pillow-coded
pillow-coded
M꩜
86 posts
20 .ᐟ about me! .ᐟ masterlist! .ᐟ she/her .ᐟ────୨ৎ──── A special place for just overall things I like
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pillow-coded · 2 days ago
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pillow-coded · 2 days ago
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PWEEAAASE I love his silly little face
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pillow-coded · 2 days ago
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Bullet proof vest Spencer this
Hoodie Spencer that
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ARGYLE SWEATER SPENCER
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pillow-coded · 3 days ago
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i love him and his bob
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pillow-coded · 4 days ago
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Current writing advice I'm seeing on TikTok and Insta is telling authors to stop using em dashes in their work because, "AI uses em dashes so people will think you've used AI."
Y'know, the AI that was trained on the stolen work of real authors?
Anyway, I will not be doing that. What I will be doing, however, is adding a note at the start of all my books that no AI was used in the creation of my work because I, the author, did not go to university for four fucking years to study English literature and linguistics only to be told I can't use proper grammar because someone might think a robot wrote it.
Fucking, insane.
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pillow-coded · 4 days ago
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Hey lovely, can you pls add me to your tag list for To Have and To Hold?
Ofc!!, also to anyone else who has commented about being added to the taglist, I have a forms where you can add yourself. It's linked to the series masterlist, but I'll link it here too!
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pillow-coded · 5 days ago
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just wanted to say that I'm crying over the THATH fic series (in a good way). you're an amazing writer. it's a masterpiece❤️‍🩹
Thank you so much!!! This means a lot to me <3
I had the idea for it a while ago, but I hadn’t really figured out my writing style or process back then, only had a few drabbles written in my journal. But I’m glad I got the guts to post it, cause I was really embarrassed/nervous about doing so.
So it really means a lot to me that people are liking it! I’m so grateful to everyone who leaves comments and dm me about it! <3
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pillow-coded · 5 days ago
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To Have and To Hold — Chapter 15
Summary: Maddie’s first sleepover brings more anxiety than Y/N expected, but Spencer is there to help her navigate the ache of letting go. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: empty nest syndrome / separation anxiety, sexual content, heated makeout, word count: 10.4k
Series Masterlist
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“I brought tangerines, popcorn, some juiceboxes, gummy bears, and a giraffe.”
The second I say it, I realize how ridiculous it sounds. But it’s too late—I’m already standing in the entryway holding the bag like it’s a peace offering, or maybe a bribe. Y/N looks up from where she’s kneeling at the coffee table, trying to zip Maddie’s overnight bag shut. Her eyes flick to me, then to the giraffe sticking out of the tote like it has a purpose.
“A giraffe?” she repeats, flatly.
“It looked… friendly.” I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how warm my ears feel. “And statistically, transitional objects can help kids feel more secure when they’re sleeping away from home for the first time.”
Before she can respond, Maddie appears out of nowhere—tiny feet pattering across the hardwood—and makes a delighted noise at the sight of the stuffed animal. I barely have time to hold it out before she grabs it, hugs it to her chest, and declares, “I’m naming her Orange.”
“Because of the tangerines?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“No. Because she’s orange.”
Right. Of course.
Y/N smiles under her breath and shakes her head like she’s trying not to laugh, but I see it—the way her fingers won’t stop fiddling with the zipper, the way her eyes flick to the bag every ten seconds like she’s forgotten something. Again. Like one missing item—one sock, one nightlight, one stuffed animal—might make the whole thing unravel.
The tension in her shoulders doesn’t ease. Not even a little. It just sits there, knotted and heavy, like she’s bracing for impact. Like letting Maddie go for one night might reveal some invisible flaw in her parenting. And I know that’s not rational. She probably knows it’s not rational. But that doesn’t stop it from sinking its teeth in.
She looks… stressed out of her mind. And if that wasn’t enough, she also looks like she’s about three seconds away from crying.
And I hate it.
I hate seeing her like this—this frayed, fragile version of the woman who commands bedtime routines like military operations and talks to her daughter with such gentleness it physically aches to witness. I hate that I can’t fix it. That all I brought were snacks and a giraffe and a bunch of soft words I don’t know how to say out loud.
What I want—what I really want—is to cross the room and pull her into my arms. Wrap her up and tell her it’s okay. That Maddie will be okay. That she will be okay. That I’ll stay as long as she wants. That I’ll stay longer, even if she doesn’t say it. I want to be the thing she leans on.
So I move.
I step across the room slowly, carefully—like approaching a wounded animal, like one wrong move might scare her off. My heart’s thudding in that awkward, top-of-your-throat way it does before I say something real. But I don’t let myself think about it too much.
I stop in front of her and reach for her hands—tentative at first, like I’m still asking permission even after I’m already holding them. Her fingers are cold. Or maybe mine are too warm. Either way, I bring both of her hands into mine and press my thumbs gently into her palms, rubbing slow, steady circles there. Like touch might anchor her. Like I’m trying to ground us both.
She doesn��t pull away.
“You know…” I say quietly, watching the movement of my thumbs against her skin instead of her eyes, “it’s just tonight. She’s gonna be okay.”
I glance up then, just briefly. Her eyes are glassy but not falling. Not yet.
“And if she’s not,” I add, softer still, “they’ll call. You’ll go pick her up. And she’ll come home and sleep curled up between us, and everything will be okay again.”
I shouldn’t have said us.
But I did.
And I don’t take it back.
Not because I’m brave. Not because I want to risk making it weird. Just… because for once, I don’t want to lie about the thing I want most.
“Us?” she says, barely above a whisper. Her voice is soft, but not confused. Curious. Like she heard it, felt it, and just needs me to say it again—like confirmation might make it real.
“I mean—” I start, immediately fumbling, my thumbs freezing mid-circle. “You. Next to you. I meant if she—if Maddie needed someone. I’d be on the couch, probably, or the floor, or—”
She squeezes my hands.
“I would love it if you stayed.”
There’s a pause. A small one.
But inside me, it splits the earth wide open.
I look at her. Really look this time.
She’s still scared. Still wound tight. Still clutching a thread of anxiety she can’t quite let go of. But there’s something else beneath it now—something softer. Like relief. Like she didn’t realize she was waiting for me to say it until I did. Like the idea of us wasn’t too much after all.
And maybe I’m not imagining it.
Maybe she’s just as scared of this as I am—of wanting something we can’t guarantee, something breakable and delicate and real. But for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t pull back from the wanting.
I lean in—just enough to brush my lips against her cheek. Barely there. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything in return. That just says, I’m here.
“I’ll stay,” I whisper, so close I feel her breath catch, “as long as you want me to.”
She doesn’t speak. Just nods, once, and squeezes my hands like she’s anchoring herself to the promise.
And I let her.
God, I let her.
I want to stay in this moment a little longer, want to hold her hands and watch the tension melt from her face completely. I want to say more, or maybe nothing at all. Just be here, where she’s letting me in.
“Are you two kissing?”
The voice cuts through the quiet like a cymbal crash.
I jump. Actually jump. Y/N lets out a startled breath that’s half laugh, half sigh.
Maddie’s standing at the hallway corner, one sock on, the other trailing behind her like it got tired halfway. Giraffe tucked under her arm. Wide-eyed. Suspicious.
“No,” I say quickly, too quickly.
Y/N arches an eyebrow. “That sounded convincing.”
“I—no, I mean—we weren’t—technically—”
“Mommy and Spencer were kissing! Mommy and Spencer were kissing!”
Maddie sings it like a playground chant, spinning in a little circle, one sock still barely clinging to her foot, the stuffed giraffe clutched tight under her arm like a witness to the crime.
I’m pretty sure I’ve died. Not metaphorically. I think my soul actually left my body and is now hovering above the room watching me suffer.
Y/N just covers her mouth with one hand, trying not to laugh—failing not to laugh. Her shoulders shake with it.
I rub the back of my neck, already beet-red and spiraling. “It was a cheek kiss. Just a cheek kiss.”
Maddie gasps. “A cheek kiss is how it starts!”
And that’s it. That’s the end of me. I’m done for. Melt me into the hardwood and donate my remaining bones to science.
Y/N’s full-on laughing now—eyes crinkled, cheeks flushed, everything about her warm and bright and real. And even through my mortification, I feel it bloom in my chest too.
This is what I want. This chaos. This closeness. This.
“So are you two married now?” Maddie asks, deadpan.
Y/N chokes on a laugh. I forget how to breathe.
“What?” I manage, voice cracking like I’m twelve again.
Maddie shrugs and plops onto the couch, giraffe in her lap like a wedding guest waiting for cake. “You kissed. That means you love each other. If you love each other, you get married. That’s the rule.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
Nothing coherent comes out.
Y/N is trying—trying—to get control of herself, but her smile betrays her. She sits beside Maddie and brushes a hand through her curls. “Baby, kissing doesn’t always mean you get married.”
Maddie looks scandalized. “Then what’s the point?”
I blink.
That… is actually a good question.
Y/N turns to me, amusement still dancing behind her eyes. “Well, Spencer? What is the point?”
I’ve read 432 books on human bonding. I’ve studied attachment theory. I can recite courtship customs across twenty-three cultures.
And I have no idea how to answer that when she’s looking at me like that.
So I do the only thing I can.
I look at Maddie and say, “The point of kissing is to— to…”
My brain short-circuits.
“Some species of penguins mate for life and give each other pebbles. I didn’t bring a pebble. I brought a giraffe. Which… has absolutely nothing to do with kissing…”
Y/N’s eyebrows lift slightly, and Maddie’s staring at me like I’ve just recited the Periodic Table instead of answering a very simple question.
I keep going. I can’t stop.
“Did you know, kissing triggers the release of oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin, which are all associated with bonding and affection—so kissing is to feel happy. Or—no, not just happy. Regulated. Biochemically secure. That’s why it’s called a ‘social grooming behavior’ in evolutionary psychology. Like—like chimpanzees picking bugs off each other.”
Y/N makes a strangled noise that might be a laugh. Maddie looks mildly horrified.
“Not that I think kissing you is like bug-picking. I mean—not you—I didn’t mean that you have bugs—"
“I think,” Y/N interrupts gently, voice laced with amused mercy, “what Spencer’s trying to say is that kissing can mean a lot of things.”
I nod, grateful. “Yes. Exactly. A wide array of things.”
Maddie wrinkles her nose. “You guys are weird.”
Y/N just grins and tosses a pair of socks into Maddie’s overnight bag like this is the most normal interaction she’s had all day.
“Go put on your shoes, princess,” she says, not missing a beat.
Maddie groans dramatically but obeys, dragging herself off the couch like we’ve asked her to scale Everest barefoot. The giraffe dangles from one hand, bouncing against her leg with each step as she disappears down the hallway.
And then it’s quiet again.
Just me and her.
Y/N zips the bag shut and sets it upright, then leans her weight onto it with a sigh that sounds like it carries weeks of love and exhaustion all at once.
“So…” she says, turning to face me. There’s a shift in her voice, playful, lilting. Dangerous.
Her hands rise, slow and unhurried, and settle lightly on the front of my sweater vest.
Right over my chest.
I think my brain blue-screens.
She looks up at me through her lashes. “We’re like penguins?”
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
She’s still looking at me—still touching me—and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to combust on the spot.
“I—uh,” I manage, clearing my throat. “Technically Gentoo penguins offer pebbles to establish long-term mating bonds. Kind of like a marriage symbol. At least the equivalent of it for them, which would just be mating for life, not actual marriage, because penguins don’t—”
I stop myself.
Breathe. Reset. Try again without sounding like I’m defending a dissertation on courtship behaviors.
“I don’t know if we’re penguins,” I murmur, sheepish, eyes flicking down to where her fingers still rest on my chest.
There’s a pause. She tilts her head, teasing, but there’s something honest beneath it.
“Because you don’t want to marry me?”
My eyes snap up. “No—no. I mean—I do want to—”
Her eyebrows raise slightly. My soul exits my body.
“I mean, not like right now,” I rush to explain. “Not because I don’t want to. Just—just because it’s too soon for that. But I do know that I really like you. I think about you constantly, and that this—” I gesture vaguely between us, “—is the only thing that makes sense lately. And I’m in this. All the way.”
I swallow, trying not to overcorrect.
“So… maybe someday,” I finish softly, “we can be like penguins.”
She doesn’t laugh.
She just smiles—slow and sure and so warm I feel it in my ribcage.
Then she leans in and presses her lips against mine.
And I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.
Not just the kiss—the way she chooses to kiss me. Every time it happens, it feels impossible. Like she’s crossed some invisible line I still can’t believe I’m allowed to stand behind.
She kisses me like it’s normal. Like it’s something we do now. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world for her, and somehow I’m the one she wants.
So I kiss her back, because how could I not?
Her fingers curl a little in the fabric of my vest, and I swear my heart skips so violently it might be clinically concerning. I’m still getting used to this—to her—and part of me hopes I never stop.
Because the truth is… it doesn’t matter how many times it happens.
I’ll always be a little bit stunned that she picked me.
“You are getting married!” Maddie gasps from the hallway.
I immediately pull away like I’ve been electrocuted. My face goes beet red. Possibly purple.
Y/N lets out a startled laugh against my shoulder, her hand still lightly fisted in the front of my vest.
Maddie is standing in the doorway in one shoe, eyes wide with revelation, like she’s just witnessed a sacred rite.
“That was a mouth kiss,” she says, scandalized.
“I—it wasn’t—it’s not—” I stammer, tripping over every consonant. “That doesn’t mean marriage. mouth—romantic—kissing has no correlation to—”
Y/N doubles over laughing.
Maddie folds her arms. “Can I be the flower girl?”
I think my soul leaves my body again.
“Okay,” Y/N says through a grin, reaching for Maddie’s other shoe. “Come here, tiny wedding planner. Let’s just get you to the sleepover first.”
Maddie marches over with her arms crossed like a very tiny, very dramatic wedding coordinator. Y/N crouches to help her with the second shoe, still chuckling under her breath, and I just… stand there.
Still warm from the kiss.
Still short-circuiting from the fact that she kissed me.
Still trying not to think about what would’ve happened if we hadn’t been interrupted.
A minute later, the overnight bag is zipped and slung over my shoulder, Maddie is chattering about how many gummy bears she plans to eat before bedtime, and we’re loading into the car.
Y/N slides into the passenger seat beside me, close enough that her arm brushes mine. I try not to look at her mouth. I fail. She’s smiling faintly, like she knows.
The drive is short, maybe fifteen minutes, but it stretches in my mind like something cinematic.
Maddie fills most of the space with talk about her friend Amanda, what pajamas she packed, and whether or not giraffes are allowed to sleep on the floor or need their own bed.
Eventually, when her endless chatter started to slow, Y/N reached into her tote and handed her the battered portable DVD player she keeps strictly for car rides—no iPads, no tablets, just scratched discs and a firm belief that screen time should feel a little more 2004—and honestly, I find that kind of stubborn, analog parenting weirdly endearing.
I let the sound of the cartoon fill the car while I sneak glances at Y/N.
Her profile is lit up by the soft glow of the streetlights. She’s quiet now—watching Maddie in the rearview mirror, fingers tapping softly against her knee like she’s counting heartbeats.
I want to reach over.
Tangle my fingers in hers.
Say something stupid like you taste like cherry chapstick and I think I’m ruined for anyone else now.
Instead I say quietly, “She’s excited.”
“She is.” Y/N glances at me, smile curling in the corner of her mouth. “She’s gonna have a lot of fun.”
“Y/N…” I start, careful, soft. “It’s gonna be okay, you know?”
She lets out a breath. Not a dramatic one. Just enough to let me know she’s been holding it in.
“I know,” she says after a beat. “I trust Beth to take care of her, it’s just… I don’t know how to explain it…”
I glance over at her, only for a second, but it’s enough.
She’s staring out the window now. Not crying. Not unraveling. Just quiet in that way she gets when something big is sitting in her chest and she hasn’t named it yet.
“You don’t have to explain,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “It’s not logical. It’s not supposed to be. It’s… you’ve been her whole world for four years. And tonight is the first time that world shifts, even a little.”
She blinks fast, still looking out the window. “Exactly. It feels stupid. But it feels… like I’m missing something already. Like I forgot to double-knot her shoelaces or remind her that monsters aren’t real.”
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, wishing I could do more than just drive.
“She’s just…” she starts, voice barely above a whisper. “She’s growing up, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”
She turns in her seat, glancing back at Maddie in the rearview mirror.
Maddie’s tucked into her booster, legs swinging slightly, her eyes glued to the tiny portable DVD player balanced carefully on the armrest. The animation flickers across the screen—an old cartoon with grainy audio and over-exaggerated voices. Y/N said it was Maddie’s comfort show. Something they’ve watched together since she was still wobbling in footie pajamas.
Y/N watches her for a long time.
Her expression is hard to read. Soft, but aching. That kind of ache that only happens when you love something so much it starts to scare you.
“She still looks little,” she murmurs. “But she’s saying things now. Big things. Talking about space and monsters and what she wants to be when she grows up. And I’m just… I’m still learning how to let go of her pacifier.”
I don’t interrupt. I just listen. Let her say it.
“She’s going to grow up, and I’m going to be the one waving from the driveway,” she adds quietly. “That’s how this goes, right? You give them everything and pray you don’t mess them up too much.”
My throat tightens.
“She’s not leaving forever,” I say gently. “She’s just sleeping over at Beth’s.”
“I know,” she says, smiling faintly. “But this feels like the start of something. Of her needing me less.”
She turns back toward the windshield, blinking like the light’s suddenly too bright.
“She’s always gonna need you,” I tell her. “She might not always show it the same way. But you’re… you’re the center of her universe, Y/N. You built the gravity she orbits around.”
I catch her glance out of the corner of my eye. And I don’t know if she’s going to cry, or kiss me again, or just say nothing at all.
But she nods.
And in that moment, I feel it—that invisible string between us tugging just a little tighter.
We pull up in front of Amanda’s house just as the sky starts to shift—a soft, dusky kind of blue settling over the neighborhood like a blanket. The porch light’s already on. Warm, yellow, inviting. There's a paper cutout of a ladybug taped to the front window. I assume Maddie's friend made it.
Y/N turns around in her seat and reaches back, brushing her fingers through Maddie’s curls to gently get her attention. “We’re here, baby.”
Maddie blinks up from her movie, eyes glassy with that half-aware look all kids get when they’ve been watching the same cartoon loop for too long.
She sits up slowly, clutching Orange the giraffe to her chest. “Already?”
Y/N smiles. “You’re gonna have so much fun.”
Maddie doesn’t reply right away. She just hugs the giraffe a little tighter.
Y/N gets out first, slinging the overnight bag over her shoulder, and I follow, watching Maddie carefully as she slides out of the car. She’s quiet now. Too quiet.
She doesn’t run to the door.
She doesn’t say anything at all.
She just stands between us, looking up at the porch like it’s further away than it is. Like something about this is suddenly too big.
Y/N notices it too. She crouches down, her voice low and warm. “You okay, sweetheart?”
Maddie shrugs, eyes still locked on the front steps.
I kneel down beside them, not touching her, just close enough to offer something steady if she wants it.
“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Y/N says softly. “It’s okay to feel nervous.”
Maddie chews on her lip for a second. Then whispers, “What if I miss you?”
Y/N's breath catches.
I feel it like a punch behind my ribs.
She tucks a piece of hair behind Maddie’s ear and kisses her forehead. “Then you call me. And if it’s too much, I’ll come get you. No questions asked.”
Maddie looks between the two of us. Her eyes land on me.
“You’ll come too?”
My throat tightens. I nod. “Of course. We’ll both come.”
She thinks about it for another long moment, then finally takes a step forward. Small, but certain.
And just like that, the door opens. Amanda’s mom greets us with a warm smile and a wave, and Maddie heads inside—still clutching the giraffe, still glancing back every few steps like she’s not quite ready to let go.
She turns just before the door closes and calls out, “Love you, Mommy!”
Y/N waves, her voice catching a little. “I love you too, baby!”
The door clicks shut.
And suddenly, the quiet is heavier than I expected.
Y/N’s eyes are a little teary when I turn to look at her. Not crying—not yet—but close. She’s standing just a few feet away from me, arms crossed like she’s trying to hold herself together, eyes still fixed on the front door like maybe it’ll open again. Like maybe Maddie will come running back out and say she forgot something.
She looks like she’s on the verge of breaking down.
And I can’t handle that.
Not because it’s uncomfortable, not because I don’t know what to do—but because I’d give anything to take that pain from her. Every last tremor of it.
“Hey,” I say gently, stepping closer.
Once I’m close enough, I don’t even try to fill the silence. I just wrap my arms around her—firm but careful, like she’s something precious that needs holding together. She doesn’t hesitate. She folds into me like she’s done it a thousand times before, like this is where she goes when it hurts.
She hides her face in my chest.
And I feel it—those little sniffles against my shirt. Barely there, but real. Raw.
“It’s okay, pretty girl…” I murmur, pressing my cheek to the top of her head. “We’ll come pick her up first thing in the morning. She’ll tell you all about the sleepover. And you’ll tuck her in twice as long tomorrow.”
She nods into me, and I tighten my arms around her just slightly. Not to fix it. Just to remind her she’s not doing this alone.
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The last time the apartment was this quiet, Maddie had a fever and fell asleep on my chest before the sun even set. I remember the weight of her—small and burning up, breathing hot against my neck.
Her curls were damp, cheeks flushed, one hand tangled in the collar of my sweatshirt like she was scared I might get up and leave. She wouldn't even let me shift to grab the thermometer. Just whimpered softly in protest until I stayed completely still. I remember thinking, God, she's so little. Still so little.
Now, standing in the doorway of our quiet home, I realize just how long it’s been since I’ve felt that stillness. No trail of plastic toys across the floor. No little voice asking what’s for dinner or begging to wear her favorite mermaid pajamas. Just the soft click of the door behind me, Spencer’s gentle presence at my side, and the echo of a home that suddenly feels too big without her.
I know I’m being dramatic. It’s just a sleepover. Just one night. Other moms probably didn’t cry over this. Other moms probably used the time to clean the house or binge a show or finally do something for themselves. But I can’t seem to make this ache go away. It sits just beneath my ribs, stubborn and quiet, like grief for something I haven’t lost.
I toe off my shoes, leaving them by the door like always, and glance around like something might jump out and make the silence easier to bear. It doesn’t. The lights are low. The air smells like the candle Maddie insists on blowing out herself every night. I swallow around the lump rising in my throat.
I almost ask Spencer to put something on. Anything. Music. The TV. A podcast about ancient artifacts in lost cities. But before the words even make it out of my mouth, he’s already walking toward the little CD player on the shelf.
He doesn’t ask. Just starts flipping through the beat-up binder I keep tucked beside it—scratched jewel cases, faded album art, some discs so old the tracklists have worn off. I don’t think he even looks at the covers—he just moves with the kind of confidence that makes my heart twist. Like he already knows which one I’ll need. Like he’s memorized my patterns, the same way I’ve memorized Maddie’s.
When the disc whirs to life, it’s the one I always reach for on nights when I’m feeling too much. Just that familiar opening track, the one that’s held my sadness so many times I swear it knows my name. The type of song where you start to cry without even realizing you’re crying.
I sit down slowly on the couch. The cushions still hold the imprint of last night—where Maddie curled up beside me after brushing her teeth, where she insisted on one more cartoon even though her eyes were already half-shut. Spencer walks into the kitchen without a word and returns with the takeout bags we grabbed on the way home. He moves around me like he’s been doing it forever. Like this is normal. Like we’re normal.
He hands me a box of noodles, still warm. Our shoulders bump when he sits beside me, but neither of us moves.
For the first time since we dropped her off, I start to breathe again.
“Thank you,” I murmur, not looking at him yet. Just twirling a noodle around my fork, willing my voice to stay steady.
He glances over. “For what exactly?”
I don’t answer right away. I don’t even know how to. There are too many things. For the car ride. For the giraffe. For standing beside me on that porch while I tried not to cry.
“Being you,” I say finally.
It sounds too simple. Too light. But it’s the truth. And when I do look at him, he’s already looking at me—eyes soft, like he’s not sure he deserves the words but wants to believe them anyway.
He wraps his arm around my shoulders, slow and careful, like he’s testing the weight of the moment. Like he knows how close I am to falling apart in the best possible way. I lean into it without thinking. Just let my head rest gently against his side, let his warmth seep in through the fabric of his sweater vest.
And suddenly everything feels just a little warmer. A feeling I don’t ever want to go away.
“I know I thank you a lot,” I whisper, staring at the untouched noodles in my lap. “But I really mean it. Every time. I’m so grateful you stumbled into my life so suddenly.”
His chest rises beneath my cheek. A deep breath. Like maybe he’s trying to keep himself from saying something too big. Or maybe trying to hold it all together, the way I’ve had to do so many times.
He doesn’t answer right away. He just rubs his thumb gently along my upper arm, and that alone is enough to keep the ache in my chest from taking over again.
I pull my hand back and finally lift my fork, twirling the now-lukewarm noodles around the tines. Beside me, Spencer starts on his own box, quiet and careful, but I can feel the way his attention keeps drifting toward me. Little glances. Little checks. Like he’s trying to gauge if I’m okay without making a big deal out of it.
I take a bite. Chew. Swallow.
Then—
“Did you know,” he says suddenly, a little too brightly, “that chewing something crunchy can reduce psychological stress? It’s connected to the stimulation of the trigeminal nerve.”
I blink. “What?”
He holds up a piece of broccoli from his stir fry like it’s part of a TED Talk. “Seriously. The act of chewing—especially things with texture—activates sensory feedback pathways that can lower cortisol levels. It’s why people eat chips when they’re stressed. Or carrot sticks.”
I stare at him.
He chews the broccoli with a straight face. “Very soothing.”
A beat of silence.
And then I laugh. Not because it’s that funny—just because he is. Because Spencer Reid, who can quote nearly everything, and diagnose a psychopath in under thirty seconds, is trying to keep my mind off missing my daughter by weaponizing vegetables.
“You can't just tell me chewing is gonna make this better,” I say, shaking my head.
He grins. “It's not... Just trying to distract you. Is it working?”
I roll my eyes. “A little.”
He nudges my shoulder with his. “I’ll take it.”
“What else have you got stored in that beautiful brain of yours?” I ask, turning toward him with a smirk I don’t fully mean to wear.
He blinks.
I can actually see the internal buffering. Like I overloaded his circuits with one compliment too many.
“I—um—well,” he stammers, pushing a grain of rice around with his chopsticks, “did you know that laughter increases pain tolerance by releasing endorphins through social bonding mechanisms?”
I stare at him. “So you’re saying you’re trying to… trick my brain chemistry into cheering up?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. Then, quieter, “And also, you said my brain was beautiful and I’m still recovering.”
I laugh—fully, this time. A real laugh that shakes my shoulders and makes the heaviness in my chest loosen, just a little.
“You’re ridiculous.”
He grins again, that crooked, endearing kind of grin that he only pulls out when he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“But it’s working,” I admit, nudging him back. “Keep going.”
