You Cannot Find Piece By Avoiding Life

Having always desired love, she was active on dating websites and apps before her relationship with Spencer began. Work always came first, but she really wanted someone to support and for them to support her: a life partner. She was doubtful that these apps would help her find her person, but she had heard enough success stories to give it a try.

She went on a handful of mundane dates. They were so unremarkable that they started to blur together in her memories. There was only one man she agreed to see for a second date, and she wasn’t even sure why she did. He wasn’t particularly riveting; he talked about himself the entire time, and he didn’t ask her any questions about herself. He was a little too confident, bordering on arrogance. Confusingly, she left the date more perplexed about who he was than she felt when she was just messaging him. He talked a lot about his work, something in the tech industry, but was vague about the specific details. “Security reasons,” he said. It was an understandable excuse, one that she had used in reference to her own job before.

Something about him intrigued her, though. She hoped that he was just nervous for their first date and that he would be more charismatic and open during the second one. Trusting her gut, she figured there was a reason he was the only date that lingered in her mind. 

Their second date went much like the first. He paid slightly more attention to the details she shared about her life, but he still didn’t make any inquiries. Every fact she shared was followed by a sharp nod that reminded her of a job interview. It was like he was filing it all away for later. She chose to interpret it as hopefulness for a future with her.

The drive home was uncomfortable. He blared bizarre music and kept a hand unsettlingly high on her thigh. Driving a sports car, he sped and drove aggressively, thinking it would impress her. By the time they pulled into her lot, her stomach felt like she had just gotten off a wooden roller coaster.

When she pushed the door open, he attempted to invite himself inside for ‘coffee’, but was clearly insinuating he was interested in other activities with her. She made an excuse that she was tired and had to be at work early in the morning, and he surprisingly took it well. “Good luck at your new job.” So he was listening to me, she thought. “I had a nice time tonight.”

Thanking him and agreeing out of courtesy, she waved goodbye and made her way inside. Feeling genuinely tired and eager for her first day with the BAU, she immediately got ready for sleep and collapsed onto her bed. She didn’t look out her window, or she would've seen that his car remained in the parking lot for an additional thirty minutes after dropping her off.

A year later, she and Spencer have been seeing each other in secret for six months. Not out of embarrassment or shame, but out of pragmatism. Keeping their relationship private felt like the responsible choice, one that would protect the BAU as a whole. Just in case things ended poorly, they wanted to prevent unnecessary tension and drama at the job they valued so much. The work had brought them together, after all, and they were both fiercely passionate and protective over it.

Her dating app era is long behind her; she barely even thinks about it anymore. When she does, she laughs at herself for thinking it was a reliable way to find her forever person. Yes, she knew some people who had found fulfilling relationships that way, but ultimately, they were the exception, not the rule, for online dating.

Evan, the one man she saw twice, continued to message her for three weeks following their last date. As nice as it was to be sought-after, as time passed, all she remembered was how uneasy she felt around him. Ultimately, she texted him that she wasn’t really in a place for anything right now, that she needed to focus on herself and her new job, and thanked him for the dates. She added that she was sure he’d find someone great who’d be a better fit for him, then she went on with her life.

She skimmed his response, “Understood. That’s admirable of you. Hope to see you around,” while she was standing on the front lawn of a random house in Wisconsin, investigating a crime scene.

Before she could think anything of the message, Spencer approached her from behind, “So, what do you think about the victim’s husband?” which startled her, making her heart lurch in her chest.

She turned to face him with a hand on her sternum, “Jeez, you scared me, Dr. Reid!”

His eyebrows furrowed in concern and atonement, “I’m sorry, Agent.” Eyes following her phone as she put it back in her pocket, wondering if something was going on. He brushed it off as her being distracted and immersed in whatever she was looking at, and led her into the house. 

He didn’t particularly care about her thoughts regarding the victim’s husband. Wait, that sounds bad. He absolutely was interested in her thoughts and opinions, but he mostly just wanted to talk to her; he was mostly interested in her. She had already impressed him with her professional insights.

After that, Spencer noticed that she got progressively jumpier and warier. The job is hard on everyone, especially at first, so he figured she was having trouble leaving the work at work. When exhaustion was prevalent under her eyes, he assumed the cases were visiting her in the middle of the night. When they started going on dates, her head was on a swivel no matter where they went. He felt inadequate because he wasn’t bringing her the same peace she brought him. 

One night, he was walking her home, and she pointed out a dark car that was driving past them. “I don’t know how common that make and model is, but I swear I see it everywhere these days.”

Sharing the statistical commonality of people near D.C. who drove Toyota Tundras, he hoped that would subdue her worries. She nodded and laughed it off, “You’re right, it’s probably just a coincidence.”

As her relationship with Spencer progressed, her paranoia only increased. She told herself she was just anxious about keeping their romance private. 

When she would come home after work and see her book on the coffee table instead of on her nightstand, where she could’ve sworn she left it, she chalks it up to being tired and misremembering. Same for when she went to open her blinds one morning and saw the slats were tilted in the opposite direction that’s recommended for privacy, she must’ve not paid close enough attention the night before. 

When her phone started playing a weird song on its own, she thought about how right Spencer is about technology being unreliable. Same for when a text from Spencer got marked as read without her ever opening it.

She asks Spencer if he went by her apartment when she smells a distinct masculine cologne. He tells her no and asks her why, but she’s afraid of sounding crazy, so she brushes him off.

She asks him if he took a picture on her phone –a dark, blurry thing where nothing can be deciphered– and he tells her no. They both attribute it to being an accidental photo she must have taken.

He starts getting scared when she tells him she’s been so forgetful lately, his mind barraged with memories of his mother’s bad days. Then, he feels guilty for projecting Diana’s illness onto her. To make up for it, he reassures her that she’s still adjusting to the BAU and gently suggests that she prioritize her sleep.

This is when she starts to sleep over at Spencer’s apartment more consistently. Instead of driving her home in the earliest hours of the morning, he encourages her to just spend the night. That way, she can get more hours of rest. They both notice her decreased stress levels on the days following a sleepover. 

At first, she would borrow something of his to sleep in and would stop by her apartment before work to change, not wanting to draw attention to herself by wearing the same clothes two days in a row. Soon, Spencer cleared a drawer and a section of his closet for her. It was only practical, he said. So she could sleep an extra thirty minutes in the mornings.

Her most frequented coffee shop becomes the one around the corner from his apartment. She’s texting him, see you at home <3 messages. The takeout apps on her phone have all defaulted to his address instead of hers.

One morning, she and Spencer walk out of his building, gloved hands intertwined. They’re laughing and leaning into each other's bodies, the cold air causing their breath to tangle. Spencer opens her car door for her and leans down to give her a tender kiss before she climbs in. She immediately turns the key in the ignition to get the heat blasting in the car.

“See you soon,” he tells her, before softly shutting her door for her. After drawing a little heart on the frosted glass window, he adorably waves, then turns to head to his own car.

She hears the little beep beep of his horn as he drives past her, and she honks hers back, smiling at his unintentional charm. This has become their morning routine; they offset their arrival and departures from work to avoid attracting attention. 

Fiddling with her radio and heat controls, she doesn’t notice a dark truck pull in right behind her, perpendicular to her car, blocking her in. As she sets her hand on the gearshift to reverse, she glances up to her rearview mirror and spots the vehicle. 

“Are you kidding me…” She mutters, annoyed that someone would park their car in the middle of the parking lot like this. Maybe they just pulled over to look up directions real quick? she thinks.

As the minutes tick by, she gets more and more worried about being late for work, so she pops open her door to step out and see what’s going on. As she stands and turns to approach the vehicle, she sees a man standing by her back tire; the sight of him makes her jump – she didn’t even see him step out of his snow-covered truck.

She recognizes him from somewhere, but she can’t quite put her finger on it. The hood of his jacket is falling slightly over his eyes, and his mouth is pressed into a firm, straight line.

“Wait, Evan? Is that you?” She feels slightly relieved that she won’t have to converse with a total stranger.

He doesn’t respond, but he takes a few steps toward her.

“Um, you’re kind of blocking me in? And I have to be at work in twenty minutes.”

Still, no response.

As he steps closer and closer to her, she gets more and more frantic. She tries to step backward, but her back collides with her open door, and he’s too close for her to sidestep him. Her breathing and heart rate increase with each passing second.

Just as she looks down and sees a rag in his gloved hand, he’s bringing it up to her face and wrapping his other arm around her body. The last thing she remembers is the sound of her own muffled screaming and her flailing legs attempting to kick him away.

Spencer walks through the glass doors of the BAU with a faint smile on his face, something that has become a norm for him as she’s been spending more and more nights at his apartment. He wants to tell her that he loves her soon, has wanted to for a while, but he’s unsure about when to do it. It should be special and romantic, that’s what she deserves.

He follows his exact routine as he settles into his desk to work. Follows the worn carpet path to his corner of the bullpen, drapes his satchel and coat over the back of his chair, turns on the computer monitor, then makes his way to the break room for coffee. After pouring two cups, one for him and one for her, he sets hers on her desk and drops into his seat. Any second now, she’ll step into the office.

His head perks up at each ding of the elevator and at each whoosh of the doors opening, a crease deepening between his eyebrows when none of them precede her arrival. She should be here by now. Maybe she got stuck in traffic? Or got unlucky with red lights?

“Where’s your girl?” Derek cheekily asks.

Spencer shrugs and tilts his head downward to hide the flush on his cheeks caused by his teasing. Everyone knows that they have a strong friendship, and Derek likes to make light of Spencer’s crush on her.

“She’s not my– She must be running late.”

Derek hums and shrugs in response before heading off to badger Penelope.

Spencer opens a manila folder and attempts to immerse himself in it, but as the minutes tick by, he grows increasingly confused. He sends her a text: Are you okay? and curses himself for not upgrading his phone to one that shows whether the message was delivered.

Ten minutes pass before he tries to call her. It goes straight to voicemail.

That sends a jolt to his heart. That’s never happened before. Even if she’s busy, she’ll pick up and quickly tell him so. He can’t even enjoy the sound of her voice saying I can’t come to the phone right now…

He mentally replays the memory of walking her to her car less than an hour ago. It didn’t sound like anything was wrong with it when she cranked the engine. Soft snowflakes descended around them, getting caught in her hair and eyelashes. A few people were sitting in their snow-covered parked vehicles, waiting for them to heat up: a couple of sedans, an SUV, a truck. He thinks about the heart he drew on her window – his indirect way of telling her he loves her.

Shaking his head at himself, he focuses his gaze on his computer screen. She’ll be here any minute.

Ten more minutes pass.

“She still not here?” Derek comes back to Spencer’s desk.

He shakes his head, no.

Derek frowns. “That’s not like her.” 

“No, it’s not.” Spencer agrees, before picking up his phone again to call her … again.

Straight to voicemail. I can’t come to the … is as far as he listens to before he hangs up.

“No answer?” Derek inquires.

Spencer shook his head again.

“Must be some really bad traffic on 95, maybe a pile-up?” 

Spencer sends him an incredulous look, “Don’t say that. I don’t want to think about her in a pile-up on the Interstate.”

“I didn’t mean–”

“I know you didn’t, but still.”

“Right, sorry, man…” Derek walks away again, this time to his desk.

Rubbing at his temples, Spencer glances over at the mug of coffee he left on her desk thirty minutes ago. There’s no more steam curling out the top of it.

He sees Hotch and JJ pass by, and hears the former query, “...And how late is she?”

Spencer picks up his phone again, presses the number 3 for speed dial, I can’t come– 

He hangs up and dials again, I can’t–

One more time, he thinks. I ca–

Slamming his flip-phone shut, he bolts up from his chair, beelining for Penelope’s office. He trips twice and completely ignores Emily’s “Whoa, where’s the fire?”

He pushes Penelope’s door open without knocking, startling her and causing her to choke on her Chobani.

“Knocking is not only appreciated, but enc–”

“You need to track her phone.” He spits out.

“What? Who? Why?” She stammers. Asking who was unnecessary, she just feels frazzled by Spencer’s intensity.

“Now!” He demanded, while gesturing toward the computer.

Penelope jolts at his raised voice; he’s never spoken to her that way before. Spinning in her chair, she types as fast as she can with Spencer looming over her shoulder.

“Okay, her last ping was…” She trails off.

“Was?” He insists.

“By your apartment. 6:37 am.” She slowly looks up at him.

Spencer’s heart drops into his stomach. “That was almost an hour and a half ago.”

“Yes.” She nods.

“Well, find something more recent!” He squeaks.

“Spencer, you know that I can’t. I can hack into any nearby cameras, but it’ll take me a second.”

He turns to head back through the door, “I’m going to find her,” then runs back to his desk. Grabbing his bag and hastily tossing it over his shoulder, he makes it halfway to the glass doors before Hotch steps in front of him.

“Reid, where are you going?”

With eyes wide and full of terror, “I need to find her– Something’s wrong– I’ll call once I get there.” He shoulders past his boss and sprints to the stairwell. Waiting for the elevator would be a waste of time.

When he gets to his car, his heart is pounding, his eyes are glistening, and his hands tremble as he tries to shove his keys in the ignition.

“Reid!” Derek shouts, jogging up to his car. “You can’t drive like this, let me take you.”

Spencer reluctantly agrees and stumbles out of the car. 

The two men scurry to Derek’s car and ride together in silence. Spencer’s leg is bouncing on its own accord, and he tries to call her two more times. He knows his attempts are in vain since her phone has been off for over an hour, but he can’t stop himself from trying. It’s a compulsion.

Finally, Derek breaks the silence, “So… what was she doing at your place at six am?”

Spencer blurts, “She slept over.”

“Hm,” Derek hums inquisitively, “Does she do that often?”

“Sometimes… Yes.” Spencer falters.

Derek hesitates, sensing that there’s more going on here, but not knowing how to approach it with Spencer so on edge. “We all want her to be okay, you know? She’s a friend to all of us.”

“Mhm,” Spencer half-heartedly agrees, perking up in his seat as his apartment building comes into view.

Her car is still parked in the lot. Derek asks, “Is that her–” 

“Yes.” Spencer feels like he might throw up.

As Derek pulls into a space a few spots over, Spencer unlocks his door and has his feet on the pavement before they’ve come to a complete stop.

Derek calls after him, “Jesus– Reid!” But Spencer is already circling her car, taking in the scene like the profiler he is, relying entirely on instinct. A choked sob falls out of his mouth when he sees her phone – completely smashed – on the ground next to her door. He’s clenching his hands by his sides to stop himself from picking it up, knowing that this is a crime scene that can’t be tampered with. He wants to pick it up, to try to turn it on, even though it’s futile. 

The driver-side door is wide open, her keys are still in the ignition, and the radio is softly playing top hits. There are overlapping footprints in the slush adjacent to her car. Spencer recognizes some of them as his own.

He lowers himself to the curb and drops his head in his hands. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t see–

“Spencer! Look at me!” Derek is crouching in front of him and grips his forearm. Spencer lifts his head, keeping his fingers over his mouth. Germs are the absolute last thing on his mind at the moment.

“We need you to pull yourself together. She needs you to pull yourself together.” He asserts.

Spencer nods, but the words sound muffled underneath his pounding heartbeat and scattered breathing. 

“Breathe, man, in and out.” Derek tries to guide him, but his breaths are choppy and uneven. It feels like he can’t get air to the bottom of his lungs.

“Good, keep trying. Hotch is on his way, okay?”

Spencer’s pretty sure he nods again, but he’s not positive. When Hotch arrives, he’s going to have to tell his boss that two of his agents have been seeing each other for half the year. This was never something he was supposed to do alone; they had planned on informing the team together. He hopes that she’ll understand the circumstances and won’t feel betrayed by him telling everyone without her. That is, if she’s still–

No, don’t think like that.

As Hotch’s dark SUV pulls into the parking lot, Spencer rises from the curb, brushing dirt and gravel off his slacks with trembling hands. Derek remains by his side, close, but not too close to crowd him. 

Hotch barely looks at Spencer as he steps out of the vehicle. JJ and Emily clamber out of the backseat and follow his trail. Eyes flicking over the scene with practiced precision, his expression remains flat as he dials Penelope.

“What’s the progress on that security footage?”

Spencer can just barely hear the tinny sound of her voice, but he can’t make out any of the words she’s saying. 

“We need to get in those cameras, Garcia.” He orders sternly. Spencer slowly approaches, needing to be informed. Derek was right; he needs to be here for her. Hotch hesitates before putting the call on speaker.

“--so somehow they’re all offline. Like every single one on that side of the building. I’m working on the closest traffic camera, now.”

“What do you mean they’re offline?” Spencer inquired.

“The last available footage I can grab is from yesterday at four pm. Someone must have disabled the feed.”

Spencer goes still. “So, this was planned.”

“Seems like it, this definitely wasn’t a crime of opportunity – it was organized,” Emily states.

“She was targeted,” JJ whispers. 

Spencer bolts to a line of bushes that border the building, keels over them, and dry heaves. He feels dizzy, like a tornado is tearing through his brain. His meticulous organizational system has been ripped to shreds. The file cabinets have been turned over and emptied, papers flying everywhere. Fragments dart in front of his eyes, an amalgamation of profiling facts and memories with her. 

“Spencer?” Emily approaches him from behind, placing a hand on his back.

