#Dr Spencer Reid

[venusbyline]

GUYS YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!!! I NEED TO RIDE THIS MAN IMMEDIATELY

[darkmatilda]

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟 | 𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spencer struggles with a relapse in addiction after emily's death when he meets you, a person who wants to help everyone around.

𝐭𝐰: there's going to be a lot… all topics related to mental health issues, mentioning the death of a loved one, suicide, relapse into addiction, violence. stay safe guys 𝐚/𝐧: please, read before reading. this is the full, ridiculously long version of "with the light off" that I posted yesterday. i’ve never seen a fanfiction this long on tumblr, and i won’t lie, i'm fking insane.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 25k

Spencer Reid was a genius.

Everyone knew it; he knew it himself, though he didn’t always see himself that way. It’s not difficult to explain what a genius is. One defining trait was that his brain worked at an incredibly fast pace. Metaphorically speaking, of course. In any case, he had no trouble connecting facts and forming assumptions that later proved accurate. With the amount of knowledge he had about various situations and people, it wasn’t hard to predict the course of certain similar events. It was simply a matter of connecting the proverbial dots—that’s what the vast majority of his work entailed. The rest involved risking his own life, something he had recently experienced in a painful way.

Spencer knew hundreds of stories about people struggling with addiction. He had read just about every available resource on the subject, trying to help himself. He understood the topic from firsthand experience and was aware that relapses were entirely normal in the face of difficult life situations. Yet, once he had overcome his addiction, he never imagined— even in his darkest visions—that he would ever reach for Dilaudid again.

But that’s exactly what he did. Well, technically speaking, not yet. But it was only a matter of time—minutes, to be exact.

He was walking through the city with the drug in his coat pocket, as if it were an ordinary item, like a wallet or car keys. At the same time, he felt as though everyone was staring at him. A shiver ran through his body every time he accidentally made eye contact with someone. She knows what I’m about to do. He knows too. They all do.

He was acting like a complete paranoiac. 

He had a substantial dose of Dilaudid on him and knew he’d take it the moment he was alone in his apartment. Yet, he hadn’t used it—he was still technically clean. Could he call it Schrödinger’s relapse?

He started to laugh, a bit hysterically, as he fumbled to open the door. Suddenly, the key seemed too large, or maybe the keyhole had somehow shrunk? Or perhaps his hands were simply shaking so much that he couldn’t line it up? The second option seemed far more likely, though admitting it was difficult for someone as devoted to logic as he was.

Spencer pressed his forehead against the door, taking a deep breath. He was ready to break down the damn thing…

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” came a voice behind him.

He turned around. One of his neighbors had poked her head out from the apartment across the hall—a sweet-faced elderly woman with an even kinder demeanor. Talkative and prone to asking questions. Knowing her love of sensation (she really did seem to have more energy and bravery than he, an FBI agent, did), it wasn’t all that surprising she’d stepped outside the moment she heard strange noises from the hallway.

Her question, the very presence of another person, somehow brought him back to reality.

"Just fine, Mrs. Schulz," he said, forcing a calm tone.

Standing with his back to her, he closed his eyes and took a deep, slower breath. His neighbor lingered for a moment in her doorway, and even without looking, he could imagine the suspicious look on her face. But finally, he heard the sound of her door closing—she’d let it go.

He slapped himself on the cheek, trying to snap out of it. He hadn’t been drinking—he was just coming back from a funeral—but he felt dazed, as if he were drunk. Slowly, he raised his hands again, and this time he slid the key into the lock without issue.

He didn’t even turn on the light or take off his coat; he went straight to the bedroom and tossed what could only be called a junkie’s kit onto the bed. In a plastic bag were a clean syringe and the main event.

Dilaudid.

He hadn’t wanted anything this badly in a shockingly long time. He’d promised he’d never touch it again. He’d made that promise to JJ and Gideon, but most importantly, to himself. Only when he pictured their faces and heard their voices in his mind did doubts start to creep in. He couldn’t get addicted again.

But on the other hand, did using it just this once, after all this time, really mean falling back into addiction? He knew people who had quit smoking years ago but occasionally had a cigarette—just to see if it still tasted the same. They’d end up thinking, Wow, was I really addicted to this? It’s disgusting!

It should be the same for him. He’d do it once, just this one time.

He recognized that particular thought. It was the voice of addiction.

He ran a hand over his face. He’d once gone to a support group for people struggling with addiction, sitting in the back, practically hiding, but he listened intently. That was what they talked about—how to separate his own thoughts from those of addiction. It all came down to the fact that addiction had no real power over him; it couldn’t physically force him to take the drug, only tempt and seduce him.

And he had to fight it.

He ran his hands through his hair, and then, on impulse, grabbed the bag on the bed and shoved it into the small safe in his nightstand. He kept his gun and badge there, along with his most valuable belongings. And now, also, the thing that could destroy him.

Breathing heavily, he backed out into the hallway. He couldn’t stay in the apartment. If he did, he’d give in. The problem was, he didn’t really have anywhere to go. He didn’t want to show up at JJ’s or any other team member’s door; he didn’t want to admit his moment of weakness. Besides, that day had been Emily’s funeral—everyone was too absorbed in their own grief to have to worry about him too.

The only place that came to mind was the library.

In his teenage years, it had been his only, truest friend. He’d spend hours there, loving the feeling of being surrounded by walls of books. He loved running his fingers over hardcovers, as if reading a message written in Braille. And above all, he loved to read. Was there any better escape from reality?

The next hours were spent immersed in the works of his favorite authors, pinching the back of his hand every time his thoughts wandered toward Dilaudid. A red mark appeared on his skin, and after another attempt, he began to bleed, though he didn’t even notice until he accidentally stained the page while turning it. He hurriedly set the book aside, feeling guilty for damaging it.

To make matters worse, someone appeared by his side.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you, you were so engrossed in your reading, but I need to close now. It’s midnight," the librarian informed him, looking every bit like the most stereotypical library worker.

Spencer looked at him pleadingly, not even knowing what he was hoping for. That the librarian would let him stay until morning? In silence, he put on his coat and headed for the library’s exit. It wasn’t a standalone building. Upon stepping out, he found himself in what looked like a hallway, with stairs leading, as far as he knew, to the laundry room, and wide-open doors to another room.

He was about to head for the actual exit when something caught his attention. A sign, like the ones warning about slippery floors. However, instead of a typical message, it had an inscription written in a handwriting resembling that of a child, with a flower replacing the dot on the letter "i."

If you feel like you can’t handle it, come in. We’ll talk, or not, if you don’t want to. But know that you’re not alone :)

He stared at the message motionless. It sounded a bit like some social campaign he would have ignored in 80% of cases. Yet, something about the simplicity of the message kept his gaze fixed.

Let’s be honest, Spencer was fucking terrified of going back to his apartment. And probably because of that, he decided to walk through those doors.

"As if I didn't have enough cleaning to do every fucking day," you muttered under your breath, moving yet another chair so you could mop the floor with the poorly wrung-out mop. A puddle formed on the old brown panels. ” I’ll be a twenty-five-year-old with the spine of a life-worn retiree. Amazing”

Even though you had been complaining for over twenty minutes, deep down you were pleased with how things had turned out. You could use this room from midnight until six in the morning and even got your own set of keys. For free. Well, not entirely. In exchange, you had to clean at the end of each day. It hosted meetings for Alcoholics Anonymous and other support groups. And anonymous chip-aholics, you thought, noticing crushed crumbs under one of the chairs.

Your earnings as a bartender and occasional office cleaner didn’t allow you to rent any space for your... let’s call it a project. However, you believed you’d rather strain your back a little and perhaps save someone’s life than spend these already sleepless nights watching shows or partying.

You couldn’t quite remember how you came up with the idea. It probably happened while reading some sprawling discussion thread on a random forum online. Reading how people argue over the best cheesecake recipe on some website was one of your favorite late-night activities (don’t be fooled by the trivial topic—the discussion included a serious threat of arson and ended at a police station). Anyway, one night, while you were browsing a forum for parents of teenagers out of boredom, you came across advice from a woman who claimed that her communication problems with her daughter ended when she started talking to her late at night, rather than in the afternoon when she got home from school.

The thought wouldn’t leave you alone. You looked into it and found that, while most support groups met in the evening, it was usually early evening. Well, that made sense—few people could dedicate their whole night to it. But you could. You’d been struggling with insomnia since college, ever since your mother passed away. After finishing your evening bar shift at eleven, you’d rush to this place, put up your homemade sign on the door, and wait. You’d catch up on sleep in the mornings. And then, repeat.

Was it exhausting? A little. Had your social life nearly vanished, with the only people you saw being your equally nocturnal roommate and the neighbor’s kid you took to daycare in the morning for a few extra dollars? Absolutely. Did it bring you satisfaction? Only one person had shown up since you started, but yes, it brought you immense satisfaction.

It might sound a bit overdramatic, but helping others was your calling.

You continued cleaning, muttering a few more curses under your breath. One earbud dangled from your ear; listening to music went against your personal code. You knew that if some desperate person rushed in after reading the sign on the door, the sight of you—the person offering them a conversation—with earbuds in might be a bit discouraging. They might think better of bothering you and back out, and you wouldn’t even notice, absorbed in the music. But you couldn’t help it—you hated silence.

So, you bent your own rules, using only one earbud.

You swung the mop in a wide arc, in perfect sync with the rhythm of the song, and couldn’t resist doing a spin. Cleaning and dancing—was there a better combination?

When you turned around, you only then noticed that someone had been watching you the entire time. Which meant they’d heard every curse word that had come out of your mouth over the past twenty minutes. And there had been... a lot. You pulled the earbud from your ear, like a teenager caught watching something they shouldn’t.

Congratulations, you idiot. Whatever’s bothering him, he’ll definitely want to talk about it with someone like you...

“Hi!" you said, in the friendliest tone you could manage. You had to somehow get rid of all those curse words from your mouth. The man didn’t respond, but you noticed his chest move, as if he was taking a deep breath. Unfortunately for him, every time the other person stayed silent, you started babbling nonsense. "Sit down if you want, and don’t worry about the wet floor. I mean, maybe worry, if you care about your teeth. I slipped here yesterday too, but luckily on my back…I can’t afford a dentist visit, do you know how much they charge now?"

"I’ve read... I’ve read the note on the door," the man said shyly, pointing his thumb behind him. Only then did you take a closer look at him. A black coat with a piece of a black shirt peeking out, matching trousers, and elegant shoes...You straightened up, still holding the mop, realizing he must be coming back from a funeral. "Can I really stay here for a moment? If so, for how long?"

The desperation in his voice tightened your chest.

"Yes, of course," you said gently, much less chaotic than before. "You can stay as long as you need."

You held back the playful remark, At least until six in the morning, because after that I’m not welcome here anymore. Humor could ease tension in tough situations, but it wasn’t always appropriate, as you had learned many times. This man didn’t look like he’d be helped by your silly jokes…

He looked, above all, lost. He must have felt that way, since his feet had led him to this place. Despite your earlier words, he didn’t move, seeming unsure of how to act.

"I…I don't have to talk to you, right? That’s what the note says…"

His stuttering didn’t seem like the result of shyness. You got the impression that his lips were refusing to cooperate, too tired to express what his still sharp mind wanted to convey.

"If you don’t want to, I’m not going to force you. But sometimes, you know, it’s better to say what’s on your mind."

It seemed like he only heard the first sentence. Completely ignoring the second, he took a seat in one of the chairs in the last row. They were arranged like pews in a church, one behind the other. Surprising, considering it was a space for support group meetings. Usually, in such places, the chairs were set up in a circle—you knew that from experience.

For a moment, you kept staring at him, fighting the urge to speak again. His appearance moved you deeply—actually, the suffering of every living person touched you. And he was definitely suffering, moving stiffly as if in constant pain, with a vacant expression on his face. But since he had decided he needed silence, you couldn’t impose yourself on him. It could have the opposite effect, driving him away rather than encouraging him to open up.

You had no choice but to return to cleaning.

Moving around the room, you tried to take steps as light as a ghost. You tucked the earbuds into your pocket. You gathered all the lost trash and items, finishing mopping the floor. From time to time, your gaze would instinctively drift toward the man. Staring wasn’t in good taste, but you couldn’t help it. He looked... intriguing?

He was definitely young, around your age or maybe a little older, but still very, very young. His skin was unnaturally pale, contrasting sharply with his black clothes. Brown hair, short but longer than most of your male friends', a bit unruly. His eyes... so much was happening in them. While the rest of him seemed cold and unmoving, those eyes were a window to all the pain inside him.

You looked into his eyes just once and knew he wouldn’t say anything more to you. You’d spend a few hours in silence— you would finish your work and take a seat in the first row, far enough so you couldn’t hear each other’s breathing, but in a position where he could see your back, remember your presence, in case he decided to speak. But that won’t happen, you thought, and you were right.

At five in the morning, the mysterious, troubled man left the room.

You stared at the door, overwhelmed by your own thoughts. Maybe you had made a mistake by respecting his request? Maybe you should have sat right next to him, taken his hands, and begged him to tell you everything? You had no idea if those few hours of silence had soothed him, or if it had been the opposite. You were afraid he might have dangerous plans for himself, but that realization came too late. You couldn’t run out after him into the street; you wouldn’t find him in the cold, December night.

All you could do was sigh, certain that you’d never see him again.

Seeing him in the doorway the next night, you thought you had fallen asleep and that it was just a dream. 

But you never slept at this time. 

Spencer couldn’t reasonably explain why he went back there the following night.

Or why he was heading there for the third time.

He also didn’t know why he was so surprised that Hotch had given them a few days off. After all, he had long since learned that behind his cold exterior lay a genuinely caring and understanding nature.

Maybe he was simply hoping for the quickest possible return to work, something that would occupy his mind. He’d even be willing to stay late at the office, analyzing some old, unsolved cases, and only head home in the late hours, when he’d be longing to collapse into bed.

He’d be so exhausted that he wouldn’t even think about the Dilaudid hidden in the safe. He still hadn’t gotten rid of it, for a deeply humiliating reason. He feared that if he so much as tried to open the safe, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.In the evenings, he was gripped by an anxiety so intense that his breathing would grow shallow to the point of causing severe dizziness. He couldn’t sleep either. An irrational fear haunted him—the fear that he might simply stop breathing in his sleep. That he’d never wake up again. In a few days, maybe a week, one of his friends, let’s say Derek, would decide to check why he wasn’t showing up to work. Derek would find him still lying in bed, his skin gray and cold, his limbs stiff.

His merciless mind seemed to be conjuring these images on purpose. Imagining Morgan over his lifeless body would send him back to Emily’s funeral, making him feel that same painful tightness in his chest.

These weren’t even flashbacks. He was almost certain he was sending himself back to that moment at the cemetery deliberately, purposefully crafting these visions. He wanted to amplify his suffering, to make a possible relapse feel more justified. It felt as though he was faking his tragic state, which made him dismiss any thought of asking anyone for help. Why would he, if he didn’t deserve it?

Besides, he didn’t want to intrude on anyone else’s grief. JJ couldn’t afford to break down; she had to stay strong for her family, for little Henry. Derek had nearly lost Emily in his arms, bearing an unbearable guilt and pain—it would be cruel to burden him with more. And Hotch was still reeling from his own tragedy; Hailey had died not so long ago, and Prentiss’s death could easily reopen those old wounds. They were the ones who truly deserved these few days off. Their struggles were real; he was just an addict—a boy supposedly intelligent.

Supposedly, because if he really were, would he keep something capable of destroying him in a safe by his bed, within reach at any moment.

Because of these thoughts, he feared the night more than anything. That’s when he became weak, vulnerable to the voice of his addiction. So, spending his nights away from home felt like the only solution.

He’d already developed a sort of routine. First, he’d head to the library, usually packed with students preparing for exams. As the hours wore on, they would disappear one by one, until by closing time, he was left alone with just the one librarian in square glasses.

He’d wander out to the hallway, glancing into the next room with the same curiosity he’d felt the first time. He wondered if that girl was still there. It seemed almost unbelievable that anyone would willingly spend entire nights sitting in silence with a gloomy stranger. Didn’t she have work to get up for? Or classes. She looked like a student—the kind who’d doze off in the front row without a shred of humility, doodle strange symbols in the margins, and engage professors in conversations on topics wildly unrelated to the lecture. And, somehow, they actually responded to her.

He stepped through the door, certain he’d find her there, yet…the room was empty. A chill ran through him at the thought that maybe he’d finally lost his mind and had only imagined her. In men, the first symptoms of schizophrenia usually appeared a bit earlier, but as everyone knew, every rule had its exceptions…

Something crashed forcefully into his back.

“Damn, sorry!” said the girl, her face obscured by the enormous box she was carrying.

She leaned it against her hip so she could see who she had just bumped into. Spencer was surprised to realize that he had been waiting for what she might say. The day before, when she saw him, she had said, "Oh, Mr. Mysterious. Good to see you, I was starting to think I made you up..." That had been their only interaction that night, and he wondered if she was going to greet him with a similar line.

But she simply smiled, adjusted the box in her arms, and walked past him. Did he really feel… disappointed?

He quickly shook his head. After all, he had asked her from the very beginning if they could not talk. He spent so much time there because it was the calmest place he could imagine, not because he was looking for new friends. He didn’t need them. New friends quickly turned into real friends, then old friends, and eventually, they only left wounds.He sat in the same spot as the previous and the one before that night. During those, he barely moved, spending those hours solely on thinking—about matters both important and trivial. This time, he brought something to occupy himself, specifically a pocket edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Even though he knew the book by heart and could recite any page from memory, he still found comfort in the story. Besides, this particular edition had been a birthday gift from Emily. He opened to the first page, but then his eyes fell on the inscription she had written by hand… As he began to read it, the words of her dedication blurred with the words spoken at her funeral. His head was filled with a ringing, and he immediately closed the book and placed it back in his pocket.

So, he was left with the escape into the depths of his own mind. He knew that most people wouldn’t be able to spend so many hours just thinking, but for him, it had never been a problem. He wasn’t sure whether it was a matter of his nature or simply a matter of habit, a skill he had mastered during his lonely teenage years.

Then, he glanced briefly at the girl still there. It occurred to him for the first time, what on earth she needed that huge box for. He found her standing on tiptoe on a chair, trying to reach the corkboard hanging on the wall. Attached to it were reminders about the benefits of belonging to a support group, etc., so people who got bored during meetings could constantly remind themselves why they were actually sitting there. The girl was trying to frame the board by pinning… Christmas lights to its edges?

Given her short stature, it was quite a challenge. Sensing that her fall was only a matter of time, he stood up from his seat. He didn’t even particularly wonder why she was hanging Christmas decorations in November.

“I’ll help,” he offered.

She looked at him, first a little surprised, then almost with relief.

“I’d like to, as any altruist would, refuse your help and say that you don’t have to…but for God’s sake, please, just do it,” she said, immediately jumping off the chair and onto the floor. “I think I’ve already told you that I can’t afford a dentist, so I’d rather not take the risk.

“You mentioned it,” Reid replied, not sure what else he could add. He stopped trying to come up with any elaborate responses. Once again, he reminded himself that he hadn’t come here to make new acquaintances; he didn’t need to present himself in the best possible light. He could afford a little blissful silence and grumpiness.

She watched his actions with her arms crossed. He reached the spot where she wanted to attach the lights without much trouble.

“I know it’s not very hygienic,” she muttered, cutting a piece of tape with her teeth. “But I don’t have scissors, and as they say, you have to make do somehow.” She handed him a transparent piece, which, though almost invisible from a distance, was meant to keep the lights from falling. He accepted it without a word.

“The owner requested that I decorate this place for Christmas,” she continued. “He mentioned something about how the atmosphere positively affects most people, so it’s best to start as early as possible. But for me, it’s a bit too soon. What do you think?”

Absorbed in the task, he hadn’t heard her question. She didn’t seem bothered by it. Leaning against the wall with one arm, she clapped her hands when he finished.

“Thanks a lot, stranger. Now that I’ve used you once, maybe we should finally introduce ourselves?”

Spencer prolonged the process of getting off the chair as much as he could. For some reason, he didn’t really want to reveal his name. In a way, he liked that, entering this room, he was just a shell without characteristics, data, or past experiences.

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” she added, noticing his hesitation. “Actually, names don’t really matter. I can always just call you a stranger. You could suggest some adjectives. Think it over carefully; it’s an opportunity to be, for example, a handsome stranger…”

He couldn’t help himself and chuckled. The girl’s eyebrows raised slightly, as if she had just witnessed a miracle.

“Spencer,” he revealed, extending his hand.

She shook it, offering her own name in return. Her nails were of varying lengths, especially those on her thumbs, which didn’t even extend past the tip of her finger, as if she only bit those particular ones.

“Well, considering we’ve theoretically known each other for three days, it sounds a bit funny, but nice to meet you, Spencer. Thanks again for the help. So, let’s see if it works.”

He had planned to return immediately to his seat, but the girl spoke so quickly that he didn’t have time to pull back. Instead, he found himself standing in front of her, watching as she switched on the Christmas lights, her face showing the intensity of an inventor presenting their latest creation.

“No way,” she muttered when the lights didn’t turn on.

“Probably the batteries,” he replied.

She looked at him as if he had just said something groundbreaking.

“You know what kind we’ll need?”

“AA, the thin ones.”

“Alright, then let’s go,” she decided, moving forward with determination.

“What? Where to?”

For a moment, he wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or just referring to herself in the plural. It was... unexpected.

“To the store, across the street. I need to decorate this place if I want the owner to keep letting me do what I’m doing here. Since you’re a battery expert, you can tell me which ones to pick.”

“AA, the thinnest ones. I’m not an expert, it’s common knowledge. Haven’t you ever changed batteries on a remote?”

He hesitated a bit about leaving the room with her. However, she had already put on her jacket, a brown leather one, at least two sizes too big. Underneath, she wore a green, lace blouse with an asymmetrical cut and flared sleeves, giving it a slightly fairy-like style.

“I guess not, I don’t know. My mom was against television, and we watched it so rarely that we never had to change batteries. Or maybe she changed them herself, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. I just want company so let’s go.

If she had phrased it as a suggestion, he would probably have replied that he’d prefer to stay inside alone, if that were possible. However, she used a command, delivered so quickly that his brain didn’t even have time to process what was happening before his body moved forward.

After a moment, they crossed the street, heading toward a small, 24-hour shop on the corner. Spencer figured he might have dropped by there once before or after a visit to the library; after all, it wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar neighborhood.

Almost immediately after stepping inside, they came face-to-face with the guy behind the counter, who looked like he was counting down the hours until closing, the way prisoners count down the years left on their sentences.

“What do we need, expert?” the girl muttered to him, as if they were about to buy a part for constructing a rocket launcher, not just a couple of ordinary batteries.

Spencer asked for batteries and, after a moment’s thought, a coffee, too—the kind served in those ridiculously inconvenient cups without any sleeves, making it easy to spill and burning hot to hold. The girl glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, so he added, asking for one for her as well.

As they waited for their order, an incredibly awkward silence settled over them. It was odd, considering they’d spent the last two nights practically without exchanging a word. She stood with her elbow casually resting on the counter, while he kept his hands in the pockets of his brown coat. The harsh, almost clinical lighting inside revealed details about her appearance that Spencer hadn’t noticed before. For instance, her light-blonde bangs fell in a heart shape on her forehead, her eyebrows were slightly asymmetrical, and her eyes were the coldest shade of blue he’d ever seen. Or maybe it was the effect of the black eyeliner on her waterline?

Noticing his stare, she tilted her head in question, assuming he had something to ask. Caught off guard, he mirrored her gesture without knowing why. They were spared further awkwardness by the arrival of two coffees on the counter in those unfortunate cups.

“Thanks for paying,” she said as they stepped back outside. As the door closed behind them, he felt like muttering no problem but she beat him to it. “I was counting on it. I don’t have any money on me. That’s my way of saving—just never carrying cash.

A comment about how it wasn’t the wisest method came to his lips—after all, accidents happened, and sometimes having a bit of cash on hand could actually save one’s life. He was surprised, though, by his own concern and sense of responsibility toward a stranger.

As they left, she locked the door, then handed him her coffee to hold so she could unlock it again to let them back in.

“If it turned out you didn’t have a cent in that fancy coat of yours, I would’ve just stolen it,” she admitted in the same casual tone one might use to comment on the weather. Her bluntness startled him every time. “I even considered it, but then you pulled out your wallet. Hey, you’re not a cop or something, are you?” she asked suddenly, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

“I am,” he replied automatically. Damn, he shouldn’t have said that. He’d already given her his name, and now his profession. At this rate, his anonymity would burst like a soap bubble.

From her expression, he could tell she took it as a joke.

“Oh no. Are you going to arrest me now?”

He shrugged.

“If I did, I wouldn’t have anywhere to go.”

Saying this, he felt a twinge of inner humiliation. His slightly improved mood sank back to square one, as he was reminded that he wasn’t on a casual outing with a friend—he was on a forced exile from his own apartment.

She pushed open the door and stepped through first, walking backward, facing him as she went.

“I’ll take that as a no. Although, on second thought—do you have hot water in your place?” He nodded, answering her question, clueless about where she was headed. Her comments were too unpredictable. She clapped her hands together. “That’s great! They cut ours off in the building two days ago for some maintenance work, and honestly, I’ve missed nothing more than a hot shower. So, officer, maybe you should reconsider that arrest?”