He hesitates—just for a second—and then straightens slightly, clears his throat, and starts in with a spark in his eyes like I’ve just flipped a switch.
“Okay,” he says, already sifting through facts in that impossibly fast brain of his. “Did you know that humans are biologically wired to form pair bonds through eye contact?”
I smile into my takeout box, already feeling the familiar flutter in my chest that only happens when he starts talking like this—half professor, half nervous schoolboy, all heart.
“I read a study that observed couples who maintained longer periods of mutual eye contact were more likely to self-report emotional closeness and relationship satisfaction. And that’s just the subjective part—neurologically, the same thing happens. Sustained eye contact stimulates the release of phenylethylamine, which is a natural amphetamine your brain produces during early stages of romantic attachment. It increases adrenaline, dopamine, and causes your pupils to dilate, which is why people look at each other and suddenly their hearts start racing even if no one’s said anything yet—”
He keeps going, hands moving now, gesturing as if the words alone aren’t fast enough to carry everything he’s trying to express.
“It’s tied to oxytocin too,” he adds, “especially in long-term couples. Eye contact during emotionally vulnerable moments—grief, for example, or stress—can regulate the nervous system. It actually helps you co-regulate, which is the scientific term for when two people subconsciously sync up their heart rates and breathing patterns. So technically—” he glances at me for half a second, then looks down just as quickly, “—even just sitting next to someone you trust while feeling anxious can make your brain and body feel safer.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t want to interrupt him. I just… watch.
There’s something about the way he talks when he forgets to be self-conscious. When the rhythm of knowledge and kindness takes over, and he’s not trying to impress me or prove anything—he’s just sharing pieces of himself because he wants to make me feel better.
Because he wants to make me feel safe.
And maybe it’s the dim light of the apartment or the weight of the quiet that’s been pressing on my chest since we got home, but suddenly I’m looking at him and thinking—I never want this to stop. The way he talks, the way he thinks, the way his voice slows down at the edges of big words like he wants me to have time to hold them. The way he’s sitting on this couch beside me like he belongs here.
God, I want him to keep talking forever.
He’s mid-sentence about emotional mimicking—something about how couples in love start to subconsciously mirror each other’s body language—when he suddenly falters. His hands stop moving. His voice drops off.
I turn to look at him, but he’s already ducking his head, eyes flicking toward the half-empty takeout container in his lap like it might save him from whatever embarrassment just hit him.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, almost sheepish. “I’m not used to rambling for that long without being interrupted.”
The confession hits harder than I expect it to.
He doesn’t say it bitterly. Doesn’t even seem upset. Just… surprised. Like part of him only just realized it now. Like this moment—here, with me—is the exception to a rule he’s long since accepted.
“I mean—usually I get interrupted because we have case details to discuss,” he adds quickly, eyes darting down again. “And me rambling can be either really helpful, or really not.”
He tries to laugh, to play it off, but the way he’s gripping the box in his lap tells me the words meant more than he let on. Like maybe he meant, people don’t usually let me be too much for too long.
I shift closer, slow and easy, until our knees are touching. Just enough to let him know I’m here. Still listening. Still choosing him.
“I like when you talk,” I say gently.
He looks up at me, startled. Like I’ve said something scandalous. Like the idea that someone might actually enjoy hearing him think out loud is a completely foreign concept.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” I tease, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I’ve told you that before… at least I think I have.”
He just stares at me for a second—like he’s rewinding through every moment we’ve shared and replaying it under a different light. I see the exact moment he softens. The moment my words actually settle somewhere beneath the layers of doubt he carries like armor.
“I just… you really have a way of surprising me,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “Every time I think I’ve figured you out, you show me something new. Something kind. Something I didn’t realize I needed.”
My heart stutters.
He exhales like he hadn’t meant to say all of that out loud. Like the words slipped out before he could dress them up as something smaller.
His gaze drifts to my mouth, just for a second.
And suddenly, the space between us feels charged.
Barely noticeable if I hadn’t been watching him so closely. But I see it. I feel it. That flicker of want, raw and hesitant, like he’s trying to swallow it down before it gives him away.
My chest tightens.
I feel the heat blooming slowly beneath my skin, starting low and curling upward like smoke, delicate and dangerous. I set my takeout box on the coffee table without taking my eyes off him. My hands feel a little too empty, a little too aware of themselves. Of him.
He’s still looking at me, not moving, but his whole body is tense in that way he gets when he’s thinking too much. Like he’s weighing every second, every breath, against what might happen next.
And maybe I am too.
The silence stretches, but it’s not empty.
It’s full.
Heavy with everything we haven’t said, with everything we’ve been circling around for weeks—brushing against by accident, then backing away like the contact was too much, too soon, too something.
But not now.
Now the air between us feels like a thread being pulled tighter. One of us is going to break it. And I think—I hope—it’s going to be me.
I lean in.
Slowly.
Like I’m moving through water. Like I’m giving him time to stop me. To hesitate. To second-guess the moment the way he second-guesses everything he lets himself want.
But he doesn’t stop me.
His eyes search mine as I move closer, like he’s trying to read the fine print of whatever it is I’m offering. I feel his breath when I get close enough—warm, just barely uneven. His lips part slightly, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t lean away. Doesn’t close the distance.
He’s waiting.
Not out of fear. Out of reverence.
Like he wants to be sure this is real. That I’m sure.
So I let my hand rise, slow and deliberate, and brush a stray curl away from his forehead. My fingers linger. I feel the way his breath catches in his throat, the way his eyes flutter closed for half a second like even that tiny touch is something he’s been craving.
And then I whisper, almost without thinking, “Spencer…”
That’s all it takes.
He meets me halfway.
It’s not fast. It’s not rushed. It’s a convergence—careful, aching, suspended in that strange space where time slows and every inch feels infinite.
Our noses brush first. Barely. Just enough for me to feel the trembling edge of hesitation in him—like even now, with my breath on his mouth, he’s still afraid of getting this wrong.
And I think—You won’t.
So I tilt my chin the tiniest bit, closing the space.
When our lips finally touch, it’s light—feather-soft, almost uncertain, like we’re both afraid that if we move too fast, we’ll lose the thread we’ve been pulling toward all night. But God, it’s real. The warmth of his mouth. The way his hand, hesitant at first, lifts to hover near my cheek, as if he wants to touch me but still needs permission.
So I give it to him.
I press in a little more, just enough to feel the full shape of him. The way he exhales shakily into me, like the relief of it is too much to carry in silence. His fingers finally settle—one at my jaw, the other brushing lightly at my waist. It’s not greedy. It’s not claiming.
It’s courteous.
Like I’m something precious and fragile and wanted. So wanted.
And I didn’t expect that part.
Because I thought it might be awkward. I thought he might overthink it, might hesitate too long or pull back too soon.
But he doesn’t.
He kisses me like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment and is still somehow terrified it might vanish.
And me?
I kiss him like I can’t believe I’ve gone this long without it.
There’s a part of me—small and quiet—that wants to cry from the sheer gentleness of it. From the way his lips move with mine like he’s memorizing the shape of every soft syllable we’ve ever left unsaid.
When we finally part, it’s not because I want to stop. It’s because I need air. Because I need to look at him and see if he felt it too—this shift in the universe. This tiny, perfect undoing.
He’s still close. So close I can see the smudge of pink on his lips, the dazed tilt to his expression. Like he can’t believe I kissed him back.
Like he didn’t expect this ending to be his.
I want to say something. Anything. But I can’t catch my breath.
He swallows, eyes fixed on mine. “Was that okay?”
My chest tightens.
“Spencer,” I whisper. “It was more than okay… It was perfect.”
A beat of silence.
Then we both sort of—laugh.
Not loud. Not mocking. Just soft, breathless chuckles that escape before either of us can stop them. Like our bodies are trying to let out some of the electricity we’ve been holding in for too long.
He ducks his head, and I see the smallest, most genuine smile tug at his mouth—the kind he usually tries to hide behind his hands or a sip of coffee. It lights up his whole face, boyish and stunned and so clearly happy that I want to bottle the sight and keep it with me forever.
“I can’t feel my hands,” he admits, and I laugh again, a little louder this time.
“God, you're sweet,” I murmur, biting my bottom lip.
“You know,” he says, even as his fingers tremble slightly where they’re still resting near my waist. “I’ve read over twenty books on human intimacy and I still almost forgot to breathe.”
“I’m not sure that’s something you can read your way through,” I tease.
He leans forward just enough to press his forehead against mine. “Tell me that after I kiss you again.”
This time, when our lips meet, it’s easier. Warmer. Less careful. Still tender, but touched with something lighter—like we’ve cracked open some hidden part of ourselves and found joy inside.
His hands settle with more confidence now, one sliding around my back, the other threading gently into my hair. I tilt into him with a sigh, my own fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater vest, needing to hold onto something.
The kiss deepens again.
There's a shift. Subtle at first. A lingering press of lips, a shared inhale that feels like the start of something we can't take back. And I don't want to. Not even for a second. His mouth parts, inviting, and when my tongue brushes against his, I feel the sharp, beautiful catch of his breath. It sends a ripple through me—heat curling low in my stomach, anchoring itself in the space between us.
He groans—soft, like he didn’t mean for it to slip out—and it vibrates against my mouth. I feel it everywhere. In my chest. My spine. The ache that’s been building beneath my skin since the moment he first looked at me tonight like I was something he didn’t think he was allowed to want.
But now he wants.
I can feel it in the way his hands move—more purposeful now, sliding down from my hair to my waist, fingertips pressing into the soft cotton of my shirt like he’s memorizing the curve of me. Like he’s trying to stay grounded in something real.
I shift forward on the couch, into him, across him. My leg hooks loosely over his, angling myself closer, needing to close the last of the distance. He gasps into my mouth, and suddenly he’s gripping my hips like he doesn’t quite trust himself to stay gentle if I keep moving like that.
“Y/N…” he murmurs, voice wrecked, low and tight with restraint.
It sends a shiver straight down my spine. Not because he’s warning me. Because he wants this—wants me—and is trying so hard to hold the line.
But I don’t want the line anymore.
I kiss him harder. Deeper. My hands leave his sweater and slide upward, over his shoulders, into the soft curls at the base of his neck. He melts into it, into me, groaning again—louder this time, more desperate, more real.
His hands slide beneath my shirt—warm, tentative, reverent. Calloused fingertips brushing over bare skin like he’s afraid to touch too much, like every inch is a gift he’s still not sure he’s earned.
“Spencer,” I whisper against his lips.
He pulls back just enough to look at me.
And God—his eyes.
They’re blown wide, pupils dilated, lips kiss-bitten and parted, chest rising like he’s been holding his breath since the moment we started. He looks wrecked. Beautifully, completely wrecked. And the sight of him like this—rumpled, flushed, barely keeping himself together—undoes something in me.
I cup his jaw with both hands and press my forehead to his again.
“Come with me.”
His breath catches. “Are you sure?”
I nod, brushing my lips against his. “So sure.”
He still hesitates—but only for a second.
Then he stands, helping me up with both hands like I might disappear if he lets go.
And I don’t look back as I lead him to the bedroom.
The bedroom is dim, just the hallway light casting a soft amber glow across the floor. We don’t turn on a lamp. We don’t speak. There’s no need to—everything we’re trying to say is still humming in the space between us, in every glance, every touch.
He follows me inside like he’s afraid if he moves too fast, I might vanish. And I can feel the restraint rolling off him in waves, feel how tightly he’s keeping himself in check, even as his fingers brush against my wrist like he’s not ready to stop touching me. Like he can’t.
I back up slowly until the backs of my knees hit the bed.
He stops in front of me, breathing shallow. Waiting again. Always waiting.
So I make the next move.
My hands go to the hem of his sweater vest, fingers curling in the fabric. I tug gently—not to pull it off yet, just to hold him there, close. Anchored. I feel the heat of him even through the layers, feel the way his breath hitches when I slide my palms up underneath, meeting the fabric of his dress shirt. He shivers. Not from cold.
It’s not long before the vest is off and my hands settle on the buttons of his shirt. Not sliding them off yet, just tracing them.
His hands settle at my waist again, a little firmer this time. Confident, but still reverent. He doesn’t pull me toward him—I go willingly. Pressing my body to his, chest to chest, heat to heat, until there’s no space left between us. I can feel everything. The rise of his breath. The quiet, frantic thump of his heart. The tension low in his abdomen, coiled tight beneath his clothes.
When I kiss him again, it’s different.
No more gentle pauses. No more testing the waters.
This one is slow and greedy. A kiss that takes and gives in equal measure, all lips and breath and hands that are suddenly desperate for skin. My fingers slide up his chest, unbuttoning as I go—slowly, carefully, tracing each line of fabric until I can feel the heat of him through the thin cotton. He exhales like I’m undoing more than just a shirt.
His mouth trails from mine to my jaw, kissing down with the kind of focus that makes me dizzy. He lingers behind my ear, then down to the curve of my throat, where he kisses—really kisses—and my knees nearly buckle. I feel his hands shift lower, steadying me, gripping my hips tighter like he’s not sure whether he’s helping or holding himself back.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmurs against my neck, voice low, breath hot.
I shake my head instantly, fingers fisting in his shirt. “I don’t.”
It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever said.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes searching. Not for doubt—but for confirmation. For trust. I give it to him with one look, one kiss, one press of my body against his.
That’s all it takes.
We tumble onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, the kind of gracelessness that only happens when you’re not thinking, not posing—just feeling. I land on my back, laughing softly, breathless from how quickly the air shifted again. He follows, bracing himself over me, his curls falling forward. One hand at the side of my face, the other resting carefully near my ribs, like he wants to hold me and also be sure he’s not too much.
He kisses me again, slower now, letting it stretch. My legs part to let him settle between them, the pressure of his body against mine exactly what I’ve been craving for too long. My hands move greedily now—over his back, under his shirt, tracing the skin there like I need to learn him by touch.
When his mouth finds the hollow of my throat again, I moan softly and feel him shudder.
Like he wasn’t expecting it. Like I’ve undone something fragile in him without even meaning to.
“Y/N,” he whispers, like he’s praying. Like he’s asking permission every time he says my name.
“Yes,” I whisper back, even though he hasn’t asked a question.
Because whatever he’s asking, the answer is yes.
Yes, to this.
Yes, to him.
Yes, to us.
His hand slips beneath my shirt again, sliding along my waist, up to the curve of my ribs. And this time, when he touches me, there’s no hesitation. Only reverence. Only heat. His thumb brushes just beneath the edge of my bra and I arch into him, needing more.
His mouth is on mine again, slower this time, but deeper. Hungrier. And I give into it completely, my fingers fisting in the back of his shirt, needing to keep him close. Needing to feel all of him—his weight, his heat, the careful, reverent way he keeps touching me like he’s terrified I’ll disappear if he lets go.
We move together without speaking, all instinct and breath and the occasional desperate gasp when one of us touches a new place, finds a new reaction. He’s learning me like he wants to—like he’s memorizing every sound, every shift of my hips, every stutter in my breath when he kisses a little lower, touches a little firmer.
His mouth drags down my neck again, open and warm, and when he finds that sensitive spot just beneath my collarbone, my whole body jerks.
“Y/n” he whispers, voice ragged as his fingers skim beneath my shirt again, “You’re a dream.”
I moan softly, arching into him, pulling him closer until the friction is maddening—heat and want and pressure, and something sweeter, too. Something like awe.
The first time his phone buzzes on the nightstand, we both ignore it.
Neither of us moves.
Neither of us wants to move.
“It’ll go to voicemail,” he whispers, but I can tell he’s hesitant to let it go. That part of him that runs on responsibility, on logic and worst-case scenarios, is already pulling at the edge of him. But I’m still holding him here. And for now, that seems to win.
Still, he shrugs it off by bringing his mouth to my collarbone.
His lips are warm—softer than I ever imagined they’d be—dragging slowly over the delicate curve of bone like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me with his mouth. He presses a kiss there, then another, then lingers with an open-mouthed breath that makes me arch involuntarily.
“God,” I murmur, one hand slipping into his curls, the other fisting in the fabric of the sheets. “Don’t stop.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” he says, voice low, wrecked, and when he looks up at me, his pupils are wide, his mouth kiss-swollen, his expression caught somewhere between worship and desperation.
He kisses lower, lips dragging down my stomach in a slow, reverent path. My shirt is pushed high now, nearly forgotten, and my thighs are already parting before he’s even touched me there. I feel open. Offered. And he’s accepting like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
His fingers hook gently into the sides of my underwear, pausing only to glance up—asking. Always asking.
I nod, already trembling. “Please…”
He exhales shakily, like that word undid whatever thread he was clinging to, and begins to pull the fabric down with aching slowness. The air hits me, cool and sharp, and I feel his breath follow right after—hot and reverent and close.
So close.
I gasp as he kisses my inner thigh, teeth grazing lightly. His hands spread over my hips, anchoring me to the bed like I might float away.
And then—
The phone rings again.
A second time.
Louder.
Longer.
Neither of us moves. The sound vibrates through the silence like a cruel joke, like the universe itself is trying to tear the moment in half.
He groans—this quiet, wrecked sound that leaves his chest and presses right into mine like an apology. His forehead lowers to rest against my thigh.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “That’s… I can’t ignore it.”
I bite down on a whimper and force myself to nod. Because I know he’s right. Because if it’s a call from his job, something’s wrong. And he’ll carry that guilt with him whether I tell him to stay or not.
He rises slowly, like it hurts to put space between us. Like his body is still trying to stay pressed to mine even as he sits back on his knees, hands braced on either side of my hips, breath still uneven.
He reaches for the phone.
Checks the screen.
His jaw tightens. “It’s Garcia.”
A beat.
Then he closes his eyes like he’s willing the moment to hold just a few seconds longer.
“I don’t want to go,” he says, not looking at me. “God, I don’t want to go.”
And even though I’m still breathless, still aching in ways I hadn’t expected, I reach for his hand.
“I know,” I whisper, lacing our fingers together. “It’s okay, honey. Take it.”
He nods, reluctantly, and clicks the accept button, then brings the phone to his ear. His other hand remains tangled with mine, like he can’t quite let go.
“This is Reid,” he says, voice still thick, hoarse. Not professional yet. Not even close. He swallows hard, like he’s trying to drag himself back into the mindset of the man who solves murders, not the one who just had his mouth on my skin.
I watch his face shift as he listens. The tension coming back into his shoulders. His brow furrowing, his mouth tightening in the way it always does when the outside world seeps back in.
“Yeah,” he says after a long beat. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
His thumb rubs against the back of my hand—slow, apologetic.
He ends the call.
And the silence that follows is heavier than the one before. Not because we’re angry. Not because we’re upset with each other. But because we both know what we just lost in the space of a few seconds.
He finally looks at me.
His hair’s a mess, his shirt still halfway unbuttoned, lips flushed, skin warm with leftover wanting. He looks like he’s trying to memorize me—exactly as I am, in this bed, under this light, before the night splits away from what it could’ve been.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time. “I really didn’t want—”
“I know,” I interrupt gently, squeezing his hand. “It’s okay.”
And I mean it. Even if every part of me is still humming with unfinished need. Even if I want to pull him back down and finish what we started. I won’t make him feel worse. Not when he already looks like he might break in half from guilt.
“Go,” I say. “They need you.”
He lingers for a second longer, like he’s waiting for something to anchor him again. So I lean forward and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth—slow, tender, final.
“Be safe,” I murmur.
He nods, breathing out hard. Then rises from the bed with reluctant movements, grabbing his shirt from the floor, his phone, his jacket. He doesn’t bother buttoning everything properly—just throws it on over his rumpled clothes, half-zipped, his hair still mussed.
He looks like a man walking away from something he didn’t want to leave behind.
The door closes behind him.
And the room is suddenly, impossibly quiet.
At least it was for a moment—just long enough for the weight of everything that almost happened to settle in my chest. The warmth of his hands still lingered on my skin, the ghost of his mouth still traced along the inside of my thigh. My body felt like it was still reaching for him even though he was already gone.
The ache hadn’t faded. Not entirely. But I could feel it reshaping into something else—something quieter. Something lonelier.
Then my phone rings.
I blink.
It vibrates against the nightstand, sharp in the silence. For a second, I just stare at it, brain still foggy with everything Spencer left behind.
Beth's Contact.
Maddie’s friend’s mom.
My heart drops.
I scramble to grab it, thumb swiping across the screen faster than my thoughts can catch up. I sit up straight, tugging the rumpled sheets over my chest even though there’s no one here to see.
“Hello?”
“Oh—hi, Y/N,” Beth says quickly, her voice hushed, apologetic. “I’m so sorry to call this late, but Maddie’s… um, she’s asking for you.”
My chest tightens. “Is she okay?”
“She’s not hurt or anything, just really upset. She started crying about ten minutes ago. I tried to calm her down, but she keeps saying she wants to go home.”
That’s all I need to hear.
“I’m coming to get her,” I say, already reaching for the clothes discarded beside the bed.
“Are you sure? She might settle down if—”
“She’s not ready,” I say gently. “And that’s okay.”
There’s a pause, then Beth sighs. “Okay. I’ll keep her bundled up until you get here.”
“Thank you.”
I hang up and sit for a second on the edge of the bed, fingers still wrapped tightly around my phone. I stare down at the sheets where Spencer’s hand had just been. The same bed where just minutes ago, I’d said please and meant it in a dozen different ways.
I’m still not ready either.
But for a different reason.
And somehow, that makes the ache easier to bear.
I grab my keys and pull on the first hoodie I find. My body is still buzzing from Spencer—half-finished, half-satisfied, half his—but my heart is already pulling toward the front door, to the little girl who still needs me most.
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pillow-coded · 12 days ago
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This is so adorable I’m legit gonna cry
Socializing 🎒
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...baby's are so small,,and spencer is 80 percent leg,,
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pillow-coded · 12 days ago
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To Have and To Hold — Chapter 14
Summary: Spencer, Maddie and Y/N go to the aquarium. Things start getting really homely. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: fluff, Spencer being the best girl dad, kissing (yippie!) word count: 8.5k
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Bioluminescence is the production and emission of light by a living organism. Typically a defense mechanism. Sometimes a lure. Always beautiful. I remember reading that it only works in the dark—that it takes darkness to make something glow like that.
And as I’m standing here, breathless and late, watching her silhouette framed by the soft neon of aquarium lights, I think maybe that’s what she is to me.
A creature that glows when the world goes dim. Not in a way that demands attention, but in a way that disarms it. And the worst part? She’s smiling like she still forgives me—for being late, for being complicated, for being me. I don’t know how to deserve that. I just know I’d follow the glow if it led me anywhere near her.
“You finally made it,” she sighs, all relief and softness.
“I’m so sorry. Work ran over, and then someone on the subway spilled their coffee on me, so I went home to change—but then I didn’t like what I picked, so I changed again, and then—”
“Hey. Hey,” she cuts in gently, a hand finding my wrist. “It’s okay, Spence.”
Her fingers are light on my wrist, but the touch short-circuits something in me. Not in a bad way. Just… like I was buzzing too loud and she found the off switch.
I nod, swallowing hard. “Okay. Right. I’m here.”
And then she lets go. And I miss it.
Before I can spiral again, a blur of pink jacket and pigtails barrels into me from the side.
“Spencer!”
Maddie’s arms wrap tight around my legs and I stagger just slightly—more from the shock of it than the force.
“There she is,” I breathe, crouching to her level. “How was school today, princess?”
She pulls back just enough to grin at me—one of those full-face, nose-wrinkled grins that makes her dimples pop.
“Miss Carla made us do a class spelling bee,” she reports gravely, like this is the most pressing news of the day.
“Oh really? how did you do?”
“I won!”
Her eyes sparkle with pride, and for a second, I swear the whole aquarium feels brighter.
“No way,” I gasp, dramatically placing a hand over my chest. “You won the whole thing?”
She nods so hard her pigtails bounce. “I spelled dinosaur and elephant and important and even vegetable.”
“Vegetable?” I echo. “That one gets me every time.”
She giggles. “You’re silly.”
I smile, but it’s soft. Barely there. I don’t want to ruin this. I don’t want to make it about me. But part of me—some smaller, broken part—can’t help thinking: If I had a daughter, I’d want her to be just like this. Loud. Smart. Unafraid.
“You must be so proud,” I say, glancing up at Y/N.
“She wouldn’t stop talking about you on the way here,” Y/N says softly. “Kept saying, ‘Spencer knows every word in the whole world. He’s gonna be so proud of me.’”
My breath catches. And I look back down at the little girl beaming up at me like I invented the alphabet.
I clear my throat. “Well then. As your official spelling bee wizard, I think this calls for a reward.”
Her eyes widen. “Like… magic?”
“Better,” I whisper, leaning in. “Three tickets to the sea otter show.”
She gasps.
“Come on,” I say, standing. She takes my hand without hesitation.
Maddie slips her small fingers into my other hand like it’s second nature. Her palm is warm and a little sticky—grape jelly, maybe, or aquarium gift shop candy—but I don’t let go. She swings our arms dramatically with every step, humming some tune she’s making up as she goes.
We move slowly at first, weaving through the aquarium's dim corridors. Blue light filters down from above, fractured by water and glass. It bathes everything in something quiet. Something gentle. I think about saying something—about the way this feels too good to be real—but then Maddie gasps.
“Look! Look, they’re glowing!” she cries, her voice echoing just slightly off the curved walls.
And just like that, she takes off. Still close, still within reach, but ahead now—drawn forward by some silent, shimmering current. The colorful fish.
I don’t call her back.
And then—so quietly I almost miss it—Y/N’s hand slips into mine.
She doesn’t make a show of it. Just a simple, steady motion. Like it’s normal.
I glance at her, but she’s watching Maddie, not me. Her expression soft—almost private, like she’s letting herself feel something she hasn’t admitted out loud yet. Maybe I am too.
Her fingers fit between mine so easily, it feels like this has happened before. Like it’s muscle memory. Or fate. Or maybe just something we both needed and didn’t know how to ask for.
She squeezes my hand, and we keep walking, just the two of us trailing behind the bounce of pink sneakers and wonder.
“How was work?” she asks, and her voice tugs me back to the surface.
“It was alright…” I hesitate. “Unfortunately, JJ told the team about you, and now they all want to meet you.”
“Unfortunately?” she echoes, glancing sideways with a crooked smile.
“Well…” I rub the back of my neck. “I told JJ about you in confidence. I wasn’t going to tell anyone yet.”
Her brow lifts, just slightly.
“Not because I don’t want anyone to know about you,” I rush to clarify. “I do. I swear I do. It’s just—”
“Honey, breathe.”
She says it so easily. Honey.
It’s the second time she’s called me that, and it hits just as hard. Like some long-dormant part of me perks up at the sound—hopeful, wild, unreasonably greedy. I want her to call me that again. Forever. Until it’s the only name I answer to.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “What I mean is… I don’t usually talk about my personal life at work. Not because I’m ashamed or hiding anything. More like… you two are special to me… and I’ve seen what that world does to special things.”
She doesn’t interrupt. Just listens. And in that silence, I feel myself spill open more than I meant to.
