier for her to move on.”

Silence settled heavily over the room.

Morgan let it before he asked quietly,

“Did she?”

Spencer couldn’t answer.

Because less than thirty minutes earlier, you’d stood beneath the shower with sleeves rolled to your elbows, carefully washing his hair so he wouldn’t reopen his stitches. Because you’d buttoned his shirt with hands that still knew him by memory and when he nearly kissed you, you’d almost let him.

Morgan already knew the answer.

“You were wrong.”

Spencer inhaled shakily, his shoulders sagging beneath a weight that suddenly seemed too heavy to carry anymore.

“So…” he asked quietly. “…what am I supposed to do now?”

Morgan looked toward the kitchen where your laughter drifted through the house once again, familiar enough to make the years between then and now disappear for just a moment.

“For the first time in two years,” he said, “stop deciding what’s best for her and use this opportunity to fix it.”

He looked back at Spencer.

“She deserved the truth before you left.”

A pause settled between them before Morgan finished, his voice softer than it had been all evening.

“And if you still love her as much as I know you do…” he said, “…then stop protecting her from a future that doesn’t exist yet and let her decide whether it’s one she’s willing to face with you.”

Spencer stared at him for a long moment before quietly shaking his head.

“Telling her doesn’t change genetics.”

Morgan’s expression softened with something painfully close to pity, but before either of them could say another word, Penelope’s voice carried brightly through the house, cutting effortlessly through the heaviness that had settled over the living room.

“Dinner’s ready! And if you boys don’t get in here in the next thirty seconds, I’m declaring the garlic bread legally abandoned!”

Morgan exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh under different circumstances, and pushed himself to his feet. As he passed, he rested a hand against Spencer’s uninjured shoulder, giving it one firm squeeze that lingered just long enough to say everything words no longer could.

“Think about what I said.”

Then he disappeared toward the kitchen, where the warmth of conversation swallowed him almost immediately.

Spencer stayed where he was, only for a few seconds.

Eventually, he stood, careful not to pull too hard against the stitches beneath the fresh bandage. His shoulder protested immediately, the sharp ache radiating down his arm as the lingering concussion left the room swaying almost imperceptibly around him. Under any other circumstances he would have catalogued the symptoms automatically because physical injuries had always obeyed rules, they announced themselves honestly and could be measured, monitored, predicted. Bones knitted. Skin scarred. Neurons recovered. Given enough time, the body almost always found a way to heal itself.

The human heart, he had learned too late, followed no such science.

By the time he reached the dining room, everyone had already slipped into the effortless rhythm they used to share every Sunday evening, as though years had collapsed into minutes while he had remained behind in another lifetime. Penelope was animatedly recounting how she had apparently searched five different cabinets for serving bowls that had been sitting directly in front of her the entire time, accusing the kitchen itself of malicious intent while Morgan laughed so hard he nearly dropped his fork trying to defend the cabinetry. You sat across from her shaking your head with that helpless, affectionate smile you had never quite managed to hide whenever Penelope committed herself wholeheartedly to complete nonsense.

Nobody realized Spencer had stopped in the doorway.

So, for a brief moment, he simply watched.

The dining room glowed beneath the warm light suspended above the table. Steam curled lazily upward from the food Morgan and Penelope had brought, carrying the scent of roasted garlic, rosemary, butter and fresh bread through the house. Someone reached across the table for the pepper. Glasses clinked gently together.

It was ordinary.

Ordinary in the quiet ways that had once made Spencer believe this life could never disappear. There had been a time when he assumed evenings like this would simply continue indefinitely, accumulating one after another until they became decades.

Oh.

Then you looked up.

The moment your eyes found him, you smiled automatically, the expression arriving before thought ever had the chance to intervene. Without interrupting your conversation with Penelope, your foot hooked gently around the empty chair beside you, pulling it away from the table just enough that he wouldn’t have to wrestle with it using one injured arm. It was an almost invisible movement, so absentminded that no one else even noticed it had happened.

Spencer did.

Because he remembered the first time you had done it when he had thanked you.

You had laughed and told him that married people eventually stopped thanking each other for things like that because love, after enough years, stopped announcing itself. It became instinct and lived in gestures so ordinary they disappeared almost as quickly as they happened. A mug of tea already waiting before the other person realized they wanted one. Picking up their favorite cereal during grocery shopping without checking the pantry first. Straightening a crooked tie in the middle of a conversation neither of you would remember the next day. Sliding out a chair because your body had memorized someone else’s comfort long before your mind thought about it.

Love had never lived inside declarations, it had always hidden itself inside habit.

His chest tightened so suddenly it became difficult to tell whether the ache came from grief or from the bruising beneath his ribs.

Because your body remembered him, even after everything.

