love4u184

You consider yourself to be a fairly level-headed person. You don’t have road rage episodes or get into petty arguments. Hell, you face down the worst human depravity has to offer without flinching.

Naturally, you find your breaking point in young smiley intern. An intern who happens to be a little too friendly with your boyfriend. Spencer of course, is none the wiser- or if he is, he’s painfully bad at doing anything about it.

As you walk back into the bull pen with your third coffee of the day, you see it immediately. That intern- Emma? Eva- No definitely Emma, with her chair rolled far away from her desk, now thoroughly in Spencer’s space.

You know his body language well. The stiffness in his posture and occasional rapid blinking read as clear discomfort. He’s always been easy to fluster, especially in the company of an attractive woman. You two have been dating for a year and he still gets adorably red in the face when you flirt with him. But there’s a difference between flirting it in the private of your own shared apartment versus in the middle of your workplace.

Your jaw clenches when you hear Emma laugh a little too loudly as she touches his knee, but you keep your cool as you walk through the bull pen. Spencer’s an adult, he’s in a relationship, he has the ability to set boundaries, to tell her-

You watch her reach forward and adjust his tie. He freezes with an awkward smile, one of his hands lifting and pausing in the air uselessly.

You don’t even realize that you’ve turned to march towards his his desk until his eyes widen as they meet yours. You can’t tell if they’re saying ‘please help me’ or ‘please don’t be mad’. Probably both.

He opens his mouth as if in a last ditch effort to alleviate the situation, but he’s too slow as you stop in front of the two of them, clearing your throat as you set your coffee mug on his desk.

“Excuse me.”

She turn and looks up at you, her smile fading slightly, but not quite enough for your liking.

“Oh, Agent uh… can I help you with something?“

“Did your desk move, miss…?” You question, your voice even.

“Uh Robbins- Emma Robbins.” She gestures to her desk, “and no, it’s just over there.” She smiles politely, clearly unaware of the danger she’s in.

You hum curtly, your voice dripping with condescension, “Wow, that’s so interesting. There must be something wrong with your chair, it’s drifted nearly ten feet away.”

Her smile drops more, a look of confusion starting to take its place.

Spencer is still frozen in his seat, glancing between the two of you.

“What?” She almost says with a laugh, as she looks at Spencer before turning back to you. “We’re just talking… is there a problem?”

You cross your arms and forward slightly, voice lowering, “My problem is your clear lack of physical boundaries in the work place. With a superior no less-”

Spencer says your name but you shoot him a look that shuts him up instantly.

Emma on the other hand is now slightly taken aback, saying, “Lack of-?” She huffs. “Dr. Reid and I are friends, it’s fine-“

“No, it’s not fine.” You snap quietly. “This is the FBI. Act like it. You barely work here and you’re already begging to get fired, so I suggest you take yourself down the hall to HR and ask for a refresher on the concept of personal space. If that’s too hard for you to wrap your head around, then I suggest you consider a different career path.”

She scoffs, “Too hard? I graduated at the top of my class!”

“Well it doesn’t show.”

Her face reddens and her eyes flicker to the floor at your beratement. Your words are cold, your gaze even colder.

“Did you not fucking hear me? Get up.”

She only spares Spencer a quick glance as she stands.

You step forward and bite out quietly, “and if I ever see you lay a fucking finger on my boyfriend again, I will make sure you never take a step in this building again. Got it?”

She stares at me tensely before turning away and fleeing the bullpen.

You take a breath and glance around. Only a couple people look up from their desks as she leaves. You weren’t too loud. She didn’t deserve that much humiliation… and you don’t like other people in your business.

You sit down in her abandoned chair next to Spencer, deflating with a sigh, as if the confrontation completely drained you.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Spencer speaks quietly, those puppy dog eyes softening your gaze instantly.

You huff, straightening back up, “I did. She was making you uncomfortable.” You look away and mumble, “and it’s not like you were doing anything about it…”

“I- I’ve tried.” He says weakly.

“Hey.” He says a little more firmly, putting his hand on your shoulder, getting you to look back at him.

He gives you a small tense smile. “I wasn’t sure… I didn’t want to say the wrong thing or- or misjudge…”

You look back over at him, “Spencer, it doesn’t matter what she meant by it. You’re allowed to say you’re uncomfortable.”

“I know… I’m sorry.” He swallows, fidgeting with his hands, “You’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you… okay maybe a little bit, but I’m already getting over it. It’s not a big deal okay?”

He nods silently.

“Hey, I mean it.” You put Your hand over his as he drops it from your arm. “I might’ve been a little out of line there too.”

He squeezes your hand gingerly, just for a moment before letting it go. Neither of you are big on PDA. Especially at work.

“…I think you made her cry.” He bares his teeth awkwardly.

“What?! I did not.” You voice raises an octave in your protest.

“She turned right down the hallway instead of left. Left goes to HR, right is towards the restrooms. Based on her behavior-“

“Okay, okay. I went too far I get it.” You let out a huff. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.” You say, running a hand over your face.

“It’s okay.” He says softly, biting the inside of his cheek in hesitation.

“It was kinda…” he trails off with a slight blush.

“Kinda what?”

“Nothing, uh- I don’t know.” He says quickly, scrunching his nose like he’s trying to readjust his expression.

Your eyes narrow and you lean your elbow on his desk, “Well now I have to know.”

“Can I- can I just tell you later?” His expression is endearingly pleading.

You hum, considering the request.

“Fine. Later.” You sit back up and grab his arm so you can look at his watch.

2:57pm.

“How many more files do you have left to review?”

“Four. Why?”

“I only have a couple left. I bet we could get out of here early if we lock in.”

“My average time spent reviewing a file averages to about twenty-three minutes, your average is about fifty-five, so we’re likely to to both be done by five ‘o-clock.”

“Ugh, its so depressing that we consider that getting out early- wait you time how long I take on files?”

“I did when we first got together. Maybe before that.” He clears his throat before talking quickly with his hands, “I uh- I wanted to be able to estimate what time you would get finished so I could alter my work pace to get done at the same time as you.”

“Why?”

“So I could walk you to your car.”

Your heart melts at his little unsure smile and you have to hold yourself back from kissing him silly.

You smile back with a softness that’s only reserved for him, before saying, “Well then, I’m gonna get back to work so we can go home soon.”

He nods, “good… me too.”

You stand up, grabbing Your cup of coffee from his desk.

“But I still wanna know what you were going to say earlier.”

He gives another silent nod before ducking his head down, retreating into the file on his desk. You smile at the poor attempt to hide his blush as you walk back to your own desk.

-+*~.-+*~.-+*~.-+*~.-+*~.-

“It was kinda hot.”

“Hmm?” You turn around and look at him as you shut the door to your apartment.

He shrugs off his messenger bag, fiddling with the strap before setting it down.

