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You sat cross-legged on your bed, the glow from your phone screen painting soft shadows on your face. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside your window and the occasional rustle of the curtains in a gentle breeze. Your heart thumped just a little faster than usual, caught somewhere between nerves and a reckless kind of hope. Your fingers trembled slightly as you typed, the words feeling like a dare you gave yourself, bold and a little foolish.

You [10:41 PM]:

You still think about that night?

Because I do. A lot.

Especially that thing you did with your hands. God.

You smirk as your thumb taps send, the rush of adrenaline already fizzing through your chest like cheap champagne. You’re curled sideways on your unmade bed, the comforter half on the floor, mismatched socks on your feet, hair in a loose bun that’s been redone three times today, once out of boredom, twice because the strands kept falling in your coffee while you tried (and failed) to journal your feelings like someone with emotional literacy.

There’s a week-old takeout container on your nightstand. A pair of earrings you forgot to wear clink in a mug. The lamp leans slightly sideways, the victim of your last sock-related fall. You live in beautiful, barely contained chaos, the kind that makes people smile or flinch, depending on their personality.

This text?

It’s petty. You know it’s petty. But after two whole weeks of being ghosted, two weeks of obsessively rereading your last message, of lying to your friends and saying you were “so over it” while listening to sad music and stirring boxed mac and cheese like it was a grief ritual, this felt like justice. Or at least…a spark of satisfaction.

Let him sweat.

Your phone buzzes back almost instantly.

You blink.

Weird. He was never this quick to respond when you were actually together. He used to “forget to check his phone,” remember? Too busy. Too tired. Too…whatever.

You glance down, still smug. Until you see the name. Or rather, lack of one.

Unknown Number [10:42 PM]:

Hi, um…I’m fairly certain this text wasn’t meant for me.

Though I sincerely hope whoever it was meant for appreciates your directness.

You freeze.

Like, full-body stop.

Oh.

Oh no.

Your fingers suddenly feel too thick, your heart crashing around in your chest like a raccoon in a trash can. You fumble your way into your contacts, breath hitching, stomach dropping fast.

Yep. There it is. That brand-new number your ex gave you after switching phones, the one you entered manually because your Notes app was already a mess of half-written poems and “don’t text him” reminders that aged poorly. Apparently, one wrong digit was all it took to absolutely ruin your night.

You [10:43 PM]:

Oh my god. I’m so sorry.

That was…definitely not for you.

Please ignore everything I just said. Or better yet, erase it from your memory forever.

Goodbye. Forever.

You hurl your phone face-down onto your bed like it’s hot to the touch, eyes wide in sheer mortification. Your pulse is pounding behind your ears. You want to scream into a pillow, but you already did that last night, and your neighbors definitely heard.

What kind of cursed, chaotic energy are you carrying today? And why do your mistakes always wear neon signs?

Two minutes pass. Then three.

You start bargaining with the universe. Maybe the person is asleep. Or old. Or decided it wasn’t even worth a reply and moved on with their evening. Maybe you won’t have to crawl into a cave and reinvent your identity.

Buzz.

Nope. Not your fate tonight.

Unknown Number [10:47 PM]:

If it makes you feel better, I’ve read far more embarrassing confessions.

Once, in a 14th-century love letter translated from Provençal, a man compared his mistress’s breath to “wilted rosemary but in a charming way.”

Yours was far less poetic but arguably more effective.

You stare at the screen.

Blink.

Then blink again.

Who the hell is this man?

Who responds to a sexually charged misfire with a 14th-century literary anecdote?

A grin tugs at your lips despite yourself.

You [10:48 PM]:

…Are you a historian or something?

Unknown Number [10:49 PM]:

Close.

FBI profiler.

But I specialize in linguistics, criminology, and classical literature.

And bad timing, apparently.

You snorted, a small, unladylike burst of laughter that surprised even you. There was something oddly comforting in this stranger’s words, in the way he seemed to understand both the embarrassment and the poetry of the moment. You leaned back against your headboard, staring at the ceiling and feeling a warmth blossom in your chest, a flicker of intrigue.

You [10:49 PM]:

Wow.

You really weren’t the person I meant to text.

But also, now I’m invested.

You sit up, now fully engaged. You cross your legs and lean into the glow of your phone like it’s a lifeline. Your anxiety has morphed into something far more dangerous: curiosity.

Unknown Number [10:51 PM]:

If you’re open to unsolicited advice, next time you want to get over someone, try “The Bell Jar” or “The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

Or, if you’re feeling especially self-destructive, “Wuthering Heights.”

You smiled again, this time fully amused by the unexpected literary recommendation and the voice behind the words you couldn’t yet see. He was clever and mysterious. Just the kind of person you never thought you’d end up texting.

You [10:52 PM]:

I was expecting “Eat, Pray, Love” but okay, dark academia boy.

Got a name, or do I just keep calling you ‘Not My Ex’?

Unknown Number [10:53 PM]:

Spencer. Spencer Reid.

And you are…?

You stared at your phone for a beat, fingers hovering, then with a teasing grin, you typed:

You [10:54 PM]:

Professional Texter of the Wrong Men.

Nice to meet you, Spencer.

You bite your lip, grinning so hard your cheeks ache. You’re a mess, literally. There’s laundry on your dresser, lip balm in your bra, and a pen behind your ear you didn’t know was there. But somehow, in this little pocket of your chaotic evening, you feel like maybe…just maybe…you misdialed your way into something interesting.

And for once, your disastrous tendencies might have led you somewhere good.

Your phone buzzes again. One last message.

Spencer [10:56 PM]:

So…what was the thing with the hands?

You throw yourself backward onto your bed with a groan and a laugh, already typing back through a smile you can’t shake.

Seeing the things you saw every day never got easier. It never dulled. Not truly. No matter how many cases you closed, how many reports you filed, or how many reassurances you whispered to yourself that it was “just part of the job,” the images lodged themselves stubbornly behind your eyes. They resurfaced in the fragile, half-lit space between waking and sleep, where logic dissolved, where the world felt unmoored and memory ran riot. Some nights, they came at you in jagged shards. Faces without names, eyes wide with terror, blood that would not wash from your hands, screams that looped endlessly in your mind, refusing to be silenced. Other nights, the horror didn’t take shape, didn’t insist on narrative. It simply pressed down, a dull, omnipresent ache inside your skull that pulsed with every heartbeat, dragging your thoughts through viscous fog. Hours after the case had technically concluded, you still felt it there, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness, leaving you unsteady, as if your brain itself had lost the ability to process the world normally.

Pretending you were fine, the practiced mask you showed the victims’ families as they sobbed into your shoulder, had long become second nature. But pretending you weren’t in love with your coworker required a level of discipline you could only maintain for so long.

Especially not here, wedged into a booth at a dimly lit bar with the low hum of conversation pressing in from all sides. The room was full of profilers, which somehow made everything worse. Too many observant eyes. Too many people trained to notice the smallest deviations in behavior, the slightest changes in posture or tone. You nursed your drink carefully, letting the cold glass ground you, while Emily sat close enough that her knee bumped yours every time she shifted, and Penelope hovered on your other side like a bright, determined force of nature, utterly committed to the idea that you were going to have fun, whether your nervous system agreed or not.

Morgan and JJ laughed loudly at something Penelope said, and for a moment you let yourself smile along with them, letting the music and the alcohol blur the sharp edges of the day. They kept refilling your glass, kept asking questions, kept dragging you into conversations that required just enough focus to keep your thoughts from spiraling back to the case. It was sweet, really, their way of anchoring you to the present, but it also made the knot in your chest tighten. Because Spencer wasn’t there. And without him across the room, without the subtle weight of his gaze finding you instinctively, you felt off-balance, like you’d lost a familiar point of reference.

But he had taken a few days off. A minor injury, he said, just a cut and a bruise above his eyebrow, the result of protecting you from an unsub who had come too close. Now he was away, tending to his mother, and the world felt off in his absence. It was selfish, of course, to miss him this much. And yet, every instinct in your body longed for him: the quiet presence across the table, the faint scent he left on his coat, the way his nervous energy somehow steadied your own. You traced the rim of your glass absentmindedly, wishing for him to materialize from the crowd, wishing for the familiar tilt of his head, the low hum of thought behind his eyes.

Damn.

“That guy definitely wants something,” Emily said beside you, leaning in with a grin as she gestured toward the bar. You followed her gaze to the man who had been stealing glances at you all night, confidence written into his posture. A moment later, a bartender appeared, setting a sleek, expensive-looking drink in front of you with a nod in the man’s direction.

You barely hesitated before sliding the glass away. “I’m not interested, thanks,” you said, firm but polite, pushing it back toward the bartender.

JJ raised her eyebrows, amused. “Wow. Not even a sip?”

“I didn’t ask for it,” you replied, shrugging, though your fingers curled a little tighter around your own glass.

Penelope gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Do you realize how hot you have to be for strangers to just send you drinks? You’re wasting valuable flirting potential.”

Emily laughed. “She does this every time. Completely unfazed. It’s impressive, honestly.”

“You know,” Morgan said suddenly, eyeing you over the rim of his bottle, a teasing glint in his eyes, “this would be a lot easier if you just had a boyfriend.”

JJ nodded along, grinning. “Seriously. It’d save us all the trouble of watching men strike out all night.”

You rolled your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “I’m doing just fine without one.”

“Uh-huh,” Morgan said, clearly unconvinced. “Sure you are. You turn down free drinks, avoid flirting, and spend half the night staring at the door like you’re waiting for someone.”

JJ tilted her head, studying you with that calm, perceptive expression that made suspects crumble. “You know,” she said slowly, “you don’t act like someone who’s single.”

Oh.

You laughed, a little too quickly. “There’s no correct way to act single.”

Morgan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Sure there is. And you don’t fit it. You turn down drinks, avoid flirting, and spend most of the night talking about work or—” he paused, grinning, “—Reid.”

“What? I do not,” you protested.

Emily smiled into her glass. “You do. Constantly. Did you even realize you quoted one of his fun facts earlier?”

“That was relevant,” you said defensively. “And we’re friends.”

“Friends,” Penelope echoed, drawing the word out. “Interesting. Because the way you say his name is not very platonic.”

You rolled your eyes, but your face felt warm. “He’s my coworker. We work well together. That’s all.”

“Oh no,” Morgan said, shaking his head. “You don’t just work well together. You orbit each other. It’s painful to watch.”

JJ nodded. “You finish his sentences. He checks your reactions before he answers questions in briefings. And don’t think we haven’t noticed how you always end up sitting next to each other on the jet.”

“That’s coincidence,” you said immediately.

Except it wasn’t.

Not really.

Coincidence didn’t explain the way your fingers found each other in the narrow space beneath the shared blanket on long flights, skin brushing just once before intertwining. Didn’t explain the quiet weight of his hand resting against your knee when the lights dimmed and everyone else slept. Didn’t explain the chess table in hotel lobbies, the board between you like plausible deniability while his thumb traced slow circles against your knuckles. The way you both froze at the slightest sound, then smiled innocently when someone passed by.

You had learned how to hide. How to make it look accidental. How to pull away a second before it became obvious.

Emily raised an eyebrow. “Is it? Because I’ve taken three different seats to test that theory, and somehow you two still end up shoulder to shoulder.”

Your stomach dipped. You forced a careless shrug, lifting your glass as if this were amusing rather than terrifying.

“The jet isn’t exactly spacious,” you said. “Statistically, proximity is inevitable.”

Penelope leaned in closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “Also, he brings you coffee. Not just coffee, your coffee. No one memorizes an oat-milk-to-cinnamon ratio like that for a friend.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “He’s thoughtful. That’s just how Spencer is.”

“Exactly,” JJ said gently. “Thoughtful. Kind. Loyal. And completely in love with you.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “He is not.”

Morgan smirked. “Kid looks at you like you’re the only stable thing in his universe.”

Emily added, “Like you make the world quieter for him.”

Penelope sighed dreamily. “Like if the universe ever collapses, it’ll be because you weren’t holding his hand.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands for a second. “You’re all being ridiculous.”

“Are we?” JJ asked softly. “Because I’ve seen him panic when you’re hurt. He forgets procedure. He forgets everything except you.”

Morgan nodded. “I’ve never seen Reid jealous before. Then some consultant flirted with you and suddenly he’s giving me a ten-minute lecture on territorial behavior in primates.”

You stared at your drink. “We’re just friends,” you repeated, quieter now, like saying it enough times might make it true in the way they needed it to be.

Emily clinked her glass gently against yours. “Then you should start to date him.”

You smiled, a reflex more than a reaction, and let your gaze drop to your hands. If only she knew. If only she knew that “starting” had happened months ago, not with a confession or a dramatic moment, but in the slow accumulation of small things. In conversations that stretched past midnight because neither of you wanted to be the first to say goodnight. In the way Spencer learned the exact cadence of your voice when you were tired and adjusted himself accordingly, by speaking softer, moving closer, offering presence instead of solutions.

By the time the night stretched into that hazy, in-between hour where the music grew louder and the conversations looser, the team had clearly decided this was no longer casual teasing.

This was a campaign.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, lifting his bottle like he was delivering a closing argument. “Okay,” he said, grinning, “let’s be logical about this. You have to date Reid, and we have reasons. One: free lectures on literally anything. Guaranteed safety on trivia nights. And if you ever forget a birthday? He won’t. Ever. Man’s brain is a steel trap.”

You scoffed lightly, even as your heart gave an involuntary, traitorous flutter. “I don’t need to date someone for trivia night.”

What you didn’t say was that Spencer already remembered the dates that mattered, without prompts or reminders or jokes made at his expense. He remembered the day your fingers brushed for the first time, both of you startled by how electric something so small could feel. He remembered the anniversary of the case that left you hollowed out, the one that made your hands shake for days afterward. He remembered the exact time you had once texted him I can’t sleep, the message sent in the dead of night when you were sure no one would answer, and how he’d shown up at your door less than twenty minutes later, hair rumpled, jacket half-zipped, eyes dark with concern, holding two mismatched mugs of tea like they were offerings meant to ward off your fear.

And of course, he remembered the first time you kissed. That quiet moment before a case, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin, his hands trembling slightly where they rested at your waist. The way he’d paused, breath warm against your cheek, asking softly if this was okay, as if you might change your mind at the last second. The way the world had narrowed to just the two of you when you hadn’t.

Penelope leaned across the table then, bracelets chiming as her eyes sparkled with unfiltered conviction. Her voice dropped, earnest and conspiratorial all at once.

“Wrong,” she said. “You need to date someone who adores you. And Spencer Reid?” She pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “Worships the ground you walk on. Respectfully. With footnotes.”

You swallowed because that wasn’t exaggeration. Not even a little. Spencer loved you the way he loved knowledge: with reverence, with humility, with a kind of awe that treated you as something to be understood and safeguarded rather than claimed. He asked before touching you, even after months together, even when your body already knew the shape of his. Asked if he could hold your hand, if he could kiss your shoulder, if it was okay to stay the night. Every question spoken softly, like consent was not just a rule but a philosophy he lived by.

And when you teased him for it, when you smiled and told him he didn’t have to ask every time, he would flush, ears going pink, eyes impossibly sincere as he said, very seriously,

“I never want to assume I have the right to you.”

The memory settled heavy and warm in your chest, almost painful in its tenderness. You stared down at your drink, the ice melting slowly, and wondered how long you could keep pretending this was all just hypothetical.

JJ laughed. “Two, he’s amazing with kids.”

Oh.

Oh no.

You choked on your drink, the burn sharp as it went down the wrong way, coughing as you leaned forward, eyes watering slightly.

“Why,” you managed, setting the glass down harder than necessary, “are we talking about kids?”

Emily shrugged, smirking. “Because I’ve seen him with Henry. He kneels to talk at eye level, explains things like they matter, and somehow turns explaining space-time into a bedtime story.”

Your laughter never came.

Instead, your thoughts slipped traitorously inward, drifting to a quiet night you rarely let yourself linger on for too long. The room had been dark except for the thin spill of streetlight through the curtains. Spencer had been staring at the ceiling, hands folded tightly over his chest, voice unsteady in that way it only ever was when he let himself be vulnerable with you. He’d said he wasn’t sure he’d ever be good enough for a future like that. Not just kids, but the whole fragile idea of permanence. A house. A dog. A life where someone depended on him in ways he might fail.

You’d rolled onto your side then, traced the familiar line of his jaw with your thumb. You’d told him that he was already the gentlest person you knew. That gentleness wasn’t weakness. That it was rare. Necessary.

He’d gone quiet after that. Too quiet. When you looked at him, his eyes were shining, glassy in the dark, like no one had ever named that part of him before. Like no one had ever framed him as enough. And then, hesitantly, like he was testing the safety of the idea, he’d started talking about names with interesting meanings, about how parenting shaped a person forever, about how words and care and patience could alter the entire trajectory of a life. You’d listened, heart aching in that hopeful, terrifying way, knowing how much trust it took for him to even imagine it out loud.

Morgan snapped his fingers sharply, pulling you back to the present.

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “That man is dad material.”

“Oh my God,” you groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead. “We are not doing this.”

“We absolutely are,” Penelope said. “So, three, picture it. Reid as a husband? He’d over-research wedding venues. Color palettes. Statistically optimal cake flavors.”

JJ nodded thoughtfully. “He’d cry during the vows. And then apologize for crying.”

Emily added, “And then quote something obscure but devastatingly romantic.”

You stared at them. “You’re all insane.”

Morgan grinned. “You’d be insane not to marry him.”

“I am not marrying Spencer Reid,” you said quickly, and stopped. Because the word yet pressed so hard against your teeth it almost slipped free.

Penelope gasped. “Wow. You didn’t even hesitate. That denial was practiced.”

Because it was. Because you’d rehearsed it in your head every time you watched Spencer fall asleep beside you, glasses carefully set on the nightstand, one hand curled loosely in your shirt like he needed proof you were real. Because you already knew what forever would look like with him, and loving him in secret felt safer than risking a world that might take him from you.

JJ smiled into her glass. “Four, you already defend him like a spouse.”

“That is not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Emily said easily. “Every time someone underestimates him, you go feral.”

Morgan laughed. “Remember that sheriff who called him ‘the kid’? You verbally disassembled that man.”

“He deserved it.”

“Exactly,” Morgan said. “Wife behavior.”

You buried your face in your hands again. “He’s my friend.”

“Friends don’t memorize each other’s stress tells,” JJ said gently. “You know when he’s about to spiral before he does.”

“And he knows when you’re pretending you’re fine,” Penelope added. “He brings you books instead of asking questions.”

Emily tilted her head. “You know what that’s called?”

You peeked through your fingers. “Don’t say it.”

“Domestic,” Emily said.

The table erupted in laughter.

Morgan wasn’t done. “Five, let’s talk logistics. You’d never argue over directions. He already knows the fastest route everywhere.”

JJ laughed. “Your kids would be terrifyingly smart.”

“Okay, absolutely not,” you said quickly. “We are shutting that down right now.”

Emily smirked. “Too late. I’m picturing curly-haired little geniuses who quote Shakespeare.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “And carry FBI badges at career day.”

You shook your head, cheeks burning, heart doing something dangerously unprofessional in your chest. “This is ridiculous.” And so lovely to imagine.

“Is it?” JJ asked softly. “Because every reason we’re giving you…you already know.”

For a moment, the teasing eased, not gone, just quieter. The music filled the space between you, the bar lights blurring slightly at the edges. You took a slow sip of your drink, staring down at the condensation on the glass.

Penelope smiled at you, gentler now. “We just think you deserve someone who looks at you the way Spencer Reid looks at you.”

Morgan nodded. “Like you’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”

You nodded slowly, still silent, heart pounding.

If they only knew that you already were.