You were still quietly dividing the food into portions before anyone asked. Still passing Morgan the pepper without him reaching for it because you knew he’d want it eventually. Still carefully avoiding the mushrooms on Penelope’s plate because she insisted she hated them unless they were chopped so finely she couldn’t identify them. Still noticing that Spencer’s glass was empty before he’d realized it himself, your hand already reaching for the pitcher without interrupting the conversation unfolding around you.

You had loved people for so long that kindness had become involuntary.

You had loved him for so long that caring for him still happened before you remembered you weren’t supposed to anymore.

Only then did Spencer move, lowering himself carefully into the chair beside you. The movement pulled uncomfortably against the stitches beneath the fresh bandage, but before he had even settled completely, you had already turned toward him.

“Does your arm hurt?”

The question was so simple that it almost undid him.

Not Why did you leave me? Not Why wasn’t I enough? Not Did you ever stop loving me? There was no accusation hidden beneath your voice, no bitterness sharpened into politeness, no attempt to collect the explanations you had deserved two years ago and never received. You looked at him with nothing more complicated than concern, as though the first thing that mattered after everything that had happened was whether he was in pain.

He wondered, with a guilt so profound it bordered on unbearable, how someone whose heart he had broken so completely still instinctively reached for his wounds before her own.

For as long as Spencer could remember, his life had been governed by a single certainty: every mystery surrendered eventually to knowledge. Every impossible equation possessed an answer whether humanity had discovered it yet or not. Every cipher could be broken, every pattern understood, every unanswered question yielded eventually to enough intelligence. It was the principle that had shaped him long before the FBI, long before profiling. When his mother became ill, he had met terror the only way he knew how. He had read every paper ever published on schizophrenia and Alzheimer’s, memorized neurological pathways until he could sketch them from memory, devoured clinical trials, inheritance models, molecular studies, experimental therapies. He had learned languages simply because another country’s research might contain a sentence no one had translated yet. Somewhere, he had believed it with the stubborn conviction only geniuses and desperate sons possessed, there had to be an answer hidden inside enough information.

There wasn’t.

For the first time in his life, Spencer Reid had found a problem intelligence could not solve. No theorem could rewrite a strand of DNA. No probability model could bargain with heredity. No amount of brilliance could negotiate with fear. And somewhere between trying to outrun a future that might never come, he had forgotten the one variable he had never had the right to remove from the equation.

You.

His eyes drifted almost involuntarily toward your left hand as you reached across the table for the bread basket, your fingers brushing absentmindedly against Morgan’s before apologizing with a smile that came as naturally to you as breathing.

The ring was gone.

He had been the one who slipped it from your finger in a lawyer’s office that smelled faintly of coffee and old paper, convincing himself that every signature he placed on those documents was another act of love. He remembered how cold your hands had been that day. He remembered noticing the pale indentation the band had left behind after years against your skin and wondering, absurdly, how long it would take for it to disappear.

He knew now.

Two years.

Long enough for the mark to fade, but not nearly long enough for the absence to stop hurting.

Yet memory betrayed reality with effortless precision. And for one impossible heartbeat he saw the gold band exactly where it had belonged, catching the warm dining room light as you laughed over something Penelope had said, your fingers colliding with his while both of you reached for the last piece of bread. He remembered saving part of every paycheck because nothing displayed beneath those jewelry store lights had ever seemed worthy enough of you. He remembered visiting three different shops before finding the one you had insisted was “far too expensive,” only for you to burst into tears when he opened the little velvet box because, in your own words, it looked like forever.

Forever.

Such a deceptively simple word.

Such an impossible promise.

For someone who had built his entire identity around certainty, forever should have been the easiest concept to reject. There was no mathematical proof for permanence. Entropy alone guaranteed that everything eventually unraveled. Stars exhausted themselves. Languages died. Civilizations disappeared beneath the earth. Every statistical model pointed toward impermanence.

And yet…he had believed in forever the moment you slid that ring onto your finger.

Not because the odds supported it.

Because you did.

The laughter around the table continued uninterrupted. Morgan was insisting he’d only taken one potato while Penelope accused him of crimes against carbohydrates with the theatrical indignation only she could manage. You quietly reached across the table to refill Spencer’s glass without asking if he wanted more water, your hand finding the pitcher almost before he’d realized it was empty. It was such an ordinary gesture that no one else noticed.

You had loved him for so long that your body still remembered him, even when your heart had every reason to forget. And that, more than anything Morgan had said, became the realization Spencer could not survive.

Because the future he had spent two years trying to protect you from had never arrived. Instead, he had created one infinitely crueler.

He had feared a disease that might one day make him forget the woman he loved, so he had left while he still remembered her perfectly.

As conversation carried on around him and warmth filled every corner of the room, Spencer found himself wondering whether every great tragedy began the same way: not with cruelty, nor hatred, nor even the absence of love, but with one terrified person convincing themselves that destroying something beautiful today was kinder than risking its loss tomorrow.

He had spent years believing the cruelest inheritance his family carried was written into its genes.

He knew better now.