He appreciates the sentiment of her touch, he really does, but it acts as an overcurrent to his buzzing veins. Shaking her off of him, he storms back over to Hotch.

“What did she find?” He demands, crossing his arms over his chest, digging his nails into his bicep.

Penelope’s voice crackles through the phone, “I’m pulling the footage from the traffic camera a mile east, but the quality is really low, and the snow isn’t helping. The lens is partially obstructed, and each car is coated. As much as I love things that sparkle, this–”

“Penelope,” Spencer warns her.

“Right, yes, I’m sorry… I’m parsing through the footage with a fine-tooth comb, I promise. It doesn’t help that it’s rush hour, there are hundreds of cars passing through between five am and seven am, and I don’t really know what I’m looking for… ” Penelope fretted.

“Spencer, would anyone want to do this to her?” JJ gently asks.

“No!” He attested, “She’s the best person I know. Nobody would ever want to hurt her.” His voice shrinks as he continued.

“Has she mentioned anything strange occurring lately? Anything at all?” Emily openly implores the team.

Spencer is suddenly overrun with memories of his girlfriend’s anxiety over the last year. The seemingly small moments that they both pushed aside and blamed on the stress of her accommodating life in the BAU. Her strange questions, her exhaustion, her skittish behavior, all flash before his eyes in a supercut. He thought that period of her life was over – she had become progressively calm and relaxed with each night she spent in his bed. 

His heart aches as he replays the memory of that morning. The way her laugh rang in his ears, the weight of her body against his, the brush of her lips. I should have kissed her longer, deeper, better. I should have told her that I love her when it first crossed my mind. I shouldn’t have let her laugh off and avoid the things that were bothering her. I should have been a better boyfriend.

With furrowed brows, he recounts her moments of ostensible paranoia. Looking backwards, he recounts what he knows. Her forgetfulness – joking that she was so scatterbrained lately. The things she thought he was doing, like taking random photos on her phone and visiting her apartment when she wasn’t there. Complaining about items of hers going missing – books, clothes, a journal. “I keep getting these emails about someone trying to log into my social media accounts.” They both thought her thermostat was broken with the way it seemed to change temperature on its own. 

The truck.

“A Toyota Tundra. Dark. Gray or Black.” Spencer lamented with a face as pale as a ghost. 

“Okay, that definitely narrows it down…” Penelope’s voice fades away as he re-enters his mind. 

He tries to pinpoint when her jumpiness began, and finds himself on the grass lawn in Wisconsin. It pains him to think about how he knew something was wrong, but didn’t want to be intrusive by asking. They hadn’t even known each other for a month at that point; how was he supposed to inquire about what was on her phone?

“...and then it turns on Old Triangle, but there’s a half-mile section on that road without any cameras, so that’s where I lose it.” Penelope deplores.

Spencer yanks at his hair, “We’re losing time, Garcia, you need to find it!” 

“I know! I know! I’m sorry!” She fretted, high-pitched and full of stress.

“Reid, take a walk.” Hotch orders.

“What? No!” 

“Unless you have any more information to detail, take a lap and calm down.” His boss looks at him expectantly, like he’s aware of more than he’s letting on.

Spencer swallows –hard– and glances around at his team. They’re all looking at him anticipatorily. 

The longer his silence stretches, and his feet remain glued to the pavement, the team begin meeting each other’s eyes with confusion. 

“Reid?” Derek probes.

He deeply sighs and closes his eyes, “Penelope?”

His heart is hammering against his ribcage.

“Yes?” Her voice is timid and small. 

“Can you find her text records?”

“I– I mean, of course I can, it does feel a little wrong and invasive–”

“February 7th of last year, I think she was messaging someone who made her uncomfortable.” His team gives him stunned looks at how long ago that date was.

“O– Okay, on it. It’ll take me a moment to parse through almost a year of messages–” They can hear her frantic typing through the speakerphone.

“Just do it – quickly,” Spencer feels guilty for how abrasive he’s being to her, so he adds on a, “Please.”

This is worse than just telling his friends what’s been going on between him and the newest agent. Penelope is scrolling through all of his girlfriend’s personal messages, including the ones between him and her. Texts littered with heart emojis. Texts that they sent to each other in the middle of the workday. Suggestive messages that nobody else should ever be privy to.

He can’t just stand there and wait for Penelope to find the needed information, so he announces, “I’m going to take that walk now. Call me when she finds out who it was,” without making any eye contact.

Turning on his heel, he starts trudging across the parking lot. His weary steps are not due to the thin layer of snow covering the asphalt, but to the deep remorse he’s carrying on his shoulders. She knew something was wrong. 

JJ watches his back as he walks, hands deep in his pockets. “Spencer, wait!”

He halts, but doesn’t turn around. As she meets his side, he begins plodding again.

“Hey, that’s really good that you remembered her behavior that day, I mean, of course you did, but it’ll definitely help us find her.”

“I hope so.” He mutters.

“We barely knew her then, so I definitely didn’t notice anything was wrong.”

Spencer doesn’t reply.

“There was a moment there where I was worried about her, though. She seemed a little stressed, but I figured she was still acclimating to the job.”

“I did too.” He says, irritatedly. 

He can feel her concerned gaze on the side of his face. “You don’t think someone’s been watching her that whole time, do you? Surely one of us would’ve noticed–” 

“Is this supposed to be helpful, JJ? Because it’s not.” He stops walking and turns to face her. “I’ve spent the last two hours realizing that the woman I love was being stalked, and I explained away every single warning sign. So unless you have something productive to say about the case, please, just leave me alone.”

Her jaw falls open at his admission, and she flinches at his acerbic tone. “Spencer, I–”

She’s interrupted by Derek jogging towards them, “We have an address, let’s go!”

1.5 hours ago

Her eyes flutter open, and she immediately emits a muffled, pained groan. Head pounding, lips and throat adjacent to sandpaper, she can’t move her arms or legs. There’s duct tape stuck to her mouth, holding it closed. With a stiff neck, she looks around the room. Dark gray brick walls. A singular light bulb sways above her head. On one side of her, the wall is lined with utility shelves, and the other contains a wooden staircase.

As her tired eyes continue darting around the room, they eventually land on her own body. She’s been changed into a dress, one that used to reside in her closet. The same one she wore on her first date with Evan. She can feel that she’s barefoot; her ankles are secured to the chair legs with more tape. Her arms are bound behind the chair, also with tape around her wrists.

As she takes in the inventory of her surroundings, her pulse rises higher and higher. Trying to break out of the constraints is futile – the tape is too strong, and she’s too weak. She tries to scream, but it’s stifled by the seal on her mouth. 

For a moment, the only sounds in her ears are her own shaken breathing, her pounding heartbeat, and the squeak of the light swinging. 

Then, she hears a creak above her. The floorboards shift underneath someone’s weight. His weight. She writhes around in her chair and yanks on the restraints, but her attempts are futile. Her breathing becomes more and more erratic as he gets closer and closer to the basement door.

The doorknob at the top of the stairs turns; she can barely hear it, then the door swings open. Light from the house upstairs floods through the door, obstructed by Evan’s body standing in the doorway. Whimpering as he descends the stairs, she continues her attempts to separate her taped extremities.

Holding a glass of water, he approaches her calmly, “Oh, good, you’re awake.”

He crouches in front of her as she jerks and thrashes in the chair, scraping the legs on the floor. 

“Hey, don’t do that.” He scolds her softly. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

She looks at him incredulously and attempts to yell at him through the tape, but it’s muffled and useless.

He winces as if he’s seeing the bindings for the first time, “I didn’t want to have to use the tape, I’m sorry… You were just so defiant in the parking lot, I had to!”

His gaze falls to the rapid rising and falling of her chest, exposed by the low-cut dress he’s put her in. Tears well in her eyes as he licks his lips while staring.

Returning his ogling to her face, “Don’t cry…” he reaches to swipe a tear from her cheek. As she turns her face to avoid his touch, he grips her jaw, “Now, don’t be like that. You’re being ungrateful. I saved you.”

Looking at him bewilderedly, she attempts to scream through the tape again while shaking her head in his hold.

Tsking at her, “Once you calm down, you’ll see that this is better for you. That man –Doctor Reid– wasn’t right for you.”

“I was going to give you this water, but you clearly aren’t ready for me to remove the tape.” He rises from his crouched position. “I’ll be back.”

After setting the glass of water on the floor next to her feet, he turns and begins ascending the stairs. He turns around to look at her as he reaches the top, “Oh, and you could use some rest. That’s what the Doctor recommended, right?”

He flicks off the light and laughs at her protesting screams, before slamming the door.

More tears descend her face as she attempts to make out shapes in the complete darkness. Blinking repeatedly, she hopes it’ll help her eyes adjust to the lack of light, but it’s a pointless effort. 

The pain from the tape stretching her skin seems to be intensified in the dark. She’s hyperaware of the cold concrete under her feet and the stiff metal of the chair under her body. The dress is too tight, and it scratches her skin with every inhale. 

Her eyes keep attempting to find shapes in the dark. In the instinctive way that’s innately learned in infancy, impossible to suppress. She can’t stop it, and it gets worse each time she blinks. It’s so dark, she questions if the color she’s blanketed in is actually black. 

Squeezing her eyes shut exacerbates the confusion. She squeezes them until she sees stars, then opens them, hoping to find a change in the room. In return, she’s met with static. 

Sound becomes her only proof that she’s still where he left her. Every so often, the house pops as it settles. Vaguely, she can make out the scuffle of Evan’s feet through the floor above her. 

Her heartbeat thuds in her eardrum, and her choppy breaths create a cacophony of terror.

She tries to shift her chair to find the glass of water, not that she has any way to pick it up, but as a reference point for her orientation. More tears and pained groans escape her as she attempts to move. Any adrenaline that was coursing through her when she first woke up has completely worn off and left her bare and exposed. Her foot knocks the glass over, shattering it and sending shards all over the floor. With no way of knowing where the pieces are, the ball of her foot lands on a fragment.

In an attempt to soothe her ragged throat, she tries to swallow, but her mouth is too dry to do so. Striving to generate spit is useless; she’s too dehydrated, and it only strains the tape on her mouth.

There’s no way of knowing how much time has passed. It could’ve been minutes or hours since he encompassed her in darkness.

Thinking about Spencer is bittersweet. She tries to calm herself by recalling their shared memories, but so many of them have been tainted by the knowledge that Evan was watching them the entire time. She misses him. She wants to go home – the shared home they’ve made in his apartment. She hopes he’s not too scared by her disappearance. 

In place of recounting memories, she imagines a new one. One where they’d leave work, waving goodnight to their team, with his hand on the small of her back. He’d wrap an arm around her shoulders as they descended in the elevator, kissing her cheek as he pressed the ground floor button. Pulling her into his side, where she fits like a puzzle piece, he asks her what she wants for dinner. She does what she always does, shrugs, and smiles up at him with a “I don’t know…” that neither of them believes.

They climb into the same vehicle; he opens her door for her and kisses her sweetly as she settles in, before jogging around to the driver’s seat. Immediately after starting the engine, he intertwines his fingers with hers over her thigh. He even buckles himself in with one hand, so he doesn’t have to let her go.

With a CD playing that alternates between her favorite songs and his, he gazes over at her with that soft look in his eyes, knowingly saying, “Chinese?” She giggles and nods, pulling his arm even closer to her body and wrapping her other hand around it. She watches him as he reverses out of the parking space and takes in how the sun's setting rays highlight his hair with golden streaks. As he squeezes her hand and absentmindedly runs his thumb over her knuckles, she feels happy, safe, warm–

Her fantasy is interrupted by the creak of the basement door and the harsh cascade of light bleeding down the stairs. It’s so jarring that she has to close her eyes at the brightness. It burns.

She freezes as Evan descends the stairs this time. In fear of being left in the darkness again, she remains as still as possible.

He smiles at the change, “There she is.” 

She glances down at his hand and sees a fresh cup of water. Looking around the room, she wonders how he knew that she needed a new one. She doesn’t see any cameras. 

Pulling up a chair across from her, he settles into it, “I knew that would help you calm down. I know you so well.”

She remains immobile. 

He reaches toward her face, and her slight flinch is involuntary. “You’ll stay quiet if I take this off, won’t you?”

She eagerly nods. 

As he slowly peels the tape off, she whines in pain. Each atom within her skin stings sharply as it separates from the adhesive. It’s excruciating.

The first breath of air she takes in through her mouth feels like inhaling fire.

He lifts the glass to her lips, “Slowly, sweetheart.”

She chokes on the lukewarm water at the term of endearment that only Spencer has ever called her. It doesn’t belong here: in this room or coming out of his mouth. The water dribbles down her mouth, and his grubby fingers wipe it away.

“You’re where you belong now – with me.”

She slowly nods in feigned agreement. 

His tone is sickly sweet, “I’ll take care of you properly,” before quickly turning sour, “Unlike that pathetic excuse for a man you’ve been calling a boyfriend.” 

With tensed shoulders, “He’s a good man, Evan.”

He raises his voice, “He’ll never be as good as me!” and harshly places the cup of water on the floor next to him. “I have a better-paying job with more stability and safety! That’s what you want for your future children, right? A man who you can depend on? A man who isn’t ashamed of your relationship?”

“He’s not— We’re not ashamed.” She tries to maintain a soft and even tone with him. 

He doesn’t even acknowledge that she’s said anything, “I know everything about you! I know the first song you play when you get in the car. I know that you set five alarms each morning, but you’re always up by the third one. I know that you didn’t like those granola bars you bought last month…”

Her eyebrows crease in confusion. Obviously, he’s been watching her, but how does he know all of this?

“What? They were in your trash.” He says flatly with a wave of his hand. 

“I know that when you buy cookie dough, you tell yourself you’ll bake it, just to end up eating the entire package raw. I know that you sleep better with your thermostat 2 degrees lower than what you set it to. I know that you talk to yourself when you’re looking for something. That one floorboard near your bedroom creaks. You pace when you’re on the phone. You were worried about dating that man because he’s so kind, you don’t know how to handle it.”

Her eyes widen more and more with each fact he presents. A chill crawls up her spine. She can barely feel her fingers and toes, and it’s not due to the tape bindings.

He mistakes her horror for amazement and impressiveness. “See! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, and show you. I played our song on your phone, I took that picture, I fixed your thermostat every night.”

Her stomach churns, and bile rises in her throat.

“You kept ignoring me. I was just trying to show you how much I care.”

Feeling completely separate from her body, she hears the monotone sound of her own voice muttering, “I’m sorry.” With eyes glazed, she can’t make them focus. The basement is blurry and muted.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I made mistakes too… Remember that day in August? When you cried in your car for twenty minutes before going inside your apartment? I’m sorry that I didn’t come and comfort you.” He smiles sadly.

“It’s okay.” She whispers.

“I thought you knew I was helping you, though. Didn’t you see my truck all over town?”

“I- I thought you drove a Mustang?” She says dumbly.

“I got us a more practical vehicle so we could start our family.” He coos, before his expression twists,  “That clunker the Doctor drives isn’t suitable for children, you know that.”

Nausea swirls in her stomach. This man carries no shame or embarrassment for what he’s done. He genuinely thinks that he’s saving her from a life she didn’t want. That Spencer is the wrong man for her and that he’s the only right option. He thinks that he is an option, even after everything he’s done.

“Speaking of, we’ve wasted so much time, sweetheart. You only have two more days left of this month’s ovulation.” 

Her chest heaves, and her eyes widen at his implication. Shaking her head, she blurts, “No!”

Recoiling at her denial, “No?” His eyes darken, and he rises from his chair to hover over her, fists clenching at his sides.

Terrified of being left in the dark again, or worse, she pleads, “Shouldn’t we wait for that?”

“Wait for what?” He questions through clenched teeth.

She glances around frantically, trying to think of anything that could appease him. He wants commitment, permanence, “Um… until we’re married?”

His lips rise into a smile, and his shoulders relax. Shaking his head, he laughs, “That Doctor was right about one thing, you do have insightful ideas.”

Remaining stoic, she tries not to react to the mentions of Spencer. Evan doesn’t deserve to talk about him. 

Suddenly, a thud penetrates through the ceiling. She and Evan perk their heads upward to the source of the noise. 

“What was that?” She asks quietly.

He doesn’t respond. 

Rumbles span throughout the floor above them – footsteps. Pulse leaping, she turns her gaze to his expression. 

With a clenched jaw, he turns to her and spits out, “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” She insists while shaking her head profusely.

As the treading gets closer and closer to the basement door, he slowly approaches the bottom of the stairs.

The door bursts open, and Evan flinches at the intrusion.

A relieved smile graces her face at the sound of Derek’s voice, “FBI!”

Derek descends the stairs, gun-drawn, and Evan walks backward toward the wall. Like two planets in a solar system, they maintain a consistent gap between them.

“Evan Nelson! Don’t move!”

The rest of the team follows behind Derek, with Spencer descending the stairs last. They all have their guns pointed at Evan. Tears descend her cheeks, and her bottom lip trembles at the sight of her disheveled boyfriend. His clothes are uncharacteristically wrinkled, and his hair is a ruffled mess. She can tell he’s been running his fingers through it and pulling on it, and she hates when he hurts himself like that.

Evan’s about to be backed into the corner when he shifts his path and heads for her chair. Wrapping an arm around her chest, he yanks a knife from his pocket and holds it to her throat. 

