A case in Baltimore had turned into a hostage situation. By the time he called, the restaurant had already brought you the check for the glass of wine you had ordered while waiting.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, breathless beneath the noise of the police station. “I lost track of—”

“Spencer, it’s okay.”

“It isn’t.”

“You were helping save someone’s life.”

There was a pause.

“We did,” he said quietly. “Save her.”

“Then it was worth missing dinner.”

You took your food home in two containers and ate his portion the following afternoon.

The second time, he arrived forty-three minutes late with rain in his hair and an apology prepared. The movie had already started, but you exchanged the tickets for a later showing. He held your hand in the dark and drew absent circles over your knuckles.

The third time was your birthday. He made it before midnight. You told yourself that counted.

By the end of the first year, rescheduling had become part of loving him.

You celebrated Valentine’s Day on February eighteenth because the unsub in Missouri had taken a fifth victim on the fourteenth.

You moved his birthday dinner twice.

Your first anniversary was marked by a three-minute phone call from the jet and a bouquet Garcia had ordered on his behalf after Spencer realized the flower shop near your apartment had closed.

You understood. That was what everyone said when Spencer mentioned you. “She understands the job.”

You did.

You understood that killers did not consult calendars. Missing children did not wait until dessert. Families needed answers more than you needed a reservation honored.

You understood so thoroughly that Spencer stopped asking whether you were disappointed. He already knew you would forgive him.

The second anniversary was supposed to be different. Spencer had chosen the restaurant himself. He had made the reservation six weeks in advance and left the confirmation email flagged in his inbox as though Hotch might personally inspect it.

“No presents,” you had agreed.

Then Spencer bought you a present. You discovered it accidentally when a narrow velvet box fell from his satchel while you were searching for the spare charger he had told you to borrow. You closed it without opening it.

For three weeks, you imagined what might be inside. A necklace, perhaps. A bracelet. Something small and old-fashioned that he had spent far too long researching.

On the afternoon of your anniversary, he texted you at four: Leaving on time. I mean it.

At five thirty, you stood in front of the mirror and adjusted your dress.

At six, you called a car.

At six twelve, Spencer’s name appeared on your screen. You stared at it until the final ring. “Hi.”

His exhale told you everything. “We caught a case.”

You closed your eyes. “Where?”

“Colorado.”

The reservation was at seven. Your car was already outside.

“We’re boarding in twenty minutes,” he continued. “Emily tried to send me home, but the victimology is unusual and—”

“You should go.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you’re going.”

Silence.

You looked at your reflection. The dress was new. The earrings had taken you twenty minutes to choose because Spencer once told you that green made your eyes appear warmer.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I know.”

“We can go when I get back.”

“Of course.”

“I already checked. They have another opening next Thursday.”

You almost laughed. He had rescheduled your anniversary before missing it.

“Thursday is fine.”

“I love you.”

Your grip tightened around the phone. “I love you too.”

After the call ended, you stood in the center of the bedroom until the driver texted that he had arrived.

You went to the restaurant alone.

You could have canceled. You could have changed out of the dress, washed off your makeup and spent the evening pretending it was any other night. Instead, you sat beneath the soft amber lights while a server removed the second place setting.

You ordered the meal Spencer had spent days studying online. When dessert arrived, there was a candle in it. The server must have seen the anniversary note attached to the reservation. You watched the flame burn for a few seconds before blowing it out.

Spencer returned four days later.

He let himself into your apartment shortly after nine in the evening, carrying his satchel and the velvet box.

The case had ended well. A twelve-year-old girl was back with her parents. The unsub was in custody. He should have felt relieved.

Instead, unease followed him through the quiet apartment.

Your shoes were missing from beside the door. The coat you wore most often was gone. A half-empty mug sat in the sink, but the rooms felt untouched.

He found you in the bedroom, folding clothes into a suitcase. His satchel slipped from his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

You glanced at him.

Spencer had spent the flight home constructing his apology. He had collected statistics about work-related relationship strain and dismissed each one because none of them sounded like something a boyfriend should say. Now every prepared sentence disappeared.

“I’m going to stay with my sister for a while.”

His face lost color.

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

He set the velvet box on the dresser. “You said Thursday was fine.”

The words came out wrong. He knew immediately.

You stopped folding. “Do you really believe this is about Thursday?”

“No. I meant—”

“I have spent two years moving every important day in my life around your work.”

“I can’t control when we get called away.”

“I know.”

“We find people alive because we leave when the call comes.”

“I know, Spencer.”

“I don’t understand what you want me to do.”

Your expression shifted. Until then, you had looked tired. Now you looked hurt. “I wanted you to ask me how dinner was.”

He stared at you. “You went?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“I was already dressed.”

He pictured you sitting across from an empty chair. His eyes moved toward the velvet box.

“I should’ve called again.”

“You always should have called again.”

“I text you.”

“You send me updates about the case. You tell me when the jet lands and when you’re heading to the hotel. You don’t ask how I’m doing because you already decided I’m fine.”

“I never decided that.”

“You call me understanding so you don’t have to feel guilty.”

His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

You turned back to the suitcase. “I know your job matters. I have never asked you to choose dinner over someone’s life.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

“Because those aren’t the only choices.”Your voice shook for the first time. “You could call before I’ve spent an hour waiting at a table. You could stop making promises you know you might not keep. You could remember that when you disappear into a case, I’m still here living the part of my life you missed.”

“I remember you constantly.”

“That isn’t the same as showing up.”

Spencer flinched and you pressed your lips together, fighting for control.

“Do you know what I did on my birthday last year?”

“I came over after the case.”

“At eleven forty-seven.”

“I brought you cake.”

“You brought me a cupcake from the airport.”

He remembered the pink frosting crushed against the lid.

He had thought it was sweet.

“I waited all day,” you said. “You told me you would call after the briefing, and then you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget you.”

“You forgot to call.”

“That’s different.”

“It stopped feeling different a long time ago.”

The room went quiet. Spencer looked at the suitcase, then at the gaps in the closet. Panic rose in his chest, fast and familiar.

“What about all the times I was here?”

“I loved every one of them.”

“Then they count.”

“They do. But so do the nights you weren’t.”