“Uh, earlier, you wanted to know what I was going to say,” he wipes his hands on the front of his pants before adjusting his glasses. Words fall out of his mouth in quick succession, “It was kinda…hot, what you said to her- Emma- er I- I mean that intern girl… well not what you said technically, but what you did… uh actually why you did it.”

You take a step closer to him with your brows raised in interest. “Oh… really?”

Spencer smiles awkwardly and ducks his head, “Honestly I feel a little bad about it… I mean I’d rather not derive pleasure from others discomfort, but I-“

You reach down and loop your pointer fingers through the belt loops on the front of his pants and pull him closer, making him fumble over his words.

“I- I um…” he trails off.

“Hm?” You hum in question, glancing down at his lips.

“I uh,” he chuckles softly as your action scrambles his thoughts, his cheeks pink.

He clears his throat.

“Nothing… I- nothing.” He breaths out, glancing down at your lips and swallowing tensely.

You finally close the distance between your faces as you lean in. You lips move soft and slowly against his as you release his belt loops and slide you hands up to cradle his face.

Spencer’s hands automatically find their way to you hips for just a moment, before his arms wind their way around your body, pulling you closer. His lips are soft and eager, his shyness from a few seconds ago melting away.

When you part, he has that hazy blissful look in his eyes. It makes you want to eat him.

“You don’t have to feel bad. I promise I won’t tell anyone.” You run your thumbs over his flushed cheeks gently, your voice soft.

He smiles sweetly and whispers, “okay.”

“Besides… you’re a better person than me. I promise.”

He hums, still just looking at you dreamily.

Your brow furrows indignantly, “Hey you’re supposed say ‘What? No no! You’re such a good person!”

He laughs, snapping out of it slightly, “You are a good person. Just a bit intense sometimes... and a little intimidating… and smart… and really pretty… and-“

You cut him off with another kiss, more intense this time… apparently just like you.

And he eats it up.

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Click each individual Chapter to take you where you want to go.

CH 1) Swords and Sweethearts

CH 2) Unsheathed

CH 3) Mettle of a Man

CH 4) Ronin's Shadow

CH 5) Hunter's Inn

CH 6) In the Bamboo

CH 7) Nothing Like the Night

CH 8) Night Like Nothing

CH 9) Down the River

CH 10) Once a Hunter

Spencer Reid had solved murders faster than this.

He had identified offenders from a single blurry photograph and a handful of contradictory witness statements that should, by all reasonable standards, have led nowhere. He had built psychological profiles from fragments of behavior that other people dismissed as noise, from inconsistencies in tone, timing, geography, and motive that only made sense once his mind had already begun stitching them together. He had memorized entire textbooks after a single read and spent years accumulating knowledge so dense it might as well have been its own language. His mind was engineered, always moving forward toward understanding. It was what made him valuable at the FBI. It was what made him one of the best profilers in the bureau.

And yet, somehow, after two full days, he still had absolutely no idea how to fix his argument with you.

The realization was becoming increasingly frustrating.

Because unlike a case, there was no evidence board to organize. No witness interviews to conduct. No behavioral indicators he could neatly categorize and analyze until a solution presented itself. There was only silence. Two days of it.

Forty-eight hours.

Two thousand eight hundred and eighty minutes.

One hundred and seventy-two thousand, eight hundred seconds.

Not that he had been counting.

Not intentionally, at least.

The numbers just…appeared, uninvited, the way facts tended to do in his head when something refused to resolve itself.

The argument itself kept replaying in his head whenever he had a free moment, his mind returning to it with the same relentless persistence it reserved for unsolved cases. It happened during paperwork. During meetings. While standing in line for coffee. While brushing his teeth before bed. The memory would surface without warning, unfolding with such perfect clarity that it sometimes felt less like recollection and more like reliving it in real time. Every sentence was preserved in his memory exactly as it had happened. Every pause. Every look. Every slight hesitation between words.

He could remember the exact way your eyebrows had pulled together when he said something wrong. Just that small movement between your eyes that he had learned to recognize over time, the one that always appeared when you were hurt but trying not to show it. He remembered the way your arms had crossed over your chest afterward. He remembered the slight tension in your shoulders. The way your gaze had briefly dropped toward the floor before returning to him.

And he remembered your voice.

That was the part that haunted him most.

Not because you had been angry.

Because you hadn’t.

Spencer almost wished you had yelled.

He wished you had raised your voice, accused him of being an idiot, thrown every frustration directly at his face so he would have something concrete to work with. Anger was understandable. Anger was measurable. Anger had direction. He could have apologized for anger. He could have identified the source and addressed it.

But disappointment? it was infinitely worse.

That was the truly maddening part.

Spencer Reid’s entire career was built around understanding people.

Patterns made sense to him. Motives made sense to him. Human behavior, despite its complexity, usually made sense to him.

Yet somehow the further he examined the argument, the less certain he became. Every conclusion led to three more possibilities. Every explanation seemed incomplete. Maybe it had been something he said. Maybe it had been something he hadn’t said. Maybe it wasn’t about that specific conversation at all. Maybe it was something that had been bothering you for weeks and had finally reached a breaking point.

His mind chased possibilities endlessly, constructing theories only to discard them moments later, each one dissolving under the weight of another, quieter truth he didn’t want to examine too closely.

Which was unfortunate.

Because he missed you.

A lot more than he had initially allowed himself to quantify.

The absence was no longer just a shift in routine or a simple change in the office dynamic. It was everywhere now: seeping into the margins of his attention, slipping between case files, hiding in the pauses between conversations that used to include you so naturally he had never thought to appreciate them.

Cases felt longer, too.

Not because the work itself had changed, crime scenes still demanded the same precision, profiles still required the same mental architecture, but because he kept finding himself reaching for moments that weren’t there anymore. Small things. The insignificant things that should have been irrelevant in the grand structure of his day, and yet had somehow become essential without his permission.

He would turn slightly in his chair after spotting a pattern in a victimology report, already forming the sentence in his mind, already anticipating the way your voice, always quicker than people expected from someone who wasn’t even in the Bureau, would respond. You, Morgan’s younger sister, the civilian presence who had somehow become an unspoken part of their orbit at the work, drifting in and out of the bullpen with coffee runs, questions, or just the kind of energy that made the fluorescent lighting feel less oppressive.

And then the moment would collapse.

Because you weren’t there.

He’d look up from a report after discovering a strange historical correlation, something useless to most people, but exactly the kind of detail he knew would make you laugh and tell him he “needed a hobby that wasn’t trivia disguised as trauma” and his hand would already be halfway toward his phone before he remembered there was no message thread actively unfolding between you two at that moment. Only silence where there had recently been a rhythm.

