Ink Between Us

✼ Criminal Minds ✼

Spencer Reid

one-shots -

"When the work lingers" [fluff]

"Egg-ceptionally yours" [fluff]

"A home in you" [fluff]

"642 Days" [fluff]

"So Vivid it hurts a little" [fluff]

"Let's pretend (we're not falling)" [fluff]

"No Safe Distance" [angst]

"Maybe Hangovers aren't so bad after all" [fluff]

"Knit for keeps" [fluff]

"Culinary Experiment" [fluff]

"Quiet Hours" [fluff]

"Checkmate" [fluff]

"Borrowed Warmth" [fluff]

"Wrapped in you" [fluff]

"Too early for Halloween?" [fluff]

fanfictions -

"A perfect match" [fluff]

"Statistically Speaking" [complete]

Part I

Part II

Aaron Hotchner

one-shots -

"One more round'" [fluff]

"Beneath the weight" [angst]

"Triage" [angst]

"Stick with me" [fluff]

"The Morning After" [angst/fluff]

fanfictions -

"Low sun, Loud hearts" [complete]

Part I

Part II

Part III

｡.｡:+* ﾟ ゜ﾟ *+:｡.｡:+* ﾟ ゜ﾟ *+:｡.｡.｡:+*ﾟ

I try to write as often as i'm inspired - I'm AM currently taking requests so feel free to message me!!

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Penelope’s annual Halloween party was infamous around the BAU. Glittering lights, themed cocktails, candy bowls overflowing on every surface—and costumes so elaborate they could have been Hollywood-set worthy. You had been looking forward to it for weeks, but for one very specific reason: Spencer Reid had agreed to wear a matching costume with you.

The problem was, Spencer was, well… Spencer. Which meant that agreeing to a couples’ costume involved several hours of him rattling off trivia about the history of Halloween costumes, cross-referencing popularity polls, and a deep dive into how “Couples who dress in coordinated costumes are perceived as more socially cohesive.”

You’d laughed through all of it, because honestly? His rambling was endearing. Eventually, after much persuasion, you’d settled on Sherlock Holmes and Watson. It was the perfect balance: nerdy, literary, and not too over-the-top. Spencer had immediately brightened at the idea—probably because it meant he could carry around an actual magnifying glass all night.

You smoothed your costume jacket in the mirror, adjusting the old-fashioned lapels until they sat just right. The faint sound of rustling fabric and muttered words floated out of Spencer’s bedroom, where he had been getting ready for the last twenty minutes.

“Everything okay in there, Sherlock?” you called, smirking.

There was a pause. “Statistically, it should not be this difficult to tie a Victorian-style cravat,” he replied, his voice muffled through the door. “Neckwear has existed for over four hundred years, but—”

You laughed and pushed the door open to find him standing in front of his dresser mirror, the costume pieces scattered everywhere—hat on the lamp, coat tossed across the bed, magnifying glass perched on a pile of books. Spencer himself was scowling down at a crooked tie, his long fingers fumbling with the fabric.

“Here,” you said softly, stepping forward. “Let me.”

He froze, glancing up at you in the mirror. His cheeks flushed pink, but he didn’t protest as you gently fixed the knot, straightening it against his collar.

“There,” you said after a moment, smoothing the fabric with your hands. “Perfectly Sherlock.”

Spencer cleared his throat, his voice quiet. “You know, technically, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t known for wearing a tie like this in the original stories. It was the illustrations by Sidney Paget that cemented the image we have today.”

You raised a brow, teasing, “Are you saying you want historical accuracy, or do you want to look good at Garcia’s party?”

He fidgeted, adjusting his glasses. “Both, ideally.”

You grinned, grabbing the deerstalker hat from the lamp and plopping it on his head. “Well, lucky for you, you’ve got me as your Watson. I’ll make sure you look the part.”

Spencer smiled shyly, holding up his prized magnifying glass like it was a trophy. “Honestly, I’m just excited to have an excuse to carry this around all night. You never know when it might come in handy.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You are such a nerd.”

“Thank you,” he said earnestly, missing the sarcasm entirely—like he always did.

And just like that, with your arm linked in his, the two of you were ready to head off to Garcia’s party—Sherlock and Watson, a perfect pair.

When you arrived at Penelope’s apartment, decorated head-to-toe in cobwebs and neon pumpkins, Spencer fidgeted beside you in his brown tweed coat. “You know,” he said, pushing his glasses up nervously, “Sherlock Holmes first appeared in print in 1887, but his deerstalker hat like the cravat wasn’t actually written into the stories. It was popularized by illustrations—”

“Spence,” you interrupted, laughing softly, “I promise you, no one here is going to fact-check your costume.”

He opened his mouth like he might argue, but then he noticed the way your hand slipped into his, and his words faltered.

Inside, Penelope shrieked with glee, her glittery witch hat wobbling as she pointed dramatically at the two of you. “Couples costume alert!”

Spencer froze like a deer caught in headlights, his magnifying glass halfway raised. “We’re not—we’re not a couple,” he stammered, his voice cracking slightly. “We’re just, uh, colleagues who happen to be dressed in complementary outfits.”

You tried not to laugh, biting the inside of your cheek. “Relax, Sherlock,” you teased under your breath.

Penelope gasped as if you’d confessed to a crime. “Don’t you dare tell me you two didn’t plan this together. You are literally serving Victorian icon realness. I could cry.”

“Garcia—” Spencer began, but she was already ushering you both toward her photo backdrop, which was framed with neon skull lights.

“Stand closer! Closer! You’re partners, you solve mysteries, you share a brain—get in character!”

Spencer shifted uncomfortably, his shoulder bumping yours as you both tried to fit into the frame. His face turned pink as Penelope held up her phone. “Uh, maybe we should—”

Without thinking, you slipped your arm through his, tugging him in with a grin. “Say cheese, Doctor.”

The flash went off, and you felt Spencer stiffen beside you. Then, slowly, he leaned just slightly closer, like he was allowing himself to relax.

When Penelope finally squealed her satisfaction and let you go, Spencer cleared his throat, staring intently at the magnifying glass in his hand. “You, uh… you didn’t have to do that,” he murmured.

“I know,” you said softly, nudging him with your shoulder. “But it was cute.”

That earned you a rare, shy smile from him—the kind where he ducked his head a little, but you could see the warmth in his eyes.

And that was how the night began.

The night wore on with music, dancing, and endless bowls of candy corn. Spencer trailed after you, muttering facts about the chemical composition of artificial pumpkin flavoring, or why Frankenstein’s monster was technically nameless. And though you teased him about it, you couldn’t help but think it was the most adorable thing in the world.

At one point, Penelope insisted on snapping a dozen more photos of you two in front of the giant spider web decoration. Spencer looked awkward in all of them—blinking mid-shot, holding his magnifying glass at a weird angle, his tie slightly crooked. But when you looked at the pictures later, you didn’t mind. Because in every one, his shy smile was turned just slightly toward you.

The bass of “Monster Mash” vibrated through the floor as Garcia cranked the volume, waving her hands dramatically in the middle of her living room. Agents, analysts, and techies alike crowded the makeshift dance floor, a sea of costumes moving in chaotic unison.

You were about to grab another drink when a hand brushed your arm. Spencer. His hair was mussed from Penelope’s enthusiastic picture session, and he looked like he’d rather be solving quantum mechanics than standing in the middle of a dance party.

“Uh,” he started, glancing nervously toward the crowd, "Dancing is considered one of the most universal forms of human expression. Even cultures that have never interacted developed—um—similar rhythmic movements. It’s fascinating when you think about it.”

You grinned, tilting your head. “That sounded an awful lot like you trying to talk yourself into dancing.”

His cheeks flushed. “No. I mean—yes. Maybe.”

Before he could retreat, you caught his hand and tugged him toward the others. He stumbled after you, muttering something about not having the proper motor coordination, but you just laughed. “Come on, Sherlock. Even detectives need a break.”

The two of you landed in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by witches, vampires, and a zombie Hot Dog. Spencer stood stiffly, hands half-raised like he was preparing for a mugshot. You rolled your eyes and placed his hands lightly at your waist, guiding him.

“Relax,” you said gently. “No one’s judging.”

“That’s not true,” he blurted. “Dancing is usually accompanied by an evaluative social element. People watch, and they—”

“Spence.” You leaned in closer, your voice teasing but warm. “The only person watching you right now is me. And I think you’re doing great.”

That shut him up. His eyes darted to yours, wide and earnest, and slowly—hesitantly—he began to move with the beat. Not perfectly, not smoothly, but enough.

A laugh bubbled out of you as you spun under his arm. He looked startled, then grinned, a little breathless, like maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

When the song switched to “Thriller” and the whole room broke into awkward zombie moves, Spencer even joined in—long limbs flailing in time, glasses sliding down his nose. You laughed so hard you had to wipe tears from your eyes, and he looked at you like your laughter was worth every ounce of embarrassment.

For the first time all night, Spencer Reid wasn’t overthinking. He was just dancing—with you.

Eventually the party started to wind down as people trickled out, leaving behind the faint scent of pumpkin spice candles and the echo of pop songs thumping through her speakers. You found yourself sitting with Spencer on Garcia’s balcony, the city lights flickering below like a constellation.

He had his long legs crossed awkwardly, his Sherlock hat set on the table beside a half-empty cup of cider. For once, he looked… calm.

“You know,” he started, fidgeting with the magnifying glass in his hands, “Watson is traditionally portrayed as the more grounded half of the partnership. Sherlock—well, he’s brilliant but eccentric, often detached. Statistically, most people would prefer to be Watson.”

You tilted your head, smiling at him. “But you wanted to be Sherlock.”

His lips curved, just slightly. “Because if you’re Watson, then I’d like to be Sherlock. We’re supposed to balance each other out, right?”

Your heart did a little flip. “That’s… surprisingly romantic for a guy quoting Victorian detective fiction.”

Spencer’s ears turned pink. “I wasn’t trying to be romantic. I just meant—well, I mean, I wasn’t not trying to be romantic, I just—” He stumbled over his words, his hands flailing for emphasis before he caught himself and pressed them firmly against his knees.

You reached out and gently covered one of his hands with your own, stilling him. “Relax, Spence. I got what you meant.”

His gaze dropped to your joined hands, then flicked back to your face. There was a moment of silence, soft and easy, broken only by the muffled sound of laughter drifting through the sliding glass door.

“You know,” he said at last, his voice quiet but sure, “I think you might be my favorite mystery.”

Your breath caught, and you couldn’t help but smile at his nerdy attempt at charm. “That was… incredibly corny.”

Spencer’s cheeks flushed darker, but he smiled back at you, a rare, genuine grin. “Yeah. But it was true.”

And sitting there, in matching costumes under the October sky, you couldn’t deny it—Reid was a perfect match.

...

The first thing you noticed when you walked into the BAU that morning wasn’t the sound of Garcia humming in her office or the smell of fresh coffee from the break room.

No — it was the plastic pumpkin grinning from the corner of Spencer Reid’s desk.

Beside it sat a neat stack of case files, a jar of candy corn (though you suspected half of it had already disappeared), and a line of little paper bats strung across the top of his desk lamp.

The pièce de résistance was a tiny ceramic ghost that Spencer had perched right on his computer tower, its painted smile cheerful and absurdly out of place in the middle of August.

“Reid,” Morgan said, stopping in his tracks, eyebrows raised. “Man, what month do you think it is?”

“It’s August,” Spencer replied matter-of-factly, looking up from where he was adjusting the angle of a cardboard gravestone cutout.

“But Halloween is statistically one of the most beloved holidays in America. Did you know—”

“Oh no,” Emily groaned, holding up a hand. “Here comes the Halloween dissertation.”

Spencer blinked at her, then forged on anyway, clearly undeterred. “—that Halloween originated from the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, where people would light bonfires and wear costumes to ward off ghosts? And that in the U.S. alone, people spend over nine billion dollars on Halloween-related items annually? It’s a cultural phenomenon. There’s no such thing as ‘too early.’”

Hotch had passed by mid-speech, glanced at the candy corn, and muttered a quiet but amused, “As long as it doesn’t interfere with casework.”

The team chuckled and teased him throughout the morning, but there was something so endearing about the way Spencer’s eyes lit up each time someone stopped to comment on his decorations. Still, by the end of the day, you noticed him fidgeting more than usual — tugging at his sleeve, straightening the little pumpkin again and again, as though he was wondering if maybe he’d gone too far.

Which is why, the next morning, you came in early.

By the time he arrived, your desk was practically a mirror of his: a string of paper bats swooping across your monitor, a grinning jack-o’-lantern mug filled with pens, and even a plastic black cat sitting guard beside your keyboard.

You were just putting the finishing touch — a sparkly orange spider web draped across your file holder — when Spencer walked in.

He froze, eyes wide, and then the slowest, most radiant smile spread across his face.

“You—” he started, voice caught somewhere between awe and laughter. “You decorated too.”

You leaned back in your chair, feigning nonchalance. “Well, if Halloween’s starting in August, I didn’t want you to be the only one prepared.”

He blinked at you, a little pink creeping up his cheeks, and then sat down at his desk with renewed enthusiasm.

For the rest of the day, you caught him sneaking glances at your desk, smiling softly every time.

The teasing from the team doubled, of course — but you didn’t care. Neither did Spencer.

Because now, when you looked over, his little ceramic ghost had a friend: a tiny glittery pumpkin you’d placed beside it.

...

The BAU office was unusually quiet for a Thursday afternoon.

The team had just returned from a particularly draining case in Minnesota—a double homicide involving twin brothers and a trail of small-town secrets.

Garcia had practically shoved them out of the jet and demanded mandatory rest.

The bullpen was half-empty.

Morgan had ducked out to "reclaim his sanity," as he called it, and Emily was napping in the conference room with a travel pillow.

Hotch had retreated into his office, blinds drawn, the corners of his eyes more tired than usual.

You sat at your desk, nursing a cup of Earl Grey that had long since gone cold.

Across the room, Spencer Reid sat at his own desk, jacketless, sleeves rolled up, surrounded by a fortress of open case files he clearly wasn’t supposed to be reading.

“Reid,” you said softly, not wanting to startle him, “you do know Hotch told us to rest, right?”

He didn’t look up. “I’m just—looking over a few inconsistencies in the report from three months ago. The Pittsburgh case. Remember the librarian?”

“You mean the one who wasn’t the UnSub but turned out to be the UnSub’s sister?”

He nodded, still flipping pages.

You stood up, walking toward him with your mug, and leaned against the side of his desk. “Spencer, you're going to give yourself another headache.”

That earned a pause.

Finally, he looked up at you, blinking as if he were seeing you for the first time all day. “I just wanted to understand how we missed it. If I map the behavioral triggers again—”

You reached out and gently pushed the file closed.

He stared at your hand, then let out a slow, resigned breath.

“Okay. Fine. Five minutes.”

You smirked. “Let me guess. That’s ‘Spencer time,’ which means twenty minutes?”

