Flesh Of My Flesh

Some days the ache is a low fog, a softness you can move through if you keep moving, if you keep the kettle of your body warm. Some days it is a bright, thin wire that hums when you reach for things, sings when you twist your wrist the wrong way. Today it's somewhere in between, a weather that keeps changing its mind. You keep a bottle of water within easy reach and your wrists aligned like you were taught, and you tell yourself that this is a building full of doors and you know how to open them, that hinges are patient things, that you can be, too. You take inventory of small mercies—chairs with arms, a keyboard that doesn't stick, a mug that fits your grip—and you stack them like coins you intend to spend later.

Hotch has been courting you for weeks, and you have been letting him, which feels like letting a door stay ajar in a hallway that is always, always busy. There are the gifts that are not called gifts—an extra mug appearing on your desk on a cold morning, dark blue with the FBI seal; a scarf folded with careful precision over your chair when the building air turns too sharp; a file already clipped and labeled before you realize you were going to ask for it, the tab placed where your eyes always look first, the kind of foresight that feels like being met halfway. There is the way he pauses, just a fraction, to ask if you need anything before he disappears into a meeting, and the way he listens to the answer like it matters more than the meeting does, like your answer is a room he intends to stand in for a moment instead of passing through.

There is his scent, clean and cedar and ironed shirts, kept deliberately at a respectful distance, like a tide that knows exactly where the sand gives way and chooses to stop there, like a promise that has decided to be patient and call that a virtue. When he leans over your desk to look at a schedule, he angles his shoulders so you still have space. When he stands behind you while you print something, he stands like a guardrail, not a wall. You notice these things because your body notices these things before your head does, cataloging them the way it catalogs exits.

You know what it means. Everyone does, in the quiet way offices know things before they say them, in the way looks pass like notes folded small. You feel it most when your joints flare and he notices before you do, a hand hovering near your elbow without touching, an offer that is never quite a question, a quiet, "Sit," that somehow sounds like care instead of command. Sometimes he brings you tea without comment, sets it down on the corner of your desk like it's always been there. Sometimes he just stands there a second longer than he has to, like he's making sure the room is shaped correctly around you, like he's checking the weather again before he leaves.

Sometimes you catch him watching you the way people watch a horizon—like he's measuring something that can't be hurried, like he's tracking a line only he can see. Sometimes you catch yourself cataloging the way his sleeves crease, the way he holds a pen, the way his voice settles the room without raising itself, like gravity has learned how to speak. You tell yourself this is just the bullpen doing what it does: turning proximity into patterns, patterns into habits. You tell yourself you are good at habits. You tell yourself that doors don't have to be opened all at once, that you can stand in the frame and breathe for a while.

So when the new courier shows up, all bright grin and louder shoes, you brace yourself for the minor disruption of it, the way your day ripples when someone brings a package that requires a signature and a smile and a brief rearranging of your careful stacks. He's an alpha—his scent announces him like a trumpet in a quiet room—and he leans in too close as he sets the box on the edge of your desk, laughs too loud at something that isn't quite a joke, says your name like it's a gift he's already unwrapped and plans to keep the ribbon.

"Did anyone ever tell you," he says, eyes flicking to your throat and lingering there, "you've got the kind of scent that makes a man want to take his time?"

The words sit in the air longer than they should. You feel them land on you like dust that doesn't belong to this room.

You keep your voice in its practiced register, warm but firm, the one that says thank you and please and this is a federal building all at once. "I'll just need your signature here." You slide the clipboard toward him. Your fingers protest at the angle, a bright line of pain sketching itself across your knuckles, and you breathe through it like you always do, like the pain is a tide and you are a pier that has learned how to let it pass under. The pen clicks. The paper shifts. You keep your eyes on the line where he's supposed to write, like that line is a boundary you can enforce by believing in it hard enough, like ink can be a kind of fence if you draw it straight.

He signs with a flourish, leans in again, says something about coffee later, about how he could show you a place, about how he likes the way you smell when you concentrate, like it's a compliment and not a claim. You answer with the same small, professional smile you give to everyone, the one that lives in your cheeks and not your mouth, and you feel the bullpen tilt, just a degree, like a floor that remembers an earthquake long after it's done. You tuck the clipboard away. You say, "Have a good day." You mean it the way you always mean it: generally, harmlessly, as a door closing. You watch him go because it's easier than watching the room watch you, easier than counting how many eyes learned your name a second time.

You don't look for Hotch. You don't have to. You feel him the way you feel a change in weather through old glass, the way the air gets a little more deliberate, a little more still, the way conversations seem to decide, all at once, to choose their words more carefully, as if the room has been given a ruler.

Across the room, his gaze is a dark line drawn with a steady hand. His scent, usually so carefully leashed, sharpens—not loud, never that, but focused, a blade honed in a quiet room. It doesn't spill. It doesn't flare. It just… arrives, and stays, like a weight set down exactly where it belongs. You feel it like a change in barometric pressure behind your eyes. He doesn't make a scene. He never would. He finishes what he's doing with the same precise economy he brings to everything else, sets down his pen, answers a question without looking away from the file in front of him, closes a folder, opens another, checks a time he already knows. And when the courier finally leaves with a lingering glance and a promise that hangs in the air like smoke, Hotch does not go back to his office.

He comes to you, but not directly. He waits until you've stacked the last of the files, until you've flexed your fingers under the desk and pretended they don't ache, until you've taken the small, careful sip of water that keeps your hands steady. He waits until you've stood and the room has done that small, familiar sway it sometimes does, and he's there without making it a thing, without turning it into a spectacle. He waits until the corridor behind the records room is empty in that particular way that belongs to government buildings—no echoes, just the sense of them, like a held breath in concrete, like the building is listening for its own name.

"Walk with me," he says, and it is not an order, not quite, but it carries the weight of one anyway, the way gravity does, the way doors do when they open the only way they can. The way maps do when you follow them.

You do. The carpet muffles your steps. The lights here are dimmer, kinder, and you realize you've been holding your shoulders too high without meaning to, like you were bracing for a draft that never came. You notice the way he keeps his pace matched to yours without making a show of it, the way he turns corners like he's clearing space ahead. You're barely halfway through asking what's wrong—your voice doing that small, careful thing it does when you're trying not to assume, when you're trying to leave room for exits, when you're trying to keep the world from tipping—when he steps in close. Too close. The space between you goes thin as paper, goes bright as a line struck on a match, goes suddenly very, very deliberate, like someone has drawn a circle and you're standing in it together.

"He doesn't get to flirt with you like that," Hotch says, and his voice is lower than it was in the bullpen, lower than you've ever heard it, really, like he's moved a conversation from a room with windows into a room with doors. "Not when I'm courting you."

Your heart forgets its job for a second. Then it remembers all at once, too much and too fast, and you have to count your breaths like they're stairs, one, two, don't trip. Your breath catches like fabric on a nail. You can feel the echo of the courier's cologne still, faint and wrong, a ghost of something you didn't want to carry with you, and beneath it Hotch's scent, steady and certain, like a line you can follow in the dark, like a road that has decided to stay put and call that loyalty.

"I didn't—" you start, because you always start there, because explanations are your first language, because you believe in footnotes. The word falls apart before it gets to its second half, turns into a pause you don't know how to fill.

His hand comes to your hip, not grabbing, not rough, just there—grounding and possessive all at once, fingers curling in the soft knit of your cardigan like he's checking to see if you're real, like he's anchoring a thought before it drifts. The heat of him is a pressure you can map: shoulder, chest, the careful space he still leaves for your breath, the way he stands like he's already decided where the lines are and intends to keep them. Your omega instincts, usually a quiet background hum, surge up like a tide that has found the moon and decided it will not be ignored, like a bell rung in a room you didn't know had one.

"You accepted my gifts," he continues, and there's something in his eyes that looks like restraint holding a door closed, something that looks like patience that has learned how to be sharp without cutting. "My care. That means something."

You want to say something practical, something that sounds like you. You want to say of course it does, or I didn't mean to, or even just his name in the tone you use when you're trying to keep a room steady. You want to say you didn't encourage him, that you did exactly what you always do, that you kept the lines where they belong and wrote inside them, that you colored neatly. What comes out is a sound that lives somewhere between a breath and a question, and it surprises you enough that you almost laugh at yourself for it, a small, startled sound that turns into a swallow halfway through, like your body is editing you.

Your knees go soft. You lean into the wall without meaning to, the cool of it a brief mercy against the way your body is rewriting its own rules. The ache in your hands is still there, but it's quieter, like it's listening, like it's decided to wait and see what the rest of you is going to do. His scent unfurls with intention now, not the polite distance of the bullpen but the full, honest thing—cedar and clean paper and a darker note beneath, something that says home in a language you didn't know you spoke, something that says stay without raising its voice. It curls around your thoughts. It makes your spine feel like a line being gently, insistently underlined. It makes your ache feel like a low tide instead of a storm, like a problem that has decided to become a background instead of a headline.

He steps closer. Noses along your throat, not touching, then touching, the barest brush of skin that sends a line of heat down your spine like a match struck in a quiet room. You can feel him breathing you in like he's reading something he intends to remember, like he's committing a paragraph to memory and checking the margins. He scents you with full awareness, full intention, and the corridor seems to narrow to the space your bodies share, like the building itself has decided to look away out of politeness, to give you the courtesy of a closed door that isn't there.

You moan, barely audible, more surprise than anything else, and he answers with a low, satisfied sound that settles into you like a promise you didn't know you were waiting for. His hand tightens just a little at your hip, not enough to hurt, just enough to say I'm here, just enough to say stay, just enough to say this is not a misunderstanding, not a story being told from two different ends with different maps.

"I should have been clearer where it counts," he murmurs, and it's not an excuse so much as a calibration, a thing adjusted rather than set down, like moving a piece of glass so it catches the light instead of cutting you. "You've known. I've known. The team's known," he says, thumb pressing once, steady, at your hip. "I just haven't said it loud enough for anyone outside these walls. I won't apologize for being clear now."

You nod because nodding is easier than speaking and because the world feels like it's tilted toward him and you are a cup that has finally found its saucer, because your thoughts keep circling the same bright point and not quite landing, because the corridor smells like paper and quiet and something beginning. Your fingers curl in the fabric of his sleeve, careful of your joints, careful of the way your hands sometimes argue with you, and he notices—of course he does—shifting just enough that the angle eases, that the pressure becomes support, that the ache becomes background noise again instead of a headline, a footnote instead of a thesis.

His mouth finds yours, and the kiss is rough and reverent, like he's been holding back for weeks and has decided, finally, to stop pretending he doesn't want what he wants. It's not hurried. It's not shy. It's the kind of kiss that takes inventory: the way you breathe, the way you lean, the way your hands shake and then don't, the way you fit into the space he's making like you were always going to, like the room was waiting for you to stand there and prove it right.

For a second, the building disappears. There is only the pressure of him and the quiet thunder of your own pulse, the way his scent wraps around you like a coat that knows your shoulders, the way your thoughts go soft at the edges and bright in the middle, the way time does that strange, merciful folding-in on itself and decides to stay folded.

When he pulls away, it's slow, like he's making sure you're still there, like he's giving you time to find your feet again, like he's proving to both of you that he can, that he will. His mouth brushes your ear, and his voice is a promise kept close, a line drawn where it can't be mistaken, a map written in a language you already understand. "I'll take my time proving it," he says, "but make no mistake— you're mine, and I want everyone to know it."

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Art from amazing readers

01 - 02 - 03

"Look at the concentration on that thing," Brennan muttered, laying down two kings. "You'd think those boots were made of gold."

A ripple of laughter circled the table. Soldat didn't react. His shoulders remained perfectly squared and his breathing even, as he moved on to the next boot in the endless line they'd provided him.

“I wonder if Zola matched all the parts properly when he stitched it together,” Schmidt mused, his voice flat with casual cruelty. “That arm looks a bit darker compared to the torso, don’t you think?”

Hayes leaned forward, squinting through the haze. “Now that you mention it… yes. There- along the shoulder. The seam is clear enough. Skin tone’s all wrong.”

“Ran out of quality stock,” Brennan said with a snort. “Had to make do with whatever corpses were left on the field.”

The cloth in Soldat’s hand stilled. Not long, just the faintest pause, before resuming its rhythm. A strand of dark hair fell across his face, obscuring the pale blue eyes that remained fixed downward.

"I heard Zola's been wanting to test all its... functions," Hayes said, in a conspiratorial whisper. "Says we've only scratched the surface of what it can do."

Schmidt raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Use your imagination, I know you can," Hayes gestured vaguely toward the figure on the floor. "Built it from the finest specimens. Young soldiers, all in their prime. One would assume everything works."

The laughter that followed was harsh and grating. Soldat continued his work, but the cloth twisted faintly in his grip, knuckles white against the leather.

"Damn, Hayes. You have a sick mind."

"Just saying," Hayes shrugged, taking a swig from his glass. "Waste not, want not, right? If we're keeping the thing around for entertainment..."

"Might be fun during the next card game," Schmidt added thoughtfully. "Could use something to liven up these long nights."

Soldat reached for another boot. His movements remained controlled and mechanical, but a keen observer might have noticed the slight tension that crept into his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched almost imperceptibly.

"Pass," Hayes said, folding his cards. "But speaking of entertainment… Soldat."

The dark threads of hair framed his features as his head lifted immediately. Blue eyes, startlingly cold in the gaslight, fixed on Hayes with perfect, hollow attention.

"Bring us another bottle from the cabinet. The good stuff."

He rose smoothly to his feet with fluid movements despite the patchwork nature of his construction. Up close, the signs were more obvious: the subtle color variations where different limbs had been grafted together, the scars that marked the seams of Zola's handiwork. A masterpiece of anatomical engineering, cobbled together from the finest specimens the battlefield could provide.

He crossed to the liquor cabinet with measured steps, each footfall silent on the stone floor. His hands -one noticeably paler than the other- reached for the crystal decanter with precision.

"Look at that," Brennan murmured appreciatively. "Moves like a dancer. Zola really knew what he was doing."

The Soldat returned with the bottle, setting it on the table with careful precision before resuming his position on the floor into the posture of a penitent. He picked up another boot, another cloth, and fell back into the rhythm of endless, meaningless labor.

"You know what I heard?" Hayes leaned forward. "Zola's been keeping notes. Detailed observations about its... responses. Physical reactions. Reflexes."

"What kind of responses?"

"The interesting kind." Hayes grinned wolfishly. "Apparently, despite all the conditioning, some basic human reactions are still intact. The body remembers what the mind's been trained to forget. Touch, pressure, pain. The instincts are still in there."

"That so?" Schmidt dealt another hand. "Might warrant investigation. For scientific purposes, naturally.”

"Of course," the others chorused, laughter filling the smoky air.

Brennan ground his cigarette into the tray. “Strange, though. It’s too quiet tonight. Usually, we obtain at least some sound out of it when we work it like this.”

Hayes tilted his head, studying the figure on the floor. “You’re right. Normally, there’s a grunt, a breath, something. Tonight, nothing.”

"Maybe it's finally learning its place," Schmidt observed. "Though I have to admit, the silence is almost... disappointing."

Hayes reached for the empty glass, rolling it in his palm before sending it spinning across the room. It shattered against the Soldat’s back, exploding into shards that rained around him.

Not a flinch. Not a flicker. He bent only to the task at hand, as though the violence had never happened. He simply reached for another boot and continued his methodical polishing, ignoring the glass that now littered the stone around his knees.

Brennan clicked his tongue. "Didn't even blink."

"Clean that up," Schmidt ordered casually. "With your hands. Don't want anyone cutting themselves on your mess."

Without hesitation, Soldat set down the boot and complied. He collected each piece carefully, tiny cuts blooming along his skin where the edges bit in, but he did not pause, did not look at the red that streaked his fingers. Stacking all in a neat pile beside him, he returned to his polishing as if nothing had happened.

The officers exchanged glances across the smoke and cards, their expressions a blur of cruelty, boredom, and something close to admiration for the thing they commanded.

----

Heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor, growing closer. The card game paused as a junior operative burst through the door, his face flushed from running.

"Sir," he panted, addressing Schmidt. "Urgent telegram from headquarters."

Schmidt’s eyes read the message, and his expression hardened line by line until his jaw clicked audibly. He crushed the telegram in his fist. “Shit. The operation at the Archduke’s gala is scrubbed. Faulty intelligence. Security doubled.”

"What does that mean for us?" Hayes asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.

"It means," Schmidt stood slowly, "that we need the Soldat. Tonight. And it needs to be fast."

The men exchanged uneasy glances. Fast meant automobile, a technology so recent and expensive that using one would draw unwanted attention. Witnesses. Complications.

"We'll have to use the box." Brennan muttered.

In the corner, the polishing cloth went still. For the first time that night, the Soldat froze entirely. For just a moment, his pale blue eyes widened before the mask of compliance slipped back into place.

"Soldat," Schmidt barked. "Leave those boots. Get your gear. Now."

He rose smoothly to his feet, stepping carefully away from the glass fragments near his knees. Blood from the cuts on his palms dripped steadily onto the stone floor as he moved toward the door with silent steps.

The basement of the manor was a different world. Darker, damper, thick with the smell of mold and neglect. His bare feet made no sound on the worn stone steps as he descended into the depths of the building. A narrow corridor led to his cell, if it could be called that.

A windowless room barely large enough to hold a rickety cot and a threadbare blanket that had seen better decades. No comfort, no softness. Just containment.

In the corner was a reinforced wooden chest, its iron bands and heavy lock speaking to the importance of its contents. he knelt before it and worked the combination with precision. The lid opened with a protesting creak, and the smell of oiled leather and steel spilled into the cell. Inside lay his second skin, Hydra’s true claim over his body.

A fitted black leather uniform that seemed to absorb what little light filtered into the cell. The jacket was cut in a military style but modernized, with reinforced panels across the chest and shoulders. High boots polished to a mirror shine sat beside fitted trousers designed for silent movement. Fingerless gloves lay folded beside a utility belt equipped with holsters and pouches for various implements of destruction.

And there, nestled at the bottom like a sleeping serpent, was the mask.

The leather contraption swallowed the lower half of his face, a cage of straps and buckles designed to bite into flesh during long hours of deployment. It did not simply silence him; it stripped away the possibility of identity. Not a soldier. Not a man. A weapon.

Soldat’s breathing hitched almost imperceptibly as he lifted the gear from its resting place. Outside, he could hear the men moving urgently, their voices carrying down through the manor's ancient walls. Time was running short, and delays were not tolerated.

He began to change, trading his shapeless gray uniform for the sleek black leather that transformed him from prisoner to predator. The trousers were tight around his legs, the boots laced up until they bit into his calves, and the jacket fastened against his chest as though it had been cut from his very outline.

The muzzle came last, as it always did. His hands trembled -barely, briefly- as he lifted it to his face, feeling the familiar weight of leather against his jaw, the press of straps against his head. The buckles clicked into place, sealing away the last traces of whatever humanity might have remained in his expression.

When the door of the cell opened again, the creature that stepped through was not the kneeling thing with bloodied palms and silent obedience.

It was the Winter Soldier.

----

Schmidt stood behind a wooden table in the briefing room, with blueprints and diagrams spread before him like a battle plan. Hayes flanked him.

"Your target," he began without preamble, “A Philosopher's Stone. Genuine, if the reports are to be believed.”

“Intelligence suggests it can transmute base metal into something harder than steel," Hayes added with barely contained excitement. "Imagine what we could accomplish with such materials."

Schmidt spread the blueprints wider, tracing his finger on the building's layout. "The estate belongs to Lord Pemberton, a collector of... unusual antiquities. The stone will be housed in his private vault, here-" he tapped a room in the building's east wing, "behind a steel door and combination lock. Security consists…”

Soldat absorbed every detail: entry points, guard rotations, the location of the servant's quarters, and the distance between the main house and the gate. His mind catalogued each piece of information with mechanical precision.

"You have four hours from insertion to extraction," Schmidt continued. "Retrieve the stone. No witnesses."

The muzzle allowed no voice, but Soldat’s curt nod was enough.

"Needless to say, failure," Hayes said quietly, his eyes trailing meaningfully over his body, "is not an option."

It never was. Beneath the black leather, scars crossed Soldat's skin, marks that had nothing to do with Zola's surgical reconstruction. Reminders of lessons, the price of imperfection carved into flesh that felt pain all too keenly despite its origins.

"Move out," Schmidt ordered.

Soldat followed his handler through the manor's twisting corridors to the hangar that waited at the far end of the complex, a converted stable large enough to house Hydra's most valuable assets.

He carried no weapons. Those would travel separately inside the vehicle, stored in compartments designed for easy access once they reached the target site. His next accommodation, after all, would have precious little room for anything beyond his own body.

Barely room enough for that.

In the center of the cavernous space was an automobile, black and impossibly modern for the remote countryside. But it wasn't the vehicle that drew his attention.

It was the iron trunk strapped to its rear.

The container was built like a vault, thick iron plates riveted together, with only a handful of small holes drilled near what would be the head. Ventilation, just enough to sustain life. Nothing more.

His steps slowed almost imperceptibly as they approached. His breathing, already controlled by the restrictive muzzle, would become a careful exercise in survival once sealed inside that metal tomb. Every inhalation would need to be measured, calculated, and conserved.

For just a moment -barely a heartbeat- he hesitated.

The crack of a palm against leather echoed through the hangar like a gunshot.

"Move, you worthless piece of shit!" Schmidt's voice exploded with sudden fury, his hand still raised from the vicious backhand that had snapped Soldat's head to the side. "What do you think you are, standing there like some frightened child? You're nothing! A fucking collection of spare parts stitched together for our convenience!"

Soldat's head remained turned from the blow, a red mark blooming across the exposed skin above his muzzle.

"You exist because we allow it," Schmidt continued, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. "You breathe because we require it. You feel pain because it serves our purposes. And you will get in that box because that's what tools do, they get stored."

He grabbed a fistful of dark hair, wrenching Soldat's face toward the iron container. "Look at it. That's where you belong.” Then he shoved him toward the trunk with enough force to send him stumbling forward.

"Now get inside before I decide you need a more permanent reminder of your place."

The Soldat’s back straightened as all traces of hesitation vanished behind the mask. He approached the iron container already calculating angles, positioning, and the careful arrangement of limbs necessary to fit within the cramped confines.

The box yawned open like a hungry mouth, waiting to swallow him whole.

He placed one booted foot inside, then the other, lowering himself with fluid grace despite the restrictive space. His knees drew up to his chest, arms folded tight against his torso, and then shifted to his side, dark hair falling toward his face as he settled into the cramped fetal position that would be his world for the next several hours.

The iron walls pressed against him on all sides, cold metal biting through the leather of his uniform. Through the small ventilation holes, he could see fragments of the hangar's gaslight, brief glimpses of freedom that would soon disappear entirely.

Schmidt's came from behind him, twisted with disdain. "Useless trash," he muttered, slamming the lid down with a resounding clang.

----

"Alright, who's driving?" Brennan's voice came muffled through the iron walls, followed by the sound of car doors opening.

"Not me," Schmidt replied with a slight slur. "Had three glasses of that whiskey, maybe four. You're more sober than I am."

"Like hell I am. You saw me matching you drink for drink all evening."

A pause.

"Fine," Schmidt said with exaggerated patience. "We'll take turns. Two hours each. You start, I'll sleep, then we switch when we hit the halfway point."

"Fair enough. Wake me if you see any constables on the road."

The engine roared to life with a mechanical growl that vibrated through every rivet of the iron container. Soldat closed his eyes, focusing on the careful rhythm of breathing that would sustain him through the journey ahead. Each inhalation had to be measured, each exhalation controlled. The mask made everything more difficult, forcing air through narrow passages while the metal box turned his breath stale and warm.

The automobile lurched forward, beginning its journey through the winding country roads that would take them to the target.

For nearly two hours, he endured the relentless punishment of rutted dirt roads and rocky paths barely wide enough for the automobile's wheels. The primitive roads of the countryside were never meant for such modern contraptions, and his body pressed against the unforgiving metal with each violent jolt, the constant battering made worse by the cramped confines. Then something changed.

The vehicle veered sharply to the right, and he felt the sickening sensation of the wheels leaving the treacherous mountain path entirely, plunging over the rocky embankment into the ravine below.

The world became chaos: metal slamming, glass shattering, the sickening sensation of weightlessness, followed by hard impacts as the vehicle tumbled down the steep embankment. The iron trunk became a battering ram, slamming against trees and rocks, each collision driving Soldat against the container's walls with crushing force.

Then, silence.

Smoke. The distant crackle of flames began to spread through the wreckage near him.

He lay still in the darkness, assessing damage and cataloguing pain. His left shoulder felt wrong. Dislocated, perhaps fractured. Blood trickled from somewhere above his right eye, warm and sticky against his face. But he was alive.

Alive, and trapped.

----

She lay in her bed staring up at the wooden beams that crossed her cottage ceiling.

Tomorrow would mark exactly two years since she'd stepped off the mail coach in this remote village, carrying nothing but a battered medical bag and the desperate need for silence.

She closed her eyes, but the sleep remained elusive. It always did when her mind wandered back to the years that had led her here.

The war had demanded nurses, and her country had been bleeding young men faster than the hospitals could tend them. She'd learned her craft not in the sterile halls of some prestigious institution or a convent, but in the chaos of military campaigns that had stretched across her homeland for the better part of a decade. Women like her -unmarried, without family ties- had been essential when every able-bodied person was needed to keep soldiers alive.

Six years in the military hospital. Six years of learning to set bones, stitch wounds, and recognize the difference between a man who would live and one who wouldn't. She'd become skilled at reading pain in a soldier's eyes, at knowing which wounds were beyond her abilities and which she could heal with careful attention.

