certaimromance

[certaimromance]

bringing this back because the second part will be uploaded soon (probably this week🥳)

ꫂ ၴႅၴ Tall Child.

Father figure!Hotch x BAU!reader

Summary: No matter how hard you try to impress him, Agent Hotchner never seems to be satisfied with your work. And it all comes crashing down when you decide to confront him.

Words: 2,7k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. mentions of crime. reader was injured (nothing serious). angst WITHOUT happy ending. hotch being a father figure. soo much angst (yes, again). father and rebellious daughter type discussion. temporarily located in the first season. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This was painful to write, so I loved it (I literally wrote it with I Bet On Losing Dogs by Mitski in the background).

Anyone who knows you knows that your lifelong dream was to help make the world a better place.

And from your day one at the BAU, you felt like your wildest dreams had come true. You were saving lives, reassuring victims, and helping to bring to justice those who tormented them so they could never do it to anyone else again. You were making a real difference in the world, even if you weren't the caped superhero you wanted to be as a kid.

But, as they say, nothing's perfect. And your job had more contradictions for your mental and physical health than there were fingers on your hands to count. The long and unstable schedule, the few hours of sleep, nightmares about the atrocities you saw, no social life outside the team...and of course, the constant disappointment you felt from Aaron Hotchner, your boss.

From day one, you had worked tirelessly to prove yourself. You craved the approval of your superiors, the respect of your colleagues. The job was demanding, yes, but you wanted to show that you could not only handle it but thrive under the pressure. And you had earned the trust and admiration of everyone around you, except for him.

Agent Hotchner was an enigma to you. There was something about him that both intrigued and intimidated you. He was always so calm, without showing much emotion, without so much as a smile for you. He was a wall you couldn't break through no matter how hard you tried. You had tried so hard to impress him, to make sure he saw your dedication, your work ethic, but you always seemed to fall short. His approval, or lack thereof, hurt more than anything else. You had gotten used to it by now, but it didn't make it any easier.

And now, here you were, in his office, watching him scrutinize your medical diagnosis. He had just glanced at the report from the doctor that had followed you back from the Utah case. Your shoulder, a minor injury, but one that could’ve been avoided if you hadn’t thrown yourself headfirst into the danger in the way you did.

Finally, after several moments of awkward silence, you dared to speak. “What do you think? I am practically at my best.”

Deep down, you knew you were lying through your teeth and that you were not well with an injured shoulder, a concussion, and several bruises, but you refused to say so out loud. You were a brave girl, and he should know.

Hotch looked up from the report in his hand and stared at you. It was the kind of look that made your hair stand on end and gave you a feeling that something was wrong.

“No, you're not.” He sighs and closes the folder before walking over to the desk you were sitting behind. He leans against it as he looks at you, arms folded across his chest. “You disobeyed a direct order during the case. You abandoned your partner.”

“I didn’t abandon Reid,” you replied, your voice sounding more defensive than you intended. You straightened in your chair, wincing slightly as your shoulder protested the movement. “I simply suggested he wait behind me. And it worked, didn’t it? He saved the victim, and I stopped the unsub.”

Teamwork, as you liked to call it.

“It paid off this time,” he said, his voice low but firm. “But that doesn’t excuse disregarding protocol. You put yourself and your partner in unnecessary danger. That’s not the kind of decision-making we can afford here.”

Oh no, here comes the usual chatter you didn't want to hear this time. Normally, you would be quiet, listening and nodding at his every word, but this time there was something different. You just longed for congratulations. Was it really so difficult for him to tell you once that you did something right?

You stiffened in your chair, the ache in your shoulder suddenly more pronounced. “With all due respect, I evaluated the situation and made a hard decision. I’m not some rookie who doesn’t know how to handle themselves in the field.”

Even as the words came out, you felt very nervous. You didn't know if it was the drugs they gave you in the hospital to fight the pain or if it was just your shyness leaving your body completely for no reason.

“I’m not questioning your skills,” he replied sharply. “But you’re not operating at one hundred percent, and that affects your judgment. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard for months—longer, maybe. And now you’re injured. You need time to recover and think about this.”

God, no.

“I don’t need time; I need to work,” you shot back, frustration lacing your tone. This job was your lifeline, your purpose. Without it, who were you?

“You know we work as a team. A unit. And when one part of the unit breaks down, there are consequences.” His voice wasn’t just firm; it was unyielding, like a warning. The way he said it almost felt like he was speaking to a child—a reprimand you didn’t want but knew you had earned. “No one is above the team, not even you.”

You didn't know if it was the way he said it or the words he used, but it was like the straw that broke the camel's back, and you were tired of putting up with the situation. This was the first time you had made a decision on your own, the first time you had not discussed your ideas with the team only to have them ignored and then spoken louder by someone else. Finally, you had acted, and even that was wrong.

You were tired, fucking tired of being ignored and judged much more harshly than the rest.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips, barely audible but heavy with frustration. The ache in your shoulder seemed to flare as if your body was responding to the tension in the room. “And what consequences are you thinking of, sir?” you asked, your voice dripping with sarcasm. There was no hiding the venom now. “What’s worse than not being valued even when I do my job?”

His gaze turned hard as if your tone had cut him deeper than any physical injury could. He didn’t take kindly to disrespect, especially from someone who had otherwise followed his orders without question. You saw the shift in him, the quiet fury simmering beneath his usually controlled exterior. If you were anyone else, the conversation would have already escalated. But you weren’t anyone else. You were someone he knew far too well.

“Don’t use that tone with me,” he bit back, his voice low and steady but carrying a weight that made your stomach twist. There was no mistake now—this wasn’t just about the case. This was more personal. “You are suspended. Your gun and badge on the table. Now.”

Oh, oh, oh.

The words hung in the air between you like a guillotine, sudden and final. The room seemed to close in on you, the breath in your chest catching in surprise. You didn’t know if it was the shock or the disbelief, but your mind struggled to grasp the magnitude of his command. Suspended? Your world was spinning.

You opened your mouth to speak, to argue, but the words caught in your throat, leaving you with nothing but a hollow sound of confusion. “What? Why?”

“Agent, you disobeyed a direct order and endangered yourself and your partner,” he said firmly. “I don’t take your actions lightly. Suspension is not a punishment—it’s a consequence. You need time to heal, both physically and mentally.”

The idea of being sidelined was incomprehensible. The thought of doing nothing—being stuck in your apartment, forced to be still—felt suffocating. No. You couldn’t accept it.

“This is ridiculous. I did my job! I stopped the unsub! Reid saved the victim because I made the right choice!”

You saved a life, even if it meant risking a little of your own. You did save it.

“And what happens next time?” Hotch shot back, his voice rising slightly. “What happens if your judgment falters again because you’re running on empty? What if next time, it’s Reid who doesn’t come back?”

Then, silence.

The thought of Spencer getting hurt turned your stomach and made you question your actions. If anything happened to him, you would never forgive yourself…His life did matter, a lot.

“Gun. Badge. Now.” Your boss talks again. He gestured toward the desk.

Your fingers trembled, betraying you as you reached for the gun on your hip. The cool metal felt foreign in your hands, like something that had never truly belonged to you. Your mind screamed for you to stop, to stand your ground, to fight this. But your body, exhausted and broken, refused to cooperate.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice cracked before you could get the words out. “I…I didn’t mean…I just…”

Finally, with a shaky breath, you placed your gun on the desk. The thud it made as it landed felt like the sound of everything you had worked for being shattered in front of you. You could feel the sting of unshed tears burning in your eyes, but you wouldn’t let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him.

It didn’t matter what you said. It never seemed to matter, not with him. You had tried so hard to be the one who did everything right, to be the one he could rely on, and yet all you had earned was this—this cold, final judgment. He wasn’t just your boss in that moment; he was the embodiment of everything you had tried to prove yourself against. A reminder that, no matter what you did, it still wasn’t enough.

The words spilled from your mouth before you could stop them, the bitter taste of them already familiar. “You think I’m weak, don’t you?” The tone you had intended to be defiant came out more like a desperate plea. “You think I can’t handle this, that I’m just some liability?”

He didn’t flinch at your outburst. His gaze softened, but just barely. “No,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle but firm. “I think you’re pushing yourself too hard. You’re not weak. But you’re hurting, and I can see it. You need time to recover.”

The words hit you like a slap, unexpected and unwelcome. You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips as you tried to fight back the burning in your chest. You refused to let the tears well up, to let them gather where he could see them. Not here. Not now. Please, not now.

“I don’t need time,” you said, your voice sharp, biting. But underneath the defiance was something raw and desperate, a quiet plea that you couldn’t fully suppress. “I need to be here. I need to do my job. I need to save lives.”

The last part came out as a whisper, as though saying it too loudly would shatter the fragile conviction you had left. You felt like you were slipping, like the ground beneath you was crumbling, and all you could do was cling to this one thing—the job. The only thing that made you feel like you mattered.

“The only life you need to save now is yours,” he said, his voice quieter but still heavy with authority.

You froze, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a crushing tide. Your stomach churned, and you fought to keep your composure, to keep from lashing out, even though every part of you wanted to scream. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t.

A bitter, trembling laugh bubbled up from your throat, unbidden and full of venom. “If it had been Reid or Morgan, you wouldn’t be doing this,” you snapped, the accusation like a raw wound exposed to the open air.

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes—anger, hurt, or something you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened, his posture stiffening, and when he spoke, his voice was sharper than before, each word deliberate and cutting.

“No,” he said, the firmness in his tone slicing through the room like a blade. “Because they would never have done this.”

The silence that followed was deafening. It slammed into you like a tidal wave, drowning out every other sound. His words rang in your ears, echoing in the hollow space left behind by your crumbling defenses.

They would never have done this.

Your chest tightened, a deep ache settling in your ribs, and for a moment, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. The accusation hung in the air, heavy and unforgiving. He wasn’t just saying you’d made a mistake—he was saying you were the mistake. That you weren’t good enough. That you never would be.

“Is this because I’m a woman?” you asked, the words coming out sharper than you intended. There was a bitter edge to them, a question that had been gnawing at you for far too long. “Because Elle is too, and even she has more, or is it because of my age? Reid is younger, and you never doubt him.”

“It’s not about any of that,” he said finally, his voice low and tight. But it wasn’t reassuring. It only sounded like an evasion, like he was brushing your concerns aside, and it made your chest ache all over again. “It’s not about your gender or your age.”

“It’s about me,” you said, the words like glass shards scraping at your insides. “It’s about how you don’t trust me.”

For the first time, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes—something almost like guilt, but it was fleeting, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. He opened his mouth, but the words he spoke next were measured, controlled. Too controlled.

“No,” he said, his voice so steady it almost hurt. “That’s not it.”

You stared at him, heart racing, hands trembling, as the truth wrapped around you tighter than you ever thought possible. His words weren’t just dismissing your feelings—they were rejecting everything you had ever believed about your worth, about why you were here, in this moment, fighting so desperately for something you couldn’t even name.

But this time, it was different. You weren’t going to back down. Not anymore.

“Then what is it?” You whispered, voice breaking, tears finally threatening to spill. “What is it, Hotch? What is it about me that isn’t enough?”

“It’s not about you,” he said, but his voice lacked the certainty it usually held. “It’s not about trusting you…It’s about protecting you.” His gaze softened just enough for you to notice, but it only made the pain worse. “I can’t lose…I can’t let you lose yourself.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You were trembling, your pulse racing in your ears, but now there was only a terrible stillness. You swallowed, trying to push down the bitterness that rose up in your throat.

“You don’t get to make decisions for me,” you snapped, barely holding back the frustration that bubbled to the surface. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me. You don’t get to act like you’re my father, making me follow some imaginary line, keeping me under your control. If you want to raise someone, you already have a baby at home.”

The moment the words left your lips, you saw it—just the faintest flicker of hurt in his eyes. The barest flinch. But it was enough to make you feel the weight of your accusation like a stone, sinking into your chest. The silence that followed was thick with it, suffocating, and you could feel the air growing heavier between you.

“I’m not your dad,” he said, the words low, the icy calm of his voice unmistakable. There was no anger in it, just a hollow, painful truth. But the sting of it was sharp enough to leave a mark.

You blinked, the sharpness of his response cutting through you like a blade. You wanted to fight back, to lash out with everything you had, but something stopped you. Instead, your voice came out quieter, almost hollow as you whispered, “I know…Do you know that?”

And then, just like that, you turned away, your breath ragged in your chest. You didn’t wait for his answer, didn’t wait for anything. You couldn’t stand the ache that had taken root in your chest, the fear that had begun to take shape in the corners of your mind.

And the door slammed behind you.

[certaimromance]

friendly reminder that all stories with “next door” in the title are part of this series!!!! 🩷 you have to read them in order to understand it and have a better experience

𝜗𝜚 The Next Door; a series.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

Playlist (updates with the chapters) ♡♬₊˚.

Finding your person is never easy, especially when they live in the apartment next door and have a life as complicated as Spencer Reid's...especially when he disappears for three whole months and comes back a different person.

Warnings & Tags: painter!reader who has a cat. located in season 12 (very out of canon, with many changes). mentions of drugs, jail and injuries. suggestive themes. friends to lovers. angst. hurt/comfort. two idiots obviously in love. lack of communication.

Status: In progress.

I. The Boy Next Door

II. The Girl Next Door

III. The Other Boy Next Door

IV. The Ghost Next Door

V. The Other Girl Next Door

VI. The Liar Next Door

VII. The Other Liar Next Door

Extras:

The Love Next Door (Pre-Series)

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @burningwitchprincess @withloverosse @fairiesofearth @pleasantwitchgarden @ximensitaa @lover-of-books-and-tea @cherryblossomfairyy @cherrygublersworld @i-need-to-be-put-down @dibidee

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

[certaimromance]

this is INSANE, that's all

ꫂ ၴႅ Dark Sense.

Aaron Hotchner x Widow!reader

Summary: Staying in touch with the victims' families was very unprofessional, and Aaron knew it, but you were different...very different.

Words: 5,6k.

Warnings & Tags: mentions of crime, violence, blood, serial killers, death, and trauma. implied intimacy but nothing explicit. angst with happy ending???. very dark. i don't know how to classify this, sorry. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Sometimes I remember that the series is a raw world, and these things pop into my mind, just like in my first post here (this story is like the sister of that one).

Anyway, my favorite part of writing Hotch is playing with his professionalism and making him kowtow to the reader, I'm soo guilty.

Aaron Hotchner was incapable of turning a blind eye to those in need. It wasn’t just in his nature to help, it was in his bones, woven into the very fabric of who he was. He would slip a few bills into the hands of the homeless on his way to work, never thinking twice about it, never stopping long enough to be thanked. He worked late because he couldn’t bear the thought of a desperate family sitting in their living room, waiting for a call that might never come. He listened when no one else did. He noticed things other people ignored. The tired shake in a mother’s hands as she clutched a picture of her missing child. The slight quiver in a father’s voice when he insisted that his son would never run away. The way a survivor flinched at an unexpected noise, lost in a memory they couldn’t outrun.

He felt it all. Carried it with him.

Aaron was the kind of man who would stand before you and protect you from whatever came, no matter the cost. He didn't hesitate because he already knew the danger. He had spent years staring into the eyes of monsters, standing in rooms filled with pain, learning firsthand how quickly the world can turn cruel and take everything from you. So when he met you, when he saw your hands clenched into fists to stop their trembling, your wedding ring dancing on your finger and how tightly you clung to it, your eyes darting to the door as if you were ready to run at the first slip, he knew.

Knew what you had survived. Knew what still haunted you. Knew that you were like him.

But more than that, he cared.

He cared about your safety, about the story behind each of your scars, both the ones that could be traced with fingertips and the ones buried too deep for anyone else to see. He cared in a way that was quiet, careful, and measured. Never forceful. Never reckless. He cared in the way he called when he had no reason to, in the way he lingered just a moment longer than necessary after saying goodbye. He didn’t see you as something to be owned or discarded. He never saw you as broken, only as someone who had survived something unspeakable.

He saved you when no one else would, when no one else even tried. Even when he shouldn’t have.

Because your case had long gone cold. Because by all accounts, you were supposed to be just another file in an old cabinet, another story time would eventually forget. There was no reason for him to keep checking in, to keep calling, to keep showing up.

But he did.

Because walking away wasn’t in his nature.

Because somehow, you had become another name, another face, another story that stayed with him long after the rest of the world moved on. You lingered in his mind late at night when the office was empty, when his tie was loosened, and the only sound was the quiet hum of the city beyond his window. You were there in the moments between cases, in the spaces where silence crept in, in the pause before he reached for another file, another life to try and piece back together.

And without meaning to, without wanting to, he fell in love with you.

It was not rational. It wasn't planned, let alone professional. But Aaron Hotchner had never been the kind of man to hesitate when something really mattered, and especially tonight, as he stood soaked to the bone, clutching a bouquet of flowers like a lifeline, he knew that seeing you again, after weeks without being able to do so, meant more than anything.

When he arrived at your house, the street was practically flooded. The rain was relentless, and the wind was even worse. Water pooled at his feet as he stepped out of the car, soaking his shoes and the bottom of his suit, but he didn't care or even think about it. He climbed the stairs two at a time, breathing fast and with a strong pulse in his ears.

His fingers tightened around the bouquet of roses, deep red like the color of longing, before she knocked on the door. Once. Twice. Again. Each tap carried a certain amount of anxiety.

And then, after a couple of moments, the door opened.

You stood there, illuminated by the soft light inside, your eyes wide with disbelief. For a moment, neither of you moved. You looked at him, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, his soaked clothes clinging to his body in a way that only emphasized the serene strength of his body. He stood in the doorway, breathless, as if he had run a marathon just to get to you. And yet he looked exactly the same: calm, determined, steadfast, even in the midst of a storm that seemed to have no end. But his eyes told a different story, revealing his fatigue.

His lips parted to speak, but words never came.

Instead, you did what you did every time he appeared. Without thinking, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, and pulled him in. His body stiffened in surprise for a split second before he wrapped you in a tight, desperate embrace, as if he couldn't get enough of you, as if he'd been holding his breath too long and could barely catch his breath. Your body collided with his with an urgency that took your breath away. The bouquet of roses fell from his hand and landed forgotten at your feet as you pressed your lips to his with a ferocity that seemed to ignite something deep inside you both.

He took a step into the house and closed the door behind him, but you clung to him without breaking the kiss. His hands went to your waist and pulled you close. The warmth of your body contrasted with the coldness of the rain-soaked world outside. Your hands tangled in his sodden hair, pulling him to you as if you were afraid that if you let go he would disappear, that he would slip through your hands like the storm. But it didn't. It was solid, it was real, it was here after more than two weeks without seeing him or having more than the occasional message.

The kiss deepened, messy and desperate, as if neither of you had ever tasted anything as sweet as the desperate need in the other. His lips moved with a gentleness that belied the urgency of the moment, as if he was savoring the feeling of being close to you after what seemed like an eternity of longing. His hands slid from your waist to your back, pulling you tighter, the weight of everything he had been carrying lifting, if only for a moment, because you were here. You, with your warmth and your presence, and your smile that always seemed to bring him peace.

When you finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, just enough to look into his eyes, the quiet between you was almost overwhelming. Your foreheads pressed together, your breaths mingling, the rain still pouring outside but somehow irrelevant now. You could hear the beating of his heart, steady and strong against your chest.

“You’re here,” you whispered, your voice trembling just slightly, as if the reality of it was still too much to comprehend.

His hand gently brushed your cheek, and he spent his time watching you, pleased by the emotion you always showed when you saw him. It didn't matter if it was a few hours, days, or weeks. You were always happy to see him, and that was more than he ever had before.

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice low, rich with the weight of everything that had come before.

“So…are you mine for the whole night, or just for a little while?” you asked, your voice teasing despite the depth of the moment.

His smile was slow, knowing, like he had already anticipated the question. The corner of his mouth lifted just slightly, but there was a warmth in his eyes that told you everything you needed to know.

“All night,” he whispered, his hand slipping to the back of your neck, pulling you closer once more when you didn’t say anything. “You’re not going to ask why?”

“No, you’re here. That’s all that matters to me.”

After hours of maintaining his composed, unreadable expression at the office, Aaron finally allows himself to smile, really smile. He can’t help it. No matter how late he is, no matter how much weight he carries on his shoulders, you always meet him with love. A soft smile, a gentle kiss, arms that wrap around him like home. And just like that, the tension in his mind unravels, the chaos quiets. You are the one thing in his life that doesn’t demand anything from him, only that he be here, with you. And God, he loves you for it.

Later, the two of you lay sprawled across the couch, bodies tangled in the quiet warmth of the dimly lit room. The world outside ceased to exist. No ringing phones, no pressing cases, no ticking clock counting down the hours. Just this. Just you and him, breathing in the same steady rhythm.

Your fingers moved in slow, absentminded circles along his arm, tracing the contours of muscle and scar, memorizing the shape of him as if you hadn’t done it a hundred times before. Your touch was featherlight, soothing, lulling him into something dangerously close to peace. He exhaled, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, his presence solid and steady in a way that made your own heart slow to match his.

It was then that your fingers stilled, catching on something out of place. A faint smudge of color near the sleeve of his shirt, small, almost unnoticeable, but there. You frowned, eyes narrowing as you brushed your thumb over the fabric, feeling the slight texture where the stain had dried into the fibers.

A soft green, uneven at the edges, like a marker dragged hastily across the material. It wasn’t just a stray speck of lint or a shadow in the dim lighting, it was something left behind, a remnant of a moment you weren’t there for.

