Your new desk was pristine. Fresh out of the box, still smelling faintly of plastic and that particular vanilla scent that came with FBI-issued furniture. You’d decorated it minimally—a photo of you and Mark from last year, a small plant, your pens.
You’d deliberately not looked at the desk directly in front of yours when you arrived this morning. But you knew who sat there. You’d felt his eyes on you the entire time you were setting up.
“Welcome to the BAU,” JJ had said, squeezing your arm. “Glad to have you.”
“Thanks for being here,” Penelope had gushed, and you’d genuinely smiled because Penelope was impossible not to smile at.
Hotch had shaken your hand and explained your role—special agent, consulting on cases, going into the field. Spencer had nodded at you from his desk when you made eye contact, a small, careful gesture. Professional.
You hadn’t spoken to him since you’d walked through the doors this morning. It felt important to establish that boundary right away.
The morning was spent getting oriented, meeting with different team members, reviewing case files. By noon, you’d started to relax. This might actually work. You could do this. You could be professional, keep your distance, and make it through each day without—
“We’ve got a case,” Hotch announced, and the bullpen shifted into motion.
The briefing room was chaos in that controlled BAU way. A serial killer in Virginia, three victims so far, likely to kill again. The profile was discussed, assignments were made, and then Hotch looked directly at you and Spencer.
“I need you two to head down to the archives. There was a similar case about five years ago—sexual sadist, low self-esteem, worked in construction. I want those files. Cross-reference with our current unsub.”
Spencer nodded. You nodded.
“You two familiar with the archive system?” Hotch asked.
“I can find my way,” Spencer said quietly.
You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you just gathered your notepad and headed toward the elevator with him, very aware of Morgan’s eyes on your back.
The archive was in the basement, and it was somehow both colder and warmer than you expected. Sterile. Fluorescent lighting casting everything in a sickly glow.
Spencer walked toward the files first, and you followed behind him, reading the labels on the boxes. He was reaching for one on a higher shelf when he turned back to you.
“Don’t let the door clo—”
The heavy metal door swung shut behind you with a definitive SLAM.
Spencer turned to face you fully, his expression a mix of resignation and something that might have been relief at finally being alone with you.
“Because,” he said quietly, “you can’t open it from the inside.”
You stared at him. Then you walked to the door and tried the handle. It didn’t budge. You tried again, pulling harder.
“It’s definitely not opening,” you confirmed.
“No,” Spencer agreed. “It’s not.”
You stood there for a moment, then you shook your head and got back to work. You and Spencer moved efficiently through the files, pulling the ones that matched Hotch’s criteria. Within five minutes, you had a stack of seven boxes.
And nowhere to put them except on the floor. And nowhere to go except to sit on the floor yourself.
So that’s what you did. You sat down with your back against the cold metal shelving, and Spencer, after a moment’s hesitation, leaned against the wall across from you. Neither of you had your phones—they’d been left at your desks. The building was going to notice you missing eventually.
For a few minutes, there was nothing but the hum of the fluorescent lights and the sound of both of you breathing.
Then, quietly, you said: “Come to the wedding.”
Spencer’s head snapped toward you. “What?”
“The wedding,” you repeated, not looking at him. “I want you to come. I meant it when I said you were all invited.”
“Yes,” you said simply. “You should be there.”
You didn’t look at him, but you could feel his gaze on you like a physical thing. After a long moment, he said softly, “Okay. Yeah. I’ll be there.”
Ten more minutes passed in silence.
“How are you liking it here?” Spencer asked finally. “The transfer.”
“It’s good,” you said, and it was true. “Everyone’s been really welcoming. It’s a good team.”
“You’re a good addition to the team,” he said carefully.
You finally looked at him. He was sitting in that particular way he did when he was nervous—knees bent, arms wrapped around his shins, completely folded in on himself like he was trying to take up as little space as possible.
“Spencer,” you said, “I think… I think we should be friends.”
He looked up at you sharply.
“I mean it,” you continued. “We’re going to be working together a lot. We’re going to be on cases together, in cars together, in briefings together. And I don’t want it to be awkward. I don’t want the team to feel uncomfortable. So… can we just be friends? We can do that, right?”
He was quiet for a long moment, and you could see the calculation happening behind his eyes—the weighing of how much of his true feelings he should let show versus how much he should bury.
Finally, he said, “Yeah. Yeah, we can be friends.”
You nodded, and the relief that flooded through you felt tinged with something else. Something that felt a lot like loss.
Another ten minutes crawled by.
Then you heard footsteps. Heavy, confident footsteps. The door swung open from the outside, and Derek Morgan stood there, a smirk already forming on his face.
