before you fade, 2 - a string of disappearances draws the BAU into a snowbound town, where a chilling case turns personal. 𖦹 ☆
and in the early quiet, i have you - after a long case in a rain-slick town, two BAU agents share one motel room—and in the quiet between storms, something unspoken begins to shift. ☆
something just like this - a bar, golden light, rain on the windows. between laughter and the music, something shifts — and two people fall under the hush of almost. ☆
in my place, all my troubles - in which jealousy hits spencer harder than he realizes. 𖦹 ☆
the door into summer - a slow burning summer night where glances linger, hearts stir, and love finally finds its voice beneath the glow of fireflies and fading light. ☆
listen to the bookman! - one long stakeout, a rain-soaked night, and years of unspoken feelings. ☆
call me on the line - a storm hit logging town, a vanished witness, and a cabin that holds more than silence. 𖦹 ☆
life in technicolor - a quiet chicago case, a borrowed afternoon, and a museum where something unspoken finally began to bloom. ☆
sometime in the mornin’ - one long night, one slow morning — and a closeness neither of them can undo. ☆ ⚘
band on the run - one long drive, a playlist full of meaning, and a love neither of them can hide anymore. ☆
everglow, a head full of dreams - after years apart, after distance and longing, sometimes it only takes one moment to come undone. ☆
clean cut - one quiet evening, one new haircut, and a thousand unspoken things finally ready to be said. ☆
fifth & mercer - in which spencer meets a detective who walks like she’s always halfway out the door — and hopes she stays. ☆
some kind of heaven - some kinds of heaven are soft enough to hold in your hands. ⚘
let the light have me - in the smoke and silence, she thought he was gone. then the world breathed again. 𖦹 ☆
in the time it takes to breathe - a lifetime of almosts, undone by one night and the fear of being too late. ☆
only heroes know, 2 - the tenderness of almosts, the ache of not-yets, the triumph of finally. 𖦹
YOU. WILL. WRITE. oh you want to write so bad. all the motivation is here. the plot is so good. words come to you so naturally. YOU ARE GOING TO WRITE. RIGHT NOW.
abstract: where she runs from the noise and he waits in the silence.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)
genre: angst (very much so, very 'there's a possibilityyyy' bella swan coded) but it resolves towards the end, no worries :)
word count: 13.4k
note: whewwww, this is a looong one guys, it took me forever to write and finish jesus. inspo from: dorothy parker’s a telephone call, sandra cisneros' my wicked wicked ways, my sick & twisted mind, also my pinterest board that was particularly haunting this week. also radiohead & coldplay & weyes blood. i was going to have the ending be a soft smut ending, but the story was already way too long at that point that i didn’t, but maybe i’ll do a small epilogue with this beat?? idk, so many thoughts. but yeaaah, here it is, in all it's not perfect glory (ignore any mistakes pls it's literally so long i can't go thru it again), and i hope you enjoy!
The case had ended hours ago, but the air in the precinct still felt heavy. It clung to the walls, to the carpet, to the team’s clothes as though the grief hadn’t yet found where to settle.
The unsub had been led out in cuffs, and the press was already circling outside, but inside—the quiet hurt more than any scream. The air in Quantico felt poisoned by him; by what he’d done, by what he’d said, by the way he’d made her feel watched.
He’d sent the team pictures of her apartment: her coffee mug by the sink, her scarf draped over a chair, the corner of her bed. He’d written messages underneath them, taunting lines about how easy it was to know her, to see her. And when he finally showed up at her door two nights later, it was Emily and Morgan who’d gotten there first, not Spencer. Still, it was Spencer who could see the bruises fading down her arm now, pale yellow beneath her shirt cuff, the last of what he’d left behind.
The wrap-up was slow and subdued.
Everyone was gentle with her, quieter than usual, deliberate in their movements, as though speaking too loud might reopen something. JJ and Morgan left first, Rossi followed with a hand on her shoulder as he went. Then Garcia, leaving a cookie on her desk with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
When the bullpen finally emptied, only Hotch and Emily were still in his office, low voices threading through the glass. Y/N sat alone in the conference room, half-lit by the city’s gray dusk. She was bent over a stack of paperwork, but her pen hadn’t moved in minutes.
The door creaked open behind her.
“Spence?” she said, startled, turning slightly. He stood in the doorway, satchel over his shoulder, his coat already on and hers folded neatly in his hands.
“I thought you left with the others.”
He shook his head once, stepping closer. “I wanted to wait for you.”
A sigh slipped out of her, small and fond, the corner of her mouth softening. “It’s okay. You don’t have to. Emily and Hotch are still here.”
He looked down, thumb brushing the edge of her coat before lifting his eyes to hers. “I know… but I want to make sure you’re okay.”
She rose from her chair, slow and tired, the movement careful against the stiffness in her ribs. She took the coat from his hands, set it on the table behind her, and leaned back against the edge, almost sitting. Her eyes were dull with exhaustion, but when she looked at him there was still that impossible gentleness; the same softness she always gave him, even now in this moment.
“I will be,” she murmured.
He nodded, a small and quiet movement, understanding but also not—fully, at least.
She drew in a slow breath, then reached forward and took his hand between both of hers. “You should go home,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Sleep. You haven’t properly slept in two days.”
He let her hold his hand. For once, he didn’t try to fill the silence that followed. Her fingers were cold, the skin along her knuckles still faintly discolored from bruises that hadn’t yet vanished. His other hand rose instinctively, covering both of hers, his palms warm and steady. It was like a quiet act of shelter.
She blinked down at their hands, her thumb tracing the edge of his cuff. He could feel her pulse under his touch.
“Neither have you,” he murmured.
She smiled faintly, without humor. “I have to finish some paperwork with Hotch. About the unsub.”
He heard the pause after she said it—the careful detachment she forced into her tone. She said the unsub the way he’d once heard soldiers say the enemy. She didn’t need to explain what that meant, only because he could picture the report in front of her already. The photos, the timeline, the autopsy notes, the sections she’d have to fill in about the night he’d found her, the bruises he could still see—those same bruises he thought of all the time, like ghosts that still shadowed her skin—and something inside him twisted hard enough to hurt. He could only imagine what it must’ve been like for her to see them printed in black and white, catalogued as evidence.
Would she feel him on her again? The unsub. The touch that wasn’t touch at all, but violence masquerading as control. Would it burn again when she remembered it?
Each line of the report would be another way of living it all again.
So, yes, he didn’t push. He just watched her face instead, watched the way her eyes went a little distant as if she could already see the words she’d have to write.
He sighed softly. “Are you sure?” His voice came out careful, careful enough that she almost smiled at the gentleness in it. “I can drive you to mine after the debrief.”
She lifted her gaze up to him, slowly, as if it cost her something to do it. The corners of her mouth curved just slightly, the faintest smile that trembled at the edges but tried to steady her face anyway. “I’m sure.”
Her brows drew together, faint lines forming between them, and her gaze dropped back to their joined hands. “I think it’ll take a while.”
Her voice was small, almost apologetic, as though she was sorry for keeping him waiting, for making him worry.
He tightened his hold; not enough to startle her, but enough to draw her attention back to him, to pull her mind out of whatever dark corridor it had started down. His thumbs brushed against the back of her hands. “Okay,” he said, nodding once, almost childlike. “But text me when you’re done—or when you get home. Okay?”
There was something pleading in the last okay, something like a quiet hope that she heard all the words he didn’t say.
She looked at him for a long moment. The room felt smaller then, the world narrowed down to their hands and the way he was looking at her: so open, so earnest it almost hurt. She could feel him memorizing her like he always did, quietly, as if to make sure he’d have her image stored away if she disappeared again.
Finally, she reached up and brushed her fingertips against his shoulder, dusting off an imaginary fleck of lint. It was a familiar motion, one she’d done a hundred times before, casual but intimate. A tiny, practiced way to ease him, to tell him I’m okay without having to lie out loud, something half-comfort and half-deflection.
“Okay,” she said softly. Her voice steadied as she continued. “I will.”
But her hand lingered a second too long on his shoulder, her eyes glancing up to his before she let it fall, and in that small, fleeting moment, before either of them spoke again, the truth hung quietly between them—how deeply he cared, how tired she was of pretending not to need it.
He didn’t move. His eyes stayed on her. “You promise?”
Her lips parted, a shallow breath. She knew he wanted her to look at him. She found the courage and met his eyes, before saying quietly, “I promise.”
He nodded. She mirrored it, barely. A small, fragile smile flickered across her face and was gone before it could take shape, as if she’d forgotten how to hold it.
He gave her hand one last squeeze before releasing it, the warmth between their palms fading almost immediately. Adjusting the strap of his satchel, he shifted his weight, reluctant to go but not knowing what else to say.
His eyes lingered on her for half a breath too long, memorizing the tilt of her head, the hollowness hiding behind her calm.
Then he turned toward the door.
He’d barely made it halfway across the room when her voice came: soft and breathless and breaking the air.
“Spencer, wait.”
He stopped, only half-turning just as she crossed the space between them. Her movement was sudden, almost clumsy in its urgency, and before he could say anything she was in his arms.
The hug hit him like a wave; like something unexpected and fierce and full of something he couldn’t name. She clung to him tightly, her body pressing close, her face buried against his chest, and he could feel her breath trembling where it touched his neck. For a split second, he forgot to breathe at all.
Then he wrapped his arms around her automatically, with one circling her back, the other finding its way to her waist, careful of the bruises still fading beneath her shirt. He could feel her heartbeat against him, rapid and uneven.
Something inside him twisted sharply.
The embrace was too long, too tight, too final.
Every instinct in him—every profiler’s reflex—flared with quiet alarm. This wasn’t how she usually held him; this was something like a goodbye disguised as comfort.
He tried to steady his voice, though it came out thinner than he wanted. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nodded against him, the movement jerky, rushed. “Yeah—yes. Yes, I am.”
He could feel her saying it against his collarbone, could hear the crack in her breath that betrayed the words. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to stay.
When she finally pulled back, she didn’t let go completely. Her hands stayed on his arms, fingers curled lightly against his sleeves, as though if she stopped touching him, she might lose her balance. Her eyes darted over his face—his worried expression, his furrowed brow—and she forced a small smile. It barely held.
Her voice wavered, but she managed to keep it steady enough to pass as casual. “Take care, okay?”
He hesitated. The alarm bells were still ringing in his head, soft but insistent, the kind that warned something’s not right, pay attention.
But he was tired, and she looked so sure, and sometimes love makes you believe the story you’re given, even when it sounds like an ending.
He nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said, forcing his own smile to match hers. “You too.”
Her smile twitched once, faltered, and then disappeared like a match blown out.
For a beat, neither of them moved.
Then he turned, shoulders tight beneath his coat, the strap of his satchel slipping as he started down the hall.
She stayed rooted where he’d left her, eyes following him. The fluorescent light above flickered faintly, and in its hum she could still hear the echo of his voice, the you too, as if it were meant to last longer than it did.
He glanced back just before he reached the corner.
She lifted her hand, a small, uncertain wave that trembled in the air between them, and he mirrored it, lips tightening around something that might have been another smile, and disappeared.
The elevator doors closed with a soft thud, a final punctuation.
And that was when it broke, when whatever fragile scaffolding had been holding her upright completely broke.
The air left her lungs in short, uneven bursts. She turned toward the table instinctively, reaching for something solid, her palms flattening against its cold surface. Her knuckles whitened, her head dropped, her chest burned as though every breath scraped against her ribs.
She tried to swallow it down, to be quiet and to stay composed, but her body refused to obey. Her eyes squeezed shut, her brows pulled tight together, her mouth trembled downward, a soundless cry catching in her throat.
“Hey—hey.”
Emily’s voice cut through the room, quick and soft all at once. She must have been waiting in the hallway because in two strides she was beside her, hands gripping Y/N’s arms firmly, grounding her.
That was all it took.
Y/N’s composure crumbled completely. She folded forward, collapsing into Emily’s chest, a broken noise escaping before she could stop it. One hand flew to her mouth to stifle the sob, but the crying came raw and deep, from somewhere far below, the kind that left her shaking.
Emily held her tighter, one hand at the back of her head, murmuring nothing words that didn’t need to particularly mean anything. You’re okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you.
Hotch appeared a moment later, a folder in one hand. He stopped in the doorway when he saw them, the mask of professionalism slipping just slightly, face softening, grief and understanding threading through his expression. He set the folder down on the table she’d been clinging to, careful.
When he spoke, his voice was low and soft and steady. “The leave is approved. You can go tonight.”
She nodded against Emily’s shoulder, her words muffled by the fabric of Emily’s blazer. “Yes, please,” she managed, her voice small and cracking. “I—I need to go. I just—”
Hotch stepped closer, his tone almost paternal in its gentleness. “We know.” His gaze flicked briefly to Emily, who gave a small nod, still holding Y/N upright. “We’ll take care of it. You just… rest.”
The words anchored.
Emily stayed with her, her body solid and steady, while Y/N shook against her, with small, trembling gasps breaking the silence; her hand rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades, keeping her tethered to something herself.
Hotch stood nearby, not intruding, but present, like a quiet sentinel to grief. His expression carried what he would never say aloud in fear it might only hurt her more: You’ve done enough. You’ve been through enough. You can go.
The conference-room lights glowed pale against the glass, throwing soft reflections over the empty bullpen below. The city beyond was a smear of silver and dark, the kind of night that felt endless.
The case. The control. The pretense.
It was over.
And she was leaving.
Morning light spilled into Quantico like it didn’t know what had happened.
The bullpen was its usual soft chaos—files stacked too high, coffee cups clinking, fluorescent hum filling the space where laughter should have been. The world kept going; indifferent. That, Spencer later thought, was the cruelest thing about it.
He had come in early, still in the cardigan he’d fallen asleep in, hair slightly mussed. His eyes were tired, but he’d brought something with him: a small brown paper bag with a pastry, and a thin book of poetry she’d mentioned wanting to borrow. He’d even written a note on a yellow Post-it: You’d like this one. It’s about beginnings, not endings.
He was still half-smiling to himself when Hotch’s door opened.
Everyone looked up instinctively. Hotch rarely called meetings before coffee, and the expression on his face, something controlled and professional, made the air go still.
“Morning, everyone,” he began. His voice didn’t waver, but there was a heaviness beneath it, and his eyes flicked over each of them before lingering on the vacant space where Y/N usually sat. The pause was brief, but it was enough to make Spencer’s stomach tighten.
“Agent L/N has been placed on temporary leave,” Hotch said. “Effective immediately.”
Spencer blinked, the words not landing right: temporary leave. They sounded bureaucratic, like a form to be signed or a file to be moved, but it was her, not paperwork. And still, they were abrupt—too much so, that even he—a man whose mind could hold entire encyclopedias of information, who could reconstruct timelines down to the second and solve mathematical proofs before most people finished reading the question—he suddenly couldn’t process a single thing.
Hotch’s voice continued, calm and even and professional, but the details blurred in Spencer’s ears. Approved by the director. No timeline set for return.
The phrases tangled together, meaningless fragments of bureaucratic talk swimming in static.
JJ’s lips parted, her voice caught between disbelief and protest. “Wait—what?”
Morgan frowned and set his coffee down hard enough that the mug rattled. “Hotch, what do you mean? Yesterday she said she was fine.”
Hotch’s jaw tightened, a brief muscle working at the side of his face. He didn’t answer right away. His gaze swept the team—their confusion, their worry—and lingered again on Y/N’s empty chair before he spoke.
“She’s not fine,” he said quietly. “She needs time.”
For a moment, no one breathed.
JJ shook her head, still processing. Morgan leaned forward in his chair, frustration sparking just beneath his voice. “So that’s it? Strauss decided she’s out until further notice? You know we’ll go to bat for her. If she wants to stay on the field, we’ll back her. She doesn’t need to disappear—she needs support.”
Hotch’s eyes dropped to the folder in his hand, then back to them. “It wasn’t Strauss,” he said finally. “It was her decision.”
Spencer’s head jerked up as though struck. “Her decision?” His voice cracked, sharp and too loud in the quiet room. “She didn’t—she didn’t tell me that.”
Hotch didn’t respond.
Across the table, Emily’s eyes were down, her fingers worrying at the corner of a file until the paper began to bend. She hadn’t spoken since Hotch’s door opened.
Morgan turned toward her, brow furrowing. “Why are you acting like you already knew?”
Her throat bobbed. She looked at him, then at Hotch, then, slowly, at Spencer.
“She told us last night,” she said softly.
Spencer’s breath caught. “Us?”
His voice was thin, breaking around the edges, but the silence gave it weight, enough so that Emily flinched a little at the sound.
Spencer stared at her, uncomprehending for a second, then looked back at Hotch, at the folded file on the table, at the empty chair beside him. The word decision echoed in his head, splintering with every repetition.
Decision. Choice. Leaving.
He thought of the way she’d held him the night before—it was too long, too tight. And the tremor in her voice when she said take care. And the look in her eyes like she was memorizing him.
And suddenly it all made sense in the worst possible way.
“After you left,” she began, the words sticking like glass in her throat, “she… she broke down. She couldn’t stop shaking.” She rubbed at her wrist absently, the motion small and distracted, like her body was trying to shake off the memory, before looking back up, her voice was quieter. “Hotch and I stayed with her. She said she couldn’t do it anymore, that—that she needed to go somewhere quiet. We helped her make arrangements.”
Spencer stared at her. There was a heartbeat of silence, and then another. He looked down at the paper bag in his hands—the one with the sweet in it and the old paperback he’d brought Y/N for that morning. His fingers were clenched so tightly around it that the paper had crumpled, the soft crackle of it the only sound in the room.
“She told me she was okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. “She—she promised she’d text me when she got home.”
“Reid—” Emily tried, but he was already shaking his head.
“She said take care,” he said, almost to the air. “That’s what people say when they’re leaving. I should’ve—” His voice cracked. “I should’ve known.”
Morgan leaned forward, his voice gentle. “You couldn’t have known, man. None of us did”
But Spencer didn’t answer. His eyes were distant, raw. He was still holding the book and the cookie like they were something breakable, fragile; like something that could shatter if he let go.
You don’t know her like I do, he thought.
You don’t see how she looks first thing in the morning, hair tied back, holding two mugs of coffee like she’s afraid to spill one. You don’t see how she tucks her feet beneath her chair during paperwork or hums under her breath when she’s concentrating. You don’t see how she laughs quietly when she gets the ending of a book before he does, or how she presses her palm over his wrist when he starts talking too fast, grounding him without a word.
You weren’t there on nights when the silence felt too heavy and she’d stay just to keep him company. You don’t know what her “take care” sounded like, and how it cracked on the care, how she smiled too tightly after, how it already sounded like goodbye.
The thought looped and looped until it hollowed him out.
Hotch’s voice finally cut through the silence, quiet but certain. “We have a case.”
The words felt wrong in the air—too practical, too normal against the grief still thick in the room. He paused, his eyes moving across the team, then resting on Spencer.
His voice softened.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That I had to keep it from you. From all of you.” He hesitated, a small exhale. “But she asked me not to say anything until she was gone. She didn’t want a goodbye to turn into another burden.”
He waited a moment, the weight of leadership and empathy both visible in the set of his shoulders. Then, quieter: “She needed this, whether she knew how to ask for it or not. She’ll reach out when she’s ready.”
The words were meant to reassure, but they landed like stones.
Hotch straightened slightly, clearing his throat, his tone returning to its practiced steadiness. “Conference room. Ten minutes.”
Chairs scraped softly against the floor, files closed, pens clicked, the careful rituals of people pretending they were ready to move on. JJ was the first to stand, gathering her folder with mechanical precision. Morgan followed, his movements slower, his jaw set tight. Garcia then, with a whisper of something under her breath, and Emily reached to squeeze her shoulder.
They all knew what to do—in fact, they’d all been trained for it.
Grief tucked neatly into professionalism.
It was something they were good at: losing people and compartmentalizing, sealing pain into corners so they could keep breathing, keep working, keep saving other people while losing pieces of themselves in silence.
But in that instant, Spencer hated that about them. About himself.
He hated how easily they could fold heartbreak into a file and call it protocol. He hated the polished motions, the tidy expressions, the way they all knew how to survive this because it wasn’t the first time they’d had to. He hated that it felt normal.
The team filed toward the glass doors, each of them carrying the invisible weight of her absence like it was just another piece of evidence to be processed.
But Spencer didn’t move.
He stayed where he was, his body caught in the space she used to occupy, as still as a photograph with all the color drained from the edges. His pulse was a low thrum in his ears.
The paper bag in his hand rustled faintly, and the note he’d put on the book fluttered in the draft from the air conditioner, the motion small and merciless. He watched it lift and tremble and fall back again, that tiny, ordinary thing, and the sound of it might as well have been the sound of her walking away.
He could hear them—JJ’s whisper to Morgan, Emily’s soft exhale, Hotch’s footsteps fading up the stairs—but it was all underwater, their voices warped and distant, muffled by the current pulling him under.
And he was sinking. The pressure was building in his chest, and the silence was thick around him. The world above moved on in blurred motions and muffled sound, but he stayed suspended somewhere beneath it, watching the light bend and fade.
The hum of the fluorescent lights became the rhythm of his heartbeat and the air felt heavier with every breath.
He didn’t even realize JJ had come back until her hand found his arm.
“Come on, Spence,” she said gently. Her voice was soft enough to reach him, to break through the distortion for a moment. “We have to go.”
He blinked, the room coming back into focus piece by piece. The desks. The empty chair. All of it, without her.
JJ’s touch lingered, patient and waiting.
For a heartbeat, he thought about refusing; thought of staying there and letting the silence close over him entirely. But then he looked up at JJ and saw the same ache mirrored in her eyes, and he suddenly remembered that they all carried the same weight.
Slowly, he set the dessert down on Y/N’s desk. Then the book. He smoothed the note flat, pressing it there like a grave marker.
And then he followed them, his steps mechanical, leaving her empty desk behind.
The bullpen light flickered once—briefly, faintly—like it, too, was trying to hold on to her.
Days blurred.
Time no longer moved in whole numbers, only in fractions of memory and half-slept hours.
Spencer went through the motions. He briefed, debriefed, wrote reports, read them, drank too much coffee, but it all felt like he was moving through glass. The bullpen was too quiet without her, he’d thought. The chair she used was pushed in just a little too neatly. The pen she’d always chewed the cap of was gone.
Every absence glared like an open wound.
Sometimes he caught himself turning to make a comment, a joke or a reference or one of his stupid statistics that no one else likes, only she wasn’t there to answer with that soft hum of amusement or the way she’d roll her eyes and smile just enough for him to know she’d understood him.
That small, impossible connection.
Gone.
And at night, at his devastatingly more vulnerable, she came back to him. Not as a ghost, not really, but in the way the mind creates what it cannot bear to lose.
The first dream came a week after she left: he was home, standing in his kitchen, and she was there in his socks—mismatched and too big for her, slouched lazily down her ankles—perched on the counter, eating a peach and watching him read. She said something quiet, something that sounded like you read like you’re remembering a song, and he’d laughed, surprised, because it was such a her thing to say.
Then she reached out and touched his wrist, and he felt it, her—her skin warm, her nails short and clean, the faint pulse at the base of her thumb. He looked at her, heart pounding with something wild and grateful.
And then he woke up. And the apartment was dark and cold, the peach was gone, and his wrist was empty.
And there were other dreams.
Her, curled up in his bed, her hair loose across the pillow. She would look impossibly soft and so, so alive, her lips parted slightly as if she was about to say something. He could almost hear her voice before it became silence.
Sometimes, in those dreams, he kissed her. Gently at first, like she might disappear if he moved too fast. Other times, the kiss deepened; the space between them closed, her heartbeat pressed against his, the way her breath hitched and spilled into his mouth, the warmth of her throat under his palm, the quiet sounds that made him tremble awake.
Each time, he woke colder. Each time, the echo of her breath lingered in his ears for a few seconds before fading, leaving only the sound of his own. He’d stare at the ceiling, trying to keep her with him; the exact timbre of her laugh, the way her voice softened when she said his name, the particular warmth that came from her nearness.
He wondered if this was how forgetting began: not all at once, but by degrees. Each morning, her memory a little fainter, her voice a little further away. And maybe that was why his mind kept inventing her, to keep her alive in the only place he could still reach her.
He’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, the clock ticking its cruel reminder that morning was coming, that she was still gone. His skin would prickle with the echo of her touch, his heart racing, and he’d press his palms against his eyes until the image faded.
He told himself over and over that it was just the mind’s way of grieving. That’s what loss did—it rewired the neurons, made phantoms out of habit.
But that didn’t stop him from waking with her name half-formed on his lips, no, it never did.
One morning, he opened his eyes to the gray light of dawn, heart pounding. He could still feel her warmth on his arm—her weight, the exact shape of her body curved against him like something carved into the mattress. And he had turned, half expecting to see her.
But there was nothing. Just the hollow side of the bed, the indentation left by sleep and longing.
He sat up too fast, chest heaving, air sharp and cold in his lungs, and for a moment he couldn’t tell if he was still dreaming—because the ache was too close, and her name was still tangled somewhere in his throat. All he could do was press a trembling hand to his face, dragging it down until he could breathe again, until he remembered where he was.
The room looked untouched: their—no, his books in neat stacks, their—no, his notes in ordered piles on the nightstand. His, his, his, no longer theirs, and the realization was glaring, like a punch in the stomach, because nothing was moved and nothing was changed. Except her absence hung there, heavy and familiar, sitting in the corner like an extra shadow.
He thought about calling her.
The thought itself unsettled him, absurd in its simplicity. He could just pick up the phone, dial her number, hear her voice—if she answered. Maybe she would. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe it would ring once, twice. Maybe she’d see his name and think of that night, the promise she broke, the one she never meant to break.
He didn’t move.
He could hear the hum of the city outside, the radiator breathing faintly, his own pulse ticking like seconds against his skin. The phone on the nightstand looked too bright in the low light, and the idea of a small red glow of a missed-call icon staring back like an accusation haunted him.
If I call now, she’ll hear it in my voice, he thought.
He didn’t call.
He just sat there, staring at nothing, waiting for the alarm to tell him it was time to pretend again.
When it finally rang, the sound felt too ordinary for how much it hurt. He reached to silence it, then stood. Got dressed. Buttoned his shirt wrong the first time. Straightened it. Brushed his hair. Went to work.
And carried the ghost of her on his back.
Every day after that felt like walking beside a memory that refused to fade—her voice just behind him, her laughter spilling into hallways that weren’t real. Sometimes he’d catch himself turning to the side, just slightly, as if she were there, as if he could still offer her a smile or a comment or a fact she’d tease him for.
Once, in the space between sleep and waking, he even prayed. Not to anyone in particular, he didn’t believe in anything, but, God did he want to, in these moments where he whispered into the dark: Five more minutes, please.
Five more minutes to stay where she still exists.
Because he could still feel it sometimes: the echo of her knee brushing his in his kitchen that night, the way it had felt like lightning in the body, like the cross around his neck had suddenly burned against his skin, as if the universe had leaned close and whispered, There are things both holy and sweet. I’ll show you.
He’d turned his face away then, the same way he did now—eyes closed, voice cracking on a breath.
Five more minutes, I want this so bad.
But the sun always rose.
And she was still gone.
It was raining in D.C.
One of those thin, silver rains that blurred everything: traffic lights, reflections, the edges of people’s faces. The sound was steady but soft, a kind of endless hush that made the world feel half-asleep. The windows of the BAU glowed faintly gray, rain sliding down in thin vertical lines.
Spencer sat at his desk, a case file open in front of him, though the same paragraph had been staring back at him for twenty minutes. The words were nothing but black shapes now because his mind had drifted somewhere else—where she was, maybe, or to a version of her walking through that place.
The bullpen was nearly empty. Garcia’s chair sat vacant, a bright scarf tossed over the back of it. Morgan’s jacket was draped over his seat, JJ’s phone charger blinked lazily against the outlet. Even the fluorescent lights seemed quieter, and the silence felt a lot different now—less like peace and more like waiting.
Hotch’s office door opened, a quiet signal that cut through the stillness. “Conference room,” he called, his voice calm but carrying. “We’ve got a case. Local jurisdiction requested assistance.”
Spencer blinked, looked up, trying to shake off the fog. Chairs shifted, footsteps gathered. Morgan muttered something about the weather, JJ sighed as she unplugged her charger. Spencer straightened the pages of his file, still not fully present.
Hotch gave the brief overview—missing persons, new leads, a flight to coordinate—and closed with his familiar certainty: “Wheels up in thirty.”
The words barely registered.
He reached for his pen, then paused. Something faint buzzed against the desk.
His phone lit up. Her name. His breath stopped.
For a second, the entire world fell out of focus: all the voices and all of the footsteps, even the rain outside, because the only thing that existed was the glow of her name on the screen.
He froze. His heart stuttered, pulse pounding in his ears like static. He stared, unblinking, afraid that moving would make it disappear.
By the time his hand reached for it, the light had already gone out.
Missed call.
The world came rushing back all at once—the rustle of files, the scrape of chairs, the low murmur of Hotch’s final instructions—but he couldn’t hear any of it.
He called back immediately.
Straight to voicemail. And the sound of it—the automated tone, the silence afterward—felt like a door closing.
He pressed the phone to his chest for a moment, as if that might make her voice return, as if maybe the universe would give him back just ten seconds.
Then the notification pinged: one new voice message.
His hands were shaking when he pressed play.
“Spence,” her voice came through, soft and low, like she was speaking into the wind. “It’s me.”
He froze, every muscle in his body going still.
“I’m sorry—for leaving, for not telling you, for taking forever to call you.” The wind was loud behind her; hissed against the receiver, whistled through some narrow street.
“I couldn’t handle it,” she murmured. “And I didn’t want to drag you into it with me. This job—this job is already too hard for me to bring my problems into it. I just needed to breathe. I’m in Chicago.” A faint laugh, cracked, self-deprecating. “The wind’s horrible here. You’d hate it… but I like it.”
She went quiet for a few beats. “I got a small apartment near the river. It’s quiet. Sometimes I just walk until my legs hurt. I’ve been thinking a lot. About you. About everything.”
A sigh. “Anyway, I don’t want to fill up your voicemail. I’ll tell you the rest later, okay? Be safe. I lo—”
The message cut out.
He sat there, staring at the screen, feeling the air leave his lungs like something stolen. His throat was tight, his eyes stung.
He called again. Once. Twice. Three times.
Each time, the ring cut off into the same empty voicemail greeting, her voice nowhere in it. The silence that followed was worse than rejection: it was absence, complete and absolute.
He tried again. His fingers shook. The rain outside grew heavier, streaking the windows in long silver lines.
No answer.
No answer.
No answer.
By the time Hotch’s voice broke through the noise—“Let’s go, everyone, gear up”—Spencer hadn’t heard a word. The bullpen had moved on without him. Chairs scraped, footsteps echoed, the team collecting their go-bags, their phones, their armor.
But he stayed.
Still hitting redial.
Still listening to that empty hum on the other end of the line, as if persistence might conjure her out of the static.
When Morgan finally called his name, sharp, twice, it barely reached him. The world outside had gone dark, lights flickering off the rain-soaked glass, the sound of thunder folding into his chest.
He looked at the phone one last time.
Her name. The missed call. The weight of it.
Then he stood, numb, and followed the others into the storm.
The voicemail echoed in his mind all through the night: Be safe. I lo—
It became a loop. A haunting half-sentence that refused to end
He called her again two nights later.
It was almost midnight. He hadn’t planned it; his hands just moved before he could stop himself.
The line rang once, twice, three times—then,
“Spence.”
Her voice.
He almost dropped the phone.
He didn’t say anything at first. The sound of her breath filled the space between them—shallow, trembling, real.
“Are you there?” she whispered.
He closed his eyes. “I’m here.”
His voice was low, colder than he meant. Detached.
She hesitated. “How are you?”
“How do you think I am?”
Silence. Then a shaky inhale. “I’m sorry.”
“You said that already,” he muttered.
“I know. I just—” her voice cracked, “I really am. I promise.”
His chest tightened. “Your promises don’t mean much to me anymore.”
It hit her like a blow. He could hear it—the way her breath hitched, how she turned the phone away like she didn’t want him to hear her cry.
“Don’t,” he said sharply, “don’t hide from me now. You don’t get to do that again.”
“Spencer, please—”
“No, you don’t get to say that either. You left, and I—” His voice faltered. “You left, and you didn’t even tell me. You told them.”
“I didn’t want you to stop me,” she whispered, words dissolving into tears. “You would’ve. And I couldn’t say no to you. I just—”
He exhaled harshly. “You can’t make that decision for me. You don’t have the right.”
Her breath stuttered. “I know. I know, I know, I know.”
“Then why—” He broke off, voice rising for the first time. “God, do you even know how it feels? To wake up and think you’re still here, and then realize you’re gone? To hear your name every time someone laughs too softly? To go to work and sit across from a ghost?”
Her sob came sharp and unsteady. “Stop, please—”
He couldn’t stop. He’d tried to hold it in, really he did; his breath, his voice, his anger, but it tore through him anyway.
“Do you know what that does to someone?” His words came out rough, his throat burning. “Do you know how it feels!?”