Even coffee tasted worse, which he knew was irrational because, chemically speaking, the coffee was identical. Same beans, same machine, same burnt undertone that lingered too long on the tongue. And yet it felt different sitting alone in the break room, like the absence of your commentary had somehow altered the physics of it. Like taste, somehow, had become contextual.

Spencer sat at his desk, shoulders slightly hunched, a thin folder open in front of him that he had reread three times without absorbing a single line. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead with a mechanical patience that made the silence feel even louder. Around him, the bullpen continued its usual rhythm, papers shuffled, phones rang, the distant cadence of someone's laughter breaking briefly through the procedural monotony.

And still, none of it reached him properly.

Then, agent Morgan dropped into the chair across from him with the kind of familiarity that didn’t require permission, leaning back like he had already decided this conversation was happening whether Spencer was ready for it or not.

“Pretty boy.”

Spencer blinked, as if the word had taken a moment to travel through whatever fog had settled behind his eyes.

“What?” he replied, though it came out slightly delayed, like he had to retrieve himself from somewhere else before answering.

“You’ve been reading the same page for ten minutes,” he repeated, slower this time.

Spencer’s grip tightened slightly on the file before he corrected, almost automatically, “I have not.”

Morgan didn’t even bother arguing. He simply lifted a hand and pointed across the desk with an almost lazy precision.

“The paper is upside down.”

There was a beat of silence where Spencer didn’t move at all, as though his brain had to reassemble the last thirty seconds into something coherent. Then, slowly, he looked down.

The page was, in fact, upside down.

“…oh,” he said, softly. Not quite embarrassed, not quite resigned, just caught in the inconvenient reality of being observed too closely by someone who knew him too well.

Morgan let out a short snort, shaking his head like he’d just confirmed a suspicion rather than discovered anything new.

“What’s going on with you?”

Spencer didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he straightened the file, even though it didn’t need fixing, aligning the corners with unnecessary precision as if structure could substitute for composure. His eyes stayed on the desk, on the scattered papers that suddenly felt too loud in their stillness.

“I’m fine,” he said at last, a little too quickly, like the words had been waiting right at the surface and only needed the smallest excuse to spill out.

“Reid.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Reid.”

Spencer’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly at the repetition, the way Morgan’s voice had shifted from teasing to something sharper, more deliberate. There was no escape hatch in that tone. Only persistence.

He sighed, the sound quiet and tired in a way that didn’t belong to the report in front of him, and certainly not to the fluorescent-lit bullpen that usually kept everything neatly compartmentalized.

“What?”

Morgan leaned back again, studying him with a growing certainty that had nothing to do with profiling and everything to do with experience. The kind of certainty that came from knowing someone long enough to recognize when they were lying even before they opened their mouth.

“Girl?”

The single word hit the air like a thrown object.

Spencer froze.

Morgan’s grin widened, slow and unmistakably victorious.

“Oh my God,” he said, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees. “There is a girl.”

“No.”

It came out too fast.

Too practiced.

Morgan tilted his head. “That wasn’t a denial.”

“It was.”

“It was the worst denial I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Spencer dragged a hand down his face, pressing briefly at his eyes as if physical pressure might reset the conversation entirely. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. Derek Morgan wasn’t the type to let something go once he had it between his teeth.

“It’s not—” Spencer started, then stopped, because even he didn’t know what direction that sentence was supposed to go in.

“You got a girlfriend?”

“No.”

Morgan’s eyebrows lifted so high they practically disappeared into his forehead. “Oh.”

A beat.

Then, softer, almost delighted: “Secret girlfriend?”

The silence that followed wasn’t loud, but it was definitive. It filled the space between them in a way no words could compete with, settling over Spencer like gravity finally deciding to stop being generous.

Morgan blinked once.

Then twice.

And then he leaned back so abruptly his chair creaked, one hand flying up to his chest like he needed to physically contain his reaction.

“Oh my God,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t teasing. It was disbelief wrapped around amusement. “Reid. No. No way.”

Spencer lowered his voice immediately, shoulders tightening as he glanced around the bullpen like the entire building had suddenly become invested in his personal collapse. “Please lower your voice.”

“You have a secret girlfriend?”

“Technically,” Spencer admitted, reluctantly, as if even the word came with conditions he hadn’t fully agreed to.

Morgan froze for half a second.

That was worse than any reaction so far.

“Since when?”

“Five months.”

The word landed.

Morgan made a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh, choking slightly as he leaned forward again, eyes widening in genuine shock. “Five months?!”

Heads turned.

A few agents paused mid-step. Someone near the coffee station actually looked over their shoulder. Even the hum of the bullpen seemed to tilt toward them for a moment, like the entire room had decided this was more interesting than paperwork.

Spencer felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. He wished, with a kind of desperate clarity, that the floor would simply give up on him and solve the problem permanently.

Morgan, entirely unhelpful, looked delighted in the worst possible way.

“You’ve been dating someone for five months and nobody knows?” he asked, voice lower now but no less incredulous.

“It wasn’t intentional,” Spencer muttered.

Morgan gave him a look that said he did not believe in accidents of that magnitude.

“It absolutely was intentional.”

Spencer exhaled through his nose, a tired sound that carried the weight of someone who had stopped trying to win this particular argument.

“Can we not focus on that part?”

Morgan’s expression changed slightly at that, just enough to signal he’d caught something underneath the embarrassment. The teasing didn’t disappear, but it softened at the edges.

“Something happened,” he said instead.

Spencer hesitated.

It was subtle, but enough.

His eyes dropped to the desk. To the corner of the file he’d been straightening for no reason. To anything except his friend.

Morgan didn’t need more than that.

“You fought.”

“It was a disagreement,” Spencer corrected automatically, as if the phrasing might make it less real.

Morgan scoffed. “How long since you’ve talked?”

A pause.

Spencer hesitated just long enough to give himself away.

“…two days.”

Morgan let out a slow, low whistle, leaning back again like the situation had just upgraded itself from something interesting to an inevitable disaster.

“Damn,” he said simply.

Spencer rubbed a hand over his face, dragging it down like he could erase the entire conversation if he tried hard enough.

“I know,” he muttered.

“What happened?”

Spencer hesitated.

Normally, he would never have even come close to discussing his relationship with anyone at work. It wasn’t just a boundary, it was a principle. Something he kept carefully intact because once you started letting people in, even a little, they tended to see things you weren’t ready to explain. But Derek Morgan wasn’t just anyone at work. He was his friend. And worse, in this specific case, he was also your big brother, which meant there were layers of complication Spencer hadn’t fully accounted for when he started dating you in the first place.

So he spoke anyway.

Not your name. Never your name. Just fragments that still somehow felt too revealing.

He explained how he had missed a dinner he had promised would be just the two of you, no cases, no interruptions, no excuses waiting in the wings. He explained how it hadn’t been malicious, how time had slipped in the way it always did, like sand through fingers he didn’t realize were open until it was already gone. He explained how it wasn’t even the first time, and how that detail alone had changed the entire shape of the conversation when he finally walked through the door too late.