“Well, well, well,” he said, looking between you and Spencer. “What do we have here? You two stuck in a closet?”
You felt your face flush, but you stood up quickly, brushing off your pants.
“We got locked in,” you explained. “The door won’t open from the inside.”
“Locked in, huh?” Derek’s smirk widened. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
You rolled your eyes and held up your left hand, wiggling your ring finger so the diamond caught the light. You walked past him as you said, “Yes. Stuck,” emphasizing the word as you passed.
Derek’s expression shifted immediately to something almost apologetic, and you heard him say quietly behind you, “Oh. Oh, man, I didn’t mean—”
But you were already walking back toward the elevator, carrying the files, Spencer behind you carrying the rest.
Walking back to the elevator was quiet. You were a few feet ahead of them and got into an elevator, you figured they were to far behind so you didnt bother holding it for them. Spencer and Derek were walking side by side, both boxes in hand. But then, suddenly, Spencer dropped his boxes said, “I need to use the restroom,” and peeled off toward the bathroom.
Derek watched him go, then without warning, he turned sharply and followed, his earlier humor completely gone. He knew Spencer didnt need to use the bathroom, he always talked about how the basement bathroom was dirtier than the others.
In the bathroom, Spencer stood at the sink, gripping the edge so hard his knuckles were white.
You’d invited him to the wedding. You wanted to be friends. You’d said it so reasonably, so calmly, like you weren’t absolutely dismantling him in the process. Like you weren’t telling him, very clearly, that whatever he felt, whatever he’d been carrying for the past years, was something he needed to bury.
Friends. You wanted to be friends.
He couldn’t breathe. His chest felt tight, and the fluorescent lights seemed too bright, and he was thinking about you in that supply closet—so close he could have reached out and touched you—and you’d asked him to come to your wedding. To watch you marry someone else. To sit in a chair and smile while you promised your life to a man who wasn’t him.
His hands were shaking. He couldn’t get air into his lungs properly, and there was this pressure in his chest that felt like his heart was trying to claw its way out.
The door opened, and Derek was there immediately.
“Hey, hey, I got you,” Derek said, and his voice had shifted into that gentle, careful tone he used when someone was breaking. He guided Spencer to sit on the floor and crouched down in front of him. “Breathe for me. Just breathe, man.”
“I can’t,” Spencer whispered. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can,” Derek said firmly. “Just breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on.”
Spencer tried, but his breath came out in hitches.
“She invited me to the wedding,” Spencer said, and his voice sounded shattered. “She wants to be friends. She—Derek, I—”
He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t say out loud that he was in love with her, had been in love with her, would probably always be in love with her. That the past 4 years of trying to move on had been for nothing because one week back in the same city and he was right back where he started—completely undone by her.
“I know, man,” Derek said softly, rubbing Spencer’s back. “I know. But you’re gonna get through this. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”
“I don’t feel strong,” Spencer admitted, his voice barely audible. “I feel like I’m falling apart.”
Derek just held him there on the bathroom floor of the FBI field office, letting Spencer fall apart against his shoulder, offering what comfort he could.
And Spencer let himself feel it all—the heartbreak, the longing, the terrible, impossible love that was going to haunt him every single day now that she was working three feet away from him, asking to be friends, inviting him to watch her marry someone else.
He was going to have to watch her be happy with Mark, and he was going to have to smile, and be professional, and pretend that his heart wasn’t breaking all over again.
Because that’s what friends do.
The week went by in a blur of profiling, cases, and an ease between you and Spencer that surprised you both. You fell into an easy rhythm—inside jokes during briefings, conversations about cases, moments of genuine friendship that made it easier to pretend that your heart wasn’t lying to you.
He was good. He was professional. He was everything a friend should be.
And it was killing him. You could see it sometimes, in the way his eyes would linger on you a moment too long, in the way he’d tense when Mark texted you, in the careful distance he maintained whenever you got close.
But you didn’t think about it. You couldn’t afford to.
Mark arrived at the precinct on Thursday with a stack of cream-colored envelopes and the kind of smile that made you remember why you’d said yes to him in the first place.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said, kissing you in front of everyone. It was a claim, subtle but unmistakable. He greeted the team warmly, even stopping to shake Spencer’s hand. “Reid, good to see you. Hope you’re taking good care of my fiancée at work.”
Spencer’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course.”
Mark left with another kiss to your forehead, and you were left holding the stack of engagement party invitations.
The moment the women spotted them, you were surrounded.
“Ooooo, are those wedding invitations?” Penelope squealed, bouncing on her heels.
“No,” you laughed. “Engagement party invitations. Mark wanted to do something before the actual wedding. It’s next Saturday on a yacht.”
