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Slowly, Carefully
Left Unspoken
Unrequited Love Part 2
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I’m happy to take any kind of Spencer Reid request (including fluff, crack, smut, angst fic, comfort fic, you name it! 🍪) Don’t worry about how crazy it sounds. If it’s an idea you like, I’ll do my best to make it cozy. So send your idea and let’s make some cinnamon-sweet magic together! However please keep in mind, my requests take a bit long to complete and go through as I prefer focusing on my own ideas first and more!
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ok so hear me out, genius!reader x spencer. so they’ve been best friends for about two years since reader joined the bau (also lowkey but not really lowkey in love with each other) . one night when they’re sharing a bed (it can be like a regular occurrence or they can just be sharing a hotel room during a case) but anyways they’re just talking and stuff and they get to talking about relationships and how neither one of them really got to have a normal relationship growing up since they were both child prodigys. then, somehow one of them ends up revealing they’re still a virgin and the other reveals that so are they. then reader is all self conscious and she’s talking about how losing it now would feel all weird cause everyone else knows what they’re doing and she’d just feel weird. then spencer is like agreeing with her and everything and he’s like yeah but i wouldn’t mind losing mine to you and perhaps some confessions and smut happen from there? idk it’s up to you.
SLOWLY, CAREFULLY - Spencer Reid
It’s just past ten at night, and the hotel room smells faintly of cocoa from the little chocolate wrappers scattered across the bed. You’re sitting cross legged in your sweatpants and an oversized BAU hoodie, nibbling on a square of dark chocolate.
Spencer’s beside you, legs crossed too, in grey joggers and a loose button up shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair sticking up like he forgot it existed for the day.
You’re both laughing over something absurd-Spencer trying, and failing, to mimic Rossi’s dramatic “in my day” story voice and it’s loud enough to bounce off the walls.
“-and then he actually pulled a shoe off a chair to hit the guy!” Spencer snorts, pointing at you. “I swear, the man thinks he’s in a spaghetti Western!”
You giggle, chocolate melting on your tongue. “He would! Honestly, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t have tried the same thing if someone was about to steal your lunch.”
“I probably would’ve calculated the trajectory first,” he says, grinning, clearly proud of his nerdy logic.
You roll your eyes, shoving another piece of chocolate in your mouth. “Please, you’d still miss and end up embarrassing yourself. Like that time you-"
“-broke the plane model in the conference room?” He groans dramatically. “I still say it was a structural flaw!”
You laugh so hard you almost snort.
After a beat, you both settle, chocolate crumbs littering the bed. Spencer leans back against the headboard, and you do the same, shoving your feet under the covers. “Hey,” you say suddenly, voice softer now, still smiling, “do you ever think about… normal stuff?”
He blinks, tilts his head, and raises an eyebrow. “Normal stuff?”
“Yeah,” you shrug, chocolate forgotten. “Dating. Relationships. Hanging out without everyone knowing your GPA by age twelve. You know… human stuff.”
Spencer’s eyes widen slightly, but there’s no judgment in them, only that spark of curiosity that always makes you feel safe talking. “Ah,” he murmurs, grinning. “I do think about it… in, uh, theoretical scenarios.”
You nudge him playfully. “Don’t you dare say ‘statistically’.”
He laughs, that soft, warm laugh that makes your chest flutter. “But for me it is statistically. But sometimes… not statistically.”
You tilt your head, smirking. “I like that. Not statistically. Sounds… manageable.”
“Manageable is good,” he says, eyes locking on yours with that tilt of seriousness that always gets you. “Especially if it’s with someone you trust.”
You nibble your lip, a little shy. “I feel like I missed it,” you admit, voice dropping just enough that it’s intimate. “Like… everyone else figured it out younger. Now, if I tried, it would just feel awkward. Like everyone else knows things I don’t.”
He frowns softly. “I don’t think that makes you behind.”
“Yeah, you’d say that,” you counter, grinning.
“No, I mean it,” he says earnestly.
You glance at him, caught between amusement and warmth. “Have you… had that normal experience?” you ask quietly, almost hesitant.
Spencer hesitates, and you can practically see him calculating before he finally admits, “No.”
Your eyes widen. “Wait… really?”
He nods, sheepish but honest. “Really.”
Something twists in your chest—relief, disbelief, a strange warmth. “Okay… that makes me feel slightly less like an alien,” you confess.
He laughs softly. “Good. I thought you already knew-me and you grew up the same.”
You pause, then whisper, “I think I’d hate it if I was with… someone who knew what they were doing and I didn’t. I’d just feel… dumb.”
“You wouldn’t,” he assures you immediately, hand hovering near yours on the bed. “Not with me.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Be honest.”
“I am.” he says. “You wouldn’t feel dumb. You’d just be… learning. And the person worth it wouldn’t make you feel anything else.”
You swallow, chocolate forgotten in your lap, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel heavy but not uncomfortable. Spencer shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing yours in that quiet, familiar way.
“Spencer…” you start, voice low, hesitant. “Do you want that for yourself too? Like, dating… or just… I don’t know… being with someone?”
He blinks, then smiles softly. “Sometimes,” he says, almost shyly. “I imagine… how it would be, I guess. Not like a case, not like… everything else. Just… normal.”
You nod slowly. “Yeah. That’s exactly it. Normal… I don’t even know what that’s like.” You shrug, cheeks warming. “Everyone else seems to know what they’re doing. I’d just… mess it up.”
“I don’t think you would,” he says quietly. “Not really. You’d just…nfigure it out. And with the right person… it wouldn’t feel weird.”
You glance at him, caught off guard by how serious he sounds, how soft his eyes are. “The right person… huh?”
He shrugs, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Yeah. Someone who… actually cares.”
You bite your lip, trying to hide the flutter in your chest. “I… I don’t even know if I’d want to try it with anyone else. It’d feel… wrong. But with someone you trust… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”
Spencer exhales, that soft nervous sound that makes your stomach twist in anticipation. “I… I think I’d want it to be with you,” he says, words slow, deliberate.
Your eyes widen, heart hammering. “You… really?”
He nods, almost painfully earnest. “Yeah. With you.”
A breath escapes you, shaky and small. “I… I wouldn’t mind either.”
Silence settles, but it’s not empty. It’s charged, thick, warm. He leans a fraction closer, hand brushing yours lightly. You don’t pull away.
Fingers lace naturally, knees brushing, warmth radiating between you. The chocolate wrappers, the dim lamp, the quiet hum of the hotel room; all of it fades.
It’s just the two of you, suspended in that slow, thrilling moment where nothing else matters, and the world feels impossibly small and perfect.
You stay like that for a moment, just holding hands, letting the warmth of him seep through your fingers. Spencer’s thumb brushes over the back of your hand slowly, tentatively, like he’s testing how it feels. You bite your lip, trying not to make a noise, heart hammering.
“So,” you murmur, barely above a whisper, “does this mean… we’re… experimenting?”
He chuckles softly, a nervous, airy laugh that makes your chest tighten. “I… don’t know,” he admits, eyes flicking down to your joined hands. “I guess… whatever feels right. Slowly. Carefully.”
“Careful is good,” you say, grin tugging at your lips. “I like careful.”
He smiles faintly, and the corner of his mouth quirks in that way that always makes your stomach flip. “I like you,” he blurts suddenly, voice soft but firm. “A lot. More than… probably I should.”
You freeze for a second, then laugh quietly, the sound shaking a little from nerves. “I was gonna say the same thing,” you confess. “Way more than I… I should, maybe.”
He swallows, blinking at you with that guarded, wide-eyed expression that always makes him seem impossibly vulnerable. “Really?”
“Really,” you nod, heart pounding. “I… I like everything about this. About us. Even… this.” You squeeze his hand gently.
Spencer’s breath hitches slightly. His other hand moves, hovering near yours, hesitant, then brushing against your wrist. “Even if… it’s… new?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” you whisper, leaning a fraction closer. “Especially if it’s new. With you.”
His eyes soften, and he swallows audibly, lips parting as if he wants to say something else but isn’t sure how. “I think… I like this,” he says finally. “I like… us.”
You smile, cheeks hot, and inch just a little closer, knees brushing more intentionally now. “Me too,” you whisper.
For a moment, the room is still except for the quiet sound of your breathing and the faint hum of the hotel AC. You can feel his warmth, the subtle weight of him leaning slightly toward you, his fingers still entwined with yours. Every small touch, every accidental brush sends sparks that make your chest flutter uncontrollably.
Spencer shifts a fraction closer, and you do too, almost imperceptibly. “Can I…” he starts, voice soft and careful, “can I kiss you?”
Your heart nearly stops, but all you can do is nod, barely. “Yes.”
He leans in, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull back. You don’t. His lips brush yours lightly at first, testing, gentle, soft. Your hand tightens around his, pulling him closer just a fraction. The kiss deepens slowly, carefully, neither rushing, savouring the moment, the warmth, the trust.
When you finally pull back just enough to look at each other, both of you are breathless, cheeks flushed. He rests his forehead against yours, smiling softly.
“You’re… amazing,” he whispers.
“You’re pretty good yourself.” you tease, laughing quietly, still caught in the dizzying closeness.
And just like that, everything changes; small, tender, irreversible, but perfect.
The next morning, the sunlight sneaks lazily through the hotel blinds, painting stripes across the bed. You stir first, tangled in the sheets, and notice Spencer still asleep beside you, hair tousled, chest rising and falling steadily.
For a moment, you just watch him, heart fluttering. Somehow, last night feels even more surreal in the soft morning light. Fingers still lightly intertwined, you let your hand rest there, warm and comforting.
Spencer stirs, mumbling something incoherent, eyes half opening. He blinks at you, then smiles that shy, vulnerable smile you’ve come to know so well. “Morning,” he whispers.
“Morning,” you reply softly, voice husky from sleep and last night’s excitement.
He shifts closer, just enough that your shoulders touch, but still careful, as if testing boundaries even in the quiet. “Did… did everything feel… okay?” he asks, voice small, earnest.
You nod, brushing your thumb over his hand. “Yeah. Perfect, actually.”
His lips twitch into a tentative grin. “Good… I wasn’t sure.”
You laugh quietly, tilting your head to look at him. “You really overthink everything, don’t you?”
“Maybe,” he admits, cheeks heating. “But only about… important things.”