That the man they were trying to convince you to date was the one who kissed your temple before briefings, who texted you goodnight even when you were in the same building, who held your hand in the dark when the world felt too heavy. That you were already his, in every way that mattered.

You took a slow breath, forcing your expression to stay neutral, even as your chest overflowed with something secret and devastatingly sweet.

Because they could give you a thousand reasons to date Spencer Reid.

And not a single one of them would come close to the reasons you already loved him.

The night unraveled slowly, the way nights like that always did, as if no one quite wanted to be the first to admit they were tired. Laughter faded into softer smiles, jokes trailed off mid-sentence, and the table became crowded with empty glasses and half-forgotten napkins, evidence of a shared attempt at normalcy. The music blurred into something distant and indistinct, no longer demanding attention. You said your goodbyes in a haze of hugs, promised Penelope—twice, because she insisted—to text when you got home, and accepted one last lingering look from Emily and JJ. It wasn’t accusatory. Just fond. Observant. It settled in your chest like a question they didn’t ask.

The cold air outside wrapped around you immediately, clearing the last traces of alcohol from your system. You breathed it in deeply as you walked, shoulders drawing up, the city quieter now, lights reflecting softly off damp pavement. By the time you reached your apartment building, the exhaustion you’d been holding at bay finally settled in. The familiar hum of the hallway lights greeted you, and you moved on autopilot, unlocking the door, slipping inside.

Your shoes came off just past the threshold. Your keys landed in the ceramic bowl by habit. You sighed, long and deep, body sagging as if it had finally been given permission to rest.

And then you froze.

There was a light on in the living room.

Not harsh. Not alarming. Just warm and unmistakably familiar. Your heart skipped, then stuttered, then began to race in earnest as you moved further inside, steps slow, breath shallow with anticipation. You didn’t call out. You didn’t need to.

Spencer was there.

He sat on your couch, leaned forward slightly, hands clasped loosely between his knees. A book rested open beside him, forgotten, a marker of a thought interrupted. He looked up the moment you appeared, eyes softening instantly, like he’d been waiting for this exact second. His curls were more unruly than usual, falling into his eyes, and his jacket had been folded neatly over the arm of the couch, as if he’d taken care to make himself small in your space. He stood too quickly, movement a little uncoordinated, nerves evident in the way his shoulders squared.

“Hey,” he said softly.

The sound of his voice wrapped around you and your chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, even as your body betrayed you, carrying you toward him without hesitation.

“I came back early,” he said, swallowing, fingers flexing as if he didn’t know where to put them.

Your brows furrowed. “Spencer, you were supposed to be with your mom until tomorrow.”

“I know,” he said quickly, then slowed himself down, forcing a breath. “I was. But you sounded tired earlier. On the phone. And you said your head hurt.” His gaze flicked to your face, so careful. “And you paused before answering, which you only do when you’re trying not to worry me.”

You stopped in front of him, hands already reaching for his sleeves, grounding yourself in the warmth of him.

“So I changed my ticket,” he finished, voice quieter now. “I thought…statistically, after cases like this, you’re more likely to minimize how bad you’re feeling. And I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Something in you melted completely.

You stepped into him, resting your forehead against his chest, breathing him in. His arms came around you immediately, no hesitation this time, no uncertainty. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gentle in your hair, the other settling at your waist. He held you like he was anchoring you to the present, like he knew exactly how fragile you felt.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured, voice muffled against him.

“I know,” he murmured, pressing his cheek lightly against your hair. “I wanted to.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye, careful not to touch where you were still sensitive from the headache.

“I want to take care of you,” he said again, quieter this time, like a promise meant only for you.

Your chest ached. Because this was who Spencer Reid was. He loved quietly, deliberately. He showed up. He noticed. He acted.

It was the thousandth reason to love him as you already did.

He pulled back again, eyes scanning your face with practiced concern. “Did you eat something there?”

You huffed a soft, tired laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s not an answer,” he said, lips twitching.

“Barely. There’s no real food in a bar.”

He nodded, already turning toward the kitchen. “Okay. I made that instant soup you like just in case. It’s…not burned.”

You watched him move through your space like he belonged there, because he did. His shoes lined up neatly by the door. His glasses case on your coffee table. His presence woven so seamlessly into your apartment it felt wrong when he wasn’t there.

While he reheated the soup, you leaned against the counter, watching the careful way he stirred, the way he tasted and adjusted, brow furrowing in concentration.

“You didn’t have to come back early,” you said again, softer now. “I know you wanted to be with your mom.”

He glanced at you, expression earnest. “I know but she was okay, probably even tired of me talking so much about you. And I wanted to be here when you got home. And I figured…after nights like this, you usually can’t sleep.”

Your throat tightened, the words sitting heavy for a moment before you let them out.

“They were talking about you all night.”

Spencer paused mid-motion.

The ladle hovered above the pot, a thin ribbon of steam curling up between you. His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, like his body had registered the information a second before his mind caught up.

“Oh,” he said.

You smiled faintly, watching the way his fingers tightened around the handle. “They think we should date.”

That did it.

His ears flushed immediately, color blooming so fast it felt almost unfair. He swallowed, blinked once, then again, like his brain was rapidly sorting through several possible responses and rejecting all of them.

“Oh,” he repeated, voice cracking just slightly, traitorously.

You stepped closer, leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder. He smelled like soup and clean cotton. His body relaxed at the contact even as his mind clearly did not.

“They gave me reasons,” you added softly. “Lots of them.”

He resumed moving, carefully this time, ladling soup into a bowl with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.

“Were they…logical?” he asked.

You laughed under your breath. “Painfully so.”

That earned you a shy smile, the corner of his mouth lifting as he set the bowl down with great care, adjusting it so it was perfectly centered on the counter.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “They’re not wrong. I mean—about the logic. Not about the…dating part. Because we already—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, flustered. “I mean, it would be redundant.”

“I know,” you said gently, reaching for his hand, threading your fingers through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed your knuckle automatically. “They don’t.”

He nodded, lips pressing together in thought as he handed you a spoon, making sure it wasn’t too hot.

“Maybe we should…tell them someday,” he said carefully, like he was testing the idea for structural integrity.

“When we get married,” you replied easily, absentmindedly studying your bare finger like you could already see it there. Like it was an inevitability, not a joke.

Spencer’s brain left the building.

He froze completely, eyes widening, breath catching so sharply you were genuinely concerned he might tip over. The spoon in his hand clinked softly against the counter.

“What?” he said, voice several octaves higher than usual.

You looked up at him, amused, soft, devastatingly calm. “Imagine their faces when they get the invitation.”

He stared at you like you’d just proposed rewriting the laws of physics.

“You’re drunk,” he said faintly.

“I’m in love,” you corrected, crossing your arms behind his neck, pressing yourself closer. You kissed his cheek once. Then again. And once more for good measure. “So in love.”

He made a small, helpless noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, hands lifting instinctively to steady you at the waist. His ears were fully red now, eyes bright, and smile completely unguarded.

“Now I need to know,” he said breathlessly, “exactly what they told you, because this amount of affection is…unusual. Even for you.”

You laughed, forehead resting against his.

“Oh, Spencer,” you murmured. “You have no idea what they already know.”

You had made the biggest mistake of your life by mentioning your dating life around Spencer Reid in the middle of breakfast at work.

It wasn’t even supposed to become a conversation. It was supposed to be one of those rare moments before the day inevitably descended into ringing phones, half-empty coffee cups, case files spread across every available surface, and Garcia announcing that someone had been murdered in a way that was somehow both horrifying and creatively disturbing. For now, though, the BAU was suspended in that brief pocket of normalcy that existed before the first case of the day. The bullpen was still relatively quiet, and the small break room smelled like burnt coffee, toasted bread, and whatever suspiciously sugary pastry Garcia had brought in that morning. You had been sitting at the table with your coffee warming your hands, enjoying the illusion that you might actually get to finish it while it was still hot.

Naturally, that illusion lasted approximately seven minutes.

It had started with Garcia complaining about the modern dating scene, which, considering her tendency to treat every minor inconvenience as a personal betrayal from the universe, had been fairly inevitable. She was halfway through describing the latest dating disaster of one of her friends when Morgan had decided to contribute his own entirely unsolicited expertise, proudly bragging about his ability to get numbers at bars as though he were presenting evidence before a jury. JJ had laughed at him, Rossi had offered some dry comment about how little had changed since his own dating days, and somehow, the attention had shifted toward you.

JJ had been the one to ask.

“So, are you seeing anyone now?”

You had shrugged, taking a sip of coffee as though the question didn’t deserve much thought.

“Not really.”

Morgan immediately looked offended on your behalf.

“Not really?” he repeated, stopping halfway through pouring sugar into his coffee just to turn toward you. “What does that mean?”

You glanced at him over the rim of your mug.

“It means I’ve gone on a few dates.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

Garcia gasped dramatically, a donut still in her hand.

“Nothing?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “They’re nice. They’re just…not exactly memorable.”

There was a collective murmur of sympathy around the table, although you suspected at least half of it was amusement. Morgan shook his head like you had personally disappointed him, while Garcia immediately began asking whether any of them had at least been attractive, and JJ was trying not to laugh into her coffee.

You were about to answer when a quiet voice came from beside you.

“That’s probably because you’re using dating applications.”

You slowly turned your head.

Spencer was sitting beside you, one leg tucked beneath the chair, a book open across his lap as if he hadn’t been listening to the conversation at all. He had one hand curled loosely around his coffee mug, the other resting against the edge of the book, and there was something almost absurdly innocent about his expression.

He hadn’t even realized he’d said anything particularly offensive.

You stared at him.

“I’m sorry?”

Spencer blinked and finally looked up from the page.

“Dating applications are statistically inefficient.”

Morgan’s eyebrows shot up, Garcia abandoned her donut entirely, JJ lowered her coffee and across the table, Rossi’s mouth twitched.

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Garcia murmured, settling back into her chair as though she’d just been handed front-row tickets to a show.

Spencer seemed to realize, belatedly, that he’d acquired an audience. His eyes moved from Garcia to Morgan, then briefly to JJ before settling back on you. There was a tiny crease between his eyebrows, the one that appeared whenever he was trying to determine why everyone was looking at him like he’d said something strange.

Instead of stopping, however, he elaborated.

“Most dating applications rely heavily on physical appearance and brief self-descriptions, which creates a significant selection bias. There’s also evidence that the abundance of potential partners can actually decrease satisfaction because people perceive alternatives as unlimited, which can make commitment more difficult.”

Spencer continued, completely unaware that he had just turned your perfectly harmless breakfast conversation into a dissertation on why your love life was apparently suffering from a flawed methodology.

“The paradox of choice is particularly relevant here. When people are presented with too many options, they can become less satisfied with the choice they eventually make because they’re more aware of the alternatives they rejected.”

You continued staring at him.

There was something almost surreal about hearing Spencer discuss your dating life in the language of behavioral economics. You’d complained about bad dates plenty of times. It wasn’t unusual. Over the past few months, you’d mentioned—more than once, admittedly—that you were probably going to delete the application you had been using because every man on it seemed to possess the exact same three photographs, the same aggressively vague profile, and the same inexplicable fascination with hiking.

You hadn’t expected anyone to actually remember.

Certainly not Spencer.

And yet, somehow, without you even realizing how much attention he’d been paying to those conversations, Spencer Reid had apparently taken every complaint you’d made, filed it away somewhere in that frighteningly enormous brain of his, and connected it to an entire body of psychological research. So now he was explaining the possible causes of your romantic misfortunes as though he had been invited to present his findings at an academic conference.

Finally, he paused.

“What?”

You blinked slowly.

“You’ve thought about this.”

Spencer’s expression softened into immediate confusion, his eyebrows drawing together ever so slightly. For a second, his gaze dropped toward the open book on his lap, as though perhaps the answer could be found somewhere between the pages.

“I’ve read about it.”

“Of course you have.”

There was a beat of silence.

He frowned slightly, clearly unable to understand the particular tone you’d used. He glanced at you again, his eyes moving carefully over your face as though he were looking for some indication that you were joking.

“Why is that surprising?”

“Because most people don’t research why dating apps are statistically inefficient before breakfast.”

“I wasn’t researching dating applications specifically.”

“You weren’t?”

“No.” He glanced down at his book again, thumb slipping between the pages to hold his place. “I was reading an article about decision-making and behavioral economics, and it referenced several studies on modern courtship.”

You stared at him for another moment.

Of course he hadn’t searched for statistics about bad first dates or relationship satisfaction or the psychological consequences of swiping through hundreds of strangers. He had simply been reading something completely unrelated, stumbled across a study about courtship, remembered it, and somehow managed to retrieve the information at exactly the right moment.

You didn’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.

Eventually, you sighed.

“Somehow that’s worse.”

Morgan laughed from across the table, the sound escaping him before he could quite disguise it behind his coffee. He shook his head, eyes dropping toward the cup as though he had suddenly found something fascinating in it.

Spencer looked between the two of you.

“I don’t understand.”

There was no sarcasm in his voice. No defensiveness. He genuinely didn’t understand why everyone seemed to find his explanation funny, and that somehow made it even more difficult to keep a straight face.

“Don’t worry,” Rossi said dryly, reaching for his coffee. “You will eventually.”

Spencer looked at Rossi for a moment, apparently trying to determine whether that was an actual answer or simply another example of the older man’s tendency to make deliberately cryptic observations. Whatever conclusion he reached, he didn’t ask. Instead, his attention returned to you.

You turned toward him fully, narrowing your eyes slightly, although by then you weren’t entirely sure whether you were annoyed or simply amused by the fact that he had managed to transform a casual conversation over coffee into an impromptu lecture on human behavior. He hadn’t meant to embarrass you or to criticize your choices. If anything, he seemed genuinely interested in solving what he had apparently identified as a problem.

“What?” he asked.

The question was so genuinely confused that you almost laughed.

“Nothing,” you said, perhaps a little too quickly.

Spencer didn’t answer.

You turned back toward your paperwork instead, deliberately giving him your back in the universal language of conversation over. You picked up your pen and dragged the tip across a sentence you’d already highlighted, pretending to reread it with considerably more interest than it deserved. Behind you, Spencer remained still for another second. You could practically feel his gaze on the back of your head, his mind undoubtedly running through the possible meanings of your expression and tone.

But eventually, whatever conclusion he’d reached seemed sufficient.

He lowered his eyes to the book resting against his thigh and turned the page with one finger.

The room slowly settled back into its familiar rhythm. Morgan’s spoon scraped softly against the bottom of his coffee cup, followed by the quiet clink as he set it down. Garcia unwrapped another piece of pastry, the crinkling paper sounding unusually loud in the lull before she took a bite. Somewhere near the corner, the vending machine hummed continuously, its mechanical vibration blending with the muffled sounds drifting in from the bullpen.

And, just for a few seconds, you managed to convince yourself that the conversation was actually over.

Four seconds passed.

Then Spencer spoke again.

“You could try meeting people in person.”

Your pen stopped halfway through the sentence and a short laugh escaped you before you could stop it, and you turned toward him again.

Spencer was still looking at his book.

He’d said it so casually, so matter-of-factly, that you almost wondered whether he’d forgotten that he was talking to you at all. His thumb rested against the edge of the page, keeping it from turning, while his eyes moved across the text with the same concentration he’d had before. He looked completely unaware that he’d just offered what sounded suspiciously like romantic advice.

“Okay, Spencer,” you said, turning your chair slightly in his direction. “Our king of social skills. And where exactly am I supposed to meet people?”

He blinked at you.

“Social environments.”

“Very helpful.” You said, then rolled your eyes and turned back toward your paperwork, but he had already begun considering the question more seriously. You heard the faint rustle of his clothes as he shifted in his chair, and when you glanced sideways again, his book had been lowered slightly.

“Bars, bookstores, museums, academic conferences, community events—”

“Do you hear yourself?” you interrupted, turning toward him again, genuinely offended now.

“Yes.”

“And you’re still talking?”

“Yes.”

The answer came without hesitation.

Spencer didn’t even seem to understand that there was supposed to be a different answer. He simply looked at you over the top of his glasses, completely serious. There was no trace of embarrassment in his face, no realization that he’d just walked directly into the joke you were making. If anything, he seemed mildly confused by your continued amusement, as though he’d provided a perfectly reasonable answer and was now waiting for you to explain why that wasn’t sufficient.

There was a tiny pause.

Then you smiled because you couldn’t help it, it was like something about him made it impossible not to.

“I just mean,” he added after a moment, his voice quieter now, “that real-life interactions provide more reliable behavioral data.”

“Behavioral data?”

“Yes.”

You leaned closer, lowering your voice as though you were sharing some great secret with him, despite the fact that everyone else at the table was still within easy listening distance.

“So you’re saying I should stop using dating apps and start profiling men in bars?”

“No.” Spencer immediately frowned. “Profiling is different.”

“Right.”

“It would be inappropriate to profile someone recreationally.”

Morgan snorted so violently into his coffee that he had to set the cup down before he choked on it. Garcia immediately covered her mouth with one hand, her shoulders shaking as she fought against the laugh threatening to escape. Even JJ had to look down at the table, biting the inside of her cheek in a futile attempt to compose herself.

You lasted only a second longer.

Then you laughed too, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair.

“Of course it would.”

Spencer looked around at everyone.

His gaze moved from Morgan, who was still recovering, to Garcia, whose eyes had begun to water from trying not to laugh, and then to JJ, who was suddenly very interested in the coffee sitting between her hands.

“What?”

“Nothing,” JJ said, far too innocently.

He looked unconvinced but eventually returned his attention to you.

There was something almost endearing about the way he approached everything with absolute sincerity. Spencer could explain criminal behavior, statistical anomalies, linguistic patterns, and the psychological effects of trauma without blinking, but put him in a conversation about something as ordinary as flirting and suddenly he seemed to be operating from a textbook that had been written for an entirely different species.

And, unfortunately for him, that made you want to tease him.

“You know what, Spencer?”

His eyes flicked toward you immediately.

“Maybe you’re right.”

He straightened slightly.

The movement was subtle, but you caught it. His shoulders lifted a fraction, his posture becoming a little more attentive, and something about the reaction made you smile. Spencer always seemed to become more animated whenever someone accepted one of his conclusions. It wasn’t arrogance. If anything, it was the opposite. He simply liked knowing that something he’d explained had been useful.

“About what?”

“Dating apps.”

Something shifted in his expression.

“Really?”

There was a quiet note of interest in his voice that made you almost laugh.

“Yeah.” You nodded thoughtfully, pretending to give the matter considerably more consideration than it deserved. “Maybe I should learn how to flirt in real life.”

Spencer nodded almost immediately and you could practically see his brain rearranging the problem into something he could analyze, something with identifiable variables and a measurable outcome.

“That would probably increase your chances of establishing a meaningful connection.”

You bit the inside of your cheek because you knew if you didn’t, you were going to laugh.

“Well,” you said slowly, turning the pen between your fingers, “if you’re such an expert…”

His eyebrows rose.

The change in his expression was almost imperceptible, but you saw it. His attention sharpened, the hand holding his book became still, and he looked at you with the cautious curiosity of someone who had suddenly realized there might be something hidden beneath your words.

You leaned back in your chair, watching him.

For perhaps the first time since the conversation began, Spencer seemed to understand that he had walked himself directly into a trap.

“You should teach me you how to flirt in real life.”

Silence.

Morgan’s head turned so quickly that his chair gave a quiet squeak against the floor. Garcia’s mouth actually fell open, the piece of pastry she’d been holding forgotten halfway between the plate and her lips. JJ stopped with her coffee halfway to her mouth, her eyes widening as she looked over the rim of the cup. Somewhere near the doorway, Rossi had been lingering with a file tucked beneath one arm, but he took one look at the expressions around the table and apparently made a very deliberate decision that he wanted no part in whatever was about to happen. Without saying a word, he turned around and walked away.

