Writing Bubble

Julia, 31 y/o, writing since 2012, author (german book), MJ lover, Criminal Minds enthusiast

[juliaswritingbubble]

Masterlist

DR. SPENCER REID Short Stories

So, this is what you do now, Dr. Reid? (light fluff) Spencer has left the BAU without letting anyone know, Y/N is devastated and after months finally has the courage to find him and confront him.

Tension Part 1 (fluff) | Part 2 (fluff) Where Spencer and Y/N have undenieable tension, but get captured by an Unsub.

Confessions This is based on the season 7x24 episode where Will gets into the bank, but it's Spencer, and Y/N is freaking out, the wedding is still happening, and maybe feelings get confessed while dancing.

“Love you” where Y/N is visiting Spencer in prison and when he finally gets out confessions are made

Getting it out of the way Reid and Y/N are assigned to a night of surveillance in the car. Long chats, deep conversations and an eventful ride in the elevator later you both decide, you should "talk" about it. Well...talking is not exactly what you do.

Handcuffs. Reader is dating Reid, without physical intimacy until now. When he needs to go on a date with Cat Adams, reader gets jealous and when he cuffs Cat...reader nearly looses her mind.

It isn´t an act.  Spencer and Y/N interrogate a suspect and fake a marriage and an affair.

HARRY STYLES  Oneshots

Afterparty  Harry has a crush on you, but fails to show his affection until their final performance afterparty.

The Wedding Harry and you meet again at a friend's wedding years after the two of you had a fling, both of you couldn´t quite forget each other.

You´re still the one Harry breaks up with you, but after you two start over, he surprises you with a sung declaration of love.

Driving into the sunset You are on a road trip on a motorcycle through the US and meet a mysterious fellow biker who joins you.

Neighbours Part 1 | Part 2 You move in next to Gemma Styles and happen to become good friends with her, then you meet her famous brother.

Café Where you meet H in a café during work and you become friends...at least you thought so.

The assistant You meet H because he signs a contract from your boss, a notary. Your boss is an asshole and H is worried about you.

Mini Series

Gas station encounter (not finished, but could upload) You accidentally meet H at a gas station and had a really bad day, so you scowl at him but he keeps popping up in your life. Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

[juliaswritingbubble]

It isn´t an act.

summary: Spencer and Y/N interrogate a suspect and fake a marriage and an affair.

„Is he talking?“ Emily asks as Spencer, JJ and I are standing behind the tinted glass and look at the Unsub sitting in the interrogation room. He has an arrogant expression on his face, as if he knows, that we won´t be able to legally arrest him without him spilling what he did and where he hid the bodies.

“No. Rossi was inside, JJ too but he just stares at the table. We are missing something” I mumble and Reid nods, crossing his arms.

“Let us think about it his way. We know he is targeting young women between 25 and 35 because his fiancé cheated on him and left him. So he looks for surrogates, maybe we shouldn’t send men or women who look completely different than her inside. Maybe it´s going to trigger him when a woman walks in, who is his type and his target” he turns his head to look at Prentiss.

“It´s worth a shot. JJ is blonde, has blue eyes, nothing like his type. Rossi is a man, I should go in” she says.

“No offence, I think you´re too old to be his target” Morgan says and Emily scoffs slightly offended. But she nods in agreement which leads the team to stare at me.

“Oh hell, no. Guys, you know how bad I am at acting”

“You´re going to be just fine. It´s our only chance…but you need to look less like an agent” Emily says and I sigh. I shove off my blazer, straighten my slacks and look at the team expectantly.

“Better?” I am wearing a white T-Shirt, no cleavage, dark blue slacks.

“No. Come with me, I got something in my go-bag” JJ says and I roll my eyes, but follow her. I look at Spencer, it´s more like a death stare. He smiles at me sadly and mouths a silent “sorry”. I stick out my tongue at him.

JJ hands me a red shirt with a V-neck, no sleeves, tight fitted.

“Is this really necessary?” I´m still not into that idea. “I think so, yes. You have to be attractive to him, he needs to see you as a possible target not an agent” she says and hands me the top. I sigh and change, tugging the fabric on my slacks and spread my arms.

“Ta-daaa” I say with faked enthusiasm. “Perfect” she says and we head back to the team. I pull out my hair tie and shake my hair.

Emily is happy with the outcome and instructs me to be girly and understanding with him, a little flirty.

“This will be horrible, but let´s go” I nod and stop in front of the door.

“You got this” Spence says nodding and smiles at me.

“Wait. I have another idea. I mean you still have to do it, but think about it. She cheated on him. That´s the trigger” Rossi says and looks at Spencer.

“No” “Yes. This will work and you know it. She goes in, flirting with him, leaving again and going back in with Reid. JJ give her your wedding band. It will trigger him, that she is seemingly married and flirts with him and then when Reid joins you two act like there is more between you, a work affair”

Emily nods.

“That´s our best shot, you´re right. JJ?” JJ pulls off her wedding band and hands it to me. I hate the whole idea and it feels like it get´s worse with every minute I stand here.

“Ok let´s do it” I open the door and step into the interrogation room.

“Oh they´re sending in the pretty one” he says and laughs while I close the door.

“Actually they are sending in me because I´m more empathetic and I kind of understand you” I take a seat at the table and look into his eyes.

“You do?” he asks and I nod, leaning over the table lightly, his eyes dart to my cleavage.

“Of course. You were hurt and now you´re trying to find closure and revenge. I understand that. It´s natural” he looks at me, still suspicious but it seems to work.

“It is, right? Tell me something about yourself, you are really really pretty” he licks his lips and his eyes wander over my face and down to my hands. Stopping at JJs wedding band.

“You´re married. How old are you?” “Yes I am, been married for three years now. I´m 29” “That´s pretty young to get married. Do you love your husband?” I nod. “Of course” he nods understanding, leaning over the table, inhaling my scent.

“God, what a waste. You´re so pretty” he sighs and I smile at him.

“Thank you. I know your taste is impeccable, every woman you chose was stunningly beautiful” “They were” I sit straighter, this is the first time he admits to taking those women. The plan is working. “What did you do to them?” “I punished them. For being unfaithful…you would never be unfaithful, wouldn’t you?” at this moment the door opens and Spencer joins us.

“Who are you?” the Unsub asks him and I smile at Spencer. My heart skipping a beat. It´s not the first time we have to play a couple or siblings but as always I´m getting nervous that my feelings for him will display.

“Spence” I say and he smiles at me with his full lips and soft hazel eyes. “Hey” he mumbles and sits next to me, not without touching my shoulder as he passes behind me.

The Unsub watches us, here goes nothing. I straighten my shirt, brush my hair behind my ear and smile at him.

“This is Dr. Spencer Reid, a…colleague of mine” I introduce Spence and put my hand on his arm.

“He is not just a colleague” the Unsub presses between gritted teeth. “You lied to me, you´re a whore like every woman”

I swallow and play with my fake ring.

“What do you mean? I did nothing wrong” my voice is shaky which is hopefully useful.

“You two…when he walked in, your demeanor changed immediately. He is fucking you, isn’t he? You are cheating on your husband”

“I…no, I…wouldn’t-“ I stammer but Spencer puts his hand on mine and squeezes lightly. Not letting my hand go.

“It´s none of your business. Where are the bodies?” Spencer tries it bluntly, still caressing my hand with his thumb.

“If I ever get out of here, I will find you, I will catch you and cut you open, I will hurt you, torture you until you beg for forgiveness for cheating on your husband. He´s probably sitting at home, thinking you´re here being faithful while you fuck your colleague. You deserve to rot with the other women. YOU DESERVE TO BE BURIED WHERE NO ONE FINDS YOU!!” he yells at me and I move back. Luckily he is cuffed to the table.

“I don’t! I love my husband” I start crying and I am amazed at myself.

“I thought you were going to leave him” Spencer says and I get up, pacing up and down, still crying and sniffling. “You promised me, you were going to leave him” Spencer´s voice rises and he stops me in my tracks. He grabs my chin, making me look up at him.

“I was, but it´s not as easy as you think. You don’t understand, you have no wife, you built no life with someone who loves you” I say and look into his beautiful eyes.

“Don’t you love me?” he asks and I nod.

“Yes, yes I do. I love you, but it´s not an easy decision to make” I whisper and I feel his other hand on my waist. He never touched me like this before and I have trouble keeping my act up.

“I WILL FIND YOU and bury you right under the same old tree where the others are!!!” the Unsub yells and Spencer tries to hide a smile. We got him.

“Do you mean the old tree where you proposed to your fiancé?” I ask him and see how he struggles to attack me. His cuffs are holding him in place.

“It´s the ultimate punishment! Being buried where we promised our love” he whispers and looks at me with so much hate in his eyes, that I take another step back. Spence pushes me slightly behind his back and looks him dead in the eyes. He doesn´t say anything, he just stares at him while he stares at me.

“Let´s go” he says over his shoulder, still shielding me from the Unsub. He guides me outside where I let out the air I was holding without noticing. The door closes behind us and I look at the rest of the team. I slip off JJs ring and hand it back to her.

“Good work, guys. Rossi, JJ head to the house and find out where he proposed” and that´s how Reid and I end up alone in the dim room with the tinted window.

“You okay?” he asks me, stepping closer. He touches my arm and I feel his touch burning on my skin.

“Yes, sure. It was all a show, wasn’t it? I´m gonna change” I say and head towards the door.

“You were…really convincing in there” he mumbles and I stop, hand already on the handle.

“It isn’t the first time we had to act like a couple, Spence. I´m kind of used to it by now” he chuckles and turns to face the Unsub through the window. He is just sitting at the table, staring at the door.

“It´s always us, you´re right. Maybe because we are the closest in age” “JJ is the same age as me” “But she is married and has been my friend for nearly a decade. I couldn’t pretend for her to be my girl. It would be weird” “And with me it´s not because I joined only a few years ago” I finish his thought. He shakes his head.

“No, it´s not weird, because…I don´t see you as my younger sister and you aren’t married. This could possibly really happen…you and I” he mumbles and I turn around fully to face him. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his slacks and he looks at his shoes.

“No, Spencer. It couldn’t” my heart shatters in my chest, because it´s true. We couldn’t happen. It´s against regulations.

“Under different circumstances” he adds and looks up at me. I smile and nod, opening the door before I can´t handle myself anymore and jump his bones.

“Maybe…yes. See you in a bit” I slip out of the door and get to the dressing room, eager to change back into my own clothes.

When I get back to Reid and Prentiss they inform me, that JJ and Rossi have found the place and are heading there right now.

Spencer and I get ordered to clean up the room we were working in, organizing the papers, cleaning the whiteboards and everything.

We work in silence, cleaning up when the call comes, that they found the burial site and all six victims. When the Unsub is brought outside to head for jail until his trial. Reid and I are standing in the door, watching him getting an escort.

“You whore!! I´m gonna kill you” he screams at me, fighting the officers holding him back. I feel Spencer´s hand on my shoulder as if he wants to support me.

“Shut up” Morgan says and steps in front of me to shield me.

“Oh boys, I can handle that” I chuckle and pat Spencer´s hand. JJ and Rossi come back and we say our goodbyes to the Officers and the Chief. Our work here is done, it´s time to head back home.

Back on the plane Dave invites us for a little get together this evening. I am not really in the mood, but I agree nevertheless.

The flight isn´t long but I try and get some sleep. Spencer is resting on the small couch, crouched together to fit on it, hair falling into his face, which is relaxed, lips slightly parted.

“You know…you two are really convincing playing a couple” JJ says and Morgan joins in and agrees.

“You certainly are, I could never act this good” I roll my eyes at them and stuff the pillow between my head and the plane wall.

“Whatever, we are used to do it by now” I yawn and close my eyes.

“Maybe you are but maybe you are just hiding what you really feel for each other” Morgan suggests but I don’t bother answering. I close my eyes and try to fall asleep while he and JJ talk about Spencer and me. Us being a cute couple and how we hide the attraction we possibly feel for each other. I plug in my earphones and drift away into my own world.

Emily wakes me up as soon as we hit the ground. I blink, seeing the empty plane and her smiling at me.

“Come on, sleepyhead. Rossi said we meet at 7 sharp at his house” I nod and get up, grabbing my stuff and following her to the parking lot. Spencer is heading out in his car as we walk past the guard. He waves at us.

I head home and get under the shower, the water feels so good and I take my time, doing my hair and skincare. I decide to not put on make up again and just dry my hair.

I slip into a high waisted jeans, and throw on a plain black tank top. After I slipped into my sneakers I grab a comfy, soft cardigan and spray some perfume on my neck. I grab my bag and head out to my uber.

I run into Emily who just parked in Rossi´s driveway when I arrive.

“Hello there, ready for some Bruschetta and Wine?” she asks and I nod. “So ready. I´m starving” We turn around when we hear another car pulling up. It´s Spencer and Emily smiles at me.

“I´ll see you inside” she says and walks around the corner of the house straight to the backyard.

I wait up for Spencer, trying to calm down my stupid heart as he walks up to me.

“Hey” we both say at the same time, trying to not look at each other. When I start walking, I feel his hand on my arm holding me back.

“Wait…” I stop and turn around, his hand gliding down my arm and grabbing my hand. I look down at his hand holding mine, feeling my heart pounding as he pulls me closer. His other hand finds my cheek, cupping it right before he steps another step closer. I can smell him and I lean into his hand on my cheek.

“It isn´t an act…” he just says, I know what he means and I look up into his beautiful eyes.

“It´s not?” my voice is quiet and insecure. “No, it´s not. I…like you” “I like you, too…but we can´t, Spence. It´s against regulations” “I know…I just…I don’t know, wanted you to know it, I guess” he mumbles, caressing my cheek with his thumb.

“So, what do we do now?” I ask and he smiles, pulling me against his chest. “We definitely shouldn´t act on those feelings” he mumbles, leaning down just a little bit. “No, we shouldn’t…but I really want to” he chuckles slightly and nods.

When his lips find mine, I sigh happily. His lips are soft, his smell is clouding me and it´s just consuming. He kisses me carefully, as if he is scared that this isn´t real. I feel his breath hitching, his lips still pressed against mine. It´s not a mind-blowing kiss, it´s sweet and caring, unsure but loving.

When we break the kiss, we stay as close as we are. When I open my eyes and look at him, his eyes are more green than usual.

“Guys! Come on in” someone yells and we shoot apart from another. “Coming!” I shout back, my eyes still on his.

“I don´t think I can forget this” he whispers before we head to the party.

“Neither can I…but we have to talk about it. Later” he nods and smiles at me. “We will”

I watch him during the evening and I don´t know how this is going to work or if it´s going to work, but the warm feeling in my stomach is starting to grow every time he looks at me across the room.

Rossi is serving his famous Carbonara, it´s a great evening with lots of laughter and banter. Morgan and Garcia are just hilarious and I could watch them for hours, it´s like a sitcom. I find myself alone with Emily on the couch some time later and she looks at me knowingly.

“Look, I didn´t want to say something but it´s getting so obvious to everyone that you and Spencer really like each other. You should shoot your shot” I turn my head to look at her and smile lightly.

“We are just friends and even if not, it´s against regulations and we wouldn´t jeopardize our jobs” technically we already did.

“Oh, come on. Have you seen how he looks at you? Or how you look at him, when you think no one´s watching? It´s not against regulations, it´s only against regulations if one of you would be a manager or supervisor of the other. There´s nothing against it” Emily looks at Spencer, who is laughing at something Morgan said. His eyes are sparkling of joy, his face is lit up, laughing lines appear on his face, he squinches his eyes and his laughter just makes my heart stop for a second.

Morgan puts his arm around Reid´s shoulders and says something to him, which makes his cheeks turn bright red.

“I guess Morgan is having the same conversation with Spencer, we just had” Emily says and I see Morgan looking right over to me. I smile at him and he winks back. Rossi makes his way over to us to fill up our wine glasses.

“Thank you, I think I had enough” I say to him and get up. I´m lightly tipsy, not bad but enough to stop drinking at this point.

“Fair enough. Do you want some water?” he offers me instead but I shake my head.

“I think. I´m calling it a night.” I grab my phone and open the Uber App. I don´t notice Morgan nudging Spencer with his elbow.

“I…I can take you home…if you want” I look up into his hazel eyes, staring at me from across the counter in the kitchen he is leaning against. “Of course she wants. Right, belleza?” Rossi says and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Sure, thank you, Spence” he shoots me a smile and puts down his glass.

“Have fun, guys. Good night” I hug every member of the team and slip into my jacket, Spencer is holding up for me. I follow him to his old Volvo and he opens the door for me. I can´t help it but find it really cute. I see the team gathering behind the window and observing how he gets into his car.

“They are terrible” I chuckle and he laughs quietly. “They are just…invested” he replies.

“Are you?” I ask him, damn my loosened tongue. “Invested? In us?...I think so, yeah” I look at him, resting my head against the headrest. He turns his head to look at me for a second before focusing his gaze on the street again. His hand is grabbing mine, resting on my leg. That´s how our way home is spent. Holding his hand, smiling to myself and looking out of the window while he takes me home safely.

When he stops in front of my house we sit silently for some time.

“Are you invested?” he asks finally and I kind of snort-laugh at his question. “Well, yes. How could I not?” his laugh is relieved but very real. His hand is still holding mine.

“Come on, I´ll bring you inside” he says and gets out of his car to open my door, holding out his hand to help me out of the car. I take it and we walk side by side to my door.

“So, I´d really much like to take you out to dinner sometime…if you want to” he asks shyly.

“I´d love to, Spence” he smiles at me and pulls me closer. My free hand automatically rests on his side, touching the soft fabric of his sweater.

“Good. Otherwise this would get really awkward real fast” he says and leans down to kiss me. I step on my tiptoes to meet him, kissing him back, feeling his hand on my back pushing me closer to his chest.

When he breaks the kiss, his face stays close to mine, his eyes looking into mine.

“Aren´t you supposed to take me out first and then kiss me?” I ask jokingly and he smiles, kissing me again.

“You should be kissed every second of every day…by me” I chuckle and rest my head against his shoulder, hugging him. I feel so light headed and happy when he hugs me tightly, resting his head on top of mine.

Masterlist

[certaimromance]

𝄢 Last Kiss.

Spencer Reid x Ex gf!reader

speak now; mini series | chapter one, two, three, four

Summary: Ever since he found out about your boyfriend, Spencer has been dreaming about you telling him that you broke up with him. Unfortunately, just when he thinks it's about to happen, something unexpected occurs.

Words: 4,4k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a mini series, so make sure you're on the right chapter. fem!bau!reader. mentions of serial killers, injuries, weapons, hospital, and marriage. suggestive themes. angst. love triangle?. second chance romance. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Don't hate me and trust me, I promise this will be good and beautifully dramatic at some point! I always fix my messes.

Spencer Reid cared about everything.

He cared about how you felt and whether you’d remembered to eat that morning or if you were running solely on coffee and nerves again. He cared about the soft tremble in your voice when you were tired and the way you tried to hide it behind a smile. He cared about the color of your clothes, how you always wore that pale blue sweater on rainy days, and how you wore his favorite one, the one with the tiny embroidered stars, on his birthday every single year, even after you’d broken up. He cared about the way your hands shook when you kissed him goodbye for the last time, a year ago, the day the two of you sat in his car in silence for ten minutes before finally saying the words: we can’t do this anymore. The day you promised to be friends, even as your voice cracked and your heart didn’t believe it.

But more than anything, he cared about your arm: about whether the wound you’d sustained three months ago during that chaotic confrontation with an unsub had truly healed. Not just the surface, not just the skin, but the muscle beneath. The way you favored it now without realizing. He cared about your comfort when you stepped into the bullpen for the first time in months, about how the welcome-back party felt to you, and whether the pastel pink balloons, the ones Garcia had so carefully picked out, were too bright or too childish or just right. Whether the fresh flowers on your desk—tulips, your favorite—weren’t hidden by paper stacks or the giant “WE MISSED YOU” card signed by the team. He cared that you felt safe, surrounded by people who loved you. People who had waited for you.

And—God help him—he cared, maybe most of all, whether you were still with him. Not him Spencer. Him, the man you’d started seeing six months after the breakup. The one who worked normal hours, who didn't have to ask you for time in the middle of a difficult case because he was overwhelmed, who was the kind of doctor everyone listened to, who could hold your hand in public without risking an internal investigation. The one who was, in every practical way, perfect.

“Would you like some cake, Spence?”

Your voice pulled him back like a soft tether, gentle but impossible to ignore. He blinked, realizing just how long he’d been staring: at the tulips on your desk, at the fading scar beneath your sleeve, at you. At the quiet miracle of your return and the way you somehow still looked like home, even in this too-bright conference room.

You stood beside him now, close enough that he could count the delicate flecks of frosting on your wrist from where you’d accidentally brushed the edge of the cake. It made him ache, the domestic intimacy of it, the memory of a hundred ordinary moments you used to share without thinking. And that scar…it still pulled something sharp and helpless from the center of his chest every time he looked at it.

Spencer cleared his throat. “Sure. Thank you.”

You handed him the plate, your fingers grazing his. The contact was brief, but enough to steal the breath from his lungs. For a second, everything folded in on itself—time, memory, the hollow distance between now and then. It felt like before again. Like your laugh still lived in his apartment. Like your toothbrush was still by his sink.

And God, he wanted to hug you again. Not the careful, too-brief one from earlier when you stepped out of the elevator. Not the one that was polite and practiced, the kind you give to coworkers returning from medical leave. No, he wanted you, your arms around him like they used to be, like he could hold onto you and never let go.

You both stood quietly now, shoulder to shoulder, angled toward the break area, watching the rest of the team. Garcia was dramatically scolding a stack of rebellious napkins that kept catching on the air vents, while Emily crouched beside her, trying to weigh them down between fits of laughter. JJ had a photo of Henry as a baby in her hand and was showing it to Morgan, who burst into a wide grin and said something that made her roll her eyes fondly. Hotch and Rossi were nowhere to be seen, probably tied up with some quiet bureau matter behind one of the closed doors.

Everything looked the same. The lights, the voices, the energy. But standing beside you, Spencer felt how different everything truly was.

“Three months is a long time,” you murmured, your voice soft. “Feels like I forgot how to be here.”

He glanced at you, his chest tightening. “You didn’t.” His voice was low and certain. “You just paused. Now you’re pressing play again.”

You gave a half-smile, tilting your head. “That’s a very you way to put it.”

He smiled too, but there was something else behind it. Something unspoken. Something fragile and too big for a room full of unspoken rules and people pretending not to watch.

You took a bite of the cake, slowly, as if you weren’t even tasting it. Then you set the plate down on the windowsill. You didn’t look at him when you said it.

“I was going to call you. A couple of weeks ago.” Your breath hitched a little. “I had something I wanted to tell you.”

His pulse jumped. “Why didn’t you?”

You hesitated. “I didn’t know if I had the right…or if you were busy with a case.”

He turned toward you then, fully, plate forgotten in his hand. “You always have the right. Even if I’m busy. Even if…” He trailed off, too aware of how close you were. “Especially if it’s something important.”

You finally turned to him then. Your eyes met his with a softness that stunned him. It wasn’t the tired, cautious gaze of two people trying to stay in each other’s orbit after a breakup. It was something else. Something warmer. Braver.

Your lips parted slightly, like you might say it right then. Whatever it was, whatever had lingered in your chest for weeks, you looked ready to say it.

And Spencer leaned in, just a little. Drawn by that pull he thought he’d finally trained himself to ignore. But he hadn’t. He never could. Not with you.

His chest was tight with everything he’d missed: your voice in the morning, your shoes by his front door, the way you always touched his shoulder when you passed him in the kitchen. He saw all of it in a blink. And something else, the tremble in your fingers. The same tremble you’d had the first time you’d told him you loved him, whispering it across the space between your bodies like you were afraid it would break the world if you said it too loud.

“Agent,” Hotch called from the hallway, his tone low but expectant. “Can I speak with you for a minute?”

You blinked, breath hitching, and stepped back like the sound had broken a spell. Your hand fell from the windowsill. The words disappeared again.

“Of course,” you said quickly, brushing your hands off on a napkin. You glanced at Spencer, apologetic. “I…I’ll tell you later, okay?”

You touched his arm gently, nervously, and then you were gone, moving toward Hotch with a practiced, measured pace. He stood there, frozen in place, the imprint of your touch burning through his sleeve.

A few seconds passed before Morgan appeared beside him, holding a second slice of cake and chewing thoughtfully.

“You okay, pretty boy?”

Spencer startled slightly. “Yeah. Just…thinking.”

Morgan gave him a look—the kind of look that said, Don’t lie to me; I’ve seen you lost in a footnote, and this isn’t that. He followed his friend’s gaze as it lingered on the door you’d disappeared through.

“So. That wasn’t about the frosting, huh?”

Again, Spencer tried to play dumb, but his voice came out rough, like someone who hadn’t spoken in hours. “What?”

“Don’t even try it. You’ve been stuck on her since she walked back in here. What happened just now?”

Damn, that was the biggest problem of working with profilers.

Spencer didn’t look at him at first. Just exhaled slowly. “She was about to tell me something.”

Morgan stood next to him, arms crossed loosely, cake in hand but forgotten. “Yeah,” he said after a beat, “I figured.”

Spencer nodded, then shook his head once like he was trying to clear it. “It felt like something…real. Something important. The way she looked at me, the way she kept hesitating. I—I thought she was going to tell me she—”

He cut himself off, embarrassed suddenly by the hope in his voice. The part of him that still believed maybe, after everything, you were still his.

Morgan waited a second, then said quietly, “You’re still in love with her.”

Spencer didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

“You never stopped.”

It wasn’t a question. Just the truth, spoken gently.

He finally looked at his friend. His voice was soft. “Do you think it’s stupid? Holding onto something that ended a year ago?”

“No, man. Not when it looked like that.” Morgan met his eyes.

After a beat, Spencer spoke again, quieter now. “Do you…um. Do you know if she’s still with him?”

Morgan glanced sideways at him. “With who?”

“The…guy,” Spencer said, awkwardly adjusting his grip on the plastic fork in his hand. “The one she was seeing. The emergency medicine fellow with the curly hair. She mentioned him once. Or Garcia did. I can’t remember who told me first because my brain blocked it. But I remember his name was Sean. Or Seth.” He paused. “Something statistically overrepresented among men born in the 1980s.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow, just a little. “I haven’t heard anything. But that doesn’t mean much. She wouldn’t exactly come to me for relationship talk.”

In truth, Derek didn’t know much about everything that had happened in recent months, not the full story, anyway. He hadn’t asked, and you hadn’t volunteered, not because you didn’t trust him, but because some things were too raw to say out loud. Besides, he’d always been closer to Spencer than to you, always protective of him in a quiet, loyal kind of way, the way older brothers sometimes are without needing to announce it. And maybe that made it harder. More complicated. It felt strange, almost disloyal, to bring your heartache to him when he’d been one of the first people to believe Spencer deserved someone who really saw him. Someone who would stay.

It was ironic, really. Morgan had been the one who nudged you toward him in the first place: subtly, kindly, with that knowing glint in his eye and a playful shove that masked how deeply he understood the way Spencer’s heart worked. He saw it before you did. The way you looked at Reid across the jet. The way Reid lit up when you said his name. He knew that you were meant for each other even before you did.

“I thought…I thought maybe she was going to tell me they broke up.” Spencer finally confesses.

Morgan studied him for a long second, the joking absent from his face for once. “What makes you think that?”

Spencer shifted. He hated that he sounded so transparent. So hopeful. “She looked like she wanted to say something. And then she didn’t. But her body language: her hand trembled a little when she touched my arm. That’s a nervous gesture. One she usually only makes when she’s unsure or emotionally overwhelmed. The last time I saw her do that was the night we—” He stopped. Swallowed. “It felt…significant.”

Derek let out a breath. “You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been thinking about this for a year,” Spencer said before he could stop himself. The words slipped out, raw and quiet.

Morgan’s gaze softened. He didn’t tease, didn’t smile. He just nodded once, like he understood something Spencer hadn’t admitted aloud before now.

“You want her back,” Morgan said.

Spencer nodded slowly. “Yes. But only if she wants it too. I just…I don’t know how to ask. I’m not even sure if I’m allowed to ask. If I ask and she’s still with him, I ruin whatever peace we’ve rebuilt. If I say nothing and she was going to say something—” He shook his head, his voice tightening. “I don’t know which mistake is worse.”

“Well, if anyone knows whether she’s still with him, it’s probably JJ, Garcia, or Prentiss. But if you want my two cents?”

Spencer looked at him, waiting.

“I saw the way she looked at you,” he said simply. “That wasn’t small talk. That wasn’t just friendly. She looked at you like there’s still something there.”

Spencer looked down, fidgeting with the edge of the paper plate, then up at the door again. “What if I just imagined it?”

Morgan gave a small, steady shrug. “Then you imagined it. But if you’re right, and I think you are, don’t let the moment pass you by again.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. His brain was running too many simulations, too many outcomes, each one stacked with what-ifs and quiet disasters.

But even through the tangle of doubt, one thought kept rising above the rest:

She almost told me something.

And for the first time in a long time, he wanted to believe the almost still meant something.

You hated secrets, especially big ones.

It wasn't even your goal to hide anything from Spencer. God, why would you hide it? Yet, you couldn't help doing it and keeping your hands free in front of him.

And he also hated secrets.

But your first case back at work had been too chaotic and horrific to put into words, too raw to discuss without the unsettling presence of bloody testimonies and haunting images etched into your mind. Though the darkness wasn’t new to you, the scenes still struck with brutal clarity: shattered lives, desperate screams, and the cold, unyielding facts of violence. You were, unfortunately, accustomed to this grim reality, yet it never dulled the ache deep inside. The horror of it all still gnawed at your stomach, erasing any appetite for dinner afterward. But despite the gut-wrenching aftermath, the case was still justifiable, because every harrowing moment was a battle fought to save an innocent victim, to pull someone back from the brink. That thought was a fragile lifeline, the only thing steadying you amidst the chaos.

It wasn’t unusual for a case to stretch beyond a single day. The team was used to booking last-minute hotel rooms, catching fragments of sleep between long hours of profiling and chasing shadows. It was part of the job, expected. But tonight felt different. The silence in your hotel room was too loud, the sheets too cold despite the heat of the day. Sleep wouldn’t come, not because you hadn’t tried, but because the case had burrowed under your skin in the way the worst ones always did. The brutality of it lingered behind your eyelids each time you closed them. But that wasn’t the only thing keeping you awake.

He was.

Spencer.

It's not that you hadn't gotten over him—

You had a new boyfriend. For months now, actually. A doctor—despite the fact that you’d never really trusted them growing up, never liked the way they looked at people like they were puzzles to solve. But Seth was different. Kind in a practiced way, gentle in a learned one. He was perfect in all the ways you used to think mattered. Attentive. Accomplished. Predictable. The kind of man who answered your texts within five minutes, who brought you dinner without being asked, who called you “darling” like it was a language he’d always spoken.

You met him a few weeks after everything fell apart with Spencer. After the break-up, it had never really felt like a choice. You’d just wrapped a brutal case—one that left you hollowed out and bone-tired—and were driving home when a car ran a red light and collided with yours. Nothing fatal. Just enough to land you in the ER with a concussion and a fractured wrist. Seth was the on-call physician. He was the first face you saw through the haze. Calm. Capable. Steady.

Later, you crossed paths again at the hospital while questioning a witness. A shaken woman with blood on her hands and trauma in her eyes. Seth had been there again, clipboard in hand, speaking gently to her like he had all the time in the world. And when he saw you, he smiled like maybe the universe had planned this twice.

You told yourself it was fate. That maybe you deserved something easy for once.

So you said yes when he asked you out for the first time.

But fate was fickle.

Because the next time Spencer saw you, you were laughing at something Seth had said. Your hand briefly on his arm. Your body tilted toward his in a way that used to belong to Spencer. And Spencer—God, Spencer—he didn’t say anything. He never did. But you felt it. The way he stilled. The way his eyes lingered too long. The quiet shift in his shoulders, the sudden sharpness behind his silence.

“You fell asleep, darling?”

The voice pulled you out of the haze like cold water to the face.

Shit.

You blinked. “No, sorry. I was…I was thinking,” you murmured, realizing your phone was still pressed to your ear. Your thumb had gone numb around it. “I must’ve gone to another planet.”

“I asked if you told them,” Seth said again, more slowly this time. But you were still only half-listening, distracted by the soft chatter of hotel hallway voices. “Did you do it? You told them?”

“Told…what?” You asked, genuinely confused. The case had scattered your brain like paper in the wind. The exhaustion made everything blurry.

“About us,” he said, gently but clearly.

Your stomach tightened.

You turned onto your side, fingers curling in the hotel sheets. “Uh…not yet.”

A pause.

“Oh.”

You reached for a reason. “The case was intense. Everyone’s tense. I am too. It didn’t feel like the right time.”

“Maybe good news could help, then,” he offered, voice still even. Still patient. “I’ll let you sleep, darling. Try to get some rest.”

“Okay,” you said softly. “You too.”

You ended the call and stared at the ceiling, the phone still warm in your hand. The room was quiet again.

But in your chest, something restless refused to settle.

Finally, the knock came just after midnight.

Two short taps. Precise. Hesitant.

Spencer sat frozen on the edge of the bed, the glow from his bedside lamp casting golden light across the pale hotel walls. He’d been staring at the same sentence in the case file for the better part of an hour, his mind anywhere but focused. Mostly on you. On what you almost said before Hotch came in. On the soft way you looked at him on the plane. On the idea, the delusion, that maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something again.

And now, you were at his door.