“Important things?” you tease, voice soft. “Like… me?”
His gaze drops to your hands, then back to your eyes, and he swallows. “Yeah,” he admits. “Like… you.”
Your chest tightens, and you can’t resist leaning a fraction closer. “I like… you too,” you whisper, letting your forehead brush against his.
He exhales, fingers squeezing yours gently. “I think… I’ve liked you for a long time. Even before… last night.”
Your heart stutters. “Me too,” you confess, smiling despite the warmth rushing to your cheeks. “I just… didn’t know how to say it.”
For a long moment, you both just stay like that, foreheads touching, hands clasped, sharing the quiet intimacy of a space that feels suspended in time.
Then Spencer moves his hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek. You lean into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for a second, savouring the softness, the care, the gentle electricity.
“You’re… incredible,” he murmurs.
“You’re the incredible one.” you tease again, your lips twitching into a grin.
He laughs softly, the sound like a warm melody filling the small space between you. “I could get used to this,” he says.
You smile, leaning a little closer, just enough that your shoulders press together. “Me too,” you whisper. “Me too.”
And just like that, morning stretches into quiet laughter, small touches, and whispered confessions. The rest of the world fades away; planes, cases, everything but the two of you remain, suspended in this slow, perfect closeness that neither of you want to end.
summary = Spencer leaves for a case right before your small argument and you spend two days missing him and calling to hear his voice. Later the night, Agent Jareau calls with unexpected news.
Spencer packed like he was preparing for impact.
Everything had a place. Everything had weight. He pressed his palm flat against the inside of the suitcase before zipping it, testing the distribution as if turbulence might rearrange the laws of physics mid-flight.
The bedroom light was too warm. You’d mentioned it before. It cast a honey-colored glow over the walls and made the space feel smaller than it was. He didn’t change it. He rarely changed small discomforts. He endured them.
You stood near the dresser, arms folded loosely, watching him move.
Three days, he’d said earlier. Possibly four.
Possibly.
He adjusted the strap on his satchel and paused, a small motion that betrayed his nerves. He hadn’t looked at you yet, but you knew him well enough to feel the weight of that silence.
“You didn’t tell me it was solo,” you said, low and careful.
He finally looked at you. “It was decided this afternoon.”
Information delivered in fragments. Clean. Efficient. Minimal.
“You’ll be alone with local PD?”
“Yes.”
You nodded, but something tight coiled in your chest.
Cases had been heavier lately. You could see it in him. The way he lingered in the doorway before coming inside. The way he washed his hands longer than necessary. The way he stared at nothing while you spoke, then blinked back into the room.
He hadn’t been cruel. Not distant in any obvious, dramatic way.
Just thinner.
Like parts of him were being rationed.
The quiet stretched.
“Spence,” you said softly.
He looked at you, fully. That guarded layer was there. Not cold. Not unloving. Just protected.
“You’ve been somewhere else lately." you said.
His jaw shifted slightly. “Work has been intense.”
“I know,” you said. And you did. You always knew when the cases were bad.
“I just,” You hesitated. “I don’t want to feel like I only get what’s left.”
That landed.
He straightened slightly. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“I’m not saying it is on purpose,” you whispered.
Silence.
“You think I care more about the job,” he said quietly.
“I think the job takes more from you than you admit,” you said.
He swallowed. His shoulders tightened.
“I don’t know how to do this differently,” he admitted.
Your chest ached.
You stepped closer, close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes. “I don’t need you to be different. I just need you to let me see you.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “I am letting you see me.”
“Not the hard parts,” you said.
A long pause stretched between you.
“I leave at six,” he said softly. Not leaving yet. Just stating the fact. But not facing the full truth.
“I’ll be back in a few days,” he murmured.
You nodded.
He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your temple.
The air between you held the shape of words neither of you spoke.
You went to bed together later, the weight of unspoken things hanging heavy but familiar.
He pulled you close, arm around your shoulders. You fit against him, hand resting lightly on his chest.
You held each other to sleep.
And for now, that was enough.
Tomorrow, at six, he would leave.
But tonight, you were here. Together.
It had been two days since Spencer left. Two days since he stepped out at six in the morning leaving you with a kiss on the forehead and left the apartment feeling impossibly empty.
You sat on the edge of the bed, a stack of his folded sweatshirts in your lap. Each one carried the faint scent of him. Soap, his cologne, the warmth of his body lingering in the fabric. You pressed one to your cheek and closed your eyes, letting memories drift through you like pages in a book.
The night before he left, the quiet weight of the apartment had been different. You remembered the way he’d kissed your temple softly, how he’d murmured he’d call when he landed.
You remembered holding him to sleep afterward, the familiar press of his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing against your hand.
And then he left.
You tried not to think about him. Tried to keep busy. But every folded sweatshirt pulled you back to him. One was soft, stretched slightly at the sleeves from where he tugged at it when he was thinking. Another smelled faintly of his shampoo from the shower.
You pressed them to your face, smiling despite yourself, thinking of quiet mornings, shared coffees, his careful explanations of obscure statistics, the way he’d brush hair out of his eyes when he was nervous.
You sighed.
You couldn’t wait for him to call. There were days you weren't able to contact him during cases, you knew that. But you couldn’t let this drift. Not when your chest ached for him, not when your mind rewound every word you’d left unsaid.
You stood, stretching, sweatshirts still in your hands.
“I’m going to call him,” you whispered to the empty apartment. “I’m going to fix this. I have to. Because I love him too much to wait.”
You dialed. Your fingers shook slightly as the line rang.
The sound of his voice when he answered made your heart stutter.
“Hey.” he said, quiet, tired.
“Hi.” you breathed.
“Are you okay?”
You smiled, a little sad, a little relieved. “I’m better now. I missed you.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then his voice, soft, careful, like he was trying to measure every word so he wouldn’t break. “I missed you too. I’ve been thinking about you so much.”
You sank back onto the bed, holding the phone close. The world had fallen away. It was just you and him.
“I’ve been thinking too.." you said, voice low. “I don’t want us to drift like that again. Especially not before your cases.”
“I don’t either. I hate leaving you with bad thoughts about us,” he murmured. There was a faint smile in his voice you could hear, a warmth that made your chest ache and lighten all at once.
You laughed softly, relieved, your hand pressed to your chest. “I love you, Spencer.”
“I love you too,” he whispered. “More than anything.”
And for the first time since he’d left, the knot of worry in your stomach loosened, just slightly. You could picture him on the other end of the line, sitting somewhere alone, probably holding his own hand over his heart, thinking of you too.
The call was spent softly and carefully, laughing over tiny jokes, reminding each other of moments only the two of you shared, and it mattered more than anything.
By the time you hung up, the apartment felt fuller again, alive with his presence even though he was miles away.
And you were still worried. How could you not? But you felt closer than you had in days. You felt ready to fight for this, for him, for the quiet love that held you both together even when the world tried to pull you apart.
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The absence of Spencer made every sound sharper. The hum of the fridge, the creak of the floor, even the shadows felt heavier.
You moved through the room lightly, almost embarrassed at how much hearing his voice had lifted you. Even over the phone, it lingered in your chest. His soft tone. The careful cadence. That faint laugh you could still hear in your head.
You replayed it while brushing your teeth. The tilt of his head. His fingers fidgeting. You smiled, fragile but real. Relief that was temporary, but enough.
Back in bed, for the first time in two days, you slept without waking every hour. Without counting minutes. Without imagining him alone. You felt comforted.
Then the phone rang at 2am.
It wasn’t him.
Your heart stopped.
“Hello?”
“Is this…?”
It was Agent Jareau.
She never called you directly. Not at this hour.
Your stomach dropped.
“There’s been an incident,” she said carefully.
Your chest tightened.
“What kind of incident?” you asked.
“An explosion at the site they were investigating,” she explained.
While you slept. While you dreamed. While you were thinking of him.
“He’s missing."
A/N = sorry for no posts...
TAG LIST = @eliscannotdance @tokalotashiz @book-nerd-fan-girl @cupidletterss @summerobertsvariant
summary = While going through a restricted room for files, Spencer and Reader are nearly caught. To protect what they’ve discovered, she whispers one impossible request "kiss me". And suddenly what starts as a cover becomes something far harder to fake.
content warning = kissing and making out but no smut. just touchy Spencer being needy without realisation.
The precinct air felt heavier at night. The room light was harsh and sterile, the kind that made everything feel more exposed than it should be. You were leaning over the conference table, palms flat against the surface, pulse a little too fast for how still you were trying to stay.
Hotch stood at the head of the room, arms folded, jaw tight. His gaze kept flicking between you and Spencer. He could sense it, not just the tension from the case, but something else. You hoped he didn’t name it. You couldn’t afford to have it named.
Spencer was next to you. Too close, honestly. You could feel the heat radiating from his arm, the light pressure of his sleeve brushing yours when he shifted. It was stupid. Three years in the BAU and you were still like this. Still ridiculously aware of every small movement he made, every time his voice dipped low when he was thinking out loud, every time he met your eyes like he didn’t mean to, like he couldn’t help it.
You were here to talk about the case. That was the whole point. And yet all you could think about was how it felt standing beside him, how the sharp scent of his aftershave mixed with the paper and dust and tension hanging in the room.
You tried to focus.
“There’s something they’re not telling us Hotch" you said, your voice sharper than intended.
Hotch raised an eyebrow. “Specifics?”
You hesitated, just long enough to feel Spencer’s eyes on you. His silence wasn’t passive, it never was. It was heavy. Calculated. A sign that he was either about to say something you’d been trying not to admit to yourself, or that he wanted you to be the one to say it first.
So you did. “Something's off not just about this case but this whole secrecy between the officers.” you said. “The way they’re handling this… they’re not just uncooperative. It’s like they’re trying to control what we see.”
Hotch didn’t answer right away. His eyes were locked on you, analytical, reading between the lines the same way he always did. You felt Spencer shift slightly beside you, hands in the pockets of his cardigan, brows drawn as he looked down at the files again.
“And there are gaps in every report,” Spencer said, his voice quiet but steady. “They’re too clean. Too consistent to be random. Like someone edited them before we even got access.”
He leaned in a little, fingers brushing lightly over the corner of the crime scene photo as he pointed to a timestamp. “This is the second scene. They said the footage was corrupted… but this mark.. see that? That’s from a recorder pause. Manual. Someone stopped the tape.”
