#blaysreid

The case had finally broken. Not with a bang, but with the kind of exhausted silence that only came after too many days chasing shadows through a rural Midwest town. The unsub was caught. The paperwork signed. Another horror story catalogued and closed.

And now, the team was dragging themselves back toward the airstrip, the cold wind tugging at jackets and fraying what little energy they had left.

You were walking beside JJ, who you’d barely spoken to in three days, too many hours spent inside precinct walls, too many leads that went nowhere. The moment her elbow brushed yours, you naturally slipped your arm through hers and leaned against her.

She didn’t even flinch.

She just smiled tiredly. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Just ready to be horizontal for, like… seventeen years.”

JJ snorted. “Same.”

Spencer walked a few paces ahead, head ducked down slightly as he adjusted the strap of his bag. You caught yourself watching the way his shoulder rose and fell. The subtle tension he always carried right there. He looked tired, exhausted even.

Since Quantico. Since the first year of profiling classes and coffee fueled late night study sessions. Since sitting on a park bench with him after your first real field op, both of you too shaken to speak until you finally just leaned your head on his shoulder and whispered, “We did it.”

That had been the only time you ever touched him like that. He hadn’t pulled away. But after that, he told you gently, so gently that physical contact just wasn’t his thing. That he appreciated you, that he trusted you, but he wasn’t comfortable being touched. Nothing personal towards you, it's with everyone.

So you never did it again.

Not even your signature move - the arm linking. You did it with everyone else. Even Hotch, sometimes, when he was in a rare good mood and you were bouncing with post case energy. Hotch gladly even held his arm higher so you can hold it comfortably. Derek would always grin when you grabbed him. Garcia would squeal and twirl with you.

But Spencer?

You kept a careful distance. Even now, after years since you joined together, years after he told you to not take his words personally.

Even though you ached to reach for him. Sometimes to close the space, to show him that whatever this was between you two, it mattered more than what either of you were willing to say out loud.

You weren’t stupid. You knew you had a crush on him. And years after being a profiler you can tell he doesn't exactly think of you as a friend either. But you were also patient. And subtle. And maybe a little scared, too.

You boarded the jet, leaned your head against the window, and watched the sky shift from gold to blue to dark velvet.

⸻⸻

By the time you landed and made it back to the BAU headquarters, it was past midnight. Everyone had peeled off quickly, with Derek leaving first, then JJ with a yawned goodbye, Garcia blowing a kiss as she disappeared into the elevator with hotch eagerly waiting to see Jack after the long case.

You stood in the hallway with Spencer, the hum of vending machines and flickering lights the only company.

“Are you walking?” he asked, shouldering his bag again.

You nodded. “Too keyed up to crash yet. You?” Your hands reaching to pay for your vending machine drink.

“I was going to stop at that bookstore on Jefferson in the morning. That's if we don’t get called in of course."

You smiled. “You still haven’t finished that obscure memory treatise, huh?”

He smiled back a real one, small and crooked. “I have. Twice. I just like the smell in there.”

You tilted your head. “You’re such a nerd.”

“You say that like it’s an insult.” He giggles stepping forward.

“It’s not. It’s an adorable fact.”

He didn’t look away.

And neither did you as you both started making your way out.

“So,” you said after a beat. “Wanna go together? If we’re free?”

“Sure,” he said too quickly. Then, quieter “Yeah. I’d like that.”

You walked side by side toward the building’s exit. Your footsteps echoed softly. The air outside was cool, city lights casting everything in silver and gold. You said something, probably a joke about Rossi falling asleep with his eyes open on the plane and Spencer laughed, this breathy little sound that always made your heart feel a size too small.

And then, without thinking, without planning, you reached out and looped your arm through his.

His entire body went still.

You froze.

“Oh,” you said quickly, already starting to pull back. “Sorry- I wasn’t- I didn’t think- "

But you didn’t get the chance to finish.

Because Spencer… didn’t let go.

His arm stayed linked with yours. Not stiff. Not cold. But delicate, like he was holding something breakable. His fingers brushed against the inside of your elbow.

You turned to look at him.

He was blushing.

He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out what. And then he just smiled.

The tiniest, shyest smile you’d ever seen from him.

“I didn’t think I’d like this,” he said quietly, almost like he was confessing something.

You swallowed. Your heart was pounding.

“But you do?” you asked.

He looked down at your arms, still joined. His hand shifted slightly, fingers brushing yours.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “With you, I do.”

You didn’t say anything else for a while.

You just walked like that - two shadows under the streetlights, arms tangled, hearts full.

And maybe you’d never said it out loud.

Maybe the words hadn’t quite come yet.

But in that quiet space between heartbeats, between two people who’d always known they were different…

You both understood.

The hotel room is dim, only the bedside lamp glowing in soft gold. Rain taps lightly at the window, steady as a lullaby, but neither of you are listening.

Spencer is curled against your side, his face buried halfway into your neck, hair warm and tickling where it brushes your jaw. His long body folds around yours like he’s afraid you might slip away if he isn’t touching enough of you. One arm is tucked beneath your shirt, palm splayed against the soft skin of your lower back, fingertips flexing every few moments like he’s memorizing the curve of your spine. The other arm is curled tightly across your stomach, hand fisted in the fabric of your sleep shirt.

He’s not talking much tonight. Just little hums when you shift. Just breath against your collarbone.

You’d come back from a case that bled into too many days, everyone drained and quiet. But Spencer? He hadn’t let go of your hand since the jet landed. And when you finally got the keycard to the hotel room the Bureau had put you both in, just one bed because Garcia had “accidentally” booked it that way, he had tugged you close with a desperation that made your heart ache.

Now his legs are tangled with yours. You can feel the warmth of him under your thigh, his skin flush against yours. At some point his hoodie had been shed, and you’d slipped into an oversized tee. But now his shirt is rucked up from your wandering hands and yours is pushed to your ribs, his chilly fingertips tucked beneath the hem, holding skin like it grounds him.

You shift just a little, adjusting to get more of him on you, and he makes a soft, sleepy noise, somewhere between a sigh and a whine.

“Too far,” he mumbles against your chest. His voice is thick with exhaustion, muffled and rough. “Don’t go.”

“I’m right here,” you whisper, carding your fingers through his hair.

His hand under your shirt moves slowly, sliding up your spine. Palm warm, fingers gentle. He presses his whole body closer. His knee slides between your thighs, anchoring him even more tightly to you. There’s barely any space left, bare skin on bare skin, cotton bunched around your waists, but it’s still not close enough for him.

You feel him exhale, and his breath is shaky. Like he’s too tired to hide how badly he needs this.

“I can’t get close enough.” he whispers, almost embarrassed.

Your heart tugs.

You pull him in without a word, both arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, dragging him fully onto you until his chest presses flush to yours and your noses brush. His breath catches at the closeness. Then he melts.

His fingers curl into the hem of your shirt and stay there. Not moving. Not asking for more. Just needing to be there, under the fabric, on your skin.

He blinks slowly, lashes fluttering. “You’re warm,” he murmurs.

“So are you.”

He noses into your jaw, lips brushing there like a sigh. “M’tired,” he breathes. “Just… wanna stay here.”

“You don’t have to move,” you whisper. “Ever.”

That earns the softest smile, lazy and crooked. You press a kiss to his temple and feel him let go again. Another inch of tension disappears from his body.

Your hand slips under his shirt this time, resting over his ribs, and the moment you touch him, he shudders softly like he’s never been held like this before. He shifts again, tucking his arms around you so tight he’s practically under you now, your limbs so tangled there’s no telling where you end and he begins.

Minutes pass like that. Maybe longer.

Spencer starts drifting, body heavy against yours. Every now and then he whispers something, half sentences, nonsense phrases, things like “Don’t let go” and “Feels like home” and “Yours” and you don’t say much. You just hold him tighter. Letting him burrow deeper under your shirt, under your skin, under everything.

“I keep thinking…” he whispers, lips brushing your collar. “…you’re gonna wake up and decide I’m too much.”

You tighten your hold immediately, fingers threading through the curls at the base of his neck.

“You’re not too much,” you say. “You’re just… mine.”

He lets out a slow, shaky breath and buries his face in your chest again. And for the first time that night, you feel him let go completely.

You shift again, tucking his legs between yours, pulling the covers tighter over you both. He’s hot against you now, the weight of his body sinking into yours like gravity, like he belongs right here.

“I love you,” he mumbles against your skin, barely audible. Like he didn’t mean to say it, but sleep tugged it out.

You smile against his hair.

“I know,” you whisper, voice gentle. “I love you too.”

And he’s already asleep before you finish saying it.

His body doesn’t move. His arms don’t slacken. Even in sleep, Spencer clings to you like he’s afraid the world might take you away in the night.

But it won’t.

Not when you’re here, wrapped around each other, nowhere else to be.

Not when his hands are under your shirt, and yours are under his, and the only thing either of you wants is more of this closeness.

And even when sleep takes you, finally, you stay tangled. Breathing in sync. Holding on like the world stopped spinning, and this warm, skin-on-skin stillness is the only place it left behind.

tag = @summerobertsvariant

The precinct air felt heavier at night. The room light was harsh and sterile, the kind that made everything feel more exposed than it should be. You were leaning over the conference table, palms flat against the surface, pulse a little too fast for how still you were trying to stay.

Hotch stood at the head of the room, arms folded, jaw tight. His gaze kept flicking between you and Spencer. He could sense it, not just the tension from the case, but something else. You hoped he didn’t name it. You couldn’t afford to have it named.

Spencer was next to you. Too close, honestly. You could feel the heat radiating from his arm, the light pressure of his sleeve brushing yours when he shifted. It was stupid. Three years in the BAU and you were still like this. Still ridiculously aware of every small movement he made, every time his voice dipped low when he was thinking out loud, every time he met your eyes like he didn’t mean to, like he couldn’t help it.

You were here to talk about the case. That was the whole point. And yet all you could think about was how it felt standing beside him, how the sharp scent of his aftershave mixed with the paper and dust and tension hanging in the room.

You tried to focus.

“There’s something they’re not telling us Hotch" you said, your voice sharper than intended.

