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Summary: He chose the job. She never got the chance to choose. Now oceans and silence stretch between them. But some loves don’t disappear, no matter the distance. Missed chances, late-night calls, and finding your way back. Along the lyrics of the song "Come Back...Be Here" by Taylor Swift.
Masterlist
You hadn’t planned on seeing him again—not tonight, not ever if you were being honest.
But there he stood. Leaning against the frame of your door like the night never ended badly between you two. Like he hadn’t walked away three weeks ago with a barely whispered goodbye and a promise he didn’t keep. You were still wearing the black dress from your sister’s engagement party. Hair curled. Lips red. He looked just the same as he always did—messy curls, chestnut cardigan, tired eyes.
“Looks like you haven’t change much, since I last saw you.” A flicker of a smile touched his lips. “And you’ve still wear that red lip classic thing that I like.” You sighed and leaned against the edge of the couch. “What are you doing here, Spencer?” He stepped inside without asking. Of course he did. “I shouldn’t be here. I know that. But I—I kept thinking about you. About us.”
You scoffed. “There is no ‘us’, remember? That’s what you said before leaving.” “I said I couldn’t stay,” he corrected softly. “There’s a difference.” You hated the way your heart still sped up at the sound of his voice. “And now what? You just show up, say the right words, and I forget how badly it hurt?” “I’m not saying that,” he said. “But we never really ended, did we? Not fully. We just... paused.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. Because damn it, he was right. Even with all the back-and-forth, the late night calls, the brief meetimgs, and the stolen glances in the cafe near where you lived—it never really ended. And that was the problem.
He stepped closer. “I’ve tried to move on, Y/N. God knows I’ve tried. But...” You met his gaze. “But what?” “I keep coming back to you. It’s like—we’re caught in this loop. You and me.”
You exhaled shakily. “Spencer, this isn’t healthy.”
“I know,” he said. “But... it’s us.” You looked away, heart thudding. “I said I wouldn’t do this again.” “I know.” “You leave, then you come back. And it’s always the same.” “That’s the thing,” he said. “We always come back to eachother.” His voice cracked at the end. Like even he hated how true it sounded.
You looked at him for a long moment. “Say we do this again... How do I know you won’t run next time?” “I don’t want to run anymore,” he said. “But I can’t promise it’ll be easy. I just know I want you in my life. However you’ll have me.” You crossed your arms, studying the man who had both ruined and revived you so many times.
“…One condition,” you said finally. His brows raised. “Anything.”
You smirked, just a little. “No disappearing in the middle of the night. If you’re going to come back, you stay. At least for coffee in the morning.” He smiled, relief softening his whole face. “I’ll bring the pastries.”
You reached for his hand without thinking, and just like that—like the guitar riff of a familiar song—you fell back into the rhythm of you and him. You both knew it might not last forever. But it would always come back.
“The delicate beginning rush.”
The sun filtered in through your blinds, casting warm golden stripes across your sheets. You stirred, feeling the heat of another body near yours before your mind fully caught up.
Then you remembered.
Him.
Last night.
And the way it had all happened again—like muscle memory. You turned slowly. Spencer was already awake, laying on his side, head resting on his hand as he watched you.
“I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” you said groggily. He gave a sleepy half-smile. “You said stay for coffee.” You arched a brow. “You brought pastries?”
He gestured toward the kitchen with a little nod. “Raspberry danish. And a chocolate croissant, in case you changed your mind about fruit fillings.”
You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips. “That’s dangerously thoughtful.”
“I’m a dangerous man,” he said, mock-serious.
You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling. “What happens now, Spencer?”
He didn’t answer right away. You knew he hated that question. It was a future question. And the two of you had never done well in the future.
He finally said, “I don’t know. But I know I want to try. For real this time.”
You turned to face him. “We always say that.”
“I know,” he admitted. “But I’ve been thinking... maybe we’re not broken. Maybe we’re just... complicated.”
You laughed softly. “Is that your profiler opinion?” “No,” he said. “It’s my human one.”
You sat up slowly, tugging the sheets around you. “Complicated doesn’t fix the way it hurts when you leave.” He sat up beside you. “I can’t erase that. But I can choose not to do it again.”
You looked at him, eyes searching for something. Maybe a crack in the promise, maybe hope. “You and I,” you whispered, “We’re like ghosts in each other’s lives. We fade in and out, but never really go away.”
He nodded. “That’s what scares me. That I’ll always want you. Even when it’s not right.”
Silence settled for a moment. Not heavy. Not light. Just... real. Then he reached for your hand, fingers hesitant but warm.
“I think we’re right enough to keep trying,” he said quietly. “Because you and me? We never go out of style.” You stared at your intertwined fingers. Then looked at him.
And maybe it was the way the morning light hit his face, or the way your chest ached a little less when he was near—but you believed him. Just for today.
So you squeezed his hand and said, “Then let’s get coffee. Before we ruin it again.” He smiled, and it wasn’t just that soft, nervous smile you’d seen too many times before.
It was hope.
It was a start.
And as he followed you into the kitchen, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—it could last a little longer this time.
You tried to be normal.
And at first, it almost worked.
You went grocery shopping together like a couple in a toothpaste commercial. Argued over bagels. Bought lavender dish soap. You cooked pasta while he read out loud from a book of weird Victorian riddles. He left his cardigan on the back of your kitchen chair like it belonged there.
It was quiet. Domestic. Strange.
It made your heart ache in a way that felt suspiciously like joy.
But normal had its limits. Because you weren’t just anyone. And neither was he.
Normal didn’t account for crime scenes at 3 AM. Or pictures of crimescenes on your diner table. Or the way Spencer sometimes sat on your couch with his fists clenched after a case, eyes distant, trembling in a way he didn’t want you to see.
You noticed, though. You always noticed. One night, two weeks in, you asked softly, “Are you okay?”
He was sitting in your bed with the case file closed beside him, half-empty glass of water on the nightstand. You saw the tension in his shoulders. The kind that never fully left.