“Fifteen,” he said, a slight smile curving his lips.

It was only then that you noticed him shiver—just barely, but enough. You followed his gaze toward the office thermostat, which blinked “67°F.”

“You cold?”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

You glanced down at yourself, considering.

The oversized cardigan you were wearing—dark green, thick knit, with tortoiseshell buttons—was easily your coziest piece of clothing. It had deep pockets and sleeves that swallowed your hands when you let them.

It was your comfort armor.

And Spencer looked like he could really use some comfort.

Without overthinking it, you slid it off and held it out toward him. “Here. Take it.”

His eyes widened. “Oh, no, I couldn’t—”

“Spencer. You're shivering.”

He hesitated like you’d just offered him your journal or a lock of your hair or something equally intimate.

"Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Just give it back eventually. Preferably without any coffee stains or quantum equations scribbled on the cuffs.”

He looked at it like it was precious. Like maybe it was more than just a cardigan.

Slowly, almost reverently, he took it from your hands. His fingers brushed yours, light and electric, and then he pulled it on in one smooth motion.

It drowned him a little, hanging loose over his lanky frame, sleeves a bit too long. But it suited him in a strange, soft way.

“There,” you said. “Now you’re warm and look effortlessly academic. Win-win.”

He gave you a small, sheepish smile, running his hands down the fabric like he was trying to commit the texture to memory.

“It smells like you.”

You blinked. “Um.”

He didn’t seem to notice your fluster.

"Vanilla. And—peppermint.. It’s… nice.”

You laughed, trying to hide how warm your cheeks felt. “That’s either creepy or sweet, depending on tone.”

“I meant it as sweet,” he said quickly.

“I know,” you replied, still smiling. “It is.”

He looked down at the sleeves, then back up at you. “Thank you.”

And something in the way he said it—quiet, sincere, with just a whisper of vulnerability—made your stomach flutter.

—

It became a thing, after that.

You didn’t ask for the cardigan back. Not because you didn’t want it, but because Spencer kept wearing it.

Every time you saw him, there it was—draped over his frame as he lectured Garcia on obscure password algorithms, as he paced the room during briefings, as he leaned against the jet’s window reading Sherlock Holmes for the hundredth time.

He wore it like it was his.

And maybe—maybe—you liked that.

One afternoon, as the team debriefed after a successful case in Seattle, you found yourself beside him on the jet.

You were pretending to read, but your eyes kept drifting to the curve of his shoulder beneath the knit.

Your cardigan had stretched slightly to fit his frame.

The sleeves were still too long, and he kept pushing them up in that absent-minded way that made your heart ache a little.

“You okay?” he asked softly, not looking up from his book.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

He shifted, resting his arm along the back of the seat, subtly closer than usual.

You looked at him sideways. “You ever going to give that back?”

“I could,” he said, eyes flicking toward yours with a mischievous glint. “But then I wouldn’t be able to pretend it’s a security blanket.”

You snorted. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m serious. It’s… comforting. I know it’s silly.”

“It’s not silly,” you said quickly. “I’m glad it helps.”

He hesitated. “Do you want it back?”

“Only if you don’t want it anymore.”

Silence.

Then: “I kind of do.”

“Then keep it.”

He looked at you like you’d just handed him a piece of yourself.

“Really?”

You nodded. “Really.”

Something soft settled between you after that.

Something unspoken but understood.

—

Weeks passed.

The cardigan became part of Spencer’s regular wardrobe.

The rest of the team noticed, of course—Morgan teased him for “stealing your cozy,” and JJ once asked with a knowing smile if you planned to “get it back via laundry basket or bedroom drawer.”

You just shrugged. “He wears it better than I do.”

But in truth, it felt like a piece of you was with him, even when you were apart.

Sometimes, in quiet moments, you’d catch him tugging the sleeves down over his hands, his fingers curling around the edge like he was grounding himself.

Other times, when the cases were hard—when victims were young or grief hung heavy—he wore it like a shield.

Like protection.

And you never said anything, because you didn’t need to.

—

One night, you found yourself in the BAU library, curled up in a chair with a book, the office empty save for the distant hum of the janitor’s vacuum down the hall.

You heard footsteps approach and didn’t need to look up to know it was him.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You glanced up. “Hey.”

He stood there for a moment, looking unsure.

Then: “I brought this.”

He held out the cardigan. Your cardigan.

Folded neatly in his hands.

“Oh,” you said, surprised. “You didn’t have to—”

“I want you to have it back.”

You frowned. “Why?”

“Because I—” He faltered. “Because I bought my own.”

You blinked. “You… what?”

He reached into his bag and pulled out a cardigan that looked nearly identical—same color, same chunky knit, same buttons.

“Spencer…”

He gave a small, sheepish smile. “I realized I was using it as a way to keep you close. Which is sweet, I guess, but also a little unfair. It’s yours. You should have it.”

You stood, taking it from his hands. “You didn’t have to do that. I told you you could keep it.”

“I know. But now we match.”

You laughed, warmth blooming in your chest. “We do.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and something shifted in the air.

“Spencer,” you said softly, “was it just the cardigan?”

He shook his head. “No.”

You took a step closer. “Then what was it?”

His voice was barely above a whisper. “It was you.”

And before you could overthink it, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.

It was gentle and slow and full of everything that had built up over the past few months—comfort and tension and shared silence and the warmth of borrowed clothing.

When you pulled back, he smiled, dazed. “I was really hoping you’d do that.”

You grinned. “Took me long enough.”

He laughed, then held up the matching cardigans.

“So… couple's knitwear?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

You snorted. “We’re so embarrassing.”

He wrapped the newly bought cardigan around your shoulders. “Only a little.”

You pulled him into a hug, and he held you like something precious.

Wrapped in yarn.

Wrapped in each other.

...

The bullpen was unusually chilly that afternoon.

You rubbed your arms and considered lowering the AC from its current arctic blast setting—but knowing Hotch’s climate preferences and the fact that touching the thermostat was basically a federal offense in itself, you sighed in surrender.

As you glanced around, your eyes landed on a familiar object draped over the back of Spencer Reid’s chair.

His cardigan.

Worn soft from use and hanging loosely, it looked like it held at least a little bit of warmth—maybe even the lingering scent of old books and Spencer himself.

You glanced around.

No sign of him.

He’d probably gone to the breakroom or got caught up in conversation with JJ.

You hesitated for only a second before you slipped it on.

It was… warm. Oversized, sleeves long enough to swallow your hands. And despite the frigid air, a smile tugged at your lips.

It was so Spencer—soft, oddly comforting, and slightly out of place in this sterile government office.

You settled back into your chair, cardigan and all, as the team started getting ready for a case meeting upstairs.

The team filtered into the conference room a few minutes later, Garcia already perched near the screen, Morgan and Emily trading quiet banter, and Hotch flipping through the file.

6ou took a seat next to JJ and opened your folder, not noticing Spencer until you felt a flicker of heat somewhere to your left.

You looked up.

Spencer was already seated across from you, frozen mid-motion with a pen in his hand, staring—at you.

No, not at you.

At his cardigan.

On you.

A brilliant flush spread from his neck to the tips of his ears as he quickly looked away, mumbling something to himself and hiding behind his case file like it was a medieval shield.

You fought the smile creeping to your lips, pretending not to notice.

But you felt it.

The weight of his gaze—soft and stunned and bordering on starstruck—lingered even as he tried to force himself to focus.

Every now and then, you caught him sneaking another glance.

Spencer’s knee bounced under the table, and he fiddled with his pen like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth.

No one said anything… but the knowing glances from Emily and the amused twitch at Morgan’s mouth made it clear: they noticed, too.

After the briefing, everyone returned to their desks.

You wandered to the kitchenette, leaving Spencer behind looking like his brain had just short-circuited from exposure to someone wearing his clothes.

You weren’t gone five minutes before Morgan leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head and grinning.

“Okay, pretty boy,” he said. “You’ve been making goo-goo eyes all afternoon. What’s the deal?”

Spencer blinked at him. “What? I haven’t—I wasn’t—goo-goo eyes aren’t a scientifically valid—”

“Uh huh,” Morgan cut in, clearly enjoying himself. “So what, she puts on your cardigan and suddenly you’re in a cologne commercial?”

Spencer’s mouth opened and closed. His fingers tapped a jittery rhythm on the desk.

“I-It was unexpected,” he stammered, “and—statistically speaking, someone borrowing your personal garment could trigger oxytocin release associated with comfort and social bonding, and she looked—uh—very—”

“Adorable?” Morgan teased.

“I was going to say ‘visually pleasing in an understated way,’” Spencer muttered, face now fully crimson. “But yes. Also that.”

Just then, you wandered back toward the bullpen with a coffee in hand. You caught the tail end of the conversation and raised a brow.

“What’s going on?” you asked, eyes flicking between a smug Morgan and a thoroughly frazzled Spencer.

Morgan was grinning like he’d just hit the jackpot. Spencer looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.

“Nothin’,” Morgan said, drawing out the word innocently. “Just talking fashion. Cardigan couture.”

Spencer audibly choked.

You turned toward Spencer, a sheepish smile on your lips. “Hey… sorry about borrowing your cardigan. It was freezing, and you weren’t around, and I figured it was better than messing with the AC and starting a civil war in here.”

Spencer blinked at you like you’d just offered him a marriage proposal.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he rushed out. “I mean, it’s fine. It’s just a piece of clothing. Well, not just, I mean—it's mine, but you can wear it. Not can, but—you already did, so—yeah.”

You blinked.

Morgan snorted.

Garcia, who had appeared out of nowhere like a chaos sprite, clapped her hands together. “Oh my god, this is delicious,” she whispered loudly. “I want to bottle this awkward tension and wear it as perfume.”

You ignored her with a practiced smile and looked back at Spencer. “Still, I’ll wash it before I return it.”

“You don’t have to—” Spencer started, then faltered. “I mean… if you want to, that’s… that’s nice.”

You smiled again, warmth spreading in your chest that had nothing to do with the cardigan. “It’s comfy,” you added. “Very you.”

He blinked. “It's suggested that-” he murmured, “proximity and shared clothing can increase attraction between individuals. Oxytocin levels rise, heart rates sync, and—”

“Are you quoting a study about falling in love through sweaters right now?” Morgan asked, cracking up.

Spencer groaned into his hands.

You laughed softly and touched his arm.

"I’ll take good care of it, Spencer.”

You turned to leave, but not before catching Garcia whispering “He’s a goner” to Morgan behind her hand.

And when you glanced back over your shoulder, Spencer was still staring at you—soft, stunned, and so impossibly sweet in his flustered affection that your heart flipped in your chest.

You definitely weren’t giving the cardigan back anytime soon.

The office had slowly emptied as the day wore on.

Phones stopped ringing, chairs creaked with the occasional stretch, and laughter from Morgan and Garcia had faded into silence as they said their goodbyes.

One by one, everyone had packed up and headed out.

Except for you and Spencer.

You were still at your desk, finishing up some notes.

The low hum of the AC and the rhythmic tap of a keyboard were the only sounds that filled the bullpen.

Spencer sat a few desks over, completely engrossed in a file—his brow furrowed in concentration, lip caught between his teeth as he skimmed the page.

You shifted in your chair and tugged his cardigan tighter around you.

It had molded to your shape throughout the day, soft and warm, sleeves slightly stretched from your constant fidgeting.

It smelled like old books and cedarwood and just the faintest hint of something sweet—tea, maybe, or Spencer’s shampoo.

You couldn’t be sure. All you knew was that you didn’t really want to take it off.

“You know,” Spencer said suddenly, voice cutting gently through the stillness, “statistically, people are more productive during daylight hours. But I always find I think more clearly at night.”

You looked over at him, smiling.

“Something about the quiet, right?”

He glanced up at you and nodded, a slow smile creeping onto his face. “Exactly.”

For a beat, the silence stretched again—comfortable this time.

“Most people don’t stay this late,” you added, eyes flicking to the wall clock. “You waiting on something?”

Spencer looked down, almost shyly. “No, just… wasn’t in a rush.”

You smiled softly and glanced at your screen, the final report now saved and closed.

“I should head home,” you murmured, standing and stretching. “But your cardigan’s really making a strong argument for staying another hour.”

Spencer’s eyes met yours again, warm and amused beneath his lashes. “You can keep it,” he said, then immediately flushed. “I mean—for tonight. If you want. No pressure. It’s just… you look comfortable. And cute. Not that cute was the—well, actually, that was the word I meant, but I realize I’ve said too much—”

You grinned. “Spencer?”

He stopped mid-ramble, blinking.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, lips twitching into a crooked smile as he watched you pull your bag onto your shoulder, cardigan still wrapped snug around you.

As you passed his desk, you paused.

Spencer’s eyes lifted to meet yours again, curious.

“I think,” you said softly, “you’re the nicest person I know.”

The air between you seemed to thrum for a second, charged with something tender and unspoken.

Spencer’s hand twitched slightly, like he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t quite know how.

Instead, he gave you a small, helpless smile—the kind that looked like it came from someplace deeper than even he fully understood yet.

“Goodnight, Spencer,” you said.

“Goodnight,” he echoed, watching you walk away with a cardigan that no longer felt like just a cardigan anymore.

...

The comment had been casual, something you barely even thought about as you said it — a passing remark over lukewarm coffee and half-eaten muffins at the BAU break room table.

"I've actually never learned how to play chess."

Spencer had paused mid-sip of his tea, blinking at you like you'd just told him gravity was a myth.

His brow furrowed, mouth open slightly as if ready to object. But instead, he'd only nodded slowly, eyes lit with something curious and quietly delighted.

That was three days ago.

Now, you were sitting cross-legged on a blanket in the middle of Spencer Reid’s living room, surrounded by mismatched pillows, a tray of crackers and grapes between you, and a worn chessboard neatly set up in front of you.

"Okay, so..." Spencer cleared his throat, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he sat across from you, mirroring your posture. "Chess dates back to around the 6th century in India, originally known as chaturanga. It spread through Persia, then to the Islamic world, and finally to Europe. The modern rules began to solidify in Spain during the 15th century—"

You grinned softly, chin resting on your hand as you watched him gesture with quick, birdlike hands, clearly trying not to talk too fast and failing adorably.

"You can stop me if I’m rambling," he added suddenly, voice going up half a pitch. "I just— I mean, it’s a really interesting game, and the psychology of it is, uh… fascinating."

“I like hearing you talk about it,” you said before you could think better of it.

He stilled. His fingers hovered mid-air above a pawn, and the tips of his ears flushed pink. “Oh. Well. Thanks. I guess.”

You smiled and looked down at the board before he caught you staring at how sweetly he ducked his head.

"I figured it'd be nice to teach you here," he added, gesturing at the spread he’d created — complete with a thermos of hot chocolate and a candle flickering quietly on the windowsill. "Less intimidating than a real board in public, you know? Less, uh, competitive."

"Yeah, I think I’d cry if someone crushed me in three moves."

