mwah!

You pulled away first, started avoiding him hoping it would prevent further incidents and protect your precious peace of mind. It worked, for a time, until something else happened. Another slight. Another apology. Another pardon. 

Spencer forgot to refill the coffee pot. An honest mistake, you're sure, but you were tired. It had been a long day, long week, long month with the amount of cases you were juggling; always running from scene to scene, or battling your fear of flying thirty thousand feet in the air, or listening to him talk when you had already told him you had a headache. All you wanted was a coffee.

It wouldn't have stuck with you, if it hadn't been him who was responsible. You wouldn't have even blinked if Emily or JJ—or anyone else—had put their hand up to take the blame for the sad, empty coffee pot. But of course it was him.

It was always him.

So you misplaced the file he was working on ("Sorry, Spence. I know I left it around here somewhere…"); and he let you borrow a pen that exploded all over your blouse ("Crap— I'm sorry! It must have gotten too warm in my car."); and your desk chair broke so you took his instead of one of the spares ("My bad…but are you sure you've always sat there? No, I'm certain you usually sit somewhere else. The same spot for seven years now? Are you gaslighting me, Reid?"). 

It wasn't until Spencer physically knocked the mug out of your hands, spilling your coffee all over the carpet, that the team noticed something was up. So much for those acclaimed profiling skills.

And the worst part? Spencer offered to clean that carpet. No, he insisted on it, and he apologised at every chance he got, all wide eyes and worry lines, really leaning into his kicked puppy appeal, and that was the moment your quiet battle turned into an all-out war.

Snide comments were ping ponged across the bullpen, the conference room, the jet—anywhere that put you and Reid within earshot of each other turned into your own hostile work environment playpen. He called you so many variations of the word "bitch" you were convinced he had shoved a thesaurus up his ass (all without actually calling you a bitch; that was too far), and you responded by slipping the word "virgin" into every sentence for two full shifts; he made a daring remark about the "borderline inappropriate" cut of your shirt, and you stole a sweater from his go-bag and wore it the rest of the day to "protect his eyes"; you got yourself a boyfriend, and he got…weird.

Reid's always weird, in a Reid way; awkward, rambling, would-be-a-good-court-jester kind of weird. But this was different. He was different.

He stopped fighting. Raised his pitiful little white flag and just stopped. No big argument, no letter from HR, nothing.

You just thought he'd gotten bored of the back-and-forth, or maybe his New Year's resolution was to stop being a total bitch (you can call him a bitch; that's fine) and become a total bore instead. It wasn't something you thought anything of— and you wouldn't even be thinking about it now if things weren't…like this.

Three months ago, you broke up with your boyfriend. (No big deal; people break up all the time.)

The last time you had sex was three months ago. (Again, nothing crazy; you've abstained for far longer than that in the past.)

You're stuck in a car for twelve hours… (Average stakeout; nothing to write home about.)

…with Spencer Reid… (You've done it before; you can do it again.)

…and you're pretty sure you're ovulating. (Literally happens every month; you'd be more concerned if you weren't ovulating.)

All of these factors are insignificant on their own. Mundane things that happen to everyone, anywhere, any time; mundane things that have all happened to you at one point or another, and it really, really shouldn't be a big deal.

So why does it feel like you're dying?

Spencer's talking to you, he has been for some time now, and you can barely hear him over…whatever this is. And you certainly can't look at him, because then you'll—

Christ, have his hands always looked like that? Were those veins there when you got in the car? The definition? Have they always been that big?

Okay, arms and legs crossed, eyes forward, breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth…

…is he sweating? Can you smell is sweat right now? Is that really what he smells like?

Correction: breathe in through your mouth, and out through your mouth.

You're sweating, that's for sure. 

Fuck, it's hot in here.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Uh huh."

"You haven't been listening, have you?"

"Sure I have." You rub your eyes, trying to get to whatever thing has hijacked your mind. "You said this guy, uh…wasn't bitten by a spider? So how is he Spider-Man?"

"I…" His gaze burns a hole straight through your temple and into your brain, sears it from the inside out. "I said that ten minutes ago."

"Oh." Pull yourself together. "Run it back?"

"Run it back?"

"We have time, don't we?" You squint at the dashboard, carefully avoiding any hands or forearms or biceps or— "There's…six hours left of this…oh my God."

"Don't sound too thrilled," Spencer mutters. "Anyway, the reason he's Spider-Man is because he was trying to recreate the abilities of the original Spider-Man in other people—this is set in the future, remember? He actually wanted to discontinue his research after a human test subject died, but Tyler Stone—that's his boss—had other plans…"

Garcia once told you about this alternate universe trope in a lot of her "fandoms" where characters have this almost wolf-like biological hierarchy thing going on— or something like that, you weren't paying much attention. You remember her talking about how certain people experience "heats" like animals do, and you're sure this must be the real-life equivalent.

You've been sitting in a hot car for six hours, unable to sleep, with a coworker who is inexplicably getting more and more attractive with each torturous minute that passes, and he's talking about fucking Spider-Man. Not even regular Spider-Man, either; he's talking about Spider-Man from the fucking future. 

And that's not to say that Reid was unattractive before this nightmare began, Morgan doesn't call him "pretty boy" for no reason, but you weren't attracted to him. Okay, maybe a little, or…more than a little—but not to the extent that you are now.

Right now, you feel positively in-fucking-sane. 

"…and in order to get himself off of Rapture, he uses an older template of his unaltered genetic code to overwrite his current biology. However, his subordinate Delgato sabotages the machines and, instead of being restored to his old code, his genes are rewritten to contain fifty percent spider DNA—that's how he becomes Spider-Man."

A pause. Spencer doesn't pause unless he's awaiting a response.

"…uh huh."

The leather squeaks as Spencer leans over to scrutinise you. "What did I say?"

"That he, um—" You shrug as you clear your throat. "Someone fucked with the machine, and now his DNA is half spider."

Another pause. Longer.

What is he waiting for? You answered his question.

"Um. I just figured that all Spider-Men were bitten by—"

"Can you look at me?"

"Nope."

You weren't supposed to say that out loud.

"…nope? What— what do you mean nope?"

"We're supposed to keep an eye out for our unsub," you mutter.

"So you can't spare a glance?"

"Nope," you repeat, popping the "p" this time so it sounds more intentional.

Spencer sinks back into his seat, but his gaze doesn't leave you.

"Did I do something?"

You shake your head quickly. "No, you're…fine."

He's fine? Really?

"Look," he sighs, "I know we've never really…seen eye to eye. And I've been, um, distant—"

"Just keep talking about Spider-Man, Reid."

"—but I think, if there's ever going to be an opportunity to talk things out, then—"

"Please."

"—this is it."

He talks over you, unapologetic. Bulldozes your words with his own, and with a kind of resolution that leaves the air feeling even heavier. The heat inside of the car mixes with whatever poison gas he's just released, makes it impossible to breathe.

Does your sweat smell as strongly as his does? If so, you should invest in a better deodorant— and stop breathing through your nose.

"Can we open a window?" you ask stiffly.

"Nope."

"Reid, please—"

"Are you trying to say I smell bad?"

God, no.

"Yes," you snap, "and I'm sweating like a dog in…"

As your words trail off into obscurity, Spencer scoffs. "Fine, open your window. It isn't even that warm in here, I have the AC turned up all the way."

"AC my ass." 

The air that hits you as you roll your window down feels like heaven. You lean back in your seat, finally able to breathe, but then you hear that damn squeak.

Spencer's leaning over to adjust the passenger side fan. His hair tickles your nose, and when you freeze up, he cranes his neck to look at you, and he smiles.

"Hello."

"What are you doing."

"I'm fixing your—"

"I just said you stink, Reid."

"Stop breathing through your nose, then."

There's brain matter leaking out from your ears. Eyes locked in this subdued, almost dead stare. Homed on his lips. You're roadkill, flattened under his tyre, using the last of your strength to blink and twitch. Slow and laboured. Helpless.

When the hell did he start looking like this?

"…thank you, Doctor."

Your efforts to keep your voice steady prove futile. You sound as weak as you feel, breathless and—Christ—like sex. 

Close enough to kiss. You could lean in, that's all it would take. He'd taste like his coffee, strong and sweet, at first, with a bitterness that hits you just as you pull away, drags you back in for more. You hate his coffee, and yet…part of you…

"You're welcome, Agent."

Spencer pulls back, returning to his seat before you can do anything rash. The fan hits your face, but it does nothing to cool you down. 

Despite your best efforts, your gaze follows him. Sticks to him like a magnet, dumb and dead and desperate. He doesn't seem to notice how he's killed you.

He reaches for the steering wheel, holds it like he's going somewhere. Fingers flex against the plastic, tendons working. Veins. Just…veins.

He probably has a big dick.

And you're looking out of the window, putting yourself in time-out, because what? 

What is wrong with you? This is Spencer. Awkward, bumbling, pain-in-the-ass Spencer. You can't be thinking about him like this. It isn't right. It's…

That day, when you stole his sweater, he had only made that remark about your outfit because you had caught him staring first.

"There is actually, um, something I've been meaning to…talk to you about."

And you had only kept it on for as long as you did because it was comfortable. Because you liked how it smelled. How it reminded you of him.

…and he never even asked for it back. You could have kept it. He would have let you keep it.

Just how long as this been happening?

"I asked Hotch to pair us together on this."

His words hit like a bucket of ice, and you snap back to him, frowning. "What?"

"I wanted— I don't know," he sighs. "I needed a moment alone with you—"

"A moment?" you hiss, leaning forward. "We're here for twelve hours, Reid. We've— we've already been here for six, and you're only just saying this now? What took you so long to—"

He cuts you off, spitting out the name of your ex boyfriend like a curse—like it means anything.

You scoff, all irrational, hormonal thoughts forgotten. "What about him?"

"He's the reason I took so damn long, alright?" He's talking to the steering wheel; you're staring at him like he's lost his mind. "Because I…I had a plan, at the start of the year. I-I was going to ask you out, but—"

"Reid."

"You got this…stupid rock of a boyfriend, and— and I concluded that I was the idiot. I-I told myself that I had misread everything, and that you were never…interested in me, like that."

"Are you serious—"

"I'm not finished." Releasing the steering wheel, Spencer turns to you with this big, sarcastic smile. "The idiot here is you—"

You practically launch yourself across the seats, meeting his open, smug mouth with a kiss that leaves him floundering, grasping at the leather to keep himself steady so he doesn't fall and, more importantly, so he can kiss you back. He matches your hunger like it's second nature, like it's been simmering quietly within him for as long as it has been in you. Like he's spent months letting it eat him alive.

Everything is on fire. Your skin burns at the same temperature his does; tongues meet in a blaze amidst scorched lips and molten teeth. 

He pulls you over the centre console. Your knee hits the gearstick, and he mumbles an apology into your mouth, adjusts himself so you can straddle him with relative ease. 

Those large hands settle like anchors on your waist, pressing you down just enough for you to feel how his body responds to the kiss, to this position, to you. And it's enough to make you moan, because you were right: if the bulge in his slacks is anything to go by, Spencer Reid has a big dick. It's a wonder his ego isn't supersized, too.

It hardly registers that you're rocking your hips until he's whining on your tongue, trying to move in tandem in a way the car seat simply won't allow for. You reach around blindly, and the seat gives a rough, begrudging jerk before it reclines. 

"Okay…" Your chest heaves against his as you pull back just enough to let yourself breathe. "I concede…I'm an idiot…"

Spencer exhales a shaky, smile-ridden sigh as his hand finds your cheek. The curl of his lips reads as nothing but affectionate; pure, unfiltered fondness offset only by his words. 

"I forgive you."

You don't share in his smile. In fact, you swat his hand away like it's dirty.

"Bitch."

And then you're latching onto his neck, relishing the way he stutters on a gasp that, if you're hearing correctly, is laced with a curse. Faint, but discernible. 

God, the things you'd do to hear that again. 

When your teeth nip his sensitive skin, he whimpers, and you feel his cock twitch and strain against the fabric between you. 

Corrupting the golden boy, getting him to say all kinds of nasty things for you, and in a government-issue vehicle, too…now that sounds like an exciting way to spend your night. Far better than this stupid stakeout— the stupid stakeout that he requested you accompany him on.

Buttons hit the window as you pull his shirt open without care. He sputters, stammers, but you're kissing along his collarbone before he can choke out a single word, dragging your nails down his chest, and by that point all he can do is throw his head back and make his pretty little noises; you can worry about his shirt later.

As if on cue, Spencer's phone starts to ring. The hot car turns to ice, and in that split-second before the panic really kicks in, and he's just staring at you with those startled brown eyes, you swear to God he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. 

He scrambles around for his phone, finds it in his pocket just under your thigh. He almost drops it as he brings it to his ear.

"Hel— hello? Hotch? You— p-pardon? He's— okay. Okay, we're…um— we're on our way…sir. Yes, sir. Okay."

His hand drops to his side, limp, and he exhales a sigh that shakes so much it rattles the both of you.

"Don't," you mumble, pressing your face to his neck.

"The, um, the unsub—"

"Oh my God."

"He was spotted by local PD a few blocks south. Hotch— Hotch and the team are on their way, but— but we're closer. We really need to, um…"

"Do you want my bra, or something?"

"You are such a— …she-devil."

So when Spencer’s ‘are you free?’ text was met with the first ever, simple ‘I’m a bit busy’ with no elaboration, he couldn’t help but feel his heart sink. It wasn’t just disappointment; it was a sudden realization of how much he relied on your presence to make his days feel complete. 

The books on his coffee table lost their appeal, and all he could do was wonder what you were busy with tonight.

He stared at your text, picked at every letter as if the four simple words held more than their meaning. 

Spencer analyzed the abruptness that only he was seeing, and quietly questioned if he had somehow overstepped a boundary he hadn’t even realized was there.  

The suffocating quiet of his apartment offered no answers. Surely, Spencer reasoned with himself, he could just go outside and see where the evening takes him with no specific plan.

 He told himself he was going to clear his head and pick up some takeout from a nice spot near his place. 

He had no idea that his restless feet were taking him straight to the restaurant where you were currently sitting alone, staring at an empty chair. 

Pure habit guided him to the small, warm-lit cafe across from your favorite park—a place he frequented because the ambient noise was predictable and the food was always good. 

The moment he pushed the heavy glass door open, the bell chiming softly, his eyes wandered around the place before fixing on the back of someone’s head. 

He knew it was you. Sitting at the table by the furthest window from the door, everything about you was familiar—your hair, your posture, and the distinct way you propped your elbows on any flat surface in front of you. 

Spencer froze, his feet rooting to the floor as he stared at you, completely alone, with a closed menu, and a single glass of water sitting untouched in front of you. 

He cursed at himself for not trying to look put together before leaving his apartment, his hair greasy and tucked behind his ears, his shirt wrinkled in a way he’d never allow. 

You’d probably seen Spencer in his worst states on exhausting, soul-sucking cases where everyone slowly morphed into hollow, sleepless creatures, or on lazy mornings after spending the night on your couch because the two of you had been lost in conversations that lasted into the early hours of the morning. But standing here while you were dressed up and seemingly waiting for someone, felt entirely different. 

You looked just as utterly captivating as ever. He didn’t have to see your face to know that you looked like a breathtaking angel that he wasn’t worthy of staring at.

You were a stark contrast to the dim, soft atmosphere around you, and it made his chest ache to think someone was making you wait. 

Before he could think better of it, Spencer’s body was already making its way up to you. 

“Hey,” he said softly, your face immediately following the unmistakable sound of his voice as you looked up with glassy eyes.

“Oh my god, Spencer.. hi,” you beamed despite the sheer embarrassment burning in your chest, “w—what are you doing here?” you let out an awkward chuckle with your question. 

Spencer’s hand instantly went to the back of his neck, his fingers nervously tangling in his hair as he offered a sheepish smile. “Oh, I— I was just coming in to get some takeout,” he gestured vaguely toward the front counter.

His eyes flicked down to your outfit in between his words, admiring the mini plaid red skirt that hugged your hips beautifully before looking back up at your face. 

“You look amazing,” he said honestly, his voice slightly quieter than the first time he spoke. “Are.. you waiting for anyone?” he glanced at the empty seat across from you. 

“Um.. yeah— I mean, I was,” you muttered, your hands nervously smoothing out your skirt, “but I just got the ‘can’t make it’ text. Twenty minutes late,” you let out a dry laugh, leaning back against the wooden chair, “and he still had the audacity to reschedule for tomorrow!” 

Spencer shook his head, his fingers fiddling on the insides of his pockets, “Wow, that’s.. exceptionally poor etiquette.” 