He was pacing without realizing it, one hand pressed to his forehead, the phone clutched too tightly in the other. His apartment was dark, just the blue light from the window reflecting off the walls. He looked around at it: the half-empty bookshelf, the second mug still sitting on the counter where she used to make tea, the blanket she used to use folded at the end of the couch.
“It’s empty,” he said, his voice shaking harder now. “Everything here—it’s like you took the air with you and I can’t even—” He cut himself off, dragging a hand through his hair. “I can’t sleep without seeing you. I close my eyes and it’s the same dream every fucking time. You’re there, and then you’re gone. I wake up and I can’t breathe.”
The words poured out faster now, tumbling over each other, too heavy to keep inside. “Sometimes I don’t eat. Sometimes I forget how. I keep thinking you’re going to walk through the door, and then I remember that you’re gone.”
His voice broke on the word. He swallowed hard, the sound sharp through the static of the call. “You can’t just vanish and expect me to be okay. You can’t make that decision for me—you don’t have the right!—”
“I didn’t want it to be like this,” she said, a whisper lost in static. “I didn’t know how else to—”
“You could have called!” he snapped, his voice cracking. “You could have told me!”
“I tried,” she said quickly, breath catching. “But you—you didn’t—”
He froze for half a second, the truth of it hitting and sliding off, before he couldn’t stop his voice from rising even higher. “Because I didn’t know! Because you didn’t tell me what you were doing!”
“I didn’t know what I was doing! I don’t know—I—I was trying to live with myself, I couldn’t—”
He laughed then, a dry, disbelieving sound that hurt his throat. “And you thought I could? You think I don’t know what it’s like to run from yourself? You think I didn’t want to go after you?”
Her breathing stuttered on the line, uneven. “I thought you’d hate me if I left.”
“Hate you?” He pressed his palm against his chest as though he could steady it. “God, I’ve been—” his voice wavered—“I’ve been half-alive without you.”
The silence that followed was long and splintered. He could hear her trying not to keep crying, the faint sound of a shaky breath through the receiver.
“You can’t just vanish and expect me to be okay,” he said finally, quieter now but no less broken, and again repeated, “You can’t make that decision for me—you don’t have the right—”
“I know,” she whispered. “Spence, I know, I—”
“Do you?” he demanded, his voice rising again, the anger cracking into grief, and it seemed like his words were on a continuous loop of anger and betrayal. “Do you really? Do you have any idea what this feels like?!”
“I do!” she cried, finally breaking, the word breaking mid-breath. “I do, I swear I do. I think about you every single day.”
The line went quiet. All he could hear was her breathing—uneven, wet with tears. His own chest heaved, air scraping his lungs.
Then her voice came again, fragile but clear: “Don’t you realize that I’m the same? How you feel about me—there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Nothing.”
That silenced him. The words hung there, soft and terrible.
He swallowed hard, voice low, almost shaking. “When are you coming back?”
Her breath caught.
“…I don’t know.”
He exhaled, long and unsteady. And then—
the sound of the line going dead.
He’d hung up.
Afterward, he sat there on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, rain hitting the window.
It was almost dawn when he finally fell asleep, and even then, he dreamed of her voice again, and it was punishing, the sweetness of it, the way his mind refused to let him forget. He’d thought earlier that the distance might dull her, that maybe memory would finally blur the edges. But it didn’t, and even after the argument, and after the silence, and after the click of the call ending—she was still there—that unfinished sentence, the one that never made it through the static.
Be safe. I lo—
The days stretched out, thin and colorless. Winter hardened around them like glass.
In D.C., the river froze over. The city shivered beneath pale skies, the trees skeletal and still.
Spencer walked the same route to work each morning, his scarf pulled high, the air biting through his coat, the sidewalks glittering with thin ice where the light hit them. He always passed the same places—they were familiar and unchanged—like the world had refused to notice that something was missing.
The newspaper stand where she used to stop still had the same vendor, still shouted headlines he barely heard. She’d always linger there, thumbing through a copy, smiling at some absurd story, teasing him about how he read everything except the fun parts.
He stopped there sometimes anyway. He’d look at the headlines, never buy one, never stay long.
Then came the café on the corner, the one that still spelled his name wrong.
“Spense.”
It used to make her laugh so hard she’d nearly tip over. She’d steal the cup from his hands, cross out the s, draw a little c instead. And her drink had always been something from childhood that had been modernized, sweet and chocolate—Mexican mocha latte, the smell of which she said vaguely reminded her of the chocolate abuelita her mom used to make when it was cold outside.
Now the scent made him ache.
He’d take his coffee and stand outside with the cup between his hands until the warmth dulled and the ache of her absence cooled with it. Then he’d throw it away and keep walking.
On the metro, he tried to read, but he never turned a page. His eyes drifted over the same paragraph, again and again, until the words blurred into shapes. He’d sit still, like a ghost among the living.
Sometimes he’d pull out his phone, scroll through their old texts—nothing earth-shattering, just fragments of ordinary life:
You’re late again, genius.
You still owe me coffee.
You look tired, get some sleep.
There were others too—the ones that cut deeper—domestic things that lived somewhere between affection and ache.
Do you need anything from the store? Milk? Toothpaste?
Leave the window open a little, it helps the plants.
Don’t forget your scarf, it’s freezing today.
I made too much pasta again. Want some?
He could almost hear her voice in each one, and it wasn’t so much the words themselves that hurt, but the ordinariness of them. How love could hide inside such small, unremarkable things.
The cruelest messages were the simplest, the ones sent without ceremony. They lingered like ghost fingerprints on glass, too unbearably soft to erase. Each one was a heartbeat and each one hurt.
Her contact photo still glowed at the top of the screen: the one he’d taken on some lazy afternoon, her eyes turned toward him, the faintest smile he’d memorized long before he realized he was in love with her.
He couldn’t bring himself to change it.
At work, he functioned—statistics, profiles, theories—but his mind always drifted. JJ caught him staring once, gaze fixed on the space where she used to sit. He’d blinked back to the present, muttered something about a case file, and she didn’t press. The team had learned to leave his silences alone.
The nights were getting worse.
Sometimes he’d come home and talk to her out loud, forgetting she wasn’t there. He’d murmur, You’d like this one, when a documentary came on, or You’d hate this coffee, or You’d laugh at this line.
And the apartment answered back with only the hum of the fridge.
The ghost of her never left—it only sat beside him at the table, a silent guest in the chair she used to take; it walked the narrow hallway with him, its footsteps pacing his own; it lingered in the mirror when he caught his reflection too fast, a flash of hair, the illusion of someone turning away.
It wasn’t just haunting anymore, it had pressed itself into him. Into his bones, into every quiet space his mind couldn’t fill.
And sometimes he swore he could feel her there, living in the rhythm of his pulse, breathing between his thoughts.
She was everywhere, and nowhere.
And still, she called. Sometimes, in the quiet hours between night and morning, she’d call him, but he never answered.
He couldn’t. But he always listened, later, when it hurt the most.
He’d lie in bed with the phone against his chest, the ceiling a blur above him, the sound of her voice filling the hollow places of the apartment. Sometimes he’d sit in the shower, water streaming down his face as he pressed the phone close, her words crackling through the speaker, barely audible above the rush.
The voicemails came in waves.
Some were quiet, almost shy. Hey, Spence. It’s late. I couldn’t sleep. I just wanted to hear— she’d start, and then stop, breathing through the silence before the message cut off.
Others came in the early hours, her voice trembling, thin with exhaustion. I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts again, she whispered once. I keep thinking about that last case. About him. About what he did. Sometimes I still see him when I close my eyes. I hate that he got into my head.
Some messages were lighter—almost playful. You’d hate this coffee shop, she teased once, but they have the best croissants. You’d probably lecture me about sugar content. A faint laugh followed, the kind that broke his heart.
In others, she sounded tired but trying: I finished that book we talked about. I think you were right—the ending was better than I expected. She told him about songs, about long walks, about how the light hit the ocean differently every day. She confessed that she missed hearing his voice when he got excited about something—missed the way his fingers would tap against the table when he was thinking, or the shy tilt of his smile when he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
And once, softer than the rest, like a confession she hadn’t meant to record: I dream of your hands sometimes. It makes me cry.
He’d play that one over and over until the battery died.
Each message hurt differently. Each one found him in a new place—the couch, the kitchen floor, his bed, his car—and left him wrecked all over again. He’d cover his mouth with his hand to keep from making a sound, tears slipping hot down his cheeks, his body shaking with the effort of keeping quiet.
But the last voicemail, he never heard.
She had recorded it the night before her flight, her bag already packed by the door. Her voice was different this time—steady, certain, almost warm again.
I’m coming back, she said. I packed your copy of Leaves of Grass. I don’t know what I’ll say when I see you, but I’m coming home.
The message never went through. Maybe the signal cut out. Maybe she hit send too late.
Either way, it hung there, unreceived, somewhere between satellites and sky, trapped in the ether of bad cell service and missed timing, but still: the one he never heard.
Outside, the snow had begun to melt.
She hailed a cab, sunlight flashing against the glass as it pulled away toward the airport.
“…and then she gets so lonely for him she feels sick. and he feels the same, though neither knows the other is breaking in parallel.”
i am yours. even in this waiting, i’m yours.
It’s late when he finally gets home.
The stairwell smelled like rain and concrete. His shoulders ached beneath his coat; the weight of another case, another empty night. He walked up the steps, each one echoing a little too loudly, fingers cold around the keys in his pocket.
He was still thinking about the motions—lock, door, lights—just another night at the end of a long day, body moving on instinct, keys clinking, satchel strap slipping down his shoulder, the sound of rain still whispering down the stairwell, noting in his head how tired he was, worn hollow by the rhythm of the job and the ache that never left—until he’s stopped.
Because there’s someone there. A silhouette leaning against the wall beside his apartment door, with denim jeans dark enough to drink in the dim light, a brown leather jacket fitted close to her frame, edges softened from wear. Her head is bowed, hair falling forward over her face, her lips moving, mouthing something over and over, too quiet for him to hear.
For a moment, his body forgets to breathe. Then he whispers her name. “Y/N?”
She startled, like the sound had broken whatever fragile thread was holding her up. Her eyes went wide, her mouth parting soft and uncertainly. “Spence—”
“What are you doing here?” The words come out too quick, too flat. They landed in the air like something heavier than he meant, something that didn’t belong in the softness of her name. It’s not anger, it’s shock, disbelief scraping against relief, the sound of his heart trying to catch up with his body, but he doesn’t correct it, doesn’t know how.
Her mouth shut, then opened again, like she’d rehearsed a thousand ways to begin and forgotten all of them. Her gaze dropped to the floor between them, to the small stretch of tile that felt like miles, and for a moment she looked so young, so unsure, that it made his chest ache.
When she finally looked back up, her eyes caught his, and it undid him a little.
He looked away first, however. The silence felt too sharp, too fragile, the kind that might shatter if either of them moved too fast. The hall suddenly seemed too small for both of them, the walls too close, the air too cold.
“You could’ve waited inside, you know?” he said finally, his voice low, almost gentle. “I gave you that key for a reason.”
Her lips parted again, a small breath fogging the air. Her hands shifted inside her jacket pockets, the sound of denim faint as she fidgeted. When she finally pulled one hand free, the key glinted in her palm, small and familiar and warm from being held too tight.
“I know,” she said quietly. “I just… didn’t know if it was okay for me to still use it.”
Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her nose red. She was shivering, just barely, but it was the kind of chill that ran deeper than the skin, that settled into bones.
He took her in the way someone might study a photograph they’ve carried too long in their wallet, half certain the person inside it might have changed. Her hair was shorter now, he realized. It fell above her shoulders, messier, the ends uneven like she’d cut it herself. Her face was thinner, maybe, or maybe it was just the weight she’d been carrying that gave it shape. But her eyes—those same wide, earnest eyes—were still hers. Still the same eyes that had met his across a dozen stakeouts, across a thousand quiet mornings.
Different, but still his.
After a few moments of silence, he exhaled, the sound soft, careful. “Come inside.”
He moved past her, the soft jingle of his keys loud in the narrow hallway. The metal scraped faintly against the lock as he fit one in, his hand steady only because it had to be.
Behind him, she didn’t move. For a few seconds, she stayed turned toward the opposite end of the hall, her back straight, her hands still buried in her pockets like she wasn’t ready yet, like letting this moment end would mean it never really happened.
She turned.
“Spence, I—” She stopped, the word collapsing mid-breath. Her throat tightened visibly as she tried again. “I just came to apologize.”
He stilled, his shoulders rising slightly with the sound of her voice.
“And to see you,” she added, her voice catching on the words. “You—” She swallowed, trying to hold herself together before she breathed out, “You have no idea how much I missed you.”
The key slipped slightly under his fingers. He stopped turning it.
His hand stayed frozen on the doorknob, his gaze fixed there, as if he looked at her, even once, she might disappear.
She swallowed hard. “Um,” she tried again, awkwardly, forcing herself to speak through the weight. “Yeah, I was walking yesterday, and—”
Her eyes darted toward him, but he still wasn’t looking. “I was okay, I was just getting a coffee, and then I looked up and the sun hit me and…” her voice wavered, the crack audible now, “…and I never knew if I was going to come back, but in that moment, all I could think of—see—was you. And I didn’t know what to do.”
Her voice only broke further, soft but shaking. “I—I process things by running from them. Until they find me in the middle of the street on a beautiful day, and they did, and…”
Her mouth trembled downward, crying now, quiet and unguarded. She lifted her hands, pulling them free of her jacket pockets, and wiped at her face with the backs of her fingers—helplessly, uselessly. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry that I didn’t say anything. That I ran. That I left you behind. That I hurt you.”
Her breath hitched again, the last words coming out softer, like a plea. “Spencer, please… I hope you can forgive me. Please.”
And that’s when he finally looked at her.
Her tears caught the dim yellow light from the hallway, turning them into something fragile, luminous, and her breath fogged faintly in the cold air between them. For a moment, all he could do was stand there, watching her fall apart under the weight of her own apology.
But he stepped closer.
One, two—slow, deliberate steps, careful like approaching something sacred. Until he was close enough that she had to tilt her chin just slightly to look up at him. Her hands were still half-covering her face, shielding her from the world, or maybe from the shame of being seen like this.
He reached out. His fingers brushed the side of her hand, the one she was leaning into, and he closed his around it, gentle but sure, and in that simple gesture—without thinking or planning—he drew her in.
Her body folded into his like it had been waiting to. The movement was instinctive, desperate. She was trembling in his arms, shaking so hard he could feel it through his coat.
And just for a second, it struck him, the memory: the way she had shaken the night before she left, standing in that same trembling silence, trying not to fall apart in front of him.
Cruel, he thought. The mind was cruel, to make him remember that now.
She buried her face in the crook of his neck, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. Her hand stayed between them, still half-covering her mouth, muffling the small, helpless sounds she couldn’t suppress.
He tightened his hold without a word. One hand splayed across her back, the other cradling her head, his thumb tracing slow circles through her hair. Her cold seeped into him, but he didn’t care. If she was trembling, he’d be steady. If she was falling, he’d be the thing she fell against.
He murmured against her hair, voice rough from emotion, “You’re freezing.”
She shook her head, the sound of it brushing against his collar. “I’m okay.”
“You’re not,” he said softly, almost fondly, but there was no teasing in it, only worry.
He fell quiet after that, his chin resting lightly on the crown of her head, listening to the rhythm of her breathing as it slowly began to steady against him. The faint tremor still moved through her shoulders, but it was smaller now, gentler, fading with each breath she took against his chest.
“How long were you waiting out here?” he asked at last, his voice a low murmur near her ear.
She gave a small, watery laugh through her tears, the sound fragile but real. “Long enough that your neighbor asked if I’d forgotten my key—and told me I should call you. Said you work too many long hours at the BAU. Guess I’ve been gone too long if she doesn’t remember me.”
A small smile ghosted over his lips, warmth flickering at the edges of his exhaustion. “Mrs. Donovan did call me,” he murmured. “I thought it was about her cat again.”
That broke something open between them: her laugh, his quiet exhale, both muffled against each other. The crying slowed, traded for sniffles and a strange, light silence; the kind that wasn’t heavy anymore, just full.
“Is Gato okay?” she asked after a moment, her voice smaller now, still pressed into him.
He nodded, his jaw brushing the top of her head. “Yeah. I gave him a treat this morning.”
That made her smile, barely, but enough. It softened the corner of her mouth, lifted her cheek where it touched his chest. He felt it before he saw it.
He pulled back just enough to see her face, his hands rising to cradle her cheeks. His thumbs brushed beneath her eyes, sweeping away what tears hadn’t yet dried.
He studied her.
The red tip of her nose. The wet shimmer of her lashes. The faint tremor still tracing her bottom lip. She looked exhausted, broken open—but alive.
And for the first time in months, he felt something loosen in his chest.
She wasn’t gone.
She was here. She was warm.
Not cold and blue and unreachable somewhere far away.
Here, under his hands, under his touch, under his breath—
“I missed you so much,” he whispered.
Her breath caught. Her eyes flicked up to his, and for a moment she just looked at him, as though trying to memorize his face all over again.
Then, softly, with a ghost of a smile, he murmured, “You cut your hair.”
She laughed quietly—unsteady, breathless. “Yeah. The bartender at a place in upstate cut it for me in the staff bathroom. With her old scissors.”
He huffed out a small, incredulous laugh, the kind that hurt and healed at once. “Of course she did.” His hand lingered in her hair, gentle, reverent, brushing a strand between his fingers. “It suits you.”
Her eyes glistened again. “Yeah?”
“You look pretty,” he said simply.
Something in her broke and mended at once. She leaned closer, her cheek pressing into his palm like it was home. Her voice trembled when she spoke.
“Spencer…” Her voice broke on his name, but she didn’t stop this time. “I need you to know—I’m sorry.”
He blinked, eyes already wet.
“I’m sorry for leaving,” she said, each word deliberate, shaking slightly. “For not telling you. For every night you stayed up wondering if I was okay. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—” She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing under his thumb. “I couldn’t stay, and I thought if I left, it would stop hurting. But it didn’t. It just got worse.”
He didn’t speak. He only brushed his thumb along her jaw, slow and reverent, as though her voice itself might shatter if he said the wrong thing.
“I need you to really hear me,” she whispered, her breath trembling. “I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.”
He nodded once, his lips parting like he might say something, but no sound came.
“I forgive you,” he said finally, voice rough but steady. The words hung between them, fragile, trembling, but real.
Her breath hitched; her eyes closed like the relief itself was too heavy to hold.
He reached up, brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “I know why you left,” he whispered. “And I hate that you were hurting, but I understand. I do.”
Her gaze lifted to meet his, eyes wide and red and full of ache. “Spence…” she breathed.
He smiled faintly, though his voice cracked when he spoke again. “I’m yours,” he murmured.
Her chest rose sharply, a quiet sound escaping her.
“Even in all this waiting,” he continued, his voice breaking around the words, “I’m yours.”
Something in her gave way at that: something small and unspoken, a thread of tension that had held her together for too long. She reached for him, her hands trembling against his coat, and for the first time in months, she let herself believe she could be forgiven.
Her eyes glistened, shining like she was trying not to cry again. The light in the hallway caught them, made them shimmer like glass about to break.
He bent his head and kissed her, and it was a trembling, tear-streaked kiss, with uneven breathing and desperate stillness. It wasn’t perfect by any means; it was raw and human, the kind that hurt and healed at once.
Her hand slid inside his open coat, the cold of her fingers searing against the warmth of his waist. She pressed her palm there, grounding him, anchoring him in the reality of her presence, of her heartbeat against his ribs.
He pulled back only enough to breathe her in, his lips still ghosting her skin. Smaller kisses followed—along her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, the slope of her neck that now laid exposed. Silent apologies. Tiny declarations. The word sorry spelled out in breath and skin.
She let him. Eyes closed, her hands still holding him close, as though she understood every unspoken thing he couldn’t yet say.
“Come in,” he whispered against her skin, the plea trembling between them. “Please.”
She nodded, her hair brushing his lips when she moved. But he didn’t let go.
His hand stayed cupped against the side of her face, fingers buried in her hair, holding her like she might disappear if he eased his grip even slightly. Her hair had become wild—soft strands falling over her forehead, tangled where his fingers had been—but she didn’t care. Neither did he.
He looked at her again, and for a moment, he saw her as she’d been before all of this: the easy light in her smile, the warmth she carried into every room. But now that light was dimmed, shadowed by everything the BAU, the unsubs, the sleepless nights had taken from her. She looked so tired, so small, so breakable.
And something twisted deep inside him. Guilt, shame, a sick ache for all the pain she’d carried alone. Pain he’d added to.
Her eyes were swollen from crying, her lips pink and trembling, the cold still clinging to her jacket. His breath came unevenly, his lashes wet again.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice breaking halfway through. “For being so angry. For all the things I said.”
She shook her head, leaning closer until her forehead touched his. Her voice came out quiet and broken, her nose stuffy from tears. “You were right to be angry.”
He shook his head immediately, the movement small but sharp, almost pained. “No,” he whispered. “No—don’t say that.”
His hands framed her face again, thumbs trembling against her cheeks, and his expression broke open—bare, unguarded. The tears he’d been holding back gathered at his lashes until they fell, one after another.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice cracking around it. “Not just for that. For—” He swallowed hard, his breath shuddering. “For not answering when you called.”
Her eyes flickered, her lips parting slightly, but he kept going, desperate now, the words falling fast and uneven.
“I heard them,” he said, his voice splintering. “I listened to every voicemail, every single one. I did, I swear I did. But I couldn’t pick up, I—” His throat closed on the word, forcing him to take a shaky breath. “I wasn’t strong enough. You sounded so—” He stopped, pressing his forehead against hers like it might steady him. “You sounded so scared sometimes. I could hear it. Those mornings when you called and it was still dark, when your voice was shaking—”
He broke off with a quiet sob, his hand tightening against her face, like he could anchor himself by touching her.
“I should’ve been there,” he whispered. “I should’ve answered. I should’ve helped you through it. I was so wrong. God, I was so wrong. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She was crying again now, silent tears slipping down her face. Her hands came up to hold his wrists, her thumbs tracing over his pulse.
“Spence,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “it’s okay.”
He shook his head again, but she pressed her forehead to his, voice firmer through the tears. “I’m okay. I understand.”
Her thumbs brushed over his jaw, over the salt of his tears. “You don’t have to keep apologizing. You were hurting too.”
He let out a sound that was half a breath, half a sob, and she leaned forward, closing the distance—her lips barely touching his, just a soft meeting of trembling breath.
“It’s okay,” she whispered again, against his mouth this time. “I’m okay now.”
He inhaled sharply, as though gathering what little strength he had left. His next words came out rough and trembling, breaking through the last of his restraint.
“I love you.”
Her breath left her in a single, shaking exhale. Her eyes fluttered shut, like she had to steady herself against the force of it. When she opened them again, they were shining.
“I love you too—”
But before she could finish, he kissed her again.
A sound escaped him—something between a breath and a sob—as if the words themselves had broken him open. “I love you,” he murmured against her lips, again and again, the syllables tumbling through tears and air. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Each kiss came deeper, steadier, more certain than the last. Not hurried, never that, but desperate in a quiet way, like he needed to prove to himself she was real, that she had come back.
They stumbled backward, still tangled in each other, the doorknob bumping against his hand. The lock gave way with a soft click.
He didn’t even remember turning it.
He pulled her inside without breaking the kiss—still trembling, still half crying, her breath catching against his.
Her jacket slipped from her shoulders, landing in a heap by the door. His hands found her waist, fingers tracing the edge of denim, the warmth of her through the fabric.
She pressed closer, and for the first time since she’d left, there was no space left between them.
The door closed softly behind them.
And the faint hum of the city outside, the soft rhythm of their breathing, the warmth slowly building in the space between their bodies: it felt like the first breath after drowning.
abstract: where she runs from the noise and he waits in the silence.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)
genre: angst (very much so, very 'there's a possibilityyyy' bella swan coded) but it resolves towards the end, no worries :)
word count: 13.4k
note: whewwww, this is a looong one guys, it took me forever to write and finish jesus. inspo from: dorothy parker’s a telephone call, sandra cisneros' my wicked wicked ways, my sick & twisted mind, also my pinterest board that was particularly haunting this week. also radiohead & coldplay & weyes blood. i was going to have the ending be a soft smut ending, but the story was already way too long at that point that i didn’t, but maybe i’ll do a small epilogue with this beat?? idk, so many thoughts. but yeaaah, here it is, in all it's not perfect glory (ignore any mistakes pls it's literally so long i can't go thru it again), and i hope you enjoy!
The case had ended hours ago, but the air in the precinct still felt heavy. It clung to the walls, to the carpet, to the team’s clothes as though the grief hadn’t yet found where to settle.
The unsub had been led out in cuffs, and the press was already circling outside, but inside—the quiet hurt more than any scream. The air in Quantico felt poisoned by him; by what he’d done, by what he’d said, by the way he’d made her feel watched.
He’d sent the team pictures of her apartment: her coffee mug by the sink, her scarf draped over a chair, the corner of her bed. He’d written messages underneath them, taunting lines about how easy it was to know her, to see her. And when he finally showed up at her door two nights later, it was Emily and Morgan who’d gotten there first, not Spencer. Still, it was Spencer who could see the bruises fading down her arm now, pale yellow beneath her shirt cuff, the last of what he’d left behind.
The wrap-up was slow and subdued.
Everyone was gentle with her, quieter than usual, deliberate in their movements, as though speaking too loud might reopen something. JJ and Morgan left first, Rossi followed with a hand on her shoulder as he went. Then Garcia, leaving a cookie on her desk with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
When the bullpen finally emptied, only Hotch and Emily were still in his office, low voices threading through the glass. Y/N sat alone in the conference room, half-lit by the city’s gray dusk. She was bent over a stack of paperwork, but her pen hadn’t moved in minutes.
The door creaked open behind her.
“Spence?” she said, startled, turning slightly. He stood in the doorway, satchel over his shoulder, his coat already on and hers folded neatly in his hands.
“I thought you left with the others.”
He shook his head once, stepping closer. “I wanted to wait for you.”
A sigh slipped out of her, small and fond, the corner of her mouth softening. “It’s okay. You don’t have to. Emily and Hotch are still here.”
He looked down, thumb brushing the edge of her coat before lifting his eyes to hers. “I know… but I want to make sure you’re okay.”
She rose from her chair, slow and tired, the movement careful against the stiffness in her ribs. She took the coat from his hands, set it on the table behind her, and leaned back against the edge, almost sitting. Her eyes were dull with exhaustion, but when she looked at him there was still that impossible gentleness; the same softness she always gave him, even now in this moment.
“I will be,” she murmured.
He nodded, a small and quiet movement, understanding but also not—fully, at least.
She drew in a slow breath, then reached forward and took his hand between both of hers. “You should go home,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Sleep. You haven’t properly slept in two days.”
He let her hold his hand. For once, he didn’t try to fill the silence that followed. Her fingers were cold, the skin along her knuckles still faintly discolored from bruises that hadn’t yet vanished. His other hand rose instinctively, covering both of hers, his palms warm and steady. It was like a quiet act of shelter.
She blinked down at their hands, her thumb tracing the edge of his cuff. He could feel her pulse under his touch.
“Neither have you,” he murmured.
She smiled faintly, without humor. “I have to finish some paperwork with Hotch. About the unsub.”
He heard the pause after she said it—the careful detachment she forced into her tone. She said the unsub the way he’d once heard soldiers say the enemy. She didn’t need to explain what that meant, only because he could picture the report in front of her already. The photos, the timeline, the autopsy notes, the sections she’d have to fill in about the night he’d found her, the bruises he could still see—those same bruises he thought of all the time, like ghosts that still shadowed her skin—and something inside him twisted hard enough to hurt. He could only imagine what it must’ve been like for her to see them printed in black and white, catalogued as evidence.
Would she feel him on her again? The unsub. The touch that wasn’t touch at all, but violence masquerading as control. Would it burn again when she remembered it?
Each line of the report would be another way of living it all again.
So, yes, he didn’t push. He just watched her face instead, watched the way her eyes went a little distant as if she could already see the words she’d have to write.
He sighed softly. “Are you sure?” His voice came out careful, careful enough that she almost smiled at the gentleness in it. “I can drive you to mine after the debrief.”
She lifted her gaze up to him, slowly, as if it cost her something to do it. The corners of her mouth curved just slightly, the faintest smile that trembled at the edges but tried to steady her face anyway. “I’m sure.”
Her brows drew together, faint lines forming between them, and her gaze dropped back to their joined hands. “I think it’ll take a while.”
Her voice was small, almost apologetic, as though she was sorry for keeping him waiting, for making him worry.
He tightened his hold; not enough to startle her, but enough to draw her attention back to him, to pull her mind out of whatever dark corridor it had started down. His thumbs brushed against the back of her hands. “Okay,” he said, nodding once, almost childlike. “But text me when you’re done—or when you get home. Okay?”
There was something pleading in the last okay, something like a quiet hope that she heard all the words he didn’t say.
She looked at him for a long moment. The room felt smaller then, the world narrowed down to their hands and the way he was looking at her: so open, so earnest it almost hurt. She could feel him memorizing her like he always did, quietly, as if to make sure he’d have her image stored away if she disappeared again.
Finally, she reached up and brushed her fingertips against his shoulder, dusting off an imaginary fleck of lint. It was a familiar motion, one she’d done a hundred times before, casual but intimate. A tiny, practiced way to ease him, to tell him I’m okay without having to lie out loud, something half-comfort and half-deflection.
“Okay,” she said softly. Her voice steadied as she continued. “I will.”
But her hand lingered a second too long on his shoulder, her eyes glancing up to his before she let it fall, and in that small, fleeting moment, before either of them spoke again, the truth hung quietly between them—how deeply he cared, how tired she was of pretending not to need it.
He didn’t move. His eyes stayed on her. “You promise?”
Her lips parted, a shallow breath. She knew he wanted her to look at him. She found the courage and met his eyes, before saying quietly, “I promise.”
He nodded. She mirrored it, barely. A small, fragile smile flickered across her face and was gone before it could take shape, as if she’d forgotten how to hold it.
He gave her hand one last squeeze before releasing it, the warmth between their palms fading almost immediately. Adjusting the strap of his satchel, he shifted his weight, reluctant to go but not knowing what else to say.
His eyes lingered on her for half a breath too long, memorizing the tilt of her head, the hollowness hiding behind her calm.
Then he turned toward the door.
He’d barely made it halfway across the room when her voice came: soft and breathless and breaking the air.
“Spencer, wait.”
He stopped, only half-turning just as she crossed the space between them. Her movement was sudden, almost clumsy in its urgency, and before he could say anything she was in his arms.
The hug hit him like a wave; like something unexpected and fierce and full of something he couldn’t name. She clung to him tightly, her body pressing close, her face buried against his chest, and he could feel her breath trembling where it touched his neck. For a split second, he forgot to breathe at all.
Then he wrapped his arms around her automatically, with one circling her back, the other finding its way to her waist, careful of the bruises still fading beneath her shirt. He could feel her heartbeat against him, rapid and uneven.
Something inside him twisted sharply.
The embrace was too long, too tight, too final.
Every instinct in him—every profiler’s reflex—flared with quiet alarm. This wasn’t how she usually held him; this was something like a goodbye disguised as comfort.
He tried to steady his voice, though it came out thinner than he wanted. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nodded against him, the movement jerky, rushed. “Yeah—yes. Yes, I am.”
He could feel her saying it against his collarbone, could hear the crack in her breath that betrayed the words. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to stay.
When she finally pulled back, she didn’t let go completely. Her hands stayed on his arms, fingers curled lightly against his sleeves, as though if she stopped touching him, she might lose her balance. Her eyes darted over his face—his worried expression, his furrowed brow—and she forced a small smile. It barely held.
Her voice wavered, but she managed to keep it steady enough to pass as casual. “Take care, okay?”
He hesitated. The alarm bells were still ringing in his head, soft but insistent, the kind that warned something’s not right, pay attention.
But he was tired, and she looked so sure, and sometimes love makes you believe the story you’re given, even when it sounds like an ending.
He nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said, forcing his own smile to match hers. “You too.”
Her smile twitched once, faltered, and then disappeared like a match blown out.
For a beat, neither of them moved.
Then he turned, shoulders tight beneath his coat, the strap of his satchel slipping as he started down the hall.
She stayed rooted where he’d left her, eyes following him. The fluorescent light above flickered faintly, and in its hum she could still hear the echo of his voice, the you too, as if it were meant to last longer than it did.
He glanced back just before he reached the corner.
She lifted her hand, a small, uncertain wave that trembled in the air between them, and he mirrored it, lips tightening around something that might have been another smile, and disappeared.
The elevator doors closed with a soft thud, a final punctuation.
And that was when it broke, when whatever fragile scaffolding had been holding her upright completely broke.
The air left her lungs in short, uneven bursts. She turned toward the table instinctively, reaching for something solid, her palms flattening against its cold surface. Her knuckles whitened, her head dropped, her chest burned as though every breath scraped against her ribs.