Then came the draft notice. Two more years, this time in field hospitals that moved with the army itself. Tents pitched in mud, working by candlelight, and the constant thunder of artillery that made her hands shake as she tried to thread needles with precision.

When the war finally ended, the city felt like another battlefield. Too many people, too much noise, too many reminders of what she'd seen and done. The offer to work as Dr. Whitmore's assistant in this isolated village had felt like salvation, a chance to practice in quiet rooms where the loudest sounds were birds singing outside the windows, and for the first time in years, she could breathe without smelling blood.

The villagers had their peculiarities, certainly. They were suspicious of outsiders, prone to superstition, and sometimes brought her patients with ailments that seemed more suited to the last century than this one. But the doctor paid for her services, as also did the people who ventured to her house instead of going to the clinic for small things, and most importantly, they left her alone when she needed solitude.

She turned onto her side, pulling the quilt up to her chin. Tomorrow she would gather herbs from the undergrowth in the forest, as she did every few weeks when her supplies ran low. The routine had become her comfort, walking the familiar paths, identifying plants by touch and scent, and filling her satchel with nature's gifts.

----

The first light of dawn was creeping through the window when she finally gave up on sleep. She rose quietly and moved to the small wardrobe that held her possessions.

Her fingers found the familiar fabric hidden behind her respectable dresses: the practical bloomers she'd worn during her time at the field hospitals. The divided skirt had been scandalous enough in a war zone; here in the village, it would be nothing short of outrageous. But the forest paths were treacherous, full of roots and brambles that could easily catch in a dress, and she had no intention of returning home with torn fabric and scraped knees.

She pulled the bloomers on quickly, followed by a simple blouse and sturdy boots. The best part of leaving before the village woke was avoiding the disapproving stares that would surely follow if anyone saw her in such "immodest" attire.

A lady, after all, should never draw unwanted attention from passersby, even if that lady happened to be trudging through dense undergrowth in search of medicinal herbs to heal them.

In the small kitchen, she prepared a quick breakfast of tea and bread, eating by the window as she watched the world slowly wake around her. Then she braided her hair back into a practical plait and secured some tools in a leather satchel that would hold the day's harvest.

The walk to her favorite gathering spot would take nearly two hours through increasingly wild terrain, but she didn't mind. The solitude was worth every step, and the herbs that grew in that remote area were some of the finest she'd ever found. By the time she returned, the satchel would be full of plants that Dr. Whitmore's patients would need in the coming weeks.

She stepped out into the cool morning air, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders as she began the long walk toward the forest. The road was empty, and she moved quickly, eager to reach the tree line before anyone might spot her unconventional clothing.

----

Soon the roofs of the village disappeared behind her, and the dirt road gave way to a narrow track where brambles tugged at her bloomers.

The forest thickened the farther she went, until the morning light broke only in scattered shards through the canopy. Her satchel was already half full with chamomile and willow bark when she decided to venture a little further up the hillside, searching for a particular mushroom that grew only in the soil near the summit.

As she advanced through the dense undergrowth, something dark and unnatural caught her eye between the trees ahead. She paused, squinting through the dappled shadows, trying to make sense of the shape that didn't belong among forest and stone.

Metal. Twisted and blackened.

Her training took over before her brain could intervene. She moved toward the wreckage promptly, already cataloguing possibilities. A cart accident, perhaps, or some piece of industrial equipment that had somehow found its way into this remote wilderness.

But as she drew closer, the disaster became clearer.

It was an automobile, one of those impossibly expensive modern things she'd only heard described in the city, never crossed one. The vehicle lay on its side, its elegant lines now warped by impact and flames.

Her steps quickened despite the rational knowledge that after such devastation, there were unlikely to be survivors. Still, years in field hospitals override logic.

Someone might yet live. Someone might yet be saved.

But as she reached the twisted wreckage, hope died in her chest.

Two figures sat slumped in what remained of the automobile's interior, barely recognizable as human. The fire had been merciless, leaving behind only charred remains that spoke of a death too swift for suffering, or so she hoped.

She whispered a brief prayer for their souls and stepped back from the scene, scanning the scattered debris for anything that might identify these poor souls. Personal effects, luggage, anything that could help her notify their families or at least give them proper names for burial.

That's when she noticed it, at perhaps twenty feet from the main wreckage, half-hidden behind a fallen log.

A metal container, roughly the size of a large trunk but built with the reinforcement of a bank vault. Iron plates riveted together with industrial precision, the surface darkened by soot but otherwise intact. It must have been thrown during the automobile's tumble down the embankment.

She approached it carefully. There were small holes drilled on the sides. Ventilation holes, perhaps? An odd feature for luggage, but then again, she'd never seen an automobile before today, much less whatever cargo such wealthy travelers might carry.

Maybe inside she would find documents, identification papers, something to help piece together who these people had been. The least she could do was ensure they received proper burial rites and that word reached whatever family might be waiting for their return.

The lock looked complex, but the impact might have damaged the mechanism. She knelt beside the container, running her fingers along its edges, searching for any weakness that might allow her to open it and discover the identities of the poor souls who had met such a violent end in this peaceful forest.

----

Darkness had been his companion for hours now. Thick, suffocating darkness broken only by thin streams of light filtering through the ventilation holes.

His body had grown stiff and cold in the cramped confines, his muscles cramping from the enforced fetal position. The muzzle made every breath a careful calculation, and the stale air inside the container had grown heavy and warm with his exhalations.

Then he heard them, footsteps, soft but distinct against the forest floor.

Every sense of his body sharpened instantly, battle-trained instincts overriding physical discomfort. Through one of the small holes, he could make out movement between the trees. A figure approached the wreckage, and he pressed his eye closer to the openings, straining to see clearly through the limited view.

A woman. But dressed... strangely. Practical clothing that was more suited to man's work than feminine respectability. She moved toward the burned automobile, and he watched her pause at the sight of the bodies inside.

Her posture spoke of familiarity with death, professional assessment rather than feminine hysteria.

Then her gaze found the container.

His heartbeat quickened, a betrayal of the perfect stillness they'd trained into him. She was walking toward him now, circling the iron trunk with obvious curiosity. She could free him. But then what?

The mission parameters came to his mind: no witnesses. But his handler was dead, his charred remains were testament to that.

The woman appeared to pose no immediate threat, but years of experience had taught him that threats often came in deceptive packages.

Yet, she was his only chance to escape this iron coffin. Without her intervention, he would die slowly, as his air supply dwindled and his water ran out.

Through the small opening, he watched her work at the lock. She whispered something -words he couldn't quite make out through the metal walls- but her tone seemed... kind? Concerned?

His training collided with something else, something deeper and more human that the conditioning had never quite managed to erase. The part of him that recognized compassion when he saw it, even if he couldn't remember the last time he'd experienced it himself.

----

She forced the lid open with both hands, metal biting back and groaning until something gave in.

The stench hit her first: sour sweat, rusted metal, and underneath it all, the metallic tang of old blood. Her stomach lurched, but she pushed harder, and the lid fell back with a hollow clang.

She found herself staring down at a large body, folded into a space that seemed far too small to contain it. Dark hair fell across a muzzled face that was more angles than curves; his wrists bore the telltale bruising of restraints.

For a second, her brain refused to make sense of it, because people didn’t go in places like this. Even in the worst hospital, or the psychiatric wards she'd heard whispers about, or even prison cells. This was worse.

Cult sacrifice, she thought darkly, some ritual cage. Or human trafficking. Something obscene.

Her mind catalogued the obvious injuries: contusions across his exposed skin, the unnatural angle of his left shoulder, the telltale signs of dehydration in his sunken cheeks.

But it was his eyes that made her blood freeze.

Pale blue and burning with the desperation of a cornered animal, fixed on her with an intensity that made every instinct scream danger. She wanted to reach out, but his stare nailed her where she stood. This was no accident victim. This was something else entirely.

She used a gentle tone, the same one she'd used with delirious patients who couldn't distinguish friend from foe. "It's alright," she whispered, though nothing about this was alright. "You're safe now. I'm going to help you."

Her hands hovered uselessly in the air, as if touch alone could conjure sense from this nightmare. She swallowed, fixed her gaze on the black mask strapped tight over his mouth and jaw. Not cloth. Something harsher, molded. It erased half his humanity, leaving only his eyes, and they were a world unto themselves. Glacial, fever-bright, alive with a feral calculation that made her pulse stumble.

Slowly, she lowered one hand, palm open, “I just want to check you,” she murmured, though her voice quivered. “Make sure you’re not-”

A shift. Barely more than the flex of muscle under dark leather, but enough to stop her breath. His shoulders twitched like he meant to unfold, to get out from that coffin of steel.

Her instinct screamed to slam the lid shut and run.

Instead, she forced herself an inch closer, brushing the rim of the box with her fingertips.

The sound he made was not a word. It was the guttural choke of someone whose throat had forgotten how to speak. Low, warning, animal. His stare pinned her harder than any chain could.

She froze, realizing all at once that whatever this man was -victim or monster- he was not used to mercy.

----

The lid opened, and suddenly the world became too bright, too vast, too unpredictable. his pupils contracted painfully as daylight flooded his iron prison, and with it came the scent of trees and damp herbs, alien smells after hours of breathing his own stale air.

The woman's silhouette blocked out part of the light, and every conditioned reflex screamed the same message: new contact equals a potential threat, equals eliminate.

Pain lanced through his dislocated shoulder as he managed to shift maybe two inches. His legs, cramped from hours in the same position, barely responded to his command. The most he could manage was that slight twitch of his shoulders. Pathetic, but apparently enough to make her freeze.

Good. Fear was useful. Fear kept people at a distance.

The sound that emerged from behind his muzzle was barely human. Part warning growl, part the rasp of air through a throat that had been silent too long. He couldn't form words even if he wanted to, couldn't explain, threaten, or negotiate. All he had were his eyes, and he used them like weapons, fixing her with a stare that had made grown-up men step backward.

She didn't run. That was... unexpected.

Instead, she moved closer, touching the edge of his prison. He could see her hands shaking despite her calm voice. Probably it was her professional instinct versus self-preservation, he had seen it before.

But this was different. She wasn't Hydra. The way she looked at him, the horror in her expression when she'd first opened the container... that wasn't the clinical assessment of a handler evaluating their asset. That was a genuine shock at his treatment.

Which meant she was either an exceptional actress, or she truly had no idea what he was.

His eyes tracked her movements as she leaned closer, cataloguing every detail. Her clothing suggested practical work rather than wealth. Her posture spoke of some kind of medical training, since she seemed confident around injuries and blood. And underneath it all, that gentleness in her voice that his mind insisted must be manipulation, even as some deeper part of him wanted desperately to believe it might be real.

He flexed his fingers. If he pounced now -if his body would even allow it- her throat would be within reach. Quick, simple, and efficient. A solution Hydra would approve.

And yet… he didn’t.

He hated to hesitate.

"You're hurt," she said simply, keeping her voice soft.

His eyes tracked the movement of her lips, then darted to her hands, back to her face, then to the forest beyond her shoulder.

Calculating escape routes, she realized. So she reached slowly toward the leather satchel at her side, watching his reaction. The moment her hand moved, his entire body went rigid, that warning sound rumbling again from behind the mask. She froze, palm still open in the air.

"I’m gathering medicine," she whispered, tapping the satchel gently. "Some is for pain."

Something flickered across his visible features. Confusion, perhaps, or disbelief. As if the concept of someone offering to ease his pain was foreign as a language he'd never heard.

She withdrew her hand, settling back on her heels. "I won't touch you without permission," she said firmly.

His eyes widened fractionally, and she caught something raw and desperate flashing across his features before the mask of wariness slammed back down.

----

Minutes passed in tense silence. She didn't move closer, didn't reach for him, didn't do anything but sit beside the container and occasionally glance around the forest, as if keeping watch. The gesture was unconscious, protective, and it did something strange to his chest, a tightness that had nothing to do with the muzzle's restrictions.

When a branch snapped somewhere in the distance, his reaction was immediate and violent. His body jerked against the container's walls, sending fresh agony through his dislocated shoulder, but he couldn't stop the response, couldn't control the way his nervous system flooded with panic chemicals.

"Shh," she breathed, and before she could think better of it, her hand was extended toward him, not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her palm. "It’s just a squirrel. You're safe."

Safe. Another impossible word.

But her hand... wasn't closed into a fist. Wasn't holding a weapon or a tool. He stared at it, this foreign gesture, trying to process what it meant.

Slowly -so slowly she barely dared to breathe- his own fingers stretched from where they'd been pressed against his chest. His hand was shaking, fine tremors that spoke of exhaustion and overstimulated nerves, but he lifted it anyway.

He didn't quite touch her. Just let his fingertips hover an inch away from her palm, close enough to feel her heat.

It was the first choice he could remember making in years.

The first time he had reached toward another person instead of backing away.

Then retreated.

----

"Can you sit up?" she asked eventually, "That shoulder needs attention, and lying like that will only make it worse."

He considered this. His body was screaming at him to move, to get out of this confined space, but the other voice in his head -drilled into him, beaten into him-insisted he wait for explicit permission. He hesitated, staring at her lips, waiting for the tone of authority that never came.

With considerable effort, he braced his good arm against the metal wall and pushed himself upright. Every inch was agony. His shoulder throbbed with each movement, and his vision hazed at the edges, but he gritted his teeth behind the muzzle and made no sound. He would not show weakness. Weakness cost blood.

"Carefully," she murmured, softly. Her tone held no impatience, no irritation at his obvious limitations. "There's no rush."

No rush. When had there ever been no rush? When had anyone ever told him to take his time, to move at his own pace?

For a flicker of a moment, he hated her. Hated the softness of her tone and the impossible patience in her eyes, because it made his chest hurt.

Yet he couldn’t look away.

He found himself staring at her again, trying to decode this impossibility of a woman who looked at him and saw something worth helping instead of something to be used.

"So… may I look at your shoulder then?" she asked, in the same careful tone. "I need to see how badly it's dislocated."

He stared at her. The question was something foreign and dangerous. May I? Not an order. Not a demand. A request for permission that he could theoretically refuse.

His breathing quickened behind the muzzle. Permission implied choice, and choice implied consequence, and consequence meant pain if he chose wrong. But she was waiting, patiently, for an answer he didn't know how to give.

Slowly, reluctantly, he managed a single, jerky nod.

She moved with deliberate care, telegraphing every motion as her hands approached the leather of his jacket. Her fingers found the fastenings, and she began to work them loose with the efficiency of someone accustomed to undressing patients.

The moment her knuckles brushed against his collarbone through the leather, he flinched violently. Not from pain -though his shoulder screamed in protest at the movement- but from something different.

Touch that wasn't meant to hurt him was so foreign that his body didn't know how to process it. Every nerve ending fired warning signals, even as a treacherous part of his mind relished the warmth of her skin, the gentleness of her hands.

She froze immediately. "I'm sorry," she whispered, pulling back. "Did I hurt you?"

He shook his head frantically, then stopped, confused by his own reaction. Why was he apologizing? Why did he care if she thought she'd caused him pain?

"The jacket needs to come off so I can see the damage properly," she said softly. "I can help, or you can do it yourself if that's easier."

The leather was tight against his body, designed for stealth and durability rather than easy removal. With his left arm useless, getting it off alone would be nearly impossible. But the alternative-

His good hand clenched into a fist against his thigh, nails biting into his palm through the fingerless glove. The physical pain was easier to process than the emotional chaos her simple offer had unleashed.

After a long moment, he forced himself to meet her eyes and nodded again. Permission granted, even though every instinct screamed against it.

She worked with care on the intricated fastenings of his jacket. The leather was unlike anything she'd encountered. Reinforced, military-grade. As she peeled it away from his injured shoulder, she realized there was nothing beneath it. No shirt, no undershirt. Just skin pressed directly against the harsh material.

Her hands faltered as more of his torso came into view.

The dislocation itself was bad, yes, but treatable. Her training could assess that with a glance. What stopped her cold were the other things.

Scars. Not the random marks of an accident or battle, but precise, surgical lines that traced along his shoulders where arms met torso, skin tones mismatched in subtle, unnatural variations. And down the center of his chest, a vertical scar ran from sternum to navel, perfectly straight, perfectly intentional.

She tried to keep her expression neutral, professional, but her brow furrowed despite her efforts. In all her years tending battlefield injuries, in all the horrors she'd witnessed in military hospitals, she had never seen anything like this.

This wasn't surgery to heal. This was a surgery to build.

Her gaze met his, searching for some explanation, some context that would make sense of what she was seeing. But his pale blue eyes were fixed on her reaction, tracking every flicker of her expression like a man taught to read danger in the smallest twitch.

He was waiting for her to recoil. Waiting for the disgust, the fear, the horrified recognition of what he was.

She forced her hands to remain steady as she gently examined the shoulder joint, even as her mind reeled with impossible implications.

Her fingers pressed carefully along the swollen ridge of his shoulder, testing the resistance of bone against muscle. He flinched, almost imperceptibly, but didn't pull away. Not once. He just sat there on the crate, breathing shallowly through the black mask, just looking at her.

"You're going to have to stay still," she murmured, more to fill the silence than because she thought he needed instruction.

She braced him with one hand against his chest, feeling the heat of his skin under her palm, and the steady thrum of his heart. With her other hand, she eased the joint back into place with a clean motion.

The pop was muffled, but his reaction wasn't. His whole body tensed, jaw clenching beneath the mask, veins rising at his temple, but not a sound escaped his lips.

When it was done, she let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. His arm hung heavy but properly aligned now.

----

For a long moment, neither of them moved. He stared down at his shoulder with something approaching bewilderment, as if he couldn't quite comprehend what had just happened. Slowly, tentatively, he rolled the joint. The sharp pain that had been his constant companion for hours was... gone.

His eyes snapped back to her face, wide with confusion that bordered on panic. This made no sense. Pain was alleviated through punishment, by earning relief through completing tasks, and by proving one's worth. Not freely through gentle hands and whispered reassurances.

She was still watching him with that same careful attention, and he realized she was waiting for some kind of response. Gratitude? Recognition? He didn't know what she expected, didn't know what was appropriate. His handlers had never required thanks for maintenance; he was equipment, and equipment was repaired when it broke, nothing more.

But this felt different. She felt different.

His good hand moved without conscious thought toward his shoulder, then stopped just short of touching the spot where her palm had pressed against his chest. The skin there still felt warm, still carried the ghost of her touch, gentle and utterly foreign.

A sound escaped his lips then, barely audible through the muzzle. Not quite a whimper, not quite a sigh. Something raw and confused and desperately grateful that he had no words for.

She leaned back slightly, giving him space, but her expression remained soft. "Better?" she asked simply.

He nodded. It was all he could manage to do, but to him it felt monumental. The acknowledgment that yes, she had helped him, and he was better because of it.

The concept was so alien to him that it made his chest compress with something that might have been emotion, if he'd been allowed to feel such a thing.

Next Chapter

Permanent Tags: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @sophiemass @alagalaska @identity2212 @dracosathenaeum @frog-fans-unite

The shower feels almost unreal.

Not because there’s anything extraordinary about it. It’s your shower. Your shampoo bottle tipped sideways in the corner. Your face wash balanced precariously near the sink because you keep forgetting to put it away properly. The same faint crack in the third tile from the drain you’ve noticed a hundred times before.

But tonight it feels sacred.

Steam curls thickly through the bathroom, fogging the mirror and softening the edges of everything until the world becomes water and warmth and white noise.

For the first time all day, you were able to lie Aurora down peacefully in her crib.

No tiny cries cutting through your nervous system like biological alarm bells.

Just heat pouring over your skin in endless steady sheets.

You stand beneath it with your eyes closed and let yourself exist for a second.

Actually exist.

The water loosens muscles you didn’t even realize had locked up. Your shoulders ache beneath it. Your back protests faintly. Every part of you feels overused in the deeply physical, deeply human aftermath of childbirth and exhaustion and loving something so much it rewired your entire body overnight.

Earlier, Aurora spit up down the front of your shirt.

A truly impressive amount, honestly.

You’d stared at it for a full five seconds before realizing you were too tired to care.

And then somehow the day just… kept happening around it.

Feeding her.

Holding her.

Trying to remember if you’d eaten.

By the time night arrived, you still smelled faintly like sour milk and baby lotion and exhaustion.

Now the water strips all of it away slowly.

Steam kisses against your skin. Shampoo lathers beneath your fingers. The scent blooms warm around you, familiar enough to feel grounding.

You tilt your face into the spray and exhale so deeply it almost hurts.

God.

You could live here.

No one warned you how much becoming a parent turns basic hygiene into a luxury experience. This isn’t a shower anymore. This is a spiritual retreat with plumbing.

You scrub carefully around the lingering soreness still threaded through your body, movements slow and thoughtful. 

You rinse the last of the conditioner from your hair slowly, fingers combing through damp strands while water streams warm down your spine.

The monitor sits on the sink beside you.

Tiny.

Silent.

You’ve looked at it at least twelve times in the last five minutes.

Probably more.

Not because it’s made a sound. It hasn’t. The little screen is black, the sound signal is in the green, peaking slightly at the sound of the lullaby you left playing. But no cries.

And yet your eyes keep flicking toward it anyway, instinct dragging your attention back every few seconds like an invisible thread tied somewhere beneath your ribs.

The first few times, it made sense.

You were checking.

Now it’s become automatic.

Your body still hasn’t learned the difference between silence and danger.

You exhale slowly and lean your head back beneath the spray again.

The water drums softly against your skin.

You should get out.

You know you should.

The heat is making your skin pink at the edges, and your fingers are starting to wrinkle slightly from staying in too long.

But the second you think about stepping out, your entire body protests.

Because outside the shower, there are responsibilities again.

Laundry.

Bottles.

The constant low-level awareness of another tiny human existing in the next room.

In here, for ten stolen minutes, there’s only warmth.

Only steam and quiet and the strange suspended feeling of being no one’s immediate emergency.

You close your eyes again.

You would stay in here forever if your body would let you.

Honestly, if someone slid a sandwich through the curtain every few hours and promised the apartment wouldn’t collapse without you, you could probably evolve into some kind of aquatic cryptid and never leave.

But your breasts are starting to ache.

Not sharply yet. Just that deep, heavy pressure building beneath your skin, warm and insistent, your body already preparing for the next feeding before Aurora has even made a sound.

And she will wake up soon.

You know it with startling certainty now.

Not from the monitor.

From somewhere deeper.

Some new instinctive clock stitched directly into your nervous system.

You glance toward the sink again automatically.

Still quiet.

Still sleeping.

But probably not for long.

A small sigh leaves you, half resignation, half reluctant amusement.

“Alright,” you murmur softly to absolutely nobody. “Tiny dictator wins again.”

The water slips down your shoulders one last time as you reach reluctantly for the handle.

The second the spray stops, cool air rushes in around you.

Immediate betrayal.

You make a face at the universe.

The bathroom suddenly feels quieter without the constant rush of water filling it, every tiny sound sharper now. The drip from the showerhead. The faint lullaby crackling softly through the baby monitor. Your own exhausted breathing.

You pull the curtain aside, steam curling outward in thick clouds.

The mirror is completely fogged over now, your reflection reduced to a vague silhouette moving through white haze. For a second, you barely recognize yourself anyway.

Damp hair clinging to your shoulders.

Softness everywhere.

Healing everywhere.

Evidence.

The monitor remains quiet while you dry off slowly.

Too slowly, probably.

Because exhaustion has turned every task into interpretive dance performed underwater.

You manage moisturizer on autopilot. Brush your teeth with one eye half closed. Tug on one of Spencer’s old T-shirts and a pair of soft shorts because actual pajamas currently feel like a commitment you’re not emotionally prepared to make.

By the time you finish combing through your damp hair, your boobs hurt enough to become officially annoying.

“Yep,” you mutter at the ceiling. “She’s waking up soon.”

You reach for the bathroom door handle with the slow, automatic movement of someone running on borrowed energy and muscle memory alone.

Your hand wraps around it.

You twist. Push it open slightly.

And then you stop.

The house is still quiet. That same late-night hush, the kind that sits in corners and softens edges and makes every sound feel like it belongs to a different world. The hallway beyond the bathroom is dim, the faint glow from the living room barely reaching this far like a memory of light rather than light itself.

But down the hall—

Aurora’s room is glowing.

Not dark like you left it.

A soft lamp burns inside, warm amber spilling through the crack in the door like something has gently exhaled light into the room and forgotten to take it back.

Your stomach tightens instantly.

Slowly, you push the bathroom door open just a little more.

You stare.

For a second, your brain refuses to process it.

Because you know—viscerally, absolutely—you turned that lamp off.

You closed the door.

You remember the soft click of it.

The careful dark you left behind.

Your body reacts before your thoughts fully catch up, that same stitched-in instinct snapping taut beneath your ribs.

Aurora.

Your pulse shifts. You tense. For a second, your entire being forgets how to be anything except alert.

It’s not a thought so much as a snap of instinct.

Your gun. 

It's in the safe on your dresser. You could grab it quietly and quickly. You could—

“…and in astrophysics, there’s a concept called gravitational time dilation, which basically means time passes slightly differently depending on how strong gravity is in a given place.”

It’s Spencer.

Soft. Sleep-warmed. Threaded with that familiar gentleness he only uses when he thinks the world is made of something fragile.

Your shoulders drop so fast it almost hurts.

The panic drains out of you in one clean, disorienting wave, leaving behind only exhaustion and the faint sting of adrenaline leaving your bloodstream like a departing storm.

You exhale once.

Slow.

Then again.

A breath that feels like coming back into your body.

Right.

You gave him a key.

Of course Spencer Reid would be in your baby’s room at what feels like an unreasonable hour explaining spacetime to a newborn like it’s a bedtime story and not one of the most incomprehensible forces in the universe.