She literally pushed her wrists right under his nose. For a moment, he regretted not having handcuffs with him. He imagined the shock and amusement on her face if he actually snapped them around her wrists. He shook his head, not understanding why he was picturing that—or why, suddenly, he felt so amused. Well, at least it was a relief compared to how he had felt an hour ago.

“Well, I don’t know the procedure for a cop taking an arrested person to his own home,” he replied.

“I’ve heard they do that with the worst criminals,” she said.

“Like battery thieves?”

“Every serial killer starts somewhere.”

“I don’t know of a single case where it started with stealing batteries.”

“Well, maybe you don’t know enough about criminology?” she asked, spreading her hands.

Spencer fell silent for a moment, then simply started laughing. Not mockingly, but genuinely, like he hadn’t in... a long, long time. After a moment, the girl joined him, though she couldn’t have known the true reason for his reaction. After a moment, the girl joined him, though she couldn’t know the true reason for his reaction. She tried to take the coffee from him, still holding it for her. As he was still overcome by some boyish chuckle, he flinched and accidentally brushed her pale hand. The girl didn’t even seem to notice the fleeting contact, grabbed the cup, and took a small sip of the still-hot drink. His fingers twitched, curling and stretching. He had never been a fan of physical contact, accepting it only from those closest to him. Whenever he tried to touch someone, he had an overwhelming feeling that it bothered them. Spencer considered it an incredible paradox that he worked by conducting in-depth psychological analyses of individuals, yet in his personal life, he struggled so much with understanding others' feelings.

Standing in the same spot, he watched as she approached the Christmas lights.

“Well, come on, techie. Time to change the batteries.”

She pulled him out of his thoughts. He joined her by the corkboard, this time offering her his coffee. It took him less than a minute, but when the lights blinked on, she patted him on the shoulder with such admiration, as if he had spent an entire day working on it.

It was a purely joking gesture, but somehow it still reminded him of all those pats on the back at the funeral—the last time anyone had touched him. He was really starting to hate his brain for dragging up memories like that every damn time he began to feel even a little bit better.

The girl must have noticed the slight withdrawal on his face after she touched him. He could almost see the invisible notebook in her mind, where the words never touch him again, he doesn’t want it seemed to appear. He suddenly wanted to open his mouth and explain that it had nothing to do with her, but he knew it would come out sounding pathetic.

That’s why he just sighed, like a beaten dog, wondering if taking Dilaudid that day would have allowed him to talk to her—and anyone else—with far more ease, without the heavy burden on his shoulders and the eternal tornado of painful memories storming through the depths of his mind.

“So…” the girl began after a longer pause. Her voice sounded different for a moment, stripped of its playful and cheerful tone, and Spencer almost felt as if she forced herself to bring it back. “Thanks again for your help and for unwittingly stopping me from committing theft. Oh, and for the coffee, though it’s one of the worst I’ve had in the past ten years of my life. Which is about as long as I’ve been drinking coffee at all. Anyway, if you’ve grown tired of my chatter, your lucky moment has arrived, because I need to get back to hanging the rest of the holiday decorations, cleaning the floors…”

"I can help you with all that," said Spencer’s lips—certainly not him, at least not so quickly or so confidently. That didn’t mean he disagreed, though.

She bit her lip, gently shaking her head.

“No… I don’t want you to feel obligated, like you have to help me with something. Or like you need to repay me for hanging out here. Since… let’s say I started this place, I’ve been managing everything on my own. This room is pretty small, there’s really not that much to clean. So just relax. Enjoy your book—I noticed you brought one.” She nodded toward his coat pocket, where it indeed rested. “Yeah, I stared at you for a second. Subtly, of course, so you wouldn’t notice. But don’t worry, you weren’t, like, picking your nose or anything. Not that I assumed you would. I mean, you don’t seem like the type.”

“Thank…you?”

One thing about Spencer—he often heard that he talked too much. That was just his nature. When a broad topic genuinely fascinated him, he couldn’t help diving into even the tiniest details. It always left him feeling a bit ashamed, worried that whoever he was talking to wasn’t remotely interested and was only rolling their eyes internally. For the first time in a long while, he’d met someone who made him seem like the quiet one, maybe even a bit grumpy.

The thought surprised him, but he regretted not meeting her at a different point in his life. Just a few stupid weeks ago, when Emily was still alive, and he wasn’t constantly battling the urge to soothe himself with Dilaudid. Maybe then he could have mustered more energy, started a truly engaging conversation. But now his throat was bone dry. He realized he was stuck in the belief that a part of him—the part everyone seemed to like the most—was gone, and the only way to get it back was locked in the safe by his bed.

His ears started ringing, and his own body felt like it no longer belonged to him. It was just an ordinary object with a delicate structure, cracking under the loud sound filling his ears.

The girl kept staring at him. God, he must have looked pathetic in her eyes. Was she talking to him because she wanted to, or because he came here every night and she had no other choice? He could have sworn he saw some disgust in her eyes. For the first time, he noticed that when they stood side by side in the store under such harsh lighting. It allowed her to examine him closely, and she noticed the bags under his eyes and the tired grayness of his skin. Furthermore, he spoke so little—she must have despised him.

He felt the urge to simply run out of the room, head straight back to his apartment, ignore the old neighbor on the stairs, and with trembling hands, open the safe... then it would all be over, the pain and the tension...

“Spencer?” A sound pierced the heavy dome surrounding him. His name. It was the first time she had used it, instead of some mocking label like stranger, officer, or techie “Spencer, is everything okay?”

He sank heavily into one of the chairs. It was the only way to stop himself from leaving. Not enough, he felt. Something kept urging him to stand up and go to his apartment. The apartment, the safe...

"Could you... could you say something to me?" he asked pitifully, in the voice of a beggar pleading for a piece of bread.

He had to distract himself somehow, get rid of these thoughts.

"Say something to you?" she repeated, confused.

"Anything, please. About inheritance and gene mutation, why you even come here every night, it doesn’t matter, just talk to me…"

"Okay," she said, a little feverishly, sitting down right next to him. He avoided her gaze, but briefly noticed she was looking at him with concern in her cold, blue eyes. "Okay... okay... so I'll tell you I have no clue about inheritance and genes, sorry...what was the other topic to choose? Why do I come here?"

He didn’t answer, not even realizing she had asked a question. Trembling, he listened only to her voice and her words, paying much less attention to the tone. He forced himself to listen. You’re not leaving this room, at least not until she finishes speaking. Listen. She has a nice voice, doesn't she?

"Spencer, you’ve gotten very, very pale."

"It’s okay, just talk to me. I need... to forget about something."

The girl suddenly nodded, with more readiness and understanding.

"Alright... Why do I come here? My friends, the ones who even know about this, slash one roommate and a guy from the bar, I'm not going to pretend I have a lot of friends...Anyway, they asked about it, and I told each of them a little bit of something different, but with the same general meaning. I didn’t go into details, I didn’t go into details, but I’ll tell you now, not just because you look like a dying man and I feel a bit like I’m fulfilling your last request before you drop dead on the floor. By the way, I wonder what I’d tell the police if that happened. Would you stand up for your old good friend, officer?"

His hands clenched around his knees, his head hung low, and for a long time, he had been hearing the beating of his own heart. His smile in response to the question was crooked and tired, but that didn’t change the fact that it was still a smile.

"How, when I'd be dead?"

"Oh, you like to nitpick words?"

"I just like logic. Usually."

"If I wanted to finish you off, I'd start telling you about my roommate's love life. That one's completely devoid of logic. You’d die listening to that.”

“So maybe another time? Besides, as much as I'd prefer not to die in an AA meeting room, I'd rather listen more about you."

"So listen. And breathe, deeply. You can take my hand if you want, or if it helps. Don’t you think I sound like I'm giving advice to a woman in labor? Breathe, hold my hand..."

Spencer exhaled again, followed by a burst of laughter. Her train of thought was simply exceptional, and he was genuinely curious about what would come out of her mouth next. He was beginning to forget about the Dilaudid hidden in the safe by his bed…

"Oh God, I forgot again what I was talking about, I’ll never finish telling this…" The girl groaned, pressing her hand to her forehead. "Ah, college. No, wait, something about friends. I know, why I started this place! Alright, so it all probably started in college. The need to help, not the idea. I came up with that through an internet forum and arguments about cheesecake. Anyway, at my college, we created this really small organization. It's hard to even call it that, it was just... at that time, we were all moved by a girl I shared a room with who had attempted suicide. After everything, she dropped out of college... nearly cut contact with us, and we felt the need to do something, to help someone. Young, ambitious psychology students, you know? I think it was even my idea. I was sober for the first time since the academic year began, longer than two days, and immediately started having flashes of brilliance. It was about this: late at night, when most people were contemplating suicide, we swarmed all the nearby bridges. "It sounds heroic, I know. But in reality, we intervened only two, maybe three times. I was really surprised by that, I thought it was one of the most popular methods."

"In the United States, the most common method is hanging. It accounts for 25 to 30% of cases. After that, there’s..." He felt the need to swallow. "Overdose. Especially among the young. Falls from heights or deliberate drownings are less common, but still present in the statistics."

"I'm a little concerned about your knowledge on this subject."

"I read a bit."

"Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this, as someone whose favorite book is Girl, Interrupted, but maybe it’s time for some... less... devastating reading?"

"Maybe I'll think about it. Anyway, what’s next with your... project?"

The girl rested her chin on the back of her chair, recalling where she had left off. Spencer finally straightened up, and as he became more engaged in the story she was telling, his hands stopped shaking as much.

"Well, as students go, we kind of lost our drive. They left one by one. The only thing I can say in their defense is that it was a damn cold winter, and you could have gotten hypothermia just from standing on that bridge at that hour. But I... somehow got more involved in it. My mom... passed away barely a month after I started college, completely unexpectedly. You know... or maybe you don't, I don't know what the beginning of a semester looks like in college. More parties than studying. My body had a full Mendeleev’s table inside at that time. Those nights spent on the bridges were the first sober and fully conscious ones in a long time. I liked standing there, thinking. To the drivers passing by, I might have looked like I wanted to jump myself, but I never considered it... not in that particular way. I had been dealing with insomnia for a long time, so I could come there very late. And one time... I really managed to save a man. I noticed him, and we talked for almost an hour. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest, but... after that time, he actually stepped down from the railing, hugged me, and walked away. I don’t remember what I said to him. I’m not even sure if it actually happened, maybe I made it all up?

She took a deep breath to calm herself. Spencer stared into her lost gaze, devoid of the false positivity that usually covered it. He wanted to... he couldn’t quite determine if he wanted to hug her. He wanted to do something, but he wanted it to be more than just a hollow gesture. Still, he flinched, holding himself back from wrapping his arm around her.

"I'm sure it really happened," he said, his voice quieter and hoarse. The girl was surprised by the certainty in his tone. "And that's because... maybe you don't realize it, but you're doing exactly the same thing now as you did on that bridge, just in a different place and with a different guy."

He saw her slowly blink, the weight of his words settling in. One of the most talkative women he had ever met was suddenly rendered speechless. They stared at each other in silence for a long time, her lips parting and closing a few times. He felt a strange tension, as if whatever she was about to say would determine something significant in his life.

"Is that... why you come here every night?" she asked finally. "To avoid standing on the bridge?"

Spencer hated metaphors, couldn’t stand when others used them, and struggled to create them himself. So he knew he had reached a truly strange point in his life when he found himself using one.

"I stand on it all the time, every moment."

Her fingers moved restlessly, her face momentarily expressionless. Then, she simply reached for his hand, the one farther from her.

"Nighttime is the hardest, isn't it?"

"Yes," he admitted. He kept the next sentence in his mouth for a long time, chewing on it repeatedly, questioning whether it tasted right and whether he should say it. He felt... that this request might be too much. Yet, at the same time, he was painfully desperate. For the first time, truly motivated to do it. He hesitated, licking his lips, and the girl followed the movement of his tongue, as if wondering what he was about to say. He finally decided to just say it. "I have something at home that I'm afraid I'll take. I know that when I try to get rid of it, I won’t be able to stop myself. I know I probably shouldn’t ask you this, but I can’t do it on my own... I don’t have anyone else who could do this for me..."

She looked at him with a cold seriousness.

"Are you trying to lure me to your apartment?"

"No!" he assured hastily, realizing it really did sound that way. He quickly shook his head. "You're right, you shouldn’t go to a stranger’s house, and I shouldn’t even ask you. We barely know each other..."

"I was joking," she interrupted, reaching for her jacket. "I want to help you, I really do."

"No, I’ve thought about it, and I think I can handle it on my own..."

"After what you just told me? Forget it. I’m not taking the risk that something might happen to you."

"But..."

Determination sparkled in her eyes.

"How far do you live from here?"

You were doing something incredibly stupid.

You were going to the apartment of a man you had met three days ago and knew nothing about except his name.

You were practically risking your life. You could have ended up subjected to excruciating tortures beyond anything you could imagine, then murdered and desecrated.

This was how Spencer lectured you the entire way, trying to convince you not to follow him, but it was already too late. You had made up your mind and tried not to think about the potential danger. It was incredibly difficult, thanks to the vividly detailed stories he kept sharing.

During the twenty-minute subway ride, he managed to summarize the biographies of six serial killers who targeted women just like you. He even called you someone in the highest risk group for assault and violence, to which you sarcastically muttered thank you and clamped a hand over his mouth—mainly because the woman sitting next to you looked like she was dialing emergency services.

“You know an unsettling amount about that topic too,” you remarked as the two of you covered the last stretch of the walk on foot. “You know, murderers and crimes.”

Of course, you had locked up your space, even though you’d never left it before sunrise. Night after night, you had stubbornly stayed until morning, even though, apart from Spencer, only one other person had ever shown up, and you’d spent most of the time bored out of your mind. Yet, you didn’t feel guilty about abandoning your post. After all, your intention from the start had been to help people in crisis—those who couldn’t or wouldn’t seek professional help, who needed more of a friendly, honest chat over a beer but without the beer.

Since the moment that man had first walked through your door, he had occupied your thoughts more than you wanted to admit. You had been incredibly afraid he’d spend every night silently sitting with you and then suddenly stop coming, leaving you with guilt and endless questions. Instead, he had opened up almost by accident.

Even though you knew far less about him than you wanted to, you felt a strange connection between the two of you. Mostly in the form of sleepless nights, the shared loss of someone dear (you guessed this from his attire during that first night), and likely a history with various substances.

Many people would look at him and refuse to believe he could be an addict. Well, aside from the state he was in after several sleepless nights in a row—exhausted eyes, a few days' worth of stubble, and a slouched posture—he looked quite respectable. But you had encountered enough people struggling with addiction to know that appearances were no indicator. Judging based on looks in such matters was simply harmful.

“As I mentioned, I read a bit,” he replied to your question.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah? What, The Silence of the Lambs as a bedtime story every night?”

He chuckled but didn't press the issue further as you both reached the building where he apparently lived. He stopped, signaling for you to do the same. Above you, a streetlamp cast the only light in the starless night. Spencer was wearing a brown coat that you really liked, and a light breeze ruffled his hair.

"Maybe you should text your roommate, let her know where you're headed?" he suggested. "You know, give her the address..."

"Oh my God, Spencer..."

"I just want you to feel comfortable," he said.

You sighed and grabbed your phone, wanting to ease his worry.

"It's just common sense to do this every time you're going somewhere with someone you don't know. Or when you're coming back alone. It's not just about women."

"Now I'm starting to think you're really a cop," you muttered.

You pulled up your friend and roommate Jude's number on your phone and began typing a message.

i'm going to some weird dude's place, here's his addy. if I'm not back by noon, just know my head's probably in his fridge xoxo

Jude worked nights cleaning office buildings. She must've been slacking off because she replied almost immediately:

you little slut. 

After a moment she added:

don’t let him tie you down

if worse comes to worse bite his dick off

not as hard as it sounds

“She replied that I’m being a bit irresponsible and I should be careful. She’ll call me in an hour to make sure everything’s fine.”

Spencer seemed satisfied with the response.

“Sounds like a really good friend.”

“Yeah, the best. Let’s go in. 

As soon as you were at his apartment door, he noticeably tensed up. And when he turned on the light, you saw his skin pale again, just like earlier when you had been worried about his state. You didn’t look around too much. The apartment was definitely nicer than the one you shared with Jude, but it had been kept in a style from a decade ago, which immediately impressed you since you weren’t a fan of modern architecture.

“Where is it?” you asked, referring to the mysterious thing you were supposed to take from him.

Uncertainly, he opened the door to the bedroom for you. If he really intended to kill you, it probably would have happened right then. You watched as he approached a cabinet near the double bed. He opened its doors, revealing a simple safe. He typed the code so quickly that even if you had wanted to, you wouldn’t have been able to memorize it. You held your breath as he came over to you, handing you some plastic bag. You shoved it into your pocket without even looking at it.

You didn’t want him to think for even a moment that you were judging him. Besides, the moment he handed it to you, that concern no longer mattered. He could finally breathe again in his own home.

“I haven’t taken anything for a long time,” he confessed in a quiet voice. “Actually, I thought I was completely clean. But something happened recently, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t get rid of it.”

You stood in front of him, your head tilted up, the plastic bag weighing lightly in your jacket pocket, even though its contents were virtually weightless. The silence between you became intimate, and a smile of appreciation crept onto your lips.

“You’re incredibly strong.”

“I’d be strong if I hadn’t bought it.”

“Spencer, you kept it in that safe, what, for three days? You spent nights away from home so you wouldn’t think about it? You asked me to come and take it so you wouldn’t risk giving in. Think about it. So many people would’ve broken down in your place.”

You could see that he didn’t completely agree with you, but you didn’t want to push him to change his mind. You were just sharing your opinion. For a moment, you both stayed silent, his head leaning in your direction so you could hear each other clearly despite the softly spoken words. It was as if you were sharing secrets so big that even the walls couldn’t hear them.

"I hope that by taking this, you'll be able to sleep for a bit," you said, feeling a little like you were committing a sin by breaking the silence. Spencer stepped back to his usual distance.

You knew there was nothing left for you here, but somehow you couldn’t bring yourself to leave the room. You didn’t have even the slightest excuse to stay, so you sighed and glanced meaningfully at the door. His expression was unreadable, his shoulders hanging loosely by his sides.

"Well, I’m off. I’ll drop by the place for a few hours," you said. You were really about to walk out when you cursed in your mind and finally forced yourself to say what had been bothering you. "So... even though you’ve gotten rid of it, do you still plan on coming by? I mean..."

You didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

"We’ll see each other tomorrow," he assured you shortly, but firmly, which was enough for you.

You wanted to leave with a sense of mystery, but you couldn’t stop the wide smile that spread across your face. Spencer opened his mouth, probably to say something about safety and walking alone in the city late at night. You gave him a quick, caring look and disappeared through the door.

You’d been living a nocturnal life for years, aware of the dangers that the darkness held, but you’d also come to know the comforting feeling that it left behind in its embrace.

*

One might expect that after an entire afternoon at work and a sleepless night, you would collapse into bed exhausted by morning. But that never happened. Every day, you returned to your apartment in that dark green building with red fire escapes and spent two hours tackling your dreaded household chores—washing dishes or doing laundry.

You hated mornings, though you didn’t know why. Nights were loud and alive, and so were you during them. Mornings were quiet and seemed to trap you like wounded prey. They cornered you, gnawed at you, and forced you to confront... what exactly? Your own life? Your thoughts? Longing and emptiness?

One thing was certain: you wouldn’t trade your lifestyle for anything in the world.

Around eight in the morning, you would take your neighbor's son to preschool. She was a single mother, just two years older than you, earning a decent income but, as a result, constantly busy. Sometimes she left the boy with you, rewarding you generously afterward.

That was also when Jude came back from her night shift, usually dropping into bed without even greeting you. By then, you would often shut your eyes for a few hours, too—you weren’t a machine, after all, capable of functioning entirely without sleep.

And yet, you were always the first to wake up, spending an hour or two in bed with your laptop before your friend joined you, and the two of you would have breakfast. At two in the afternoon.

You spread homemade jam on your toast. Jude was obsessed with unprocessed food, and if she had the time, she’d probably bake her own bread—from flour she milled herself from grain she grew. You could easily picture her in some tiny, bygone village, growing vegetables with a scarf tied around her head—a funny image, considering she lived a thoroughly urban lifestyle and spent every weekend in a club.

“So?” she asked, walking into your small kitchen after her shower, wearing a black satin robe that revealed glimpses of her freshly pampered brown skin. Even the lack of hot water in the entire building didn’t stop her from sticking to her twenty-step skincare routine. She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “How was the night? Did you have to use your mouth?”

“If you’re referring to that advice you gave me yesterday—no, I didn’t have to.”

“Probably used it in another way,” she said with a smirk.

“Sometimes you’re as gross as teenage boys in high school.”

“Sorry,” she said, waving it off while making herself some coffee. “I’m just happy for you. Lately, you never go out, never see anyone. You spend your nights acting as a free therapist in an empty room, and when you’re not at work, you’re glued to your laptop. It’s not healthy, babe. Sometimes you’ve gotta have fun and blow off some steam. So, who’s the guy? You said he’s kind of a weirdo.”

“He kind of is,” you admitted. “But in a sweet way. We didn’t fucked by the way.”

Jude turned to you, looking utterly crushed.

“Then what the hell did you do? Play chess?”

“You immediately assumed it was a quick hookup. This is a guy I met while acting like a free therapist in an empty room,” you quoted her own words back at her, slightly sarcastic.

She was silent for a moment, arms crossed, staring at you. “Hot?”

“What does that have to do with anything—”

“Well, he must be, considering how quickly you agreed to go to his place. You know what, girl? Need any help with your ‘business’?”

You snorted with laughter, swallowing the last bite of your toast.

“Whore”

“Single young woman, I prefer” 

You weren’t very talkative, your mind constantly drifting back to the events of that night. You regretted not getting Spencer’s phone number. You needed to know what happened after you left and how he was holding up, to the point that you couldn’t focus on anything else. You comforted yourself with the thought that you’d see him again that night. An intense need to learn more about him, to understand him, and a bit of concern for him lingered with you.

Jude was sipping her coffee when there was a knock at the door. You flinched, and she, stiff as a board, stopped you with a gesture of her hand.

“I have a bad feeling about this…” she muttered under her breath, nervously clutching her cup.

As if on cue, the light knock at the door turned into a loud pounding. “Jude!” a male voice shouted. “Jude, come on, let’s talk!”

Your friend hid her face in her hands as you sighed. Richard was her ex-boyfriend, and a complete psycho. They had broken up a year ago and had no contact since. Yet, every now and then, he would remember she existed and stalk her like some kind of obsessive. Then he would disappear again. You had almost gotten used to it, though you still insisted she should report it to the police. Jude, on the other hand, thought it wasn’t worth the trouble since nothing would come of it anyway.

“Pretend we’re not here,” she ordered.

You sighed again, looking at her gently. “I really think you should do something about it.”

“He’ll get bored in a week. We just have to wait. Maybe one day he’ll break his neck on those damn stairs, and we’ll be done with him.”

You couldn’t help but snort, despite the seriousness of the situation. The steepness of the stairs in your building was truly terrifying. So much so that when you went out to the club, instead of heading home in the early hours, you’d crash at some mutual friends’ place. Trying to climb those stairs drunk could end tragically. 

Jude was right about one thing. Richard quickly lost interest, and after ten minutes the knocking stopped, but you didn’t leave, afraid he might be lurking somewhere in the hall. You both left the apartment together—she was heading to meet some friends, and you were off to work.

You liked the bar where you worked. The afternoon shift started quietly, mostly with a few guys stopping by on their way home from the office, chatting calmly and not causing any trouble. As night fell, the atmosphere picked up, becoming livelier. You always finished your shift just when the fun was starting to turn into chaos and arguments. As you left, you noticed the jealous looks from your coworkers, who, after months or even years, still watched some people with fear. Well, a drunk person is an unpredictable one.

You walked back to your rented room as if wings were carrying you. You were curious about what time Spencer would show up. You suspected he spent his evenings in the nearby library, which closed at midnight. You also hoped that besides him, others might show up as well.

Once inside, you started wondering if you should move the sign from the door to a more visible spot, so more people could learn about your initiative.

 Spencer usually showed up right at midnight. Not waiting for him, you got to work on your usual chores. You were certain he’d appear in the doorway any moment, just like he always did—silently, like a ghost. As you scrubbed the floors, you kept turning over your shoulder, always convinced you’d see him there. But every time, there was no one. You glanced at the clock and went back to work, because what else was there to do?

You really regretted not exchanging phone numbers.

Sure, you had taken his Dilaudid, but that didn’t rule out the possibility that he might eventually crack and reach for it. That was the dark scenario that had formed in the pessimistic part of your brain, and it lingered there only for a moment. You remembered the determination and certainty in his eyes last night—he really didn’t want to return to addiction. Most likely, something had just come up. After all, not everyone can afford to stay up so many nights in a row. Work, studies, responsibilities... You realized you didn’t even know what he did for a living. There were so many questions.

Hours passed. You looked at the Christmas decorations you’d put up yesterday. Your mom had never liked Christmas, considering it an unnecessarily stressful time, but at your request, your home always drowned in lights and Santa hats. As an adult, you walked past such things in stores with your head down. Every association with your mom brought memories—positive ones, true, but sometimes the greatest joys also brought pain.

You sighed, catching yourself in those thoughts. This was exactly why you hated silence. It always led you down a path of sadness. You considered putting in your headphones when someone appeared at the door.