When he opened it, you stood there in the soft, humming silence of the hotel hallway. Still in your work clothes, though your blazer was gone and your blouse was wrinkled slightly from the long day. Your sleeves were pushed up to your elbows, revealing the faint scar on your forearm, the one that still made his chest tighten when he looked at it. A strand of hair had slipped free from your usual tucked-behind-the-ear neatness. You didn’t fix it.

You held two paper cups, steam curling between them like breath in winter air.

“I brought tea,” you said, your voice a little breathless, a little unsure. “Chamomile. I figured…neither of us would be sleeping.”

Spencer’s heart clenched in that same painful, familiar way it always did around you. Like it remembered things before he did. Like it still hadn’t accepted how much time had passed.

He nodded. Stepped back silently to let you in.

You walked past him without a word, the soft floral note of your perfume lingering in the space between his breath and his chest. You made your way to the small circular table by the window and set the cups down with a gentle thud. Then you turned, leaned against the edge of the table, arms loosely crossed, and looking at him.

There was something about your face—tired, soft, almost apologetic—that made his stomach twist.

And then he saw it.

The ring.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t even obvious. Just a slim gold band, delicate, elegant, with a small, tasteful diamond that caught the lamplight as you shifted your hand.

His breath caught in his throat like someone had knocked the wind out of him.

You noticed. Of course you did. You always did.

You didn’t hide your hand. In fact, you lifted it slightly, then let it fall again, your fingers curling back in on themselves before resting at your side.

“I was going to tell you earlier,” you said softly, eyes dropping.

Spencer blinked once. Then again. He could already feel the words sinking like lead into his chest. “Tell me…what?”

You exhaled, like it physically hurt to say it out loud.

“Seth proposed. Last week.”

The words hit him like a punch to the chest.

Proposed.

Last week.

You said it so gently, like you were trying to lessen the blow. But it didn’t matter. There was no soft way to say something that broke him.

You turned your face slightly toward the window, away from him. “I said yes.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating.

It draped over the room like snowfall: quiet, soft, devastating.

Spencer’s eyes dropped to your hand again. To the ring. To the fingers he used to trace absentmindedly under blankets, the hand that once reached for his across bustling sidewalks, that had tucked itself into his coat pocket on cold nights without needing to ask. The hand that used to write him little notes during briefings just to make him smile. The hand that had trembled in his hair the last time you made love.

That hand now wore a promise meant for someone else.

“That’s…” he started, but the words scraped in his throat. He cleared it. Tried again. “That’s…amazing. Congratulations.”

You looked at him sharply. As if you didn’t believe him.

He pushed a smile to his face, fragile and fraying at the edges. “Really,” he added, louder now, like maybe volume could make it more believable. “I’m…I’m happy for you.”

Your eyes narrowed, not in anger, just in knowing. You knew him too well. You could see the fracture spreading across him even as he stood there, still, hands loose at his sides, smile practiced.

“I didn’t want to blindside you,” you murmured.

He shook his head quickly. “No. No, of course not. Why would you? We’re friends first, right?”

You didn’t respond.

“I want you to be happy,” he added. “And if he’s good for you…then this is good. It’s great. Really.”

He moved toward the table, reaching for the cup you’d brought him. The lid was slightly loose. His hands trembled a little as he adjusted it. He turned his back to you and took a sip, hoping the bitterness would anchor him in the present.

Behind him, you were silent for a moment. Then, you said quietly, “He’s good to me.”

Spencer nodded once. Still facing the window. “I know, that’s why it’s okay.”

But it wasn’t.

Not really.

Because he remembered everything.

He remembered how you used to steal his scarves and wear them even in spring. How you kept a list in your phone of books you wanted him to read aloud to you someday. How you had once fallen asleep mid-sentence during a documentary about black holes, your head on his shoulder, your hand resting lightly on his chest like gravity itself had chosen to settle there.

He remembered how you once said “I love you” in the middle of an argument. Angry, exasperated, crying, and still choosing love first. He remembered the way you clutched his hand in the elevator after a particularly brutal case, both of you too shaken to speak but unwilling to let go.

And now…now it didn’t care anymore.

You stepped up beside him again, and for a moment, he thought you might say something more. That maybe this was just a test. That maybe you didn’t mean it. That maybe—

But your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You glanced at it, then sighed. “Hotch wants us to regroup in the morning. 7 a.m.”

Spencer nodded.

You didn’t move right away. He didn’t either. The space between you was closer than it should’ve been. But not close enough to fix anything.

Finally, you offered a small, strained smile. “Thank you. For being happy for me.”

He nodded again, mechanically. Then, unable to stop himself, he pulled you into a hug. It was brief. It was too long. It was too much and not enough. He tried not to cling too tightly, not to memorize the way you still fit against him like a missing part. He tried not to count the seconds.

When he pulled away, your smile was even softer.

“Goodnight, Spence.”

You turned toward the door.

And then he saw it again, the glint of the ring as you reached for the handle. Catching the light like it belonged there.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly.

The door closed behind you with a soft click.

Spencer stood still in the center of that silent room, staring at the empty space where you’d been. The untouched tea cooled beside him. The shadows shifted with the late hour.

And when the weight of it finally settled, when the finality carved itself into his chest, he sat down at the edge of the bed, covered his face with both hands, and cried harder than he ever remembered crying.

Not because you chose someone else. Not because he feels like you forgot him. Not because now he has to see your life in other people's photos.

But because, deep down, he understood why.

And he never stopped loving you anyway.

[juliaswritingbubble]

Read this. It’s marvellous!

[juliaswritingbubble]

Handcuffs.

summary: reader is dating Reid, without physical intimacy until now. When he needs to go on a date with Cat Adams, reader gets jealous and when he cuffs Cat...Reader nearly looses her mind.

It bothered you. More than you wanted to admit. Reid was going on a date with a serial killer named Cat Adams. I am sitting behind Cat alone at the bar. When everybody was called out by her and had to leave the bar, she didn't seem to notice me. So I stayed after Hotch confirmed it. I watch Reid, smiling, flirting with her, and I can feel the sting of jealousy inside of my chest. Which is absolutely ridiculous! I know that he has feelings for me; we just started dating a few months ago, still hidden from our team, but we both know this is serious. This is real, the hesitant hand-holding, light touches. We still didn’t kiss, but it was several times very close to kissing.

Now I watch him taking her hand and kissing the back of her hand. I shiver and am impressed with how fixated he is on her; he never looked at me for one second.

“We have your father. He is outside, but if you want to see him… “I need to cuff you,” I hear his voice in my earpiece. My eyes lower to my untouched drink in front of me when I see Cat standing up.

Spencer takes out his cuffs and I watch him carefully closing the cuffs around her wrists. Then he lifts the metal chain between the cuffs with his ring and middle finger, which is…unbelievably hot. I feel my insides twitch and my heart skipping a beat. How he maneuvers her out of the bar, confident and strong. Sexy. His eyes wander over my face like he doesn’t know me. As if I don´t know how soft his hands are, how prominent the veins on his hands, how is adams apple is bobbing with every move of his throat, how he licks his lips when he is nervous or fumbles with his hands while talking. How his eyes look at me when he thinks no one is watching, how his hand brushes mine from time to time. He asked me out a couple of weeks ago, just a casual movie night but we had so much fun, that we ended up in a little bar, drinking coffee and talking the whole night until he took me home in the early morning hours. We repeated it the weekend after, strolling through the city, talking about everything and anything, enjoying time together until one night he took my hand. And he never let go since then, whenever we walk around he always holds my hand, even when we sit at a table eating or just drinking coffee his hands sometimes find mine and play with my fingers.

We got comfortable with each other; sometimes my head rested on his shoulder while watching a movie. That was when it came really close to kissing. I looked up at his face, and he looked down at me. Our faces were so close, and his eyes narrowed to my lips. But before something could happen, he turned his face away, biting his bottom lip. We talked about it later, which was something else I really liked—that we were able to talk about anything and it was never weird. He admitted that he really wanted to kiss me, but he also said that he doesn’t want to rush things and would rather take it slow.

Which is torture for me, but I also enjoy it. He takes Cat outside, and I follow them, seeing the disappointment in her eyes when she realizes Spencer played her.

“In 20 years I will remember your name, but you won’t remember mine.” I see how Reid thinks about it, but then he chuckles and answers:

“Well, I don’t think so. I have no signs of any mental illnesses, and I'd rather have 20 years with my wife by my side than 20 years in prison like you." He turns around and leaves her in the van, walking over to me and cupping my cheek with his hand. It's warm and soft, and he smiles at me, leaning down and pressing his soft lips against mine. The kiss is sweet and loving; I feel his hands on my face, and when he pulls away, I look into his eyes, shimmering green and hazel, loving.

“I had to, sorry,” he mumbles, but I shake my head. “Your wife, huh?” I ask and let my hands wander over his chest. He is wearing a dark tuxedo, a grey shirt, and a tie.

“Sometimes, yes. I'm pretty sure about it. “I’m pretty sure about you…us,” he whispers and leans his forehead against mine. “Me too. Can I kiss you again?” He smiles and kisses me again. I wrap my arms around his neck and feel how he pulls me closer, kissing me again and again as if he can't stop.

“Whoa, lovebirds, get a room,” we hear Morgan say, and break the kiss. Spencer wraps his arm around my shoulders and looks at me with eyes so loving, I have never seen them before.

I rise on my toes and whisper into his ear: “What you did with those handcuffs… That was hot; I volunteer the next time.” His eyes grow wide, his mouth falls open, and he can’t reply anything; he is so stunned. I chuckle and kiss his cheek.

“Maybe I will” he finally answers and now I am the one who is speechless.                                                                                               

Masterlist

[juliaswritingbubble]

Getting it out of the way

summary: Reid and Y/N are assigned to a night of surveillance in the car. Long chats, deep conversations and an eventful ride in the elevator later you both decide, you should "talk" about it. Well...talking is not exactly what you do.

„Reid, Y/N you are up for surveillance tonight. Off you go” Prentiss says to the both of us and I growl disappointed. I had hope, it wasn´t me today but here we are.

“Fly safe, birdies and don´t fall asleep!” Garcia says and sways out of the room. I look at Spencer, he is fiddling with his hands, looking not happy either. I get up to grab my things down in the bullpen. Spencer is already picking up his jacket and a bottle of water.

“Do we need snacks?” he asks me and I nod.

“Sure do. We´ll stop at seven eleven before we get there, ok?” he nods and puts on his jacket. “This is going to be a hell of an uncomfortable night” I sigh and look down at my dress pants and blouse.

“I have sweatpants you could borrow” JJ says from her desk and I consider it for a second.

“Nah I´m good, thank you. Ready, Reid?” I ask my colleague who seems to be ready and waiting for me.

“Have fun, kids” Rossi says and I poke my tongue out in his direction. He is just happy it´s not his turn this night.

Our observation target is a young man, who seems to be involved in trafficking young women to Mexico. The observations are now on day four and we are paired up each night to sit in a car in front of his home. Spencer and I get into the elevator and go down into the garage where the SUV is waiting for us.

“You wanna drive?” I ask him and he shakes his head. Of course not, it´s rare that Spencer takes the wheel so I get in and adjust the seat. We head out of the building and straight to the next seven eleven. I park right in front of it, where I am definitely not supposed to park and I see Spencer opening his mouth but I shake my head.

“Don´t Spence” I say and get out. He follows me inside when a man stops me.

“Ma´am you can´t park there” he says and I hold up my credentials.

“I can” I say and walk past him. I hear Spencer chuckling behind me.

“You´re feisty today” he states and grabs some snacks. At the checkout he grabs my stuff and pays for everything.

“Thanks, wasn´t necessary though” he shrugs his shoulders and I follow him back to the car.

“Sorry for being feisty. I am just not happy to do surveillance tonight” I say to him when we sit back inside of the car.

“You had plans?” he asks and I laugh half-heartedly.

“Kind of, yeah. A bath, a good book and some pizza” I sigh and see Spence smirk.

“Usual Friday evening, hm? No date or anything like that?” I raise my eyebrow at him while I start the car.

“No men for me, thank you. I like my life without any disturbance and disappointments” I start driving to our destination and Reid just stays quiet. I stop near the Unsubs house and shut off the engine. I unbuckle and move the seat to the farthest position away from the steering wheel, stretching out my legs.

Spencer opens two cans of sparkling lemon water and hands me one.

“To a long night” he cheers and I laugh but take a sip anyways. The car falls silent for some time. I lean my head against the seat and take a deep breath. I feel him looking at me.

“So…what you said earlier about men…care to explain?” he asks and I frown annoyed.

“Not really. Had some bad relationships, made some bad decisions and that´s it” I can literally feel that he is not satisfied.

“Well, you know my stories…Laila, the model who had a crush on me because I saved her. Maeve who got killed right before my eyes, before I could even touch her and then nearly 10 years later there was Max, she dumped me because of my job” I nod, of course I know the stories. The last one was when I just joined the team three years ago. At that point Spencer was dating Max and she joined us several times at Rossi´s. I liked her and Spencer looked happy. When she left him, he was crushed and all of us tried hard to cheer him up.

“Yes I know…You really want to know?” I see him nodding and opening a package of crackers. “I don´t even know where to start” I say honestly.

“When did you fall in love for the first time?” he tries to find a starting point.

“When I was 16, I had a huge crush on my friends brother. He was two years older than us and naturally we spent a lot of time together, going to the same school and hanging out a lot. His name was Max…no joke. My friend backstabbed me and told him that I had feelings for him, he declined, I lost my friend and suffered for at least one year until we graduated and I never saw her again”

“I´m sorry that you had to experience that. Must be hard to get betrayed by your friend” I nod ad take a cracker.

“It was, but had I known what was about to come, I would´ve enjoyed that situation more”

“Tell me” his voice is low but he seems to be fully concentrated on me.

“I met my first boyfriend when I was 18, he was 13 years older than me and at first he only wanted me in his bed but then he fell for me. We were together for 3 years and those were really…bad years. He was a drug addict, manipulated me emotionally, cheated on me, raped me several times and then he kicked me down the stairs in front of his apartment. I couldn´t leave even when I realized it won´t get better…I stayed until I nearly broke, then I took all my strength and left and never looked back” Spencer is quiet and I turn my head to look at him. His eyes are glossy and fixed on me.

“I…I don´t know what to say except than I´m so sorry you had to endure that. You didn´t deserve any of it”

I smile at him. Sad but honest.

“It was a long time ago. You want to hear more?” he hesitates but then he reaches for my hand.

“If you want to share more, I am all here for you” he whispers and I smile. That is so Spencer. We are not exceptionally close. I think my closest team member would be Luke or Penelope, but of course I love all of them.

“My second boyfriend was two years after the first. I met him at a job and we moved in really early in our relationship. He was unhygienic, didn´t brushed his teeth for literally months and all he did was gaming. He never joined at family events or participated in anything outside of his gaming room. He worked, yes. But that´s it. Chores? He never did anything, he was used for his mom to do everything for him. We broke up after one year and had to live together for another 6 to 8 months, in this time he already had another girlfriend online, which was absolutely okay for me. I met someone and dated him, he used me for sex and then dumped me. And then I met my third boyfriend…he was the one who broke me finally”

“Go on…” he assures me and squeezes my hand lightly.

“He was a dream, I was so happy with him, we completed each other so well and I was sure I would marry him and have a family with him. My parents loved him and I moved cross states for him. I had no one there except of him and 5 months after the move he cheated on me with someone from work at a business trip and he caught something down there. He then tried to figure out for three months if he wanted me or her, lied to me and my parents and when he finally broke up with me for good he dated her in a matter of days while I cried myself to sleep every night in the guest room. Alone, I had no one there and I really thought about ending my life…I did therapy and moved out as fast as I could but this man…he broke me” I feel his grip tighten around my hand. He doesn´t say anything but he doesn´t need to. I know my stories are a mood killer.

“I´m really really sorry for everything those men did to you. But to be honest, it explains why you are the way you are. Sometimes when a man touches you unexpectedly you flinch, you have a hard time opening up to others because all you experienced is betrayal and being left by people you trusted. That officer you had a really good connection with in New York a year ago you completely changed, when he asked you out. You literally turned into ice and pushed him away. You only trust yourself because that´s all you know, your walls protect you well” he analyses me and I smile sadly. It´s true, but not completely.

“I trust the team” I retreat my hand from his and grab the can of soda from earlier.

“You never shared this with anyone of us” he objects and I shake my head.

“Not true. I told Penelope…and now you” I see him blushing even in the dark.

“Thank you for trusting me, I know we are not as close as others but I do care about you...like a lot” he says and I look at the house of the Unsub.

Everything is quiet and dark.

“Of course, Spence. I know your best friend is JJ and I am more close to Luke and Pen, but that doesn´t mean I don´t trust or care about you, we are just…distant” I see a flicker of hurt rushing over his face.

“Distant? I don´t want to be distant. I´m sorry if I seemed dismissive” he apologizes and I turn in my seat, so I can face him more easily.

“It´s okay. I´m not offended. It´s just how things are, Spence”

“I like how you pronounce my name, it´s very southern” I chuckle and take another sip. The car falls quiet again for some time.

“You know…when that officer in New York made a move on you, I got really protective” he says later, picking up our conversation from earlier.

“You were jealous, I know. I saw it” I poke his leg and he coughs like I got him for good.

“I wasn´t jealous. I was cautious, protective of you. I didn´t want you to get hurt” I smile at him with soft eyes.

“That´s cute, Spence. I won´t get hurt, no worries” He smiles back at me, going through his curly hair with his hand. Our eyes meet and I can´t bring myself to look away. In this moment I think about everything he is, all he does and how he is just himself all the time.

He is kind, unbelievably smart of course, compassionate and confident. He cares deeply about people he loves like his mom or our team, he is socially awkward but as the others told me, it was much more worse when he was younger. When he is nervous, he starts rambling about facts and statistics, that´s how I know that he feels comfortable right now with me in a car. Reid is protective and clumsy but also very much troubled since he went to prison. He has nightmares, he is collected and doesn´t share much of his personal life and feelings, but when he does, it´s sincere.

Spencer is soft, calm but he can also be dominant and aggressive, I´ve seen it when he nearly choked Cat Adams against the wall in prison. It was kind of hot, I´m not gonna lie. His eyes are still looking at me, hazel and golden.

“What do you think?” he asks quietly and I look at his full lips, so kissable. Wait, what? I look away at the house we are observing.

“Nothing” I dismiss him and shove a cracker in my mouth. Spencer doesn’t ask anything else and starts reading a book in the dim light of the small lamp above his head.

Hours go by in silence, just the book pages are heard rustling.

Around 4am I get really tired and have a hard time staying awake.

“You can nap, I am awake and if anything happens I wake you up” he suggests but I shake my head. No. I´m not going to fall asleep during surveillance.

“Tell me something about yourself, Reid. Occupy my mind” he puts away his book and licks his lips in agony.

“What do you want to hear? I´m not really interesting”

“Spencer. You are by far the most interesting man I have ever met. So just tell me anything” he turns red and looks down at his hands.

“Uhm…I don’t know what to tell you, honestly. I think you know everything important”

“Tell me who you are, what defines you Dr. Spencer Reid?”

“I´m just…I am just my mothers son I guess. I don’t really know what I would be without her, who I am when she is gone. I don’t really know what defines me…which is kind of sad I think. I´m 39 and don’t really know who I am” I look at him and see that he looks kind of sad and disappointed in himself.

“Spence, you are not only your mothers son. You are so much more, believe me. Yes, your mom is a big part of who you are but not all of it” he smirks sadly and nods.

“Thank you for saying that. I´m still figuring out who I am and I was on a good path until prison happened” I nod understanding.

“Understandable. I think despite being traumatizing it was a good chance for you to develop your character. The others described you as shy and not confident before prison. I would describe you completely different, because I only know you post prison” he leans his head against the headrest.

“How would you describe me?” I swallow hard and look at my hands. “That bad?” he chuckles but I shake my head.

“Of course not. You are brilliant, compassionate, you fight for people you love and yes you are not one to share much about yourself, but when you do it´s an honor. I think you are confident and strong, very attractive and loveable. It makes me sad that you still haven’t found a girl” I´m desperately not looking at him. He doesn’t respond for a long time.

“I never thought I would hear confident and loveable in a description about myself” he chuckles and I smile at my hands.

“And you are funny and I love your way with kids, you are really good in empathizing and reading people. Sometimes your mind scares me, because you know so much” I finish and hear him laugh.

“You of all people shouldn’t be intimidated by my knowledge. You are doing pretty well yourself. Thank you for seeing me as more as a genius. It´s very nice of you to say everything you did. But since prison I am also traumatized and aggressive, I have problems controlling my impulses” I nod again, this time approvingly.

“Yes, that´s true but it´s understandable and you are doing something to gain your control back. You go to therapy and you never lose yourself around us, so no one ever got hurt when you had an episode”

“Of course not, I could never hurt anyone of you. It´s more of the opposite, JJ and you both calm me down with just your presence” I smile at him, now more visibly as the sun starts to rise.

“That´s nice of you to say” I reply and he returns the smile.

“Surveillance is nearly over. 30 minutes left” he checks his watch and looks out of the window. The sky turns red and orange.

“It´s so pretty” I whisper and he nods.

“Yeah, we should catch the sunrise more often, it´s really romantic” he says and I look back at him. He realizes what he just said and stutters: “I didn’t mean it like that, that came out wrong. Sorry”

“No, it´s okay. I´d love to catch the sunrise sometime. But when we are done in 15 minutes, I´d like a coffee first” my suggestion makes him smile and he nods.

“Sure, we can stop at your favorite coffee shop if you like. Grab some breakfast and then head back to the BAU” I nod smiling and turn to face him again.

“Sounds great” he starts to gather the things we shared during the night and puts everything carefully away into his messenger bag.

He calls Prentiss and tells him, that the night was uneventful and we would be back at the office soon, but grabbing breakfast on the way. When he hangs up and nods at me, I start the car and drive to my favorite breakfast spot

I´m really excited for a good coffee and my favorite bagel. Reid is holding the door open for me and we take our spot in the queue.

“I´m glad it was you who joined me tonight at the job” I say to him and put my hand on his arm. His sleeves are rolled up and so I touch his bare skin, which is breaking out in goosebumps. “Sorry” I mutter and draw my hand back.

“Hello, what can I get for you?” the barista asks eyeing only me. His eyes wander over me as he recognizes me from my usual visits.

“Oh hi, how are you?” he asks me smiling and I nod.

“Good, you? Haven´t seen you here for some time”

“Yeah, I have been on vacation for some time but it´s good seeing you still coming here. I missed our little chats” his cheeks turn red and he looks at Spence but it seems like he doesn´t see him as a threat.

“So what can I get you and your…friend?” he asks and Spencer speaks up.

“I´ll take a simple coffee, for her a big latte with caramel and two of the breakfast bagels with avocado and egg. That´s it. Thank you” I look at Spence, surprised that he knows my order but also not really surprised, he probably knows the whole teams orders.

“Thank you, Spence” I say shyly and he puts his hand on my back, while walking to the checkout.

“Of course, anytime” his hand is warm against my back and I feel his thumb circling against my skin. The barista starts preparing our order and writes our names on the cups.

Spencer takes his and I grab mine and look at the name. He wrote “for the beautiful lady” and then his number under it. I grin at him and he winks while handing over the bag with our food. Spencer takes out his card and pays.

“Have a nice day” the barista says and I wave at him, Spencer nods and we leave the shop.

“What did he write on your cup?” I ask him, when we are back in the car. Spence scuffs and looks at me.

“He wrote some dude” I nearly choke on my coffee laughing. He looks pissed, which is still a soft expression on him. I think I´ve only seen him angry a handful of times. “You got a compliment and his number”

“What do you want his number? You can have it” I laugh and he frowns his lips.

“No…it´s just rude and overstepping to be so blunt with you” he takes a sip out of his cup and I start the car.

“So…how would you hit on a woman then?” I ask him and start driving to the bureau.

“I…I don´t know, I never thought about it to be honest” I chuckle and shake my head.

“Only Dr. Spencer Reid would be 39 and doesn´t think about hitting on a woman or falling in love” he sighs at my words as I park in the lot of the FBI.

“I have actually thought about falling in love” he answers and I look at him.

“Okay…and? How would you fall in love? What type of woman sparks interest in Spencer Reid?” he shrugs his shoulders.

“A woman like you, I guess” his voice is quiet but honest. He tries to avoid my gaze and I am relieved he does, because I don´t know how to react to that except with an exceptional high heart rate.

He opens the door and gets out, it´s not hastily. I step out of the car, grab my bag and follow him to the elevator where he is already waiting.

The silence is unsettling and my mind is racing about his words.

“I´m sorry, that was inappropriate” he says shyly and I look up at him, into his hazel eyes.

“Was it truthful, though?” I ask and he nods while looking down at me.

“Yes…yes it was. But I´m still sorry” the elevator dings and the doors open but neither of us moves.

“What does it mean?” I ask, my voice hoarse and he swallows, Adams apple bobbing.

“I…guess that possibly I could fall in love with you” my mouth falls open slightly and he chuckles.

“Why are you so surprised?”

“I never thought, I would be in your…orbit. I´m average. But it´s just a possibility, right?” his eyes flicker for a second until he looks away and coughs.

“Yes” he presses the button for the elevator several times, uncomfortably and stressed.

“Reid?” I ask and touch his arm again. “Spencer?” I try his first name. The elevator takes very long to arrive for a second time, but eventually he does and we step inside.

“Spence…” I try again but he is biting his bottom lip. I have enough and pull the emergency stop. The elevator comes to a halt with a jolt and I grab onto the handle.

“It´s more than a possibility” his voice is very quiet and unsteady but he finally answers.

“So…you have feelings for me?” I ask again and he looks at me, eyes begging to not dig deeper.

“Please…don´t go there. Let´s not” he pleads but I step closer to him, my hands brushing against his sweater vest, feeling the soft fabric under my fingertips. My eyes are secured on his, sometimes switching between his eyes and his lips, my heart is hammering against my chest.

“Why not?” he breathes in heavily, his hands finding my waist and grabbing me tighter.

“Because…if we go there, there won´t be a way back for me and I might get hurt – I don’t want to grief again, I want to stay in your life and I suggest as friends it might be safer and for longer” he whispers.

“You´re afraid” I state and feel his grip tightening on my waist.

“I´m afraid of losing you, yes”

“But what if you won´t lose me?” “The risk is too big, Y/N. I´m not ready to take it” I don´t really know what to say to this, so I step back and look at him. I don´t really know how to feel, because I understand it. He rather wants me in his life as a friend forever than as a lover for some years and I get that. I couldn’t imagine a life without him either, but I also don’t know, if I can handle my feelings for him going back to just friends. It´s boiling for years inside of me, these feelings for our genius of the team and I did a hell of a good job hiding them. I honestly don´t think anyone suggests that I have feelings for Spencer.

“You´re right, as always” his eyes are locked on the floor and he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“So, we´re good? Still friends?” I ask him with a quiet voice and he nods, finally looking up at me.

“Still friends” we smile at each other and I put my hand on the handle to start the elevator moving but Spencer holds me back.

“Wait…I…” he stops talking as I turn to face him. His smell hits me like a wall, I inhale deeply and look up into his eyes. Light brown with specks of green. He licks his lips, sucking in one after another to wet them.

“What, Spence?”

“I…I don´t know…” he stammers and I look at his full, lightly glistening lips. God, how bad I want to kiss him right now. I want to know, if his lips are soft or chapped, if he kisses loving and sweet or if he is more of a passionate kisser. My guess is the latter because sometimes I catch him looking at me so longing that I get goosebumps. He always makes sure that I am safe and takes care of me, brings me coffee, has an eye on my sleeping schedule and he always looks out for me in the field.

“So…are we joining the team or…are we staying here?” I ask him, feeling his arm brushing mine, he is so close. I can feel his breath on my cheek and mine hitches – I am definitely not in control of my movements as I step an inch closer, now feeling the heat radiating from his body. It´s like the air is loaded with electricity.

“We really shouldn´t” he says under his breath, eyes still locked on mine, lips lightly parted.

“No, we shouldn´t” my hands find his, he takes them immediately, interlacing our fingers, searching my face for…for what? Approval? Rejection? His face moves a little closer to mine, breaths blending into one another.

“But maybe we need to” he whispers and I can´t turn my gaze away from his. It´s burning into my eyes and I can´t even blink. We have never been so close, so intimate.

My head is so light, there is no thought in it, just processing the emotions, the feeling of his hands on mine, his body so close to mine. I step back and he follows until my back hits the wall of the elevator and I can´t evade him anymore. He lets go of my right hand and lifts it up to cup my cheek. I hold my breath, while he presses his body against mine, trapping me between him and the wall behind me.

“Spence, there is no going back” I warn him and he nods, lowering his head even more, his nose now brushing against mine. He is so close. His finger brushing my cheek, caressing every inch of skin he can reach.

I can see his mind racing, debating if he should kiss me or not, what are the consequences and what could be. The elevator starts moving again and while I am confused how, Spencer jolts back. His touch and closeness is gone and I start to think again, I must´ve hit the knob behind my back while he pressed me against the wall.

Spencer´s cheeks are lightly flushed, his breath is still not as regular as it should be and I don´t even want to know how I look.

The doors slide open at the BAU floor and I check myself for a second in the mirror.

“You look beautiful, like always” Reid whispers before exiting the elevator. He waits up for me and I smile at him, he very rarely compliments me.

While we debrief the uneventful night with Prentiss, we both enjoy our breakfast.

“JJ and Morgan are taking the dayshift, you two need to get home and have a good sleep. I´ll call you if anything comes up” she says and we get up, ready to leave the office.

“Well, that was an…interesting surveillance Shift, Reid. I enjoyed it” I say on our way out and he laughs.

“I did, too” he answers and smiles at me widely. I love the small smile lines around his mouth and his eyes, when he smiles. We enter the elevator again, standing as far away from one another as possible.

“Do we need to talk about it?” I ask him and he looks at his feet, fumbling with the strip of his messenger bag.

“Do you want to?” “Yes” “Okay, I will just head home really quickly, take a shower and come over to your apartment if that´s alright?” I nod, feeling my heart jump in my chest.

We head to our cars and I speed home like my life depends on it. I clean my living room in record time, shaking pillows, folding the blanket and putting away dishes. I hope it looks alright, hopping in the shower and putting on some comfy clothes. Shorts and a tank top, fuzzy socks. I check each of my rooms, if they are presentable, then I grab a carafe with water, two glasses and sit it up on the couch table. I am horribly nervous, pacing up and down my window, opening it to let some air inside when I see his old Volvo pulling up and taking a spot on the street.

He steps out of the car and closes the door, taking a deep breath and straightens his tie. He checks his hair in his window and starts walking, but turns around halfway and locks his car. He is nervous as well, he forgot to lock his car. I smile as he makes his way to my house. A few minutes later I hear him knocking on my apartment door.

My knees are so shaky I have a hard time walking over to the door. I take another deep breath before I open to see him standing there. He looks insecure, his hands in his pockets but he is smiling.

“Hi” “Hi” I step out of his way to let him in and close the door behind him. He changed his clothes to another button down and sweater vest, no tie. The top button is open. This is his cozy clothes attempt.

We stand at my door, looking uncomfortably around ourselves when he takes a deep breath and steps closer. His hands find my face, cradling my cheeks. I look up at his eyes and before I can say anything, his lips crash on mine.

His lips are soft but hungry, he kisses me like his life depends on it, he pushes me backwards until my back hits the door. This is everything I ever dreamed of. I grab his neck, tangling my hands in his still damp locks, kissing him back with full force. One of his hands wanders to my back, pressing me against his body, his lips capturing mine over and over again. A moan escapes my lips and he groans lightly, grabbing me even tighter, his tongue begging for entry which I approve immediately. It´s turning desperate and sloppy, the sound of our kisses filling the air around us. When he breaks the kiss to catch some air, I try to stop him from moving away, a breathless chuckle escapes his swollen lips. I cling to him, pulling him down to my height again, pressing my lips to his for another kiss and he obeys without hesitation, this time it´s slow and loving, like the first hunger is stilled. This time he is caring, soft and sweet, lips wandering over my cheeks, down my neck which makes me holding my breath.

“Breathe” he whispers against my neck and I shiver, exhaling. “I am” I whisper back and brush a curl out of his face when he finally looks at me. His eyes are soft and for the first time he doesn´t try to hide what he hid the whole time.

“I thought it would be better, to get this out of the way” he smiles at me. “Yeah, probably” I agree and let my hands wander over his chest, feeling his racing heart.

“So, I guess we can skip the talking part” he mumbles and kisses me again. “I think so, yes. Just don’t stop kissing me” I reply and kiss him again, our teeth clashing because we are both smiling. His hands wander all over my body, leaving hot burning trails.

“I won´t” his voice is hoarse and I can hear and feel that he has a hard time to hold himself back. I don’t want him to hold back anymore and so I grab his sweater vest and start unbuttoning it. He stops kissing me and for a second I think he is going to stop me but instead he lifts me up, so I can wrap my legs around his hip. On the way to my bedroom I drop his vest and unbutton his shirt while he pulls of my top, moaning when our skin touches for the first time.

“I don´t think I can go slow” he breathes as he throes me on my bed, pushing off his shirt. “I don’t want you to” he looks at me with so much love and lust in his eyes, biting his lip as he tries to suppress a moan. I undo his belt, tugging of his pants as he kisses my neck down to my chest. When he peels off my last layer of clothing and I wrap my legs and arms around him to feel his soft and burning skin on mine, we both moan at the sensation.

“My god…” he whispers and captures my nipples with his fingers, rubbing them slightly. I feel myself getting dripping wet, my core is clenching under his touch, his touch I am finally able to feel.

“I wanted this for so long, Spencer. I want you to feel how bad I want you” I breathe out between two moans.