Hotch raised an eyebrow. “Specifics?”

You hesitated, just long enough to feel Spencer’s eyes on you. His silence wasn’t passive, it never was. It was heavy. Calculated. A sign that he was either about to say something you’d been trying not to admit to yourself, or that he wanted you to be the one to say it first.

So you did. “Something's off not just about this case but this whole secrecy between the officers.” you said. “The way they’re handling this… they’re not just uncooperative. It’s like they’re trying to control what we see.”

Hotch didn’t answer right away. His eyes were locked on you, analytical, reading between the lines the same way he always did. You felt Spencer shift slightly beside you, hands in the pockets of his cardigan, brows drawn as he looked down at the files again.

“And there are gaps in every report,” Spencer said, his voice quiet but steady. “They’re too clean. Too consistent to be random. Like someone edited them before we even got access.”

He leaned in a little, fingers brushing lightly over the corner of the crime scene photo as he pointed to a timestamp. “This is the second scene. They said the footage was corrupted… but this mark.. see that? That’s from a recorder pause. Manual. Someone stopped the tape.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. It wasn’t fear exactly. It was pressure. The tight, growing weight in your chest that something about this case was much bigger than what was written in ink. Your heart was already pounding a little too fast, but not just because of the evidence. It was because of him.

The fluorescent light caught the soft angles of his face and the way his jaw tensed when he was concentrating, the small furrow in his brow. His hair had fallen slightly over his forehead again, and you felt that stupid, familiar ache start to crawl up your spine.

You’d liked him since the beginning truthfully. Since that awkward, rainy morning three years ago when you walked into Quantico for the first time and he offered you coffee without ever looking directly at you.

It had started slow with quiet admiration, long glances, late night case talks and his comforting words to make you feel better. He was in BAU for a few years before you joined, he knew how things worked and how badly it affects you in the beginning. Therefore he was always ready to show his support towards you. But it wasn't just calming words to you. It was something more.

Now, watching him piece together the parts of something dangerous, watching the way his brain worked through layers and lies, it hit you all over again. Hard.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he glanced up.

His eyes met yours.

Sharp. Soft. Curious.

There was a flicker of something behind them, something unreadable but far from indifferent. And suddenly the air between you felt different. Not heavy. Not cold.

Just… charged. And you wonder if he feels that same feeling inside your chest like butterflies are everywhere and for a second everything but his fades away.

Then Hotch’s phone buzzed. The moment snapped.

He answered with that clipped, professional tone, then tapped the screen to put the call on speaker. Garcia’s voice crackled through, bright but serious.

“Okay, boss. You’re not gonna like this. I did a bit of digging after you sent me those scans and guess what our sweet little department’s been hiding?”

Hotch looked at you and Spencer, jaw set. “What did you find?”

“A whole ass room, that’s what I found,” Garcia said. “It’s buried in the building’s floor plans, looks like a completely normal room. No surveillance, no active logins. Just… nothing. Like it’s locked off from everyone. But someone’s using it. And I've found out It’s where they’re keeping files that don’t show up in their regular system.”

Spencer looked up sharply. You could already see the wheels turning in his head.

“Someone doesn’t want us in there,” he said under his breath.

“Exactly,” Garcia replied. “Which means you have to get in. The door should be open right now until 5pm. Which means you better hurry up before they close it off for the night”

Hotch didn’t hesitate. “Reid. You’re going in. Take her with you.”

You blinked. Spencer looked over at you.

The weight of his eyes again. Not soft this time. Serious. And Something about the way Hotch said it felt heavier than it should’ve.

Spencer straightened his shoulders and nodded. “We’ll find it.”

You swallowed the nerves crawling up your throat. It wasn’t the hidden room that made your heart beat faster.

It was going in there with him.

The hallway beyond the main bullpen was poorly lit, lined with locked doors and empty desks that hadn’t seen use in years. You could still hear the low murmur of officers talking in the squad room a floor below. Too many bodies, too many eyes. But Hotch had bought you a window, and it wouldn’t last long.

Spencer walked ahead of you, quiet and quick. His posture was a little stiff, like he knew you weren’t supposed to be here but he was going anyway. That part didn’t surprise you. He always followed the rules… until he didn’t. You’d seen it more than once on cases like this when something about the math didn’t add up, when the facts refused to sit still. That’s when he changed. Still soft-spoken, still polite… but sharp. Focused. Unflinching.

The badge clipped to your hip swung slightly as you walked. It wouldn’t help you here. Not in this situation where everyone is hiding the reality of the case from agents.

“Wait,” you whispered, grabbing Spencer’s arm gently just before the corner.

He paused, turning his head just enough to hear you, and you could feel the warmth of his body even with the space between you. It was stupid, but your fingers tingled where they’d brushed his sleeve. You dropped your hand.

“Two officers coming down the west stairs,” you murmured.

Spencer nodded once, barely perceptible, then leaned in closer than necessary to point toward a side door you hadn’t noticed before. “Janitor’s closet. Connects to the file corridor. If we cut through, we can reach the archive wing from behind.”

You blinked. “You sure?”

He gave the faintest smile. “I memorized the blueprint Garcia sent.”

Of course he did.

You slipped in behind him, pressing the door shut just as footsteps echoed down the hallway behind you. Inside, it smelled like bleach and old paper towels. Dark. Cramped. Close.

You could feel his breath. Hear the tiny inhale he tried to stifle when your shoulder accidentally brushed his chest.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

By the time you reached the sealed corridor Garcia mentioned, your pulse was back under control.. barely. The hallway here was silent. No cameras. No badge scanner, just an old room with a cracked door.

Spencer stepped forward, fingers gliding over the handle pushing it down slowly until the door creaked open.

Inside, it was dusty like nobody's entered it in weeks. Room reeking of poor insulation and secrets. Metal shelves lined the walls, stacked with unlabeled folders, worn tape reels, and scattered evidence boxes. At the side of the room, a waist-high counter stretched beneath a long strip of flickering fluorescent light.

“We won’t have much time,” you said, but your voice felt far away. You quickly started searching for the box of documents you needed to find.

Because the moment you stepped fully inside, something changed.

It was the silence. The proximity. The fact that you and Spencer were suddenly alone, surrounded by sealed truths and flickering shadows. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just another room, just another case, and that the flutter in your stomach was from adrenaline.

But it wasn’t.

"I found it." Spencer called out, his voice pulling you back to your feet as you make your way back to the front of the room.

You moved toward the counter, trying to shake it off. Focus. That’s all you had to do. You weren’t the type to swoon over someone just because they smelled like old books and stood too close in the dark. You weren’t seventeen.

You hoisted yourself up onto the counter, hoping your knees wouldn't feel so weak anymore. Boots thudding softly against the metal as you settled on the edge. Casual. Confident. Or so you hoped.

Spencer didn’t sit. He stood beside you, shoulder inches from your knee, fingers flipping carefully through the packet he’d pulled from the shelf.

“This is it,” he said, thumbing the corner of a faded document. “These files, none of them were scanned into the system. These are the originals.”

You leaned toward him without realizing it. The scent of his cologne, barely there, clean, something warm, hit you again, and you had to focus on the folder in your lap to keep from looking at him.

He kept reading, shifting a little closer without meaning to. His arm brushed your leg this time.

Neither of you moved.

The air felt heavier here. Not dangerous, just… charged. Like even though you were both focusing on the yet to be solved case, you understood there's unspoken words yet to be said.

You wondered if he noticed. If he felt it, too.

But Spencer was impossible to read. His eyes stayed on the files, mouth slightly parted in concentration. But there was a faint flush at the edge of his collar. Barely there. But real.

You turned a page, pretending not to notice. Pretending you weren’t thinking about how easy it would be to reach over. To tuck that curl behind his ear. To say something you couldn’t take back.

But instead, you cleared your throat.

“Anything useful?”

Spencer blinked, almost startled. Then nodded. “Very. Did you find anything?”

Still no distance between you. "Just the information we already have"

Still no words about it yet he hums in agreement.

The door had clicked shut behind you both just ten minutes ago. You and Spencer stood alone in the dim room, lit only by the buzzing fluorescents overhead.

“This is insane,” you muttered under your breath, flipping through one of the file boxes on the shelf. “I mean, this whole section’s been completely hidden from any reports.”

“Not just hidden,” Spencer said from beside you, pulling out another manila folder. “Look at this... These are from the original investigation. Some of these witness statements never made it into the official file we were given.”

You turned and leaned against the metal counter, trying to act unaffected trying to ignore how close he was to you now, how warm his voice was even when he was being clinical. "I can't believe they'd think that we wouldn't be able to find out about this."

He stood only a foot away. His eyes flicked over the page in his hands, jaw tensed, brows pulled tight. You’d known Spencer for three years now. Joined the BAU together. Watched him from the other side of glass, from across motel rooms, jet seats, crime scenes.

You wanted to say something, but you got distracted again just watching the way his lips moved while he read.

It wasn’t fair. You bottled up so many emotions towards him, of course sometimes there's gonna be cracks and you can't hold back.

But he was so focused. So serious. And all you could think about was how badly you wanted to run your thumb along the edge of his jaw. How your stomach kept flipping every time he looked at you for too long.

You were about to say something anything when footsteps echoed down the hallway.

You both froze.

Spencer’s hand tightened around the folder. You turned your head slowly toward the slightly ajar door — and that’s when you hear it.

An officer talking into a radio, his footsteps getting closer and closer with the keys dangling in his hand.

You didn’t even breathe.

His voice carried faintly as he muttered something into his mic maybe checking in with someone, maybe just stopping to listen.

The door was open enough that if he glanced in. if he took one step closer, he’d see everything.

The documents. The open drawers. You. Him.

Your pulse spiked hard in your ears. You looked at Spencer. His jaw was clenched, eyes wide but actions swift as he moved the documents behind the now closed box. As if not one document left that box in the first place.

But you both knew there's no excuse for you being there regardless of that closed box. There's no reason you could've went to a floor that's not in use, lights off, door barely open.

And then, without thinking, you grabbed his sleeve, pulling him between your legs and whispered:

“Spencer, kiss me.”

