#themarbledstudy

The red and blue lights pulsed, reflecting off the wet pavement, their rhythm almost mocking the stillness that had settled over the crime scene. The sirens blared faintly in the background, the faint hum of them buzzing through your bones.

You stood there with the team, the air thick with tension and the unspoken weight of it all. You had done this so many times, seen so many cases, but this one felt different. Spencer was inside that store, with JJ. Held hostage by an unsub, playing a twisted game of Truth or Dare.

And even now, with Casey down, dead, the relief you’d been waiting for didn’t settle into your chest. Not really. It felt like the moment was suspended, like something was wrong and you couldn't place it.

You should have been relieved. You were relieved. But the feeling didn't reach the parts of you that mattered.

Spencer, your husband, was still in there. The man you loved.

And JJ—she was in there too, her life, her family hanging in the balance. Her boys. Will. Everything. The gravity of it pressed down on you, crushing, because it wasn’t just about strangers anymore. It was about families, about real, breathing lives on the line, about futures that had barely begun to take shape.

And it reminded you, too sharply, of the life you’d begun to build with Spencer.

You had known, from the first time you walked through the door at the BAU, that danger was a constant. That risk was built into the very fabric of your life. You had accepted that somewhere deep down—that there was always the chance you might not come home. That you could kiss Spencer goodbye, step out that door in your home, and never walk back through it again. It was a fear you could never shake.

The day you made the promises. The day you stood before him, your heart beating louder than anything else in the room, and spoke vows that meant everything. The vows weren’t just words—they were everything. They were the soft, unspoken promise to build a life together, to never let go of what you were both creating.

And somewhere in that promise, somewhere in those quiet words, your life shifted. No longer was it just about surviving the next case, the next danger. It was about the future—the future you both had dreamed of, the one you didn’t even know you had wanted until you stood there in front of him, pledging forever.

When you and Spencer promised each other everything, it was more than just a ceremony. More than a ring on your finger. It was the promise to build a home—your home. A place with laughter echoing through its walls, with shared dreams and memories tucked into every corner. The promise of a house, not just as a place to live, but a home—where the floorboards creaked under the weight of your growing family, where your future children would run and play.

It was the promise of raising them—those little hands reaching up for yours, those sleepy nights spent rocking them to sleep, teaching them to walk, to speak, to love. The promise of becoming the parents you had always wanted to be.

And somewhere between the wedding vows and the stolen glances you’d shared in the years before, those quiet moments that once seemed insignificant had turned into eternal promises. Each gaze between you, each whispered word, had woven a future together, stitched it into the very fabric of your being. You weren’t just two agents anymore, running headlong into danger. You were two people who had everything to lose. You were family, and that was the kind of love that could make everything feel both precious and perilous.

You hadn’t known what it meant to really fear until now. Not until you stood there in front of him, making that promise, holding that future in your hands. It was a fear that came with loving so completely, with knowing that your heart was no longer just your own. It was tied to him. It was tied to the life you would one day build together—the house, the kids, the shared mornings, the shared everything.

It was a fear so heavy it felt like it could crush you if mishandled.

And that was the same fear Hotch had felt. The fear that had driven him away from the team, away from the job he had given his life to, to protect his everything. His son, Jack. Because when it came down to it, the job didn’t matter. The cases didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the promise he’d made. The promise to come home. To protect his family.

And you felt it now, too—the weight of that promise, the depth of that fear. You were people, holding your lives in your hands, knowing how fragile it all could be. And somehow, that made everything feel like it was always on the verge of breaking.

You both had everything to lose now.

But standing there, outside, with nothing but a radio and your own thoughts, the anxiety curled in the pit of your stomach.

Then, you heard the shot.

Your heart stopped, and every cell in your body felt like it shut down for a split second. A gunshot. Not one of the standard shots you’d heard before—no, this one was sharp. Different. Final.

You braced yourself, waiting for someone to call it. A report. But it wasn’t long before the words Casey dead came through the radio.

They were alive. Spencer. JJ. They were alive.

Relief flooded through you, but it felt like you were floating, as if you weren’t really here, not fully present. And yet, despite the fact that they had made it out, you could still feel something nagging at you, pulling at the edges of your thoughts. Spencer’s face, his eyes—there was something wrong.

You spotted him before anyone else, his silhouette just visible against the flashing lights, standing stiffly next to the police car. The paramedic was wrapping his hand, probably from the glass he’d been holding onto during the hostage situation. You knew that he was alive, but you didn’t know if that was enough anymore.

His hair was a little longer now, more messy than before. But you’d never really noticed it.

It was strange, how these small changes crept up on you. The slow, quiet erosion of things you once thought were permanent. Spencer's hair was the least of it, though. The thing that caught your breath wasn’t the mess of his curls or the way his shirt had ridden up on his sleeves. It was the distance in his eyes—the subtle shift that you didn’t quite understand, but felt all the same.

It was a change you hadn’t noticed until now, when you stood face-to-face with him, after everything.

You thought back to that night in the NYC courthouse, years ago—before Gideon had passed, before anyone knew. Just the three of you in the stillness of the court, hidden away from the world. The wind howled outside, but inside, there was only silence. The kind of silence you could only find in moments that mattered. The kind of silence that held your promises, quiet but unbreakable.

You and Spencer had come to him that day, just the two of you—already married in your hearts, already bound by something deeper than a piece of paper, but still wanting to make it real. You had tracked him down on your own, the two of you still new to this idea of forever, eager to share that secret moment with him.

It hadn’t been a traditional wedding. No church bells, no bouquets. Just the quiet hum of the courthouse, the officiator’s voice low and steady. Only the three of you—Spencer, you, and Gideon. His presence had been the grounding force, the one witness who’d seen the two of you in your most raw, unguarded moment. He was the only one who knew the depth of the promises you’d made to each other.

It had been the best secret, the one thing you could keep just between the two of you. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust the team. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to share it. It was simply that in this world of chaos and uncertainty, this quiet little secret was the only thing you could hold onto, the only thing you could protect. You couldn’t afford to let anything slip through the cracks—not when your lives were so intertwined with danger.

A wedding certificate that no one would ever see, buried deep within your personnel records. You had shared it only with each other, locked away in your hearts.

Your steps quickened, though your heart had already started to beat faster. You fought to steady yourself, to push down the anxiety rising in your chest, but it felt impossible. It felt like you were sinking into something, into a space too dark to escape. And if it weren’t for the active case still unfolding around you, you might have just let yourself drown in the panic.

Focus, focus, focus.

“Spence!” You barely recognized your own voice as it came out, louder than you intended.

His eyes found you instantly, but they were distant in a way you hadn’t seen before. Not just because he was a victim, not just because he’d been through hell, but because something was different. His gaze lingered on you for a second too long, flickering, like he was unsure of what to do with you.

He pushed himself off the car slowly, his body stiff as if he’d forgotten how to move like he used to. The hesitance was there, obvious, and your stomach twisted as you tried to convince yourself it was just the shock, just the trauma of what had happened. But you couldn’t shake it. The feeling that something had been broken. You just didn’t know how to fix it yet.

He lifted his hand, and for a moment, you thought he was going to touch your face like he used to. But the touch felt more like an apology, or worse—a question. His fingers brushed your cheek with a gentleness that almost stung. He was trying so hard to be okay, to act like everything was fine.

You let him pull you in, just for a second, just enough to feel his heartbeat against yours. But the kiss was wrong. It was slow, tentative—like neither of you knew how to begin anymore. Normally, a kiss after a case like this was a reflex. But not this time.

You pulled back, just enough to see his face, searching it for some sign that he was still him. But when you looked up at him, you saw only a shadow of the man you had married. That flicker of guilt was still there.

“Thank god you’re okay,” you said, but the words barely left your lips before your chest tightened again. You almost felt like you couldn’t breathe, like the air was suddenly too thick, too hot. It felt like panic was crawling up your throat, suffocating you from the inside out.

But you had to keep it together. You had to.

He whispered into your hair, his voice too soft, too shaky. “I love you.”

You didn’t reply right away, though your heart was pounding, every beat a drum against your chest. You heard it, and you knew he meant it, but there was something off about it. Something in the way he said it, as if it were a confession more than a declaration.

It took a beat longer than usual for the words to leave your mouth. And when they did, they felt heavier than they ever had.

“I love you too.”

There. You said it. You had to say it, even if you didn’t fully understand the words. Even if it was starting to feel like you were just saying words to fill the silence, to fill the space between you.

He pulled you closer, his arm wrapping tightly around your shoulders, like he was trying to hold everything together. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his breath hitched just slightly, as if he were terrified to let you go, terrified to let the connection slip any further.

The paramedic finished with his hand and started to pull away, but neither of you moved. You just stayed there, standing in that fragile moment, still holding on to each other, pretending that nothing had changed. Pretending that it was all okay.

But you knew. The words, the unspoken ones—JJ’s confession—it was hanging between you two, pressing down on you both. He knew. But you weren’t sure if he knew that you knew. He hadn’t said anything about it. You hadn’t said anything about it.

And you couldn’t. Not yet.

You just stood there, and for a moment, it was enough. But only for a moment.

You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing on your breath, trying to steady yourself before the panic could fully take over. But it was already there, crawling under your skin, itching at the edge of your consciousness. If you weren’t in the middle of an active case, you would’ve collapsed right then and there.

And so, he stood there holding you tighter, as if overcompensating for everything that was about to happen – everything that already happened.

But the weight of everything between you both was starting to break through, piece by piece, until neither of you knew how to fix it.

It had been a week. Seven days since Spencer walked out of that jewelry store alive. Seven days since JJ said it.

And in the silence that followed, everything between you and Spencer had started to bend. Quietly. Painfully.

The bandages on his hands were gone now—just raw pink skin left behind. But you knew better. Some wounds didn’t close. Some sat inside your chest and festered, no matter how hard you tried to forget they were there.

Dinner had been quiet. Too quiet. He kept glancing at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice, like he was bracing for an explosion.

Now you were at the sink. You washed. He dried. A rhythm you’d done a thousand times before. It used to mean comfort. Love.

Tonight it felt like going through the motions.

You reached for another dish. Your hand trembled—barely, but enough. The plate clinked sharply against the sink. Not enough to break. But close. Too close.

Spencer turned his head slightly. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” Too quick. Too flat.

He dried a bowl that didn’t need drying anymore. “You’ve been saying that a lot.”

You shrugged. “It’s been a long week.”

He was quiet for a moment, but you could feel it—the shift in the air. His gaze getting heavier, more pointed.

Then came the break in his voice. “Why are you mad at me?”

Your hands stilled under the water. The faucet ran, hot and loud.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” he said, more firmly this time. “You’ve been cold. And I’m doing everything I can to keep things... normal. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, and I’m trying, but—”

You turned, slow and tired. “It’s not about you doing something wrong.”

“Then what is it?” he asked, exasperated. “Because I feel like I’m losing you in our own home.”

You hated that your breath caught. That your heart gave away how close to the edge you were. “We’ve been through worse, Spencer.”

“So then talk to me. You’re my wife—”

“Don’t do that,” you snapped, the words sharper than you intended.

His brow furrowed. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t throw our titles at me like they’re shields.” Your voice cracked, and your hands were still wet with soap and water and something deeper—something angry.

Spencer stepped closer. “I’m not— I’m trying to remind you that this—” he gestured helplessly between you, “—this was built on trust. On honesty. We promised each other everything.”

“And maybe that’s why it hurts so much!” you cried, stepping back. “Because I gave you everything, Spencer! I stood outside that damn jewelry store thinking you were going to die, and all I could do was hold it together so I could bring you home. And then she—” you choked on it looking out the window onto the dark streets of D.C., “—she says that to you, and it’s like suddenly I’m not enough.”

His expression twisted, like the words had physically struck him. “What? You’re more than enough, you know that. That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you said bitterly. “She told you she loved you. And you didn’t say a thing. You didn’t tell her no. You just... stood there.”

“I was in shock!” he said, louder now. “JJ and I—never even happened, you know that, come on—”

“But it meant something,” you interrupted. “It meant enough for her to say it when she thought she was going to die. And don’t tell me you didn’t feel anything when she said it. Because I saw your face after. I know you.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, jaw clenched. His voice, when it came, was low and trembling. “And I know you. I know when you’re hurt. But this guilt you’re holding over me? It’s not mine to carry.”

You let out the breath you were holding, taking another step away from him. “Maybe not. But I’m the one left carrying the image of you standing there, silent, like she cracked open something in you I’ve never been allowed to touch.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really?” you said, tears spilling freely now. “Because we can talk all day about how she was scared and how you were caught off guard, but none of it erases how it felt. And how it still feels.”

He stared at you, hands shaking now, like he was grasping for something that wouldn’t come. “So what do you want me to say? That I hate her? That I regret going in there? That I should’ve died instead?”

“Don’t you dare,” you hissed, voice raw. “Don’t you ever say that.”

The silence that followed was frustration.

You turned away, wiping at your cheeks, your breath uneven.

You walked out the kitchen, towards the bedroom you both shared. You closed the door behind you, crying hot tears, unsure of how to fix anything.

That night, he slept on the couch.

At Work

Yesterday night’s outburst quietly seeped into the workday like a slow, unspoken bruise.

You didn’t mention it. Neither did he. But everything about the way you moved around each other said enough.

You didn’t sit beside him during the morning briefing. You didn’t touch the coffee he poured for you out of habit. You didn’t make a face when he misspoke mid-profile, didn’t gently correct him under your breath like you used to. And in the kitchen—where laughter and late-night case notes once lived—you simply never crossed paths. Not by accident. Not anymore.

You talked to Emily. To Tara. You stood beside Luke during takedown strategy. And when Penelope came by with pastries, you offered her your last smile of the day.

Spencer didn’t push. But you felt his eyes.

It wasn’t until hours later—after a long, limping day and a half-hearted debrief—that you found yourselves back in his car. Or maybe it was still your car. You didn’t know anymore.

The drive home was quiet. No music. No usual podcast playing softly from his phone. Just the rumble of the engine and the tired hush of two people who used to be everything to each other, now barely breathing in sync.

He cleared his throat once. Lightly.

“Do you think Rossi’s gonna move?” he asked, tentative.

You stared ahead for a second, then muttered, “No.”

Another stretch of silence. Trees blurred past the window.

“What do you want for dinner?” he asked gently, like maybe if he said it soft enough, it wouldn’t land with a thud.

You turned your head toward the passenger side window. “I’m not that hungry.”

That was the one that broke him.

He stopped talking after that.

His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. He didn’t say a word the rest of the way home.

You both got out of the car like strangers who just happened to live under the same roof.

That night, he moved back into your shared bedroom.

No words about it. No conversation.

Maybe a part of you had been waiting—for the ache to settle, for the silence to feel less like punishment and more like space to grieve. The grief of something shifting. This wasn’t about JJ anymore.

You got into bed first. No goodnight kiss. No shared book resting on both your laps. Just you, pulling the covers up, turning your back to him, your body curled at the very edge of the mattress.

This was the bed that held years.

The one that knew your whispered I love yous, the quiet laughter after cases that nearly broke you, the soft murmurs in the middle of the night when nightmares pulled one of you from sleep, and the sleepless nights.

Now it held the absence of touch. The distance between bodies that used to fit without trying.

He climbed in slowly, like the weight of everything still clung to his shoulders. You could feel the mattress dip beside you, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. You stared at the wall like it might offer you answers.

Spencer exhaled, shaky.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said, voice small, careful.

You didn’t reply. Because if you did, you might start crying again. And if you started crying, you weren’t sure you’d ever stop.

It was probably 2 a.m. when you woke up again. The room was dark, moonlight barely slipping through the cracks in the curtains. Somehow, sometime during the night, Spencer had pulled you closer—his arm wrapped tightly around your torso like his subconscious couldn't bear to let you go.

You stayed still for a moment, listening to the way his breath hitched just slightly in his sleep. Like even unconscious, he was holding something back. Like maybe he was breaking too.

Quietly, gently, you peeled his arm away from your waist and slipped out of bed. Your feet hit the cold floor with a small thud. You didn’t look back.

The kitchen light hummed softly as you flicked it on. D.C. was sleeping beyond the window—its usual chaos muted in the hush of the early morning. The kettle sat on the stove, waiting. You filled it with water and turned the burner on. Steam began to rise.

You stood there, gripping the counter like it was the only thing holding you up.

When the kettle started to sing, you reached to turn it off—but before you could, arms slid around your waist from behind. Spencer’s body curved gently into yours, his head coming to rest on your shoulder like it belonged there.