“I’m fine,” he said, without looking up.
You reached over and took the file, sliding it off the bed. “That’s not what I asked.” He looked at you then, eyes sharp but tired. “I don’t know how to do this. Be... here. Be happy. With you.”
You felt your throat tighten.
“I don’t need you to be perfect,” you whispered. “I just need you to stay.”
He exhaled slowly, hands gripping the edge of the blanket. “Every time I try to build something good, it collapses. I’ve lost people, Y/N. You know that.”
You did. You knew better than most.
You crawled over and rested your head on his shoulder. “So stop running from the fact that you’re allowed to have something good again.”
He turned his head toward you, voice barely above a whisper. “You think we’re good?”
You smiled, just barely. “I think we’re chaotic and messy and a little tragic—but yeah. I think we’re good.”
He looked down at you, something soft behind his eyes. “You still wear that red lipstick, even when you know it’ll end up on my collar.”
You smirked. “It’s part of the brand.”
He leaned in and kissed your temple. “We’re not normal, are we?”
You tilted your head up to meet his eyes. “No. But maybe normal’s overrated.”
And in that moment, tangled in bedsheets and old trauma, in whispered jokes and bruised hope, you both knew: Whatever this was—whatever you were—style might not be practical.
But it was real. And that was enough for now.
“I told myself, don't get attached.”
“Remind me again,” you said, arms around Spencer’s neck as he kissed you against your front door, “why we’re sneaking around like we’re fifteen.”
He smiled against your jaw. “Because I work with federal agents trained to detect deception and you are, very distinctly, not FBI.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And you think they don’t know? You’ve been less subtle than a car alarm.”
Spencer grinned, hands trailing down your sides. “I’m not that obvious.” You leaned back. “You left your badge here last week.”
“…Okay, that’s a little obvious.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, and for a moment you forgot about the very real, very awkward complications that came with dating a BAU profiler.
Until—
*knock knock knock*
You froze. “Please tell me that’s not—” Spencer pulled back, eyes wide. “…Oh no.”
You whipped the door open before he could stop you.
And there they were.
Derek Morgan. JJ. Emily. Coffee cups in hand. In the middle of a casual off-day brunch patrol that had not been meant to include uncovering their resident genius’s not-so-secret romance.
Morgan blinked. “Well damn. Reid, you didn’t say you had company.” JJ’s mouth hung open, then curved into a slow grin. “This is where you’ve been disappearing to?”
Spencer opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Emily smirked. “This feels like the part where you tell us it’s not what it looks like.”
You cleared your throat, stepping fully into the doorway in your oversized hoodie—Spencer’s, of course. “Hi,” you said, holding out your hand. “I’m Y/N. Definitely not FBI. Apparently very bad at hiding.”
Morgan grinned, shaking your hand. “Nice to meet you. We’ve been trying to figure out what the hell’s been making Reid smile like he knows a secret.” JJ leaned in, stage-whispering, “Now we know.”
Spencer groaned behind you. “Can we just skip the part where you all analyze this like a crime scene?”
Emily raised a brow. “No. Absolutely not.”
You laughed, half-embarrassed, half-trying to own it. “Listen, I know this is weird. And messy. I’ve never dated someone whose coworkers carry guns and quote statistics about behavioral patterns.”
“You get used to it,” JJ said sympathetically. “Mostly.”
Morgan crossed his arms, studying you. “You know he’s got… a lot of history, right?”
Spencer tensed behind you. You reached back and took his hand. “I do,” you said. “And I’m not trying to fix him or rescue him or turn him into anything he’s not. I just want to be there. That’s it.”
Morgan looked at you a moment longer, then nodded.
“Alright,” he said. “That’s fair.”
Spencer exhaled in visible relief.
As the team filed off toward the corner cafe—still teasing him, of course—you turned to him.
“Well. So much for subtle.”
He laughed, tugging you into a hug. “I think they like you.”
You smirked. “That’s good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
And as his arms wrapped around you, grounding you to the center of the storm that was Spencer Reid, you realized:
Normal or not, secret or exposed—this felt like staying.
You weren’t even trying to start a fight.
It began with a text.
Y/N (19:37): hey, are you okay?
Spencer (21:42): Busy. Case went long.
Y/N (21:44): That’s all I get?
Y/N (21:50): are you okay??
You stared at the screen, stomach twisting. You knew better than to take his cold responses personally, but tonight, it hit different. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was how he'd pulled away the last few days like a tide slipping out before a storm.
When he walked through your door after midnight—looking exhausted, shirt rumpled, not even meeting your eyes—you tried to keep your voice calm.
“Spencer. What’s going on?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just dropped his bag and rubbed the back of his neck.
You stepped closer. “You’ve been distant for days. I don’t expect constant texts, but I do expect something. Some sign you still alive, that you want to be here.”
He finally looked up, and there was a flicker of sharpness in his voice that surprised you.
“I don’t have time to reassure you every second.”
That stung. “I’m not asking for every second. I’m asking for something. This—whatever we are—it doesn’t work without communication.”
Spencer ran a hand through his hair, already regretting his tone but too raw to fix it. “You knew what this would be. My job, my schedule—”
“I didn’t sign up to feel invisible,” you snapped. “Not after everything we’ve already been through.”
He froze. “I’m not doing this right now.”
“Yes, you are,” you said, louder than you meant to. “You don’t get to shut down and walk out every time things get hard.”
Spencer’s jaw clenched. “I’m not walking out.”
“You always do,” you said, voice breaking. “When it gets too real. When I start to mean too much. You panic and retreat and leave me standing here wondering if I’m just another thing you’ll run from.”
Silence.
A long one.
Then: “I’m not running because you mean too little,” he said hoarsely. “I run because you mean too much.”
Your heart dropped.
He looked at you then—eyes full of so much pain it made your chest ache.
“You think I don’t feel it?” he said. “The second I start to believe I can be happy again, I remember what happened last time. Maeve. I loved her and she died. Because of me.”