He stepped closer. You moved to the other side of the bed. It was only a few feet, but he felt the distance like a locked door.

“Are you ending this?”

“I’m trying to figure out whether I can keep doing it.”

“I can change.”

“You just told me you couldn’t control the job.”

“I can’t.”

“Then don’t promise me something without knowing what you mean.”

He looked down.

You zipped the suitcase. “I don’t need a speech tonight, Spencer. I need space.”

He wanted to argue. He wanted to list every future date he could protect, every missed dinner he could replace. He wanted to open the velvet box and prove that he had remembered the anniversary weeks before it arrived.

Instead, he picked up the box. “Okay.”

You looked surprised.

He swallowed. “I don’t want you to go. But I understand why you are.”

Your eyes filled with unshed tears.

Spencer walked out before he could ask you to comfort him for hurting you.

For two weeks, he did not call. He sent one message the morning after you left:

I’m sorry. I’ll respect the space you asked for. Please tell me if you need anything.

You didn’t answer.

He stopped carrying the velvet box in his satchel. He started seeing his therapist twice a week and when cases took him away, he watched the team call their families. JJ stepped away after briefings to speak with Will. Luke checked in on Roxy. Tara sent messages during the drives between crime scenes.

Spencer had always believed that his concentration made him better at the job. Once a case began, everything outside it became distant.

He had never considered how often he had used that trait as an excuse.

On the seventeenth day, you received a package at your sister’s house. Inside was the dress you had left at the cleaner’s and a small paper envelope. There was no grand letter. Only a folded card in Spencer’s handwriting:

I kept thinking the problem was that the job took me away. The problem was that when I came back, I expected you to be standing exactly where I left you.

I’m learning how to come home.

You read it three times. Still, you did not call.

A week later, Spencer was waiting outside your apartment when you arrived to collect more clothes.

He stood when he saw you.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you said.

“I was going to leave this.” He held up a paper bag from your favorite bakery.

You looked at it, then at him. “What is it?”

“Dinner.”

“It’s four in the afternoon.”

“I have to leave for a case in thirty minutes.”

Your heart sank before you could stop it. Spencer noticed.

“That’s why I came now,” he said. “I knew I couldn’t promise tonight.”

You stayed near the door.

He placed the bag on the small table in the hallway. “I’m not asking you to come back. I wanted to tell you before I left instead of after you had already started waiting.”

You looked inside the bag. Two sandwiches. Two slices of lemon cake.

“You bought two.”

“I thought you might give one to your sister.”

A faint smile tugged at your mouth. “She hates lemon.”

“I know.”

“Then why two?”

Spencer’s cheeks colored. “I hoped you might eat with me for ten minutes.”

You should have said no.

Instead, you sat with him on the stairs outside your apartment. He did not talk about the case. He asked about your sister. He asked how work had been and listened to the entire story about your coworker accidentally sending a private complaint to the group email.

When his phone alarm sounded, he stood. “I have to go.”

“I know.”

He hesitated. “Thank you for having dinner with me.”

“It was four fifteen.”

“I’ve learned that the date on the calendar is less important than making the time intentional.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Did your therapist say that?”

“Essentially.”

“I could tell.”

He smiled. Then he left without asking when he would see you again.

The changes were small. That was why you trusted them. He stopped scheduling dinners on days when he was on call and calling them promises.

If a case interrupted something, he told you as soon as he knew. He did not ask you to pretend you were not disappointed. Sometimes, from a police station or a hotel hallway, he called for five minutes and spoke about anything except murder.

He mailed you a postcard from Oregon because you had once complained that he visited half the country without seeing any of it.

You began answering his calls. Then you began calling him.

Three months after your anniversary, you invited him to your apartment. The velvet box sat unopened on the coffee table. He looked at it when he entered but did not reach for it.

“I found it in the bedroom after you left,” you said.

“I should have given it to you before the case.”

“Would that have fixed anything?”

“No.”

You sat on the couch while Spencer remained standing until you patted the cushion beside you. He left careful space between your bodies.

“I’m still afraid,” you admitted.

“Of me missing another anniversary?”

“Of waking up one day and realizing I’ve built my entire life around your absence.”

Spencer’s eyes lowered. “I don’t want that either.”

“I can handle the job taking you away. I can’t handle feeling foolish for believing you’ll be there.”

“I won’t promise that I’ll never be late again.”

“Good.”

“I can promise that I’ll tell you the truth about what I can give. And that being busy won’t mean you stop existing to me.”

You studied his face. “What happens when you forget?”

“I apologize. I correct it. I don’t explain it away.”

“And if it keeps happening?”

“You leave.” The answer hurt, but it was honest.

Spencer picked up the box and held it toward you. “This was never supposed to make up for anything.”

You opened it. Inside was a slim gold necklace with a tiny compass pendant. Your throat tightened.

“You once told me you hated not knowing where I was,” he said. “I thought…” He stopped.

“You thought what?”

“That it might remind you I was trying to find my way back.”

You touched the pendant. “That is painfully sentimental for someone who claims to dislike metaphors.”

“I don’t dislike metaphors. I dislike imprecise ones.”

A laugh escaped you.

Spencer smiled, tentative and hopeful.

“Can you put it on me?”

His fingers trembled slightly as he fastened the chain behind your neck. When he finished, you turned to face him.

“I’m not ready for everything to go back to normal.”

“I don’t want the old normal.”

You touched his cheek.

He leaned into your palm but waited.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

The kiss was soft. It tasted faintly of the tea you had made and all the words neither of you had known how to say three months earlier.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“What day is it?” you whispered.

“October nineteenth.”

“Nothing special?”

“No significant personal anniversaries.”

“Good.”

Spencer kissed you again.

The following year, your anniversary dinner happened two days late. A case had taken him to Nevada. This time, he called before you left work.

He listened when you told him you was disappointed. He did not ask you to make him feel better about it.

On the actual night, you ordered takeout and video-called him from your couch.

Two days later, he came home. There were no reservations. No candles waiting in a crowded restaurant.

Spencer cooked pasta in your kitchen while you sat on the counter and stole pieces of bread from the cutting board.

The sauce burned slightly because he became distracted kissing you.

