xreider

first, a startled register of his environment and then, a confused glance at the very naked girl draped over his body. his arms come up, hovering, sputtering, and then politely putting his palms over your shoulders. nudging you to look up at him.

jesus christ, those eyes. 

“hi.”

so quiet. “hey, handsome.”

he lets out a long, contemplative sigh, thinking, thinking, thinking. when does this guy ever stop thinking? “we kissed,” he says it like a fact, but with questioning lilt that makes it sound otherwise. 

you prop an elbow on the bed, joint wedged into the space above his shoulder so you can see him better. the blanket keeping you decent slips a bit and spencer unconsciously tucks it more securely under your arm. you catalogue that for later. 

“we did a lot more than that. forgive me for being untoward but we fucked,” you clarify, innocent with your chin in the heel of your palm.

spencer groans, he groans! “don't be crude.”

“we're naked.”

“i know that,” he murmurs, disgruntled, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to your jaw and falling back into the pillow. you sport an amused little smile when you see the pout on his lips. 

you slept with spencer reid.

your coworker, your friend, the man you’d been terribly smitten with for who knows how long (7 months and 3 days.)

spencer reid who lingered by your side for hours last night, unassuming, unbothered, who smiled softly at your wine induced flush whenever he’d lean in to hear you better, who sat with you while you tipped your chin up at the sky to point out stars and asked him to name them, who pressed a sobering kiss to your lips in rossi's backyard after a clumsily delivered compliment.

you’re so pretty.

your response is a blur, forgotten, but you do remember how he drove you home with his hand idly playing with your fingers over the center console. how he tried but inevitably failed to be a gentleman as you led him up to your apartment, shared, hushed giggles echoing down the hallway and quite gracefully falling into bed leaving a very telling breadcrumb trail of clothes. 

and now, half a second of thought passes on whether you should ask him or surprise him. the latter wins and you dip down and kiss the corner of his mouth. you’re not evil, he deserves some warning before you really plant one on him. he wastes no time, bringing his lips to yours with those big hands cradling your face. 

his lips press against yours gingerly in a sweet, lingering kiss, followed by another and another. mouth slotted over yours, like perfect puzzle pieces, his tongue traces the seam of your lips and you grant him entrance, letting him gently lick into your mouth. you let out a small, needy sound at the warmth of his tongue against yours, melting into him. it makes him chuckle quietly.

“spence,” you gasp against his lips.

a subtle shudder makes its way down his spine at the desperation in your voice, the same need slowly fogging up his own brain, remnants of last night catching up. 

“i know, angel,” he cups your neck, what is happening?

“can i admit something?”

spencer smiles at you, boyish and stupid spread across his face, “please do.”

“you kiss nice, had i known you were this good of a kisser i would’ve done it ages ago,” you mumble, forcing words out to keep a sliver of your dignity.

he laughs again, a small pleased sound that makes you feel good. “you do too. you are wildly better than anything i have ever imagined–”

“you’ve imagined me?” you turn timid in a way that you hate but spencer kisses you and it melts away.

“of course i have. you’re wonderful.”

spencer pulls your leg over his and sits the two of you up, thighs bracketing his hips. the blanket falls unabashedly into the space between your bodies, pooled dangerously low over his lap. you thank whatever god there is for the enticing view of the scattering of light hair that trails beneath the covers.

you’re surprised with the ease in which spencer's hands drag down your sides, like he's done it a million times before. he pushes the pads of his thumbs into the area above your hipbone like he knows you’ll twitch when he does, and you do. damn his eidetic memory and damn his perfect mouth when he attaches his lips to your jaw, angling you as he lightly works the skin. he's careful enough not to leave a mark somewhere visible but it doesn't stop him from reminding himself he can do it elsewhere, somewhere more concealed.

“pretty girl,” he coos, kissing over your pulse point, below your ear, “lay back, please.” please. he murmurs against your skin, nodding behind you. he pecks your cheek, rather sweetly considering your state of undress and swiftly returns to your neck like he can’t believe he pulled away.

now wait.

you forget about your own hands through all of this, hanging limply over his right shoulder and heavy by your side. you thread your fingers into his hair and path something more devious for the other. spencer jolts when your fingertips graze over his cock, you’d think he’d expect it but he reacts like it's completely sudden. it scares you momentarily, were you too forward? but then he looks at you with something beggy and glazed over in his eyes and it motivates you to ease the shelter of the blanket fully off, baring him.

spencer pinks, tips of his ears to the top of his chest. you inch off his lap and sit in front of him. you watch the features in his face twist into realisation and cut him off before he can say something polite, "i wanna taste you, spence.”

you’ve stunned spencer reid. for the first time in his fucking life he doesn’t know what to say. so he pushes out a, “yeah? fuck, okay. yeah.” an embarrassing stutter of words but it's enough to reassure you. 

a firm finger pokes him square in the chest, not so hard that it hurts but enough to have him lean back against the headboard. he follows dutifully, letting the pillows take him, allowing him some semblance of solid ground beneath him. because he's convinced he might pass out at the sight of you settling between his outstretched legs, looking sinfully unaware of just how much you affect him.

although the effect itself becomes glaringly obvious when his cock twitches, two pairs of eyes darting down immediately. you can't tell if he's bigger than what you remember from last night, but you do know that you want him in your mouth immediately.

your head dips down, a slow hand curling around the base of his length, guiding it to your lips. the head, flushed and red, meets soft and plush, a light kiss against him. and spencer thinks he might die. your lips part, taking the tip into your mouth, tongue laving against his slit. your eyes flutter shut when a bead of precum settles over your tastebuds, slightly salty. you glide down, the weight of him in your mouth is deliriously good.

at some point between drawing back and swirling your tongue around his tip, spencer tangles his hands in your hair. fingertips soft over your scalp, he doesn't push, just holds you. your head bobs down again, forming a steady rhythm. your eyes start to water when he nudges at the back of your throat, breath faltering as the hair low on his stomach begins to tickle your nose. he immediately pulls you off with a gentle hand fixed to your jaw.

“you don’t have to do it all.” the concern in his eyes is sickening as he wipes off the saliva smeared to the corner of your mouth. you smile at him, a little sheepish, tilting into his palm. “i know.”

you press a kiss to his wrist and return to the task at hand, cock standing proud over his abdomen and possibly redder than when you left it. you lean down, letting a little dribble of spit fall from your lips to his length. decidedly, you wrap your fingers around him, letting the saliva act as a lubricant. you press a thumb to a vein running along the side of his cock, tracing it with every up and down of your hand. he lets out a shuddering exhale in response. 

you hope the look you give him is sultry at best, you don't know that his vision is starting to blur at the corners when your head dips down again. only to mouth at the tip this time, a sloppy makeout around the flushed head as your hand continues to work at the rest of him.

“god, angel. you’re so-” he cuts himself off with a moan when your wrist twists. “so good at that.”

you let the words get to your head, a burning heat that creeps up your neck. emboldened, you take more of him into your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks as you go. spencer can't help the way his hips buck up and you almost gag again. you pull off with a breathless giggle, wiping your mouth while spencer regards you with that same sickening concern, except now there's guilt in his comforting touch when he inspects your face. he doesn’t find this funny at all.

you hold his wrist as you laugh again and put on your most reassuring voice, "i'm okay.”

a skeptical purse of his lips. you gravitate forward, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “i promise,” you whisper, followed by a nip at his skin. it elicits a gasped sound from the depths of his chest.

he pulls you into a kiss, relishing in the ever so slight taste of him on your lips as he turns the two of you around, you let him lay you down this time. the moment feels kismet when his fingers trail lower. one hand keeping him propped up and the other parting your folds. you're unbelievably wet, the lingering effects of last night and spencer on your tongue leaving you as much.

“oh, spencer.” your hips rise to his touch when he dips a finger into your entrance and he's immediately determined to make you say his name like that again. the way you gush around him as his finger curls up allows him to add another one to the mix. you think he’s ruined you forever with how fast the peak builds, a heavy, honey-like pressure pushing down on your stomach as his fingers move, relentless between your thighs. you stop him before he can put his thumb to your clit with an urgent gasp, knowing that if you come now you won’t be able to keep going, “fuck me.” swallow, “please.”

spencer pulls his fingers out, kissing your chin when your head tips back at the emptiness. he can't help the tug at the corner of his lips, eyes possibly filled with too much affection when your thighs give a needy squeeze around his hips. “i got you,” he whispers, pulling you closer with two firm hands at your hips. 

he pushes in, and it's an easy fit, you’ve been ready for what feels like forever. but where he lacks in overwhelming thickness he makes up for in length so it truly just keeps going. your hands brace at his side when he finally bottoms out. “i swear you weren’t this big,” you huff against his shoulder, almost exasperated. 

spencer laughs, though it skirts the edge of something aching, “ha-ah, you’re boosting my ego, sweetheart.”

“good,” you hum, eyebrows pinching when he begins to move. your walls flutter around him, adjusting, you don’t know how you took it last night without his rearranging you from the inside out. “you’re so- feels so good, spence.”

he whines into your neck, the speed of his hips increasing with every subsequent clench around his cock, he doesn’t know if he can handle this much praise. lewd noises fill the room, moans and flush inducing wet squelches echoing off the walls and forming into something tangible between your bodies. it's not enough, something's missing, you need him even closer. 

“baby, wait. flip me over.”

baby.

he hesitates before turning your body under his. upon re-entering you, it all clicks into place. you melt in satisfaction, cheek smushed against the pillow with your mouth stupidly hanging open. he gives an experimental roll of his hips, slow and deliberate, hitting places you never deemed possible.

“there?” he asks when you simultaneously mumble an incoherent y-uhuh, there, he lays over you and starts fucking you into the sheets.

his chest molds perfectly to your back, head fitted somewhere between your shoulders with his lips attached to the nape of your neck. he murmurs things, things you can't possibly comprehend with how deep he is, you swear you could feel him in your throat. your hips push back, meeting his thrusts with every persistent plap. sweat blooms. a light sheen everywhere your skin touches him, you feel warm all over. you feel him all over. spencer. spencer. spencer. 

spencer snakes a hand under your body with an unwitting amount of familiarity when he starts rubbing circles into your clit

you feel it again, pulsing, a pleasant ringing in your ears that drowns everything out except his voice. “gonna cum for me again? huh, angel? just like last night?” quiet encouragement, awe, tinged with a bit of condescension, it sends sparks down your spine, setting off fireworks between your legs. 

your head tips over to his arm, where it's planted beside you on the pillow, to sink teeth into flesh. canines dig into muscle, and if you were any more coherent, you would’ve drawn blood. your scream muffles against him, legs twitching out and shaking under his body, spencer blankets you with a heavy grounding pressure as your orgasm crests. his lips press to your cheek when you look over your shoulder at him, eyebrows imploringly upturned, he follows right after you and he is beautiful. 

he slumps, heavy. but the good kind. you welcome the pressure and the closeness for a minute while your breathing evens out. in and out.

“i need to pee, reid."

“oh please, don't call me that when i'm still inside you.”

you laugh into the pillow, shoulders shaking while he pulls out. funny boy. you pull a shirt over your head and watch as spencer stumbles trying to put on his underwear. he trails behind you quietly as you walk into the attached bathroom and pretend to ignore the pout he tries to hide when you close the door. 

you feel a little stupid talking to him from the toilet but it makes it somewhat easier to ask him. “can we do this again?” your voice muffles through the wood. 

he squeaks something panicked, “i don’t know if i can–”

you push an amused smile into your knuckles, “not now, spencer. at some point, in the near future.”