Even Hotch glanced up from across the bullpen.

Spencer, however, seemed completely oblivious to everyone else.

“Me?”

You nodded, fighting the smile threatening to give you away.

“Yes, you.”

He looked genuinely alarmed now.

“I don’t think I’m qualified to teach you that.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“You just gave me a ten-minute lecture on human mating behavior.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.”

“That wasn’t about mating behavior.” His response came much faster this time. His eyebrows drew together, and he shifted slightly in his chair as though physically repositioning himself might somehow make the distinction more convincing. “It was about the psychological implications of digital courtship environments.”

You smiled.

“See? You’re already an expert.”

Spencer opened his mouth and closed it.

For once, he seemed genuinely at a loss.

His gaze dropped slowly to the book in his lap, and he stared at the page as though the answer to this particular problem might be hidden somewhere in the text.

“I suppose I could…”

You laughed before he could finish.

“I was joking.”

“Oh.”

It was only one syllable, but it landed differently than you expected. You were still smiling, already turning back toward your paperwork, so you didn’t notice the subtle change in his expression. You didn’t see the way his eyes remained on you for another second, or how the faint anticipation that had appeared in them disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived. You didn’t notice the small breath he let out before lowering his gaze to the book again, his fingers absently smoothing the corner of the page.

You certainly didn’t notice that, for the briefest moment, Spencer Reid looked disappointed.

Anyway, you should have.

Because the following morning, you found him standing beside your desk with a notebook.

Not a normal notebook, either.

A genius notebook.

It was one of those narrow black notebooks with slightly worn corners, the kind he carried everywhere because apparently having an eidetic memory wasn’t sufficient reason not to keep written records. Several colored tabs protruded neatly from the side, each one labeled in his impossibly precise handwriting. The pages were already crowded with notes, diagrams, underlined phrases, and tiny references written in the margins.

He held it against his chest with one hand while the other rested lightly against the edge of your desk. His posture was perfectly straight, his expression so serious that for a moment you genuinely thought something had happened.

You looked from him to the notebook.

Then back at him.

“What’s that?”

“My notes.”

You blinked.

“Your notes?”

“Yes.” He said it as though the answer were completely self-explanatory.

You glanced at the notebook again, then at him.

“About what?”

Spencer hesitated for half a second before opening it.

“Flirting.”

You stared at him and he stared back.

There wasn’t even the slightest trace of embarrassment on his face. If anything, he looked almost expectant, like someone who had spent the previous evening preparing for an exam and had now arrived with all his materials neatly organized and ready to be graded.

“You actually took notes?”

“You told me I should teach you.”

“I was kidding.”

“I know.”

The answer came so matter-of-factly that it briefly left you without anything to say.

Spencer didn’t seem bothered by the distinction between a joke and a serious suggestion. If anything, he seemed to have filed your comment away somewhere in that impossible mind of his, alongside approximately seven thousand other pieces of information he’d apparently decided were worth remembering. He simply turned the notebook around and held it out for you.

You looked down.

At the top of the first page, written in Spencer’s precise, almost unnervingly tidy handwriting, was:

REAL-LIFE FLIRTATION: A PRACTICAL GUIDE

Underneath, in smaller letters:

Objective: Increase probability of romantic interest through appropriate interpersonal behavior.

You slowly looked up at him.

“Spencer.”

“Yes?”

“This is insane.”

His eyes dropped briefly to the notebook before returning to you.

“I thought it was organized.”

You stared at him for another second.

“It is terrifyingly organized.”

That didn’t discourage him. If anything, the faintest hint of satisfaction appeared at the corner of his mouth, as though terrifyingly organized was, in his mind, a fairly impressive compliment. He glanced down at the open notebook again, turning it slightly so the pages faced him, and for a moment you had the distinct impression that he was considering whether he should write your assessment down as well.

Instead, he simply said, “I started with eye contact.”

You stared at the page.

“You started with eye contact?”

“Yes.”

He turned the page.

At the top, beneath a neatly underlined heading, was the first entry:

1. Eye Contact — Maintain for approximately 3–5 seconds.

You pointed at it.

“Why three to five seconds?”

“According to several studies, prolonged eye contact can increase perceived intimacy, although context is important. Too little can communicate disinterest, while excessive eye contact can be perceived as aggressive or uncomfortable.”

You looked at him, and he looked completely serious.

“You researched how long you’re supposed to look at someone?”

“Yes.”

“For flirting.”

“Yes.”

You slowly nodded.

“Okay.”

Spencer seemed satisfied with the response and turned the page.

2. Compliments — Specificity appears to increase perceived sincerity.

Another page.

3. Light Touching — Situational. Must be reciprocated.

Another.

4. Smiling — Apparently important.

You stopped reading and looked at him.

“Apparently?”

Spencer’s eyebrows pulled together.

“I don’t smile very often.”

“I’ve noticed.”

He gave you a mildly offended look, the kind that suggested he wasn’t sure whether you’d just insulted him.

“I don’t think that’s necessarily a negative.”

“No,” you said, letting your smile widen. “It’s adorable.”

Spencer froze.

It was almost comical how completely still he became.

His fingers stopped moving against the notebook, his shoulders stiffened, his eyes widening just slightly behind his glasses. For a second, he looked as though he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. Then, slowly, a faint flush began creeping across his cheeks.

“See?”

His ears turned pink and you laughed.

“That was a compliment.”

“I know.” His voice was quieter than before.

“And you survived.”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations.”

He looked down at his notebook, seemingly uncertain what to do with the information. His thumb traced the edge of the page once, twice, before he glanced at the section he’d just written.

“Should I write that down?”

You laughed so hard you had to cover your mouth.

“What?” he asked.

“You cannot make a field note every time someone says something nice to you.”

“Why not?”

“Because then your notebook is going to be seventy pages long by lunch.”

He considered that.

“That’s possible.”

You shook your head, still laughing.

“God, you’re impossible.”

He looked down at his notebook again and you did the same, noticing how there were already more tabs than you’d initially noticed.

You narrowed your eyes.

“Spencer.”

He looked up.

“Yes?”

“How much of this did you write?”

His expression remained perfectly innocent.

“I stayed up until approximately two forty-three.”

What?

Then, after a moment, added, almost as an afterthought, “But I did sleep for three hours afterward.”

***

The first experiment happened two days later.

You were standing by the coffee machine, waiting impatiently for it to finish producing a cup that had already taken far too long, watching the last few drops fall. The machine hummed and clicked behind the counter, occasionally making a concerning gurgling sound that suggested it was one inconvenience away from breaking down completely. You had one hand wrapped around your mug, the other resting against the edge of the counter, when Spencer approached from somewhere behind you with his notebook tucked securely beneath one arm.

You noticed him from the corner of your eye but didn’t immediately look over.

By now, you had learned that Spencer had developed a very particular way of appearing beside you whenever he’d decided something needed to be tested. There was always the notebook, that thoughtful expression, and the faintly expectant look that told you he’d been thinking about something for far longer than you had.

“Can I try something?” he asked.

You glanced at him suspiciously.

There was something about the careful way he’d phrased the question that made you instinctively straighten. Your fingers tightened around your coffee mug as you turned toward him, studying his face.

“Why does that sound threatening?”

“It isn’t.”

“You’re holding the notebook.”

Spencer looked down at it as though he’d genuinely forgotten it was there.

“That doesn’t make it threatening.”

“With you, it does.”

He opened his mouth, presumably to argue the point, then seemed to reconsider. His lips pressed together for a moment before he simply nodded and stepped closer. But not close enough to be inappropriate, just close enough that you became suddenly, acutely aware of him standing there.

You noticed details you hadn’t been paying attention to a moment earlier: the faint scent of coffee lingering on his breath, the clean smell of laundry and paper that always seemed to cling to his clothes, the soft rustle of his shirt as he shifted his weight. His fingers curled more securely around the notebook beneath his arm, and his shoulders squared slightly as though he were preparing himself for an important task.

You watched him expectantly.

Spencer looked directly into your eyes.

One second.

Two. Three. Four. Five.

You raised an eyebrow.

Six. Seven. Eight.

By the time he reached eight, you were beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

Not because his expression was threatening, quite the opposite. Spencer looked intensely focused, his hazel eyes fixed on yours with the same concentration he usually reserved for difficult puzzles, complicated equations, or the face of a suspect whose behavior he was trying to understand. There was nothing flirtatious about his expression, nothing overtly suggestive.

And somehow, that almost made it stranger.

There was something deeply intimate about being looked at for that long without either of you saying anything. You could feel yourself becoming increasingly aware of the distance between you, of the quiet surrounding the coffee machine and the fact that neither of you had looked away.

He didn’t seem to notice any of it, he was busy counting. His mind was somewhere else entirely, measuring seconds and observing your reaction as though you were a variable in an experiment.

“Spencer.”

He didn’t look away.

“Yes?”

“You can stop staring at me now.”

He blinked, as though he’d forgotten you were an actual person rather than a particularly cooperative participant in his research.

“Oh.”

He immediately looked down and you laughed.

“What was that?”

“Eye contact.”

“That was not eye contact.” You shook your head, still laughing. “That was an interrogation.”

“I was testing the upper limit.”

“The upper limit?”

“Yes. I wanted to determine how long prolonged eye contact could be maintained before it became uncomfortable.”

You stared at him.

“You almost saw my soul.”

Spencer’s mouth twitched.

“I don’t think that’s scientifically possible.”

He wrote something down and you leaned over.

Five seconds appears socially acceptable. Eight seconds causes discomfort.

You stared at the sentence for a moment, then slowly lifted your eyes to Spencer, who was standing beside you with the most serious expression imaginable, as though he’d just recorded the findings of an important psychological study.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Oh.”

You laughed again, unable to help yourself. There was something so completely sincere about the way he accepted everything you said that it made it almost impossible not to laugh. Spencer watched you for a moment, his head tilting slightly as though he were trying to solve another small mystery. His eyes followed the movement of your face, lingering on your smile with a quiet curiosity, and you had the distinct impression that he was trying to understand why your laughter seemed to happen so often whenever he spoke. He didn’t ask, though. Instead, after another second, his attention returned to you.

Only this time, something was different in his gaze.

It happened gradually enough that you almost didn’t notice the change. The intense concentration he’d worn while counting seconds softened, the slight tension around his eyes disappearing as his gaze settled on yours. There was no notebook between you now, no pen poised to record another observation, no stopwatch, no invisible scale measuring the appropriate duration of eye contact. He wasn’t counting anymore.

His gaze moved briefly over your face—the curve of your cheek, the corner of your mouth, the loose strand of hair near your temple—before returning to your eyes.

Three seconds.

Four. Five.

And suddenly you forgot what you had been about to say.

You swallowed and he noticed.

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asked.

“No.”

He studied your face for another moment.

“Your heart rate increased.”

There were several possible responses to that observation. You could have laughed, told him he was being ridiculous or just pointed out that announcing someone’s physiological responses in the middle of a conversation was perhaps the least effective way of making them feel less self-conscious.

Instead, you simply looked at him.

“You cannot say things like that.”

His forehead creased further.

“Why?”

“Because you’re making me nervous.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“I’m making you nervous?”

“Yes.”

The realization moved slowly across his face, and for a moment, Spencer looked genuinely surprised, as though the possibility had never occurred to him. His lips parted slightly, his eyes remaining fixed on yours while his brain apparently worked through the information. You could almost see the moment he replayed the last few seconds in his head, searching for the exact thing he’d done that had caused your reaction.

Then his gaze dropped toward the notebook.

“No, don’t you dare.”

He had already reached for his pen.

You reacted on instinct, catching the notebook before he could open it properly and pulling it toward yourself.

“Stop documenting my suffering.”

“But this is useful data.”

“Spencer, you’re impossible.”

And then he smiled.

It was so small you might have missed it if you hadn’t been looking directly at him.

The corner of his mouth lifted first, followed by the faintest softening around his eyes, and suddenly there was something almost boyish about his expression.

You paused.

“There.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“You smiled.”

The smile disappeared almost immediately.

“Oh.”

“And that one actually worked.”

His eyebrows pulled together.

“Worked?”

“You’re supposed to smile when you’re flirting.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

“You were.”

“I was conducting an experiment.”

“You were flirting experimentally.”

“That isn’t a recognized category.”

“It is now.”

He looked down, apparently finding the notebook suddenly very interesting, but you caught the tiny movement at the corner of his mouth. He was trying not to smile again.

And somehow, that was even more endearing.

For a second, neither of you said anything. You watched him attempt to compose himself, his thumb moving absently along the edge of the notebook while he seemed to consider your argument with far more seriousness than it deserved.

Then, very quietly, said, “I suppose I should test it again.”

Before you could answer, he looked up and smiled.

Not the polite smile he gave strangers or the awkward, slightly crooked one he used whenever Morgan teased him. This one was different, more soft and real.

Your brain promptly stopped functioning and his smile faded.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“You’re staring.”

“I know.”

The admission came out before you could soften it, and something about that seemed to catch his attention. His gaze moved slowly over your face, lingering on your expression as though he were piecing together a particularly interesting puzzle. Then his eyes settled on your cheeks, and his eyebrows lifted slightly.

“You’re blushing.”

You looked away for half a second, suddenly fascinated by the coffee machine, even though you’d already been staring at it for the better part of five minutes.

“I know.”

When you looked back, his face was still faintly pink from the compliment you’d given him earlier, but now his expression had shifted into genuine curiosity. He tilted his head slightly, studying you with the same fascinated attention he’d shown when you’d been the subject of his experiment, except this time there was something softer beneath it.

“Is that a positive response?”

You stared at him for a beat.

“Unfortunately.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Unfortunately?”

“Because now you’re going to become insufferable.”

A tiny smile returned to his mouth, and you immediately regretted admitting that you’d noticed.

“I don’t think that’s statistically likely.”

“You have a notebook about flirting.”

His gaze dropped toward the notebook still trapped in your hand.

“That is fair.”

You finally handed it back to him, shaking your head as you reached for your coffee. Spencer accepted it without protest, slipping the pen behind his ear with an absentminded little motion before tucking the notebook securely beneath his arm. You thought that might finally be the end of the experiment, but when you lifted your mug, you caught him still watching you. His attention remained fixed on you, thoughtful and strangely intent, as though he’d reached another conclusion while you’d been distracted.

“There’s another technique.”

You narrowed your eyes over the rim of your coffee.

“What technique?”

“Compliments.”

“No.”

The answer came so quickly that Spencer blinked. You immediately took a small step backward, and his forehead creased in confusion.

“I haven’t tried it yet.”

“Spencer.”

“I need a control for you.”

“You are not running a clinical trial on me.”

He looked genuinely confused by your objection, his eyebrows drawing together as though you’d just introduced an entirely unreasonable complication into an otherwise perfectly straightforward experiment.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a person.”

“I know you’re a person.”

“You’re treating me like a lab rat.”

“I would never do that.”

The sheer sincerity of his answer almost made you laugh. He wasn’t joking. He genuinely seemed offended by the comparison, his expression earnest and slightly perplexed as though the ethical distinction between you and a laboratory animal was so obvious that he couldn’t understand why you’d brought it up in the first place.

You folded your arms.

“Fine. One compliment.”

Spencer nodded immediately, apparently relieved to have reached an agreement. He shifted the notebook beneath his arm and looked at you.

And then he thought.

You watched his eyes move briefly toward your hair, then your face, then back to your eyes. His lips pressed together as he considered his options, and there was something almost absurdly serious about the concentration on his face. He looked like he was trying to solve a particularly difficult equation rather than tell someone something nice.

You raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“I want to make it specific.” he explained.

“Okay.”

“You have…”

He paused and you watched him struggle.

Spencer Reid, who could recall obscure facts after hearing them once, who could identify patterns other people didn’t even notice, who could explain the statistical probability of almost anything, was apparently incapable of producing a compliment on demand.

Finally, he said, “You have very nice hair.”

You laughed and he immediately frowned.

“That wasn’t effective.”

“No, no, it was.” You quickly reassured him, still smiling. “It was just…”

“You laughed.”

“Because you’re nervous.”

“I am not nervous.”

“You’re turning red.”

“I have naturally high peripheral circulation.”

You stared.

“That’s the excuse you’re going with?”

“Yes.”

You smiled into your coffee.

“Try again.”

He swallowed and this time, he didn’t look at his notebook.

“You have a really nice laugh.”

Your smile faltered and Spencer continued.

“I like hearing it.”

Oh, that was different.

For a second, the bullpen seemed to recede into the background: the distant voices, the ringing phones, the hum of the coffee machine. You simply stared at him, suddenly far too aware of the warmth rising beneath your skin.

Spencer seemed to realize what he’d said at exactly the same moment and his face went crimson.

“I—”

“That one worked.”

He nodded quickly.

“Good.”

His hand went for the notebook almost automatically, and you watched as he opened it to the page he’d been using throughout the morning. For once, his movements weren’t quite as precise as usual. His fingers fumbled slightly with the cover, and when he finally took up the pen, the neat, controlled strokes you’d become accustomed to were replaced by hurried lines, just a little messier around the edges. Spencer seemed to notice it too, because his mouth tightened briefly as he looked down at what he’d written, as though he were silently judging his own handwriting.

You leaned closer, curiosity getting the better of you.

“What did you write?”

He hesitated.

It was barely a second, but you noticed. His thumb remained pressed against the edge of the page before, with a small sigh, he turned the notebook toward you.

Specific compliments: effective.

You looked at the line, then you noticed the sentence he’d added underneath in smaller handwriting.

Particularly when sincere.

Your eyes lifted slowly to his but Spencer was already looking at you.

Neither of you said anything. The bullpen seemed to fade into the background for just a moment, leaving only the quiet hum of the coffee machine and the faint rustle of paper between you. There was something different in his expression now, more uncertain than usual, as though even he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d written that second line.

Then, quietly, he closed the notebook.

“I think that’s enough research for today.”

You smiled, watching him tuck the pen between his fingers.

“Why?”

“Because I’m beginning to think this experiment has a confounding variable.”

“What variable?”

His eyes lifted to yours.

For once, Spencer didn’t have a scientific explanation ready. No statistic, no psychological theory, no carefully memorized study that could rescue him from the question. He simply looked at you, his expression suddenly softer and his fingers tightening slightly around the notebook.

“You.”

Your heart skipped.

He seemed to realize what he’d said at exactly the same moment. His eyes widened, and a faint flush immediately returned to his cheeks.

“I mean—you’re the subject, so obviously—”

You laughed softly.

“Spencer.”

“Yes?”

He looked at you cautiously, almost suspiciously, as though he wasn’t sure whether you’d caught him saying something he hadn’t meant to say.

“You're good at this.”

He blinked.

“At flirting?”

“Yeah,” you said, letting your smile widen. “At flirting.”

For a moment, he didn’t answer and just looked at you.

You watched the realization settle over his features, followed by something almost shyly pleased. His mouth curved into the smallest smile, one that he seemed unable to suppress despite himself, and his eyes dropped briefly toward the floor before returning to yours.

“Oh.”

You shook your head, laughing quietly.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Why not?”

“Because, statistically speaking, my previous experience would suggest that—”

You groaned.

“Spencer.”

He stopped immediately, his lips pressing together as though he’d just realized he was doing exactly what he always did whenever a conversation became too personal: turning it into a statistic.

Then, after a beat, he smiled again.

“Sorry.”

And somehow, much to your own annoyance, he was suddenly the most attractive person in the room.

That had been the night you got your first taste of his lips, and you’ve found yourself hoping time would stretch on forever. If moments could be bottled up, you would have done so at that moment, kept it in your pocket for the rest of eternity.  