He glanced at the empty seat across from you, then back to your face. His stomach did a violent, nervous flip, but the sight of you sitting there, looking way too beautiful to be left alone, gave him an uncharacteristic burst of bravery, “Y’know, if you don’t wanna go home yet, and since you’re all dressed up.. I haven’t had dinner yet. I know I don’t look very presentable right now, but I can assure you I’m a better conversationalist than an empty chair.” he paused at the faint tug of your lips that formed into a little smile, “I actually haven’t had anything in my system since last night, so you’d technically be doing me a massive favor by letting me join you.” 

“Are you asking me on a date?” you teased as you cocked your head to the side. 

The question caught him completely off guard, making his soft lips part with no words leaving them as he took in the playful tilt of your head. 

He cleared his throat, a boyish, endearing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he dropped his hands to his sides, “No! I mean—yes! If.. if you want me to?” 

His heart pounded in his chest, threatening to break his ribs and jump out at any moment. 

You nodded, “Of course, Spencer. Sit.” 

The simple invitation acted like an instant release valve for the tension coiled in his shoulders. 

A soft, heavy breath escaped him as he slid into the chair across from you, his long legs awkwardly tangling with yours under the small table for a brief moment, “Sorry,” 

Spencer couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he was on a date with you. 

He knew that the situation he ended up in was a total coincidence and you probably considered this date a friendly hangout more than anything else. But it still somehow felt serious to Spencer, it was his first date ever. 

When the waiter approached the table a moment later, Spencer didn’t even glance at the laminated menu resting between the two of you. He ordered a club sandwich and you decided to get the same order as him before a comfortable yet slightly charged silence settled over the table. 

Spencer cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly as if he was treading carefully into the subject. “So, um.. If you don’t mind me asking,” he hoped that you would somehow answer his unasked question, “Who was he? The guy who.. canceled on you. You never really.. mentioned anyone like that.” 

“It was our first date. I met him a few months ago at the grocery store.” 

Spencer’s heart dropped. Although taking someone’s number or going on a few dates didn’t mean that you were completely off limits, it definitely meant that you were interested in someone else. 

He knew it’s your right to find love, but he wanted it to be him. 

“Oh, and you guys have been…” Spencer trailed off, silently asking what the two of you were for the past few months. 

“This was supposed to be our first date.”

“It took you months to go out?” 

“I.. actually didn’t really want to at first.” you stared down at your fingers as you laced them together, “It’s nothing against the guy, but dating was never.. something I put much time and effort into—especially with how demanding work is. So I kinda just abandoned that aspect of my life for the past few years.”

The relief that spread through Spencer’s chest when you said that you hadn’t been seeing this guy for the past few months was almost enough to make him reach over the kiss you senseless. 

“I get that,” he said softly, “The idea of traditional dating feels almost.. impossible sometimes. The unreliable work schedule and the exhaustion that comes with it plays a huge part as to why I’ve kept my distance from it, and I’d really hate to be an absent partner..” he bit the inside of his cheek, slowly admitting to things he’d never really shared before, “I know some things are out of my control, but I’d die from guilt.”

Before you could respond, Spencer went on, “But I don’t think that is why I’ve never dated.” 

“Then what is?” you tried to catch his flickering gaze and lock it onto yours to let him know that you understood.  

“I just.. Never found a reason to try.” he murmured, finally forcing his hazel eyes back up to meet yours. 

“I’m sure you’ll find someone who’s worth trying for. I know you will.” you offered him a small, tentative smile. 

Spencer was an angel on earth—someone you’d always harbored a secret softness for. 

Thankfully, before the silence turned awkward, the waiter came back with your orders, and seeing the perfectly cut triangles of your toasted club sandwich made your mouth water, shifting your focus to eating and enjoying the beautiful view in front of you. 

Two more orders of fries and one chocolate ice cream you shared, the two of you were surrounded by completely new faces. People were coming in and leaving the two of you were still at that table. 

Spencer was completely in his element now, his eyes focused entirely on you, his long fingers animatedly gesturing as he rambled on about everything under the sun. 

You listened, laughing whenever his voice turned to a higher pitch when he got to the frustrating parts of whatever he was dissecting, stealing fries from the basket between you, enjoying the sweet and salty mixture with the ice cream. 

As you brought some melting ice cream up to your lips, it slipped off the plastic spoon, dripping on your chin and falling onto the clean fabric of your skirt. “Shit,” 

Spencer was drunk off your laughs and mesmerizing voice all night in a way that made him reach over and skim the sweet ice cream off your chin before pushing the bowl closer to you. 

“So romantic, Spence,” you properly wiped the excess off your chin, “stealing my ice cream off my face?”

All he could do was sheepishly chuckle. 

He leaned forward, his hair falling on the side of his forehead, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

You could clearly tell that this was the most romantic experience of his life, and you thought it was sweet. 

His innocence and the absolute sincerity he showed you was unlike anything you’d ever seen before. 

After the two of you almost got into your first ever fight over who got to pay, Spencer ended up paying before rushing you out of the place to distract you with the quiet park you so dearly loved. 

The two of you walked along the perimeter of the park well over five times as time lost all meaning like it always did when Spencer was around. 

You spotted the bookstore you’d visited a few times together, noticing that the warm golden lights were spilling through the windows, meaning that it was open. And looking at books together was something you couldn’t pass up on. 

“Look, they’re open!” you pointed at the shop at the very far end of the street, tugging on Spencer’s shirt so he’d look in the direction of the light. 

Spencer’s legs immediately followed your lead, all his senses wanting to be as close as possible to you as your sides grazed while walking. 

You noticed that Spencer was walking incredibly close to you—much closer than usual, but you didn’t say anything. 

The shop was completely empty of other customers, leaving just the quiet hum of a vintage radio playing soft jazz somewhere near the back counter. He looked around the place, then turned his gaze to you, his expression softening into that deep, undivided attention he always seemed to give you. 

You grazed the spines of a few books, feeling Spencer attached to your hip, his eyes following your finger to read the titles. 

The two of you parted ways at bookstores, exploring new finds and bringing them to show one another, or recommending new reads and giving detailed book reviews to one another, but evidently, Spencer did not want to do that tonight. 

“What are we looking for?” he tilted his head toward you. He was so close you could feel the warmth of his breath hitting your face, his eyes entirely on your profile rather than the books on the shelf. 

“Just looking,” you whispered, trying to tone down your growing smile that came along with the faint blush spreading on your cheeks. 

Spencer let out a soft, barely audible hum before turning his gaze back to the books. 

“Ooh look, it’s that rare edition of The Idiot, the pretty one I told you about,” you pulled out the heavy hardcover.

Spencer had gotten that exact book a week ago, only a few days after you’d showed him your worn, heavily annotated copy. He knew you liked collecting different editions of your favorite books, and The Idiot was an exceptional example of that hobby of yours. 

Getting a book he’d read a million times just because you loved the cover was something he was never planning to admit. 

“Oh yeah, I’ve been wanting to get it ever since you showed me your copy!” he lied smoothly—or tried to, his fingers gently brushing yours as you handed him the book. 

“Then this is my gift to you,” you softly whispered, as you looked up from the cover to his face. 

“Wait—no, you don’t have to do that,” he stammered quietly. 

You let out a quiet laugh as you shook your head, “Just shut up,” you rolled your eyes at his stubbornness, “do you want anything else?” 

“No,” he mumbled, a soft smile breaking through his flustered face as he clutched the book securely against his chest. 

“Then let’s go,” you patted his bicep before heading to the counter where the cashier was reading under a dim lamp in the corner. 

Spencer followed closely, the fabric of his sleeve brushing your side with every step as if he couldn’t bear the thought of putting any distance between the two of you. 

After paying for the book and leaving, Spencer was still fumbling with the book in his hands, “Thank you,” he whispered, finally looking up at you, “not just for the book, but for.. tonight. I honestly don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop thinking about tonight.” 

Maybe Spencer was being too honest for his own liking, but you didn’t mind. 

“Thank you, Spencer.” you looked up at him, staring into his puppy dog eyes that almost made you drop dead, “I had the best time ever.” 

Spencer was terrified of overstepping, or being too much in any sense of the word, so he took a deep breath and snapped back into your usual friendly dynamic. 

“Do you wanna head back to my place?” he asked, his voice softening into that addicting rhythm you were so used to, “We can do the usual. Make some tea and watch some Doctor Who.. If you’re not too tired?” 

You slowly nodded, “Yeah, Spence. I’d love to.” 

The walk to Spencer’s apartment was usually filled with fast-paced debates about random topics you guys picked apart together, but tonight, silence took over, and every breath and brush of his shoulder felt intentional. 

“I’ll, uh, I’ll boil some water,” Spencer murmured, quickly setting his new purchase down on the coffee table. 

You kicked off your boots and walked over to the couch, smoothing down the back of the skirt he’d been quietly admiring all night before plopping down on the cushions, dramatically splaying out your limbs in tiredness. 

Instead of heading to the kitchen, Spencer found himself sitting next to you, his body naturally leaning closer to you in pure need to stay near you.

It was embarrassing, and he hoped you wouldn’t notice, but of course you did. 

“I know tonight didn’t start the way I planned.” you twisted your body to face him, “I think I should thank my missing date,” you giggled. 

Spencer chuckled along with you, afraid that he’d been misreading you this whole night, because to him, you looked too cool and composed to mean this in any romantic way. 

Your smile softened, the playful giggle dying down as you noticed the slight tremor in his hands. 

You don’t know how or why, but you reached up, your fingers tucking his soft hair behind his ear before pulling him down to you. His lips were slightly parted in surprise when yours met his, but the gasp that left him was quickly swallowed. 

Spencer froze for a moment, and you applied the slightest pressure, he completely melted into your touch. 

It was a soft, hesitant kiss. 

His hands came up, hovering awkwardly around your head before they finally settled on your face, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t quite believe this was real. 

It was probably the doing of your suppressed feelings for Spencer, but he tasted so sweet. And as soon as you pulled away, you already wanted his mouth on yours again. 

Spencer’s eyes were entirely blown out as he breathed too heavily for a simple kiss. 

Did you do something wrong? 

“Is.. this okay?” 

“Yes. So okay.” he eagerly nodded, “More than okay.” he breathed against your lips that were only a few inches away from him before he slowly leaned back in. 

The angle was too restricting, you two were too far apart. 

You anchored your hands on his tense shoulders and shifted your weight, swinging your leg over his, your skirt riding up your thighs as you settled over his lap, straddling him. 

A low, ragged gasp escaped Spencer’s throat as your weight pressed down against him. His large hands immediately found their way to your waist. He tilted his head backward to look up at you through his lashes, the soft light above you looking like a halo around your head, making you look more heavenly than ever. 

“You have no idea,” he whispered, trying to chase your lips, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

You didn’t make him chase you for long. You leaned down, cradling the back of his head as you captured his mouth in a kiss that was much hungrier than the one before. 

Spencer’s slender fingers tickled you through the bunched up fabric of your skirt as they slid down to your thighs, gripping the backs of your thighs because he was that overwhelmed. 

The friction of your hips grinding on his lap pulled a needy sound from the back of his throat, making his adam’s apple bob as he deepened the kiss. 

“Please,” he breathed into your mouth before widening his lips to let your tongue explore his mouth—his entirety completely surrendering to you. 

“Tell me I’m not dreaming,” his voice was thick, and incredibly desperate as his hips bucked up instinctively to meet yours. 

A tight knot started forming at your center, quickly tightening at the sound of his ragged, broken breathing. 

“You’re—” you were cut off by your own moan, “you’re not dreaming.”

Spencer whined at your moan—your pretty noises making him pathetically much more sensitive to your touch. 

As you began to move in a steady, slow rhythm on his already very hard bulge, Spencer started to roll his hips up to match your pace, completely consumed by you. 

“I’m—” he whimpered, “I’m so close— I’m sorry, I’m just—shit, I can’t” he stumbled over his words as his fingers dug into your sheer tights. 

“It’s okay,” you whispered against his mouth, kissing the corners of his mouth before rolling your hips in a tighter, slower circle against his length. 

The mere thought of what Spencer was hiding beneath his slacks was enough to make your pussy ache and pulse around nothing. 

You could tell that Spencer was big, and the fact that he never got to use his assets somehow added to the excitement of the moment. 

But you wouldn’t want to overwhelm this poor man even though he was more than willing to go as far as two people could go right now.

“No—no, I can hold it,” he buried his face in the crook of your neck as he nodded into your soft skin, his mouth immediately finding the sensitive skin on your pulse point. 

You loved the way he was reduced to a whimpering mess just for you. 

Ignoring his reassurance that he could hold it, you tilted your hips, picking up the pace just a fraction as you pressed harder against his erection. 

“Oh my god..” he heaved against your neck, leaving a sloppy trail against your hot skin, “oh my god, keep going..” he pecked your collarbone, “please.. please, don’t stop.” 

A ragged sob was ripped from his throat as his hips bucked up hard and disorganized against you as his firm hands pinned your core down on his covered cock, completely helpless against his orgasm.

Spencer completely melted into the cushions, his mouth quickly going back to yours as he kissed you with frantic, bruising hunger, his moans that sounded a lot like cries. 

He shot his load in his cotton boxers, unable to stop the damp heat from flooding and spreading under the fabric. His sticky cum added to the pressure against his aching cock that twitched with intense aftershocks. 

Spencer was completely soaked. 

You could feel him through your slightly damp panties. 

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to come so fast,” he looked up at you with a pitiful, overwhelmed look. 

You stared down at his swollen, pink lips, “It’s okay, Spence.” you wiped away the sweaty strands of hair that stuck to his forehead. 

You had no idea you could do this to Spencer. 

“Can you still keep going?” you pecked his forehead, looking down at him as he eagerly nodded. 

“Yes. I can do anything. You’re.. still not done,” his fingers gave your hips a small squeeze. 

You smiled down at him, satisfied with how he cared about getting you off even when he was clearly hypersensitive right now. 

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That shepherd was Pastor Silas Thorne. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room went dead silent.

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

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

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

"Eli Smith," Emily breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Spencer, NO!" Hotch yelled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The air outside felt cold and shockingly pure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)

“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst. 

You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.

The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.

“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence. 

“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge. 

“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.

The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.

“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.

“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.

“I’ll get you someday.”

Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.

“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.

“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”

“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.

“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.

“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.

“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”

“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”

“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.

“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.

“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”

“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.

So, let the challenge begin.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”

“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.

“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.

“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”

“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze. 

“Well then, good luck.”

“Won’t need it.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”

Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.

Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.

You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.

“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.

“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”

Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.

Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item. 

Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.

“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.

“359 days left.”

“More than enough.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.

“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”

Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.

“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.” 

Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.

“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.

You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.

Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him. 

“I won.”

Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.

“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”

“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.

“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down. 

Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.

You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.

“Sore loser.”

“Cheater.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.

Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.

The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.

“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”

“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”

You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:

“Done!”

Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.

“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.

Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail. 

Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.

From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again. 

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.

“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior. 

He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.

To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee. 

He simply has always gotten it right.

It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.

“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”

Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.

Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.

His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.

Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.

“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.

“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.

“Maybe.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.

“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”

Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.

“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.

Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches. 

Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.

Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed. 

Why?

His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.

Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.

The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.

And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”

Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement. 

“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”

You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words. 

In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.

“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”

“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”

This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound. 

If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.

Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work. 

With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:

You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.

Both your phones started ringing at the same time.

“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.

“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.

After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.

“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.

“I know.”

A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.

“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.

“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.

“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.

The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.

“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.

Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.

“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.

“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.

By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”

Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly. 

Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.

Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze. 

“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.

The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf. 

The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.

Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:

“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.

“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”

“Nothing.”

Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work. 

Ah, the perks of being a profiler.

“Sure, pretty boy.”

“What was that loo—” 

The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.

Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.

Immediately, his body stiffened.

“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress. 

“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”

Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.

Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.

“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal. 

“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”

“In sickness and in health, as they say.”

Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.

Derek’s brows scrunched at that.

“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.

“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end. 

He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.

“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.

Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.

Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you. 

Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.

It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance. 

Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry. 

For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.

His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.

Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms. 

Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.

That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.

Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength. 

The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.

After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together. 

Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.

Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.

Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him. 

However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.

Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.

It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind. 

So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.

His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed. 

Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.

Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.

A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.

With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task. 

When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.

Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights. 

Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.

Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.

“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”

There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.

There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.

But maybe his probability was not entirely against him. 

“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”

You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.

“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…” 

Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again. 

“You’re my favorite October 12th.”

And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.

It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer. 

And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.

Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.

God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.

One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.

Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.

“Thank you.”

Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness. 

Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing. 

And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.

“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.

Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.

You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.

For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—  

A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.

First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song. 

It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano. 

Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.

Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.

“I thought you only listened to classical?”

“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.

Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.

Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures. 

You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.

You moved on with a quiet murmur.

“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”

“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.” 

“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that. 

“We should head up. It’s getting late.”

You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”

An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.

“Never.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”

“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.

“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”

Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.

The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.

This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.

An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.

Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.

“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.

Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event. 

You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.

“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.

“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.

“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.

“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”

You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust. 

The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.

Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.

Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.

You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two. 

“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”

Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.

That was kind of embarrassing. 

The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.

It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—

Oh.

You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong. 

Oh God. 

But were you really surprised though? 

A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.

You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.

And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.

Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.

Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.

The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.

You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.

“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”

“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10 to the power of 120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 10 to the power of 80, to 10 to the power of 82.”

He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.

“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”

“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”

“You’re tired.”

You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.

You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.

For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.

Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”

Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.

Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow. 

Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.

But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose. 

He wanted you to mean it.

You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering. 

You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.

But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.

Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.

One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.

“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.

Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course. 

Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both. 

“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.

“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”

You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:

Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason. 

Well, for no reason but you.

The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace. 

You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.

Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.

Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.

“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone. 

God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face. 

“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different. 

With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.

“I like you.”

Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.

“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.

Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?

You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.

But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer. 

Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.

Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.

Oh…?

Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.

In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.

Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.

His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light. 

You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these. 

You pressed your lips harder against his.

Good lord, Spencer could do this forever. 

He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.

Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch. 

One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.

In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently. 

You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them. 

You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.

Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.

Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.

“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true.  Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”

Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.

“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.

“But?”

“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.

“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”

“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.

“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”

“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.

“When did you figure it out?”

“That you like me? At the orchestra.”

“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.

You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.

As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.

“I’m still gonna get you someday.”

Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.

“I’m counting on that.”

With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.

You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score. 

Day 187 status: unsuccessful. 

But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.

link to: epilogue/bonus bit

・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・

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"The local sheriff was remarkably insistent that this is a wildlife issue," Aaron Hotchner said from the front passenger seat. His voice was a calm, low baritone that managed to cut straight through the heavy hum of the vehicle’s heater. He didn't look back as he flipped through the slim, damp-warped pages of the case file resting on his lap. "Three men dead in six months. All found deep in the forest. All severely lacerated."

"Right, because a black bear always meticulously drains five liters of human blood without leaving a single red drop on the forest floor," Derek Morgan muttered from behind the wheel. He cast a dark, skeptical glance at the bleak, mist choked trees pressing close to the highway shoulders. "Classic predator behavior. Very neat eaters, these Washington bears."

"It’s statistically improbable for a rogue animal to target a specific demographic with this degree of geographic and temporal precision," Spencer supplied automatically. His voice carried the rapid, unspooling cadence that usually took over when his brain sought refuge in facts. His eyes tracked the dark green wall of pines passing outside, blurred by water droplets that clung to the cold glass. "Black bear attacks in the Pacific Northwest average less than one fatal incident per year across the entire state. Three within a five-mile radius of a town with a population under four thousand? It's practically impossible. Beyond that, actual animal maulings leave heavy tear patterns, extensive soft-tissue consumption, bone crushing, and massive amounts of coarse hair or saliva transfer. According to Officer Miller’s preliminary report, there was zero non-human DNA recovered from any of the remains."

"Which is precisely why Sheriff Porter buried the lab results," Hotch said, his tone turning grim as he leaned forward to adjust the defrost dial. "Miller went entirely behind his superior's back to contact us. He knew Porter was writing these off to protect the local hunting tourism and avoid a panic, but Miller noticed something Porter refused to look at."

"The victimology," Morgan said, downshifting as the SUV crossed a rusted steel bridge. Beneath it, a swollen, foamy river roared over black river rocks. "All three victims had a history. Domestic abuse, attempted sexual assault, a dropped rape charge. Every single one of them walked away clean on technicalities, lack of evidence, or because their families carry weight in this county. Then, a few months later, somebody catches them alone in the dark and leaves them scattered across the moss in pieces. Our unsub isn't an animal, Reid. He’s a vigilante with a high-caliber physical dominance, an intimate knowledge of these woods, and a massive axe to grind."

"A vigilante who somehow manages to completely obliterate adult males weighing over one hundred and eighty pounds without leaving behind a drop of blood or a drag mark," Spencer pointed out softly. He adjusted his leather shoulder bag, pulling the strap tighter across his chest. "To drain an entire human body in the field would require either complex surgical equipment, a stationary suspension setup, or a level of physical speed that defies standard criminal logistics. It takes time for the heart to pump blood out, or for gravity to drain a body. If the killer is doing it at the site of abduction, they’re spending hours in the freezing rain with a dying man. Why risk the exposure?"

"That’s what we’re here to find out," Hotch said.

The town of Blackwood felt less like a living community and more like a place forgotten by time, slowly being reclaimed by the wilderness surrounding it. Dilapidated timber framed storefronts crouched under the weight of the heavy sky. Overhanging wooden boardwalks were slick with algae and rainwater, rotting at the edges. Overhead, rusted iron streetlights glowed a sickly, flickering amber against the mid afternoon gloom, casting long, distorted shadows across empty sidewalks. The air inside the cabin grew heavy with silence as Morgan navigated the vehicle through the dead main street.

Morgan pulled the SUV into a gravel lot adjacent to a wood beamed building near the edge of the tree line. The forest behind it loomed like a wall of solid black. In the front window, a flickering neon sign hummed, casting a warm, orange wash against the rain-streaked glass: The Timberline.

"Local precinct is still processing our arrival," Hotch said, unbuckling his seatbelt with a sharp metallic snap. "Miller said he’d meet us here. He doesn't want Porter seeing us together until we’ve established a formal federal presence and served the hold on the evidence locker."

They stepped out into the freezing air. Spencer gasped softly as the chill hit his lungs. The rain was unrelenting, soaking through the shoulders of his dark wool coat within seconds. The air in Blackwood smelled of crushed pine needles, damp earth, wood rot, and cold, stagnant water, a thick, suffocating sensory landscape that made Spencer’s collar feel instantly too tight. He ducked his head, his long fingers clutching the lapels of his coat, and followed Hotch and Morgan toward the entrance.

When Morgan pushed open the heavy oak door of the diner, a small bell mounted above the frame gave a sharp, cheerful chime that felt wildly out of place. Inside, The Timberline was dimly lit and warm. The lighting was low, provided mostly by amber glass lamps hanging from exposed wooden ceiling beams and the crackling, orange glow of a massive stone hearth set into the far wall. The air was a rich, heavy mixture of scents, dark roasted coffee, sweet woodsmoke, frying butter, and the damp chill brought in by the few patrons scattered throughout the room.

A pair of burly men in flannel jackets sat at the long wooden counter, their heavy work boots caked in mud, staring silently into their mugs. In a corner booth, an elderly couple spoke in hushed, guarded whispers. The moment the three federal agents walked through the door, their sharp suits, clinical posture, and outsider energy standing out like a bright flare, the low murmur of conversation died. The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the spit and pop of the hearth fire and the steady rhythm of rain pounding against the roof.

"Over here," a strained voice called from the back.

A young officer in a dark green utility uniform stood up from a vinyl booth tucked into the dimmest corner of the room. He looked thoroughly exhausted. Deep, purple shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes, contrasting sharply with his pale, drawn face. He fidgeted nervously with a paper napkin, tearing its edges into tiny, ragged strips. Officer Miller. Hotch and Morgan moved directly toward him, their movements synchronised, efficient, and commanding.

"Officer Miller," Hotch said, extending a hand. "I’m Special Agent Hotchner. This is Agent Morgan, and Dr. Reid."

"Thank God you guys actually came," Miller breathed, taking Hotch's hand with a frantic, trembling grip before slumping back onto the vinyl bench. "Porter is out on patrol near the logging roads. We’ve got maybe an hour before someone tells him three suits from the Bureau just walked into town."

"Sit down, Officer," Morgan said calmly, sliding into the booth across from him. "Start from the beginning. Tell us about the third body."

Spencer didn't sit immediately. His mind was already whirring, overwhelmed by the sudden shift in environment, the heat from the fireplace baking his left side while his right side remained chilled from the drafty door, the sharp smell of stale tobacco clinging to the curtains, the faint, rhythmic clinking of a loose pipe somewhere in the kitchen. He shifted his weight, his fingers curling around the leather strap of his bag as his eyes scanned the layout of the room, noting the exits, the sightlines, the age of the timber framing.

"Can I get you gentlemen something hot to drink?"

The voice was quiet. Smooth. It lacked the tight, pitch shifted resonance of anxiety that Spencer had learned to associate with locals caught in the path of a federal murder investigation. It was grounded, cool, and low, a sound that seemed to absorb the frantic noise in Spencer’s head rather than add to it.

Spencer turned his head.

You were standing at the edge of the booth, holding a heavy, glass coffee pot in your right hand and a stack of ceramic mugs balanced against your left hip. You wore a dark, faded apron over a soft, oversized charcoal sweater, the sleeves pushed up to your forearms. Your hair was slightly damp at the ends, curling faintly against the column of your neck from the weather outside.

"Coffee would be great, thanks," Morgan said, glancing up with a brief, polite nod before returning his focus to the map Miller was fumbling to pull from his jacket. "Black is fine."

"Same for me," Hotch added quietly.

You nodded once, a movement so remarkably fluid and silent it barely registered, and set two heavy mugs down on the laminated table. The coffee steamed in the cool air of the diner, rich and dark.

Then, your eyes moved. They shifted away from the broad shoulders of the senior agents and settled directly on Spencer.

Spencer froze.

It was an automatic reaction, a deeply ingrained defense mechanism developed over a lifetime of feeling observed, dissected, or judged for his awkwardness. But this wasn't the sharp, critical gaze of a stranger trying to figure out why he was fidgeting. Your eyes held an unnerving, unblinking clarity. There was no impatience in them. No fear. Only an intense, quiet stillness that felt startlingly out of place in a room filled with anxious men.

"And for you?" you asked.

Your voice hit him again, close now. Up close, Spencer caught a scent that cut clean through the suffocating smells of fried food and old woodsmoke. It wasn't perfume. It smelled like frozen rain, crushed pine needles, and something ancient, cold, and dark, like the earth turned over deep beneath the forest floor where the sun never reached.

"I- uh," Spencer stammered, his fingers tightening so hard on his bag strap that his knuckles turned white. He cleared his throat, his internal database firing off entirely irrelevant facts to bridge the sudden gap in his composure. "Coffee is fine. But, um, actually, if you have hot tea? Black tea, preferably. The tannic acid helps mitigate the thermal shock of transitioning from low ambient external temperatures to high indoor heat, which can cause mild vascular dilation and-"

He stopped himself abruptly, biting the inside of his cheek. Stop talking, he thought bitterly. Just order the drink. He looked down at his leather shoes, his cheeks warming with a sudden, embarrassing flush. "Sorry. Tea is fine. If you have it."

A tiny, almost imperceptible shift occurred in your expression. The corners of your lips didn't stretch into a fake customer service smile, instead, your eyes softened just a fraction, a quiet spark of genuine amusement passing through them.

"I have black tea," you said softly. "I’ll bring you some hot water and honey. You look like you've been standing in the rain for an hour."

Before Spencer could process the observation or offer another rapid-fire statistic about hypothermia rates in the Pacific Northwest, you turned and walked toward the counter.

Spencer watched you go. He couldn't help it. His hyper-observant mind, usually a chaotic filing cabinet of crime scene photos and behavioral metrics, was automatically cataloging your movements with terrifying precision.

You walked without making a sound. The worn floorboards of the old diner, which groaned loudly every time a patron or a heavy-booted agent took a step, remained completely silent beneath your feet. Your posture was unnaturally relaxed, your shoulders low, your breathing so shallow it was almost impossible to see the subtle rise and fall of your chest beneath the heavy knit sweater. And then there was the physical presence itself. As you reached the long wooden bar and reached up to grab a ceramic teapot from a high shelf, the sweater sleeve slid down your forearm.

Spencer blinked, leaning slightly to the left. Your skin was smooth, but it was the complete absence of goosebumps that caught his analytical eye. The diner was distinctly chilly, drafts sweeping under the front door every time the wind howled outside. Miller was shivering. Spencer was shivering. Yet your skin showed no reaction to the cold whatsoever.

"Reid," Hotch’s stern voice snapped him back to reality. "Sit down."

Spencer blinked violently, pulling his gaze away from the counter. "Right. Sorry." He slid onto the vinyl bench next to Morgan, taking care to keep his long legs pulled in close so he didn't bump the table. He pulled a small, worn leather notebook and a pen from his coat pocket, forcing his brain to reboot its procedural software.

"Officer Miller," Hotch said, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Walk us through the discovery of the third victim. Thomas Waters."

"He’s the Sheriff’s nephew," Miller whispered, leaning in close, his eyes darting toward the front window as if expecting a police cruiser to pull up at any second. "That’s why the Sheriff is losing his mind. Thomas was... well, he was bad news, Agent Hotchner. Everyone in town knew it. Two years ago, a girl working the summer shift at the lumber mill accused him of trapping her in the supply shed. She had bruises all over her arms. She went to the station, filed a report."

"And what happened to the report?" Morgan asked, his voice dark, controlled.

"Porter took it," Miller said bitterly, his hands shaking as he tore another piece of paper napkin. "He talked to the girl’s father. Reminded him who owned the land their house was built on. Reminded him that Thomas was 'just a wild boy who drank too much on weekends.' The charges disappeared. The girl moved to Tacoma a month later."

"And three days ago, Thomas Waters vanished," Hotch inferred.

"Left the tavern on 4th Street at midnight," Miller nodded. "He was drunk. Tearing up the gravel in his pickup. The truck was found idling on the side of the logging road two miles out of town, driver's side door wide open, radio still blasting. No signs of a struggle near the vehicle. No blood. No broken glass. Nothing."

"Where was the body found?" Spencer asked, his pen hovering over the blank page of his notebook.

"Two miles deep into the tree line," Miller said, swallowing hard. His chest heaved as he fought off a wave of visible nausea. "In a small clearing off the old trail. A hunter’s dog found him. His clothes were ripped to shreds. Deep lacerations across his chest and arms. Porter took one look at it and called it a mountain lion kill. He had the body rushed to the local morgue before the state troopers could even get a photographer out there."

"Because he knew what was missing," Morgan said grimly.

"There wasn't a drop," Miller whispered, his voice cracking. "I went out to the clearing myself before Porter could rope it off. I brought a luminal spray from my personal kit. I sprayed the grass, the moss, the tree trunks, the rocks... nothing. Not a single microscopic speck of blood. Thomas was ripped open, but he hadn’t bled on that ground. He was already empty when those marks were made."

A heavy silence settled over the table.

Spencer’s mind spun through the physiological mechanics. Exsanguination prior to post-mortem trauma. To empty an adult male of roughly five quarts of blood without leaving a trace at the crime scene meant one of two things, either the victim was killed, drained, and washed in a sterile environment and then transported deep into a pathless forest without leaving vehicular or foot tracks, or the drain occurred instantly, at the point of attack. Neither option made logical sense. A human body couldn't be transported two miles through dense, thick brush without leaving clothing fibers, broken twigs, or disturbed soil. And an instantaneous, complete drain in the field was physically impossible with human anatomy and known tools.

A soft, porcelain sound broke his loop of logic.

You slipped up to the edge of the booth, setting down a small tray. On it was a steaming teapot, a clean ceramic cup, and a small glass jar of golden honey with a wooden dipper.

"Black tea," you said softly. "Steeped for three minutes."

Spencer looked up, caught off guard. "I... Thank you. How did you know I liked it steeped for three minutes? Optimal extraction of polyphenols occurs between three and five minutes, but anything past four increases the bitterness due to excess tannin release, and I-"

"It’s just how tea should be made," you interrupted gently, a faint, almost imperceptible tilt of your head accompanying your words.

As you reached down to place the honey jar next to his elbow, your hand brushed against Spencer’s bare wrist, right where his sleeve had pulled up past his watch. Spencer gasped, a tiny, involuntary intake of air that caught in the back of his throat. The contact lasted less than a second, but it felt like a shockwave tearing straight through his nervous system. Your skin was cold. Not just cool from the damp air outside, or chilly from carrying a wet tray. It was startlingly, impossibly cold, like touching smooth marble that had been sitting in an ice bath. It was a dense, heavy, lifeless frigidity that seemed to absorb the warmth right out of Spencer’s skin.

He pulled his wrist back on instinct, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. He stared up at you, his pupils dilated, his mind racing to analyse the physical anomaly. Severe anemia? Raynaud's phenomenon? Peripheral artery disease? Hypothermia? No, hypothermia would present with tremors, slow speech, motor incoordination…

You didn't flinch. You didn't pull back in surprise. You simply pulled your hand back into the pocket of your apron, your dark eyes resting on his pale, shocked face with an expression of deep, enigmatic stillness.

