dancing queen

  Through the curtain, you could see the soft sheen of white covering everything, from the bare tree branches to the grass- and that's when you hear it. The soft giggles, and little pitter patter of tiny feet across hardwood floors. The giggles come closer and closer until your bedroom door is thrown open and two little pajama-covered bundles flung themselves on your and Spencer's bed.

“Daddy, Daddy,” Charlotte, your four year old giggles as she climbs all over Spencer, followed by Oliver, your two year old. “It’s Cwismas morning!

You smile at her little lisp and reach out to stroke her little cheek. 

“There’s my girl, and there’s my boy,” Spencer says happily as he plants kisses on their cheeks.

As your husband sits up and scoops up both Charlotte and Oliver in his lap, as he shoots you a sweet smile over their heads, and your heart stops. It’s funny how just a smile from him still made your stomach fill with butterflies.

“It is Christmas morning,” Spencer smiles as he strokes Charlotte's cheek, and reaches out to squeeze your hand. “And you and Oliver were very good this year… so I think there may be some presents under the tree.”

“Pwesents daddy?” Oliver blinks up and touches Spencer's cheek. “Santa?”

Charlotte giggles, and taps Oliver.

“Daddy always tells the story of St. Nicholas after presents, right mommy?” she says as she smiles at you.

You smile and reach over as Spencer continues stroking her hair.

“That’s right Charlotte,” you say gently as you press a kiss to her head. “Daddy always tells us the story. And he is such an awesome storyteller, huh?”

Your eyes meet Spencers and you swear even after all this time his cheeks still pinken at even the slightest compliment. 

“That’s right!” Charlotte squeals. “Daddy always does all the voices!”

Spencer smiles sheepishly as he places a kiss on Charlotte's forehead, then Olivers, and then of course, your own.

“Well… I have to do all the voices,” he says gently as he pulls you in closer to him, and your little ones. “It’s more historically accurate that way.”

Your lips turn upwards as your eyes meet his-soft and waiting. You're about to steal a quick peck before both Charlotte and Oliver begin chanting and giggling about presents.

“Alright, alright…to the living room, Reid clan,” you giggle as you swing your red flannel pajama clad legs over the side of the bed. “It’s gift opening time! And don’t forget, I need a family picture of us in our matching pajamas.”

You loved this little tradition you had started before the kids were even born. You’d buy matching Christmas pajamas for you and Spencer, and then continued the tradition when both of your babies were born. This year it was all red flannel. You smile as you look over at your two little ones clad in the flannel, Charlotte's messy bedhead hair all over, and Oliver's small little smile as he plays with the sleeve. Then you look at Spencer, and melt even more because there was nothing sweeter than seeing your husband with his messy curls, matching with his babies, and of course you.

“Yes! C'mon Oliver, let’s go!” Charlotte shrieks as she practically yanks Oliver off the bed, to scamper after her as she races downstairs to the living room.

“Be careful!” Spencer calls out, as he stretches and stands up. “No running on the stairs please!”

You laugh slightly, shaking your head, as you stand and make your way over to your husband. Spencer immediately softens and reaches out his arms as you melt against him. He rests his chin on the top of your head and lets out a soft hum. You can feel his heart beating against your head as you lay it on his chest. For a moment, everything was still and you could enjoy the peace of your husband's arms, and his heartbeat, before the hectic day ahead.

“Mmm…” he murmurs against your temple as he places a gentle kiss there. “One more second before we’re subjected to wrapping paper being thrown around at us.”

You giggle and you squeeze him tighter- and then the moment was broken by two little voices in a chorus from downstairs yelling, “Mommy, Daddy!”

Spencer presses one last lingering kiss to your temple and then grabs your hand to lead you down the stairs.

“It’s present time,” he says softly. “And maybe there’ll be something for you too…later,” he murmurs as he shoots you a sly grin. “Because someone has been very, very good this year, like always.”

You giggle, and lean up to press one last kiss to his lips. His hands immediately move to cup your cheek, one thumb sweeping back and forth in a way that makes your toes curl. His hand was so gentle as his other hand slipped down to find purchase on your hip, his other thumb drawing circles into the skin there.

When you two finally break apart, breath lingering in the space between your mouths, Spencer steals one last sweet peck.

“Before we open the gifts..” he murmurs against your lips, “...I just want you to know, you gave me the best gift I could ever have. You gave me a home. You gave me love. You gave me a family. Our two beautiful children. I…I never will need anything else.”

“Spencer,” you breathe out shakily as your eyes turn glassy. “You always say stuff like this. And then the kids wonder why I look like I’m crying.”

“I say it because I mean it,” he whispers, thumb still sweeping against your cheek. “I mean it with everything I am.”

His lips find yours once more, as soft giggles drift up the stairs from the living room. This moment- with your husbands lips on yours, and your children awaiting- this was all you needed for Christmas. For always.

****

a/n: thank you thank you thank you for reading!!! week three of ficmas is now completed, flu and all! if you enjoyed, pls pls pls reblog and like!

love love love

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ────────

The second time Spencer surprised you was at the carnival. The lights flickered like a thousand fireflies overhead, washing the fairgrounds in a kaleidoscope of color. Laughter and music tangled in the air, mixing with the scent of popcorn and fried dough. You were walking past a row of game booths with Penelope, your fingers wrapped around a half-melted cotton candy, when your eyes landed on it.

A stuffed bear, slightly lopsided but endearingly so, with soft brown fur and a tiny pink bow.

“Oh, that’s cute,” you said absentmindedly, taking another bite of your sugary treat.

The game itself was one of those—the kind designed to be unwinnable. A cluster of milk bottles, stacked in a pyramid, just heavy enough and just angled enough that knocking them over with a weighted ball was statistically improbable, if not impossible.

Penelope gave you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Sorry, sugarplum, but those are rigged to hell and back. The guy running the booth said no one’s won that all night.”

You sighed, a little disappointed but not surprised. “Figures.”

With that, you let it go, continuing forward with Penelope while Spencer lingered behind. You didn’t think much of it—he probably got distracted by something, as he often did.

It wasn’t until you were waiting in line for the Ferris wheel that you felt something tap your shoulder.

You turned, and there stood Spencer, glasses slightly askew, his cardigan sleeves pushed up, holding the stuffed bear against his chest like it was some sort of peace offering.

Your mouth parted in shock. “Spence. No.”

Spencer, looking far too pleased with himself, simply shrugged. “Yes.”

You blinked. “How—?”

“It’s all physics.” He adjusted his glasses with one hand, shifting the bear to his other arm. “The way the bottles are stacked, they create a deceptive center of gravity. Most people aim for the middle, but if you hit the base bottle at the exact right angle—”

“You’re telling me you mathed the carnival?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Technically, I scienced it.”

Penelope let out an outrageously loud gasp. “Boy Wonder, did you just hack the universe for love?”

Spencer, deadpan, said, “Would you rather I hacked it for evil?”

You didn’t respond, mostly because you were still too busy gaping at him. The keeper had said the game was impossible, and yet, here he was, holding the proof in his hands.

Spencer held the bear out toward you with a small, shy smile. “You liked it.”

You took it, warmth blooming in your chest so fast it nearly knocked you off your feet.

“Spencer Reid,” you said, voice full of wonder, “you are ridiculous.”

His expression faltered. “But in a good way?”

You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around him in a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of him.

“Yes,” you mumbled against his shoulder. “In the best way.”

And as if he hadn’t already ruined you completely, he pressed a kiss to the side of your head and murmured, “Good.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ────────

It started as a habit you barely noticed—something instinctive, something you never really thought about. When emotions ran too high, whether in frustration, excitement, or joy, you’d slip into your native language. A muttered curse when you stubbed your toe, rapid-fire exclamations when you got good news, whispered endearments when Spencer did something particularly sweet.

And Spencer, for all his genius, would just stare at you, brow furrowed, lips pressed together in frustration.

“I hate not knowing what you’re saying,” he admitted once, after you’d spent two minutes ranting under your breath about something someone had said. “It’s like…watching the best scene in a movie, but without subtitles.”

You had laughed, ruffled his hair, and moved on.

You didn’t think he’d actually do anything about it.

But, of course, this was Spencer Reid.

It wasn’t until months later, in the middle of a particularly heated argument over whose turn it was to do laundry, that you realized something had changed.

“Spencer,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “I literally did it last week, and I swear to God—”

You stopped mid-sentence, your frustration boiling over into a string of words in your native tongue, too sharp and fast for him to possibly understand.

Or so you thought.

Because instead of his usual confused frown, Spencer just…sighed. “I know, sweetheart,” he said, voice annoyingly soft. “You feel like you’re always the one keeping things in order, and it’s frustrating when I get caught up in my work and don’t notice.”

You froze.

Your brain froze.

Your soul left your body.

“Did you just—?”

Spencer shifted on his feet, shoving his hands into his cardigan pockets like he hadn’t just rocked your entire world. “I learned.”

“You learned?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugged, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just casually admitted to learning an entire language for you. “You use it when you’re overwhelmed. When you’re really happy. When you’re really upset. I wanted to be able to—” He hesitated, then sighed. “I wanted to understand you. All of you.”

You were reeling.

Your Spencer, the man who got overwhelmed by new foods and wore mismatched socks on purpose, had sat down and taught himself a whole language just to keep up with you.

The worst part? He wasn’t even bragging about it.

He was just looking at you with those big, earnest eyes, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Say something else,” you breathed, stepping closer, heart hammering in your chest.

Spencer’s lips quirked. He took your hand, lifted it to his lips, and murmured something in your language—something soft, warm, achingly tender.

You didn’t need a translation. You felt it.

And that was the moment you realized that if this man ever proposed, you wouldn’t even need a ring to say yes.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ────────

The BAU wasn’t exactly known for throwing extravagant parties, but every once in a while—when the cases weren’t weighing too heavy, when the team needed to breathe—someone would organize a gathering. Tonight, it was at a cozy, dimly lit bar, where laughter hummed in the air, and glasses clinked together in celebration of nothing and everything all at once.

You were nursing a drink, swaying absently in your seat to the upbeat music thrumming through the speakers, when a hand ghosted over yours.

Spencer.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” you teased, raising a brow.

“I don’t,” he said. “Or, well—I told you I don’t.”

Before you could question him, he was tugging you to your feet, guiding you toward the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room.

“Spencer,” you laughed, trying to plant your feet. “What are you—?”

And then he spun you.

Spun you.

Not clumsily, not awkwardly—gracefully, like he’d been doing this for years, like he’d memorized the movements as easily as he memorized case files. His fingers found yours effortlessly, his other hand resting lightly on your waist, pulling you close in a way that sent warmth flooding through you.

Your breath caught.

“You lied,” you whispered, eyes wide.

Spencer had the audacity to smirk. “I omitted.”

You wanted to be annoyed—really, you did—but it was impossible when he was guiding you so effortlessly, his steps steady and sure, his touch sending sparks along your skin. The rest of the room faded, the music folding around the two of you like something made for this moment.

And then, over the music, someone yelled—loud, clear, amused.

"Put a ring on her, Reid!"

The team laughed, Penelope whooped, and Spencer—adorably, unbelievably—went scarlet.

But you?

You just smiled, pressing closer to him, because the thought had already taken root in your mind.

And if he kept surprising you like this, you had a feeling it wasn’t going anywhere.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ────────

You should’ve known things wouldn’t go exactly to plan.

But in your defense, you did the math.

And for a while, everything was going perfectly.

The entire BAU was in on it—except Hotch, who you had strategically placed on Spencer distraction duty. You needed someone with a natural air of authority to make sure Spencer didn’t suddenly wander back early, and Hotch, bless him, had agreed with only a single, unimpressed sigh.

Now, with Spencer successfully occupied, you had an entire team of federal agents setting up the most intricate, heartfelt surprise proposal the world had ever seen.

“Derek, the ribbons don’t loop like that,” you huffed, pointing accusingly at the offensive display of tulle bows on the ceiling. “They’re supposed to be elegant and flowy, not—” you gestured wildly at the mess he’d made, “—that.”

Derek scoffed. “Princess, I think we’re getting a little dramatic over some bows.”

“You’re dramatic over football games,” you shot back. “Let me have this.”

JJ and Emily were arranging candles while Penelope fussed over the lights, making sure everything had the perfect warm, golden glow. Even Rossi was involved, setting up the champagne and shaking his head fondly at your borderline-manic attention to detail.

Everything was falling into place.

Everything was perfect.

And then, the door opened.

At first, no one reacted. You were too busy adjusting the placement of the table centerpiece to notice. But then the silence hit you—thick, unnatural, the kind that only meant something had gone terribly wrong.

And that’s when you turned.

And saw Spencer.

Standing in the doorway.

Everyone. Froze.

Your heart plummeted.

“NO, NO, NO—” You lurched forward, waving your arms as if that would physically undo the moment. “YOU CAN’T BE HERE YET! YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO BE HERE UNTIL 7:05, I DID THE MATH. IT WOULD TAKE YOU APPROXIMATELY ONE HOUR TO GET HERE AND THREE MINUTES TO COLLECT YOUR THINGS FROM THE CA—”

Spencer blinked. “You… did math?”

“That’s not the point!”

Spencer looked around, taking in the flickering candles, the flowers, the absolute chaos of the team caught mid-action like deer in headlights.

“Hotch was supposed to distract you,” you accused, glaring at the universe itself.

Spencer shrugged. “Yeah, after about ten minutes of his ‘So, Reid, how’s work lately?’ routine, I figured I should leave him alone.”

You groaned. “Dammit.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You had planned this for weeks, accounted for everything, down to the minute, and yet here you were—standing in the middle of a half-finished proposal setup, Spencer staring at you like you were an anomaly he couldn’t quite solve.

But then he smiled.

Soft. Warm. Curious.

And you realized—it didn’t matter.

The plan had never mattered. Only he did.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Okay, well, this wasn’t supposed to go like this, but—” You turned, grabbed the velvet box from the table, and without any further hesitation, dropped to one knee.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

“Oh.”

And suddenly, words were spilling out of you, tumbling past your lips faster than your brain could catch up.

“Spencer, I have never met anyone like you,” you started, voice thick with emotion. “You remember every little thing I say, even if I say it once. You math carnivals just because I looked at a stuffed animal. You learned a whole language just to understand me better. You do all of these things not because you have to, but because that’s just who you are. You love me so much that it’s written into every detail of your life, and I—I just—”

Your voice broke.

Your vision blurred.

Tears streamed freely down your face, and you knew you were a mess—sniffling, shaking, soaked in emotions that should’ve been poetic but were just loud.

“There’s a reason girls don’t do this,” you hiccuped, rubbing at your eyes, utterly failing at keeping yourself together.

Spencer let out a soft, breathless laugh.

You swallowed, gripping the ring box so tight your knuckles went white. “But I figured you’d appreciate an unexpected variable for once.”

Silence.

A beat.

And then Spencer dropped to his knees too, hands framing your face with a reverence that made your breath stutter.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, and you were about to apologize, about to start rambling again, when he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “And I love you so much it terrifies me.”

Your breath caught.

And then he kissed you.

Soft, deep, sure. Like an answer. Like a promise.

Somewhere in the background, you dimly registered Penelope sobbing, Derek muttering, “Damn, pretty boy really does have it bad,” and Rossi popping open the champagne with a satisfied sigh.

But none of it mattered.

"Will you marry me, Spencer Reid?"