Five months of bliss have passed since. Your theory of his perfection just kept being proven correct throughout the entire time, the way he’s trying so hard to communicate with you and make up for plans that get shelved due to the demanding nature of his job. He’d come up with different explanations for why you love Cinderella, until it became a game of its own; him searching through the contours of the fairy tale and you denying everything he comes up with. 

At one point, he’d asked if it was simply because you had a feet fetish and you had to start wearing socks everywhere because the sight of your own feet would make you giggle.

You don’t mind it, the games, the way he insists on learning this about you. Spencer Reid's mind desires to understand how everything works, to turn over and mull and analyze, and the first step to that is by keeping track of the variables. You have always found this endearing. He knows how fast you can read — it depends on the genre according to him, but it’s somewhere around 350-400 words per minute. He knows your favorite stories and music, has found connecting themes between them, and now he’s trying to see where your love for Cinderella fits in all of it. Hell, he even keeps track of your cycle for you, resulting in perfectly timed moments shared in bed where you’re ravished, and he’s chanting your name, and the two of you are gasping for a god that neither of you really believe in.

When you miss your period, he notices before you even do, quietly offering two boxes of pregnancy tests. He kept track of how long it took before the results finally appeared — one test took three minutes and eight seconds, the other one three minutes and twenty one seconds. It had felt simultaneously like three seconds and three decades. 

That was nearly six days ago. Nearly a whole week has passed, and what you had assumed to be an insignificant fissure seems to have widened into a crack. It’s a rare night off for him, a moment of domesticity that should be relished, but instead, you wonder if the cracks have somehow turned into something else. A fracture. You move around the kitchen together like magnets with similar poles, close but never quite touching. It feels like a chasm between you. 

Dinner in the oven. Only the slow tick of the oven timer disrupts the silence, though it doesn’t really disrupt as much as it joins. Background noise, a lull that seems to melt with the silence to highlight the stifling atmosphere. He’s tossing a salad, facing away from you. You both know it is ready to be served.

His name is whispered into the tense air, your voice croaking at the last syllable, “We need to talk about this.” You watch as he tenses, back uncharacteristically straight, and your heart sinks to your stomach. 

“I guess we do.” He never guesses. Spencer Reid uses words that are accurate, god knows he has the vocabulary for it. So this, to guess, the hint of skepticism makes your skin crawl. “What is this, again?” 

You scoff. He can be so deliberately obtuse sometimes, “I don’t know, Spence, you tell me. You’ve been acting weird since I took that pregnancy test.”

He doesn’t look at you, but he does answer, “I just— I don’t understand why you were so relieved about the results.”

You’ve had an inkling this whole issue is about that moment. Both of you hunched on his couch while you waited with bated breath. He’d timed it, one stick taking three minutes and eight seconds, the other three minutes and twenty one; both had contained negative results. 

You still remember it, the utter relief that washed over your body, the way you threw yourself into his arms at the confirmation that he hadn’t accidentally gotten you pregnant. You’d said thank god so quickly, face buried at the crook of his shoulder, so relieved that you hadn’t really noticed his reaction.

“Spencer,” it comes out a sigh, patient and quiet, “We’ve been dating for five months. Of course I was relieved. Don’t get me wrong, I love you, but it’s a little too soon to add a baby to the mix.” Love. That abstract concept you’ve almost given up on, before he’d come into your life. You love him, you’re sure of it. It’s burrowed deep into your bones now, which is why you’re trying to get past this. Communication is the key to making a relationship work. You remind yourself you don’t need a fairy godmother to keep this going. You have agency of your own.

His head shifts, turning over his shoulder slowly, and those beautiful amber eyes meet your own. “Is that all?”

It feels like an accusation, even though you know he’s just trying to understand. You gulp, trying not to get defensive, “I suppose not. If I’m being honest, I was relieved because I don’t really want children.” 

There it is. A cardinal sin, a sickness of modern women. You wait for his words to turn bitter, the familiar accusations of selfishness, the condescension. 

Instead, he looks at you with wounded eyes, “You don’t want children with me?”

“What? That’s not what I said.”

He pauses, Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulps. The oven continues to hum softly in the background, its built-in timer clicking at equal intervals. In a different context, it might have given you a sense of peace, but right now it feels mocking. Your time is almost up.

“Spencer, that’s not what I said, honey.”

“Yeah, I heard you.” he turns back to the salad.

You watch him helplessly, searching for any way to bring him back to you.

“You kept asking about my mom,” he murmurs, “It’s not that I didn’t want you to meet her, it’s that, it’s—well, she’s in a home. A– a mental facility. She’s schizophrenic.”

This is not how you expected this conversation to go. “Spencer.”

“I guess, you know, that’s genetically passed down, and it’s no secret that my teammates suspect I’m on the spectrum, so my genetic makeup isn’t exactly the most desirable in terms of a partner with whom you would want to—to procreate.”

God, you wish he had been like most people and accused you of being a selfish bitch instead. 

“No,” you gasp, crossing the space between you. His hand is cold when you wrap your fingers around it. Unfortunately, you don’t think you have any warmth to give. Your own hands are clammy, but you try anyway, tugging it away from the tongs he’s using to mindlessly swirl at the contents of the salad. “It’s not like that at all.”

“It’s not?”

“No. And I’m sorry about your mom, I–I’m sure this isn’t how you wanted to tell me about her.” the words feel futile, worthless. You’re entirely unprepared for something like this. He hasn’t told you much about Diana Reid, and you’d given him space, and now… now you understand why.

A beat as he considers. His body angles towards you now, his stance hunching forward into that familiar slouch you’ve come to love. You can’t tell if he’s relaxed or defeated, and that uncertainty burns in the back of your throat. “So you just don’t—”

“I don’t want kids, plain and simple. It’s got nothing to do with your genes, or your suspected autism, I just…” You falter, hands tightening over his own. You wish you could be more eloquent, but there’s so much uncertainty, so many truths being dropped in the span of minutes. You wait for more questions, for the inevitable but aren’t you worried about your legacy? Wouldn’t you get lonely? Motherhood is fulfilling for women. Sentiments you always get when you share this particular choice. 

You prepare your arsenal of responses, defenses you’ve practiced and perfected throughout the years, ready for any attempts to make you change your mind.

Somehow, he manages to choose the most devastating response instead. Muttering so quietly you almost don’t catch it, Spencer says, “But I do.”

You wonder how you got this long without ever talking about this? How had you gone five months with him, allowed yourself to let your walls down and fall in love, memorized the scars and calluses all over his body without ever discussing the topic of children? It seems silly, most people talk about that stuff from the get go, don’t they? To see if they would be compatible in the long run? 

But you’ve never had that before, the luxury of future plans. You’ve come to accept that the floor will inevitably collapse beneath your feet, that your time with someone will run out. When you’re used to having an expiry date, you don’t bother to make plans. The only way to survive is to live in the moment. Cinderella and her midnight curfew. 

“Oh.” It’s a filler word, but the silence is beginning to get to you. You stare at your entwined hands. His thumb is running back and forth across your knuckles, the action familiar and soothing, and allow yourself a moment to believe, to hope, that there’s time left for this. That time would never run out.

His next words break your heart even more, “I know it’s silly, especially with how much risk is involved. With my job, my—”

“It’s not silly at all, Spence.” you gulp, trying to push past the lump in your throat as you remember how he acts around his godson Henry in those rare times he’s had to babysit, “You’d make a great dad.”

“You’d make a great mom too.”

“Spencer.”

“I’ve seen you with your own nephews. You’re great with kids.”

“Don’t—”

“I’m not trying to change your mind,” he finally pulls you in, lips finding the top of your head, “I respect your choice, I do. I’m sorry that I seem like I’m pressuring you.”

“You’re not,” it’s even harder to catch your breath when your face is pressed against him, but you don’t make a move. Losing air seems like a fair compromise if it means you get to feel his touch. The way this conversation went has you reeling, confused. You’d been prepared to defend yourself, to explain your choices and make him understand, potentially to argue. His respect and acceptance is an entirely different battlefield, but no less vicious. 

With all the courage you can muster, you speak the words into existence even though you dread the answer. “Is this a deal breaker? Having children?”

He’s quiet. You wonder if this is even still a battlefield. You wonder if this is surrender, quiet and unassuming, a white flag raised before the fighting even began. If it is, then it stings, his soft acceptance. You almost find yourself wishing he’d try to convince you instead if it means he’ll fight for you more.

Your mind wanders back to Cinderella, the little game you’ve been playing, the way you’ve been holding out on the answer because it amuses you to hear the variety of interpretations and musings he’ll come up with. You promised yourself you’d tell him when the time is right, but now you’re afraid he’ll never get the answer. It feels useless, the cat and mouse you’ve developed, not when you’re faced with a real, human issue. A difference in life goals. Something communication potentially couldn’t fix.

His heart is drumming relentlessly against your cheek. It brings you some sick sense of comfort, knowing that he’s just as terrified as you are. 

“Spencer?” Is this the end? Please don’t let this be the end, please don’t be another good thing I lose.

The timer on the oven dings, piercing in the tense silence. Your midnight curfew has come. Dinner is ready.

Happy Valentines <3 thank you for reading, here's the rest of my masterlist

He’s here and awake before you. Touching you, mapping out the planes of your body like he did last night. 

Except this time, your bedroom is lit by the soft rays of the sun, exposing every single thing the darkness had previously concealed.

Every scar, every stretch mark, every imperfection on your body. It had been hidden last night by the dark and ignored by the pressing desire between you two. You had planned to wake up early, get showered and ready and out of bed—making breakfast preferably, to fend off suspicions as to why you’ve left the comfort of the bed. But it must have been his strong grip on you, or perhaps you were just too tired from the long night of lovemaking. Regardless, you’d overslept. And he’s awake before you, probably counting every single mark and flaw on your body as though they were demerits to who you are as a person. Each scar is one less point on the scale of desirability.

“Angel,” his breath ruffles the hair at your temple, “I know you’re awake.”

“No, I’m not.” coyness. Wit. You’d manage to secure him through a combination of this and your intelligence. Maybe it’ll be enough to distract him from the mars on your body.

He laughs, warm and languid from sleep, “I didn't know you sleep talk.”

“Mhm,” you hum into his shoulder, nuzzling into the space where it meets his neck. A small space, but it seems made just for you to tuck your head into, “Now you do. Is this a deal breaker?”

“I have to think about it,” he murmurs. He brushes his hand over your back once again, fingertips going over each bump of your spine as if he's trying to commit each bone of your body to memory. As fingers ghost over your skin, the blanket slips off even more and you inhale sharply. You don't think you reacted that much, but he notices anyway. He always does.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” You tug the blanket up again, a total contradiction to your answer.

He scoffs softly, tenderly, lips coming to rest on your temple. A teasing lilt in his voice when he says, “A little too late to be shy around me, don’t you think?”

You laugh, keeping the blanket stubbornly around you. Too terrified by what the light will reveal, from your body to his reaction.

“Sweetheart,” he coaxes you with slow fingers and soothing kisses, “Tell me what’s the problem. Do you regret last night?”

“No!” you look up at him with wide eyes, horrified he’d even think that way, “No, Spencer, of course not.”

“Then what is it?”

“Nothing.”

He raises his brows in response, wordlessly telling you he doesn’t buy your bullshit at all. The expression he wears is patient, completely halcyon despite your childish attempts to duck through his questioning.

With a sigh, you relent. “It’s just—you’ll see all my scars.”

“You saw my scars last night.”

“That’s different.”

“How so?”

How do you say yours came from something so… mundane? Acne that you’d picked on so much that when they’ve healed, the  marks have become too deep and too stubborn to fade. His scars come from valor, injuries sustained from bullets and knife wounds as he works to save the world. Yours seems so insignificant, something that should have been erased quickly after puberty, left behind to be nothing but memories, just as you did with high school. 

But the acne never truly left, chasing you well into adulthood, and the compulsion to pick at them never stopped either. 

“You still with me?” he rubs his nose along your jaw like a kitten seeking warmth. 

You exhale a laugh, “Yeah…”

“I’d rather you tell me what’s bothering you because you want to, sweetheart, but I’m not above tickling you to get an answer.”

God, not tickle torture. “Mean,” you chuckle again, relishing the way his curls twist around your fingers as you run your hands through them. This is Spencer, though, you’re safe. The words spill out in a rush, as if you’re hoping to expel them from your body in the fastest possible time, “I just have a lot of acne on my back, is all.” 

“Mhm?” he hums, patiently waiting for more.

“And it’s—it’s not pretty.”

A kiss to your jaw, down your neck.

“And I know I’m too old to still be having acne, but I do. And there’s a lot on my back and—” the words waver as another kiss lands on your throat. “Spence.”

“What?”

“Are you listening to me?”

He pulls away at that, eyes glinting like molten gold in the early morning sun. “Of course I am, angel. You shouldn’t be worried about acne, they don’t magically stop after puberty. Especially in women, where factors like genetics, diet, hormones, stress, and the menstrual cycle all contribute to how your body produces oil.”

You can’t help but laugh at his earnest reply; of course he’s turning to science to help you feel better. “You don’t think it’s gross?”

He scrunches his nose, “No, why on earth would I think that?”

“Well, some people conflate pimples with being dirty.”

“I just enumerated several other factors, none of which involve dirt,” he replies, ducking once again to leave kisses along your collar, “Admittedly, bacteria build up is another factor, but I’ve seen your toiletries, angel, I know you’re not dirty.”

“They’re just… annoying. I dunno. There’s so many scars.”

“Post-inflammatory hyperpigmentation is also normal,” Spencer murmurs, “Really, your body is just working as it should, angel.”

“But they’re not… pretty.” It sounds so vapid, admitting it like that, but Spencer only softens.

“Is that what matters?”

“No,” you pause, trying to articulate why this complicated relationship with those silly marks all over your body is making you so skittish around him, “I just don’t want you to look at me any different, I guess.”

He frowns, “Why would I look at you any different?”

“Because my body’s not… flawless.” you wince, realizing that it sounds almost like an accusation; you’re saying he’s shallow enough to be put off by something as insignificant as scars. However, Spencer merely chuckles.

“Nobody is flawless,” he counters simply, leaning in to kiss your forehead, “A few scars don’t take away from how intelligent you are. How funny and charming. How endlessly creative. It doesn’t take away your kindness, or your patience.” he kisses you with every word, slowly chipping away at your anxiety and the traitorous voice in your head.

“Stop it, you’re bad for my ego.”

“Better that than to tear it down.” he says, finally giving you the sweetest kiss on your lips, “I won’t force you to show me if you don’t want to, angel, but I hope you know they won’t ever change the way I feel about you.”

But after such tender words, how could you not? Despite the pounding in your chest, you turn around, the ultimate act of vulnerability. Trusting him not to hurt you as you look away. You feel his fingers ghosting over your back once again, tracing the scars. And then warm lips press upon your shoulder.

“You know what they remind me of?” he whispers, wrapping an arm over your waist. You’re drawn into his embrace, warm and snug and loved.

“What?”

“Constellations.”

You giggle, “Constellations?”

“Mhm,” he laughs as well, “Like your own personal star map.”

It’s silly, and maybe a little romanticized, but at this moment, they’re exactly the words you need.

Sure, the anxiety is still there, and it might have caused you to have one too many glasses of wine over dinner, but still. Everything had gone so beautifully. A stroll around the art gallery where Spencer had eagerly shared the history behind the paintings. When you’d paused at a particular hallway, he stood right by a window and was hit just so by the golden afternoon sun that his eyes turned to the color of moss, you could have sworn you’ve forgotten the ability to breathe. You’re convinced you were the walking equivalent to the heart eyes emoji at that point, staring up at him with a starry gaze, all throughout the following dinner at an intimate restaurant, where you allowed yourself to indulge in some wine. 

Not that you needed it. At that point, you felt so relaxed and at ease with him that you were afraid you might float away. The alcohol only served to heighten the giddiness, casting the world in soft hues of sparkling gold. Like Spencer’s eyes. Which reminds you—

“You’ve the prettiest eyes,” You’re giggling as he walks you to your door, a lean arm firmly wrapped around your waist  to steady you. Head angled up, all of your attention is on him while you walk up the stairs, which isn’t helping your stumbling gait in the slightest. 

Despite his attempts to fight it, a small smile pulls at his lips. He’s obviously trying to seem stern, but his eyes look upon you with fondness. “I should have cut you off sooner.”

“Mhm, no, I wouldn’t have let you.”

“You’re gonna feel this tomorrow,” he warns as he stops at your doorstep, “Keys.”

You fumble through your purse, quickly locating them and pressing the keys into his palm. He slots it easily into the lock, and turns. 

He hesitates. Your hands shake as you wait.

“Can I trust you to make it to your bed in one piece?” he murmurs, fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

“Probably not. You might need to help me out,” you whisper, even though you’re not really that drunk. It’s a (very thinly veiled) attempt to get him inside your apartment, in your bed. You’re not sure where you got the confidence.

But it’s Spencer, the sweet man who frequents the same bookshop in which you also spend a lot of time. The same man who’d been so shy about making a move that he decided to buy you a book and slip his number into the pages. 

So there’s no pressure, he had scrawled in messy, rushed letters. Embarrassingly, the note is in your wallet, kept as a memento.

It’s him, and the entire date has been a series of signs that simply validated the small (massive) crush you’ve had on him. You don’t want it to end yet. Or ever, really. If he’d let you keep him forever. 

Ever the gentleman, he nods and guides you inside. You stumble onto your couch with a low groan, an arm flung over your eyes as the harsh overhead light flickers open. Quick, shuffling footsteps, and then the couch dips beside you.

“Here, have some water.”

You accept the glass with a lopsided smile. The way his eyes linger on you would be enough to make you melt when you’re sober, but right now, with alcohol coursing through your veins, it’s downright cruel. “Your eyes are so pretty.”

“You’ve mentioned that already,” he says, urging you to drink, “Thank you. You have very beautiful eyes too.”

Once the glass is empty, he sets it on your coffee table and kneels down. With gentle hands, he eases the heels off of your feet, fingers pressing into the ankles carefully. 

“Come on,” he helps you to your feet, and you all but become deadweight in his arms as he walks with you to your bedroom. 

Spurned mainly by alcohol, you lift yourself to your tiptoes for a kiss. His surprise makes him pause, but he kisses you back gently, hands coming up to cup your cheeks. It makes you sigh, this tender way he likes to kiss, cradling your face as though it’s the most important thing he’s ever held. When your tongue sweeps across his lower lip, he pulls back.

“What—”

“You’re drunk,” his lips move to your forehead, “You need to sleep.”

“But Spence…” it’s childish to whine when he denies you, but it’s the only thing your dejected, alcohol-addled brain is capable of doing.

He chuckles, slowly walking you backwards onto your bed. “No, angel, it wouldn’t sit right with me.”

“I’m giving you all my consent right now.” you pout as he hands you a disposable towel from your bedside table. With a huff, you set on wiping away your makeup as he rummages through your drawers for pajamas. He finds some shorts and an old tshirt, and helps you out of your dress, shaking his head as you try (and fail) to seduce him into sleeping with you.

“Shouldn’t have had that last glass if this was how you wanted the night to end.” he says,  a teasing smile on his lips.

“You’re never gonna let me live that down, huh?”

He kisses your temple as a response, and gently pushes you to lay down. Chuckling, he sits on the edge of your bed, a hand on your knee. “I just don’t want you to be inebriated if we’re going to be physically intimate. Especially not the first time.”

You pout, “Boo, you’re too sweet for your own good.” It earns you a laugh from him, and it’s enough to wipe the pout off your lips, “Will you at least sleep over?”

He seems to consider it, running his hand up and down your thigh. However, it is as though the universe is conspiring against you, and his phone rings. You watch as his brows furrowed in concern as he checks whatever message he’s received. “I have to go in, we have a case.”