You lean lightly against the wall for a second, eyes closing briefly. Then you move.

Quiet steps across the hallway carpet. Damp hair cooling against the back of your neck. One hand still loosely curled around the edge of your oversized shirt like your body hasn’t entirely caught up to the fact that the danger has already passed.

The closer you get, the clearer his voice becomes.

“…which sounds fake,” Spencer is murmuring softly, “but technically the astronauts on the International Space Station age very slightly differently than we do on Earth because of velocity and gravitational variance, so really, relativity is less of a theory and more of an aggressively proven inconvenience.”

His voice drops lower for a second, fond amusement threading through it.

“I know. Very rude of physics.”

You reach the door.

It’s cracked open just enough to let warm light spill into the hallway in a thin golden line.

And there he is.

Spencer sits in the rocking chair beside the crib, socked feet planted unevenly against the floorboards like he got here quickly and forgot to settle properly afterward. Aurora is tucked carefully against his chest, bundled in one of the pale yellow swaddles someone gifted you at the baby shower.

She’s awake.

Barely.

Tiny eyes heavy with sleep, one fist tucked near her cheek while Spencer supports her effortlessly against him, his long fingers spread protectively across the curve of her back.

The lamp beside him paints everything honey-soft.

His hair is a mess.

Not styled messy. Real messy. Flattened on one side from exhaustion, curling slightly at the ends. His glasses sit low on his nose, and there’s a faint crease across his T-shirt like he either slept in it or accidentally used it as a burp cloth sometime in the last hour.

Probably both.

You don’t interrupt.

You can’t.

Something about the scene in front of you feels too delicate to touch directly, like stepping closer too fast might scatter it into pieces before you’ve fully held it.

Spencer keeps rocking slowly, the old chair creaking softly beneath him in uneven little rhythms. Aurora rests against his chest with complete, unconscious trust, her tiny face tipped toward the sound of his voice like she already knows it belongs to safety.

Outside the nursery window, the world is dark blue and silver at the edges.

Inside, everything glows warm.

Spencer adjusts the blanket around her with absurd care before continuing in that quiet, thoughtful cadence of his, like he’s explaining the universe one piece at a time because he genuinely believes she deserves to know how astonishing it is.

“Technically,” he murmurs, “most of the atoms in your body were formed inside stars billions of years ago, which means you are, scientifically speaking, made of recycled cosmic debris.”

Aurora blinks slowly.

Spencer smiles faintly.

“I know,” he whispers. “Very dramatic.”

Your chest aches so hard it almost feels physical.

Because this is Spencer.

This is how he loves.

Not loudly. Not carelessly.

He offers people pieces of the universe wrapped carefully in his hands and trusts them not to break.

His thumb strokes lightly across Aurora’s back while he rocks her again, smaller this time.

“And before you get concerned,” he continues softly, “which I assume you will eventually because you’re biologically related to me now, space is mostly safer than people think it is.”

A tiny pause.

Then quieter:

“Still probably don’t become an astronaut.”

You bite down on a smile.

Spencer looks at Aurora for a long time. His finger runs gently across her little cheek, and something in his expression shifts then.

Softer somehow.

The edges of his humor fading into something deeper.

“You know,” he says quietly, “I spent a long time thinking the world was mostly something to survive.”

Spencer looks at Aurora like he’s trying to memorize her and understand her at the same time.

“And sometimes it is,” he admits. “Sometimes it’s loud and unfair and people leave or hurt you or disappear before they should.”

His voice stays calm, but there’s something beneath it now. Old bruises wrapped carefully in gentleness.

“But then…” He swallows once, eyes flicking over her tiny face. “Then there are moments like this.”

The rocking chair creaks softly.

“You.”

Your throat tightens instantly.

Spencer exhales through the smallest smile, disbelieving and tender all at once.

“And suddenly the entire universe feels different.”

Aurora squirms faintly in her sleepiness, one tiny hand escaping the blanket near her cheek.

Spencer immediately tucks it back in with careful fingers.

“I’m going to keep you safe,” he whispers.

The words are quiet. Certain.

Not dramatic promises made for comfort. Not impossible guarantees.

Just truth.

The kind spoken by someone who has already decided it with every part of himself.

“I’ll always keep you safe,” he murmurs.

That’s what does it.

The tears hit you so suddenly you barely have time to process them before your chest tightens and a tiny involuntary sniffle slips out into the quiet room.

Spencer’s head snaps toward the doorway immediately.

His entire body changes in an instant.

One second soft and thoughtful, the next alert with concern so immediate it’s almost violent in its intensity.

“Hey—”

He stands too fast.

The rocking chair bumps backward slightly from the sudden movement, and he catches Aurora instinctively against his chest before it can even shift her.

His eyes lock onto you.

Your damp hair. Your face. The tears gathering faster now that you’ve been caught.

“Why are you crying?” he asks immediately, voice tight with alarm. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

You let out one helpless, watery laugh that absolutely does not help the situation.

His concern sharpens further.

“Oh god,” he says, already moving toward you. “Are you in pain? Do you need to sit down? Did you tear something? Should I call someone?”

“Spence—”

“Because you’re crying and there are several medically significant possibilities associated with postpartum recovery and I really need you to be specific right now—”

“I’m okay.”

He reaches you anyway, still visibly unconvinced.

Aurora stays tucked securely against his chest while his free hand comes immediately to your face, thumb brushing anxiously beneath your eye like he can physically check for danger there.

“You’re crying,” he says softly, bewildered by it.

“You were talking to her,” you whisper back.

“That’s…” He blinks once. “Yes?”

“About space.”

His expression somehow becomes even more confused.

“…Yes?”

“And then you told her you’d always keep her safe.”

Understanding hits him slowly. You watch it happen in real time. The panic easing first. Then confusion. Then something gentler.

His shoulders lower a fraction.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

You laugh again through another sniffle, wiping quickly beneath your eyes. “You sounded so serious.”

“I was serious.”

“I know,” you say, voice wobbling around the edges. “That’s why I’m crying.”

Spencer stares at you for a second like this information genuinely short-circuited him.

Then his entire expression softens into something unbearably tender.

The hand against your cheek slides more fully along your jaw.

“You’re crying because I love our daughter?” he asks carefully.

“You were giving her a physics lecture at two in the morning.”

“She seemed engaged.”

“She’s six pounds.”

“That’s not mutually exclusive.”

Another laugh escapes you before you can stop it, quieter this time.

Spencer watches you like each sound physically settles something inside him.

Then, very gently, he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead.

Spencer’s lips linger against your forehead for a second before he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again.

Close enough that you can still feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

Aurora makes a tiny sleepy noise between you both, nestled securely against his chest like she’s already decided this is her preferred method of transportation.

You sniff once, rubbing quickly beneath your eyes again.

Then you narrow them at him a little.

“…You scared me,” you mumble.

Immediate guilt flashes across his face. “What?”

“I came out of the bathroom and her light was on.” You gesture vaguely toward the nursery behind him. “And you were just… in here. Existing ominously.”

“Ominously?” he repeats softly.

“You know what I mean.”

His expression crumples slightly with regret. “I’m sorry.”

“I almost went for my gun.”

That visibly alarms him. “You almost what?”

“You left the door cracked and I saw the light and my brain immediately went full Final Girl survival mode.”

Spencer looks genuinely horrified by this development.

“I should’ve texted you,” he says immediately.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t think.”

“You literally always think.”

“That’s fair.”

You cross your arms loosely over yourself, oversized shirt sleeves swallowing part of your hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”

His face softens again then, concern melting into something quieter.

“I knew Rory was going to wake up soon,” he says gently.

You smile. “Rory?”

“Oh, uh—” Spencer smiles sheepishly. “I thought maybe… a cute nickname. So… Rory. Do you not like it?”

Your expression softens instantly.

“No,” you say quietly. “I love it.”

The relief that crosses his face is small but immediate, like he’d been bracing for the possibility that you might hate it and had already prepared to retire it forever if you did.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah.” You glance down at Aurora, bundled against his chest. “Rory fits her.”

Spencer looks down at her too then, and something in him visibly melts all over again.

“She just…” He huffs a tiny laugh through his nose. “She feels like a Rory.”

“She does.”

Aurora makes a faint little sigh, entirely unaware that she’s currently being assigned lifelong emotional significance while unconscious.

Spencer’s thumb strokes gently across the blanket wrapped around her.

Then he looks back at you, softer now.

“I wanted to let you sleep,” he says quietly. “Or… shower. Relax for a little while without worrying she’d wake up.”

Your chest tightens again, though this time the ache comes wrapped in warmth instead of tears.

“You came all the way over here just so I could shower in peace?”

A faint flush creeps into his face like he’s embarrassed to have been caught being thoughtful.

“She started fussing about ten minutes after I got here,” he admits. “I figured if she cried loud enough for the monitor to pick it up, you’d get out early.”

You stare at him.

And there it is again.

That impossible tenderness that keeps sneaking up on you in ordinary moments and wrecking you from the inside out.

“So you just…” You gesture toward him vaguely. “Secret-agent babysat?”

“I had a key,” he says, like that explains everything.

“It does not explain the stealth.”

His mouth twitches faintly. “You sounded relaxed.”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. “Were you listening to my shower?”

“No,” he says immediately.

A beat.

“…Not intentionally.”

You just look at him for a moment.

At the sleep-rumpled hair falling into his eyes. At the baby tucked carefully against his chest like she’s made of spun glass and starlight. At the lingering concern still softening the space between his eyebrows because you cried for thirty seconds and his nervous system apparently filed it as a national emergency.

You are catastrophically in love with this man.

Spencer’s still watching you carefully, probably trying to determine whether you’re about to cry again or accuse him of committing shower espionage.

Instead, you hear yourself say:

“Move in with me.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Spencer blinks.

Once.

Then again.

Like his brain just fully unplugged from the wall.

You suddenly become very aware that perhaps this was not the smoothest delivery.

Your stomach flips immediately.

Because Spencer still hasn’t said anything.

He’s just staring at you with this utterly stunned expression, mouth parted slightly like every word he’s ever learned abandoned him at once.

And in the absence of a response, your brain does what exhausted brains do best.

Panic.

“I mean,” you say quickly, already talking over yourself, “obviously you don’t have to. I just thought maybe it made sense because you’re already here all the time anyway and half your stuff is basically migrated over through natural selection at this point, and you already have a key and technically you’ve slept here for like… four consecutive nights now.”

Spencer opens his mouth.

You keep going.

“And your apartment’s smaller and your shower pressure kind of sucks, respectfully, and also I just…” Your hands gesture vaguely between the two of you like your emotions are now operating entirely through exhausted charades. “I don’t know. We’re already doing all of this together and I love you and you love me and she’s ours and maybe I just want you here all the time instead of leaving eventually and—”

“Hey.”

His voice is soft.

Gentle enough to finally interrupt the spiral.

You stop mid-sentence.

Spencer’s looking at you now with something so openly overwhelmed it almost knocks the breath out of you again.

Not uncertainty.

Not hesitation.

Just pure emotional astonishment.

Like you handed him something fragile and impossible and he still hasn’t recovered from the weight of it.

“Oh,” you say quietly, immediate embarrassment creeping in now. “You don’t have to answer right away, I just kind of blurted it out and maybe postpartum hormones are staging a hostile takeover of my frontal lobe, so—”

He kisses you.

Completely cutting you off.

Aurora remains safely cradled between his chest and one arm while his free hand finds your waist instantly, pulling you gently into him like he physically couldn’t stay still another second.

The kiss is warm and immediate and full of something almost aching in its sincerity.

You make a small startled sound against his mouth before melting into it anyway.

Because Spencer kisses like he means everything.

Like every feeling arrives fully formed and honest.

When he finally pulls back, he’s smiling.

Not the small, shy smiles he sometimes tries to hide.

This one is bigger.

Brighter.

Disbelieving in the happiest possible way.

“I would love to move in with you,” he says softly.

Your entire body goes still.

“…Yeah?”

A breath of laughter escapes him, almost overwhelmed around the edges.

“Yes,” he says again, forehead falling lightly against yours. “God, yes.”

Something warm bursts through your chest so fast it feels almost liquid.

You laugh helplessly, relief and joy tangling together until neither feels separate anymore.

Spencer’s eyes crinkle softly as he looks at you.

“You thought I was unsure?” he asks quietly.

“You were silent for a really long time.”

“It was like… four seconds.”

“That’s a year in panic time.”

A tiny laugh slips out of him.

Then his expression softens again as he looks at you standing there in oversized clothes and damp hair and lingering exhaustion, eyes still slightly glassy from crying over astrophysics and fatherhood.

“You asked me to build a life with you,” he murmurs. “My brain needed a second to survive that.”

For a moment, neither of you moves.

The nursery light glows soft around the edges of him, turning everything warm. Gold on his skin. Gold in Aurora’s tiny blanket. Gold caught in the damp ends of your hair where they cling to your shoulders.

And Spencer is still smiling at you like you’ve just rewritten gravity in front of him.

Your chest feels too full for your body.

“You know,” you murmur, voice quieter now, “most people probably discuss moving in together under less emotionally unstable circumstances.”

“We can revisit it later if you want,” he says immediately. “I can prepare a pros and cons list. Or a timeline. I could make a spreadsheet.”

You laugh softly. “There he is.”

“A spreadsheet would actually be useful.”

God.

You love him so much.

tags:

The room changes shape.

At first, it’s just movement at the edges.

A shift in footsteps. The soft squeak of rubber soles against polished floor. The quiet rustle of gloves being pulled on, snapped into place with practiced ease.

Then the light changes.

Something bright is wheeled over you—adjusted, angled—and suddenly the space between your knees is flooded with a clean, focused glow. It’s not harsh, exactly, but it’s intentional. Directed. Like a spotlight finding its mark.

You blink against it, breath catching as the next contraction starts to gather low in your abdomen.

“Okay,” your doctor says, voice steady and warm, threading through the movement like a guide rope. “We’re just going to make a few small adjustments, alright? You’re doing beautifully.”

You nod, even though your brain is already starting to narrow again, pulled inward by the rising pressure.

Hands move around you—not overwhelming, not chaotic. Efficient. Coordinated. Someone adjusts the bed, and you feel it beneath you—the subtle shift as the lower half angles slightly downward, opening your hips just a little more.

“Let’s bring you up just a bit,” your doctor continues, one hand light but firm at your shoulder. “There we go—good. You're going to push here soon. Keep your chin tucked when you push, like you’re curling around your baby. We’ll do it together.”

Spencer’s hand never leaves yours.

Not when the bed shifts. Not when the light brightens. Not when more people step into the room, their voices low and calm as they take their places like this is a dance they’ve done a thousand times.

You feel it though. The room filling.

The quiet expansion of presence. More eyes. More hands ready. More now.

“Okay,” your doctor says again, softer this time, closer. “I know everything feels like it’s happening very quickly, but you’re in control here. Your body knows exactly what to do. I’m just here to help you through it.”

That lands somewhere deep, even as your breath starts to stutter with the next contraction building faster this time.

Spencer shifts closer, his other hand coming up to brace gently behind your shoulders as you’re guided into position. Not pushing. Just there. Solid. Ready.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady near your ear. “You’re not doing any of this alone.”

“I know,” you breathe, even as your fingers tighten around his.

The pressure surges.

Stronger now. Heavier. Like gravity itself has decided to lean in.

“Okay,” your doctor says, and there’s a slight change in her tone now—not urgency, but precision. Focus sharpened to a point. “Big breath in—deep—”

You inhale, chest expanding as much as it can around the weight of everything happening.

“And now curl forward and push. Right into it. That’s it—”

You bear down.

And the world condenses.

The light above you blurs at the edges. The room fades into pieces—sound without shape, motion without detail. All of it narrowing into this one moment, this one effort, this one impossible, necessary push.

A strained sound escapes you, raw and unfiltered.

“That’s it,” your doctor encourages immediately. “Perfect—just like that—hold it—”

Spencer’s voice cuts through everything else.

“Stay with it,” he says, closer now, steady like gravity. “You’re right there, keep going.”

“I can’t—” you gasp, the pressure almost too much to hold onto.

“You are,” he counters instantly, not louder, just certain. “You’re doing it right now.”

“Five more seconds,” your doctor says. “You’re doing exactly what you need to—don’t let it go yet—”

Your whole body strains, every muscle pulling inward, downward, focused on something you can’t see but can feel moving.

“Three—two—one—okay, breathe.”

It breaks.

You fall back against the pillows, breath tearing out of you in uneven bursts, your body going loose all at once like it forgot how to hold tension.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, half-laughing, half-gasping.

“That was excellent,” your doctor says, and you can hear the smile in it. “That’s exactly how we want it.”

You let out a breath that trembles on the way out.

Spencer’s thumb is still moving over your hand, grounding you back into the room piece by piece. The light. The voices. Him.

“You did really well,” he murmurs.

“I hated it,” you manage weakly.

“That’s fair.”

There’s a flicker of quiet laughter somewhere near your shoulder—one of the nurses, maybe—but it’s soft, warm. Not at you. With you.

Your doctor adjusts slightly again, her presence steady, hands sure and unhurried even as everything else feels like it’s accelerating.

“You’re making real progress,” she says. “Baby’s moving down exactly how we want. You’re going to feel more pressure as we go—that’s a good sign, even if it feels intense.”

You nod faintly, even as your chest rises and falls too fast.

“Okay,” she continues, “next contraction, same thing. Deep breath, curl forward, push into it. I’ll guide you.”

Guide you.

That word anchors again just as the next wave starts to build.

Faster this time.

Your fingers tighten around Spencer’s.

He notices immediately.

“I know,” he says softly. “I’ve got you.”

“I don’t want to do that again,” you breathe.

“I know,” he repeats. Then, gentler, “But you can.”

The pressure rises, pulling you under before you can think too hard about it.

“Alright,” your doctor says, voice calm but focused. “Here we go, big breath—”

You inhale.

“And push.”

You curl forward, exactly like she showed you, chin tucked, body folding in on itself as you bear down again, a broken sound slipping out of you as the force takes over.

“That’s it, perfect positioning. Keep going.” your doctor encourages.

Spencer’s hand tightens around yours, his other steady at your shoulder.

“You’re doing it,” he says, voice low and unwavering. “Just like that.”

“Three more seconds—”

Your breath shakes.

“Two—”

Everything tightens.

“One—okay, breathe.”

Your chest heaves as the contraction ebbs, the world rushing back in around the edges like sound returning after a long drop underwater.

For a second, there’s only breath.

In. Out. Shaky. Real.

Spencer’s hand is still there, anchoring you to something solid. His thumb keeps tracing that same steady path over your knuckles, like he’s memorized the shape of you through motion alone.

“You’re doing incredibly well,” he says quietly.

“Great, thank you,” you say. “Keep doing that. Feels nice.”

“What? Encouraging you?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” your doctor says gently, shifting her position again. “You’re getting very close now. I’m going to have you do that again with the next contraction, just like before. You’re moving her down beautifully.”

You nod faintly, even as your body starts to gather itself again, the next wave building with quiet inevitability.

“You’ve got this,” Spencer says.

The contraction rises. Stronger. Lower.

“Here we go,” your doctor says, voice sharpening just slightly with focus. “Big breath in deep—”

You inhale, your chest expanding against the pressure.

“And push, right into it—”

You bear down again.

This time, something shifts.

It’s subtle, but unmistakable.

A deeper stretch. A different kind of pressure. Not just downward now, but outward, like your body is opening around something that is very, very real.

A strained sound tears out of you, sharper than before.

“Good,” your doctor encourages quickly. “That’s exactly it—she’s right there—keep going—”

“Spence—” your voice breaks.

“I’m here,” he says immediately, closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours now. “Stay with me. Just a few more seconds.”

“Hold it, hold it, don’t let it go yet…” your doctor guides.

Your entire body strains, every muscle pulling tight around that overwhelming stretch.

And then—

“Okay, breathe.”

It releases.

But not completely.

You fall back again, breath shuddering out of you, but the pressure doesn’t disappear this time. It lingers. Heavy. Present.

Different.

You blink, disoriented. “Why—why does it still feel like…”

Your doctor’s voice is calm, but there’s a note of something brighter in it now.

“Because she’s right there,” she says. “You’re crowning.”

Crowning.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, your eyes going wide despite everything.

Spencer freezes for half a second beside you. You feel it in the way his grip tightens just slightly, like the word hit him too.

“She’s—?” he starts.

“Yes,” your doctor confirms, warmth threading through her voice. “Your baby’s head is right there. You’re doing it.”

You shake your head once, overwhelmed, a half-laugh, half-gasp breaking out of you. “I don’t like that. I don't like that phrasing.”

There’s a ripple of soft laughter around the room—gentle, encouraging, never unkind.

Another contraction begins to build.

Stronger.

Sharper.

“Oh fuck—” you breathe, your hand clamping down on Spencer’s again.

“I know,” he says, already there. “I know.”

“This next one, I want you to push slowly,” your doctor says. “Controlled. We’re going to ease her out. Listen to me, okay?”

You nod quickly, even as your breath starts to stutter.

“Big breath in—”

You inhale.

“And gentle push, slowly—”

You bear down again, but this time—

This time it burns.

Not pain, not exactly. The epidural dulls it, softens the edges, but there’s still a raw, stretching intensity that steals the air from your lungs.

Spencer’s voice is right there, low and steady. “Breathe. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

“I’m not okay,” you insist, borderline delirious.

“You are,” he says, softer now. “You’re right at the end.”

“Okay, pause—breathe—” your doctor instructs.

You collapse back again, panting, your entire body trembling with effort.

“She’s right there,” your doctor says again, almost in awe. “You’re so close.”

Another contraction is already building.

Fast.

Relentless.

You feel it and immediately shake your head. “No. No, no, no—”

Spencer leans closer. “One more,” he says gently. “Just one more like that.”

You squint at him. “You don’t know that.”

“I have moderate confidence,” he says.

You let out a broken laugh that turns into a gasp as the contraction peaks again.

“Okay,” your doctor says, focused now. “This is it. Big breath—”

You inhale, your entire body bracing.

“And push—steady—steady—”

You bear down.

Everything narrows.

The stretch, the pressure, the overwhelming, impossible need to finish this—

“That’s it—that’s it—keep going—” your doctor encourages, voice rising just slightly.

Spencer’s hand tightens around yours. “You’re doing it. You’re doing it—”

“I can’t—” you gasp. “It's too much. I can't do it—”

“You are. Almost there, sweetheart.”

“Head’s out—” your doctor says, calm but bright.

Your eyes snap open. “What?”

A chorus of soft laughter ripples through the room.

“Do you want to see?” the nurse asks Spencer gently.

“No!” you say immediately. “Absolutely not—” You turn your head toward Spencer, eyes narrowing despite everything. “You are not allowed to look.”

More laughter, warmer this time, wrapping around you like something light in the middle of everything heavy.

“Okay,” your doctor says, smiling audibly now. “Next contraction, we’ll get the rest of her out. You’re almost there.”

Almost there.

The next contraction builds before you can even process the last one.

“Okay—big breath—”

You inhale.

“And push—”

You bear down one more time, everything in you pulling toward that final moment—

And then—

Release.

A sudden, startling absence of pressure. A shift so immediate it almost feels unreal. 

For one suspended, impossible second, there’s nothing.

No pressure. No strain. No burning stretch pulling you apart from the inside.

Just… absence.

actual birth is over, but a warning that there is a mention of cord cutting in a few paragraphs!

Your body doesn’t know what to do with it. It feels like stepping off a moving train and still swaying in place, like everything should still be happening but suddenly isn’t.

Your breath catches in the hollow space where the effort used to live.

And then—

A sound.

Sharp. New. Indignant in the way only something brand new can be.

Your head jerks forward instinctively, eyes wide, searching—

“There she is,” your doctor says, and there’s something different in her voice now. Not just calm. Not just practiced.

Bright.

Real.

The cry cuts through everything again, louder this time. Alive.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, and it comes out like you don’t quite believe your own voice belongs here anymore.

There’s movement between your legs, quick but careful, and then—

Warmth.

A sudden, solid weight placed against you, low on your stomach, slick and real and there.

You gasp, the sound breaking into something softer, something unsteady.

She’s smaller than you expected.

And heavier.

And real in a way nothing else has been until this exact second.

“Oh—oh my god,” you repeat, your hands coming up instinctively, hovering for half a heartbeat like you’re afraid to touch her—

—and then you do.

Your fingers find her, trembling, sliding gently over damp, warm skin, over the soft curve of her back. She’s still crying, little chest heaving, limbs moving in loose, uncertain motions like she hasn’t quite figured out gravity yet.

“Hi,” you breathe, voice shaking. “Hi, baby—”

Spencer hasn’t said a word.

You feel him before you look at him—his hand still wrapped around yours, but looser now, like he forgot how tightly he was holding on.

When you turn your head, he’s staring.

Not at you.

At her.

His entire expression has gone still in a way you’ve never seen before. Not blank. Not frozen. Just… completely overtaken. Like every thought he’s ever had stepped aside all at once.

“…She’s here,” he says, and it’s barely above a whisper. Like saying it any louder might break something sacred.

You smile, tears slipping free before you even register them.

“She’s here,” you echo.

“Dad,” your doctor says gently, cutting through the haze with a small, knowing smile, “do you want to cut the cord?”

It lands in the room like a new object being introduced to gravity.

Spencer blinks.

Once.

Then again.

It takes him a second too long to process the word like it might be metaphorical. Like it might be optional in a philosophical sense rather than a literal, immediate invitation.

“…Can I?” he asks, and his voice cracks slightly on the first syllable.

Your doctor’s smile widens just a fraction, soft and amused in the warmest way. “Yes. If you’d like to.”