Spencer gave a soft laugh, eyes crinkling. “Then you’ll be safe with me. I’ll go easy.”

You raised a brow. “Are you capable of going easy?”

His lips quirked in a shy, sheepish little smile. “Not really.”

And so the lesson began — slowly, carefully, with him explaining the movement of each piece with reverence, as if the knight was a sacred artifact and not a tiny plastic horse.

You listened, genuinely intrigued, though most of your focus was on how he lit up when he talked about strategy.

You couldn’t help noticing the way he occasionally tugged his sweater sleeves over his hands, or how he bit his lower lip whenever he had to explain something twice.

You weren’t used to this version of him — off-duty, not reciting facts to a serial killer, not under fluorescent lights in a government building.

He was gentler here, softer, a little more vulnerable, though he still threw out facts like:

"The Shannon number is the lower bound of the game-tree complexity of chess. It’s approximately 10¹²⁰ possible game variations."

You pretended to gasp. “How will I ever win?”

“You probably won’t,” he replied cheerfully, then blanched. “I didn’t mean that in a— it’s not that I think you’re not smart, it’s just— the odds— statistically— I—”

“I’m kidding, Spencer,” you giggled, bumping your knee against his. He relaxed, biting down a laugh, and your heart warmed at the sound.

Half an hour in, you were playing your first real game, Spencer coaching you with patience that only a genius could manage.

You were actually doing better than expected. Still, you were losing — every piece you moved, Spencer countered with ease, the game inching toward an inevitable end.

That’s when you had an idea.

With exaggerated clumsiness, you reached for a bishop and “accidentally” elbowed half the board. Pieces clattered to the floor — pawns rolling under the coffee table, a rook spinning toward Spencer’s socked foot.

“Oh no,” you said, not even bothering to sound convincing.

Spencer blinked in horror, then confusion… then let out the smallest, most delighted giggle you’d ever heard.

You froze.

His face went red. He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide, like the sound had escaped against his will.

“Did you just giggle?”

“No,” he mumbled behind his palm.

You laughed — really laughed — as you began collecting the pieces. He joined in, still shy, still clearly embarrassed, but there was something else there now. Something warm and open.

“You did that on purpose,” he accused softly, nudging your foot.

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “Because I thought it might make you laugh... and I'm a sore loser"

He looked at you for a moment — really looked — then gave you a shy, crooked smile.

“You’re really sweet,” he said, voice quiet.

You suddenly felt warm all over. “So are you.”

There was a pause. A long, gentle, heartbeat-pounding pause.

“I like this,” he said. “Being here. With you.”

“Me too.”

He ducked his head again, then looked back at the scattered board. “Do you want to reset the pieces?”

“Only if you promise not to beat me in five moves.”

“I’ll do my best to let you win.”

“Liar.”

Spencer laughed again, this time a little longer, a little freer, his head tilting slightly as his eyes met yours through the flicker of candlelight.

The grin on his face lingered even after the sound faded, like he’d forgotten to pull it back in.

“I’m not lying,” he said. “I just… I might have a hard time letting you win because I get really into it, even when I don’t mean to. It’s—um—kind of a reflex.” He tapped his temple. “My brain gets ahead of me.”

You smiled at that — at the idea of his brilliant, racing thoughts struggling to be gentle, struggling to slow down for your sake.

“I like that about you,” you said, your voice quieter now.

His brows lifted, and his mouth opened like he wanted to respond right away but couldn’t quite decide how.

“Which part?” he asked.

“All of it,” you said, and it was suddenly harder to look at him directly. “The way you care. How you think about everything. How you want to teach instead of just show off."

You peeked up at him, and he was looking down at your hand again — still resting close to his on the edge of the board.

“I’m really glad you said yes to this,” he said softly. “I wasn’t sure if it would be… too much. Too nerdy. Too… me.”

You shifted a little closer, your knee brushing against his. “I’m here because it’s you.”

His breath caught, just barely. You could see the faintest color rise in his cheeks again.

It was quiet for a moment.

Peaceful. That kind of silence that only happens when something important is hanging in the air between two people, waiting for one of them to reach out and touch it.

Then, in the smallest movement, Spencer turned his hand over and let his fingers brush against yours.

You felt the invitation before you even saw it, and you curled your fingers into his gently.

His palm was warm. A little nervous. So was yours.

“I don’t really—do this a lot,” he murmured, not looking up. “I’m not good at… flirting. Or—whatever this is. But I really like being with you. Even if we’re just knocking over pawns and… sharing grapes.”

You laughed quietly, ducking your head. “I’m not good at it either.”

“Then maybe we can just be bad at it together?”

You looked up and found him already watching you — eyes soft, unsure, but so full of hope it made your chest ache.

You nodded, smiling through the warmth in your cheeks. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And he smiled — really smiled — the kind of smile that crinkled his eyes and made him look younger, lighter. He squeezed your hand a little, like he was grounding himself in the moment.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Then… let’s finish this game. And maybe afterward we can, um…” His eyes flicked down to your joined hands again, a little more daring now.

"Watch a movie? Or just… talk more?”

“I’d love that,” you said. “But only if you promise not to use the chessboard as a metaphor for emotional strategy.”

“I make no promises,” he said, teasing, and for a second — just a second — the shy awkwardness between you shimmered into something a little bolder.

Like maybe this was going to be something worth learning together — slow, patient, deliberate.

Like chess. But warmer.

Spencer reached over and began resetting the pieces with careful precision, murmuring to himself as he arranged the pawns in perfect formation.

You helped, scooting closer until your knees were nearly touching his.

“This time,” you said, “I’m taking you down.”

“Statistically improbable,” he replied, flashing you a teasing glance, “but I admire the confidence.”

You stuck your tongue out at him — immature, maybe, but worth it for the startled, boyish laugh that escaped his lips.

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize the moment. It made your stomach flip.

The game began again — slower this time. Spencer didn’t rush you, didn’t take advantage when you made a questionable move.

He made a few errors himself, and you caught him once or twice smirking like he wanted you to win.

“Did you just let me take your queen?” you asked, squinting at the board.

Spencer glanced down, expression innocent. “Did I?”

“Spencer.”

He held his hands up, biting back a smile. “Maybe. Just a little. But you looked really proud of that move, and I didn’t want to ruin it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt too big for your chest.

Eventually, your pieces dwindled again, and the game tilted back in his favor — but neither of you seemed to care anymore.

Your postures had relaxed, legs stretched out, backs propped up against a wall of pillows. The hot chocolate was nearly gone, the candle still flickering low, casting golden light over the game you both quietly abandoned.

The board sat between you, forgotten.

You leaned back with a soft sigh, pulling your knees up to your chest and tucking your chin against them. Spencer mirrored you a moment later, his long legs folding at awkward angles as he settled closer on the blanket, shoulder just inches from yours.

“I used to play by myself when I was a kid,” he said suddenly, voice low and thoughtful. “It was the only way to practice. I’d play both sides and try to out-think myself. I didn’t realize how lonely that was until I had someone to play with.”

You turned your head to look at him. “I’m really glad it was me.”

He smiled. “Me too.”

A beat passed. The quiet settled between you again, not heavy — just full. Full of words neither of you had said yet.

Eventually, you lay back on the cushions, sighing contentedly. “I think I’m better at laying around after chess than actually playing chess.”

Spencer laughed gently, lying back beside you.

“That’s a valid skill. Highly underrated.”

You turned your head toward him on instinct, only to find him already watching you.

His gaze was soft, full of that same wonder from earlier — like he still couldn’t quite believe you were here.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. You just… looked.

And then, slowly, as if testing gravity, his hand inched closer to yours again on the blanket.

You met him halfway, fingertips brushing, then tangling gently.

His thumb skimmed the back of your hand, shy but steady.

Your heart fluttered wildly.

“Can I—?” he started, then hesitated, licking his lips. “Is it okay if I…?”

You nodded before he could finish. “Yes.”

He shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he could lean over you. His curls fell into his face, and he ducked his head in that shy, sweet way he always did — like he was still afraid of taking up space. But his eyes stayed on yours, wide and vulnerable.

Then, with an almost trembling kind of care, he kissed you.

It was soft. Barely there at first — just a brush of lips, more like a question than a statement. But when you leaned up into it, kissed him back, Spencer exhaled like it was the first full breath he’d taken all night.

You kissed again, deeper now but still gentle, still hesitant in that way that only first kisses can be.

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb skimming your cheek like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t anchor you there.

When you finally parted, his forehead rested against yours, and he let out the smallest, happiest laugh.

“I’ve never kissed anyone after losing a chess game,” you murmured.

...

You’re lying side by side after a movie—some slow-moving foreign film Spencer had insisted was “essential viewing”—and at some point between the opening credits and the third impassioned monologue, your eyes had fluttered shut.

The warmth of his comforter, the soft rhythm of his voice as he translated in a whisper, the faint smell of clean laundry and old paper—all of it lulls you into sleep before you even realize what’s happening.

It’s not until 3:17 a.m. that Spencer stirs awake.

He blinks at the dim light filtering through his curtains and instinctively reaches for the book on his nightstand, only to freeze mid-movement when he feels it: your weight curled into his side, arm draped across his middle, your nose buried in the rumpled fabric of his shirt.

For a moment—maybe two—he just lies there, motionless and stiff, like his neurons are short-circuiting.

You're in his bed.

You’re asleep in his bed.

Your body is warm and soft against his, and there’s the faintest puff of your breath against his neck with every exhale.

Spencer’s heart starts beating faster.

Not in a panic, not like when he’s faced with danger or stress.

No—this is something gentler, but no less intense.

He’s just never had someone do this before. Fall asleep in his bed like they belonged there. Like he was the comforting one.

He wants to commit every detail to memory.

Not just the way you look—though he catalogues that, too—but the weight of you, the trust in your unconscious touch, the way your legs have tangled with his like it was instinctual.

But of course, this is Spencer Reid. So naturally, his brain kicks into full nerd mode.

“Studies show that physical touch, particularly during sleep, can improve emotional bonding and release oxytocin,” he murmurs softly to himself, eyes flicking to the ceiling as if it holds the peer-reviewed evidence.

You shift slightly, making a sleepy sound—something soft and content—and Spencer’s voice dies in his throat.

He glances down at you. The movement makes his arm brush your waist. You don’t wake. Instead, you snuggle closer.

Spencer’s breath catches.

Oh. Oh no.

He’s definitely not going back to sleep now.

Instead, he lies awake, completely overwhelmed by the chaos in his own head. He wants to touch you—gently, maybe wrap his arm around you, maybe tangle his fingers in your hair—but he doesn’t want to wake you or make things weird or overstep boundaries.

So he settles for stillness.

Still and quiet, except for the occasional twitch of his fingers, like they’re aching to move.

At some point, he starts tracing the ceiling tiles in his head and mentally reciting the Dewey Decimal System, trying to calm his racing thoughts.

You wake up around 8:00 a.m. to the smell of coffee and the gentle sound of pages turning.

Spencer is sitting at the foot of the bed, his back leaning against one of the bed’s many pillows—he has at least eight, in various sizes, none of them matching—and he’s got a hardcover in his lap. He looks up as you stir.

“Oh—um, good morning,” he says, instantly tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

His voice cracks a little, and he clears his throat. “Did you, uh, did you sleep well?”

You smile sleepily, stretching under the covers. “I did. I hope it’s okay I passed out like that. Your bed is absurdly comfortable.”

He nods quickly.

“Yes. I mean, yes, it’s okay. I mean—of course it’s okay. You can sleep here anytime. If you want. Not like any time, I mean, I don’t want to assume you’d want to again but if you did, that would be statistically… I mean—” He cuts himself off with a tight-lipped smile and a visible cringe. “Sorry. Talking too much.”

You giggle, sitting up, the covers still pooled around your waist. “I liked it. You talking, I mean.”

He glances at you, then away, ears a soft shade of pink.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. “Also, uh… you were very cuddly in your sleep.”

You blink, surprised—and then you laugh.

"Was I?”

He nods, looking flustered but determined to be honest. “Yeah. You, um, wrapped around me. Like a koala.”

You snort. “Well, you’re warm. And safe. You make a good tree.”

Spencer’s laugh is quiet, but genuine.

“I didn’t mind,” he adds after a second, voice soft. “Actually, I… liked it. A lot.”

You reach for his hand over the duvet. He lets you take it.

“Next time,” you say, thumb brushing over his knuckles, “you’re allowed to cuddle back.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Next time?”

“Unless you don’t want a next time.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he looks at you—really looks—and there’s something marveling in his expression, like you’ve handed him the moon and told him he could keep it.

“I want,” he says simply.

You lean forward, kiss his cheek.

You weren’t sure what was more unbelievable—that Spencer Reid had insisted on cooking dinner for you, or that he’d done so with a spreadsheet.

Yes.

A spreadsheet.

You watched from your spot on the barstool at your kitchen island, elbow propped up, chin resting in your palm, as Spencer stood in your kitchen, completely focused. His brow furrowed like he was deconstructing a complex crime scene, not boiling water.

“Are you sure you don’t want help?” you offered gently, your lips twitching with a smile as he flipped through a very detailed, very color-coded printout.

“I statistically perform better in unfamiliar activities when I can approach them independently,” he said, without looking up. “Also, I took into account your favorite flavors, preferred spice levels, known allergies, and a few commonly paired palate enhancers based on culinary studies from the Journal of Food Science.”

You blinked. “Did you just say ‘palate enhancers’ like it was a crime scene clue?”

Spencer finally looked over at you, a crooked grin forming on his face. “I mean, taste is subjective, but it is largely guided by science. Flavor is a multisensory experience, affected by smell, texture, and even expectation. This pasta should be a success.”

You looked past him to the stovetop, where a suspicious amount of steam was rising from a pot he hadn’t checked in at least five minutes.

“Spence… do you even like cooking?”

He hesitated. “I like learning. And I like you. Therefore, cooking for you is… an intersection of meaningful variables.”

You melted just a little. Because of course Spencer couldn’t just say something simple. He had to say it like it was a thesis. But it still made your heart squeeze.

“Well, you’re cute when you’re concentrating,” you said.

He smiled again—this time shyly—and reached for a whisk.

Unfortunately, that’s when things started to go downhill.

“I believe this is the part where you fold in the cheese,” he said aloud to himself, eyes scanning the page like it might solve all of life’s mysteries. “But it doesn’t say how to fold it… there’s no actual folding.”

“It’s just a saying, Spence. Like, stir gently.”

He squinted. “That’s extremely vague.”

You got up to help, mostly because he was trying to pour a mountain of shredded cheese into the boiling pasta water, which was most certainly not correct.

“Wait, no—cheese doesn’t go in the boiling water. That’ll turn into a clump. Look, here.” You gently took the spoon and showed him the right pot. “It goes in the sauce. With the cream.”

“Oh,” he murmured, his cheeks going a little pink. “I guess I conflated two steps. I was trying to streamline the process using a flow chart.”

You giggled. “You made a flow chart for pasta?”