“yeah?” he asks, sickeningly hopeful. “would you let me take you to dinner first? preferably not at rossi’s house?”

spencer hears the flush and then the door clicks open. you have your hands joined behind your back, he takes a step forward.

“i’d really like that.”

you’ve got an expression on your face that doesn’t warrant a confirmation, still, spencer asks. “yeah?” 

you lean forward and kiss him, a few seconds too long. “it’s a date.”

And there was the purple mark on his neck, next to his collarbone that he had to make a conscious effort hiding.

Spencer cleared his throat “Can we focus on the case?” he said, voice a bit higher-pitched than normal. 

“Sure,” JJ said with a knowing smile. 

He stared at his file the whole meeting. It wasn’t his fault. He was on a day-off and got a sudden call that he wasn’t prepared for. He was supposed to spend the morning with you like intended, to be able to keep kissing you and stay in bed with your body flushed against his– 

“Reid”

Spencer’s head snapped to see Hotch waiting for an answer… to a question he ignored…

“Uhm… sorry c-can you repeat?”

“I said… Do you remember the last time this MO was used?”

Spencer nodded “Yes, in 1986 in the same area we found four bodies killed in the same way, with the same puncture wounds to the chest. The unsub had never been found”

He felt Derek’s amused eyes on him. He just knew. What gave it away? The half fucked up tie? The way he walked in with his cheeks still flushed? The dilated pupils when he thought of you instead of working? 

Could they blame him? Last night he finally got to what he had wanted for weeks… you.

//

“Thank you for walking me home,” you smiled, still gripping his hands.

You and Spencer were standing on your doorstep. It had been your first ‘real’ date after weeks of talking : a nice dinner after seeing a play together. You hadn’t stopped smiling since the start of the night. 

“Of course,” he answered. Spencer’s eyes flee yours most of the time, but right now, they were looking straight into yours.

His big brown eyes. 

It truly was what you had noticed at first about him. And you couldn’t stop yourself from staring at the moment. You bit your lower lip to stop yourself from grinning. “Do uhm… do you want to step inside?”

You both knew what that meant. One step in and the two of you will be one.

Spencer simply nodded. But you didn’t move, didn’t want to step away. With your hand reaching behind you to open the door, you stayed in front of him. He got closer and you felt your cheeks heating up.

You had the time to hear the ‘click’ of your door opening before his lips were on yours. You closed your eyes as you leaned into it. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders to try to pull him closer somehow, because you weren’t close enough for your liking. A breath left his lips and you answered with a small, muffled sound. He walked you inside, still kissing you.

Spencer closed the door behind him without leaving you. Your hand cradled his cheek, angling his head to kiss him deeper. His hand trailed from your hip to slide under your top. Your skin shivered at the contact of his cold fingers on you. 

“Spencer,” you whispered. Your other hand was gripping the hair on the back of his neck and you swore you heard him let out a sound at the slight tug. It only made the knot in your stomach tightened. 

Spencer broke the kiss, breathless. You took a second to take in his appearance: his red cheeks, the hair that had fallen in front of his forehead, the top button of his shirt that you had somehow opened in the process. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and his hand stayed there, on your cheek. 

“Hi,” you breathed out before letting out a giggle.

“Hi,” Spencer answered. He rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in. Your fingers found the hooks of his pants to pull his hips closer. He leaned in again to start a new kiss. 

You kicked off your shoes, your lips still attached to his. You only broke the kiss to whisper a quick “The bedroom’s on the right” and let him lead you there. 

With your back against the mattress and his body hovering over yours, the world blurred and all you saw was him.

//

Spencer’s eyes darted the jet, trying to avoid Derek’s questioning gaze. He knew how fucked he was, as soon as there was one break, the questions will start. If that jet ‘meeting’ to talk about the strategy could last the whole flight, he wasn’t going to complain. 

Unfortunately, the chat ended. He glanced at his file, pretending to already start the geographical profile.

“Reid”

Shit.

“Yes?” he looked up to see Morgan sitting next to him. 

Derek grinned. “So you’re not gonna tell me what happened this morning?”

“Nothing happened,” Spencer answered too quickly.

Derek let out a chuckle “Sure, kid. You came here looking like a mess and you were late.”

Spencer swallowed “You’re imagining things”

“No. I think you have someone you want to hide” Spencer’s face was so transparent and telling that he couldn’t even hide it. He tried though, but he failed miserably “Come on! Just tell me I’m right”

“Fine–”

Derek grinned from ear to ear “There we go. What’s the girl’s name?”

“I don’t want to talk about it–”

“Talk about what?” Emily asked as she sat across Spencer

“Reid’s got a girlfriend” Derel said way too loud. 

And that got the whole jet’s attention. Even Hotch turned his head with a raised eyebrow. “Do you?”

“I… well yes but it’s not the point,” he was stumbling over his words. He could die on the spot at the way all their eyes lighted up. “Can we focus on the case?”

The team went back to their files but Spencer noticed the way their gaze lingered. He wanted to keep it for himself. At least for a little while, so he has time to make sure things were serious between the two of you. He hadn’t meant to… but the call caught him off guard while he was supposed to spend time with you.

//

Spencer rolled around and let out a sigh. He felt something against him, he opened his eyes and remembered. He remembered last night, the thrill and pleasure, falling asleep next to you, your head resting against his naked chest, his hands on your hips–

“Spencer?” you whispered as you woke up. 

“Yes?” he whispered, wrapping his arm around your middle. He wasn’t used to this, waking up next to somebody else. But it had been a nice surprise when he woke up, that was sure. His heart melted at the sleepy smile you offered him. 

You pressed your head to his neck and left a peck there “Slept well?”

“Definitely,” Spencer answered, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “You?”

“Oh yeah,” you said with a grin “That was a good night.”

He laughed, his cheeks heating up. “Yeah… it was”

You lifted your head to see him so flustered. With his red cheeks and big eyes and his disheveled hair from last night. “Cute,” you whispered before pressing your lips to his. How were you supposed to keep your hands to yourself when he looked this cute. 

Spencer melted into the kiss, his hand cupped your cheek to pull you closer. With your hips now pressing against his, he couldn’t resist you. He turned you around, now hovering over you. He kissed you again, harder. 

You hooked your leg over his hip and heard him let out a sound against your mouth. Your arms snuck around his shoulders while his hand started to trail down. You closed your eyes when his lips locked with your neck. That was so good. 

Spencer muttered your name and that only made you want more. You were ready and let out a whimper when his hand found you– 

A phone rang. Spencer froze. He glanced at the nightstand to see his cell ringing. “Sorry–”

He detached himself from you to answer the call. “Hotch? I… Y-yes. Yeah I’ll be there”

You chuckled, amused at how unsatisfied he looked. “Don’t laugh,” he said, trying to hide his small smile “It sucks”

“It does,” you said, pecking his lips “But you have people who need you”

“And what if I need you?” he answered which made it harder to keep your hands off of him. 

“Then you’ll have me when you’re back,” you whispered against his mouth. Spencer smiled and offered you a quick kiss

“I really need to go”

“You don’t seem to be moving”

Spencer let out a small sigh and got up and you weren’t going to stop yourself from staring. “You’re just making this harder,” he whined as he had to quickly get dressed. 

“I see that” you chuckled.

He shook his head, swallowing at the sight of you still sitting on your bed. “I uhm… Well since I’m here I don’t have my car… can you drive me to work?”

“Oh- yeah sure”

The ride was silent, Spencer focusing on trying to look normal and absolutely not unsatisfied. You left him a block away as he told you he didn’t want to deal with his colleagues’ teasing. He definitely had a good reason to worry about it

//

Spencer had finally managed to focus on the case. He had indeed been right and the unsub from 1986 was the same as now so the stakes were high. After two intense days of chasing after the man, they caught him. Spencer sat in their assigned room at the police station. He hadn’t taken the time to breathe properly. He looked at his phone to see a text from you 

‘Hi :) Tell me when the case’s over, maybe I can give you a ride home since you don’t have your car’

Spencer smiled without even meaning to

‘Hi, I would love that. Caught the guy so I should be back at the BAU by 8pm’

You instantly answered with ‘You’ll have a private driver waiting for you :P’

“Now, Reid. You can’t tell me it’s not her you’re texting”

Spencer turned around to see Derek “I wasn’t going to lie about it”

“So why didn’t you tell us on the jet?”

“I just… you were all staring and I hadn’t planned on talking about her”

“The hickey on your neck was talking for you” Derek said, loving messing with him. Spencer was so flustered, his cheeks redder than ever “Anyway… how’s it going?”

Spencer smiled “It’s going great. Except for the impromptu phone call,” he chuckled. “But uhm… yeah it’s doing great, we’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks”

“And you didn't tell us?” Derek joked, faking offense

“Well it wasn’t anything at first, the other day it was our first date. Well; no but like our first date that we stated out loud was a date. Does that make sense?” 

“Sure,” Derek answered with a chuckle “Well I’m happy for you, kid,” he said as he got up before patting his back and leaving. 

Spencer was left alone and he stared down at his lap, smiling from ear to ear. He just wanted to get back to you. 

After the long wait on the jet and the last bit of work he had to do in office, he was finally free. He saw you, standing next to your car in the parking lot. You grinned when you saw him. His arms wrapped around you and smiled into your hair “I missed you”

You stepped away from him so you could kiss him. His lips against yours and his hands on your hips. It wasn’t even a heated kiss, just one that said you had missed each other. But it was enough for his team to cheer. 

You frowned as you turned your head to see… all his colleagues standing there, smiling. Even one of them gave Spencer a thumbs up. “What’s going on?”

“Uh… I might have not been very ‘put together’ when I arrived from your house”

You chuckled “No way”

“Can we just go?” he asked, a bit embarrassed.

You got into the car “They look nice, I should meet them someday,” you said as you saw a woman– wearing the most extravagant clothing you had seen in a while– looking ecstatic. 

(and then we lay it back / talk the rest of the night / things that we can light / make me say, “oh! oh!”)

spencer reid’s clumsiness may have affected his compatibility with certain athleisure related activities, but despite the impression his wiry fawn-like knees gave, he was no klutz in the kitchen.

in fact, he ran an annoyingly strict program. meal plans and prep had easily become his forte–when they were applicable… he travelled often, he had visited the same fast food chain in practically every state. (who cares about nutritional value when you’re hunting the darkest minds in the country?)

but anyway, you’d think having a boyfriend that got so technical in anything culinary related would be a good thing–a useful thing, especially for someone who prided themselves on their home baking. 

of course the reality of that thought was utterly and devastatingly incorrect. such incorrectness was made undoubtedly clear when you had taken the initiative to permanently blacklist spencer from aiding you in your baking process. in short, he had been banned from your kitchen. 

he was free to do as he wished in his own, you weren’t that controlling, not really, and of course it was nice having lunches made for you, being dotted on after a long day, while spencer whipped up some interesting foreign steak recipe he’d been dying to try… those were all good things, great things even. it was kind of (stupidly) sexy watching him in the kitchen. 

yet the most un-sexy thing this man could possibly do, was bother you when you were in your element. which was exactly what his culinary expertise had achieved. 

because who the hell actually only adds one teaspoon of vanilla extract to their cookies? your boring brood of a boyfriend. that’s who. that same old excruciatingly analytical man, who took every direction to heart, who'd developed a certain disdain for your “measure it with your heart” mindset.

every unsolicited  “well the recipe says this” comment had compounded exponentially. and now he was forced into the role of the silent observer. who observed you. silently.

and despite his many complaints, spencer was very well adjusted into this role. he took your word very seriously, and he adapted quite easily. 

which was why he would absolutely not insist you adjust your folding technique because you weren’t engaging in enough air circulation… or protecting the pockets in the batter… or whatever he whispered under his breath when he watched your arms work in quick yet soft circular motions. because that would be ludicrous. insane. unfathomable. 

he was a good listener. which was exactly why he held his tongue as he watched. with that stupid dorky smile that made you roll your eyes and chuckle each time you spared a glance his way. 

as much as he hated being cast away on time out, it was nice just being able to look at you without it being weird. 

he was your boyfriend… so why would it be weird? 

he had a little bit of a staring problem. a bad habit, something he couldn’t kick no matter how hard he tried. those stupid coloured honey eyes just loved to find pretty things to look at. 

never staring in a gawking at women as they passed him by way. he’d outgrown that. it wasn’t something that drew any attention. it was just nice to have a subject to focus on when he concentrated, when his mind liked to think up little things that required his attention. 

you just so happened to be his favourite subject. but of course, staring at someone with a stupid dopey smile wasn’t usually invited with open arms

now, he got to gawk at you, and think about you, without you being asleep (again, why did he sound like such a creep?) and just gaze. lovingly. adoringly. whatever you wanted to call it. 

and when you caught him, you were sure your fingers would catch a thick glob of drool if you wiped at his chin. 