Your heart drops. The pout returns, “It’s Friday night.”

“I know, angel.” he leans forward and kisses your forehead again, almost in apology, “I’m sorry, I did tell you I don’t work traditional hours.”

Your hands close around his shirt and you pull him down. He surrenders to your eagerness this time, kissing you deeply, hands tangled in your hair, before he stops, breathing ragged. “I’ll make it up to you when I return, I promise.” he kisses you again, languidly, savoring the last few moments before he has to leave. 

You don’t have his eidetic memory, but you memorize the feeling of his lips all the same. “Stay safe,” you whisper when he finally pulls back, feeling oddly sobered up now that the reality of him leaving you is more present, “Text me when you can.”

“I will, angel.” he gives you one last kiss on your forehead before he stands up, “Drink lots of water tomorrow, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

You nod, and stare at his retreating back with a sad smile, blinking away the tears when you hear your apartment door click into place, signaling his departure. You try to tell yourself you’re being silly. It’s been three dates and you’re already acting so clingy. You chalk it up to the alcohol, twisting your feelings. Earlier, it had made the world seem effervescent, but now that he’s left, it only exacerbates your loneliness.

Is this how it’s going to be when you date him? He’d laid it out quite clearly during your conversations, that sometimes they get pressing cases that require them to drop everything else.  You aren’t sure you’re prepared to have dates be interrupted with one phone call. Morning afters without him beside you. With a sigh, you sink into bed, eyes closed, and only the memory of his lips to tide you through the night.

He shows up so much you've stopped being surprised.

So much that you start anticipating his presence.

So much that you feel a sense of relief when he walks into the faculty social space—administration's initiative from three years ago that was meant to address the burn out and stress by providing a vending machine and a ping pong table rather than doing something more palpable like raising wages—and finds you at one of the tables, sorting through small cardboard cutouts with Carrie.

"Your professor charming alert." Carrie sing-songs. She's been taking every single chance at playful teasing ever since you and Spencer 'officially' hard launched your 'relationship'. You can tell she's gloating; Carrie seemed to have the notion—a childish one, in your opinion—that your initial annoyance at Spencer was borne out of attraction.

Now she feels vindicated, and you can't set the record straight without ruining your arrangement with Spencer.

"Behave." you murmur, just as Spencer approaches. He's windswept and smiling, as if unburdened by his workload. You can only assume that teaching and academia is a welcome reprieve after his high-pressure job at the FBI. You welcome him with a smile, and it feels natural, "Hi Spencer."

"Afternoon, ladies." He pulls up a chair and sits next to you, knees brushing against yours under the table. His gaze sweeps over the spread of pictures on the table, and a crease forms between his brows in confusion. "What's all this?"

"A fun little activity for my graduate students." Carrie replies, "The hear me out cake. Well, no more cake and just hear me outs now."

"Oh, you mentioned this a few weeks ago!" Spencer looks pleased when it registers, beaming at Carrie, "You said it helps keep your students motivated after the midterms."

"Yep. Free cake, they get to gush about hot characters and engage with our readings in a low stakes, almost casual way. Win-win." Carrie says with flourish.

You lift a cutout of Mufasa from The Lion King. "Whoever put this on that cake is brave and deserves the highest marks."

Carrie laughs. "Oh, I love that student. She's so outspoken and funny."

Spencer's frown deepens at the picture. He reaches over, gently taking it from your hands. "I'm afraid I don't understand. I thought the purpose of this activity was to share which Shakespearean character you find attractive."

"The Lion King is a Hamlet adaptation." you say, ready to defend the student.

"Yes, but with lions." he deadpans.

"Arguably attractive ones."

Spencer blinks, and turns to Carrie for explanation.

"It's an ongoing trend online, it's meant to be for characters who are more… unconventional." Carrie explains, holding up a Simba picture this time, "Hence, prefacing the whole thing with hear me out."

Spencer looks equal parts intrigued and concerned.

"When it's more broadly applied, it isn't always animals," you add, giggling at the utter bewilderment at Spencer's face, "Sometimes it's characters people normally wouldn't find attractive… like Beetlejuice."

"Or horror figures, like Ghostface or Pennywise from IT."

Spencer's brows are furrowed differently now, less in confusion and more focused, the way they always get when he begins contemplating. He doesn't laugh or seem horrified, now that it's been more clearly explained.

"You're right, though," Carrie adds, "I did specify only Shakespearean characters for my class, only because I had to connect this activity to the course subject. But it's much more lenient when it's just being done between friends."

"Interesting. So it's almost a showcase of someone's deeper desires." he murmurs, eyes skating over the variety of Shakespearean characters on the table—some quite tame, like Timothée Chalamet as Henry V; others funnier, like Bill Murray as Polonius. "Participating in it means opening up about your attraction to what other people would consider taboo."

"Yeah. It's a great bonding activity." you nod, smiling at how earnestly he's taking the entire thing, processing it through a scholar's lens. Without mockery or judgment, simply with the desire to understand.

"I see." he nods, watching Carrie sort the characters together.

She's trying to see if there's a common character that everyone secretly pines over. Last year, there was an overwhelming amount of Falstaff entries; this year, it seems to be Simba/Hamlet. You're busy helping her, when suddenly:

"Who are yours?" Spencer asks, twisting in his seat so his body is angled towards you, open and curious.

Carrie bursts out laughing. "Oh god, she has some crazy ones."

"No, I don't." you grumble.

"Yeah, you do." Carrie turns to Spencer, lips stretched in a massive grin, "You're about to learn some very fascinating things about your girlfriend, professor."

Spencer returns her smile, and you're struck with the desire to conk their heads together. They'd deserve it, matching grins and all.

"No." you shake your head.

"Why not?"

"I don't want you to judge me."

"I won't!"

"Or psychoanalyze me."

"I…" he pauses, "I'll try not to."

Carrie laughs. You glare at both of them, betrayed.

"He'll find out sooner or later," Carrie says, shrugging innocently, as if that would absolve her of her betrayal, "Honestly, I'm surprised it hasn't come up yet, with the amount of time you guys seems to spend together."

The teasing implication is clear. You feel your face burn, annoyed that you can't even refute it. Fake relationship or not, you had been spending a lot of time with Spencer.

Beside you, he chuckles, looking sheepish and caught, ears turning rosy. "Guilty. And now that it's been thoroughly explained to me, I'm very curious."

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "I hate you both."

"Come on, I'll start." Carrie compromises with a giggle, "One of mine is Waluigi."

"From… from the Mario Brothers?" you can hear the amusement coloring Spencer's voice.

"Yep." Carrie says, proudly popping the 'p'. "Another one is Shrek. I love a grump. My husband's a grump. And quite rotund. He gives great hugs."

Spencer laughs, "Shrek is a very well developed character, I think I understand the appeal."

"Thank you!" Carrie's foot makes contact with yours under the table, a gentle prod. "See, he doesn't judge. Your turn."

You don't lift your head from your hands, muffling the sound of your voice when you answer. "Loki."

"The Norse trickster god?" Spencer clarifies.

"Sure, but specifically the Marvel version."

"Oh, you can do better than that, Tom Hiddleston is objectively very attractive. That defeats the purpose of a hear me out." Carrie protests, nudging your foot again, this time more insistently. This woman thrives when it's time to tease you, a fact that you normally enjoy and encourage—what's friendship without some healthy ribbing?—but right now it feels like a curse.

You groan, regretting ever divulging your list to her. There's no point in lying, when you've had this conversation a million times prior, and Carrie knows you have quite an… eclectic taste.

"Ugh, fine. The balrog."

Carrie snorts in satisfaction. Spencer shifts beside you, and you suddenly feel he's much too close for comfort. His thigh presses against yours, and you can feel his warmth despite the layers of clothing.

"From Lord of the Rings?" Spencer asks.

You lower your hands and slump in your seat, braving his reaction. Despite your indignation, your response comes out weak.

"Yes."

"The one that Gandalf fights in Moria?"

"Yes. Fiery demon with muscles and a whip, come on, I don't think I have to explain myself here." you huff, directing your sheepish gaze at the spread of pictures on the table. "And for the record, they end the fight in Zirakzigil, not Moria."

He chuckles, scratching his jaw as he considers. "But that's not even really a human."

"So? Carrie wants to fuck an ogre and her students want a lion."

Across the table, Carrie throws her head back and guffaws.

"So this goes beyond… physical compatibility."

"Yeah," Carrie manages through her laughter, "Sometimes, people want non sentient things too. Or full on monsters, like, I dunno, the Kraken."

"Or demons, like the balrog." Spencer turns to you.

Your fingers slide under your glasses and rub at your eyes. "You promised not to make fun."

"I'm not, I'm just realizing that I'm so far out of your type." Spencer says.

You stop what you're doing and risk a glance at him. A dimpled smile greets you, so impish and sweet you have no choice but to return it.

"You could get a whip." you mumble.

His smile turns devious. Devastating. Everything in your stomach turns molten, and, with nowhere to go, simply spreads inside out. You wouldn't be surprised if you've miraculously turned lobster red. You want the ground to swallow you whole.

You wish he'll keep looking at you like that, with that exact smile, welcome the utter void it creates in your normally overactive mind.

Thankfully, you're saved from responding when Carrie interrupts. She raps on the table, chuckling.

"Okay lovebirds, save the dirty talk for when I'm not here."

"I swear to god, Carrie." you kick her under the table, hard, which only elicits a laugh from her.

And, because her ability to tease apparently extends to your current 'boyfriend,' she turns to Spencer, shoulders still shaking. She manages to silence her laughter just enough to ask:

"Now that you know about it, Doctor Reid, who would be your hear me outs?"

You perk up, turning to him.

Who would be his hear me outs? What sort of character or creature would entice Spencer Reid that way? You try to predict one, but he seems like an anomaly. He's the kind of person whose choices could range from something relatively tame like Morticia Addams, to something utterly wild and out of left field.

Honestly, you half expect him to say Cthulhu.

"I don't think I can beat the balrog." he laughs, running a hand through his already messy curls.

"You don't have to beat it." you reassure him with a smile, though you do want to add you can try though.

"Yeah, sorry this is kind of on the spot. Just give us one off the top of your head." Carrie says. Both of you stare at him curiously, but he doesn't seem to mind the attention. He's deep in thought, fingers trailing over some of the cutouts on the table.

"I've always enjoyed reading about the Sphinx," he mutters finally, the crease between his brows deepening into a valley the more he concentrates, "Depending on which culture you read from, the symbolism will differ, but one thread seems to connect all of them—sphinxes are guardians. I think I quite like how it goes in Greek mythology, where she's ruthless and unbending. Takes a clever man to get through to her. Certain versions show her to give Oedipus the answer, hoping he'd fall in love with her, showing us that she yearns for something human too."

You blink, staring at him. At this point, it really shouldn't come as a surprise to you, how much thought he gives into everything. But it does. Especially when it's something as silly as this, an online trend that got explained to him five minutes ago, but he's answering with careful consideration.

It's touching. And, you have to admit, however begrudgingly, quite endearing.

"You both said the game encompasses anything, right?" he says, when he realizes the silence has stretched, glancing between you and Carrie. "Or did I do this wrong?"

"You did it perfectly." the words leave your lips too fast. You smile anyway, encouraging him.

Carrie nods, lips stretched in a smirk. "Yeah, I think that answer ties with the balrog, at the very least. God, you two are a match made in freak-heaven."

Spencer laughs, cheeks turning pink. "I think I'm just attracted to strong, feminine figures."

"Oh, sure. But that doesn't negate what I said." Carrie points out, winking at you.

This time, you don't bother kicking her under the table. Not when Spencer's smile is once again directed at you, victorious and sincere.

Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed!

“I’m not frightened.” His mouth pulls to one side, though his eyes stray to the curtain again. “I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

You look back at him. He’s dressed slightly better than the occasion requires, which is normal enough that you noticed only in passing when he arrived at your flat. His tie is patterned but subdued, and his hair keeps falling forwards no matter how often he pushes it away. His coat is still unbuttoned despite the January cold; he began telling you about Rossi’s cooking before you made it out of your building and apparently forgot there were buttons involved.

The knot of his tie has worked its way a little to the left. You reach up to straighten it. “I’m comfortable.”

His attention drops to your hands. “You’re cold.”

“I’m standing outside in January.”

“You loosened the scarf.”

“It made me look like I was being strangled by a blanket.”

“It’s cashmere.”

You glance down at the loosened scarf. “I know. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t aggressive.”

Spencer’s smile spreads slowly, warm and crooked and bright enough to make you forget the weather for a second. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“You understood me.”

“I usually do.”

The door opens before you can answer. Rossi takes in the two of you on his porch — your fingers still resting against Spencer’s tie, Spencer standing close enough that the sleeve of his coat brushes yours — and lets his eyes linger on your hand before returning to Reid.

“Reid.” He steps aside. “And you must be the woman who stole his seat.”

You turn on Spencer. “You told him that?”

“It’s how we met.”

“That’s not how we met.”

Rossi accepts your coat. You unwind the scarf and hold it out without looking; Spencer takes it automatically, hanging it beside your coat while he continues to regard you with the stubborn composure of someone who possesses an eidetic memory and has appointed himself sole custodian of the past.

“There was a programme on the chair,” he says.

“There was rubbish on the chair.”

“It was the programme for the lecture.”

“Which had already started.”

“That doesn’t make it rubbish.”

Rossi closes the door behind you. “You can argue the case over dinner. I’ve heard Reid’s testimony several times.”

You follow him into the hall, looking sideways at Spencer. “How many times have you told this story?”

“It comes up more often than you’d think.”

Before you can ask how a disagreement over auditorium seating could possibly come up at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, someone makes a small, delighted noise at the end of the hallway.

Garcia appears in a sweep of colour, bracelets and barely restrained curiosity. “You’re real.”

“Garcia,” Spencer warns.

“I never suggested she wasn’t.” She reaches you and takes both your hands, looking you over with such open pleasure that it’s impossible to feel inspected. “I’m Penelope. I have been waiting so patiently to meet you that I think I deserve official recognition from the Bureau.”

“You sent me four messages this afternoon,” Spencer says.

Garcia dismisses this with a flick of her bracelets. “And every one of them was supportive.”

“One of them was nine exclamation marks.”

She hugs you before you have decided whether handshakes are still an option. Over her shoulder, you find Spencer watching you, ready to intervene and relieved when he sees he doesn’t have to. He knows you have never enjoyed entering a room full of strangers. He also knows that Garcia has rendered strangers impossible within thirty seconds.

Morgan comes around the corner carrying two bottles of wine. “So this is who’s been taking up all your Thursdays.”

Spencer’s head turns. “She doesn’t take them up.”

“You make that sound worse,” you tell him.

“I mean, I choose to spend them with you.”

Morgan’s eyebrows rise. “And disappear before anyone can give you another file.”

Spencer has already turned back to you, taking the bag from your shoulder before you have to hitch it back into place.

“I leave work at a reasonable time on Thursdays,” he adds. “That isn’t disappearing.”

“You texted me from the lift last week saying, ‘I escaped.’”

“They’d already given me three,” he says, as though this settles the choice of verb.

Morgan studies the two of you for another second, then gives you a slow nod. “You’re going to fit in fine.”

The rest of the introductions happen in Rossi’s living room, where the fire is lit and every available surface has acquired either a glass or a plate. JJ greets you with an easy warmth that eases the last of your nerves. Hotch is more reserved, although the handshake he offers comes with a sincere, “It’s good to finally meet you.”

Between the BAU’s cases and your own habit of declining invitations to crowded gatherings, finally becomes the common thread of the evening. Oddly, the feeling is mutual. Spencer has been talking about his team for seven years, long enough that you sometimes forget you’ve never actually met any of them. Tara, seated on the arm of a chair, tells you that she has only known Spencer for a few months and has somehow still heard enough about you to recognise your name immediately. 

You look at him. “What have you been telling these people?”

“Not much.”

Morgan sets the wine beside Rossi’s decanter. “He brings you up more than he thinks he does.”

“Only when something reminds me of her,” Spencer says.

“So whenever anyone sits in a chair,” you say.

“Only if they sit in my seat.”

“That wasn’t your seat.”

Tara looks between you. “I’m beginning to see how you two have kept an argument about a chair going for seven years.”

“Seven years, two months and six days,” Spencer corrects.

You’re accustomed to this. Spencer remembers the first time you met, the first film you watched together and the day you discovered the little bookshop that now holds a hard-won place in your Thursday routine. He remembers what you ordered the first time you dragged him to your favourite café and exactly which joke made you choke on it. None of it has ever seemed remarkable when it’s simply the way his mind works and the shape your life has taken around his. Across the room, JJ’s gaze rests on him for a moment before returning to you.

“That’s Spencer,” you say, because it is.

“It is,” JJ agrees, a small smile tucked into the words, and Rossi calls everyone to the table before you can work out what she finds funny.

He has prepared enough food for twice as many people and accepts praise as his due. The conversation moves easily around you, propelled by the overlapping stories of people who spend too much time together. Morgan disputes Rossi’s version of an arrest in Baltimore; JJ supplies the part both men have omitted. Tara waits until they have nearly finished before revealing that Garcia showed her the security footage and neither account is accurate.

At the head of the table, Hotch listens with the patience of a man who has long since accepted that authority has limits.

As everyone gathers around the table, Spencer rests a hand on the back of an empty chair. You slip into it without either of you acknowledging the gesture, and he takes the seat to your right, tucking your bag safely beside his feet.

The conversation follows everyone to the table, breaking and reforming as chairs are pulled in and Rossi begins sending dishes around. When the bread reaches Spencer, he selects the darker end piece before handing you the basket. He’s looking down at his plate, but you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You dig beneath the slices for the remaining end and set it on your plate.

“Did you just take that?”

He arranges his face into innocence. “Take what?”

“You know I like the end.”

“There are two ends.”

“You took the better one.”

“They’re structurally identical.”

“They absolutely are not.”

He lets you make your case, then exchanges his piece for the one on your plate with the ease of a ritual completed many times before. You tear the bread in half and put half back on his plate, which is when you notice Tara watching from across the table, amusement gathering at one corner of her mouth.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” She reaches for her wine. “I’m learning.”

Spencer leans nearer to you. “About bread?”

You give him a look and take a bite. He glances across at Tara, clearly tempted to investigate.

“Don’t make the face,” you warn.

“What face?”

“The one you make before asking a question that adds twenty minutes to a conversation.”

Spencer turns to you, brow furrowed and mouth pulled into a small, dubious line. “I don’t have a face for that.”

“You do,” JJ says from his other side.

Morgan points his fork at her. “He definitely does.”

Spencer appeals to Hotch, who takes a measured drink of wine. “You do.”

The table breaks into laughter, Spencer along with it. His head tips back, his eyes close, and the smile opens across his face without the flicker of self-consciousness that sometimes follows when he realises a room is watching him. You know the quieter laugh he uses when he’s trying not to encourage you, the startled one that escapes when you catch him off guard, the breathless, helpless version that makes him fold forwards and hide his face. This one is easy and bright. He looks happy.

You are still watching when he turns back. The laughter remains in his eyes as his expression shifts into a question, and only then do you notice the small streak of sauce near the corner of his mouth.

“Hold still.” You wipe it away with your thumb before it occurs to you that a napkin would have done the job just as well.

His lips part at the touch. For a second, the noise of the table seems to move around the two of you, then you drop your hand and reach for your glass. By the time Spencer does the same, Morgan has turned the conversation towards Rossi’s wine.

Later, once the plates have been cleared and Rossi produces a tiramisu large enough to require architectural planning, Garcia asks how you and Spencer became friends after what she calls the Auditorium Incident.

“She followed me outside,” Spencer says.

“You followed me.” You turn towards him, eyebrows raised at the version of events he has chosen to present. “Apparently handing me a pen and saying ‘Here’ was supposed to communicate a short-term loan.”