Fear could be inherited too.

And unlike every illness he had ever devoted his life to understanding, this one had no treatment, no trial, no cure waiting somewhere inside another language, another country, another forgotten journal article.

Because this disease had never lived inside his blood, it had lived inside a single decision and he would carry its symptoms for the rest of his life.

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She had been stripped of her modern jeans and threadbare canvas sneakers, discarded and left in a crumpled pile by the rotting doorframe. In their place, her cold, rigid limbs were shrouded in a coarse, unbleached linen gown that scraped against her skin like sandpaper. Her body bore the red, blistering chemical burns of lye and sulfur, a violent attempt to scorch away the perceived filth of the modern world. She had been arranged with meticulous, terrifying reverence upon a hand-carved oak altar, her fingers woven together across her sternum, her dead, unblinking eyes forced wide open to stare through a hole in the collapsed roof toward the thick canopy of weeping willow and moss above. Her killer had offered her up, a corrupted sacrifice framed by a warped, extreme interpretation of Levitical purity laws.

–

When the BAU’s two black SUVs rolled through the rusted iron archway that marked the limits of Oakhaven Fen the heat hit like a wet velvet curtain. The town was an eerie, suspended breath of a bygone era. Women in ankle-length, dark cotton dresses stood on porches, their hair bound tightly in severe knots, watching the government vehicles with eyes devoid of warmth. Men in sweat-stained linen shirts and braces paused their work, their faces hard and lined like dry riverbeds. There were no brightly coloured signs, no radios playing or any sound except the heavy thrum of cicadas. The atmosphere was stale, suffocating, and swaddled in an isolationist paranoia that felt less like a rural town and more like a frozen cult compound.

Inside the cramped, wood-paneled Sheriff's station, the team gathered around a weathered oak table. Aaron Hotchner’s jaw was set as he pinned the crime scene photos to a corkboard, while Jason Gideon stood off to the side, his gaze drifting toward the window to watch the silently staring locals outside. 

“The local authorities are overwhelmed, but more than that, they’re uncooperative,” Hotch said, his tone low. “They don’t view these girls as victims of a serial predator, but as sinners who brought judgement upon themselves.”

“They’re leaning heavily on Leviticus,” Spencer murmured, his fingers gently tracing the edge of an autopsy photo without touching the burned skin. “Specifically the purity rituals of Leviticus 15, cross-referenced with nineteenth-century holiness movement literature. The use of lye for ritualistic washing, the unbleached linen, it’s an attempt to force a physical state of sinlessness before death. To the unsub, he isn't committing murder. He believes he’s performing an act of mercy.”

“Mercy?” Morgan raised his eyebrows, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his eyes dark with disgust. “The second girl was nineteen, Reid. She was scrubbed raw while still breathing.”

You stood beside Spencer, your shoulder brushing against his rough, tweed sleeve. You could smell the distinct, comforting scent of his sweet coffee, and fresh cedar that always seemed to cling to him, a stark contrast to the thick, metallic tang of swamp humidity slipping through the screen door. You reached down, adjusting your FBI badge at your hip, acutely aware of the eyes watching you from the front desk, the local deputy hadn’t stopped glaring at your trousers, your badge, or your exposed forearms since you walked in. 

“We need to speak to the local spiritual leader,” Gideon said, turning from the window. “A community this closed off doesn’t move without its shepherd.”

That shepherd was Pastor Silas Thorne. 

You found him behind the First Covenant Chapel, a whitewashed building whose bell tower leaned slightly toward the swamp. Thorne was a tall, gaunt man with knuckles like gnarled oak roots, and milky blue eyes that never seemed to fully focus. As you, Spencer and Morgan approached, the pastor didn’t pause his work. He continued splitting logs with a heavy iron wedge, the rhythmic thunk echoing through the heavy air. 

“You bring the noise of the outside world to the quiet valley,” Thorne said, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate in his chest. He set the axe down and wiped his brow with a graying rag, his eyes lingering on you with a cold, piercing disgust. “A world of corruption. Of loose garments and brazen women.”

“We’re here to find out who tortured and killed Mary-Anne Miller and Sarah Smith, Pastor,” Morgan said, stepping slightly in front of you, his posture radiating a controlled warning. “We’re not interested in a sermon.”

Thorne’s thin lips curled into a mirage of a smile. He looked directly at you, stepping closer until the stench of old tobacco and bitter herbs radiated off him. “The scripture teaches us that the foot of the rebellious woman leads down to death. Those girls… they strayed into the deep woods. They painted their faces, cast off modesty. They tasted the filth of the cities. What befell them was the harvest of the seed they sowed. A righteous cleansing.”

Spencer stepped forward, his tall frame awkward but firm as he subtly shifted himself into Thorne’s line of sight, effectively shielding you behind himself and Morgan. “Leviticus 20:27 speaks of judgement, Pastor, but the early American purity cults of the 1880s warped those passages to justify human sacrifice, a heresy condemned by every major Christian synod of the era. Are you preaching heresy to your congregation, Mr Thorne?”