Your brows knitted together as curiosity flickered to life. “Is that…marker?” You murmured, tilting your head, your thumb still absently tracing over the stain as if doing so would erase it.

Aaron’s gaze shifted down, but it was brief, almost distracted. He sighed, clearly familiar with this particular problem. “Jack forgot to put his pencils away,” he replied with a hint of resignation, but there was an undercurrent of amusement in his tone, as if this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.

A smirk pulled at the corner of your lips as you raised an eyebrow. “And you decided to join him? Maybe color a little?” you teased, the light in your eyes showing that you weren’t entirely serious, but you couldn’t resist the playful jab.

He shot you a flat, unimpressed look, but there was a faint twinkle in his eyes, an amused, almost endearing reaction that made your heart skip. “I leaned on the table without realizing it was there,” he muttered, his voice laced with the smallest hint of self-awareness, though he didn’t seem all that concerned.

“Mhm.”

Instead of continuing the banter, you shifted slightly, moving just enough to be able to better examine the mark on his shirt. Your fingers continued to glide over the fabric with delicate precision, feeling the slight texture of the stain as it caught the light. The motion was almost automatic now, like second nature, as you gently explored the fabric, your focus entirely on it, all the while feeling the warmth of his skin underneath. Your gaze met his again as you noticed the faintest hint of tension in his jaw.

“Give it to me. I can wash it,” you said, your voice soft yet insistent.

He opened his mouth to protest, likely preparing to tell you it wasn’t necessary, but you didn’t give him the chance to finish. Your hands were already moving, deftly unbuttoning his shirt, each button undone with practiced ease as if you’d done this a hundred times before. The buttons slipped through your fingers, one by one, the fabric slowly parting as you worked, your gaze never leaving his.

“Take it off,” you said, your voice no longer giving room for argument. There was something in the way you said it, so matter-of-fact, like it wasn’t the first time you’d seen him in this state, so comfortable with his presence that you barely gave it a second thought.

Your hands were already at his shirt buttons, nimble fingers undoing them with an ease that betrayed the number of times you had undressed him before. Each button came undone in smooth, practiced motions as you focused intently on your task. Your movements were calm but decisive, the familiarity between you two almost palpable. You weren’t rushing, just taking your time, as if this moment, this quiet act of care, meant more than the rest of the world outside the door.

As you worked, you felt the soft warmth of his skin beneath the fabric and the faint scent of his cologne, which always seemed to linger just enough to remind you he was real. With each button you undid, the shirt fell open a little more, exposing his toned chest and the barest hint of scars, memories of battles fought and won. He didn’t say anything at first, but you could feel his body relax under your touch, as if he was allowing you to take care of him in a way that meant something, even if it was just this small act of removing his shirt.

When you finished with the buttons, you pulled the fabric away from his chest slowly, almost reverently, before folding it over in your hands.

You pushed yourself off the couch, the soft creak of the cushions signaling your departure. “There should be something in the closet for you,” you murmured, your voice low and soothing, carrying the promise of comfort. You glanced over your shoulder, offering a fleeting smile before turning your attention back to the task at hand. “One of my biggest sweaters, maybe. They should be comfortable enough.”

Aaron didn’t argue, and that silence, the unspoken understanding between you, was more than enough. It was a kind of quiet harmony that neither of you needed to vocalize.

You moved toward the hallway, the faint sound of your footsteps echoing softly in the stillness of the house. The familiar hum of the refrigerator and the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet seemed to fill the space around you as you made your way to the laundry room. There was something soothing in the routine of it, the sound of detergent splashing against fabric, the gentle scent of clean linens in the air, the calmness of the house in contrast to the chaos outside.

You grabbed the bottle of detergent, your fingers brushing over the cold plastic as you opened the cap. The scent of lavender and citrus mixed in the air, a comforting, familiar smell. You poured the detergent into the washing machine, the liquid pouring slowly into the drum with a quiet rush, followed by the fabric softener, which added a hint of sweetness to the mixture. You moved mechanically, carefully setting everything in place, but all the while, your thoughts were elsewhere, back on Aaron, back on the space between you two that always seemed to be filled with unspoken words.

And then, without thinking—without meaning to—you reached for his shirt.

It was instinct. Something deeply ingrained in you, a reflex you hadn’t even realized was so natural. You didn’t hesitate as you lifted the shirt up to your face, bringing it closer. The soft cotton still held the faintest traces of him, the warmth of his skin, the scent of his cologne that lingered just below the surface. His scent, unique and comforting, was so familiar to you that it almost felt like home.

You inhaled deeply, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment, allowing the warmth of his essence to wrap around you. It was steady, constant, like the grounding presence he always had in your life. You could taste the remnants of his day on the fabric, the tension of the office, the exhaustion from the long hours, all wrapped up in this simple piece of clothing.

Without meaning to, your lips curled into a soft, almost imperceptible smile, allowing yourself to savor the warmth that always came when you were near him. That fleeting moment of peace before you turned away, shaking off the quiet contentment like it was something fragile. You made your way back toward the living room, but the second you stepped through the doorway, everything inside you came to an abrupt, screeching halt.

Aaron’s figure was unmistakable even with his back to you, his posture relaxed as he stood near the couch, adjusting the sleeves of a sweater he had slipped on. A thick, moss-green sweater that seemed to cling to him in a way that made your chest tighten, a memory rushing forward, uninvited, like a phantom you couldn’t escape.

Your breath caught in your throat, sudden and sharp, as the sight of him in that sweater sent a wave of coldness crashing through you. It was as if ice had replaced your blood, freezing you to the spot. Your stomach dropped, like you were plummeting without a safety net, and a heavy weight pressed into your chest, making it harder to breathe.

No.

It couldn’t be.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All you could do was stare at the figure before you, stare at that sweater, the one that had once been from someone else before things had become messy. Before everything had turned sideways.

It was a sweater you knew too well. The one that had been worn by someone else, in a life you tried not to remember. You had buried it in the back of your closet, hoping never to see it again, but here it was. And here your new life was, wearing it without a second thought.

Aaron, sensing the silence hanging heavy in the room, turned slightly. His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. He looked down at his wrist, as if noticing the way the sweater fit him, a subtle quirk to his lips as he shrugged. “I found this in the closet,” he said casually, his voice light. “It’s a bit big to be yours.”

The words, so simple, so innocent, landed like a slap in the face, pulling you deeper into the darkness of your thoughts. The world felt distant now, muted, and the room was suddenly too small. You didn’t register him taking a step closer until his hand reached out, a reflexive gesture to touch your wrist, to close the distance between you in the familiar way he always did.

It was the motion that broke you. The simple act of him reaching for you—the one thing that used to make you feel safe—only served to send a jolt of panic through your body. Without thinking, you jerked back, the movement instinctual and sharp, as if you had been burned.

The change in him was immediate. The warmth in his eyes evaporated, replaced by a flicker of concern. His whole body stiffened, and he stopped dead in his tracks, his hand still hovering in the air, suspended as if unsure of what to do next. His expression, once open and warm, now darkened with confusion and something else, something unreadable.

You swallowed, fighting the panic that rose in your chest, forcing yourself to find your voice. It came out as a whisper, barely more than a breath. “Take. That. Off.”

Your words hung in the air, cutting through the tension. There was no softness now, no playfulness or teasing. Just something sharp and brittle, like glass breaking under too much pressure. The command was not a request but a demand. Your tone, quiet as it was, carried an edge that made the room feel even more suffocating.

And then, slowly, deliberately, Aaron moved. His hands, shaking ever so slightly, grasped the sweater’s edge, and with quiet care, he lifted it over his head. The fabric slid from his body with the softest of sounds, his movements so controlled that it was clear he understood the fragility of what he was doing. He was stepping through a door that had been closed for too long, and now, the weight of it was heavy in the air, like something had cracked open.

Your lungs felt constricted as you watched him, each inhale too sharp, too shallow, like the air was being sucked out of the room. The sight of him there, the sweater in his hands, felt like a cruel joke, a memory that refused to stay buried. It shouldn’t be here. Not in this room. Not on him. Not now.

The words came quietly, but their weight was absolute, the finality of them hanging in the air like an unspoken truth that neither of you could escape. “This was his.”

The phrasing wasn’t a question but a statement, an acknowledgment of the past that you both knew too well. That sweater had once belonged to someone who wasn’t here anymore. To someone who had worn it with the same ease, the same confidence, but whose presence now existed only in the space between memories and nightmares.

Your throat tightened painfully, and for a long moment, it felt like you couldn’t speak at all. The words felt like they had to claw their way up through the rawness of your throat, but you managed. Just barely. “Where did you find it?”

Aaron let out a slow exhale, his voice rough when he finally spoke again. His hand ran through his hair in that familiar motion, but his gaze flickered briefly toward the bedroom, as though the very sight of the closet stirred something in him. “It was in the closet,” he said, his voice softening as he recalibrated. “I thought…I thought it was yours.”

You barely heard him after that, your focus narrowing entirely on the sweater, now held loosely in his hands. It wasn’t just a sweater. It was his sweater. The thick, soft fabric had once wrapped itself around a body you would never feel again. It had carried the scent of another man—the warmth of cologne, the lingering trace of late-night coffee, and the faintest hint of pages from books he would never finish reading. It had been a part of his mornings, his life, and your secondary role in it. And now, that same sweater was in Aaron’s hands, worn by a man who had never known him, never hurt you like him, yet somehow was standing here, holding the remnants of a life that no longer belonged to you.

The irony of it made your stomach churn. The bitter edge to it cut deeper than you expected.

“You shouldn’t have found that,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath, as if speaking them aloud would shatter what little control you had left.

Aaron’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his eyes darkening with a silent intensity that made the room feel even more suffocating. “You never told me you kept anything,” he said, the words softer but carrying an edge nonetheless. “I thought it was all evidence.”

A humorless laugh, harsh and bitter, slipped from your lips, and you barely recognized the sound. “Would it have mattered?”

He didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. The truth hung between you, unsaid but understood. Of course it wouldn’t have mattered.

You both knew how this story ended. How it always had. Aaron had been the one who stood before you, the lead agent on the case, the one who had delivered the words that had changed your world into new pieces. “We’re doing everything we can,” they had said. “We’ll find him. We won’t stop searching.”

But then, the time had passed, and the cold reality had set in. There were no more answers. No more leads. The case had gone cold. The search had stopped. And all that had remained were the shattered pieces of the life you had once had and the painful, bitter knowledge that it was real.

Aaron exhaled, his breath slow and measured, as if trying to steady something inside himself. The weight of the past settled between you like a ghost, an unseen force pressing against the silence, making the air feel heavier, thicker. His posture had changed—his shoulders slightly hunched, his stance less certain than before. He was trained to navigate difficult conversations, to read between the lines, but this—this—was uncharted ground.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, tinged with something heavier. Something almost apologetic.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, even though it hurt. Even though it felt like looking at him would pull you deeper into something you weren’t sure you could handle. Your voice was steady, but the edges of it were raw. “You didn’t ask.”

Something flickered in his expression. Guilt, maybe. Regret. You weren’t sure.

But it didn’t matter.

Because the truth was, none of this changed the reality you had lived with for years. It didn’t change the fact that your husband was gone. That Aaron had been the one to close the case. That he had been the one to look you in the eye and tell you the words you never wanted to hear. No new leads. No new evidence. Nothing left to find.

And now, somehow, whether by accident or some cruel twist of fate, he had reached back into the past and pulled a piece of it into the present, wrapped it around his body like it was just another sweater, unaware of the wreckage it would leave behind.

Your hands were shaking now.

You hated that.

He was still watching you, his gaze sharp, calculating but not in a cold way, in the way of someone who was trying to understand, who was weighing the right thing to say against the wrong one. But there wasn’t a right thing. Not here. Not in this moment.

“I need a minute,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath.

Aaron hesitated, his jaw tightening as he weighed his options. The part of him that was wired to protect, to stay, to make sure you were okay, fought against the part that understood you needed space. That you needed air.

“I don’t want to leave you like this,” he admitted, his voice low, careful.

You shook your head, already taking a step back. “Please.”

A beat.

And then, finally, with a slow nod, He set the sweater down. His movements were careful and deliberate. He placed it on the arm of the couch instead of the table, as if some part of him knew dropping it too carelessly would only make this worse. Then, without another word, he turned and stepped away, leaving the room.

The second he was gone, your breath hitched, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut against the sting building behind them.

You had spent years making peace with the past. Years learning to live with the silence, with the unanswered questions, with the knowledge that some things would never be really resolved. You had accepted the emptiness, the lack of closure, and the scars in your skin because what other choice had you been given?

But now, as you stared at that old, worn sweater, the last tangible piece of the man you once loved, you felt something shift inside you.

Something fragile.

Something unraveling.

Because maybe the past wasn’t done with you yet.

Aaron didn’t leave.

Not completely.

His presence still clung to the space, lingering in the air like the ghost of an unspoken truth. You could hear him in the other room: the quiet rustle of movement, the barely-there sound of his breath. He wasn’t hovering, wasn’t pressing, but he was close enough that you could feel the weight of him, steady and unmoving. Close enough that his absence wasn’t absence at all.

You needed the space. The moment to breathe. To gather the shattered pieces of yourself before facing him again.

And then, after a while, he returned.

He stepped into the room without a word, his silhouette cast long in the dim light. He didn’t demand an answer, didn’t pry, just stood there, hands in the pockets of his still soaked coat, gaze unreadable. The sweater—the damn sweater—was gone now, discarded somewhere out of sight, but its presence still lingered. You could still see it in your mind, could still feel the weight of it, heavy as the silence between you.

“I didn’t mean to blindside you.” His voice was quiet, careful. A thread of something softer wove beneath the words, regret, maybe. “That wasn’t my intention.”

You inhaled slowly, dragging air into lungs that felt too tight, too full of everything you weren’t ready to say. Exhaled even slower. Your emotions were raw, skin too thin, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze.

“I know.”

He would never mean to hurt, he wasn’t—

No. He was a good man.

Aaron shifted slightly, his stance easing, not quite casual, but open in a way that felt deliberate. Like he was offering you something, whether you wanted it or not. “If you want me to…I can look into it again, in the case.”

Your breath caught.

“I still have contacts. Still have ways of finding things other people can’t, my team can.” His voice was steady, unwavering. There was certainty in it, the kind that made it clear he wouldn’t stop unless you asked him to. “If you still want answers, I can help.”

Your fingers curled into your palms.

For years, you had chased answers. Drowned in them. You had lived inside the unknown, inside the waiting, inside the silence of a house that never felt really yours. Every silence, every shout, every blows, and every tear. Everything fell on you every time you sat with your head down, waiting for what never came.

And then, one night, the wondering had stopped.

Because you knew.

Your husband was dead.

The air in the room felt too thin, pressing against your ribs like a vice. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “No.”

Aaron’s brows furrowed slightly. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, the words heavy on your tongue, thick with something you couldn’t name. “The case is cold. It has been for years.” Your voice was quieter now, softer, but no less certain. “I can’t…I can’t live through that again.”

His gaze held yours, searching, reading you in the way he always did, like he could pull apart every flicker of emotion, every unspoken thought, and lay them bare.

But he didn’t push. Didn’t argue. Didn’t judge you.

And after a long beat, he just nodded. “Okay.”

It should have felt like relief. Like the closing of a door that had been left open for far too long.

But it didn’t.

Because Aaron wasn’t just anyone. He wasn’t an outsider to this. He had been part of it, had been the one to stand across from you years ago and tell you that the case was over. That they had done everything they could. He had been the one to look you in the eye and say, I’m sorry.

And now, here he was.

Still offering to help. Still trying to find the truth.

A slow, unsteady breath escaped you. “I’m tired.”

His expression softened, just slightly. “I know.”

You hadn’t meant to say it, but it was the truth. You had spent so long carrying this weight alone, so long trying to hold together the pieces of something broken beyond repair. It had taken everything in you to bury it, to build something new from the wreckage of your old life.

And now, for the first time in years, someone was offering to help. Someone was offering to know. The thought of it should have terrified you. Should have sent you spiraling.

But instead, as Aaron took a step closer—slow, hesitant, but steady—you felt something else entirely.

Warmth.

Not understanding. Not yet. But warmth.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing against your cheek again, just as gentle as before. He wasn’t asking for anything. Wasn’t demanding the truth.

He was just here.

And somehow, that was enough.

You exhaled shakily, tilting your face into his palm, eyes fluttering shut. “Aaron…”

It wasn’t a question. Wasn’t a plea.

Just his name.

And somehow, it carried more weight than anything else.

His breath was warm as he spoke, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. “I’m here.”

You didn’t know who moved first. Didn’t know if it was him or you, or if it even mattered at all. But then his lips were on yours, slow and sure, careful in a way that made your chest ache. And the weight of everything else faded into the background.

For the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself forget.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to ignore the voices whispering in the back of your mind.

And the agent Aaron Hotchner didn’t hear the wind whispering, over and over again—

She did it.

[certaimromance]

sometimes i dream about a tall child part 2

IT DOES EXIST 😭 it's just that it's half written, and i've never been able to finish it without blocking myself, but i promise you right now that my next post will be that one

[certaimromance]

ꫂ ၴႅ Dark Sense.

Aaron Hotchner x Widow!reader

Summary: Staying in touch with the victims' families was very unprofessional, and Aaron knew it, but you were different...very different.

Words: 5,6k.

Warnings & Tags: mentions of crime, violence, blood, serial killers, death, and trauma. implied intimacy but nothing explicit. kissing. angst with happy ending???. very dark. i don't know how to classify this, sorry. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Sometimes I remember that the series is a raw world, and these things pop into my mind, just like in my first post here (this story is like the sister of that one).

Anyway, my favorite part of writing Hotch is playing with his professionalism and making him kowtow to the reader, I'm soo guilty.

Aaron Hotchner was incapable of turning a blind eye to those in need. It wasn’t just in his nature to help, it was in his bones, woven into the very fabric of who he was. He would slip a few bills into the hands of the homeless on his way to work, never thinking twice about it, never stopping long enough to be thanked. He worked late because he couldn’t bear the thought of a desperate family sitting in their living room, waiting for a call that might never come. He listened when no one else did. He noticed things other people ignored. The tired shake in a mother’s hands as she clutched a picture of her missing child. The slight quiver in a father’s voice when he insisted that his son would never run away. The way a survivor flinched at an unexpected noise, lost in a memory they couldn’t outrun.

He felt it all. Carried it with him.

Aaron was the kind of man who would stand before you and protect you from whatever came, no matter the cost. He didn't hesitate because he already knew the danger. He had spent years staring into the eyes of monsters, standing in rooms filled with pain, learning firsthand how quickly the world can turn cruel and take everything from you. So when he met you, when he saw your hands clenched into fists to stop their trembling, your wedding ring dancing on your finger and how tightly you clung to it, your eyes darting to the door as if you were ready to run at the first slip, he knew.

Knew what you had survived. Knew what still haunted you. Knew that you were like him.

But more than that, he cared.

He cared about your safety, about the story behind each of your scars, both the ones that could be traced with fingertips and the ones buried too deep for anyone else to see. He cared in a way that was quiet, careful, and measured. Never forceful. Never reckless. He cared in the way he called when he had no reason to, in the way he lingered just a moment longer than necessary after saying goodbye. He didn’t see you as something to be owned or discarded. He never saw you as broken, only as someone who had survived something unspeakable.

He saved you when no one else would, when no one else even tried. Even when he shouldn’t have.

Because your case had long gone cold. Because by all accounts, you were supposed to be just another file in an old cabinet, another story time would eventually forget. There was no reason for him to keep checking in, to keep calling, to keep showing up.

But he did.

Because walking away wasn’t in his nature.

Because somehow, you had become another name, another face, another story that stayed with him long after the rest of the world moved on. You lingered in his mind late at night when the office was empty, when his tie was loosened, and the only sound was the quiet hum of the city beyond his window. You were there in the moments between cases, in the spaces where silence crept in, in the pause before he reached for another file, another life to try and piece back together.

And without meaning to, without wanting to, he fell in love with you.

It was not rational. It wasn't planned, let alone professional. But Aaron Hotchner had never been the kind of man to hesitate when something really mattered, and especially tonight, as he stood soaked to the bone, clutching a bouquet of flowers like a lifeline, he knew that seeing you again, after weeks without being able to do so, meant more than anything.

When he arrived at your house, the street was practically flooded. The rain was relentless, and the wind was even worse. Water pooled at his feet as he stepped out of the car, soaking his shoes and the bottom of his suit, but he didn't care or even think about it. He climbed the stairs two at a time, breathing fast and with a strong pulse in his ears.

His fingers tightened around the bouquet of roses, deep red like the color of longing, before she knocked on the door. Once. Twice. Again. Each tap carried a certain amount of anxiety.

And then, after a couple of moments, the door opened.

You stood there, illuminated by the soft light inside, your eyes wide with disbelief. For a moment, neither of you moved. You looked at him, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, his soaked clothes clinging to his body in a way that only emphasized the serene strength of his body. He stood in the doorway, breathless, as if he had run a marathon just to get to you. And yet he looked exactly the same: calm, determined, steadfast, even in the midst of a storm that seemed to have no end. But his eyes told a different story, revealing his fatigue.

His lips parted to speak, but words never came.

Instead, you did what you did every time he appeared. Without thinking, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, and pulled him in. His body stiffened in surprise for a split second before he wrapped you in a tight, desperate embrace, as if he couldn't get enough of you, as if he'd been holding his breath too long and could barely catch his breath. Your body collided with his with an urgency that took your breath away. The bouquet of roses fell from his hand and landed forgotten at your feet as you pressed your lips to his with a ferocity that seemed to ignite something deep inside you both.