Spencer pulled back just enough to whisper, “Yes. Of course, yes,” and you knew—down to your bones—that this was the best equation you had ever solved.

You’d been to Rossi’s house a dozen times, but today felt different.

It was likely the balloons. Or the hand-painted “What Will It Bee?” sign Garcia insisted on bringing, complete with cartoon bees in FBI vests buzzing around a pink and blue hive. Or maybe it was the way JJ had practically bounced on her heels as she helped Henry pick wildflowers along the fence line while Will manned the grill like it was a tactical operation.

But mostly, it was Spencer. 

Because he was currently pacing behind a row of lawn chairs like someone had asked him to dismantle a nuclear bomb with a butter knife. In khakis.

“You okay, babe?” you asked gently as you walked toward him.

He paused and turned with wide eyes. “What if she hates me?”

Your mouth fell open. “You mean me? Because you just said ‘she’”

“No, no. I mean her. Our daughter. What if I don’t know how to be a good dad? What if I mess up like…like…” He ran a hand through his hair.

You reached up and took his face in your hands, brushing your thumbs over the delicate curve of his cheekbones. “Spence,” you whispered, grounding him. “You will be so loved. And so will she. You will be the best dad. I promise.”

From across the yard, Emily called out, “Don’t make out next to the potato salad, please!”

“Shut up, Emily,” you said over your shoulder, and the team snickered.

Spencer's cheeks went pink.

Rossi’s backyard looked like it had stepped straight out of a summer dream. A long table draped in a checkered cloth sat under a canopy of twinkling string lights. The grill was smoking, Jack and Henry were chasing bubbles with Penelope’s absurd bee-shaped wand, and Derek had turned the corner of the yard into an unofficial cornhole tournament.

Even Hotch had loosened his tie, a small miracle.

Garcia bounced up next to you, beaming in a bee-patterned sundress. Everything was bees with her today.  

“Okay, Queen Bee, time for the main event!” she trilled, holding up her phone to take photos. “Get your little honeycomb over to the table.”

The cake sat on a pedestal, innocent and elegant. White frosting with bees around the edge and a big fondant question mark on top.

Henry clapped his hands excitedly. “I think it’s a sister!”

Jack looked unsure. “I think it’s a baby.”

“Solid guess,” Will said.

Derek handed Spencer the knife. “You do the honors, man.”

Spencer blinked down at the tool like it was a crime scene scalpel. “Should I–uh, is there a correct way to…?”

“I’ll do it with you,” you said, lacing your fingers through his. He smiled.

As everyone gathered in a half-circle around the table, silence fell. The sun was setting in golden streaks behind the trees, casting everything in warm, saturated light.

You pressed the knife into the cake together. The blade sliced through the frosting, the layers, and..

A perfect, pink center.

The yard erupted.

Penelope squealed loud enough to alert air traffic control. JJ shrieked and practically tackled you in a hug. Derek fist-pumped and shouted, “A girl! Reid’s gonna be a girl dad!”

Spencer stood frozen, staring at the pink sponge inside the cake. His eyes flooded. Not fast tears, but slow ones, heavy, silent, and overflowing. You could see his brain working even as emotion overwhelmed him. He already knew, but this moment made it feel even more real to him.

You’d just finished passing out the slices of cake when you finally collapsed into a lawn chair under the pergola with your own piece.. JJ plopped down beside you with hers, followed by Emily, and then Penelope.

“Oh my god,” JJ said, sighing as she took a bite. “This cake is so good it should be illegal.”

Garcia raised her glass. “To the newest little BAU badass: Miss Baby Genius herself!”

The four of you clinked plastic forks and paper plates instead of glasses, and it made you laugh harder than it should’ve.

“I’m just picturing Spencer in, like… dad mode,” Emily said, smirking. “Little pigtails, tiny sneakers, and him trying to explain particle physics to a toddler.”

“Oh, he will,” JJ said knowingly. “And she’ll be the only one who actually understands him.”

“She’ll be correcting his equations by kindergarten,” Penelope added. “Just imagine her in one of those tiny corduroy jackets like him. Or suspenders. Oh my god, I’m going to cry.”

“Wait,” came Morgan’s voice from behind the pergola post, “are we talking about mini-Reid now?”

You looked up just in time to see Derek, Will, and Rossi strolling over with drinks in hand and smug expressions on their faces.

“Oh no,” you muttered playfully, “they heard us.”

“We always hear you,” Will said with a grin, settling beside JJ and stealing a bite of her cake.

“I want it on record,” Morgan announced, “that I’ve been saying for years that if Reid ever had a kid, the world would have to brace itself.”

Spencer walked up a step behind the rest, his ears pink as he held a half-eaten piece of cake in one hand and looked like he was half-considering disappearing into the rose bushes.

You looked over and caught Spencer’s expression, dazed, soft, and borderline emotional again.

“Come here,” you said gently, patting the empty spot beside you.

He slid into the chair, cake forgotten now, and leaned slightly into your side like he was anchoring himself.

“What are the odds that she outsmarts all of us before she’s even potty-trained?” Rossi asked, mostly joking.

“Oh god,” Spencer mumbled.

Derek patted him on the back. “You ready for tea parties and tiny tiaras, Pretty Boy?”

“I mean, statistically, girls are more likely to enjoy imaginative social play–”

“There it is!” Rossi groaned. “We’ve triggered the research spiral.”

“Give it five minutes, he’ll have a PowerPoint,” Penelope teased.

Spencer leaned into you a little more, squeezing your hand under the table, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

“So, Mama,” Derek said with a teasing drawl, “when’s the big day? You got a due date yet?”

You glanced at Spencer, who immediately perked up.

“December 30th,” he answered before you could speak, tone precise and proud. “Assuming a standard 280-day gestation from the last menstrual cycle—”

Everyone groaned simultaneously.

“There it is again,” Rossi into his lemonade. “Reid’s pregnancy calculator brain.”

Emily grinned. “New year, new Reid.”

JJnleaned in conspiratorially. “So what’s the plan? Hospital birth? Home birth? Water birth with mood lighting and a jazz playlist?”

“I vote water birth,” Garcia said dreamily. “You in a floral crown, Spencer holding your hand, ambient whale sounds in the background…”

“Okay,” you cut in, laughing. “We haven’t figured all that out yet, but I promise, whatever we do, it won’t involve whales.”

Spencer smiled and rubbed a gentle circle over your back. “I just want her here. Safe. However that happens.”

Rossi raised his drink again. “Well, whenever she arrives, she’s already the most anticipated baby this team’s ever known.”

You leaned your head on Spencer’s shoulder, warmth blooming in your chest.

“December 30th…” he repeated softly. “Feels like forever. And somehow, not nearly long enough.”

_____

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One was red, and had little bells on it with your name sewed into it (albeit a bit messy), and the other,  a green one with matching bells, Spencer’s name similarly scrawled upon it in white thread. You still remember last year, when he had excitedly shown you his handiwork.

He never had a reason to be excited about decorating for Christmas, but now that he had you, his holiday spirit came in full spring each year.

He looks back at you as you hang the stockings, that adorable soft smile still upon his face.

“I changed my angular approach, and significantly reduced the risk of entanglement with the lights,” he paused as he admired the tree. “Now we can plug it in!”

You shake your head and laugh. Of course Spencer would calculate how to hang up lights. 

“Okay, ready for the countdown?” you smile, still giggling as Nat King Cole’s Christmas classic croons in the background. 

Spencer smiled and took your hand, lifting it to press a feather light kiss to the back of it. 

“Ready- oh wait!” 

He rushes over to the cardboard box that held the decorations, and pulled out an angel tree topper.

You raise your eyebrows.

“An angel?”

“An angel for my angel,” he says softly, eyes locked upon yours. “This way… I can be reminded of you every time I look at the tree.” 

A slow smile curls over your lips, and a warmth that wasn’t caused by the nearby fireplace spreads from your heart to the slight curl of your toes.

You don’t know how he just said the sweetest things, like they were scientific fact. 

He stands on a small step stool, carefully placing the angel on top of the tree, with quiet precision.

“Now it’s perfect,” you whisper, gazing up at the tree.

Spencer nods as he steps off the stool.

“Perfect,” he whispers, looking at you, not his perfect placement of the tree topper.

  Your breath catches, but before you can say anything, he gently locks your fingers together and leads you over to the plug on the side of the wall.

He bends down to pick up the plug for the light, still holding your hand.

He holds it out to you.

“I did it last year,” he smiles softly. “Would you like the honors this year?”

You smile, your eyes brighter than any string of lights he could ever find.

“I’d love to,” you say with a gentle smile gracing your lips, fingertips brushing his as he hands you the plug. 

He takes a small step back, giving you space to bend down to plug it in.

As you bend down, you take a soft breath, and push the plug into the outlet.

The tree lights up almost immediately, casting shadows on your faces, and on all the furniture in the small living room. 

“Wow,” you whisper as you take Spencer's hand again. “Each year it’s so magical. But not because of just the lights.”

You turn to face him, instead of the twinkling tree. 

“It’s because of you,”

You heard his breath catch, and his eyes immediately get a little glassy. 

He blinks, trying to hide the way his eyes were misting.

“You know, before I met you..I was a bit of an Ebenezer Scrooge,” he whispers, stepping closer to cup your cheek, long fingers brushing away a strand of hair.

You laugh slightly.

“Like in The Christmas Carol?”

“Yeah,” he smiles, still stroking your cheek. “Well I wasn’t exactly how Charles Dickens portrayed him- a greedy miser but…my heart was still cold. I felt lonely, and stopped bothering putting up my mini tree on my nightstand because what was the point? I usually would work through old case files on Christmas day.”

He swallowed.

“And I don’t exactly have many fond Christmas memories from childhood. But now that I have you…it makes up for every Christmas morning my mom forgot about.”

You take a shaky breath, your own eyes getting a little watery in the light of the tree. 

He smiles, seeing the tears fill your eyes and he leans in slowly.

“Can I?” he murmurs and you nod.

“You don’t have to ask, you know,” you say as you smile shakily, soft gold light reflecting off of your eyes.

“I do because..,” he takes a breath as he brushes a strand of hair out of your face. “...I like to hear that you want this…want me.”

Then he finally leans in, slow but sure... and you melt.

His lips brush over yours, and then press more firmly as you wrap your arms around his neck.

His one hand stays cupping your cheek, while his other slides over the curve of your hip, rubbing circles into the fabric of your shirt.

His lips cradled your own with a gentleness that almost brought you to your knees.

If you never received another gift again, you’d be okay, as long as you had this. His lips on yours. His hands touching you like a sacred work of art.

When he pulls away, he brushes his lips against your cheek, causing a deep seeded warmth to fill your stomach again. 

“I hope you know that this…not just the kiss..,” he whispers, doe eyes meeting your own. “...but having you, spending time with you decorating, being with you…is the best present I could ever receive.”

His words sunk in as the tree lights glimmered, and snowflakes softly fell just beyond the window. 

The season could end, the lights could be taken down… but that would be just fine with Spencer.

Because, truthfully, all the light he really needed was the light that came from your eyes. 

*****

now i know that you love me / thank god that you love me at all

you told yourself you were better.

you reminded yourself, again and again, that recovery wasn’t supposed to be neat. it wasn’t a straight, radiant beam of progress—it was a road with bends sharp enough to bruise, potholes that rattled your bones, stretches so long you could forget you were moving at all.

still, you hadn’t expected it to feel like a circle. like the moment you finally convinced yourself you were fine, you were happy, you were better… something reached out and dragged you back to the very beginning, spinning you around until you couldn’t tell forward from backward.

it was sudden, your emotion wasn’t the product of a reaction, it wasn’t triggered, there weren't sparks that caught flame. 

no explanation for why your hair had tangled itself into a rough nest at the back of your head, why your lips were bitten raw, why your eyes felt bruised despite the hours you’d spent asleep.

when had you last showered? last really looked at yourself in the mirror? last eaten something that wasn’t ripped from a box or a crinkled wrapper? what would spencer think if he saw you like this?

you gripped the cotton of your sleep shorts—soft once, now sour with wear, well past the point of anything resembling cleanliness. you raised the hem just enough to expose a sliver of flesh. your stomach twisted, nausea climbing your ribs, your heartbeat turning violent in your ears.

was it possible to miss something that you had spent so long willing to disappear? 

the marks had once felt like labels—weak, unstable, dramatic, pathetic. even after they faded from your skin, they clung stubbornly to your mind.

your head spun as you stared at the faint, dwindling stains on your flesh. you traced your fingertips over the soft ridges of what once was—evidence that had lost its edge but never fully vanished, yet still was no longer viable. 

your brain flickered back to the early stages of your relationship with spencer. the times when you buried everything, like you were infected, contagious—convinced there was something defective in you. like your soul was made of gears grinding out of sync, stuttering through their rotations, never completing the orbit.

you loved him. you’d known it the second you met him. the second you saw him wandering the tall, creaking shelves of the little bookstore you’d managed to land a job at. you watched him then, your eyes tracking the gentle way his fingertips brushed the cracked spines of the novels lining the walls, each touch reverent, lingering, thoughtful.

you watched the way he opened a book—something old, something classic, something that suited the softness of his sweater vest. he flipped through the pages like someone browsing a magazine, yet you could tell he wasn’t skimming. each brush of his fingers carried intention. he was soaking in every word, every breath of story, as though he existed in the blank spaces between the lines.

you wondered if he could read you with the same care.

your gazed flicked over the title, you’d taken a few french classes in highschool, still the translation felt crude and alien on your tongue, syllables mangled when you whispered them aloud. of course he heard you—your awkward accent, your too-loud heartbeat, your panic when you realized he’d caught you staring at him like a creep.

who knew that the shy, gentle smile he offered—so warm, so unguarded, like it was handed to you and you alone, would bloom into something you couldn’t imagine living without? who knew that the tangent he slipped into, lips forming theories and facts you never asked for but couldn’t stop listening to, would become the thing that anchored you? who knew he would fix you?

and because of that, you could never tell him how deeply you depended on him. you knew it wasn’t healthy. you knew it rotted you from the inside. you knew one day he’d see through the mask you’d built—one you’d even convinced yourself was real. he’d realise some things aren’t fixable. that you weren’t.

he’d leave. part of you wanted him to.

you’d argued before he left for his case. something small, something insignificant, something he’d forgotten by the time he hauled his go bag into the jet. something that only festered deeper into your heart—despite the fact that you could barely remember what the decay was.

he’d stood there steady as bedrock, dependable as gravity. he saved lives while you slowly ruined your own.

you paced now, the thought of him tightening around your ribs. he’d called once, then again immediately after. you couldn’t answer. not like this. 

not when you weren’t prepared. not when the sound of his voice would shatter every barrier you’d built. spencer had always been your undoing—one word and you opened for him like a blossom desperate for sun.

he’d told you once about phototropism—how sprouts reached toward the light, how they instinctively understood that the sun would feed them, fill them, keep them alive. maybe he hadn’t said it quite like that, but that’s what you heard. that’s what you felt. you needed him. without him, you were hollow, collapsing back into old habits with no parachute.

your phone chimed again. spencer. case closed. he’d cracked it—of course he had. you wanted to hear every detail, wanted to lose yourself in the sound of his triumph, but you didn’t deserve it. you were sinking again. falling so fast you hadn’t even braced for impact.

you loved him. he deserved someone solid, not someone who buckled at the top of every climb and rolled back down the mountain again and again.