Spencer looks at her like she’s just offered him access to something forbidden and sacred at the same time.

His hand tightens slightly around yours. “I… didn’t realize that was—”

“Spence,” you cut in, voice weak but immediate, threaded with exhausted affection and something dangerously close to laughter, “shut up and cut it.”

That does it.

A sound breaks out of him then. Not a laugh he can fully contain. It slips out sideways, breathy and disbelieving, like his body finally gave up trying to process everything neatly.

“Okay,” he says, still smiling like he can’t quite believe this is real. “Okay.”

He looks at the doctor again, more carefully this time. “I can do it?”

“Yes,” she confirms softly. “I’ll guide you.”

He nods once, sharp and almost scientific in its focus returning, but there’s still something undone at the edges of him as he lets go of your hand reluctantly.

He moves carefully. Like the space between him and everything important has suddenly become fragile.

You watch him take the small scissors with slightly too much precision, like he’s afraid even the weight of them might matter too much.

The doctor guides his hands gently into place. “There.”

A small, decisive motion.

Your doctor nods approvingly. “Perfect.”

Spencer freezes for half a second longer, scissors still in his hand, like he’s waiting for confirmation from the universe itself that he didn’t just accidentally break something important.

The scissors are taken from him. He lets them go too easily, like his fingers forgot they were holding anything at all.

You can barely feel your own body.

Not because of the epidural anymore. Something deeper than that. Like your mind is standing a half-step outside of you, watching everything happen through glass that just turned warm.

She’s crying. Strong, healthy, real.

A nurse moves in close, efficient and gentle, and you see it in fragments first: gloved hands, a small clamp being positioned, the careful, practiced pinch of something that used to be a bridge.

“The cord is clamped,” your doctor says softly, almost reverent in its simplicity. Then she smiles, already moving with calm efficiency. “We’re all done here. She’s perfect.”

Perfect.

The word lands in your chest and just… stays there.

Someone reaches in again and you see it properly now—your daughter, wrapped loosely in a soft towel, tiny fists flexing like she’s arguing with the concept of being held still. A small knit hat is lowered onto her head with careful hands, absurdly oversized, slipping just slightly before being adjusted.

“There we go,” the nurse murmurs, smoothing it down. “Now you’re official.”

You let out something between a laugh and a sob without meaning to.

Spencer makes a sound beside you like he’s trying not to fall apart quietly in a room that is not designed for falling apart.

“I didn’t know they did hats,” he says, very softly.

“Most babies are born underprepared,” your doctor replies, still smiling.

He nods once, like that is a legitimate systemic issue he will file away for future consideration.

Then he looks at you.

And whatever he sees there seems to undo the last of his careful composure. Tears fill his eyes and trail down his cheeks immediately.

You don’t even have time to ask what’s wrong before movement happens around you again—gentler now, slower, like the room is transitioning into something new without announcing it.

“Okay,” your nurse says softly. “We’re going to bring her to you now.”

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

“Okay,” you whisper back, like you’re agreeing to something you don’t fully understand but trust anyway.

Spencer is immediately closer again.

One hand finds the edge of your shoulder, grounding you without pressure, like he’s afraid even touch might be too loud for this moment.

“I’ve got you,” he says, like it’s instinct now. Not reassurance. Just fact.

“I know,” you breathe.

And then she’s lowered into your space.

Careful hands guide her in, and suddenly there is weight where there wasn’t weight before.

Warm. Living. Unmistakably real.

Your gown is adjusted with quiet efficiency, the fabric pulled down just enough, and then she is placed against your bare chest.

Skin to skin.

The world rearranges itself again.

Because nothing prepares you for that first contact. Not reading. Not imagining. Not the hours of waiting or the months of anticipation.

It’s just… her.

Small and warm and solid in a way that feels impossible for something so new. Her cries soften immediately the moment she’s settled, not gone, just… less lost. Like she recognized something she was looking for.

Your hands come up automatically.

Careful. Shaking.

You touch her like you’re learning a language no one taught you but your body somehow remembers anyway. Fingers tracing the soft curve of her back, the tiny rise of her ribs, the delicate shape of something that shouldn’t fit in the world yet does.

“Oh my god,” you whisper again, but this time it doesn’t sound like disbelief.

It sounds like recognition.

Spencer leans in slightly, hovering at your side like he doesn’t want to interrupt gravity.

He doesn’t touch her at first.

Just watches.

Like if he looks too directly at her for too long, something might shift too fast.

“She’s…” he starts.

Stops.

Tries again.

“She’s very small.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. “That’s your observation?”

“It’s accurate,” he insists faintly.

“She was just inside me, Spence,” you murmur, still staring down at her like she might disappear if you blink too hard. “I think we know she’s small.”

That earns the smallest, most disbelieving laugh from him. Like his brain needed something normal to grab onto and your tone handed it a lifeline.

The nurse pulls your blanket up over both of you, tucking it gently around your shoulders and over the baby, cocooning you in warmth that feels almost unreal after everything that came before it.

The room dims slightly as lights are adjusted. Not dark. Just softer.

Contained.

Spencer finally sits properly at your side again, but he doesn’t settle all the way. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to yet.

“She’s not crying anymore,” you say. 

“She’s listening,” Spencer says.

His hand hovers for a fraction of a second over her, suspended in that fragile space between “touch” and “don’t disturb this miracle,” before he finally lets his fingertips land.

Gentle.

Careful in a way that feels almost reverent.

He traces the curve of her cheek with the back of one finger.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Just… exists under his touch like she was always meant to be there.

Spencer’s breath catches slightly.

“…She’s so warm,” he says, like he’s surprised the world got that detail right.

You let out a soft laugh, exhausted and dazed and still not entirely convinced this is real. “Yeah. Because she's stolen all of my warmth."

That earns you a faint, disbelieving huff of laughter from him, but his eyes don’t leave her.

“Anyway, she's listening,” Spencer repeats. “To your heartbeat. She’s been hearing it constantly for months. It’s one of the first familiar rhythms she’s ever known.”

His hand slides a little higher, careful not to disturb her hat as he brushes a thumb along the edge of her temple.

“When newborns are placed skin-to-skin, they often orient toward the chest first,” he continues quietly. “It’s not just warmth. It’s recognition. Your body is… the closest thing she has to home right now.”

Something in your chest tightens at that. Not painful. Just overwhelming in a way you don’t have words for yet.

You look down at her again.

So small. So certain in her smallness.

Her tiny fist flexes against your skin like she’s testing the world one sensation at a time. Her breathing is uneven, still learning itself, but steadier now than it was before.

“She's perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah. She is.”

“Alright,” the nurse says gently, glancing between you and Spencer and then down at the tiny, breathing miracle on your chest. “We’re going to give you some time. We have a policy—first hour is just you, your partner, and your baby. Skin-to-skin, bonding, all of that good stuff.”

You nod, though it’s a little delayed, like your brain has to travel farther than usual to reach your body.

“After that,” she continues, “we can bring visitors in if you’d like. Family, friends—whoever you’re ready for.”

Visitors.

That feels like a word from another life. A different chapter. Something that belongs to a version of you that existed before this exact second.

“Okay,” you manage, voice soft and uneven. “Okay.”

Spencer nods immediately beside you, his voice steadier, though it still carries that quiet, stunned reverence he hasn’t quite shaken yet. “Thank you.”

The nurse smiles—one of those knowing, seen-this-a-thousand-times smiles that somehow still feels personal.

“Of course,” she says. Then, softer, almost like she’s letting you in on a secret, “Take your time.”

And then she’s gone.

Time does something strange after that.

It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t even slow. It just… loosens its grip. Like it’s no longer measuring anything important.

You don’t move.

Not really.

Your hands stay where they are, curved protectively around her, fingers splayed just enough to feel the steady rise and fall of her tiny breaths against your skin. Every inhale she takes feels like a quiet miracle. Every exhale, proof she’s staying.

You just… look at her.

Your daughter.

The word lands differently now. Heavier. Not in a way that weighs you down, but in the way something precious settles into place and refuses to be ignored.

Her eyes are open.

That surprises you more than anything else.

Wide. Searching. Not focused, not really, just drifting in soft, uncertain movements like the world is a watercolor painting she hasn’t learned how to interpret yet.

You blink slowly, studying them like they might give you answers if you just look long enough.

“They’re gray,” you murmur, voice hushed without meaning to be.

Spencer leans in a fraction closer, following your gaze immediately. “Most newborns have that,” he says quietly. “It’s due to low melanin levels in the iris at birth. The final color can take months to stabilize.”

You hum softly. Of course he knows that.

You tilt your head just slightly, watching the way her eyes drift, catching light, unfocused but curious in that instinctive, brand-new way.

“I wonder what they’ll be,” you say.

Spencer is quiet for a moment.

Not because he doesn’t have an answer. Because this isn’t a question that wants one.

He watches her instead.

The way her tiny brow shifts. The faintest crease forming like she’s already trying to make sense of something far too big for her.

Your fingers trace lightly along her back again, slower this time, more certain. Mapping her. Learning her.

She’s so small.

Spencer wasn’t wrong.

But she feels… complete. Not fragile in the way you expected. Not breakable. Just new. Like the world hasn’t had time to leave marks on her yet.

“She has your nose,” you say suddenly, the observation slipping out before you can stop it.

Spencer blinks. “What?”

You tilt your head slightly, studying her face with exaggerated seriousness now. “That’s your nose.”

He leans in closer, squinting just a little like that will somehow improve the resolution of a newborn’s features.

“I don’t think that’s enough data to make that determination,” he says.

You huff a soft laugh. “It absolutely is.”

“She’s been alive for less than an hour.”

“And already taking after you. That’s crazy.”

He exhales through his nose, something warm and disbelieving curling through it. “That’s not how genetic expression works.”

“Too late,” you say. “I’ve decided.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no real argument in it. Just quiet amusement threading through something much bigger he hasn’t fully put down yet.

She makes a small sound then.

Not a cry. Not even close. Just… a noise.

Soft. Curious. Like her voice is testing itself the same way her hands do, flexing and curling against your skin in slow, uncertain movements.

Both of you freeze.

It’s immediate. Instinctive. Like the world just held its breath with you.

Her mouth opens slightly, lips parting in a way that feels deliberate even if it isn’t. Her head shifts—just a little—cheek brushing against your chest as she turns.

Searching.

Spencer notices it at the same time you do. Of course he does.

“That’s a rooting reflex,” he murmurs, voice dropping even lower, like he’s afraid to interrupt something sacred. “She’s—she’s looking for—”

“I know,” you whisper, even though your voice wavers just slightly on the edges.

Your hand moves without thinking, adjusting her just a little closer, supporting the small, fragile weight of her head.

She settles almost immediately.

Like she found what she was looking for.

The shift is subtle, but it hits you anyway. Deep. Immediate. Something instinctive answering something instinctive, your body responding before your brain even catches up.

For a little while, neither of you says anything.

The room feels… hushed in a different way now. Not the clinical quiet from before, not the focused stillness of work being done. This is softer. Like the air itself is trying not to interrupt.

You shift slightly against the pillows, adjusting her with careful, uncertain hands. The nurse had helped at first—guided her, guided you—but now it’s just the two of you figuring it out in real time.

It’s awkward for a second.

More than a second, if you’re being honest.

You glance down, brows pulling together faintly as you try to follow the vague memory of instructions that felt much clearer when you'd binged an entire series on Youtube on breastfeeding.

“Okay… wait,” you murmur, half to yourself. “She’s—she’s supposed to…”

You trail off, gently repositioning her, your fingers a little clumsy but determined.

Spencer doesn’t interrupt.

He watches.

Not in a way that makes you self-conscious—there’s no scrutiny in it. Just quiet attention, like he’s cataloging something important without quite knowing where it belongs yet.

“You can say something, you know,” you mutter after a second, a hint of tired humor threading through it.

“I’m… trying to determine if this is a situation where my input would be helpful or intrusive,” he says carefully.

You huff a soft, breathless laugh. “Bold of you to assume I know the difference right now.”

That earns a faint smile from him, small but real.

“…Okay,” he says, leaning just slightly closer. “Do you want me to—look something up? Or—”

“No,” you cut in gently, shaking your head. “I think… I think I just have to—”

You adjust her again, a little more instinctively this time.

And then—

Oh.

She latches.

It’s not painless, but not exactly painful either. There’s a strange, pulling sensation—new, unfamiliar, a little overwhelming in its own right—but it’s not wrong. It’s… purposeful. Like your body recognizes the action even if your brain is still catching up.

“Oh,” you whisper.

Spencer’s head tilts slightly. “Oh?”

You let out a small, disbelieving breath, your hand coming up to steady her without even thinking about it.

“I think—” you swallow, eyes fixed on her, “—I think she’s actually doing it.”

There’s a pause.

Spencer leans in just a fraction more, careful, like he’s approaching something delicate and alive.

“…She is,” he says quietly.

You can hear it in his voice—that same note from earlier. The one that sounds like awe trying to disguise itself as observation.

You laugh softly under your breath, the sound shaky but warm. “Okay. Okay, that’s—” you shake your head faintly, overwhelmed in a quieter way now, “—that’s kind of incredible.”

“It is,” he agrees.

breastfeeding no longer described but still sort of mentioned

Silence settles again, but it’s different this time.

Full.

You shift slightly, getting more comfortable, your body slowly unwinding now that the urgency is gone. The blanket tucked around you both traps the warmth, turning the space into something cocooned and small.

“She just… knows how to do that?” you murmur after a minute, still watching her like she might suddenly reveal a second, even more surprising skill.

“Instinct,” Spencer says softly. “Newborn reflexes are… remarkably well-coordinated in certain areas. Rooting, sucking—those behaviors are present almost immediately after birth.”

You glance up at him, one brow lifting faintly. “You’re trying very hard not to turn this into a lecture.”

“I am,” he admits.

“Good,” you say, a ghost of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Keep that up.”

He huffs a quiet breath, something like a laugh hiding inside it.

“…It’s difficult,” he says. “There’s a lot of relevant information.”

“I’m sure there is,” you reply. “But right now, I’m gonna go with ‘she’s doing great’ and leave it at that.”

“That’s a valid summary,” he concedes.

You settle back a little more, your head tipping against the pillow as the initial intensity of everything starts to melt into something slower. Softer. The adrenaline is ebbing now, leaving behind a kind of quiet, heavy clarity.

Your fingers move absently along her back again, tracing the same path over and over, like you’re memorizing her through touch.

“She’s so calm,” you say.

Spencer watches her for a moment, his expression gentler than you’ve ever seen it.

“She’s where she’s supposed to be,” he says.

That does something to you.

It lands deep, quiet but solid, like a stone dropped into still water.

You blink a couple of times, your vision going just slightly unfocused before you rein it back in.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I guess she is.”

She stays latched, small and determined, her tiny body pressed close to yours in a way that feels both fragile and unshakable. Each pull is soft but purposeful, a quiet rhythm that anchors you deeper into the moment. You hadn’t known what to expect from this part. If it would feel clinical, awkward, uncertain.

It doesn’t.

It feels… right. Strange, yes. New in every possible way. But right, like something ancient and instinctive slipped into place without asking permission.

You keep one hand curved around her back, fingers splayed gently, feeling every small shift of her as she feeds. The other rests near her head, thumb brushing lightly along the edge of her hat. 

There's a sparse head of brunette hair peaking out from under it. Not a lot, but more than you'd imagined.

Eventually, the rhythm slows.

It’s gradual at first. Easy to miss if you’re not paying attention. The small, steady pulls become softer. Less frequent. Her movements lose that determined edge and drift into something looser, sleep tugging at her in quiet increments.

You feel it before you see it.

The way her body relaxes more fully against you. The tiny weight of her settling, heavier now in that boneless, dozing way that makes your chest tighten for reasons you don’t try to name.

You glance down.

Her eyes are closed.

Not tightly. Not fussing. Just… gone, like someone gently flipped a switch and she decided that was enough world for now.

Her mouth is open, a bit of milk dripping from the corner of her lip.

You smile faintly, your voice softer than it’s been all day. “She fell asleep.”

He watches her for a long second, like he’s verifying it from multiple angles. Then his shoulders ease just slightly, something in him settling alongside her.

“…That was fast,” he says.

“She’s had a big day,” you murmur.

That earns a quiet breath of a laugh from him, warm and almost disbelieving.

“Statistically speaking,” he says, “this is likely the most eventful day of her life so far.”

“Wow,” you reply, deadpan. “Incredible insight.”

“I try.”

You shift carefully, adjusting her just enough to keep her comfortable without waking her. Every movement feels deliberate now, like the margin for error has shrunk to something sacred and small.

The room hums quietly around you. Distant sounds. Soft movement beyond the door. But none of it touches this space.

Spencer watches you settle her, something thoughtful passing through his expression before he looks back up at you.

“…Is there anything you need?” he asks.

It’s simple. Quiet. But it carries weight, like he means anything.

You consider it for a second.

“There is one thing,” you say.

He straightens slightly, attention sharpening immediately. “What is it?”

You look at him then. Really look at him.

At the way he’s still half in awe. At the way his composure keeps slipping at the edges, like he hasn’t quite figured out how to hold all of this yet.

“…Give me a kiss,” you say softly.

There’s a flicker of surprise in his expression. Not confusion. Just… a brief pause, like his brain didn’t anticipate something so simple.

Then he smiles.

It’s small. Warm. A little tired. A little overwhelmed. Entirely him.

“Okay,” he says.

He leans in carefully, one hand coming up to rest lightly near your shoulder, like he’s grounding himself as much as you. His lips find yours gently, no urgency, no hesitation. Just a quiet, steady press that lingers for a second longer than necessary.

It feels like exhaling.

When he pulls back, his forehead hovers close for just a moment, his breath still warm against your skin before he settles back again.

You study him for half a second, something soft tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“Do you want to hold her?” you ask.

“…I can hold her?” he asks.

There’s something almost careful in the way he says it. Like he’s asking permission for something larger than the action itself.

You let out a quiet, tired laugh, shaking your head just slightly. “Spencer.”

His brows knit faintly. “Yes?”

“She is your daughter.”

That lands.

You see it happen in real time. The shift. The realization settling into something solid and undeniable.

His expression softens immediately, something bright flickering through the awe that hasn’t left him since she arrived.

“…Right,” he says, nodding once. Then again, quicker this time, like he’s catching up to the idea. “Right, yes. I—okay.”

He moves closer, slower now. Careful in a different way than before. Not hesitant. Just… deliberate.

You guide him gently, adjusting your hold just enough, your hands steady despite the lingering exhaustion in your limbs.

“Support her head,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says quickly, then softens, “—I mean, yes. I will.”

You pass her to him.

It’s a small shift.

Barely anything, physically.

But it feels like the world tilts for a second as her weight leaves you and settles into his arms instead.

Spencer stills completely once she’s there.

Like he doesn’t trust the air to move around him too quickly.

He looks down at her, and something in his face just… opens.

All the careful structure. All the logic. All the quiet control he carries through everything else.

Gone.

Replaced with something softer. Wider. Almost disbelieving in its depth.

“…Hi, beautiful girl,” he says quietly.

She doesn’t stir.

Just sleeps there, small and warm and entirely unaware of the gravity she’s just rearranged.

Spencer lets out a slow breath, like he’s been holding it for longer than he realized.

“…Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. “Okay, I’ve got you.”

The way he says it sounds less like reassurance and more like a promise he’s already decided to keep.

“Spence,” you murmur.

He looks up immediately. Like he’s been tuned to your voice specifically.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

It lands gently.

No weight behind it. No expectation. Just truth, set down softly between everything else.

Spencer doesn’t answer right away.

Not because he doesn’t feel it. You can see that immediately in the way something shifts in his expression—something deep and bright and almost startled, like it caught him off guard even though it shouldn’t have.

His gaze flicks down to her for half a second.

Then back to you.

And he smiles.

It’s not careful or restrained. It’s warm in a way that spreads slowly, like light finding its way into every corner of him all at once.

“I love you too,” he says. Simple. Like it’s the easiest fact he’s ever known.

Your throat tightens just slightly, your lips curving into something softer, something that feels like it belongs exactly here.

Between you.

Between all of this.

Spencer shifts carefully, still holding her like she’s been entrusted to him by something far larger than either of you, and you ask him for your phone.

He reacts immediately, almost instinctively, setting the moment down gently in his mind before reaching for it. The device feels absurdly small when he places it in your hand, like it belongs to a different version of life entirely. You scroll with tired, slightly unsteady focus, fingers lingering longer than usual on names that suddenly feel louder than they should.

You start making calls.

First your parents. Then his mom.

When your parents arrive, they come in with that familiar rush of emotion that tries to stay composed but fails almost immediately at the edges. They don’t linger on words much at first. They move straight to you, then to her, like gravity reorganizing itself around something newly arrived in the world.

There are long, full embraces. The kind that don’t need explanation. The kind that carry everything already understood.

They tell you, quietly and repeatedly, that they’re proud of you. That she is beautiful. That you did well. That you are loved in a way that has no conditions or measurements attached to it.

They don’t stay long, not because they don’t want to, but because the moment is too tender to overfill. Before leaving, they each press a kiss to your forehead, then another for the baby, and step back into the hallway with lingering glances that feel like they’re trying to memorize the shape of the room.

The door opens again, softer this time. No rush behind it. No burst of voices spilling in ahead of the moment.

Just a quiet arrival.

Diana steps inside like she’s entering something sacred rather than simply walking into a room. There’s a gentleness to the way she moves, a careful awareness that seems to reach the edges of everything without disturbing it.

Her eyes find Spencer first.

They soften immediately, something deep and knowing passing through them as she takes in the sight of him—sitting there, shoulders slightly curved inward, holding his daughter like the world has narrowed to the exact span of his arms.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she says, voice warm and steady, threaded with something that sounds like quiet awe.

Spencer looks up, and whatever composure he’d managed to gather loosens all over again.

“Hi, Mom.”

She doesn’t hesitate, but she doesn’t rush either. She steps in close and wraps her arms around him as best as she can, careful of the baby between them. It’s an adjusted kind of embrace—angled, mindful—but it’s full. Complete.

Spencer leans into it instinctively.

For a second, he looks very young.

Very much like someone’s son before he is anything else.

Diana’s hand comes up to cradle the back of his head briefly, her touch light but grounding, her cheek brushing his temple.

“You did so well,” she murmurs, not questioning it, not framing it as comfort. Just stating something she believes to be true.

Spencer lets out a small breath that sounds like it had been waiting for that exact sentence.

“…We did,” he says quietly.

She pulls back just enough to look at him properly, her hands lingering for a moment on his shoulders, her gaze flicking down to the baby again with something bright and almost disbelieving.

Then she turns to you.

There’s no distance in it. No formality.

She steps closer, reaching for your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Her fingers are warm when they close gently around yours.

“How are you feeling?” she asks softly.

It’s not casual. It’s not surface-level. The question lands with weight, like she’s asking about all of it at once—the exhaustion, the overwhelm, the quiet after everything loud.

You squeeze her hand faintly, your thumb brushing against her knuckles in a tired, instinctive gesture.

“Mostly tired,” you admit, voice soft but honest.

Diana smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that doesn’t try to fix anything. Just understands it.

“That makes sense,” she says gently. “You’ve done something extraordinary.”

Diana receives her like she’s done this before—not just physically, but emotionally. Like she understands the gravity of being handed something so new, so important, so entirely alive.

The baby settles against her almost immediately, still half-asleep, her tiny face tucked slightly inward, her body instinctively curling into the warmth she’s given.

Diana stills.

Completely.

Her breath catches, just slightly.

“…Hello, darling,” she whispers.

Her voice changes on the word. Softens. Opens.

Like something in her rearranged itself to make space.

Spencer watches her closely, his hands hovering for a moment after letting go, like part of him hasn’t quite accepted that the weight isn’t there anymore.

You reach over, brushing your fingers lightly against his wrist.

He looks at you.

And in his eyes, there’s something steady now. Still overwhelmed, still bright with everything this moment holds—but steadier.

Diana’s hands move with a kind of quiet knowing.

Not hurried. Not hesitant. Just… certain.

She adjusts the blanket first, tucking it more securely around the baby’s small body, smoothing the fabric with gentle, practiced strokes. Then her fingers lift to the tiny knit hat, nudging it down just slightly where it’s slipped, her touch feather-light, like she’s aware that even something this small deserves care.

There.

Perfect.

She doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s there in the way her shoulders soften, in the way her breath steadies as she looks down.

And then she just… looks.

No analysis. No commentary. No need to fill the space with anything else.

A slow, quiet smile settles across her face, something deep and full and almost reverent. Like she’s witnessing something she’s been waiting for without realizing it had a shape until now.

Spencer watches her the way you watched him earlier.

Carefully. Softly. Like this matters.

Like she matters.

Like this moment is stitching something invisible back together in real time.

“…She’s beautiful,” Diana says at last, her voice low, threaded with a kind of warmth that lingers.

“She is,” Spencer replies, just as quietly.

There’s a small pause. Not empty. Just… full.

Diana glances up then, her gaze moving between the two of you, something curious and gentle flickering behind it.

“…Have you decided on a name?” she asks.

It lands softly, but it changes the air all the same.

You glance at Spencer instinctively.

He’s already looking at you.

There’s something almost amused in it now, tucked beneath the exhaustion and awe. Like this is a problem he’s considered from seventeen different angles and still somehow wants your answer more.

“Aurora,” you say first, your voice quiet but certain. “Aurora Reid.”

Diana’s expression brightens immediately, something delighted sparking in her eyes.

“Aurora,” she repeats, like she’s testing the weight of it. “That’s beautiful.”

Spencer nods once, a small, thoughtful motion. “It means ‘dawn,’” he adds softly. “Or ‘new beginning,’ depending on the linguistic root you’re referencing.”