You straightened up with hope, but it wasn’t Spencer. Instead, it was a man in a burgundy sweater, glasses on his nose, and a touch of gray in his hair. You recognized him as the librarian, who sometimes left work when you were arriving. He greeted you in an extremely polite manner.

“I’ve noticed that sign on your door for a while now, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to come in. Do you work here?”

At first, you were disappointed it wasn’t Spencer, but that feeling was quickly replaced by a smile. Someone had finally taken an interest in your notice.

“It’s not really a job. More of a personal project. I sit here and listen to what’s weighing on people’s minds.”

The librarian turned out to be a kind, though very shy, man. You talked for a while; he made you laugh more than once, and the rest of the night didn’t seem as depressing. He unexpectedly confided in you that his retired wife was battling cancer. He must have felt the urge to get it off his chest as soon as he entered, maybe even as soon as he saw the sign. He tried to maintain composure, but inside, he was terrified of losing her. His aging hands trembled as he spoke about it, and you listened with a heavy heart.

When you returned to the apartment, you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything. You sat on the fire escape, your legs hanging into the dark space, until the sun rose. You heard the key turn in the lock and jumped to your feet, rushing to the door.

“Jude, Jude, Jude!” you called to your roommate. She stepped back, her exhausted mind unable to handle such an enthusiastic greeting. Without waiting for her questions, you said, “You need to find someone for me. Get their phone number, preferably. I don’t care how, I know you have your ways.”

Your roommate wiped her eyes.

“We’ll talk after I get some sleep. And after you make me breakfast. Eggs, just how I like them.”

You agreed to the arrangement. Jude had incredible stalker skills. Once, she found an online profile of a guy just by knowing what kind of watch he wore. You didn’t want to wait until the next night hoping Spencer would show up, so you decided to track him down yourself.

While Jude was sleeping, you wandered aimlessly around the apartment, eventually collapsing on the couch with the laptop on your stomach, reading through discussions on poaching forums. Why? God knows. You just couldn’t sleep.

A king’s breakfast appeared on the table: fried eggs on toast with avocado, freshly brewed coffee. Jude sighed at the sight.

“If only my future boyfriend treated me like this.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you warned, finishing off half an avocado raw. “I’m only doing this because I really need you to find someone for me.”

“Did you meet some handsome guy again?”

“It’s the same one.”

She laughed.

“You slept together and now there’s no trace of him? Sounds familiar…”

“Oh, just shut up with the toast. We didn't sleep with each other. How much longer you’re gonna eat that? 

She rolled her eyes at your rushing and deliberately prolonged eating her breakfast, just to watch the vein on your forehead throb. When she finally finished, she pushed her plate aside and placed her laptop on the table instead. Cracking her knuckles like a piano virtuoso before a performance, she said:

“Alright, tell me everything about him. Every little detail—not just his name and address. Which metro line you took, what shoes he was wearing, what type of condoms he used, everything. That’s how I’ll find him.”

“Condoms?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Exactly. Give me thirty minutes.”

You started losing faith in the success of this plan, but when you shared the information with her—though not everything, to preserve at least some of his privacy—she actually went silent for half an hour, fully focused on her laptop screen. You waited, tapping your nails on the table.

“Ha! Got him!” she exclaimed, both amused and proud. “Oh, crap… did you know the guy’s a doctor?”

"What?"

Surprised, you shifted in your seat. Not that it was entirely implausible… actually, the more you thought about it, it kind of fit him. But his career path was the least of your concerns at the moment—you were looking for a way to get in touch and find out why he hadn’t shown up last night despite his promise.

“Doctor Spencer Reid,” Jude read out. “Sounds sexy. Were you two playing some kind of role-play game?”

“For heaven’s sake, Jude, I told you…”

Once again, you explained to her that you hadn’t spent the night together, but she just cackled through your entire speech.

“Fine. Whatever. You know what, you’re right—we had sex. BDSM, ropes, the whole deal. I’ll tell you all about it…”

“Okay, on second thought, I don’t want to hear this anymore.”

“So plug your ears and give me his phone number if, by some miracle, you managed to find that too.”

*

The first case they got right after Emily's death involved murders that had taken place... in another state.

They were supposed to have one more day off, but it turned out to be a child abduction case—something that simply couldn’t wait. They were called in and had to go. Unless, of course, they wanted a life on their conscience…

Spencer remained silent throughout the entire flight on the jet. He barely slept at night; after the girl left, he stared at the door for a long time, then at the empty safe where his old, despicable colleague had just been. He felt that with the disappearance of the threat, his motivation to leave the apartment or do anything had faded. He no longer viewed the place with such intense disgust, but now considered it... incredibly lonely. When she left, a silence of an unparalleled intensity settled in, causing a sharp headache. He lay down in bed, fearing it might worsen.

The news about returning to work simply terrified him. He was unable to think, at least not as intensely as usual, and after all, that had always been his role—the brain of the team. Without the ability to focus, he was useless.

In child abduction cases, the first twenty-four hours are always the most critical. Pressured by time, he stared at the case files, analyzing all the information gathered so far, and he was losing it. Inside, he was simply losing it. In the past few days, he had started to accept that due to grief and the return of his addiction's voice, he might not be as effective as usual. As a pure realist, unwilling to lean toward either extreme, he finally came to the conclusion that this state would pass. It would pass... he just had to wait.

But he couldn't afford to wait. Someone's life depended on him. A child's life.

This is how he justified it to himself. This one time, he would give in, not to satisfy some fleeting, selfish need. The reason was far more complex, morally justified, even sacred. One could say he was sacrificing himself for the greater good of the case.

"Spence," a voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He turned to see JJ with a gentle smile on her face, though it lacked much joy. "I can see you're feeling better."

He hesitated before answering. His mind was a jumble of intertwining conclusions, assumptions, and calculations related to the case he was investigating. Having been torn from his own world, he didn't quite grasp what she had said.

"Sorry, what did you say?"

"I said that it’s clear you’re feeling better. You were really distant on the jet. I was worried."

He swallowed hard, overwhelmed by a wave of shame. If only she knew why he felt better...

Looking at her face, he felt the urge to cry, to fall to his knees and apologize to her. She shouldn’t even be worrying about him—he didn’t deserve it.

"Spencer?” she asked, worried, as he once again failed to respond.

Panic began to rise within him, the same paranoia he’d felt when returning from Emily’s funeral with Dilaudid in his pocket. Everyone knew what he’d done, they’d seen it, could read it on his face. He was as transparent as water, unable to hide anything.

And then, as if fate, weary of watching his pitiful behavior, decided to intervene, his phone rang, saving him from the situation.

"Oh, sorry JJ, this is something important," he said, even though he didn’t recognize the number.

His friend looked at him with suspicion.

Having received the call, he didn’t even have time to speak when someone on the other end beat him to it. That was enough for him to guess who was calling.

"Hello. Dr. Spencer Reid? This is the investigative department. We have a few questions for you regarding a missing woman who was last seen with you."

JJ noticed the change in his expression and surely registered how he took a few steps away so she wouldn’t hear his response.

"Very funny," he snapped. He was surprised at how pleased he felt hearing her voice. His muscles relaxed a little, like when she told him about herself at his request. "You know that the investigative department doesn’t contact suspects by phone?"

"Jerk, fool, and fun killer."

He let out a laugh so soft it sounded more like a sigh.

"You know why I’m calling, right?" she asked. He could hear her moving around the apartment, closing some doors, as if she were hiding. "I’m not going to yell at you now about why you ditched me, because it’s not exactly that you ditched me, but you kind of did. Are you keeping up?"

"Ditch me?" he repeated, surprised. "You mean... our late-night meetings?"

"No, I mean the book club where we meet every Monday."

"Something came up at work," he explained, ignoring her sarcasm. "Something really, really important, and it didn’t occur to me to let you know... Actually, I didn’t even think you’d be waiting for me."

He said it sincerely. Until now, he had thought that the girl's question during their last conversation about whether he would come was merely out of politeness, not because she actually wanted to see him.

"Of course I waited. And I was worried when you didn’t show up. You know how few people visit me, when someone finally came through that door, I dropped the mop because I thought it was you."

He fell silent, feeling a warmth in his chest. Lately, he had felt lonely, not just with his own problems but in other areas of life as well. The sadness made him think he was losing interest in things that had once brought him so much joy. Without all of that, he felt a little like a lighthouse in the sea, with nothing and no one within a few miles’ radius. On top of that, he had isolated himself a bit from his loved ones, he had to admit. It was only these late-night meetings and this phone call that made him realize he wasn’t completely alone.

By chance, he caught JJ's gaze. He wasn’t completely alone—he had friends around him—but that didn’t change the fact that he felt like he didn’t deserve them.

"Can you even talk right now, Doctor? If I’m interrupting something important, you can just say so."

"In literally one minute, I’ll have to get back to work…"

"Alright. Setting a timer for sixty seconds. Damn, I’ve already wasted like ten saying that. Never mind. Anyway, I get that something might have come up and you couldn’t make it. I’m not mad. But I’d really like to talk to you. If you get the chance, stop by. You know where."

"I’ll come by as soon as I’m back. Probably not today. I’ll call you then."

"No, don’t call," she asked. Surprised, he furrowed his brows. "Just show up. It’ll be romantic, don’t you think?"

"I hate to break it to you, but neither of us has what it takes to be a romantic," he replied gently, regretting that he was talking to her over the phone instead of face to face. It was always so hard for him to understand the intentions and meaning behind others’ words when he couldn’t see them.

"I do," she protested. "Maybe not you. You seem like the type who, when a woman asks for flowers, buys her a flycatcher."

"And what’s wrong with a flycatcher? It has an exotic and intriguing look, is a natural insecticide that helps reduce the use of chemical ones, and it’s very easy to care for. Besides, let me remind you that once you told me to take your hand and breathe, then asked if you didn’t sound like you were coaching a woman in labor. Is that your idea of romance?"

"That has nothing to do with my sense of romance. I just sometimes can’t keep my mouth shut. But honestly, flycatchers are freaking awesome. I’ve always wanted one. Still, my advice is, if you ever find yourself debating between buying a woman roses or a Venus flytrap, it’s safer to go with the roses."

"And what if I’m certain that the only woman I’d ever want to buy flowers for would prefer a Venus flytrap?"

"Deduce that yourself, Doctor."

He couldn’t help but smile. It felt strange—his cheek muscles had grown unaccustomed to that kind of effort.

"I know my sixty seconds are up," she said after a moment, her voice calmer and less chaotic. "But there’s one more thing I wanted to ask you."

"What is it?"

"How are you doing with, you know, the addiction? Was it easier for you after I took the Dilaudid from your apartment?"

The phone began to feel heavy in his hand, and the next breath was simply uncomfortable. He felt the same kind of shame as when JJ had asked if he was feeling better. The girl had been the only person he had confessed to about struggling again. His honesty on that front had made her quickly rise in the ranks of his closest people. It would have been easier to admit to her that he had relapsed. He even had a full explanation ready in his mind: he’s working on a missing child case, and had to do it to focus... He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bring himself to say it.

"Sorry, I have to go," he lied instead. "We’ll... we’ll see each other soon."

"Alright," she replied, somewhat coldly, certainly with concern. "I understand. See you soon."

He noticed that JJ had started glancing in his direction again. He hesitated, wondering if he should approach her, but he felt so bad about himself that he needed to disappear from anyone’s sight. He needed to focus on something, like the case but wasn’t sure if the fog in his mind would even allow that. 

Disappearing for a moment in the bathroom might help, and at that moment, it seemed like the only solution. And maybe it should have dawned on him much earlier, but only on his way did he start wondering, where the hell did she even get his number from?

*

That same night, you were calm. You were happy that Jude managed to get his number and that he could explain everything to you, which, in turn, made you stop worrying.

You felt the same on night number two and... night number three.

But when Spencer didn’t show up for the fourth time, you began to worry.

On the fifth and sixth nights, you called.

By the seventh, you were pissed as fuck. 

On the eighth day, you decided that since he couldn’t be bothered to call back, you’d stop acting like some damn wife waiting for her husband to come home from war. He was probably cheating on you. Well, not literally. Just extending the metaphor. 

You still spent every night in that room, but you no longer wondered whether he’d show up or not. You just did what was expected of you. As usual, you cleaned the floors. The owner of the hall called, asking you to clean the windows on both sides as well. You couldn’t help but greatly appreciate that you were on the ground floor. The cold air that made its way inside left pleasant kisses on your cheeks. The librarian came by to say goodbye. He did this every night exactly at midnight, when his shift ended and he was heading home. Sometimes he stayed to chat, but not always in the mood for it. Lately, he was feeling better and shared with you that the treatment for his wife’s cancer was showing positive results. Overjoyed, you almost fell out of the window and asked him to deliver good news to you next time when you’re actually standing on the ground.

You had always hated silence, but then it became unbearable. Through the open windows, the sounds of cars reached you, but not enough to drown out your thoughts. After a moment of hesitation, you shoved the headphones into both ears. When you felt particularly bad, you would return, body and soul, to equally painful moments. It usually happened in chronological order, without skipping even a single detail. There would be some minor inconvenience, and suddenly you were back in the dorm, banging on the bathroom door while your roommate was carving herself up in the tub. And a second later, you were at your mother's funeral, with no other family member around to hug you. You had never needed it so much before or after.

You closed your eyes. Usually, this happened in the morning, during those hated hours, not during the beloved nights. You opened them a moment later, and in the window, your face was reflected... along with someone behind you. Scared, you jumped out in a place. 

"I'm sorry," Spencer said, looking guilty. "I really shouldn't have sneaked up on you when half of you was hanging out of the window."

At first, in shock, you pulled the headphones out of your ears. You stared at him... furious. There had been no contact with him for so long, and now he appeared as if nothing had happened, looking unbelievably good, and holding in his hands...

"Is that a flycatcher?"

He seemed surprised that you were the one to ask about it first. However, he smiled and lifted the plant higher. 

"That's right."

"Shove it up your ass."

He opened his mouth, but no words came out, seemingly surprised at how quickly your calm tone shifted to anger. You took a moment to examine him more closely. He was dressed neatly and meticulously in a black cardigan, the collar of a white shirt peeking out from under it, and a red tie. Over that, he wore a black coat, not a single crease visible on any of his clothes. He was freshly shaved, his hair seemed a little shorter... but his face still carried that unhealthy expression, and his eyes looked exhausted. It also seemed to you that... he'd lost weight? As if he were trying to hide what was going on inside by his outward appearance. 

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, while his fingers tightened around the pot. "Look," he began, his voice a little unsteady. "I've been going through a really rough time. Actually, it's been like this for quite a while. On top of that, work's been stressful, and then I got sick..."

You interrupted him, your arms crossed firmly across your chest. "I called," you said, your voice sharp.

“I know,” he admitted. “I saw, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to call back because... I was ashamed...”

“Ashamed that you started taking Dilaudid again,” you stated more than asked, almost certain your guess was correct. You weren’t really angry anymore, just disappointed. Not in him, or in the fact that he hadn’t been able to fight the addiction. It hurt you how much he feared admitting it.

He didn’t answer, which was confirmation.

His gaze darted away from yours as fast as his legs could carry him. You sighed and moved closer, until the only thing separating you was the flycatcher he held. Your hands rested on the soft fabric of his coat, near his elbows. Due to the difference in height, he would have to lower his head to look at you. But he stubbornly kept it straight.

"Spencer, are you afraid I'll judge you?"

A long silence.

"I know you won't," he finally replied. "You're not the kind of person who judges someone for their struggles, I know that. But it's still so hard for me to talk about it."

"Hey, remember, you don't have to explain anything to me. Or say anything now. We can focus on something else first, and whenever you're ready to talk, I'll still be here. Like every night. Unless you just dropped by for a moment?"

Spencer finally looked at you, and as he lowered his head, a few stray strands of hair fell onto his forehead. You were still holding both of his shoulders, tightening your grip slightly to reassure him.

"I've got the whole night free. We finished working on the case, and I don't have to show up at work tomorrow."

You frowned slightly.

"A case?"

"A child abduction," he explained.

Something about this didn't add up.

"I thought you were... a doctor. You know, like, hospital stuff."  You could see how much that amused him. "Don't laugh at me! That's what my friend told me. I asked her to find your number, and that's the information she came across."

"I have a doctorate," he clarified, glancing at you with a small, indulgent smile. "That's why 'doctor.' I don't work in a hospital."

"And here I was already picturing you in a lab coat with a stethoscope around your neck," you groaned. "More than once, actually. No offense, but you don't  look particularly sexy in white. So, what do you do, then?"

He scratched his nose, hesitating slightly before answering.

"I'm an FBI agent."

For a moment, you stared at him silently, your lips slightly parted like an idiot.

"So, you really are a cop... I was joking about that the whole time we last saw each other! That’s why you were laughing so much." Finally connecting the dots, you crossed your hands on your hips, still surprised. You let out a short laugh."A doctorate. Impressive. Now I feel embarrassed around you for dropping out of college."

Spencer's eyebrows shot up.

"I didn’t know that. Psychology, right?"

"Last year. I rarely admit it to people, to be honest. I just don’t feel like hearing, 'How could you drop out when you were so close to finishing?'"

"I'm sure you had your reasons."

"Well, I like to tell myself that. But honestly, I was just in a really bad place mentally."

"That's a reason too."

For a moment, you fell silent. You’d never felt particularly ashamed of it, but you also didn’t like delving too much into the topic. Wanting to change the subject, you brought a smile to your face and pointed to the plant in his hands.

"Is that my apology gift?"

Spencer handed you a terracotta pot with a young, elongated flycatcher inside.

"Something like this. You're not mad at me for not reaching out, are you?" He tried to make sure.

You looked at him and shook your head.

"Not anymore. I'm very easy to bribe. Shouldn't I water this?"

For the next hour, at your request, he told you about this type of plant with such tiny details that you started to wonder if it was possible for an average person to have such an extensive knowledge… on any subject. But you listened intently. First of all, he had that way of talking about things that you always admired in others. It was captivating, filled with passion. Secondly, you were about to become the "mom" of a Venus flytrap. You had to know everything about your baby to take proper care of it.

"Am I boring you?" he asked during his talk.

You shook your head, encouraging him to continue his lecture. Then Spencer asked how your past few days had been, and the conversation flowed on. Easy and pleasant, sometimes abruptly shifting from one topic to another, but then slowly returning to it. Comparing it to your first longer conversation here… you were glad to see how much he had opened up.

Carefully choosing your words, you managed to find out that work had been the trigger that led him back to taking Dilaudid. When he finally said how terrified he was that his distraction might cost the child’s life, you simply didn’t know what to say. Sitting right next to him, you just melted into his side, resting your head on his jacket and wrapping your arm around his back.

"You lost someone recently, didn't you?" you risked asking. "That must have been some kind of trigger too."

A long silence fell, during which you could easily count his breaths. Two long ones.

"She was a member of our team. And to me, like a sister.”

You were surprised when Spencer gently laughed at those words.

"I still carry it with me," he said, reaching into his coat. He pulled out a small, pocket-sized edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. You’d seen him with that book before. "But I just can't manage to read a single page. I'd really like to, though. I loved that book as a kid."

"I hated reading as a child," You recalled. "My mom loved it. Mostly fantasy; for my sixth birthday, she gave me all of Tolkien’s books. But I preferred the adaptations. I felt like my imagination couldn’t grasp all those beautiful images, I preferred to have them in front of me, on screen. It wasn’t until college that my roommate gave me The Bell Jar. She was obsessed with Sylvia Plath, which, now that I think about it, was incredibly unsettling. Well, you know, considering what happened later. But maybe I’m adding things in. Anyway, that’s when I fell in love with books. The ones that don’t take place in distant, magical worlds, but in gray cities or sad suburbs. About people, happy or less so, with good hearts or complete bastards, as long as they’re realistic."

"Do you have any books left from your mom?" Spencer asked, intrigued. You realized you hadn’t talked about her with anyone in a long time, and certainly not in such detail. Until now, you had considered her an intimate memory, reserved almost exclusively for you.

"I donated them to the library near our place. They’d just gather dust at mine, I don’t know if I could bring myself to reach for them. It’s not even about my dislike for fantasy… I also have two boxes of her clothes hidden in my apartment, I don’t even look at them anymore, let alone wear them. She had a wonderful style. A bit like a fairy. She was a psychologist at my high school, and everyone, literally everyone, told me they envied me for having such a mom."

"You also dress like a fairy," he said, studying you more closely. His gaze slowly traveled over you, starting from the light, ruffled blouse and ending at the heavy martens. He snorted. "Okay, like a fairy who goes to rock concerts in her free time."

"Thank you, that’s the style I’m aiming for,"

"So what’s wrong with your mom’s clothes? From what you’re saying, I gather you had quite a similar taste."

You hesitated to respond, thinking about those unopened boxes in the tiny attic of your apartment. You couldn’t even remember exactly what pieces of clothing were in them. It was just… the thought of wearing any of them for an entire day, at work or in your free time, terrified you. Your brain couldn’t separate the good memories from the destructive ones; you simply couldn’t have anything that reminded you of your mom. All the time.

You noticed Spencer was watching you. His expression was gentle, yet painfully sad.

"It never gets easier, does it?"

You realized he was talking about grief and quickly shook your head. Your words might sound incredibly pessimistic to someone who had recently lost someone.

"No. It does get easier, really," you assured him. "God, that’s probably not what you want to hear right now..."

"I want you to be honest," he asked.

"It gets easier, but it will never get easy. At least not for me. Though maybe it’s because I just haven’t confronted it yet, you know?" You laughed bitterly. "I live in constant denial, and when it gets hard, I put headphones in my ears to stop thinking. And the more time passes, the harder it is to face it.”

"So is that your advice? To accept it as soon as possible?"

"I'm not sure you can give advice on grief, Spencer. It's such an individual thing."

You saw his chest move as he sighed. You both spent some time in silence, as it seemed like you both needed it. Spencer didn’t take his eyes off the cover of Alice in Wonderland. You didn’t take your eyes off him, but your gaze wasn’t fully present, so he didn’t even notice you were staring.

You continued your conversation, and the morning arrived at an incredibly fast pace.

There was some tension accompanying the moment of goodbye, for some reason.

"I just want you to know that now, with all the work I have... I won’t be able to come here. Sometimes, sure, but not every day, no chance," he said, standing in front of you as you both got ready to leave. You threw your leather jacket over your shoulders and froze, your hands clenched tightly around the fabric. You quickly corrected yourself. What did you expect, that every night would look like this?

"I totally understand," you assured him, pretending to sound casual. "But if you need this meeting, you know where to find me. No need to announce it."

He nodded, and for a moment, silence hung between you again. You grabbed the pot with the carnivorous plant and froze, not really wanting to head toward the apartment.

"Or maybe..." Spencer started, clearly unsure of himself. "Maybe we could meet somewhere else. You know, like any other... friends. For dinner or whatever you suggest."

You pressed your lips together, feeling an even tighter knot in your stomach.

"Maybe," you said, in a very weak voice. You knew where this was heading. "But... you’re aware of what my day looks like, right? I’m busy most of the afternoon with work, then I come here for the whole night. At the moment, I’m only available in the morning..."

You didn’t have many friends, nor did you enter into long-term relationships for that very reason. Sometimes you met a fellow night owl, someone with whom you spent some good moments... but it was never forever. You never came across someone for whom the nocturnal lifestyle was a permanent state. Usually, after months or years, they decided they’d had enough of that way of life and tried to cure their insomnia. But you planned to live that way until the grave.

"There are still weekends. Though sometimes I work then too, if a tough case comes up... But let’s not think about that. I’m sure we can figure out how to make it work." You had a strange feeling that Spencer didn’t believe his own words. He swallowed with a kind of desperation. "At least from time to time, because... I really like you."

You really liked him too. But despite the fact that you deeply hoped you could stay in touch, you were aware that it wasn’t a very realistic scenario. You shook your head to stop thinking about it. You grabbed the Venus fly-trap in such a way that you could hug him goodbye. He prolonged the moment, holding you tightly with both arms, and in that gesture, there was... gratitude?

"See you then," he said, barely nodding as he did.

"Soon, I hope," you replied.

He left as you turned to lock the door. You could still feel his strong embrace around your body, and it was as if your body itself was telling you that something was missing.

 It was truly a tough morning return to the apartment.

*

"One more time, what’s the name of that bar?" asked Morgan, who was behind the wheel.

The other matter concerned the murderer targeting female students, with a recurring detail being that each victim had spent the night before their death at the same bar.

“The Tipsy Cow,” Spencer repeated, without a moment’s hesitation.

He was incredibly focused because he had taken Dilaudid. The first dose after a period of abstinence always put him in quite a pleasant state. The following doses, however, brought unwanted effects. After the first one, he didn’t even sweat. When they finished working on the search for that child, he was so stressed about meeting her that he deliberately delayed the moment in order to show up clean again, as if it had never happened. Later, he admitted everything to her anyway, so all the suffering was somewhat pointless when looked at from a broader perspective.

Though he desperately wanted to maintain their relationship... day by day, it became clearer to him that it probably wasn't possible. It was all about time. After a whole day at work, he simply couldn't afford to visit her late at night. Still, he tried to drop by even for an hour. Her mere presence gave him pleasure, the simplest pleasure in the world. He valued their conversations, loved her sometimes chaotic way of speaking, and how attentively she could listen to him. These meetings also motivated him to resist his addiction.

But in the last two weeks... something always came up. December, the end of the year, was always a bit intense.

