✰

The moment your eyes met his, joy lit up your features. Before he could process it, you were crossing the space between you, and then your arms were wound tightly around his neck.

The hug, here in the middle of the bullpen, was as unexpected as it was desperately needed. He froze for a second. Then, instinct took over, and his free arm came up to circle your waist, holding you close. It was over almost as soon as it began, but the warmth of it lingered.

You pulled back, but your hands came up to gently frame his face, your thumbs softly stroking the skin of his jaw.

“You shaved,” you whispered, the words meant for him alone.

He had never told you about the fear, about the panic that the act of shaving now evoked. But then again, you knew him better than he knew himself.

His own gaze was locked on yours, the world around you disappeared. He didn't see Luke staring with raised eyebrows, or the grins exchanged between JJ and Tara. When you were in front of him, you were all he saw.

“Yeah,” he breathed out.

You let your hands drop slowly. “I’m so proud of you.”

It was only then, as your gaze flickered over to Luke’s staring, that you seemed to remember your surroundings and the boundaries of your break.

It was in these moments, seemingly insignificant to anyone else, that Spencer truly began to mend. Like when you, him, and JJ would grab coffee during a brief break from a case. He’d reach for the sugar packet, and your hand would find his under the table, giving a delighted squeeze. A small smile would touch his lips.

These were the things that propelled him forward. He was getting better for himself, and in doing so, he was becoming someone who could be better for you.

And at the end of the day, he was the one who had chosen to pick up the razor, his hand trembling. He was the one who had opened his closet and pulled on an old cardigan he hadn't worn since before prison. He was the one who had endured the silence of his own bed, fighting the urge to retreat to the couch. He was the one who got behind the wheel of his car, took a deep breath, and drove to the BAU alone. The end goal was you. But the journey was his own.

The case was long, but it was finally over. The exhaustion was so palpable that the entire team had opted for a hotel, too drained to fly home.

Spencer, for whom a full night's sleep was still only a wishful dream, laid in his quiet room. Remembering your advice not to fight the frustration, he decided to slip out of his room for a walk, if only to the vending machine at the end of the hall to grab a snack.

What he didn't expect was to find you already there.

You were standing in front of the machine, clad in soft sleep shorts and a thin top, shivering slightly as you rubbed your arms against the hotel's aggressive air conditioning. He watched, a fond smile touching his lips, as you scanned the options with an unimpressed expression, mumbling, "None of this looks good," to yourself.

He stepped closer, shrugged off his soft cardigan and draped it gently over your shoulders.

You flinched, your head snapping around in a flash of fear before your eyes met his and your entire body relaxed. "God, you scared me," you breathed, a hand pressed to your chest.

"Sorry," he murmured, his voice soft with genuine apology. He then turned you gently by your shoulders. "Lift your arm for me."

You complied without question, your gaze softening as you studied him in return, quietly taking in the faint shadows beneath his eyes. He guided your arms into the sleeves while studying your goosebumps with a worried expression, wondering how long you'd been standing out here.

"Couldn't sleep?" you asked, still watching him.

Spencer shook his head. "No," he said, the truth slipping out with an ease that surprised even him. It felt good to not have to make up an excuse.

You seemed to note that ease as well, though you didn't comment on it. Instead, you just nodded. "Me neither," you mumbled.

Once the last button was fastened, securing the oversized cardigan around you, you offered him a grateful smile. "Thank you, Spencer."

It was only then he realized he was now standing in just his t-shirt, but he found he didn't mind at all. Not when you let out a contented sigh and leaned your head against his bicep. "All of the snacks here suck," you grumbled, the complaint muffled against his arm.

His hand came up, his fingers gently brushing through the strands of your hair as he stared at the machine. "You like those cookies, don't you?" he asked, pointing to a package on the top row.

"I guess," you conceded with a sleepy mumble.

"I'll get you those. It's better than nothing," he said softly. His arm, which had been stroking your hair, now slid around your shoulders, holding you securely against his side as he used his free hand to press the correct buttons and feed his coins into the slot.

He bent down, his arm slipping from your shoulders, to retrieve the cookies from the vending machine’s slot. He broke one cookie in half and handed a piece to you.

“These are the same ones you offered me when I was drunk in your apartment,” you realized, the taste suddenly familiar.

A soft, knowing smile touched his lips. “I know,” he said, his voice gentle.

Your heart gave a squeeze at the confirmation that he remembered such a small detail.

“Come on,” Spencer murmured, his gaze dropping to the goosebumps peppering your legs. “You should eat these in your room. It’s too cold out here.”

You shook your head. “I don’t feel like going back to my room,” you admitted quietly.

The statement struck a chord in him, reminding him of the night you’d been drunk and told him about your nightmares that waited for you in the dark.

“Would you like to come to my room?”

You nodded without a moment’s hesitation. He bought a second package of cookies for himself and led you back down the hall.

When you entered his room, you made a beeline for the small sitting area, instinctively curling up in the armchair. You knew his aversion to eating in bed. You pulled your legs up, tucking your feet beneath you, and the sight of your socks, covered in tiny fawns, made him smile.

He joined you, settling into the other chair and opening his own package. For a few moments, you both ate in quiet. Your eyes drifted across the room, landing on the single book resting on his nightstand.

“What were you reading?” you asked softly, nodding toward it.

“A Faint Heart,” Spencer replied, his voice even.

Your gaze snapped back to his. He met your eyes calmly, holding your stare. He didn’t need to explain. You both knew. That was the book you had bonded over.

You knew about the other thing, too.

Slowly, you placed your feet back on the floor, setting the half eaten cookie on the table between the chairs. You moved toward the bed while Spencer remained seated, his eyes following you. You reached for the book and opened it carefully.

There it was.

You lifted the photo strip, your fingers trembling slightly as you stared at it. You remained so still that Spencer finally rose. He put his own cookies down and crossed the room to you, his steps silent on the carpet.

When he was finally behind you, his chest against your back, you lifted your head, turning to look at him over your shoulder, your eyes shimmering. “You kept this as a bookmark?”

“Yeah,” he said softly.

You looked back at the photos, your thumb gently tracing the image of his loving gaze. A soft smile touched your lips. A weight seemed to lift from Spencer’s shoulders. All this time, he had feared that you would look back and see only a temporary infatuation in his eyes. But now, he saw the realization dawning on your face.

“Did you keep yours?” he asked softly, referring to your copy of the photo strip.

“Yeah,” you whispered, finally leaning down to carefully place the bookmark back between the pages. “I kept it as a bookmark, too.” You smiled softly up at him. “It’s in my Pride and Prejudice book.”

Spencer’s heart swelled. Pride and Prejudice. You had kept your pictures in a story that promised a happy ending. His gaze flickered to the cover of A Faint Heart. Vasya’s story ended in solitude and misery. Perhaps it had been a subconscious metaphor for his own fears, a literary manifestation of the ending he felt he deserved. He didn't like that thought. Despite the bond this book had forged between you, he preferred to have his happiest memories in a different book.

He moved suddenly, crossing to his go bag and unzipping it. You watched confused as he rummaged for a moment before pulling out a different book.

He carefully retrieved the precious photo strip from the pages of A Faint Heart and, without a word, slid it between the pages of the new book. The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde. He then placed the Dostoevsky volume back into his bag, setting the new one on his nightstand.

You stood there, baffled. "What was that?"

Spencer shrugged his shoulder, a little self consciously. "It felt like a bad omen," he mumbled, not quite meeting your eyes. "Keeping a memory like that in a story that ends so tragically." He finally looked up, his gaze soft. "You have yours in Pride and Prejudice. I want mine to be in a happy love story, too."

A delighted giggle escaped you. "That's so sweet, Spencer."

Your eyes then drifted to the new book's title, and a laugh bubbled out. "Feels a bit ironic, does it not?" you grinned, pointing at the cover.

Spencer read the title again. The Importance of Being Earnest. The irony hit him immediately. Your break had begun, in part, because of a lack of earnestness. A wry grin spread across his face. "Well, I guess it is," he conceded. "But all the couples end up happily together in the end. So I'm fine with the irony."

His response made you giggle again as you finally moved, letting yourself fall back to plop down on the edge of his bed. He joined you, settling on the other side and leaning against the headboard, his shoulder brushing against yours.

You tilted your head, resting it against the headboard as you looked at him. "We kind of suck at this whole 'break' thing, you know that?" you mumbled, your voice fond.

Spencer let out a chuckle, gladly taking the chance to admire you with a smile. "I'm still not entirely sure what a 'break' is actually supposed to entail," he admitted. "But I'm pretty sure it doesn't typically include... this." He gestured vaguely between the two of you, cocooned in his hotel room in the middle of the night, sharing cookies and reminiscing about old memories.

A soft giggle escaped you. "Definitely not."

Your gaze drifted down to the Oscar Wilde book. After a moment of comfortable silence, you looked up again.

"I'm so proud of you," you smiled. "For the progress you've made these past four months." As you said it, the length of time truly registered. Four months. That was how long you had been deprived of the simple right to call him your boyfriend.

Spencer's smile was small but pure. He tilted his head, his gaze softening as it searched your face. "And I'm proud of you," he replied, his voice just as soft.

He meant it. He had seen the changes in you, too. You weren't walking through each day with a plastered on, cheerful facade anymore. You were allowing your real emotions to show. You had stopped sacrificing every ounce of your free time to tiptoe around everyone. And he was in awe of that.

You watched him, absorbing his words but not immediately replying. Your eyes drifted down to your own wrist, to the simple button bracelet you fiddled with when you were anxious. You toyed with the familiar shapes, your brow furrowed.

"What's wrong?" he murmured concerned, tilting his head so he could see your face.

You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his warm gaze. "Nothing, I just—" You took a shaky breath. "What if I had been the one stopping you from healing?" You looked away again. "What if we get back together and you… you slip back into old habits?" You phrased it carefully. "What if, without even realizing it, I was part of what was hurting you?"

The fear had been gnawing at you. You brought your hand to your mouth, nervously biting at your thumbnail, awaiting his response.

Spencer stared at you, genuinely appalled that such a thought could even take root in your mind. "You have never, ever hurt me," he stated concerned. "And you've never stopped me from healing. You're the reason it's even possible."

He watched as you nervously worried your lip, your eyes still clouded with uncertainty, and he knew he needed you to truly hear him.

"Without you," he continued, his tone softening, "I wouldn't even know where I'd be." He stayed quiet for a moment before he let the rest pour out. "Somehow you've seen something good in me and you didn't lose faith in me. Even when most people did."

Gently, he reached forward and took your hand, guiding your fingers away from your mouth where you'd been anxiously biting your nail. You went willingly, your hand trembling slightly in his.

"You can't know that," you whispered. "You can't know that you won't hurt again when I come back into your life."

Tears welled in your eyes, and he felt his heart clench.

"You've never left my life," Spencer countered. He sat up straighter, turning his body fully towards you. You mirrored his movement as he reached out, his fingers gently brushing the hair from your face before tucking it carefully behind your ear.

"Ever since we've taken this break, there hasn't been a single night I haven't dreamt of you," he confessed, his gaze holding yours captive. "And every time I do, it takes me days to recover. Because the sheer amount of love I feel for you is sometimes too big for my heart."

He heard the sharp intake of your breath at the word love.

"You're constantly on my mind," he continued, his thumb stroking your cheek, brushing away a tear that had escaped. "Taking up the most space. And I've been told," he added, the ghost of a smile touching his lips, "that I have a pretty big brain."

The self deprecating joke made you giggle through your tears, the sound like music to him. He used the moment to gently wipe another tear away.

"So, no," he concluded, his voice dropping to a tender whisper. "There is no risk of you hurting me by coming back into my life. Because, you never left. Not for a single second."

You met his eyes, and he could see them shimmering. And that was when you moved, climbing into his lap. He let you, his arms immediately encircling your waist, holding you as you settled against him. You buried your face in the curve of his neck, and he could feel your tears against his skin.

“There isn't a single moment,” he whispered into your hair, his hand making circles on your back, “where I don't wish to have you by my side.”

You held onto him tighter, your grip speaking volumes where words failed.

Spencer took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of you. A scent he’d ached for. And then he said the words again, the words that had ruined everything four months ago.

He tightened his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder, his lips close to your ear. “I love you.” Your arms squeezed instinctively around his neck. “So much,” he added, whispering. He felt more tears hit his skin and he tightened his arms around your waist. He took it as the best sign that you didn’t pull away after hearing those words again.