And then he admitted, less willingly, that when frustration came, when disappointment turned into something sharper, he had reacted instead of listening. That he had defended himself with logic, with context, with all the reasons that made sense in his head but apparently didn’t matter in the moment they were spoken. That somewhere between explaining and insisting, he had stopped hearing the part where it wasn’t about being right.

By the end of it, neither of them had apologized. Not properly. Not in a way that closed anything. Just a silence that stretched and hardened until it became its own kind of wall.

Derek listened the entire time without interrupting, which, in hindsight, should have been Spencer’s first warning.

When he finally finished, Morgan leaned back in his chair, exhaled through his nose, and looked at him with the kind of expression usually reserved for malfunctioning equipment or particularly disappointing case files.

“You were an idiot.”

Spencer blinked once. “What?”

“You were an idiot.”

“I don’t think that’s objectively—”

“You forgot dinner.”

“There was a case, and my mind was…occupied,” Spencer corrected quickly, almost reflexively, as if precision could soften the accusation.

Morgan pointed at him like that settled it. “Exactly. You don’t forget things. You remember license plates from twenty years ago, but you forgot a dinner you promised her?”

Spencer opened his mouth, then stopped. Closed it. Then tried again anyway, because not responding felt worse.

“I know,” he admitted quietly.

“And then instead of apologizing,” Morgan continued, “you gave her a lecture about why you forgot.”

“…yes.”

Morgan nodded once, like the case was already solved. “Yeah. Idiot.”

Spencer sank a little deeper into his chair, as if he could physically distance himself from the conclusion. “I wasn’t trying to upset her,” he said, quieter now. “Logically, if I explained the circumstances, she would understand why I missed it.”

Morgan let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Kid, women don’t always want logic.”

“That’s statistically impossible,” Spencer said automatically, because it was safer than sitting with the rest of it.

Morgan didn’t even acknowledge that.

He just leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, the humor in his expression thinning into something steadier, less teasing now, more grounded, like he was done playing with the situation and had decided to actually look at it.

“Sometimes they just want you to admit you hurt their feelings.”

Spencer considered that for a moment longer than most people would have. His mind, as usual, tried to systematize it, translate it into something measurable, something predictable. But it didn’t settle into a neat equation. It hovered instead, annoyingly unresolved.

“You know what she’s waiting for right now?” Morgan continued, like he was narrating something painfully obvious. “An apology. And flowers. Be classic about it.”

Spencer blinked. “…that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

The simplicity of it almost offended him on principle.

“But what if she’s still angry?” he asked, because of course he had to account for every possible variable. “Anger doesn’t resolve instantly just because an apology is issued. There’s usually a cooling period, sometimes followed by—”

“Reid.” Morgan cut in flatly.

Spencer tried again, more quietly. “What if she doesn’t forgive me?”

Morgan let out a short laugh, shaking his head like the question itself was exhausting.

“Trust me,” he said. “If she’s put up with you for five months, she’s not leaving that easily.”

That earned the smallest shift in Spencer’s expression. Not quite relief, but something close enough to soften the edges. A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth before he could stop it.

Morgan noticed immediately, of course.

And then, like he couldn’t help himself, he added casually, almost offhand, too casual to be innocent:

“What’s her name anyway?”

The shift was immediate and almost physical.

Spencer went still in a way that wasn’t simply silence, it was interruption at the level of thought. Like whatever careful, fragile structure he had been maintaining inside his head had just been tapped in the wrong place and was now threatening to collapse in on itself. His eyes lifted too quickly, then dropped just as fast, betraying him before he could even attempt to form something resembling composure.

“…What?” he said, but it came out too sharp, too reflexive, as if the question itself had accused him of something.

Morgan tilted his head, watching him with the slow, patient attention of someone who had just found something interesting and had no intention of letting it go. “Her name,” he repeated, softer now, almost conversational. “The mystery girlfriend you’ve been circling around for the last half hour.”

Spencer’s brain did something deeply unhelpful, like attempt to exit his skull.

“I—” he started.

Then stopped.

Then tried again, weaker this time. “I didn’t say she was— I mean, I didn’t specify—”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Reid.”

That single word cut straight through whatever remaining momentum Spencer had been clinging to.

He stopped.

The silence that followed felt too loud for a room that had only seconds ago contained casual conversation. Spencer’s gaze dropped, then flicked away again, as if eye contact had become structurally unsafe. He adjusted his grip on his bag strap with unnecessary force, like he could physically organize his thoughts if he held onto something hard enough.

“I should go,” he said quickly, already moving before the sentence had fully finished forming, chair scraping faintly behind him as he stood a fraction too fast.

Morgan leaned back in his seat, utterly at ease now, watching the whole thing unfold like it was entertainment he hadn’t expected to enjoy this much.

Spencer didn’t look at him. Didn’t dare.

He just grabbed his bag, too tight, too precise, like if he handled it correctly he could still salvage what was left of his dignity.

Behind him, Morgan called after him, voice edged with amusement that had fully settled in now, no longer restrained by sympathy or hesitation.

“Kid.”

Spencer froze, hand on the strap.

Morgan’s grin widened. “You’re worse at hiding things than you are at talking to women.”

Well, that wasn’t what his little sister could say.

***

Spencer Reid found you at your work just after midday, when the world inside your building was caught in that peculiar rhythm of motion without urgency. He stood outside for a moment longer than necessary, as if the threshold itself required preparation. The flowers in his hands were simple, chosen with intent rather than extravagance, but even that simplicity had been carefully overthought, the stems adjusted and readjusted until they were aligned in a way that made sense only to him. He shifted his grip once, then again, thumb brushing against the wrapping as though precision could somehow translate into reassurance.

When he finally stepped inside, the change was immediate. The hum of the place wrapped around him, warmer, more alive, and suddenly he was hyperaware of everything: his own footsteps, the faint rustle of paper in his hand, the way his presence seemed to interrupt a rhythm he hadn’t been part of a second ago. He saw you before you saw him.

That alone made his pulse jump.

You were mid-task, completely absorbed in whatever demanded your attention at that moment, posture angled slightly forward in a way that suggested focus so deep it made the rest of the room irrelevant. There was a pen in your hand, and your hair had fallen slightly out of place, soft strands escaping whatever attempt you had made earlier to control them. Your expression was set in concentration, the kind that made you look, for a fleeting second, unreachable. Not distant in an emotional sense, but sealed inside your own momentum, like the world would have to wait until you decided otherwise.