“Call it paranoia. Or trauma. Or both. But I guess I didn’t want to risk… pulling you into something messy.”
We pause for a second near the glass, Maddie’s laughter echoing through the dim blue glow as she presses her nose to the tank.
When Y/N finally speaks, her voice is gentle. Unshaken.
“Spencer,” she says, not unkind, “I think you might just be overthinking it.”
A soft laugh escapes her—just breath and warmth, like the kind that fogs glass.
“No harm in meeting your friends. I think I can survive a round of profilers.”
I open my mouth to respond—something about how she’d do more than survive, how they’d love her, how JJ already does—but then Maddie spins toward us, her face lit up like one of the exhibits.
“Mommy! Can you take a picture of me with the blue fishies?”
Her hands are already pressed to the glass, hair a little wild from static, smile too big for her face.
“Go get in the picture with her,” Y/N nudges, her voice low and teasing—but there’s something gentle under it. Something like trust.
I blink at her. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” she laughs. “You’re half the reason she’s glowing like that.”
I hesitate, glancing down at myself like I need to double-check I’m worthy of being seen, but Maddie’s already calling for me, her little fingers tapping the glass. “Spencer! Come see! Come see!”
And when I walk toward her—awkward, unsure—I catch our reflections in the glass. She’s grinning. I’m… soft-edged. Unarmored. Lit in blue.
She tugs me closer, small hand gripping mine again like it’s no big deal. Like this is normal.
Before I’m even ready, the flash hits us in the face—bright and clumsy and perfect.
I blink through it, still squinting when I turn to her. But she’s not squinting. She’s smiling. Beaming, actually. Like she couldn’t be happier about standing in front of a fish tank—with me of all people.
Something swells in my chest, sharp and full. I don’t know what to do with it, so I just hold it there. Let it glow a little.
“What are those called?” she asks, still pointing at the tank, her voice small but curious.
“Those are Cherub Pygmy Angelfish,” I tell her, leaning in a little. “They’re small, usually no more than three inches long, and they like hiding in coral reefs.”
She presses her nose to the glass again, breath fogging the surface. “They look like they’re glowing.”
“They do,” I nod. “It’s a kind of iridescence in their scales. They reflect light in a way that makes them look… almost electric.”
She hums thoughtfully, eyes tracking the flicker of blue and gold. “They’re really pretty.”
I glance at her—at the way her face lights up just watching them—and something tugs behind my ribs.
“They are,” I say. But I’m not looking at the fish anymore.
I’m looking at her.
“Come on, sweetheart, let’s go look at the rest of the fishies.”
Before Maddie can respond, I slide an arm around her tiny waist and lift her effortlessly onto my shoulder.
She squeals—pure delight—her laughter echoing through the dim, glowing corridor as her hands grab hold of my hair for balance.
“Higher!” she giggles, voice ringing out like a bell.
“You’re going to make me go bald,” I tease, steadying her legs with one hand. 
Her little fingers pat the top of my head like I’m her personal steed, and I can feel her happiness radiating through every wiggly bounce.
Y/N turns to look back at us—her smile soft, fond, a little in awe. Like she’s seeing something she didn’t know she needed until just now.
“Let’s go look at the pink fishies!” Maddie exclaims from above my head, bouncing slightly with excitement.
“Those are Squarespot Anthias” I tell her, adjusting my hold on her legs as we walk. “Very popular in coral reef ecosystems.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then—“They're so cool,” Maddie says in awe.
I feel my heart twist, soft and sudden.
“They’re usually found around reefs at depths of 10 to 180 meters,” I add, because I can’t help myself. Facts are my fallback when feelings start to rise too quickly.
But Maddie hums in response, like she’s genuinely impressed, and leans forward on my shoulders to get a better view ahead. Her small hands tighten in my hair, not painfully—just to stay close. Like she trusts I won’t let her fall.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Y/N watching us again. Not saying anything. Just… looking. Like maybe she’s memorizing something she never wants to forget.
Her eyes meet mine, and there’s something there that makes my throat go tight. Not because it’s overwhelming—but because it’s kind. Steady. Sure.
“You okay?” I ask, my voice low. Almost cautious. Like if I speak too loud, the moment might dissolve.
She nods slowly, then breathes out a laugh—soft and shaky in the way something honest usually is.
“Yeah,” she says. “I just… I don’t know. You’re really good at this.”
“At what?” I blink, genuinely unsure.
She lifts one shoulder, glancing toward Maddie, still perched on my shoulders, still humming under her breath. “Being with her. You just… get her. Like it’s easy.”
I swallow hard. “I… I think she’s the one who gets me.”
Y/N looks over, curious now. “What do you mean?”
I glance forward, pretending to watch Maddie’s little feet swinging gently by my chest, but the truth is I’m buying time. It’s not easy to explain—how much that tiny kid has somehow cracked open parts of me I didn’t know were still reachable.
“I’m used to people… shutting me up. Or dismissing me when I say—well, stuff. The facts. The science. The things that spill out when I’m nervous or excited or trying to connect,” I say, my voice quieter now, almost like I’m admitting to a flaw.
“But she doesn’t do that. She doesn’t make me feel like I talk too much or like I’m boring her. She listens. She asks questions. Like she’s actually amazed.”
I let out a soft breath. “I don’t think anyone’s ever looked at me like that before.”
There’s a pause.
“I think that’s ‘cause she’s as curious as you are,” Y/N says softly.
I glance at her, caught off guard by how much those words land. They’re simple. But something about the way she says them—calm, steady, like she’s not just talking about Maddie—makes something stutter in my chest.
Curious.
She could’ve said smart. Or kind. Or sweet. But she said curious. The same thing I’ve been called my whole life, usually as an excuse. A reason I don’t fit. A label slapped on like it’s a fault.
But Y/N says it like it’s a good thing. Like it’s something worth matching.
And in that second, I wonder—is she talking about Maddie… or herself?
I don’t ask. I just keep walking.
But the warmth in my chest doesn’t fade.
“Spencer! Spencer! Can we go on the fish tunnel?” Maddie calls, already wiggling in place on my shoulders like she’s halfway there.
“Oh?” I say, shifting her weight a little to keep her steady. “Are you sure, Mads? That tunnel has sharks. It can get scary.”
She gasps—not in fear, but in pure delight. “Real sharks?”
“Real ones,” I nod solemnly. “Sand tiger sharks. Sometimes they float right over your head. Rows of teeth and everything.”
“Cool,” she whispers with awe, like I just told her she was about to meet a dragon.
Y/N laughs under her breath beside me. “She’s braver than I am.”
I glance at her, smiling. “Well, you’re gonna have to be plenty brave too, ‘cause the only way out is through.”
She lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Are you trying to psych me out?”
“Absolutely not,” I say, but my tone’s already too light, too teasing to be convincing. “I’m just stating the facts. We’re entering a thirty-foot tunnel filled with circling apex predators. No big deal.”
She narrows her eyes at me, but she’s grinning.
And Maddie? Maddie cheers like we’ve just announced the next leg of an epic quest.
I adjust her on my shoulders and nod toward the entrance, where the tunnel dips under the tank, glowing blue and lined with ripples of reflected light.
“This way, brave explorers,” I say, slipping into that familiar rhythm I use when i’m with them. “Past the coral reefs, beneath the predator’s patrol, through the belly of the beast...”
And as we step inside, the world goes quiet. Water hushes overhead. Light bends.
For a moment, it really does feel like we’re somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.
“Mommy! Mommy, take a picture!”
Maddie’s voice cuts through the stillness, bright and breathless. She’s already wriggling to get down from my shoulders, practically vibrating with excitement. I set her down gently, and she darts a few feet ahead, stopping right beneath a sand tiger shark gliding silently overhead.
She throws her arms out wide, face tilted up, bathed in shifting shades of blue and silver. “Look! He’s smiling!”
Y/N laughs softly behind me and lifts her phone. “Hold still, baby. That one’s definitely going on the fridge.”
I step back and watch—Maddie framed by glass and water and wonder, Y/N holding the moment still with a quiet kind of reverence.
“Get in the picture with her,” she says, voice warm, almost teasing.
I glance over, expecting the familiar flutter of panic, but… it’s quieter this time. We already did this once—by the fish. And the world didn’t fall apart. No one looked at me like I didn’t belong in the frame.
So I nod. Not awkward, not overthinking. Just… yeah.
Maddie beams and tugs me down beside her before I’ve even fully knelt. She wraps one arm around my neck and points the other straight up at the shark overhead.
“Ready!” she declares.
Y/N lifts the phone again, her smile impossibly soft.
“Perfect,” she murmurs.
The flash goes off, and this time, I don't flinch. I just stay there—under glass and glowing water, beside a girl who’s too brave for her size and a woman who keeps letting me in—and I let myself be part of the picture.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Maddie beams, already taking off down the curve of the tunnel. Her footsteps echo, light and fast, as she darts forward, eager to see every shark, every stingray, every flicker of movement through the glass.
“Slow down, baby,” Y/N calls after her, laughing lightly. “And remember to stay close!”
“I am close!” Maddie yells back, without slowing down at all.
Y/N shakes her head, but there’s no real worry in her eyes. Just that soft, maternal knowing—the kind that lives in practiced patience.
We walk side by side, the tunnel arching above us like the inside of a deep breath. Schools of fish dart past, silver ribbons in motion. A stingray glides overhead, casting shadows that ripple across Y/N’s face.
I glance at her—just a second too long.
The light curves around her features, soft and blue. Her mouth is slightly parted, her eyes reflecting some quiet thought I’ll never be brave enough to ask about.
And I realize I’m staring.
Too long.
Again.
I tear my gaze away just as we step out of the tunnel and into the next room—darker, quieter. The ceiling disappears here, and everything shifts into something slower, softer.
Jellyfish.
They float behind tall glass in pulsing clouds, their translucent bodies glowing in gentle waves of lavender, blue, and pale gold. No sound but the hum of the tank filters and the occasional shuffle of other visitors. It feels reverent, almost sacred. Like we’ve walked into a cathedral of light.
Maddie presses her hands to the glass, whispering, “Whoa…” like it’s too beautiful to speak at full volume.
Y/N moves beside her, close enough that I could reach out and touch her if I just… tried.
“They look like ghosts,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
I nod. “Jellyfish don’t have a brain, or a heart. They don’t even swim the way most creatures do. They just… drift. Glow. Survive.”
I step a little closer to the tank, my voice quiet, instinctive.
“These are moon jellies. One of the most common jellyfish species. Fun fact: they’re made up of about ninety-eight percent water.”
Maddie’s nose is nearly pressed to the glass now, her breath fogging a little circle in front of her.
“They’re glowing,” Y/n whispers, enchanted.
“Uh—well, approximately fifty percent of jellyfish species are bioluminescent,” I explain, slipping into that space I always go to when I’m overwhelmed—when things feel too big, too good, too close. “Bioluminescence means they can produce light through a chemical reaction within their bodies. Usually as a defense mechanism. Or as a lure.”
Y/N looks at me again. Not like I’m talking too much. Not like I’m a museum guide she didn’t ask for. She just listens. Really listens.
Like maybe I’m glowing, too.
“That’s really beautiful,” she murmurs, eyes still fixed on the drifting jellyfish.
I nod, then shake my head. “I think it’s sad.”
She glances at me, eyebrows raised. “Sad?”
“Not the bioluminescence,” I clarify. “That part’s… amazing. But the rest of it? They just float. All day, every day. No brain, no heart. No real control. They just go wherever the water takes them.”
She tilts her head, thinking. “I don’t know… I think that sounds kind of peaceful.”
I blink. “Peaceful?”
“Yeah.” She smiles softly. “They don’t fight the current. They’re not in a rush to get anywhere. They’re just… being. Existing. And still glowing while they do it. I think that’s kind of beautiful.”
I look back at the tank, watching the jellyfish pulse through the water like slow, weightless thoughts.
“To me, it feels more like surviving than living,” I admit. “No direction, no agency. Just drifting because there’s no other choice.”
She hums under her breath, not disagreeing—just considering. “Maybe. But I think there’s something kind of bold about existing quietly. About not needing to fight all the time to be worth looking at.”
That catches me off guard. Her voice. Her certainty. The idea that softness could be brave.
I glance at her again, really look.
“I never would’ve thought of it like that.”
She shrugs, a little shy now. “Well, you tend to think too logically,”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s… probably the nicest way anyone’s ever called me rigid.”
She laughs. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s just… you see the world like a pattern to be solved. I don’t. I think some things are meant to be felt, not figured out.”
I want to disagree. Reflexively. Defensively. But I don’t.
Because she’s right.
And because I like the way she says it—not like a criticism, but like an invitation. To loosen. To soften. To wonder, instead of always needing to understand.
“I like that about you,” I say, surprising even myself. “That you don’t need everything to make sense.”
She looks over, smile still tugging at her lips, and for a moment neither of us says anything.
Then, without a word, she reaches down and takes my hand.
It’s not dramatic. Not a grand declaration. Just her fingers sliding between mine like they’ve always belonged there.
But it stops something in me—stills it. That buzzing under my skin, the constant thrum of needing to prove myself or protect something or pull away before I get hurt.
I don’t pull away.
I squeeze, just a little. She squeezes back.
And we stand there like that, quiet in the glow of drifting ghosts, different in all the ways that matter, and maybe for the first time…
not drifting alone.
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“Maddie, you can’t take your shark with you to the bathroom, honey. Put it on the bed.”
She pouts from the hallway, cradling the plush like it’s a living thing. “But he’s scared without me.”
I arch a brow. “He’ll be fine for two minutes. I promise.”
With great dramatic flair, she sighs and gives the shark a little pat on the head before placing it gently on the bed—like she’s tucking him in.
“I’ll be right back,” she whispers to it.
Spencer chuckles softly from behind me, and I swear I can feel the sound in my spine.
I glance over my shoulder. He’s standing by the bookshelf, holding the jellyfish I picked out for myself at the gift shop—turning it over in his hands like he’s still trying to figure out why I chose it.
I’m not sure I could explain it to him even if he asked.
I just liked it.
The softness. The quiet glow.
Maybe I liked that it reminded me of something sad, but still beautiful.
Maybe I liked that he looked sad sometimes, and still beautiful too.
“I never said thank you,” I say, gently breaking the silence between us.
He looks up from the jellyfish, brows knitting together in that soft, confused way he does when he's unsure if I’m being serious.
“For what?”
“The other day,” I say, turning back toward the kitchen to busy my hands with the mugs on the counter. “When you came over to take care of little old sick me.”
“Oh,” he says, like he forgot. But I know he didn’t. “I think you did.”
“I didn’t…” I pause, fingers curling gently around the ceramic. “Thank you, Spence.”
I turn to face him, letting the words settle between us. “And thank you for today.”
He shifts slightly, still holding the jellyfish plush in both hands like it might float away if he lets go. His eyes flick to mine, then away.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he says, soft. Almost shy. “I wanted to be there.”
“I know,” I nod, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s why I’m thanking you.”
Something about that seems to catch him off guard—like he doesn’t quite know what to do with being appreciated so directly. Like he’s used to doing the caring, but not receiving the gratitude.
We just stand there for a moment. The kitchen feels smaller than it did before. Warmer. Like the quiet is holding both of us gently in place.
He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else—something important—but then:
The toilet flushes.
And just like that, the moment drifts.
“Mama, Can you tuck me in?” Maddie yells from the bathroom like it’s a code red.
I exhale a soft laugh through my nose, glancing toward the hallway. “One second, baby!”
I just touch his arm lightly as I pass, and say, “Come on. Help me tuck her in.”
He follows without a word, quiet footsteps padding behind me down the hall to Maddie’s room. The light’s low, casting everything in a soft golden haze. Her little shark plush is clutched tight in her arms, its face squished into her cheek like it’s part of her now.
When she sees us, she lights up—eyes still heavy with sleep, but joy unmistakable. “Spencer,” she whispers, like it’s a secret just for him. “Did you see my shark? His name is Thunder.”
“Thunder,” he repeats, crouching beside the bed with a smile so gentle I feel it behind my ribs. “That’s a very serious name for such a squishy guy.”
“He’s fierce,” she explains, yawning mid-sentence, “and cuddly.”
“That’s a powerful combination,” he says, and somehow I don’t think he’s just talking about the stuffed animal.
I sit on the edge of the bed, brushing a curl away from her forehead. “Okay, cuddly girl. Eyes closed.”
“But Spencer has to say goodnight.”
He doesn’t hesitate this time. He leans in close, voice a quiet warmth. “Goodnight, Maddie. Sweet dreams.”
She reaches out and touches his wrist, fingers barely grazing his skin.
“Will you be here in the morning?”
It’s soft. Sleepy. But it cuts right through the air.
Spencer stills. His eyes meet mine.
There’s a question hanging there.
So I answer it for him. For both of us.
“We don’t know, baby,” I whisper, tucking the blanket higher up her chest. “But he’ll see you really soon.”
She nods, eyelids drooping. “Okay. goodnight, Thunder. goodnight, Mommy. goodnight, Spence.”
Her voice fades with the last syllable.
And then she’s gone—drifting into sleep like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
We don’t move for a moment.
Just watch her breathing, soft and even, arms still wrapped around her ridiculous plush shark.
I reach for the nightlight and click it on. The room floods with a soft blue, and gentle stars all over the walls.
We step out into the hallway together.
And this time, when I close the door, I swear the whole world hushes behind it.
The silence that follows isn’t empty.
It’s thick with something neither of us names. That almost-conversation still lingers between us—unspoken, but fully present, like the echo of a song that never finished.
Spencer exhales quietly beside me. His hands are in his pockets now, shoulders just slightly hunched like he’s unsure what to do with all this softness.
“She really wanted me to stay,” he says, voice low.
“I really want you to stay,” I say before I can second-guess it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just true.
He looks at me like I’ve knocked the wind out of him.
Not because he didn’t want to hear it. But because he didn’t expect to. Like it never even occurred to him that he could be wanted that plainly.
I don’t fill the silence. I let it sit there—between us, warm and steady. An open door instead of a question.
“I…” he starts, then stops. Swallows. “I don’t want to mess this up.”
“You won’t.” My voice is steady, but soft. “You’ve stayed before. Remember pizza night? It’s no different.”
His lips twitch, like he wants to smile but doesn’t quite trust the moment yet.
“Pizza night was different,” he says. “There was a movie playing. Maddie kept falling asleep on my shoulder. I was fell asleep too… It would’ve been really difficult for me to mess that up…”
I should tell him it’s not different. I should say that he couldn’t mess this up even if he tried. But instead I just look at him—at the hands in his pockets, the way his shoulders tense like he’s bracing for rejection he hasn’t even been offered.
And I feel it rise in my chest like a tide I can’t hold back.
I want him to stay.
Not just for Maddie. Not just for the comfort of a third mug on the table or a voice reading bedtime stories.
I want him to stay because I ache for the feeling of his hands on my waist again—gentle, tentative, like he’s afraid I might break if he holds too tight. Because I’ve replayed the sound of his laugh from the other side of my couch more times than I want to admit. Because every night I lie in bed and imagine what it would be like to fall asleep with my head on his chest and his voice humming low against my ear—not reading, just being.
I want him to stay because when he leaves, the apartment feels too quiet. Too hollow. Like something essential walked out with him.
And I know what it’s like to be left. I know how to survive that.
But I don’t want to survive tonight.
I want to feel something.
I want to feel him.
My throat tightens. My fingers curl slightly at my sides. And when I speak, my voice is low and aching and raw.
“Please… stay with me.”
Spencer just stands there, frozen like he’s trying to convince himself he heard me right.
For a moment, he says nothing.
But his eyes—God, his eyes. They look at me like I just handed him something precious. Something he's not sure he deserves to hold.
And then he whispers, “You mean... tonight?”
His voice cracks on the last word.
I nod. It’s all I can manage.
He swallows hard. His hands leave his pockets, hovering slightly at his sides like they don’t know what they’re allowed to do.
“I don’t want to misread this,” he says quietly, “I’ve been wrong before. And if I get this wrong with you…”
“You’re not wrong,” I cut in, stepping closer. “You’re the only thing that’s felt right in a long time.”
His breath stutters.
“I keep thinking about your hands,” I admit, voice barely a whisper now. “On my waist. How they felt like... I mean, it was just for a moment, to help me up when I fell the other night… but… it was like something I didn’t know I was starving for.”
He closes his eyes like it physically hurts to hear that. When he opens them, they’re shining.
“I think about falling asleep on your chest,” I go on. ��Not even for anything more. Just… to be held. To stay.”
For a second, I think he might cry.
But instead, he closes the space between us and brings one shaking hand to my cheek—light, like a question. His thumb brushes just under my eye.
“I don’t want to be anywhere else,” he breathes.
And then, finally—finally—he kisses me.
Not like he’s been waiting.
Like he’s been holding his breath for years.
He kisses me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
Like the moment his lips touch mine, everything fragile between us might crack open—so he starts gently. Reverently. Just a brush, feather-light, barely pressure at all. Testing. Asking.
I answer by leaning in.
My hands slide up his chest, feeling the subtle tremor beneath his shirt—like he’s holding himself together with sheer will. His heart is pounding. I can feel it in the space where our bodies almost touch. Not quite. Not yet.
The second kiss is deeper. He tilts his head slightly, adjusting, learning me like I’m something to be studied. There’s a kind of hesitance in him—his lips move with patience, like he’s trying not to ask for too much. But I can feel the ache beneath it. The hunger he’s too polite to let loose.
When my fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulders, I feel his breath hitch.
That’s when he lets go.
His hands find my waist, slow at first, then firmer—still careful, always careful, but no longer afraid. His thumbs press into my sides like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s still half-convinced this isn’t real.
I press closer, and that’s all it takes for something to shift.
He exhales into my mouth, the kind of sound people only make when they’ve been carrying silence too long. His lips part. Mine follow. The kiss deepens, warm and slow and wanting.
He kisses like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s afraid he won’t get another chance.
And I kiss him like I’ve already decided I’ll never let that happen.
It’s not rushed. It’s not frenzied. It’s tender. Intimate. Two people discovering, not devouring. His nose brushes mine. One of his hands slides up, fingers threading into my hair. And when I sigh against his mouth—soft, involuntary—he pulls me just the slightest bit closer.
Because he needs to know I’m real.
And I am. I’m here.
We both are.
When we finally pull apart, it’s not dramatic. There’s no gasp for air, no cinematic swell of music in the background. Just… quiet.
His hands linger on my waist. Mine on his shoulders. We’re close, still, like we’re not quite ready to let go yet.
And we just look at each other.
Really look.
His lips are a little pink from kissing. His eyes—God, his eyes—search mine like he’s still trying to figure out if this really just happened. If I meant it. If he gets to keep it.
I don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
But something shifts between us—like the air just got warmer. Lighter. Less afraid.
Then, like we’re on the exact same wavelength, we both let out these little half-laughs at the same time. Not loud, not nervous. Just… soft. Disbelieving.
A beat passes.
“I’m probably a terrible kisser,” he says, deadpan, almost embarrassed.
I snort. “You’re the worst,” I tease, grinning now. “Absolutely terrible. I barely survived.”
His smile breaks through slow and stunned, like it’s climbing out of a place he forgot existed.
“…you’re a great kisser, Spence.”
“You mean that?” he asks quietly.
I nod, still smiling, but it’s softer now. “Yeah. I do.”
He breathes out through his nose, almost laughing, but I see the shift in him—like the compliment settled somewhere deep, somewhere that’s been starved for that kind of gentleness.
“You know,” he says, eyes flicking down for a second, voice suddenly a little shy, “I can probably count the number of people I’ve kissed with just one hand.”
There’s no bitterness in it. No pity. Just fact.
Honest and raw.
I don’t tease him. Don’t make light of it. I just watch him, and I see the flicker of vulnerability behind his glasses—like he’s bracing himself for me to pull away.
Instead, I step closer, until our fingers brush again.
“That doesn’t mean you weren’t good at it,” I say, quiet but certain.
His breath catches.
And then, almost inaudibly, “I didn’t know how badly I wanted it to be you I was kissing… until I was actually kissing you.”
I feel my heart twist in the best possible way.
“So,” I whisper, smile tugging at my lips again, “you gonna make me guess how many it was, or…?”
His cheeks flush.
“Less than five,” he says. “More than one.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Very specific.”
“It’s a statistic,” he deadpans, but he’s smiling again—soft and lopsided and completely unguarded.
And God, I want to kiss him again.
“I really want to kiss you again,” I admit, quiet but sure.
His eyes flick to mine, startled for a second like he wasn’t expecting me to say it out loud.
Then he exhales—relieved, maybe. Or maybe just undone.
“Yeah?” he asks, like he needs to hear it twice to believe it.
“Yeah.”
We’re so close now I can feel the warmth of his breath, the tiny pull in the space between us like gravity’s getting tired of being subtle.
“Okay,” he says, softer than before.
And I lean in.
This kiss is different.
It’s not hesitant like the first, or breathless like the second. It’s slower. More certain. Like we’re settling into something. Like we’re giving ourselves permission.
His hands slide around my waist again, more sure this time. My fingers find the back of his neck, and when I sigh into him, I feel his whole body soften in response—like he’s been waiting to exhale.
There’s nothing rushed about it.
It’s just him and me.
Wanting the same thing at the same time.
And this time, we don’t stop just because the moment ends.
We let it stretch.
Until—thunk.
We both jerk back at the same time, foreheads colliding in a soft but unmistakable headbutt.
“Ow—shit, sorry!” he blurts, one hand flying up to his forehead.
“Oh my God—Spence!” I’m already laughing, covering my mouth with both hands as I double over slightly.
He winces, blinking like he’s making sure he didn’t give himself a concussion. “Wow. That was… that was supposed to be a kiss.”
“Yeah?” I tease, breathless from laughing. “Because it felt a lot like a full-contact sport.”
He groans. “I swear I have decent coordination in literally every other area of my life.”
I step forward, still grinning, resting my hands lightly on his chest. “You okay?”
“I’ll live,” he mutters, cheeks flushed, hair slightly tousled, looking so adorably flustered I want to kiss him even more.
And somehow, that makes it even sweeter.
Because it’s not perfect.
It’s real.
And it’s us.
Two dorks, breathless in a hallway, trying not to fall too hard—and failing beautifully.
“C’mon,” I say, grinning as I reach for his hand. “You’re finally gonna get to see my bedroom.”
He blinks at me like I’ve just offered him access to a top-secret vault.
“Is this... a trap?” he deadpans.
I laugh, tugging him gently down the hall. “Don’t flatter yourself, Dr. Reid. You’re getting clean sheets and maybe a spare pillow, not a grand seduction.”
He follows, and I feel the hesitation melt from his grip. He’s still blushing a little—still stunned from the kiss and the headbutt and the fact that this is actually happening—but his hand in mine feels like a promise.
“I mean, I wasn’t expecting anything,” he says as we reach the doorway. “I’m just happy I got invited past the living room.”
“Yeah, well,” I murmur, glancing at him over my shoulder, “I think you’ve earned it.”
