mari

You’d parked yourself on the edge of his mattress, holding yourself back from swinging your legs as you bit back a grin. You’d been picturing him in his pyjamas, a soft shirt and baggy pants so different to the usual crisp ironed silhouette of his work clothes. You wondered what his hair looked like in the morning, tousled from his pillow as he tried to sleepily smooth it back. Butterflies danced in your stomach as you pictured waking up beside him, seeing his flushed cheeks and hearing his lazy morning rambles inches away from you as you lay anchored to his chest.

With a hop, you sprung up from the bed, practically skipping over to the drawers across the room. With a flourish you pulled one open, eager to see what he slept in. Oh, you sighed, wrong drawer. Your lips melted into a small smile as you took in a mountain of colourful socks, oddly unorganised compared to the rest of his bedroom. Stripes and polka dots in every colour piled on top of neons and silly cartoon pictures, a set of ‘days of the week’ socks each highlighting a different star in the Big Dipper catching your attention the most.

You were sliding the drawer closed when you caught a glimpse of something in the back, poking out between two pairs of dinosaur socks. Something brown and fluffy, two beady glass eyes staring up at you.

“Who’s your friend?” You asked, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. In your hands you held an old, well-loved teddy bear. Its fur was a little matted with age but still soft in its little brown curls, and on its chest sat an embroidered comet with its threads surprisingly still mostly in tact.

Spencer’s eyes widened in the mirror, his cheeks turning red almost instantly. “Where did you find that?” He tried to feign indifference, but his voice wavered.

“Stashed away in your sock drawer.” You turned the bear over in your hands so that he was looking at you. Were you just getting tired or did its eyes look sad? “What was it doing in there?”

“No idea.” He shrugged, moving to take it from you. “Must’ve forgotten he was there.”

Cocking a brow at him you hid the bear behind your back, trapping him between you and the doorframe and out of Spencer’s reach. “He?”

“It.” He corrected himself. You brought the bear forward, gazing down at his little face as Spencer brushed past you into the bedroom. His little glass eyes definitely looked sad.

“‘He’ implies an identity.” You said, following Spencer as he perched on the edge of the mattress. “He’s clearly important. Why were you hiding him from me?”

“I was embarrassed. I didn’t want you to think I was-” he paused, brows creasing as he searched for the right word, “uncool.”

You smiled at him, a little loose and sappy. This was the man who first said hi by complimenting your edition of Great Expectations that he saw peeking out of your bag on the subway. The same man who called his mother before your first date to ask her what flowers he should bring you. He once took you to a chess tournament and commentated on every match with low whispers in your ear, sprinkling in a handful of sassy comments and tutting about moves he believed to be, what he called, ‘idiotic and completely incomprehensible’. ‘Uncool’ wasn’t even a word that came to mind.

“I think he’s very cool.” You shifted closer until your knees were touching, the bear resting in your lap as you toyed with him. “What’s his name?”

“Carl.” Spencer answered fondly, finally allowing a boyish grin to grace his face.

You nodded in recognition. “Sagan.” It made perfect sense. You recalled him telling you a childhood story about him making a salt model of the universe, intended as a birthday gift for his hero. You were pretty certain he could work Carl Sagan into any conversation given the opportunity.

“Well thank you for formally introducing us.” Propping the bear up with your hand, you tilted his head sadly to the side. “He must hate me.”

“He doesn’t hate you.” Spencer frowned.

“Oh, I bet he does. I bet he was thinking who is this mean, mean person I’m being shoved into a dark, scary drawer for?” The bear’s head bobbed in your hand as you jostled him like a puppeteer until your boyfriend reached over, taking him from your hands. He was gentle, handling his little best friend with a carefulness you’d only ever seen reserved for you. His gaze was loving, suddenly belong to a much, much younger version of him.

“Yeah. I’m sorry about that, Carl.” He murmured, voice tender. His fingers hovered over his fur, the familiar softness transporting him somewhere else.

You’d never quite seen this look on his face before. Spencer was someone who often acted older than he was, desperate to be seen with the sense of maturity he thought he ought to carry. There were always cracks in his mask, of course, he was far too passionate about things to keep it hidden for long. Whenever he was rambling, especially about something- for lack of better words- nerdy, there was that twitch of his lips that often gave way to a bright grin, that little glimmer of excitement in his eyes as his words poured from his brain faster than his mouth could keep up. It was almost that look you saw on his face now, but quieter. Gentler.

“How long have you had him?” You asked softly as his fingers moved to trace the embroidery on the bear’s chest.

“Since I was eight. He was the only toy I kept when…” He trailed off, flashing you a small smile, weaker than the one he wore earlier, before continuing. “I never could outgrow him.”

“Who could? Look at his little face.” You cooed, staring at the bear’s glass eyes once more- significantly less sad-looking in Spencer’s hands. “Where’d he come from?”

“Science museum gift shop.” He chuckled, face lighting up at the memory. “My mom took me. They had an interactive astronomy exhibit I’d been desperate to go to- not that I said anything. She found a flyer for it in my room and for my birthday she surprised me. It’s one of my favourite memories with her. We didn’t get many days out like that.”

His voice trailed off, his thoughts going with it. The room you were both in disappeared before his eyes, rearranging itself into the bedroom of his younger years. Toys were a scarcity, limited to models he’d made himself. They’d been replaced long ago by notebooks, pages and pages of poems and songs copied out to calm his mother. He’d told you about it once briefly, how he did it to soothe her paranoia. There was no time for toys when he was growing up so fast, but still in his small hands he held Carl. When he was too fretful to fall asleep, his door cracked open enough to hear Diana down the hall, his bear stayed awake with him. When he came home from school late and the sky outside the window was black, he had someone to confide in.

It was less and less often that he got good days with his mother, but Carl served as a reminder for every single one, most of all that day at the museum.

“I guess you could say he’s my oldest friend.” Spencer smiled with an embarrassed laugh, clearing his throat as he tried to steady his expression.

“Well, I’m very honoured to finally meet him.” You reached out, shaking his little paw between your fingers. “I take it he doesn’t usually live in your sock drawer?”

“No, no- he takes the left side of my pillow usually. Sometimes he sits at my desk when I’m working.” He wrinkled his nose, debating whether he should say more. “He, uh. He sits on the other side of the board when I play chess by myself. He’s pretty good at it.”

You laughed, feeling your cheeks ache as you leaned into him and propped your head on his shoulder. You’d been prepared to see him in his pyjamas, you were working up to being prepared to sleep in the same bed. What you hadn’t been ready for was meeting your boyfriend’s teddy bear. If it was even possible you loved him even more now, heart swelling as you pictured him coming home to his little roommate. Did he talk to him about his day? Tuck him in before he left for a case? Does he miss him when he’s away?

“You know I have a childhood bear too?” You said, your voice lazy as your cheek melted into the fabric of his shirt. “You’ll have to bring Carl over sometime, we can have a double date.”

Spencer’s shoulder shook beneath you as he laughed. “Yeah, I think he would love that. It’s about time.”

He turned his head to look down at you, and you tried your best to meet his eyes from your perch. His face looked so soft, relaxed in a way you rarely got to see. He was always at his most beautiful like this, completely unguarded, the mask that etched a crease between his brows and a frown on his lips comfortably lifted and leaving him looking impossibly young. You lifted your head, pressing a gentle kiss to his warm, flushed cheek.

“I can’t wait.” You smiled, rising to your feet and extending a hand to him. “Now come on. I am desperate to see your pyjamas.”

“I still don’t understand your infatuation with this.” He sighed, shaking his head fondly. But still he took your hand, letting you pull him up before following you as you skipped over to the drawers once more.

David Rossi loved hosting dinners.

Not because he particularly enjoyed cooking—though he’d spend the entire evening pretending he did, shooing away anyone who wandered too close to the stove with the indignation of a Michelin-star chef—but because dinner was one of the rare occasions when the people he cared about gathered for reasons that had nothing to do with bloodstained crime scenes or the worst humanity had to offer. Around his dining table, they weren’t profilers or agents or supervisors carrying the weight of impossible decisions. They were simply friends. They laughed a little louder, lingered a little longer over dessert, argued about books instead of behavioral patterns, and, for a few precious hours, remembered what life looked like outside the Bureau.

At least for the first twenty minutes.

After that, someone inevitably mentioned a case.

“You realize,” Morgan announced as he reached across the kitchen island and shamelessly stole a piece of warm bread straight from the basket, “this is exactly how horror movies start.”

Rossi didn’t even bother looking over his shoulder. He merely stirred the sauce with practiced ease, entirely unfazed by the theft.

“The difference,” he replied smoothly, “is that my guests survive dessert.”

Morgan laughed, surrendering with an exaggerated nod before tearing into the bread anyway.

The house was already alive with familiar voices.

Soft jazz drifted through hidden speakers, blending with the rhythmic clatter of pots and the comforting aroma of garlic, rosemary, simmering tomatoes, and freshly baked bread. Warm light spilled from antique lamps, reflecting against framed photographs and shelves lined with decades of books and souvenirs collected from places Rossi rarely spoke about. Every room carried that unmistakable feeling of having been lived in, a home that had witnessed countless celebrations, quiet conversations over late-night whiskey, and the occasional impromptu team meeting when cases refused to stay at Quantico.

Emily wandered into the kitchen, accepting a glass of wine from Rossi before immediately rolling her eyes at something Morgan said.

Garcia was already circling the living room in complete admiration, pausing every few steps to gush over a painting, a sculpture, or an antique clock.

“Oh my God, Rossi,” she gasped dramatically, “this lamp is gorgeous. It’s giving wealthy Italian novelist who solves crimes in his free time.”

“It was just a lamp until you said that.”

JJ slipped toward the patio with Henry balanced comfortably on her hip, the little boy already fascinated by the garden lights beginning to glow outside. Will followed behind carrying an impressive collection of toys that looked capable of entertaining an entire daycare, smiling patiently as Henry reached for everything except the toys he’d brought.

Hotch, unsurprisingly, had arrived exactly on time.

Not a minute early. Not a minute late.

His jacket was already neatly folded over the back of a chair, a glass of sparkling water in one hand as he quietly observed the controlled chaos with the smallest hint of amusement softening his usually unreadable expression.

And, of course, Spencer’s attention had been on you from the moment the two of you stepped through Rossi’s front door.

Before anyone could greet you, Spencer was already helping you out of your coat with the quiet attentiveness that had become second nature over the past several weeks. His hands were careful as he eased the fabric from your shoulders, lingering for just a heartbeat as if making sure you were steady before draping both your coat and his neatly over the rack by the entrance. It was such a small gesture that no one else would have noticed it.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, leaning close enough that only you could hear him beneath the lively chatter filling the room.

You offered him a reassuring smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.

“Perfect.”

The word came automatically, polished by repetition until it sounded almost believable. You’d said it to your mother over the phone earlier that week. To your coworkers when they’d commented on how pale you’d been looking lately. To the cashier who had apologized after you’d abruptly abandoned a shopping cart halfway through the supermarket because someone nearby had opened a container of tuna. You were becoming remarkably good at pretending everything was normal.

Spencer, however, had never been particularly easy to fool.

His honey-colored eyes lingered on your face for another moment, quietly studying you with the same careful concentration he reserved for unsolved cases and impossible puzzles. He noticed everything: the faint shadows beneath your eyes despite the makeup you’d carefully applied that afternoon, the way your smile didn’t quite reach them, the almost invisible hesitation before you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. For a second, you watched concern flicker across his expression, followed by the unmistakable impulse to suggest going home instead. You knew him well enough to see the thought forming before he gently pushed it aside. You had insisted you wanted to come. You’d been looking forward to seeing everyone. If he asked again, you’d only reassure him again.

So instead, he simply intertwined his fingers with yours for the briefest moment and gave your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it, silently reminding you that if you needed to leave, even five minutes after arriving, you only had to say the word.

Because the truth was…you hadn’t exactly been perfect lately.

For nearly eleven weeks, your body had seemed determined to reinvent itself overnight, transforming familiar routines into unpredictable obstacles and ordinary sensations into impossible challenges. Pregnancy wasn’t anything like the books had described. It wasn’t the glowing skin and sentimental smiles people loved talking about. At least, not yet. Right now, it was exhaustion so profound it settled into your bones no matter how much you slept. It was waking up starving only to burst into tears because the toast you’d been craving suddenly smelled unbearable. It was dizziness when you stood too quickly, headaches that appeared without warning, and emotions that shifted so rapidly they often left you laughing one moment and crying the next.

And the smells were by far the worst.

It was as though someone had turned every scent in the world up to an impossible volume.

Coffee, the rich aroma you’d once relied on every morning, now seemed so overwhelmingly bitter it made your stomach twist before you even entered the kitchen.

Garlic lingered in the air like smoke.

Perfume clung to strangers in grocery stores so intensely that you found yourself instinctively holding your breath as they walked past.

Gasoline from passing cars seeped through open windows with startling force.

Fresh paint, cleaning products, scented candles, everything had become an enemy.

Even the earthy fragrance of Spencer’s favorite loose-leaf tea, a scent that had always reminded you of rainy afternoons spent reading together on the couch, had betrayed you. One quiet Saturday morning, he’d barely begun pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves before your stomach lurched violently. You hadn’t even managed to explain what was wrong. You’d simply clamped a hand over your mouth and hurried toward the bathroom, leaving Spencer frozen in confusion beside the kettle.

When he’d found you a few minutes later, you were sitting on the cool tile floor with your knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in one of his oversized cardigans because you hadn’t had the energy to put on your own sweater after climbing out of bed. Your eyes were watery, your face pale with exhaustion, and the half-steeped tea sat forgotten in the kitchen.

He’d knelt beside you immediately, rubbing slow circles against your back until your breathing steadied.

“I think,” he’d said carefully, as though presenting a well-researched hypothesis, “we should buy different tea.”

The absurd sincerity of the suggestion had broken something inside you.

You’d laughed, the kind that left tears streaming down your face and your stomach aching until Spencer began smiling too, still entirely unsure what had been so funny.

An hour later, you’d taken the pregnancy test.

You remembered sitting together on the edge of the bathtub, your shoulders pressed together so tightly they might as well have been one person, both pretending not to stare at the little plastic stick resting on the counter. Spencer’s knee bounced nervously the entire time, though he’d deny it if anyone ever asked. When the result finally appeared, neither of you moved.

Positive.

You’d looked at him, and he’d looked at you.

For a long moment, there had simply been silence, stunned, breathless silence, as though neither of you trusted your own eyes enough to speak first.

Then Spencer had whispered, almost reverently,

“We’re having a baby.”

The memory still settled warmly inside your chest every time you thought about it.

Only the two of you knew.

No one else.

Not the team, your parents, or his mother.

No one.

It wasn’t because you weren’t excited.

God, you had never loved someone you’d never met quite so fiercely. And you had never been so afraid.

At night, when the apartment had gone quiet and Quantico seemed impossibly far away, the two of you often found yourselves lying awake long after the lights were off, talking in hushed voices about a future that suddenly felt both unimaginably distant and frighteningly close. Spencer wondered aloud whether babies recognized music before they were born and whether reading aloud during pregnancy had any measurable effect on language development. You debated names neither of you was ready to admit you genuinely liked. You imagined tiny knitted sweaters, impossibly small socks, sleepy mornings, first birthdays, scraped knees, school concerts, and the possibility—one that made you laugh every single time—that Spencer might accidentally teach your future toddler quantum mechanics before the alphabet.

Other nights, words simply weren’t necessary.