you felt like a wilted, rotted flower, eaten from the inside out, petals dry and brittle. there was no nursing you back to health. no amount of sun or water strong enough to cleanse the putrid soil at the core of your being. all that remained was to tear the stems out by the root and pray the earth might one day offer better seeds.

spencer deserved as much. he’d be home soon, you couldn’t force the burden of your current state onto him. not when he was already exhausted, he deserved to be comforted from the horrors he saw in the field, not strapped with the charity work of doing it all over again when he walked through the door. 

shower. you didn’t have the energy to even attempt at taming the mane on your scalp, opting to slick the mess back into a crooked bun and pray he wouldn’t notice you couldn’t remember the last time you’d washed it. 

teeth clean. body clean. but your mind stayed thick with fog and filth, mould clinging to every corner. what was the point of scrubbing the outside if the decay inside remained untouched?

you pulled on clothes—washed ones, ones that smelled faintly of spencer’s lilac detergent. a scent that usually soothed you now turned your stomach sour, painfully sweet, almost suffocating.

you watched your hands tremble as you slid soft joggers over your skin, skin that felt counterfeit, skin that had been scrubbed raw of all its impurities. the tainted lines were faint now, as if they’d never been there. but the memories were sharp enough to never forget.

you’d never forget what it felt like to hide yourself from him. to bury the rot under fabric and smiles. how you’d never let him see you as you truly were—bare, unfiltered, natural yet unlovely.

he knew you better than anyone, and that was exactly the problem. he kissed your marked skin like it was sacred. he loved you fiercely. he wanted you beside him always.

but he was lying to himself—painting you in colours you didn’t deserve. he saw purity where you saw stains. he held onto you even as you dragged him down. you wished he would let you go. wished he would choose a happiness you couldn’t give him.

it was selfish. you were selfish.

and yet the skip in your heart when you heard keys terrified you. because you knew you’d run back to him every time. and you knew he’d welcome you with open arms. 

you greeted spencer with a kiss the way you always did, slipping his satchel from his tired, slouched shoulders and placing it on the old armchair by the window—the same chair you’d curled yourself into only hours before, watching raindrops ripple through puddles on the street and the people who stepped over them without noticing.

you were so green with envy it hollowed you out.

still, you smiled into his chest as he kicked off his shoes. you followed him as he unravelled his scarf, hanging it beside his blazer with that habitual gentleness he didn’t even know he had.

“how was your day, angel?”

the pang in your throat was suffocating. he always gave you a name so soft, so clean, so undeserved. the way he said it felt holy, and letting it land on you felt blasphemous—like you were staining something sacred.

you swallowed the lump lodged in your neck, forcing it down until it sat heavy on your lungs, strangling your heart. breathing hurt. speaking hurt more, but you managed.

“it was fine—you know, the usual.”

you hummed and followed him onto the couch, letting him pull you against his side. you drank in his warmth, taking it greedily, desperately, like it could melt the cold eating you alive.

he heard the crack in your voice the moment you settled. you knew he did. he always did. he heard the stutter of your heartbeat, felt the tremor in your hands. still, he only pressed a soft kiss to your forehead and smiled into your hairline.

you pretended. pretended you were the same person he’d left. pretended you could survive without falling apart in the empty spaces he left behind.

“angel, your hair’s all tangled—what happened?”

there it was again. the name. it rang through you like a warning bell, rattling your bones. you swore you could feel the heavens parting, waiting to strike you down for taking something pure and dragging it through your decay.

“oh—i guess i just haven’t had the chance to manage it is all. i’m a bit tired.”

you’d done little but sleep while he was gone. sleep and stare at the ceiling and think of him. how he was. how he is. how you aren’t.

“would you like me to run you a bath? i’d love to brush it.”

spencer loved your hair. he loved running his fingers through the strands, twirling curls around his knuckles, taking his time with every knot. he loved taking care of you. 

though right now, the thought twisted inside you until it felt like pity—was that how he saw you? helpless? fragile? someone who needed him even after he’d returned from a gruelling case?

“oh, it’s okay—you must be exhausted… how was it? the case, i mean.”

spencer caught every hesitation in your breath. every pause. every slight hitch. every trace of something you were trying to swallow down before it reached him.

he turned to look at you—the way your eyes refused his, the way you blinked the sting away, the way you kept folding inward.

“i’m fine, let me take care of you.”

spencer always won.

you kept your gaze on his face as he undressed you. you raised your arms when he asked but didn’t dare look down; you couldn’t stomach it. you watched the way his lips parted on a sigh, the subtle twitch of his nose as he breathed, the constellation of beauty marks across his jaw.

you loved to kiss him there. to bury your face in his collar and map the stars on his skin with your mouth.

the memory made your stomach churn as you broke eye contact. you looked toward the wall—anywhere but the mirror, as you stepped into the warm bathwater, immediately folding inward, knees pulled tight to your chest.

you stayed curled like that. you wouldn’t dare unclench, not without bubbles to hide behind, not when you were already fighting the ugly pull of old comforts, old habits.

you barely noticed when spencer began working through your hair—gentle hands massaging product through the strands, brushing slowly, carefully, from end to root until it moved like silk and he could work his fingers across your scalp.

you leaned into his touch, greedy for it. taking what you could before confessing the extent of your sin.

he talked as he worked—stories of the days he’d spent away from you, the case told lightly. he asked about your time apart; you gave short answers, masking emotion with feigned exhaustion.

spencer only smiled and pressed his lips to your shoulder, breathing you in and looping his arms around your damp frame, clothes be damned.

it was soft. impossibly tender. so him, so pure, so perfect it hurt more than anything.

you couldn’t hold back anymore.

the tears came hot and heavy, swelling, spilling, dripping from your lashes, leaving your eyes swollen and raw. you cried—ugly, shaking sobs that tore themselves free without warning. over what? a kiss? a touch? something you didn’t deserve?

you didn’t hear him at first. not until you felt him turn you toward him, pulling you into his chest, soaking the floor and his slacks without a second thought.

he held you close, cooed quietly, stroked your hair and rubbed your back in that way that always unravelled you. you felt exposed, raw—skin, soul, everything laid bare before the one person you trusted most.

“i don’t deserve you.”

the confession slipped out, barely a whisper, muffled by the wet fabric of his button-up. you hadn’t even realized you’d said it aloud.

spencer eased you back just enough to see you, truly see you, face to face for what felt like the first time in years. and his gaze—god, his gaze, held only sincerity, only warmth, only love. no disgust. no disappointment. no shame.

“don’t you ever say—or think that again.”

his voice didn’t rise, didn’t waver. it didn’t need to. the firmness in it settled over you like a blanket, heavy enough to ground you, gentle enough not to crush.

you blinked up at him through wet lashes, breath catching as he cupped your cheeks with hands still slick from the bathwater. his thumbs brushed the tears from your skin, clearing the storm. 

“spence—”

your voice cracked, betraying the ache in your chest. you swallowed hard, but the lump refused to move. 

“i just… i—”

“i know,” 

he whispered, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your damp forehead. 

“you don’t have to explain it.”

but you wanted to. you wanted to empty yourself out, to spill every ugly secret in your chest just so he could see the rot and run. that would be fair. that would be right.

you brushed your knuckles against your eyes, trying to hide the fresh wave of tears rising, salty and hot. 

“i’m such a mess, spencer. you come home after saving someone’s life and i’m—” 

your breath stuttered, 

“—i’m falling apart over nothing.”

“angel…” 

his voice was a low plea. 

“don’t do that to yourself.”

you let your head fall forward, forehead pressing into the place between his collarbones. he was warm. solid. unfairly steady. 

spencer’s hands coasted down your back, fingers splayed, touch reverent and grounding all at once. 

“it wasn’t nothing. it never is.”

“but it feels like it should be,” 

you whispered. 

“i should be better than this.”

his breath hitched, so quiet you almost missed it. then he rested his chin lightly on your head, as though anchoring you in place.

“being better doesn’t mean never hurting,” 

he murmured. 

“it means letting someone hold you when you do.”

you squeezed your eyes shut. his words dug into you, prying at places you’d tried so hard to keep sealed. you understood that he knew this all too well, that he’d learnt these lessons not too shy of meeting you—but it didn’t bring comfort so much as it brought more doubt he should be with you. 

“i hate that you see me like this,” 

you confessed, still choking over each word, gasping over every other syllable.

“i hate that you have to.”

he pulled back just enough to look at you again, his wet curls falling messily against his forehead. 

“and i love that you trust me enough to,” 

he said plainly, without hesitation.

“you don’t have to be composed for me. you don’t have to pretend. i want you—exactly as you are. even on the days you’re convinced you’re unlovable.”

“i’m not—i’m not good for you.”

the sincerity in his expression wavered, briefly, like he’d been struck in the chest. then he shook his head with a fragile, devastating softness.

“you are the very soul of my life, my reason for trying—my reason for living.” 

he whispered. 

“do you know that?”

your breath trembled.

he lifted his hand, brushing your hair behind your ear, fingertips skimming your cheek like he could dust the sadness away.

“i don’t want a perfect version of you, i don’t want the polished pieces you think you’re supposed to show me. i want the real you. all of you. even the parts you hide from yourself.”

you felt your ribs tighten, like your body couldn’t bear the weight of being seen so clearly.

“i feel like i’m… rotting from the inside out.”

you admitted, voice small, unsteady. the truth laid out in front of him.

spencer didn’t flinch. he didn’t look away. he didn’t offer empty reassurance.

he only slid his thumb beneath your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his.

“then let me help you grow back, not fix you, you’re not broken. just… let me be here. with you. through all of it.”

your chest caved in on itself.

because you believed him. 

When you officially moved in with Spencer, the transition wasn’t left to chance. You both sat down one evening, armed with notebooks, pens, and an unspoken understanding that your years of friendship had given you insight into each other’s habits and irritations. Together, you established a series of rules, not as rigid commandments, but as gentle guidelines to preserve both your sanity and the delicate balance of your friendship now complicated by shared walls and a shared fridge.

Some rules were mundane but necessary: alternating dish duty, Spencer insisted on washing dishes immediately to avoid bacterial growth, while you preferred soaking and scrubbing in batches; scheduling grocery runs so neither of you ended up with expired milk or an overstock of snacks; agreeing who would clean the bathroom and how often, down to specifying that the mirror must be streak-free. Other rules were more subtle, almost subconscious: the soft acknowledgment that he could arrange his books and papers by color, height, or chronology without interference; that you could leave your half-finished knitting projects lying around for a day or two without judgment; that quiet evenings with separate hobbies were sacred, and the apartment needed a clear “no work, no case or office talk” policy on Sunday mornings.

But there was one rule that hadn’t been written down.

The one both of you understood instinctively: respect each other’s rooms. Your bedroom was your sanctuary, and his was his. It wasn’t about locking doors or forbidding entry. It was about trust, about giving each other the space to retreat when the world outside became too much. Spencer, more than anyone, understood how important solitude was. He knew how much comfort could be found in a room that smelled like your own laundry detergent, where the light hit just the way you liked it, where the chaos or order belonged entirely to you.

Which was why, the night he stepped into your room, he hesitated at the threshold for a long moment, hand lingering on the frame as though entering without asking might shatter something fragile. He hadn’t meant to break the unspoken rule. He’d only been looking for a book, the one you had borrowed weeks ago and promised he could use for reference again. Your door had been left ajar, the soft glow of your bedside lamp still on, though you weren’t inside. And that was the only reason he allowed himself the breach: a quick slip in, retrieve the book, and slip back out before it even counted.

Luckily the book was exactly where he expected: on your desk, stacked neatly atop a few others. But beside it, his eyes caught on something else before he could stop himself: a glossy brochure folded in half, the name of a city several states away printed in bold letters. Next to it, a piece of paper filled with your handwriting.

He shouldn’t have looked. He knew that. And yet, his gaze darted over it almost instinctively, words registering faster than he could turn away.

Pros: Career growth. A prestigious program. Networking. New experiences. Independence.

His brow furrowed. What program? What career move?

Then his eyes fell to the other side of the page. Cons. There was only one word written there. One name.

Cons: Spencer.

He felt his stomach tighten, his hand gripping the edge of your desk as though steadying himself against the sudden rush of confusion. An internship. In another city. You hadn’t mentioned a word of it. Not in your late-night conversations over tea, not in your offhand chatter in the kitchen, not in any of the countless moments you’d shared the last few days. Nothing. And yet, here it was, this huge opportunity, something that could change the course of your life, and he’d learned about it by accident, by stumbling across the evidence like some poorly trained detective.

But more bewildering than the secrecy was the list itself. All those logical, practical pros lined up neatly against a single, inexplicable con: his name. Why him? What did that mean? Did you see him as the anchor weighing you down, keeping you from taking a leap forward? Or…was there another reason you couldn’t bring yourself to go and be honest?

Spencer’s mind raced with possibilities, each more tangled than the last. And for the first time in a long time, he found himself completely unmoored, standing in your room with a slip of paper that felt heavier than any case file he’d ever held.

He carefully set everything back exactly as it had been, retreating with the same quiet reverence he’d entered with. But as he closed your door behind him, the confusion stayed, pressing against his ribs, refusing to let go.

Why, why, why?

Spencer didn’t go back to his room right away. The silence of the apartment felt heavier than usual, like the walls themselves were aware of the secret tucked in your desk. He lingered in the living room, pacing once, twice, then finally settling on the couch with the book he’d retrieved resting on his knees, unopened. His fingers tapped restlessly against the spine, a nervous rhythm that betrayed how frayed his composure had become.

He told himself he would wait. That was the logical course of action. You’d come home eventually, he’d hear the familiar scrape of your key in the lock, the soft clatter of your bag landing on the console table, the almost imperceptible hum you carried when you kicked off your shoes. You’d sit down across from him, and he’d ask gently about the brochure, about the list, about why his name had been the only “con.” You’d laugh at his overthinking, explain it away, reassure him. He needed you to reassure him.

But the minutes stretched thin, then thinner.

At 9:45, he glanced at the door when footsteps echoed in the hall only for them to fade past your apartment. At 10:11, he checked his phone, though you hadn’t messaged. At 10:29, he made tea he didn’t drink, steam curling untouched in the quiet air. By 10:37, when his phone finally buzzed, he nearly fumbled it in his haste.

Your name lit the screen.

Hey, don’t wait up for me. Ended up going out with the girls. We’re crashing at Claire’s, it’s just easier than coming back so late. I’ll see you tomorrow :)

He read it once. Then again. And then a third time, as though repetition might alter the words.

On any other night, he wouldn’t have thought twice. You had friends. You had a life outside these walls. But tonight, with the knowledge of that folded brochure and the sharp, lonely simplicity of that word echoing in his chest, the message felt different. Casual. Distant. A reminder that there were entire parts of your life he wasn’t invited into, entire conversations you had without him.

His stomach tightened.

Why hadn’t you told him about the internship? You told him nearly everything. Mundane details about your day, frustrations with coworkers, the small joys of a pastry you’d found at a new café. He knew your habits, your favorite teas, the way you liked your socks folded. But this monumental decision, something that could alter the course of your future, you had kept from him. You had written his name on a list instead of saying it out loud.

The rational explanation flickered in his mind: maybe you were protecting him. Maybe you didn’t want him to feel guilty about holding you back. Maybe you weren’t ready to say it until you had decided. But the fragile, insecure part of him whispered something far worse: maybe you didn’t trust him with this. Maybe you didn’t see him as someone who deserved to know. Maybe sharing a home with him made you get tired of his presence.