She tried to swallow it down, to be quiet and to stay composed, but her body refused to obey. Her eyes squeezed shut, her brows pulled tight together, her mouth trembled downward, a soundless cry catching in her throat.
“Hey—hey.”
Emily’s voice cut through the room, quick and soft all at once. She must have been waiting in the hallway because in two strides she was beside her, hands gripping Y/N’s arms firmly, grounding her.
That was all it took.
Y/N’s composure crumbled completely. She folded forward, collapsing into Emily’s chest, a broken noise escaping before she could stop it. One hand flew to her mouth to stifle the sob, but the crying came raw and deep, from somewhere far below, the kind that left her shaking.
Emily held her tighter, one hand at the back of her head, murmuring nothing words that didn’t need to particularly mean anything. You’re okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you.
Hotch appeared a moment later, a folder in one hand. He stopped in the doorway when he saw them, the mask of professionalism slipping just slightly, face softening, grief and understanding threading through his expression. He set the folder down on the table she’d been clinging to, careful.
When he spoke, his voice was low and soft and steady. “The leave is approved. You can go tonight.”
She nodded against Emily’s shoulder, her words muffled by the fabric of Emily’s blazer. “Yes, please,” she managed, her voice small and cracking. “I—I need to go. I just—”
Hotch stepped closer, his tone almost paternal in its gentleness. “We know.” His gaze flicked briefly to Emily, who gave a small nod, still holding Y/N upright. “We’ll take care of it. You just… rest.”
The words anchored.
Emily stayed with her, her body solid and steady, while Y/N shook against her, with small, trembling gasps breaking the silence; her hand rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades, keeping her tethered to something herself.
Hotch stood nearby, not intruding, but present, like a quiet sentinel to grief. His expression carried what he would never say aloud in fear it might only hurt her more: You’ve done enough. You’ve been through enough. You can go.
The conference-room lights glowed pale against the glass, throwing soft reflections over the empty bullpen below. The city beyond was a smear of silver and dark, the kind of night that felt endless.
The case. The control. The pretense.
It was over.
And she was leaving.
Morning light spilled into Quantico like it didn’t know what had happened.
The bullpen was its usual soft chaos—files stacked too high, coffee cups clinking, fluorescent hum filling the space where laughter should have been. The world kept going; indifferent. That, Spencer later thought, was the cruelest thing about it.
He had come in early, still in the cardigan he’d fallen asleep in, hair slightly mussed. His eyes were tired, but he’d brought something with him: a small brown paper bag with a pastry, and a thin book of poetry she’d mentioned wanting to borrow. He’d even written a note on a yellow Post-it: You’d like this one. It’s about beginnings, not endings.
He was still half-smiling to himself when Hotch’s door opened.
Everyone looked up instinctively. Hotch rarely called meetings before coffee, and the expression on his face, something controlled and professional, made the air go still.
“Morning, everyone,” he began. His voice didn’t waver, but there was a heaviness beneath it, and his eyes flicked over each of them before lingering on the vacant space where Y/N usually sat. The pause was brief, but it was enough to make Spencer’s stomach tighten.
“Agent L/N has been placed on temporary leave,” Hotch said. “Effective immediately.”
Spencer blinked, the words not landing right: temporary leave. They sounded bureaucratic, like a form to be signed or a file to be moved, but it was her, not paperwork. And still, they were abrupt—too much so, that even he—a man whose mind could hold entire encyclopedias of information, who could reconstruct timelines down to the second and solve mathematical proofs before most people finished reading the question—he suddenly couldn’t process a single thing.
Hotch’s voice continued, calm and even and professional, but the details blurred in Spencer’s ears. Approved by the director. No timeline set for return.
The phrases tangled together, meaningless fragments of bureaucratic talk swimming in static.
JJ’s lips parted, her voice caught between disbelief and protest. “Wait—what?”
Morgan frowned and set his coffee down hard enough that the mug rattled. “Hotch, what do you mean? Yesterday she said she was fine.”
Hotch’s jaw tightened, a brief muscle working at the side of his face. He didn’t answer right away. His gaze swept the team—their confusion, their worry—and lingered again on Y/N’s empty chair before he spoke.
“She’s not fine,” he said quietly. “She needs time.”
For a moment, no one breathed.
JJ shook her head, still processing. Morgan leaned forward in his chair, frustration sparking just beneath his voice. “So that’s it? Strauss decided she’s out until further notice? You know we’ll go to bat for her. If she wants to stay on the field, we’ll back her. She doesn’t need to disappear—she needs support.”
Hotch’s eyes dropped to the folder in his hand, then back to them. “It wasn’t Strauss,” he said finally. “It was her decision.”
Spencer’s head jerked up as though struck. “Her decision?” His voice cracked, sharp and too loud in the quiet room. “She didn’t—she didn’t tell me that.”
Hotch didn’t respond.
Across the table, Emily’s eyes were down, her fingers worrying at the corner of a file until the paper began to bend. She hadn’t spoken since Hotch’s door opened.
Morgan turned toward her, brow furrowing. “Why are you acting like you already knew?”
Her throat bobbed. She looked at him, then at Hotch, then, slowly, at Spencer.
“She told us last night,” she said softly.
Spencer’s breath caught. “Us?”
His voice was thin, breaking around the edges, but the silence gave it weight, enough so that Emily flinched a little at the sound.
Spencer stared at her, uncomprehending for a second, then looked back at Hotch, at the folded file on the table, at the empty chair beside him. The word decision echoed in his head, splintering with every repetition.
Decision. Choice. Leaving.
He thought of the way she’d held him the night before—it was too long, too tight. And the tremor in her voice when she said take care. And the look in her eyes like she was memorizing him.
And suddenly it all made sense in the worst possible way.
“After you left,” she began, the words sticking like glass in her throat, “she… she broke down. She couldn’t stop shaking.” She rubbed at her wrist absently, the motion small and distracted, like her body was trying to shake off the memory, before looking back up, her voice was quieter. “Hotch and I stayed with her. She said she couldn’t do it anymore, that—that she needed to go somewhere quiet. We helped her make arrangements.”
Spencer stared at her. There was a heartbeat of silence, and then another. He looked down at the paper bag in his hands—the one with the sweet in it and the old paperback he’d brought Y/N for that morning. His fingers were clenched so tightly around it that the paper had crumpled, the soft crackle of it the only sound in the room.
“She told me she was okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. “She—she promised she’d text me when she got home.”
“Reid—” Emily tried, but he was already shaking his head.
“She said take care,” he said, almost to the air. “That’s what people say when they’re leaving. I should’ve—” His voice cracked. “I should’ve known.”
Morgan leaned forward, his voice gentle. “You couldn’t have known, man. None of us did”
But Spencer didn’t answer. His eyes were distant, raw. He was still holding the book and the cookie like they were something breakable, fragile; like something that could shatter if he let go.
You don’t know her like I do, he thought.
You don’t see how she looks first thing in the morning, hair tied back, holding two mugs of coffee like she’s afraid to spill one. You don’t see how she tucks her feet beneath her chair during paperwork or hums under her breath when she’s concentrating. You don’t see how she laughs quietly when she gets the ending of a book before he does, or how she presses her palm over his wrist when he starts talking too fast, grounding him without a word.
You weren’t there on nights when the silence felt too heavy and she’d stay just to keep him company. You don’t know what her “take care” sounded like, and how it cracked on the care, how she smiled too tightly after, how it already sounded like goodbye.
The thought looped and looped until it hollowed him out.
Hotch’s voice finally cut through the silence, quiet but certain. “We have a case.”
The words felt wrong in the air—too practical, too normal against the grief still thick in the room. He paused, his eyes moving across the team, then resting on Spencer.
His voice softened.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That I had to keep it from you. From all of you.” He hesitated, a small exhale. “But she asked me not to say anything until she was gone. She didn’t want a goodbye to turn into another burden.”
He waited a moment, the weight of leadership and empathy both visible in the set of his shoulders. Then, quieter: “She needed this, whether she knew how to ask for it or not. She’ll reach out when she’s ready.”
The words were meant to reassure, but they landed like stones.
Hotch straightened slightly, clearing his throat, his tone returning to its practiced steadiness. “Conference room. Ten minutes.”
Chairs scraped softly against the floor, files closed, pens clicked, the careful rituals of people pretending they were ready to move on. JJ was the first to stand, gathering her folder with mechanical precision. Morgan followed, his movements slower, his jaw set tight. Garcia then, with a whisper of something under her breath, and Emily reached to squeeze her shoulder.
They all knew what to do—in fact, they’d all been trained for it.
Grief tucked neatly into professionalism.
It was something they were good at: losing people and compartmentalizing, sealing pain into corners so they could keep breathing, keep working, keep saving other people while losing pieces of themselves in silence.
But in that instant, Spencer hated that about them. About himself.
He hated how easily they could fold heartbreak into a file and call it protocol. He hated the polished motions, the tidy expressions, the way they all knew how to survive this because it wasn’t the first time they’d had to. He hated that it felt normal.
The team filed toward the glass doors, each of them carrying the invisible weight of her absence like it was just another piece of evidence to be processed.
But Spencer didn’t move.
He stayed where he was, his body caught in the space she used to occupy, as still as a photograph with all the color drained from the edges. His pulse was a low thrum in his ears.
The paper bag in his hand rustled faintly, and the note he’d put on the book fluttered in the draft from the air conditioner, the motion small and merciless. He watched it lift and tremble and fall back again, that tiny, ordinary thing, and the sound of it might as well have been the sound of her walking away.
He could hear them—JJ’s whisper to Morgan, Emily’s soft exhale, Hotch’s footsteps fading up the stairs—but it was all underwater, their voices warped and distant, muffled by the current pulling him under.
And he was sinking. The pressure was building in his chest, and the silence was thick around him. The world above moved on in blurred motions and muffled sound, but he stayed suspended somewhere beneath it, watching the light bend and fade.
The hum of the fluorescent lights became the rhythm of his heartbeat and the air felt heavier with every breath.
He didn’t even realize JJ had come back until her hand found his arm.
“Come on, Spence,” she said gently. Her voice was soft enough to reach him, to break through the distortion for a moment. “We have to go.”
He blinked, the room coming back into focus piece by piece. The desks. The empty chair. All of it, without her.
JJ’s touch lingered, patient and waiting.
For a heartbeat, he thought about refusing; thought of staying there and letting the silence close over him entirely. But then he looked up at JJ and saw the same ache mirrored in her eyes, and he suddenly remembered that they all carried the same weight.
Slowly, he set the dessert down on Y/N’s desk. Then the book. He smoothed the note flat, pressing it there like a grave marker.
And then he followed them, his steps mechanical, leaving her empty desk behind.
The bullpen light flickered once—briefly, faintly—like it, too, was trying to hold on to her.
Days blurred.
Time no longer moved in whole numbers, only in fractions of memory and half-slept hours.
Spencer went through the motions. He briefed, debriefed, wrote reports, read them, drank too much coffee, but it all felt like he was moving through glass. The bullpen was too quiet without her, he’d thought. The chair she used was pushed in just a little too neatly. The pen she’d always chewed the cap of was gone.
Every absence glared like an open wound.
Sometimes he caught himself turning to make a comment, a joke or a reference or one of his stupid statistics that no one else likes, only she wasn’t there to answer with that soft hum of amusement or the way she’d roll her eyes and smile just enough for him to know she’d understood him.
That small, impossible connection.
Gone.
And at night, at his devastatingly more vulnerable, she came back to him. Not as a ghost, not really, but in the way the mind creates what it cannot bear to lose.
The first dream came a week after she left: he was home, standing in his kitchen, and she was there in his socks—mismatched and too big for her, slouched lazily down her ankles—perched on the counter, eating a peach and watching him read. She said something quiet, something that sounded like you read like you’re remembering a song, and he’d laughed, surprised, because it was such a her thing to say.
Then she reached out and touched his wrist, and he felt it, her—her skin warm, her nails short and clean, the faint pulse at the base of her thumb. He looked at her, heart pounding with something wild and grateful.
And then he woke up. And the apartment was dark and cold, the peach was gone, and his wrist was empty.
And there were other dreams.
Her, curled up in his bed, her hair loose across the pillow. She would look impossibly soft and so, so alive, her lips parted slightly as if she was about to say something. He could almost hear her voice before it became silence.
Sometimes, in those dreams, he kissed her. Gently at first, like she might disappear if he moved too fast. Other times, the kiss deepened; the space between them closed, her heartbeat pressed against his, the way her breath hitched and spilled into his mouth, the warmth of her throat under his palm, the quiet sounds that made him tremble awake.
Each time, he woke colder. Each time, the echo of her breath lingered in his ears for a few seconds before fading, leaving only the sound of his own. He’d stare at the ceiling, trying to keep her with him; the exact timbre of her laugh, the way her voice softened when she said his name, the particular warmth that came from her nearness.
He wondered if this was how forgetting began: not all at once, but by degrees. Each morning, her memory a little fainter, her voice a little further away. And maybe that was why his mind kept inventing her, to keep her alive in the only place he could still reach her.
He’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, the clock ticking its cruel reminder that morning was coming, that she was still gone. His skin would prickle with the echo of her touch, his heart racing, and he’d press his palms against his eyes until the image faded.
He told himself over and over that it was just the mind’s way of grieving. That’s what loss did—it rewired the neurons, made phantoms out of habit.
But that didn’t stop him from waking with her name half-formed on his lips, no, it never did.
One morning, he opened his eyes to the gray light of dawn, heart pounding. He could still feel her warmth on his arm—her weight, the exact shape of her body curved against him like something carved into the mattress. And he had turned, half expecting to see her.
But there was nothing. Just the hollow side of the bed, the indentation left by sleep and longing.
He sat up too fast, chest heaving, air sharp and cold in his lungs, and for a moment he couldn’t tell if he was still dreaming—because the ache was too close, and her name was still tangled somewhere in his throat. All he could do was press a trembling hand to his face, dragging it down until he could breathe again, until he remembered where he was.
The room looked untouched: their—no, his books in neat stacks, their—no, his notes in ordered piles on the nightstand. His, his, his, no longer theirs, and the realization was glaring, like a punch in the stomach, because nothing was moved and nothing was changed. Except her absence hung there, heavy and familiar, sitting in the corner like an extra shadow.
He thought about calling her.
The thought itself unsettled him, absurd in its simplicity. He could just pick up the phone, dial her number, hear her voice—if she answered. Maybe she would. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe it would ring once, twice. Maybe she’d see his name and think of that night, the promise she broke, the one she never meant to break.
He didn’t move.
He could hear the hum of the city outside, the radiator breathing faintly, his own pulse ticking like seconds against his skin. The phone on the nightstand looked too bright in the low light, and the idea of a small red glow of a missed-call icon staring back like an accusation haunted him.
If I call now, she’ll hear it in my voice, he thought.
He didn’t call.
He just sat there, staring at nothing, waiting for the alarm to tell him it was time to pretend again.
When it finally rang, the sound felt too ordinary for how much it hurt. He reached to silence it, then stood. Got dressed. Buttoned his shirt wrong the first time. Straightened it. Brushed his hair. Went to work.
And carried the ghost of her on his back.
Every day after that felt like walking beside a memory that refused to fade—her voice just behind him, her laughter spilling into hallways that weren’t real. Sometimes he’d catch himself turning to the side, just slightly, as if she were there, as if he could still offer her a smile or a comment or a fact she’d tease him for.
Once, in the space between sleep and waking, he even prayed. Not to anyone in particular, he didn’t believe in anything, but, God did he want to, in these moments where he whispered into the dark: Five more minutes, please.
Five more minutes to stay where she still exists.
Because he could still feel it sometimes: the echo of her knee brushing his in his kitchen that night, the way it had felt like lightning in the body, like the cross around his neck had suddenly burned against his skin, as if the universe had leaned close and whispered, There are things both holy and sweet. I’ll show you.
He’d turned his face away then, the same way he did now—eyes closed, voice cracking on a breath.
Five more minutes, I want this so bad.
But the sun always rose.
And she was still gone.
It was raining in D.C.
One of those thin, silver rains that blurred everything: traffic lights, reflections, the edges of people’s faces. The sound was steady but soft, a kind of endless hush that made the world feel half-asleep. The windows of the BAU glowed faintly gray, rain sliding down in thin vertical lines.
Spencer sat at his desk, a case file open in front of him, though the same paragraph had been staring back at him for twenty minutes. The words were nothing but black shapes now because his mind had drifted somewhere else—where she was, maybe, or to a version of her walking through that place.
The bullpen was nearly empty. Garcia’s chair sat vacant, a bright scarf tossed over the back of it. Morgan’s jacket was draped over his seat, JJ’s phone charger blinked lazily against the outlet. Even the fluorescent lights seemed quieter, and the silence felt a lot different now—less like peace and more like waiting.
Hotch’s office door opened, a quiet signal that cut through the stillness. “Conference room,” he called, his voice calm but carrying. “We’ve got a case. Local jurisdiction requested assistance.”
Spencer blinked, looked up, trying to shake off the fog. Chairs shifted, footsteps gathered. Morgan muttered something about the weather, JJ sighed as she unplugged her charger. Spencer straightened the pages of his file, still not fully present.
Hotch gave the brief overview—missing persons, new leads, a flight to coordinate—and closed with his familiar certainty: “Wheels up in thirty.”
The words barely registered.
He reached for his pen, then paused. Something faint buzzed against the desk.
His phone lit up. Her name. His breath stopped.
For a second, the entire world fell out of focus: all the voices and all of the footsteps, even the rain outside, because the only thing that existed was the glow of her name on the screen.
He froze. His heart stuttered, pulse pounding in his ears like static. He stared, unblinking, afraid that moving would make it disappear.
By the time his hand reached for it, the light had already gone out.
Missed call.
The world came rushing back all at once—the rustle of files, the scrape of chairs, the low murmur of Hotch’s final instructions—but he couldn’t hear any of it.
He called back immediately.
Straight to voicemail. And the sound of it—the automated tone, the silence afterward—felt like a door closing.
He pressed the phone to his chest for a moment, as if that might make her voice return, as if maybe the universe would give him back just ten seconds.
Then the notification pinged: one new voice message.
His hands were shaking when he pressed play.
“Spence,” her voice came through, soft and low, like she was speaking into the wind. “It’s me.”
He froze, every muscle in his body going still.
“I’m sorry—for leaving, for not telling you, for taking forever to call you.” The wind was loud behind her; hissed against the receiver, whistled through some narrow street.
“I couldn’t handle it,” she murmured. “And I didn’t want to drag you into it with me. This job—this job is already too hard for me to bring my problems into it. I just needed to breathe. I’m in Chicago.” A faint laugh, cracked, self-deprecating. “The wind’s horrible here. You’d hate it… but I like it.”
She went quiet for a few beats. “I got a small apartment near the river. It’s quiet. Sometimes I just walk until my legs hurt. I’ve been thinking a lot. About you. About everything.”
A sigh. “Anyway, I don’t want to fill up your voicemail. I’ll tell you the rest later, okay? Be safe. I lo—”
The message cut out.
He sat there, staring at the screen, feeling the air leave his lungs like something stolen. His throat was tight, his eyes stung.
He called again. Once. Twice. Three times.
Each time, the ring cut off into the same empty voicemail greeting, her voice nowhere in it. The silence that followed was worse than rejection: it was absence, complete and absolute.
He tried again. His fingers shook. The rain outside grew heavier, streaking the windows in long silver lines.
No answer.
No answer.
No answer.
By the time Hotch’s voice broke through the noise—“Let’s go, everyone, gear up”—Spencer hadn’t heard a word. The bullpen had moved on without him. Chairs scraped, footsteps echoed, the team collecting their go-bags, their phones, their armor.
But he stayed.
Still hitting redial.
Still listening to that empty hum on the other end of the line, as if persistence might conjure her out of the static.
When Morgan finally called his name, sharp, twice, it barely reached him. The world outside had gone dark, lights flickering off the rain-soaked glass, the sound of thunder folding into his chest.
He looked at the phone one last time.
Her name. The missed call. The weight of it.
Then he stood, numb, and followed the others into the storm.
The voicemail echoed in his mind all through the night: Be safe. I lo—
It became a loop. A haunting half-sentence that refused to end
He called her again two nights later.
It was almost midnight. He hadn’t planned it; his hands just moved before he could stop himself.
The line rang once, twice, three times—then,
“Spence.”
Her voice.
He almost dropped the phone.
He didn’t say anything at first. The sound of her breath filled the space between them—shallow, trembling, real.
“Are you there?” she whispered.
He closed his eyes. “I’m here.”
His voice was low, colder than he meant. Detached.
She hesitated. “How are you?”
“How do you think I am?”
Silence. Then a shaky inhale. “I’m sorry.”
“You said that already,” he muttered.
“I know. I just—” her voice cracked, “I really am. I promise.”
His chest tightened. “Your promises don’t mean much to me anymore.”
It hit her like a blow. He could hear it—the way her breath hitched, how she turned the phone away like she didn’t want him to hear her cry.
“Don’t,” he said sharply, “don’t hide from me now. You don’t get to do that again.”
“Spencer, please—”
“No, you don’t get to say that either. You left, and I—” His voice faltered. “You left, and you didn’t even tell me. You told them.”
“I didn’t want you to stop me,” she whispered, words dissolving into tears. “You would’ve. And I couldn’t say no to you. I just—”
He exhaled harshly. “You can’t make that decision for me. You don’t have the right.”
Her breath stuttered. “I know. I know, I know, I know.”
“Then why—” He broke off, voice rising for the first time. “God, do you even know how it feels? To wake up and think you’re still here, and then realize you’re gone? To hear your name every time someone laughs too softly? To go to work and sit across from a ghost?”
Her sob came sharp and unsteady. “Stop, please—”
He couldn’t stop. He’d tried to hold it in, really he did; his breath, his voice, his anger, but it tore through him anyway.
“Do you know what that does to someone?” His words came out rough, his throat burning. “Do you know how it feels!?”
He was pacing without realizing it, one hand pressed to his forehead, the phone clutched too tightly in the other. His apartment was dark, just the blue light from the window reflecting off the walls. He looked around at it: the half-empty bookshelf, the second mug still sitting on the counter where she used to make tea, the blanket she used to use folded at the end of the couch.
“It’s empty,” he said, his voice shaking harder now. “Everything here—it’s like you took the air with you and I can’t even—” He cut himself off, dragging a hand through his hair. “I can’t sleep without seeing you. I close my eyes and it’s the same dream every fucking time. You’re there, and then you’re gone. I wake up and I can’t breathe.”
The words poured out faster now, tumbling over each other, too heavy to keep inside. “Sometimes I don’t eat. Sometimes I forget how. I keep thinking you’re going to walk through the door, and then I remember that you’re gone.”
His voice broke on the word. He swallowed hard, the sound sharp through the static of the call. “You can’t just vanish and expect me to be okay. You can’t make that decision for me—you don’t have the right!—”
“I didn’t want it to be like this,” she said, a whisper lost in static. “I didn’t know how else to—”
“You could have called!” he snapped, his voice cracking. “You could have told me!”
“I tried,” she said quickly, breath catching. “But you—you didn’t—”
He froze for half a second, the truth of it hitting and sliding off, before he couldn’t stop his voice from rising even higher. “Because I didn’t know! Because you didn’t tell me what you were doing!”
“I didn’t know what I was doing! I don’t know—I—I was trying to live with myself, I couldn’t—”
He laughed then, a dry, disbelieving sound that hurt his throat. “And you thought I could? You think I don’t know what it’s like to run from yourself? You think I didn’t want to go after you?”
Her breathing stuttered on the line, uneven. “I thought you’d hate me if I left.”
“Hate you?” He pressed his palm against his chest as though he could steady it. “God, I’ve been—” his voice wavered—“I’ve been half-alive without you.”
The silence that followed was long and splintered. He could hear her trying not to keep crying, the faint sound of a shaky breath through the receiver.
“You can’t just vanish and expect me to be okay,” he said finally, quieter now but no less broken, and again repeated, “You can’t make that decision for me—you don’t have the right—”
“I know,” she whispered. “Spence, I know, I—”
“Do you?” he demanded, his voice rising again, the anger cracking into grief, and it seemed like his words were on a continuous loop of anger and betrayal. “Do you really? Do you have any idea what this feels like?!”
“I do!” she cried, finally breaking, the word breaking mid-breath. “I do, I swear I do. I think about you every single day.”
The line went quiet. All he could hear was her breathing—uneven, wet with tears. His own chest heaved, air scraping his lungs.
Then her voice came again, fragile but clear: “Don’t you realize that I’m the same? How you feel about me—there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Nothing.”
That silenced him. The words hung there, soft and terrible.
He swallowed hard, voice low, almost shaking. “When are you coming back?”
Her breath caught.
“…I don’t know.”
He exhaled, long and unsteady. And then—
the sound of the line going dead.
He’d hung up.
Afterward, he sat there on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, rain hitting the window.
It was almost dawn when he finally fell asleep, and even then, he dreamed of her voice again, and it was punishing, the sweetness of it, the way his mind refused to let him forget. He’d thought earlier that the distance might dull her, that maybe memory would finally blur the edges. But it didn’t, and even after the argument, and after the silence, and after the click of the call ending—she was still there—that unfinished sentence, the one that never made it through the static.
Be safe. I lo—
The days stretched out, thin and colorless. Winter hardened around them like glass.
In D.C., the river froze over. The city shivered beneath pale skies, the trees skeletal and still.
Spencer walked the same route to work each morning, his scarf pulled high, the air biting through his coat, the sidewalks glittering with thin ice where the light hit them. He always passed the same places—they were familiar and unchanged—like the world had refused to notice that something was missing.
The newspaper stand where she used to stop still had the same vendor, still shouted headlines he barely heard. She’d always linger there, thumbing through a copy, smiling at some absurd story, teasing him about how he read everything except the fun parts.
He stopped there sometimes anyway. He’d look at the headlines, never buy one, never stay long.
Then came the café on the corner, the one that still spelled his name wrong.
“Spense.”
It used to make her laugh so hard she’d nearly tip over. She’d steal the cup from his hands, cross out the s, draw a little c instead. And her drink had always been something from childhood that had been modernized, sweet and chocolate—Mexican mocha latte, the smell of which she said vaguely reminded her of the chocolate abuelita her mom used to make when it was cold outside.
Now the scent made him ache.
He’d take his coffee and stand outside with the cup between his hands until the warmth dulled and the ache of her absence cooled with it. Then he’d throw it away and keep walking.
On the metro, he tried to read, but he never turned a page. His eyes drifted over the same paragraph, again and again, until the words blurred into shapes. He’d sit still, like a ghost among the living.
Sometimes he’d pull out his phone, scroll through their old texts—nothing earth-shattering, just fragments of ordinary life:
You’re late again, genius.
You still owe me coffee.
You look tired, get some sleep.
There were others too—the ones that cut deeper—domestic things that lived somewhere between affection and ache.
Do you need anything from the store? Milk? Toothpaste?
Leave the window open a little, it helps the plants.
Don’t forget your scarf, it’s freezing today.
I made too much pasta again. Want some?
He could almost hear her voice in each one, and it wasn’t so much the words themselves that hurt, but the ordinariness of them. How love could hide inside such small, unremarkable things.
The cruelest messages were the simplest, the ones sent without ceremony. They lingered like ghost fingerprints on glass, too unbearably soft to erase. Each one was a heartbeat and each one hurt.
Her contact photo still glowed at the top of the screen: the one he’d taken on some lazy afternoon, her eyes turned toward him, the faintest smile he’d memorized long before he realized he was in love with her.
He couldn’t bring himself to change it.
At work, he functioned—statistics, profiles, theories—but his mind always drifted. JJ caught him staring once, gaze fixed on the space where she used to sit. He’d blinked back to the present, muttered something about a case file, and she didn’t press. The team had learned to leave his silences alone.
The nights were getting worse.
Sometimes he’d come home and talk to her out loud, forgetting she wasn’t there. He’d murmur, You’d like this one, when a documentary came on, or You’d hate this coffee, or You’d laugh at this line.
And the apartment answered back with only the hum of the fridge.
The ghost of her never left—it only sat beside him at the table, a silent guest in the chair she used to take; it walked the narrow hallway with him, its footsteps pacing his own; it lingered in the mirror when he caught his reflection too fast, a flash of hair, the illusion of someone turning away.
It wasn’t just haunting anymore, it had pressed itself into him. Into his bones, into every quiet space his mind couldn’t fill.
And sometimes he swore he could feel her there, living in the rhythm of his pulse, breathing between his thoughts.
She was everywhere, and nowhere.
And still, she called. Sometimes, in the quiet hours between night and morning, she’d call him, but he never answered.
He couldn’t. But he always listened, later, when it hurt the most.
He’d lie in bed with the phone against his chest, the ceiling a blur above him, the sound of her voice filling the hollow places of the apartment. Sometimes he’d sit in the shower, water streaming down his face as he pressed the phone close, her words crackling through the speaker, barely audible above the rush.
The voicemails came in waves.
Some were quiet, almost shy. Hey, Spence. It’s late. I couldn’t sleep. I just wanted to hear— she’d start, and then stop, breathing through the silence before the message cut off.
Others came in the early hours, her voice trembling, thin with exhaustion. I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts again, she whispered once. I keep thinking about that last case. About him. About what he did. Sometimes I still see him when I close my eyes. I hate that he got into my head.
Some messages were lighter—almost playful. You’d hate this coffee shop, she teased once, but they have the best croissants. You’d probably lecture me about sugar content. A faint laugh followed, the kind that broke his heart.
In others, she sounded tired but trying: I finished that book we talked about. I think you were right—the ending was better than I expected. She told him about songs, about long walks, about how the light hit the ocean differently every day. She confessed that she missed hearing his voice when he got excited about something—missed the way his fingers would tap against the table when he was thinking, or the shy tilt of his smile when he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
And once, softer than the rest, like a confession she hadn’t meant to record: I dream of your hands sometimes. It makes me cry.
He’d play that one over and over until the battery died.
Each message hurt differently. Each one found him in a new place—the couch, the kitchen floor, his bed, his car—and left him wrecked all over again. He’d cover his mouth with his hand to keep from making a sound, tears slipping hot down his cheeks, his body shaking with the effort of keeping quiet.
But the last voicemail, he never heard.
She had recorded it the night before her flight, her bag already packed by the door. Her voice was different this time—steady, certain, almost warm again.
I’m coming back, she said. I packed your copy of Leaves of Grass. I don’t know what I’ll say when I see you, but I’m coming home.
The message never went through. Maybe the signal cut out. Maybe she hit send too late.
Either way, it hung there, unreceived, somewhere between satellites and sky, trapped in the ether of bad cell service and missed timing, but still: the one he never heard.
Outside, the snow had begun to melt.
She hailed a cab, sunlight flashing against the glass as it pulled away toward the airport.
“…and then she gets so lonely for him she feels sick. and he feels the same, though neither knows the other is breaking in parallel.”
i am yours. even in this waiting, i’m yours.
It’s late when he finally gets home.
The stairwell smelled like rain and concrete. His shoulders ached beneath his coat; the weight of another case, another empty night. He walked up the steps, each one echoing a little too loudly, fingers cold around the keys in his pocket.
He was still thinking about the motions—lock, door, lights—just another night at the end of a long day, body moving on instinct, keys clinking, satchel strap slipping down his shoulder, the sound of rain still whispering down the stairwell, noting in his head how tired he was, worn hollow by the rhythm of the job and the ache that never left—until he’s stopped.
Because there’s someone there. A silhouette leaning against the wall beside his apartment door, with denim jeans dark enough to drink in the dim light, a brown leather jacket fitted close to her frame, edges softened from wear. Her head is bowed, hair falling forward over her face, her lips moving, mouthing something over and over, too quiet for him to hear.
For a moment, his body forgets to breathe. Then he whispers her name. “Y/N?”
She startled, like the sound had broken whatever fragile thread was holding her up. Her eyes went wide, her mouth parting soft and uncertainly. “Spence—”
“What are you doing here?” The words come out too quick, too flat. They landed in the air like something heavier than he meant, something that didn’t belong in the softness of her name. It’s not anger, it’s shock, disbelief scraping against relief, the sound of his heart trying to catch up with his body, but he doesn’t correct it, doesn’t know how.
Her mouth shut, then opened again, like she’d rehearsed a thousand ways to begin and forgotten all of them. Her gaze dropped to the floor between them, to the small stretch of tile that felt like miles, and for a moment she looked so young, so unsure, that it made his chest ache.
When she finally looked back up, her eyes caught his, and it undid him a little.
He looked away first, however. The silence felt too sharp, too fragile, the kind that might shatter if either of them moved too fast. The hall suddenly seemed too small for both of them, the walls too close, the air too cold.
“You could’ve waited inside, you know?” he said finally, his voice low, almost gentle. “I gave you that key for a reason.”
Her lips parted again, a small breath fogging the air. Her hands shifted inside her jacket pockets, the sound of denim faint as she fidgeted. When she finally pulled one hand free, the key glinted in her palm, small and familiar and warm from being held too tight.
“I know,” she said quietly. “I just… didn’t know if it was okay for me to still use it.”
Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her nose red. She was shivering, just barely, but it was the kind of chill that ran deeper than the skin, that settled into bones.