"Is everything alright, sir?" you asked softly.

"You're..." Spencer swallowed hard, his throat suddenly bone-dry despite the steam rising from the tea. "Your skin. It’s... your temperature is remarkably low."

Morgan paused in his conversation with Miller, casting a sharp, amused look over at Spencer. "Reid, don't harass the waitress."

"No, Morgan, biologically speaking, the human core temperature cannot drop below eighty-eight degrees Fahrenheit without inducing severe cardiac arrhythmia or loss of consciousness, and the epidermic layer usually reflects-"

"I work near the back freezer," you said smoothly, your voice an unshakeable, tranquil river that washed right over his panicked cadence. "And the draft in this old building is terrible. I’m cold-natured." You picked up your empty tray, resting it against your side. "Let me know if you need more hot water."

You turned and walked back toward the kitchen, your form melting into the shadows near the back hallway with that same eerie, silent grace. Spencer remained frozen, his eyes glued to the empty space where you had been standing. His wrist still tingled from the brief touch, the cold sensation lingering on his skin like a physical mark. He reached over with his left hand, wrapping his fingers around his right wrist, feeling his own pulse thrumming beneath the surface, rapid, warm, and chaotic.

"Reid, stay with us," Hotch commanded softly, though his eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Spencer’s reaction. "We need to go over the timeline of the second victim before we meet Porter at the station."

"Right," Spencer said, though his voice sounded distant to his own ears. He picked up his wooden honey dipper with trembling fingers, staring into the dark amber liquid of his tea. "The second victim. Marcus Kane. Found eight weeks ago."

For the next forty-five minutes, the investigation took over. They meticulously dissected the maps, the timelines, the suppressed police reports, and the background files of the three dead men. Every single detail pointed toward a brilliant, highly disciplined, and utterly ruthless vigilante. Someone who knew the town's darkest secrets. Someone who knew which men were predators, which women had been silenced, and where the local law refused to step in.

"The unsub is comfortable in the dark," Morgan said, tapping a finger on a map of the forest trails. "He isn't using flashlights. He isn't using vehicles to haul these guys into the woods. He’s hunting them on their own turf, overpowering them instantly, and using the forest as his personal execution chamber."

"Not an execution chamber," Spencer corrected quietly, his fingers tracing the rim of his tea cup. The tea was warm, soothing the tightness in his chest, but his mind kept drifting back to the cold touch on his wrist. "An execution leaves evidence. Shell casings, rope burn, blunt force trauma, defensive wounds. This is... consumption. The destruction of the body is total, medically speaking. The blood isn't just drained to kill them. The removal of the blood is the murder."

Miller shivered, pulling his jacket tighter around his shoulders. "That sounds like a monster, Agent Reid."

"Monsters are just human beings exercising impulses that society hasn't managed to profile yet," Spencer said softly, though the words felt hollow in his throat.

From across the room, near the dark passage leading to the back office, you stood in the shadows, completely unmoving. You listened to every single word. To human ears, the distance between the back corner booth and the kitchen hallway was far too great to hear hushed conversations over the sound of the rain, the crackling fire, and the low hum of the refrigerator. But to you, the room was a deafening symphony of sound. You could hear the paper napkins tearing in Miller’s shaking hands. You could hear the slow, heavy, deliberate rhythm of Hotch’s heartbeat, the pulse of a man who commanded authority and calculated every move. You could hear the rhythmic, powerful thrum in Morgan’s chest, a warrior’s heart, steady and strong. And then, there was Spencer. His heart was an absolute storm. It beat faster than the others, a rapid, fluttering rhythm that echoed in your ears like the wings of a trapped bird. You could hear the air rushing in and out of his lungs, the faint, high-pitched whistle of his breath when he got excited or nervous. You could hear the faint, electrical hum of his hyperactive brain, his thoughts moving at a velocity that exhausted his physical frame.

When your skin had touched his, you had felt the intense, radiant heat pouring off his body. It was intoxicating. For a creature who had lived in the cold, damp shadows of these timberlands for over a century, watching men kill, rape, and destroy under the quiet cover of the pines, Spencer Reid was a brilliant, burning light in a suffocatingly dark room. You watched him take a sip of his tea, his long fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic cup. You saw the way his brown eyes darted around the room, perpetually searching, analysing, trying to fit a supernatural nightmare into a neat, scientific box of criminal psychology.

He’s smart, you thought, your tongue faintly tracing the sharp, hidden edge of your upper teeth beneath your closed lips. Smarter than anyone who has ever walked through that door.

He was going to figure it out. Not today. Not tomorrow. But if he stayed in this town, if he kept digging through the dirt and the blood and the moss, his brilliant, beautiful mind was going to pull back the veil. He was going to profile the predator. And yet, as you watched him duck his head, pushing his soft brown hair out of his eyes with a nervous, long fingered hand, a dark, unfamiliar warmth bloomed in your cold, dead chest.

You didn't want to run from him. You didn't want to hide in the deep canopy where the law couldn't reach you. You wanted to draw him deeper into the trees.

Outside, the rain intensified, pounding against the glass of The Timberline like a thousand tiny fists, washing away the tracks, the scents, and the blood of the town, leaving only the dark forest, the cold shadows, and the silent, hungry space between you. The meeting wrapped thirty minutes later under a cloud of unspoken tension. Miller slipped out through the diner’s back kitchen entrance to avoid being spotted on Main Street, while Hotch and Morgan headed out to the SUV to drive two blocks down to the precinct and formally confront Sheriff Porter.

Spencer remained behind for a moment, gathering his leather bag and slipping his worn notebook into his coat pocket. The heat from the stone hearth had dried the shoulders of his dark wool jacket, but as soon as he stepped out the front door onto the rotting boardwalk, the icy Washington shower claimed him again.

The rain fell in blinding, relentless sheets. Morgan was already revving the engine of the dark Suburban across the gravel lot, its headlights cutting two amber tunnels through the gray downpour.

Spencer stepped off the wooden curb, reaching into his pocket to check his watch, and froze.

His thumb brushed empty fabric.

He stopped mid-stride, the freezing rain immediately plastering his hair to his forehead. He patted his coat pockets frantically, then reached into his trousers. Nothing. His silver pocket watch, the antique, hand-wound heirloom given to him by his mother, its internal brass gears ticking at a precise 18,000 beats per hour, was gone.

His mind instantly replayed the last ninety minutes in a high-speed, frame by frame reel. Pulling it out on the bridge into town to check the ETA, slipping it into his left coat pocket, sitting down in the vinyl booth, sliding across the worn upholstery, his coat catching slightly on the jutting metal trim of the table frame...

It had unclipped. It was sitting under the booth.

He turned toward the SUV, raising a hand toward the fogged windshield where Morgan was idling. He gestured toward the diner, mouthing, “Forgot something, two minutes!” Morgan gave an exasperated wave of his hand and waved him off, letting the engine rumble in the rain.

Spencer turned back, ducking his head against the howling wind, and pushed open the heavy oak door of The Timberline.

The bell above the frame gave its small, incongruous chime.

Inside, the diner had emptied out. The two burly loggers at the counter were gone, leaving behind empty coffee mugs and two damp paper napkins. The fire in the hearth had burned down to a low, pulsing bed of red embers that cast long, liquid shadows across the timber beams. The room was heavy with silence, save for the rhythmic, dull thrum of the storm outside.

Spencer walked quickly toward the back corner booth, ducking down on one knee. He shone his flashlight onto the dark, scuffed floorboards beneath the vinyl seat.

There, tucked right against the wooden baseboard in the deep shadow, was the glint of polished silver.

"Thank God," Spencer muttered under his breath, his breath fogging in the chilly air under the table. He reached far beneath the seat, his long fingers stretching until his knuckles brushed the cold metal, and retrieved the watch. He sat back on his heels, blowing a small speck of dust off the etched casing. The steady, reassuring ticking of the hands hummed against his palm.

"You dropped it when you pulled your notebook out."

The voice didn't startle him so much as it anchored him. It came from the shadowed corridor leading back toward the kitchen and storage rooms.

Spencer stood up, smoothing down his damp trousers, his thumb resting over the face of his watch. "It was my mother's," he explained automatically, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet, empty diner. "It's a late 19th-century open-face movement. If the mainspring absorbs too much shock from a drop on uncarpeted Douglas fir flooring, the balance arbor can snap. I... I didn't want to leave it behind."

You walked out of the dim hallway into the low, amber glow of the hearth. You had taken off your apron, leaving you in the dark, oversized charcoal sweater.

"It’s beautiful," you said softly, your eyes briefly dipping to the silver watch in his hand before rising to meet his face. "1890s?"

Spencer blinked, caught entirely off guard. "1894, actually. Elgin National Watch Company. How did you... most people assume any pocket watch is an early 20th-century mass-production model."

Spencer stared at you. His analytical mind, which spent every waking second categorizing people into predictable behavioral boxes, stumbled over itself. He cataloged your details again, a waitress in a dying logging town with a population under four thousand, working a quiet afternoon shift in a grease and coffee diner... who casually identified 19th-century cast revisions.

"You... know antique timepieces?" he asked, his voice dropping, losing its clinical edge and softening into genuine, hesitant curiosity.

"I know old things," you said quietly. A faint, sad smile touched the corner of your lips, so subtle Spencer almost thought he imagined it in the flickering firelight. "In a town like this, the past doesn't really go anywhere. It gets buried under the moss until someone digs it up."

Spencer stood in the center of the empty diner, his leather bag slung over his shoulder, feeling a sudden, inexplicable shift in the room's atmosphere. The chaos in his head, the gruesome crime scene photos, the corrupt sheriff, the horrifying physiological impossibility of five liters of missing blood, seemed to recede behind a thick, heavy curtain of quiet.

Around you, the world was eerily, beautifully still.

"My name is Spencer," he said, stepping forward slightly, his awkwardness returning as he realised he hadn't introduced himself properly earlier. "Dr. Spencer Reid. I... I didn't catch your name before."

You looked at him for a long, unblinking beat. Outside, a heavy gust of wind slammed rain against the windowpane, but inside, your dark eyes held him with a calm, magnetic gravity as you introduced yourself.

He repeated your name under his breath, testing the sound of it against the crackle of the dying hearth. 

"Your friends are waiting for you, Spencer," you noted gently, nodding toward the front window where the headlights of the Bureau SUV flickered through the mist. "Your boss looks like a man who doesn't like to be kept waiting in the rain."

Spencer glanced out the window, feeling a sharp pang of sudden, illogical reluctance to leave the quiet warmth of the diner.

"Right," he said, clearing his throat and adjusting his coat lapels. "We... We're setting up our temporary command station at the precinct down the street. But we'll likely be in town for a few days." He hesitated, his fingers clutching the strap of his bag. "Do you... do you open early? For coffee?"

"I’m usually here before dawn," you said softly, your voice carrying that low, hypnotic resonance that made his chest feel strangely lighter. "The rain is quietest at four in the morning."

Spencer nodded, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his anxious expression. "Four in the morning. I'll... I'll remember that."

He turned and walked toward the door, taking care not to rush. When his hand touched the cold brass handle, he looked back over his shoulder one last time. You were still standing by the hearth, framed by the deep shadows and the glowing embers, watching him with that terrifying, beautiful, unblinking clarity.

"Don't lose your watch again, Spencer," you called out softly over the thrum of the storm. "Time is a fragile thing."

Spencer stepped out into the freezing mist, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind him. As he ran across the gravel lot toward the idling SUV, his hand remained clamped tightly over his coat pocket, feeling the steady, rhythmic ticking of his mother’s watch against his ribcage. 

The heavy passenger door of the black Suburban swung open, releasing a brief burst of warm air that was immediately devoured by the freezing downpour. Spencer scrambled inside, ducking his head as he pulled the door shut with a solid, metallic thunk.

"Find it?" Morgan asked without turning around, shifting the vehicle into drive. The tires spun briefly over the wet gravel before gripping the road and pulling them back onto the rain drowned asphalt.

"Yeah," Spencer said, his fingers tracing the smooth, etched silver casing of the pocket watch in his coat pocket. "It was under the booth. It must have caught on the table frame when I slid out."

"Good," Hotch said from the front seat, his dark eyes fixed on the road ahead where the faint orange glow of the town’s small police station flickered through the curtain of mist. "Because we don't have time to retrace our steps. Sheriff Porter just checked into the station. Miller sent a text, Porter’s already asking why federal plates are parked in the lot."

"He’s defensive," Morgan noted, leaning forward over the steering wheel as the wipers scraped relentlessly across the glass. "A town this small, three men dead in six months, and all three of them tied to influential families or local business interests. Porter isn't just protecting tourism, he’s protecting the status quo."

"It’s a classic institutional response," Spencer added, forcing his thoughts back into the clinical, analytical groove of the profile. He pulled his notebook out, laying it flat across his knees. "In isolated rural communities, law enforcement often functions less as an objective arbiter of justice and more as a mechanism of social preservation. When a vigilante targets individuals who have systematically avoided legal repercussions, it exposes the complete failure of that local apparatus. Porter can't admit there's a serial killer because admitting it means admitting why those men were chosen."

"Which makes our job twice as hard," Hotch grunted. "We aren't just hunting an unsub. We're fighting a local department that will actively try to stop us."

As Hotch and Morgan continued to discuss their approach for the upcoming confrontation with Sheriff Porter, Spencer’s eyes drifted to the side window. Outside, the storefronts of Blackwood blurred into a dark, waterlogged ribbon of rotting wood and flickering neon signs.

Through the fogged glass, his eyes automatically tracked the distance back toward The Timberline.

His brain, that unyielding, hyper-active engine that usually refused to quiet down, was running a double track. On one track, it calculated the probability of local police corruption, the spatial distribution of the three dump sites, and the physiological impossibilities of complete exsanguination without field hemorrhage.

On the second track, it kept replaying the quiet stillness of the diner.

It replayed the sound of your voice. Not loud, not urgent, but grounding, a low, melodic hum that seemed to absorb the frantic static in his head rather than add to it. He thought of the way you stood, completely motionless, as if breath itself were an optional gesture rather than a biological necessity. He thought of the cold shock of your skin against his wrist.

Cold-natured, you had said. I work near the back freezer.

It was a perfectly rational explanation. The human body, when exposed to localized cold or peripheral vasoconstriction, can drop several degrees at the extremities without indicating systemic hypothermia. Raynaud's phenomenon, poor peripheral circulation, low basal metabolic rate... There were a dozen standard physiological reasons for cold hands.

And yet, Spencer’s hand remained pressed against his own ribcage, feeling the hot, fast, chaotic pounding of his own heart. The contrast was staggering. Touching your skin felt like touching a stone pulled from the bottom of an icy river, dense, ancient, and completely unbothered by the storm raging around it.

"Reid. You with us?"

Spencer blinked, snapping his head up. Morgan was looking at him in the rearview mirror, one eyebrow raised in mild concern.

"Yeah. Sorry," Spencer said quickly, adjusting his satchel strap. "I was... I was just reviewing the timeline of the second victim."

"Well, keep your head in the game, kid," Morgan said, pulling the SUV into a narrow parking space in front of the Blackwood Police Department. "We're walking into a hornets' nest."

The Blackwood Police Station smelled of damp wool, stale tobacco, industrial floor cleaner, and cheap, burnt coffee. It was a single-story brick structure built in the late 1960s, its interior lit by humming, sickly yellow fluorescent tubes that flickered periodically whenever the storm outside rattled the roof.

Behind a high wooden counter sat Sheriff Porter. He was a broad, thick-necked man in his late fifties, wearing a dark green uniform that strained against his stomach. His face was weathered, ruddy from years of outdoor exposure and bad whiskey, and his small, deep-set eyes narrowed into dark slits the moment the three federal agents pushed through the heavy glass door.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" Porter asked. His voice was a harsh, raspy gravel-scrape that carried zero warmth. He didn't bother standing up. He just sat behind his desk, a heavy silver badge pinned crookedly to his chest, slowly cleaning his fingernails with a small pocketknife.

"Sheriff Porter," Hotch said, stepping up to the counter with effortless authority. He pulled his leather credential case from his coat pocket, flipping it open to display his FBI badge. "I’m Special Agent Hotchner. This is Special Agent Morgan and Dr. Reid. We’re with the Behavioral Analysis Unit."

Porter didn't even look at the badge. He slowly closed his pocketknife with a sharp, metallic snap, dropping it onto his blotter. "BAU. Right. The mind hunters from Quantico." He let out a low, dry chuckle that held no humor. "Miller's handiwork, I assume. The boy gets a little mud on his boots and thinks the sky is falling."