Your breath caught. He’d never said her name out loud to you before.
“She wasn’t your fault,” you whispered.
“But she was mine to protect.” His voice cracked. “And I failed. So how the hell am I supposed to trust myself to love you?”
Tears slipped down your cheek before you realized they’d come.
“Then why did you come back?”
He looked like he didn’t have an answer.
You stepped back a pace. “You came back, Spencer. You kissed me. You brought pastries. You told me to believe in this again. And now you’re breaking it because you’re scared?”
“I’m terrified,” he admitted.
You swallowed hard, voice quiet. “Then fight for it anyway. Or walk away. But don’t do this half-in, half-out thing. I can’t survive it again.”
Silence.
Then he did something you didn’t expect.
He sat down on the edge of the couch, buried his face in his hands, and whispered, “I don’t want to lose you.”
You walked over slowly and knelt in front of him. Gently pulled his hands away.
“Then don’t,” you said.
Your voice wasn’t angry anymore. It was tired. Sad. But still full of love.
“I don’t need perfect. I just need honest.”
He nodded, throat tight. “I’m trying.”
“I know,” you said, resting your forehead against his. “So am I.”
And maybe that was enough—for now.
Not to fix it.
But to keep going.
Spencer fell asleep on your couch that night—still in his work clothes, head tilted back, brow furrowed even in rest. You hadn’t spoken much after the fight. Just enough to make space for silence that didn’t feel like punishment.
You brought him a blanket, tucked it gently around his shoulders, and sat beside him on the floor for a while—knees pulled to your chest, eyes on the shadows dancing across your ceiling.
You didn’t sleep much either.
In the morning, he woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of a chair scraping across tile. His eyes opened slowly, and he found you sitting at the kitchen table, wearing his cardigan over your pajamas, holding a mug in both hands like it was anchoring you.
He stood, moved toward you with that hesitant energy he always carried when he wasn’t sure he was welcome.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he said softly.
You nodded. “Didn’t want to wake you. You looked like you needed the rest.”
He paused. “Can I sit?”
You gestured to the chair across from you. He sat.
A long beat passed.
You finally said, “I meant what I said last night. I can’t do this if you keep disappearing every time your fear gets too loud.”
He nodded slowly. “I know.”
You looked up at him then—really looked—and saw the guilt painted all over his face. The way his shoulders slumped. The bruise of regret in his eyes.
“I’ve built my whole life around fear,” he said quietly. “Predicting outcomes. Controlling what I can. It makes me good at my job, but terrible at trusting the things I want most.”
You exhaled, voice soft. “I don’t need you to stop being afraid. I just need you to stop letting it make your choices for you.”
He reached across the table then, tentative but steady, and took your hand.
“Then this is me trying,” he whispered.
You stared down at your fingers, entwined with his. “You always say the right thing.”
He gave a quiet, sad laugh. “I wish saying it was enough.”
“It’s not,” you said honestly. “But showing up is a good start.”
He nodded, eyes shining a little now. “I want to show up. For you. For us.”
Your throat tightened, but you smiled. “Good. Because I bought those dumb raspberry pastries again.”
He blinked, surprised. “You hate raspberry.”
“I do,” you said. “But you like them. So maybe we start small. You eat the pastry. I drink the coffee. And we try again.”
He stood, walked around the table, and leaned down to kiss your forehead.
And this time, it wasn’t desperate.
It wasn’t fiery or frantic.
It was steady.
Still.
Soft.
Healing.
“I’m still here,” he murmured.
You closed your eyes.
“So am I.”
“But in my mind, I play it back.”
You weren’t supposed to be there.
Your best friend had dragged you to a fundraiser gala you didn’t belong at — something about “supporting federal initiatives” and “free wine.” You’d worn the one dress that didn’t have a stain on it, spent twenty minutes pretending to know what the hell a federal subcommittee even was, and finally gave up and wandered toward the quietest corner of the building.
And that’s where you saw him.
Leaning awkwardly against the far wall in a suit that fit his arms like he’d grown into it reluctantly. Hair slightly too long. Tie slightly too crooked. Fingers curled tightly around a glass of ginger ale like it was a shield.
You almost didn’t say anything.
Almost walked past him without a word.
But then he muttered—under his breath, to no one—
“Ninety-three percent of people here are faking it. But I still feel like the weird one.”
You turned.
Raised your eyebrows.
“Did you just say that out loud?”
He jumped slightly, as if he’d forgotten his thoughts could escape.
“…Yes.”
You smiled, stepping closer. “Well, make it ninety-four percent. I have no idea what’s happening either.”
He blinked at you, surprised. And then—just barely—he smiled.
It lit something up behind his eyes.
“I’m Spencer,” he said after a pause, offering his hand.
“Y/N,” you said, shaking it. “Do you work here, or are you just pretending really convincingly?”
He chuckled. “I’m with the BAU. Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
Your brows lifted. “So like… profiling serial killers?”
His head tilted slightly, curious. “Most people don’t get it that quickly.”
You sipped your champagne. “I’ve seen your team on TV.”
His face did not hide the twitch of recognition-slash-discomfort. “It’s... more than what they show.”
You laughed. “Is that a yes?”
“It’s a very academic no.”
You ended up talking for thirty minutes. Then an hour. The party blurred around you. You found yourself sitting on the edge of a planter, shoes off, laughing about obscure psychology studies and his weird obsession with chess, while he listened to you describe your work, your favorite books, your irrational fear of geese.
At one point he said, “You talk like you’re not afraid of silence.”
You replied, “You look like you’re used to people filling it.”
And that was it. The shift.
The spark.
He asked if you’d want to meet again sometime.
You said, “I already hope you don’t disappear.”
He said, with almost no hesitation, “I don’t want to.”
And maybe that should’ve been your first warning.
Because people like Spencer Reid don’t just walk into your life.
They disrupt it.
In the best, most terrifying way.
Back in the present, you found the photo someone had taken of that gala—both of you in the background, blurry but laughing. You held it in your hands as Spencer walked into the kitchen, half-awake.