“Can’t sleep?” he murmured, voice raw with exhaustion.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Instead, you stepped forward, out of his embrace, reaching for the hot water bag on the counter.

Spencer didn’t push. He just took the kettle from your hands without a word. “Let me,” he said quietly.

And you let him. A small gesture. But he noticed. He always noticed.

He handed you the filled water bottle, then leaned against the counter, arms folded loosely across his chest. Watching you. Waiting.

“Can we talk about it?” he asked, tentative. “Please?”

You sank onto the stool by the kitchen island, staring at the warm bag in your lap. Then nodded. “Yeah. Sure, Spence.”

“Walk me through it,” he said. “I want to understand.”

You exhaled slowly. The truth had lived in your chest for days now, suffocating. It came out shaky at first, like your lungs weren’t used to forming the words.

“You were in that shop,” you whispered. “You could’ve died. I was standing outside thinking the next time I saw you, you’d be gone. And when she said it… when she said she loved you—” your voice broke, and you looked away, blinking hard. “I thought, maybe she knew something I didn’t. Like she had some right to say goodbye to you that I didn’t.”

Spencer opened his mouth, but you stopped him with a small shake of your head.

“I tried to understand,” you said, quieter now. “I tried to believe you when you said it didn’t mean anything. But Spence… it felt like she was mourning something that wasn’t hers. And I hated her for it. I hated myself for hating her.”

He looked like the air had left his lungs. His voice cracked when he finally spoke. “You don’t have to protect her feelings, or mine. You’re allowed to be angry.”

You nodded, slowly, tears beginning to slide down your cheeks. “I was angry. But not just at her. At everything. At the timing. At the universe. Because…”

You clutched the hot water bottle tighter.

“Because I- I was pregnant.”

The silence was immediate, deafening. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“Was?” he echoed, the word almost breaking in his throat.

You nodded, barely. “It was early. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to make it real until I was sure. I took a test and... it was faint. I thought maybe it was a mistake so I went to the doctor to confirm it. I didn’t want to tell you and then lose it. But I think I always knew. I knew that it was over before it could even start.”

Spencer moved toward you then, slowly, like you were made of glass. He knelt beside you, resting his hand on your knee. “When?”

You bit your lip so hard it shook. “Before we went down to the jewelry store. I was spotting. Cramping. I thought I was just tired. I went to the doctor the next day, and she said... it was an early miscarriage, just a little over 8-9 weeks.”

Spencer’s eyes filled, overflowing before he could even blink them away. “You went through that alone?”

You nodded. “I didn’t know how to tell you. And then everything with JJ happened, and I didn’t know how to breathe, let alone grieve.”

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you down into his lap on the kitchen floor, holding you like his world had caved in and he was clinging to the only thing left standing.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over, into your hair. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” you sobbed. “But I didn’t want you to look at me like I failed, like I couldn’t keep it together, keep myself together, for our unborn child’s life.”

“I would never,” he breathed. “Never, never, never.”

You cried into him, your body shuddering as the grief finally poured out of you. And he held you through it all. His own tears soaked into your skin. “We lost something,” he whispered, voice shaking. “But I didn’t lose you. We’re still here. You and me.”

You nodded against his chest. “We’re still here.”

Eventually, your tears slowed. The silence between you felt softer now—less like distance, more like the air needed to begin again.

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the wetness from your cheeks.

“We’ll try again someday,” he said. “When you’re ready. When we’re ready. And if it takes time... if it takes forever, we’ll still be here.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “For better or for worse, right?”

He smiled through the ache. “In sickness and in health.”

You kissed him then, slow and full of sorrow, but also full of love.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday, October 30th – 5:47 PM.

The BAU office glowed with a pre-Halloween haze. Orange fairy lights blinked lazily across cubicles. Someone (definitely Garcia) had hung cobwebs over the elevator doors, and a plastic raven perched ominously atop the filing cabinet by the break room. Even Hotch’s normally stoic office bore a lonely jack-o-lantern mug on his desk — though it had a black coffee IV drip running through it.

Outside, the fall sun dipped low, staining the Quantico sky a burnt orange. Inside, the usual Friday lull buzzed through the air — agents typing reports half-heartedly, others swapping candy from bowls with casual indifference.

Then the elevator dinged.

And all hell broke loose.

“Oh come on, Dad!” your voice rang out like a thunderclap.

The bullpen snapped to attention. Heads turned. Garcia ducked behind her monitor.

Hotch stormed out of the elevator like a man marching into battle. You followed two paces behind, equal parts furious and frustrated — sheer black tights, boots, a leather mini skirt, and cat ears.

“I’m sorry,” you hissed behind him, eyes blazing. “Did I miss the part where you got to control my social life like it’s 2007 and I’m grounded for texting after 9PM?”

“You’re not going out looking like a—like that,” he gritted out, not slowing down.

You threw your hands up. “Like what? Like someone who’s finally acting their age for once?”

The bullpen fell completely silent.

JJ leaned toward Emily. “Oh my God.”

Emily elbowed her. “Don’t look. Don’t—never mind, definitely look.”

Rossi peered over his glasses. “Is that Hotch’s daughter? The genius one? The one who corrected me on constitutional law when she was fourteen?”

Garcia popped up like a prairie dog. “I thought she was at Georgetown, locked in some ivory tower writing federal reform policy with three doctorates and a whiteboard.”

“Apparently not tonight,” Derek said, eyes wide. “Tonight she’s headed to Halloweekend at Club Dad-Is-Having-a-Stroke.”

Hotch spun on you just as you reached the bullpen. His tone was low, clipped, and boiling. “You’re not setting foot in that party, Y/N.”

You crossed your arms. “Why not? Because some guy might breathe in my direction? Because I might enjoy myself for once in my entire adult life? God forbid I stop being your little FBI-Doctor intern-bot and act like I’m twenty-one!”

“You’re acting like a child.”

“And you’re acting like a federal agent with a badge and a God complex instead of my dad.”

“I'm always your father.”

“Then maybe try treating me like your daughter, not your next perp.”

Oof.

JJ winced. “Damn. That one had weight.”

Rossi shook his head. “This is better than anything on Netflix right now.”

Emily leaned across her desk. “I swear to God, if someone doesn't start filming, I'm going to lose it.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed, his jaw locked so tight it might snap.

“You don’t even want to go to these parties,” he growled. “You told me last year they were full of drunk undergrads and poor taste in music.”

You threw your hands up again. “Yeah, well guess what? Now I do. Maybe I just want to be normal for five minutes and not the academic prodigy with no life!”

Garcia gasped. “Is that… is that self-awareness and rebellion? Oh no. It’s happening.”

Reid, silent behind his desk, blinked slowly, eyes locked on you. He hadn’t said a word, but his pen stopped moving halfway through jotting notes. He stared like he was watching a once-extinct star explode.

Hotch’s hand came up to his forehead, dragging down his face like he’d aged twenty years in two minutes.

“I said no.”

“And I said I wasn’t asking,” you snapped.

Silence.

A long, heavy pause.

Then — Hotch removed his jacket and dropped it firmly over your shoulders, for modesty (his words, not mine).

“Go. To. My. Office.”

“Oh my God,” Emily whispered. “He jacketed her.”

JJ gasped. “It’s happening.”

You opened your mouth to argue but thought better of it, biting your tongue and stomping toward his glass-walled office. The door slammed behind you, leaving the team with front-row seats to the soap opera no one knew they needed.

Inside the soundproof glass: chaos.

You gesturing wildly. Hotch pacing. You pointing to your chest. Him pointing to his desk. At one point, he dramatically pinched the bridge of his nose. At another, you physically removed the cat ears and whipped them onto his chair like they’d betrayed you.

JJ leaned over to Emily. “Ten bucks says she hits him with ‘I’m an adult’ at least two more times.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Emily said. “And five bucks on the phrase ‘I’m smarter than everyone in this room.’”

“You say that like it’s not true,” Garcia chimed in.

“Wait,” Rossi said. “Didn’t she graduate high school at 16?”

“She graduated college at 19,” Reid murmured quietly, still watching.

“And now she’s in a dual JD program at Georgetown?” Derek asked, impressed. “Damn. She’s probably smarter than you Reid.”

Spencer ignored Derek’s comment.

A beat later — slam.

The office door burst open again.

You stormed out, still wrapped in your father’s jacket, makeup pristine but fury radiating off you like nuclear fallout.

“Like I said,” you bit out, loud enough for everyone to hear, “it’s not fair.”

Then you spun on your heel and marched straight into the quiet room, slamming that door behind you, too.

The bullpen went absolutely still.

Emily immediately lost it. “Hotch,” she cackled, standing and clapping slowly. “Ten out of ten. That was award-worthy parenting panic.”

JJ leaned over her desk. “I haven’t seen this much drama since Garcia found out Rossi was on Facebook.”

Derek turned to Hotch, who finally emerged from the breakroom with a full mug of coffee and despair in his eyes.

“You good, man?”

Hotch sipped slowly. “Define good.”

“Still breathing?”

“Barely.”

He looked toward the quiet room door like it might start smoking. Then sighed.

“I swear to God,” he muttered. “She was correcting federal judges at sixteen, and now I’m fighting her over a miniskirt and a party with glow sticks.”

“Life comes at you fast,” Rossi deadpanned.

“She is twenty-one,” JJ offered gently. “She’s allowed to live.”

Hotch sighed again, muttering to himself as he walked towards the silent room door: “I raised a genius. I did everything right. And now I’m going to die of a heart attack before she finishes her first semester of law school.”

The bullpen erupted into laughter.

And in the quiet room, behind a closed door and crossed arms, you sat fuming — not because he said no.

But because for the first time in your life, you felt like your dad wasn’t seeing the woman you’d become.

Only the little girl you stopped being a long time ago.

Minutes later, Hotch came back into the room.

“Y/N. That’s enough sulking. I’m sending you home.”

You whirled around to face him, the jacket feeling heavier all of a sudden.

“Enough? Really? Because I don’t see how staying cooped up at home is ‘enough.’”

His eyes were hard, tired—an edge of frustration in his voice. “You’re my daughter. That means I have a responsibility to keep you safe. And that party? It’s a bad idea. You said it yourself last year it was a circus.”

“Maybe last year I was a kid. Maybe this year, I want to be something else,” you shot back, voice sharp as the crisp fall air outside.

Hotch’s jaw tightened. “Being something else doesn’t mean risking yourself just to prove a point.”

You stepped closer, furious. “Maybe it means living instead of existing under your shadow. I’m not your case file, Dad. I’m a person.”

His expression softened for a fraction of a second before steel hardened it again. “And as your father, I’m telling you to go home.”

Your voice dropped, dripping with resentment. “I’m not a child anymore. You can’t keep me on a leash just because you’re scared.”

He held up a hand, silencing you. “You think I’m scared? I’m terrified. But that’s not an excuse to throw caution to the wind.”

You shook your head, fury and hurt twisting inside you. “I don’t need your protection. I need your trust.”

Hotch’s eyes flicked to Reid, who’d been watching this entire exchange with a calm but amused expression.

“Spencer,” Hotch said quietly, “take her home. Now.”

Reid’s smirk was slow and knowing, eyes twinkling with that blend of mischief and something more serious. He was your father’s golden boy.

You rolled your eyes. “Wipe that smirk off your face before I do it myself.”

He chuckled, grabbing his keys and coat to go home.

Hotch’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer—equal parts father and agent, caught in the impossible space between fear and pride.

“Drive safe,” he said simply.

The elevator was too small for the air between you, thickening with every heartbeat. You stood close to the panel, eyes fixed on the floor indicator as it blinked down. Reid was behind you, his presence a quiet force you could feel without turning around.

He stepped closer, so close that the warmth of his body brushed the bare skin at the nape of your neck. You swallowed, suddenly aware of how exposed you were, how short your skirt was, how much your shirt hugged your figure. His voice dropped—low, slow, heavy with something you hadn’t quite heard from him before.

“I’ve imagined exactly how you’d sound if I had you pressed against that wall.”

Everything inside you tightened—the breath, your pulse, your thoughts.

“Yeah?” you tested him. “Then humour me.”

You turned slowly, deliberately, to face him. His eyes dilated, the pupils swallowing the light until they were impossibly dark. The elevator dinged softly, but the sound was distant, drowned out by the wild pounding of your heart, thudding in your ears like a dark, forbidden rhythm.

The car ride was taut with silence. No music. Just the sharp inhale of your breath and the relentless drum of your pulse. Reid’s hands gripped the wheel with surgeon-like precision, each turn measured yet urgent, as if controlled chaos was his language, but one he spoke fluently while obeying every law on the road. You sat frozen in the quiet storm between you, every nerve alive with anticipation.

When you arrived, his hand slid down your back—low, insistent, demanding—pushing you forward through the mudroom of your own home. His lips found the tender skin at your neck, the touch featherlight but heavy with promises. His hands settled on your waist, fingers trailing slowly upward, molding, as you ascended the stairs together.

“He won’t be home until well past midnight,” you whispered, voice low, deliberate.

The silence stretched taut, thick with dark invitation.

“Good,” he murmured, breath ghosting over your skin.

You felt the weight of his words settle over you like a velvet cloak.

And just like that, the night shifted.

In your room, he hovered above you, laying you against your own bed. Spencer's hands are everywhere, exploring your body with a hunger that matches your own. His lips capture yours in a fierce, demanding kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a skill that leaves you dizzy with desire.

"You're so-," he murmurs against your lips, his voice a low growl of approval. His hands slip under your shirt, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin of your stomach, your ribs, before climbing higher. You gasp, your body arching into his touch, and he smiles, a smug, knowing smile.

He trails kisses down your neck, his teeth nipping at your sensitive skin. His hands slip lower, ghosting over your hips. You moan, your body aching with need, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "Spencer, please," you beg, your voice a desperate whisper.

He chuckles, a low, smug sound. "Please what?" he teases. "Tell me what you want."

"You know what I want," your body tenses, your breath catches, and just as you're about to shatter, he stops.

Completely.

His hands had just been on you—soft, deliberate, promising. And now, just like that, they’re gone. The absence of his touch feels like a cold burn against your skin, leaving you flushed, breathless, aching.

You blink, lips parted, heart pounding with that sharp, confusing ache only Spencer can give you.

“Spencer?” you whisper, voice barely more than a desperate breath, hoping to reel him back, to make him stay.

He steps back, slow and deliberate, a smug smile playing at the corners of his lips. His eyes are bright, gleaming with satisfaction, as if he’s just won a private game only he knows the rules to.

Without breaking eye contact, he slides a hand through his hair, casually brushing it back like he’s untouched by the storm he’s leaving behind.

Then, suddenly, he reaches out. His fingers tilt your chin up, light but impossible to resist. His gaze locks on yours, sharp and knowing.

“I could give you what you want,” he murmurs, voice low, rich with teasing, “but I kind of like knowing you’ll be thinking about me all night.”

His smile deepen and his breath ghosts over your skin.

You blink, eyes wide, utterly caught off guard. “W-What?” Your voice comes out small, innocent, like you weren’t expecting him to say something so reckless, unacademic.

He laughs softly, clearly amused by your shock.

You take a small step forward, hoping that he’s bluffing.

He leans in suddenly, and your breath catches.

You follow suite but all he does is press a soft kiss to your cheek, just at the corner of your mouth, so innocent it feels like mockery.

His lips barely brush your skin, but it ignites a firestorm in your chest. He pulls back, giving you one last glance and then he turns, walking away like he didn’t just wreck you on purpose.

The door closes softly behind him.

You rush to the window, heartbeat thundering in your ears. He’s already at his car, sliding into the driver’s seat like nothing just happened. No hesitation. No second glance. The engine starts, taillights flare—and then he’s gone, swallowed by the streetlights and silence.

You stand there, breathless, blinking like maybe this is some kind of joke.

He really left.

Left you like this—flushed, trembling, undone—without so much as a real kiss. Just a smirk, a whisper, and the promise of everything you didn’t get.

Your fingers tighten around the windowsill.

God, he was so cocky. So sure you’d break before he did.

And the worst part?

📚 Author's Note: This is going to be a long series. I really wanted to rewrite the entire Prison!Reid arc with more at stake but all the while sticking somewhat closely to the original storyline. The story won't focus solely on Reid x BAU!Reader but also on the entire team and the effort to get him exonerated. There'll be small side stories and minor events, all in an effort to get Spencer out. There are a lot of twists and turns coming into play later in the series so I hope you enjoy this one! Also, I'm trying to gauge how long to make these stories. I'm not sure whether or not to keep it short (4k) or a little longer (10k). Anyways, this one kind of sets everything up for the rest of the series.