"Officer Miller did his job, Sheriff," Morgan said smoothly, leaning his broad frame slightly over the counter, his posture imposing without being overtly aggressive. "He saw a pattern in three homicides that your department officially classified as animal maulings."

"Because they are animal maulings, Agent," Porter spat, finally rising from his chair. He was tall, thick-waisted, and carried himself with the heavy, unearned arrogance of a man who had run a small town without oversight for thirty years. "We got cougars in these mountains. We got black bears coming down out of the timber line because the logging cuts cleared their territory. You city boys see a body torn to pieces in the woods and you think of movie killers. I see nature taking its course."

"Nature doesn't drain five liters of human blood from a body without leaving a single drop on the surrounding foliage, Sheriff," Spencer chimed in. His voice was quiet, but the clinical precision of it cut straight through Porter’s bluster. "Nor does a mountain lion or a black bear target adult males between the ages of twenty-five and forty who all happen to share a specific legal history within this jurisdiction."

Porter’s head snapped toward Spencer. His ruddy face darkened, a vein throbbing along his thick jawline. "Who the hell is this kid?"

"Dr. Reid is a forensic behavioral analyst," Hotch said coldly, stepping directly between Porter and Spencer. "And he's correct. The physical evidence from the Thomas Waters site, as well as the prior two scenes, indicates human intervention. Specifically, pre-mortem or immediate post-mortem exsanguination, combined with deliberate staging to mimic animal predation."

At the mention of Thomas Waters, Porter’s posture shifted. The aggression faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a raw, jagged streak of grief and rage that he tried desperately to cover with anger. 

"Thomas was killed by an animal," Porter growled, his voice dropping, shaking with suppressed tension. "I saw him. I stood over him in that clearing. No human being did that to a man. No human being could."

"Then let us review the autopsy reports and the physical evidence," Hotch pressed, his tone unyielding. "We’ve already issued a federal hold on the case files. If you refuse to cooperate, Sheriff, we will secure a federal warrant from the district judge in Seattle by midnight. But one way or another, we are taking over this investigation."

Porter stared at Hotch for a long, suffocating moment. The fluorescent lights above them hummed like trapped insects. Outside, the rain lashed viciously against the high frosted windows of the station.

Finally, Porter let out a heavy, bitter breath. He turned to a filing cabinet behind his desk, yanked the top drawer open with enough force to rattle the metal frame, and pulled out three thin manila folders. He slammed them onto the counter.

"Take 'em," Porter sneered, his eyes darting between Hotch and Morgan before landing on Spencer with open contempt. "Take 'em and go waste your time reading fairy tales. But when you find out that there's nothing out in those woods except cold rain, thick brush, and things that'll eat you alive before you hear 'em coming... don't come crying to my deputies."

He turned on his heel and strode into his private office, slamming the frosted glass door behind him so hard the frame shuddered.

In the corner of the room, Officer Miller stood quietly by the coffee pot, looking pale and thoroughly terrified, but he gave Hotch a subtle, relieved nod.

"We need a workspace," Hotch said, turning to Miller.

"There's an old conference room in the basement," Miller whispered, stepping forward quickly. "It’s cold, and the heating pipe knocks, but it’s private. Porter won't bother you down there."

The basement of the Blackwood precinct felt less like a police facility and more like a damp bunker. The walls were unpainted cinderblock, cold to the touch and streaked with dark moisture stains near the ceiling line. A long, scratched oak table sat in the center of the room beneath two buzzing fluorescent strips.

For the next four hours, the team transformed the bleak room into a BAU command station.

Morgan pinned topographic maps of the surrounding forest onto a cork board, using red pushpins to mark the three recovery sites. Hotch set up his laptop, establishing a secure line to Garcia back at Quantico. Spencer sat at the head of the oak table, surrounding himself with a fortress of medical examiner reports, crime scene photographs, and regional historical records that Miller had quietly smuggled down from the attic archives.

The crime scene photos were nightmare material.

Spencer stared at the glossy photographs, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. The photos showed Thomas Waters lying in a bed of wet, black moss. His clothes were shredded, long, clean vertical tears through heavy denim and canvas that looked less like the messy, jagged tearing of animal claws and more like they had been cleaved by razor-sharp instruments under massive force.

The lacerations across the chest and throat were deep, exposing bone. But what struck Spencer, what made his skin crawl with a cold, intellectual dread, was the complete absence of blood staining the fabric or the ground.

When a human heart stops beating due to major vascular trauma, blood pooling occurs rapidly. The pressure causes massive hemorrhaging into the surrounding soil. Yet Thomas Waters’ skin in the photos was a waxy, translucent white, like a marble statue laid down in the mud.

"Garcia," Hotch said into the speakerphone resting in the center of the table.

"I am here, my gloomy Pacific Northwest detectives," Penelope Garcia’s bright, bubbly voice burst through the small speaker, providing a surreal contrast to the bleak, blood-drenched photos spread across Spencer’s desk. "What can I do for you from sunny, warm Virginia?"

"We need background checks on all three victims," Morgan said, stepping up to the table with a cup of lukewarm station coffee. "Thomas Waters, Marcus Kane, and David Vance. We know they all had records or accusations regarding sexual violence that never went to trial. I want to know if there's a common thread among the accusers."

"On it," Garcia’s keys clacked rapidly in the background, a rhythmic, mechanical sound that Spencer usually found comforting. "Okay, pulling up the local records... wow. Blackwood has a really dismal prosecution rate for felony assault. It’s like the 1950s never ended out there."

"Focus on the victims’ families or support networks," Hotch instructed. "An unsub acting out a vigilante mission usually has a personal trigger. Look for a mother, a sister, or a survivor connected to all three men."

"Searching..." Garcia paused, the clacking slowing down. "Okay, this is weird. The three accusers in these cases have zero connection to each other. One was a temporary worker at the lumber mill who moved to Tacoma two years ago. One was a local high school teacher who left for California after Marcus Kane’s charges were dropped. And the third was a tourist who filed a report against David Vance three years ago and then dropped it forty-eight hours later."

"No shared friends? No shared legal representation?" Morgan asked, frowning.

"Nada. There’s no physical or digital link between the women these men hurt."

Spencer raised his hand slightly, tapping his pen against his chin. "Garcia, broaden the temporal parameter."

"How broad, Einstein?"

"Look back fifty years. Or a hundred."

Morgan sighed, leaning back against the edge of the table. "Reid, come on. A vigilante isn't hunting guys based on crimes committed in 1920."

"No, but the pattern might be older than the current unsub," Spencer argued, his eyes bright with the sudden spark of a historical hypothesis. He pulled a yellowing, brittle newspaper clipping from the archive stack Miller had brought him. "Look at this. Local newspaper from October 1912. A logger named Silas Cage, accused of beating two women in the logging camp, was found dead in the woods three miles north of town. Cause of death, animal attack. Missing blood volume, total. Again in 1947, a local land speculator with three domestic violence complaints, found in the timberland, shredded, completely drained."

The room went quiet, save for the steady, dull drip of a leaky pipe in the corner.

Hotch leaned over Spencer’s shoulder, staring at the faded black-and-white print of the 1912 article. "You think this is a copycat? Someone imitating a local urban legend?"

"Or a generational legacy," Spencer said, his mind moving at blinding speed, weaving the pieces together. "In isolated rural areas, vigilante behavior can become an institutionalised myth. A family or a tight-knit secret group that passes down the 'duty' of cleansing the town of men who abuse their power. They use the same MO, the same locations, and the same cover story, animal attacks, because it’s worked for over a century."

"Uh, guys?" Garcia’s voice cut in, sounding unusually quiet. "I just ran a deep historical search on Blackwood’s archived court records and coroner filings going back to the late 19th century. Reid is right. There are nine recorded incidents fitting this exact MO, mutilation, complete exsanguination, attributed to wildlife, stretching back to 1888."

Morgan rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a low whistle. "A hundred and twenty years of the same murder pattern. That’s not a single killer, Hotch. That’s an heirloom."

"A myth passed down," Hotch agreed, his face grim as he looked at the map. "An unsub who believes they are carrying out an ancient, righteous duty. That gives us a psychological profile. The killer isn't acting out of sudden rage. They are disciplined, patient, deeply ingrained in the town's history, and completely convinced of their own moral superiority."

Spencer stared at the red pushpins on the map.

Disciplined. Patient. Deeply ingrained in the town's history.

Unbidden, the image of your face flashed across his mind again.

He thought of the way you had looked at his silver watch. The way you had recognised the specific 1890s Elgin die-cast revision without hesitation. I know old things, you had said. In a town like this, the past doesn't really go anywhere.

A sudden, strange chill ran down Spencer’s spine, not from the drafty basement room, but from a quiet, subterranean intuition that he quickly tried to smother with logic.

It’s just a coincidence, he told himself fiercely, his fingers tightening around his pen. She works at a diner. She probably sees old antiques passed down through families all the time. She’s an insomniac who reads history. It means nothing.

"Reid," Hotch said, breaking his train of thought. "I want you to stay on the historical records. Go through the town’s land deeds, church registries, and old legal filings from the late 1800s. See if you can identify the original family or group associated with the first killings in 1888. If this is a generational mission, the unsub’s bloodline will lead back to the start."

"Right," Spencer said, his voice sounding slightly breathy. "The town archive office is located in the old annex behind the library on 3rd Street. I can head over there now."

"Take Morgan with you," Hotch said.

"No, Hotch, it’s fine," Spencer insisted, standing up quickly and packing his leather satchel. He felt an urgent, overwhelming need to get out of the cramped basement, away from the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights and the oppressive smell of station coffee. "The library annex is only four blocks away. Morgan needs to stay here and coordinate with Garcia on the local witness list for Thomas Waters."

Hotch looked at him closely for a second, measuring the tension in Spencer’s posture, before nodding once. "Two hours, Reid. Check in every thirty minutes."

"Understood."

Outside, the storm had transformed Blackwood into an aquatic ghost town.

It was only four in the afternoon, but the sky had collapsed into a heavy, suffocating twilight. The rain fell in relentless, dense vertical lines, bouncing off the flooded gutters and creating a low, deafening roar that swallowed all other sounds.

Spencer pulled his wool coat collar tight around his neck, ducking his head as he stepped onto the rain-slicked boardwalk. The icy air bit into his face, but he welcomed it. It cleared the stale, claustrophobic air of the police station from his lungs.

He walked down Main Street, his leather shoes clicking sharply against the wet wood. The town was utterly deserted. Storefront windows were dark; vehicles parked along the curb sat empty, their glass coated in sheets of running water.

As he reached the intersection of Main and 4th, his feet slowed down of their own accord.

To his right, sitting at the edge of the dark tree line, was The Timberline.

The neon sign in the front window hummed quietly, its crimson glow casting long, bleeding reflections across the flooded asphalt of the parking lot. Through the rain-streaked glass, he could see the amber glow of the hearth inside, warm and inviting against the bleak, freezing gloom of the Pacific Northwest afternoon.

Spencer stood on the corner for a long moment, the icy rain soaking through the shoulders of his coat, staring at the diner.

His watch, his mother’s silver watch, ticked steadily against his ribs.

Four in the morning, you had told him. The rain is quietest at four in the morning.

He wasn't supposed to go back yet. He was supposed to go to the library annex, dig through dusty land deeds from 1888, and build a profile of a delusional, mission-oriented family of vigilantes. He was supposed to be the objective, rational scientist from Quantico who saw the world through numbers, statistics, and behavioral metrics.

And yet, as he looked at the warm red light spilling from the diner window into the dark forest, Spencer Reid felt a deep pull, a sensation like standing at the edge of a vast, silent abyss and feeling the overwhelming urge to lean forward.

“We’ll be over for dinner tonight so that you can officially meet him. Be sure to make some katsudon for us,” you add, flashing a smile.

“Yeah, we’ll— wait, the hell?” He turns to you, his brows furrowing in utter confusion as he squints down at you.

“What? Don’t you like katsudon? Want something else?”

“Love it, actually, but why the hell would I go to dinner with you?!”

“You’re my husband. That’s why,” you explain, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He just stares at you, completely silent, his brain visibly short-circuiting trying to process what’s happening.

“Lady, I don’t even know you,” he says, shaking his head and taking a small step back.

There is a moment of silence in which the two of you just stare at each other with your video still rolling.

Then—

“Do you want to know me?” You playfully wink at him, giving him one of your flirty smiles.

He blinks, caught off guard by your sudden boldness. A second passes as he studies your face once again, the gears turning in his head before finally making a decision.

“…I kinda do now, yeah,” he admits, half confused, half intrigued, because who the hell approaches someone else like this anyway?

“Perfect!” You turn back to the camera. “See you tonight, Mom!”

“baby. go,” you hum, dragging your slippered feet across your floor.

you tuck your body between his open legs, putting down your bottle and snacks to lightly tickle under his chin. you receive the harshest glare you’ve ever experienced from him, though it’s still miles below the ones he gives at work. 

calloused hands find the bare backs of your soft thighs and lightly, he squeezes.

“you fuckin’ hate me,” he huffs, but his pout comes through. all his features softening under your attention, minus the twist in his brows. “gettin’ rid of me like this.”

you don’t miss the hickies on his neck, two maroon bruises because all you’ve done together these past few days is kiss, cuddle, eat and have sex. since bakugou became your boyfriend, he often forgets about his own apartment. his home is much larger, much more luxurious with built in speakers in the ceilings and a double headed shower. but he always lingers in yours, though he never outstays his welcome. even now.

“i don’t want you to leave but you need to pack for your mission tomorrow,” you smile, taller than him as he sits.

he feels delirious when he stuffs his face in your cotton soft stomach. you smell freshly showered, clean, cosy and like home. bakugou feels like his heart has been stabbed with a fork. he already misses you and you’re right in front of him.

it’s like he’s fighting the devil on his shoulder, to just stay over again tonight and get up early tomorrow. he can grab his shit from home and go straight there. he knows that plan will throw his whole day off tomorrow. also you hate waking up early.

he blinks at you slowly, like a cat that loves what he sees.

for you, it’s easy to get hot from his touch alone and that stare makes you nudge in closer to him. you want to sit on his lap, kiss down his neck again, despite being all over him an hour ago.

“you want me to piss off so you can watch love island,” he breathes, looking up at you with the sweetest ruby puppy dog eyes. there’s a scratchy tone to his voice, sleepiness clearly taking over though he fights it to spend a second longer with you.

you know for a fact you’re the only person in this universe that has seen katsuki like this. that thought alone makes you want to call up his job and say he can’t come in tomorrow. say he’s sick so you can cuddle his big head in your lap. who would you even call? the hero commission? his sidekicks? he is his own boss.

“i do have a load of episodes to catch up on since you’ve been here,” you say sweetly and he eyes your snacks, then your water bottle placed on the shelf beside him.

he’s a grumpy baby in a twenty seven year old, muscled man’s body. he scrunches his nose at the mention of that show. he hates all reality tv, so he says, even though he ends up asking you for details throughout every episode.

“just say you hate me,” he grunts, tilting his head up for a kiss.

you don’t give in just yet.

“i love you but you’ve gotta go. you’ll be even grumpier without sleep in the morning,” you smile.

he rolls his eyes. ever the dramatic one. “yeah, yeah. i get it. love you too.”

you stand there for a few moments. his grip on your thighs getting tighter, his chin in your stomach. he rubs his cheek against your palm, his stubble prickling against you with every move.

“you need to put your shoes on—,”

“you look so pretty like this,” he murmurs, even biting down on his bottom lip.

you narrow your eyes at him. you know exactly what he’s doing and it usually has a hundred percent success ratio.

he pulls off you, keeping his hands on your thighs to look down your body. stupidly, it causes you to look down at yourself too.

your soft pastel pink  boy shorts because you get hot at night. your comfy low cut navy strappy top, that has seen better days but you have no need to replace yet. your nipples poke through the fabric and you don’t miss bakugou’s gaze wafting over them with his tongue poking his cheek.

he looks as if he’s about to moan or take a bite out of you. you can’t tell yet. you don’t mind either.

“katsuki, stop it. you were supposed to leave an hour ago,” you look to your clock beside your front door. “an hour and a half ago.”

bakugou grits his teeth then relaxes by kissing the strip of your stomach between your vest and shorts. he releases the quietest whine.

“i wanna stay here with you.”

even though he’s being dramatic, you’ll see him in less than a week, every word releases tingles down your spine.

you press a kiss to his lips, to which he eagerly pushes back. his hands sneak up to your waist holding you with purpose. it’s only a peck but everything he’s feeling is translated through.

“you’re killin’ me,” he says onto your lips.