After a long while, you finally pulled back just enough to frame his face with your hands. Your eyes were red rimmed “I don’t know if I’m good enough for you to say those words to,” you whispered. “I’m scared of what comes with it.”

You were scared of him seeing all of you, fully. You had worked on yourself, you had gotten better, but the fear still lingered.

“You have nothing to be scared of,” Spencer whispered. “And you're more than good enough. You’re everything to me.”

Your hands slid from his face, fisting gently in his shirt, as if holding on for dear life. His own hands, resting under the hem of your top, squeezed your waist.

“But if you’re not ready to say it,” he continued, his voice the softest it had been, “that’s okay. You have all the time in the world. I’m not going anywhere.” You watched him with wide, teary eyes. “I just need you to know,” he whispered, “that I love you no matter what.”

Another tear escaped, tracing a path down your cheek, and he caught it with the pad of his thumb. You studied his face, and he guessed you were searching for any hint of hesitation, any sign that he might not mean it with his entire being.

While you searched, he took the opportunity to admire you in return. His gaze drifted down, checking to see if the goosebumps on your legs had finally vanished in the warmth of the room. Satisfied they had, his hand gently brushed over your thighs before his eyes found yours again.

And somehow, looking at you now, he was at a complete loss for words. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

Your eyes, which had been downcast, finally snapped up to meet his, surprise washing over your face.

“Even in this state?” you asked, gesturing vaguely to your tear-streaked face.

“Every state,” he mumbled with utter conviction.

You shook your head in disbelief as you hid your face in his neck. “You’re sure you’re not tired of my face yet?” you murmured against his skin.

Spencer immediately pulled back, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “What?”

“I mean, I’m in your face every day. At work, and at home… well, I used to be,” you rambled, your insecurities tumbling out. “And I mean, have you seen—” you began, clearly on the verge of comparing yourself to someone else.

That’s when he decided words were no longer enough. He gently cupped your face in his hands and kissed you.

It shut you up immediately.

He captured your bottom lip and guided you to lean down just a little so he could kiss you more deeply. It was as if you were incapable of not giving in, like your body had made the decision long before your mind could catch up. You didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to think, just kissed him back, your hands tightening in his curls. His breath stuttered against your lips and you felt it everywhere. It was a kiss filled with four months of longing.

It tasted like everything you’d both been pretending not to want, like all the nights you’d lay awake thinking of this exact moment. When you finally pulled back, it was slow, like separating from him hurt in ways you hadn’t expected. You stared at him with wide eyes, your heart racing too fast, your chest tight. He waited, his own breath caught in his chest.

Then, you hit his chest. “Spencer! We. Are. On. A. Break.”

“You kissed me back!” he shot back with a pout.

“That—that doesn’t matter! You started it. You broke the rules,” you insisted, mirroring his pout.

“I think you broke the rules the moment you settled into my lap,” Spencer replied, tilting his head with a knowing look.

“I was upset!” you said, the excuse sounding weak even to your own ears.

Spencer squeezed your waist, his thumbs drawing slow circles on your skin. “Okay then. I’m sorry for kissing you.”

“No—I didn’t mean you should apologize for the kiss,” you stammered, flustered. “Ugh, I just meant—” You stared at him, finally catching the cocky grin he was trying and failing to hide. “You suck, you know that?” you mumbled, your own smile breaking through.

Before he could reply, you framed his face with your hands and leaned down, kissing him again. It was just one kiss, but it was a tender, lingering one. He could practically feel the three words you weren't ready to voice aloud yet. He could feel your I love you as clearly as if you'd spoken it.

You pulled back, just enough to rest your forehead against his. "We suck at this break thing so much," you whispered against his lips.

Spencer smiled and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. "I don't mind," he whispered back.

"Of course you don't," you mumbled fondly, your words trailing into a soft sigh as he pressed one more gentle kiss to the corner of your jaw. The sensation was feather light and ticklish, making you squirm instinctively in his lap. You pulled back with a laugh.

He simply smiled up at you, his expression impossibly soft. He slowly licked his lips, as if savoring the taste of you, a taste he had been deprived of for over four long months.

You watched the happiness on his face, your heart swelling. "You're so sweet to me, you know that?" you whispered.

"How else would I be with you?" he asked, his tone genuinely curious, as if there were no other conceivable way to exist in your presence.

You didn't have an answer for it, because there wasn't one.

His hands began to wander upwards, leaving your waist to trace a path up your spine. He brushed his fingers through your hair, tucking a stray strand behind your ear before his thumb came up to softly stroke your cheekbone.

His fingers, then, drifted lower until they found a gold chain around your neck. He lifted the small pendant into the light. It was a full moon. He hadn't seen it before. He rubbed his thumb over its smooth surface.

You looked down, watching his careful examination before his gaze lifted to meet yours.

“When did you get this?”

“Four months ago,” you said, tilting your head to figure out what he was thinking.

Spencer didn't need to voice the next question. And you answered it without words, your eyes confirming what he already sensed.

Yes. After our break.

He stared at the golden orb, a symbol of a time he knew had been filled with pain for you both.

“I got it,” you continued softly, “to remind myself why I needed to push through my own fears. To remember the reason I was working so hard to get better.”

Spencer’s eyes found yours again.

“Why a moon?” he asked quietly.

“Because of the night we spent with the telescope,” you explained, a nostalgic smile gracing your lips. “Seeing the moon up close like that, with you… was just amazing. And it was one of my favorite nights with you.”

The past tense in your words, it was my favorite night, broke his heart a little. He hated that it sounded like you were speaking as if there were no more new memories to be made.

Your hands came up, gently pushing back the soft hair that had fallen across his forehead as he’d been lost in thought, studying the necklace. “What are you thinking?” you whispered, framing his face and tilting it up so you could see him properly.

He met your concerned gaze. “I should get a star necklace,” he whispered.

A curious smile touched your lips as you brushed your thumb across his cheekbone. “Why’s that?”

“Because the moon and stars both symbolize love in their own way, yet they belong together,” he whispered. “The moon is said to show that love is constant, even as everything else changes while-”

“While stars,” you continued, your voice just as quiet, “represent hope against the darkness… and the achievement of dreams.”

“You’re my dream,” Spencer mumbled. “So if I get the star necklace, maybe it’ll be a good omen. For me. Or for us.”

You stared at him, your heart feeling so full it felt like it was going to burst. After a long, quiet moment, you finally whispered, “I think you should buy it.”

A smile spread across Spencer’s face, a promise that he would.

“You know,” you said softly, unable to resist the urge to press your thumb gently into the charming dimple in his chin, making him smile, “I didn’t think of you as a necklace type of guy.”

“I’m not,” he admitted easily. “But for you, I’ll be anything.”

“A flirt, apparently, too,” you teased, your fingers drifting up to trace the faint stubble along his jawline.

“Like I said,” Spencer grinned, turning his head to press a soft kiss into your palm. “Anything.”

You continued your gentle exploration, tracing the curve of his lips, the arch of his brow, as his hands found a home on your waist, holding you.

“Do you think we’ll work this time?” you asked, the vulnerability returning to your voice.

Spencer’s hands squeezed your waist “Yes.” There was no hesitation in his answer.

You nodded, accepting his certainty, your eyes searching his. The comfortable silence stretched between you once more before a final, nagging fear surfaced. “Are you sure,” you whispered, “there isn't a single, even just a tiny part of you, that's mad at me for not saying those three words back to you?”

Spencer tilted his head, his expression softening with understanding. “No. Not at all.”

You tried to look away, the vulnerability of the moment becoming overwhelming, but he wouldn’t let you. “Hey,” he whispered, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek until your eyes met his again. “I’m serious,” he insisted. “I can’t even believe that you’re here with me right now. That alone feels like a privilege I don’t deserve. I don’t need anything more than that.”

You nodded slowly, his sincerity seeping through your doubts. A smile touched your lips. “I wish the team had told me how incredibly good you are with your words when I asked them about you,” you whispered, leaning in until your nose gently nudged his.

Spencer was about to get lost in the feeling of your breath mingling with his, but his mind snagged on your words. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes searching yours.

“You asked them about me?” he whispered, suddenly breathless without your lips even having touched his.

You resisted the urge to complain about the lost kiss. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I sensed it would be… difficult to meet you under those circumstances, so I tried to get a sense of who you were. I thought it might give me a better idea of how to help you.”

You rubbed your eye sleepily. “And then, after you were out but before you came back to the team… I’d play twenty questions with everyone. Even though it was closer to fifty, most of the time, I think,” you admitted with a shrug of your shoulders. “I just… I wanted to know you. I wanted to see who you were from their eyes, to learn how to approach you, to understand you.”

You leaned in again, finally claiming the kiss you’d been waiting for. But Spencer barely kissed back, his mind reeling.

He pulled back, just far enough to search your face. “It wasn’t the team who told you about me?”

You looked slightly confused, your fingers still gently toying with a soft curl near his temple. “No.”

Spencer stared at you, his brilliant mind struggling to recalibrate. “You… you took it upon yourself to find out more about me?” he asked slowly.

“Well, yes,” your tone gentle as if explaining something to a child. “I knew it would take you a while to recover from what happened.” You rubbed your eye again. “I guessed that if I found out what you liked, maybe I could bond with you over it. I thought it might make you feel a bit better about having a stranger on the team.”

“Why? Is that a bad thing?” you asked, worry washing over your features as Spencer stayed silent.

Spencer shook his head, overwhelmed. “I’m just… surprised,” he mumbled, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. “That you put so much effort into getting to know me when I scared you within the first ten minutes of meeting each other.” He was referring to the interrogation room, when his palm hit the table that had made you flinch back.

You tilted your head, your expression one of genuine bafflement. “When did you scare me?” you asked, and you sounded completely sincere.

Spencer’s mouth dropped open slightly. “Are you serious?” he breathed, disbelief washing over him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you insisted, your brow furrowed in concentration. You shifted in his lap, your arms winding a little tighter around his neck as you scooted closer.

“I thought… I worried about talking to you when I came back because I was so horrified by our first encounter,” his voice filled with bafflement.

You simply tilted your head. “All I remember is you being scared, Spencer,” you mumbled. “And the only emotion I remember feeling is worry for you. I've never, ever felt scared in your presence.” You stayed quiet for a moment before adding, “In fact, I don’t feel safe unless I’m around you. I only feel okay when you’re close by. And I can barely function when you’re not there.”

The admission was monumental. He knew it. Especially because this break had been born from the fear that he didn't truly want you around, that you were just a placeholder until his real life and love could resume.

Spencer was utterly at a loss for words.

His entire life, he had felt like a benchmark for others, a person whose existence made people think, ‘Well, at least I’m doing better than that guy.’ He was the one constantly left behind, especially when it came to love. He believed he represented chaos and instability, a cautionary tale.

Prison had doubled that belief. He would lie awake in his cell, consumed by the thought of how unsafe people must feel around him now. How could he ever expect to have someone once they found out he’d been incarcerated in a highly institutionalized facility? That he’d been addicted to drugs?

How could anyone feel safe with him? How could anyone not see him as a burden? He had convinced himself he was someone to be wary of, someone whose very presence introduced danger.

And yet, here you were, in his lap, telling him you felt the exact opposite. You rubbed your eye tiredly, your other hand softly brushing through the hair at the nape of his neck, all while telling him he was the only person in the world who made you feel safe.

“Sorry, I just—” Spencer’s voice broke as he looked away, and you realized that his eyes were glistening with tears.

You hurried to frame his face with your hands, not forcing him to look at you, but simply using your thumbs to brush the tears away. The gesture was so gentle that Spencer felt even a bigger need to cry. He also registered, with a distant part of his mind, that your hands weren't as cold as they usually were. A tiny bit of warmth had seeped into them, though your fingertips remained cool.

You were so incredibly tender, and he realized he wasn't even sure when he'd last cried like this.

“I’m sorry if I said something wrong,” you whispered, continuing to brush away his tears.

He finally met your gaze, his own shimmering. “No. You said the perfect words,” he whispered hoarsely.

Then, he tightened his hold around your waist and pulled you into a more desperate hug, burying his face against you. You let him, your arms coming securely around his neck as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

Before you knew it, he was shifting, holding you tightly to ensure you wouldn't fall, and then he was lying back, carefully taking you with him. He settled onto the mattress, letting you rest fully on top of him. He reached for the blankets, pulling them over both of you and you didn't say a word.