“Well, it is carbonara-adjacent, and I wanted to make sure the egg didn’t scramble. It’s all about heat application. Did you know that the Maillard reaction—"

“Spencer,” you interrupted softly, “I love you, but if you start talking about amino acids right now, I might laugh so hard I snort wine through my nose.”

He looked sheepish, and adorable, and you kissed his cheek.

Somehow, despite the chaos, you managed to help him get everything sorted.

The sauce thickened—though it was a little lumpy—and the pasta boiled just enough. He’d made salad (drenched in dressing, but lovingly assembled), garlic bread (a little burnt), and even tried to chill the wine (but forgot and put it in the freezer for an hour, so it was practically a wine slushie).

When everything was ready, he lit a candle in the middle of your tiny table like it was a Michelin-starred restaurant, and pulled out your chair.

“This is…” you paused, looking at the slightly clumsy but genuinely sweet meal in front of you, “perfect.”

He sat across from you, tucking one hand under his thigh like he always did when he was nervous. “You don’t have to pretend it tastes good. I know the sauce is uneven. And the garlic bread might be carcinogenic.”

“Spence,” you said seriously, setting down your fork. “You cooked for me. You made a literal spreadsheet of my favorite foods. You practically did math to make me dinner. That’s… the most ‘you’ thing ever, and it’s also the sweetest.”

He gave you a soft, earnest smile. “I just wanted to do something for you. You’ve been so supportive lately, and work’s been difficult, and—statistically speaking, couples who engage in acts of service for each other report higher relationship satisfaction and oxytocin levels. I wanted to raise your oxytocin.”

You burst out laughing, nearly choking on a bite of pasta. “You’re trying to hack my brain chemistry with pasta?”

He blinked. “Yes.”

You reached across the table and took his hand in yours. “You don’t have to hack anything. Just sitting here with you, sharing a half-burnt dinner and wine slushies, is better than anything five-star.”

His ears turned red.

You both ate slowly, sharing glances and laughter. The food really wasn’t bad—lumpy in parts, sure, but the flavor was there. And Spencer kept up a running commentary of “fun facts” about pasta origins and sauce viscosity and the psychology of comfort food.

“Did you know that food memories are some of the most emotionally potent memories we form?” he said between bites. “There’s a direct neural pathway between the olfactory bulb and the amygdala. So the smell of garlic, for example, can immediately evoke childhood memories or emotional states.”

“So what you’re saying is… twenty years from now, if I smell burned garlic bread, I’ll think of you?”

He tilted his head, thoughtful. “It is likely.”

You leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand again. “I really do love you, you know.”

His expression shifted, soft and full. “I love you too.”

Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he added, “And I’ve loved you since 57 days after we met. I know the exact day because you brought me coffee and remembered I don’t take sugar, and you smiled at me like I was the most interesting person in the room.”

Your heart completely melted.

“You remember the exact day?” you whispered.

He nodded. “I remember everything about you.”

You stood and moved to him, crawling into his lap without hesitation, curling your arms around his neck. He was warm and familiar, and you could feel his heartbeat picking up.

“You are such a nerd,” you whispered against his ear.

“Guilty,” he murmured, his hands sliding gently to your waist. “But I’m your nerd.”

You stayed like that for a long moment, the dishes forgotten, the candles flickering.

Eventually, he whispered, “So… does this count as a successful experiment?”

...

You saw him every morning at 8:07 a.m.

Not 8:00. Not 8:15. Always 8:07 — give or take a minute if traffic was bad.

He passed by your yarn and coffee shop with long strides, a cup of black coffee tucked in his hand, a messenger bag slung over one shoulder, and a coat that looked too thin for the brutal D.C. winter.

Sometimes he was reading as he walked — a paperback tucked open with one hand, pages fluttering in the wind, as if he didn’t notice the cold nipping at his cheeks.

And he never wore a scarf.

You watched him through the foggy front window of your little shop, a mug of peppermint tea in hand, fingers warming around the ceramic as you sat behind the register.

You weren’t trying to be weird.

Just observant.

That was the word you preferred.

He looked… tired. Kind. A little shy in the way he glanced up from his book and nodded to passing strangers. A quietly thoughtful kind of person, you guessed.

But always cold.

You could see it in the way he hunched his shoulders, ducked his chin into the lapel of his coat, rubbed gloved hands together absentmindedly while waiting for the crosswalk light to change.

After the first week, you started expecting him.

After the second, you started knitting.

Not for him.

Not at first.

That’s what you told yourself.

You just needed a project to keep your hands busy. The shop was quiet this time of year. Business slowed after the holidays, and knitting had always helped ease the silence.

It wasn’t strange at all, you reasoned, to knit a scarf and just happen to think about a stranger with soft brown eyes and messy curls while you did.

You picked a grey yarn first — soft, understated. Something gentle and quiet.

But halfway through, you ran out of the skein, and instead of replacing it, you added a deep burgundy stripe that warmed the scarf in a way you didn’t expect.

It didn’t match. But neither did he. He wore scuffed shoes and cardigans under his coat and carried his books like they were made of glass. You didn’t think he’d mind a little mis-matching.

And if your fingers lingered a little longer on the final stitches than necessary, if your heart beat a little faster as you tied it off and held it up to the light — well, no one had to know.

You left it on the bench outside the shop one morning, folded neatly with a handwritten note slipped underneath.

“You look cold. I had extra yarn.

— A stranger who thinks you deserve warm things.”

You weren’t expecting anything.

Honestly, you half-expected the wind to carry it away before he ever saw it.

But at exactly 8:07 a.m., you peeked through the window and saw him stop.

Pause.

Look around like someone had just called his name.

He picked up the scarf delicately, fingers brushing the yarn with almost hesitant reverence.

He read the note.

He looked up.

Right at your window.

Your heart leapt so high you nearly ducked behind the espresso machine, but you forced yourself to stay still — eyes lowered, pretending to be extremely invested in arranging tea bags.

When you glanced back, the scarf was gone.

And so was he.

But the next morning, when the bell above the shop door jingled softly, and you looked up to greet a customer — you froze.

Because there he was.

Standing in your doorway.

Wearing the scarf.

It was wrapped around his neck awkwardly — one side longer than the other, like he hadn’t quite figured out how to tie it properly. But it was unmistakable. Grey and burgundy. Lopsided and lovingly knit.

Your scarf.

And he smiled when he saw you. Shy and sweet. His eyes crinkled a little at the corners.

You said nothing. Just smiled back, warm all over, like someone had lit a candle in your chest.

He didn’t stay. Just bought a coffee, nodded politely, and left.

But the next morning, he came in again.

And the one after that.

And always — always — he wore the scarf.

It took him twelve days to say something.

He walked in a little later than usual, snow dusting the shoulders of his coat. You were re-stocking yarn behind the counter, fingers half-lost in a bin of soft wool when you heard him clear his throat.

“Hi,” he said, voice quiet but precise. “I, um… I hope this isn’t presumptuous, but I wanted to thank you.”

You turned. “For…?”

He touched the scarf lightly — still around his neck. “This.”

You smiled, cheeks warming. “Oh. So you figured it out.”

He gave a soft laugh. “It wasn’t hard. Your shop name is on the tag inside.”

You blushed. “Right. Subtlety is not my strong suit.”

“I’m Spencer,” he offered. “Reid. Dr. Spencer Reid, technically.”

You blinked. “Doctor?”

“Of several things, but mostly psychology and mathematics. I work for the FBI.”

You stared. “Wait — seriously?”

He shrugged, a little bashful. “It’s not as dramatic as it sounds.”

“I think that’s the first time someone’s ever said that about the FBI,” you said, and he grinned.

“I just wanted to say… no one’s ever made me something before,” he said, quieter now. “Not like this. Not something warm. Something meant for me.”

Your throat tightened.

“I know it’s a little crooked,” you said, suddenly self-conscious. “The tension’s off and the color changes were kind of rushed—”

“It’s perfect,” he interrupted softly. “It’s the warmest thing I own.”

You swallowed, heart skipping.

“Well… if you ever need mittens to match,” you said, forcing a lightness into your voice that didn’t quite cover the fluttering in your chest, “I know a girl with too much yarn and time on her hands.”

He smiled. “Would that girl maybe also want to get coffee with me sometime? You know. When she’s not saving cold strangers with her knitting?”

You felt your breath catch — not because you were surprised, but because something about the way he asked felt careful. Hopeful. Like he’d never asked anyone quite like this before.

You nodded.

“I’d love that,” you said. “But I’m buying. Coffee’s the least I can do, Dr. Reid.”

He tilted his head. “Only if I can bring you a book in return.”

Your smile widened. “Deal.”

Later that week, he showed up with mittens.

Not good ones — not like yours. They were slightly too big and very uneven, clearly a beginner’s project. But they were wrapped in tissue paper, and tucked into the stitches, he’d written a little note on a torn-out book page:

“Everyone deserves warm things, too. Including the girl who notices strangers.”

You cried a little in the back room after he left.

But the next day, you wore the mittens.

And he noticed.

...

You weren’t sure what woke you first—the turbulence of the jet or the sinking feeling in your chest.

For a moment, still half-asleep, you forgot. You forgot about the case.

The bodies.

The weight.

And the kiss.

God, the kiss.

Reality settled in with the force of a punch.

You opened your eyes slowly, pretending to still be asleep, but you could feel the heat of his presence across from you.

Aaron Hotchner. Your boss.

The man you’d kissed like your life depended on it less than twelve hours ago.

Correction: the man you’d let kiss you, after you’d all but fallen apart in the hallway of a dingy hotel.

After the worst case you’d worked in months.

After watching a mother cradle her son’s body like she could will him back to life.

You hadn’t cried until you left the scene.

Not until your hotel door shut behind you and the silence pressed in. And then—then you couldn’t breathe.

You had stepped out into the hallway, unable to stay in that room alone with your grief, and you’d walked straight into him.

He’d looked exhausted. Hollowed out. His tie was gone, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, and when he saw you—really saw you—his face cracked.

Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to.

You didn’t remember who moved first, just that your back hit the wall with a soft thud, and then his lips were on yours.

It had been desperate. Unspoken. A collision of grief and longing and loneliness.

You remembered the press of his hands at your waist. The way he’d kissed you like he needed it to survive. The quiet sound he made when you kissed him back, pulling him closer, ignoring every voice in your head screaming this is wrong, this is dangerous, this is everything you can’t have.

But it had felt like the first thing in days that made you feel human again.

And then you'd pulled away.

You remembered the look in his eyes.

Open. Bare. Vulnerable in a way Hotch never allowed himself to be.

And you remembered being too scared to speak. You’d just walked away.

And now here you were.

Sitting across from him on the BAU jet, coffee growing cold in your hands.

Neither of you speaking.

Neither acknowledging what had happened. It was as if the kiss never occurred.

Except your lips still burned with the memory.

You risked a glance up. He was reading—pretending to read—a file, but you could see the tension in his posture.

Shoulders rigid. Jaw tight. Avoiding your eyes like it was an act of self-preservation.

It made something ache in your chest.

Did he regret it? Did he think it was a mistake?

Or worse—did he think you were?

“Here,” Emily said, offering a granola bar. “You should eat something.”

You blinked, pulled out of the spiral.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, though you barely touched it.

The plane landed in D.C. and the team dispersed with tired goodbyes.

You tried to slip away quietly, grabbing your go-bag and heading toward the exit ramp, desperate for the solace of your car, your apartment, your own private misery.

But then—

“Can we talk?”

His voice stopped you cold.

You froze, one foot on the jet stairs. Your heart stuttered. Slowly, cautiously, you turned.

Hotch stood at the base of the ramp, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, his expression unreadable—but his eyes were locked on you.

He looked as uncertain as you felt.

You nodded.

He didn’t say another word until you were in his SUV.

You noticed he didn’t take the turn toward Quantico.

He drove in silence, the weight between you growing heavier with each passing streetlamp.

Your mind wouldn’t stop spiraling.

Was this where he told you it was a mistake?

That it crossed a line? That it couldn’t happen again?

When he pulled into a quiet park and turned off the engine, you braced for it.

But instead, he just stared at the steering wheel.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he said finally.

Your stomach dropped.

You turned your head toward the window, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “Okay.”

“I shouldn’t have let it happen like that,” he continued, quieter this time. “You deserved better than that moment. You deserved better than me losing control.”

That hurt. Because for all the complications, it hadn’t felt like him losing control.

It had felt like a choice.

“I didn’t regret it,” you said, your voice thin. “But I regret walking away.”

That got his attention.

He looked over at you, eyes softening with something like hope.

“I thought you regretted it,” you admitted. “You didn’t say anything this morning. You couldn’t even look at me.”

“I was scared,” he said simply. “I am scared.”

You turned fully toward him, hands clenched in your lap. “Why?”

“Because I’ve spent so long building walls to survive this job. To survive… everything. Haley. Foyet. Jack. The darkness we see every single day. I don’t let myself want things anymore. Not really.”

He swallowed hard.

“But I want you,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“And I don’t know what that means,” he added. “I don’t know how to have this and still do this job the way I need to. But not telling you how I feel—it’s worse. It’s so much worse.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Your eyes stung.

“Last night,” he continued, “it wasn’t just grief or adrenaline. It was something I’ve been trying to push down for months. Something I thought I could ignore, because it was safer that way. But I can’t anymore.”

The silence stretched between you, fragile and tentative. You reached out, placing your hand over his where it gripped the gearshift.

“I’m scared, too,” you said. “But maybe we don’t have to figure everything out at once.”

He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through yours.

“I don’t know what this looks like,” he said. “But I know I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

You gave a small, watery laugh. “Neither do I."

He brought your joined hands to his lips and kissed your knuckles, and for the first time since the case ended, since the kiss, since the spiraling aftermath—you felt like you could finally breathe again.

Maybe there were rules. Risks. Realities to face.

But in this moment, in the quiet of an empty park at sunrise, none of that mattered.

...

You’d always known Aaron Hotchner was a man of few words.

Not unkind or cold—just careful.

Measured. Intentional.

So when he left you a yellow sticky note on the bathroom mirror three weeks into living together, it caught you completely off guard.

“You hum in your sleep. It’s cute. I love you.”

—A.H.

You had stared at it, toothbrush in hand, heart fluttering. And from there, the sticky notes had become your love language.

They weren’t always confessions of love. Sometimes it was just:

“Fed the cat. Left you the last blueberry muffin. I expect praise.”

Or:

“Reminder: You’re brilliant. Knock ‘em dead today.”

Some were downright cheeky:

“If you’re reading this, I already miss you. (But also check the fridge. Surprise inside.)”

(Spoiler: it was your favorite cheesecake.)

And some were so simple they made your chest ache:

“I sleep better with you beside me.”

It had become a habit now. You wrote them for him too—tucked into his go bag, slipped inside files, stuck to the dashboard of his car.

He kept every one, you’d learned. Hidden inside a folder marked “Misc. (Keep)” in his desk drawer.

But today was different.