He stared at your message again, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He typed: Okay, have fun. Be safe. Deleted it. Typed: Wish you’d told me you weren’t coming home tonight. Deleted it. Typed only your name. Deleted that, too. Finally, he set the phone face down on the coffee table, the silence of the apartment pressing in like a weight.

The longer he sat there, the more his mind unraveled. Were you already planning your life without him? Had you written his name under “Cons” because he was nothing more than an obstacle, a tether keeping you from what you truly wanted? Or…was it the opposite? Did his presence mean so much to you that it outweighed a list of glittering opportunities? He couldn’t know. And that uncertainty hollowed him out from the inside.

By midnight, he hadn’t moved from the couch. His tea had long gone cold. His palms itched with the urge to pick up the phone and call you, just to hear your voice, just to gauge the truth hidden beneath your casual text. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. The unspoken rule between you—respecting each other’s spaces, each other’s choices—kept his hand frozen.

Still, as the hours dragged into early morning, one thought gnawed at him relentlessly: for the first time in your friendship, he wasn’t sure where he stood and why this was hurting him so much without a real answer.

By 6:30 a.m., the apartment was bathed in the soft, pale light of dawn, the city stretching and yawning outside the window. Spencer hadn’t slept. He hadn’t even really moved from the couch, though his body ached from sitting in one position for hours. The brochure and your list lay hidden, tucked carefully between the pages of a notebook on your desk, as if he could somehow preserve both the secret and the fragile balance of his feelings.

But the BAU never waited for personal crises, and today, a case file was already waiting for him. A young woman had gone missing, her profile chillingly familiar in its methodical cruelty. The type of work he excelled at, the work he usually threw himself into to soothe an overactive mind…but today, it felt impossibly distant, a blur beyond the fog of his own uncertainty.

He dressed mechanically, straightening his tie more than once, adjusting the collar of his shirt until it felt like armor. Each movement was deliberate, but his mind wasn’t on statistics or behavioral analysis. It was on you. On that list. On his name written as a con in something that should have been a private decision, and yet, somehow, it now felt like a sentence.

As he walked out the door, briefcase in hand, he ran through possible conversations in his head. Should he ask you about it immediately? Wait until later? Could he even frame it without sounding accusatory, or worse, insecure? His usual logical frameworks faltered.

At the car, he paused, staring at the empty passenger seat, the one you had so often occupied when schedules aligned just so and he could drive you to work, stealing more time together. Normally, that thought would have been comforting, grounding him in a quiet familiarity. Today, it felt like a sharp reminder of absence, of distance, and the uncertainty looming between you. The streets blurred past him as he drove; every red light, every stop sign, became a moment to reconsider what he knew, what you hadn’t told him, and what it all meant for the fragile bond he cherished more than he could put into words.

By the time he arrived at his workplace, the world snapped back into its usual rhythm. The hum of computers, the rustle of case files, and the low murmur of familiar voices echoing across the bullpen. He greeted Garcia with a distracted smile, nodded at Morgan as he passed, but the night still clung to him like static, heavy and unshakable. His brain couldn’t stop circling one thing, one sentence, one word.

Cons.

Your list. Your handwriting. His name under that heading.

He tried to bury himself in work, in data, in facts that didn’t ache, but even the letters on the file blurred into questions. What did it mean that you hadn’t told him about it? Why had you hidden it, when you told him everything, from the books you loved to the songs you played when you couldn’t sleep? Why did it hurt so much?

He knew the shape of loss better than most people. But this wasn’t loss, not exactly. It was something smaller, quieter, and infinitely more personal.

“Earth to Reid.”

Morgan’s voice broke through the fog, rich with amusement and just enough concern to make Spencer look up. He was standing there with a cup of coffee, leaning casually against the desk like he always did, like gravity had rules for everyone but him.

“What is it?” Derek asked, grinning. “Coffee overdose? Bad dreams? Or did you finally realize you actually like math and philosophy?”

Spencer blinked, then forced a faint smile. “Neither,” he murmured. “It’s just…”

He hadn't intended to talk about it. But with Morgan, things tended to get out of hand...perhaps because he never asked for details, he just listened, and as a good profiler, he already knew everything. So Spencer told him, bit by bit. About his discovery, the list, the fact that you hadn't come home the night before and that's why you two hadn't been able to talk. He didn't tell him how his chest had tightened when he realized his name was on the paper, but as always, Morgan didn't need him to. He had heard it anyway. In the pauses, in the uncertainty, in the way Spencer's voice softened every time he said your name and his cheeks flushed slightly.

It was painfully obvious.

When he finished, Derek took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “So this is because she made a list,” he said slowly.

He nodded. “Because she wrote my name under cons.”

That earned him one of Derek’s signature looks, his eyebrows raised, head tilted, halfway between disbelief and amusement.

“Reid,” he said, dragging the word out. “You ever considered maybe it’s not what you think it is?”

Spencer frowned, confused. “Cons means the negative aspects of something. Disadvantages. It’s—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Derek interrupted with a laugh. “I got your dictionary definition. But come on, man. You think she wrote your name down like you’re some sort of downside? Please.”

Spencer looked at him, searching for something to hold onto, but his friend just smiled knowingly.

“Maybe,” Derek continued, “she wrote your name because you’re a factor. Because she actually cares what happens between you two.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Spencer muttered. “Why would I be a factor?”

“Because, kid,” Morgan said simply, “you’re the reason she doesn’t want to leave.”

That made Spencer pause. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of a paperclip, twisting it until it bent.

“You’re blind,” Derek went on, shaking his head. “You don’t see it, do you? The two of you…you play house. You drive her to her work, she brings you food, you know every little thing about her, she fixes your tie when you forget and you always mention it. Hell, you talk about her more than you talk about any case we’ve ever worked.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it.

Morgan smiled, softening. “That’s not just sharing an apartment, kid. That’s home.”

The word hit him somewhere deep. Home.

For a long moment, Spencer couldn’t speak. He tried to rationalize, to reframe, to gather the scattered thoughts clattering inside his head, but nothing fit anymore.

He thought about the mornings you’d show up at the apartment with coffee and that small smile that always made his chest feel too tight. About the way you’d sit beside him on the couch, half-asleep, your head against his shoulder by accident, the TV flickering blue light across your faces. About how, on nights when the noise in his head was too much, your voice could quiet it without even trying.

He’d called it comfort. Routine. Familiarity. But maybe it wasn’t that simple.

Maybe he’d built his whole life around someone without realizing it.

He remembered how you always left a note when you went home early, just a post-it with something small written on it, Don’t forget to eat, or Water your plant, genius. He remembered the way his heart broke when he found the list in your room, and how something in his stomach had sunk before he could stop it.

He had been told himself it was because he’d miss his best friend. Because change was difficult. Because people always left.

But oh…Morgan was right. It wasn’t just that.

If he was honest, really honest, it scared him. The idea of losing you in any way. The thought of you being somewhere he couldn’t reach. Of someone else hearing you talk the way he did.

He blinked, realizing Morgan was still watching him, patient but knowing.

“You’re quiet,” he said softly. “That’s not a good sign.”

Spencer swallowed, staring into the dark swirl of the coffee. “I just…never thought about it that way. With that word.”

“Home?” Morgan prompted. Then, after a pause, “Or love?”

“Love?” Spencer frowned, like the word didn’t fit in his mouth. “I didn’t say that word.”

“But I know you think in that word,” Morgan said gently, smiling like he already knew how this conversation would end.

Spencer wanted to disagree, to argue on a technicality but the words wouldn’t come. Because the truth was…he didn’t know if he did think in that word. He wasn’t sure he even knew what it really meant.

He knew definitions, of course. A complex neurochemical process involving dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin—

He’d read papers, studies, theories about attachment, about how people bonded, why they stayed, why they left. He could cite data on how love affected the brain, how it mimicked addiction, how it wasn’t rational or sustainable in its early stages.

But none of that helped him feel it. Not the way other people seemed to. Not the way Morgan said it.

Love, to him, had always been something abstract, something he could explain but not hold. Something everyone around him seemed to understand instinctively while he stood just outside of it, trying to translate a language he’d never been taught.

And now, sitting here, thinking of you—the sound of your voice, the quiet way you listened when he rambled, the way your presence settled the static in his mind—something inside him ached. Not logically. Not scientifically. Just…achingly.

Was that love?

He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He looked up again, trying to mask the confusion behind a small, awkward smile. “I think I’m…not very good at that word.”

Morgan huffed a soft laugh, clapping his shoulder. “Most people aren’t. You’ll figure it out, genius.”

And then he walked away, leaving Spencer sitting in the faint hum of the bullpen, surrounded by the rhythm of typing, the low murmur of conversation, the sharp scent of burnt coffee.

He stared at his hands, the cooling mug, the blinking light on the monitor, all these familiar things. But nothing felt the same. Not after hearing that word out loud.

Love.

For the first time in all his years at the BAU, Spencer Reid left the office before everyone else.

He didn’t even give a proper excuse, just gathered his things in silence, mumbled a distracted goodbye, and walked out into the cool dusk like a man moving on autopilot.

By the time he reached his building, the world outside had settled into that in-between stillness: too late for the afternoon rush, too early for the night to really begin. The hallway lights hummed overhead, their flicker catching on the polished floor. Every small sound—his shoes against the tile, the faint jingle of his keys—seemed too loud, too sharp against the heavy quiet pressing in around him.

He wasn’t sure what had driven him home so early. Maybe exhaustion. Maybe the way Morgan’s words kept looping through his mind, each one unraveling another piece of the careful order he’d built around you. Or maybe it was the ache sitting under his ribs.

When he turned the key and pushed open the door, the first thing that hit him was the faint trace of your perfume. It made something in his chest tighten instantly.

You were there.

Oh no.

Standing by the couch, one hand clutching your coat, the other adjusting an earring. Your hair was curled softly, brushing your shoulders, and your lipstick caught the low light in a quiet kind of way that made his throat go dry.

You froze when you saw him. The coat slipped slightly down your arm, your lips parting in surprise.

“Spencer?” you said softly, blinking at him. “You’re home early.”

He blinked, trying to steady his thoughts, but his gaze was already caught by the way the soft gold of your earrings glinted when you turned toward him, by the faint shimmer of eyeshadow dusted across your eyelids. You looked beautiful. You always did, but tonight there was something deliberate about it. Something in the way your lipstick was perfectly set, your hair just right. Like you’d taken your time. Like you were leaving for somewhere that mattered

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice coming out rougher than intended. “Uh…we wrapped up early."

You smiled, polite and warm, but there was a small hesitation in it, the kind you gave when you weren’t sure where a conversation was heading. “That’s good. You never get to leave before sunset."

He nodded, but he didn’t move. His bag was still slung over his shoulder, his hands hanging uselessly by his sides.

“You look…” His throat caught before he could finish. The word beautiful sat heavy on his tongue, it was too intimate, too revealing. “Nice,” he said instead, and immediately hated the word for how small it sounded compared to what he meant.

You blinked, then gave a soft laugh, the kind that lifted the tension for just a second. “Thanks. I have plans tonight."

“Plans,” he echoed, his voice almost a whisper.

You nodded, slipping into your coat. “A friend invited me out. Just dinner."

Something shifted in him then, not jealousy, not really, but something close. A dull ache blooming slow and steady under his ribs, spreading until it filled his chest. He didn’t know why it stung so much. You were allowed to go out, to laugh with other people, to fill your life with more than books and takeout and quiet nights in with him. He knew that. He did.

And yet, standing there in the doorway, watching you adjust your collar and grab your bag, watching you leave, it hit him that somewhere along the way. Your routines had become his constants. The small, ordinary things woven themselves into his life so quietly he hadn’t noticed how dependent he’d become on them.

On you.

He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sounds…nice,” he murmured.

You gave him a quick glance over your shoulder, softening a little when you caught the tension in his posture, the way his hands hung loosely at his sides, fingers twitching like they wanted something to hold on to.

“It’s nothing big,” you said gently. “I’ll be back before late. I left you some pasta on the stove, by the way.”

Of course you had.

It was such a small thing but it landed heavier than it should have. He could picture it perfectly: the neatly covered pot, the careful way you’d written a note on a napkin, probably reminding him to eat. You always thought ahead, always filled the quiet spaces in his life without him asking.

And now, standing there watching you put on your coat, he felt Morgan’s voice echoing in his head.

You two play house, kid.

He’d brushed it off earlier, insisted it wasn’t like that. That it was just comfort, convenience, the rhythm of two people who’d learned how to share space. But now…now he wasn’t so sure.

You were halfway into your coat when the words slipped out of him before he could stop them.

“Who’s the friend?”

You froze, your hands pausing mid-motion. “What?”

“The one you’re meeting,” he said quickly, trying for casual, trying to sound unaffected.

“Oh.” You blinked, then smiled lightly. “Just someone from the art center. You’d like him, actually. He—”

“Him?”

It came out instinctively, sharper than he intended. The syllable hung there between you, small and heavy.

You turned to face him fully this time, brows knitting, voice soft. “It’s just dinner.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came. Just the pulse of something unsteady in his chest, the sudden weight of his own voice echoing in his ears.

He wasn’t the kind of person who asked questions like that. He knew it, knew the line between curiosity and jealousy, between care and possession. He wasn’t your boyfriend. He wasn’t even sure what name this thing between you would take if he tried to give it one.

But still, the thought of you at dinner with someone else—laughing, tucking your hair behind your ear, talking with that spark in your eyes—it hit him in a way nothing logical could explain.

Maybe that was the problem.

Maybe he’d spent too long pretending not to see what was right in front of him: the late-night talks that lasted until dawn, the quiet domestic rituals that looked suspiciously like a life shared, the way you always said we instead of I.

Almost everything between you was almost something.

Almost romantic.

Almost intimate.

Almost a life.

And for the first time, he realized how much the almost hurt.

You stepped closer then, your expression softening as your eyes searched his face. “Are you okay?"

He hesitated. His hands curled slightly at his sides, knuckles whitening as if the truth might slip out if he didn’t hold on to something. “Yeah,” he lied quietly. “Just…tired."

You didn’t look convinced. You never were when it came to him.

“Get some rest,” you murmured, your voice softer now, the kind of softness that felt like care disguised as habit. “You’ve been working too hard again."

You smiled, that gentle, apologetic kind of smile that always seemed to bruise something in his chest.

“Goodnight, Spencer,” you said softly, already halfway through the door.

“Goodnight,” he managed, the word barely more than a breath.

The door shut with a soft click, and the lock slid into place, too loud in the silence that followed.

For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at the space you’d left behind. The air still held you: your perfume, your warmth, the faint echo of your voice. It felt like standing in the ghost of a home that wasn’t his anymore.

Eventually, he moved to the kitchen table. The chair creaked as he sat, the sound oddly final in the empty room. The plate of pasta sat untouched, steam long since gone cold.

He looked at the empty seat across from him, the one you always filled without thinking, the one that still held the shape of your absence. He swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

Spencer didn’t just miss you when you were gone. He ached for you.

It was close to 10:15 when the faint click of the lock turning startled him.

Spencer blinked, head snapping toward the sound. For a moment, he thought he might’ve imagined it, the quiet of the apartment had settled so heavily that even the air seemed to hum. Then the door creaked open, a soft rush of cool night air spilling into the warmth of the room.