Thorne’s eyes flicked to Spencer, a sudden, dangerous flash of heat crossing his pale face. “I preach the word, young man. Pure and unrefined. And those who walk in brazen arrogance,” he looked past Spencer’s shoulder towards you again, “will find the fire catches them soonest.”

The hostility only deepened as the afternoon wore on. As the team split up to interview the townspeople, the reception was universally stone cold. Leaving the churchyard behind you, you paired up with Emily to canvas the town’s main dirt thoroughfare, hoping to find anyone willing to speak off the record. 

The heat felt thicker now, pressed down by the gray storm clouds gathering on the horizon. The dirt under your boots was soft and powdery, kicking up fine dust that clung to your clothes. As you and Emily walked, the silence of the town felt violent. Doors snapped shut at the sound of your footsteps on the wooden boardwalks. 

“Notice how no one here looks us in the eye?” Emily muttered under her breath, her hands tucked casually into her jacket pockets. “It’s not just distrust of federal agents. It’s fear. They’re terrified of stepping out of line.”

“Or terrified of Silas Thorne,” you said, glancing toward an old woman sitting on a porch. The woman snapped her bible shut, spat on the dusty floorboards and ducked inside, locking the door with a loud iron latch. You sighed, turning back to Emily. “He’s a classic narcissist with a messiah complex.”

“He fits the profile,” Emily said, her brow furrowed as she scanned the empty street. “High dominance, absolute control over his flock, deep-seated misogyny masked as following the word of the Lord.”

“Did you see the callus on his thumb?” You asked, Emily shook her head. “That’s from carving. He could easily be the one making those altars. When Spencer called him out on the heresy, he didn’t argue the theology. He made a threat. He stared right at me and talked about fire catching the brazen ones.”

Emily inhaled deeply, her voice dropping as two men in sweat-stained shirts crossed the street ahead, staring at your badges with open malice. “He wants to punish women who break his mold. The victims were trying to leave Oakhaven. Thorne couldn’t let them take his authority away. Killing them, cleansing them… it re-establishes his total control over the town.”

You approached a small library, stepping up onto the porch. An elderly man sweeping the wooden steps immediately stopped, clutching his broom like a weapon. “Excuse me, sir,” you said gently, holding up your badge. “We’re investigating the deaths of Sarah Smith and Mary-Anne Miller. Did you notice anyone near the old chapel-”

“A foolish woman seeketh her own destruction,” the man interrupted, his voice cracking like dry leaves. He glared past you, his eyes locking onto Emily, then sliding down to your badge. “Pastor Thorne warned us the pestilence would wear the skin of pride. The Lord sees your unbowed heads. You tread on holy ground with filth on your soles.”

“Sir, two young women from your town were murdered,” Emily pressed, taking a half-step forward, her voice hardening. “A killer is walking these streets.”

“The killer is the sin inside them!” The man spat, slamming the broom down onto the porch with a crack that made it vibrate. He leaned in, his yellowed eyes wild and unblinking. “The Pastor spoke the truth from the pulpit on Sunday. The judgement shall scrub the land until the flesh is white as wool. You keep walking these roads, girl, and you’ll find yourself lying on the altar right alongside them.” 

He backed into the library and slammed the heavy oak door in your faces, throwing the deadbolt on with a heavy clunk. You and Emily stood on the porch for a moment, the heavy silence settling over you again.

“Charming,” Emily muttered. “They’re totally indoctrinated. Thorne has them convinced that these murders are divine interventions.”

“He’s feeding them the exact rhetoric used at the crime scenes,” you said. “The lye, the linen, the white wool… Thorne isn’t just preaching this stuff, Emily. He’s weaponising it. He’s directing the violence.”

You reached the steps of an old carpenter’s workshop. Inside, the air was cooler than the heat outside, but it carried a different kind of heaviness, stale, thick with the scent of unrefined lard and cedar shavings. As you and Emily stepped over the threshold, a bell clinked dully above the door. Sitting at a low workbench in the corner, illuminated only by the tim, sickly yellow light filtering through a dust-crusted window, was a man with narrow shoulders and hollow, sunken cheeks. He was working with a heavy drawknife, peeling long, smooth curls of pale wood from a block of solid oak. His movements were smooth, practiced, and rhythmically quiet.

"Excuse us," Emily said, her tone professional, though her eyes immediately swept the quiet room. "FBI. We're looking to ask a few questions."

The man didn't jump. He didn't even drop his knife. He simply slowed his hand, letting the steel blade rest against the raw wood, before slowly raising his head. His eyes were a muted, clouded blue, wide and strangely unblinking.

"Mmm," he hummed. His voice was shockingly soft, almost gentle, contrasting sharply with the harsh, rasping venom of the other townspeople. "You shouldn't be out in this heat. The air is sour today. It turns things."