You looked up at him. “Remember this night?”
He leaned over your shoulder, smiled. “How could I forget?”
You turned, wrapped your arms around his waist. “You were so shy.”
He pressed a kiss to your temple. “You were so patient.”
You smirked. “Still am.”
He looked down at you. “I’m still grateful.”
And somewhere between the past and the present, you realized:
You didn’t fall in love all at once.
You chose each other—over and over.
From that first glance to now.
“You didn’t tell her I was coming?”
Spencer had the decency to look sheepish as the elevator opened to the BAU floor.
“I might’ve… mentioned it vaguely. In a non-specific, non-threatening way.”
You stared at him. “You said what, exactly?”
“That I was bringing someone upstairs. To… meet Garcia. In an entirely non-romantic, totally platonic—”
You cut him off, eyes wide. “Spencer.”
“I panicked.”
Before you could drag him back into the elevator, a high-pitched squeal rang from across the bullpen.
“DR. REID!”
You turned just in time to see a blur of florals, sequins, and blonde hair charging toward you.
You barely had time to prepare before she pulled you into a very enthusiastic hug.
“You’re even cuter than I imagined,” Penelope Garcia said, stepping back to examine you like a particularly beautiful art piece. “And believe me, I imagined.”
You blinked. “Um—hi?”
“Penelope Garcia. Oracle of all things digital. Also, Spencer’s ride-or-die, which means I have questions. But I also brought you cookies.” She shoved a tin into your hands. “Because interrogations are more fun with sugar.”
Spencer groaned behind you. “Please don’t scare her off.”
Garcia turned dramatically. “You’re lucky I didn’t run a full background check the moment I found out someone was making you smile like a Hallmark character.”
You bit back a smile. “To be fair… he does that all on his own.”
Garcia’s face softened just slightly, like you’d passed the first test.
“Well. You’ve got good taste in cardigans and compliments. You’re doing great so far.”
Spencer mumbled something and ducked into his office like a man fleeing a war zone. Garcia pulled you toward her desk.
“No, no. You’re staying. I’ve waited weeks for this. Sit. Tell me everything. First kiss, first fight, what his sock drawer looks like, go.”
You laughed, actually kind of relieved. “Do you always do this?” She tilted her head, serious now. “Only when it matters.”
That hit you harder than you expected. Because it meant this—you—mattered. And somehow, coming from Garcia… that made it real.
You sat, sipping the weird soda she handed you, telling stories and answering rapid-fire questions while photos of cats and case files blinked across her screens.
Eventually, Garcia’s voice softened.
“You love him?”
You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”
She looked at you for a long moment, eyes softer than you’d ever seen.
“Good,” she said. “Because he deserves someone who sees the light in him. Even when he can’t.”
You swallowed.
“Thank you. For protecting him.”
She smiled. “Now I get to protect you, too.”
Behind you, Spencer leaned against the doorframe, watching you with something like awe in his eyes.
Later, as the three of you walked out together, Garcia winked and said, “Don’t break him. But if you do, at least do it gently. And with glitter.”
You squeezed Spencer’s hand.
“I won’t.”
And you meant it.
“If I had known what I'd known now.”
“Taxi cabs and busy streets.”
Later that night, you and Spencer walked through the streets of D.C., coffee cups in hand, the air still warm from the fading sun. It felt like a normal day—until he kept glancing at you with that look.
You noticed it. The way he opened his mouth once, twice, then closed it again.
“What?” you finally asked, bumping his arm with yours. “You’ve been weird since we left Quantico.” He looked down, bashful. “Garcia likes you.”
You grinned. “That was a very polite way of saying she interrogated me.” “She interrogates everyone. It’s how she shows love.”
You laughed, but then his expression shifted.
“I, um…” He hesitated, voice going softer. “I heard you. Earlier. When you were talking to her.” You blinked. “Heard what?”
He looked straight ahead, like he couldn’t quite meet your eyes yet. “You said you loved me.”
Your breath caught. You hadn’t even realized you’d said it aloud until that moment. Garcia had asked, you’d answered—without thinking, without hesitating. Like the truth had just spilled out because it had nowhere else left to hide.
“I—” you started, but he stopped walking.
He turned to face you completely.
“You don’t have to take it back,” he said quickly. “Or explain. I just wanted to tell you that I heard it. And…” You waited.
Waited through the little war you saw happening behind his eyes. Then he took a breath and stepped closer.
“I love you too.”
The words were so quiet you almost didn’t hear them.
But you did.
You heard them.
And the weight of them, the honesty in them, hit you like a tidal wave. You stared at him. He stared at you.
“I love you,” he said again, firmer now. Like he meant to leave no room for doubt. “I think I’ve loved you since you didn’t laugh when I panicked over that chessboard on our second date. Or maybe before that. Maybe since the gala. Or before I even knew your name.”
You stepped closer, your free hand reaching for his. “You have this habit,” you whispered, “of saying the exact thing that makes my heart ache in the best way.”
Slow. Warm. No rush. Just the kind of kiss that means I see you. I’m not going anywhere.
When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his and whispered, “I meant it, you know. I love you.”
He nodded.
“I believe you now.”
“Right when I was just about to fall.”
And under the quiet D.C. sky, beneath the hum of the city and the buzz of too much caffeine and just enough truth, Spencer Reid held your hand like it was the only thing keeping him steady.
Because maybe it was.
You didn’t mean to find it.
You were looking for an extra charger in the drawer by Spencer’s desk — the one filled with mismatched cables and half-filled notebooks and pens that all somehow worked even though they looked a decade old.
And underneath it all, folded neatly between the pages of a worn paperback, was a photo. A woman. Dark hair, soft smile. A library in the background. She looked like she laughed quietly. Like she had secrets.
You didn’t touch the photo. You didn’t have to. You knew who she was. You’d never asked. Not because you didn’t wonder, but because you were waiting for him to be ready. You shut the drawer softly, quietly, and went back to making tea.