It seemed to him that she was also drifting away from him a bit. Well, for the past fourteen days and six hours, she hadn’t sent him a single picture of how her flycatcher was growing. He didn’t know if he had done something wrong or if there was some other reason. In any case, the current case was so complicated and shocking that it looked like another week without contact was ahead…

“The Tipsy Cow,” Morgan muttered, shaking his head in disdain. “That’s gonna be the bar with the worst name I’ve ever set foot in. And there have been many.”

“A party animal, huh?”

“I used to be, yeah.”

In recent weeks, Derek had been throwing himself deeper and deeper into work, making it his top priority and always staying late. It was his way of coping with Emily's death. Spencer envied him a little for that. He, on the other hand, was so drained that sometimes, with no real plan... he would scroll through job offers he kept receiving. There were plenty to choose from. But for now, he felt he couldn’t bring himself to leave, even though the thought lingered in the back of his mind.

Together, they stepped into the small bar. The colorful, shifting lights gave the space a slightly club-like vibe, but the crowd inside wasn’t overwhelming. The music wasn’t too loud, and it was easy to move around. The noisiest spot was a small group of men playing pool in the corner, loudly cheering on a brunette in a black jumpsuit.

“We need to talk to the bartenders, find out who was on shift Friday night. Honestly, it’d be best to question everyone,” Morgan said as they approached the bar, where a burly man in a black polo shirt was busy mixing a drink. 

"Hey, man. We need a word with you."

He didn’t even look up at them.

"Order something or don’t. I’m not here for chit-chat..." he trailed off, his expression shifting the moment he saw the badge. "Okayyy. That changes things."

Spencer stood sideways at the bar, arms crossed over his chest. He was more of an observer than an active participant in the conversation, but his focus was sharp, ready to catch any details crucial to the investigation.

“Were you here last Friday, around 9:30 to 11:00 PM?”

The guy leaned against the bar with one arm, chewing gum as he thought about it.

“Nah, on Fridays and weekends, I usually come in later.”

“We need to know who was tending the bar then. This is serious, dude.”

“Damn, someone died?”

Their looks said it all.

At that moment, a petite bartender with light hair emerged from the back, carrying two glass bottles in her hands. Initially, she didn’t look at any of them, seeming a bit detached from her surroundings… Spencer straightened up completely.

 What a damn coincidence.

The bartender addressed her by name.

“You’re here Friday nights, right?” he asked.

The girl, caught off guard, nodded, only now noticing their presence. Her eyes shifted to Morgan, who was closer to her and holding his badge up. The muscles in her face tightened slightly with unease. Her eye makeup was heavier than usual—black with a touch of shimmer in the corners.

Only then did her gaze linger—suspiciously long—on him. Her lower lip parted slightly in surprise. Spencer had no idea if he should acknowledge her. He was keenly aware of how nosy Morgan could be when it came to his personal life, and he’d never mentioned his new acquaintance to anyone on the team—or in his life, for that matter.

Swallowing hard, he felt a slight panic rise, urging him to say something.

“We need to talk to you,” he told her, his tone carefully balanced between serious and gentle.

She seemed uneasy about the FBI’s presence; he could see the stress in her piercing eyes, which hadn’t left him for a second. He felt a sharp urge to reassure her, to tell her not to worry.

“But don’t stress—it’s just a few questions,” he added, his voice softening.

When he turned his head, he noticed Morgan watching him intently. He avoided his gaze at all costs, pretending to be at ease.

“Was anyone else working with you that night?” Morgan asked.

“Peter,” she replied. “But he’s on leave right now. His girlfriend just had a baby. A boy. Not that it’s any of your business,” she added quickly. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure I have his number somewhere if you need it…”

She began hurriedly searching her pockets, tugging at the fabric of her black jeans. She was also wearing a dark purple blouse tied at the waist, with a deep lace-trimmed neckline and wide, flared sleeves that didn’t seem particularly practical for bartending.

“You can give it to us later,” Derek reassured her. “What we really need are the details. I want you to try to remember everything that happened that evening. If you can’t, because it’s too loud here… Reid, maybe you two can head to the back?”

There was a faint, sly glint in his eyes. Did he… figure it out?

Derek shifted his gaze to the gum-chewing bartender. “And I’ll have a chat with you.”

Spencer let her lead him to the small back room. He turned to close the door and, when he faced her again, noticed her raised eyebrows and the faint smile playing on her lips.

“Coming to work today, this was the last thing I expected,” she chuckled.

Spencer smiled slightly as well. “It’s been a while. You look good—like you’re sleeping better. Does your partner know we know each other, or are we sneaking around like we’re in some kind of movie?”

“He doesn’t,” he replied, quickly adding, “But of course, it’s not a secret. And the fact that we know each other has no impact on the investigation. By the way… I really like your blouse.”

She raised her arms, showing off the flared sleeves, clearly pleased he’d noticed.

“Guess where I got it,” she said, and without waiting for his attempt, revealed, “It’s my mom’s”

He clearly remembered their conversation on the topic, so he tilted his head with a smile.

“I’m glad you finally pushed through,” he said quietly. He, too, had something to share. “As for me… a few days ago, I started reading Alice in Wonderland. I’m not sure if you remember…”

“The edition you got from your friend? Of course, I remember. That’s good news. Are you feeling better?”

He scratched his nose, unsure of what to say. It had been hard for him to identify his state lately; things were stable, maybe even better, if not for the fact that he had gone back to taking Dilaudid.

“And how’s Steven?” he asked, referring to the flycatcher they had named together some time ago.

“He’s good. The kid I sometimes look after stuck his fingers inside recently, and she bit him. I got a little scared that his mom might sue, but it turns out she doesn’t hurt people,” she said, but then straightened up suddenly. “Wait, here we are chatting, and I think you were supposed to be questioning me.”

Spencer immediately caught himself.

“Yeah, right. So, I’d like you to close your eyes, okay?”

She followed his instructions, responding to his quiet and focused tone. He needed her to recall everything that had happened that evening, to bring back any memories that could help them catch the unsub. As her eyelids lowered, she took a step closer. Suddenly, the room seemed even smaller than it was, as if the walls were trying to pull them together, closing in. Spencer lowered his voice further, causing her face to twitch slightly.

The last time they had been this close, they had accidentally found themselves too near. Her gaze had dropped to his lips, she sighed, and kissed him. He had been caught off guard, unsure of what to say, and she... acted like nothing had happened. He felt the gradual distance between them, and it bothered him more than he cared to admit. He didn't even allow himself to acknowledge how often he thought about that kiss. In fact, it had been the only thing on his mind since they entered this room and stood face-to-face once again. At the same time, her expression and behavior suggested as if nothing had ever happened. She always had a more relaxed attitude toward touch than he did, but the kiss must have meant something to her, especially since she had initiated it, right?

Not knowing what the hell he was doing, he brought his head closer to hers. He didn’t touch her, just froze in place, very close to her face. She had already said everything she knew, he’d gathered some valuable information, but still, she didn’t open her eyes. Was she aware of how close he’d gotten? Could she feel his presence right next to her?

He had no intention of getting closer to her; they were both at work. It was just… he’d been overcome by temptation and was curious about her reaction. But he quickly withdrew and cleared his throat quietly.

“That’s it. You can open your eyes,” he issued the final command. He knew it looked awkward, scratching the back of his neck, but he couldn’t help it. “Thanks a lot for your help. I think this could be important for the investigation.”

“I hope so,” she said, sadly. “They were… innocent girls. I can’t believe this man just comes here so casually now.”

“You never know what the other person is hiding,” he remarked, feeling a sudden tightening of concern in his chest. They had already left the back room and were approaching the bar where Morgan was still talking to the bartender. He slowed his pace. “Be careful when you walk alone at night, okay?”

“Am I in danger?” Worry flashed across her face.

“From this particular killer? Well… you’re not his type. But he’s not the only person with bad intentions in the world. Just be careful, please.”

She nodded, looking him in the eyes.

“For the first time, I’m glad I’m not anyone’s type,” she added after a moment, breaking the seriousness of the situation. Spencer held back a chuckle. Morgan glanced their way briefly. “Goodbye, agent.”

“Goodbye,” he replied with a short grunt. He wanted to ask if they would see each other again soon, but he knew it was highly unlikely, especially while they were focused on their work.

He never thought any relationship he had with a woman would be tested by something as mundane as differing daily rhythms. Still, he intended to hold on to the hope that it might work. Maybe something would change soon?

A sly grin tugged at Morgan’s lips as they walked back to the car.

“She caught your eye, didn’t she?” he teased.

Spencer looked at him, feigning pity.

“I’m a professional. I don’t get distracted at work.”

“Should I remind you how…”

The faint, really faint trace of a blush on Spencer's cheeks prompted Morgan to burst into laughter.

*

The owner of the room across from the library called, asking that you not come that night. Apparently, there was a meeting planned that would stretch into the early hours.

You had become so accustomed to your routine that, when you returned to your apartment from the bar, you didn’t know what to do with yourself. Jude was getting ready for work; you exchanged just a few words before she left. So, you laid down on the couch with your laptop on your stomach, unbuttoning your pants for comfort as you lazily read a book review online.

Your gaze kept drifting between the screen and the flycatcher sitting on the coffee table

Earlier, you had thought about Spencer a lot, but more out of concern or curiosity. Since your encounter at the bar, however, those thoughts had shifted in another direction. He was literally occupying more space in your mind. At random moments, you even found yourself catching his scent—the same one you had noticed when he was so close.

You kissed him because you wanted to. Simple explanation. If it were up to you, you would have gone even further. But you knew that wouldn’t be good for either of you. You were already starting to grow attached, and it hurt to realize how little future you could see in your potential relationship. Potential relationship. You were imagining too much.

You closed your laptop with a resigned sigh and got off the couch. Jude was at work, Spencer was probably either working or already in bed, and the rest of your friends might not appreciate you suddenly reaching out after months of silence. But just because you were alone didn’t mean you couldn’t have fun on your own, right? You hadn’t gone out in ages. You were in the mood to dance, to have some fun, to meet someone new—a wild girl or guy for just one night, then forget about them completely. You needed that. Lately, there had been so much tension inside you.

So, you spent an hour in front of the mirror, touching up your makeup and thinking about which shoes would go best with your black mini dress. It wasn’t just any black dress—that would be boring. This one had short sleeves, exposed shoulders, and a subtle, astronomical pattern with a delicate sheen.

You left the apartment barefoot, holding your heels in your hand. The stairs in your building were too steep to navigate in those shoes. On the way, you threw a jacket over your shoulders, heading to a club you and Jude had been to before, where you both loved the atmosphere. It was there that you met a group of five friends who pulled you into their circle even though they didn’t know you, and the whole night felt like it lasted only a minute. Jude still kept in touch with a few of them. You were hoping for a similar adventure.

You didn’t drink much when you went out alone for safety reasons. You quickly found yourself lost in the rhythm of the club’s music, dancing with strangers and clearing your mind in the midst of the chaos. Hours passed, and someone tried to kiss you, pulling you into a tight embrace, but you couldn’t feel it. It didn’t bring you any pleasure, yet you had a twisted feeling that it would’ve been different if it had been someone else…

You stepped outside to get some fresh air. Your cheeks were likely flushed from both the dancing and the stuffy atmosphere inside.

The phone rang. Jude?

"Hey, girl," she said, her voice clearly worried. "Are you home?"

"I went out to the city," you replied, feeling uneasy. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing... it's just that the neighbor called me saying Richard is hanging around our door again. Be careful, okay? You know, you never know what might go through his head. And we don't even know if he's sober. At this hour, probably not."

You clenched your lips. The December chill hurt like knives, it was almost three in the morning, and you hadn’t planned on staying out until dawn. From the start, you intended to head back early, maybe relax in front of the TV for a bit, and perhaps even try to sleep, since nothing else seemed more appealing. Of course, you weren’t angry at Jude; it wasn’t her fault that her ex turned out to be a psycho.

"Thanks for telling me. Don’t worry, I’m not going back to the apartment for now."

Your roommate hung up, as she had to return to work. You stood there facing a dilemma. Should you go back to the club? You felt too drained to dance, and sitting alone in a corner seemed incredibly boring.

Maybe it was that one drink you had, but your legs seemed to take you in a certain direction.

You weren’t sure if Spencer was even home. But if you had nothing else to do, why not check? A short walk. You were a little desperate, after all, you didn’t have anywhere else to go. That’s how you justified it. You were going to him because you had no other option.

He opened the door, dressed in a wrinkled shirt, trousers, and a tie loosely hanging around his neck. His hair was in disarray, and you felt an urge to run your fingers through it and style it the way you wanted, but it would’ve been awkward.

"Hey. Am I interrupting?"

Surprised, Spencer shook his head.

"No... Actually, I was asleep."

"In those clothes?"

"I fell asleep while reading..." he explained, trailing off when he noticed your appearance. To put it modestly, you looked incredibly hot. For a long moment, his gaze lingered on your dress, visible beneath the open jacket and ending high on your thigh. "Very... nice dress. Is it... is it your mom's too?"

You chuckled.

"Can you imagine my mom, a school psychologist, in a dress covering half her ass?"

Embarrassed, Spencer raised his hands in apology and also chuckled softly.

"Sorry, I'm still half-asleep. Anyway... is there something wrong that you're here?"

"My mentally unstable ex-boyfriend of my roommate is lurking under our apartment.” You confessed bluntly “I'm a little scared to go back, and... I didn't know where else I could go."

It seemed like he was suddenly waking up quickly. He swung the door wide open, letting you in.

"Of course, come in. Is he dangerous?"

"He shows up every now and then and then disappears. It's like a lottery. Jude doesn't want to ever see him again, so we just pretend we're not here when it happens."

The inside looked just as you remembered. The lights were off everywhere except the bedroom, where he was probably reading. You allowed yourself to take off your uncomfortable shoes and set them by the door.

"Why don't you report it to the police?" His forehead furrowed with concern.

"Jude doesn't want to. And I don't want to do anything against her will. But I swear, if this happens again, I'll convince her. Or I'll do it myself."

"You should," he said, and suddenly a silence fell between you.

You weren't sure how to act. You'd barged in on him in the middle of the night, pulling him from his sleep. Not to mention, you hadn't seen each other since that conversation at the bar.

"Let me take your jacket," he said after a moment, as if remembering how to behave when hosting a guest.

You slowly took it off, revealing the full dress. Spencer momentarily let his gaze linger on it, but then he caught himself and turned away to hang your jacket. The glance didn't embarrass you in the slightest; if anything, you expected to catch him looking.

"Sorry if I woke you," you said, realizing you should probably apologize. It was only then that you began to feel a little awkward about the situation.

"You don't have to apologize. It's not your fault. And I'm glad I can help," he said, and once again, silence settled between you. Spencer placed his hand on his forehead as he realized you were still standing in the hallway. "Sorry, it's been a long time since anyone's visited, and I don't even know how to act... Do you want something to drink, or need anything?"

"I’m fine," you assured him, walking behind him into the living room. "I don't want you to act like I'm some important guest, Spencer. Or like you need to serve me."

"But you are an important guest," he replied.

A warm, gentle smile appeared on your lips.

"What were you reading?" you asked, leaning your lower back against the kitchen island, the two rooms connected as one. You glanced around the cozy interior, in soft, almost warm hues, where the darkness of the night blended with the orange light of the lamp. "Let me guess, some spine-chilling thriller?"

"I have spine-chilling thrillers every day at work," he snorted. "I was reading... Emma. Jane Austen."

Your eyebrows shot up.

"You fell asleep reading classic literature on a Friday night? Spencer Reid, what kind of man are you?"

"In a good way or a bad way?"

He stood across from you, his arms loosely crossed over his chest. Your eyes lingered on the first few undone buttons of his shirt.

"Of course, in a good way. Why would I judge someone for reading?"

"I don’t know," he shrugged. "Some people think it’s boring. And weird, especially on a Friday night. And what about you? What were you doing before your roommate’s ex showed up?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes as he nodded meaningfully toward your outfit. "Were you reading too?"

You lifted your chin high.

"Exactly. I was reading my favorite Shakespearean drama in my favorite dress. And those incredibly comfortable shoes I left by your door."

"That goes without saying."

"I definitely wasn’t at any club."

"I wouldn’t even suspect you of that."

"I was doing what any God-fearing virgin would do," you said, bursting into laughter at the absurdity. "Alright, alright. I’m getting carried away. Now I actually feel like reading something. But nothing too classic—I don’t have the brainpower for it. Do you happen to have any romance novels?"

I'm afraid not."

"Really? You have more books in your home than the library in my hometown, and not a single romance? I’m not talking about dark erotica or anything—just something subtle. Friends to lovers, polite sex..."

Spencer choked on a laugh.

"Sorry, but are you drunk?"

You were just horny. 

"Not a drop of alcohol has touched my lips. I'm just hyperactive. That’s what the night does to me."

"Yeah, I can see that."

"So? Aren't you hiding any sinful books in there?"

He rolled his eyes, clearly amused rather than annoyed by your persistence.

"You're welcome to look," he offered, gesturing toward one of the shelves. "But I’m not promising you’ll find anything like that."

"But if I do, you owe me a drink."

“And if it turns out I’m right, then what?”

You bit your lip, pondering. 

“I’ll figure something out.”

“You know, I won’t enter a bet unless I know what I get in return.”

“And what do you want?”

“A dinner together,” he replied without hesitation. “Or breakfast, if you prefer.”

“Deal,” you answered just as quickly. You weren’t worried about regretting it—your blood was buzzing too much for that.

He extended his hand for you to shake on it, sealing the deal. Instead of letting go, you held onto his fingers firmly and tugged him toward the bookshelf. He stood so close as you examined the books one by one, taking some out to inspect their covers to see if they suggested any hint of romance. When they didn’t, he let out a short laugh, his breath brushing against your neck and sending a shiver down your spine. You didn’t let it show.

“Spencer…” you started after a while, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “It counts if the book has a romantic subplot, right?”

“No, it doesn’t count! We agreed on a romance. A full-fledged, contemporary one.”

“We didn’t say contemporary.”

“I assumed it was implied since I mentioned owning Jane Austen books. Pride and Prejudice is a romance, among other things…”

“Ha! So you do have one. I won!” You raised your hands high in victory.

“…But it’s also a social and domestic novel. Doesn’t count.”

You poked him in the chest with your finger. “You don’t know how to lose.”

He glanced at the spot where you touched him, clearly trying not to smile.

“Maybe I just care a lot about that dinner,” he admitted boldly.

You didn’t know what to say. You tried to look at him confidently, but it was hard to think and maintain eye contact with him at the same time.

“Or breakfast,” you murmured.

“Or breakfast,” he agreed. Realizing how close he was standing, he instinctively stepped back half a pace. “So, are you ready to admit my victory?”

You shot him a defiant look.

“Not a chance. I haven’t even checked all the books yet. I’m only about three-quarters through. Who knows what kind of BDSM might be lurking in the last quarter?”

“Seriously?” he asked with a sigh. “Okay, just look at me. Do I seem like the kind of guy who reads stuff like that?”

“Honestly, you look like the kind of guy who reads encyclopedias. But the one thing I know about people is that appearances can be deceiving. Still waters run deep.”

He shook his head in disbelief.

“You’re as stubborn as they come.”

“Maybe I just really want that drink,” you teased.

“I can make you one,” he offered unexpectedly.

“Seriously?” The suggestion caught you off guard.

Spencer shrugged casually.

“I don’t drink much, but some friends gave me a few bottles for my birthday.”

You hesitated, considering.

“I’m not really in the mood,” you admitted. You felt good, even without alcohol. “But I do have another request… Do you happen to have something I could change into? I won’t lie, this isn’t the most comfortable dress… though it’s absolutely stunning.”

He smiled softly.

"You’re right. And yes, I’ll find something for you to change into. Just… it’ll be something of mine."

Following him into the bedroom, you let out a small chuckle.

"You know, I didn’t expect you to have a closet full of women’s clothes. Plus, in my size. Although, who knows what girls leave behind at your place. It’s a tactic, you know? You leave a sock at a guy’s place to have an excuse to come back. Unless you didn’t like it, then you have to accept losing the sock."

He didn’t say anything, opening the wardrobe to find something appropriate for you. You’d been in his bedroom before and didn’t feel the need to look around; nothing had changed inside.

"Do you do this often?" he asked, inspecting a t-shirt. "Use the sock strategy?"

"No," you replied, shrugging. "I’m too straightforward for that. If I like it, I just go back and say 'Let’s do it again' Or I don’t leave at all. I’m a bit of a parasite too."

He chuckled at the comparison and finally handed you some clothes. You didn’t really look at them; you just needed something looser, something you hadn’t danced in for hours at the club.

"You know where the bathroom is, right?"

You confirmed and were about to head in that direction when you stopped.

"Wait," you said, turning back toward him. But then, you turned again, facing him with your back. "The zipper on the dress," you explained, pulling your hair to the front. "I could manage it myself, but I don’t want to risk breaking it. Could you…?"

"Y-yeah," he agreed after a moment, stepping closer.

He stood just behind you, reaching for the top of your back. Before he pulled the zipper down, there was a moment where he simply paused, unmoving. Your knees suddenly trembled, almost impatiently. Then, he tugged at the zipper, unfastening the dress, and the coolness and freedom teased your skin.

You could have said thank you and headed to the bathroom, but you didn’t. Something kept your body rooted in place, right there next to him, feeling the pads of his fingers on the lower part of your dress.

Even his breath, louder and irregular.

When you began to, slightly disappointed, assume that he wouldn’t do anything more, his lips found a spot on your neck, kissing it slowly. You inhaled deeply, your head instinctively tilting back, giving him more access, as if you had been waiting for just that.  He stopped for a longer time in this specific place, pressing on it harder, as you barely hold a groan. 

Your breath was given a free rollercoaster ride.

You reached your hand back, wrapping it around his head and pulling him closer to you. You felt him sigh directly into your skin, leaving another two hungry kisses on an exposed skin on your shoulder. God, why were you still wearing that dress?

You abruptly stopped, turning around and almost hitting the top of your head against his jaw. You didn't care about it, and the thought of apologizing never crossed your mind, just simply pushed him, planting a strong kiss right on his lips.

The clothes he gave you slipped from your hand and fell to the floor, but neither of you were concerned about it, as you were both too absorbed to care. You pushed him again, this time onto the bed, on which he sat, surprised by your suddenness. You saw red marks creeping onto the parts of the neck exposed by the undone shirt. 

"Spencer, Spencer, Spencer," you said, shaking your head in a mock reprimand. He tilted his head to the side, unsure of where you were going with this, his fingers impatiently brushing your waist on both sides. "You lied to me."

Your hands grabbed his face, positioning just under his jaw and lifting it upward so you could find his lips right against yours. 

“I lied to you?”

"“That's right. You said you don't read romances. But tell me, how does someone who doesn't do that know such practices?”

“Practices?” he repeated again, surprised."

His gaze was focused solely on your lips to which he tried to get closer, but you hadn't allowed him to yet. 

"This whole unbuttoning of the dress. And then, the neck”

With your index finger, you traced along the skin on his neck

“Did you like it?” he asked, his voice sounding a bit hoarse. He removed one hand from your waist and took your hand, the one you had been playing with.

“Did I like it?” you scoffed with a genuine laugh.“I’m like half naked now. Answer that for yourself”

Undressing was the element you hated the most. You became impatient and couldn't understand why your clothes couldn't just disappear from you, instead of threatening to burn your already overheated skin. Spencer didn't help, so slow in his movements. You had a feeling he was doing it on purpose. He probably enjoyed watching you struggle to untangle yourself from the dress. He waited a minute before helping you, effortlessly pulling it over your head.

Maybe slow wasn't the most accurate description.The way he touched his body wasn’t slow. It was like rationing a treat, breaking it into small pieces and savoring them one by one. Meanwhile, it gazed straight into your mouth, shouting, eat me!

It required incredible self-control and composure, but it resulted in something more than just pleasure. When he found himself right between your legs, his lips touching gently every single inch of your thigh and refusing to go further despite your pleas, you compared him to the previous guys you slept with. With them, on the other hand, you had to tell them to slow down, to do everything more carefully, and not to focus solely on their own needs.

“Does it feel right?” He asked, briefly lifting his gaze, his hands gripping your thighs.

Your back arched, probably enough of an answer, but you confirmed it with a soft moan.

"I'd rather you said it out loud. Does it feel right?"

"That's edging on sadism, do you realize that?" you whimpered, trying to release the tension by pulling at his hair.

He stopped again.

"Please, do it again."

It wasn't something he had to beg for.

The rest went similarly. You liked how his confidence and courage grew, but you also went wild when, at certain moments, the same gentle and sometimes awkward Spencer returned. It was a perfectly balanced mix.

"Can you talk to me more?" he asked over time, once he was already inside you. "I want to know how you feel about all of this." After those words, your forehead twitched slightly as you felt the onset of pain. "Does it hurt?"

"No," you whispered, accompanied by a faintly tired exhale.”A little. But it's normal I just didn't have sex for a while”

"No, it shouldn't hurt you. Do you want to stop?"

"Just... give me a moment."

He slowed down, almost stopping. You took a breath,pressing your forehead to his. You stayed like that for a moment, neither of you in a hurry. After all, where to? Outside, the night still reigned, long and patient, winter’s grip holding steady. You liked having his face so close to yours, joining them together and not speaking. For the first time, you could truly say that you enjoyed the silence.

You had always considered silence overwhelming, incapable of calming the chaos that arose in your mind. You preferred moments of wildness, loud sounds, and fast pace, but it was in that silence, which fell then, that you found a peace filled with intimacy.