You stepped forward, your boots clicking softly on the floorboards. "We're investigating the deaths of Sarah Smith and Mary-Anne Miller. We're asking if anyone saw anything unusual near the old chapel grounds over the last few days."

At the mention of Sarah's name, the man's fingers tightened just slightly on the wooden handles of his blade, the knuckles turning white.

"Sarah was a fragile girl," he said, his tone flat, devoid of grief, yet laced with a peculiar, unsettling reverence. "Her mind was easily clouded by the weeds of the road. People think she was lost... but she isn't lost anymore. She’s at peace now."

You narrowed your eyes, taking in his physical presence. His shirt was a plain, unbleached cotton, tucked neatly into rough canvas trousers, but his hands were deeply stained, grimy slate-gray around the cuticles, the skin dry and cracking from harsh chemicals.

"You knew her well?" you asked, taking a careful step closer to his workbench.

"I'm her brother. Eli," he said simply. He didn't offer a hand, nor did he look away from you. His gaze drifted down from your eyes, lingering on the open collar of your shirt, then down to the leather holster at your hip. "Sarah used to wear bright things. Red ribbons. Blue glass beads. She thought they made her pretty. But bright things only attract the rot, don't they?"

A prickle of cold discomfort traced its way up the back of your neck. Unlike Pastor Thorne, who radiated loud, theatrical hostility, Eli radiated a deep, hollow stillness that felt far more dangerous.

"Eli, if you know anything about who hurt your sister, you need to tell us," Emily said, her posture shifting subtly as she read the odd energy in the room. "We want to catch the person responsible."

Eli let out a faint, breathy sound, a shadow of a laugh that barely made it past his lips. He picked up a handful of fresh oak shavings from his lap, letting them spill slowly through his rough fingers like coarse sand.

"Man doesn't hurt what God cleanses, Lady," Eli said softly, his eyes locking back onto yours. The intensity in his gaze was terrifyingly calm. "The river washes the mud from the stone. Is the river hurting the stone? No. It’s just making it white again. Preparing it for the sun."

He reached out with a thumb, gently touching a drop of raw, milky sap oozing from the carved wood, rubbing it between his stained fingers.

"You're very loud," Eli added, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he stared at you. "The way you walk. The metal on your belt. You carry so much weight from the outside world. It must be very heavy... carrying all that rot around on your skin."

The hair on your arms stood straight up. He didn’t raise his voice, or quote scripture, there was no overt threat, just an absolute, unshakeable certainty in his hollow eyes that made your chest tighten with an instinctual warning.

"We're done here for now," Emily said sharply, her hand hovering near her belt as she picked up on the sudden, toxic atmosphere. She placed a subtle hand on your shoulder, gently pulling you back a half-step. "If you think of anything else, Eli, you let the Sheriff know."

Eli didn't answer. He simply picked up his drawknife again, setting the steel blade against the white oak.

As you turned to exit, you could feel his clouded blue eyes tracking your every move, watching the sway of your dark trousers and the flash of your badge until the screen door clicked shut behind you.

Out on the porch, Emily rubbed her temples, exhaling a long breath. "Lovely town. That guy was creepy, but Thorne is still our primary. He’s feeding them the exact rhetoric used at the crime scenes, he’s directing the violence. We need to get Hotch to pull his records."

"I'm with you," you said, trying to shake the lingering feeling of Eli's stare. "If Thorne isn't holding the lye brush himself, he's holding the leash."

“She walks in the attire of a harlot,” a woman with sunken cheeks hissed at you from a garden gate, her fingers clutching a wooden rosary so tightly her knuckles were white. “The storm is coming to wash the plague. You’d do well to strip yourself of your pride before the wood takes you too.” 

You swallowed thickly, the warning seeming more like a threat. Emily took your elbow, guiding you away towards the street corner where the rest of the agents were gathering. “Ignore her.”

–

By late afternoon, the sky had turned a bruised, unnatural purple. The air pressure dropped so violently it made your ears pop. Seeking shelter from the rising wind, you and Spencer slipped into the porch of an abandoned general store at the edge of the woods. The wind rattled the loose tin roof above, creating a metallic roar that cut off the rest of the world. Rain began to fall in massive, heavy sheets, turning the dirt road into a churn of red mud. 

You leaned your back against the weathered wood, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. “I don’t like it here, Spence.”

Spencer turned to face you, adjusting his leather messenger bag strap over his shoulder. The dim, violet light of the storm caught the softer angles of his face. His eyes watched your fingers, picking at the skin around your nails. You were usually strong, these cases rolled off your back, but Spencer noticed the shift in your demeanor. He reached out, hesitating for a fraction of a second, before his long fingers gently touched your forearm, right where the cold air had raised goosebumps on your skin. 