One of his arms remained around your waist, while the other came up to cradle the back of your head. He pressed a long heartfelt kiss to your temple.

“Thank you,” he whispered into your skin. He wished he had better words for what he was actually feeling, but he knew you understood.

You hummed in response and tightened your hold on him.

The moment your eyes met his, joy lit up your features. Before he could process it, you were crossing the space between you, and then your arms were wound tightly around his neck.

The hug, here in the middle of the bullpen, was as unexpected as it was desperately needed. He froze for a second. Then, instinct took over, and his free arm came up to circle your waist, holding you close. It was over almost as soon as it began, but the warmth of it lingered.

You pulled back, but your hands came up to gently frame his face, your thumbs softly stroking the skin of his jaw.

“You shaved,” you whispered, the words meant for him alone.

He had never told you about the fear, about the panic that the act of shaving now evoked. But then again, you knew him better than he knew himself.

His own gaze was locked on yours, the world around you disappeared. He didn't see Luke staring with raised eyebrows, or the grins exchanged between JJ and Tara. When you were in front of him, you were all he saw.

“Yeah,” he breathed out.

You let your hands drop slowly. “I’m so proud of you.”

It was only then, as your gaze flickered over to Luke’s staring, that you seemed to remember your surroundings and the boundaries of your break.

It was in these moments, seemingly insignificant to anyone else, that Spencer truly began to mend. Like when you, him, and JJ would grab coffee during a brief break from a case. He’d reach for the sugar packet, and your hand would find his under the table, giving a delighted squeeze. A small smile would touch his lips.

These were the things that propelled him forward. He was getting better for himself, and in doing so, he was becoming someone who could be better for you.

And at the end of the day, he was the one who had chosen to pick up the razor, his hand trembling. He was the one who had opened his closet and pulled on an old cardigan he hadn't worn since before prison. He was the one who had endured the silence of his own bed, fighting the urge to retreat to the couch. He was the one who got behind the wheel of his car, took a deep breath, and drove to the BAU alone. The end goal was you. But the journey was his own.

The case was long, but it was finally over. The exhaustion was so palpable that the entire team had opted for a hotel, too drained to fly home.

Spencer, for whom a full night's sleep was still only a wishful dream, laid in his quiet room. Remembering your advice not to fight the frustration, he decided to slip out of his room for a walk, if only to the vending machine at the end of the hall to grab a snack.

What he didn't expect was to find you already there.

You were standing in front of the machine, clad in soft sleep shorts and a thin top, shivering slightly as you rubbed your arms against the hotel's aggressive air conditioning. He watched, a fond smile touching his lips, as you scanned the options with an unimpressed expression, mumbling, "None of this looks good," to yourself.

He stepped closer, shrugged off his soft cardigan and draped it gently over your shoulders.

You flinched, your head snapping around in a flash of fear before your eyes met his and your entire body relaxed. "God, you scared me," you breathed, a hand pressed to your chest.

"Sorry," he murmured, his voice soft with genuine apology. He then turned you gently by your shoulders. "Lift your arm for me."

You complied without question, your gaze softening as you studied him in return, quietly taking in the faint shadows beneath his eyes. He guided your arms into the sleeves while studying your goosebumps with a worried expression, wondering how long you'd been standing out here.

"Couldn't sleep?" you asked, still watching him.

Spencer shook his head. "No," he said, the truth slipping out with an ease that surprised even him. It felt good to not have to make up an excuse.

You seemed to note that ease as well, though you didn't comment on it. Instead, you just nodded. "Me neither," you mumbled.

Once the last button was fastened, securing the oversized cardigan around you, you offered him a grateful smile. "Thank you, Spencer."

It was only then he realized he was now standing in just his t-shirt, but he found he didn't mind at all. Not when you let out a contented sigh and leaned your head against his bicep. "All of the snacks here suck," you grumbled, the complaint muffled against his arm.

His hand came up, his fingers gently brushing through the strands of your hair as he stared at the machine. "You like those cookies, don't you?" he asked, pointing to a package on the top row.

"I guess," you conceded with a sleepy mumble.

"I'll get you those. It's better than nothing," he said softly. His arm, which had been stroking your hair, now slid around your shoulders, holding you securely against his side as he used his free hand to press the correct buttons and feed his coins into the slot.

He bent down, his arm slipping from your shoulders, to retrieve the cookies from the vending machine’s slot. He broke one cookie in half and handed a piece to you.

“These are the same ones you offered me when I was drunk in your apartment,” you realized, the taste suddenly familiar.

A soft, knowing smile touched his lips. “I know,” he said, his voice gentle.

Your heart gave a squeeze at the confirmation that he remembered such a small detail.

“Come on,” Spencer murmured, his gaze dropping to the goosebumps peppering your legs. “You should eat these in your room. It’s too cold out here.”

You shook your head. “I don’t feel like going back to my room,” you admitted quietly.

The statement struck a chord in him, reminding him of the night you’d been drunk and told him about your nightmares that waited for you in the dark.

“Would you like to come to my room?”

You nodded without a moment’s hesitation. He bought a second package of cookies for himself and led you back down the hall.

When you entered his room, you made a beeline for the small sitting area, instinctively curling up in the armchair. You knew his aversion to eating in bed. You pulled your legs up, tucking your feet beneath you, and the sight of your socks, covered in tiny fawns, made him smile.

He joined you, settling into the other chair and opening his own package. For a few moments, you both ate in quiet. Your eyes drifted across the room, landing on the single book resting on his nightstand.

“What were you reading?” you asked softly, nodding toward it.

“A Faint Heart,” Spencer replied, his voice even.

Your gaze snapped back to his. He met your eyes calmly, holding your stare. He didn’t need to explain. You both knew. That was the book you had bonded over.

You knew about the other thing, too.

Slowly, you placed your feet back on the floor, setting the half eaten cookie on the table between the chairs. You moved toward the bed while Spencer remained seated, his eyes following you. You reached for the book and opened it carefully.

There it was.

You lifted the photo strip, your fingers trembling slightly as you stared at it. You remained so still that Spencer finally rose. He put his own cookies down and crossed the room to you, his steps silent on the carpet.

When he was finally behind you, his chest against your back, you lifted your head, turning to look at him over your shoulder, your eyes shimmering. “You kept this as a bookmark?”

“Yeah,” he said softly.

You looked back at the photos, your thumb gently tracing the image of his loving gaze. A soft smile touched your lips. A weight seemed to lift from Spencer’s shoulders. All this time, he had feared that you would look back and see only a temporary infatuation in his eyes. But now, he saw the realization dawning on your face.

“Did you keep yours?” he asked softly, referring to your copy of the photo strip.

“Yeah,” you whispered, finally leaning down to carefully place the bookmark back between the pages. “I kept it as a bookmark, too.” You smiled softly up at him. “It’s in my Pride and Prejudice book.”

Spencer’s heart swelled. Pride and Prejudice. You had kept your pictures in a story that promised a happy ending. His gaze flickered to the cover of A Faint Heart. Vasya’s story ended in solitude and misery. Perhaps it had been a subconscious metaphor for his own fears, a literary manifestation of the ending he felt he deserved. He didn't like that thought. Despite the bond this book had forged between you, he preferred to have his happiest memories in a different book.

He moved suddenly, crossing to his go bag and unzipping it. You watched confused as he rummaged for a moment before pulling out a different book.

He carefully retrieved the precious photo strip from the pages of A Faint Heart and, without a word, slid it between the pages of the new book. The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde. He then placed the Dostoevsky volume back into his bag, setting the new one on his nightstand.

You stood there, baffled. "What was that?"

Spencer shrugged his shoulder, a little self consciously. "It felt like a bad omen," he mumbled, not quite meeting your eyes. "Keeping a memory like that in a story that ends so tragically." He finally looked up, his gaze soft. "You have yours in Pride and Prejudice. I want mine to be in a happy love story, too."

A delighted giggle escaped you. "That's so sweet, Spencer."

Your eyes then drifted to the new book's title, and a laugh bubbled out. "Feels a bit ironic, does it not?" you grinned, pointing at the cover.

Spencer read the title again. The Importance of Being Earnest. The irony hit him immediately. Your break had begun, in part, because of a lack of earnestness. A wry grin spread across his face. "Well, I guess it is," he conceded. "But all the couples end up happily together in the end. So I'm fine with the irony."

His response made you giggle again as you finally moved, letting yourself fall back to plop down on the edge of his bed. He joined you, settling on the other side and leaning against the headboard, his shoulder brushing against yours.

You tilted your head, resting it against the headboard as you looked at him. "We kind of suck at this whole 'break' thing, you know that?" you mumbled, your voice fond.

Spencer let out a chuckle, gladly taking the chance to admire you with a smile. "I'm still not entirely sure what a 'break' is actually supposed to entail," he admitted. "But I'm pretty sure it doesn't typically include... this." He gestured vaguely between the two of you, cocooned in his hotel room in the middle of the night, sharing cookies and reminiscing about old memories.

A soft giggle escaped you. "Definitely not."

Your gaze drifted down to the Oscar Wilde book. After a moment of comfortable silence, you looked up again.

"I'm so proud of you," you smiled. "For the progress you've made these past four months." As you said it, the length of time truly registered. Four months. That was how long you had been deprived of the simple right to call him your boyfriend.

Spencer's smile was small but pure. He tilted his head, his gaze softening as it searched your face. "And I'm proud of you," he replied, his voice just as soft.

He meant it. He had seen the changes in you, too. You weren't walking through each day with a plastered on, cheerful facade anymore. You were allowing your real emotions to show. You had stopped sacrificing every ounce of your free time to tiptoe around everyone. And he was in awe of that.

You watched him, absorbing his words but not immediately replying. Your eyes drifted down to your own wrist, to the simple button bracelet you fiddled with when you were anxious. You toyed with the familiar shapes, your brow furrowed.

"What's wrong?" he murmured concerned, tilting his head so he could see your face.

You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his warm gaze. "Nothing, I just—" You took a shaky breath. "What if I had been the one stopping you from healing?" You looked away again. "What if we get back together and you… you slip back into old habits?" You phrased it carefully. "What if, without even realizing it, I was part of what was hurting you?"

The fear had been gnawing at you. You brought your hand to your mouth, nervously biting at your thumbnail, awaiting his response.

Spencer stared at you, genuinely appalled that such a thought could even take root in your mind. "You have never, ever hurt me," he stated concerned. "And you've never stopped me from healing. You're the reason it's even possible."

He watched as you nervously worried your lip, your eyes still clouded with uncertainty, and he knew he needed you to truly hear him.

"Without you," he continued, his tone softening, "I wouldn't even know where I'd be." He stayed quiet for a moment before he let the rest pour out. "Somehow you've seen something good in me and you didn't lose faith in me. Even when most people did."

Gently, he reached forward and took your hand, guiding your fingers away from your mouth where you'd been anxiously biting your nail. You went willingly, your hand trembling slightly in his.

"You can't know that," you whispered. "You can't know that you won't hurt again when I come back into your life."

Tears welled in your eyes, and he felt his heart clench.

"You've never left my life," Spencer countered. He sat up straighter, turning his body fully towards you. You mirrored his movement as he reached out, his fingers gently brushing the hair from your face before tucking it carefully behind your ear.

"Ever since we've taken this break, there hasn't been a single night I haven't dreamt of you," he confessed, his gaze holding yours captive. "And every time I do, it takes me days to recover. Because the sheer amount of love I feel for you is sometimes too big for my heart."

He heard the sharp intake of your breath at the word love.

"You're constantly on my mind," he continued, his thumb stroking your cheek, brushing away a tear that had escaped. "Taking up the most space. And I've been told," he added, the ghost of a smile touching his lips, "that I have a pretty big brain."

The self deprecating joke made you giggle through your tears, the sound like music to him. He used the moment to gently wipe another tear away.

"So, no," he concluded, his voice dropping to a tender whisper. "There is no risk of you hurting me by coming back into my life. Because, you never left. Not for a single second."

You met his eyes, and he could see them shimmering. And that was when you moved, climbing into his lap. He let you, his arms immediately encircling your waist, holding you as you settled against him. You buried your face in the curve of his neck, and he could feel your tears against his skin.

“There isn't a single moment,” he whispered into your hair, his hand making circles on your back, “where I don't wish to have you by my side.”