He took her in the way someone might study a photograph they’ve carried too long in their wallet, half certain the person inside it might have changed. Her hair was shorter now, he realized. It fell above her shoulders, messier, the ends uneven like she’d cut it herself. Her face was thinner, maybe, or maybe it was just the weight she’d been carrying that gave it shape. But her eyes—those same wide, earnest eyes—were still hers. Still the same eyes that had met his across a dozen stakeouts, across a thousand quiet mornings.
Different, but still his.
After a few moments of silence, he exhaled, the sound soft, careful. “Come inside.”
He moved past her, the soft jingle of his keys loud in the narrow hallway. The metal scraped faintly against the lock as he fit one in, his hand steady only because it had to be.
Behind him, she didn’t move. For a few seconds, she stayed turned toward the opposite end of the hall, her back straight, her hands still buried in her pockets like she wasn’t ready yet, like letting this moment end would mean it never really happened.
She turned.
“Spence, I—” She stopped, the word collapsing mid-breath. Her throat tightened visibly as she tried again. “I just came to apologize.”
He stilled, his shoulders rising slightly with the sound of her voice.
“And to see you,” she added, her voice catching on the words. “You—” She swallowed, trying to hold herself together before she breathed out, “You have no idea how much I missed you.”
The key slipped slightly under his fingers. He stopped turning it.
His hand stayed frozen on the doorknob, his gaze fixed there, as if he looked at her, even once, she might disappear.
She swallowed hard. “Um,” she tried again, awkwardly, forcing herself to speak through the weight. “Yeah, I was walking yesterday, and—”
Her eyes darted toward him, but he still wasn’t looking. “I was okay, I was just getting a coffee, and then I looked up and the sun hit me and…” her voice wavered, the crack audible now, “…and I never knew if I was going to come back, but in that moment, all I could think of—see—was you. And I didn’t know what to do.”
Her voice only broke further, soft but shaking. “I—I process things by running from them. Until they find me in the middle of the street on a beautiful day, and they did, and…”
Her mouth trembled downward, crying now, quiet and unguarded. She lifted her hands, pulling them free of her jacket pockets, and wiped at her face with the backs of her fingers—helplessly, uselessly. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry that I didn’t say anything. That I ran. That I left you behind. That I hurt you.”
Her breath hitched again, the last words coming out softer, like a plea. “Spencer, please… I hope you can forgive me. Please.”
And that’s when he finally looked at her.
Her tears caught the dim yellow light from the hallway, turning them into something fragile, luminous, and her breath fogged faintly in the cold air between them. For a moment, all he could do was stand there, watching her fall apart under the weight of her own apology.
But he stepped closer.
One, two—slow, deliberate steps, careful like approaching something sacred. Until he was close enough that she had to tilt her chin just slightly to look up at him. Her hands were still half-covering her face, shielding her from the world, or maybe from the shame of being seen like this.
He reached out. His fingers brushed the side of her hand, the one she was leaning into, and he closed his around it, gentle but sure, and in that simple gesture—without thinking or planning—he drew her in.
Her body folded into his like it had been waiting to. The movement was instinctive, desperate. She was trembling in his arms, shaking so hard he could feel it through his coat.
And just for a second, it struck him, the memory: the way she had shaken the night before she left, standing in that same trembling silence, trying not to fall apart in front of him.
Cruel, he thought. The mind was cruel, to make him remember that now.
She buried her face in the crook of his neck, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. Her hand stayed between them, still half-covering her mouth, muffling the small, helpless sounds she couldn’t suppress.
He tightened his hold without a word. One hand splayed across her back, the other cradling her head, his thumb tracing slow circles through her hair. Her cold seeped into him, but he didn’t care. If she was trembling, he’d be steady. If she was falling, he’d be the thing she fell against.
He murmured against her hair, voice rough from emotion, “You’re freezing.”
She shook her head, the sound of it brushing against his collar. “I’m okay.”
“You’re not,” he said softly, almost fondly, but there was no teasing in it, only worry.
He fell quiet after that, his chin resting lightly on the crown of her head, listening to the rhythm of her breathing as it slowly began to steady against him. The faint tremor still moved through her shoulders, but it was smaller now, gentler, fading with each breath she took against his chest.
“How long were you waiting out here?” he asked at last, his voice a low murmur near her ear.
She gave a small, watery laugh through her tears, the sound fragile but real. “Long enough that your neighbor asked if I’d forgotten my key—and told me I should call you. Said you work too many long hours at the BAU. Guess I’ve been gone too long if she doesn’t remember me.”
A small smile ghosted over his lips, warmth flickering at the edges of his exhaustion. “Mrs. Donovan did call me,” he murmured. “I thought it was about her cat again.”
That broke something open between them: her laugh, his quiet exhale, both muffled against each other. The crying slowed, traded for sniffles and a strange, light silence; the kind that wasn’t heavy anymore, just full.
“Is Gato okay?” she asked after a moment, her voice smaller now, still pressed into him.
He nodded, his jaw brushing the top of her head. “Yeah. I gave him a treat this morning.”
That made her smile, barely, but enough. It softened the corner of her mouth, lifted her cheek where it touched his chest. He felt it before he saw it.
He pulled back just enough to see her face, his hands rising to cradle her cheeks. His thumbs brushed beneath her eyes, sweeping away what tears hadn’t yet dried.
He studied her.
The red tip of her nose. The wet shimmer of her lashes. The faint tremor still tracing her bottom lip. She looked exhausted, broken open—but alive.
And for the first time in months, he felt something loosen in his chest.
She wasn’t gone.
She was here. She was warm.
Not cold and blue and unreachable somewhere far away.
Here, under his hands, under his touch, under his breath—
“I missed you so much,” he whispered.
Her breath caught. Her eyes flicked up to his, and for a moment she just looked at him, as though trying to memorize his face all over again.
Then, softly, with a ghost of a smile, he murmured, “You cut your hair.”
She laughed quietly—unsteady, breathless. “Yeah. The bartender at a place in upstate cut it for me in the staff bathroom. With her old scissors.”
He huffed out a small, incredulous laugh, the kind that hurt and healed at once. “Of course she did.” His hand lingered in her hair, gentle, reverent, brushing a strand between his fingers. “It suits you.”
Her eyes glistened again. “Yeah?”
“You look pretty,” he said simply.
Something in her broke and mended at once. She leaned closer, her cheek pressing into his palm like it was home. Her voice trembled when she spoke.
“Spencer…” Her voice broke on his name, but she didn’t stop this time. “I need you to know—I’m sorry.”
He blinked, eyes already wet.
“I’m sorry for leaving,” she said, each word deliberate, shaking slightly. “For not telling you. For every night you stayed up wondering if I was okay. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—” She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing under his thumb. “I couldn’t stay, and I thought if I left, it would stop hurting. But it didn’t. It just got worse.”
He didn’t speak. He only brushed his thumb along her jaw, slow and reverent, as though her voice itself might shatter if he said the wrong thing.
“I need you to really hear me,” she whispered, her breath trembling. “I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.”
He nodded once, his lips parting like he might say something, but no sound came.
“I forgive you,” he said finally, voice rough but steady. The words hung between them, fragile, trembling, but real.
Her breath hitched; her eyes closed like the relief itself was too heavy to hold.
He reached up, brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “I know why you left,” he whispered. “And I hate that you were hurting, but I understand. I do.”
Her gaze lifted to meet his, eyes wide and red and full of ache. “Spence…” she breathed.
He smiled faintly, though his voice cracked when he spoke again. “I’m yours,” he murmured.
Her chest rose sharply, a quiet sound escaping her.
“Even in all this waiting,” he continued, his voice breaking around the words, “I’m yours.”
Something in her gave way at that: something small and unspoken, a thread of tension that had held her together for too long. She reached for him, her hands trembling against his coat, and for the first time in months, she let herself believe she could be forgiven.
Her eyes glistened, shining like she was trying not to cry again. The light in the hallway caught them, made them shimmer like glass about to break.
He bent his head and kissed her, and it was a trembling, tear-streaked kiss, with uneven breathing and desperate stillness. It wasn’t perfect by any means; it was raw and human, the kind that hurt and healed at once.
Her hand slid inside his open coat, the cold of her fingers searing against the warmth of his waist. She pressed her palm there, grounding him, anchoring him in the reality of her presence, of her heartbeat against his ribs.
He pulled back only enough to breathe her in, his lips still ghosting her skin. Smaller kisses followed—along her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, the slope of her neck that now laid exposed. Silent apologies. Tiny declarations. The word sorry spelled out in breath and skin.
She let him. Eyes closed, her hands still holding him close, as though she understood every unspoken thing he couldn’t yet say.
“Come in,” he whispered against her skin, the plea trembling between them. “Please.”
She nodded, her hair brushing his lips when she moved. But he didn’t let go.
His hand stayed cupped against the side of her face, fingers buried in her hair, holding her like she might disappear if he eased his grip even slightly. Her hair had become wild—soft strands falling over her forehead, tangled where his fingers had been—but she didn’t care. Neither did he.
He looked at her again, and for a moment, he saw her as she’d been before all of this: the easy light in her smile, the warmth she carried into every room. But now that light was dimmed, shadowed by everything the BAU, the unsubs, the sleepless nights had taken from her. She looked so tired, so small, so breakable.
And something twisted deep inside him. Guilt, shame, a sick ache for all the pain she’d carried alone. Pain he’d added to.
Her eyes were swollen from crying, her lips pink and trembling, the cold still clinging to her jacket. His breath came unevenly, his lashes wet again.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice breaking halfway through. “For being so angry. For all the things I said.”
She shook her head, leaning closer until her forehead touched his. Her voice came out quiet and broken, her nose stuffy from tears. “You were right to be angry.”
He shook his head immediately, the movement small but sharp, almost pained. “No,” he whispered. “No—don’t say that.”
His hands framed her face again, thumbs trembling against her cheeks, and his expression broke open—bare, unguarded. The tears he’d been holding back gathered at his lashes until they fell, one after another.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice cracking around it. “Not just for that. For—” He swallowed hard, his breath shuddering. “For not answering when you called.”
Her eyes flickered, her lips parting slightly, but he kept going, desperate now, the words falling fast and uneven.
“I heard them,” he said, his voice splintering. “I listened to every voicemail, every single one. I did, I swear I did. But I couldn’t pick up, I—” His throat closed on the word, forcing him to take a shaky breath. “I wasn’t strong enough. You sounded so—” He stopped, pressing his forehead against hers like it might steady him. “You sounded so scared sometimes. I could hear it. Those mornings when you called and it was still dark, when your voice was shaking—”
He broke off with a quiet sob, his hand tightening against her face, like he could anchor himself by touching her.
“I should’ve been there,” he whispered. “I should’ve answered. I should’ve helped you through it. I was so wrong. God, I was so wrong. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She was crying again now, silent tears slipping down her face. Her hands came up to hold his wrists, her thumbs tracing over his pulse.
“Spence,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “it’s okay.”
He shook his head again, but she pressed her forehead to his, voice firmer through the tears. “I’m okay. I understand.”
Her thumbs brushed over his jaw, over the salt of his tears. “You don’t have to keep apologizing. You were hurting too.”
He let out a sound that was half a breath, half a sob, and she leaned forward, closing the distance—her lips barely touching his, just a soft meeting of trembling breath.
“It’s okay,” she whispered again, against his mouth this time. “I’m okay now.”
He inhaled sharply, as though gathering what little strength he had left. His next words came out rough and trembling, breaking through the last of his restraint.
“I love you.”
Her breath left her in a single, shaking exhale. Her eyes fluttered shut, like she had to steady herself against the force of it. When she opened them again, they were shining.
“I love you too—”
But before she could finish, he kissed her again.
A sound escaped him—something between a breath and a sob—as if the words themselves had broken him open. “I love you,” he murmured against her lips, again and again, the syllables tumbling through tears and air. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Each kiss came deeper, steadier, more certain than the last. Not hurried, never that, but desperate in a quiet way, like he needed to prove to himself she was real, that she had come back.
They stumbled backward, still tangled in each other, the doorknob bumping against his hand. The lock gave way with a soft click.
He didn’t even remember turning it.
He pulled her inside without breaking the kiss—still trembling, still half crying, her breath catching against his.
Her jacket slipped from her shoulders, landing in a heap by the door. His hands found her waist, fingers tracing the edge of denim, the warmth of her through the fabric.
She pressed closer, and for the first time since she’d left, there was no space left between them.
The door closed softly behind them.
And the faint hum of the city outside, the soft rhythm of their breathing, the warmth slowly building in the space between their bodies: it felt like the first breath after drowning.
starting to write yet another story instead of getting around to finish my wip’s… they all stare at me menacingly, prob begging me to finish them lolol
WHY is writing so hard sometimes???? i wanna write fluff n smut n angst and everything all at once!!
but nevertheless, the new piece is angsty and delicious and hopefully heartbreaking teehee… ooops
hopefully i have it out soon and don’t scrap it 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼
abstract: in the quiet hours before true morning, a nightmare pulls spencer out of sleep.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)
genre: fluff, tooth rottingly so
word count: 3.5k
note: tw - run on sentences. it’s a bit different from my usual works, i tried leaning into a more poetic style this time. honestly debating on having a separate poetry blog… dreams mean a lot to me, so here is my possibly overdone verse-like take on dreams and spencer reid.
The first thing that broke the silence was the sound of his breathing.
It came sharp and uneven, each inhale catching in his throat as though he’d been running. The sheets shifted against his skin, damp with sweat and the faint coolness of the night air that slipped through the cracked open window. A thread of rain tapped the glass in restless rhythm, mingling with the low hum of the radiator and the soft creak of the bed frame as he moved.
Spencer’s hand twitched over the mattress, searching blindly in the dark—for something, someone maybe—before curling tight around nothing at all. The muscles in his jaw flexed, and his lips parted, words trying to find shape.
A low sound left him, half a whisper, half a plea.
“Y/N—”
Her name dissolved into the air like mist.
Beside him, she stirred, the mattress dipping gently as she turned toward him. The movement released a faint warmth between them, a ripple through the dark. Her voice came out soft, roughened by sleep, threaded with worry before she’d even fully woken.
“Spence…hey.”
She reached for him through the dark, fingertips brushing the tense curve of his shoulder. His skin was hot beneath her touch, his pulse fluttering wildly beneath it. The moment she touched him, his breath hitched—a startled sound.
“You’re dreaming,” she whispered, the words small and certain, like a tether thrown into the chaos of his sleep.
He startled awake on a gasp, the sound of it filling the small apartment like a wave crashing against the shore. For a split second he didn’t know where he was—only that his chest was tight and his pulse was thundering in his ears and the world was blurred at the edges. Then came her voice again, low and grounding:
“It’s okay. It was a dream. You’re alright.”
The words anchored him. He blinked hard, the shape of her coming into focus in the dim light that leaked through the blinds; hair mussed, eyes heavy but worried, one hand still resting over his arm. The sound of rain that tapped faintly against the windowpane registered to him, steady and alive, like a heartbeat he could match his to.
He drew in a shuddering breath and pressed his palms to his eyes. “Sorry,” he murmured, voice raw. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
She shook her head, sleepy but gentle. “Don’t apologize.”
He could feel her gaze on him, warm and unflinching, and no doubt cutting through the half-dark. But his heart hadn’t yet caught up to the present; it still beat like it was trying to escape his chest. The air between them was damp, humid from the storm and his own panic.
Y/N shifted closer, sitting up slightly. “Was it a nightmare?”
He hesitated. His throat worked. “Yeah.”
“Bad one?”
“Yeah.”
The word came out smaller than he meant it to, and he hated how it sounded—weak, too fragile, too human, a crack in the armor of rationality he always tried to wear.
Her hand found his again, smaller and steadier, her thumb brushing knuckles. “You’re okay, Spence. Just breathe.”
He tried. Inhale. Exhale. But the dream clung to him like wet fabric; faces, blood, her name shouted in the dark. His body refused to believe it wasn’t still happening, his chest still rose too fast, his pulse still stumbled.
“Your heart’s beating so fast,” she murmured softly.
He gave a weak huff of air, meant to be a laugh. “Guess my subconscious didn’t get the memo that the case is over.”
Her lips curved faintly, not quite a smile but something close, something meant to soothe, and she hummed. “Your subconscious has probably seen too much.”
He looked at her, eyes tired but gentle. “Yours too.”
That earned a small sigh from her, the kind that almost sounded like a laugh—something resigned or fond or even a little sad. The kind that said oh well, what can you do?
Her lips settled back into that soft half-smile, and for a moment, they just looked at each other.
He dropped his faze, ashamed suddenly, the feeling flickering across his face like a shadow. “It’s fine,” the murmur was quiet, fragile. “Really. Go back to sleep. We have to be up in a few hours anyways.”
She didn’t move. The rain whispered against the glass, the world outside a shade of blue that didn’t belong to night or morning. The clock on the nightstand blinked faintly—4:21 a.m.—and in the low blue light Spencer sat half-upright, still breathing like someone who’d been running from something that wasn’t there.
The quiet returned in pieces, but even still, she didn’t move to sleep.
Instead, she reached across the space between them and brushed her fingers against his jaw. His skin was warm and still damp, the faintest tremor in the muscles beneath her touch.
“You don’t have to tell me what it was,” she said quietly. “But I don’t want you staying up alone.”
He looked at her then—really looked, and his eyes were rimmed red and the shadows beneath them looked deep as bruises. The sight of her undid him a little, and guilt tugged through his chest. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he started, voice frayed at the edges. “It’s just… it was you. And it felt so real—too real.”
The words fell into the air between them and seemed to hover there, raw and trembling.
She looked at him softly, the kind of look that held a thousand small kindnesses. “Dreams can be cruel,” she murmured. “And they take what we fear and turn it into something unimaginable.”
He swallowed hard, eyes flicking from her own and down. “I should be better at this by now. It’s just—everytime we finish a case like that…” He hesitated, the words catching like static in his throat. “I see things when I close my eyes, and tonight—tonight you were—”
Spencer stopped himself and the rest stayed lodged in his throat, trembling on the tip of his tongue, but too unbearable to escape.
She didn’t press, no, only shifted closer until their knees touched under the blanket. “You don’t have to finish. I get it.”
He nodded, but the movement was tight and helpless. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
Her laugh was small, surprised and almost a sigh from how his words caught her off guard. “Spencer, you’ve seen me come apart after a case. Why would I judge you?”
He wanted to smile, something small to relieve her, and himself maybe. But he couldn’t; the adrenaline was still in him, humming in his veins and coming and going like waves, keeping him alert when all he wanted to do was rest, and his heart was still tap tap tapping against his ribs, quick and stubborn.
“I won’t be able to sleep,” he admitted finally, quiet enough that it almost disappeared beneath the hush of the rain.
“I know,” she said.
He exhaled through his nose, the kind of sound that wasn’t a laugh, more a surrender. His gaze lifted to her again, serious now, something pleading in flickering in his eyes, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to say thank you or I’m sorry. Something small and honest; but instead, he cleared his throat and spoke with practiced steadiness, the voice he used when talking to victims on the job, ones he didn’t want to worry. “You should sleep, though. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I promise.”
He looked away as he said it, down at the folds of the blanket gathered in his hands, as though he could hide his truth there, that he was anything but fine.
She hummed in response, the sound low and thoughtful, but she didn’t move away. Her hand stayed near his, an unspoken refusal to leave him alone in the dark.
He risked a glance back at her, and she was still there—looking at him through her lashes, half-lit by the grey dawn, expression unreadable but undeniably soft.
“You know what I dream about?” she asked after a long silence, voice still drowsy.
It startled a flicker of curiosity in him, making him pull his gaze back to her. “What?”
Her mouth curved into something between a smile and a secret. “Little things.”
He repeated it softly. “Little things?”
She hummed an easy mhm, the sound melting into the air. Then she leaned closer, her hair falling forward to catch the faint blue light from the window. “There’s still nightmares of course,” she said. “I don’t think any of us are free from those. But it’s after them… it’s the little things I see.”
The way she spoke had him captivated, enraptured, although he always was when she talked, but this was something entirely different; here, the way she spoke, even barely awake, was like a lullaby, every word shaped from calm and tenderness. From the small hope that there were still good things to dream about.
“Soft mornings. Warm light through the curtains. Orchids on a windowsill. You making coffee, humming something you don’t even realize you’re humming.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—the beginning of a smile tugging on his lips.
She took that as permission to keep going.
“I dream about the way sunlight smells,” she said. “That fresh, golden kind of warmth that makes everything feel clean. Sometimes there’s a little kitchen, and it’s colorful, and there’s a kettle on the stove, and you’ve already poured my cup. I’m only half-awake, just watching you move around the kitchen, and you look up sometimes—and I think maybe this is what peace looks like.”
He didn’t mean to react, only wanted her to keep talking—in that soft, lilting voice that always seemed to carry like light through gauze, low and honey-slow, curling through the quiet like the way steam curls from a cup, but he did; the sound he made was small, barely a breath or a hum, but his shoulders eased by a fraction with it.
Her fingers drifted up, ghosting through his curls and untangling them gently. Achingly tender. “Sometimes,” she went on, “there’s a cat that shows up. You insist you don’t like cats, but you feed it anyway. And it follows you around the garden, waiting for you to read out loud.”
He let out another quiet exhale. His eyes were open, although slower now, and softer, tracing her face as she spoke. He watched the way her lashes brushed her skin when she blinked; the thoughtful distance in her gaze as she painted the scene in her mind; the faint curve of her lips when she spoke something beautiful, like she didn’t know she was doing it.
Her voice had changed. It was warm and low, a current he could float on, and in this moment, he forgot that any world existed outside this bed, outside her voice.
“And sometimes,” she said, “we’re older. You’ve finally let me convince you to love me. You still get that look when I catch you watching me—like the sun’s doing something only you can see. You laugh more in these dreams, and it’s the kind of laugh that fills the air and stays there, even when you stop.”
Her words lingered like perfume, light and golden, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. His throat worked as emotion rose and swelled quietly behind his ribs. It surprised him: the way her voice could undo him so completely. HIs eyes burned again, but differently this time. The red rim wasn’t from nightmares or ghosts; it was from something tender, something that ached in a gentler way—the kind that comes when you realize you’ve been seen and wanted, wholly and without fear. He didn’t trust his voice enough to speak, so instead his hand found the hem of her sleep shirt and stayed there, not pulling or reaching under, just resting. The contact grounded him, and her; it told her everything he couldn’t yet say.
Her voice thinned out into something softer, nearly a whisper: “In one dream, we live somewhere quiet. There’s a porch with chipped paint, and the whole world smells like pine and sugar. You’re reading while I hang the laundry. The sky turns that color peaches turn right before they go too soft. You look up at me and smile, and everything in me feels like sunlight.”
As she spoke, the image drifted between them like a prayer half-remembered.
He could almost see it—a small casita tucked against the hills, the faint creak of a porch swing, the hum of cicadas hidden in the trees, walls washed in warm colors that catch the afternoon light. Clay pots that line the railing, overflowing with marigolds, sunflowers, and herbs that all reach for the sun. Bougainvillea that would spill down from the roofline in riotous pinks and reds, curling through the wooden beams of the porch. Windows that would glow with hand-cut glass that catch the sun in mosaic fragments across the floor. Wind chimes made from old glass bottles would sing lazily in the breeze. Inside, bright tiles would line the kitchen—cobalt, amber, green—still warm from the afternoon light, and the air would be rich with coffee and flour and sugar. Somewhere, a radio would hum softly in Spanish, its melody thin and sweet, and Y/N would hum along. The house itself wouldn't be grand, but alive; bright in its own way, full of handprints and warmth and things that didn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful. Built by love, touched by time and care.
The room had fallen into that sacred, half-lit stillness again, the one that only existed between hours; the hush before dawn when even the city seemed to forget itself. The rain had quieted to a faint patter, like fingertips against glass. Every sound was small: the whisper of breath, the rustle of cotton sheets.
Y/N’s voice came again, softer now, threaded with that low rasp that always sounded like warmth to him. Like the sound of a match being struck in the dark.
“In other dreams,” she murmured, “we’re sitting by a window, it’s late afternoon, and the light is so golden that it turns everything into honey. You’re reading something, it doesn’t really matter what, but I can hear you turning the pages. And there’s tea cooling on the table, and I think I tell you that you look beautiful in this light.”
A small grin tugged at her lips, unbidden and bright, the kind that overtakes a face before you can stop it. She could see him in her mind so clearly: the soft furrow in his brow as he read, the way he’d glance up when she said something like that, startled and a little shy.
“And you’d do that thing,” she said sleepily, voice wrapping around the words tumbling out, like silk, “where you pretend like you didn’t hear me, but your mouth gives you away.”
Her smile stayed as she spoke, and he could hear it—feel it deep in his bones, in the marrow—in the rhythm of her voice.
Her words moved like water, slow and lilting and inevitable; they slipped through him and washed away the remnants of the dream that had clawed at his chest. He didn’t answer, didn’t need to, only tightened his hold on her shirt, fingers curling in the fabric of it. She felt the faint twitch of them each time his breath deepened, each time he drifted another inch closer to much needed sleep.
She smiled faintly against his shoulder, kept speaking just for him. “Or sometimes it’s not a house in the mountains, it’s a house by the ocean. The windows are open all day, you leave books on every surface, I spend the morning trying to remember where I put the flowers.”
The corners of her lips cured up slightly as she pictured it: sunlight pouring through gauzy curtains, hair fluttering in the sea breeze. “Everything smells like salt and citrus,” she said, eyes half-lidded, words rolling slow and sweet, “and you walk past and kiss me without saying anything, and it feels like the world has stopped just for that second, just to sit and watch, like even the waves pause to listen.”
His lips parted, a soundless sigh, and his thumb brushed over her hip slow and absent as though he could feel the dream in his sleep.
She leaned her head against his, her words melting into the quiet.
“And sometimes,” she murmured as if it was a secret, “it’s nothing at all. Just light and warmth and the feeling that we made it somewhere safe.”
She could feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric of her shirt and it was slow now, steady and no longer chased by nightmares. The air around them smelled faintly of rain and the soft jabón de lavanda y limón detergent she used on her clothes, a clean and nostalgic scent that lingered like sunlight on cotton.
Her voice dwindled into the smallest thread.
“You read to me,” she said. “Your voice is low. The outside world doesn’t matter. The sun’s sinking, the sky’s the color of guava—that pink-orange color that fades too quickly—and everything is soft.” She paused, her lips barely moving. “I think that’s how love sounds.”
His breathing matched hers now—deeper, slower—and the thought struck him that maybe his was her plan all along; that she’d been breathing slow and careful to lull him to sleep. The tension in his body had begun to melt, and his fingers tightened slightly against her side, a wordless plea.
“You’d never have to convince me,” he whispered, voice half-asleep already.
“I know,” she breathed.
A small silence stretched between them, gentle and familiar, and Y/N thought he had finally fallen asleep. Then, with his eyes still closed, he murmured, “You should be a poet, you know that?”
She let out a sleepy giggle, low and warm. “Yeah?”
He hummed, the sound like a smile.
“Think I could quit my day job?” she teased, voice lazy with fatigue.
“Maybe in the next lifetime. I’d miss you too much,” he whispered, still half-lost to sleep. “But you’d be brilliant—you already are—but I’d spend hours trying to decipher your poems, and you.”
She tilted her head against his shoulder, pretending to consider it. “If I were a famous poet,” she mused, “I’d run free and never be caught. I’d live in a hundred cities, leave poems tucked in trees and under coffee cups, and no one would ever really know me.”
He smiled, eyes still closed. “Then I’d spend my whole life trying to find you,” he murmured, voice soft but sure. “I’d read every poem, follow every line until it led me back to you. I’d meet you, and I’d fall helplessly in love with you all over again.”
Her laugh came quiet, a little breath of joy in the dark. “You’d have your work cut out for you.”
“Worth it,” he said.
She smiled against him. “You only think that because it’s too early for your brain to argue with me.”
He huffed, the faintest sound of amusement. “Maybe. Or maybe I should wake up early more often—so I can hear about your dreams and all the strange, beautiful thoughts that live in your head.”
Her hand found his hair, fingers combing through it once, tender. Then she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, almost missing, more warmth than touch. “I’ll tell them to you whenever you like,” she whispered.
He nodded faintly, eyes settling, the words anchoring themselves somewhere deep in him. His grip on her shirt loosened, but didn’t fall away, and he breathed her name once, a soft whisper that barely reached the air, so, so different from the one he had broken out earlier. She watched as his face softened, his mouth easing back into peace, the lines on his forehead smoothing away.
“Goodnight, Spence,” she whispered, and then his body went still in the gentlest way—sleep finding him, patient and whole.
Outside, the rain faded into drizzle.
Inside, he drifted through sleep, carried by the soft gravity of her voice. Through the golden rooms and seaside light she had painted for him; through the orchards of color and warmth. In the quiet world of dreams, he walked those sunlit porches, felt the salt wind against his face, heard her laughter somewhere close, and believed, even if only for the night, that peace was something he could keep. With her words still echoing, her warmth beside him, the nightmare finally letting go, Spencer walked gently through the living pictures of her dreams, and for a while, the two of them existed there together within the soft light she’d spoken into being.
Somewhere far off, the light began to change—the first pale threads of dawn weaving themselves through the rain, through the blinds, across the bed where they lay, still and warm and safe in the quiet between heartbeats.
heyy, anon who sent in the question about where you learned to write-
thank you so much for sharing!! and don’t even worry about writing too much, i loved reading all of it :) i’m glad you’ve found an outlet to write again, it sounds like you’re really passionate about it and i love that for you !! and trust me it shows through your stories bc your work is always SO beautiful (like i die at gorgeous imagery mixed with similes and metaphors). also, i have to mention it bc you did- i loved reading junie b. jones, and while we’re here, the goosebumbs series was my jam lol
hello again!
you’re too sweet omg!! and same, i am an absolute sucker for imagery descriptions, especially when they don’t just sit pretty, but like carry weight with metaphors and similes? like i love it when prose reads like film stills? if that even makes sense?
ALSO, how could i possibly forget about my dearest GOOSEBUMPS??? unforgivable, honestly. ngl, all this reminiscing and nostalgia is taking me way back, and i vividly remember being absolutely terrified about night of the living dummy from goosebumps… 👁️👁️
hii! can i ask where you learned to write? because your writing seriously reminds me of how famous authors wrote in the 1900s, like an effortless rhythm of poetic thought and precise descriptions. every story i’ve read of yours feels like i’m reading a physical novel… so, genuinely… how? (bc it’s amazing if i haven’t made that clear) 💛
hi! :o)
so, first and foremost, thank you for this ask! i realized i haven’t really shared a lot of myself on this blog, so this is probably a good place to start!
…which will be under this keep reading partition, so press it if you dare (or are curious).
