“I need to talk to you,” you announce, walking into the room uninvited—and frankly not caring about the lack of decorum on your part. Not that Penelope would mind, of course, she has done the same to you multiple times over the past however many years of your friendship, after all.  

Penelope turns to you on her swivel chair, her eyebrows rising with surprise, “Hello to you... too?” 

You blow out a breath, hands on your hips. “Sorry. Hi. Hello. Greetings. I’m great. How are you?” 

Penelope narrows her eyes at you like she’s running a full psychological evaluation, and then, much to your dismay, a wicked smile widens on her face. “You’re flustered.” 

“I am fine.” 

“You’re lying.” That one is accusatory, not that she’s wrong, but also not something you expect. 

You groan. “Penelope, I need to talk to you.” 

“Oh, okay,” she chirps, rolling her chair closer like she’s about to conduct a deposition. “Is this about the thing? Or like… the thing?” 

“Penelope,” you warn. 

She gasps dramatically. “It’s the thing.” 

Before you can respond, another voice cuts in from the doorway. “Who’s talking about a thing?” JJ walks in holding two files, looking far too perceptive for your liking. 

“Oh perfect,” Penelope beams. “You’re just in time, we’re having a crisis.” 

“We are not having a crisis,” you snap. “No crisis. Zero crisis. Negative crisis.” 

JJ raises a brow. “Right. That’s why you look like you’re going to burst into flames if I say Spen-” 

Hands still on your hips, your eyes narrow as you look at the two blonds in front of you. “Listen, do you guys want to hear how Spencer Reid is using sex to convince me to come back to the FBI, or not?” 

There is a beat of utter silence, then: 

Penelope slams both hands onto her desk. “YES.” 

JJ nearly drops her files. “I—okay, hang on—what?” 

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Don’t make me say it twice.” You’re not above begging, and thankfully, it seems you won’t have to.  

Penelope leans forward, elbows on her desk, and chin in her hands. “Oh, you’re absolutely saying it twice.” 

JJ sets her files aside and crosses her arms. “Start from the beginning. And don’t leave out details,” she mentions you to sit, “have a seat, girlfriend.” 

The BAU has been understaffed for months. They’re drowning in cases. Emily asked you—gently, in that soft voice she uses when she knows she’s asking for a huge favor, though also respectfully, consider coming back. You’d said you’d think about it. That was three weeks ago. And after three weeks of sexual manipulation delivered in absolute precision of your boyfriend, you don’t know whether to curse or thank Emily Prentiss for the best sex of your life. 

It had started so innocent, or that’s what you thought. After spending the first couple of months of your relationship in your own bubble, it was easy to forget the world outside of it—Quantico, cases, the constant weight of being needed. You’d left the BAU for a reason, whether it was because of burnout or grief. Or perhaps a quiet, desperate need to be something other than useful.  

And Spencer knew that, of course, he did.  

That’s why he never talked about why you left. 

And ever so foolishly, you thought you had an understanding between the two of you: he keeps the horrors of the office at the office, and you keep your peaceful, civilian life at home. But Spencer Reid doesn’t play by the rules when he’s determined, and apparently, he’s determined to have you back in a tactical vest beside him—and he is not afraid to play dirty to get what he wants. 

“He’s using psychological conditioning!” you hiss, pacing the small, tech-cluttered space. “It’s subtle. It’s genius. It’s… it’s exhausting.” 

Penelope’s eyes are practically vibrating with excitement. “Explain. Give me the data points. I need a spreadsheet.” 

“Two nights ago,” you begin, counting off on your fingers. “I was telling him about my new job—the one with the reasonable hours and the zero chance of being kidnapped by a serial killer. He didn't say a word. He just started kissing my neck, right behind my ear, and whispered that my brain was clearly suffering from a lack of ‘environmental stimulation’.” 

JJ lets out a suppressed snort, trying to hide her reaction behind a well-timed cough. “He did not.” 

“He did! And then he told me, while his hands were doing things that should be illegal in at least twelve states—that the adrenaline spike of a high-stakes case is the only thing that truly satisfies a mind like mine.” You stop, breathless and red-faced. “I almost agreed to sign my reinstatement papers right there on the headboard.” 

“Oh sugarplum,” Penelope sighs, “that would’ve made our poor Unit Chief Prentiss a very happy lady.”  

“Emily would probably give him a medal for recruitment,” you groan, finally collapsing into the ergonomic chair Penelope practically shoved under you. “It’s not just the talking, it’s the methodology. Last night, I told him I was looking at weekend getaways, and he started tracing the line of my jaw with his thumb. He looked me dead in the eye and said that while relaxation is a biological necessity, my specific cognitive profile thrives on the 'bonding through shared trauma' that only the team provides.” 

JJ leans against her chair, an impressed smirk playing on her lips. “He’s rewarding the thought of the BAU with dopamine, kind of like Pavlov’s dogs.” 

“He’s rewarding it with a lot more than dopamine, JJ!” you cry out, gesturing wildly at your own flushed face. “I went to his place to stand my ground. I had a whole speech prepared about work-life balance and the beauty of corporate consulting. I didn't even get past the foyer before he started talking about the 'unmatched neurological intimacy' of working a joint profile.” 

“And?” Penelope prompts, leaning so far forward she’s nearly nose-to-nose with you. “What happened to the speech?” 

“The speech is in the trash. Along with my resolve. And probably my dignity,” you mutter. “He backed me against the door and whispered— literally whispered into my skin that if I came back, we wouldn’t have to waste twenty minutes every evening catching each other up on our days because we’d have lived them together. Then he showed me exactly what he meant by 'efficiency'.” 

There’s a beat of silence in the room. Penelope looks like she’s just witnessed a miracle, and JJ is shaking her head in disbelief. “I always knew he was a genius,” JJ says softly, “but I didn't realize he was a diabolical genius.” 

“I honestly don’t know whether to be happy about all the ‘fulfillment’ I’ve experienced, or file a formal grievance with the Bureau for unethical recruitment tactics,” you finish, burying your face in your hands. 

Penelope lets out a sound that is half-gasp, half-giggle. “I wouldn’t file that grievance, honey. Keep that gift horse, and its extremely high IQ, exactly where it is.” 

“It’s not a gift!” you protest, though the way your heart flutters says otherwise. “It’s a trap! A beautiful, six-foot-one, sweater-vested trap. He’s making me associate my career with my… my physiological satisfaction.” 

“I think you mean your very specific needs,” JJ clarifies with a wink, her eyes dancing with an unholy amusement. “I’m sorry we’re enjoying your suffering,” JJ finishes, clearly not sorry at all, “but this is objectively fascinating.” 

“Fascinating?” You repeat weakly through your fingers. “He’s weaponizing emotional intimacy.” 

Penelope tilts her head thoughtfully. “Counterpoint: he’s using his natural gifts in the service of love and workplace retention.” 

“That is not better!” you groan. 

JJ pushes off the desk and begins pacing slowly, slipping into the same thoughtful cadence she uses when they’re building a profile. “Okay, let’s look at the facts. Spencer is patient, highly strategic, and—” 

“Dangerously persuasive,” you interrupt. 

“—and deeply attached to you,” JJ finishes calmly. “So, from his perspective, getting you back at the BAU solves multiple problems at once.” 

“Name one,” you challenge. 

Penelope raises a finger. “One: he misses working with you.” 

Another finger. “Two: the team misses you.” 

JJ adds a third. “Three: you’re extremely good at the job.” 

“And four,” Penelope says brightly, “he gets to see you more often and apparently continue his… conditioning experiments.” 

You stare at her. “You’re both the worst.” 

Before either of them can respond, a familiar voice drifts in from the hallway. 

“Well, technically it isn’t conditioning.” And suddenly, all three of you freeze—because the voice doesn’t belong to either one of you.  