You would lie tangled together beneath the blankets, your head resting against his shoulder while he absentmindedly traced slow circles over your arm. Eventually, almost without thinking, his hand would drift lower, settling with extraordinary care against your abdomen. There was hardly anything to feel yet. At eleven weeks, your stomach remained almost perfectly flat, your dresses fitting exactly as they always had. If someone didn’t know, they would never have guessed. But Spencer touched you as though the slightest movement might disturb the tiny life growing there, his palm resting so gently against you that it sometimes made your chest ache. He would smile into the darkness with an expression so impossibly soft it stole your breath every single time, as though he could already sense the little heartbeat hidden beneath his fingertips. Sometimes he whispered things you weren’t sure he realized he was saying: little observations about fetal development he’d memorized from medical journals, promises about museums he’d one day visit with your child, absentminded thoughts about buying children’s editions of classic literature. Other times, he simply stayed there, smiling quietly, overwhelmed by the astonishing reality that someone already existed. Someone who belonged entirely to the two of you.

Every ultrasound photograph had become a treasure.

The first one lived inside an ivory envelope that had already begun to soften at the edges because neither of you could stop taking it out to look at it. Realistically, there wasn’t very much to see. To anyone else, it was little more than a grainy black-and-white blur surrounded by indecipherable shadows and medical measurements. Yet the two of you had spent embarrassing amounts of time staring at it as though it were the most extraordinary piece of art ever created. Spencer, naturally, had analyzed it with the same enthusiasm he brought to everything else.

Of course, once the initial excitement had settled, he had immediately begun worrying about where to keep the photographs.

Not because he thought someone was going to steal them.

Because he wanted them safe.

You still remembered finding him standing in front of his bookshelf one afternoon, head tilted thoughtfully as though he were solving one of the Bureau’s most complicated cases. He had scanned hundreds of titles before finally pulling out one of the thickest mathematics textbooks you had ever seen.

“They’re going inside my copy of Differential Geometry,” he’d declared with complete confidence while carefully sliding the envelope between two chapters.

You had stared at him, blinking in complete confusion.

“…Why that one?”

Without so much as lifting his eyes from the pages, he’d answered with absolute certainty.

“Statistically speaking, no one voluntarily opens my copy of Differential Geometry.”

You had laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

Weeks later, the ultrasound photographs remained exactly where he’d hidden them, tucked safely between chapters discussing curved manifolds and tensor fields, untouched by anyone except the two of you. Every now and then, usually late at night, Spencer would quietly retrieve the envelope before climbing into bed beside you, and together you’d study the tiny image all over again, smiling as though seeing it for the very first time.

You weren’t keeping the pregnancy a secret because you were ashamed.

If anything, the secret had become almost impossible to contain.

You loved this baby already with a depth that surprised you daily. Sometimes you caught yourself resting your hand absentmindedly against your stomach while reading on the couch or waiting in line for coffee you could no longer stomach. Sometimes Spencer would catch your eye from across the apartment, and without either of you saying a single word, you’d both smile, remembering the extraordinary little secret that existed only between you. It felt like carrying a universe inside your chest, one that threatened to spill into every conversation, every laugh, every quiet glance exchanged across a room.

But eleven weeks still felt fragile.

Delicate.

As though happiness itself had become something you were afraid to hold too tightly.

You knew the statistics.

So did Spencer...perhaps better than anyone.

The first trimester carried uncertainties neither of you could ignore, no matter how desperately you wanted to celebrate. So you had made a quiet promise together. Just a little longer. One more week. Maybe two. Long enough for the fear to loosen its grip. Long enough for the joy to feel louder than the anxiety. Then you’d tell everyone. Properly. Surrounded by the people who loved you most.

Which was exactly why tonight needed to remain wonderfully, blissfully ordinary.

Smile.

Compliment Rossi’s cooking.

Laugh at Morgan’s increasingly terrible jokes.

Listen to Garcia declare herself emotionally attached to another one of Rossi’s antique decorations.

Eat dinner.

Go home.

And above all else, pretend that beneath the soft fabric of your dress, your entire world wasn’t quietly growing one tiny heartbeat at a time.

***

For the first few minutes, everything went exactly according to plan.

The conversation flowed effortlessly around the table, moving from travel stories to teasing remarks about Rossi’s inability to let anyone else near his kitchen. The warm glow of candlelight reflected against crystal glasses, silverware clinked softly against porcelain plates, and the rich aroma of roasted vegetables, fresh herbs, garlic, and homemade pasta drifted through the dining room. It was warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Exactly the kind of evening you’d hoped for.

Then Rossi appeared beside the table carrying a bottle of red wine.

With practiced ease, he moved from place to place, pouring generous servings into each waiting glass until he eventually reached yours. Deep ruby liquid swirled elegantly into the crystal, catching the candlelight before he continued around the table without another thought.

Your smile froze.

Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost felt like missing the last step on a staircase.

Of course. Wine.

You hadn’t thought about the wine.

For one long second, you simply stared at the glass sitting innocently beside your plate, your thoughts racing far faster than they should have. Refusing it outright would be strange. Claiming you weren’t in the mood might invite questions. Pretending to sip it was risky, especially with Rossi proudly watching everyone’s reactions to the bottle he’d undoubtedly spent far too much money on.

Across the table, Spencer had arrived at the exact same realization.

His eyes drifted from his own glass to yours.

Then to you.

You watched the understanding settle across his face almost instantly.

Without either of you exchanging so much as a glance, he quietly reached across the table toward your place setting, his movements so natural they might have gone completely unnoticed.

“I’ll take yours,” he said casually, lifting the untouched glass before anyone could question it.

Morgan blinked. “You stealing her wine already?”

The question earned a few amused smiles around the table.

Spencer answered so quickly it almost sounded rehearsed.

“She’s driving.”

For a single heartbeat, the entire table fell into that peculiar silence that followed an answer no one had expected. You turned your head slowly to look at him, your expression carefully composed despite the disbelief bubbling beneath it.

Driving? You hated driving.

Everyone at the table knew you hated driving. Morgan had teased you about it for years after you’d once admitted that parallel parking made you feel like you were diffusing a bomb. Garcia had jokingly offered to create a color-coded GPS system “for emotionally distressed drivers.” Even Rossi had learned long ago that inviting the two of you over automatically meant Spencer would be behind the wheel on the way home. If given the choice between navigating rush-hour traffic yourself or spending an hour on public transportation with three transfers, you’d choose the train without a second thought. Spencer knew that better than anyone. Which was precisely why, judging by the fleeting look of horror that crossed his face, he realized what he’d said the exact moment the words left his mouth.

Your eyes met across the table for the briefest instant.

He knew. You knew.

Neither of you dared acknowledge it.

Fortunately, Morgan simply shrugged, entirely unbothered.

“Fair enough.”

The conversation drifted elsewhere almost immediately, someone making a comment about Rossi’s pasta sauce before Garcia launched into a dramatic story about accidentally adopting another stray cat she absolutely insisted she hadn’t meant to bring home. Around the table, laughter resumed, forks scraped softly against porcelain plates, and the comfortable rhythm of dinner settled back into place. You released a slow breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, allowing yourself to believe, if only for a moment, that perhaps the obstacle had been overcome more easily than you’d feared.

Or so you thought.

Barely ten minutes later, Rossi reappeared beside your chair carrying the bottle of red wine in one hand, his attention immediately falling to the untouched glass still sitting exactly where he’d left it. His thick brows drew together in mild confusion before his expression softened into concern.

“Oh, bambina,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he gestured toward the glass. “You haven’t touched your wine.”

Your heart lurched.

For a fraction of a second, your mind raced desperately through possible explanations. You weren’t feeling like drinking. You were waiting until dinner. You had a headache. None of them felt convincing enough, particularly not with Rossi watching you so expectantly.

Before you could utter a single word, Spencer calmly reached across the table, lifted your untouched glass as though it had belonged to him all along, and took a generous sip.

“I did.”

Rossi looked between both of you.

“You finished two glasses already?”

“I was thirsty,” Spencer replied with complete sincerity, sounding as though that single sentence explained everything.

Rossi stared at him.

“You were thirsty.”

“Yes.”

“For wine.”

“Correct.”

For another beat, Rossi simply looked at him, clearly debating whether there was any point continuing the conversation. Eventually, with the resigned expression of a man deciding that Spencer Reid’s brain operated on principles beyond ordinary comprehension, he shrugged lightly and reached for the bottle once more.

“There.”

Deep red wine flowed smoothly back into your crystal glass until it sat nearly full again.

“There we go.”

“Thank you,” you offered with what you hoped was a perfectly natural smile.

Rossi nodded once before wandering toward the other end of the table to refill Morgan’s glass, already distracted by an entirely new discussion about baseball statistics.

The instant his back was turned, Spencer moved.

Without saying a word, without drawing attention to himself, he rested one hand casually beneath the edge of the tablecloth and, in one fluid movement, exchanged your freshly filled glass with his own half-empty one. The motion was so smooth it could have passed for absentmindedness, his fingers never fumbling despite the growing amount of alcohol already in his system. By the time Rossi looked back toward the two of you, Spencer was quietly lifting the newly acquired glass toward his lips while your place setting once again held one that appeared partially consumed.

No one noticed.

Well…almost no one.

Across the table, Emily’s conversation with JJ faltered for just a fraction of a second.

She didn’t say anything.

She simply took another sip of wine while her gaze lingered thoughtfully between the two of you before returning to her plate.

Another half hour slipped by beneath easy conversation and frequent bursts of laughter. Stories gave way to teasing, teasing turned into old Bureau memories, and before long the first bottle stood empty in the center of the table. Rossi noticed almost immediately.

“Well,” he announced proudly as he disappeared toward the kitchen, “that means it’s time for the good one.”

He returned carrying another bottle with the reverence of someone transporting a priceless family heirloom.

“This one’s from Tuscany,” he declared, carefully peeling away the foil. “I bought it during my last trip. You have to try it.”

The cork eased free with a satisfying pop.

You felt your stomach sink all over again.

One by one, Rossi circled the table, refilling each glass with generous enthusiasm.

Including yours.

Again.

You forced another smile.

“Thank you.”

Your glass remained untouched.

Again.

Spencer noticed before anyone else did.

Again.

Without hesitation, he reached over sometime during the next conversation, lifted your glass as naturally as though the two of you shared everything—which, technically, you did—and quietly added yet another serving to the growing collection he’d already consumed.

By now he’d finished one glass.

Then two.

Then three.

Now…four.

Under ordinary circumstances, four glasses of wine spread across an entire dinner might not have seemed particularly remarkable.

For Spencer Reid, it was becoming increasingly obvious.

A warm flush had spread across his cheeks, dusting the bridge of his nose with soft pink that somehow made him look several years younger. His posture remained perfectly straight, and his words retained the precise articulation that years of lecturing and endless reading had ingrained into him. If anything, he enunciated even more carefully than usual, each syllable pronounced with meticulous clarity. Spencer Reid, it seemed, was physically incapable of slurring his words.

Instead, he simply became significantly more talkative.

“Do you know,” he announced to absolutely no one in particular while thoughtfully examining his wineglass as though it were a fascinating scientific specimen, “that the average adult liver metabolizes approximately one standard alcoholic beverage per hour? Assuming average enzymatic activity and normal hepatic function, I’m currently operating at a significant biochemical disadvantage.”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, grinning so broadly it bordered on smug satisfaction.

“You drunk, pretty boy?”

Spencer looked genuinely offended by the suggestion.

“No.”

He paused.

Thought about it.

Then nodded once with complete seriousness.

“Probably.”

The table erupted into laughter.

Even Hotch lowered his gaze toward his plate to disguise the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You couldn’t help laughing too, though yours carried a distinct note of affection.

Spencer looked utterly adorable.

Hopelessly, undeniably adorable.

Across the table, however, Emily wasn’t laughing nearly as much.

She watched Spencer lift your glass instead of his own.

Again.

She watched you politely thank Rossi for every refill without drinking a single sip.

Again.

She watched Spencer volunteer to finish both glasses with increasingly enthusiastic determination.

Again.

Something about the evening refused to fit together.

Emily wasn’t quite sure what the answer was yet.

But she knew, with absolute certainty, that something wasn’t adding up.

***

By the time coffee replaced the wine, the evening had settled into that wonderfully unhurried stage that always followed one of Rossi’s dinners. Dessert plates had been pushed aside, empty bottles stood abandoned along the center of the table like evidence of a celebration well enjoyed, and the rich scent of freshly brewed espresso drifted through the dining room, mercifully replacing the overwhelming aroma of alcohol. Conversations had fractured into smaller ones, overlapping comfortably without anyone needing to follow every thread. Garcia and JJ were animatedly debating vacation destinations, Garcia insisting that every itinerary should be based entirely around bookstores and bakeries while JJ attempted, unsuccessfully, to convince her that beaches had their own merits. At the other end of the table, Morgan and Rossi had somehow wandered into a passionate disagreement over baseball statistics, each one accusing the other of remembering history incorrectly despite both sounding equally confident. Hotch sat quietly between them, one hand wrapped around his coffee cup, saying very little but wearing the faintest trace of amusement at the corners of his mouth as he watched the familiar chaos unfold around him.

Beside you, however, sat the true consequence of the evening.

Spencer Reid was undeniably drunk.

Not the loud, reckless kind of drunk that knocked over glasses or forgot people’s names. Spencer remained perfectly articulate. Every sentence emerged with the same impeccable diction he used while lecturing, every word carefully pronounced as though he were still delivering an academic presentation. If anything, the alcohol had only made him even more determined to enunciate correctly. His tie had been loosened somewhere between the second and third bottle, though neither of you remembered who had done it. His curls had escaped in every direction until they framed his flushed face in complete disarray. A warm blush stretched across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose, his eyes had taken on a dreamy softness you rarely saw, and he had developed the oddly adorable habit of pausing before every answer, nodding solemnly to himself as though consulting an invisible committee inside his own mind before reaching a unanimous decision.

Watching him was almost painfully endearing.

You couldn’t help smiling as your fingers found the middle of his back, rubbing slow, comforting circles through the fabric of his shirt.

“You okay?”

He turned toward you immediately, his entire face lighting up with such overwhelming affection that your heart threatened to melt on the spot.

“I love you.”

The words came so easily, so honestly, that several people around the table instinctively smiled.

You laughed quietly.

“I love you too.”

“No…” He shook his head with exaggerated seriousness, lifting one finger as though correcting an important scientific misconception. “I don’t think you understand the statistical magnitude of how much I love you.”

Morgan snorted into his coffee.

“Oh, this is priceless.”

Spencer didn’t even acknowledge him.

His complete attention remained fixed on you, his expression one of absolute sincerity as he searched painstakingly for the perfect description.

“You are…” He frowned thoughtfully, eyes drifting toward the ceiling for several long seconds before returning to you with visible satisfaction. “…my favorite person.”

Warmth spread through your chest so quickly it almost hurt.

God, he was going to destroy you.

“You’ve had enough wine,” you said gently, brushing one of his unruly curls away from his forehead.

“I have had…” He stopped speaking to count carefully on his fingers, restarting twice after apparently losing track somewhere around three. “…more wine than you.”

“Yes.”

He nodded proudly, pleased that you’d confirmed his calculation.

“Because you couldn’t.”

Every muscle in your body went rigid.

The smile disappeared from your face almost instantly.

“Spencer.”

He looked delighted with himself.

“I helped.”

Across the table, Emily glanced up from her coffee.

“So noble.”

“It was.” Spencer nodded once, completely accepting the compliment. “Because it’s a secret.”