You glance at him. “Of course you know that,” you tease. “But we also chose it from a poem.”

“Let me guess,” Diana says, “Of Bronze and Blaze?”

Spencer’s mouth curves, small at first, then warmer, like the memory rises up and meets him halfway.

“Yeah,” he says, a soft breath of a laugh tucked into it. “Yeah, that one.”

Diana’s smile deepens, something fond and quietly luminous settling into her expression as she looks between him and the tiny girl in her arms.

“You used to carry it around with you,” she says gently. “Folded up in that little blue notebook. You wouldn’t let anyone else touch it.”

Spencer huffs under his breath, a faint, embarrassed sort of sound, but there’s no real protest in it. Just recognition.

“I liked the imagery,” he murmurs.

“You liked the idea of light coming back,” Diana corrects softly, not teasing. Just… remembering.

That lands somewhere deeper.

You see it in the way Spencer’s gaze drops again, drawn back to Aurora like gravity has claimed him fully now. Like every version of himself that came before this moment just quietly stepped aside to make room.

“Does she have a middle name?” Diana asks gently.

You glance at Spencer instinctively.

He’s already looking at Aurora, his thumb tracing absently along the edge of her blanket like he’s thinking through something he already decided a long time ago.

“…Yeah,” he says quietly. “Marguerite.”

Diana’s brows lift slightly, curious, inviting more.

Spencer glances up then, just briefly, before his gaze drops back down to her again.

“It’s French,” he adds. “It means ‘daisy.’”

There’s a softness in the way he says it. Not performative. Not explanatory. Just… placed carefully into the moment.

You huff a quiet, tired laugh, your voice warm around the edges. “She’s a morning daisy.”

That earns the smallest shift in Spencer’s expression—something almost shy, almost pleased, flickering through the quiet awe he hasn’t quite shaken yet.

“…Yeah,” he murmurs. “I guess she is.”

Diana’s smile deepens, something bright and quietly emotional settling into it.

Aurora shifts slightly in her arms, a small, sleepy movement, her fingers curling and uncurling against the blanket like she’s testing the shape of her own existence.

Diana looks down at her, her expression softening even further, something almost reverent settling in.

“Aurora Marguerite,” she says softly. “A dawn that blooms.”

Spencer exhales slowly, his hand finding yours again without looking, his fingers threading through yours like it’s instinct now. Like it always was.

“…It fits,” he says.

You squeeze his hand faintly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles in that same absent, grounding rhythm he used earlier. Full circle. Closed loop.

“It does,” you agree.

Diana glances up at the two of you then, something warm and knowing in her eyes. She doesn’t say anything else about it. Doesn’t need to.

Instead, she steps closer to the bed and very gently, very carefully, returns Aurora to Spencer’s arms.

He takes her like he did before. Slow. Certain. Like the world narrows to exactly the space she occupies.

Aurora settles against him without protest, her tiny face tucked in, her breath soft and even.

Spencer looks down at her for a long moment.

Then, quieter than before, like the words are meant just for her—

“Hi, Aurora.”

His thumb brushes lightly along the edge of her blanket.

“…We’ve been waiting for you.”

You watch him, something soft and full blooming in your chest all over again, like it hasn’t quite figured out how to stop yet.

You don't mind it at all.

tags:

Spencer's alarm startles you awake.

The sound is gentle—some unobtrusive instrumental piece he swears improves cognitive transition from sleep to wakefulness—but it still slices through the quiet room.

You groan into the pillow.

Beside you, Spencer shifts immediately. Not startled. Just aware. His hand fumbles for his phone on the nightstand, silencing it before the second refrain.

The room settles again.

You’re halfway back under when the mattress dips.

Warmth presses into your back.

An arm slides carefully around your waist, palm spreading over the curve of your stomach like it belongs there. His nose nudges into the space between your shoulder and neck.

He exhales, deep and content.

You blink awake a little more.

“…Did I forget to set my alarm?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

“No,” he murmurs into your shoulder. You can feel his mouth move when he talks. “It’s not six-thirty yet.”

You squint at the faint light leaking through the curtains. “Then why are we conscious?”

You feel it before you see it—the way his cheek shifts against you.

He’s smiling.

“I set mine fifteen minutes early.”

You huff a soft laugh. “Why?”

His thumb traces a slow, absent line along your side. There’s the smallest hesitation, like he’s debating whether this is ridiculous to admit.

“So I could cuddle you,” he says finally, quieter now. “Before we have to get up.”

The room is dim and warm, the world outside still gray and far away. His arm tightens almost imperceptibly, like he’s bracing for you to tease him.

You smile.

“That’s disgustingly cute,” you murmur.

He makes a soft, offended noise into your shoulder. “It was a strategic allocation of time.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you agree. “Very tactical.”

His fingers spread over your stomach again, protective without thinking about it. His chin settles against your shoulder. He breathes you in like he’s memorizing something.

“You’re warm,” he adds, like this is supporting evidence.

You shift closer on purpose, pressing back into him. “You’re a menace.”

“I am not.”

“You set an early alarm to cuddle.”

“…I don’t see the issue.”

You laugh, low and sleepy, and slide your hand over his where it rests against you. His thumb hooks instinctively between your fingers.

Outside, somewhere down the street, a car door slams. The world is starting whether you’re ready or not.

Spencer’s phone screen lights up again in warning at 6:30.

You feel him press a small, absent kiss into your shoulder. Not performative. Not even fully awake.

You grab his arm as he starts to pull away.

“Five more minutes,” you whisper.

“Four.”

You squeeze his hand. “Spence.”

He exhales, conceding. “Five.”

Five minutes pass the way they always do when you actually want them.

Too fast. Slippery. Gone.

His third alarm is less forgiving.

Spencer groans this time, which feels like a small personal victory.

You roll onto your back as he pushes himself up on one elbow, hair rumpled beyond saving, eyes still soft with sleep. For a second he just looks at you, like he’s cataloguing something important.

Then reality crashes back in.

“We have to leave in forty-three minutes,” he mutters.

“You’re very romantic.”

He leans down and presses a quick kiss to your forehead before sitting up fully. “Punctuality reduces occupational stress.”

You throw a pillow at his back as he shuffles toward the bathroom.

The pillow hits him square between the shoulders. He barely flinches.

“Noted,” he says, voice muffled slightly as he disappears into the bathroom, like you’ve just added something to a running list instead of assaulted him with bedding.

The door clicks shut. You stare at it for a second. Then you flop back against your mattress, staring up at the ceiling, heart doing that stupid, quiet, steady thing it’s been doing all week.

Seven days of this strange, gentle shift where nothing exploded and everything changed anyway.

Seven days of lingering touches that don’t feel accidental anymore. Of him saying your name softer. Of you not pulling away. Of conversations that almost circle the word love again but don’t need to land on it every time because it’s already there, settled between you like something known.

And now, this.

Morning light. His toothbrush in your bathroom. His alarm set early just to hold you. 

You press your palm over your face, dragging it down slowly.

God.

The bathroom door opens. Steam curls out first, followed by Spencer, in a large tee shirt and his pajama pants. His hair is still a mess, his eyes still heavy-lidded.

You smile before you can stop yourself.

It’s soft. Unthinking. The kind that just… happens.

He pauses when he catches it—mid-step, one hand still half-lifted like he forgot what he was about to do next. There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or the quiet satisfaction he doesn’t always know how to hide.

“What?” he asks, automatically suspicious.

You shake your head, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrow just slightly. “That was not a nothing smile.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “You’re profiling me before coffee. That feels unfair.”

“I don’t need caffeine to observe patterns,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. Just warmth. Familiarity.

You tilt your head, studying him for a second longer.

“Okay,” you admit finally, voice quieter. “You just… look nice.”

“Oh,” he says.

There’s the faintest shift in his posture, like he doesn’t quite know where to put that. Compliments have always been… complicated terrain.

You watch the way his fingers flex once at his side. The way his gaze flicks away, then back to you.

“You look nice too,” he adds after a second, like he’s returning something carefully borrowed.

You snort softly. “I’ve been awake for maybe three minutes.”

“Yes,” he says, completely serious. “But you look… rested.”

You raise a brow. “That’s the nicest possible way you could’ve said that.”

“It’s also accurate.”

You laugh again, shaking your head as you push the blankets back and swing your legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cool against your feet.

Spencer watches you for a second—just a second—before he looks away, giving you that same careful space he always does, even now.

“You should eat something before we leave,” he says. “I can cook something while you shower.”

You smile, soft and easy. Something that doesn’t need thinking anymore.

“Sure,” you say.

Simple. Normal. Like agreeing to breakfast isn’t suddenly threaded through with something warmer.

You shift your weight forward, pushing yourself fully to your feet. The room tilts for half a second—just enough to remind you you’re still carrying more than just yourself—but it settles quickly.

You take a step toward the bathroom. Then—

His fingers catch your wrist. Gentle. Not enough to stop you so much as ask.

You pause, turning back to him. Spencer looks like he surprised himself.

There’s a flicker of uncertainty in his expression, like he didn’t think far enough ahead to what happens after he reaches for you—like this part, the what now, still feels new under his hands.

You tug him down. It’s not hesitant or careful in the way everything else has been.

It’s quiet, yes—but sure. Certain in a way that feels like it’s been building for far longer than either of you have been willing to say out loud.

Your lips meet his.

For a split second, he freezes—like his brain needs to catch up to what’s happening. And then he melts, soft and immediate.

His hand lifts, hovering for the briefest moment at your waist before settling there, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric of your shirt like he needs to anchor himself.

He exhales against your mouth. And then he smiles. You feel it.

A small, almost disbelieving curve of his lips, right there against yours, like he can’t quite help it.

It pulls a quiet warmth through your chest, something steady and bright.

You pull back slowly, just enough to breathe. 

“Why are you smiling?” you murmur.

His eyes flick between yours, like he’s searching for the most accurate answer instead of the safest one.

“That’s the first time we’ve kissed,” he says quietly.

“…We've kissed before,” you point out.

“Undercover,” he corrects immediately. “That was situational. Context-dependent. Not—” he hesitates, searching “—not representative of personal intent.”

You huff a soft laugh, your thumbs brushing lightly along his cheekbones. “So this is your official data point?”

“Yes,” he says, completely serious.

That pulls a smile out of you. You tilt your head slightly, studying him like he’s the one being examined now.

“And?” you ask, softer, teasing threading through it. “Was it everything you were waiting for?”

There’s no hesitation. No deflection. No overthinking.

“And more,” Spencer says, soft but certain.

Your breath catches, just for a second.

And then you smile—slow, soft, a little helpless around the edges.

“Good,” you whisper.

Your thumbs trace once more along his cheeks before your hands finally slide down, lingering for just a second at his jaw before you let them fall.

He watches you like you’ve just rewritten something fundamental. Like he’s memorizing this version of you—the one who kissed him first. The one who didn’t overthink it. The one who stayed.

“You should shower,” he says, voice quieter now, but still gently insistent. “We’re losing time.”

You laugh, breath still a little light, and take a step back.

“There he is,” you murmur. “I was wondering when you’d come back.”

“I never left,” he says.

And somehow, that doesn’t feel like a joke.

You shake your head, smiling, and turn toward the bathroom—but not before catching the way he’s still looking at you.

Soft. A little awed. Like he’s still standing in that moment.

And maybe… so are you.

You tap your fingers against your knee, then stop and start again, counting in your head, willing your pulse to slow. You’ve been trying to make yourself normal, reminding yourself of logic, of schedules, of the fact that Spencer is calm beside you—so calm it’s infuriating.

He sits with perfect posture, hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes forward. His presence is measured, composed—everything you’re not.

You decide to shift your focus, letting your pulse settle into something resembling a rhythm. You look around the waiting room.

A toddler is sitting across from you with his heavily pregnant mother, dropping a plastic giraffe on the floor with alarming determination, like he’s conducting durability tests for NASA. The toy bounces and rolls across the linoleum. The boy catches your eye and grins, waving enthusiastically. You smile back, and he beams, proud of his performance.

Spencer’s gaze flicks toward the commotion. He watches the boy quietly, lips twitching as though he wants to smile but is restraining himself with all the discipline of someone about to deliver a lecture. You notice the way his hand rests lightly on his own knee, fingers flexing slightly—subtle, careful, aware.

The boy drops the giraffe again, and this time, it bounces straight toward Spencer’s side. Reflexively, he reaches down, catches it, and hands it back to the toddler with a soft, almost embarrassed smile. The mother glances up, surprised and thankful.

You can’t help the warmth that blooms in your chest, a soft, disarming tug. Spencer, the brilliant, infallible Spencer, interacting with a child as if it’s second nature, his movements gentle and precise. You glance down at your own belly, imagining that same carefulness when it belongs to your own little one.

You shift slightly in your chair, hand brushing the curve of your stomach even though it’s still barely noticeable, more a promise than a presence. Your fingers linger there, tracing imaginary outlines, imagining what it will feel like when there’s something tangible to cradle. A small bump to hold, a tiny weight pressing gently against your palm, warm and insistently real.

The door beside the reception desk clicks open, and a nurse in soft blue scrubs steps out with a clipboard held against her chest. She calls your name gently.

Your breath stutters—just enough that you feel it. Spencer stands at the exact same moment you do, like you’re tethered. You don’t look at him. You don’t have to. He’s there, already smoothing down the front of his sweater as if preparing for a dissertation.

The nurse smiles warmly. “Come on back. We’ll get you settled in.”

You follow her down a short hallway, the walls lined with pastel illustrations of smiling cartoon vegetables meant to look reassuring and instead looking vaguely haunted. Spencer walks beside you, hands behind his back, trying to appear casual and failing spectacularly.

Inside the small exam room, the lighting is soft, the table covered in crinkly white paper that immediately feels too loud. The nurse gestures for you to sit. Spencer hovers until she gives him a pointed look that clearly means there’s a chair, genius, and he finally lowers himself into it.

“All right,” she says, glancing through your chart. “Before the doctor comes in, I’m just going to go through some quick questions. Nothing unusual.”

You nod. You’ve done this before. The nerves shouldn’t be this sharp, shouldn’t scrape at the inside of your ribs—but they do.

“Any bleeding or spotting since your last visit?”

“No.”

“Any abdominal pain? Cramping?”

“Just normal stretching stuff, I think,” you say. “Nothing sharp.”

“Headaches? Dizziness?”

“Some fatigue. But that’s normal too, right?”

The nurse smiles. “Very normal.”

Spencer’s hands shift slightly where they rest—subtle, but you see it. He’s listening to every word, cataloguing symptoms, cross-referencing data mentally, probably building a probabilistic model of perinatal complications because that is who he is.

The nurse turns a page. “And there’s a hospital report here from that incident at work—when you were held by the suspect?”

You nod. “He grabbed me around the waist and lifted me. No abdominal impact, but we went to the ER afterward.”

“And they monitored you overnight, correct?”

“Yes. Everything was fine.”

Spencer glances up at that—just a flick of his eyes—but there’s something softened at the edges now, something quietly relieved. You don’t comment on it. You don’t have to.

“Any pain since then?” the nurse asks. “Bruising? Pressure? Back pain?”

“No. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

She nods, writing quickly. “Good. I’ll note that everything stayed stable overnight. Thank you.”

The nurse closes the chart with a soft thwap, the sound strangely grounding. “Alright,” she says, her voice warm as chamomile. “Let’s get your vitals, and then we’ll move on to the ultrasound.”

You nod and take a slow breath—your first unforced one since you walked in.

Something in you settles, small and sure.

She starts with your blood pressure.

The cuff tightens around your arm in a familiar squeeze, and you let your shoulders ease downward, unclenching the places you didn’t know were tense. Spencer watches the monitor with a strange devotion, as though your systolic pressure has the power to personally offend him.

“It’s perfect,” the nurse announces.

Spencer’s exhale is quiet enough that anyone else would miss it.

You don’t.

The pulse-ox clip follows, cool against your fingertip. Then your weight, which she records without commentary—bless her—and your temperature, which earns a bright “All good.”

You feel… lighter. Like the room finally has oxygen in it.

The nurse scribbles a final note and smiles. “Everything looks healthy. The doctor will be happy.”

You look over at Spencer. He gives you a small nod—tight, controlled, but full of something warm and earnest. Approval. Relief. Something that tugs behind your ribs.

“I’ll let the doctor know you’re ready,” the nurse says, stepping out and closing the door gently behind her.

Silence settles over the room, soft and unthreatening. The kind of quiet that feels shared instead of empty.

You sit back against the raised exam-table cushion, fingers smoothing the edge of the crinkly paper. Spencer doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, so he folds them in his lap again—like he’s been reset to factory settings.

“Better?” he asks softly.

You blink at him. The question is simple, but the tone—god, the tone—feels like it has hands, like it settles gently against your shoulders.

“Yes,” you say. “Actually. Yeah. I think so.”

He nods, gaze flicking over you with a carefulness that is very much him. “Good.”

There’s something else in the air now—stillness with a heartbeat. Not tension. Not nerves.

Expectation.

A faint knock interrupts it.

The door opens, and your OB steps inside with a practiced, reassuring smile.

“Good to see you both again,” she says. “Everything’s in order here, I see.”

Spencer sits up a fraction straighter, which would be comical if it weren’t so endearing.

“So,” the doctor starts, wheeling over the ultrasound cart, “let’s take a look at how baby’s doing today.”

Your pulse skips—once, then steadies.

Not fear this time.

Anticipation.

You lie back, lifting your shirt just enough to expose your lower belly. The doctor snaps a paper drape over your waistband with professional efficiency.

Spencer’s chair scoots closer—quiet, subtle, but definitely on purpose.

You don’t comment.

You don’t have to.

The machine hums to life, low and soothing.

“Gel might be a little cold,” the doctor warns, and the moment it touches your skin, you gasp, then laugh at yourself.

When you glance at Spencer—he’s already looking at the monitor. Eyes wide. Breath held. Hands still.

The wand touches your abdomen.

The picture flickers. Static. Shadows.

Then—

A shape. Small. Alive.

Your baby.

Your throat tightens. Not painfully. Just full.

“There we are,” the doctor murmurs. “Everything looks right on track.”

She adjusts the probe with small, practiced movements, the gel cool and slick against your skin. The image sharpens—grainy, yes, but unmistakably something. Someone.

“Okay,” she says gently, “right here—this little flicker? That’s the heartbeat.”

Spencer inhales like someone cracked open the universe. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a soft, startled breath, the kind people take when they’re standing in front of something sacred and didn’t know they were about to be.

You look at the screen.

And there it is.

A pulse—rapid and bright—fluttering like a tiny, determined wing.

Your chest squeezes, a slow bloom of warmth that makes your eyes sting.

“That’s… fast,” you manage, because your voice is doing the opposite of cooperating.

The doctor smiles. “Completely normal at this stage. Around 160 to 170 beats per minute is typical for about ten weeks.”

Spencer whispers, just barely audible, “One-sixty-three point four.”

You blink at him. “You can… count that?”

He flushes, clearing his throat. “I can estimate. The pattern is… rhythmic.”

The doctor tries—and fails—not to smile.

She moves the wand again, angling it slightly. “And right here,” she narrates, her tone warm and steady, “this curved shape is the head. Very early development, of course—but you can see the beginnings of the cranial structure.”

You squint. “It looks like a lima bean.”

Spencer leans in a fraction. “Technically closer to a—”

“Don’t say embryo edamame,” you warn.

His mouth snaps shut, but the twitch in his cheek betrays him.

The doctor laughs softly under her breath, then continues. “And this,” she says, tracing another area on the screen with her cursor, “is where the limb buds are forming. You won’t see full arms and legs yet, but development is right on schedule.”

You stare at the tiny nubs, the faint curve of possibility. Your baby. Your future shaped into pixels and sound waves.

The doctor shifts again. “This is the crown–rump length. That’s what I’m measuring now.” She clicks the calipers on the screen, drawing a line from the top of the baby’s head to the lower curve of its body. “About 3.3 centimeters. Perfect for ten weeks, one day.”

Spencer’s breath catches again—subtle but unmistakable. He’s memorizing every number. You know him. You can practically feel him writing them on the insides of his ribs.

“And here,” the doctor adds, “this dark area is the gestational sac. Nice and round. Healthy.”

You nod, even though you’re not sure you’re absorbing half of it. Your attention is split—between the soft hum of the machine, the shape on the screen, the rhythm of your baby’s heartbeat…

…and Spencer.

Spencer, who is staring at the monitor with an expression so open you barely recognize it. Awe, quiet and unguarded. Something like joy, but too delicate to name.

You’ve seen him look at rare books like this. Nobel lectures. Once, a nebula through a high-powered telescope.

But never a person.

Never your person.

The doctor continues speaking, calm and steady. “Everything looks excellent. Strong heartbeat, good growth, consistent development. No concerns at this time.”

The words land in your chest like a warm weight, anchoring you, lifting you, unraveling every knot of fear you’ve been stitching into yourself since day one.

Relief floods you so suddenly you almost shiver.

Spencer finally looks at you.

It’s brief—a flick of his eyes from the screen to your face—but the expression is unmistakable.

He is relieved too.

He is relieved for you.

“Would you like to hear the heartbeat rather than just see it?” the doctor asks.

Your breath stutters. You nod.

She presses a button.

And suddenly the room is filled with sound—rapid, loud, echoing, impossibly alive.

Your baby’s heartbeat.

It fills every corner of the tiny exam room, a furious, steady gallop, stronger than anything so small should be.

Your eyes burn. Your throat closes. The world goes soft around the edges.

Spencer’s hand moves—just slightly—like he wants to reach for you.

He doesn’t.

But he thought about it.

“I’ll print a few photos for you,” the doctor says gently, dimming the monitor. “Let me step out and get those for you.”

She wipes the gel from your abdomen with a soft towel. Then she stands, gathering her clipboard.

“You’re both doing wonderfully,” she adds, warm and sure. “I’ll be right back.”

The door closes behind her.

Silence settles again—full this time, like the room is holding its breath right alongside you.

You lower your shirt slowly, fingers trembling just enough that you feel it.

Spencer is still staring at where the screen was, like the afterimage is burned there.

Then—quietly, reverently—he speaks.

“That was…” He stops. Swallows. Tries again. “That was them. That tiny little thing is our baby.”

You just smile.

“Will you marry me?”

The words hit the room like a pin dropped in a cathedral—soft, but impossibly loud.

You do your best to look shocked, to let the moment bloom across your face like a sunrise you never saw coming. Your eyes sting instantly, tears pricking with obedient urgency, and your breath catches in your throat like you rehearsed it in your sleep.

You gasp, a little too loud, a little too bright, and then launch yourself toward Spencer, all momentum and trembling joy. He rocks back under you, hands flailing for balance as you fling your arms around his neck. He steadies you instantly, hands slipping to your waist with a care that isn’t romantic—it’s reflexive, protective, the kind that remembers you’re carrying more than just adrenaline tonight. It makes you let out a real, breathless laugh as you smile wide at him. The corners of his lips quirk in response.

“Yes,” you breathe, letting your voice wobble, letting your whole body shake like emotion is pouring out of every seam.

He slips the ring onto your finger with careful precision, fingers warm and steady. And then—because the scene demands it, because the role calls for one last flourish—you lean in and kiss him.

The kiss is short, instinctive, a flicker of motion meant for the cover. Spencer responds softly, hesitating, then matching the impulse, and you feel a jolt that’s more about timing and tension than romance—but it’s real enough to convince anyone watching.

It’s nothing. It’s everything. It’s a split-second where performance and friendship blur at the edges.

Somewhere behind you, a crowd breaks into applause, chairs scraping, someone whooping like this is the best entertainment they’ve had all year. The sound blurs into the background, distant and bright, because all his attention is on you—and yours on the act you’re performing with him.

You pull apart just enough to breathe, forehead nearly brushing his. He’s flushed, eyes bright, still catching up with the suddenness of the scene. You can feel the shift, the way the shared instinct of the moment lingers between you.

Morgan cracks through your earpiece, smug as ever:

“Damn, girl, what are you doin’ workin’ with us when you could be winning Oscars?”

It hits you like a tickle in the ribs.

You snort. Spencer lets out a startled laugh — the kind that escapes before he can hide it — breathless, shaky, too real for undercover work.

For a heartbeat, it feels like the world is only the two of you, laughing too close, still holding onto each other like you haven’t told your bodies the performance is over.

Then Spencer lowers his voice, soft as a secret.

“Wanna get out of here?”

Your nod comes without thought — instinctive, gravitational — and you slip your hand into his as you straighten up. The contact jolts through him again; you feel it in the way his fingers tense, then settle around yours like he’s afraid to hold too tight.

He leads you through the restaurant, past clinking glasses and curious smiles, his hand warm and sure at your back. Outside, the night air greets you cool and crisp, a clean breath after the storm you just staged.

The valet stand glows under a wash of honeyed light, the kind that makes everything look softer, almost nostalgic—like a snapshot you’ll remember long after it fades. Spencer’s hand stays in yours as you approach, steady but warm, the kind of touch that blurs the line between acting and instinct.

He clears his throat—quiet, measured.

“For Reid. The Volvo Amazon,” he says, handing over the ticket. His voice sounds calmer than he looks. You can still see the pink high in his cheeks, the faint tremor where adrenaline hasn’t quite worn off.

The valet nods and turns to fetch the keys. You can feel Spencer shift beside you, his thumb brushing against your palm. Whether it’s on purpose or a nervous tic, you’re not sure—but you don’t pull away. The contact anchors both of you, a tether after the dizzy brightness of applause and flashing camera phones inside.

The valet reappears, keys in hand. Then his gaze drops to your joined hands. To the ring.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Whoa—did you guys just get engaged?”