Heart rate spiking, she keeps her eyes on Spencer as he slowly climbs down the stairs. His shoulders sag, and he sees the shape of her name leave his lips.

For the first time that day, Evan’s confident tone falters into one full of fear, “Back up! Don’t come any closer!” 

Derek’s voice remains a practiced calm, “We can’t do that, Evan. You need to put the knife down and let her go,” but she can hear a smidge of unease.

Evan only tightens his grip on her, and she can feel small droplets of blood trickle down her neck. She can’t look away from Spencer, no matter how painful it is to watch his reaction to the scene in front of him. Tears descend her and sting the wound he’s creating.

“If I can’t have her, no one can!”

Hotch speaks evenly, “Evan, you never had her. You only went on two dates with her.”

“She’s mine! She’s been mine for a year! I’ve had her longer than that little Doctor!” His voice echoes in the basement as his volume increases.

Spencer takes one step forward. Hotch warns him, “Reid, don’t.”

His eyes never leave her face as he speaks. He doesn’t look at Evan or the knife or anything other than her glistening, beautiful eyes. “Evan,” he forces his voice to remain even and controlled, “You don’t want to do this.”

Evan emits a sharp, choked laugh, “You don’t know what we want.”

Emily speaks up, “Evan, it’s over. Drop the knife and step away from her.”

“It’s not over until I say it’s over!” He increases the pressure of the blade, and a whimper escapes her. 

He leans down next to her ear, “Tell them that you want to be with me,” his chapped lips scrape her earlobe, making her shiver, “Then, maybe, I’ll put the knife down.”

She closes her eyes and whispers, “Okay.”

“Look at them while you say it.”

Shifting her eyes to Emily, she can’t look at Spencer while she says it, “I want to be with Evan.” Her breath hitches and her voice trembles.

“Good. Now tell him that you don’t love him.” He grips her jaw to force her to look at Spencer. “Tell him that I love you more than he ever could.”

She sobs brokenly and whispers, “Please, no.” 

His grip on her body tightens, “Do it!”

She takes a few deep breaths and lands her eyes on each member of her team, before they land on Spencer. They all know she has to say it if she wants to live, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. 

Spencer’s heart breaks as her eyes fill with grief and sorrow. “I… I don’t love you.” 

“And?” Evan prompts.

Her cheeks flood with even more tears, “Evan loves me more…” she hiccups, “...than you ever could.”

A singular teardrop falls from Spencer’s eye before he quickly brushes it away and re-orients his gun at Evan.

With a smirk, Evan slowly loosens his hold on her, dropping the knife to the floor, and raises his arms in surrender. Derek is on the man in a flash, twisting his arms behind his back and shoving him into the brick wall. 

She doesn’t feel real. She feels like a ghost as everything moves in slow motion around her. Faintly, she knows that Derek is yelling at Evan. In her periphery, he and Hotch escort him up the staircase. Emily and JJ cut her free of the duct tape, and one of them presses a cloth against her injured neck. Distantly, she knows that it hurts, but there’s a disconnect between her brain and her nerves. The women whisper kind things in her ear as they tend to her.

Spencer is frozen on the last step. The love of his life is bloody and bruised. His eyes flicker from her raw ankles to her wrists, to her neck, and to her tear-stained face. As the seconds pass, he feels foolish and deficient as he watches the scene.

A raspy, broken, “Spence?” breaks him out of his stupor. He’s drawn to her side like a bee to honey.  

His tears flow freely now, “I’m here, baby.” Afraid of hurting her, he doesn’t know if he can touch her. His hands hesitantly hover over her body. Emily remains on one side, maintaining pressure on her neck, and JJ pushes away the broken glass pieces around her feet with her boot. Is there any room for him? Will his presence just crowd and overwhelm her?

She makes the decision for him by collapsing against his body with a choked sob. 

“I’m so sorry– I didn’t want to say it– I’m so so sorry.”

“I know.” He consoles, immediately. Raising one hand to the back of her head and the other gently around her shoulders, he reassures her, “I know, sweetheart, it’s okay, I know.”

She was afraid of how it would make her feel to hear the term coming out of his lips after Evan tried to ruin it for her, but there was no need. Hearing it fills her with warmth and comfort. The world feels right again with Spencer by her side.

Eventually, Emily and JJ give them some privacy. Emily encourages her to keep the cloth on her neck before they ascend the staircase.

Clutching his shirt in her hands stings her sore wrists, but she doesn’t care. She needs him. 

He whispers in her ear, “I’m here, you’re okay now, I’m right here.”

They bawl in each other’s arms until medical personnel descend the staircase. As they arrive, she pulls back from his body and sees droplets of her smeared blood on the stomach of his shirt.

She mutters, “I got you dirty, I’m sorry,” as she looks up at him. 

He pulls her closer to him, “I’m not worried about that, don’t be sorry.”

Before the paramedics load her onto a stretcher, Spencer tugs off his cardigan to drape it over her exposed shoulders. As she pulls it against her body, he leans down and presses his lips to her forehead. 

Grabbing his hand, she pleads, “Please don’t go.”

He soothingly runs his thumb against her, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The one that happened when you were working.

He didn’t know what woke him that night. Maybe some distant noise outside. Maybe the need to use the bathroom. Or maybe that hollow, unpleasant feeling of the empty space beside him.

When he opened his eyes, the room was submerged in darkness. He turned his head toward the bedside clock and discovered it was already quite late.

He let out a tired sigh before sitting up. He rubbed his face with one hand and searched for his slippers by touch. The thin line of light slipping beneath the door told him exactly where you were.

He found you in the same position he had left you in hours earlier; sitting in front of the computer, surrounded by papers, your attention fixed on a task that apparently still wasn’t finished.

When he had gone to bed, you had promised him you would finish soon and come back.

“Five more minutes,” you had said.

Clearly, those five minutes had already expired.

“Why are you still here?”

His voice, rough with sleep, made you jump slightly.

You looked up, and a guilty expression crossed your face.

“Sorry, sweetheart, it’s just... I haven’t been able to finish this. Five more minutes, okay?”

Spencer closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before nodding. He was still struggling to stay awake, but he crossed the room anyway.

Without saying anything, he headed to the bathroom and took care of his business.

You assumed that after hearing the toilet flush, the next thing would be his footsteps returning to the bedroom. That was why it surprised you to see him appear in the dining room again. And even more when he sat down across from you.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ll wait here. Five minutes.”

An incredulous smile appeared on your face. At first, you thought he was joking.

But then you met his gaze. Serious, determined, and just a little sleepy.

You frowned slightly.

“Love, go to sleep. I’ll be there in a moment.”

“I’ll wait,” he insisted.

He rested one arm on the table and let his cheek fall into the palm of his hand.

“Besides, I can’t sleep when you’re not there.”

You watched him for several seconds over the top of your screen. At that point, it was impossible to focus completely on your work when Spencer was sitting across from you, making such an obvious effort to stay awake.

He blinked more slowly than usual and, every so often, his eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment before settling back on you. His hair was messy from the pillow, and the marks of sleep were still visible on his face. He looked exhausted. Completely exhausted.

Guilt slowly began to settle in your chest.

“Spencer...”

“Hm?”

His response came a few seconds later, distracted and sleepy.

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

“You know I don’t want to be here.”

He lifted his eyes to meet yours.

“I know.”

“I’d rather be sleeping with you.”

“I know that too.”

You sighed and looked back at the screen. The document was still there, unfinished and urgent, waiting for you with the same indifference it had shown all night.

“But I need to finish this.”

“I know.”

The ease with which he answered drew a brief, tired laugh from you.

Because, of course, Spencer understood.

He understood deadlines. Responsibilities. The anxiety that came from leaving something unfinished, knowing it would continue taking up space in your head until it was done. He himself had spent countless nights awake, chasing a lead, reviewing reports, or analyzing the details of a case long after any reasonable person would have gone to bed.

“I’m not staying because I think you should leave it unfinished,” he said after a moment, with that characteristic calm that always managed to disarm you. “I just want to keep you company.”

You felt something tighten inside your chest. And looking up again was a mistake, because only seconds later you saw his head droop.

It was subtle. Such a brief movement that someone else might not have noticed it at all. His head dipped forward slightly, and his eyelids closed for a second before he quickly opened them again, as if hoping no one had seen.

“Spencer...”

“I’m awake.”

The denial would have been much more convincing if it hadn’t been accompanied by a yawn.

“Sweetheart, it’s past two in the morning.”

“And you’re still working.”

“Exactly. That’s my problem, not yours.”

“Your problems will always be my problems.”

The response was immediate, almost as if he had been waiting to say it.

“Please go to bed,” you murmured.

“In five minutes.”

You stared at him, unable to believe he was using your own tactics against you. He gave you a small, sleepy, faintly triumphant smile in return.

You tried to return to work after that conversation. For several minutes, you forced yourself to focus on the screen, reviewing documents and correcting details that, at that hour of the night, were beginning to seem increasingly confusing. Yet your attention inevitably drifted back to Spencer.

Not even a quarter of an hour had passed before, with a sigh, you pushed your chair back and stood up.

Spencer lifted his head when he heard you approaching, and a small smile appeared on his tired face.

“Finished?”

“Not yet.”

Before he could answer, you stepped between his legs. His hands found your waist almost immediately, as though the gesture was so natural he didn’t need to think about it. You rested your hands on his shoulders and closely observed the unmistakable signs of exhaustion on his face: the messy hair, the heavy eyelids, and that sleepy expression you rarely saw during the day. He was still wearing a gray pajama shirt and flannel pants.

“Hi,” he murmured.

“Hi.”

You leaned down to kiss him. It was a brief kiss at first, barely a loving brush of lips, but when you pulled away only slightly to look at him, Spencer leaned in again. Smiling, you gave him another kiss, slower this time. You felt his arms wrap around you with something close to relief.

They remained like that for several moments, enjoying the silent closeness both of you needed more than either was willing to admit.

“You know...?”

An amused smile appeared on your face before you had even finished forming the thought.

“If I didn’t know you so well, I’d say you’re a pretty manipulative boyfriend.”

Spencer let out a short laugh and shook his head.

“It’s not manipulation.”

“Yes, it is. You sit here, half asleep, refusing to go to bed so I’ll feel guilty.”

“I’m not staying so you’ll feel guilty.”

His tone was gentle, but sincere. The amusement slowly faded from his features as he looked up at you.

“I know you need to finish your work. I understand perfectly. If I were working a case and someone tried to make me leave it unfinished, I’d probably do exactly the same thing you’re doing.”

That drew a small smile from you because you knew it was true.

“Then why are you here?”

Spencer shrugged slightly.

“Because I want you to go to sleep.”

“Honey...”

“I mean it.”

His thumbs absentmindedly stroked your sides as he spoke.

“Tomorrow you’ll be exhausted, your head will hurt, and you’ll spend the entire day complaining that you should have gone to bed earlier.”

Your smile turned slightly sheepish.

“That’s happened once or twice.”

“It’s happened a lot more than twice.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t argue with him.

“I know you want to finish this tonight, but I also know you’ll feel a lot worse tomorrow if you’re still here three hours from now.”

For a moment, you simply watched him in silence. There was something deeply endearing about the way he said those things. They didn’t sound like criticism or impatience. Just concern.

When you saw him struggle against another yawn, whatever resistance remained in you finally crumbled.

“You win.”

Spencer blinked.

You leaned down to leave one last kiss on his lips before pulling away.

“I’ll shut down the computer and put all this away.”

“Good.”

“And then I’ll go to sleep with you.”

Spencer shook his head as he stood up and took your hand in both of his.

“Let’s go now. I’ll help you organize everything tomorrow.”

You knew that when your boyfriend got something into his head, there wasn’t a force on earth capable of changing his mind. So you simply closed your laptop and let him drag you toward the bedroom.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint light filtering through the curtains from the street outside. The moment he stepped through the door, Spencer kicked off his slippers and collapsed onto the mattress with a tired sigh. He seemed to have finally reached the limit of his energy. He settled beneath the sheets, rested his head on the pillow, and closed his eyes for a few seconds, as though the simple contact with the bed was enough to convince his body to surrender.

You, meanwhile, walked over to the closet to find something more comfortable to sleep in. As you changed, you couldn’t help glancing back at him from time to time. He was still awake, but barely.

One arm rested across his stomach, and his eyes were half-closed, fighting to stay conscious just to make sure you were actually going to bed.

The sight brought an involuntary smile to your face.

“You can fall asleep, you know.”

Spencer made an indistinct sound that could have been a response or simply a manifestation of pure exhaustion.

When you finished changing, you switched off the last light and walked over to the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as you settled beside him. You had barely rested your head on the pillow when Spencer moved toward you out of pure habit, still caught somewhere between wakefulness and sleep.

His arm found your waist and gently pulled you against him.

It was an automatic gesture. Familiar.

You let out a sigh as you settled beneath the sheets and rested your head against his chest. The warmth of his body, the steady sound of his breathing, and the calm rhythm of his heartbeat were infinitely more comforting than any unfinished work.

Spencer’s hand moved absentmindedly across your back in a slow caress before coming to a complete stop.

Normally, you could keep them at bay with simple stretches and some medication. This time, you realized that you'd done a number on your back during the fight.

Spencer took quick note of your posture during the flight home. You struggled to find a comfortable position, constantly trying to stretch your back or shoulder blades, seeking any form of relief from the pain. He knew how much you hated being put under a microscope, especially in front of the team, so he kept quiet until you arrived back to your shared apartment.

Walking in, you sighed as you kicked off your shoes, not caring how or where they landed on the floor as you bolted to the couch, flopping down on it. You were honestly too tired and in pain to care. Spencer chuckled in the background, and you could hear him set your shoes down on the shoe rack you had.

Your eyes, which had been previously shut, opened to see Spencer kneeling in front of you. "Hi, pretty girl." Spencer smiled at you, brushing some of your hair out of your face with a loving look gracing his features.

"Hi," you softly replied.

"You feeling alright?" Spencer now caressed your cheek with his thumb softly. "I noticed you stretching a lot on the jet."

With a small shake of your head, your lips fell into a soft pout. "I hurt my back, I think."

Spencer gently grabbed your arms and help you sit up. He carefully slid your coat down your arms with furrowed brows. "Did you get hit?"

"No," you answered, "I think I twisted my back wrong when I tried to jump in front of Kate. I think I felt it hurt then, but I had a lot of adrenaline."

"You were in flight-or-fight mode," Spencer nodded. "Now that you're safe and sound, you're gonna feel it more." His large hands slowly rubbed at your tense shoulders. He felt your body relax beneath his touch. "You want me to massage you a little, love?"

A sigh of contentment escaped your lips as his hands worked magic on your shoulders, "Please, Spence."

Spencer moved your body so you were laid down. He set a pillow beneath your head as you got yourself situated and comfortable.

Spencer had prepared for this moment for what felt like his whole life. You weren't dating when your first injury occurred, but after going out for a few dates, Spencer bought seven books, all on muscles in the back, massage techniques, and different pain relieving strategies all for this exact moment. You were careful with your injury, and Spencer trusted you, but he also understood that accidents and situations like these happen, especially in your shared line of work.

The sounds of your soft hums and sighs were a sign that Spencer was doing all the right things. You knew Spencer had magic fingers, but this was the best work they'd ever done. He worked out the kinks and aches in your back.

"Did you know that roses have been cultivated since ancient times, with evidence of their cultivation dating back to the Babylonians and the Egyptians around five-thousand years ago?" Spencer rambled, his voice quiet as he worked.

You loved Spencer's rambles, "Mm-mm." you hummed, "Why?"

"They were used for their fragrance and beauty. It lead to their association with the Egyption goddess, Hathor, and then to the Greek goddess Aphrodite, and so on." Spencer explained further.

Without warning, you turned over to look up a him. Spencer smiled down at you as you softly grabbed his neck, pulling him closer to press a kiss onto his lips.

"I love your brain," You commented with a smile, watching his face light up at the compliment.

"I'm not done yet, silly girl. Roll back over for me." Spencer chuckled.

Giggling, you rolled back onto your stomach as Spencer began to work into your back. You felt his hot breath over the back of your neck as he began to trail kisses downwards, down your spine. You shivered at the touch, smiling to yourself when he moved back up to press a gentle kiss onto your head.

"I don't think masseuses normally get this touchy," you joked.

Spencer shook his head, "They don't, but my client's just too pretty."

"Are you done yet?" You turned your head to look at him.

"Do you feel any better?" Spencer asked.

You sat up, moving your arms and gently twisting your back. "Mhm, thank you, baby."

"Then yes," Spencer smiled, "I'm all done. What's the rush?"

"I wanted to watch Doctor Who before we get too sleepy." You replied, then giving a soft roll to your eyes, "Or before we get called in again."

Spencer sighed, "Don't even say it. I don't think I can handle another case for at least two weeks." He took your hand as you leaned into him. He grabbed the remote and clicked the tv on. "But I'm never one to say no to Doctor Who and my girl."

"Thank you for helping," You lovingly said, snuggling into your boyfriend's chest.

“Uh-huh.” Morgan chuckles, swivelling toward JJ and Prentiss like a talk show host inviting audience participation. “Tell me I’m wrong. Between the two of us—genius boy and yours truly—who do you think gets lucky more often?”

But before anyone can answer, Reid clears his throat.

“That's an entirely misleading metric,” he says.