It hit him again then, that disorienting realization that never fully settled no matter how many times he experienced it: you were not an equation he could balance, not a pattern he could predict, not a hypothesis that yielded itself neatly to observation. You were real in a way his mind struggled to compress into something manageable. Not something to analyze. Not something to solve. Just you...existing in front of him with an immediacy that made everything else feel slightly out of focus.

He cleared his throat softly.

It was small, almost tentative, but it still felt too loud in his own ears.

Your eyes lifted.

There was a pause before you registered him fully.

It wasn’t immediate. First came confusion, like your mind briefly refusing to assign meaning to what you were seeing. Then recognition flickered through, softening that confusion just enough to make it real. And then something sharper settled in behind your gaze, like you were weighing the space between him showing up and him leaving again, and deciding which outcome you were prepared to tolerate.

Spencer swallowed.

“I—hi,” he started, and then immediately looked like he regretted choosing that particular arrangement of syllables. His shoulders shifted minutely, tension tightening and releasing in uneven pulses. “I brought…flowers.”

He lifted them slightly, like he was presenting something far more fragile than it already was. The bouquet tilted just a fraction in his grip, stems aligned with an almost anxious precision, as though even their angle might influence how this moment unfolded.

You blinked at them.

Then at him.

Then back at the flowers, as if your brain was taking a second longer than usual to reconcile intention with reality.

“…Okay,” you said slowly, the word drawn out with cautious neutrality, like you were waiting for the rest of the sentence to arrive and complete whatever meaning this was supposed to have.

Spencer nodded too quickly. “Yes. Right. They’re not— I mean, they’re not symbolic of anything negative.” He paused, corrected himself mid-thought, then continued with increasing urgency, “They’re actually meant to be apologetic.”

That made your brows lift slightly.

His grip on the flowers tightened a fraction before he forced it to relax.

“I missed our dinner,” he said suddenly, words spilling forward now that the threshold had been crossed. “And I know that wasn’t the first time, and I know I said it wouldn’t happen again, and I did try to come back but the case ran longer than expected and I should have called earlier, or at least sent a message, and I understand why you were upset because it’s not really about the dinner itself, it’s about—”

“Spencer.”

The interruption was quiet, but it landed cleanly.

He stopped instantly, like a switch had been flipped somewhere inside him. His mouth closed, the rest of the explanation collapsing unfinished behind his teeth. He looked at you properly then, as if realizing for the first time in the last thirty seconds that he hadn’t actually been speaking to resolve anything, you were supposed to be part of the conversation, not just the endpoint of it.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, simpler this time. “I shouldn’t have missed it. And I shouldn’t have made you feel like it didn’t matter.”

Spencer’s gaze stayed on you, careful now in a different way. Less defensive. More exposed.

Then, almost reluctantly, like the admission had to physically push its way out of him, he added, “And I…asked Morgan for advice, you should know it.”

There was a pause.

A very specific kind of pause, the kind that didn’t belong to silence so much as to realization. Like your brain had to double-check it had processed the sentence correctly before allowing any reaction to form.

Your expression changed first. Not immediately disbelief, but a slow recalibration, like the information had to be tested against reality before it was accepted. Then your brows lifted slightly. Then your mouth twitched, just barely, the smallest betrayal of something trying very hard not to become laughter too soon.

“Wait,” you said slowly. “You asked my brother for advice.”

Spencer nodded once, cautious now. “Yes.”

You laughed.

It started as something small, an exhale of disbelief that slipped out before you could catch it, but it didn’t stay small. It built quickly, breaking through whatever tension had been sitting between you a second ago. You pressed a hand briefly to your mouth, like you were trying to contain it, but it didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse. Your shoulders shook slightly as you looked at him, as if trying to reconcile the very serious man standing in front of you with the information he had just offered up so sincerely.

“You asked Derek,” you repeated between breaths, still laughing. “About us?”

Spencer looked mildly pained now, the way he always did when he realized a decision had aged badly in real time. “In retrospect,” he said carefully, “I recognize that may not have been optimal decision-making.”

That made you laugh harder.

“Oh my— Spencer,” you said, still smiling, still shaking your head like your body couldn’t decide whether to recover or continue. “That is the worst possible person you could’ve gone to.”

“I’m aware,” he said quietly. “He told me I was an idiot.”

That only made you laugh more, and something in his chest loosened at the sound, like a tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding finally shifted, fraction by fraction, into something less suffocating.

When your laughter finally faded, you looked at him again.

Still hurt, maybe. Still not entirely okay.

But softer now.

“And?” you asked.

Spencer hesitated, then held the flowers out a little more properly this time, like he was committing to the moment instead of escaping it.

“And,” he finished carefully, still holding the flowers out a little too formally, “he was…unfortunately correct about several things.”

You tilted your head, considering him for a second, then scoffed lightly as if the idea itself offended you.

“Derek is never correct.”

That made Spencer pause.

You stepped closer, and before he could recalibrate whatever internal system was trying to predict the next outcome, you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“You should just talk to me,” you said quietly, already pulling back slightly but keeping close enough that he could still feel you there. “We are adults.”

Spencer blinked once.

“I thought you were mad,” he admitted, voice thinner now, confused in that very specific way he got when reality didn’t match the model he had built in his head.

You exhaled through your nose, half amused, half exasperated, and lifted a hand to his face, fingertips brushing lightly along his cheek as if anchoring him back into something real.

“I was,” you said honestly. “Very much.”

That made his shoulders tense slightly, instinctively bracing.

“But I understand your work,” you continued, softer now, “and the shitty hours. I get it, Spencer. I really do.”

His eyes searched yours, still wary, still trying to calculate where the sharp edge was supposed to come in.

Instead, there was none.

Just you.

You thumbed gently along his cheekbone, steadying him in a way no explanation ever had.

“I believe in communication,” you added, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Something in Spencer finally gave up resisting.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, but this time it didn’t sound like part of a defense. It sounded like the end of one.

You studied him for a second, still close enough that your hand remained on his cheek, thumb resting lightly as if you’d decided that was simply where it belonged now.

“Good,” you said simply.

Spencer blinked. “Good?”

“Yes,” you nodded once, like it was obvious. “Apology accepted.”

That seemed to short-circuit him for a second.

“Just like that?” he asked, cautiously, as if he was checking whether there was a second stage to this he hadn’t been briefed on.

You gave him a look. “Spencer. I already kissed your face. What more do you want from me.”

His ears went slightly pink at that, which only made you smile more.

“I—” he started, then stopped, recalculating. “That’s…fair.”

You finally took the flowers from his hands before he could overthink them into oblivion, your fingers brushing his in the exchange. He visibly tracked the movement like it mattered more than it should have.

“They’re pretty,” you added, glancing at them.

“I chose them based on color theory and—” he began automatically.

“I love that.”

That cut him off mid-explanation, and for a second he looked like he was about to defend himself out of habit. Then he saw your expression and the defense just didn’t arrive.