Spencer stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a stack of case files tucked under one arm and a deceptively mild expression on his face. He looks every bit the boyish professor in his layered knits and slightly oversized messenger bag, but the way his eyes lock onto yours—dark, focused, and humming with a terrifyingly sharp intellect—suggests he’s heard much more of this conversation than you’d like. 

"Technically," he repeats, stepping into the room with that rhythmic, long-legged stride that usually makes your heart skip for all the right reasons, "it’s a form of positive reinforcement designed to strengthen a specific behavioral response. Conditioning implies a lack of agency, whereas I’m simply highlighting the natural, symbiotic relationship between your professional fulfillment and your... personal well-being." 

Penelope lets out a sound that is dangerously close to a squeak, her hands flying to her mouth. JJ just leans back against a server rack, crossing her arms with an "I told you so" smirk that you would love to slap off her face. 

You point at him slowly, horror creeping up your spine, as you accuse him. “You were eavesdropping.” 

Spencer blinks once, an innocent smile creeping on his face. “I was walking to Garcia’s office.” 

“You stopped.” You narrow your eyes at him. 

Spencer shrugs, “Yes.” 

Penelope lowers her hands from her mouth. “For how long, exactly?” 

Spencer thinks about it. Actually, thinks about it. “Long enough to hear the part about the headboard.” 

You make a strangled noise. JJ presses her lips together again, her shoulders shaking. And you can practically hear Penelope’s internal scream. “Fantastic,” you mutter, dropping back into the chair. “Great. Wonderful. I’m thrilled.” 

Spencer doesn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. Instead, he sets the stack of files down on Penelope’s desk with a deliberate thud, his fingers lingering on the manila folders as he turns his full attention back to you. The fluorescent lights of the technical suite catch the amber in his eyes, making them look warmer—and far more calculating than usual. 

“The headboard comment was an interesting data point,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “Though, if we’re being academically rigorous, I believe your exact words were ‘signing reinstatement papers’ on said headboard. Which, from a legal standpoint, would likely be contested due to the... distracting nature of the environment.” 

“Spencer!” you hiss, looking at JJ and Penelope, who are both vibrating with the kind of glee usually reserved for closing a serial killer's case file. 

“I'm just saying,” he continues, stepping closer until he’s effectively boxed you into the ergonomic chair. He leans down, bracing one hand on the armrest and the other on the desk behind you. The scent of old books and his specific, clean soap hits you like a physical weight. “If the environment is the variable that's working, why fight the science?” 

JJ clears her throat, picking up her files and nudging a dazed Penelope. “Okay, I think we've reached the ‘too much information’ threshold for a Wednesday evening. Penelope, don't you have those encryption keys to rotate?” 

“Rotating! Yes! Rotating so fast!” Penelope squeaks, grabbing her coffee mug and power-walking out of her own office behind JJ. 

The door doesn't even fully click shut before Spencer’s gaze intensifies. He doesn't move away. Instead, he reaches out, his long fingers tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The touch is light, but it sends a familiar, treacherous spark straight to your core. “You told them I'm weaponizing intimacy,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear. 

“Aren't you?” you challenge, though your voice lacks the bite it had five minutes ago. “You're trying to Pavlov me back into a bulletproof vest.” 

“I’m reminding you of who you are,” he corrects softly. He shifts, his knee brushing against yours, and the proximity is suddenly overwhelming. “You’re a profiler. You see patterns where others see chaos. You crave the resolution of a complex puzzle. I'm just ensuring that your physiological rewards are aligned with your intellectual strengths.” He leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “Think about efficiency, like I said. No more debriefing over dinner. We can use that time for... other things.” 

You try to find your voice, your ‘civilian life’ resolve crumbling like wet paper. “This is unethical. You’re a doctor. You should know better.” 

“Actually,” he whispers, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours, “as a doctor, I’m highly concerned with your lack of adrenaline-induced endorphins. It’s a health intervention.” You think he’s going to give in this time, and actually kiss you. But instead, he continues talking, his lips so close yet so far away, “And I’m not that kind of a doctor, darling.” 

The problem with Spencer Reid, one of many, really—is that he can say something deeply inappropriate in the same flat, academic tone he uses when discussing statistical anomalies. It makes arguing with him nearly impossible; half your brain is busy being offended, while the other half is trying to process whether you’re being seduced or peer-reviewed. 

Right now, it’s a deeply unfair combination of both. 

“You are unbelievable,” you manage, leaning back just enough to put a few inches of desperately needed oxygen between your faces. 

Spencer doesn't move. He just studies you with a quiet, clinical curiosity, like he’s observing the heat signature of a particularly volatile chemical reaction. “You came to Quantico,” he points out mildly. 

“That’s not—” You exhale a deep breath, frustrated, “That’s not the point.” 

“You came to Garcia’s office,” he continues, his voice dropping into that rhythmic, unstoppable cadence of a lecture. “Which is located in the BAU wing. This suggests that, subconsciously, you still associate this environment—and by extension, the people in it—with safety and familiarity.” 

You know, deep down, that what’s he’s telling is true, of course. Because when has Spencer Reid ever been wrong? But if he thinks you’re going to give him the satisfaction of being right, he’s wrong. So, in a bored voice, you contend, “I came here specifically to complain about you, Spencer.” 

“Still counts as exposure therapy.” 

Your jaw drops. You search his eyes for a flicker of a joke, but they’re wide and earnest. “Did you just turn my frustration into a clinical case study?” 

He tilts his head, a stray lock of hair falling over his brow. “Statistically? It was the most logical way to frame the interaction.” 

“Ideally,” you start, “I’d like my boyfriend to stop profiling me.” He tries to argue, but you stop him with a mere raise of your eyebrows. “you know exactly which buttons to push to get the results you want. That’s profiling, Spencer. You’re profiling me.” 

He doesn't deny it. Instead, he tilts his head, his nose grazing yours in a torturously slow movement. “I’m not profiling you," he murmurs, his voice vibrating with a low, steady confidence. “I’m appreciating you. There’s a significant difference in the neurobiological intent.” 

He lets his hand slide from the back of your chair to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. The pressure is just enough to keep you grounded, just enough to make you forget why you ever liked the idea of a quiet office job. 

“If I were profiling you," he continues, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth as he speaks, “I’d mention that your pupils are currently dilated, your heart rate is likely exceeding 110 beats per minute, and you’ve stopped mentioning the 'beauty of corporate consulting' entirely.” 

“I hate you,” you whisper, though you’re already leaning into him, your hands finding their place on the soft wool of his sweater. You also find you hate the fact that he can reduce you to this— a breathless, flustered, and entirely incapable of remembering why you were supposed to be angry in the first place. 

“The thin line between love and hate is often just a misinterpretation of high-arousal stimuli,” Spencer retorts, finally closing the gap. 

The kiss isn't the soft, gentle thing he usually offers in public. It’s possessive and intelligent, a physical manifestation of his refusal to let you settle for a life that doesn't challenge you, and completely unlike the Spencer Reid you know. It tastes like coffee and victory. When he pulls back, just an inch, his eyes are dark with a playful sort of triumph. 

“Emily's office is down the corridor, up the stairs,” he reminds you, his thumb smoothing over your lower lip. “She’s leaving for a meeting in ten minutes. If you sign the paperwork now, I’ll take you to that Italian place with the dimly lit booths. We can discuss your... orientation.” 

He steps back, breaking the physical contact and leaving you feeling suddenly, frustratingly cold. He picks up his messenger bag, slinging it over his shoulder with a casual grace that makes you want to scream. 

The last thing Spencer expects when he rushes to the hospital to check the patient records is being told “no" by the Resident Nurse. Which, of course, means his entire carefully planned line of reasoning is about to unravel. 