Morgan's grin widens. “Oh, is it?”

“Yes, actually.” Reid sets his pen down with a soft click, and the team recognizes the signs immediately: the slight straightening of his spine, the way his fingers begin to tap a staccato rhythm against the table, the subtle tilt of his head as he shifts into lecture mode. He's about to do the math out loud.

“First of all,” Reid begins, holding up a finger, “‘getting lucky’ is a subjective, self-reported measure, which introduces significant recall bias and social desirability bias. People overestimate. Significantly. By as much as forty percent in some studies.” Another finger goes up. “Secondly, you're comparing two data points—you and me—without controlling for variables like opportunity, environment, or personal standards. You have a tendency to equate quantity with quality, which is statistically unsound.”

Morgan groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Here we go.”

Reid ignores him entirely, already mid-stride into the argument. His voice picks up speed—not quite rambling, but close, the way it does when he's genuinely enjoying himself. “Let's say, hypothetically, you sleep with a different woman every week. Generous, but possible. However—” He holds up a finger, ticking off points like a professor during office hours. “—you've also mentioned, on multiple occasions, that you don't ‘mix work with play’ and that you need at least one night to decompress. That leaves Friday and Saturday as your only viable windows. So let's assume sexual encounters occur on Friday or Saturday night. That's roughly two opportunities per week—but even then, not every weekend yields a new partner. You have off weeks. You get sick. Sometimes,” he adds, with the faintest hint of smugness, “women say no.”

Morgan's smirk twitches. “Okay, first of all—”

Reid tilts his head, gaze going distant as he does the numbers behind his eyes. His fingers twitch like he's physically calculating in the air. You've seen him do this a hundred times—map a geographic profile, run a probability tree, recite the entire history of some obscure piece of trivia. 

“Accounting for statistical probability of rejection, scheduling conflicts, and the inherent inefficiencies of the modern casual dating landscape—which, by the way, is heavily skewed by algorithmic dating app fatigue—your actual frequency likely drops to one new partner every ten to fourteen days. Optimistically.”

JJ is already grinning, resting her chin on her hand like she's watching her favourite courtroom drama. “I feel like I should stop you both,” she says, “but I really want to hear where he's going with this.”

Prentiss leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “Oh, he's going somewhere. You can always tell when he does the head-tilt.”

Morgan points a finger at Reid, though his voice has lost its edge—there's genuine affection underneath the exasperation. “Alright, fine. Let's say I'm one every two weeks. What's your number, pretty boy? Hm? When's the last time you even—”

“That's not the point,” Reid interrupts, a little too quickly.

He presses on, gaining momentum now. His voice picks up that familiar, rapid-fire cadence—the one that makes unsubs' heads spin and makes the rest of the team feel like they're sitting in on a TED Talk they didn't buy tickets for. His fingers have resumed their tapping, faster now, keeping time with the race of his thoughts.

"Now, consider a person in a committed, cohabitating relationship. Let's establish a baseline: the average frequency of sexual activity for couples in the early stages of domestic partnership—say, the first two years—ranges from three to five times per week, depending on variables like work stress, health, and general compatibility. Let's take the conservative estimate: every other day."

Morgan opens his mouth—to argue, to deflect, you're not sure—but Reid holds up a finger without looking, and Morgan closes it again.

"Now," Reid continues, "multiply that over a four-week month. The partnered individual is engaging in sexual activity approximately twelve to sixteen times per month. The single person cycling through weekly encounters—assuming one new partner per week, which we've already established is an overestimate—is averaging four times per month."

Morgan crosses his arms, jaw tight. He's not offended—they all know him well enough to recognize the difference—but he's definitely recalibrating. "So you're saying—"

He delivers the final blow with clinical precision, but there's something softer lurking underneath. 

"And you're not even accounting for quality of experience, emotional investment, or—most importantly—long-term satisfaction metrics," Reid continues, his voice quieter now, less performative. "A single meaningful connection, maintained over time, statistically outperforms high-frequency, low-retention encounters in nearly every category of reported happiness. The Harvard Grant Study—one of the longest longitudinal studies on human development—found that the single strongest predictor of life satisfaction wasn't career success or financial security. It was the warmth and consistency of close relationships."

He pauses. Swallows. 

"So, really, the question isn't who ‘get’s lucky’ more." His voice drops, barely above a murmur now. Intimate, almost. Like he's forgotten anyone else is in the room. "It's who ‘get’s lucky’ enough."

For a beat, no one speaks.

Then Prentiss raises her coffee cup in a slow, deliberate toast. "I believe you just got murdered by math, Morgan."

The tension breaks—but not entirely. JJ snickers. Morgan rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head, but there's no heat in it. "Man, I just asked a simple question."

"You asked a misleading question," Reid corrects, but his voice has lost its sharpness. He's retreating back into himself, the way his shoulders curl inward slightly, the way his gaze drops to the case file again. Like he's said too much. 

Morgan blinks, his smirk frozen mid-spread. He holds up a hand like he's stopping traffic. "Hold on. Hold on." His eyes narrow, processing, replaying something in his head. "You're talking about you."

Reid's mouth opens, then closes. A faint flush creeps up his neck—not the blotchy, embarrassed red of someone caught in a lie, but something softer. Pinker. The colour of someone who hadn't meant to say as much as he just did. His hand drifts to the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture he doesn't even realize he has.

Prentiss leans forward, delighted, her elbows on her desk like she's settling in for a season finale. "Reid. Are you telling us you're in a serious, every-other-day relationship?"

"That's… not what I said." He adjusts his satchel strap, suddenly very interested in the grain of his desk. His fingers find the edge of a case file and straighten it unnecessarily. Then straighten it again. The file doesn't need straightening. Everyone knows it. No one says anything. "I was speaking hypothetically. Broad statistical trends. Aggregate data."

"Uh-huh." Morgan plants both hands on his desk and pushes up slightly. His grin is slow, dangerous, and utterly delighted. "You just compared yourself to me. Which means you're the one having sex every other day. With a girlfriend." He drags the word out like he's tasting it for the first time. 

JJ crosses her arms, mock-offended, though her eyes are warm. "Spencer Reid, how long has this been going on?"

Reid swallows. Hard. His gaze flickers to the window—not looking for an escape route, but for a moment of stillness. A place to land. When he looks back at the team, they see something they don't often get from him: not deflection, not a lecture, not a rapid-fire recitation of unrelated facts to change the subject.

Genuine, quiet vulnerability.

"Several months," he admits, low enough that they have to lean in to hear.

The word lands like a stone in still water. Ripples spreading outward. Morgan's smirk softens at the edges. JJ's arms uncross. Prentiss sits back slightly, her teasing expression fading into something more careful. More respectful.

No one pushes. Not yet.

But they're all looking at him differently now. Like they're seeing a new version of Spencer Reid—one who exists outside the bullpen, outside the case files, outside the lonely apartment they'd all quietly assumed he went home to every night.

"Kid." Morgan shakes his head, and there's something different in his voice now—not teasing, not needling. Something almost admiring. "I take it back. Every single thing. Every joke, every 'maybe try a bar sometime,' every time I said you'd die alone surrounded by books." He squeezes Reid's shoulder, a brief, grounding pressure. "You've been holding out on us."

Reid ducks his head, but the smallest smile tugs at his lips—shy, yes, but unmistakably real. It's not his knowing smirk or his closed-off court testimony expression. It's something softer. Something private, accidentally spilled. Like he's been keeping a secret so long that the act of letting it see daylight feels physically strange—but not unwelcome.

"You asked about frequency," he says, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug that's almost bashful. "I just answered the question."

"You really did," Prentiss says, grinning wide enough to crinkle her eyes. "In excruciating detail."

JJ tilts her head, studying him like a case file she's only just realized she misread completely. Her gaze is warm but probing—that particular JJ look that says I see you, and I'm not letting you off the hook that easily. "And for the record," she says, her voice gentle but pointed, "I'm going to need to meet this person. Several months and you never even mentioned her name? That's practically classified information. I'm officially offended."

Reid opens his mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to recite something about privacy and healthy relationship boundaries, maybe to quote a study on the importance of keeping certain parts of one's life separate from one's workplace—but then he catches something over Morgan's shoulder.

His words die in his throat.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft, mechanical chime—the kind of sound so familiar it usually doesn't register anymore. But tonight, it cuts through the bullpen like a bell.

And there you are.

Standing by the elevator bank, keys looped loosely around your fingers, a worn file folder tucked under your arm. You've clearly just come up from the archives—there's a faint smudge of dust on your sleeve, pale grey against the fabric, and your hair is slightly askew from leaning over old case boxes, a few strands escaping to frame your face. The overhead light catches the curve of your jaw, the concentration in your brow.

You're not looking at them yet.

Your attention is still on the files in your hands—a thick stack, dog-eared and labeled in fading marker. You're flipping through them absently, lips moving just slightly as you read, your thumb holding your place in whatever document has captured your focus. 

Reid forgets how to breathe.

It's not dramatic—not in the way movies make it seem. There's no swelling music, no slow-motion montage. Just the sudden, startling realization that he has been holding himself together all evening, and now, seeing you, every carefully constructed wall is coming down.

You look tired.

He notices it first because he always notices it first—the slight droop of your shoulders, the way you're blinking a little too slowly at the pages in your hand. You've been in the archives for hours. Probably forgot to eat. Definitely forgot to drink water.

But you're also smiling. Just a little. A small, absent curve of your lips as you read whatever case file has captured your attention. It's the smile you get when you've found something good—a lead, a connection, a piece of the puzzle that was missing.

He loves that smile.

He loves the dust on your sleeve and the mess of your hair and the way you bite your lower lip when you're concentrating. He loves that you exist in the same building as him, the same world, the same moment.

He loves you.

And now everyone is about to know it.

Reid's flush, which had been fading to a manageable pink, returns with interest—creeping up his neck, flooding his cheeks, brushing the tips of his ears. But here's the thing that makes Morgan's eyebrows climb: Reid doesn't look away. He doesn't duck his head or pretend to read something.

Instead, that small, proud smile stays.

Grows, even.

Morgan is the first to put it together. Of course he is. He watches Reid's face change—watches the shyness give way to something steadier, something almost protective—and then he follows Reid's gaze across the bullpen.

His eyes land on you.

His smirk doesn't just return. It blooms.

"No," he breathes, barely above a whisper. Then, louder, disbelieving: "No."

Prentiss notices Morgan's reaction before she notices you. She glances at him, then at Reid, then follows the sightline like a guided missile. When she finds you—dust-smeared, distracted, muttering to yourself over a case file—her eyebrows climb.

She doesn't say anything. She just tilts her head, watching, cataloging, filing away every micro-expression on Reid's face for later analysis.

But her silence is louder than words.

The bullpen feels suspended. Held breath and half-finished sentences. Even the ancient coffee maker seems to have stopped hissing, as if it, too, is waiting.

Morgan turns back to Reid, slow and deliberate, like a man approaching a wild animal he's just realized is actually a house cat. His expression cycles through about six different emotions in the span of two seconds—confusion, disbelief, dawning recognition, and finally, something dangerously close to pride.

"You told us you were 'helping her with research.'" He makes air quotes, fingers curving with theatrical emphasis. "That's what you said. 'The archives are extensive, Morgan, and she's new, and it's purely professional, Morgan, stop reading into things, Morgan.'"

Reid's flush deepens—creeping up from his collar, brushing the tips of his ears, painting his cheekbones in soft, tell-tale pink—but he doesn't deny it. He doesn't deflect. He doesn't launch into a rapid-fire lecture about privacy or workplace relationships or the statistical unlikelihood of his personal life being anyone's business.

"I was helping with research," Reid says quietly. "That's how it started."

"And then?" Prentiss prompts, leaning forward like she's watching the season finale she didn't know she needed. Her coffee cup is still frozen in her hand, forgotten. She doesn't blink.

Reid's eyes don't leave yours.

The bullpen falls away. The desks, the case files, the amber glow of the lamps—all of it fades into background noise. There's only him. Only the way he's looking at you like you've rearranged his entire understanding of the universe.

"And then," he says, and his voice catches slightly—just a breath, just a fracture, but you hear it. You always hear it. "I realized I didn't want to stop."

“Man, really?” He muttered, yanking them from his face and giving them a wipe with the bottom of his shirt. His best shirt. The one he had picked from the depths of his closet all with the hopes of impressing you. Yet now, with freshly cleared glasses, he could’ve screamed as he stared down at it in horror.

A huge stain suspiciously the colour of the food in the pan glared back up at him, dark and unforgiving. When did that even happen? He threw his head back as far as it would go, glaring up at the ceiling as if it were responsible as he mentally counted down from ten. A sweat formed on his brow. On his cheeks… on his chin? Spencer jumped back as he realised the pan was still spitting at him, wiping at his face in desperation before checking his watch.

You’d be here in approximately 17 minutes if his calculations were correct, presuming you left on time and avoided traffic. He’d timed the meal perfectly, meaning for it to be hot on your plate and steaming by the time you sat down. He weighed up his options. Finish cooking your food first and risk opening the door to you covered in half of it? No chance. Lower the heat and rummage through his closet for anything that won’t make him look like a teacher’s assistant at a parent-teacher conference?

With a desperate squeak he bolted to his room, unbuttoning his ruined shirt at record speed before practically diving head first into his wardrobe. His hands rushed through fabric like lightning all the while tutting at his choices. Too old, too grandpa- literally his grandpa’s. At long last he landed on a dusty pink button up that you once told him he looked nice in. He blushed as he pulled it off of its hanger, almost turning the same colour. He might pass out if you tell him that again tonight.

-

Spencer adjusted the table for maybe the hundredth time, angling the table cloth just right over the corners before lighting a candle in its centre. He’d dug out his best dishes, the ones he could only ever recall using once or twice before in his life, not used to ever having company. He was just finishing plating when three quick knocks on the door echoed through his apartment, the sound like a vacuum sucking every other noise out of the room so that they were all he heard. Until his heart started racing.

He could hear it thumping in his ears and booming in every footstep as he made his way to the door, pausing just as his hand gingerly reached for the handle. Taking a deep breath, he tried to psyche himself up. You wanted to be here. You wanted to see him. You were really, really here. Just on the other side of that door.

Spencer was almost blinded as he finally swung it open. A divine glow seemed to radiate from you like an angel standing at the gates of heaven and he very nearly dropped to his knees in worship. You looked radiant, so much so that he was rendered entirely speechless and he found himself staring at you rather dumbly, jaw hanging open until his soul snapped back into his body and slammed it shut.

“H-hi.” He stammered, trying to subtly wipe his palms on his slacks. “You- Wow. You look beautiful.”

“Hi, Spence.”The smile you gave him threatened to blind him for a second time already. He’d be lucky if he survived the night.

It made him feel somewhat better that you seemed just as nervous as him. You were fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, your smile wide but shy as you averted your gaze to the floor. His arms twitched at his side, unsure of what to do. Should we hug? Do people usually hug at this point? I think people usually hug, right? Before he could overthink it he spread his arms wide, thanking the stars when you stepped towards him and embraced him back. The scent of you was dizzying, the feeling of your hands on his back intoxicating and he found himself holding his breath in a desperate attempt to keep himself upright.

Too fast you were stepping back again leaving his head spinning in your absence. He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact you were really here. The dull, empty hallway that usually bore witness only to his grumpy early mornings and his tired late nights now seemed brought to life, a backdrop illuminated by the star that was you framed neatly by his doorframe. Spencer was so swept away in disbelief that he almost missed the way you were awkwardly shifting your footing, patiently darting your gaze between him and his apartment behind him. Oh, he realised after just a beat too long, this is the part where I’m supposed to let you in.

“Oh! Um,” He practically jumped out of the way, theatrically gesturing beside him for you to enter. “Please come in.”

As he watched you walk in he suddenly became hyperaware of everything in his apartment. He’d bleached the entire place before he started cooking- he’d lit several candles since and was hoping the smell of dinner would overpower it but what if you could still smell it? Was this too much effort for a first date? Would you think it was weird? If you picked up on anything you didn’t mention it as you came to a stop in his living room, wide eyed as you took in the decor. Then Spencer’s anxieties shifted focus. Even earlier than the bleach, he’d put away all of the books and papers strewn in piles about the apartment- shoving some of them under his bed when his bookshelves became full and silently hoping they’d forgive him for it later. After the bleach he’d panicked, thinking now his apartment looked almost freakishly neat, tidied to an unrealistic degree and he’d hurried to scatter them about again.

He was driving himself insane wondering if you would’ve preferred it pristine, when your voice cut through the fog in his brain with a gentle air. “Your apartment is gorgeous, Spence.” You awed, wondering over to his bookshelf and running your finger over the library of spines. “Really suits you, too.”

“You think so?” He replied, voice as even as he could muster.

“Yeah, it’s so cosy.” You smiled over at him, eyes falling on a woollen blanket draped over the back of his sofa. “I feel like I could curl up with a book and just stay here forever.”

Please do, he thought, marvelling at how just like the hallway the room seemed a shade more vibrant, a touch more full of life with you in it.

“Here,” he said softly, making his way over to where you were admiring the painting above his study desk, “let me take your coat.”