You wrapped your arms tighter around his neck.

"It's okay, I'm ready."

After everything, you simply lay facing each other, tangled in one another. Actually, you didn’t like that expression "after everything." After everything—after what exactly? Sex wasn’t just about the physical act; it also included the long moment before and the even more significant one after. It was precisely that moment after which revealed the true you both. How much you cared for each other and how much you meant to each other beyond the bed. That was often missing in one-night stands; the perspective of quickly disappearing from each other's lives and being forgotten somehow intensified selfishness in people.

Lying there, you played with the hair on his forehead.

"You know, they say this is the moment when people are the most honest with each other."

"Do you want to squeeze a few secrets out of me?" he asked.

"Just one," you said mysteriously, turning onto your back. Before that, you noticed his eyebrows furrow.

He propped himself up on his elbow to look at you again.

"Which one?"

You pretended to hesitate before answering. You tried with all your might to keep the smile from appearing on your face, betraying you.

"I'm afraid that even now, you won't be honest with me."

"I'm starting to get worried."

"I'll tell you, but you have to promise to tell the truth. Give me your pinky."

"What?"

"A pinky promise, you fool."

“O-okay” 

Clearly surprised, he did what you asked.

"Now tell me the truth. You got any romance books at your place you're too embarrassed to admit to?"

He rolled his eyes.

"I'll find them," you teased. "I’ll get up right now and find them."

You pretended to get up, but he pulled you closer, preventing you from moving.

"You're not going anywhere."

*

You fell asleep.  

Asleep. At night.  

Completely normal for any other person, but for you...? The shock made your heart beat faster, painfully colliding with your chest. The blanket slid off your shoulders as you sat up.  

Spencer sighed in his sleep, the kind of breath that often heralds waking, but not this time. He was still deep in slumber, lying on his stomach, his face turned toward you. Falling asleep next to each other after sex had always seemed a bit... cliché to you. Pulled straight from the movies. It looked pleasant on screen and spared the viewer the awkward scene of putting on clothes that had been scattered across the floor in a frenzy of passion just moments earlier. In reality, who had time for that?  

For you, someone who had been struggling with sleep issues for years, it was usually just lying in bed next to a guy sleeping soundly, feeling bored. A sign it was time to get up and leave.  

You’d planned to spend the night at Spencer’s place from the start. Well, maybe not specifically in the same bed, but as his... guest. Because of Richard, of course. So when he fell asleep mid-conversation, you didn’t have many options on where to go. Besides, you didn’t want to leave. It was nice lying next to him; his face looked so innocent in sleep. You had thought about quietly grabbing a book or reaching for one of the ones in the bedroom, but that would probably wake him up. So you rested your head back on the pillow and watched him. At some point, without realizing it, your eyelids grew heavy.  

It was a very early hour, or so the clock on the nightstand claimed. It felt unreal to you. Usually, at this time, you were sitting in an empty room, waiting for some lonely soul desperate for a conversation to walk in. 

For weeks, you had been the perfect example of a situationship. The kind where you both almost openly wanted each other, but something held you back from truly committing. For you, it was fear and doubts about your vastly different lifestyles. You could try and give it a chance, For weeks, you had been the perfect example of a situationship. The kind where you both almost openly wanted each other, but something held you back from truly committing. For you, it was fear and doubts about your vastly different lifestyles. You could try and give it a chance, but... it would hurt if it didn’t work out. You’d lose a friend and confidant. A man who had come to you at his lowest point and decided to trust you, making you feel special. Someone who understood you, made you laugh, and had even given you a Venus flytrap. On top of that, he had an excellent taste in books, an incredible intellect, and, to be completely fair, was very good in bed.

Well, running away wasn’t an option anymore. You knew that when Spencer woke up, you’d have two choices: pretend nothing happened again, or have a conversation. You were both adults, so it was only reasonable to expect you’d choose the latter

You knew you wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again. It was an anomaly, one that wouldn’t repeat itself. Still, you wanted to let him sleep peacefully, feeling guilty for disrupting his night by barging into his apartment. Before finding a comfortable position by his side, ready to lie there for an hour or two, you glanced one last time at the clock—and something caught your attention.

“Spencer,” you said softly, not wanting to wake him too abruptly. It didn’t work, so you gently shook his bare shoulder. “Spencer, your phone.”

It must have been silent, but you could clearly see an incoming call displayed on the screen.

At the word phone, he reacted as if it were a blaring alarm. He bolted upright, still half-asleep, and pressed the device to his ear.

“Hotch?” he asked, his voice rough and groggy, sounding almost like a cough. He listened to the person on the other end, rubbing his face with one hand to wake himself up, then sighing heavily as he ran that same hand through his hair.

"I’ll be there in an hour," he said, his tone laced with clear reluctance but also an undeniable sense of duty. When the call ended, he turned to you over his shoulder. The expression on his face softened.

"Hey," he said gently.

"A new case?" you guessed, trying not to let it show how much you didn’t want him to leave. After all, it was what it was—his work was far more needed by the world than by you in bed.

"We’ve been working on it for a while, and there’s been some kind of breakthrough... I’m really sorry. I feel bad, leaving like this," 

"Spencer, I understand. It must be something important. Go, and don’t worry about me. I’ll get myself together and head back home soon..."

"And what about your roommate’s ex?" he interrupted, giving a slight shake of his head. "You don’t know if he’s gone yet. You shouldn’t be going back alone."

"It’s Richard. He’s a very impatient motherfucker. He’s probably already gone," you replied.

"You don’t know that."

"So, what are you going to do?" you scoffed. "Take me there by the hand?"

Spencer was silent for a moment, looking at you as if the answer was obvious.

"Just stay here,"

His suggestion made you raise an eyebrow. Spencer shrugged.

“Well, what? It’s barely five in the morning. I don’t want to kick you out this early just because I got a call from work.”

"Kick me out?" you chuckled, causing him to look at you with a slightly puzzled expression. At the same time, he was heading toward the wardrobe, realizing he didn’t have much time and should start getting dressed. "If you call this kicking someone out, then I don’t even have a word for how other guys behave. By the way, could you hand me, I don’t know, a sweater or something?"

The apartment had a pleasant temperature, but you still had an overwhelming urge to wrap yourself in something warm and soft. The only piece of clothing you had with you was a short-sleeved dress. And a jacket, but that didn’t really count.

"In that case..." Spencer began, rummaging through the clothes in his wardrobe, his brow slightly furrowed as if he were seriously contemplating his choice. He didn’t seem amused by your earlier joke—in fact, he looked surprisingly focused.

His fingers finally stopped on one of the hangers. He pulled something out and turned toward you with a faint smile.

"I'm tremendously proud that I don't fall into the category of those other guys. You like purple, right?" he added, holding up a sweater in a deep plum shade.

"I meant just any piece of clothing. But yes, I do like purple," you said, stretching your hands out in front of you, encouraging him to toss you the sweater.

Instead of throwing it, he stepped closer to you. At first, you didn’t understand what he was doing, especially when he stopped right in front of you, still holding the sweater in his hands.

It dawned on you a moment later, and you burst into laughter, raising your arms up so he could slide it over your head. The sweater draped over your body, proving to be slightly oversized. The V-shaped neckline awkwardly settled on your shoulder, slipping down and leaving it exposed.

Spencer, almost mechanically and with focus, slid his hands under the fabric to free your hair that was tangled beneath it. After probably half the night in the club and the second half spent in bed, it probably resembled a huge mess of hay, but you weren’t particularly concerned about it. It only just occurred to you that he had to leave soon, and knowing his work and the constant impossibility of syncing your schedules, you might not see each other again until the next few days.

"I’d like to talk to you," Spencer suddenly said, almost as if he had to force the words out, quietly taking a breath. "About all of this. About us. We don’t really have time for it now, but as soon as I get back, I’ll make sure to meet you. No matter what time it is or how tired I am, okay?"

You wanted to comment on the last part of his words, the bit about being tired, assuring him that you weren’t asking for that from him, but something in his gaze stopped you. It was funny how his eyes were both sleepy and lively at the same time. His dark iris blended with his dilated pupil, the boundary between them fading, making them almost hypnotic.

"So, are you staying here?" he asked.

A delicate smile passed over your face.

"I see this means a lot to you. Aren’t you afraid I’ll start digging through your books?" "All of them are at your disposal," he reassured, also lifting the corners of his mouth slightly.

However, suddenly his expression darkened, as if some spell had been cast, taking away all his confidence. For a long moment, he stayed silent, and you tilted your head in confusion.

"Can... can I kiss you?" he finally asked.

"Do I need to remind you that we already slept together?"

"Well..."

Whatever he was about to say, you simply cupped his neck with your hand, pulling him closer. A sweet, shallow, slightly long —a typical farewell kiss.

He had already mostly dressed, with only the task of crouching down by the nightstand left, to open the safe inside. You knew he kept his gun and badge there. You tried not to look in his direction while he entered the code, just as common decency dictated looking away when someone unlocks their phone. But still, you noticed how his fingers trembled slightly.

When he left, you weren’t quite sure what to do with yourself. If you were anyone else, you would’ve hidden under the blanket, absorbing the scent of both of you, sinking into an incredibly peaceful sleep. However, you were aware that wouldn’t happen. You pulled a pillow under your head, lost in thought, haunted by some strange unease.

You spent a long time simply wandering around the apartment, unable to help the fact that you were one of those people who got bored quickly. Jude had just returned, you thought, as the clock struck eight. The main trait of her ex was unpredictability, but even he followed certain patterns and routines in life. He didn’t show up that early because he knew she was still asleep. He preferred to knock on the door at noon and bother her during her free time.

You started getting ready before you even made a decision. First, you made the bed, then undressed again to slip back into the dress. On top, you put Spencer’s sweater, for some unknown reason not wanting to part with it. Was this some sort of reversed sock strategy? Were you taking his clothes instead of leaving them behind?

An impulse shot through your body as you stood by the door. Not even knowing what you were doing, you simply returned to the bedroom, falling to your knees in front of the, as it turned out, unopened safe.

Spencer hadn’t emptied it completely. Inside was a dose of Dilaudid, the reason his hands had been trembling earlier.

An unexpected wave of guilt hit you with force. Recently, you hadn’t brought up the topic with him at all, assuming that if he needed to talk about it and was ready to, he would bring it up himself. But that’s not how people in addiction found themselves. They could deny it to the very end, doing anything to avoid seeking help.

You wiped your face with your hand. Should you even confront him about it when you saw him again? Well, the answer was probably yes, but the real question was how.

You came up with the idea of perhaps arranging a night in your room across from the library. That place had an oddly polite way of encouraging people to be honest, without making them feel like information was being extracted from them forcefully. You had been considering this on your way back. The heels were rubbing your feet, and after the night in the club, you had a few blisters. Before entering the building where you lived, you simply took them off, not wanting to risk your life on those steep stairs. Jude had sprained her wrist on them once, and thank God it was just her wrist.

Completely lost in your thoughts, in their aggressive waterfall, you didn’t even notice someone sitting right by the door to your apartment, leaning against it with their back. You jumped in surprise when Richard sprang to his feet.

Shit.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, clearly happy to see you. You cautiously stepped back a step, likely balancing on the edge of the stairs. You didn’t turn around, nervously glancing at the man. "Hey, do you remember me? You're Jude's roommate, right? You definitely remember me."

"I remember," you admitted uncertainty, holding yourself back from taking another step backward. Richard always had that dangerously unpredictable energy. One moment, he could circle around his girlfriend like an attention-hungry kitten, and the next, he’d be throwing plates in the kitchen. Although, theoretically, he had no reason to hurt you, you preferred to remain... cautious.

"That's great. Listen, could you let me in for just a second? I need to talk to her."

You didn’t know what to say, how to act. Of course, letting him in was out of the question; you wouldn’t do that to your friend. However, you knew that as soon as you opened the door, he’d take advantage of the opportunity and force his way inside. You could step back… the real question was whether he would let you.

"Come on..." he pleaded, trying to make a puppy-dog face, which looked downright comical on his stern face. "Please, she doesn’t want to see me. I just want to talk, to make things right. I’ve changed, really. I don’t know what she told you about me, but half of it probably wasn’t even true. Please."

Seeing that you still weren’t moving, his features suddenly hardened.

"Just open the door."

You didn’t respond.

"Where’s your key?"

He probably guessed it was in your jacket pocket, and suddenly reached for you.

"Move away, right now!" you hissed, pushing his hand away.

He grabbed your wrist so tightly that a strangled cry of pain escaped you.

You started struggling. You tried to push him away as he rummaged through your pockets one by one, still gripping your hand tightly, preventing you from escaping. A few times, you struck him with a clenched fist, shouting loudly, hoping to wake Jude or one of the neighbors.

Your attempts at defense were in vain. No one came. Richard finally found the key, and once he got what he wanted, he shoved you aside with a scoff.

You didn’t even have a chance to try to regain your balance.

It happened so quickly that you didn’t even manage to close your eyes, fooling yourself into thinking it might protect you from the pain to come. During the struggle with Richard, you dropped the shoes you were holding, your bare feet slipping off the edge of the step. Your body followed, limp, like a rag doll. In that moment, you wished you were one. Without bones, the sound of them cracking filling your ears.

Without limbs, vulnerable to breaks.

Without real eyes, still covered in the remnants of party makeup.

Beautiful, cold, and empty, as they started to fill with fog.

Forced to look in the direction your neck had twisted.

Dead. 

tagging: @lillaberry @nightfullofparadox @issy25 @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @reidmarieprentiss @miriamnox @bloodredrubyrose

i'm so grateful for how many of you wanted to read it all <3

[gublerie]

eepy spencer (っ˕ -｡)ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

[0anodite0]

Hopefully someone like Spencer Reid pins me down

[reidmarieprentiss]

Say Don't Go

Summary: You are given the opportunity of a lifetime, Spencer urges you to take it. Even if it means leaving him behind.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, angst

Warnings/Includes: time jumps, typical BAU crime, mentions of drugging/kidnapping/robbery, brief alcohol consumption by reader and friends, clubs, break up(?), talks of marriage, forced choices/decisions, happy ending !

Word count: 15k

a/n: so what if this pulls inspiration from the train scene in glee... SO WHAT ... and so what if i named a character after kurt

main masterlist

December 2008 – Present

"You’ve been with so many women you don’t remember their names?" Spencer asked, laughing at Derek.

"Are you surprised?" Emily snorted, raising an eyebrow.

"This has never happened to me before," Derek defended, sounding genuinely incredulous.

"It’s never happened to me before either," Spencer chimed in, grinning as he started toward the conference room.

"It can’t happen to you—you have an eidetic memory," Emily teased, her smirk unmistakable.

"Plus, you only have one name to remember," Derek added with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Ha ha," Spencer replied, forcing a laugh, though the words cut deeper than he let on. Derek wasn’t wrong.  

He only had one name to remember. One that mattered above all the others.  

But Spencer had messed it up. He had let you get on that train. He had let you walk away.

Spencer's regrets weren't always loud or obvious; they often whispered to him in the quiet moments of his everyday life, weaving their way into his thoughts like unwelcome visitors he couldn’t shake.

It was in the mornings, when he brewed a pot of coffee in his lonely apartment, and his hand hovered over the second mug he used to pour for you. He’d catch himself mid-motion, the pang of realization that you weren’t there cutting through him like a knife. He’d take his coffee black, staring at the empty chair across from him, and wonder if you were having your morning cup too—if you still took it with two sugars and a splash of cream.

At work, it was the little things that brought you to mind. A joke Derek would make, or the way Emily tilted her head while teasing him, reminded Spencer of how you used to laugh with him, soft and genuine. He could still hear your voice in the back of his mind, offering your take on a case or pointing out something he’d missed. Those moments were the hardest—because they reminded him of how much better everything had been when you were there to share it with him.

And then there were the books. Spencer couldn’t walk into his favorite bookstore without being overwhelmed by the memory of browsing the aisles with you, debating over which novel to pick for your next "couples read." Now, those shelves felt empty, even when they were fully stocked. He’d run his fingers over the spines, pausing at titles he knew you would’ve loved, but he never brought himself to buy them. What was the point if you weren’t there to read them with him?

Evenings were the worst. After a long day at the BAU, when he returned to his dim apartment, the silence was deafening. He’d sit at his desk, pulling out old case files to distract himself, but his eyes would always drift to the small keepsake box he kept on the shelf. Inside were the remnants of your time together—a movie ticket stub, a pressed flower from a date, a Polaroid of you laughing at something he’d said. He’d told himself he’d put it away to move on, but instead, it became a shrine to his mistakes, one he visited more often than he’d like to admit.

And then there were the nights when the ache became unbearable, when he’d lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, haunted by the image of you boarding that train. He could still hear the sound of the wheels on the tracks, still see the tear-streaked expression on your face when you looked at him through the window. Those nights, he’d wonder what he’d say to you if he had another chance—what he’d do differently if he could go back. 

The regret wasn’t just a feeling; it was a constant presence in his life. It was the realization that, in trying to give you what he thought you needed, he’d taken away the one thing he needed most: you.

—

June 2008

“Spencer?” you asked cautiously, looking over at your boyfriend as his car came to a stop in front of the train station.  

You could see him take a deep, trembling breath, the shakiness audible even as he tried to steady himself.  

When he turned to face you, his eyes were already brimming with tears, spilling over before he could even speak.  

“You said we were going to dinner,” you reminded him, your throat tightening as dread began to settle in your chest. You were trying desperately to ignore the sinking feeling you couldn’t shake, clinging to the hope that you were wrong.  

Spencer cleared his throat, but it didn’t stop his voice from breaking as he said, “No.” He shook his head, and the weight of his next words seemed to crush him as he continued, “You’re going to New York.”  

“What?” Your voice shot up as you stared at him in disbelief, as if he had grown another head. “What do you mean? I turned Aubrey down.”  

“I know,” Spencer sighed, his gaze dropping to his hands on the steering wheel as if he couldn’t bear to look at you. “I can’t let you throw your dreams away for me.”  

“My dreams?” you repeated, your voice rising in anger and heartbreak. “Spencer, you are my dream. I love you!”  

“I love you too,” he choked out through his tears, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “That’s why I’m letting you go.”  

“But—” you tried, your hands reaching for his as if grounding him could change his mind.  

“No, Y/N.” His voice was firmer now, though the pain in it was unmistakable. “I—I called Aubrey. She still wants you. I told her you accepted the position. That you’re coming.”  

“Why?” you cried, the single word breaking into a sob. Tears spilled down your cheeks as you searched his face, desperate for an answer that would make this make sense.  

Spencer’s lips quivered, and he looked away, unable to face the devastation in your eyes. "Because you deserve to have everything you’ve ever wanted," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the lump in his throat.  

"But I already have everything I want!" you shouted, your hands gripping the sides of his face, forcing him to look at you. "You’re all I need, Spencer. You’re it for me!"  

He let out a shuddering breath, his tears falling freely now as his hands reached up to cover yours. For a moment, you thought he might give in, that he might change his mind. But then he shook his head again, his expression resolute despite the anguish etched into every line of his face.  

"You’ll resent me one day," he said, his voice cracking. "You’ll look back and wonder what you could’ve done, what you could’ve been if you hadn’t stayed for me. I can’t live with that. I can’t live knowing I held you back."  

"That’s not fair!" you cried, your voice breaking under the weight of your sobs. "You don’t get to decide what’s best for me! I chose you, Spencer. I chose us!"  

"I know," he whispered, his hands tightening over yours as if trying to memorize the feeling. "And that’s why I have to do this. Because I love you too much to let you give up your future for me."  

"My future is with you!" you insisted, but he was already pulling your hands away from his face, gently but firmly.  

"I called Aubrey," he repeated, his voice hollow. "She’ll be waiting for you at the station in New York. Your ticket is already bought. Your bags… they’re in the trunk."  

You froze, staring at him in disbelief. "You… you packed my things?"  

Spencer nodded, his expression breaking entirely under the weight of your hurt. "I knew you wouldn’t leave if I didn’t."  

"You had no right!" you shouted, shoving at his chest. "No right, Spencer!"  

He took it, letting you pound against him until your strength gave out, until your sobs consumed you, leaving you trembling and broken in his arms. "I’m sorry," he murmured over and over, pressing his lips to your hair. "I’m so sorry."  

But he wasn’t sorry enough to stop you from going.  

As the train whistle sounded in the distance, Spencer gently pulled away, his hands lingering on your shoulders. "You have to go," he said softly, his voice thick with tears. "The train won’t wait."  

"I hate you," you whispered, the words cutting him deeper than anything else ever could.  

"I know," he said, his voice barely audible as he let his hands drop to his lap. "But one day… I hope you’ll understand."  

He opened the car door for you, but you didn’t move. You just sat there, staring at him with tears streaming down your face, your chest heaving with the weight of everything unsaid.  

Finally, you whispered, "Goodbye, Spencer," your voice trembling as you stepped out of the car.  

He didn’t respond, didn’t say anything as he watched you walk away, each step feeling like a dagger to his heart.  

And when the train finally began to pull out of the station, Spencer felt his heart drop to the pit of his stomach. The reality of what he’d done crashed into him like a freight train. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. 

Before he even realized what he was doing, his legs were moving, carrying him toward the train. "No," he whispered to himself, his voice shaky and panicked. "What have I done?"  

His feet pounded against the pavement as he ran alongside the train, desperate, tears streaming down his face. He called your name, his voice breaking, though he wasn’t sure if you could even hear him through the thick glass and the noise of the train.  

Inside the train car, you were curled into the seat, staring blankly out the window, your face streaked with tears. You weren’t expecting to see him. But then, there he was—running alongside the train, his expression frantic, his lips forming words you couldn’t quite hear.  

Your heart shattered all over again. The sight of him, so desperate, so raw, made it even harder to leave. Your hand instinctively pressed against the cold glass, a futile attempt to reach for him.  

Spencer’s legs burned, his lungs screamed for air, but he kept running, the distance between him and the train growing with every passing second. His vision blurred from the tears, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.  

But you… you couldn’t bear to watch. Your tears fell harder as you pulled your hand away from the window and turned your head, unable to keep looking at him. You had to look away, even though it felt like it was tearing you apart from the inside.  

Spencer stumbled, slowing as the train picked up speed, his legs finally giving out beneath him. He collapsed onto the pavement, gasping for air, watching helplessly as the train—and you—disappeared into the horizon.  

He buried his face in his hands, his body shaking with sobs. "What have I done?" he whispered to no one, the words echoing into the empty night.  

You were gone. And Spencer knew, deep down, that he’d just made the worst mistake of his life.  

—

September 2008

You loved your new life. How could you not? You had everything you had once dreamed of—your new position as second in command to the CEO of your favorite designer brand was everything you’d worked so hard for. The thrill of overseeing campaigns, approving designs, and brushing shoulders with some of the biggest names in the industry was exhilarating.  

You’d settled into your new routine as well as anyone could when starting fresh in a bustling city like New York. Moving in with Aubrey Wilkes, the CEO herself, was daunting at first, but she made it easier. Her mentorship was invaluable, and her sharp wit and genuine kindness turned her into a friend as much as a boss.  

Your days were filled with meetings in glass-walled boardrooms, late nights spent poring over designs and strategies, and the occasional glamorous event that kept your calendar full. You had the life you always said you wanted.  

And yet...  

Every single day, Spencer found his way into your thoughts.  

It wasn’t always obvious at first. Maybe it was a book you saw in a shop window that reminded you of one of his recommendations, or a classical piece playing softly in a café that you knew he loved. Sometimes it was the sound of someone’s laugh that carried the same rhythm as his, or the sight of a man at the train station holding a bouquet of daisies like the ones he used to bring you.  

Other times, it was the silence that brought him back. At the end of a long day, when you’d kick off your heels and collapse onto your couch, you’d find yourself wishing you could tell him about your wins and your struggles. You’d wonder how he’d react to the stories you had to tell, imagining his soft smile or the way his hands would flutter nervously when he was excited for you.  

There were nights when it hit harder—when the city lights felt too bright and the penthouse apartment too cold. On those nights, you’d curl up in bed and stare out at the skyline, wondering if Spencer ever thought about you, too. If he regretted what he’d done. If he missed you as much as you missed him.

Because no matter how perfect your new life seemed on paper, a part of you still felt like it was missing. And that part had a name. Spencer Reid.

—

February 2007

It was a crisp evening as the warm glow of the restaurant's candles reflected off the polished surfaces, casting a cozy light over the two of you. Spencer had chosen this place because it was where you first met, a sentimental touch to the holiday of love that made your heart swell. The quiet buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses provided a soothing backdrop as you both enjoyed your meal, the comfort of each other's presence making the night feel perfect.

You were mid-laugh at something Spencer had said when a woman approached your table, her eyes wide with admiration. "I’m so sorry to bother you," she began, her voice apologetic but earnest. "But that is the most fabulous dress I have ever seen. Can I ask where you got it?"  

Caught off guard, you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you glanced down at the material that clung to your body in all the right places. You smoothed your hand over the fabric, feeling both flattered and shy under the woman’s praise.  

Spencer, noticing your blush, smirked proudly from across the table. His hand reached out instinctively, wrapping around yours and giving it a gentle squeeze. The warmth of his touch grounded you, reminding you that he was there, always your biggest supporter.  

"I–um," you stammered, your voice soft as you tried to find the words. "I made it."  

The woman’s face lit up with genuine astonishment. "You made it?" she repeated, her tone filled with awe. "That’s incredible. You have such talent."  