“take a picture, it’ll last longer” 

did you have eyes on the back of your head? spencer flushed a rosy pink, cheeks and ears dusted with his crime as he averted his gaze with his tail in between his legs. 

the picture comment was supposed to be teasing, snarky. he knew that, but he may actually take you up on it. you looked lovely like this. and he would love a few candids for his wallet, bedroom, desk, literally anywhere a memory of you could fit. 

he loved photos because when he looked at them for long enough, he could remember taking them, and it was like he got to experience the moment all over again. but, because he always had to be just a little bit infuriating, he decided to hold off on the sentimental. 

“well apparently this is all i’m allowed to do, so…” 

he could be such a baby sometimes. you could only shake your head and roll your eyes. he’d teased that they would end up stuck like that, if you kept it up. but it was impossible not to when spencer spent so much of his free time being a brat, just to see that annoyed look on your face. for all his mocking little concerns, he sure did enable you.

“so cranky… and here i was thinking you could handle just sitting there and looking pretty for me.” 

total knock out. 

he sputtered. he never reacted well to compliments, despite how many you’d offered him, despite how much dirtier they could get. even one backhanded in nature had him immobilized. he was too easy. 

but it was annoying how fast he recovered. 

his stupidly long fingers slithered around your waist, warm palms sliding under your loose tank to stretch across your exposed flesh. thank god you weren’t wearing an apron! 

“can you not keep your hands to yourself for like… five more minutes?”

he only held you tighter as his chin found its rightful place nuzzled in between your neck and your collarbone, nipping ever so slightly at the skin when you shied away on impulse. 

“not when it comes to you, no.”

irritatingly charming, maddeningly disarming… describing spencer reid was exceptionally simple. 

you ignored him because you already had far too much on your mental plate to pay him any mind. you were baking for his coworkers for christ sake. and you were throwing these together the day of. you were off your game and paying for it. secretly spiralling all the while maintaining your slightly pissed off girlfriend facade. just an average late afternoon for you.

when you started delicately placing evenly rolled balls of dough on the cooking sheet, spencer decided he had been too nice, and you deserved a little mischief only he could provide, he pushed your buttons in such a special way. 

you hadn’t gotten rid of him yet, so hey, something must’ve been working. 

“aren’t you gonna let those chill for a while, angel?” 

you huffed in annoyance with another failed attempt to get him off your back. literally. the man was like a koala. 

“how observant spencer. you see, these would’ve gotten the optimal twenty four hour chill time, had you not spent yesterday evening distracting me.” 

that was the truth laid bare. you wanted to prep your dough in advance, like you typically did. you would’ve, if a certain someone hadn’t been so touch starved and antsy after work. spencer only smiled at the harsh tone in your voice and kissed your cheek. 

“correct me if i’m wrong, but i was under the impression that  you enjoyed my distractions?”

exasperated sighs had developed into a special kind of love language just between the two of you. 

thankfully, spencer let his iron grip around your waist loosen just enough to allow you to slide the tray into the oven. a baker's dozen, because you always managed to scrape just enough dough off the edges of the bowl for spencer’s non-negotiable taste test. to make sure the cookies were edible, of course. 

spencer’s gasp when you plopped a little bit of that extra dough into your mouth was so animated you had to hold back a giggle. it seems as though all he had been successful at was making you extraordinarily irritated, and then making you laugh as if he was prime entertainment. a jester maybe? that was what being a boyfriend entailed… right? was he getting an award? 

“woah woah woah, i can’t have salmonella taking out my beautiful and exceptionally talented girlfriend!” 

you rolled your eyes once again, this time at the genuine concern within his own. salmonella? from that little nibble? really? 

exceptionally talented. he was teasing you, but he was serious, his words were obviously meant to be reassurance for tonight. a casual dinner with his team. of course you had to bring something (despite spencer's insistence that you didn’t.)

you hadn't been panicking about dinner at rossi’s, not exactly, you had just been a little nervous! and deservingly so. despite the few times you had met his team, both accidental and planned, it had always been on charted territory. known environments. 

rossi’s mansion was unknown. you had never even been to a mansion. was dinner at a mansion ever really casual, or was that just what they wanted you to think? spencer always looked put together in his own dorky way, but what if this was less of a cute skirt get together and more of a whatever they wore to dinner in a literal mansion get together? what if they were secretly planning on humiliating you with their shined shoes and pristine fbi badges? 

“what can i say? i like living on the edge.” 

your words did not match your inner turmoil in the slightest, yet you kept the banter between you and spencer alive. being anxious over this was stupid. everything would be fine. you were fine. 

thankfully, your body language didn’t fail your attempts to sweep your bubbling emotions under the rug. you smirked as you moved to rinse your hands in the sink, he was hot on your tail, and you could almost taste the rant he was about to break into along with the chocolate on your tongue. 

“i’m being serious, just because the general risk of contracting salmonella via raw eggs and flour is low, doesn’t mean it's zero.” 

his hands found the small of your back as he continued,

“in fact, many outbreaks have been linked to raw cake mix and have led to recalls… hey! stop laughing, i’m serious!”

you covered your mouth with your hand in a lazy attempt to contain your fit of giggles. he was so cute when he got like this. 

“okay spencer. i’m sorry, i promise to stay away from raw dough from now on.” 

he knew you weren’t taking him seriously, especially when your laughing picked up again when you saw the look of utter disdain on his face. he pouted like a sad little puppy. 

“thank you. symptoms typically become noticeable after six hours, keep me updated on how you’re feeling, but it may take up to a week so monitor yourself and point out any anomalies no matter how small… not all cases require medical attention or antibiotics but you can never be too careful.” 

someone who was in the field so often had absolutely no place being so fussy over your own safety. how many times had he ran after an unsub without his vest? or backup? you would bet the statistics of his negligence of his own safety greatly outweighed yours. you also bet he would have an answer, if you asked him. next time. 

you were at a loss. spencer was undyingly persistent when it came to bacteria, which was strange, considering he was currently leaning in to kiss you on your potentially salmonella infected lips. 

you swerved it just to mess with him. keep him in his place and on his toes. a kind and honest girlfriend you were. 

“are you sure you want to kiss my bacteria infested mouth? how many pathogens are exhanged from kissing again?” 

spencer smiled as he popped one of the few remaining chocolate chips into his mouth, conveniently left in the bottom of the bag. coincidence? maybe. but you were sure he was starting to catch on. 

“a single kiss can transmit upwards of eighty million bacteria, though, i think i like my chances.”

he stole a kiss this time, a quick peck far too fast for you to have dodged. and then another. and another. there was a smudge of chocolate on the corner of his mouth, you managed to dart your tongue out right on time, and lick it off of him. 

“you licked me!”

you smiled as you pressed another chocolate chip between his lips, finally allowing yourself to embrace his hovering form as you looked up at him. 

“blame your sweet tooth.” 

apencer brought his lips down to meet yours, slower this time, softer and more reverent than the last. you did him one better by wrapping your arms around his neck and starting an even rhythm, a dance of sorts as you pushed your tongue past his plush lips and allowed it to meld with his. 

sweet chocolate enveloped your taste buds as spencer used his body to cage yours against the counter, pressing both his body and his mouth flush against yours. deeper. spencer reid couldn’t dance to save his life, but admittedly, he was a decent kisser. 

he pulled away too soon, leaving you just as quickly as he had wrapped you in his warmth, replacing his mouth with a warm hand against your cheek and a thumb prodding against your protruding lower lip. 

your eyes flickered open. were you seriously pouting? stooping down to his level of manipulation tactics? maybe the raw dough had already gotten to you, altering your brain before you had time to process it. 

“okay angel, fess up. what’s on your mind?”

caught red handed. you could only live in a perfect fantasy for so long. 

“what do you mean?” 

you were far too smart to be playing dumb with a profiler as a boyfriend. it was worth a shot.

“you’ve felt on edge all day, is something bothering you?”

you averted your gaze, or at least attempted to, spencer was still cupping your cheek, and he had comically large hands and an annoyingly strong grip. 

“no.”

you made eye contact. ammauteur. those stupid perfect puppy eyes were like… his best asset! you wouldn’t be surprised if they were used as an interrogation tactic. you could picture it so clearly, alright pretty boy, go put on your best googoo eyed look and find out where the third body is buried!

“yes.” 

folded in less than three seconds. new record! woohoo!

“are you nervous about tonight? it’s just a get together with my team, they all love you so much already, you have nothing to be worried about. honest.” 

having a boyfriend who was able to understand exactly how you felt so easily was a blessing and a curse. you were mentally cursing him right now, you wondered if he could tell. 

“okay. yeah. i don’t know… it’s stupid, but i feel… unprepared almost?”

spencer gave your forehead a gentle peck, offering you soft words of comfort, spoken into your hairline, as if to send them directly into your brain. 

“it’s not stupid, and completely understandable. but trust me, everyone adores you–like you could sit there in complete silence for two hours and they’d all be amazed.” 

you wanted to believe him, and you did, to a certain degree–but that tiny little twinge in your stomach was incessant and impossible to ignore. and somehow spencer also knew that. like he somehow knew everything. apparently you were an open book today. 

“there is a way i can make you feel a little less stressed and more reassured, if that’s what you want?” 

you raised your eyebrows questioningly, was he about to teach you a mantra to recite, or was the place your mind immediately went not entirely perverted?

“please, doctor. enlighten me.” 

you only called him doctor when you wanted to tease him, and you were perhaps feeling just the slightest bit vulnerable in this given moment.

“orgasms have been known to reduce anxiety based on a number of factors, mainly through the mix of brain chemicals released–such as dopamine. climaxing helps reduce adrenaline, which is a large factor in anxiety induced feelings…”

stupid sexy nerd casually mentioning that making you cum might make you feel better. how did you get this lucky again? this was a loud reminder to glare at anyone who eyed him in public extra hard next time. and there would absolutely be a next time. struggles of having a ridiculously attractive boyfriend who dropped bombs like this on you on the regular. 