He turned so fast it was almost comical. “What?!”

“He’s gonna look in here,” you said in a rush. “We have no excuse, no way of leaving. Pretend we're- you know..”

Spencer’s mouth opened, stunned silent, eyes darting between your face and the doorway. “I-”

And then he moved.

He stepped forward, fast and sharp, and suddenly he was pressed up against you, hand braced against the counter beside your hip. The other one found your waist—awkward at first, but then steady.

Then his lips were on yours.

And just like that your brain short-circuited.

You hadn’t thought it through. Not the part where his breath would catch. Or the way his fingers tightened slightly, unsure, until you kissed him back. The heat of his chest against yours. The way his lips were soft but nervous, like he didn’t know how to fake this kind of thing, because maybe he’d never wanted to fake it.

You heard movement outside.

But you didn’t stop. Because his hands became greedy, pulling you closer by your waist. Your legs now wrapped around him, hand tugging on his perfect curls as he whimpers into your mouth from the feeling.

He leaned in more. Letting you touch him, letting you feel his soft hair as your other hand slid up his chest, curling lightly into the collar of his shirt.

And that’s when the door creaked wide open. Right when his hands fiddled with the top buttons on your shirt, completely forgetting about the officer, the case, the documents and where you were. His mind was filled with you.

“Oh—uh—whoa.”

You barely pulled away, still taking one last second of that kiss to cherish when you've cleared your head.

The officer stood in the doorway, blinking at the sight of you tangled together.

“Well… that’s one way to kill time on shift,” he said, laughing under his breath.

You broke the kiss and turned quickly, trying to hide your red face in Spencer’s shoulder. “Oh my god Spence I told you we were being reckless,” you said, feigning flustered giggles. Trying to hide the reality between what was actually going on.

Spencer stammered something like, “Sorry.. uh-we didn’t mean to-”

The officer held up a hand, shaking his head. “You agents are all the same. I’ll let it slide, but this room’s off limits. Go somewhere else and take your, uh… moment, somewhere else too.”

You laughed nervously again, until you felt Spencer's hand tighten on you, picking you up before placing you back on the ground and pulling your hand in his. “C'mon.”

Spencer managed a crooked, helpless smile. the worst actor you’d ever seen and while you pretend to fix your clothes, the officer obviously feeling the need to face the other way, Spencer slowly slid one of the folders to the side with his sleeve as you shifted off the counter. Your hand stayed casually on top of the incriminating file, sliding it smoothly under your jacket.

The officer didn’t seem to notice.

Didn’t even glance at either of you anymore, simply focusing on locking the door the second Spencer stepped out the door.

As you two walked out, shoulders brushing, you could feel Spencer vibrating with tension beside you.

You kept your expression calm, playful. But your heart was still racing.

And behind the flush on his cheeks and the scatter in his breath, Spencer Reid looked like a man who was never, ever, going to forget that kiss.

A/N = if you enjoyed please check out my other works, im new and it'd really help out to see if I should continue if people are interested :)

You don’t remember the walk to the elevator. You don’t remember pressing the button or stepping inside. You only remember the weight in your chest, the kind that feels like your body is holding its breath for you because you can’t.

You left without a coat even though it was cold, and the chill outside was sharp enough to make your skin sting, but you welcomed it. It felt real. It felt like something that could keep you grounded when everything inside you was splintering.

All you wanted was distance and enough space for your heartbeat to slow down, for the echo of your own voice to stop replaying in your skull.

You stood on the sidewalk, the city lights blurring into thin streaks of colour, and waited for the tears to come. They didn’t. You weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.

When you got home, you didn’t bother turning on the lights. You kicked your shoes off somewhere near the door and sank into bed still wearing your work clothes. You stared up at the ceiling, replaying every moment you wished you could take back. You expected your phone to buzz, half-dreading it, half-needing it… but nothing happened. The silence that followed was a cruel thing. It meant he wasn’t reaching for you, not even out of confusion or regret. And that, somehow, hurt more than anything you had said.

You didn’t sleep. Hours passed in slow, suffocating inches, and when the sun finally rose, you felt no different. Just tired. Just empty. Just done pretending.

You walked into the BAU that morning like someone wearing your skin. People looked at you differently, too softly, too carefully. Garcia’s greeting was fragile around the edges, and you bypassed her with an apology that never reached your tongue. Morgan didn’t give you his usual grin. He just nodded once, a look in his eyes that said I heard more than I ever wanted to. Blake gave you a sympathetic smile before looking away, and it was possibly the kindest way she could have acknowledged you without making everything worse.

Hotch noticed you the moment you stepped into the bullpen. He didn’t approach, didn’t pry but instead just watched you long enough to see the change, the way you carried your heartbreak like a shield.

"Briefing in five,” was all he said, voice low, like he was afraid if he spoke too loudly you might break.

And then Spencer walked in.

Late. Disheveled. Unsteady in a way you had never seen from him without pain somewhere behind it. His eyes were rimmed with the kind of red that only sleepless nights could paint. His tie was crooked like he’d put it on while his hands shook. When he saw you, he stopped. Not dramatically, instead just a small, startled pause, the kind that said he had already imagined this moment a hundred different ways and none of them prepared him for the real thing.

He didn’t walk toward you.

For the first time in years, he didn’t. And something inside you recognised that as a new kind of loss.

But you knew his intention was out of kindness. He knew there was space needed between the both of you, or else the tension would’ve felt suffocating throughout the room.

You sat through the briefing with your eyes fixed on the folder in front of you, pretending that every word wasn’t floating past unheard. Spencer spoke once, his voice cracking on a number he’d normally say without thinking. You didn’t react. You didn’t look up. But every second that passed between his question and your refusal to acknowledge him rang louder than any statistic ever could.

Work carried on, as it always did. You threw yourself into paperwork, focusing so hard you could almost pretend nothing inside you hurt. But every breath felt like a reminder that pretending wasn’t working anymore.

You waited to make coffee until you were sure he wasn’t around.

Except he was.

He stood a few feet away from the machine, holding a cup he clearly wasn’t drinking, staring at the floor like it had the answers he couldn’t find. When he noticed you approach, he looked up too fast, eyes wide with something that might have been fear or guilt or both. For a second, neither of you moved. It was painful, how familiar this place was and how strange you suddenly felt in it.

You stepped around him carefully, like he was something fragile and you couldn’t risk touching it.

“Excuse me,” you whispered your first words to him since last night and the way his breath hitched made your heart twist violently. His sleeve barely brushed yours as you turned away, and that tiny contact burned more than any confession ever could.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to apologise. Didn’t try to fill the void. He just stood there, silently unraveling, and you kept your eyes on the coffee stream as if staring hard enough could block out memories of every time you’d filled a second mug for him.

The day moved on, but nothing felt normal. The team walked on eggshells, everyone speaking softer, moving slower, terrified of pushing either of you over an edge you both hovered dangerously close to. You stayed quiet, forcing your face into calm you didn’t feel, and Spencer kept his head down, hands shaking whenever they weren’t busy.

It was awful.


It was necessary.

At some point in the late afternoon, you caught him staring. Not the casual way he used to glance over when he needed grounding, but a quiet, almost desperate stare like he was studying the person he’d known for years and suddenly couldn’t recognise anymore. His eyes held questions he didn’t dare ask. Yours held answers he would never want.

That was the shift.

The moment you understood that whatever you had been to each other; confidant, safe haven and constant was gone. Replaced by a silence thick enough to suffocate.

You wondered how long it’ll take until things are back to normal, back to how they were when you sat next to each other casually, knees touching, eyes locking, feelings unravelling naturally. Was it even possible for it to be normal again? Probably not, you think. Not with Maeve around anyway.

And the rest of the afternoon passes like that. In fragments. A question answered without thought. A file closed. A pen clicked absentmindedly against the desk until JJ gently reaches over and stills your hand with two fingers, offering a look that asks are you okay? without forcing you to answer.

You nod. Of course you do.

You’ve always been good at nodding.

It’s strange, the things you notice when you stop orbiting someone. The way the bullpen sounds different when you’re not listening for his voice. The way time stretches when you’re no longer waiting for a glance, or a shared look that says did you hear that too? You hadn’t realised how much of your day had been built around him until you removed yourself from the equation.

Spencer doesn’t come near you again. Not deliberately. Not accidentally. When he moves through the space, it’s like he’s learned a new geometry, one that bends around where you stand. You catch glimpses of him in reflections, in glass, in the periphery of your vision, but never directly in front of you. He speaks when necessary, keeps his tone careful, measured. Professional.

It shouldn’t hurt.


But it does.

Not sharply. Not the way it used to.


It’s duller now. Heavier. Like a bruise you keep pressing just to make sure it’s still there.

At some point, you realise something else too: you’re not bracing yourself anymore. Not for his footsteps, not for his voice, not for the inevitable way he used to lean toward you without realising it. Your body isn’t anticipating him the way it always has. And that realisation leaves you feeling unsteady in a way you can’t quite name.

When Hotch dismisses everyone for the evening, you don’t wait. You gather your things quickly, efficiently. No lingering. No unnecessary goodbyes. You’re halfway to the elevators when you hear your name. Soft. Careful.

You stop a few feet from the elevator, close enough that the brushed metal doors reflect a version of you that looks intact. Your hand lifts, hesitates, then falls back to your side. Your body doesn’t feel like it belongs to you anymore. It feels like something you’re borrowing until the weight in your chest decides what to do.

Behind you, footsteps slow. Not rushed. Not abrupt. Careful. Like he’s afraid even the sound of them might push you further away.

“Hey.” Spencer says quietly. Just one word. Soft. Unarmed.

You don’t turn around.

“I’m-” He exhales, the sound uneven. “I’m sorry.”

The word lands differently than you expect. Not sharp. Not relieving. Just heavy. You close your eyes for a moment, letting it pass through you without reacting.

“You didn’t do anything.” you say quietly. It isn’t forgiveness. It isn’t absolution. It’s just a fact.