He took a step into the house and closed the door behind him, but you clung to him without breaking the kiss. His hands went to your waist and pulled you close. The warmth of your body contrasted with the coldness of the rain-soaked world outside. Your hands tangled in his sodden hair, pulling him to you as if you were afraid that if you let go he would disappear, that he would slip through your hands like the storm. But it didn't. It was solid, it was real, it was here after more than two weeks without seeing him or having more than the occasional message.

The kiss deepened, messy and desperate, as if neither of you had ever tasted anything as sweet as the desperate need in the other. His lips moved with a gentleness that belied the urgency of the moment, as if he was savoring the feeling of being close to you after what seemed like an eternity of longing. His hands slid from your waist to your back, pulling you tighter, the weight of everything he had been carrying lifting, if only for a moment, because you were here. You, with your warmth and your presence, and your smile that always seemed to bring him peace.

When you finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, just enough to look into his eyes, the quiet between you was almost overwhelming. Your foreheads pressed together, your breaths mingling, the rain still pouring outside but somehow irrelevant now. You could hear the beating of his heart, steady and strong against your chest.

“You’re here,” you whispered, your voice trembling just slightly, as if the reality of it was still too much to comprehend.

His hand gently brushed your cheek, and he spent his time watching you, pleased by the emotion you always showed when you saw him. It didn't matter if it was a few hours, days, or weeks. You were always happy to see him, and that was more than he ever had before.

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice low, rich with the weight of everything that had come before.

“So…are you mine for the whole night, or just for a little while?” you asked, your voice teasing despite the depth of the moment.

His smile was slow, knowing, like he had already anticipated the question. The corner of his mouth lifted just slightly, but there was a warmth in his eyes that told you everything you needed to know.

“All night,” he whispered, his hand slipping to the back of your neck, pulling you closer once more when you didn’t say anything. “You’re not going to ask why?”

“No, you’re here. That’s all that matters to me.”

After hours of maintaining his composed, unreadable expression at the office, Aaron finally allows himself to smile, really smile. He can’t help it. No matter how late he is, no matter how much weight he carries on his shoulders, you always meet him with love. A soft smile, a gentle kiss, arms that wrap around him like home. And just like that, the tension in his mind unravels, the chaos quiets. You are the one thing in his life that doesn’t demand anything from him, only that he be here, with you. And God, he loves you for it.

Later, the two of you lay sprawled across the couch, bodies tangled in the quiet warmth of the dimly lit room. The world outside ceased to exist. No ringing phones, no pressing cases, no ticking clock counting down the hours. Just this. Just you and him, breathing in the same steady rhythm.

Your fingers moved in slow, absentminded circles along his arm, tracing the contours of muscle and scar, memorizing the shape of him as if you hadn’t done it a hundred times before. Your touch was featherlight, soothing, lulling him into something dangerously close to peace. He exhaled, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, his presence solid and steady in a way that made your own heart slow to match his.

It was then that your fingers stilled, catching on something out of place. A faint smudge of color near the sleeve of his shirt, small, almost unnoticeable, but there. You frowned, eyes narrowing as you brushed your thumb over the fabric, feeling the slight texture where the stain had dried into the fibers.

A soft green, uneven at the edges, like a marker dragged hastily across the material. It wasn’t just a stray speck of lint or a shadow in the dim lighting, it was something left behind, a remnant of a moment you weren’t there for.

Your brows knitted together as curiosity flickered to life. “Is that…marker?” You murmured, tilting your head, your thumb still absently tracing over the stain as if doing so would erase it.

Aaron’s gaze shifted down, but it was brief, almost distracted. He sighed, clearly familiar with this particular problem. “Jack forgot to put his pencils away,” he replied with a hint of resignation, but there was an undercurrent of amusement in his tone, as if this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.

A smirk pulled at the corner of your lips as you raised an eyebrow. “And you decided to join him? Maybe color a little?” you teased, the light in your eyes showing that you weren’t entirely serious, but you couldn’t resist the playful jab.

He shot you a flat, unimpressed look, but there was a faint twinkle in his eyes, an amused, almost endearing reaction that made your heart skip. “I leaned on the table without realizing it was there,” he muttered, his voice laced with the smallest hint of self-awareness, though he didn’t seem all that concerned.

“Mhm.”

Instead of continuing the banter, you shifted slightly, moving just enough to be able to better examine the mark on his shirt. Your fingers continued to glide over the fabric with delicate precision, feeling the slight texture of the stain as it caught the light. The motion was almost automatic now, like second nature, as you gently explored the fabric, your focus entirely on it, all the while feeling the warmth of his skin underneath. Your gaze met his again as you noticed the faintest hint of tension in his jaw.

“Give it to me. I can wash it,” you said, your voice soft yet insistent.

He opened his mouth to protest, likely preparing to tell you it wasn’t necessary, but you didn’t give him the chance to finish. Your hands were already moving, deftly unbuttoning his shirt, each button undone with practiced ease as if you’d done this a hundred times before. The buttons slipped through your fingers, one by one, the fabric slowly parting as you worked, your gaze never leaving his.

“Take it off,” you said, your voice no longer giving room for argument. There was something in the way you said it, so matter-of-fact, like it wasn’t the first time you’d seen him in this state, so comfortable with his presence that you barely gave it a second thought.

Your hands were already at his shirt buttons, nimble fingers undoing them with an ease that betrayed the number of times you had undressed him before. Each button came undone in smooth, practiced motions as you focused intently on your task. Your movements were calm but decisive, the familiarity between you two almost palpable. You weren’t rushing, just taking your time, as if this moment, this quiet act of care, meant more than the rest of the world outside the door.

As you worked, you felt the soft warmth of his skin beneath the fabric and the faint scent of his cologne, which always seemed to linger just enough to remind you he was real. With each button you undid, the shirt fell open a little more, exposing his toned chest and the barest hint of scars, memories of battles fought and won. He didn’t say anything at first, but you could feel his body relax under your touch, as if he was allowing you to take care of him in a way that meant something, even if it was just this small act of removing his shirt.

When you finished with the buttons, you pulled the fabric away from his chest slowly, almost reverently, before folding it over in your hands.

You pushed yourself off the couch, the soft creak of the cushions signaling your departure. “There should be something in the closet for you,” you murmured, your voice low and soothing, carrying the promise of comfort. You glanced over your shoulder, offering a fleeting smile before turning your attention back to the task at hand. “One of my biggest sweaters, maybe. They should be comfortable enough.”

Aaron didn’t argue, and that silence, the unspoken understanding between you, was more than enough. It was a kind of quiet harmony that neither of you needed to vocalize.

You moved toward the hallway, the faint sound of your footsteps echoing softly in the stillness of the house. The familiar hum of the refrigerator and the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet seemed to fill the space around you as you made your way to the laundry room. There was something soothing in the routine of it, the sound of detergent splashing against fabric, the gentle scent of clean linens in the air, the calmness of the house in contrast to the chaos outside.

You grabbed the bottle of detergent, your fingers brushing over the cold plastic as you opened the cap. The scent of lavender and citrus mixed in the air, a comforting, familiar smell. You poured the detergent into the washing machine, the liquid pouring slowly into the drum with a quiet rush, followed by the fabric softener, which added a hint of sweetness to the mixture. You moved mechanically, carefully setting everything in place, but all the while, your thoughts were elsewhere, back on Aaron, back on the space between you two that always seemed to be filled with unspoken words.

And then, without thinking—without meaning to—you reached for his shirt.

It was instinct. Something deeply ingrained in you, a reflex you hadn’t even realized was so natural. You didn’t hesitate as you lifted the shirt up to your face, bringing it closer. The soft cotton still held the faintest traces of him, the warmth of his skin, the scent of his cologne that lingered just below the surface. His scent, unique and comforting, was so familiar to you that it almost felt like home.

You inhaled deeply, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment, allowing the warmth of his essence to wrap around you. It was steady, constant, like the grounding presence he always had in your life. You could taste the remnants of his day on the fabric, the tension of the office, the exhaustion from the long hours, all wrapped up in this simple piece of clothing.

Without meaning to, your lips curled into a soft, almost imperceptible smile, allowing yourself to savor the warmth that always came when you were near him. That fleeting moment of peace before you turned away, shaking off the quiet contentment like it was something fragile. You made your way back toward the living room, but the second you stepped through the doorway, everything inside you came to an abrupt, screeching halt.

Aaron’s figure was unmistakable even with his back to you, his posture relaxed as he stood near the couch, adjusting the sleeves of a sweater he had slipped on. A thick, moss-green sweater that seemed to cling to him in a way that made your chest tighten, a memory rushing forward, uninvited, like a phantom you couldn’t escape.

Your breath caught in your throat, sudden and sharp, as the sight of him in that sweater sent a wave of coldness crashing through you. It was as if ice had replaced your blood, freezing you to the spot. Your stomach dropped, like you were plummeting without a safety net, and a heavy weight pressed into your chest, making it harder to breathe.

No.

It couldn’t be.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All you could do was stare at the figure before you, stare at that sweater, the one that had once been from someone else before things had become messy. Before everything had turned sideways.

It was a sweater you knew too well. The one that had been worn by someone else, in a life you tried not to remember. You had buried it in the back of your closet, hoping never to see it again, but here it was. And here your new life was, wearing it without a second thought.

Aaron, sensing the silence hanging heavy in the room, turned slightly. His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. He looked down at his wrist, as if noticing the way the sweater fit him, a subtle quirk to his lips as he shrugged. “I found this in the closet,” he said casually, his voice light. “It’s a bit big to be yours.”

The words, so simple, so innocent, landed like a slap in the face, pulling you deeper into the darkness of your thoughts. The world felt distant now, muted, and the room was suddenly too small. You didn’t register him taking a step closer until his hand reached out, a reflexive gesture to touch your wrist, to close the distance between you in the familiar way he always did.

It was the motion that broke you. The simple act of him reaching for you—the one thing that used to make you feel safe—only served to send a jolt of panic through your body. Without thinking, you jerked back, the movement instinctual and sharp, as if you had been burned.

The change in him was immediate. The warmth in his eyes evaporated, replaced by a flicker of concern. His whole body stiffened, and he stopped dead in his tracks, his hand still hovering in the air, suspended as if unsure of what to do next. His expression, once open and warm, now darkened with confusion and something else, something unreadable.

You swallowed, fighting the panic that rose in your chest, forcing yourself to find your voice. It came out as a whisper, barely more than a breath. “Take. That. Off.”

Your words hung in the air, cutting through the tension. There was no softness now, no playfulness or teasing. Just something sharp and brittle, like glass breaking under too much pressure. The command was not a request but a demand. Your tone, quiet as it was, carried an edge that made the room feel even more suffocating.

And then, slowly, deliberately, Aaron moved. His hands, shaking ever so slightly, grasped the sweater’s edge, and with quiet care, he lifted it over his head. The fabric slid from his body with the softest of sounds, his movements so controlled that it was clear he understood the fragility of what he was doing. He was stepping through a door that had been closed for too long, and now, the weight of it was heavy in the air, like something had cracked open.

Your lungs felt constricted as you watched him, each inhale too sharp, too shallow, like the air was being sucked out of the room. The sight of him there, the sweater in his hands, felt like a cruel joke, a memory that refused to stay buried. It shouldn’t be here. Not in this room. Not on him. Not now.

The words came quietly, but their weight was absolute, the finality of them hanging in the air like an unspoken truth that neither of you could escape. “This was his.”

The phrasing wasn’t a question but a statement, an acknowledgment of the past that you both knew too well. That sweater had once belonged to someone who wasn’t here anymore. To someone who had worn it with the same ease, the same confidence, but whose presence now existed only in the space between memories and nightmares.

Your throat tightened painfully, and for a long moment, it felt like you couldn’t speak at all. The words felt like they had to claw their way up through the rawness of your throat, but you managed. Just barely. “Where did you find it?”

Aaron let out a slow exhale, his voice rough when he finally spoke again. His hand ran through his hair in that familiar motion, but his gaze flickered briefly toward the bedroom, as though the very sight of the closet stirred something in him. “It was in the closet,” he said, his voice softening as he recalibrated. “I thought…I thought it was yours.”

You barely heard him after that, your focus narrowing entirely on the sweater, now held loosely in his hands. It wasn’t just a sweater. It was his sweater. The thick, soft fabric had once wrapped itself around a body you would never feel again. It had carried the scent of another man—the warmth of cologne, the lingering trace of late-night coffee, and the faintest hint of pages from books he would never finish reading. It had been a part of his mornings, his life, and your secondary role in it. And now, that same sweater was in Aaron’s hands, worn by a man who had never known him, never hurt you like him, yet somehow was standing here, holding the remnants of a life that no longer belonged to you.

The irony of it made your stomach churn. The bitter edge to it cut deeper than you expected.

“You shouldn’t have found that,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath, as if speaking them aloud would shatter what little control you had left.

Aaron’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his eyes darkening with a silent intensity that made the room feel even more suffocating. “You never told me you kept anything,” he said, the words softer but carrying an edge nonetheless. “I thought it was all evidence.”

A humorless laugh, harsh and bitter, slipped from your lips, and you barely recognized the sound. “Would it have mattered?”

He didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. The truth hung between you, unsaid but understood. Of course it wouldn’t have mattered.

You both knew how this story ended. How it always had. Aaron had been the one who stood before you, the lead agent on the case, the one who had delivered the words that had changed your world into new pieces. “We’re doing everything we can,” they had said. “We’ll find him. We won’t stop searching.”

But then, the time had passed, and the cold reality had set in. There were no more answers. No more leads. The case had gone cold. The search had stopped. And all that had remained were the shattered pieces of the life you had once had and the painful, bitter knowledge that it was real.

Aaron exhaled, his breath slow and measured, as if trying to steady something inside himself. The weight of the past settled between you like a ghost, an unseen force pressing against the silence, making the air feel heavier, thicker. His posture had changed—his shoulders slightly hunched, his stance less certain than before. He was trained to navigate difficult conversations, to read between the lines, but this—this—was uncharted ground.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, tinged with something heavier. Something almost apologetic.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, even though it hurt. Even though it felt like looking at him would pull you deeper into something you weren’t sure you could handle. Your voice was steady, but the edges of it were raw. “You didn’t ask.”

Something flickered in his expression. Guilt, maybe. Regret. You weren’t sure.

But it didn’t matter.

Because the truth was, none of this changed the reality you had lived with for years. It didn’t change the fact that your husband was gone. That Aaron had been the one to close the case. That he had been the one to look you in the eye and tell you the words you never wanted to hear. No new leads. No new evidence. Nothing left to find.

And now, somehow, whether by accident or some cruel twist of fate, he had reached back into the past and pulled a piece of it into the present, wrapped it around his body like it was just another sweater, unaware of the wreckage it would leave behind.

Your hands were shaking now.

You hated that.

He was still watching you, his gaze sharp, calculating but not in a cold way, in the way of someone who was trying to understand, who was weighing the right thing to say against the wrong one. But there wasn’t a right thing. Not here. Not in this moment.

“I need a minute,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath.

Aaron hesitated, his jaw tightening as he weighed his options. The part of him that was wired to protect, to stay, to make sure you were okay, fought against the part that understood you needed space. That you needed air.

“I don’t want to leave you like this,” he admitted, his voice low, careful.

You shook your head, already taking a step back. “Please.”

A beat.

And then, finally, with a slow nod, He set the sweater down. His movements were careful and deliberate. He placed it on the arm of the couch instead of the table, as if some part of him knew dropping it too carelessly would only make this worse. Then, without another word, he turned and stepped away, leaving the room.

The second he was gone, your breath hitched, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut against the sting building behind them.

You had spent years making peace with the past. Years learning to live with the silence, with the unanswered questions, with the knowledge that some things would never be really resolved. You had accepted the emptiness, the lack of closure, and the scars in your skin because what other choice had you been given?

But now, as you stared at that old, worn sweater, the last tangible piece of the man you once loved, you felt something shift inside you.

Something fragile.

Something unraveling.

Because maybe the past wasn’t done with you yet.

Aaron didn’t leave.

Not completely.

His presence still clung to the space, lingering in the air like the ghost of an unspoken truth. You could hear him in the other room: the quiet rustle of movement, the barely-there sound of his breath. He wasn’t hovering, wasn’t pressing, but he was close enough that you could feel the weight of him, steady and unmoving. Close enough that his absence wasn’t absence at all.

You needed the space. The moment to breathe. To gather the shattered pieces of yourself before facing him again.

And then, after a while, he returned.

He stepped into the room without a word, his silhouette cast long in the dim light. He didn’t demand an answer, didn’t pry, just stood there, hands in the pockets of his still soaked coat, gaze unreadable. The sweater—the damn sweater—was gone now, discarded somewhere out of sight, but its presence still lingered. You could still see it in your mind, could still feel the weight of it, heavy as the silence between you.

“I didn’t mean to blindside you.” His voice was quiet, careful. A thread of something softer wove beneath the words, regret, maybe. “That wasn’t my intention.”

You inhaled slowly, dragging air into lungs that felt too tight, too full of everything you weren’t ready to say. Exhaled even slower. Your emotions were raw, skin too thin, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze.

“I know.”

He would never mean to hurt, he wasn’t—

No. He was a good man.

Aaron shifted slightly, his stance easing, not quite casual, but open in a way that felt deliberate. Like he was offering you something, whether you wanted it or not. “If you want me to…I can look into it again.”

Your breath caught.

“I still have contacts. Still have ways of finding things other people can’t, my team can.” His voice was steady, unwavering. There was certainty in it, the kind that made it clear he wouldn’t stop unless you asked him to. “If you still want answers, I can help.”

Your fingers curled into your palms.

For years, you had chased answers. Drowned in them. You had lived inside the unknown, inside the waiting, inside the silence of a house that never felt really yours. Every silence, every shout, every blows, and every tear. Everything fell on you every time you sat with your head down, waiting for what never came.

And then, one night, the wondering had stopped.

Because you knew.

Your husband was dead.

The air in the room felt too thin, pressing against your ribs like a vice. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “No.”

Aaron’s brows furrowed slightly. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, the words heavy on your tongue, thick with something you couldn’t name. “The case is cold. It has been for years.” Your voice was quieter now, softer, but no less certain. “I can’t…I can’t live through that again.”

His gaze held yours, searching, reading you in the way he always did, like he could pull apart every flicker of emotion, every unspoken thought, and lay them bare.

But he didn’t push. Didn’t argue. Didn’t judge you.

And after a long beat, he just nodded. “Okay.”

It should have felt like relief. Like the closing of a door that had been left open for far too long.

But it didn’t.

Because Aaron wasn’t just anyone. He wasn’t an outsider to this. He had been part of it, had been the one to stand across from you years ago and tell you that the case was over. That they had done everything they could. He had been the one to look you in the eye and say, I’m sorry.

And now, here he was.

Still offering to help. Still trying to find the truth.

A slow, unsteady breath escaped you. “I’m tired.”

His expression softened, just slightly. “I know.”

You hadn’t meant to say it, but it was the truth. You had spent so long carrying this weight alone, so long trying to hold together the pieces of something broken beyond repair. It had taken everything in you to bury it, to build something new from the wreckage of your old life.

And now, for the first time in years, someone was offering to help. Someone was offering to know. The thought of it should have terrified you. Should have sent you spiraling.

But instead, as Aaron took a step closer—slow, hesitant, but steady—you felt something else entirely.

Warmth.

Not understanding. Not yet. But warmth.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing against your cheek again, just as gentle as before. He wasn’t asking for anything. Wasn’t demanding the truth.

He was just here.

And somehow, that was enough.

You exhaled shakily, tilting your face into his palm, eyes fluttering shut. “Aaron…”

It wasn’t a question. Wasn’t a plea.

Just his name.

And somehow, it carried more weight than anything else.

His breath was warm as he spoke, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. “I’m here.”

You didn’t know who moved first. Didn’t know if it was him or you, or if it even mattered at all. But then his lips were on yours, slow and sure, careful in a way that made your chest ache. And the weight of everything else faded into the background.

For the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself forget.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to ignore the voices whispering in the back of your mind.

And the agent Aaron Hotchner didn’t hear the wind whispering, over and over again—

She did it.

[certaimromance]

i put all my heart into this chapter, so appreciate it

don't read this if you haven't already read the chapter🩷

okayy, in this chapter everything is created to go from less to more, telling the lies that are told until reaching the biggest one and also playing with the thermal sensation, describing the cold at the beginning and slowly going to the heat

i really tried from the first chapter to make this story linear, that every symptom the reader read in the pages you would have read before, i hope it worked because really every previous chapter has one (the girl next door=social withdrawal, the other boy next door=hypervigilance)

also the most expected part: THE KISS, THEIR FIRST KISS😭 is actually a direct link to the second chapter, with the moment when they were really them before everything went to hell (this time it literally happens again like that morning)

and lastly, in case you hadn't noticed, gracie abrams really is THE official soundtrack of this series, here i left you a couple of lyrics that are just on point

𝜗𝜚 The Liar Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

series masterlist

Summary: Just when Spencer's walls came down and he seemed ready to try to get back to his old self with you, all his lies started to catch up to him.

Words: 8,2k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of injuries, violence, alzheimer, prison, scars. hurt/comfort. angst. painter!reader. post prison reid with almost all his past traumas. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I’M BACK!!! this chapter is an up and down. I had not been able to upload it soon because I started college a month ago and disappeared :( sorry in warning for this but know that I have all the intentions of writing this entire series (we are close to the end) and one or two extras.