“But—” Spencer stammers, his hands half-gesturing in the air, “you don’t understand. We think the unsub has been targeting victims based on medical history. If I can just see—” 

“Doctor.” The nurse cuts him off, firm but polite. “Patient confidentiality.” 

Spencer opens his mouth to correct her—he isn’t technically a doctor in the hospital sense, though he has the degrees to back the title—but before he can, another voice drifts over from behind the nurse’s station. 

“Is there a reason you’re arguing semantics in the middle of the ICU?” 

Spencer turns. A woman in a fitted lab coat stands there, a stack of charts pressed against her chest, brows raised in mild annoyance. A pen rests behind her ear, her ID badge swinging as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. 

“I’m not—well, maybe I am,” Spencer admits, a little sheepishly. “I’m with the FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit. We’re investigating—” 

“Ah,” you interrupt, stepping closer. “Then you’ll want the oncology files. Room 312.” Your voice is calm, matter-of-fact, and carries the kind of authority that instantly disarms his argument. 

Spencer blinks. “How do you—?” 

“Because I’m about to pull them myself.” You extend a hand. “I spoke to an agent—I think, on the phone. A Penelope Garcia?” You wait until Spencer nods in confirmation. “Great, then you hounding poor Dot won’t do us any good.” 

Spencer’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “Right. Yes. Garcia mentioned she was reaching out to someone on staff, but she didn’t…specify.” No she hadn’t, by the way—Spencer vividly remembers telling her he’ll handle it, though a part of him is not surprised that she reached out anyway.  

The corner of your mouth twitches into a restrained smile. “She seems like she usually doesn’t. It’s part of her charm, I think.” You shift the charts in your hands, tucking one under your arm before extending the rest toward the nurse. “Dot, if you’d be so kind, I’ll take over from here.” 

The nurse’s shoulders relax a fraction as she hands them off, clearly relieved to be free of Spencer’s intensity. With a knowing shake of her head, she mutters something about “doctors and their egos” before disappearing down the hall. Spencer frowns faintly, unsure if the comment is aimed at him or you. Maybe both. 

“So,” you say, glancing at him, varily, “you wanted records. I have records. You’re in luck.” 

He blinks again, rapidly, trying to catch up. “You’re not a resident physician.” 

“No,” you say simply, sliding the stack of oncology files onto a nearby counter. “Medical physicist.” 

Spencer tilts his head, curiosity lighting up his face in a way you recognize instantly. “Radiation oncology? Treatment planning, dosimetry, linear accelerators—” 

“Someone’s been reading,” you interrupt lightly, arching a brow at him. “Or did you just memorize the entirety of Khan’s The Physics of Radiation Therapy for fun?” 

Spencer’s lips part in surprise, and then—against his better judgment—he grins. “Both.” 

That makes you pause. Not because you doubt him, but because the spark in his eyes tells you he isn’t exaggerating. “Well then, Doctor,” you say, your voice carrying just the faintest tease as you turn the first file toward him, “let’s see if two brains are better than one.” 

Spencer leans in, his tie brushing the edge of the counter as his eyes skim the first page. “The victim was undergoing radiation treatment,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “That explains why the unsub chose her—he’s fixating on patients with extended hospital stays.” 

You hum thoughtfully, sliding another file across to him. “Or,” you counter, “he’s not choosing them because of their stays. He’s choosing them because of their radiation schedules. That would make their movements predictable.” 

Spencer’s head snaps up, and for a split second, you see the flicker of excitement—the recognition that someone else is speaking his language. “Yes. Exactly! That would explain why the abductions happen in the evening, just before the patients return home.” 

“Patterns are easy to exploit if you know where to look,” you reply, flipping open the next chart. “And most of the victims so far had evening appointments.” 

The silence stretches between you for a moment, filled only by the soft shuffle of papers. Then Spencer clears his throat, awkward but genuine. “Most people don’t keep up with me like that.” 

You glance at him, your lips quirking. “Most people also don’t talk this fast.” He blinks, caught, then presses his lips together in an embarrassed smile. “Don’t worry, Doctor,” you add, teasing gently, “I can keep up.” 

“Sorry,” he smiles, albeit awkwardly, “sometimes I forget that I can get carried away.” 

“Don’t be,” you say, sliding the chart back into the stack. “Honestly, it’s refreshing. Most of my colleagues would rather I tone it down.” 

Spencer tilts his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Because you’re…too smart?” 

You huff a quiet laugh. “Because I don’t know how to shut up about, at least not about what I know most—which is physics. Not everyone wants to hear about dose distributions and beam energy over lunch.” 

His lips twitch into a grin. “I’d listen.” The words hang there for a beat longer than they should, and you catch the faintest flush creeping up his neck when he realizes how earnest he sounds. To cover, he quickly turns back to the file. “So, if the unsub is tracking evening appointments, he’d need access to this scheduling system. That limits the suspect pool significantly.” 

“Which means it’s someone who has access to scheduling?” You ask, canning the next page of notes. 

“Exactly,” Spencer nods, the cadence of his voice quickening as his mind works. “Hospital staff, maybe a technician or administrative employee. Someone who can see the patterns without raising suspicion.” 

You tap your pen against the file thoughtfully. “What if the unsub doesn’t work at a hospital at all?” You question as he gives you a confused look. “There are specialized clinics for chemo treatments. One of them actually shut down last year because the doctor who owned it was involved in Medicare fraud.” 

“Medicare fraud? How?” He asks, rows furrowing as he leans a little closer, his full attention fixed on you. 

You flip another page in the chart, eyes scanning quickly. “She diagnosed patients with cancer and started them on chemo—patients who didn’t have cancer, like, at all. From what you told me about your case, the timeline matches perfectly.” 

Spencer’s brow furrows deeper, his eyes darting across the chart in your hands. “So these patients were essentially…victims twice. And if she is subjecting them to further chemo treatments, it would explain why they have increased radiation in their bodies.”  

“Am I crazy with my theory, or?” You ou tilt your head, half-expecting him to gently dismantle it the way most colleagues do. 

But Spencer shakes his head almost instantly, eyes sharp with thought. “No—you’re not crazy. It actually makes sense.” His voice softens, as he nods, “I’ll ask Garcia to look more into it, there might be a link with the clinic that shut down and the unsub.” 

You let out a small breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Good. I was worried I was starting to sound like one of those conspiracy theorists with a corkboard and red string.” 

Spencer’s lips curve into the faintest smile, his eyes softening. “I think the white coat kind of prevents the whole conspiracy theorist thing.” 

“Well, I am a doctor two times over, so.” You shrug, feigning humility. 

“That’s true,” Spencer murmurs, his smile lingering. His gaze dips for a second, then flicks back to yours, warmer than before. For once, he doesn’t rush to fill the silence with facts or statistics—he just studies you, almost like you’re another puzzle he’s piecing together. 

You arch a brow. “What?” 

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the faint blush crawling up his neck betrays him. He clears his throat, fidgeting with the edge of the chart before blurting, “I was just thinking… maybe I could, um, listen to you talk about physics sometime. Outside of, you know, case files and murder investigations.” 

Your lips part in surprise, but before you can answer, he stammers on, his words tumbling out in a rush. “Like—dinner, or coffee, or—anything, really. I mean, if you want to.” 

You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Are you asking me out, Doctor?” 

It had been an innocent comment. Or rather, you thought it had been an innocent comment—a totally innocent comment. You didn’t even think he heard it at first, mainly because he showed no indication of reaction. He hadn’t flinched, hadn’t looked up from the conversation he was having with Luke. If he had reacted, you missed it entirely, too busy laughing along with Emily and JJ.  

“You know what he’s like,” you had said, fork tapping your plate, eyes mischievous. “Everything’s got to be neat, scheduled, color-coded. I swear, if I ever misplace a book, I think he’d put me in time-out.” 