Spencer’s smirk deepened into a full-blown grin as he interjected, his voice laced with pride. "She’s amazing, isn’t she? I keep telling her she could make a career out of this, but she’s too modest to listen."  

"Spencer," you mumbled, playfully rolling your eyes at him as your blush deepened.  

The woman smiled warmly at the exchange, clearly charmed by the both of you. "Well, if you ever decide to give your talents to the world, give me a call." With a quick admiring glance at your dress one last time, she handed you a business card before turning to rejoin her party, leaving you and Spencer alone once again.  

You stared at the card in your hand, the golden lettering catching the soft glow of the restaurant’s lights. Your heart nearly stopped as you read the name printed at the top—Aubrey Wilkes.  

Your favorite designer.  

The logo you’d admired countless times on magazine covers and in shop windows felt surreal in your grasp. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe, the weight of the opportunity this might represent sinking in.  

Spencer noticed the stunned look on your face and tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. "What’s wrong?" he asked, his tone soft yet concerned.  

You slowly turned the card toward him, your hand trembling slightly. "It’s… her," you whispered, your voice barely audible.  

Spencer leaned closer, his eyes scanning the card before widening in recognition. His lips curled into a delighted smile, the kind that lit up his whole face. "Aubrey Wilkes?" he exclaimed, excitement evident in his tone. "Y/N, do you know what this means?"  

"I…" you began, but words failed you. It felt too big, too unexpected to process.  

"It means you’re amazing," Spencer continued, his voice steady as he reached across the table to take your free hand. "And now someone else sees it too."  

You looked back at Spencer, who was still holding your hand, his thumb now tracing gentle circles over your knuckles. "I told you people would notice," he said, his voice soft but insistent. "You’re incredible, and you should let the world see it."  

Your eyes softened as you gazed at him, a small, grateful smile tugging at your lips. "Thank you, Spencer," you whispered.  

"Always," he replied, his expression filled with a quiet devotion that made your heart flutter.  

The moment lingered between you, the restaurant and its patrons fading into the background as the two of you shared a look that said more than words ever could.

—

April 2007

"Spencer, I’m not going," you sighed, the weight of the conversation pressing heavily on your chest as you leaned back in your chair. His persistence, while well-meaning, was starting to wear on you.  

"Y/N," he began, his tone both patient and pleading, "this isn’t just some casual opportunity. This is Aubrey Wilkes. She gave you her card. She wants to see what you can do. Do you even know how rare that is?"  

You folded your arms across your chest, avoiding his gaze. "I know exactly how rare it is, Spencer. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to New York."  

Spencer leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly as if physically holding himself back from pressing harder. "Why not?" he asked softly, his voice tinged with frustration but also genuine concern. "Is it fear? Because I know you, Y/N. You can do this. You’re more than talented enough."  

"It’s not fear," you shot back, though your voice faltered just enough for him to notice. You stared at the floor, your fingers gripping the edge of your chair. "It’s… it’s everything else. I have a life here. I have a job. I have you."  

Spencer’s heart clenched at your words. He reached out, his hand brushing against yours. "I know, and I love our life together," he said earnestly. "But I don’t want you to look back in ten years and wonder ‘what if.’ I don’t want you to resent me for holding you back from something you were meant to do."  

You flinched at his words, your head snapping up to meet his eyes. "You think I’d ever resent you? Spencer, you’re the best thing in my life. You’re the one who’s always supported me, encouraged me to believe in myself when no one else did."  

"And I’m still doing that," he countered gently. "That’s why I’m pushing this. I can’t stand the thought of you letting this slip away because you’re scared to leave me behind."  

"It’s not just that," you admitted, your voice breaking as tears pricked your eyes. "I don’t want to lose us. What if I go, and everything falls apart?"  

Spencer reached for your hands, cradling them between his. His thumbs traced soothing circles over your knuckles as he looked at you with all the tenderness in the world. "You won’t lose me, Y/N," he promised, his voice steady but thick with emotion. "I’ll be here, cheering you on, no matter where you are. I’d rather see you chasing your dreams, even if it’s from a distance, than staying here and giving up on them for me."  

Your tears spilled over, and you shook your head, torn between love for him and the fear of what leaving might mean. "I just don’t know, Spencer," you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions.  

"I do," he said softly, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours. "I know how much you’re capable of, and I know you’ll regret it if you don’t at least try. And I love you too much to let that happen."  

His words hung heavy in the air, the weight of them settling between you like an immovable wall. You shook your head, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill again. “I’m just—I’m not going. Leave it alone,” you said firmly, your voice quieter than you intended but laced with finality.  

Spencer hesitated, his hand still outstretched as if reaching for you might close the growing distance between you. “Y/N,” he murmured softly, his tone a mix of frustration and desperation.  

“Can we be done with this, please?” you interrupted, your voice trembling but resolute. You didn’t want to cry again, didn’t want to feel like you were fighting with the one person who always understood you.  

Spencer stared at you for a long moment, his brow furrowed, his lips parting as if he wanted to argue further. But then he closed his mouth, his shoulders slumping as he dropped his hand. “Okay,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.  

The word hung between you, filled with unspoken emotions—disappointment, worry, and love all tangled together. Spencer looked down at the table, fiddling with his napkin as if it held answers he couldn’t find in your eyes.  

You turned your gaze away, your chest tightening as silence settled over the room. It wasn’t the kind of silence that came with comfort—it was heavy, suffocating, filled with everything neither of you was saying.  

And though you had put an end to the conversation, it didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like a crack in something you weren’t sure how to fix.  

—

August 2007

"Who was that?" Spencer asked as you walked back inside from the patio, his brow furrowed slightly with curiosity. He had noticed the look on your face as you ended the call—something between apprehension and surprise.  

You glanced down at your phone, the screen still lit with the call log. "Aubrey," you said hesitantly, tucking the device into your pocket.  

Spencer tilted his head, his interest piqued. "Aubrey Wilkes?"  

"Yeah," you admitted, your tone cautious as you avoided his gaze. "She… uh, she got my number. I don’t know how, but she did." You let out a nervous laugh, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear.  

Spencer’s expression shifted to one of intrigue and concern. "And?" he prompted, sensing there was more to the story.  

You took a deep breath, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. "She asked me to consider coming. Said there’s a spot opening next year—her number two is supposed to leave for another job in Milan."  

Spencer’s lips parted slightly, his eyes searching your face as he processed the news. "That’s… huge," he said slowly, his voice laced with both excitement and hesitation.  

"I know," you said, crossing your arms over your chest. "It’s… it’s everything I dreamed about. She said she’d hold the spot for me if I wanted it."  

Spencer stepped closer, his gaze softening as he tried to read the emotions flickering across your face. "What did you say?"  

"I didn’t say anything," you admitted, looking up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. "I told her I needed time to think about it."  

He nodded, his hands slipping into his pockets as he took a moment to respond. "And… are you thinking about it?"  

You hesitated, your eyes dropping to the floor. "I don’t know," you said quietly. "I told you I wasn’t going. But now… it’s like she’s dangling everything I’ve ever wanted right in front of me, and I don’t know if I can ignore it anymore."  

Spencer’s heart ached at your words, but he forced a gentle smile as he said, “You shouldn’t ignore it.”  

You sighed heavily, the weight of the decision pressing down on you like a storm cloud. "It’s just too much to think about right now," you murmured, walking over to where he sat. Without hesitation, you nestled into his side, your head resting on his shoulder as his arm wrapped protectively around you. The warmth of his embrace was like a balm, soothing the whirlwind of thoughts in your mind.  

"Will you read to me?" you asked softly, your voice tinged with exhaustion.  

“Of course, my love,” he replied without hesitation, his tone tender. He reached for the book he had been reading earlier, adjusting slightly so you could be more comfortable.  

As his calm, steady voice filled the room, weaving through the story’s narrative, you felt your nerves begin to settle. The cadence of his words acted like a lullaby, each one wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Spencer kept reading, even when he noticed your body growing heavier against his, your breathing slowing to a steady rhythm as you drifted off to sleep.  

He paused mid-sentence, tilting his head slightly to glance down at you. You were wearing a sweater you had designed and crafted yourself, the intricate stitching a testament to your talent and creativity. In your peaceful state, with your lips slightly parted and your lashes resting against your cheeks, you looked serene.  

Spencer’s chest tightened as he watched you, a flood of emotions washing over him. He felt an overwhelming admiration for you—for your strength, your brilliance, your passion. But beneath that admiration was a deep-seated fear.  

He didn’t want you to give up this massive opportunity, the one you had dreamed of for so long, the one that could change your life. And yet, he couldn’t shake the gnawing guilt that maybe he was the reason you were hesitating.  

The thought that he might be holding you back, even unintentionally, was almost unbearable. He wanted to be the one who supported you, who cheered you on, who encouraged you to take risks and chase your dreams. But as he held you in his arms, he wondered if his love for you was making it harder for you to leave.  

Spencer pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as he whispered into the quiet room, “I just want you to be happy.”  

He knew that when the time came, he would have to push you, no matter how much it hurt. Because loving you meant wanting the best for you—even if it meant letting you go.  

—

March 2008

You and Spencer were strolling through the mall, casually browsing the stores as you searched for the perfect gift for your grandmother’s upcoming birthday. The two of you laughed together as you passed by store windows, debating what she might like—a scarf, a brooch, maybe a fancy tea set.  

But then your steps slowed, your attention caught by something glinting behind a clear glass case. It was almost subconscious, your feet carrying you toward it before you even realized what had drawn you in.  

"Rings?" Spencer asked, his voice soft and amused as he came to stand beside you. His eyes flicked to the sparkling display before landing on your face, a tender smile curling on his lips.  

"Do you ever think about getting married?" you asked suddenly, your gaze still fixed on the rings, their polished surfaces reflecting the light.  

The question caught Spencer off guard. He blinked, his smile faltering for just a second before it returned, gentler this time. "Of course," he said softly, the vulnerability in his tone unmistakable. "Do… do you?"  

You finally tore your eyes away from the display, turning to face him with a grin. Your heart swelled at the look on his face—so earnest, so full of quiet hope.  

"Yes," you admitted, your smile widening as you decided to tease him just a little. "Preferably to a tall, nerdy doctor. But, you know, beggars can’t be choosers."  

Spencer’s cheeks flushed, his lips pulling into a bashful smile as he looked down at you. "I think you might be in luck," he said, his voice laced with warmth and a hint of playful humor.  

"Oh?" you asked, tilting your head and feigning surprise.  

"Yeah," he murmured, his eyes glimmering with affection. "I hear there’s one who’s absolutely crazy about you."  

Your laughter bubbled up, filling the air between you as you leaned into his side. He wrapped an arm around you instinctively, pulling you closer as you both stood there, the sparkling rings forgotten as you focused entirely on each other.  

In that moment, with his arm around you and the warmth of his love so evident, you couldn’t help but imagine a future where one of those rings might be yours—and that future felt a lot closer than you’d ever thought possible.  

—

May 2008  

“Aubrey,” you sighed into the phone, keeping your voice low as you closed the bedroom door behind you. Spencer had finally fallen asleep after hours of tossing and turning, his fever making rest nearly impossible. The last thing you wanted was to wake him now. “I told you I can’t.”  

Unbeknownst to you, the sound of the door clicking shut had stirred Spencer. His eyes fluttered open, confusion washing over him as he realized you weren’t lying beside him anymore. He sat up slightly, his head still heavy with fatigue, and strained to hear your voice coming from somewhere outside the room.  

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. At least, that’s what he told himself. But the moment he heard Aubrey’s name fall from your lips, his chest tightened, and his focus sharpened.  

“No… no… it’s not that…” Your voice wavered, and Spencer could picture you chewing your thumb nervously—something you always did when you were stressed. “I can’t leave. My whole life is in Virginia… well, no… he told me to go… yes, I know—”  

Spencer’s breath hitched, his heart clenching at your words.  

“I love him, I love my life with him,” you continued, and Spencer felt his chest ache in equal parts relief and guilt. “Obviously… I’m sure it would work, but—” You sighed deeply, the sound heavy with frustration and longing. “My answer is still no. I’m sorry.”  

Spencer’s mind raced as he processed what he’d just heard. He could feel the weight of your words pressing against his chest, a reminder of the sacrifice you were making. He knew he was the reason you were staying. You were giving up your dream for him, and as much as he loved you for it, he couldn’t let it happen.  

Hearing your footsteps approaching, Spencer quickly laid back down, shutting his eyes tight like a child pretending to sleep past their bedtime. He tried to even out his breathing, though his heart raced beneath the covers.  

You slipped back into the bedroom quietly, the dim light from the hallway casting a soft glow as you moved toward the bed. Sliding under the covers, you nestled into his side, resting your head on his chest. Your lips pressed a tender kiss over his heart, and you whispered, “I love you so much, Spencer Reid.”  

Spencer’s chest swelled at your words, his arms instinctively wrapping around you as he fought back the wave of emotions threatening to overcome him.  

As your breathing steadied and you drifted off to sleep, Spencer lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t shake the echo of your words—“I love him… he told me to go.”  

By the time sleep finally claimed him, his mind was filled with plans. He had to get you to New York. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much it scared him, he had to make sure you followed your dreams—even if it meant losing you in the process.  

—

December 2008 – Present

"Reid, are you paying attention?" Hotch’s firm yet concerned tone cut through the fog in Spencer’s mind, snapping him out of his reverie.  

Spencer’s head jerked up, his eyes meeting Hotch’s piercing gaze. "Yes, sir," he replied quickly, his voice steady though his heart wasn’t.  

"Good. Let’s keep it that way," Hotch grumbled, clearly not in the mood for distractions.  

The team was seated around the conference table in the BAU’s jet, discussing the details of their latest case. They were headed to New York, where several women had been drugged and abducted from exclusive nightclubs in the Upper East Side. The unsub’s profile was slowly taking shape, but for Spencer, focusing on the details was harder than usual.  

Even hearing the name New York was like a dagger twisting in his side. It brought with it a flood of memories he had tried and failed to suppress—memories of you.  

He could picture the night you had finally told Aubrey no, the way your voice trembled with conviction when you said you were staying in Virginia. And yet, here he was, sitting on a jet bound for the very city where you were supposed to be building your dream.  

Spencer clenched his jaw, trying to push the thoughts away. This is my job. Focus on the case. He repeated the mantra in his mind, forcing himself to look at the crime scene photos spread across the table.  

But as the jet began its descent into the city, he couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting to the window. The glittering skyline of New York City came into view, and his chest tightened. He wondered, not for the first time, what your life might have looked like now. Would you be walking those streets right now, thriving in a world that had always been meant for you?  

"Reid, thoughts?" JJ’s voice broke through his spiral, and Spencer quickly blinked, realizing the team was looking at him expectantly.  

"Uh…" He cleared his throat, sitting up straighter. "The unsub likely uses a combination of charm and familiarity to gain the victims’ trust. Based on the timeline, he’s calculated and methodical, which suggests he’s not working impulsively. He might be using the same clubs regularly to scope out his targets."  

JJ nodded, taking notes as Morgan chimed in with his own observations. Hotch seemed satisfied that Spencer was back on track, but Spencer could still feel the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him.  

As the jet landed and the team prepared to disembark, Spencer grabbed his bag and fell into step behind the others. He reminded himself that the job came first, that the women out there needed them to be focused and sharp.  

But as they exited the airport and the cold New York air hit his face, Spencer couldn’t help but feel the ghost of what could have been following close behind.  

As the team settled into the precinct, the familiar buzz of activity filled the air—phones ringing, officers shuffling papers, and the hum of conversation about the case. Spencer sat at a desk, his eyes scanning over a map as he worked on the geographical profile. On the surface, he looked focused, but internally, he was at war with himself.  

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get you out of his head. The sharp lines on the map blurred as his thoughts drifted.  

Which building do you live in? The question looped through his mind like a broken record. He knew you had moved to the Upper East Side with Aubrey when you first came to New York. But that had been months ago—almost a year, actually. Maybe you didn’t live with her anymore. Maybe you had your own place now.  

And then, more troubling thoughts crept in. Are you being safe? His chest tightened at the idea of you walking these streets, the same streets where women were being drugged and taken.  

Spencer’s eyes darted back to the photos of the nightclubs spread across the desk. He knew it was unlikely you frequented places like these. You’d never been one for the nightlife, always shying away from loud music and crowded spaces. He remembered how you used to fidget at gatherings, instinctively seeking out quieter corners where you could breathe.  

But the thought of you even being near these places, of someone seeing you, targeting you—it made his stomach churn.  

God, I hope you’re safe, Spencer thought, clenching his jaw as he tried to shake the image of you from his mind.  

“Reid, you okay?” Morgan’s voice broke through his spiraling thoughts, pulling him back to the present.  

Spencer blinked, his hands tightening around the edges of the map. “Yeah,” he said quickly, his voice a little too sharp. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to sound calmer. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just trying to piece together the unsub’s movements.”  

Morgan studied him for a moment, clearly unconvinced but deciding to let it slide. “Alright, well, let me know if you need a second pair of eyes.”  

Spencer nodded, returning his gaze to the map. But even as he tried to refocus, his mind kept drifting back to you. He hadn’t seen you in so long, hadn’t heard your voice, hadn’t even been able to convince himself to reach out.  

And yet, here he was, in your city, wondering if you were okay, if you were happy, if you were thinking about him too.  

After spending the day checking out the crime scenes and canvasing the surrounding areas, the team returned to the precinct to deliver their initial profile to the local police. Spencer sat near the back of the room, his hands clasped tightly in front of him as he tried to keep his focus on the case.  

Emily stood at the front, presenting the profile with her usual confidence. "We believe the unsub is targeting wealthy women," she explained, her tone even but firm. "Women who appear successful and independent—CEO’s, CFO’s, designers, singers, dancers, actors, chefs, etcetera. He sees them as trophies, not just victims. He uses their wealth and status to justify robbing them, taking their IDs, and eventually breaking into their homes after he’s done with them. This is about control and power, and his choice of victims reflects that."  

Spencer’s stomach churned as he listened, each word cutting deeper into his already frayed nerves. His mind was no longer on the women they were profiling; it was back on you.  

Every victim they described could have been you. Successful, talented, determined—everything about you fit the profile. You had climbed to the top of your field, a name that carried weight and admiration. You were exactly the kind of woman this unsub sought to dominate, to tear down.  

Spencer swallowed hard, his gaze flickering to the board where photos of the victims were pinned. Each face reminded him of you in some way—the confident smiles, the elegant postures, the undeniable strength that radiated from their pictures.  

He tried to push the thoughts away, to remind himself that you were likely far from this mess, probably tucked away in a luxurious apartment or a designer studio, far removed from the chaos he was immersed in.  

But the fear gnawed at him anyway. What if you weren’t safe? What if you were walking these streets late at night, lost in thought or distracted, completely unaware of the danger lurking nearby?  

Morgan’s voice pulled him back to the moment, but Spencer barely registered what was being said. He felt frozen, paralyzed by the weight of his thoughts and the eerie similarities between you and the women they were trying to protect.  

The briefing ended, and the room began to clear out, officers heading back to their tasks. Spencer stayed seated, staring blankly at the photos on the board. His chest felt tight, his mind racing with all the possibilities he didn’t want to consider.  

"Reid?" JJ’s voice broke through the haze, her expression soft as she approached him. "What’s up with you? Is something wrong?”

He blinked, forcing himself to shake his head. "No," he lied, his voice flat. "Everything is fine."  

But he wasn’t fine. Not even close. Every instinct in him screamed to find you, to check on you, to make sure you were okay. Because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the thought that this case wasn’t just about catching an unsub—it was about protecting you from a danger he couldn’t control.  

—

You were getting ready with Aubrey and the rest of your group, the energy in the room buzzing with excitement. It was Blake’s 27th birthday, and they had chosen to celebrate with a night out at the clubs.  

The leopard-print dress you wore hugged your frame perfectly, its bold design a gift from Aubrey herself. As you zipped up your deep burgundy leather boots, the rich color catching the light, you couldn’t help but glance at your reflection. The outfit was striking—you felt sexy and confident.  

“Shots!” Kurt’s voice boomed from the living room, drawing laughter and cheers from the group. You rolled your eyes playfully, shaking your head as you finished adjusting your boots.  

“You ready to go, superstar?” Aubrey teased, leaning in the doorway with a knowing smile. She looked impeccable, as always, her outfit radiating confidence and style.  

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you replied with a grin, standing and smoothing out your dress.  

“Good,” Aubrey said, linking her arm with yours. “Because tonight, we’re leaving all the stress and work drama behind. It’s Blake’s night, and you, my dear, are going to have fun.”  

You laughed, letting her guide you toward the rest of the group. As the music played loudly in the background and someone handed you a shot glass, you tried to push away the unease creeping in. This wasn’t your scene, but for Blake—and with your friends by your side—you’d make the best of it.  

What’s the harm of one night out on the town?

Aubrey, with her effortless charm and impressive connections, had managed to get your group into one of the most exclusive clubs in the city. As you approached the entrance, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of excitement as you passed the long line of people waiting to get in.  

The bouncer gave your group a once-over before glancing at his clipboard, where your names were already on the list. He nodded to the hostess, who gestured for you to follow her inside. You exchanged amused glances with Aubrey, her confident smirk making it clear she was in her element.  

The energy of the club hit you immediately—a pulsing rhythm of music, vibrant lights reflecting off chandeliers and mirrored disco balls, and the faint scent of expensive perfume mingling with the coolness of the air-conditioned space.  

You were quickly led to a private VIP lounge area, tucked away yet with a perfect view of the dance floor. The sleek leather seating, soft glow of ambient lighting, and low table with a bottle of premium alcohol chilling on ice made it clear this was luxury at its finest.  

As you settled in with the group, Aubrey leaned over with a grin. "Not bad, huh?"  

"Not bad at all," you admitted, finally starting to feel the buzz of excitement that the rest of the group had radiated all night.  

Kurt popped the cork on the bottle with a celebratory cheer, pouring out drinks as Blake laughed and raised their glass. "To the best birthday ever!" Blake called out, their joy infectious as everyone clinked their glasses together.  

You took a sip, letting the fizzy warmth spread through you, and glanced out at the dance floor, watching the kaleidoscope of lights play over the crowd. For the first time in a long while, you let yourself relax, leaning into the moment. Tonight wasn’t about anything else—it was about celebrating Blake, being with friends, and maybe, just maybe, finding some joy in the chaos.  

It wasn’t until later in the evening, as the excitement of the night wore on, that you noticed something was wrong. Analise hadn’t returned from the bathroom in a very long time. At first, you didn’t think much of it—maybe she’d gotten caught up chatting with someone or had taken a phone call. But as the minutes stretched into an hour, unease began to settle in.  

You mentioned it to Aubrey, and soon, the rest of your group was involved, searching the crowded club for her. You checked every possible place she could be—the bathroom, the dance floor, the bar. You even tried calling her phone, but it went straight to voicemail.  

A sinking feeling twisted in your gut as you decided to check with door security. Maybe she’d decided to leave early and hadn’t told anyone. But when you explained the situation, the response you got made your heart drop.  

“She left about 40 minutes ago,” the bouncer informed you, his tone matter-of-fact. “She was with a man.”  

Your blood ran cold. Analise was a married lesbian woman with children. There was no way she would leave with a man.  

“That’s impossible,” you said, your voice shaking. “She wouldn’t… she would never do that.”  

The bouncer frowned, his expression darkening as he realized the weight of your words. Aubrey, ever composed, stepped forward, her voice sharp and commanding. “We need to check the security footage. Now.”  

The staff moved quickly, pulling up the tapes as your group crowded around, watching with bated breath. And there it was—clear as day. Analise stumbling out of the bathroom, visibly dazed, as a man wrapped an arm around her, guiding her toward the exit. You could see her trying to resist, her movements sluggish and uncoordinated, but she was no match for him.  

Your stomach churned as the man led her out of the club. It was clear she’d been drugged and coerced.  

“We’re calling the police,” one of the security staff said, already reaching for his radio.  

The next thirty minutes passed in a blur. The authorities arrived swiftly, questioning the staff and reviewing the footage. Your group, shaken and worried sick, was told to wait outside. When the police finally addressed you, it was to inform you that they needed to take statements from everyone who had been with Analise that night.  

Before you knew it, you were sitting in the back of a police car, the flashing lights reflecting off the club’s exterior as it faded into the distance. Aubrey sat beside you, her normally composed demeanor fractured by worry. The rest of your group was being transported in other cars, but you all shared the same fear: What if it’s too late?  

As the car sped toward the station, you stared out the window, your mind racing with a million thoughts. Analise’s face, her laugh, her stories about her wife and kids—it all played in your mind like a reel you couldn’t stop. You couldn’t shake the feeling that this was your fault, that somehow you should have noticed sooner, should have done something.  

Aubrey reached over, squeezing your hand tightly. “We’ll find her,” she said firmly, though her voice wavered.  

You nodded, but the knot in your stomach didn’t loosen. All you could do now was hope the authorities could act quickly enough. Analise’s life could depend on it.  

Your group was led into a quiet room, far from the noise and chaos of the precinct. The space felt sterile and impersonal, and the tension in the air was palpable as you waited, all of you exchanging worried glances. One by one, your friends were called out by law enforcement to give their accounts of the night’s events.  

You tried to steady your breathing, but your heart sank when one of the officers mentioned that the Behavioral Analysis Unit was on the case. The BAU, you thought, your stomach twisting into knots. That could only mean one thing—Spencer.  