You thanked him as you shrugged it off, both of you trying to ignore the shivers down your spines as his fingers brushed your bare arms. You followed him as he hung it up on the way to the kitchen, taking small careful steps like your feet didn’t quite trust themselves enough to stay planted on the ground. Gasping in awe, your eyes widened as you stepped into the room. It was dimly lit with candles and lamplight, a warm, hazy glow that made it feel like it was pulled straight from a dream. His kitchen was barer than the rest of his charmingly cluttered apartment- but still alive with his personality. There was a plethora of well-used stained coffee mugs in a huddle on his counter, like they were all he lived off of. His cabinets seemed to be stocked more with easy to make comfort foods than ingredients for complex meals. You suppose it comes with the territory of a job that takes you away from your home most nights and throws you back too exhausted to even think about food. In fact, it looked like he’d gone grocery shopping especially for tonight.

You could see his fridge littered with magnets from states all over the country, a kaleidoscope of colourful pictures and cartoon landmarks that almost seemed out of place with the rest of his vintage decor- until you realised they were likely souvenirs from his work trips. You guessed from ones that ended well, from ones that would remind him of all the good he’s done when he comes home grieving in the middle of the night from a case that ended tragically. He sees you looking, flashing you a smile that seemed shy, like you’d just bore into the most intimate part of him without even meaning to.

You turn your attention to the table finally. There’s a tablecloth neatly draped over it and a candlestick in the middle that drips wax into a little dish below it. Two plates sit on either side of it, housing two delicious looking meals that look like they were just carried out of the kitchen of a cosy bistro. Wow, it smells good.

“Woah, Spence.” You mused, thanking him with a smile when he pulls your chair out for you, blushing when he tucks you in. “I can’t believe you did all of this for me.”

“Is it-“ He stammered, chewing his lower lip anxiously. “Is it too much?”

“No! No it’s perfect.” You smiled as steam curled delicately in the air like it was beckoning you to dig in. Spencer smiled back with relief, trying to hide the deep breath he expelled as he rounded the table to the other side.

There was a silence. Not exactly an awkward one but one filled with excitement and nerves and the acute acknowledgement of butterflies in both of your stomachs as if you were teenagers falling in love for the first time. Spencer’s eyes kept darting between you and the table, like he couldn’t physically keep his gaze off of you but was overwhelmed all the same. His head was whirling at the sight of you on the other side of the table he always dined alone at, at the thought of your perfume lingering in his apartment when you’d leave tonight, and at how much this empty place suddenly felt like home with you in it.

“You know this is my favourite meal?” You grinned, picking up your fork.

Spencer’s hand sheepishly rubbed at the back of his neck, his eyes on you. “Yeah, you mentioned it once, I think.” He knows. A few months ago the two of you had been walking together after running into one another at the bookstore. You walked past a restaurant, just a small neighbourhood joint tucked tightly into the corner of the street. He remembers how your eyes lit up, how you’d gasped and pointed at the menu in the window and excitedly jotted the restaurants name down on the back of your receipt. He’d made a note too, highlighted and labelled at the forefront of his mind.

“I can’t believe you remembered that.” You met his eyes, feeling fire in your cheeks before you looked away again. “It was so long ago.”

He shrugged slightly, brows knitting. “Of course I remembered.”

“Right,“ you playfully rolled your eyes, tapping your temple, “eidetic memory.”

“No.” Spencer giggled softly, his voice dropping to something low and earnest. “I remembered because it’s you.”

Oh. The candle in front of you suddenly felt like the sun, the heat in your cheeks rushing everywhere, through to your fingertips as you reached for your fork. He was staring at you with those eyes, big and round and beautiful like he simply couldn’t get enough of you. His soft smile was lopsided like he was trying to hold it back and couldn’t, his adam’s apple bobbing nervously in his throat like every word he said to you was a leap of faith.

“That’s very sweet of you, Spence.” You whispered- it was just about as much strength as you could muster.

His nose wrinkled shyly as he tore his eyes away from you, reaching for his own cutlery like you had both suddenly remembered what you were here for. The plates rematerialised in front of you, temporarily forgotten in the presence of one another. On cue your stomach rumbled- the food really did look good.

“Wow,” you mused around a mouthful, jabbing silently at your plate with your fork like a miming act. “This is incredible.”

“Really?” His eyebrows shot up. He’d been so frazzled and so frantic all evening the overactive part of his mind had convinced him he was somehow going to serve you cardboard no matter how perfectly he followed the recipe. That one wrong measurement would throw the whole night into chaos and ruin everything. He would rather vanish into thin air like smoke from a pan than give you anything less than perfection.

“Yeah! This is like-“ You paused, giggling into your mouth as he grinned at you. “Oh my God. I’m in heaven.”

“I hope I did it justice.” He said humbly, taking a bite himself. Wow, this is good. He’d pat himself on the back later. “If I’m being honest, it’s a relief.”

You tilted your head curiously at him, urging him to continue with an amused smile. Spencer sighed, his nose scrunching again like he was mentally preparing to embarrass himself.

“It was sort of an… ordeal.” He huffed a laugh, holding up his hand and brandishing a red mark on his skin. “I burned my hand a couple of times- I’m not even entirely sure how. My glasses fogged up and when I wiped them clean half of the pan was on my shirt so I had to change. I also tried to clean up my apartment but I think I used too much bleach- can you smell it? Is it too strong? I tried to light some candles- maybe too many candles now that I think about it but-“

“Spence.” You leaned over, taking his hand in yours. It was slightly clammy. “Everything is perfect. Seriously.”

His breath caught in his throat as he watched your thumb swipe over his warm skin. He’d dreamed about this moment, gotten lost in daydreams as he watched you page through books or cup your coffee in your hands. He’d always wondered what it would feel like. He knew they would be soft, that your fingertips would radiate comfort like magic, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of your skin on his. He gulped, opening his mouth to speak but failing to make a sound.

“And for the record,” you continued, unaware that you were about to deliver the final blow, “I’m glad you changed shirts. I’ve always loved this one on you.”

This was it. He’d died somehow, somewhere along the night and this was heaven. Maybe he’d slipped in the kitchen and hit his head. Or he really had used too much bleach and his head was full of chemicals. That was the only explanation he could think of to explain how much it was swimming.

“Are you okay?” You asked, trying to hide the smirk tugging at your lips at the sight of his cherry-red cheeks.

Spencer stammered for a second before clearing his throat. “Yeah. I’m- I’m good. I’m really good.” He took another bite of his food, hoping to disguise the fact you had rendered him utterly speechless.

“You did this more than justice, by the way.” You added, gesturing to your plate again. “I could eat this forever.”

“I’d be more than happy to cook for you again sometime.” Tomorrow, the day after, forever.

You arched a brow at him, heart fluttering. “Is that your way of asking me on a second date?”

“Oh- I, um-“ Spencer’s eyes widened to the size of the plates in front of you, hands flailing in the air as his mouth tried to catch up with his brain. “I didn’t mean to- not that i don’t want to. Of course I want to. I would love to- if you want to, I mean.”

You giggled again, a blissful, airy sound that sounded like magic in his ears. If he could live this exact evening over and over again for the rest of his life he would be the happiest man in the world. He would burn his hand every night for eternity, ruin hundreds of his best shirts, if it meant that he could hear that laugh forever.

“I would love to go on another date with you, Spencer.” Smiling earnestly at him, your heart burst as his eyes lit up. “Especially if it means I get more home cooked meals like this.”

A bright, luminous laugh escaped him and this time he reached for your hand. It was clammy too. “It would be my honour. I’ll cook as many meals as you like.”

“Well then,” you started, but your voice trailed off, losing itself in the grin on your lips.

The candle flickered slightly between you both, before burning with even more brilliance than before like it was sensing the beginning of something. The scent of his cooking suddenly felt familiar, like a comfort you couldn’t wait to come home to every day.

Spencer squeezed your hand, bringing you back down to Earth as you met his tender gaze. “It’s a date.”

"The unsub is a white male, most likely in his early twenties. He suffered a large business failure at a young age, and is still attempting to grasp at those straws," Hotch explained is his typical serious monotone, slowly pacing the edge of the desk. "His victims are other young men who are trying to do the same, along with their girlfriends. We assume his failure cost him an important relationship, one which appeared to be fairly hot and heavy, as our victims have all been reported to display a lot of PDA." Hotch stopped in front of the table, turning to fully face us now. "We'll need a 'tech bro' type, someone who's good with numbers and good enough with computers."

All eyes turned to Spencer.

"The girlfriend role is no question. Our highest chance of this being believable is with Y/N."

"I think you mean our only chance," Morgan mocked, leaning back in his chair.

Spencer gave him a slightly puzzled look, as if he didn't understand the point he was making.

"Sometimes I wonder if these two are even dating," he continued. "There's no way he'd be able to pull that off with someone else."

Hotch let out a sigh, his mouth forming a hard line at Morgan's comment, but he pushed on. "The rest of us will be going to the party, but we're to refrain from contacting either Spencer or Y/N for extended periods of time without reason. If anyone asks, we're investors, and will most likely be asked to hold a fake business conversation at one or more points throughout the party. Make it look like it's going well, we believe this is what triggers the unsub. Success is the key. We meet at the jet in fifteen."

Hotch was already out the door by time I'd finished processing his words. I stood to collect a file from the table, gently nudging Spencer as he came to stand next to me.

"So, Mr. And Mrs. Hot and Heavy," Morgan began, a cocky grin on his lips. "Think you can pull this off, Reid?"

"Of course," Spencer answered flatly. "It's no different than any other case."

Morgan raised his eyebrows. "You do realize you'll actually have to touch her for this to believable, right? You won't be able to get by on just sharing coffee."

Spencer's brows were knitted together. Blatant confusion still evident in his expression.

"Yes, I realize that."

"Morgan, lay off, will you?" I piped up. "He'll be just fine. Let's get to the jet."

He relented, stalking out of the room with that cocky smirk still plastered on his lips.

I leaned back against the chair, pulling my legs up next to me. Morgan's words rang in my mind, plaguing me with unnecessary worries.

I knew I shouldn't dwell on it, I mean this was by no means Spencer's first time in the field, and I was well aware that he could pull off the guise of a touchy boyfriend, but Spencer's field work typically played off of his apparent nervousness, which completely went against the character, and he had never been fond of PDA, especially not around the BAU.

Sure, he could be touchy and all that in private, but that was mainly reserved for the privacy and comfort of one of our apartments, not some random skyrise chalked full of sleezy businessmen.

My eyes drifted to his sleeping form, curled up in a tight ball of one of the benches. A soft, serene expression was settled on his face as he laid swaddled in a thin blanket.

Somehow, he was going to act as someone completely different to himself, all while actively looking for the unsub. That part I could at least be of some use for, and I intended to do my best.

"How do I look?" he whispered in my ear as we walked towards the elevator, his hand resting loosely around my waist.

I wanted to say something like 'sexy as hell', but figured a simple "perfect" would do the trick. I reached up to loosen his tie just bit further, letting it rest where the top button of his shirt was undone. He was dressed up, but in someways much less formal than usual. His suit jacket hung open, his shirt and tie loose around his neck, his hair ruffled. This was a look I could most definitely get behind.

Spencer led me into the elevator, pressing the button for the penthouse, where the networking party was being hosted. We were the last of the BAU team to arrive, Gideon and Morgan being sent in separately, and Hotch and Elle as a young investing couple.

Spencer's eyes watched the electric panel above the door, following the numbers as they rose with the elevator. Just as the screen showed '25'—the floor just below the penthouse—Spencer's entire demeanor seemed to change.

His back straightened, adding at least another two inches to his height, he adopted the hint of a cocky smirk, and his hand dropped a dangerous amount, finding where my thigh met my hip with a firm hold.

The doors slid open, and he led me into the crowded room. The ceilings were easily twenty feet high, each central space adorned with an elaborate chandelier. Men and women alike, dressed to the nines, filled the space.

Spencer made no hesitation to strike up a conversation with the most capable looking businessman in the room, keeping me pressed to his side as he began spewing off the details of the fabricated business.

"Really? You don't say!" the older man cheered. "What a splendid proposition! What propelled you to even think of such a thing?"

"Child prodigy," Spencer answered, his tone laced with an intoxicating amount of self-confidence. I allowed myself to laugh a little too hard, his hand caressing my thigh as he shamelessly cast a hungry look down my body, tugging at the low neckline of my dress.

The investor laughed at Spencer's comment, taking a sip of his drink. I didn't miss the way his eyes followed a similar trail as Spencer's, but instead with a mix of intrigue and vague uncomfortableness at the blatant PDA.

As Spencer began rattling on again, I latched on to his neck, placing feverish kisses as he spoke. I had just begun to suck a decent mark on his collarbone when the man cleared his throat and made an awkward excuse to vacate the conversation.

I pulled back with a laugh, Spencer mimicking me. "That one's going to leave a mark. Sorry."

He roughly groped my ass, pulling me closer. "I'm never going to hear the end of this from Morgan."

"Speak of the devil," I began, watching as Derek appeared over Spencer's shoulder. He spun to face the visitor, pulling me along with him to rest against his chest.

"Well, well, well," Morgan began, his tone teasing yet impressed. "Who knew you were such a bad boy, Reid?" He made sure to keep his voice down, low enough that eves droppers wouldn't be able to discern that our talk wasn't strictly business over the party crowd.

"I told you I'd pull it off," Spencer stated bluntly. "Pretending to date my girlfriend isn't an exceptionally difficult task."

"Well, I don't know what you consider dating, but there's a big difference between what you two are like in the bullpen and what you're like now." Morgan's eyes flitted down to Spencer's hands as he spoke, which were now nudging up the already short hem of my dress to rest between my thighs.

"That's work," he said, as if that completely cleared up Morgan's comment.

"Hold on," I mumbled, catching sight of someone over Derek's shoulder. A tall blonde man, a few years younger than Spencer, watching the three of us like a hawk, though his gaze mainly flickered between Spencer and my rising hemline. "Unsub, ten o'clock."

Morgan immediately looked towards the crowd behind Spencer and myself, his brows scrunching.

"My ten o'clock," I huffed. "And don't look directly at him."

"I see him," Spencer whispered in my ear. "Morgan, notify Hotch. He'll make contact as soon as you're gone."

Derek gave the slightest nod, stumbling back as he raised his glass. "You're a corporate genius, man! Hit me up some time," he practically yelled, before disappearing back into the crowd.

You don’t hear him at first.

The warehouse is too big, too dark, and too full of silence that makes your skin prickle. Your flashlight beam cuts through the shadows, bouncing over discarded syringes, ropes, and other instruments of cruelty you wish you could unsee. It feels wrong to breathe in here.

But then..

A sound. Faint. Fragile.

“…help.”

Your chest tightens. You know that voice.

“Spencer?” you whisper, your voice breaking with urgency as you swing the light toward the corner of the room.

He’s there.

Hunched, wrists raw and bound, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His lips are chapped, his face pale and bruised in places you can’t look at for too long without feeling your throat close up. His eyes, those sharp, clever eyes, look dim, sunken with exhaustion and something that makes your stomach twist: fear.

The second he sees you, though, something shifts. His shoulders jerk, like he’s unsure if you’re real.

“It’s me, Spence. I’ve got you.” You’re already running, dropping to your knees beside him, fumbling with your knife to saw at the ropes.

When his hands fall free, he doesn’t move. He just stares at you, like you’re the only thing holding him in this world.

You pull his trembling body against yours before you can stop yourself. His chest stutters against your shoulder as he gasps, arms wrapping around you with a strength you didn’t know he had left.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper again, one hand rubbing his back, the other cradling the back of his head. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

He shakes. Violently. Every muscle taut with adrenaline and terror. You hold on tighter, rocking him, grounding him in the rhythm of your heartbeat.

⸻

The others get there minutes later. Morgan’s voice calls out, sharp with relief, but Spencer doesn’t move. He doesn’t even look up. His fists clutch the back of your jacket like he’ll drown without you.

Hotch crouches, assessing quickly, but when you try to shift so they can check his injuries, Spencer lets out this broken sound, something between a whimper and a plea. It slices through you like glass.

“It’s okay,” Hotch says quietly, eyes flicking to you with understanding. “Stay with him. We’ll get you both out.”

So you do.

⸻

It doesn’t stop once you’re back.

Spencer doesn’t want you out of sight. Not in the hospital, where you sit on the edge of his bed until the nurse gently suggests you need rest too. Not back at Quantico, when the team tries to give him space to breathe and he finds you in the hallway like a child afraid of the dark.

The first night, he shows up at your hotel room. He doesn’t even say anything. Just stands there, eyes wide, hands trembling.

You pull him in without question.

That’s how it starts.

⸻

You learn the patterns.

Spencer has nightmares that jolt him awake with a gasp, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. You’re always there, your hand in his hair, your voice soft in the dark. “You’re here, Spence. You’re safe. It was just a dream.”

Sometimes he clings to you so tightly you can barely breathe. Sometimes he curls in on himself, silent tears soaking your shirt as he shakes his head over and over, like he can’t get the images out.

So you sit with him, whispering facts you know he’ll latch onto: “We’re in Virginia. It’s two in the morning. The door is locked. You’re safe with me.”

His breathing steadies eventually, and every time, without fail, he falls back asleep pressed against you.

⸻

Daylight doesn’t erase it.

You notice how he flinches at sudden noises. How his hands shake when he tries to pour coffee. How he hovers close to you, not saying why, just… needing.

You let him.