You nodded, swallowing hard. It wasn’t fear exactly. It was pressure. The tight, growing weight in your chest that something about this case was much bigger than what was written in ink. Your heart was already pounding a little too fast, but not just because of the evidence. It was because of him.
The fluorescent light caught the soft angles of his face and the way his jaw tensed when he was concentrating, the small furrow in his brow. His hair had fallen slightly over his forehead again, and you felt that stupid, familiar ache start to crawl up your spine.
You’d liked him since the beginning truthfully. Since that awkward, rainy morning three years ago when you walked into Quantico for the first time and he offered you coffee without ever looking directly at you.
It had started slow with quiet admiration, long glances, late night case talks and his comforting words to make you feel better. He was in BAU for a few years before you joined, he knew how things worked and how badly it affects you in the beginning. Therefore he was always ready to show his support towards you. But it wasn't just calming words to you. It was something more.
Now, watching him piece together the parts of something dangerous, watching the way his brain worked through layers and lies, it hit you all over again. Hard.
You didn’t realize you were staring until he glanced up.
His eyes met yours.
Sharp. Soft. Curious.
There was a flicker of something behind them, something unreadable but far from indifferent. And suddenly the air between you felt different. Not heavy. Not cold.
Just… charged. And you wonder if he feels that same feeling inside your chest like butterflies are everywhere and for a second everything but his fades away.
Then Hotch’s phone buzzed. The moment snapped.
He answered with that clipped, professional tone, then tapped the screen to put the call on speaker. Garcia’s voice crackled through, bright but serious.
“Okay, boss. You’re not gonna like this. I did a bit of digging after you sent me those scans and guess what our sweet little department’s been hiding?”
Hotch looked at you and Spencer, jaw set. “What did you find?”
“A whole ass room, that’s what I found,” Garcia said. “It’s buried in the building’s floor plans, looks like a completely normal room. No surveillance, no active logins. Just… nothing. Like it’s locked off from everyone. But someone’s using it. And I've found out It’s where they’re keeping files that don’t show up in their regular system.”
Spencer looked up sharply. You could already see the wheels turning in his head.
“Someone doesn’t want us in there,” he said under his breath.
“Exactly,” Garcia replied. “Which means you have to get in. The door should be open right now until 5pm. Which means you better hurry up before they close it off for the night”
Hotch didn’t hesitate. “Reid. You’re going in. Take her with you.”
You blinked. Spencer looked over at you.
The weight of his eyes again. Not soft this time. Serious. And Something about the way Hotch said it felt heavier than it should’ve.
Spencer straightened his shoulders and nodded. “We’ll find it.”
You swallowed the nerves crawling up your throat. It wasn’t the hidden room that made your heart beat faster.
It was going in there with him.
The hallway beyond the main bullpen was poorly lit, lined with locked doors and empty desks that hadn’t seen use in years. You could still hear the low murmur of officers talking in the squad room a floor below. Too many bodies, too many eyes. But Hotch had bought you a window, and it wouldn’t last long.
Spencer walked ahead of you, quiet and quick. His posture was a little stiff, like he knew you weren’t supposed to be here but he was going anyway. That part didn’t surprise you. He always followed the rules… until he didn’t. You’d seen it more than once on cases like this when something about the math didn’t add up, when the facts refused to sit still. That’s when he changed. Still soft-spoken, still polite… but sharp. Focused. Unflinching.
The badge clipped to your hip swung slightly as you walked. It wouldn’t help you here. Not in this situation where everyone is hiding the reality of the case from agents.
“Wait,” you whispered, grabbing Spencer’s arm gently just before the corner.
He paused, turning his head just enough to hear you, and you could feel the warmth of his body even with the space between you. It was stupid, but your fingers tingled where they’d brushed his sleeve. You dropped your hand.
“Two officers coming down the west stairs,” you murmured.
Spencer nodded once, barely perceptible, then leaned in closer than necessary to point toward a side door you hadn’t noticed before. “Janitor’s closet. Connects to the file corridor. If we cut through, we can reach the archive wing from behind.”
You blinked. “You sure?”
He gave the faintest smile. “I memorized the blueprint Garcia sent.”
Of course he did.
You slipped in behind him, pressing the door shut just as footsteps echoed down the hallway behind you. Inside, it smelled like bleach and old paper towels. Dark. Cramped. Close.
You could feel his breath. Hear the tiny inhale he tried to stifle when your shoulder accidentally brushed his chest.
You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
By the time you reached the sealed corridor Garcia mentioned, your pulse was back under control.. barely. The hallway here was silent. No cameras. No badge scanner, just an old room with a cracked door.
Spencer stepped forward, fingers gliding over the handle pushing it down slowly until the door creaked open.
Inside, it was dusty like nobody's entered it in weeks. Room reeking of poor insulation and secrets. Metal shelves lined the walls, stacked with unlabeled folders, worn tape reels, and scattered evidence boxes. At the side of the room, a waist-high counter stretched beneath a long strip of flickering fluorescent light.
“We won’t have much time,” you said, but your voice felt far away. You quickly started searching for the box of documents you needed to find.
Because the moment you stepped fully inside, something changed.
It was the silence. The proximity. The fact that you and Spencer were suddenly alone, surrounded by sealed truths and flickering shadows. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just another room, just another case, and that the flutter in your stomach was from adrenaline.
But it wasn’t.
"I found it." Spencer called out, his voice pulling you back to your feet as you make your way back to the front of the room.
You moved toward the counter, trying to shake it off. Focus. That’s all you had to do. You weren’t the type to swoon over someone just because they smelled like old books and stood too close in the dark. You weren’t seventeen.
You hoisted yourself up onto the counter, hoping your knees wouldn't feel so weak anymore. Boots thudding softly against the metal as you settled on the edge. Casual. Confident. Or so you hoped.
Spencer didn’t sit. He stood beside you, shoulder inches from your knee, fingers flipping carefully through the packet he’d pulled from the shelf.
“This is it,” he said, thumbing the corner of a faded document. “These files, none of them were scanned into the system. These are the originals.”
You leaned toward him without realizing it. The scent of his cologne, barely there, clean, something warm, hit you again, and you had to focus on the folder in your lap to keep from looking at him.
He kept reading, shifting a little closer without meaning to. His arm brushed your leg this time.
Neither of you moved.
The air felt heavier here. Not dangerous, just… charged. Like even though you were both focusing on the yet to be solved case, you understood there's unspoken words yet to be said.
You wondered if he noticed. If he felt it, too.
But Spencer was impossible to read. His eyes stayed on the files, mouth slightly parted in concentration. But there was a faint flush at the edge of his collar. Barely there. But real.
You turned a page, pretending not to notice. Pretending you weren’t thinking about how easy it would be to reach over. To tuck that curl behind his ear. To say something you couldn’t take back.
But instead, you cleared your throat.
“Anything useful?”
Spencer blinked, almost startled. Then nodded. “Very. Did you find anything?”
Still no distance between you. "Just the information we already have"
Still no words about it yet he hums in agreement.
The door had clicked shut behind you both just ten minutes ago. You and Spencer stood alone in the dim room, lit only by the buzzing fluorescents overhead.
“This is insane,” you muttered under your breath, flipping through one of the file boxes on the shelf. “I mean, this whole section’s been completely hidden from any reports.”
“Not just hidden,” Spencer said from beside you, pulling out another manila folder. “Look at this... These are from the original investigation. Some of these witness statements never made it into the official file we were given.”
You turned and leaned against the metal counter, trying to act unaffected trying to ignore how close he was to you now, how warm his voice was even when he was being clinical. "I can't believe they'd think that we wouldn't be able to find out about this."
He stood only a foot away. His eyes flicked over the page in his hands, jaw tensed, brows pulled tight. You’d known Spencer for three years now. Joined the BAU together. Watched him from the other side of glass, from across motel rooms, jet seats, crime scenes.
You wanted to say something, but you got distracted again just watching the way his lips moved while he read.
It wasn’t fair. You bottled up so many emotions towards him, of course sometimes there's gonna be cracks and you can't hold back.
But he was so focused. So serious. And all you could think about was how badly you wanted to run your thumb along the edge of his jaw. How your stomach kept flipping every time he looked at you for too long.
You were about to say something anything when footsteps echoed down the hallway.
You both froze.
Spencer’s hand tightened around the folder. You turned your head slowly toward the slightly ajar door — and that’s when you hear it.
An officer talking into a radio, his footsteps getting closer and closer with the keys dangling in his hand.
You didn’t even breathe.
His voice carried faintly as he muttered something into his mic maybe checking in with someone, maybe just stopping to listen.
The door was open enough that if he glanced in. if he took one step closer, he’d see everything.
The documents. The open drawers. You. Him.
Your pulse spiked hard in your ears. You looked at Spencer. His jaw was clenched, eyes wide but actions swift as he moved the documents behind the now closed box. As if not one document left that box in the first place.
But you both knew there's no excuse for you being there regardless of that closed box. There's no reason you could've went to a floor that's not in use, lights off, door barely open.
And then, without thinking, you grabbed his sleeve, pulling him between your legs and whispered:
“Spencer, kiss me.”
He turned so fast it was almost comical. “What?!”
“He’s gonna look in here,” you said in a rush. “We have no excuse, no way of leaving. Pretend we're- you know..”
Spencer’s mouth opened, stunned silent, eyes darting between your face and the doorway. “I-”
And then he moved.
He stepped forward, fast and sharp, and suddenly he was pressed up against you, hand braced against the counter beside your hip. The other one found your waist—awkward at first, but then steady.
Then his lips were on yours.
And just like that your brain short-circuited.
You hadn’t thought it through. Not the part where his breath would catch. Or the way his fingers tightened slightly, unsure, until you kissed him back. The heat of his chest against yours. The way his lips were soft but nervous, like he didn’t know how to fake this kind of thing, because maybe he’d never wanted to fake it.
You heard movement outside.
But you didn’t stop. Because his hands became greedy, pulling you closer by your waist. Your legs now wrapped around him, hand tugging on his perfect curls as he whimpers into your mouth from the feeling.
He leaned in more. Letting you touch him, letting you feel his soft hair as your other hand slid up his chest, curling lightly into the collar of his shirt.
