the door into summer
abstract: on a warm summer evening, under the hush of string lights and the flicker of fireflies, something quiet begins to shift. what starts as laughter among friends becomes a night of near-confessions and stolen glances, where the air is thick with memory and want.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)
genre: tooth-rotting fluff
word count: 7.5k
note: thinking about summer and spencer reid has me in a daydream all day long. writing this out in my uni's library was one of the best feelings ever, how could you ever explain that to a man?? anyways, as always, enjoyy!!
Quantico, BAU Bullpen – Late Afternoon
The late-day hum of keyboards and rustling case files filled the BAU bullpen, a soft chorus of exhaustion and focus that clung to the fluorescent light like static. Coffee cups sat half-empty beside piles of reports, and the air buzzed with the quiet fatigue that came at the end of a case—the kind that settled into shoulders and softened voices.
And then, breaking through it like a glittering firework in a library, came the familiar chiming of bracelets and the unmistakable voice of Penelope Garcia.
She didn’t enter so much as burst in—arms full of color, bangles clinking with every dramatic step, sunglasses perched on her head despite being indoors. Her dress was a swirl of citrus hues and soft ruffles, and her heels clicked like punctuation across the tile.
Hotch looked up from his office doorway with a faint smile that read: here we go again.
“Attention, my beautiful crime-fighting weirdos!” she declared, hands raised like a ringmaster about to announce the main act. “We are officially T-minus six hours until the most important event of the month—nay, the summer. And if any of you bail, I will hack into your iTunes libraries and replace every playlist with accordion covers of Nickelback.”
A few chuckles rippled through the bullpen.
“I’ve already RSVP’d yes like, four times,” Prentiss said, spinning in her chair. “I’m mostly going for the themed cocktails and the regret.”
JJ chimed in from behind her desk. “Will there be karaoke again?”
Garcia winked. “There will be redemption.”
Rossi emerged from the break room with a steaming mug. “I’ll bring wine, as tradition dictates.”
As conversations resumed, Morgan turned from his desk and caught sight of Spencer, who was absently twisting a paperclip into a helix. His eyes weren’t on Garcia. They were drifting—softly, unconsciously—toward the far corner of the room.
Toward her.
Y/N was leaning against the edge of JJ’s desk, talking animatedly with her, Prentiss, and Garcia, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Something about the way she stood—loose-limbed, relaxed, laughing with her head tilted—made the air feel just a little warmer.
Morgan didn’t miss it.
“Yo,” he said, voice low and teasing as he leaned toward Reid. “You going tonight?”
Reid blinked, snapping out of his trance. “What?”
“To Garcia’s,” Morgan said, nudging him. “The party. First night of summer. That thing she’s been planning since Valentine’s Day.”
“Oh. I don’t know. I might.”
Morgan’s grin was slow and knowing. “You should.”
Spencer glanced at him warily. “Why?”
Morgan tilted his head toward the corner, where Y/N was laughing at something JJ just whispered. “Because she’s going.”
Spencer’s jaw twitched—just barely. His eyes flicked down, then back up again. “So?”
“So,” Morgan said, slapping a hand on his shoulder, “wear something that doesn’t look like it’s from a calculus textbook. Maybe tonight’s the night you stop staring from across the room.”
Spencer opened his mouth to protest—but then Y/N looked over.
She didn’t say anything. Just caught his gaze and smiled—small, quiet, real.
And Spencer’s heart forgot its rhythm entirely.
Garcia’s Backyard – Early Evening
The sun was still clinging to the edges of the sky in long, golden ribbons when Y/N stepped onto Garcia’s lawn, a coil of twinkle lights looped around her arm like a garland spun from stars. Her brown boots pressed softly into the grass, each step sinking just slightly into the earth, grounding her in the hush of early summer.
The air was velvet-warm and fragrant—lavender, honeysuckle, and the faintest trace of citrus from a glass left on the railing. Wind chimes stirred above the porch in slow, dreamy tones, their silver song fluttering through the breeze like a lullaby meant only for summer’s beginning.
Her dress fluttered at the hem—white and lacy, soft as breath, catching the golden light like it had been made to glow. It clung to the curves of her hips in motion, the delicate fabric shifting with every step she took between lantern poles and flower beds. She looked like something from a story whispered at twilight—half-real, half-lantern light.
Garcia watched her from the porch, barefoot herself, a bundle of citronella candles tucked under one arm like potions.
“Okay, moonflower,” Garcia called from the patio steps, hands on her hips, surveying the backyard like a general readying for battle. “We’ve got exactly one hour to make this place look like a midsummer dream crossed with a Stevie Nicks fever vision. Let’s summon the party gods.”
Y/N laughed as she reached for the nearest fence post, beginning to wind the twinkle lights around it. “You’re mixing metaphors again.”
“I contain multitudes,” Garcia said dramatically, then gestured to a crate of vintage glassware, solar lanterns, and fake moss. “And you contain the only sense of symmetry I trust right now.”