“I know,” he says quickly. Then, slower, like he’s choosing honesty even though it scares him, “But intent doesn’t really change the outcome…”

That makes you turn. Just slightly. Enough to see him standing there with his hands clasped together, knuckles pale, shoulders drawn inward like he’s bracing for impact. His eyes flick up to yours and then away again, like holding your gaze for too long might hurt you more.

He looks wrecked. Not in a dramatic way. In a quiet, unraveling one.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

The question is barely above a whisper. He already knows the answer. You can hear it in the way his voice cracks around the word okay, like he’s hoping you’ll lie so he doesn’t have to sit with the truth.

You give a small, tired breath. “I don’t think that’s a fair question right now.”

He nods immediately, like he deserves that. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just-” He stops himself, frustration flashing across his face before softening into something closer to helplessness. “I don’t know how to fix this. And I know that saying that doesn’t help.”

It doesn’t. But it hurts differently than dismissal would have.

“I don’t need you to fix it. There is nothing to fix to be honest..” you say quietly. “I just needed you to know.”

“I do,” he says. Too fast. Too earnest. “I do know. I just… I wish I’d realised sooner. I wish I’d been less oblivious.”

That word makes something twist inside you.

Oblivious.

You look back at the elevator doors, at the way your reflection fractures slightly where the metal bends. “I didn’t tell you.” you say. “You can’t blame yourself for not seeing something I kept hidden.”

“But you shouldn’t have had to hide it…” he replies.

There’s no argument in his voice. Just grief.

The elevator dings softly behind you, doors sliding open like an interruption neither of you asked for. You step back without thinking, the space between you widening again, safer that way.

“I need to go.” you say.

“I know,” he answers. Then, after a beat, “I’ll give you space. But… I’m here. If you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or yell at me. Statistically, yelling can be cathartic.”

You almost smile. Almost.

“Goodnight, Spencer.”

“Goodnight.” he says, barely audible.

The doors close between you, cutting him off mid-breath. As the elevator descends, you finally let your shoulders sag, the tension draining just enough to leave you exhausted.

He didn’t chase you.

But he didn’t let you leave unseen either.

And neither of you spoke about it since.

He stands there long after the elevator doors have slid shut, staring at the cold metal in front of him, though he doesn’t really see it. His hands are loosely clasped in front of him, then fall to his sides, then he fiddles with the edge of his tie as if the movement could untangle something knotting inside. He knows the team won’t notice. The hallway is empty. It’s quiet. Safe. And yet he can’t move. He’s frozen in the way you get when you realise a moment has shifted, irreversibly, and all you can do is watch it slip through your fingers.

Her words echo in his head, repeating themselves, rearranging into patterns he’s desperate to solve. “You can’t blame yourself for not seeing something I kept hidden.” And he feels a tightness behind his sternum he hasn’t felt before, not like this. Not this sharp, precise, and unfamiliar. He thinks maybe he could memorise the exact cadence of how she said it, how the syllables curved into the quiet acceptance, and somehow keep it safe. Or maybe he just wants to stop feeling it altogether because it’s unbearable.

He takes a slow, uneven breath. He hates the way his chest tightens when he thinks about how close he was to saying the wrong thing. Or worse, the thing that would make her feel worse. He hates that he even has to think about it at all. He should have said more. He should have… done something. But what? What could have fixed it? Words feel meaningless now, and yet they are all he has ever had. He knows the difference between empty apologies and measured truths, and he hates that both of them feel inadequate.

Eventually, he moves. Not because the feeling has resolved, but because routine has always been the thing that carries him when he can’t. He gathers his bag, straightens his coat, and heads out into the cold with the practiced awareness that he has somewhere to be, someone waiting for him. Maeve. The name settles into him with familiarity, with comfort, with something that should feel steady. As he unlocks his door later, steps into the warm, familiar quiet of her presence, he tells himself that this is where he belongs tonight. And yet, as he listens to her voice and answers when spoken to, a small part of him remains standing in that hallway, staring at an elevator door that closed a little too cleanly, holding the shape of a feeling he doesn’t yet have a name for.

Three months pass.

Time doesn’t announce itself when it’s healing something or when it’s burying it. It just moves forward, pulling everyone with it. Whatever tension once lingered in the bullpen fades into something less sharp, less noticeable. People stop glancing between the two of you. Conversations resume their usual rhythm. The night that once felt like a fracture becomes a quiet, unspoken thing, tucked away where no one touches it anymore.

Including you.

On the surface, very little changes.

Spencer never stopped talking to you, whether it was about the case or conversations on the flight about how you’re gonna spend the weekend, he continued a flow which eventually got casual again. Now he jokes, rambles and still forgets himself mid sentence when he’s excited. He doesn’t avoid you, doesn’t treat you like something fragile he’s afraid to break. If anything, he seems relieved to fall back into the familiar pattern you’ve always shared; easy conversation, shared looks, mutual understanding that doesn’t require explanation.

He’s been more careful, especially in the beginning but not distant. Never distant.

And yet you still notice the difference between now and to before.

He keeps a respectful space now, just enough that it never feels accidental when you’re close. He doesn’t linger beside you after briefings the way he once might have. His gestures are thoughtful rather than instinctive, offering help verbally instead of reaching for you, standing beside you instead of leaning in.

It’s subtle but you don't miss it.

What remains completely is his gentleness. The way he still listens like what you’re saying matters, even when the room is loud and busy. The way his smile softens when you speak, familiar and easy, never lingering too long. It’s the same Spencer you’ve always known and that almost hurts more than if he’d changed at all.

You still love him.

That truth hasn’t shifted, no matter how much time has passed. It’s quieter now, tucked deeper inside you, but it’s there all the same. You feel it in the smallest moments, in the instinctive way your attention gravitates toward him, in how his kindness still lands somewhere tender inside your chest.

And you’re not stupid.

You notice the things he doesn’t realise he gives away. The faint smiles that appear when his phone lights up. The mornings he comes in with his tie crooked, hair slightly mussed, collar just a little off as if he dressed in a hurry, distracted, hands not entirely steady. Once, you catch the faint mark along his neck when he leans down to pick up a file. It’s not obvious. Anyone else would miss it.

You don’t.

Other days, it’s the opposite. His tie is perfectly knotted, symmetrical down to the millimetre. Probably mixed by her. His sleeves are crisp. His posture rigid. Those are the days he’s trying harder, you think. Trying to compartmentalise. Trying to be who he’s supposed to be at work,.

Both versions tell you the same thing.

They’re still together.

The knowledge doesn’t surprise you. It doesn’t knock the air from your lungs the way it once might have. It simply settles, familiar and heavy, a constant presence you’ve learned to carry. You don’t ask him about her. You don’t let yourself wonder what their nights look like, what his laughter sounds like when he’s with her.

You already know enough.

And yet, sometimes late at night, when the day has finally loosened its grip on you, the thought slips in uninvited: Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the shape your life takes; loving someone quietly, steadily, knowing he will never choose you, and loving him anyway.

The idea doesn’t feel dramatic anymore.

It feels possible.

And maybe that’s the hardest part of all.

It happens on a night that doesn’t feel important at first.

There’s no case pressing down on your shoulders, no adrenaline still buzzing under your skin. Just paperwork that ran longer than expected and the soft hum of the bullpen lights, dimmed low enough to make everything feel almost private. JJ is there with you both, leaning against a desk, shoes kicked off under her chair, talking about something inconsequential Henry, maybe, or a failed attempt at baking that made Spencer ask too many earnest follow-up questions.

He’s himself tonight. That’s what strikes you first.

Not careful. Not withdrawn. Not heavy.

He’s rambling a little, hands moving as he talks, spiralling from one thought into another the way he always does when he forgets to monitor himself. He interrupts JJ once, apologises immediately, then does it again without realising. You catch yourself smiling before you can stop it, and when he notices, he smiles back; automatic, familiar, gentle.

Like nothing ever cracked between you.

JJ checks her watch eventually and groans, standing up with a stretch. “I should go before Will starts thinking I’ve been kidnapped.”

She squeezes your shoulder as she passes, then gives Spencer a look that’s fond and knowing and just a little too perceptive. “Don’t stay too late.”

When the doors close behind her, the quiet shifts but not in a bad way. It settles.

You don’t move farther away from each other. You don’t move closer either. You’re just… there. Sitting at neighbouring desks, shoulders angled in without thinking, sharing the same small pocket of space like you’ve done a thousand times before.

Spencer exhales, rolling his shoulders once. “She’s right, you know. About staying too late. Statistically speaking, prolonged work hours significantly increase the likelihood of cognitive errors and—” He stops, glancing at you. “—or we could just… ignore that entirely.”

You smile, small but real. “You usually do.”

“That’s because the data is… inconvenient,” he says, deadpan.

You laugh, soft and warm, and it’s enough to make him grin automatically, the way he always does. Before you realise it, the conversation slips into something easy and familiar.

You notice him now; the slight tilt of his head as he talks, the way his hands move as though they can’t help illustrating every thought, the way he forgets himself in the middle of a sentence. And you feel it, that same pull you always feel when he’s like this, the same heart-thrum that’s lived quietly under your ribs for years. You haven’t allowed yourself to feel it fully in months. Not since the confession. But now, watching him unravel slightly, immersed in what he loves, it’s like time has folded over itself and you’re back there, before anything changed.

He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping on the desk. “I watched this documentary last night. About-well, it was… um… about medieval monks and memory palaces, sort of a-no, it was more than that, it was specifically about how they used complex visualisations to memorise entire texts and there was this segment on how-wait, I think I’m saying this wrong-they, um… they mapped physical spaces to abstract concepts? Something like that. And they had this rule, which I found fascinating, that if you-oh!-you’re supposed to… no, the way they describe it is that if you want to remember a scripture, you visualise it as part of a room, or a series of rooms, and then each object in the room correlates with a concept or… yes, never mind, that’s not quite right, but it’s something along those lines.”

You raise an eyebrow, smiling, letting him continue. But truthfully you did not understand what he was going on about, “You stayed up watching monks organise their imaginary rooms?”