Your mind raced. Please, let him be out in the field. Let him be anywhere but here, you silently begged. The idea of seeing him again, especially under these circumstances, felt overwhelming.  

But then a petite, pretty blonde woman entered the room, her calm demeanor a stark contrast to your spiraling nerves. She scanned the list in her hands before looking up and saying your name with a polite smile.  

You hesitated but stood up, smoothing your dress as you followed her down the hallway. She led you to a small interrogation room, where the walls seemed to close in just a little too tightly.  

“Have a seat,” the woman said gently, gesturing to the chair across from her. She handed you a steaming cup of coffee, the rich aroma filling the room.  

“Thank you,” you murmured softly, clutching the cup between your hands as if it were a lifeline.  

The woman gave you a reassuring smile, her blue eyes warm and steady. “My name is Jennifer Jareau,” she said, her voice calm and professional. “I’m an agent with the BAU, and I just have a few questions for you. You’re not in any trouble; we’re just trying to get a clear picture of what happened tonight.”  

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Okay.”  

JJ leaned forward slightly, her posture open and non-threatening. “I know tonight was difficult, but anything you can tell us might help us find your friend and bring her home safely.”  

You took a deep breath, letting her words settle over you. As much as you were afraid of what this moment represented, you knew you had to focus on Analise. You began recounting the evening, walking her through everything you could remember—how Analise had gone to the bathroom, how long she’d been gone, and how your group had discovered she had left the club with a man.  

JJ listened intently, taking notes but never breaking eye contact. Her steady presence made it easier to keep talking, even as your voice faltered at times.  

When you finished, she nodded thoughtfully. “You’ve been really helpful. Thank you for being so detailed—it makes a big difference.”  

You offered a small, shaky smile. “I just want her to be okay.”  

“We’re going to do everything we can,” JJ said firmly, her voice filled with quiet determination.  

You nodded again, but as she stood to leave, a new wave of anxiety washed over you. What if Spencer really is here? What if he walks through that door next? You weren’t sure you were ready for that moment. Not now. Not like this.  

—

When the call came in about a new abduction, Spencer held his breath, his stomach tightening as a familiar sense of dread crept in. For a brief, harrowing moment, he waited to hear your name. But it wasn’t.  

“Analise Bordeaux,” Penelope said over the phone, her tone efficient but tinged with urgency. “She’s a top-rated journalist for the New York Times. Married, with two kids. Her wife also reported her missing earlier tonight after she didn’t return home at a previously agreed time.”  

Spencer let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, but the relief was fleeting. Another brilliant, accomplished woman was in danger, and the unsub’s pattern was becoming even clearer.  

“Morgan, Reid,” Hotch’s voice cut through the tense moment, bringing everyone back to focus. “I want the two of you to head to the club. Talk to the staff, review the footage, and see if anyone remembers anything unusual.”  

“Got it,” Morgan replied, already grabbing his jacket.  

Spencer nodded, silently falling into step with his partner. The ride to the club was quiet, the weight of the case settling heavily between them. Spencer’s mind wandered, as it often did in moments like this, and despite his best efforts, his thoughts drifted to you. Were you okay? Were you being safe in this massive, chaotic city? The idea of something happening to you gnawed at him in a way he couldn’t shake.  

When they arrived at the club, the music still pulsed faintly in the background as staff cleaned up after the night’s events. The bouncer and several employees were waiting for them, and Derek immediately took the lead, flashing his badge and asking for access to the security footage.  

Spencer scanned the room as they worked, his sharp eyes noting every detail. The club was upscale, the kind of place that catered to high-profile clients, which fit the unsub’s victimology perfectly. He and Derek pored over the footage, watching as Analise stumbled out of the bathroom, her movements sluggish and disoriented. The man who had escorted her out didn’t seem remarkable at first glance, but Spencer’s mind was already analyzing every subtle detail—the way he scanned the room, the calculated calmness in his movements.  

“This guy fits in with the crowd,” Derek muttered, narrowing his eyes at the screen.  

Spencer nodded. “He knows exactly how to stay under the radar. He’s blending in, using the chaos of the club to his advantage.”  

After questioning staff and gathering everything they could from the scene, the two men left the club and headed back to the precinct. The weight of what they’d seen hung heavily in the air between them, but Spencer was unusually quiet.  

“You good, pretty boy?” Derek finally asked, glancing over at him.  

“Yeah,” Spencer lied, his voice quieter than usual. “Just… thinking.”  

Derek didn’t push, but Spencer could feel his partner’s eyes on him. 

When Derek and Spencer arrived back at the precinct, they headed straight to the makeshift conference area where the rest of the team was gathered. The atmosphere was tense but focused, with everyone comparing notes and piecing together the puzzle of Analise’s abduction.  

JJ was finishing up her report on the interviews she had conducted with Analise’s friends. She held a notepad in her hand, skimming through her findings as she updated the team.  

“We have a list of people Analise spent the evening with,” JJ said, holding up the notepad. “Her coworkers and a few close friends all confirmed she wasn’t acting like herself before she went to the bathroom. Said she was dazed, disoriented in the footage—classic signs of being drugged. One of them even mentioned they tried calling her, but her phone’s off now.”  

As JJ spoke, Spencer’s gaze landed on the notepad in her hand. Something about it nagged at him—a sense of urgency he couldn’t quite place.  

“Can I see that?” he asked, pointing to the list of names.  

JJ didn’t hesitate, handing the notepad over with a slight frown of curiosity. “Sure,” she said. “What are you thinking?”  

Spencer didn’t answer immediately. His eyes scanned the list quickly, his brain processing each name at lightning speed. And then he saw it.  

Your name.  

It hit him like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, the room seemed to tilt. His breath caught in his throat, and his grip on the notepad tightened as if he needed to steady himself.  

You’re here.  

“What is it, Reid?” JJ asked, her voice breaking through the sudden rush of emotions.  

Spencer forced himself to look up, his expression carefully neutral. “Um,” he muttered, his voice tight. “I just… wanted to see if anyone stood out.”  

He handed the notepad back to JJ, his hand trembling slightly. He hoped she didn’t notice, but Morgan, standing nearby, narrowed his eyes at him.  

Spencer’s mind raced. He hadn’t seen you in so long, hadn’t spoken to you since the night he let you go. And now, here you were, tangled up in a case involving dangerous predators and a missing woman. He clenched his jaw, trying to suppress the panic rising in his chest.  

“You recognize anyone?” JJ asked, her tone casual as she flipped back through the list.  

“No,” Spencer lied once more, his voice steadier this time.  

But inside, he felt like he was falling apart. Because no matter how much he tried to focus on the case, on the unsub, on finding Analise, one thought overpowered everything else: You were here.  

“What do you think, Hotch?” Rossi started, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Should we let them go?” He gestured vaguely, referring to your group still waiting in the designated room.  

“No,” Spencer said quickly, speaking up out of turn. His voice was firmer than he’d intended, and everyone turned to look at him with raised brows.  

“They’re safer here,” Spencer continued, his tone more measured now. “The unsub might have seen them. If they were with Analise all night, they could’ve been noticed, even targeted.”  

“Reid’s right,” Hotch said, nodding as he turned back to Rossi. “We’ll keep them here until we have more information. JJ, did any of them mention recognizing the unsub from the footage? Or if Analise recently changed anything in her routine that might have drawn attention?”  

JJ gently took her notepad back from Spencer, giving him another curious glance before flipping through her notes. “Uh… yes,” she said, stopping on a specific page. “One of them—Y/N Y/L—mentioned that Analise had just gotten a promotion at work. They went out to celebrate at a new restaurant last Thursday.”  

Spencer stiffened at the mention of your name, doing his best to keep his expression neutral.  

“Alright,” Hotch said decisively. “Let’s bring Y/N back into the interrogation room. She might have seen this man at the restaurant and didn’t realize it.”  

“I’ll go get her,” JJ offered, already rising from her seat and heading toward the door.  

“I’ll come too,” Spencer blurted out before he could stop himself.  

Everyone turned to look at him again, surprise flashing across their faces.  

“May—maybe a second set of ears,” Spencer stammered, quickly trying to justify his outburst. “Um, a new perspective might help.”  

Hotch studied him for a moment, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to read Spencer’s motives. Then, with a curt nod, he said, “Fine. Go with her.”  

JJ gave Spencer a questioning look but said nothing, motioning for him to follow her. As they walked down the hallway toward the room where you and your friends were waiting, Spencer felt his chest tighten with every step.  

He hadn’t seen you in so long, hadn’t prepared himself for this moment. And now, he was seconds away from coming face-to-face with the person he’d never stopped thinking about.  

—

You were just starting to lose your patience, shifting in your seat and glancing at the clock for the hundredth time, when the door opened again. The same woman from before, Jennifer, stepped inside with her calm and professional demeanor.  

“Y/N?” she said with a polite smile. “Can we see you again?”  

Your friends exchanged questioning glances, murmuring words of encouragement as you stood. “Good luck,” one of them whispered as you followed JJ out of the room and down the hallway.  

You tried to steady yourself, reminding yourself this was all routine. Just more questions. Nothing out of the ordinary. But as you stepped into the cold interrogation room again, the air felt different—charged, heavy.  

And then you saw him.  

Sitting in the chair across from the table, Spencer.  

Your breath caught in your throat, and the room that had felt icy before now felt like it was a thousand degrees hotter. You froze for a moment, your mind racing to make sense of the sight in front of you. He looked the same, yet different. His hair was slightly longer, his face a little more tired, but those eyes—the same deep, thoughtful eyes you’d once adored—were unmistakable.  

Spencer’s head snapped up as you entered, and for a second, he looked just as startled as you felt. His mouth parted slightly, but no words came out.  

“Y/N,” JJ said gently, breaking the heavy silence. She gestured toward the chair across from Spencer. “Have a seat.”  

You nodded stiffly, forcing your legs to move as you crossed the room and sat down. Your heart pounded in your chest, and you couldn’t tell if it was from nerves, shock, or something else entirely.  

Spencer cleared his throat, his hands fidgeting slightly in his lap. “Hi,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.  

You blinked, your throat dry as you nodded again. “Hello, agent,” you replied, equally quiet.  

JJ glanced between the two of you, her brows furrowing slightly in confusion, but she quickly masked it. “Y/N, we just have a few follow-up questions,” she said, sitting down beside Spencer and pulling out her notepad.  

But it didn’t matter what she said. The only thing you could focus on was Spencer, sitting right there in front of you, as if the years between you had suddenly disappeared.  

The questions started simply enough—where had you and your group gone to dinner? How many people were there? Did anyone stand out or seem to take special interest in you?  

“There was one person,” you said after a moment of thought, tilting your head slightly as you tried to recall the details. “He was a busboy, I believe. But he kept coming by our table to check on us.”  

Spencer, who had been taking notes alongside JJ, immediately perked up at that. “He wasn’t your server?” he asked, his voice calm but focused.  

You shook your head, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “No, our server was a woman. She was very attentive, but this guy—he kept showing up. At first, we thought he was just really good at his job, but it started to feel… I don’t know, a little strange.”  

JJ leaned forward slightly, her pen poised over her notepad. “Strange how? Did he say anything to you, or was it more about his behavior?”  

“It was mostly his behavior,” you replied, frowning as you tried to piece together the memory. “He’d clear away plates that didn’t really need to be cleared yet, or refill water glasses that were barely half-empty. And every time he came by, he’d linger for just a second too long. It was subtle, but… noticeable.”  

Spencer exchanged a quick glance with JJ before asking, “Can you describe him? Anything about his appearance that stood out?”  

You nodded, your eyes narrowing slightly as you focused on the image in your mind. “He was average height, maybe a little shorter than you,” you glanced at Spencer. “Dark hair, clean-shaven. He had this kind of… intense way of looking at people, like he was trying to figure them out.”  

Spencer scribbled furiously in his notebook, his pen moving so fast it almost blurred. “Do you remember if he wore anything unusual? Jewelry, a watch, anything like that?”  

You paused, biting your lip as you thought. “I… I think he had a tattoo on his wrist,” you said finally. “It was hard to see because of the uniform, but when he reached over to clear a plate, I noticed it. It looked like… a triangle, or something geometric.”  

“That’s good,” JJ said with a nod, giving you an encouraging smile. “That’s really helpful, Y/N.”  

But your gaze shifted to Spencer, who was still scribbling notes with an intensity you hadn’t seen from him before. When he finally looked up, his eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, the weight of everything unsaid passed between you.  

“Anything else you remember, no matter how small?” he asked softly, his voice steady but carrying an edge of something deeper—something that felt almost personal.  

You shook your head slightly. “No, I think that’s it. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now…” You trailed off, a shiver running down your spine at the realization of how close your group may have been to danger.  

Spencer nodded, his expression unreadable as he set his pen down. “Thank you,” he said quietly.  

JJ stood, glancing at her notes before giving you another reassuring smile. “We’ll follow up with the restaurant and see if anyone knows him. You’ve been really helpful, Y/N.”  

You nodded, rising from your chair, but your eyes lingered on Spencer for just a moment longer before you turned to leave the room. And as you walked back to your friends, you couldn’t help but feel like this encounter had stirred up more than just memories of the night—it had brought something long-buried between you and Spencer back to the surface.  

Before you could reach the room where your friends were waiting, you felt a gentle hand on your arm. The unexpected touch made you stop, turning instinctively.  

There he was—Spencer, standing just behind you, his face filled with an urgency that took your breath away. He looked like he was holding back a storm, his words spilling out before he could second-guess himself.  

“Can I see you before I leave?” he asked, his voice low but rushed, as if afraid you might say no.  

For a moment, you just stared at him, your mind scrambling to process the request. And before you even realized it, you nodded. “Okay,” you said softly, the word leaving your lips almost automatically.  

Relief flashed across Spencer’s face, but he didn’t linger. He simply gave you a small, grateful nod before turning back toward the team. You stood there for a second, trying to collect yourself, before heading back into the room with your friends.  

As soon as you sat down next to Aubrey, she leaned in, her sharp eyes scanning your face. “Was that Spencer?” she asked in a hushed whisper, her voice filled with curiosity and concern.  

You nodded again, unable to bring yourself to speak.  

“Are you okay?” Aubrey pressed, her hand resting lightly on your arm.  

This time, you shook your head. The motion was small, but it felt monumental, like admitting the weight of everything that had just happened. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, the sharp pressure a weak attempt to distract yourself from the knot of emotions tightening in your chest.  

Aubrey frowned, her expression softening as she studied you. “Do you want to talk about it?”  

You shook your head again, swallowing hard as you tried to push the overwhelming feelings down. “Not yet,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.  

Aubrey nodded, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “Alright. But I’m here when you’re ready.”  

You gave her a faint smile, grateful for her understanding. But as you sat there, surrounded by your friends and the low hum of their conversations, your mind was elsewhere—focused on Spencer, and the inevitable conversation that now loomed on the horizon.  

—

Luckily, your information turned out to be exactly what the team needed. With Penelope’s tech skills and the restaurant staff’s confirmation, they were able to identify the unsub and locate Analise.  

The relief was almost overwhelming when the news came in: Analise was found unharmed, aside from the lingering effects of the drugs and the red marks on her wrists where she’d been bound. The man hadn’t had the chance to carry out his full plan—robbing her or doing worse—thanks to the swift intervention of the police and FBI.  

By the time everything was resolved, the authorities had cleared you and your friends to leave that same night. The long hours of tension melted away as you gathered your things, and your group began heading toward the precinct exit.  

You stuck close to Aubrey, practically glued to her side as you wrapped an arm around her waist. Her presence grounded you, the warmth and familiarity of her reassuring after everything you’d been through.  

“Finally,” Aubrey murmured as the two of you reached the doors, her tone light but laced with exhaustion.  

You nodded, tightening your hold on her as you pushed through the glass doors into the cool night air. But as you stepped outside, your eyes darted around instinctively, searching for a glimpse of Spencer.  

And there he was, standing just a short distance away, speaking with Morgan and Hotch. His back was to you, but even from where you stood, you could feel the weight of the moment.  

You immediately turned your head, your arm tightening around Aubrey as you kept moving. You didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to risk Spencer catching sight of you—or worse, calling out to you.  

Aubrey glanced down at you as the two of you walked quickly toward the car. “You okay?” she asked softly, her voice steady despite her own obvious fatigue.  

“Yeah,” you whispered, though your grip on her waist betrayed your nerves.  

As you slid into the car, your heart still raced. The thought of seeing Spencer again—even after everything—left you feeling exposed, vulnerable. And yet, there was a tiny, nagging part of you that wondered what would’ve happened if you’d let yourself stop.  

But for now, you were content to let an officer drive you home, the city lights blurring outside the window as you leaned against the seat, trying to process the night’s events—and the man who still had the power to shake you to your core.  

The incessant ringing of your phone jolted you awake, the sound cutting through the fog of your restless sleep. You groaned, squinting against the morning light as you reached for your phone on the nightstand.  

Your heart skipped a beat when you glanced at the screen. No name was displayed, just a number. But it was a number you could never forget, no matter how hard you’d tried.  

You had deleted Spencer’s contact months ago, telling yourself it was for the best, a necessary step in moving on. But his number was burned into your memory, a string of digits that you could recite as easily as your own name.  

For a moment, you just stared at the screen, your thumb hovering over the answer button. The ringtone seemed louder, more insistent, as if demanding a decision.  

Your chest tightened, and a million thoughts ran through your mind. Why is he calling? What does he want? Can I even handle hearing his voice right now?  

But before you could overthink it any further, your thumb moved almost of its own accord, pressing the button and bringing the phone to your ear.  

“Hello?” you said softly, your voice still heavy with sleep.  

There was a pause on the other end, just long enough to make your heart race, and then you heard it—a voice you hadn’t heard in what felt like a lifetime.  

“Y/N,” Spencer said, his tone cautious, almost tentative. “I… I’m sorry to call so early. I wasn’t sure if you’d pick up.”  

You swallowed hard, gripping the phone tighter. “What’s going on, Spencer?” you asked, your tone carefully neutral.  

He hesitated, and you could practically hear him piecing his words together. “I just… I couldn’t leave New York without talking to you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not after last night. Not after seeing you again.”  

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his words, but you didn’t respond right away, unsure of what to say. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken emotions.  

“I know this isn’t fair,” Spencer continued, his words tumbling out now, “but… can we talk? Just the two of us? Please?”  

You closed your eyes, leaning back against the headboard as you exhaled slowly. You didn’t know what to say—didn’t know if you were ready to reopen wounds you’d worked so hard to heal. But the sound of his voice, the raw emotion in it, made it impossible to say no.  

“Okay,” you said quietly. “When?”  

“Now?” he asked, his voice tinged with hope and hesitation. “I can come to you, or we can meet somewhere—whatever you’re comfortable with.”  

You glanced at the clock on your bedside table, your mind still racing. “There’s a café a couple of blocks from me,” you said finally, giving him the address. “I’ll meet you there in an hour.”  

“Thank you,” he said, relief evident in his tone. “I’ll see you soon.”  

As the call ended, you sat there for a moment, staring at the phone in your hand. Part of you wanted to crawl back into bed and pretend none of this was happening. But another part—the part that had never really let Spencer go—knew this was a conversation that was long overdue.  

—

November 2004

“Excuse me, miss?” a voice spoke from behind you, polite but a little unsure.  

You turned around, confused, to find a lanky man with slicked-back hair and glasses standing there, looking at you expectantly. He wore an awkward smile, his hands fidgeting slightly as he shifted on his feet.  

“Yes?” you asked, tilting your head, trying to place him.  

“If it’s no bother, we would really appreciate the check. We were just called into work,” he explained sheepishly, gesturing to a man sitting at the table behind him, who was watching the interaction with an amused grin.  

For a moment, you just stared at him, unsure of how to respond. “Um,” you started, your tone hesitant, “I’m sorry, but I don’t work here.”  

The man sitting across from him burst into laughter, shaking his head. “Nice going, Reid.”  

The one who had spoken—Reid, apparently—turned bright red, stumbling over his words as he tried to apologize. “I—I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to assume, I just—your outfit—it looks just like the uniforms the waitstaff are wearing!”  

You frowned, glancing down at your clothes—a crisp white blouse tucked into sleek black slacks. Then it clicked, and a laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. “Oh, wow,” you said, grinning at him. “That’s… actually kind of funny. I designed the uniforms, so I guess I subconsciously dressed accordingly.”  

Reid blinked, his eyes widening behind his glasses. “You designed them?” he asked, his embarrassment giving way to genuine curiosity.  

“Yeah,” you said with a shrug, glancing around the restaurant. “I work for the owner—well, freelance. They hired me to design uniforms that were professional but stylish.”  

“That’s… really impressive,” Reid said, his tone sincere as he adjusted his glasses. “They’re—um, they’re very nice. Clearly convincing,” he added, his cheeks still pink.  

The man at his table laughed again, shaking his head. “You’re lucky she’s nice, kid. That could’ve gone way worse.”  

You smiled, brushing off the comment. “No harm done,” you said, waving a hand. Then, looking back at Reid, you added, “Just maybe double-check next time before you assume.”  

“Noted,” he said, offering a sheepish smile. “And again, I’m really sorry.”  

As you walked away, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself, shaking your head at the interaction. Little did you know, it was the beginning of something much bigger than a misunderstanding over a uniform.  

—

December 2008 – Present  

You sat at the small table in the café, nervously fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth with one hand while biting your thumb with the other. The café was quiet, the gentle hum of conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine creating a soothing background. Still, your nerves were anything but calm.  

You hadn’t seen Spencer yet, but you felt his presence looming, the anticipation making your chest feel tight. Your mind raced with a million thoughts—what he would say, what you should say, how this meeting would go after all the time that had passed.  

“Excuse me, miss,” a familiar voice interrupted, laced with a soft, teasing tone. “You don’t happen to work here, do you?”  

Your head snapped up, and your lips parted in surprise, only for the tension in your chest to loosen when you saw him. Spencer stood there, looking both nervous and amused, his hands tucked awkwardly into his coat pockets. His hair was slightly tousled from the cold, and his glasses caught the soft glow of the café lights.  

You couldn’t help it—amusement took over as you remembered the very first time he had said those words to you. “Seriously?” you said, a small smile creeping onto your lips. “You’re going to lead with that?”  

Spencer shrugged, his lips curving into a sheepish grin. “I figured it worked the first time,” he said, his voice soft as his eyes flickered to yours.  

Your heart stuttered at the look he gave you, and for a moment, it felt like you were back in 2005, standing in that restaurant, completely oblivious to what the future held.  

You shook your head, gesturing to the seat across from you. “Sit down, Reid,” you said, your tone light, though your voice still carried the weight of everything unsaid.  

Spencer moved carefully, as if afraid to disrupt the fragile moment between you. He slid into the chair, his hands resting on the table, fidgeting slightly with the edge of his sleeve.  

“You remembered,” you said after a beat, unable to stop yourself.  

“Of course I did,” he said softly, his eyes meeting yours. “I remember everything about you.”  

The weight of his words settled between you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, slowly, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.  

“Well,” you said, breaking the silence, “I guess we have a lot to talk about.”  

Spencer nodded, his expression serious but filled with something you couldn’t quite place—hope, maybe? “Yeah,” he said. “We do.”  

And just like that, the conversation you’d both been avoiding for years finally began.  

Spencer folded his hands on the table, his long fingers twitching slightly as though unsure of where to begin. He glanced down at the tablecloth before looking back up at you, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out right away.  

You tilted your head, studying him. “You’ve never been one to struggle for words,” you teased lightly, trying to ease the tension that hung thick in the air.  

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “I guess there’s a first time for everything.” His voice was soft, almost tentative.  

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy—weighted with years of unanswered questions, unresolved feelings, and all the things neither of you had said when you had the chance.  

Spencer finally spoke, his voice low and earnest. “I shouldn’t have forced you to go.”  

Your heart clenched at his words, the directness of them catching you off guard. You opened your mouth to respond, but he pressed on, his words tumbling out in a rush, as though he’d been holding them back for too long.  

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he said, his gaze locked on yours. “I thought I was giving you the chance to live the life you deserved, to follow your dreams without me holding you back. But all I did was hurt you. And…” He hesitated, his voice dropping even lower. “I hurt myself too.”  

You blinked, stunned by the raw honesty in his tone. You hadn’t expected him to dive in so quickly, to say the things you’d spent so long wondering if he even felt.  

“Spencer,” you began, your voice wavering slightly, “you didn’t just hurt me. You made a decision for both of us without even asking how I felt. You thought you were protecting me, but you didn’t give me a choice.”  

He flinched slightly at your words, but he didn’t look away. “I know,” he said, his voice thick with regret. “I know I handled it all wrong. I’ve replayed that night a thousand times in my head, and every time, I wish I’d done it differently. I wish I’d just… trusted you.”  

You swallowed hard, the vulnerability in his words stirring something deep within you. “You think I didn’t want to go? That I didn’t think about what it could’ve meant for my career? I stayed because I loved you, Spencer. You were my dream. Not New York. Not Aubrey. You.”  

Spencer’s hands tightened on the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. “And I threw it away,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.  

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. “You didn’t throw it away. You made a choice. We both did. And we have to live with that.”  

He nodded slowly, his jaw tightening as he processed your words. For a moment, you thought that might be the end of it—that he would drop it and let you both walk away again.  

But then he looked up, and his eyes were filled with something fierce, something determined. “I don’t want to live with it,” he said firmly. “Not anymore. Not if there’s even the smallest chance I can fix this—fix us.”  