Instead, he exhaled a small breath that might have been a laugh if he was braver.

“I also panicked slightly,” he admitted.

You nodded seriously. “That I believe.”

A pause settled between you again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was comfortable in a way neither of you had quite figured out how to name yet.

Spencer glanced at you, then at the flowers, then back at you like he was still trying to confirm this wasn’t some alternate reality where he had successfully handled emotional confrontation without catastrophe.

You, on the other hand, looked entirely too pleased with yourself.

“You know,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “for someone who overthinks everything, you’re kind of cute when you’re trying not to implode.”

That made him freeze.

“…That is not a clinically recognized category of attractiveness,” he said automatically.

You smiled wider. “Didn’t say it was.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, then seemed to settle on the only safe response available.

“I don’t know what to do with compliments,” he admitted.

“That’s okay,” you said, stepping a little closer again, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I can help you.”

His gaze flickered to yours, softer now, less defensive and more present.

“That seems inefficient,” he murmured, but there was no real protest in it.

You lightly bumped your shoulder against his.

“I think you’ll survive.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, almost shy despite everything, he asked, “So…we’re okay?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, you reached up and gently fixed the collar of his shirt like it had been bothering you all day, smoothing it into place with casual care.

“Yeah,” you said finally. “We’re okay.”

***

When you got home, the apartment was quiet in that familiar, lived-in way: TV murmuring low in the background, something forgettable playing to an audience that wasn’t really watching. The kind of sound that filled space without demanding anything from it. Your brother was on the couch, stretched out like he belonged to it more than the furniture itself, one arm draped over the backrest, the other holding the remote in a loose grip that suggested he’d already stopped caring what was on.

He looked up the moment the door clicked shut.

At first it was automatic, half a greeting forming on his tongue, some casual comment ready to be thrown your way without much thought. But it never made it out. It stalled, visibly, the second his eyes actually focused.

The flowers came first.

Bright, unmistakable, slightly ridiculous in the way only something intentionally chosen could be. Then your expression, too alive, too soft around the edges, like you were still carrying whatever moment had just happened outside the apartment and hadn’t fully put it down yet. And then the smile. That was the real problem. Not just a smile, but one that kept threatening to turn into laughter every time you breathed, like it had gotten stuck halfway between contained and completely out of control.

Derek slowly sat up a little straighter.

Not alarmed exactly. More like recalibrating. Like his brain had just received new data that didn’t match any of the existing categories he had available.

“…Flowers, uh?” he said at last, drawing the words out carefully. He leaned back just slightly, like increasing physical distance might help him understand what he was looking at. “Should I be worried?”

You didn’t even hesitate.

The answer came too fast, too clean.

“Nope.”

A beat of silence followed that, heavy in its simplicity.

Derek stared at you for another second, then the flowers again, then your face, like he was checking for inconsistencies in a story he already didn’t trust. Slowly, very slowly, one corner of his mouth twitched.

“…Mm,” he hummed, leaning back into the couch with the long-suffering patience of a man who had clearly just missed a very important piece of information.

You didn’t stop.

You walked right past him like the conversation had already been filed away, resolved, and archived somewhere in your mind under done, the flowers cradled casually in your arms as you disappeared down the hallway. The door to your room was already half open before Derek could even find the next thought.

The apartment fell quiet again.

Not peaceful. Not normal.

Just…paused.

Derek stayed still for about three seconds, which, for him, was practically an eternity. Then he slowly turned his head toward the hallway like it might physically supply him with missing context if he stared at it hard enough. His brows pulled together, faintly at first, then deeper, like the situation was refusing to align itself into anything logical.

The smile on your face replayed in his head.

Then the flowers.

Then the timing.

Then the very specific, very suspicious absence of any emotional damage whatsoever.

Derek sat forward a fraction.

“…No way,” he muttered, almost to himself.

A pause stretched out, thin and sharp.

His gaze flicked toward the hallway again, then back, like he was assembling a puzzle he absolutely did not want to finish. Slowly, the realization stopped being theoretical. It settled. It clicked into place with the quiet horror of inevitability.

His eyes widened slightly.

Then he leaned back into the couch again, staring up at the ceiling like it had betrayed him personally and without warning.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, with absolute conviction—

The first time it happened, Daryl thought maybe he was sick.

You’d only joined the group a few days earlier.

Quiet thing.

Soft-spoken. Polite. Always trying to help with chores before anyone asked.

The kind of person who apologized when other people bumped into you.

Daryl noticed you mostly because you kept sneaking food to Sophia when the adults weren’t looking.

One evening near the campfire, he watched you split your last granola bar in half because Carl looked hungry.

You didn’t even hesitate.

Just handed it over with a tiny smile like it was nothing.

Something strange happened in Daryl’s chest then.

Not bad strange.

Just…

Warm.

Uncomfortable.

He ignored it immediately.

Then came the incident with the frog.

Daryl was cleaning a rabbit near the edge of camp when he heard your voice nearby.

Very serious.

Very soft.

“You are very handsome.”

Daryl frowned.

Who the hell were you talking to?

Then he glanced over.

You crouched in the grass staring solemnly at a tiny green frog perched on a rock.

The frog blinked.

You blinked back.

“I hope you know that,” you informed it gently.

Silence.

Then the frog jumped directly onto your shoe.

You gasped like you’d just been chosen by royalty.

“Oh my God.”

Daryl’s brain stopped functioning immediately.

Just—

Gone.

Entirely.

Because your whole face lit up so brightly it physically hurt to look at.

Pure excitement. Pure softness.

Cute.

Cute enough that Daryl forgot he was holding a knife.

The knife slipped.

“Shit.”

You startled violently and looked over.

“Oh no, are you okay?”

Daryl stared at you.

You stared back.

The frog remained on your shoe.

Then slowly, heat crawled up Daryl’s neck for absolutely no reason at all.

“…M’fine.”

You smiled in relief.

Daryl nearly dropped the knife again.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

After that, it kept happening.

Constantly.

In increasingly ridiculous ways.

You laughed at one of Glenn’s terrible jokes?

Daryl forgot what he was saying mid-sentence.

You tucked your knees to your chest while sitting by the fire looking sleepy?

His brain buffered like a broken computer.

You absentmindedly hummed while hanging laundry?

Death.

Immediate death.

The worst part?

Other people noticed.

Mostly because Daryl Dixon, renowned antisocial menace, had apparently developed the survival instincts of a concussed raccoon whenever you were nearby.

“Hey Daryl,” Glenn said one afternoon, visibly trying not to laugh, “you know you’ve been holding that empty water jug for like five minutes, right?”

Daryl looked down.

Shit.

You stood twenty feet away talking to Carol.

Smiling.

That explained nothing.

“Ain’t your business.”

Glenn grinned.

“Oh, it absolutely is.”

Daryl scowled harder.