The two of them moved in a quiet, easy rhythm—Garcia orchestrating with flair, Y/N adjusting the delicate twinkle lights with careful hands, her touch light as breath on glass. The strands draped between fence posts like constellations, catching the last of the sun as it dipped behind the trees. Mismatched candle holders lined the long table, flickering already as if they couldn’t wait for dusk.
Y/N’s brown knee boots whispered through the grass as she stepped back to admire their work, the worn leather grounding the soft sway of her white dress—a contrast of strength and softness that somehow suited her perfectly.
Eventually, Garcia stepped back, let out a long, theatrical sigh, fanning herself with a flamingo-shaped paddle. “You look like a Renaissance painting. Like if Botticelli painted summer in boots.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips was warm. “You picked the outfit, technically,” she said, looping the last coil of lights around the edge of the pergola. “You threatened to withhold music recommendations unless I wore something ‘solstice-worthy.’”
“I did no such thing,” Garcia said, gasping. “I merely suggested that if you wore that dress, certain individuals might experience temporary cardiac distress. No names. No pressure.”
Y/N arched a brow. “You mean Spencer?”
Garcia feigned innocence poorly. “Did I say that?”
“I like him,” Y/N said simply, not able to help the smile blooming on her face, smoothing her palms down the fabric of her dress. “Not exactly a government secret.”
Garcia’s expression softened, all glitter and truth. “He likes you too, honey. Has for ages. The man practically blinks in Morse code when you walk into a room.”
A hush fell between them—not awkward, but full, like a breath held between pages of a story just beginning to turn.
Y/N let out a soft, breathy giggle—light and a little dazed, the kind that escaped without asking permission. She ducked her head slightly, as if even the breeze might overhear. A touch of rose bloomed in her cheeks, blooming even deeper when Garcia grinned knowingly.
Around them, the garden hummed in gold and green. Fireflies blinked lazily along the hedges, slow and deliberate, like sparks from a match that never quite catches. The sky above had begun its slow descent into dusk, shifting from the faintest robin’s egg blue into soft mauve, a color only seen when you were still long enough to notice it—quiet enough to be changed by it.
And for a moment, the whole world felt paused on the edge of something beautiful.
Y/N tied the last ribbon to the pergola, fingers lingering on the knot, and turned to Garcia. “Well… let’s see if he shows up.”
Garcia smiled, eyes twinkling. “Oh, he’ll be here. And when he sees you—” she made a theatrical explosion gesture with her fingers, “—brain. Gone.”
They both giggled, the sound delicate and light, like wind chimes stirring on a summer breeze—bright, private, and gilded by the last amber blush of day, as if the dusk itself had leaned in to listen.
By the time the citronella candles were flickering in full force and the fairy lights blinked to life overhead, the backyard had begun to swell with familiar voices.
The first to arrive was JJ, with Will at her side and Henry tucked on his hip, already sleepy-eyed from the car ride over. Y/N swooped in for hugs, cooing over Henry’s shark-print pajamas, her colorful counterpart offering him a cup of apple juice in a sparkly tumbler.
Rossi strolled through the gate next, holding a bottle of red wine in one hand and a Tupperware of something suspiciously gourmet in the other. “I figured someone had to bring a dish that didn’t involve glitter or gummy worms.”
“Rossi!” Garcia squealed. “You brought carbs and judgment—just what I needed.”
Hotch didn’t stay long—he swung by just long enough to hand Garcia a summer bouquet and promise he’d attend next year’s party for more than fifteen minutes. He exchanged a few quiet words with Y/N at the edge of the lawn before heading out to catch Jack’s game.
Then came Emily, in cutoffs and a vintage band tee, holding a six-pack and shouting something about missing her punk phase. She immediately pulled Y/N into a hug, murmuring something with a grin that made her laugh and swat at her arm.
The backyard filled slowly, in the best way—people drifting in with half-finished drinks and easy laughter, staking claims to folding chairs and porch steps. Music hummed low from the speakers Garcia had tucked near the herb garden, soft enough to let conversations overlap like waves. Fireflies blinked in and out along the grass line, pulsing gently like they had nowhere else to be.
Near the far edge of the yard, someone set up a folding table and started arranging red cups. A round of beer pong had begun. Prentiss immediately accused JJ of stacking the teams, both unable to contain the ringing laughter that escaped their lips.
And through it all, Y/N moved like the center of gravity—refilling drinks, catching up with JJ and Emily, swaying slightly to the rhythm of the music as the wind played with her hair.
Every now and then, her eyes flicked toward the gate.
Garcia noticed. Of course she noticed.
“He’ll come,” she murmured, passing Y/N a glass of sangria and a soft look. “You know he will.”
Y/N didn’t answer right away. She just took the glass and nodded once, fingers tightening around the stem.
And then—
The gate creaked open.