It was late afternoon, the weak light of the sun filtering through the blinds, casting long, muted shadows across the sterile walls of the nursing home room. The low hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed above Spencer, filling the silence that seemed to stretch endlessly between him and his mother. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clenched tightly around the fabric of his pants, eyes fixed on the floor. It had been a quiet drive here, the kind of silence that felt suffocating, as if every word he didn’t say weighed heavier than the ones he might have spoken. The air was thick with the unsaid, and he was doing his best to stay composed, not letting his emotions break through the dam he had built. But it was hard. Harder than he thought it would be.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, a cold, clinical scent that made it seem a world away from the warmth of the apartment they had been in just half an hour before. Diana lay on the bed, the sheets pulled tightly around her frail body; her face had softened with time, the confusion that had once been there seemed to have faded. Her eyes, though clouded, still had that glimmer of recognition, just a brief glint mixed with weariness.

For a moment, just a moment, she smiled.

“Spencer,” she murmured, her voice quiet, gentle. “When is she coming?”

His heart skipped a beat, the weight of the moment settling over him like a stone in his chest. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his face neutral and hiding the fear.

“Who, mom?” He asked, his voice soft, careful, like he was walking on fragile ground.

“Your girlfriend,” she said, her lips curving slightly, like she was letting him in on some long-forgotten secret. “I thought she was coming with us. Did she stay at your apartment?”

Oh. Oh. Oh.

His stomach twisted sharply, a deep, sinking weight pressing against his ribs. His breath stalled for a moment, his thoughts tangling together too quickly to process.

You.

She was talking about you.

Spencer had braced himself for a lot of things when he came here—his mother forgetting his name, mistaking the year, slipping in and out of moments of clarity—but not this. Not you. He hadn’t anticipated her remembering so clearly, especially when so much else had slipped through the cracks. The painful fog of her mind seemed to distort everything else, but not this. It cut through the haze and made this day feel heavier than the others. He had hoped, selfishly, that time had blurred those memories, softened them enough that she wouldn’t ask, that she wouldn’t bring it up. He didn’t want to face it, not now, not like this.

Because he didn’t want to tell his mother.

Didn’t want to tell her that he had let you slip away. That the space between you had grown too vast, too heavy to ignore. That no matter how much he missed you—God, how he missed you—it had been his choice. His decision. That he had shut himself off from the one person who had made him feel again, and now he didn’t know how to undo it.

He didn’t want his mother to see it, to know how much it hurt. She was already fragile, already carrying so much. What good would it do to make her worry about him, too?

His throat felt tight and dry.

“Mom, she’s not—” The words faltered, caught somewhere between truth and cowardice.

She’s not coming.

She’s not mine.

She never was.

But Diana’s mind was already drifting, slipping past his hesitation like water through cupped hands. She lifted a trembling hand, her fingers curling slightly, reaching for something unseen. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and reverent.

“I like her,” she murmured. “She’s good for you. She made tea for me the other day.”

The other day, just half an hour ago. But he didn’t dare correct her.

“She should come,” Diana continued, her words slowing, like she was savoring them. “I want to meet her. I want to see her. I want to see how she looks with you.”

Spencer felt his heart twist painfully in his chest.

His mother wanted to see how you looked with him.

As if you were his. As if nothing had broken the illusion of what you two once could be. As if the dreams he had clung to at night weren’t haunted by regret.

As if, in another life, in another version of himself, he had dared to try, to take your hand, to say the words he swallowed back every time you stood too close, every time your eyes softened just for him.

As if he had never hurt you.

And damn, how he wished that were true.

He wanted to tell his mother that it wasn’t as simple as she thought. That he wasn’t whole enough to be good for you. That he had made his choices, and this loneliness was something he had earned.

But he couldn’t.

So instead, he forced himself to breathe, to move past the crushing weight in his ribs.

“I’ll tell her,” he said softly, his voice barely audible.

One.

The lie settled on his tongue like lead.

It was small and fragile, but it was the only thing he could offer her. The truth was too cruel, too sharp-edged. It would do more harm than good.

Diana sighed, her eyelids growing heavier as she sank deeper into the pillows.

“I hope she’s here soon,” she murmured sleepily. “I miss having someone new around. The people here are boring. They don’t talk like her. They don’t bring me good tea.”

Spencer swallowed hard, watching her drift off. His mind swirled, too clouded with guilt and pain to find clarity. He wanted to apologize to her. He wanted to beg for forgiveness, to say how sorry he was, how much he wished he could turn back time. How much he wished he could stop lying to her and to you.

But the words never came.

Instead, he just sat there, watching his mother fade into sleep, helpless to undo the things he had done. He couldn’t change the past, couldn’t make it right. All he could do was wait and pray for something he didn’t know how to fix.

Like the genius he was, he should have known this was inevitable.

Spencer must have sensed, deep down, that all his carefully constructed plans to keep his distance were bound to unravel. It wasn’t a question of if, but when. No amount of logic, no amount of calculated restraint, could have changed the truth: he was never going to be able to keep you at arm’s length.

Three years now. Three years since the first time he saw you, standing in the hallway, struggling under the weight of moving boxes, your determination burning through the exhaustion that must have been settling deep in your bones. Three years since the day your cat had decided, without hesitation, that he belonged to him, weaving between his legs like a creature who had known him forever. But you? You were barely more than a passing blur in his periphery, a fleeting presence in that moment. And yet, somehow, some way, that moment had been the start of everything.

Three years since the first time you had smiled at him—really smiled—and caught him completely off guard. Since the first time your laughter had made something inside him stumble. Three years of small, stolen moments that shouldn’t have meant as much as they did, of soft conversations that chipped away at his walls before he even realized they were crumbling. Three years of standing too close but never quite touching, of understanding each other in ways that had nothing to do with words.

You two had always been honest with each other. Brutally so. It wasn’t about grand confessions or sweeping gestures, but about the quiet things, the ones most people never thought to share. Spencer told you about the way the starlings moved outside the jet window, their flight patterns shifting like liquid shadows against the sky. He told you how the new sugar you had bought threw off his usual coffee ratio, how the slight imbalance left a persistent irritation in the back of his mind all day. And you told him about the stranger in the grocery store who had baffled you with their nonsensical conversation, about the dream that clung to you like smoke, never quite clearing.

You told each other things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else but mattered because they were yours.

That was what made keeping a secret from you impossible.

Three months, four weeks, and two days. That’s how long he had carried the weight of it, letting the guilt press into his ribs, burrow under his skin. He had convinced himself that he could do it, that he could hold this piece of himself away from you, shielding you from something he couldn’t even shield himself from. But every time he tried to create distance, every time he held himself back, you knew.

And that was the worst part; you always knew.

You saw through him in ways no one else did. You could read the minute shifts in his voice, the way his breath caught in his throat when he was on the verge of saying something but swallowed it down instead. You could feel the hesitation in his touch when he pulled away before he ever had the chance to reach for you. He should have known you wouldn’t push, that you would let him come to you in his own time.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t waiting.

And then, in a blink, it all unraveled.

He didn’t even know what it was that broke him, whether it was the exhaustion, the guilt, or the unbearable weight of the space he had tried to put between you, but suddenly, the walls he had fought so hard to keep standing collapsed beneath the pressure of it all. He was tired. Tired of pretending he could bear it alone. Tired of pretending that keeping you at a distance was anything other than a losing battle.

And in your arms, he shattered. Completely.

You held him without hesitation, without fear, without resentment. No demand for an explanation, no pressure for him to speak before he was ready. Just warmth. Just presence. Just you. And that was enough.

When the elevator doors slid open on your floor, you stepped out first, as you always did, effortless, as if the very air around you had shifted to accommodate your presence. For a moment, you paused, your figure outlined by the soft glow of the hallway lights. You took a small breath, the kind that felt like it belonged solely to this moment, before turning back to him. In that fleeting second, your gaze met his, unreadable, layered with something that lingered beneath the surface, too subtle and too deep to fully understand. And then, as if some quiet understanding passed between you, a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of your lips, soft, intimate, and strangely familiar, like a secret that had always been shared between the two of you, even in silence.

“I buy a new coffee,” you said softly, your voice a steady thread in the quiet of the place. The words slipped through the silence, warm and inviting. “I think you might like it.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. He simply nodded, the weight of your words sinking deeper into him as he followed you down the hall. His mind was still racing, trying to catch up with the unraveling of everything he had kept inside. His breathing was uneven, each inhale a struggle to process what had just been said, what had just happened. His throat was tight, like if he even tried to speak, the words would crumble and fall apart before they could ever reach the surface.

And yet, you didn’t press. You didn’t ask or rush him. You just walked beside him, as you always had, so steady, patient, and present. It was as if nothing had changed, and yet, in some indescribable way, everything had.

When you reached his door, you unlocked it with a familiar motion, but before stepping inside, you glanced back at him, that same quiet smile still playing on your lips.

“I buy jello too,” you said, your tone light and casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But the words sank into him like a slow, steady pain, unraveling him all over again.

God.

Jello had been one of the few things that kept him sane in prison, the only thing that made those long, endless days feel the slightest bit normal. Every afternoon, when the guards slid his tray through the slot, his eyes would instinctively search for it. That small plastic container, that bright, artificial sweetness that reminded him there was still something predictable in a world that had taken everything else away. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

And now, standing in this dimly lit hallway, you had just offered it to me so simply, so effortlessly after he broke down crying in your arms because you knew it would make him feel better.

You didn’t eat jello. He knew that. He had known it from the very first time you had wrinkled your nose at the idea, passing it over without a second glance. And yet, you still bought it. Every time you went to the store, it ended up in your cart, tucked between the things you actually did like. A quiet, unspoken gesture. A habit formed not out of necessity, but out of something deeper, something neither of you had ever needed to say out loud. Just like how he always made sure to have your favorite tea stocked in his cupboard, even though he never drank it himself. Even though he barely thought about it until he saw the box sitting there, waiting for you, like a quiet promise he never had to voice.

That was what you did for each other.

And maybe that was why his breath hitched, why his throat tightened, why his fingers curled slightly at his sides as if he could physically hold himself together. Because this wasn’t grand or dramatic, it wasn’t some sweeping declaration. It was simple. Thoughtless. Ordinary. Just jello.

But oh God, it was your jello. And anything that had you included was automatically the most special in his world.

Before he could find the words, before he could even begin to process the weight of it all, a sudden blast of music erupted from somewhere above, the sharp clatter of electric guitar cutting through the quiet like a sudden explosion. The pounding rhythm of the drums followed, shaking the ceiling just slightly, a chaotic contrast to the moment he had been drowning in only seconds before.

Instinct kicked in before logic had the chance to catch up.

He tensed, his body moving on its own as he instinctively stepped closer to you, angling himself between you and the unseen source of the noise—ready to shield, to take a hit, to react to a threat that wasn’t even there.

He realized it a second too late.

But you didn’t say anything. Didn’t acknowledge his automatic reaction, didn’t call attention to the way his body had gone rigid, the way his breath had caught in his throat. Instead, you just sighed, shaking your head with quiet amusement as if this was all so normal.

“That’s the niece of our neighbor,” you explained easily, your voice grounding him in a way he hadn’t even known he needed. “He loves rock music.”

Spencer let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to shake the lingering tension from his body. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You glanced toward the staircase at the end of the hall, tilting your head slightly as if you could see the scene unfolding upstairs. “Don’t get too attached, though. It’ll be gone in a minute.”

Right on cue, the music cut off abruptly, replaced by the muffled sound of a door opening and a voice too distant to make out, but unmistakably scolding.

A second later, you grinned. “His uncle always shuts it down in the best part of the song.”

This time, Spencer’s laughter came without hesitation, rolling from his chest in a way that felt natural, effortless. It wasn’t the strained, tight laugh that he’d forced out in uncomfortable moments before. This was real, soft, and unburdened, a ripple of relief that escaped him without effort. He hadn’t even realized how badly he needed to laugh, to truly laugh, until it happened. The tension in his shoulders loosened, and for the first time in what felt like a long time, something inside him relaxed. It was the sound of something heavy lifting, an unspoken weight easing off of him because of you.

You shifted, and the air between you changed again, this time with a quiet, concerned tone in your voice. “It’s cold,” you said, glancing up at the door behind you, the hallway a little dimmer, the night pressing in on all sides. “You should go inside.”

Without you?

He hesitated for a moment, looking at you, the weight of everything still swirling inside him, pulling at the edges of his thoughts. “Can you…can you go with me?” he asked, the words coming out softer than he’d intended, as if they were a plea he hadn’t known he needed to make.

It was a question that carried more than just the invitation to walk through his door. It was an invitation for you to stay, to be there, to share in the quiet, in the simplicity again.

He needed that. He needed you.

But you hesitated anyway. Just for a moment, but it was enough for Spencer to feel the weight of it. And for a split second, he wondered if he had crossed a line, if his request was too much. You had been a constant in his life since the start, but this…this felt different because this wasn’t the start, this wasn’t the past, and now that you were far away, even if you were just a few feet away from him.

You glanced away briefly, and the small, fleeting flicker of doubt in your eyes was quickly replaced by something unreadable. You licked your lips, the soft sound barely noticeable, and then took a small step back, your hand resting lightly on your doorknob.

He held his breath, waiting for the rejection, the inevitable pull back to reality where things could never be back to simple between the two of you.

But then, slowly, you turned your gaze back to him, and he saw the hesitation there, the conflict, even if you didn’t voice it. Your lips parted, but you didn’t speak at first. Instead, you studied him, your gaze soft and calculating, as if weighing the possibility of crossing a line neither of you had ever dared to approach. Even though you’d been to his house countless times, lying in his bed, moving around in your socks as if it were your own, something about this moment felt different.

“I don’t know if I should,” you finally said, your voice small, unsure. “You…You’ve been through a lot tonight. Maybe it’s better if you just have some time to yourself, you know? To breathe. To think.” Maybe it's better if I give you space so that tomorrow morning you don't want to push me away again.

Spencer could feel the sting of your words, but it wasn’t rejection. It was caution. You were worried about him and about yourself. He wanted to reach out, to tell you that he didn’t need space, that he needed you more than anything, but instead, he just nodded slowly, his heart sinking a little with the weight of your words.

“I get it,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “I just…I don’t want to be alone right now.” The truth slipped out before he could stop it, and even as he said it, he realized how vulnerable it made him feel. Like he was unraveling again, exposing himself in ways he hadn’t prepared for.

Ouch.

You looked at him, your eyes softening, a delicate understanding in them. His words hung between you, raw and vulnerable, and for a moment, everything felt suspended in time. He didn’t want to be alone. And there, in the quiet of that admission, something shifted, it touched you. The hesitation in your expression melted into something gentler, more certain.

With a small sigh, you stepped forward, closing the door of your place with a soft click. “Alright,” you said, your voice low. “I can stay a moment.”

The relief that washed over him was almost overwhelming. It was like the air had cleared, like the heavy, uncertain tension between you had finally been lifted. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding his breath until now, when you’d said yes.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick with gratitude.

You didn’t say anything in return at first. Instead, you simply walked beside him as he led the way down the hallway, your footsteps echoing softly in the quiet.

When you reached his door, he hesitated for a moment, his hand on the knob. It felt like one more decision, one more choice to make. But when he turned the handle and stepped inside, he felt your presence beside him, a steady reassurance that everything was somehow okay, that this fragile moment between you wasn’t going to break, that everything could be a little better again.

The apartment was quiet, bathed in the soft light of the lamps casting long shadows on the walls. He moved toward the thermostat, fingers hovering over the controls as he turned the heater up. The hum of the system started, and the air slowly began to warm around you, but it wasn’t enough just yet. And in solution, you moved to draping a thick, soft blanket over the couch.

Without a word, you sat down, and he did the same, your body curving into the corner as you pulled the blanket around both of you, like a protection. It was quiet, the warmth of the room slowly filling the space, but now, with the soft, cozy fabric surrounding you both. This wasn’t the first time you two shared a blanket, but somehow, it feels so different. There was something new in the way you adjusted the blanket, your hands smoothing it over his legs, over your own, and in the way his heart reacted to that.

“You didn’t have to…” Spencer started, his voice quieter now, the words hesitant. He didn’t know how to explain what he was feeling, or if it even made sense. But you didn’t need him to finish.

“It’s nothing,” you said, the words light, but carrying with them an unspoken understanding.

Maybe to you, this was nothing. But to him, this was everything.

The warmth of the blanket wrapped around you both, the heater slowly humming in the background as the cold of the hallway faded into nothing. It was quiet now, comfortable in its stillness, and yet…there was something else in the air, something fragile, like the breath you both were holding, unsure how to bridge this space between comfort and vulnerability.

You shifted slightly, drawing the blanket closer, a subtle move to find some warmth. Spencer’s hand, resting by his side, brushed against yours again, and in that fleeting touch, you both seemed to share the same unspoken thought.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the heater and the subtle rustle of the blanket as you both made yourselves comfortable. You sat just a little closer now, the air between you less strained, more familiar. And, as if sensing that shift, he took a slow, deep breath, releasing the tension that had coiled itself so tightly around him.

“You don’t have to stay,” he murmured, the words slipping out more gently now, as though they didn’t carry the same weight of need they had earlier. “You could just…go home, if you want.”

Two.

But the words didn’t feel like an invitation to leave. They felt like a question—Are you still okay with this?

You shifted again, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you, your eyes drifting down to where it covered you both. There was something in the way his words didn’t quite reach his eyes, a wariness that had lingered in the way he held himself.

“I can stay a bit.” You said quietly, feeling cold.

As you adjusted the blanket around your shoulders, you felt a slight movement in the fabric next to him. Spencer moved, turning slightly to copy you, just enough so that his side was facing you. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but the movement caught your attention and made you pay attention. The blanket had shifted around him, and when you moved enough, you saw it: a thin, faint scar across his lower abdomen, a line of pale skin against the heat of his body that still looked reddened.

It was a silent thing, easy to miss if you didn't look closely, but once you saw it, you couldn't ignore it. The scar was irregular, almost as if it had been carved, and for a moment you forgot to breathe. It was a deep, painful-looking mark, the kind that spoke of more than accidents or misfortune, the kind that had a deliberate intent to do as much damage as possible. You shuddered to think that there was a story behind it, a moment in his recent past that you didn't know about.

Your hand froze in the blanket, and your eyes roamed over the visible part of the scar without wanting to. You didn't want to make it obvious, you didn't want to pry, but the instinct was there. What had happened to him to have such a mark on his skin? Who had been able to hurt him?

Spencer shifted again, his hand unconsciously clenching the blanket and pulling down his shirt, as if he could feel your gaze and wanted to avoid it as much as possible. The change in his posture was immediate: cautious, cautious, but you didn't intend for him to feel exposed. It was an instinct, just a fleeting glance, but you couldn't pretend that it hadn't awakened something inside you and that your doubts hadn't increased.

You turned your attention back to the blanket, pretending to concentrate on adjusting the fabric around the two of you, giving him space, a chance to recover and decipher the moment in his mind. But you couldn't forget the scar. It wasn’t the first time you had seen the evidence of his dangerous world: the bruises, the small cuts, and the scrapes that came with the territory of his work. You’d grown accustomed to them over time, an unspoken part of the routine. But this…this was different. It was the first time that this paralyzing fear of what he had been through appeared.

Finally, after a moment of silence that seemed to stretch longer than it should, he broke the quiet with a soft sigh, one that trembled just slightly. “I didn’t mean for you to see it…” He trailed off, clearly aware of the shift in the air between you two.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “It…it happened when you were away?” You asked softly, the words careful, measured.

Spencer hesitated, but then he nodded. A single, small movement, but it felt heavier than it should have.

Your heart cracked at the confirmation.

“Someone hurt you,” you whispered, barely able to say the words.

More than someone.

More than one time.

More than a scar.

He exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching against the fabric covering his lap. “I’m okay,” he said, the words automatic, rehearsed. As if he had told himself the same thing so many times it had become muscle memory.

Three.

“It’s old,” he added, trying to brush it off, to pull the conversation away from the depth of it.

Four.

But you shook your head, your fingers tightening around the blanket. “But someone hurt you.” Your voice wavered, the realization settling deeper, making your stomach twist. “And I—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, sharper now, but there was no anger in it. Just exhaustion. Just the kind of weariness that came with carrying something too heavy for too long.

Five.

The words were sharp and final, but they only made the ache in your chest worse.

“It matters to me, Spencer.”

That made him pause.

For the first time since you’d noticed the scar, he truly looked at you. His brows drew together slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes. You could see the way his walls were still up, how he was balancing on that edge between wanting to push you away and not having the energy to fight you on this, to tell you the whole truth.

You took a breath, your voice quieter now, but no less firm. “I spent all this time thinking you were just… fuck, I thought you were away because you wanted to be. That you didn’t call me in three months because you didn’t want to. That you were busy with your conferences, too caught up in whatever was keeping you occupied.” You let out a shaky breath. “I never thought for a second that you were—that someone was hurting you this bad.”

For a long moment, Spencer didn’t say anything. His eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place, a flash of emotion that he quickly shuttered behind a wall of indifference. He looked away, his jaw clenching as if he was bracing himself for something. Bracing himself for your disappointment, for your pity, or whatever it was he thought you might feel. He didn’t want to let you in any more than he already had, didn’t want to reveal the broken pieces of himself he’d hidden so carefully.

But you wouldn’t turn away. You couldn’t.