A few chuckles went around the table. Even Garcia giggled, raising her glass in faux agreement. “That's the good doctor," she had said, “you gotta love ‘him!” You thought nothing of it. 

Until much later. 

Until the quiet car ride home, when Spencer kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting calmly on your thigh—but said nothing. 

Until you realized he hadn’t kissed you goodbye when the team split for the night.  

And now, standing in your shared apartment, coat half-off and keys still dangling from your fingers, you finally turned to him. “Spence?” you ask, a crease forming between your brows. “Are you okay?” 

He shuts the door behind him with a soft click. Turns the lock. His movements are slow. Intentional. “I am,” he says calmly. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

You relax an inch. “Okay, good. You were too quiet on the way back and I thought—”  

“You thought what?” Spencer asks, interrupting you midway through, and shocking you into silent submission. “That I would be mad because you said something so inherently disrespectful in front of my colleagues?” His voice is low, measured, but it’s also dangerously calm. 

You blink, taken aback. “Spence, I didn’t mean it like that. It was just a joke—” 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he cuts you off again, and whilst the use of the pet name would normally calm you down, he says it with such condescending sweetness that it sends a chill down your spine instead. His eyes lock onto yours, unreadable, sharp with something that makes your stomach twist—not quite anger, but control. “I know you didn’t mean it, it was a joke, was it?” You nod, but it’s an empty one. Like, as if you don’t know how to answer him, and lost in your own thoughts.  

A breath catches in your throat. 

He reaches for your coat and slides it off the rest of the way, folding it neatly over the back of the chair before turning his gaze back to you. 

“You think you can say things like that with no consequences?” he asks, tone deceptively soft now, like he’s genuinely curious. “You think you get to mock me in front of people and then come home like nothing happened?” 

“I wasn’t mocking you, I—” 

“You were,” he says simply.” Your stomach flutters. You know that tone. It’s not quite angry—Spencer rarely ever yells, but it’s firm. Controlled. Dangerous in a way that makes your knees weak. “But it’s okay, that just means that I need to remind you a few things, isn’t that right?” 

Another hollow nod later, and he keeps to his word.  

One second you were standing there, wide-eyed and flushed, and the next you were on your back on your shared bed, legs pushed up to your chest. Your cheeks are wet, though whether it’s from the flush blooming across your skin or the way he’s so thoroughly unraveled you, you’re not sure. Your chest rises and falls with every shaky inhale, your limbs folded together, your voice reduced to a soft, needy whimper. 

His hand rests on your thigh again, same as it had in the car, except this time, there’s no softness behind it. Just weight. Pressure. Spencer leans forward, his breath brushing over the shell of your ear as he speaks, voice low. “I take care of you, don’t I?” he murmurs, fingertips skating just under the hem of underwear that has stuck to your weeping cunt. “I give you everything. I protect you. And all I ask in return is a little respect.” 

You nod quickly, breath catching again. “I do respect you, Spence—” The way he drags his cock through your wet folds, tucked under the material of your soaked underwear cuts you off unexpectedly. It feels good—it always does, but you know he’s not going to give into you that easily this time.  

He tsks softly, like a disappointed teacher, shaking his head as he ruts his hips just enough to make you gasp. The way his tip brushes over your clit steals the breath out of your lungs. “Respect,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “Isn’t making fun of me in front of our friends. It isn’t talking about how I organize things like it’s some kind of flaw. You know how hard I work to keep everything in order… so that you feel safe. So that we’re okay.” He pauses for a second, and you whine to let him know that you want him to continue. 

When he eventually starts to move his hips again, it’s slow. Deliberate. Each shallow grind is designed not to satisfy but to tease—to remind you that he’s still in control. You shudder beneath him, hands grasping at the sheets, your breath coming in shaky little bursts. He’s not only torturing you, but he’s also torturing himself at this point. Your panties are soaked not only because of how wet you’ve become, but also because though he has not let you come, you’ve watched your boyfriend come twice now. Each thrust of his hips is a calculating move, they are designed not to satisfy you, but to tease. A Spencer Reid-level precision applied to the art of your unraveling. 

Your underwear is an afterthought now, ruined fabric clinging damply to the mess he’s made of you. He pushes it aside like it’s nothing, like it’s just a minor obstacle in his lesson. He takes his teasing a step further, letting the tip of his cock press into you; the theme of the evening present even now, just enough to tease, but not enough to satisfy. You let your dissent known as you whine, the sound half-despair, half-need, your hips instinctively tilting upward to chase more of him. But Spencer doesn’t budge—doesn’t give in, doesn’t soften. He watches you, eyes flicking between your flushed face and the slick mess between your thighs. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs again, and this time the condescension is tinged with something darker. “You don’t get to be greedy right now.” 

You whimper in protest, thighs twitching under the weight of his hand. He’s still got you pinned, spread open, aching, and completely at his mercy. His other hand, steady and sure, traces a lazy circle over your clit, barely enough to give relief. Your hips jerk instinctively, and he tightens his grip just enough to make a point. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”  

“I know,” he says, and this time, it’s not condescending or cold—it’s just soft. Honest. “You did so well,” he whispers in that one voice that makes all the praise you ever receive from him melt straight through your skin. He leans forward, threading his fingers through your hair in an attempt to calm your erratic breathing. “So good for me.” Your breath stutters in your throat at the warmth in his voice, the way his fingers are still gently threading through your hair like he’s lulling you into something sweet. Safe. “But,” he adds, tilting your chin so you're looking directly into those intense, amber-brown eyes, “that wasn’t your real punishment, was it?” 

Your eyes widen just slightly. He notices. “But,” you whisper, voice shaky as you feel the tears that threaten to spill, “I was good.” 

Spencer hums thoughtfully near your ear, his voice so low it’s almost a growl. “You want more?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer. He can feel it—how desperately your body reacts to him, how pliant you become under his gaze, his hands, his words. 

Your voice is barely more than a whisper. “Yes.” 

His lips ghost over your jaw, just enough to make your skin erupt in goosebumps. “Then ask me nicely.” 

You swallow hard, the heat rising in your chest again—part embarrassment, part anticipation. You know what he’s doing. He’s not punishing you. Not really. He’s reminding you in the way he knows you need it most. “Please, Spence,” you breathe. “Please… I want more.” 

“Tell me what you want,” he says, his eyes catching yours in a look that tells you two things. One, he is not going to let you off easy. And two, he wants to hear you say it—explicitly. Wants you to admit out loud just how thoroughly he’s undone you. 

You hesitate for only a moment, your pride warring with your need, but it’s no real competition. Not when he’s still barely inside you. Not when his fingers are still ghosting over your clit with maddening restraint. Not when every inch of your body is crying out for him, and you are pushed so far off the edge that you literally can’t take it anymore. “I want you,” you whisper, your voice cracking with the weight of need. “I want you to fuck me, please. I want all of you.” 

That earns you a small, satisfied sound from the back of his throat. His hand tightens around your thigh, parting them so that he can slot himself between, and then—finally—he gives you what you’ve been aching for. His movements are still measured, but just a smidge deeper now, though they are still shallow in a way that makes you want to cry. Steady. Every roll of his hips, every shift of his weight, feels calculated. “There she is,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your bottom lip, dragging it down ever so slightly. “That’s my good girl.”  

He pushes into you, slowly, inch by inch, his eyes locked on your face like he’s memorizing every expression, every gasp and flutter of your lashes, as if he doesn’t already know you like the back of his hand. Your back arches, a low moan tearing from the back of your throat. “Spence—” 

“I know,” he breathes, voice rough as he bottoms out, staying there for a moment that feels like forever. “I know, baby.” And when he finally begins to move, deep thrusts that leave no space for you to think, it’s not punishment anymore. He's devouring you—not with teeth or tongue, but with the weight of his body, the way he fills you so perfectly, like your body was made to take him.  