He looks at me before kissing his way down to my core. Oh god, is he…yes, he is. I tangle my hands in his hair, losing my mind when I feel his tongue sliding through my soaked folds. My legs quiver and he grabs them, holding me steady as he keeps working his tongue and lips against my sensitive spot.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop” I cry out and grab his hair, pushing him closer to my release. A guttural grunt escapes him and despite my firm grip and shaking legs he stops his work and lifts his head, eyes still locked on mine.

“Spence, no-“ I try to protest but he crawls back up to me, caressing my lips with his thumb.

“I want you to come with me, I want to see you coming, I want to feel it all” he whispers and I stare at his glistening lips, he licks them and then I can feel him taking his spot, taking me.

I stare into his eyes, while he enters me. Nails digging into his arms as he slowly starts moving.

“Fuck” he mutters and it´s so hot to hear him lose control and swear. He kisses me, tongue brushing against mine, searching for the spot to make me moan and lose my composure. He starts thrusting deeper and faster, I arch my back and feel my nipples brushing against his chest which nearly tips me over the edge already. His lips attack my neck and I can hear his erratic breath, his low grunts. My hands are frantically wandering over his back, grabbing him, pushing his upper body closer to mine, I want to feel everything about him. He wraps one of my legs around himself and grabs my upper leg tightly. The next thrust hits so good that I cry out not holding myself back. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.

“I´m…I´m close, Spence” I stammer and tangle my hands in his hair, making him look at me. His eyes are nearly clear green at this point, his mouth is slightly open lips red and swollen, cheeks flushed and lust is all over his face. He looks so damn hot.

“Me too. So..close” he pants and I feel his nails dig into the flesh of my thigh, pain is flooding my body but I love it. Our eyes lock with each other, movements getting erratic and slightly out of sync but when I see his expression change, how he bites his lip and his face relaxes, a loud moan falling from his full lips as I feel him tensing and slowing down.

“No…don´t…” I stammer and he starts to pick up his pace. He leans down and catches my earlobe with his teeth, mumbling: “Come for me, please come” which tips me over the edge.

My body is completely out of control, I can only focus on the burning sensation inside of me, the cramping. I feel my orgasm ripping away every ounce of control. I start to tremble, every muscle in my body tenses and only because Spencers hands are tightly holding me, I stay on my back. My legs are shaking so bad he grabs them. When I come down from my high and focus my gaze on him, he is staring at me in awe. I feel a rush of shame being under his intense gaze. He is still buried deep inside of me, his chest is glistening of sweat and he is still breathing heavily.

“I have never seen…wow, that was amazing” he mumbles and kisses my hot cheek. I wrap my arms around him and pull him on top of me but he rolls next to me instead.

“I´m too heavy” he whispers and lays down, facing me, his head is supported on his hand, his eyes are wandering over my face, my lips and my naked body.

“You are so beautiful” I hear him say and bury my face against his chest. He chuckles slightly.

“I hurt you” I mumble against his skin and brush over his back, where my nails left scratches.

“I didn´t feel it, I was concentrated on you” I look up at him, lifting my hand to touch his cheek, he leans into my touch. “I never thought this would be happening but I think I never felt happier” he mumbles and kisses the palm of my hand.

I stretch up to kiss him.

“I love this side of you. I mean…I also love you spitting facts and statistics but this is…different. You talking about what you want, showing what you want and sharing your feelings. I love this” he smiles and pulls me closer with his free arm, his finger tracing lines on my bare back.

“And I love you. All of you. And I am sorry for chickening out earlier. This is more than right – in fact, this is the only thing in months which made sense” before he can kiss me, I sit up.

“You…love me?” I ask and he sits up as well, looking at the floor where our pants are scattered.

"Yeah. I do. I mean—I've read about love... a lot, actually. Anthropologists think it's an evolutionary mechanism to keep people bonded long enough to raise offspring. Neurobiologists define it by elevated dopamine and oxytocin levels, creating feelings of attachment and reward. And poets… well, they describe it like it's a storm, or a fire, or gravity." He looks up at me, his eyes finding mine and looking soft at me.

"But none of that mattered — not really — until I met you. Because suddenly, all those abstract things I understood intellectually... they started happening to me. My pulse speeds up when you walk into a room, and I can’t focus on anything when you’re near because every part of my brain is just—aware of you. When you’re quiet, I worry. When you smile, I feel this... weird warmth in my chest like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. And when you look at me like you're doing right now... I don't feel alone anymore. So yeah. I love you. Not just because I’ve read every possible definition of what love is... but because when I’m with you, I finally feel them. All of them."

I tear up at the thought of him feeling alone for so long. He deserves to be loved. He deserves someone who spends time with him and listens to him, who understands him. I grab his hand and interlace our fingers.

“You´re not alone anymore” I whisper and he smiles. “And I love you, too”

“I know” I chuckle, of course he does. I put on my morning robe and get up to open the window.

“Well, what gave it away, Dr. Reid?” I ask over my shoulder and hear him stepping closer, then I feel his arms around my body, pressing my back into his chest. His lips start trailing over my neck until they stop at my ear.

“I noticed a some time ago. The way you'd glance at me when you thought I wasn’t paying attention. Like you were trying to memorize something. Or the way you’d laugh a little too quickly when I said something awkward. Not because it was funny — but because you wanted me to feel comfortable. And there were little things. You always brought two coffees when we had early flights — even before I ever told you how I liked mine. You stood closer to me during press conferences, even when there was space. You flushed, when my hand brushed yours and sometimes you stumbled over your words, when I was looking at you. You knew when I was having a hard day, even when I hadn’t said anything. Most people miss that. I started keeping track of those moments, like puzzle pieces. And after a while, the picture they made was... you. Caring about me. In a way that went beyond being teammates. Beyond friendship. You never said it — but you didn’t have to. You felt like home before I even knew I was looking for one. I didn’t say anything because... I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to risk what we had. But I saw it. I saw you. And when I realized I felt the same… I just hoped I hadn’t waited too long.”

My heart was going to explode, that he noticed all of those things over the years and never said a word. I turn my head to look at him.

“Just promise me one thing” my voice is low and he nods. “Anything” “Never hide your feelings from me. I´m here to stay. I´m not leaving your side unless you want me to” “Then you will be stuck here with me forever” “That’s alright” his lips find mine again and I lean into him, holding on to him and his love.

Masterlist

[juliaswritingbubble]

Waaaaait I just started the last episode on criminal minds which was directed by MGG?? No!!

[clementineinn]

before you fade, 2.

abstract: a string of disappearances in a snowbound town pulls the BAU into a chilling case — one that hits too close when the next target is personal. chosen not for weakness, but for the strength that's been buried, hidden away in the depths of a person. as a team races against time, secrets resurface, and the line between subject and survivor begins to blur.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (some usage of Y/N)

genre: angst / fluff

word count: ~7.5k

note: i finally finished up the second part to this story! ill link the first part in case anyone wants to check it out as well :) thank you sosososo much to all of you who liked, commented, reblogged my previous post, it was so heartwarming to see!! thank you, you beautiful community who accepted me w open arms. KISSES tO ALL OF U MWAH!!!! enjoy! :)

She woke to cold metal beneath her skin.

It wasn’t the kind of cold from snow or air — it was worse. The sterile, dead cold of stainless steel. Her head throbbed in pulses, and her limbs wouldn’t move the way she wanted, the way her mind willed them to. Her hands were restrained — not roughly, but with precision. Cuffs attached to the bed. Her ankles were the same. She could flex her fingers, but her strength felt distant. Detached.

Lights burned overhead. Fluorescent. Harsh.

She blinked, once, twice, vision adjusting.

The room around her was wrong. Not a basement. Not a dungeon. Something worse. It was clean.

She was on a surgical table — straps across her torso, her legs, her arms. Her jacket was gone. So were her shoes. She wore a plain, gray hospital gown that didn’t belong to her.

The walls were white. Immaculate. To her left, she saw a counter lined with metal instruments, each laid out in careful rows — forceps, syringes, scalpels – tools that made her stomach flip. To her right, a tray with a notepad and pen. A recorder.

And against the far wall — cages.

Three of them. Stainless steel. Empty. Animal enclosures.

Her heart lurched.

Then she heard it.

Footsteps. Soft. Measured.

A figure emerged from the shadows beyond the door. A man — maybe late 30s, lean, gloved hands. No rage in his face. No glee. Just curiosity. Calm, clinical interest.

He didn’t look like a monster. He looked like a doctor.

“Hello, Agent,” he said gently.

She didn’t speak.

He smiled a little. “I’m glad you’re awake. I didn’t expect to take you this soon. But… you fit.”

He approached slowly, his eyes scanning her face the way someone might scan a page in a textbook. She turned her head away, her jaw locked.

“I know you’re scared,” he continued, voice as smooth as glass. “But this isn’t about pain. I’m not interested in hurting you. I’m interested in understanding you.”

She didn’t respond.

“I’ve read your file,” he said. “Not the Bureau one — not the sanitized version they handed you when you joined the BAU. I mean the real one. The one Interpol tried to bury after Prague.”

Her stomach clenched.

He smiled, not cruel — but pleased. “That got your attention.”

“I know what happened to you there. The explosion. The agents you lost. The three weeks you spent in a burn unit. The trauma counseling. You were broken once — not just physically. Psychologically. But you survived.”

She glared at him now, eyes narrowing.

He leaned closer. “That’s what made you perfect. You know how to fracture and rebuild. That’s what fascinates me. Not weakness. Not fear. Reconstruction. I want to see what happens when all that strength… finally stops holding.”

“The team will find me,” she said, voice raw but firm. “And when he— they do—”

“I’m counting on it,” he replied brightly, his expression almost gleeful now. “I want them to see what happens to the unbreakable ones.”

Then he pressed record on the tape deck.

And turned off the lights.

Time didn’t exist in the white room. Not in any way that mattered.

There were no windows. No clocks. No day or night. Just the endless, sterile glare of fluorescent lights that never dimmed — a brightness so constant, it began to erode the edges of thought. Shadows didn’t shift here. Time didn’t pass. It hovered, oppressive and still.

The hum of electricity behind the walls was constant. Not loud, but invasive — a subtle, vibrating presence that crept under her skin and coiled in her skull. The air was dry, recycled, and carried the faint, inescapable scent of antiseptic and metal. It wasn’t cold enough to kill — he’d made sure of that — but it was cold enough to numb. Cold enough to make her body forget how warmth felt.

Everything in the room was curated. Precise. White walls. White floor. Stainless steel. The kind of blankness that invited madness. That erased identity.

She didn’t scream — that would’ve given him too much. She didn’t beg — that’s what he wanted. She didn’t cry — not because she didn’t want to, but because she wasn’t sure she could anymore. The tears had dried up somewhere between the restraints and the silence— and the bruises.

They covered her jaw, her ribs, the tender skin at her temple where his knuckles had struck hard and fast in the dark. He never hit her with rage. Never while yelling. No warning. Just methodical strikes — knuckles to cheekbone, heel of the hand to sternum — meant to test reflexes. To study how pain shifted the body’s defenses. How silence buckled under pressure. Every hour that passed was another test of will, another slow-motion sparring match with a man who didn’t want chaos — he wanted collapse.

And she had spent years learning how to outlive collapse.

She focused on the details. The click of the lock before he entered. The shuffle of paper. The faint scent of latex. She counted them like lifelines, cataloged them like patterns. Because patterns meant control. And control — even the illusion of it — could mean survival.

Ben Milburn entered the same way every time.

No wasted motion. Clipboard in hand. Gloves already on. A white coat worn not for warmth, but for theater.

He didn’t look at her like a person. He looked at her like a subject. His gaze was clinical, dispassionate — the kind of stare she’d seen in war footage, in documentaries, in predators. And when she didn’t respond, when her defiance lingered too long behind swollen eyes, he would lean close and, in that same gentle voice, say, “Let’s accelerate the variables.”

Then he’d strike.

One night, it was a fist to the temple — sudden and sharp — that left her dazed, blinking blood from her eyelashes. Another, he backhanded her hard enough to split her lip and knock her head sideways into the metal frame. When she coughed from smoke in her lungs, he struck low, right below the ribs, to hear how breath sounded when it shattered.

He watched her every time. And he wrote it all down.

“I notice your sleep cycle hasn’t reset,” he said after being gone for — she didn’t know. A day? Maybe less. The lights never changed. Time bent strangely here.

She didn’t know how long it had been since the last blackout — since he turned off the lights and struck from the dark, his fists meeting bone and skin in clinical rhythm.

“You’re still trying to control time. That’s interesting.”

She didn’t respond.

“You’re still regulating your breath rate, too,” he mused, circling the table. “That’s a primitive defense. Mind over body. But eventually, that’ll crack, too.” A wicked smile played on his lips, the corner of them twitching as if trying not to laugh, and his eyes looked far away, as if he was reliving a distant memory. “It always does.”

Her face throbbed. The skin under her left eye was tight and hot. A bruise swelling beneath it like a second heartbeat.

Still, she kept her eyes on him. Calm. Steady. She refused to give him the sound of pain.

“It’s fascinating,” he murmured, gaze drifting down her body like she was a medical scan. “I’ve read your file. Childhood trauma. Strict self-regulation. Authority issues. Emotional isolation. But still… you became someone. Highly functional. Brilliant, even. Your pain made you exceptional.”

He circled slowly, his steps soft on the tile. A man who lived in silence. Who fed on it.

Her lips curled — not into a smile, but something sharper.

“Yours,” she said, voice low and razor-thin, “just made you boring.”

He stilled.

Just for a moment.

His hand paused above the tray of instruments — a needle halfway to its case. He didn’t react violently. His expression didn’t twist with rage. That wasn’t his nature. But something shifted. A flicker in his gaze. The illusion of total control cracked.

It was the smallest tell. And Y/N saw it.

She filed it away like a weapon. Because she knew now — he wasn’t unshakable.

The injections were mild sedatives. Nothing paralyzing — just enough to loosen the mind, distort time, make fear crawl more easily under the skin. He was too careful for brute force. That wasn’t his style. He wanted surrender, not obedience. Collapse, not compliance.

But he underestimated her.

Every time she drifted under the haze, she forced her mind to focus — on Spencer’s voice, on the rhythm of profiling exercises, on the feel of her badge in her hand. Anchors. Things that tethered her to herself.

She noticed patterns. He entered every hour. Always from the left-hand door. He avoided the cages when she watched. There was something beneath the floor — once, when he left, she heard machinery start humming under the metal table.

This isn’t a basement. It’s something else. A lab? A clinic?

The third time he brought food, she noticed the smell: antiseptic, animal dander, faint but distinct.

Veterinary clinic.

Old. Repurposed. Out of sight.

She tucked the thought away like a blade in her pocket.

He sat in the corner that time, not looming or circling. Just sitting. Like they were having a late-night conversation in a quiet study. Like this was something intimate.

Y/N lay still on the table, one wrist still cuffed, the sedative fading from her bloodstream in slow pulses. Her mouth was dry. Her face throbbed. But her eyes — bloodshot, bruised — stayed locked on his.

“You know,” he began, his voice calm, “they’re searching. The way your team always does. Brilliant minds. Cracking timelines. Profiling patterns.”

He tapped the pen against the clipboard — rhythmic, idle.

“They found the old facility on Claremont Road. The one with the rotted subfloor and the leftover cages. I knew they would. That was intentional.”

Her breath hitched.

He smiled, small and patient. “They think that’s where I brought you. That’s where they’re focusing now. Grids. Maps. K-9 units.”

She clenched her jaw. “They’ll find this place. They always do.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Eventually, maybe. But this clinic isn’t in any current zoning records. No satellite imagery. No listed utilities. You don’t stumble on this one unless you already know it exists. It’ll probably take them days.”

He leaned forward now, eyes glittering in the light.

“Only locals know this land. People who were born here. People who remember the vet that used to run this place — back when it was a roadside barn before the county paved the forest around it.”

He said it almost wistfully, like he was recounting folklore.

“I used to come here with my father. We’d bring in raccoons, injured strays. I remember the smell of iodine. The way the walls would sweat in summer. It’s always been quiet here.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

“You planned all of this.”

“Of course I did,” he said, almost offended. “You don’t trap someone like you without planning every inch of it.”

Her pulse spiked. He glanced toward the monitor and smiled.

“You see, Agent, they’re close. But not here. And that’s what makes this perfect. You’ll still be alone… right up until the end.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

But inside, her brain raced.

Claremont Road — that’s where they were. But this wasn’t Claremont. He’d led them there. On purpose.

And unless she found a way out, they wouldn’t find her in time.

Milburn entered in silence this time, no clipboard, no syringe. Just a chair in hand.

He placed it beside the table and sat like they were about to begin a therapy session. His gaze moved over her not with hunger, but reverence. The reverence of a man studying a masterpiece.

“You’re stubborn,” he said quietly. “It’s admirable. Most subjects began showing cracks by the first 10 hours.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She’d learned that silence provoked more than resistance.

“I imagine the team thinks they’re close,” he continued, almost conversational. “I left enough in the decoy site to suggest activity. Staged prints. Traces of sedatives. A broken monitor. The perfect crime scene for a partial timeline.”

He glanced at her, waiting for a reaction.

She blinked slowly. “The Claremont Road clinic.”

His smile widened, pleased that she knew. “Exactly.”

“You wanted them to find it,” she said.

He leaned in, tone soft and smug. “Of course. Letting them believe they’re closing in — that’s part of the breakdown. Hope, then disappointment. Over and over. The mind eventually lets go.”

She tilted her head, blood still dried on her lip. “You always this theatrical?”

He let out a soft chuckle. “I like design. I like when things fit.”

“And you’re sure they haven’t figured it out?”

He looked faintly insulted. “This property isn’t in any active database. The original veterinary license expired before digitization. No power grid, no plumbing registry, no road signs. Just a gravel trail locals used to know. They’d have to know this land the way I do.”

Y/N swallowed, keeping her expression neutral. “And you’re fine with dying here?”

“If it completes the study,” he said, voice low and even. “If it finishes the arc, yes.”

She let the silence stretch.

Then, with deliberate care, she said, “You know, I’ve profiled men like you. Not exactly like you — but close. The ones who claim they don’t need an audience… always want one most of all.”

His jaw tensed. Subtle. But there.

“I think,” she added, shifting slightly against the table, “you want them to see what you did. Not read about it in a case file. You want your final subject to be found. Otherwise, it’s just… wasted data.”

Milburn’s expression flickered. Not rage. But doubt.

And she smiled through the ache in her jaw.

“Maybe you’re not as certain as you pretend to be.”

He stood slowly.

He didn’t speak.

But he walked out without administering another dose.

And for the first time, she felt him slip.

The room was humming now. A different kind of hum — not the sterile buzz of lights or the faint static from the speaker, but a pulse. Mechanical. Deep.

Like something buried beneath the floor had woken up.

Y/N sat hunched on the edge of the table, one wrist still cuffed, lip split from the last blow, eyes locked on the glowing red light in the upper corner of the ceiling — the camera. Her breath was shallow. Her limbs were shaking. Not from fear, but from calculation.

She knew she’d only get one shot. Flashes of his previous victims flashed through her brain, grimace coming on her face as her lip quivered. Charred bodies, burnt all the way through, only recognizable through dental records. 

The lights had dimmed, but she could still see — just enough. The tools were gone – in fact, it seemed like the room had been sterilized again. Everything reset. Everything perfect.

Except her.

The loop of her own voice still echoed overhead.

He watches them fall apart.

Over and over. Warped now, slowed like a vinyl melting.

She yanked again at the last cuff, teeth gritted, blood now wetting the strap from where she’d cut her wrist on the metal. Her hand limped to her side, strength quickly depleting, hopelessness starting to kick in every time she tried to take a breath through her nose only to be met with a clogged, bloody mess. 

Then — a different sound.

A relay snapped. Mechanical. Below the floor.

And a low, rhythmic beeping began.

She froze. That wasn’t part of the sedation system. 

Her eyes snapped to the vent in the corner — a faint plume of smoke, barely visible in the dim light. Chemical, not fire. But spreading.

The speaker cracked to life, the static sharp against the hum of failing vents.

Then his voice came through — calm, steady, disturbingly warm.

“I always knew I’d be caught.”

A pause. Just long enough to make her blood chill.

“People like me don’t get away with it forever. That’s a myth. The smart ones, the ones who study—they know there’s no such thing as forever. There’s only timing. There’s only design.”

His voice moved with a strange rhythm, like he wasn’t just speaking to her — like he was reading aloud from a thesis only he understood.

“I’ve seen how it ends for others. Reckless monsters with blood on their hands and panic in their veins. They get sloppy. They get loud. They get stupid. They burn out in chaos.”

He paused again, then continued, even more softly.

“But I… I never wanted chaos. I wanted clarity.”

Another relay snapped behind the walls.

“You weren’t supposed to die in rage or fire. That’s not what this was for. I brought you here because I believed you’d last. I believed you’d show me the precise moment where resilience fractures into surrender. I wanted to see you break — slowly. Completely. And maybe you would’ve. If I had more time.”

The smoke thickened in the corners. The beeping quickened.

“I always planned for this. Every subject was a step. Every cage, every dose, every silence — all of it leading to you. The perfect profile. The cleanest mind. You don’t scream. You calculate. And I thought, maybe... if I could break you, then I’d understand how it all ends.”

His tone shifted — brighter, almost breathless.

“And now it does end. Not because I lost. But because I chose it. I’ve seen what happens after they catch people like me. The cage. The headlines. The slow rot of purpose. No thank you.”

The beeping was constant now. Almost shrill.

“This way, the story stays mine.”

Then one final pause.

“And if you survive this, Y/N — if you crawl from the fire — then you’ll live knowing that I got inside your head. That I chose you as the last page. And that everything after this moment... belongs to me.”

The speaker went dead.

And the door unlatched.

The lock gave a soft, mechanical click — almost casual.

The kind of sound you could miss if you weren’t listening for it.

But she heard it.

And she moved.

Y/N surged upright, her world a blur of blood and smoke and failing light. Her legs nearly gave out as her bare feet hit the freezing tile. Her right wrist was still shackled — the torn flesh around it slippery with blood — but she didn’t hesitate. She gripped the metal base of the restraint with her free hand and ripped, screaming through clenched teeth as she tore the cuff off the rail with brute force and adrenaline.

The torn metal edge sliced deeper into her wrist, hot blood spurting down her forearm. But the pain didn’t register. Not really. It was just another noise in the growing cacophony.

The hallway outside the room was blinding white — too clean, too bright — but the air was already sour. Smoke poured from the vents in ribbons now, curling along the floor like fingers searching for skin.

Beep. Beep. BeepBeepBeep.

The emergency lighting strobed red overhead — a pulsing countdown that painted her body in flashes of panic.

She stumbled forward, one arm pressed to her chest, the other swinging wildly for balance as she bolted down the corridor. Each step burned. Her right thigh screamed with every movement — the wound he had carved there was now a deep, wet gash. Her lungs convulsed. Her skin felt like paper.

She slammed into the wall, rebounded – kept going.

Every door she passed was shut. Sealed. Designed not to open from the inside.

She reached a T-junction in the hallway — and for a second, she froze.

Left? Right? She turned right.

A gust of heat struck her — the fire had reached the lower floors. Somewhere in the building, structural integrity had begun to collapse. A ceiling tile fell behind her with a crash. Smoke turned black.

Then she saw it — the red glow of an EXIT sign through the haze.

A steel door. No lock. No keypad. Just a crash bar.

She sprinted, half-limping, half-collapsing with every step. Her ears were ringing. Her vision dimmed at the edges. The beeping was almost constant now — so fast it became one unbroken shriek.

She hit the door with her shoulder.

It didn’t budge.

She hit it again — harder. Her body screamed.

Then she threw herself at it with everything she had.

The latch gave. The door burst open.

And she flew forward — into snow.

She tumbled face-first into the ice, her breath wrenching from her lungs in a broken sob. Cold air shocked her lungs, crisp and clean and real. Finally real.

She scrambled up, hands sinking into the drift. Her legs collapsed again — but she crawled.

Three feet.

Five.

Ten.

Behind her, the clinic trembled.

And then — it erupted.

The explosion hit like a living thing.

The entire back wall of the building lifted first, bricks and steel shrapnel exploding outward in a wave of orange fire and debris. The shockwave followed — concussive and furious.

Y/N was thrown like a rag doll. The world tilted sideways.

She hit the ground hard — skidded across the ice, body twisting midair — then slammed into the base of a snowbank, the breath knocked out of her in one violent rush.

Everything went silent.

For a few seconds, she didn’t know if she was dead.

Ash began to fall like snow.

The sky flickered, flames roaring behind her. She blinked slowly, her left arm twisted under her. Her shoulder was dislocated. Her thigh oozed blood. Her face was burned — just barely — along the temple and jaw.

But she was alive.

The air was sharp and frozen and she breathed it.

The explosion had blown Milburn’s empire into dust.

And somehow, she had crawled out of it. His words replayed in her mind, foreboding and haunting: “And if you survive this, Y/N — if you crawl from the fire — then you’ll live knowing that I got inside your head. That I chose you as the last page. And that everything after this moment... belongs to me.”

The SUV skidded to a halt on the icy road, tires crunching through snow and ash.

The roar of the explosion still echoed in the trees. Flames licked at the sky from the collapsed roof of the old clinic, casting long, flickering shadows across the snow – as if trying to burn the stars out, setting the sky aflame. Debris crackled in the wind. The smell of scorched chemicals, wood, and something acrid hung thick in the air. Smoke bloomed up ahead like a black wound in the trees. The remains of the clinic glowed in the distance — not just burning, but obliterated. The structure was gone. Collapsed inward. 

Spencer was out of the car before it fully stopped.

“Y/N!” he screamed, boots slipping as he tore across the snow.

Morgan followed fast, radio in hand. “We need medics now. Structure’s gone. Repeat — the clinic is gone. We’ve got fire and active ground collapse.”

They crested the ridge behind the ruins just as the wind shifted — and Spencer saw it.

A shape. Small. Slumped. Barely a shadow against the snow.

“There!” he shouted, voice cracking. “She’s there—Morgan, she’s there!”

He dropped to his knees beside her, sliding the last few feet. Her body was twisted at the edge of a snowbank, half-covered in soot, her skin streaked with blood and ash. Her right arm was limp. Her leg was slick with deep red. Her lips were cracked and blue, and one side of her face was bruised and blistered.

But her chest rose, even if barely. 

“Y/N,” Spencer said, voice shaking as he leaned over her. “Hey—hey, it’s me. You’re okay. You’re safe now.”

Her eyelids fluttered just a little. Her lips parted — but no words came out. Just a sound. A raw, rasping breath.

Morgan slid in beside them, pulling off his jacket and pressing it over her. “She’s in shock. We’ve gotta stop the bleeding. Pulse is weak, but it’s there.”

“I’ve got you,” Spencer whispered, brushing damp hair back from her face. “We’re right here. You’re not alone.”

She blinked once — slow and painful — and focused on him. Recognition hit like a gasp of air underwater. She tried to speak. Her mouth moved.

He leaned in.

“I made it.”

It was nothing but breath. But he heard it.

And then she passed out.

Fifteen minutes later, the sirens pierced the silence.

A wall of red and white light cut through the trees as the first ambulance skidded onto the scene, tires fishtailing slightly on the packed snow. EMTs leapt out before the vehicle had fully stopped, rushing toward the figures crouched near the base of the ridge.

“She’s here!” Morgan called, waving them over with one hand while the other remained pressed firmly to Y/N’s thigh, trying to slow the bleeding. “She’s in shock, multiple lacerations, third-degree burns on her left side, possible dislocated shoulder—”

“Airway’s clear,” another medic confirmed, kneeling at her head. “Breathing is shallow but present. BP’s dropping.”

Spencer barely registered the shouts and movements around him. His focus never left her face.

She was unconscious now. Still. Her skin ghostly pale beneath the smears of ash and blood. Her hair was damp, matted to her temple. Her lashes were dusted with frost. Every rise and fall of her chest felt like a war waged by her body to keep going.

He held her hand in both of his — fingers cold and shaking — and kept whispering her name, over and over, like he could keep her tethered just by saying it.

“Y/N, stay with me. You’re almost there. Just a little longer, please—”

They moved fast.

An IV line was secured with shaking, practiced hands. The EMTs slid a mask over her nose and mouth, oxygen hissing softly into her lungs. A cervical collar was fixed around her neck. One of them wrapped her bleeding arm with quick, efficient pressure while the others readied the gurney.

“We need to move now. She’s crashing.”

Morgan helped them lift her.

Spencer didn’t let go.

Even when they strapped her in, even when they wheeled her toward the back of the ambulance, even when the medic had to gently tap his arm and say, “Sir—we need space.”

He only released her hand when the doors closed.

And still, he stood there, staring after her like he could follow her with just his breath.

Hotch came to stand beside him, silent.

The fire behind them had begun to collapse inward — a thunderous groan of bending metal and concrete giving way. Sparks cracked into the sky as another wall folded in on itself. The building was all but gone now — reduced to flame and ruin.

“She survived him,” Spencer said, his voice raw, barely audible.

Hotch didn’t look away from the wreckage. “No,” he said. “She beat him.”

And together, they watched the last of Ben Milburn’s empire dissolve in fire.

All that control. All that calculation.

Reduced to ash. Swallowed whole by the dark.

36 hours later, the world came back slowly.

First sound — a low, rhythmic beep. The quiet hiss of oxygen. Distant footsteps. The soft hum of fluorescent lights that didn’t buzz like the ones in the clinic.

Then feeling — heavy limbs, warm blankets, a dull ache in her leg, her arm wrapped in something stiff and unmoving. Dry lips. A throat that burned from breathing in smoke.

Then finally — light.

She blinked once. Twice.

Everything was white, but not like his white. This wasn’t sterile silence. This wasn’t a cage.

It was a hospital. Safe.

Her heart rate monitor chirped a little faster.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay.”

The voice was gentle. Familiar. Real.

She turned her head — slow, careful, her neck protesting, every nerve stiff — and found Spencer sitting beside her bed. His tie was askew. His hair a mess. There were faint smudges under his eyes — the kind you only got from worry and no sleep. His fingers were wrapped around hers, careful but unrelenting.

“You’re awake,” he said softly, voice frayed at the edges.

Her lips parted. It took her a second to find her voice, to summon the breath. “Spence,” she rasped, trying her voice for the first time by saying his name – her mantra that kept her alive through the cold, desolate clinic. “You stayed.”

“Of course I stayed,” he said quickly, as if the alternative had never occurred to him. His voice was quiet, but still, the end of his sentence cracked.

She closed her eyes briefly. A tear slipped down the side of her temple, vanishing into the pillow. 

“It’s over.”

Spencer nodded, but his throat tightened. “You got out. You saved yourself.”

“I knew you guys would find me,” she whispered.

He leaned in slightly, his hand brushing hers on the blanket.

“There was a moment,” he said, his voice rough, “when we found the cruiser. Your phone was gone. The snow was already covering your tracks. I thought—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I thought I was too late.”

Her fingers moved. Slow, trembling.

But they curled into his.

“You weren’t,” she murmured.

And they sat like that — hand in hand, hearts syncing in the quiet — not as agent and profiler, not even as survivors, but simply two people who had almost lost each other.

She was the first to speak again. “The others?”

“They’re okay,” he said. “Hotch and Rossi are working with local PD to clear the site. JJ’s been here every few hours. Garcia’s already set up a 24/7 alert on every case with a similar profile. And Morgan’s…” Spencer chuckled faintly. “Pacing holes into the floor of the waiting room.”

A weak smile tugged at her lips. “Tell him to stop. He’s going to hurt those precious muscles of his.”

Spencer laughed — hoarse, but real.

Then his expression shifted, suddenly, so fast even she couldn’t place exactly when it had happened. Darkened.

“He was going to kill you.”

“I know.”

“He wanted to take you with him. End it on his terms.”

“I know,” she repeated, more softly this time.

There was a pause. Then her fingers pressed a little tighter around his.

“But he didn’t,” she said. “And that matters.”

Spencer looked at her for a long time, and in that silence, she knew he saw it — all of it. The pain she hadn’t shared. The fight she’d endured. The scar tissue behind her voice.

And still, she wasn’t done.

“Before anyone else asks. Before someone digs it up. I know you guys are aware of my general backstory, but I haven’t told you guys everything.”

He straightened slightly, sensing the shift in her tone.

“I wasn’t just some profiler who fit the behavioral sketch,” she said. “He picked me for a reason.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” she said. “You deserve to know everything.”

Spencer stayed quiet. Open.

She took a breath that rattled. “Before Quantico… I worked with Interpol. Undercover intelligence. Blacklist operations. I was embedded for over a year with an Eastern European trafficking network. A weapons cell. It was brutal. I made it out during a final sting — barely. There was an explosion. Two agents died. I was inside when the roof collapsed.”

Her voice cracked, but she pushed through it.

“I crawled out over one of my partners’ bodies. Spent three weeks in a burn unit. Three months in trauma counseling. I was broken. Physically. Mentally. They sealed the records before I transferred to the BAU.”

Spencer said nothing, but his hand never left hers.

“He found them,” she continued. “The unsub. Milburn. He found pieces of the files — enough to know I’d already been through hell. That I’d survived it. He wasn’t just picking women who fit a profile. He was choosing survivors. Ones who wouldn’t go quietly. He wanted to see what happened when people who already crawled out of the fire… were pushed back into it.”

Spencer exhaled like he’d been holding it since the moment she started.

“You weren’t meant to break,” he said. “You were meant to end.”

“I think he wanted to study that moment,” she said. “Where strength breaks. Where pain rewrites people. And I was the perfect study.”

“But he failed,” Spencer said. “You didn’t breaks. You held on.”

She blinked slowly. “Only because I had something to hold on to.”

Their eyes locked.