“I thought it was obvious.”

Morgan rests an elbow on the table. “Was this at least a good pen?”

“No. It leaked all over my hand.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell her when she walked away.”

JJ glances between you. “So you followed a woman out of a lecture hall over a defective pen?”

“I didn’t follow her,” Spencer says, a little too quickly. “She was walking towards the Metro.”

“I was walking towards coffee. He spent three blocks correcting a route I wasn’t taking.”

Garcia presses both hands to her heart. “And he came with you.”

“It had started raining,” Spencer says.

JJ looks at him. “You hate coffee shops.”

“They’re usually loud.”

“That one was,” you say. “You stayed after the rain stopped anyway.”

He looks at you, momentarily caught without a correction. His knee has rested against yours beneath the table for most of the conversation, warm and solid through two layers of clothing. “You were interesting.”

The answer is simple, offered without embarrassment. Before you can decide what to do with it, Rossi cuts into the tiramisu. “And the rest is seven years, two months and six days of arguing.”

“We don’t always argue,” Spencer says.

“You called me at midnight last week because my bookshelf leans.”

“It leans towards your bed.”

“Protectively.”

He gives you a long, suffering look. “It’s going to fall on you.”

Hotch hides a smile behind his wine. “He may have a point.”

“Thank you,” Spencer says, vindicated, and you promise the table that when he appears at your flat with a spirit level, they are all invited to help him.

The evening loosens after dessert. Rossi opens another bottle of wine, Morgan finds music, and people drift between the living room and kitchen as the conversation divides into smaller pieces. You spend a while talking to JJ and Tara near the fire. Spencer is pulled into a discussion with Hotch on the other side of the room, but his attention returns to you often enough that you begin to anticipate it. You look up, and his eyes are already there.

He never stares. His gaze finds yours, checks, and returns to the conversation. When Garcia drops onto the sofa beside you with enough force to send your glass wobbling, his hand lifts from across the room before you catch it yourself.

You raise the rescued glass in his direction. He smiles, lets his hand fall and turns back to Hotch.

Between the fire and the overlapping voices, the room soon grows too warm. You finish what remains in your glass, leave it on the side table beside Garcia and slip through the doors onto the back terrace. At the stone railing, you draw one full breath of cold air before the door opens behind you.

“You’re going to say you told me so,” you say.

Spencer settles your coat over your shoulders. “I was going to ask why you came outside without this.” He draws the fabric closed at your throat, making sure your hair stays clear of the collar.

“Same sentiment.”

“Not exactly.”

You turn before he has taken his hands away, leaving the two of you close enough that his hands slide down to your elbows instead. Through the glass doors, Garcia is looking directly at you. Morgan comes up beside her, follows her gaze and says something you can’t hear.

“What are they doing?”

Spencer glances over his shoulder. Both of them disappear from the window.

“I don’t know.”

“They’re very strange.”

“They like you.”

His certainty draws your attention back to him. “They’ve known me for three hours.” You reconsider this, glancing towards the living room. “Then again, Garcia gave me copies of your childhood photographs.”

Spencer’s eyebrows lift. “She gave you copies?”

“And made me promise Morgan would never see them. You were very serious about that chess trophy.”

Spencer smiles, small and pleased. “That means she trusts you.” 

You laugh, and his thumbs shift against the sleeves of your coat. The movement is small, nearly absent-minded. You have held his hand through turbulence, hooked an arm through his in crowded streets and fallen asleep against his shoulder during films neither of you remembers finishing. This belongs to the same familiar language, a touch whose meaning has never required either of you to stop and examine it.

You rest your hands against the front of his jacket. “I like them too.”

The line of his shoulders softens. “I knew you would.”

“Even Morgan.”

“That’s premature.”

The door opens, and Morgan sticks his head outside. “We can hear you, genius.”

Spencer looks back at him without removing his hands from your arms. “She said she likes you.”

“I heard the rest too.” Morgan gives you a wounded look before retreating inside.

Spencer’s grin is immediate and entirely unrepentant. It stays with him as you go back indoors together, his hand resting lightly between your shoulder blades. Once the doors close, he eases the coat from your shoulders before the heat can become uncomfortable and carries it back to the hall.

It’s close to midnight when people begin leaving. Hotch goes first, followed shortly by JJ. Morgan hugs you and tells you to come back even if Reid doesn’t, Garcia informs him that threatening a guest is poor etiquette and then hugs you twice as hard. By the time Tara finds her coat, Spencer is helping Rossi carry glasses into the kitchen, although the discussion drifting down the hallway suggests that helping involves an argument about the safest way to store crystal.

“It was lovely meeting you,” Tara says. She loops her scarf around her neck, then glances towards the kitchen with affectionate amusement. “I understand now why he keeps disappearing on Thursdays.”

“He’ll be pleased you believe it counts as disappearing.”

“I’m sure he’ll explain the distinction to me at length on Monday.” She reaches for the door, then pauses. “I’ll admit, I was confused at first. Reid talks about you all the time, but he never mentioned you were his girlfriend.”

The word is gentle, tossed into the conversation without any reason to be careful with it.

“His girlfriend?”

Tara looks back at you. The realisation reaches her a moment later. “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought the two of you were together.”

Behind her, Garcia stops rearranging the bracelets on her wrist.

“No.” The answer comes automatically. It is a simple fact. You and Spencer have never crossed that line or even discussed it. The rest ought to follow just as easily. Instead, we’re just friends catches somewhere behind your teeth, suddenly too small to account for seven years of Thursdays and everything the others have been watching all evening. The evening begins moving through your mind again, Rossi opening the door to find your hand on Spencer’s tie, Morgan’s eyebrows when he said Spencer chose to spend Thursdays with you, JJ’s quiet smile, Tara watching the bread pass between your plates, Garcia and Morgan vanishing from the terrace window. “It’s not like that. We’re not—”

“You ready?”

Spencer comes down the hallway with your bag in one hand. His attention passes from your face to Tara’s and then to Garcia, who has become far too interested in her bracelets.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Tara says, recovering first. “I was saying goodnight.”

You can’t find the end of the sentence you were saying. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

He holds your coat while you slip your arms into it and frees your hair from beneath the collar with practised fingers. The touch is the same one you have barely noticed a hundred times. Now the word girlfriend seems to catch against it.

Rossi appears at the end of the hallway. He surveys Tara, whose hand is still on the door, Garcia valiantly looking elsewhere and Spencer adjusting your scarf. “Goodnight,” he says, much too entertained for someone who can’t possibly know what has just happened.

By the time the two of you reach the Metro, Spencer has filled the walk with an account of Rossi insisting tiramisu can’t be made properly without alcohol. He talks while you wait on the platform and keeps going once you’re inside the carriage. The earliest known versions of the dessert lead to the disputed origins of ladyfingers, which somehow bring him back to the argument about stacking Rossi’s crystal.

Usually, you interrupt. You ask questions, argue over details or tug him back to the original point when one tangent begins producing another. Tonight, you watch his reflection in the darkened window while he talks. His curls have grown increasingly disordered over the course of the evening, and one falls across his forehead whenever he turns towards you. Interest animates his whole face — his eyes brighten, his hands move with the rhythm of his words, and every trace of fatigue leaves him for as long as the thought holds him.

You know all of this because you have always known him. What it does to you when he turns that attention on you is hardly new; the part you have never allowed yourself to question is what any of it means from his side. A room full of profilers watched the two of you for a few hours and assumed they already knew. Tara gave that assumption a name, and now every small, familiar thing seems to return carrying the possibility with it.

When the train lurches around a curve, Spencer’s hand closes lightly around your forearm. He releases you once you are steady, still talking. You feel the place his fingers were long after the warmth is gone.

Outside the station, the pavement is damp from an earlier rain, catching the streetlights in long, blurred reflections. Spencer slows his stride to yours without acknowledging the adjustment. He has glanced at you more than once since the train pulled away, waiting at the end of a sentence as though he expects you to tug the conversation elsewhere, and each time he has gone on when you don’t. You’re only a few blocks from home when his explanation of why Rossi’s crystal glasses should never be stacked trails off.

“Everything okay?” His words soften as he studies your face. “You’ve been unusually quiet.”

“Yeah. I’m good.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets you have the answer. You make it another half-block before a disbelieving laugh slips out.

“What?”

You shake your head. “Did you know Tara thought we were dating?”

A smile begins at one corner of his mouth. “What?”

“Yeah.” Saying it aloud makes you unexpectedly shy. You push your hands deeper into your coat pockets. “Apparently everyone did.”

You expect him to laugh. You expect him to question the team’s observational abilities or reconstruct the evidence that led them there. Instead, the smile falters as something you cannot read moves through his expression, and for the first time all evening Spencer has nothing to say.

At the corner, he waits for the light with his hands in his coat pockets and his shoulders drawn in against the cold. The unfinished explanation about Rossi’s glasses hangs somewhere behind you.

“Spence?” You bump your arm against his. “Got really quiet there for a minute.”

He looks at you, then towards the signal as it changes. “Did you correct her?”

You start across the street beside him. “I tried. Then you came over.”

“What were you going to say?”

“That it wasn’t like that. That we weren’t…”

“Dating,” he supplies.

“Right.”

He nods, but the silence returns. You reach the other pavement and stop. Spencer takes one more step before noticing you are no longer beside him.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re being strange.”

“I’m not.”

“You abandoned a fact halfway through.”

“I can finish it.”

“I don’t want to hear about the glasses anymore.”

His eyebrows lift. “Then why did you bring them up?”

“Spencer.”

He goes still. For a moment he simply looks at you, his hair untidy from the wind, a nervous half-smile appearing and disappearing at the corner of his mouth. When he speaks, each word sounds measured.

“I didn’t realise it was that obvious.”

Your pulse stumbles. “What was?”

He doesn’t answer with words. His gaze holds yours, open enough that you can see the question he’s too careful to ask and the truth he has already let escape.

“Oh,” you say. Everything you have been turning over since Rossi’s house settles into place at once. Spencer is still watching you with nervous hope, and Tara’s mistake no longer feels entirely like one.

Spencer glances down at the wet pavement, then back at you, waiting.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he says quietly, holding your gaze this time.

For several seconds, all you can do is stare at him. “Spencer, I rearranged my entire week so I could keep Thursdays free for you.”

He blinks. “You said Thursday was convenient.”

“It’s convenient. I made it convenient.”

“For me?” he asks, still sounding uncertain enough to make you want to shake him.

You let out a breath and catch the lapels of his coat. “Yes. For you.”

Then you pull him down and kiss him.

The first touch of your mouth to his goes awry only because Spencer inhales at exactly the wrong moment. His body stills beneath your hands. You feel the startled warmth of his breath, the edge of his lower lip and the smallest movement as he begins to respond — just before nerves get the better of you and you draw back.

His eyes stay closed for another second. When they open, he stares at you, lips parted.

“Because I wanted Thursdays with you,” you say, still holding his coat. “And because I think I’ve wanted to do that for longer than I realised.”

His gaze searches your face. “You’ve wanted this too?”

“Yes, Spence.”

Relief breaks across his face as one of his hands finds your waist, tentative only until you lean into it.

“Then why did you stop?” he asks.

A nervous laugh slips out. “You went completely still.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to kiss me.” His fingers curl into your coat and bring you a little closer. “I am now.”

You kiss him again.

This time Spencer meets you halfway. One hand settles against the side of your neck, his thumb fitting beneath your jaw, while the other draws you in at the waist. He kisses you slowly at first, learning the angle, and then with an eagerness that makes you smile against his mouth. His answering laugh is breathless, one you have never heard before and already know you will want to hear again.

When the cold finally makes itself impossible to ignore, you part only far enough to breathe. Spencer’s forehead rests against yours, his breath still unsteady.

“Garcia is going to be unbearable,” you whisper.

“She’s going to say she knew.”

“She did know.”

Spencer closes his eyes. “Please don’t tell her that.”

You laugh and smooth the curl the wind has dropped between his eyebrows. He catches your hand as you lower it, keeping your fingers curled inside his.

“Are Thursdays still mine?” he asks.

“They’re still yours.”

He keeps hold of your hand as you begin walking again, his thumb moving over your knuckles while his shoulder keeps brushing yours. He makes it almost half a block before speaking.

“Friday,” he says.

“What about it?”

“Are you free?”

“No.”

His disappointment is immediate. “Oh.”

He was quiet, not in the way that he was usually quiet, this silence was something more profound. His mind was still spinning in its usual break-neck rapid speed, only this time he wasn’t filing through criminal profiles, statistical anomalies, or geographical mapping models. This time, he was thinking about dirt. 

A small patch of earth far away from the BAU, the dark interrogation rooms, the air in the cabin of the jet, away from the spilled blood and broken spirits. Something that was rich enough to grow things, something that he could tend to, use his fingers for something gentle instead of wrapped around the trigger. Spencer never let himself dream of a life, something beyond cold probability. He knew the numbers like the back of his hand, the odds of passing on his mother’s illness, the average lifespan of an agent in a behavioral analysis unit, the mathematical improbability of finding someone who could see every broken, hyper-fixated piece of him and choose to stay anyway. He had calculated his future down to a lonely zero. He had accepted it. 

Then he met you. Or rather, he bumped into you on a crisp autumn morning outside the library. There was never anyone there earlier than him, so when he had pushed open the heavy, oak double doors, and walked smack-bang into you, spilling your coffee onto the linoleum floor. Somewhere through panicked apologies and using his scarf to wipe the spilled drink from your shoes, he had offered to buy you a replacement. You hadn’t left his side since. 

He shifted slightly, pressing his lips into the crown of your head, inhaling the scent of your honey shampoo, the faint trace of sweat on your glistening skin, and something so comfortingly you underneath it all. He pictured a house, not a white brick, modern house, but an old, weathered cottage, somewhere deep in the countryside, surrounded by open air and trees that turned auburn when the weather turned. It would have a porch, something that wrapped around the side of the house, and a swing that creaked under his weight. He would spend his weekends with his long legs stretched out, reading his way through a stack of vintage paperbacks, with you pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder and your hands curled around a steaming mug of tea. 

A lump formed in his throat, the feeling not brought on by fear, but by something he never dared to allow himself before now. Hope. 

He imagined a little girl with your laugh, or a boy who had a habit of talking too fast when he was excited. He saw them running down a long hallway lined with mis-matched bookshelves and family photos in clashing frames, barefoot with wild hair. He pictured teaching them to play chess in the kitchen, carefully explaining the opening moves while you watched from the doorway with that affectionate smile you always gave him when he got overly passionate. He imagined waking up in the middle of the night not to the jarring, dread-inducing ring of a bureau phone calling him to a crime scene, but to the gentle pitter-patter of small feet seeking comfort from a thunderstorm. He would protect them. He would protect you. He would spend every waking breath ensuring that the dark, jagged world he spent his days fighting never touched a single hair on any of your heads. 

“Spence,” your voice was soft, bringing him back to the moment as you lifted your head out from where it had been tucked against his chest, your gaze meeting his in the dewy morning light. “You’re thinking.”

He smiled, his mouth curving softly as his fingers stilled against your lower back. “I am,” he replied simply, his fingers moving to gently brush a stray hair away from your face before brushing lightly down your cheek. “I’m calculating.”

“You always are,” a sleepy smile spread across your face. “What are the odds this time, Dr. Reid?”

He shifted, letting out a breathy laugh as he rolled onto his back to stare up at the dark beams of the ceiling, a quirk you noticed when he was saying something hard for him to admit, something he was terrified of being judged for. “I used to think a life, a real one, with a small house with too many books, kids who trailed mud in from the garden and waking up…” He swallowed, before turning to face you again, his eyes glistening in the early morning glow. “Waking up like this every morning for the rest of my life. I used to think it was an impossibility for me.” He admitted, his voice dropping into a confessional whisper. “I thought it wasn’t meant for me. But when I’m with you… I don’t care about the odds anymore. I just want to build that life with you.”

You reached up, cupping his jaw, feeling the slight roughness of his morning stubble under your palm. You kissed him softly, a slow, deep press of lips that tasted like promise and quiet mornings. When you pulled back, your eyes locked onto his, steady and full of an unwavering certainty that settled the restless, brilliant mind of Spencer Reid once and for all. “How many?” You asked softly.

Spencer shrugged, rolling to lay his arm over your waist again, his fingers resuming their lazy patterns across your spine. “One or two.” He murmured. “I wouldn’t want them to be lonely.”

“Of course not.” You smiled, resting your forehead against his. “And they could play chess together that way.”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his nose scrunching slightly. His heart bloomed at the display of you knowing him so well, that you knew what he was thinking without him having to verbalise it. “Yeah. Exactly.” He agreed, his voice gentle.

“Better get practicing then.” You murmured, ducking your head to press your lips against his neck. 

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?”

“Can I come in?”

Spencer’s voice lights your face with one of those involuntary, almost girlish smiles that you’re never quite able to fend off. It’s the kind of smile you’d expect from a highschooler whose crush just said hello to her by the lockers, and not from a grown, mature woman such as yourself—if you can call yourself that.

“No.”

Damn it, you can hear it in your voice.

You don’t know what it is about him that makes you so…kittenish, almost. You’ve never been a particularly bashful person; you don’t blush easily, you don’t smile at the sound of someone’s voice, your stomach doesn’t do somersaults when you catch someone’s eye. You’ve always been confident. Unaffected. Some would go as far as to call you aloof.

Every relationship you’ve ever had has settled into a kind of mundanity, and that isn’t at all meant in a negative way. Sparks dim, honeymoon phases fizzle out, butterflies go into hibernation—it’s normal.

And your relationship with Spencer Reid, by that logic, is decidedly abnormal. You live with him, have lived with him for over a year now, and yet every time he walks into the room you still find yourself staring. Transfixed. Your heart flutters, your stomach flips, and your lips curl into that cursed smile. It’s disgusting, really, how much you like him.

You aren’t surprised when the bathroom door opens. Steam rushes out into the dimly lit bedroom, and Spencer pokes his head in. He, too, is smiling like an idiot. And he, too, is desperately trying not to; he’s trying to pout, by the looks of it, and he isn’t doing a very good job.

“What’s up?” you ask.

“Nothing.” He shrugs and steps into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. “I missed you.”

“I’ve only been in here for—”

“Forty-three minutes,” he says, “and fifteen seconds.”

“And you can’t last forty-three minutes and fifteen seconds without me?”

Spencer puts his entire face into that pout: he frowns, closes his eyes, juts out his bottom lip far beyond what should be natural, and he crosses the room with his arms outstretched like a touch-deprived, attention-seeking zombie as he wails, “no.”

You press your lips together, suppressing a grin as his hands settle on your shoulders. He pulls you into a hug, pressing your body flush against his.

“Ugh, Spence— I’m all wet…”

“Don’t care.”

He mumbles this into the damp skin of your shoulder, just above your collarbone, and he presses a kiss to where the words landed before pulling back to gaze at you. 

You tilt your head slightly, looking up at him with mock sympathy. “How on earth do you survive without me at work?”

“I languish,” he whines. “I sit at my desk, and I wither away.”

“You…” you sigh. “…are so dramatic.”

“I thought it was one of my charms?”

“Maybe. The—” he cuts you off with a peck on the lips, and you gently push him away. “The shower’s free. Go on.”

Spencer hums, acknowledging your words, but he doesn’t move.

“Just one more minute,” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help but smile at his affections—and you do allow him one more minute before pushing him away. You scan the bathroom in search of your lotion, but Spencer grabs the bottle before you can.

“Thanks—”

…and he holds it out of your reach as you try to take it from him.

Your face falls, and you cross your arms. “What?”

“I was thinking…maybe I could help you,” he poses, keeping his voice light and innocent on the off chance that you might not see straight through him.