No one looked up right away. The music had mellowed into something slow and warm, weaving through the laughter and low conversation scattered across Garcia’s backyard. String lights blinked into gold overhead. Prentiss was accusing Rossi of cheating at beer pong again, Garcia was convincing Henry that fireflies were tiny fairies and not bugs, and someone popped open a beer with the hiss of summer behind it.
Spencer hovered just inside the gate, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of a slate-blue shirt that Garcia had all but bullied him into wearing. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows—he wasn’t sure if it looked intentional or just like he’d gotten too warm and panicked.
He didn’t know where to go, exactly. Or how to move. Or breathe.
Because there—at the far edge of the patio, half-turned toward the light—stood Y/N.
And she looked like every thought he’d ever tried not to have about her, wrapped in dusk and light and lace.
Her hair—soft with waves from the heat of the day—cascaded down her back like sun-warmed silk, catching the last of the golden light in a way that made his breath catch. The white dress—short, delicate, almost too fragile for this world—fluttered at the hem, shifting with the breeze like it had a mind of its own. It danced against her thighs in fleeting, whispering touches, revealing glimpses of skin so soft and bare it made something in him ache. His eyes followed the line of her leg down to the top of her boots, the worn leather hugging her calves like they’d been made just for her.
She stood with one hand cradling a half-glass of dark sangria, its deep red glinting like garnet in the porchlight; her fingers, long and elegant, curled delicately around the stem—a contrast against the wine-dark swirl, the rim of the glass catching light like a prism, throwing faint glimmers onto the lace of her dress. Her lips—stained the same ripe shade as the drink—parted slightly as she laughed at something JJ said, the sound soft and bright, like a bell in warm fog, and all he could think about was how dangerously, heartbreakingly kissable her mouth looked in that moment.
The gentle curve of her throat. The soft sweep of collarbone exposed by the neckline of her dress. He could almost imagine what her skin would feel like if he touched it—warm from the sun, velvet-smooth, like something meant to be memorized slowly.
She moved slightly, hair falling across her shoulder, and the light shifted with her, gilding her in gold.
She didn’t know.
That was the worst part.
She didn’t know how breathtaking she looked. How she was standing there, half-tucked into the last light of day, looking like a wish someone else had made.
His throat tightened.
Of course he noticed. He noticed her like the stars must notice gravity.
And still, he didn’t move—jaw slack, breath stalled in his throat, frozen in the kind of silent awe that only came from long-held want finally staring back at him in the flesh. She was a vision carved from light and memory, and he stood there like a ghost haunting the edge of something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch.
He might have stayed rooted there forever if she hadn’t turned.
Just a small, unconscious shift of her shoulders, the tilt of her head—like she felt him before she saw him.
Her eyes found his.
And something in him fractured—quietly, like glass under slow pressure.
She smiled—small, tentative, a curve of her lips that seemed to ask more than it answered. There was uncertainty in it, like maybe she wasn’t sure he was real. Like maybe she wasn’t sure he wanted to be.
And then—her hand lifted, the stem of her wine glass catching the fading light as she raised it just slightly in greeting.
That was all it took.
Spencer began walking, though his body felt distant and slow, like he was moving through warm honey, like the air between them had thickened with everything he hadn’t said.
He had no idea what expression his face was making—probably something strange and wide-eyed. His heart was racing, an echo of footsteps pounding against the inside of his ribs. Every cell in him was tuned to her.
And by the time he reached her, she had turned fully—her back to the sunset, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair, the wind tugging playfully at the lace hem of her dress. Her hair shimmered around her shoulders like dusk had decided to follow her down.
She looked at him like she wasn’t sure what to say next.
And then she smiled again, this time a little steadier.
“Hey, stranger,” she said—voice soft and warm, threaded through with something quieter beneath it. Hope, maybe. Or doubt. “I was starting to think you bailed.”
Spencer blinked. “I, uh... circled the block once.”
She laughed, her teeth catching the rim of her glass before she took a sip. “That sounds about right.”
“I had to... psychologically prepare,” he added, a little too honestly.
“For Garcia’s yard?”
“For... people. And string lights. And themed drinks.”
She grinned. “Yeah, the sangria’s lethal. Pretty sure the fruit in mine is just decoration at this point.”
Spencer’s lips curved into a half-smile. “You make it look manageable.”
She raised a brow. “Is that your way of saying I’m handling sangria better than you’d expect?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Not at all. I just meant—you seem. Comfortable. In this.”
She gave a small shrug, gaze flicking away, words trailing out of her mouth in a joking tone. “I’m faking it, obviously. I’ve got a whole internal monologue running.”
Spencer smiled softly. “Does it include a tactical exit strategy?”
“Only if someone spills on me.” She tilted her head toward Garcia, who was dramatically flailing over a plastic cup. “Or if Garcia tries to get me to dance.”
Spencer glanced over and nodded, solemn. “That does seem like a legitimate threat.”
Y/N’s smile quirked again, but her eyes flicked back toward the ground—lingering on the tip of her boot as it pressed into the grass. She swirled her glass absently, watching the fruit float in slow spirals.