And that’s when the door creaked wide open. Right when his hands fiddled with the top buttons on your shirt, completely forgetting about the officer, the case, the documents and where you were. His mind was filled with you.
“Oh—uh—whoa.”
You barely pulled away, still taking one last second of that kiss to cherish when you've cleared your head.
The officer stood in the doorway, blinking at the sight of you tangled together.
“Well… that’s one way to kill time on shift,” he said, laughing under his breath.
You broke the kiss and turned quickly, trying to hide your red face in Spencer’s shoulder. “Oh my god Spence I told you we were being reckless,” you said, feigning flustered giggles. Trying to hide the reality between what was actually going on.
Spencer stammered something like, “Sorry.. uh-we didn’t mean to-”
The officer held up a hand, shaking his head. “You agents are all the same. I’ll let it slide, but this room’s off limits. Go somewhere else and take your, uh… moment, somewhere else too.”
You laughed nervously again, until you felt Spencer's hand tighten on you, picking you up before placing you back on the ground and pulling your hand in his. “C'mon.”
Spencer managed a crooked, helpless smile. the worst actor you’d ever seen and while you pretend to fix your clothes, the officer obviously feeling the need to face the other way, Spencer slowly slid one of the folders to the side with his sleeve as you shifted off the counter. Your hand stayed casually on top of the incriminating file, sliding it smoothly under your jacket.
The officer didn’t seem to notice.
Didn’t even glance at either of you anymore, simply focusing on locking the door the second Spencer stepped out the door.
As you two walked out, shoulders brushing, you could feel Spencer vibrating with tension beside you.
You kept your expression calm, playful. But your heart was still racing.
And behind the flush on his cheeks and the scatter in his breath, Spencer Reid looked like a man who was never, ever, going to forget that kiss.
A/N = if you enjoyed please check out my other works, im new and it'd really help out to see if I should continue if people are interested :)
Unrequited Love has me in a CHOKEHOLD!!! I love it sm. idk if you take requests for parts but if you make a part three, is it possible to include reader having some sort of chemistry with another guy (maybe a consultant or another agent) and Spencer has some feelings towards it but ultimately ignores them because “he shouldn’t feel this way, he’s got maeve”???
Thank you for reading I appreciate it! :)
There will be a part 3 and the idea is great since it's always reader feeling jealousy but never Spencer. He needs to feel some pain too HAHAHA
Spencer Reid loved you in the way he did most things: completely, thoughtfully, and a little too intensely for his own good.
You had been together long enough that the honeymoon phase had softened into something deeper, something steady. The kind of love that lived in routines. In shared mornings and late nights. In the way he reached for you without thinking, like it was muscle memory.
Right now, you were sitting on the couch in his apartment, legs tucked under you, flipping through a book you were not really reading. Spencer was at the table, papers spread everywhere, glasses low on his nose as he worked through something far more complicated than he would ever admit was stressing him out.
He looked unfairly good like this.
Sleeves rolled up, veins visible, tie discarded somewhere you would probably trip over later. His hair was slightly messy, like he had run a hand through it one too many times. There was something about him now that hit harder. Less awkward, more grounded. Still brilliant, still soft, but confident in a way that only came from being loved and knowing where he belonged.
He glanced up and caught you staring.
“What?” he asked, lips twitching.
You did not even try to lie. “You know exactly what.”
A faint flush crept up his neck, but he did not look away. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Statistically speaking, you have been looking at me for forty three seconds straight.”
“And statistically,” you replied sweetly, “you love it.”
He smiled then. Not the shy, boyish one. This was slower, warmer. The kind that belonged to a man who knew he was loved.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
Spencer was a good boyfriend in ways that mattered.
He remembered everything. Your coffee order, the way you liked the windows cracked even in winter, how you got quiet when you were overwhelmed. He never dismissed your feelings, never rushed you. When you talked, he listened like it was the most important thing in the world.
And when the job was heavy, when cases followed him home in the shadows behind his eyes, he did not shut you out anymore.
Sometimes he would come home exhausted, shoulders tight, jaw clenched. Those nights, you would sit with him on the bed while he loosened his tie, your hands gentle, grounding.
“You don’t have to explain,” you would murmur.
“I know,” he would say. Then pause. “But I want to.”
So he would. In pieces. In fragments. You would listen, fingers tracing circles on his wrist, and he would breathe easier just knowing you were there. Knowing he did not have to carry it alone.
Later, when sleep came hard, he would pull you close, arm solid around your waist.
“You make it quieter,” he once confessed into your hair. “In my head.”
You kissed his chest and whispered, “You make me feel safe.”
He never forgot that.
Out in public, Spencer was subtle, but devastating if you knew what to look for.
A hand at the small of your back as you walked into the bullpen. A quiet “you okay?” murmured just for you. The way his eyes always found you first in a room.
Sometimes Derek would smirk. JJ would raise an eyebrow.
“Reid,” Derek said once, watching Spencer lean down to murmur something that made you laugh softly. “You are down bad.”
Spencer did not even look embarrassed. He just straightened, calm and composed.
“I am actually very happy,” he said.
Which somehow shut everyone up.
At home, though, that was where he unraveled.
He would press you against the kitchen counter just to steal a kiss. Long, slow, unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be. His hands were warm, confident, familiar.
“You know,” he murmured against your lips one night, “I used to think love was supposed to be chaotic. Intense. Overwhelming.”
“And now?” you asked.
He rested his forehead against yours. “Now I think it is this. Choosing each other every day. Feeling calm. Feeling sure.”
You smiled, heart full. “You are still intense.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Only about you.”
Later, tangled in sheets, his fingers traced idle patterns along your arm.
“I cannot imagine my life without you,” he said softly, like it was a simple fact. “And that does not scare me anymore.”
You turned to face him, brushing hair from his eyes. “Good. Because I am not going anywhere.”
He kissed you then. Not rushed, not desperate. Just deep and sure and full of everything unspoken.
Spencer Reid loved like that.
Steady. Devoted. A little nerdy, a little lethal, endlessly soft with you.
Hello, this is the first time I have made a request, so I apologize if it is a little poorly done. I
I wanted to request a third part of the fanfic with Spencer Reid "UNREQUITED LOVE," in which she continues with her life and for things of fate she and her lifelong best friend end up falling in love and even getting married and maybe even expecting a baby, Spencer as usual realizes things late (and through the intervention of certain characters) that in reality if he loved her romantically, so the only thing left is to see from afar the whole process by which she forgets him.
Also, it is based on seasons before Spencer went to prison (as the 9th), and reader is the same age as Spencer.
As I wrote this, I realized that if you could do it all from the perspective of Spencer, it would be wonderful. Sorry if it sounds crazy, I just got into the character a little bit and I love how in the fics someone outside the reader suffers long after they hurt Reader first.
Postscript: Sorry if there are spelling mistakes or what I say does not make much sense, it is that English is not my language.
Postscript 2: You write amazing ♥️✨️
Hello!! I understand you completely don't worryyy and thank you for reading :)
Part 3 of unrequited love is happening for sure but I won't be taking requests for it because I already have it all planned out. I appreciate the thought and ideas I get though! It's fun to go through them and they do give me inspiration and motivation for the story to continue.
And I love that idea of hurt and regret, especially with reader being so stuck and Spencer staying fully loyal to Maeve at the moment. It does seem like it'd be good for reader to move on and let go doesn't it
About Spencer's pov, I do have a few little paragraphs after the elevator scene that's his pov :) I probably should've pointed it out more but I also thought it was kind of obvious since it's in italics!
Hiiiii hope you’re doing good!! idk why but I was just thinking how funny it’d be if Reid walked in and found reader in total spa mode face mask, bonnet, the whole thing and she’s all embarrassed lol like so domestic, hope u like the idea!!
SPA NIGHT WITH SPENCER
summary = caught mid face mask and mortified, she expects teasing but Spencer joins her next time instead. Laughter, lotion, and messy curls lead to quiet smiles and tangled robes, a night full of their love.
Reid didn’t knock.
Which, in hindsight, was a mistake.
He pushed the apartment door open mid thought, already halfway through a sentence about recidivism rates and cortisol levels, only to stop dead in the doorway.
You were on the couch.
Bonnet on.
Face mask fully applied; green, thick, unmistakably alarming.
Wrapped in his oversized hoodie and a fluffy robe like you were preparing to hibernate.
A candle flickered on the coffee table beside a mug that smelled faintly like chamomile.
Silence.
You looked up slowly.
Your eyes widened.
“Oh my god,” you groaned, immediately slapping both hands over your face. “No. Nope. You were not supposed to see this. Spence, please pretend I’m not here.”
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“…Is that.." he said carefully, "A bentonite clay mask? Or charcoal?”
You made a muffled noise through your hands that might’ve been a scream. “Why are you like this.”
“I’m just asking,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him, voice gentle but curious. “Charcoal is better for oil absorption, but clay masks tend to-"
“Reid.”
“Yes?”
“I look like a swamp creature.”
He tilted his head, studying you in that familiar, earnest way that made your chest ache. “I wouldn’t say that. More like… someone engaging in restorative self care rituals.”
You peeked at him between your fingers. “You’re not weirded out?”
“Why would I be?” He shrugged out of his coat, setting his satchel down.
“Statistically, people who maintain routines like this report lower stress levels. Also,” his lips twitched "it’s kind of… nice.”
Nice.
Your embarrassment softened into something warmer, quieter.
“You’re allowed to laugh..." you muttered.
“I’m not laughing,” he said immediately. “I mean I admit.. I didn’t expect to come home to… this.” A beat. Softer. “But I like that you feel comfortable enough to do it here.”
You dropped your hands fully now, resigned. “I’ve got ten minutes before I can wash it off. If you make fun of me, I will never recover.”
He glanced at the mask, then at the small timer on your phone. “Actually,” he said, pulling out his watch, “most masks shouldn’t exceed twelve minutes. I can set a timer if you want.”
You stared at him.
Then smiled.
“…You’re unbelievable.”
“I get that a lot.”
He sat beside you, careful not to touch the mask, shoulder brushing yours.
And just before the timer went off, he added softly,
“If it makes you feel better, I wouldn't mind.. participating in your self care next time...”
Two weeks later, the bathroom looked like a crime scene of self care.