Each thrust is deep and thorough, dragging moans from you that don’t sound like words anymore—just pieces of you, falling apart with every roll of his hips. Your nails dig into his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor you, but even that feels too far away. He’s pressing you into the mattress, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tightly you know you’ll wear his fingerprints tomorrow. 

“You feel that?” he pants, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “That’s mine. All of this you—you belong to me.” 

You nod feverishly, the confession tumbling out in a whisper: “Yours, I’m yours.” 

And Spencer groans—low, broken, like the words physically hit him somewhere deep. His mouth finds your throat, kissing, nipping, sucking until you’re crying out again, and he’s murmuring “that’s right, good girl” against your skin. Your hands scramble to hold onto him—shoulders, biceps, the sheets—anything to tether yourself to the way he’s making you feel. Your head tips back, breath catching in your throat as he starts to lose himself in you, hips snapping harder now, his grunts falling hot against the crook of your neck. 

“You drive me crazy,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your skin as he picks up the pace. “You know that? Talking back, making jokes like that… knowing damn well what it does to me.” 

You mewl in response, legs tightening around him. “I didn’t mean to, Spence, I swear I wasn’t—” 

“I know,” he growls, cutting you off, his rhythm faltering for just a moment before he collects himself again, burying his face in the space between your shoulder and pillow. “I know. You didn’t mean it. Doesn’t mean I didn’t have to remind you who you belong to.” A sharp whimper escapes your lips as his hand trails down between you, fingers circling your clit with practiced ease—fast and rough in contrast to the way his thrusts have slowed again, dragging out the pressure in long, aching waves. “Say it,” he demands, voice thick with strain. “Say who you belong to.” 

“You! Spencer—it’s you,” you gasp, sobbing the words now as your body coils tight around the threat of release. “I belong to you.” 

“That’s right.” He kisses you then—messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth like he can’t stand to be apart for even a second. “Mine.” 

It builds again, this time harder, sharper, and when it finally crashes over you, it’s like a dam breaking—your entire body clenching around him with a cry so guttural you almost don’t recognize your own voice. He groans deep in his chest, stuttering his hips once, twice, then comes with a broken whisper of your name, spilling inside you as he holds you tight, like the only thing anchoring him to earth. 

The room is silent save for the sounds of your mingled breaths, your fingers still digging into the strong line of his back as he collapses gently against you, careful not to crush you. For a long time, neither of you says a word. You are tangled in each other, bodies slick with sweat and trembling, and so, so sated. 

Then finally, he shifts just enough to kiss your temple, his voice hoarse but gentle. “No more jokes like that in front of the team.” 

You huff a breathless laugh, nuzzling into his chest. “I think I’ve learned my lesson.” 

“Huh,” he laughs softly, giving you a funny look, “I haven’t even gotten to the part I spank you with one of the books you misplaced.” 

“You—what?” You sputter out a laugh, looking at him for answers with widened eyes. “You are a menace, Spencer.”  

His lips twitch into a smirk as he leans in, brushing his nose against yours. “A well-organized menace,” he murmurs, voice still rough with the remnants of what you’d just shared. “Don’t forget that part.” 

Alas, here you are. At a three-year old’s birthday party. At a ranch—with actual horses.  

You hadn’t expected to feel so… out of place. The ranch is buzzing with kids running around in cowboy hats, Derek’s laughter echoing over the chaos, and Savannah giving you a warm hug the second you step through the gate. The smell of barbecue lingers in the air, the bounce house is already deflating under the weight of a dozen sugar-high children, and you—well, you’re just standing there, clutching a gift bag with a lego set inside like it’s a weapon. 

“Look who decided to show up,” Elle’s voice comes from behind you, and you turn to see her smirking, sunglasses perched on top of her head. She looks good. Relaxed, even. You blink, surprised, before pulling her into a quick hug. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, pulling back just enough to really look at her. 

Elle raises an eyebrow, smirk never faltering. “Same as you, I’m assuming—Morgan can be a real prick when it comes to guilt tripping.” She pops one hip, surveying the chaos around the yard with an amused tilt of her head. “Besides, I wasn’t about to miss the chance to watch him panic when a dozen toddlers start crying at once.” 

You laugh, tension slipping just a little from your shoulders. “God, I haven’t seen you in…” 

“Too long,” Elle finishes for you. “We’ll catch up.” She means it, too. Her hand squeezes your arm once before she glances past you, eyes flicking across the yard. Her smirk widens. “Though, fair warning. You’re about to have company.” 

You follow her gaze. 

And there he is. 

Spencer Reid. 

“When did that happen?” Elle asks, her retort carrying a comical tone. 

He’s standing a few feet away, half-hidden behind a group of kids running toward the pony rides. He’s older now, but it only makes him look… sharper. More defined. The hair is a little longer, falling into his face when he leans down to say something to Micheal, who grins and barrels off toward the barn. Spencer straightens, pushing his hair back with one hand, and your heart stumbles in your chest. 

“When did what happen?” you murmur under your breath. 

Elle laughs quietly, low and knowing. “Told you. Don’t worry—he hasn’t noticed you yet.” Except, of course, right as she says it, his eyes lift. They land on yours, sharp and clear even from across the yard. And then, Spencer Reid smiles. The smile is devastating in its simplicity. It’s not the polite, distracted kind you remember from late nights in the bullpen—it’s warm. Genuine. Like seeing you is the best thing to happen to him all afternoon. 

Your stomach flips. 

“Yup,” Elle mutters, taking a sip of her lemonade. “You’re done for.” 

Before you can even process that, Spencer is already weaving his way through the crowd. He’s taller than you remember, or maybe it’s just the confidence in his posture, the way people step aside naturally when he passes. He looks good. Too good. And suddenly, you’re gripping that lego gift bag like it’s a shield. 

“Hey,” he says when he finally reaches you, and his voice is deeper now, smoother somehow, but still undeniably Spencer. His eyes linger on yours for a moment too long before darting to Elle. “Elle.” 

“Reid.” Elle tips her chin up in greeting, but you can see the mischievous glint in her eyes. She’s enjoying this way too much. “I’ll let you two catch up.” With that, she disappears into the crowd, leaving you stranded. 

Spencer shifts his weight, hands tucked awkwardly into his pockets, but the smile doesn’t fade. “It’s been a long time.” 

“Yeah,” you breathe out, trying to will your heartbeat back to normal. “Ten years, give or take.” 

He nods, studying you with that same sharpness you used to hate when he profiled suspects. Except this time, there’s no judgment in it—just quiet wonder. “You look… different,” he says finally, almost shy. 

You arch a brow, desperate to anchor yourself in something familiar. “Different good or different bad?” 

His lips twitch, almost breaking into a grin. “Different great.”  

Your mouth opens, ready with some deflection, but nothing comes out. Instead, you just laugh—soft and a little nervous—and glance down at the lego bag still clutched in your hands like a lifeline. 

“You’re still terrible at small talk,” you tease lightly, because teasing him feels familiar. Safe. 

Spencer chuckles, a little self-conscious, but he doesn’t look away. “You always used to say I was.” 

You swallow, throat suddenly dry. Ten years of distance, and somehow the easy rhythm is still there, humming beneath the surface like it never left. Before you can answer, a familiar voice booms across the yard. 

“There’s my girl!” Derek Morgan sweeps in like a storm, wrapping you in a hug that nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. The lego bag crinkles between you, and you laugh into his shoulder, grateful for the interruption. 

“Derek,” you wheeze, trying to ignore Spencer’s silent cackles. “You’re still too strong for your own good.” 

He pulls back, grinning ear to ear, eyes scanning your face like he’s cataloging every change. “Damn, it’s good to see you. Savannah said you might actually show, but I didn’t believe her.” 

“Well,” you say, trying to play it cool, “someone had to bring the legos.” 