I open the door, flick on the bedside lamp. The light is warm. The bed’s a little messy. There’s a book on the nightstand and a hoodie draped over the footboard.
“I think I have some pajamas that can fit you nicely,” I say, heading toward the dresser.
Spencer pauses just inside the doorway, eyes trailing over the room like he’s trying to catalog every detail—like this, too, might be something he’ll want to remember.
“Pajamas, huh?” he says, brow lifting. “You have a stash for emotionally repressed men who show up in button-downs and sweater vests?”
I laugh, pulling open the drawer. “Actually, I have a stash for when emotionally repressed men finally decide to stay the night instead of running off after one kiss.”
He has the decency to look sheepish at that. “Sorry.”
"Don't apologize," I toss him a folded pair of soft, plaid sleep pants and one of my old T-shirts. It’s worn-in and slightly faded—navy, with a little white constellation graphic on the chest.
He catches it, holds it up like it might be holy. “Is this… yours?”
“Technically. But don’t worry, it’s seen many nights of existential crisis and leftover takeout. You’ll be in good company.”
He smiles at that. A real one. Small but bright, like he’s letting himself believe this is okay. That he’s okay here.
“I’ll change in the bathroom,” he says, still holding the shirt like it means more than it probably should.
And maybe it does.
Because tonight isn’t just about staying.
It’s about being welcomed.
“Yeah,” I say, backing toward my dresser, already tugging off my top layer. “I’ll change here, so don’t come out until I tell you.”
His eyes widen slightly, like his brain short-circuited at the implication, even though I’m halfway in pajama mode and he knows it.
He nods a little too quickly. “Right. Okay. I’ll just—bathroom.”
And then he’s gone, vanishing down the hall like he’s fleeing a high-stakes negotiation. I bite my lip, smiling to myself as I change into my softest sleep shirt—one that hits mid-thigh and smells like fabric softener and familiarity.
When I hear the door click shut behind him, I pause for a second—looking at my bed, now made for two.
And suddenly, it doesn’t feel too big anymore.
“Okay, you can come out,” I call, voice light but a little breathless.
A few seconds later, the door opens. Spencer reenters the room wearing the constellation shirt and the plaid sleep pants—and looking every bit like he belongs in both.
And maybe, just maybe, here.
With me.
“Wow…” I chuckle at the sight of him, eyes trailing from tousled curls down to the constellation on his chest. “You look great.”
He shifts awkwardly in the doorway, tugging at the hem of the shirt. “It’s a little short.”
“It’s perfect,” I grin, stepping closer, tilting my head as I take him in. “You look like someone who drinks tea and stares out windows and has devastating thoughts about the moon.”
“I do have devastating thoughts about the moon,” he replies, almost defensively.
I snort. “Yeah, I know.”
He’s blushing now. Fully. And the way he looks at me—it’s not shy anymore. It’s open. Still a little uncertain, but undeniably present.
Like he wants this.
Like he wants me.
I walk past him to turn down the bed, suddenly hyper-aware of how intimate this all is—sharing a room, a bed, a night.
“You can take the side closest to the door if you want,” I offer, fluffing one of the pillows. “Just in case you need a fast escape.”
He laughs under his breath, stepping toward the opposite side. “Very funny.”
We climb in at the same time. Careful. Slow. Our movements quiet in the low light, like we’re both waiting for this to feel strange.
But it doesn’t.
It feels… calm.
Undeniably right.
The sheets are cool against my legs, the room quiet except for the distant hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of settling floorboards. He lies beside me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body.
I turn onto my side, facing him. He’s lying on his back, hands folded neatly on his stomach like he’s trying not to take up too much space.
“You always this tense when you sleep over at someone’s place?” I tease gently.
He glances at me, lips twitching. “You say that like it happens often.”
“You mean to tell me this isn’t a regular Thursday night for you?”
“No,” he says, voice dry but soft. “This is… new.”
“Yeah.” I nod, smiling. “It is.”
We go quiet again. It’s not awkward—it’s full. Like the silence has shape. Weight.
My fingers twitch against the edge of the blanket. I don’t know how long I lie there, watching him in the dark—his profile soft, his breathing steady—but at some point, the thought becomes undeniable.
I want to kiss him again.
God, I really want to kiss him again.
Not because I need to. Not because it would make the night more romantic or meaningful. But because I can.
Because he’s here, in my bed, and the way he’s looking at me like I hung the stars on his borrowed shirt makes my heart thrum in my throat.
We lie there, a few inches of space and a whole ocean of awareness between us. The sheets rustle gently when he shifts, turning onto his side to face me.
“I read once that people sleep better next to someone they trust,” he murmurs, voice low and a little hoarse from the hour. “It has to do with cortisol levels and body temperature regulation—there’s this study from 2018 where they tracked heart rate synchronization between couples sharing a bed, and apparently—”
I kiss him.
No warning.
No pause.
Just—him.
Soft and talking and warm and trying to science his way through something so achingly human, and I just can’t help it.
My hand slides across the sheets to cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek as I press my mouth to his—slow, certain, reverent.
He goes still, for half a second.
Then exhales into the kiss like it’s the first breath he’s taken all night.
His hand comes up, fingers finding my waist under the blanket, tentative but grounding.
He kisses me back like he’s still catching up to the idea that this is real—but he’s trying. And the trying is what undoes me.
When I finally pull back, just a fraction, his eyes flutter open.
“…sorry,” he breathes.
I blink. “For what?”
“I was talking about cortisol.”
I grin, still close enough to feel the ghost of his breath on my lips. “You can talk about anything and everything… Just know, every time you start your little rambles, I get this huge urge to kiss you.”
His eyes widen, like I just flipped the stars inside him upside down.
“You do?” he asks, voice caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to wonder.
I nod, still smiling. “It’s endearing. And hot. But mostly endearing.”
He makes a strangled little sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Well,” I murmur, my fingers tracing slow circles against the fabric at his side, “get used to it.”
His hand slides to rest over mine, warm and steady. And for once, he doesn’t ramble. He just looks at me like he feels every word I haven’t said yet.
And when he kisses me this time, it’s slower.
There’s no rush in it—just warmth, just care. His lips press to mine with a kind of quiet awe, like he’s still a little surprised I’m letting him. Like he’s memorizing the shape of this moment in case he never gets another.
His hand slides from over mine to my waist, fingers splaying gently, like he’s reminding himself I’m real. I lean into him, let him pull me a little closer across the sheets. Our legs brush. Our noses bump again—barely—but this time we both smile into it.
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pillow-coded · 18 days ago
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spencer walter reid? no. to me, he’s spencer “cums-in-his-pants-anytime-he-eats-you-out” reid. spencer “keeps-his-glasses-on-while-his-head-is-between-your-thighs” reid. spencer “soft-dom-until-he-turns-into-a-whiny-lil-desperate-baby-anytime-you-get-on-top” reid. spencer “can’t-stop-biting-you-(affectionately)-during-sex” reid.
it is canon to ME!
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pillow-coded · 19 days ago
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To Have and To Hold — Chapter 13
Summary: When Y/N falls sick on the day of their planned aquarium visit, Spencer steps in to help with Maddie — managing soup, coloring time, and a chaotic bath. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Lots of fluff, Spencer giving Maddie a bath (she wears a swimsuit) word count: 5.3k
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We were meant to go to the aquarium today.
Spencer had insisted — heavily. Said he had a lot to make up for, and that taking us there was just the beginning. One of many things he planned to do to make things right. I kept telling him he had nothing to make up for. That I was just as faulty — if not more.
But he’d shake his head and smile that stubborn little smile of his. “Besides,” he’d say, “I know Maddie likes looking at fish.”
He probably got that from the library. Maddie wouldn’t stop begging us to see the fish after we made up there. So we took her to the back corner tank, where she pressed her hands to the glass and named every neon blur that swam by.
Spencer wouldn’t stop rattling off fish facts, and Maddie wouldn’t stop gasping — wide-eyed, delighted, trailing every “whoa!” with five new questions. And the whole time, I just stood there beside them, cursing myself for letting my fear ruin things. For pushing him away from us… from her.
She needed him — just as much as I did. And my stupid fear got in the way of that.
But now that he was back in our lives, I was determined to never let him leave again.
Which is why I agreed to the aquarium visit. I’ll take each and every interaction I can get from him — every soft moment, every shared glance, every time he lets Maddie tug on his sleeve like she’s always known he’d stay.
Maddie had been counting down the days until Aquarium Day. She even made up a song for it — one she sang far too often and with zero shame:
“All the fishes in the sea! I’ll meet all the fishes in the sea! I love all the fishes in the sea! And all the fishies love me!”
She sang it in the car. In the bath. Once, in the middle of Target. I caught Spencer humming it under his breath last night while packing snacks.
Unfortunately, After Spencer left, I fell asleep, and somewhere between then and this morning, my body betrayed me.
I woke up aching and feverish, throat raw and nose already stuffy. The kind of sick that feels like your bones have been swapped out for bricks. Maddie was at my bedside in full glittery aquarium gear — her sparkly sea skirt, a shirt with a smiling octopus on it, and her little field bag slung across her chest like she was leading the expedition herself.
“Good morning, Mommy!” she chirped.
My head was pounding, and her excited exclamation only made it worse — sharp and bright, like a cymbal crashing inside my skull.
Still, I pushed through a groggy smile. “Good morning, Princess.”
She tilted her head at me. “Why do you sound like a frog?”
I would’ve laughed if my throat didn’t feel like sandpaper. It was a fair question. I did sound like a frog — or a broken record player. Or maybe both.
There was a beat of silence while I tried to sit up, every muscle in my body screaming. And that’s when the weight of it hit me — today was aquarium day.
I looked at her — all glitter and hope and tiny, sparkly shoes — and my heart just sank. I couldn’t do it. There was no way I’d make it past the front door without collapsing. But how do you explain that to a child who’s been singing about fish for a week?
I reached out and tucked a curl behind her ear. “Mommy’s not feeling very good today.”
Her smile dimmed, just slightly.
“Like… not even juice and cartoons will fix it,” I added gently.
Maddie blinked at me, confused. “So… we’re not going?”
I shook my head, slowly. “Not today, baby. I’m so sorry.”
She didn’t cry, but her mouth trembled like she was deciding whether or not she should. She looked down at her sparkly skirt, smoothing the fabric with one small hand.
“I already packed my notebook,” she whispered.
That’s when the guilt really hit.
“We can go next week, baby,” I said quickly, trying to keep my voice soft despite how raw it felt. “The fish will still be there.”
She gave me a tiny, uncertain nod, but her shoulders were still hunched.
I reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. “Hey… how about we bring the aquarium to us today?”
Her eyes lifted, wary but curious.
“We’ve got coloring books, right? You can draw all the fish you would’ve met. And I’ll help you name them — from the couch,” I added, because standing up felt like a distant dream.
“Yes!” she cheered, excitement blooming back across her face like it had never left.
“Why don’t you go set up everything? I’ll be right there.”
She nodded hard, spun on her heel, and bolted out of the room — singing her little fish song at full volume, completely unaware of the emotional whiplash she’d just given me.
And now… I had to break the news to Spencer.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand, eyes still bleary, head still pounding. A couple new messages lit up the screen.
Spencer: Good morning, sleepyhead.
Spencer: I’ll be there in thirty minutes, I just have a minor thing to take care of.
Of course he was already planning to come early. Of course he was making room in his day for us. That ache in my chest wasn’t from the fever.
I swallowed and started typing.
Y/N: I’m so sorry to do this, but I think we have to raincheck the aquarium. I woke up sick — like really sick.
Y/N: I didn’t want to cancel but I can barely keep my eyes open. Maddie’s heartbroken, obviously.
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then came back again.
Spencer: Don’t apologize, It’s not your fault.
Spencer: Stay put, I’m bringing soup.
I stared at the screen for a moment, blinking hard. He didn’t even hesitate.
Y/N: Spencer, you really don’t have to.
Spencer: I want to.
Spencer: Besides, You’ll definitely need help with Maddie.
Spencer: I’m not implying that you can’t take care of her, I know you can.
Spencer: You’re an amazing mother, I just want to help.
Spencer: And I make excellent soup.
Spencer: …Well. I make decent soup.
Spencer: Okay, fine. I’m buying the soup on the way there. But I’m bringing it.
Despite the fever, I laughed — really laughed — then winced and immediately regretted it. My whole body felt like it was wrapped in a bruise.
Y/N: Can’t wait :)
I set the phone down and let my head rest against the pillow for just a second — just long enough to pretend the room wasn’t spinning.
“Mommy! I set up everything!” Maddie’s voice rang from the living room, bright and proud and way too loud for the current state of my skull.
I groaned softly and peeled myself off the mattress, dragging the blanket with me like a cape. Every step felt like a negotiation with gravity. But I forced myself out, because she had that voice — the kind that only comes from glittery excitement and blind faith that I’d show up for her, sick or not.
I was halfway down the hall when I heard her humming again.
“All the fishes in the sea… all the fishies love me…”
I sit on the couch next to her on the floor, but it doesn’t take very long for my body to get tired and I end up lying on my side, head sinking into a throw pillow that smelled faintly like strawberries and toddler shampoo.
“That’s really pretty, baby,” I murmured, voice rasping more than I intended.
Maddie didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy giving blue crayon stripes to a creature she swore was a rainbow shark. Her tongue peeked out in concentration, tiny brows furrowed as she filled in its fins.
“You can name this one,” she said, still coloring. “It’s a girl.”
“I think we should name her Mystique,” I smiled weakly, chest warming in spite of the fever. “Since she’s blue.”
“Are there any blue fish, Mommy?”
“Yeah, there’s blue fish…” I trailed off, brain foggy. “I don’t know what they’re called. Maybe when Spencer gets here, he can tell you all about it.”
Her head whipped around, eyes sparkling. “Spencer’s coming?”
“Yeah,” I croaked, “said he’s bringing soup.”
“Yay!” she squealed, kicking her feet against the carpet. “I’m gonna show him my drawing! And my ocean song! And maybe he can help me finish the drawings—”
She gasped mid-sentence, as if suddenly remembering something very urgent, and took off toward the hallway, abandoning the blue fish mid-draw.
I let my eyes fall closed, just for a second.
Then the doorbell rang.
I tried to get up, but it was harder than I expected. My body felt like a bag of wet sand — heavy, clumsy, uncooperative. With a grunt, I managed to push myself off the couch, gripping the armrest for balance as the room briefly tilted. I nearly slipped right back onto my ass.
Graceful.
Real elegant.
Still, I shuffled to the door, blanket draped over my shoulders like I was the world's saddest superhero.
And when I opened it, there he was — Spencer. Hands full, curls wind-tossed, and a crease of concern already etched between his brows.
I let out a smile of relief before managing to croak out a small, “Hi.”
His eyes swept over me — the blanket, the flushed cheeks, the heavy eyes — and he immediately shifted the bag in his arms so he could step inside.
“You look terrible.”
He deadpanned it. No hesitation. And then, immediately, his face contorted with regret, eyes going wide like he wanted to rewind the moment and start over.
“I mean—you look like you feel terrible. You don’t look terrible, you—uh, you look…”
I raised an eyebrow, lips twitching despite how awful I felt.
“…like a very beautiful Victorian ghost?” he offered, helplessly.
I laughed — a real, wet, painful laugh — and then immediately started coughing.
He grimaced. “Okay, maybe no more jokes until after the soup.”
“God… you actually brought soup?”
“Of course I did,” he said, like it was obvious. “You’re sick, and soup is clinically proven to help relieve cold symptoms. Warm liquids—especially those containing sodium—can help loosen mucus and reduce inflammation in the upper respiratory tract.”
I stared at him, deadpan. “Did you bring me chicken noodle and a peer-reviewed citation?”
Spencer blinked. “...Actually, I brought vegetable soup. With alphabet pasta.”
I let my head fall against the doorframe with a groan. “You’re the sweetest,” I rasped, meaning it more than he probably realized.
He paused, just for a second — like he didn’t know what to do with the compliment. His eyes flicked to mine, then down to the thermos in his hands.
“I thought… if you’re going to be miserable, you might as well have something that spells.”
That made me smile, even through the fog in my head. “Soup that spells. You really do know the way to a girl’s heart.”
Spencer cleared his throat, setting the thermos gently on the counter. “It also has carrots and celery, just so you know. For nutritional balance.”
“Of course it does.”
I turned to head back toward the couch, hoping to collapse into the cushions with some shred of grace, but my legs had other plans. The dizziness hit first — a quick tilt of the room — and then my feet just… gave out.
I slipped.
And this time, I did fall on my ass.
Hard.
Spencer was at my side in seconds, the thermos clanking against the counter as he abandoned it mid-unpacking. “Are you okay?” he asked, breath short like he had taken the fall.
“No,” I groaned. “I think I broke my dignity.”
He hovered, unsure if he should laugh or call an ambulance. His hands twitched like he wanted to help me up but wasn’t sure where to touch me without either catching my flu or dislocating something.
“Don’t move,” he said, tone full of gentle panic. “I read somewhere that sudden collapses can lead to spinal injuries and—”
“I’m fine,” I interrupted, though my pride was very much not. “Just dizzy. And cursed.”
Spencer’s brow furrowed, lips parting like he was calculating the probability of that.
“I mean it,” I added. “You bring alphabet soup and I immediately fall on my ass. That has to mean something cosmically.”
He blinked. “Correlation doesn’t equal causation.”
I stared up at him.
“Sorry,” he added quickly. “I’m helping now.”
And he did.
He put his hands on my waist.
And everything in me went still.
Not because it hurt — not because I was dizzy — but because Spencer Reid’s hands were on my waist.
Warm. Careful. Steady. Like I was something fragile, but not broken. Like he knew exactly how to hold me — not possessively, not clinically, just… present.
His touch was light, barely there through the fabric of my shirt, but it sent a ripple straight up my spine. My breath caught. My fingers clenched reflexively in the blanket still slung over my shoulders, and I cursed my body for reacting like this while I was sick, gross, and wearing socks that absolutely didn’t match.
I tried not to think about it — the way his thumbs pressed in just slightly for leverage, the way his touch was firm enough to lift but soft enough to ask permission.
I tried not to think about the fact that he hadn’t touched me like this since… ever. Not really. A hand brushing mine, a quick hug, maybe a palm on my back when Maddie ran too far ahead — but this?
This was intentional.
My heart was pounding so loud I was convinced he could hear it. That maybe he’d look at me — really look — and see everything I was trying so hard to keep still beneath the surface.
But he didn’t.
He just helped me stand. No words. No big moment. Just his hands — strong and sure and kind — guiding me back to my feet like I mattered.
Like I was worth steadying.
And when he let go, I hated the way my body already missed him.
“Thank you,” I whispered, barely trusting my voice.
“It’s the least I can do,” he said softly, and for a moment, his eyes lingered on mine like maybe he had felt it too — that subtle shift in gravity, that charge under the skin.
And then—
“Spencer!!!”
A blur of pink and glitter exploded around the corner before either of us could react. Maddie sprinted into the room at full speed and threw herself against his legs like a little wrecking ball in glitter tights.
“You’re here!” she squealed, arms wrapped around him in a hug that nearly knocked him off balance.
He let out a startled laugh, steadying himself. “Hi, Maddie,” he said, smiling down at her like she was the center of the universe. “Nice to see you too.”
“Mommy was helping me name my fishies,” she announced proudly, her voice already veering into tour-guide mode.
As she said it, I quietly slipped back toward the couch, each step a slow negotiation with gravity. My legs still felt like jelly. I sank down onto the cushions with a sigh and curled onto my side, wrapping the blanket tight around me like a burrito of regret and mucus. The fever was creeping back in — or maybe it never left — but I didn’t want Maddie to notice. I just needed a minute. Maybe ten.
“Well… I’m going to heat up some soup for mommy to feel better. How about after that, I help you with the fishies so mommy can rest a little?”
Maddie tilted her head, skeptical. “Just a little rest?”
“Just a little,” he promised. “She’ll need energy later so you can show her all the fishies,”
I smiled at the sight of them — the way he knelt beside her so easily, like he belonged there. Like he wanted to be there.
God, how they make my heart melt.
There was something about watching them together that made everything inside me ache in the best way. Not the fever kind of ache — the longing kind. The soft, pulsing kind that blooms behind your ribs and spreads through your chest like warmth from a fireplace. The kind that says, this is what home looks like. This is what it could feel like. Again.
Maddie looked at him like he held the keys to every make-believe kingdom she’d ever dreamed of. And Spencer — awkward, brilliant, impossibly tender Spencer — looked at her like she was the most important story he’d ever been part of.
And I? I just watched from my blanket cocoon, half-sick, half-smitten, and entirely helpless against the quiet swell of love creeping in like tidewater.
I reach out, fingers sluggish and a little shaky, and rest my hand on his shoulder.
Not to get his attention. Not to say anything.
I just wanted to touch him. To feel close, even for a second. As close as I could get without it being too much. Without making it obvious just how badly I wanted him to stay — not just for today, not just because I was sick — but because everything felt better when he was near.
Still, he turned his head, brows pulling together in that soft, curious way of his. Like he wasn’t sure if something was wrong, or if I just needed something he couldn’t name yet.
I didn’t say a word. Just gave his shoulder a small squeeze and smiled.
That’s all I could give him right now. But God, I hoped he knew what it meant.
“I’ll go get you your soup,” he said softly. Really soft. Like he was trying to answer me with tone alone — like he was trying to mimic my feelings and actions with his voice.
And maybe he didn’t say I understand or I feel it too or I’m not going anywhere.
But it sounded like all of those things.
“You’re a godsend,” I murmured, too tired to filter the warmth in my voice. “Like… actually. I hope you know that.”
He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at me with that unreadable something in his eyes — the kind that made it hard to breathe if I stared too long. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly, and disappeared into the kitchen.
And I sank a little deeper into the couch, letting the weight of that moment settle in my chest like something sacred.
I could hear the soft sounds of him moving around — the fridge opening, the low hum of the microwave, the faint clink of a spoon against ceramic. Nothing loud. Nothing rushed. He moved like he was afraid to wake the house. Like we were a secret he didn’t want to break.
Maddie must’ve followed him in, because I heard her whisper something about the alphabet pasta. Something like, “can you spell my name in it?” and Spencer answered with a soft chuckle, “I can try.”
The sound wrapped around me like another blanket.
I blinked up at the ceiling, throat tight, eyes stinging — not from the fever this time. Just from the quiet realization that this? This is what it felt like to be taken care of. Not out of obligation. Not out of pity.
But because he wanted to.
“Is the soup any good?” I asked as I heard the faint glug of him pouring it into a bowl.
“I believe so,” he called back.
I blinked, half amused. “You don’t know if the soup is good? You bought me soup you’ve never tried.”
There was a pause. Then:
“My friend Penelope said it cured her flu once in under twenty-four hours, that and I trust her judgement for good food.”
“Who’s Penelope?” I asked, eyes still closed, voice barely above a whisper.
There was a pause. A small one. Just enough to feel him hesitate.
“She’s one of my closest friends,” he said finally. “She works with me. Technical analyst.”
“Oh,” I murmured, cracking one eye open. “The one you call ‘a walking algorithm wrapped in glitter’?”
He huffed out a quiet laugh from the kitchen. “That’s the one.”
“She sounds like someone who’d pick magical soup.”
“She also bedazzled her own flu medicine once, so… take that as you will.”
I smiled again, sinking further into the blanket. “I already trust her more than my last doctor.”
“I’ll let her know she’s finally surpassed Western medicine.”
“Tell me more,” I said quietly, the words slipping out before I could think twice.
There was a pause, soft but full of something unspoken.
“About Penelope?” he asked, careful.
“About your friends.”
He didn’t answer right away — and for a second, I thought maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe it was too much, too personal, too close for a sick day and alphabet soup. But then I heard him exhale, slow and thoughtful, like he was sorting through names in his head, deciding which pieces he could give away.
“Okay,” he said gently, voice rounding the corner before he did. “You’ll like them, I think.”
And I looked up — just as he walked into the room, holding a steaming bowl like it was something sacred.
He hands the bowl to me carefully, fingers brushing mine for the briefest second — just enough to make my heart stutter — and then he sits next to me on the couch, close but not too close. Like always, he gives me space. But part of me wants to lean over and fill it.
“Well,” he starts, settling in beside me, “there’s seven of us. Three of them are relatively newer, but they’re still friends.”
“So eight including you?”
“Yep,” he nods. “Me, Penelope, JJ, Emily, Rossi, Luke, Tara, and Matt.”
I take a slow sip of the soup — warm, salty, alphabet-shaped comfort — and glance over at him. He’s looking ahead, not at me, like saying the names out loud pulls him somewhere else for a second.
“You sound like a superhero squad,” I murmur, half teasing.
He hums a soft laugh. “Sometimes it feels that way. Sometimes it feels like we’re barely holding it together.”
I don’t push. I just sip the soup and wait, giving him room.
Because the fact that he’s even sitting here — telling me names, sharing pieces of himself — feels like something he doesn’t do often.
And I don’t want to scare him back into silence.
“JJ, Emily, Penelope, and Rossi have been around the longest,” he said, his voice settling into something quieter. “They’ve known me since my early twenties.”
“What were you like?” I asked.
He paused — and for a moment, I saw the flicker of memory in his eyes. Not nostalgia, exactly. Something gentler. Something sadder.
“I think I was… softer,” he said finally. “Not that I’m not still— I mean, I just— I didn’t know anything back then. Not really.”
I stayed quiet. Let him go at his own pace.
“I read a lot of books about people. About feelings. About how to connect. I could tell you how dopamine worked, or what tone of voice increases trust in children, or the average number of seconds people maintain eye contact during a lie.” He paused. “But I didn’t really understand people. Not in the ways that mattered.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I was eager. Not in a social-climber way, just… desperate to be good. To belong. I thought if I was helpful enough, smart enough, maybe they’d keep me around. Maybe I’d stop being the weird kid and start being someone worth keeping.”
I swallowed hard, the soup forgotten in my lap.
“And were you?” I asked softly.
He looked up, just for a second. That same quiet flicker behind his eyes.
“I think they loved me before I figured out how to love myself.”
“I can’t think of any reason as to why anyone wouldn’t love you,” I murmured.
I didn’t mean to say it. Not out loud.
But I did.
And maybe I meant it too much. Maybe it slipped because I was too feverish to hold it in — too tired to lie, even to myself.
And he caught it.
I could see it in the way his eyes lifted — just barely. The shift in his expression, soft and uncertain. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. Like he didn’t know what to do with it.
Still, he didn’t say anything. Not really. Not about the meaning underneath. Not about me.
“I could think of a couple,” he said quietly instead, the words landing heavy, like they didn’t quite belong to this moment — but to all the ones before it. All the versions of him that had convinced himself he wasn’t worth loving.
“Spencer!”
Maddie’s voice rang down the hallway like a siren. There was the unmistakable sound of socked feet scrambling across hardwood, then she appeared in the doorway, arms full of crayons, frustration radiating off her in waves.
“You didn’t come help me name the fish!”