“What’s wrong?” JJ asked.

Prentiss responded. “Reid’s in jail.”

“Jail?” JJ repeated.

Prentiss continued. “In Mexico.”

Spencer was in jail. The weight of it all pressed down on your shoulders like a vice. Around you, everyone exchanged confused, unsettled glances. JJ’s eyes locked onto yours—pleading for answers, but also stricken, as if the news had hit her like a bullet.

This wasn’t just a team. This was family.

In the briefing room, the team sat in tense silence. You still didn’t know what to say—or even how to feel. None of it made sense. There had to be an explanation. This couldn’t be real. You knew Spencer. You’d known him long before the Bureau.

“It says here that Reid was involved in a high-speed chase,” Garcia read.

You and JJ sat together, puzzled.

“What? He hardly ever drives,” Emily said. “None of this sounds like him.”

You thought back to when Spence was learning to drive—he was terrible at it. Honestly, you were the better driver by a mile, which is why he rarely ever took the wheel during cases. It became an unspoken rule, a running joke. One of many small memories that now felt like a lifeline.

“Where are you with the searches?” somebody asked but you couldn’t focus on who was speaking.

Was Scratch behind this? Peter Lewis. The same guy who drove Hotch out of the bureau, not by choice but by force, in an effort to keep his son safe.

“Maybe he has a contact down there,” Stephen said.

That’s when it hit you. A memory surfaced—Spence had mentioned something about a doctor in Houston.

“It’s not in Mexico,” you said, your voice steadying with the thought. “But Spence did mention a doctor down in Houston.”

JJ’s hand found yours, a flicker of hope in her eyes. “Did he say who the doctor was?”

You shook your head. “No.”

She rested a comforting hand on your shoulder, her touch warm and grounding. She could see how hard this was for you—how deep it cut. And in that moment, words weren’t necessary.

Out of everyone on the team, she was the one who truly understood how personal this situation was for you. From the start, she’d treated you like a younger sister—always including you, always looking out for you. You’d known JJ even before Spencer met her. Funny how small the world felt, despite the millions of people in it.

She had confided in you about everything. It had been a surprise to you both when you ended up at the Bureau at the same time—new hires in the same department, though in very different roles. She’d been brought on for her exceptional skills. You, on the other hand, had been recruited quietly, bound by an NDA, your deep knowledge of sensitive government sectors—especially those involving biological weapons—deemed too valuable to ignore.

But more than any of that, she knew about you and Spencer. Or at least, as much as you were willing to share. She was the only one who knew about the quiet, careful relationship that had formed between you and him. So when the news broke—Spencer in jail—she was the only one who noticed the way your breath caught and your eyes faltered.

Her gaze flicked to yours first. Then to Emily.

“Okay, so I dug around his desk,” JJ said. “Found a bunch of medical journal articles—no big surprise. All about alternative medicinal treatments for fighting Alzheimer’s.”

Emily had already left with Rossi and Luke; they’d flown to Mexico to see Spencer.

You took a deep breath. “Well, he told me he was supplementing her meds with omega-3s and making sure she ate plenty of leafy greens. Since it takes years for the FDA to approve treatments, a lot of holistic medicine happens outside the States.”

Garcia and Tara quietly slipped out, heading to the FBI library, leaving you and JJ alone for the first time all day.

“You’re starting to sound a lot like him,” she said, trying to lift your spirits.

You let yourself soften a bit. “I guess that’s what I get for knowing him the longest.”

JJ handed you a small, leather-bound booklet—wallet-sized and worn at the edges. “I found this in his drawer. Thought you should have it now. Something to hold onto.”

“Thank you.” She gave you a brief, comforting hug.

Opening the booklet, you found just a few photos—mostly of the three of you with Spencer. The first was from the Redskins game, the one Spencer had tried to make a solo outing with JJ before she invited you and Garcia along. In the picture, he held a cap, barely interested in the game. You sat beside JJ, who squeezed both you and Garcia so tight it looked like she was trying to squeeze the love right out of you.

You laughed softly. “Remember the Redskins game?”

She smiled. “Yeah. How could I forget? You begged me not to make you go, but once I roped Garcia in, she wouldn’t let you sit it out.”

The next photo was just you and Spencer—one he’d taken himself. It was from his first trip to New York City, the city blanketed in snow.

“Where was this taken?” JJ asked gently, trying to distract you, though you weren’t ready to be distracted.

“My hometown,” you said. “At my childhood home in Manhattan. It was his first time in the city—and meeting my grandparents. Years before we joined the Bureau.”

The final photo was just of you—standing, looking toward the camera, holding your PhD diploma tightly to your chest.

JJ had already slipped out again, searching for more clues in Spencer’s desk, leaving you to yourself.

You flipped to the very last photo.

It was the two of you at your courthouse wedding in New York City—the one you kept buried deep in your personal records, sealed away from the world, from everyone. Only you, Spencer, and Gideon knew. You were both so young then—26, compared to the 34 and almost 35 you were now. Gideon had snapped the picture as the judge allowed you both to kiss, sealing your vows in the courtroom forever.

Nobody else knew. JJ only knew you were together—nothing about the marriage. Everyone else on the team thought you were just best friends, close for over a decade.

That’s why it stung. Your husband was in jail for a crime you knew that he did not commit.

It begged the question: Did you really know him at all? (Of course you did.) This wasn’t the Spencer you knew. You just didn’t know how you’d prove it.

“Hey, JJ” Luke said through the phone.

“Is he okay?” she asked.

You were sitting next to her, foot tapping against his chair, the one you were sitting in, searching through his desk again for answers.

She pressed something on her phone. “You’re on speaker by the way.”

“I’m not sure he recognizes us,” he continued.

Your heart sank.

Stephen chimed in. “It’s the drugs.”

The phone call ended. The silence that followed felt heavier than any words could.

“He worked so hard to get sober,” you said quietly, your voice cracking. “I just—I don’t understand. He knows we’re here for him. He tells me everything. So why didn’t he tell me about this?”

You were unraveling by the minute. Holding it together on the outside, but inside, everything was coming apart. The sharp pang in your chest kept returning, like clockwork—reminding you just how wrong this all felt.

Right now, none of that mattered. Not the pain, not the questions. The only thing that mattered was getting Spencer out of jail—or at the very least, back on U.S. soil, where he could be within reach. Within protection. Within reason.

Everyone had gathered in the briefing room again, the air thick with tension and unanswered questions. Garcia sat at her station, typing furiously, her screen casting a faint blue glow across her face.

“I didn’t even know he crossed the border once,” she murmured, disbelief curling in her voice. “Let alone three times. What was he doing down there?”

The words hit you harder than you expected.

You’d never thought to check where Spencer was going. Why would you? You trusted him—with everything. When he said he was visiting a clinic in Houston, you believed him. You’d offered to go with him, to stay behind and take care of his mother when he couldn’t. You never once thought he’d hide anything from you.

But now?

Now it all looked different.

You shifted in your seat, suddenly unsure. He was brilliant, yes—but so were you. Maybe you didn’t have his memory, but you had instinct, and your gut told you something had been off for a while. It puzzled you—not just what he was doing, but why he didn’t think you’d eventually discover it. Maybe that was the worst part. That he didn’t try to keep you in the loop.

That he didn’t think he needed to.

“He told me he was going to Houston,” you said softly, voice barely carrying across the room. “Said there was a clinic running an experimental Alzheimer’s treatment. I didn’t know he was crossing into Mexico.”

Emily spoke over the phone. “He’s being extradited back to the States. Our jurisdiction applies—Dr. Nadie Ramos is a dual citizen.”

Everyone exhaled—quiet, collective relief washing over the room like a low tide. It wasn’t over. Not even close. But he was coming home. Back where you could see him. Talk to him. Ask him the questions that had begun circling in your chest like storm clouds.

You clutched the little leather booklet JJ had given you earlier, the edges soft from wear. Your thumb brushed over the picture of you and Spencer in the snow outside your childhood home, his arms wrapped around you like he’d never let go.

He was your husband. No one else knew. Not JJ. Not Garcia. Not even Emily. It had been your secret—sacred and quiet, sealed in a courthouse years ago with Gideon as your witness. You loved him. You still did.

But now, sitting in that room, surrounded by people trying to unravel his actions, a small crack had formed inside you. And no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, one aching question kept rising to the surface:

What else didn’t I know?

You wanted to believe in him. You needed to believe this was all a misunderstanding. But for the first time, you weren’t sure if the man you’d married had trusted you enough to tell you everything.

And that, somehow, hurt more than the rest.

On the Jet

On the jet, the hum of the engines filled the quiet space between them. The calm after everything wasn’t peaceful—it was too still, too fragile.

“I’m glad you sound like your old self again,” Emily said gently, her voice carrying more meaning than the words alone.

Spencer offered a faint smile. “Me too.”

She watched him for a beat longer than necessary, then turned her eyes back to the folder in her hands. “We can stop by the BAU when we land,” she continued, tone shifting into something more procedural. “But after that, we’ll be taking you to the district. You’ll be processed at the federal jail.”

A heavy pause settled over the cabin.

Spencer sat motionless for a moment, then parted his lips—as if something needed to be said. But nothing came. The words caught in his throat, dissolving before they reached the air.

Does she know?

His gaze lingered on Emily. She hadn’t said anything… not about her. Not about them. But something in her tone, in the way she kept looking at him—like she was waiting for something—made his stomach turn.

The silence stretched, filled with unspoken truths. And for the first time since this nightmare began, Spencer wasn’t just worried about getting out.

He was terrified of what he might lose when he did.

At the BAU

You were still in the briefing room, eyes scanning over Spencer’s old personal records—files you'd read a hundred times before but suddenly felt like you’d never really seen. Everyone else had gathered near the elevators, waiting for his arrival. You couldn't bring yourself to leave the room yet. Not until you were ready to face him. Not until you understood something—anything.

Down the hall, JJ was the first to hug him. Garcia followed, then Tara. The moment was brief but heavy, each embrace carrying more than words could.

“Y/N?” Spencer asked quietly, glancing toward JJ, his voice unsure.

JJ gave him a small, sympathetic smile. “She’s in the briefing room. I’ll go get her.”

A gentle knock pulled you from your thoughts. You looked up to see JJ leaning in the doorway, her expression soft, careful—like a mother coaxing her child from behind a locked door.

“Spence is here,” she said. “He’s asking for you.”

Your legs moved before your heart caught up. You followed her silently through the hallway, your mind racing, your chest tightening with every step.

He stood by the elevator, flanked by agents, his hands still cuffed but draped in an FBI jacket—as if that could hide the reality. But it didn’t. Not even a little. That’s when it hit you—not like a blow to the chest, but a fracture through your whole life. Past, present, future—all cracked at the foundation.

His eyes found yours instantly. And in them, you saw the same thing reflected back: this isn’t just bad—it’s personal.

You stepped forward, wrapping your arms around him. The room faded around you. Emily was already speaking with the team about legal protocols, the logistics of his protection. But none of it reached you.

Luke stood close—close enough to maintain control, far enough to give a sliver of privacy. Spencer leaned in just enough to whisper, voice low and urgent against your ear.

“You can’t get involved,” he said. “You have to go. Witsec.”

You pulled back slightly, trying not to make a scene. “Spencer, no. I’m not leaving. I need to be here—with the team. With you. I’m going to find out what’s going on. We’re going to fix this.”

He shook his head, locking eyes with you—his gaze desperate. “Y/N. Baby. I want you here when I get out. If Scratch is behind this... he’ll come after you next. He pushed Hotch out of the only place he ever felt in control. He’ll do the same to you. We can’t let that happen.”

Your eyes stung, but you didn’t let the tears fall. You held the line, even if it felt like it was breaking inside you.

“Don’t cry,” he said quietly. But there was something in his tone—firm, commanding. The same tone he used with unsubs when he couldn’t afford to lose control.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead, just once. Soft, grounding.

“You’re strong, baby,” he whispered. “Stay long enough to let things cool off… then go.”

You shook your head, the denial barely visible but full of meaning. “I can’t. I won’t.”

He looked at you—really looked at you. There was a plea in his eyes, something raw and afraid and protective all at once.

“Please.”

But still, you didn’t move. You just shook your head again, the smallest gesture that meant everything.

You weren’t going anywhere. Not yet. Not without a reason.

JJ stepped in, trying to ease the weight in the air, her voice light but laced with care.

“I took my boys to see your mom. Garcia made sure she’s been eating every night. Y/N handled the nurse situation—you know how she is. And she’s been keeping an eye on those early trial studies you were so interested in.”

Spencer offered a small, grateful smile. He meant it. He appreciated it all. The care, the loyalty. The way the team—his family—had stepped in. And especially you.

But his eyes never left yours.

Not for a second.

It was like the two of you were having an entirely different conversation—one without words, just looks exchanged with the weight of everything left unsaid. He was asking you to listen. To leave. To protect yourself. You were asking him to stop. Let you stay. Let you help. For better or for worse.

JJ’s House

JJ stepped quietly out of her sons’ rooms, the soft hum of a white noise machine trailing behind her. They were finally asleep. Will was still on duty for a few more hours, so she’d called in reinforcements—their boys’ favorite person outside of family: Aunt Y/N.

You’d come without hesitation. And being godmother to Henry? That had been one of the happiest surprises of your life.

Spencer had been a little more hesitant when JJ asked him to be godfather, unsure if he could live up to the role—but he said yes. Of course he did.

You smiled, remembering the moment at the hospital when Henry was born.

“You’re gonna go to Harvard,” you had whispered, brushing a finger over his tiny hand. “I’m sure of it.”

JJ laughed from the hospital bed, cradling him against her chest. “You hear that, little guy? Ivy League already.”

“Harvard?” Spencer had scoffed, seated beside you with his usual edge of sarcasm. “I could get him into CalTech with one phone call.”

“Don’t worry, JJ,” you’d replied, shooting Spencer a mock glare. “I’ll make sure he goes to the better school.”

Spencer gave you a look—whatever written all over it—but you caught the twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. He knew exactly what you were doing. The Harvard-CalTech banter was an old dance between you two.

Will had just laughed then, standing beside JJ with awe in his eyes. “Kid’s already got more love than he’ll know what to do with.”

And he was right.

Back in the present, JJ moved into the living room where you were curled up on the couch with a mug of tea. She smiled, soft and tired.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Always,” you said. “They’re angels.”

She nodded, sitting beside you. For a moment, the house was still. The kind of stillness that only came when kids were asleep and the grown-ups could breathe again. But beneath the quiet was something else—a subtle knowing in her eyes.

“You holdin’ up alright?” JJ asked, her voice low, careful.

Your fingers tightened around the mug. You didn’t look at her, not right away.

“Not really,” you admitted. “But I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

You tried to brush it off, but your voice cracked at the edges. The weight of everything—Spencer, the silence, the fear—hit you all at once. You dragged a hand over your face, as if wiping it away would help.

But it didn’t.

The first tear slipped down without permission. Then another. And another. Until you weren’t just holding back—you were falling apart, quietly and fully, for the first time that day.

JJ moved closer without hesitation, handing you a tissue and rubbing your back in slow, comforting circles. She didn’t speak at first. She didn’t need to. She knew the language of grief and pressure far too well.

You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “He wants kids, you know?”

She stilled, letting you continue.

“We talked about it one night… years ago. We were at a Target, of all places. Just wandering around. He was standing in front of the baby clothes, touching this little onesie with dinosaurs on it.” You laughed faintly, choked by tears. “He leaned down and whispered something about our future kids. We’d only been together officially for a couple of months. But he meant it. I felt it.”

JJ smiled softly, her own eyes glistening with emotion—not just for you, but for Spencer too.

“You’re all he thinks about, you know?”

You looked at her then, something searching in your eyes. Needing more.

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to tell you—but because the story in her mind was his. And yet… it was yours too.

“Emily and I once took him to an outlet mall in Virginia,” she said slowly, settling back into the couch. “You were in California on that expert witness thing with Hotch. We thought it’d be good to get him out of the office for a few hours. Big mistake—he was miserable in the sun, whining about exposure and bacteria on food court tables.”

You cracked a weak smile, letting her keep going.

“We stopped into a store—Emily wanted to look for baby clothes for Henry. Nothing serious. We were goofing off. But then we turned around, and there he was. Just... standing there. In front of a row of cribs. Reading every label like it was a bomb manual. Safety ratings, materials, recall notices—everything.”

You stared at her, stunned. You hadn’t heard this before.

“I asked him—jokingly—‘Thinking about having kids?’” JJ paused, her smile faltering a little. “He didn’t laugh. He just nodded. Said, ‘We both are. Just waiting for the right time.’”