“It’s not your fault,” he murmured, his voice softer this time, almost apologetic, though it was clear he wasn’t apologizing for what had happened. It wasn’t the kind of apology you had hoped for, the kind that acknowledged the depth of the hurt. No, this was the kind of apology he gave when he was trying to make himself smaller, trying to protect you from the mess of his life. “You know how…how my work is.”

“You told me it was a simple conference,” you said, your voice shaking slightly, the emotion choking you. “I never thought it was dangerous.” You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat growing, making each word feel heavier than the last. “If I had known—”

You stopped yourself, the weight of the words heavy on your tongue. Spencer looked at you then, his gaze searching, as if he was expecting you to finish, to say what you couldn’t bring yourself to say out loud. But you couldn’t. Not just yet. Not with the fear of how it would sound.

“If I would’ve known,” you began again, your voice barely above a whisper, the words almost breaking as you spoke them, “I would’ve never let you go that morning.”

The admission hung between you, thick and heavy. The idea that if you’d known, you would have stopped him from leaving. That you would have made sure he was safe. But it didn’t matter now, did it? The damage was already done, and all you had left were these words, these feelings that couldn’t undo the hurt he’d endured.

He shook his head slowly, the movement almost imperceptible, as though the weight of your words was something he wasn’t ready to accept. “You wouldn’t have stopped me,” he said softly, almost as if trying to convince himself. He reached out instinctively, his hand hovering close to your cheek, as though he needed to connect with you, to reassure himself you were still there, still with him.

“I would try,” you said, your voice small but determined.

“No,” he said, his voice a little firmer, though there was a flicker of pain in his eyes.

You frowned, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten. “Then I would’ve done something different,” you said quickly, the words rushing out of you in an attempt to fill the silence. “I would’ve hugged you more. I would’ve kissed you—”

You trailed off, the words surprising even you as they left your lips. You hadn’t meant to say it, but now that you had, you could feel the sudden weight of vulnerability pressing down on you. You avoided his gaze, suddenly embarrassed, your eyes flickering to the clock on the wall as if it could somehow distract you from the sudden shift in the air between you.

“I—” Spencer began, his voice faltering, surprised by your words. “You what?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, cutting him off. You stood up, the movement feeling abrupt, as if the sudden need to distance yourself was the only thing you could think to do. The warmth of the blanket that had wrapped around both of you now felt like an echo, leaving the couch cold and empty as you stepped away from it.

Six.

“I should go home,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s almost Mittens’ dinner time.”

As you turned to leave, you felt the sudden emptiness of the space between you, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air. The thought of leaving felt too final, too much like running away from everything you had just shared. But the words were already out, and you didn’t know how to take them back.

“Wait,” Spencer called out, his voice soft, yet desperate, as if he was trying to hold onto something that was slipping away.

You paused, feeling his hand close around your wrist, gently pulling you back. The contact was warm and grounding, but it only made your heart beat faster. His fingers wrapped around you with a kind of quiet urgency, a need to keep you close.

You turned to face him, and in that moment, the silence between you both felt more intimate than anything you’d shared before. He looked at you, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite read. The air between you felt charged, like everything you hadn’t said was suspended, just waiting to break free.

“What?”

“I should’ve done this that morning,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, almost as if saying it out loud made the feeling more real, more vulnerable.

His gaze flickered down to your lips, a fleeting second that felt like an eternity, then returned to your eyes, searching, unsure. His thumb brushed the edge of your cheek—soft, almost tentative—as though he was uncertain of your response, like he was afraid to cross a line, even though the air between you both was thick with the unspoken tension. You could feel the warmth of his touch radiating through you, gentle but hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right to be this close, to share this kind of intimacy with you. His breath hitched slightly in the charged silence, and in that moment, everything else seemed to fall away.

You held your breath, caught in the delicate web of uncertainty, wondering if this moment would slip away like all the others before. But instead of retreating, he closed the distance slowly, cautiously, like he was waiting for you to stop him, to tell him you didn’t want this. The uncertainty between you both was thick, suffocating, and yet neither of you moved.

And then, his lips brushed yours.

It was so soft, barely a touch, like he was testing the waters, unsure of what he would find there. The kiss was fleeting, almost apologetic, as if he was waiting for a signal from you, a sign that it was okay to continue. His hand remained on your cheek, trembling just slightly, and you could feel it—his hesitation, his fear of what this could mean, his fear of falling too fast. But despite the uncertainty, there was something undeniably tender in the way he kissed you. So tender, it made your heart ache, and you realized he was touching you as if you were made of glass, as if he was terrified of breaking you.

Some part of him wants to protect his heart from falling to the floor because he was finally brave enough to kiss you. You, the girl next door, his girl next door.

You stood there, frozen for a heartbeat, as his lips lingered, unsure, almost apologetic, on yours. The hesitation in his touch stirred something inside you, something deep, something aching. But then, it was as if everything inside you shifted. The restraint you had been holding on to snapped, the weight of everything unspoken suddenly lifting.

You kissed him back.

At first, it was a small, hesitant movement, a soft press of your lips against his, but it was enough. It ignited something in both of you, an uncontrollable surge of need, of longing that had been building in the silence between you for far too long. His hand slid up your cheek, cupping the back of your head, pulling you closer, his fingers threading through your hair, desperately trying to keep you from pulling away.

You let go, abandoning all caution, all restraint.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer with a force that surprised even you, and suddenly, everything was frantic, wild—your lips crashing against his, the kiss deepening, deepening with each passing second. His hands roamed down your back, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the hard press of his chest against yours, the heat of him seeping into every part of you. The world outside of this moment faded, as if it no longer existed. There was only him, only the press of his lips, the insistent pressure of his body against yours. The heat between you both was intoxicating, endless, and you couldn’t get enough. You moved against him, desperate to feel more, to lose yourself in him.

His breath came faster, more ragged, his chest rising and falling beneath yours as if he couldn’t get enough air, as if this kiss was the only thing keeping him grounded. You could feel the tremors in his hands as they moved across your skin, as if he were trying to memorize the feel of you. His pulse thrummed under your fingertips, and you matched the frantic rhythm of his heart with your own, a frantic, insistent thrum in your veins. There was no more hesitation, no more restraint, only the raw intensity of wanting, of needing, of surrender.

Suddenly, his lips left yours, trailing slowly across your cheek, the lightest of touches, but enough to send shivers down your spine. His breath was hot against your skin, and you could feel the heat of his lips moving along the line of your jaw, sending your heart into overdrive. His hand tangled in your hair, fixing it, holding you in place, but it felt so natural, like he had always known how to touch you, how to hold you. You could feel the weight of his touch, and in that moment, you realized how easily he had fit into your life, into your heart.

For a moment, time seemed to stop, the world outside fading away completely. The only thing that existed was the press of his lips against your skin, the soft caress of his hands, the heady rush of his touch. In that instant, everything you had ever wanted, everything you had ever needed, was right there, with him. It felt like a homecoming, like you had been waiting for this moment your entire life, like you were finally where you belonged.

But amidst the rising intensity, as his lips returned to yours, there came an unexpected sound—a soft, insistent meow, breaking through the silence between you.

You broke the contact for a split second, a brief breathless pause, but Spencer didn’t pull away. His lips lingered on yours, just a breath away, as if begging for permission to continue. You hesitated, staring into his eyes, the heat between you both undeniable. You could still hear the soft meows, now more insistent and louder.

“Do you hear that?” You asked, your voice strained, trying to focus on anything other than the maddening desire coursing through you.

Spencer’s lips curled into a half-smile, his breath still shallow. “Mittens.” He didn’t move away, his hand gently cupping your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “She’s just…really patient, huh?”

You laughed softly, but it was a nervous sound, almost guilty, as your body swayed closer to his again. “She’s always patient until it’s dinner time,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his as you leaned in again, just wanting to feel him.

You kissed him again, deeper this time, as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you. Your hands found their way to his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you tugged him closer. He responded in kind, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you toward him like he couldn’t bear the space between you.

But then, the persistent meows pierced the air again, louder this time, more demanding. The moment wavered as the sound broke through, sharp and unavoidable. You groaned in frustration, pulling away just slightly, your forehead resting against his.

“She really won’t stop, will she?” You sighed, the tension hanging heavy in the air.

Spencer chuckled softly, brushing a lock of hair from your face, a playful glint in his eyes. “Nope, not unless she gets what she wants.”

You both lingered there, caught between laughter and longing, the pull of each other still so strong, but the loud insistence of your cat’s demands impossible to ignore. Spencer’s teasing smile remained, but it was softened by the heat of the moment, and he leaned in closer once more, brushing a kiss to your forehead, a light, affectionate touch that made your heart flutter.

“How about I take care of her?” he offered, his voice low and warm, still thick with desire. “You stay right here.”

For a brief moment, you considered protesting, but the look in his eyes, the way he was still so close, still so present, made it impossible to resist.

“Please,” you said with a mock pout. “I’ll just…I’ll wait right here.”

Spencer smirked, his hand lingering on the small of your back as he finally stepped away, his touch lingering just a moment longer. “Don't go, we still have a lot to talk about,” he murmured, pressing a final kiss to your forehead before he reluctantly turned toward the door.

When he stepped out of the room to take care of your cat, you leaned back against the couch, your heart still racing, the lingering warmth of his touch keeping you grounded in the moment. The soft hum of the apartment around you was the only sound, the quiet intimacy of the space suddenly feeling more alive than ever before. Everything felt like a fever dream.

A giddy smile threatened to stretch across your face, and you bit your lip, trying to contain it before your cheeks started to ache. You leaned back against the couch, fingers brushing absentmindedly over the fabric as you tried to ground yourself, to catch up with the whirlwind of emotions surging through you.

Your gaze wandered across the room, landing on a familiar sight, his old glasses, the ones you always sighed over whenever he wore them. They sat on the coffee table beside the couch, slightly askew, as if he had taken them off in a rush. Without hesitation, you leaned forward, intending to pick them up and insist that he put them on, maybe tease him about how they made him look like the professor he always denied being. A small, playful joke, something to bring you both back down to earth after the intensity of the moment you had just shared.

But as you reached for them, your fingers brushed against the corner of a magazine underneath, disturbing a small pile of papers tucked inside. They looked carelessly placed, slightly crumpled, as if they had been hastily shoved there, meant to be dealt with later.

You hesitated.

Spencer was meticulous, he never left things out of order, especially not papers. Maybe he had just been distracted. Maybe they were notes for work, something he had meant to file away. The rational part of you told you to leave them alone, to respect his privacy. But something about the way they were shoved under the magazine, almost hidden, made your stomach twist with unease.

Still, your instinct to tidy up overrode your hesitation. You lifted the top sheet, intending only to smooth them out, maybe stack them neatly so they wouldn’t get damaged. But the second your eyes flicked over the bolded title at the top of the page, your breath caught in your throat.

Therapy Program for Ex-Convicts.

Your fingers stilled.

A strange, creeping sensation crawled up your spine as you skimmed the first few lines, your pulse suddenly too loud in your ears. Your brain tried to rationalize. Spencer was a genius, after all. Maybe he was consulting on something, researching for a case, or assisting with a rehabilitation program. That had to be it. Didn’t it?

Frowning, you flipped through the pages, your eyes darting over the text, searching for something—anything—that would explain why he had these documents. The words blurred together in your frantic state, but certain phrases leapt out at you, lodging themselves in your mind like thorns.

Emotional reintegration into society.

Post-incarceration trauma.

Hypervigilance, social withdrawal, dissociative tendencies.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as you read on. The descriptions felt disturbingly familiar, too familiar. The nightmares. The way he sometimes seemed distant, detached, lost in a world you couldn’t reach. The way he flinched at unexpected touches or sounds, how he sometimes went quiet mid-conversation, as if a thought had gripped him so tightly he couldn’t escape it.

And then, at the bottom of the page, you saw it.

Spencer Reid.

Your breath hitched. The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. Your hands trembled as you scanned the document again, desperately looking for context, for an explanation that didn’t exist. Notes were scribbled in the margins, about his sessions, about his struggles. About him.

Spencer…your Spencer, an ex-convict?

The words didn’t make sense. They didn’t belong in the same sentence. They felt wrong, impossible, like you had stumbled into someone else’s story. But the more you read, the more the pieces started to fit together in a way that made your stomach churn.

He had been in prison.

Not for a case. Not for a mission. Not for anything that could be easily explained away.

For himself.

Seven.

The weight of it crashed down on you, cold and suffocating. How? When? Why hadn’t he told you? How had you not noticed?

Your mind reeled, flipping back through every interaction, every hesitation in his voice, every unanswered question you had brushed aside. The distance, the way he sometimes looked at you like he was waiting for something to break, had it been this all along? Had he been carrying this secret all along since he came back?

Your grip on the papers tightened as a deep, unfamiliar ache bloomed in your chest.

He hadn’t told you.

He had lied to you.

Your thoughts were cut off by the sound of Mittens’ soft meow. The sudden noise startled you, and you dropped the papers back onto the table, as if you had just been caught red-handed. Panic swelled in your chest, but you didn’t have time to compose yourself before you heard his footsteps approaching. You quickly glanced down at the table, pretending to be focused on anything but the storm of emotions tearing through you.

Spencer walked into the room, his arms holding your cat, looking for all the world like the same man you had just kissed. But something about him was different now, his eyes no longer held that same warmth, that same comfort. They were guarded, clouded with something you couldn’t quite place, something darker that now seemed to hang over him like a shadow.

He set Mittens down carefully, his movements precise, practiced, like he was forcing himself to act normal.

“She’s had her dinner,” he said casually, his voice light, easy. Too easy. He took a step closer, stopping just short of the couch, but you saw it, the way his eyes flickered, the way his entire body tensed the moment he saw the papers on the table.

His breath hitched, barely noticeable, but you felt it. His lips parted slightly, and for the briefest second, there was something raw in his expression: guilt.

“Now she’s happy.”

But you weren’t.

And there were seven lies in total.

Extra note: Don't hate me, this chapter is divided into two parts so as not to make it one extremely long chapter and not allow you to digest the emotions <3 the next one will be published soon, I promise, and I send you a hug because this was very strong.

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @burningwitchprincess @withloverosse @fairiesofearth @pleasantwitchgarden @ximensitaa @lover-of-books-and-tea @cherryblossomfairyy @cherrygublersworld @i-need-to-be-put-down @dibidee

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 The Liar Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

series masterlist

Summary: Just when Spencer's walls came down and he seemed ready to try to get back to his old self with you, all his lies started to catch up to him.

Words: 8,2k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of injuries, violence, alzheimer, prison, scars. hurt/comfort. angst. painter!reader. post prison reid with almost all his past traumas. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I’M BACK!!! this chapter is an up and down. I had not been able to upload it soon because I started college a month ago and disappeared :( sorry in warning for this but know that I have all the intentions of writing this entire series (we are close to the end) and one or two extras.

It was late afternoon, the weak light of the sun filtering through the blinds, casting long, muted shadows across the sterile walls of the nursing home room. The low hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed above Spencer, filling the silence that seemed to stretch endlessly between him and his mother. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clenched tightly around the fabric of his pants, eyes fixed on the floor. It had been a quiet drive here, the kind of silence that felt suffocating, as if every word he didn’t say weighed heavier than the ones he might have spoken. The air was thick with the unsaid, and he was doing his best to stay composed, not letting his emotions break through the dam he had built. But it was hard. Harder than he thought it would be.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, a cold, clinical scent that made it seem a world away from the warmth of the apartment they had been in just half an hour before. Diana lay on the bed, the sheets pulled tightly around her frail body; her face had softened with time, the confusion that had once been there seemed to have faded. Her eyes, though clouded, still had that glimmer of recognition, just a brief glint mixed with weariness.

For a moment, just a moment, she smiled.

“Spencer,” she murmured, her voice quiet, gentle. “When is she coming?”

His heart skipped a beat, the weight of the moment settling over him like a stone in his chest. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his face neutral and hiding the fear.

“Who, mom?” He asked, his voice soft, careful, like he was walking on fragile ground.

“Your girlfriend,” she said, her lips curving slightly, like she was letting him in on some long-forgotten secret. “I thought she was coming with us. Did she stay at your apartment?”

Oh. Oh. Oh.

His stomach twisted sharply, a deep, sinking weight pressing against his ribs. His breath stalled for a moment, his thoughts tangling together too quickly to process.

You.

She was talking about you.

Spencer had braced himself for a lot of things when he came here—his mother forgetting his name, mistaking the year, slipping in and out of moments of clarity—but not this. Not you. He hadn’t anticipated her remembering so clearly, especially when so much else had slipped through the cracks. The painful fog of her mind seemed to distort everything else, but not this. It cut through the haze and made this day feel heavier than the others. He had hoped, selfishly, that time had blurred those memories, softened them enough that she wouldn’t ask, that she wouldn’t bring it up. He didn’t want to face it, not now, not like this.

Because he didn’t want to tell his mother.

Didn’t want to tell her that he had let you slip away. That the space between you had grown too vast, too heavy to ignore. That no matter how much he missed you—God, how he missed you—it had been his choice. His decision. That he had shut himself off from the one person who had made him feel again, and now he didn’t know how to undo it.

He didn’t want his mother to see it, to know how much it hurt. She was already fragile, already carrying so much. What good would it do to make her worry about him, too?

His throat felt tight and dry.

“Mom, she’s not—” The words faltered, caught somewhere between truth and cowardice.

She’s not coming.

She’s not mine.

She never was.

But Diana’s mind was already drifting, slipping past his hesitation like water through cupped hands. She lifted a trembling hand, her fingers curling slightly, reaching for something unseen. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and reverent.

“I like her,” she murmured. “She’s good for you. She made tea for me the other day.”

The other day, just half an hour ago. But he didn’t dare correct her.

“She should come,” Diana continued, her words slowing, like she was savoring them. “I want to meet her. I want to see her. I want to see how she looks with you.”

Spencer felt his heart twist painfully in his chest.

His mother wanted to see how you looked with him.

As if you were his. As if nothing had broken the illusion of what you two once could be. As if the dreams he had clung to at night weren’t haunted by regret.

As if, in another life, in another version of himself, he had dared to try, to take your hand, to say the words he swallowed back every time you stood too close, every time your eyes softened just for him.

As if he had never hurt you.

And damn, how he wished that were true.

He wanted to tell his mother that it wasn’t as simple as she thought. That he wasn’t whole enough to be good for you. That he had made his choices, and this loneliness was something he had earned.

But he couldn’t.

So instead, he forced himself to breathe, to move past the crushing weight in his ribs.

“I’ll tell her,” he said softly, his voice barely audible.

One.

The lie settled on his tongue like lead.

It was small and fragile, but it was the only thing he could offer her. The truth was too cruel, too sharp-edged. It would do more harm than good.

Diana sighed, her eyelids growing heavier as she sank deeper into the pillows.

“I hope she’s here soon,” she murmured sleepily. “I miss having someone new around. The people here are boring. They don’t talk like her. They don’t bring me good tea.”

Spencer swallowed hard, watching her drift off. His mind swirled, too clouded with guilt and pain to find clarity. He wanted to apologize to her. He wanted to beg for forgiveness, to say how sorry he was, how much he wished he could turn back time. How much he wished he could stop lying to her and to you.

But the words never came.

Instead, he just sat there, watching his mother fade into sleep, helpless to undo the things he had done. He couldn’t change the past, couldn’t make it right. All he could do was wait and pray for something he didn’t know how to fix.

Like the genius he was, he should have known this was inevitable.

Spencer must have sensed, deep down, that all his carefully constructed plans to keep his distance were bound to unravel. It wasn’t a question of if, but when. No amount of logic, no amount of calculated restraint, could have changed the truth: he was never going to be able to keep you at arm’s length.

Three years now. Three years since the first time he saw you, standing in the hallway, struggling under the weight of moving boxes, your determination burning through the exhaustion that must have been settling deep in your bones. Three years since the day your cat had decided, without hesitation, that he belonged to him, weaving between his legs like a creature who had known him forever. But you? You were barely more than a passing blur in his periphery, a fleeting presence in that moment. And yet, somehow, some way, that moment had been the start of everything.

Three years since the first time you had smiled at him—really smiled—and caught him completely off guard. Since the first time your laughter had made something inside him stumble. Three years of small, stolen moments that shouldn’t have meant as much as they did, of soft conversations that chipped away at his walls before he even realized they were crumbling. Three years of standing too close but never quite touching, of understanding each other in ways that had nothing to do with words.

You two had always been honest with each other. Brutally so. It wasn’t about grand confessions or sweeping gestures, but about the quiet things, the ones most people never thought to share. Spencer told you about the way the starlings moved outside the jet window, their flight patterns shifting like liquid shadows against the sky. He told you how the new sugar you had bought threw off his usual coffee ratio, how the slight imbalance left a persistent irritation in the back of his mind all day. And you told him about the stranger in the grocery store who had baffled you with their nonsensical conversation, about the dream that clung to you like smoke, never quite clearing.

You told each other things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else but mattered because they were yours.

That was what made keeping a secret from you impossible.

Three months, four weeks, and two days. That’s how long he had carried the weight of it, letting the guilt press into his ribs, burrow under his skin. He had convinced himself that he could do it, that he could hold this piece of himself away from you, shielding you from something he couldn’t even shield himself from. But every time he tried to create distance, every time he held himself back, you knew.

And that was the worst part; you always knew.

You saw through him in ways no one else did. You could read the minute shifts in his voice, the way his breath caught in his throat when he was on the verge of saying something but swallowed it down instead. You could feel the hesitation in his touch when he pulled away before he ever had the chance to reach for you. He should have known you wouldn’t push, that you would let him come to you in his own time.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t waiting.