There was a pause. Light. But charged.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, not looking at him this time.
Spencer shifted slightly. “Yeah. I... wasn’t sure I would either.”
Her brow ticked up. “But here you are.”
He glanced sideways at her. “Here I am.”
Their eyes met again, and this time something stayed there. Something quiet. Fragile.
Y/N took another sip of her sangria and tried to smile like her heart wasn’t fluttering a little. Like his presence didn’t change the temperature around her.
She tapped the rim of her glass once, then said, “I didn’t think this dress was a good idea.”
Spencer’s breath caught.
It took everything in him not to say the thousand things that filled his head at once.
It’s perfect. You look unreal. You’re the only person I’ve looked at since I got here.
Instead, he said, gently, “Why not?”
She shrugged again, self-conscious. “I don’t know. Felt like maybe it was trying too hard.”
His brows drew together just slightly. “It doesn’t.”
Y/N blinked, caught off guard.
“It doesn’t try too hard,” he said again. “It just... works. On you.”
It wasn’t a compliment exactly—not the kind that made it obvious. But it was close. Close enough that her cheeks went warm.
She looked away again, biting her lip like maybe she hadn’t expected even that much.
Spencer stuffed his hands back in his pockets, fighting the itch to reach for her, to say what he really meant.
You look like summer made flesh. Like I’ve spent months trying not to say your name.
Instead, he nodded toward the game table. “Are you playing?”
“I was about to,” she said, glancing toward the house with a smile. “Garcia claimed me for her team, but then someone spilled sangria on the playlist notes and she went full crisis mode. I got ditched for DJ triage.”
He smiled. “Sounds terrifying.”
“You have no idea.” She turned toward the table, then paused. “Wanna join me?”
Spencer hesitated for half a breath too long.
She laughed under her breath. “Too much social exposure?”
He shook his head. “No. Just calculating the risk of complete emotional collapse.”
Her eyes sparkled at that—surprised, a little fond. And something inside her flickered.
Say something, she thought. Look at me like you mean it.
“You’re cute when you panic,” she offered, softer than she meant to.
His mouth opened—like maybe he would say something, anything—but then closed again.
And that was it.
A heartbeat. A pause. Nothing more.
He still wasn’t looking at her the way she ached for.
Not the way she’d imagined, just once, in the mirror before leaving the house—when she smoothed the hem of her dress with trembling fingers and let Garcia braid gold into her hair like a spell. When she told herself she didn’t need him to notice.
But God, she wanted him to.
Just one look. One moment that said he saw her—not the agent, not the friend, but the girl in the white dress who only wore it because some fragile part of her hoped it might make him stay a little longer when the night ended.
She took a step back anyway, smile still intact, the hem of her dress catching in the breeze and dancing around her thighs as she turned.
“Come on, Doctor,” she called lightly over her shoulder. “I’ll save you a cup.”
And Spencer—blinking once, heart stumbling to keep up—followed her into the lights.
From the table, Morgan’s voice rang out: “Reid! You better get in on this next round. We need a math guy to calculate our odds!”
She moved ahead of him, boots pressing gently into the grass, the worn leather hugging her calves like they’d been shaped to her stride. The hem of her dress—a weightless slip of white cotton and lace—fluttered with the breeze, just brushing the tops of her thighs with every step. The fabric floated more than it fell, sheer in places where the light passed through, stitched with the softest panels of embroidery and ruffled tulle, like something borrowed from a midsummer dream.
The flutter of her cap sleeves kissed her shoulders, exposing the golden curve of skin beneath. The dress swayed when she moved, catching the warm light of the lanterns and casting faint shadows against her legs, as if the night itself couldn’t help but follow her.
She looked like a painting left out in the sun—all soft edges and pale ivory, leather and lace and a hint of something wild beneath it all. Her silhouette moved through the garden like smoke—blurred at the edges, kissed by lamplight, and edged in warm shadow. She looked untouchable in that moment. Like a page torn from some pastoral painting—cream and pale honey, dusk-blushed skin and vintage leather.
And Spencer—he watched her, helpless.
His eyes traced the flutter of the skirt, the soft dip of her collarbone, the barest glint of skin beneath the gauzy fabric. She was light and movement, softness and summer and something impossible to name.
He was sure—painfully sure—that he would never recover from this.
Spencer followed, heart caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat, and wondered if it was possible to ache for something that had never truly been yours.
He wanted to stare. He wanted to memorize every detail—the shift of her hair against her back, the dip of her waist, the soft line of her neck where it disappeared into lace. She looked like warmth itself, like summer captured in motion, like every unspoken sentence that had ever sat on the edge of his tongue.
He tried not to trip. Tried not to breathe too hard. Tried not to want.
But he did. With a fierceness that frightened him.
And she didn’t even know.