Later that night, he found you sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, hands wrapped around your mug like a shield. He sat beside you, slow, deliberate. Like he knew something had shifted.
After a minute, he said quietly, “You found the photo.” You nodded, not looking at him yet. “I wasn’t snooping. I swear.” “I know.” His voice was gentle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Silence settled between you. Not heavy, but not weightless either. You finally turned to him. “She was important to you.”
He nodded. “She was.”
You waited.
“I never got to say goodbye,” he said. “Not really. Not out loud.” You didn’t speak — just reached out, took his hand, gave him space to breathe.
“I loved her,” he said. “In a way that was… quiet. Safe. She was the first person in a long time who made me feel like I wasn’t too much.” Your heart clenched, but you kept holding his hand. Kept listening.
“I don’t think I ever stopped loving her,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t room in me for something new. For you.” You looked at him, voice soft. “I don’t want to take her place, Spencer.”
He shook his head. “You couldn’t. You don’t have to.”
Another pause.
“Loving you feels… different,” he continued. “Less like something I’m protecting. More like something I’m building. It’s scarier. But it’s stronger.”
You blinked back tears.
“Do you talk to her?” you asked.
“Sometimes,” he said. “In my head. When I’m afraid. When I miss her.” You nodded. “I think she’d want you to be happy.”
“I think she’d like you,” he said, with the softest smile. “You’re bold. Kind. You tell the truth, even when it hurts.” You leaned into his side, resting your head on his shoulder.
“I can’t promise I won’t feel weird about her sometimes,” you admitted. “But I won’t run from it. From her. From you.”
He pressed a kiss to your hair.
“That’s more than I could’ve asked for.”
You stayed like that — curled up in shared silence — until the weight of grief and love and memory softened into something bearable.
Not gone.
Not forgotten.
But held.
Together.
It started with a letter on Spencer’s desk. Thick paper. Government seal. And a heading that read:
UNITED NATIONS PSYCHOLOGY & BEHAVIORAL SCIENCE RESEARCH INITIATIVE – Geneva Division
Lead Field Analyst: Dr. Spencer Reid – Conditional Acceptance Pending
The room went quiet. Your heartbeat didn’t. You stared at it for a long time before saying anything.
“Without knowing anything at all.”
He walked in minutes later, coffee in hand, completely unaware. “Hey,” he said casually. “Want to watch that documentary tonight?”
You turned slowly.
“When were you going to tell me?” Spencer blinked. “Tell you what?” You didn’t say anything. Just showed him the letter.
His face fell.
“Y/N…”
“No,” you said, standing. “Don’t ‘Y/N’ me. When were you going to tell me you accepted?”
He set the coffee down. “I was going to. I just hadn’t figured out how.” “How?” you snapped. “How to lie better? Or how to make it sound like I shouldn’t be hurt?”
“That’s not fair—”
“What’s not fair is you already chose, Spencer! You said yes. You said yes to a YEAR. You said yes to leaving me and didn’t even give me a chance to talk about it.”
“How strange that I don't know you at all.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Because I knew if I talked to you, I wouldn’t do it.” You froze. That admission hit harder than any lie.
“Oh,” you whispered. “So I’m the reason you almost didn’t chase your dream. Is that it?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“But it’s what you believe.”
“I didn’t want to make you feel like I was choosing between you and the work.”
“But you were. And you didn’t choose me.”
Silence.
He stepped closer. “It’s not forever—”
You took a step back. “But it’s without me.”
“I can't help but wish you took me with you.”
His voice cracked. “I didn’t know how to say goodbye.”
“Then maybe you should’ve figured that out before you made the decision for both of us.” He swallowed, chest rising and falling fast. “I love you.” You laughed bitterly. “Yeah? Then why do I feel like a footnote?” “I was scared,” he whispered. “Scared I’d never get another offer like this. Scared if I stayed, I’d resent you. And scared if I left, I’d lose you.” You nodded slowly. “Well. Congratulations. You got what you were afraid of.”
Spencer closed his eyes like he’d been punched. You grabbed your coat, voice shaking. “Go to Geneva. Do the work. Be brilliant. But don’t pretend this didn’t cost something.” And then you walked out — before either of you could take it back.
“Come back, be here.”
Later that night, Spencer sat alone, the laptop still open. He hovered over the email. The acceptance. And for the first time in his life, he couldn’t tell if being right felt worse than being alone.
“She’s not even in the FBI,” Garcia said quietly, her voice shaking. “And he still did this.”
That was what made it worse.
You weren’t one of them — not technically. You didn’t carry a badge or read behavioral patterns or chase monsters in the dark.
You were the one who made Spencer come home. The one who reminded him there was a world outside of case files and serial killers. And now you were the one he was leaving behind.
Without warning.
Without a say.
Emily leaned on the edge of the table, arms crossed, staring Spencer down. “So you accepted the fellowship,” she said. “And didn’t tell her until after?” He looked away. “It wasn’t that simple.”
“No,” Rossi said. “It was simple. You just made it complicated.” Spencer bristled. “I didn’t want her to stop me.” “Did she ask you not to go?” JJ pressed. “She didn’t have to,” he muttered. “I knew if I looked her in the eyes, I wouldn’t go.”
Garcia was pacing.
“She’s not a profiler. She’s not trained for this kind of heartbreak. She’s just…” Her voice broke. “She’s just a person who loved you.”
That silence was worse than shouting.
“She trusted you,” Tara said gently. “And you left her behind like she was a footnote.”
“I love her,” Spencer said, barely audible.
“No one’s saying you don’t,” JJ replied. “But love doesn’t matter if you can’t respect someone enough to let them in before you change their future.”
Garcia finally stopped pacing.
“I had to sit in her living room yesterday while she made me tea with hands that were shaking. She said she was ‘happy for you,’ like she wasn’t falling apart.”
“Garcia…” he started.
“No,” she said. “You don’t get to ‘Garcia’ me right now.” She stepped closer.
“She was your soft place. Your real life. And you blew it up because you were scared of letting her love you more than you love the job.”