“You,” she whispered. “You were my anchor.”

Spencer’s own eyes welled, but he didn’t look away. Didn’t blink.

“You’re not allowed to scare me like that again,” he said quietly, a shaky smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She let her eyes close, the weight of exhaustion finally overtaking her. But her grip on his hand didn’t loosen.

“I’ll try not to.”

They both knew it wasn’t a promise she could keep. Not in their line of work.

But for now — for this moment — it was enough.

She was alive.

And he was still holding on.

The elevator doors slid open on the sixth floor with a soft ding that echoed through the corridor like a memory.

Y/N stepped out slowly.

Her shoes met the polished tile with quiet, deliberate weight — not hesitant, but grounded. She wore her long coat, the collar turned up slightly, and her badge clipped at the chest, just where it used to be. Outwardly, she looked the same.

But something in her was different.

Not diminished. Not broken. Just heavier.

Each step down the hallway was familiar, but her body felt new inside it. Slightly off-axis. She could feel the line of scar tissue beneath her shirt tug with every movement of her shoulder, where pins and plates still held healing bone. Her left thigh ached subtly with each shift in weight — a dull reminder of shrapnel buried and removed. And in her chest, behind the steady rhythm of breath, lived a quieter wound: the memory of a room built for her to not survive.

And she had.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly. A printer churned somewhere in the bullpen. A phone rang twice and stopped. It was all so normal. So mundane.

And then—

“HEY!”

Garcia’s voice rang out like the sun breaking through clouds, full of warmth and sugar and uncontainable emotion.

Y/N barely had time to inhale before she was engulfed in a hug that smelled of citrus and lilac and safety. Garcia’s arms squeezed tight around her middle — careful not to jostle her shoulder — her voice a rush of words against Y/N’s temple.

“Oh my God, you’re actually here, I didn’t want to text because I didn’t want to push but I’ve been counting down the days and oh my God you’re really here—”

Y/N let out a breath that trembled at the edges, and her arms came up slowly to return the embrace. Her fingers clutched Garcia’s shoulder, a little tighter than she meant to.

JJ appeared next, quiet as always. She waited for Garcia to step aside before reaching out, pulling Y/N in with gentle arms. The hug was softer — but no less fierce. JJ’s hand pressed lightly against the back of her head like a mother with a child returned home.

Y/N didn’t realize she was holding her breath until JJ whispered, “It’s good to see you.”

Then it released. Just a little.

Morgan stepped up next, towering and warm, his expression unreadable for a moment.

Then he gave her a single clap on the back — light, but firm — and held her at arm’s length just long enough to look her in the eyes.

“Good to have you back, warrior.”

She offered him a faint smile. “I missed you guys.”

Morgan didn’t say anything else — but his jaw flexed. His eyes lingered on the fading bruise along her jawline. The slight wince when she moved her shoulder. He saw all of it.

Then he nodded and stepped aside.

Across the bullpen, Hotch stood in the doorway to his office. His arms were crossed, his expression as composed as ever — but even that cracked slightly when his eyes met hers.

“We cleared your desk,” he said. “You have full discretion over when — and how much — you take on.”

Y/N gave him a quiet, grateful half-smile.

“Thanks, Hotch.”

His gaze softened, just enough to register.

“Take the space you need,” he said. “But know that we missed you.”

She nodded.

Her throat tightened, but she held it down. She hadn’t cried in weeks. She wasn’t ready to start here.

Then, as the laughter and chatter faded around her, she glanced down the hall.

Her eyes searched, almost involuntarily.

But he wasn’t there yet.

And somehow, she already knew he would be.

She didn’t hear him at first.

The buzz of the bullpen had resumed — Garcia chattering excitedly about reorganizing the “entire sparkle-driven filing structure” of the case board, JJ subtly blocking Morgan from sneaking one of the cinnamon scones she’d brought back from her morning run. Everything was soft chaos. Familiar.

But Y/N felt it before she saw him.

That shift in air.

The way the sound around her dulled — not in volume, but in focus.

She turned — slowly.

And there he was.

Spencer stood just beyond the corner of the corridor, leaning ever so slightly into the threshold. He hadn’t said a word. He didn’t need to. His eyes said everything.

He looked different. Not in the way clothes or hair changed someone, but in the way grief and fear etched themselves into the quietest places of a person. His tie was loose. His curls slightly disheveled. And his eyes — those eyes — were full of so much relief, she had to look away before she drowned in it.

He stepped forward, cautiously, like he didn’t want to startle her.

“Hi,” he said softly.

She blinked. And smiled — tired but true.

“Hi.”

The distance between them was ten feet. But it felt thinner than breath.

He didn’t rush her. Didn’t reach out. He just stood there for a second, watching her like she might disappear again. Like the smoke and flame and snow might reclaim her.

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said. “I just… needed to see you here. In this hallway. Alive.”

Her chest tightened.

“I wasn’t sure I’d ever walk it again,” she admitted.

Spencer nodded, his throat working around words he hadn’t yet found. “You did,” he said eventually. “And it’s different now. But that’s okay. You’re allowed to come back different.”

She looked at him.

Really looked at him.

And this time, the silence between them felt sacred. Not hollow. Not strained.

He stepped closer — just one step — and then hesitated.

Y/N met him there. Two more steps forward. Not quite touching, but almost.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, voice low.

His response was immediate. “I never left.”

Her breath hitched.

But instead of speaking, she reached for his hand — quietly, without a word — and he took it, like he’d been waiting every hour since the fire for that moment.

No theatrics.

No declarations.

Just presence.

And that was enough.

Rain whispered against the windows in soft, steady waves — the kind of rain that quieted the world, smoothed the edges of thought. It blanketed the city like a hush. Like the kind of silence that asked not to be filled, only felt.

Y/N stood at her kitchen sink, rinsing out her tea mug with one hand, the other resting lightly on the counter to ease the pressure from her still-healing leg. The ceramic clinked gently against the basin, hollow and distant. The candle on the table flickered, casting the living room in warm, golden light that painted soft shadows on the walls.

Her apartment was calm. Clean. Almost peaceful.

But inside her chest, something stirred.

Then— A knock.

Soft. Hesitant. Two beats. A pause.

Not the knock of someone making a delivery. Not a neighbor. It was careful. Intentional.

She already knew.

Y/N moved to the door, her heart beginning to beat a little faster beneath her ribs. She paused, just long enough to press one hand to the wall beside her — a grounding touch — then unlatched the deadbolt.

Spencer stood there.

His coat was damp from the rain, curls clinging in ringlets to his forehead. His glasses were slightly fogged. His cheeks were pink from the cold, but it was his eyes that stopped her. They were soft, tired, and filled with something he didn’t know how to name. Something quiet and aching.

He looked like a man who had walked through a storm he didn’t fully survive.

“Hi,” he said, voice low. Again.

She stepped aside, her voice matching his. “Hi.” Again.

He entered without a sound, toeing off his shoes as if even the sound of rubber on tile might shatter the fragile quiet between them. He stood just inside the entryway for a long second, fingers still buried in his coat pockets. He looked around slowly — the dim lamp, the steaming tea, the blanket folded over the edge of the couch. The evidence of her living. Surviving.

“You’re walking better,” he said quietly.

“You’re still worried,” she replied.

A soft smile tugged at his mouth. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I wasn’t sure if I should come. Or if it was too soon.”

“You’re always allowed to come here,” she said gently, her voice barely more than breath.

He took a shaky breath and stepped forward. “I wanted to tell you something.”

She turned to face him fully now, watching him carefully. “You kind of already did. In the hospital. In the snow.”

His gaze met hers.

“This is different.”

She didn’t move. She waited.

Spencer’s voice wavered, just slightly. “When we found the cruiser and your phone was gone… there was a moment when I thought we were too late. And all I could hear was this voice in my head screaming I never told her. Not really. Not the way I wanted to.”

He stepped closer. Not invading. Just near enough that she could feel the change in air between them.

“I’ve spent months—years, maybe—waiting. Telling myself it was too complicated. That work made it dangerous. That maybe you didn’t feel the same. So I stayed quiet. I watched you be brilliant and brave and haunted and I told myself I could live with loving you from a distance.”

She blinked slowly, breath caught in her throat.

“But I can’t,” he said. “Not anymore.”

His voice cracked at the edges now, the words spilling out like something that had built behind a dam too long.

“When we thought you were gone, something in me broke. Because I didn’t just lose you in theory. I felt it. I imagined every second I hadn’t said it out loud. Every smile I hadn’t kissed. Every moment I wasted thinking there’d be more time.”

He stepped forward again.

“I care about you. So deeply I don’t think I even know where the caring ends and the love begins. I think I’ve been in love with you longer than I’ve known how to admit it. And it scared me. But not saying it scares me more.”

Silence.

Then—

“I love you,” he said, a little louder now. “I love you, and I don’t want to spend another day pretending that I don’t.”

Tears welled in her eyes, sudden and unbidden. She didn’t try to stop them.

She reached for his hand.

Her fingers slid into his — warm, familiar, grounding.

“You didn’t wait,” she whispered. “You showed up. You always show up.”

He smiled — but this one was real. Open. Vulnerable.

And then, without hesitation, she stepped forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t urgent. It didn’t need to be. It was slow and trembling, the kind of kiss that was built from pieces — of fear and relief and every unsaid word that had finally found its way to the surface. His hand curled around her waist like he was afraid she might disappear, but she pulled him closer, breathless and solid and here.

When they finally parted, their foreheads pressed together, and she exhaled against his mouth.

“It’s okay now,” she said softly.

And it was.

It was raining again.

The steady kind — soft against the windows, more of a hush than a storm. The kind that wrapped the city in gray light and made the world feel a little slower, a little closer.

Spencer stood at her kitchen counter in socked feet, brow furrowed slightly as he read the instructions on the side of the French press. He’d made it perfectly for weeks now, but he still double-checked — out of habit, out of reverence.

Behind him, Y/N sat curled on the couch, one leg tucked beneath her, a well-worn copy of The Secret History open in her lap. A fleece blanket draped over her shoulders. She wasn’t reading, though. Just holding the book. Listening to the rain. Watching him.

It had become a rhythm.

Sundays were slow. Their safe place. No work. No trauma. No unfinished case files or briefing folders or hospital check-ups. Just the two of them, in borrowed stillness.

“I think I used too much water,” Spencer muttered.

Y/N smiled softly. “You didn’t.”

“I always use too much water.”

“You also always say that. And it’s always fine.”

He glanced over his shoulder. Her eyes were tired but warm. The scar on her temple had faded into a thin, pale line. The gash on her thigh still ached on colder mornings, but the limp had almost vanished.

Emotionally, she was still healing. Some nights she still jolted awake at sounds no one else heard. Sometimes the quiet pressed in too close.

But she had found something steady in Spencer’s presence. Not safety, exactly — because she didn’t want to be protected. Just seen. And he did that, without asking her to hide anything.

He brought her coffee and crossword puzzles and hand-scrawled notes about obscure philosophers. He sat beside her when the nightmares left her breathless. He didn’t fill the silences — he just waited in them.

He walked with her. And never ahead of her.

Spencer poured two mugs and brought hers over, setting it on the table beside her book.

She looked up at him.

“I never thought I’d feel normal again,” she said softly, as if the words surprised her.

He didn’t sit immediately. Just studied her.

“You’re not normal,” he said. “You’re you. That’s better.”

She smiled. This one fuller.

He sat beside her, their knees brushing. She reached for her mug but didn’t drink it — just wrapped her hands around the warmth.

The rain kept falling.

Their fingers found each other again — naturally now, without ceremony — and neither of them spoke for a long time.

Because some love stories didn’t need declarations or dramatic moments.

Sometimes, they just needed two people who chose each other. Again and again.

Even after the worst had passed.

Especially then.

@maisyyyyyy @theredvelvetbitch @alexistexas21 @blackbirdbella

[clementineinn]

before you fade

abstract: a string of disappearances in a snowbound town pulls the BAU into a chilling case — one that hits too close when the next target is personal. chosen not for weakness, but for the strength that's been buried, hidden away in the depths of a person. as a team races against time, secrets resurface, and the line between subject and survivor begins to blur.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (some usage of Y/N)

genre: angst / fluff (a little dark i won't lie, but it resolves i swear fmskdjs)

word count: ~4.4k

note: this is my first time posting my writing on here,,, kinda nervous LOL. but huge thanks to all the writers here on tumblr that have inspired me to finally post some of my writing! i really hope you enjoy! :p

part one. part two.

The jet was quiet — the kind of quiet that hangs between two people with too many unsaid things. Y/N sat near the back of the plane, tucked into a corner, a case file sitting open in her lap. Her eyes drifted to the frost-laced window, watching the clouds pass like bruises over a pale sky. One hand toyed with the edge of the folder absently, her thumb flicking the corner rhythmically. Tap, tap, tap. She hadn’t flipped the page in ten minutes, a fact that Spencer quickly noticed.

Across from her, he was trying — failing — to read the same profile paragraph for the third time. His eyes kept tugging back to her like gravity, focused on the shadows under her eyes, the soft, focused line between her brows, the way her fingers rested against the page as she focused intently on the case file in her lap. Her brows were furrowed in concentration – he wanted to press his finger to the wrinkles between her eyebrows and ease her worries away. A pencil caught between her lips. Reid pretended to read the victimology section again, but his eyes kept drifting up — watching the way she tilted her head when something just didn’t add up.

She always read case files too fast. She annotated them in shorthand code that only Garcia had once dared to decipher — and even she had given up after the third sticky note label “internal triangulation, subjective anchor.” But today—nothing. No highlighter, no pen. Just stillness.

Spencer knew how many sugars she took in her coffee (zero, but only because she hated the grainy texture). He knew she double-knotted her boots because once, on an op, her laces had snapped mid-chase. He knew she kept her phone on silent unless her mom was sick or the team was in the field. He knew she hummed soft rock songs when she thought no one was listening. He even knew her heart rate elevated whenever he stood too close.

And he knew her tells.

She hummed when she was bored. Quizzed herself on bone fractures when she was nervous. Flipped her pencil in her hand when she was thinking — and now, she wasn’t doing any of that.

He leaned forward slightly. “You haven’t turned that page in a while,” he said gently.

Y/N blinked, slow and unfocused. “I know.” Then her voice dipped, dry as the cabin air. “The words stopped making sense.”

She didn’t look at him. Just stared out the window.

Spencer hesitated. “Want to talk about it?”

“Nope,” she said easily, popping the “p” with forced cheer, then gave him a half-hearted smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But thanks for asking.”

He watched her for another beat. Then: “You’re allowed to not be okay, you know.”

“Yeah,” she said softly, “I know.”

She finally turned to face him — eyes shadowed, tired, but sharp. “You ever feel like a case is talking to you, not just at you?”

Spencer’s throat tightened. “Yes.”

“Yeah.” She looked back at the file, thumb pausing its rhythm. She said it like a joke, but the tension behind it wasn’t funny.

He loved her. In the deepest, quietest part of himself. The part he didn’t dare let breathe.

She didn’t know.

Or maybe she did. Maybe she felt it too — the tension strung between them like an invisible thread, pulled tight and trembling with everything unsaid. But neither of them moved and neither of them reached.

Their case in Vermont had gone cold long before the team arrived. Cold in every sense of the word — the kind that sunk into bone and refused to leave. Barre, Vermont was blanketed in an oppressive hush, the streets buried beneath layers of old snow and older secrets. The town itself felt suspended, frozen in time and temperature. Over six weeks, three women had vanished without a trace. No witnesses. No forensic evidence. No behavioral patterns to chase. Just absence. Until Isabel Warren came back.

She wasn’t whole, however.

Isabel had survived, but only technically. In the sterile fluorescent light of the hospital room, she looked less like a patient and more like something plucked from the ruins. A porcelain figure fractured at the seams, held together by instinct alone. Her voice, when it came, was dry leaves crushed underfoot — barely audible, brittle. Her eyes darted, flickering to corners and shadows as if expecting them to bite.

“He didn’t hurt me like you think,” she whispered, voice trembling like frost-laced glass. “He studied me.”

Morgan and Prentiss had taken the lead in her interview, giving the rest of the team space to process the implications. The story Isabel shared didn’t come all at once — it unraveled slowly, painfully, like unraveling gauze from a fresh wound. There was no rage, no screaming. No sudden violence. Instead: metal restraints that gleamed under surgical lights. Stainless steel trays. The cool pinch of needles. A camera that blinked silently in the corner, recording her every flinch.

And the man behind it was calm – precise. He didn’t shout – he asked questions. He didn’t hurt her in the way they expected. He violated her humanity in silence. Conversation filled the spaces where screams should have been.

What Isabel described wasn’t just captivity. It was dissection — of the mind, of identity, of control. And that made it worse.

The cold hit hard when they stepped out of the SUV — the kind that cracked at skin, settled in bones. Snow clung to the rooftops and drifted in thin sheets across the pavement, whispering over the soles of their boots as the team moved toward the small-town police station.

Y/N lagged behind slightly, scanning the street. Her breath fogged in front of her lips. Everything about Barre felt like it had stopped mid-sentence — frozen storefronts, shuttered windows, barely a sound beyond the wind.

Inside the precinct, the air was warmer, but only marginally. The heat came from space heaters along the hallway and the bitter scent of old coffee.

They’d just finished introducing themselves to the lead detective when someone behind the front desk called her name.

“Agent Y/L/N?”

She turned.

A uniformed officer — young, no older than twenty — held something out toward her. A plain white envelope.

“This came for you,” he said. “Dropped off about ten minutes before you arrived.”

Y/N frowned. “Dropped off by who?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t leave a name. Just walked it in. Said it was for you and left.”

The envelope was unmarked except for her name in neat, block print. No return address. No smudges. Just… clean.

She turned it over.

No seal.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

No letterhead. No date. No signature.

Just one line, typed:

“You can hide what broke you, but I can still see the cracks.”

Beneath it — in ink — was a small, hand-drawn smiley face.

Eyes and the curve of a mouth.

Y/N stared at it, the paper crinkling slightly between her fingers.

Her pulse didn’t spike. Her face didn’t change.

But something in her stomach dropped.

She folded it carefully, tucking it back into the envelope — then into the inner pocket of her coat.

Not now.

Not yet.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The precinct’s makeshift war room buzzed with the low hum of fluorescent lights and muted voices. It was late — the kind of late that slowed movement and turned everything grainy – and the team had been investigating for days. Half-drunk coffee cups cluttered the table. A printer sputtered in the background. The map of Barre, Vermont, glared back at them from the board, dotted with red pins that marked where the victims had been taken. Three so far. All in two weeks. All women. All gone without a sound.

“He didn’t leave anything behind,” Morgan said, dragging a hand down his face. “No fibers. No prints. He’s not improvising. This is controlled.”

JJ’s brows furrowed as she laid out the victim photos. “All three women had similar emotional profiles. Independent, intelligent. Lived alone. Minimal social entanglements. Their trauma histories go back to early adolescence. They’re survivors, but just barely holding themselves together.”

Garcia’s voice crackled through the speakerphone like an apology. “And I pulled medical records like you asked. Isabel Warren? PTSD flagged in her file three years ago. She’d been in and out of counseling. So had the other two.”

“So he targets women who’ve already been broken,” Rossi murmured, eyes narrowing.

“No,” Spencer said quietly, his voice threading through the room. “He targets women who’ve survived it. Who’ve spent years putting themselves back together. He doesn’t want destruction. He wants erosion. He doesn’t abduct them at their weakest — he waits until they’re strong enough to matter.”

That quieted the room.

“Observation,” Hotch said flatly as the details were laid bare. His voice was calm, but there was a tension in the set of his jaw — a rare betrayal of emotion. “He’s not in a hurry. He studies them. Prepares the environment. Then waits until the right moment to break them down.”

Emily crossed her arms, staring hard at the psychological profile. “He doesn’t kill them quickly. He watches them fall apart. Slowly. Deliberately. He chooses subjects that are already primed to fracture.”

No one moved for a moment.

Y/N sat at the edge of the conference table, spine arrow-straight, the collar of her coat still pulled close around her neck. Her eyes were on the photos — lined side by side, the faces of missing women caught mid-smile, mid-blink, alive in one frame, vanished in the next. She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. But she wasn’t seeing them anymore.

The team kept talking.

Morgan cursed under his breath, pacing. “The guy’s using psychological stress like a weapon. Cages, lights, silence. It’s about control."

“And emotional isolation,” Spencer added. “He mimics safety — gives them just enough normalcy to confuse them. Then watches what they do with it. He’s cataloging survival behavior.”

Hotch nodded. “He builds trust just enough to remove it. Then he watches what’s left behind.”

A silence settled again, deeper this time.

Spencer glanced at Y/N — and that’s when he saw it.

She still hadn’t moved. Not once. But her hands, under the table, had shifted. Her fingers curled into fists. Small. Tense. Controlled.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The crime scene board loomed like a ghost in the center of the precinct — faces, names, timelines. Victims rendered into data. But no one was speaking anymore. The weight of the profile sat heavy on all of them.

Y/N had left the room a few minutes ago. Silent. Swift. She’d said she was getting some air, but her expression hadn’t changed — just locked down tighter. More precise.

Prentiss watched her go, something flickering in her eyes.

Then she turned toward Spencer, her voice low. “Have you noticed something… off with her today?”

Spencer looked up from a page of victimology notes. “What do you mean?”

“She’s not reacting,” Emily said, stepping a little closer. “Not the way she usually does. She’s not asking questions. Not checking in. It’s like she’s watching the case from the inside out.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed. “I thought maybe she was just tired,” he said — but even to himself, it sounded like a lie.

Emily gave him a look. Not sharp. Just knowing.

“You know her better than the rest of us,” she said softly. “That’s why I’m asking.”

Spencer’s shoulders lowered slightly. “She’s… quiet. Too quiet. During Isabel Warren’s statement — she didn’t move. Her hands were clenched under the table, but her face didn’t change. Not once.”

Emily nodded. “Exactly. She was holding it in. And she’s too good at it.”

A beat passed. Then she added, voice careful now: “That’s the kind of woman he goes after, isn’t it?”

Spencer froze. Not because it was a surprise — but because it wasn’t.

“She hasn’t said anything,” he offered. Weakly.

“She wouldn’t,” Emily said. “Especially not about something like this. Not after what happened before she came here.”

They both fell quiet.

Everyone in the BAU knew that Y/N had come from Interpol. That she’d spent nearly two years undercover. That something had gone wrong — badly enough to get her pulled from the field and quietly reassigned to domestic ops. But the details? Those were sealed. Even Garcia couldn’t pull them.

Prentiss had always respected that silence. But now, that same silence felt like a liability.

“She doesn’t talk about it,” Spencer murmured. “Whatever happened overseas… I think she’s still carrying it.”

“I think he’d see that,” Emily replied. “He’d read it in her body before she ever said a word.”

Spencer looked toward the hallway where Y/N had disappeared. His chest tightened.

“Do you think he’s already noticed her?”

“I think he noticed her the second she walked into town,” Emily said quietly. “And if we don’t act like that’s a possibility, we risk everything.”

She paused, then stepped back, her voice softening.

“Keep her close. Even if she pushes you away. Especially then.”

Spencer nodded. Once. Tight and sharp.

Then they moved — together — toward the board.

Hotch stood at the front, arms folded, studying the regional map with a crease forming between his brows. Red pins marked abduction sites, discarded belongings, last-known locations. They looked like wounds.

“Hotch?” Emily’s voice was calm, but steady.

He turned. Both she and Spencer were standing too straight. Too still.

“We need to talk,” Spencer said.

Hotch motioned for them to continue.

“We think Y/N might be at risk,” Emily said. “Not just as a profiler. As a potential victim.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

Spencer stepped forward, voice quiet but precise. “All of the victims had histories of trauma — long-term, deeply buried. High-functioning women who survived something early, then spent their lives masking it. They weren’t fragile. They were contained.”

“And that’s how he chooses them,” Emily added. “Not because they’re vulnerable — because they’re strong. Because they hide it so well, no one sees the cracks.”

“She fits the pattern,” Spencer said. “Even if she hasn’t said it out loud… she knows.”

“I saw it,” Emily said. “The moment Isabel started talking. Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. She recognized it.”

Hotch looked between them. His jaw tightened.

“She hasn’t acknowledged it?”

“No,” Spencer said. “And I don’t think she will. Not until it’s too late.”

Hotch turned back to the board. Something clicked into place.

“If he’s watching her — if she’s already on his list — he won’t wait long.”

Then he faced them, all hesitation gone.

“Get the team.”

The air felt heavier as the team reconvened — everyone on edge from the tension radiating off Hotch’s stance alone. He waited until they’d all settled: JJ, Morgan, Rossi, Prentiss, and Spencer. Y/N wasn’t in the room — not yet.

Hotch spoke low and firm, voice carrying weight but no panic.

“We believe the unsub may be targeting someone on this team.”

That froze everyone.

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “You saying he’s made us?”

“I’m saying,” Hotch continued, “he may have identified someone who fits his selection criteria. And we’ve determined that the agent most at risk… is Y/N.”

A beat of silence.

JJ’s eyes widened. Rossi’s expression hardened. Morgan leaned forward slightly, voice tight. “Are you sure?”

“She fits the behavioral profile to a T,” Spencer said, his voice almost too fast, like he was racing his own thoughts. “Trauma survivor. Emotionally reserved. Isolated but highly adaptive. She’s everything he’s been selecting for.”

Prentiss added, “And she hasn’t said a word about it — because she doesn’t want to be seen as vulnerable. Which only reinforces the pattern.”

Morgan swore under his breath, pushing away from the table. “We should’ve seen this sooner.”

“She did,” Hotch said quietly. “She just hasn’t said it.”

That landed like a weight.

Everyone knew Y/N had been through something in her Interpol years. Something she never talked about. Something that changed the course of her career and quietly followed her into every room.

Hotch’s eyes swept the room, sharp now. Focused.

“I want eyes on her every hour,” he said. “No one goes anywhere alone. Especially not Y/N. She doesn’t need to be scared — she needs to be covered. Discreetly. We don’t lose one of our own.”

Everyone nodded, a silent current of agreement moving through the room.

Spencer’s jaw clenched slightly. “If he’s already watching her... he won’t wait long to escalate.”

“Then we won’t give him the chance,” Hotch said. His voice was calm — but even Spencer could see the storm behind his eyes.

And just then — footsteps echoed in the hallway.

The door opened.

Y/N stepped into the room, unaware of the conversation that had just taken place. Her stride was even, composed — but to those who’d just been told to look closer, that composure now felt different.

Like armor.

Spencer’s eyes found her immediately. So did Emily’s. JJ’s smile faltered as she looked away and busied herself with her notes. Morgan leaned back, arms crossed too tightly. Everyone shifted — subtly, instinctively — forming an invisible perimeter around her.

She didn’t seem to notice.

But Spencer did.

As Hotch launched back into the debrief, picking up where he’d left off, Y/N settled at the edge of the table. Not beside anyone. Just slightly apart. Her coat was still on. Her coffee sat untouched. Her face didn’t move, but her shoulders gave away the truth — pulled up just a little too tight.

And Spencer knew.

Spencer watched her out of the corner of his eye as Hotch continued listing behavioral patterns and forensic gaps. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, but they were no longer following. Her breathing was even, but too shallow. Every muscle in her shoulders was drawn tight, and her jaw flexed once, twice, like she was swallowing words she didn’t trust herself to speak aloud.

He could see it now — the slow unraveling. The tiny threads fraying at the edge of her self-control. It wasn’t visible to anyone who didn’t know her. But he did.

She hadn’t slept. He could tell. There were faint shadows under her eyes, soft as smudged graphite. Her hair was neatly pulled back, but a few strands had slipped loose around her ears, stuck to her skin from where she’d rubbed at her temples earlier. And the coffee in her travel mug sat untouched.

The unsub sought emotional containment — not chaos. He didn’t want hysteria. He wanted the slow, clinical breakdown of a subject too proud or too traumatized to scream.

Y/N fit the profile because she was composed enough to attract him — and haunted enough to keep him interested.

The room had fallen into a contemplative hush.

Garcia’s voice crackled through the speaker, listing trauma indicators pulled from each victim’s medical and counseling history.

JJ added, “They all presented as stable — no recent crises, no major relapses. But every one of them had years of quiet therapy behind them. There’s a pattern of early trauma, but also recovery.”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed. “So what’s he hunting for? Strength? Weakness?”

Y/N looked up from her notes, finally speaking — voice calm, clear, steady.

“I don’t think it’s about strength or weakness,” she said. “I think it’s about endurance. The kind you don’t see unless you’re looking for it.”

The room quieted further.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, not rushed, just thoughtful.

“He’s choosing women who’ve rebuilt themselves. Not because they’re fragile — but because they’ve already been through something and survived it. He’s not looking for people who are breaking. He’s looking for people who know how to hold themselves together.”

Spencer glanced at her. There was something in his eyes — recognition, maybe. Respect.

Y/N continued, her voice soft but certain.

“He doesn’t want to destroy them. He wants to watch them try not to fall apart. To study the exact moment that strength starts to give.”

She didn’t say it with drama. She said it like she was laying something carefully on the table — something that mattered.

Hotch gave a small nod. “We’ll adjust the profile.”

And just like that, Y/N looked back down at her notepad and quietly underlined a single word: Endurance.

When the briefing ended, the team slowly dispersed to cross-reference victimology, revisit the scene logs, and check the geo-mapping data. No one said it out loud, but everyone lingered in her orbit. Just enough to keep her in their periphery. To follow Hotch’s directive without alarming her.

But Y/N lingered longer. Alone at the table, the light above her humming faintly.

Spencer didn’t leave. “You okay?” he asked softly.

She blinked. The motion was delayed, like a system rebooting. “I’m fine.”

It was automatic. Too fast.

“Y/N,” he said again, quieter now, stepping closer. “You don’t have to be fine.”

Her silence stretched. The room felt too big, too empty. Then she looked at him — really looked at him — and for a brief second, the glass cracked. The composure faltered. He saw it in her eyes. Not fear. Not yet. But recognition. Like she’d seen herself on that profile board, and couldn’t unsee it.

“He watches them fall apart,” she whispered. Her voice was barely audible, not really for him — more like a quiet realization rising from some place she’d kept sealed. “Like he’s waiting for something to break open.”

Spencer didn’t move. He just stood there beside her, close but not touching, like getting too near might crack what was left of her armor.

“He’s already watching,” she added, softer still.

Then, a pause. A slight shift.

She reached slowly into her coat pocket — careful, almost cautious — and pulled out a plain white envelope.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she murmured. “I told myself it was just local paranoia. A scare tactic. But... this was waiting at the precinct when we arrived.”

Spencer took the envelope gently, his brow furrowed. He opened it, unfolded the sheet inside.

One line of typed text.

“You can hide what broke you, but I can still see the cracks.”

And beneath it — a smiley face. Small eyes and the curve of a mouth. Inked by hand.

Spencer’s blood went cold.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I wasn’t sure it meant anything. And part of me didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of reacting.” She paused. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I read it. It’s not random. It’s not just a threat. It’s… intimate.”

His jaw tightened. “He knows.”

“I think he’s known,” she said. “Since the moment we stepped foot in Barre.”

They stared at each other in silence. Then Spencer slowly folded the paper and slipped it back into the envelope — like returning it to its cage.

“I’ll tell Hotch,” he said, his voice low, careful.

“No,” she said quickly, too quickly. “Not yet. Let me... let me handle it a little longer. Just until we’re sure.”

Spencer didn’t like it. Every nerve in his body told him not to let her walk that line alone.

But he nodded. “Only if you promise me something.”

“What?”

“If you see anything else — if you feel anything off, anything strange — you come to me. Not later. Right then.”

She met his eyes. For the first time all day, she looked like she might break.

But she didn’t.

“I promise,” she said.

And then JJ’s voice called out from across the room. Penelope had found something. Everyone was gathering again.

Y/N gave Spencer a practiced, quiet smile — the kind you use to keep people from looking too closely — and beckoned him toward the others.

He followed.

But his eyes stayed on her a second too long.

The case briefing had dissolved into murmured strategy and side conversations, whiteboards covered in red ink and shadowed photos. The team split off — Prentiss reviewing victim timelines with JJ, Morgan mapping out geographic overlays, Hotch and Rossi deep in behavioral cross-referencing.

Spencer hovered near the far wall, watching Y/N from across the room.

She sat perfectly still. Back straight. Hands folded. The epitome of focus. But he could see it — the hollow weight in her gaze, the way her shoulders sat too high, like her body hadn’t unclenched in hours.

He wanted to go to her. Say something. Tell her that she wasn’t alone — that even if she didn’t speak it aloud, even if she hadn’t admitted it to herself, they knew. But something in her expression told him she wasn’t ready. Not yet.

So he watched.

And what he missed — just barely — was the moment she excused herself to the bathroom and slipped out the door. If he hadn’t been looking at a case file, he would’ve seen the look on her face – would’ve known it was something deeper than just having to take a break. He would’ve seen the way she refused to make eye contact with anyone from worry of them seeing through her lies.

Y/N moved quickly but calmly, coat already over her shoulders, bag slung across her arm. The snow was still falling hard — it pelted the front windows in a sideways blur. A local officer sat behind the lobby desk, sipping weak coffee and half-reading a report.

She stepped close and kept her voice low.

“I need an escort back to the hotel,” she said. “Discreetly, please.”

The officer looked up, confused for only a moment. Then nodded. “Absolutely. You alright, Agent?”

“I’m fine,” she said with a tired smile. “Just need some air. It’s been a long night.”

He stood, grabbed his keys, and followed her out.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

Back in the conference room, the team reconvened quickly upon Penelope’s sudden gasp, the undercurrent of tension drawing them together like gravity.