You knew it the moment you stepped out of the shower and found the first note stuck to the bathroom mirror.

“Follow me.”

The handwriting was unmistakable—firm strokes, slightly slanted, written with the blue pen he kept in the kitchen drawer.

You raised an eyebrow but smiled, wrapping yourself in a towel.

Outside the bathroom, another note was taped to the hallway wall:

“You make even Monday mornings worth waking up for.”

You laughed softly to yourself and padded forward, dripping water and good mood.

Note #3 was at the top of the stairs.

“Don’t forget: I fell for you the first time you yelled at me for skipping breakfast.”

You remembered that day. A whirlwind morning, him halfway to the elevator with only black coffee in his hand. You’d caught him and made him eat a banana. He grumbled the entire time. Later, he kissed you like he was starved. Said you were right.

A little trail of sticky notes led you downstairs, one taped to the bannister:

“I watched you dance in the kitchen last night. No music. Just you and your ridiculous socks. I never wanted anything more.”

You reached the bottom step and turned into the living room.

The sunlight was spilling through the windows. The faint smell of fresh coffee wafted in from the kitchen.

A small pile of sticky notes waited on the arm of the couch—stacked like a tiny paper tower.

You walked over, heart thudding a little faster.

“This is my favorite view: You, sleepy and soft, sunlight in your hair.”

“Sometimes I wake up early just to watch you breathe.”

“I was fine before I met you. But now I can’t imagine going back to that.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, already smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

God, this man. This stoic, grumpy, secretly soft man. He didn’t need grand speeches or elaborate gifts.

Just a sticky note. And a heart full of quiet devotion.

Another note was tucked under the TV remote:

“You’re getting close. Don’t stop now.”

You followed the trail into the kitchen, where he’d arranged another trio of notes across the fridge like magnets.

“Today marks one year since you said ‘I love you’ first.”

“It took me a week to believe you meant it.”

“I’ve never stopped thanking the universe that you did.”

You pressed your hand over your mouth, blinking quickly.

The anniversary.

You’d forgotten in the rush of life and laundry and late-night case updates.

But Aaron hadn’t.

Of course he hadn’t.

The final note was on the coffee pot, freshly brewed and still steaming.

“Turn around.”

You did—and found him standing in the doorway, tie loosened, sleeves rolled, barefoot and soft-eyed in the morning light.

“Aaron…” you started, overwhelmed and already a little teary, “You did all this just for—?”

He crossed the room in two quiet steps, hands gently cupping your face. “I love you,” he said simply. “I know I say it every day. But I wanted to show it. In the way you’ve taught me to.”

You leaned into him, laughing against his chest. “You hopeless, romantic sap.”

“I’m learning from the best.”

He kissed you then—slow and smiling and home. The kind of kiss that tasted like promises and coffee and the comfort of forever.

When he pulled back, he slipped something into your hand.

Another sticky note.

“P.S. Check the pantry.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Oh? Another surprise?”

“Go look.”

You padded over to the pantry and opened the door.

There, resting on a shelf between the cereal boxes and oatmeal canisters, was a small white gift box.

You turned to raise an eyebrow at him. He just leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching you with that warm, unreadable half-smile.

Inside the box was a key.

You frowned slightly, confused. “This… looks like our front door key.”

He nodded. “It is.”

“But I already live here.”

He stepped forward and pulled you close, brushing your damp hair behind your ear.

“It’s symbolic,” he murmured. “You moved in. You made this house a home. And I just… I wanted to make sure you knew it’s yours in every way. You belong here. With me. Always.”

You stared at him, eyes glassy, breath caught. “Aaron…”

“I love you,” he repeated. “Every day. In every quiet way I can.”

You threw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder. He held you tightly, one hand stroking down your back, the other wrapped around your waist like he never planned to let go.

You stayed like that for a long while, wrapped in warmth and sunlight and everything unspoken.

Eventually, when you pulled back, you looked up with a mischievous grin. “Okay, but now I have to top this.”

He chuckled. “You don’t.”

“I do. You’ve set the bar ridiculously high. I might need, like… glitter. Or a marching band.”

“Please don’t bring glitter into this house,” he deadpanned, but his smile betrayed him.

You kissed him again—soft, slow, sweet.

Then you whispered against his lips:

“Stick with me, Hotchner.”

And he whispered back,

...

You weren’t sure which was more entertaining: Emily trying to hustle JJ at poker with novelty wine charms on her fingers, or watching Spencer Reid—resident genius and notorious lightweight—attempt to navigate Rossi’s living room like it was an obstacle course of throw pillows and antique furniture.

The party had thinned.

Morgan and Garcia had left with arm-in-arm giggles.

Hotch had made a quiet exit hours ago.

Only a few stragglers remained.

You sat cross-legged on Rossi’s ridiculously overstuffed couch, sipping the last of your cabernet and enjoying the show.

Spencer stumbled out of the kitchen, cheeks flushed, and the biggest, goofiest smile you’d ever seen plastered on his face.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Did you just high-five Rossi?” you asked, smirking behind your wine glass.

“I did,” he said, triumphantly, pointing at you with a crooked finger that missed by about six inches. “He said—and I quote—‘It’s about damn time, kid.’ I think that means I’m… socially functional now.”

You laughed. “Getting drunk off four glasses of wine is your rite of passage?”

“Four and a half!” he insisted, stumbling toward you like a very determined, very wobbly baby deer. “Don’t undersell me.”

You patted the cushion beside you. “Come sit before you trip over something and knock over a priceless bust of Julius Caesar.”

He dropped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, his long legs sprawled out and bumping against yours. “I like you best, you know,” he said, voice quieter now, almost a secret.

You smiled. “I like you best, too.”

“No, but really.” He leaned in closer. You could smell the wine on his breath and something warm and familiar—Spencer, always cinnamon and old books and something vaguely academic. “I have to tell you something.”

Your heart thudded. “Okay...”

“I’m in love with you.”

Your brain glitched.

“Spencer—”

He waved a hand, nearly knocking over your wine. “No, no, don’t interrupt. I’ve done the math, and it’s very important I say this now, because I probably won’t be brave enough tomorrow. Or sober enough to shut up tonight.”

Your lips twitched. “This is the wine talking.”

He pointed at you with all the seriousness of a professor addressing a lecture hall.

"No. It’s me talking. The wine just finally muted the inner anxiety monster. And my social inhibition center. And the part of me that overthinks things to death. So. Just—listen.”

You set your wine down carefully and turned toward him, legs tucked under you. “Okay. I’m listening.”

He took a breath. “I think I fell in love with you somewhere between the third case we worked together and that time you brought me a coffee with one sugar—because you remembered. No one ever remembers. And then you wore that NASA sweatshirt and quoted Sherlock Holmes and corrected my Latin and I—well, it was game over. I was doomed.”

Your chest tightened, not from anxiety but from something lighter, something dangerous. “Spencer... that’s—”

He shook his head, curls bouncing. “I know I’m a mess right now. I’ll probably wake up with a hangover and a guilt complex and at least three regrets, but this won’t be one of them. Telling you. Because I meant it. I’m in love with you. Even if you laugh. Or if you never talk to me again. Or if—”

You reached across the couch, cupped his flushed cheek, and gently shut him up with your thumb brushing over his lips. “Hey. I’m not going to laugh.”

He blinked, his expression so adorably hopeful it hurt. “No?”

“No,” you said softly. “Because I think I’m in love with you, too.”

Silence stretched between you. His eyes widened. Then he made the softest, most overwhelmed sound you’d ever heard from him.

“That’s... statistically improbable,” he said, blinking rapidly.

You chuckled. “Then I guess you’ll have to recalculate.”

Spencer launched himself forward with the enthusiasm of someone half-sober and fully lovesick, arms winding around you as he hugged you tight, burying his face in your shoulder.

“You smell really good,” he mumbled, muffled. “Is that weird to say? I don’t care. It’s true.”

“You smell like pinot noir and genius,” you teased.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy but warm. “Can I kiss you?”

You nodded.

His lips met yours—soft, a little clumsy, sweet.

He kissed like he was memorizing you, and even with his wine-heavy breath and slightly uncoordinated movements, it still made your toes curl.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was low and shy again. “Will you stay with me tonight? Just to talk. Or, you know, kiss more. Or sleep. Or do all three in a loop.”

You grinned. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“And drunk,” he added helpfully. “But mostly cute.”

You tucked yourself under his arm, your hand resting over his fluttering heart. “I’ll take care of you in the morning.”

“You mean when I’m nauseous and horrified?”

“Exactly,” you said with a smile. “And when you’re sober and in love with me again.”

He kissed the top of your head. “Spoiler alert—I’ll still be in love with you every morning after.”

“Come on, sleepy genius. You’re crashing hard.”

“I am not,” he mumbled, immediately yawning and slumping into your side.

You helped him stand—he stumbled, caught himself, then turned around and took your hand.

“You’re coming with me, right? Just to sleep. I don’t want to wake up alone after saying all that.”

“Of course I’m coming with you.”

He looked almost childlike in his relief. “Good.”

You helped him into Rossi’s guest room, where he collapsed onto the bed, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes.

You chuckled as you grabbed a bottle of water from the nightstand and made him drink.

Once he was under the covers and no longer resembling a puddle of limbs, you crawled in beside him. He turned to face you immediately, one arm slipping around your waist like it belonged there.

You pressed your forehead to his. “Feeling okay?”

“I’m in love with you and you’re here, and my liver hasn’t failed yet, so… yeah. I’m good.”

You laughed softly and kissed his cheek. “Go to sleep, Spence.”

He tightened his hold just a little. “Don’t leave.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m gonna remember this,” he mumbled, already half-asleep. “Even if I feel like hell tomorrow. I’m gonna remember you saying it back.”

You watched as his breathing slowed, as the tension melted from his face, and finally, as sleep took him completely.

And you whispered into the quiet:

“I’m gonna remember too.”

The Next Morning

Spencer woke with a headache, a dry mouth, and the faint memory of confessing something huge.

His stomach twisted—until he rolled over and saw you there, still asleep in his arms, a content smile on your lips.

He breathed out a shaky laugh, overwhelmed with relief and wonder.

Maybe hangovers weren’t so bad after all.

Spencer blinked blearily at the ceiling, the light through the guest room’s gauzy curtains casting a warm blur across the walls.

His head hurt—dull and thudding like something had taken up residence behind his eyes—but it was tolerable. Manageable.

And worth it.

Because you were still here.

Still curled beside him, tangled in sheets and sunlight and his sweater you’d pulled on sometime in the night.

One arm was slung loosely over his stomach, and your face was pressed into the crook of his shoulder, lips parted slightly as you breathed.

He took in the tiny details: the way your hair tickled his skin, the warmth of your thigh draped over his, the faint scent of you—clean laundry, something citrusy, and something that was just you.

It wasn’t a dream.

His body ached, and his mouth was dry, but his chest was full. Full of something slow and golden and electric all at once.

He turned his head, as gently as possible, and whispered, “Hey.”

You made a soft, reluctant sound. “No.”

Spencer smiled, his voice still hoarse with sleep. “Just checking if you’re real.”

You cracked one eye open, then blinked a few times like you were the one making sure he hadn’t vanished. “Barely. I feel like I got hit by a very affectionate freight train.”

“That would be the Barolo,” he said. “And maybe the kissing.”

You let out a low, sleepy laugh and snuggled closer. “I think it was mostly the kissing.”

He swallowed, heart flipping a little. “You don’t regret it, do you?”

You sat up just enough to look at him, hair messy and haloed by the morning light.

“No,” you said simply, softly. “Do you?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “I regret not saying it sober the first time.”

You leaned into his hand. “Say it now, then.”

“I love you,” he said without hesitation. His voice was quieter now, but surer.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t laugh nervously, didn’t try to qualify it with math or hedging.

And you smiled like the sun had just risen behind your ribs. “I love you too.”

You kissed him—light and sleepy and a little minty from the water bottle you’d both passed back and forth.

When you pulled away, Spencer reached for you again, fingers curling loosely around your wrist like he still couldn’t quite believe this was real. “Can we stay here all day?”

You raised a brow. “In Rossi’s guest bed?”

He groaned and flopped onto his back, covering his face with his arm. “Right. That’s... an awkward detail.”

You giggled and rested your head on his chest. “We can stay until my stomach demands food. Then we’ll figure it out. Maybe go to your place. Or mine.”

He nodded, already imagining it. The two of you in your kitchen, sleepy and barefoot. You in his shirts. Him memorizing every ordinary second.

“I’ve never been in love like this before,” he murmured, almost like it was a secret. “It’s quiet. Not fireworks or lightning. Just... peaceful.”

You shifted so you could see his face again. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

His eyes softened. “I think I want peaceful for the rest of my life.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth and grinned. “You’re in luck, Dr. Reid. I’m very good at peaceful mornings.”

He let out a breath that sounded a little like a laugh and a little like relief. “Maybe hangovers aren’t so bad after all.”

You both stayed wrapped in the quiet, your fingers lazily tracing patterns along his ribs.

Outside the window, birds chirped and the world carried on, but for once, neither of you rushed to meet it.

You had time.

...

The sirens blurred into the background, swallowed by the blood pounding in his ears.

“Aaron, you’re not cleared to go in there—”

He didn’t hear them. Couldn’t. His eyes were locked on the stretcher being wheeled toward the waiting ambulance.

He saw the hand hanging limply off the side. The blood-soaked vest. The fingers he’d memorized the feel of but never dared to touch for too long.

Yours.

“Agent Hotchner!” a paramedic barked. “We need to move—are you riding with us?”

He nodded numbly, clambering in. His knee hit the side of the gurney, and he didn't even register the pain. His eyes searched your face—ghostly pale, streaked with dirt and blood.

The medic was shouting vitals, adjusting oxygen flow. He kept asking questions about your response, your pupils, your pain levels.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

And Aaron felt his world tilt.

He should’ve been the one to clear the house. He’d assigned teams. He’d made the call. He should’ve known the suspect wasn’t alone. Should’ve seen the signs. Should’ve sent someone else.

Anyone but you.

This was his fault.

The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and fear.

JJ brought him coffee. He didn’t touch it.

Morgan sat beside him, silent.

Reid paced, chewing on his thumbnail.

But Aaron just sat there, elbows on his knees, hands steepled in front of his mouth, eyes fixed on the double doors the doctors had disappeared behind.

It’d been forty-seven minutes.

Forty-seven minutes of remembering how your body had looked sprawled on that kitchen floor.

How you’d gasped for air as he pressed his hands to your side. How your blood had soaked into his sleeves.

“She lost a lot of blood,” the medic had said. “We're lucky you got here when you did.”

Lucky.

Aaron had never felt so utterly, cosmically unlucky in his life.

“Hotch?”

He blinked. JJ again, her hand on his shoulder.

“They said she’s out of surgery. Stable. But she’s not awake yet.”

“Can I see her?”

JJ hesitated. “They said… only one person for now. And only family.”

He was on his feet before she could finish.