You ate it anyway.

Afterward, he handed you a card. Inside, beneath a paragraph about loving you, he had written:

I know this is not the day we planned. Thank you for letting me share the days between.

You looked up at him. “Was that your therapist too?”

“No.” He slid his arms around your waist. “That one was mine.”

You kissed him before his phone could ring.

When it eventually did, hours later, Spencer reached for it. His hand paused. He looked at you first.

You nodded.

“Go.”

The first note appeared inside Spencer’s copy of The Brothers Karamazov.

He noticed it immediately.

Someone had placed a pale yellow sticky note beside a paragraph he had mentioned during lunch earlier that week:

You were right. This part is beautiful.

No name.

No explanation.

Spencer looked around the bullpen. Everyone appeared occupied. Morgan was on the phone, JJ was sorting files, and you were standing beside Garcia’s desk, laughing at something on her computer.

He removed the note carefully and slipped it into his pocket.

The second appeared two days later. This one was tucked inside a book about medieval astronomy:

I understood approximately twelve percent of this, but I’m choosing to blame the author.

Spencer smiled before he could stop himself.

“Good book?” you asked from the desk across from his.

He closed it quickly. “Informative.”

“You’re smiling at medieval astronomy.”

“I smile.”

“Not usually like that.”

He studied your face, searching for some indication that you knew about the note. You simply returned to your paperwork.

By the end of the month, there were eleven. Some commented on passages. Others contained questions.

Do you actually believe this theory, or do you just enjoy arguing about it?

This sentence sounds like something you would say after three cups of coffee.

You should lend me something romantic next.

Spencer began leaving specific books unattended on his desk. It was not bait, exactly. It was an experiment.

He placed a collection of Pablo Neruda poems beside his satchel and deliberately stepped away to refill his coffee.

When he returned, a pink note was visible between the pages.

His pulse quickened.

Subtle.

He looked toward you.

You were watching him over the top of your computer monitor.

When your eyes met, you smiled.

Spencer picked up the note.

Are you accusing me of something? he wrote beneath the word before returning the book to the same position.

He spent the next thirty minutes pretending to read a case file.

You passed his desk on your way to the break room.

When Spencer checked the book again, another line had appeared.

You’re the profiler. Figure it out.

He found you alone in the break room shortly afterward. You were stirring sugar into your coffee.

“Do you often write in other people’s books?”

You glanced over your shoulder. “I would never write directly in a book.”

“Sticky notes are still a form of marginalia.”

“Removable marginalia.”

“So it is you.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You reacted defensively, specified the method used and failed to express any confusion about what I was referring to.”

You took a sip of coffee. “Maybe your secret admirer told me.”

Spencer stepped closer and squinted at you. “Garcia would have used glitter.”

“True.”

“JJ’s handwriting is different. Emily dislikes poetry, and Morgan has never voluntarily opened a book I’ve lent him.”

“That still leaves Rossi.”

“Rossi would sign his name.”

You smiled against the rim of your cup.

“That leaves you.”

“And what does your profile say?”

Spencer’s confidence faltered. The notes had made him happy. He had carried every one of them home, flattening them between the pages of a notebook so the corners would not curl.

But confronting you meant learning why you had written them. Perhaps it had only been a joke. Perhaps you simply enjoyed watching him investigate.

“My profile is incomplete,” he admitted.

You set down your coffee. “Which part?”

“Motivation.”

Your expression softened. “I like hearing you talk about books.”

“You tease me whenever I do.”

“Because you forget other people need oxygen between sentences.”

“That’s a physiological exaggeration.”

“There you go.”

He frowned, but you were still smiling.

“I started reading the books you mentioned,” you continued. “Then I wanted to tell you what I thought, but every time I tried, you became distracted or someone interrupted.”

“So you left anonymous notes?”

“I thought you’d figure it out after the third one.”

“The third note only said the author sounded emotionally constipated.”

“I stand by that assessment.”

Spencer laughed.

You stared at him for a second, as though the sound had surprised you. “So,” you said, quieter now, “mystery solved.”

You moved to walk past him. Spencer stepped sideways, blocking the doorway without meaning to.

“There was another question.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“In the note about poetry.”

Realization colored your cheeks. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“You asked me to lend you something romantic.”

“That was before I knew I’d be interrogated in the break room.”

“This isn’t an interrogation.”

“You profiled my handwriting.”

“I recognize your handwriting.”

The words came out more intimate than he intended.

You looked down.

Spencer reached into his pocket and pulled out a small folded piece of paper. “I wrote a response.”

“You carry stationery now?”

“I wasn’t sure when I would have the opportunity to give it to you.”

You unfolded the note.

In Spencer’s narrow handwriting, it read:

Dinner Friday? I could tell you about the book.

Beneath it, he had added:

I’ll remember to pause for oxygen.

You looked up at him. “Is the book romantic?”

“It can be.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It depends on whether you agree to dinner.”

You pretended to consider it.

Spencer shifted nervously.

“Friday,” you said. His shoulders relaxed.

You folded the note and tucked it into your pocket. “I’m keeping this.”

“I kept yours.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

Your smile became unbearably warm.

“Even the emotionally constipated one?”

“Especially that one.”

You rose onto your toes and kissed his cheek. Spencer remained frozen after you left the break room.

A moment later, Morgan leaned around the doorway. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.” Spencer touched the spot where you had kissed him.

Morgan grinned. “Good book?”

"I'm serious."

"No! No, absolutely not. There is no way you knew." You shook your head.

"I didn't know for certain," he corrected. "I suspected."

You crossed your arms. " What? How long?"

Spencer looked almost sheepish. "About a month."

"A MONTH?!" You gasped. You couldn't believe this.

"You started drinking ginger tea every morning." Spencer pointed to the pack of ginger tea packets on the kitchen counter.

"That's not evidence!" You argued.

"You hate ginger."

"I could've changed my mind!"

He gave you an 'are you serious' look. "I very clearly remember you telling me you'd rather swallow tea made from boiled rusted nail water than eat anything with ginger."

"Okay, fair." You grumbled.

He stood from his chair and walked over to you, pulling you into his arms. His touch was warm against your skin.