Your stomach dropped so violently you were certain everyone could hear it.

Without thinking, you reached for his hand beneath the table, gently squeezing his fingers.

“Sweetheart—”

He leaned closer immediately, lowering his voice in what he clearly believed was an incredibly discreet whisper.

It wasn’t.

“We’re very good at secrets,” he confided with unmistakable pride.

The entire table continued talking.

No one seemed to notice.

Relief washed over you so suddenly you nearly laughed.

Then Spencer smiled thoughtfully, as though another important realization had just occurred to him.

“Although…”

Every instinct in your body screamed.

“Oh no.”

He looked around the entire table before announcing, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the dining room to hear with perfect clarity, “keeping a baby secret is significantly harder than I expected.”

Silence.

Morgan blinked once.

“A what?”

Garcia’s mouth slowly fell open.

JJ lowered her coffee cup so carefully it barely made a sound against the saucer.

At the far end of the table, Hotch’s eyes shifted from Spencer to you with the calm expression of a profiler mentally reorganizing every unusual observation he’d made over the previous several weeks: your sudden avoidance of coffee during morning meetings, Spencer’s increasingly protective behavior, the mysterious disappearances during cases to “find crackers,” the exhaustion, the nausea, the untouched wine.

Pieces quietly clicked into place.

Rossi simply stared.

His mouth opened slightly before closing again.

For perhaps the first time in anyone’s memory, David Rossi seemed completely incapable of finding words.

Emily, meanwhile, merely closed her eyes and a slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Oh,” she sighed, sounding more relieved than surprised. “I knew it.”

You buried your face in both hands.

“Spencer…”

He looked around the table with complete confusion, blinking at everyone’s expressions as though he genuinely couldn’t understand why the conversation had stopped.

“What?”

“You…” you whispered through your hands, shaking your head helplessly. “You just told them about our baby.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“I did?”

“Yes.”

A long pause.

He frowned thoughtfully.

“I wasn’t supposed to.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

He considered that information with remarkable seriousness, nodding slowly as though accepting constructive criticism.

For one suspended heartbeat, nobody moved.

Then Garcia exploded.

The delighted shriek that escaped her was so loud it probably startled every bird within a three-block radius. She launched herself out of her chair before anyone else had even processed what was happening, one hand already covering her mouth as tears filled her eyes.

“I can't believe it!” she squealed. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”

JJ was crying before she’d even reached you.

She wrapped her arms tightly around your shoulders, laughing and wiping away tears simultaneously.

“I am so happy for you,” she whispered.

Morgan shot to his feet with a bark of laughter, pointing triumphantly between the two of you.

“I knew something was going on!”

Emily looked at him flatly.

“You absolutely did not.”

“I suspected!”

She folded her arms.

“You spent the entire evening convinced Spencer had developed a drinking problem.”

Morgan hesitated.

“I was…close.”

Rossi finally recovered enough to laugh, a deep, warm laugh that echoed through the dining room as he crossed the room and pulled both you and Spencer into one of his characteristically overwhelming hugs.

“I’ve spent years trying to get this kid drunk,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief as he stepped back to look at Spencer with unmistakable affection. “Years.”

His eyes flickered toward you before returning to Spencer.

“I have to admit…”

He smiled.

“I didn’t expect this to be what finally loosened his tongue.”

Even Hotch stood.

He wasn’t particularly demonstrative, never had been, but the smile he offered the two of you was genuine enough to soften every sharp line in his face.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you leaned instinctively against Spencer’s shoulder, still half laughing and half hiding your burning face from everyone’s delighted attention.

Spencer looked down at you with sleepy affection, completely oblivious to the fact that he had single-handedly dismantled weeks of carefully orchestrated secrecy. He leaned over and pressed the gentlest kiss against the top of your head before sighing softly.

“I ruined the surprise.”

“You did.”

“I’m sorry.”

You looked up at him.

His expression was so genuinely remorseful, so heartbreakingly sincere despite the unmistakable haze of alcohol clouding his thoughts, that you couldn’t possibly stay embarrassed.

A smile spread across your face.

“I’ll forgive you.”

His eyes brightened immediately.

“You will?”

“Eventually.”

The relieved smile that followed was almost childlike.

“Good.”

He sat quietly for another few seconds, apparently satisfied that the crisis had been resolved.

Then he turned toward Rossi with complete seriousness.

“Can I have some water now?”

You know you're sick before your alarm even goes off.

Your throat feels like sandpaper. Your head feels stuffed with wet cotton. Every muscle in your body aches.

The second you open your eyes, you know there's absolutely no way you're making it into work.

So you call Hotch. The conversation lasts less than thirty seconds.

"You're sick."

"Very."

"Stay home."

And just like that, you're officially excused.

Normally you'd feel guilty. Today you're too miserable to manage it.

You drag yourself to the couch with a blanket, a box of tissues, and the vague intention of watching television.

You don't even make it through the opening credits before you fall asleep.

The next time you wake up, you're confused.

For a second, you're not entirely sure what pulled you out of sleep.

Then you hear it. A cabinet closing.

Your eyes snap open.

Someone is in your apartment.

You bolt upright immediately. Which is a mistake—the room spins, your head pounds.

Before you can even recover from the wave of dizziness, someone steps out from the kitchen.

Dark curls. A brown cardigan. A familiar face.

Relief crashes through you so hard your shoulders sag. "Fucking hell."

Spencer freezes halfway into the living room, a mug in one hand. "Sorry."

"You scared the hell out of me.”

"I knocked."

Your brain feels three seconds behind the conversation. "What?"

"I knocked." He frowns. "Several times.”

"Oh."

"Then I called."

Another blink.

Your phone is somewhere under the blanket. Maybe. Possibly in another dimension.

Spencer follows your gaze. "You didn't answer."

"Because I was asleep."

"Correct." His expression suggests this is the most obvious conclusion in the world.

You rub a hand over your face. The movement immediately makes your headache worse.

Everything hurts.

Your throat hurts. Your eyes hurt. Your hair somehow hurts.

"What are you doing here?" you ask.

Or at least, that's what you try to ask.

What actually comes out is a wrecked, gravelly croak. Spencer's eyebrows jump.

You clear your throat. Instant regret. The sensation feels like dragging broken glass over your vocal cords.

"What are you doing here?" you try again. Slightly more successful this time.

Spencer walks over and sets the mug down on the coffee table. "I came to take care of you."

You stare.

The statement is delivered with the same straightforward certainty he'd use to announce the weather.

"I texted the team this morning."

"I know."

"That doesn't usually require medical intervention."

His eyes narrow slightly. "You have a fever."

"How do you know that?"

"You told Garcia you had one."

Traitor.

You make a mental note to glare at her later.

Assuming you survive.

“I brought supplies."

Only then do you notice the bags sitting near the front door. Several bags. Way more bags than any sane person needs.

"What kind of supplies?" you ask.

"Soup.”

"Okay."

"Tea."

"Reasonable."

"Cough drops."

"Mhm."

"Electrolytes."

"Spencer."

"Two kinds of tissues because some brands are abrasive."

You snort. Instant mistake.

The laugh turns into a cough. Your chest burns. You double over into the blanket, coughing miserably.

Immediately Spencer is moving.

One second he's sitting across from you. The next he's beside the couch, holding out the mug he'd brought in.

"Slowly."

You take it with both hands.

The ceramic is warm against your fingers.

Tea. It smells like honey.

"Thank you."

Your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

Spencer's expression softens. Something gentle settles over his features. "You're welcome."

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

You sip the tea.

He watches carefully, like he's monitoring a particularly concerning science experiment.

Then a thought occurs to you.

A stupid thought. A fever-thought. Still, you can't stop yourself.

"You know," you mumble into the mug, "you really don't have to stay."

Spencer frowns. "What?"

"You hate germs." The words scrape painfully out of your throat. "You can just drop everything off and go."

For a second, he just looks at you. Then genuinely laughs. Not loudly. Just a quiet, surprised little huff.

"I don't hate germs."

"You carry hand sanitizer in every coat pocket."

"That's different."

"You once refused to touch a bowling ball."

"It was sticky."

"It was a bowling ball."

"It was a sticky bowling ball."

Despite yourself, you smile. Spencer shakes his head.

Then, before you can stop him, he reaches over and presses the back of his hand against your forehead.

You blink. "You're touching me."

His eyes flick up to yours. "You still have a fever."

"No, I mean you're actually touching me."

"I am aware."

You stare at him. He stares right back.

"You know I'm contagious, right?"

"Probably."

"Probably?"

"You have a fever, congestion, a sore throat, fatigue, and a cough. So, yes, you're contagious.”

You narrow your eyes. "Spencer."

"What?"

"You are voluntarily sitting next to Patient Zero."

A corner of his mouth twitches. "You're not Patient Zero."

"You know what I mean."

His hand lingers for another second before he finally pulls it away. "You think I'd leave because you have a cold?"

You look down into your tea.

The answer feels embarrassingly obvious.

Not because it's Spencer. Just because everyone has limits.

Because it's germs.

Because you've watched him sanitize his hands after touching gas station door handles.

Because you've seen him visibly recoil from sticky restaurant tables.

Because you've spent years listening to him explain contamination rates and transmission vectors and all the reasons people should really wash their hands more often.

You know how uncomfortable sickness makes him. Or at least, you thought you did.

And yet he's sitting beside you anyway. Close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

But it's not just the germs, either.

Being sick isn't exactly charming. Your hair is a mess. Your nose is red. You've spent half the day unconscious and the other half coughing up a lung.

“I promise it's okay,” Spencer says at your silence. “I've been exposed to worse things than your cold.”

You frown. "It's not just that," you admit quietly.

His head tilts. "What is it then?"

You stare at the tea in your lap. The steam curls lazily upward.

When you speak, your voice is rough. "I just figured you wouldn't want to be around me like this."

For a moment, the room goes quiet.

Spencer's expression changes. Something almost sad flickers across it. Like the thought genuinely bothers him.

"You called out of work."

"Yeah."

"You live alone."

"Yeah."

"You have a fever."

"Unfortunately."

"You fell asleep hard enough that someone entered your apartment and you didn't notice."

You frown. "When you list it like that, it sounds concerning."

"It is concerning."

"Spencer—"

"No." The word is surprisingly firm. His gaze stays locked on yours. "If you're sick, of course I want to be here.”

Something warm blooms in your chest, and it has absolutely nothing to do with fever.

You look away first. "You're being weirdly sweet.”

Spencer looks mildly offended. "I'm being a normal amount of sweet."

You let out a raspy laugh. "You broke into my apartment."

"I used the spare key."

"You brought enough supplies to survive a natural disaster."

"You have a fever."

"You made a special trip across town on your day off."

"You're sick."

You stare at him. He stares right back, completely serious. Like every single thing he's done today is the most obvious, logical response in the world.

Like there was never a possibility he wouldn't be here.

Something in your chest squeezes.

Spencer notices the shift in your expression immediately.

His features soften. "What?"

You shake your head. "Nothing."

"You look like you're about to cry."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm sick."

"That's not a denial."

You make a face at him.

Unfortunately, the face is ruined by the fact that your nose is completely stuffed and one eye keeps watering.

Spencer's mouth twitches. "You look ridiculous."

"Wow."

"And yet, you're still cute,” he says, leaning forward to press a kiss to your forehead.

For a second, you just stare at him.

Spencer's expression softens almost immediately. Like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

"Come here," he says quietly.

You laugh weakly. "Spence."

"What?"

"You literally just agreed I'm contagious."

"And?"

"And you're sitting way too close to me."

His eyebrows lift. "You say that like we've never shared air before."

"That's not the point."

"It seems like the point."

You groan. The sound turns into a cough almost immediately.

Spencer's expression immediately shifts from amused to concerned. "You should be resting."

"I am resting."

"You are arguing."

"You started it."

He rolls his eyes. Then, before you can say anything else, he shifts further down the couch and opens an arm.

An obvious invitation.

You stare at him. Then stare harder. "Spencer."

His mouth twitches. "Yes?"

"I'm sick."

"We’ve established this."

"You'll get sick."

"Maybe."

"You'll complain."

"I won't."

"You absolutely will."

"I'll survive."

You narrow your eyes. He waits. Patient and entirely unmoved.

Eventually your resolve crumbles. Mostly because you're exhausted. Partly because Spencer Reid is very difficult to argue with when he's looking at you like that.

You carefully set your tea down on the coffee table. The second you do, Spencer reaches for you. One arm wraps around your shoulders. The other settles across your waist, pulling you gently against him like he's been waiting all afternoon to do exactly that.

A sigh leaves you before you can stop it.

His cardigan is warm. His chest is warm. Everything about him is warm. The kind of warmth that settles into aching bones.

"There," Spencer murmurs.

You tuck your face into his shoulder. "You're impossible."

His lips brush your hair. "Probably."

"You better not blame me when you're sick next week."

"I won't."

"You say that now."

You feel his smile against the top of your head. His hand starts moving through your hair. Slow. Gentle. Familiar. The way he always does when you're stressed or tired or overwhelmed. The way he knows instantly relaxes you.

Your eyes begin drifting closed almost immediately.

"You know," you mumble sleepily, "I was actually trying to protect you."

"Mm."

"From my plague."

"You have a cold."

"It feels dramatic."

"You are dramatic."

A tired laugh escapes you.

Spencer's arm tightens slightly around your waist. Secure, protective, and comforting.

You can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

The television hums quietly in the background. His fingers continue combing through your hair. You are so warm. So comfortable. So unbelievably tired.

Right before sleep finally catches you, you feel Spencer press another kiss to your forehead.

This one lingers.

"You can take care of me when I get sick," he murmurs.

You smile against his shoulder. "Deal."

By the second semester, you know three things with absolute certainty.

First: Dr. Spencer Reid writes on whiteboards like he’s racing a clock only he can see.

Second: nobody voluntarily sits in the front row because it’s psychologically exhausting to be perceived by him for extended periods of time.

And third:

You are developing a deeply academic crush that is rapidly mutating into something clinically embarrassing.

The lecture hall hums softly around you with the sounds of backpacks unzipping and laptops waking from sleep. Rain taps against the high windows in restless little bursts, turning the late afternoon light silver at the edges.

At the front of the room, Dr. Reid is already halfway through uncapping three different markers at once.

He’s wearing a charcoal cardigan today.

You notice because of course you do.

Not in a normal way, either.

In the kind of way where your brain stores the information carefully like it might appear on an exam later.

“Statistically,” he says without turning around, “most people remember information better when there’s contextual novelty attached to it, which is why you all remember where you were during emotionally significant events but not what you ate last Tuesday.”

A beat.

Then he glances back toward the class.

“Unless it was tacos. People tend to remember tacos.”

A few students laugh.

You do too, unfortunately loud enough that his eyes flick toward you automatically.

There it is.

That tiny spark of recognition.

Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just enough to say I know you.

Which is worse.

Much, much worse.

Because you’ve taken two semesters with him now. You go to office hours. You answer questions when nobody else will. Once, during your first class, you made an offhand comment about eidetic memory research and his entire face lit up like someone plugged sunlight directly into the national power grid.

Since then, you’ve been doomed.

Utterly doomed.

You try to focus on the lecture.

Really.

You do.

But Dr. Reid teaches like a man accidentally possessed by forty-seven documentaries and an anxiety disorder. He paces when he gets excited. His hands move constantly while he talks, long fingers stained faintly with marker ink. He veers off-topic in fascinating directions and then somehow circles perfectly back without notes.

It should not be attractive.

And yet.

Here you are.

Again.