If he has to walk too far down the hallway, you go with him. If he pauses outside his own apartment, unable to turn the key, you invite him into yours. If he lingers in your office after a case briefing, shifting his weight awkwardly like he doesn’t know how to ask, you just smile and pat the chair beside you.

He always sits down.

⸻

One night, weeks later, you find him standing by your window, staring out at the city lights.

“Can’t sleep?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t look at you. “I don’t think it’ll ever stop replaying.” His voice is quiet, cracked. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there. I can’t.. I can’t get it off me.”

Your heart breaks. Slowly, you cross the room, laying a hand on his arm. “It’s not on you anymore, Spence. You’re here. With me.”

He finally turns. His eyes are glassy, his face tight with something between exhaustion and shame. “Why… why are you still here? I’m… I’m pathetic. I should be able to handle this. Everyone else goes through-”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, firmer than you’ve ever been. “Don’t do that to yourself. What you went through was… was torture, Spencer. No one just walks away from that. And you’re not pathetic. You’re surviving. That’s not weakness.”

His throat works, like he’s trying to swallow something impossible. “I don’t think I’d survive without you.”

The words land heavy between you.

You press your forehead against his, brushing his hair back. “Good thing I’m not going anywhere, then.”

For the first time, his lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but close.

He breathes you in like you’re the first safe thing he’s known in weeks. His arms slide around your waist, holding on.

You hold him back.

And you know, however long it takes, however many nights, however many times he wakes shaking, you’ll be right there.

Because sometimes, surviving means having someone to anchor you. And for Spencer, that anchor is you.

You laughed softly before sending back a GIF of a woman's dress sliding down her legs. Then you locked your phone again. You'd be lying if you said it didn't make you feel things in your lower belly. Things you thought were dead before you met Reid.

The bell announced that break was over, so you cleared your throat, trying to compose yourself, and opened the classroom door to welcome your students back.

Spencer Reid remembered everything, especially when it came to you. He remembered that your favorite flowers were pink roses, that you only wore gold-colored jewelry, that you hated the smell of cigarettes and open-toed shoes, that if you could, you'd eat only pasta, and that your favorite animals were sharks. The last one still puzzled him.

On Saturday, he picked up Theo to drive him to JJ's. He watched as the boy hugged you extra tightly, promising he'd behave and call you before bed. You waved at them before heading back upstairs to get ready.

You picked out a nice baby-pink dress that hugged your curves just right, beige heels, curled your hair, and used your more expensive eyeshadows and lipstick.

You stood in front of the mirror for a moment longer than necessary, smoothing your hands over the soft fabric of the dress. There had been a time when getting ready felt more like an obligation than something enjoyable. Back then, you'd throw on whatever looked acceptable and leave it at that. Tonight was different. Tonight you found yourself actually excited. Excited to spend time with Spencer, excited to see what he'd planned, excited to catch the look on his face when he saw you. It wasn't really about the dress or the makeup. It was about feeling seen. About knowing there was someone waiting downstairs who would look at you like you were the most beautiful woman in the world, no matter what you wore.

"Baby? Are you ready?" Spencer called from the hall when he got back. He was dressed in a white shirt and suit jacket, dark slacks, and shiny shoes instead of his usual Converse.

"Wow," he mumbled the moment he saw you coming down the stairs.

"You like it?" you asked with a smile.

He nodded, his brain turning to mush.

"I love it," he finally said, taking your hand and helping you down the last few steps.

"Where are we going?" you asked after kissing him.

"Surprise. But you'll like it. I promise."

Once the two of you arrived at the parking lot, you looked outside, confused.

"Did we just get dressed up for a zoo?" you asked, staring at him.

Spencer only smirked and helped you out of the car without saying a word.

You looked at him again, more closely this time, but you weren't a profiler. You couldn't tell what he was hiding behind that expression.

A staff member greeted you and introduced himself before leading you inside through a side entrance. After a short walk through several corridors, you ended up in the aquarium section.

"Spencer, what's go—"

You froze the moment you saw what he'd arranged.

In the middle of the glass sea tunnel, surrounded by little sharks, were pink roses—at least four dozen of them—and a small dinner table.

"Surprise," he whispered into your ear.

You automatically followed him to the table, looking around in awe.

"You like it?" he asked, focused entirely on your face, wanting to make sure he'd done well.

"Like it? Spencer, I love it so much!" you yelped, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him.

He smiled against your lips before helping you into your seat.

"What's the occasion?" you asked after a moment, still looking around in amazement, especially when a small shark swam directly above your head.

"No occasion. I just wanted to do something nice for you."

The lie rolled off his tongue easily as the waitress served you pasta with your favorite cheese and broccoli sauce.

"Oh my God. I love you even more now," you sighed, picking up your fork.

"How was your day?" he asked eventually, and the two of you slipped into an easy conversation.

You were in the middle of a story about Theo chasing chickens around your parents' farm the moment he learned to walk when dessert arrived.

You looked at the chocolate and strawberry cake and nearly missed it.

Nearly.

You had to look again once your brain caught up with your eyes, stopping you mid-sentence.

There, written in neat white frosting, were four words you'd dreamed of seeing one day.

Will you marry me?

For a second, the entire world seemed to freeze.

The gentle music faded into the background. The movement of people somewhere beyond the tunnel disappeared. Even the sharks gliding above your head became nothing more than blurred shadows in your peripheral vision.

Your eyes stayed fixed on the cake.

Your heart was suddenly pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

No.

No way.

Slowly, almost afraid that looking away would somehow make the words disappear, you turned your head toward Spencer.

He wasn't sitting in his chair anymore.

Spencer had dropped to one knee beside you.

A soft gasp escaped your lips.

"Spence..."

His laugh came out nervous and breathless.

"Please. I-I do have a speech."

That was when you noticed it.

The slight tremble in his hands.

The way his shoulders were just a little too stiff.

The nervous smile he was trying very hard to maintain.

Spencer Reid—the man who could stand in front of serial killers and negotiate with terrorists without blinking—looked terrified.

And somehow that made your eyes sting even more.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small black velvet box.

Your breath caught.

When he opened it, the ring caught the aquarium lights immediately.

It wasn't the typical single diamond on a band. He knew you well enough to know you didn't like that style. This ring was unmistakably you.

A simple gold band.

Six small diamonds.

A sapphire surrounded by delicate stones that made the entire design resemble an eye.

Elegant.

Unique.

Beautiful.

Perfect.

The realization hit you all at once.

He hadn't just bought a ring.

He had chosen your ring.

He had paid attention to every casual comment, every passing remark, every time you'd pointed out jewelry in a shop window and said what you liked or disliked.

Of course he had.

Spencer always listened.

"From the moment I met you," he began quietly, "I knew I wanted you permanently in my life. It was like my heart had known you forever and my brain just needed time to catch up."

Fresh tears gathered in your eyes.

Across the table, blue light from the aquarium glass danced across his face, making his eyes look even brighter.

"I know I'm a lot sometimes," he continued with a small smile. "Sometimes too much. Sometimes not enough."

You immediately shook your head.

He smiled at the gesture before continuing.

"But what I can promise is that I'll love and cherish you every day for the rest of my life."

His voice grew steadier with every word.

"I want everything with you."

The tears finally slipped down your cheeks.

"I want to watch Theo grow up. I want to help him with homework. I want to embarrass him when he's a teenager. I want to teach him how to drive and be there for every milestone he'll ever have."

You covered your mouth with your hand.

Spencer's eyes softened.

"And I want all of that because it means I get to do it with you."

A tear rolled down his own cheek now.

"I want Sunday mornings making breakfast together. I want movie nights on the couch. I want vacations and arguments over what color to paint the walls. I want grocery shopping and school pickups and every ordinary moment in between."

His voice cracked.

"I want to grow old with you."

You could barely breathe.

"I want gray hair and wrinkles and reading glasses. I want to be eighty years old and still reaching for your hand without thinking about it."

A watery laugh escaped you.

Spencer laughed too, shaking his head.

"Honestly, I want every version of our future."

His eyes locked onto yours.

"And I don't care if it's perfect. I just want it to be ours."

The tears were flowing freely down your face now.

"Will you marry me?" he asked softly.

Then his expression turned hopeful and nervous all at once.

"Please?"

You stared at him for half a second longer.

At the man who had loved you so completely.

The man who loved your son like he was his own.

The man who remembered every tiny thing about you and made you feel cherished every single day.

The answer had never been in question.

"Yes."

Your voice came out shaky.

You laughed through your tears.

"Yes. Of course I'll marry you."

Relief flooded his face so quickly it almost made you laugh again.

You reached for him immediately, cupping his cheeks in your trembling hands before pulling him into a kiss.

The moment your lips met, Spencer smiled.

A real smile.

The kind that transformed his entire face.

The kind you knew you'd never forget.

When he finally slid the ring onto your finger, you noticed his hands were still shaking.

Only now, they were shaking from happiness.

"I'm so happy you said yes," he whispered.

You looked at him like he was ridiculous.

"Of course I said yes, honey. How could I not?"

His laugh was wet with emotion.

"You're the best man I've ever met," you continued, brushing away one of his tears with your thumb. "And I can't wait to grow old with you."

For a moment neither of you spoke.

You simply sat there together beneath the drifting shadows of sharks and the soft blue glow of the water, staring at each other as though nothing else in the world existed.

Spencer happily let you take a trillion pictures of the ring, him with the ring, the cake, and the entire setup.

But he knew he wouldn't need any of them.

The look on your face when you agreed to marry him was already burned into his memory forever.

On the drive home, you couldn't stop staring at the beautiful stone on your finger as it sparkled beneath the streetlights. It was, by far, the most beautiful ring you'd ever seen.

Spencer, however, decided that you looked best when the ring was the only thing you were wearing, as he reminded you three separate times that night just how much he loved you.

The next day, the two of you drove together to pick up Theo.

From the interaction between JJ and Spencer, you assumed he hadn't told her exactly what he'd planned, only that the two of you needed a night to yourselves.

You kept your hand hidden in Spencer's back pocket so you wouldn't spoil the surprise too early.

On the drive home, you half-listened to Theo's story about pizza night with the boys—and how corn was okay on pizza if there was salami, but broccoli was awful in every form. He also told you how Uncle Will had read them a bedtime story about flying dinosaurs.

You nodded and smiled at the appropriate moments, letting Spencer handle most of the follow-up questions.

Internally, you prepared yourself to break the news to your little boy, wondering how he'd react.

You knew he loved Spencer.

But would he be happy that it was about to become permanent?

Once you got home, you stopped your son before he could run upstairs.

"Theo, sweetheart, can you sit on the couch? Spencer and I need to talk to you about something."

He looked up at you, worry immediately appearing in his eyes as he walked into the living room.

He sat down, and you and Spencer took seats on either side of him.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked eventually.

You shook your head with a small smile.

"Not that I know of."

You squeezed his hand reassuringly.

He nodded but still looked uncertain.

"Remember when I told you that you and your mama are my family?" Spencer asked.

Theo nodded.

"Well, last night while you were at Auntie JJ's, I asked your mom to marry me. And she said yes. So how would you feel if we got married? We'd be husband and wife, just like Uncle Will and Auntie JJ."

You shot Spencer a grateful smile.

Theo looked at him, then at you, and then back at Spencer.

His small eyebrows furrowed as he processed the information.

"So..." he started slowly.

You could practically see the wheels turning inside his head.

"You'd be like my second dad?"

The question hung in the air.

Your breath caught.

You immediately looked at Spencer.

Neither of you had discussed this possibility.

Last night had been a whirlwind of tears, kisses, and celebration. On the drive home, you'd been so worried Theo might be upset by the news that you'd never even considered he might ask something like this.

For a second, Spencer simply stared at him.

The usually eloquent genius looked completely speechless.

You watched a dozen emotions flash across his face.

Surprise.

Hope.

Disbelief.

And then something deeper.

Something so raw it made your chest ache.

Because suddenly you realized this wasn't just a question for Theo.

It was a question Spencer had probably never allowed himself to ask.

Not out loud.

Not even in his own head.

He loved Theo fiercely. Anyone could see that.

He showed up for every school event he could attend. He helped with homework. He knew Theo's favorite cartoons, his favorite snacks, and exactly how many stuffed animals he insisted on sleeping with.

He loved him.

But he had always been careful.

Careful not to overstep.

Careful not to assume.

Careful not to take a place that wasn't his.

"If you want me to be," Spencer finally said, his voice quieter than usual, "then it would be the greatest honor of my life."

Theo stared at him.

"Really?"

Spencer nodded immediately.

"Really."

The little boy looked down at his hands for a moment.

When he spoke again, his voice was small.

"So you wouldn't leave?"

The question hit like a punch to the chest.

You saw Spencer physically freeze.

Theo kept looking at his lap.

"My other dad left," he admitted softly. "So... if you're my dad too, you won't leave, right?"

Silence filled the room.

Your heart shattered.

Spencer's eyes immediately filled with tears.

Without hesitation, he shifted forward on the couch until he was closer to Theo.

"No, buddy," he said gently.

His voice cracked.

"No. I won't."

Theo finally looked up.

Spencer swallowed hard.

"I can't promise that life will always be easy. Sometimes people have to travel for work. Sometimes things happen that we can't control."

He reached over and took one of Theo's small hands in both of his.

"But I can promise that I'll always come back."

A tear slipped down Spencer's cheek.

"I can promise that I love you."

Another tear followed.

"And I can promise that as long as you'll have me, I'll be here."

Theo stared at him for a few seconds.

Then another.

The room felt impossibly quiet.

Finally, a huge smile spread across the boy's face.

The kind that started in his eyes before reaching the rest of him.

"I do," he said immediately.

Spencer blinked.

"I do what?"

Theo laughed.

"I'll have you."

That was it.

That was the moment Spencer completely broke.

A laugh escaped him at the same time a tear rolled down his cheek.

You were crying now too.

Theo didn't seem to notice.

Or maybe he did and simply didn't care.

He launched himself off the couch and straight into Spencer's arms.

"Can I call you Dad now?" he asked as he wrapped both arms around his neck.

Spencer made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

You'd never seen him look happier.

Not once.

Not even last night when you said yes.

His arms immediately wrapped around Theo.

"You can call me Dad right now," he whispered.

Theo grinned.

"Great."

He squeezed Spencer tighter.

"Because you're already the best dad ever."

Spencer buried his face in the boy's shoulder for a second, trying and failing to pull himself together.

When he finally looked up again, his eyes were red.

"And you're already the best son ever."

Theo beamed.

Then, because he was eight and emotionally devastating one second and completely normal the next, he pulled back just enough to ask:

"So does this mean I can tell people I have two dads now?"

Spencer laughed through his tears.

"If you want to."

Theo nodded seriously.

"Cool."

Then he hugged him again.

Just because he could.

And watching them together, you realized something that made your eyes fill all over again.

Neither of them had been waiting for permission to love each other.

The bullpen was humming with chatter and the sounds of printers – nothing out of the ordinary. The morning sun has just risen past the windows, casting a golden filter over the room. Spencer loves this lighting. The way the case files glow metallic instead of just brown. The way the sunglow swirls in the pattern on the carpet under his feet. Sometimes, someone would even turn off the harsh fluorescent lights during this time, allowing him to properly bask in the shades of honey.

She and Spencer went to their favorite coffee shop before work, something they do at least three times a week. He’s just finished his last sip when he looks over at her and sees the way the sun refracts off her hair, painting golden streaks throughout it. She’s laughing with Penelope, and he can’t help but think that she looks like an angel.

His cheeks flush at the thought, and he averts his gaze from the side of her head. He shouldn’t think things like that. She’s his best friend. His best friend, who definitely doesn’t see him as anything more than a coworker she grabs coffee with and sometimes joins for movie nights.

Their moments together are the highlight of his week. The moment she leaves his apartment after a movie, a countdown begins in his head for the next Thursday night – hoping and praying she won’t be too busy to accompany him again. So, how could he tell her that he’s in love with her? It could ruin everything; he could completely lose her as a friend.

Spencer just can’t help himself from dreaming, though. She looks so beautiful all of the time, but especially in the golden morning light. Spencer loves this time of day, but he also hates it for how it illuminates his feelings for her. He tilts his head upward to take just one more glance at her, but freezes and jerks his gaze to the other direction when he meets her eyes. Great, now she knows you’re staring at her like a complete weirdo.

“Damn, Pretty Boy…” Derek approaches from behind him, and he jumps at the intrusion.

Turning around to look at him, he replies, “What?” 

Derek flicks his eyes up and nods his head in the direction of her, “You’ve got it bad.”

Spencer clears his throat and diverts his attention back to his desk, hoping to hide his increasingly darkening cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Everyone knows what I’m talking about. It’s getting kinda sad to watch.”

“It’s not sad.” He quickly retorts, “It can’t be anything, because there is no thing.”

Derek chuckles and raises his eyebrows, but Spencer wouldn’t know about the latter since he’s still pretending to work on a case he’s already finished. “No thing? So you weren’t just staring at the side of her head for the past hour?”

“That’s an overexaggeration.” He insists.

“Oh, so you weren’t deep in thought, imagining your future tiny geniuses?” Penelope appears in front of Spencer’s desk, and he has no choice but to drop his head onto the wood.

Voice muffled, he declares, “No! I was not!”

“C’mon, Babygirl,” Spencer naively believes Derek is going to defend him, before he adds on, “You know he has to mentally plan their wedding first!” The larger man reaches out to ruffle his hair, but Spencer snaps his head back up just in time to dodge it.