Silence filled the space between you. Heavy, tender, real.

It was the kind of story that cracked your heart wide open—not just because he wanted a future, but because he was already planning for one.

With you.

And now, everything felt so uncertain.

JJ leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees as the soft hum of the living room settled around you both.

“You know,” she said, voice low and careful, “I’ve known for a long time.”

Your eyes flicked toward her. “Known what?”

There was no accusation in her tone—just understanding.

“You and Spencer.”

You tilted your head slightly, eyes softening. Of course she knew. Part of you had always known that she’d figured it out—years ago, even before you'd had the courage to call it what it was. But JJ had never said a word. Never pushed, never teased. She just… let it be.

Because she respected you. Respected him. Respected whatever it was the two of you were building behind quiet glances and unspoken promises.

JJ offered a small, knowing smile. “I don’t think you ever really meant to hide it from me. Not intentionally. But you never told me either.”

You sat in silence, heart picking up pace.

“I figured it out in Boston,” she continued, her gaze drifting like she was watching the memory play out in front of her. “That case with the museum director’s daughter. We were all running on fumes—late nights, freezing cold. The kind of case that lingers even after it's solved.”

You remembered. That bitter wind off the harbor. The endless hours in the field. And the final, quiet relief when it ended.

“Everyone was getting ready to pack up and head out. I was across the street grabbing coffee when I saw you two walking back to the precinct. Just the two of you. Laughing. He was carrying your bag for you, which wasn’t weird—Spencer’s always been thoughtful—but something about it was... different.”

JJ’s voice softened as her eyes returned to yours.

“He leaned in a little too close when he said something to you. You laughed, and then—he looked at you like you were the only person on the planet.”

You swallowed.

“And when you thought no one was watching,” she added, “he kissed you. Quick. Barely a second. You were behind a row of parked cars, and it was dark enough that I think you thought you were alone.”

Your chest tightened. You remembered that kiss. It had been spontaneous, a quiet moment in the dark—Spencer’s gloved fingers brushing your cheek, your lips meeting his just once before you both slipped back into your roles.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” JJ said. “Not because I didn’t care. But because I did. I knew what that moment meant. That kind of quiet love—it’s the kind you guard with your whole life.”

You blinked rapidly, throat tight.

“I saw it again, after that. Not always a kiss. Usually just… the way he looked at you when you weren’t looking. Or how your voice softened when you said his name. It was subtle. You two were good at keeping it quiet. But it was there.”

JJ leaned back slightly, exhaling.

“I didn’t need a label. I didn’t need the details. I just knew.”

You wiped your cheek with the side of your hand, voice barely audible. “I didn’t thought we hid it well.”

JJ gave a quiet laugh. “To most people? You did. But I’ve always paid attention. Especially to the people I love.”

There was a pause before you spoke again, your voice barely above a whisper. “I thought he told me everything.”

JJ’s expression shifted, more serious now. “He probably thought he was protecting you. That whatever he’s holding onto… maybe it felt safer for you not to carry it too.”

“But we’ve never—” your voice broke, and you tried again. “We never kept secrets from each other. At least not like this.”

JJ leaned in, brushing your hand gently. “I know. And I don’t think it’s about not trusting you. I think he’s scared. Of what it might cost. Of dragging you into something that could hurt you.”

You let out a long breath, eyes glassy. “He doesn’t get to choose what hurts me.”

“No,” JJ agreed softly. “But love makes people do irrational things. You and I both know that.”

She gave your hand a final squeeze.

Nearly 3 weeks. Three weeks since that… well, unprecedented moment at the BAU office. Three weeks since you’d raised your voice—loud enough to make everyone freeze—at Hotch. And three weeks since Spencer had left you hanging, his words still lingering in the air. But you didn’t have time to dwell on that.

The past few weeks had been a blur of work, school, and medical scribing at the hospital. You were barely keeping your head above water with the constant flow of readings and case prep. Tired didn’t even begin to cover it.

It was the week of Thanksgiving now. D.C. was that perfect autumn beauty—crisp air, golden and crimson leaves scattered along the sidewalks, the faint smell of pumpkin-spice everything in the air. Soon enough, snow would sweep in and take over, but for now, you could still enjoy the last of the fall foliage before the winter chill arrived.

Your father had just returned from a case in New York City, Manhattan specifically. It was another long one for him and his team, and you knew he'd need some time to unwind before diving back into the whirlwind that was his job. So when you heard the door open, you felt a sense of relief. In the back of your mind, you knew that with every case, there was a chance he wouldn’t come home. That scared you.

You heard his footsteps down the hall before you saw him, and when he entered the kitchen, you couldn’t help but smile. Despite the exhaustion in his eyes, his usual warmth was there.

“Hey, kid,” he greeted you, setting down his bag and dropping his jacket over the back of a chair.

“Hey, Dad,” you replied, putting down the stack of papers you were working on and giving him a quick hug.

Then, just as you were pulling back, he handed you something. A plain blue sweater.

You blinked, a little confused. "Uh... thanks?" You took the sweater from him, holding it up to inspect it. It was simple—a soft, thick-knit sweater, a shade of blue that reminded you of the fall sky. There was nothing special about it, really. And yet, the way he was looking at you made it clear he expected something more than a polite "thanks."

"It’s for you," he said, still watching you with that hopeful expression. "I thought you might like it.“

You couldn't help but grin at how awkward he sounded.

He winced at the reminder. “I was just... I was worried. You know how it is. I—I didn’t know how to react. And I was wrong.”

You sighed, shaking your head, remembering how things had escalated that night. The argument had been completely out of character for the two of you. It had come out of nowhere and caught you both off guard, but you hadn’t held onto it for long.

It was your dad. You’d never really fought with him before. He had always been your rock. And for him to be so visibly rattled? It had taken you both by surprise.

“You were a little... overprotective,” you admitted, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “But it’s fine. We’re good now. You don’t need to buy me a sweater to apologize.”

He grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know. But I wanted to do something.”

You looked at the sweater again, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. “It’s cute,” you said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Yeah? Maybe you could wear it next Halloween?” he joked, his voice cracking into something almost playful.

You laughed, shaking your head at his attempt at humor.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly uncertain whether you were kidding or not. “Too soon?” he asked, his lips quirking up in that small, rare smile you only got to see at home.

INT. GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY LIBRARY – THANKSGIVING MORNING

It’s early. The kind of quiet that settles into the bones of buildings this old. You tug your scarf tighter as you text your dad back — something about pie or no pie — while the library’s automatic doors open with a soft whoosh.

Your boots tap softly against the tile, your bag slung crossbody, your mind already halfway home.

And then—

Wham.

You bounce off something solid. Or rather—someone.

Your phone wobbles in your hand as you stumble back, caught instantly by a hand on your elbow. You blink. Adjust your crooked glasses.

Spencer.

He smells like old books and cinnamon gum. His hand is warm on your coat sleeve.

“Y/N,” he says, too casually. Like you didn’t spend the last three weeks replaying every moment of Halloween like a psycho.

Your heart’s racing. Your brain’s screaming. And still, you manage: “What are you doing here?”

He raises an eyebrow, a corner of his mouth twitching. “It’s a library. I like libraries.” He drops your arm like he didn’t just turn your bones to noodles.

You clear your throat, suddenly very aware of your blue sweater clinging to your coat and your bag cutting into your collarbone.

“Well, I was studying. Because I’m in an eternal state of finals.”

Reid tilts his head slightly. He’s looking at you like you’re an organism under a microscope. His gaze flicks to the side of your face, like he’s maybe noticing your lip gloss or the way your hair’s tucked behind one ear.

“Right,” he says finally. “Still keeping the top GPA. Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

You can feel heat crawl up your neck. “I mean, someone’s gotta carry the academic torch in this family.”

“Better you than your dad.”

You laugh, surprised. “Hey, don’t mock SSA Hotchner on Thanksgiving morning.”

You shift your weight. You’re smiling now, in spite of yourself.

“Plans?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek before the word’s even finished escaping. “For today?”

He shrugs, hands in the pockets of his coat. “Yeah. I’m headed to a friend’s.”

“Sounds wholesome,” you murmur. “I’m going to help decorate cookies. Apparently, it's a tradition now. I think it started because I had a breakdown over a sugar cookie when I was twelve.”

Reid chuckles.

“I’m thorough.”

“I’ve noticed.”

You freeze for a second, your heart skipping. Is he flirting? Was that flirting? Why is he looking at you like he knows things?

There’s a pause.

A silence filled with all the things you’re too afraid to say. Like Why did you disappear after Halloween? Why are you acting like nothing happened? Why do you have to look so good in cold-weather layers and make my brain short-circuit?

Instead, you nod. “Well. I should go.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily. Like it’s nothing. “Wouldn’t want to miss the cookie breakdown reenactment.”

You open your mouth, ready with a witty comeback—except nothing comes out. You flounder.

“I’ll see you around,” he adds smoothly, stepping aside.

That’s it? That’s all he’s gonna say?

You blink. “Seriously?” It slips out.

He turns back, arching a brow. “Sorry?”

You immediately panic. “No! Nothing. I’ll see you around too. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he echoes, lips twitching. He’s enjoying this.

You spin and make your exit, too fast, your boots clicking against the floor as you mutter under your breath:

“I hate conversations.”

Behind you, Spencer walks away, that small smirk tugging again at his lips.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

INT. HOTCHNER HOME – THANKSGIVING MORNING

Music played softly in the background—a strange but fitting mix of The Beatles, Haydn, and Norah Jones. The air smelled of roasted vegetables, butter, and sugar. The kitchen was warm, the lights golden. You were elbow-deep in cookie crumbs, swiping icing off the table with a damp cloth while your father rinsed mixing bowls in the sink.

It was comfortable. Familiar. Calm.

“Wait, Y/N,” your dad said as you set down two place settings on the kitchen table, “bring those and an extra set to the dining room.”

You turned, brows furrowing. “The dining room?”

He was already pulling out the good glasses—the ones that only came out for people who weren’t blood relatives.

“Oh,” you said slowly. “Is someone special coming over?”

Hotch shook his head, drying his hands. “No. I invited a colleague from work. Figured they’d be alone on Thanksgiving.”

You smiled a little. Of course he did. That was him—always thoughtful, always extending a hand where others might not bother.

“That’s really nice.”

The two of you slipped back into the rhythm—tidying up, sneaking cookies when you thought the other wasn’t looking. The hockey game played in the background, white noise over the clinking of plates and rustle of napkins.

“Are you eating the cookies?” your dad asked without turning around.

“No,” you said, far too quickly, a crumb falling form your mouth. “Are you?”

Before he could respond, the doorbell rang.

You followed him toward the front door, teasing back and forth until...

He opened it.

Your entire body locked.

Standing there, scarf looped neatly around his neck, bakery basket in hand, eyes warm and amused, was Spencer.

Your breath stuttered. Spencer.

Liar. The same Spencer who had said he’d be spending Thanksgiving at a “friend’s.”

Apparently, your dad was the friend.

“Spencer,” your father greeted easily, as if this was a completely normal interaction. “Glad you could come.”

You just stared.

Everything in your brain short-circuited.

Spencer gave that polite little smile, the one he wore like a second skin, and handed the basket over. “Thanks for having me, Hotch.”

Your dad grinned. “Aw, you didn’t have to. But thank you. One of us has been eating the cookies while I wasn’t looking.”

You blinked at him.

Then at Spencer.

Then back at your dad.

And nothing came out.

Hotch’s smile faltered slightly. “Y/N?”

Still nothing. You stood there like someone had unplugged your soul.

They were both looking at you now—Hotch with a slowly growing dad-concern expression, Spencer with the tiniest smirk that said, Oh, she’s panicking.

“Y/N?” your dad repeated, his tone light but clearly edging into do I need to check your temperature?

You snapped out of it so fast it was almost cartoonish. “What? Hi. Spencer. I—cookies. Right. Good. Yep.”

Spencer’s brow arched slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. He said nothing, but you knew that look. He was enjoying this.

You glared at him for exactly one second before remembering your dad was still standing there and tried to recover, fast. “Sorry. I just—uh. I was expecting Uncle Dave.”

Hotch gave a small laugh. “Well Uncle Dave’s visiting an old friend in Nantucket. Besides, Reid’s basically family.”

Your mouth opened to reply but no sound came out.

You regretted it instantly.

“Okay,” your father said slowly, clearly trying not to laugh. “Dinner’s ready.”

He turned back toward the kitchen.

You moved to follow, but Spencer stayed beside you just long enough to lean in slightly and murmur, too quietly for Hotch to hear: “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t look at him as you whispered back, “You said you were going to a friend’s.”

He grinned. “I am.”

You looked at him, shaking your head in disapproval. “I should’ve known.” You paused. “You don’t have any friends.”

“What- hey,” he exclaimed silently in fake anonyance.

And then he walked past you, like he hadn’t just flipped your whole sense of reality upside down.

You stood there in the entryway for a second longer, silently screaming into the void, feeling like an intruder in your own house.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dining room was too warm.

Or maybe it was just you.

Now? Spencer was sitting across from you with zero shame and a glint in his eye that said he remembered everything.

Hotch was plating turkey like nothing was wrong.

“Spencer,” he said, “dark or white meat?”

“Dark,” Spencer replied smoothly, folding his napkin across his lap. “Much more tender.”

Your fork paused mid-air.

You blinked at your plate, pretending the gravy was more interesting than the look Spencer gave you—a slow, steady glance like he was watching something unravel.

Hotch nodded, oblivious. “Yeah, dark’s richer.”

“Mmm,” Spencer murmured. “More rewarding when you take your time with it.”

Your fork hit the plate. Hard.

You quickly scooped up mashed potatoes like your life depended on starch.

Spencer tore a roll in half. Gently. Slowly. Too slowly.

“You know,” he added, “Y/N and I ran into each other at the library this morning.”

“Oh yeah?” Hotch asked. “Why didn’t you mention anything, Y/N?”

“We spoke very briefly,” you said quickly. “Not a very interesting conversation. Something about a new bill being passed.”

Spencer smirked. “Really? I thought it was pretty… stimulating.”

You coughed. Choked on nothing.

Hotch looked up. “You okay?”

“Totally,” you rasped. “Just breathing wrong.”

“She’s been doing that a lot lately,” Hotch said jokingly as he sliced into his turkey.

You glared at him.

“Oh,” Spencer started. “Shallow breaths. That kind of thing? Sounds like you’ve got some tension in your shoulders. You stressed about something?”

You didn’t blink. “Yeah, school.”

Hotch chuckled. “That’s just how she is. High-strung.”

Spencer hummed in agreement. “She definitely has pressure points.”

You kicked him under the table.

He didn’t react. Just calmly sipped from his wine.

“So Halloween,” your dad said casually. “Y/N got a little heated, huh?”

You froze. “Can we talk about something els-”

“She did,” Spencer cut in, voice silky.

Hotch chuckled again. “I just wanted her to be safe,” he said matter-of-factly, justifying the argument they had at his workplace.

“I made sure of that when I drove her,” Spencer said smoothly. “Personally.”

You clenched your jaw.

“I hope it didn’t make things too difficulty for you,” Hotch added as if you weren’t sitting near him.

“She was determined to do things her way.” Spence filled in, not seeing the way your entire face was burning.

Your foot slammed into his shin.

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

“She’s stubborn,” Hotch said, chewing happily. “You gotta give her space to let it out.”

Spencer glanced at you. “I guess she let it out. I mean, she’s here now, less angry, I suppose.”

You choked again. Your wine glass trembled.

Hotch raised a brow. “You alright?”

“Turkey’s dry,” you muttered.

“It’s literally drowning in gravy,” your dad replied.

Spencer smiled behind his glass. “Maybe she’s just still feeling a little bottled up.”

You kicked him again. Missed.

Your heel crashed into the table leg. Violent.

You flinched. The wine sloshed. Fork clanged.

Hotch looked at you like you’d just thrown a plate. “What the hell was that?”

“Cramp,” you wheezed. “I ran this morning before the library.”

Spencer leaned slightly forward. “Should’ve stretched first.”

You narrowed your eyes. Then—calmly—slid your foot forward. Found his calf.

Pressed.

He didn’t move. But his eyes flicked up, locked with yours. Dangerous. Delighted.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t smirking now.

“Anyway,” he said suddenly, shifting back to calm, “it was a good Halloween. Quiet.”

“Not quiet,” you snapped. “You talked the whole time.”

Hotch glanced up, puzzled. “I didn’t know you stayed a little, Reid. What exactly did you two do?”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “Personally, I wanted to make sure that she wasn’t going to sneak out. So we talked about her feelings.”