JJ stood near the monitor, phone pressed to her ear as Garcia’s voice poured through the speaker — clear, fast, and edged with adrenaline.

“Okay, family — grab your metaphorical Kevlar, because I’ve got a name. And it’s not just a name. It’s a history, an address, and a very suspicious paper trail.”

Hotch leaned forward slightly, his voice sharp. “Go ahead, Garcia.”

“Meet Benjamin Cyrus Milburn,” Garcia said. “Age thirty-nine. Former veterinary technician — licensed in Massachusetts and Vermont. Worked at several rural clinics, most recently in Waterbury. No criminal record, no major red flags, but there’s something weird here. He dropped off the grid about two years ago — no income, no property under his name, no bills. Like he went full ghost mode.”

Prentiss frowned. “That lines up with the timeline for the first disappearance.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Garcia continued. “The last known address tied to him is a decommissioned vet clinic on the edge of Barre. Shut down three years ago for health code violations. He worked there part-time before it closed.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “That’s within five miles of Isabel Warren’s last known location.”

Spencer’s head snapped up. “Does he have access to controlled substances?”

“Legally, not anymore,” Garcia said, “but based on the inventory records from the shutdown clinic, a whole list of sedatives and anesthetics went unaccounted for — ketamine, isoflurane, and acepromazine. It could easily knock someone out fast and keep them just conscious enough to know what’s happening.”

A brief silence fell.

Then Hotch asked, “Do we have a photo?”

“Sending it now,” Garcia confirmed. A moment later, her familiar digital sparkle sound effect echoed from the monitor, and Milburn’s DMV photo appeared on screen.

He looked unremarkable. Average build. Short brown hair. Clean-shaven. Wearing a collared shirt like he was applying for a job he didn’t want. But his eyes were wrong. Blank, but focused — like he was already watching something no one else could see.

Rossi exhaled through his nose. “That’s the face of someone who disappears in a crowd.”

Hotch turned to JJ. “Have local PD canvass the area around the old clinic. No contact. Not yet. I want eyes on it first.”

“On it,” she said, already dialing.

Prentiss shifted, voice lower now. “If he’s using the clinic as his hunting ground... and Y/N fits the profile...”

Spencer finished it. “Then he’s already chosen her.”

Everyone went still.

Hotch turned slowly to Spencer, eyes narrowing with precision. “Where is she right now?”

Spencer swallowed. “She was just here.”

Rossi spoke up. “She said she was going to the bathroom.”

“She didn’t leave with anyone.”

Morgan stood, tense. “I’ll find her.”

But before he could take a step, the lights flickered — just briefly. Long enough to make everyone freeze.

Then JJ’s phone buzzed sharply.

She checked the message. Her face went pale.

“That was the hotel desk clerk,” she said. “One of their officers was supposed to escort her back to the hotel. He never checked in. And Y/N’s not answering her room line.”

The air drained from the room.

Hotch didn’t hesitate.

“Where’s her phone?” he asked.

Garcia’s voice chimed in a half-second later over speaker. “Last ping was twenty minutes ago near the main road out of Barre—before it went dark.”

Silence. Immediate. Heavy.

Spencer’s mouth went dry. He stepped back like he’d been hit.

“She left,” he whispered. “She left without telling us. Alone.”

“No,” Prentiss said quickly, trying to stitch it together. “She wouldn’t—”

“She did,” Hotch cut in, sharp now. “And she’s not responding. That means one of two things: either she’s gone dark on purpose or someone took her.”

Morgan grabbed his coat. “I’ll take the road to the hotel.”

“I’m coming,” Spencer said immediately.

Hotch nodded. “Go. Now.”

As they rushed out, the room behind them fell to silence.

But no one said what they were all thinking: they’d profiled the next victim and let her walk straight into his hands.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

At first, it felt like nothing.

The cruiser glided over snow-slicked backroads, wipers beating steadily against the windshield. The officer beside her — nameplate reading J. D. Greeley — was quiet, focused on the road. Barre’s small-town streetlights flickered past in the rearview mirror, fading as they veered farther from downtown.

Y/N sat in silence, arms folded, her breath fogging faintly in the chill that leaked through the windows.

“You mind taking the long way?” she asked, her voice casual. “I just need to breathe for a few minutes before going back.”

The officer nodded once. “Sure. Not a problem.”

He turned down a road that dipped behind a line of tree cover, away from the main street.

That was her first warning.

She knew the town’s layout by now — knew this wasn’t the most direct route to the hotel. But maybe he was avoiding a traffic blockage. Or snow.

Still.

Her fingers tightened slightly on her coat sleeve. “You from around here?” she asked lightly, trying to place his cadence, his rhythm.

But the man didn’t answer.

The second warning.

Her stomach tightened. “Officer Greeley?” she tried again, voice sharper now.

No response. No acknowledgment. Her heart began to pound.

She reached for her phone, kept in her coat pocket. Cold leather met her fingertips — no phone. She checked the other pocket.

Gone.

Her pulse quickened. She glanced at the dashboard. No GPS. No radio on.

And then — the cruiser slowed.

Not at the hotel.

Not anywhere near it.

They were pulling into a snow-covered drive that disappeared into trees — overgrown, unlit, forgotten.

A thin, wavering breath escaped her lips.

She reached for the door handle. Locked.

The driver turned to her.

And for the first time, she really saw him.

Wrong eyes. Wrong age. Wrong badge.

Not Officer Greeley.

Not a cop.

Just the unsub wearing his uniform like a second skin.

“You’re everything I expected,” he said softly.

And before she could scream, move, or fight —

The needle was already at her neck.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The cruiser’s wheels screeched to a stop at the edge of the snow-packed drive. Blue and red lights flashed across the skeletal trees, illuminating the icy breath that left Spencer’s lungs as he stared through the windshield.

“There,” Morgan said, already out of the vehicle.

The escort car was parked at a crooked angle just off the road — doors flung open. Snow had started to fill the driver’s seat. The headlights were still on.

Spencer sprinted forward.

“Y/N!” he shouted.

Nothing but the howl of wind.

Morgan reached the car first, flashlight sweeping the inside. The cabin was empty. Spencer circled to the passenger side — door wide open, scarf still clinging to the seatbelt.

Then he saw the needle cap in the snow.

“Oh God,” he whispered, dropping to one knee. He picked it up with gloved hands — a faint glisten of residue clinging to the tip.

“Chloroform or a paralytic,” Morgan said, voice grim. “He took her clean. Quiet. Knew how much time he had.”

Spencer rose, eyes scanning the tire tracks. “He left on foot or transferred her to another vehicle. There's no exit on this road except back the way we came. It was a trap.”

Morgan cursed low under his breath. “She asked for a private escort. He knew. He either intercepted the real cop, or he was waiting for her to ask.”

Spencer’s throat felt like it was closing. The image of her smiling softly, tugging on her gloves, saying I’ll be fine—it punched through his chest like a fist.

“She’s gone,” he said, barely audible.

Morgan’s hand came down on his shoulder. “Not for long. I’m calling Hotch.”

They stood in the snow, breath hard and fast, the empty cruiser behind them glowing like a signal flare in the dark.

Somewhere in the forest, Y/N was already fading.

And the clock had started.

[clementineinn]

let the light have me

abstract: after the blast, everything goes quiet, too quiet. he’s not answering the radio, the building is still burning, and all she can do is breathe, bleed, and pray that spencer reid isn't gone.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: angsty, a little fluff (has a happy ending)

note: i’m not even kidding, this idea came to me in a dream. i woke up and immediately started writing down everything i could remember and well, here we are. it was kind of torturous writing this because i swear those people on tiktok put crack in their edits, especially the hunger games ones or twd or sinners, and they're all so deliciously heartbreaking that i can't help but binge watch them and then want to write something poetic & sad. but anyways, here is an angsty fic written by yours truly, for my beautiful readers to read because i want everyone to share in my pain with me, hehe, jk. not. kind of. ENJOY! p.s., shoutout to the hunger games mockingjay soundtrack for getting me thru this.

The forest was quiet in the way only danger could make it; the air too still, too sharp, like something was holding its breath.

The compound loomed ahead like the skeleton of something long-dead — an abandoned research facility half-swallowed by vines and shadow, its concrete walls cracked and choked by moss. Broken windows gaped like teeth. The sky above was an iron-gray bruise, stretching wide over the trees as if even the clouds wanted to disappear before night fell.

Y/N moved in a crouch beneath the tree line, her sidearm drawn, shoulder to shoulder with Morgan. Her heart was beating steady, trained, but something in her ribs wouldn’t unclench. The stillness felt… wrong. Not like silence, but like the moment before a scream.

On the comms, Hotch’s voice came in low and clipped.

“Reid, what’s your position?”

A beat of static. Then Spencer’s voice: calm, focused, a little breathless.

“Top floor of the east wing. There’s someone moving inside. I think he’s leading me in.”

Y/N froze. Her eyes met Morgan’s. Both of them knew what that meant.

Hotch’s voice again, firmer now. “Wait for backup.”

But the reply came too fast.

“I’ve got eyes. I’m going in.”

And then—

A sudden, breathless boom ripped through the forest.

The ground surged beneath her, lifting like a wave, heat slashing across her back as light erupted—blinding, orange, unnatural—splintering the sky like something holy had shattered too close to earth.

She didn’t even have time to scream.

One instant, she was reaching instinctively toward the treeline; the next, she was airborne, limbs pulled taut before the earth vanished beneath her. It felt like a cord had been cut somewhere deep inside her spine, like gravity had forgotten her name.

Then the landing.

Hard.

Her elbow took the first blow, agony flashing through her arm; her hip struck next, then her ribs, then her shoulder, her body dragged against the forest floor, a broken thing skidding through ash, until it folded to a halt. Something sharp kissed her temple and tore it open, and for a moment the world tilted, slanted sideways, blurred at the edges like waterlogged film.

A sound escaped her, not a scream or a word, but something hoarse and sharp that cracked from her throat without permission, like her body exhaled the pain all on its own.

She landed on her side, breathless, then rolled onto her stomach, slowly, weakly, her muscles shuddering with the effort. A low, broken whine slipped from her lips, quiet but ragged, a thread of breath laced in pain that barely sounded human. Her palms sank into the dirt; twigs and soot smeared against her skin. The pain was everywhere—deep, ringing, bright like static.

A warm trickle spilled down her face. She didn’t need to touch it to know. Blood. Still hot, still moving, just trickling.

The only thing she could hear was the high, piercing hum inside her own skull; everything else had been drowned out. No comforting birdsong. No sirens. Just the sharp, erratic rasp of her breathing as she fought for air that burned her lungs.

Her eyes darted across the wreckage, stinging from smoke and ash.

Morgan was a few feet away, chest rising fast and rough, his hand dragging up to cradle the side of his head. He was down, but alive. Her vision stuck to the sight of him, locked in the shape of his body.

But that relief barely settled before it turned into something colder.

Spencer.

The thought hit so suddenly it almost knocked the wind out of her all over again.

She inhaled sharply, tried to shout, but the sound caught—dry and useless—in her throat. Her hand scrambled to her belt, fumbling for her gun. The weight of it grounded her, just barely. She used her free arm to push herself upright, staggering on unsteady legs. The trees swayed, whether from the wind or her disorientation, she couldn’t tell.

She slammed her hand to her ear, fingers shaking.

“Spencer, come in,” she rasped. “Spence—can you hear me?”

Nothing.

Only the whine in her ears and the thundering of her own pulse.

The forest crackled around her, fire bleeding out of the fractured building, smoke curling into the canopy above like the remnants of something sacred and ruined. The scent of metal and char clung to her clothes, seeping into her skin.

Her eyes caught the blaze — not just the light, but the violence of it — and held it there, unflinching. The reflection flickered across her irises like a painting too bold to fade, all orange and gold and fever-bright, like something from a myth where gods died in fire and love was the last thing left burning.

In that moment, she was all color and silence, her pupils wide and wet, the fire burning not in front of her, but through her, bright and unapologetic.

And somewhere inside all of it, she was thinking of him. Of his body in the heat. Of what flame might make of someone so soft.

Y/N moved like something half-woken, limbs sluggish with shock, blood in her eyes. Her boots crunched through scorched pine needles as she limped forward, breath tearing out in sharp, uneven bursts. Smoke hung low in the trees, curling through the air like it knew something she didn’t.

Somewhere behind her, Morgan moved, slow, unsteady, one hand pressed to the side of his head, the other bracing against a fallen branch as he tried to rise. His chest was still heaving, breaths short and hard. He was muttering into his comm, voice low and cracked, not yelling—he couldn’t yell.

“Reid’s last ping… east wing… building’s compromised…”

His words dissolved into static.

From somewhere deeper in her ear, another voice filtered in: Emily, this time. Sharp, clipped.

“All units check in—has anyone heard from Reid?”

A pause.

“Spencer, if you can hear this—come in.”

And then Garcia, barely holding it together. “We’ve lost his signal… there’s nothing—nothing yet, I’m trying to reroute, but—I don’t see anything. Oh my god…”

Voices layered together, bleeding into one another, indistinct and tangled, like wires crossed behind glass. Morgan’s, Emily’s, Garcia’s—familiar sounds made strange, dulled by static and distance. Y/N heard them all but couldn’t parse them, like someone had submerged the world underwater and left her there, suspended in something too thick to swim through.

Her hand stayed clamped to the comm, knuckles white, fingertips numb.

It didn’t matter. None of it was reaching her.

Her own breath was the only thing she could hear now: too fast, too shallow, too loud. It shuddered in and out of her lungs like her body had forgotten how to breathe quietly, how to slow down. The air felt thinner here; it tasted like smoke and metal and burnt wood, like grief sharpened into something physical.

Her vision wouldn’t hold still. The edges of the trees blurred, their outlines melting into smoke that curled through the air like ghosts dragging themselves through the underbrush. Her stomach twisted. Her boots didn’t feel steady against the earth. Her chin quivered once. Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

She blinked, hard, but it didn’t clear anything.

The building groaned, fire licking through the upper rafters. Her body turned toward it, drawn like a compass to something broken. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was crawling up her throat.

Her gun was in her hand now. She didn’t remember pulling it.

Spencer.

The name lived somewhere behind her ribs. Not a thought. Just a weight. Just a pressure.

Her finger hovered near the trigger. Her grip was shaking. She couldn’t stop it.

And then—

Crunch.

A branch snapped underfoot.

Sharp. Sudden. Final.

Everything reeled in. Like gravity had slammed back into place. She froze, and her head jerked toward the sound.

A soft shuffle. The sound of dirt grinding under a boot. Another breath. Her last one ragged.

Then, a cough, low and hoarse, someone trying to swallow it. Not Spencer, but someone. 

Her body moved on instinct.

She raised the gun, finger steady despite the tremor in her bones. Her body turned before her mind caught up, her eyes locked ahead.

She stepped through the trees—

And saw him.

The unsub.

He stood at the edge of the clearing, just beyond the smoke, as if the forest had birthed him from the fire. His face was streaked with soot, and the detonator still sat heavy in his hand, catching the last of the dying light. His mouth twisted up into a grin — not amused, but satisfied, smug. He didn’t look scared. He looked proud.

Her breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat. Her boots sank lightly into the soft, scorched dirt, her body swaying slightly from the blow it had taken minutes before.

And then, a sharp crack under her foot. Glass. The sound sliced through the smoke like a warning shot, too quick, too clean.

The unsub turned toward it. Toward her.

He tilted his head, eyeing her like a wolf would something trembling and cornered.

“You think he made it out?” he said, almost conversational. “Not a chance. Walked right into it. You should’ve heard it.”

A smile.

“Boom.”

Y/N’s teeth clenched. Her jaw locked so tight she thought it might crack. Her chest was rising and falling too fast, her lungs scraping against her ribs. Her eyes burned, not just from smoke. She could feel the wetness gathering. She blinked hard. Refused.

Behind her, Morgan emerged from the trees, weapon raised.

“We’ve got you surrounded,” he said tightly, into the open. “Don’t move. There’s no way out.”

Then, softer, closer, his voice finding her.

“Y/N. We’ve got him. You don’t have to do this.”

Her arms stayed outstretched, both hands wrapped tightly around the grip, the gun raised and aimed directly at the unsub’s chest. Her shoulders were locked, her stance firm but fraying at the edges. Her finger rested on the trigger, curled tight, unmoving. Her brows twitched, just slightly, the barest crack in her expression betraying the war happening behind her eyes, but still she didn’t move, didn’t blink. 

The unsub took a step forward.

“Go ahead,” he murmured. “Do it. What’s the point of carrying that thing if you won’t pull the trigger?”

Another smirk.

“He didn’t even see it coming, did he? I bet he screamed.”

Y/N’s body pulsed with the threat of something uncontainable.

The barrel of her gun rose and fell with each breath. Her arms were shaking, her grip unsteady, but her aim didn’t falter. Her finger tensed tighter on the trigger. Her lip quivered once. Her brows furrowed, not in anger, but in ache — in something sadder than she’d ever let herself show.

Her eyes were shining now, water gathering in the corners, heavy and hot, refusing to fall just yet. Her chin trembled. Her nose flared slightly as she breathed in through it, trying to find control. Her lips twitched, trying to form something — a curse, a sob, a sad smile — but never fully landed on any of them.

Behind her, Morgan’s voice came again, quieter this time, soft as a hand on the back of her neck.

“He wouldn’t want this,” he said, barely louder than a breath. “Let it go.”

Her eyes fluttered shut for one long moment. Her lips pressed together, but they couldn’t hold. The shape of them folded downward, trembling into that soft, helpless curve that only grief can make — the kind of expression that forms when someone is trying not to cry and failing quietly. It was a mouth made not for speech, but for silence and sorrow.

Her chest moved with a shallow inhale. Another. And then a single tear slipped free, trailing down the curve of her cheek.

Her breath caught. She exhaled, low, cracked, empty.

And, like it cost her something deep and invisible, she lowered the gun.

Her fingers unclenched.

She holstered it, careful and quiet, like a ritual she didn’t want to remember.

Then she turned away quickly — not in strength, not in triumph, but in something quieter. Something that lived at the edge of heartbreak.

It hurt to do it. You could see it in her walk, in the angle of her jaw, in the way her composure folded into itself as she stepped away.

But she walked anyway, because she still could.

Her steps were uneven, stumbling through the uneven earth, her boots sinking slightly into the forest floor, into ash and pine and blood. Her spine was rigid, her body taut like a bowstring about to snap, not from tension now, but from restraint. Her head was bowed low, as if the weight of what she hadn’t done was heavier than a bullet.

Behind her, the unsub’s voice chased after her like a sickness.

“That’s what I thought,” he spat. “You don’t have the guts. None of you do. Cowards! All of you—cowards!”

The trees caught the sound and echoed it back in a cruel loop, throwing his words in every direction. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t look back.

“You hear me?! He’s dead! And you just let me walk—!”

The crash of boots behind her, a thud — agents swarming, voices shouting over one another. The unsub snarled, a desperate sound, before the snap of bodies hitting dirt cut him off.

“Get down—!”

“He’s got something in his—!”

A brief struggle. Then silence again, sharp and echoing. Only the sound of cuffs locking into place and the unsub still laughing, quieter now, but still cruel.

Y/N didn’t turn.

Morgan caught up to her in four long strides, his hand reaching out and catching her by the upper arm. She didn’t fight it, only she couldn’t if she tried. Her knees were giving, her steps faltering like her body was too heavy to hold itself upright anymore. Her breathing came in sharp, gasping pulls, not from running, but from everything she was still trying to contain.

She let out a sob, quiet and raw, and swallowed it down before it could fully escape. The sound lodged in her throat like it didn’t want to leave her. Her head dipped forward slightly, and she let Morgan guide her, let him walk her away like something wounded.

“Hey,” Morgan said softly, voice lowered like a secret. “You did good.”

Y/N’s lip trembled. She shut her eyes.

“Come on,” he said. “We got you.”

Her head dipped in a nod so small it barely moved. But it was enough.

She let him walk her, one arm curled around her back, keeping her upright. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was parted just slightly, as if she was too exhausted to hold it shut.

Behind them, the unsub screamed again: a rage-filled, hollow sound.

“You’re weak! You’re all weak!”

Y/N didn’t hear it anymore. She wasn’t listening.

She was walking away from him. Her grief was a coat she couldn’t take off.

The forest was no longer silent.

Red and blue strobes painted the trees like a warning, and the air buzzed with distant radios, the hiss of oxygen tanks, and the crunch of boots over broken earth. The building still smoldered like a haunted thing, black smoke curling out of its gut and spiraling up into the bruised sky.

Y/N leaned against the BAU SUV like she didn’t know how to stand on her own anymore. One leg bent slightly, shoulder pressed to the passenger door, eyes vacant and unblinking. The blood on her temple had dried into a thin, rust-colored trail. Soot clung to her eyelashes. Her hands, still trembling, were clenched around the edge of her jacket like they might float away if she didn’t anchor them.

She wasn’t speaking.

She hadn’t spoken since she’d turned away from the unsub. Not when the others arrived. Not when Hotch debriefed. Not when Emily gave her that look: all silent worry, too much softness to bear.

Morgan stood beside her, one arm crossed over his chest, the other loose at his side, close enough to catch her if her legs gave out again. He was watching her like she might disappear.

After a while, he spoke, his voice low.

“You did the right thing.”

She didn’t answer.

He shifted slightly, leaning a little closer.

“You know he’d be proud of you.”

Y/N blinked slowly, her throat tightening. She swallowed once, but still said nothing. Her jaw was locked. She kept staring at the wreckage, as if looking hard enough might change the ending.

Morgan’s gaze followed hers.

“We’re gonna find him,” he added. “We always do.”

Her eyes were glassed over again, rimmed red, lashes clumped with soot and blood. When she spoke, her voice barely came out at all, like it had been trapped behind her teeth for too long.

“Don’t say those things to me,” she whispered. “Not unless they’re real.”

Morgan turned his head to look at her fully. He exhaled hard through his nose, the breath sharp and tired, like it had been building for miles. Then he tipped his head back, laid it against the car, and stared up at the dark sky above them. His brows pinched, his throat worked once.

“You know,” he murmured, almost to himself, “I’ve never seen you lose it. Not once.”

Y/N’s lips parted. Her jaw shifted, clenched tight. She wasn’t fully facing him, just turned enough that her eyes were locked on his face, her voice still broken when it came.

“Yeah, well,” she said, hollow and quiet, “I might.”

They stayed like that, not speaking, not breathing too deeply, not trusting the air. Just two people on the edge of something unbearable, trying to hold it together.

And then—

The radio crackled.

“Oh my god—”

The SUV’s open window. Garcia.

“Oh my god, he’s—They found him. He’s—He’s okay. I repeat—Reid is okay. They’re bringing him out now—he’s alive—he’s alive—”

Both Y/N and Morgan whipped their heads toward the SUV.

Her heart lurched. Her body moved before her breath did. Her mouth parted, eyes wide. Everything around her slowed — not in a surreal way, but in a cell-deep one, like her pulse was moving through molasses and her mind couldn’t quite catch up. Her breath echoed in her ears, louder than Garcia’s voice, louder than the crackling static. It was all she could hear.

Morgan lunged forward, grabbing the edge of the open window, voice punching out of his chest.

“Garcia, we hear you—where is he? Talk to me.”

He was already pulling the radio closer, leaning in, but Y/N wasn’t listening anymore.

She had taken a step back, unsteady, her boots dragging in the dirt. Her hand was still half-raised toward the car, fingers twitching slightly, and her whole body swayed with the weight of something breaking loose. Her lips were parted. Her eyes were scanning the chaos in front of her, lights and medics and wreckage and smoke, like she was looking for the end of a dream.

Her brow wasn’t furrowed anymore; it was focused. Sharp. Like everything in her had snapped into one direction.

And then—she saw him, and it felt like she could breath again.

Two paramedics, moving from the haze of the still-smoking building. One supporting the weight of a tall, dust-covered man, arm slung over their shoulder, hair flattened with ash, clothes torn and dark with soot.

She blinked once. Hard. Her lungs locked, then opened.

“He’s—” her voice caught. “He’s right there.”

Morgan turned toward the direction she was staring, following her gaze.

But she was already gone.

Her body launched forward like her soul had jumped first and her limbs scrambled to follow. She stumbled, one foot catching on the edge of a branch, almost falling, catching herself on instinct alone.

She didn’t stop.

She ran.

Her lungs burned. Her legs barely moved fast enough to keep up with the rush of blood in her veins. Everything was heat and noise and the rhythmic pounding of her boots against the earth. Her breath tore out in gasps, wild and uneven.

She didn’t care.

She just ran.

The lights blurred past her again, red and gold flashing across her skin, shadows skipping over her as she cut through the forest floor. Every step was desperate and real and alive.

He was alive.

Morgan shouted behind her, but she didn’t hear. He followed, but she was already ahead, already too fast.

She reached the ambulance just as they were helping Spencer up the steps.

“Spencer!” she choked, grabbing his arm before the medic could lift him. “Oh my god—Spencer—”

He turned, sluggish, confused—

“Y/N…?”

She didn’t wait.

She surged forward and cupped his face in both hands, her fingers dirty and trembling, palms pressing to the hollows of his cheeks like she didn’t believe he was real.

“Are you okay? Are you okay?” she panted. “Oh my god—I thought you were—”

Her voice broke. Her face was cracking open. She looked like she’d forgotten how to breathe again. Her forehead dropped to his chest.

“Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Spencer’s hand slid up, shaky but certain, to press over hers.

“I’m okay,” he whispered. “I’m okay. I’m here.”

She let out a sound this time, a sob, raw and jagged, pulled straight from her ribs like something ripped open.

And then Morgan was there too, catching up beside them, voice low.

“It’s okay, baby,” he murmured, touching her arm. “Let them work on him now.”

She didn’t protest. She didn’t speak.

She nodded once, barely, and let Morgan guide her back a few steps. But she didn’t move far. Her hands caught at his sleeves, gripping tightly, grounding herself. Her body leaned into Morgan’s, seeking the support she couldn’t give herself. Her breath stuttered again: a soft, aching sound that escaped before she could stop it.

She didn’t make a sound at first. Her jaw was clenched tight, shoulders trembling, the effort of holding it in visible in every part of her. Her breath came in shallow gasps, shaky and uneven, her chest rising too fast.

And the tears started falling, slipping down her cheeks like she hadn’t noticed them, like they were happening without her permission.

Morgan kept an arm around her, steady as ever, his other hand covering hers where she still clutched his jacket.

They both stood there, still and braced, watching as the paramedics lifted Spencer onto the ambulance seat and began cleaning the blood from his hairline. Spencer glanced toward her once through the crowd, and their eyes met.

He didn’t smile.

He just watched her like he’d never seen anything more real.

And she didn’t look away.

Later, the forest was still. Not silent, but softer — the kind of quiet that comes after too much noise.

The building had stopped burning. The ambulances hummed. The radios had gone from frantic to background static. Night had finally taken hold of the sky, drawing everything beneath a soft navy veil, stitched with stars and the lingering smear of smoke.

The paramedics had finally stepped back.

Spencer sat on the open edge of the ambulance rig, feet planted in the dirt, his hands slack between his knees. A clean white bandage wrapped above his brow where the skin had split, and fresh stitches lined the side of his temple, red and angry against pale skin. His shirt was torn near the shoulder, dried blood visible through the gauze that now wrapped it. There was a splint around his wrist, a strip of bruising just beginning to show beneath it.

But he was breathing. Upright. Alive.

He blinked into the air in front of him, dazed, trying to catch his bearings in the chaos that was finally beginning to quiet.

And then he saw her.

She was still dust-streaked and bloodied, jacket open, hands balled into fists at her sides. Her cut hadn’t been treated, the dried trail still dark along her temple, skin raw. But her eyes, when they landed on him, went wide and bright and full of something that hit him in the chest.

Spencer straightened slightly, and without even thinking, said:

“You’re here.”

That was all it took.

It was like the wind was knocked out of her a second time. Her shoulders dropped, and her mouth parted, but she didn’t speak. She moved.

She was rushing forward before her body knew what to do with the motion, feet kicking up the soft dust around the tires of the rig, heart stammering wildly behind her ribs.

By the time she reached him, her hands were already reaching, one sliding behind his head as she pulled him into a hug so tight it made him wince — not from pain, but from the sheer need in it. Her arms wrapped around him fully, one hand bracing the back of his neck, fingers threading through the ends of his hair as if anchoring him there. Her other hand gripped his shirt at the back, twisting into the fabric.

Her breath hitched, once, then again, and he could hear the way she was trying not to cry. Not completely. Not yet. Her lips were trembling against the curve of his shoulder, breath coming in soft stuttering pulls.

He didn’t say anything. He just held her. His arms, sore as they were, moved around her waist, steady and firm.

She pulled back slightly, not far, but just enough to breathe. Her hands cupped his face, palms warm and dirty against his skin, thumbs brushing just under his eyes. She leaned forward then, rested her forehead to his, and closed her eyes for the first time in what felt like hours.

The contact felt holy.

Her breath broke again, and this time it came out on a whisper.

“Spencer.”

The way she said his name — like she’d waited her whole life just to be able to say it again — made his eyes sting.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes flicked up, catching on the smear of red still trailing from her temple.

“Your cut,” he said, his brows pulling tight. “It’s still bleeding.”

His hands lifted carefully, and hers fell away, cupping her face in both palms like he was afraid she might pull away, or worse, fall apart completely. His thumbs brushed along her cheekbones, and then higher, smoothing her hair back gently, his fingers ghosting around the edges of the wound. He traced the skin there with featherlight worry, eyes searching hers like he needed proof that she was really standing in front of him.

He was still studying it, still frowning, lips parting like he was going to ask for a medic, or insist, or say something else she couldn’t bear to hear.

“It looks bad,” he said quietly, the words full of worry. “You should—”

“It doesn’t hurt,” she cut in gently, shaking her head just enough for his hands to move with her. Her voice was soft, not dismissive, but full of something warmer. Older. Graver. Like she’d already made peace with what mattered and what didn’t.

Her eyes opened again, glinting with tears and ash and something almost like awe. Her fingers reached up, then, too, again like she couldn’t stop moving from the nerves, brushing his hair back from his forehead, careful to avoid the edge of the bandage. She looked at him like he was something precious she had nearly lost; her gaze flickering from his eyes to his nose to his cheek to his mouth, over and over, like she couldn’t decide where to land. Her lips parted again, voice still hoarse with everything she hadn’t cried out, a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, tremulous but real.

“I wanted to wait,” she whispered. “I wanted to wait until you were okay.”

And in that moment, with the smoke still curling behind them, with the world only half right again, that was all that mattered.

Spencer leaned back slightly, just enough to look at her clearly. His hands moved away, gentle but sure, and wrapped around her wrists. He held them like he was afraid they’d disappear, his thumbs brushing slowly across the skin there — gritty, trembling, still cold.

“I’m okay,” he said, low and steady. “So let’s get you checked out, okay?”

Y/N let out a soft, unsteady breath, the kind that hitched halfway up her chest. She nodded once, small and slow. Her mouth twitched again, not quite into a full smile, but close, like it hurt a little less now to try.

And before she could even think, before hesitation had the chance to catch her, she leaned forward and kissed him.

Just the corner of his mouth — soft and grateful and breathless — like something she’d wanted to do for years but only now realized she could.

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, and he blinked like she’d pulled the air out of his lungs. His mouth parted, but nothing came out. His hands were still around her wrists, thumbs still brushing.

“That’s what you and I do, right?” she whispered, voice fragile but steady. “Keep each other alive.”

Her eyes flicked over his face again, as if memorizing every line now that she could, her fingers brushing gently against his jaw.

“And you always hold my hand through stitches,” she added, quieter now. “So don’t start slacking.”

Spencer huffed a tiny breath of laughter, dazed and full of everything he didn’t know how to name yet. His eyes stayed on her like he was afraid she might vanish.

“Yeah,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Always.”

Y/N let out a quiet exhale, her forehead dropped to his again, but only for a second before she pressed her nose into the side of his face, the curve of his cheek. She leaned into him, finally letting her weight settle between his legs where he was perched on the edge of the rig, her arms curling loosely around his sides. Not tight. Just there. Present.

And he let her stay.

His hands slid from her wrists to her back, one resting just below her shoulder blade, the other finding the place between her spine and the base of her ribs. Holding her gently. Steadying her.

They stayed like that for a long moment, unmoving. Around them, the forest shifted — the light dimming to something quiet, emergency lights softening, boots crunching faintly in the background.

But here, in the stillness between breath and pain and after, she had him.

And he had her.

[juliaswritingbubble]

Blackout

summary: a sudden blackout at the BAU pulls two agents closer than they expected but they are not mad about it

The case is brutal and near home; we didn't have to fly across the country, we are investigating in the neighborhood. Which is kind of extra scary.

Currently Spencer and I are working on the geographic profile at the roundtable while the others are checking out different locations. The bullpen is nearly empty; it's late. My concentration is withdrawing; I'm really exhausted. Spencer, on the other hand, doesn't seem to need sleep at all; he is still configuring and analyzing data, drawing circles on maps, and reading ME reports.

I watch him, how he furrows his forehead, biting his lower lip or reading some passages from the report with his mouth lightly open. Eyes speeding over the words, his long fingers following his speed. How bad I want to feel those hands on my body.

I bet they would feel amazing. My crush on Spencer got more obvious to everybody except for him, I guess. He never said anything and never showed more interest in me than the others. Sure, he gets me coffee nearly every morning, he holds open doors for me, watches over me, and protects me. But that's nothing he isn't doing for JJ or Emily as well, so I try and not think about it too much.

When Spencer lifts his head and his eyes meet mine, he smiles warmly. I look away, caught staring at his pretty face. I love seeing him think, concentrated and working his brilliant mind. I even enjoy him rambling about random facts and statistics, it´s kind of hot when he gets lost in his thoughts.