Second semester.

Same problem.

Maybe worse.

“Now, if we look at the correlation between environmental instability and cognitive adaptation,” Dr. Reid continues, already turning back toward the board before the class has fully caught up, “there’s a measurable increase in hypervigilant pattern recognition in subjects exposed to inconsistent formative environments, which sounds complicated but is actually just your brain becoming an overachieving raccoon.”

Marker squeaks across the whiteboard in frantic slanted lines.

His handwriting is terrible.

Not objectively unreadable, exactly. More like every word is trying to outrun the next one. Sharp angles, crowded letters, arrows shoved into margins as though his thoughts physically cannot remain in a straight line.

You stare at it anyway.

Fondly.

Which feels like a personal failing.

He writes faster as he talks, cardigan pulling slightly across his shoulders when he reaches higher on the board. One sleeve has ridden up near his wrist, exposing the thin line of his watch and a faint smudge of ink against his skin.

You should be taking notes.

Instead, your brain is busy cataloging details like you'll be taking a quiz on his anatomy.

Then he steps sideways to underline something, and your gaze drops completely against your will.

Oh no.

Oh, that’s unfortunate.

Because apparently Dr. Spencer Reid has a nice ass.

Not in a dramatic way.

Not in a “male model carved from marble” way.

Just… unfairly nice for a man who spends most of his time talking about psychology and forgetting to eat lunch.

The slacks help.

Which feels hostile, honestly.

You blink hard and jerk your attention back to your laptop with the violent internal energy of someone trying to slam shut fifty browser tabs at once.

Focus.

Academic environment.

You are a serious student.

A serious student who absolutely did not just spend several seconds staring at her professor’s ass while he explained trauma responses.

Jesus Christ.

“Repeated exposure to unpredictability,” he says, still writing, “can create compensatory behaviors centered around control, organization, or information gathering.”

A few tired chuckles.

Then the clock clicks over.

Immediate chaos.

The lecture hall empties like someone pulled a drain plug.

Students flood toward the exits in clusters of conversation and damp jackets, the noise swelling briefly before dissolving into the hallway outside. Within less than a minute, the room goes from crowded to echoing.

You stay seated.

Not intentionally.

At least that’s what you tell yourself.

Your laptop suddenly needs to be shut very carefully. Your charger has apparently tangled itself into a knot requiring advanced engineering. Your pens must be arranged with the precision of ceremonial artifacts.

At the front of the room, another student has stopped to ask Dr. Reid something about the midterm.

You try not to stare while pretending not to listen.

It’s difficult.

Because listening to Spencer Reid explain things is like accidentally falling into a Wikipedia rabbit hole narrated by a very pretty insomniac.

“…the issue isn’t the terminology,” he’s saying, already rifling through papers again while the student nods along. “It’s application. Most people can memorize diagnostic criteria. The harder part is recognizing behavioral variance in context.”

His sleeve slips down slightly as he gestures, revealing ink smudged along the side of his hand again.

God.

You wonder briefly if there’s a psychological term for being attracted to a man who looks like he's constantly five minutes away from a lecture.

Probably.

He’d know it.

The student thanks him and heads out, disappearing into the hallway with everyone else until suddenly it’s just—

You.

And him.

The room feels different when it empties.

Too large. Too quiet.

Rain patters softly against the windows.

Dr. Reid glances up from stacking his notes, clearly registering your continued existence only now. “Oh, you're still here. Perfect.”

Your stomach drops so fast it’s honestly impressive.

Perfect?

There is no version of “perfect” that has ever ended calmly for a student being addressed by a professor after class.

Your brain immediately begins cycling through possibilities at medically concerning speed.

You plagiarized accidentally somehow.

You cited the wrong edition.

You hallucinated an entire journal article in APA format.

You’ve been academically excommunicated.

“Me?” you say brilliantly.

Dr. Reid blinks once. “Yes?”

Excellent start.

You shove your charger into your bag and stand quickly enough that your chair squeaks against the floor.

The sound echoes.

Violently.

You briefly consider walking directly into the rain and starting a new life elsewhere.

Instead, you manage a strained little, “Sorry. Uh. Yeah. What’s up?”

Dr. Reid gathers a few loose papers into a stack before pulling one free.

Your paper.

You recognize the bent corner immediately because you spent three straight hours staring at it last weekend in a caffeine-induced fugue state.

“I finally finished reading these last night,” he says, tapping the packet lightly. “Your section on adaptive masking behaviors was particularly good.”

The panic in your bloodstream stutters awkwardly. “…good?”

“Yes.” He looks faintly surprised by your surprise. “Very good, actually.”

There’s something deeply unfair about receiving praise from Spencer Reid specifically. He says things too earnestly. No performance to it. No academic politeness. Just direct sincerity delivered with terrifying eye contact.

You feel your nervous system fold like cheap lawn furniture.

“You made an interesting connection between hypervigilance and social mirroring,” he continues, flipping through the pages. “Most students approached the assignment from a purely diagnostic perspective, but you framed it as a survival adaptation first, which is considerably more accurate.”

Your heart does an embarrassing little cartwheel.

Because this is the problem.

Not just that he’s attractive.

It’s that every time he talks to you, it feels like he’s opening a secret door in your ribcage and switching on all the lights.

“Oh,” you manage intelligently. “Thanks.”

“And your question here.” He points suddenly to a paragraph halfway down the page. “About whether prolonged masking eventually alters baseline identity perception?”

You nod slowly.

He looks delighted.

Actually delighted.

Like you handed him a particularly interesting puzzle and not a half-panicked essay written at two in the morning while eating stale pretzels.

“That’s the kind of question people usually don’t ask until graduate-level behavioral analysis,” he says. “There’s still ongoing debate about it, especially regarding prolonged trauma adaptation and identity diffusion.”

You try very hard to remain normal about the fact that Spencer Reid is complimenting your intelligence in an empty lecture hall while rain taps softly against the windows like a movie determined to make things worse for you personally.

“Most current models oversimplify the distinction between performed identity and integrated identity,” he continues, already slipping fully into Lecture Mode again. “Humans are actually much more context-dependent than people like to admit. Personality isn’t nearly as fixed as we pretend it is.”

He flips another page absentmindedly.

“You also cited Dr. Nakamura’s 2018 paper, which almost nobody finds unless they’re specifically looking for it.”

Your mouth opens before your brain catches up.

“…you noticed my citations?”

Dr. Reid looks up.

There’s a tiny crease between his brows now, confused in the gentlest way possible. “Of course I noticed your citations.”

Well.

That’s going to live in your skull forever now.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like naturally he paid attention. Like naturally he read your work closely enough to recognize specific research choices.

Meanwhile you’re trying not to ascend directly out of your body.

“You’re one of the strongest writers in the class,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Your arguments are usually more structurally complex than your peers’, even when you seem unsure of them.”

The room abruptly feels too warm.

You grip the strap of your bag tighter. “I didn’t know you thought that.”

Because there’s something unbearably intimate about being understood academically by someone you admire. It feels dangerously adjacent to being seen naked. Like he’s looking directly at the shape of your thoughts with careful hands.

Dr. Reid glances back down at your paper again, seemingly unaware he’s currently causing neurological events.

“I did mark a few places where your transitions got rushed,” he says, pulling a pen from behind his ear. “Mostly because I think you were thinking faster than you could physically write.”

You laugh softly before you can stop yourself. “That does happen.”

“Yes,” he says immediately, almost too quickly. “I know.”

Silence.

Tiny.

Strange.

His expression shifts a fraction afterward, like maybe he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Rain rattles softly against the windows again.

And suddenly you become acutely aware that you are alone with Spencer Reid in an empty lecture hall while he holds your paper like it’s something fragile.

Dangerous situation, truly.

Then he uncaps the pen and scribbles something quickly across the last page.

His handwriting slants wildly across the margin.

Fast. Crowded. Ink-smudged.

You watch his hand move despite yourself.

When he finishes, he folds the packet once and offers it back to you.

“There,” he says. “I added a few additional reading recommendations if you want them.”

You step forward to take it, fingers brushing briefly against his.

Electricity.

Actual cinematic electricity.

You almost drop the paper.

Humiliating.

“Thanks,” you say, quieter now.

“Mhm.”

But he doesn’t let go immediately.

Not enough to mean something.

Just enough to notice.

Then he seems to catch himself and releases the pages all at once, clearing his throat lightly before stepping back toward the desk.

You look down automatically.

At the bottom of the final page, beneath a cluster of notes and arrows and recommended articles, he’s signed off absentmindedly in cramped blue ink.

Excellent work here. Keep pushing this line of thought.

I think you’re asking the right questions.

— I remain yours sincerely,

Spencer Reid, PhD

Your pulse trips over itself.

Because who signs feedback like that?

Who writes I remain yours sincerely like a Shakespearean poet accidentally trapped in modern academia?

And worse:

Why does it make your stomach feel like it just fell down an elevator shaft?

The walk back to your apartment is a blur of rainwater, campus lights, and psychological deterioration.

Your umbrella keeps tilting sideways in the wind.

You barely notice.

Because every functioning part of your brain is currently occupied by one singular, catastrophic detail:

I remain yours sincerely.

Who writes that.

You clutch the paper tighter inside your bag every time the rain picks up, irrationally terrified the ink might smear. Which feels insane. Deeply insane. The behavior of a woman one inconvenience away from being studied in a laboratory.

By the time you get home, your shoes are damp, your hair is frizzing at the edges, and your nervous system is fried.

You lock the apartment door behind you and immediately pull the paper back out.

Like an addict.

Like a widow rereading war letters.

“Oh, this is bad,” you mutter to yourself.

Your apartment offers no judgment. Just soft lamplight and the hum of the refrigerator and rain whispering against the windows.

You drop your bag onto the couch.

Then sit at the kitchen table with the paper spread carefully in front of you.

You read the signature again.

And again.

And then, because apparently humiliation is now a recreational activity, you trace the letters lightly with your thumb.

Spencer Reid, PhD.

The ink catches faintly against the pad of your finger where he pressed harder on certain strokes. You can almost see the speed of him in it. The impatience. The intelligence outrunning the mechanics of handwriting.

God. You're so weird. You're unhinged. You're obsessed.

Your phone buzzes with a text from your friend Maya.

did u survive reid’s lecture or did he accidentally make eye contact and kill you instantly

You stare at the message for a long moment before replying:

worse

Three dots appear immediately.

what happened

You look down at the paper again.

At the stupid signature.

At the devastating little yours.

Then, against every survival instinct evolution ever gifted humanity, you take a picture of the bottom half of the page and send it.

There’s a full thirty seconds of silence.

Then:

OH YOU ARE DOWN HORRENDOUS

You groan aloud and drop your forehead directly onto the table.

The phone buzzes again.

“I remain yours sincerely”????? WHAT IS HE A PROFESSOR OR A MAN WRITING YOU FROM THE CRIMEAN WAR

Another buzz.

he wants u biblically

“HE DOES NOT,” you say aloud to the empty apartment, scandalized.

Your phone immediately lights up again.

u kept the paper though didnt u

You freeze.

Slowly, guiltily, your eyes drift toward your desk drawer.

Because inside that drawer already sits: one graded response paper, two annotated reading packets, and a sticky note from three weeks ago where Dr. Reid had written:

Your interpretation here is excellent. Come see me during office hours if you want to discuss further.

The sticky note currently lives tucked inside your favorite book like a pressed flower.

You close your eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper to yourself.

Another text arrives.

DID U KEEP THE PAPER

You type back:

not officially

Maya responds instantly.

that is the most incriminating answer ive ever heard

You abandon the conversation entirely and toss your phone onto the couch before she can escalate further.

Then you sit there alone for a moment.

Quiet apartment. Rain outside. Spencer Reid’s handwriting beneath your fingertips.

The thing is, you know this crush is ridiculous.

He’s your professor. Technically not even that much older than you, but enough that it matters. Enough that your brain keeps trying to file this under impossible and failing spectacularly every single time he looks at you like your thoughts are worth listening to.

That’s the real problem.

Not the cardigan.

Not the hands.

Not even the objectively offensive existence of that signature.

It’s the attention.

The terrifying sincerity of it.

Spencer Reid listens to you like he’s carefully placing your words somewhere safe.

And you don’t think anyone has ever done that before.

Your chest aches unexpectedly at the thought.

Too honest.

Too close to something real.

You exhale slowly and pick the paper up again, intending to finally put it away somewhere normal and reasonable.

Instead, your gaze catches on the folded edge of your clear phone case sitting beside you on the table.

No.

Absolutely not.

You stare at it.

Then at the paper.

Then back at the phone.

“This would be a humiliating choice,” you inform yourself firmly.

Silence.

Rain taps softly against the windows.

Five minutes later, you are sitting on your couch with Spencer Reid’s signature folded carefully behind your phone.

You look at it through the clear plastic.

Immediate stomach flip.

“Oh, you absolute loser,” you whisper to yourself.

But unfortunately:

you’re smiling.

By the time midterms crawl across campus like a biblical plague, your situation has not improved.

If anything, it’s evolved.

Dangerously.

Because now there is routine.

Now there are office hours conversations that accidentally become forty-five minutes long. Now there are moments where Dr. Reid pauses to ask, “You read the article I mentioned, right?” already knowing the answer before you nod.

Now there are tiny things.

Tiny, lethal things.

The way he automatically hands you printed articles first when passing materials down the row. The way his face brightens with visible recognition every time you speak in class. The way he says your name like he enjoys the shape of it.

It’s become less like a crush and more like being slowly haunted.

Which is why remaining after lecture today feels less unusual than it probably should.

You don’t mean to time it like this.

It just… happens.

The room empties in that familiar way, like the building exhales and forgets to inhale again. Chairs scrape. Jackets zip. Someone laughs too loudly in the hallway like they’re trying to prove they’re still human after all that thinking.

And then it’s just you again, hovering at the edge of the aisle with your notebook pressed a little too tightly to your chest.

Dr. Reid is still at the whiteboard.

Erasing.

Relentless little motions. Wrist flicking. Chalk dust or marker residue or whatever ghosts lectures leave behind drifting faintly in the air. His cardigan is pushed up at the elbows now, like it’s given up on behaving properly.

He doesn’t look over immediately.

Which, somehow, makes it worse.

Because you’ve started to associate his attention with a kind of internal weather shift. Like the room tilts slightly toward you when he notices you’re there.

You clear your throat.

Soft. Careful.

“Dr. Reid?”

The eraser pauses mid-swipe.

Then stops completely.

He turns.

And there it is.

That subtle recalibration. Like a radio finding your frequency without meaning to.

“Oh,” he says. Not surprised exactly. Just… pleased in a quiet way that feels too personal to name. “You’re still here again.”

Again.

Like it’s a pattern he’s noticed.

Like he’s been waiting for it.

You nod, suddenly hyper-aware of your hands, your posture, your entire existence. “Yeah. I had a question about today’s lecture.”

“Of course.” He sets the eraser down on the ledge beneath the board and steps away from it fully now, giving you his attention like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What about it?”

Your brain, traitorous thing that it is, briefly offers you ten different ways to phrase this more intelligently.

None of them survive the trip to your mouth.

“It was about emotional responses,” you say. “Like… how people react differently to the same stimulus depending on context and prior experience.”

He nods slowly, like he’s already tracing where this is going.

You continue anyway, because stopping now would be suspicious and also physically impossible.

“You said something about adaptation shaping perception. And I was thinking about whether emotional responses can… overwrite themselves? Like, if enough context builds up, does the original reaction still matter, or does it get replaced entirely?”