Your dad nodded like he was hearing a therapy summary and not the foreplay from your literal downfall.

“She’s always had a lot of feelings,” Hotch said. “Used to scream into pillows as a kid.”

“Well, it looks like she still does,” Spencer said, sipping his wine. “I guess that’s how you’re able to keep your emotions in check,” he said looking at you.

You leaned forward, finally done playing passive.

You kicked him again.

Successfully this time.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once dinner was over, your father stood, stacking his plate on top of yours.

“I hope you like dessert, Reid,” he said, already heading toward the kitchen. “I picked up a Boston Cream Pie earlier, and there might still be a few cookies if someone didn’t sneak all of them.”

Your father shot you a look, and you responded with your most innocent face.

The second he disappeared into the kitchen, Spencer leaned in just slightly, his voice a low murmur that curled down your spine.

“Oh,” he whispered, lips barely parted in a grin, “I really like dessert. Especially when it’s warm... messy... something you can really get your mouth around.”

Your head whipped toward him so fast your chair creaked.

Your eyes said it all: Did you seriously just say that?

He gave you the most subtle shrug. Innocent. Deadpan. Like he was the normal one and you were the one reading into it.

You nearly choked on your own spit.

From the kitchen, Hotch called out, “You want whipped cream or no?”

Spencer smiled without breaking eye contact. “I’m not picky.”

You dug your nails into the underside of the table.

Dinner was over, and the house had settled into that post-meal quiet—warm and still, the kind that only came when the dishes were half-washed and the candles had burned low. The kitchen light glowed softly down the hallway. Somewhere in the living room, the TV murmured on with a low sports commentary no one was really listening to. The scent of roasted thyme and something sweet still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint warmth of cinnamon from the cookies earlier.

You moved to your feet, your chair legs dragging lightly against the hardwood. The clink of plates echoed faintly as your dad stood, stretching, already headed toward the kitchen.

“Thanks again for having me over,” Spencer said politely, turning to Hotch.

Your father gave him a firm nod. “Anytime, Reid. You’re always welcome.”

Spencer’s voice was smooth, the picture of gratitude. But his posture, his pace—everything about him felt too casual. Like he was stalling. Like he knew he had one more play to make.

And you weren’t about to let him get the upper hand again.

You were already at the door, fingers grazing the knob, ready to show him out before your dad returned with dessert and things got

even weirder.

“Yup,” you said brightly, too brightly. “See you around, Spence.”

The hallway was warm from the oven’s earlier heat, lit only by the sconces and the faint yellow of the lamp by the stairs. Shadows danced softly on the floor as you opened the front door, letting in a gust of cold November air that immediately made your arms goosebump.

Still, Spencer didn’t move. His fingers reached for his coat on the hallway rack, brushing lightly past your own jacket. He shook it out slowly, then slid it on with unhurried precision. One button. Two.

You crossed your arms, shifting your weight against the hallway table. The hardwood creaked slightly beneath your heel.

“You’re in a hurry,” he said at last, not looking at you.

You stiffened. “Just a long day.”

He glanced sideways, eyes flicking to the small bag tucked behind the bench near the door. Barely visible. But not invisible enough.

“Your purse is in the corner,” he murmured. “You’re dressed in layers. Fresh lip gloss. Shoes by the door aren’t the ones you had on earlier.”

He looked at you properly now, and the air in the hallway changed. Tightened.

“You’re going somewhere,” he said.

You swallowed, jaw tight. “I don’t see how that’s your business.”

He tilted his head, amused. “I didn’t say it was. Just noticing.”

His voice was calm, but the look in his eyes was anything.

“Is someone picking you up?” he asked softly. “Or are you meeting them?”

You didn’t answer.

“A guy?” he continued, like he hadn’t just tossed a live wire onto the floor. “Someone I should be worried about?”

You huffed, rolling your eyes. “Oh my God, Spencer—”

But he cut in, voice low and deceptively kind. “I’m just curious who gets the honor of seeing you tonight.”

There was nothing sweet about the way he said it. You bristled, cheeks warming, but before you could speak, he leaned in just a breath closer, voice dropping like silk.

“Or more importantly,” he murmured, “who doesn’t.”

You blinked, stunned silent.

“I’m not judging,” he murmured. “It’s just interesting.”

Your gaze snapped back to him.

“What is?” you asked, irritated.

He tilted his head slightly. “Seeing you try on someone else’s rhythm. Pretending like you’re into it.”

Your stomach twisted. He moved toward the door, finally, letting the night air in fully as he stepped onto the porch. But before crossing the threshold, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.

“Oh, and Y/N?”

You didn’t say anything. Just stared.

“Be good tonight.”

And with that, the door shut behind him—leaving you in the warm house, surrounded by the scent of cookies, cinnamon, and roasted turkey...

Still burning.

Still breathless.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I’d only ever been to the West Coast once – Napa, when I was eleven. It was a couple days surrounded by vineyards and hotel buffets in my grandfather’s attempt to fix the whole “entire family dead” thing. Although I appreciated the gesture, it didn’t fix the gaping hole I’d continute to feel every day for the rest of my life.

So when the jet landed in L.A., the sun piereced at my skin. It wasn’t like back home. This heat. It was dry and weirdly aggressive, like it wanted to fight me. Dry, insistent, and unnervingly bright. The air was bone-dry, not a drop of humidity. Just sun, concrete, and the faint, ever-present smell of exhaust.

The ride to the safehouse was loud, filled with awkward silence and sideway glances. Derek tapped the steering wheel, humming along to the radio like a father on a road trip. Spence sat beside me, fingers twitching like they were searching for a thought he couldn’t quite reach.

When we arrived, I opened the door and stepped out into the suffocating heat. The safehouse - a modest place - LA beige and privacy hedges. It was a quiet house tucked into the back of the hills, like it wanted to be found but was far too coy.

Thankfully, the evening’s breeze broke the choking heat. I was halfway to blaming the L.A. aesthetic for making edgy. I heard it from where I stood: a rustling near the hedge.

I padded toward the sound, careful and a hand on my weapon.

“Got movement in the bushes,” I murmed to Derek.

“Could be a possum,” he offered. “Or paparazzi. Same vibe.”

When I got close enough, I saw him—middle-aged, crouched low in the foliage with a camera like he was David Attenborough studying the mating rituals of the endangered FBI agent.

Flash.

I saw it - a metallic glint of glass.

A camera.

“FBI! Hands where I can see them!”

He stumbled upright, camera dangling. “You can’t arrest me! I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Not yet,” Derek said coolly. “But you're really asking for it with those dad sneakers and telephoto lens.”

He moved in, voice firm and authoritative, but it all faded into white noise because just past the hedge, something – someone – caught my eye and reignited the burning sensation in my chest.

Lila.

Lila, all glossy lips and gleaming teeth, pulling Spence closer by his tie like they were on the cover of a YA romance novel.  Her fingers tugged him closer with a smug little smirk. She giggled like she hadn’t been two feet from a possible crime scene. Spencer on the other hand, let her. Smiling like he was in some toothpaste commercial.

“Oh, c’mon Spencer,” she purred, leaning in again. Lips brushing his, slow and intimate like she wasn’t the target of an active crime.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Nope. Still happening. Heat crawled up my throat, bitter.

What the actual hell? We’re working. Not auditioning for The Bachelor: Quantico Edition.

Gideon swooped in from inside the safehouse, cuffed the photographer, and nodded at Derek and me. like he’d done it a thousand times. “Trespassing at the very least,” he muttered. “I’ll take this one back to Hotch. Stay here just in case more rats come sniffing around.”

“Yup,” I said, teeth clenched like I was one comment away from a full public breakdown.

Derek gave me a look. “You good?”

“I’m fantastic,” I deadpanned. “Why wouldn’t I be? Sun’s out, we’re being stalked, and my best friend is auditioning for a Nicholas Sparks reboot.”

He raised an eyebrow, bent down, and picked up the camera. He scrolled through the photos, then whistled. Loud.

“Ohhh, okay. Damn. This is juicy,” he said with a grin.

“Derek—”

He turned the camera so I could see it, zoomed-in shots of Reid and Lila. Her lips just a breath away from his. They were the kind of photos you see in magazines with the red circles around their body language.

I scoffed, reaching for the camera, but Derek yanked it back in laughted. “Hold up – this one’s the money shot,” he said pointing. “Look at your boy getting all sultry in the sunset.”

He stopped to look at my face which twisted in disgust, out of jealousy or pure confusion, I didn’t know.

“Hey, you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw this camera – or throw up.”

“I swear to God, Derek—”

“Oh wait, this one.” He continued. “Look at his hand placement. That’s not accidental. That’s ‘I’ve read fanfiction about myself’ placement.”

“Just give me the damn thing,” I snapped, grabbing the camera.

I snatched the camera from his hand and walked straight over to Reid. He looked up at me as if he got caught doing something wrong.

“Here,” I said, chucking the camera into his chest hard enough to knock the wind out of his dignity.

“You’re welcome.”

He caught it awkwardly, brows knitting as he clicked through the photos. Reid’s expression shifted the moment he saw the photos. Lila slipped inside, victorious, her red lipstick still barely visible on his jaw like the world’s most passive-aggressive post-it note.

Reid started to say something. “Y/N—”

“Nope,” I said, walking away.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The car ride back felt like a funeral. I drove. Reid was in the passenger seat, sitting so stiffly you’d think he’d forgotten how a spine works.

Elle sat behind us, quietly observing the world’s slowest emotional implosion.

“You kids are awfully quiet tonight,” she said finally, trying her best to play neutral Switzerland.

“I just don’t have anything to say,” I said, eyes on the road. “Only intelligent things come out of my mouth.”

Elle chuckled. “We’re in for a real TED Talk then.”

Reid shifted beside me. “Go on, Y/N? I’m sure you’ve got plenty of intelligent things to say about tonight,” he said, not even bothering to hide the challenge in his voice.

Elle gave him a warning look in the rearview mirror.

“Oh, I do,” I said sweetly. “Like how maybe we shouldn’t get handsy during active investigations. Wild idea.”

He scoffed. “So now you’re an expert on what I do with my hands?”

Elle made a strangled sound, clearly regretting everything.

“Alright, that’s enough,” she interrupted quickly. “Let’s all play the quiet game before I file for emotional hazard pay.”

Silence settled again. But my heart? It was loud.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Back at the hotel, I entered my room in silence. I picked up my textbook, the one I pretended to be reading when I didn’t want to admit I was spiraling – I opened it to a random page. The words swam.

At 11 p.m., a knock disrupted my “light reading.” I peered through the peephole and saw Spencer.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

I hesitated before opening it wider.

He stepped inside, perching himself on the window sill. His hair was still damp and combed back - he’d showered. Of course. Afterall, you can’t come apologize for breaking your best friend’s heart without smelling like lavender shampoo, right?

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes. Are you?”

He nodded slowly.

I leaned back into the desk chair, giving him a polite tight-lipped smile.

“So… what can I help you with, Reid?”

His jaw twitched. “Stop calling me that.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Everyone calls you Reid.”

“You know what I mean.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Look,” I said, flipping a page, “you’re my best friend, but I’m really busy right now, and I’m starting to regret letting you in.”

He folded his arms.

“Can we talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

He blinked slowly. “Right, nothing to talk about. You just threw a ten-pound paparazzi camera at my chest in the middle of a case. Not a bid deal at all.”

I stared at him, deadpan. My brain was tired.

“If this is about Lila, then I–”  he began.

“Absolutely not,” I cut in. “You can kiss whoever you want, Reid. Just don’t do it while we’re working a case, alright?”

He sat forward, voice lower. “Y/n, please. Can we talk about this? I don’t want my best friend mad at me.”

“I told you, I’m not mad.” A lie. “It’s not a big deal. You’re making it a big deal.” Hmm… Probably also a lie.

I stood up and placed my hand on the doorknob like punctuation. “Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We got back to Quantico a couple days later.

The usual morning buzz of frantic typing and caffeinated agents filled the bullpen. I sat at my desk, flipping through files. I could feel Spencer’s eyes on me from across the room. The heat of his gaze followed me with every file, every sip of my coffee, and every twitch of my pen.

I got up, shaking off his eyes.

It didn’t.

He followed me.

“Y/N, are you still ignoring me?”

I didn’t respond. My silence was louder than any insult.

That’s when Derek appeared, sliding into the scene like he’d been waiting his entire life for this role.

“Pretty boy, what did you do this time?” he grinned. He walked ahead of us. “Oops,” he said, mock-apologetically. “Think I upset our little bundle of sunshine over here.”

I shot him a look. He raised both hands and backed into the kitchen.

Spencer tried to grab my shoulder but I shurgged him off and veered toward Penelope’s office.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That afternoon, I felt his eyes on me again before I even made it back to my desk. Elle looked at me and shurgged. Derek snickered like a teenager with popcorn.

JJ passed by, her voice far too inocent. “Someone left you a little gift.”

I glanced at my desk.

A pristine copy of Little Women, the exact edition I’d been scouring the internet for. Vintage hardcover. Red and green embossed cover.

A yellow stick note sat on top: Sorry. - Spence.

I glanced up. Spencer watched me with the saddest, softest eyes: A puppy dog with a PhD.

Derek looked between us like he was watching a prime time drama.

Elle tried not to smirk.

JJ vanished to avoid the friendly line of fire.

I slid the book to the side, returning to my work.

Spencer rolled his eyes.

Later that evening, most of the team filtered out. Gideon offered a gruff  “Goodnight” before disappearing away into the elevator.

I looked up. Spencer was still at his desk.

He rolled his chair closer.

“Y/N,” he said gently. “I’m sorry.”

“Reid, do you even know what you’re sorry for?”

He took a deep breath. “I believe,” he began, “that you’re mad because I kissed Lila. Which I don’t entirely understand, because we’re just friends. You shouldn’t be mad.”

A trapdoor opened under my ribcage.

“You’re right, Spence but I’m not mad.”

He tilted his head, confused. “You’re acting like you are.”

“I’m acting like someone who doesn’t care,” I snapped. “So maybe stop analyzing me like some weird emotional puzle. Go back to making out with people who don’t ask inconvenient questions.”

He looked at me, stunned. “Y/N–”

“No,” I said, grabbing my bag. “It’s fine. We’re friends.”

I stormed out before he could respond. Before I could say something real.

We’re all hiding something, but the truth always comes out one way or another.

The visitation room was dark, its air thick with moisture, yet strangely dry, as though the atmosphere itself was suffocating under an unseen weight. Emily pushed open the door with a sharp creak, Fiona stepping in behind her. The room was cramped, heavy with silence. Spencer Reid sat at the far end of the table, a broken man, his posture hunched, as if the walls themselves were pressing in on him.

When his eyes flickered up to meet Emily’s, something stirred—recognition. She was a familiar face, the one he could trust to pull him out of this nightmare. For the first time in days, his expression shifted, just slightly.

Emily wasted no time. She stepped forward, her voice direct and cutting through the tension. “The blood and prints on the weapon are yours.”

The words hit him like a punch. Spencer’s body stiffened, but he didn’t flinch. He sat frozen, not moving, not speaking, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard.

Fiona broke the silence with a soft exhale, her voice clinical. “That means the two-to-five-year deal you didn’t want earlier? Gone. The new offer’s five to ten years.”

Spencer’s face contorted, frustration and panic clawing at him. Fiona paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. “And it’s an exploding offer. You have until the arraignment to take it. If you don’t, there’s nothing left. You’ll go to trial.”

The air in the room grew heavier, more oppressive. Emily watched him closely, his lips tight, his fingers twitching.

They’d been through the same conversation countless times before, but this felt different. It was getting to him.

She could see it.

Fiona asked about the cut on his hand, her voice soft, as though trying to coax a memory from him. “Spencer, do you remember how you got this cut?”

Spencer’s eyes dropped to the injury, his hand flexing, fingers tight. His jaw clenched, his frustration clear. “I don’t remember,” he muttered, voice thin, as if the words were a struggle.

Emily exhaled slowly, fighting the frustration bubbling inside her. Impossible. Spencer Reid never forgot a single thing. But there was no point in pressing him further on the cut. Not yet. She switched gears, her voice lowering, softer now, but still sharp. “Do you think they’ll convict you?”

Spencer didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped, his eyes dull, tired. The question seemed to wear him down further. Finally, he shook his head, his voice raw. “I don’t know.”

Emily leaned forward slightly, her tone steady. “If they do… five years is doable. You’re young. You can still have a life after that.”

Spencer’s eyes flickered up to hers, defiant. “Not as an FBI agent.”