“it’s not me, baby. you have the world to save tomorrow. you can make love to your girlfriend when you get back,” you say tenderly, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

“i’m givin’ you a good fuckin’ when i see you again.”

“you always do,” you shrug playfully and bakugou chuckles, shaking his head in resignation.

“fuck. fuck my life,” he grunts to himself, pulling his slides off your shoe rack and shoving them onto his feet.

“it feels like you’re obsessed with me, kats,” you giggle to yourself, stepping back so he has space to stand up and sling his duffle over his shoulder.

he raises one eyebrow, a huffy laugh releasing from his throat.

“hm? you think?” he takes his hand through his hair, a light pink blush on his cheeks from your attention. “‘course i fuckin’ am. i’m comin’ right back to get you when i’m done.”

you lift up on your tiptoes, hands on his pectorals, “if you say so.”

“i do say so. i am sayin’ that,” he mumbles, hands finding your ass to lift you with ease.

you wrap your legs around his waist so he doesn’t have to bend to kiss you.

“next thursday, okay?” he kisses the corner of your lips, feeling your cheeks rise. “and still text me. i’ll have my phone on me in the evenings.”

you smooth down his eyebrows with your thumbs.

“yes, dynamight sir,” you drawl, but you lean in to peck him, a noisy kiss that has him chasing after you. he moans softly.

“another.” he whispers.

with your arms wrapped around his neck, you give his bottom lip a nibble, one that causes an exasperated groan. then you slot your lips over his, pushing your tongue into his mouth to tangle against his. it’s long, wet and pulses throughout your body.

you push your chest against his as if you’re trying to merge into one, bakugou’s fingertips sinking into your ass cheeks.

it’s you that pulls away, landing two kisses on his lips for good measure.

“baby, no.” he complains.

since you’re the only one with self control here, you tap his shoulder.

“put me down now. you’ve got to go.” you say controlled and bakugou throws his head back in annoyance, “need you wide awake on the field so you don’t get hurt. i don’t wanna see a scratch on your pretty face when you come back.”

that gets him putting you down, your feet finding the floor. since getting with you, he’s much more mindful of his recklessness and getting hurt. bakugou doesn’t want to scare or upset you. you’ve become his beacon of light, his conscience and answer.

“my pretty face?” he grips the handle to his bag, a smirk rising. he’s still taking in his last few seconds.

you nod, “yes. come home safe to me.”

“i always do. don’t have to doubt me, princess.”

the pet name gets you rolling your eyes to hide how it makes your stomach do flips. he undoes both your door locks and slowly opens it with his shoulder like it weighs a tonne.

as if it’s becoming real all of a sudden, you throw yourself into his chest, wrapping your arms around him in a cuddle under his hoodie. you feel complete once you stuff your cheek between his pectorals and you squeeze him tight as thick arms cradle you in. katsuki’s always warm and toasty, a tall standing mattress for you to fall asleep on.

despite you urging him to leave, it doesn’t mean your heart doesn’t ache.

“i’ll miss you,” you say, eyes squeezed shut.

you’re just as dramatic as him, you just hide it better. you’ll see him next week.

“i’ll miss you. gonna think about you when i’m on the camp site shittin’ in the woods.”

your laugh makes bakugou’s chest swell.

“you’re so annoying.”

he shrugs.

with all the power he’s ever possessed in one single time, bakugou lets you untangle from him.

“i’m gonna go now.” he looks down your empty corridor, “i could stay over tonight and leave in the mornin’—.”

“you’re not waking me up at three.”

he turns to you with a frown.

“fine. another kiss, to wish me well,” he demands.

that you can do.

a smush of your lips, you gripping his tee as his hand cups your chin.

“another. for good luck.”

you huff playfully but still you give him another kiss. one that has you opening your mouth and letting him slot his tongue in between. it goes on longer than you mean, with you dragging him closer and his hands land back on your hips.

it’s when he groans without realising, a hardening bump in his waistband pressing against your stomach.

“go now!” you say, pushing him off you and bakugou drags a palm down his face.

“fuck,” he breathes, shaking the horny off his body. not the time. “i’ll see you next week. lock the door behind me. all of them.”

“i always do!”

he flickers down your body, one step into the corridor. 

bakugou bites down on his bottom lip, “i love you. can’t wait to see you again.”

you awe, gripping the door and peeking out, “i love you too. i’ll keep you updated. even send you some selfies.”

bakugou nods rapidly, “please. i won’t be able to reply quickly but i will.”

“okay, i’ll see you later.”

he’s about to step away, he swears he is though he looks back at you peeping at him.

“one last kiss then i’m outta your sight,” he promises.

you eagerly pull out from behind the door, “last one! then you have to go!”

“yeah, yeah, yeah—,” he’s rough in the way you love, placing a palm flat on your back to pull you into him. you practically fall into his arms but quickly you’re up on your tiptoes.

it’s a kiss with the energy that it could be the last one you ever have. a hero going off on a mission and leaving his beautiful girl back home. though this isn’t one of his high risk ones, heck he’s going on his own because he’s so capable. yet still the day he returns feels like forever away.

you practically eat each other's faces, unable to stay appropriate down to your last moments together. you twist to the left as he goes right, holding the back of his head so he stays close. he’s not shy to push his cock into you, letting you know all the ways he will miss you.

it’s loud and messy. it’s trying to remember every inch of him so you can recall it in your nights alone. it’s bakugou groping every part of you he can get his hands on so he can mark you as his.

your blonde sucks on your tongue and you don’t mean to palm him but he ruts into you at the contact. you moan as pleasure sparks beneath your skin, the length of him growing cupped in your palm. you’re wondering if there’s time for another session even though he was meant to leave two hours ago.

the kiss only ends because you’re both breathless, using your last breaths to connect with the other. there’s giggles from you and three extra pecks before you force yourself to step away, using your front door as a shield from your riled up boyfriend.

you watch as he adjusts himself, rolls back his shoulders in a stretch and tries to screw his head on straight.

“goodbye now. for real, kats.”

he nods sharply, stretching his jaw side to side. “bye baby. i’m hard now.”

“that’s your own fault for begging for more kisses,” you grin.

he pouts, “how couldn’t i when you look like—,”

“bye katsuki. my tv is calling me!”

“fuck,” he groans, holding onto his bag strap and throwing his head back, “bye princess.”

When he got home, he didn’t sleep.

Dex sat at his kitchen table until five in the morning with a notebook open in front of him, trying to work out how to earn you like it was a mission and a mathematical problem all at once.

He had never had this before, at least not romantically or properly.

He had wanted people before, sure. He had fixated and watched and needed. But he had never met someone he wanted to impress. This was different because it was you.

So Dex pulled up a notebook and started to brainstorm.

At the top of the page, in painfully neat handwriting, he wrote:

What can I do to earn it?

He stared at the sentence for a long time.

Then, because he had no idea what normal people did, he wrote the first thing that came to mind.

Jewellery?

He paused, but it seemed right. Women liked jewellery. He had seen his colleagues back at the FBI buy silver and gold for anniversaries, engagements, and apologies. He had seen men do it in restaurants, in movies, and in department-store advertisements with stupidly saccharine music every February.

Still, Dex knew you wouldn’t want something bought. That felt too ordinary, too impersonal. Anyone with money could buy a necklace, anyone could stand at a glass counter and let a bored sales assistant choose whatever they thought  looked pretty.

That was not earning. To Dex, that was outsourcing.

Dex tapped the pen against the paper, before modifying it.

Stolen jewellery?

Better.

He underlined it once.

You liked flair, and a heist had flair. A heist required planning, timing, and risk assessment. It had alarms to silence, guards to drop, and glass to break.

Then he wrote:Necklace with red stones.

He paused, then kept brainstorming.

Clean first. Get a box.

He underlined clean first twice.

You would probably appreciate that he had been forced to kill his way through a collection of financiers, traffickers, and Task Force donors to get it. But you would appreciate the necklace even more if he cleaned every trace of their blood from it before he gave it to you.

See? He was learning.

—

A week later, you woke up to the report of a jewellery heist.

The story was already playing on the television in the kitchen by the time you wandered in, rubbing sleep from your eyes while the kettle hissed behind you. Blue police lights flashed across the screen, staining the marble frontage of some private gallery in a gray-ish intermittent colour. The windows had been shattered inward, glass glittered across the pavement like ice, and several black body bags were being wheeled past a row of reporters pressing microphones toward anyone wearing a badge.

Mia sat at the table with a bowl of cereal and the front page spread open beside her. She had placed an unloaded handgun across the article to keep it flat, which felt disrespectful to both journalism and breakfast but was hardly the strangest thing she had ever done in your kitchen.

You poured hot water over your coffee and leaned against the counter, only half listening as the reporter explained that the gallery had been used as a private showroom for a collection owned by three wealthy financiers. Between them, they had laundered money for traffickers, moved illegal weapons through shell companies, and funnelled anonymous donations into several Task Force operations.

Now they were dead.

The security team was dead too, although the report was careful to describe them as “private contractors,” which sounded much better than armed men paid to protect criminals and their stolen wealth. 

Apparently, only one item had been taken.

The reporter’s image changed to an old catalogue photograph of a necklace laid against black silk. It was beautifully dramatic, set in dark metal with deep red stones that looked almost black before the studio light flashed.

You paused with the mug halfway to your mouth. “Huh.”

Mia glanced up from her cereal, spoon hovering near her lips. “What?”

“It’s pretty.” You looked at the necklace again.”

And that was the full extent of your interest.

That morning, it didn’t occur to you that Dex had done it.

Dex was many things, but he was not a thief. He took weapons when he needed them, and sometimes files, keys, evidence, ammunition. Those were practical things with a means to an end. You couldn’t imagine him breaking into private galleries for jewels. He had never shown any interest in luxury, money, or expensive objects for their own sake.

You finished your coffee, watched another body bag disappear into an ambulance, and thought no more about it.

—

Dex tapped on your apartment window shortly after midnight.

The sound was small enough that Mia didn’t hear it from her bedroom, but it pulled you out of the book balanced across your knees. You stayed still for a moment, listening. 

Your hand went instinctively toward the knife tucked between the sofa cushions as you walked across the apartment. There was no shadow from the other side of the curtain, but when you saw Dex through the gap between the blinds you sighed.

Of course.

Dex stood on the other side, jacket zipped, his hair pushed back, and there was no visible blood on him anywhere. He held a small black velvet box between both hands with such care that, for a second, you wondered whether it might contain an explosive.

“Shhh,” you pulled a finger to your lips, and Dex only tilted his head.

You pulled back the window, his eyes found your face immediately, then flicked down toward your mouth before returning upward. 

“What are you doing here?” You tried not to smile as you stepped into the fire escape and pulled the window back down behind you before Mia could wake up and discover Bullseye standing outside with what looked alarmingly like a romantic gift. 

The metal steps were cold beneath your bare feet, and the night air smelled of rain, rust, and old brick. Traffic moved several storeys below, tyres whispering across wet roads while the glow from nearby windows softened the edges of Dex’s face.

For all you knew about him, he looked almost nervous.

The box remained cupped in his palms. When he finally offered it to you, his fingers lingered against the velvet for half a second before releasing it.

You looked at him, then down at the box, Dex watching your face like he was waiting for a verdict.

You opened it.

For several seconds, you didn’t understand what you were looking at. The stones were darker in person, a deep garnet red that seemed to hold light inside them. The metal had been polished until every curve gleamed. It was old, heavy, and far too beautiful to have belonged to any of the men who had kept it locked inside that gallery.

Then the television footage came back to you.

You lifted your eyes slowly.Dex didn’t look away.

“You did the heist,” you whispered, eyes wide now.

It was not really a question, but he nodded anyway, enough so that  the cold air touched the back of your teeth while your thoughts rearranged themselves around the fact that Benjamin Poindexter had robbed a jewellery vault.

He had never been a thief before. Apparently, you had turned him into one.

The realisation hit you, so unexpectedly absurd that a tiny bit of laughter escaped before you could stop it. You lowered your head, one hand tightening around the box as the sound spilled into the alley below.

Dex’s face changed immediately. His shoulders drew in slightly, and for one second, he looked as if he thought you were laughing at him rather than the situation he had created. He had killed his way through a private gallery, stolen one necklace from an entire collection, cleaned it until it reflected fucking lasers, found a box, and knocked politely on your window.

All because you had told him to earn a kiss.

You pressed your lips together, trying to stop giggling long enough to speak.

“Dex,” you whispered, grabbing his arm, “I genuinely didn’t know this was you.”

His brow furrowed. “You didn’t?”

“You don’t steal jewellery.”

“I do now.”

That nearly started you laughing again.

You looked back down at the necklace instead. Up close, you could see the tiny details in the metalwork, dark vines curling around the stones like thorns. There was not a smear, fingerprint, or trace of blood anywhere on it. Dex must have cleaned it meticulously, working over every setting until nothing remained of the people who had guarded it.

You lifted the necklace carefully from the box. The chain slid over your fingers with a cool, satisfying weight. “It’s beautiful."

He was relieved all at once, you could tell when his jaw loosened and his shoulders dropped. 

You turned the necklace over in your hands.

Of course he chose this one out of everything in the gallery.

His gaze drifted toward your throat, lingering there just long enough to answer the question you hadn’t asked: he had chosen it because he had imagined it on you in more ways than one, you were willing to bet.

You gathered your hair away from your neck and fastened the clasp yourself. The stones settled against your skin with a cold shock before gradually warming to your body. They rested directly over your collarbone, against your throat.

Dex’s eyes followed the necklace downward, tracing the chain and the red stones before returning to your face. His hands stayed still at his sides, but there was tension in every finger, as though not touching you required the same concentration as hitting an impossible target.

You had thought the gift was simply a gift, but then you saw the way he kept looking at your mouth.

Oh. 

Oh.

How sweet.

You bit your lip. “This… was about the kiss.”

Dex’s face went still, and you could almost see him deciding whether denying it would help. He didn't bother.

“Did I earn it?”

There was something so painfully sincere in the question that your chest tightened. Dex hadn’t treated your teasing like flirtation. He had treated it like a task, or a standard he could meet.

You stepped closer.

The fire escape shifted faintly beneath your weight, metal creaking as you tried your hardest to still not make noise. You simply couldn’t bear to hear Mia fucking talk your ear off about manners anymore. 

You touched the front of his jacket. His body went rigid beneath your palm.

For a second, you let him believe it.

You tilted your face toward his, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. His eyes dropped to your mouth, his lips parted slightly, and every single part of his consciousness seemed to narrow onto the tiny distance remaining between you.

Then you turned your head and kissed his cheek.

Again.

This time, you let it linger as your mouth rested against the scar on his cheekbone while the red stones he had stolen for you pressed coldly against your throat. Dex closed his eyes, his breath leaving him in a wounded exhale.

When you drew back, he looked dazed.

You smiled and touched the necklace lightly. “It’s incredibly sweet.”

His gaze moved from the stones to your mouth. “But?”

“But not quite.”

The disappointment flashed across his face before he could hide it. It lasted only a second, and he quickly replaced it with a familiar, frightening focus. Then, very quietly, he said, “I’ll do better next time.”

You probably should have been worried. Instead, you smiled.

“I can’t wait.”

—

The second attempt involved your cutting off your ex-boyfriend’s pinky finger.

Dex hadn't gone looking for him. At least, that was what he told himself. He had simply seen the man leaving a bar one evening while he was on his way back home. Unfortunately for your ex, he'd made the mistake of bragging about his ex being a dangerous and wanted vigilante, loudly enough for Dex to hear.

"I used to have her wrapped around my little finger,” He laughed loudly, as if that would impress the girl he was currently talking to. 

Ugh.

The package appeared on your fire escape the following morning, wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with butcher’s string, with anote that said : Though he shouldn’t have this anymore.

It was small enough to fit in your palm, though the dark stain beginning to spread through one corner gave away that it was definitely not jewellery this time. 

You found Dex that evening on the opposite rooftop, watching your apartment with anticipation, waiting to hear whether a gift had been received. You should have been horrified. Instead, you kept thinking about the specificity of it. He had not killed the man, because apparently Dex had decided death would be too impersonal. He had taken the exact part of him that he had mentioned and removed it with surgical attention, leaving your ex alive to understand why.

When you met him on the roof, Dex straightened. Hope appeared on his face almost immediately, fragile beneath all that lethal stillness. You stepped into his space, rested your hand against his chest, and kissed his cheek in the same place as before.

Dex watched you leave with his fingers pressed against the place you had kissed, already reconsidering the scale of the gesture.

The third attempt happened during one of your outings together.