“You look tired,” he states, and I nod. “Of course I do; we have been here the whole day, and it’s nearly midnight,” he chuckles.

“Maybe you should take a short nap on the couch. It helps to nap for about 30 minutes with productivity.” I look at the couch, which actually seems really inviting. I suppress a yawn and get up, taking Reid's advice and lying down on the leather couch, tugging the pillow under my head. I look at him from the couch and smile.

“Goodnight,” he chuckles and gets up to turn down the light. He switches to the small lamp on the desk, and I feel myself drifting to sleep with the sound of turning pages and the rustle of paper and the scraping of his pen.

When I drift back out of my sleep, I hear the voices of our team whispering to each other, but I am not awake enough to understand what they are saying exactly. When I hear the door close with a soft click, I open my eyes. The room is empty and dark; only the light on the table is illuminating the scattered papers. When I sit up, I feel something gliding from my shoulders. It's Spencer's cardigan. He must've put it around me when I was asleep to keep me warm. I slide my arms in it and wrap it around my body, inhaling the familiar smell of Dr. Spencer Reid. I check my watch to see how long I was out when the door opens and JJ comes in with two cups of tea.

“Someone’s awake. Slept well?” She hands me one cup, and I nod.

“I slept longer than I wanted, but it was good. I’m ready to keep going.” She smiles at me and takes a seat at the table.

“There was another body found an hour ago. Reid and Prentiss are at the crime scene, and the others are with her family. It’s just you and me and the geographic profile.” She smiles at me, and I get up, joining her at the table.

When Spence and Emily are coming back, the sun starts to rise, and they bring breakfast, and Spence hands me my favorite vanilla caramel latte from the shop down the road.

“Thank you.” I smile at him and get up; that’s when he seems to notice I’m wearing his cardigan over my white shirt. His eyes wander over my body, and I turn red, trying to hide it behind my paper cup of coffee.

He doesn't say anything, but the corner of his lip twitches lightly. His eyes find mine for a few seconds, then he takes a seat, and I join.

“Okay, I want Rossi, JJ, and Emily to go check at his work address. Morgan and I go to his storage unit, and you two check his home,” Hotch says, and we all get up. It's very uneventful when we meet back at the BAU; none of us had success at their spots.

We gather in the bullpen, standing around Morgan's desk, and discuss our operations.

“I’m going to go to the kitchen; does anyone need anything?” I ask, but I see only shaking heads. I go and grab a bottle of water, joining the others just a few minutes later back at the bullpen. Spence moves and makes room for me; I slide next to him and listen to my colleagues brainstorming.

“Guys! Guys, someone hacked the system!!” Garcia yells while running as fast as she is able to down the hall, her heels clicking aggressively against the floor. Our heads fly to her appearing in the glass door, looking horrified. It's like a bad movie when the lights start to flicker and the monitors turn black. I look above us, seeing the bulbs turn on and off, and my heart pace speeds up. This is scary. I look at Spencer; his facial expression is horrified, and I see his hands twitching involuntarily. I step closer to him, my arm brushing his.

Everybody looks confused and slightly scared when the lights turn off completely. I feel a hand grabbing mine, interlacing our fingers and grabbing on to me for dear life. I reciprocate the grab and brush my thumb over the back of his hand.

“The generator should be kicking in soon,” Hotch says, but Penelope, flashing her phone light at us, shakes her head.

“No, it’s not. They killed the complete distributor. I think I might be working analog for a while…” she says, and I sigh.

“I have some candles in my office,” JJ says and heads up the stairs. The others begin to find flashlights and more candles while Spencer and I keep standing there in the dark, still holding hands. I turn my head to watch his face, but I can't see it; it's so dark since everybody left to find sources of light.

“It’s scary, isn’t it?” I whisper, and I feel him pulling me even closer to his side. My chest is brushing his arm, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body. It's much more intense than any other contact we ever had because I can't see and just feel him.

“I got you; don’t be scared,” he whispers back, and I feel him turning his head. “I’m not.” My voice is very low and barely audible. I feel my heart hammering against my chest. “Good.” I feel his breath against my cheek and close my eyes for a second to take in this moment, this closeness, and the way he is holding my hand.

“This is going to be really romantic,” I hear JJ’s voice and look up, seeing how she places candles around the bullpen.

“We should…” I mumble but do not let him go. “Yes,” he agrees, and I feel his grip loosening around my hand. I sigh and let his hand go, right in time when JJ places a candle next to us, illuminating Spencer's face with warm golden light. He is still turned towards me and very close.

“I need to…grab, ehm, things.” I stammer under his intense gaze, and he snaps out of it, nodding.

I rush to the round table room, closing the door behind me and leaning against it in the dark. Trying to catch my breath.

When I finally manage to calm myself down, I sit on the table in the middle of the room and breathe in and out with full consciousness.

The office is cloaked in darkness, the kind that wraps around you like a heavy blanket. The only light filters in faintly from the hallway, a pale, flickering glow from the emergency exit sign. I sit on the edge of the desk, the silence thick, broken only by the occasional creak of the building settling. Without power, the air feels still—too still—as if the world outside has paused.

Then I hear it. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. My heart stirs before my mind catches up.

“Spencer,” I breathe before I even see him.

He steps into the room like a shadow breaking free from the dark, his silhouette framed in the doorway. I can barely make out his face, but I know that look—like I’m the only thing he sees.

He crosses the room without a word, his movements sure and urgent. The moment his hands touch me—one at my waist, the other sliding up to cradle my cheek—I forget the blackout, forget the cold, forget everything.

His lips find mine like they’ve been aching to. The kiss is slow at first, searching, reverent, but it deepens fast—hungry, full of everything we haven’t said. My hands tangle in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more, needing him.

The desk behind me creaks as I lean back, and his body presses against mine, anchoring me, grounding me. I can feel the heat of him through the layers of our clothes, the way his breath hitches when I whisper his name against his lips.

In the dark, everything feels more intense. Every touch, every sound, every breath is magnified. His kiss is both a question and an answer, and I respond with everything I have.

The world outside doesn’t exist. There’s only Spencer. Only this moment.

His breath is still ragged against my neck, his body trembling faintly, though he’s trying to hide it. He’s still holding me so tightly it’s almost desperate—like if he lets go, everything might shatter. I feel his heartbeat pounding against my chest, wild and unsteady.

“Damn it,” he whispers into my skin, and his voice cracks like something inside him just snapped. “I tried so hard not to cross this line.”

I pull back slightly to look at him, but his eyes won’t meet mine right away. His jaw is clenched, and I can see the war behind his expression. He’s not ashamed. No. He’s drowning in how much he wanted this—how long he’s buried it. And now that it’s broken free, he doesn’t know how to hold it all in.

“I told myself you were off-limits,” he says roughly, finally meeting my gaze. His eyes are dark, shining with intensity, with restraint stretched paper-thin. “I told myself I could handle being near you. Being your friend. Watching you. But every time you laughed, every time you looked at me like I mattered—” He breaks off, swallowing hard, his hands tightening on my thighs. “It burned. And I kept burying it. For so long.”

I feel my chest rise with something sharp, something beautiful and raw. “Spencer…”

“I wanted you. God, I wanted you—” He presses his forehead to mine again, his voice nearly shaking. “But not like this. Not in the dark, not on some desk during a blackout, like I couldn’t wait another second.”

I cup his face, forcing him to feel me, see me. “But you couldn’t wait,” I say gently. “And neither could I.”

His breath catches, and I feel the fight in him stutter. His hands slide up my back, slow but not steady, like he’s still on the edge. His mouth finds mine again, but this time it’s different—fierce, hungry, and full of the ache he’s been caging for too long. He kisses me like he’s starving, like I’m the only thing that’s ever made sense.

And in between those kisses, he mutters, voice thick and nearly trembling: “I should’ve told you. I should’ve said it before I lost control.”

“Said what?” I whisper, though I already know.

He presses his lips to the corner of my mouth, to my jaw, to my throat, and then back to my lips again, like he’s trying to pour it into every touch.

“That I’m in love with you,” he breathes. “That I have been for a long damn time. And it’s been killing me.”

The words hang in the air like lightning—charged, dangerous, but utterly real.

I don't speak right away. I can't. Because everything inside me is burning now too, not just from what we did—but because I know, finally, I’m not the only one who’s been holding this in.

So I just kiss him—hard. Like my answer could be carved into his bones. And maybe it is.

Just as Spencer and I begin to breathe again, still clinging to each other in the charged silence, the sound of a door creaking open behind us.

We freeze.

A soft click of heels, the unmistakable sound of someone stepping into the room. Then a familiar voice, awkward and cautious—but not angry.

“Okay, um… wow. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Spencer goes rigid against me. I gasp quietly and instinctively try to straighten my shirt, fumbling in the dark.

“Emily?” Spencer says, his voice thick and lower than usual, like it hasn't yet recovered from what just happened. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” she says, and I hear her shift her weight, probably standing just inside the doorway. “The power’s still out, but I think I just walked into a completely different kind of emergency.”

I glance at Spencer, wide-eyed, and for the first time since everything exploded between us, he actually lets out a breath of laughter—dry, incredulous, and laced with embarrassment. He steps back enough to give me space, brushing a hand through his hair.

Emily doesn’t sound mad. Not scandalized. Just… amused. And maybe even a little moved.

“I came looking for you two when I realized you were still upstairs,” she says lightly. “Didn’t expect to find a scene straight out of some… office romance novel.”

Spencer groans quietly. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Oh no, it’s exactly what it looks like,” Emily says with a smirk in her voice. “But don’t worry. I’m not about to give you a lecture. I’ve seen the way you look at each other. Frankly, it was about damn time.”

My heart is still racing—not from fear or shame, but from how surreal this all feels. Spencer’s hand finds mine in the dark, fingers lacing tightly, protectively. I squeeze back.

Emily takes a small step back, her tone softening.

“Whatever’s happening between you two... it’s real. I can tell. And for what it’s worth?” She pauses, then adds with quiet sincerity, “I’m happy for you.”

Neither of us speaks. Spencer glances down at me, his expression unreadable for a second—and then he squeezes my hand a little harder. Like even being caught can’t take this moment away from him.

Emily exhales dramatically. “Alright, I’m going to give you five minutes before I pretend to have never seen any of this.”

Then, with a rustle of movement and the soft sound of the door closing behind her, she’s gone.

The silence returns—but it’s lighter now. The tension, the fear, the weight—it’s shifted. We’re still breathless. But something’s changed.

Spencer turns to me, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well… that went better than expected.”

I laugh—quiet, breathy, and a little disbelieving. “You think this means we don’t have to sneak around?”

He leans in, brushing his lips against mine, slow and warm. “I’m not hiding this. Not anymore.” “I don’t think we could anyway; she is possibly telling the others right now.” I chuckle and hug Spencer.

Masterlist

[clementineinn]

some kind of heaven

abstract: they weren’t supposed to cross that line, not yet. but one quiet night, something shifted, inbetween soft laughter, sleepy touches, and confessions that had waited too long.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: explicit smut!! basically smut with a dash of plot lol, but also some fluff

note: i have been having terrible writer’s block and feeling a wee bit unmotivated so i’ve just been writing fluffy stories in order to try to get back into my mojo, and, a smutty fic somehow snuck in between the cracks, oopsie. so i thought i might as well post it while i keep trying to get my writing on par with my ridiculous expectations lol. (this goes out to my fiendish readers, i see you, babes.) this one is pretty explicit compared to my one other smutty fic so be warned!! i’d like to think i’ve improved from my one direction fic days but we’ll see how it’s received…insert devil emoji, jk. enjoy, my lovelies!

The street was still humming.

Not loud like it had been hours earlier, when the bar spilled laughter and neon across the sidewalk, when Emily was dancing on a curb and Morgan was ordering tequila like it came with a discount. Now, just past midnight, the storefronts were shuttered, windows aglow with the last flickers of life: someone washing a dish in their kitchen, a television muttering in a second-floor walkup, headlights sliding past in a lazy hush of rubber on wet pavement.

Spencer’s tie hung loose around his neck, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His sleeves were pushed up unevenly, one arm showing more skin than the other, and his hair—usually tamed by some miracle—was falling in soft, chaotic waves across his forehead. He looked untethered in a way he rarely allowed, and somehow it made him lighter. 

Or maybe it was the bourbon.

Beside him, Y/N stumbled slightly on the curb’s edge, still in her heels — though the left strap was half undone and threatening rebellion. She steadied herself with one hand in the deep pocket of her coat, the other brushing his arm for balance. Her hair was a little windswept, eyes glassy with that soft, half-drunk gleam, and her mouth still wore the edges of a smile from something he’d said five minutes ago. 

“Your definition of dancing,” she said, stepping carefully over a crack in the concrete, “is offensive to rhythm itself.”

Spencer shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “I wasn’t dancing. I was… responding to external stimuli in a kinetic way.”

“That sounds like how a robot would describe dancing.”

He tilted his head. “I didn’t want to break your concentration. You were—” He faltered for a second, clearing his throat. “You were having a good time.”

She turned to look at him, walking backward now, the city light haloing her in a golden blur. “So you were watching me.”

He paused mid-step. “You looked happy.”

That stopped her.

Not dramatically—just a small shift in her expression. Something quiet behind the eyes, like she wasn’t used to someone noticing that. Or maybe used to people noticing the wrong things.

She looked at him for a beat too long, then turned and kept walking. “So did you,” she said. “Happy.”

They didn’t say anything for the next block.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It never was with them. Just filled with city noise and the click of her rings against her shoes, and the brush of her coat sleeve against his every few steps.

When they reached the intersection, Spencer pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at it. “You live closer than I do.”

“Are you inviting yourself over?” she said, mockingly scandalized.

“I’m asking,” he said, with the kind of soft boldness that sounded foreign coming from his mouth. “If you want company. I’ll go home if not.”

Y/N stopped walking. They were under the streetlamp now, and her face was dappled in warm light and shadow, tired and flushed and pretty in a way that made his throat tighten.

“Don’t go home yet,” she said.

And that was that.

They turned the corner in sync.

Her apartment door clicked open with a low metallic sigh, the sound echoing faintly down the quiet hallway. The moment it swung inward, the air changed—cooler inside, tinged with the fading scent of sandalwood and something sweet, like dried orange peel or old perfume absorbed into the walls. Familiar, in the way her space had always felt to him.

“Don’t judge the mess,” she said, glancing at him over her shoulder. “I wasn’t expecting company tonight.”

Spencer smiled faintly. “I won’t.”

She stepped in first, flicking on the small lamp near the kitchen. A pool of golden light spilled across the hardwood, catching the curve of her shoulder as she shrugged out of her coat, letting it slip from her fingers to the hook by the door. She was in black slacks and a deep brown camisole, the kind of thing that walked a perfect line between casual and devastating, and her hair fell around her shoulders like she hadn’t even tried.

Spencer closed the door behind them and stood still for a second, adjusting to the hush of the space. It was like the city had pressed pause outside.

“Make yourself at home,” she said gently, tossing her keys into a ceramic bowl on the counter. “I have wine. Or whiskey. Or that plum soju Garcia left behind last time.”

“Dealer’s choice,” he murmured, loosening his coat and folding it over his arm before draping it on the arm of the couch.

She smiled at that—something small and lazy. “God, you’re always so polite. Even drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“You’re tipsy and poetic,” she said, barefoot now as she padded into the kitchen. “Which is worse.”

He moved to the record player in the corner, almost by instinct.

“Can I?” he asked, fingers already ghosting over the sleeves.

“Please,” she called. The pop of a cork followed.

He flipped through a few records, pausing on one he recognized. Nina Simone. He smiled softly, fingertips grazing the worn cardboard cover before lifting it out and placing it on the turntable like it deserved reverence. A moment later, slow jazz bloomed through the room: smoky and sultry, older than either of them but more alive somehow. The kind of music meant for dim rooms and unspoken things.

“I like your place,” he said.

“You’ve been here before.”

“I know,” he replied. “I still like it.”

She looked up from where she was stood in the kitchen and towards him, and her eyes softened, just slightly. “That was very Reid of you.”

He grinned. “Can’t turn it off.”

“No,” she said, returning with two glasses of wine, deep red, nearly black in the low light, “but I don’t want you to.”

She handed one to him, fingers brushing just for a second, and lifted her own in a loose, crooked toast. 

“To surviving the BAU social scene.”

He took the drink, ignoring the way her touch lingered like heat long after it was gone, and clinked his glass against hers. “Barely.”

They both sipped.

“Mm.” Spencer considered the wine, his brows drawn in mock-concentration. “It’s not terrible. A little tannic, but—”

“You’re such a snob.”

“You invited me,” he reminded her.

She raised one brow. “Still deciding if that was a mistake.”

He let out a laugh—low, surprised, and warm. The kind he never let himself have in briefing rooms or hotel lobbies or anywhere the world might listen. This was different. Here, no one else could hear it.

She curled onto the couch, tucking one leg beneath her and pulling a throw blanket into her lap. “Sit, Spence. I’m not going to quiz you on wine regions, I promise.”

He joined her, a little more hesitantly. His thigh brushed hers as he sat down, and he didn’t move away. Neither did she.

For a while, they just drank.

Talked softly. Laughed under their breath about Morgan’s karaoke attempt and JJ’s dramatic reading of a cocktail menu. The record spun on, humming something slow and smoky beneath the hush of their voices.

Y/N leaned back on the couch, wine glass balanced lazily between her fingers, her gaze flicking sideways with a mischievous glint. “You know that girl at the bar was flirting with you, right?”

Spencer glanced up, half-suspicious. “What girl?”

She scoffed. “The pretty one in the leather jacket. Red lipstick. Kept asking you questions she absolutely didn’t care about. Like if you came here often or believed in astrology.”

Spencer blinked, genuinely baffled. “She asked about Jupiter’s moons.”

“She asked if you wanted her number,” Y/N laughed, tipping her glass to her lips. “And you said, ‘Actually, there are seventy-nine confirmed moons—’”

“I was being polite.”

“You were being adorably oblivious.”

He rolled his eyes, reaching for the wine bottle and pouring a little more into her glass with exaggerated precision. “Says the woman who spent ten minutes explaining bourbon notes to the bartender while he tried not to drool on the counter.”

Her brow arched. “Are you jealous?”

He smirked, shrugging one shoulder. “Only if you are.”

She paused — just for a second too long — then gave him a coy smile. “Please. I have excellent taste.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, sipping slowly, “but you have no idea how many guys watch you when you’re not looking.”

Her smile faltered slightly, not from discomfort, but from the shift in tone. It had turned warmer. Quieter. Something flickering at the edges.

“You do,” she said softly.

“What?”

“Watch me.”

He met her gaze. Didn’t look away. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

The moment stretched — soft and electric.

And then she nudged his knee with hers. “Still not admitting the girl wanted your number?”

“I’d rather have yours,” he said, offhandedly, sure,  but his voice was low now, almost surprised at his own boldness.

She stared at him for a breath too long.

And then smiled, slow and sure. “You already do.”

Their glasses got lower after that. The space between them shrank without effort. And the music kept playing.

At one point, she reached for the bottle again and leaned across him to pour, her wrist near his jaw, the scent of her shampoo flooding every neuron in his brain. He didn’t move. Just watched her fingers tilt the bottle and set it back down with care.

She sat back, looked at him, and tilted her head. “What?”

“You’re really close,” he said.

“You want me to move?”

“No.”

There it was again. That stillness. That moment just before something tips over the edge.

The music curled around them like smoke. The city outside kept breathing. But in here, it felt like nothing else existed except the way her gaze dropped to his mouth, and the way he didn’t stop her.

The needle kept spinning. Nina’s voice low and molten, curling like smoke around the edges of the room.

Y/N took another sip of wine, slow and deliberate. Her fingers lingered on the rim of her glass, nails tapping gently, thoughtfully, as she looked at him—really looked at him.

“You’re staring,” she said, not unkindly.

Spencer blinked, caught. “Am I?”

“Mhm.” Her lips curved, just barely. “Not that I mind. You’re just bad at being subtle when you’re drunk.”

“I told you, I’m not drunk.”

“Tipsy, then. Poetic. Loosened.” She leaned in a little, head tilted, voice dropping just slightly. “You get quieter when you’re like this. But not in a bad way. Like you’re… watching everything.”

“I do that all the time,” he murmured.

“Not like this,” she said.

“I told you I was watching you. In the bar.”

That stopped her for a beat, just long enough for his gaze to dip lower, flick to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

“You looked…” he began, then tilted his head slightly, voice rougher now, quieter. “Like you belonged to no one. Like everyone wanted a piece of you.”

She inhaled softly, her lips parting — the smallest shift, really. 

“And you?” she asked, smile pulling at the edge of her mouth, almost breathless. “Did you want a piece?”

His answer came without hesitation.

“I wanted all of you.”

Her breath caught, barely.

And then she smiled again, slower now. More like surrender. “That’s a bold thing to say, Dr. Reid.”

He leaned in, just a little closer. His knee still pressed to hers. “It’s been a long night.”

Her eyes never left his.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s just starting.”

He set his wine glass down on the table, slow and careful, like the action might ground him. Like if he focused on the glass, he wouldn’t notice the way she was looking at him now—eyes soft, mouth parted slightly. Waiting.

Y/N’s gaze dropped to his lips for a fraction of a second before flicking back up. “You’re thinking too much again.”

“I always do.”

She nodded. “I know. But right now, maybe you don’t have to.”

The invitation was quiet. Threaded into the air between them like something sacred.

Spencer’s pulse thrummed in his throat. His breath faltered. The room seemed to still with it: the soft hum of the record, the golden pool of lamplight, the faint hush of the city breathing through the cracked window. He looked at her like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch her or if he already was.

And then — slowly — he reached out.

His fingers brushed her cheek, feather-light. She turned into the touch immediately, like her skin had been waiting for it. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes kissing her cheeks, and then opened again, heavy-lidded and searching.

He leaned in.

Not rushed. Not unsure. Just… drawn. Like gravity. Like she was inevitable.

Their lips met in a hush — no sudden heat, no gasp. Just a quiet, breath-warmed kiss that landed and stayed. She shifted toward him, hand slipping over his knee, sliding slowly up his thigh as she kissed him again, more certain now. Her other hand curled behind his neck, fingers threading gently into the base of his hair.

His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her cheekbone.

When he kissed her again, his lips parted slightly, letting her deepen it — and she did. Not with force, but with intent. Her mouth moved over his like a promise. Like something she’d thought about too many times not to get right.

He sighed into it, low and shaken, and let his other hand fall to her hip, drawing her gently across the couch until she was straddling him. The weight of her settled into his lap and he exhaled like it undid something in his chest.

Her forehead pressed to his as their mouths parted just slightly, breath mixing in the space between.

“I’ve wanted this,” she whispered.

He swallowed, his hand still resting at her jaw. “Me too.”

“How long?”

He laughed under his breath, one of those low, warm sounds that only came out when he forgot to be careful. “I think since the first time you rolled your eyes at me in a briefing.”

She smiled, nose brushing his. “You deserved it.”

“I know.”

She kissed him again. Slower. Surer. His hands moved over her now — waist, back, ribs — not grabbing, not greedy, just there. Learning her. Mapping her. Holding her like something sacred.

She rocked against him once, subtle and smooth and unable to help herself, and he gasped softly into her mouth, his hands tightening just slightly.

“You’re still thinking,” she whispered, breath shaky against his cheek.

“I’m trying not to,” he murmured, kissing just beneath her jaw. “But you make it hard.”

She smiled faintly, flushed and breathless. “Still thinking about that girl at the bar?”

He let out a quiet laugh against her skin. “She didn’t exactly leave an impression.”

“Oh no?” she teased, moving just enough to roll her hips against his, stealing his breath.

He gasped, actually gasped, then looked up at her, eyes wide and wrecked. “She didn’t watch me like this.”

“Like what?” she breathed.

“Like you’re watching me now.”

And then he kissed her again, deeper this time, like the air between them had finally gone thin, and she moaned softly into his mouth, letting the moment pull them both under.

But as they moved, slow and flush together, her lips brushing his jaw again, Spencer’s voice dropped lower, just a shade darker.

“You know…” he murmured between kisses, his mouth brushing the edge of her jaw, “I still can’t stop thinking about the bartender.”

She stilled slightly, not pulling back, just pausing, and opened her eyes to meet his.

“What about him?”

Spencer's gaze flicked to her mouth, then lower. His voice was quieter now, rougher. “The way he looked at you. Like he’d already decided you were his.”

She arched one brow, breath catching as she watched him curiously. “Still jealous, Doctor?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kissed her, slow and claiming, before pressing his lips to her throat.

“I’m not good at sharing,” he whispered.

She smiled then, but it was different now. Less teasing. Her hands slid up into his hair, eyes suddenly darker, softer.

“Good,” she said, voice barely audible. “Neither am I.”

Neither of them moved for a long, loaded second.

And then he shifted, just slightly, gripping her hips more firmly, pulling her closer. The contact made her gasp — sharp and soft — her hands clinging to his shoulders like she needed him to anchor her.

“Spence—”

His mouth found her collarbone, biting down gently before soothing it with his tongue.

“You smiled at him like that,” he whispered against her skin. “Like you’re smiling at me now.”

Her breath hitched. “I didn’t—”

“I know,” he said. “I know. But he got to see it.”

He rolled his hips up into hers, slow and deliberate, just enough for her to feel the press of him, the need simmering just beneath the surface.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently. “Spencer—”

His eyes fluttered at the pull, his jaw tightening as he guided her hips down against him again, nothing rushed, nothing sharp. Just heat and ache, the slow grind of want, their bodies catching on each other like waves.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he murmured, voice rough, lips brushing her collarbone. “Him watching you. Wanting you.”

She arched slightly, forehead falling to his. “You have me.”

“I know,” he whispered, voice cracking. “But I need you to feel it.”

She gasped as their bodies dragged together again — slow, desperate friction — and her spine arched, a soft moan breaking free.

“I do,” she breathed.

“You’re mine right now,” he said, still soft, still reverent, but with a quiet ache in it. “He doesn’t get this.”

Her moan cracked open in her throat, hips rolling harder now, chasing the edge he was teasing her toward. His hands steadied her, guided her, pressed her closer until their bodies fit like a lock and key.

“You like this?” he whispered. “Me jealous?”

She nodded, breathless, face flushed.

“Good,” he breathed, lips brushing hers. “Because I can’t watch you smile at someone else and pretend it doesn’t kill me.”

Her breath was coming faster now — shallow, open-mouthed, flushed against his cheek. Her hips moved instinctively, drawn to the way his hands guided her, but every roll of their bodies made the fabric between them feel heavier. Too hot. Too much.

Spencer’s hands flattened at her waist, gripping a little tighter — not to control her, but to hold her together. To hold himself together. She could feel it in the tremble of his fingers, the way his jaw clenched beneath her kisses.

“God,” he rasped, voice breaking as she ground down again, slowly, “we’re still—fully clothed—”

She let out a soft laugh, breathless, forehead pressed to his. “I know.”

His mouth found her jaw, then her throat, and then lower, kissing over the thin fabric of her shirt like he couldn’t stand not touching her properly. “You’re burning up.”

“So are you,” she whispered, dragging her hands down his chest, feeling the heat radiating through his shirt. Her fingers hesitated at the hem.

He looked up at her then, eyes wide, reverent, a little wrecked. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” she said immediately, firmly, but soft. “Do you?”

He shook his head once. “Not even close.”

She smiled then, not coy, not teasing, but sure. A quiet kind of knowing.

Her hands slipped beneath his shirt, warm palms against his stomach, and he shivered beneath her. She moved slowly, pushing the fabric up inch by inch until he raised his arms for her. She lifted it over his head and tossed it aside, her fingertips grazing his skin on the way down.

Spencer looked up at her, breath caught in his throat.

“Okay?” she whispered, her hands settling at his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, awe-struck. “You?”

“Yeah.” She kissed him — soft and long — before guiding his hands to the hem of her own shirt.

His breath hitched. “Can I?”

She nodded.

He peeled it upward, slowly, reverently, revealing warm skin, inch by inch, until it joined his on the floor.

For a moment, they just looked at each other.

Still straddling him, still fully pressed together, but more bare now. More seen than before. Her hands on his chest, his at the curve of her waist. No rush. Just being here.

His voice was low, barely audible. “You’re perfect.”

She leaned down and kissed him again, mouths parting in the heat of it, her hands finding the back of his neck as she murmured against his lips, “So are you.”

Everything smelled like her: orange peel and wine and faint perfume and something he couldn’t name but knew by heart. Her skin was warm beneath his hands. Her breath brushed his mouth. She was close, so close, and yet something in him still hadn’t fully let go.

Y/N pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him.

Not teasing. Not smiling.

Just… looking.

His heart clenched.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice softer now, more fragile around the edges. Her fingers traced a lazy shape along his shoulder. “You’re quiet.”

Spencer swallowed hard. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His hands were still on her hips. Her body was still pressed to his.

But something needed to be said before they could lose themselves again.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to pretend after this,” he said, so quietly he wasn’t sure she’d hear it. It came out before he could stop it. Like it had been living in his chest for months.

Y/N blinked. And then she looked down — lashes brushing her cheeks, lips still parted, pink from kissing.

She didn’t move away.

“You don’t have to,” she said, like it was simple. But her voice caught faintly at the end, something flickering behind her calm. “We’re not in the field. You don’t have to be careful with me right now.”

“I always feel like I do,” he whispered.

Her hand slid from his chest to the side of his face. Not guiding. Just there. Her thumb brushed the hinge of his jaw, grounding him.

“You don’t,” she said again — firmer this time. Quieter, but sure.

Spencer’s throat worked. He nodded, barely. “I’ve thought about this,” he said, the words trembling as they left him. “For so long. And not like this—not drunk, not after a night out. But… I’d take it a thousand different ways if it meant getting here.”

She broke then — not fully, but beautifully. Her mouth softened. Her breath trembled. And then she smiled — slow and stunned and real.

“Hey,” she murmured, nudging her nose against his. “You’re not drunk.”

He exhaled, something sharp in him releasing. “No?”

“No. Just…” She smirked faintly, brushing her lips over his. “Seduced.”

That made him laugh — a real laugh, low and shaken and absolutely ruined. His head tipped back slightly as he did, and she watched the way it lit him up from the inside out. Watched the boyish part of him that still believed she couldn’t possibly mean it.

God, she did.

She kissed the edge of his mouth, slower this time. Tender.

“You okay?” she asked again, lips brushing his.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping. “Are you?”

She nodded, then added under her breath, “I just… didn’t expect it to feel this much like you.”

He kissed her back like it was an answer. Like it was yes. Like it was always.

And when they moved again, when her hands slid down his shoulders and his mouth found the curve of her shoulder, it was less about heat and more about reverence. Something holy in how they touched each other now.

Like they knew this mattered.

Like they knew what came next wouldn’t be careless.

Y/N shifted first, her hand sliding down his chest, slow and unhurried. Her fingertips brushed the edge of his waistband, and he inhaled like she’d touched a nerve. He looked at her — not with hesitation, but with something like reverence, like he couldn’t believe she was really here.

Her lips hovered just over his. “Okay?”

He nodded once, breathless. “Yeah.”

She kissed him then — soft, grounding — and began to undo the button of his pants. Her hands moved gently, fingers careful, like she wanted to give him every chance to stop her. He didn’t. He just watched her, every muscle in his body wound tight beneath the tenderness.

When she eased the fabric down over his hips, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His eyes fluttered closed, then opened again as her hands slid back up his thighs, palms warm and reassuring. She leaned in and kissed his chest, just above his heart, and he trembled beneath her.

Then it was his turn.

His hands moved slowly, reverently — first to the waistband of her pants, fingers brushing just beneath the fabric like he was asking, are you sure? She nodded against his lips, breath catching as he kissed her again, deeper this time, fuller. Like he needed to anchor himself before daring to go further.

He slid her pants down carefully, his palms trailing over the curve of her hips, knuckles grazing the skin of her thighs. When the fabric caught around her knees, he stilled.

Lace.

Soft and black and clinging. His breath faltered.

The flush hit him high on the cheeks, heat blooming down his neck, and he tried not to stare, but he was already gone. She was still straddling him, bare from the waist down save for that thin, delicate lace, and it was nearly translucent with how wet it was. A dark patch where the fabric met her center. A glisten along the inside of her thighs.

Spencer swallowed hard, once, then again, like he couldn’t get enough air.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

She looked down at him, the barest hint of a smile playing at her lips, not teasing, not smug. Just knowing.

He ran his hands up her thighs, slow and shaking, and hooked his fingers under the lace. His breath stuttered as he pulled it down — past the curve of her hips, over her trembling legs, until she lifted to help him and it slipped away entirely.

And then she was bare.

Her skin damp, flushed, warm and real above him. His eyes dragged over every inch; the way her thighs flexed to keep balance, the way her breath hitched when his fingers grazed her again, even without meaning to.

“You’re—” he tried, voice wrecked and aching. “You’re so—”

“I know,” she whispered.

She was soft and flushed and real, breathing a little harsh, her chest rising and falling with quiet urgency.

“You okay?” she whispered, touching his face.

“I—” His voice cracked. “Yeah. You’re just… I didn’t know you could want something this much and still be this careful.”

Her smile broke gently, her thumb brushing his cheek. “That’s what you do to me.”

He just stared for a moment.

The kind of stare that wasn’t crude or possessive, but stunned. Quietly reverent. As if something had unraveled in his chest just from seeing her like this. Completely bare. Completely his.

His hands hovered at first, unsure where to begin, until she reached for him, wordlessly, her palm curling over his wrist and guiding his fingers to her waist.

He touched her like she was an answer he’d been chasing for years.