“i think it’s worth a shot, hmm, what do you think, smart girl?” 

how were you supposed to think when he was running his hands up and down your sides like that? gentle with purpose, like he was trying to make you squirm. 

“make it quick, pretty boy.” 

nonchalance wins again. at least he had drawn your mind away from made up dinner disasters and on to how gigantic his pupils were. like completely blown-wide huge. just from looking at you? thinking about you? 

you knew you were done for when he started making his way to the ground, sliding ever so gently to his knees below you. his favourite place to be. 

spencer’s hands drifted from the cotton fabric of your tank top, instead travelling downwards and gripping the backs of your thighs, forcing you to brace yourself on the cool surface of the counter behind you. 

you leaned into his touch, pathetically. as if you were some sort of touch starved animal that lacked any and all self respect and dignity. 

as long as you didn’t start humping the air before he got your shorts off. 

“you’re so perfect.”

his voice was muffled by the soft skin of your thigh as he placed wet, open mouthed kisses on the warm flesh within his grip. spencer reid was nothing if not thorough. quickies were not exactly one of his (many) specialties. 

but he ate you like a man starved. so the poor time management was absolutely worth it. 

“i’m–not exactly in the mood for teasing.” 

your breath hitched as he looked up at you. making direct eye contact as he kissed your mound through thick fabric. embarrassingly enough, you could probably get off from just that, but what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. 

he smirked softly as he nipped at your inner thigh, he would’ve kept his eyes on yours, had he not been so ridiculously into this. captivated. he was simple, it did not take much to keep him happy. 

that much was obvious when he gripped the waistband of your shorts. 

you lifted your hips forwards as spencer managed to pull the fabric down before gravity did its job, dragging the fat of your bare ass back down onto the counter. completely sterile and totally sanitary!

your hands found their way into spencer’s hair as he mouthed your core through the sheer material of your panties. sheer from none other than your arousal. his lips were too busy to tease you for it, thank the lord. 

“fuck spence–that’s really good.”

he moaned at the taste of you, he may seem distracted, but your praises were not falling on deaf ears. everytime he got to have you like this, don’tcumdon’tcumdon’tcum repeated like a mantra in the back of his brain. he’d trained his hips to remain static, as a failure would not have been the first time. 

your panties were pulled down your legs in a haze, movements blurred and strung together, his lips barely left you, curling right back around your sensitive bud like being away from you physically pained him. he could feel the very force of his life draining each second his tongue was separated from your clit. 

the tips of your fingers pawed at his scalp, stretching ever so slightly as you pulled him impossibly close. every noise that passed your lips only made him more eager, devouring you with such fervour, his jaw would be sore if he wasn’t so focused on your pleasure. 

“you’re so pretty like this f’me”

spencer met your loving gaze half-lidded, as if to say you’re prettier through his eyes. he’d hold up a mirror so you could see just how beautiful the expressions you offered him were. he analyzed every shift, every microscopic twitch like a blessing, a gift from gods he didn’t believe in. 

his face was soaked, buried between your legs, pink tongue darting out to flatten against your clit. you’d taken his free hand in yours, pulling him impossibly closer to your warmth, stabilizing your shaking form above his. 

he had to hold back a moan when you draped a leg over his shoulder. 

you tried really, really hard to hold back. but spencer had a way of making that exceedingly difficult. this was about relieving stress, wasn’t it? you supposed that included using him… you could already feel the weight lifting from your shoulders as you let your knee curl around his neck. your heel strained against his spine, as if every bone in your body was itching to draw him closer. 

he could explain every reaction in factual detail if his mouth wasn’t so full of you. why where his lips pressed elicited the gasp that it did, and how he knew that when he started circling your entrance with his tongue, you would clench around nothing and start riding his face harder. 

he was an excellent study, well versed in anatomy, yours to be exact. he’d once told you that the clitoris had an average of over ten thousand nerve fibres, and now, you could feel the round curve of his nose shocking each ending with every buck of your hips. science in the most primal sense. 

“that’s really–fucking good. mm. fuck. you're way too good at this--hateyousomuch–”

a weird way of expressing your affection, but he knew you well enough to decipher your words as code for i’m seeing stars. 

he’d keep his pace exactly like this, tongue moving in tandem with every harsh grind of your hips, tip perfectly grazing that delicate spongy spot every time you moved. 

“just like that spence. don’t–don’t stop.”

he wouldn’t dream of it. he’d gladly kneel between your thighs for forever. he was high on you, on the sweet obscene praises that slipped past your puffy lips, bitten raw from futile attempts at holding back your moans. it was like hypnosis. he swore he would do anything you told him to without a second thought, brainlessly follow you to any corner of the earth. 

you just had that affect on him.

a particularly loud whine hit you when his lips returned to graze your swollen clit, tracing figure eights with just the right amount of pressure. 

you could barely remember why you were so nervous in the first place. 

if your brain wasn’t so fuzzy, you’d be a little humiliated at how quickly you were hurling over the edge. 

“spence–fuckfuckfuck”

your hips started to give out as you fell apart, stuttering and writhing against him, hot tears pricking at the corners of your fluttering eyelashes. 

spencer persisted with his ministrations, too enamoured with your taste to yield. too addicted to pay any mind to the way your legs started to tremble as you gripped his honey brown locks at the base of his skull. he only moaned at the sting and continued on. whore. 

“it’s too much–i can’t–” 

you threw your head back as rough waves of overstimulation crashed into you, capsizing your core. 

and then a harsh smell hit your nostrils and snapped you out of your delicious trance. 

fuck. 

you pulled away from him so fast, spencer was sure he got whiplash, body going limp against the metal of your kitchen drawers. you were still smothered all over his lips and cheeks.

thick clouds of black fumes emerged from the oven as you pried it open, in turn, triggering the blaring siren of your smoke detector. you fumbled with your oven mitts, using one to fan the evidence of forgetting to set a timer out of the air, and the other to set the baking sheet onto your stove.

when the smoke cleared, you were left with thirteen crumbly balls of asphalt. not a single salvageable cookie in sight. your gaze met spencers, eyes wide, pantless, with absolutely nothing to show for it.

so much for curing your anxiety. 

this took a ridiculously long time to write and i hate it… but atleast its done… i guess. 😭😭

a really awfully good looking guy who had once blushed at your words when you rode the elevator with him and filled the silence by complimenting his thesis.

of course you knew who he was.

if he were to step a foot on in your department, you were pretty sure applause would echo off the walls. this guy had done more fore crime solving using linguistics than your entire team ever had, and his endless knowledge sort of terrified you.

and maybe since then, he'd started to use the east wing elevator abnormally often. and maybe you'd exchanged numbers. for the sole purpose of keeping eachother in the loop during important cases, of course.

and maybe you were tired today because you'd spent all night exchanging texts, and your brain was beginning to turn into mush from the hours of sleep it'd been denied in the previous weeks.

all because of the boy who stood on the other side of the room from you right now, with his arms crossed and brows knit together while he listened to something the unit chief was saying.

"the unsub we're looking for seems to be leaving hidden messages on the crime scenes," agent hotchner explains, not bothered in the least by the number of people hanging onto his every word.

then, he adds.

"the letters have been collected, and as of now they're our primary focus. we believe an in-depth analysis might help us with the profile."

all around the bullpen, the air was charged.

agents taking notes while the team just stood there, shoulders high and gazes unwavering, like a silent affirmation of their superiority.

you wouldn't have appreciated it, the condescendance lingering in the air, aiming to make you and your colleagues feel somewhat impressed.

not if it wasn't for spencer.

the boyish brunette who was leaning against a desk - his desk you presumed, based on the precise alignement of the books displayed - whose eyes on you could be felt from miles away.

prentiss spoke up next, arms crossed in authority.

"with this guy, danger is imminent. he's escalating, and that's why we called the IB. we need more experts on the case."

something the woman said didn't quite register in your mind, your attention focused on keeping your gaze away from spencer.

a blonde one you recognized as penelope led you to the conference room, and you simply followed like a stray puppy yearning to get his owner back.

no one needed to know.

not as the team gathered around the round table, specifically asking you to join the meeting in hopes of receiving your expertise. in the room of qualified profilers trained to spot miscalculated glances and fleeting touches, with eyes like lasers piercing through the illusion of lies, you had to pull yourself together.

spencer made it a difficult task.

“i was thinking i could quickly go through all the letters the unsub wrote to try to find a pattern. i'd just need access to the archive room to find old files, i've worked through a similar case before.”

quick words, evidently suggested like he’d invented the alphabet himself. you almost smiled when you remembered something he said two days ago, in that exact same nonchalant tone.

“studies prove key elements such as sharp angles, uneven pressure or stilted writing can reveal traits linked to psychopathy." he adds, apparently finding the watch around his wrist more interesting than you, sitting across from him.

hotch asserted himself once more.

"actually, the bureau wanted the input of a real language analyst for this task," he said, sharp jaw nodding in your direction. the focus in the room shifted on you as he said your name.

the smile you gave felt forced, pressured by the half a dozen pair of eyes on you. only one made your heart beat faster for all the wrong reasons, and they belonged to the one who knew you as more than a name on a badge, a piece of chess in the game.

"morgan, you'll help her with the profiling. everyone else, i need you on the field"

morgan ?

the man in question gave you a welcoming grin, and though you were hoping for someone else, you nodded in return. for some reason you swore you heard spencer swallow, adam's apple sticking out, and you felt your a slight pinch of something that almost tasted like disappointment.

you weren't a profiler.

you couldn't have known - and he was grateful for that - that the reason he kept his gaze down and hands to himself came from an irrational part of his brain he didn't know existed.

the one that was jealous.

so he gathered his files and abruptly got up, leaving you with morgan as the rest of the team headed back to work, without even looking back.

turns out the dark skinned man had more to himself than flirtarious smiles. you two worked side by side all morning and he helped you delve into the files.

and before you knew it, you'd managed to keep spencer in the back of your mind for hours.

at lunchtime, while snacking on a granola bar, you caught yourself rambling about the meaning of commas in the unsub's letters. your excitement was contagious.

"gee," derek laughed, cutting you off with a chuckle to remind you he couldn’t keep up.

"you're like a female version of reid or something."

you stopped chewing. looked up, alerted. attempted to wipe away some unwanted crumbs and dreamy grin that had appeared on your lips a little too naturally.

"i'll take that as a compliment."

"trust me, pretty girl" he said, giving you a reassuring wink that might've led you to think he knew more than he let on, "that's a compliment."

the door opened.

he stared. spencer.

files in his hands and mouth opened like he was about to say something but lost all ability to form proper words when he heard the exchange. you felt your hands tighten around the empty plastic wrapper.

morgan’s head turned towards you, then reid.

the tension was painfully obvious, he’d heard the last two sentences and that was already more than enough. a little too interested in the newbie to realise his friend was just being welcoming.

“i was just coming here to say we found a new body with another note displayed on the crime scene,” spencer spoke after what felt like ages. he still didn’t look at you.

“-but i guess you’ll do a great work without it, since you make such a great team.”

morgan whistled, attempting to ease the tension with yet another uneeded comment.

“woah, someone’s jealous.”

with a friendly pat on spencer’s very much tense arm, he left, leaving you and your male copycat in a very awkward situation.

suddenly, the conference room felt smaller.

the space, tight. tighter than the shirt sticking to your skin you suddenly felt trapped in. droplets of sweat clung to the back of your neck and you kept your chin down, eyes piercing through the documents laid out on the table.

he didn’t move, not until he cleared his throat and closed the door behind him. “i didn’t know your intention was to befriend the whole BAU," he snarked.