(note: i really tried to keep this short and sweet, but i couldn’t help myself and basically went into a deep dive my writing journey, so, this is a warning to say this answer is long)
i started “officially” writing, i want to say, when i was maybe 12 or 13, and it was to write one direction fanfiction haha. a little bit embarrassing, but i had always loved writing and literature and all things books, even since i was younger than that, like when i would read junie b. jones and magic tree house and scary stories to tell in the dark, and lemme just say, that scholastic book fair used to be my shit. like, i seriously loved it.
but anyways, yes, before that i vaguely remember stories i used to write in fifth grade, i believe?, and i would turn them in to my teacher, who would love them and encourage me to keep going (shout out to mrs. woods). they were mostly thrillers i think, there was one about an evil bunny and another about a cursed halloween party (i actually cringe when i think about these lol), but i definitely had a hyper active imagination and loved sitting in reading nooks all throughout my childhood.
oh my god (sorry i’m literally typing this as i remember), but i also used to make comics with my childhood friend in THIRD GRADE, and they were absolutely ridiculous. we would get a shit ton of blank printer papers and fold them in half and staple them so they looked like a book and i would write the story and she would draw the characters lol!
but, really, i’ve been writing for as long as i can remember. i did publish some one direction stuff on wattpad in middle school, and i did this alongside my cousin who was also obsessed with writing (she actually ended up witting a whole ass one direction book lol) (no, not after) (although we did enjoy our fair share of dark harry wattpad stories).
and it definitely continued through high school, although i really focused on poetry in that time, but i was in creative writing clubs and poetry clubs, and was always so close to my english teachers (which, god, i loved my english teachers) and even TA’d for a few of them when i had empty periods! dude, i seriously consumed so much literary content in high school, i used to have bookshelves fillllled. it drove my mom mad lol. and also a lot of media, practically every tv show and movie you can think of.
i think high school is where i really grew into my writing style, which is mostly thanks to my junior year english teacher because he was such a literary buff and would often talk to me about Woolf, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Steinbeck, Orwell, etc etc.
and this continued into my first year of college, where i attended seminars and would always talk to english and art history professors. but, unfortunately i did go through some particularly horrible circumstances, and did end up switching my major to something more science based. and ended up making this account to read fanfiction from beautifully, amazing writers that post their writing for us to enjoy in order to fill that void lol.
and so, jumping from that major switch to the present, i started writing again (although a lot of the first couple or so stories i posted on here were drafts/drabbles that i revived) and decided to start posting some of my stories onto this blog in order to motivate me to keep writing, since i most likely won’t live out my childhood fantasy of becoming an author lol, in exchange for becoming some sort of fancy scientist (which, why can’t i just live on a meadow and write forever and ever and never worry about money??)
basically a roundabout way of me saying i started this blog to have an outlet where i am able to write without society telling me that i will be broke when i graduate blah blah blah
ok wow, this is ridiculously long (sorry, i’m literally incapable of limiting myself to a word count…), and i definitely added probably way too much information about myself, but i am really happy to have started this blog because it pushed me to take writing classes this past summer and i feel like my writing is already beginning to improve from those first few fics lol
as for your question, which i’m not sure i even answered, i mostly learned to write myself but i was definitely influenced by past authors, teachers, professors, cousins, friends, etc. i can’t even imagine how many hours i’ve spent writing silly little stories or poems or how many drafts i have sitting in my google drives collecting dust haha, but i guess that’s it? (500 words later).
eeeeek!!!! a little nervous about posting this, because i know it’s a lot, but i do want to be more active, and post my thoughts about writing and such, and random blurbs i’ve written (because i actually have so many that i have done but haven’t posted bc they feel unfinished), and just be more involved with you guys, because the support i have received in this “rediscovering” writing adventure has warmed my heart to the thousands, and actually every kind word gathers in me like firelight until i’m glowing, and i swear my chest is a constellation, and my ribs are a sky too small to hold the stars you’ve given me 🌟🌟🌟 (damn, poetic sofi really cooked on that, if i do say so myself :p)
thank u if you’re still here, love you lots, and i hope to have your support in the future and foreva and evaaar more!! :o)
abstract: they thought the danger was behind them, but on the empty stretch of asphalt, vengeance found them in the form of blinding headlights and the unsub’s waiting partner.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)
genre: angst, little bit of fluff at the end
word count: 6.6k
note: i do want to issue a trigger warning, as this does involve a car accident where yn is hurt, so if that’s not your cup of tea, that’s okay! it’s maybe a little explicit, and definitely a lot intense, so protect yourself if that’s not someone you’d like to read <3 also, guys i am NOT a doctor, just a very dramatic person lol… femoral artery, what’s that? doesn’t exist in this story apparently… also, concussions?? nahhhh. i’ve currently been rewatching supernatural, so i needed to get this type of angst out of my system lol, but enjoy my beautiful readers xx
The hum of the tires on asphalt was steady, almost lulling, a low vibration that seemed to smooth out the night. Outside the windows, the highway unfurled in long, dark stretches, broken only by the occasional sweep of headlights from a distant car or the faint glow of roadside lamps sliding past.
Inside the SUV, the air was warm with the soft buzz of the heater, heavy with the quiet fatigue that always followed a case. The worst was behind them: reports filed, suspects booked, another nightmare for another town closed up in its box. For once, Spencer thought, the night might actually let them breathe.
He sat slouched against the passenger door, watching the blur of trees and highway signs flicker by, the world dimming into calm shades of gray and blue. Y/N had one hand light on the wheel, the other tapping absently in time with the music playing low on the radio. It wasn’t clear, not a station so much as a half-faded signal—an old ballad drifting in and out, the kind of song that made the silence softer, easier.
The road stretched dark and quiet ahead of them, endless and still.
Y/N drummed her fingers lightly on the wheel, eyes flicking toward him. “So… what do you feel like eating when we get back? And don’t say instant noodles.”
Spencer raised a brow, mouth twitching. “Why not? They’re efficient.”
“They’re sodium bombs,” she shot back, grinning faintly. “Come on, Spence. Live a little. Pizza? Chinese? I’m flexible.”
He turned his head toward her, one brow arching higher. “Really? Those are your healthier options?”
Her mouth dropped open in mock offense, though her smile gave her away. “Excuse me, pizza has vegetables if you order it right. And don’t knock fried rice, genius — it’s got eggs, protein.”
He let out the faintest laugh, shaking his head as his eyes dropped back to his hands. “Pizza wouldn’t be terrible,” he admitted softly.
“Terrible? Wow, glowing review.” Her lips quirked as she shook her head. “So… my place or yours?”
His head jerked up, startled. “Wait—what?”
She smirked, eyes still on the road. “Relax, doctor. I meant for the food.”
Color crept into his cheeks, and he gave a breathless little laugh, shaking his head. “You could clarify these things first.”
“But where’s the fun in that?” she teased, throwing him a quick sideways smile—
—and that’s when Spencer saw it.
Not in the mirror, but out of the corner of his eye: headlights surging out of the darkness, angled sharp, barreling straight for them. Driver’s side. Too close. Too fast.
“Y/N—!”
She didn’t see. She was still grinning when the truck slammed into her side of the SUV, the impact tearing the smile right out of the night.
The world detonated in steel and glass. The driver’s side caved inward with a metallic scream, the door crumpling like foil as the force hurled them sideways. Spencer was whipped hard into his restraints, his vision flashing as the airbag exploded between them. His last glimpse before the spin swallowed them was her body snapping against the seatbelt, swallowed in the shriek of steel and glass.
The SUV lurched violently, tires screeching against asphalt before they lost traction altogether. Gravity abandoned them. Spencer’s shoulder slammed hard into the passenger door, the seatbelt cutting deep into his chest as the world spun.
Weightless for a heartbeat. Then crushed again.
The windshield burst outward in a spray of glittering shards, the roof denting inward as the SUV flipped. His head snapped against the headrest, ears ringing with the deafening shriek of twisting metal. A hot rush of air from the airbag stole his breath as they tumbled end over end, dirt and sky and headlights blurring together in a nauseating kaleidoscope.
Every crash reverberated through him; glass splintering, tires tearing free, the groan of the chassis collapsing as if the whole vehicle were being wrung apart.
Then, with a final bone-rattling slam, they hit bottom.
Silence roared in his ears, broken only by the hiss of steam and the creak of warped metal settling into the trench. Smoke curled faintly from the crumpled hood.
When the spinning in his vision slowed, Spencer dragged himself free of the shattered glass, lungs clawing for air. The SUV was canted sideways in the trench, one wheel still spinning weakly, the wreck groaning under its own weight.
He coughed hard, staggering upright, his body protesting every movement. Warmth slid down his temple — blood from a cut he hadn’t felt split open until now — and his hands stung where shards of glass had bitten into his palms. His ribs ached with every shallow breath, a deep, blooming throb that told him the seatbelt had already begun to bruise him black and purple. Scratches burned along his forearms, his knees buckled with a jolt of pain, but he forced himself steady.
That’s when he saw the truck.
It had plowed nose-first into the embankment wall, headlights burning crooked and bright. The driver was slumped forward against the wheel, forehead split, blood streaking down into his collar.
Spencer’s stomach dropped.
Not a stranger. Not an accident.
The features were achingly familiar: the square jaw, the shadowed eyes. He’d seen them in passing, in case notes and photos. Not the unsub they’d arrested hours ago, but someone close enough to be blood.
A partner.
The realization hit like another impact, cold and certain: this wasn’t random. They’d been targeted.
“Spence—”
The sound cracked behind him, weak and wet, as if her throat were filling with something thick. Not just faint, but garbled; bubbling at the edges, like each syllable had to fight past the coppery flood rising in her mouth.
His stomach lurched violently.
He spun, dread tearing through him, and there she was. A thin thread of red ran from the corner of her mouth, pooling darkly at her cheek before dripping onto the dirt beneath her.
She laid half on the dirt, half caught under twisted metal. The driver’s side door had buckled open, throwing her partway out, but the collapsed dashboard had trapped her leg beneath it. One arm curled weakly around her side, the other splayed uselessly against glass and earth. Blood seeped hot and steady into the ground beneath her.
And in an instant, the driver didn’t matter anymore.
“I’m here,” he rasped, dragging himself toward her.
Shards of glass bit into his palms, tearing through the fabric of his sleeve as he crawled. Twisted metal jutted from the SUV like broken ribs, scraping his side when he squeezed past. The dirt was slick with oil and blood, the acrid tang of gasoline stinging his nose and throat. Every movement sent gravel grinding under his knees, sharp edges cutting through.
But he barely registered it — his focus narrowed to the shape of her half-pinned in the wreck, her body slack, breaths shallow.
His own vision blurred, but he forced his hands steady as he reached her, brushing grit from her shoulder, cupping her face with shaking hands, dragging his sleeve across her mouth in a frantic sweep, smearing red across his own wrist. He wiped again, softer this time, terrified of hurting her, desperate to clear her lips so she could breathe, desperate for the anchor of her warmth.
“What… what happened?” Her voice cracked, more air than sound.
Spencer’s stomach clenched at the sight of her. Blood streaked from a gash along her temple, matting her hair and trailing down her cheek. Her face was pale, lips cracked, her eyes glassy as she struggled to focus.
Her leg was the worst; her pant leg torn open, fabric dark and heavy where blood soaked through. The metal frame had crushed against her thigh, pinning her awkwardly, the swelling already visible beneath the shredded cloth.
She trembled all over, small uncontrollable shakes wracking her body. Dirt streaked her arms, her hands scraped raw, nails rimmed with dark where she’d clawed at the ground. Each breath she managed was quick and shallow, hitching in her chest like it hurt to pull air in.
It was too much. Too much blood, too many angles wrong, too many things he couldn’t fix here in the dirt. All Spencer could do was force his voice steady, desperate to tether her to him.
“Accident. Just—don’t move. You’re okay. You’re alive.” His words tumbled out, thin and shaky, but he willed them to sound certain.
Her brows furrowed, lips twitching into something like a broken smile even as her eyes glossed with tears. She tried not to cry, her nose flaring with the effort, but her voice cracked anyway. “Spence… my leg. It—doesn’t feel right. Is it—”
“No, no,” he cut in quickly, shaking his head hard. His hand smoothed down her hair, cupping her cheek again, anchoring her to him. “Don’t look, don’t think about it. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
She sniffled faintly, nodding against his palm. The disbelief in her eyes was plain, but she didn’t fight him; she let herself cling to his lie, to his voice, to the steadiness he was forcing himself to give her.
“I’m going to get help, okay? Just hold on.” His voice cracked, but he pulled back, fumbling toward the dashboard.
The radio was crushed, wires sparking faintly. He pawed at his pockets—empty. Panic rose hot in his chest. “My phone… where’s yours?”
Her lashes fluttered, her breath hitching as she tried to focus. “I—I don’t know… check my pockets?”
Spencer froze for a half-second, breath catching. His hands shook as he reached for her coat first, clumsy, sliding over fabric slick with dirt and blood. Nothing. He moved lower, hesitating at her slacks, guilt twisting through his panic.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely, as if apologizing could make it better.
Her head rolled faintly against the dirt, eyes glassy. “Just… do it,” she breathed.
He swallowed hard and pressed on, fingers trembling as he searched each pocket with care, trying not to jostle her leg. She flinched when his knuckles brushed too close to the wound, a sharp whimper escaping. His stomach knotted. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—”
But there was nothing. No phone. No lifeline.
When he sat back on his heels, breath ragged in his throat, her eyes were still on him, wet and dazed. He caught her hand immediately, squeezing it like he could transfer his pulse into her. “It’s okay. It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ll think of something.”
Spencer’s pulse thundered in his ears. He tore himself away for a split second, stumbling toward the other vehicle — not for the driver, he already knew the man was gone, but for anything that could save her. A phone. A radio. A miracle.
He yanked open the ruined glove box, pawed through the floorboards slick with blood and glass. Nothing. No signal, no lifeline.
When he stumbled back to her, his breath was raw in his throat, panic clawing at his ribs.
Y/N was still awake, still waiting for him, but her lips were pale, her hand pressed weakly against the blood at her leg.
He dropped to his knees beside her again, voice breaking, “Okay, okay— I’ll think of something. Just… stay with me, alright? Please.”
Spencer’s mind ran a hundred directions at once, all useless. No radio. No phones. No signal flares. No traffic on this forgotten stretch of road. His thoughts looped, scrambled, snagged on the image of the trench swallowing them whole.
Then he saw it — her hand.
It had been pressed against her thigh where the blood seeped dark and steady, but now it was sliding, fingers losing strength.
“Y/N,” his voice cracked, sharper than he meant, panic sharpening the edges. He caught her wrist and pushed it back over the wound, his own hand covering hers, holding the pressure she couldn’t anymore.
Her lashes fluttered, eyes rolling slightly before catching his. Her breath hitched, shallow, each inhale smaller than the last.
“Spence,” she whispered, almost apologetic, as if she could feel herself slipping.
His stomach dropped, his vision swimming, but he forced his face close, forced his voice steady. “Hey— no. Look at me. Don’t you dare.”
She tried to smile, but blood ghosted at the corner of her lip.
Spencer’s grip trembled where he held her, but he leaned in, desperate. “I know you’re tired, but you can’t close your eyes. You hear me? You can’t.”
Her breathing stuttered, eyelids heavy.
He scrambled for anything, for the one thing he always had: words. “Did you know,” he blurted, his voice breaking and racing at once, “people who stay conscious through trauma have a significantly higher survival rate? You just need to stay awake, Y/N. Just stay awake, and you’ll be fine.”
A weak, breathless sound came from her, half a laugh, half a sob. “Only you’d quote statistics right now.”
Tears blurred his vision, but he clung to the sound of her voice like it was oxygen. He nodded fiercely, brushing her temple with shaking fingers. “Yeah. And I’ll quote every single one I know if it keeps you here. Just— stay with me.”
Her eyes found him again, glassy but alive. His chest loosened by a fraction.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He pressed their joined hands harder against her wound, his forehead lowering until it touched hers. “That’s it. You and me. You’re not going anywhere.”
The trench was too still. Steam hissed faintly from the crumpled hood, the smell of gasoline clinging sharp in the air, but otherwise, silence. Every second that ticked by felt stolen.
Spencer’s hand shook where it pressed against Y/N’s thigh, trying to stop the bleeding. He couldn’t stop cataloguing her— every flutter of her lashes, the hitch in her chest, the way her lips pressed tight as if she was holding herself back from crying out.
Her eyes drooped again.
“Y/N.” His voice snapped like a whip.
Her lashes lifted, slow and trembling, and her gaze slid toward him. They were glassy, wet, a faint tear clinging to the corner as if her body itself knew what was at stake.
He forced a smile he didn’t feel. “Hey, remember the first day you walked into the BAU?”
She let out a faint groan, her mouth twitching. “You’re… terrible at pep talks.”
“I’m improvising.” His throat burned, but he pushed through it. “You walked in wearing that navy blazer, the one you swore you hated later, and I thought—” He swallowed, voice breaking softer. “I thought, this is over. I’m going to fall in love with her, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Her breath caught, a sound halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “You… never told me that.”
“You never asked.” His lips quirked weakly, but his hand tightened around hers, grounding them both.
The memory flooded him so sharply it swallowed the trench whole.
Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The bullpen alive with chatter. And her, walking in with that confident, easy stride, a file tucked under one arm, a smile breaking across her face as she introduced herself like she belonged there. He’d tried to answer, tried to sound capable, but the words caught in his throat, tripping over themselves until Morgan smirked and elbowed him later, teasing in a way that only made his cheeks burn hotter.
She’d laughed once that day, something bright and unguarded, and Spencer had known, without wanting to admit it, that he was already undone.
A wet, stuttering breath dragged him back to the trench. The heat of fluorescent light became the sting of cold air and smoke. She wasn’t striding across the bullpen anymore; she was half-pinned in dirt and blood, trembling under his hands.
Still bleeding. Still slipping. But awake.
“You’ve gotta keep listening if you want to hear the rest of my humiliating confessions,” he said quickly, voice trembling but edged with urgency.
Her cracked lips curved faintly. “Fine,” she whispered.
Spencer let out a shaky exhale, pressing his forehead to her knuckles for a fleeting second before lifting his head again. “Good. Then I’ll keep talking.”
How long had it been? Minutes? Hours? His arms ached from the unrelenting pressure on her wound, his palms slick with blood that wouldn’t stop no matter how hard he pressed. He’d shifted his grip twelve times now, adjusted the angle of his jacket seven, wiped her lips clean at least three, and still, the red kept coming.
He tried to calculate the odds, running numbers in his head like they might anchor him: average EMS response time in rural terrain, the time it would take Garcia to notice their last ping, the chance Hotch would send someone looking before dawn. All useless, all just numbers—because none of them ended with her still breathing if she slipped away now.
She was bleeding out under his hands, and the thought slammed through him with brutal clarity: he couldn’t lose her. Not her. Anyone but her.
Her breaths came in stutters now, like her body couldn’t decide if it wanted to keep fighting. Spencer could feel every falter in the rise of her chest where he braced her, his pulse thundering louder than the silence around them.
“Spence,” she whispered, barely there.
“Hey, hey—eyes on me.” His voice wavered but sharpened at the edges, pulling her back. “You don’t get to leave me here. Not when I haven’t even told you about the pastries."
Her brow furrowed faintly. “Pastries?”
He let out a trembling breath, clutching tighter at her hand. “That bakery on Fifth. Sunday morning. You insisted I go with you because you said I looked like I’d never had a real pastry in my life.” His lips twitched, but it was a ghost of a smile. “You laughed at me for ordering coffee black while everyone else was balancing cappuccinos with foam hearts.”
The memory unspooled in him so sharply it almost hurt: sunlight catching on the glass display case, her reflection doubled in the pane as she pressed close, debating which pastry looked best. She’d chosen two and handed him one, powdered sugar dusting her fingertips.
“You had sugar on your cheek,” he murmured, remembering. His thumb brushed unconsciously along her temple now, as if it were the same thing. “And I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t. Not because I was embarrassed—though I was—but because you looked… happy. And I didn’t want to break it.”
Her lips curved, faint but real. “You… remember that?”
“I remember everything,” he said simply, voice rough, no hesitation.
The memory cracked apart on the hiss of steam.
The warm bakery air dissolved into the acrid stench of gasoline, the sound of cappuccino machines replaced by the groan of twisted metal beneath them. Powdered sugar was gone—only blood soaked beneath his palm, chilling his skin.
But her smile lingered, fragile and alive.
“See?” His throat tightened as he leaned closer. “You’re still here. You’re still smiling. Don’t stop.”
She let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, though it dissolved into a wince. “You’re bossy when you’re scared.”
He huffed, eyes burning, forehead pressed briefly against her hand. “Then get used to it. Because I’m not letting you go.”
Her lips parted again, trembling as though the effort of speaking cost her more than she had to give. “You’re… not supposed to remember things like that.”
“Of course I am.” His tone snapped sharper than he intended, his fear leaking through. He smoothed his hand over hers quickly, gentling. “That’s what I do, Y/N. I remember. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.”
“That’s not true.”
A shallow breath pulled her chest upward, shaky, uneven. Her eyes slipped half-shut.
“Hey.” His voice cracked, sharper this time, panic clawing through. He shook her shoulder lightly, terrified of hurting her but more terrified of the silence closing in. “No. Don’t. Look at me.”
Her lashes fluttered, her gaze catching his, glassy but steady for a moment. “I… thought you didn’t even like that bakery.”
“I didn’t care about the bakery.” His throat burned. “I cared that you asked me to go.” He leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing hers. “You asked me, and I would’ve followed you anywhere.”
Her breath caught, lips twitching weakly. “Don’t… say things like that. Not when…” Her voice trailed, her throat working, the words unfinished but heavy in the air.
“Not when what?” His chest heaved, frantic. “Not when you’re bleeding out in a ditch? That’s exactly when I should say them. That’s the only time they matter.”
She winced softly at his urgency, but her fingers—trembling, cold—shifted in his grip, squeezing his hand with what little strength she had. “You’re… shaking.”
“I don’t care.” The words spilled ragged. “You’re the one who’s—” He choked off the end, jaw clenching so hard it hurt. He bent forward, pressing her knuckles to his lips. “You’re not allowed to stop fighting. Do you understand me? I will keep talking, I’ll tell you everything, I’ll tell you every stupid statistic I’ve ever memorized if it keeps you awake.”
Her laugh was shallow, breathy, but real. “That… would take forever.”
“Good,” he whispered, the word breaking. “Forever’s how long I need you to stay.”
Her eyes shone wetly, though it might have been the pain. She blinked hard, fixing on him. “Then don’t stop talking.”
He nodded fiercely, throat closing. “I won’t. Not for a second.”
Her hand went limp again for a split second, enough to make Spencer’s chest cave. He scrambled for words, for anything. He forced air into his lungs, voice rushing out before fear could strangle it.
“Remember the grocery store?”
Her brows knit faintly. “…What?”
“That time you asked me to tag along because you said—” his throat bobbed, “—you said I couldn’t survive a week without a list.”
Her lips twitched, pale but amused, and Spencer kept going.
“You had a paper list,” he went on, faster now, “and you kept pulling things off the shelf at random. Apples, cereal, some brand of tea you swore would change my life—”
Her faint smile cracked wider, a laugh bubbling out, though it was strained, thin. “You… spent fifteen minutes comparing oatmeal brands.” She drew in a sharp, shaky breath, swallowing hard before finishing, “I thought the manager was going to kick us out.”
“I was checking for iron content,” he said, the words tumbling almost desperately. “And you kept stealing the pen from my hand and writing things on the list I’d already crossed off.”
“Because,” she whispered, her breath shuddering shallow, “you… don’t get to veto chocolate.”
Her laughter dissolved into a cough, and blood flecked the corner of her lip. Spencer wiped it quickly with his sleeve, his hand trembling, his heart hammering against his ribs. “See? You’re still giving me grief. You’re still here.”
Her gaze softened on him, unfocused but stubborn. “That was… one of my favorite days. You didn’t even notice, did you?”
His breath caught, chest tightening. “Of course I noticed.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I notice everything about you.”
The trench closed in around them again — the smell of gasoline, the metallic taste of blood — but for a heartbeat, Spencer swore he could still feel the hum of fluorescent lights above a grocery aisle, hear her teasing him as she slipped chocolate into their cart.
He clung to it, to her faint laugh, as if memory itself could keep her tethered here.
The trench pressed heavier now, shadows settling as though the earth itself meant to swallow them whole. Spencer’s hands were slick with her blood, but when he adjusted the pressure this time, she didn’t react.
A new kind of terror snapped through him. He looked down sharply, his chest seizing.
Her eyes, glassy and unfocused, blinked slow, half-lidded. “It’s okay, Spence,” she breathed, her voice frayed at the edges. “It… it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
His stomach dropped, his throat burning. “No. No, no—don’t you say that.” His words came raw, breaking as he gripped her hand tighter, anchoring her with everything he had. “It’s not because you’re better, it’s because you’re bleeding out. You can’t slip, do you hear me?”
Her breaths came shallow, uneven. Her lips pressed into a faint line, as if some part of her felt guilty for how much she was scaring him. Through the haze of her exhaustion, she tried to meet his eyes, tried to show him she was still there, even as her gaze wavered, heavy and tired.
He bent closer, desperation dragging the words from his chest. “Y/N. You can’t sleep. You’re not allowed. Do you remember—” his voice cracked, trembling against the weight of it, “—that night at the BAU? Just you and me, file room lights humming, everyone else already gone?”
Her lashes fluttered, a faint noise escaping her throat.
“You sat on the edge of my desk,” he said, voice trembling, “with a stack of files and asked what I was reading. It wasn’t even a case file, it was… Proust.” A thin laugh broke out of him, ragged at the edges. “You teased me, said no wonder I stayed late if I was using federal time to decode French metaphors.”
Her mouth curved faintly, a shallow ghost of her usual smirk. “I… remember. You wouldn’t… let me leave until you explained it.”
Spencer’s throat worked as he nodded quickly, clutching her hand tighter. “You listened. I knew you didn’t care about Proust, but you listened. And when I finally stopped, you just looked at me and said—” his voice wavered, eyes burning, “—you said it was nice hearing me talk about something I loved.”
Her breath caught, eyes slipping half-shut again. “Because it was.”
“Y/N—” his voice broke raw as he shook her gently, “—don’t do that, don’t sleep, please. Stay. Stay here with me.”
Her breath caught, eyes slipping half-shut again. “I’m… trying,” she whispered, her voice breaking, the words splintering apart in her throat.
“I know, baby, I know,” Spencer rasped, the endearment tumbling out before he could stop it. His voice cracked around it, the syllables breaking like glass. “Just—just don’t stop. Please, stay. Stay here with me.”
Her hand twitched in his grasp, cold and faint but still there.
He bent forward, clutching her fingers tighter, pressing them against his chest where his heart thundered. His hands shook so badly he nearly lost pressure on her wound, forehead pressing hard to hers because he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between them.
“I’ll help you,” he whispered fiercely, voice rough with tears. “I’ll keep talking, I’ll tell you every story I’ve ever memorized, every word I know—I’ll never stop. Do you hear me? I’ll never stop.”
Spencer felt it before he saw it; the way her pulse fluttered too faint beneath his fingertips, the way her breaths came shallow, uneven, like her body was surrendering piece by piece.
“Y/N,” he whispered, shaking her lightly, panic spiking. “No. No, stay with me—don’t you dare.”
Her lips parted, the sound that slipped out softer than air. “Spence… it’s okay. If—if this is it…”
His chest cracked open, every nerve firing white-hot. “Don’t you say that.” His voice shattered into the dark, raw and wild. “Don’t you ever say that.”
Her lashes trembled, her gaze finding his weakly, glassy with pain. “I just… I don’t want you to be alone.”
He made a broken sound, half a sob, pressing her bloody hand tighter against his chest like he could anchor her heartbeat to his own. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to leave me here and call it mercy. You’re not allowed.”
Her head tipped slightly, exhaustion pulling her under. “Spence—”
“No!” His forehead pressed hard to hers, his voice a rasping plea. “You’re not saying goodbye. Do you hear me? You don’t get to say goodbye. Not to me.”
Tears blurred his vision, hot and unrelenting, streaking his dirt-smeared cheeks. Words tumbled raw from his lips, unfiltered. “You can’t go because I—” He broke off, throat working violently before forcing it out. “Because I love you. God, Y/N, I’ve loved you from the very first moment you walked into the BAU and made it impossible not to. And I never told you because I was terrified, but none of that matters if you don’t stay.”
Her breath shuddered against his, her eyes fluttering closed, but a fragile smile ghosted at her lips. “You… love me?”
“Yes. Yes, I love you. And I am not letting you leave me in this trench to prove it. So open your eyes.”
The hand that had been clutched over hers against his chest slipped upward, trembling as it found her face. He traced her brow, the fragile sweep of her lashes, his fingertips skimming desperately along her eyelids as if he could coax them open with touch alone. His thumb lingered, gentle, afraid to lose even this connection.
His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, cracking under the weight of it. “Please. Just… open your eyes.”
For a long, gut-wrenching second, he thought she wouldn’t. Then her lashes flickered, her gaze dragging back to his. Weak, but alive.
“See?” His breath broke out, trembling with relief. He pressed frantic kisses to her hairline, her temple, her bloodied cheek. “You’re still here. You’re still mine to keep awake. That’s all you have to do.”
Her lips curved faintly, a whisper rasping out between them. “Bossy.”
A laugh tore through him, ragged and wet. He clutched her tighter, heart cracking open in his chest. “Then keep listening, because I’m not done.”
For a moment, there was only the two of them—their hands locked together, his words tumbling over the sound of her shallow breaths. He clung to the flicker of her smile like it was proof she was still here, still fighting.
Spencer had no sense of time anymore. It could have been minutes, or hours. His world had narrowed to the blood slick beneath his palms, the fragile rhythm of her breath, the soft twitch of her lashes when his voice begged her back.
He was still whispering feverishly, half-statistics, half-promises, words tumbling too fast for sense. “Did you know, when people smile, it can lower their blood pressure? And the average adult breathes twenty-two thousand times a day, so you just have to—just have to keep going—”
Her head gave the faintest nod, weak but deliberate, as though agreeing was all the strength she had left. Once, when his voice cracked, she rasped out half a word to finish his sentence, her lips barely shaping the sound.
It nearly broke him. He pressed her hand tighter against his chest, his voice roughening but never stopping, feeding her everything he had left.
And then a shout split the silence above the trench.
“Reid! Y/N!”
The names cracked through the night, too sharp, too sudden. Spencer’s head snapped up, vision swimming, as if it took a second for the words to reach him. For one suspended heartbeat he didn’t trust them—didn’t trust that anyone else could be here, that help had actually come.
Floodlights cut through the darkness, beams swinging down the embankment. Heavy boots thundered closer, voices overlapping; sharper, louder, familiar.
“Down here!” Spencer’s voice broke into a scream, hoarse with desperation. “We’re down here!”
Shapes appeared at the ridge: Hotch, Morgan, Emily, JJ, Rossi, and behind them—EMTs, their gear glinting in the artificial light.
The sight nearly undid him.
Morgan was first down, scrambling the incline with raw urgency. His eyes landed on Y/N and went wide with horror. “Oh my God—”
“Help me!” Spencer choked, hands locked over her leg. “She’s losing too much blood—”
“Move, Reid, we got her,” Morgan said firmly, though his own voice shook. He clapped a steadying hand to Spencer’s shoulder, grounding him as the EMTs knelt and took over.
Spencer didn’t let go easily. Even as skilled hands pushed him back, he hovered close, catching her limp hand in his.
Y/N’s lashes fluttered as the oxygen mask slipped over her face. Her gaze flicked weakly to Spencer’s, panic sparking as though she thought he might disappear in the chaos.
“I’m here,” he swore, clutching her fingers tight, leaning so she could see him through the blur of faces. “I’m here.”
The EMTs lifted her onto the stretcher, strapping her down quickly. Hotch’s voice cut sharp above it all, directing traffic, clearing the path. Spencer stumbled after them, his legs heavy, his eyes locked on Y/N.
“Sir, we need to check you too,” one of the paramedics said, stepping into his path, a penlight already in hand.
Spencer blinked at them, mouth open, breath hitching. “No—no, I have to go with her.” His voice cracked, frantic. He tried to move past, but JJ caught his arm, her own hands trembling.
“Spencer,” she said gently, “you’re bleeding. You have to let them look.”
“I can’t—” He shook his head, tears streaking hot down his dirt-streaked face. “I can’t leave her, not now.”
The EMT angled the light into his eyes, checking pupils, and Spencer flinched back, jaw tight. “Please, just—she needs me—”
Emily was suddenly there, steady and fierce, her hand gripping his shoulder. “Spence. Look at me. It’s okay. I’ll go with her. I’ll stay right next to her until you get there. She’ll be okay. I’ll take care of her.”
His throat worked, a broken sound slipping out as he finally crumpled against JJ’s hold, shoulders shaking. “I can’t lose her,” he whispered, raw, the words cracking him open.
“You won’t,” JJ murmured, pressing her hand tighter against his arm, anchoring him.
Another EMT guided him to sit on the edge of the trench while they cleaned the cuts on his arms and wrapped gauze around his palms where glass had bitten deep. His mind wouldn’t stop racing, latching onto anything solid.
“Concussion mortality rates decrease by forty percent with immediate intervention,” he muttered hoarsely, as though reciting could keep him steady. “Femoral bleeds—survival—ninety minutes, sometimes less—” His voice broke, choking on the numbers. “She’s been—longer—”
“Spence.” JJ crouched in front of him, forcing his eyes to hers. “They’re with her right now. She’s getting what she needs. She’s not alone.”
The slam of the ambulance doors made him jerk his head up, panic spiking, until he caught the last glimpse of Emily climbing inside, her hand on Y/N’s arm as the sirens wailed to life.
“She’s not alone,” JJ’s words echoed through the night, rooting him in place.
Spencer sagged forward, his face in his hands, the sound of sirens carrying her away pressing against his ribs until he thought they’d split.
Another ambulance backed in nearby, red lights strobing over the trench walls. Paramedics coaxed him up, guiding him onto a second stretcher. He resisted, tried to twist toward the one already pulling out, but JJ and Morgan steadied him, voices low and firm until he gave in.
As the doors shut, his gaze locked on the retreating glow of her ambulance lights. For a breathless moment, it felt like the distance between them was infinite.
Then the engine beneath him rumbled to life, pulling him after her. Not beside her, not yet, but close enough to follow.
The bullpen was buzzing with quiet routine, case files stacked, phones ringing faintly in the distance. Weeks had passed since the crash, enough time for bruises to fade, for reports to be filed, for the rhythm of cases to pull them forward. But the weight of it still lingered; in the way Morgan glanced toward YN’s desk more often than usual, in the way Garcia’s voice softened on every check-in, in how Hotch never said her name without something tight pulling at his jaw.
Then—
The elevator doors slid open with a chime that seemed louder than usual.
For a moment, no one looked up. Then came the soft, deliberate sound of footsteps in the corridor, uneven, and accompanied by the muted thud of crutches against the floor.
The bullpen quieted, heads lifting. Morgan glanced toward the doors first, then JJ, then Emily, as if some unspoken knowing had already passed between them.
And then she appeared.
“Surprise,” Y/N said softly, her voice carrying just enough to ripple through the room.