Long, slow sweeps of his hands down her sides, over her hips. His thumbs curved along the dip where her thighs met her pelvis. He exhaled softly when she sighed — a small, broken sound in the back of her throat — and glanced up immediately, eyes wide like he’d just solved something.

“Was that good?” he asked, voice hushed, fingers still resting against her skin like he wasn’t sure if he could do it again.

She nodded, breath catching. “Yes, Spence.”

He blinked slowly, lashes fluttering, as his hands resumed their quiet study. One hand slid up her back, over her ribs, tracing the shape of her spine with featherlight touches. The other moved between her legs — tentative, aching — and when his fingers brushed against her there, slick and swollen, he drew a breath so sharp it made her shiver.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

His touch was delicate at first. Exploring. Mapping her with the same precision he used to dissect crime scenes or quote obscure physics. But now, now it was paired with breathless awe. A scientist, yes, but a man hopelessly in love, desperate to learn every inch of her.

When his fingers slid gently through her folds, she whimpered.

He looked up again, startled by the sound, his brows furrowing like he needed to know exactly what he’d done to cause it, and how to do it again. He adjusted, thumb slipping to circle softly where she was most sensitive, and her whole body jerked.

“Spence—” she gasped.

“That?” he murmured, hypnotized. “That felt good?”

Her hand gripped his shoulder. “Don’t stop.”

So he didn’t.

He kept his eyes on her the whole time, his fingers moving in slow, purposeful circles, the sound of her arousal soft and slick between them. Her breath grew uneven, shallow. Her thighs quivered around his waist. And every time her hips moved, every time she made that sweet, breathy little sound — he looked up, hungry and stunned, like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

“Tell me what you need,” he breathed, his voice cracking around the edges. “Please, Y/N, I want to do it right.”

“You are,” she whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth, her body rolling toward his hand. “You are.”

And his thumb pressed just a little firmer, his fingers curving just so — and her head tipped back, mouth open, another soft whimper escaping her lips.

The sound of it undid him. He swallowed hard, face flushed, mouth parted like he was the one losing control. Like her pleasure was his.

“You’re unbelievable,” he whispered, and he meant it. Every word.

His fingers kept moving, featherlight and trembling, like he was terrified of breaking her. But her body welcomed every motion; hips tilting toward his hand, her thighs falling wider around him, soft gasps catching in her throat as she whispered his name like it was the only word she remembered.

Spencer watched every reaction like it held a key to something he didn’t yet understand.

He traced lower, then up again, circling with his thumb, watching her tremble. Her lashes fluttered, lips parted as she tried to breathe through it, her voice catching on each exhale like she couldn’t keep herself quiet anymore.

“Spence,” she mewled, her hands gripping his shoulders, her hips stuttering as she pressed into him.

He flushed at the sound, gaze flickering between her face and where he was touching her, already soaked, already shaking. “You’re—God, you’re so soft,” he whispered, swallowing hard. “So warm.”

His fingers curved again, more pressure this time. She cried out, just a little, just enough. Her hand shot down instinctively, not to stop him, never that, but to anchor herself. And in the same breath, she touched him.

Her fingers wrapped around him, just barely, and he jolted like her skin was fire.

“Y/N—oh—”

She brushed her thumb across the tip — slick, flushed, impossibly warm — and Spencer’s whole body jolted beneath her like he’d been shocked.

“F-fuck, that feels—” His voice cracked, hips stuttering forward into her hand. His eyes fluttered closed, then snapped open again, wild and glassy. “That feels so good—”

She felt the wetness spread between her fingers, warm and slippery, his arousal smearing across her palm with each shaky movement. He twitched in her grip, pulsing against her skin like he was already on the edge.

“Yeah,” she gasped, her breath catching hard. “I want you, Spence. I need you.”

Her words knocked the wind out of him.

He let out a strangled moan, his hips jerking again, more desperate now, chasing the friction, his hands gripping her hips so tightly it bordered on reverent. His whole body was trembling, unraveling with every second she touched him.

“Don’t make me beg,” she whispered, curling her fingers tighter, teasing him again as slickness spread down.

But Spencer’s eyes found hers, pupils dark and unfocused, lips parted as he barely managed to speak:

“I want you to beg.”

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even confident. It was needy, desperate, like the sound of her pleading might be the only thing that could keep him from falling apart right there in her hand.

“Please,” he added a second later, broken and breathless. “Please. I need to hear it.”

She leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear, her breath shaky with want.

“Please,” she whispered. “Spence… I need you inside me. Need you to help me take it.”

His breath hitched, chest rising in short, sharp pulls.

“I want you to fuck me,” she murmured, voice trembling now, nearly a whimper. “I want to feel all of you, every inch. Will you let me?”

He let out a broken moan, high, desperate, like it had been waiting in his throat for years. One of his hands fisted in the blanket beside him. The other slid up, slowly, reverently, to her waist, then her ribs, then settled just beneath her chest, like he couldn’t decide where to hold her because he wanted to touch everything at once.

“I know,” he whispered. “I just… I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to rush.”

“You won’t,” she promised, leaning in to kiss him — slow and still — her hand cupping his jaw. “We won’t.”

Then she shifted her hips, aligning them with a softness that felt sacred. Her breath caught as she hovered above him, and his hands settled at her sides, fingers flexing as if he still couldn’t believe she was real.

“Okay?” she breathed again.

His head bobbed in a dazed nod, but she didn’t move.

Her hands slid up his chest slowly, deliberately, until her thumbs rested just below his collarbones, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart beneath her fingers.

“I need you to say it, Spence,” she whispered, voice soft but steady. “With words.”

He blinked up at her, breath catching. His lips were parted, flushed, trembling. For a second, he couldn’t find the sound—just the feeling, all of it tangled up in his throat—but then he swallowed hard and rasped, “Yes. Please. I want you.”

She smiled, slow and warm, eyes flickering over him like he was the only thing in the world.

“Good boy,” she whispered, barely audible, her breath catching on the words.

Spencer let out a strangled sound — part gasp, part moan — and she felt it the moment it hit him. His hips twitched beneath her, jolting with a sharp, helpless pulse against her as if the praise had short-circuited him.

His hands clenched reflexively at her hips, fingertips digging in just a little, like he needed to hold onto something, anything.

“Jesus,” he breathed, eyes fluttering shut for a second, already undone and she hadn’t even moved yet.

And then, inch by inch, she sank down onto him — slow, steady, trembling with the effort to stay present. Letting him feel every part of her choosing this. Letting herself feel the ache of being filled like that for the first time; all the way, all at once, like her body had been waiting for this exact shape.

Spencer’s head tipped back against the couch, jaw tight, lips parted.

“Oh my god—”

His voice broke.

The words left him on a gasp, soft and whiny, like his body had outpaced his ability to hold anything in. His hands fumbled at her hips, not to guide her, but to hold on. Like if he didn’t anchor himself to her, he might fall apart.

Y/N was already watching him; flushed, bare, her hands flat on his chest like she needed to feel the stammer of his heartbeat. Her thighs trembled slightly around his hips. Her breath caught in her throat.

She reached up and cradled his face with both hands, her thumbs brushing over the apples of his cheeks, her eyes shining with something unnameable.

He gasped again, almost disoriented.

“Yeah?” she whispered, her own voice shaking slightly now. Her lips ghosted against his jaw, then hovered by his ear. “Feel good?”

That pulled something raw out of him — a sound that wasn’t a word, just a broken, aching yes.

His hands slipped up her back, clumsy and reverent.

“You don’t even know,” he whispered, voice cracking like the moment was too full to carry. “You feel like—like everything.”

She kissed him then, slow and steady and deep, guiding his mouth back to hers like she was still teaching him how to breathe.

And he let her — let her hold his face and move against him and carry them forward, bit by bit, into something that no longer felt like the edge of want but the center of it.

Y/N moved over him in a rhythm that wasn’t steady anymore — not perfect, not planned. Just instinct. Just need. Her hips rolled because she couldn’t not, because the feeling of him deep inside her made her stomach twist and her breath stutter. She was trembling, not from nerves, not from effort, but from the ache that bloomed with every breath, every drag of skin, every tiny shift that made him gasp beneath her.

His hands gripped her waist, tight and unthinking, and her fingers clawed at his shoulders like she didn’t know what to do with her own body anymore. Her forehead bumped his, their mouths barely apart, eyes fluttering closed and open again with every shock of sensation.

“Spence—” she breathed, her voice broken now, lips brushing his.

He let out a sound that didn’t even sound like a word — just breath, just want, his mouth falling open against her neck. He couldn’t stop kissing her, couldn’t stop moving. She felt too good. She felt like nothing had ever come close to this.

Her nails scraped through his hair, and he moaned into her throat. “You—fuck, you feel—” He cut off again, lost in it, dragging her down harder as his hips pressed up to meet her.

“God,” she whispered, burying her face in his neck, her voice dissolving into a shaky cry as her body clenched down around him, tight and wanting. “Spencer, I—”

He was gasping now, jaw slack, fingers bruising at her hips. “I can’t—I’m gonna—Y/N—”

“I know,” she whispered, even though she didn’t. Even though she was already starting to fall apart, already shaking, already gone. “Me too.”

Their rhythm shifted — deeper, messier. Not graceful anymore, not careful. Just pure feeling. Her hips lifted and sank, dragged friction through the center of them both, and Spencer’s moans caught in his throat, softer now, more breath than sound. He couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think.

Y/N could feel him unraveling; in the way his fingers flexed on her hips, in how he pressed up into her like he couldn’t not, like staying still was suddenly impossible. She was gasping too now, her forehead falling to his, their noses brushing as they moved together, lost in the drag and the ache and the heat.

“Spence,” she breathed his name like a prayer, like a plea.

“I don’t—” he tried, but couldn’t finish. His voice cracked. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” she whispered, but it was half a gasp, her head falling back slightly as he shifted beneath her and hit that place that made her see stars. “You couldn’t.”

His hands gripped harder. “You feel—fuck, you feel—”

“I know,” she breathed, and her voice was shaking too now, coming apart at the edges. “I know, I—Spence, look at me.”

And when he did — when their eyes met — it hit her like a punch. His face was flushed and open and wrecked. His mouth parted, his eyes glassy and wide and too full of everything to speak. Just need. Just her.

And then he moved — all instinct, all surrender — pulling her down against him with a force that wasn’t rough, just desperate. Like he couldn’t take being apart from her for even an inch. Like he needed her closer. Needed all of her.

Their bodies fit like they were made for it. Every roll of her hips made his breath catch, every grind of him inside her made her thighs shake. And there was no room left for language now.

Her thighs flexed around him as she rode him, slow at first, hips lifting, circling, sinking again in a rhythm that made him groan, head tipped back, neck arched. She pressed her hands to his chest for balance, fingers splaying over his heart, and the shift in angle had her gasping too; her breath catching with every downward roll, every glide of him so deep inside her it felt like she was melting.

The couch creaked faintly beneath them, its old frame groaning in time with every rise and fall of her body. Her hair slipped over her shoulders in soft, undone waves, falling around his face like a curtain as she leaned into him, moving faster now, more sure. Her chest brushed his, damp with sweat, her breath stuttering near his mouth.

Every motion dragged a moan from him — helpless, wrecked — and she could feel it building in herself too, high in her chest, low in her belly, a flicker that turned into fire with every grind of her hips, every press of him inside her.

“Spence—” she gasped, voice breathless and thin. “I’m gonna—”

Her thighs began to tremble from the effort, rhythm faltering as the pressure inside her built too fast, too strong. She was still trying to move — hips lifting, circling — but it was falling apart, every breath catching, every motion stuttering as her body tried to keep up with the feeling.

“Spence—” she gasped, eyes fluttering, “I—I can’t—”

He saw it in her face, the way her mouth fell open and her brows pinched, her body struggling to hold on to the rhythm as pleasure coiled tight and threatening. And that was it. That look. That sound.

That’s what undid him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, breath shuddering, “Come here—”

His hands clamped around her hips, holding her in place as he took over — rolling his hips up hard, fast, brutal almost in his desperation. Their bodies met with wet, dizzying rhythm, the couch groaning beneath them, the air thick with breath and heat and the sharp, helpless sounds of both of them falling apart.

She cried out, body jolting with every thrust, hands gripping his shoulders like she was trying to ground herself, to hold on. Her head fell forward, forehead brushing his, mouth parted against his cheek.

“Spence—Spence, oh my god—”

“You sound so pretty,” he gasped against her skin, voice broken and raw. “So fucking pretty—look at me—please—”

She lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes, and what he saw there made his breath catch: flushed and glassy, mouth swollen from kissing, trembling and wide open just for him.

“Come for me,” he whispered, voice almost pleading, hips still driving up into her. “Please, baby—come for me—”

She was right there.

Every breath spilled like it hurt to keep it in, her body drawn so tight it felt like she might snap from the inside out. Her thighs trembled as she moved, his name slipping past her lips in a soft, choked gasp. Every part of her was alive with sensation; her skin electric, her chest flushed and aching, her stomach coiled so tightly it felt like lightning wrapped around bone.

He saw it—felt it—in the way her rhythm stuttered, how her nails dug into his shoulders, how her mouth dropped open without a sound at first. Just air, no words. And then—

“Spencer—” she breathed, almost tearful. “I’m—Spence, I—”

He didn’t let up. Couldn’t. His hips kept surging up to meet her, driving into her with a desperate, focused rhythm. One hand still gripped her hip, fingers pressing bruises into her skin; the other slid up, caught the nape of her neck, tangled in her hair.

And then he leaned forward — lips finding her chest, his mouth open and hot and worshipping. He kissed her there like he needed to feel her heartbeat against his tongue, needed to know this was real, that this was happening. His teeth grazed the swell of her breast before he sucked gently at her skin, reverent and wild all at once.

That’s when she shattered.

Her back arched, neck long, jaw slack, the sound that tore from her throat was high and unrestrained, a broken, beautiful cry that echoed in the dim hush of the room. Her body clamped down around him, helpless and overwhelmed, her thighs squeezing his hips as her climax rushed through her in waves.

It was like being lit from within.

Her vision blurred, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, and all she could see behind her lids was starlight. Not metaphor. Not fancy. Real constellations — Orion, Cassiopeia, Ursa Major — all the ones he used to whisper about during stakeouts and long walks back from crime scenes. They bloomed behind her eyes like galaxies, like he’d left fingerprints in her brain and now they were burning, glowing, everywhere.

“Oh—fuck—” she gasped, voice raw and unrecognizable, her body convulsing with the force of it.

Still, he didn’t stop. Still, he moved beneath her — chasing her through the stars.

Then his hand tugged gently at her hair, grounding her. He leaned up, breath ragged, pulling her face down toward his. Their foreheads bumped, her breaths hot on his mouth.

“Let me see you,” he whispered, voice ruined. “I want to see you come.”

And she did.

Eyes fluttering open through the haze, locking on his as her body jerked in his lap again, one last wave tearing through her, eyes glassy, lashes damp. Her mouth trembled as she tried to speak — couldn’t. She just kissed him instead, open-mouthed and desperate, like she was falling into him and didn’t want to land.

It was too much.

The way her body still pulsed around him, soft and fluttering in the aftermath. The way her breaths landed against his mouth, shaky and stunned. The way her hands trembled as they cupped his face like she was still coming down and didn’t want to let go of him to fall.

And the sounds — god, the sounds.

She was whispering his name in that broken, honeyed voice, lips brushing his cheek like she couldn’t stop saying it. Like it was the only word that felt safe in her mouth. And her moans—soft, whiny, drawn out like ribbon—sank into his skin and rewired every nerve in his body. She leaned in, still dazed, still breathless, and murmured it against his ear:

“You feel so good, Spencer… you’re so deep, it’s perfect, it’s—god—stay just like that, please—”

He broke.

His brain — that hyperactive, endlessly connecting, wildly calculating brain — short-circuited. It couldn’t process anything but her. The smell of her skin, the echo of her moans, the slick grip of her body around him. It was data overload; no logic, no equations, no escape hatch through reason.

Just her. Just this.

“Fuck,” he gasped, hands clawing at her hips now, breath ragged, his body taking over. He couldn’t stop the way he thrust into her — desperate, erratic, hungry. “I can’t— I can’t hold it—”

She kissed him through it, soft and slow, but messy now, like she needed to feel him fall apart under her. Like watching him lose control was her favorite part.

And it was blissful torture: his body was spiraling, tightening, burning from the inside out, and her voice was there, soft and trembling against his mouth.

“Spence—” she whined, her forehead bumping his, lips brushing his. “Please—please, I need it—need you to let go for me.”

Her words undid him. Not just the sound of them, but the way she said it, like she was begging for him, like she couldn’t stand the thought of being without this moment.

“You feel so good,” she moaned softly, the words falling out like she couldn’t stop them, like she wasn’t even aware she was speaking. “Please, baby, I want to feel you—please…”

That’s all it took.

His eyes rolled back. His jaw slackened, lips parting in a soundless gasp before the wrecked, high whine finally spilled out of him — raw and breathless, almost broken. His brow furrowed hard, as if it hurt to feel this much, like the pleasure was too big for his body to hold.

And then his hips slammed up into her — sharp, uncontrollable, desperate.

Y/N cried out, her whole body jolting from the force of it, the sound caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Her fingers fisted in his hair, nails dragging against his scalp, and when the second thrust hit — just as brutal, just as deep — she bit into the curve of his neck, hard, like her body didn’t know how else to survive it.

She clenched around him; helpless, breath shattering, vision going hazy.

Spencer groaned again, louder this time, pitched and desperate. His hands gripped her hips tight enough to bruise, dragging her down onto him like he needed her fused to him, needed her everywhere all at once.

“Oh my god—Y/N—” His voice cracked again, soft and choked. “Fuck, you—”

The words died on his tongue, overwhelmed by the flood crashing through him. It ripped him apart. Every nerve was fire, every inch of him straining toward her, his release pouring through him like it had been waiting years to be set free.

His whole body convulsed — spine arching, chest rising in short, helpless gasps — and he buried his face in her shoulder like he couldn’t bear to be seen in this moment of ruin. She held him, breathless and clinging, skin pressed to skin, letting him tremble through every last wave of it.

It was too much; it was perfect.

His world narrowed to her: her breath on his neck, the clutch of her around him, the soft whimper she let out as he rocked up into her one last time, like he couldn’t stop.

“Don’t let go,” he murmured, half-delirious. “Please—please don’t let go—”

Her fingers threaded gently into his hair, her lips brushing his temple in a hush of warmth. Her voice was still trembling, still wrecked, but sure.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered. “I’ve got you, Spence. I’m right here.”

He clung to her like the world might fall apart if he didn’t.

And still, she held on.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing.

Slow, uneven, stunned.

The city still whispered outside, the faint hiss of passing cars, the low hum of a train echoing through the bones of the building, but here, wrapped in the heat of her living room, everything felt impossibly still.

Spencer’s head rested against her chest, eyes closed, arms looped tight around her waist like he didn’t trust the world not to take her away if he let go. His heartbeat raced against her ribs. His breath warmed the hollow of her throat.

Y/N’s fingers were in his hair, gentle now, smoothing back the strands she’d tugged too hard. She blinked slowly, dazed, every inch of her pulsing and flushed, barely tethered to the ground. Her legs trembled around him still, not from strain anymore, but from aftershock.

Neither of them spoke.

Until she let out the tiniest laugh: a stunned, breathless sound that made his lashes flicker against her skin.

He shifted, nose brushing her collarbone. “What?”

“I just…” she pulled back an inch, enough to look at him — cheeks pink, lips swollen, her expression equal parts wonder and disbelief. “We really—just did that.”

He smiled, small and awed, and didn’t let go. “We really did.”

Her hand slid down his shoulder, lazy and slow, until her fingertips traced the edge of his jaw. “You okay?”

Spencer opened his eyes, glassy, wide, soft. “I don’t even know where I am right now.”

That made her laugh again, this time louder — giddy and breathless and beautiful.

“You sure you’re not drunk?”

“No,” he said, blinking up at her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded. “I’m just completely fucking in love with you.”

That caught her off-guard — not the words, maybe, but the softness in them. The way he said it like it wasn’t new. Like it had always been true.

Y/N’s smile turned gentler. She kissed him once, then again, and then let her forehead rest against his.

And then she blinked, glanced down between them, and made a face.

“Oh my god.”

Spencer’s eyes followed hers, and his face flushed immediately.

She sat back slightly, still straddling him, hands braced on his chest. “We made a mess.”

“I—yeah,” he said, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” she cut in, grinning despite herself. “Just… wow.”

He buried his face in his hands. “God, I’m never going to recover from this.”

“You’ll be fine,” she said, leaning down to kiss his temple. “Eventually.”

When she finally moved — carefully, slowly — it was with a quiet whimper she couldn’t hold back. A soft, shaky sound as she lifted herself off of him, breath catching, body still trembling with the aftershocks of everything they’d just done.

Spencer let out a low, helpless moan at the loss of her — broken and warm in his throat. His eyes fluttered shut, head tipping back against the couch as he exhaled hard, like he was trying to slow a runaway train inside his chest.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

Y/N steadied herself on his shoulders, still catching her breath, hips aching in the best way. Her thighs felt like water. Her heart was still stuttering somewhere in her ribcage.

“Sorry,” she whispered with a sleepy wince. “Didn’t mean to crush you.”

“You can crush me whenever you want,” Spencer mumbled, voice rough and wrecked.

She laughed, low and dizzy. Her hand brushed through his hair, soft and absent, and then she stood — slowly, carefully, the stretch of her legs making her sigh again.

She reached for the hem of his oversized shirt and tugged it on, barely covering the mess of love bites blooming down her neck, the curve of her breast where his mouth had been, the bruises he hadn’t meant to leave on her hips. She didn’t care.

Spencer was still on the couch, dazed and staring like she was holy.

“Come on, doctor,” she murmured, tilting her head toward the hallway. “You can’t sleep in… that.”

He blinked once, then again — and finally stood, breath catching as he moved. His hands came to her waist instinctively, grounding himself.

“I’m not sure I remember how to walk.”

“Good thing I do.”

Their fingers stayed linked as they padded down the hallway, bare feet on warm floorboards, their bodies moving in lazy unison. The apartment smelled like them now. Like orange peel and sweat and wine and everything unspoken that had finally found its way into the light.

In the bathroom, she flipped on the softest light and reached for a towel, tossing it over her shoulder as she moved to the cabinet. Spencer leaned against the doorframe behind her, watching — half-naked, flushed, his hair an absolute mess.

“I feel like I just ran a marathon,” he said, voice soft.

She met his eyes in the mirror. “You kind of did.”

They smiled.

She ran warm water into a cloth, then turned to him and held it up like an offering. “Want me to—?”

Spencer stepped closer. “Please.”

So she cleaned him up — slow, quiet, unhurried. Her fingers ghosting over his skin. His hands finding her hips again, just because he could. Just because they were allowed now. She kissed his jaw when she finished, and he kissed her back like she’d just saved his life.

He pressed their foreheads together, eyes still closed.

“Stay,” he whispered.

“I live here,” she whispered back, laughing into his mouth.

“Oh.” His lips curved. “Right.”

She turned off the bathroom light with a sleepy flick, the hallway behind her cast in a soft golden blur as she padded back toward the living room. The apartment had gone quiet — save for the distant hum of city traffic and the low whir of the old fridge — but everything still felt hushed and glowing, like the night hadn’t quite let go of them yet.

Spencer followed, still loose-limbed and dazed, his hair a little damp where she’d smoothed it down, collarbone marked faintly from her mouth. He stopped at the threshold and just watched her — the curve of her in that worn oversized shirt, hem brushing the tops of her thighs, legs bare and warm and glowing in the spill of lamplight.

She crossed into the kitchen without a word, reaching for two mismatched glasses from the open shelf. The water ran quietly. She filled them both, fingertips resting lightly on the edge of the counter as she blinked slowly, dreamily, still floating a little.

Then she turned.

She handed him one glass, like it mattered, like it was sacred, like she was still giving him something of herself. He took it carefully, their fingers brushing, and she smiled.

“I’m not letting you leave ever now,” she murmured, voice low and certain. “You know that, right?”

Spencer’s face broke open into the softest, most astonished grin. He stepped forward, gently taking her hand again, pulling it up to his chest like it was some holy thing.

“Good,” he said. “I don’t want to go.”

She leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth, not rushed, not teasing, just real. “Come on. Bed. Before you collapse on my floor and I have to drag your genius ass.”

He let her tug him down the hallway, stumbling a little just for show, still grinning as they reached her room.

The lights were already low. The sheets looked soft, slightly rumpled, like they’d been waiting for this. Spencer followed her in with quiet steps, one hand wrapped around the glass she’d given him, still cold against his palm.

Y/N moved toward the dresser, hair falling in soft waves down her back, the oversized shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder as she crouched to open the drawer. He took a sip of water, then another, watching her, chest still rising a little too fast from everything they hadn’t quite come down from.

She stood, turned, and tossed him a shirt and a pair of boxers — grey, worn in, unmistakably his.

“Wait,” he said, catching them midair. “These are mine.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said innocently, turning to grab her glass of water from her nightstand after setting it down. “From your place.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been stealing my clothes?”

She took a sip of water, then turned toward him, eyes wide with faux guilt. “Only the ones that smelled like you.”

He blinked. She smiled wider.

“And don’t act like you didn’t almost catch me,” she added, pointing at him with her glass. “That case in Denver? That grey sweater I wore in the precinct all day?”

“That was mine?!”

“I panicked when you stared at me for too long. I thought you were gonna say something.”

“I was,” he muttered, mock-scandalized. “I was trying to figure out why I wanted to kiss you even more than usual.”

She choked on a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re a thief.”

They both smiled as they changed; backs to each other, but grinning at the quiet of it, the comfort. She slipped on a pair of sleep shorts and tugged an oversized shirt back over her head, body still damp from steam and skin-warmth. Spencer pulled on the stolen boxers and that soft shirt like it was always meant to end up here.

She climbed onto the bed first, settling into the pillows with a sleepy stretch. Spencer crawled in beside her.

And then — dramatically, teasingly — she rolled toward him, climbed right into his lap again, curled sideways across his chest like a smug little blanket.

“Round two?” she whispered in his ear, all warm breath and dangerous sweetness.

Spencer let out a low, playful groan, burying his face in her neck. “You’ll kill me.”

“You’ll die happy.”

“I’ll die fast.”

She threw her head back laughing, one hand carding through his hair as he mock-growled into the curve of her throat. His arms came around her, pulling her in, and for a moment it was just that — tangled limbs, soft laughter, heartbeats finding each other in the dark.

Eventually, they shifted — limbs untangling just enough to fit side by side, her head on his chest, his hand tracing lazy shapes on her shoulder. The kind of quiet you only get when you’ve said everything you needed to without speaking at all.

She kissed his chest once, then again, slower this time.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Spencer breathed in, deep and quiet and stunned. “I love you more than anything.”

Outside, the city hummed on.

But here, in the hush of their shared bed, they let the stillness hold them. Fingers linked under the covers. A future tucked gently between their bodies.

Sleep came slow and sweet; like dusk, like memory, like something they could finally call theirs.

[juliaswritingbubble]

"Love you"

summary: where Y/N is visiting Spencer in prison and when he finally gets out confessions are made It took Prentiss and Rossi to convince me to visit Spencer. He has been imprisoned for over two months now, and I always had a good excuse to not see him. Even when everybody always told me, he was asking about me and I really should go see him. I drove to Millburn at least three times, but I couldn't make myself go in.

I know seeing him locked up, maybe beaten up, hurt, his hazel eyes filled with sorrow and a distinct glimmer of hope that I can't fulfill or ignite more—it will be the hardest thing I have ever done.

But I'm standing here now. Inside the prison, giving them my credentials and locking away my gun. My heart is racing, my palms are sweaty, and I try to calm down my breath. I straighten my shirt; it's bright red and tight-fitted. I also took out my black dress pants, boots, and a blazer—all black. I took my time to look decent and pretty. I did my makeup carefully and curled my hair and styled it.

“Visitor for inmate Reid, booth 6, over here,” the guard calls me, and I take a seat. In front of me is a mid-high divider; to the left and right are Plexiglas dividers. I fumble with my hands, twisting my ring, adjusting my hair, and when the inmates walk in, I push up my glasses when his eyes find mine and his face relaxes and a faint smile appears on his lips.

Spencer takes a seat across from me and I so desperately want to hug him or at least touch him, but we are not allowed to.

“Hi,” he says quietly, observing my facial expression and avoiding his gaze. I'm afraid I will break if I look too closely at him.

“Hey,” I answer equally quiet and take a deep breath.

“It’s so good to see you. I thought you forgot about me.” He chuckles, and I try to smile halfheartedly.

“I didn’t. I just…I…” I stammer and pick my nails. His voice is so soft and understanding when he says:

“I know. It's hard…for everybody. But I'm so happy you are here now. How is my mom? I heard you visit her as often as possible.” Now I look up into his eyes. He is leaning over as close as he can without getting called out.

I smell soap, but it's different than usual; he usually smells of coffee, sandalwood, or sometimes detergent, but never of cheap soap. Our eyes meet, and I can't look away. Neither can he. Despite my fear of looking into his eyes, I can't see hurt or sorrow. Just love and that he deeply cares for me.

“I miss you, and I am so sorry I can’t do more for you right now. We are trying everything we can… I’m so sorry,” I whisper, and his eyes soften even more.

“I’ll survive. I know you are doing your best out there. I trust you, and I trust the team with my life. Just please… Visit more often… It eases me to see and talk to you. I miss you so much.” I nod in agreement and shoot him an honest smile.

“Okay, will do. About your mom, she is fine. I saw her yesterday, went for a walk, and ate ice cream at your favorite spot. She asks about you a lot; we agreed on telling her you are on a vacation at the beach. You don't need to worry about her; we got her.” I answer his previous question. He smiles at me and nods, relieved.

“Thank you, how are you?” I shrug my shoulders.

“I’m okay. It’s you I’m worried about, Spence.” His face twitches when he hears his nickname.

“Tell me about your activities; you always do so much outside of work. I miss you telling me about it after the weekend.” Usually I meet my friends or visit them, doing fun stuff at the beach or hiking the mountains, going to concerts. But since he is here… I didn't do anything; I was just trying to work on the case like everybody else, but I know I can't tell him that, so I make some things up. I tell him about a hike I supposedly did with some friends and about a team gathering at Rossi's that actually never happened. He smiles and listens carefully, happy to have something else to think about than his situation.

“Visiting hour is over; inmates line up,” the guard yells, and I kind of panic. This can't be it! It was way too short. Spencer gets up, looking down at me. Now I notice how thin he got; I mean, he was always lean, but he has lost some weight. His cheeks are sunken, and his hair is long and combed back, disheveled. His hands are cuffed with a chain, which is connected to his feet. It clinks as he moves.

“It was good seeing you… so good… Don't worry, I'm going to be fine. Love you,” he whispers and walks out of the room. My eyes follow him closely, watching him disappear through the glass door, my eyes filling with tears I held back the whole time. I cover my face with my hands, sobbing and not seeing him turning around and watching me with sorrow. I try to still process him saying “Love you.”

When I get back to my car, I break completely. I sit there at least 20 minutes, crying for my friend, who is hurting inside these damn walls.

A few weeks later we finally manage to get him out and clear his name. When we get the notice, that he is ready to get picked up, we all get in the cars. I take his go bag from his locker so he has some clothes to change into. I'm so excited to get him outside of this hell. I have visited him in the last weeks a couple of times; we didn't talk so much; mostly I just comforted him by being there.

When we arrive at the prison, we send in JJ as his longest and closest friend to get him. It takes nearly an hour before we see her blonde head appear in the door of the facility. All of us are waiting eagerly for them to get out of the gate. Spence is wearing his usual attire: a button-down shirt, tie, cardigan, and slacks, and his Chucks. He looks nearly normal; despite his weight loss and longer hair, he even shaved.

Penelope is the first one to hug him; he nods at something she says to him, and I look at JJ's red-rimmed eyes. She definitely cried. Rossi hugs Spencer like a dad, and he buries his head on his shoulder.

Before anyone else can get ahold of him, I step closer. We smile at each other, stopping for a second, remembering how bad we both wanted to hug each time in prison. He pulls me into his chest, my arms wrapping around his waist. We clutch one another like drowning sailors clutch to a lifebuoy.

“God, I missed this,” he whispers, and I smile, pressing my face into his shoulder. “Me too.” He rubs my back and kisses my cheek.

We step away from each other, and I look into his eyes for a split second, seeing them swimming with tears. He chuckles embarrassedly and wipes his eyes. The rest of the team hugs him as well, then we decide to get him back to his home so he can see his mom.

At the BAU he asks me if I could get him home, and I nod—of course. We say our goodbyes; Prentiss advises him to take some time off for his mom and himself. He gets into my car, and I start driving through the city.

“This is surreal. Being out here again when I thought I wouldn’t see the light of day again,” he murmurs, watching people walking the streets, laughing, rushing home. I pat his thigh, and he is turning his head to face me.

“I told you, we were going to get you out.” He grabs my hand and holds it for the rest of the drive. When I stop in front of his apartment building, he stares at it in disbelief, still holding my hand.

I open my door, slowly retreating my hand from his, and get out of my car. He does the same and grabs his bag from the backseat.

“Do you want to come with me? I’m actually a bit scared,” he admits, and I’m unsure. I don’t want to intrude on his reunion with his mom, but he genuinely seems scared.

“Sure, I can come for a few minutes.” He looks relieved, and I follow him upstairs to his apartment. He unlocks the door and enters his apartment, with me directly behind him.

“Spencer!” I hear his mom, and I am so relieved she remembers him right now. They hug tightly, and I smile at the sight of him finally hugging his mom again.

“Y/N, good to see you again,” she says over his shoulder to me, and I smile at her.