Calling it an outing was generous. You had spent most of the evening following a Task Force accountant through Hell’s Kitchen while Dex moved along the rooftops above you, appearing occasionally in dark windows and reflective surfaces like an omen. The job ended early, leaving the two of you walking without urgency through streets still wet from rain. You stopped for food from a cart, shared greasy hotdogs beneath the awning of a closed shop, and let yourself pretend for several minutes that this was what normal situationships did.

The man who ruined it came out of a bar angry. His shoulder struck yours hard enough to spill the drink in your hand, and instead of apologising, he grabbed your wrist when you turned toward him. His fingers tightened. He called you a bitch.

Dex knew you could more than take care of yourself, but instead of letting you deal with it, his head thought ding, ding, ding! This is your chance to earn it!

Without waiting to see what you would do, Dex killed him with his hands because the offence had been physical, and a primitive part of him apparently believed the answer should be too. By the time you reacted to them, the man’s face had already gone slack beneath the dirty wash of the streetlights. Dex remained crouched over him, breathing evenly, blood along his knuckles and the cuff of his sleeve.

He looked up at you without remorse, as if the man’s hand created a simple problem and Dex had solved it in the most direct way available.

You… looked disappointed, almost sad that you weren’t given the choice to end him yourself.

You should have scolded him. Instead, you crouched and wiped a thin streak of blood from beneath his eye. 

His eyes dropped to your mouth before you had even begun leaning closer, and for a brief second, the hope on his face made you consider giving him what he wanted.

You kissed his cheek again.

This time, your mouth landed nearer the corner of his lips, close enough that Dex inhaled and turned his face by instinct, chasing an act you had already withdrawn. You smiled, tracing your thumb once over his bloodied cheekbone before leaving him kneeling beside the body with his restraint hanging by a thread.

His fourth attempt was less impulsive and considerably more elaborate.

Someone had begun watching your building. You noticed the same dark sedan twice in one week, though it always disappeared before you could approach it. Mia found a listening device beneath the kitchen windowsill, hidden so badly it was frankly insulting. T

Three nights later, an entire surveillance crew disappeared.

Their operation had been housed in a rented office two streets from your apartment. Dex dismantled it room by room. The people inside had worked for a private intelligence firm funded by Task Force donors, and Dex killed the ones who had apparently fucking photographed your bedroom, even if he had done the same himself. He left the technician who had installed the device alive with both hands broken and every hard drive stacked beside him.

Then Dex brought you the files.

He arranged them across your kitchen table while you slept, pages separated into neat categories: From the names of the donors, their addresses, their routines, and the amounts they had paid to look into your life.

You found him later that night when you stepped onto the fire escape, crouched between his knees, and held his face in both hands. This time, your kiss landed at the edge of his cheek, close enough to his mouth that the corner of your lips brushed his for less than a second.

He went rigid.

The contact on his lips had been so slight it might have been accidental, but both of you knew it wasn't. Dex followed when you pulled away, stopping himself only after his mouth had moved an inch toward yours. His eyes had gone unfocused, his breathing suddenly uneven as he stared at the tiny distance you had created.

You thanked him for the files, and told him not quite.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

—-

Dex ran out of ideas three days later.

The almost-kiss had destroyed what remained of his ability to think rationally. He could still feel the exact place you had pressed your lips to his skin, which he thought about often enough to become embarrassing.

You had been so close. Closer than ever before.

That would have meant he was improving, right?

Instead, he sat at his kitchen table until nearly dawn, staring at the same notebook he had used after your first date.

The original page looked almost childish now. Jewellery? was written in black ink, followed by notes about red stones, boxes, and cleaning off the blood. That had seemed like such a strong idea at the time. He had been proud of it. He had planned the heist meticulously, selected the necklace from an entire private collection, and polished every link of the chain himself.

You had loved it.

Still. It was not enough.

Everything he had tried afterwards filled the next several pages. Names, addresses, little reminders of things that bothered you and people who no longer had the opportunity to do so. Some of the ideas had been crossed out because they were too excessive, although Dex’s definition of excessive remained alarmingly generous. Others had been completed and marked with neat dates in the margin.

Beside each attempt, he had recorded the result.

Cheek.

Cheek again. Slightly longer.

Corner of mouth. Almost.

Pathetic. It really was fucking pathetic.

Dex stared at that final entry until the words began to blur.

He could do more, obviously. There were always more people to kill, more enemies to drag to your feet like a sad cat. 

But Dex had begun to suspect that scale was not the problem.

He picked up his pen and wrote: bigger jewellery heist?

Then he crossed it out.

He wrote: kill Task Force Leader?

That one remained on the page for several minutes before he reluctantly crossed it out too. Powell definitely deserved it, but you had never mentioned him specifically. Killing someone you hadn’t complained about felt like guessing, and Dex was starting to understand that guessing wrong could push him farther away instead of bringing him closer.

He considered returning your ex’s other pinky finger.

No, he thought, too repetitive.

He considered finding every man who had ever frightened you and arranging them alphabetically in a warehouse.

Impractical, he thought. That idea had flair, but he could not work out what you would do with one.

By six in the morning, the notebook contained several increasingly desperate fragments and one entire page where Dex had written WHAT DOES SHE WANT? hard enough to leave the words embossed through the paper beneath it.

The answer didn’t appear.

For the first time since you had told him to earn the kiss, Benjamin Poindexter had no plan.

—

Mia discovered him outside your kitchen window at two in the morning.

She had come in for water wearing an oversized pyjama set, her hair twisted into a loose knot that had mostly collapsed. The apartment was dark except for the light above the stove, and she nearly walked past him before she noticed the shape crouched on the fire escape.

Dex tapped once against the glass.

Mia flinched hard enough to spill water over her hand. “What the…”

Within seconds, she had a pistol aimed directly between his eyes.

Dex had expected that.

Mia stared at him through the window, exhausted because she had repeatedly asked you to stop contributing to her life becoming stranger and had been consistently ignored. Her eyes moved from his face to his empty hands, checking for blood, weapons, packages, or severed pieces of anyone she recognised.

There was nothing, and that seemed to concern her more.

She unlocked the window but only raised it several inches, leaving enough space to talk without giving him room to climb through. 

“She’s asleep,” Mia said quietly.

“I know.”

Her eyes narrowed. Of course he did.

Dex looked past her toward your bedroom door on the side, which was closed. He could picture you behind it, curled beneath the blankets, breathing into your pillow. He forced his attention back to Mia before the thought became distracting. “I need help.”

Mia’s grip shifted on the pistol.

For several seconds, she seemed unsure whether she had heard him correctly. Dex understood that he didn’t ask people for help. Help created debt and uncertainty, and it was usually more efficient to solve the problem himself.

Unfortunately, he had tried that.

Mia raised the window another few inches, though the gun remained.

Dex took the notebook from inside his jacket and passed it through the gap.

Mia didn;t lower the pistol as she took it. She placed the notebook on the counter, flipped it open with one hand, and began reading. Her expression changed as she moved through the pages: Confusion, followed by disbelief, then amusement.

Dex watched her read the record of his attempts, and when Mia reached the page headed POSSIBLE NEXT ATTEMPTS, she stopped.

The list beneath it included stealing a deed to a building, acquiring a tiger, and locating the person responsible for cancelling the brand of hot chocolate you liked three years ago.

Mia looked up. “A tiger?”

“She likes cats,” Dex shrugged.

Mia sighed. “That doesn't mean she wants a tiger.”

“I crossed it out.”

She looked at the notes again. “It says here you researched three private zoos.”

“I needed to know whether it was feasible.”

Mia shut the notebook and pressed her fingertips against her forehead. The gun was still in her other hand, but it had lowered toward the floor, apparently because exasperation had temporarily overtaken self-preservation.

Dex waited for her to provide an answer.

Instead, she looked at him through the narrow opening and began to laugh, and it was not the same laughter you gave him. Yours eventually made his chest warm. Mia’s laughter made him feel as though he had failed the test at every hurdle.

He thought about hurting Mia for making him feel humiliated, but then decided against it because you’d probably hate him for it.

“I’m serious.”

“That’s the problem,” Mia managed, keeping her voice down so she wouldn’t wake you. “You are thinking about this like you’re trying to overthrow a government.”

Dex didn’t see how that was relevant. Overthrowing a government required less guesswork.

Mia opened the notebook again and flicked through the pages, staring at each carefully planned act of violence. The laughter eventually faded, leaving behind a reluctant sympathy that Dex disliked even more.

“You’re thinking too much,” she told him.

The statement felt insulting. Thinking was how he avoided mistakes. “She told me to earn it.”

“I know. She told me everything.”

Dex’s attention sharpened. “Everything?”

Mia ignored the question. “You keep acting like there’s a secret combination of murder and theft that unlocks her mouth.”

He reached under the window for the notebook, but Mia pulled it back before he could take it. “She’s just a girl, Dex.”

He stared at her, because she wasn’t making sense.

You were not just anything. How fucking dare she insinuate that?

Mia seemed to read the objection on his face.

“I know she’s a fucking lunatic,” she continued. “I live with her. I’ve helped her sink bodies. Just… stop trying to earn the kiss by making her owe you.”

Eventually, she released the notebook back to his custody.

That had never been his intention. He didn’t want you indebted to him. He wanted you to be impressed, delighted. But perhaps those things were not as different as he had believed.

Perhaps the gesture had the undertone of the same question:

Was that enough? Do I get it now?

Mia had seen it. You probably had too.

Dex looked down at the notebook in his hands and the pages felt heavier than before.

Mia started lowering the window, apparently done with his bullshit for the night. She paused with only a narrow gap remaining. “Again,” She started, “She’s just a girl. Don’t overthink it.”

Easier said than done. 

—

For once, Dex listened.

The next time he came to see you, nobody had died.

There was no breaking-news report waiting for you that morning, no stolen artefact displayed across the front page, no mysteriously vanished Task Force officials, and no parcel on the fire escape leaking through its paper wrapping. The day passed so uneventfully that by evening, you had started to suspect Dex was planning something truly catastrophic.

You checked the news twice. Nothing.

You glanced toward the window whenever a shadow shifted outside, but the fire escape remained empty. It was nearly eight when someone knocked on the apartment door.

You looked up from the sofa.

Mia looked up from the weapon catalogue spread across her lap. She was in her bedroom with the door ajar. “You expecting someone?”

“No.”

Mia turned another page. “Weird.”

There was no urgency in the knock, no coded pattern, and no scraping sound suggesting someone was trying to slide a body across the hallway carpet.

When you opened the door, Dex was standing beneath the weak yellow light with a bunch of flowers in his hands.

For a moment, you only stared.

They were not arranged professionally. The paper around them had been folded precisely in some places and crushed in others, as though Dex had spent far too long trying to hold them without damaging anything. There were no red stones, no bloodstains, and no expensive velvet box. Just a slightly unruly collection of pale flowers and greenery, fresh enough that tiny droplets of water still clung to the petals.

Dex looked almost painfully uncertain.

He had faced rooms full of armed men with less visible tension. His shoulders were held too squarely, his fingers carefully positioned around the stems, and his eyes kept moving between your face and the flowers as though he expected one of them to tell him what to do next.

Oh. this was new.

“You… brought me flowers.”

“I uh…” Dex nodded, “yeah.”

Your eyes narrowed with suspicion as you accepted them. The paper rustled beneath your fingers, damp where the stems had been wrapped. “Did you steal them?”

“No.”

“Threaten the florist?”

He had another pause, just long enough to become concerning. “No.”

“Dex.”

“I paid.”

You looked up properly at that.

His eyes looked… defensive, as if buying flowers had required more courage than stealing a priceless necklace from a fortified vault. Maybe it had. Violence gave him a shield to hide behind. This was only Dex standing outside your door with a simple gift and no proof of obsession beyond the fact that he had remembered you might like flowers in your favourite colours.

You looked down at the flowers again.

They smelled green somehow, faintly sweet but not overwhelming. A little piece of leaf had caught against the paper near your thumb. One stem was slightly bent, probably from Dex gripping the bouquet too tightly on the journey over and then attempting to straighten it before knocking.

The imperfection made it strangely charming.

There was no note demanding that you understand what he had done for you, though you had at least expected it. There was no list of names or severed pieces of someone who had wronged you. He hadn’t even brought them as evidence that he could protect you, avenge you, or remove inconvenience from your life.

He had brought you flowers because Mia had told him you were just a girl.

And sometimes girls liked flowers their will-they-won’t-they situationship brought for them.

Finally, after all his increasingly elaborate attempts, he had tried doing something… simple.

“They’re beautiful,” you smiled,watching relief pass over his face so openly you nearly melted.

Dex’s eyes flickered toward your mouth out of habit, but he stopped himself almost immediately. He didn’t ask whether he had earned it, he didn’t even step closer or look expectant. He only stood there in the hallway, hands empty now, waiting to see whether you wanted to invite him inside.

Oh, Dex.

You stepped into the hallway and placed the flowers carefully on the console table beside the door. Dex watched you do it, cautiously hopeful, but he still didn’t move.

Without any warning, you grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him down, pressing your lips to his.

His mouth was warm beneath yours, parted slightly with surprise, and for one suspended moment he did absolutely nothing. 

Apparently, he had failed to consider that flowers might work.

Eventually, though, he kissed you back carefully at first, as if the kiss might disappear if he wanted it too much. His hand lifted toward your waist but stopped just short of touching, every part of him still suspended between hope and disbelief.

You pulled away.

Dex followed without meaning to, his mouth chasing yours by an inch before he caught himself. His eyes opened completely dazed, and the devastation on his face made your stomach twist.

At that moment, he seemed to think that was all he was getting.

Then you smiled, tightened your fist in his jacket, and pulled him back.

The second kiss was deeper, and Dex made a soft, wrecked sound against your mouth as his hands finally settled around your waist. The restraint he had been pushed down for weeks cracked beneath your fingers. He kissed you like he had memorised every near miss: every cheek, every corner, every cruel fraction of an inch you had left between you.

Behind you, Mia peeked out her bedroom door.

Mia took one look at Dex leaning down on you in the doorway, your hands gripping his jacket and the flowers abandoned beside the door, then silently reached around the frame and pulled the door shut again.

You laughed into the kiss, breathless against his mouth.

Dex felt it in his bones, not quite believing the  fact that you were finally kissing him back without a tally to settle or another task waiting. When you eventually pulled back, he followed helplessly until his forehead rested against yours. His breathing had gone uneven, and his eyes kept dropping to your lips as if he still expected you to change your mind and put unbearable distance between you again.

“D’you wanna come in?” you asked.

Dex nodded far too quickly. “Mhm.”

It came out so pathetic and eager that you smiled, caught his hand, and pulled him through the doorway. The flowers stayed forgotten on the little table while you dragged him toward your bedroom, kissing him again before you had even made it down the hall.

Mia’s door was still shut, and Dex briefly considered knocking to offer her headphones.

Then your hands found his belt loops in his waist, your mouth moving hungrily against his, and he decided she could survive one noisy night after advising him on how to win your physical affection.

After all, she had been right.

You were just a girl, and all Dex had ever needed to do was bring you flowers.

—end.

NOTE : I genuinely love seeing all your requests in my asks, but I do get a lot and I physically can’t write every single one. I usually write the ones that catch my eye, and it’s probably every 1 in 5. 

That’s why I have Ko-fi! If you request there, it’s pretty much guaranteed I’ll write it within a month of responding as a token of appreciation (keep this post in mind for July and August 2026). If I’m uncomfortable with the request or don’t think I can do it justice, I’ll let you know and we can brainstorm something else.

Please remember I run this blog for free, so any support means a lot, only if you’re able to give it! Love y’all and thank you for reading!!! <3

buy me a ko-fi here!

Dex taglist part 1:

user4: i hope she spills all the tea. i wanna know exactly who the misogynist motherfuckers are.

user5: she’s the goat female driver idc!! first female championship winner!!

-> user9: during her time in mclaren, jenson was carrying her. but yeah let’s talk about that one rigged championship 😂

user6: she still looks so hot. my first celeb crush.

-> user7: i had pictures of her all over my wall. i think my mom still has them up 😓

user8: worst driver of all time. only there because she looked good in the race suit.

-> user11: if she wasn’t hot, no one would care about her driving.

user10: this was always going to happen when you allowed women into f1. ruined the sport. she was nothing but a distraction on the grid.

-> user12: she was incredible. she clawed her way to a championship when everyone doubted her. she proved that women can do anything. the only distraction are people like you.

user13: please please please tell me she says that her and jenson were a thing. i always used to ship them so bad. the photoshoot for british vogue was imprinted on my thirteen year old brain.

-> user14: ANOTHER JENSONYN SHIPPER!!! baitclaren was my fav mclaren era. y’all can have your twinkclaren!!