He hadn’t realized how long he’d been sitting there. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, indifferent, marking time he’d stopped keeping track of. The half-eaten plate of pasta sat forgotten on the table, its sauce congealed and dull under the low kitchen light. A book lay open in front of him, a paragraph mid-sentence, the same one he’d been staring at for almost an hour. His eyes had traced the words over and over without seeing them, mind running in quiet, circular loops that led nowhere.

And then, there you were.

You stepped inside, your coat still wrapped around you, the collar turned up against the cold. Your hair was slightly tousled from the night air, curls loosening where the wind had caught them. The faint scent of the city clung to you, something like rain on pavement and a trace of the perfume he could recognize anywhere.

You paused when you saw him, surprise flickering across your face. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. The door clicked shut behind you, sealing the outside world away, leaving just the two of you in the muted quiet of the apartment.

“You’re back early,” he said before he could stop himself.

You looked up, smiling faintly, though something tired tugged at the edges of it. “Yeah,” you sighed, kicking off your shoes. “Dinner was…boring. I just—” you shrugged, “—wanted to come home.”

Home.

The word shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did, but it landed somewhere deep, somewhere raw in the hollow part of his chest that had been echoing since you left.

Spencer shifted in his chair, pretending to straighten the napkin beside the plate just to give his hands something to do. He watched as you hung your coat over the back of a chair, your fingers brushing absently at a strand of hair that had come loose. The kitchen light caught the faint shimmer of your lipstick, now slightly smudged, and the soft exhaustion in your posture said more than your words had.

Your eyes flicked toward the table, catching on the half-eaten pasta and the barely touched glass of water. Your brows lifted, and your voice dropped a little. “You didn’t eat?"

He hesitated, throat tight. “Not really hungry."

You stepped closer, the floor creaking softly under your weight. “Rough day?”

“Something like that,” he murmured. His voice came out low, rougher than he meant it to, like it had been sitting unused for too long.

The apartment was quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty, but pregnant with all the things left unsaid, the small, hovering weight of moments that had slipped past unnoticed. Even the hum of the refrigerator seemed louder in contrast, a soft, mechanical reminder that the world outside still turned while they lingered here, suspended.

You reached for the plate, your fingers brushing the edge of the ceramic as if it might carry some unspoken meaning. Spencer’s hand twitched ever so slightly, a brief reflex as though he might stop you from touching it, then fell back to the table, rigid for a heartbeat before loosening again.

“You can leave it,” he said quickly, his voice too sharp in the soft quiet. “I’ll…I’ll clean up later."

You studied him, head tilting just enough to catch the lines of fatigue around his eyes, the faint crease between his brows. “You sure? You look—” you paused, searching for the right word. “—off.”

Spencer gave a half-smile, polite but fragile, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine."

You didn’t believe him. You never did when he said it like that. Still, you let it go, maybe sensing he didn’t want to talk, maybe respecting the quiet he seemed to need. Instead, you slipped into the chair across from him, folding your legs beneath you in that way you always did when it was just the two of you, comfortable, casual, but intimate in a way that made the space between you feel smaller.

The silence stretched again, gentler this time, but somehow heavier, charged with things neither of you dared voice.

Spencer watched as you rested your chin in the palm of your hand, fingers curled lightly, your elbow leaning on the table like you’d anchored yourself there. The faint smudge of lipstick still lingered on your mouth, soft and imperfect, and your eyeliner had faded slightly at the corners, making your eyes look both tired and impossibly expressive.

He should have looked away. He should have focused on the plate, on the book open in front of him, on anything other than you. But he couldn’t. Every detail pulled him in the soft arch of your brow, the tilt of your head, the quiet weight of your presence in the chair across from him.

He felt the familiar pull of longing, slow and insistent, creeping beneath his ribs. It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible, but it grew with each breath he took in your proximity, each glance he stole when he thought you weren’t watching.

“You really didn’t have fun?” he asked quietly, his voice rough around the edges, a little strangled, like he’d been holding it in for hours.

You shook your head, a tired smile tugging at your lips. “No. The guy was so performative. You know…those conversations where no one’s really listening, just waiting for their turn to speak?"

He nodded. He knew exactly the kind. He’d seen it countless times, the empty glances, the false laughter, the subtle hierarchies of attention.

“I kept thinking,” you continued, fingers twisting the edge of a napkin between them, “that I’d rather be here. With you. Watching a movie, arguing about whether I overwater the plants, just…this.”

Spencer’s breath caught, soft but audible. You didn’t seem to notice or maybe you did, and chose not to acknowledge it. The subtle way your eyes lingered on him, the quiet inflection in your tone, the faint scent of your perfume, it all pressed in, small but relentless.

He wanted to ask why. Why you’d rather be here, why his name had been written under “cons,” why all the little moments between you felt like they were building toward something neither of you dared to say aloud.

But instead, his words came out uneven, hesitant: “Why’d you go, then?”

You gave a faint, almost wistful smile, eyes lowering as if the answer was both too simple and too complicated. “I…don’t know. I thought it might help me think.”

“Think…about?” he prompted, leaning forward slightly, as though closing the distance would let him catch the meaning before it slipped away.

You hesitated, breath softening, and finally murmured, “Things.”

The word was light, but he heard the weight beneath it. The internship. The one opportunity that had been dangling like a thread between you both, now knotted in his chest.

Something inside him tightened, a small, sudden ache, as if the room had shrunk around him. And for the first time that evening, he allowed himself to acknowledge the truth: he wasn’t just worried about the internship, or the list, or the distance it could create. He was worried about losing you.

You looked up at him then, and for a moment, neither of you looked away.

The lamp over the table hummed faintly, casting a soft amber halo across your face. It caught the shimmer of your eyeliner, the faint smudge at the corner of your lip where your lipstick had worn off. Spencer’s gaze lingered there, not on purpose, but because he couldn’t seem to stop himself. There was a small tremor in your breath, the kind that happens when silence feels like it’s holding its own breath, waiting for someone to speak first.

“Spencer?” You said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “Are we okay?”

The question landed softly, but it rippled through him like a pulse, steady and inescapable.

He blinked, caught completely off guard. “Of course we are,” he said, too fast, his tone too smooth, the kind of reflex he used in interrogation rooms, not living rooms. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

You studied him, eyes narrowing just slightly, as if you were trying to read the fine print of something he’d written but never said aloud. He could almost feel it, your gaze tracing over the cracks in his calm, the tightness in his jaw, the quiet tremor in his hands that he tried to hide beneath the table.

“You just seem…” you began, your voice softer now, more careful. “Different.”

He swallowed hard, eyes dropping to the table. The light caught the rim of his half-empty glass, distorting the reflection. “Just tired.” And in love with you.

“Right,” you said after a beat. You didn’t push, you never did when it came to him.

You leaned back in your chair, exhaling through a small laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You know,” you said lightly, rubbing the back of your neck, “I think I’ll wash my face and get into pajamas. I’m done pretending to be social for the day.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, a hint of a smile ghosting across his lips. “That sounds...nice,” he murmured. Then, after a beat that stretched a little too long, he added softly, “But…can I ask you something?”

You paused, head tilting, your expression curious and open. “Of course.”

He hesitated, his fingers curling against the edge of the table as if grounding himself. The question sat heavy on his tongue, caught somewhere between logic and longing, a thought that had been circling his mind for weeks but never dared to take form until now.

"Why don’t we ever…hug?” he asked finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Or...anything, really. You hug everyone. You always have.”

For a second, you just stared at him, surprised not by the question itself but by how quietly vulnerable it sounded coming from him. Then your gaze softened, the faintest smile curving your mouth. “Because you don’t like it.”

Spencer blinked, caught off guard. “You mean—”

“I know you don’t like being touched,” you said gently, your tone almost apologetic, as if explaining something you’d known for a long time. “You’ve told me stories about it. You’re careful with people, with germs, with space, with everything. And I never wanted to make you uncomfortable.”

He looked down at his hands, the long fingers folded together, pale against the warm wood of the table. He traced the faint lines of his knuckles, the steady tremor of his breath, feeling something in him sink and expand at the same time.

You had built a boundary around him, one he hadn’t even noticed was there.

He wondered suddenly how many moments you’d wanted to reach for him and hadn’t. How many times he thought you didn’t like him close and wasn’t true. How many times your hand had paused in the air, halfway to his shoulder, halfway to comfort.

Because of him. Because he was a weird guy.

When he finally looked up, his voice was small, uncertain. “You shouldn’t have to do that.”

You smiled faintly, not sad, exactly, but tender in that way that always made him feel seen. “It’s not a problem, Spencer,” you said quietly. “I get to be close to you in other ways. That’s enough.”

He wanted to tell you that it wasn’t. That lately, nothing felt like enough.and and

You turned away to hang your coat, and in the soft rustle of fabric, he heard the quietest sigh, one that felt too heavy for the small act of setting something down. The sound stayed with him, hauntingly human.

When you turned back, your hair had fallen loose over one shoulder, your eyes reflecting the dim light like something familiar and faraway all at once. You looked at him for a long time.

Then, softly, you said, “I could hug you, you know. If you wanted.”

He blinked, startled, lifting his head to meet your eyes. His heart stuttered, an uneven beat that felt too loud in the quiet apartment.

You hesitated, a small, nervous laugh slipping through, soft and airy, like it might shatter if touched. “I mean, I’d like to. But maybe I should take a shower first. You know…germ thing.” You gestured lightly with your hand, almost dismissively, as if it were obvious, almost joking. “I just came from a restaurant, and you probably don’t want me bringing home a thousand microbes.”

Something in his chest twisted, tight and unexpected, not because of the words themselves, but because of the way you said them. Softly. Gently. The kind of quiet care that reached into him without him even realizing it. You weren’t mocking him. You weren’t teasing him. You were protecting him. Even now. Even in a fleeting, everyday comment.

And in that instant, the weight of every small restraint, every boundary you had kept for him, every moment you had stepped back rather than forward, hit him fully. Your restraint wasn’t distance; it was tenderness. And it nearly undid him.

“I don’t care about that,” he said finally, voice low and slightly rough, uneven like he was still catching his breath. Then, softer, quieter, almost a confession he hadn’t planned on giving: “Not when it’s you.”

You froze, eyes widening just the slightest fraction, the kind of wordless shock that made your pulse skip. “Spencer…” you whispered, voice gentle, uncertain, like you were trying to navigate a fragile revelation.

But he didn’t look away. Not even when his pulse was thrumming like a drum in his ears, not when every rational thought told him to step back, to respect boundaries, to breathe slowly and logically. He held your gaze.

“You don’t have to take a shower,” he said, his voice firmer now but still tender, deliberate, softening as he spoke. “Or wash your hands. Or worry. I don’t…I don’t care about any of that when it’s you.”

The words hung in the space between you, fragile and delicate, yet impossibly heavy. You stepped a fraction closer, slow and careful, as if giving him time to pull away, to deny, to stop everything. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He wanted this. He needed this.

And when you wrapped your arms around him, he exhaled a shaky, long-held breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Your warmth pressed against him, faint perfume curling around him, the soft rhythm of your heartbeat syncing with his own.

He felt something loosen in his chest, a tension he didn’t know he’d been carrying, a quiet ache he hadn’t even named. He could have stayed like that forever, simply existing in the space of your arms, letting the weight of unspoken feelings settle into something tangible.

When you finally pulled back, eyes searching his, a faint, gentle smile ghosted across your lips. “So,” you whispered, soft and coaxing. “Not so bad.”

He nodded slowly, still staring at you, letting the image of you linger in his mind, etched there with a clarity that startled him. His thoughts were scattered, a mix of logic and longing, but one simple truth echoed through everything he felt in that moment:

Not bad at all when it’s someone you love.

The soft, muted glow of your bedside lamp cast everything in gentle amber, turning the familiar contours of your room into a quiet landscape. You had been drifting in that half-light between sleep and wakefulness, tangled in the blankets, one arm sprawled across the pillow, the other resting loosely on your chest. The faint hum of the apartment, the distant scrape of tires from the street below, and the slow, steady rhythm of your own breathing had been lulling you into a deeper, dreamless doze.

Then came the soft knock at the door. It was hesitant, almost afraid to disturb the fragile quiet. It tugged you from the fog of sleep, your mind still hovering on the edge of dreams you couldn’t fully remember. Your eyes cracked open, heavy-lidded and blurry, and you squinted toward the doorway.

“Spencer…?” Your voice was hoarse, thick with drowsiness, barely more than a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the night. You blinked several times, trying to focus, and caught sight of him framed by the doorway: the sharp line of his jaw, the faint tension in his shoulders, the way he shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. Shadows stretched long across the floor, molding him into a hesitant silhouette you could almost mistake for a dream.

He cleared his throat nervously. “I…uh…I need to talk,” he said, words stumbling over each other. “I couldn’t sleep. I tried. I really tried, but…I just…I kept thinking and—” He trailed off, fingers fumbling together. After a shaky breath, he stepped closer. “I’m…I’m sorry. I know I’m being weird, but I…I need to say this now because I don’t know if be brave enough tomorrow.”

You rubbed your eyes, tugging the blanket around your shoulders. “Okay…what is it?”

He ran a hand through his hair, then dropped it to his side. “It’s the internship…it’s the list. I—I saw it. I wasn’t supposed to, I know, I—” His words came fast and tangled, like he couldn’t stop himself. “I saw it. And I…I keep thinking about it. I keep thinking…what does it mean? Why my name is under the cons. Like, being a con…it’s not just leaving, right? It’s like…it means I’m a bad influence on your plans. Or…or I’m in the way of something that’s…important to you. And I…I don’t know how to handle that.”

You stayed quiet, half-asleep, letting him work through it.

“And…and I realize,” he continued, pacing a little, “I already miss you. Even when you’re just…right here. When we hug something happened in me.” he swallowed hard, voice shaking slightly, “It’s like even when you’re in the other room, I notice you’re not with me. And I…I feel it. And I’m…terrified that if this internship…if this thing happens, I…I won’t…I don’t know…be enough? Or be part of your life the way I am now?”

You blinked slowly, rubbing a loose strand of hair from your face.

“I mean…I know it’s your dream, and I want it to be,” he said quickly, words spilling over themselves. “I really do. But the idea that I’m a con…that I’m on the ‘cons’ side…it makes me feel like…like I’m already losing you. And I can’t stop thinking about it. Even when you’re here, I’m thinking about it. And it’s…it’s scary. Because I can’t…I can’t imagine not having you around. And I know…I know I shouldn’t think like that, but I do.”

He stopped pacing and ran a hand down his face, voice quietening to a fragile murmur. “I don’t…I don’t know what to do with these feelings. I just…I had to tell you.”

Your fingers moved on their own, brushing the back of his hand beneath the blanket. He froze mid-breath, like the contact tethered him to the room.

“You…you miss me…even when I’m right here?” you asked softly, barely above a whisper.

The simplicity of your question hit him like a wave. His brain short-circuited. That was it? That was all you asked? He wanted to say something clever, to brush it off, but the truth was twisting in his chest.

“Yes,” he said, low and steady, the weight of it pressing into every word. “Always.”

Even saying it felt dangerous, like admitting it out loud made him vulnerable in ways he had spent years avoiding.

“I do too,” you confessed, voice trembling slightly. “I miss you when you’re away on cases…when you visit your mother. And I don’t want to be selfish.”