She stood there on crutches, hair pulled back loosely, bruises fading but still visible, her cast stark against her clothes. And right beside her, steady as a shadow, was Spencer, carrying her bag and watching her every step like the ground itself couldn’t be trusted.
For a breathless beat, the bullpen froze.
Then—chaos.
JJ was first, rushing forward with tears welling, pulling Y/N carefully into a hug that somehow managed to wrap around both her and the crutches. Emily swooped in next, kissing the top of her head and murmuring, “Never scare us like that again.” Rossi brushed a kiss to her hair, too, muttering something about stubborn heroes.
Morgan lingered only a second before wrapping her in the kind of hug that lifted her slightly off the ground despite her protests. “Easy, Derek!” she laughed breathlessly, though her eyes shone.
And Garcia, beaming from the landing above, called down with a wobbling voice, “My precious miracle girl! I’m knitting you a bubble suit!”
Laughter rolled through the bullpen, light and warm, chasing away the shadows.
Through it all, Spencer stayed at her side, hovering close but not intruding, steadying her when she shifted, carrying the weight she couldn’t.
When the chaos ebbed, her eyes found his. Something passed between them; quiet, and unspoken, and full of everything that had been spilled out in the trench and everything they hadn’t yet said.
Spencer’s lips curved, faint but sure. She smiled back, and the bullpen’s laughter folded around them both, like family, like home.
The bullpen slowly dissolved back into rhythm, with JJ tugging Emily toward the coffee pot, Rossi muttering about paperwork, Morgan already teasing Garcia over the phone. But every few beats, their attention still circled back to her: JJ brushing her arm as she passed, Emily tossing her a grin over her shoulder, Rossi reminding her to take it easy. The laughter lingered like sunlight, wrapping all of them in its glow.
And through it all, Spencer stayed at her side, steady and close, until the others’ warmth blurred into background and it felt like the two of them were standing at the quiet center of it.
He shifted her bag higher on his shoulder, his other hand hovering just in case she stumbled. “I can take you straight home if you’re tired.”
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in that sly way that always unraveled him. “You trying to kick me out of my own bullpen already, Doctor?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him. “I just… don’t want you to overdo it.”
She leaned slightly on her crutch, watching him with a warmth that almost undid him more than the trench ever had. “Spence,” she said softly, “I think surviving a car crash buys me at least a few hours with our team.”
His throat worked, words sticking, but he nodded. “Fair point.”
She glanced around at the bustle, then back to him, her voice dropping. “Besides… you’re here. That makes it easier.”
For a moment, the bullpen noise seemed to fall away. His pulse hammered, but he managed the smallest smile. “Then I’ll stay right here.”
Her lips curved, slow and certain. “Good.”
She shifted forward, brushing her shoulder lightly against his arm as she moved toward her desk. He fell into step beside her without thinking, her shadow and her anchor, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
theres truly no better feeling on here than when someone leaves a long paragraph in the tags pointing out details you intentionally included in your art. YES !! PLEASE POINT IT OUT OTHERWISE I WONT KNOW IF PEOPLE NOTICED!! YOURE SO COOL!!!!!
abstract: they thought the danger was behind them, but on the empty stretch of asphalt, vengeance found them in the form of blinding headlights and the unsub’s waiting partner.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)
genre: angst, little bit of fluff at the end
word count: 6.6k
note: i do want to issue a trigger warning, as this does involve a car accident where yn is hurt, so if that’s not your cup of tea, that’s okay! it’s maybe a little explicit, and definitely a lot intense, so protect yourself if that’s not someone you’d like to read <3 also, guys i am NOT a doctor, just a very dramatic person lol… femoral artery, what’s that? doesn’t exist in this story apparently… also, concussions?? nahhhh. i’ve currently been rewatching supernatural, so i needed to get this type of angst out of my system lol, but enjoy my beautiful readers xx
The hum of the tires on asphalt was steady, almost lulling, a low vibration that seemed to smooth out the night. Outside the windows, the highway unfurled in long, dark stretches, broken only by the occasional sweep of headlights from a distant car or the faint glow of roadside lamps sliding past.
Inside the SUV, the air was warm with the soft buzz of the heater, heavy with the quiet fatigue that always followed a case. The worst was behind them: reports filed, suspects booked, another nightmare for another town closed up in its box. For once, Spencer thought, the night might actually let them breathe.
He sat slouched against the passenger door, watching the blur of trees and highway signs flicker by, the world dimming into calm shades of gray and blue. Y/N had one hand light on the wheel, the other tapping absently in time with the music playing low on the radio. It wasn’t clear, not a station so much as a half-faded signal—an old ballad drifting in and out, the kind of song that made the silence softer, easier.
The road stretched dark and quiet ahead of them, endless and still.
Y/N drummed her fingers lightly on the wheel, eyes flicking toward him. “So… what do you feel like eating when we get back? And don’t say instant noodles.”
Spencer raised a brow, mouth twitching. “Why not? They’re efficient.”
“They’re sodium bombs,” she shot back, grinning faintly. “Come on, Spence. Live a little. Pizza? Chinese? I’m flexible.”
He turned his head toward her, one brow arching higher. “Really? Those are your healthier options?”
Her mouth dropped open in mock offense, though her smile gave her away. “Excuse me, pizza has vegetables if you order it right. And don’t knock fried rice, genius — it’s got eggs, protein.”
He let out the faintest laugh, shaking his head as his eyes dropped back to his hands. “Pizza wouldn’t be terrible,” he admitted softly.
“Terrible? Wow, glowing review.” Her lips quirked as she shook her head. “So… my place or yours?”
His head jerked up, startled. “Wait—what?”
She smirked, eyes still on the road. “Relax, doctor. I meant for the food.”
Color crept into his cheeks, and he gave a breathless little laugh, shaking his head. “You could clarify these things first.”
“But where’s the fun in that?” she teased, throwing him a quick sideways smile—
—and that’s when Spencer saw it.
Not in the mirror, but out of the corner of his eye: headlights surging out of the darkness, angled sharp, barreling straight for them. Driver’s side. Too close. Too fast.
“Y/N—!”
She didn’t see. She was still grinning when the truck slammed into her side of the SUV, the impact tearing the smile right out of the night.
The world detonated in steel and glass. The driver’s side caved inward with a metallic scream, the door crumpling like foil as the force hurled them sideways. Spencer was whipped hard into his restraints, his vision flashing as the airbag exploded between them. His last glimpse before the spin swallowed them was her body snapping against the seatbelt, swallowed in the shriek of steel and glass.
The SUV lurched violently, tires screeching against asphalt before they lost traction altogether. Gravity abandoned them. Spencer’s shoulder slammed hard into the passenger door, the seatbelt cutting deep into his chest as the world spun.
Weightless for a heartbeat. Then crushed again.
The windshield burst outward in a spray of glittering shards, the roof denting inward as the SUV flipped. His head snapped against the headrest, ears ringing with the deafening shriek of twisting metal. A hot rush of air from the airbag stole his breath as they tumbled end over end, dirt and sky and headlights blurring together in a nauseating kaleidoscope.
Every crash reverberated through him; glass splintering, tires tearing free, the groan of the chassis collapsing as if the whole vehicle were being wrung apart.
Then, with a final bone-rattling slam, they hit bottom.
Silence roared in his ears, broken only by the hiss of steam and the creak of warped metal settling into the trench. Smoke curled faintly from the crumpled hood.
When the spinning in his vision slowed, Spencer dragged himself free of the shattered glass, lungs clawing for air. The SUV was canted sideways in the trench, one wheel still spinning weakly, the wreck groaning under its own weight.
He coughed hard, staggering upright, his body protesting every movement. Warmth slid down his temple — blood from a cut he hadn’t felt split open until now — and his hands stung where shards of glass had bitten into his palms. His ribs ached with every shallow breath, a deep, blooming throb that told him the seatbelt had already begun to bruise him black and purple. Scratches burned along his forearms, his knees buckled with a jolt of pain, but he forced himself steady.
That’s when he saw the truck.
It had plowed nose-first into the embankment wall, headlights burning crooked and bright. The driver was slumped forward against the wheel, forehead split, blood streaking down into his collar.
Spencer’s stomach dropped.
Not a stranger. Not an accident.
The features were achingly familiar: the square jaw, the shadowed eyes. He’d seen them in passing, in case notes and photos. Not the unsub they’d arrested hours ago, but someone close enough to be blood.
A partner.
The realization hit like another impact, cold and certain: this wasn’t random. They’d been targeted.
“Spence—”
The sound cracked behind him, weak and wet, as if her throat were filling with something thick. Not just faint, but garbled; bubbling at the edges, like each syllable had to fight past the coppery flood rising in her mouth.
His stomach lurched violently.
He spun, dread tearing through him, and there she was. A thin thread of red ran from the corner of her mouth, pooling darkly at her cheek before dripping onto the dirt beneath her.
She laid half on the dirt, half caught under twisted metal. The driver’s side door had buckled open, throwing her partway out, but the collapsed dashboard had trapped her leg beneath it. One arm curled weakly around her side, the other splayed uselessly against glass and earth. Blood seeped hot and steady into the ground beneath her.
And in an instant, the driver didn’t matter anymore.
“I’m here,” he rasped, dragging himself toward her.
Shards of glass bit into his palms, tearing through the fabric of his sleeve as he crawled. Twisted metal jutted from the SUV like broken ribs, scraping his side when he squeezed past. The dirt was slick with oil and blood, the acrid tang of gasoline stinging his nose and throat. Every movement sent gravel grinding under his knees, sharp edges cutting through.
But he barely registered it — his focus narrowed to the shape of her half-pinned in the wreck, her body slack, breaths shallow.
His own vision blurred, but he forced his hands steady as he reached her, brushing grit from her shoulder, cupping her face with shaking hands, dragging his sleeve across her mouth in a frantic sweep, smearing red across his own wrist. He wiped again, softer this time, terrified of hurting her, desperate to clear her lips so she could breathe, desperate for the anchor of her warmth.
“What… what happened?” Her voice cracked, more air than sound.
Spencer’s stomach clenched at the sight of her. Blood streaked from a gash along her temple, matting her hair and trailing down her cheek. Her face was pale, lips cracked, her eyes glassy as she struggled to focus.
Her leg was the worst; her pant leg torn open, fabric dark and heavy where blood soaked through. The metal frame had crushed against her thigh, pinning her awkwardly, the swelling already visible beneath the shredded cloth.
She trembled all over, small uncontrollable shakes wracking her body. Dirt streaked her arms, her hands scraped raw, nails rimmed with dark where she’d clawed at the ground. Each breath she managed was quick and shallow, hitching in her chest like it hurt to pull air in.
It was too much. Too much blood, too many angles wrong, too many things he couldn’t fix here in the dirt. All Spencer could do was force his voice steady, desperate to tether her to him.
“Accident. Just—don’t move. You’re okay. You’re alive.” His words tumbled out, thin and shaky, but he willed them to sound certain.
Her brows furrowed, lips twitching into something like a broken smile even as her eyes glossed with tears. She tried not to cry, her nose flaring with the effort, but her voice cracked anyway. “Spence… my leg. It—doesn’t feel right. Is it—”
“No, no,” he cut in quickly, shaking his head hard. His hand smoothed down her hair, cupping her cheek again, anchoring her to him. “Don’t look, don’t think about it. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
She sniffled faintly, nodding against his palm. The disbelief in her eyes was plain, but she didn’t fight him; she let herself cling to his lie, to his voice, to the steadiness he was forcing himself to give her.
“I’m going to get help, okay? Just hold on.” His voice cracked, but he pulled back, fumbling toward the dashboard.
The radio was crushed, wires sparking faintly. He pawed at his pockets—empty. Panic rose hot in his chest. “My phone… where’s yours?”
Her lashes fluttered, her breath hitching as she tried to focus. “I—I don’t know… check my pockets?”
Spencer froze for a half-second, breath catching. His hands shook as he reached for her coat first, clumsy, sliding over fabric slick with dirt and blood. Nothing. He moved lower, hesitating at her slacks, guilt twisting through his panic.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely, as if apologizing could make it better.
Her head rolled faintly against the dirt, eyes glassy. “Just… do it,” she breathed.
He swallowed hard and pressed on, fingers trembling as he searched each pocket with care, trying not to jostle her leg. She flinched when his knuckles brushed too close to the wound, a sharp whimper escaping. His stomach knotted. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—”
But there was nothing. No phone. No lifeline.
When he sat back on his heels, breath ragged in his throat, her eyes were still on him, wet and dazed. He caught her hand immediately, squeezing it like he could transfer his pulse into her. “It’s okay. It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ll think of something.”
Spencer’s pulse thundered in his ears. He tore himself away for a split second, stumbling toward the other vehicle — not for the driver, he already knew the man was gone, but for anything that could save her. A phone. A radio. A miracle.
He yanked open the ruined glove box, pawed through the floorboards slick with blood and glass. Nothing. No signal, no lifeline.
When he stumbled back to her, his breath was raw in his throat, panic clawing at his ribs.
Y/N was still awake, still waiting for him, but her lips were pale, her hand pressed weakly against the blood at her leg.
He dropped to his knees beside her again, voice breaking, “Okay, okay— I’ll think of something. Just… stay with me, alright? Please.”
Spencer’s mind ran a hundred directions at once, all useless. No radio. No phones. No signal flares. No traffic on this forgotten stretch of road. His thoughts looped, scrambled, snagged on the image of the trench swallowing them whole.
Then he saw it — her hand.
It had been pressed against her thigh where the blood seeped dark and steady, but now it was sliding, fingers losing strength.
“Y/N,” his voice cracked, sharper than he meant, panic sharpening the edges. He caught her wrist and pushed it back over the wound, his own hand covering hers, holding the pressure she couldn’t anymore.
Her lashes fluttered, eyes rolling slightly before catching his. Her breath hitched, shallow, each inhale smaller than the last.
“Spence,” she whispered, almost apologetic, as if she could feel herself slipping.
His stomach dropped, his vision swimming, but he forced his face close, forced his voice steady. “Hey— no. Look at me. Don’t you dare.”
She tried to smile, but blood ghosted at the corner of her lip.
Spencer’s grip trembled where he held her, but he leaned in, desperate. “I know you’re tired, but you can’t close your eyes. You hear me? You can’t.”
Her breathing stuttered, eyelids heavy.
He scrambled for anything, for the one thing he always had: words. “Did you know,” he blurted, his voice breaking and racing at once, “people who stay conscious through trauma have a significantly higher survival rate? You just need to stay awake, Y/N. Just stay awake, and you’ll be fine.”
A weak, breathless sound came from her, half a laugh, half a sob. “Only you’d quote statistics right now.”
Tears blurred his vision, but he clung to the sound of her voice like it was oxygen. He nodded fiercely, brushing her temple with shaking fingers. “Yeah. And I’ll quote every single one I know if it keeps you here. Just— stay with me.”
Her eyes found him again, glassy but alive. His chest loosened by a fraction.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He pressed their joined hands harder against her wound, his forehead lowering until it touched hers. “That’s it. You and me. You’re not going anywhere.”
The trench was too still. Steam hissed faintly from the crumpled hood, the smell of gasoline clinging sharp in the air, but otherwise, silence. Every second that ticked by felt stolen.
Spencer’s hand shook where it pressed against Y/N’s thigh, trying to stop the bleeding. He couldn’t stop cataloguing her— every flutter of her lashes, the hitch in her chest, the way her lips pressed tight as if she was holding herself back from crying out.
Her eyes drooped again.
“Y/N.” His voice snapped like a whip.
Her lashes lifted, slow and trembling, and her gaze slid toward him. They were glassy, wet, a faint tear clinging to the corner as if her body itself knew what was at stake.
He forced a smile he didn’t feel. “Hey, remember the first day you walked into the BAU?”
She let out a faint groan, her mouth twitching. “You’re… terrible at pep talks.”
“I’m improvising.” His throat burned, but he pushed through it. “You walked in wearing that navy blazer, the one you swore you hated later, and I thought—” He swallowed, voice breaking softer. “I thought, this is over. I’m going to fall in love with her, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Her breath caught, a sound halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “You… never told me that.”
“You never asked.” His lips quirked weakly, but his hand tightened around hers, grounding them both.
The memory flooded him so sharply it swallowed the trench whole.
Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The bullpen alive with chatter. And her, walking in with that confident, easy stride, a file tucked under one arm, a smile breaking across her face as she introduced herself like she belonged there. He’d tried to answer, tried to sound capable, but the words caught in his throat, tripping over themselves until Morgan smirked and elbowed him later, teasing in a way that only made his cheeks burn hotter.
She’d laughed once that day, something bright and unguarded, and Spencer had known, without wanting to admit it, that he was already undone.
A wet, stuttering breath dragged him back to the trench. The heat of fluorescent light became the sting of cold air and smoke. She wasn’t striding across the bullpen anymore; she was half-pinned in dirt and blood, trembling under his hands.
Still bleeding. Still slipping. But awake.
“You’ve gotta keep listening if you want to hear the rest of my humiliating confessions,” he said quickly, voice trembling but edged with urgency.
Her cracked lips curved faintly. “Fine,” she whispered.
Spencer let out a shaky exhale, pressing his forehead to her knuckles for a fleeting second before lifting his head again. “Good. Then I’ll keep talking.”
How long had it been? Minutes? Hours? His arms ached from the unrelenting pressure on her wound, his palms slick with blood that wouldn’t stop no matter how hard he pressed. He’d shifted his grip twelve times now, adjusted the angle of his jacket seven, wiped her lips clean at least three, and still, the red kept coming.
He tried to calculate the odds, running numbers in his head like they might anchor him: average EMS response time in rural terrain, the time it would take Garcia to notice their last ping, the chance Hotch would send someone looking before dawn. All useless, all just numbers—because none of them ended with her still breathing if she slipped away now.
She was bleeding out under his hands, and the thought slammed through him with brutal clarity: he couldn’t lose her. Not her. Anyone but her.
Her breaths came in stutters now, like her body couldn’t decide if it wanted to keep fighting. Spencer could feel every falter in the rise of her chest where he braced her, his pulse thundering louder than the silence around them.
“Spence,” she whispered, barely there.
“Hey, hey—eyes on me.” His voice wavered but sharpened at the edges, pulling her back. “You don’t get to leave me here. Not when I haven’t even told you about the pastries."
Her brow furrowed faintly. “Pastries?”
He let out a trembling breath, clutching tighter at her hand. “That bakery on Fifth. Sunday morning. You insisted I go with you because you said I looked like I’d never had a real pastry in my life.” His lips twitched, but it was a ghost of a smile. “You laughed at me for ordering coffee black while everyone else was balancing cappuccinos with foam hearts.”
The memory unspooled in him so sharply it almost hurt: sunlight catching on the glass display case, her reflection doubled in the pane as she pressed close, debating which pastry looked best. She’d chosen two and handed him one, powdered sugar dusting her fingertips.
“You had sugar on your cheek,” he murmured, remembering. His thumb brushed unconsciously along her temple now, as if it were the same thing. “And I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t. Not because I was embarrassed—though I was—but because you looked… happy. And I didn’t want to break it.”
Her lips curved, faint but real. “You… remember that?”
“I remember everything,” he said simply, voice rough, no hesitation.
The memory cracked apart on the hiss of steam.
The warm bakery air dissolved into the acrid stench of gasoline, the sound of cappuccino machines replaced by the groan of twisted metal beneath them. Powdered sugar was gone—only blood soaked beneath his palm, chilling his skin.
But her smile lingered, fragile and alive.
“See?” His throat tightened as he leaned closer. “You’re still here. You’re still smiling. Don’t stop.”
She let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, though it dissolved into a wince. “You’re bossy when you’re scared.”
He huffed, eyes burning, forehead pressed briefly against her hand. “Then get used to it. Because I’m not letting you go.”
Her lips parted again, trembling as though the effort of speaking cost her more than she had to give. “You’re… not supposed to remember things like that.”
“Of course I am.” His tone snapped sharper than he intended, his fear leaking through. He smoothed his hand over hers quickly, gentling. “That’s what I do, Y/N. I remember. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.”
“That’s not true.”
A shallow breath pulled her chest upward, shaky, uneven. Her eyes slipped half-shut.
“Hey.” His voice cracked, sharper this time, panic clawing through. He shook her shoulder lightly, terrified of hurting her but more terrified of the silence closing in. “No. Don’t. Look at me.”
Her lashes fluttered, her gaze catching his, glassy but steady for a moment. “I… thought you didn’t even like that bakery.”
“I didn’t care about the bakery.” His throat burned. “I cared that you asked me to go.” He leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing hers. “You asked me, and I would’ve followed you anywhere.”
Her breath caught, lips twitching weakly. “Don’t… say things like that. Not when…” Her voice trailed, her throat working, the words unfinished but heavy in the air.
“Not when what?” His chest heaved, frantic. “Not when you’re bleeding out in a ditch? That’s exactly when I should say them. That’s the only time they matter.”
She winced softly at his urgency, but her fingers—trembling, cold—shifted in his grip, squeezing his hand with what little strength she had. “You’re… shaking.”
“I don’t care.” The words spilled ragged. “You’re the one who’s—” He choked off the end, jaw clenching so hard it hurt. He bent forward, pressing her knuckles to his lips. “You’re not allowed to stop fighting. Do you understand me? I will keep talking, I’ll tell you everything, I’ll tell you every stupid statistic I’ve ever memorized if it keeps you awake.”
Her laugh was shallow, breathy, but real. “That… would take forever.”
“Good,” he whispered, the word breaking. “Forever’s how long I need you to stay.”
Her eyes shone wetly, though it might have been the pain. She blinked hard, fixing on him. “Then don’t stop talking.”
He nodded fiercely, throat closing. “I won’t. Not for a second.”
Her hand went limp again for a split second, enough to make Spencer’s chest cave. He scrambled for words, for anything. He forced air into his lungs, voice rushing out before fear could strangle it.
“Remember the grocery store?”
Her brows knit faintly. “…What?”
“That time you asked me to tag along because you said—” his throat bobbed, “—you said I couldn’t survive a week without a list.”
Her lips twitched, pale but amused, and Spencer kept going.
“You had a paper list,” he went on, faster now, “and you kept pulling things off the shelf at random. Apples, cereal, some brand of tea you swore would change my life—”
Her faint smile cracked wider, a laugh bubbling out, though it was strained, thin. “You… spent fifteen minutes comparing oatmeal brands.” She drew in a sharp, shaky breath, swallowing hard before finishing, “I thought the manager was going to kick us out.”
“I was checking for iron content,” he said, the words tumbling almost desperately. “And you kept stealing the pen from my hand and writing things on the list I’d already crossed off.”
“Because,” she whispered, her breath shuddering shallow, “you… don’t get to veto chocolate.”
Her laughter dissolved into a cough, and blood flecked the corner of her lip. Spencer wiped it quickly with his sleeve, his hand trembling, his heart hammering against his ribs. “See? You’re still giving me grief. You’re still here.”
Her gaze softened on him, unfocused but stubborn. “That was… one of my favorite days. You didn’t even notice, did you?”
His breath caught, chest tightening. “Of course I noticed.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I notice everything about you.”
The trench closed in around them again — the smell of gasoline, the metallic taste of blood — but for a heartbeat, Spencer swore he could still feel the hum of fluorescent lights above a grocery aisle, hear her teasing him as she slipped chocolate into their cart.
He clung to it, to her faint laugh, as if memory itself could keep her tethered here.
The trench pressed heavier now, shadows settling as though the earth itself meant to swallow them whole. Spencer’s hands were slick with her blood, but when he adjusted the pressure this time, she didn’t react.
A new kind of terror snapped through him. He looked down sharply, his chest seizing.
Her eyes, glassy and unfocused, blinked slow, half-lidded. “It’s okay, Spence,” she breathed, her voice frayed at the edges. “It… it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
His stomach dropped, his throat burning. “No. No, no—don’t you say that.” His words came raw, breaking as he gripped her hand tighter, anchoring her with everything he had. “It’s not because you’re better, it’s because you’re bleeding out. You can’t slip, do you hear me?”
Her breaths came shallow, uneven. Her lips pressed into a faint line, as if some part of her felt guilty for how much she was scaring him. Through the haze of her exhaustion, she tried to meet his eyes, tried to show him she was still there, even as her gaze wavered, heavy and tired.
He bent closer, desperation dragging the words from his chest. “Y/N. You can’t sleep. You’re not allowed. Do you remember—” his voice cracked, trembling against the weight of it, “—that night at the BAU? Just you and me, file room lights humming, everyone else already gone?”
Her lashes fluttered, a faint noise escaping her throat.
“You sat on the edge of my desk,” he said, voice trembling, “with a stack of files and asked what I was reading. It wasn’t even a case file, it was… Proust.” A thin laugh broke out of him, ragged at the edges. “You teased me, said no wonder I stayed late if I was using federal time to decode French metaphors.”
Her mouth curved faintly, a shallow ghost of her usual smirk. “I… remember. You wouldn’t… let me leave until you explained it.”
Spencer’s throat worked as he nodded quickly, clutching her hand tighter. “You listened. I knew you didn’t care about Proust, but you listened. And when I finally stopped, you just looked at me and said—” his voice wavered, eyes burning, “—you said it was nice hearing me talk about something I loved.”
Her breath caught, eyes slipping half-shut again. “Because it was.”
“Y/N—” his voice broke raw as he shook her gently, “—don’t do that, don’t sleep, please. Stay. Stay here with me.”
Her breath caught, eyes slipping half-shut again. “I’m… trying,” she whispered, her voice breaking, the words splintering apart in her throat.
“I know, baby, I know,” Spencer rasped, the endearment tumbling out before he could stop it. His voice cracked around it, the syllables breaking like glass. “Just—just don’t stop. Please, stay. Stay here with me.”
Her hand twitched in his grasp, cold and faint but still there.
He bent forward, clutching her fingers tighter, pressing them against his chest where his heart thundered. His hands shook so badly he nearly lost pressure on her wound, forehead pressing hard to hers because he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between them.
“I’ll help you,” he whispered fiercely, voice rough with tears. “I’ll keep talking, I’ll tell you every story I’ve ever memorized, every word I know—I’ll never stop. Do you hear me? I’ll never stop.”
Spencer felt it before he saw it; the way her pulse fluttered too faint beneath his fingertips, the way her breaths came shallow, uneven, like her body was surrendering piece by piece.
“Y/N,” he whispered, shaking her lightly, panic spiking. “No. No, stay with me—don’t you dare.”
Her lips parted, the sound that slipped out softer than air. “Spence… it’s okay. If—if this is it…”
His chest cracked open, every nerve firing white-hot. “Don’t you say that.” His voice shattered into the dark, raw and wild. “Don’t you ever say that.”
Her lashes trembled, her gaze finding his weakly, glassy with pain. “I just… I don’t want you to be alone.”
He made a broken sound, half a sob, pressing her bloody hand tighter against his chest like he could anchor her heartbeat to his own. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to leave me here and call it mercy. You’re not allowed.”
Her head tipped slightly, exhaustion pulling her under. “Spence—”
“No!” His forehead pressed hard to hers, his voice a rasping plea. “You’re not saying goodbye. Do you hear me? You don’t get to say goodbye. Not to me.”
Tears blurred his vision, hot and unrelenting, streaking his dirt-smeared cheeks. Words tumbled raw from his lips, unfiltered. “You can’t go because I—” He broke off, throat working violently before forcing it out. “Because I love you. God, Y/N, I’ve loved you from the very first moment you walked into the BAU and made it impossible not to. And I never told you because I was terrified, but none of that matters if you don’t stay.”
Her breath shuddered against his, her eyes fluttering closed, but a fragile smile ghosted at her lips. “You… love me?”
“Yes. Yes, I love you. And I am not letting you leave me in this trench to prove it. So open your eyes.”
The hand that had been clutched over hers against his chest slipped upward, trembling as it found her face. He traced her brow, the fragile sweep of her lashes, his fingertips skimming desperately along her eyelids as if he could coax them open with touch alone. His thumb lingered, gentle, afraid to lose even this connection.
His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, cracking under the weight of it. “Please. Just… open your eyes.”
For a long, gut-wrenching second, he thought she wouldn’t. Then her lashes flickered, her gaze dragging back to his. Weak, but alive.
“See?” His breath broke out, trembling with relief. He pressed frantic kisses to her hairline, her temple, her bloodied cheek. “You’re still here. You’re still mine to keep awake. That’s all you have to do.”
Her lips curved faintly, a whisper rasping out between them. “Bossy.”
A laugh tore through him, ragged and wet. He clutched her tighter, heart cracking open in his chest. “Then keep listening, because I’m not done.”
For a moment, there was only the two of them—their hands locked together, his words tumbling over the sound of her shallow breaths. He clung to the flicker of her smile like it was proof she was still here, still fighting.
Spencer had no sense of time anymore. It could have been minutes, or hours. His world had narrowed to the blood slick beneath his palms, the fragile rhythm of her breath, the soft twitch of her lashes when his voice begged her back.
He was still whispering feverishly, half-statistics, half-promises, words tumbling too fast for sense. “Did you know, when people smile, it can lower their blood pressure? And the average adult breathes twenty-two thousand times a day, so you just have to—just have to keep going—”
Her head gave the faintest nod, weak but deliberate, as though agreeing was all the strength she had left. Once, when his voice cracked, she rasped out half a word to finish his sentence, her lips barely shaping the sound.
It nearly broke him. He pressed her hand tighter against his chest, his voice roughening but never stopping, feeding her everything he had left.
And then a shout split the silence above the trench.
“Reid! Y/N!”
The names cracked through the night, too sharp, too sudden. Spencer’s head snapped up, vision swimming, as if it took a second for the words to reach him. For one suspended heartbeat he didn’t trust them—didn’t trust that anyone else could be here, that help had actually come.
Floodlights cut through the darkness, beams swinging down the embankment. Heavy boots thundered closer, voices overlapping; sharper, louder, familiar.
“Down here!” Spencer’s voice broke into a scream, hoarse with desperation. “We’re down here!”
Shapes appeared at the ridge: Hotch, Morgan, Emily, JJ, Rossi, and behind them—EMTs, their gear glinting in the artificial light.
The sight nearly undid him.
Morgan was first down, scrambling the incline with raw urgency. His eyes landed on Y/N and went wide with horror. “Oh my God—”
“Help me!” Spencer choked, hands locked over her leg. “She’s losing too much blood—”
“Move, Reid, we got her,” Morgan said firmly, though his own voice shook. He clapped a steadying hand to Spencer’s shoulder, grounding him as the EMTs knelt and took over.
Spencer didn’t let go easily. Even as skilled hands pushed him back, he hovered close, catching her limp hand in his.
Y/N’s lashes fluttered as the oxygen mask slipped over her face. Her gaze flicked weakly to Spencer’s, panic sparking as though she thought he might disappear in the chaos.
“I’m here,” he swore, clutching her fingers tight, leaning so she could see him through the blur of faces. “I’m here.”
The EMTs lifted her onto the stretcher, strapping her down quickly. Hotch’s voice cut sharp above it all, directing traffic, clearing the path. Spencer stumbled after them, his legs heavy, his eyes locked on Y/N.
“Sir, we need to check you too,” one of the paramedics said, stepping into his path, a penlight already in hand.
Spencer blinked at them, mouth open, breath hitching. “No—no, I have to go with her.” His voice cracked, frantic. He tried to move past, but JJ caught his arm, her own hands trembling.
“Spencer,” she said gently, “you’re bleeding. You have to let them look.”
“I can’t—” He shook his head, tears streaking hot down his dirt-streaked face. “I can’t leave her, not now.”
The EMT angled the light into his eyes, checking pupils, and Spencer flinched back, jaw tight. “Please, just—she needs me—”
Emily was suddenly there, steady and fierce, her hand gripping his shoulder. “Spence. Look at me. It’s okay. I’ll go with her. I’ll stay right next to her until you get there. She’ll be okay. I’ll take care of her.”
His throat worked, a broken sound slipping out as he finally crumpled against JJ’s hold, shoulders shaking. “I can’t lose her,” he whispered, raw, the words cracking him open.
“You won’t,” JJ murmured, pressing her hand tighter against his arm, anchoring him.
Another EMT guided him to sit on the edge of the trench while they cleaned the cuts on his arms and wrapped gauze around his palms where glass had bitten deep. His mind wouldn’t stop racing, latching onto anything solid.
“Concussion mortality rates decrease by forty percent with immediate intervention,” he muttered hoarsely, as though reciting could keep him steady. “Femoral bleeds—survival—ninety minutes, sometimes less—” His voice broke, choking on the numbers. “She’s been—longer—”
“Spence.” JJ crouched in front of him, forcing his eyes to hers. “They’re with her right now. She’s getting what she needs. She’s not alone.”
The slam of the ambulance doors made him jerk his head up, panic spiking, until he caught the last glimpse of Emily climbing inside, her hand on Y/N’s arm as the sirens wailed to life.
“She’s not alone,” JJ’s words echoed through the night, rooting him in place.
Spencer sagged forward, his face in his hands, the sound of sirens carrying her away pressing against his ribs until he thought they’d split.
Another ambulance backed in nearby, red lights strobing over the trench walls. Paramedics coaxed him up, guiding him onto a second stretcher. He resisted, tried to twist toward the one already pulling out, but JJ and Morgan steadied him, voices low and firm until he gave in.