“I am not mentally planning anything, there is no planning, there is no thing!” He can hear his own desperation in his voice, and he’s sure he sounds a little hysterical.

“Okay, if you’re so insistent that it’s completely nothing, I’ll just go tell her that you’ve been crushing on her for months. No harm done if it’s not real, right?” Derek shifts his feet to face her desk and makes a few slow steps toward her.

Spencer’s face falls, his blood runs cold, “You wouldn’t.”

Even Penelope tells him, “Alright, let's not do that…” and tries to stop his movement by tugging his arm.

Derek slips out of her hold with ease, “I’m helping him! I’ll be his Cupid.” He then winks at the two of them. 

He’s getting closer and closer to her desk, and Spencer’s heart is beating closer and closer to his throat. Spencer looks at Penelope with a wild look in his eyes, and she gives him her best empathetic look while shrugging, conveying I tried.

Spencer rises from his chair, warningly saying, “Derek, don’t.”

But Derek keeps going, calling her name as he approaches her desk. Spencer’s feet are frozen to the floor, and the terrified look he sends Penelope tugs at her heartstrings. But there’s nothing they can do; Derek has already started talking to the woman Spencer’s been pining over since he first saw her.

Without thinking or realizing it, Spencer’s fight-or-flight kicks in and chooses flight. He bolts between the desks and jumps directly onto Derek’s back, wrapping his arms around his neck.

“What the – Reid!” Derek exclaims.

“Spencer?” His best friend inquires.

“Spencer!” Penelope calls from across the bullpen.

“I said, please! Do not tell her!” Spencer squeaks.

“Kid, get off me!” Derek attempts to pry Spencer’s body off his own, but it’s difficult to do so with the lanky man wrapped around him like a baby koala. 

People are starting to stare. Anderson peeks up from his desk at the ruckus, Emily speed-walks out of the break room, and even Hotch is peering through his office blinds. 

Derek successfully loosens the grip around his neck, but doing so sends Spencer’s body falling straight to the floor.  

He first lands on his back, which knocks the wind out of him, then his head bounces off the floor like a ping-pong ball. His eyes squeeze closed, he reaches up to his head with both arms, and he shifts onto his side in a fetal position.

Derek squats next to his crumpled body, “Jesus Christ, Reid, are you okay?!” 

Spencer attempts to nod, but the sharp pain on the back of his skull prevents him from doing so. He’s dizzy and trying to recall what he knows about concussions. Unbeknownst to him, a large group of his coworkers has circled around him.

Penelope hovers over him, “Spencer! Oh my god!”

Then, an angelic voice swirls in his ears, “Spencer? What happened?”

“I hit my head.” He mumbles, eyes still squished shut.

Delicate fingers meet his cupped hands on the curve of his skull. He focuses on how nice they feel on his skin – warm and soft.

“Can I see?” The angelic voice asks. He thinks he’d do anything that voice asked of him, no matter if it was dangerous or nefarious. So, he eases his grip.

He winces as the delicate fingers brush over the sore spot on his head, whining softly. 

“Oh, thank God, he’s not bleeding,” Penelope exclaims.

“He probably needs some ice,” JJ suggests.

“I’ll go and get it for him.” The angelic voice announces. 

“Wait…” Spencer slowly opens his eyes and flinches at the brightness. He blinks repeatedly as he tries to make sense of his surroundings. He lays eyes on his best friend kneeling beside him; the sunrays backlight her body, painting a halo around her. She really is an angel, he thinks.

“Hey, honey. How’re you feeling?”

Oh my god, she called me honey.

“You look like an angel.” He murmurs while reaching toward her hair, making her cheeks feel warm. His hand lands firmly against her head, not forcefully, just in a way that showed his current struggle with depth perception.

She looks around at the audience that has surrounded them, debating how to tell them all to leave Spencer alone. Penelope notices her imploring gaze and starts shooing everyone away, “The genius is alive! Let’s give him some space!”

Noticing that his pupils are slightly dilated, she shifts her body to shield the sunrays from shining in his face. 

Spencer suddenly realizes that he’s lying on the dirty floor and tries to sit up rapidly.

“Woah, let me help you.” She wraps a hand around his elbow and guides him to a seated position.

The movement sends a searing pain through his skull, but he insists, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine, Spence…” She gently disagrees. “Please, let me help you get some ice.”

“Okay,” Spencer agrees, so she hooks an arm around his waist and slowly pulls him to his feet. His legs wobble for a moment, like Bambi on ice. 

Slowly, but surely, they make it to the break room, and she ushers him into a chair. He’s eerily quiet while she gets a makeshift ice pack for him – a plastic baggie full of ice with paper towels wrapped around it. She feels a little like a school nurse.

Sitting across from him, she gingerly hands him the bag and gestures that he place it on his crown. Spencer follows her instructions, maintaining an eerie silence. He’s pretty certain that he’s not concussed, but he almost wishes he was. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to face this conversation with her. 

“So… What was that all about?” She inquires, leaning her elbow onto the table beside them and resting her head in her palm. God, she’s so beautiful.

His eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Didn’t Derek tell you?”

She has a matching crease in between hers. “Tell me what?”

“He didn’t tell you that I…” He lowers his gaze to where their knees meet. His heart feels like it could pound right out of his chest.

“That you…? He was asking me about the case I was working on.”

“Oh.” He can feel the tips of his ears burning.

“Oh?”

“It’s nothing.”

She chuckles, “You tackled Derek in the middle of the bullpen for nothing?”

“I wouldn’t really describe it as a tackle…”

She lightly giggles, and it sounds like music to his ears. How is he supposed to tell her how he feels when doing so risks his opportunity to make her laugh like that again? This is the worst day ever.

“I did hear you say something about not telling me something.”

Shit.

“Um…”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” She shrugs and stands to replace the paper towel on his ice pack. He mourns the loss of her warmth against her knee. “That was just… interesting to witness.”

With her no longer looking at him, he finds the confidence to attempt to tell her what just happened. He runs through a few different speeches in his head, debating how to even begin conveying the truth to her.

She’s returned to her seat across from him before he can settle on anything, leading him to blurt out, “I’m in love with you.”

She flinches at his sudden admission, taken aback by his bluntness. Her hand freezes with his ice mid-air, halfway to his head.

“What?” She breathes out.

He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch her reject him. “Derek said he was going to tell you that – That I’m in love with you and have been for a while… He said he was going to play Cupid.” His voice gets smaller and shakier as he continues speaking.

“Ohhh,” she realizes. “So that’s why you jumped him?”

“I didn’t– Well, I guess I kind of did– …Yes?”

Spencer peeks one eye open to look at her. He sees her smiling?

“Please don’t laugh at me.” He whines, covering his face with his hands. He wants to disappear. He wants to start this whole day over.

“Hey,” She coos, setting the ice on the table and grabbing his wrists, swiping her thumbs over the bones. “I’m not laughing, I’m sorry.”

Her touches simultaneously bring him comfort and make his skin tingle. He’s frozen, scared that any sudden movements will cause her to let him go. He can barely breathe.

He reluctantly drops his hands from his face in favor of looking at her, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that. I probably shouldn’t have said it at all. I embarrassed you, and I’m sorry. I just—Derek was going to—he was going to tell you, and I couldn’t let him and I panicked and I hit my head and now you’re here and I’ve ruined—” He’s panting and his throat hurts and his eyes are burning with unshed tears and he’s digging his nails into his palm.

“Spence…” She reaches forward to stop his attack on his skin.

He wants to twist his hand over to hold hers properly and never let go, but he refrains, figuring he’s made her feel uncomfortable enough today.

“It’s okay. I knew it was unlikely that you felt the same way.” His voice cracks, and he breaks eye contact with her midway through speaking. The grieving process for their friendship has already begun in his mind. No more coffee trips, no more movie nights, no more saving seats for each other on the jet, no more laughter or inside jokes. His entire body is in physical pain, and it has nothing to do with his fall.

“Can you look at me? Please?” She reaches with her other hand to hold both of his, and for the first time, he wishes that she wouldn’t. Or maybe he does, since this is probably the last time she’ll do it.

Her cheeks are flushed, “I’m not upset with you. And I’m not rejecting you. I just didn’t know, is all.”

His eyes widen with hope, and he blurts, “You’re not?!”

“I’m definitely not.”

“You’re definitely not?!” Spencer feels dizzy. 

“Spencer,” she laughs, and he could cry at the beautiful, intoxicating sound.

“Right, I should stop repeating everything you’re saying… But what are you saying?”

“I like you too.” She squeezes his hands. His breath catches in his throat. “I have for a while.” Is this a dream? “I thought you wouldn’t ever feel the same way.”

“That would’ve been the most illogical mistake of my entire life.”

She laughs again, and he really wants to kiss her. He seriously considers it until he remembers they’re still sitting in an FBI breakroom. 

“Can I take you on a date? Please?” His eyes are wide and so earnest.

“I would love that, Spencer.” She smiles.

This is the best day of his life.

“I wish I could kiss you right now. Is that too forward? That’s so brazen of me to say– I did hit my head–”

Her blush spreads down her cheeks, “Believe me, so do I… But unfortunately, it’s probably best if we don’t. I’m pretty sure Derek and Penelope are eavesdropping through the door.”

A small gasp and a high-pitched “Derek!” softly travels into the break room. Giving Spencer a knowing look, she then rolls her eyes.

She whispers to him, “I’m afraid we do have to give Derek credit for his Cupid skills now, though.”

Spencer groans, “I’d really rather not,” and she giggles.

You walked into the office, shrugging off the purple cardigan that was slightly bigger than your usual size and draping it over your chair. As usual, you placed your bag under your desk and turned on your PC before settling down, ready to focus for the day. Though, the second you spotted Spencer approaching, you instantly announced your daily fun fact.

“Did you know that peanut butter can be turned into diamonds? Fun fact.” From the corner of your eyes, you saw Emily pause at your statement. Spencer, on the other hand, grinned at your words.

“Good morning.” Spencer placed his coffee cup down on his desk first before coming to your side, holding yours out for you. You carefully took the ceramic vessel from him, muttering gratitude at his kind action. His other hand lingered on your back before withdrawing out of respect for the fact that you were both clocked in at work. 

His eyes soon noticed the clothing item that hung on your chair. 

“Was wondering where that one went,” your boyfriend murmured.

Boyfriend. Even after three months and having grown used to calling Spencer by that title, you still feel giggly at such a term. In fact, your lips curled right then while thinking of the word again.

You took in Spencer’s attire, specifically, the way that his purple button-up (coincidentally) matched the purple cardigan you had stolen from him two weeks ago. For a split second, you considered coordinating outfits deliberately with him, but in subtle ways.

“Hold on a second, peanut butter can what?” Emily double checked.

“I know, right?” you breathed out before reaching under your desk and pulling out an information-packed tome, dropping the heavy object onto the furniture’s surface. 

It was Rossi’s courtesy. A month and a half ago, the old man decided to give you a fact book in hopes you could still win this bet before eight months were up. Unfortunately, his gift was unable to aid you much in your intellectual combat against Spencer, and thus, failed to prevent Rossi’s loss of his bet on a victory before the eight-month mark. 

You carefully opened to the page where you had seen the fact and held it up for Emily to see.

“Well, would you consider having a peanut butter diamond ring?” she joked, though Spencer quickly jumped in.

“Actually, I would advise against it. Oftentimes, the lab-manufactured results are small. So they’re unsuitable for proposal rings.” His words almost felt personal with the way Spencer’s eyes fell to your hand, and you smirked teasingly.

“Why? You think I should have a big diamond instead of a small rock?” Instantly, your boyfriend’s ears grew hot, and you almost laughed at the way he started stuttering. 

“Well, I just—on average, women tend to prefer a sizable diamond ring when proposed to. But also, like—well, I mean—you—”

“Me?”

“With your finger size—”

“How do you know my finger size?”

“Your ring was next to a couple of coins the other day—”

“Oh? And you decided to notice and remember this information, why?” You smirked, enjoying the way your relentless teasing was turning Spencer into a mess. But in all honesty, you were not that surprised. Spencer’s brain often stored information that most tend to overlook.

“Yeah, Spencer. Planning to drop down on one knee soon?” Emily’s added effort to poke at Spencer only made him more flustered, though the genius eventually was able to overcome it and continued speaking.

“With your finger size, the most suitable—preferences aside—would be a 1.0-1.5 carat diamond ring, and the peanut butter manufactured ones would be nowhere near that. Besides, diamonds made of peanut butter are often discolored largely due to impurities such as hydrogen and nitrogen, which are non-carbon components, getting trapped during diamond formation processes that involve high heat. Meanwhile, diamonds are mainly made of carbon atoms.”

“Would you like to know my diamond size preference, Spence?” was your only reply, and those words had Spencer’s face blooming bright red. Once again, he stammered to organise his words, yet a sentence could not be strung together.

Together, you and Emily burst out laughing at Spencer’s speechless state. Though the two of you began shifting to get back to work. Emily returned to her own desk, amusement lingering on her face. Meanwhile, you slowly spun your chair back to your PC, your laughter replaced by a full-on smile.

Yet, Spencer did not move from his spot. In fact, the sight of you smiling and your eyes crinkling had Spencer’s gaze softening.

Eighty seven days since he had told you that you were his favorite fun fact, a title Spencer continued to frequently refer to you as.

Prior to the prospect of you two, Spencer had made peace with a mundane dating-less life, living in a repetitive monotone manner. But now that he has you, that kind of life sounded dreadful. With you, mundane things became highlights of his day and the staples of his boyfriend-adjusted daily routine.

But above all, every day, he got to learn new things about you, like where you like to read in your apartment, how you like to separate your laundry, or your preferred side of the bed. Each and every new detail he discovered folded into the wrinkles of his brain like all along, the organ was made just to hold facts about you.

The genius bit back a smile.

That afternoon, Spencer walked you to your car like always. But instead of saying goodbye and heading off to the metro station by himself like before, the genius got into your passenger seat, and the two of you left the office together. As you were driving both of you back to his apartment, Spencer’s eyes darted to your hand again.

His forever favorite fun fact.

Spencer found himself really liking the sound of that.

The corner of his lips lifted before he looked away.

Maybe someday.

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Bells. You remember bells. Confetti; the environmentally friendly kind. A bouquet of purple flowers, frozen mid-air in a hazy memory, landing in the reluctant hands of Emily Prentiss in another.

Something moves. His fingers are in your hair now, brushing through the strands with such painful gentleness it doesn’t even feel real. This is just another later of a dream, more warm and fuzzy scenarios created by your unconscious. It has to be, because nothing that is real could possibly feel so…sacred. It’s too perfect. You feel as though you’re floating, lighter than air.

Until the ache sets in. It’s in your head, dull and heavy, dragging you back down to earth, clouding your mind with a fog that extends beyond simple drowsiness. And with it comes a sore throat. A dry mouth. Can you be hungover in a dream? Surely not, that would just be cruel. 

You groan. The sound reverberates in his chest, rattles his tender heart. You hear him chuckle.

“Ugh…time?” you mumble, voice hoarse.

“Ten thirty-two— no, thirty-three,” he says in a whisper, keeping his words soft, inoffensive, like he knows your condition without you needing to complain about it. He sounds awake, and he’s smiling—you can hear it.

With great effort, you raise your head, wincing as the light hits your face. His hand reaches out, casts a shadow over your eyes.

He isn’t smiling. He’s grinning.

“…hey.”

“Hey.” He tucks some of your hair behind your ear, brown eyes turned to gold in the sunlight; honey, like his voice. “How are you feeling?”

You lean into his touch, expression melting into a lazy smile. With a gentle sigh, you let your head sink back against his chest as you murmur, “’m good.”

Spencer’s arms wrap around you, holding you tight as he presses his nose to your hair. “Just good?”

“Great,” you correct, shaking your head. “Happy. The happiest.”

“That’s better.” He kisses the top of your head. “I’d feel like a failure if my wife weren’t the happiest the morning after the ceremony.”

His wife. You swear you feel the world tilt.

“I’d have to find a way to fix that,” he adds, letting his fingers trail down your spine.

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” he says. He’s trying to sound serious, and he isn’t doing a very good job. “That’s what Morgan kept telling me yesterday: happy wife, happy life.”

You huff out a short, breathy laugh. “And you’d take advice from Morgan?”

“Is it not true?”

“Oh, it’s true. Just…right message, wrong messenger, I guess.” You lift your head, meeting his gaze with a smile. “But I’m plenty happy. You’ve nothing to worry about there.”

“Good.” He fixes your hair again, smoothing any flyaways as he studies you with this look of intense focus, almost frowning, like he’s struggling to believe what he’s seeing, committing your every feature to memory in case you disappear. “And Morgan’s had some successful relationships.”

You hum. “Define successful for me, hon.”

“Having a favourable or desired outcome,” he says, not missing a beat. “Success is subjective, my love.”

“Mhm.” You nod slowly. “And Morgan’s idea of success is…”

“Intense, short-term relationships.”

“Right, of course. So, naturally, he’s the guy you’d go to for marriage advice.”

“I never said I sought him out,” he says, frowning. “I actually told him I wasn’t interested in any advice, or…pep talks. But he kept badgering me as I was getting ready.”