Spencer blinked fast, his voice thin.
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like, Spencer?” Garcia asked. “Because from where I’m standing, you got everything you ever said you wanted — and somehow still managed to make the one person who believed in you feel like she never mattered.”
Spencer didn’t answer.
Because there was no good answer.
Emily looked at him. “We’re proud of you. We are. But don’t expect us to pretend you didn’t break something good.”
He nodded slowly.
And for the first time in his career, success felt like failure.
“One last kiss, then catch your flight.”
It was two nights before his flight.
The knock on your door came just after 10 PM. You almost didn’t open it. But of course you did. You always did when it was him.
He stood there in that coat you hated — the one that smelled like old libraries and sleepless nights.
And you? You looked like someone who hadn’t slept in three days. “Can I come in?” he asked quietly. You stepped aside. Said nothing.
He walked in slowly, like the room might reject him. You stayed by the door. “I don’t know how to make this better,” he said. Your arms stayed crossed. “Then maybe don’t try.” “Please,” he said, voice catching. “Please just—say something.” You looked at him, jaw tight. “You already said everything, Spencer. You just didn’t say it to me.”
He flinched. “I was scared,” he admitted. “Of choosing wrong. Of regretting it. Of—”
“Of being honest with me,” you cut in. He exhaled. “Yes.”
Silence sat between you. “I thought I had to go,” he continued, “because I didn’t know who I was without this job. Without the work.”
“And who are you with me?” you asked, voice breaking. “Because I thought we were building something. I thought I was part of your life.”
“How strange that I don't know you at all.”
“You are,” he said quickly. “God, Y/N, you are. I just didn’t know how to take both of you with me.” You shook your head, tears brimming. “You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to try. You didn’t trust me with the choice.” He stepped closer. “I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he said. “Not yet. I just— I’m asking if there’s still a version of this where I go and we don’t end.”
You looked up at him, pain in every breath. “I don’t know,” you whispered. “I don’t know if I can love you the same way knowing you didn’t love me enough to fight for us first.” That gutted him.
But you didn’t walk away. Not yet.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small. A book. A well-worn paperback of Persuasion. “I bought this for you in San Diego during a case, before everything blew up,” he said. “You once said it was your favorite because it was about second chances.”
You stared at it. At him. “You don’t have to take me back,” he said. “But maybe… just maybe you could read it again. And think about us.” He placed it on the table, like it might disappear. And then he whispered, “I still want a life with you. Even if it starts again after I get back.”
“Stumbled through the long goodbye.”
You didn’t say anything. To scared to even speak. An overwhelming amount of emotions storming in you. You closed the door after he left. On the table beside the door he left the book, face-down. A note slipped between the pages in his handwriting:
“Sometimes we are forced into second chances. And sometimes, we choose them.”
— Yours, maybe.
The hotel was beautiful.
High ceilings. Big windows. A view of the Alps in the distance. The kind of place meant for people who feel proud of where they’ve landed. But Spencer didn’t feel proud. He felt… unfinished.
“And this is when the feeling sinks in.”
He unpacked in silence. Folded his cardigans. Lined up his journals. Filled the bathroom with his usual toiletries. The second toothbrush stayed in his bag.
His watch ticked too loud. The silence pressed in, thick and unfamiliar. He sat at the desk and pulled out a photo you once printed for him — the one where you're curled up in his arms, laughing into his chest like the world outside didn’t exist.
He stared at it. And said your name out loud, just once. Like a prayer. Like a wound. It didn’t make him feel better.
“I don't wanna miss you like this.”
He tried to sleep. He just couldn't. He turned to your side of the bed instinctively. It was cold. Of course it was. He reached for his phone more than once that night. Hovered over your name. Typed half a message:
"I hate that I'm here without you."
Deleted it.
Typed again:
“I thought this would feel worth it.”
Deleted that too.
At 3:12 AM, he gave up and pulled out the book he gave you — the extra copy he bought for himself. Persuasion. The same page you once quoted to him came up like fate: “You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.” He shut the book slowly, let the ache sit in his chest, and whispered into the dark: “God, I miss you.”
And the worst part? You weren’t asleep either. Back in your apartment, you sat on the floor in his hoodie, the same book unopened beside you. Phone in hand. Name on screen.
No message sent. And 3,000 miles away, Spencer felt that silence like gravity.
“4:00 a.m. the second day.”
Day 11.
Spencer couldn’t focus. He sat at the long wooden conference table in the Institute library, notebooks scattered around him, three pens open, not one word written in thirty minutes.
The fluorescent lights buzzed. Someone was typing aggressively across the room. He kept trying to return to the paper in front of him. Cognitive flexibility in multilingual memory recall. He’d read the abstract four times. He still couldn’t tell you what it was about.
Day 12.
He was supposed to meet with the other researchers on his team.
He was late. He forgot to bring the data set he was assigned to prep. "You okay, Reid?” someone asked. He nodded too quickly. “Just jet lag.” It wasn’t jet lag. It was you.
Or more accurately, the absence of you. You hadn’t responded to his last message. Or the one before that. He didn’t blame you. He just missed you. And missing you made everything else feel… wrong.
Even the things he’d once fought for.
“Come back, be here.”
Day 15.
He had a dream the night before that you were in his kitchen — the one back home. Wearing that worn flannel shirt he always reached for. You were making tea. You looked up at him and smiled and said, “You never left.” Then he woke up in a bed that wasn’t his, with a view that felt like a painting, and no message on his phone.
He didn’t make it into the office that day. He stayed in bed. Stared at the ceiling. Listened to your last voicemail on repeat.
Just to hear your voice.
Day 16.
He finally emailed Garcia. Subject line: Quick Question. It wasn’t a question. He just wanted to talk to someone who knew you. They Zoomed. She took one look at him and frowned.
“Spencer… you look like a haunted man.” “I feel like one.”