You held onto him tighter, your grip speaking volumes where words failed.

Spencer took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of you. A scent he’d ached for. And then he said the words again, the words that had ruined everything four months ago.

He tightened his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder, his lips close to your ear. “I love you.” Your arms squeezed instinctively around his neck. “So much,” he added, whispering. He felt more tears hit his skin and he tightened his arms around your waist. He took it as the best sign that you didn’t pull away after hearing those words again.

After a long while, you finally pulled back just enough to frame his face with your hands. Your eyes were red rimmed “I don’t know if I’m good enough for you to say those words to,” you whispered. “I’m scared of what comes with it.”

You were scared of him seeing all of you, fully. You had worked on yourself, you had gotten better, but the fear still lingered.

“You have nothing to be scared of,” Spencer whispered. “And you're more than good enough. You’re everything to me.”

Your hands slid from his face, fisting gently in his shirt, as if holding on for dear life. His own hands, resting under the hem of your top, squeezed your waist.

“But if you’re not ready to say it,” he continued, his voice the softest it had been, “that’s okay. You have all the time in the world. I’m not going anywhere.” You watched him with wide, teary eyes. “I just need you to know,” he whispered, “that I love you no matter what.”

Another tear escaped, tracing a path down your cheek, and he caught it with the pad of his thumb. You studied his face, and he guessed you were searching for any hint of hesitation, any sign that he might not mean it with his entire being.

While you searched, he took the opportunity to admire you in return. His gaze drifted down, checking to see if the goosebumps on your legs had finally vanished in the warmth of the room. Satisfied they had, his hand gently brushed over your thighs before his eyes found yours again.

And somehow, looking at you now, he was at a complete loss for words. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

Your eyes, which had been downcast, finally snapped up to meet his, surprise washing over your face.

“Even in this state?” you asked, gesturing vaguely to your tear-streaked face.

“Every state,” he mumbled with utter conviction.

You shook your head in disbelief as you hid your face in his neck. “You’re sure you’re not tired of my face yet?” you murmured against his skin.

Spencer immediately pulled back, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “What?”

“I mean, I’m in your face every day. At work, and at home… well, I used to be,” you rambled, your insecurities tumbling out. “And I mean, have you seen—” you began, clearly on the verge of comparing yourself to someone else.

That’s when he decided words were no longer enough. He gently cupped your face in his hands and kissed you.

It shut you up immediately.

He captured your bottom lip and guided you to lean down just a little so he could kiss you more deeply. It was as if you were incapable of not giving in, like your body had made the decision long before your mind could catch up. You didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to think, just kissed him back, your hands tightening in his curls. His breath stuttered against your lips and you felt it everywhere. It was a kiss filled with four months of longing.

It tasted like everything you’d both been pretending not to want, like all the nights you’d lay awake thinking of this exact moment. When you finally pulled back, it was slow, like separating from him hurt in ways you hadn’t expected. You stared at him with wide eyes, your heart racing too fast, your chest tight. He waited, his own breath caught in his chest.

Then, you hit his chest. “Spencer! We. Are. On. A. Break.”

“You kissed me back!” he shot back with a pout.

“That—that doesn’t matter! You started it. You broke the rules,” you insisted, mirroring his pout.

“I think you broke the rules the moment you settled into my lap,” Spencer replied, tilting his head with a knowing look.

“I was upset!” you said, the excuse sounding weak even to your own ears.

Spencer squeezed your waist, his thumbs drawing slow circles on your skin. “Okay then. I’m sorry for kissing you.”

“No—I didn’t mean you should apologize for the kiss,” you stammered, flustered. “Ugh, I just meant—” You stared at him, finally catching the cocky grin he was trying and failing to hide. “You suck, you know that?” you mumbled, your own smile breaking through.

Before he could reply, you framed his face with your hands and leaned down, kissing him again. It was just one kiss, but it was a tender, lingering one. He could practically feel the three words you weren't ready to voice aloud yet. He could feel your I love you as clearly as if you'd spoken it.

You pulled back, just enough to rest your forehead against his. "We suck at this break thing so much," you whispered against his lips.

Spencer smiled and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. "I don't mind," he whispered back.

"Of course you don't," you mumbled fondly, your words trailing into a soft sigh as he pressed one more gentle kiss to the corner of your jaw. The sensation was feather light and ticklish, making you squirm instinctively in his lap. You pulled back with a laugh.

He simply smiled up at you, his expression impossibly soft. He slowly licked his lips, as if savoring the taste of you, a taste he had been deprived of for over four long months.

You watched the happiness on his face, your heart swelling. "You're so sweet to me, you know that?" you whispered.

"How else would I be with you?" he asked, his tone genuinely curious, as if there were no other conceivable way to exist in your presence.

You didn't have an answer for it, because there wasn't one.

His hands began to wander upwards, leaving your waist to trace a path up your spine. He brushed his fingers through your hair, tucking a stray strand behind your ear before his thumb came up to softly stroke your cheekbone.

His fingers, then, drifted lower until they found a gold chain around your neck. He lifted the small pendant into the light. It was a full moon. He hadn't seen it before. He rubbed his thumb over its smooth surface.

You looked down, watching his careful examination before his gaze lifted to meet yours.

“When did you get this?”

“Four months ago,” you said, tilting your head to figure out what he was thinking.

Spencer didn't need to voice the next question. And you answered it without words, your eyes confirming what he already sensed.

Yes. After our break.

He stared at the golden orb, a symbol of a time he knew had been filled with pain for you both.

“I got it,” you continued softly, “to remind myself why I needed to push through my own fears. To remember the reason I was working so hard to get better.”

Spencer’s eyes found yours again.

“Why a moon?” he asked quietly.

“Because of the night we spent with the telescope,” you explained, a nostalgic smile gracing your lips. “Seeing the moon up close like that, with you… was just amazing. And it was one of my favorite nights with you.”

The past tense in your words, it was my favorite night, broke his heart a little. He hated that it sounded like you were speaking as if there were no more new memories to be made.

Your hands came up, gently pushing back the soft hair that had fallen across his forehead as he’d been lost in thought, studying the necklace. “What are you thinking?” you whispered, framing his face and tilting it up so you could see him properly.

He met your concerned gaze. “I should get a star necklace,” he whispered.

A curious smile touched your lips as you brushed your thumb across his cheekbone. “Why’s that?”

“Because the moon and stars both symbolize love in their own way, yet they belong together,” he whispered. “The moon is said to show that love is constant, even as everything else changes while-”

“While stars,” you continued, your voice just as quiet, “represent hope against the darkness… and the achievement of dreams.”

“You’re my dream,” Spencer mumbled. “So if I get the star necklace, maybe it’ll be a good omen. For me. Or for us.”

You stared at him, your heart feeling so full it felt like it was going to burst. After a long, quiet moment, you finally whispered, “I think you should buy it.”

A smile spread across Spencer’s face, a promise that he would.

“You know,” you said softly, unable to resist the urge to press your thumb gently into the charming dimple in his chin, making him smile, “I didn’t think of you as a necklace type of guy.”

“I’m not,” he admitted easily. “But for you, I’ll be anything.”

“A flirt, apparently, too,” you teased, your fingers drifting up to trace the faint stubble along his jawline.

“Like I said,” Spencer grinned, turning his head to press a soft kiss into your palm. “Anything.”

You continued your gentle exploration, tracing the curve of his lips, the arch of his brow, as his hands found a home on your waist, holding you.

“Do you think we’ll work this time?” you asked, the vulnerability returning to your voice.

Spencer’s hands squeezed your waist “Yes.” There was no hesitation in his answer.

You nodded, accepting his certainty, your eyes searching his. The comfortable silence stretched between you once more before a final, nagging fear surfaced. “Are you sure,” you whispered, “there isn't a single, even just a tiny part of you, that's mad at me for not saying those three words back to you?”

Spencer tilted his head, his expression softening with understanding. “No. Not at all.”

You tried to look away, the vulnerability of the moment becoming overwhelming, but he wouldn’t let you. “Hey,” he whispered, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek until your eyes met his again. “I’m serious,” he insisted. “I can’t even believe that you’re here with me right now. That alone feels like a privilege I don’t deserve. I don’t need anything more than that.”

You nodded slowly, his sincerity seeping through your doubts. A smile touched your lips. “I wish the team had told me how incredibly good you are with your words when I asked them about you,” you whispered, leaning in until your nose gently nudged his.

Spencer was about to get lost in the feeling of your breath mingling with his, but his mind snagged on your words. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes searching yours.

“You asked them about me?” he whispered, suddenly breathless without your lips even having touched his.

You resisted the urge to complain about the lost kiss. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I sensed it would be… difficult to meet you under those circumstances, so I tried to get a sense of who you were. I thought it might give me a better idea of how to help you.”

You rubbed your eye sleepily. “And then, after you were out but before you came back to the team… I’d play twenty questions with everyone. Even though it was closer to fifty, most of the time, I think,” you admitted with a shrug of your shoulders. “I just… I wanted to know you. I wanted to see who you were from their eyes, to learn how to approach you, to understand you.”

You leaned in again, finally claiming the kiss you’d been waiting for. But Spencer barely kissed back, his mind reeling.

He pulled back, just far enough to search your face. “It wasn’t the team who told you about me?”

You looked slightly confused, your fingers still gently toying with a soft curl near his temple. “No.”

Spencer stared at you, his brilliant mind struggling to recalibrate. “You… you took it upon yourself to find out more about me?” he asked slowly.

“Well, yes,” your tone gentle as if explaining something to a child. “I knew it would take you a while to recover from what happened.” You rubbed your eye again. “I guessed that if I found out what you liked, maybe I could bond with you over it. I thought it might make you feel a bit better about having a stranger on the team.”

“Why? Is that a bad thing?” you asked, worry washing over your features as Spencer stayed silent.

Spencer shook his head, overwhelmed. “I’m just… surprised,” he mumbled, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. “That you put so much effort into getting to know me when I scared you within the first ten minutes of meeting each other.” He was referring to the interrogation room, when his palm hit the table that had made you flinch back.

You tilted your head, your expression one of genuine bafflement. “When did you scare me?” you asked, and you sounded completely sincere.

Spencer’s mouth dropped open slightly. “Are you serious?” he breathed, disbelief washing over him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you insisted, your brow furrowed in concentration. You shifted in his lap, your arms winding a little tighter around his neck as you scooted closer.

“I thought… I worried about talking to you when I came back because I was so horrified by our first encounter,” his voice filled with bafflement.

You simply tilted your head. “All I remember is you being scared, Spencer,” you mumbled. “And the only emotion I remember feeling is worry for you. I've never, ever felt scared in your presence.” You stayed quiet for a moment before adding, “In fact, I don’t feel safe unless I’m around you. I only feel okay when you’re close by. And I can barely function when you’re not there.”

The admission was monumental. He knew it. Especially because this break had been born from the fear that he didn't truly want you around, that you were just a placeholder until his real life and love could resume.

Spencer was utterly at a loss for words.

His entire life, he had felt like a benchmark for others, a person whose existence made people think, ‘Well, at least I’m doing better than that guy.’ He was the one constantly left behind, especially when it came to love. He believed he represented chaos and instability, a cautionary tale.

Prison had doubled that belief. He would lie awake in his cell, consumed by the thought of how unsafe people must feel around him now. How could he ever expect to have someone once they found out he’d been incarcerated in a highly institutionalized facility? That he’d been addicted to drugs?

How could anyone feel safe with him? How could anyone not see him as a burden? He had convinced himself he was someone to be wary of, someone whose very presence introduced danger.

And yet, here you were, in his lap, telling him you felt the exact opposite. You rubbed your eye tiredly, your other hand softly brushing through the hair at the nape of his neck, all while telling him he was the only person in the world who made you feel safe.

“Sorry, I just—” Spencer’s voice broke as he looked away, and you realized that his eyes were glistening with tears.

You hurried to frame his face with your hands, not forcing him to look at you, but simply using your thumbs to brush the tears away. The gesture was so gentle that Spencer felt even a bigger need to cry. He also registered, with a distant part of his mind, that your hands weren't as cold as they usually were. A tiny bit of warmth had seeped into them, though your fingertips remained cool.

You were so incredibly tender, and he realized he wasn't even sure when he'd last cried like this.

“I’m sorry if I said something wrong,” you whispered, continuing to brush away his tears.