Spencer’s frown deepened, small lines appearing between his brows. “Selfish?” he asked quietly, his own voice barely above yours.

You chewed your lip nervously, a shy, uncertain smile flickering at the corners of your mouth. “I put your name in the cons,” you said, and he felt it, the way your words stumbled over themselves, how each one carried the weight of thought and effort and secret worry. “And I’ve been trying so hard to find another reason to put there. Something…anything…that might tip the balance, make sense of why it’s so hard to leave. I even…I even went on a date, hoping it might…distract me, help me see something else.”

Spencer’s chest tightened. The thought of you on that date, it made him feel absurdly possessive, but also painfully human. He could feel the irrational spike of jealousy, but it wasn’t anger. It was a raw, visceral longing that left his stomach in knots.

“Did it work?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly despite his effort to keep it steady.

“No.” Your answer was fragile, breaking under its own weight. Spencer’s throat went dry. He had imagined so many conversations, so many moments like this in his head, but nothing could have prepared him for this truth.

“The only real reason I…found to not want to go,” you whispered, each word delicate and trembling, “was you.”

Time seemed to stop. Spencer’s heart hammered painfully against his ribs. He went utterly still, unable to trust himself to move, to speak, to breathe normally. The lamplight softened the edges of his face, casting shadows across his lashes, but he barely noticed. He only noticed you.

His mind raced, disjointed and chaotic. He wanted to say so many things: that he felt the same, that he had been trying to rationalize your absence like a fool, that your presence alone was the only anchor that kept him grounded. But the words wouldn’t come out.

“I—” he started, then faltered, voice breaking. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, fighting to regain composure. “I…I don’t…I don’t know what to say to that.”

You managed a small, trembling smile. “You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered. “I’m probably still dreaming.”

Spencer swallowed hard, his throat tight, his pulse a faint echo in his ears. When he finally found his voice, it came out softer than he intended. “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shook your head, a quiet laugh slipping out. “It’s okay,” you said, reaching out to lightly tap his arm. The touch was small but it anchored him in place. “Actually…if we’re awake, maybe you could make us some coffee?”

The request caught him off guard. He blinked, slow, the words taking a second to settle. Coffee. Such an ordinary thing, and yet, coming from you, it felt anything but. The image that flashed through his mind—your sleepy smile, the soft folds of the blanket around your shoulders, the way the morning light hit your face—was almost too much.

“I…you want me to make coffee?” His voice wavered slightly, hesitant, almost shy.

You nodded, tucking the blanket tighter around yourself like a cocoon. “Yes. Please. I…I want to stay here with you. Even if it’s just sitting on the edge of the bed while you do it.”

Something in him stilled. It was such a simple thing to say, but it struck him right in the chest. Every rational part of him knew it was just coffee. But the rest of him, the part that never quite knew what to do with feelings this big, was already cataloguing the moment. The sound of your voice. The quiet between words. The way his name might’ve sounded if you’d said it just then.

He nodded, awkward and endearing all at once. “Okay,” he murmured.

He moved carefully, almost reverently, as he slipped out from under the blanket, his socks brushing softly against the floor. The air outside the bed was cooler, but the warmth of the moment clung to him. Every step toward the kitchen felt drawn out, like time had stretched just for him to hold onto it a little longer. Before turning the corner, he glanced back over his shoulder. You were watching him, the blanket gathered up to your chin, eyes drowsy but smiling.

Home.

That’s what it felt like.

The faint sounds of him in the kitchen filled the quiet. The soft clink of the spoon, the steady drip of the coffeemaker, the low hum of something that felt domestic and new. When he returned a few minutes later, he was holding two steaming mugs, his fingers curved carefully around the handles so he wouldn’t spill a drop.

“Here,” he said softly, offering one to you. His voice carried that gentle, nervous tremor he couldn’t quite shake. “One for you. One for me.”

You reached out, fingers brushing his as you took the mug. That brief touch, barely a second, sent a shiver up his spine, sharp and grounding all at once. He lingered there longer than he meant to before lowering himself onto the edge of the bed.

He sat close, careful not to crowd you, though his knee brushed yours anyway. The contact was featherlight, almost accidental. Neither of you moved away.

You tilted your head slightly, eyes soft, lips just a little parted. “I’m glad you woke me up,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I…I wanted to be awake for this.”

Spencer blinked, breath catching mid-inhale. “For…this?” His voice cracked faintly on the word, like he already knew the answer but needed to hear it from you.

“Yes,” you murmured, your voice fragile but certain, like the truth had finally slipped free.

Something flickered across his face, uncertainty first, then something gentler, something that looked a lot like hope. And then he leaned in, just a fraction too slow, as if every millimeter was a question, giving you time to stop him. You didn’t.

The kiss wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t practiced. It was hesitant and clumsy and breathtakingly real. His lips brushed yours like he was afraid to ruin the moment, testing it, learning the shape of it, until you leaned in too, closing the distance completely.

He exhaled against your mouth, the sound shaky and uneven. You could feel the tremor in his hand as it came up to your jaw, fingers tentative, barely there, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he held too tightly. But he was warm. God, he was warm. The kind of warmth that spread down your spine and made your pulse trip over itself.

You kissed him again, deeper this time, and that was when he stopped holding back. His breath hitched when you sighed softly against his mouth, and he followed your lead with quiet desperation, like every unspoken thought between you had found its way into the way he moved. He tasted like coffee and nerves and something unspoken that had been waiting far too long.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads stayed pressed together, breaths tangling in the fragile morning light. Neither of you spoke right away. There was too much in the silence.

“I wanted to be awake for this,” you whispered, eyes still closed, a faint, trembling smile tugging at your lips.

Spencer’s voice came out rough. “Me too,” he breathed. “I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

The room felt golden, the early sunlight spilling across the bed in slow, quiet ribbons. But his attention never left you. Not even when his gaze drifted toward the nightstand, to the small, worn notebook resting beside the lamp, the one you’d been scribbling in for months when you thought he wasn’t looking.

Almost without realizing it, he reached for it. His fingers brushed the cover before he opened it. The faint scratch of the paper filled the silence. His eyes followed the lines of your handwriting, until he reached the newest addition. You saw the way his expression shifted, how something in him softened.

He touched the edge of the page with the back of his knuckle, tracing the ink as though memorizing it. Then, after a long pause, he looked back at you.

“Maybe,” he said softly, hesitant but sincere, “you should add another thing to the list.”

You leaned in, shoulder brushing his, the corners of your mouth lifting. “What’s that?”

He pretended to think deeply, tapping the pen against his lip, eyes flicking toward yours with a teasing glint. “Pro,” he said finally. “I’d visit you. Regularly. A very efficient, punctual visitor.”

You snorted, unable to stop the laugh that escaped you. “You? Efficient at visiting?”

He grinned, an unguarded, boyish grin that made something in your chest ache. “I’d make a schedule,” he said. “Color-coded. Timed down to the minute. You’d never miss me.”

You laughed again, shaking your head, warmth blooming in your chest so strongly it almost hurt. Taking the notebook from him, you clicked the pen open, glanced at him once more and wrote slowly, deliberately, letting the ink glide across the page.

Pros: Spencer.

Then you shrugged off your jacket, and he seized the opportunity. “Here, let me,” he murmured, carefully helping you out of the layers, his fingers brushing lightly against your shoulders.

“Thank you,” you said, your smile bright.

But then, before he could overthink it further, you stepped closer. “Hi,” you said again, softer this time, and wrapped your arms around him in a tight hug.

Thank god, you’d taken the hard choice away from him.

Spencer froze for half a second before melting into it, his arms circling your waist as he buried his nose in your hair. You smelled like vanilla and something uniquely you and he could’ve stayed like that for hours. When you pulled back, your hands lingered, cupping his face.

“I’ve been counting down the minutes for movie night,” you admitted, scrunching your nose adorably.

Spencer’s hands lingered at your waist, his fingers flexing slightly against the fabric of your sweater as if unsure whether to pull you closer or let go. “You could’ve come over sooner,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

You grinned, tilting your head up to press a quick, teasing kiss to his lips before bending down to grab your bag. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

Spencer blinked. His brain short-circuited. Logically, he knew kisses were a normal part of dating. Expected, even. But the suddenness of it, the way your lips had brushed his so casually, left him frozen.

Should he have kissed you back? He hadn’t. And now it was too late.

You didn’t seem to notice his internal crisis, already wandering further into the apartment with an amused smile. “Wow, Spence,” you laughed, running a finger along the dust-free surface of his bookshelf.

Guilt twisted in his chest. He didn’t want you to think he hadn’t liked the kiss, god, he had, but now the moment was gone, and trying to initiate one now would just be awkward, right?

Right.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to step closer, stopping beside you as you picked up a novel from his coffee table. You hummed curiously, flipping it over to read the synopsis.

Spencer fidgeted. “If you want,” he started, then cleared his throat, “you can change already. Get comfortable.” And yes, this was your first time sleeping over. “We can order takeout. Watch movies. Just… relax.”

“Sounds perfect,” you smiled, setting the book down before grabbing your bag again.

And then, without hesitation, you headed straight for his bedroom, already familiar with the layout of his apartment. You'd been here plenty of times. This time was just a bit...different.

Spencer stared after you, heart pounding. He exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair.

Okay. Okay. He could do this.

Spencer let out a slow breath as he sank onto the couch, his fingers drumming against his knees. He wiped his palms on his slacks, again, then adjusted the hem of his sweater, tugging it nervously over his wrists. And then you walked in.

Oh. He was suddenly very glad he was sitting down.

You looked perfect. Your oversized sleep shirt was adorned with a bright red strawberry, and your white pajama pants pooled around your ankles as you padded across the floor. The sight of you in his space, dressed so domestically, sent a warm rush through his chest. You flopped onto the couch beside him, immediately scooting closer until your knees bumped his.

“You even cleaned your room,” you mused, grinning.

Spencer blinked, momentarily distracted by the way your hair fell over your shoulder. “Well, yeah,” he admitted, voice soft. “You were coming over.”

Your smile widened. “That’s sweet. You’re sweet.”

His face burned. Sweet. You called him sweet. And then, because his brain was apparently determined to short-circuit tonight, he realized he was staring. Was he allowed to stare? Probably not this much. But, you were just so… pretty.

Wait. He should say that. Right?

Compliments were important after all. He’d read that in a relationship handbook. Communication was key.

But before he could overthink it further, his mouth moved faster than his brain.

“You look really pretty.” Cringe. Too blunt. “I mean—you are really pretty. But you look extra pretty right now?” He winced internally. Extra pretty? What was he, twelve? “Not that you’re not usually—I just—” He cut himself off with a frustrated shake of his head.

But you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you were beaming, slightly flustered, as you glanced down at your pajamas. “Thank you,” you said, smoothing the fabric with your fingers. “I got these just for movie night with you.”

Spencer’s fingers twitched against the couch cushion as he nodded. “Well—they’re very nice,” he managed, voice quieter than he intended. You studied him for a long moment, your gaze so tender it made him look away. Then, slowly, you straightened up.

“Spence.”

He mirrored you instinctively, spine snapping upright. “Hm?”

Your smile was patient, fond. “You don’t have to be nervous.”

Caught.

Spencer’s breath stuttered. He had been nervous, palms damp, pulse rabbiting, brain spinning in frantic circles, but he hadn’t realized it was that obvious. (Which was ridiculous, really. Of course it was. You knew him better than anyone.)

“I know it’s my first time staying over,” you continued, voice warm as sunlight, “but I promise, there’s nothing to worry about.” Your hand found his, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “I love spending time with you. And like I mentioned, I was very excited to come over today.”

Spencer swallowed hard. You were excited. The thought sent a rush of warmth through his chest, but it tangled with guilt. He hadn’t meant to make this awkward.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, shoulders hunching slightly. “I didn’t mean to—I just—” He exhaled, frustrated with himself. “I want everything to work out.”

Your expression softened. “Well, it’s going perfect so far,” you said, squeezing his hand. “You’re here, I’m here, and we’ve spent plenty of time together before. This time’s no different.” You leaned in, your voice dropping. “Just another day with you.”

Then, your fingers carded gently through his hair, brushing the strands back from his forehead. A shiver raced down his spine and you grinned. “I’ll allow goosebumps,” you teased.

He chuckled loudly, the kind of chuckle that only you could pull from him. Before he could second-guess it, he let himself lean into you. Spencer’s thigh brushed against yours as he tilted his head back, resting it against the couch. His eyes never left you as your fingers continued their gentle path through his hair. This was so terribly domestic and it made him feel all warm on the inside.

He wanted to kiss you. Was that appropriate? Was this the right moment ? You were close. You were meeting his gaze, your lips curved in a soft smile. It had to be appropriate. All he’d have to do is lift his head, just a few inches. But before he knew, your hand slipped from his hair, and the moment shattered.

Spencer sat up abruptly, clearing his throat. “So, uh—what food do you want to order?”

The night unfolded in a blur of takeout containers and half-hearted attempts to follow the plot of whatever DVD he’d grabbed. Not that it mattered. The movie was just background noise to the real event which was you.

His apartment had never been this loud. Never this alive.

And Spencer, well, his cheeks hurt from smiling. From blushing, too, every time you leaned further into his space, tucking yourself against his side. It took him five full minutes to work up the nerve to slide his arm around you. But once he did? Heaven.

Your vanilla shampoo filled his senses and the urge to press his lips to your forehead was so sudden, it nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

Instead, he held perfectly still, hyperaware of the way your yawn vibrated against his ribs, the way your body molded to his as you slumped deeper into his hold.

Spencer leaned in slowly, holding his breath as his lips grazed the crown of your head in the lightest possible touch. So light you didn't even seem to feel it. He pulled back, pressing his lips together to stifle the frustrated sigh building in his chest.

Then you giggled.

A bright sound that startled him from his thoughts. Your shoulders shook against his side as you chuckled at something on screen, something he'd completely missed because he hadn't been watching the movie at all.

Your laughter did something dangerous to his heart. It fluttered wildly against his ribs. And in that moment, drunk on the sound of your joy, Spencer threw caution to the wind. He pressed a kiss to your hair, firmer this time, letting his lips linger just a second longer in the soft strands. The happy hum you made in response sent a warm feeling through his body, all the way to his tingling lips.

He was still smiling when you tilted your head up, your nose brushing his jaw before you pressed a feather-light kiss there. It lasted barely a heartbeat before you turned back to the movie, but it was enough to make his breath catch.

You smiled to yourself as you looked at the screen. You'd noticed the way his fingers twitched when he wanted to reach for you, the way his gaze would drop to your lips and then dart away. You saw the battle he waged with himself every time. But you never said anything. You gave him the precious gift of time and space to learn this new language of touch at his own pace.

That brief kiss to his jaw was a reward for his courage and the way his smile bloomed under your touch was your prize in return.

The movie's credits rolled in silence as you stretched against him, pulling back. Spencer immediately felt the absence like a physical ache. But then your fingers were in his hair again, smoothing down the strands his nervous habits had tousled throughout the evening.

"Great choice of movie," you murmured around a yawn. You were serious, though it didn't seem like it. But it was quite late after all.

Spencer's smile came unbidden as he nodded. "We should clean up," he said, his eyes lingering on the scattered takeout containers. You followed his eyeline to the mess and nodded.

"Definitely."