The words hung in the air, thick and final. Emily didn’t respond, letting him sit with it. But after a moment,

Spencer’s voice broke the silence again.

“Can I have a moment alone with Emily?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost pleading.

Fiona hesitated, then nodded. She stepped out, leaving them alone in the dim room. Emily sat across from Spencer, but the distance between them had grown in ways she hadn’t anticipated. This wasn’t the same Spencer Reid who had once feared not being enough, not being able to fix things. Now, the man before her was someone else—someone who wasn’t sure if he’d ever get the chance to live again.

Emily didn’t wait long. She could feel the tension radiating off him. “What aren’t you telling me, Spence?”

His eyes flickered away, refusing to meet hers. He stood abruptly, pacing the small space between them. His movements were erratic, like he couldn’t sit still, like the room was closing in on him.

“I’ve told you everything I remember,” he said, his voice tight, defensive.

Emily wasn’t buying it. “You’re lying.”

Spencer’s face darkened, and he turned toward her, his voice suddenly harsher. “Emily—don’t.”

But she didn’t back down. She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Did you do it, Reid?”

The question was blunt, aimed straight for the heart of it all. Spencer froze, a visible shudder running through him.

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. His eyes closed, his jaw tight, as if he were trying to block her out.

“Stop,” he whispered, almost inaudible, but the plea in his voice was unmistakable.

Emily didn’t relent. “Is that why you have that cut on your hand?” she pressed, her voice quieter now, like she was peeling away the layers. “Tell me, Spencer. Is that why?”

“I said stop,” he repeated, louder now, almost pleading.

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable. Emily could see the cracks starting to form, the walls he had built around himself beginning to crumble. She took a breath, then pushed once more.

“So what is it, Spencer?” Her voice was soft, coaxing now, like she knew he was close to breaking. “What are you hiding?”

His shoulders sagged, defeated. He slowly sank back into his chair, his gaze dropping to the table. He didn’t look at her when he spoke next, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m married.”

The words were simple, but they hit her like a blow. She sat there for a moment, processing what he’d just said, unsure if she’d heard him correctly.

“To who?” she asked, her voice laced with confusion. She tilted her head, her brow furrowing.

Spencer’s eyes flicked to hers for the first time since he’d confessed, a fleeting moment of vulnerability crossing his face. “You can’t tell anyone,” he warned, his voice tense. “This job… it demands everything from us. Every day. It’s the only thing I have left for myself.”

Emily’s stomach twisted. A wife? It didn’t fit. But she nodded slowly, trying to make sense of it. “Then I need to know who. Because whoever is framing you for this is targeting everything in your life. Your mother. Your wife. You. Who am I looking for?”

He shook his head slightly, his expression darkening. “You don’t need to look for anyone,” he said, his voice strained. “You don’t have to.”

“But who is it, Spencer?” Emily pressed, desperate for answers. “What do you mean?”

He looked up at her then, his eyes filled with uncertainty, like he was questioning whether he had made a mistake in telling her anything at all. “Y/N,” he said, the name barely audible but still sharp with finality.

A cold shock ran through Emily. She’d spoken to you this morning. A casual conversation that no profiler would ever make the connection to, but now, it made perfect sense.

“I’ll go to London and try to pull some strings with my buddies from Interpol,” you had told her, the words unassuming, wrapped in the kind of confidence that made it sound like a simple favor.

"Thanks, Y/N," Emily had said. "This will definitely help."

But now, it all clicked. And Spencer, looking at her with wide eyes, seemed almost desperate.

“She’s going to try to go off-grid,” he said, his voice frantic. “She’s gonna try to go to Mexico.”

Spencer’s gaze hardened, his voice dropping to a whisper. “This whole thing… our entire relationship... it was a secret. A pact. We’d live in our own world, no one else allowed in.”

Emily leaned forward, her voice firm, but understanding. “How long?”

He didn’t answer. The weight of the question resting on his shoulders. The last years pressing on his chest. The weight of his confession hung between them, the truth finally out in the open. But the question now was what came next—and whether they could protect the people who meant the most to him.

INT. Courthouse

The courthouse felt suffocating, the heavy air laden with the weight of unspoken words and the clinking sound of legal papers. The room hummed with a kind of oppressive stillness, as if even the walls were holding their breath. The judge sat elevated behind the bench, a quiet sentinel, his gavel an unspoken reminder of what was to come. The courtroom was packed with familiar faces—Garcia, Luke, Emily, Rossi, JJ, Tara, Stephen. And you.

You sat in the back, feeling the sting of every moment as it passed. Spencer’s fate hung in the balance, but so did yours. He wasn’t alone in this anymore. It wasn’t just his future at stake—it was all of yours.

The proceedings began with the sharp authority of the judge’s voice. “U.S. versus Reid.” His words were clipped, precise, as if every syllable carried the weight of everything that had led up to this moment. Fiona stood beside Spencer, defending him with a steady professionalism, her voice a calm but measured counterpoint to the storm of accusations surrounding them. The words from the opposing counsel came fast, each one a blow, their rhythm more like a drumbeat of inevitability.

“And how do you plead, Agent Reid?” the judge asked, his gaze unwavering.

Spencer’s response was swift, and you could hear the edge in his voice. It was the only thing that remained under his control.

“Not guilty.”

The words landed, final and unyielding. A collective exhale passed between you and the others seated behind him. JJ whispered to you, the relief almost audible in her voice. “Thank god.” You wanted to feel that relief too, but the storm of uncertainty refused to let you.

The prosecutor wasted no time, his voice rising in volume, each word an indictment that seemed to echo off the stone walls. Then came the sentence that sent a shockwave through the room.

“The people oppose bail.”

Rossi’s face tightened as though he’d been struck. His eyes never left the prosecutor, but you could see the strain, the momentary flicker of helplessness. No bail. Not even a chance to buy his way out. The finality of it punched you in the stomach, and you could feel Spencer’s shoulders tighten beneath the weight of the news. His face, usually so controlled, betrayed a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place—frustration, confusion, or maybe resignation.

The courtroom swirled around you, the legal arguments falling into a dull hum in your ears. The motions, the objections, the counterpoints—they were all just background noise. What mattered was Spencer, standing there in front of them all, a man caught in a world that didn’t seem to make sense anymore.

You tried to stay anchored, to focus, but your mind wandered, unbidden, to a time before this, before the legal nightmare had descended on them all.

Words flew out of the prosecutor’s mouth, provoking memories: Unsanctioned Travel. Personal Passport. Character Witness.

Unsanctioned Travel.

The memory came unbidden—one of those small moments that felt almost trivial in hindsight, yet now it seemed as though it held some kind of prophecy.

Spencer had been leaving. Just a quick trip down to Houston for a couple of days. The idea seemed so normal, so unremarkable, the kind of thing you’d never give a second thought to if it weren’t for how everything had spiraled since.

“I’ll be down in Houston for a couple of days,” Spencer had said, his voice soft over the phone.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” you had teased, the words light, filled with that familiar rhythm of your easy conversations.

He had chuckled, a sound that always seemed to ease the tension in your chest. “I hope so.”

Personal Passport

It had been almost a month since Gideon left the BAU. The team was still reeling, each member wrapped in their own quiet kind of grief — Hotch’s stoic silence felt colder, Morgan’s usual banter had dulled, and JJ tried hard to keep the warmth alive but it was a thin flame. At the office, the light felt dimmer, the air heavier, like a storm cloud hanging low overhead.

But here — in this small townhouse nestled quietly in D.C., only blocks from Spencer’s old apartment — it was different.

You and Spencer had just moved in, boxes half-unpacked, the faint scent of fresh paint mingling with the soft hum of the heater. It was your first night here, just the two of you, still 26 and a little awkward—not out of discomfort, but in the way new beginnings always carry a quiet, tentative hope.

The walls echoed faintly with the sounds of settling—creaks and sighs of a house becoming home.

It was the easiest decision either of you had ever made. A choice that felt inevitable, though the path to it had been anything but simple. Six years of stolen glances, late-night conversations, and half-whispered dreams had brought you here.

The moment it was decided still made you smile: a random night during a case in Boston. You were both wound tight from the day, hiding out in your hotel room, sharing a pack of pretzels and playing an aggressive game of Go Fish.

Spencer had been quiet for a while, thumb idly rubbing the corner of a playing card, before he looked up at you and said — like he was asking what you wanted for lunch — “We should move in together.”

You hadn’t even looked up from your hand at first. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious,” he said, totally unfazed. “It makes sense. I mean, between our schedules, the overlapping time spent at each other’s places, the financial practicality alone is—well, actually, if I had my laptop, I could show you a table—”

You had stared at him, somewhere between confused and endeared. “Spence.”

He’d paused. Blinked.

Then softened.

“I want to come home to you,” he said. “I don’t mean just at the end of the day. I mean… you are home. You’ve been home. For a while. I’ve just been waiting for the right moment to say it.”

You’d stayed quiet. Not because you were unsure — you weren’t. But because sometimes the most real things are also the most terrifying.

He must’ve seen it in your face. He always did.

“I don’t just want to split bills and share closet space,” he’d added, a little awkward, his voice starting to do that fast-paced, low-register thing he did when he got nervous. “I want to live a life with you. Grocery lists and library runs and fighting over who left the towel on the floor — although statistically it will probably be me. I want this to be permanent. Not just convenient. Not just... efficient.”

He’d cleared his throat. “Although I do think it’ll be extremely efficient.”

You’d laughed then — because of course he couldn’t not say that — and that laugh cracked something open.

You nodded, slow but sure, and said, “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do it.”

And now… here you were.

Your knees brushed his hip as you shifted back to the present, glancing down at him. He had your mail spread out across the floor like he was about to profile it.

“You’re alphabetizing the junk coupons again, aren’t you?” you said.

Spencer looked up with a deadpan face. “You say that like it’s not a valuable system.”

“You’re an unstoppable force.”

He smiled without lifting his head, the corner of his mouth curling as he reached out to adjust a stack of paperwork — his hand brushing yours as he did.

Now here you both were.

The living room was dim, lit only by a crooked lamp casting lazy shadows across the pale walls. You sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by unopened boxes, your back resting against a cool, unyielding wall. Spencer lounged beside you on a threadbare throw rug, his hoodie sleeves rolled up to reveal lean forearms, his bare feet flexing against the smooth wood floor. Every now and then, his knee brushed yours — light, accidental touches that felt like the whole universe shrinking into that one small, warm space between you.

Amid the quiet, your fingers brushed against something familiar — his passport, buried under a pile of documents marked IMPORTANT. You pulled it out with a grin, holding it up like a secret treasure.

“Oh no,” you said softly.

Spencer’s head popped up, eyes already crinkling with amusement. “Please don’t.”

You flipped it open and laughed quietly, the sound light and almost childlike in the stillness.

There he was: younger, hair flatter, eyes wide and a little too serious, as if he’d just been asked to solve a math problem on the spot.

“Spence,” you teased, voice playful, “you look like you just argued with airport security about the existential meaning of carry-on liquids… and lost.”

His cheeks warmed to a soft rose, and he shifted closer, the faint heat of his body pressing against your calf.

“I’m supposed to be offended, right?” he asked shyly.

You smirked and nudged his knee with yours. “You’re ridiculous. But hey—”

He cut you off with a mock groan. “You’re making fun of me, but you’re the one who’s about to marry that guy.” He pointed at his own passport photo with a grin.

You laughed, shaking your head, feeling the tension dissolve between you.

Then, suddenly, Spencer sat up straighter, eyes brightening with mischief. He reached over and snatched your passport from the pile like a prize.

“Your turn,” he said.

You reached for it, cheeks flushing, but he pulled it just out of reach with a sly smile.

“Hey! Give it back!” you protested, fingers twitching to grab it.

“Not until I finish,” he teased, eyes gleaming.

He studied your photo, then raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’ve already memorized every airport security rule twice over and are silently judging anyone who forgets to take off their belt.”

You swatted his arm playfully, laughing. “Okay, okay, you win. Now give it back.”

He handed it over—but then, with perfect timing, added in a low, teasing voice, “You know… we’re not married yet, so technically, I can still change my mind.”

You froze for a moment, then threw your head back, laughing. The silly tension between you was a balm for everything outside these walls.

“Oh, is that a threat or a promise, Reid?”

“Depends,” he said, eyes twinkling, “can you handle a lifetime of math lectures and bad puns?”

“I think I’m ready to negotiate,” you smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder.

His arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer, the soft heat of his body a steady anchor in the quiet room.

Boxes remained unopened around you, a half-packed life waiting to be sorted, but right now, in this little haven, the world outside—the grief, the missing Gideon, the weight of the BAU—felt a little farther away.

“So,” you whispered, the glow from the lamp wrapping around you like a soft blanket, “ready to find Gideon in Harlem and finally get this thing started?”

Spencer’s smile softened, but there was a spark of his usual wit behind it. “I’m bracing myself. Gideon will probably demand we recite Nietzsche and lecture us on the absurdity of marriage.”

You chuckled, nudging him gently. “Well, we’re young. Innocent. What’s the worst that could happen?”

He bumped your knee lightly, eyes warm. “Besides getting grilled by our former boss about how we’re handling life beyond the BAU? Nothing at all.”

You both laughed softly, wrapped in the quiet comfort of the moment.

And for the first time in weeks, with Gideon gone and the team still picking up the pieces, you were reminded that this was your life too — messy, uncertain, but yours.

Together.

Character Witness

Another memory hit, one that was sharper, more vivid. The day you both found Gideon again.

The search for Gideon had become a quiet obsession for Spencer. It had been months since he’d left the BAU, and the letter he’d left behind, the one that had claimed he needed to disappear, had left a gaping hole in Spencer's chest. No one knew where he had gone, no one knew why he'd left so abruptly. But Spencer refused to believe Gideon was truly gone from their lives. The man who had once been like a mentor, a father figure, couldn’t just vanish without a trace. Spencer didn’t believe in that kind of disappearance.

You had helped, of course. You had sifted through every scrap of information with him—looking through his old files, the notes Gideon had left behind, things Spencer had never shown anyone else. Together, you’d pulled at the threads of his past, but it wasn’t until Spencer started putting the puzzle pieces together, slowly, methodically, that something clicked.

“I think I know where he is,” Spencer said one evening, his voice low, eyes distant. He wasn’t just theorizing, he wasn’t just throwing out possibilities. This was different. This was a gut feeling, one that told you Spencer was right. He had always been able to see patterns no one else could, and now it was happening again.

You glanced over at him, sitting beside him at the table, papers scattered around you both. The dim light from the lamp above cast shadows across his face, making him look even more worn than he had the past few weeks. He had been burning the candle at both ends, and it was beginning to show. His eyes were tired.

“Where, Spence?” you asked softly, leaning toward him.

“New York,” he said, almost like he was trying the words on for size. “Gideon wouldn’t want to be found, not easily. Not after everything. But New York—it’s big enough to lose yourself, to disappear. And it’s not just anywhere in the city. He’s in Harlem. He’s trying to blend in.”

You stared at him for a long moment. New York? It didn’t make sense. Gideon—someone who thrived on solitude, on quiet—in New York? But the more you thought about it, the more you realized how much it made sense. Gideon had never been one for attention, for being known. He could hide among a million strangers, anonymous in a sea of faces.

And just like that, you knew you had to go. You’d never question Spencer’s instincts—he had that rare ability to sense the things no one else could. He’d already made up his mind. The plan was set.

You didn’t speak much as you made the long journey to the city. The anticipation was thick in the air, heavy as the falling snow that began to drift down from the sky as soon as you arrived. October 6th, and New York was already wearing its winter cloak. The rare early snow was a sight to see, soft and delicate against the harshness of the city’s skyline. Snowflakes swirled in the air like a dream, landing on the shoulders of passing strangers, slipping between the gaps of towering buildings.

The snow was still falling in soft, swirling flurries, a surreal layer of white settling over the city’s chaos. New York, a city known for its bustling, never-sleeping nature, seemed to slow beneath the quiet blanket of October snow. The air was crisp, biting, but the chill didn’t quite reach you as you stood with Spencer on the narrow sidewalk, both of you staring up at the door in front of you.

It was old, weathered, tucked into a forgotten corner of a building that seemed like it had been waiting for someone to knock for years. You had been searching for this door for days, driven by the quiet hope that Gideon—your mentor, your guide, and a man who had always seen beyond the surface—would answer it. You had found him. But now that you stood here, the reality of what this moment meant hit you hard. The hesitation settled between you both like the snow at your feet, so thick that it clouded the certainty you once had.