"You were also nauseous every morning for almost two weeks. That's when I really started wondering if you were okay." He mumbled into your temple.

"Lots of things cause nausea." You pointed out.

"You cried because a dog in a commercial learned how to sit."

Your face burned. "That dog worked really hard."

Spencer laughed. "You've also been taking naps."

"I take naps."

"You've never voluntarily taken naps."

"...Okay."

"And-"

"There's more?!" You turned to look him in the eye. Sometimes you forgot how observant he was.

"There was the day you almost bought prenatal vitamins before realizing I was standing next to you."

Your mouth fell open. "I thought you didn't see that!"

"I notice everything about you. I love you, and I want to know everything that's going on with you."

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. "I spent weeks planning this surprise."

"It was still a surprise. I mean, I wasn't sure. You confirmed it for me." Spencer gently rubs soothing circles into your shoulders. "I knew something was different. I had a theory. But I wasn't going to say anything until you were ready."

Your chest squeezed.

Spencer reached for your hands.

Suddenly the tears you'd been holding back spilled over.

His smile immediately disappeared when he noticed. "Oh no."

You laughed through the tears. "It's happy crying."

"Statistically speaking, people say that right before more crying."

You nodded. "Accurate. I definitely feel more tears coming. "

Spencer gently wiped a tear from your cheek. "You're really pregnant?"

The wonder in his voice made your heart ache. You nodded. "Yeah."

For the first time all evening, he looked genuinely overwhelmed. His eyes became glassy. "You are."

"I am." You grinned slightly. These hormones were seriously throwing you all over the place.

"We're having a baby... I'm having a baby with my best friend." Spencer whispered. A disbelieving laugh escaped him. He seemed a bit shocked. "We're having a baby."

You laughed too. "That's generally how pregnancy works, yes."

Spencer wrapped his arms around you so quickly you nearly stumbled.

The hug was tight, like he couldn't quite believe you or this moment was real. You felt him press his face into your hair. "I've been reading parenting books."

You pulled back. "You WHAT?"

His ears turned pink. "Only six."

"ONLY SIX?"

"I wanted to be prepared."

"You thought I was pregnant and immediately started studying?" You were in disbelief. Of course Spencer would immediately hit the books.

"That's usually how I handle things."

You couldn't stop laughing. "You're unbelievable."

"I know."

"What if I hadn't been pregnant? You would've been wasting your time."

Spencer shook his head. "First of all, learning, no matter the subject, is never a waste of time. Second of all, if you hadn't been pregnant now, I'd be helping prepare for the future when we did get pregnant."

His hand settled gently against your stomach. The gesture was tentative, almost reverent. Neither of you could feel anything yet. It was far too early.

But his eyes softened anyway. "You know," he murmured, "our kid is going to be smarter than both of us."

You snorted. "That's terrifying." You imagined having a tiny genius child running around the house.

"Very."

"Absolutely dangerous."

"Society may not survive."

You laughed as he kissed your forehead. Then he kissed your nose, your cheeks and lips. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. "I can't wait to meet them."

The emotion in his voice nearly made you cry again.

Spencer noticed immediately. "Oh no."

"It's happening again."

"The crying?"

"The crying."

He sighed dramatically and pulled you back into his arms. "Okay."

"What?"

"I'll go get tissues."

You laughed through your tears. "Good plan."

On paper, nothing’s changed. You come in separately. You don’t touch in the bullpen. You sit in your usual seats at the round table. But your lives have stitched together enough that the seams will definitely show if anyone looks too closely.

He finds your eyes faster in briefings now. Your chairs drift closer together. You pass each other in the hallway and don’t touch, but you both feel the almost in the space between your hands. You feel that unnamed thing between you, getting louder.

It hits a new decibel on a Wednesday evening in a Georgetown auditorium.

Spencer’s guest-lecturing for a criminology seminar, so you tagged along to sit in the back row and watch him talk about offender typologies in a suit that should be illegal. He’s in his element up there, long fingers sketching invisible graphs, voice steady. Several students are blatantly gone for him, laughing too hard at his nerdy little asides, pretending to take notes while they’re probably just doodling his name paired with theirs inside a heart.

You should be rolling your eyes. Instead, you sit there with your chin in your hand and think, with a clarity that makes your stomach drop, I want him to be mine. Wait, he is mine. Oh, I’m in so much trouble.

Class ends. He’s barely capped his pen before a cluster of students descends, all smiles and eager questions. You stay in your seat with a file open in your lap, giving him space, pretending you’re not blatantly eavesdropping.

One of the female grad students hangs back until the rest clear out, then steps closer. She’s twisting a mechanical pencil between her fingers, leaning in with deliberate, practiced brightness.

“I just wanted to say your lecture was amazing,” she says, breathy. “Some of us are going to Martin’s Tavern after this. If you’re free, maybe you’d like to join? I’d love to buy you a drink. Or just get your number?”

There’s a tiny pause. You don’t look up, but every nerve in your body goes live.

“Oh, uh, I’m flattered,” Spencer says, gentle. Then, without stuttering, like it’s the simplest fact in the world: “But I have a girlfriend.”

The word punches straight through your ribs.

Girlfriend.

He said it easily. Like it’s obvious. Like of course he has a girlfriend, and of course that girlfriend is you. He reached into his chest, pulled the thing you’ve been hiding in the dark, and brought it out under fluorescent lights with one sentence. 

The part of you that wants to bask in that feeling melts a little. Then the part of you that remembers every label you’ve ever had — daughter, sister, agent, liability, mistake — bolts for the exit.

You snap your folder shut before you can hear her disappointed reply.

By the time she’s gone and he looks up toward the rows, you’re already on your feet, bag over your shoulder. “Ready, genius?” you call down, casual, because if your voice shakes you’re going to eat your own tongue.

He flushes. “Yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you wait.”

“You’re fine,” you say, meeting him at the bottom of the stairs. “C’mon. If we don’t leave now one of your fangirls is gonna come back in and ask you for some very creative extra credit.”

He huffs a soft laugh and follows you. In the hallway, when no one’s looking, his fingers brush yours. You let them curl around your hand for one stolen second, because despite whatever’s happening in your chest, you still want his touch more than you want to protect yourself from it.