“Help?”

“Get the, uh…hard-to-reach areas,” he clarifies with a smile.

“Uh huh.” You nod, eyeing him sceptically. “You just want to feel me up.”

Spencer’s jaw drops, and his mouth contorts into this comical, overly surprised ‘o’ shape. He shakes his head adamantly, brown hair falling into his eyes as he says, “that’s not— …the only reason.”

You click your tongue, trying to keep up your façade of mild disinterest even as you begin tugging at your towel. “At least you’re honest.”

Spencer does not try at all to hide the way his gaze fixes on your body as you remove your towel, trailing over every inch of you before putting on this big, stupid-looking grin. He leans in to kiss you—properly, this time—anchoring one hand at the back of your neck whilst the other keeps a tight hold of the lotion bottle. You let him have his way for a moment or two, or three, before pulling away.

“Hey,” you snap your fingers, donning the sternest expression you can muster, “moisturise me.”

He sighs, puffing air into his cheeks before pressing one final kiss to your forehead. “Okay, Lady Cassandra,” he mutters, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. “Turn around for me.”

You turn away as he pops open the bottle of lotion, and you hear it sputter as he squeezes some onto his hand. The pause that follows as he sets the bottle aside is oddly anticipatory, and then his hands come, gently, into contact with your back. 

That’s another thing about Spencer Reid—he’s more or less a human radiator. His hands are always warm, no matter the conditions. You seek him out for warmth in the winter, snuggling up to him at any chance you can get, and you avoid him like the plague in the summer. He does, however, have a profound fondness for cuddles, so you often end up toughing it out and letting yourself overheat—for his sake.

His touch alleviates a tension you didn’t know you were carrying. You feel your shoulders loosen as you breathe out a quiet sigh. Spencer works the lotion into your skin with great care, working in sections as he advances down your back until he’s crouching behind you, massaging lotion into your sides, your hips and, finally, your ass.

“Your favouritism is showing,” you mutter.

“I—” Spencer scoffs. “I’m just ensuring that there is even coverage—”

“You’re ensuring that you get to fondle my ass,” you interrupt, correcting him. You’re sure he can hear the smile infiltrating your voice. “Meanwhile my legs are drying up.”

You hear him huff, and his hands briefly leave your body as he squeezes more lotion into his palm before turning his attention to your right thigh. He tends to each leg separately, and even throws in a brief, unexpected calf massage before rising to his feet.

“You’re very…shiny,” he notes as he picks up the bottle for a third time.

“This is how I stay silky smooth.”

One at a time, Spencer works his way down your arms. He stops at your wrists, avoiding your hands—clearly, you’ve complained one too many times about hating the feeling of lotion on your palms. “I don’t moisturise like this,” he says, “and I’m silky smooth.”

“You can always be silkier and smoother.”

“Mhm. And would you do this for me? Slather me in lotion until I’m all slippery?”

“Ew. Don’t say it like that. But yes, I would…slather you, if you asked me to.”

Spencer leans in to kiss your cheek as his hands trail down to your stomach. “So kind,” he murmurs, grinning. “How lucky I am to have someone so willing to smear lotion all over me.”

“I hope you’re grateful.”

“Always.”

His lips meet the side of your neck just as his hands move up to your chest. He squeezes you, gently, just enough to make your breath catch just before your hands close around his wrists, and you pull his hands away.

“And we’re done,” you announce, turning back to him.

Spencer frowns. “But I didn’t do your collarbones.”

“I can do my own collarbones—”

“Please?”

He’s pouting again, staring at you with those big, stupid brown eyes like you’re depriving him of something sacred.

“…fine.”

Spencer steps forward, and he carefully massages the last of the lotion into your collarbones with a proud smile. His fingers dance along your skin, touch so light it almost feels reverent.

Crushes are supposed to subside with time. The giddiness, the novelty, it’s all supposed to wear off within the first few months of dating. And yet every time you find yourself like this, face to face with him, close enough to feel his breath on your skin, giddiness is all you can feel.

As much as you try to hide it, you have the biggest crush on your boyfriend. And you can’t see it going away any time soon. You don’t want it to go away. Ever. 

“There we go.”

Spencer backs up a little to admire his work—or, more accurately, to admire you—with a grin that almost stretches from one ear to the other, splitting his face with a joy that is almost infectious. Almost. 

“Thanks, Doc.” You give him a nod, maintaining a perfectly neutral expression as you gesture to the shower. “Now go, it’s your turn.”

“Actually, I was wondering if—”

“I’m not showering with you, Spence,” you say. That damn pout returns full force as you turn him down, but you don’t let it dissuade you. “You just emptied half a bottle of lotion onto me. That’s like, four dollars.”

“But—”

“Shower. Now. You stink.”

“I don’t stink.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Well, actually, statistics show that couples often enjoy each other’s natural body odour, so—”

“Yes, but you have work tomorrow. I doubt the BAU will appreciate your stench as much as I do.”

“Fine.”

He begins fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, hurriedly undoing them as you turn to leave. He catches you by the arm before you make it to the door, and he presses the shirt into your hand with a sly smile.

“I love you.”

Barely able to bite back a smile of your own, you take the shirt off his hands. It’s warm, worn, and smells unapologetically of him. You slip it on like it’s your own.

“I love you, too—and don’t take too long, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You pulled away first, started avoiding him hoping it would prevent further incidents and protect your precious peace of mind. It worked, for a time, until something else happened. Another slight. Another apology. Another pardon. 

Spencer forgot to refill the coffee pot. An honest mistake, you're sure, but you were tired. It had been a long day, long week, long month with the amount of cases you were juggling; always running from scene to scene, or battling your fear of flying thirty thousand feet in the air, or listening to him talk when you had already told him you had a headache. All you wanted was a coffee.

It wouldn't have stuck with you, if it hadn't been him who was responsible. You wouldn't have even blinked if Emily or JJ—or anyone else—had put their hand up to take the blame for the sad, empty coffee pot. But of course it was him.

It was always him.

So you misplaced the file he was working on ("Sorry, Spence. I know I left it around here somewhere…"); and he let you borrow a pen that exploded all over your blouse ("Crap— I'm sorry! It must have gotten too warm in my car."); and your desk chair broke so you took his instead of one of the spares ("My bad…but are you sure you've always sat there? No, I'm certain you usually sit somewhere else. The same spot for seven years now? Are you gaslighting me, Reid?"). 

It wasn't until Spencer physically knocked the mug out of your hands, spilling your coffee all over the carpet, that the team noticed something was up. So much for those acclaimed profiling skills.

And the worst part? Spencer offered to clean that carpet. No, he insisted on it, and he apologised at every chance he got, all wide eyes and worry lines, really leaning into his kicked puppy appeal, and that was the moment your quiet battle turned into an all-out war.

Snide comments were ping ponged across the bullpen, the conference room, the jet—anywhere that put you and Reid within earshot of each other turned into your own hostile work environment playpen. He called you so many variations of the word "bitch" you were convinced he had shoved a thesaurus up his ass (all without actually calling you a bitch; that was too far), and you responded by slipping the word "virgin" into every sentence for two full shifts; he made a daring remark about the "borderline inappropriate" cut of your shirt, and you stole a sweater from his go-bag and wore it the rest of the day to "protect his eyes"; you got yourself a boyfriend, and he got…weird.

Reid's always weird, in a Reid way; awkward, rambling, would-be-a-good-court-jester kind of weird. But this was different. He was different.

He stopped fighting. Raised his pitiful little white flag and just stopped. No big argument, no letter from HR, nothing.

You just thought he'd gotten bored of the back-and-forth, or maybe his New Year's resolution was to stop being a total bitch (you can call him a bitch; that's fine) and become a total bore instead. It wasn't something you thought anything of— and you wouldn't even be thinking about it now if things weren't…like this.

Three months ago, you broke up with your boyfriend. (No big deal; people break up all the time.)

The last time you had sex was three months ago. (Again, nothing crazy; you've abstained for far longer than that in the past.)

You're stuck in a car for twelve hours… (Average stakeout; nothing to write home about.)

…with Spencer Reid… (You've done it before; you can do it again.)

…and you're pretty sure you're ovulating. (Literally happens every month; you'd be more concerned if you weren't ovulating.)

All of these factors are insignificant on their own. Mundane things that happen to everyone, anywhere, any time; mundane things that have all happened to you at one point or another, and it really, really shouldn't be a big deal.

So why does it feel like you're dying?

Spencer's talking to you, he has been for some time now, and you can barely hear him over…whatever this is. And you certainly can't look at him, because then you'll—

Christ, have his hands always looked like that? Were those veins there when you got in the car? The definition? Have they always been that big?

Okay, arms and legs crossed, eyes forward, breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth…

…is he sweating? Can you smell is sweat right now? Is that really what he smells like?

Correction: breathe in through your mouth, and out through your mouth.

You're sweating, that's for sure. 

Fuck, it's hot in here.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Uh huh."

"You haven't been listening, have you?"

"Sure I have." You rub your eyes, trying to get to whatever thing has hijacked your mind. "You said this guy, uh…wasn't bitten by a spider? So how is he Spider-Man?"

"I…" His gaze burns a hole straight through your temple and into your brain, sears it from the inside out. "I said that ten minutes ago."

"Oh." Pull yourself together. "Run it back?"

"Run it back?"

"We have time, don't we?" You squint at the dashboard, carefully avoiding any hands or forearms or biceps or— "There's…six hours left of this…oh my God."

"Don't sound too thrilled," Spencer mutters. "Anyway, the reason he's Spider-Man is because he was trying to recreate the abilities of the original Spider-Man in other people—this is set in the future, remember? He actually wanted to discontinue his research after a human test subject died, but Tyler Stone—that's his boss—had other plans…"

Garcia once told you about this alternate universe trope in a lot of her "fandoms" where characters have this almost wolf-like biological hierarchy thing going on— or something like that, you weren't paying much attention. You remember her talking about how certain people experience "heats" like animals do, and you're sure this must be the real-life equivalent.

You've been sitting in a hot car for six hours, unable to sleep, with a coworker who is inexplicably getting more and more attractive with each torturous minute that passes, and he's talking about fucking Spider-Man. Not even regular Spider-Man, either; he's talking about Spider-Man from the fucking future. 

And that's not to say that Reid was unattractive before this nightmare began, Morgan doesn't call him "pretty boy" for no reason, but you weren't attracted to him. Okay, maybe a little, or…more than a little—but not to the extent that you are now.

Right now, you feel positively in-fucking-sane. 

"…and in order to get himself off of Rapture, he uses an older template of his unaltered genetic code to overwrite his current biology. However, his subordinate Delgato sabotages the machines and, instead of being restored to his old code, his genes are rewritten to contain fifty percent spider DNA—that's how he becomes Spider-Man."

A pause. Spencer doesn't pause unless he's awaiting a response.

"…uh huh."

The leather squeaks as Spencer leans over to scrutinise you. "What did I say?"

"That he, um—" You shrug as you clear your throat. "Someone fucked with the machine, and now his DNA is half spider."

Another pause. Longer.

What is he waiting for? You answered his question.

"Um. I just figured that all Spider-Men were bitten by—"

"Can you look at me?"

"Nope."

You weren't supposed to say that out loud.

"…nope? What— what do you mean nope?"

"We're supposed to keep an eye out for our unsub," you mutter.

"So you can't spare a glance?"

"Nope," you repeat, popping the "p" this time so it sounds more intentional.

Spencer sinks back into his seat, but his gaze doesn't leave you.

"Did I do something?"

You shake your head quickly. "No, you're…fine."

He's fine? Really?

"Look," he sighs, "I know we've never really…seen eye to eye. And I've been, um, distant—"

"Just keep talking about Spider-Man, Reid."

"—but I think, if there's ever going to be an opportunity to talk things out, then—"

"Please."

"—this is it."

He talks over you, unapologetic. Bulldozes your words with his own, and with a kind of resolution that leaves the air feeling even heavier. The heat inside of the car mixes with whatever poison gas he's just released, makes it impossible to breathe.

Does your sweat smell as strongly as his does? If so, you should invest in a better deodorant— and stop breathing through your nose.

"Can we open a window?" you ask stiffly.

"Nope."

"Reid, please—"

"Are you trying to say I smell bad?"

God, no.

"Yes," you snap, "and I'm sweating like a dog in…"

As your words trail off into obscurity, Spencer scoffs. "Fine, open your window. It isn't even that warm in here, I have the AC turned up all the way."

"AC my ass." 

The air that hits you as you roll your window down feels like heaven. You lean back in your seat, finally able to breathe, but then you hear that damn squeak.

Spencer's leaning over to adjust the passenger side fan. His hair tickles your nose, and when you freeze up, he cranes his neck to look at you, and he smiles.

"Hello."

"What are you doing."

"I'm fixing your—"

"I just said you stink, Reid."

"Stop breathing through your nose, then."

There's brain matter leaking out from your ears. Eyes locked in this subdued, almost dead stare. Homed on his lips. You're roadkill, flattened under his tyre, using the last of your strength to blink and twitch. Slow and laboured. Helpless.

When the hell did he start looking like this?

"…thank you, Doctor."

Your efforts to keep your voice steady prove futile. You sound as weak as you feel, breathless and—Christ—like sex. 

Close enough to kiss. You could lean in, that's all it would take. He'd taste like his coffee, strong and sweet, at first, with a bitterness that hits you just as you pull away, drags you back in for more. You hate his coffee, and yet…part of you…

"You're welcome, Agent."

Spencer pulls back, returning to his seat before you can do anything rash. The fan hits your face, but it does nothing to cool you down. 

Despite your best efforts, your gaze follows him. Sticks to him like a magnet, dumb and dead and desperate. He doesn't seem to notice how he's killed you.

He reaches for the steering wheel, holds it like he's going somewhere. Fingers flex against the plastic, tendons working. Veins. Just…veins.

He probably has a big dick.

And you're looking out of the window, putting yourself in time-out, because what? 

What is wrong with you? This is Spencer. Awkward, bumbling, pain-in-the-ass Spencer. You can't be thinking about him like this. It isn't right. It's…

That day, when you stole his sweater, he had only made that remark about your outfit because you had caught him staring first.

"There is actually, um, something I've been meaning to…talk to you about."

And you had only kept it on for as long as you did because it was comfortable. Because you liked how it smelled. How it reminded you of him.

…and he never even asked for it back. You could have kept it. He would have let you keep it.

Just how long as this been happening?

"I asked Hotch to pair us together on this."

His words hit like a bucket of ice, and you snap back to him, frowning. "What?"

"I wanted— I don't know," he sighs. "I needed a moment alone with you—"

"A moment?" you hiss, leaning forward. "We're here for twelve hours, Reid. We've— we've already been here for six, and you're only just saying this now? What took you so long to—"

He cuts you off, spitting out the name of your ex boyfriend like a curse—like it means anything.

You scoff, all irrational, hormonal thoughts forgotten. "What about him?"

"He's the reason I took so damn long, alright?" He's talking to the steering wheel; you're staring at him like he's lost his mind. "Because I…I had a plan, at the start of the year. I-I was going to ask you out, but—"

"Reid."

"You got this…stupid rock of a boyfriend, and— and I concluded that I was the idiot. I-I told myself that I had misread everything, and that you were never…interested in me, like that."

"Are you serious—"

"I'm not finished." Releasing the steering wheel, Spencer turns to you with this big, sarcastic smile. "The idiot here is you—"

You practically launch yourself across the seats, meeting his open, smug mouth with a kiss that leaves him floundering, grasping at the leather to keep himself steady so he doesn't fall and, more importantly, so he can kiss you back. He matches your hunger like it's second nature, like it's been simmering quietly within him for as long as it has been in you. Like he's spent months letting it eat him alive.

Everything is on fire. Your skin burns at the same temperature his does; tongues meet in a blaze amidst scorched lips and molten teeth. 

He pulls you over the centre console. Your knee hits the gearstick, and he mumbles an apology into your mouth, adjusts himself so you can straddle him with relative ease. 

Those large hands settle like anchors on your waist, pressing you down just enough for you to feel how his body responds to the kiss, to this position, to you. And it's enough to make you moan, because you were right: if the bulge in his slacks is anything to go by, Spencer Reid has a big dick. It's a wonder his ego isn't supersized, too.

It hardly registers that you're rocking your hips until he's whining on your tongue, trying to move in tandem in a way the car seat simply won't allow for. You reach around blindly, and the seat gives a rough, begrudging jerk before it reclines. 

"Okay…" Your chest heaves against his as you pull back just enough to let yourself breathe. "I concede…I'm an idiot…"

Spencer exhales a shaky, smile-ridden sigh as his hand finds your cheek. The curl of his lips reads as nothing but affectionate; pure, unfiltered fondness offset only by his words. 

"I forgive you."

You don't share in his smile. In fact, you swat his hand away like it's dirty.

"Bitch."

And then you're latching onto his neck, relishing the way he stutters on a gasp that, if you're hearing correctly, is laced with a curse. Faint, but discernible. 

God, the things you'd do to hear that again. 

When your teeth nip his sensitive skin, he whimpers, and you feel his cock twitch and strain against the fabric between you. 

Corrupting the golden boy, getting him to say all kinds of nasty things for you, and in a government-issue vehicle, too…now that sounds like an exciting way to spend your night. Far better than this stupid stakeout— the stupid stakeout that he requested you accompany him on.

Buttons hit the window as you pull his shirt open without care. He sputters, stammers, but you're kissing along his collarbone before he can choke out a single word, dragging your nails down his chest, and by that point all he can do is throw his head back and make his pretty little noises; you can worry about his shirt later.

As if on cue, Spencer's phone starts to ring. The hot car turns to ice, and in that split-second before the panic really kicks in, and he's just staring at you with those startled brown eyes, you swear to God he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. 

He scrambles around for his phone, finds it in his pocket just under your thigh. He almost drops it as he brings it to his ear.

"Hel— hello? Hotch? You— p-pardon? He's— okay. Okay, we're…um— we're on our way…sir. Yes, sir. Okay."

His hand drops to his side, limp, and he exhales a sigh that shakes so much it rattles the both of you.

"Don't," you mumble, pressing your face to his neck.

"The, um, the unsub—"

"Oh my God."

"He was spotted by local PD a few blocks south. Hotch— Hotch and the team are on their way, but— but we're closer. We really need to, um…"

"Do you want my bra, or something?"

"You are such a— …she-devil."

that's what bothered him even more.

"spencer," your voice echoed from the hallway, the sound of his first name pulling him out of his thoughts. it felt like a bucket of ice brutally poured over him. you never called him that.

sure, you were here.

litteraly, you were.

he wasn't alone anymore, gazing at the sky through the jet’s window while he thought of you, or waking up from a nightmare in a shitty motel room, the squeaky mattress nothing like the one he usually shared with you.

in a way, there was no reason for him to be sitting there, creases under his eyes highlighted in the dim light.

spence, come to bed.

you have a week worth of cuddles to make up for, genius.

in another universe, that's what you would've said.

"don't let the light on if you fall asleep" you said instead.

because in this universe, he messed up.

put the role of agent first without realising it, and before he could get a chance to apologise, he'd traded romantic dinners for briefings, and late night conversations for additional hours.

the stars aligned, the entire universe participated in the series of events that led you to him all those years ago, so much that he'd unintentionally started to take it for granted.

you.

as if a constellation could be any less majestic on this day, for the simple reason its discovery went back thousands of years.

as if you didn't shine as brightly now, hair falling over your nightgown, with a sleepy expression that revealed pent up exhaustion, than you ever did.

"i won't," he croaked out in an embarrassingly weak voice.

he left, he was the one to be blamed.

cowardice, a sin. one he'd taken from his life's blood, dangerously repeating his father's actions unconsciously although he’d never admit the resemblance.

to a woman's love and honesty, a relationship built on trust, he responded with scribbles on a sticky note left on the bedside table before going away.

case out of state. love you.