She was right there—right there, laughing with a glass in her hand and the stars beginning to crown her shoulders—and she had no idea how badly he wanted to reach for her. Not to pull her in or steal anything. Just to rest his fingers at the edge of her wrist and feel what it was like to be allowed.
She stopped at the folding table set up near the flower beds, already half-surrounded by red Solo cups and friendly heckling.
“We’re going, we’re going,” she giggled, glancing over her shoulder at him.
He nodded, a beat late. “Only if you’re willing to lose.”
Her eyes narrowed playfully. “Wow. Confidence and reverse psychology. You’ve clearly been studying the classics.”
“I’m full of surprises,” he said, then immediately regretted how that sounded.
Y/N grinned, setting her drink on the edge of the table. “Good. Because I plan on carrying this team, and I need you to look smart while I do it.”
Spencer exhaled a laugh. “I can do ‘look smart.’ That’s my default setting.”
“Perfect,” she said, and tossed him a ping pong ball.
He caught it with both hands, awkwardly. “Right. Okay. How hard can this be?”
“Okay, Doctor,” Y/N said, nudging Spencer toward the table with a grin. “Lesson one: aim like you mean it, but pretend you don’t care.”
Spencer stood beside her stiffly, clearly calculating something in his head—trajectory, angle, wrist rotation. His brows furrowed as he watched the other team set up the triangle of cups. The table was slightly uneven, leaning just enough to skew his probability models.
“This feels like a trap,” he murmured.
Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “That’s because it is.”
Across the table, Prentiss and JJ lined up with devilish smiles. “No pressure, Reid,” Emily said. “Just know I’ve already decided to take this personally.”
“Ignore them,” Y/N said, laughing under her breath, stepping closer so her arm brushed his. “They thrive on intimidation”
He blinked. “Like sharks.”
“Exactly,” she whispered, eyes narrowing in fake conspiracy. “Sharks with eyeliner.”
He smiled again—small and warm—and turned back to the game at hand.
Y/N watched him, eyes flicking between the ball and his profile.
There was something incredibly endearing about the way he concentrated—the tip of his tongue just barely touching his bottom lip, his brow furrowed like he was solving a math equation instead of figuring out how to play.
“Let’s see if you can outdrink me, genius,” Emily called out, tossing the ball from hand to hand.
“I’m not actually drinking,” Spencer replied, adjusting his stance like that would somehow help.
“Even better,” she said, already lining up her shot. “Means you’ll remember losing.”
The ball bounced once, then veered off the rim and rolled away into the grass.
Y/N raised her glass and called out, grinning, “That was bold, Prentiss.”
Emily gave her a look. “I’ve had three of these,” she said, gesturing to her drink. “Cut me some slack.”
Y/N sipped hers. “I’d cut you some if you hadn’t talked such a big game.”
Emily grinned. “I had plans, you know. You and me? Dream team. But someone got kidnapped by Garcia’s event-planning vortex.”
Y/N laughed. “I didn’t stand a chance. She handed me a box of votives and said, ‘make it whimsical.’”
Emily shrugged, unbothered. “Still feels like abandonment.”
“You’ve known me for five years,” Y/N said, amused. “If I had a choice, I’d be yelling over a plastic table with you right now.”
She raised her drink. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
Y/N laughed and turned back to Spencer, nudging his arm. “See? Tensions are high. The bar is low. Just aim for the middle and don’t overthink it.”
Spencer glanced at her, clearly overthinking it anyway.
She leaned in, voice dropping just enough for only him to hear. “You got this. You’ve out-logic’ed serial killers. A ping pong ball doesn’t stand a chance.”
He nodded slowly, trying not to focus on the way her shoulder brushed his.
Spencer’s hand tightened around the ping pong ball, holding it between his fingers with a kind of reverence that made Y/N bite back a smile. “Okay. But just so we’re clear, the average success rate in beer pong for a non-athlete is—”
“Spencer.”
He turned toward her.
She stepped close.
Close.
“Relax,” she said, voice soft, teasing at the edges. She reached out and gently adjusted his elbow. “You’re not diffusing a bomb. You’re just trying to sink a ball into a cup. Less nuclear physics, more carnival game.”
His lips twitched, a breath of a smile starting to form, though the proximity of her was doing more to scramble his brain than any probability curve.
Her hand stayed on his elbow, light but anchoring. She smelled faintly of rose water and lemon—bright, clean, summer. And the way her hair brushed his arm when she leaned just a bit closer made it nearly impossible to think clearly.
“You’re in your head,” she murmured.
“That’s where I live,” he replied, his voice quieter now.
She laughed under her breath. “Not tonight.”
Her fingers brushed his—soft, slow, a spark caught in passing. He held perfectly still.
“Use your fingertips,” she whispered. “Aim for the center. Gentle arc. Like tossing a paper plane.”
He nodded slowly. “Right. Paper plane.”
He pulled his arm back, exhaled, and released.
The ball bounced once on the rim—clink—and landed squarely in a center cup.
Cheers erupted from the bystanders. Someone whooped. Morgan yelled out something that sounded like, “That’s my boy!”