You laugh—high and breathy, delighted enough to sell the cover. “Yeah,” you say, lifting your hand just enough for the ring to catch the light. “Tonight, actually.”

Spencer glances at you, startled, then softens. “Yeah… it’s been a special night.”

The valet beams, utterly charmed. “Congratulations! Seriously, that’s awesome.” He gives a little nod toward the curb. “I’ll pull her around.”

He jogs off, and the two of you are left in the amber quiet of the parking circle. For a moment, all you can hear is the hum of streetlights and the low murmur of city traffic. Then the deep purr of Spencer’s Volvo rounds the corner—sleek lines and old-world charm catching the glow like it’s stepped out of another decade.

The valet steps out, hands Spencer the keys with a grin. “She’s a beauty. You don’t see many of these anymore.”

“Thank you,” Spencer says, genuine pride threading through his voice. “I like to think she’s timeless.”

The valet steps around the Volvo and pulls your door open with an easy flourish, the kind meant for newly engaged couples and old Hollywood films. You offer him a grateful smile, shift forward—

—and freeze.

Something firm nudges against your spine. Not a hand. Not an accident. Cold, metallic certainty settles there, followed by the soft, unmistakable click of a hammer pulled back.

The world narrows. Your breath stops. Your pulse spikes so hard you feel it in your tongue.

“Spencer,” you say—quiet, thin, like you’re afraid to breathe the word too loudly.

He hears everything in that one syllable.

Spencer looks up from the driver’s side, meets your eyes across the car roof, and goes utterly still. There’s a flicker—fear, recognition, calculation—before he smooths it away like he’s afraid to let the wrong expression get you hurt.

The valet’s voice sheds its customer-service shine.

“Get in the car,” he orders Spencer. Calm in a way that makes your pulse spike.

Spencer obeys, sliding behind the wheel with careful, telegraphed movements. His hands stay visible. His jaw sets.

Then the valet steps back, opens the rear door directly behind your seat, and you feel the muzzle nudge you again—cold, insistent.

“Your seat,” he says.

Your body follows the instruction before your mind can catch up. You sink into the passenger seat slowly, deliberately, every muscle trembling with the effort to stay controlled.

The valet climbs into the back seat behind you, shutting the door with a soft snick. The gun never leaves you. You see him in the mirror now, gun still aimed at you–steady and unblinking, a presence you can feel in your bones.

Spencer’s eyes flick up to the rear-view too—fast, frantic beneath the surface. Once to check on you, once to gauge the angle of the weapon, once more like he's memorizing the exact distance between danger and your heartbeat.

The unsub leans forward in the backseat, breath skimming your neck. He smiles, sharp and predatory.

“Go on,” he says, almost cheerful. “Take your new fiancée home.”

Spencer starts the car. The Volvo shivers awake beneath you. He pulls away from the curb, smooth, careful, like he’s afraid a sudden move will set the whole moment shattering.

Hotch breaks in again, timed like he sensed the moment slipping.

“Stick to the plan, go to the safe house. Drive into the garage,” he says.

It's a 15 minute drive to the safe house, nestled past a quiet neighborhood, away from the city.

The unsub exhales happily behind you, like he’s been waiting all night for this.

“Little place tucked away from the world,” he muses. “Perfect spot for newlyweds.”

Spencer turns onto the final street. The house appears—a quiet silhouette with one porch light burning like a watchful eye.

Gravel crunches under the tires as Spencer pulls into the driveway. The garage door begins its slow, mechanical climb.

“Nice,” the unsub murmurs. “Private. No neighbors watching.”

The Volvo rolls into the garage’s shadowed mouth.

The door begins to close.

The unsub sighs, content.

“Welcome home,” he says.

And the door shuts you all into the dark.

Spencer’s apartment smells like garlic simmering in olive oil and… home. That elusive, warm scent that seems to wrap itself around you, settles into your bones, and refuses to leave. Somehow, it feels like the room itself knows your secret.

You kick off your shoes by the door, stomach fluttering in the same small, insistent way it has all week.

A week since the test.

A week of hiding something enormous in the tiny, quiet confines of your chest.

No one else knows yet. Not Hotch, not Morgan, not JJ, and definitely not Penelope—though she would have been the first to notice anyway.

Just you. And him.

Spencer stands at the stove, sleeves rolled, hair tousled from running his hands through it one too many times. He stirs the pan methodically, a wooden spoon tapping against the side with a rhythm almost like a heartbeat.

He glances up, catching your eye. That spark—so subtle you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it—flickers again. The same spark that’s been there every time you catch him thinking baby, every time your mind wanders to the two of you quietly imagining this impossible, perfect thing.

“You made it,” he says, voice tight with that mixture of relief and awe that only Spencer Reid can carry.

“Traffic tried to kill me,” you sigh dramatically, hanging your jacket on the hook he cleared earlier this week—just in case you wanted to keep one here now. “I narrowly escaped a literal death by minivan.”

His eyes flicker down to the hook and back to you, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Your near-demise has been duly noted. I’ll add it to the risk assessment spreadsheet for future reference.”

You laugh softly. “Do you… always make spreadsheets for every contingency?”

“I… sometimes,” he admits, cheeks pink. “It’s… comforting. And precise.”

“Of course. Comforting and precise,” you murmur, moving into the kitchen.

You watch as Spencer turns down the burner. “Dinner’s almost ready. You can sit, if you want. Or—uh—there’s tea.”

“Green tea?” you ask, arching a brow.

He winces. “Herbal. I checked the label twelve times.”

That warms you in a way nothing else today has.

You wander into his living room, lowering yourself onto his couch—worn at the edges, soft like something well-loved. A blanket you’ve never seen before is folded neatly on the armrest. Thick, fluffy, sky-blue.

You brush your fingers along the edge. “New blanket?”

“No,” he says too fast. Then, quieter: “Yes.”

He doesn’t look at you when he adds, “You said the old one was scratchy.”

Your throat goes a little tight.

You and Spencer settle into the ritual without words, the kind that only develops when two people exist in the same space long enough to know the unspoken patterns.

Dinner is simple—pasta with the garlic simmer sauce he’s been fussing over all evening—and impossibly comforting. The noodles are tender, the vegetables roasted to perfection. You twirl a forkful, letting the warm, garlicky aroma fill your senses, and the tension in your shoulders unwind.

“This is… really good,” you murmur between bites, finally meeting his eyes.

He shrugs, a tiny, awkward movement. “It’s… reasonably edible. For me, anyway.”

“Reasonably edible?” you tease, smiling. “I’d put it solidly in the delicious category.”

His cheeks tint pink, just a little. “Well… I… thank you.”

The quiet stretches comfortably between you. You notice the way the lamplight catches the highlights in his hair, how his fingers drape loosely over the table edge when he reaches for his water, the small smile that spreads across his lips each time you meet his eyes.

When the plates are cleared, you sink back into the couch, the sky-blue blanket draped over your legs. Spencer perches at the other end, a careful distance that feels just right. He pulls a book from the shelf, leans back in his seat, and starts reading. 

After a while, your eyelids grow heavy, the warmth of dinner settling deep in your limbs. The sky-blue blanket is soft against your skin, softer still where it’s tucked around your ankles. The room hums with the gentle peace only Spencer’s apartment ever seems to find—a cocoon of lamplight, quiet breathing, and the faint, lingering smell of garlic.

You start drifting, half-lulled by the familiar cadence of Spencer turning pages.

Except… it stops.

You notice it in that feather-light space between waking and sleep—the absence of sound, the silence shaped like a held breath. You blink slowly, vision hazy, and tilt your head just enough to look at him.

Spencer isn’t reading anymore.

His book is open but forgotten, resting slack in his hands. His eyes are on you instead—soft, intent, drinking you in with an expression so gentle it makes something inside you ache.

He looks… awed. Like he’s caught between wanting to memorize you and being afraid to wake you.

Your voice comes out quiet, groggy. “You okay?”

He startles, shoulders jerking the way they do when you catch him in a daydream. “Oh—I wasn’t— I mean, yes, I’m fine. You just… looked comfortable.”

You huff a sleepy laugh, burrowing a little deeper into the blanket. “Pretty sure you’re staring.”

His cheeks flush pink, unmistakable even in the warm lamplight. “I was… checking if you were asleep.”

“You’re really bad at lying,” you murmur, letting your eyes drift halfway shut again.

He swallows, fingers tightening around the spine of his book. “I know.”

The quiet returns, deep and honey-thick.

You watch him from beneath your lashes, barely awake but not ready to lose this moment. The way he sits now—half-turned toward you, elbow braced on the back of the couch, body angled in that instinctive way people do when they’re drawn by something they won’t name.

Then he moves.

Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s approaching a wild animal he doesn’t want to scare away.

He sets his book down on the coffee table. Then he shifts closer—just an inch or two—but enough that you can feel the subtle warmth radiating from him.

“Spencer,” you whisper, eyes now fully closed, “you’re hovering.”

“I’m not hovering,” he whispers back, flustered. “I’m… ensuring your comfort.”

You smile against the pillow. “That’s hovering.”

Another silence. A softer one.

Then something brushes your shoulder—light as a breath. You realize he’s lifting the blanket higher, tucking it gently around you, fussing with the edge until it’s snug.

His fingers hesitate when they reach the curve of your arm. They don’t touch you, not really—but they hover there, suspended in warmth and wanting.

You drift fully this time, slipping under the surface.

And in that drifting, you hear him—quiet, unguarded, thinking you’re long gone to sleep.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmurs. A confession to the dark. “More than I know how to say.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

Fabric rustles. The couch shifts. He settles beside you, close enough that his knee brushes the cushion near your hip, close enough that his presence becomes a quiet shield around your sleep.

You exhale, sinking deeper, letting the sound of him breathing become your anchor.

And the last thing you register before sleep finally claims you is the way he whispers your name—barely a sound, barely a thought—like he’s trying it out in the new shape your shared secret has carved into his world.

It isn't supposed to be a big conversation.

You just want to float the idea to Garcia–say it out loud once, make it real enough to exorcise it from your brain. You aren’t looking for a reaction, just a witness. Someone to hold the thought so it won’t hold you.

Garcia’s chair spins lazily as you hover in the doorway, arms crossed, rehearsing three different versions of how to start. She swivels toward you, eyes narrowing like she’s about to diagnose a crime.

“Okay,” she says, dragging the word out. “You’ve got the face. The one that says you’re about to either cry or start a pyramid scheme. Possibly both. What’s up?”

You step in, close the door, and immediately regret both actions. “I need to talk. Like… actually talk.”

“Ooh, serious voice.” She gestures to the chair beside her, still typing. “Go on, mortal.”

You perch on the edge of her desk, legs bouncing, voice barely steady. “I think I’m gonna do it.”

She doesn’t look up. “Do what? Don’t be cryptic, that’s my whole aesthetic.”

“The donor thing.” You pause. “The sperm donor.”

Garcia’s head snaps up so fast her ponytail smacks her shoulder. “I’m sorry–what?”

You wince. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it. For a while.”

Her bright expression softens into something real. “You’ve been serious about this?”

You nod. “I don’t want to keep waiting for someone who may or may not exist. The timing feels right. My lease renews soon, my savings look good, and–” You swallow. “I want this. I really do.”

Garcia leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You’d be a wonderful mom.”

You smile, small but sincere. “Thanks. I’ve been researching clinics. They have these wild donor filters–you can pick based on eye color, blood type, even favorite books.”

“Only you would pick a donor based on their Goodreads account,” she says with a smirk.

“I have standards.”

“Favorite books?”

“Yeah. You can literally pick someone because they also read Jane Eyre.”

Garcia smirks. “Only you would make literary compatibility a genetic priority.”

You laugh. “I have standards.”

She points. “So. You’re serious. Like serious-serious.”

You nod. “The clinic even has audio clips. You can hear them talk about their childhood pets and favorite philosophers. It’s weirdly… humanizing.”

“Wow. You're really doing this.”

You open your mouth to respond–

“Doing what?”

You both jump a foot.

Spencer is standing halfway inside the doorway, manila folder clutched to his chest like a shield, brows pinched in confusion. His voice is casual, but his eyes are scanning the room like he’s clearly walked in on something not meant for him.

“How long have you been standing there?” Garcia asks, her voice jumping up an octave.

Spencer glances between the two of you. “Uh… long enough to hear something about audio clips and childhood pets? Are we profiling someone, or…?”

Garcia waves her hands frantically. ““Nope! No. Nothing. Secret girl business. Abort mission, Doctor!”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, before Garcia can make it weirder. “I was just talking about something personal.”

Spencer frowns slightly, clearly not convinced. “Something… medical?”

“Kind of,” you say, and that’s your first mistake.

His brows pinch together. “Wait, are you okay? Are you going to a clinic for something?” His voice softens, almost pleading. “Because if you’re sick, there are specialists I can recommend. There’s a great neurologist in Georgetown who focuses on chronic–”

“Spencer!” you interrupt, holding up a hand. “I’m not sick.”

“Oh.” He pauses, recalibrating. “Okay. Then… fertility?”

You blink. “…Actually, yes.”

He nods, earnest and relieved. “Good. Okay. That’s good. I mean, not good–but manageable! You know, reproductive endocrinology has made enormous strides, and if you’re freezing your eggs, that’s a very practical decision. Especially if you’re considering having children in the next five to ten years. Did you know fertility drops by almost–”

“Spencer,” you say, cutting him off again, though you’re smiling now. “I’m not freezing my eggs.”

“Oh.” He looks lost. “Then what are you–”

Garcia jumps in before he can dig himself deeper. “Our girl here was just saying she’s thinking about doing the donor thing.”

Spencer’s brow furrows. “Donor thing?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Like… sperm donor.”

The words land, and you can see the moment his brain processes them. His eyes flick up to you, then back down, then up again like maybe he misheard and reality will reset if he gives it a second.

“Oh,” he says finally. Then again, softer, like the syllable itself is fragile. “Oh.”

The silence stretches. Garcia’s wide eyes bounce between you both like she’s watching the best telenovela of her life.

Then, out of nowhere–

“I could do it.”

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

Garcia gasps, hand flying to her mouth. “I’m sorry, WHAT?”

“I could be the donor,” Spencer says, entirely serious.

You and Garcia freeze.

She leans toward you, whispering behind her hand like he can’t hear. “Did he just–”

“Yes.”

“–say he could–”

“Yes, Penelope.”

Garcia lets out a strangled squeak. “Oh my god.”

You stare at him, eyes wide. “Spencer, what?!”

He looks slightly alarmed at your reaction. “I just meant–if you’re looking for a donor, I’m qualified. I’m healthy, I have no genetic disorders, my IQ is statistically above average–”

“Spencer!”

Garcia is openly wheezing now, turning red from trying to contain her laughter. “He’s pitching himself! This is a sales presentation!”

“I’m not pitching–” Spencer starts, looking genuinely confused. “I’m just saying–biologically speaking–”

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “Oh my god, I can’t believe this is happening.”

“It makes perfect sense,” he continues earnestly. “You’d know the donor personally, which eliminates risk factors, and the child would statistically inherit favorable cognitive traits–”

You point toward the door. “We are not doing this in front of Garcia.”

Garcia throws up her hands. “Excuse me! This is my office and my front-row seat to destiny!”

You grab Spencer’s sleeve and haul him into the hallway before she can get out another word.

Behind you, you hear her gleeful voice: “If you two name the baby after me, I want godmother rights!”

You slam the office door shut as you leave, pull him into the nearest empty office, shut the door, and exhale hard enough to rattle the blinds.

“Do you see how that’s a weird thing to offer?”

He blinks. “What part?”

“All of it! You’re my friend. You’re my coworker. You can’t just–just casually volunteer to father my child like you’re offering to spot me at the gym.”

He looks at you, sincere to a fault. “I didn’t mean it casually.”

You stop, thrown by the steadiness in his voice.

He fidgets, hands clasping and unclasping. “I meant it literally. I could be the donor. But also…” His voice drops, softer now. “I’d want to be the dad.”

The air changes.

“I don’t just want to help you start a family,” he says. “I want to be part of it. With you. If you’d want that.”

You blink at him, brain scrambling to keep up. “Oh.”

“I know this isn’t ideal timing. Or location. Or delivery.”

“You think?”

He winces. “Yeah. I panicked.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “This is… wow. I came in here to tell Garcia I might buy sperm off the internet, and somehow we landed on you volunteering yours in–” you gesture around the small room– “a supply closet.”

“It’s actually not a supply closet,” he says automatically. “Strauss used it for interviews once. The acoustics are–”

You cut in with a raised brow. “Spencer.”

“Right. Sorry.” He ducks his head a little, lips pressing together in that way he does when his brain catches up to his mouth too late.

You sigh, the sound coming out somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. You lean back against the desk, the cool edge biting through your slacks, grounding you. “So, you’d actually be okay with it? Like–really okay. Being a donor. Being involved.”

“I would,” he says immediately. No hesitation. His voice has that quiet steadiness that always sneaks up on you in interrogations–the kind that makes you believe him before you even decide to. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure.”

You study him for a beat. “But… why?”

He shifts his weight, one shoulder lifting in a small, nervous shrug. “Because I care about you.” His eyes flick up to meet yours, and it’s almost too much–too open. “Because you’re brilliant and kind and would make an incredible mom. And because–” he exhales, sheepish, “–statistically, it’s safer and more cost-effective than–”

“You don't have to pitch yourself again.”

His mouth twitches. “Are you sure? I can make a whole presentation if you need.”

You let out a startled laugh, the tension cracking just enough to breathe. “This is so weird.”

“I know,” he says softly, and there’s no defense in it. Just honesty. “But think about it. You’d know the donor. You’d know my medical history, my genetics. You wouldn’t have to worry about some stranger’s file in a database. And…” He hesitates, then adds, “you wouldn’t be doing it alone.”

Your arms uncross slowly, as if the words have weight to them. “You’re seriously okay with that level of involvement?”

He nods, firm now. “If you wanted it, yes. I wouldn’t just–contribute genetic material and disappear.” His lips twitch like he knows how clinical that sounded. “I’d be there. School drop-offs. Homework. First words. All of it.”

You stare at him, trying to process the quiet conviction in his tone. There’s no flustered rambling now, no statistics to hide behind–just Spencer, standing there and meaning every syllable.

It’s a lot to take in. But weirdly? It doesn’t feel wrong.

You press your lips together, pulse steadying as you find your footing. “I’m not saying yes.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” His voice is softer now, careful, like he’s afraid to push.

You glance down at your hands, then back up at him. His fingers aren’t fidgeting anymore. They’re still, relaxed at his sides–a small miracle for someone who lives in motion.

“But you’re making…” You huff out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “An unnervingly good case.”

A smile ghosts across his face. “I do read a lot.”

You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t quite hide the way your chest warms. “I need to think about it.”

“Of course.” His tone is steady, but his eyes soften. “Take all the time you need. Really.”

Silence settles again–but this time it’s different. Not heavy, not awkward. Just a kind of fragile calm, like both of you are standing on the edge of something you didn’t mean to find.

You let out a long breath. “This is probably going to be the strangest conversation I have all year.”

He tilts his head, a half-smile playing at his mouth. “We work for the BAU. That’s a pretty high bar.”

You laugh–a real one this time–and watch him relax by degrees.

You turn toward the door, hand brushing the knob before you stop and glance back. “Hey, Spencer?”

He looks up, attentive as always.

“I know it probably wasn’t easy to say all that.”

His gaze holds yours, steady and unguarded. “It wasn’t.”

You nod once, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Well… thanks for saying it anyway.”

His reply comes quiet, sure. “Anytime.”

“What do we have on our victims? Let's go through everything again.”

Hotch stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, expression unreadable as he looks over the team.

The conference room settles immediately. Files open. Pens lift. The familiar rhythm of a profile being rebuilt from the ground up.

Beside you, Reid reaches for his file. His sleeve brushes your arm. It's barely anything. A passing touch. Accidental. Meaningless.

Your entire nervous system reacts like someone fired a starter pistol. You keep your eyes firmly on your notes. You are absolutely not a grown adult getting flustered because Spencer Reid's elbow exists.

Across the table, Morgan flips open his folder. "Victim one, Franklin Harris. Forty-four. Janitor.”

Hotch nods. "Victim two?"

"Jason Blake," JJ answers. "Forty-one. High school guidance counselor."

Prentiss picks up the thread. “Victim three was Leonard Gibson. Thirty-four. Accountant. Lived alone.

"And victims four and five were the married couple. Rachel and Steven Beckett. Thirty-eight and forty. Married eleven years, Rachel was a realtor, Steven worked at a local farm.”

“Any theories on why he chose them? Why he labeled them as liars?” Hotch asks.

JJ looks up. “I have a theory. When we interviewed the victims' families, one of the relatives from the Beckett’s mentioned an accident."

You straighten slightly. "What kind of accident?"

"Car crash." JJ glances down again. "It happened about four months ago."

"Fatal?" Rossi asks.

JJ nods. "One person died."

"Who was driving?" Reid asks.

"Steven."

"And he survived."

"Minor injuries." JJ taps her pen lightly against the page. "The family member said there were rumors afterward."

"What kind of rumors?" Hotch asks.

JJ exhales. "That he ran a stop sign."

Morgan frowns. "But officially?"

"The investigation ruled him not at fault.”

“Okay,” Prentiss says. “So you think the unsub went after them for that?”

“It’s a good theory,” Morgan says.

“The man who died, does he have any immediate family?” Hotch asks.

JJ nods. “He left a wife and an adult son behind.”

“Bring them in, I want them interviewed.” Hotch turns toward the board. "What about the others? Any similar incidents?"

Prentiss straightens slightly in her chair. "I've been digging into Jason Blake." She opens the folder and slides a page onto the table. "He worked as a guidance counselor at a local high school."

Morgan nods. "We already knew that."

"Yeah," Prentiss says. "What we didn't know was that there was a complaint filed against him about eighteen months ago."

Your attention sharpens immediately. "What kind of complaint?"

Prentiss exhales. "A student committed suicide. The parents claimed their son had been experiencing severe bullying for months."

JJ winces slightly.

"The family repeatedly contacted the school." Prentiss  glances down at her notes. "Blake told them he investigated. Said there was no evidence of ongoing harassment."

A knot forms somewhere low in your stomach.

"And there was?" Reid asks.

Prentiss nods. "A lot of it."

The room falls silent again.

"He never investigated," JJ says quietly.

"The school eventually conducted an independent review after the student's death. Emails surfaced. Teacher reports surfaced. Statements from other students surfaced." Prentiss pauses. "Blake knew. He lied."

Across the room, Rossi slowly folds his arms. "The parents ever confront him?"

Prentiss nods. "Publicly."

"How publicly?"

"School board meetings. Local papers. Social media."

Morgan exhales through his nose. "So everybody knew."

"Pretty much.”

Hotch nods. “Alright. That gives us theories for why he was targeted. Prentiss and Rossi, talk to the parents who accused Jason Blake. Clear them and see if they had any supporters who may have been too supportive. What about Harris and Gibson? Any ideas on them?”

“Nothing yet,” Kessler says. “But Harris was an accountant, maybe he was scamming people?”

“It’s a possibility,” Hotch says. “Call Garcia, have her look into his records. In the meantime, I want Morgan and Kessler to go talk to Turner again. He knew about the unsub’s M.O., I want to know how.”

“Hotch, with all due respect, it is a relatively small town. Couldn’t he have just known from word-of-mouth?” you ask.

Hotch nods once. “He could. But I want to make sure he doesn’t know more than we think. While they’re gone, I want you and Reid to take Gibson. Dig into his past as well, and see if you can find a theory for why he was targeted.”

“Got it,” Reid says.

Hotch gives one last nod. “Let’s move.”

An hour later, the precinct is hectic. Everyone is doing something. Garcia tracked down a handful of people from Harris’s life to interview, ask if he ever hid anything serious. Morgan and Kessler are on their way to speak to Turner again. Prentiss and Rossi brought in the parents of the bullied student, as well as a few people Garcia found posting notable support.

And then there’s Reid, sitting at the desk next to you, staring at files and notes from Harris’s past. His brow is furrowed, his eyes trailing across the paper in front of him repeatedly, as if there’s possibly any more information he could gain from it. He keeps bouncing his knee, then catching himself and stopping the motion, only for it to start again a few moments later.

You’ve been skimming Harris’is life for any hints as to why the unsub chose him, but nothing has come up yet.

Suddenly, Reid pushes away from the desk and stands, his chair scraping across the floor. You look up at him, a brow raised in silent question. 

“I need a break,” he says. “Coffee?”

You glance back down at the files, then back up at him. “Yeah, I could use a break, too.”

So, the two of you walk together toward the break room.

It isn’t much, just a table and two chairs, a beat up fridge, a microwave that looks like it’s from the 50s, and a coffee maker that’s seen better days. You take a seat in one of the chairs, letting out a sigh as Reid starts the coffee.

“So,” he starts, facing away from you, “I, uh, saw you got a job offer the other day.”

“Oh, yeah, I was offered a research position at the lab I used to intern at,” you say.

The coffee maker spurts and drips loudly as the last bit of coffee fills the pot. 

“What was the research?” he asks as he pours the steaming liquid into two paper coffee cups. 

“Behavioral analysis,” you say, accepting one of the mugs from him. 

“Is that how you got into the BAU?”

“Sort of,” you say. He sits down in the empty chair across from you.

“Did you like it?”

“I loved it,” you admit. “Research like that is what I joined university for.”

Reid nods. At first, you think that's the end of it.

He wraps both hands around his coffee cup, staring down into it as steam curls between his fingers. The silence stretches.

You take another sip of coffee. Reid doesn't. His brow remains faintly furrowed.

“You'd be good at it,” he says finally.

“The research job?”