“They’re living in a shared delusional system,” he said softly, his voice a quiet, grounding anchor amidst the howling wind. “It’s a defensive mechanism against the isolation and decay of the geography, but… You don’t have to listen to them.” He pushed, his brown eyes searching yours with an earnest, vulnerable intensity that made your heart skip a beat. “You’re strong, and you’re brilliant, and your presence here is saving lives. Don’t let them make you forget that.”

You looked up at him, the wind catching his hair, blowing a strand across his forehead. You gently reached up to move the curl back behind his ear, a faint blush creeping up his neck at the contact. “Thanks, Spence.” You said softly as your thumb moved to gently trail across his cheekbone, making his breath hitch as the pad of your thumb brushed underneath his eye. “Don’t know what I’d do out here without you.” 

His eyes softened into something tender, his head tilting into your touch for a moment, his mouth opened to say something more, his lips parting, an unguarded look in his eyes. A massive clap of thunder ruined the moment, shaking the very boards beneath your feet. 

“We should get back to the station,” Spencer said reluctantly, looking out at the sheet of gray rain as your hand fell from his face. “Hotch wants us to regroup before the roads flood entirely.”

–

The atmosphere at the station felt like a held breath, Spencer stepped in, holding the door for you when you paused. He turned to face you when the weight of the door didn’t ease on his hand. “What is it?”

“I left my notebook in the unit by the cemetery,” you said, already turning back to the steps. “Go ahead, I’ll be two minutes.”

“I’ll come with you,” he insisted immediately. 

“It’s twenty yards, Spence,” you offered him a small reassuring smile. “I think I can handle a puddle.” 

He hesitated, watching you for a second longer before nodding. “Two minutes. I’m counting.”

You darted off the porch, shielding your head with your jacket as you ran toward the lone SUV parked near the ancient, moss draped iron fence of the cemetery. The rain was deafening, blinding. You pulled open the passenger door, reaching across the console to grab the leather-bound logbook, and stepped back out into the rain. 

You couldn’t hear the footsteps over the roar of the storm. 

A heavy, burlap sack reeking of lye, stagnant water and old tallow was shoved violently over your head. Before you could draw in a breath to scream, a pair of thick, iron-strong arms pinned your elbows to your sides. A rag soaked in a sweet, suffocating chemical was slammed against your nose and mouth. You thrashed wildly, driving your heel back into your attacker’s shin, but the fumes invaded your lungs instantly, turning your limbs to lead and spinning the dark, stormy sky into complete blackness. 

–

“You’re alone.” Hotch glanced behind Spencer as he waited for you to make your entrance. There was a silence that hung heavy over Spencer’s head, one that was thick with regret. “I told you all specifically to not walk around alone.” He said, keeping his eyes on Spencer as he moved around him to push open the heavy wooden door to the tempest outside. Morgan followed. 

The driver's side door of the secondary vehicle was hanging wide open. The sight stilled them, Spencer followed out, his chest already twisting with guilt.

Your notebook was lying in a puddle on the red dirt, its pages rapidly drinking in the muddy rain.

Spencer called out your name as he rushed into the rain, his voice instantly tightening with panic as he sprinted toward the car. 

Silence, save for the violent roar of the wind through the cypress trees.

He dropped to his knees in the mud, his hands hovering frantically over your dropped radio and the fresh tread marks of a heavy, rusted farm truck spinning out into the dirt road. "Hotch! Morgan!" Spencer’s scream ripped through his throat, raw and terrified, barely recognisable as his own. "HOTCH!"

Within seconds, the BAU descended into chaotic, furious motion.

Inside the makeshift command post at the Sheriff's station, maps were slammed onto tables. Hotchner was on the satellite phone, his voice dripping with controlled, lethal authority as he demanded state police air support, despite the storm grounding most helicopters. Morgan slammed his fists down onto a wooden desk so hard a water glass shattered, his eyes bloodshot and wild as he paced the room like a caged predator.

"She’s been gone twenty minutes!" Morgan roared, turning on the local Sheriff, who sat quietly sipping coffee in the corner. "You have deputies on these roads! How does a giant government SUV get breached and an Agent dragged off without a single one of your men seeing it?!"

"The storm's heavy, Agent," the Sheriff drawled, unfazed. "Things go missing in the Fens when the water rises."

Morgan grabbed the front of the Sheriff's uniform collar, hauling the older man out of his chair until they were nose to nose. "You listen to me, you corrupt son of a bitch. If anything happens to her, there isn't a holy law in this swamp that's gonna protect you from me."

"Morgan! Back off!" Hotch commanded, grabbing Morgan's shoulder and forcibly pulling him back, though Hotch’s own eyes were burning with a cold, terrifying rage. "Threatening him doesn't find her. Reid, where are we?"

Spencer was standing over the topographic map of the county, his long fingers trembling so violently he had to press them flat against the paper to steady himself. His breathing was shallow, his hyper-analytical mind spinning into an agonising loop of worst-case scenarios and brutal timelines.