Y/N let out a delighted laugh, the sound bubbling up from her chest like it had been waiting for a moment just like this.
Without thinking, she reached out and grabbed Spencer’s arm—a quick, excited clutch of his bicep, her fingers curling instinctively as if her body had moved faster than her mind. “Yes!” she breathed, beaming up at him.
Spencer blinked, stunned by the sudden contact—and then his face broke into something rare and unguarded.
He laughed.
Not the quiet, polite kind of laugh he gave when he didn’t know what to say—but something real and bright, boyish and warm, catching even him by surprise. His eyes crinkled, his posture loosened, and his whole body felt lighter somehow.
“You made that look easy,” she said, still holding onto his arm for a second longer than necessary before letting go. Her fingers trailed off his sleeve like the last note of a song.
He smiled, wide and a little breathless. “That was mostly luck.”
“Mm.” She reached for the next ball, weighing it in her hand. “I don’t believe in luck. Just pattern recognition and good instincts.”
Spencer looked at her—not at the ball, or the cups, or the table—but her.
“I think yours are better than mine,” he said softly.
She smirked as she lined up her throw, not looking at him but clearly hearing every word. “Only in beer pong.”
She flicked her wrist. The ball sailed, bounced, rimmed—and dropped in.
Another low ripple of reaction from the small crowd behind them. Morgan and Garcia exchanged a glance from their seats on the grass, something amused and speculative in their expressions, slightly covered by her beaming into her glass. Rossi took a slow sip of wine.
Y/N stepped back beside Spencer as they waited for their opponents’ turn. Her shoulder brushed his, just slightly, her body humming with easy energy.
“You’re good at this,” he murmured, watching her from the corner of his eye.
“I told you,” she whispered back, eyes on the table. “You just needed the right partner.”
He didn’t say anything—but he didn’t look away either.
The next round began. They refocused, watching the ball bounce harmlessly off the rim on the other side. The energy picked up again, the table glowing under the canopy of string lights.
They played on—a quiet rhythm building between them, hands brushing now and then, quiet glances exchanged between shots, a slow, sweet unraveling of tension that felt unspoken but understood.
And no one said anything.
But a few eyes lingered.
The music had faded into something distant and dreamy, like a memory playing through a closed door. Crickets chirped in the hedges. The party, for the most part, had tucked itself in—warm laughter behind windows, faint clinking of glasses, someone calling goodnight from the front lawn.
Y/N sat on the low stone bench at the edge of the garden, half-tucked beneath the gentle sway of ivy and moonlight. Her boots were still on—worn brown leather, scuffed just enough to tell stories, heels resting lightly in the grass as she crossed one ankle over the other. The soft hush of the party drifted somewhere behind her—faint music, murmured voices, the occasional burst of laughter like it had forgotten to fade.
She cradled her glass of sangria between both hands, fingers loose around the stem, the melted ice glimmering faintly in the amber light spilling from the kitchen window. A single slice of lime floated lazily near the rim, catching the glow like stained glass. Her dress—still bright even in the blue hush of night—pooled in gentle folds against her thighs, the lace catching moonlight in its edges like frost on petals.
And her hair—loose, softly wavy, weightless in the way it moved—cascaded down her back like dusk. A few strands clung to her collarbone, caught on the rim of her glass, or lifted in the breeze like they were drawn toward something unseen.
The air was cooling now, sweet with honeysuckle and grass. The lights above flickered faintly in the stillness.
She looked like part of the night itself—quiet, waiting, unknowingly luminous.
And still—despite the quiet, despite the beauty of the evening settling around her like silk—there was a weight in her chest she couldn’t quite name.
Not sadness. Not loneliness.
Just something waiting.
She let her head tip back, eyes tracing the lattice of branches above her. Her hair, wilder now from the humidity, curled down her back in soft, careless waves. Her dress had wrinkled at the hem, lace crushed from the hours of movement.
She looked beautiful, and didn’t know it.
Which was the hardest part.
Spencer stood just a few feet away, watching her through the soft shadows.
She hadn’t noticed him yet.
Which wasn’t unusual, because what she also didn’t know—what she never seemed to know—was just how often he looked at her like this. Like she was the fixed point everything else revolved around. Like he didn’t know how to breathe unless he was quietly aware of her in the room.
And tonight, it was starting to hurt a little. Because she hadn’t looked at him once like she knew.
Y/N let out a sigh, took a slow sip of her drink, and whispered to no one in particular, “I should stop doing this.”
“Doing what?” came a voice—low, familiar.
She jumped slightly, her glass wobbling in her hand.
“Jesus,” she breathed out, laughing as she turned her head. “You always show up like a ghost in the dark.”
Spencer hovered just a step away, half-shadowed by the porchlight. “Sorry,” he said, quiet and earnest. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
She waved a hand, cheeks flushing a little—not from the surprise, but from the warmth in his voice, the way it softened when it was just the two of them. “It’s fine. I was just... thinking out loud.”