The domestic rhythm of tidying up together felt strangely intimate. In the kitchen, your shoulders brushed as you worked side by side, you scraping leftovers into the trash while he organized the recyclables.

"The fries were so good," Spencer found himself saying. "We should order from that place again."

You beamed at him over your shoulder, water from the sink dripping off your fingertips. "Agreed. Yes. I loved them."

When you turned off the faucet, Spencer reached automatically for the towel, your hands bumping as he gave it to you. Before he knew it, you put the towel away and your arms were looping around his waist, your chin settling against his chest. "You want to go to bed?" you asked, the words muffled against his sweater.

Spencer looked down. The harsh kitchen light should have been unflattering, but you glowed beneath it. His hands came up to cradle your upper arms, thumbs brushing absent circles against your skin. The motion pushed your shirt up slightly, revealing a patch of goosebumps. "Yeah, we can go to bed," he murmured. Then softer. "Are you cold?"

You tilted your head back just enough to meet his eyes. "Mhm. Only a bit."

Spencer's fingers twitched at his sides when you stepped away. The empty space between you suddenly felt vast. "I can give you a sweater. Or a cardigan." His voice cracked slightly. "I have… several. In my closet. In my bedroom."

His hands flexed uselessly. He should take yours, shouldn't he? Lead you there properly. That's what people did in films , reached for their lover's hand and guided them gently to bed. Before he could overthink it, his fingers closed around yours. You laced them together as he turned toward the hallway. Spencer hoped you wouldn't notice his sweaty palms.

He led you to his bedroom where you stood before his closet. "Wait, can I pick one please?" You turned with those devastating puppy eyes that made his knees weak. As if he could ever say no to you.

"Yes, of course," he murmured, already smiling. While you deliberated, Spencer's gaze flickered to the bed, mentally calculating which side you might prefer. He busied himself with straightening the already-perfect blankets, sitting gingerly on the edge of the mattress to let you know you had all the time in the world to choose.

Your delighted gasp pulled his attention back. "Can I have this one?"

You gave the blue cardigan a playful wiggle, and Spencer was moving before he'd consciously decided to, drawn to you like gravity. "Of course," he repeated as he helped you slide your arms into the sleeves. His fingers trembled slightly as they worked the buttons.

When he reached the middle buttons, he became acutely aware of your gaze studying his face. Spencer concentrated on not combusting under your observation.

Each successful button felt like a small victory.

The moment he fastened the last one, you surged up to press a fleeting kiss to his lips , there and gone before he could process it. The sudden contact left him blinking, his hands frozen at your waist.

Three hours. It had been three hours since you'd kissed him at the door and his body reacted like a man starved, every nerve ending sparking back to life. The realization struck him like lightning, he'd been waiting for you to make every move.

How selfish that seemed now.

Your lips had already retreated, but his traitorous hands remained on your waist, thumbs pressing unconsciously into the soft wool covering your hips. Spencer stared blankly at the cardigan buttons, suddenly miles away.

He wanted to kiss you properly. Not some chaste peck, but something that would convey all the words stuck in his throat. But was that appropriate after such a casual gesture? Maybe your brief kiss was intentional, a boundary set. His teeth worried at his lower lip as the questions multiplied.

The cardigan sleeves pooled slightly over your hands as you tilted your head. "Spence."

When he finally met your gaze, his eyes were filled with uncertainty. You could see the overthinking that always seemed to short-circuit his courage.

"If you want to kiss me," you murmured, tracing soft patterns over his rapid heartbeat, "you can."

Spencer's breath stuttered. "Huh?" The syllable escaped before he could catch it and he immediately squeezed his eyes shut in mortification. Of all the eloquent responses his genius mind could conjure, that was what came out?

You smiled softly. "Let me rephrase," you whispered, your palm flattening against his chest. "I want you to kiss me."

For a heartbeat, Spencer simply stared. "Oh. Okay. Yeah. I can do that."

His hands rose and craddled your jaw. The first brush of his lips was careful. You answered by pressing closer and something in Spencer felt encouraged. The kiss deepened all at once, his fingers tangling in your hair as he poured every unsaid word into the contact. All the kisses he'd missed, all the touches he'd hesitated to give, they lived in the way his mouth moved against yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, Spencer chased you instinctively. His forehead came to rest against yours, noses bumping. "Sorry," he whispered, the words feather-light against your lips, "for not kissing back the last two times."

Your giggle sent vibrations through his chest. "Spence, you don't always have to kiss me back." Your fingers played with the collar of his sweater. "I'll always catch you off guard with little kisses." You paused. "Unless you don't like that?"

He shook his head before you'd even finished speaking. "No," Spencer breathed, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. "I like it. I like… you."

The confession was clumsy and inadequate for all it carried. But the way your eyes lit up told him you understood anyway.

"I like you too." Your whisper danced across his lips as you stole one more fleeting kiss before pulling back. Spencer swayed slightly, still drunk on the taste of you, as you gestured to the bed. "Ready to sleep now?"

He nodded, his thoughts moving through molasses. The simple question of which side of the bed to take suddenly felt monumental.

"What side do you prefer?" you asked, standing before the mattress.

Spencer's fingers twitched at his sides. "Oh. I don't… I don't really have a side." The confession slipped out before he could stop it. "I've never shared a bed with anyone before." His ears burned at the admission, but your expression was understanding. "So it's up to you, really."

Your gaze flickered to the left side, the side with the stack of books on the nightstand and the indentation in the pillow he'd never noticed. "I'll take the right side," you decided with a smile.

As you climbed in, a delighted squeak escaped you. "So cozy," you sighed, burrowing into the blankets with another happy squeal that made his heart stutter. Spencer moved to join you, his brain once again running.

Couples cuddled. He knew this objectively. But the mechanics of it - the when and how and do-you-even-want-to of it all, left him paralyzed. Should he reach for you? Was there some unspoken rule about who initiated? What if you preferred space? What if-

"Do you want to-" he began, then faltered. 'Cuddle' sounded juvenile in his mouth, a word too small for the enormity of what he wanted.

You rescued him effortlessly. "Cuddle? Yes. Definitely."

Before he could overthink it, you were there, your head finding its home in the hollow of his shoulder. The tension bled from Spencer's muscles all at once.

Emboldened, his hand slid down to cradle the back of your knee, gently hitching your leg over his hip. The quiet sigh you let out against his throat was reward enough, but then your lips brushed his pulse point and Spencer was certain he'd discovered some new law of phyics.

A comfortable silence settled between you in the lightened room. You hadn't mentioned the night light. He appreciated that more than words could express.

As his fingers carded absently through your hair, Spencer realized that he could overcome any fear with you like this. Even his fear of the dark. Any fear except one; the thought of nights without this, without you curled into his side like this. The very idea made his chest tighten painfully.

"Can I ask you something?" Your voice was muffled slightly against his shoulder.

Spencer hummed, tilting his head down to see your face better. "Yeah, sure."

The hesitation in your next words had his fingers stilling in your hair. "Are you… scared of kissing me?" You met his gaze briefly before looking away. "Or is it—I don't know." A nervous stutter. "Is it just that it's new to you? Or do you not really like affection in general?"

Spencer answered before you'd even finished. "No, no, not at all." His hand fell still against your scalp. "I love kissing you." The admission burned his cheeks, but he pressed on. "And I don't mind physical touch with you." He emphasized those last two words, willing you to understand just how singular you were in this.

Yet your brows knitted together, eyes fixed somewhere on his collarbone rather than meeting his gaze. "But you're so hesitant all the time."

He swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of every point where your bodies connected, your knee still hooked over his hip, your fingers curled loosely in the fabric of his sweater.

For a long moment, he simply breathed you in, the vanilla scent of your shampoo and the warmth of your skin, gathering courage. When he finally spoke, the words came trembling.

"I'm hesitant when it comes to… the timing of physical touch. Not the touch itself." His fingers flexed against your back. "I love when you hug me, kiss me, or just… touch me in general." A flush crept up his neck. "But I don't know how to do it back to you."

The confession spilled out faster now.

"I never know what’s okay," he admitted, voice quiet. "Like… if I hug you at work, will that embarrass you? If I take your hand in public, will you hate the attention? Even when it’s just us, I worry I’ll kiss you at the wrong time." His throat tightened. "I don’t want to push too much. Or seem… clingy."

Your fingers tightened slightly against his chest, but you remained silent. The floodgates opened fully then, months of overthinking pouring out in a rush.

"I don't even know if I can call you sometimes. What if you're asleep? My mom asks about you, and I never know if 'girlfriend' is appropriate. You feel like so much more than that." His nose brushed yours accidentally, the contact sending a spark through his nervous system. His fingers found your hair again, twisting the strands absently. "I don't know when to compliment you because I don't want to seem overbearing, but you just—" His breath hitched. "You look so beautiful all the time it's physically painful not to. I have no idea how many dates per week are appropriate. Books suggest once or twice, but what if you want more? Or less?"

Spencer closed his eyes. "You're the first girl I've ever been with. And I just—" His throat worked around the words. "I don't want to ruin it."

By the time he finished, his chest heaved as if he'd run a marathon. You sat up immediately, needing to see him properly, needing him to see you seeing him. Spencer stayed frozen on his back, watching you with anxious eyes as you processed everything he'd confessed.

"Oh my god, Spence," you murmured, shaking your head slightly. The mattress dipped as you shifted, sitting up straighter, one hand resting lightly on his ribs for balance. You crossed your legs beneath you, taking a breath before meeting his eyes again.

"Is this what you think about all the time when we're together?"

Spencer swallowed. "Well, not the entire time," he hedged, voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe like… seventy-eight percent of it?"

You exhaled sharply, half-laughing, half-horrified. "Please don't do that," you said, your palm smoothing over his chest, feeling the rapid flutter of his heartbeat beneath your touch. "Don't overthink what we are. Or physical touch. Or affection." Your thumb brushed absent circles against his collarbone. "I love kissing you. Whenever, however you want to. I love hugging you in any way you want. You can hug me at work. You can kiss me at work—"

Spencer's eyebrows shot up.

"—yes, even at work," you confirmed, grinning. "You can call me your girlfriend. You can compliment me until your voice gives out. We can go on dates seven days a week if you want." Your voice softened. "You're not ruining anything by showing me how much you like me. Okay?"

Spencer stared at you like you'd hung the stars. "…Okay," he breathed, nodding.

You smiled, leaning back down beside him, your fingers gently turning his face toward yours. Then you kissed him, once, twice, three time, soft lingering presses of your lips against his.

"Please don't think so much." Kiss. "Which—" Kiss. "—I know is a huge ask." Kiss.

Spencer made a quiet and overwhelmed noise, his hands fluttering to your jaw, trying and failing to catch up with your teasing rhythm. You laughed against his mouth, finally letting one kiss linger long enough for him to properly reciprocate, his lips moving clumsily but desperately against yours. When you pulled back just enough to speak, your forehead stayed pressed to his.

"It'll get easier over time, I promise," you whispered. His fingers tightened slightly against your skin. "And I'll wait. Okay?"

Spencer stared at you. "Okay," he whispered, the word barely more than an exhale against your lips. Then, before he could second-guess himself, his arms were around you, pulling you against him. Your head found its familiar place in the hollow of his shoulder, your legs tangling with his beneath the blankets.

"Thank you," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with more emotion than those two simple words could contain.

You answered with a sleepy pat to his chest, your fingers splaying over his heartbeat. "No need to thank me," you mumbled around a yawn.

Spencer pressed his lips to your forehead in response, lingering there just a beat longer than necessary. The action felt different now, not something to overanalyze, but simply something he wanted to do.

Spencer’s hand twitched over the mattress, searching blindly in the dark—for something, someone maybe—before curling tight around nothing at all. The muscles in his jaw flexed, and his lips parted, words trying to find shape. 

A low sound left him, half a whisper, half a plea. 

“Y/N—”

Her name dissolved into the air like mist.

Beside him, she stirred, the mattress dipping gently as she turned toward him. The movement released a faint warmth between them, a ripple through the dark. Her voice came out soft, roughened by sleep, threaded with worry before she’d even fully woken. 

“Spence…hey.” 

She reached for him through the dark, fingertips brushing the tense curve of his shoulder. His skin was hot beneath her touch, his pulse fluttering wildly beneath it. The moment she touched him, his breath hitched—a startled sound.

“You’re dreaming,” she whispered, the words small and certain, like a tether thrown into the chaos of his sleep. 

He startled awake on a gasp, the sound of it filling the small apartment like a wave crashing against the shore. For a split second he didn’t know where he was—only that his chest was tight and his pulse was thundering in his ears and the world was blurred at the edges. Then came her voice again, low and grounding:

“It’s okay. It was a dream. You’re alright.”

The words anchored him. He blinked hard, the shape of her coming into focus in the dim light that leaked through the blinds; hair mussed, eyes heavy but worried, one hand still resting over his arm. The sound of rain that tapped faintly against the windowpane registered to him, steady and alive, like a heartbeat he could match his to. 

He drew in a shuddering breath and pressed his palms to his eyes. “Sorry,” he murmured, voice raw. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She shook her head, sleepy but gentle. “Don’t apologize.”

He could feel her gaze on him, warm and unflinching, and no doubt cutting through the half-dark. But his heart hadn’t yet caught up to the present; it still beat like it was trying to escape his chest. The air between them was damp, humid from the storm and his own panic. 

Y/N shifted closer, sitting up slightly. “Was it a nightmare?”

He hesitated. His throat worked. “Yeah.”

“Bad one?”

“Yeah.”

The word came out smaller than he meant it to, and he hated how it sounded—weak, too fragile, too human, a crack in the armor of rationality he always tried to wear. 

Her hand found his again, smaller and steadier, her thumb brushing knuckles. “You’re okay, Spence. Just breathe.”

He tried. Inhale. Exhale. But the dream clung to him like wet fabric; faces, blood, her name shouted in the dark. His body refused to believe it wasn’t still happening, his chest still rose too fast, his pulse still stumbled. 

“Your heart’s beating so fast,” she murmured softly.

He gave a weak huff of air, meant to be a laugh. “Guess my subconscious didn’t get the memo that the case is over.”

Her lips curved faintly, not quite a smile but something close, something meant to soothe, and she hummed. “Your subconscious has probably seen too much.”

He looked at her, eyes tired but gentle. “Yours too.”

That earned a small sigh from her, the kind that almost sounded like a laugh—something resigned or fond or even a little sad. The kind that said oh well, what can you do?

Her lips settled back into that soft half-smile, and for a moment, they just looked at each other. 

He dropped his faze, ashamed suddenly, the feeling flickering across his face like a shadow. “It’s fine,” the murmur was quiet, fragile. “Really. Go back to sleep. We have to be up in a few hours anyways.”

She didn’t move. The rain whispered against the glass, the world outside a shade of blue that didn’t belong to night or morning. The clock on the nightstand blinked faintly—4:21 a.m.—and in the low blue light Spencer sat half-upright, still breathing like someone who’d been running from something that wasn’t there.

The quiet returned in pieces, but even still, she didn’t move to sleep.

Instead, she reached across the space between them and brushed her fingers against his jaw. His skin was warm and still damp, the faintest tremor in the muscles beneath her touch. 

“You don’t have to tell me what it was,” she said quietly. “But I don’t want you staying up alone.”

He looked at her then—really looked, and his eyes were rimmed red and the shadows beneath them looked deep as bruises. The sight of her undid him a little, and guilt tugged through his chest. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he started, voice frayed at the edges. “It’s just… it was you. And it felt so real—too real.”