“Still no word from her?” He shook his head. Penelope sighed. “This is what happens when you try to outrun love, genius. It doesn’t just wait quietly back home. It takes you with it.” He nodded slowly. “I thought I’d feel like myself again here.” “Do you?” He didn’t answer.
That night, he started a letter. Handwritten. Messy. Raw.
Dear Y/N,
I thought this would fix something in me. I thought I needed to prove I could be more than the man who fell apart. But every version of me without you feels…
…fractured.
You once said I made your world quieter.
But without you, mine won’t shut up.
I don’t know if it’s too late. I just needed you to know that nothing about this works without you.
He didn’t send it. But he folded it carefully. And put it in the same drawer as your picture. Right next to the book he still hadn’t finished.
You didn’t plan on seeing Garcia that day.
But she showed up anyway — on your doorstep, oversized tote slung over her shoulder, sunglasses in her hair, holding your favorite latte and wearing that look. The one that meant, We’re talking whether you like it or not. You sighed, stepping aside. “You brought caffeine. I can’t say no to that.” “Exactly,” she said, breezing inside. “Bribery: the foundation of any good friendship.”
You hadn’t seen her in two weeks. Not since Spencer left.
She sat on your couch, handed you the coffee, and gave you a long, searching look. And then: “Sweetheart,” she said softly. “He’s not okay.” You blinked. Looked away. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Tough,” she said. “Because I do.”
You didn’t answer. She leaned forward, voice gentle but firm. “Do you know how many times he’s emailed me in the last week?”
You stayed quiet. “Seven,” she said. “Seven emails. None of them about work. All of them about you.” You laughed bitterly. “And yet not one to me.” “Oh, he’s written you,” she said. “I saw the drafts. Long letters. Pages. But he’s terrified he broke something in you.”
You swallowed hard. “He left, Penelope.” “I know. And I was furious. I am still kind of furious. But Y/N… he’s unraveling over there.”
Your chest tightened. “I don't wanna miss you like this.”
“He can’t focus. He’s forgetting meetings. He's pulling all-nighters but doing nothing with them. The research director actually called me to ask if he was okay — and I had to lie, because ‘No, he’s not, he left the love of his life behind like an idiot’ doesn’t fit well in an HR report.” Tears burned your eyes.
“Come back, be here.”
She softened her voice. “He misses you. Like, real miss-you. Not 'regret' miss-you — wanting-his-life-back miss-you.” You whispered, “He left anyway.” “I know. And you’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to not want him back. But I also know you’ve been staring at your phone every night since he left, just waiting for something to feel right again.”
You wiped a tear off your cheek. Garcia stood up and crossed to you. “This thing between you two? It’s not over unless you say it is.” “I don’t know if I can forgive him.” “That’s okay,” she said. “Just… don’t lie to yourself and say you don’t love him.”
You nodded. Quiet. Broken open again.
“Come back, be here.”
Garcia pulled you into a hug, fierce and warm.
And whispered, “He’s coming home in three weeks for a conference. He doesn’t know I told you. But maybe that’s the universe giving you both one more chance to stop pretending you’re over it.”
You didn’t answer. But your hands gripped her tighter. Like maybe you were already considering what you’d say if you saw him again.
The rain tapped against the window like a ticking clock.
You sat on the floor of your bedroom, knees pulled to your chest, a blanket around your shoulders. The book Spencer had given you last fall was open in your lap, but the words were nothing but black smudges tonight.
Your phone sat next to you. No new messages. You picked it up. Checked again. Still nothing.
The ache was quiet, but sharp. It wasn’t like the dramatic sobbing kind of grief. It was the kind that settles in your bones, the kind that comes when you realize you’re doing life alone again—even though you weren’t supposed to.
You called the one person who always answered.
“Garcia?”
She picked up immediately. “Hey, sweetness. You okay?”
You hesitated. Your throat tightened. “I don’t know.”
“Talk to me.”
You looked at the empty spot beside you. The one he used to curl into. The one that still smelled like him when you tried hard enough.
Your voice cracked, low and honest. “This is falling in love in the cruelest way.”
“Oh, honey…”
“This is falling for him,” you whispered. “Still. But he’s… worlds away.”
There was silence on her end, but you knew she was listening with every ounce of her heart.
You wiped a tear with the sleeve of Spencer’s hoodie. “He’s in Geneva. I know it’s only for a little while longer, but… he feels so far. Like I can’t reach him. Like I’m trying to love someone across an ocean, and all I want is for him to be here.”
Garcia’s voice softened. “Say that again.”
You took a shaky breath. Let it out slowly.
“In New York, be here,” you said. “But he’s in Geneva.”
Another breath. And then, the part that cracked your chest open. “And I break down. ’Cause it’s not fair that he’s not around.”
Garcia’s voice broke. “You miss him.”
“So much it makes my ribs feel like glass.”
She was quiet for a beat. Then, gently: “Want me to stay on the phone until you fall asleep?”
You nodded, even though she couldn’t see you. “Please.”
You lay down slowly, blanket still wrapped around you. The line stayed open. No pressure. Just soft breathing and comfort on the other end. And somewhere, hours ahead, Spencer was probably looking at the same moon.
Spencer hadn’t seen Quantico in almost two month.
It was surreal walking through the old hallways again—familiar walls, familiar voices, and yet, nothing quite settled inside him.
The team had arranged a small get-together that night. “Just something casual,” Garcia had promised. “Snacks, hugs, mild emotional damage.”
He tried not to think too much as he stepped into the room at Rossi’s place. It was warm. Loud. Home. JJ hugged him tight. Emily clapped him on the back. Luke handed him a beer. Garcia cried exactly the way he knew she would.
But every time someone walked through the door…
His head snapped up. Every single time. And every time…
It wasn’t you. Not once. And it burned.
“Come back, be here.”
He stayed for two hours. He tried to laugh. Tried to smile. He kept glancing at the door, heart climbing his throat. Garcia noticed, of course. “She’s not coming,” she said gently, pulling him aside. “I invited her. But she didn’t RSVP.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I thought maybe…”
“I know,” she whispered.