Dr. Reid tilts his head slightly, studying you the way he studies everything he respects—carefully, like it might shift if he blinks wrong.

“That’s a more complicated question than it sounds like you intended it to be,” he says gently.

Your stomach drops.

“Sorry,” you start immediately. “I didn’t mean— I just meant like in general, not—”

“No.” He interrupts softly. Not sharp. Just steady. “Don’t apologize. It’s a good question.”

That does something unfortunate to your nervous system.

He takes a step closer to his desk, resting one hand lightly on it as if anchoring himself to the conversation.

“So the original response doesn’t disappear. It becomes less accessible, or it gets reframed by later experiences. But it’s still there. Just… quieter.”

You nod slowly, trying to keep up.

“That’s why certain triggers can feel disproportionate,” he adds. “They’re not creating a new reaction. They’re reopening an old one that’s been reorganized over time.”

Something about the way he says it makes it feel less like psychology and more like confession, even though it absolutely isn’t.

You swallow.

“That makes it sound like nothing ever really goes away,” you say quietly.

A beat.

Dr. Reid looks at you a little more directly now.

“It doesn’t,” he says. Simple. Certain. Then, softer: “But that doesn’t mean it stays the same.”

The room feels warmer again.

Or maybe that’s just you.

You glance down at your notebook like it suddenly contains emergency instructions for being normal.

“Right,” you manage. “That makes sense.”

It doesn’t feel like it makes sense. It feels like it rearranged something in your chest and didn’t bother explaining itself.

Dr. Reid pushes off the desk slightly, as if the intensity of the moment has to be gently contained.

Then, almost like an afterthought, he adds, “Is that what you were thinking about specifically? Or was there another angle?”

There it is again.

That attention.

Patient. Open. Not assuming you’re wasting his time.

You hesitate.

Because the truth is more dangerous than the question.

But you’ve never been very good at leaving things unasked.

“I guess I was wondering,” you say slowly, “if people can… respond emotionally to something they intellectually understand isn’t rational.”

Dr. Reid stills for half a second.

Not much. Most people wouldn’t notice.

But you’ve started noticing everything.

“That happens frequently,” he says after a moment.

Your grip tightens on your notebook.

“Even when they know better?”

His gaze flickers briefly toward you again. Sharper now. Not unkind. Just… more precise.

“Yes,” he says. “Especially then.”

A quiet beat stretches between you.

Too quiet.

Your pulse has started doing strange, uneven things against your ribs, every instinct in your body suddenly screaming that this conversation has drifted dangerously close to something exposed.

Because the problem with Spencer Reid is that he listens too carefully.

Most people let things slide past them. Most people hear the shape of a sentence and move on.

Dr. Reid hears the fracture lines underneath it.

And right now you’re increasingly certain he’s standing one follow-up question away from watching you spontaneously combust in front of the behavioral sciences department.

You tighten your grip on your notebook hard enough to bend the edge slightly.

“Right,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Okay. That actually answered my question, so I should probably—”

You gesture vaguely toward the door.

Toward freedom.

Toward escape.

Toward literally anywhere that is not this room with this man looking at you like he’s trying to solve something.

But Dr. Reid’s expression shifts faintly before you can move.

Concern.

Not suspicion. Somehow worse.

“Are you alright?”

There’s no accusation in it. Just immediate attentiveness.

Which unfortunately makes panic bloom hotter in your chest.

“Yep.” The word arrives at terminal velocity. “Absolutely. Totally fine.”

You are speaking with the cadence of someone being held hostage by her own nervous system.

His brows pull together slightly. “You seem anxious.”

“Well,” you laugh weakly, “I think that’s sort of my baseline.”

Wrong choice.

Because that earns the smallest flicker of a smile from him.

Soft. Brief. Real.

It hits you directly in the bloodstream.

You need to leave immediately.

“I just remembered I have to…” You motion uselessly with one hand. “Do something.”

Brilliant.

Academic titan.

Dr. Reid opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else, and that tiny moment of anticipation detonates pure survival instinct in your chest.

“Anyway!” you blurt. “Thanks for answering my question. Sorry. Again. I’m gonna go.”

You turn too fast.

Your bag catches against the side of a chair.

The strap yanks violently sideways, dragging the chair with it in one catastrophic scrape against the floor.

You stumble trying to untangle yourself, notebook slipping from your grasp entirely.

Papers explode everywhere.

For one suspended second, the universe goes completely still.

Then Dr. Reid moves instantly.

“Oh, here—”

You both crouch at the exact same time.

Of course you do.

Naturally.

Because God is dead and this is apparently funny to the universe.

Your foreheads nearly collide.

You jerk backward so abruptly you lose balance a second time, catching yourself with one hand against the floor while loose papers scatter farther beneath the desks.

“I’m so sorry,” you say immediately, horrified.

But that's not the end of the torture. Because why would it be? Why would the universe and whatever forces rule it let you get out of this embarrassment that easily?

Your phone.

No.

No, no, no.

Time slows with cinematic cruelty.

The device must have slipped from your bag when the strap caught the chair. The clear case popped loose on impact, skidding separately across the floor.

And there, face-up beside the phone itself like evidence submitted directly to a court of law—

his signature.

And Dr. Reid is staring directly at it.

There’s no plausible explanation for this.

None.

You cannot even pretend it’s accidental.

Who accidentally stores a professor’s signed feedback inside their phone case?

No one, that's who. Just you.

Your soul begins exiting your body through your ears.

Don’t panic, your brain says uselessly, while panic fully consumes the landscape.

Dr. Reid reaches for the paper slowly.

You want the floor to open and swallow you whole like a tectonic event.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Dr. Reid looks at the note for one suspended second longer.

Then another.

His expression changes in tiny increments you only notice because you’ve spent months studying him with the intensity of a graduate thesis.

Recognition.

Confusion.

Realization.

And then something else. Something softer. Something that makes your pulse stumble violently against your ribs.

Very slowly, he lifts his eyes to yours.

You have never known true psychological horror until this moment.

“I can explain,” you blurt immediately.

Can you?

Absolutely not.

But the sentence launches itself out of your mouth anyway with all the grace of a car accident.

Dr. Reid’s brows lift slightly. “You can?”

“No,” you say honestly. “Actually, not in a way that helps me.”

Excellent.

Wonderful.

You briefly consider faking your death.

He glances back down at the paper again, thumb resting lightly near the edge where the fold has started softening from use.

And then, very softly:

“You kept it.”

Not teasing.

Not judgmental.

Which almost makes it harder.

Heat floods violently into your face.

“This was,” you say immediately, “so much less creepy in my head.”

A tiny crease appears between his brows like he’s trying not to smile.

“I didn’t say it was creepy.”

“It’s objectively creepy.”

“I don’t think objectively means what you want it to mean there.”

“That’s worse somehow.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Actually twitches.

You stare at him in horror.

“Please don’t laugh at me,” you whisper.

“I’m not laughing at you.”

“You’re visibly experiencing amusement.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It absolutely is.”

The smile threatens again, smaller this time, restrained at the edges like he doesn’t fully trust himself with it.

And then, disastrously, his gaze drops once more to the signature.

His own handwriting.

His own absurdly formal sign-off.

When he speaks again, there’s something almost embarrassed threaded through his voice now.

“In fairness,” he says, “I probably shouldn’t have written ‘I remain yours sincerely.’”

You make a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and cardiac arrest. “No, you really shouldn’t have.”

“I wasn’t thinking about how that sounded.”

“That somehow feels less reassuring.”

His eyes flick back to yours then.

Warm amber under fluorescent lights. Too attentive. Too intelligent.

“But you noticed it,” he says quietly.

There’s no ego in the statement.

Just observation.

You swallow hard.

“Yes.”

The room goes still around the answer.

Not awkward exactly.

Just aware.

Dr. Reid looks down briefly, almost thoughtful, before carefully placing the paper back atop your fallen notebook instead of immediately handing it over.

“You know,” he says after a moment, “historically, formal academic correspondence used possessive sign-offs fairly often.”

You stare at him.

“Are you trying to academically explain away my crush on you right now?”

The sentence escapes before you can stop it.

Silence detonates instantly afterward.

Your entire nervous system flatlines.

Because you did not mean to say that.

You meant to think it privately and then carry the shame forever.

Dr. Reid goes completely still.

His lips part slightly like his brain lost the next page of the script.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, staring at the floor. “Forget I said that.”

But the problem with Spencer Reid has always been this:

he never ignores important things.

And when you finally force yourself to look back up, he’s watching you with an expression so carefully controlled it almost hurts to see.

“You have a crush on me,” he says.

Not mocking.

Not smug.

Honestly, he sounds more astonished than anything else.

You squeeze your eyes shut briefly. “I am asking respectfully for the earth to open beneath me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer I currently have.”

You expect discomfort.

Distance.

Professional correction.

Instead, Dr. Reid exhales softly through his nose and sits back slightly against the leg of a desk beside him, still crouched across from you among scattered papers and your exploded dignity.

And then, to your complete horror, he says:

“I thought there was a possibility.”

Your head snaps up.

“What?”

A faint flush has appeared high on his cheekbones now.

Tiny. Visible.

It rearranges the architecture of your entire universe.

“You’re very attentive to me,” he says carefully.

You choke immediately. “I need you to stop observing things.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“You’re a behavioral analyst. This is abuse of power.”

That almost earns another smile.

Almost.

“But I wasn’t sure,” he continues more quietly. “And I didn’t want to assume something that would make you uncomfortable.”

You stare at him.

“You noticed,” you say faintly.

Dr. Reid tilts his head a little.

“You keep every note I give you.”

Well.

When he says it out loud like that, it sounds medically concerning.

“I didn’t think you knew that.”

“I didn’t,” he admits. “Not conclusively.”

His gaze flickers briefly toward the paper beside your phone.

“I do now.”

You cover your face with one hand.

“This is the worst day of my life.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“That’s because you’re not experiencing it from inside my body.”

A pause.

Then, very gently:

“No,” he says. “I don’t think I am.”

Something changes in the room after that.

Tiny shift. Tectonic consequence.

The humor softens at the edges, leaving behind something quieter. Something breathing carefully between the two of you.

Dr. Reid reaches down first, gathering the scattered pages into a neater stack before offering them back to you properly this time.

Your fingers brush again.

And this time neither of you jerks away immediately.

It lasts maybe half a second longer than it should.

Enough to feel intentional.

Enough to ruin you permanently.

His eyes lift to yours again, thoughtful in that dangerous way he gets when he’s turning something over carefully in his mind.

“You know,” he says slowly, “there are ethical complications here.”

You let out a startled laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

His fingers tap once against the edge of the paper still resting between you.

“You’re my student.”

The words land carefully. Reluctantly.

Like he hates them a little.

“Which means,” he continues, “that regardless of how I feel about this conversation, there are boundaries I’m responsible for maintaining.”

Your pulse stumbles.

Regardless of how I feel about this conversation.

That’s the moment the floor drops out from under you.

Because that’s not rejection.

It’s worse.

It’s possibility wearing a seatbelt.

“But there are also only six weeks left in the semester.”

Your breath catches.

The words land between you with astonishing softness.

Not a proposition.

Not quite.

Just a door left cracked open in the dark.

Dr. Reid seems to realize exactly how that sounded one second after saying it, because a flicker of alarm crosses his face immediately afterward.

“I’m not implying,” he starts quickly. “I mean, I am implying something, technically, but not inappropriately. I just meant that institutional boundaries are temporary in specific contexts and I thought transparency was preferable to pretending I hadn’t noticed the situation and now I’m explaining this badly.”

You stare at him.

Then laugh suddenly.

Not nervous this time.

Real.

Because Spencer Reid, genius profiler, has gone visibly flustered sitting on the floor of his own lecture hall.

The sound seems to catch him off guard.

His shoulders loosen a fraction.

And for the first time since this catastrophe began, the panic ebbs enough for something else to bloom beneath it.

Something warm.

“I… I can wait six weeks,” you say softly.

Spencer’s smile is small enough that someone else might have missed it entirely.

You don’t.

Because of course you don’t.

It changes him in tiny ways. Softens the sharp concentration he usually wears like armor. Pulls warmth into his face until he looks less like Dr. Spencer Reid, terrifyingly intelligent guest lecturer, and more like a man trying very hard not to look too happy about something.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Then, after the smallest pause:

“Good.”

"good morning, spence !"

when you entered the tiny kitchenette space to make your ritualistic daily coffee, your voice sounded cheerful. oat milk, lots of ice and a dash of vanilla syrup. iced latte was your fuel, and spencer didn't need to turn around to see look. he knew the way you liked it by heart like a catchy melody stuck in his head. he felt your presence in the room before you even spoke.

the lack of reaction made you frown when no one greeted you in return.

"morning," he answered simply. his hair looked particularly soft and ridiculously good in the way he'd decided to style it today - brushed back, curls rebelling agaisnt gravity - but you wished he'd turn around to hand you your mug. just like he always did.

today, he didn't.

the ice cubes hit the bottom of the glass and clinked, highlighting the unusual silence stretching between you. his shoulders looked slumped from behind, and you couldn't help but crane your neck to look over his tall figure.

it wasnt coffee he was drinking.

in his personal labeled mug, the one that had its spot on the shelf next to yours for convenience and unspoken rules - the first one to arrive makes coffee for two - was some sort of sloshy, pale mixture.

"holy fuck, what is that thing ?" you exclaimed in a voice too high for his sensitive self. too early to be the center of attention, too.

"nothing. i mean it isn't nothing, but it's nothing important"

judging by the knot your brows formed, he could tell you'd never accept to drop the subject.

"i have my fitness test this afternoon, i got the email last week and... i don't know, i guess it's not exactly a moment i look forward to."

"oh... none of us do, really."

your answer is simple, not inconsiderate. he knows you too well to be sure the latter would've included an eye roll and some giggling.

you move to the tiny fridge to find the bottle of oat milk kept on the top shelf, and feel the need to break the silence. "and drinking vomit is the best form of suicide you came up with ? babe, you could've made it work with the toaster"

there it is, the confirmation. you don't take him seriously, never have and probably never will.

"it's not vomit !" he retorts, crossing his arms to show how offensed he was. "it's a shake. with fruits and stuff... and protein as well"

by the sudden tilt of your head, lips parting and hand stilling mid pour, spencer felt his cheeks burn.

"they're full of micronutrients and can provide an energy boost, especially in the morning which is great for-"

"i know what a smoothie is, reid."

he looks down bashfully. “of course you do… i’ll let you have the space”

taking a couple steps to the right to give you the privilege of having the counter space, the conversation quietens when he sees you stare, dumbfounded and curious.

“this isn’t you.” you say in matter of factly tone. nothing is easier than knowing him. “you hate cold drinks…”

even coffee, actually. your beloved ice cubes you luckily always find in the freezer don’t interest him. and even though he’d never tell you he’s the one to refill the mold behind your back, he’d rather drink the coffee scalding hot.

“i do, but morgan recommended it.“

you sigh, rolling your eyes. “of course he did. what for, you know you could run backwards and the bureau would still keep you. you’re an asset to our team”

the little dimples of his you love so much make an appearance under the neon lights of the kitchenette, and you decide to keep going.

“morgan is just a cocky flirt.” your arms cross, droplets of condensation forming on the outside of the glass.

“aaaaand if you want my opinion, he’s probably suffering from some undiagnosed bigorexia. which to be honest, is really common in men”

not spencer, though. never spencer.

instead he shifts on his feet, and the distance between you seems like too much as a tight feeling in your chest urges you to protect him from all external forces.