Two robes, Two face masks; yours a pale pink, Spencer’s a dubious grey that made him look like he’d lost a fight with wet cement.
Lotions, creams, a diffuser humming softly on the counter.
Spencer stared at his reflection, blinking slowly. “I look… unsettling.”
You glanced at him from where you were rubbing lotion into your arms. “You look relaxed. And slightly haunted.”
He exhaled. “That tracks.”
You shuffled closer, bumping his hip with yours. “Okay, lotion step. Don’t rush it. You have to warm it up first.”
“I know,” he said defensively, rubbing his hands together a little too fast. “Friction increases-"
“-blood flow, yes, I know,” you laughed. “But gentle, Spencer. You’re not polishing a table.”
He tried again, slower this time, carefully smoothing lotion over his arms with intense concentration. You watched him for a second, smiling.
“You’re taking this very seriously huh?"
“Well." he said, earnest even through the mask "if we’re doing it together, I want to do it correctly.”
Your heart did a small, stupid flip.
Once you were both sufficiently moisturized, you reached for the spray bottle and curl cream. “Okay. Hair time.”
His eyes widened. “Hair time?”
“Yep. You said you wanted to see why I take so long.”
“I didn’t realize it involved… techniques.”
You guided him to sit on the edge of the tub while you stood between his knees, gently misting his hair. “You have natural waves. You just don’t treat it right.”
“That’s… not the first time I’ve heard that..." he murmured.
You raked curl cream through his damp hair, scrunching gently. He flinched at first, then visibly relaxed as you moved onto the mousse.
“This feels… nice..." he admitted, his hands pulling you closer by your waist.
“See?” you said softly. “No brushing. No aggressive towel drying. We diffuse, we scrunch, we let it live.”
He tilted his head as you worked, face mask cracking slightly when he smiled. “You’re very… confident about this.”
“I’ve suffered enough trial and error for the both of us.”
When you finally stepped back, you both caught sight of yourselves in the mirror with matching robes, matching masks, his curls starting to form, your bonnet already on.
There was a pause.
Then Spencer said, very quietly,
“If anyone at work could see us right now…”
“They’d never believe it." you replied.
He huffed out a laugh, reaching for your hand. “Good.”
You leaned into him, foreheads touching carefully so the masks didn’t smear.
Domestic. Ridiculous. Perfect.
“Okay,” you said, peering at his hair like a scientist examining a rare specimen. “Now we diffuse.”
Spencer stiffened. “The… machine?”
“The gentle airflow device,” you corrected solemnly, lifting the diffuser. “Very important. Very serious.”
He watched you attach it to the hair dryer with suspicion. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
You turned it on low heat because you were both very intentional people and began hovering it near his curls, scrunching softly. The noise filled the bathroom, but Spencer’s grin was unmistakable even under the mask.
“This feels like being petted,” he said once you turned it off.
You gasped. “I was going to say pampered.”
“I don’t object to either.”
You laughed, full and unfiltered, nearly dropping the dryer. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet" he said, standing and gently tugging you closer by the sleeve of your robe, “you’re still doing my hair.”
“Because you’re compliant.”
“Because I trust you.”
That did it. You felt your cheeks warm as you reached up to adjust a curl that had flopped dramatically over his forehead. He watched you with that soft, open look that made everything feel smaller and safer.
“Do I look different?” he asked.
You tilted your head. “You look… cozy.”
He smiled. “I feel cozy.”
You both caught sight of yourselves in the mirror again, and this time you couldn’t help it, you snorted.
“Oh my god,” you wheezed. “We look like we’re about to host the world’s calmest podcast.”
“Or join a very specific cult,” Spencer added thoughtfully.
You doubled over laughing. “Stop-my mask is cracking!”
He reached out instinctively, thumbs hovering near your cheeks. “Don’t move. If it dries unevenly-"
“It’s fine!” you giggled, swatting his hands away gently. “It’s just a mask.”
He paused. “Can I-"He gestured vaguely. “Boop?”
“…Boop?”
He nodded seriously. “Just once.”
You rolled your eyes, still smiling. “Okay. One boop.”
He tapped your nose carefully, mask and all, then immediately flushed. “That was… better than expected.” You adore his fascination by the masks.
You laughed again, leaning into his chest.
He wrapped his arms around you, robe sleeves bunching awkwardly, face mask cool against your temple.
You stayed like that for a moment, swaying slightly, giggles fading into soft breaths.
Then the timer on your phone went off.
You both groaned in unison.
“Mask removal already?” Spencer sighed. “We were in a good phase.”
“Don’t worry,” you said, squeezing his hand. “Next time, we add under eye patches.”
His eyes lit up. “There are patches?”
You grinned. “Oh, Spencer. You have no idea.”
By the time you both crawled into bed, the apartment felt quieter somehow. Calmer. Like the world had finally agreed to leave you alone.
Spencer lay on his back, hair mostly dried now, curls doing exactly what you promised they would. You turned onto your side to look at him, chin propped on your hand, smiling without even realising it.
He caught you.
“…What?” he asked, already smiling back.
“You." you said simply. “Your hair worked.”
He lifted a hand, touching a curl cautiously, like it might disappear if he acknowledged it. “It’s… softer than usual.”
“Told you.”
A beat passed. Then another. The kind that felt warm instead of awkward.
You scooted closer, tucking yourself into his side, your head resting against his shoulder. He adjusted immediately, arm curling around you like it had always known where to go.
“This was a good night right?" he said quietly.
“Yeah," you agreed. “A really good one.”
He tilted his head so his temple rested against yours, noses brushing just slightly. You both smiled again, small, sleepy smiles that didn’t need words.
“You make things feel…” He paused, searching. “Normal. In a good way.”
Your chest softened. “You make things feel safe.”
His thumb traced absent little circles on your arm, slow and gentle. “We should do this again.”
"The masks or the cuddling?”
“Hm? Don't we cuddle every night already?” he questioned, a little shy.
You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I suppose you're right.”
The room dimmed as he reached over to turn off the lamp, but even in the dark you could feel his smile when he pulled you closer, your legs tangling naturally.
No rush. No noise.
Just the steady rhythm of breathing and the quiet certainty of being exactly where you were meant to be.
And before sleep took you both, Spencer murmured, barely above a whisper,
“Goodnight.”
You smiled into his chest.
“Goodnight, Spencer.”
A/N = Thank you for the request, it's so adorable I can imagine Spencer being such a caring boyfriend. 🥹
omg i loveeeee unrequited love !!! you write heartbreak so beautifully but ngl it's Spencer's turn, i hope reader dates somone else to move on and spencer gets insanely jealous, but ill love anything you'll put out!
I really appreciate that, thank you for reading 🙏
He's too into Maeve to get jealous atm lowkey but reader does need to move on baaad, she's so sad over him 💔
summary = He never saw how deeply she loved him, how much of herself she gave without asking for anything back. While he falls for someone new, she’s left choking on years of silence and unspoken feelings. One night alone in the office, the truth finally shatters between them… and nothing will ever be the same.
content warning = The original plot does not exist here, so Spencer and Maeve do meet and they go on the dates! Maeve does NOT appear as a character in the story therefore she is only referenced through mentions and conversations.
part ONE , masterlist
You don’t remember the walk to the elevator. You don’t remember pressing the button or stepping inside. You only remember the weight in your chest, the kind that feels like your body is holding its breath for you because you can’t.
You left without a coat even though it was cold, and the chill outside was sharp enough to make your skin sting, but you welcomed it. It felt real. It felt like something that could keep you grounded when everything inside you was splintering.
All you wanted was distance and enough space for your heartbeat to slow down, for the echo of your own voice to stop replaying in your skull.
You stood on the sidewalk, the city lights blurring into thin streaks of colour, and waited for the tears to come. They didn’t. You weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.
When you got home, you didn’t bother turning on the lights. You kicked your shoes off somewhere near the door and sank into bed still wearing your work clothes. You stared up at the ceiling, replaying every moment you wished you could take back. You expected your phone to buzz, half-dreading it, half-needing it… but nothing happened. The silence that followed was a cruel thing. It meant he wasn’t reaching for you, not even out of confusion or regret. And that, somehow, hurt more than anything you had said.
You didn’t sleep. Hours passed in slow, suffocating inches, and when the sun finally rose, you felt no different. Just tired. Just empty. Just done pretending.
You walked into the BAU that morning like someone wearing your skin. People looked at you differently, too softly, too carefully. Garcia’s greeting was fragile around the edges, and you bypassed her with an apology that never reached your tongue. Morgan didn’t give you his usual grin. He just nodded once, a look in his eyes that said I heard more than I ever wanted to. Blake gave you a sympathetic smile before looking away, and it was possibly the kindest way she could have acknowledged you without making everything worse.
Hotch noticed you the moment you stepped into the bullpen. He didn’t approach, didn’t pry but instead just watched you long enough to see the change, the way you carried your heartbreak like a shield.
"Briefing in five,” was all he said, voice low, like he was afraid if he spoke too loudly you might break.
And then Spencer walked in.
Late. Disheveled. Unsteady in a way you had never seen from him without pain somewhere behind it. His eyes were rimmed with the kind of red that only sleepless nights could paint. His tie was crooked like he’d put it on while his hands shook. When he saw you, he stopped. Not dramatically, instead just a small, startled pause, the kind that said he had already imagined this moment a hundred different ways and none of them prepared him for the real thing.
He didn’t walk toward you.
For the first time in years, he didn’t. And something inside you recognised that as a new kind of loss.
But you knew his intention was out of kindness. He knew there was space needed between the both of you, or else the tension would’ve felt suffocating throughout the room.
You sat through the briefing with your eyes fixed on the folder in front of you, pretending that every word wasn’t floating past unheard. Spencer spoke once, his voice cracking on a number he’d normally say without thinking. You didn’t react. You didn’t look up. But every second that passed between his question and your refusal to acknowledge him rang louder than any statistic ever could.
Work carried on, as it always did. You threw yourself into paperwork, focusing so hard you could almost pretend nothing inside you hurt. But every breath felt like a reminder that pretending wasn’t working anymore.
You waited to make coffee until you were sure he wasn’t around.
Except he was.
He stood a few feet away from the machine, holding a cup he clearly wasn’t drinking, staring at the floor like it had the answers he couldn’t find. When he noticed you approach, he looked up too fast, eyes wide with something that might have been fear or guilt or both. For a second, neither of you moved. It was painful, how familiar this place was and how strange you suddenly felt in it.