"The chemical used on the previous victims was a mixture of industrial lye and sulfur," Spencer stammered, his voice tight and raspy. "It takes... It takes approximately forty-five minutes to prep the ritualistic washing. If he follows the exact Levitical timeline of the previous two victims, he won't attempt the final offering until midnight... but the chemical burns... the lye destroys skin tissue within fifteen minutes of application..."

"Reid, breathe," JJ said gently, placing a hand on his back. Her own face was pale, tears pricking the corners of your eyes, but she kept her voice steady. "We are going to find her. Think. What is the profile telling us?"

"We were wrong," Gideon declared suddenly, stepping into the center of the room from the front window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

The room went dead silent.

Spencer whipped his head around, hair plastered to his forehead by rain and sweat. "What? Why? He matches the dominant profile, he threatened her-"

"Thorne is a narcissist, he wants an audience," Gideon said firmly, pointing toward the window where Pastor Thorne was currently standing on the church steps across the street, calmly watching the storm. "Look at him. He’s enjoying the chaos. He preaches on the porch, he confrontationally defends his doctrine because he craves power over the living. But this offender is covert. He operates in the deep shadows of the flood zones. He doesn't want power over a living congregation, he wants to present dead, immaculate offerings to God."

"Thorne is the catalyst. The spark," Hotch realised, his jaw tightening. "The unsub is someone who lives in absolute, total submission to the doctrine, someone who thinks he's the unseen, humble instrument."

"Eli Smith," Emily breathed.

Spencer’s eyes widening as a cascade of facts locked into place. "Sarah’s brother! You talked to him…” 

Emily nodded gravely. “He works for the parish drainage board, he knows every abandoned structure in the swamp. He’s a woodworker. He built the oak altars. He has access to the carpenter's shop, the lye, the unbleached linen...He wasn't acting out of grief," Emily said, her hands flying to her mouth as horror dawned on her face. "When we interviewed him, he spoke about Sarah like she was... like she was clean now… He looked at her clothes, her belt... he said she was carrying rot on her skin."

"He's consecrating them," Spencer whispered, a tear finally spilling over his lash line. "He thinks he's saving her. Where would he take her? Where is the highest, most isolated consecrated ground?"

He slammed his hand down on the map, his thumb hovering over a faded blue landmark buried deep in the green expanse of the marsh. "The old sunken chapel. St. Jude's in the Fens is already flooded, but there's a twin site built by the same settlement in 1888, the Chapel of the Seven Wounds. It's built on a hill inside the basin. It’s accessible only by the drainage access roads he maintains!"

"Load up," Hotch barked, unholstering his weapon to check the chamber. "We move. Now."

–

Meanwhile, miles away inside the gloom of the Chapel of the Seven Wounds, consciousness returned to you in agonising stages.

The air was heavy with the reek of burning tallow, heat radiating from dozens of candles ringing the hand-carved altar. You opened your eyes to find yourself strapped down, your wrists bound tightly with hemp rope to iron rings embedded in the oak block. You were stripped of your clothes, wearing the same unbleached linen gown as the other victims. The lye paste already smeared across your neck and collarbone bit into your skin like hundreds of hot needles.

Eli Smith towered over you, his eyes wide with a terrifying, ecstatic devotion as he carefully mixed a bowl of white chemical paste with a wooden spoon.

"You're awake," Eli murmured softly, setting the bowl beside your head. "Good. The soul must be present for the scrubbing. It loses its grace if the body sleeps."

"Eli..." you gritted out, forcing your voice through the chemical haze in your lungs. You looked up at him, focusing on keeping his attention locked on you, trying to buy every second possible. "Eli, listen to me. Your sister... Sarah... she didn't want this. She loved you. You don't have to carry out Silas Thorne's sickness."

Eli’s face contorted violently, a sudden, blinding rage flashing in his pale eyes before vanishing back into hollow calm. "Do not speak his name in this holy place. Pastor Thorne is a hypocrite. He talks of judgment, but he is weak, He lets the rot walk the streets. He let Sarah buy tickets for the bus. He let her laugh in the square."

"So you killed her to keep her from leaving?" you asked, gasping as a drop of lye splashed onto your shoulder.

"I saved her!" Eli said, leaning over you, his breath sour and hot against your face. "I washed her clean before the city could put its black marks on her soul. I placed her spotless before the throne… And now... now He gave me you. The boldest one. The one who carries the gun and speaks with the voice of men."

He picked up the boar-bristle brush, soaking it in the thick lye solution. "When I am finished scrubbing you, you will be white as wool. They will find you, and they will see what true purity looks like."

You pulled against the ropes with all your strength, the coarse fibers tearing into the skin of your wrists, blood slicking the wood. 

"Let the men come," Eli whispered serenely, bringing the bristled brush down hard against your exposed neck.

You screamed as the caustic paste seared through your flesh, tears streaming down your face as you fought against the unbearable heat.