“I’m not sure about this, Spence,” you said quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. You shifted from foot to foot, the cold creeping up your legs as if it could match the growing discomfort in your chest. “What if he doesn’t want to do this? What if he’s not—what if he’s moved on?”

Spencer glanced at you, his eyes soft but full of that quiet resolve that he always carried. “We’ve been through this. He’s not going to shut us out. We’re not the ones who left him, Y/N.” He reached over, his hand brushing yours, grounding you. “He’s just… hard to find, that’s all. But we did find him.”

You sighed, frustration mixing with the nerves that bubbled under your skin. “I just don’t want to make it awkward. We’re asking him for something big. What if he doesn't want to—”

“Y/N…” Spencer’s voice cut through your worries like a calm breath on a stormy night. He stepped closer, his hand now resting gently on your arm. “I know. I get it. But he’s not going to say no. And... we need him to help us with this. We trust him more than anyone else in the world. And we need this wedding to be ours. Just ours.”

You glanced at him, searching his face, the warmth in his eyes as familiar as the shape of your own hands. There was a quiet determination there, but also a hint of the same uncertainty you felt. He was just as hesitant as you were, but it didn’t stop him from pushing forward. It never did.

“I know,” you whispered, swallowing hard. “It’s just… we’re so young, Spence. I don’t want to lose you, ever. What if we’re rushing into something we can’t undo? ”

Spencer’s lips pressed together in that familiar thoughtful way. “I think it’s too late for that. We’ve been building this… us… for years. And now we’re at a place where I’m ready to make it real. And that’s not something I take lightly. And neither should you.” He paused, taking a breath. “We’ve been through so much together already, Y/N. You’re not just my partner, you’re my home. And I don’t think you or I have ever really noticed it, but we’ve built everything we’ve wanted together. We’ve built this life.”

You felt your chest tighten. You could feel it—the weight of what you had with him, how every memory, every moment, had become woven into the tapestry of your shared existence. From the first day you met, from the awkward late-night talks after work, to the quiet dinners, to the way Spencer always knew what you needed even before you did. You had created a world together. It was subtle, yet noticeable and loud.

“But this… this marriage, Spence,” you said, a little exasperated, a little amused. “We’re asking Gideon to help us keep it secret. Do you even realize that?”

Spencer gave a soft, slightly rueful smile. “I think we’re asking him to give us his wisdom. And yeah, it’s to keep our marriage records sealed. But it’s not because we’re hiding. It’s because we want something we can protect. Something that’s ours.” He nodded toward the door, then at you. “We’ve always kept each other safe. This is no different.”

You looked at him, then at the door, your fingers nervously twisting in front of you. “You’re right,” you said, your voice growing quieter as you let go of the fear, just a little. “It’s not like we can’t come back another time.”

Spencer let out a short breath, his voice lowering to almost a whisper. “I don’t think we will. Not with Gideon. This… this moment, Y/N. It’s a chapter we’ll never get to open again. We need to make it count. We need his wisdom. He’s the one person who’s always told us to keep things like this close to our hearts, to protect it with everything we have.” Spencer’s eyes softened, but his voice remained steady. “He’s been a part of this, whether he knows it or not.”

The air around you felt a little less heavy, the tension in your chest easing as you took in his words. Spencer wasn’t just talking about the wedding. He was talking about you—about both of you. About how you had, without knowing it, woven your lives into something far greater than what anyone could see on the surface.

A light dusting of snow settled on Spencer’s dark hair, making him look younger than he already was. You couldn’t help but smile. “You’re right.” You reached for his hand, your fingers lacing together naturally, the fit so perfect that it felt like you were made to hold on to each other.

Spencer’s gaze softened. “We’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?”

You nodded, the hesitation finally melting away as you stepped closer to the door. The moment stretched between you, an unspoken agreement passing between the two of you.

“Alright,” you said, feeling the knot in your stomach loosen for the first time. “But you knock.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “I knock?”

“Yeah,” you said with a half-smile, “because you found him. You found the door. You found us.” You placed your hand on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart under your fingertips. “This is your thing.”

Spencer laughed, the sound light and genuine, but he didn’t hesitate. “Fine. I’ll knock. But we’re both doing this together.”

With that, his hand reached for the doorknob. There was no more hesitation now, no more second-guessing. This was it. You were doing this together. Not just as partners in the field, not just as colleagues who had seen too much darkness to count, but as two people who had quietly built a life that was now ready to be sealed with a promise.

Spencer knocked. And as the sound echoed softly against the door, you knew that whatever came next, you would always have each other.

The door opened slowly. A tired-looking man stood before you. For a second, you weren’t sure if you had the right place, but when his eyes locked onto Spencer’s, something shifted.

“You two lost?” The voice was rough but somehow familiar, even if it had changed a little since the last time you’d heard it.

“Gideon?” Spencer asked, the question barely a whisper, but it carried everything—relief, disbelief, fear. It was the sound of someone who had been lost.

The door creaked open, and there he was.

“What are you kids doing here?” Gideon snarked, his voice carrying that familiar dry humor that made you feel like you were in trouble even though you knew better. For a second, you thought you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t have—like you were back in school, caught sneaking out past curfew, although neither you or Spencer would have ever done that.

“Come in,” he said, stepping aside and motioning for you both to enter.

The warmth inside hit you like a soft, gentle wave—so different from the bitter cold outside, where the snow had begun to blanket the streets. But inside, it was cozy. The smell of coffee, thick and comforting, filled the space, a scent that seemed to settle into your bones.

“Coffee?” Gideon asked, but it wasn’t really directed at you. You hadn’t been much of a coffee drinker, not in the way Spencer was.

Spencer shook his head.

Gideon’s brows lifted in disbelief. “Well, I’ll be damned. Spencer doesn’t want coffee.”

You stifled a laugh at his surprise.

Gideon gestured for you both to sit. The kitchen was small, but the kind of small that felt lived-in. Familiar. There were old chairs that looked like they’d been there for years, mismatched but comfortable, like this was a space for people who didn’t need to impress anyone—just to be themselves.

As you settled in, Spencer seemed almost hesitant. His usual confidence was tempered with something quieter, more vulnerable. And Gideon, in his quiet, observant way, caught it almost immediately.

He leaned against the sink, studying you both. His eyes flickered back and forth between you and Spencer, taking in the way Spencer’s hand rested on the table, close enough for your fingers to brush, but not quite touching. His gaze softened when he noticed the way you both looked at each other—like there was more between you than just this moment. Like there had always been more.

Spencer shifted, his gaze darting to you, then back to Gideon. You elbowed him lightly, a gentle nudge to coax him into speaking. But instead, Spencer hesitated again, his words stuck somewhere between his throat and the air.

Gideon’s lips curled into a half-smile, the kind he rarely allowed himself, but you could see it in his eyes—recognition.

“You’re getting married” he said, his voice carrying that quiet certainty of someone who’d seen it all before, someone who knew things before the rest of the world could catch on. He didn’t phrase it as a question. It wasn’t a guess—it was more like he was seeing something you hadn’t even fully acknowledged in yourselves.

Spencer’s eyes softened. The moment you locked eyes, you saw it—this was real. You were getting married. And Gideon had known it before you’d even walked in the door.

“Yeah,” Spencer said, his voice quiet but filled with an overwhelming joy that made you smile. “We are.”

Gideon’s lips twitched again. “Congratulations, you two,” he said, his words warm, but there was a distance in his tone that you understood—something between him and the rest of the world that wasn’t so easy to bridge.

There was a pause, thick with the weight of what he was beginning to piece together. Then, after a long, deliberate silence, Gideon’s eyes dropped to your left hand, where the ring rested—familiar, shiny, a quiet symbol of everything you and Spencer had been building together.

His gaze flickered back up to Spencer’s. He didn’t say a word at first, just took a slow breath, almost like he was processing everything, like he could see the road you both had traveled to get to this point. His next words were deliberate, heavy with something you couldn’t quite place.

“You want me to witness the wedding, don’t you?”

It wasn’t a question anymore. It was the recognition of something deep, something Gideon had known all along. He had seen you both. He had always seen it.

You and Spencer nodded, unable to put into words the depth of what you were feeling.

“Of course,” you said softly. “We couldn’t think of anyone else.”

“You’re family,” Spencer added, his voice full of affection, of gratitude. There was no hesitation in his words.

Gideon’s eyes softened at the sincerity in Spencer’s voice, and for a moment, you saw a side of him that was rare, almost vulnerable. He looked down at his coffee, his hand tightening around the mug. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet yours.

“Well,” he began, his voice laced with a dry humor you hadn’t expected, “I guess I’ll put on my best shirt then.” He gave a small smirk, the first real smile you’d seen from him since you’d arrived. “And we’ll head down to City Hall.”

You and Spencer both exhaled, a mix of relief and warmth flooding through you. Without a word, you both stood and embraced him, the awkwardness of the moment slowly melting away. The three of you stood there for a heartbeat, together again in a way that felt like it was meant to be.

“Thank you, Jason,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

“May you both hold each other close, for the world will test you. But if you have each other, you’ll always find your way back,” he said, his voice rich with quiet reverence, like a father trying to guard his children from the harshness of life.

You pulled away from the hug, and as you and Spencer moved toward the door, you could feel something shift between the three of you—a kind of unspoken understanding that this moment, this life, would be something to protect fiercely.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, the city streets now blanketed in white. It was as if the world had decided to pause, to make space for something sacred, something new. The rare October storm was the first sign of a season that was beginning. And with that, you realized that what you had with Spencer—what you were building—was something that would last beyond all the snowstorms, beyond the chaos of the world outside.

INT. Courtroom

You had been a frequent visitor of the countroom.

Long before the word guilty ever pierced your world like a blade, you'd wandered these halls as if your bones remembered them from another life. The marble was always too cold, the silence too loud. You had learned young that justice didn’t raise its voice—it whispered. And when it turned its back, it didn’t hesitate.

You knew the shape of a life before it unraveled. You had sat across the table from broken people—some who deserved mercy, others who deserved to be stopped. You had made peace with how little peace there was in the law. And still, you stayed. Because the world didn’t need more mercy. It needed memory.

By nineteen, your name was already in the Bureau’s mouth. You had a law degree and a mind they didn’t quite know what to do with. Too young, too fast. Too full of words like weaponized anthrax and neurological disruption protocols. You weren't recruited. You were acquired.

Hotch had taken you under his wing—quietly, methodically. He was not a man who took chances on many. But you were precise, unshakable, and already burdened with a kind of internal stillness that most people didn’t reach until after they’d been broken. You weren’t broken. You just knew how close the world lived to disaster.

Spencer had been just down the hall.

He was Gideon’s protégé, still wearing suits that didn’t quite fit, still unsure of his own hands when he wasn’t holding a book. He spoke in paragraphs and paced when he thought, like the ideas might fall out of him if he stood still too long. He was twenty, too. Brilliant in a way that didn’t feel performative. Just haunted. Like he carried the ghosts of every fact he knew.

Hotch and Gideon’s work had always overlapped, and so, eventually, so did yours and Spencer’s. You didn’t meet through a case or by chance, but through pattern. Every time your mentors converged, you found yourselves sharing space—conference rooms, trainings, early-morning briefings where you’d both arrive too early and leave too late. At first, you barely spoke. You were too focused, too wary of being seen as young. You knew you had to be better, sharper, quieter.

But Spencer… he noticed things. Small things. Like the way you clenched your jaw when someone said something about your age. Like the way you tilted your head to listen, really listen, when someone spoke about grief. He noticed you the way only someone like him could—someone who had never quite belonged either.

It wasn’t romantic at first. It wasn’t even personal. It was proximity. Familiarity. You grew used to each other’s presence the way people grow used to morning light—quietly, without permission.

The First Time He Asked

The first time Spencer tried to ask you out, it was at an outlet mall in Seattle—of all places.

You were exhausted, both physically and emotionally, after wrapping a case that had twisted something sharp in your gut. The kind of case where the air doesn’t feel clean, even after a shower. Neither of you wanted to be alone, not yet, so you ended up wandering together through the muted lights and piped-in music of a half-empty mall on a rainy night. He hated malls. Hated crowds, fluorescent lights, consumerism. But he hated the idea of leaving your side even more.

“I don’t even like malls,” he muttered beside you, eyeing a storefront window like it had personally offended him.

You smiled, teasing. “No? I thought you were a big fan of commercialism and poorly lit fitting rooms.”

Spencer huffed through his nose but didn’t leave. That should’ve been your first sign.

You ended up at the food court, sharing a plate of lukewarm fries and a milkshake he swore he didn’t want, but kept sipping from anyway. It was quiet—one of those rare, comfortable silences that felt like something living between you. You were both so young then. Twenty-three and twenty-four. Still figuring out how to hold a badge and carry the weight of what it cost.

He started fiddling with a napkin, folding and unfolding it as he cleared his throat. You turned to look at him, only half-aware that something was shifting in the air.

“I, um,” he began, avoiding your eyes, “I was reading a study recently. It talked about dopamine production increasing in proximity to someone you're… emotionally attached to. It explained how elevated heart rates and obsessive thought patterns can mimic the chemical structure of love. Which, in turn, makes it difficult to maintain objectivity, especially in high-stress environments like—well—ours.”

You blinked at him. “Are you telling me you’re in love with me or that you think you’re having a stroke?”

He finally met your eyes then, a crooked smile ghosting his lips. “I’m saying that I… I want to date you. If you’re open to that. I mean—I think about you a lot. More than I should. In ways that aren’t strictly… professional.”

For a moment, the world narrowed—just you, him, and the weight of the air between your bodies.

And then you said, quietly, carefully, “Spencer… I’m flattered. I really am. But you and I both know what this job does to people. We’re barely holding it together as it is, and we’re the youngest on the team. I don’t think I can carry more weight. Not right now.”

His face didn’t fall, not exactly—but the light in his eyes dimmed just enough to make your heart twist.

“Right,” he said quickly. “No, totally. Makes sense. I get it.”

And then—because he was Spencer—he offered you a high-five.

You stared at it for a second, like it was a foreign object, then forced a smile and gave him one. The slap of palms was too loud, too bright against the quiet, and both of you looked away after.

You walked into a candle store next, pretending nothing had happened.

But it did. And it lived in your chest like a small, silent ache for weeks.

He looked away, forcing a smile. “So, uh, want to keep looking around the mall?”

You both walked on, but the air between you was fragile now—like glass stretched too thin. For weeks afterward, it gnawed at you—his face when you said no, the quiet way he folded inward like he’d rehearsed the confession a thousand times only to rewrite it into silence. You didn’t reject him because you didn’t feel the same. You said no because you did—too much. Because the thought of losing him someday, of watching him disappear behind crime scene tape or an ER curtain, was enough to make your chest cave in.

Spencer was hurting too, probably more. You knew he’d spent weeks rehearsing how to say those words perfectly, only to have them fall flat. He tried to distract himself, even asking JJ out at one point, only to be gently rejected.

Spencer tried to move on. You saw him try. He asked JJ out once—not in a big way, just a shy suggestion that maybe they go watch a football game sometime. You didn’t hear it, but you heard about it, because JJ pulled you into the bullpen later that week, linking her arm with yours and steering you into a conversation like she was handing over a live grenade.

“Y/N,” she said, too casually, “Spence was thinking we could all go to a Redskins game this weekend. You should come.”

You looked at her. She looked at you.

Your eyes begged. Please don’t make me do this. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. Then why aren’t you doing something about it?

You turned to Spencer, who stood beside her looking anywhere but at you. “Uh,” you said, voice light, “a football game sounds loud.”

“Exactly,” JJ chirped. “That’s why we need you there to keep me sane.”

He didn’t ask you out again for a long time. Not after that. But you started noticing the things he did do—the way he always chose the seat next to yours on the jet, the way he brought you tea when you looked tired, the way he smiled when he thought you weren’t looking.

And slowly, slowly, you started to breathe easier. The job didn’t stop being hard. But you stopped being afraid of what it meant to let someone in.

When he finally asked again, it wasn’t really a question.

And when he finally asked you again, it was no longer a question that needed words—because the both of you knew. You knew that you were meant to be bound together, forever.

The Second Time

It was months later, after a string of cases that wore you down, after you learned how to breathe again without bracing for loss. You’d found a steadier rhythm in this line of work.

The city outside still hummed quietly, a faint pulse beneath the late night’s fragile calm. But inside the small diner, at this hour—12:30 am—time seemed to fold softly around the two of you. The case in NYC wrapped up.

The glow from the neon sign outside bled through the windows, casting gentle colors onto the worn vinyl booths and scratched Formica tables. The air smelled faintly of coffee and syrup—comforting in its simplicity, away from the chaos of the case just closed.