He finally met your gaze, his own shimmering. “No. You said the perfect words,” he whispered hoarsely.

Then, he tightened his hold around your waist and pulled you into a more desperate hug, burying his face against you. You let him, your arms coming securely around his neck as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

Before you knew it, he was shifting, holding you tightly to ensure you wouldn't fall, and then he was lying back, carefully taking you with him. He settled onto the mattress, letting you rest fully on top of him. He reached for the blankets, pulling them over both of you and you didn't say a word.

One of his arms remained around your waist, while the other came up to cradle the back of your head. He pressed a long heartfelt kiss to your temple.

“Thank you,” he whispered into your skin. He wished he had better words for what he was actually feeling, but he knew you understood.

You hummed in response and tightened your hold on him.

“Hey, look at me. Look at me,” Luke was saying, his voice was filled with concern he tried to mask. He was already ripping a strip of fabric from the hem of his own shirt. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

His words were drowned out by the roaring rush of your own blood in your ears. You could feel the warmth of it soaking the fabric of your pants.

“Wheres Spencer?” you managed to whisper. It was the only thing your mind could latch onto.

Luke didn’t look up from his task, his hands firm as he wrapped the makeshift bandage around your leg. “He’s okay. He’s fine, I promise.”

He pulled the fabric tight to stop the bleeding and a gasp was ripped from your lips. The pain was blinding and for a second the warehouse swam before your eyes.

“Where’s Spencer?” you asked again, the words tighter this time, as you bit down hard on your lower lip. A fresh wave of fire shot up your leg and you couldn't suppress the sharp jerk of your body, your head thumping back against the wood behind you. You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowing back a scream. You didn't want to seem like a baby in front of the team, but this was your first injury on the job, your first physical interaction with the violence you so often studied from a distance. The sight of your own blood was making the world tilt.

Luke, his hands still applying pressure, looked up at your pleading tone. He understood in an instant. Without a second thought, he turned his head and yelled into the empty space of the warehouse. "Reid!"

On the other side of the warehouse, Spencer had just finished helping Emily secure the unsub’s cuffs. The man was sobbing, but Spencer was still distracted and his head whipped around at the sound of his name. Emily followed his gaze and she gave him a nod. "Go. I've got it."

He didn't need to be told twice.

Spencer rushed towards the sound of his name, his long legs eating up the distance. The moment he turned the corner, his heart plummeted. There you were, slumped against the crate, paler than he'd ever seen you. Luke was kneeling, tightening a makeshift bandage around your thigh. But it was your face broke his heart. Your eyes were screwed shut, your brow furrowed in an attempt to suppress your tears and appear strong.

He hurried over, his voice breathless with fear. "What happened?"

The moment he spoke, your eyes fluttered open and a relieved expression formed on your face. "Spencer."

Spencer met your eyes immediately.

"Hi," you whispered, your voice shaky.

"Hey, honey," he spoke softly, the endearment falling from his lips as naturally as breathing. It was the one his mother had always used, whenever he scraped his knees in school or missed his father. He dropped to his knees beside Luke, his fingers moving to help apply pressure. As he tightened the fabric, his touch was as gentle as he could make it, but the movement still jostled the wound.

You let out a sound of pain. A sound that stopped Spencer's heart dead in his chest. He could see how deep the cut was, the blood was soaking through the cloth almost as fast as they could press.

Spencer’s eyes met Luke's over your head. "I barely noticed," Luke mumbled. "He must have done it in passing, just reaching for whoever was closest."

Your head lolled back against the wood again, your eyes closing as a wave of dizziness took hold.

Spencer nodded at Luke. "We need to get her to the hospital."

He could see the terror etched into every line of your body. Your knuckles were white where you gripped the rough wood of the crate and your breath hitched in tiny gasps.

His voice was soft trying to calm you. "We're going to get you help, okay?"

Your eyes snapped open, wide with dread. "Don't leave me."

"I'm not going to leave you," Spencer reassured you immediately. "I'm right here. But I'm going to have to pick you up, and it's going to hurt. I'm sorry."

His heart fractured a little more as a single tear escaped, tracing a clean path through the blood on your cheek. He reached out, his thumb brushing it away.

"Okay," you whispered, placing your trust in him completely.

Luke gave the bandage one final tug before standing back, clearing the path.

Spencer slowly slid one arm beneath your knees. "I need you to keep your eyes open for me," he instructed softly, using his other hand to gently push the hair back from your forehead. He waited until your tired eyes found his. He offered you a reassuring smile, and though it was a struggle, you managed a weak one in return.

"You're okay," he whispered, a mantra for both of you, as his other arm slid under your back.

Then he lifted you.

A sound of genuine pain left your mouth. "I know, I know. I'm so sorry," he whispered. For a horrifying split second, the warm feel of your blood against his hands catapulted him back to a prison cell. Back to his friend bleeding out in his hands. His breath hitched.

This is different, he told himself. It's just a thigh injury. She is going to be fine. He repeated it like a prayer as your head lolled weakly against his shoulder, your eyelids fluttering shut.

"Hey. Hey!" he said, his voice louder, filled with a fear he couldn't completely hide. "Eyes open. Look at me."

"Sorry," you breathed, forcing them open again. Your hand came up, fisting tightly in his vest, as you tried to keep yourself awake.

Spencer tightened his hold, cradling you and carried you out of the gloomy warehouse. Emily had the SUV right at the entrance, the engine running. She had already transferred the unsub to Tara and Rossi, her entire focus now on her injured agent.

"Reid, with me. Luke, follow us," she ordered, her gaze sweeping over you with a concerned look before she yanked the car door open for him. Emily held it wide as Spencer carefully maneuvered you inside. The movement jostled your leg and a sharp hiss of pain escaped your lips. As he tried to settle you, your hand weakly fisted in his shirt.

"Can you come with, please?" you whispered, another tear slipped down your cheek.

Spencer didn't hesitate this time. "Yeah. Of course," he whispered back.

He climbed in after you. He helped you shift, arranging you so your legs were stretched across the seat and your head was cradled in his lap. "God, it hurts," you choked out, your face pressing into the fabric of his trousers.

"I know, honey. I know," he murmured, already in motion. He wrestled his way out of his vest, minimizing the disturbance to you before letting it drop to the floorboard. Finally free of the barrier, he could give you his full attention.

His gaze fell to his hand. It was stained, your blood a dark crimson against his pale skin. The sight unlocked memories he kept chained in the deepest part of his mind. He clenched his jaw, forcing them back. This is different. You're going to be okay.

His clean hand came up to cup your face, his palm cool against your even cooler cheek. His index finger tapped your temple. "Open your eyes for me," he whispered.

You obeyed slowly, your eyelids fluttering open to reveal a pain hazed gaze. You watched him as he softly brushed his thumb back and forth across your cheekbone.

"I didn't see him," you confessed, your voice filled with shame. "It was my fault."

"He was fast," Spencer countered immediately, his voice leaving no room for argument. "It wasn't your fault." His eyes darted down to the bloody bandage on your thigh, then out the window, mentally calculating the remaining blocks to the hospital. His touch on your face remained, while his other, bloody hand remained a fist on his own thigh.

He happened to glance up and meet Emily's eyes in the rearview mirror. She held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary and he saw a dawning realisation in her eyes. Recognising something he hadn't meant to display. He looked away quickly, his focus returning solely to you.

His thumb continued its gentle path across your cheekbone. The gesture coaxed a weak smile on your lips. "Tell me something," you whispered.

Spencer leaned in closer, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Tell you what?"

"Anything," you breathed.

You couldn't articulate it, but through the haze of your own panic and pain, you could feel his. You saw the tightness around his eyes, the way he kept unconsciously opening and closing his bloodied fist. You'd even noticed a smudge of crimson on his neck but bit back the urge to tell him, not wanting to amplify the terror you saw flickering in his hazel eyes. You were trying to bring him back to you.

Spencer watched you for a second, his mind scrambling for something. "I thought about your idea... about me participating in chess tournaments," he said, a soft smile touching his lips as he brushed away a fresh tear tracking down your cheek.

"Really?" you asked, a spark of happiness cutting through the pain.

Spencer nodded. "Mhm."

"So? Are you going?" You managed to grit out, your hand lifting to grip his wrist, the one cradling your face, holding onto him tightly.

"Not sure yet," he whispered. He wanted to reach over and brush the hair from the other side of your face, to offer more comfort, but a glance at his other hand stopped him. The distance in his eyes must have been obvious.

"Tell me more," you whispered, pulling his focus back to you.

He was struggling, his thoughts a jumbled mess of fear and adrenaline. And then, in his desperation to distract you, he said something he hadn't planned to share. "I listened to all those albums you had in your car."

The confession had its intended effect. "My CDs?" you asked, surprised enough that your grip on his wrist tightened less from pain and more from shock.

"Yeah. I went to one of the music stores close to my apartment and had a listen," he admitted, a shy smile returning to his face. He could see the joy in your eyes.

"Did you like them?" you asked, the words gritted out between clenched teeth as the car hit a minor bump.

Spencer hated making you talk through the pain, but the alternative, seeing your eyes slip shut, was unthinkable. If you lost consciousness now, he would't be able to handle it. You let out a pained groan that strangely morphed into a pained giggle as you realised his answer.

"That's okay," you whispered.

"I liked a couple songs," he offered softly, and the admission, small as it was, made you smile again.

"I guess we have polar opposite music tastes," you said, squinting your eyes as a fresh wave of pain radiated from your leg.

Spencer gently brushed his thumb just below your eyelash, a silent plea for you to keep your eyes open. For the rest of the ride, he listed every single song he’d listened to from your collection and pinpointed the one or two he’d genuinely liked.

At one point, your hand, trembling with pain, lifted and your fingers gently touched the side of his neck. He stilled, letting you, though he wasn't sure why.

Emily pulled up to the ER entrance. She handled the forms at the front desk while Spencer carried you inside and settled you onto the white sheets of a hospital bed. Your whispered, "Please stay," was all it took. He sat in the chair beside the bed as the doctors started working. The procedure contained a deep cleaning and a series of stitches. But it was a painful one, requiring Spencer to hold your hand, which he did without hesitation, his fingers laced tightly with yours, his other hand brushing the hair back from your damp forehead. When it was over, the painkillers pulled you under and you fell into a deep sleep.

Spencer sat in the room for a long time, his gaze locked on the dried blood still on his palm and under his nails. Finally, he rose on shaky legs and retreated into the attached bathroom.

The door clicked shut. His eyes met their reflection in the mirror and he froze. In one jerky motion, he ripped his tie loose, gasping for air as if it were strangling him. He braced his hands on the edge of the sink, his head hanging low, shoulders trembling. He couldn't bear it a second longer. He twisted the faucet on, thrusting his hands under the scalding stream. He scrubbed, his breath coming in ragged pants, rubbing his skin raw with the cheap hospital soap until the water swirling down the drain ran a sickening orange.

He forced himself to look up again. Away from the blood in the sink. And then he saw it. A smeared mark on his neck, just below his jawline. A remnant of your blood.

The memory of your touch, your fingers gently brushing that exact spot in the car, flooded back.

You hadn't been seeking comfort for yourself in that moment. You had seen the blood on him. You had seen the panic he was trying so desperately to hide, and even through your own pain, you had tried to wipe it away. To comfort him.

Shame crashed over him. His own pain had so literally been written on his face, that the person bleeding out in his lap had felt compelled to offer him comfort.

The feeling was so suffocating he hooked his fingers and popped the top two buttons of his shirt. His eyes dropped back to the sink, still seeing the ghost of that orange tinged water. With a trembling hand, he cranked the faucet on full blast, the roar of the water drowning out the silence and, he hoped, the screaming in his own mind. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, only that the water had long since run clear and his hands were raw.

When he finally walked back into your room, his tie was gone, left in the bathroom. The top two buttons of his shirt remained undone.

The team had come and gone while you slept, their visits containing concerned whispers and glances directed at both you and him.

It was late, when you finally stirred. The first word from your lips was a drowsy, "Spencer?"

He didn't reply at first, slumped half asleep in the uncomfortable chair, his head resting against the wall. It was the rustle of sheets as you moved that jolted him awake. He was on his feet in an instant, leaning over the bed rail.

"Hey," he whispered.

A soft smile touched your lips. "Hi. You stayed."

"Of course I did," he whispered back.