Derek throws his head back and laughs, then claps Spencer on the back hard enough to make him stumble a step. “And look at this—Reid, you finally found her.” 

Spencer clears his throat, shifting slightly but still smiling. “I didn’t have to look very far.” 

Derek’s grin turns knowing as he glances between the two of you, and you swear you catch a flicker of mischief in his eyes before Savannah calls him over to help with the cake. “Don’t go anywhere,” Derek points at you, then Spencer. “Either of you, I’m getting Garcia.” 

When he leaves, you and Spencer are left in the quiet bubble of noise again—the laughter of kids, the smell of barbecue, the chatter of old colleagues catching up. And it’s Spencer who breaks it this time. “Do you… want to walk with me? Possibly away from the bouncy house?”  

Your lips curve before you can stop them, but then, your eyes suddenly find Elle, who is who is very obviously watching from across the yard, sunglasses lowered just enough to make her smirk visible. You shoot her a glare, but she just wiggles her fingers in a little wave before turning back to her drink. Traitor. 

“Yeah,” you say finally, turning back to Spencer. Except—you don’t. Not exactly. 

Because the second your gaze strays past him, past the cake table and the barn doors, you spot the corral, and something in you latches onto it like a lifeline. The horses, calm and grazing, look like the only sane beings at this entire party. And suddenly, the weight of eyes on you; Spencer’s, Elle’s, Derek’s soon-to-be, all of it becomes too much. 

“Actually,” you hear yourself say, “I think I’m going to… uh… ride a horse.” 

Spencer blinks. His brows draw together, and he tilts his head like he’s trying to figure out whether or not you’re serious. “Ride a horse?” 

“Yeah.” You push a little too much cheer into your voice. “Fresh air, wide open space, fewer witnesses if I embarrass myself. It’s perfect.” 

His lips twitch, almost forming that crooked grin you used to know. “Do you… even know how to ride a horse?” 

Your mouth opens, then closes. You consider bluffing, but his raised eyebrow tells you he’ll see through it in half a second. “Define… know how.” 

That does it. He laughs—an actual, full laugh that makes his shoulders shake, and you can’t control the smile that somehow creeps onto your face. You’ve missed that sound more than you realized. “So that’s a no.” 

“I-I can ride a horse!” You object, lightly slapping his upper arm as he shakes his head, “Spencer, I can!” He doesn’t even flinch, just keeps smiling at you like you’ve said the funniest thing in the world. 

“Okay,” Spencer says, drawing the word out like he’s humoring you. “Then by all means, demonstrate your—” he pauses, clearly searching for a word that won’t sound mean—“expertise.” 

You narrow your eyes. “You don’t believe me.” 

“Oh, I believe you,” he replies smoothly, though his grin betrays him. “I just also know the statistical likelihood of you ending up in the dirt is… high.” 

“You and your statistics,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you hand him the bag in your hands and march toward the corral, pretending your heart isn’t beating triple-time just from him teasing you. 

Spencer follows, hands shoved in his pockets, his longer stride easily catching up to yours. “You know,” he says casually, “there’s an actual party happening over there. With cake. And chairs. And zero risk of trampling.” 

You throw him a look over your shoulder. “Where’s the fun in that?” 

“Fun,” he repeats, dry as ever. “Right.” 

The closer you get to the corral, the more the horses lift their heads, ears flicking curiously toward you. They’re beautiful—sleek coats, strong muscles, dark eyes that seem to see right through you. And suddenly, your bravado falters just a little. Spencer notices instantly. Of course he does. “You’re hesitating,” he observes, voice tinged with amusement. 

“I am assessing,” you counter, chin tilting up stubbornly. 

“Mmhmm.” He stops at the fence, leaning against it like he’s already decided he’s not going in. “Just so you know, horses can sense fear. And nerves. And lies.” 

“Thank you, Dr. Dolittle.” You tug open the gate before you can lose your nerve and step inside. The closest horse, a tall chestnut with a white blaze down its face, shifts toward you, snorting softly. 

Spencer doesn’t move. He’s perfectly content to watch, arms folded, his smirk annoyingly endearing. “You’re really going to do this, aren’t you?” 

“Obviously, duh,” you say, though your voice comes out a little too high-pitched. The horse noses your shoulder, warm breath puffing against your skin. You freeze, then glance back at Spencer, who is grinning outright now. 

“You look terrified.” 

“I am not terrified,” you hiss, patting the horse’s neck with what you hope passes for confidence. “See? Totally fine. We’re bonding.” 

Spencer’s eyebrows climb higher. “Do you even know how to put a saddle on?” 

You pause. “Define… saddle.” 

That does it—he laughs so hard he has to brace a hand on the fence, and you can’t help it, you laugh too, nerves spilling out in the sound. “That’s… not reassuring,” he mutters, but he steps through the gate after you anyway. 

Spencer stops just behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him even with the space between. “That horse is looking at you like it’s planning your downfall.” 

“Spence,” you shoot him a look over your shoulder, “stop profiling the horse.” 

He grins, boyish and crooked, and shrugs. “Old habits.” 

You roll your eyes, stepping toward the animal with what you hope passes for confidence—you're 80% sure it doesn’t. Your hand brushes its neck, and; miracle of miracles, it doesn’t immediately kill you. You turn to Spencer with a triumphant smirk. “See? Natural cowgirl.” 

Spencer’s eyebrows lift, unimpressed. “Step one: touch horse. Step two: survive touching horse. Very impressive résumé.” 

You stick your tongue out at him—immature, maybe, but worth it when his grin softens into something warm, something that hits you straight in the chest. 

“Fine,” you announce, grabbing at the saddle with more determination than skill. “Watch and learn, Reid.” 

And then, of course, your foot misses the stirrup on the first try. Spencer hums thoughtfully, pretending not to laugh. “Need help?” 

“I’ve got it,” you snap, trying again. This time you manage to swing your leg over the saddle, only slightly graceless, and land with a little bounce. You throw your arms out dramatically. “Ta-da!” 

Spencer claps once, dry and slow. “Congratulations. You’re officially taller than me.” 

You glare down at him, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. “Admit it. You’re impressed.” 

He leans against the fence, lego bag dangling from his wrist, eyes soft but teasing. “I’ll admit I’m… entertained.” 

You narrow your eyes, adjusting your grip. “You’re supposed to be supportive.” 

“I am being supportive,” he counters smoothly. “I’m supporting the horse’s right not to carry you into the nearest fence.” 

You groan, leaning forward on the saddle. “I forgot how insufferable you are.” 

Spencer doesn’t miss a beat. “No, you didn’t.” 

Your breath hitches—not at his words, but at the way he says them, soft but certain, like he knows you better than you know yourself. Before you can reply, the horse stamps a hoof, and you jerk upright. Spencer immediately steps closer, hand brushing your boot where it rests in the stirrup. It’s instinctive, protective, and most definitely fleeting, but the warmth of his fingers lingers long after he pulls back. 

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, tone gentler this time. “Just keep your hands steady. He’ll follow your lead.” 

“How do you even know this?” You ask him, nervously chuckling as you try not to think about the fact that his hand—his very warm, very steady hand—is still resting against your calf. 

Spencer looks up at you, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Believe it or not,” he says, “I’ve always wanted to be a cowboy.” 

You blink down at him, stunned into silence. “A cowboy,” you repeat flatly. 

Spencer shrugs like this is the most reasonable thing he’s ever said. “I had a phase.” 

“You—what? Bought boots and watched Bonanza?” 

He ignores your sarcasm, stepping closer so he can adjust the stirrup on your left side. He’s gentle, careful, as if the leather might bruise. “I read a book about equine behavioral patterns and ranch psychology when I was nineteen.” 

“Of course you did,” you say, exasperated and fond all at once. “Normal teenage boys were kissing girls and you were… profiling horses.” 