-> user15: remember when jenson shut down a misogynistic reporter who tried to imply that yn wasn’t a good driver?? that was his girl frfr!!

user16: i’m so proud of u yn. you’ve been through so much and i’m excited to support you.

*liked by yourinstagram.*

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

“SHE’S NOT THAT FAST — SHE JUST GETS LUCKY SOMETIMES. THAT’S ALL IT IS. RIGHT CAR — RIGHT TIME. LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.” — a senior mclaren engineer.

dedicated to everyone who ever rooted for me. thank you.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

EXCERPT FROM LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.

by yn yln.

when i signed with mclaren in 2013, i thought i was living my dream.

i was the only female driver on the grid, paired with jenson button—a world champion, a household name, and, to some, a certified heartthrob. they already loved calling him “promiscuous” in the press, and suddenly there i was: the pretty young woman who happened to drive fast. to them, we weren’t drivers—we were a brand. two good-looking people in shiny cars. and that label stuck.

from the start, i wasn’t taken seriously. i’d show up to meetings and realize they’d given me the wrong time. jenson would already be there, halfway through strategising with the team. he always looked uncomfortable when i walked in late, knowing i wasn’t told the same things he was.

“you’re here now,” he’d say, smiling politely, trying to ease the tension. i liked him. he wasn’t the problem. he was respectful, and if anyone made an offhand comment about me, he’d interject with a joke to cut through the awkwardness. but even his kindness couldn’t fix what was fundamentally wrong.

my first podium was a moment i’d worked my entire life for. it was a race where i drove faster than jenson, faster than most of the grid. but the photo they posted of me on the team’s social media wasn’t of me crossing the finish line, or holding my trophy.

it was me in the garage, leaning over the car, my race suit unzipped halfway down. the caption didn’t even mention the podium. it was just… my body. i couldn’t stomach looking through the comments.

i’ll never forget calling my dad that night. he was furious. he asked me why i didn’t make a fuss. why i didn’t storm into the team’s office and demand better treatment. but what he didn’t understand was that it wasn’t that simple. you’re the only woman in a room full of men, and they’re already waiting for you to slip up. waiting for you to show too much emotion, to prove them right when they think women are too “dramatic” to handle the job.

so i kept my head down. i smiled at the cameras, laughed at the jokes, and drove my ass off every weekend. and every time i was faster than jenson, every time i outqualified him or finished ahead, they’d say, “she got lucky.” when he beat me, they’d say, “see? this is why she doesn’t belong here.” it was a game i couldn’t win.

being the first woman on the grid wasn’t just about being fast. it was about being everything they didn’t expect me to be: calm, collected, agreeable. i couldn’t afford to push back because i knew they’d use it against me. so i swallowed it all, every little slight, every dismissive comment, every missed opportunity. i thought if i just kept my head down and drove, eventually, i’d earn their respect.

but now, looking back, i realize… they were never going to respect me. not really. not as a driver. they respected what i did for their brand, for their image. they respected how well i played the part. but as a person, as an athlete? i was just another pretty face to them. nothing more. and that’s what hurt the most.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

r/books

Discussion Thread:

“Lucky Girl Syndrome” by YN YLN: Thoughts, Reactions, and the Drama It’s Stirred Up.

──────────────────────

u/checkeredpast: just finished lucky girl syndrome, and WOW. she did not hold back. calling out mclaren for the way they treated her, the “wrong meeting times” sabotage, and the completely inappropriate podium photo… i can’t believe this stuff actually happened.

u/fastlaneandfurious: the part where she talks about the team using her as a “walking brand strategy” instead of a driver broke my heart. like, they wanted her to be the face of the team but refused to actually treat her like a serious athlete.

u/f1fanfiction: let’s talk about the fact that she outsold literally every sports memoir in history. 2 million copies sold in the first week. yn doesn’t just break records on the track, apparently.

u/nosteeringallowed: her calling out the media for labeling her as “lucky” after she beat half the grid is ICONIC. “they didn’t call my male teammates lucky. they called them skilled.” like, yes queen, drag them.

u/ynsthegoat: what got me was the chapter about the infamous team dinner where they wouldn’t even let her speak during strategy talk. then she went out and out-qualified jenson the next day.

u/overqualifiedandundervalued: “they said i was lucky, but luck doesn’t drive faster laps or win races. luck didn’t make me the first woman to win a championship—it was skill, it was hard work, and it was me.” CHILLS. absolute chills.

u/gridgossip: is no one going to talk about the tea she spilled on that one driver? the “polite but condescending” comments she got from him while he constantly undermined her. we KNOW it’s about seb.

u/wheresthefinishline: @ u/gridgossip no no no, it’s def about fernando. she’s been shady about him for years, and the way she described the “overly competitive teammate who couldn’t handle being outpaced by a woman” fits him perfectly.

u/holygrailpodium: the inappropriate photo after her first podium makes me so mad every time. she’s standing there in tears, holding the trophy, and they choose to post a picture of her leaning over the car with her suit half-open?? disgusting.

u/gaslitandgridlocked: her dad being her biggest defender was such a beautiful part of the book, though. “why do you stay quiet when you’re the fastest in the room?” hit me right in the heart.

u/podiumqueen: not me crying over how she kept driving through all of this, knowing they didn’t want her there. like, the strength it must’ve taken to win races when her own team wasn’t even rooting for her.

u/championshipenergy: the way she calls out how different her career would’ve been if she were a man was SO POWERFUL. “they didn’t need me to be fast, they needed me to be pretty. they got both, and they still weren’t satisfied.”

u/mimosasontherace: i can’t stop thinking about the last chapter where she talks about winning her first championship and how no one in her team even hugged her when the cameras switched off. like, they couldn’t even fake happiness for her.

u/driversanddivas: this book isn’t just a memoir; it’s a reckoning. yn exposed everyone who doubted her and proved that no matter what they threw at her, she came out on top. lucky girl syndrome my ass!!!! she EARNED that title.

u/lightsoutandread: imagine being on the grid right now, knowing you were one of the people she called out. the absolute awkwardness.

u/trophiesandtrauma: if you’re on the fence about reading this, DO IT. it’s not just about racing! it’s about breaking barriers, sexism, and resilience. honestly, it deserves all the success it’s getting.

u/checkeredpast: she’s already announced a limited series deal with a streaming platform. you KNOW it’s going to be messy when they dramatize the “wrong meeting times” scene.

u/bookishracer: “lucky girl syndrome” is officially my book of the year. yn didn’t just tell her story; she made sure no one could ever erase it again.

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liked by f1stan, ynstan and 1,837,928 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: f1 legend and now best selling author, yn yln, took to harper’s bazaar to discuss writing and her career. however, her memoir went viral for more than its record breaking sales. yln mentioned that there was a certain driver that would be her biggest fan in public and then undermine her in private. it has been dubbed ‘x marks the spot’, with the hashtag gaining major traction on social media. what do you think ham1ltons? and who do you think the supposed driver could be?

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‘there was one driver who always seemed to go out of his way to remind me i didn’t belong. he wasn’t on my team, but his presence always lingered—sharp, dismissive, condescending. let’s call him x. in interviews, he’d say all the right things, calling me a “trailblazer” and claiming he respected what i brought to the sport. but in the paddock, it was another story. during press conferences, he’d interrupt me, throwing in some smug joke that made everyone laugh but left me feeling small. once, during a rain delay, he walked past my garage and casually remarked to my engineer, loud enough for me to hear, “well, at least she’ll look good sliding off the track.” and when i won my first race, beating him in the process, he didn’t say a word. no handshake, no congratulations—just a quick glance and he was gone. i’ll never know why he went out of his way to belittle me, but in the end, i didn’t care. that win wasn’t for him. it was for me.’

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view all 23,727 comments

user1: it’s definitely fernando. they’ve never liked each other, and he’s always been salty when anyone’s faster than him.

-> user2: nah, it can’t be fernando. he’s competitive, but he’s never outright disrespectful. i’m thinking nico.

-> user1: girl that’s the point 😭 x was never openly disrespectful.

user3: okay but what about lewis? we KNOW their relationship wasn’t always great. remember how tense they were in interviews back then?

-> user4: no way it’s lewis. he’s literally said she’s one of the most talented drivers he’s raced against.

-> user5: lewis can say nice things now, but what if he wasn’t like that back then? she didn’t say the guy stayed disrespectful. she also said x was nice in public, who knew what he was saying in private.

user6: everyone’s ignoring seb, but she’s shaded him before. what if it’s him?

-> user7: yn has ALWAYS defended seb. if anything, he was one of the few drivers who actually supported her. it’s not him.

user8: it has to be fernando. the whole paragraph is giving fernando energy, and you know it.

-> user9: nah, i still think it’s nico. remember when he threw shade at her in a press conference after she outqualified him?

user10: you’re all wrong. it’s michael. she’s talked about how intimidating he was to race against, and she never got along with him.

-> user11: yn literally called michael one of her idols. she’d never write about him like that.

user12: y’all are missing the obvious answer—kimi. he’s the only one who would say something that blunt and not care about the fallout.

-> user13: kimi didn’t even talk to her half the time lol. i can’t see him caring enough to belittle her.

user14: okay, what if it’s no one we’re expecting? maybe it’s some random mid-grid guy like grosjean or massa.

-> user15: yn wouldn’t waste a whole chapter on someone irrelevant. it has to be one of the big names. my money’s on fernando or nico.

-> user1: fernando for sure. yn’s always been lowkey bitter about him, and this just proves it.

-> user2: it’s not fernando!! why can’t you just accept that some drivers are cocky without it being him??

-> user3: okay but if it’s not fernando, who else would it be?? the smug comments SCREAM his vibe.

user5: we’re all arguing, but yn’s probably laughing at us right now. she KNEW we’d be doing this.

user16: yn ‘attention whore’ yln.

user17: at least we know it wasn’t my king jb 😻

user18: idk who tf yn is but this tea is so juicy 😭

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

[setting: thanksgiving dinner, complete chaos. plates of food are half-eaten, wine glasses are full, and cousin jess is recording everything on tiktok. the family is deep into an argument about “x marks the spot,” using jess’s infamous powerpoint as reference.]

uncle bob: jess, i still don’t get why you made a whole powerpoint about this.

cousin jess: because the people need to know, uncle bob. yn’s memoir is the drama of the decade, and you’re welcome for organizing all the evidence.

aunt carol: honestly, it’s that fernando. slide four proves it. all the press conferences where he interrupted her? it’s right there.

aunt fiona: fernando wasn’t that bad. he even congratulated her in, like, 2017. i think it’s nico. slide eight, jess literally wrote “petty king energy” under his name.

uncle hamish: it’s not nico. you’re all overthinking this. i say it’s jenson. didn’t he once call her “intense” in an interview?

cousin matt: jenson literally defended her against the media every other week, hamish. you clearly didn’t listen to slide six.

grandpa: i still don’t understand why this yn person didn’t just punch the guy.

grandma: because she has class, unlike this family. pass the stuffing.

aunt bobbi: wait, what about lewis? slide ten said they were “friendly but complicated.” maybe he was fake-nice to her.

uncle craig: fake-nice? lewis was the only one who liked her, bobbi. slide nine has like five examples of him hyping her up in interviews.

cousin jess: uncle craig, you’re wrong. he was supportive, but there’s that one time he ignored her after she beat him in qualifying. it’s suspicious.

aunt carol: you think it’s suspicious? no way. lewis isn’t smug enough to be x.

uncle hamish: oh please, you’re all just picking names because they sound dramatic. if anything, it was sebastian.

aunt fiona: seb? absolutely not. slide seven shows he called her “one of the best drivers on the grid” multiple times.

uncle bob: that’s suspicious. who compliments people that much unless they’re guilty?

grandma: compliments aren’t guilt, bob. stop eating the cranberry sauce straight from the bowl and get a grip.

aunt carol: you’re all wrong. slide four, people! fernando cutting her off mid-sentence! the man’s guilty as sin.

grandpa: why does anyone care about this? it’s all rich people in fancy cars. sounds like nonsense.

cousin matt: rich people drama is the best kind of drama, grandpa.

aunt bobbi: jess, why is kimi’s slide just a picture of him smoking with “#needthat” written under it?

cousin jess: because kimi’s innocent. everyone knows he doesn’t care about anything but being my dream man.

uncle craig: so why isn’t yn on the slide about drivers who were universally liked?

cousin jess: because she wasn’t universally liked, uncle craig. she was fast, hot, and female in a male-dominated sport. they were all salty.

uncle bob: well, now they’re all posting about how much they respect her.

grandma: of course they are. it’s called covering their asses.

uncle hamish: if i were yn, i’d name names. all this mystery is just fueling conspiracy theories.

grandpa: or she could just leave it alone so we don’t have to argue about it at thanksgiving. what the hell even is f1? is that nascar?

uncle craig: formula 1, dad. jesus, keep up.

grandma (snapping): if someone doesn’t pass me the cranberry sauce right now, i’m gonna be the next x.

[jess pans the camera to her grandma glaring at the table, muttering under her breath as the family keeps arguing.]

cousin jess (whispering into her phone): y’all, my family is losing it over x marks the spot. happy thanksgiving!

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

liked by landopriv, ynupdates and 4,738,918 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: an update on the ‘x marks the spot’ speculation. it started over who exactly is x, from f1 legend yn yln’s memoir and it is causing a stir! with former/current drivers taking to social media and journalists to prove their innocence. kimi räikkönen, when asked, said ‘yn deserved every win she got. people talked too much, but she let her driving do all the talking. always respected that about her.’

mick schumacher released a statement via instagram, with a montage of photos of him and his dad with the first female championship winner: ‘my dad always believed yn was one of the most talented drivers he’d ever seen. he admired her strength, her skill, and her ability to prove everyone wrong, time and time again. he spoke so highly of her and what she brought to the sport, and i know he’d be so proud to see her telling her story.’ when sebastian vettel made a rare appearance to the grid, he confirmed that he had bought a copy and thought that he was proud to watch yn ‘make history’.

now the sudden flurry of support is making fans of the sport wonder just who is genuine and who is covering his ass? what do you think ham1ltons?

view all 2,983 comments

user1: the way literally everyone is tripping over themselves to prove it’s not them is SO funny. one of you is lying, and we will figure it out.

-> user20: exactly!! the fact that EVERYONE is suddenly posting/talking feels so suspicious lmao. someone’s definitely guilty, and they’re trying to throw us off the scent.

user2: kimi’s response is so him. short, straight, and unbothered. it’s definitely not him.

-> user22: we’re all analysing this, but kimi’s out here just vibing like always. love that man.

user3: mick’s statement is beautiful and wholesome as always, but also low-key throwing shade at the others?? like, ‘my dad always supported her’ is giving ‘can’t say the same for you lot.’

-> user21: honestly, mick’s post is the only one that feels 100% genuine. his dad was always so supportive of yn.

user4: seb really said ‘i bought the book’ and dipped. man didn’t even deny anything outright. sus??

-> user5: nah, seb’s always been a yn fanboy. remember when he called her ‘the most talented driver on the grid’? it’s not him.

user6: the lewis and nico posts are giving major ‘damage control’ energy. both of them trying WAY too hard to sound supportive.

-> user7: facts. lewis called her a ‘trailblazer’ like we wouldn’t notice how cold things were between them back in the day.

-> user17: tbh, i don’t think it’s lewis. yn has said before that he was always encouraging her, and they’ve stayed friendly.

user8: fernando’s post feels so rehearsed. like, when has he ever gushed over yn like that before??

user9: low-key think it’s nico. man was so salty about literally everything back then, and the ‘petty king’ vibes match the memoir perfectly.

-> user10: yesss, especially the part where she said he didn’t congratulate her after her first win. sounds EXACTLY like something nico would do.

user11: not enough people are talking about jenson. just because he was her teammate doesn’t mean he’s innocent. the whole ‘answer my texts’ thing was cute, but he’s a smooth talker.

-> user12: nah, yn always spoke highly of jenson. he had her back when mclaren was treating her like a sex toy. i’m ruling him out.

user13: so we’re all just ignoring that fernando spent YEARS shading her in press conferences? india ‘13 is permanently engraved in my brain.

-> user18: can’t lie, if it’s fernando, i’ll be disappointed but not surprised. his 2013 energy was… a lot.

user14: honestly, they’re all acting sketchy. the sudden love bomb of support is too much. one of you is x and we will find out.

user15: plot twist: what if x isn’t even one of the obvious names? imagine it’s someone random like felipe massa lmao.

-> user16: watch it not even be one of the main suspects and we’ve been dragging the wrong guy this whole time 💀

user18: it’s giving ‘we need to get ahead of the narrative’ vibes, and i’m here for the chaos.

-> user19: everyone’s pr team is in OVERDRIVE rn lmfaoooo

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

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