By the time 10:30 rolled around, he couldn’t fake it anymore. He slipped out. No big goodbye. Just a quiet, ghost-like exit.
The hotel room was too quiet. Too bright. Too cold. He dropped his bag. Took off his coat. Sat on the edge of the bed and stared at nothing.
You didn’t come.
And the worst part? He didn’t even blame you. He buried his head in his hands, feeling the ache coil up in his chest like something living.
God, he was stupid. He shouldn’t have expected anything. He left. He chose to leave. And now—
*knock knock*
He froze. Two soft knocks. Not housekeeping. He stood slowly. Heart hammering. Opened the door. And there you were.
Hair curled slightly from the night air. Hands shoved in your coat pockets. A flicker of nerves in your eyes. You looked up at him like you weren’t sure you were allowed to. “Hey,” you said softly.
He stared at you, stunned. “I didn’t go to the party,” you continued. “I couldn’t.” “Why?” he managed, voice hoarse. You looked down. “I was scared if I saw you there, I’d forget how angry I still am.”
Ouch.
He nodded. “You deserve to be angry.” Silence. And then, barely above a whisper— “But I missed you anyway.”
His breath caught. You looked up at him again. “I didn’t want to see you in front of everyone. I wanted to see you here. Just… you.”
His hands trembled. “I didn’t think you’d come.” “I almost didn’t.” “And now?” You swallowed. “Now I’m wondering if this door is going to close… or if you’ll let me in.”
He didn’t say a word. He stepped back. Held the door open. And you walked in. Slowly. Quietly. Like you’d never been gone.
It was past 3:00 a.m. by the time the last word was spoken.
Neither of you knew who said it. There wasn’t a grand conclusion to the hours-long conversation—no sweeping fix, no perfect closure.
Just silence. And honesty. And finally, peace.
You were curled up on one side of the bed, tucked under the too-white hotel duvet, still fully clothed. Spencer had changed into a soft gray T-shirt but left his jeans on. He lay beside you, arm barely brushing yours. Neither of you moved You stared at the ceiling together for a while. Let the quiet stretch. Then, gently, softly— “Will you face me?” he asked.
You turned over, shifting until you were facing him, nose a few inches from his. His eyes were tired, but clear. A softness lived there again—one that hadn’t been there since the night he told you he was leaving.
His hand reached forward slowly, landing on the blanket near yours. Not touching, not pushing. Just… waiting. You inched your hand over until your fingers slid between his. Finally.
It wasn’t a kiss.
It wasn’t a promise.
It was enough.
He let out a long breath, like he’d been holding it for weeks. And then, with his forehead barely brushing yours, he whispered: “I haven’t really slept since I left.” You nodded once. “Me either.”
“Do you think we could now?” You answered by tugging the blanket a little higher, then resting your hand over his heart. It was steady. Slower already. He smiled softly. “You always do that.”
“What?” “Put my mind to sleep.” You whispered back, “That’s because you always wake up my heart.” “You said it in a simple way.”
And with that, you both closed your eyes.
For the first time in weeks—no tossing, no racing thoughts, no dreams laced with absence— you slept. Not just because you were tired. But because, finally, you felt safe again.
The morning came soft. Sunlight poured in through the slats of the hotel curtains, falling across the bed like a secret. Spencer stirred first, blinking against the warmth, a little disoriented—until he felt your weight beside him.
You were still curled into his side. His shirt had slid off one shoulder during the night. And for the first time in a month, he felt human again. Alive.
You opened your eyes slowly. Saw him watching you. “Hi,” you whispered, voice still sleep-soaked. “Hi.” Neither of you moved right away. Eventually, you sat up. Rubbed your eyes. Ran a hand through your hair. Then looked over your shoulder at him.
“We should talk,” you said gently. “Before I turn this into something in my head that it isn’t.” He nodded. Sat up too. “I’d like that.”
You turned to face him fully. Feet tucked beneath you on the bed. Legs barely brushing his.
“I don’t want you to give up the study,” you started. “I need you to know that.” “I’m not sure I still want it,” he admitted. “Don’t say that just because I’m here.” “I’m not. I’m saying it because I don’t feel like me when I’m not with you. And if a job takes that away from me, then maybe it’s not the right job.”
You reached for his hand—twined your fingers.
“Then let’s try something before it comes to that,” you said. “Long distance.” His eyebrows lifted. “You mean—?” “I mean… what if we didn’t treat this like it has to be all or nothing? What if we try? Texts. Late-night calls. Long weekends. Letters. Anything we can.”
He stared at you, wonder in his eyes. “You’d really do that?” “I almost didn’t,” you said honestly. “But Garcia gave me your hotel address.” His eyes widened. “She—wait, she gave it to you?”
You smiled, sheepish. “She said, and I quote, ‘If you want to fix this, stop being passive and go knock on his door like the main character you are.’” He huffed a soft laugh. “Of course she did.”
You leaned in. Pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “I’ll let you shower and get your head on straight,” you said, sliding off the bed. “I’ve got to head to work. But…” you paused at the door, pulling your coat on, “Dinner tonight?” “Where?” “Anywhere. Just you.”
He smiled. “You have no idea how badly I want that.” You left with a soft click of the door.
“And this is when the feeling sinks in.”
And he sat there for a moment. Quiet. Grateful. Then grabbed his phone and dialed.
“Hello?”
“Garcia. It’s me.”
“Oof. You sound suspiciously well-rested.”
He smiled, sinking back against the pillows. “She showed up last night.”
Penelope let out a dramatic gasp. “Did she punch you or kiss you?”
“Neither. She… talked. We talked. All night.”
“…So you slept. Actually slept?”
“For the first time since I left.”
A pause. A smile even through the phone line.
“She told me you gave her my hotel address,” he added.
This is falling for you
when you are
w o r l d s a w a y
In New York, be here
but you're in London
and I break down
cause it's not fair
that you're not around
and I can still see it all
i n m y m i n d
all of you, all of me
intertwined
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