During the evening, he coaxed you to eat a few bites of bland hospital food. Later, a nurse arrived to hang a new bag of IV fluids. The moment the medical cart rattled into the room, your eyes found Spencer's. You looked at him with a deliberate sweetness.

"Could you get me one of those really tasty strawberry tarts from the cafeteria?" your voice a little weak. "I've been craving one."

Spencer nodded immediately. "Yeah. Of course." He was just glad to be useful, to have a mission that could momentarily silence the guilt whispering that he should never have let you out of his sight in that warehouse.

He didn't know, as he hurried from the room, that your request had been a plan of yours. You remembered the files and the trauma surrounding needles. You didn't want to subject him to watching that needle go into your arm, not after everything he'd endured. You sent him on a quest for a pastry not because you wanted one, but because you wanted to protect him from seeing it.

When Spencer returned, a small paper bag containing the strawberry tart in hand, the IV was already securely taped to your arm. You’d pretended the tape was slipping, requesting a larger bandage from the nurse. Just to ensure he wouldn't have to see the needle.

Later, as the night went on and pain made your sleep restless, you tried to send him home. "Spencer, you should get some real rest," you'd insisted, but he simply shook his head. Instead of leaving, he returned with a chess set.

"It'll help keep your mind off it," he explained, setting the board carefully on your bed table before settling himself on the edge of your mattress.

And it was nice. The focus required to follow his explanations provided a welcome distraction from the throbbing in your leg. Your genuine confusion and disastrous moves made him laugh. You were scheduled to stay overnight and a part of you was deeply relieved that he hadn't left. The thought of facing the long hours alone felt daunting.

During a lull in the game, you fiddled with a bishop, your gaze fixed on the chess game instead of him. "I'm sorry if I was too much of a crybaby back there," you murmured.

Spencer's head snapped up, his eyebrows furrowing in genuine confusion. He reached out, his hand covering yours that held the chess piece. Gently, he guided your move, placing the bishop on a square that put his king in checkmate.

"You weren't a crybaby," the juvenile word sounding foreign on his lips.

"I've just never gotten hurt in the field before," you offered, the words feeling more like an excuse for your own perceived vulnerability.

Spencer made his next move, deliberately placing his own piece in a position that surrendered the game. You saw it and raised a knowing eyebrow but held your tongue.

"Your reaction was perfectly okay," he said earnestly. He met your eyes, ensuring you heard every word. "And even if you had acted like 'that,' as you say, it would have been normal. There is no definitive or correct reaction to pain and fear."

A weight seemed to lift from your shoulders, just by hearing the sincerity in his words.

The next morning, Emily took the initiative to drive you home, with Spencer insisting on tagging along. Your apartment filled with well-wishers from the team, despite your reassurances that you were perfectly fine. After Emily helped you settle onto your couch, Spencer lingered by the door, his hands shoved in his pockets.

"I'll, uh... I'll check up on you soon," he promised.

You were already half-asleep and could only manage a drowsy, "Thank you," before you drifted off.

True to his word, he called you throughout the day and into the evening. You assured him you were fine each time, but he still ended every conversation with a quiet, "I'll come by soon."

He kept that promise the very next afternoon, appearing at your door with a bag of groceries and a chess set. He spent hours with you, his patience endless as he guided you through another game, all while meticulously ensuring you took your pain medication on time.

At one point, he insisted on changing your bandages. You sat on the edge of the couch while he knelt on the floor before you, a fresh roll of gauze and medical tape laid out beside him. He carefully took the end of the old bandage between his teeth to tear it, his hands gently supporting your thigh.

"Thanks for your help," you said softly, watching the concentrated furrow in his brow. "You really didn't have to come over."

Spencer shook his head, the bandage still held in his teeth as he carefully cradled the back of your knee to lift your leg. He began wrapping the clean gauze. "I don't mind," he mumbled around the fabric.

You reached out and gently took the bandage from his mouth, your fingers trembling slightly when they brushed his lips. His eyes flicked up to yours for a moment, before he quickly looked back down. "Funny how the tables have turned," you smiled.

The comment made him chuckle as he slowly lowered your leg back to the couch, though he remained kneeling on the floor. "Okay?" he asked softly, nodding toward his handiwork.

"Yeah," you said, your voice warm. "Thanks." You then reached for his hand, tugging gently to pull him up to sit on the couch beside you. He settled in, his shoulder brushing yours.

"Wanna play another round of chess?" he asked.

"No," you answered plainly, letting your head loll back against the cushions. "I keep losing. I'm sick of it."

His chuckle was a reward in itself. "You should lay down," he murmured.

"That's all I've been doing," you complained, a pout forming on your lips.

Spencer didn't reply. Instead, he shifted, his hands carefully guiding you to lie back on the pillows. Then, he gently lifted your legs, settling them across his lap. The weight of his hands on your shins were profoundly comforting and made you suppress a delighted smile.

"You'll be back on your feet soon," he said, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Literally."

You let out a sigh, one that couldn't quite suppress your smile as you settled into the pillows. It didn't take long for the cozy atmosphere to lull you to sleep. You figured you hadn't been out for long, but when you stirred, the space on the couch beside you was empty.

You sighed, pushing yourself upright.

Crap.

Of course he'd left. He'd been taking care of you all day. He had a life, a job, a world that didn't revolve around your convalescence. Another sigh escaped you as you ran a hand through your hair, staring blankly at the ceiling. Your apartment felt profoundly boring and lonely without his presence. You were just considering taking another nap when the lock clicked and the door swung open.

Spencer stepped back in, balancing a cardboard coffee carrier and a small plastic pharmacy bag.

Your face lit up, joy you didn't try to hide. "Spencer! I thought you left."

He offered a soft smile, toeing off his shoes by the door. "No, I just went to refill your prescription and get some coffee." He set the bag of medicine on the coffee table.

"You're doing way too much for me," you sighed, a mixture of gratitude and guilt in your voice.

"Not at all," he countered simply. He handed you a coffee, and you took it happily, the warmth seeping into your hands as you took a grateful sip. You let your head fall back against the couch cushions as he settled beside you, the familiar weight of him an immediate comfort.

For a little while, it was perfect. You fell into easy chitchat. Him describing the nice bakery he'd found near the pharmacy, you recounting the odd dream you'd had. You were in the middle of a sentence when the trill of his phone interrupted you.

"Sorry," Spencer murmured, already reaching for it.

You shook your head, a silent it's okay, but you watched his face closely. You saw the subtle shift, a slight tightening around his eyes as he listened. He sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. "Yeah. I'll be there soon."

He ended the call. The silence that followed was louder than the ringing had been.

It was a case.

You sighed, the feeling of impending loneliness a cold weight in your stomach. You knew you weren't cleared for duty and you knew what that meant. He was leaving and you were about to be alone for an indefinite amount of time.

Spencer’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly as he slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned to you, his eyes already full of an apology. “It’s a case,” he said, the words heavy with a disappointment that mirrored the sudden drop in your own heart.

You tried to offer a brave smile, but it felt weak on your lips. “I guessed so.”

The cozy evening you’d envisioned, curled up on the couch with him, a movie playing in the background, evaporated into thin air.

Spencer's gaze swept over the medications on your coffee table. “Remember,” he began, his tone softening into that instructional one he used when he was worried. “Two of these white pills you have to take in exactly three hours, okay? Set an alarm.” He picked up the bottle and pointed to it, as if you could possibly forget.

His eyes then drifted to the bandage peeking out from under your fuzzy brown shorts. “And I don’t think you’ll need to change the bandae until I’m back, so please… don’t try to,” he insisted, giving you a stern look. He knew your stubborn independence.

He wasn’t done. “I stocked your fridge with groceries. Everything on the low shelf is ready to eat. If you want something hot, order in. Don’t try to cook,” he instructed, his eyebrows furrowing with concentration. “You can’t be standing for that long, it’ll cause you too much pain .” He trailed off, mumbling to himself, “I don’t think there’s anything else…”

You couldn’t help the fond grin that spread across your face. “Thank you, Spencer,” you said, your voice warm. “I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl, I promise.”

A faint blush crept up his neck at your words, as if he’d just realized how thoroughly he’d been fussing. He ducked his head for a moment before looking back at you.

“You be careful, though, okay?” you said, your tone shifting to one of soft concern. You leaned forward slightly, your fingers gently finding the fabric of his sleeve. “I don’t want you joining me on this couch as a patient.”

He nodded, his gaze dropping to where your hand rested. “I’ll try to come back as soon as I’m done with the case,” he promised quietly.

A comfortable silence settled between you. He was just watching you, his hazel eyes tracing the lines of your face as if committing them to memory. You held his gaze.

“You scared me, you know?” The confession slipped out. He seemed almost surprised to have said it aloud, as if the words had been sitting on his tongue for days, waiting for this vulnerable moment.

Your heart squeezed. “Sorry,” you whispered, though a small part of you swelled with a bittersweet happiness at the depth of his care.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he immediately countered, his brow pinching with guilt for having made you feel responsible for his fear. “I just… I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“Trust me,” you shook your head, gesturing with a wry smile toward the small pharmacy on your coffee table. “Neither do I.”

A chuckle escaped him. It lightened the mood, pulling you both back from the edge of that heavy emotional cliff.

“Thank you, though, Spencer.” Your voice was soft, pulling his gaze back to yours. The reality of his imminent departure was a cold weight in your stomach and you found yourself already missing him.

“I mean it,” you continued. “You’ve done so much for me these past few days.” You tilted your head, curiosity stirring as you noticed his eyes, now moving deliberately, across your features as if studying you. You weren't sure he even heard you.

You held his gaze, a nervous flutter in your stomach. The old habit to bite your nails surfaced, but instead, your fingers, still tangled in his sleeve, tightened their grip. It was close to digging into his skin, though he knew you would never intentionally hurt him.

He watched, mesmerized, as the late afternoon sun streamed through the window, catching your eyes. You saw the same golden glow gilding the edges of his brown curls.

Spencer’s heartbeat was frantic. He knew this was a life changing decision. And perhaps you knew it, too. The fact that you were holding his gaze so steadily, something you so often broke out of nervousness, was all the confirmation he needed.

Your nails were just about to press into his arm when he moved.

His hands lifted, coming to frame your face. His fingers were cool against your warm skin as he leaned in, carefully closing the distance between you. When his lips finally met yours, a sigh escaped you, your shoulders slumping in pure relief. Your free hand came up to rest over his wrist, your thumb stroking the delicate skin there as you kissed him back.

His lips were incredibly soft. A giddy part of your brain chimed in. You already knew Spencer Reid was a soft man at heart, why were you surprised? Then, he let out a happy hum against your mouth, a sound of happiness that made you smile, momentarily breaking the kiss before you eagerly returned to it.

He hummed. Spencer Reid hummed during a kiss.

The realization was utterly delightful.

Spencer continued to cradle your face, his thumbs gently stroking your temples. He could taste the faint trace of the coffee he’d brought you earlier on your lips, mingled perfectly with the sweet vanilla of your lip balm.

When he pulled back, it was only far enough to search your face, his eyes wide and uncertain. But all he found was a dazed smile, your eyes fluttering open to meet his, equally full of happiness. You both smiled simultaneously.

“Wow,” you whispered. You closed your eyes again, leaning your head more fully into his palm. His thumb automatically began to stroke your cheek.

“A good ‘wow’?” he whispered.

“Definitely,” You smiled.

Spencer felt a matching grin spread across his own face. He could hardly believe what he had just done. He had kissed you.

He had kissed you, and you had kissed him back.

Not just allowed it, but actively participated, your hand on his wrist pulling him closer. And you were happy. Radiantly so.

“I finally got my birthday wish,” you whispered, the confession slipping out.

Spencer’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. One of his hands brushed back a strand of your hair. “You wished for this?” he asked, his voice full of wonder. He wasn't entirely sure what to name ‘this.’

“Well, sort of,” you giggled. “You were pouting at the birthday party the team threw for me, and for a moment, as I blew out the candle, I thought about what it would be like to kiss you.” You grinned, a little sheepish. “It wasn't a really conscious wish. But I think it counts anyway. I mean, I got it.” You were rambling now, but you found you didn’t mind, not when he was looking at you like that.

Spencer’s smile was radiant. He couldn’t quite believe he had actually done this. That you were sitting in front of him, watching him with such a delighted smile. That you had enjoyed the kiss. That you had wanted it.

That you had wanted him.