His lips twitch, the ghost of a smirk. “I’ll have you know I was very popular in high school.” 

You snort. “With the horses?” 

Spencer looks up at you, and there it is again—that soft, devastating smile that makes your pulse stutter. “I gained more popularity once I profiled myself into being the basketball team’s strategist.” 

His hand is still steadying your boot on the stirrup, his touch warm even through your jeans. He looks up at you with that quiet confidence that didn’t exist when he was twenty-three and terrified of being seen. Now, he holds your gaze like he’s allowed to. 

“So,” you say, lifting the reins, as you gently clear your throat, “what exactly does ranch psychology say about a horse who doesn’t feel like moving?” 

He smiles — mischievous. “That the rider is the problem.” 

You gasp. “Are you calling me incompetent?” 

“I would never,” he says, stepping a little closer, voice low. “I’m calling you… tense.” 

“Tense?” You sit up straighter, indignant. The horse shifts beneath you — just enough to make your heart leap. “I am completely—” 

The horse starts walking on its own. 

Not a gentle walk.  

More like a decisive, I-have-made-a-choice kind of walk. 

“—calm!” you finish in a strangled squeak. “Spencer—help!” 

Spencer is already moving. In one swift motion, he grabs the reins near the bridle and moves with the horse to slow it. He looks up at you, trying not to laugh. “Okay,” he says, breathless, “maybe slightly tense.” 

“Maybe slightly go to hell, you oversize string bean!” You shoot back, gripping the horn of the saddle with both hands. 

He laughs, really laughs, before swinging around to the side of the horse again. “Here,” he says, voice shifting to something softer, steadier. “Scoot forward.” 

“What are you—doing?” You ask, all of a sudden out of breath and very aware of the someone who is sitting behind you. 

“I’m getting on.” He answers lightly, as if it is something he does on a regular basis—and don’t even start about all the other contexts you’ve imagined him saying this in. 

Your pulse does something violent. 

The horse snorts, entirely oblivious to the emotional crisis happening on its back. 

You can’t even spare any thought about your inability to put words together as you manage to scramble out, “I—Spencer—no, I don’t think—” 

“Statistically,” he murmurs, already placing one foot in the stirrup, “you’re less likely to fall if someone stabilizes you from behind.” 

“That’s not a statistic.” 

“I can make it one.” Before you can argue, he swings himself up, graceful and shockingly confident. He settles behind you, one long leg on either side of yours, his chest aligning flush against your back. 

Your breath leaves your lungs. 

He’s warm. 

And close. 

Too close. 

“Is this okay?” he asks quietly — voice low beside your ear. 

You could lie. 

Pretend your heart isn’t a jackhammer in your ribs. 

Pretend that having Spencer Reid pressed against your back doesn’t split open ten years of buried longing. 

“…yeah,” you whisper. “It’s okay.” 

His hands slide—slow, careful—to rest on yours where they grip the reins. “Loosen your hold,” he murmurs, guiding your fingers. “Trust him.” 

“I’m trusting you,” slips out before your brain can catch it. 

You don’t mean to say it. 

You don’t breathe after you do. 

Spencer stills behind you. His fingers tighten barely over yours as he mumbles,  

“You always did.” You swallow hard, blinking against the heat rising in your throat. Without thinking, you lean back, just slightly, into him. He doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts closer, his chin brushing the edge of your hair as he speaks near your ear. 

“Ready?” he whispers. You nod, not trusting yourself with words, so Spencer nudges the reins, and the horse starts forward, and guided not by your hands but his. And strangely enough, you don’t think you’ve ever felt more secure.  “You’re doing great,” he murmurs. 

“You’re doing all the work,” you whisper back. 

He huffs a laugh, leaning in towards your ear. “Partnership.” 

You don’t realize you’re smiling until he does too. Behind you, Spencer presses a little closer—just enough that you know it isn’t accidental. Just enough that you know he missed this, too. 

The horse trots steadily, Spencer’s hands firm over yours, guiding both you and the horse with quiet assurance. You finally start to breathe again, the tension in your shoulders melting ever so slightly. And then, of course, the universe decides now is the perfect moment to remind you that you’re not alone. 

“Hey! What are the two of you been up to?” Derek’s voice echoes across the yard, cutting through the chatter and the laughter. Your heart jumps—and then you glance back to see him waving like a man possessed, face split into a grin that could rival the sun. 

Spencer stiffens slightly, then glances down at you. “I think that’s…Morgan.” 

You groan. “You think, genius?” 

Before you can react further, a familiar, high-pitched voice shrieks across the yard: “OH MY GOD, I AM GETTING PICTURES!” 

“Garcia!” you yell, nearly tipping forward on the saddle, and thankfully Spencer’s hands catch you in time. 

But it’s too late. Garcia is already clicking away with her phone, laughing hysterically, crouching to get the perfect angle of you with Spencer on the horse behind you. “Holy—he’s holding her!” Garcia cackles. “You two are adorable, and Spencer… when did you get so hot?!” 

You freeze mid-rein adjustment, cheeks flaming. Spencer’s head tilts slightly, a ghost of a smile brushing his lips. “Excuse me?” 

“She’s asking about you,” you mutter, trying to sound casual while simultaneously dying of embarrassment. “And when you got so hot.” 

Spencer raises a brow, voice teasing, low in your ear. “I have been this hot for… approximately always.” 

Your chest tightens. “Yeah, well… you were always smart, too. So there’s that.” 

“So you think I’m hot—?” Spencer asks, but his question gets outshined by one Derek Morgan, who is smiling  

Derek, meanwhile, is charging toward the corral, hands outstretched as if he’s going to perform some sort of rescue. “Get off the horse, you two! My son is watching!” 

You glance over your shoulder at him. Spencer’s arm slides just a fraction closer around your waist—not enough to be anything but protective, but enough to make your stomach do a summersault. “You okay?” he murmurs softly. 

“Yeah,” you whisper back, trying not to sound breathless. “Yeah, I’m… totally fine.” 

“Totally fine,” he repeats, a smirk in his voice, and nudges the horse forward gently, just enough to put a little space between you and Derek’s sprinting form. 

Garcia, still snapping pictures, squeals again. “This is perfect! I can’t wait to send these to the team. They’re going to lose it!” 

You bury your face into Spencer’s shoulder just a little—not hiding, just… grounding yourself. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself feel it: the comfort, the warmth, the way his presence steadies you without even trying. Behind you, Spencer’s grip tightens slightly, guiding the reins but also keeping you close. The horse moves with smooth confidence, your heart settling into a rhythm almost as steady as the horse’s hooves on the soft earth. 

“Partnership,” he whispers again, this time with a grin you can feel through his chest. 

“Always,” you breathe back. 

They say giving birth is one of the most profound and life changing events in a woman’s life. They are right, you suppose, whoever they might be—though you also think that any experience that requires you to push out an entire human being out of your vagina is bound to be profound in some way or another.  

You’d been warned about the pain. The exhaustion. The tearing—God, the tearing. But what no one tells you is how stupidly, hopelessly in love you’d be with this squishy, slightly alien-looking creature they placed on your chest like a half-baked loaf of bread. Yours. All yours—and Spencer’s, sure. Though you’re not entirely sure you even want to share her with your husband.  

Spencer, bless his soul, doesn’t even seem bothered by your blatant hoarding of affection. If anything, he encourages it—watches you with that dopey, heart-eyes expression he usually reserves for rare books and obscure chess maneuvers. Sometimes you catch him staring, chin propped on his hand, completely transfixed as you rock her, hum to her, whisper nonsense into the fuzz of her little head. He looks at you like you’re magic. Like you invented her. 

Maybe, in a way, you did. Though, it was a joint effort, of course. 

You glance over at Spencer, who’s perched on the edge of the bed, his lanky frame slightly hunched forward, eyes soft and warm. He reaches out with one careful finger to trace the tiny curve of her cheek, as if memorizing the feel of her skin all over again. 