His brows pulled together gently. “About?”
Y/N hesitated, her fingers curling a little tighter around the stem of her glass. The lime floated lazily in the deep pink of her drink, spinning like it was stalling for her.
“Nothing important,” she said after a beat.
Spencer moved to sit beside her on the stone bench. Not quite close enough to touch, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the quiet presence he carried like a wool coat in winter—heavy, steady, protective.
She didn’t look at him. Just stared ahead, into the hum of porchlight and fireflies.
“I think I’m an idiot,” she said suddenly.
He blinked, taken aback. “You’re one of the smartest people I know.”
She let out a laugh—soft, short, not entirely happy. “That’s sweet. But also—possibly a sign that you’re terrible at reading subtext.”
“I’m actually pretty good at subtext,” he said, glancing over at her, his voice light but careful. “I’m just... less confident about translating it out loud.”
Y/N bit her lip, eyes still forward. Her glass tilted slightly in her hand.
“I just thought...” She paused, then looked down. “You didn’t say anything tonight.”
Spencer tilted his head, confused. “About what?”
She looked at her lap, at the pale lace bunched gently around her thighs, how the dress fluttered when the breeze passed through—like it was trying to float away from her, to disappear before she could take the words back. Her fingers twisted the stem of her glass in slow, anxious circles.
“About how I looked,” she murmured. “I just—I don’t know. Garcia said... Never mind.”
Spencer stared at her, stunned into silence.
She still wouldn’t look at him.
The blush had risen high on her cheeks now, blooming across her skin like the first touch of dawn, delicate and uncontainable. Her eyes stayed fixed on her glass, and even that seemed to tremble slightly in her grasp, looking like she wanted to gather her words back one by one and fold them away inside herself.
“I think that’s the sangria talking,” she said, softer now, trying for lightness, laughing a breathy laugh, but her voice caught just slightly—like a string pulled too tight.
“You thought I didn’t notice you?” he asked softly.
She shrugged, eyes fixed on the glass. “I mean… not like that.”
Because she truly didn’t know.
Didn’t know that from the moment she stepped into the yard—boots in the grass, lace fluttering like light through water—he hadn’t seen a single other thing. That every time she tucked her hair behind her ear or tilted her head to laugh with someone else, he felt like he was losing seconds of breath.
As if he hadn’t been drowning in her presence all evening, caught between awe and silence, reverence and restraint. As if his body didn’t go still whenever she leaned in. As if he hadn’t been biting his tongue every time she smiled in his direction, trying not to hand her every thought he’d ever had about her all at once.
His chest tightened.
He leaned forward just slightly, voice barely more than a breath, like anything louder might startle the moment away.
“Y/N.”
Something in his voice—low, rough, almost fractured—made her finally look up.
Her eyes met his.
And before she could say another word, he reached for her—all restraint finally snapping like a thread pulled too tight.
Spencer’s hands came up fast—urgent, almost shaking—and then stilled as they found her face, cupping her with a tenderness that almost didn’t match the storm in his chest. His fingers threaded gently into the waves of her hair, his thumbs brushing beneath her cheekbones like she was something precious he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch.
And then—he kissed her.
Hard. Messy. Absolutely wrecked with need.
It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t smooth.
It was desperate. Starved. Raw.
Like he’d spent the entire evening trying not to want this—trying not to imagine how her mouth would taste, how her body would move into his, how soft her breath might catch if he finally let himself have her.
And now that he had, there was no holding it back.
He kissed her like he’d been waiting a lifetime for her to feel it.
Y/N froze, startled—just for a heartbeat.
Then her hands curled into the front of his shirt—gripping, grounding—and she kissed him back, just as fiercely.
Her glass slipped from her hand, landing silently in the grass below, forgotten.
The world narrowed to the rush of heat between them—his mouth moving against hers like a man unraveling, her body drawn tight into his, lace brushing against cotton, breath shared in ragged pieces.
And still, his hands stayed gentle on her face. Still, his touch trembled with reverence even as his kiss turned rough—contradiction carved into motion. Want and worship. Need and fear.
Their foreheads remained pressed together as their lips pulled apart, their breath mingling in the hush between them—hers still catching, his uneven and warm against her lips, as if neither of them had quite remembered how to breathe without the other. Her eyes were half-lidded, lashes casting delicate shadows over flushed cheeks, and her lips—kiss-bitten and trembling—parted slightly, as if waiting for a question neither of them needed to ask.
Spencer was still holding her face—carefully, reverently—as though she were something too precious to risk letting go. His thumbs rested against the curve of her cheekbones, but his hands trembled slightly, as if overwhelmed by the nearness of her.
“I notice you,” he whispered, the words cracked open and bare. “Every single time.”
She let out a soft, shivering breath. A smile pulled at her mouth—not teasing, not light, but full of something ancient and full of ache.
“Took you long enough,” she murmured, voice catching like silk on thorns.