“I am family,” he said, voice low and final.

Machines beeped steadily, a quiet symphony of survival.

You looked smaller in the hospital bed.

Fragile in a way he’d never seen.

Tubes snaked from your arms. A thick bandage wrapped around your middle. The doctor had said you’d lost nearly a third of your blood volume. They’d repaired the damage, but the healing would take time.

You hadn't opened your eyes.

Aaron sat beside the bed, his hand hovering over yours.

He wanted to hold it. Wanted to press it to his chest and beg you to squeeze, to do something to show him he hadn’t already lost you.

“I should’ve been there,” he whispered. “I should’ve had your six.”

The monitors kept their rhythm.

The only reply.

“I sent you in because I trusted you. Because I know how good you are. But I… I keep wondering if part of me did it because I knew you’d say yes. Because you never say no when I ask something of you.”

He swallowed, jaw tightening. His voice shook when he said, “You always show up for me. And I got you shot.”

Silence again.

He finally let his fingers brush yours. They were cold.

“Don’t make me lose you,” he said, eyes burning. “I never told you what you mean to me. Don’t make me carry that.”

...

Your eyes opened groggily and heavy, blinking against the harsh fluorescent light.

Pain throbbed in your side. You tried to shift and hissed, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

“Hey—hey, stay still.”

You knew that voice. Even before your eyes fully focused.

Hotch.

His hand gripped yours now—tight, warm, grounding.

“You’re okay,” he said. “You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

You licked your lips. “You… okay?”

He let out a sound that was half a laugh, half a sob. “You got shot and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

You gave the smallest smile. “Didn’t… wanna worry you.”

“You always worry me,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Every time we go into the field. Every time I see you in danger.”

You blinked up at him. “Aaron…?”

His hand trembled as it cradled yours. “I should’ve said this before. I’ve been too careful. Too afraid. But when I saw you on that floor… I thought I’d lost my chance.”

He exhaled slowly.

“I love you.”

Silence stretched between you—thick with pain and promise.

You blinked again, slower this time.

“Thought I was dreaming,” you mumbled voice hoarse and thick. “Wanted to hear you say that… for a long time.”

His head dropped to rest lightly against your hand.

“You’re not dreaming,” he murmured. “And I’m not wasting another second.”

You drifted in and out of sleep.

Every time, he was there—reading case files, sipping bad coffee, holding your hand.

Once, you woke to find him brushing your hair back, lips pressed to your temple.

You didn’t talk much.

You didn’t need to.

His presence spoke louder than words.

You were alive. He was still here.

And when the time came for you to be discharged, Hotch was the one who wheeled you out of the hospital.

The team cheered, but his hand never left your shoulder.

Protective. Steady. Yours.

Later, when the BAU plane touched back down and he helped you into his SUV and began driving you to his place instead of your apartment, you didn’t ask why.

You already knew.

He wouldn’t let you out of his sight again.

Not after almost losing you.

...

It had been twenty-six days since Spencer Reid moved into your house.

Twenty-six days since the FBI classified the threats against your life as credible.

Since the messages escalated from cryptic letters to photographs of your every move.

Since they realized the man stalking you wasn’t just obsessed—he was planning something.

And twenty-six days since Spencer had taken the corner bedroom downstairs and barely spoken more than a sentence or two at a time.

You weren’t sure what you expected when they told you an agent would be assigned full-time to keep you safe.

Maybe a well-meaning rookie. Maybe someone fatherly and gentle.

But you got Spencer Reid.

He was quiet. Guarded. So smart it was a little terrifying. And intense in ways you couldn’t quite describe, even now.

His brown eyes missed nothing—every twitch of your hands, every tremor in your voice, every flicker of fear. He noticed. He always noticed.

But he never let you see anything in him.

Not softness. Not kindness. And definitely not affection.

At least, not directly.

The first time you fell asleep on the couch, you woke up tucked in with a blanket.

He denied it.

When you forgot to lock the bathroom door and he nearly kicked it in thinking something had happened—you’d seen something flash in his expression.

Panic. Fury. Relief.

Then it was gone, just like always.

Tonight, the house was too quiet.

The news had reported another woman missing—another woman with long dark hair, just like yours.

You were curled up on the window seat, legs drawn to your chest, trying not to tremble.

The silence felt wrong. Too sharp, too still.

Spencer sat in the living room chair, a book on his lap but his eyes unmoving.

You could feel the tension in the air like electricity, humming between you.

You finally broke. "He’s not going to stop, is he?"

His voice was low and flat. “No.”

That honesty was brutal. No comfort. No false hope.

You stared at him, his frame tense, the muscles in his jaw tight, a vein throbbing in his neck.

You spoke again before you could stop yourself. “Do you think he’s watching me? Right now?”

Spencer’s head snapped up, his gaze sharp as a blade. “Don’t say that.”

“But—”

“He is watching you.” Spencer stood now, walking toward you with a tightly coiled energy that made your heart pound. “He’s studying you. Hunting you. And every time you say things like that, you minimize the danger you’re in.”

You blinked, startled by his intensity. “I’m not minimizing—”

“Yes, you are.” His voice was quieter now but no less fierce. “You think I’m here because I want to be? You think I like sleeping with a gun under my pillow every night and checking every lock twice and keeping my hand on my weapon when you walk past a window?”

There it was. The heat. The buried emotion leaking out in controlled bursts.

Your throat tightened. “You don’t have to stay, you know.”

Something dark flickered in his expression, and before you could take it back, he crossed the room in three steps.

“You think I’d leave you now?” he asked, his voice a low growl. “You think I haven’t already memorized every exit, every deadbolt, every creaking floorboard in this house just in case I need to kill someone for you?”

You swallowed, air thin in your lungs.

Spencer’s hands gripped the edge of the window seat on either side of your thighs. Not touching, but so close.

“You’re not just a case anymore,” he murmured, eyes boring into yours. “That’s the problem.”

Your pulse raced. “Then what am I?”

His jaw flexed. “A mistake.”

The words hit you like ice water. You pulled back, the breath caught in your throat, but he didn’t move away.

“I can’t feel things for you,” Spencer said. “Not now. Not like this.”

“But you do,” you whispered.

He flinched. Just barely. But it was there.

He looked away like the truth burned him.

“I can’t be what you want,” he said. “Not when I wake up every night thinking about solitary confinement. Not when I still jump at the sound of cell doors slamming in my dreams. I’m not whole.”

You reached out before you could second-guess yourself, your hand finding his wrist, fingers curling there. His pulse jumped beneath your touch.

“I don’t need you to be whole,” you said softly. “I just need you to be real with me.”

His eyes closed. A breath escaped him. Then, suddenly, Spencer surged forward, lips crashing against yours in a kiss that felt like breaking glass.

You gasped, shocked at the ferocity of it—at the way his hands found your waist like he was trying to memorize the feel of you.

Dominant. Desperate. Unforgiving.

It was raw and consuming, and he didn’t hold back—didn’t pretend.

You’d kissed men before. But you’d never been claimed.

He pulled away just enough to speak, his voice like thunder. “You don’t understand what you’re asking for.”

“Try me.”

“I’m not gentle. Not with this. Not with you.”

You whispered, “I don’t want gentle.”

Spencer’s hands curled tighter on your hips, eyes dark with something close to agony. “If I let myself have you, even a little, I won’t be able to stop.”

“Then don’t stop.”

Something inside him cracked. You heard it—felt it.

He kissed you again, this time slower but no less intense, and you were pulled down into him like gravity.

His hands slid beneath your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into his lap, pressing you flush against him.

You broke the kiss long enough to whisper against his mouth, “Tell me you want me.”

He groaned, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he whispered. “To care about someone and not be able to save them. I’ve lost people. I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But I trust you.”

That stilled him. Entirely. Like those words were sacred. Dangerous.

He leaned back just enough to look into your eyes. “You shouldn’t.”

But he kissed you again anyway.

The night passed in a haze of stolen touches and soft moans.

You never made it to your bed—Spencer carried you to the couch, his hands reverent and possessive all at once.

When he touched you, it was like he was rewriting all the pieces of himself he thought were broken.

He whispered your name like a prayer, like he couldn’t believe it was real.

And when it was over—when your breaths were slowing and your body was molded against his—you felt the shift.

Not just lust.

Not just protection.

Something else. Something scarier.

Spencer’s fingers traced shapes on your back, his voice barely audible.

“I’m going to find him,” he said. “And when I do…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

...

It had only been a few days, but it felt longer. Long enough that you found yourself checking your phone more than usual, smiling at every buzz and new message from Aaron.

You hadn’t made plans yet—not officially—but there was a thread between you now, tugging tighter each time he sent a picture of Jack’s “potion ingredients” or teased you about your supposed frog transformation.

And then, finally, on a lazy Thursday evening as you were folding laundry and half-listening to your daughter hum in the other room, your phone chimed.

Aaron:

Jack asked if you’re free Saturday. He says the zipline lesson can’t wait.

Also… I was thinking maybe dinner afterward? Just us?

No pressure.

Your heart skipped. Then it skipped again when you reread it.

You:

Saturday sounds perfect. Zipline and dinner. It’s a date.

Aaron:

A date.

I like the sound of that.

You grinned at the screen, giddy in a way you hadn’t been in too long.

Saturday came with golden skies and a breeze that sent little kites spinning above the park.

You and your daughter arrived a little early this time, picnic blanket slung under one arm, the other balancing a cooler full of sandwiches and juice boxes (because of course).

Jack spotted you first, racing across the grass with a wild, toothy grin.

“She’s here!” he called over his shoulder, waving Aaron forward.

Aaron trailed behind at a much more reasonable pace, but the way his face lit up when he saw you—it made your breath catch. Like maybe he couldn’t help it. Like maybe he needed to see you.

"Hey," he said, once you met halfway. His voice was low, warm. Yours mirrored it without even trying.

"Hey."

You didn’t quite touch, but you both hovered close enough that it felt inevitable.

Soon.

The kids immediately plunged into their adventure, dragging each other toward the zipline platform like they had a mission ordained by the universe itself.

You and Aaron strolled slowly behind them, watching.

“She’s braver than I was at that age,” you admitted, arms crossed loosely over your chest. “I wouldn’t have gotten ten feet near that thing.”

Aaron chuckled. “Jack needed three solid pep talks last time. I’m impressed.”

You both leaned on the fence, side by side, the warm wood pressing against your forearms.

“She’s got a lot of you in her,” Aaron said quietly.

You turned your head, brows lifting in surprise. “Yeah?”

He nodded, looking at you with something steady and sure. “Brave. Good-hearted. Not scared to jump when it matters.”

For a moment, you didn’t say anything, afraid if you breathed too loud you’d shatter the spell he’d somehow woven around you.

“Thank you,” you said, voice thick.

Aaron’s gaze softened even more. “Don’t thank me for telling the truth.”

Jack’s triumphant whoop broke the moment, and you both turned to see him zipping through the air, your daughter cheering at the top of her lungs.

“She’s next,” Aaron said, and you both laughed when she immediately climbed up without hesitation.

Later, after scraped knees were bandaged and the sun was starting to slip down toward the horizon, Aaron helped you pack up the cooler.

“I made reservations,” he said, voice casual but his eyes watching your reaction carefully. “Nothing fancy. Just a place I know that’s good for conversation... and dessert.”

You smiled, heart warming at the thought that he’d thought this through so carefully.

“Sounds perfect,” you said. “Let me just drop her at my sister’s, then I’m all yours.”

Something in Aaron’s expression flickered—something bright, hopeful. He nodded once. “I’ll follow you.”

The kids didn’t even blink when you explained the plan. Jack was thrilled for a sleepover, and your daughter was already plotting movie marathons and popcorn feasts.

By the time you dropped her off and slid back into your car, nerves started to creep in.

It wasn’t just the idea of dinner. It was the idea of letting someone matter again. Letting someone see you.

But when Aaron stepped up to your window at the curb, smiling so softly, the nerves melted under the sheer quiet pull of him.

“You ready?” he asked.

You smiled back. “I’m ready.”

The restaurant was cozy, tucked on a quiet street with little fairy lights strung between the trees outside. Aaron opened the door for you without even thinking about it, his hand brushing the small of your back as you stepped inside.

The conversation was easy, like it always seemed to be with him. You talked about everything and nothing—favorite songs, the weirdest meals your kids had ever concocted, the way the world seemed a little softer in the spring.

At one point, he leaned in, his voice low, conspiratorial.

“I should probably admit,” he said, “I was rooting for the frog potion to work. Then I could keep you as my secret frog princess.”

You laughed, cheeks warming.

"I hate to disappoint, but I think I’m sticking to human for now.”

He gave you a mock-serious nod.

“Probably for the best. I hear frog royalty have terrible dessert menus.”

You smiled so wide it almost hurt.

Later, over coffee and shared slices of pie, Aaron’s hand brushed yours across the table.

It was tentative at first—almost accidental—but when you didn’t pull away, he turned his palm up, inviting.

You slid your fingers into his without thinking.

His thumb traced a slow, lazy pattern against the side of your hand, and the look in his eyes—soft, searching, full of things he wasn’t saying yet—made your stomach flutter in the best possible way.

“You make it easy,” he said quietly. “Being around you.”

You squeezed his hand. “You make it easy to want to stay.”

By the time he walked you to your car again, the air between you was thick with the kind of anticipation that made your heart pound.

He lingered by your door, hands in his pockets, the way he had before—but this time, when he stepped closer, you didn’t hesitate.

Neither did he.

Aaron’s hand came up, gentle against your cheek, and for a moment, you just stood there, breathing each other in.

Then he leaned in, slow, deliberate, giving you every second to pull away.

You didn’t.

The kiss was soft at first—just a brush of mouths—but then you tilted your head and he deepened it, and your hands slid up his chest without thinking, anchoring yourself there.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate.

It was careful.

Reverent.

Like he’d been waiting to be sure, and now he was.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, Aaron rested his forehead lightly against yours.

“I’m really glad you came to the park that day,” he murmured.

You smiled, thumb brushing the collar of his jacket. “Me too.”

You kissed him again—quick, giddy—before slipping into your car, cheeks aching from smiling.

And as you drove home, the night air cool against your skin, your heart was louder than the radio and twice as sweet.

Something good.

Something real.

...

Dinner is warm and golden, the restaurant tucked between a dry cleaner and a secondhand bookstore.

It smells like lemongrass and toasted garlic the second you step inside.

Spencer holds the door for you and awkwardly gestures toward the tiny booth in the back like he’s not sure if he’s meant to be a date or a dinner companion—or both.

He fidgets with the edge of the menu, eyes scanning it like he doesn’t already have the entire thing memorized.

“They make their own curry paste here,” he says quietly, like it’s a secret. “And the chef used to work in Bangkok, at this really well-known place near Lumphini Park. Technically, this is probably the most authentic Thai food in D.C.”

You smile. “Technically?”

“Well, it depends how you define authenticity,”

he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“But the flavor profiles, ingredient sourcing, and spice ratios are... statistically consistent with the original dishes.”