"Scour the stain!" Eli began to chant, his voice rising over the howling storm outside as he scrubbed violently. "Scour the flesh until the spirit shines!"

"FBI! Don't move!" Hotch's voice boomed through the high-vaulted, burning room.

Eli froze, his wide eyes turning toward the entrance. Through the haze of candle smoke and rising heat, you saw Morgan and Hotch with their weapons drawn, taking point, with Gideon right behind. And behind them, his face pale with utter terror, was Spencer.

"Drop the weapon! Put your hands on your head!" Morgan roared, stepping around a cluster of burning tallow candles.

Eli looked down at you, then up at the agents. A sickly, triumphant smile spread across his face. "You cannot stop the consecration!" he said, his voice too calm for the current predicament.

With a sudden, violent sweep of his arm, Eli knocked a heavy iron candelabra containing dozens of open flames off the altar. It crashed into a stack of dry, resin-soaked pine firewood and ancient, dry-rotted velvet pews. The flames took instantly, hungry for oxygen, roaring up the walls in a terrifying wall of fire that completely severed the altar from the chapel entrance.

"Fallback! The roof is going to collapse!" Hotch shouted, grabbing Morgan's vest as a blazing cypress beam crashed down near the entrance, showering the room in sparks. "Reid, stay back!"

Spencer didn't hear him. Or rather, he completely ignored the direct order of his senior agent.

His eyes were locked on you, on your body bound to the oak altar, the red burns on your skin, the raw terror in your eyes as the flames began to lick at the edges of your linen gown.

"Spencer, NO!" Hotch yelled.

Spencer didn't hesitate. He threw his arms over his face and hurled his body directly through the wall of roaring fire.

He crashed onto the burning floorboards on the other side, his tweed jacket catching fire at the hem. He scrambled to his feet instantly, beating out the flames on his sleeve with his bare hands, his eyes wild as he sprinted to the side of the altar.

"I've got you, I've got you," Spencer sobbed out, his voice cracked with raw, unadulterated emotion. He pulled a heavy pocketknife from his trousers, his hands shaking violently as he worked the blade under the thick hemp ropes at your wrists.

Behind him, Eli lunged forward with the heavy iron wedge, his face contorted in rage, but a single shot echoed through the roar of the fire, Morgan had found a narrow angle through the smoke, dropping Eli to the floor.

The hemp rope snapped. You pulled your hands free, instantly reaching up to grab the lapels of Spencer’s singed jacket. He sliced through the ankle bindings in seconds, then gathered you up into his arms, pulling your trembling, chemical-burned body tightly against his chest.

"I have you," he whispered frantically into your wet hair, his body trembling violently against yours as heat roared around you both. "I've got you. You’re okay."

He hoisted you up, carrying your weight with a frantic strength you didn't know he possessed. He carried you through the blinding, choking smoke, dodging falling embers as Morgan and Hotch cleared a path through the burning structural debris, guiding you both out into the torrential, cool deluge of the Mississippi rain.

The air outside felt cold and shockingly pure.

The storm was beginning to pass, the heavy rain washing away the stink of lye and tallow from your skin. Paramedics immediately swarmed the area, placing a thick, warm blanket over your linen gown and tending to the chemical burns on your neck and arms with soothing ointment. Nearby, Eli Smith was being hauled into the back of a state trooper's cruiser in handcuffs, his lips still moving in silent, mad prayers. Pastor Thorne stood near the edge of the police perimeter, watched closely by Gideon, the pastor's authority completely shattered as the town watched his loyal follower led away in irons.

Spencer refused to leave your side. He sat on the back bumper of the ambulance right next to you, a blanket wrapped around his own singed shoulders, his hands raw, soot-stained, and blistered. The rest of the team was giving you both space, Hotch standing near the lead vehicle, watching Spencer with a quiet, knowing expression before turning to speak with the state troopers.

You sat shivering, staring down at your bandaged hands. "Spencer..."

He turned to look at you. In the faint, soft blue light of the emergency vehicles, his brown eyes were glossy with unshed tears. The usual calculated, analytical barrier he maintained was completely gone, shattered by the night's horrors.

"When I saw that car empty..." Spencer began, his voice barely louder than a whisper, trembling with an intensity that made your heart stop. "When I saw your notebook in the mud... my heart stopped. I couldn't process the statistics. I couldn't process the profile. All I could think was that the world couldn't exist without you in it."

He reached out, his soot-stained, trembling fingers gently taking your bandaged hand, holding it like something impossibly fragile.

"I.. I’m so sorry" Spencer said softly, leaning his forehead against yours, his warm breath fanning across your damp cheek. "I love you. I think I've loved you since the moment you walked into my life."

You looked at him, feeling the heat of his skin, the frantic, steady beating of his heart beneath your hands, and for the first time all night, the cold darkness of Oakhaven completely vanished.