He smiled—barely, just a flicker of something broken and full—and then leaned in again.
This time, the kiss was slower.
But no less ruined with longing.
Their mouths met like a promise—tentative at first, almost unsure of how gentle to be, as if the world might tilt off its axis if they moved too quickly. But then she breathed his name into the space between their lips, and he lost whatever restraint he had left.
His hand slid from her cheek—slowly, reverently—trailing along the curve of her jaw before finding the delicate slope of her throat. He rested his palm there, his fingers curling around the side of her neck, grounding her, worshipping her. And she arched into him like she’d been waiting for that single point of contact all her life.
She whimpered against his mouth—soft, desperate, involuntary—and he responded with a sound low in his chest, a near-growl swallowed between kisses.
Her hands, trembling, found the line of his jaw—fingertips brushing over stubble, then curling at the hinge of it, like she needed to hold onto him or fall apart entirely. She kissed him deeper now, unafraid, her body pressed to his like something unfolding all at once.
Their teeth clashed—just barely, enough to draw a gasp, a stumble, a half-smile against lips that didn’t want to stop. His breath hitched, and she felt it in the cradle of his mouth, the way he held her tighter like he’d burn up if she ever stepped back.
And yet—even in all the desperation, his hands were still gentle. Still full of wonder. Like he couldn’t believe she was real. Like he didn’t know how to hold something he'd only ever dreamed of.
When they finally broke apart, their noses brushed, breathless and stunned.
The garden stayed quiet around them—the stars above them blinking like candlelight, the world soft and golden and impossibly still.
Like it had stopped to watch them fall in love.
They didn’t move—not right away.
Spencer’s hands were still cupped around her face like a man holding something holy. Like if he let go, she might vanish, and he’d wake up alone with only the ghost of her kiss left on his mouth.
Y/N’s hands stayed curled into the soft fabric of his shirt—not gripping anymore, just resting there, quiet and intimate, as if her body hadn’t yet told her it could step back. The air between them shimmered with all the things they weren’t saying, but didn’t need to.
Their foreheads touched again—softly, gently, like the afterthought of a prayer.
The garden exhaled around them. Fireflies pulsed along the hedges. The world had gone quiet, as if some spell had been cast over the lawn and they were the only ones left inside of it.
Y/N’s breath tickled against his lips as she spoke, eyes still closed.
“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
Spencer let out a laugh, low and breathless, brushing the tip of his nose against hers. “I didn’t think I would either.”
She opened her eyes then—and the look she gave him was soft, steady, devastating. A little dazed. A little in love. Like he was something rare she wasn’t sure she was allowed to keep.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
Eventually, she glanced down and spotted her glass tipped over in the grass. She let go of him reluctantly, bending down to retrieve it. “Tragic,” she murmured, holding it up and inspecting the lone slice of lime that had escaped and now lay abandoned among the blades.
Spencer smiled faintly, still stunned. “We’ll mourn appropriately.”
She gave him a quiet laugh, then stood and brushed her dress down with both hands. Stray leaves clung to the lace. His fingers itched to brush them off for her.
They moved together, slowly—like gravity had shifted just enough to keep them tethered. As they turned back toward the house, her hand drifted near his.
He didn’t think. He just found her fingers. Brushed knuckles. A soft, silent anchor.
She didn’t pull away.
The porch came into view again through the hedges—still glowing with soft golden light, like something out of a story told just before sleep. Inside, Garcia twirled in the kitchen with JJ, both of them laughing over something they clearly found hysterical. Prentiss sat cross-legged on the counter, miming what looked like a very dramatic retelling of a car chase, hands flying with flair. Rossi moved calmly through it all, espresso in hand like it was two in the afternoon instead of close to midnight. Morgan leaned against the fridge, grinning as he sipped a beer, occasionally tossing in commentary that made the whole kitchen erupt louder. He looked utterly at ease, like the night had been built just for this—friends, laughter, warmth humming in the floorboards.
It was the same as it had always been. Familiar. Comfortable.
And yet—
Spencer glanced sideways at Y/N, walking beside him. Her hair swayed lightly down her back, catching little flecks of gold from the porch lights. Her eyes were bright even in the dark.
Everything felt different now.
Not louder. Not bigger. Just undeniable.
At the base of the steps, she slowed. Her hand—still faintly linked to his—tugged ever so slightly. Not pulling him back, just holding him there for a second longer.
He looked at her, chest tight.
She leaned in, lips brushing the edge of his cheek, just beneath the line of his jaw—a kiss barely there, but somehow more grounding than the one before it. Her voice was quiet, just for him.
“Don’t go disappearing on me tomorrow.”
His chest rose with the breath he took before answering. “I won’t.”
And when she smiled—soft, real, a little tired from the day and full from the moment—she pulled the screen door open and stepped inside.
Spencer followed.
Their hands brushed again.
And this time, they didn’t let go.
I’m gonna lose my mind this was so beautiful