His heart felt too big for his chest, racing as he looked at you. He was about to say something. Tell you how long he’d wanted to kiss you.

( It was ever since that one time he’d seen you giggle with Tara, a random thought had struck him as you pressed a hand to your mouth to stifle a loud laugh. He had noticed then how soft your lips looked. And that small detail had haunted him ever since, because all he could do afterward was stare whenever you talked to him. )

But then, his eyes darted down to the watch on his wrist. His expression shifted in an instant. “Oh, wait, I need to—” His hand slipped from your face as he stared at the time. “Oh no.” He was late. Very, very late.

You followed his gaze to the watch. “Oops,” you grinned, utterly unrepentant as you watched him spring into action. He stood up quickly.

“Don’t forget what I told you,” Spencer said in a rush, slipping on his shoes and hoisting his satchel bag over his shoulder. His movements were frantic, but his eyes kept returning to you. As he hurriedly tied his laces, he glanced at you and halted for a second. You were on the couch and you were pretty. So pretty, sitting there with kiss swollen lips, your index finger and thumb touching your bottom lip in delight.

You were still smiling and he was completely smitten.

He was smitten with you. Delighted that he’d kissed you. He was on cloud nine, and even the rush to a crime scene couldn’t diminish the feeling. He could practically float all the way to Quantico.

"I'm so sorry. I promise I'll clean the floor when I come back," Spencer said apologetically, actually tiptoeing across your living room. "You have no idea how many pathogens are on a city sidewalk. I really am sorry," he mumbled, an endearing ramble starting as he closed the distance between you.

You just watched him, utterly charmed by the entire approach.

"But I just... I need to do this again," he whispered. His hands came up to frame your face once more as he leaned down.

This time, when his lips met yours, you couldn't contain the wide smile that broke out, making the kiss soft and a little lopsided.

"I love your smile, I really do," Spencer mumbled against your lips, pulling back just enough to speak. His breath was warm on your skin. "But I need you to stop smiling so I can kiss you properly." His voice was heavy with a breathless sort of wonder, as if the mere act of kissing you was the most exhilarating thing he'd ever done.

You quickly schooled your features, pressing your lips together to stifle the grin, though the joy still shone brightly in your eyes. "Right, sorry," you whispered, leaning in to meet him halfway. He leaned down even further, a considerate gesture so you wouldn't have to strain your injured thigh too much.

When he finally pulled away, his pretty lips were slightly parted, his breathing uneven. "Why did I do this right before work?" he groaned, the question half muffled as he gently tugged on your bottom lip with his thumb, a gesture that made you smile all over again.

"Asking myself the same question here," you whispered.

Spencer sighed and leaned his forehead against yours for one precious second. "I really am late," he mumbled, before stealing one last soft peck, making you smile immediately.

He straightened up abruptly, as if tearing himself away by force. "Okay. Don't forget your meds. And the food. I'll—I'll see you when I come back," he said, his words slightly stuttering as his eyes drank you in one last time, sitting there happily, your fingers once again touching your lips in awe.

His usually fast mind seemed to slow whenever it came to you, as if the world itself had slowed down. And somehow, he worried his eidetic memory might fail him, because he couldn’t stop staring. As if he was afraid he’d forget the sight of you sitting there so prettily.

You smiled softly up at him. "I'll see you then."

The simple promise made him pause, his feet seemingly rooted to the spot as he just stared, completely smitten. Then, with a visible effort, he quickly turned. "Okay. B-Bye-bye!" he stuttered, finally hurrying out the door.

Seeing the things you saw every day never got easier. It never dulled. Not truly. No matter how many cases you closed, how many reports you filed, or how many reassurances you whispered to yourself that it was “just part of the job,” the images lodged themselves stubbornly behind your eyes. They resurfaced in the fragile, half-lit space between waking and sleep, where logic dissolved, where the world felt unmoored and memory ran riot. Some nights, they came at you in jagged shards. Faces without names, eyes wide with terror, blood that would not wash from your hands, screams that looped endlessly in your mind, refusing to be silenced. Other nights, the horror didn’t take shape, didn’t insist on narrative. It simply pressed down, a dull, omnipresent ache inside your skull that pulsed with every heartbeat, dragging your thoughts through viscous fog. Hours after the case had technically concluded, you still felt it there, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness, leaving you unsteady, as if your brain itself had lost the ability to process the world normally.

Pretending you were fine, the practiced mask you showed the victims’ families as they sobbed into your shoulder, had long become second nature. But pretending you weren’t in love with your coworker required a level of discipline you could only maintain for so long.

Especially not here, wedged into a booth at a dimly lit bar with the low hum of conversation pressing in from all sides. The room was full of profilers, which somehow made everything worse. Too many observant eyes. Too many people trained to notice the smallest deviations in behavior, the slightest changes in posture or tone. You nursed your drink carefully, letting the cold glass ground you, while Emily sat close enough that her knee bumped yours every time she shifted, and Penelope hovered on your other side like a bright, determined force of nature, utterly committed to the idea that you were going to have fun, whether your nervous system agreed or not.

Morgan and JJ laughed loudly at something Penelope said, and for a moment you let yourself smile along with them, letting the music and the alcohol blur the sharp edges of the day. They kept refilling your glass, kept asking questions, kept dragging you into conversations that required just enough focus to keep your thoughts from spiraling back to the case. It was sweet, really, their way of anchoring you to the present, but it also made the knot in your chest tighten. Because Spencer wasn’t there. And without him across the room, without the subtle weight of his gaze finding you instinctively, you felt off-balance, like you’d lost a familiar point of reference.

But he had taken a few days off. A minor injury, he said, just a cut and a bruise above his eyebrow, the result of protecting you from an unsub who had come too close. Now he was away, tending to his mother, and the world felt off in his absence. It was selfish, of course, to miss him this much. And yet, every instinct in your body longed for him: the quiet presence across the table, the faint scent he left on his coat, the way his nervous energy somehow steadied your own. You traced the rim of your glass absentmindedly, wishing for him to materialize from the crowd, wishing for the familiar tilt of his head, the low hum of thought behind his eyes.

Damn.

“That guy definitely wants something,” Emily said beside you, leaning in with a grin as she gestured toward the bar. You followed her gaze to the man who had been stealing glances at you all night, confidence written into his posture. A moment later, a bartender appeared, setting a sleek, expensive-looking drink in front of you with a nod in the man’s direction.

You barely hesitated before sliding the glass away. “I’m not interested, thanks,” you said, firm but polite, pushing it back toward the bartender.

JJ raised her eyebrows, amused. “Wow. Not even a sip?”

“I didn’t ask for it,” you replied, shrugging, though your fingers curled a little tighter around your own glass.

Penelope gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Do you realize how hot you have to be for strangers to just send you drinks? You’re wasting valuable flirting potential.”

Emily laughed. “She does this every time. Completely unfazed. It’s impressive, honestly.”

“You know,” Morgan said suddenly, eyeing you over the rim of his bottle, a teasing glint in his eyes, “this would be a lot easier if you just had a boyfriend.”

JJ nodded along, grinning. “Seriously. It’d save us all the trouble of watching men strike out all night.”

You rolled your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “I’m doing just fine without one.”

“Uh-huh,” Morgan said, clearly unconvinced. “Sure you are. You turn down free drinks, avoid flirting, and spend half the night staring at the door like you’re waiting for someone.”

JJ tilted her head, studying you with that calm, perceptive expression that made suspects crumble. “You know,” she said slowly, “you don’t act like someone who’s single.”

Oh.

You laughed, a little too quickly. “There’s no correct way to act single.”

Morgan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Sure there is. And you don’t fit it. You turn down drinks, avoid flirting, and spend most of the night talking about work or—” he paused, grinning, “—Reid.”

“What? I do not,” you protested.

Emily smiled into her glass. “You do. Constantly. Did you even realize you quoted one of his fun facts earlier?”

“That was relevant,” you said defensively. “And we’re friends.”

“Friends,” Penelope echoed, drawing the word out. “Interesting. Because the way you say his name is not very platonic.”

You rolled your eyes, but your face felt warm. “He’s my coworker. We work well together. That’s all.”

“Oh no,” Morgan said, shaking his head. “You don’t just work well together. You orbit each other. It’s painful to watch.”

JJ nodded. “You finish his sentences. He checks your reactions before he answers questions in briefings. And don’t think we haven’t noticed how you always end up sitting next to each other on the jet.”

“That’s coincidence,” you said immediately.

Except it wasn’t.

Not really.

Coincidence didn’t explain the way your fingers found each other in the narrow space beneath the shared blanket on long flights, skin brushing just once before intertwining. Didn’t explain the quiet weight of his hand resting against your knee when the lights dimmed and everyone else slept. Didn’t explain the chess table in hotel lobbies, the board between you like plausible deniability while his thumb traced slow circles against your knuckles. The way you both froze at the slightest sound, then smiled innocently when someone passed by.

You had learned how to hide. How to make it look accidental. How to pull away a second before it became obvious.

Emily raised an eyebrow. “Is it? Because I’ve taken three different seats to test that theory, and somehow you two still end up shoulder to shoulder.”

Your stomach dipped. You forced a careless shrug, lifting your glass as if this were amusing rather than terrifying.

“The jet isn’t exactly spacious,” you said. “Statistically, proximity is inevitable.”

Penelope leaned in closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “Also, he brings you coffee. Not just coffee, your coffee. No one memorizes an oat-milk-to-cinnamon ratio like that for a friend.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “He’s thoughtful. That’s just how Spencer is.”

“Exactly,” JJ said gently. “Thoughtful. Kind. Loyal. And completely in love with you.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “He is not.”

Morgan smirked. “Kid looks at you like you’re the only stable thing in his universe.”

Emily added, “Like you make the world quieter for him.”

Penelope sighed dreamily. “Like if the universe ever collapses, it’ll be because you weren’t holding his hand.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands for a second. “You’re all being ridiculous.”

“Are we?” JJ asked softly. “Because I’ve seen him panic when you’re hurt. He forgets procedure. He forgets everything except you.”

Morgan nodded. “I’ve never seen Reid jealous before. Then some consultant flirted with you and suddenly he’s giving me a ten-minute lecture on territorial behavior in primates.”

You stared at your drink. “We’re just friends,” you repeated, quieter now, like saying it enough times might make it true in the way they needed it to be.

Emily clinked her glass gently against yours. “Then you should start to date him.”

You smiled, a reflex more than a reaction, and let your gaze drop to your hands. If only she knew. If only she knew that “starting” had happened months ago, not with a confession or a dramatic moment, but in the slow accumulation of small things. In conversations that stretched past midnight because neither of you wanted to be the first to say goodnight. In the way Spencer learned the exact cadence of your voice when you were tired and adjusted himself accordingly, by speaking softer, moving closer, offering presence instead of solutions.

By the time the night stretched into that hazy, in-between hour where the music grew louder and the conversations looser, the team had clearly decided this was no longer casual teasing.

This was a campaign.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, lifting his bottle like he was delivering a closing argument. “Okay,” he said, grinning, “let’s be logical about this. You have to date Reid, and we have reasons. One: free lectures on literally anything. Guaranteed safety on trivia nights. And if you ever forget a birthday? He won’t. Ever. Man’s brain is a steel trap.”

You scoffed lightly, even as your heart gave an involuntary, traitorous flutter. “I don’t need to date someone for trivia night.”

What you didn’t say was that Spencer already remembered the dates that mattered, without prompts or reminders or jokes made at his expense. He remembered the day your fingers brushed for the first time, both of you startled by how electric something so small could feel. He remembered the anniversary of the case that left you hollowed out, the one that made your hands shake for days afterward. He remembered the exact time you had once texted him I can’t sleep, the message sent in the dead of night when you were sure no one would answer, and how he’d shown up at your door less than twenty minutes later, hair rumpled, jacket half-zipped, eyes dark with concern, holding two mismatched mugs of tea like they were offerings meant to ward off your fear.

And of course, he remembered the first time you kissed. That quiet moment before a case, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin, his hands trembling slightly where they rested at your waist. The way he’d paused, breath warm against your cheek, asking softly if this was okay, as if you might change your mind at the last second. The way the world had narrowed to just the two of you when you hadn’t.

Penelope leaned across the table then, bracelets chiming as her eyes sparkled with unfiltered conviction. Her voice dropped, earnest and conspiratorial all at once.