“That’s what the best man is for,” you muse with a solemn smile, “spewing unsolicited advice as he mops the sweat from your forehead.”

Spencer scoffs. “I wasn’t sweating.”

“You so were.”

“It was hot.”

“You were shitting yourself,” you say, brows raised. “Don’t lie to me, Doctor Reid.”

“Fine, Mrs Reid,” he concedes with a huff. “I may have been…shitting myself. A little bit. Figuratively.”

Mrs Reid. He’s trying to kill you.

You bite your lip, roll your eyes at the sight of his smug little smirk before trailing your fingers down his chest. Your wedding ring glimmers in the light as you draw lazy patterns along his skin. “I was shitting myself, too. Figuratively.”

“I didn’t notice,” he says. When you frown, he quickly adds, “I’m serious.”

“You’re a profiler,” you say.

“And you’re beautiful.”

He says it like it’s a fact. Concrete. Unchangeable.

You laugh. You have to; you might cry if you don’t. “And beauty is enough to render your years of profiling experience useless?”

“Only yours.”

Yup, definitely trying to kill you.

“You…” you shake your head, feeling your smile falter. It shifts into something raw, something fragile.

Spencer cups your cheek, holds you steady. Murmurs “I love you” in this agonisingly tender tone that only breaks you further. 

You lean into him, closing your eyes as you admit in this small, quiet voice, “I thought it was a dream.”

“The wedding?”

“Mhm.”

“The whole thing?” he asks, amusement seeping into his tone. “Even the staff threatening to kick Morgan and Garcia out for indecency?”

“I have a…vivid imagination,” you say. You fall silent for a moment, pursing your lips, before adding, “But…I doubt I’d have been able to come up with those, um, vows of yours. You’d have made a fucking incredible renaissance poet. Proper…dramatic.”

He’s grinning again, pride swelling in his chest. “You wanna hear them again?”

“Do you want to make your wife cry?” you ask.

“Only if they’re happy wife tears.”

“Sadist.”

“I said happy tears. Come here.” He grabs your waist, shifts you so you’re lying on top of him, chest to chest. “Let me recite my vows, please.”

You glare at him, barely able to contain your smile. “You just want to show off.”

“Pshh, no.” He shakes his head adamantly. “I just want to make sure that you know just how grateful I am…that I get to be the one to spend forever with you. It’s an honour.”

The way his voice softens with each word has you closing your eyes, fighting back the stupid tears that threaten to spill if you keep looking at him. He brushes his thumb against your cheek, touch so light it feels almost reverent.

“And I want to show off, just a little.”

He laughs as you swat his hand away, hisses like you’ve hurt him. You shake your head, try to speak but your voice comes out all wobbly, so you hide your face in the crook of his neck, and you sniffle when he hugs you.

“…just recite the damn vows.”

“Yes, ma’am. Anything for my beautiful wife.”

He doesn’t tell her on purpose, but he hadn’t been keeping it from her on purpose either, he just wasn’t ever planning to. Spencer had never admitted his attraction for all people to anyone before. In the back of his mind, he knew that she wouldn’t judge him, but he didn’t know how to bring it up and didn’t find it totally necessary.

It kind of comes up in conversation one evening, while eating dinner with her at the dining table. Their ankles are hooked together under the table, and they leisurely pick at their meals.

She casually asks him which cartoon characters he crushed on when he was little. He doesn’t know what to say. He thinks about playing it safe and saying Belle from Beauty and the Beast. She loves books, he loves books, easy answer.

But he doesn’t think he should take the easy way out.

She tells him that Christopher Robin was probably the first character she found cute. “He was cute in a wholesome way, always taking care of his friends.”

He laughs lightly at her admission, but she can tell he’s uncomfortable about something.

She visibly deflates, “...I’m sorry, maybe this was a dumb question. I didn’t mean for it to upset you?” She tentatively says. He normally entertains her silly conversations, but now she’s confused and fearful that she’s hurt his feelings somehow.

“No,” he says too fast, then clears his throat. “No, baby, I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Spencer tries to give her an encouraging smile, but he can feel it falling flat. 

She quietly hums in response, not fully convinced.

Staring down at his plate, he mumbles, “I… um…” His voice catches in his throat. “I think the first character I had a crush on was Peter Pan.” 

A small smile appears on her face. “Oh, that’s a good one! He’s definitely adorable.” 

He pushes food around on his plate, “It wasn’t just… him.”

She places her fork down on the table and pays closer attention to him. It’s clear to her now that he is debating something in his head, and his discomfort really wasn’t her fault.

“No?” She gently inquires.

“No, there were… other boys. Not just characters.”

“Okay,” She reaches for his hand across the table, brushing her fingers over his knuckles.

“But there were girls too!” He scrambles to justify, unnecessarily. “Belle from Beauty and the Beast was really pretty to me, too.” He finally meets her gaze, wide-eyed and a little terrified.

“Oh, definitely. I thought Meg from Hercules was absolutely gorgeous....” Her tone is so soft and understanding that he thinks he might cry. “...Are you trying to say that you had crushes on both boys and girls?” 

“I– Yes, I did… I do.” He shakes his head, frustrated at how jumbled his words are. His grip tightens on her hand, “I didn’t really understand it at the time, and I never spoke about it with anyone. I just knew that I liked boys the same way I liked girls...” 

She nods along and watches him attentively as he speaks. 

He swallows, “I didn’t really have anyone I could talk to about it. Then, eventually, my crushes on both boys and girls turned into crushes on both men and women.”

He focuses downward, on the feeling of her hand in his, on the slow grazing of her thumb across his knuckles. His cheeks are completely flushed, and his heart is pounding in his ears.

Spencer always felt like there was something wrong with him, especially when he was a boy. He wasn’t interested in the things that other little boys were, like baseball or video games. Because of this, he didn’t want to be interested in boys. It was just another thing about him that made him too different. The last thing he needed was another reason to stand out, particularly at school, among classmates who were four years older than him. He was dissimilar enough, isolated enough, strange enough.

He didn’t think there was anything wrong with other boys who liked boys – it was just something he avoided confronting within himself.

“Baby, that’s totally okay. Thank you for telling me.”

His head shoots up like a rocket. “Really? I didn’t know how to tell you because I didn’t know if it really mattered. I only want to be with you, anyway.” He squeezes her hand reassuringly.

“I get that, but it does matter to me – because you matter to me.”

“You don’t see me any differently?” His head slightly tilts to the side in question, and he chews on the inside of his lip. His eyes glisten with unshed tears.

“I see you exactly the same. I just see more of you now.” She rises from the table to pull him into a hug. His head rests on her stomach as she soothingly rubs his back.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you.” He endearingly admits, voice small like a child’s.

“I know, honey. I didn’t think that.” She places her hands on his cheeks and tilts his head upward to look at her. “Nothing is different between us, okay?”

He nods inside of her hold, “Okay, thank you for understanding.”

“Of course. I’m really glad you told me.”

“There is one more thing…” A tear falls from his rounded eyes, and she swipes it away with her thumb.

“Okay, what is it, honey?” She tries to maintain a gentle tone, but she can’t deny that this statement flipped her stomach with nervousness.

“Do you remember my friend Ethan?”

“From Vegas?”

“Mhm,” His eyes dart around the room, too unsettled to look at her while he says, “We… We never dated or anything… but we would kiss sometimes when we were hanging out.”

“It was before you!” He rushes to add. “Many years before you, and not when we were together, I would never, ever–”

“Spence–”

“I really didn’t mean to hide it from you. He and I never talked about it either, so I didn’t know what to call it. We never did anything more than kiss!”

“Honey, it’s okay! I know that you’d never cheat on me, and you don’t have to defend your past to me.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“I feel like I broke your trust.” His shoulders cave in on themselves.

“My trust in you is perfectly intact, honey. I’m so grateful that you confided in me with all of this.”

More tears trail down his cheeks, “I’ve never told anyone any of it.”

“No one?” She asks softly.

He shakes his head no.

“Oh, Spencer, that must’ve been so lonely.”

He nods and whispers, “It was.”

Ethan was his first kiss – his first crush that ever paid any attention back to him. The two of them never defined what they were doing, though. Spencer was too scared to ask the what are we question, and Ethan left Quantico before he had the chance to.

Her heart constricts in her chest knowing that he’s been carrying this all alone his entire life. Her wonderful boyfriend, who spent so much of his energy on caring for those around him, had been silently bearing the weight of this on his own.

She tucks his head back into her stomach, leaving a hand on his crown and rubbing his spine with the other. Holding back her own empathetic tears for him, she murmurs, “You’re not alone anymore, okay? You can tell me absolutely anything.”

He nods in her hold, “Thank you for not judging me.”

“Honey, you don’t have to thank me for that.”

He inhales shakily, arms tightening around her. “I’ve been holding it in for so long. It feels weird to say it and not have it turn into something bad.”

“That makes sense, but it’s not going to, not here, not with me.”

“Promise?”

“I pinky promise.” She pulls away from their hug just enough to show him her little finger. He keeps one arm around her hips as he slightly smiles, linking his littlest finger with hers

She wipes the rest of his tears away before pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. Spencer can’t help but smile into it, feeling so grateful and relieved. 

He feels like this one conversation shed him of one hundred pounds of guilt and disarray. The thoughts regarding his sexuality seemed so large inside of his head, even amongst all the knowledge he held on various topics, it was the one thing that took up the most space. It had been living inside of him under lock and key for the majority of his life, and now it –and himself– have been set free. 

Spencer feels even closer to her after telling her. He didn’t realize the internal wedge the topic was taking up between them. She now knows every single thing about him, from the way he organizes his sock drawer to the ginormous secret he’s kept from everyone.

She offers to reheat his dinner and proposes they finish eating their dinner on the couch, cuddled up in front of the TV. 

Eagerly nodding at her plan, he asks, “Would it be weird if I wanted to watch Peter Pan?”

She smiles, “Not at all. Let’s do it.” 

He lets himself enjoy the entirety of the movie without feeling guilty or wrong for his feelings for once. He points out how adventurous and magical the character is, and she engages in animated conversation with him about it. 

He wasn’t planning on ever telling her, but he is delighted that he did.

He doesn’t tell her on purpose, but he hadn’t been keeping it from her on purpose either, he just wasn’t ever planning to. Spencer had never admitted his attraction for all people to anyone before. In the back of his mind, he knew that she wouldn’t judge him, but he didn’t know how to bring it up and didn’t find it totally necessary.

It kind of comes up in conversation one evening, while eating dinner with her at the dining table. Their ankles are hooked together under the table, and they leisurely pick at their meals.

She casually asks him which cartoon characters he crushed on when he was little. He doesn’t know what to say. He thinks about playing it safe and saying Belle from Beauty and the Beast. She loves books, he loves books, easy answer.

But he doesn’t think he should take the easy way out.

She tells him that Christopher Robin was probably the first character she found cute. “He was cute in a wholesome way, always taking care of his friends.”

He laughs lightly at her admission, but she can tell he’s uncomfortable about something.

She visibly deflates, “...I’m sorry, maybe this was a dumb question. I didn’t mean for it to upset you?” She tentatively says. He normally entertains her silly conversations, but now she’s confused and fearful that she’s hurt his feelings somehow.

“No,” he says too fast, then clears his throat. “No, baby, I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Spencer tries to give her an encouraging smile, but he can feel it falling flat. 

She quietly hums in response, not fully convinced.

Staring down at his plate, he mumbles, “I… um…” His voice catches in his throat. “I think the first character I had a crush on was Peter Pan.” 

A small smile appears on her face. “Oh, that’s a good one! He’s definitely adorable.” 

He pushes food around on his plate, “It wasn’t just… him.”

She places her fork down on the table and pays closer attention to him. It’s clear to her now that he is debating something in his head, and his discomfort really wasn’t her fault.

“No?” She gently inquires.

“No, there were… other boys. Not just characters.”

“Okay,” She reaches for his hand across the table, brushing her fingers over his knuckles.

“But there were girls too!” He scrambles to justify, unnecessarily. “Belle from Beauty and the Beast was really pretty to me, too.” He finally meets her gaze, wide-eyed and a little terrified.

“Oh, definitely. I thought Meg from Hercules was absolutely gorgeous....” Her tone is so soft and understanding that he thinks he might cry. “...Are you trying to say that you had crushes on both boys and girls?” 

“I– Yes, I did… I do.” He shakes his head, frustrated at how jumbled his words are. His grip tightens on her hand, “I didn’t really understand it at the time, and I never spoke about it with anyone. I just knew that I liked boys the same way I liked girls...” 

She nods along and watches him attentively as he speaks. 

He swallows, “I didn’t really have anyone I could talk to about it. Then, eventually, my crushes on both boys and girls turned into crushes on both men and women.”

He focuses downward, on the feeling of her hand in his, on the slow grazing of her thumb across his knuckles. His cheeks are completely flushed, and his heart is pounding in his ears.

Spencer always felt like there was something wrong with him, especially when he was a boy. He wasn’t interested in the things that other little boys were, like baseball or video games. Because of this, he didn’t want to be interested in boys. It was just another thing about him that made him too different. The last thing he needed was another reason to stand out, particularly at school, among classmates who were four years older than him. He was dissimilar enough, isolated enough, strange enough.

He didn’t think there was anything wrong with other boys who liked boys – it was just something he avoided confronting within himself.

“Baby, that’s totally okay. Thank you for telling me.”

His head shoots up like a rocket. “Really? I didn’t know how to tell you because I didn’t know if it really mattered. I only want to be with you, anyway.” He squeezes her hand reassuringly.

“I get that, but it does matter to me – because you matter to me.”

“You don’t see me any differently?” His head slightly tilts to the side in question, and he chews on the inside of his lip. His eyes glisten with unshed tears.

“I see you exactly the same. I just see more of you now.” She rises from the table to pull him into a hug. His head rests on her stomach as she soothingly rubs his back.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you.” He endearingly admits, voice small like a child’s.

“I know, honey. I didn’t think that.” She places her hands on his cheeks and tilts his head upward to look at her. “Nothing is different between us, okay?”

He nods inside of her hold, “Okay, thank you for understanding.”

“Of course. I’m really glad you told me.”

“There is one more thing…” A tear falls from his rounded eyes, and she swipes it away with her thumb.

“Okay, what is it, honey?” She tries to maintain a gentle tone, but she can’t deny that this statement flipped her stomach with nervousness.

“Do you remember my friend Ethan?”

“From Vegas?”

“Mhm,” His eyes dart around the room, too unsettled to look at her while he says, “We… We never dated or anything… but we would kiss sometimes when we were hanging out.”

“It was before you!” He rushes to add. “Many years before you, and not when we were together, I would never, ever–”

“Spence–”

“I really didn’t mean to hide it from you. He and I never talked about it either, so I didn’t know what to call it. We never did anything more than kiss!”

“Honey, it’s okay! I know that you’d never cheat on me, and you don’t have to defend your past to me.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“I feel like I broke your trust.” His shoulders cave in on themselves.

“My trust in you is perfectly intact, honey. I’m so grateful that you confided in me with all of this.”

More tears trail down his cheeks, “I’ve never told anyone any of it.”

“No one?” She asks softly.

He shakes his head no.

“Oh, Spencer, that must’ve been so lonely.”

He nods and whispers, “It was.”

Ethan was his first kiss – his first crush that ever paid any attention back to him. The two of them never defined what they were doing, though. Spencer was too scared to ask the what are we question, and Ethan left Quantico before he had the chance to.

Her heart constricts in her chest knowing that he’s been carrying this all alone his entire life. Her wonderful boyfriend, who spent so much of his energy on caring for those around him, had been silently bearing the weight of this on his own.

She tucks his head back into her stomach, leaving a hand on his crown and rubbing his spine with the other. Holding back her own empathetic tears for him, she murmurs, “You’re not alone anymore, okay? You can tell me absolutely anything.”

He nods in her hold, “Thank you for not judging me.”

“Honey, you don’t have to thank me for that.”

He inhales shakily, arms tightening around her. “I’ve been holding it in for so long. It feels weird to say it and not have it turn into something bad.”

“That makes sense, but it’s not going to, not here, not with me.”

“Promise?”

“I pinky promise.” She pulls away from their hug just enough to show him her little finger. He keeps one arm around her hips as he slightly smiles, linking his littlest finger with hers

She wipes the rest of his tears away before pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. Spencer can’t help but smile into it, feeling so grateful and relieved. 

He feels like this one conversation shed him of one hundred pounds of guilt and disarray. The thoughts regarding his sexuality seemed so large inside of his head, even amongst all the knowledge he held on various topics, it was the one thing that took up the most space. It had been living inside of him under lock and key for the majority of his life, and now it –and himself– have been set free. 

Spencer feels even closer to her after telling her. He didn’t realize the internal wedge the topic was taking up between them. She now knows every single thing about him, from the way he organizes his sock drawer to the ginormous secret he’s kept from everyone.

She offers to reheat his dinner and proposes they finish eating their dinner on the couch, cuddled up in front of the TV. 

Eagerly nodding at her plan, he asks, “Would it be weird if I wanted to watch Peter Pan?”

She smiles, “Not at all. Let’s do it.” 

He lets himself enjoy the entirety of the movie without feeling guilty or wrong for his feelings for once. He points out how adventurous and magical the character is, and she engages in animated conversation with him about it. 

He wasn’t planning on ever telling her, but he is delighted that he did.