“Did you just cite spice ratios on a first date?”

He blushes and ducks his head. “Sorry. I ramble when I’m nervous.”

You reach across the table and brush your fingers against his. “I like the rambling.”

Spencer’s eyes soften. “Most people don’t.”

“I’m not most people.”

That earns you a slow, shy smile. “I’m starting to notice.”

You order pad see ew and green curry; he orders the same, like he’d already known what you’d pick and didn’t want you to eat alone.

When the server leaves, he tells you about his first case in Thailand, a seminar he once gave on geographical profiling at a university in Chiang Mai, and how he got embarrassingly sunburned trying to cross-reference map data on foot.

“You sunburned yourself... doing math?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, looking completely serious. “It was for accuracy.”

You laugh so hard you nearly choke on your water, and Spencer positively beams.

By the time the food arrives, you’re leaned in across the table, your cheeks sore from smiling.

He lets you steal a piece of tofu from his plate without protest and lights up when you offer him a bite of yours, even though you have the same dishes.

And then he gets contemplative.

“I don’t... do this often,” he says, nudging a piece of sticky rice around with his spoon. “The dating thing. I’m not very good at it.”

You tilt your head. “You think this is going badly?”

“No! No, not at all,” he says quickly, eyes wide. “Actually, it’s going—statistically—significantly better than most human bonding experiences I’ve read about. I just meant... I usually mess things up. I overthink. I say weird things.”

You rest your chin in your hand. “Spencer.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve had dates with guys who thought the mitochondria was a Star Wars character. You’re doing fine.”

He stares at you for a beat. “I... think I’m in love with you.”

The table goes very quiet. He visibly panics. “Not in love. Not yet. Not—statistically, it’s way too soon for a secure emotional attachment of that nature, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

You reach for his hand again. “Spencer.”

He exhales.

“I really like you,” you say, grounding him with your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “And I’d be okay with you falling in love with me eventually. Statistically or otherwise.”

His mouth opens like he wants to say something smart, but all that comes out is a slightly breathless, “Okay.”

You don’t let go of his hand for the rest of the meal.

The air outside is cool, the kind of crisp that tugs lightly at your sleeves but doesn’t quite bite.

Streetlights cast long shadows on the sidewalk as you and Spencer step out of the restaurant, both a little quieter now, full of good food and something warmer lingering between you.

He walks close—close enough that your arms brush now and then, like he’s still debating whether or not he’s allowed to touch you again.

You bump your shoulder into his gently. “So. Sticky rice and a confession of possible future love? That’s a lot for a first date.”

He groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “I knew I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

His hand drops, and he gives you a sheepish glance. “You’re just... really easy to talk to. That’s rare.”

“I could say the same.”

He walks in silence for a few moments, then says softly, “Do you know the German word verschlimmbessern? It means trying to improve something and accidentally making it worse.”

You grin. “Are you worried you're doing that right now?”

“A little,” he admits. “I just—this feels really good. And I don’t want to ruin it by saying too much or... rambling.”

“You say that like your rambling isn’t half the reason I like you.”

His lips twitch like he’s trying to hide a smile. “Only half?”

“Okay, maybe sixty percent.”

He laughs, and it’s that breathy, surprised kind of laugh you’ve only heard from him a few times—but each one feels like a little victory.

You pass a quiet row of townhouses, your fingers brushing once, twice, three times before you finally hook your pinky around his.

He stills for a second, like his brain has to buffer the gesture before accepting it.

Then he lets out a soft, contented breath.

“I looked up this study once,” he says suddenly. “It showed that physical touch releases oxytocin, which builds trust between two people. And lowers cortisol. Which is the stress hormone.”

You glance sideways. “Are you telling me you’re less stressed now that I’m holding your hand?”

He smiles, a little shy. “... yes.”

You squeeze his hand properly, and he holds on like it means something—which it does.

As you near your building, the silence shifts again—comfortable but charged now, like both of you are waiting for the other to make the next move. You stop outside your front door and turn to face him.

His eyes are a little wide behind his glasses, like he’s caught somewhere between analysis and awe.

“So,” you say. “This is me.”

He nods slowly. “And this is... goodbye?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you want it to be?”

His mouth opens, then closes. Then, quietly: “No.”

You take a step closer. “Then maybe you should come up.”

He swallows hard. “I—Are you sure? We don’t have to—statistically speaking, early physical intimacy isn’t always correlated with long-term relational stability—”

“Spencer?”

He meets your eyes.

You smile. “You talk too much.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, and you tug him gently forward by the collar of his shirt.

He steps in after you, looking around your space like it’s a museum in its own right—eyes scanning your bookshelves, your succulents, the little constellation mug sitting by your sink.

“I like your place,” he says, setting his bag down carefully. “Very you.”

You tilt your head. “You barely know me.”

He smiles gently. “I know enough.”

You stand there for a second—barely a breath between you. Then you say, softly, “Spencer?”

He looks up, lips slightly parted. “Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

He laughs—a short, surprised burst.

"That was going to be my next question.”

You step in and kiss him anyway.

It starts soft—tentative, curious—but quickly becomes something warmer, deeper.

His hands find your waist with careful reverence, thumbs brushing the fabric of your shirt like he’s trying to memorize the texture.

He kisses like he thinks too much and feels even more. Like he’s been waiting his whole life for a kiss worth calculating.

You tug gently at his cardigan, and he lets you, pulling back just long enough to mumble, “Do you—should I—uh, I haven’t... done this in a while.”

Your hand trails up to his jaw, thumb stroking the soft edge of his cheek. “You’re doing perfect.”

He exhales shakily, leaning into your touch.

“There are over four million nerve endings in the human body,” he murmurs, his voice a little lower now. “I think every single one is currently lighting up.”

You smile against his mouth. “You really can’t turn it off, can you?”

He shakes his head. “Not even a little.”

Clothes come off in pieces—his cardigan first, then your shirt, then his button-down that you have to help him with because his hands are shaking slightly. There’s nothing rushed about it. Just slow exploration. Wonder. Like you’re both uncovering something rare.

When you finally end up in bed, tangled in your sheets and each other, he kisses your shoulder like it’s a holy thing. Like you’re a phenomenon he’s still trying to wrap his brilliant mind around.

Later, as you lie tangled together in the quiet hush of early morning, Spencer traces his fingers over your arm in lazy circles.

“I ran the numbers,” he says drowsily, voice muffled against your collarbone. “The odds of this happening today were approximately 0.04%.”

You grin into his hair. “And yet here we are.”

He hums. “I think I like improbable outcomes.”

...

You’re halfway through alphabetizing your bookshelf—again—when your phone buzzes with a name that always makes your heart skip: Spencer Reid.

"Hey, I know this is weird, but...would you be willing to pretend to be my girlfriend for a weekend?"

You freeze, a half-shelved copy of Pride and Prejudice in your hand. “I’m sorry—what?”

"Okay, so it sounds worse than it is," he rushes on, his voice tumbling over itself like he's tripping on his own thoughts. "There’s a wedding. My cousin’s. Everyone’s going to be asking questions about my love life, and I may have...kind of already told them I have a girlfriend."

You blink. “You did what?”

"I panicked," he admits, and you can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting like they do when he’s nervous. "My mom kept asking, and it just slipped out. And then everyone was excited and asking when they could meet her, and—I didn’t want to disappoint them. I know it’s ridiculous."

You walk over to the couch and sit down, phone pressed closer to your ear. “So... your brilliant solution was to invent a girlfriend?”

"Technically, I didn’t invent you. I just… repurposed you. Temporarily," he says, and you can almost hear him wince at his own phrasing.

“Wow. I feel so honored,” you say dryly, but there's a smile creeping into your voice.

"No—I mean, you were the first person I thought of. You’re smart, charming, and we already spend time together. I figured if anyone could pull it off without making it weird, it’d be you."

Your heart does a little skip. “So this is your version of a compliment?”

"I think you’re amazing,” he says quietly, more sincere now. “But if this is too much or just weird or uncomfortable, I understand. I shouldn't have asked you like this.”

You let the silence stretch for just a moment, savoring the warmth in your chest. Then:

“Spencer,” you interrupt gently, smiling. “I’ll do it.”

He exhales in visible relief, and even over the phone, you can feel the warmth behind his "thank you."

"You’re sure? There’s a hotel room involved. And dancing. And my extended family. They’re a lot."

“Positive,” you say. “I’ve always wanted to go to a wedding where I can fake a romance with a handsome genius. Besides, it’ll be fun.”

He chuckles softly. “You might regret saying yes when my Aunt Patty corners you about astrology.”

“I can handle Aunt Patty,” you say confidently. “Just promise you won’t leave me alone with the bouquet toss.”

"Deal," he says.

You hear the smile in his voice, and it lingers in your chest long after the call ends.

...

Spencer picks you up in his vintage Volvo, nervously fiddling with the sleeves of his sweater.

His hair is a little messy in the way you like best, and there’s a stack of books in the backseat, including The Evolution of Marriage in Sociology and A Beginner’s Guide to Wedding Etiquette.

“You studied for this?” you tease, climbing in with your overnight bag.

He shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “I just wanted to make sure I knew what to expect. Statistically, weddings can trigger heightened emotions due to social pressure, alcohol, and romantic ambiance.”

You laugh. “So you're emotionally bracing for impact?”

He glances at you, sheepish. “A little. I also wanted to be the best fake boyfriend possible.”

“Well, that’s very noble of you, Dr. Reid.” You smile and buckle in.

The drive begins with your usual easy banter, but quickly shifts into something more comfortable.

Spencer starts reciting facts about the towns you pass through, pointing out obscure historical landmarks like he’s hosting his own nerdy podcast. You playfully correct him once, and he lights up.

“You’ve been paying attention when I ramble,” he says, sounding genuinely touched.

“Of course I do. It’s one of my favorite sounds,” you admit before you can stop yourself. The car goes quiet for a beat too long.

“Really?” he asks softly.

You clear your throat. “Yeah. It’s kind of like background music. But smarter.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, but you notice the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

A little while later, he turns on a podcast about penguin mating rituals. “I thought this might be thematically appropriate.”

“Because of the wedding?”

“Because some penguin species mate for life. I thought it was... sweet.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the quiet sincerity in his voice.

Eventually, the road hum and soft voice of the podcast lull you to sleep.

Your head drifts until it finds his shoulder, and he stiffens only for a moment before relaxing.

When you wake up, your cheek still pressed to him, you find his hand resting gently on your knee.

“You were snoring softly,” he says with a smile, his voice low. “It was cute.”

You flush and stretch, not moving away. “You let me sleep on you?”

He shrugs. “You looked comfortable. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Your heart does a soft, silly somersault.

You look out the window and smile. “This fake boyfriend thing? You’re already really good at it.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah. I might be in trouble."

You glance over at him, catching the way his fingers tighten just slightly on the steering wheel.

“In trouble how?” you ask, voice light, testing the waters.

He swallows, eyes flicking from the road to you, then back again. “Just… starting to realize how easy it is to pretend. Too easy, maybe.”

You don’t respond right away. The silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s soft, brimming with something unspoken. The kind of silence that only exists between people who are on the edge of something new.

Spencer clears his throat. “Also, your head is surprisingly heavy for someone so… not heavy.”

You snort. “Did you just call me dense?”

“I said surprisingly heavy. That’s different. Scientifically.”

You hum, mock-pensive. “I should’ve known you’d insult me with science.”

He smiles again—small and fond. “I wouldn’t dare. You’re very aerodynamic. Perfect for shoulder naps.”

You both laugh, and it breaks the tension just enough to breathe again.

The sun dips lower as the car winds through golden hills and quiet towns.

At one point, Spencer reaches across the center console and gently adjusts the blanket you'd haphazardly thrown over your lap earlier. His fingers brush your thigh, featherlight.

He doesn’t pull away immediately.

You turn your head, and for a heartbeat, you both just look at each other.

It’s not dramatic.

It's not a movie moment with music swelling.

It’s quiet.

Still.

But you feel it settle somewhere deep and certain.

You smile at him. “We’re gonna pull this off.”

He nods, but there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath catch.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I think we already are.”

...

The inn Spencer’s family reserved is charming in a way that feels almost too picturesque—wooden beams, soft lighting, flower boxes under every window.

It smells faintly of lavender and old books when you walk in, which feels on brand for a Reid wedding weekend.

Spencer checks in at the front desk while you take in the lobby, smiling at the framed photos of local landmarks and antique clock that ticks loudly in the silence.

The woman at the counter—Nancy, according to her name tag—hands Spencer one keycard and a warm grin. “We’ve got you both all set. Room 203, queen bed, garden view. Breakfast starts at seven, and congratulations, by the way!”

You blink. “Congratulations?”

Nancy winks. “You make a lovely couple. I hope the wedding goes beautifully.”

Spencer doesn’t respond—he just nods, thanks her politely, and practically power-walks you toward the elevator.

When the doors close, you look at him. “So… queen bed?”

He winces. “Apparently my cousin booked everything through a family rate package. She assumed we’d want one room since we’re…” he clears his throat, “a couple.”

You cross your arms, amused. “She really committed to the bit for us.”

“I can sleep on the floor,” he blurts, eyes wide. “I mean, or the chair, or—do hotel bathtubs count as beds if you’re desperate enough?”

You laugh. “Spencer. Relax. It’s just a bed.”

He hesitates, glancing at you sidelong.

"Right. Of course. Just a bed.”

The room is cute—floral wallpaper, a vintage desk, and yes, a single queen bed neatly made with a pale blue comforter. One bed. Right in the middle. No pullout couch in sight.

You drop your bag near the closet and sit on the edge of the mattress. “At least it’s fluffy.”

Spencer stands awkwardly by the window like he's unsure whether to sit, pace, or teleport out of the room.

You pat the other side of the bed. “C’mon. It’s not like we’re strangers.”

He walks over slowly, toeing off his shoes before sitting beside you, careful not to shift the mattress too much. “I know. I just… didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You glance at him, softer now. “Spence, you’ve read me bedtime stories when I couldn’t sleep, and once accidentally bought us a matching pair of Star Wars pajamas. I think we’re past ‘uncomfortable.’”

He smiles at that, eyes crinkling. “I forgot about the pajama incident.”

“I haven’t,” you tease. “Mine had little Ewoks.”

His voice is warm when he says, “You looked really cute in them.”

You both go quiet again.

Outside, the sun is dipping low, casting soft gold shadows across the room. It feels like you’re caught in a moment that doesn’t quite know what it wants to be yet—more than friends, but not quite labeled.

Not yet.

Finally, Spencer lies back carefully, folding his arms behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. “I’m just saying, if I roll over and accidentally elbow you in my sleep, it’s nothing personal.”

You slide under the comforter beside him, settling in with a little smile. “Noted. And if I steal all the blankets, you’re allowed to steal them back.”

He glances at you, eyes fond. “Deal.”

For a while, you both lie there in the dimming light, not touching but close enough to feel the warmth between you.