As the doors shut, his gaze locked on the retreating glow of her ambulance lights. For a breathless moment, it felt like the distance between them was infinite.
Then the engine beneath him rumbled to life, pulling him after her. Not beside her, not yet, but close enough to follow.
The bullpen was buzzing with quiet routine, case files stacked, phones ringing faintly in the distance. Weeks had passed since the crash, enough time for bruises to fade, for reports to be filed, for the rhythm of cases to pull them forward. But the weight of it still lingered; in the way Morgan glanced toward YN’s desk more often than usual, in the way Garcia’s voice softened on every check-in, in how Hotch never said her name without something tight pulling at his jaw.
Then—
The elevator doors slid open with a chime that seemed louder than usual.
For a moment, no one looked up. Then came the soft, deliberate sound of footsteps in the corridor, uneven, and accompanied by the muted thud of crutches against the floor.
The bullpen quieted, heads lifting. Morgan glanced toward the doors first, then JJ, then Emily, as if some unspoken knowing had already passed between them.
And then she appeared.
“Surprise,” Y/N said softly, her voice carrying just enough to ripple through the room.
She stood there on crutches, hair pulled back loosely, bruises fading but still visible, her cast stark against her clothes. And right beside her, steady as a shadow, was Spencer, carrying her bag and watching her every step like the ground itself couldn’t be trusted.
For a breathless beat, the bullpen froze.
Then—chaos.
JJ was first, rushing forward with tears welling, pulling Y/N carefully into a hug that somehow managed to wrap around both her and the crutches. Emily swooped in next, kissing the top of her head and murmuring, “Never scare us like that again.” Rossi brushed a kiss to her hair, too, muttering something about stubborn heroes.
Morgan lingered only a second before wrapping her in the kind of hug that lifted her slightly off the ground despite her protests. “Easy, Derek!” she laughed breathlessly, though her eyes shone.
And Garcia, beaming from the landing above, called down with a wobbling voice, “My precious miracle girl! I’m knitting you a bubble suit!”
Laughter rolled through the bullpen, light and warm, chasing away the shadows.
Through it all, Spencer stayed at her side, hovering close but not intruding, steadying her when she shifted, carrying the weight she couldn’t.
When the chaos ebbed, her eyes found his. Something passed between them; quiet, and unspoken, and full of everything that had been spilled out in the trench and everything they hadn’t yet said.
Spencer’s lips curved, faint but sure. She smiled back, and the bullpen’s laughter folded around them both, like family, like home.
The bullpen slowly dissolved back into rhythm, with JJ tugging Emily toward the coffee pot, Rossi muttering about paperwork, Morgan already teasing Garcia over the phone. But every few beats, their attention still circled back to her: JJ brushing her arm as she passed, Emily tossing her a grin over her shoulder, Rossi reminding her to take it easy. The laughter lingered like sunlight, wrapping all of them in its glow.
And through it all, Spencer stayed at her side, steady and close, until the others’ warmth blurred into background and it felt like the two of them were standing at the quiet center of it.
He shifted her bag higher on his shoulder, his other hand hovering just in case she stumbled. “I can take you straight home if you’re tired.”
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in that sly way that always unraveled him. “You trying to kick me out of my own bullpen already, Doctor?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him. “I just… don’t want you to overdo it.”
She leaned slightly on her crutch, watching him with a warmth that almost undid him more than the trench ever had. “Spence,” she said softly, “I think surviving a car crash buys me at least a few hours with our team.”
His throat worked, words sticking, but he nodded. “Fair point.”
She glanced around at the bustle, then back to him, her voice dropping. “Besides… you’re here. That makes it easier.”
For a moment, the bullpen noise seemed to fall away. His pulse hammered, but he managed the smallest smile. “Then I’ll stay right here.”
Her lips curved, slow and certain. “Good.”
She shifted forward, brushing her shoulder lightly against his arm as she moved toward her desk. He fell into step beside her without thinking, her shadow and her anchor, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Let me start off by saying I ADORE your work, you are an incredible writer, if not one of the best I have seen on this app🤞🏼
I’m not sure if you’re taking requests, but I thought you would be the perfect person! I had an idea about a bau beach day full of mutual pining (mostly Spencer), stolen glances (bc Spence doesn’t know how to act around reader in bathing suit), and just overall bau shenanigans that would occur on a day off with the team. If you do write it, please feel free to make this any genre you like, any plot, etc! If you don’t take requests that’s totally fine!! Keep up the good work queen❤️
saltwater reverie
note: my first request!!! 🥹💌 thank you so much to the sweetest anon who sent this idea in (i may or may not have screamed out loud when i read it), i absolutely adored writing it, hopefully i did it justice for you!! this one’s all fluff: a rare day off for the team, complete with sunscreen shenanigans, volleyball chaos, mutual pining (mostly spencer), and a soft sunset ending! …also i might’ve gotten carried away with this… so i apologize if it’s too long LOL
word count: 3.7k
The sand was already hot beneath their shoes when the team spilled out of the pair of SUVs, a tangle of bags, towels, and the kind of laughter that only came after surviving weeks of grim casework. The beach stretched out before them in a bright sprawl of blue and gold, waves glittering with sunlight as though the ocean itself was in on Garcia’s scheme.
She had been the one to declare it: a mandatory day off, “doctor’s orders but better,” as she put it, complete with umbrellas, packed coolers, and a playlist she promised would “match the vibe.” Emily had tried to protest that Quantico beaches were not exactly glamorous, Rossi muttered something about having a villa in Tuscany that would’ve been more appropriate, and Hotch had given his usual noncommittal grunt. But here they were anyway, marching through the dunes like a mismatched caravan.
Morgan was already halfway to the volleyball nets, carrying an absurdly large cooler in one hand and a folded beach chair in the other like it weighed nothing. JJ trailed behind with Henry bouncing at her hip, fussing with his floppy sunhat as he squirmed against her. Emily had three towels stacked over one arm and sunglasses perched on her head like she belonged in a magazine spread, not in the middle of a Bureau field trip.
Spencer trailed in the back, long legs awkward in the shifting sand, one hand clutching the strap of the bag Garcia had shoved into his chest. It contained sunscreen, extra hats, and a towel he wasn’t convinced he would need. He wasn’t sure how to walk in the heat, or in the casual ease the others seemed to find. But then—
Then Y/N stepped down onto the sand ahead of him, and the entire moment seemed to lurch sideways.
Her button-down was loose and open, a breeze tugging it back to reveal the outline of her bathing suit beneath, sun glancing off her sunglasses. She shook out her hair with one hand, sand already clinging to her ankles, and laughed at something Emily said as though she had belonged in this place all along. Spencer felt the breath hitch in his chest before he could stop it.
He dropped his eyes fast, fumbling with the zipper of the bag, pretending to check the contents as though sunscreen required his immediate scientific attention. The strap cut into his shoulder. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, settling into his ears, though the air itself was barely warmer than his own pulse.
When he looked up again, it was a mistake. Y/N had tilted her head back to squint at the sky, lips parted in something like a smile. The sun painted her cheekbones gold, caught the glint of her sunglasses, and he was staring. Staring too long.
“Reid!” Morgan’s voice broke the spell, booming across the sand. “You coming, or are you just gonna stand there and make sure the bag doesn’t float away?”
Spencer startled, clutching the strap tighter. “I—yes, I’m coming,” he said, quick, words tumbling over themselves. His feet carried him forward, though every step felt clumsy.
Y/N glanced over her shoulder then, catching his eye without warning, and smiled. Just a casual, easy smile, but Spencer felt it like the sun itself had turned its full attention on him. He managed a nod, adjusting the bag strap as though that explained everything, and followed the rest of the team down towards the water.
By the time their spot was staked out with umbrellas and towels, Morgan was already tossing a volleyball from hand to hand like a challenge waiting to be issued.
“All right,” he called out, grinning wide as he scanned the group. “Who’s ready to get their ass kicked?”
“By you?” Emily shot back, slipping her sunglasses down to her nose. “Please. You’re not even tall enough for a proper spike.”
That was all the invitation Garcia needed to clap her hands together. “Oh, oh! Teams. We need teams. JJ, you’re with me and Morgan. Rossi, you’re referee.”
“Referee?” Rossi asked, already lowering himself into a beach chair beneath the shade of an umbrella. He uncorked the thermos of wine he’d smuggled in with a satisfied twist of his wrist. “That’s the best role you could’ve given me.”
JJ laughed, settling Henry down beside him with a pile of sand toys, while Hotch gave Morgan the kind of look that suggested he’d been roped into this before he even had a chance to argue.
Spencer stood on the edges of the gathering, long fingers twitching against the strap of the bag he still hadn’t put down. He’d never been athletic. Not as a kid, not as a teenager, not now. He knew the numbers: exactly how many injuries occurred from volleyball every year in the United States, the most common being sprained ankles, finger dislocations, concussions if one was particularly unlucky. His mind was already spinning through the statistics when Y/N bumped his arm lightly with her shoulder.
“You’re playing, right?”
He blinked, startled by the warmth of her voice, the nearness of her. Her sunglasses were perched on her head now, eyes bright with amusement as she tilted her face toward him.
“I—uh, I don’t usually—”
She grinned. “Come on. What’s the worst that happens? You trip in the sand and give us all a good laugh? I’ll cheer for you.”
That last part undid him completely. Before he could think of another excuse, she was tugging him toward the makeshift court Morgan had already marked out with towels.
The game started chaotically, as expected; Emily and Morgan bantering across the net, Garcia squealing whenever the ball came near her, JJ deftly keeping it in play with the ease of someone who had clearly captained a high school team once upon a time. Hotch, for his part, surprised everyone by being quietly competent, his serves steady and precise.
Spencer, however, was all knees and elbows, fumbling whenever the ball came within a three-foot radius. Twice, he nearly collided with Emily, who swore under her breath and shoved him lightly back into position. He muttered apologies, flustered and red-faced, sand sticking to his shins.
And then Y/N called out, “Nice save, Spence!” when he managed to bump the ball over the net with his forearm, barely controlled, but enough.
He looked up at her, chest heaving, and she was beaming at him like he’d just won the championship. For one dizzy second, he forgot about the sting in his arm, the sand in his shoes, the heat of the sun bearing down on him. All he saw was her grin, wide and unguarded, meant for him.
The next ball smacked into his shoulder before he realized it was coming.
“Ow—”
Emily groaned. “Focus, Reid!”
Y/N jogged over, brushing sand off his arm with quick, light fingers, her laughter bubbling over as she glanced up at him. “You’re fine. Don’t let her scare you off.”
Spencer opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His throat was dry. He could only nod, heart pounding far harder than the exercise warranted.
Across the net, Morgan smirked knowingly. “Looks like we found Reid’s secret weapon.”
Y/N rolled her eyes at him, but the corners of her mouth tugged upward all the same.
The game fizzled out eventually: Morgan victorious, Emily dramatically collapsing into the sand, Garcia loudly declaring herself the MVP despite never actually touching the ball. By then the sun had shifted higher, the salt air heavy and warm. Everyone drifted back toward the circle of towels and umbrellas, flopping down in various states of mock-exhaustion.
Garcia immediately dug through one of the coolers and pulled out a bottle of sunscreen, pointing it like a weapon. “Reapply, people. I don’t want to hear whining about sunburn later, you’re all basically marshmallows on a campfire stick, and I will not be scraping you off the sand.”
She tossed the bottle, and somehow it landed square in Spencer’s lap. He blinked down at it like it had personally betrayed him.
“Perfect,” Emily said, tugging off her sunglasses. “Reid’s on sunscreen duty.”
He opened his mouth to argue, to explain about even distribution and how spray versus lotion formulas differed in SPF effectiveness, but Y/N was already laughing, reaching over to pluck the bottle from his hands.
“C’mon, Doctor. You do me, I’ll do you.”
The sentence hung in the air just a beat too long. Rossi choked into his thermos of wine. Morgan grinned like he’d been handed material for the next year.
Y/N, completely unfazed, just popped the cap and squeezed lotion into his palm. She leaned closer, turning her back to him with a teasing glance over her shoulder. “Don’t miss a spot, yeah?”
Spencer swallowed hard. His hands hovered awkwardly for a second before he forced himself to move, smoothing sunscreen across her shoulders, up along her arms. Her skin was warm from the sun, soft beneath his fingers, and he tried to keep his touch clinical, detached. But she tilted her head just slightly, humming at the coolness of the lotion, and his pulse stuttered.
Spencer had just finished smoothing lotion across her shoulders, the back of her neck, and down along her arms. He had been careful and meticulous, and tried very hard to ignore the way his fingertips trembled against her warm skin. When he pulled his hands back, he meant to say something simple: done, maybe, or you’re covered.
Instead, what slipped out was: “I have to do your face too.”
Y/N blinked, surprised. A smile curved her mouth almost instantly, wide and knowing.
Spencer froze, realizing too late what he’d said. His throat worked. “I mean—statistically, forty percent of sunburns happen on the most exposed areas like the face and scalp, and, and the epidermis is especially vulnerable around the bridge of the nose, so it would only be—”
She laughed, tilting her face toward him, eyes glinting. “It’s alright, Doctor. I know what you mean.”
Her smile softened, almost indulgent, as she angled her chin up so he could reach.
He swallowed hard and dabbed sunscreen onto his fingertips. His hands hovered, then touched down lightly against her skin; along her temples, across her cheeks, feathering down her nose. She scrunched it up adorably when he grazed it, laughing, and he had to laugh too, low and startled, because he couldn’t help it.
“You’re terrible at this,” she teased, though she stayed perfectly still for him, eyes closed now, lashes brushing the tops of her cheeks.
He smiled, giddy, pressing the lotion in with a gentleness that surprised even him. For one dizzy second, he thought about how close she was, how easily he could lean forward just a little more.
Then her eyes blinked open, and she grinned. “Wait. My turn.”
She scooped lotion into her hands before he could protest and reached for his face. He startled backward, but she only laughed, catching his jaw with one hand to keep him still.
“Hold still, Spence.”
Her fingers spread cool lotion over his cheeks, the corners of his forehead, the bridge of his nose. She was grinning too wide, biting back another laugh at the awkward angles, and he couldn’t stop his own smile from stretching across his face in response.
At one point, their hands bumped clumsily when he tried to help, and they both broke into helpless laughter. Her palm lingered against his jaw, his thumb brushed across her knuckles without meaning to, and for a long moment, neither moved.
By the time she pulled back, both of them were grinning like fools, cheeks pink not from the sun but from something warmer.
Garcia, of course, sighed dramatically from her lounge chair. “Ugh, you two are disgustingly cute. Someone hand me a piña colada.”
Y/N laughed, shaking her head, and Spencer tried very hard not to combust on the spot.
By midday, the sun was blazing high, scattering diamonds across the water. The ocean stretched endless and blue, waves curling white as they rushed the shore.
Emily was the first to kick off her sandals and sprint toward the surf, Morgan hot on her heels. JJ followed more gracefully, Henry squealing with laughter in her arms as the waves lapped at his tiny legs. Garcia, firmly planted under her umbrella, announced she’d be “supervising hydration.” Rossi didn’t even pretend—he was already on his second glass of wine.
Y/N rose from her towel, brushing sand from her thighs. She glanced around at the group, then let her eyes linger squarely on him. “Come with me, Spence?”
Spencer froze where he sat. He tugged at the cuff of his shirt, a light button-down, the sleeves rolled clumsily to his elbows. It wasn’t his usual sweater vest and tie, but it was still more than anyone else wore, and suddenly he was hyper-aware of it.
“I’m good here,” he mumbled, eyes dropping to the sand. His heart was already racing, traitorous and loud.
Her smile curved sly. “Suit yourself.”
She jogged toward the waves, hair catching the sun, and for a moment Spencer thought he’d survived. But then she whirled, already ankle-deep in foam, and called out, “Spence!”
He looked up, startled.
She grinned wickedly, bent down, and splashed him.
Cold droplets spattered his shirt before he could even process what had happened. The thin fabric clung instantly to his chest and arms. “Hey—!”
“Oh, come on!” she laughed, flicking another spray of water at him. “You can’t sit on a beach in a button-down all day. You’re not Rossi.”
From his lounge chair under the umbrella, Rossi didn’t even look up as he raised his thermos of wine. “No, he is not,” he said smoothly. “Thank God.”
Y/N glanced back at Spencer with a pointed look, as if to say see? even Rossi agrees.
Spencer huffed, scrambling to his feet in a flurry of long limbs, heart in his throat as he stumbled toward the water. He tried to ignore the grin spreading across her face, determined to maintain his mock-annoyed expression, though the delight in her eyes nearly undid him. “I don’t swim well—statistically, there are over 320,000 annual drowning deaths worldwide—”
She splashed him again, harder this time, cutting him off mid-statistic. His startled yelp made her double over with laughter, the kind that spilled out unrestrained and bright, echoing above the crash of the waves.
“Stop—stop!” He lifted his arms in protest, but he was laughing too now, the sound torn out of him before he could hold it back.
And then, without meaning to, he was in the water, waves breaking against his shins, soaking his rolled-up slacks.
Y/N was beaming at him, eyes bright, hair plastered damp against her cheekbones. She flicked another spray of water at his chest, and without thinking, he retaliated, sweeping his arm through the surf and sending a wave crashing straight into her.
It soaked her completely, plastering her shirt to her skin and dripping down her arms. She gasped, water dripping from her lashes, mock-offended, and Spencer, to his horror, barked out a laugh.
“Oh my god, I’m—” He tried to stammer out an apology, but the words were chopped to pieces by his own laughter, spilling out of him helplessly. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—” Another laugh broke free, sharp and giddy.
She narrowed her eyes at him through the curtain of wet hair, lips curving sly. “Oh, it’s like that, huh?”
The next few minutes blurred into a flurry of splashes, each wave bigger than the last, both of them doubled over with laughter. Salt stung his lips, water slicked his curls flat against his forehead, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, Spencer didn’t care how ridiculous he must have looked.
At one point, she lunged toward him, sending up a spray of water as she collided lightly against his chest. His hands instinctively steadied her, fingers catching at her arms, and all the while he was still distracted by the sudden closeness, she took her chance, scooping another handful of water and throwing it straight into his face.
He sputtered, laughing. “That’s unfair! You’re using tactics—”
“Maybe don’t get distracted so easily, Reid,” she shot back, grinning wickedly.
His chest ached from laughing, from smiling too wide, from the sheer impossible lightness of it all.
Y/N’s grin was triumphant, her laughter carrying above the crash of the tide. Spencer wiped salt water from his face, still laughing, still breathless. He lunged forward this time, sending another wave at her, and for a few chaotic seconds they were nothing but flailing arms and bright, reckless joy.
Then a larger swell rolled in, stronger than either of them expected. The wave caught them both and shoved them closer.
“Oh, shit—!” Y/N laughed, the words tumbling out in a breathless, giddy way as her hands landed against his chest. She was still chuckling softly, shoulders shaking, even as she blinked up at him.
Spencer’s palms instinctively closed around her arms to steady her, the fabric of his shirt soaked through and clinging under her touch.
The laughter faded into something quieter, lingering at the edges of her smile. For a suspended beat, neither of them moved. The water surged around their waists, the shouts of Morgan and Emily somewhere down the beach muffled into nothing. Spencer could only see her — her face lifted toward him, droplets tracing down her cheekbones, his pulse hammering under her palms, the ocean pressing them together like it wanted to keep them there.
Time stretched, slow and impossible, as if the tide itself was holding its breath.
She blinked up at him, eyes softening, and for one dizzy heartbeat he thought—if he just leaned forward—
A sudden crash of water broke between them as Morgan dove into the surf nearby, his laughter booming over the waves.
Y/N shrieked, laughing as she shielded her face, and Spencer stumbled back, blinking through the salt.
Emily wasn’t far behind, splashing in with a gleeful shout, and suddenly the water was chaos again, with spray flying, Morgan goading, Emily cackling.
By the time it all settled, the moment had broken, swept away with the tide. Spencer forced a smile, falling back into the rhythm of their laughter, but his hands still tingled where they’d steadied her, and his chest ached with the ghost of what might have been.
By late afternoon, the chaos of the day mellowed into something quieter. The sun tilted low, pouring gold across the horizon, painting the water in streaks of rose and fire. The team had gathered back on their towels, scattered in lazy clusters. Emily and Morgan were still bickering over who technically won the volleyball game, their voices fading into laughter. JJ had Henry curled against her chest, his hair damp, his little breaths even. Garcia was sprawled dramatically with her sunglasses back on, declaring that her “work here was done.”
Rossi, of course, was pouring himself a final glass of wine.
Spencer sat on the edge of a blanket, knees drawn up, his curls drying into soft waves around his face. His clothes clung uncomfortably, still damp from the ocean, but he hardly noticed. Not when Y/N dropped down beside him, her skin still salt-slick, her smile easy as she brushed sand from her calves.
“Thirsty?” she asked, holding out a sweating bottle of water she’d pulled from the cooler.
He hesitated, then nodded, twisting the cap quickly and taking the first sip, more to steady himself than anything else. The chill of it shocked his tongue, and he felt the heat rush to his face before he even lowered the bottle.
Wordlessly, he held it out to her. When she arched a brow, he stammered, “You—you need to hydrate. It’s important in this kind of heat.”
Her lips parted in surprise, a smile tugging as she accepted it. “Didn’t peg you as the type to share, Doctor.” She tipped the bottle toward him, eyes glinting. “What about germs?”
Spencer shrugged, pushing his damp curls back from his forehead. “You’re more likely to catch something from touching doorknobs than sharing a bottle of water.”
Her laugh was quick, but her ears burned as she raised it to her lips, drinking where he had just seconds before. He looked away as if giving her privacy, but his chest felt too light, too tight, knowing she hadn’t hesitated.
By the time she passed it back, her smile was softer, smaller, like she didn’t want anyone else to notice.
The world felt smaller here, quieter. The ocean rolled steady in front of them, the team’s chatter blurred behind. And Spencer let himself look, really look, at her profile in the fading light. Her hair caught the last streaks of sun, her smile softer now, private. She hugged her knees to her chest, chin resting there as though she could stay forever.
His chest ached with the weight of it. He didn’t know how to exist with this kind of closeness, this kind of wanting. He only knew that every laugh, every glance, every touch of hers lodged itself deeper into him, something he couldn’t ever shake loose.
And then she turned. Caught him staring.
For a second, he panicked, about to fumble an excuse, about to trip over words he hadn’t prepared, but she only smiled. Not teasing. Not questioning. Just warm, like she’d known all along.
“Today was good,” she said softly, almost like a secret meant only for him. She bumped her knee lightly against his where the towels overlapped, the touch casual but warm. “I’m glad you came.”
The simple contact jolted through him, the same way it had when the waves had pushed her into his arms earlier — brief, dizzying, impossible to forget.
The sound of Emily laughing, of Morgan groaning in mock defeat, floated around them. The air was salted and sweet, the sky a canvas of fading pinks.
Spencer let himself smile back, unguarded, unmeasured. “Me too,” he murmured, and somehow it felt like the truest thing he’d ever said.
For the first time in a long time, it felt like enough.
AHHH thank you sosososososooo much, this means the world!!! i had so much fun writing this one, so it makes me happy that you found it cute 🌟🌟 seriously, thank you for taking the time to read and leave such kind words!!! 🫶🏼
abstract: after a long interpol liaison assignment overseas, Y/N finally returns to the BAU. the day is filled with warmth, laughter, and homecoming — but for spencer reid, there’s an ache that can’t be ignored any longer. he’s loved her from the moment before she left — and now that she’s back, he knows he can’t keep it buried. not for another second.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)
genre: fluff
note: i love yearning, slow burn spencer, so bear with me as i continuously churn out these fluffy stories. honestly not too sure how i feel about this one, maybe i'll continue the story? idk. i'm not really liking how it turned out but it might just be because i've reread it too many times, but i just wanted to post it bc i'm having writer's block!!!! kinda struggling with my writing rn, UGH! but anyways, as always, please enjoy, even though i just went on a pessimistic rant lol.
It was late morning, and the bullpen at Quantico hummed with a quiet, restless energy — the kind that filled the air when something was about to happen, though no one quite knew what.
Sunlight slanted in through the high windows, striping the desks in warm gold and shadow. The low murmur of conversation drifted through the space, broken now and then by the faint clatter of a mug being set down, the rustle of papers, the soft mechanical hum of the printer across the room.
Hotch had sent out a clipped message that morning — unexpected.
Conference. 10:30.
No urgent case file attached. No coded pre-brief from JJ. Nothing from Garcia’s terminal. Just that — cool and spare. Enough to spark curiosity like static.
Now, ten minutes before the hour, the bullpen had begun to subtly shift — that unspoken way the team always seemed to gather when the center of gravity tipped toward something new.
Coffee cups in hand, files forgotten, they found themselves orbiting naturally toward Spencer’s desk — the usual center point in moments like these.
Morgan leaned one hip against the edge of the desk, twirling a pen between his fingers. Emily settled nearby, her chair tipped back just slightly, one boot hooked around the leg. JJ arrived with a soft thump of her file folder, setting it down before crossing her arms in curiosity. Garcia, bright-eyed and colorful, perched on the corner with a rustle of fabric and the faint vanilla-sugar scent of her latest perfume.
And in the middle of it all — Spencer sat, cardigan sleeves pushed to his elbows, a familiar fountain pen resting idly between his fingers. His notebooks lay open before him — unscribbled, forgotten — as his gaze drifted, unfocused, somewhere far beyond the present conversation.
Above them, the second-story mezzanine stood quiet. No sign of Hotch yet.
The bullpen breathed with waiting — something in the stillness, in the shifting glances, in the undercurrent of soft voices and quiet anticipation, as if the room itself held its breath for whatever would come next.
Garcia, bright-eyed and luminous in a swirl of violet silk, leaned one hip with theatrical flair against the edge of Spencer’s desk, mirroring Morgan’s easy stance. In one hand she held a paper cup, its pale surface scattered with tiny pink hearts, steam curling lazily from the lid like the last breath of a spell.
“I’m telling you,” she declared, eyes wide with certainty, “this is definitely about new equipment. Or tech upgrades. Maybe he’s finally letting me overhaul the databases.”
Morgan let out a low chuckle, stretching back in his chair with casual grace, arms folded across his broad chest. A slow shake of his head, eyes gleaming.
“Come on, baby girl — Hotch wouldn’t be this mysterious over hard drives.”
Emily smirked over the rim of her coffee cup, shoulders relaxed, dark lashes catching the late-morning light.
“Maybe it’s a new recruit,” she mused, voice teasing. “Or budget talks. Or... mandatory wellness seminars.”
A collective groan rose from the little circle.
“If it’s more wellness training,” Rossi intoned dryly from his perch nearby — the morning’s Washington Post still folded under one arm — “I’m transferring to cybercrimes.” But the faint, knowing glint in his eyes gave him away.
JJ shook her head, blond waves falling over one shoulder as she gave a rueful smile.
“He wouldn’t pull us all in just for that.”
Spencer listened — or seemed to — gaze flicking now and then to Morgan, to Garcia’s flurry of color, to Emily’s grin over her coffee. The low rhythm of voices surrounded him, bright and familiar. He heard each word, each teasing lilt — but it was as though the sound reached him through a thin layer of water, slow and distant.
Because beneath it all — beneath the warmth of the room, beneath the soft tap of heels on tile and the rustle of paper — his thoughts circled, always, to her.
Even now — especially now — everything seemed to spiral back to her.
How many months since she’d left? He’d counted them at first, marked the weeks in the margins of his calendar, tracked deployments and return dates like a ritual. Eventually, the numbers blurred — but the ache never dulled.
He caught himself doing it still — absent, distracted in moments like this — wondering what city she was in now. Whether she was safe. Whether she missed them.
Whether she thought of him.
A familiar weight settled in his chest — low and constant, the shape of missing her. He smoothed it down the way he always did, fingers tightening briefly on the pen.
At that moment, Garcia’s voice rang brightly through the air: “If this is a team restructure meeting, I swear I will riot. Peacefully. In glitter.”
Spencer blinked — half-smiling despite himself. Without looking up from the pen, he murmured softly, voice low and dry: “I’m fairly certain the Bureau has policies against both glitter and riots.”
Morgan let out a low chuckle. “See? Even the good doctor’s ready to shut you down, baby girl.”
That pulled a faint, crooked smile from Spencer — the corners of his mouth lifting, then fading.
Garcia pressed a dramatic hand to her chest. “So much logic in one room. It’s exhausting.”
The conversation drifted on — light, easy.
Spencer leaned back in his chair, gaze resting somewhere beyond the curve of the room — past the windows, past the moment.
“Where is Hotch, anyway?” Morgan asked, glancing toward the mezzanine — one brow lifted, voice curling with curiosity.
The question hovered in the air — unanswered — as the little circle fell into a brief pause.
And then —
The elevator chimed.
Soft — an ordinary sound, easily lost in the low hum of the bullpen — but in that moment, it seemed to echo just a fraction longer than usual. A faint, suspended note, bright against the stillness.
No one moved at first. No one looked.
And then — footsteps.
Measured. Unhurried. The familiar cadence of heels on tile — a crisp, rhythmic sound that drifted through the open space with almost hypnotic clarity.
It was a sound they all knew — had known. A sound that once threaded through their days so easily it hardly registered at all.
Until it had been gone.
And now — now it returned — unmistakable.
Spencer’s breath caught.
Before he quite realized it, his gaze lifted — drawn instinctively across the bullpen, past the edge of his desk, toward the entryway — toward the source of that sound.
And there — framed in the soft wash of light from the corridor beyond — she stood.
For a moment, the entire bullpen seemed to still. The air shifted — the edges of the room blurring faintly, as though the world had drawn a breath and forgotten to release it.
She moved forward — unhurried, composed — the easy grace of someone who had walked this path a thousand times before.
Her hair — soft, undone, loose in a way that seemed both effortless and deliberate — brushed her shoulders in a gentle wave. The delicate planes of her face caught the light — the elegant slope of her nose, the soft curve of her cheek, the fullness of her mouth touched with the faintest flush of rose. Her lashes cast fine shadows against her skin.
And her eyes — God, her eyes — quiet and clear and steady, the kind of gaze that could both undo and anchor a man. There was a knowing there — something older, softer, as though she had seen too much and still chosen gentleness.
She wore simple, perfect lines — a fitted black knit top that framed her collarbones with spare elegance, sleeves pushed just past her wrists. Slate-gray slacks, soft in their drape, skimming long legs with easy movement. Black low heels, no louder than a sigh against the tile.
No badge, no blazer, no ostentation — just her.
And in that moment — her presence filled the room more fully than any arrival could.
The hum of the bullpen seemed to fall away — voices dimming, motion pausing, as if drawn into the quiet gravity of her entrance.
Spencer’s breath caught — sharp in his chest — and for one fragile second, he could do nothing but look.
She’s here.
She tilted her head faintly, one brow lifting in the subtlest tease — mouth curving with a flicker of amusement.
“You guys always this jumpy in the mornings?”
For a single breath — no one moved.
It was as if the air itself had thinned — caught somewhere between heartbeats.
Then — the spell broke.
A bright, delighted gasp: “Oh my god — Y/N!”
Garcia was the first to move — coffee nearly forgotten, her cup teetering dangerously on the edge of Spencer’s desk as she flew forward in a whirl of color and perfume.
Before anyone could so much as blink, she had Y/N wrapped in a fierce, breathless hug — arms tight, voice bubbling over.
“You didn’t tell us—!”
Emily was close behind, laughter rising as she caught Y/N’s other arm in a quick pull, drawing her in.
“How long— when— what—?” JJ’s voice chimed through the tangle of greetings, her smile wide and bright as she reached in mid-hug, the words tumbling over themselves in joy.
And then — Morgan.
A deep, familiar whoop split the air as he strode forward, easy grin wide, hands outstretched. Without hesitation, he swept Y/N off her feet — a half-spin, effortless and exuberant.
“Look who’s back in the big leagues!”
The bullpen rippled with warmth — the sound of it filling every corner.
Even Rossi — leaning back against the edge of a nearby desk, arms folded with casual grace — let a rare smile soften his features.
“It’s about time,” he said, voice low but warmly sincere.
The bullpen bloomed with joy — wide and irrepressible, the kind of warmth that filled a room from the inside out. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t polite. It was the deep, unguarded welcome reserved for one of their own — a missing piece returned to its place.
Voices overlapped, laughter spilling into the air. The small crowd folded around her in an instant — hands reaching, arms pulling her close, greetings tumbling over one another in the rush to be heard.
Everyone — except Spencer.
He stood more slowly — as though the very act of moving had weight. His legs felt strangely unsteady beneath him, breath caught somewhere in his chest. A wild, heady thrum of blood rushed in his ears — the rhythm of a heart that couldn’t quite catch up to the moment. For one long second, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. His mouth opened, then closed again — words crowding his throat, too many all at once, none of them enough.
She was here.
Not an echo through Garcia’s screen. Not a line of text in a quiet after-hours message. Not a passing update on some distant, classified case.
Here.
And for one dizzy, breathless beat — all he could do was stare. As though the very sight of her might dissolve if he blinked too fast — a trick of the light, too fragile to trust.