"i didn't know you had such a problem with me being in your life."

your sharpness made him flinch. daring words, toying with the feeling in his heart he was too much of a coward to properly name. nobody he'd ever met had acted this way towards him. with brutal honesty, confronting him with raw emotions he'd be tempted to conceal.

spencer's eyes were locked onto yours when you spoke. he looked vulnerable in this light, but the anger bubbling beneath his ribs didn't stop him from saying.

"i- that's not what i meant" he stuttered, looking both confused and indignated.

you'd pushed your chair out of the way to get up, almost reaching his height now. there was no escape from this conversation - and you'd very much rehearsed it in your mind anyway. now was time for the real deal.

"i think you did,"

of course, in your head, it wouldn't happen here, out of all places. feelings didn't match well with your work, and now in the conference room was far from the appropriate time.

"i think you're jealous" you affirmed with confidence, crosing your arms to prove your point, "jealous of the fact that i was assigned the task, and that derek had to supervise and not you."

gee, even hearing you call him by his first name made him boil.

"m’not jealous. i have three PhDs”

you laughed. indeed, even with academic degrees up his sleeves, he could still be very oblivious.

“not of the case, idiot.”

he knew what you meant.

and paused. swallowed again.

you bit your lip in waiting, almost facepalming yourself at the honesty of your words - you got that way when you were nervous. and you were really nervous now.

“i don’t think i’ve ever been jealous before.” he said, to himself more than you.

never had he encountered someone to be jealous of. he had the brains, the world seemed to like him. see something even he couldn’t sometimes. he was never jealous of the living because he spent most of his time in a world of his own.

and then he met you.

“there’s a first time for everything” you said with a reassuring smile, much softer now. time for trust, trusting someone and allowing them to see behind the illusion. for love, and letting someone in.

barely blinking, your mesmerising eyes are deeply focused on his now.

“i don’t think i liked it, though.”

“being jealous ?”

he nods, admitting. “you’re smart. and so good at what you do, i swear you made the room light up when you walked in.”

the distance between your bodies fades as he takes another step towards you. he nervously talks with his hands.

“and you could be a profiler !” he lets out, “i’ve never met anyone from another department who has enough talent to hypothetically join a higher rank and willingly refuses to even think about it.”

your lips part, a silent gasp.

“and it just hurts to see you here- here with everyone being so…”

the curious angle of your head makes him smile when you question. “so what ?”

“so perfect !”

it almost pains him to admit it. that the beauty you exude makes him ache, tugging at his sensitive heartstrings more often than he’d like to admit. when the elevator door close, or late at night while staring at his phone in hopes of engraving the pixels or your texts in his brain, he admires the closest to perfection the universe has ever created.

you.

"spencer," you let out in an amused giggle. "i'm not interested in your friends. or your job, for that matter."

he puffs some air into his cheeks, bashful. "i know. my brain just... likes to stop working when you're around, or something."

right, or something. with a playful nudge of the arm, you add.

"i am interested in you, though"

his eyes widen, pupils dilating. the little amount of oxygen left in the room is enough to make him slightly choke, which he covers by his hand. germ thing, sure.

"in me ?"

"yeah." someone has to say it, and you will if it means putting an end to the wrenching state of not knowing what you are. "-if you are, that is. unless i completely misunderstood the situation and you're actually jealous of my linguistics diploma-"

he calls your name, almost offended "i speak four languages !"

"i speak five. not that we're counting"

no bother mentionning you're also learning two. he's overwhelmingly close to you, and the smell of his cologne makes you melt little by little.

he utters quietly. "see ? perfect."

there's not exactly much he could do to make this conversation better. like, better than any debate you had over the phone, and yet he adds.

"i really am interested. and i'd like to see you sometimes... outside of work"

"and the elevator"

he laughs. a genuine sound you could get drunk on, and with a rush of adrenaline, reaches forwards to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"just us. on a date. no work and no elevators involved, i promise"

jealousy looked good on him, earlier when he came in with clenched fists and a dark gaze. but nothing, no other expression could match the one he was wearing on his face. pools of hazel softened around the edges, spencer looked truly enamored.

and that ? that looked even better.

“Spencer!” you shriek, cutting him off before he can finish a statement like that at six in the morning.

He smirks. “I was just providing data.”

You pinch his side. “Provide less.”

He laughs again, sleepy and warm, and grins like he’s proud of getting you flustered.

You kiss him again. It’s easier now that the part where you pretend not to want to stay has worn off. You just want to stay, and you let yourself.

When you finally peel out of bed, it’s with mutual groaning and the kind of reluctant separation that would be disgusting if it were anyone else. He presses a quick kiss between your shoulder blades as you swing your legs over the side of the mattress; you pretend it doesn’t make your chest do something stupid.

By the time you’re dressed and make your way out of the bedroom, Spencer’s apartment smells like coffee and toast. He’s in the kitchen in a button down and slacks, tie draped around his neck, reading something in the newspaper with a little furrow between his brows. There’s a mug waiting for you — your mug, chipped on one side, living here now without discussion.

You snag a piece of toast off his plate, bite into it, and lean your hip against the counter while he wrestles with his tie. It’s a new one — navy with small, neat polka dots.

“Come here,” you say, setting your mug down.

He steps closer automatically when you hook two fingers in his belt and tug him in. You untie the knot and redo it, straightening it with careful precision. He watches your face like you’re doing something much more interesting than fixing his tie.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “I just… like you here.”

You roll your eyes because the alternative is something mushy, but then you lean in anyway and let your lips find his.

The kiss is soft and familiar and still somehow manages to make your knees a little shaky. He tastes like coffee and toothpaste and home, which is a terrifying thought you refuse to examine this early in the day.

He breaks away first, forehead resting against yours. “We should go.”

“Yeah,” you say, not moving.

A beat passes, then another long kiss. Eventually you both laugh, step back at the same time, and pretend you’re ready for reality to hit.

You grab your jacket and badge off the hook, he grabs his satchel and keys, and you walk out the door together.

—

By the time you pull into the Quantico lot, the radio is off and his hand is resting, casual and warm, on your thigh. You let it stay there until you’re close enough to see the building, then you nudge it away and give him a look that says later.

He gives you one back that says I know.

The practiced routine kicks in — you get out and head inside first, he waits three-and-a-half minutes before doing the same.

Spencer barely makes it to his desk before Rossi appears beside him like a well-dressed shadow.

“Ready to go?” Rossi asks, coffee in hand, already halfway turned toward the bullpen doors.

They’re headed to the academy building across campus, today’s guest lecturers for a criminology training. Spencer always pretends he’s indifferent to that sort of thing, but the second he’s in front of a whiteboard, he lights up.

Spencer blinks, then nods. “Yes. I just need—”

“Your notes are in your bag,” Rossi says. “You sent me five drafts already. Come on, kid, the cadets await.”

Spencer glances in your direction automatically. You lift your eyes just long enough to catch his and tip your chin, a small, private acknowledgment no one else would notice.

He smiles — barely there, but there — and then heads out with Rossi. You watch them go, then drag your focus back to the report in front of you.

You get maybe three minutes of peace.

“Greenawaaay,” Garcia sings, appearing at the edge of your peripheral vision like a colorful mirage.

You don’t look up yet. “If this is about your whipped cream experimentation with Kevin, I already told you I’m not certified in exorcisms.”

“It’s not about the whipped cream,” she says. “It’s much more important than the whipped cream. Which should tell you the stakes here are astronomical.”

You sigh, close the file, and finally turn. JJ and Prentiss are hovering behind her with matching she-already-recruited-us-but-we-don’t-know-what-for expressions. Morgan leans against the nearest desk, arms folded, clearly already in on whatever this is.

“What did you do?” you ask.

“Me?” Garcia bats her lashes. “Nothing. But we’re about to make history. Come on.” She jerks her head toward the hallway. “Top secret meeting in my office.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m on the clock, Garcia. I have work to do.”

“As do I,” she says. “This is… related to work. Trust me.”

You should say no. You should go back to your paperwork. Instead, curiosity wins and you slide out of your chair.

Garcia herds the four of you down to her lair like a cheerful, bedazzled sheepdog. The door closes behind you with a heavy thud, the lights of her monitors bathing the room in neon. On the far wall, there’s a corkboard you don’t remember seeing before.

At the top, in big, bold letters outlined with glittery tape, it says:

OPERATION MYSTERY GIRL - O.M.G.

Garcia plants herself in front of the board, hands on hips. “Welcome, my beloved profilers and communications liaison, to the inaugural briefing of O.M.G.!”

JJ presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. Morgan isn’t even pretending to not be thrilled. Prentiss looks like she’s just been handed front-row tickets to a train wreck.

“Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” you say.

“This,” Garcia announces, pointing dramatically at the corkboard, “is a fully serious, very important investigation into the case of Dr. Spencer Reid’s mysterious secret girlfriend.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” She gestures dramatically to the board again. It’s already populated with printed photos, sticky notes, and colored yarn connecting pins like you’re standing in front of a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream.

At the bottom is a sheet of paper featuring a stick figure of a woman with a giant question mark over her face. Around it: headings that read EVIDENCE SO FAR, POTENTIAL OCCUPATIONS, and VIBES in Garcia’s handwriting.

You step closer despite yourself.

Under EVIDENCE:

Suspiciously happy like all the time

Volunteering for less overtime than usual

New clothes??!!

His aura just screams I’M IN LURVVV

“Some of this is actually pretty accurate,” Prentiss says, leaning in.

“I’ve been monitoring his behavior for weeks,” Garcia says proudly. “The data doesn’t lie. Our boy genius is smitten, and he is hiding her from us.”

Morgan shakes his head. “He’s definitely hiding something. We’ve been saying that for a while. And at O’Keefe’s the other week, he didn’t exactly deny it. He just said ‘no comment,’ which means there’s definitely a girl.”

“He has a right to privacy,” you point out, mostly because you’re trying not to gnaw through your own tongue.

“Absolutely,” Garcia says. “He has the right to privacy, and I have the right to gossip with my friends about our other friend. Both things can be true.”

Prentiss snorts.

Garcia taps the POTENTIAL OCCUPATIONS column, where there are several options listed already:

Kindergarten teacher

Librarian

Baker

Social worker

“Seriously? You think he’s dating a kindergarten teacher? A librarian?” you ask.

JJ lifts a shoulder. “He does like to read.”

“And he’s good with kids,” Morgan adds. “Makes sense he’d go for someone sweet and gentle like that."

“It’s probably someone outside the FBI,” Prentiss proposes. “Normal job. Normal hours. No guns.”

“She definitely wears super cute colorful cardigans,” Garcia adds, already scribbling it down under VIBES. “And I’d venture to guess that she bakes cupcakes when she’s stressed. Smells like vanilla!”

“Vanilla,” you echo, deadpan.

JJ tilts her head. “You don’t think he’d be into someone like that?”

You shrug like it’s theoretical, like your heart isn’t doing something unpleasant in your chest. “He might be, I don’t know. But I think he needs someone who can actually handle the job. The hours. The… everything. This kind of life isn’t exactly gentle.”

“Exactly,” Garcia says. “Which is why she’s gotta be gentle. She provides a counterbalance. Yin and yang, crime and cupcakes. It’s poetic.”

She writes CUPCAKES under VIBES.

Morgan points his pen at the pinned drawing of the stick figure woman. “Come on, Greenaway. You spend a lot of time with him. Help us out.”