And then, in a blink, it all unraveled.

He didn’t even know what it was that broke him, whether it was the exhaustion, the guilt, or the unbearable weight of the space he had tried to put between you, but suddenly, the walls he had fought so hard to keep standing collapsed beneath the pressure of it all. He was tired. Tired of pretending he could bear it alone. Tired of pretending that keeping you at a distance was anything other than a losing battle.

And in your arms, he shattered. Completely.

You held him without hesitation, without fear, without resentment. No demand for an explanation, no pressure for him to speak before he was ready. Just warmth. Just presence. Just you. And that was enough.

When the elevator doors slid open on your floor, you stepped out first, as you always did, effortless, as if the very air around you had shifted to accommodate your presence. For a moment, you paused, your figure outlined by the soft glow of the hallway lights. You took a small breath, the kind that felt like it belonged solely to this moment, before turning back to him. In that fleeting second, your gaze met his, unreadable, layered with something that lingered beneath the surface, too subtle and too deep to fully understand. And then, as if some quiet understanding passed between you, a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of your lips, soft, intimate, and strangely familiar, like a secret that had always been shared between the two of you, even in silence.

“I buy a new coffee,” you said softly, your voice a steady thread in the quiet of the place. The words slipped through the silence, warm and inviting. “I think you might like it.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. He simply nodded, the weight of your words sinking deeper into him as he followed you down the hall. His mind was still racing, trying to catch up with the unraveling of everything he had kept inside. His breathing was uneven, each inhale a struggle to process what had just been said, what had just happened. His throat was tight, like if he even tried to speak, the words would crumble and fall apart before they could ever reach the surface.

And yet, you didn’t press. You didn’t ask or rush him. You just walked beside him, as you always had, so steady, patient, and present. It was as if nothing had changed, and yet, in some indescribable way, everything had.

When you reached his door, you unlocked it with a familiar motion, but before stepping inside, you glanced back at him, that same quiet smile still playing on your lips.

“I buy jello too,” you said, your tone light and casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But the words sank into him like a slow, steady pain, unraveling him all over again.

God.

Jello had been one of the few things that kept him sane in prison, the only thing that made those long, endless days feel the slightest bit normal. Every afternoon, when the guards slid his tray through the slot, his eyes would instinctively search for it. That small plastic container, that bright, artificial sweetness that reminded him there was still something predictable in a world that had taken everything else away. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

And now, standing in this dimly lit hallway, you had just offered it to me so simply, so effortlessly after he broke down crying in your arms because you knew it would make him feel better.

You didn’t eat jello. He knew that. He had known it from the very first time you had wrinkled your nose at the idea, passing it over without a second glance. And yet, you still bought it. Every time you went to the store, it ended up in your cart, tucked between the things you actually did like. A quiet, unspoken gesture. A habit formed not out of necessity, but out of something deeper, something neither of you had ever needed to say out loud. Just like how he always made sure to have your favorite tea stocked in his cupboard, even though he never drank it himself. Even though he barely thought about it until he saw the box sitting there, waiting for you, like a quiet promise he never had to voice.

That was what you did for each other.

And maybe that was why his breath hitched, why his throat tightened, why his fingers curled slightly at his sides as if he could physically hold himself together. Because this wasn’t grand or dramatic, it wasn’t some sweeping declaration. It was simple. Thoughtless. Ordinary. Just jello.

But oh God, it was your jello. And anything that had you included was automatically the most special in his world.

Before he could find the words, before he could even begin to process the weight of it all, a sudden blast of music erupted from somewhere above, the sharp clatter of electric guitar cutting through the quiet like a sudden explosion. The pounding rhythm of the drums followed, shaking the ceiling just slightly, a chaotic contrast to the moment he had been drowning in only seconds before.

Instinct kicked in before logic had the chance to catch up.

He tensed, his body moving on its own as he instinctively stepped closer to you, angling himself between you and the unseen source of the noise—ready to shield, to take a hit, to react to a threat that wasn’t even there.

He realized it a second too late.

But you didn’t say anything. Didn’t acknowledge his automatic reaction, didn’t call attention to the way his body had gone rigid, the way his breath had caught in his throat. Instead, you just sighed, shaking your head with quiet amusement as if this was all so normal.

“That’s the niece of our neighbor,” you explained easily, your voice grounding him in a way he hadn’t even known he needed. “He loves rock music.”

Spencer let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to shake the lingering tension from his body. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You glanced toward the staircase at the end of the hall, tilting your head slightly as if you could see the scene unfolding upstairs. “Don’t get too attached, though. It’ll be gone in a minute.”

Right on cue, the music cut off abruptly, replaced by the muffled sound of a door opening and a voice too distant to make out, but unmistakably scolding.

A second later, you grinned. “His uncle always shuts it down in the best part of the song.”

This time, Spencer’s laughter came without hesitation, rolling from his chest in a way that felt natural, effortless. It wasn’t the strained, tight laugh that he’d forced out in uncomfortable moments before. This was real, soft, and unburdened, a ripple of relief that escaped him without effort. He hadn’t even realized how badly he needed to laugh, to truly laugh, until it happened. The tension in his shoulders loosened, and for the first time in what felt like a long time, something inside him relaxed. It was the sound of something heavy lifting, an unspoken weight easing off of him because of you.

You shifted, and the air between you changed again, this time with a quiet, concerned tone in your voice. “It’s cold,” you said, glancing up at the door behind you, the hallway a little dimmer, the night pressing in on all sides. “You should go inside.”

Without you?

He hesitated for a moment, looking at you, the weight of everything still swirling inside him, pulling at the edges of his thoughts. “Can you…can you go with me?” he asked, the words coming out softer than he’d intended, as if they were a plea he hadn’t known he needed to make.

It was a question that carried more than just the invitation to walk through his door. It was an invitation for you to stay, to be there, to share in the quiet, in the simplicity again.

He needed that. He needed you.

But you hesitated anyway. Just for a moment, but it was enough for Spencer to feel the weight of it. And for a split second, he wondered if he had crossed a line, if his request was too much. You had been a constant in his life since the start, but this…this felt different because this wasn’t the start, this wasn’t the past, and now that you were far away, even if you were just a few feet away from him.

You glanced away briefly, and the small, fleeting flicker of doubt in your eyes was quickly replaced by something unreadable. You licked your lips, the soft sound barely noticeable, and then took a small step back, your hand resting lightly on your doorknob.

He held his breath, waiting for the rejection, the inevitable pull back to reality where things could never be back to simple between the two of you.

But then, slowly, you turned your gaze back to him, and he saw the hesitation there, the conflict, even if you didn’t voice it. Your lips parted, but you didn’t speak at first. Instead, you studied him, your gaze soft and calculating, as if weighing the possibility of crossing a line neither of you had ever dared to approach. Even though you’d been to his house countless times, lying in his bed, moving around in your socks as if it were your own, something about this moment felt different.

“I don’t know if I should,” you finally said, your voice small, unsure. “You…You’ve been through a lot tonight. Maybe it’s better if you just have some time to yourself, you know? To breathe. To think.” Maybe it's better if I give you space so that tomorrow morning you don't want to push me away again.

Spencer could feel the sting of your words, but it wasn’t rejection. It was caution. You were worried about him and about yourself. He wanted to reach out, to tell you that he didn’t need space, that he needed you more than anything, but instead, he just nodded slowly, his heart sinking a little with the weight of your words.

“I get it,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “I just…I don’t want to be alone right now.” The truth slipped out before he could stop it, and even as he said it, he realized how vulnerable it made him feel. Like he was unraveling again, exposing himself in ways he hadn’t prepared for.

Ouch.

You looked at him, your eyes softening, a delicate understanding in them. His words hung between you, raw and vulnerable, and for a moment, everything felt suspended in time. He didn’t want to be alone. And there, in the quiet of that admission, something shifted, it touched you. The hesitation in your expression melted into something gentler, more certain.

With a small sigh, you stepped forward, closing the door of your place with a soft click. “Alright,” you said, your voice low. “I can stay a moment.”

The relief that washed over him was almost overwhelming. It was like the air had cleared, like the heavy, uncertain tension between you had finally been lifted. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding his breath until now, when you’d said yes.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick with gratitude.

You didn’t say anything in return at first. Instead, you simply walked beside him as he led the way down the hallway, your footsteps echoing softly in the quiet.

When you reached his door, he hesitated for a moment, his hand on the knob. It felt like one more decision, one more choice to make. But when he turned the handle and stepped inside, he felt your presence beside him, a steady reassurance that everything was somehow okay, that this fragile moment between you wasn’t going to break, that everything could be a little better again.

The apartment was quiet, bathed in the soft light of the lamps casting long shadows on the walls. He moved toward the thermostat, fingers hovering over the controls as he turned the heater up. The hum of the system started, and the air slowly began to warm around you, but it wasn’t enough just yet. And in solution, you moved to draping a thick, soft blanket over the couch.

Without a word, you sat down, and he did the same, your body curving into the corner as you pulled the blanket around both of you, like a protection. It was quiet, the warmth of the room slowly filling the space, but now, with the soft, cozy fabric surrounding you both. This wasn’t the first time you two shared a blanket, but somehow, it feels so different. There was something new in the way you adjusted the blanket, your hands smoothing it over his legs, over your own, and in the way his heart reacted to that.

“You didn’t have to…” Spencer started, his voice quieter now, the words hesitant. He didn’t know how to explain what he was feeling, or if it even made sense. But you didn’t need him to finish.

“It’s nothing,” you said, the words light, but carrying with them an unspoken understanding.

Maybe to you, this was nothing. But to him, this was everything.

The warmth of the blanket wrapped around you both, the heater slowly humming in the background as the cold of the hallway faded into nothing. It was quiet now, comfortable in its stillness, and yet…there was something else in the air, something fragile, like the breath you both were holding, unsure how to bridge this space between comfort and vulnerability.

You shifted slightly, drawing the blanket closer, a subtle move to find some warmth. Spencer’s hand, resting by his side, brushed against yours again, and in that fleeting touch, you both seemed to share the same unspoken thought.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the heater and the subtle rustle of the blanket as you both made yourselves comfortable. You sat just a little closer now, the air between you less strained, more familiar. And, as if sensing that shift, he took a slow, deep breath, releasing the tension that had coiled itself so tightly around him.

“You don’t have to stay,” he murmured, the words slipping out more gently now, as though they didn’t carry the same weight of need they had earlier. “You could just…go home, if you want.”

Two.

But the words didn’t feel like an invitation to leave. They felt like a question—Are you still okay with this?

You shifted again, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you, your eyes drifting down to where it covered you both. There was something in the way his words didn’t quite reach his eyes, a wariness that had lingered in the way he held himself.

“I can stay a bit.” You said quietly, feeling cold.

As you adjusted the blanket around your shoulders, you felt a slight movement in the fabric next to him. Spencer moved, turning slightly to copy you, just enough so that his side was facing you. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but the movement caught your attention and made you pay attention. The blanket had shifted around him, and when you moved enough, you saw it: a thin, faint scar across his lower abdomen, a line of pale skin against the heat of his body that still looked reddened.

It was a silent thing, easy to miss if you didn't look closely, but once you saw it, you couldn't ignore it. The scar was irregular, almost as if it had been carved, and for a moment you forgot to breathe. It was a deep, painful-looking mark, the kind that spoke of more than accidents or misfortune, the kind that had a deliberate intent to do as much damage as possible. You shuddered to think that there was a story behind it, a moment in his recent past that you didn't know about.

Your hand froze in the blanket, and your eyes roamed over the visible part of the scar without wanting to. You didn't want to make it obvious, you didn't want to pry, but the instinct was there. What had happened to him to have such a mark on his skin? Who had been able to hurt him?

Spencer shifted again, his hand unconsciously clenching the blanket and pulling down his shirt, as if he could feel your gaze and wanted to avoid it as much as possible. The change in his posture was immediate: cautious, cautious, but you didn't intend for him to feel exposed. It was an instinct, just a fleeting glance, but you couldn't pretend that it hadn't awakened something inside you and that your doubts hadn't increased.

You turned your attention back to the blanket, pretending to concentrate on adjusting the fabric around the two of you, giving him space, a chance to recover and decipher the moment in his mind. But you couldn't forget the scar. It wasn’t the first time you had seen the evidence of his dangerous world: the bruises, the small cuts, and the scrapes that came with the territory of his work. You’d grown accustomed to them over time, an unspoken part of the routine. But this…this was different. It was the first time that this paralyzing fear of what he had been through appeared.

Finally, after a moment of silence that seemed to stretch longer than it should, he broke the quiet with a soft sigh, one that trembled just slightly. “I didn’t mean for you to see it…” He trailed off, clearly aware of the shift in the air between you two.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “It…it happened when you were away?” You asked softly, the words careful, measured.

Spencer hesitated, but then he nodded. A single, small movement, but it felt heavier than it should have.

Your heart cracked at the confirmation.

“Someone hurt you,” you whispered, barely able to say the words.

More than someone.

More than one time.

More than a scar.

He exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching against the fabric covering his lap. “I’m okay,” he said, the words automatic, rehearsed. As if he had told himself the same thing so many times it had become muscle memory.

Three.

“It’s old,” he added, trying to brush it off, to pull the conversation away from the depth of it.

Four.

But you shook your head, your fingers tightening around the blanket. “But someone hurt you.” Your voice wavered, the realization settling deeper, making your stomach twist. “And I—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, sharper now, but there was no anger in it. Just exhaustion. Just the kind of weariness that came with carrying something too heavy for too long.

Five.

The words were sharp and final, but they only made the ache in your chest worse.

“It matters to me, Spencer.”

That made him pause.

For the first time since you’d noticed the scar, he truly looked at you. His brows drew together slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes. You could see the way his walls were still up, how he was balancing on that edge between wanting to push you away and not having the energy to fight you on this, to tell you the whole truth.

You took a breath, your voice quieter now, but no less firm. “I spent all this time thinking you were just… fuck, I thought you were away because you wanted to be. That you didn’t call me in three months because you didn’t want to. That you were busy with your conferences, too caught up in whatever was keeping you occupied.” You let out a shaky breath. “I never thought for a second that you were—that someone was hurting you this bad.”

For a long moment, Spencer didn’t say anything. His eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place, a flash of emotion that he quickly shuttered behind a wall of indifference. He looked away, his jaw clenching as if he was bracing himself for something. Bracing himself for your disappointment, for your pity, or whatever it was he thought you might feel. He didn’t want to let you in any more than he already had, didn’t want to reveal the broken pieces of himself he’d hidden so carefully.

But you wouldn’t turn away. You couldn’t.

“It’s not your fault,” he murmured, his voice softer this time, almost apologetic, though it was clear he wasn’t apologizing for what had happened. It wasn’t the kind of apology you had hoped for, the kind that acknowledged the depth of the hurt. No, this was the kind of apology he gave when he was trying to make himself smaller, trying to protect you from the mess of his life. “You know how…how my work is.”

“You told me it was a simple conference,” you said, your voice shaking slightly, the emotion choking you. “I never thought it was dangerous.” You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat growing, making each word feel heavier than the last. “If I had known—”

You stopped yourself, the weight of the words heavy on your tongue. Spencer looked at you then, his gaze searching, as if he was expecting you to finish, to say what you couldn’t bring yourself to say out loud. But you couldn’t. Not just yet. Not with the fear of how it would sound.

“If I would’ve known,” you began again, your voice barely above a whisper, the words almost breaking as you spoke them, “I would’ve never let you go that morning.”

The admission hung between you, thick and heavy. The idea that if you’d known, you would have stopped him from leaving. That you would have made sure he was safe. But it didn’t matter now, did it? The damage was already done, and all you had left were these words, these feelings that couldn’t undo the hurt he’d endured.

He shook his head slowly, the movement almost imperceptible, as though the weight of your words was something he wasn’t ready to accept. “You wouldn’t have stopped me,” he said softly, almost as if trying to convince himself. He reached out instinctively, his hand hovering close to your cheek, as though he needed to connect with you, to reassure himself you were still there, still with him.

“I would try,” you said, your voice small but determined.

“No,” he said, his voice a little firmer, though there was a flicker of pain in his eyes.

You frowned, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten. “Then I would’ve done something different,” you said quickly, the words rushing out of you in an attempt to fill the silence. “I would’ve hugged you more. I would’ve kissed you—”

You trailed off, the words surprising even you as they left your lips. You hadn’t meant to say it, but now that you had, you could feel the sudden weight of vulnerability pressing down on you. You avoided his gaze, suddenly embarrassed, your eyes flickering to the clock on the wall as if it could somehow distract you from the sudden shift in the air between you.

“I—” Spencer began, his voice faltering, surprised by your words. “You what?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, cutting him off. You stood up, the movement feeling abrupt, as if the sudden need to distance yourself was the only thing you could think to do. The warmth of the blanket that had wrapped around both of you now felt like an echo, leaving the couch cold and empty as you stepped away from it.

Six.

“I should go home,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s almost Mittens’ dinner time.”

As you turned to leave, you felt the sudden emptiness of the space between you, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air. The thought of leaving felt too final, too much like running away from everything you had just shared. But the words were already out, and you didn’t know how to take them back.

“Wait,” Spencer called out, his voice soft, yet desperate, as if he was trying to hold onto something that was slipping away.

You paused, feeling his hand close around your wrist, gently pulling you back. The contact was warm and grounding, but it only made your heart beat faster. His fingers wrapped around you with a kind of quiet urgency, a need to keep you close.

You turned to face him, and in that moment, the silence between you both felt more intimate than anything you’d shared before. He looked at you, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite read. The air between you felt charged, like everything you hadn’t said was suspended, just waiting to break free.

“What?”

“I should’ve done this that morning,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, almost as if saying it out loud made the feeling more real, more vulnerable.

His gaze flickered down to your lips, a fleeting second that felt like an eternity, then returned to your eyes, searching, unsure. His thumb brushed the edge of your cheek—soft, almost tentative—as though he was uncertain of your response, like he was afraid to cross a line, even though the air between you both was thick with the unspoken tension. You could feel the warmth of his touch radiating through you, gentle but hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right to be this close, to share this kind of intimacy with you. His breath hitched slightly in the charged silence, and in that moment, everything else seemed to fall away.

You held your breath, caught in the delicate web of uncertainty, wondering if this moment would slip away like all the others before. But instead of retreating, he closed the distance slowly, cautiously, like he was waiting for you to stop him, to tell him you didn’t want this. The uncertainty between you both was thick, suffocating, and yet neither of you moved.

And then, his lips brushed yours.

It was so soft, barely a touch, like he was testing the waters, unsure of what he would find there. The kiss was fleeting, almost apologetic, as if he was waiting for a signal from you, a sign that it was okay to continue. His hand remained on your cheek, trembling just slightly, and you could feel it—his hesitation, his fear of what this could mean, his fear of falling too fast. But despite the uncertainty, there was something undeniably tender in the way he kissed you. So tender, it made your heart ache, and you realized he was touching you as if you were made of glass, as if he was terrified of breaking you.

Some part of him wants to protect his heart from falling to the floor because he was finally brave enough to kiss you. You, the girl next door, his girl next door.

You stood there, frozen for a heartbeat, as his lips lingered, unsure, almost apologetic, on yours. The hesitation in his touch stirred something inside you, something deep, something aching. But then, it was as if everything inside you shifted. The restraint you had been holding on to snapped, the weight of everything unspoken suddenly lifting.

You kissed him back.

At first, it was a small, hesitant movement, a soft press of your lips against his, but it was enough. It ignited something in both of you, an uncontrollable surge of need, of longing that had been building in the silence between you for far too long. His hand slid up your cheek, cupping the back of your head, pulling you closer, his fingers threading through your hair, desperately trying to keep you from pulling away.

You let go, abandoning all caution, all restraint.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer with a force that surprised even you, and suddenly, everything was frantic, wild—your lips crashing against his, the kiss deepening, deepening with each passing second. His hands roamed down your back, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the hard press of his chest against yours, the heat of him seeping into every part of you. The world outside of this moment faded, as if it no longer existed. There was only him, only the press of his lips, the insistent pressure of his body against yours. The heat between you both was intoxicating, endless, and you couldn’t get enough. You moved against him, desperate to feel more, to lose yourself in him.

His breath came faster, more ragged, his chest rising and falling beneath yours as if he couldn’t get enough air, as if this kiss was the only thing keeping him grounded. You could feel the tremors in his hands as they moved across your skin, as if he were trying to memorize the feel of you. His pulse thrummed under your fingertips, and you matched the frantic rhythm of his heart with your own, a frantic, insistent thrum in your veins. There was no more hesitation, no more restraint, only the raw intensity of wanting, of needing, of surrender.

Suddenly, his lips left yours, trailing slowly across your cheek, the lightest of touches, but enough to send shivers down your spine. His breath was hot against your skin, and you could feel the heat of his lips moving along the line of your jaw, sending your heart into overdrive. His hand tangled in your hair, fixing it, holding you in place, but it felt so natural, like he had always known how to touch you, how to hold you. You could feel the weight of his touch, and in that moment, you realized how easily he had fit into your life, into your heart.

For a moment, time seemed to stop, the world outside fading away completely. The only thing that existed was the press of his lips against your skin, the soft caress of his hands, the heady rush of his touch. In that instant, everything you had ever wanted, everything you had ever needed, was right there, with him. It felt like a homecoming, like you had been waiting for this moment your entire life, like you were finally where you belonged.

But amidst the rising intensity, as his lips returned to yours, there came an unexpected sound—a soft, insistent meow, breaking through the silence between you.