“it’s not exactly like he forced me to do anything.” he retorts under his breath.

“i just think maybe… maybe i could put on some muscle. to be more efficient on the field.”

but his eyes are soft.

his eyes are soft as he opens up to you, the only person who ever listened. his slender fingers linger next to you, on the handle of the utensils drawer, and he looks like an absolute dream without even realising it.

when every breath and step he takes nearly undo you, how on earth could he possibly think he’s not enough.

“you’re perfect.”

those oh so perfect brown eyes look up and you melt.

“coffee is too good to be replaced with a bland protein shake you don’t even like. and you get too cranky when you’re lacking caffeine.”

it all comes to you naturally, too naturally. the reassuring words. the protective feelings when it comes to your beloved colleague.

“you hate exercise and there’s not a single reason why you should force yourself to do something you don’t enjoy for the purpose of changing yourself. it’s silly.”

swiftly you grab the handle of the mug with one hand and flick his forehed with the other.

"ouch- hey !" he exclaims in a high pitched voice. "what's that for ?"

“bringing you back down to earth. seriously,” the first sip you take is cool, the ice slightly melted already. “it’s not worth it.“

seconds pass before he actually says something, rubbing the spot you just hurt to make you feel bad about it.

now, his eyes find yours again. it doesn’t take a trained profiler to notice the change of posture.

“it does sound stupid when you say it like that…” he admits, chin higher and lips pursed.

you laugh, a full on burst of laughter at his self awareness.

“because it is. it’s so- unlike you.”

quieter, the sound of his chuckles mimic you. something warm contrasting with the iced drink you sip on.

“it’s not. i’m actually dying for a chocolate donut right now.”

this isn’t who he is.

the guy who cares about his physique more than anything and bends to society’s expectations. and amongst the false excuses he made and lies he tried to give you, you saw the truth immediately.

spencer is spencer. the guy who likes his coffee black with a donut on the side and calls it breakfast. he knows how you like your coffee and trades the opportunity to sleep in for more time with you in the morning.

The renaissance faire sprawls across the park in ribbons of color and noise.

Fabric banners snap overhead in the wind. Children race past with wooden swords. Somewhere nearby, someone is playing a flute with the confidence of a man who has never once feared public humiliation.

The entire place smells like cinnamon almonds, leather, trampled grass, and smoke from roasting meat.

Spencer Reid stands in the middle of it looking deeply unconvinced by existence.

Not by the faire itself.

By the crowds.

There are too many people packed too closely together, too many overlapping voices colliding in his ears. Bright colors flash in his peripheral vision every few seconds. A woman dressed as a queen just walked past carrying an enormous turkey leg like a medieval warlord.

He adjusts the strap of his satchel higher onto his shoulder and checks his phone again.

No new texts from Garcia.

Which means he is still technically waiting.

The BAU is in town on a case. A local victim was last seen at the renaissance festival two nights ago, and while the team splits up to follow leads, Garcia had sent Spencer to confirm whether a specific vendor sold rare antique books to attendees.

Simple.

Straightforward.

In theory.

In practice, Spencer got distracted twenty-three minutes ago by a stall selling historical reproductions of first edition classics.

Now he’s staring at a handwritten sign discussing annotated copies of Victorian detective fiction while a man in tights passionately explains paper quality to another customer.

Spencer barely notices the world narrowing around him.

Until—

“Let me guess.”

He glances up automatically.

A mistake.

Because now he sees you.

And his brain stalls like someone tossed a wrench directly into the engine.

You’re standing beside the stall with glitter dusted across your cheeks like scattered stars.

Layers of gauzy fabric spill around you in shifting shades of twilight blue and soft violet, the colors changing every time the sunlight catches them. Tiny crystals are sewn into the skirts and sleeves, glittering like dew on spider silk. 

Your corset is embroidered with silver thread curling into vines and crescent moons, and delicate translucent wings shimmer behind you in iridescent flashes of lavender and sapphire whenever you move. 

Small golden bells are tied into strands of your hair, chiming softly in the breeze. There’s a jeweled beetle pinned to the neckline of your corset, emerald-green and sparkling.

You look less like someone attending the renaissance faire and more like something the forest itself made by accident.

Spencer blinks once. “What?”

“Let me guess.”

“…Guess what?”

“Your favorite book.”

Spencer stares.

You stare back with devastating confidence.

Then, before he can answer, you start circling him slowly.

His posture goes rigid immediately.

“You read constantly,” you murmur. “Not casually. Recreationally and professionally. Your shoes are practical, your watch is functional, your sleeves are rolled unevenly because you did it while distracted…”

Spencer opens his mouth.

Closes it.

“You notice details,” you continue. “You correct people in your head but usually not out loud unless they’re really wrong. You probably had weird hobbies as a child.”

“I still have weird hobbies,” Spencer says before he can stop himself.

Your grin flashes instantly. You stop in front of him again, hands clasped behind your back.

“You like books where intelligence feels magical. Not fantasy magical. Human magical.” You tilt your head. “Your favorite author is probably… Arthur Conan Doyle.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rise despite himself.

“And your favorite book,” you continue triumphantly, “is The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

A beat passes.

“…How did you do that?”

Your expression turns deeply smug. “The fairies told me.”

“That’s not actually my favorite book,” Spencer admits after a second.

Your face falls with exaggerated devastation. “No?”

“But it is my favorite author.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “That still counts as wizardry-adjacent.”

“It’s profiling.”

“Same thing.”

The bells in your hair chime softly as you lean against the edge of the book stall, smiling at him like this entire interaction has already become one of your favorite stories.

Spencer realizes, abruptly, that he’s smiling back.

Dangerous.

Potentially catastrophic.

“Okay,” you say. “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Guess my favorite book.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh. Um…”

You wait expectantly.

Which makes this worse.

He looks at you properly this time, trying to gather information instead of simply reacting to the overwhelming phenomenon of your existence.

Fairy costume. Handmade, probably. The stitching near the sleeve hem is slightly uneven but reinforced carefully, meaning you made it yourself and anticipated wear. Glitter on your cheekbones. Tiny paint stains on your fingertips. The jeweled beetle pinned to your corset is slightly chipped near one wing from frequent handling.

There’s also a pressed flower tucked into one of your bracelets.

And—

“Is that a luna moth embroidered onto your bag?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Your eyes light up immediately. “Yes!”

“You like insects.”

“I like friends,” you correct. “Some of them just happen to have exoskeletons.”

Spencer’s mouth twitches.

You are deeply strange.

Not strange in the dangerous way he’s learned to look for.

Strange in the way constellations are strange. The way antique stores smell strange. The way people become when they’ve decided embarrassment is a waste of time.

It’s… nice.

He clears his throat and tries to refocus.

“You probably read emotionally driven narratives,” he says slowly..“Character-focused stories. Escapist elements, but with strong interpersonal relationships. Optimistic endings statistically increase reread value, so…”

Your grin widens by the second.

“You think my favorite book is a romance novel,” you say.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it with extreme confidence.”

Spencer exhales softly through his nose, trying not to smile while simultaneously already failing.

“Okay,” he says. “Fine. I think your favorite book is probably a romance novel.”

You place a hand dramatically against your corset.

“Sir,” you whisper, scandalized, “I am a fairy.”

“I’m aware.”

“I collect moss voluntarily.”

“That doesn’t eliminate romance as a category.”

You narrow your eyes at him like he’s personally offended woodland creatures everywhere.

Spencer studies you again, more carefully this time.

Not just the costume.

The details.

The handmade jewelry. Ink stains on your fingers. Tiny stars painted near your temples. The way you move like your body naturally follows music no one else can hear.

And beneath all of that, there’s intelligence in your eyes. Quickness. A playful sort of calculation.

“You like stories that feel hopeful without being naïve,” he says slowly. “Emotionally sincere, but strange enough that they don’t take themselves too seriously.”

Your expression shifts.

Not enough for most people to notice.

Enough for him.

Spencer tilts his head slightly.

“You reread comfort books,” he continues. “And you romanticize ordinary things on purpose.”

Your grin starts to return. “Oh, he profiles.”

“You also like nature symbolism, transformation metaphors, and unconventional protagonists.” Spencer pauses. “So… I’m guessing your favorite book is probably…” He searches your face once before deciding. “Howl’s Moving Castle.”

Silence.

A bell in your hair chimes softly in the breeze.

Then your entire face lights up.

It’s immediate. Bright. Unfiltered.

Spencer feels something warm and startled unfurl in his chest at being the cause of it.

“You got it,” you say, delighted.

His eyebrows lift. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“You’re serious.”

“I contain whimsy, not dishonesty.”

“That feels statistically unlikely.”

You laugh, and Spencer realizes he likes the sound instantly. It bubbles out of you without restraint, soft around the edges but full in a way that makes nearby noise seem dull by comparison.

Then he narrows his eyes slightly.

“…Although,” he says slowly, “I do have a feeling you would’ve told me I was right no matter what I said.”

You wink at him cheekily. “You'll never know.”

Spencer opens his mouth to argue that technically he could know with enough behavioral analysis and baseline comparison over time—

His phone rings.

The sound slices cleanly through the moment.

You glance toward the noise while Spencer fishes the phone out of his pocket, the screen glowing with Garcia’s name.

Reality returns all at once.

Case.

Crowds.

Work.

The tiny strange bubble around the two of you flickers but doesn’t disappear entirely.

Spencer clears his throat and answers. “Reid.”

“Boy Genius!” Penelope Garcia chirps immediately through the speaker, loud enough that even you can faintly hear her. “Please tell me you found the antique vendor and not another extremely niche literary side quest.”

Spencer glances once toward the book stall. “…Define side quest.”

You grin shamelessly.

“I’m waiting near the east entrance,” Garcia continues. “Morgan found someone who might’ve seen our victim talking to a guy near the performance tents. We need your brain immediately.”

“Okay,” Spencer says automatically. “I’m on my way.”

He pulls the phone away from his ear.

You’re still looking at him.

Still smiling, though softer now. Less theatrical. More real.

For a second, neither of you moves.

The renaissance faire swirls around you in a blur of color and noise. Someone nearby cheers loudly as metal clashes against metal from a staged sword fight. Bells jingle somewhere behind the booths. Smoke curls lazily into the late afternoon air.

Spencer should leave.

He knows that.

The case folds itself back into place inside his mind with practiced precision. Victim timeline. Witness statements. Geographic radius. Probability mapping.

But some stubborn, inconvenient part of him stays rooted exactly where he is.

“Duty calls?” you ask lightly.

He nods once. “Yeah. I should…”

His sentence trails off uselessly as he gestures vaguely in the direction of somewhere.

You glance toward the path behind him, then back to his face.

Then, suddenly:

“This is really forward,” you blurt.

Spencer pauses mid-motion.

“But can I have your number?”

Silence.

Not awkward silence.

Catastrophic silence.

The kind where Spencer Reid’s brain, normally operating at approximately seventeen thousand thoughts per second, suddenly blue screens like an overworked laptop dropped directly into a pond.

You watch it happen in real time.

His eyes widen slightly.

Then blink.

Then widen again.

“Oh,” he says.

A beat.

“Oh.”

You immediately start laughing.

Not meanly.

More like you’ve just accidentally startled a very intelligent deer.

“I can retract the question,” you offer, grin crooked. “Pretend I was briefly possessed by boldness.”

“No,” Spencer says instantly.

Too instantly.

Your eyebrows lift.

“I mean,” he corrects rapidly, “you don’t have to retract it. Direct communication is actually more effective than prolonged ambiguity in establishing interpersonal—”

He stops.

Because you’re looking at him with poorly concealed delight.

Spencer clears his throat.

Right. Human conversation.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Yes. You can have my number.”

You beam so brightly it honestly feels medically significant.

“Cute,” you announce.

His brain catches on the word like a loose thread in machinery.

“…What?”

“The flustered thing,” you say casually. “Very cute.”

Spencer physically short-circuits.

Not metaphorically.

Actually.

A nearby child runs past waving a wooden sword and yelling something incomprehensible about dragons. Spencer looks about as internally stable as that child.

He fumbles for his phone so quickly he nearly drops it.

Your grin turns helplessly fond.

“You’re adorable,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Spencer finally manages to unlock his phone after one failed attempt and holds it out toward you with the careful concentration of someone handling explosives.

You take it gently, bells chiming softly in your hair.

Your fingers brush his for maybe half a second.

It should not matter.

It absolutely matters.

You type your number in, then pause.

A mischievous little smile curls at the corner of your mouth.

Spencer notices immediately.

That is rarely a good sign.

When you hand the phone back, he glances down automatically.

🪲 fairy girl 🧚‍♀️✨

Spencer stares at the contact name.

Then up at you.

Then back at the phone.

“You put bug and fairy emojis in your own contact.”

“Yes.”

“You understand that this tells me nothing.”

“It tells you everything.”

“That’s objectively false.”

You smile. “I get the feeling you'll know exactly who that contact is.”

He smiles before he can stop himself.

Again.

You notice that too.

“Text me sometime, Spencer Reid,” you say, his name warm and easy in your voice like you’ve already decided it belongs there. “Preferably before the apocalypse.”

His pulse does something deeply inconvenient.

“…I have to go,” he says, equal parts apology and regret.

“I know.”

But you don’t sound disappointed.

You sound certain.

Certain in the way people sound when they fully expect to see someone again.

And that feels far more dangerous.

Spencer starts backing away once.

Then stops.

“You never told me your actual favorite book,” he says suddenly.

You smile, sunlight catching in the glitter scattered across your cheeks.

“I’ll save that for the second conversation.”

Then you turn, skirts swaying behind you in shimmering twilight colors, and disappear into the crowd like something enchanted slipping back into the woods.

The renaissance faire sprawls across the park in ribbons of color and noise.

Fabric banners snap overhead in the wind. Children race past with wooden swords. Somewhere nearby, someone is playing a flute with the confidence of a man who has never once feared public humiliation.

The entire place smells like cinnamon almonds, leather, trampled grass, and smoke from roasting meat.

Spencer Reid stands in the middle of it looking deeply unconvinced by existence.

Not by the faire itself.

By the crowds.

There are too many people packed too closely together, too many overlapping voices colliding in his ears. Bright colors flash in his peripheral vision every few seconds. A woman dressed as a queen just walked past carrying an enormous turkey leg like a medieval warlord.

He adjusts the strap of his satchel higher onto his shoulder and checks his phone again.

No new texts from Garcia.

Which means he is still technically waiting.

The BAU is in town on a case. A local victim was last seen at the renaissance festival two nights ago, and while the team splits up to follow leads, Garcia had sent Spencer to confirm whether a specific vendor sold rare antique books to attendees.

Simple.

Straightforward.

In theory.

In practice, Spencer got distracted twenty-three minutes ago by a stall selling historical reproductions of first edition classics.

Now he’s staring at a handwritten sign discussing annotated copies of Victorian detective fiction while a man in tights passionately explains paper quality to another customer.

Spencer barely notices the world narrowing around him.

Until—

“Let me guess.”

He glances up automatically.

A mistake.

Because now he sees you.

And his brain stalls like someone tossed a wrench directly into the engine.

You’re standing beside the stall with glitter dusted across your cheeks like scattered stars.

Layers of gauzy fabric spill around you in shifting shades of twilight blue and soft violet, the colors changing every time the sunlight catches them. Tiny crystals are sewn into the skirts and sleeves, glittering like dew on spider silk. 

Your corset is embroidered with silver thread curling into vines and crescent moons, and delicate translucent wings shimmer behind you in iridescent flashes of lavender and sapphire whenever you move. 