“I do not spend a lot of time with him,” you deny automatically.

Four pairs of eyes look at you.

You lift your hands. “Fine. I spend an appropriate amount of professional time with him. Not my fault Hotch pairs us together a lot.”

“Point is, you know him. So, from a purely hypothetical standpoint,” JJ says, “what kind of person do you think he’d be happy with?”

You stare at the board for a moment, at the fake girl they’ve built out of cardigans and vanilla extract. Then you pick up a pen.

“Someone smart,” you say. “He’d need that. Someone who doesn’t treat him like a walking encyclopedia but also doesn’t get lost or zone out when he goes off on a tangent. Someone who doesn’t flinch when things get ugly,” you continue. “You all know what this job does. You don’t get to just… opt out of the darkness. If you’re with him, you’re in all of it.”

You tap the pen against the board, then force your tone lighter. “And yeah, okay, probably someone nice.”

Garcia grins, scribbling down NICE under VIBES and functionally ignoring the rest of what you said. “See? This is why I invited you. You have insight!”

Morgan grins. “So we’re in agreement. She’s smart, sweet, likes kids, bakes.”

“And probably has no idea how lucky she is,” JJ adds.

You swallow back the instinctive no, she definitely knows she’s lucky and say instead, “Can I go back to work now, or are we building a composite sketch?”

Garcia swats the air. “This is just Phase One, my fine furry friend. We will reconvene later. In the meantime, I expect you all to investigate.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite in it. “Great. Can’t wait to see what Phase Two has in store.”

As you step back, your gaze catches on the stick figure again. On the glitter, the stickers, the ridiculous heading — O.M.G.

According to the board, Reid’s mystery girl should be someone who wears cardigans. Smells like sugar. Teaches kindergarten.

Definitely not someone like you.

You shove that thought down where it belongs, under seven layers of scar tissue and denial, and head back to the bullpen like nothing in here touched you at all.

—

The rest of the morning unfolds like any other day at the BAU, if you ignore the fact that one of your coworkers has unknowingly built a conspiracy wall about you.

You try to ignore it.

You work a consult. You write up a report on last week’s case. You argue with a detective over the phone until he backs down, and when you hang up, Morgan’s watching you like: damn, remind me to never piss you off.

“You good?” he asks.

“Peachy,” you say, tossing the file onto your desk. “Please tell me Garcia found a new hobby in the last hour.”

He grins. “Not a chance. She’s real committed to this one.”

You roll your eyes and open your email.

There’s a subject line from Garcia that reads: “O.M.G. – Phase Two Meeting Tomorrow - Agenda Enclosed!” with three heart emojis.

You don’t open it. You’re not that masochistic.

Around noon, your phone buzzes against your desk. You assume it’s another follow-up from Garcia and flip it over, already cringing. Instead, it’s Spencer.

Spencer: Cadets have already asked 3 questions that make me concerned for the future of law enforcement.

You huff out a quiet laugh before you can stop it, shoulders loosening.

You type back under the desk.

You: important news from the home front: i am currently the unsub in an unsanctioned profiling experiment being conducted out of garcia’s lair

There’s a long enough pause that you can imagine him reading it twice, brow furrowed.

Spencer: …What?

You: penelope has formed a task force

You: codename: operation mystery girl

You: acronym: O.M.G.

You: there’s glitter. so much glitter

You: and specific instructions not to tell you about it. oops

This time, his reply is almost immediate.

Spencer: Why can’t I know?

You: because you’ve been “suspiciously happy” so they’ve decided that gives them grounds to reverse-engineer your love life

You: they’re profiling your “type.” your mystery girl.

Another beat. You can practically feel him flushing through the screen.

Spencer: What have they concluded so far?

You: that you’re dating a bubbly, perfect kindergarten teacher who smells like vanilla

There’s a full minute of silence this time. You picture him in some Academy auditorium, phone in his hand under the desk while Rossi lectures about offender typologies.

Finally:

Spencer: I don’t even like vanilla that much.

You laugh under your breath and stare at that for a second, heat curling low in your stomach for absolutely no good reason as his second text comes through.

Spencer: I prefer more complex flavors.

You roll your eyes at your phone, because of course he somehow made that sound unintentionally sweet and slightly filthy without even trying.

You: stop flirting with me during class

You: you’re supposed to be educating the next generation of the fbi

As if on cue, Hotch’s door opens and he steps out into the bullpen, scanning the room. You turn your phone face-down on your desk.

By late afternoon, O.M.G. has evolved. Every so often you catch someone making a note — Garcia walking by while scribbling on a sticky, JJ whispering something in her ear, Prentiss and Morgan analyzing Spencer’s desk from a distance.

It’s fine. It’s all stupid and harmless and fine.

Your phone buzzes again around four while you’re in the hall heading back from the bathroom.

Spencer: Wrapping up here, should be back soon. Any further developments on the O.M.G. front?

You glance down the hall towards Garcia’s office. The door is closed, a faint glow spilling out from beneath it like a witch’s cave.

You: more of the same

You: i’ll fill you in tonight

You hesitate, then tack on one more message before you can talk yourself out of it:

You: miss you

It’s reckless and feels entirely too honest, but your thumb hits send anyway.

The reply comes before you’ve even locked your phone.

Spencer: I miss you too. See you soon.

You swallow, looking around like the words might be visible in the air, but no one’s looking at you. No one has a clue.

Yet.

—

By the time you make it to Spencer’s apartment after work, your brain feels like it’s humming inside your skull.

You kick the door shut with your heel, toe your shoes off in the entryway, shrug out of your jacket and scarf and hang them on the hook you’ve claimed as your own. Spencer drops his satchel by the couch and heads for the kitchen.

“Dinner,” he calls, opening the fridge. “Option A: leftover lo mein. Option B: grilled cheese. Option C: both.”

“C,” you pick.

He smiles faintly and pulls out the takeout container. It’s all so normal — him moving around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, you leaning your hip against the cabinets as you watch him. This is your life now: FBI agent by day, domestic lovergirl by night.

You watch him butter bread and portion out noodles like he’s solving a complex equation. He glances up.

“You said you’d fill me in,” he reminds you. “On O.M.G.”

You snort. “Right. Your fan club.”

He raises his eyebrows. You sigh and attempt to pick the least sharp version of the recap you’ve been brewing in your head all day.

“Garcia built a case board,” you say. “There are doodles and glitter tape and stickers. She has lists pinned to it for ‘Evidence So Far,’ ‘Potential Occupations,’ and ‘Vibes.’”

He blinks once. “…Vibes.”

“Vibes,” you confirm. “And according to our coworkers, apparently the ‘vibe’ is that you’re secretly dating a kindergarten teacher slash librarian slash cupcake baker who smells like vanilla and wears colorful cardigans and definitely doesn’t carry a gun or have years of trauma to work through in therapy.”

He pauses in the act of flipping a sandwich. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” You pick at a chip in the countertop.

“And what did you contribute to the investigation?” he asks.

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. “That whoever you’re with would have to be smart. And able to handle the job. And not treat you like you’re made of glass. Clearly, my influence was minimal.”

The grilled cheese sizzles. The lo mein goes in the microwave. Silence fills in around it, heavy and familiar.

You eat on the couch, plate balanced on your knees, a National Geographic documentary playing low on the TV.

You make jokes at first. You tell him about Prentiss and Morgan’s intense study of his desk for “data collection” and Garcia’s email subject lines. Spencer laughs in all the right places. He looks at you more than he looks at the screen.

But by the time the plates are empty, the jokes have dried up.

You stack the dishes and take them to the sink, rinsing them off like the hot water might scald the thoughts out of your head. When you look up, he’s still on the couch, watching you with that careful focus of his.

“What?” you ask.

“You’re doing that thing,” he says.

“Please specify which thing,” you say. “I have a lot of things.”

“The thing where you brush something hurtful off like it’s funny but then go really quiet and your shoulders get all tense.” He pats the cushion next to him. “Come here.”

“I’m fine,” you say automatically.

“I never said you weren’t.” His voice stays soft, but there’s a thread of seriousness underneath it. “I said to come here.”

You sigh and drop onto the couch beside him with more force than necessary. He shifts closer, thigh warm against yours. His hand finds the back of the couch behind your shoulders, not quite touching you yet.

“So,” he says. “What’s bothering you? And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because we both know that’s not true.”

“It’s stupid,” you grumble, staring at the coffee table.

He gently lifts your chin with his finger. “Okay. Tell me anyway.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, throat tight. You’ve been replaying it all day — the board, the stick figure, the list of traits that are a complete juxtaposition to your entire personality.

“I…” You trail off and try another angle. “The team loves you. They just want you to be happy. It’s sweet, honestly. A massive overstep and an insane invasion of privacy, but still sweet. I understand their curiosity.”

“But,” he prompts gently.

You exhale, sharp. “But… they built you a perfect imaginary ideal girlfriend, and she’s nothing like me.”

He’s quiet. You push on before you can lose your nerve.

“Like, not even a little bit,” you say. “She’s soft and gentle and bakes when she’s stressed and doesn’t know what a glock looks like. She smells like vanilla.” The word tastes bitter on your tongue. “And the thing is, Morgan and Garcia and JJ and Prentiss know you. Like, really well. They’re your best friends. So if that’s the woman who pops into their heads when they think about who’d be good for you—” You break off.

When you look up, his eyes are still on you, open and steady.

“When they eventually find out it’s me,” you go on, forcing the words out, “they’re going to look at you like you’ve lost your mind. Like you traded in a cupcake for… I don’t know. A Molotov cocktail or something.”

“You don’t honestly think,” he says, “that they sat there and consciously decided, ‘Reid should be with someone who is the total opposite of Greenaway.’”

“No,” you say. “I think they didn’t think of me at all.”

The words hang there, more naked than you meant them to be.

He goes very still.

“Not that I wanted them to think of me and figure it out, but still.” You stare resolutely at the coffee table. “And, like, I get it. I’ve spent a long time cultivating a vibe that says ‘do not perceive me unless you want to get bit.’ I don’t exactly radiate ‘nurturing life partner’ energy. It would almost be funny if it didn’t feel like—” You motion helplessly at some vague point in front of you. “Like confirmation,” you say. “That I’m wrong for you. That when they do eventually find out, they’re going to wonder how badly you hit your head.”

There’s a prickling behind your eyes. You blink hard, once, twice. It doesn’t help much.

“And I hate that it’s getting to me,” you say. “I don’t care what people think. That’s, like, my whole thing. I have built an entire personality around not giving a shit. But I…” You flex your hands, fingers curling against your knees. “I care what they think of you. And of you with me. And apparently that’s enough to scramble my brain, because now I’m sitting here wishing I could be some fucking vanilla-cupcake-librarian for you because you deserve someone that sweet and soft and kind, but that’s— that’s not who I am. I don’t know how to be that girl. And I am so fucking tired of being the wrong kind of girl in every room.”

There’s a long moment where the only sound is the TV and your own breathing, too loud in your ears.

Then Spencer moves.

He reaches over, gently pries your hand away from your knee, and laces his fingers through yours. His palm is warm. His grip is firm without being possessive.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do. It feels like standing on the edge of a roof and choosing, deliberately, not to step back.

“You’re right, they do know me,” he says. “But they don’t know what it feels like to be in my apartment at three in the morning when my brain won’t shut off and you stay up with me just so I’m not alone. They don’t know what it’s like to sit in a car with you at a crime scene and have you make the darkest possible joke at exactly the right moment. They don’t know how it feels when I start spiraling and you say, very firmly, ‘Reid, eat something,’ and shove a granola bar into my hand.”