You stepped around him carefully, like he was something fragile and you couldn’t risk touching it.
“Excuse me,” you whispered your first words to him since last night and the way his breath hitched made your heart twist violently. His sleeve barely brushed yours as you turned away, and that tiny contact burned more than any confession ever could.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to apologise. Didn’t try to fill the void. He just stood there, silently unraveling, and you kept your eyes on the coffee stream as if staring hard enough could block out memories of every time you’d filled a second mug for him.
The day moved on, but nothing felt normal. The team walked on eggshells, everyone speaking softer, moving slower, terrified of pushing either of you over an edge you both hovered dangerously close to. You stayed quiet, forcing your face into calm you didn’t feel, and Spencer kept his head down, hands shaking whenever they weren’t busy.
It was awful.
It was necessary.
At some point in the late afternoon, you caught him staring. Not the casual way he used to glance over when he needed grounding, but a quiet, almost desperate stare like he was studying the person he’d known for years and suddenly couldn’t recognise anymore. His eyes held questions he didn’t dare ask. Yours held answers he would never want.
That was the shift.
The moment you understood that whatever you had been to each other; confidant, safe haven and constant was gone. Replaced by a silence thick enough to suffocate.
You wondered how long it’ll take until things are back to normal, back to how they were when you sat next to each other casually, knees touching, eyes locking, feelings unravelling naturally. Was it even possible for it to be normal again? Probably not, you think. Not with Maeve around anyway.
And the rest of the afternoon passes like that. In fragments. A question answered without thought. A file closed. A pen clicked absentmindedly against the desk until JJ gently reaches over and stills your hand with two fingers, offering a look that asks are you okay? without forcing you to answer.
You nod. Of course you do.
You’ve always been good at nodding.
It’s strange, the things you notice when you stop orbiting someone. The way the bullpen sounds different when you’re not listening for his voice. The way time stretches when you’re no longer waiting for a glance, or a shared look that says did you hear that too? You hadn’t realised how much of your day had been built around him until you removed yourself from the equation.
Spencer doesn’t come near you again. Not deliberately. Not accidentally. When he moves through the space, it’s like he’s learned a new geometry, one that bends around where you stand. You catch glimpses of him in reflections, in glass, in the periphery of your vision, but never directly in front of you. He speaks when necessary, keeps his tone careful, measured. Professional.
It shouldn’t hurt.
But it does.
Not sharply. Not the way it used to.
It’s duller now. Heavier. Like a bruise you keep pressing just to make sure it’s still there.
At some point, you realise something else too: you’re not bracing yourself anymore. Not for his footsteps, not for his voice, not for the inevitable way he used to lean toward you without realising it. Your body isn’t anticipating him the way it always has. And that realisation leaves you feeling unsteady in a way you can’t quite name.
When Hotch dismisses everyone for the evening, you don’t wait. You gather your things quickly, efficiently. No lingering. No unnecessary goodbyes. You’re halfway to the elevators when you hear your name. Soft. Careful.
You stop a few feet from the elevator, close enough that the brushed metal doors reflect a version of you that looks intact. Your hand lifts, hesitates, then falls back to your side. Your body doesn’t feel like it belongs to you anymore. It feels like something you’re borrowing until the weight in your chest decides what to do.
Behind you, footsteps slow. Not rushed. Not abrupt. Careful. Like he’s afraid even the sound of them might push you further away.
“Hey.” Spencer says quietly. Just one word. Soft. Unarmed.
You don’t turn around.
“I’m-” He exhales, the sound uneven. “I’m sorry.”
The word lands differently than you expect. Not sharp. Not relieving. Just heavy. You close your eyes for a moment, letting it pass through you without reacting.
“You didn’t do anything.” you say quietly. It isn’t forgiveness. It isn’t absolution. It’s just a fact.
“I know,” he says quickly. Then, slower, like he’s choosing honesty even though it scares him, “But intent doesn’t really change the outcome…”
That makes you turn. Just slightly. Enough to see him standing there with his hands clasped together, knuckles pale, shoulders drawn inward like he’s bracing for impact. His eyes flick up to yours and then away again, like holding your gaze for too long might hurt you more.
He looks wrecked. Not in a dramatic way. In a quiet, unraveling one.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
The question is barely above a whisper. He already knows the answer. You can hear it in the way his voice cracks around the word okay, like he’s hoping you’ll lie so he doesn’t have to sit with the truth.
You give a small, tired breath. “I don’t think that’s a fair question right now.”
He nods immediately, like he deserves that. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just-” He stops himself, frustration flashing across his face before softening into something closer to helplessness. “I don’t know how to fix this. And I know that saying that doesn’t help.”
It doesn’t. But it hurts differently than dismissal would have.
“I don’t need you to fix it. There is nothing to fix to be honest..” you say quietly. “I just needed you to know.”
“I do,” he says. Too fast. Too earnest. “I do know. I just… I wish I’d realised sooner. I wish I’d been less oblivious.”
That word makes something twist inside you.
Oblivious.
You look back at the elevator doors, at the way your reflection fractures slightly where the metal bends. “I didn’t tell you.” you say. “You can’t blame yourself for not seeing something I kept hidden.”
“But you shouldn’t have had to hide it…” he replies.
There’s no argument in his voice. Just grief.
The elevator dings softly behind you, doors sliding open like an interruption neither of you asked for. You step back without thinking, the space between you widening again, safer that way.
“I need to go.” you say.
“I know,” he answers. Then, after a beat, “I’ll give you space. But… I’m here. If you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or yell at me. Statistically, yelling can be cathartic.”
You almost smile. Almost.
“Goodnight, Spencer.”
“Goodnight.” he says, barely audible.
The doors close between you, cutting him off mid-breath. As the elevator descends, you finally let your shoulders sag, the tension draining just enough to leave you exhausted.
He didn’t chase you.
But he didn’t let you leave unseen either.
And neither of you spoke about it since.
He stands there long after the elevator doors have slid shut, staring at the cold metal in front of him, though he doesn’t really see it. His hands are loosely clasped in front of him, then fall to his sides, then he fiddles with the edge of his tie as if the movement could untangle something knotting inside. He knows the team won’t notice. The hallway is empty. It’s quiet. Safe. And yet he can’t move. He’s frozen in the way you get when you realise a moment has shifted, irreversibly, and all you can do is watch it slip through your fingers.
Her words echo in his head, repeating themselves, rearranging into patterns he’s desperate to solve. “You can’t blame yourself for not seeing something I kept hidden.” And he feels a tightness behind his sternum he hasn’t felt before, not like this. Not this sharp, precise, and unfamiliar. He thinks maybe he could memorise the exact cadence of how she said it, how the syllables curved into the quiet acceptance, and somehow keep it safe. Or maybe he just wants to stop feeling it altogether because it’s unbearable.
He takes a slow, uneven breath. He hates the way his chest tightens when he thinks about how close he was to saying the wrong thing. Or worse, the thing that would make her feel worse. He hates that he even has to think about it at all. He should have said more. He should have… done something. But what? What could have fixed it? Words feel meaningless now, and yet they are all he has ever had. He knows the difference between empty apologies and measured truths, and he hates that both of them feel inadequate.
Eventually, he moves. Not because the feeling has resolved, but because routine has always been the thing that carries him when he can’t. He gathers his bag, straightens his coat, and heads out into the cold with the practiced awareness that he has somewhere to be, someone waiting for him. Maeve. The name settles into him with familiarity, with comfort, with something that should feel steady. As he unlocks his door later, steps into the warm, familiar quiet of her presence, he tells himself that this is where he belongs tonight. And yet, as he listens to her voice and answers when spoken to, a small part of him remains standing in that hallway, staring at an elevator door that closed a little too cleanly, holding the shape of a feeling he doesn’t yet have a name for.
Three months pass.
Time doesn’t announce itself when it’s healing something or when it’s burying it. It just moves forward, pulling everyone with it. Whatever tension once lingered in the bullpen fades into something less sharp, less noticeable. People stop glancing between the two of you. Conversations resume their usual rhythm. The night that once felt like a fracture becomes a quiet, unspoken thing, tucked away where no one touches it anymore.
Including you.
On the surface, very little changes.
Spencer never stopped talking to you, whether it was about the case or conversations on the flight about how you’re gonna spend the weekend, he continued a flow which eventually got casual again. Now he jokes, rambles and still forgets himself mid sentence when he’s excited. He doesn’t avoid you, doesn’t treat you like something fragile he’s afraid to break. If anything, he seems relieved to fall back into the familiar pattern you’ve always shared; easy conversation, shared looks, mutual understanding that doesn’t require explanation.
He’s been more careful, especially in the beginning but not distant. Never distant.
And yet you still notice the difference between now and to before.
He keeps a respectful space now, just enough that it never feels accidental when you’re close. He doesn’t linger beside you after briefings the way he once might have. His gestures are thoughtful rather than instinctive, offering help verbally instead of reaching for you, standing beside you instead of leaning in.
It’s subtle but you don't miss it.
What remains completely is his gentleness. The way he still listens like what you’re saying matters, even when the room is loud and busy. The way his smile softens when you speak, familiar and easy, never lingering too long. It’s the same Spencer you’ve always known and that almost hurts more than if he’d changed at all.
You still love him.
That truth hasn’t shifted, no matter how much time has passed. It’s quieter now, tucked deeper inside you, but it’s there all the same. You feel it in the smallest moments, in the instinctive way your attention gravitates toward him, in how his kindness still lands somewhere tender inside your chest.
And you’re not stupid.
You notice the things he doesn’t realise he gives away. The faint smiles that appear when his phone lights up. The mornings he comes in with his tie crooked, hair slightly mussed, collar just a little off as if he dressed in a hurry, distracted, hands not entirely steady. Once, you catch the faint mark along his neck when he leans down to pick up a file. It’s not obvious. Anyone else would miss it.
You don’t.
Other days, it’s the opposite. His tie is perfectly knotted, symmetrical down to the millimetre. Probably mixed by her. His sleeves are crisp. His posture rigid. Those are the days he’s trying harder, you think. Trying to compartmentalise. Trying to be who he’s supposed to be at work,.
Both versions tell you the same thing.
They’re still together.