The words fell into the air between them and seemed to hover there, raw and trembling. 

She looked at him softly, the kind of look that held a thousand small kindnesses. “Dreams can be cruel,” she murmured. “And they take what we fear and turn it into something unimaginable.”

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking from her own and down. “I should be better at this by now. It’s just—everytime we finish a case like that…” He hesitated, the words catching like static in his throat. “I see things when I close my eyes, and tonight—tonight you were—”

Spencer stopped himself and the rest stayed lodged in his throat, trembling on the tip of his tongue, but too unbearable to escape. 

She didn’t press, no, only shifted closer until their knees touched under the blanket. “You don’t have to finish. I get it.”

He nodded, but the movement was tight and helpless. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

Her laugh was small, surprised and almost a sigh from how his words caught her off guard. “Spencer, you’ve seen me come apart after a case. Why would I judge you?”

He wanted to smile, something small to relieve her, and himself maybe. But he couldn’t; the adrenaline was still in him, humming in his veins and coming and going like waves, keeping him alert when all he wanted to do was rest, and his heart was still tap tap tapping against his ribs, quick and stubborn.

“I won’t be able to sleep,” he admitted finally, quiet enough that it almost disappeared beneath the hush of the rain.

“I know,” she said.

He exhaled through his nose, the kind of sound that wasn’t a laugh, more a surrender. His gaze lifted to her again, serious now, something pleading in flickering in his eyes, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to say thank you or I’m sorry. Something small and honest; but instead, he cleared his throat and spoke with practiced steadiness, the voice he used when talking to victims on the job, ones he didn’t want to worry. “You should sleep, though. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I promise.”

He looked away as he said it, down at the folds of the blanket gathered in his hands, as though he could hide his truth there, that he was anything but fine. 

She hummed in response, the sound low and thoughtful, but she didn’t move away. Her hand stayed near his, an unspoken refusal to leave him alone in the dark. 

He risked a glance back at her, and she was still there—looking at him through her lashes, half-lit by the grey dawn, expression unreadable but undeniably soft. 

“You know what I dream about?” she asked after a long silence, voice still drowsy. 

It startled a flicker of curiosity in him, making him pull his gaze back to her. “What?”

Her mouth curved into something between a smile and a secret. “Little things.”

He repeated it softly. “Little things?”

She hummed an easy mhm, the sound melting into the air. Then she leaned closer, her hair falling forward to catch the faint blue light from the window. “There’s still nightmares of course,” she said. “I don’t think any of us are free from those. But it’s after them… it’s the little things I see.”

The way she spoke had him captivated, enraptured, although he always was when she talked, but this was something entirely different; here, the way she spoke, even barely awake, was like a lullaby, every word shaped from calm and tenderness. From the small hope that there were still good things to dream about.

“Soft mornings. Warm light through the curtains. Orchids on a windowsill. You making coffee, humming something you don’t even realize you’re humming.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—the beginning of a smile tugging on his lips.

She took that as permission to keep going.

“I dream about the way sunlight smells,” she said. “That fresh, golden kind of warmth that makes everything feel clean. Sometimes there’s a little kitchen, and it’s colorful, and there’s a kettle on the stove, and you’ve already poured my cup. I’m only half-awake, just watching you move around the kitchen, and you look up sometimes—and I think maybe this is what peace looks like.”

He didn’t mean to react, only wanted her to keep talking—in that soft, lilting voice that always seemed to carry like light through gauze, low and honey-slow, curling through the quiet like the way steam curls from a cup, but he did; the sound he made was small, barely a breath or a hum, but his shoulders eased by a fraction with it. 

Her fingers drifted up, ghosting through his curls and untangling them gently. Achingly tender. “Sometimes,” she went on, “there’s a cat that shows up. You insist you don’t like cats, but you feed it anyway. And it follows you around the garden, waiting for you to read out loud.”

He let out another quiet exhale. His eyes were open, although slower now, and softer, tracing her face as she spoke. He watched the way her lashes brushed her skin when she blinked; the thoughtful distance in her gaze as she painted the scene in her mind; the faint curve of her lips when she spoke something beautiful, like she didn’t know she was doing it. 

Her voice had changed. It was warm and low, a current he could float on, and in this moment, he forgot that any world existed outside this bed, outside her voice. 

“And sometimes,” she said, “we’re older. You’ve finally let me convince you to love me. You still get that look when I catch you watching me—like the sun’s doing something only you can see. You laugh more in these dreams, and it’s the kind of laugh that fills the air and stays there, even when you stop.”

Her words lingered like perfume, light and golden, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. His throat worked as emotion rose and swelled quietly behind his ribs. It surprised him: the way her voice could undo him so completely. HIs eyes burned again, but differently this time. The red rim wasn’t from nightmares or ghosts; it was from something tender, something that ached in a gentler way—the kind that comes when you realize you’ve been seen and wanted, wholly and without fear. He didn’t trust his voice enough to speak, so instead his hand found the hem of her sleep shirt and stayed there, not pulling or reaching under, just resting. The contact grounded him, and her; it told her everything he couldn’t yet say. 

Her voice thinned out into something softer, nearly a whisper: “In one dream, we live somewhere quiet. There’s a porch with chipped paint, and the whole world smells like pine and sugar. You’re reading while I hang the laundry. The sky turns that color peaches turn right before they go too soft. You look up at me and smile, and everything in me feels like sunlight.”

As she spoke, the image drifted between them like a prayer half-remembered. 

He could almost see it—a small casita tucked against the hills, the faint creak of a porch swing, the hum of cicadas hidden in the trees, walls washed in warm colors that catch the afternoon light. Clay pots that line the railing, overflowing with marigolds, sunflowers, and herbs that all reach for the sun. Bougainvillea that would spill down from the roofline in riotous pinks and reds, curling through the wooden beams of the porch. Windows that would glow with hand-cut glass that catch the sun in mosaic fragments across the floor. Wind chimes made from old glass bottles would sing lazily in the breeze. Inside, bright tiles would line the kitchen—cobalt, amber, green—still warm from the afternoon light, and the air would be rich with coffee and flour and sugar. Somewhere, a radio would hum softly in Spanish, its melody thin and sweet, and Y/N would hum along. The house itself wouldn't be grand, but alive; bright in its own way, full of handprints and warmth and things that didn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful. Built by love, touched by time and care.

The room had fallen into that sacred, half-lit stillness again, the one that only existed between hours; the hush before dawn when even the city seemed to forget itself. The rain had quieted to a faint patter, like fingertips against glass. Every sound was small: the whisper of breath, the rustle of cotton sheets.

Y/N’s voice came again, softer now, threaded with that low rasp that always sounded like warmth to him. Like the sound of a match being struck in the dark. 

“In other dreams,” she murmured, “we’re sitting by a window, it’s late afternoon, and the light is so golden that it turns everything into honey. You’re reading something, it doesn’t really matter what, but I can hear you turning the pages. And there’s tea cooling on the table, and I think I tell you that you look beautiful in this light.”

A small grin tugged at her lips, unbidden and bright, the kind that overtakes a face before you can stop it. She could see him in her mind so clearly: the soft furrow in his brow as he read, the way he’d glance up when she said something like that, startled and a little shy. 

“And you’d do that thing,” she said sleepily, voice wrapping around the words tumbling out, like silk, “where you pretend like you didn’t hear me, but your mouth gives you away.”

Her smile stayed as she spoke, and he could hear it—feel it deep in his bones, in the marrow—in the rhythm of her voice. 

Her words moved like water, slow and lilting and inevitable; they slipped through him and washed away the remnants of the dream that had clawed at his chest. He didn’t answer, didn’t need to, only tightened his hold on her shirt, fingers curling in the fabric of it. She felt the faint twitch of them each time his breath deepened, each time he drifted another inch closer to much needed sleep. 

She smiled faintly against his shoulder, kept speaking just for him. “Or sometimes it’s not a house in the mountains, it’s a house by the ocean. The windows are open all day, you leave books on every surface, I spend the morning trying to remember where I put the flowers.”

The corners of her lips cured up slightly as she pictured it: sunlight pouring through gauzy curtains, hair fluttering in the sea breeze. “Everything smells like salt and citrus,” she said, eyes half-lidded, words rolling slow and sweet, “and you walk past and kiss me without saying anything, and it feels like the world has stopped just for that second, just to sit and watch, like even the waves pause to listen.”

His lips parted, a soundless sigh, and his thumb brushed over her hip slow and absent as though he could feel the dream in his sleep. 

She leaned her head against his, her words melting into the quiet.

“And sometimes,” she murmured as if it was a secret, “it’s nothing at all. Just light and warmth and the feeling that we made it somewhere safe.”

She could feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric of her shirt and it was slow now, steady and no longer chased by nightmares. The air around them smelled faintly of rain and the soft jabón de lavanda y limón detergent she used on her clothes, a clean and nostalgic scent that lingered like sunlight on cotton. 

Her voice dwindled into the smallest thread. 

“You read to me,” she said. “Your voice is low. The outside world doesn’t matter. The sun’s sinking, the sky’s the color of guava—that pink-orange color that fades too quickly—and everything is soft.” She paused, her lips barely moving. “I think that’s how love sounds.”

His breathing matched hers now—deeper, slower—and the thought struck him that maybe his was her plan all along; that she’d been breathing slow and careful to lull him to sleep. The tension in his body had begun to melt, and his fingers tightened slightly against her side, a wordless plea. 

“You’d never have to convince me,” he whispered, voice half-asleep already.

“I know,” she breathed.

A small silence stretched between them, gentle and familiar, and Y/N thought he had finally fallen asleep. Then, with his eyes still closed, he murmured, “You should be a poet, you know that?”

She let out a sleepy giggle, low and warm. “Yeah?”

He hummed, the sound like a smile.

“Think I could quit my day job?” she teased, voice lazy with fatigue. 

“Maybe in the next lifetime. I’d miss you too much,” he whispered, still half-lost to sleep. “But you’d be brilliant—you already are—but I’d spend hours trying to decipher your poems, and you.”

She tilted her head against his shoulder, pretending to consider it. “If I were a famous poet,” she mused, “I’d run free and never be caught. I’d live in a hundred cities, leave poems tucked in trees and under coffee cups, and no one would ever really know me.”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “Then I’d spend my whole life trying to find you,” he murmured, voice soft but sure. “I’d read every poem, follow every line until it led me back to you. I’d meet you, and I’d fall helplessly in love with you all over again.”

Her laugh came quiet, a little breath of joy in the dark. “You’d have your work cut out for you.”

“Worth it,” he said.

She smiled against him. “You only think that because it’s too early for your brain to argue with me.”

He huffed, the faintest sound of amusement. “Maybe. Or maybe I should wake up early more often—so I can hear about your dreams and all the strange, beautiful thoughts that live in your head.”

Her hand found his hair, fingers combing through it once, tender. Then she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, almost missing, more warmth than touch. “I’ll tell them to you whenever you like,” she whispered. 

He nodded faintly, eyes settling, the words anchoring themselves somewhere deep in him. His grip on her shirt loosened, but didn’t fall away, and he breathed her name once, a soft whisper that barely reached the air, so, so different from the one he had broken out earlier. She watched as his face softened, his mouth easing back into peace, the lines on his forehead smoothing away. 

“Goodnight, Spence,” she whispered, and then his body went still in the gentlest way—sleep finding him, patient and whole. 

Outside, the rain faded into drizzle.

Inside, he drifted through sleep, carried by the soft gravity of her voice. Through the golden rooms and seaside light she had painted for him; through the orchards of color and warmth. In the quiet world of dreams, he walked those sunlit porches, felt the salt wind against his face, heard her laughter somewhere close, and believed, even if only for the night, that peace was something he could keep. With her words still echoing, her warmth beside him, the nightmare finally letting go, Spencer walked gently through the living pictures of her dreams, and for a while, the two of them existed there together within the soft light she’d spoken into being. 

Somewhere far off, the light began to change—the first pale threads of dawn weaving themselves through the rain, through the blinds, across the bed where they lay, still and warm and safe in the quiet between heartbeats.

"Can I see him?" You ask quickly, already trying to peer past him into the hospital room. You can hear the sounds of various machines beeping, and the quiet conversations between team members.

"Of course," he says, his expression morphing into something that some might call sympathetic. On Hotch, it simply looks slightly less stoic than usual. "He's visiting with the team."

You hurry past him into the hospital room, dropping your coat and bag onto a nearby chair before taking up residence on the edge of Spencer's bed. The team exchange baffled looks, surprised by the sudden presence of this stranger.

Spencer's honey colored eyes, however, immediately brighten a bit when you sit down, a dopey little smile spreading across his cheeks.

"Hi, brave boy," you whisper, reaching up to move a lock of hair off of Spencer's forehead. His glasses aren't present, likely removed for the surgery or in the scuffle of getting to the hospital, and you make a mental note to ask the nurse where they put them. "How are you feeling?"

"Better now," Spencer murmurs back, reaching out to take your free hand. Your fingers lace together with his like they were made to fit into yours, like the mold for your hands were created with one another in mind. You rub a careful thumb over the line of his knuckles.

"You scared the shit out of me, you know," you mutter, not even bothering to hide your annoyance.

Spencer, at least, has the decency to look guilty. "I know," he says quietly, the shame evident in his voice. "I know. I'm sorry." "Don't apologize," you shoot back, raising an eyebrow. "Did you get shot on purpose?"

Spencer smiles at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "No. But I could've been more careful."

"Well, now you know for next time," you chastise him gently, bringing his hand up to your mouth to press a careful kiss against the back of it. You're cautious with your movements, making sure not to jostle his shoulder.

Someone clears their throat, and you look over your shoulder, seeing the rest of the team looking on at the interaction with clear bewilderment. Morgan is the first to speak up. "You've been holding out on us, kid."

Spencer's smile turns sheepish, a blush beginning to dust his cheeks, and he squeezes your hand once. "No, I haven't," he protests. "It's just... uh... it's never come up."

You let out a light little laugh, and give the team a wave with your free hand. "Um, hi," you smile. "I'm Spencer's partner. I wish we could have met under... better circumstances?"

There's a round of greetings, introductions, and amused looks, mixed with a fair amount of confusion. It's obvious that the team hadn't expected Spencer to have a partner, least of all someone like you.

Agent Hotchner pokes his head into the room, still with the same stoic expression that you're starting to become familiar with. "Visiting hours are over," he states plainly. "Nurse will be in soon to check vitals. You can stay," he says, addressing you, "since you're Reid's emergency contact."

Prentiss looks at Hotch with barely concealed confusion. "You knew about Reid's partner?"

"Yes," Hotch says, looking unimpressed.

"And you didn't think to tell us?" JJ cuts in.

"It wasn't your business," Hotch says, cocking an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. "Whether or not Reid wants to share his personal life with you is at his discretion."

A nurse bustles in, beginning to chat to Spencer about pain levels and medications, and Hotch beckons for the team to follow him out of the room. They do as they're told indignantly, and you can hear them berating him for his silence about you from the hallway. You stifle a giggle.

Spencer's gaze is soft when you look back at him, and you can feel your heart melting slightly. You give him a smile in return, your lips turned down at the corners, still shy in front of him despite months of dating.

"Thank you for coming," he murmurs, squeezing your hand again.

"I'll always show up for you," you whisper, squeezing his hand back.