Unfortunately, the scowling didn’t really work anymore because the second you glanced over and smiled at him—

His entire expression softened automatically.

Glenn looked delighted.

“Oh my God.”

Daryl looked horrified.

The thing was, you weren’t trying to be cute.

That would’ve been easier.

If you were flirting or showing off or acting intentionally charming, Daryl could’ve dealt with that.

Probably.

But no.

You just existed like that naturally.

Which meant Daryl got ambushed constantly.

Like the morning he woke up early and found you asleep beside the dying campfire wrapped in one of Carol’s blankets.

Your cheek squished against your folded arms. Hair a mess. Tiny sleepy frown on your face.

Daryl stopped walking entirely.

His chest did something deeply alarming.

Then you shifted in your sleep and made this tiny soft noise.

Daryl’s soul left his body.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered to himself.

“What?”

He jumped six fucking feet.

Rick stood nearby holding coffee and looking concerned.

Daryl pointed vaguely at you.

Rick blinked once.

“…She’s sleeping.”

“I got eyes.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

Daryl struggled violently to explain something he didn’t understand himself.

“She’s just…”

Rick waited.

Daryl gestured helplessly.

“…Like that.”

Rick stared at him for a long moment.

Then slowly:

“You have got to be kidding me.”

You liked Daryl immediately.

Not in a dramatic way at first.

Just quietly.

Because beneath the gruffness and the constant glaring, Daryl was kind in strange little ways.

He always walked closest to the walkers during runs. Always gave food to the kids first. Always noticed when somebody needed help before they asked.

And he never made you feel stupid for being shy.

Other people sometimes pushed.

“Speak up.” “You’re too quiet.” “You don’t gotta be nervous.”

Daryl never did.

If anything, he seemed to understand instinctively when you needed space.

You appreciated that more than he realized.

Though you did notice something odd eventually.

Daryl acted… weird around you.

Not bad weird.

Just—

Weird.

You’d catch him staring sometimes before he abruptly looked away.

Sometimes he’d walk directly into things while talking to you.

Once, you handed him a canteen and he dropped it immediately after your fingers brushed.

You honestly thought maybe he disliked you at first.

Until Carol nearly laughed herself unconscious after witnessing one interaction.

You’d offered Daryl part of your apple during lunch.

He stared at you for three full seconds before taking it like you’d handed him a live grenade.

Then you smiled.

And Daryl walked directly into a support beam afterward.

Carol had to physically leave the room.

The problem got significantly worse once Daryl started developing feelings.

Because suddenly every tiny thing you did became catastrophic.

You smiled at him across camp?

His stomach flipped.

You touched his arm while thanking him for something?

Cardiac arrest.

You laughed softly at one of his sarcastic comments?

Daryl immediately forgot how human conversation worked.

One afternoon, you sat beside him while he repaired arrows.

Quiet comfortable silence settled between you.

Then after a while, you leaned slightly against his shoulder absentmindedly while reading a book.

Daryl stopped breathing.

Actually stopped.

You noticed after a second.

“…Daryl?”

No response.

“Are you okay?”

He swallowed hard.

“…Yeah.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“You seem tense.”

Tense.

Right.

Because a pretty girl casually using him as a pillow was definitely a normal experience he handled well.

Daryl looked straight ahead rigidly.

“M’fine.”

You hummed softly and kept reading.

Then after a moment, you smiled to yourself.

Cute, you thought.

Daryl nearly died because of the smile he couldn’t even see properly.

Everyone else suffered alongside him.

Mostly because Daryl became incredibly stupid whenever you were involved.

“You volunteered for laundry duty?” Maggie asked suspiciously.

Daryl scowled.

“So?”

“You hate laundry.”

Daryl glanced toward where you stood hanging clothes nearby.

“…Ain’t that bad.”

Maggie looked at Glenn slowly.

“Wow. He’s gone.”

Or:

“Why are you helping organize the pantry?”

Daryl blinked.

You stood inside the pantry with Beth.

“Oh.”

Beth snorted.

“Hopeless.”

Even Carl noticed eventually.

“You act weird around her.”

Daryl looked offended.

“Do not.”

“You smiled.”

“…Shut up.”

The breaking point came because of a cat.

A tiny orange cat wandered into camp one afternoon during watch duty.

You spotted it first.

Your entire face transformed instantly.

“Oh my God.”

Daryl, who had been sharpening a knife nearby, looked over automatically.

Big mistake.

Because there you were kneeling in the dirt holding this scruffy little cat against your chest while it purred loudly.

Your smile was soft and delighted. Your eyes bright. The cat pressed its face against your chin.

Daryl’s brain completely shut down.

Blue screen.

System failure.

Gone.

“Daryl?”

He blinked slowly.

You looked up at him with the cat still in your arms.

“Look how cute she is.”

Daryl stared.

At you.

Not the cat.

You noticed eventually.

And slowly your cheeks pinked slightly.

“…What?”

Daryl opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because the truth was horrifying.

The truth was that you looked so cute holding that cat that something deep inside him genuinely malfunctioned.

“Yer…” he started.

Then stopped.

You waited.

Daryl rubbed aggressively at his face.

“Jesus.”

You blinked in confusion.

“Did I do something?”

“No.”

Too fast.

Too intense.

You startled slightly.

Daryl immediately looked horrified with himself.

“Not bad,” he muttered quickly. “Didn’t mean— shit.”

The cat meowed loudly.

Somewhere behind Daryl, Glenn quietly whispered:

“Oh, this is painful.”

Daryl ignored him.

Mostly because he was too busy staring at you.

Still holding the cat. Still looking confused and shy and unbearably cute.

Then, to make things infinitely worse, you smiled nervously.

Tiny little thing.

Soft.

And Daryl blurted:

“Yer too cute.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Glenn made a choking sound behind him.

Your eyes widened hugely.

Daryl froze solid.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

Because he had not meant to say that out loud.

You stared at him.

He stared back looking deeply alarmed.

Then your face went bright red.

“…What?”

Daryl wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

“You heard me.”

His voice sounded rough now.

Embarrassed.

Glenn looked one second away from exploding.

You still held the cat frozen against your chest.

“I’m cute?”

Daryl barked out one short disbelieving laugh.

“Sweetheart, ya got no idea.”

The endearment slipped out naturally.

And somehow that made your expression soften instead of embarrass harder.

Daryl swallowed hard.

Then admitted quietly:

“Think m’losin’ my damn mind over it actually.”

Your heart skipped violently.

Because Daryl looked genuinely distressed.

Like finding you adorable was a legitimate medical emergency.

You stepped closer slowly.

The cat jumped down and wandered away immediately ignored by both of you now.

“Daryl,” you said softly, “you know I like you too, right?”

His entire face went blank.

“…What?”

You smiled shyly.

“I thought maybe you knew.”