Spencer blinked, as if he’d forgotten he was expected to report for aquatic duty.
“I—uh—I was assisting your mom,” he offered carefully, gesturing toward me like he was pleading his case in court.
Maddie was unmoved. She marched forward, set the crayon box down with dramatic flair, and pointed to the blue fish on the page. “This one doesn’t have a name yet.”
I raised my soup in mock salute. “Your case just got reassigned, Agent Reid.”
He gave me a flat look. “Actually, It’s D—”
“Spencer,” Maddie said again, drawing out every syllable.
He sighed, defeated, and turned to her little self, now sitting in front of us on the couch. “Okay, alright. Let’s see what we’re working with here…”
And just like that, he was gone — absorbed into her world of glitter pens and ocean creatures, mumbling Latin names and fun facts while she nodded like a tiny, glittery professor.
“This one’s yellow,” she declared, pointing to a lumpy fish she'd colored in with bold, crayon-streaked strokes. “She’s a mom.”
Spencer tilted his head, squinting at the page like it was a rare fossil. “Well… she looks a little like a dusky dottyback. Pseudochromis fuscus. Very territorial, very small, very fierce.”
“She’s not small,” Maddie said, affronted.
“Right, sorry. Emotionally large.”
She grinned. “Her name’s Bubbles.”
“An excellent name for a dottyback.”
I shook my head, weakly amused, watching the two of them go back and forth like they did this every day — like he was hers as much as she was mine.
And maybe… maybe he was.
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She was falling asleep. I could tell by the way her head lolled slightly against the back of the couch, the soup cooling in her hands, the rhythm of her breathing starting to even out — slower, heavier. She tried to hide it, but her body was giving her away.
I didn’t say anything. Didn’t dare interrupt the moment.
Maddie sat beside her like a little guardian, legs tucked under her, crayon in hand, determined to finish coloring her fish even though it was half off the page. Her brow furrowed with purpose. It was the same look her mother got when she was concentrating — like the whole world disappeared except for what was right in front of her.
She looked up at me suddenly. “Do fish get tired?”
I blinked. “Well, some do. Sharks have to keep swimming to breathe, but reef fish usually rest in crevices or float in place.”
She nodded like that made perfect sense. “Bubbles is tired. I think she needs a nap too.”
I glanced over at Y/N again. Her head was now tilted to the side, cheek pressed into the cushion. She was fully out. Hair messy, lips parted slightly, the thermos still resting precariously in her lap.
I gently took it from her hands, trying not to wake her.
There was something about seeing her like this — soft, unguarded — that did things to my chest I wasn’t equipped to process. A pang of something that wasn’t just affection. Something closer to awe. Or longing.
I turned back to Maddie, who was now humming her fish song under her breath while she doodled bubbles around Bubbles.
“I think your mom needs a nap too,” I whispered.
She nodded solemnly. “She’s sick. Like, froggy-sick.”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling faintly. “Froggy-sick.”
“Can you do bath time?” she asked, suddenly — like it was a sacred question.
I blinked. “I… yes. I can try.”
“Okay,” she said, already hopping down from the couch. “But I get to pick the bath bomb.”
Naturally.
I hesitated, watching her bounce away down the hall, trailing crayon smudges and sparkles like fairy dust. Then, more to myself than anything, I called after her, “How would you feel about bath time with a swimsuit on?”
There was a pause — then a delighted gasp from the hallway.
“That’s so silly!”
“It is,” I called back, smiling despite myself, “but it’s fun, isn’t it?”
Another burst of giggles echoed from the bathroom.
“Okay! I’m picking the pineapple bath bomb!”
God help me.
I glanced back at the couch. Y/N hadn’t stirred. Her breathing was still deep and steady, lashes soft against her cheeks. She looked peaceful — like sleep was the only thing anchoring her to this planet right now.
I rubbed my palms on my jeans and took a breath.
I’ve profiled serial killers. I’ve interviewed terrorists. I’ve been shot. But none of that prepared me for solo toddler bath duty.
When I stepped into the bathroom, it looked like a pastel war zone. Maddie had already dragged in three towels, a pair of swim goggles, and two plastic cups I was fairly certain belonged in the kitchen.
She stood proudly in her polka dot swimsuit, one hand on her hip, the other holding up a neon yellow bath bomb like she was about to conduct a ritual.
“I’m ready.”
I nodded solemnly, as if I were entering negotiations with a very tiny, very confident diplomat. “All right, Professor Maddie. What’s the procedure?”
She grinned. “First, we do the bubble potion. Then the fizzy bomb. Then I swim.”
“…In a bathtub?”
“Yes.”
Of course.
I turned on the water, adjusted the temperature three separate times until she approved it, then carefully poured what I hoped was an appropriate amount of bubble bath mixture under the faucet.
Too late.
The bubbles erupted like a science fair volcano. I reached to turn the faucet off and my sleeve caught the edge of the tub — soaked instantly. Maddie clapped like I’d just pulled off a Broadway performance.
“Good job!” she chirped. “Now the pineapple!”
Before I could stop her, she tossed the bath bomb in like a grenade. Yellow foam exploded across the bubbles, releasing a smell so aggressively fruity it actually made my eyes water.
I stepped back, blinking.
“This is going to stain something.”
“No it won’t,” she said confidently, slipping into the tub with a dramatic splash that doused the front of my shirt.
I looked down at myself. Drenched. Pineapple-scented. Bubbles climbing up my arm like vines.
And for a moment—just a moment—I froze.
Not because of the mess. Not even because my shirt was clinging to me like a second skin.
But because this was the kind of moment I never let myself imagine.
Soft. Stupid. Ordinary.
A tiny child in a bathtub, a too-sweet smell in the air, a puddle soaking through my socks. And somehow, instead of recoiling, instead of panicking like I would’ve even a year ago, I was… here.
Willing.
Steady.
Warm water dripped from my elbow, and all I could think about was how right it felt.
Like maybe I wasn’t the dangerous thing in the room anymore.
Like maybe the electricity in me wasn’t built to burn—it was built to light up small, important things.
I glanced toward the bathroom door, back toward the living room where she was sleeping.
“Your mom’s gonna kill me,” I muttered, wringing out the end of my sleeve.
“No she won’t,” Maddie said breezily, leaning back into the mountain of bubbles like a tiny queen. “Mommy really likes you.”
I blinked.
“What?”
She shrugged, nonchalant. “She talks about you all the time. Even when you’re not here.”
My stomach did something I wasn’t ready to name.
“She says you’re too smart for your own good. And that you fold your laundry like a robot.”
“I—what?”
Maddie nodded, matter-of-fact. “She said you smell like books and lavender. And that she thinks you’re really pretty when you’re talking.”
I felt my brain stutter.
“Okay—hold on—”
“And she always does her hair, and puts on her favorite perfume—the one she doesn’t let me touch when she knows you’re coming,” she added, dunking a foam starfish like it was punctuation. “Even when she’s mad at you.”
I sat down on the closed toilet lid, dazed, bubbles still climbing up my arm.
“She does?” I asked, more to the air than to her.
“Yeah,” Maddie said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “She says it makes her feel pretty. I think that’s silly, ‘cause Mommy’s already the prettiest.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really. My throat felt tight.
She put on her perfume. Even when she’s mad. Even after all of it — the silence, the hesitation, the almosts that never quite made it into anything real — she still tried.
For me.
And now her daughter was in a bubble bath, casually peeling back the layers I never thought I’d be allowed to see.
“I think she likes your curls the best,” Maddie added thoughtfully, holding up a rubber duck to examine it. “She calls them soft when she thinks I’m not listening.”
My heart thudded once, hard.
“Do you think she’d be mad if I told you that?”
I shook my head slowly, voice soft. “No, sweetheart. I think… I think she’d forgive you.”
She smiled. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t think I was supposed to tell you that,”
She set the duck on the edge of the tub, then looked up at me with a quiet kind of curiosity — not mischievous, not teasing. Just… open.
“What do you think about Mommy?”
I froze.
No build-up. No warning. Just the question, placed carefully at my feet like it wasn’t a live wire ready to short out everything I thought I had under control.
My first instinct was to deflect — to give her a vague answer, redirect the conversation back to fish or bath bombs or literally anything else.
But she was still watching me, eyes wide and honest, the way only a child’s can be.
So I exhaled, slow and careful. And I told the truth.
“I think she’s the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
Maddie nodded like she already knew that.
“And I think she’s… kind. And funny. And she’s really pretty.”
That part slipped out before I could stop it. It just fell — soft and unguarded, like the truth so often does when I’m not paying close enough attention.
Maddie tilted her head, curious.
“Do you like my mommy?”
My breath caught.
It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t teasing. It was just… a question. Simple. Earnest. The kind only a child can ask — with no understanding of how much weight it could possibly carry.
I looked at her, really looked at her, and suddenly I wasn’t sitting on a toilet lid in a pineapple-scented war zone anymore.
I was aware — of everything.
Of how she trusted me.
Of how Y/N trusted me.
Of how terrifying and precious that trust was.
“I do,” I said softly, like I didn’t want the moment to shatter. “I like her very much.”
Maddie beamed. “Good. She needs someone who does.”
I felt something crack wide open in my chest.
“You think so?” I managed.
She nodded. “Sometimes she gets sad in the kitchen when she thinks I’m coloring.”
My voice failed.
“She’s happy when you’re here,” Maddie added, softer this time — like she wasn’t entirely sure if she was supposed to say it out loud. Like maybe it was a secret, but an important one. One I needed to hear.
I looked at her — this tiny, messy, brilliant little mirror of her mother — and I felt everything at once.
The sting of guilt. The heat of hope. The ache of wanting something so badly it makes your hands shake.
I didn’t deserve this. Not the trust. Not the softness. Not them.
But I wanted it.
God, I wanted it.
“Thank you for telling me,” I said quietly.
Maddie nodded again, proud now, like she’d delivered a very important message and the universe was back in order.
“Now can I have the purple towel?” she asked, holding up her arms with a dramatic splash. “The fluffy one. Mommy says it’s the best.”
“Of course.”
My foot hit a slick patch of pineapple-scented bathwater, and before I could correct my balance or even register what was happening, I went down. Hard.
A full-body, soaking-wet, knocked-the-air-out-of-me kind of fall.
The thump echoed off the bathroom tiles like I’d just lost a wrestling match with gravity.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Maddie, blinking at me from the tub: “That was so loud.”
I groaned from the floor, one hand splayed against a soggy bath mat. “Yeah. I noticed.”
She leaned over the edge of the tub, making more water slip over the edge of the tub and land on me, her eyes wide with awe. “Are you dead?”
“Not yet,” I muttered.
And that’s when I heard her.
Y/N’s voice — groggy and hoarse, but alarmed — calling from the living room. “Maddie? Spencer?”
I didn’t even have time to answer before she appeared in the doorway, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, her hair mussed from sleep.
She took one look at the scene — Maddie in her polka dot swimsuit, in the tub surrounded by floating sea creatures, and me sprawled out like a crime scene reenactment on the tile — and blinked.
Twice.
“Do I even want to know?” she croaked.
I lifted the towel I never managed to hand off and gave it a weak wave from the floor. “I tried to provide quality service. The bathroom disagreed.”
Y/N pressed her lips together — trying not to laugh, and failing miserably.
“You’re a disaster.”
“I know,” I said, letting my head fall back against the tile with a dramatic sigh. “But your daughter hasn’t fired me yet, so I’m assuming I still have the job.”
She huffed out a laugh, low and scratchy from sleep, and leaned against the doorframe. Her blanket had started to slip off one shoulder, and she looked utterly exhausted — but there was something in her eyes that stopped me cold.
Softness.
Pride.
A little amusement, yeah — but mostly just that quiet, steady kind of affection I didn’t think I deserved.
And maybe something just shy of hope.
“You really did all this?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded from the floor. “Swimsuit and everything.”
She looked at Maddie, who was now humming to herself and pouring water from one plastic cup to another. Then back at me.
“You okay?”
“Define okay,” I muttered, wincing as I pushed myself upright. “Because I think I bruised something I didn’t know I had.”
She smiled. “I’ll go get you a towel, and maybe some clothes if I can find anything.”
I met her eyes again, and for a split second, I almost said it.
The thing.
The whole truth.
That I’d do this a hundred times over if it meant staying close. If it meant being part of the mess.
But instead, I just stood and held out the towel properly this time.
“Still the best job I’ve ever had,” I said.
And I meant it.
She smiled — soft, quiet, a little tired — and held out her hands for me to take, to help me back up.
I stared at them for a second longer than I should have. Her fingers were small, pale, the edges of her nails chipped from the week, her blanket slipping more from her shoulder with the movement. She looked like someone who didn’t realize she was glowing.
And she was offering me her hands. Like it was nothing. Like it was safe.
I reached for her.
Her grip was gentle, but steady. Warm. She pulled me up with more strength than I expected, and for one breathless moment, we were face to face. Closer than we probably should’ve been. Bubbles still clung to my sleeve. She smelled faintly like tea and sleep and the perfume Maddie definitely wasn’t supposed to know about.
I didn’t say anything. Neither did she.
But something passed between us anyway — something quiet and electric.
“I should probably get her dried off,” I said finally, my voice quieter now.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Okay.”
But she didn’t let go right away.
Neither did I.
Her fingers lingered in mine, soft and trembling just slightly — whether from the fever or something else entirely, I couldn’t tell. And maybe I didn’t want to.
We stood there, hands clasped in the middle of a puddle of pineapple-scented chaos, just looking at each other. Not with uncertainty. Not with fear.
Just… knowing.
Then Maddie cleared her throat.
Loudly.
“Hello? I’m still a fish.”
Y/N let out a quiet breath, a half-laugh slipping from her lips, and finally released me. She stepped aside so I could reach for the towel.
“I’m going, princess,” I said, reaching down and scooping it up.
Maddie sat in the tub with her arms outstretched and her goggles pushed up on her forehead like a tiny deep-sea explorer. “I’m a royal fish,” she corrected. “Royal fish get wrapped in the fluffy towel.”
“Of course,” I said, draping it around her carefully and lifting her out of the tub. She immediately curled into my chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You smell like pineapple and soup,” she mumbled into my shoulder.
I huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s cause I was multitasking,”
She giggled softly, her arms wrapping around my neck, and I carried her down the hall, one of the towels trailing behind me like a soggy cape.
Y/N was already in Maddie’s room by the time I stepped inside. She moved slowly, but there was that familiar steadiness in her hands — turning back the comforter, reaching for pajamas, soft as ever despite the fever.
“Alright, royal fish. Time to trade the ocean for pajamas.”
Maddie grumbled something about being “mid-transformation,” but let go of me anyway, curling into her mother with a wet sigh.
I stood there for a moment, awkward and dripping, water pooling beneath my feet.
“I’m gonna, uh… run down and grab my go bag,” I said, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “Get changed before I ruin more of your floors.”
Y/N looked up at me from where she was crouched next to the dresser. “Probably a good idea. You look like a drowned librarian.”
I smirked. “That’s generous.”
She smiled, then turned back to Maddie. “We’ll be here.”
Those words hit harder than she probably meant them to.
I nodded once and stepped into the hall, heart thudding for reasons that had nothing to do with the fall, the bubbles, or the soup.
The elevator ride felt longer than usual. Maybe it was the way my clothes clung to me — damp, sticky, wrinkled. My collar was cold against my skin, my socks made that awful squish with every shift of weight, and there was a smear of bubble residue dried across my arm that I hadn’t noticed until now.
I looked ridiculous.
I felt ridiculous.
And yet—there was something grounding in it. In the mess. In the way my hands smelled faintly like baby shampoo and alphabet soup, like I’d accidentally stepped into someone else’s life… and hadn’t been kicked out.
By the time I reached the car, I was already shivering. I popped the trunk, grabbed the go bag, and slung it over my shoulder.
The hallway outside their apartment was quiet when I returned. I unlocked the door softly, out of habit. Like the walls would notice if I was too loud.
Inside, the lights were low. The kind of low that meant pajamas had been pulled on and bedtime stories had either just finished or been cut short due to yawns.
I stepped into the bathroom, shut the door behind me, and finally let myself exhale.
I looked like hell.
My shirt was clinging to my spine, my sleeves still damp, and I smelled like soup, shampoo, and the faint tang of bubble bath chemicals. There was glitter in my hair. And somehow… that didn’t feel humiliating.
It felt earned.
I peeled off the soaked layers and toweled off with one of the extras from my bag. My skin was flushed pink from the chill, but my chest — my chest was warm. Still carrying the weight of Maddie’s small hands around my neck. The echo of her voice saying her mother liked my curls.
I dressed in clean clothes — soft sweater, slacks. No suit. No badge. Just me.
The me that I recently learned Y/N seems to really like.
I still didn’t know how to feel about it.
There was something disarming about that realization. Not uncomfortable, not painful — just unfamiliar in a way that made my chest feel too tight and my hands too still. Like I’d stepped into a version of myself I wasn’t sure I deserved to be, but one she looked at like he already existed.
And I didn’t know what to do with that kind of grace.
I’d spent so long proving myself useful. Useful was safe. Useful didn’t require softness. It didn’t require being liked — especially not for things I hadn’t curated or controlled.
But then there was her.
With her tired eyes and ridiculous fish songs and the way she looked at me in the hallway, wet and dripping and ridiculous, like I was still worth something.
And I didn’t know how to hold that. Not yet.
So I just kept breathing.
Ran a hand through my damp curls. Checked for lingering glitter.
Opened the door quietly, barefoot now, and stepped into the quiet warmth of the apartment — soft lights, soft air.
I head back to Maddie’s room, where Y/n was tucking her in
I padded down the hallway, careful not to let the floorboards creak too loudly, and stopped just outside Maddie’s door.
Y/N was inside, her back to me, bent gently over the edge of the bed.
She was tucking the blanket beneath Maddie’s chin with the kind of softness people usually reserve for things that might break. Maddie was already half-asleep, eyes fluttering, her fingers tangled in the collar of her pajamas and one hand loosely gripping the tail of her favorite stuffed dolphin.
Y/N smoothed her hair back, brushing a kiss to her forehead before whispering something I couldn’t quite hear.
She was still wrapped in her blanket, hair a little frizzy from rest, voice hoarse from being sick — and I couldn’t stop looking at her.
She turned then, sensing me. Her eyes met mine, a little surprised but not startled. Like she already knew I’d be there.
“You look beautiful,” I murmured.
I didn’t know where it came from. Sure, I was always thinking that about her — constantly, obsessively, in ways that made my brain short-circuit — but I never had the guts to say it.
Not until now.
She blinked, the faintest flicker of something uncertain passing over her features. “You sure about that?” she rasped, voice still scratchy from the cold. “I thought you said I looked like a Victorian ghost.”
“A beautiful Victorian ghost,” I corrected instantly, before my brain could talk me out of it.
Her lips parted — halfway between a smile and disbelief — and then she shook her head, just barely, the corners of her mouth tugging upward anyway.
“Do I look beautiful?” Maddie’s soft voice came from under the covers.
I walked further into the room, standing next to Y/N so I could see the little princess — drowsy, her curls messy and cheeks flushed, barely holding on to being awake.
“You always look beautiful, Princess,” I said gently.
Her eyes blinked slowly, like the compliment settled into her bones. “Even when I’m wrinkly like a raisin?”
I smiled. “Especially then.”
I leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Sweet dreams, Mads.”
She murmured something soft — maybe a thank you, maybe just a sleepy sigh — and let her dolphin slip from her arms to the pillow beside her.
Y/N reached across her gently to switch on the nightlight — a soft, warm glow that scattered star shapes across the ceiling and walls in slow, quiet rotation. It filled the room with a kind of magic I hadn’t realized I’d been missing until now. A galaxy, just for her.
We stood there for a moment, both of us watching her.
Maddie shifted slightly, rolled onto her side, and was gone — fully surrendered to sleep, her little fingers curled against her cheek like she was dreaming of something safe.
Y/N tugged her blanket up just a little higher, then backed away slowly, and I followed her, careful not to let the door creak when we pulled it almost shut.
The living room felt dim and still when we returned. The kind of still that made you whisper even if you didn’t have to.
She dropped onto the couch, letting her blanket gather around her knees, and I sat down beside her — not too close, but not far either.
“You really think I’m beautiful?” she asked after a beat, her voice low — not teasing, not coy. Just… genuine.
I glanced over at her. Her blanket had slipped again, exposing one bare shoulder, and her hair was a little wild from the day. Her eyes were tired but steady, searching mine like she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer — or maybe like she already knew it, and just wanted to hear me say it.
“Yeah…” I said softly, surprised by how easy it came out. “I do.”
She looked at me for a long second. Like she was trying to figure out if I meant it — if this was one of those flippant things people say when they’re trying to be kind.
But I wasn’t trying to be kind. I was just telling the truth.
I leaned in a little, voice quieter now. Not for secrecy — but because anything louder might have broken the moment.
“That day in the library,” I said, “when you found Maddie with me… I swear I thought I saw an angel.”
She blinked. Once. Twice.
“And well,” I went on, heart pounding now, “it was you.”
She didn’t say anything.
Didn’t look away either.
Just stared at me like the air had gone still. Like the words hit some fragile place in her that no one had touched in a long time.
I started to worry I’d said too much — made it awkward, crossed a line, ruined something—but then she smiled.
Soft. Shy. Almost sad.
“Spencer…” she breathed, like my name was a question and an answer all at once.
I leaned in, slowly. My body was moving on its own, and for once, I didn’t want to stop it. For once, the fear wasn’t louder than the want.
But she stopped me.
A hand gently pressed to my chest. Not pushing me away — just holding me in place.
“Honey,” she whispered. Honey.
She called me honey.
“I’m sick… I don’t want to get you sick, plus, I know how you are about germs.”
Her voice was raspy. Honest. Not embarrassed — just trying to protect me. Even now.
I paused, breathing shallow and close, eyes on hers. I could feel the heat of her hand through my sweater. The heat of her everywhere.
“I don’t care,” I said, barely above a whisper.
She smiled again — soft, pained — and shook her head just slightly. “You will tomorrow.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, exhaled slowly, and leaned my forehead against hers instead. Just that.
No kiss.
No crossing the line.
Just the contact.
Her breath caught. I felt it.
And for a moment, we stayed like that. In the space between almost and not yet. Wrapped in the quiet promise of something we both wanted, but neither of us would rush.
Not yet.
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pillow-coded · 21 days ago
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BREAKFAST IN BED ⋆˚꩜。 spencer reid x girlfriend!reader
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summary: you’re sore. spencer’s smug. apparently, breakfast is best served between your thighs.
genre: smut, fluff | w/c: 1.7k
tags/warnings: soft dom!spencer, implied semi-rough sex from the night before, reader is sore from said sex, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, spencer calls reader angel/sweet girl/good girl, spencer is a smug little shit, written with later season spencer in mind, basically porn with almost no plot, no use of y/n
a/n: based on this anon request! this was delicioussss to write. I am a munch!spencer truther to my core. enjoy!!
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It’s the ache that wakes you.
Not sharply, and not all at once. Just a slow, blooming kind of soreness that curls warm around your hips and tightens when you shift — bare skin sliding against the sheets, muscles pulling in places that don’t usually pull. There’s a spot high on your thigh that throbs in time with your heartbeat, and another deeper in your core that stirs when you exhale too hard.
Last night comes back in flashes: Spencer’s mouth at your throat, your wrists pinned above your head, the sound he made when you told him not to stop. A little rougher than usual. A little more. He’d warned you, breath hot against your ear, that he wasn’t going to be gentle, and you’d nodded like someone deprived of air being offered oxygen.
You remember the way his hands shook a little when he touched you afterward, how quiet he got. The press of his lips to your knuckles in the dark, like he still couldn’t believe you gave him everything, no matter how many times you did. Like he couldn’t believe you wanted him that much.
You stretch now, half-heartedly, and the soreness reasserts itself with a wince. You hiss through your teeth quietly.
Spencer is still asleep, one arm slung across your stomach, face buried against your shoulder. His hair is a halo of tangles, his breath steady and warm against your skin. He smells like his usual bergamot soap mixed with sleep and sweat and sex.
You think to yourself that it should be illegal to look that peaceful after doing what the two of you did last night.
Your fingers twitch, tempted to wake him just to say so.
But you don’t have to. A beat later, he shifts — just enough to murmur something soft and incoherent against your shoulder blade and press his nose to your skin.
“Mm,” he hums, a little more awake now. “You’re warm.”
“So are you.” You blink your eyes open and glance over your shoulder back at him. You move again, trying to sit up, and this time the soreness flashes sharp.
Spencer lifts his head and blinks blearily at you. His hair is in his eyes, and he looks younger like this, all sleepy and soft. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” you say, even though your hips are definitely plotting a day of revenge. “Just a little sore.”
He smiles like he was expecting that answer. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He hums, amused. “Where?”
You give him a look. “Where do you think?”
Spencer grins fully now, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he kisses your shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
You scoff, but it’s breathless. “Cocky.”
“Confident,” he counters, smug. His hand moves, gliding down your side, dragging the sheet with it. “You didn’t seem to mind at the time.”
“No,” you admit. “But I am going to be walking funny all day.”
He tucks his face back into the curve of your neck, voice low and scratchy with sleep. “That’s my favorite kind of damage.”
You laugh, but your eyes flutter shut again as he moves over you and rolls you onto your back. He kisses down your collarbone, a little lower, then lower still. His hand spreads over your stomach like he’s staking a claim, and his mouth follows suit.
“Spence,” you warn gently, though your voice is already going soft around the edges. “You don’t have to.”
“I’m aware of that. I want to.”
You lift your head to look at him. He’s already halfway down the bed, nosing at your hip, lips brushing skin. He glances up at you, hair falling in his eyes, smile lazily forming.
He presses a kiss just below your navel.
“Besides, breakfast,” he says, licking his lips with shameless smugness, “is the most important meal of the day.”
Another kiss, lower.
“And I very much like the taste of you in the morning,” he says, and the grin that follows is pure sin — cocky and sleepy and devastatingly pretty.
There’s no room to argue, not when he’s already mouthing down your thigh, parting your legs like it’s second nature, like this was inevitable from the moment you woke up. His fingers curl under your knees, coaxing you open even further, and he breathes in against your skin.
You brace a hand against the sheets, the other sliding aimlessly into the tangled mess of his hair. “Spencer…”
“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Let me make it better. You said you’re sore.”
“That doesn’t mean you need to—”
“I know what it means,” he says, firmer this time. His voice drops low, smooth and certain. “It means you let me wreck you last night, and now I get to take care of what’s mine.”
That word lands hard, curls low in your belly. You don’t answer — you can’t. You’re too busy trying to steady your breathing. He’s already shifting closer, already locking an arm under your thighs to hold you in place.
You feel the brush of his mouth where you’re still tender and already aching again, and the first drag of his tongue is slow and deliberate.
“So sweet,” he hums softly against you. “You know the average person has up to 10,000 taste buds?” He glances up, breath hot against your skin. “Pretty sure mine were made just for you.”