“Technically, yes,” he says, nodding quickly, “but it’s not what it sounds like! It was academically rigorous. And also, they had to memorise texts in Latin, which is not trivial-um, and their training apparently improved recall by something like 37% over standard rote memorisation, which is-well, it’s statistically significant, at least from the data I could find. Oh! And there was a comparison with modern memory champions who use similar techniques, though I might have missed a step in the method they actually use-wait, that’s not exactly right either. The point is-well, I found it fascinating.”

You shake your head, quietly laughing. “I can’t believe you stayed up for that.”

“It’s not about staying up,” he protests, raising one hand in mock indignation. “It’s about the pursuit of knowledge and also, the historical context is remarkable. I mean, to memorise entire texts and retain them decades later without writing them down! It’s… extraordinary. Though I suppose the monks themselves-” He pauses, noticing your expression. “-well, maybe they wouldn’t be impressed by my… uh, binge-watching habits.”

You laugh again, softly, and he grins, eyes lighting up. The sound is familiar, comfortable, like the last three months of distance never happened. You realise you’ve been holding your breath without knowing it, and now you can’t stop noticing him, every detail, every habitual twitch, every small motion that always made your chest tighten in ways that were impossible to rationalise.

It’s not romantic, not yet. Not officially. And still, your heart aches quietly, a steady rhythm under your ribs, pulling your gaze to him as he rambles, as he waves his hands to explain something you only half understand, as he fumbles mid thought in the way that makes him impossibly, painfully human. You see him, really see him, and the love you’ve carried for months and years, shines in your eyes. It’s soft, unspoken, and completely undeniable.

When he pauses, catching himself mid rant, you lean back slightly, smiling softly, and for the first time in months, it feels like the two of you are exactly where you used to be: safe in the same orbit, a little closer than strangers but far enough apart to breathe.

And you notice it: the old, effortless rhythm, the small laughter, the way he trusts you to follow him even through tangents that make no sense. The way he always has. And for a moment, it’s almost too much. Almost enough to make you forget everything else, everything that’s hurt, everything you promised yourself you’d contain.

In the moment, sitting there, laughing at something small, gentle, and familiar, the feeling is unmistakable: for the first time in months, it feels like it used to. Like before everything broke, like before confessions, like before pain.

And then it starts again. A small joke. A playful jab at something Spencer said, and he laughs, low and quiet at first, but it builds. He counters, teasing, making a ridiculous face, mimicking one of Garcia’s quirks, and you can’t help but burst out laughing, loud and unrestrained.

He’s sitting slightly angled toward you, you toward him, knees almost touching, shoulders brushing lightly without either of you realizing it. He tells a ridiculous hypothetical about the weirdest case he’s ever read, you counter with a more ridiculous one of your own, and the laughter builds until it’s uncontainable.

Your shoulders brush now. The faint warmth of him is unmistakable. And for a heartbeat, just a fleeting, suspended heartbeat, everything outside that small bubble of air between you fades.

Then his phone buzzes sharply against the desk. He glances down, face tightens slightly. Maeve.

He exhales, almost reluctantly, and mutters, “I… should take this,” standing abruptly, breaking the moment.

You nod, heart sinking slightly, forcing your features into neutral calm, though every fibre of your body remembers the closeness, the warmth, the laughter, the way his presence has always felt like home.

He answers the call, stepping a little away, glancing at you apologetically over his shoulder before disappearing into the hall. The room suddenly feels emptier, quieter, the laughter and shared joy hanging like a fragile echo.

And in that silence, you can’t help but think that no matter what happens, no matter how far apart you feel, these moments, these small bursts of closeness, are the ones you’ll keep holding onto.

A/N = Here it is... I hope you enjoyed reading and I'm so sorry it took so long! I lost the first part 2 that I've written so I had to rewrite it fully by memory :(

Regardless I hope you guys had an amazing Christmas if you celebrate! I myself spent it with my family and been enjoying the breaks I get.

Let me know your thoughts and ask me questions in my inbox !!

The apartment looked nothing like it had in the photographs.

Not because the listing had been dishonest. If anything, it was almost exactly as advertised. The windows were just as large, the hardwood floors carried the same warm honey tone, and the kitchen still had the slightly dated cupboards you'd promised yourself you would learn to like. The photographs simply hadn't accounted for what it looked like when every available inch of floor space was occupied by cardboard boxes, half rolled rugs, and furniture that had been placed wherever the movers happened to set it down before leaving.

It was difficult to imagine calling it home.

For the moment, it was simply somewhere to stand.

You set another box on the kitchen counter with a sigh, flexing your fingers as feeling slowly returned to them. You had underestimated just how many books you owned. Somewhere between packing the seventh box labelled Books and sealing the tenth, you'd briefly considered donating half of them, but every time you picked one up, you found a reason to keep it.

Some had been gifts.

Some carried notes scribbled in the margins.

Some had travelled with you through three different cities and felt more permanent than any address you'd ever had.

Now they occupied nearly half the living room.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Made it in okay? your friend, Amira had texted nearly an hour ago.

You glanced around the apartment before replying.

Technically.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Disaster already?

You looked towards the leaning tower of boxes threatening to collapse beside the sofa.

Nothing's on fire..

Yet.

You laughed quietly to yourself before slipping the phone back into your pocket.

Outside, Washington moved with its usual afternoon rhythm. The distant hum of traffic drifted through the open window, accompanied by the occasional wail of a siren somewhere further downtown. It was familiar enough to be comforting without becoming intrusive. You had spent enough time in cities to know there was something reassuring about hearing life continue outside your own four walls.

Even so, the apartment felt strangely silent.

Not lonely, just... unfamiliar.

Every new place carried that feeling at first. As though the walls hadn't quite accepted you yet.

You wandered back towards the front door, stepping carefully between unopened boxes until you found the one marked Bathroom. You frowned.

You could have sworn you'd left it in the bedroom.

Then again, after six hours of lifting furniture, carrying boxes up three flights of stairs, and apologising profusely every time the movers asked where something belonged only for you to change your mind halfway through, you couldn't have confidently told someone your own birthday.

You crouched beside the box, tugging at the tape with your fingernail until it peeled away.

A knock echoed somewhere in the hallway.

Not your door.

Another followed, accompanied by the muffled sound of voices.

Neighbours, you assumed.

You hadn't met any of them yet.

The building seemed quiet enough. Older than the sleek apartment complexes springing up across the city, but well maintained. The landlord had proudly informed you that most of the tenants had lived there for years.

That had seemed like a good sign.

People generally didn't stay somewhere they hated.

You stood again, stretching the ache from your shoulders before deciding fresh air might do you some good.

The hallway was cool compared to your apartment, the air carrying the faint scent of fresh paint mixed with polished wood. Someone had recently replaced the lighting fixtures, and they cast a soft glow along the cream coloured walls.

You leaned against your doorframe for a moment, taking everything in.

Across the hall sat another apartment, identical to yours except for the dark green wreath hanging neatly from the centre of the door. It wasn't seasonal or decorative in any obvious way. Just simple eucalyptus leaves woven into a circle.

You wondered vaguely who lived there.

As if summoned by the thought, the lock clicked.

The door opened.

The man who stepped into the hallway looked as though he'd been halfway through leaving already.

A worn leather satchel rested against one shoulder, its strap cutting diagonally across a navy sweater that had clearly been chosen for comfort rather than fashion. In one hand, he carried a thick hardcover book, his thumb tucked effortlessly between the pages to hold his place. His hair curled in every direction with the sort of stubbornness that suggested it had ignored every attempt to tame it that morning.

He closed the apartment door behind him, locking it almost absentmindedly while reading something on the page he'd left open.

Then he looked back.

For the smallest fraction of a second, surprise crossed his face.

Not because you were standing there.

Because you hadn't been yesterday.

It disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived.

His gaze moved briefly past you into the apartment behind, taking in the stacks of boxes visible through the open doorway.

You had the distinct impression he wasn't being nosy.

He was simply observant.

There was a difference.

Neither of you spoke. It wasn't uncomfortable, there just wasn't anything to say, so you offered the polite smile people exchanged with strangers in lifts and supermarket queues.

He returned it with a small nod.

Not distant.

Just reserved.

As he started down the hallway, one of the boxes beside your door shifted.

You caught the movement too late.

The cardboard gave way with a soft tear, and before you could react, half a dozen hardbacks slipped through the opening and scattered across the floor.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment.

"Of course."

One book slid neatly across the polished floor before coming to a stop against someone's shoe.

You looked up.

He bent without hesitation, picking up the novel by its spine before brushing an invisible speck of dust from the cover with his thumb. His eyes lingered on the title for barely a second.

"You like Steinbeck?" he asked.

His voice was softer than you'd expected.

Measured.

You blinked.

"I do."

He nodded once, as though the answer confirmed something he'd already suspected, before handing the book back.

"I haven't met many people who start unpacking their fiction before their kitchen."

You looked between the novel in your hands and the sea of boxes surrounding your doorway.

"I have priorities." You smile proudly at the book collection.

For the first time, the corner of his mouth lifted.

It wasn't a smile so much as the suggestion of one.

The first week in the apartment was less exciting than you had imagined it would be.

Not in a bad way. In fact, you preferred it that way. After the stress of moving, the uncertainty of leaving somewhere familiar behind, and the endless decisions that came with starting over, there was something comforting about ordinary days.

Most evenings were spent surrounded by half unpacked boxes and the quiet feeling that you had made a good decision, even if you had not completely settled into it yet.

The apartment still did not feel entirely like yours. It had your furniture, your books, your things scattered around the rooms, but there was a difference between occupying a space and belonging to it. You knew that would come with time.

For now, you were still learning.

You were learning which floorboard near the bedroom door creaked when you stepped on it. You were learning that the kitchen window let in just enough morning sunlight to make coffee there feel like a better idea than drinking it at the table. You were learning that the heating took longer than expected to warm up and that the shower needed a few extra seconds before the water became hot.

Small things.

The kind of things you only noticed when a place started becoming familiar.

You had met a few people in passing, though you would not have called them neighbours you knew yet. There had been polite smiles in the hallway, a brief conversation with someone holding the lift open for you, and a friendly greeting from the woman who lived downstairs when you both happened to arrive at the building entrance at the same time.