You started handing them out. JJ, Emily, Penelope—they all took theirs with excitement and congratulations. Rossi took his with a wink. Hotch accepted his with a nod. Derek took his with a smile that was sad around the edges, understanding written all over his face.
You walked over to his desk and placed the invitation in front of him gently. “I want you there,” you said quietly. “It’s important to me.”
He looked at the invitation like it was a live grenade. Then he looked up at you, and you could see the war happening behind his eyes.
“I’ll be there,” he said finally.
You squeezed his shoulder—a gesture you’d started doing over the past week, a small point of contact that was friendly but not intimate—and walked away, missing the way his hand came up to touch where you’d squeezed, like he was trying to hold onto the feeling.
The yacht was beautiful. Pristine white, glittering in the afternoon sun, decorated with soft lights and flowers in shades of white and gold. Mark’s family was there, your family, friends, colleagues. It was elegant and perfect and everything an engagement party should be.
Everything was going perfectly.
You smiled for photos with Mark. You danced with your father. You gave a toast about how excited you were for your future. Mark gave a toast about how much he loved you, how lucky he was, and the crowd ate it up.
But around seven, as the sun started its descent toward the horizon, you felt the weight of it all pressing down on you. You needed air. You needed a moment.
You excused yourself and made your way to the sundeck, away from the noise and the lights and the expectations.
The ocean was calm, the sky painted in shades of orange and pink. The wind was soft, carrying the salt smell of the sea. You stood at the railing and breathed, letting yourself feel everything you’d been pushing down.
You turned sharply at the voice.
Spencer stood there in his dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“What are you talking about?” you asked, though your heart was already racing because you knew. Somehow, you knew.
“Don’t marry him,” Spencer said, and his voice was raw. “Don’t get married. Not to Mark. Please.”
“Spencer, you’re being ridiculous—”
“I love you,” he said, the words tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them. “I’ve loved you for 6 years. I never stopped. When I saw you at that precinct, it was like the past decade just… disappeared. Like no time had passed at all because I’ve been carrying this the entire time.”
“Stop,” you whispered, but he kept going.
“Breaking up with you was a mistake,” he continued, stepping closer. “The biggest mistake of my life. I should have fought harder. I should have come back and made you understand that you were everything to me. You are everything to me.”
Tears were swelling in your eyes now, and you hated yourself for it.
“These past years,” Spencer said, his own voice breaking, “every day I’ve thought about you. Every single day. Do you know what that’s like? To miss someone for that long? To wonder what they’re doing, who they’re with, if they ever think about you?”
“I’m asking for another chance,” he said, and now he was right in front of you, close enough that you could reach out and touch him. “I’m asking you to choose me. Choose us. We could be happy. We were happy.”
“I can’t,” you whispered.
Mark’s voice cut through the moment like a knife. He was standing in the doorway to the sundeck, champagne flute in hand, his expression shifting from casual to confused as he took in the scene, you gripping the railing, Spencer standing close to you, the obvious intimacy of the moment.
“Yes,” you said quickly. “Everything’s fine.”
You turned around and looked at Spencer, walking towards him “I love him, spencer” you whispered.
You walked toward Mark and kissed him, putting everything you could into that kiss—reassurance, commitment, a desperate plea for him to believe you. When you pulled away, you looked into his eyes and saw the doubt there, the question.
But you didn’t answer it. You took his hand and walked back inside, leaving Spencer alone on the deck.
Spencer stood there, watching you disappear back into the party, and the dam broke.
He sat down on a lounge chair and put his face in his hands, shoulders shaking as he cried. All of it came pouring out—years of longing, the hope that had flickered back to life when you walked into his precinct, the agony of the past week pretending to be your friend while his heart was screaming for more.
He’d laid it all out, and you’d chosen Mark. You’d kissed Mark. You’d walked away. You loved Mark. Not Spencer.
Spencer looked up to see Penelope standing there, with Hotch behind her. Their faces said they knew exactly what had happened. They didn’t ask.
Penelope sat down next to Spencer and took his hand, and Hotch stood nearby like a silent sentinel.
“I think she loves you back,” Penelope said softly, trying to be comforting. “I think she’s just scared.”
Spencer let out a laugh—bitter and broken and completely devoid of humor.
“That doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “She’s going to marry him. And I’m going to have to watch it. I’m going to have to stand there and smile and be happy for her because that’s what you do for people you love.”
Penelope squeezed his hand, but there was nothing either of them could say that would fix this. Hotch placed a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, and they stood together on the deck as the sun finished setting, leaving everything in darkness.
Spencer had confessed his soul, and it hadn’t been enough.
It had never been enough.
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