You squirm involuntarily — too sensitive, too much, too soon — but his grip tightens just slightly, pinning your thighs down with practiced ease. His fingers splay against your hips. You’re not going anywhere.
“Stay still for me, angel,” he murmurs, voice warm and unbearably soft, challenging you to complete an impossible task.
You try. God, you try. But he knows your body too well by now. He knows exactly how to curl his tongue just right, how to flatten it where you’re already throbbing — like he’s learning your body the way he learns languages, through repetition and obsession. Like it’s the only fluency that ever really mattered. He moves with a rhythm designed to undo you molecule by molecule, like you’re his favorite unsolved equation.
“That’s it,” he says against your skin when your thighs start to tremble. “God, you’re so soft like this.”
He noses deeper, then closes his mouth around your clit and sucks, and your entire spine arches off the bed.
“Spence—”
“I’ve got you,” he soothes, licking back up, hand sliding to your stomach to press you down with gentle, unrelenting pressure.
You squirm again, and he catches your movement immediately.
“I said stay still,” he warns, low and firm. You whimper, and he smiles against you.
He shifts one arm to slip a hand beneath you, fingers curving under your ass to tilt your hips higher, and when he sinks his mouth back down and—fuck. Your whole body jerks.
“Too much?” he asks, voice hoarse.
You shake your head, breathless. “N-no. Feels good.”
“I know it does, angel girl.”
It’s not fair, the way he’s still so vocal even with his mouth buried in your cunt — praises every breathless twitch of your hips like it’s a gift, worships every sound you make with a reverence that borders on unbearable. His tongue moves like he’s memorizing you, like he’s been starving, like this is the only thing he knows how to do anymore.
He tightens his grip again and devours you, slower this time, deeper, and you come like that — spread out and trembling, jaw slack, hands fisting uselessly in the sheets. Breaths leave you in broken gasps, and still, he doesn’t stop — licking you through it, slow and thorough, like he’s savoring every drop.
You expect him to pull back once your breathing slows.
He doesn’t.
Your thighs twitch, instinctively trying to close, but he just presses them wider with maddening ease — like your body belongs under his hands. Like he’s barely getting started.
“Uh-uh,” he murmurs, voice rasping with satisfaction. “Not done yet.”
“Spence—” It’s barely even a protest. More like a warning, and he knows the difference. Knows the way your hips buck even as you pretend you can’t take more. Knows that the shaky whine in your throat means please, not stop. Knows you too well to listen when your mouth lies and your body begs.
“You can take it,” he whispers, tongue hot and sure. “You’re gonna give me one more, sweet girl. Yeah?”
You try to argue, but then his tongue flicks just right — again, and again, and again — and your spine bows like a live wire. You nod helplessly.
“You taste so good,” he breathes. “Don’t make me beg. One more, angel.”
He holds you down, murmuring praise between licks, talking you through it in a voice that’s simultaneously achingly tender and overwhelmingly filthy, and you feel yourself unraveling all over again. Your thighs tremble, heels digging into the mattress, and he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re gasping his name on a broken sob, not until your second orgasm rips through you with twice the force, leaving you wrecked and open and shaking.
Only then — when you’re boneless and panting and whimpering beneath him — does he finally ease up. His mouth slows. Softens. Presses one last kiss to your overstimulated skin.
He looks up at you, flushed and glistening and smug, but his eyes are all warmth.
“Good girl,” he says, kissing your thigh again. Then again, higher. “So sweet like this.”
You can barely manage a breath, let alone a sentence.
He grins, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he pushes your trembling legs gently back together, palms smoothing over your skin like he can’t quite stop touching you. He crawls back up the bed, gaze sweet and tender, and kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw, then your collarbone, then your shoulder.
“Hi,” you finally manage, dazed.
He huffs a soft laugh, leaning over you to press a kiss to your forehead. “Hi.”
You blink up at him, and for a second, neither of you says anything. The quiet hums, warm and full.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod, still in a bit of a trance. “Yeah. Yeah, just…”
“Wrecked?” he teases, brushing a knuckle down your cheek.
You roll your eyes in faux annoyance. “Completely.”
He smiles and settles beside you, and you curl into him instinctively.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you mumble.
“I know. I already told you, I wanted to.”
Your cheeks warm. “Still doesn’t count as a real breakfast.”
Spencer grins. “Speak for yourself. I’m full.”
ᝰ.ᐟ
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pillow-coded · 23 days ago
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Hey, by the way, I finished writing chapter 13, currently writing chapter 14 + started writing the first chapter of a mini series thing I’m doing
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pillow-coded · 1 month ago
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Hii!
This is for all the thath enjoyers, I’m gonna be taking a break on posting for it (just for a little bit) since the first part is done! (The series has like 4 blocks if that makes sense)
Right now I wanna work on a little side quest. It’s a mini series I thought of like a month ago, and want to get around writing.
But trust that I am and will keep posting thath! (This break is only intended for like a week, two at most)
Anyway, I hope you’re all enjoying it so far!
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pillow-coded · 1 month ago
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To Have and To Hold — Chapter 12
Summary: Some absences are louder than words. Spencer can’t focus, and Y/N can’t seem to move forward. An old routine brings them face to face again Couple: Spencer Reid / Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warnings: hurt/comfort, lots of yearning and regretting from Y/N and Spencer, feelings of child abandonment Word Count: 9k
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I like to think I’m someone who can handle tough situations. But the truth is… I’m really not.
No matter how much I try to prepare myself for the worst, when it actually comes, I fall apart. Every single time. It’s like my brain can catalogue every terrible outcome, run a thousand simulations of what could go wrong—and still be blindsided when it actually does.
Like after Hankel… after Maeve…
I thought I’d braced for every possibility. Told myself I could stay detached, that logic would shield me. But I still ended up addicted, broken, begging for clarity in a place that offered none. I still sat in that room after Maeve died, staring at the silence like maybe if I thought hard enough, she’d come back.
And now… now it’s happening again. Not with a killer or a hostage situation—just with a four-year-old and her mother. Just with a moment I didn’t handle right. A flash of fear that turned me into someone I never wanted them to see. And I keep replaying it, like if I study it enough, I’ll find the exact second I could’ve fixed it.
I haven’t been able to read a single page in five days. Which, for me, is like forgetting how to breathe. The books are still there—lined up neatly along my desk at Quantico, stacked on my nightstand at home—spines worn and familiar. But they might as well be written in a language I’ve never seen.
I open one during lunch, stare at the same paragraph, and close it again before the first sentence even registers. JJ asked if I was okay earlier. I told her I was just tired.
But I think something broke when I walked out of that apartment. And no matter how many hours I sit at my desk pretending otherwise, I can’t seem to fix it.
I can’t stop thinking about it.
The way Maddie’s face crumpled when I raised my voice. How her lip trembled. How Y/N came rushing in like I’d struck her, like I’d become some awful version of myself I’ve spent years trying to keep buried. Like she was finally seeing it. The version I tried to warn her about. The one she didn’t want to believe was real.
I keep replaying it—frame by frame—like a crime scene I can’t solve. Maddie flinching. Y/N’s eyes widening. My own voice, sharp and unfamiliar, cutting through the air like a warning shot. I wasn’t even angry. Not really. Just scared. But fear has never excused the damage it causes, and I felt it the moment I saw them both step back. Like I’d crossed some invisible line I can’t uncross.
She told me once that I was gentle. That I had a softness most people wouldn’t expect. I didn’t say anything then, just smiled, because part of me wanted to believe it too.
But maybe I’m not. Maybe I was never soft. Maybe I’ve just been careful.
And the second I wasn’t—just one second—I proved every quiet fear I’ve ever had about myself.
Maybe I am the live wire. Exposed. Dangerous. Something that sparks even when I don’t mean to.
And maybe I was stupid to think someone like her—someone warm and real and trying her best—could want someone like me near her child.
“Spencer, you’ve been staring at that document for ten minutes,”
JJ’s voice pulls me out of my daze, briefly, but she did.
“Yeah… I’m a little distracted… I think I just need some coffee.”
Before she could say or ask anything else, I get up abruptly and practically speed walk to the kitchenette.
I can feel her watching me as I leave. JJ’s always been too good at reading me—gentle when I need it, firm when I don’t want it. And right now, I don’t want it. I don’t want anyone to look too closely and see what I already know: that I’m barely keeping it together.
The kitchenette is empty, mercifully. I go through the motions—grabbing a mug, pouring coffee that’s been sitting too long on the warmer. It tastes burnt and metallic, but I take a sip anyway, like bitterness might shock me back into functioning.
It doesn’t.
It only reminds me of her.
Of that morning—the morning after I stayed.
The apartment had smelled like something out of a movie. Warm coffee and sugar and… blueberries. I remember blinking awake to the soft clatter of dishes and the faintest hum of music from Maddie’s cartoons in the background.
She made the coffee exactly how I like it. Exactly. Four sugars stirred in before I even got out of bed—just like she’d seen me do once, at that little coffee shop. The one we went to after the park on our second date—It wasn’t a date. Not really. Just… a shared moment. A comfortable afternoon with too much awkward smiling and not enough air in the room.
And still—she remembered.
She made blueberry pancakes too. Said it was Maddie’s idea, but I saw the way she watched me take that first bite, like she hoped I’d love them. Like part of her was holding her breath until I did.
I did.
They were soft and warm and just sweet enough to undo me. I hadn’t had a morning like that in… years, maybe. Quiet. Thoughtful. Wanted.
Now all I have is this scorched office coffee and the echo of what it used to taste like when it came from her hands.
I should call her.
I should drive up to her apartment and tell her how sorry I am. How much I miss her. How I can’t sleep without imagining Maddie’s tiny hand in mine, or the way Y/N’s voice softens when she says my name. How I’d trade every book in my apartment, every fact I’ve ever memorized, just to hear her say it again.
But I don’t move.
I just stand there with this bitter mug in my hands, paralyzed by every possibility. What if she doesn’t answer? What if she does—and it’s different now? What if Maddie hides behind her legs instead of running to me?
What if I already ruined it?
My grip tightens around the handle, knuckles going white. I should call. I should.
But the longer I stand here, the more I convince myself that maybe she’s better off. That maybe silence is the only thing I can offer now that won’t make everything worse.
The door creaks behind me. I don’t turn.
“I wasn’t finished talking to you,” JJ says softly.
I close my eyes.
She doesn’t push, not right away. Just walks to the counter, leans her hip against it, and waits. That’s the thing about her—she knows silence can be louder than any question.
“I told you JJ, I’m just distracted. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“You mean last night as in the entire week? You look like hell.”
I huff out something that’s supposed to be a laugh. “Thanks.”
She shrugs. “I’m not trying to be mean. I’m trying to get you to admit you’re spiraling.”
I don’t answer.
She crosses her arms, gives me that patented mom-friend stare that somehow feels gentler than it looks. “Spencer, you haven’t read during lunch once this week. You didn’t even correct Anderson yesterday when he said serial killers and psychopaths were the same thing.”
“I was… busy.”
“You were staring at a water stain on the ceiling.”
I sigh and rub a hand over my face. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I will be.”
She softens, just a little. “Talk to me.”
And I want to—I do. My throat aches with everything I haven’t said, but the words stay lodged somewhere behind my teeth. I stare down at the coffee in my hands like it might offer a script. A way out.
“Is this about that Maddie?”
My head snaps up. “How do you know about Maddie?”
JJ doesn’t flinch. Just lifts a brow, calm as ever. “You slipped and said her name on that missing girl’s case.”
I swallow hard. “Oh yeah...”
I look back down at my coffee. The surface has gone still. Cold.
“She’s four,” I murmur, voice barely audible. “She likes sparkly shoes and sticker books and is a fairy princess.”
“How’d you meet her?”
“A couple of months back, I was at the Library and ran into her. She was lost and couldn’t find her mother, I helped her calm down until her mom came to find her,”
JJ doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches me, like she’s letting the picture form on its own.
“And her mom?” she asks softly.
I hesitate. “Y/N.”
Her name feels like something I’m not supposed to say out loud. Like if I do, it’ll make all of this more real. Harder to bury.
“She was… grateful,” I add, clumsily. “Said thank you. We talked for a bit. Then I saw them again at the library the next week.”
JJ doesn’t interrupt. Just lets me fill the silence at my own pace.
“She invited me to lunch after that because Maddie wouldn’t stop talking about me,” I say, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth before it fades again. “Said I could do magic. Really, it was just sleight of hand—coin behind the ear, that sort of thing—but she looked at me like I was some kind of wizard.”
JJ’s gaze softens. “Sounds like someone was smitten.”
I huff a breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. I was—I mean… am. We’ve been hanging out ever since. Museums. Parks. Pizza nights. Quiet mornings. She’s…” I trail off, words catching like thread. “She’s everything I didn’t think I could have.”
“So why are you moping around like it’s the end of the world?”
“I messed everything up.”
JJ doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to rush in with a fix. Just waits, like she knows there’s more I need to say.
“First, I practically slapped her in the face with a friendzone sign at the planetarium,” I mutter, my voice dry and bitter. “Then she kissed me, and I… I literally ran away. Like a teenager.”
JJ blinks. “Wait—ran away?”
I groan and rub my face, the shame crawling down my neck like heat. “I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t—I wasn’t rejecting her. I just… I didn’t know what to do. My brain short-circuited.”
“She kissed you and your brain exploded,” she says, lips twitching.
“Basically.”
“And then?”
I exhale. “Then I freaked out. I accidentally broke one of Maddie’s toys, and she started crying and throwing a tantrum. I was trying to get her to calm down, but I—I snapped. Not at her, but near her. Loud enough to make her cry.”
My voice breaks a little. “Loud enough to make Y/N look at me like I was someone else.”
JJ’s expression shifts—no more teasing now. Just that deep, steady concern I know so well.
“Spence…”
“It gets worse. I was trying to apologize, to defend myself I guess… She said…” I struggle, the words feeling like bile, even though they were true.
I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until JJ reaches out, her fingers brushing my sleeve, grounding me.
“She said, ‘you’re not her dad, so stop trying to be,’” I repeat, quieter this time. Like maybe saying it softer will dull the edge.
And still, it cuts.
JJ’s brows draw in, sympathy blooming across her face, but she doesn’t say anything yet. Just waits. Like she knows I’m not done.
“I know she didn’t mean it,” I add quickly, too quickly. “She was angry, overwhelmed. People say things they don’t mean when they’re—when they’re scared. I know that. Rationally, I know that. But it felt…”
I trail off, trying to find the word. None of them feel big enough.
“It felt final,” I whisper.
JJ nods slowly, her eyes soft with understanding.
“I just stood there. Completely frozen. I didn’t know what to say. I—I looked at her, and I looked at Maddie, and I couldn’t breathe. I thought maybe she was right. Maybe I overstepped. Maybe I built this entire little world in my head and forgot that I was never supposed to be part of theirs. Because she’s not wrong.”
I stop, trying to calm myself before continuing.
“I’m not her dad. I’m just the weird guy they met a couple months ago, who got too close for comfort. I have no right acting like a parent to Maddie, when I’m not. I’m not her father, and I have no idea how to be her father anyway.”
I force out a shaky breath, like saying it aloud might make the guilt a little smaller. It doesn’t.
“I don’t know how to do that kind of love, JJ. Not in real time. Not with a kid who looks at me like I’m invincible and a woman who—” I falter, the words sticking like splinters in my throat. “—who makes me want to be someone I’m not sure I know how to be.”
JJ steps closer, but she doesn’t speak yet. Just lets the silence sit, heavy but not suffocating.
“I keep thinking about all the things I could mess up,” I admit. “What if I teach her the wrong thing? What if I panic again and say something that sticks to her brain forever? What if I end up like my dad—leaving when things get hard? Or worse, like my mom—unpredictable and broken in ways she never asked for.”
The words feel ugly coming out. Selfish. Unfair.
But JJ doesn’t flinch.
“Spence,” she says softly, “I know you’re scared. I know you’ve spent most of your life believing you’re too much—or not enough—for the people you care about. But that little girl didn’t see any of that. She just saw someone who made her feel safe. Loved. Like magic was real.”
I blink fast, throat tight.
“And Y/N?” JJ adds, her voice dropping. “She let you into her life. That doesn’t happen by accident. You didn’t sneak your way in. She opened the door. And she didn’t do that because she thought you’d be perfect—she did it because she saw the way you looked at her daughter. Because you showed up. Over and over again.”
“But maybe that’s not enough,” I whisper.
JJ shakes her head. “It’s more than enough. And if you don’t believe me, then go ask them yourself. Talk to her. Apologize, if you need to. But don’t just disappear. Don’t let this fear write the ending for you.”
I stare down at the cold coffee in my hands.
“I can’t do it, JJ… I just can’t. The probabilities of her slamming her door in my face are way too high.”
My voice cracks halfway through the sentence, and I hate how small it sounds—how desperate.
JJ sighs, slow and quiet. “Since when do you let probabilities stop you?”
“I don’t… but this isn’t a case file,” I mutter. “This isn’t a statistic I can out-analyze or manipulate. It’s… it’s her. It’s Maddie. If I knock and she doesn’t open that door, I don’t know if I’ll come back from that.”
JJ takes the mug from my hands and sets it gently on the counter.
“You will,” she says. “Because you’ve come back from worse.”
I look at her, and she’s not smiling anymore—she’s not teasing. She’s just looking at me the way she always does when I forget how much I’ve survived. How much I’m still standing.
“I’ve seen you on the floor, Spencer. After Hankel. After Maeve. After prison. And every single time, you thought that was the end. That you were too broken, too far gone, too dangerous to be loved.”
She takes a breath, her voice thickening. “And every time, you proved yourself wrong.”
I blink hard, jaw tightening.
“She’s not slamming the door,” JJ adds. “She’s probably sitting behind it right now, hoping you’ll knock.”
That catches something in my chest. I don’t let it show. Not much.
“I don’t know what I’d even say.”
“Start with ‘I’m sorry,’” she offers. “End with ‘I missed you.’ Say the rest with your eyes if you have to. Just… go.”
Silence settles for a beat.
I wish it were that easy. I wish all it took was showing up and saying the right combination of words. But it’s not. Not for me.
I’m too much of a coward to do that. I can’t just go up there and apologize. Not when I know she’ll look at me with that same expression she had that day—like she didn’t recognize me. Like maybe she never really did.
“I… I have to get back to work.”
JJ shifts like she wants to stop me, but I’m already moving. Before she can say anything else, I bolt—quietly, but abruptly—back to the bullpen, making a beeline to my desk.
I sit down, open a file, and pretend I’m reading.
The words blur instantly.
Across the room, I can feel her still watching me. Not in judgment. Just… in that way she does when she knows I’m lying to myself.
And maybe I can lie to her. Maybe I can even lie to the team.
But I can’t lie to the ache in my chest that sounds a lot like a four-year-old saying my name.
I sit there for a while, motionless behind my desk, the file still open in front of me like it means something. Eventually, my hand drifts toward my wallet.
It’s tucked inside the smallest pocket, folded once to protect the edges.
The photo from the planetarium.
The three of us, crammed behind that cardboard astronaut cutout—Maddie in the middle, popping her head through the smallest circle with stars on her cheeks and a juice stain on her collar. Y/N stood to one side, her expression soft and caught mid-laugh. And me… visibly unsure of what to do with my hands, but smiling anyway.
One of the staff had offered to take it. Maddie giggled out “moon cheese.”
It was stupid. Silly. One of those tourist-trap moments meant to be forgotten in a week.
But I carry it like it’s sacred.
I smooth my thumb across the top edge—careful, reverent. The ink from the date I scribbled at the corner was already starting to wear where Maddie’s head is, just a little from how often I’ve handled it. She looks so happy. So safe.
And I look… happy too.
Not just pretending.
Happy in a way I didn’t think I could be again.
It hits me like a quiet wave. The kind that doesn’t crash so much as pull.
I could have had this. I did have this. And I let fear take it away from me.
“Are those them?”
The voice is quiet, cautious.
I startle slightly and look up. JJ’s standing a few feet away, not intruding—just there. Her expression is soft, her arms crossed loosely over her chest like she already knows the answer.
I don’t say anything at first. Just glance back down at the photo in my hands.
“They look happy,” she says after a moment.
“They were,” I murmur. “We were.”
She takes a step closer, eyes flicking to the picture. “You wrote the date on it?”
I nod, almost embarrassed. “I didn’t want to forget. It felt… important.”
She doesn’t tease me for it. Doesn’t smile like it’s cute. She just nods, like she understands exactly why I’d do something like that.
“I think they still are,” she says gently.
“Still what?”
“Happy. Or… waiting to be.” Her voice drops, like she’s afraid if she says it too loud, it won’t be true. “You didn’t lose them, Spence. Not unless you stay here pretending like that picture’s the only part that was real.”
I blink hard, forcing the tears back.
JJ takes a breath. “It’s Saturday, right?”
I nod.
“Then I think I know where they are.”
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My week was rough. Not in the usual tired-mom, no-sleep, too-many-dishes kind of way. It was the kind that settled in my bones—quiet, constant. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the way his voice cracked when he snapped. About the look on his face when I said what I said. About how fast he walked away, like he couldn’t get out fast enough. Like leaving was easier than looking back.
And I just let him.
I shouldn’t have been so hard on him. I should’ve let him explain himself. Should’ve taken a breath, sat down, talked to him instead of throwing my pain at him like it would somehow make mine feel smaller.
I let my resentment over the planetarium and the kiss get to me. Let it fester. Let it convince me that pushing him away would protect us—protect Maddie. But it didn’t. It just left a hollow space where he used to be.
And the truth is… he didn’t mean to scare her. Of course he didn’t. He panicked. She had something in her mouth that could’ve choked her, and he reacted. Loud, yes. Sharp, yes. But not cruel. Not violent. Not dangerous.
He was scared. And I turned that fear against him.
I saw the look on his face when I said it—“You’re not her dad, so stop trying to be.”
It was like I’d hit him. Like I’d taken everything tender between us and burned it to ash right in front of him. And the worst part is… I knew it would hurt him. I said it to hurt him.
Because I was hurting too.
Because it was easier to lash out than admit I cared. That I cared too much. That he mattered in ways I wasn’t ready to say out loud.
I spent so much time guarding myself, convincing the part of me that started to hope that it wasn’t real—that it was temporary, that he’d leave eventually. I was so focused on bracing for the fall that I didn’t let myself enjoy the flight.
I hadn’t realized how much I liked the light.
I just focused on how it burned.
And now he’s gone. And I don’t know if he’s coming back.
And it’s my fault.
The worst part is he’s everywhere, but he’s not.
I see him in my couch, laying down, sleeping with my daughter in his arms. I see him in Maddie’s princess tea parties—how she carefully pours pretend tea into an extra cup she still sets out for him. I see him in the park, helping her feed the ducks, crouched beside her like the world slowed down just for them.
Monday, Maddie wore his cardigan. She said that this way he would feel how sorry she was for making him angry, and he would come back.
I could only bring her to my arms and tell her he wasn’t angry at her.
She asked me when he’d come back… I could only say soon, but I knew that wasn’t true.
Because he hadn’t called. He hadn’t texted.
And still, she believed in him. In us. More than I did.
I didn’t know how to explain to a four-year-old that sometimes adults get scared too.
That sometimes love can be terrifying, not because it’s wrong, but because it’s right.
Because it asks you to stay when everything in you has only ever learned to run.
Because it feels too good, too fragile, like one wrong word might shatter it.
So I lied.
I told her soon.
And she smiled, like that was enough.
Like the world made sense again.
And I just held her tighter, trying to stop the crack in my chest from splintering any further.
On Tuesday, Maddie drew a picture at daycare.
Stick-figure me. Stick-figure Maddie. And a tall stick-figure in a sweater vest with wild brown hair labeled, in shaky crayon handwriting, “Spensr.” There was a sun in the corner—orange and pink with a smiley face—and a little speech bubble above his head that read, “I’m not mad.”
The teacher handed it to me during pickup with a big grin. “She worked so hard on this one,” she said, like it was a masterpiece.
I smiled back the best I could. With my mouth, not my eyes.
We didn’t talk about it on the way home. Maddie chatted about snack time and how someone brought stickers, but the picture sat quietly in her backpack, burning a hole through the zipper.
I waited until she was in the bath before I pulled it out again. Spread it on the kitchen table like it was fragile. Holy, even. Her tiny, chubby fingers had colored the whole background sky-blue. She’d even drawn in his .
She remembered everything.
I stared at it until my eyes blurred.
I almost put it on the fridge.
But I couldn’t.
Instead, I folded it—carefully, like it might break—and slid it into the back of the drawer with the batteries and the scissors and the coupons I never used. Not because I didn’t love it. But because seeing it every day might have destroyed me.
Maddie drew us as a family.
She believed he’d come back.
And I didn’t have it in me to take that hope away from her. Even if it felt like holding it was slicing me open, piece by piece.
That night, as I tucked her into bed, she looked up at me with her bunny pressed to her chest and said, “I want to give the picture to Spencer.”
My heart stopped for a second.
“We can leave it at the library,” she added quickly, like she’d been planning this. “That’s where we found him, remember? So he’ll find it again.”
I smoothed her hair away from her face, tucking the strand that always fell over her forehead behind her ear. “I don’t know if he’ll be there, baby,” I said softly.
She just shrugged. “That’s okay. If he comes back, he’ll find it.”
She said it with so much certainty, like it was a fact. Like it was already written in the stars.
I didn’t answer. Because I couldn’t lie again. And I couldn’t say the truth either.
So I kissed her forehead, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and whispered, “Goodnight, baby”
Later that night, I sat at the kitchen table again. The drawing was back in my hands.
My thumb traced the little speech bubble—“I’m not mad.”
And for just a second, I let myself pretend I believed it.
Pretend he’d come back.
Pretend he meant to.
On Wednesday, Maddie asked if we could make blueberry pancakes again.
It was the first thing she said when she woke up—before “good morning,” before asking for her usual bunny cup or her show. Just, “Can we make pancakes like we did with Spencer?”
I hesitated. “You really want pancakes today?”
She nodded, serious. “The blueberry kind. He liked them.”
So we did.
She dragged her stool over to the counter, and I let her pour the milk and crack the eggs, even though most of the eggshell ended up in the batter. She giggled through the whole thing. Said she wanted them to taste exactly the same, so he’d come back faster.
When they were done, she asked if we could save a plate for him.
I told her I didn’t think he’d be stopping by.
She frowned but didn’t argue. Just put one on a napkin and wrapped it in foil anyway.
“He can have it tomorrow,” she said, placing it carefully in the fridge.
I didn’t throw it out.
Not even when it started to go soft at the edges.
I just kept opening the fridge, staring at it like maybe it meant something.
Like maybe it could bring him home.
On Thursday, Maddie asked for magic.
It was during her bath, when the bubbles were starting to disappear and her fingers had pruned into little raisins. I was sitting on the floor beside the tub, scrolling mindlessly through my phone, only half-listening as she babbled about mermaids and sparkly castles and how the rubber duck was now the queen of the underwater kingdom.