The knowledge doesn’t surprise you. It doesn’t knock the air from your lungs the way it once might have. It simply settles, familiar and heavy, a constant presence you’ve learned to carry. You don’t ask him about her. You don’t let yourself wonder what their nights look like, what his laughter sounds like when he’s with her.
You already know enough.
And yet, sometimes late at night, when the day has finally loosened its grip on you, the thought slips in uninvited: Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the shape your life takes; loving someone quietly, steadily, knowing he will never choose you, and loving him anyway.
The idea doesn’t feel dramatic anymore.
It feels possible.
And maybe that’s the hardest part of all.
It happens on a night that doesn’t feel important at first.
There’s no case pressing down on your shoulders, no adrenaline still buzzing under your skin. Just paperwork that ran longer than expected and the soft hum of the bullpen lights, dimmed low enough to make everything feel almost private. JJ is there with you both, leaning against a desk, shoes kicked off under her chair, talking about something inconsequential Henry, maybe, or a failed attempt at baking that made Spencer ask too many earnest follow-up questions.
He’s himself tonight. That’s what strikes you first.
Not careful. Not withdrawn. Not heavy.
He’s rambling a little, hands moving as he talks, spiralling from one thought into another the way he always does when he forgets to monitor himself. He interrupts JJ once, apologises immediately, then does it again without realising. You catch yourself smiling before you can stop it, and when he notices, he smiles back; automatic, familiar, gentle.
Like nothing ever cracked between you.
JJ checks her watch eventually and groans, standing up with a stretch. “I should go before Will starts thinking I’ve been kidnapped.”
She squeezes your shoulder as she passes, then gives Spencer a look that’s fond and knowing and just a little too perceptive. “Don’t stay too late.”
When the doors close behind her, the quiet shifts but not in a bad way. It settles.
You don’t move farther away from each other. You don’t move closer either. You’re just… there. Sitting at neighbouring desks, shoulders angled in without thinking, sharing the same small pocket of space like you’ve done a thousand times before.
Spencer exhales, rolling his shoulders once. “She’s right, you know. About staying too late. Statistically speaking, prolonged work hours significantly increase the likelihood of cognitive errors and—” He stops, glancing at you. “—or we could just… ignore that entirely.”
You smile, small but real. “You usually do.”
“That’s because the data is… inconvenient,” he says, deadpan.
You laugh, soft and warm, and it’s enough to make him grin automatically, the way he always does. Before you realise it, the conversation slips into something easy and familiar.
You notice him now; the slight tilt of his head as he talks, the way his hands move as though they can’t help illustrating every thought, the way he forgets himself in the middle of a sentence. And you feel it, that same pull you always feel when he’s like this, the same heart-thrum that’s lived quietly under your ribs for years. You haven’t allowed yourself to feel it fully in months. Not since the confession. But now, watching him unravel slightly, immersed in what he loves, it’s like time has folded over itself and you’re back there, before anything changed.
He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping on the desk. “I watched this documentary last night. About-well, it was… um… about medieval monks and memory palaces, sort of a-no, it was more than that, it was specifically about how they used complex visualisations to memorise entire texts and there was this segment on how-wait, I think I’m saying this wrong-they, um… they mapped physical spaces to abstract concepts? Something like that. And they had this rule, which I found fascinating, that if you-oh!-you’re supposed to… no, the way they describe it is that if you want to remember a scripture, you visualise it as part of a room, or a series of rooms, and then each object in the room correlates with a concept or… yes, never mind, that’s not quite right, but it’s something along those lines.”
You raise an eyebrow, smiling, letting him continue. But truthfully you did not understand what he was going on about, “You stayed up watching monks organise their imaginary rooms?”
“Technically, yes,” he says, nodding quickly, “but it’s not what it sounds like! It was academically rigorous. And also, they had to memorise texts in Latin, which is not trivial-um, and their training apparently improved recall by something like 37% over standard rote memorisation, which is-well, it’s statistically significant, at least from the data I could find. Oh! And there was a comparison with modern memory champions who use similar techniques, though I might have missed a step in the method they actually use-wait, that’s not exactly right either. The point is-well, I found it fascinating.”
You shake your head, quietly laughing. “I can’t believe you stayed up for that.”
“It’s not about staying up,” he protests, raising one hand in mock indignation. “It’s about the pursuit of knowledge and also, the historical context is remarkable. I mean, to memorise entire texts and retain them decades later without writing them down! It’s… extraordinary. Though I suppose the monks themselves-” He pauses, noticing your expression. “-well, maybe they wouldn’t be impressed by my… uh, binge-watching habits.”
You laugh again, softly, and he grins, eyes lighting up. The sound is familiar, comfortable, like the last three months of distance never happened. You realise you’ve been holding your breath without knowing it, and now you can’t stop noticing him, every detail, every habitual twitch, every small motion that always made your chest tighten in ways that were impossible to rationalise.
It’s not romantic, not yet. Not officially. And still, your heart aches quietly, a steady rhythm under your ribs, pulling your gaze to him as he rambles, as he waves his hands to explain something you only half understand, as he fumbles mid thought in the way that makes him impossibly, painfully human. You see him, really see him, and the love you’ve carried for months and years, shines in your eyes. It’s soft, unspoken, and completely undeniable.
When he pauses, catching himself mid rant, you lean back slightly, smiling softly, and for the first time in months, it feels like the two of you are exactly where you used to be: safe in the same orbit, a little closer than strangers but far enough apart to breathe.
And you notice it: the old, effortless rhythm, the small laughter, the way he trusts you to follow him even through tangents that make no sense. The way he always has. And for a moment, it’s almost too much. Almost enough to make you forget everything else, everything that’s hurt, everything you promised yourself you’d contain.
In the moment, sitting there, laughing at something small, gentle, and familiar, the feeling is unmistakable: for the first time in months, it feels like it used to. Like before everything broke, like before confessions, like before pain.
And then it starts again. A small joke. A playful jab at something Spencer said, and he laughs, low and quiet at first, but it builds. He counters, teasing, making a ridiculous face, mimicking one of Garcia’s quirks, and you can’t help but burst out laughing, loud and unrestrained.
He’s sitting slightly angled toward you, you toward him, knees almost touching, shoulders brushing lightly without either of you realizing it. He tells a ridiculous hypothetical about the weirdest case he’s ever read, you counter with a more ridiculous one of your own, and the laughter builds until it’s uncontainable.
Your shoulders brush now. The faint warmth of him is unmistakable. And for a heartbeat, just a fleeting, suspended heartbeat, everything outside that small bubble of air between you fades.
Then his phone buzzes sharply against the desk. He glances down, face tightens slightly. Maeve.
He exhales, almost reluctantly, and mutters, “I… should take this,” standing abruptly, breaking the moment.
You nod, heart sinking slightly, forcing your features into neutral calm, though every fibre of your body remembers the closeness, the warmth, the laughter, the way his presence has always felt like home.
He answers the call, stepping a little away, glancing at you apologetically over his shoulder before disappearing into the hall. The room suddenly feels emptier, quieter, the laughter and shared joy hanging like a fragile echo.
And in that silence, you can’t help but think that no matter what happens, no matter how far apart you feel, these moments, these small bursts of closeness, are the ones you’ll keep holding onto.
A/N = Here it is... I hope you enjoyed reading and I'm so sorry it took so long! I lost the first part 2 that I've written so I had to rewrite it fully by memory :(
Regardless I hope you guys had an amazing Christmas if you celebrate! I myself spent it with my family and been enjoying the breaks I get.
Let me know your thoughts and ask me questions in my inbox !!
Twinkle lights are draped lazily along the railing, Garcia’s desk looks like Santa’s workshop exploded, and there’s a faint smell of cinnamon in the air that definitely doesn’t belong in a federal building.
Spencer Reid stands in the middle of it all, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, blinking like someone’s shaken a snow globe inside his brain.
“They put tinsel on Hotch’s door..."he murmurs, voice low with disbelief. “I’m fairly certain that violates at least three unspoken rules.”
You smile, stepping up beside him. “It’s Christmas. Even the BAU pretends to be festive once a year.”
He glances down at you, lips twitching. “Statistically speaking, forced cheer increases stress levels by-"
“You’re doing it,” you interrupt gently.
“Doing what?”
“Talking instead of feeling.”
That earns you a look. Not annoyed, just… caught.
Spencer exhales, shoulders dropping a fraction. “Right. Yes. Sorry.”
You reach out, brushing your pinky against his. It’s small, barely there, but his fingers curl around yours instantly, like he’s been waiting for permission.
Outside, snow starts falling. Slow and quiet, the kind that makes the world feel hushed and safe.
"Come on let's go home." You take his hand into yours, pulling him towards the elevator.
Later, you’re both sitting on the couch in his apartment, the lights low except for the soft glow of the Christmas tree in the corner. It’s not flashy, just warm white lights and a few carefully chosen ornaments. One of them is clearly handmade.
“Garcia gave me that,” he says, following your gaze. “She cried when I hung it up.”
You laugh softly. “Of course she did.”
Spencer hands you a mug of hot chocolate, fingers lingering as you take it. “I, um… I don’t usually like holidays,” he admits. “Too many expectations. Too much noise.”
“But?” you prompt.
“But,” he continues, quieter now. "This one is manageable when you're by my side.."
You lean your head against his shoulder. He freezes for half a second—then relaxes, resting his cheek against your hair.
The tree lights reflect in his eyes, softening the sharp edges the world so often gives him.
“Merry Christmas Spence" you whisper.
He smiles; not the polite kind, not the awkward one but something real and private, just for you.
“Merry Christmas.” Spencer replies.
And for once, the world feels still enough for him to enjoy it.
TAG LIST = @eliscannotdance @tokalotashiz @book-nerd-fan-girl @cupidletterss @summerobertsvariant
so, you asked for requests and I'm thinking about Spencer who hates his birthday and reader who makes a remarkable birthday for him. And just want him to like it because she loves him a lot, and just fluff, fluff, and fluff
BIRTHDAY BOY - S.R
pairing = fussy!bf!reid + gf!reader
summary = spencer hates his birthday, so his girlfriend plans a quiet day to change that. By sunset, he finally sees how good love can be with the right person.
A/N = Thank you for the request anon! spencer is so cute, I can just imagine how much he'd appreciate a quiet day over a long, loud one.