You broke the contact for a split second, a brief breathless pause, but Spencer didn’t pull away. His lips lingered on yours, just a breath away, as if begging for permission to continue. You hesitated, staring into his eyes, the heat between you both undeniable. You could still hear the soft meows, now more insistent and louder.

“Do you hear that?” You asked, your voice strained, trying to focus on anything other than the maddening desire coursing through you.

Spencer’s lips curled into a half-smile, his breath still shallow. “Mittens.” He didn’t move away, his hand gently cupping your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “She’s just…really patient, huh?”

You laughed softly, but it was a nervous sound, almost guilty, as your body swayed closer to his again. “She’s always patient until it’s dinner time,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his as you leaned in again, just wanting to feel him.

You kissed him again, deeper this time, as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you. Your hands found their way to his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you tugged him closer. He responded in kind, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you toward him like he couldn’t bear the space between you.

But then, the persistent meows pierced the air again, louder this time, more demanding. The moment wavered as the sound broke through, sharp and unavoidable. You groaned in frustration, pulling away just slightly, your forehead resting against his.

“She really won’t stop, will she?” You sighed, the tension hanging heavy in the air.

Spencer chuckled softly, brushing a lock of hair from your face, a playful glint in his eyes. “Nope, not unless she gets what she wants.”

You both lingered there, caught between laughter and longing, the pull of each other still so strong, but the loud insistence of your cat’s demands impossible to ignore. Spencer’s teasing smile remained, but it was softened by the heat of the moment, and he leaned in closer once more, brushing a kiss to your forehead, a light, affectionate touch that made your heart flutter.

“How about I take care of her?” he offered, his voice low and warm, still thick with desire. “You stay right here.”

For a brief moment, you considered protesting, but the look in his eyes, the way he was still so close, still so present, made it impossible to resist.

“Please,” you said with a mock pout. “I’ll just…I’ll wait right here.”

Spencer smirked, his hand lingering on the small of your back as he finally stepped away, his touch lingering just a moment longer. “Don't go, we still have a lot to talk about,” he murmured, pressing a final kiss to your forehead before he reluctantly turned toward the door.

When he stepped out of the room to take care of your cat, you leaned back against the couch, your heart still racing, the lingering warmth of his touch keeping you grounded in the moment. The soft hum of the apartment around you was the only sound, the quiet intimacy of the space suddenly feeling more alive than ever before. Everything felt like a fever dream.

A giddy smile threatened to stretch across your face, and you bit your lip, trying to contain it before your cheeks started to ache. You leaned back against the couch, fingers brushing absentmindedly over the fabric as you tried to ground yourself, to catch up with the whirlwind of emotions surging through you.

Your gaze wandered across the room, landing on a familiar sight, his old glasses, the ones you always sighed over whenever he wore them. They sat on the coffee table beside the couch, slightly askew, as if he had taken them off in a rush. Without hesitation, you leaned forward, intending to pick them up and insist that he put them on, maybe tease him about how they made him look like the professor he always denied being. A small, playful joke, something to bring you both back down to earth after the intensity of the moment you had just shared.

But as you reached for them, your fingers brushed against the corner of a magazine underneath, disturbing a small pile of papers tucked inside. They looked carelessly placed, slightly crumpled, as if they had been hastily shoved there, meant to be dealt with later.

You hesitated.

Spencer was meticulous, he never left things out of order, especially not papers. Maybe he had just been distracted. Maybe they were notes for work, something he had meant to file away. The rational part of you told you to leave them alone, to respect his privacy. But something about the way they were shoved under the magazine, almost hidden, made your stomach twist with unease.

Still, your instinct to tidy up overrode your hesitation. You lifted the top sheet, intending only to smooth them out, maybe stack them neatly so they wouldn’t get damaged. But the second your eyes flicked over the bolded title at the top of the page, your breath caught in your throat.

Therapy Program for Ex-Convicts.

Your fingers stilled.

A strange, creeping sensation crawled up your spine as you skimmed the first few lines, your pulse suddenly too loud in your ears. Your brain tried to rationalize. Spencer was a genius, after all. Maybe he was consulting on something, researching for a case, or assisting with a rehabilitation program. That had to be it. Didn’t it?

Frowning, you flipped through the pages, your eyes darting over the text, searching for something—anything—that would explain why he had these documents. The words blurred together in your frantic state, but certain phrases leapt out at you, lodging themselves in your mind like thorns.

Emotional reintegration into society.

Post-incarceration trauma.

Hypervigilance, social withdrawal, dissociative tendencies.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as you read on. The descriptions felt disturbingly familiar, too familiar. The nightmares. The way he sometimes seemed distant, detached, lost in a world you couldn’t reach. The way he flinched at unexpected touches or sounds, how he sometimes went quiet mid-conversation, as if a thought had gripped him so tightly he couldn’t escape it.

And then, at the bottom of the page, you saw it.

Spencer Reid.

Your breath hitched. The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. Your hands trembled as you scanned the document again, desperately looking for context, for an explanation that didn’t exist. Notes were scribbled in the margins, about his sessions, about his struggles. About him.

Spencer…your Spencer, an ex-convict?

The words didn’t make sense. They didn’t belong in the same sentence. They felt wrong, impossible, like you had stumbled into someone else’s story. But the more you read, the more the pieces started to fit together in a way that made your stomach churn.

He had been in prison.

Not for a case. Not for a mission. Not for anything that could be easily explained away.

For himself.

Seven.

The weight of it crashed down on you, cold and suffocating. How? When? Why hadn’t he told you? How had you not noticed?

Your mind reeled, flipping back through every interaction, every hesitation in his voice, every unanswered question you had brushed aside. The distance, the way he sometimes looked at you like he was waiting for something to break, had it been this all along? Had he been carrying this secret all along since he came back?

Your grip on the papers tightened as a deep, unfamiliar ache bloomed in your chest.

He hadn’t told you.

He had lied to you.

Your thoughts were cut off by the sound of Mittens’ soft meow. The sudden noise startled you, and you dropped the papers back onto the table, as if you had just been caught red-handed. Panic swelled in your chest, but you didn’t have time to compose yourself before you heard his footsteps approaching. You quickly glanced down at the table, pretending to be focused on anything but the storm of emotions tearing through you.

Spencer walked into the room, his arms holding your cat, looking for all the world like the same man you had just kissed. But something about him was different now, his eyes no longer held that same warmth, that same comfort. They were guarded, clouded with something you couldn’t quite place, something darker that now seemed to hang over him like a shadow.

He set Mittens down carefully, his movements precise, practiced, like he was forcing himself to act normal.

“She’s had her dinner,” he said casually, his voice light, easy. Too easy. He took a step closer, stopping just short of the couch, but you saw it, the way his eyes flickered, the way his entire body tensed the moment he saw the papers on the table.

His breath hitched, barely noticeable, but you felt it. His lips parted slightly, and for the briefest second, there was something raw in his expression: guilt.

“Now she’s happy.”

But you weren’t.

And there were seven lies in total.

Extra note: Don't hate me, this chapter is divided into two parts so as not to make it one extremely long chapter and not allow you to digest the emotions <3 the next one will be published soon, I promise, and I send you a hug because this was very strong.

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @burningwitchprincess @withloverosse @fairiesofearth @pleasantwitchgarden @ximensitaa @lover-of-books-and-tea @cherryblossomfairyy @cherrygublersworld @i-need-to-be-put-down @dibidee

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

[certaimromance]

tysm for the tag @cowboylikemily 🩷

this is literally me (almost)

i'm always embarrassed or don't know who to tag, but do this if you want! <3

how pinterest sees you 💌

on pinterest search the following topics and post the first pin that will show up in each category

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tysm for the tag: @jjsblueberry 💓

tags: @catchmeonyourceiling @lovethornes @daystarpoet @beaucereza @chxrrybxmbi @dolcecuore @sororygilmore @auntiejohn @binibby @bvrnesher @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat @certaimromance @effortlesslysweet @aezuria @mothswan @lydiasfalling @amrplastique @xoxorory @xoxoivy13

[certaimromance]

anyone remember this? well, i have a draft with the same messy!reader because she is so me🥳

𝜗𝜚 Cherry Picking.

Spencer Reid x Messy!reader

Summary: After your first night with Spencer, you wake up and see that he's left you two dollars and a thank-you note on your bedside table.

Words: 2,3k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. bau!reader. lots of mentions and references to sex, but nothing completely explicit. the reader is quite dramatic and has little faith in men (literally me, sorry). SO MUCH chaos and lack of communication but happy ending. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This idea just came to me out of the blue, and I have to say that Sex and the City has had a bit of an influence. I love the chaos, the conversations between friends, and Spencer being the best man in the world (I'm picturing him kind of like in his season four version).

Saturday afternoon

“Two dollars?!”

Penelope's and JJ's simultaneous exclamations and surprised faces when you finished speaking were pretty much to be expected. They noticed a change in your expression and took a moment to compose themselves, as did the rest of the people in the room, who glanced curiously at your table from time to time. It was certainly a fascinating sight, three women having an animated conversation about their lives over milkshakes as if they were drinks, especially considering that one of them was pregnant and her belly looked like it was about to explode.

You didn't blame anyone for reacting that way, especially not your friends. You were still pretty shocked by what happened, especially by how thoughtless the man you'd developed feelings for and worked closely with over the past few years was. It was a unsettling to find a tip on your nightstand after one of the most memorable nights you'd ever had. You still remembered the excitement you felt when you went to Spencer's apartment yesterday to watch a movie as part of your fourth or fifth date. He seemed nervous when you started kissing more intensely, and the couch wasn't the best setting. The sensation of your body on his bed and his lips on your skin was incredible.

It was a good memory, extremely good if you took away the embarrassment of waking up the next day in his empty bed with money waiting for you, as if you had performed a service.

“Maybe there was a misunderstanding and the money was left on the table by mistake.” Jennifer spoke again in a reassuring tone after turning the matter over. “Spencer can be a little clumsy sometimes.”

You pressed your lips together in a thin line as you listened to her attempt to provide an explanation for his actions. But given their friendship, this was to be expected.

“And he was in a hurry to catch his plane and go to his mother.” Garcia added with a forced smile, trying to lift your spirits. “It all makes sense.”

Yes, it was understandable that he was leaving in a hurry because he had to catch a flight to spend his weekend off with his mother. That didn't worry you, but there was something else that was curious.

“How do you explain the thank-you note?” You asked, taking out the paper and the two dollars you'd pulled out to show them as proof from your purse.

“It was a thank you for hanging out with him, a sweet gesture.” JJ said, taking a sip of her milkshake and patting her belly.

It seemed more like a sour gesture to you, that you had been left with your dignity on the floor. As you left his apartment, you didn't know whether to cry or laugh because it sounded like a bad joke that the only man you thought was decent and for whom you allowed yourself to have feelings would do such a thing.

“My love life is going downhill.” You said.

Just then, the restaurant door opens and Emily appears. After greeting her and apologizing for her late arrival, she asks about the cause of your apparent distress. As a profiler, she was astute enough to know something was wrong just by looking at you.

“What's wrong, honey?” She started talking as soon as she sat down next to you and took a quick look at the table. “Those milkshakes look good, I want one.”

“Spencer thinks I'm a prostitute.” You spoke up without thinking, which surprised Emily and caused her to briefly lose her grip on the menu.

There was a long, awkward silence.

Perhaps you were too direct in saying something that you had been trying to ignore for your own mental health.

“Just a heads-up, we've got a baby in the room. No need to say that word!” Penelope was the first to speak, gently covering JJ's belly with her hands. “He can hear you.”

At that moment, Reid and his comments about pregnancy data at every stage came to mind. You felt a little uncomfortable because you knew it was a little unrealistic to focus on the positives at a time like this.

“Oh, I'm so sorry, baby.” You looked regretfully at your friends and spoke to Jennifer's belly, giving it a gentle caress. “Don't listen.”

“I need context, please.” Emily said confusedly, trying to understand what was going on and why you had said what you had said.

You let out a deep breath, preparing yourself to recount the story once more.

“Okay, Spencer and I made...milkshakes. Very good milkshakes, really good if you know what I mean.” You tried to explain slowly, watching your words and your friends' expressions. “I woke up when he was leaving, he gave me a kiss on my forehead and said to keep sleeping, that he had to catch his flight.”

“That's sweet, but weird to know.” Emily commented quizzically, looking at the menu intently again. “What's the part...you know?”

“Oh, when he thought I was-” You stop yourself as you see how JJ looks at you. “A pie maker.”

You could tell from their expressions that they were about to laugh at your attempts to keep the conversation friendly.

“I woke up hours later to find two dollars on the nightstand with a thank-you note.” You finished the story. “To him, I'm worth two fu...sugary dollars.”

Prentiss stared at you for several seconds, waiting for me to tell her it was a joke. Only when that didn't happen did she speak. “That sounds weird and awful, but I don't think he would do something like that on purpose. Especially you, he really likes you.”

“He likes me enough to give me two dollars.”

When you finished speaking, you experienced a moment of discomfort in your stomach as your own words took effect. You were surprised to find that on a deeper level, what had happened was causing you more pain than you had anticipated.

“That doesn't sound like Reid at all. I've known him for years, and he's not that kind of man.” Penelope said with a frown, trying to reassure you. “I'm sure it's a mix-up.”

You were looking for the same thing and hoping it was just a misunderstanding, but your previous bad experiences made you think otherwise. You'd met enough men to know that they could always be worse. What was different now was that you really liked this particular man. You really longed for him to be different from everyone else.

However, things weren't always as you'd hoped. You'd invested a lot of hope in making your fairy tale come true, and it was starting to take its toll.

“Have you had a chance to speak with him?” JJ inquired.

“He's with his mother, I won't bother him.” You replied with a strange simplicity that made your friends suspicious. “I'm fine, I've calmed down.” You added as you saw their worried faces.

“I love you, but sometimes you scare me.” Emily said, watching you drink from your smoothie as if it contained a painkiller. “It's not okay to pretend that everything's fine.”

“It's understandable to feel a bit discouraged about this. Things may seem challenging at the moment, but I believe things will improve when you discuss this with him.” Jennifer's hand gently touched yours, offering a comforting gesture.

“I'm sure everything will be fine. You have our support if you need it.” Penelope joined in with the motivational words and gave you a reassuring smile.

You took the last sip of your milkshake and leaned back in your seat for a moment before replying. “I'm fine, girls. I don't plan to lose my head over a man, I promised myself.”

They looked at you with some skepticism, but you didn't flinch. You were confident that if you were mentally prepared not to be defeated, or at least not to look defeated, you would be well prepared for the day of the meeting.

You weren't going to lose your mind over this.

Monday morning

You were definitely losing your mind, and no cup of tea or internet video that promised to do so had been able to relax you one bit. You had been cooped up in the office you shared with Penelope for several minutes, pacing in your chair while everyone in the conference room waited for information about a new case and your presence. The mere thought of having to face Reid again was making you feel pretty uneasy.

All weekend, you had been trying to reassure yourself that you were doing well, that you were not hurt or affected by what happened, that it was just one more disappointment to add to the long list you had written since you were a teenager, and that it was normal for someone with your luck. You were not a princess, you were not going to meet a prince, and you were old enough to know that.

But being in the same building as your prince turned toad was not as easy as you had hoped. You prayed that your presence would not be necessary and that the jet would soon take off to take them all away, especially him.

A few sudden knocks on the door startled you. You automatically thought it was your boss coming to scold you for being late, and your blood froze.

“I apologize for the delay, Hotch. I assure...” You spoke promptly as soon as the door opened and a male figure appeared.

But obviously, it wasn't him.

“Oh, sorry, I'm not Hotch. But hey, how are you?” Spencer smiled at you and walked toward you, looking a little nervous.

“Fine.” You replied dryly, getting up from your seat to grab your tablet and some folders to carry into the conference room.

In your mind, you had planned to make a scene as soon as you saw him and make it clear that you didn't cost just two dollars. But after thinking about it a lot, the fear of losing your job over it was greater. And now it was a mixture of that reasoning with your feeling of paralysis at actually having him in front of you.

“I...I missed you over the weekend.” He stopped you before you could walk away, gently holding your hand. The feeling alone made you stop and look at him angrily. “I thought about you a lot, too much, and I bought you something.” He let go of your hand to pull a small box out of his pocket.

“How dare you?” You blurt out, taking a step back.

He looked a little uncomfortable and seemed to be in pain. “I'm sorry if I overstepped. I didn't mean to impose. Did I cross a line? I'm sorry, I just thought—”

“What? That you could embarrass me even more? Didn't I already go through enough?”

That's when you took out two dollars from your purse and gave it to him.

“Could I ask why this is?” Spencer was still frowning and looked just as hurt as you.

His apparent lack of understanding of the situation made you much angrier. You had thought he was probably the smartest man you had ever met in your entire life, but suddenly, in your eyes, he was an idiot.

“I'm refunding your payment, Reid.” You replied firmly, without hiding your frustration.

The confusion on his face seemed to multiply as he tried to understand. “What are you talking about? I gave you your money back.”

You tilted your head slightly to one side.

“Saturday morning, I left on the nightstand the two dollars you lent me a week ago when we bought coffee. You know I don't like being in debt.” Spencer began to explain calmly, taking a moment to gather his thoughts and present the facts in a clear and concise manner.

Oh, you do remember lending him money at some point, or rather, inviting him for coffee that he said he'd pay you back. That day when his hair was perfect in the wind, when he smiled at you and told you some interesting facts about coffee beans.

“I mentioned it when I said goodbye, but you looked so tired that I left you a thank you note in case you forgot.” He went on to explain. “A lot of studies say that you wake up to full strength at least 20 to 30 minutes after you actually open your eyes. And you still had them closed when I said goodbye.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I...I thought you—” You fell silent as you saw the stunned look on his face. You didn't want to look crazy, so you quickly added. “I just thought wrong.”

“I'm sorry, I don't understand.” He said, a little embarrassed. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh, no, I just...did you bring me a gift?” You changed the subject, taking the box he had previously offered you. Inside was a necklace with a cherry blossom charm.

“Your computer wallpaper is a picture of cherry blossoms. And I saw this necklace in a store when I was walking with my mom, and I thought you might like it. But it's okay if you don't want it—” He spoke fast until you interrupted him.

“I love it, thank you.” You smiled at him and took the necklace out of the box. “Could you help me with this?”

With some trepidation and uncertainty still present, Spencer positioned himself behind you with the jewel in his hands, carefully brushed your hair aside and fastened the necklace around your neck. The sensation of his fingers brushing against your skin made you feel a slight shiver.

“Thanks.” You said as you turned around to face him. You gave him a hug, though you were a little unsure.

He returned your embrace, feeling a sense of relief that things between you were okay. “You don't have to thank me.”

“It's not about the gift. It's just a way to say thanks for being you.”

Perhaps he was your prince after all.

[certaimromance]

hi again! i have not forgotten you and hope to be posting something soon <3 (I PROMISE)

user certaimromance is alive and breathing (hardly)

[certaimromance]

everything i've written here boils down to this

Taylor Swift, The Manuscript

[certaimromance]

user certaimromance is alive and breathing (hardly)

[certaimromance]

omgg this literally came back from the dead and was one of the first i wrote, thank you so much for all the love🤍

𝜗𝜚 Cradle Song.

Spencer Reid x Pregnant!reader

Summary: The situation is complicated when Spencer is trapped in a lab with anthrax and worried about communicating with you and his future child one last time.

Words: 2,4k.

Warnings & Tags: mentions of death, therapy. spoilers for s4 e24 ("amplification"). anthrax. established relationship. angst with a open ending. implication that the baby is a girl. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I wrote this after posting my first two one shots here (several months ago), and now I just found the uncorrected text and decided to improve it for posting lol for you to mentally decide if it's a happy or sad ending, because I could never write one that I really liked.

Your phone rang somewhere in the room, but you had no idea where. In the distance, you could hear the classical symphony by Johannes Brahms that your boyfriend had chosen especially for you, with the excuse that it would calm you and the baby every time it played.

Unfortunately, this time it wasn't helping to calm you down.

After tossing and turning around the room several times, you sat up in bed, completely exhausted and hopeless. That's when you felt the noise nearby and realized that the phone under your pillow was vibrating nonstop. You were about to snort with stress from being so distracted lately, but an automatic smile appeared on your face when you saw that it was a call from Spencer. You hadn't heard from him in several hours, the last being his usual call to wish you a good morning every time he was away on a case.

“I think I'd lose my head if I didn't have it attached to my neck.” Was the first thing you said as you tried to tuck your pillow behind your neck to make yourself more comfortable.

“You've lost your phone again.” You heard him let out a small, weak laugh, followed by a cough that caught your attention and made you frown. “Sorry, I got stuck.” He quickly excused himself.

“Are you okay?”

In response to your question, he looked around the lab where he was confined, focusing on the broken vial of anthrax on the floor that had caused all his problems so far. Reid didn't know how to explain that an ordinary case had turned into a national problem that was taking over his life and future moments with you with every passing second.

And he certainly knew even less how to tell you that this would probably be the last time you would hear from him if the team didn't find a cure soon.

“I'm fine.” He lied immediately, feeling his breathing getting harder and harder. “Really, love.” He tried to reassure you, but he lost his balance and leaned heavily on the counter, his free hand gripping it hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

All you had to do was hear him call you that and your whole world would light up, you could even feel the baby in your belly kicking at the sound of his voice. You smiled as you realized that you were both happy to hear from Spencer after not seeing him for most of the day due to the demands of his job.