On any other Wednesday, he’d come home with you and you’d ask him to stay the night at your place without a second thought. Tonight, when you reach the curb and he unlocks the car, the word is still echoing in your skull like a gunshot.

Girlfriend.

You manage to get through the drive mostly intact — teasing him about one student's terrible question, letting him ramble about an article the class clearly didn’t read. You even let him walk inside your building with you to your apartment like it’s any other night.

He waits for the usual move: you unlocking the door and tipping your chin in silent invitation.

Instead, you lean against the doorframe and lie. “I’m wiped,” you say. “We’ve got the Memphis consult in the morning, and I still have to finish my write-up. I should probably just crash.”

You watch it hit him. The little hitch. The fraction of a second it takes him to fold the hurt away. The heartbeat of disappointment he swallows so you don’t have to see it.

“Oh,” he says. Then, quickly, “Right. Of course. You should get some sleep.”

You hate how careful his voice goes, like he’s trying not to spook you.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you add, too bright.

“Yeah,” he says, and gives you a small, real smile because he refuses to make you feel guilty for needing space. “Yeah. I’ll see you then.”

You nod, tell him goodnight, and close the door.

You stand with your back against it for a long minute, listening to the muffled sound of his footsteps retreating down the hall, fighting the impulse to rip it open and drag him inside.

Instead, you sink down on your couch alone, apartment too quiet, skin still buzzing with the phantom feeling of his hand around yours and that word in his mouth like it belonged there.

That night, you fall asleep without his heartbeat under your ear for the first time in weeks.

Everything is good. Stupid good.

As long as you don’t look directly at the part where, in one scared little pivot at your front door, you proved you’re still capable of running from the one thing you actually want.

—

Mandatory ethics training always feels like the most boring form of punishment ever created.

You drop into your usual seat at the conference table. Morgan is already there, spinning a pen between his fingers. Emily’s got a cup of coffee and the dead-eyed stare of a woman facing down forty slides of HR-approved clip art. JJ glances at the ceiling like she’s hoping for the fire alarm to save her.

Garcia slumps down with a theatrical groan. “Why do they do this to my spirit,” she whispers. “My soul is a delicate ecosystem. And so what if I call Morgan ‘chocolate thunder’ every now and then!”

Spencer slides into the chair next to yours, shoulders a little too straight, tie a little too neat. His knee bumps yours under the table, then pulls back like he’s not sure if he’s allowed. Normally, you’d bump his knee back on purpose just to watch him blush. Today, you stare a beat too long at the empty space between you and pretend you don’t notice the way his fingers tap nervously against his thigh.

“My sources say conduct violations are up across the Bureau this year,” Rossi says menacingly, taking the seat opposite you. “Some of us are just good at not being caught.”

His eyes flick to you, then Spencer, then back down to his notes with a smirk.

A woman from Human Resources with a laminated name tag reading STACY and a too-bright smile sets up at the projector. The first slide pops up: BUREAU STANDARDS FOR PROFESSIONAL CONDUCT & ETHICS, with a generic image of diverse coworkers beaming at a whiteboard. It’s the stock photo-equivalent to a tampon commercial.

“Kill me,” you mutter.

Spencer’s mouth twitches. “Statistically, actively enforced ethics policies do actually correlate with a reduction in—”

“Reid,” you cut in. “If you throw statistics at me right now, I’m reporting you to HR for harassment.”

Hotch clears his throat at the front. “This is required,” he says, scanning the room. “I expect everyone’s full attention.”

Garcia lifts her hand. “If my full attention dies of boredom, can I go home?”

Hotch does not dignify that with a response. Smiley Stacy thanks him and launches in.

Harassment examples. Reporting protocols. Conflict-of-interest policies. Power imbalance studies. Quid pro quo. You’ve heard it all before, in FBI Academy auditoriums and field office conference rooms and Bureau-wide email blasts. The vocabulary changes, but the message is always the same: don’t be a fuck up.

You tune in and out. Spencer’s taking actual notes, because of course he is. Every so often, he shifts just enough that his sleeve brushes your arm, which only heightens your awareness of the fact that the two of you are, technically, a walking HR violation.

Then the next slide appears: WORKPLACE RELATIONSHIPS & MANDATORY DISCLOSURE.

The presenter clicks her little remote. “As a reminder,” she says, “while they aren’t encouraged, the FBI does not prohibit consensual inter-Bureau relationships. However, any relationships between agents in the same unit must be disclosed to Human Resources and your Unit Chief. Failure to disclose can be cause for reassignment or termination.”

Her eyes skim the room. “If your personal circumstances have changed since last year, please update your information by the end of this week. Disclosure forms are in the packets you’ve been given.”

Your mouth goes dry.

You imagine checking a box and writing Spencer’s name on a line somewhere, your entire life with him boiled down to a paragraph in a file cabinet. You’ve seen your world reduced to Bureau paperwork before — incident reports, disciplinary memos, Elle’s name next to the word “shooting.” You’re not exactly eager to hand them a fresh variable to circle in red.

Smiley Stacy keeps talking. Rossi’s pen taps once on the table. Emily shifts in her chair. The projector hums.

Beside you, Spencer is very still.

You flip your packet open, eyes skating over sections about harassment and grievance procedures, until you hit WORKPLACE RELATIONSHIP DISCLOSURE.

There it is, in neat, bold font:

Are you currently engaged in a romantic and/or sexual relationship with another Bureau employee?

Underneath, two boxes:

☐ Yes

☐ No

And another line:

If yes, please provide the employee’s name, unit, and position.

Your heartbeat stumbles.

You shouldn’t be surprised. You knew it was coming the second that slide appeared. But seeing the question in black and white, poised there like a lie detector, does something ugly in your chest. It feels less like an administrative form and more like a dare: admit this exists, and see how we ruin it.

Next to you, Spencer’s packet rustles. You glance sideways.

He’s already on the same page. His pen is uncapped. He doesn’t even hesitate at first — it’s automatic. The tip of his pen drops toward Yes.

Then his eyes flick, quick, to you.