You start to object. “That happened, like, one time.”

“It was three times,” he says. His thumb strokes along the side of your hand absentmindedly.

“They’re still a bit stuck on the version of me that existed before… a lot of things. Before Tobias Hankel. Before Gideon left. Before losing people changed the way I look at everything. They still see the kid who needed to be protected from himself.”

“Sometimes you still are that kid,” you say softly.

“Sometimes,” he agrees. “But I’m also a man who knows what he wants. Who he wants.” His eyes are steady on yours. “And it’s you. It’s been you for a long time.”

Your throat tightens.

“They want me to have someone gentle,” he says. “And I get why. But gentle doesn’t necessarily have to mean cupcakes and vanilla and kindergarten.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re gentle with me in all the ways that matter. You know when to challenge me and when to just… be here.”

“So you’re saying you don’t want a cupcake,” you say slowly.

“I’m saying I don’t want to be handled,” he corrects. “I don’t want to be someone’s fragile project. I don’t need to be saved from my own life by a nice woman in a cardigan.”

He leans in a little, eyes not leaving yours.

“I chose you,” he says. “Not because I’m convinced you’re secretly soft underneath it all and one day you’ll transform into their idea of what my life should look like. I chose you, completely as you are. Sharp and stubborn and infuriating and the only person who’s ever told me to shut up not because you didn’t care what I had to say, but because you wanted to kiss me so badly you couldn’t wait."

Heat flickers under your skin at that memory. Your eyes sting again. You blink hard.

“They love me,” he says with a nod. “You’re right. But they also love you. They trust you with their lives. They’ve seen you bleed for this team. Do you really think that when they find out I’m with someone who understands all of that, who gets it down to the bone, they’re going to… what? Stage an intervention? Tell me I should hold out for someone better?”

You look away, jaw tight.

“If I didn’t want you,” he says, voice even, “I wouldn’t be with you. If I thought you were wrong for me, I wouldn’t let you into this part of my life.” He squeezes your hand. It’s grounding, the pressure. “I’m not going to look at Garcia’s corkboard and suddenly decide I made a mistake. I’m in this because I want to be.”

You swallow, hard. A traitorous tear finally escapes despite your best efforts; you swipe it away with the heel of your hand before it can go rogue.

“This is so embarrassing,” you mutter. “I’m mad at a fucking bulletin board.”

He smiles, small and fond. “You’re not mad at the board.”

He shifts closer, finally letting his arm drop around your shoulders, pulling you in until you’re halfway in his lap.

“I just don’t want to be the wrong choice,” you whisper.

“You’re not,” he says. No hesitation. “You’re the right one. And if that conflicts with our friends’ wild imaginations, then that’s their problem to solve. Not ours.”

You swallow, breathing uneven. He’s so close you can count his eyelashes. You let your head tip against his shoulder as his thumb draws idle circles on the back of your hand.

“Okay,” you say eventually, almost too quiet to hear. “But if they look at me like I’m a bad idea when they eventually find out, you’re in charge of reminding them I’m not.”

“I can do that,” he promises.

You stay like that for a while — documentary murmuring in the background, the universe shrunk down to the circumference of his arm around you and the steady rise and fall of his chest. At some point, he turns his head and presses a kiss into your hair.

“You know Garcia’s going to put glittery heart stickers around my face if she ever adds me to that board,” you mumble against him.

“I know,” he says. “And I’m so keeping it if she does.”

You pinch his side. He yelps, then laughs, then presses another kiss into your hair.

Let them have their glitter for now, you think to yourself. Let them build their wrong profile. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re here, and he’s here, and you’re choosing each other.

—

Rossi’s email hits your inbox on Thursday morning, wedged between a case update and a training memo.

BAU Pasta Night at Villa Rossi: Saturday. 6pm. Mandatory attendance.

You read it twice. There’s something about dinner at Rossi’s that feels less like an invitation and more like a command.

Your phone buzzes with a text five minutes later.

Spencer: Did you see Rossi’s email?

You stare at the screen longer than you need to, then type back:

You: yep

You: guess we’re having pasta this weekend

Once Saturday night hits, Garcia is on Spencer before he can even take his coat off in Rossi’s foyer.

“REID,” she announces, planting herself in front of him with the kind of intensity she usually reserves for hacking and cross-referencing. “You came alone.”

Spencer’s mouth opens. Closes. “Hi, Garcia.”

Morgan appears behind her with a glass of wine, already grinning. “No plus-one, man? C’mon.”

Emily lifts her eyebrows in amusement. JJ’s smile is softer, more sympathetic than nosy.

You keep your face blank and slip past them toward the kitchen, waving awkwardly to Hotch as you pass by the living room, because if you have to stand there and listen to this, you will commit a felony.

Rossi intercepts you with a dish towel over his shoulder and a look that says I got you, kid.

“If you’re looking for a way to escape Penelope’s witch hunt, go ahead into the cellar downstairs and pick out another bottle of red,” he says mercifully. “Barolo or Chianti preferably, but it’s your choice."

“Yes, sir,” you say sarcastically, and take the out.

The basement is cooler, quieter. You let yourself breathe for a minute, fingers trailing over labels, pretending you’re here for the tannins.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Spencer is doing his best impression of a man who is not currently being cornered by three BAU agents and one extremely glitter-motivated tech analyst.

Garcia doesn’t even bother easing in.

“Okay,” she says, clasping her hands. “We have respected your privacy for—”

Morgan coughs. “We have attempted to respect your privacy.”

Garcia glares at him, then refocuses on Spencer. “—for a completely appropriate amount of time. But I simply cannot wait any longer. In my heart of hearts I know you’re seeing someone, and I’m DYING to know who she is.”

Spencer rubs the back of his neck. “This is, uh… really none of your business.”

Emily leans against the counter, entertained. “You’re surrounded by profilers, Reid. Being in other people’s business is kind of what we do best.”

JJ steps in a little. “Look, Spence, you don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to,” she says, and she means it even though Garcia’s threatening her with dagger eyes. “But we’re your friends. We notice when something changes, and we just want the chance to be happy for you.”

Spencer’s ears go pink. “I—I know. It’s just— It’s private.”

Garcia’s eyes widen theatrically. “So she IS real! Private means real!”

Morgan tilts his head. “C’mon, fess up. You seeing someone, pretty boy?”

Spencer hesitates for an awkward beat, running through the options in his head. He supposes that confirming the existence of a significant other isn’t the worst idea in the world, considering they’ve already pretty much figured it out, and it’s not like he has to tell them who the “mystery girl” is. That’s a boundary line he can draw and stick to. Plus, maybe they’ll chill out on O.M.G. and leave you some room to breathe if they at least have a few nuggets of information to hold them over for a bit.

“Yes,” he admits finally. “I’m…seeing someone.”

Garcia makes a sound like she’s about to ascend. “OHHH MY GOD. I KNEW IT.”

“So,” Emily says. “How long has it been?”

Spencer exhales. “A… while. Things started slow, so it’s somewhat hard to quantify.”

As if he doesn’t know the exact amount of time down to the minute that’s passed since you first kissed him in Ohio.

Morgan’s cheeky grin softens as he claps Spencer’s shoulder. “I’m happy for you, man,” he says.

Spencer nods and looks down, like he doesn’t know what to do with that. JJ’s expression brightens in a way that’s genuinely excited for him.

“Well,” Garcia says, leaning in like she’s about to jump into full-on detective mode. “Tell us about her! I want to know everything.”

Spencer’s eyes flick up. “I—”

“Not actually everything. We’re not asking for her social security number,” JJ clarifies. “Not even her name. Just…are you happy? Is it going well?”

Spencer nods, the corner of his mouth tipping up despite himself. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s…good. Really, really good.”

Garcia’s voice turns unexpectedly soft. “Is she good to you?”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Emily taps her fingernail against the counter. “What sorts of things do you two do? Do you go out? Stay in?”

“Both,” Spencer says. “We do, uh, normal things.”

Garcia squints. “Define ‘normal,’ because your normal includes reading hundred-year-old Russian novels for fun.”

He gives a small, helpless shrug. “We… we go on walks. Run errands. Go out to eat. There’s this little Italian restaurant in Georgetown she really likes. But… we also stay in a lot. We cook together sometimes. Talk. Read. Watch movies.”

“What kind of movies?” JJ probes.

Spencer thinks of you engrossed by a classic horror film or picking apart some terrible romcom with surgical cruelty, pointing out every dumb decision while somehow still being fully invested. He does not say that out loud.

“Uh, anything, really,” he says instead. “She made me watch Pulp Fiction recently, and I showed her a documentary about black holes last weekend. She… likes indulging my interests.”

Emily’s eyes flicker with satisfaction at that. JJ files it away. Garcia is practically vibrating.

Morgan jumps in next. “So, you planning on bringing her to one of these things eventually?”

Spencer’s throat bobs. “…Eventually.”

“In the meantime, I need more. What does she like?” Garcia presses. “What’s her favorite—food, music, whatever. Give us something, Reid! One harmless little detail.”

Spencer’s brain scrambles for something that feels safe. Something that won’t point to you. Something small.

“She… she has a bit of a sweet tooth,” he admits. “Brownies, cake, cookies… you know. But she hates warm fruit. Something to do with the texture. We went to a diner once where the waitress gave us free slices of pie, and she picked out all the fruit and just ate the crust and ice cream.”

Emily laughs. “That’s unhinged.”

Garcia clutches her heart. “Oh, a woman with a quirk! I just know I'm going to adore her already.”

Spencer’s eyes flick toward the cellar door for the briefest of seconds — instinctively, as if his gaze is trained on you like a magnet — before looking back at his nosy friends with his signature awkward, tight-lipped smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “I have a feeling you will.”

—

When you come back upstairs with a bottle of Barolo, the evening has already moved into that easy, warm groove: plates clinking, voices overlapping, Rossi refilling wine glasses.

You laugh at something JJ says. You argue with Emily about her taste in horror movies. Spencer watches you like he’s trying to memorize your face. As if he hasn’t already committed every inch of it to memory.

By the time the pasta plates are cleared and Rossi heads into the kitchen to grab dessert, you’ve almost forgotten about O.M.G. entirely. The team has, mercifully, taken it easier on Spencer after the conversation you missed while seeking refuge in the wine cellar.

Whatever he said to shut them up, it must’ve worked, you think to yourself.

Rossi returns to the dining room and sets a slice of apple pie in front of you. “Made from scratch,” he boasts.

You eye it. The apples are glossy and soft. Wrong texture. Wrong temperature. But the crust looks deliciously sugary and flaky and you’re not about to insult Rossi in his own home mansion, so you manage a polite “Thank you” and pick up your fork.

Across the table, Spencer freezes.

Not a subtle freeze — no. It’s a full, wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights freeze.

He clears his throat too loud. Knocks his fork against his plate. His foot finds your ankle under the table with a series of frantic little nudges.

You glance up, confused, eyes clearly asking what the heck is your problem.

He’s staring at your plate like it’s an unpinned grenade.

His mouth opens. Closes. He tries again, smaller, more desperate: “Uh—”

What? you mouth, eyebrows raised.

His eyes flick back and forth — pie, you, pie, you — like he’s trying to telepathically beam a message directly into your skull. But there is, unfortunately, no universal signal for if you eat your pie like a feral raccoon our coworkers are 100% going to figure out our secret so please just be normal this one time, so you just stare at him blankly.