“Wrong,” she said. “You need to date someone who adores you. And Spencer Reid?” She pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “Worships the ground you walk on. Respectfully. With footnotes.”

You swallowed because that wasn’t exaggeration. Not even a little. Spencer loved you the way he loved knowledge: with reverence, with humility, with a kind of awe that treated you as something to be understood and safeguarded rather than claimed. He asked before touching you, even after months together, even when your body already knew the shape of his. Asked if he could hold your hand, if he could kiss your shoulder, if it was okay to stay the night. Every question spoken softly, like consent was not just a rule but a philosophy he lived by.

And when you teased him for it, when you smiled and told him he didn’t have to ask every time, he would flush, ears going pink, eyes impossibly sincere as he said, very seriously,

“I never want to assume I have the right to you.”

The memory settled heavy and warm in your chest, almost painful in its tenderness. You stared down at your drink, the ice melting slowly, and wondered how long you could keep pretending this was all just hypothetical.

JJ laughed. “Two, he’s amazing with kids.”

Oh.

Oh no.

You choked on your drink, the burn sharp as it went down the wrong way, coughing as you leaned forward, eyes watering slightly.

“Why,” you managed, setting the glass down harder than necessary, “are we talking about kids?”

Emily shrugged, smirking. “Because I’ve seen him with Henry. He kneels to talk at eye level, explains things like they matter, and somehow turns explaining space-time into a bedtime story.”

Your laughter never came.

Instead, your thoughts slipped traitorously inward, drifting to a quiet night you rarely let yourself linger on for too long. The room had been dark except for the thin spill of streetlight through the curtains. Spencer had been staring at the ceiling, hands folded tightly over his chest, voice unsteady in that way it only ever was when he let himself be vulnerable with you. He’d said he wasn’t sure he’d ever be good enough for a future like that. Not just kids, but the whole fragile idea of permanence. A house. A dog. A life where someone depended on him in ways he might fail.

You’d rolled onto your side then, traced the familiar line of his jaw with your thumb. You’d told him that he was already the gentlest person you knew. That gentleness wasn’t weakness. That it was rare. Necessary.

He’d gone quiet after that. Too quiet. When you looked at him, his eyes were shining, glassy in the dark, like no one had ever named that part of him before. Like no one had ever framed him as enough. And then, hesitantly, like he was testing the safety of the idea, he’d started talking about names with interesting meanings, about how parenting shaped a person forever, about how words and care and patience could alter the entire trajectory of a life. You’d listened, heart aching in that hopeful, terrifying way, knowing how much trust it took for him to even imagine it out loud.

Morgan snapped his fingers sharply, pulling you back to the present.

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “That man is dad material.”

“Oh my God,” you groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead. “We are not doing this.”

“We absolutely are,” Penelope said. “So, three, picture it. Reid as a husband? He’d over-research wedding venues. Color palettes. Statistically optimal cake flavors.”

JJ nodded thoughtfully. “He’d cry during the vows. And then apologize for crying.”

Emily added, “And then quote something obscure but devastatingly romantic.”

You stared at them. “You’re all insane.”

Morgan grinned. “You’d be insane not to marry him.”

“I am not marrying Spencer Reid,” you said quickly, and stopped. Because the word yet pressed so hard against your teeth it almost slipped free.

Penelope gasped. “Wow. You didn’t even hesitate. That denial was practiced.”

Because it was. Because you’d rehearsed it in your head every time you watched Spencer fall asleep beside you, glasses carefully set on the nightstand, one hand curled loosely in your shirt like he needed proof you were real. Because you already knew what forever would look like with him, and loving him in secret felt safer than risking a world that might take him from you.

JJ smiled into her glass. “Four, you already defend him like a spouse.”

“That is not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Emily said easily. “Every time someone underestimates him, you go feral.”

Morgan laughed. “Remember that sheriff who called him ‘the kid’? You verbally disassembled that man.”

“He deserved it.”

“Exactly,” Morgan said. “Wife behavior.”

You buried your face in your hands again. “He’s my friend.”

“Friends don’t memorize each other’s stress tells,” JJ said gently. “You know when he’s about to spiral before he does.”

“And he knows when you’re pretending you’re fine,” Penelope added. “He brings you books instead of asking questions.”

Emily tilted her head. “You know what that’s called?”

You peeked through your fingers. “Don’t say it.”

“Domestic,” Emily said.

The table erupted in laughter.

Morgan wasn’t done. “Five, let’s talk logistics. You’d never argue over directions. He already knows the fastest route everywhere.”

JJ laughed. “Your kids would be terrifyingly smart.”

“Okay, absolutely not,” you said quickly. “We are shutting that down right now.”

Emily smirked. “Too late. I’m picturing curly-haired little geniuses who quote Shakespeare.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “And carry FBI badges at career day.”

You shook your head, cheeks burning, heart doing something dangerously unprofessional in your chest. “This is ridiculous.” And so lovely to imagine.

“Is it?” JJ asked softly. “Because every reason we’re giving you…you already know.”

For a moment, the teasing eased, not gone, just quieter. The music filled the space between you, the bar lights blurring slightly at the edges. You took a slow sip of your drink, staring down at the condensation on the glass.

Penelope smiled at you, gentler now. “We just think you deserve someone who looks at you the way Spencer Reid looks at you.”

Morgan nodded. “Like you’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”

You nodded slowly, still silent, heart pounding.

If they only knew that you already were.

That the man they were trying to convince you to date was the one who kissed your temple before briefings, who texted you goodnight even when you were in the same building, who held your hand in the dark when the world felt too heavy. That you were already his, in every way that mattered.

You took a slow breath, forcing your expression to stay neutral, even as your chest overflowed with something secret and devastatingly sweet.

Because they could give you a thousand reasons to date Spencer Reid.

And not a single one of them would come close to the reasons you already loved him.

The night unraveled slowly, the way nights like that always did, as if no one quite wanted to be the first to admit they were tired. Laughter faded into softer smiles, jokes trailed off mid-sentence, and the table became crowded with empty glasses and half-forgotten napkins, evidence of a shared attempt at normalcy. The music blurred into something distant and indistinct, no longer demanding attention. You said your goodbyes in a haze of hugs, promised Penelope—twice, because she insisted—to text when you got home, and accepted one last lingering look from Emily and JJ. It wasn’t accusatory. Just fond. Observant. It settled in your chest like a question they didn’t ask.

The cold air outside wrapped around you immediately, clearing the last traces of alcohol from your system. You breathed it in deeply as you walked, shoulders drawing up, the city quieter now, lights reflecting softly off damp pavement. By the time you reached your apartment building, the exhaustion you’d been holding at bay finally settled in. The familiar hum of the hallway lights greeted you, and you moved on autopilot, unlocking the door, slipping inside.

Your shoes came off just past the threshold. Your keys landed in the ceramic bowl by habit. You sighed, long and deep, body sagging as if it had finally been given permission to rest.

And then you froze.

There was a light on in the living room.

Not harsh. Not alarming. Just warm and unmistakably familiar. Your heart skipped, then stuttered, then began to race in earnest as you moved further inside, steps slow, breath shallow with anticipation. You didn’t call out. You didn’t need to.

Spencer was there.

He sat on your couch, leaned forward slightly, hands clasped loosely between his knees. A book rested open beside him, forgotten, a marker of a thought interrupted. He looked up the moment you appeared, eyes softening instantly, like he’d been waiting for this exact second. His curls were more unruly than usual, falling into his eyes, and his jacket had been folded neatly over the arm of the couch, as if he’d taken care to make himself small in your space. He stood too quickly, movement a little uncoordinated, nerves evident in the way his shoulders squared.

“Hey,” he said softly.

The sound of his voice wrapped around you and your chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, even as your body betrayed you, carrying you toward him without hesitation.

“I came back early,” he said, swallowing, fingers flexing as if he didn’t know where to put them.

Your brows furrowed. “Spencer, you were supposed to be with your mom until tomorrow.”

know,” he said quickly, then slowed himself down, forcing a breath. “I was. But you sounded tired earlier. On the phone. And you said your head hurt.” His gaze flicked to your face, so careful. “And you paused before answering, which you only do when you’re trying not to worry me.”

You stopped in front of him, hands already reaching for his sleeves, grounding yourself in the warmth of him.

“So I changed my ticket,” he finished, voice quieter now. “I thought…statistically, after cases like this, you’re more likely to minimize how bad you’re feeling. And I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Something in you melted completely.

You stepped into him, resting your forehead against his chest, breathing him in. His arms came around you immediately, no hesitation this time, no uncertainty. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gentle in your hair, the other settling at your waist. He held you like he was anchoring you to the present, like he knew exactly how fragile you felt.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured, voice muffled against him.

“I know,” he murmured, pressing his cheek lightly against your hair. “I wanted to.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye, careful not to touch where you were still sensitive from the headache.

“I want to take care of you,” he said again, quieter this time, like a promise meant only for you.

Your chest ached. Because this was who Spencer Reid was. He loved quietly, deliberately. He showed up. He noticed. He acted.

It was the thousandth reason to love him as you already did.

He pulled back again, eyes scanning your face with practiced concern. “Did you eat something there?”

You huffed a soft, tired laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s not an answer,” he said, lips twitching.

“Barely. There’s no real food in a bar.”

He nodded, already turning toward the kitchen. “Okay. I made that instant soup you like just in case. It’s…not burned.”

You watched him move through your space like he belonged there, because he did. His shoes lined up neatly by the door. His glasses case on your coffee table. His presence woven so seamlessly into your apartment it felt wrong when he wasn’t there.

While he reheated the soup, you leaned against the counter, watching the careful way he stirred, the way he tasted and adjusted, brow furrowing in concentration.

“You didn’t have to come back early,” you said again, softer now. “I know you wanted to be with your mom.”

He glanced at you, expression earnest. “I know but she was okay, probably even tired of me talking so much about you. And I wanted to be here when you got home. And I figured…after nights like this, you usually can’t sleep.”

Your throat tightened, the words sitting heavy for a moment before you let them out.

“They were talking about you all night.”

Spencer paused mid-motion.

The ladle hovered above the pot, a thin ribbon of steam curling up between you. His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, like his body had registered the information a second before his mind caught up.

“Oh,” he said.

You smiled faintly, watching the way his fingers tightened around the handle. “They think we should date.”

That did it.

His ears flushed immediately, color blooming so fast it felt almost unfair. He swallowed, blinked once, then again, like his brain was rapidly sorting through several possible responses and rejecting all of them.

“Oh,” he repeated, voice cracking just slightly, traitorously.

You stepped closer, leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder. He smelled like soup and clean cotton. His body relaxed at the contact even as his mind clearly did not.

“They gave me reasons,” you added softly. “Lots of them.”

He resumed moving, carefully this time, ladling soup into a bowl with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.

“Were they…logical?” he asked.

You laughed under your breath. “Painfully so.”

That earned you a shy smile, the corner of his mouth lifting as he set the bowl down with great care, adjusting it so it was perfectly centered on the counter.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “They’re not wrong. I mean—about the logic. Not about the…dating part. Because we already—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, flustered. “I mean, it would be redundant.”

“I know,” you said gently, reaching for his hand, threading your fingers through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed your knuckle automatically. “They don’t.”

He nodded, lips pressing together in thought as he handed you a spoon, making sure it wasn’t too hot.

“Maybe we should…tell them someday,” he said carefully, like he was testing the idea for structural integrity.

“When we get married,” you replied easily, absentmindedly studying your bare finger like you could already see it there. Like it was an inevitability, not a joke.

Spencer’s brain left the building.

He froze completely, eyes widening, breath catching so sharply you were genuinely concerned he might tip over. The spoon in his hand clinked softly against the counter.

“What?” he said, voice several octaves higher than usual.

You looked up at him, amused, soft, devastatingly calm. “Imagine their faces when they get the invitation.”

He stared at you like you’d just proposed rewriting the laws of physics.

“You’re drunk,” he said faintly.

“I’m in love,” you corrected, crossing your arms behind his neck, pressing yourself closer. You kissed his cheek once. Then again. And once more for good measure. “So in love.”

He made a small, helpless noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, hands lifting instinctively to steady you at the waist. His ears were fully red now, eyes bright, and smile completely unguarded.

“Now I need to know,” he said breathlessly, “exactly what they told you, because this amount of affection is…unusual. Even for you.”

You laughed, forehead resting against his.