You’re not sure exactly what your face is doing, but whatever he sees makes him stop. His hand stills. The pen hovers a fraction of an inch above the paper and his fingers tighten around it like he’s physically holding himself back.

For a second, you see it: the hurt he’s trying very hard to swallow. The quiet, careful question under it — are you really about to pretend this isn’t something real?

You look away fast.

You force your own hand to move and check a different box on a different page, something meaningless about previous ethics trainings attended. You do not touch the relationship section. You flip the packet closed like you’ll deal with it later, like the question will somehow evaporate if you don’t look at it too hard.

At the front, the presentation winds down. “…and again, if you have any questions or concerns, please come to HR or your Unit Chief directly.”

Stacy smiles another bland, borderline creepy grin as Hotch steps up beside her. “All forms need to be returned by end of day tomorrow,” he says. 

Chairs scrape. Morgan stretches with a groan. Garcia yawns and fans herself with her packet. JJ and Emily fall into quiet conversation, flipping pages as they walk out together.

Spencer exhales next to you, slow and careful, like he’s afraid of blowing something over. You don’t look at him right away. You tuck your own packet under your arm like it’s just paperwork, nothing special, not a lit fuse you’ve decided to sit on.

“Busy afternoon?” you ask, because small talk is safer than anything else banging around in your skull.

“Couple of consults,” he says. His voice is steady, but there’s a new caution wrapped around it you haven’t heard in weeks. “You?”

“Catching up on after-action reports,” you lie.

You stand. So does he. For a second you both just… hover. There’s too much you’re not saying in the space between you, and you can feel the new crack you put there with one unchecked box.

“See you tonight?” you ask quietly, like it’s an optional thing, like you don’t already know exactly where you’ll end up when the sun goes down.

He looks at you, really looks, and for just a heartbeat you can see the question there: What are we doing?

“Of course,” he replies instead. “We can order Chinese food for dinner.”

You nod, clutching the ethics packet a little tighter under your arm and heading for the door, knowing there’ll be a lot more to discuss than just egg rolls — and that this time, if you flinch too hard, you might not be the one who walks away.

—

Spencer’s apartment smells like sesame oil and garlic when you walk in. Cartons of food from your favorite Chinese place are spread out on the coffee table, chopsticks lined up too neatly.

“Hey,” he says from the kitchen. Tie gone, sleeves rolled, hair a little mussed like he’s run his hands through it too many times.

You drop your bag by the door. “Smells good. Please tell me you remembered dumplings this time or I’m walking right back out.”

He nods. “Pork and chive with extra chili oil.”

“Look at you. Growth.” You shrug off your jacket. “Very sexy.”

Color creeps up his neck. He steps closer like he wants to kiss you and then hesitates, just a fraction, as if he’s not sure what he’s allowed to do tonight.

You close the distance because you know what you want, even if you’re busy pretending you don’t. You press your mouth to his and he kisses you back, soft then deep, hands hovering at your waist like he’s afraid to hold on too tight.

It would be so easy to let it melt into the usual — your back hitting the wall, your fingers in his hair, both of you forgetting how to breathe. You break away before you allow yourself to fall into that kind of distraction.

“Hi,” you say.

His eyes search yours, careful. “Hi.”

For a second, things feel normal. Takeout, post-work exhaustion, the hum of his fridge. You could almost pretend disclosure forms and words like girlfriend don’t exist. You could almost pretend you didn’t close your front door on him last night and a metaphorical one in the conference room this morning.

When you migrate to the couch, you don’t sit in your usual spot pressed against his side. You take the opposite cushion instead, cross-legged, fried rice carton held like a shield.

It lands. You see it. The brief flicker in his face — surprise, then a quiet recalibration. He picks up the lo mein and sits, leaving just enough space between you that you could close it if you wanted to.

You don’t. Not yet.

You talk about nothing: traffic, Agent Anderson’s new haircut, paperwork Rossi dumped on you. None of it sticks. The silence between topics gets heavier every time.

You’re halfway through the last dumpling when he asks, finally, “Did I do something wrong?”

You keep your eyes on your food. “You ordered lo mein instead of chow fun. Grave error.”

“I’m serious.” His voice catches. “Did I?”

You set the carton down and scrub a hand over your face. “No,” you say finally. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He nods once, like he wants to accept that, but it doesn’t quite land. “Is this about what I said to that grad student yesterday?” he asks. “Or is it about the HR form? Or both?”

You stare at a grease stain on the takeout menu. “You really want to do this now?”

“I don’t really want to do it at all,” he admits. “But I don’t like… this.” He gestures vaguely between you. “The… distance. It feels like I’m waiting for something bad to happen and I don’t know if I caused that.”

That lands in your chest with sick, precise blow. Truth is, he didn’t cause it. You did.

“Okay,” you say, because you did promise him in a motel room once that you were done running. “Which part do you want to start with? The part where you told a stranger at a lecture you have a girlfriend, or the part where the federal government wants a written statement on my sex life?”

His ears go pink. “We can start with the lecture.”

“It was…” You try to find words that don’t make you sound insane. “It was a lot.”

“In a bad way?” he asks, small.

“In a… loud way,” you correct. “First it felt… good. Like. Stupid good.” You grimace. “I liked hearing it. More than I thought I would.”

His shoulders loosen a fraction. “Okay,” he whispers. “And then?”

“And then my brain threw up,” you say bluntly. “Because you just… said it. Out loud. To a stranger. In public. Like it was settled law. Like you didn’t even have to think about it. Meanwhile, I can’t even get the word out in my own head without feeling like the walls might cave in.”

You finally look at him. He’s watching you like every word matters.

“I didn’t say it to pressure you,” he says, and you can tell he means it. “I didn’t even think about it, honestly. She was flirting with me, and the idea of seeming available felt wrong, and explaining what we are to each other would’ve taken forever and probably confused her. So the word just… came out.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I noticed.”

“If it made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry. I just—” He searches for something; finds it. “It felt true. In my head, that’s what you are to me.”

You lean back into the couch, heart doing something ragged. “I know. It felt true for me too. That’s what freaked me out.”

He goes still again, like that admission is both a relief and a new kind of terror.

“And the form?” he asks.

“The form is its own special little nightmare.”