Weirdo.

You gently kick his foot away — more confused than annoyed — and turn back to your plate.

And then you do what you always do.

You begin to push the warm apples to one side of the dish with the edge of your fork, methodically separating fruit from crust like you’re field-stripping a firearm.

Spencer’s face goes beet red in anxious anticipation, but the room doesn’t go silent all at once.

It’s staggered. Like a line of well-spaced dominos, toppling one after another in perfect succession.

Garcia notices first. Her whole face lights up, brows practically shooting up to her hairline. A strangled noise catches in her throat, and her hand clamps over her mouth like she’s trying to keep herself from screaming.

JJ freezes mid-bite, fork suspended, eyes wide and snapping to Spencer.

Morgan’s grin falters into disbelief. “No way,” he says, like he’s arguing with reality.

Emily’s jaw goes slack. “Oh,” she breathes. Then her eyes sharpen, bright with dawning glee. “Ohhh.”

You look up at the sudden weirdness and find four faces locked on your plate like you’ve just confessed to arson.

“What,” you ask carefully, “is happening. Why are you all staring at my pie.”

Morgan points his fork at your dish and turns to Spencer. “Reid,” he says, voice pitched with amusement, “didn’t you literally just tell us your girl does that? That she won’t eat warm fruit?”

Spencer shuts his eyes for a second — brief, pained — like he’s watching himself die in third person. When he opens them, he looks straight at you.

Pure apology. Pure guilt.

He winces. “I… I didn’t know there was going to be pie.”

Something in you goes cold and then hot at the exact same moment you catch up to what’s going on.

For half a second, your brain offers you the classic Greenaway solution: vanish. Run and never look back. You can practically feel the panic trying to crawl up your throat, because this is what you were dreading — the second everyone knows, they get to have opinions. They get to look at you and Spencer like a math problem and decide you don’t add up.

Except… they’re not at all looking at you like you’re wrong for him.

You scan the room. Garcia’s smiling so big it looks painful. JJ’s gaze is warm, not sharp. Emily looks like she just won a bet she never told anyone she made. And Morgan is staring like he can’t believe you got one over on him, but there’s no anger in it — just that big-brother okay, show me you’re serious energy. The only person in the room who looks horrified is Spencer, who’s clearly just trying to cope with the fact he accidentally revealed your relationship in maybe the stupidest way possible.

You take a breath, feel your pulse in your throat, and then — because you’re not going to let all of your control over this situation be ripped out of your hands — you say:

“Congrats everyone, you cracked the code. Yes. Reid and I are together.”

Garcia explodes.

“MYSTERY GIRL IS YOU,” she shrieks, half out of her chair. “It’s been you this ENTIRE time. Oh my GOD. I made a board! I made assumptions! I said cupcakes and cardigans when in reality, Mystery Girl was right in front of me in boots and a leather jacket and—”

“Garcia,” Hotch warns.

JJ’s earnest expression is the first thing that cuts through the chaos. “This makes so much sense,” she says.

“Yeah,” Emily agrees. “The second you say it out loud, it’s like— of course. How did we miss that?”

Morgan sits back, still staring between you and Spencer like he’s recalibrating. Then he lets out a laugh — half disbelief, half delight. “Man,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “I thought you were cuddled up with a librarian or something. Meanwhile you’re out here dating the most terrifying Greenaway sister,” he says, then winks at you like he’s trying to make sure you know he means it as a compliment.

You lift your chin. “Say that again and I’ll throw this pie at you.”

Morgan grins, hands up. “See? Exactly what I mean.”

Rossi sips his wine with a chuckle. “About time you bozos figured it out.”

Garcia whirls on him. “You KNEW?!”

Rossi’s mouth quirks. “What can I say, I’m good at my job.”

Hotch sets his fork down with the resigned patience of a man who has filled out a lot of paperwork on this exact subject already. “I’ve also been aware for some time,” he says evenly.

Garcia makes a noise that sounds like she’s dying. “BOTH of you knew?!”

Spencer clears his throat, still pink, still looking like he wants to apologize to you in six different languages. His eyes don’t leave your face.

Garcia’s hands clap together like she’s calling court to order. “O.M.G. never stood for Operation Mystery Girl,” she announces, breathless with triumph. “It stood for OH MY GREENAWAY all along.”

JJ’s gaze meets yours. “For what it’s worth,” she says, "I'm really happy that Mystery Girl is you.”

Emily lifts her glass in a small toast. “Me as well,” she adds. “This is good. This is really, really good.”

Morgan’s grin softens into something fond and protective. “As long as you’re both happy and nobody’s getting hurt,” he says, “I’m happy for you. Both of you.”

Garcia’s voice goes thick, emotional, and she tries to bulldoze right through it with dramatics. “I’m so happy,” she declares. “I’m also a bit devastated I wasn’t included in the secret circle of knowing earlier, but mostly I’m happy because you two are…” She gestures wildly. “You’re you. And it’s perfect.”

Something in your chest steadies instead of cracks.

“Okay,” you say, exhaling. “Cool. Great. Everybody get it out of their system?”

Garcia points at your pie plate, still half-disassembled. “Not even close. I’m sorry,” she gasps, “but I can’t get over that THIS is what did it.”

You deadpan. “My beef with pie is never-ending.”

Rossi claps once, satisfied. “Alright. Now that the children have finished screaming, eat your dang dessert.”

Laughter rolls around the room again, warmer now, less sharp.

Under the table, Spencer’s shoe nudges yours.

You nudge back.

And when you finally escape an hour later, the night air is cold and quiet, and Spencer grips the steering wheel like he’s trying to drive his guilt into the pavement.

You watch him from the passenger seat, heart weirdly calm.

He doesn’t say much on the drive. Neither do you. The secret is out, the world didn’t end, and for now, that’s enough.

—

Back at Spencer’s apartment, the quiet hits you like a soft wall.

No Garcia shrieking. No Morgan cackling. Just the click of the lock, the hush of the hallway outside, and Spencer standing there with his keys still in his hand.

“You okay?” you ask, toeing your shoes off.

Spencer exhales — sharp, like he’s been holding it since the pie incident — and sets his keys down with exaggerated care. Then he turns to you, eyes wide in that way they get when he’s trying not to catastrophize and failing.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

You blink. “You don’t need to be.”

He shakes his head. “But I am. I’m so sorry. For all of it. For telling them the fruit thing. I didn’t realize I was outing us. I—I didn’t know there was going to be pie.”

“I gathered that,” you say.

He steps closer, hands hovering at his sides like he wants to touch you but doesn’t want to assume it’d be welcome.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he continues, words tumbling now that the gate’s open. “It was stupid. I thought giving them a hyper-specific detail would give them something to fixate on and shut them up, and that one seemed harmless enough, but then I saw the pie and I—” He swallows. “I really did try to warn you.”

“You did,” you say, leaning back against the wall. “You were practically doing Morse code against my ankle.”

“I panicked,” he admits, cheeks flushing. “And then it all happened so fast and you looked—” He stops, eyes flicking over your face like he’s searching for hurt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I know you hate being… perceived.”

He takes one more step. You can feel his warmth now, close enough that it seeps into you.

“I keep thinking about the other day,” he says quietly. “How scared you were for them to find out.” His throat bobs. “And then I was the one who—who basically handed them our secret on a silver platter.”

You tilt your head. “On a pie platter, actually.”

He looks pained. “Please don’t make jokes right now.”

“Spencer,” you say seriously. “I’m not mad at you.”

He lets out a breath, but it’s not quite relief yet. He’s still braced for impact.

“And I’m not mad that they know,” you add, watching him closely. “I mean, I’m a little embarrassed that my downfall was pie of all things, but—”

His mouth finally lifts, small and uncertain.

“But,” you repeat, “it’s okay. I’m fine, really.”

You push off the wall and close the space remaining between you, because you’re tired of him hovering at the edge of you and want him to feel how not-mad you are.

His hands find your waist the second you’re close enough, careful at first, then firmer when you lean in like you belong there.

“Are you sure?” he whispers.

You nod. “I’m sure.”

“Because you could—” He swallows. “You could decide this is too much. Too exposed. And I wouldn’t blame you, but I’d…” His voice cracks just slightly. “I’d miss you.”

Something in your chest goes tight and hot.

You slide your hands up his arms, feel the muscle under his sleeves, the faint tremor he’s trying his best to hide. You clasp your fingers behind his neck and pull him down until his forehead nearly brushes yours.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur.

His eyes flutter shut for half a second, like the words physically steady him.

“You’re not?”

“No,” you say, and you let yourself mean it. “I told you, I’m not mad. I’m not running. The worst thing that happened tonight is that our coworkers found out I have psychopathic dessert habits.”

He huffs a laugh.

“Besides,” you add, because you can’t help it, “you looked kinda hot when you were trying to telepathically get me to eat my pie like a normal person.”

His eyes open, startled. “I— what?”

“You did,” you insist, deadly serious. “Somehow, panic is a good look on you. Big fan.”

His cheeks go pink, but now it’s in a good way.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs, shaking his head like he’s trying to hide the smile.

“And you,” you say, sliding your thumbs along his jaw, “are catastrophizing.”

“I know,” he admits. “I just… I care about you.”

The words hang there, heavy and honest and dangerously close to a bigger truth, but you don’t let it scare you. Not tonight.

You kiss him instead.

It’s slow at first — soft, testing — like you’re proving something to him with your mouth: I’m here. I’m fine. Then it deepens, because Spencer never stays soft for long once you give him permission. His hands tighten at your waist, pulling you in until there’s no space left to misunderstand.

His mouth is warm, familiar, and still somehow new every time. You feel him exhale against you, a quiet sound that sinks into your skin.

When you pull back, he looks at you again and cups your cheek like you’re something precious.

“I’m glad you’re okay with this,” he says.

“I’m okay,” you say, and kiss the corner of his mouth. “I’m… actually kind of relieved.”

His brow furrows. “Relieved?”

You roll your eyes, because you refuse to be poetic about it. “Yeah. It’s out, and they didn’t—” You falter, just a flicker. “They didn’t look at you like you were making a mistake.”

His expression softens.

“No,” he agrees. “They didn’t. I told you they wouldn’t.”

You nod once. “And you were right. So, I’m good.”

“Good,” he echoes, but his thumb keeps stroking your cheek like he doesn’t want to let the moment go.

Your gaze drops to his mouth again. His eyes follow it, and his breathing changes — subtle, but you know him by heart now.

You smirk and lean in closer until your lips are brushing with every breath. “And hey, now that the team knows, we don’t have to pretend we’re not together every second of the day anymore,” you tease.

His voice goes a little rough. “We still shouldn’t, uh, do anything at work, you know.”

“Obviously,” you say, like you’re offended he even suggested it. “But we’re not at work right now, are we?”

He shudders softly as his hands slide from your waist to your lower back, drawing you closer like he’s been waiting all night to do this without consequence.

“No,” he murmurs. “We’re not.”

You kiss him again, deeper this time. He gives in completely, following your lead with that sweet, earnest hunger that always makes you feel a little wicked and a little adored at the same time.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing differently. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded.

“I’m still sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be,” you say. “It’ll make a good story someday.”

His throat works. His hands tighten on you like he needs the confirmation in his bones.

You press your mouth to his once more, slow and sure, just to make the point stick.

“Case closed,” you murmur against his lips.

Spencer’s smile turns soft and helpless. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Mystery solved.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

→ next part

this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️