She glanced up — mid-hug with Garcia, arms still looped around her friend’s shoulders — a bright laugh just beginning to bloom at the corner of her mouth.
And then — her gaze caught his. Across the distance, across the bright scatter of voices, the blur of motion — her eyes found Spencer’s.
The shift was immediate.
Something in her expression gentled — softened at the edges, the brightness folding inward to something quieter, deeper. A warmth that seemed to bloom from beneath the surface. Her smile changed — not the easy grin she’d offered to the others, not the familiar humor of old camaraderie — but something softer. More fragile. The kind of smile meant for only one person in the room.
For a heartbeat, maybe longer, the space between them narrowed to nothing at all.
The background dissolved — voices falling away, color blurring at the edges. The bustling light of the bullpen dimmed to a quiet hum — as though the world itself had drawn in its breath, suspended between one moment and the next.
Just her. Just him.
And in her eyes: something unspoken.
I’m here. I came back.
Spencer’s heart wrenched. The force of it nearly staggered him.
He couldn’t look away.
Before he could so much as move — before breath returned to his lungs — another figure stepped into the frame: Hotch. Calm, composed, steady as a metronome — dark suit sharp against the light, file tucked under one arm. He came to stand at her side — his presence as grounding as it had always been — and with a faint nod, addressed the gathered team.
“Agent Y/N,” he said, voice low but carrying, “has officially requested reassignment back to the BAU.” A pause — the barest flicker of something like approval in his eyes — then, evenly: “She’ll be rejoining the team, effective today.”
For one suspended second — stillness. A collective breath.
And then — the room erupted.
“Finally!” Garcia all but squealed, hands clapping together, her whole face alight with joy.
Emily grinned wide, shaking her head with mock outrage. “And you were going to let us find out like this?”
JJ let out a bright laugh, bumping shoulders with Morgan. “Unbelievable. You’re sneaky.”
Morgan crossed his arms with a wide grin. “About time. We were getting boring without you.”
Even Rossi’s low chuckle threaded through the air: “Welcome home.”
Hotch, unmoved by the sudden swell of sound, allowed a small lift of his brow — the faintest suggestion of a smile — before turning his gaze toward Y/N once more.
“It’s good to have you back,” he said quietly.
But Spencer barely heard it.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear his gaze from hers.
As though some small, stubborn part of him feared that if he blinked — if he looked away for even a second — she might vanish once more into the space between then and now.
The day unfolded like sunlight through an open window — slow at first, golden, weightless — then all at once.
Outside, the early hours of spring had burned away to a mild, sunlit morning. Bright ribbons of light stretched long across the floor, spilling in from the tall windows, catching motes of dust in the air like tiny, drifting stars. The warmth of it soaked into the bones of the old building — rising from the tile, softening the edges of desks and chairs, gilding stray papers and forgotten coffee mugs with an amber sheen.
And within it all — threaded through light and shadow alike — there was something more.
A hum. A charge. The quiet, unmistakable thrum of happiness — of something righting itself after having tilted off balance for far too long.
She was back.
And with her — the whole rhythm of the day seemed brighter, lighter.
Laughter rose more easily. Conversations wove through the air in fluid threads. Even the usual shuffle of agents passing through the halls seemed softened — as though some unseen weight had lifted from the walls.
For Spencer — it was almost too much.
Too much brightness after too long in the dark. Too much warmth against the old familiar ache that lived in his ribs.
But he breathed it in all the same — heart unsteady, gaze drawn toward her again and again — as though some deep part of him still feared this might all dissolve if he dared look away.
Everywhere she moved, the team seemed to orbit her — drawn instinctively as if by some invisible current.
Wherever Y/N stood — at her desk, by the break room, pausing near a file cabinet — small constellations of conversation formed around her, shifting and bright.
JJ had practically whisked her away into the break room first — one arm looped through hers, mock-stern, laughing. “Alright — details. Now. We’ve been in the dark for months.”
Morgan kept appearing — popping around corners, leaning casually in doorframes — grinning wide, voice rich with teasing questions: “So what do those top-secret types eat for breakfast, huh? Bet it’s not the powdered eggs they give us here.”
Rossi, ever composed, had stepped in with a quiet smile — fingers curling easily around the handle of the old glass carafe — pouring her coffee as though it were ritual, timeless. “Thought you might want the real thing,” he’d said, eyes warm.
Garcia swept in and out like a breeze — a box of cupcakes balanced in one hand, her phone in the other — declaring to anyone who would listen that it was now an unofficial welcome-home party, and she expected attendance.
And Emily — bright and laughing — finally caught her in a loose side hug, her voice low and warm against the hum of the room: “You look good. International life suits you.”
Spencer lingered nearby — his notebook open in front of him, pen resting between his fingers — though the last entry on the page trailed off mid-sentence, the ink gone dry twenty minutes ago.
He hadn’t noticed.
She was here.
Not a name in passing. Not a quiet message on Garcia’s screen. Not a blurred update buried in Interpol case logs he shouldn’t have checked so often. Not a digital echo, a secondhand scrap of her voice carried through someone else’s words.
Just — here.
Breathing the same air. Moving through the light. Smiling — real, present — no longer half a world away.
And he — he could hardly breathe around it.
The bullpen seemed to glow at the edges — bright and diffuse — as though the sunlight itself had shifted toward her, drawn in quiet orbit by the warmth of her presence. It spilled across the floor in long, drowsy ribbons — catching the glint of polished nameplates, skimming across the soft grain of well-worn desks, gilding the corners of open files and stray paperclips with delicate threads of gold. Dust drifted lazily in the beams — small, weightless things that turned and tumbled as if the very air had changed its shape around her.
And through it all — winding between light and shadow — the low hum of voices moved like music. Familiar. Intimate. Soft with happiness. A language made not of words, but of glances and smiles and the deep, unspoken ease of being home again.
Spencer caught fragments of conversation as they wove past him, his gaze straying again and again toward where she stood — framed by the others, light in her hair.
“Yeah — Interpol Liaison Assignment. Mostly Europe. A lot of long-term cases, international consults... more airports than I care to remember.”
Her voice — the sound of it — sent a fresh ache through his ribs.
“It was good work,” she added after a pause, voice dipping quieter, smile softening. Her gaze drifted for a moment, something wistful in her expression.
“But…” A breath. “…I missed this. All of you.”
Across the circle, Morgan grinned — arms folded, voice warm with easy affection.
“Well — our gain,” he said. “You kept climbing the ladder — now we get to brag about you.”
Y/N laughed lightly. “Not much ladder left to climb. I just wanted to come home.”
Home. The word twisted something in Spencer’s chest.
He hadn’t spoken to her yet — not really.
Just that one glance — in the doorway, in the hush before the others had rushed forward — the quiet pull of her gaze catching his across the room. A single moment — fragile as spun glass — now tucked carefully away behind his ribs. Since then, with the bullpen alive around her, voices bright, old rhythms rekindled — he had kept to the edges. Watching. Wanting.
Too much, too soon — the ache of it caught behind his breath, impossible to name.
At one point, Y/N stepped out of the break room — a fresh coffee cradled between her palms, steam curling soft and white into the sunlit air. She moved with that same easy grace — loose-limbed, quietly self-possessed — a familiar rhythm that made Spencer’s chest ache. Without seeming to notice, her path angled toward his desk — a pause, a breath of stillness in the bright hum of the room.
Their eyes met. This time — it lingered. A second. A little more. Something deeper passed between them — not loud, not declarative — but certain all the same.
“Hey,” she said softly, voice warm — low enough that it seemed meant for only him.
Spencer looked up — breath catching, heart kicking against his ribs.
He opened his mouth — found it dry. He swallowed — forced a breath past the tightness in his chest. “Hey,” he managed, voice quiet. “Welcome back.”
Her smile tilted — slow, fond, something in it that caught and held. “Thanks.”
She looked — for one flicker of a moment — as though she might say more. Her gaze lingered, lips parting —
But just then, Garcia swept through the room in a swirl of bright fabric, trailing a thin tangle of ribbons in one hand, announcing something about cupcake displays — and the moment scattered like leaves in a breeze.
The ache settled deeper in Spencer’s ribs — warm and heavy, like sunlight pooling in a place long starved of light.
He knew this day was for them — for all of them. For the team, the laughter, the easy folding back into old rhythms. It wasn’t the time to pull her aside. Not yet. And yet —
The hours drifted by in waves of brightness — voices and footfalls and the soft hush of papers moving beneath careful hands — and all through it, he found himself looking up without meaning to.
Again and again — as though the very air in the room carried her shape.
The sound of her laugh — low, rich, colored by something softer now. The shape of her voice weaving through conversations — a thread of familiar music. The curve of her mouth when she teased Morgan, the glint in her eye when she nudged Emily mid-joke. The easy tilt of her head, the slight catch of her hair at her shoulder as she moved.
The bullpen seemed to hum at the edges — bright with a different kind of light — as though her return had altered the very current of the space.
And Spencer — he remembered every version of her.
The sharp, brilliant one who could outthink anyone in the room. The quiet one, thoughtful between cases, always half-smiling over the rim of her mug. The steady presence by his side on late nights when the hours blurred.
And this — this new version now — was both familiar and new. Wiser. Sharper at the edges. But still — her.
And he — he was still him.
Still caught somewhere between the wanting and the fear — between the pull of everything unsaid and the weight of years carried alone.
The words pressed at him like a tide — slow and relentless.
I loved you before you left. I love you still. I waited.
But for now — he only watched.
The day drifted into late afternoon — the kind of soft, golden hour when the light slants lower and time seems to slow.
Sunlight stretched long across the floor, warmer now — honeyed gold pooling between the desks, casting soft-edged shadows across the walls. The hum of conversation had quieted to something looser, more languid — voices dipping, movements slower in the mellow light.
Files had been filed, coffee cups rinsed and set in neat rows along the counter.
JJ glanced at the clock with a reluctant sigh, gathering her things. “Henry’s got soccer this evening,” she said, looping her scarf around her neck. “But I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
Morgan slung his bag over one shoulder, lingering a beat longer than usual. “You sure you don’t want a ride?” he asked. “Gym can wait.”
Y/N smiled, warm. “I’m good. I’ve got a few things to finish up.”
Emily and Garcia hovered nearby, coats in hand — exchanging a glance that held more than a little protest.
“We could stay,” Garcia offered brightly. “Help you settle in — cupcakes and admin, a perfect pairing.”
Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. “Go — really. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
Even Rossi, coming down the stairs from upstairs consults, paused with a glance toward her desk — a thoughtful nod.
And so, slowly, the bullpen began to empty — not with the usual rush of closing time, but with the unspoken warmth of a day well-spent, a missing piece restored.
And Spencer — he stayed, notebook still open before him. A file untouched beneath his hand.
But he wasn’t looking at the clock, nor at the quiet stacks of work still waiting. His gaze drifted — again and again — toward the far side of the bullpen. Toward her. He’d told himself it was to finish organizing some paperwork — but his stack of files remained exactly where it had been for the past hour.
Y/N lingered after the others — a quiet, steady presence in the glowing hush of the near-empty bullpen. She moved with an easy rhythm — unpacking, resettling, reordering small pieces of her space that had been left behind. A drawer sliding open with a soft scrape. Papers shuffled into neat stacks. The quiet click of a pen against the rim of a ceramic mug.
The last spill of sunlight caught at her sleeves, gilding the fine movements of her hands, weaving a soft glow along the curve of her shoulder, the slope of her cheek.
And still — he stayed.
Spencer’s gaze drifted to the clock.
He could leave. He should leave. The hour had tipped toward evening — most of the building hushed now, shadows lengthening at the edges. But the thought of walking away — of leaving her to this space alone, on her first day back — pulled sharp beneath his ribs.
A quiet weight pressed into his chest — insistent.
So he hovered — notebook still open, the pen unmoving between his fingers, resting forgotten in the waning light.
Waiting.
Finally — after what felt to Spencer like an endless moment stretched thin with wanting — Y/N glanced up from her desk. A loose strand of hair had fallen near her temple; she brushed it back with an absent, graceful motion, fingertips trailing lightly against her cheek.
Her gaze lifted — slow, searching — and found him across the quiet bullpen.
Something in her expression softened — a warmth blooming there, quiet and sure.
Her smile unfurled — slow at first, as though drawn from somewhere deeper — the curve of her mouth lifting, high and soft at one corner, deepening into that familiar shape that never failed to undo him. A glimmer of mischief danced at the edges. The faintest hint of dimples appeared — fleeting, delicate — like a secret only just revealed. And then — her voice, low and warm, the words wrapped in that smile: “Are you waiting for me, Doctor Reid?”
The sound of it — the shape of her smile as she said it — struck him with such sudden force that he almost forgot to breathe.
Color rose to his ears — swift, helpless. He opened his mouth — faltered for half a second — then gave the smallest, surest nod.
“Yes.”
Her smile deepened — slow, knowing — the kind of smile that lived somewhere between affection and tease, the kind that could warm a man to his bones. Her dimples ghosted faintly at the corners, eyes bright beneath the soft spill of late afternoon light.
“Well,” she said — voice low, rich with quiet amusement — “if you help me put these away…” She tipped her head, letting the smallest pause hang in the air, just enough to draw him in. “… we’ll both get to leave faster. Sound fair?”
He was on his feet before thought could catch up with motion — breath quick in his chest.
“Fair,” he said — and even he could hear the faint, uneven edge in his voice.
Together — side by side now — they moved around her desk. Small, familiar motions — but softened somehow, slowed by something neither of them spoke aloud. They sorted through scattered files — fingers brushing the edges of well-thumbed pages. They slid books into place along low shelves, the gentle scrape of spines against wood the only sound between them.
Now and then — unintentional, but inevitable — their hands touched. Barely there at first — a passing graze of fingertips. Then again — the soft press of knuckles, warm skin meeting skin for a breath too long to be entirely accidental. Each contact sent a bright flicker through Spencer’s nerves — sharp, electric, as though every inch of him had tuned itself to her presence.
The quiet between them thrummed — not empty, not strained — but full, vibrant beneath the surface. Companionable. Steady. And beneath it all — something more.
When the last binder clicked softly into place on the shelf, Y/N exhaled a quiet breath — one of those small, wordless sounds that seemed to settle into the room like a finishing note.
“Done,” she said, straightening with a little stretch — shoulders rolling back, arms loosening. She reached for her coat and bag, fingers brushing along the back of her chair as she gathered the last few things.
Spencer stood where he was — pulse thick in his throat, heart thudding hard enough that it seemed to echo in his ears.
The soft light had deepened around them now — long bands of gold stretching low across the bullpen, casting the floor in warm, drowsy glow.
She glanced at him — smile tugging faintly at her mouth. “Still keeping me company?” she teased gently, voice soft beneath the hush of the near-empty space.
He swallowed — words tangling.
“Of course,” he managed — and then, after a beat too long: “Didn’t want you to be the last one here.”
Her smile deepened, the kind that caught at the corners of her eyes. “Chivalrous,” she said — voice warm, amused. She slipped her coat on, the fabric falling clean against her frame, and adjusted the strap of her bag over one shoulder.
Spencer forced himself to breathe.
She moved toward the edge of the bullpen — glancing back once with a quiet tilt of her head. “Come on, Doctor,” she said lightly. “I’m officially calling it a day.”
His feet carried him before thought caught up — steps falling into an easy rhythm beside her as they crossed the room together. The hush of their movements echoed faintly in the open space — the last few murmurs from elsewhere in the building fading into quiet.
At her side — so close now, every breath filled with her nearness — Spencer could feel the words pressing harder against his ribs. It had been building all day — rising with every glance, every soft word, every brush of her hand. He could feel it now — like a storm gathering just beneath his skin — sharp, bright, impossible to ignore.
And yet — beside him, Y/N seemed unaware — or if she noticed at all, only the faintest trace: the way his voice caught, the way his gaze drifted and returned too quickly.
She glanced up at him as they walked, brow lifting ever so slightly.
“You’re quiet,” she said softly — a question folded beneath the words.
He swallowed, pulse kicking hard.
“Just… tired,” he offered — voice thinner than he meant, pulse still racing beneath his skin.
She let the words drift for a beat, then smiled — soft, easy, gaze warm beneath the fall of her lashes.
“Yeah,” she murmured, voice low. “Me too.” A pause — her smile tilting slightly, something quieter beneath it. “But… I’m really glad to be back.”
The words settled into the air between them — warm, certain — and somehow it made the ache in Spencer’s chest bloom all the sharper.
They reached the elevator.
She pressed the call button — the soft chime rising in the quiet hallway, a bright sound against the hush.
Spencer’s breath caught — the weight of everything unsaid closing tight around him. He couldn’t hold it much longer.
The doors slid open — slow, smooth, with a soft mechanical sigh. They stepped inside, just the two of them now, the space small, quiet, close.
Spencer’s pulse pounded in his ears — hard, relentless, as though the very beat of his heart might give him away.
The words pressed higher in his throat — sharp, breathless — no longer some distant ache, but a rising tide he could barely contain.
Next breath. Next second.
He wouldn’t be able to hold them back.
The elevator doors closed — a hush of metal against metal — sealing them in.
The soft whir of machinery faded, leaving behind a silence so complete it seemed to thrum in the air between them.
They stood side by side — two familiar shapes cast against the brushed steel walls — the lines of their reflections blurred and mingling in the dim light.
The quiet pressed close — thicker with each passing second — as if the very air had shifted, grown heavier, charged with something unspoken.
Neither spoke.
Neither moved.
A breath held — stretched thin, trembling at the edges. Spencer’s throat worked. His chest rose, breath shallow and uneven.
The words clawed their way higher — fierce, unstoppable — scraping at the back of his throat with each beat of his racing heart.
He could feel his hands trembling faintly at his sides — useless to stop it now.
He stared ahead — eyes fixed, jaw tight — knowing he was standing on the edge of something he could no longer step back from.
The ache had risen past longing, past reason — to the bright, unbearable verge of action.
Now, the thought pulsed through him, urgent, wild. Now, or not at all.
And then — impulse overtook thought.
Before he could second-guess himself — before logic could drag him back — Spencer moved.
Hand darting forward, fast, breathless — and pressed the small red button marked EMERGENCY STOP.
The elevator gave a soft shudder — a low, mechanical sigh — and halted mid-floor.
Stillness swept in — sudden, absolute.
Y/N blinked, the movement catching her off-guard, and turned toward him.
“Spencer?”
Her voice was quiet — touched with confusion, the faintest edge of surprise. Her brows drew in softly — a furrow between them, delicate and unguarded — as her gaze searched his face. Her lips parted — as though to ask, to steady the moment — but the words seemed to catch before they reached the air.
The shift in the room — in him — was too sharp, too immediate. Something was happening — something rising between them like a current — and she could feel it now.
The nerves in the air brushed against her skin — light, electric — pulling at her breath, at her heart.
He turned to face her fully — heart hammering so violently it felt as though it might tear free of his chest — nerves raw beneath skin that had gone too tight, too thin to hold any of it in.
Her brows were still faintly drawn — gaze searching, lips parted — the air between them charged and trembling.
“I can’t—”
His voice broke, the first word catching sharp against his throat.
He swallowed — breath ragged, chest rising too fast — tried again: “I can’t not say it anymore.”
Her eyes widened — something in them catching and deepening — but she said nothing. The moment held — bright, unbearable — as though the space itself had narrowed down to a single, burning point between them.
And then the words broke loose.
They came in a rush — raw, breathless, tumbling past restraint — too fast to stop now, too sharp to soften:
“I loved you before you left.”
His voice shook — low, frayed, as though dragged from the deepest part of him.
“I thought maybe— maybe if you were gone long enough, I’d move on. Forget. Or… or at least learn how to live with it.”
A harsh breath — head shaking once, fierce, broken.
“But I didn’t.”
Another breath — sharper now, ragged edges rising beneath the words: “I couldn’t.”
The confession twisted out of him — building, breaking: “I asked Garcia for updates every week — every single week — until even she started looking at me with pity.”
His hands had begun to shake — fingers flexing, useless at his sides.
“Every day, really— some days twice, three times— I just— I needed to know. I needed to know you were safe.”
A breathless laugh — hollow, aching:
“I made her hack into the Interpol Liaison logs. I knew what cities you were in even when I wasn’t supposed to. I memorized the dates of your deployments, your rotations. Every time you flew out — every time you landed — I knew.”
The words were tumbling faster now — heat rising in his face, in his chest — years of longing and restraint fracturing at the seams.
“I thought about you every morning,” he gasped, voice trembling. “Every night. Every time my phone buzzed I thought — maybe it’s her — maybe she’ll call—”
A sharp breath — and then the last broke from him, hoarse:
“I—”
But the words choked off, chest too tight to finish.
He stood trembling — gaze locked on hers — every muscle pulled taut, breath coming fast and uneven.
He had said it.
Finally.
All of it — ripped loose, bare and bleeding in the open space between them.
And Y/N —
She stared at him — lips parted, breath catching audibly now — as though the weight of what he’d given her had struck too deep to move. Something burned behind her eyes — deep, bright, unspoken — rising to the surface, fierce and fragile all at once.
The air between them cracked — the moment stretched to the breaking point — breathless, unbearable.
Her eyes — still locked on his — shone now, wide and burning, mouth parted on a breath that never quite formed a word.
And Spencer —
Something in him finally snapped.
A surge — a reckless, all-consuming need — rose up from somewhere deeper than thought, deeper than breath — a force that obliterated everything but the aching pull of her standing there before him.
He moved — fast, unstoppable — hands catching her shoulders, dragging her hard into him.
And then — his mouth was on hers.
No hesitation, no gentleness — just a crash of lips to lips, heat and breath and desperate, reckless want.
The force of it sent her stumbling back — but even as her spine hit the cool steel of the elevator wall, Spencer’s hand came up fast — cradling the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair to shield her from the impact — as though some fierce, protective part of him couldn’t bear for her to feel even the smallest hurt.
A faint gasp broke from her lips — not from pain, but from shock, from breathless surprise — from the wild, consuming heat of him.
And then — he was kissing her again — harder, deeper — no space, no air, nothing but this.
He swallowed the sound with his mouth — not daring to stop, not daring to let a single inch of space fall between them now that he had her.
His hands tangled in her hair — fingers twisting in the soft strands, pulling just enough to tip her face up beneath his — mouth slanting harder against hers, teeth grazing, lips parted wide.
Her hands came up in a rush — fisting in the front of his cardigan, dragging him closer — as though she would climb inside him if the laws of the world would only allow it.
Breath collided — hot, uneven, hungry — between kisses that deepened with every ragged pull.
Her lips — soft, swollen, trembling beneath his — moved with him, against him — gasps breaking loose only to be caught again, swallowed whole.
Their noses brushed — the angle of her jaw sharp beneath his palm, the shape of her mouth opening wider for him, breath shaking between every frantic meeting of lips and tongue.
Teeth caught — hers sinking sharply into the soft swell of his lower lip — not enough to break skin, but enough to tear a low, wrecked sound from deep in his chest.
A sound he didn’t know he could make — half gasp, half growl — ruined, desperate.
And then he was gone.
A surge of heat shot through him — blinding, primal — and in the next heartbeat, he slammed her harder against the wall — body pinning hers in full, no space left between them, the sheer force of it dragging a sharp gasp from her mouth.
But not pain — never pain — only shock, only wild, breathless want.
And he swallowed it — devoured the sound with a bruising kiss, lips crashing to hers again, open and hungry and without mercy.
The heat between them flared — burning now — a helpless, relentless tide.
His hands slid down — hard and possessive — gripping her waist, her hips, fingers digging in tight enough that he could feel the shape of her bones beneath the fabric.
Tighter — closer — more.
If he could have dragged her through the wall, he would have — anything to close the impossible ache of distance that still lived inside him.
She was gasping now — broken, high little sounds spilling between them — breath catching in her throat as her fingers clawed into his hair, fists tightening until the roots burned.
Every pull, every desperate grip only feeding the fire in him — pulling a fresh, wrecked sound from his throat.
Her head tipped back, mouth opening wider beneath his — trembling, hungry — letting him kiss her deeper, harder, until he was half-mad with the feel of her lips, her teeth, the breath she couldn’t catch.
“Spencer—”
The sound of his name — wrecked, high, barely shaped — shattered what little remained of his restraint.
He caught it with his mouth — crushed it — swallowing her voice in a kiss so deep, so savage it stole what little air remained between them.
Tongue sliding against hers — breath ragged — teeth scraping — hands everywhere now, sliding up, curling into her back, gripping her shoulder, burying again in her hair — anchoring her to him as though the sheer force of need alone might collapse the years they’d spent apart.
Their noses bumped, dragged sideways, breaths tearing loose, uneven and wild —
More.
He couldn’t stop.
He wouldn’t stop — not until he’d kissed her so deeply, so completely that the ache in his chest finally broke apart beneath it.
Not until she was gasping against his mouth — trembling in his arms — her nails dragging down the back of his neck with helpless, reckless need —
Not until there was nothing left of either of them but this — lips and teeth and breath and years of longing, burning wild and bright between the steel walls of the elevator.
Time fractured — the small space between them burning, pulsing with a heat neither could withstand.
It wasn’t a kiss.
It was everything.
Every unspoken word. Every sleepless night. Every breathless moment spent wanting and waiting and knowing they could not have — until now.
Now, the dam had broken. And there was no going back.
When the kiss finally broke — if it could even be called a break — it wasn’t by choice.
It was because neither of them could breathe.
Because lungs burned and chests heaved and their bodies trembled so violently it was a wonder they were still standing.
Spencer’s forehead dropped to hers — too dizzy to hold himself upright — breath tearing ragged from his throat.
Her hands were still tangled in his hair — trembling, clutching — and her face, flushed and wet, tilted helplessly up to his.
They were both shaking — wrecked — skin damp with sweat, tears mingled where cheeks brushed, lips swollen and raw from the sheer violence of what had just passed between them.
Neither could move.
Neither could speak.
They stood there — locked against the cool steel of the elevator wall — heartbeats crashing wildly in their chests, breath gasping against each other’s skin.
Spencer’s hands were splayed against her back — fists still curled in her top, holding on as though if he let go for even a second, the world itself might split apart beneath them.
Her breath hitched — a high, shaking sound that caught in her throat.
Slowly — slowly — she dragged in a trembling gasp of air.
And then — voice so faint it barely rose above a whisper, broken and wrecked in the quiet space —
“Maybe…”
Another breath — another tremble — her cheek brushing against his, damp with tears, mouth still parted, lips flushed and swollen beneath the faintest catch of a breath.
“… maybe we should… get out of here…”
A soft, dazed sound slipped from her throat — a ghost of a laugh, breathless, half-wrecked —
“… before Garcia starts wondering why we’ve been stuck for twenty minutes.”
The words barely reached him — muffled, distant — lost in the blood still roaring in his ears, in the breath he couldn’t catch, in the wild rush still hammering through his chest.
For a moment he could only stare — blinking, dazed, heart crashing.
And then — the smallest breath of a laugh broke loose from him — sharp, wrecked, awed — as if he couldn’t quite believe any of this was real, couldn’t believe the feel of her still trembling beneath his hands.
The sound tangled with his next breath — jagged, uneven — as he leaned in again, lips brushing hers once more.
Not a kiss — not quite — just the barest press — soft, aching, impossibly full — as though he needed to feel her again, needed to be sure she was still there beneath him.
“I don’t care,” he whispered — voice hoarse, torn, shaking with the force of everything still rising in him.
And neither did she.
At last — with fingers that trembled faintly — Spencer reached out, releasing the small red button beneath his hand.
The elevator gave a soft jolt — a faint hum rising as the emergency stop disengaged.
The car began to descend once more — slow, smooth — but neither of them moved.
Not yet.
Spencer still stood close — chest barely lifting with shallow breath, hands resting at her waist, fingers splayed wide, reluctant to loosen their hold.
Y/N’s hands lingered in his hair — fingers soft now, slow, unhurried — as though neither of them could quite bear the thought of breaking the fragile space between them.
His forehead still leaned faintly against hers — breaths mingling in the small hush of the car, both of them flushed, damp with tears and sweat, trembling in the aftermath of something too large to name.
When he finally drew back — just barely, just enough to see her — his eyes were dark, soft, shining with a rawness she had never seen in him before.
Open — utterly unguarded.
Voice low, hoarse, still uneven:
“I missed you.”
The simple truth of it struck through her like a blade — sharp and bright, pulling a soft, helpless ache from her chest.
Her lips parted — breath catching — before her own voice broke free, quiet and full:
“I missed you, too.”
Spencer still hadn’t moved.
His hands remained at her waist — fingers curled tight, thumbs pressed deep into the sharp curve of her hip bones, as though if he loosened his grip by even a fraction she might simply slip away again.
She could feel it — the heat of him through the fabric, the strain in his hold — the faint tremor still running through his fingers.
A breathless sound caught in her throat — half a laugh, half a sigh — lips curving faintly despite the wreck of her heart.
And then — something shifted.
Spencer’s breath hitched — chest rising too fast — eyes flickering down to where his hands still gripped her.
As though, in that moment, the full weight of what had just happened — the recklessness of it, the years of want breaking loose — crashed into him all at once.
The flush rose quick and high in his cheeks — the faintest spark of his old shyness rising beneath the wreckage of want.
Fingers trembling harder now, caught between holding and releasing, apology and need.
When he finally spoke — voice barely a rasp, breaking at the edges: “I don’t want to let go.”
She drew in a soft, uneven breath — heart thudding so hard it hurt. Her smile faltered — not fading, but shifting — something deeper flickering behind her eyes, pulling the breath from her lungs. Fingers still tangled in his hair, she leaned in just slightly — enough that her forehead brushed his again, lips near his ear.
“Then don’t,” she whispered — voice soft as breath, shaking with truth she couldn’t swallow.
For a moment — the smallest space of time — neither of them moved.
His hands remained tight at her hips — knuckles white — her body held fast against him, the tremble in his fingers betraying just how much he was still drowning in it.
Her breath broke against his neck — warm, damp, trembling.
And still — no part of him wanted to let go.
Not when it had taken this long.
Not after what had just passed between them.
The air hummed with it — that fragile, golden hush — both of them caught, undone, too lost in the aftermath to break away.
The soft chime broke through the quiet — a bright, sharp sound — followed by the slow, mechanical hiss of the elevator doors sliding open.
Cooler air brushed in — a sudden shift, a reminder of the world waiting just beyond.
Both of them blinked — as though surfacing from somewhere too deep, too far beneath the moment.
Spencer’s hands loosened at her hips — reluctantly, fingers still trembling.
Y/N let out a breathless little laugh — half dazed, half bright — voice low and warm against his ear.
“Well,” she murmured, lashes lifting as she glanced toward the open doors, “I guess we can’t exactly live in here.”
That tugged a rough, unsteady breath from his chest — something between a laugh and a groan, eyes dragging over her face like he couldn’t quite stop.
“I wouldn’t mind,” he managed — voice still wrecked, hoarse — but the faintest curve pulled at the corner of his mouth.
She grinned — still breathless, still flushed — one brow lifting, teasing soft and easy between them again.
“You’re going to get me into trouble, Doctor Reid,” she whispered, fingers brushing lightly against his chest as she eased back a fraction. “And it’s only my first day back.”
He huffed a quiet laugh — wrecked, bright-eyed — and stepped with her toward the open doors.
Together — breathless, still too close — they finally stepped out into the hall.
The world beyond the elevator was quiet — hushed, late — the light cooler here, shadows long against the floor.
But something had shifted between them — something that could never be pulled back now.
Spencer’s hand hovered at her lower back as they walked — not quite touching, but near enough that the heat of it ghosted against her spine.
Y/N glanced at him — lips curved, eyes still bright with everything unspoken.
“You know,” she said — voice low, teasing — “if anyone saw us right now…”
She trailed off — the grin in her voice unmistakable.
Spencer huffed a breath — half a laugh, half a groan — hand finally giving in, fingers brushing soft against the small of her back.
“Then I guess,” he murmured — eyes catching hers, dark and soft and wrecked — “they’d finally know.”
Her heart flipped — sharp and warm.
The teasing faltered, just for a breath — replaced by something deeper, something older and more certain.
She smiled — slow, bright — and let her hand slip into his, fingers twining there like it had always belonged.
They walked in silence for a few steps — breath still too fast, skin still tingling — neither quite ready to let the moment fade.
Then — quiet, low, voice still rough from everything he couldn’t say — Spencer spoke:
“Are you hungry?”
She looked at him — brows lifting faintly — that familiar spark rising in her gaze.
“Starving,” she whispered.
His mouth curved — soft, wrecked, utterly undone.
“Come over,” he said — no hesitation, no fear now. Just truth. Just wanting. “I’ll make something.”
Her fingers tightened in his — smile deepening — voice warm as the new light between them.
“Okay,” she said.
And together — hand in hand — they kept walking down the quiet hall, toward whatever waited next.
i love that you feel that too omg bc every time i watch them, it’s the part of the team that stays with me too, and it’s what i wanted to write into it!!!
it also means so much that you took the time to pull those lines out, i can’t tell you how much i appreciate it 🌟🌟🥹