“I saw you freeze,” he says. “You turned the page like it was radioactive.”

You huff out a dry laugh.

“Is it…” He frowns. “Is it just the idea of HR knowing? Or is it… labeling it at all?”

You pick at a stray grain of rice on your jeans. “I don’t like the idea of some stranger in a cubicle having an opinion about who I sleep with,” you say. “I don’t like the idea of my life with you being a checkmark in a file next to the same forms that cover every mistake I’ve made at this job.”

He listens. Really listens.

“And I hate,” you add, quieter still, “the idea of giving the Bureau one more thing it can take away. They’ve already taken enough. My time. My sanity. My… my sister. If I put this down on paper, suddenly it’s theirs to fuck with.”

Spencer’s hands flex on his knees like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you. “It won’t be theirs,” he says softly. “It’s always going to be ours. But… I get what you mean. It’s possible that mistakes we make in the future could get blamed on our relationship, and one of us could end up reassigned.”

You swallow. “Yeah. Something like that. I don’t like the idea of handing someone a loaded gun and hoping they just… don’t use it.”

He nods slowly, like puzzle pieces are clicking into place. He shifts closer, not touching yet, just near enough that you feel the heat of him.

“Can I tell you what got to me?” he asks. “About today? And yesterday?”

You nod, throat tight.

“It scared me,” he says quietly, “that my first instinct was to check yes and yours was to close the packet. And it scared me that last night you heard me use the word girlfriend once and decided to send me home.” His mouth pulls, self-conscious. “Obviously we don’t have to spend every night together. That’s not what I mean. But…I knew the timing wasn’t a coincidence. It felt like we’d been moving in one direction for a while, and then all of a sudden you were… pulling back. It’s hard for me not to worry that this is the start of you deciding this was all a bad idea.”

You open your mouth to speak, but he goes on, words rushing a little like he’s afraid if he stops he won’t say them at all.

“I don’t mean that like an accusation. I know it’s complicated for you. I just—” He exhales. “I’ve been all in for a while. You know that. And most of the time, especially since the motel, I feel like you’re all in with me. But then something like this happens and I realize there’s still a line in your head you haven’t crossed, and it’s… hard not to shake the feeling that maybe I’m the only one who thinks of us as—” His mouth twists. “As real.”

“Spence,” you say, voice breaking a little. “You’re not the only one.”

“You say that,” he says, voice soft. “And I believe you. I do. I know you want to mean it. But I also can’t get it out of my head that you could still look at one question on a form and feel like admitting we’re together is an insane idea. Or look at your doorway and decide letting me in is suddenly…”

“Dangerous,” you offer. It tastes like guilt. “That’s what it felt like. Not because of you, though. Because of me. Because of them.” You drag a hand through your hair. “It’s not because of you. My hesitancy has never been because of you. You know that, right?

He nods, but his eyes say not entirely.

“I just…” You force yourself to keep going. “Every time I’ve let someone put a label on me, it’s gone to shit spectacularly fast. Either I fuck things up, or the world does, or some cruel combination of both. So yeah, letting the Bureau stamp ‘girlfriend’ on me feels a little like volunteering for disaster. Like I’m putting a countdown clock on the one thing in my life that doesn’t feel like an accident.”

He swallows. “What about when it’s just me using that label?” he asks, small. “Is it different if I say it? If I think it?”

You hate how his voice sounds — like he’s braced for you to say no. Like he’s already preparing to start untangling his life from yours if that’s what you need.

“It’s always different when it’s you,” you say, honest and low. “I just don’t know how to be good at this. Being a girlfriend has never exactly been my strong suit. But I know that I like waking up with you more than I like waking up alone, and I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose…” You gesture weakly between the two of you. “Any of this.”

Something in his face softens, but he doesn’t rush to reassure you. He sits with it, which is somehow worse and better at the same time.

“What if,” he says slowly, “we stop worrying about what HR calls it. Or anyone else. What if we just decide what we call it? You and me.” Then, quieter: “But if you tell me we need to slow down, or that you want less, I’ll do that. I’m not going to push you into something you’re not ready for.”

That hits you harder than anything else all day, because there it is: the choice. Not an ultimatum, but an exit ramp. Him saying if you want to pull away, I’ll let you. I’m putting your needs above my own, yet again. I always will.

Before you can respond, he goes on. “Whatever we call this, I need you to understand it doesn’t change anything. We…we already act like a couple. I know you know that, even if you won’t let yourself think about it long enough to admit it. So I’m not going to suddenly start looking at you differently or expecting more from you if we put a label on things. I like this—us—exactly the way it is.”

The room goes very quiet. The TV hums. The city murmurs outside. You can hear your own pulse in your ears.

You realize, in slow, stupid stages, that he’s right: nothing will actually change between you if you call this what it is. You already spend your nights in his bed and your mornings in his kitchen. He already knows what you look like when you cry and what you sound like when you laugh and every ugly, sharp edge you usually try to hide. He’s still here, not because you tricked him by pretending to be someone you’re not, but because he keeps choosing you. He wants you. You, exactly as you are.

The only difference would be a label that’d tell him you’re choosing him back just as hard as he’s choosing you.

The Bureau can call it whatever it wants. HR can put it in a file. None of that feels as terrifying anymore as the new image that flashes through your mind: Spencer slowly pulling away from you because you were too scared to say one true word.

“Spence,” you say, because saying his name has always helped you anchor. “Look at me.”

He does.

You take a breath that feels like standing at the edge of something high and finally letting yourself fall:

“One true thing: You’re… you’re my boyfriend.”

The words come out small and hoarse and absolutely honest.

For a beat he just… stares. Like you’ve spoken in some rare dead language he’s studied his whole life and never heard aloud.

“Say it again?” he asks.

You roll your eyes, because you’re you, but you lean in anyway. Your hand finds his knee, squeezes. “Don’t get greedy,” you murmur, then repeat it anyway: “You’re my boyfriend.”

His laugh comes out half-choked. He reaches up like he’s not sure where to put his hands and then finally settles one against the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw like he’s confirming you’re real.

“I am,” he says, a little wrecked. “And you’re my girlfriend.”