Spencer Reid never liked his birthday.
It had always been a quiet, awkward thing. As a kid, it was spent in sterile hospital hallways, the air thick with antiseptic and the faint hum of machines while his mother smiled through her confusion. Later, after joining the BAU, he learned to avoid it entirely. He would work late, take extra paperwork, do anything that made the day feel ordinary.
But this year, you had other plans.
You started quietly. You knew he hated big surprises. So when he woke up that morning, the first thing he saw was you sitting cross-legged beside him with a sleepy grin and a tray balanced on your lap. The smell of pancakes filled the room. They were imperfectly shaped, a little uneven, but the blueberries on top were arranged into a messy little heart.
He blinked at you, groggy. “What is this?”
You smiled. “Happy birthday, genius.”
He groaned, hiding under the blanket immediately, his face blushing pink. “It is just a regular Thursday.”
You laughed, tugging the blanket down. “Not today it isn’t. You get one day, Spencer. Just one. You deserve it.”
He peeked out, hair a mess, eyes soft. “You made breakfast?”
You nodded proudly. “I even used that weird organic syrup you like.”
He sat up slowly, still skeptical, but you could see the faint hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He took a bite and then looked up at you like he could not believe what he was tasting. “This is… actually really good. Thank you very much.”
“‘Actually’?” you teased. “That’s the best you can do?”
He rolled his eyes but leaned forward to kiss your cheek. “It’s perfect.”
The rest of the morning was simple, exactly how you knew he liked things. No noise. No surprises. Just the two of you curled up on the couch with coffee and books. He read with his head resting on your shoulder, his fingers playing absently with yours between pages. Every now and then, you would whisper a random birthday fact just to make him smile.
“Did you know,” you said at one point, “that statistically, birthdays increase the probability of eating cake by one hundred percent?”
He laughed quietly, that shy, beautiful sound that you lived for. “That’s a very important finding. Should I cite you in my next paper?”
“Obviously.”
The rest of the morning passed like that. Light. Easy. And for the first time in years, Spencer did not dread the date on the calendar. In fact he was looking forward to the rest of the day.
Around noon, you told him to get dressed.
He frowned suspiciously. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
He sighed but complied, muttering something about how he trusted you too much. When you finally brought him outside, he froze.
Your garden was framed by soft sunlight filtering through the trees. There was a picnic blanket spread out with all his favorite things; books, chess pieces, tea, and a small box of lemon bars that you made from scratch. A few sparrows fluttered nearby, pecking at the grass.
Spencer just stared for a moment. “You did all this?”
You shrugged like it was nothing. “You always do so much for everyone else. I wanted to do something for you.”
He looked around again, almost dazed. The afternoon breeze rustled through his hair, and you could see his eyes shine a little as he took it all in.
You sat down and patted the spot next to you. “Come on, birthday boy.”
He sighed but smiled, sitting beside you. “You really didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”
“I know,” you said softly. “But I wanted to.”
You poured him tea and passed him a lemon bar. The two of you sat quietly, just listening to the world breathe around you. After a while, he started talking. Little things at first. Then stories. Childhood memories. Old cases. Moments he had never shared before.
And you realized something: he was relaxed. Completely.
You leaned back, watching him laugh softly as a sparrow hopped closer to your picnic. His smile was brighter than the sunlight.
When he finally stopped talking, you said quietly, “You know, you don’t have to hate your birthday anymore. It’s just another day to remind everyone that the world got lucky when it got you.”
He looked at you for a long time, eyes full and glassy. Then he said, barely above a whisper, “No one’s ever said that to me before.”
You smiled. “Then I’ll keep saying it until you believe it.”
He blinked hard, swallowed, and leaned in until his forehead rested against yours. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he murmured.
“Oh, I think I do,” you whispered back.
He kissed you then, slow and tender, his hand cupping your face like you were the most delicate thing in the world.
That night, when you got home, you found him sitting quietly on the couch, a small wrapped box in his hands. He looked up as you entered.
“I, um… got something for you too,” he said shyly.
You laughed. “It’s your birthday, Spencer.”
He handed it to you anyway. Inside was a folded piece of paper. When you opened it, you realized it was a handwritten list full with reasons why he loved you. Every single one numbered and written with that neat, small handwriting of his.
You stared at the list, heart swelling. “You actually wrote this?”
He nodded, cheeks flushed pink. “It seemed fair. You gave me something I didn’t know I needed. I wanted to give you something back.”
You placed the paper down gently and pulled him into your arms. “You don’t have to give me anything. You just being happy is enough.”
He smiled against your shoulder. “Then I guess you gave us both what we wanted.”
You kissed his hair, whispering, “Happy birthday, Spencer.”
He looked up, eyes warm and full of love. “It actually was.”
And for the first time in his life, he meant it.
TAG LIST = @eliscannotdance @tokalotashiz @book-nerd-fan-girl @cupidletterss @summerobertsvariant
The morning sunlight spilled softly across the bed, the golden rays stretching across the tangled sheets that smelled faintly of coffee and the faint musk of old paper. Spencer’s arm was wrapped loosely around you, his fingertips resting on your wrist as if counting the pulse there, steady and alive. His breathing was slow, the kind of rhythm that came only after the long nights when neither of you wanted to close your eyes because talking felt too good to stop.
The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside. You could hear the gentle creak of the floorboards when the air shifted, and somewhere in the distance a siren wailed before fading into nothing. You tilted your head slightly and watched Spencer’s face. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and there was a faint crease on his cheek from where he had pressed into the pillow. He looked young like this. Soft. Nothing like the profiler who carried the weight of a thousand horrors behind his tired brown eyes.
You brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead and whispered, “You’re drooling on my pillow again.”
He stirred, a sleepy grin forming before his eyes even opened. “That is a baseless accusation,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “I do not drool. I merely… distribute hydration.”
You laughed quietly, feeling warmth rise in your chest. He finally opened his eyes, blinking slowly, still fighting the line between sleep and waking. When he saw you smiling, his own expression softened into something you could never quite put into words.
“Morning,” he murmured.
“Morning.”
He tightened his arm around you and pulled you closer, burying his face in your shoulder for a moment. “We should get up,” you said, though you made no effort to move.
He only hummed. “You first.”
“Not a chance.”
There was a comfortable silence. The kind that lived only between two people who had learned every corner of each other’s lives. He started tracing little shapes on your skin, absent-mindedly. Numbers. Letters. Probably fragments of something he was memorizing. You never asked. You liked the feeling too much.
Eventually you managed to get out of bed, but not before Spencer tried to convince you to stay just ten more minutes. You were halfway to the kitchen when he called out, “Do you know that statistically, people who spend an extra ten minutes cuddling in the morning are reported to have better moods throughout the day?”
You turned back, smiling at him. “Is that real, or are you just trying to get me back in bed?”
He tilted his head. “Would you believe me if I said both?”
You rolled your eyes, grabbing two mugs from the counter. “Coffee first, Doctor Reid.”
By the time the coffee machine finished sputtering, Spencer had already joined you, still in his old pajama shirt with his hair pointing in impossible directions. He leaned against the counter, watching you pour. His gaze was always intense, even when he was just looking at you in silence. It used to make you nervous. Now it just made you feel safe.
He took a sip from his mug and said, “We have the weekend off.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Since when does that happen?”
He smiled faintly. “Since Hotch decided we should all remember what sunlight looks like.”
You leaned back against the counter, pretending to think. “So, what does one do with two entire days off?”
His lips quirked into a small grin. “I thought maybe we could drive somewhere. Somewhere quiet. Maybe that little cabin near the lake.”
You blinked in surprise. “You’re suggesting a trip? Voluntarily?”
He shrugged, pretending to act casual. “I might have already booked it last night.”
Your heart warmed immediately. You could imagine it already. The quiet of the forest. The sound of water lapping against the dock. Spencer reading beside you with his glasses slipping down his nose while you curled up next to him under a blanket.
“Spencer Reid, are you secretly romantic?”
The drive was long, but peaceful. He had one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, and every time you hit a red light you'd absentmindedly draw patterns on his knuckles. The trees blurred past, and the sky stretched endlessly ahead.
When you reached the cabin, the air smelled of pine and rain. The lake shimmered like glass, and you could see the reflection of clouds drifting lazily above. Spencer carried the bags inside, though he complained about how poorly the cabin was insulated and how mosquitoes were the deadliest animal on Earth. You kissed him mid-sentence just to shut him up.
Inside, the place was cozy. Wooden walls, a small fireplace, and a soft-looking couch. You could almost imagine the quiet nights you’d spend there.
Spencer unpacked a few books before doing anything else. “I brought something for us,” he said. He pulled out a worn, leather-bound volume and handed it to you. “It’s a collection of poetry I used to read in college. I thought we could take turns reading.”
You smiled, running your fingers over the spine. “You know, most couples watch movies. You bring poetry.”
He shrugged again. “Movies end. Words stay.”
You stared at him for a moment, heart full. “You really are something else.”
He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.
That night, after the fire had burned low and the air was thick with warmth and woodsmoke, Spencer rested his head in your lap while you read aloud. His eyes were closed, but you knew he was listening to every syllable. You could see the tiny smile that flickered when your voice softened at certain lines.
When you stopped reading, he opened his eyes and looked up at you. “You make everything sound beautiful." he said quietly.
“Maybe because I’m reading it to you."you replied.
He reached up and brushed his fingers against your cheek. “You know, for someone who spends their life studying the human mind, I still don’t fully understand how someone can make me feel this way.”
You leaned down and kissed him, slow and lingering, the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn’t.
Outside, the lake rippled under the moonlight, and somewhere in the trees an owl called out. Inside, everything was still. You both stayed like that for a long time. No profiling. No work. No monsters. Just the quiet hum of something soft and real.
When Spencer finally fell asleep beside you, his hand found yours beneath the blanket. He didn’t let go once.
TAG LIST = @eliscannotdance @tokalotashiz @book-nerd-fan-girl @cupidletterss @summerobertsvariant
A/N = I'm sorry for abandoning so suddenly... I've been working on a lot, so the posts are coming up again!
And incase you were wondering about unrequited love, I completely lost the entire finished piece around 3 weeks ago.. so I've been relying on my fish memory to get everything back the same which is why it took super long. Sorry for making you guys wait so long.