"okay..."

he'd forgotten you were here, too busy analysing the lack of a crucial vowel he omitted. maybe that's why you were acting so cold. because he didn’t properly say those three words.

"i'm going to bed."

pushing yourself from the doorframe, you informed as you turned back around.

"wait-"

his hand reached out in the air, in a way that would appear romantic if it was just another day. the air in the room shifted, and it wasn’t from the cold breeze of the night that his throat closed.

your head tilted, spencer’s lips parted.

"could you... come here ?"

the space next to him felt like an invitation as he scooted over, a little spot he gestured at with the back of his hand. it was embarrassing enough for him to say the words out, to admit he needed you close.

but all the arguments in the world be damned, the files were the last things he wanted next to him right now.

you saw it.

a subtle shift in his eyes. the way his brows scrunched, searching for your reaction. he looked younger under this light, innocent, even.

"we don't have to solve this today,"

"no, this isn't about... that"

in a couple of long strides, you were at his side. lowering yourself onto the couch close enough that you could touch him if he asked.

"i don't wanna talk." he shook his head and stammered "i mean yes ! i do, i know i messed up... i just... need you to be next to me right now."

there it was.

the hint of the smile he loved so much. it threatened to show in the way your lips almost curved upwards, but you just nodded.

your voice was softer. "okay."

thankfully he didn't have to make the first step. quietly, anticipating his demand, your fingers laced together and interlinked, resting on top of his thigh. he welcomed your touch with a relieved breath.

"not ready to sleep just yet ?"

he shook his head. the nightmares clouded his mind, lingered around him in the posture of his shoulders and the way his clenched jaw stuck out in the darkness.

"no, not now."

you knew, so much that he didn't need to say a single word.

it was more than a simple hand holding situation. reassurance, comfort. the sleepiness you felt earlier dissipated instantly and you melted deeper into the couch, watching the way his curls lazily framed his sleep etched face.

"i'm not angry, yknow," you played absentmindedly with the fabric of a pillow, the cotton offering a distraction from the way his head tilted to find your gaze. "not that angry anyways... i missed you too much to care about fighting."

‘’you won’t look at me since i came back and you almost flinched when i touched you earlier" he recalls matter-of-factly, like his heartstrings didn’t tug when he felt you stiffen in his presence. ‘’i can tell when you’re angry,’’

"and..." he reminds you "i get it. you have every right to be"

across the room, you could swear the framed pictures were staring at you – nagging looks of the gallery of your love, displaying different moments of your shared story that now appeared distant.

‘’it’s just easier to be angry than to miss you while you’re away. then i can pretend not to care about whatever dangerous situation you put yourself in again.’’

his eyes trail to were yours are and land on a particular cherished memory.

to anyone else, that picture woud’ve appeared unworthy of being exposed. it’s far for perfect, from the angles that weren’t quite right to the blurry background, revealing how unintentionally perfect it turned out to be. The shot was owed to penelope, probably, hence why nothing other than your smile and spencer’s matching one seem to be taken into account.

it shows you, laughing after one too many drinks in rossi’s garden. same glint in your eyes, but younger features. innocent in the way that shows life hadn’t quite revealed all its tricks on you yet. and by your side, with a hand carefully draped around your hip like the world would fade without your anchor, is him.

soft, adoring.

looking at you like you hung the moon and completely falsified his of gravity, altering the chemistry of his neural pathways in a way that could never be undone. at this very moment, when you laughed at something he said - that must’ve involved statistics and unintentional rambling, like it always did - nothing else mattered.

‘’not for me," he counters in a low breath, like it pains him to admit it. "you might've gotten a couple of days of denial while i was away-"

impossible to tell him that no, you didn't. spending ever waking moment hoping he'll return and yell at you, fight with you again, or critisize your coping techniques with fancy psychological vocabulary that would've been once again way too accurate.

"-but it hurt me to know that we were on bad terms."

"why thank you, genius. that's so kind of you"

genius.

he took it like a punch to the gut. the kind of nickname related to teasing, playful banter about his immense incomparable knowledge you were so fond of. now, it only sounded insulting.

"i left. we fought and i had to leave. and i-" spencer's voice faltered for a second, anxiety creeping in. there was a truth he hated to admit, words we couldn't bear pronouncing out loud in fear they'd come true.

"i couldn't forgive myself if those were the last words i ever said to you."

there it was.

the dagger being held over him, the possible hypothesis that had made him shiver beneath the thin motel sheets. the covers were so harsh he'd closed his eyes and imagined the heat of your soft skin instead of the empty spot next to him.

right now on the couch, your lips parted. spencer was never scared, he'd grown into a confident agent whose weakesses never showed, hidden away in the secret garden of his that ony he had the key to.

you ducked your head shamefully.

he gets up in one swift motion, cearing his throat as to erase his confession. "i’m gonna make some tea"

just like that, the moment dissipated.

he gets to the kitchen before you could react and there's nothing for you to do but look at him from the couch, maneuvring behind the counter with a surgical precision that should make up for his crumbled facade. you see him grab two mugs carefully, the whistle of the kettle drowning out the leftover tension in the open space.

as the water got closer to reach the point of boiling, spencer was too busy replaying the conversation to hear your socked feet against the tiles.

until he felt your touch.

hesitant at first. your arms slide around his middle from behind, and the fact that you can't see his face doesn't keep you from catching his reaction. his body language speaks for itself.

shoulders sag in relief, and you carefully draw yourself closer until your forhead mets the cotton fabric of his shirt, soft and smelling of him from the years of wearing it.

"i'm sorry you felt like i wasn't there for you," your arms tighten their grip on him and you admit.

he shakes his head, hands stilling against the counter. steam lazily curls over the mugs and he adds. "no. i'm sorry i wasn't there for you. physically. emotionally."

he turns around, to wich you can finally tilt your head up and met his eyes. for the first time tonight, and he counted, your enchanting irises turn to him.

"we should talk to eachother more." it's honest. the kettle clicks. "statistically, is a major factor when it comes to reasons for divorce, the numbers sometimes reaching seventy percent-"

"we're not married" you remind him, unable to suppress a twitch of your lips.

spencer only shrugs sheepishly, though heat creeps up his cheeks.

"better be prepared, i guess"

you giggle fully this time. and it reverbates in the tiny space illuminated by nothing but your smile and the faint light over the stove.

"i need to find a better balance between you and the job. to be... okay with not always being dr reid all the time."

even in those moments, the quiet conversations between two individuals too trusting to hide parts of themselves from one another, he was honest with you. the struggle between this shift of identity wasn't new, no, it was what he got for putting others before himself and dedicating his life to helping the world with the use of his intellect.

but you never saw him as dr reid.

the diplomas and PhDs and FBI rewards he'd accumulated were nothing but mundanities that came with your boyfriend. spencer. the one whose casual and relaxed side only you got to see once he came bck from work, or during his rare days off.

"i just need you," you explain, your hands flat on his chest. "to be yourself. to be a boyfriend. a best friend."

to be there. alive. happy.

that's what he knew you were thinking. "i will"

the promise feels real this time, sworn with not only words but sealed by a kiss. he leans into you hesitantly, only to grace your lips when he feels you melting into him.

"you're-" you breathe out, smiling and kissing the corner of his mouth again, because how could you resist after going so long without his touch. "crazy- to think i know how to keep my mind of you"

spence meets you halfway, aiming for another kiss. a smaller peck this time. the grip of his hands tighten around your waist and he gives you a heartwarming dopey smile brighter than anything.

"i'd apologise for that, but it wouldn't be very honest.... i like to know you think about me..." he explains, brows scrunching telling you he's searching for the right words. "it makes me feel nice to know there's someone waiting for me when i come back."

after all, coming back to an empty apartment was all he'd known for years. dust collected on the shelves for however long the case had lasted, and the feeling of sudden emptiness in his heart matching with... well, the one in his fridge.

here, he was wanted, expected, needed. and most of all, loved.

"smooth," your nose bumps against his playfully. "but i won't settle for just words, baby. i need actions."

he nodded solemnly. baby again, not just first name basis.

you pinch his side, aiming for the skin beneath his prominent ribs. the efect is immediate, followed by a sharp gasp.

"-hey !"

"i'm serious," you warn, pupils getting visibly smaller like a cat about to hiss. he can't take you seriously like this, the flames of your pretend anger are nothing more than a modest spark. you're not even mad at him anymore, you just want him to smile again.

"you need to find a way to distance yourself from the BAU sometimes. it would be healthier for you to leave cases and bad guys away from, well," you vaguely gesture to the kitchen space with the two long forgotten mugs behing him.

"i perfectly know how to do that-" he retorts in a high pitched voice that betrayed his words.

"my files and all other aspects of my work life," he says, pointing to the coffee table in the living room space. "are over there. and you, my personal life, are right here."

your brows raise in amusement, shifting the attention away from the smile that threatens your lips. "seriously ?"

spencer shrugs. "i have established a boundary between work and life - that boundary being defined by the kitchen island."

"oh, dear" you sigh, shaking your head. the tea has gone cold when you grab your mug and his eyes don't leave your figure moving gracefully under the dim light. "you've got a long way to go."

"but i'll help you"

his head tilts up, hopeful. he's not alone anymore, really, he never was. not when he has a home - not just a flat, a real home - warm and full of love he shares with a woman who can read him like the back of her hand.

"you will ?" spencer's words linger in the air, promises untold he yearns for you to confirm. you nod, handing him his own mug to match yours.

"yeah, because i love you. and also, i can't sleep without you next to me" you add honestly. being home lone had never felt so boring than when it involved spencer leaving. apparently, you didn't need social battery to spend time with him.

he plants a soft kiss on your temple, a brush of his lips that leave you grinning.

and the next morning, you wake up by his side with limbs completely tangled and trapped in a form hold, that same smile is on your lips. the shine filters through the curtains, casting hues of gold over the angelic figure of a deeply asleep spencer. the pent up exhaustion from the past weeks events finally released, he looks the most relaxed you've seen in a while - and you let him rest.

because even without words, without meaningful eye contacts or grand gestures, you know he loves you too.

and the sticky note on the bedframe proves your point.

the sentence is carefully etched on the paper this time, elegant letters written in the peculiar handwriting you've learned to recognize after seeing it in letters and work files you sometimes got to see. three words, he got it right this time.

i love you, with an i. always have and always will.

And there was the purple mark on his neck, next to his collarbone that he had to make a conscious effort hiding.

Spencer cleared his throat “Can we focus on the case?” he said, voice a bit higher-pitched than normal. 

“Sure,” JJ said with a knowing smile. 

He stared at his file the whole meeting. It wasn’t his fault. He was on a day-off and got a sudden call that he wasn’t prepared for. He was supposed to spend the morning with you like intended, to be able to keep kissing you and stay in bed with your body flushed against his– 

“Reid”

Spencer’s head snapped to see Hotch waiting for an answer… to a question he ignored…

“Uhm… sorry c-can you repeat?”

“I said… Do you remember the last time this MO was used?”

Spencer nodded “Yes, in 1986 in the same area we found four bodies killed in the same way, with the same puncture wounds to the chest. The unsub had never been found”

He felt Derek’s amused eyes on him. He just knew. What gave it away? The half fucked up tie? The way he walked in with his cheeks still flushed? The dilated pupils when he thought of you instead of working? 

Could they blame him? Last night he finally got to what he had wanted for weeks… you.

//

“Thank you for walking me home,” you smiled, still gripping his hands.

You and Spencer were standing on your doorstep. It had been your first ‘real’ date after weeks of talking : a nice dinner after seeing a play together. You hadn’t stopped smiling since the start of the night. 

“Of course,” he answered. Spencer’s eyes flee yours most of the time, but right now, they were looking straight into yours.

His big brown eyes. 

It truly was what you had noticed at first about him. And you couldn’t stop yourself from staring at the moment. You bit your lower lip to stop yourself from grinning. “Do uhm… do you want to step inside?”

You both knew what that meant. One step in and the two of you will be one.

Spencer simply nodded. But you didn’t move, didn’t want to step away. With your hand reaching behind you to open the door, you stayed in front of him. He got closer and you felt your cheeks heating up.

You had the time to hear the ‘click’ of your door opening before his lips were on yours. You closed your eyes as you leaned into it. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders to try to pull him closer somehow, because you weren’t close enough for your liking. A breath left his lips and you answered with a small, muffled sound. He walked you inside, still kissing you.

Spencer closed the door behind him without leaving you. Your hand cradled his cheek, angling his head to kiss him deeper. His hand trailed from your hip to slide under your top. Your skin shivered at the contact of his cold fingers on you. 

“Spencer,” you whispered. Your other hand was gripping the hair on the back of his neck and you swore you heard him let out a sound at the slight tug. It only made the knot in your stomach tightened. 

Spencer broke the kiss, breathless. You took a second to take in his appearance: his red cheeks, the hair that had fallen in front of his forehead, the top button of his shirt that you had somehow opened in the process. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and his hand stayed there, on your cheek. 

“Hi,” you breathed out before letting out a giggle.

“Hi,” Spencer answered. He rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in. Your fingers found the hooks of his pants to pull his hips closer. He leaned in again to start a new kiss. 

You kicked off your shoes, your lips still attached to his. You only broke the kiss to whisper a quick “The bedroom’s on the right” and let him lead you there. 

With your back against the mattress and his body hovering over yours, the world blurred and all you saw was him.

//

Spencer’s eyes darted the jet, trying to avoid Derek’s questioning gaze. He knew how fucked he was, as soon as there was one break, the questions will start. If that jet ‘meeting’ to talk about the strategy could last the whole flight, he wasn’t going to complain. 

Unfortunately, the chat ended. He glanced at his file, pretending to already start the geographical profile.

“Reid”

Shit.

“Yes?” he looked up to see Morgan sitting next to him. 

Derek grinned. “So you’re not gonna tell me what happened this morning?”

“Nothing happened,” Spencer answered too quickly.

Derek let out a chuckle “Sure, kid. You came here looking like a mess and you were late.”

Spencer swallowed “You’re imagining things”

“No. I think you have someone you want to hide” Spencer’s face was so transparent and telling that he couldn’t even hide it. He tried though, but he failed miserably “Come on! Just tell me I’m right”

“Fine–”

Derek grinned from ear to ear “There we go. What’s the girl’s name?”

“I don’t want to talk about it–”

“Talk about what?” Emily asked as she sat across Spencer

“Reid’s got a girlfriend” Derel said way too loud. 

And that got the whole jet’s attention. Even Hotch turned his head with a raised eyebrow. “Do you?”

“I… well yes but it’s not the point,” he was stumbling over his words. He could die on the spot at the way all their eyes lighted up. “Can we focus on the case?”

The team went back to their files but Spencer noticed the way their gaze lingered. He wanted to keep it for himself. At least for a little while, so he has time to make sure things were serious between the two of you. He hadn’t meant to… but the call caught him off guard while he was supposed to spend time with you.

//

Spencer rolled around and let out a sigh. He felt something against him, he opened his eyes and remembered. He remembered last night, the thrill and pleasure, falling asleep next to you, your head resting against his naked chest, his hands on your hips–

“Spencer?” you whispered as you woke up. 

“Yes?” he whispered, wrapping his arm around your middle. He wasn’t used to this, waking up next to somebody else. But it had been a nice surprise when he woke up, that was sure. His heart melted at the sleepy smile you offered him. 

You pressed your head to his neck and left a peck there “Slept well?”

“Definitely,” Spencer answered, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “You?”

“Oh yeah,” you said with a grin “That was a good night.”

He laughed, his cheeks heating up. “Yeah… it was”

You lifted your head to see him so flustered. With his red cheeks and big eyes and his disheveled hair from last night. “Cute,” you whispered before pressing your lips to his. How were you supposed to keep your hands to yourself when he looked this cute. 

Spencer melted into the kiss, his hand cupped your cheek to pull you closer. With your hips now pressing against his, he couldn’t resist you. He turned you around, now hovering over you. He kissed you again, harder. 

You hooked your leg over his hip and heard him let out a sound against your mouth. Your arms snuck around his shoulders while his hand started to trail down. You closed your eyes when his lips locked with your neck. That was so good. 

Spencer muttered your name and that only made you want more. You were ready and let out a whimper when his hand found you– 

A phone rang. Spencer froze. He glanced at the nightstand to see his cell ringing. “Sorry–”

He detached himself from you to answer the call. “Hotch? I… Y-yes. Yeah I’ll be there”

You chuckled, amused at how unsatisfied he looked. “Don’t laugh,” he said, trying to hide his small smile “It sucks”

“It does,” you said, pecking his lips “But you have people who need you”

“And what if I need you?” he answered which made it harder to keep your hands off of him. 

“Then you’ll have me when you’re back,” you whispered against his mouth. Spencer smiled and offered you a quick kiss

“I really need to go”

“You don’t seem to be moving”

Spencer let out a small sigh and got up and you weren’t going to stop yourself from staring. “You’re just making this harder,” he whined as he had to quickly get dressed. 

“I see that” you chuckled.

He shook his head, swallowing at the sight of you still sitting on your bed. “I uhm… Well since I’m here I don’t have my car… can you drive me to work?”

“Oh- yeah sure”

The ride was silent, Spencer focusing on trying to look normal and absolutely not unsatisfied. You left him a block away as he told you he didn’t want to deal with his colleagues’ teasing. He definitely had a good reason to worry about it

//

Spencer had finally managed to focus on the case. He had indeed been right and the unsub from 1986 was the same as now so the stakes were high. After two intense days of chasing after the man, they caught him. Spencer sat in their assigned room at the police station. He hadn’t taken the time to breathe properly. He looked at his phone to see a text from you 

‘Hi :) Tell me when the case’s over, maybe I can give you a ride home since you don’t have your car’

Spencer smiled without even meaning to

‘Hi, I would love that. Caught the guy so I should be back at the BAU by 8pm’

You instantly answered with ‘You’ll have a private driver waiting for you :P’

“Now, Reid. You can’t tell me it’s not her you’re texting”

Spencer turned around to see Derek “I wasn’t going to lie about it”

“So why didn’t you tell us on the jet?”

“I just… you were all staring and I hadn’t planned on talking about her”

“The hickey on your neck was talking for you” Derek said, loving messing with him. Spencer was so flustered, his cheeks redder than ever “Anyway… how’s it going?”

Spencer smiled “It’s going great. Except for the impromptu phone call,” he chuckled. “But uhm… yeah it’s doing great, we’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks”

“And you didn't tell us?” Derek joked, faking offense

“Well it wasn’t anything at first, the other day it was our first date. Well; no but like our first date that we stated out loud was a date. Does that make sense?” 

“Sure,” Derek answered with a chuckle “Well I’m happy for you, kid,” he said as he got up before patting his back and leaving. 

Spencer was left alone and he stared down at his lap, smiling from ear to ear. He just wanted to get back to you. 

After the long wait on the jet and the last bit of work he had to do in office, he was finally free. He saw you, standing next to your car in the parking lot. You grinned when you saw him. His arms wrapped around you and smiled into your hair “I missed you”

You stepped away from him so you could kiss him. His lips against yours and his hands on your hips. It wasn’t even a heated kiss, just one that said you had missed each other. But it was enough for his team to cheer. 

You frowned as you turned your head to see… all his colleagues standing there, smiling. Even one of them gave Spencer a thumbs up. “What’s going on?”

“Uh… I might have not been very ‘put together’ when I arrived from your house”

You chuckled “No way”

“Can we just go?” he asked, a bit embarrassed.

You got into the car “They look nice, I should meet them someday,” you said as you saw a woman– wearing the most extravagant clothing you had seen in a while– looking ecstatic.