Then, out of nowhere, she looked at me and asked, “Mommy, can you do the coin trick?”
I blinked. “What coin trick?”
“The one Spencer does. When it disappears and then shows up behind my ear.”
I set my phone down slowly. “Oh, baby… I don’t know how to do that one.”
She frowned, confused. “But you’re a grown-up.”
I smiled, small and tired. “I know. I’m just not that kind of grown-up.”
She sank a little lower into the water, her expression thoughtful.
“Do you think I can do it?” she asked after a moment.
“I bet you can,” I said. “But you’ll have to practice a lot.”
“Can I practice with Spencer?” she asked quietly, like the question itself might break something if she said it too loud.
I didn’t answer right away. My throat had gone too tight, and the steam from the bath felt suddenly suffocating.
“I don’t know, sweetie,” I said softly. “Maybe. If he wants to.”
She went quiet after that. Just let me rinse the bubbles from her hair without another word.
Later, when she was in her pajamas and tucked into bed, she whispered, “I think he’s magic, too.”
I paused in the doorway.
“What do you mean?”
Maddie rolled onto her side, hugging her bunny close. “Spencer. He made the coin disappear, but also… he made me feel better. That’s magic, right?”
And I had to leave the room.
I had to walk into the hallway and cover my mouth with both hands.
Because yes.
Yes, that was magic.
And I let it slip away.
Friday was the worst out of them all.
Not because anything dramatic happened. Not because I broke down or screamed into a pillow or finally worked up the courage to call him. No—Friday was worse because of how quiet it was. Because it snuck up on me.
Because Maddie asked me to read her the storybook Spencer made for her.
We had just finished dinner—mac and cheese with carrot sticks, one of the few things I could get her to eat without complaint—and I was cleaning up the table when she padded over in her fuzzy socks, the book clutched tightly in her little hands.
She didn’t even say it right away. Just held it up, eyes wide and hopeful, the way kids do when they already know the answer they want.
“Can you read it?” she asked softly. “Please mommy?”
“Baby, we’ve read this one a lot, are you sure you don’t want a different one?”
“No, mommy, I want this one. Spencer knows when I read it, he can tell with his magic,”
I froze. Just for a second. My hands still smelled like soap and pasta cheese, and I had a damp dish towel clutched between my fingers. I remember the way her voice sounded when she said it—so sure, so matter-of-fact. Like this wasn’t a wish or a maybe or a game. Like it was truth.
Spencer knows when I read it.
He can tell with his magic.
I could’ve told her that wasn’t how it worked. That Spencer didn’t have magic. That books were just books, and people didn’t come back just because you missed them hard enough.
But I didn’t say any of that.
I just dried my hands. And nodded.
“Okay,” I said gently. “Let’s go get ready for bed.”
She ran up the stairs, clutching the book to her chest like it was sacred.
And maybe it was.
It kind of is.
I followed slowly. My legs felt heavier than they should’ve, like every step pulled more memories to the surface—him in the hallway, balancing a tray of pancakes; him sitting cross-legged on the floor, letting Maddie decorate him in stickers; him on the couch with that book open in his lap, reading in silly voices, pausing after every sentence to let Maddie ask why.
When I got to her room, she was already tucked in, holding the storybook between her hands like it might disappear if she let go.
I sat beside her. She crawled into my side without hesitation, cheek on my arm, bunny in hand.
“You have to do it the way he does,” she whispered.
I nodded again.
And I tried.
“Once upon a time, in a world made of books and stars and peanut butter toast…”
But it didn’t sound like Spencer.
It didn’t sparkle.
She didn’t interrupt at first. Just listened. Quiet. Still.
Then, maybe three pages in, she said, “You forgot the part where the flower giggles.”
“What?”
“Page three. Spencer makes it giggle”
I looked down at the illustration. A little bluebell with a smiley face.
“I’m sorry, baby. I forgot.”
She nodded, but I felt her curl in tighter. Like maybe she was trying to make herself smaller. Like if she folded up enough, the ache would be easier to carry.
I kept going.
Tried my best.
Used the voices. Sang the galaxy song. Pointed out the bunny constellation in the sky like he always did.
But it wasn’t working.
She didn’t laugh. She didn’t smile.
She just stared at the page, her little brow furrowed, lips pressed into a straight line.
Like something was missing. Like someone was.
After a long pause, she whispered, “That’s not the voice.”
I tried to keep my smile steady. “I know,” I said gently. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re supposed to say it like Spencer,” she murmured, lower this time. “He makes it sparkle.”
I set the book down in my lap, just for a second. “I’m sorry, baby… I just can’t do it like he does.”
She went quiet again. Then, so soft I almost didn’t hear it:
“Can you ask him to come and read it to me?”
My heart dropped like a stone in my chest.
“I can’t, sweetheart. He’s… he’s busy.”
She looked up at me then—really looked. Her eyes were glassy, bottom lip trembling. “Mommy, you’ve been saying that all week.”
“I know but—”
“Is he mad at me?”
Her voice broke. Just a little. Just enough to destroy me.
“No, no, honey—no,” I said instantly, setting the book aside and gathering her into my arms. “He’s not mad at you. Not even a little.”
“Then why did he leave?”
She sounded so small. Like she was trying so hard not to cry. Like if she stayed quiet enough, maybe the answer wouldn’t hurt as much.
I blinked hard, holding her tighter. “He just needed time to think, baby. That’s all.”
She pulled back to look at me. Her face was pinched, confused. “But I’m sorry about the tiara. I didn’t mean to scream. I just— I was just sad.”
“I know, sweet girl,” I whispered. “He knows, too.”
“But if he’s not mad, why won’t he come back?”
I didn’t have an answer.
Not one that wouldn’t make everything worse.
I just kissed her forehead and pulled her close again, like holding her tighter might somehow keep all of it from falling apart.
She curled into me, clutching her bunny like it was the only thing left holding her together.
“Maybe he doesn’t like me anymore,” she said into my shoulder.
And that’s when I broke.
That’s when the first tear slipped down my cheek and landed in her hair.
“No, Maddie. No,” I said, firmer now, willing her to believe me. “He loves you. So, so much. Okay? This isn’t your fault.”
She didn’t respond. Just let me rock her slowly, breathing in shaky little bursts that made her back tremble against my chest.
I stayed like that long after she’d fallen asleep.
Just thinking.
Of him.
Of us.
Of everything and anything.
And I decided—somewhere between guilt and exhaustion—that maybe if we slipped back into our old routine, the one before Spencer, we could go back to how we were. Back to something that didn’t ache when I blinked. Something safe. Familiar. Something I could control.
Saturday morning.
I woke up early and made chocolate-chip pancakes for my Maddie.
She used to call them “happy cakes.” We made them together almost every weekend before he came into our lives. I’d let her stir the batter while I handled the stove, and she’d always sneak chocolate chips when she thought I wasn’t looking. It had been our thing.
She woke up to the smell.
Came bounding into the kitchen with sleepy hair and pajama pants twisted sideways, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. And for a moment—just a moment—she looked like she did months ago.
Long gone was the sadness from yesterday.
She smiled so wide it made my chest ache. “You made pancakes!”
“I did,” I said, forcing a smile of my own. “Chocolate-chip ones. Just like we used to.”
She climbed into her chair and kicked her feet under the table. “Does that mean we’re going to the library, too?”
I froze for half a second.
But I nodded.
Because what else was I supposed to do?
“Yep,” I said. “Library day.”
I served her a stack shaped like a clumsy heart. She giggled when the syrup dribbled down the side like a river. For ten whole minutes, it felt okay. She talked about which books she wanted to check out, asked if she could wear her fairy skirt, wondered if they still had the stuffed dragon in the reading corner.
She didn’t mention him.
Neither did I.
But I felt it—how the space he left still hovered in the room. In the way I grabbed two travel mugs instead of one. In the way Maddie reached for her favorite storybook and then stopped herself, as if remembering that it didn’t sparkle the same without him.
Still, I packed up our bags. Brushed her hair. Tied her shoes.
We were going to the library.
Because that’s what we did on Saturdays.
Because routines were supposed to make things better.
Because pretending we were whole was easier than admitting we weren’t.
The walk there was quiet. Maddie held my hand the whole time, skipping every few steps like she was trying to shake off the last of her sadness. The sun hadn’t fully broken through the clouds yet—everything still looked soft and pale, like the world hadn’t quite woken up either.
When we reached the library steps, she stopped short.
“Do you think the fish tank is still there?” she asked, squinting through the glass doors.
“I’m sure it is,” I said, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “You can check while I return the books.”
She nodded eagerly and ran ahead, her little shoes tapping rhythmically against the floor. I followed behind slowly, my hands suddenly clammy against the borrowed books I clutched to my chest.
It felt strange walking in without him. Without hearing the quiet sound of his voice beside me, telling Maddie about whatever constellation was on the ceiling mural that day. Without his fingers brushing mine as he took the book bag from me, always too gentle, always careful.
I tried not to think about it. I made myself focus on the way Maddie waved at the librarian, the way she crouched down to say hello to the turtles in the tank. I reminded myself why we were here—to prove to myself that we were okay. That I could do this without him. That we could go back to before.
But then I saw him.
He was in the fantasy section, crouched by the graphic novels. His back was turned, but I knew it was him instantly.
I stopped breathing.
He looked exactly the same—messy hair, sweater sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, a paperback in one hand. I would’ve known him anywhere.
And then Maddie saw him too.
She gasped. Loudly. Gasped like she’d just spotted Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.
“SPENCER!”
She was already halfway across the room before I could blink.
She launched herself into him so hard he nearly dropped the book.
He caught her—of course he did—stumbling back a little but smiling, stunned, like he hadn’t believed this was real until her arms were around his neck.
“Whoa—Maddie,” he breathed, hugging her back instantly. “Hi.”
Her voice was muffled against his sweater. “I missed you. I missed you so much.”
I couldn’t move.
I just stood there at the edge of the aisle, clutching the strap of my bag so tightly my knuckles turned white.
He looked up.
Saw me.
And everything in me stilled.
There was so much in that look. Apology. Fear. Longing. All of it.
I didn’t know what to do.
I didn’t know if I should walk over or walk away.
Maddie leaned back and put her hands on either side of his face like she needed to make sure he was real. “I thought you were mad,” she said. “I thought you didn’t like me anymore.”
Spencer looked like he’d been stabbed.
“No,” he said instantly, shaking his head. “No, Maddie. Never. I’m not mad at you.”
“Why were you gone?”
“I just… I had a lot of work, sweetheart.”
It was the gentlest lie I’d ever heard.
And she almost believed him.
She blinked slowly, still holding his face, and said, “You didn’t answer when I talked to you in my head.”
Spencer’s mouth parted—just a fraction. I saw it hit him. That she really had been calling for him. In her thoughts. Her dreams. Out loud, even, when she thought I wasn’t listening.
“I tried to,” he whispered. “I wanted to. I just— I didn’t know how.”
“You could’ve come.”
“I know.” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry, Maddie.”
She nodded against him. Her arms wrapped tighter around his neck.
And then she whispered, “I wore your cardigan. It still smells like you.”
I almost turned around.
I almost left.
Because the sound Spencer made—somewhere between a laugh and a sob—broke something in me. He clutched her closer and kissed the top of her head like it was instinct, like he’d been missing this as much as she had.
My throat felt like it was closing.
I didn’t know what I was walking into when I came here. I thought maybe we’d pretend not to see each other. Maybe he’d nod politely and slip out the back before I could say anything. I thought I could shield her from it. Protect her.
But here they were.
Wrapped up in each other again like no time had passed. Like no silence had ever cracked them apart.
And suddenly, Maddie looked up and saw me.
Her eyes lit up like Christmas morning.
“Mommy, he came back!” she shouted, twisting in Spencer’s arms. “He came back!”
I nodded, swallowing hard. “I see that, baby.”
“Can he come to the fish tank with us?” she asked, already bouncing. “Please?”
Spencer’s eyes met mine over the top of her head.
There was something there—uncertainty, guilt, maybe even fear. Like he was waiting for me to say no. To shut it down. To walk out with Maddie’s hand in mine and leave him behind for good.
But I couldn’t.
Not after this week.
Not after last night.
“Actually, baby,” I said gently, “why don’t you go wait for us in the kiddie section? I have to talk to Spencer for a minute.”
Maddie tilted her head. “But—”
“Just for a little bit,” I promised. “You can pick out books, but don’t leave that section. Okay?”
She looked between us, eyes narrowing the way she always did when she sensed something grown-up happening. But eventually, she nodded.
“Okay,” she said softly. Then she turned to Spencer and added, “Don’t leave again.”
His whole face folded.
“I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”
She squeezed his fingers once before letting go and skipping down the aisle toward the children’s corner, where the low shelves and beanbags waited.
I watched her until she disappeared around the bend.
Only then did I turn to him.
The second I met his eyes, the mask slipped.
He looked tired. More than tired. Like he hadn’t slept all week. Like he’d been trying to outrun something that kept catching up.
“Hi,” he said.
It broke something in me. That word. Simple. Fragile.
“Hi,” I echoed.
We stood there in the middle of the library, the weight of everything pressing down on the space between us. All the things we didn’t say. All the things we shouted without meaning to.
“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said after a moment, voice low.
“I didn’t either” I said, though it didn’t sound as sharp as it should have. “This is our Saturday routine. It was before you. I was just… trying to go back.”
He nodded, slowly. “Did it help?”
“No,” I said honestly. “Not even a little.”
He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Just slightly.
“Y/N… you have no idea how sorry I am… about everything. The planetarium, the… the running away, the yelling.”
His voice cracked on that last word. It landed somewhere in my ribs, sharp and unrelenting.
He didn’t look at me when he said it. Just stared at his hands like they were something dangerous. Like he didn’t trust them. Like he was afraid of what they’d done, or what they could still do.
“I never meant to hurt her,” he continued, voice low. “God, I never meant to scare her. Or you. I just… I panicked. I wasn’t thinking. And when you said what you said, I—”
He finally looked up.
“You were right. I’m not her dad,” he said, almost to himself. “You were right. I’m not. I’m just some guy who reads her storybooks and brings her stickers and I had no right to snap at her like that.”
“Stop,” I said, sharper than I intended. “Don’t do that.”
He blinked, startled.
“I didn’t mean what I said, Spence. I was just angry… I mean you aren’t her dad, but you’ve been there for her more than anyone else… you know besides me.”
He stared at me, eyes wide like he didn’t quite believe it. Like maybe he couldn’t.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you like that. I was butt-hurt, and you didn’t deserve it.”
“Y/n—”
“No, I mean it. you have no idea how much she’s— we’ve missed you, how sorry I am, how terrified I was that we’d never see you again.”
“You never called,” he said, not accusing—just… stating it. Like a fact he didn’t know what to do with.
I winced. “I was scared. I was embarrassed.”
He nodded, jaw tight. “So was I.”
We stood there for a beat, not looking at each other directly. It was too much. Too bare.
“I thought about it every day,” I admitted, voice low. “Picking up the phone. Just… hearing your voice. But I didn’t know what I’d say.”
“You could’ve said anything,” he murmured. “I would’ve picked up. I would’ve just listened.”
“I didn’t think I deserved that.”
That made him look at me. Not harsh, not wounded. Just there. Fully present, eyes searching mine like he was still trying to figure out if any of this was real.
“You were angry,” he said after a moment. “You had every right to be.”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I wanted you to go.”
“I didn’t want to go.”
“Then why did you?”
He hesitated. Swallowed.
“Because I felt like I’d broken something I couldn’t fix. Like the second I raised my voice, I lost the right to be in her life. In yours.”
That hit harder than I was ready for. My throat tightened.
“You didn’t lose anything,” I said, voice soft. “Not really.”
He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded—once, like it hurt.
“Do you want me to go?” he asked quietly. Like he already knew the answer, but couldn’t stand not hearing it.
It took me a moment to answer. But when I did, it was the easiest thing I’d said all week.
“No.”
I watched the relief flood his face, slow and cautious, like he didn’t fully trust it yet.
“We… I want you in my life. I need you in my life.”
His eyes searched mine, slow and stunned, like he was trying to memorize the moment. Like he wasn’t sure he’d get another one like it.
The air between us shifted—quieter, heavier, but in a way that made it easier to breathe. And for the first time in days, we just looked at each other. No fear. No anger. Just everything that had been left unsaid filling the space between our breaths.
Spencer’s hand twitched slightly at his side. I saw it. Felt the way his fingers wanted to move. To reach.
So I reached first.
Only a little—just enough to brush my fingertips against his. A soft question. He answered by curling his hand around mine, tentative but sure.
My heart climbed up my throat.
He stepped a little closer. Close enough that I could see the freckles on his cheek. The exhaustion in his eyes. The ache. The hope.
“I’m tired of pretending,” he said, voice low and raw. “Pretending I can just be normal around you. Be your friend. Act like I’m not thinking about you all the time.”
I swallowed, stunned still.
“I’ve been so scared to say it,” he went on, almost breathless now. “I keep overthinking it—telling myself it’s too fast, that we only just met a couple of months ago, that I’ll ruin it if I say the wrong thing…”
He looked right at me then. No hiding, no flinching.
“But I like you, Y/N. I like you a lot.”
The breath caught in my chest.
“I like you too, Spence… a lot.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
And for a second, we just hovered there—suspended in something quiet and unfinished.
His nose brushed mine.
My lips parted.
And just as I started to lean in—
“Mommy! You’re taking too long! I want to see the fish tank!”
We both flinched like we’d been caught committing a crime.
Spencer blinked rapidly, stumbling half a step back, and I turned my head so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.
Maddie was standing at the end of the aisle, arms crossed, already tapping her little foot in mock impatience.
“We’re coming, baby,” I called, my voice catching somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
She huffed and spun around dramatically, her pigtails swinging as she disappeared back toward the aquarium.
I turned back to Spencer.
His cheeks were flushed. So were mine.
But the smile tugging at his lips—god, it was real.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning too wide. “That was…”
He laughed softly. “Yeah.”
I squeezed his hand—tender, grounding. And with that, we turned toward Maddie, already marching ahead with purpose.
Toward the fish tank.
Toward something that felt, finally, like forward.
Together.
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pillow-coded · 1 month ago
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To Have and To Hold — Chapter 11
Summary: After a week of silence, Spencer finally comes back with hope. But Y/N’s guard is still up, and one broken toy shatters more than just plastic. Couple: Spencer Reid / Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warnings: Angsttttt, big argument Word Count: 7.8k
A/N: I’ll post chapter 12 in a couple of hours, I’m sorry for the delay, it’s just been a busy day for me.
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My whole life, I’ve been running away from anything that gets too overwhelming. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad—if it’s personal, I shut down. I could be standing in a warehouse, talking an unsub down with a gun to my chest, and feel completely fine. But the moment someone asks how I’m really doing, or what I want, or whether I meant that look, that touch—I run.
Like the pile of unopened mail on my kitchen counter—bills, medical forms, probably something from the Bureau about my insurance renewal. I know I should open them. I don’t.
Or like the time my old professor from Caltech left a message. There’s an open guest lecture slot, and he wanted me to consider coming back. Just for a day.
I listened to the voicemail. Then deleted it.
Never called him back. Never told anyone it happened.
Because going back to Caltech would mean confronting who I was before. Before the BAU. Before the trauma. Before addiction hollowed me out and stitched me back together wrong. And I’m terrified that version of me doesn’t exist anymore.
Or maybe it’s like the way I dodge the entire subject of Cat Adams with such precision it should be studied.
The case is closed. She’s in prison. That should be enough.
But the other day, when Garcia casually mentioned a stray cat outside her apartment—I froze. My entire body went still. It was just a phrase. A cat. And still, I heard her voice.
I’ve never told anyone what Cat really said to me. What she made me do in that visitation room. How it made me feel—less than human. Like a puppet with strings I didn’t know I had.
JJ knows, She was there that day, and unfortunately, saw what I think is the worst part of me. She’s tried to make me talk about it a couple times, says it’ll be good for me. I just keep it all locked away, convinced silence is strength. Pretending I’ve moved on. Pretending it doesn’t crawl under my skin at night.
I told myself I wouldn’t run from them. Not this time. That I’d let myself want something soft. Something good. That maybe I could stay.
But last week proved I haven’t changed at all.
Because the second her lips touched mine—I ran.
And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
I shouldn’t have left. That’s the part I keep circling back to—not the way she looked at me, not the shift in the air between us, not even the fact that I pulled back like a coward. It’s the leaving. The silence I left behind.
One second, her breath was on mine, and the next, I was halfway down the hallway, keys in hand, pretending like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t just come inches from either ruining everything… or finally admitting to myself that maybe, just maybe, I deserved them.
It’s been a week, and I still can’t stop thinking about it. About her. About the way her eyes flicked down to my mouth, like she’d been waiting. About how I should’ve just leaned back in—cupped her cheeks—and kissed her like there was no tomorrow.
We haven’t talked much since.
She wasn’t texting or calling, which I was going crazy without. You’d think I would’ve texted myself, but I was too ashamed of what I’d done to do anything about it. Too ashamed of the way I ran. Of how easily I reverted to old patterns—retreat, repress, pretend.
I kept rereading our old messages like they might offer a roadmap back to whatever we were before. Before I let silence answer for me. Before I turned my back on something that felt dangerously close to real.
Every time my phone buzzed, my heart jumped—stupidly, breathlessly—until it wasn’t her. And then I hated myself a little more for hoping.
I tried to distract myself. I worked late, cleaned my apartment, reorganized my books. But nothing helped. Not really.
Then Maddie called.
She got Y/N’s phone somehow and managed to dial me—probably by pure chaotic magic, the way only five-year-olds can.
“Hello?”
“Spencer!” Her voice was so bright. So completely unaware of the tension humming underneath everything. And it undid me.
“Hi, princess,” I said, already smiling. “How are you?”
“I miss you!”
“I miss you too, sweetheart.”
“Can you come to my house to play Princess Hospital with me? Mommy said she’s busy.”
“You have to ask your mama if I can go, Mads.”
“I did. She keeps saying tomorrow.”
That made my heart sink.
Not getting texts or calls from her was already enough to keep me pacing, checking my phone like an idiot. But this—hearing that she was deliberately pushing me off—was worse. It wasn’t just silence anymore. It was avoidance. Distance. Intentional or not, it felt like rejection. And it hurt more than I expected it to.
And Maddie, in her sparkly, sugar-spun innocence, didn’t even know she was delivering the final blow.
“Maddie, I told you not to grab my phone, sweetie…”
I heard her voice in the background—closer with each word, low and tense and unmistakably hers. My pulse picked up instantly.
“Who did you call?”
There was a pause. A soft shuffle. Then nothing but static and breath.
And then—
“Spencer?”
She didn’t sound mad. Not exactly. Just surprised. Guarded.
“Hey,” I said quietly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—Maddie just… she called me, I—”
“It’s fine,” she cut in. Too quickly. Too politely.
That made it worse somehow.
“I didn’t mean to overstep,” I tried again, even though the apology felt clumsy in my mouth. “I can go—”
“No. It’s okay. Really.”
Another silence.
I could practically hear her deciding what kind of boundary to build between us.
Then, finally:
“She really wants to see you.” She paused briefly, “So… if you’re free tonight, you can come over.”
She didn’t say I want to see you too.
She didn’t say much at all.
But I clung to it anyway.
“Okay,” I murmured. “I’ll be there.”
I almost wanted to cancel.
But I didn’t.
Because even if she wasn’t waiting at the door, even if her smile didn’t reach her eyes, I’d still show up.
All I could do now was try to stay.
So I grabbed the stupidly over-wrapped box I’d been holding onto all week—Maddie’s favorite glitter pen set and a plastic tiara that looked absurdly like the one she wore last time. I told myself I brought it for her, but maybe I just needed an excuse to come back.
The drive felt longer than usual. Every turn, every red light, every street sign was too familiar, too full of memory.
The streets I used to look forward to driving through—the ones I’d memorized like a favorite book, now just felt like approaching a cliff edge I’d built myself.
By the time I parked, my palms were sweating against the steering wheel. My chest felt too tight. I checked my reflection in the mirror, fixed my hair even though it wouldn’t help, and grabbed the bag.
I hesitated at the door.
There used to be a rhythm to this. Three soft knocks. Maddie shouting before the door even opened. Y/N smiling like I belonged there.
This time, it was quieter.
I knocked.
One breath.
Two.
And then— The door opened.
Y/N stood there, hair pulled back messily, sweater sleeves pushed up. She looked like she hadn’t slept much.
Her eyes flicked over me, then to the gift bag, then back again.
“We were just setting up the operating room,” she said.
A smile. Small. Careful.
“She has glitter flu,” she added.
I nodded, trying to mirror her ease, even though everything in me felt brittle.
“I brought backup supplies,” I said, lifting the bag slightly.
That made her smile a little more. Barely.
“Come in,” she murmured, stepping aside.
So I did.
Because no matter how quiet things had gotten—how tense or off or unfinished—this still felt like the only place I wanted to be.
Even if I didn’t know where I stood anymore.
“Spencer!!!!”
Maddie’s voice cracked through the room like a firework, shrill and delighted and entirely unaware of the undercurrent between her mother and me. She came barreling out of the hallway in mismatched socks and a pink tutu, a toy stethoscope slung around her neck like a badge of honor.
“You’re late! The unicorns are already in surgery!”
I barely had time to brace myself before she threw her arms around my legs in a glitter-dusted hug.
“I brought backup,” I said, holding out the gift bag.
She gasped like I’d handed her a golden ticket. “Extra supplies! Mommy, he brought extra sparkles!”
Y/N gave a small smile from across the room. Quiet. Guarded. Still hard to read.
I wanted to hold onto Maddie’s excitement. Let it fill the spaces that had grown sharp and quiet. I dropped to my knees beside her, letting her pull me toward the couch where her hospital setup had completely overtaken the living room floor.
“Dr. Sparkle, reporting for duty,” I said softly.
Maddie giggled. “You’re gonna help me save Princess Glitter-Belle!”
So I did.
“Mommy, are you gonna play with us?”
Y/N looked up from the couch, where she was curled with a book she clearly hadn’t turned a page of in the last minute of us setting up the makeshift hospital.
“Oh honey, I’d love to… but I’m tired,” she said gently, offering Maddie a small smile. “I think I’ll only watch this time.”
Maddie didn’t question it. She just shrugged and went back to diagnosing Princess Glitter-Belle with a severe case of Rainbow Rash.
But I noticed.
Y/N usually threw herself into these games, made up entire subplots, played the Evil Queen or the Royal Nurse with accents and flourishes Maddie found hilarious. But tonight, she barely looked up. She just held the book like a shield, nodding along to our make-believe surgery like it was background noise.
I glanced at her more than I should’ve. She didn’t meet my eyes, but I knew that she was aware of my glances and stares.
And I don’t know why, but that hurt more than if she’d been outright cold.
It was like being near her was the punishment. Like this was the consequence of me running away from her attempts at a connection beyond of what we had.