Small golden bells are tied into strands of your hair, chiming softly in the breeze. There’s a jeweled beetle pinned to the neckline of your corset, emerald-green and sparkling.

You look less like someone attending the renaissance faire and more like something the forest itself made by accident.

Spencer blinks once. “What?”

“Let me guess.”

“…Guess what?”

“Your favorite book.”

Spencer stares.

You stare back with devastating confidence.

Then, before he can answer, you start circling him slowly.

His posture goes rigid immediately.

“You read constantly,” you murmur. “Not casually. Recreationally and professionally. Your shoes are practical, your watch is functional, your sleeves are rolled unevenly because you did it while distracted…”

Spencer opens his mouth.

Closes it.

“You notice details,” you continue. “You correct people in your head but usually not out loud unless they’re really wrong. You probably had weird hobbies as a child.”

“I still have weird hobbies,” Spencer says before he can stop himself.

Your grin flashes instantly. You stop in front of him again, hands clasped behind your back.

“You like books where intelligence feels magical. Not fantasy magical. Human magical.” You tilt your head. “Your favorite author is probably… Arthur Conan Doyle.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rise despite himself.

“And your favorite book,” you continue triumphantly, “is The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

A beat passes.

“…How did you do that?”

Your expression turns deeply smug. “The fairies told me.”

“That’s not actually my favorite book,” Spencer admits after a second.

Your face falls with exaggerated devastation. “No?”

“But it is my favorite author.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “That still counts as wizardry-adjacent.”

“It’s profiling.”

“Same thing.”

The bells in your hair chime softly as you lean against the edge of the book stall, smiling at him like this entire interaction has already become one of your favorite stories.

Spencer realizes, abruptly, that he’s smiling back.

Dangerous.

Potentially catastrophic.

“Okay,” you say. “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Guess my favorite book.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh. Um…”

You wait expectantly.

Which makes this worse.

He looks at you properly this time, trying to gather information instead of simply reacting to the overwhelming phenomenon of your existence.

Fairy costume. Handmade, probably. The stitching near the sleeve hem is slightly uneven but reinforced carefully, meaning you made it yourself and anticipated wear. Glitter on your cheekbones. Tiny paint stains on your fingertips. The jeweled beetle pinned to your corset is slightly chipped near one wing from frequent handling.

There’s also a pressed flower tucked into one of your bracelets.

And—

“Is that a luna moth embroidered onto your bag?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Your eyes light up immediately. “Yes!”

“You like insects.”

“I like friends,” you correct. “Some of them just happen to have exoskeletons.”

Spencer’s mouth twitches.

You are deeply strange.

Not strange in the dangerous way he’s learned to look for.

Strange in the way constellations are strange. The way antique stores smell strange. The way people become when they’ve decided embarrassment is a waste of time.

It’s… nice.

He clears his throat and tries to refocus.

“You probably read emotionally driven narratives,” he says slowly..“Character-focused stories. Escapist elements, but with strong interpersonal relationships. Optimistic endings statistically increase reread value, so…”

Your grin widens by the second.

“You think my favorite book is a romance novel,” you say.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it with extreme confidence.”

Spencer exhales softly through his nose, trying not to smile while simultaneously already failing.

“Okay,” he says. “Fine. I think your favorite book is probably a romance novel.”

You place a hand dramatically against your corset.

“Sir,” you whisper, scandalized, “I am a fairy.”

“I’m aware.”

“I collect moss voluntarily.”

“That doesn’t eliminate romance as a category.”

You narrow your eyes at him like he’s personally offended woodland creatures everywhere.

Spencer studies you again, more carefully this time.

Not just the costume.

The details.

The handmade jewelry. Ink stains on your fingers. Tiny stars painted near your temples. The way you move like your body naturally follows music no one else can hear.

And beneath all of that, there’s intelligence in your eyes. Quickness. A playful sort of calculation.

“You like stories that feel hopeful without being naïve,” he says slowly. “Emotionally sincere, but strange enough that they don’t take themselves too seriously.”

Your expression shifts.

Not enough for most people to notice.

Enough for him.

Spencer tilts his head slightly.

“You reread comfort books,” he continues. “And you romanticize ordinary things on purpose.”

Your grin starts to return. “Oh, he profiles.”

“You also like nature symbolism, transformation metaphors, and unconventional protagonists.” Spencer pauses. “So… I’m guessing your favorite book is probably…” He searches your face once before deciding. “Howl’s Moving Castle.”

Silence.

A bell in your hair chimes softly in the breeze.

Then your entire face lights up.

It’s immediate. Bright. Unfiltered.

Spencer feels something warm and startled unfurl in his chest at being the cause of it.

“You got it,” you say, delighted.

His eyebrows lift. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“You’re serious.”

“I contain whimsy, not dishonesty.”

“That feels statistically unlikely.”

You laugh, and Spencer realizes he likes the sound instantly. It bubbles out of you without restraint, soft around the edges but full in a way that makes nearby noise seem dull by comparison.

Then he narrows his eyes slightly.

“…Although,” he says slowly, “I do have a feeling you would’ve told me I was right no matter what I said.”

You wink at him cheekily. “You'll never know.”

Spencer opens his mouth to argue that technically he could know with enough behavioral analysis and baseline comparison over time—

His phone rings.

The sound slices cleanly through the moment.

You glance toward the noise while Spencer fishes the phone out of his pocket, the screen glowing with Garcia’s name.

Reality returns all at once.

Case.

Crowds.

Work.

The tiny strange bubble around the two of you flickers but doesn’t disappear entirely.

Spencer clears his throat and answers. “Reid.”

“Boy Genius!” Penelope Garcia chirps immediately through the speaker, loud enough that even you can faintly hear her. “Please tell me you found the antique vendor and not another extremely niche literary side quest.”

Spencer glances once toward the book stall. “…Define side quest.”

You grin shamelessly.

“I’m waiting near the east entrance,” Garcia continues. “Morgan found someone who might’ve seen our victim talking to a guy near the performance tents. We need your brain immediately.”

“Okay,” Spencer says automatically. “I’m on my way.”

He pulls the phone away from his ear.

You’re still looking at him.

Still smiling, though softer now. Less theatrical. More real.

For a second, neither of you moves.

The renaissance faire swirls around you in a blur of color and noise. Someone nearby cheers loudly as metal clashes against metal from a staged sword fight. Bells jingle somewhere behind the booths. Smoke curls lazily into the late afternoon air.

Spencer should leave.

He knows that.

The case folds itself back into place inside his mind with practiced precision. Victim timeline. Witness statements. Geographic radius. Probability mapping.

But some stubborn, inconvenient part of him stays rooted exactly where he is.

“Duty calls?” you ask lightly.

He nods once. “Yeah. I should…”

His sentence trails off uselessly as he gestures vaguely in the direction of somewhere.

You glance toward the path behind him, then back to his face.

Then, suddenly:

“This is really forward,” you blurt.

Spencer pauses mid-motion.

“But can I have your number?”

Silence.

Not awkward silence.

Catastrophic silence.

The kind where Spencer Reid’s brain, normally operating at approximately seventeen thousand thoughts per second, suddenly blue screens like an overworked laptop dropped directly into a pond.

You watch it happen in real time.

His eyes widen slightly.

Then blink.

Then widen again.

“Oh,” he says.

A beat.

“Oh.”

You immediately start laughing.

Not meanly.

More like you’ve just accidentally startled a very intelligent deer.

“I can retract the question,” you offer, grin crooked. “Pretend I was briefly possessed by boldness.”

“No,” Spencer says instantly.

Too instantly.

Your eyebrows lift.

“I mean,” he corrects rapidly, “you don’t have to retract it. Direct communication is actually more effective than prolonged ambiguity in establishing interpersonal—”

He stops.

Because you’re looking at him with poorly concealed delight.

Spencer clears his throat.

Right. Human conversation.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Yes. You can have my number.”

You beam so brightly it honestly feels medically significant.

“Cute,” you announce.

His brain catches on the word like a loose thread in machinery.

“…What?”

“The flustered thing,” you say casually. “Very cute.”

Spencer physically short-circuits.

Not metaphorically.

Actually.

A nearby child runs past waving a wooden sword and yelling something incomprehensible about dragons. Spencer looks about as internally stable as that child.

He fumbles for his phone so quickly he nearly drops it.

Your grin turns helplessly fond.

“You’re adorable,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Spencer finally manages to unlock his phone after one failed attempt and holds it out toward you with the careful concentration of someone handling explosives.

You take it gently, bells chiming softly in your hair.

Your fingers brush his for maybe half a second.

It should not matter.

It absolutely matters.

You type your number in, then pause.

A mischievous little smile curls at the corner of your mouth.

Spencer notices immediately.

That is rarely a good sign.

When you hand the phone back, he glances down automatically.

🪲 fairy girl 🧚‍♀️✨

Spencer stares at the contact name.

Then up at you.

Then back at the phone.

“You put bug and fairy emojis in your own contact.”

“Yes.”

“You understand that this tells me nothing.”

“It tells you everything.”

“That’s objectively false.”

You smile. “I get the feeling you'll know exactly who that contact is.”

He smiles before he can stop himself.

Again.

You notice that too.

“Text me sometime, Spencer Reid,” you say, his name warm and easy in your voice like you’ve already decided it belongs there. “Preferably before the apocalypse.”

His pulse does something deeply inconvenient.

“…I have to go,” he says, equal parts apology and regret.

“I know.”

But you don’t sound disappointed.

You sound certain.

Certain in the way people sound when they fully expect to see someone again.

And that feels far more dangerous.

Spencer starts backing away once.

Then stops.

“You never told me your actual favorite book,” he says suddenly.

You smile, sunlight catching in the glitter scattered across your cheeks.

“I’ll save that for the second conversation.”

Then you turn, skirts swaying behind you in shimmering twilight colors, and disappear into the crowd like something enchanted slipping back into the woods.

On good days, he's reverent. Who wouldn't be, if they have someone like you in their life? Reverence seems like the bare minimum. But that reverence does not interfere with his daily functions, or impede his sense of judgment. In fact, it's often the opposite—he loves you to the point of betterment, of motivation, doing more stuff just to make himself worthy of your affections.

Tonight, he's sad to say, is one of his bad days.

Tonight, he is so overcome with his devotion he's practically dripping in it. Convinced that every pore of his body is leaking with I love my girlfriend pheromones and that the whole bar can smell it.

Tonight, he can't move for every clumsy action seems offensive to you and your presence.

And, despite consuming zero alcohol, he still feels so utterly inebriated. Swaying on his seat, dizzy with want, eyes trained on you and you alone. Hazy neon and blinking flashes do nothing to dim your appearance, only serving to highlight your beauty, the way you spin and shimmy on the dance floor without a care in the world.

He had declined your multiple invites to dance. On another night, perhaps he'd muster up the courage to join you, but he doesn't trust his own body right now. Not that you'd ever complain about his graceless dance moves, but he's convinced any sense of coordination will disappear the moment you press into him.

Worse, Spencer knows, with a thousand percent certainty, that he would not be able to control any bodily reactions if you start dancing the way he knows you like—swinging your hips flush against his. Sensual. Torturous.

He'd rather not be arrested for public indecency tonight. Or ever, actually. Imbecilic as he is right now, he's got enough presence of mind to at least avoid that.

So he contents himself with watching. You are angelic in this light, transforming even the pounding, fast paced music into something he'd enjoy, all because now he associates the song with the memory of your smile, the sheen of sweat on your forehead that glints neon pink when you twist your head just so.

Beside him, Emily yells with a flashing smile. Something teasing, no doubt. He's used to it, being on the receiving end of jokes (playful and told with love, of course), but somehow he's much more relaxed when he's with you. Anxieties of being too weird, or too smart, or too scrawny, all seem to collapse because the entire time he's dated you, you've never made those things seem like flaws.

So he grants Emily a sheepish smile, and a shake of his head. She laughs and calls him 'Lover boy' and he doesn't bother disputing it. He's proud of it. It feels like a badge of honor, especially after years of thinking he'd never be the kind of man to have this sort of love in his life.

In fact, he'd wear a physical badge of it, if such a thing existed—Penelope probably would make one if prompted—simply because it's true.

And then Emily says 'Uh oh' and her face shifts enough to make his spine stiffen. Spencer follows her gaze and frowns.

He's always known you're beautiful. Had always admired how you bore it—proudly, never shrinking from the attention, always taking up the space like you owned it. He knows you're beautiful, knows that other people are aware of it too. Rightfully so.

But sometimes, they make it too obvious.

The man on the bar would be subtle, if Spencer isn't trained to watch out for signs like this. Body language, profiling training paired with his heightened senses in everything about you, all lead him to the same conclusion: you're being hit on.

And you, sweet perfect angel you, are doing everything in your power to reject the man.The stern line of your mouth, the arms crossed over your chest, body angled from this stranger.

Spencer doesn't like imposing himself in your space. Doesn't consider himself to be someone possessive, or a savior. He believes you to be strong enough to handle this without his intervention.

But the man lingers. Reaches, drags his unworthy fingers down the length of your arm, and finally Spencer moves, his brows furrowed.

He's shouldering his way through the crowd when you smack the man's hand away. Even through the pounding music, Spencer can hear your voice—snapping and testy—and the man's indignant exclamation of bitch. He pushes through and puts himself between you and the man before anything else escalates.

"Is there a problem?" he snaps, glaring at the stranger, "You want to explain why you're calling my girlfriend a bitch?"

The man sputters.

Behind him, Spencer feels you press closer, chin resting on his shoulder. He can feel your smugness emanating in waves.

"I told you, I wasn't interested. Now look, you've pissed off my honey."

Your breath tickles his neck. Spencer has to suppress a shudder, but manages to maintain his intimidating stance. He finds it surprisingly easy, channeling everything he's learned from his coworkers and his job to ward away this stranger.

The man holds up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, jeez. Thought you were just lying about the boyfriend."

"Uh, no. And even if I didn't have a boyfriend, I still wouldn't be interested."

"Oh please, you're not even—"

"Watch your mouth." Spencer doesn't think he's ever sounded so angry as right now. He's faced impudence of many kind, and only a select few had ever been at the receiving end of this. But he finds himself ready to pull whatever stops for you. "Unless you want a problem."

"Whatever, man, I was just talking to her." with a scoff, the man finally turns and stomps off.

The tension in the air turns lax, but Spencer keeps an eye on the man until he's swallowed by the crowd. He feels your laugh before he hears it, feels the hitch in your breath, the shuddering shoulders against his side that tells him it's one of those laughing fits that overtake your entire body.

He glances down and instantly brightens at your giddy expression, free hand cupping your cheek.

"Hey."

"Hi, handsome."

All the anger he's felt eases from him from those words, simple and sweetly uttered. Just for him. Only ever for him. At once, he feels the effects of alcohol despite avoiding it—lightheaded and trippy and effervescent—all from the sight of your smile.

He presses his forehead to yours. "You okay? He didn't try anything else, did he?"

"I'm perfect. You came just in time."

"I hate that I had to," a muscle ticks in his jaw, "he shouldn't have pushed after you said no."

"Well, that's just how a lot of men are."

There's nothing he can say to that. He knows it's true, has seen several versions of the aftermath of an offended man. Spencer moves behind you and wraps his arms as if that act alone could protect you from any more harm.

At least it signals one thing: you're taken; everyone else back off.

He feels you sink into his chest, soft and content, hair tickling his chin.

"That was really hot, by the way."

He chuckles. "What was?"