You make a face. “That title sounds so ridiculous on me.”

“No it doesn’t,” he says immediately. “It sounds right.”

You would normally mock him for being cheesy, but his eyes are too earnest in that way that always makes you melt, and it does sound right, so you lean in and kiss him instead.

It’s not the eager, pull-each-other-apart kind of kiss you’ve fallen into so many nights lately. It’s slower, weighted. His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. You shift closer until your legs slot between his, the whole world narrowing to the press of his mouth and the quiet sound he makes when you tilt your head and open to him.

When you finally pull back, his forehead rests against yours. You can feel his smile, small and disbelieving.

For a few breaths, it’s just that. Warmth. The steady press of him. You could stay here forever and not think about anything outside these four walls.

But then he swallows and ruins it, very gently: “We should probably talk about that other deeply romantic part of this now. You know, the whole… ‘telling the federal government’ part.”

You groan against him. “You really know how to kill the mood, Spencer.”

“I know,” he admits, wincing, squeezing your hip softly with affection to soften the blow. “It’s just— at some point we have to stop pretending. On paper, I mean. The forms, Hotch… all of it.”

You make a face because he’s right and you hate that he’s right. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I know, you’re right. The FBI wants signatures.”

His brows knit. “Tomorrow, maybe we could fill them out. Together. Check yes, write each other’s names down, then go talk to Hotch ourselves instead of letting the news show up in his inbox from HR. Besides, he likes both us, even if he’s too stoic to show it. He’s gone up against HR and Strauss before, I’m sure he’d do it again if he had to.”

You sit with that for a beat, thumb brushing his wrist. “It does feel riskier to let work find out by accident,” you admit. “At least if we do this, we get to say it our way first.”

He studies you like he’s trying to memorize this moment. “We don’t have to tell everyone else yet,” he offers. “Honestly, it might be better if we don’t. I don’t think I’m mentally prepared for the incessant teasing Morgan is going to throw at me.”

You nod. “And we’re absolutely not telling Garcia yet,” you say. “She’ll commission matching couple’s sweaters and attack our desks with confetti.”

He laughs, real this time, the tension finally cracking. “So… Hotch. HR. Rossi already knows.”

“Yeah. Everyone else can mind their business until we’re ready to be the number one topic of bullpen conversation.”

He nods, relief and something like wonder moving through his face. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

You lean into him, tucking yourself against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand settles on your shoulder, fingers sliding absentmindedly along your collarbone.

Your ethics packet is still in your bag by the door, waiting, but it feels… smaller now. Less like a bomb, more like a step you’ve already started taking.

Whatever the Bureau ends up calling you on paper, it doesn’t matter, because you know what you call him:

Boyfriend.

—

You’ve faced serial killers with less dread than you feel on the walk to Hotch’s office.

At the end of the day after everyone else cleared out, you and Spencer signed the disclosure forms together at his desk, shoulders brushing, pens moving in parallel. It felt stupidly anticlimactic for something that’d been rattling your ribcage for months. The real part is what comes next.

Your form is folded once in your hand, creased right through the little checked Yes box. Spencer’s got his copy tucked into a folder like that makes it less humiliating.

“Last chance to fake our deaths and move to Canada,” you mutter.

“Canada would just extradite us back here,” he says.

“You’re killing the fantasy, Reid.”

He gives you a quick, nervous half-smile and knocks on Hotch’s door.

“Come in.”

Hotch is behind his desk, jacket off, tie tight as always. Case files in a neat stack. Coffee that’s probably gone cold.

You step in first, and Spencer closes the door behind you.

“Everything alright?” Hotch asks. His eyes go from you to Spencer and back again, taking in the forms you’re each holding.

You clear your throat. “We, uh.” Great start. You swallow. “We’re here about the… ethics forms.”

Hotch just waits.

Spencer’s voice goes careful and professional. “We wanted to disclose a… change in personal circumstances,” he says. “Officially.”

You hold out your folded form. He holds out his.

Hotch takes them both, glances down just long enough to register the matching answers and names, then sets them on the desk. When he looks back up, his expression is mostly neutral, with the faintest hint of I am very tired and I clocked this months ago.

“How long?” he asks.

You exchange a look with Spencer. “That’s, um… kind of a complicated question. Officially? Brand new. Unofficially? Uh… a while.”

Hotch nods once, and you swear you almost see the ghost of a smirk. “I appreciate the disclosure,” he says. “I had a feeling this was coming.”

You try not to visibly combust. “I— what?”

“Well, I’m very good at what I do. Plus, Rossi may have suggested that I should ‘keep those workplace relationship forms handy’ several months ago.”

You’re going to kill Rossi.

Hotch folds his hands together on the desk. “Your personal lives are up to you,” he says. “I only care about whether it impacts the work. So here’s what I expect: no favoritism on cases or letting your feelings affect your decision making. If one of you feels compromised, you come to me immediately so we can sort it out. If I think your relationship at any point is affecting your judgment, I will separate you on cases, and if I have to, I’ll recommend reassignment.” His gaze sharpens, then softens by a degree. “I’d rather not have to do that. You’re both good at what you do, and I don’t want to lose either of you. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer says immediately.

You nod. “We know how to be professionals,” you say. “Total tight-ass professionals.”

That wins you the faintest flicker in his eyes that might, on a looser man, qualify as amusement.

“Good,” Hotch says.

“We’d like to keep it private from the team. For now,” Spencer adds.

Hotch nods. “You can tell the others when you’re ready. Just don’t make me find out anything important from anyone but you.”

“Deal,” you say.

He nods again, already turning back to the paperwork he’d been working on when you walked in. “Then we’re done here. Get out of here, it’s late.”

You and Spencer mumble your thank-yous and back out before Hotch changes his mind and hands you another case file.

Back in the bullpen, you both exhale at the same time.

“That went… better than it could have,” Spencer says.

You glance at him, at his still-slightly-flushed face, the way he’s looking at you like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be relieved yet.

You bump your shoulder into his. “Come on,” you say, low so it doesn’t carry across the bullpen. “Take me home, boyfriend.”

He stumbles over absolutely nothing, smile breaking slow and helpless.

“Okay,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

→ next part

this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️