Everyone seemed nice.

Just not familiar.

That would come later.

For now, most of your attention was focused on work, unpacking, and trying to remember where you had put things. You had already accepted that some boxes were going to remain untouched for longer than planned. The ones labelled with vague descriptions like random stuff and important things were particularly unhelpful, mostly because you had no idea what version of yourself had thought those labels were useful.

The man across the hall was still the only person in the building you recognised properly.

You had seen him a handful of times since moving in.

Never for very long.

He seemed to have a routine, although you knew better than to assume you understood it after only a few days. He left early most mornings, usually carrying the same dark satchel over one shoulder, and he returned in the evenings when you'd usually take your nigh walk, with the same thoughtful expression he seemed to wear constantly.

Some nights he doesn't come home.

You had noticed that he always looked like he was halfway through solving a problem.

Even when he was simply unlocking his door.

It was difficult not to be curious.

The only thing you really knew about him was that he worked for the government, overhearing it from his conversation with Lucy, who lived on the floor below.

You had considered asking , but it felt strange to question someone you barely knew. Besides, he did not seem like someone who offered information simply because there was silence to fill.

He was polite.

That was enough for now.

On Thursday morning, you left your apartment slightly later than planned.

You had underestimated how long it would take to find your keys, despite having placed them in what you believed was a logical location the night before. Unfortunately, the logical location turned out to be inside the pocket of yesterday's coat.

By the time you locked your door, you were already checking the time on your phone.

The hallway was quiet.

You had just started walking towards the lift when the door opposite yours opened.

He stepped out, adjusting the strap of his satchel as he closed his apartment door behind him. He looked almost exactly as he had every other morning when you pass by him. Neatly dressed, slightly distracted, and carrying the expression of someone whose thoughts were already somewhere else.

When he noticed you, he gave a small nod.

"Morning."

"Morning."

The lift button was already lit, meaning someone else had called it from another floor. You stood beside him, waiting.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.

It was not uncomfortable. You were both strangers, after all. There was no expectation that you should suddenly have a conversation just because you happened to leave at the same time.

Then he glanced towards the cardboard box still sitting outside your apartment door that you trusted to keep out until you sorted out the books already laying around your apartment.

"You still have books to unpack."

You looked over.

"I do."

He nodded as though he had confirmed something.

"I assumed you would."

You smiled slightly.

"Because I had a lot of them?"

"Because the box was labelled 'books' and it has been there for several days."

There was something about the seriousness of his answer that made you laugh quietly.

"I forgot it was there for a bit."

"I thought that might be the case."

The lift arrived before you could respond, and you both stepped inside.

It was the first time you had shared the small space together without another person around. You noticed that he seemed perfectly comfortable with silence. He did not reach for his phone or pretend to be busy. He simply stood there, hands relaxed at his sides, waiting for the doors to open again.

It was oddly refreshing.

Most people seemed determined to avoid quiet moments.

He seemed perfectly content with them.

The lift reached the lobby, and you stepped out into the entrance of the building together.

The morning air was cooler than you expected, and you pulled your coat closer around yourself.

"Have a good day," you said.

He looked at you for a moment before replying.

"You too."

It was a simple exchange.

Nothing significant.

You still did not know his name.

He still did not know yours.

But as you walked in opposite directions, you found yourself thinking that maybe the first step of knowing someone was not a long conversation or some dramatic introduction.

Maybe it was just becoming familiar enough that their presence stopped feeling unfamiliar.

By the second week, the apartment no longer felt quite as temporary.

You still had a few things left to unpack, but the urgency had disappeared. The boxes no longer felt like obstacles waiting to be conquered, and instead they had become part of the background, easy enough to ignore when there were more important things to do.

You had started leaving your shoes by the door instead of placing them neatly away every time you came home. Your favourite blanket had found a permanent place on the sofa, and the small plant you had nearly forgotten about during the move had finally been placed by the window where it could get some sunlight.

It was a strange thing, how quickly little habits formed.

A few days ago, the apartment had belonged to someone else. It had been clean and empty, a space waiting for a person to arrive. Now there were signs of you everywhere. A mug left beside the sink. A book open on the coffee table. 

A jacket hanging over the back of a chair because you had been too tired to put it away.

It wasn't perfect. But it was yours.

The building was becoming slightly less unfamiliar too.

You still did not know your neighbours well enough to call them friends, but you had started recognising people when you passed them. You knew which faces belonged to which floors, even if you did not know their names. You'd always have a chat in the lift and quiet greetings with whoever you shared a space with.

You had learned that the lift occasionally took longer in the mornings and that the front door needed to be pulled firmly before it locked properly.

Small details.

The kind of things you only noticed after spending enough time somewhere.

The man across the hall remained the one person you saw most often.

Not because you spoke much.

You didn't.

Your interactions were still limited to brief greetings and the occasional polite exchange when you happened to leave at the same time. He was friendly enough, but there was still a certain distance between you. Not an unpleasant one. More the natural space between two people who were still strangers.

When you struggled with the heavy door carrying groceries, he had held it open before you even asked. When you mentioned the lift being slow one morning, he had nodded and mentioned how slow or fast the lift came the next morning.

He paid attention.

That was probably the thing you noticed most about him.

On Tuesday evening, you arrived home later than usual.

It had been a long day, the kind where you were tired enough that even taking your coat off felt like a task. You dropped your keys into the small table by the door as you stepped it and noticed a small envelope resting on the floor outside your apartment.

You picked it up without thinking, but as you take a small glance at the name written across the front, you realised you did not recognise it. Your apartment number was not listed, and after checking the address again, you realised it belonged to the apartment across the hall.

You glanced towards the other door.

For a moment, you considered leaving it outside and mentioning it the next morning if you happened to see him. It was late, and you did not want to disturb someone you barely knew.

Then you noticed the corner of the envelope was slightly bent, and you remembered how frustrating it was when your own things were misplaced.

It would only take a second.

You stepped across the hallway and knocked.

For a few moments, there was no answer.

You were just about to assume he was not home when you heard movement from inside.

The door opened.

He looked slightly different from how you usually saw him.

Not dramatically.

Just more relaxed.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his hair was slightly messier than usual, and he wore a pair of glasses that you had not seen before. A book was held loosely in one hand, a finger resting between the pages to keep his place.

For a second, he looked surprised to see you.

Then his expression softened.

"Hi."

"Sorry," you said, holding up the envelope. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything. This was left outside my apartment, but I think it belongs to you."

His eyes moved towards the envelope before looking back at you.

"Oh."

There was a brief pause as he seemed to process what had happened.

"You're not interrupting anything."

The answer came quickly, almost as though he wanted to reassure you before you had the chance to apologise again.

You handed it over.

"It was just sitting outside my door. I figured it had probably been delivered to the wrong place."

He looked down at the label, checking the address.

"That happens sometimes."

"Does it?"

"Occasionally. The delivery system for this building is not always consistent."

You smiled slightly.

"That sounds like a very polite way of saying the mail gets lost."

A small expression of amusement crossed his face.

"I was trying to be fair."

"To the delivery system?"

"Yes."

You laughed quietly.

"I don't think it needs defending."

He looked down at the envelope again, turning it over in his hand.

"I should probably update the delivery instructions."

"You probably should."

"I thought I already had."

There was something about the mild frustration in his voice that made you smile.

"Maybe it just hasn't caught up yet."

"That is possible."

He said it so seriously that you almost laughed again.

For a moment, the two of you just stood there.

Not awkwardly.

It was simply the first time you had actually had a conversation that lasted longer than a few seconds.

Before now, he had only ever been the person across the hall. Someone you recognised, someone you exchanged polite words with, but still someone you knew very little about.

Now you were standing in his doorway, having a conversation about missing mail.

It was not exactly a dramatic introduction.

But it was a start.

"I appreciate you bringing it over," he said.

"Of course."

You glanced briefly at the book still in his hand.

"I hope I didn't pull you away from reading."

His eyes followed yours.

"I was reading, but I wasn't doing anything urgent."

There was a small honesty to the way he said it that made you smile.

"Still, sorry."

"You don't have to apologise."

There was another quiet pause.

Then you realised something. You mentally hit yourself for not paying attention to the name on his mail.

Despite seeing him almost every day, despite knowing where he lived and what he did for work, you still did not know his name. You didn't read the name on the mail.

"You know, I just realised something."

He looked up.

"I don't actually know your name."

For the first time, he seemed genuinely caught off guard. Not uncomfortable, just surprised. As if he had not considered that two people could share a hallway for almost two weeks and still not properly introduce themselves.

Then he shifted the book slightly in his hand and offered a small, polite smile.

"I'm Spencer."

The name suited him somehow.

You nodded, finally putting a name to the face you had been seeing every morning.

You smiled before introducing yourself.

He repeated your name quietly, as though committing it to memory, giving a small nod when he was satisfied he'd said it correctly.

Something about the way he said it made the moment feel less like a simple introduction and more like the beginning of something neither of you knew yet.

Then he stepped back slightly, realising he was still standing in his doorway.

"Thank you for bringing this over."

You smiled.

"Goodnight, Spencer."

"Goodnight."

The door closed gently behind him.

You stood there for a moment before walking back across the hallway.

It was a very small thing.

Learning a neighbour's name.

But somehow, the hallway felt a little less unfamiliar than it had before.

Sleep refused to come.

You had been lying awake for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling as the numbers on your bedside clock crept further into the early hours of the morning.

2:13.

You closed your eyes again, willing yourself to drift off.

Nothing.

With a quiet sigh, you rolled onto your side and reached for the book resting on your bedside table. You managed half a chapter before realising you had read the same paragraph three times without taking in a single word.

That wasn't going to work either.

The apartment felt unusually still.

During the day, there was always something to distract you. The sound of traffic drifting in through the window. Someone walking through the hallway. Doors opening and closing somewhere else in the building.

Now there was nothing.

Just silence.

You slipped out of bed, pulled on a hoodie over your T shirt and quietly made your way into the kitchen. A glass of water turned into making tea, and making tea turned into standing by the window watching the empty street below.