"You getting all pissed off and protective. Didn't think you had it in you."

"Excuse you, I'm in the FBI! I've interrogated worse people."

"Really? I couldn't tell. You don't ever act like that around me."

"It's important to keep a work life separate from my personal life, you know that. I already study cases at home, I shouldn't bring that energy when I'm around you as it–"

Your giggle tells him he's being baited into a reaction, and he sags against your back. "You're mean."

"Me? I just said you were hot, how is that mean?"

"You know how."

"Explain it to me, genius."

He huffs. "I hate you."

You twist to face him, gasping dramatically. "You what?"

"Nothing."

"Not nothing, you said you hated me. Apologize!"

Spencer answers with a kiss to the tip of your nose and an acquiesce. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

"Hmm, not convincing. I need compliments."

"You possess an incredible ability to still look fresh after being in a dance floor surrounded by forty other people."

You giggle and tilt your head up for another kiss, which he eagerly grants. Sticky, artificial sweetness clings to your lips, a mix of your lip gloss and whatever drink you have been nursing. Your next words are uttered into the kiss, muffled and teasing. "How'd you even come to that number, you nerd?"

"Capacity estimation based on the width and length of the dance floor." he answers without a beat, grinning when he earns one of your full-bodied laughs. "Am I forgiven?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, good. You look like an angel." he adds. Not for good measure; just because he wants to. Because he can. Because it's true.

"I've already forgiven you."

"I know. I just thought I'd say it anyway." he watches, somewhat smugly, as you fluster, chin tipping down and fighting a smile.

He won't ever get enough of this—the weight of you, the way his angular body feel less disjointed when it's doing its job to hold up yours. Not completing him—neither of you believe in the idea of another person completing someone else. But being with you somehow augments his existence. Adds to who he is, what he can do.

He cups your face again, tips your chin up and captures your lips in a kiss. Slow and deep and completely inappropriate for the setting, judging by the pointed coughing from the bartender.

There's matching sheepish looks on your faces when you pull back.

The bartender looks unamused.

Spencer tucks his face in the crook of your neck, partly in shame, but mostly so he can keep peppering your skin with kisses. The longer he spends time with you, the more his earlier hypothesis is proven: his body is traitorous in its reactions. Already, his pants are beginning to feel strained and all he's done is share a few kisses.

Still, he can't stop. Finds any excuse to keep touching his lips to the sweat-slick softness of your neck, your shoulder. Something earthy and herbal hits his nose, the notes of your perfume melting into your skin, fusing with your natural musk. Chemical reactions have never been sexier.

He bares his teeth, nips at your ear. Your shiver reverberates right through his chest, straight to his heart, and all he can think is good, good, more.

"Excuse me, can you put this on David Rossi's tab?"

Spencer blinks, pulling back enough to stare at you, confused. There's a knowing smirk on your face, and he feels dizzy, undone by just the mischievous curl of lip. You aren't even addressing him; the words had been said to the bartender.

His heart stutters in anticipation. That smile is a promise; he will be remade before the night is over.

The bartender punches several buttons on the register, before lifting his thumb in affirmation. Successful.

You slip off the stool, lacing a hand through one of his. "Come on, baby, let's get out of here before the entire bar notices your raging boner."

Spencer sputters, but doesn't deny nor protest. It's all true.

It knocks air from his chest, this casual familiarity. How you've memorized his tells enough to make a decision for both him. How well you just know him. Your acceptance—encouragement, even—of his oddities. Sometimes questioning them but not to judge. Only to understand, to learn parts of himself that he thought had been hidden, but were really simmering right past the surface. No one has just bothered to dig before. Until you.

It should make him shrink back. Should make him feel like a topic of study, like one of the profiles he pores over, academic and impersonal.

Instead, Spencer welcomes it. It's scary, being seen in this light, but your gaze is always so full of adulation, and so the intimacy never feels violent or intrusive. Only sacred.

He follows you with single-minded focus, his vision myopic, singular, honed on the sway of your hips, the way your hair flutters when the late night breeze hits it after the two of you spill out the exit.

He moves to the sidewalk, intending to call a cab, but is stopped by a tug and a laugh.

"Spence, honey, you drove us here, remember?"

Oh. Right.

He chuckles, stumbling with you to the direction of the parking lot. His arm wraps over your shoulder, and your form melds into his side. Head tucked against him, strides in perfect sync, magnets snapping in place.

His car comes into view, but his attempts to unlock it is impeded by your mouth. Soft, lazy kisses along his neck, and already his hands are trembling.

"Angel," he croaks, gone, and you laugh, taking pity on him. Back off enough to let him open the passenger's side, slide in. Spencer rounds the vehicle and climbs to the driver's seat, and you're on him the moment the door slams shut.

Leaning over the console, your mouth finds his. Spencer returns it like he's been expecting it. Instantly, the kiss is messy. Full of greed and desperation, the tension from the bar culminating right here. In his vintage car, at a public parking lot.

Well, at least it's in semi-privacy.

At least there's no one around.

He's a little too far gone to make rational judgments. All he knows is you, you, you.

He kisses you with a low, throaty moan, hands everywhere, mapping out the familiar contours of your body, so warm and pliant under his ravenous palms. He squeezes handfuls of you through your clothes, one hand on your ass, the other on your thigh, guiding you from the passenger's side and straight on his lap.

You straddle him with ease, the action almost reflexive after how many times you've done it. Both your legs planted by his thighs, never breaking the kiss as you sit balanced on the tops of his knees like you belong there—and you do.

He'd be whatever you want of him, be the throne, altar, and object of your affection. All three things have converged in his mind anyway; entire linguistic and symbolic fields fracturing at the power of your hands and heady kisses. Meanings warp because he says so, because he's convinced that preexisting ideas are not nearly sufficient enough to describe you and the way he feels for you.

You moan into his mouth, and he responds with a needy thrust upwards. Your hips are too far for any proper friction, so he holds the span of your waist in both hands and hauls you closer until you're positioned over his crotch.

"Oh, you're a little aggressive tonight," you giggle, fingers threaded through his hair.

A soft whine of protest fills the car when you pull away from the kiss.

Another giggle. "Ah, there's the Spencer I know."

He laughs too, barely more than a choked breath misting over your chest. "S-sorry. If it's making you uncomfortable–"

"Oh, baby, it's doing the exact opposite." You grind down on his straining erection lazily. He fights back another whimper; he knows you can tell. In the darkness of his car, your teeth gleam, bared in a smile that's bordering on feral. "I told you earlier, it's hot. Not really aggressive, just more… assertive."

"It-it's hot?"

"Uh huh. I like when you get all confident." You lean in for another kiss, slow and deep like you have all the time in the world. Like the threat of getting caught isn't looming over both of your shoulders.

He feels your hands on his belt, hears the metals clanging softly as you unbuckle the leather.

"Y-you kind of help," he admits. His fingers flex anxiously into your skin, and he hopes he doesn't accidentally give you bruises, "it's easier to… just be… like I never have to second guess myself when I'm with you. I get to just… exist."

He feels your hands pause. For a brief moment, he wonders if he said something wrong, but your eyes are glimmering when they meet his, little sparkling bits clinging to your lashes.

Tears, Spencer realizes. You're crying. Or about to, at least.

"Angel." he breathes, cupping your face with both of his large hands and kissing away those tears before they have the chance to spill.

"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

Despite his attempts to prevent your crying, your voice still gets choked up in sobs. He kisses you through those too.

"It's true. It's true, you just… You make me lose my mind sometimes, but in a good way. I can get so in my head, but with you, I just am." He whispers with a breathless chuckle, holding you flush to him, as if eradicating distance will help his words sink bone deep.

"Don't lose your mind too much, though," you sniffle, and nuzzle into the side of his neck sweetly, "You also need to think to be, or whatever it was Descartes said."

He laughs. This time, when your lips meet, it's a slower tangle of tongue and teeth. His hands move from your hips to slip under your skirt, higher until his fingertips skim over soaked lace.

You shudder and rock into his grasp, seeking friction through fabric, and he lets you have it for a few languorous moments. Watches with bright eyes as you find pleasure from the gentle circles of his thumb, catalogues the way your lashes flutter like delicate wings over your cheeks.

When he feels like you've had enough teasing, he slides two fingers under your panties, slipping one past your entrance.

The familiar flutter around his digits is a welcome feeling—your body gently accepting him. Human anatomy never ceases to amaze him. The way something so tight and small can open up with a few simple caresses, the right attention. And Spencer intends to shower you with all of his focus right now.

Another finger joins the first, stretching you further, curling up until he finds that familiar spot deep inside you.

Your whole body trembles on his lap, and Spencer can't hold back a moan.

Foreplay is necessary, both of you realized early into your relationship, not just to keep you wet, but also to get these muscles to relax. He'd never fit inside you otherwise, and he'd rather be celibate for the rest of his life than to ever hurt you deliberately.

So he finds a rhythm with his fingers. Watches every reaction with large, honey eyes, committing every hitch of your breath to memory. He's hard under you again. Hell, he's afraid he'd come just from this—the exquisite friction of having you on his lap and taking in your reactions while he gives you pleasure. He wouldn't complain if that's how he comes, actually, would be perfectly content to fall apart just from pleasuring you.

But you've other ideas and he's utterly beholden to you. So when you whisper, "Stop, stop, I don't want to finish yet," Spencer halts every action.

He keeps his fingers buried in your warmth as you lean in for another kiss. Somehow, you still taste sweet after making out with him. He marvels at that, at you. But then you're rocking into his palm again, and he knows that you want—need—more.

"Condom's in my left pocket," he mutters against your lips, laughing when you pat the wrong side, "No, angel, my left."

You giggle, shoulders shaking uncontrollably until you finally pull the packet out. The unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone fills the car, and then finally he feels relief as the length of him is freed from his boxers. He's hard, so red it looks almost painful—and it had been, tenting under layers of clothes though he's not about to complain now.

Spencer's forced to pull his fingers from you in favor of tugging your panties down. It's awkward and messy, with you contorting just to get the panties off, and by the time it's gone, you're both giggling.

"Maybe we shouldn't have done this in a car." he says, nipping at your lower lip.

"Would you have been able to wait until we got home?" you retort. The foil tears open in one clean yank, a testament to your resolve.

"Honestly, I would wait for you forever."

"Okay, Orpheus." your sarcastic tone is blunted by the hint of giddiness, the slight lift at the corners of your lips. You reach down, patting along the side.

"Angel, my seats don't recline." he reminds you.

"Fucking hell," you groan, glaring at him as if it's somehow his fault. He rubs circles into your thighs and waits patiently while you contemplate whether or not to continue. "Whatever. Condom's already open."

He laughs and lets you roll the condom on, groaning when your hands wrap around his girth. He's so large that you can barely fit your palm around it, squeezing slightly at your teasing strokes. Spencer moans, his head already thrown back against the headrest.

You silence him with another kiss, tongue sweeping hungrily into his mouth, and he surrenders. Any amount of his assertiveness you claimed to find hot vanishes. Spencer is always ecstatic to give away control, let you take over.

You part for air, although he's convinced the car is running out of it, that it's getting so thick and heavy with tension that you'd both end up suffocating. Oh well. Not a bad way to go.

He helps you lift up, skirt bunched up to your hips and pinned there by his palms. With a confident grip, you glide the length of his cock over your folds, gathering slickness, and offering a glimpse of what's to come.

After a few teasing passes, it becomes evident that you're both desperate for this, because you finally line him to your entrance and sink down. Gravity does its job, but he keeps you steady with his hands, nails carving crescent moons into your skin.

You're tight. That shouldn't come as a surprise, but he whimpers all the same, brows furrowed in concentration as he fights every instinct to just buck up and take. But no. Not while the broadest part of his cock is barely past that tight ring of muscle.

He feels your walls flutter, then tense, and he's reaching between your legs and thumbing gentle halos over your clit. Your heaving breaths warm his skin, but he feels you beginning to relax again.

"Fuck," you groan, face buried in his neck. "God, this first entry is always so–oh!"

Spencer mirrors your groan as he finally breeches your entrance and he's surrounded by the most heavenly, velvety warmth.

"You okay?" he asks, raining kisses to your temple, your cheek like a shower of starlight. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, this—mhm, fuck." you're already grinding on top of him, chasing your pleasure.

Spencer gasps, expecting a little bit more adjustment time, but he isn't about to complain. Not when you're mewling above him, sweaty and dazed and all his. Already, you're whispering filthy words in his ear, crude and just on the verge of blasphemous.

He moans and nods and shifts. Mutters broken little yeses like he's substituting them for hail Mary's. When your hips start moving up and down in earnest, Spencer swears his vision whites out. He sits back, slack jawed and rapturous, blinking up at your figure. The pace you've set is quick and sloppy, perhaps because you've realized as well that this is being done in a public parking lot.

Distantly, he registers that the windows of his car have fogged up. That the creaking metal is directly caused you bouncing on his lap. That if anyone were to pass by, they would know exactly what's happening inside his vehicle.

For some reason, it's that thought that makes him shudder and hurtle straight to his orgasm. The recklessness of it all, the threat of being caught. It's thrilling. Kinks and fetishes had always seemed so abstract to him, but now, he understands them with frightening clarity.

And then, on top of it all, the fact that he never would have done this with anyone else. Just you, only you, oh god.

"That's it, baby," you pant, grinning at his every whine and whimper. "God, I can feel you throbbing."

He is. And it isn't just his cock. Every single part of him is overcome with tremors, so out of his control that his hips jerk up into you. He breaks your rhythm by mistake, hears a sharp gasp, followed by a moan.

"God, Spence, yes, just like that."

"Yeah?" he repeats it again, head still cloudy from the aftershocks, and eager to get you there as well. "Like this, angel?"

He thrusts up, again and again, eyes and ears perked for any shift in your tone or breathing, afraid to get too rough and hurt you. But you've turned to putty in his hands, body slumped against his chest, face buried in his neck.

Feeling bold, Spencer gets a firm grip on your hips and starts moving you with him. His cock is sensitive, and the tips of his fingers feel electric, but he doesn't stop. Keeps thrusting up into you despite the tears gathering in his lashes from over stimulation.

Your legs are trembling around him as you find the rhythm and move without the help of his hands, teeth sinking into his neck to muffle your desperate moans. He has no such restraint, his head titled back and whining, loud and shameless.

There's a familiar clenching around his length, telling him you're close, almost there, and he doubles his efforts. Feet planted firmly on the floor, he moves with more confidence, taking cues from your trembling body to keep himself in check.

The car's rocking is obscene.

And then you're crying out, shuddering, a rush of slickness coating his cock. Spencer locks his arms around your waist and breathes you in. Lets you ride out the waves in the firm comfort of his embrace.

"My god." he mumbles. Soothing kisses run down your neck, along the curve of your shoulder. "Are you okay?"

You can only nod, legs feeling delicate and immovable. Spencer is content to keep you on his lap while you recover, nosing through the tendrils of hair plastered to your temple. He feels elated, content, and mildly disbelieving.

"Angel," he breathes, sheepish and worn out, "I don't think I can drive."

Your laughter is bright, slurred, and so, so angelic. You are the picture of ruin when you finally emerge from his neck and look up at him. "Maybe I should have let you call us a cab earlier."

He tilts your chin up, grinning and so in love. "Really? I'm glad you didn't."

He watches you laugh again, and he swears that's enough to help him recover feeling back to his lower body. Just the sight of you and the sound of your laughter.

Spencer leans in for another kiss. The last for right now, in this car, but definitely not for the night. In fact, the first of many, forever, if he could help it.