You sat across from Spencer, your hands wrapped around a steaming mug, the warmth a quiet anchor. He watched you with those eyes—bright, searching, full of something unspoken that had been building between you both for months.

“This city,” he said softly, voice careful like he was stepping into unknown territory, “it never really sleeps, does it?”

You smiled, tired but peaceful. “It tries.”

He shifted, hands clasped loosely on the table. “Y/N…”

The sound of your name on his lips was gentle but carried weight—like a confession waiting patiently for its moment.

He took a breath. “I’ve been thinking about us… about how I feel.”

You looked up, heart skipping, a flutter of hope and fear mingling.

“I know it’s complicated—this job, the things we see.” His fingers traced idle patterns on the table. “But every time I’m with you, even when everything else is falling apart, it feels –.”

You blinked, the quiet noise of the city fading into nothing but his voice.

“I don’t have a grand speech or a perfect plan. I don’t want to solve this like a case.”

He reached across the table, his hand brushing yours—light, but enough.

“I want to be with you. If you want to be with me.”

The simplicity of the words caught you off guard—so pure, so honest. It wasn’t a question that needed an answer; it was a truth, tender and unshakable, like two stars always destined to find each other, no matter the distance between lifetimes.

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. “Spencer…”

He leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper, “We don’t have to figure out the rest right now. I just needed you to know.”

The diner was silent but for the distant hum of the city, a quiet witness to this fragile moment suspended in time.

You reached out, entwining your fingers with his, the touch soft and sure.

And there, beneath the flickering diner light, with the world outside still awake and unaware, you knew—this was the beginning of everything.

You held his hand a little tighter, your breath steadying as the weight of everything settled inside you.

For so long, the fear had been a quiet shadow—the danger of the job, the risk of losing him, of losing everything that mattered. But now, here, in this fragile quiet, the fear shifted.

You realized you were more afraid of never having him at all.

“Spence,” you said softly, voice steady, “I’ve been scared. Scared that this job would take you away from me.”

He shook his head gently, eyes never leaving yours.

“But I’m more scared of a life without you in it.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, relief and something like hope blooming there.

“Then don’t let me go,” he whispered.

You smiled back, the last walls crumbling quietly. “I won’t.”

Later, outside the hotel where the team was staying, the city lights flickering like distant stars, you stood close.

Spencer looked at you—his expression open and full of something unspoken—and leaned in slowly, his hands resting gently on your waist.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative and tender, as if testing the new world you were stepping into together.

Then it deepened—full of promise, of relief, of the kind of love that waits patiently to be claimed.

When you finally pulled apart, the night air wrapped around you both, carrying the quiet certainty that this was only the beginning.

He smiled, voice low. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Spencer.”

And with that, you turned toward the door, heart full, knowing you’d never be the same.

Then it became intentional. You’d run into each other on purpose. At the library. In the archives. At the old diner three blocks from Quantico that served coffee like sludge and pie like forgiveness. You stopped being strangers.

You shared long nights and longer silences. Pages of research passed back and forth between fingers that sometimes touched and didn’t flinch. You saw him at his most unguarded—not when he was scared, but when he was safe.

And slowly, without ever needing to say it, you started finding each other in every room.

You fell in love the way people like you do—not in fireworks, but in increments. A pencil slid across a desk. A glance that lingered a second too long. A moment where his voice softened and slowed only for you.

Now, you sat in the courtroom behind him, and it all felt impossibly far away.

Everything you’d fought for, everything you’d become—it had all started in these same halls. And now, it was being twisted into something that could take him from you. Your knowledge, your law, your brilliance—none of it could stop what was happening.

You weren’t afraid of death. You’d seen it too many times to fear it.

But this?

This was worse.

This was the slow death. The hollowing. The turning of justice into punishment without purpose. The system you once believed in now swallowing the man you could not live without.

The judge’s voice sliced through the room. “Actions speak louder than words, I always say.”

The gavel fell. And in that one crushing motion, everything you’d fought for, everything you believed in, was silenced. It was over.

The guards stepped forward, their boots on the floor like a slow, unyielding drumbeat—each echo marking the distance between the man you loved and the freedom he was about to lose.

They gripped his arms, firm and unrelenting. His body stiffened, a fragile frame caught beneath the weight of inevitability. The cold metal cuffs—clinking, clicking—rung through the quiet courtroom like a death knell, loud and cruel in your ears.

You couldn’t look away.

It was happening.

Right here. Right now.

And you could not stop it.

The careful veneer you wore—the training, the poise, the steel you’d forged through years of cold realities—shattered. The guard’s hand on Spencer’s shoulder burned like fire, branding him as theirs, as lost. You caught his eyes, wide and searching, a silent scream without sound. Fear. Regret. An apology you could not answer.

He was scared.

So terribly scared.

Your body shook—not from the cold, but from a terror so raw it twisted your insides. The room shrank, the air thickened, suffocating and indifferent. You clung to JJ’s shoulder as your knees threatened to give out. The world tilted, spun like a ship caught in a storm you could not navigate.

No. You couldn’t breathe.

Your chest tightened. You swallowed hard. Your throat dried to dust. Vision blurred.

Around you, chaos roared—words flying, shouts, desperation—but inside you, a frozen silence swallowed every sound.

Step by agonizing step, they pulled Spencer away. His final glance burned into you—a promise, a prayer, a plea for something unspoken.

You wanted to shout. To scream. To rip the room apart with your voice. To run to him, to plead, to beg.

But you were paralyzed.

Your mind screamed for action, for a miracle, for anything.

But your body would not move.

The room spun—spun—spun—trapping you in a vortex you could not escape.

Emily’s voice rose, trembling and sharp, pleading with the judge. Rossi stood firm beside her, weaving words, searching for loopholes, cracks in the ironclad verdict. But the law had spoken. The judge had spoken. None of it mattered.

Luke’s anger thundered through the space—a storm that should have moved mountains—but it was thunder that could not reach you, not when your world was crumbling in slow motion.

Garcia’s breaths came short, shallow, as she crumbled beside you, the weight of what was happening pressing down on all of you.

And you— You couldn’t move. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t do a damn thing.

When Spencer turned for that last time, the world stilled.

The look in his eyes—the fear, the uncertainty—mirrored your own.

His silent question hung between you: What now?

And all you could give him was the same look.

A look filled with a cold, unshakable fear that settled deep in your bones.

The team had all gone home after the arraignment. Not home in the metaphorical sense—no, they returned to their safe spaces, their families, their familiar quiet. But not you.

You returned to a house, not a home. A building with your name on the lease and Spencer’s favorite coffee mug still drying on the dish rack, but it didn’t feel like anything at all without him in it.

It had been a long day, longer still without his voice weaving through the chaos, grounding you like it always did.

The next morning, you’d gone to see Diana. Spencer’s mother had been staying at his old apartment temporarily, and Nurse Cassie was keeping watch over her. JJ had insisted on coming with you. Said you shouldn’t go alone, that it might help to have someone there. Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t. Either way, she left after a little while, squeezing your hand one last time before disappearing into the corridor. You didn’t blame her—she had her family to go home to.

Back at your townhouse, nestled in the quiet heart of D.C., close enough to Spencer’s old place that it still got the same morning light, you moved like someone on autopilot. Spencer had technically lived here with you for years—only keeping the apartment as a backup, an old habit—but it never felt more like your house than it did now, in his absence.

In the bedroom, you pulled out a backpack—just your ordinary, worn-in one that had seen too many crime scenes and too many plane rides. From the closet, you retrieved the safe. Inside it were your essentials: your firearm, your government and civilian passports. One by one, you placed them into your pack with mechanical precision. You were catching a flight—not to London like the Bureau expected—but to Mexico.

You needed answers. And you didn’t trust anyone else to find them.

Before leaving, you returned your credit and debit cards to the safe and resealed it in the closet. You weren’t going to be traced.

The rest of the house you left in darkness. All except the small lamp on Spencer’s side of the bed. You left it glowing, soft and warm, in case he came home before you did. Just in case.

You locked the door behind you and left both your cars in the driveway to avoid suspicion. The bus was slow, the kind that shook too much and smelled faintly of old metal and city grime. You paid in cash, eyes forward, and rode quietly to the airport.

It was already night—the kind of night that swallowed everything, even sound. You moved through the terminal with your hoodie pulled up, head low, posture small. Civilian passport clutched in your hand, just another shadow blending into the sea of travelers catching red-eyes to nowhere.

Still, something didn’t sit right.

By the window wall, you stared out into the nothingness beyond the glass. The tarmac glowed in patches, planes blinking silently in the dark. Then—a shift in the air. Movement. A presence stepping closer, a breath too long, a footfall too deliberate.

A voice broke the quiet.

“Where’re you going, Y/N?”

You didn’t flinch.

“If I said London, would you believe me?”

The laugh that came back was familiar—dry, warm, wiser than you ever gave it credit for.

“No, Y/N. I would not.”

You turned and met Rossi’s eyes. Kind, concerned, but sharp—sharp enough to catch everything. Funny how, after years working side by side, you hadn’t noticed the gray sneaking into his sideburns.

“Let’s take a walk,” he said softly, a hand settling on your shoulder like a steady anchor.

You followed him wordlessly. Back through the hum of the terminal, past the gate you weren’t boarding. Into a dim airport café with lukewarm coffee and a flickering light overhead.

He didn’t ask why you were here. He already knew.

“I know you want to move. To do something. Sitting still when he’s locked up, and we’re out here—it’s impossible. But Reid needs us to play by the rules. He needs us steady, not reckless.”

Your fingers curled around the paper cup. “I know. But every hour we wait—every moment we’re not at the crime scene, not looking closer—Mexico is whispering secrets no one hears.”

“I get it, kid.” His voice softened. “We all want to save him. But if another BAU agent makes an unauthorized run down there, it won’t just look bad. It’ll hurt him. Especially if you come back empty-handed.”

You nodded, jaw tight. He was right. Of course he was. But still—it felt like he didn’t really understand.

You don’t know, you wanted to scream. He’s my home.

But you stayed quiet. The ache in your chest was loud enough for both of you.

“Let’s go back,” Rossi said gently. “Come have dinner at my place. Tomorrow, we get back to work. Together.”

You exhaled, the weight of the night settling into your bones. “Okay.”

You didn’t say you wouldn’t still look. You didn’t promise to stop.

The BAU bullpen buzzed with the usual energy—the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, the occasional murmur of voices, the shuffle of paper as cases moved forward. Spencer Reid sat at his desk, his brow furrowed in concentration. As usual, his fingers drifted down to the necklace hidden under his shirt, a small gold chain that had become a familiar comfort. It was a secret he kept close, not just from the team, but from the world—a simple gold band, the one he had placed on your finger months ago when you both decided to keep your marriage hidden, just between the two of you.

It was more than just a ring. It was a promise. A quiet, steadfast bond that only you and he shared.

So when Spencer reached for his necklace and found it... gone, his heart dropped. His fingers immediately began to trace the empty space around his neck, and a cold panic washed over him.

No. No, no, no.

His mind spiraled, trying to process what had happened. He pulled at the chain again, checking under his shirt like it might have just... appeared there, but nothing. The ring was gone.

Spencer’s eyes widened, and his breath quickened. The room seemed to shrink around him as a sense of urgency bloomed in his chest. The ring—the symbol of your shared secret—was missing. He stood up abruptly, startling the rest of the team.

“Spence?” Derek called out, looking up from his case file with a raised eyebrow. “You good, man?”

Spencer didn’t answer right away. His heart was racing, and his mind was in overdrive, desperately trying to figure out where he could have lost it. He didn’t want anyone to know how much this meant to him, how much you meant to him. No one could find out.

But Derek wasn’t letting it slide. “Yo, Reid, what’s going on? You’re acting weirder than usual.” Derek’s tone was light, but there was genuine concern in his voice.

Spencer tried to force a smile, but it felt tight on his face. “I’m fine. Really.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably, grabbing his coffee cup as if that would somehow ground him. “Just need a refill.”

Derek eyed him suspiciously, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. “Sure, you need a refill. Of... panic? ‘Cause that’s what’s going on here, right?”

Spencer ignored him, heading toward the break room. His mind was too frantic to care about Derek’s teasing.

He checked the coffee machine first, then the archive room, then the reception area. He even went outside to the parking lot, his gaze scanning the ground for any sign of the missing ring. Every corner, every spot he could think of, had been searched.

His hope was fading with each step, but the dread in his chest continued to grow.

When he finally returned to his desk, defeated and a little breathless, he couldn’t even look anyone in the eye. The thought of losing the ring—losing that piece of you—felt like losing a part of himself.

That’s when you caught him. You’d been watching him quietly, noticing how off he was. He didn’t speak, didn’t even acknowledge anyone around him. The usual sparkle in his eyes was absent, replaced by something far more solemn.

You made your way toward him, stepping lightly behind his chair. He didn’t notice until you were already standing there, close enough to feel his energy shift. He looked up at you, startled, his face a little pale.

“Spence?” you asked gently. Your voice was low, careful, as if testing the waters. “What’s going on?”

He hesitated for a beat, his eyes darting away, trying to hide the worry he felt. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, too quickly. But the words didn’t sit right between the two of you.

Your eyes softened. “Spence, you’re really not good at lying.”

Spencer’s mouth went dry. He wanted to tell you the truth, but he wasn’t sure how. He wanted to confess how the simple absence of that ring—your ring—felt like his world was falling apart. But it was too dangerous. Too risky.

He sighed, feeling the weight of the secret press on him. “I... I can’t find it.”

You tilted your head slightly, confused. “Can’t find what?”

“My wedding ring.”

Your heart sank at the words. You knew how much it meant to him, how much the symbol of your marriage—hidden from everyone—was the one thing he held onto. It wasn’t about the gold, but about the bond, the secret the two of you shared.

“I don’t know where it went,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “I had it on this morning when I got in the car. I could feel it against my chest, but now...” He trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. The distress in his voice said everything.

You reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze. “It’s okay, Spence,” you said gently. “It’s just a ring. We’ll figure it out.”

Spencer’s eyes searched yours, his brow furrowing as if the idea of losing it somehow felt like losing a part of you. “I’ve checked everywhere. The car, the break room, the parking lot, the entire office...” His voice cracked, just a little. “What if it’s gone for good?”

“Spence,” you said, stepping closer, “we’ll figure it out. Accidents happen.”

His shoulders slumped, but before he could respond, you gave him a playful smile. “Have you checked your shirt?”

Spencer blinked, clearly thrown off by your question. “What?”

“Your shirt. Have you really checked it?”

He looked confused for a moment, his gaze flicking to his shirt. “I—”

You stepped behind him, your fingers brushing against his collar as you casually slipped the ring from between his neck and the fabric of his shirt.

Spencer froze, his eyes widening as you held the ring up in your palm. “How—how did you—?” He didn’t even know how to finish the question, the relief in his voice obvious.

You grinned, raising an eyebrow. “A magician never reveals her secrets, Spence.”

He laughed, low and relieved, but still with a touch of disbelief. “You had that the whole time, didn’t you?”

You nodded innocently. “Yup.”

“There’s no way you found it before me. I searched everywhere!” He shook his head, still not fully grasping how you managed to pull it off. “Where was it?”

You turned to walk back to your desk, pretending to be casual. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a magic trick, would it?”

Spencer’s steps quickened as he tried to keep up. “Alright, alright. Maybe it’s your ring. Let’s see it?”

You stopped in your tracks, the soft glow of the overhead lights catching the familiar weight of your wedding ring nestled against your skin. With a smile, you slid it out from under your shirt and gently held it up, letting Spencer see. Your fingers brushed his as you tucked it back out of view.

He blinked, clearly touched, and a small, incredulous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I swear, you always know where everything is. And here I thought I was the one with the tricks.”

You chuckled softly, your voice lowering as you reached up to gently cup his face, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “Well, you’re still the one with all the answers, Spence. But I’ve got one thing I’ll never lose track of.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow, his expression softening with curiosity. “What’s that?”

You leaned in just enough that your foreheads lightly touched, the quiet hum of the office surrounding you. "You," you said simply, the words feeling warm, familiar. "I’m not going anywhere."

Spencer’s gaze softened, a smile forming at the edges of his lips. His eyes held yours for a moment before he nodded, his voice low, filled with a quiet affection. “Good. Because I’ve got everything I need right here.”

The moment lingered for a few seconds—comfortable, grounding—before Spencer sighed, pushing himself off the desk with a slight grin. “I think we’ve earned a quiet night, don’t you?”