He nods. “You already think that way.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Think what way?”

“Pattern-oriented.” His gaze lifts briefly. “Patient.”

“That's not usually the feedback I get.”

“It's accurate.”

The certainty in his voice lands somewhere uncomfortable. Not because it's unwelcome. Because it's Reid. And Reid doesn't hand out compliments casually. Everything he says tends to arrive after being examined from six different angles first.

You glance down at your coffee. “Thanks.”

He nods once. Then he goes quiet again. Long enough that you start wondering again if he's finished. He's not. You can see it happening. The way his fingers tighten slightly around the paper cup. The way his eyes drift away and back again. Like he's debating whether something is worth saying.

Finally:

“Are you going to take it?”

You blink. The question surprises you more than it should. “I—”

The word catches halfway out. You glance down into your coffee.

The answer should be simple. It isn't. Because the truth is, you don't know. Two days ago you would've said no immediately. Yesterday, maybe. 

Now?

Now there's a folder sitting in your hotel room and a voice in the back of your head asking questions you'd been perfectly happy not asking before you got that letter.

You open your mouth again, but your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room so abruptly both of you flinch slightly.

You glance down automatically. Morgan.

Seeing his contact name makes you anxious instantly. Morgan shouldn't be calling. Not while he's interviewing Turner. Not unless something went wrong.

Across the table, Reid's brow furrows.

You answer. “Hey, what's—”

“Where's Hotch?”

Morgan's voice is wrong. Too controlled. The kind of controlled that usually means something has already gone very, very bad. Your posture straightens instantly. Reid notices, raises a brow.

“What happened?” you ask.

“Turner's gone.”

“What the hell does you mean he's gone?” you ask.

Across from you, Reid is already standing. His chair scrapes loudly across the linoleum as he does.

Morgan exhales sharply through the phone. “He got transferred back to county holding about an hour ago. Transport van stopped for gas. Driver went inside. Deputy stayed with the vehicle.”

Your stomach sinks.

“He overpowered the deputy.”

“Shit,” you mutter. 

“He got the cuffs off somehow,” Morgan continues. “We're still trying to figure out how. Deputy's got a concussion and can't remember half of what happened.”

“We need to get Garcia on surveillance footage. See if she can track where Turner is running to,” Reid says.

“Kessler and I are working on getting the footage from the gas station. I’ll call Garcia next, but I couldn’t get ahold of Hotch.”

“He was talking to the chief, we’ll let him know,” you say.

By the time everyone gathers again, the energy is different. Not quite frantic, but it’s getting there.

Hotch stands at the head of the table, one hand braced on the back of a chair as Garcia’s voice fills the room through the speakerphone.

“Okay, so our favorite contractor is officially making horrible life choices,” she says, the rapid clicking of her keyboard filtering in behind her words. “I’ve got traffic cams, gas station footage, and one very grainy image that may just be a raccoon driving a pickup truck, but I am choosing optimism.”

Morgan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Babygirl.”

“Right. Serious. Sorry.” A few keys click. “Turner is definitely heading north. Confirmed by three separate traffic cams. Last visual was about forty minutes ago. He was driving a stolen 1994 Chevy Silverado, hasn’t been found yet but I put out a BOLO.”

“Any idea of his destination?” Hotch asks.

“Nothing solid yet, I’m pulling financials, cell activity, family members, former associates, ex-girlfriends, gym memberships, suspicious Yelp reviews. The usual.”

“Keep us updated.”

“You got it.”

Hotch turns toward the board. “Assume Turner is dangerous until located.”

“He already killed one victim. And took out a deputy,” Prentiss says.

“And now he’s running,” JJ adds.

The room settles into a brief silence. You feel it before anyone says it. The doubt. The question sitting in the center of the table.

Kessler is the one who finally says it. 

“If Turner fled immediately after being taken into custody,” she says carefully, “we need to consider the possibility that our original assessment was wrong.”

Nobody responds right away. It’s not a disagreement, just caution.

“He confessed to killing Lauren Powell,” Kessler continues.

“Eventually,” Morgan says.

“After significant pressure.”

Your jaw tightens. “Pressure doesn’t create confessions.”

“No,” Kessler agrees. “But it can shape them.”

Reid shifts in his chair. “The behavioral distinctions between Turner and the original unsub still stand.”

“They do,” Kessler agrees again. Always agreeable. Always measured. Never quite pushing hard enough to sound confrontational. “But behavioral distinctions aren’t always reliable evidence.”

Your eyes drop briefly to the table. You know where this is going. You know it before she looks at you. Before anyone does.

“Part of the determination came from the interview.”

There it is. Not quite an accusation, but somehow worse. An invitation. A request. Explain yourself.

You clear your throat. “He was lying about Lauren.”

“Yes.”

“And telling the truth about the others.”

Kessler’s expression remains neutral. “How do you know?”

The question nearly makes you flinch. How do you know? You don’t have a clean answer.

“I just… I know.”

Kessler waits. Patient. Reasonable. “Can you explain how?”

Your fingers tighten around your pen. 

You aren’t sure why her questioning feels like an attack. They’re reasonable questions. You haven’t built trust with Kessler. She doesn’t know how many times you’ve been right about these things, how long you studied behavioral tells. But it doesn’t feel simple.

“It’s different.”

Brilliant. Very convincing. You sound ridiculous.

“It’s just…” You struggle for something concrete. “When people lie, there’s usually tension behind it. Like they’re steering away from something.”

Kessler nods. “And Turner?”

“He lied about Lauren immediately.” You can hear yourself becoming less certain the longer she stares at you. “He reacted before he thought.”

The memory replays itself.  Turner shouting. Exploding. Panicking. Confessing. But now more thoughts slip in. Turner escaping. Running. Heading north.

“He never lied about the others.”

Kessler studies you for a moment. “Or he was simply better prepared for those questions.”

You don’t answer. Because you can’t immediately dismiss her concern. That’s the problem. You can’t prove any of this. You never could. You just know.

Except knowing sounds a lot less impressive when someone starts asking for receipts.

Kessler crosses her arms like she’s decided that’s enough. “I say we move forward with the theory that Turner lied.”

"The original unsub and Turner are different offenders."

This time the voice comes from beside you. Reid.

You glance up. His gaze is fixed on Kessler, calm and certain. "The crime scenes support that."

"They support the possibility."

"They support the probability."

Kessler tilts her head slightly.

Reid doesn't back down. "The carving patterns differ. Victim selection differs. Escalation differs.”

Kessler stays quiet for a minute. “And if it was his plan? To make us think Lauren Powell was different?”

“What's the difference between confessing to one murder versus five? If he wanted to throw us off, why would he confess at all?” Morgan asks.

“Pressure,” Kessler says again, “Maybe he confessed because he knew he was caught, but he assumed one murder was better than five. Maybe it was his plan the entire time, and he was just trying to make Lauren’s murder look different to throw us off..”

Reid's expression doesn't change.

"If Turner wanted us to believe Lauren Powell was a separate offense," he says evenly, "then carving the same word into her body would have been the worst possible way to accomplish that.”

Kessler doesn’t respond right away. She just looks at him, her brows slightly furrowed.

Reid continues. "He didn't create a new narrative. He borrowed an existing one."

Morgan nods once. "Exactly."

"The original unsub spent weeks establishing a ritual," Reid says. "Victim selection, post-mortem staging, geographic consistency. Turner copied the most visible element because it was the only part he understood."

Kessler leans back slightly in her chair. "That's an assumption."

"It's a conclusion supported by evidence."

Her gaze narrows just a fraction.

"The carving wasn't symmetrical," Reid says. "The depth varied. The placement differed. The scene organization differed. The victimology differed. The scene was outside of the established comfort zone. Every measurable component diverged from the established pattern."

You glance over at him. His voice remains calm. Almost detached. But there's a firmness underneath it now. It isn’t irritation, it’s conviction.

"The behavioral assessment didn't originate from the confession," he continues. "The confession supported conclusions we had already reached."

A brief silence settles across the room.

Kessler studies him for a moment. Then she nods once. “Fair enough."

But something about it doesn't feel finished.

You glance toward her. She's already studying the victims’ photos again. Already moved on.

Except she hasn't. You can tell. Because she asked. And asked. And asked. Not because she wanted the answer. Because she wanted to see what happened when you didn't have one.

Your eyes drift to the photos pinned to the board.

LIAR.

The word stares back. For the first time since this case started, a quiet, ugly thought slips into your head.

What if Kessler’s right? What if Turner isn't the only person you've ever been wrong about?

The room keeps talking around you. Routes. Search grids. Traffic cameras. Manhunts. But for a moment, all you can hear is your own uncertainty.

Hotch straightens from where he'd been leaning against the table. "Until evidence suggests otherwise, Turner remains responsible for Powell only."

And across the table, Reid glances at you once. Just once. A brief look, concerned and observant. Like he noticed exactly where your thoughts went. And doesn't particularly like it.

It takes another hour for Garcia to call. An hour of maps. An hour of traffic cameras. An hour of everyone pretending they aren't waiting for the phone to ring.

When it finally does, the entire room seems to shift toward it.

Garcia doesn't bother with a greeting. "I think I found him."

Every conversation stops.

Hotch reaches for the speaker. "Location?"

Keys clatter rapidly in the background. "Property about three hours north. Rural. Very rural. Like horror-movie-level trees. The land belongs to Turner's aunt, technically, but Turner helped renovate the cabin about four years ago after a storm damaged part of it."

A map appears on the screen. Dense forest. One access road. Nothing nearby.

Morgan leans forward. "Any activity?"

"Not confirmed," Garcia says. "No cameras out there, but the Silverado was picked up heading in that direction. After that? Radio silence."

"You think he's hiding there?" Prentiss asks.

"I think if I escaped police custody and wanted somewhere familiar, isolated, and free of witnesses, it'd be on my shortlist."

Hotch nods. "Local law enforcement?"

"Already notified."

"Good."

You study the map. The cabin sits alone in a sea of green. Hidden. Disconnected. A place someone could disappear.

"Could be coincidence," Kessler says.

Morgan looks at her. "You got a better idea?"

"No." Her gaze remains fixed on the map. "Just saying we shouldn't assume he's there until we confirm it."

Fair. Annoyingly fair.

Hotch is already moving. "Morgan, Prentiss, coordinate with local SWAT and clear the property."

Morgan nods once.

"JJ, I want you on a call to coordinate with Garcia. I want updates the second we get movement."

"Got it."

"Rossi, Kessler, finish interviews. Revisit everyone connected to the Beckett accident."

Neither of them argue. Then Hotch's gaze lands on you.

"You and Reid keep digging into Harris.”

You nod. "Got it."

Beside you, Reid is already gathering his files.

"Good," Hotch says. "Move.”

Once everyone leaves, the precinct feels quieter. 

Not actually quieter. Phones still ring. Officers still move through the precinct carrying stacks of paper and lukewarm coffee. Someone drops a file near the front desk and swears under their breath. But everything feels muted, like listening through glass.

You settle back into your chair beside Reid, pulling Harris's file toward you. 

Reid watches you for a second instead of working.

"You okay?" he asks after a moment.

You glance toward him. "What?”

Reid looks away first. Not because he's uncomfortable exactly. More like he's thinking. "You've been quieter."

You stare at him for a second.

“Since Kessler's questioning, I mean.”

You lean back slightly in your chair and force a laugh that doesn't quite sound convincing. "Wow. Profiling me now?"

"I wasn't profiling you,” he says. “Just observing.”

You shake your head. “What is profiling if not observing?”

The corner of his mouth twitches just slightly. Then his expression settles again. More serious this time.

"You know Kessler’s wrong.”

Your smile fades. Your eyes move back to the file in front of you. “Do I?”

"Yes."

The certainty comes so quickly it makes you look back up. Reid is already watching you, his gaze steady. Like he thinks this shouldn't even be a question.

You pick at the corner of a page. "She wasn't completely wrong."

"No," he agrees.

That surprises you even more. You furrow your brow.

Reid tilts his head slightly. "You can't prove it."

You huff a laugh. "Thank you, Spencer. That's extremely reassuring."

"I'm not finished."

You fall quiet.

He glances briefly toward the victim board before continuing. "You can't prove it because what you do isn't a measurable process." His fingers tap lightly against the file. "It's pattern recognition."

"That's a fancy way of saying instinct."

"No." The answer comes immediately. "Instinct is unconscious. What you do is different."

“Different?” you ask flatly. “Right.”

He shifts slightly in his chair. "You notice behavioral inconsistencies. Micro-expressions. Speech patterns. Emotional responses. Then your brain processes them faster than you can consciously explain."

You stare at him. "You make it sound scientific."

"It is scientific." Again, no hesitation in his voice. No doubt laced through his words. Just something he believes with certainty. "You've been right every time I've seen you do it."

The room suddenly feels much smaller. 

You glance away. "That's not true."

"It is.”

The immediate response makes you laugh despite yourself.

Reid frowns slightly. "I can think of at least three times you've noticed something everyone else missed in the last week.”

You shake your head. "That's different."

"Why?"

Because those times weren't important. Because those times didn't involve murder investigations. Because those times didn't involve people potentially going to prison. Because—

You don't actually have a good answer.

Reid waits. When none comes, he continues. "You know what Morgan says when you're interviewing someone?"

You blink. "What?"

"He says the fastest way to figure out who's lying is to watch who you're looking at."

Your mouth falls open slightly. "He says that?"

"Frequently.” A pause. "Usually right before he bets on whether you're about to make somebody cry."

You let out another surprised huff of laughter. Reid's expression brightens for a moment before sobering again.

"Kessler doesn't know you." The words are simple. Matter-of-fact. "She's known you for less than a week. I've worked with you."

Your chest tightens unexpectedly.

Reid shrugs one shoulder. "She's evaluating a skill she hasn't observed long enough to understand."

You look down at your coffee-stained notes. "What if she's right, though?"

The question comes out quieter than you intended. Reid doesn't answer immediately. For a moment, all you hear is the distant buzz of the precinct.

"What if she isn't?"

You glance up. His expression is calm. Gentle, almost. "If I stopped trusting every conclusion I reached the first time someone questioned it, I wouldn't be able to do this job."

The words settle somewhere deep. Because he means them. Not as encouragement, as the truth.

"You know what I think?" he asks.

You raise an eyebrow. "Dangerous question."

"I think you're one of the most observant people I've ever met."

Your heart promptly forgets how to function. Reid, thankfully, appears completely unaware of the damage he's just caused.

He keeps talking. "I think you notice things most people overlook." Another page turns beneath his fingers. "I think you've helped solve multiple cases because of it." He glances up. "And I think you're letting one person's skepticism outweigh years of evidence."

You stare at him. He stares back. Completely serious. No embarrassment or hesitation. Just Spencer Reid stating a conclusion he believes is objectively true.

Your throat feels strangely tight. "That's a very nice thing to say."

"It's not a nice thing." He frowns slightly. "It's an accurate thing."

The answer is so perfectly Spencer that a laugh escapes before you can stop it.

Next to you, his shoulders loosen slightly. Like that was the goal all along. Not convincing you, just getting you to smile again.

"Okay," you say quietly.

Reid nods once, satisfied. "Okay."

A moment passes. Then he slides the Harris file away. “I want to see your notes.”

“My notes?”

He nods. “You were taking notes earlier. I noticed you write something about his records being sealed.”

You blink. "Oh. Yeah."

Reid waits as you flip back through your notebook, finding the scribbled note wedged between timelines and victim interviews.

"There was a sealed record from about twenty years ago," you say. "Nothing detailed. Just enough to show something existed."

Reid leans slightly closer. "What kind of record?"

You shrug. "No idea. Juvenile maybe. The system flagged it and then immediately locked me out."

His brow furrows. "And you didn't mention this?"

"I was going to ask Garcia to unseal it.”

Reid nods immediately. "Let's do that.”

You pull out your phone. Garcia answers on the second ring.

"Tell me somebody found a body because I am running out of ways to entertain myself."

"Good afternoon to you too."

"Hello, my beloved government employees,” she says dramatically. “Now, what wizardry do you need me to perform?”

You explain the sealed file.

There's a pause. Then rapid keyboard clattering. Then more keyboard clattering. Then what sounds suspiciously like additional recreational keyboard clattering.

"Huh."

You straighten. "Huh good or huh bad?"

"Huh interesting."

Reid immediately leans forward. "What did you find?"

"Well first, whoever sealed this thing really wanted it buried." More typing. "And second..."

Silence.

Your stomach drops. "Garcia?"

"Franklin Harris wasn't the one with the record."

You exchange a glance with Reid. "What?"

"The file is attached to his name now, but twenty-three years ago it belonged to somebody else."

You sit up straighter.

"What do you mean somebody else?" Reid asks.

"It was amended after a legal name change."

Next to you, Reid freezes. The way he always does when a piece suddenly clicks into a larger puzzle.

"Garcia," he says carefully, "whose name?"

"Franklin Harris was born Daniel Mercer."

You look at Reid. Reid looks at you.

Garcia continues. "And Daniel Mercer was involved in a juvenile court case connected to a sixteen-year-old girl named Emily Warren.”

"What kind of juvenile case?" you ask.

Garcia exhales. "The official record is incomplete. A lot of the original documentation is missing.”

"Missing?"

"Missing missing," Garcia says. "Not redacted. Not sealed. Gone."

Beside you, Reid straightens. "That's unusual."

"That's what I thought." A few more keys click. "The surviving court summary says Emily Warren was sixteen years old when she reported Daniel Mercer for sexual assault. She was pregnant.”

For a second neither of you speak.

"Mercer was the alleged father?" Reid asks.

"According to the complaint, yes."

You feel a knot forming in your stomach. "What happened?"

Garcia lets out a humorless laugh. "What happened is somebody had money."

You glance at Reid. His jaw tightens.

"The case never went to trial," Garcia says. "Emily recanted part of her statement three months later."

"Part of it?"

"Enough of it."

The answer lands heavily.

"Family?" Reid asks.

"Oh, definitely family." More typing. "I found property records, campaign donations, legal invoices. Daniel Mercer's father owned half the county twenty years ago."

"Hyperbole?" you ask.

"Nope." A pause. "Actually less hyperbole than I'd like." You hear rustling on Garcia's end. "His father retained three separate attorneys within six weeks of the accusation."

Three. For a juvenile case.

You exchange another glance with Reid.

"The Warrens moved less than a year later."

"Moved where?" you ask.

"Three states away."

"And the child?" Reid asks.

"Looks like a boy." You hear more typing. "Born seven months after the complaint."

You sit up straighter. "Name?"

“Paul Warren.”

You and Reid are already on your feet before Garcia finishes speaking.

"Send everything you have on Warren," Reid says.

"Already doing it," Garcia replies.

The line disconnects a second later.

The two of you are halfway down the bullpen before either of you says another word. Hotch is still in the conference room when you arrive. Rossi, JJ, and Prentiss are there too, sorting through interview notes while they wait for updates on Turner.

Hotch looks up immediately. Something in your expression must give it away. "What is it?"

You set the file down on the table. "We found a connection to Harris."

That gets everyone's attention.

Reid moves toward the board. "Franklin Harris wasn't originally Franklin Harris," he says. "He legally changed his name twenty-three years ago."

Prentiss straightens. "Why?"

"Because Franklin Harris was originally Daniel Mercer. And when Mercer was seventeen, a sixteen-year-old girl named Emily Warren accused him of sexual assault."

Rossi's expression hardens immediately.

"The case disappeared," Reid says. "Records missing. Witness statements incomplete. Family retained multiple attorneys. The victim recanted part of her statement."

"Mercer's father had money," you add.

Hotch's jaw tightens.

"And the girl?" JJ asks quietly.

"Moved away less than a year later."

You glance down at your notes. "She gave birth to a son, Paul Warren.”

"Paul Warren?" Rossi repeats.

The name lands differently coming from him. You look up. Rossi is already reaching for a file.

"Paul Warren was one of the interviews."

Prentiss frowns. "What interview?"

"The Blake interview." Rossi flips open the folder. "He was one of the people we brought in this morning."

A cold feeling settles low in your stomach. Rossi finds the page and slides it across the table.

"Paul Warren was close friends with Tyler Evans, the high school student Blake lied about.”

“Is he still here?” Hotch asks.

Rossi shakes his head. “No, he left just before we found Turner's possible destination.”

Prentiss mutters a curse. “Let me guess—tall, dark hair, blue button up?”

Rossi raises a brow. “How did you know?”

“He was lingering before he left. Claimed he was lost,” Prentiss says. “But now, I think he was waiting to hear Turner's location.”

“We need to move,” Hotch says. “He could be on his way there now.”

The shift from conference room to jet always feels wrong in a way you can never fully explain. 

Like a sudden time skip before you understand the plot.

One second you’re under fluorescent lights with crime scene photos burned into the backs of your eyes, and the next you’re thirty thousand feet in the air with stale coffee and recycled oxygen humming through the cabin vents like none of it followed you onboard.

But it always does.

By the time you settle into your seat, the engines have already smoothed themselves into a steady vibration beneath your ribs. Files reopen. Pens resume their quiet scratching. Conversations pick back up mid-thought, seamless and strange, like the case never paused at all—it just changed rooms.

You tuck your bag beneath the seat with a practiced push of your foot and pull your tablet back out.

Across from you, Reid is already talking.

“—if the marking is post-mortem, then the act itself isn’t about silencing the victim,” he says, fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the file as the thought organizes itself in real time. “It’s symbolic. Which means ‘liar’ probably isn’t situational. It’s categorical.”

Morgan leans back slightly in his seat. “So not something they did. Something they are.”

“Or something he believes they are,” JJ adds.

Reid nods quickly. “Right. Exactly.”

Across the aisle, Kessler listens without interrupting.

There’s something unusually precise about the way she pays attention. Not passive. Not performative either. More like she’s sorting through the room in layers, deciding what deserves to stay.

“He’s not testing them,” she says after a moment. “He’s confirming something he already decided before he met them.”

Reid’s expression sharpens slightly, interested.

“So the interaction beforehand is probably structured around validation,” he says. “He’s not discovering deception. He’s looking for proof of it.”

Something in your chest catches faintly on that. It's not wrong.

More like a sentence missing its last word.

You glance back down at the photos.

LIAR.

Centered. Symmetrical. Controlled.

Your mouth opens slightly—

—and the phone rings.

The sound cuts through the cabin so sharply everyone stills for half a second before Morgan grabs it. “Talk to me, babygirl.”

“We’ve got another one.”

The air changes instantly.

Hotch leans forward slightly from his seat. “Location?”

“Just outside the original radius,” Garcia says. “About thirty miles out this time. Rural property. Local PD just called it in. Same markings.”

JJ’s pen stills. “Any information on the victim?”

“Female. Mid-thirties. Found inside the home. No signs of forced entry.”

Expansion of radius and shift in victim profile.

The geometry of the case rearranges itself immediately in your head, pieces shifting before you can consciously track them.

“Send us everything,” Hotch says.

“It’s already uploading.”

A soft chime cuts through the cabin a second later.

Morgan opens the file first.

The image loads.

It's a different house, different victim, but the same word.

LIAR.

Carved into skin in the same place as the others. But something catches at you immediately.

Your eyes narrow slightly as you scroll through the pictures. You stop when you come to a close-up of the carved word.

“Hold on,” you say softly. “It's different.”

Morgan glances up. “What?”

You lean forward a little, tapping lightly against your screen. “The placement’s different.”

Reid’s gaze drops immediately to where you’re pointing.

“The others were centered,” you say, thoughts gathering speed now that they’ve surfaced. “Symmetrical. Deliberate. Almost like the unsub actually measured before cutting. This one's off. More jagged, slightly crooked, a bit off centered.”

Morgan leans in slightly. “You think he rushed this one?”

You shake your head immediately. “No. It’s still controlled.” Your brow furrows. “Just… closer. Maybe less intentional, more personal?"

The words feel wrong. Like they aren't quite close enough.

Kessler tilts her head slightly, eyes flicking to the image, then back to you.

“I don’t think it’s less intentional,” she says, tone calm, measured.

You glance up.

Her expression stays composed. Certain in that quiet, polished way that somehow makes uncertainty feel embarrassing. “It’s actually more intentional.”

Reid nods as though he understands. You, meanwhile, raise a brow in confusion.

Kessler gestures lightly toward the image.

“I believe the placement suggests proximity, like you said,” she says to you  “But it's because it wasn't about her being found this time. This was just for the unsub. The act mattered more than the presentation this time.”

Reid studies the image again, eyes narrowing slightly.

And there it is again.

That quick alignment between them.

Easy. Immediate. Like stepping into rhythm without needing to search for it first.

“That would also explain the depth variation,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “The earlier incisions are consistent across all three victims. Same pressure. Same angle.” His gaze flicks lower. “This one changes.”

Emily nods. “The first stroke is deeper. The rest taper off slightly. That suggests emotional escalation during the act itself. He wasn’t just marking her—he was reacting.”

Morgan exhales through his nose. “So something she said set him off.”

“Or didn’t say,” JJ counters, leaning in. “If he’s expecting a confession and doesn’t get one…”

“He compensates,” Reid finishes. “Physically.”

“So we’re looking at a subject whose behavior is shifting from controlled presentation to emotionally driven action,” you say.

Prentiss nods once. “That’s escalation.”

“And proximity,” Reid adds again, almost to himself. “He’s getting closer during the interaction. Less detached.”

Kessler watches him as he speaks, something intent in her expression. Not surprise. Not quite approval either. Something more  measured.

“Which suggests the fantasy is destabilizing,” she says. “He’s no longer satisfied with the symbolic act alone.”

Hotch gives a short, decisive nod, the kind that closes a door without slamming it.

“We’ll continue this on the ground,” he says, voice even, already shifting the team forward. “For now, review what we have. I want initial impressions ready when we land.”