And even though the room only has one bed, somehow, it feels like just enough.

The room is dark now, save for the warm glow of the bedside lamp Spencer insisted on leaving on “in case you need to get up and don’t want to stub your toe,” which you’d teased him about affectionately.

You’re both lying in the bed, backs to each other at first—an unspoken, awkward little agreement made after brushing teeth side by side and pretending not to notice how close your shoulders were.

But now, a few long minutes later, Spencer shifts, and so do you, until you’re facing one another in the soft hush of the room.

“Are you warm enough?” he whispers.

You nod. “Mhm. You?”

“I think so.” He pauses. “The comforter is a little thin. But the proximity to another human increases shared body heat by at least three degrees.”

You smirk. “Was that your way of asking to cuddle?”

His eyes go wide. “No! I mean—unless—was it? I didn’t mean to. Unless you wanted to. Not that I’m assuming you do. Just, thermoregulation and all—”

You reach over and gently tug the sleeve of his t-shirt. “Spencer. Come here.”

He hesitates, but then scoots a little closer, tentative and sweet. You meet him halfway, curling into his side, your head tucked under his chin, his arm slipping around you like it was always meant to be there.

His heart is beating faster than usual. You can feel it against your cheek.

“You’re a very good fake boyfriend,” you murmur, letting your eyes close.

You feel him smile into your hair. “Thanks. I’ve been studying.”

You let out a sleepy laugh. “I can tell.”

Silence settles again—safe, content. His fingers gently trace circles against your back, slow and absent-minded, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

After a long while, just as you’re about to drift off, you hear him whisper:

“You smell like the lavender shampoo you always use.”

You hum. “You notice that?”

“Always.” He pauses, voice quieter now. “I notice a lot of things when it comes to you.”

Your heart thuds in your chest, but before you can say anything back, his breathing shifts, slowing into the steady rhythm of sleep.

You don’t move. You just smile, curling in closer, and let the feeling carry you gently into dreams.

You wake to soft light filtering through the gauzy curtains and the distant sound of birdsong.

For a moment, you’re not quite sure where you are—everything feels too warm, too still, too perfect.

And then you shift, only slightly, and realize there’s an arm wrapped around your waist.

Spencer.

His hand is resting on your hip, fingers curled just enough to anchor you there against him.

Your back is pressed to his chest, your legs tangled under the covers, your bodies aligned like puzzle pieces.

He’s still asleep, breath slow and warm at the back of your neck. You can feel it each time he exhales, like a secret.

You should move.

You should, except… you really, really don’t want to.

Instead, you let your eyes flutter closed again, and for a few minutes more, you simply exist in the comfort of it.

The quiet, the softness, the way his presence fits so easily into the morning.

Eventually, you feel him stir behind you.

His fingers twitch slightly against your side before he freezes, like he's just realized where he is and what he’s doing.

“…Good morning,” he says, voice husky and sleep-rough.

“Morning,” you whisper back, smiling into the pillow.

He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he shifts just enough to get more comfortable. You hear him exhale, like he’s been holding his breath since waking.

“I didn’t mean to—uh—sprawl,” he says, sounding adorably apologetic.

“You didn’t sprawl,” you say gently. “You snuggled. It was nice.”

There’s a pause. Then: “You think I snuggled?”

“You absolutely snuggled.”

“…Did I snore?”

You laugh. “Not even a little. Though you did mumble something about echidnas.”

He groans quietly. “Great.”

“I thought it was cute.”

You turn slightly so you can look at him.

His hair is a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep, and his cheek is creased from the pillow.

He’s never looked more endearing.

He gazes at you for a long, quiet second.

"This is going to sound strange, but… waking up with you felt really natural.”

Your smile softens. “It didn’t feel fake.”

“No,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Not at all.”

He reaches up, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear like it’s something he’s always done. His fingertips linger for just a moment too long.

You lean into his touch without thinking.

The knock at the door—his cousin announcing brunch downstairs—startles you both out of the moment.

But even as you untangle yourselves and climb reluctantly out of bed, the feeling lingers.

Something has shifted.

You both know it.

And maybe… maybe you don’t mind one bit.

...

The dining room smells like fresh cinnamon rolls and sunshine.

Golden light spills through wide windows, catching dust motes in the air and warming the linen-covered tables already cluttered with carafes of orange juice and scattered cutlery.

It's loud—but in that cozy, familial way that makes it feel like every voice has a place.

You and Spencer step in together, freshly dressed.

His sweater vest is just slightly crooked, and he’s fussing with his sleeves again—a telltale sign he’s nervous. You reach over and smooth the hem with a casual familiarity that catches even you off guard.

“Better?” you murmur.

He blinks down at you, nodding like you just saved his life. “Infinitely.”

His cousin—a woman with a messy bun, lipstick on her teeth, and an air of authority like she runs every group chat—waves from the far end of the room.

“Spencer! There you are! And this must be the famous girlfriend!”

A chorus of greetings follows. Chairs scrape. Someone makes room by scooting down with a dramatic sigh. You squeeze Spencer’s hand once before letting go and sliding into the empty seat next to him.

"Welcome to the chaos,” he murmurs, looking like he wants to sink into the floor and disappear.

You smile warmly. “Chaos is charming.”

"Spoken like someone who's never seen my family at a wedding."

Introductions come fast—half the table seems to be named either Julie or Dave, and every person seems determined to quiz you about how you met Spencer, what he’s like outside of the BAU, and most importantly, whether he’s always been “such a little know-it-all.”

“I heard he could recite Pi to, like, a thousand digits when he was eight,” one cousin says around a bite of blueberry pancake.

“I’m not that bad,” Spencer mutters, clearly mortified. “Just 1,022 digits.”

You bite back a grin and casually lace your fingers with his under the table.

His posture straightens immediately, his head turning to glance at you in soft surprise.

“Come on,” you tease gently. “It’s kind of impressive.”

“It’s kind of terrifying,” someone else says. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Spencer says automatically, but you can see the pink rising in his cheeks.

Later, the toddler brigade shows up—small children with juice mustaches and suspiciously sticky hands.

One of them, a wide-eyed girl with pigtails and a glittery dress, marches straight over to your side of the table.

She climbs into your lap like it’s her birthright and points an accusatory finger at Spencer.

“You! Tell me all your favorite dinosaurs. Right now.”

He blinks, startled. “All of them?”

“Just five. But the best five.”

Without missing a beat, he rattles off, “Deinonychus, Parasaurolophus, Therizinosaurus, Diplodocus, and Quetzalcoatlus.”

The little girl gasps. “The flying one?”

He nods. “Largest known pterosaur. Wingspan over thirty feet.”

She stares at him, awe-struck. “You’re like a real-life museum.”

You lean toward her and whisper loudly, “He even does the museum voice.”

“I do not—”

“He does!” you interrupt gleefully. “Give us your best ‘Welcome to the Natural History Exhibit’ voice.”

Spencer groans but plays along, deepening his tone with mock-solemnity. “Welcome to the Hall of Mesozoic Life, where the past comes roaring back to life.”

Laughter bubbles around the table. One of the uncles claps. The toddler claps. You beam.

Later, after she’s wandered off in search of more syrup, Spencer leans in close, eyes sparkling.

“You're really good with kids.”

You shrug, heart thudding a little. “You're really good with facts.”

“I didn’t mean that as a joke,” he says quietly, gaze lingering. “You just… fit in. Better than I ever expected.”

You try to breathe past the warmth blooming in your chest. “I like seeing this side of you.”

“What side?”

“This… soft, sweet, occasionally flustered side. And the dinosaur trivia doesn’t hurt.”

He ducks his head, hiding his smile in his teacup.

Halfway through brunch, a spontaneous toast begins—someone stands and clinks a fork against their mimosa glass, calling for “a round of love stories.”

“Oh no,” Spencer whispers, squeezing your hand.

“What?”

“It’s a tradition. Everyone shares how they met their partners. Every single couple. I didn’t think we’d get called on.”

You grin. “Guess we’d better improvise.”

When it’s your turn, you straighten your posture and beam at the table.

“We met in the library,” you begin, and Spencer exhales slowly beside you, relieved. “I was trying to reach a book on the top shelf—The Psychology of Collective Memory, if anyone cares.”

“She called me tall and intimidating,” Spencer adds dutifully.

“You were looming,” you say, teasing.

“She thought I worked there,” he says.

“You had a name tag!”

He leans closer, his smile lazy and warm now. “You asked me out a week later.”

You look at him, surprised—but nod. “I did. Best impulsive decision of my life.”

The table collectively awws. Someone mutters, “Get a room,” and someone else offers to officiate if “things escalate before the ceremony.”

Spencer’s hand is still in yours under the table.

His thumb strokes across your skin, soft and slow.

There’s something very real about it now—too warm to be performance, too natural to be coincidence.

And when the toast ends and you lean into his side just a little, he lets you. Quietly, easily. Like he was always waiting for the chance.

After brunch, as the family begins to scatter and the kids start racing up and down the hallway with napkins on their heads like superhero capes, you and Spencer hang back at the table.

He looks over at you, shy and fond. “Thank you for doing this.”

You bump your shoulder gently against his. “I’m kind of having fun.”

“I keep forgetting it’s not real,” he says quietly.

You meet his eyes. “Same.”

And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his family and the leftover smell of syrup and orange juice, you realize—pretending doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.

It feels like something you don’t want to let go of.

The pre-wedding reception is held outside, under strings of golden fairy lights and the soft hum of a hired jazz trio.

Everything smells like lilac and freshly mown grass.

Tables are scattered across the lawn, twinkle lights woven through centerpieces of wildflowers and white roses.

You and Spencer arrive just as the sun dips low on the horizon, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. He's beside you, freshly changed into a deep navy blazer and that soft, nervous smile he wears like armor.

“You look beautiful,” he says, almost too quietly to hear.

You glance over, heart doing that ridiculous flutter it’s been doing all weekend. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Dr. Reid.”

His ears flush pink. You nudge him playfully with your shoulder.

The two of you are barely through your first round of canapés when Spencer is whisked away by an aunt determined to introduce him to someone she swears is a cousin but might actually just be her neighbor.

You’re left alone, sipping your drink, watching kids chase bubbles near the dance floor.

That’s when he appears.

Ryan. Spencer’s second cousin. Or third? You can’t remember. He’s charming, golden-tanned, and clearly two drinks in.

He plucks a champagne flute from a tray and slides into the seat beside you with a grin that’s just shy of too confident.

“So… you’re the famous fake girlfriend.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He smirks. “I figured. No way a guy like Spencer pulls someone like you without divine intervention. Or bribery.”

You stiffen. “Well, I guess miracles happen.”

“I’m just saying,” Ryan continues, leaning a little too close, “if this whole thing is just for show, maybe you’d want some… real company later?”

Before you can respond—or throw your drink in his face—a familiar voice interrupts, quiet but sharp.

“She’s already in real company.”

Spencer’s back.

He’s standing just behind Ryan, eyes unreadable but jaw tight. His hand finds yours instantly, fingers lacing through yours with more certainty than you’ve felt all weekend.

Ryan laughs, holding up his hands. “Hey, man. No offense. Just thought she might want some actual fun.”

Spencer tilts his head slightly. “Fun, statistically speaking, often involves mutual interest. And consent.”

You nearly choke on your drink.

Ryan mutters something and slinks off toward the bar.

You turn to Spencer, surprised, but he’s still holding your hand, thumb brushing across your skin in slow, grounding strokes.

“You okay?” he asks softly, eyes scanning your face.

“Yeah. Thank you. That was very… chivalrous of you.”

He shifts, a little embarrassed now. “I just didn’t like the way he was talking to you.”

“You didn’t have to come to my rescue, you know.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to.”

Something flickers between you—warm and full of questions you’re not ready to ask yet. The music shifts to something slower, something sweeter.

And before you can overthink it, Spencer gently tugs your hand. “Dance with me?”

You let him lead you onto the grass, where a few couples sway under the fairy lights.

His arms slide around you, one hand settling at your waist, the other cradling your hand against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You know,” you murmur, resting your head against his shoulder, “if you keep doing things like that, I might actually fall for you.”

His breath catches, but when he answers, it’s soft, honest.

“…Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.”

The music plays on. The stars blink to life above you. And in his arms, nothing feels fake anymore.

...

The wedding ends in a blur of dancing, laughter, and sparklers flickering in the night air.

By the time you and Spencer stumble back into your shared room, shoes in hand and cheeks still flushed from spinning each other around the dance floor, the inn is quiet.

Only the muffled sound of someone giggling down the hall reminds you the night hasn’t quite ended for everyone.

Spencer sets your shoes by the door like they’re made of glass, then shrugs off his jacket, looking content and sleep-soft in his white button-down and loosened tie.

“That was…” you start.

“A lot?” he finishes, smiling gently.

You laugh. “I was going to say beautiful.”

He turns toward you, face lit only by the lamp you flicked on by the bed. “Yeah. It really was.”

There’s a pause. A warm, quiet kind.

“I cried during the vows,” he admits suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I know,” you say with a fond smile. “I noticed. You were blinking really hard and pretending to adjust your tie every five seconds.”

He groans. “I was trying to be subtle!”

“You were about as subtle as a fire alarm,” you tease, walking over to him and gently fixing the part of his tie that’s askew. “But it was cute.”

His gaze finds yours and doesn’t let go.

“I guess weddings are just… a lot for me,” he says softly. “So much love in one place. It’s overwhelming.”

You nod, fingers still at the knot of his tie. “In a good way?”

He hesitates. “In a way that makes me wish I had that. For real.”

The quiet between you deepens. Thickens.

You look up at him, your hands slipping from his tie to rest lightly on his chest.

“Spence…”

He exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a moment like he’s debating whether or not to say the next words.

But when he opens them again, there’s only honesty there.

“I thought pretending to be with you would be harder,” he whispers. “But it’s not. It’s easier than pretending not to want this all the time.”

Your breath catches.

“I know we said it was fake,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper now. “But every time I looked at you tonight—laughing with my cousins, dancing with me, kissing my cheek when my aunt got too nosy—I kept forgetting we were pretending.”

You feel the words sink into your chest, warm and weightless at once.

“I wasn’t pretending,” you say, quiet but certain.

His eyes widen just a little. “You weren’t?”

You shake your head, stepping closer.

“I wanted to hold your hand. I wanted to slow dance with you. I wanted to fall asleep next to you and wake up and do it all again tomorrow.”

Spencer looks stunned—like someone just gave him a map to a place he never thought he’d reach.

Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts a hand and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “You mean it?”

“I do,” you whisper.

He lets out a breath—half laugh, half relief—and leans his forehead against yours.

“I’m kind of in love with you,” he murmurs.

“Just a little. Or maybe a lot.”

Your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. “That’s good. Because I’m kind of in love with you too.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes shining, smile soft and disbelieving.

Then he cups your cheek like you’re something fragile and precious and presses the gentlest kiss to your forehead.

You melt.