“Princess Glitter-Bella,” Maddie began, her voice suddenly full of urgency, “she ate too many glitter muffins and came into the hospital very early this morning. She asked for the best doctor at the hospital. She’s been waiting all day, Dr. Sparkles. What will we do?”
I forced a smile. Played along.
“Well,” I said, adjusting my invisible glasses with exaggerated seriousness, “she just has to drink some pixie dust.”
Maddie gasped. “We ran out!”
She looked at me with big, panicked eyes, holding her stuffed unicorn to her chest like a nurse awaiting orders.
“Then…” I paused, pretending to think, “we’ll have to make some from scratch.”
“How?”
I leaned in and whispered, “Three sprinkles. Two butterfly kisses. And a secret from someone’s heart.”
Maddie squealed. “I have the sprinkles!”
She darted off toward her art bin in the corner.
And for a second, I looked up again—back toward Y/N.
Still on the couch. Still holding that book. Still not looking at me.
And I couldn’t help it.
All I could think about was what she could possibly be thinking.
“Dr. Sparkles, I brought the sprinkles!!” Maddie announced, breathless and triumphant, holding up a tiny plastic cup filled with glitter.
I smiled at her enthusiasm, but it didn’t quite reach all the way.
“Good,” I said, adjusting my voice to sound steady, warm. “Now we just need the butterfly kisses and the secret from someone’s heart.”
Maddie paused, tilting her head like she was genuinely considering it. “Can I give the butterfly kisses?”
“Of course,” I said.
She leaned over to kiss the stuffed princess doll right on the forehead, giggling to herself. Then she turned back to me with all the seriousness a four-year-old can muster.
“Okay, but… what about the secret? Are you gonna tell one?”
I looked at her. At the innocence in her eyes, the kind that didn’t know what it meant to keep things locked away.
I felt something heavy stir in my chest.
I could’ve said anything—made up a new rule, changed the subject. But my voice came out quieter than I intended.
“I think…” I glanced up again. Toward Y/N. Still quiet. Still turned just slightly away.
“I think sometimes the secret stays a secret,” I murmured. “Even if you really want to share it.”
Maddie didn’t seem to notice the shift in tone. She just shrugged. “Okay! We can just use my secret.”
She leaned in close and whispered something into the doll’s ear that I couldn’t hear.
Then she looked at me and beamed. “Now she’s gonna feel all better.”
God, I hoped so.
Because I wasn’t sure I could say the same for myself.
“Mommy, I need to go to the bathroom,” Maddie chirped, already getting to her feet, tiara bouncing with each step.
“Alright, sweetie,” Y/N said softly, setting her book aside. “Do you need help?”
Maddie shook her head, determined. “Nope. I’m big now.”
We both watched her disappear down the hall, the echo of her little footsteps fading around the corner.
And then—quiet.
The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful. The kind that prickles under your skin.
I stayed where I was on the floor, suddenly aware of how still everything had become. The living room, the leftover glitter, the space between us.
She was standing now, by the edge of the couch. One arm crossed loosely over her stomach, the other hanging at her side. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sweater like she didn’t know what to do with them.
I looked up at her, and for the first time all evening, she looked back.
Really looked.
Her expression was unreadable. Not angry. Not cold. Just… tired. Worn down by something I couldn’t quite name.
I swallowed.
“Y/N…” I said her name softly, a question tucked into the sound.
She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes dropped from mine. Then she shook her head—barely, like she was shaking something off.
“I’m fine,” she said.
That lie sat heavy in the space between us.
“You’re not…” I speak out, which was strange for me. This was usually the part where I hid within myself. “You’ve barely spoken to me since I got here… you’re just sitting there, not even reading—”
“Who says I wasn’t reading?”
“You’ve been on the same page for five minutes now…. I just kinda thought you’d join in to the whole… glitter pink hospital.”
“I’m just feeling under the weather.”
She said it too smoothly. Too quickly. Like she’d rehearsed it. Like maybe she’d planned to use that excuse no matter what I said tonight.
I let out a quiet breath, sat back on my heels. Tried not to let the sting show too much.
“Oh,” I said, nodding like I believed her. “Right.”
A beat passed. Two.
I picked up one of Maddie’s stuffed animals and turned it over in my hands, like maybe if I focused hard enough, it’d stop the pressure from tightening in my chest.
“I just thought…” I swallowed, still not looking at her. “I thought maybe something was wrong. With us.”
The silence that followed that word—us—was louder than anything Maddie had said all evening.
I finally looked up.
She was already looking at me.
And she didn’t say a thing.
“Dr. Sparkles! a new patient has arrived! she needs urgent care!”
Maddie’s voice rang out from the hallway like a lifeline thrown too early.
Y/N blinked, her gaze breaking from mine in an instant. Whatever had been forming behind her eyes—whatever she might have said—was gone.
Swallowed by the sound of little feet padding across the floor.
Maddie charged back into the room, cradling a stuffed giraffe in her arms like it was on its last breath.
“Her name is Princess Longneck. She fell off the castle tower and broke her magic glitter dress!” she said breathlessly, placing the giraffe between us.
I looked at it. Then at Y/N.
She was already backing away, returning to the couch, to her book, to safety.
Back to pretending.
“Better get to work,” she said, voice too light, too even.
I turned back to the giraffe. Nodded.
“Of course,” I murmured. “We’ll do everything we can.”
But my heart wasn’t in it anymore.
Not with Y/N sitting just a few feet behind us—quiet, guarded, clearly still hurting because of me. Because I ran.
I should apologize. I should kneel in front of her right now, tell her how sorry I am. That I panicked. That I left because the moment felt too good, not because it didn’t mean anything. I should tell her I haven’t stopped thinking about it, about her, about the way her eyes flickered shut like she was waiting for—
“How can we help her?” Maddie ask, tugging on my sleeve.
I didn’t hear her.
I was too busy wondering if it’s too late. If she’s already decided I don’t belong here anymore. If the door I walked out of last week is the one I won’t be walking back through.
“Dr. Sparkles!”
I blinked. Maddie was staring up at me now, wide-eyed, her bottom lip starting to wobble.
“You’re not listening,” she whispered. “Princess Longneck’s really sick, and you’re supposed to help.”
“I…” I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I got distracted.”
She frowned. “But you never get distracted.”
I smiled, weakly. “I know. I’ll do better.”
I reached for the giraffe again, but my hands felt heavy. Everything did.
Across from us, I could feel Y/N’s eyes on me. And for the first time tonight, I didn’t look back.
Because I didn’t think I could handle what I’d see.
“Maybe you need some snacks. I’ll go get my brownies!”
Maddie got up and scrambled to the kitchen.
Y/N followed a beat later. Quietly. No words, just a soft shuffle of feet and the rustle of her sweater sleeve as she pushed herself off the couch.
Except… I didn’t know where she went.
I didn’t hear the fridge open. Didn’t hear Maddie call out to her. Just silence. Like she’d slipped out of the room—maybe the apartment—altogether.
And she left. She really left.
I sat there on the rug, surrounded by plush animals and glitter band-aids and cardboard crowns, and I just—
I didn’t want her to go.
I wanted her here. I needed her here.
I needed to look at her. Talk to her. Say something real and hear her say something back.
I needed to hear her voice, her laugh—the kind of laugh she used to give me, effortless and warm, the one that always made me feel like I wasn’t too much.
I needed to know I hadn’t ruined everything.
I stayed sitting there on the rug, unmoving, while Maddie’s voice drifted faintly from the kitchen. I couldn’t make out the words—just the rhythm of her excitement, the clinking of something plastic—but Y/N’s voice was missing from it. And somehow that absence felt louder than anything else.
She was still here. Somewhere. Maybe only a room away. But it didn’t matter. It still felt like she was gone.
I missed her.
God, I missed her—and she hadn’t even left the house.
I missed the way she’d lean on the doorframe and smile at whatever nonsense Maddie and I were doing. I missed how she’d chime in with some absurd diagnosis of her own—“I think this princess has a case of sparkle fatigue. Only solution is snuggles and juice.” I missed the way she used to look at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention. Like I was something she was still trying to figure out but wanted to understand.
I missed her voice. Her laugh. Her eyes when they softened. The way she always offered tea when I came over, even though I always said yes and barely drank it. I missed the quiet conversations we’d have after Maddie fell asleep—the ones that made the world feel smaller, safer.
And I missed the feeling I used to get in this apartment. That maybe, for once, I belonged somewhere.
It was stupid. It had only been a week.
But it also hadn’t. Because this wasn’t just about time—it was about what it had started to feel like. What she had started to mean to me. What Maddie had started to mean.
I had this picture in my head, this fragile daydream of what it could’ve looked like if I hadn’t run that night. If I’d just stayed. If I’d kissed her.
Would she be curled next to me now instead of retreating behind rooms and walls?
Would her eyes still light up when she saw me?
Would she be sitting on this floor, a toy tiara crooked on her head, laughing at whatever diagnosis Maddie threw out next?
Instead, she was gone.
Still within the walls of this home—but unreachable.
And I hated myself for being the reason why.
“Spencer?” Maddie’s loud voice cut through my thoughts.
She was standing in front of me, holding a small plastic plate with a brownie crumbling at the edges, her brows furrowed with something like worry. I realized—she must’ve called my name a few times already.
“I’m sorry, honey,” I said, sitting up straighter, forcing my voice to be light. “What were you saying?”
“I brought you the brownies,” she said, her voice small now. Like she was unsure if she’d done something wrong.
“Right,” I nodded quickly. “Thank you. That was really sweet of you.”
She smiled, but it was softer than usual. Dimmed. Like even she could feel something was off.
She placed the plate carefully beside me and sat back down, fidgeting with one of her stuffed animals in her lap.
“Princess Longneck said you seem sad,” she mumbled after a moment, not looking at me.
That hit harder than it should have.
I looked down at the toy in front of me, the half-finished surgery, the glitter scattered like shrapnel around the living room carpet. Then up, toward the hallway where Y/N had disappeared.
I forced a smile for Maddie’s sake, even if it didn’t reach all the way.
“Tell her I’m just tired,” I said gently.
But I think we both knew that was a lie.
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The past week felt like moving through water—thick, slow, impossible to breathe in. I kept telling myself it didn’t matter, that it was just a simple rejection, a moment that passed. But my body didn’t believe me.
I’d reach for my phone and stop myself. I’d think of something funny to tell him, something Maddie said, something small and inconsequential—and I’d freeze. Because I didn’t know if I was still allowed to share those things with him anymore.
It wasn’t the rejection itself that gutted me. It was the aftermath. The space he left in the room when he walked out. The fact that he never looked back. The fact that I did.
I got up from the couch, no explanation, I just needed space. A breath. A wall between us so I could stop wondering if I’d imagined everything we were building.
But I didn’t go far.
I stood just around the corner, back pressed against the kitchen entryway, listening to them. Listening to him.
I needed to know if he was still himself. If he was still ours.
And for a moment, it almost felt like before.
Until I heard the edge in Maddie’s voice when she said, “Princess Longneck said you seem sad.”
I leaned in slightly, just enough to glimpse them from where I stood.
Spencer looked like a man unraveling slowly—still trying to smile for her, still showing up, but barely holding the seams together. I wanted to reach out. I almost did.
Then he said, “Tell her I’m just tired.”
But it was obviously not that.
He was just as bothered as I was over the events of last week.
“Why are you tired? Is it because of your superhero job?”
Spencer let out a soft laugh, barely audible. The one he did when he was trying to mask how close the words landed.
“Did your mommy tell you about that?” he asked.
“She says we don’t see you a lot because you’re out there fighting bad guys… is it true?”
A pause.
“Yeah,” he said gently. “It’s true.”
I swallowed hard.
I had said that. Weeks ago, when Maddie had insisted on seeing him every single day of the week. It was meant to be a comfort. A distraction. Something whimsical and heroic.
From my spot in the hallway, I could hear the silence building again.
Then Maddie asked, “Do you miss me when you’re gone?”
Spencer didn’t answer right away. Long enough that I had to close my eyes and brace myself for what he might say.
“More than you know,” he finally murmured.
And it cracked something in me.
Because I believed him.
Even after everything—after the kiss, after the distance, after a week of cold space and half-sentences—He was still here.
“Did you miss mommy?”
My breath caught.
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood frozen in the hallway, fingers curling tighter around the edge of my sleeve.
Spencer didn’t answer right away. For a heartbeat, all I could hear was the faint hum of the fridge behind me, the light clink of Maddie fidgeting with her toys.
And then, barely above a whisper:
“Yeah. I did.”
That was all.
Simple. Unadorned. No explanation. No hesitation. Just yeah, I did, spoken like a truth he hadn’t meant to say out loud. Like something he’d rehearsed a hundred times in his head but never dared to release until now.
His voice had that quiet pull to it—soft, reverent, full of something that sounded too close to longing. Like he wasn’t just answering Maddie’s question, but mine too. The one I’d been too afraid to ask: Did any of it mean something to you? Or was I the only one who felt it shift?
And maybe I was reading into it. Maybe I wanted to. But I could still feel the echo of it ripple through me, slow and deep, settling somewhere beneath my ribs—warm, sharp, uninvited. That kind of ache you get when you realize you’ve been holding your breath for days and didn’t notice until someone says something kind enough to make your chest hurt.
I hadn’t even seen his face, but I heard him. I heard how careful he was with it. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to miss me, but couldn’t stop himself from doing it anyway.
I stayed there, still pressed against the wall, heart knocking hard against bone. Not moving. Not daring to breathe. Because if I did—if I stepped around the corner and looked at him now—I didn’t know what I’d do. I didn’t know what I’d say. Only that I wanted to. That I missed him, too. And maybe I always would.
before I could step back in or say anything at all—
Snap.
A small, hollow crack echoed from the living room.
Maddie gasped. “You broke it!”
“You broke Princess Longneck’s tiara!”
I stepped out from behind the kitchen wall just in time to see it unfold.
Maddie was standing in the middle of the living room, clutching the now-cracked stuffed animal to her chest, staring at Spencer like he’d done something unforgivable. He still held the small plastic tiara in his hands, one piece barely clinging to the other. His face—God, his face—was already tight with panic. Regret.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said gently, crouching down, holding the pieces up. “I was just trying to straighten it, and it cracked. But it’s okay—we can fix it, I promise. I’ll find glue, or tape, or—”
“No!” Maddie’s voice came out shrill, close to the edge. “You weren’t paying attention! You weren’t even listening!”
Tears welled up in her eyes, and her tiny frame started to tremble—breath hitching, shoulders rising. She was unraveling fast.
And Spencer was trying. God, he was trying.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay, sweetheart, let’s take a breath, alright? Can you do that with me? In and out—just like we practiced—”
He’d done this before. He’d helped her through bigger meltdowns than this. In grocery store aisles and crowded sidewalks and quiet nights when she couldn’t sleep. He knew the drill. And normally, it worked.
But this time—it wasn’t.
And I could see it in his posture. The way his shoulders pulled in tighter. The way his voice cracked at the edge of too much.
“Maddie,” he said, a little louder, a little firmer, still trying to hold onto the moment. “It’s just a toy. We can fix it, or I’ll buy you a new one”
Wrong move.
She flinched. Her lip trembled. “It was a big deal to me!”
And then—
“Madeline, that’s enough.” Spencer snapped. Not a yell. But too loud. Too sharp. His voice cut the air like something final.
She froze. The tears stopped, suspended. Her bottom lip quivered, and her eyes flooded all over again—but this time, she didn’t scream.
She just looked… hurt.
And for a second—just one breathless second—everything stopped.
Time slowed. The room blurred at the edges. And all I could see was Maddie’s face, crumpling in confusion. All I could hear was Spencer’s voice still ringing in the air, too sharp, too unlike him.
How could it be that the same man who fell asleep on my couch with my baby curled against his chest—the same man who once sat on the kitchen floor with her for hours just to convince her that monsters weren’t real—was now the reason she looked like that?
How could he go from tracing butterflies on her back during a meltdown to snapping her name like it was something to be ashamed of?
I blinked, stunned still. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew he hadn’t meant it. I knew that. But that didn’t matter. Not when Maddie was standing there like that—silent, shaking, shrinking in front of him.
Not when the air between them had turned from safe to something sharp.
And in the space of that one breath—I moved.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
My voice cracked through the room like a whip—sharp, louder than I intended, but I didn’t care. It cut through the silence, through the tension, through the part of me that still loved him. Because Maddie was crying. And he’d made her cry.
Spencer turned slowly, like he wasn’t sure he’d really heard me. His eyes were wide, stunned—like I’d knocked the breath out of him. He stood up from the rug, stiff and uncertain, still holding the broken tiara in one hand like a white flag he didn’t know how to wave.
“It was an accident,” he said, voice quick and uneven. “I didn’t mean to break it—I was distracted, and then she—”
“You don’t get to raise your voice at her.”
The second the words left my mouth, the whole room changed. The air thinned. Maddie sniffled once behind me, and then—
She bolted.
A blur of pink and glitter and tears, sprinting down the hallway toward her bedroom.
“Maddie—!” I called out, but the door slammed before I could even take a step.
The sound echoed behind us. Then… silence.
I turned back to him. Slowly. Deliberately.
“You don’t get to raise your voice at her,” I repeated, quieter this time, but firmer. Sharper. “I don’t care how frustrated you were. I don’t care what broke or what she said. That is not how we do things in this house.”
His hands dropped to his sides, the tiara slipping from his fingers and landing on the rug with a dull plastic clatter.
“I wasn’t yelling,” he said again, but this time his voice had no conviction. “I was trying to help. She was spiraling and I just— I didn’t know what to do.”
“She’s four,” I snapped. “She’s allowed to spiral.”
“I know that—”
“Do you?” My throat was tight. My heart pounding. “Because that didn’t sound like someone who knew what she needed. That sounded like someone who lost his patience.”
Spencer’s mouth opened—then closed.
And in that beat, that terrible beat of silence between us, I realized what I’d known since the second he raised his voice:
Something had cracked.
And it wasn’t just a tiara.
Spencer took a small step toward me, like he didn’t realize he’d done it. Like his body was still trying to close the distance even while his words failed.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt her,” he said, softer now. “I didn’t even raise my voice that much—just enough to get her to stop.”
“Yeah, well, she did stop,” I shot back, eyes narrowing. “Did you see her face? You scared her, Spencer.”
He flinched. Just slightly. But I saw it.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said again, and it sounded like it hurt him to say it. “I panicked. I was trying everything else and nothing was working—she was crying and screaming and I thought maybe if I just—”
“What?” I cut in, voice low, bitter. “If you just snapped, she’d listen better?”
He looked at me then, really looked. His mouth opened, but the words caught somewhere behind his eyes.
“She was spiraling,” he repeated, helpless. “I just wanted to help. I’ve read about this, I’ve seen how to—how to regulate when a child’s in distress—”
“Yeah?” I laughed once, sharp and humorless. “And how’s that working out for you?”
He blinked.
“I’m trying,” he said finally. “I know I messed up, okay? I know. I’m not saying it was the right way to handle it. But I love her. I care about her. I’m doing my best.”
And for a second, I wanted to let that be enough.
But I couldn’t.
Because my daughter was behind a closed door, crying.
And the man standing in front of me—the one who’d held her, protected her, made her laugh on the worst days—had raised his voice just enough to undo all of that.
And then I heard myself say it. Quiet. Fractured.
“You’re not her dad, Spencer. So stop trying to be.”
The words hung there. Heavy. Irrevocable.
His face didn’t change right away. He just stood there, eyes locked on mine like he hadn’t quite heard me correctly. Or maybe like he had—and was still trying to believe I’d actually said it.
I watched it hit him in waves.
The first was shock. Then something like heartbreak.
He blinked once. Slowly. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but he didn’t say anything. Not yet.
And for a second, I hated myself.
Because I hadn’t meant to say it like that. Not with that edge. Not like I was pushing him out of something he’d never been properly let into in the first place. But I had. And it was already too late to take it back.
Spencer dropped his gaze. His hands hung at his sides, fingers curling into nothing.
“Right,” he said softly. Barely more than breath. “Yeah.”
He nodded once, tight and mechanical, like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“I should go.”
“No—” I stepped forward, the word catching in my throat, but he was already moving.
“No, it’s okay,” he said. And this time, he didn’t sound angry. He didn’t sound anything. Just… tired. Hollow. “I get it.”
He walked to the door without looking back. No dramatic exit. No slam. Just the quiet click of the lock behind him as he slipped out of our home like he’d never been part of it at all.
And I stood there, heart in my throat, hands shaking, staring at the door like it might open again.
It didn’t.
And for the second time in a week, he left without a word.
Only this time… I was the one who pushed him.
I didn’t move.
Not for a second.
Then another.
The door had already closed. I heard it. I felt it. The finality of it echoed in my bones, louder than his footsteps ever could. But my body wouldn’t register it yet. I just stood there, like if I stayed still long enough, maybe time would rewind. Maybe I’d hear his voice again. Maybe I’d stop myself before the words left my mouth.
But they had. And he was gone.
My chest felt tight—like something was sitting on it, pressing down inch by inch until my breath was nothing but a whisper. My arms hung useless at my sides. My fingers trembled. My legs didn’t feel like they belonged to me anymore.
And then—
I sank.
Slowly, like the floor had given out beneath me. I folded at the knees, lowering myself down as if I could disappear into the carpet, into the glitter, into the wreckage we’d both left behind.
I pulled my legs to my chest, arms around them.
Not to feel small—though I did.
But to feel contained. Like if I didn’t hold myself together, I’d come apart.
My hands were shaking. My throat ached. My jaw was clenched so tight it hurt.
I didn’t know what I had just done.
Didn’t know if it was right. Or irreversible. Or both.
I kept replaying it—his face when I said it, the way he blinked like it stung, the way he didn’t even argue. The way he just left. The one man who’d actually stayed for once in our lives—walked away without me stopping him.
And I let him.
I told him to stop trying to be something he never claimed he was.
But wasn’t that the whole thing?
He never had to say it out loud. He just was. Every time he showed up, every time he read bedtime stories, every time he tied Maddie’s shoes or picked glitter out of her hair without complaint—he was.
And I’d ripped it away.
Because I was butt-hurt over him not calling us a family at the planetarium—when we weren’t. Not really. Not officially. Not by name.
But God, did it still sting.
Because I was hurt over the rejection of my kiss. Even if he hadn’t meant to reject me. Even if he’d looked like he wanted it just as badly. He still left.
And I’d taken all of that—all the bruises I didn’t let heal, all the hope I refused to admit I had—and I used it like a blade.
I said the one thing I knew would cut him where he couldn’t cover it.
You’re not her dad.
Because saying that felt safer than asking why he didn’t kiss me.
Because pushing him away felt easier than waiting around to see if he’d do it first.
Because love, when you’ve been hurt enough times, doesn’t always come out gentle.
Sometimes it claws its way out—sharp, defensive, mean. And by the time you realize you’ve drawn blood… they’re already gone.
And now he was gone.
I buried my face in my knees, but no tears came at first. Just that silent pressure behind my eyes, the kind that builds and builds and doesn’t know where to go. My body didn’t even know how to cry properly—I just sat there, paralyzed. Hollowed out.
But Maddie was still crying.
Behind a closed door, down a short hallway, in a room filled with stuffed animals and tiny tiaras and stories I’d promised her would never end like this.
I had to move. I had to.
For her.
I was her mother. I had to be the one who stayed steady, even when everything inside me felt like fire. Even when my chest felt carved out. Even when I couldn’t breathe.
But I couldn’t stand yet.
So I sat there a moment longer—shaking, burning, breaking.
Letting it hurt. Letting it ruin me.
Because maybe it had to.
And then I’d get up.
And knock on Maddie’s door.
And tell her it was okay to cry.
Because someone had to say it.
Someone had to make sure she didn’t burn with us.
That thought steadied something in me.
Not enough to fix anything. Not enough to stop the ache. But enough to breathe again—just barely. Enough to unclench my fists and feel the carpet under my palms. Enough to look up at the hallway and remember who was waiting for me at the end of it.
I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve, even though I wasn’t sure when the tears had started falling. I hadn’t noticed. They’d just… happened. Like the body finally catching up to everything the heart had been screaming.
My legs felt stiff as I unfolded them. My knees popped when I straightened. My hands trembled when I reached for the wall to steady myself.
But I stood.
And then I walked.
One foot. Then the other.
Down the hall where the light was dimmer. Where the door was closed. Where the silence on the other side felt thicker than anything I’d just left behind.
I lifted my hand. Let it hover just an inch from the wood.
My fingers curled in.
Then I knocked. Gently. Barely audible. Like I was afraid I’d break her, too.
“Maddie?” My voice cracked on her name. “Can I come in?”
Silence.
I closed my eyes. Pressed my forehead to the door.
I could hear her breathing on the other side now. That small, sniffling rhythm she always made when she was trying to be brave. Trying not to cry out loud.
I turned the knob slowly, pushing the door open just wide enough to see her—my baby girl, curled on the far corner of her bed, tiara long gone, hair mussed, fists wiping furiously at her cheeks even though the tears hadn’t stopped.
“Oh, honey…”
I crossed the room without thinking, without breathing. Just moving.
She didn’t say anything, didn’t look at me—just let out one of those tiny hiccupped sobs she always tried to hold in when she thought being strong meant staying quiet.
“you can cry, it’s okay.”
Her lip wobbled at that. And then she did. Just let go, quietly, her little body shaking with each breath she tried to hold in. I sat down on the edge of her bed and reached for her, careful and slow—just an open arm, a silent promise that I was there when she was ready.
And she came.
Maddie leaned into me like something in her had finally given permission. Like my arms were gravity, and she’d been floating for too long. I pulled her into my lap and curled around her, tucking her head beneath my chin. She was warm and trembling and heartbreakingly small.
I exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours.
“I didn’t mean to be bad,” she whispered, voice so soft I almost didn’t catch it. “I just… I really liked the tiara…”
My heart cracked again.
“You weren’t bad, baby,” I said, rocking her slowly, forehead to her hair. “You were sad. And mad. And that’s okay.”
She sniffled again. “Spencer yelled.”
“I know.”
“Is he mad at me?”
“No,” I said instantly, my throat tight. “He’s not mad at you, sweetheart. He just panicked.”
“It was just a toy,” she hiccupped, “but I really liked it…”
“I know, baby. I know.” I kissed the top of her head, breathing her in like she was the only real thing left in the world. “It’s okay to be upset. You loved that tiara. It’s okay to feel sad.”
She nodded into my chest, her tears dampening my shirt. Her arms wrapped tightly around my waist like she was afraid I’d vanish too. And I let her hold me like that. Let her cry it all out, without rushing her, without trying to fix it.
“Please tell him to come back, Mommy,” she whispered. “I don’t want him to leave.”
And there it was.
The final blow.
The one that left me breathless.
I looked at her—my baby, my entire world—and I wanted to say yes. I wanted to promise her that I’d fix it. That he’d walk back through the door and everything would be okay again.
But I couldn’t.
So I held her closer, eyes stinging, and said the only thing I could:
“It’s late, sweet girl. Maybe tomorrow.”
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