Washington looked different at night.

The city had not stopped moving completely, but it had slowed down enough to breathe. Cars passed every so often, their headlights sweeping across the road before disappearing around the corner. Somewhere in the distance, a siren echoed briefly before fading away again.

You glanced at the clock on the microwave.

2:31.

You should have been asleep hours ago.

Instead, you found yourself slipping on a pair of trainers and grabbing your keys from the table by the door.

You remembered noticing the rooftop balcony when you first moved in.

At the time, you had barely paid attention. There had been too many boxes, too many things to organise, too many small decisions that needed making before you could even think about exploring the building properly.

But you remembered the view.

You remembered thinking it looked like the kind of place people went when they needed a moment away from everything.

Fresh air couldn't hurt.

The hallway outside was just as quiet as your apartment.

The overhead lights cast a warm glow across the carpet as you made your way towards the stairs. You considered taking the lift, but the building was so still that even the sound of the doors opening felt too loud.

The stairs gave you something to focus on.

When you reached the top floor, you pushed open the door leading to the rooftop balcony.

The cool night air immediately surrounded you.

Washington looked different from up there.

The city had not disappeared, but it felt further away. The noise was softer. The lights seemed less overwhelming. From that height, everything looked calmer, almost as though the world had slowed down.

You stepped further onto the balcony, expecting to be alone.

You weren't.

Someone was already sitting near the railing.

A familiar figure sat with a book open in his hands, his attention focused on the pages in front of him.

You stopped.

For a moment, you considered turning around.

Then he looked up.

Moonlight caught the frame of his glasses.

Recognition crossed his face, followed by a small hint of surprise.

"You couldn't sleep either?"

You let out a quiet laugh.

"Is it that obvious?"

He glanced down at the book in his hands before looking back at you.

"It's two thirty in the morning."

"I suppose that narrows the possibilities." You let out a laugh.

"It does." He smiles at how the is going conversation.

There was a brief silence.

Not awkward.

Just the kind that came naturally when neither of you felt the need to rush into conversation.

He shifted slightly in his chair, glancing towards the empty seat beside him.

There was enough room.

The invitation was there if you wanted it.

You hesitated for only a second before walking over and sitting down beside him.

For a few moments, the two of you simply looked out over the city.

"You couldn't sleep as well?" you asked after a while.

"I rarely do."

The answer was so matter of fact that it almost caught you off guard.

"You say that like it's completely normal."

"It is for me."

There wasn't any self pity in his voice. No frustration. Just acceptance.

You nodded slowly.

"I've never been very good at sleeping in a new place."

He glanced towards you. "Even after nearly three weeks?"

"I've moved around enough to know it usually takes me a while."

He thought about that for a moment. "I suppose unfamiliar environments keep your brain more alert."

"You make it sound scientific."

"It is."

You smiled into your cup.

"I should've known you'd have an explanation."

"I usually do."

You looked at him.

The way he said it wasn't arrogant.

If anything, it sounded faintly apologetic, as though he knew people often mistook confidence in facts for showing off.

"I don't mind," you said quietly.

"What?"

"The explanations."

He frowned slightly. "Most people do."

"Most people aren't me I guess."

For just a second, something in his expression shifted.

It was subtle enough that you almost missed it.

Surprise, perhaps.

Or maybe relief.

He looked back down at the pages of his book, though you noticed he hadn't turned one in several minutes.

"You know," you said, breaking the silence again, "I don't think I've ever met someone who reads as much as you do. Every morning and night I see you, you always have a book in your hand."

That earned the smallest smile.

"I've heard that before."

"I don't think I've ever seen you without a book." You squint your eyes, smiling while your fingers scratching your head.

He lets out a little laugh at your actions before responding, "I don't think you have."

You laughed quietly.

"So it isn't just my imagination."

"No."

He closed the book gently, resting it on top of one knee.

"I usually carry one with me."

"Why?"

He looked out over the city instead of answering immediately.

Then, after a thoughtful pause, he said, "Because eventually I'll have to wait for something."

You frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"A train. An appointment. Coffee. Someone running late." He shrugged lightly. "Most people spend those moments looking at their phones."

"And you read."

"And I read."

You found yourself smiling.

"That actually makes a lot of sense."

"I think so."

Neither of you said anything for a little while.

The silence settled naturally between you, interrupted only by the occasional car passing somewhere further down the street. It was strange how different the city felt at this hour. Washington never truly slept, but it seemed quieter now, as though it had finally given itself permission to slow down.

You wrapped both hands around your mug, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The tea had already begun to cool, though neither of you seemed particularly concerned with drinking it.

Your eyes drifted back towards the book resting in his hands.

"I have to ask."

He looked up.

"What are you reading?"

He glanced down at the cover, absentmindedly running his thumb along the edge of the page before answering.

"It's Cosmos. Carl Sagan."

The title meant something to you, though you couldn't quite place where you'd heard it before.

"I've heard of it."

He nodded.

"I'm not surprised. It's probably one of the best known science books ever written."

His eyes dropped back to the page for a second, almost as if he were collecting his thoughts.

"The interesting thing about it isn't really the science itself. That's obviously fascinating, but that's not why people still read it decades later."

You stayed quiet.

He continued without noticing.

"It's the way he writes. He manages to explain incredibly complicated ideas without making them feel inaccessible. Most people think simplifying something means leaving parts out, but that's usually not true. It actually takes a much deeper understanding to explain something well."

He paused briefly, looking at you as you hummed at what he had to say, trying to think through his words and perspective.

"I've always thought that's a sign of intelligence."

Another pause.

Then he looked at you and blinked.

"I've been talking for a while."

You smiled into your mug.

"Sorry. I tend to..."

He hesitated, searching for the right word.

"...continue."

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

"Continue?"

"It seemed like the most accurate description."

"I was going to say ramble."

"I was trying to be optimistic."

That caught you off guard.

Not because the joke was particularly clever.

Because you hadn't expected it.

A quiet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when he realised you'd laughed at something he had to say.

"I don't mind," you admitted.

"Hm?"

"The rambling."

He tilted his head slightly.

"I asked, so I'd rather hear the answer than the short version."

For a second, he simply looked at you.

Not intensely or awkwardly. Just with the faintest trace of surprise, as though he was trying to decide whether you meant it.

"You'd be in a very small minority."

"Really?"

He nodded once.

"Most people ask because it's considered polite, they don't listen or ask out of interest."

"I asked because I was curious."

"I noticed."

There was something about the way he said it that made you smile.

It wasn't flirtatious.

It wasn't loaded with hidden meaning.

It was simply an observation.

He had believed you.

The conversation drifted for a while after that.

Not in any particular direction.

He found himself explaining why he preferred paperbacks over hardbacks because they were easier to carry during long days, which somehow led to a story about buying a first edition for far too much money, before immediately correcting himself by explaining that, statistically speaking, it had actually been a reasonable price considering its condition.

And you listened. You responded, asked more and responded with stories of your own.

You laughed halfway through his explanation.

"What?"

"You've somehow turned buying a book into a mathematical argument."

"It was."

"No, it wasn't."

"It objectively was."

"It absolutely wasn't."

"It involved percentages."

You shook your head.

"I stand corrected."

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

It was softer than before.

Less hesitant.

You noticed he laughed differently to most people.

There was never any performance to it.

No loud reaction.

Just a genuine moment that disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived.

"I think," you said after a moment, "you might genuinely be the only person I've met who gets excited talking about the condition of old books."

He looked down at the worn cover in his hands.

"I just think books are... important."

The sentence came more quietly than the others.

"They outlive people."

You looked at him.

He wasn't looking back.

"They're one of the few ways someone can leave a piece of how they thought behind. You can read something written hundreds of years ago and realise the person who wrote it worried about exactly the same things you do."

He smiled faintly. "I've always liked that." The words hung there for a moment.

Not in a dramatic way. Just quietly, like he’d said something he hadn’t really meant to think out loud.

You glanced down at the book again, seeing it a little differently now.

"I never really thought about it like that."

"Most people don't." He said it simply, without any edge to it. Just matter of fact, like it was something he’d noticed a long time ago and stopped expecting anyone to disagree with.

You took another sip of your tea before speaking again.

"So... have you always lived here?"

He shook his head.

"No."

"How long?"

"A little over a year."

"So you're practically an expert."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"You found the best coffee place yet?"

"I have." He replied quicker than before.

Your eyebrows lifted. "You answered that very confidently."

"Because I'm right."

"You can't know that."

"I've compared eight."

You stared at him for a second.

"You compared coffee shops?"

"I made notes."

"You made notes."

"They were mostly mental."

"That somehow doesn't help." You laugh.

The corner of his mouth lifted again, just like yours.

"I didn't realise that was unusual."

"I'm starting to think your definition of normal is slightly different from everyone else's."

"I've been told that before."

The words could have sounded sad, instead, they were delivered with quiet acceptance.

As though he'd made peace with it a long time ago.

You looked at him for a moment before smiling. "I don't think it's a bad thing."

He looked over.

"No?" 

"No."

You shrugged lightly. "The world would be pretty boring if everyone thought exactly the same."

He held your gaze for only a second before looking back towards the empty street. "That's true."

The conversation carried on without either of you noticing.

One topic gave way to another so easily that neither of you could have said how you got there. Books became films. Films became music. Music somehow led to childhood memories of long car journeys, then back to books again after he insisted that audiobooks and reading weren't exactly the same experience, despite enjoying both.

You challenged him on that.

"I don't see how they can be that different."

"They activate different cognitive processes."

You smiled.

"I should've known there'd be science behind it."

"There usually is."

"I walked right into that one."

"You did..."

Spencer presses his lips together, looking at you while you're squinting your eyes at him, before you both burst out in laughter.

The longer you sat there, the more you noticed the little things about him that had gone unnoticed before. The way he absentmindedly adjusted the sleeve of his cardigan whenever he was thinking. The way his eyes drifted somewhere distant whenever he was trying to find the right words. The way he looked down for a brief second after making a joke, almost as though he wasn't entirely sure whether he'd actually been funny.

He had.

Every time.

Not because he was trying to be.