There’s a quiet shuffle of movement. Papers adjust. Screens dim slightly. The rhythm of the jet fills the spaces where conversation used to be.

Across from you, Reid drifts somewhere deeper into the case, gaze fixed just slightly past the screen like he’s reconstructing something invisible behind it. His fingers tap once against the file before stilling again.

You try to find the thread you had earlier.

The placement. The feeling of it. The sense that the word itself mattered differently here somehow.

But it keeps slipping sideways before you can fully grab it.

“You were right to notice the variation.”

You look up from your tablet.

Kessler has leaned slightly closer across the aisle, voice pitched just low enough not to travel. Up close, her expression is composed, thoughtful in that precise, practiced way you're already expecting.

Composed.

Intentional.

Like every expression passes through inspection before being released into the world.

“Most people would’ve dismissed that as inconsistency,” she continues, quiet, conversational. “But it’s not. It’s a meaningful deviation.”

There’s a small pause. Just enough space for the words to settle.

“You seem good at that,” she adds. “Catching details without overcomplicating them. A lot of people in this field miss obvious things because they’re too busy trying to sound intelligent.”

Your fingers curl slightly against the edge of your tablet.

Small. Subtle. Easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it.

A fractional delay before the compliment lands. Not in her words. In her body. The way her shoulders settle a beat too late. The way her gaze holds just a fraction longer than it needs to, like she’s making sure it takes.

Not exactly a lie. Just polished before release.

Like the truth got edited for audience appeal.

Your chest tightens faintly.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Thanks.”

You smile automatically.

It feels convincing.

Kessler nods once, satisfied, like the exchange has reached its natural conclusion. She leans back into her seat, attention already shifting forward again, back into the case like that moment never needed to linger.

You let your gaze drop back to your screen.

LIAR.

When you arrive at the precinct, the first thing you notice is the smell. Old coffee, dust, and whatever cleaner the janitor uses drift through the air.

Everything is a little too bright, a little too flat. The kind of place where voices carry even when people try to keep them contained.

Local officers move around with that particular blend of urgency and uncertainty that comes with handling a case with the BAU. Files shift hands. Someone’s explaining something too fast near the front desk. A printer hums constantly like it’s part of the investigation.

Hotch speaks briefly with the lead detective, voice low, efficient. JJ and Prentiss peel off toward the bullpen area, already asking for timelines, victim background, anything that fills in the edges. Morgan’s talking to uniforms by the door.

Kessler stands just slightly apart from it all, listening. Observing. Filing.

You hover for half a second, not quite sure where you’re meant to land—

“Interview room two,” Hotch’s voice cuts cleanly through the noise.

You look up. He’s already looking at you.

“The husband’s waiting,” he continues. “Lance Powell.” A small nod toward the hallway. Direct. Decided. “Take Reid with you.”

Your stomach does a small, unhelpful flip.

“Okay,” you say, because that’s the only answer that exists.

Beside you, Reid shifts slightly, like he was already half-moving before the instruction finished. His expression is focused, but there’s something quieter under it. Attention, maybe. Or just proximity.

“Right,” he says, glancing toward the hallway. “Yeah.”

You nod once and start walking.

The hallway narrows the world down to footsteps and breath.

The noise from the precinct dulls behind you, replaced by something more contained. Doors. Numbers. The faint echo of voices through walls that were never meant to keep things entirely private.

You reach room two. A simple grey door, wired window, and a metal handle that’s cold to the touch when you turn it.

Lance Powell is already inside.

He looks like someone who hasn’t fully caught up to what’s happened yet.

Mid-forties, maybe. Early fifties. Hard to tell. Grief does that—pulls years forward, collapses them inward. His hair is uncombed, shirt wrinkled like he slept in it or didn’t sleep at all. There’s a shadow along his jaw that wasn’t intentional.

A cup of coffee sits in front of him, untouched.

His hands are wrapped loosely around it anyway, like he needs something to anchor them.

He looks up when you enter. Hope flickers first, then confusion. Then something heavier settles in behind it when he realizes you’re not whoever he was waiting for.

You step in anyway, keeping your movements slow, deliberate. Not cautious—just… respectful of the space he’s in.

“Mr. Powell?” you say, voice soft but steady.

He nods, once. Quick. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s—yeah.”

His voice is rough. Like it hasn’t been used properly in a while.

You pull out the chair across from him, sitting down without scraping it too loudly against the floor. Reid takes the seat slightly to your right, not crowding, not distant either. A quiet presence. A second set of eyes.

“I’m with the Behavioral Analysis Unit,” you continue. “We’re here to help figure out what happened.”

His grip tightens just slightly on the coffee cup.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Good. Good, that’s—” He nods again, faster this time. “They said you’d be—” He stops. Swallows. “They said you’d be good at this.”

You nod once, like that’s something you can accept without questioning right now.

“We’re going to ask you a few questions,” you say gently. “Just to understand the timeline. Anything you can tell us helps.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He leans forward slightly, like he’s ready to give you everything at once. “Whatever you need.”

“Can you walk me through yesterday?” you ask. “From the morning, if you can.”

He exhales, long, shaky. His gaze drops to the table, like the answers might be written there if he looks hard enough.

“I—I left early,” he starts. “Around six. I’ve got a job out near the highway, so I—” He gestures vaguely. “I’m usually gone before Lauren’s even up.”

His thumb drags absently along the rim of the coffee cup.

“She was asleep when I left,” he continues. “Or—I think she was. Bedroom door was closed.”

“And when did you come back?” you ask.

“Uh—late,” Lance says. “Later than usual. Traffic was bad, and I—” He shakes his head slightly. “I stopped for gas. Picked up dinner. Just—normal stuff.”

You nod slowly, letting him know you’re still listening, even as he stops to take a shaky breath.

“I got home around… eight-thirty? Nine, maybe.” He winces slightly, like the exact number is just out of reach. “Somewhere in there.”

You tilt your head just slightly, not breaking eye contact. “What happened when you got home?”

He inhales another shaking breath.

The grief is real. Immediate. It cracks through Mr. Powell before he can shove it back down. Tears start to form along his lower lash line, and he looks away like he doesn’t want you to see.

“I—” His voice stumbles. “I knew something was wrong. The door—” He gestures vaguely again. “It was unlocked. Lauren wouldn’t—she always locks it.”

His eyes shine, unfocused, pulled somewhere else entirely.

“I called out. She didn’t answer. And then I—” He swallows hard. “I found her.”

Reid’s gaze flicks briefly toward you, not questioning. Just checking. Aligning. You nod slightly, then look back to Mr. Powell. 

“Mr. Powell… can you think of any reason someone would want to hurt Lauren?"

He shakes his head immediately. Too quickly for it to be anything but a defense for his wife.

“No,” he says. “No, nothing like that. She—she was good. She was—everyone liked her. She didn’t… have enemies. She didn’t—she wasn’t—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “No. No reason.”

The word no lands too fast. Not just quick. Preloaded. Like they were waiting at the front of his mouth before you even finished asking.

Your gaze doesn’t leave his face.

There’s grief there. Real, sharp, still bleeding at the edges. You don’t question that part.

But it’s layered over something else.

His shoulders pulled just slightly inward. Not collapsing… bracing. His grip tightening around the cup, not for comfort, but for control. His eyes flicking down a fraction too soon, like they’re dodging something rather than searching for it.

He’s not just remembering. He’s managing.

You let a beat stretch. Not long enough to pressure. Just long enough to let the silence ask its own question.

“I understand,” you say gently.

He nods immediately, relief flickering across his face like he thinks you’re letting it go.

“I do,” you continue, voice still soft, still even. “You want to protect her.”

The relief stutters. His eyes lift back to yours.

“I’m not—” he starts.

You tilt your head, the smallest movement. “You’re trying to make sure she’s remembered the right way,” you say. “That the worst thing that ever happened to her doesn’t become the only thing people see.”

His throat works. Swallows.

“That makes sense,” you add quietly. “Anyone would want that.”

His grip loosens around the cup. Just slightly.

The truth always does that. It takes the tension out of the lie, even if it doesn’t replace it yet.

“But…” you say, and this time the word is careful. “If we don’t know what actually mattered in her life—what complicated things existed, what real things existed—” your fingers rest lightly against the table, grounding the words there instead of letting them float, “—then we’re working with a version of her that doesn’t exist.”

He looks at you like he wants to argue. Like he wants to say no again. But it doesn’t come out this time.

“Mr. Powell,” you say, quieter now, “who was she arguing with?”

“I—she wasn’t—” Lance tries again, but it’s weaker now. Less structure. The edges of it are already fraying.

You don’t let him build it back up.

“You paused,” you say gently. “When you said she didn’t have enemies.”

He freezes.

“You were going to say something else,” you continue. “And then you stopped.”

His jaw tightens.

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” you say, still soft. Still calm. “And it’s okay that you did.”

His eyes drop to the table again. This time, they stay there.

“She—” he starts, then stops. Shakes his head. “It wasn’t—” He exhales, sharp, frustrated. At himself. At you. At the situation. All of it tangled together. 

“It wasn’t like that,” he says finally, like he’s trying to convince the room more than you. “She just…” His thumb drags along the edge of the cup again, over and over, like he’s trying to wear the feeling down. “She talked. A lot.”

You nod once. Small. Neutral. Encouraging without pushing. “About what?”

He huffs a humorless breath.

“Everything,” he says. “Work. Friends. People she knew. People she didn’t know.” His mouth twists slightly. “Stuff she shouldn’t have known.”

Reid’s gaze sharpens just a fraction. “What kind of stuff?”

Lance glances at him, then back to you. Like you’re the one he’s answering to.

“Personal things,” he says. “Secrets. Gossip. Whatever you want to call it.” His grip tightens again. “She’d hear something and just—run with it.”

“Run with it how?” you ask.

“Like it was true,” he says, a little sharper now. Defensive again, but not hiding this time. “Didn’t matter where it came from. Didn’t matter if it made sense. If she thought it fit, she’d repeat it. She was a gossip for sure.”

“DId she ever get called out for it?” you ask.

A short, bitter laugh escapes him. “Yeah. Yeah, a few times.”

“By who?”

“Neighbors. Coworkers. One of her friends stopped talking to her over it.” He shakes his head. “Said she was twisting things. Making people look bad.”

Reid leans forward slightly. “Did Lauren believe what she was saying? Or did she know it wasn’t true?”

Lance hesitates. That hesitation is heavier than anything he’s said so far.

“I think…” he starts slowly, frowning like the answer doesn’t sit cleanly anywhere, “I think she believed it once she said it.”

“Did she confront people with it?” you ask, voice softer now.

Lance nods, once. “Sometimes.”

“How did that usually go?”

“Bad,” he says immediately. “People didn’t like being told things about themselves that weren’t—” He stops. Corrects himself. “—that weren’t right.”

“Did anyone ever get angry enough to threaten her?” you ask, voice still even, still patient. “Or scare her?”

Lance shifts in his chair, shoulders pulling in just a fraction.

“People got mad,” he says. “Yeah. Of course they did. But—” He shakes his head quickly. “Not like that. Not—this.”

“She ever mention someone specific?” you ask, softer now. “Someone who didn’t let it go?”

Lance exhales, long and thin, like he’s trying to flatten the question out before it can take shape.

“There was—” he starts, then stops.

“Mr. Powell,” you say gently, “whatever you remember—even if it feels small—it matters.”

His jaw shifts, working against itself.

“There was a guy,” he admits finally, quieter now. “A few weeks back.”

Reid leans forward slightly. You feel it more than you see it, the shift in his attention sharpening like a lens clicking into focus.

“What happened?” Reid asks.

Lance glances at him, then back to you again.

“She said something about him,” he says. “I don’t even remember what it was. Something about his business, I think. That he was—cheating people, or cutting corners, or—” He shakes his head. “It didn’t make sense to me. But she was convinced.”

“And he confronted her?” you ask.

Lance nods. “Yeah. Came by the house. I wasn’t there, but she told me about it after.” His mouth tightens. “Said he got real worked up. Told her to stop talking about him. That she didn’t know what she was saying.”

Your fingers tap once, lightly, against the table. “Did she stop?”

A humorless huff. “No,” he says. “She said if it wasn’t true, he wouldn’t be so mad about it.”

Reid’s gaze flicks briefly toward you again.

“Do you remember his name?”

Lance hesitates. Then nods, slow.

“Caleb,” he says. “Caleb Turner. I think. Runs some kind of contracting business out by the highway.”

“Did anything else happen after that?” you ask. “Any more contact?”

Lance shakes his head. “Not that I know of.”

Not that I know of.

You let that sit where it is.

“Okay,” you say gently. “That helps. It really does.”

Relief flickers again, softer this time. Less certain. Like he doesn’t fully trust it, but wants to.

Reid shifts beside you. “We may have a few more questions later,” he says, tone calm, measured. “But this gives us a place to start.”

Lance nods quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Whatever you need.”

You stand slowly, giving him space to stay where he is, to not have to follow you out of this moment any faster than he already is.

“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it.

He nods again, eyes already drifting somewhere else. Back to her. To the house. To the version of the day that still makes sense.

You and Reid step out into the hallway.

The next morning arrives gray. Not storming or cinematic. Dull around the edges, the sky washed into the color of old printer paper as the precinct slowly wakes around it.

You’re standing near the coffee machine when Hotch steps out of an office with a file already in hand.

“Turner’s here,” he says.

Morgan straightens immediately from where he’d been leaning against the counter. “Lawyer up yet?”

“Not yet,” Hotch replies. “Local PD picked him up early this morning on probable cause related to harassment complaints and brought him in for questioning.”

Not enough to hold him long.

The implication hangs there anyway.

Hotch’s gaze shifts to you. “You did well yesterday with Powell. You and Morgan can take lead.”

You nod once. “Okay.”

Morgan pushes off the counter beside you, rolling one shoulder loose. “C’mon, Santa. Let’s go ruin somebody’s morning.”

You huff a faint laugh despite yourself, already reaching for the file Hotch offers.

The name stares up at you from the front page.

Caleb Turner.

Forty-two. Owner of Turner Contracting Services. Two prior complaints for aggressive conduct. No charges. No violent offenses.

“He’s defensive,” he says. “Reactive. But not impulsive. Don’t corner him too fast.”

You nod again, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the file. “Got it.”

The interrogation room sits at the end of the hall. Same heavy door. Same wired-glass window and metal handle. Same stale recycled air leaking faintly into the corridor.

Morgan reaches the handle first, then pauses and glances back at you. “You good?”

There’s always a moment before interrogations. A strange little stillness. Breath held. Like standing barefoot at the edge of dark water and preparing to jump in. You never know what could be below the surface, but you’re ready to find it.

“Yeah,” you say after a second. “I’m good.”

Morgan studies your face briefly like he’s checking the structural integrity of the answer. Apparently satisfied enough, he nods once and opens the door.

Caleb Turner looks up immediately.

Mid-forties. Broad shoulders gone stiff with tension. Heavy workman’s hands folded too tightly on the table. There’s irritation in him already, simmering close to the surface like a pot left unattended.

His gaze hits Morgan first, then slides to you. THere’s a look on his face you’ve seen before.

Dismissal. The quick recalculation people do when they decide you’re softer than they expected. Easier.

Morgan takes the seat across from him with easy confidence, sprawling just enough to fill the space without seeming aggressive.

You sit beside him, quieter.

Caleb watches you both carefully. “This some kind of good-cop-bad-cop thing?”

Morgan snorts. “Man, we haven’t even started talking yet.”

“I already told the other cops what happened.”

“Good news,” Morgan says. “You get to tell it again.”

Caleb leans back in his chair, jaw tightening. “I didn’t kill anybody.”

Morgan’s gaze flicks toward you briefly, questioning. Checking the read before he pushes.

You look at Caleb for one long second.

The irritation is real. The anger too. It sits close to the surface of him like heat rolling off asphalt.

But underneath it? No fear or unease.

You shake your head once, small. Not yet.

Morgan leans back a fraction in his chair, easy as anything, like this is just another conversation and not a room specifically designed to make people sweat.

You set the file down on the table and open it carefully. Paper shifts beneath your fingers.

Caleb watches the movement with the kind of rigid attention people get when they’re trying not to look nervous.

“You own Turner Contracting Services,” you say, glancing down briefly. “Been operating about eleven years.”

“Thirteen,” Caleb corrects automatically.

You nod once. “Okay. Thirteen.”

The correction settles something in him. Tiny. Instinctive. People like being accurate about themselves.

“You mostly take commercial jobs?” you ask.

“Commercial, residential, whatever pays.” His tone is clipped, defensive around the edges.

You hum softly like you’re just fitting pieces together. “You grew up here?”

Caleb’s brow furrows slightly. “Yeah.”

“Family still around?”

Morgan glances sideways at you for half a second. Not confusion. Curiosity. He’s waiting to see where you go with this, how you plan on getting Turner to open up.

Caleb shifts in his chair. “My brother’s in Daytona.”

You nod again, flipping one page in the file though you already know what’s on it.

“That’s a decent drive.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

You look up then, meeting his eyes properly for the first time since sitting down.

It always changes the room a little when you do that. Makes people a bit uneasy, tense.

“We’re trying to get a sense of who you are,” you say simply.

Caleb scoffs softly, leaning back again. “You already got a sense. Otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting in here.”

Morgan watches him over steepled fingers. “You threatened Lauren Powell.”

“I told her to stop talking about me.”

“You showed up at her house.”

“Because she was spreading bullshit.”

The words come fast. Hot. Practiced, but not rehearsed. Visited, like he's snapped that line in his mind a thousand times.

You glance down at the file again. “She accused you of cheating clients,” you say. “Cutting corners on jobs.”

“I don’t.”

Immediate. Sharp. His jaw tightens so hard you can see the muscle jump.

“She said you used cheap materials and pocketed the difference,” you continue evenly. “That your permits weren’t legitimate.”

“They are legitimate!”

He nearly shouts it.

The sound cracks through the room hard enough to rattle the thin layer of calm you’d been building.

There.

The heat underneath the anger finally shows its shape.

Your gaze stays on Caleb’s face. The flush climbing too fast up his neck. The split-second delay before outrage turned performative. The way his eyes cut sideways first, not at Morgan, but at you.

Checking. Measuring whether you bought it.

You didn’t.

"You're lying."

The chair screeches violently backward as he lurches to his feet. The cuffed arm yanks hard against the restraint with a brutal metallic crack.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

His finger points straight at you. Accusatory. Shaking with adrenaline.

Morgan stands immediately.

“Sit the fuck down,” he snaps.

Caleb flinches instinctively, but he doesn’t sit.

His breathing’s gone uneven now, chest rising too fast beneath his work jacket.

“You think you can just look at me and decide that?” he demands, voice louder now, fraying at the edges. “You people walk in here acting like you already know everything.”

Morgan steps forward once. Not enough to threaten. Enough to take control back. “I said sit down.”

Caleb’s eyes flash toward him, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful.

For a second, you genuinely think he might keep pushing.

Then the cuff tugs again when he shifts, reminding him exactly where he is. The fight drains out of his posture in ugly pieces. He drops back into the chair hard enough to make the table jump.

Silence crashes in after him. Heavy breathing. Metal creaking faintly.

Morgan stays standing another second, watching Caleb carefully before lowering himself back into his seat.

“You’re real interested in proving she was wrong,” he says evenly.

Caleb scoffs, but there’s no confidence in it now. Just heat. “Because she was.”

“You sure about that?” Morgan asks.

“Yes.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer.

Then you open the file.

“These are your permit records,” you say calmly.

Caleb’s posture shifts almost imperceptibly.

Tiny, but there.

You slide the copies across the table.

He doesn’t touch them. Doesn’t need to. He already knows what they are.

“We contacted the county office this morning,” you continue. “The permit numbers attached to three of your recent commercial jobs don’t exist.”

Silence.

“Two others belong to entirely different properties.”

Caleb’s jaw tightens.

“You forged them,” Morgan says flatly.

“I didn’t forge shit.”

You watch him carefully.

The anger’s still there, but something heavier has started bleeding through underneath it. Something frightened. Something exhausted. The kind of fear people carry when they’ve spent too long balancing their entire life on one unstable thing.

"So, she was spreading your secrets." You tilt your head slightly. “Is that why you killed Lauren?”

Caleb’s head jerks up so fast it almost looks painful. “I didn’t kill anybody.”

The words come hard this time. Immediate. Too immediate. Spit out before the thought fully forms.

“That was a lie the first time,” you say quietly. “And it’s still a lie now.”

Something in him jolts.

Not physically. Internally. Like the sentence hit someplace softer than anger expected.

“You don’t get to do that,” he snaps suddenly, leaning forward against the restraint with a sharp metallic rattle. “You don’t get to just say people are lying because you feel like it.”

“I’m not saying it because I feel like it.”

“Oh, really?” he shoots back. “Then what, huh?”

His laugh comes out ugly. Sharp around the edges.

“You psychic or something?”

Morgan stays silent beside you. You don’t answer either. And somehow that makes Caleb more agitated, not less.

His knee starts bouncing beneath the table. Fast. Violent little bursts of motion he doesn’t seem aware of.

“You people are unbelievable,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Whole damn unit walks in acting like God; all-fucking-knowing.”

“No,” you say softly. “Just me.”

Morgan’s mouth twitches once beside you before flattening again.

Caleb stares at you, searching. Trying to decide if you’re joking.

“You think you're—what?” he says slowly, disbelief curling around the words, “a human lie detector?”

You shrug one shoulder slightly. “Basically.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“It’s usually more useful than fun.”

He scoffs hard enough to puff air through his nose, but there’s something unstable underneath it now. You can see it settling into him piece by piece.

Replaying. Every answer. Every hesitation. Every time you looked at him too long.

“You can’t know that,” he says, but there’s less force behind it now. “You can’t just look at somebody and know.”

“No,” you agree calmly. “Not everything.”

His eyes narrow.

“But I know when people are lying.”

Caleb shifts back in his chair, but there’s nowhere useful to go. His gaze flicks briefly toward Morgan like maybe he’ll interrupt this, shut it down, call it ridiculous.

Morgan just watches him evenly. “They're hell of a poker player, too,” he says casually.

Caleb looks back at you longer this time. And you watch the exact moment uncertainty starts eating through his certainty.

Because innocent people react differently. They get angry. Defensive. Confused. But eventually, somewhere underneath all of it, there’s solid ground.

Caleb doesn’t have any. Just a bottomless hole he’s dug himself deeper and deeper into

“You’re screwing with me,” he says finally, but quieter now. Less conviction. “This is some interrogation tactic.”

You shake your head once. “No.”

His jaw flexes.

“You killed Lauren Powell,” you say. "And we know why. Why did you kill the others?"

“I didn’t do that,” he says quickly, leaning forward as much as the cuffs allow. The metal snaps lightly against the table. “I didn’t kill anyone else. I didn’t—there weren’t any others.”

"But you killed Lauren," you say. Not really a question, but a confirmation.

“I didn’t mean to!"

The hallway outside the interrogation rooms is too bright again. Always too bright after something like that. Like now that the shadows have been revealed, the lights feel they need to work harder.

Morgan walks a step ahead of you, already loosening the tension in his shoulders as he heads toward the conference room.

The rest of the team is already there when you arrive. 

“Caleb Turner admitted to going to Lauren Powell’s home yesterday evening,” Morgan starts.

A few heads lift slightly.

“He says it was to confront her about accusations she’d been making,” you continue. "It escalated, and he strangled her."

Morgan’s voice carries the rest of it, steady as a closing door.

“He says he didn’t plan it,” he adds. “It escalated fast. Argument, physical struggle, loss of control.”

The room doesn’t react all at once. It never does.

It lands in layers.

JJ’s hand stills over her notepad. Prentiss’s eyes sharpen, already moving ahead of the words. Hotch doesn’t move at all, but something in his expression tightens by a fraction, like a lock clicking shut.

“Afterward,” you continue, “he panicked.”

You shift slightly in your chair, feeling the weight of the case settle into its next shape.

“He staged the scene,” Morgan says. “Carved the word. Tried to make it look consistent with the others.”

“He knew we were already looking at the earlier cases. He was trying to redirect the narrative. Make her look like another victim in a series instead of his temper getting the best of him.”

Prentiss exhales through her nose. “So he escalates once, realizes what he’s done, then tries to blend it into something bigger than him.”

“Exactly,” Morgan says.

Kessler’s gaze stays on the file a moment longer than anyone else’s. Then she leans forward slightly.

“Just to clarify,” she says, tone even, almost conversational, “how do we know he didn’t kill the others as well?”

A few eyes flick toward her.

Not in challenge. More like recalibration.

Morgan answers first, easy and immediate. “Because he said he didn’t.”

Kessler tilts her head a fraction. “And we believe him?”

Reid leans forward slightly, fingertips brushing the edge of the file.

“The original offender demonstrates ritual stabilization,” he explains. “Consistent post-mortem staging, controlled timing, organized victim selection, geographic discipline.” His gaze flicks briefly toward the crime scene photos. “Turner doesn’t.”

“He’s reactive,” Morgan adds.

“Disorganized under emotional pressure,” Reid agrees. “He escalated during confrontation, panicked afterward, and imitated an existing pattern poorly.”

Kessler’s gaze narrows slightly. Thinking. “You’re basing that distinction partially on the interrogation.”

“Partially,” Reid says immediately. "We already know the crime scenes were different. 'Liar' wasn't symmetrical."

“And partially on them,” Morgan adds again, jerking his chin lightly in your direction.

You feel heat creep faintly up your neck.

“And you trust that completely?” she asks.

“Yes.”

tags: @blacksnake13 @drmscomet @person-005 @moonbird1507 @mosseetreees