“You too, Mrs. Reid.” They loosen their grip on each other, and his mom starts telling him everything she did, and he laughs. The first time since we picked him up, he laughs from his heart. I tear up when I hear the familiar sound.

“Do you want some tea?” he asks me, smiling. I shake my head.

“No thank you, I’ve got to go actually… You two need some time alone.” He steps closer, grabbing my hands. His eyes are soft; he doesn't want me to go, but he understands that I just want them to have time to catch up.

“Thank you…for everything,” he says, but I shake my head.

“Of course, Spencer. You are my friend; I would do anything for you… we all would.”

“I know…likewise. But seeing you sitting in that booth kept me sane and going. You were my anchor…you are.” I turn bright red and look at our hands, holding each other. His thumbs caressing the back of my hands.

“I’m glad I could give you some hope. Now spend your time with your mom, and if you want, we can grab some coffee in the next couple days.” He smiles and nods.

“I’d like that.” I hug him once again and wish both of them a good night before I step out, leaving him with his mom.

The next day I get a call from him around midday.

“Hey, how was your night?” I ask him as soon as I pick up.

“It was good; my mom and I talked a lot. And I slept like a baby in my own bed; it's still surreal. But I wanted to ask…if…you suggested coffee yesterday, right?” “Yeah, sure. Where do you want to meet?” “Actually… I ehm… I would like to turn coffee into dinner, if you don’t mind.” I sit up from my couch. He wants to take me to dinner?

“Eh…sure. Did you ask the others too?” “N-No, I thought I’d just take you out… just us catching up. I mean, I could ask the others, of course, if you're uncomfortable going with me alone. That's really no prob—“ I cut him off.

“No, no. I'm not uncomfortable… just surprised. I’d love to have dinner with you.” “Great! I… I’ll pick you up at 7.30.” He hangs up, sounding so excited for later. I giggle and start getting ready immediately. I'm so nervous about going to dinner with Spencer.

I change my outfit at least three times, putting on makeup and doing my hair. I put it in a low bun, put in my contacts, and carefully pick jewelry. I take a deep breath and look at myself in the mirror. The dress is simple but pretty. It's dark red, tight-fitted, and just looks great. I'm happy with myself.

A knock on the door signals that I have to go. I open the door; Spencer is standing there, smiling. He looks…just great. His hair is still a bit unruly, but his eyes are warm and soft, his smile is comforting, and I can smell his familiar scent that I missed so much. No longer cheap prison soap. He wears a black tuxedo, a white button-up shirt, and a dark red tie. Matching with my dress. I laugh and point at it.

“Matching, huh? You look so handsome.” His cheeks flush, and he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Hi… You look pretty, too. Just stunning.” I smile at him, slip into my shoes, and grab my purse. He offers me his arm and leads me to his old-timer, which I absolutely love.

He reserved a table at a cute little restaurant in Washington, where he led me inside.

“Hello, a table for two. The name is Reid,” he says to the waitress, and she leads us to a small table in the corner, where Spence pulls out the chair for me.

“Thank you,” I say and take a seat. He unbuttons his blazer and sits across from me.

“I’m so happy you agreed to go to dinner with me,” he says and rests his hands on the table. I grab them and smile at him while I look him straight in the eyes.

“Of course, Spencer. I love spending time with you, and I missed you so much.” He smiles widely and nods.

“I missed you too, you know that.” The waitress takes our orders, and while we get our drinks and cheers to each other, chatting about everything and anything, we get lost in our own little bubble.

It's light and a little flirty; we both enjoy our food and the wine. I feel him looking at me for longer periods of time. He even sometimes touches my hands, and I love seeing him laugh. I love seeing his eyes squeezing, the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes, and the small smile lines on his mouth.

“What is it?” he asks, flustered, and rubs his face with his hand. I chuckle and shake my head lightly. “Nothing, I just…like watching you laugh.” His cheeks flush, and he looks down at his hands.

“Actually, Spence… I have a question.” I take all of my courage to start with this when the waitress asks us if we want anything else. I shake my head, and Spence asks for the check.

He pays for both of us without hesitation and walks me out of the restaurant. It's a bit chilly, and he immediately takes off his blazer and wraps it around my shoulders. His smell hits me hard. I feel kind of dizzy and loved, taken care of. My heart is pounding when he looks into my eyes, his hands still on my arms.

“Thank you,” I whisper and take everything in. His smell, his closeness, and his hands on my arms.

“You’re welcome. You wanted to ask me something inside?” I nod.

“When I visited you for the first time, you remember that?” He smiles at me, squeezing my arms lightly.

“Of course. You wore a red shirt and black pants, your makeup was flawless, like today, and the one thing that took my breath completely away when you sat opposite to me in that damn prison…was your smell. I never knew someone could miss someone's smell as much as I missed yours. This visit saved me; how could I ever forget it?” His eyes are so soft and so close. He remembers everything. Of course he does.

“Yeah, that day…when you had to go…you said something to me.” He nods and slowly cups my cheek with his hand, caressing the soft skin with his thumb.

“It was good seeing you… so good… Don't worry, I'm going to be fine. Love you,” he repeats his exact words.

“Yes…why?” He knows what I mean.

“Because I do.” The explanation is so simple yet it makes so much sense at the same time. His eyes switch to my lips, my cheek still pressed against his soft hand. I can't really answer him; I just look at his beautiful face in awe. He licks his lips and steps closer.

“May I…” His voice is raspy, and I just nod. Yes, please. Kiss me, finally.

He moves slowly at first, almost reverent, like he’s afraid I might vanish—like this is a dream he’s had too many times to trust that it’s real now. But then his hands lift, trembling just slightly, and he cups my face in his palms. His fingers splay along my jaw, thumbs brushing the soft skin beneath my cheekbones. They’re warm. Grounding. Like he needs to touch me just to be sure I’m real.

He leans in, and my breath catches.

I rise onto my toes, my hands finding the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric like I can hold him there—not just for this moment, but for every moment that’s still to come.

When our lips meet, it’s nothing like I imagined in all those lonely nights—it’s more. His lips are soft but certain, moving with a slowness that speaks of years of restraint, breaking over me like waves that have finally reached the shore. His breath catches when I kiss him back—really kiss him—and it feels like every moment we’ve held back is pouring into this one.

Every glance, every unspoken confession, every time I stood too close or pulled away too fast—it’s all here, in the way his mouth moves with mine, in the way he finally lets himself feel it.

He makes a small sound, something between a sigh and a hum, and then his hand slides into my hair, cradling the base of my skull. He deepens the kiss, and I tilt my head slightly, parting my lips just enough to taste him—to taste everything we’ve denied ourselves for so long.

His lips are warm, almost trembling, and the longer we stay like this—connected, breathing into each other—the more I feel his breath mixing with mine, his heartbeat thudding fast against my chest. His curls brush my forehead as he leans into me, close enough that I feel like I’m melting into him.

I never want to let go.

When we finally part, it’s not a full step back—just a breath, just enough to look at each other. His eyes are glassy, wide with something like wonder, like awe. He looks at me like I’m the first thing he’s ever really seen.

“That… was worth every minute of waiting,” he says, voice rough with emotion.

I’m still on my toes, still holding onto his shirt like I might fall if I let go. My lips tingle. My heart is racing. And somewhere deep inside me, something releases — something that’s been held tight for far too long.

I smile and let my fingers slide up to trace along his jaw. “It was worth everything.”

Masterlist

[juliaswritingbubble]

Let me know what u wanna read next. I want to write everything, currently doing 10. but you can decide which is next.

[juliaswritingbubble]

Confessions

Summary: This is based on the season 7x24 episode where Will gets into the bank, but it's Spencer, and Y/N is freaking out, the wedding is still happening, and maybe feelings get confessed while dancing.

“What is he doing? Spencer! Reid!!” I yell and try to surpass Derek, but he picks me up, holding me back.

“Spencer, NOOO,” I scream, and he turns around. His eyes connect with mine; he forms a sorry with his lips before entering the bank.

“Let him go, Y/N. He will be fine. He is smarter than this dumbass; calm down! CALM DOWN!” He shouts at me, and I do as he says.

“Good. Are you here? I need you here, not in there. Reid is going to be fine.” I nod and brush away the tears on my cheeks. We're going to get him back. I join Garcia in the surveillance van and overwatch his negotiation with the hostage holder. Hotch joins us as well, while Morgan and the others try to find a tactic that’s safe to enter the bank.

“Look at our smart boy there, getting the Unsub all confused. He is doing good, you see?” Penelope smiles at me and squeezes my hand when gunshots are heard and Spencer collapses to the ground.

The same second our monitor goes black.

“Garcia, no!!! Show me that he is alright; he is alright, isn’t he? He had a vest on. He is fine,” I assure myself, like a prayer.

“Yeah…yeah, he had a vest. And he is smart. He’s alright; he has to be.” Penelope starts to breathe heavily, and I choke. I overhear Hotch talking to possibly Morgan on the phone, saying:

“There is a possibility that he didn’t make it. We can’t rule it out that he’s gone.” His voice is quiet, and I turn at him furiously.

“Don’t talk about him like he is dead! HE IS NOT DEAD!” I yell and leave the van. I pace back and forth trying to make sense of what had happened in the last few hours. How Spencer arrived at the scene, how he walked up to me, with this sweet little grin. How he explained to Hotch what he figured out at the office and how everything went down from that. The situation escalated quickly, resulting in shots fired and one of the Unsubs dead. The other one requested the agent inside, who shot his brother, who was Reid. He threatened to kill one hostage every 60 seconds. That's when Spencer handed one of the cops his gun and started walking with his arms up to the door. That's when I tried to run and stop him.

“You okay, kiddo?” I hear Morgan's voice behind me and nod.

“Yes, we need to get Reid back,” I say, and Morgan nods, squeezing my shoulder.

“We will, don’t worry. This guy is way too smart to die like this.” I smile very sadly and nod as a huge blast is heard and the bank erupts in smoke and flames. Morgan jumps at me, snatching me behind a police car as we watch hell breaking loose. My heart drops to my stomach; I cry silent tears as I watch a second explosion going off.

“Fuck, no, no, NO, NO,” Morgan yells and hits the police car with his fist, crying next to me. The next hours go by in a blur. I function, trying not to think about Spencer. I have a job to do, even if I just want to sit in a corner and cry.

We enter the building, burnt from the inside like myself. We can't find the Unsubs or Reid, but what I do find are Reid's credentials. Carefully dropped next to a dumpster behind the bank. My phone rings, and I see Garcia's name lighting up.

“Go ahead, Hotch is with me,” I answer the call.

“He’s alive. Spencer is alive! I got a visual on the car they fled with, and he is with them. Not good, but alive. They’re heading north.” We hang up and immediately make our way in their direction. I call Penelope again from the car.

It's a hefty chase; Hotch drives like a maniac, chasing the Unsubs. He is fixated on the car in front of us.

I grab the handle when we go around a corner, but nothing could have prepared us for what happens next. We get hit from the side, and I try desperately not to hit my head. I fail. Morgan stops next to us.

“Go, go, we’re fine, GO.” Hotch yells, and the car takes off.

“Are you ok?” I ask my boss and hear him groan.

“Yeah, you?” I nod and groan in pain.

“I think so, yeah.” I get out of the car, hearing Hotch exiting as well. We sit down, backs against the car, when the first ambulance comes passing by. His phone rings.

“Yes, we’re fine. Might need an ambulance. Good, thank God.” He hangs up and closes his eyes.

“EMT is on the way; Morgan got the car.” He catches his breath as I turn my head to him. He presses his hand on his forehead, still bleeding.

“Alive,” I sigh and nod in relief. He is alive. After we get plastered up and looked after, we both get cleared to go. JJ picks us up, and I can see how excited she is to go see Spencer. I know Spence had a crush on her years ago, and sometimes I think he might still have one. She is still the one he talks to often; I mean, he also talks to me, but his bond with JJ is something different—and yes, I am jealous.

Medics are already there when we stop. Morgan already cuffed the Unsubs, guiding them to the police car. JJ jumps out of the car, yelling Spencer's name and running to him. He is processed by the medics when JJ hugs him, caressing his cheek. He smiles at her while his wounds get treated. They talk while I stand next to the car. Red and blue lights are blinking everywhere; my team arrives, hugging Spencer, relieved.

“You coming, kiddo?” Rossi grabs my shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

“I might need a minute.” My voice is hoarse and low. Rossi nods and looks over to our team; Spencer is smiling, happy to be alive. His face is full of soot, and his arm is in a sling. I am so relieved to see him standing on his feet, despite the fact that he looks disheveled.

“Are you okay, Miss?” A paramedic asks me, and I nod.

“Just a little bit dizzy, thank you.” Not fully convinced, he goes to take care of someone else. I see Spencer scanning his surroundings, and when he finds me, next to Rossi and the car, he excuses himself and starts limping across the street. I feel nervous and excited.

“I’ll let you two,” Rossi says and meets Spencer halfway. They stop, Rossi hugs him briefly and says something, pointing to me.

Spencer nods and continues his way towards me. I approach him, and when he is only a few steps away from me, he fiddles with his sling and manages to get it away, dropping it to the ground. Then he is in front of me and looks at me with worry in his eyes before opening his arms with a hiss of pain and pulling me in a tight and warm hug.

“Are you hurt?” he asks me, and I shake my head lightly.

“How are you?” I ask him, and he smiles.

“I’m alright. Have been shot before, but the explosion was new.” I chuckle and rub my eyes, trying not to cry of relief. His arms are tight around me, and I press my face against his shirt. He smells like blood and fire.

“I’m so glad you are okay.” I whisper against his chest, and he hugs me tighter.

“When I saw you fighting Derek to stop me… It was so hard to keep walking. He was impressed by your strength.” His voice is soft against my ear, and I feel his head resting on mine.

“Okay, lovebirds. Let's get you to the hospital for some final scans,” Derek says, and we step away from each other. Derek helps Spencer back into the sling for his arm and takes us to the hospital, where we both get the okay to go home.

I kick my boots in the corner and take out my phone. A message from Hotch.

“Tomorrow get together at Rossi’s. Surprise wedding for JJ and Will, are you free?” I send him a thumbs up and smile. This is going to be beautiful.

The BAU girls come over to get ready together. Only JJ prefers to get ready with Will and Henry.

It's a lot of giggles, helping hands with hair and make-up, joking around, and drinking champagne.

“I asked my sugar if he can pick us up in about 30 minutes,” Penelope says, and we nod in unison.

“Y/N, to be honest…you look breathtaking. That dress…is superior,” Emily says and looks at me from head to toe.

I'm wearing a flowy dress, which looks a little bit country. The neckline shows more than I usually do; it's mid-length with some ruffles and light blue with a few white details. I chose white heels and a white bag; my hair is falling in big waves down my back. I managed to stop Penelope with the make-up and still look like me. Light foundation, a bit of rouge, mascara, and a very faint tint of lipstick. I feel pretty and dolled up.

“Thank you, Emily. I hope it isn’t too much.” Both of my friends assure me that it’s perfect. My doorbell rings, and Penelope opens for Derek.

“Well, hellooo, you beautiful ladies. Wow, wow, wow. You look like three pretty, sweet, and very delicious cupcakes. Mama, you are shining,” he says before twirling Penelope. Emily and I laugh as we slip into our shoes.

“You look very handsome yourself, Mr. Morgan,” Emily says and kisses Derek on the cheek. He is absolutely happy spending time with us three and getting some attention. We pour him one glass of champagne and fill ours up to empty the bottle. I feel a little bit tipsy already.

“To JJ and Will and this wedding and to all of us looking stunning,” Derek says and toasts to all of us. Our glasses clink, and we chat a little bit more before emptying our glasses and starting to head out.

I check my phone on the way down and see that Spencer texted me two hours ago, asking if he should pick me up.

I was busy, sorry. Derek's got me covered, thank you. See you in a bit. I text him back.

“Are you feeling okay?” Derek asks me, and I nod.

“I’m fine, thank you. It looked worse than it was, but thank you.” He squeezes my thigh as he drives us through the darkness.

“You look stunning; I might have a crush on you after tonight,” he laughs as he pulls into Rossi’s driveway. Derek helps Penelope and Emily out of the car and then me. I am struggling with the strap of my shoe, but when he reaches my door and holds out his hand, I'm ready. My arm sneaks around his as we walk into Rossi's house and we are in awe at what he has created in just one day. It's beautiful; lights and light colors are everywhere, round tables and centerpieces with lilies and other flowers. It's breathtaking.

“Damn, Rossi knows how to throw a party,” Derek says as he hands me a drink. We say cheers and drink; he pulls me a little bit closer to his side as Kevin approaches us to snap a picture with his camera.

“I mean, I love my mama, but today I wouldn’t mind having you as my eye candy.” Morgan winks at me, and luckily I know his banter with women he holds dear to his heart. I wink back at him and put my hand on his neck, stroking his face gently.

“You know I love you, Derek, right? You are such a good friend.” He looks me in the eyes, wiggling his eyebrows at me.

“That’s a way to break my heart, buttercup.” I laugh with him, and he hugs me. “I know, I love you too… There is someone looking at you,” he whispers into my ear, and I turn around to see Spencer standing in the doorway. His hair is messy as always, locks everywhere, his eyes fixated on Derek and me, how close we stand, and how his hand rests on my waist. I smile at him; his hands are tucked into the pockets of his suit pants. He looks unbelievably handsome. My heart starts racing, and I get slightly sweaty hands. Reid shoots us his tight-lipped grin and walks in another direction into the garden, greeting Emily and Penelope.

JJ and Will arrive, and we surprise them with their families and dress. JJ is so touched, and when we all get upstairs (of course only us women), she sheds some tears. We get her ready, fixing her hair, and wow, she is just perfect.

“Thank you guys so much; this is perfect. Everything is perfect. After yesterday, when I nearly lost Spence… I remembered how fast this all could be over. And I don’t want it to be over without being married to Will.” We engage in a group hug when someone knocks and JJ’s mom comes in.

“See you downstairs.” Emily, Penelope, and I go back to the other guests, where I see Morgan talking to Reid. I walk over and join them.

“Hi, Spence,” I say to him and smile, hugging him. The hug is short but intense.

“Dear guests, the ceremony is about to start. Please take your seats,” Dave says, and everybody starts moving to his backyard.

“May I, beautiful lady?” Derek says and holds out his arm. I giggle and hook my arm into his. Spencer looks down at his shoes.

“Spence, are you coming?” I ask him and slip my other arm through his. I see the corner of his lips twitching, and both men walk me down to the chairs. Our team is already seated, and we join them, Emily trying to hide her laugh at the sight of us three.

“Look at you three, is this going to be a threesome kind of thing?” She giggles, and I roll my eyes at her.

Spence unhooks our arms while Derek is still laughing at her comment. We take our seats just as the ceremony starts. Soft music is playing; Will is standing in the front while JJ walks out of the house, her mom by her side. The guests gasp at the sight of the beautiful bride.

While JJ and Will exchange their vows, which are spontaneous but really beautiful, I shed one or two tears. Emily as well, my hands clutching at the fabric of my dress. I'm nervous and a little bit anxious, but I can't even get ahold of the reason. Suddenly I feel a hand grabbing mine very softly and carefully. Testing if it's okay to take my hand. Spencer squeezes my hand lightly, tracing over my fingers and the back of my hand with his thumb. He is trying to calm me down and get over my anxiety. We keep holding hands during the whole ceremony. I desperately avoid making eye contact with him.

“Please rise,” the minister says, and everybody is standing up for the first kiss. My hand slips out of Spencer's, and I cross my fingers in front of my stomach to watch the kiss. The whole group of guests starts to cheer and clap while the pair walks down the aisle, waving and being pampered with rose leaves from both sides getting tossed at them.

We follow the stream of people upstairs and get in line to hug and congratulate Will and JJ. Neither Spencer nor Derek nor I talk to each other while waiting. After the congratulations, people gather at the buffet, but I really need a few minutes to myself. I sit back down under all the lights and flowers where the ceremony happened and watch people laugh, drink, and have a good time. My team is positioned at a standing table. Rossi is telling another of his stories, which the others are listening to with complete fixation. I smile at the sight of them.

I take in a deep breath and close my eyes for a few seconds. I let my eyes wander over the happiness and carelessness the people radiate. Spencer looks over to me and excuses himself before starting to make his way over to me.

“Hey, you,” he says and smiles at me.

“Hey, you,” I repeat his words, and he is pointing to the seat next to me.

“May I?” I nod, and he takes the seat. My gaze wanders over his long legs, the mismatched socks, and his white button-up shirt.

“Thank you for earlier,” I say shyly, and he smiles reassuringly.

“I know the feeling of an anxiety attack; I get them too, and I thought maybe it would help. Anxiety is a common mental health condition, with statistics showing it affects a significant portion of the population. About 301 million people worldwide have anxiety disorders, making it the most common mental disorder. While anxiety can manifest in various ways, including panic attacks, it's important to note that panic attacks are generally not dangerous, and most attacks only last for a short period, typically between 5 and 20 minutes, and I thought before it turns into a full-on attack, I'd try to calm you down… I’m glad it worked.” His smile is so warm, and his eyes look into mine.

“Thank you. Really. I know how much you hate physical contact.” His hand finds mine again, and I look at our hands. His long, beautiful, and very soft and warm fingers holding my hand.

“It’s different with you. I don’t mind touching you…or anyone of our team.” I nod.

“Please join us at the dance floor. The newlyweds are going to have their first dance together,” David says loud enough for everyone to hear. Spencer gets on his feet, leaving my hand cold and alone on my thigh.

He is holding his hand out for me, and I take it. He leads me to our team, gathering around the dance floor where Will and JJ start dancing to slow and very romantic music. Her head is resting on Will's shoulder; they look absolutely stunning and in love. When the song is finished, everybody applauds, and other pairs join them. Emily and Rossi and Penelope and Derek, for example.

We watch them for some time, standing closely. I can feel the warmth of his body radiating towards me. He moves slightly, his arm brushing mine. I turn my head to look briefly at him; he doesn’t seem to notice our skin-to-skin contact.

We watch our team dancing, having fun, laughing, and being close, and internally I wait for him to ask me, but nothing happens until Derek passes Penelope to Hotch and reaches for my hand.

“May I, beautiful lady? Our genius seems to be too stunned to act.” I laugh under my breath and take Derek’s hand, stopping myself to look at Spencer. He pulls me close, resting his hand on my back and swirling me over the dance floor. It's great; I love every second of it until the next song comes on. It's slower, and I rest my head on his shoulder.

“You know, you could be dancing with Spencer, right? He seems to be opening up tonight.” I nod.

“He is kind of,” I agree as I feel Derek’s hand circling on my back.

“He can’t keep his eyes off of you.” Derek's voice is soft against my ear.

“Could you stop doing that, Derek? You know we are really close; this is just messing with us both and making things awkward when you do that,” I beg him, and he chuckles.

“As you wish, but then I’m doing this instead.” He swirls me around and lets me crash against another chest. Two hands immediately find my waist to catch me, and I look into Spencer's hazel eyes. He seems to be the same amount of shocked as I am.

“Have fun, you two,” he giggles and disappears to get his dance with Emily. I am still looking into his eyes, my hands resting on his chest.

“Sorry,” I murmur and try to take a step back, but his grip tightens.

“No… I mean…do you want to…dance? With me?” His voice is unsteady, and when his eyes meet mine again and he sees me nodding, he starts moving slowly. My face is pressed against his, cheek to cheek. He pulls me as close as he can, and I feel his hand pressed lightly against the small of my back. The other hand is holding mine, intertwining our fingers. I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and taking in this moment. My hand is circling on his back right between his shoulders. He nuzzles his face into my neck; I can feel his breath against my skin and get goosebumps.

“You smell amazing,” he whispers and lets my hand go from his, placing it against his chest. I feel him hugging me tightly with both arms, pressing me against his lean body. I snake my other arm around him too, hugging him back. We are still moving lightly, his legs brushing against mine with every move, and I feel his chest rising with every breath he takes.

Eventually the song comes to an end, and we both unclasp our grips on each other very slowly. I look up into his beautiful eyes, framed by those unruly brown curls. He is smiling, hands still on my waist. My hands wander into his neck, playing with his curls.

“Shall we grab a drink at the bar?” He proposes, and I nod, despite not wanting to let go of him. He grabs my hand and leads me upstairs to the bar, brushing circles on the back of my hand.

He hands me a drink and clinks his glass against mine, looking into my eyes again. I can't really concentrate on anything else but his closeness, smell, and mesmerizing eyes. I don’t see how Emily, Derek, and the others smile knowingly while watching us from time to time. We don’t even talk much; it seems like he is just absorbing this moment like me. We sip our drinks, standing close to each other, barely touching here and there.

“I would love to go on a walk around the garden. You want to come... I mean, if not, that’s totally fine,” I ramble and play with a strand of my hair. Spencer smiles and nods.

“I’d love to,” so I sneak my arm around his, and we walk down the steps. Drink in one hand, we wander around Rossi's garden.

“Do you ever envision this for yourself?” I ask him when we make a stop at the end of the huge backyard, looking at the house, the lights, and all those people.

“Marriage? Yeah… I could see myself as a husband, you?” He answers and looks down at me.

“I don’t know…” To be honest, I would love to be a wife and a mom, but my luck with men has always been…not really there. So some time ago, I decided to just stay by myself. It spares heartbreak and lost time—also, it's kind of hard to entertain a relationship with our job.

“You don’t know? Statistically 87% of women want to marry before giving birth, so statistically if you want children, you probably want to get married before that.” I chuckle at that and answer him: “I don’t even know if I want children. I just haven’t thought about it… Probably when I have a partner, then I will think about all of this.”

“Fair enough, why waste thoughts on something that’s not around the corner, right?” He says it as if that’s his mantra. But I know better; I know that he is thinking about everything all the time and not just about things that are around the corner. I grin into my glass.

“I think you would be an awesome mom,” he says, observing JJ and Henry together.

“You think so?” he nods. “Yeah… you are loving, compassionate, patient, smart, and caring. And I love your humor,” he says quietly. When I look up, he watches my face closely, how I turn bright red and get all flustered.

“That’s really nice of you to say, Spence. Thank you,” I whisper and smile at my feet. He laughs shyly, and I feel his arm snaking around my waist. “You are touchy today,” I notice, and normally he would take his hand back, but today he pulls me closer to his side.

“I just like having you near me. It’s like your presence calms me down,” he says, his voice still soft, but his eyes are full of emotion. I have never seen him look at me like that. His gaze takes my breath away.

“Well, that’s new,” I mumble under my breath, trying to get my thoughts together. “What’s new?” His words are just a whisper. “That look in your eyes, Spence. That is new.” He blinks rapidly, as if he wants to blink the look away.

“Maybe because I decided that I’m not going to pretend anymore that you’re just a colleague and friend,” he replies, and I try to figure out what he means.

“What?” My brain is just not capable of working properly when he is so close. His smell is amazing; it's like a drug.

“I’m in love with you. I tried to hide it for nearly a year now, but yesterday…when I really thought I was going to die, I made a promise to myself to get my shit together. Either I am going to spend the rest of my life with you or not—but I really needed you to hear that.” He sighs, and I am absolutely shocked. In a good way. My heart is pounding against my chest, my hands are sweaty, and my breath starts to quicken.

“You love me?” I echo like a dumbass. Spencer puts his drink on a standing table near us, takes mine out of my hands, and comes back to me, facing me.

“I do. I love you so much,” he says, nothing like before. Not unsure anymore but steady with his voice, his gaze is fixated on my eyes. When I don't step back but still stare at him, with an open mouth he smiles and cups my cheeks with his hands, stepping even closer so his chest brushes against mine.

“I don’t know what your silence means, but if you just keep staring at me like this… I’m going to kiss you,” he says, and I still can’t move.

“Hey pretty boy! Come here!” Derek's voice rips us apart; Spencer steps back and watches Derek waving. I snap back out of my trance and shake my head for a second, not really sure if this just happened for real.

“Great timing for a wingman,” he mumbles and looks back at me.

“I’m sorry…” I say, but he shakes his head. “Don’t be. It was a 50/50 chance, and it's totally fine if you don't feel the same about me. It’s okay.” He takes my hand to his lips and kisses it. I see hurt in his eyes as he turns and walks up to Derek and Henry on the porch.

I try to wrap my head around what just had happened. Spencer confessed his feelings for me; he is in love with me, as I am in love with him. I just haven’t had the chance to tell him, and now he thinks I just see him as a friend. My eyes follow him as he does another magic trick for Henry. Derek cheers for him, and all three of them laugh. I grab my drink and sip on it as I keep watching them having fun, still trying to sort my thoughts while my heart is hammering in my chest. Spencer turns to look at me across the garden, his eyes lingering with hurt and so much love on me. I need to set this right. While our eyes are still locked on one another, JJ starts talking to Spencer, who seems to have a hard time focusing on her, but finally he does turn to face her. Her hand resting on his arm while they talk to each other. I slowly start walking back to the team, where Rossi smiles at me and pulls me to his side.

“You okay, dolcezza?” He asks me, and I nod. “Sure, this is all so unbelievably beautiful, Dave. I love it; you did a great job.” He smiles at me and tugs at my waist, hugging me with one arm. “Thank you, sweetie. I love hosting parties.” I giggle and sip at my drink. We all know he loves it. “We love you, Papa.” He smiles at this pet name, and when I press a kiss to his cheek, he even turns a little bit red.

“Well, look at our old man blushing. I'm not going to lie, I would blush as well if you'd kiss me.” Morgan laughs and clinks his glasses against ours.

“Leave her alone, you womanizer.” Penelope chimes in and pats Derek's chest lovingly. He puts his arm around her shoulders and grins. “You know, I only love you, Mama. Also this one has lost her heart already to our boy genius.” I feel myself turning bright red. Luckily, Spencer is still occupied with Henry and isn't listening to our conversation.

“Yeah, obviously. If I see another longing glance across the room from one of these two, I might just set up a surprise dinner in the bullpen,” Garcia sighs, and I look at her. She is right. This has to stop, and he did the first step earlier. I put down my glass and look at her.

“You’re right,” she gasps when I start to make my way over to Spencer, who is kneeling on the ground and talking to little Henry.

“Spence,” I say quietly when I stop in front of them and he looks up at me. His forehead crinkles, his puppy dog eyes watching my every face motion, and his mouth is lightly open, turned into a small smirk.

“Hey,” he says and ruffles his hand through Henry’s hair before getting up and patting his slacks. I tilt my head up to watch his beautiful face. I can feel everybody from our team staring at us from behind me.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier; I didn’t mean to. I—just…I…look, this is…” He stammers, turning bright red and fumbling with his hands, looking down at his shoes. He feels really uncomfortable and coughs before trying to start again. His eyes find mine, and he straightens his posture.

“You know what? No, I'm not sorry. I had to get it off my chest, and you deserve to know that there is someone who loves you. That I love you. You are incredible; you deserve to be loved, and even if it's not me who gets to love you, I just needed you to know, I—“ I interrupt him by grabbing his tie and yanking him down to my height, meeting him on my tiptoes. His eyes widen in surprise, and I whisper:

“Just kiss me, you fool,” before I meet his lips with mine. His hands find my waist immediately, and I step closer, cupping his cheek with my hand while our lips press against one another. They are soft and loving. I hear the team simultaneously gasp behind us when he pulls me even closer, wrapping his arms around me while I put mine around his neck.

“About damn time,” I hear Morgan say, and Spencer breaks the kiss. When I open my eyes, his are still closed; he looks genuinely happy. His eyes open slowly, and when he looks at me, with his lips lightly pink, he smiles.

“What was that for?” he asks, voice shaking. I giggle like a love-drunk teenager and tug at one of his unruly curls.

“Because you are just you… Spence. I'm in love with you as well. Have been for such a long time.” My heart feels so much lighter now that I have said it to his face. His eyes widen, his grip on my waist tightens, and he opens his mouth but can’t speak.

The team cheers behind us, gushing over “how cute we are” and how happy they are for us. But our focus is on each other, eyes still locked, bodies still pressed against each other.

“Did you hear me?” I ask and chuckle when he snaps out of his trance.

“Yes, yes. I did hear you… Are you for real? You really do have feelings for me?” He asks and looks at me as if he can't believe me.

“Of course, Spence. How could I not? You are everything a woman…I…could ask for.” We smile at each other when I feel him loosening his grip on my waist. NO, don't let go of me, please.

But he now cups my face in his hands and starts kissing me very gently. His lips melt against mine, soft and longingly. I hear his breath starting to get erratic. The kiss starts getting deeper; he sucks at my lower lip, and I smile while his hands tangle in my hair.

“Woah, woah, pretty boy. Get a room, you two,” Derek says, and we break the kiss again, panting. My heart is nearly jumping out of my chest, and Spence looks at me as if he feels the same way.

Spencer takes my hand in his, and we join the rest of the team, both red up to our hair roots and smiling.

“So… Are you two a thing now or what?” Morgan asks, and Penelope jumps to his side.

“Yeah, tell us. Is this now official—finally?” I chuckle and feel Spencer's thumb stroking the back of my hand. I look up at his warm hazel eyes. His smile is wide, and I lose myself in looking at him lovingly. He squeezes my hand lightly, and I answer with a squeeze myself.

“Yeah…it is,” Spence says and looks up to meet Morgan’s eyes. Everybody assures us that they are very happy for us and it was about time.

Masterlist

[juliaswritingbubble]

I‘m happy for those two cuties

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Is there anyone else who just knows within the first few seconds of the episode just by the way it’s filmed and how it starts, that MGG directed it? I love how he does this kind of horror/Tim Burton kind of thing.

I love it.

[juliaswritingbubble]

Oh Spence 😭😭😭 hate seeing him hurt and sadly that’s all this show does to him - hurting 🥲