Because he wasn't.

"You've been looking at me like that for the last thirty seconds."

Your head snapped up.

"I have not."

"You have."

"Oh?"

He nodded.

"You've looked at my left sleeve four times."

You blinked.

"You counted?"

"I notice patterns for a living."

You laughed, shaking your head.

"Of course you do."

"I wasn't intentionally counting."

"I think that sounds even more concerning."

A faint smile appeared.

"I get that a lot." He frowns looking down.

You couldn't help laughing again at his serious tone, making him let a laugh out too.

It surprised you how comfortable it felt.

When you'd first moved in, you'd assumed he was difficult to read. Quiet. Reserved. Maybe even a little intimidating.

Now, sitting beside him in the early hours of the morning, you realised he wasn't difficult to understand at all. People might just misunderstand his intentions behind his words.

He simply paid attention in a way most people didn't.

To details. To habits.

To things others overlooked.

It wasn't intrusive, if anything, it made you feel listened to.

Your conversation drifted again, settling this time on the building itself.

He told you which washing machine in the basement always seemed to finish five minutes later than the timer claimed. Which stairwell door had a habit of sticking whenever it rained. Which apartment had a dog that barked precisely three times whenever the post arrived.

"You've really noticed all of that?"

He looked mildly puzzled.

"I live here."

"I live here too."

"Not for as long."

"Yeah.."

He glanced towards the entrance of the building before looking back at the quiet street.

"I think you start noticing things when you spend enough time in the same place."

You found yourself nodding.

"I've started noticing things too."

"Oh?"

"The woman on the third floor waters her plants every morning at exactly eight."

He smiled slightly. "Eight oh three."

You frowned. "No."

"She leaves her apartment at eight." He spoke with complete certainty. "The watering starts at approximately eight oh three."

You stared at him for a second before laughing. "You timed her Spencer?"

"I didn't, I just observed." His voice goes high at the accusation making you hold back your smile.

The tea had gone cold some time ago, forgotten beside you. His book remained closed in his hands, one finger still tucked between the pages where he'd left off hours earlier.

Your eyes wandered towards the street.

Something looked different.

It took you a moment to realise what it was.

The darkness wasn't quite as deep as it had been. In fact you could barely call it darkness anymore.

The sky above the buildings had begun to soften, the black fading slowly into muted shades of blue.

You frowned slightly.

"Has it... always been that light?"

He looked up.

For the first time all night, he checked his watch.

"Oh."

"What?"

"It's nearly six."

You stared at him.

"You're joking."

"I'm not."

You reached for your phone.

Sure enough.

5:53 a.m.

You let out a quiet laugh.

"I swear we only came out here for ten minutes."

"So did I." He sounded almost surprised by it himself.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You both looked towards the horizon as the first hints of sunrise began to creep between the buildings.

The city was waking up.

Delivery vans rumbled quietly along the roads below. A cyclist passed on the opposite side of the street. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called once before another answered.

It was peaceful.

"I've never actually watched the sunrise here," you admitted.

"Neither have I."

You looked at him. "Really?"

He nodded. "I would have gone back inside a long time ago."

You smiled.

"I'm glad you didn't tonight."

The words left your mouth before you could think about them.

For a second, you wondered if you'd said too much.

Then he smiled, small, but unmistakable. "So am I."

The simplicity of the answer settled somewhere warm inside you.

After another few quiet minutes, he looked down at the book resting in his hands.

"You should borrow this."

You looked over. "The Sagan book?"

He nodded.

"I think you'd enjoy it."

"you're willing to lend me one of your books?" You look at him observing his expression.

"I am."

"What if I ruin it?"

"I don't think you will."

"You sound very sure."

"I am." He gives boyish smile.

You laughed softly.

"That's surprisingly trusting."

He considered that for a moment.

"Yeah I.. I don't lend books to many people."

Something about that made you hesitate.

"Then are you sure?"

He met your eyes.

"Yes."

There wasn't a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

Just quiet confidence.

You smiled, accepting the book as he held it out.

"I'll take good care of it."

"I know."

You stood together, brushing the dust from your clothes as the cool morning air settled around you.

The walk back inside was unhurried.

The hallway looked exactly the same as it always had.

The same cream coloured walls.

The same patterned carpet.

The same two apartment doors facing one another.

And yet, everything felt subtly different.

You stopped outside your own door, the book still tucked carefully beneath your arm.

"Thank you."

He glanced at the book before looking back at you.

"You're welcome."

A brief pause settled between you.

Not awkward.

Just comfortable.

"I'll bring it back."

"Whenever you're finished."

You smiled.

"I'll probably have questions."

"I was hoping you would."

That made you laugh.

"I'll see you around?"

"You will."

With one final smile, you unlocked your door and stepped inside.

As the door clicked shut behind you, you looked down at the book in your hands.

It wasn't really about the book.

It was about the fact that somewhere between a sleepless night and an unexpected sunrise, the person living across the hall had stopped feeling like a neighbour.

He had become your friend.

A/N = Hello... I feel ashamed posting after months.. 🙂 But here it finally is! After editing my next fic today, I will post it ASAP!!

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside. You could hear the gentle creak of the floorboards when the air shifted, and somewhere in the distance a siren wailed before fading into nothing. You tilted your head slightly and watched Spencer’s face. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and there was a faint crease on his cheek from where he had pressed into the pillow. He looked young like this. Soft. Nothing like the profiler who carried the weight of a thousand horrors behind his tired brown eyes.

You brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead and whispered, “You’re drooling on my pillow again.”

He stirred, a sleepy grin forming before his eyes even opened. “That is a baseless accusation,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “I do not drool. I merely… distribute hydration.”

You laughed quietly, feeling warmth rise in your chest. He finally opened his eyes, blinking slowly, still fighting the line between sleep and waking. When he saw you smiling, his own expression softened into something you could never quite put into words.

“Morning,” he murmured.

“Morning.”

He tightened his arm around you and pulled you closer, burying his face in your shoulder for a moment. “We should get up,” you said, though you made no effort to move.

He only hummed. “You first.”

“Not a chance.”

There was a comfortable silence. The kind that lived only between two people who had learned every corner of each other’s lives. He started tracing little shapes on your skin, absent-mindedly. Numbers. Letters. Probably fragments of something he was memorizing. You never asked. You liked the feeling too much.

Eventually you managed to get out of bed, but not before Spencer tried to convince you to stay just ten more minutes. You were halfway to the kitchen when he called out, “Do you know that statistically, people who spend an extra ten minutes cuddling in the morning are reported to have better moods throughout the day?”

You turned back, smiling at him. “Is that real, or are you just trying to get me back in bed?”

He tilted his head. “Would you believe me if I said both?”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing two mugs from the counter. “Coffee first, Doctor Reid.”

By the time the coffee machine finished sputtering, Spencer had already joined you, still in his old pajama shirt with his hair pointing in impossible directions. He leaned against the counter, watching you pour. His gaze was always intense, even when he was just looking at you in silence. It used to make you nervous. Now it just made you feel safe.

He took a sip from his mug and said, “We have the weekend off.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Since when does that happen?”

He smiled faintly. “Since Hotch decided we should all remember what sunlight looks like.”

You leaned back against the counter, pretending to think. “So, what does one do with two entire days off?”

His lips quirked into a small grin. “I thought maybe we could drive somewhere. Somewhere quiet. Maybe that little cabin near the lake.”

You blinked in surprise. “You’re suggesting a trip? Voluntarily?”

He shrugged, pretending to act casual. “I might have already booked it last night.”

Your heart warmed immediately. You could imagine it already. The quiet of the forest. The sound of water lapping against the dock. Spencer reading beside you with his glasses slipping down his nose while you curled up next to him under a blanket.

“Spencer Reid, are you secretly romantic?”

The drive was long, but peaceful. He had one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, and every time you hit a red light you'd absentmindedly draw patterns on his knuckles. The trees blurred past, and the sky stretched endlessly ahead.

When you reached the cabin, the air smelled of pine and rain. The lake shimmered like glass, and you could see the reflection of clouds drifting lazily above. Spencer carried the bags inside, though he complained about how poorly the cabin was insulated and how mosquitoes were the deadliest animal on Earth. You kissed him mid-sentence just to shut him up.

Inside, the place was cozy. Wooden walls, a small fireplace, and a soft-looking couch. You could almost imagine the quiet nights you’d spend there.

Spencer unpacked a few books before doing anything else. “I brought something for us,” he said. He pulled out a worn, leather-bound volume and handed it to you. “It’s a collection of poetry I used to read in college. I thought we could take turns reading.”

You smiled, running your fingers over the spine. “You know, most couples watch movies. You bring poetry.”

He shrugged again. “Movies end. Words stay.”

You stared at him for a moment, heart full. “You really are something else.”

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.

That night, after the fire had burned low and the air was thick with warmth and woodsmoke, Spencer rested his head in your lap while you read aloud. His eyes were closed, but you knew he was listening to every syllable. You could see the tiny smile that flickered when your voice softened at certain lines.

When you stopped reading, he opened his eyes and looked up at you. “You make everything sound beautiful." he said quietly.

“Maybe because I’m reading it to you."you replied.

He reached up and brushed his fingers against your cheek. “You know, for someone who spends their life studying the human mind, I still don’t fully understand how someone can make me feel this way.”

You leaned down and kissed him, slow and lingering, the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn’t.

Outside, the lake rippled under the moonlight, and somewhere in the trees an owl called out. Inside, everything was still. You both stayed like that for a long time. No profiling. No work. No monsters. Just the quiet hum of something soft and real.

When Spencer finally fell asleep beside you, his hand found yours beneath the blanket. He didn’t let go once.

TAG LIST = @eliscannotdance @tokalotashiz @book-nerd-fan-girl @cupidletterss @summerobertsvariant

A/N = I'm sorry for abandoning so suddenly... I've been working on a lot, so the posts are coming up again!

And incase you were wondering about unrequited love, I completely lost the entire finished piece around 3 weeks ago.. so I've been relying on my fish memory to get everything back the same which is why it took super long. Sorry for making you guys wait so long.