Daryl stared at you for a long moment.

Then looked genuinely offended.

“How the hell would I know that?”

“I stare at you constantly.”

“That ain’t evidence!”

You laughed softly.

Daryl’s brain short-circuited again immediately.

“There!” he pointed accusingly. “That! That thing ya do!”

“What thing?”

“Exist!”

You burst into startled laughter.

And Daryl—

God.

Daryl looked at you like you’d hung the moon.

Then suddenly he was laughing too.

Half embarrassed. Half relieved.

“You are deeply weird,” you informed him fondly.

“Yeah,” he muttered, stepping closer. “Probably yer fault.”

Then finally—

Finally—

He kissed you.

The Last Thing He Left Us

You're Not My Dad part 2 part 3 part 4

Blood Ties

Welcome To The Panic Room

Our Clothes Looks Better on You Anyway

Whose. Coat. Is. That?

Mini Mayhem part 2

The Princess and Her Idiots

I See The Light

"She's not even TALL ENOUGH TO SEE, DEAN"

Shh. We Got You

Don't Say That

The Doors Were Locked

Operation: Sleepy Princess

The Midnight Heist

My Best Girl

Pretty Girl

Should've Listened

Father's Day

Kid Problem

Mini Me

Hair Ties & Pinterest Board

Just Five More Minutes

Bambi Eyes

Moose. Squirrel. Bambi

Bambi In The Dark part 2

The Devil You Know Still Checks In

Sundress Season

A Taste of Home

Code Red

It's Just a Roach... Right?

Don't Leave My Sight

"Can I Have One Too?"

Language, Young Lady!

Bobby's Lil' Hunter

Overalls & Overkill

Gone Too Long

Wrinkle Patrol

Your Eyes Are My Favorite Color

You're Still My Dean Sammy's

Just Needed a Hug

Don't Make Me Do This

You Should've Let Me Die

She's Got a Scar Now

Being Scared to Death... but Saddling Up Anyway

Still You, and That's Enough

It's Just a Hairtie part 2

Eye-Level Kisses

"It's So Ugly!"

Sleepy Baby Bambi

Just a Few Bites part 2

Cold Hands, Warmer Hearts

Too Warm

Small Things part 2

You're The Home We Built

"Is It Okay If I Eat This?"

I Don't Want to be Scared of You

You're Gonna Catch a Cold

Mud Monster in the Sink

The Sleeping Menace

Too Small for This World

"Wait- You're Talking About The Car?"

Jealous of What?

Don't Talk to Her Like That

"Look at Me, Sammy!"

Next Time, Bring a Jacket

“Did You Ever Have a ‘I Need My Baby Sister’ Moment?”

Say Something, Bambi

My Brother's Girl

She Fell First, They Fell Harder

One Story, Two Brothers

Not My Intention

Too Much of Me

Sunflowers and Silence

“You Paid? With Your Money?”

The Bikini Incident

Take Me, Not Her

The Ones Left Waiting

Didn't See It Until It Hurt part 2

Left Behind

Dead in the Water (and in His Arms)

Hearts Full of Hay and Honey

No One's Fault (But It Hurt Anyway)

Something So Small, So Hopeful

Nurse Bambi's Clinic of Cuddles

Make-Believe

All That Remains

The Great Toddler Escape

Cry Wolf

The bunker was quiet.

Not creepy quiet for once.

Just soft.

The kind of quiet that settled in after a long hunt when everybody was exhausted and finally asleep, Dean's snoring not being heard for once cause his face was probably stuck in Cas’s neck, not that he'd admit it cause according to him, he's the big spoon

You had just finished washing your face in Sam’s bathroom, tying your bonnet over your hair while staring sleepily at your reflection before making your way back into his room.

Sam sat against the headboard of his bed, flipping through a book he’d already reread at least twice.

Truthfully, he wasn’t paying attention to it anymore.

Not when you were here.

Not when this was the first night you were actually sleeping in his room instead of one of the guest rooms.

His eyes lifted automatically when the bathroom door opened.

And froze.

You stopped near the bed.

“…Why are you looking at me like that?”

Sam blinked.

Then pointed vaguely toward your head.

“What’s that?”

You stared at him for a second.

Then burst out laughing.

“Oh my God, are you serious?”

“What?” he asked, smiling a little now. “I’ve never seen one before.”

“It’s a bonnet, Sam.”

“A bonnet?”

The confusion in his voice made you laugh quietly.

Sam set the book aside as you climbed onto the bed beside him, adjusting the oversized shirt you were wearing before settling against the pillows.

“C’mere,” you said.

Sam shifted closer immediately.

You reached up, lightly tapping the satin fabric over your hair.

“It protects my hair while I sleep.”

“From what?”

You turned your head slowly to look at him.

“Everything.”

You pointed at his pillow.

“Cotton dries out curly hair. Causes breakage. Frizz. Split ends. Bonnets help keep moisture in.”

Sam nodded carefully 

“Okay,” he said slowly. “That actually makes sense, it's really pretty too.”

“Thank you.”

— — — — 

You settled against his chest beneath the blankets while his hand rubbed slowly up and down your back 

It was weird.

Not weird, bad.

Just weird good.

Sleeping in the same bed felt way more intimate than making out ever did.

“You comfortable?” he asked quietly.

“Mhm.”

“You sure?”

You tilted your head slightly to look up at him.

“Sam.”

“Right. Sorry.”

You smiled a little.

— — — — 

“You sure?”

You lifted your head slightly to look at him.

“Sam.”

“What?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“That’s literally my job.”

“You’re off the clock.”

Sam laughed softly again, and the sound alone made you feel warm. 

A few minutes passed in comfortable silence before his voice interrupted your attempt to fall asleep again.

“So… the bonnet stays on all night?”

You opened one eye slowly.

“Go to sleep.”

“I’m just asking.”

“You ask too much.”

“And you’re mean.”

“You love me.”

Sam didn’t even hesitate.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.” 

Sam smiled to himself and kissed the top of your bonnet gently.

“Goodnight,” he whispered.

When Sam woke up the next morning, sunlight was coming through the windows directly into his eyes, making it impossible to ignore.

For a few seconds, he just blinked sleepily at the ceiling before looking down at you automatically.

And immediately smiled.

You were still curled against him, completely asleep, one hand loosely gripping his shirt.

But your bonnet had slipped halfway off during the night, curls spilling messily across the pillow.

Carefully…incredibly carefully… he lifted his hand and adjusted the bonnet back over your hair the way he remembered you doing it earlier. 

You moved a little beneath his arm.

Sam froze instantly.

But you only sighed softly and moved closer to him in your sleep.

A few seconds later, he leaned down and pressed the softest kiss imaginable against your forehead.

Then quietly:

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

Sam decided right then he wasn’t getting out of bed anytime soon, either.