Although you've never said it out loud for fear of making him feel guilty, you miss him excessively, and you're always trying to multitask and be productive, so you don't think as much about how much you need him by your side. Especially when dinner time comes and his seat next to you is empty, or when night comes and his side of the bed is cold.

Perhaps it was the pregnancy hormones, but you seemed to have a stronger need for him than ever.

“And how did you feel today? How are my girls? Did she kick a lot today?” The usual questions he asked you every time he was on a long case began to appear. “I need to hear everything.”

“She just kicks a lot when she listens to you and you know it.” You replied, stroking your belly out of laziness. “She’s definitely a daddy's little princess.”

The lump in his throat and all of his fears became more intense and uncontrollable. The tears he had tried to keep from escaping to stay strong and focused began to flow unchecked down his cheeks. Hearing you talk like that, knowing it might be the last time, was killing him much faster than the anthrax itself.

“And what are you doing? All your agent stuff?” You spoke again at his silence, trying to ignore the bad feeling something was giving you. “Are you coming home soon?”

“I don't think that's possible, love.” He replied quickly, his voice hoarse and raspy, the lie slipping from his lips almost too easily. “I'm doing some paperwork, it'll take some time.”

It was the second time he had called you by that nickname in just a few minutes. Something seemed a little off, as he only used it when he wanted to calm you down. You knew him too well to miss it.

“Oh, okay.” You said it in a way that showed you were a little disappointed.

Spencer was about to try to comfort you when he suddenly felt the cough return to his throat and he put a hand over his mouth to stop it. It was no use, the cough shook his whole body, spinning him around and making him pant in between. He tried to cover the phone with his hand so that the sounds coming out of his mouth would not be heard, but it was useless. The hacking cough seemed to tear at his lungs, leaving him breathless, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, and he could only hope you didn't hear it, because the last thing he wanted to do was worry you. He knew it would hurt you and the baby.

“Are you sure you're okay? Maybe you should drink some water. It sounds pretty bad.”

He tried to answer you right away, but the cough took over and prevented him from speaking. He gripped the phone tightly, struggling to breathe, trying to force his lungs to stop spasming. And when he finally stopped coughing, he managed to speak, his voice cracking and rather hoarse.

“Yes, I'm fine. It's probably just a cold.” He lied again, breathing shakily. “But it’s nothing so bad.”

“Take care of yourself, don't let it get worse.”

If only you knew that there was no way to make it worse, that it was already at its worst point and unlikely to improve.

“I will, don't worry.” He tries to sound convincing, but his voice comes out rough and raw, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from coughing again. “Just focus on you and the baby, okay? I'll be fine.”

He spoke again so quickly that it was difficult to think of an appropriate response.

“Could you do something for me, love?”

“Of course, I'll do whatever you need.” You reply, feeling a little perplexed by the urgency in his voice.

There was a long, awkward silence after you answered, and you could feel your mind racing with worst-case scenarios. You had a feeling that Spencer was holding something back from you, and the thought of what it could be made your left leg start to twitch nervously. You didn't even bother trying to make yourself more comfortable in bed.

“Go to my part of the closet, to the top drawer. Open it and take out a box next to the socks.” Finally he spoke and began to give you instructions, which you followed as best you could. “Let me know when you have it, carefully. Don't rush or-”

“I've already got it.” You interjected.

“That was quick.” You heard the surprise in his voice as you looked at the box, curious to know what was inside, after having seen it several times and thinking it was just more socks.

You smiled before speaking again. “What should I do with this, love?”

The mere word coming out of your mouth made him tremble.

Love. Love. Love.

He was your love and you were his. He refused to accept that this would be completely shattered in a matter of minutes if he could not find a way to keep his eyes open and his heart still pumping blood.

“I need you to open it, but be careful. Take your time and don't rush. Don't make any sudden movements.” He said, trying to relax so that when he spoke again his voice would be calmer, softer. “And once you open it, I want you to imagine that I'm there with you, okay?”

You couldn't help but open the box quickly, even though you were careful. You were surprised to find a bunch of envelopes and papers inside. You left them on the bed, wondering what they were about. It had been five months since you knew you were pregnant, and all the envelopes and papers were the same age according to the dates in the top corner.

“Have you seen it yet?” Spencer asked.

“I'm sorry, I don't understand, could you explain what this is?” You asked, carefully running your hand through the neatly organized papers on the bed.

“Could you close your eyes and imagine I'm with you, like I told you before?” He asked, trying to keep a neutral tone as you complied with his request.

He needed you to see him there with you, he needed to say goodbye and at least touch you one last time.

“That's what I'm doing. I'm holding your hand right now.” You said with a small smile, feeling the warmth.

It was like feeling an automatic medicine with your name on it flow through his system and relieve a few aches and pains. His hands stopped shaking automatically as he imagined himself holding yours again.

“Okay…they are notes and letters.” His voice was soft, the intensity of his heartbeat gradually increasing as he remembered each time he wrote those words to you. “I started writing them when we found out you were pregnant. They're for our baby.”

He still remembered the day he found out you were expecting a baby, his baby. He recalled how he felt his whole world stop and turn a different color, his hand sliding down to your stomach, and his breath hitching in his chest as he held your face in his hands and kissed you lovingly, overwhelmed with joy and so in love that he hadn't known what to do with his own feelings.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I...I found myself writing frequently and my therapist said it was fine…I was inspired to write about my feelings for you and our baby."

From the moment he revealed to you that he had resumed therapy with the goal of healing the wounds of childhood and becoming the father he never had, it was clear that his dedication surpassed any commitment. Now you just added to the list of reasons why he was already an exemplary father, one that any child would be lucky to have.

“Spencer, this is so sweet.” You said, completely moved and on the verge of tears, as you noticed all the dedication I had put into each and every piece of paper. “Why didn't you tell me this before?”

He felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown on him at that moment. It was so hard to explain, to tell you that every thought and every dream he'd ever had included you and the baby now growing in your belly, and his great fear of not being able to be there for you someday.

“I-” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling a bit overwhelmed. “I just wanted you to know now how much you mean to me and how blessed I am that you gave this to me. I've spent the last few months trying to even talk to some kind of God, and I don't even know if exist...” He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, the words lost somewhere in his throat, making it burn and hurt. “I just...I need the baby to know what you and her mean to me, how I see you, how I feel when I wake up next to you. What I want, what I dream for her, what...”

I want to marry you.

The thought almost escaped his lips, his aching heart pounding hard against his aching chest. He felt as if a pair of strong hands were strangling him.

“I don't understand...Tell me what's going on.” You interrupted him with a shaking voice, knowing that there was definitely something more to all of this.

Oh, how you know him and his big, messy, troubled brain.

He closed his eyes and shook his head, though you couldn't see it, knowing that you already read him like an open book.

“Nothing...Nothing's wrong, love, just...” He tried to breathe deeply through the phone, his heart pounding in his chest and his mind racing too fast. “I love you so much. Don't forget that, okay?”

“Spencer—”

He always loved your voice calling his name, and now, in his weak, tired, fearful state, he couldn't stop the words from pouring out of his mouth.

“I want you to know that you'll be okay, that she'll be okay, that everything will be okay, and that I love you. I love you both very much. Please, please...” He kept going. He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't stop. His mind was racing, and his words came out like a confession.

He was an expert profiler, a genius with an eidetic memory and a sharp mind, but at that moment, with his body weakened and his head spinning, he found himself unable to contain himself. He was exposed, open, and experiencing discomfort. All of the things he wanted to tell you, all of the questions he wanted to ask, and all of the concerns, worries, and thoughts in his mind came pouring out, like a dam breaking. He sensed that you could feel it through the line, and he realized that he could no longer deny it any longer.

“I love you. I have to go now.”

“Wait.”

You had a feeling something wasn't quite right, and those letters seemed to confirm your suspicions. They were a precautionary measure, a way of ensuring that everything would be taken care of in case something happened to him.

“I have to go, I'm...I'm busy, love.” He tried to sound convincing, and he knew he was failing miserably, but if he stayed a moment longer, he would continue to talk and confess more. “I love you both.”

“We love you too.”

If he wasn't already weak and trembling, hearing your voice telling him that you loved him, in that soft tone, would have made him fall to the floor again. He closed his eyes again and leaned against the wall, his own trembling hand going to cover his mouth so he wouldn't say more, because he would tell you everything if you kept talking in that sweet tone.

He wasn't ready to say goodbye.

So it was that he thought of you and your kind way of loving him before he felt his head hit the floor and his eyes close.

[certaimromance]

⋆˚࿔ people i'd like to get to know better 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

tysm for the tag @laufeysvalentine 🤍✨

Last Song: cherry wine by hozier

Favourite Colour: pastel pink (so obvious)

Last Book: betting on you by lynn painter (i just started), but before that i reread the portrait of dorian gray because it is one of my favorites

Last Movie: laws of attraction (i just wanted to see two lawyers fall in love because i'm going to law school😭 i’m delusional)

Last Show: i started ncis a week ago AND I LOVE IT, before that i had only watched random chapters

Sweet /Savoury/Spicy: SWEET

Relationship Status: single (thank god!!!)

Last google Search: was the address of my university, because i'm still a bit lost (i won't mention any names, of course)

Looking forward to: finish my series here before officially starting college

(i don't know who else to tag but do it if you want and i'll read it) <3

[certaimromance]

bringing this back because it was terrifying

ꫂ ၴႅၴ Effects of the Curse.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!reader

Summary: After receiving some outside comments, the topic of marriage comes up. Unfortunately, you and Aaron have different views on the matter.

Words: 2,7k.

Warnings & Tags: mention to marriage, divorce, jack and haley. angst WITHOUT happy ending. established relationship. about a year after hotch's departure from the fbi. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: As a person who wants to get married, this is pretty personal lol.

You were leaning against one of the kitchen counters as you waited for the water you had put in the kettle to heat up and allow you to brew coffee. Behind you, you could hear your boyfriend rummaging through the cupboard for your favorite mug and carefully placing it next to his, going through the same routine the two of you had already established.

But something was feeling different this time.

It had more to do with your memories of the family dinner you'd gone to the day before, where there hadn't been a single person who hadn't asked when you were going to officially become Mrs. Hotchner, when you were going to take that big step down the aisle, and maybe even expand the family beyond that. It was a little silly for you to think so much about it, because those were the typical comments people made when they saw a functioning couple, and it had happened to you before with ex-boyfriends you took home, but this time it felt more serious.

Maybe it was because of how your heart was racing as you imagined wearing a ring that would show your total commitment to love someone to death, or maybe it was how Aaron reacted, or rather his lack of reaction, and how much that bothered you.

The sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window and filtering through the trees in the yard had you so mesmerized at that moment that you barely felt when his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer to him. You were so caught up in your thoughts that you let out a slight sound of surprise and relaxed a little under his touch.

“What is on your mind? Perhaps the new coffee maker we should definitely consider purchasing?” He asked with a cheerful tone.

Yes, you two definitely had to buy a new one after the old one suddenly stopped working. But that wasn't what you were thinking about. You were a long way from that.

“Sure, we should do that.” Your answer was blurted out almost out of obligation and came out robotically.

He wasn't stupid, nor had he lost the habits of a profiler after so many years as one. He knew you well enough to know that something was troubling you, even if he didn't know exactly why. He pulled you a little closer and planted a small kiss on the top of your head, tightening his grip on your waist a little more to comfort you as he spoke.

“Darling.” He murmured softly, wanting you to give him your full attention. “I can practically see the gears turning in your head, what's wrong with you?”

You, were what you wanted to say.

“Nothing, just...it's been a long day.” That was all that came out of your mouth.

To tell the truth, it had been an exhausting day, and at least you hadn't lied that much. You had been very restless, trying to do many things to keep the destructive thoughts out of your mind, and it had made you quite tired.

“Don't try to fool me. I know you well enough to know when you are lying.” He gently pinched the sides of your waist and turned you to look into his eyes.

“I...I was just thinking about some things my family said yesterday.” You finally confessed, your voice a little shaky, as if telling him would embarrass you.

“Like what?” He furrowed his brow in concern, brushing a hand against your cheek in that way that always made you feel a bit weak in the knees.

His touch was so warm and loving against your skin, and for a moment, it almost made you forget what you were thinking about. Almost.

“Just a few things about how I haven't married you yet, and...” You didn't even want to finish the sentence, feeling your heart beat a little faster as the words got stuck in your throat. “That we don't have, you know, kids.”

Aaron took a quick look at your face as he heard your confession. His heart clenched a little as he realized what you were talking about, and he couldn't help but be curious about it. The topic of marriage and having children hadn't come up much since you started dating because he already had Jack and had been married once. It was a goal he'd already achieved. However, he knew it was a topic that needed to be discussed, as he saw your worried expression and slightly trembling voice.

He put his hands on your shoulders, giving them a gentle massage to relieve the tension. He didn't want to seem careless or unconcerned, so he spoke after pausing.

“And you were worried because...?”

He looked at you with a kind of intense gaze that made you feel like your heart was going to burst out of your chest at any moment. As he massaged your shoulders, you took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself.

“Well, from the way you reacted, I guess.” You admitted, your voice full of doubt. “I mean, I know we haven't really talked about it, but...it's hard to know what you're thinking when the subject comes up and you have that cold expression on your face, like it's nothing relevant.”

His expression softened, and he brought his hands to your face, cupping your cheeks to make sure you were looking directly at him.

“You know very well that I have already taken care of that.” He said softly, trying to find the best words. “Marriage, children...I had that. I have Jack. And he's enough for me.”

Enough for him. Were you too?

His words had a surprising effect on you, leaving you with a somewhat bitter taste in your mouth. Despite this, you maintained a calm exterior, striving to conceal your true feelings.

“And what about what's enough for me?” You inquired, addressing the issue with a candor you had previously avoided. The words emerged from your mouth almost involuntarily.

Hotchner was taken aback by your question. The way you asked it gave the impression that you were accusing him, although he was unsure if this was the intention. He took a deep breath, searching for the most tactful way to respond to your words.

“I...I didn't realize.” He began, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts. “You never mentioned that you wanted to get married or have children. I thought you were happy with our current situation.”

“Not really.” You admitted, avoiding eye contact as you looked down at the floor. “I mean, I really love Jack, he's a wonderful boy.”

Aaron listened intently as you continued, your words coming out hesitantly.

“And being with you...it makes me so happy.” You sighed and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “But…I feel like I need more. I want more, and I'm not necessarily talking about a child. I want to know that you belong to me as much as I belong to you.”

Aaron walked over and stood in front of you, placing his hands on your hips. He stared at you as he spoke, his voice soft but firm.

“Darling, my love...I belong to you, and you belong to me, and you don't need a ring to know that. If you want one, I'll buy it for you, that or whatever you want.”

You let out a small sigh and leaned closer to him, resting your head on his chest. You could hear the steady beat of his heart as he held you tightly and his body enveloped you in a warm embrace.

“I know.” You said quietly, the words somewhat muffled against his shirt. “But it's not just about the ring. It's about the commitment, the symbol of our union...and how that gives me security.”

He ran his fingers through your hair gently as he listened, his touch soothing against your scalp.

“Listen to me.” He began, his tone affectionate. “I've always been committed to you. From the moment I allowed myself to open up to you to the first night we spent together, and every day since. You know it. Does it really take a ceremony to make you believe it?”

When you looked at him, you felt a rush of emotions. You knew he loved you, and he was right. He had shown you his commitment many times. You had even been living together for a couple of years. But there was still a part of you that longed for that tangible symbol of love.

“I don't doubt you.” You said, choosing your words carefully. “But it's about symbolism. Having physical proof of our commitment shows the world how firmly bound we are to each other. And I know you believe in it. You were married once for a reason.”

Oh, that's a sensitive topic.

He let out a small sigh when you mentioned his previous marriage, and his fingers stopped stroking your hair. It was an uncomfortable and painful subject he didn't like to talk about, especially with you. The memories of his failed marriage were difficult to process, not only because of Haley's death but also because of the many problems that had plagued their relationship before its sad end.

“Maybe I believed that before, or at least I thought I did.” He replied after a short pause. “But that doesn't mean I want to go through it all again.”

“Even with me?” You asked softly, lifting your head to look into his eyes. There was a hint of vulnerability and sadness in your expression, your heart trembling slightly in anticipation of his answer. “Even in the future?”

Aaron observed your expression and the slight shift in your demeanor. He was aware of the impact his words could have on you, and he took care to choose them carefully. He gently traced your features with the back of his hand, his thumb gently moving across your face.

“This isn't about you or time at all.” He said in a soft voice, trying to express his love for you. “I just couldn't go through that again. The expectations, the disappointment, the divorce. It's too much.”

As he spoke, he paused and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to contain his emotions. His previous marriage had left him deeply scarred, and the thought of suffering the same fate again, especially with you, filled him with dread. He silently prayed every day that history would never repeat itself.

But your situation was quite different. The concerns he expressed, which he did not fully explain, only served to increase your doubts. You were aware that Aaron had every reason to be fearful after experiencing so much in the past, but you were surprised that he seemed to be afraid to be with you in front of the law.

How could he be so sure that a marriage with you would end in divorce? If his demanding job could no longer be the cause of the failure, could it perhaps be something else? Could it be you?

“You're not the same as before, and I'm not-” You started to say when you were interrupted by a loud whistle.

The unexpected sound of the kettle whistling gently interrupts the moment between the two, if only for a brief moment, allowing you both to take a breath.

He carefully put out the fire and poured the steaming water into the cups he had thoughtfully prepared earlier. He then added a teaspoon of sugar to each and a little milk to yours, taking care to ensure it was just the way you liked it. As you both watched the hot liquid swirl in the cups, he let out a sigh. Aaron felt a sense of responsibility, knowing he wasn't able to deliver what you desired.

Hotchner handed you your cup with care, ensuring that he did not accidentally burn himself in the process. The kitchen fell silent as he stood next to you while you both sipped your coffee, lost in your own thoughts.

The taste of coffee with a little milk on your tongue distracted you from the heavy atmosphere that had settled between you and him in the kitchen. In that moment, you took the opportunity to watch him closely and try to decipher what he was thinking. Maybe use a little of what you had learned from being with a profiler for so long.

His face was set, and you could easily see the emotion in his eyes. He was not happy with the conversation, and his expression had given him away from the first crossword on the subject.

When Aaron noticed you staring at him in the midst of his silence, he looked up into your eyes and held them for a few seconds. He knew exactly what you were trying to do, but it didn't bother him. Being a profiler, he found it ironic, and a small smile appeared on his lips.

“You can look at me all you want.” He said with a dry laugh. “And try to profile me if you want.”

“It's not that...” You began to say, but you knew he was right. That was precisely what you were attempting to do, trying to discern his feelings, even utilizing some profiling techniques he had taught you himself. You let out a small sigh, feeling a little foolish for your lack of subtlety.

Of course he'd realize. The man could leave the FBI, but the FBI couldn't leave the man.

“I find it challenging not to.” You confessed, tilting your head and taking a sip of your coffee. “I've picked up on some of your habits, I suppose.”

He let out a soft chuckle, acknowledging that you were trying to get a read on him and feeling relieved to see the earlier tension ease. He lifted the cup to his lips and took a small sip, letting the hot liquid warm his insides before speaking in a friendly tone.

“And what have I taught you?” He asked, raising an eyebrow curiously.

“A few things.” You replied, with a hint of sarcasm. “Like how to spot lies, read body language, and how to read people well. Basically, all the skills required to be a profiler, except how to not profile your loved one.”

“I see your point.” He replied, a soft smile on his face, grateful that things between you were feeling good again. “Perhaps I should have taught you that last part too, but you would have made a good profiler.”

“I would have made a good wife too.” The comment came out before you could stop yourself, and you immediately covered your mouth with your fingers after saying it.

Aaron's smile faded as soon as you spoke, and the tension in the room intensified. He exhaled, a combination of fatigue and frustration, and placed the half-finished coffee on the counter behind you before crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“I'm sorry.” You spoke up before he could even open his mouth, hoping to get a word in first.

“Don't.” His answer came almost automatically.

It was then that you grabbed your cell phone after hearing it vibrate, hoping to avoid the situation. “It's the seamstress. Jack's costume is ready.”

He nodded silently as you picked up the cell phone from the kitchen table. The comment was still in the air, and you sensed that he had heard it, but he didn't react at all. Instead, he seemed relieved that the awkward moment between the two was over, if only temporarily.

Thank you, Halloween.

After a brief pause, Aaron inquired gently. “Would you like me to accompany you to collect it?”

“I believe it would be best if I went alone.” You replied after a moment. “I need to take some time to process things, and you need to wait for your son. He will be out of school soon.”

Aaron felt a slight discomfort in his chest at your words. He recognized the truth in what you said, that some time apart might be beneficial for both of you to reflect on the conversation and all that was left unsaid.

And after that, you proceeded to retrieve your keys and walked through the door without so much as a moment's hesitation. This time, there wasn't even an ‘I love you’ or a goodbye kiss as a reminder that all was well. This time, the silence conveyed a message that was perhaps more profound than any gesture or sweet word.

In the end, the marriage was scarier than any Halloween costume.

[certaimromance]

THE WAY I LOVE THIS SONG<3333

Mutuals?!?!? Somebody put on my romcom mix!! Heyyyy!!

Was gonna send you this in messages but I wanted my love to be declared loudly.

HI ANGEL!🤍 i loveee public declarations of love and new mutuals yey, put our love song

[certaimromance]

i just got my first anonymous hate comment, i'm finally consecrated as a writer here🥰

this is the only time i'll say this, but if you send aggressive comments, don't expect me to respond! i'll just delete it, so keep it to yourself!!!