“She’s perfect,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with awe. “She’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.” Then, as if he’s suddenly aware, “No offence, honey.” 

“None taken,” you laugh softly, your eyes filling with tears again. “She really is. I didn’t know love could feel this way — like your heart might burst if you look at her too long.” 

Spencer nods, his smile tender. “I read somewhere that when babies are born, their parents’ brains release oxytocin. It’s what makes you feel... connected, protective. Kind of like an emotional superglue.” 

You glance down at the tiny bundle nestled against your chest, her eyes fluttering shut as she snuggles closer. “Well, whatever it is, I’m addicted.” 

He laughs quietly, leaning in to press a gentle kiss on your forehead. “We’ve been running on adrenaline and coffee for the last forty-eight hours,” Spencer murmurs, voice low as he presses his lips to your temple. “But somehow… I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” 

You laugh, the sound soft and sleepy. “Coffee’s a close second to this,” you whisper, brushing a kiss across the baby’s tiny fist. She squirms, arms flailing, and lets out a delicate squeak—her very first protest against being still. Your heart jumps. 

Spencer’s eyes light up. “I think she wants to be held again,” he says, scooping her up with a gentle confidence that surprises you. 

You fold into him, leaning your head on his shoulder, watching as he settles her in the crook of his arm. She blinks up at him, wide-eyed and curious, and he stretches a finger toward her mouth. She wraps her whole hand around it, and Spencer’s breath catches. 

“Oh, sweetheart, you’ve got a grip,” he marvels, voice thick with adoration. “You’re not letting go, are you?” 

She doesn’t. She squeezes harder, and Spencer chuckles, tears sparkling at the corners of his eyes. “It’s okay,” you say, slipping your hand into his. “It’s exactly what we want.” 

He nods, his eyes never leaving her small, determined hand. “What a strong little girl,” he whispers, as if saying the word aloud makes it more real. 

You smile against his chest, the warmth of the moment washing over you. Outside, life goes on, but in this room, time has slowed, bending around the three of you like a soft, protective bubble. “She’s going to grow up so fast,” you say softly. Then, as if what you’ve just said sets in, you inhale a shaky breath, unable to stop your bottom lip from wobbling and your eyes from filling up with tears. “Oh God, Spencer, she’s going to grow up so fast.” 

Spencer, being the prepared genius he is, is absolutely aware of the fact that your post-partum hormones being all over the place. So, instead of freaking out about unstoppable time with you, even though he’s going to freak out about it later on his own, gently brushes his hand over your hair as he gently speaks. “And we’re going to be there for her, all the time.”  

You sniffle, leaning into the reassuring warmth of his hand, letting his calm steady you. “I just want to savor every second,” you whisper. “The quiet moments, the messy ones... even the ones where I don’t get any sleep.” 

Spencer smiles softly, his eyes full of unwavering certainty. “We will. Every late-night feeding, every first step, every bedtime story—we’ll be there. And she is going to grow up to be an amazing little girl.” 

You lift your gaze to meet his, softly chuckling through your tears, “She won’t be so little when she grows up, Spence.” 

Spencer sighs softly as he takes his eyes off of the baby in his arms to meet yours, “She’ll always be our little baby.” 

“What do you mean you’re not going to be able to bring the cupcakes in time? Spencer, you said you would!”  

You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to balance your phone against your shoulder while you tape up the last string of streamers. Balloons are already threatening to float away from the dining chairs you tied them to, Jack’s gift bags are uneven on the table, and the dinosaur piñata is hanging at a slightly tragic angle in the living room. 

“I’m sorry—like really sorry,” Spencer trails off, clearly flustered, “I don’t even know how it happened, but I promised I would referee this chess match—” 

“You double-booked yourself and forgot about it?” You ask, aghast, “You have an eidetic memory!” 

“I don’t forget,” Spencer insists, defensive and panicked, “I… reprioritized. And then I forgot to reprioritize my reprioritization—” 

“Spence!” You cut him off before your brain short-circuits trying to follow his logic. “Twenty-three kids are about to descend on this house like a swarm of locusts, and all of them are expecting dinosaur-themed cupcakes. What am I supposed to do, hand them celery sticks?” 

There’s a beat of silence on the other end before he meekly replies, “Technically… herbivores would appreciate that.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Goodbye, Spencer.” 

Hanging up, you drop the phone onto the table and take in the chaos around you. Streamers drooping. Balloons tangling. A piñata that looks like it’s survived one too many battles. And now—no cupcakes. With no other options left, you march down the hallway toward the one room you’ve been trying to leave undisturbed all morning. 

Aaron's home office door is half-closed, the familiar glow of his desk lamp spilling into the hall. You hesitate only for a second before knocking and pushing it open, and lo and behold, there he is. Hunched over a case file, with multiple files opened around the desk, unaware of your sudden presence at his door—or so you think.  

“Are you going to just stare at me, or are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” He asks, his tone as monotone as the endless row of starched shirts hanging in his closet. 

You blink, caught. “You knew I was here?” 

Without looking up, he flips a page in the file. “You’re not exactly stealthy. I could hear you pacing outside the door.” Finally, his eyes lift to yours, brow arched. “So? What’s happened?” 

You cross the threshold, arms flailing in helpless frustration. “What’s happened is that your son’s birthday party is about to collapse into chaos, thanks to Spencer’s inability to prioritize between a group of first graders and a chess match.” 

That earns you the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, but his face is otherwise unreadable. “Cupcakes.” 

“Yes! Cupcakes. He was supposed to bring them. He didn’t. Now I have twenty-three children about to descend on this house with the expectation of sugar and frosting, and I’ve got nothing but celery sticks and a piñata that looks like it fought in ‘Nam.” 

“I think you might be exaggerating a little bit, don’t you think?” Hotch leans back in his chair, studying you like you’re a witness giving testimony. 

You gape at him. “You are being mean now.” Taking a few angry steps across the room towards his desk, you let yourself hop onto his desk, right on top of a file he’s working on. With a sweet smile on your face, you chirp, “Hi, friend,” as you cross one leg over the other.  

“You’re sitting on Ian Doyle’s face.” He points out.  

“I don’t hear him complaining.” You muse.  

Aaron exhales slowly through his nose, but you catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes before he schools his expression back into neutrality. “You realize that’s an open case file you’re crushing under your jeans?” 

“Mm,” you hum, swinging your foot idly. “You realize you’re avoiding the fact that your child’s birthday party is about to be a cupcake-less catastrophe?” 

He gives you an unamused look. “Catastrophe is a strong word.” 

“So is unicorn frappuccino, and yet Starbucks has somehow survived.” 

His brows lift the tiniest fraction, that classic Hotchner expression you’ve come to translate as: are you done yet? 

You lean forward conspiratorially, lowering your voice. “Mister Hotchner. I am begging you. Help me save this party before twenty-three sugar-deprived first graders riot in your living room. You’ve seen mob behavior before—you really want to reenact it at Jack’s birthday?” 

That earns you a short huff of a laugh. He closes the file you’re sitting on and pushes his chair back, looking up at you with his arms crossed. “You don’t give up, do you?” 

“Not when there are tiny lives at stake.” 

Aaronstands, and for one long moment, you think he’s going to walk right past you back to his casework. Instead, he extends a hand. “Come on.” 

Your brows knit. “Where?” 

“To the kitchen,” he says simply, the corner of his mouth twitching again. “Let’s see if we can pull off twenty-three dinosaur cupcakes in under two hours.” 

You slide off his desk, grinning in triumph. “So you can bake.” 

He shoots you a sidelong glance as you follow him down the hall. “I never said I could bake. I said I could problem solve. There’s a difference.” 

“And if your solution is bribing Rossi into catering?” you tease.