Your breath caught, your heart pounding in your chest as his words hung between you. You wanted to say something, to respond, but you weren’t sure if you could trust yourself to speak.  

So instead, you just stared at him, waiting for him to keep going. And in that moment, Spencer Reid, the man who rarely hesitated to explain every detail, every fact, every statistic, did something unexpected.  

He waited too.  

The weight of his words hung heavily in the air between you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hope, for any clue as to how you might respond. You could see the vulnerability etched into every line of his face, the desperation for you to believe him, to give him a chance.

“Spencer,” you began softly, your voice trembling just enough to betray the storm of emotions swirling within you. “Fix us? There is no us anymore. You made that abundantly clear when you kicked me out of my home.”

Your words were sharp, cutting through the fragile hope that had been lingering in the air. Spencer flinched as if you’d physically struck him, his face falling with the weight of your statement. He opened his mouth to respond but stopped, his lips pressing into a thin line as he struggled to find the right words.

“I didn’t—” he started, but then stopped himself, shaking his head. “I didn’t kick you out, Y/N. I thought—”  

“You thought you knew what was best for me,” you interrupted, your tone more firm now as the hurt you’d buried for so long began to surface. “You didn’t even ask me how I felt. You made a decision for both of us and expected me to just accept it. And when I didn’t? When I tried to fight for us? You pushed me away like I didn’t matter.”

“You mattered,” Spencer said quickly, his voice cracking. “You still matter. I—I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was protecting you.”  

“Protecting me?” you repeated, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “You weren’t protecting me, Spencer. You were protecting yourself. You were afraid I’d resent you, so instead, you pushed me out of your life completely. And guess what? It hurt just as much—maybe even more.”  

His shoulders slumped, and he ran a hand through his hair, the gesture so familiar it made your chest ache. “You’re right,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was afraid. I was terrified. Not just of you resenting me, but of… of failing you. Of not being enough. I convinced myself that letting you go was the selfless thing to do, but all I did was hurt you. And myself.”

You looked at him, his confession hanging heavily in the air between you. Part of you wanted to lash out, to make him feel a fraction of the pain you’d carried for so long. But another part of you—a part you didn’t want to admit existed—still ached for him, still felt the pull of the man you’d once loved so deeply.  

“You can’t just come back now and expect to fix everything,” you said, your voice softer but no less firm. “It’s not that simple.”  

“I know,” he said quickly, his eyes pleading. “I know it’s not. But I had to try. I couldn’t leave New York without telling you how I feel, without letting you know that I’m sorry—for everything.”  

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath as you tried to steady yourself. “And what happens after this, Spencer? What are you expecting? That I’ll just forget everything and we’ll go back to how things were?”  

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t expect that. I don’t expect anything from you, Y/N. I just…” He paused, his voice breaking as he added, “I just needed you to know that I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”  

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. The sincerity in his voice, the pain in his eyes—it was all too much.  

But so was the weight of everything that had happened, the scars that hadn’t fully healed.  

“I never stopped loving you either,” you said finally, your voice trembling again. The admission felt heavy, like a weight you had been carrying for far too long, now released.  

“Really?” Spencer asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he was afraid to believe it.  

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Well, it’s only been half a year, Spencer. I thought I was going to marry you. That doesn’t just go away.”  

“No,” he agreed, shaking his head slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “No, it doesn’t.”  

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the quiet of the café wrapping around you like a fragile cocoon. The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you and the raw, unspoken emotions lingering between you.  

Then, Spencer shifted in his seat, his hands fumbling around in his bag as if he were searching for something. You watched him curiously, your heart pounding in your chest as he finally pulled out a small box.  

“What is that?” you choked out, your voice barely audible.  

Spencer held the box in his hand, staring at it for a moment before looking back up at you. “I bought this the day we went to the mall,” he began, his voice soft but steady. “When you asked me if I ever thought about marriage.” He paused, his fingers brushing over the edges of the box as if grounding himself. “When you went into the lingerie store, I went back and bought the ring you were staring at.”  

Your breath hitched, your mind racing. “How did you know?” you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips.  

“I’m a profiler,” he said with a small, almost shy smile. “I know—knew you so well. It wasn’t hard to see which one caught your eye.”  

“It’s—the ring is in there right now?” you asked, your voice trembling.  

Spencer nodded, his expression cautious but hopeful. “Do you want to see it?” he asked tentatively, his fingers tightening slightly around the box.  

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. Then, slowly, you nodded, unable to find the words to say anything else.  

Spencer opened the box, turning it toward you, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.  

The ring was simple yet elegant—exactly the kind of style you’d always admired. A delicate band of platinum, with a perfectly cut diamond set in the center, surrounded by smaller stones that sparkled as if they held their own light.  

“Yes,” you whispered, barely audible, your eyes never leaving the ring.  

Spencer’s head snapped up, his brows knitting together in confusion. “What?” he rushed out, his voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and hope.  

“Yes,” you said again, louder this time, your gaze shifting from the ring to meet his wide, questioning eyes.  

“Yes… what?” Spencer asked, his voice trembling, as if he couldn’t allow himself to believe what he thought he was hearing.  

You took a shaky breath, your emotions swelling and threatening to overflow. “I’ll marry you,” you said firmly, the words filling the space between you like a beacon.  

Spencer froze, his lips parting slightly as he processed what you’d just said. For a moment, he looked like he might cry, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as his hand tightened around the small box.  

“You will?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, full of awe and disbelief.  

“Yes,” you said again, nodding for emphasis. “I love you, Spencer. I never stopped. And I don’t want to waste any more time pretending like I don’t.”  

Spencer’s hands trembled as he reached for yours, his grip warm and steady despite his obvious emotion. “I—I don’t even know what to say,” he admitted, a nervous, breathless laugh escaping him.  

“You don’t have to say anything,” you replied, your voice soft but certain. “Just… ask me.”  

Spencer blinked, his lips curving into the smallest, most genuine smile you’d seen in years. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he slid out of his chair and knelt on one knee, still holding the box open.  

“Y/N,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you, and I’ll love you for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?”  

You nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks as you whispered, “Yes.”  

Spencer slid the ring onto your finger, his hands shaking as he did so, and when he stood, you launched yourself into his arms. He caught you easily, holding you tightly as you both laughed and cried, the weight of years of pain and longing finally lifting.  

In that small café, with the world around you fading into the background, the two of you found your way back to each other—against all odds, against all fears. And for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right.  

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tag list <333 @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @laurakirsten0502 @geepinky @mxlviaa @libraprincessfairy @fortheloveofgubler @super-nerd22 @k-illdarlings @softestqueeen @eliscannotdance @pleasantwitchgarden @alexxavicry @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @criminal-spence @navs-bhat @taygrls @person-005 

[latenightreadingpdf]

Quiet Love - Spencer Reid

₊‧⁺˖⋆ Masterlist ⋆˖⁺‧₊

Summary: A quiet moment between you and Spencer.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The sound of the door unlocking catches your attention. You glance over just in time to see Spencer step inside, his shoulders slightly slumped, dark circles under his eyes. He sets his bag down gently, his tie already loosened, and lets out a quiet sigh.

You rise from the couch, padding over to meet him at the door. Without a word, you wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a warm hug. He leans into you, his face brushing against your hair, and you press a soft kiss to his cheek.

"How was work?" you ask, your voice soft as you rub small circles on his back.

"Tiring," he admits, his voice low and gravelly from hours of talking. "But... we caught him."

"That's good," you say, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, your hands still resting on his arms. “I was just watching this new sci-fi show that came out. Want to join me?”

His tired expression softens, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Yeah, I'd like that."

You lead him to the couch, the soft glow of the TV filling the room. The moment you sit, Spencer gravitates toward you, and you end up squished together, your legs tangled as though neither of you can bear to have even an inch of space between you.

The show plays in the background, its plot weaving through your mind, but you’re far more focused on the way Spencer's weight presses against you. His body is warm, and you can feel him trying to resist the sleep that’s been eluding him for days.

It doesn’t take long before you feel his head gently fall against yours. His breathing slows, deep and even. You glance up and see his face, peaceful in a way that makes your heart swell. You can’t help but smile to yourself, overwhelmed with the quiet gratitude of this moment, of him being in your life.

Slowly, the warmth and rhythm of his breaths lull you into sleep, your head nestled against his shoulder, content in the quiet love you share.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

A/N ~ just a cute little blurb cause I'm rewatching criminal minds.

[hereforhalstead]

happy thursday

[obssessed-with-reading07]

This might genuinely be my favourite fluff fic. He bought MORE flowers because there no YELLOW ones in the first bunch. Makes me cry every time.

Soulmates

A/n: From this request. Also I lovedddd writing this it was such a cute concept

HELLO I HAVENT LOGGED ON IN MANY MOONS AND CATCHING UP WAS SO AMAZING I LOVE YOUR WORK

could you do a fic once spencer starts teaching and kind of disappears for a few seasons and the bau brings on an agent who never crosses paths with spence but the bau can’t stop thinking how good a couple theyd be and they think of how to set them up and then one day he walks in unexpectedly and just kisses her hello bc they’ve been together/engaged for years and everyone is shocked and it wasn’t ever a secret they’re just like “no one asked is so we didn’t say anything”

Summary: Everyone knew Y/n and Spencer would be the perfect couple, it was just a shame he left the BAU before she joined. 

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (Fluff) 

Content Warning: nothing ?? 

Word Count: 2.0k 

Masterlist

Everyone recognized that they were similar. It was a silent agreement that the newest member of the BAU would have been a perfect match for recently-departed Spencer Reid. Her flaws were perfectly complemented by his strengths and vice versa.

And they all thought it a shame that Y/n never got to meet Spencer.

Keep reading

[novamariestark]

I Can See You [Spencer Reid]

Summary: You've been dating Spencer for almost a year and you are yet to tell your big brother, Aaron

Warnings: bad writing 🤣. fluff, some angst

Word count: 1764

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Hotchner!Reader

You hadn’t meant to keep it a secret this long. You didn’t want to. But when it came to you dating, your brother was way too overprotective. You loved him to death for it but it also pissed you off to no end.

Spencer freaked when he found out that you were Hotch’s baby sister and even broke it off for a while because he felt as though he was betraying him. But you had crept into his heart and you weren’t planning on vacating any time soon.

Even when you weren’t together, you were the only thing on his mind. You’d be there constantly whilst he was on a case. He couldn’t concentrate and it was painfully obvious to everyone. Even Hotch. The latter pulled him aside and told him to fix what was going on before he got someone or himself killed.

That counts as his blessing, right?

As soon as they touched down in Washington he rushed over to your apartment to see you. Throwing quick goodbyes to everyone and not looking back.

“Pretty boy has a girl. I’m calling it,” Morgan called out, pointing at the quickly retreating Spencer.

That was almost 11 months ago. 11 months of sneaking around behind your brother’s back. Which wasn’t too much of an issue when you first started dating but now you were an agent in the Criminal Investigative Division of the FBI. That meant both you and Spencer had longer work hours and often different schedules. So sometimes you two decide to see each other at the office. You knew it was risky and quickies in the car doesn’t compare to the bedroom but you both took what you could get.

However, recently, Spencer had been arguing that maybe it was time to tell your brother. You assumed he felt guilty. Not guilty enough to stop the sex in the FBI garage but guilty enough.

He did feel guilty but there was another reason he wanted to tell your brother.

You wanted to tell Aaron too. Really you did. But you’ve put it off so long that you know that he’s gonna be disappointed you didn’t tell him sooner. Anger you could take but the one thing you never wanted to do was disappoint him.

He was your idol. Your hero. The person you’ve always looked up to. The one you wanted to make proud. That’s why you joined the FBI. You wanted to make him proud. And he was, he just wished you’d picked a safer occupation.

He was concerned and worried every time you and your team left the office and was finally able to breathe when you arrived back. If he was away on a job when you came back you went to see Penelope or Peach as you called her. It was a deal you made with Aaron so he knew you were okay. Spencer didn’t oppose to this arrangement either because all he had to do was look at Hotch and he’d know that you were okay.

But one day, that call from Penelope was a little different. The team had come back... without you.

The simple arrest of Washington’s newest drug kingpin had turned into a kidnapping. Yours.

The BAU team couldn’t do anything but wait for the plane to land in Washington. In four hours time. Hotch hadn’t said a word. Neither had Spencer and the moment he didn’t make his move on the chess board, everyone took notice.

He just stared out the window and waited. Images of what you were going through at that very moment flashed though his mind. Were you hurt? Were you scared?

Were you alive?

Even your brother had snapped out of his thoughts and took notice of his lack of presence inside the jet. Sure he’d noticed your closeness but he didn’t think anything of it. You were close with Penelope and JJ too. But as he started to think back, he starts to see all the little signs. Small things.

But one thing in particular was how comfortable Spencer was with you. So easily comfortable. It all started to become clear. Aaron had figured you were seeing someone but you wouldn’t tell him who and as you’ve grown older you’ve become more adept at covering your tracks. Morgan also speculated on multiple occasions that Spencer was seeing someone.

What should he feel? Anger because you didn’t tell him or betrayal because you’re his sister and Spencer was one of his agents? His baby sister. And no matter how old you were, that’s what you were always going to be.

He would’ve been completely pissed. Shouting, demanding answers and an explanation if it wasn’t for what he was seeing in front of him.

Worry, fear, pain and helplessness. The same thing he’d see if he looked in the mirror right now. He didn’t have to ask. He knew.

When the plane finally landed, the team wasted no time in getting back to the office. Aaron inserts himself into the operation to get you back, not taking no for an answer and Spencer is right there with him.

Even when he was ordered not to interfere because he was too close, he did exactly that. You were in trouble, no way was he not going to tear up the entire state looking for you.

He told the team to stand down, not wanting them to get into trouble for defying a direct order but none of them budged. At this point, you were their family too.

The longer you’re missing the more it takes it’s toll on Spencer. So much so that he’s the first one to lash out at your boss when it’s found out that there has been a ransom made in exchange for your return to no action had been taken to do that.

“We’re not going to hand over all the evidence for his trial,“

”The hell we won’t,“

“We can’t—”

“—leave her there”

“Reid,” Aaron spoke, his voice loud to get his attention but no anger was in it. He reached a hand out and placed it on his shoulder, gently pulling him away from your boss “so,” he started, stepping forward to take his place, “What exactly are you doing to find my sister?”

“I don’t tell you how to run your team Hotchner, don’t tell me how to run mine,”

“Alright listen here,” Aaron stepped closer, right in his face, “if one hair on her head is out of place, I swear I’ll—”

“Hotch!”

“What?!”

“Maybe we should just give them some space to work and—”

”they’ve had five hours and they barely know where she was snatched from,“

Gideon gave him a look. One that told him to play along. He did and the team followed him to their usual conference room. Each of them branching off to do what they do best, working tirelessly to get you back.

And they did this for hours until Morgan got a text from Penelope, who conveniently was lounging at your desk.

They received a video

Aaron and Spencer rushed out of the office and down to yours. Your brother had tried to stop him from going, not wanting him to see you in a possibly horrific state but he couldn’t stop. He had to see you and he did.

He tried to ignore the blood, the wounds and focus on your hands, that to your captors, were wriggling due to the ache of them being tied up for hours but to Spencer and the others it was a message.

Trains... every 12 minutes... the only clue you knew about your whereabouts, and you knew that maybe it wouldn’t be enough so you added a little something to prepare for that.

I love you

With the reminder of their demands, the video fades to black, much like your vision.

Your eyes only opened again when you heard gunshots and shouting. The voices sounded familiar but muffled, far away. Perhaps you were imagining them and you were convinced you were until a door clanged open.

Someone called your name, followed by the sound of running footsteps, that got louder with each step. It wasn’t long until the footsteps stopped and a figure knelt down beside you.

”Angel?“ he spoke softly, his hands moving to cup your cheeks. His thumbs wiping the tearstains away.

”you found me“

”Yeah, Angel, we did,“ he replied, moving to untie your hands. As soon as you were free, you threw your arms around him, holding on so tight because you were afraid that he’d disappear. He moves his head slightly to the side to press a kiss to your temple, ”I love you too, Angel“

”I love you more,“

You smile, pulling away. He got your message. The smile faltered slightly when you looked up and your brother came into view.

Uh oh. Did he know?

You didn’t know what to expect. The thought of losing your brother was worse than the pain you had been through the past god knows how long.

You had thought about him finding out so often and he was angry, disappointed, betrayed. None of your playthroughs of this moment ever ended happily.

”I’m so glad you’re safe, (y/n),“ he smiled, leaning down to press a kiss on your head like he had always done.

”you’re not mad?“

Spencer looked up at him too, curious about the answer himself.

”of course not,“ he said, okay a little lie but you’d been through enough and he’d be stupid to ignore what was right in front of him.

Your eyebrows scrunched as you lift you head from Spencer’s chest, moving closer because you were sure you misheard him, ”you’re not,“

He sighed opening his arms for you to hug. You didn’t waste any time, tears falling as you sob into his shoulder, ”I thought you’d be mad, and I’d lose you,“

”I was mad at first,“ he admitted, one of his hands stroking your hair in a soothing rhythm, ”because you didn’t tell me,“ he added and you started apologising profusely but he stopped you, ”I’m not anymore because the truth is—“ He patted Spencer on his shoulder ”—you couldn’t have chosen a better man“

You smiled so much of the way home. So much so, you thought your cheeks were stuck like that.

You had asked Aaron if he wanted to join you two for dinner and after you giving him that look you always gave him to get whatever you want, your best puppy dog eyes, he said yes.

[xoxoch3rry]

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔹𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 ℙ𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕥

@ xoxoch3rry do not steal or translate my work.

Word count: 1,005

────

Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Warnings: Violence, torture, regular criminal minds stuff.

Summary: The case goes wrong and Spencer's there to save you.

────⊹ ࣪ ˖⋆˖ ࣪⊹────

The case had seemed straightforward: infiltrate a suspected trafficking ring, gather intel, and leave without raising suspicion. You were one of the FBI's finest undercover agents, and this wasn’t your first high stakes assignment. But something about this one felt…off. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Spencer Reid asked, leaning against your desk in the bullpen. His concern was evident, his hazel eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. You smiled, trying to lighten the tension. “I’ll be fine, Spence. It’s just another day at work.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Be careful,” he said softly, his voice laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

The plan unraveled faster than you could have imagined. Your cover was blown within hours, and before you knew it, you were blindfolded and thrown into the back of a van. The next few days were a blur of pain and terror. The room where they kept you was cold, damp, and reeked of mildew. Your captors weren’t interested in negotiations or even interrogations—they wanted to break you. Torture was their game, and they played it well. “You think your team will save you?” one of them sneered, leaning close. “They don’t even know where you are.” You bit back a retort, refusing to give them the satisfaction of your fear. But inside, doubt crept in. Did they know where you were? Were they even looking?

Back at the BAU, Spencer was unraveling. The team had realized something was wrong when your scheduled check-in never came. The unsub’s profile was already on the board, but without knowing your location, they were running out of time. “She’s strong,” Emily Prentiss said, placing a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “She’ll hold on until we get to her.” Spencer nodded, but his heart was heavy. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t think clearly. The thought of you in danger consumed him. It wasn’t just worry. It was something deeper, something he’d been too afraid to acknowledge. But now, faced with the possibility of losing you, he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

The pain was unbearable, but you clung to hope. Your team was the best, and if anyone could find you, it was them. Still, the days stretched on, each one darker than the last. One of your captors, a wiry man with a cruel smile, had taken a particular interest in you. “What’s it going to take, Agent?” he taunted during another grueling session. “How much more can you handle?” You didn’t answer, but the tears streaming down your face betrayed your resolve.

The breakthrough came on the fourth day. Garcia had hacked into a security feed from a remote warehouse in the middle of nowhere, and the footage showed a glimpse of you being dragged inside. “That’s it,” Spencer said, his voice sharp. “That’s where she is.” Hotch nodded. “We go in tonight.” Spencer insisted on going with the extraction team, despite Hotch’s initial hesitation. “I need to be there,” he argued. “For her.” Hotch finally relented. “Stay close, and don’t take unnecessary risks.”

The sound of the explosion was deafening, shaking the walls of your prison. Shouts and gunfire echoed through the building, and you barely had the strength to lift your head. You heard the unmistakable command: “FBI! Drop your weapons!” Hope flared in your chest, but your body was too weak to react. You slumped against the wall, the weight of exhaustion pulling you under. “Where is she?” Spencer’s voice rang out, frantic and desperate. Footsteps pounded closer, and then, there he was. Spencer Reid stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with worry. “Spence,” you croaked, your voice barely audible. In an instant, he was at your side, his hands gently cradling your face. “It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “You’re safe now.” Tears streamed down his cheeks as he untied your restraints. “I’ve got you,” he repeated, as if saying it would make it true.

At the hospital, the team hovered around your room, each offering words of encouragement. But Spencer never left your side. “You should rest,” you said weakly, your voice hoarse from days of screaming. “I’m not going anywhere,” he replied firmly, his hand clasping yours. You studied him, noticing the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his jaw. “Spence, I’m okay.” “You’re not,” he said, his voice breaking. “You’re not okay. And it’s my fault.” “What? No—” “I should have stopped you,” he interrupted. “I should have—” You squeezed his hand, cutting him off. “Spencer, listen to me. This wasn’t your fault. You saved me.” He looked away, his shoulders shaking. “I almost lost you,” he whispered. “But you didn’t,” you said firmly. “I’m here. Because of you.” He hesitated, then turned back to you, his eyes filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite name. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, his voice soft but steady.

You nodded, encouraging him to continue. “I love you,” he confessed, the words tumbling out as if he’d been holding them back for years. “I’ve loved you for so long, and I was too afraid to say anything. But when I thought I might never see you again…” Your breath caught, and tears filled your eyes. “Spencer…” “I know this isn’t the right time,” he said quickly, his words tumbling over each other. “But I had to tell you. I couldn’t keep it in anymore.” You reached for his hand, your fingers intertwining with his. “It’s the perfect time,” you said, your voice trembling with emotion. “Because I love you too.” The relief on his face was palpable, and for the first time in days, a genuine smile broke through the tension. He leaned in slowly, his lips brushing yours in a tender, heartfelt kiss. “I’ll never let anything happen to you again,” he promised, his forehead resting against yours.

And at that moment, despite everything you’d been through, you knew it was true. With Spencer by your side, you felt unbreakable.

[reidology13]

Deep down he's just a tumblr boy

[mentholmacbook]

now what if i said spencer reid fanfic......

[moonstruckme]

MAE I'm sorry, I thought of another (no pressure at all of course). maybe hot cocoa - send a character + a prompt with Spencer Reid and reunion? Maybe Spencer wasn't supposed to be home in time for the holidays and surprises his love??? AH so cute ok sorry I'll retreat back into my cave now thanks love you byeeee

Never ever be sorry lovely!! Thanks for your request <3

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 465 words

You set your keys on the counter when you come in, your cheeks tingling pleasantly from the change of the cold wind to your warm home. You’re carrying a small bag of presents which you set down next to your keys before taking off your shoes. It takes you a few seconds to realize something isn’t the way you left it a few hours ago. 

The Christmas tree is lit, its warm glow emanating from the living room and casting hazy shadows on the walls. 

You don’t proceed with as much caution as a woman who’s expected to be alone in her home likely should. You know Spencer and most anyone from his team would crow at you for leaving your mace with your keys by the door; but really, what creature of malintent plugs in the Christmas tree? You find Spencer sleeping on the couch, shoes nowhere to be seen but still in his work clothes. 

The smile that takes you is ginormous. He looks especially lovely. The gentle glow of the lights makes the curves of his face look soft and sweet, cherubic almost, but you’d be just as happy to see him if he were rough and grimy and frowning in his sleep. 

“Spence,” you murmur, crouching beside him. You touch his shoulder gently. “Spencer.” 

His eyes move under his eyelids before they open, settling blearily on you. “Hi.” His voice is rough but tilts up with pleasure. He blinks his way into the world. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to doze off.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” you say, beaming. “What’re you doing here? What about the case?” 

“We, uh…” Spencer sits up, rubbing his face. “We solved it. They haven’t caught the guy yet, but I’m never as helpful with that part as Morgan or JJ anyway. I wanted to be with you.” 

Your cheeks are starting to hurt. You hug him fiercely. It’s awkward and half sideways, but full of more love than you can express. Spencer seems to get it. 

“I know how much Christmas means to you,” he says, folding an arm around your back. “I didn’t want to miss it.” 

Whatever he says, you know how much finishing out a case means to him, too. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got here,” you offer. “I’d have come home.” 

“That’s okay, I didn’t want you to cut your celebration short.” Spencer’s pinkie sweeps in slow arcs between your shoulder blades. “We’re together now, right?” 

You let him go to take his face in your hands, thumb denting softly into his cheek to make sure he’s really there. “Yeah,” you say, kissing him. “Thanks for coming home, Spence.” 

“Thanks for having me,” he says, a bit awkwardly. His smile when you laugh is the brightest thing in the room. 

[gublerie]

oh so you thought i was done with the pookie faced thing… WRONG !! here for part 11 with special guest raymond

[billybutcherrtrash]

If so many people weren’t looking out for Reid, that man would have ended up like Will. No one was protecting Will.

No one can change my mind.

🤷🏻‍♀️

[milla984]

MGG as Spencer Reid Criminal Minds S01E06

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover @cynbx @reidsbookclub @spookyspemilyreid @kissesforspence

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