summary = Her thing is linking arms. His thing is avoiding touch. For years, they’ve danced around it. Until one sleepy night when she finally reaches for him and finds that maybe he’s been hoping she would all along.
The case had finally broken. Not with a bang, but with the kind of exhausted silence that only came after too many days chasing shadows through a rural Midwest town. The unsub was caught. The paperwork signed. Another horror story catalogued and closed.
And now, the team was dragging themselves back toward the airstrip, the cold wind tugging at jackets and fraying what little energy they had left.
You were walking beside JJ, who you’d barely spoken to in three days, too many hours spent inside precinct walls, too many leads that went nowhere. The moment her elbow brushed yours, you naturally slipped your arm through hers and leaned against her.
She didn’t even flinch.
She just smiled tiredly. “You okay?”
You nodded. “Just ready to be horizontal for, like… seventeen years.”
JJ snorted. “Same.”
Spencer walked a few paces ahead, head ducked down slightly as he adjusted the strap of his bag. You caught yourself watching the way his shoulder rose and fell. The subtle tension he always carried right there. He looked tired, exhausted even.
Since Quantico. Since the first year of profiling classes and coffee fueled late night study sessions. Since sitting on a park bench with him after your first real field op, both of you too shaken to speak until you finally just leaned your head on his shoulder and whispered, “We did it.”
That had been the only time you ever touched him like that. He hadn’t pulled away. But after that, he told you gently, so gently that physical contact just wasn’t his thing. That he appreciated you, that he trusted you, but he wasn’t comfortable being touched. Nothing personal towards you, it's with everyone.
So you never did it again.
Not even your signature move - the arm linking. You did it with everyone else. Even Hotch, sometimes, when he was in a rare good mood and you were bouncing with post case energy. Hotch gladly even held his arm higher so you can hold it comfortably. Derek would always grin when you grabbed him. Garcia would squeal and twirl with you.
But Spencer?
You kept a careful distance. Even now, after years since you joined together, years after he told you to not take his words personally.
Even though you ached to reach for him. Sometimes to close the space, to show him that whatever this was between you two, it mattered more than what either of you were willing to say out loud.
You weren’t stupid. You knew you had a crush on him. And years after being a profiler you can tell he doesn't exactly think of you as a friend either. But you were also patient. And subtle. And maybe a little scared, too.
You boarded the jet, leaned your head against the window, and watched the sky shift from gold to blue to dark velvet.
⸻⸻
By the time you landed and made it back to the BAU headquarters, it was past midnight. Everyone had peeled off quickly, with Derek leaving first, then JJ with a yawned goodbye, Garcia blowing a kiss as she disappeared into the elevator with hotch eagerly waiting to see Jack after the long case.
You stood in the hallway with Spencer, the hum of vending machines and flickering lights the only company.
“Are you walking?” he asked, shouldering his bag again.
You nodded. “Too keyed up to crash yet. You?” Your hands reaching to pay for your vending machine drink.
“I was going to stop at that bookstore on Jefferson in the morning. That's if we don’t get called in of course."
You smiled. “You still haven’t finished that obscure memory treatise, huh?”
He smiled back a real one, small and crooked. “I have. Twice. I just like the smell in there.”
You tilted your head. “You’re such a nerd.”
“You say that like it’s an insult.” He giggles stepping forward.
“It’s not. It’s an adorable fact.”
He didn’t look away.
And neither did you as you both started making your way out.
“So,” you said after a beat. “Wanna go together? If we’re free?”
“Sure,” he said too quickly. Then, quieter “Yeah. I’d like that.”
You walked side by side toward the building’s exit. Your footsteps echoed softly. The air outside was cool, city lights casting everything in silver and gold. You said something, probably a joke about Rossi falling asleep with his eyes open on the plane and Spencer laughed, this breathy little sound that always made your heart feel a size too small.
And then, without thinking, without planning, you reached out and looped your arm through his.
His entire body went still.
You froze.
“Oh,” you said quickly, already starting to pull back. “Sorry- I wasn’t- I didn’t think- "
But you didn’t get the chance to finish.
Because Spencer… didn’t let go.
His arm stayed linked with yours. Not stiff. Not cold. But delicate, like he was holding something breakable. His fingers brushed against the inside of your elbow.
You turned to look at him.
He was blushing.
He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out what. And then he just smiled.
The tiniest, shyest smile you’d ever seen from him.
“I didn’t think I’d like this,” he said quietly, almost like he was confessing something.
You swallowed. Your heart was pounding.
“But you do?” you asked.
He looked down at your arms, still joined. His hand shifted slightly, fingers brushing yours.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “With you, I do.”
You didn’t say anything else for a while.
You just walked like that - two shadows under the streetlights, arms tangled, hearts full.
And maybe you’d never said it out loud.
Maybe the words hadn’t quite come yet.
But in that quiet space between heartbeats, between two people who’d always known they were different…
summary = Hotel booked before flying back home and Spencer couldn't wait to get his hands on you after the long case. He can’t get close enough, not with his arms around you, not with your legs tangled, not even with his hands under your shirt and his face tucked against your chest.
a/n = not the first cuddly Spencer fic </3 I can't get enough sleepy fluff with him. please interact and comment! requests open and check out my account if you enjoyed !!!
The hotel room is dim, only the bedside lamp glowing in soft gold. Rain taps lightly at the window, steady as a lullaby, but neither of you are listening.
Spencer is curled against your side, his face buried halfway into your neck, hair warm and tickling where it brushes your jaw. His long body folds around yours like he’s afraid you might slip away if he isn’t touching enough of you. One arm is tucked beneath your shirt, palm splayed against the soft skin of your lower back, fingertips flexing every few moments like he’s memorizing the curve of your spine. The other arm is curled tightly across your stomach, hand fisted in the fabric of your sleep shirt.
He’s not talking much tonight. Just little hums when you shift. Just breath against your collarbone.
You’d come back from a case that bled into too many days, everyone drained and quiet. But Spencer? He hadn’t let go of your hand since the jet landed. And when you finally got the keycard to the hotel room the Bureau had put you both in, just one bed because Garcia had “accidentally” booked it that way, he had tugged you close with a desperation that made your heart ache.
Now his legs are tangled with yours. You can feel the warmth of him under your thigh, his skin flush against yours. At some point his hoodie had been shed, and you’d slipped into an oversized tee. But now his shirt is rucked up from your wandering hands and yours is pushed to your ribs, his chilly fingertips tucked beneath the hem, holding skin like it grounds him.
You shift just a little, adjusting to get more of him on you, and he makes a soft, sleepy noise, somewhere between a sigh and a whine.
“Too far,” he mumbles against your chest. His voice is thick with exhaustion, muffled and rough. “Don’t go.”
“I’m right here,” you whisper, carding your fingers through his hair.
His hand under your shirt moves slowly, sliding up your spine. Palm warm, fingers gentle. He presses his whole body closer. His knee slides between your thighs, anchoring him even more tightly to you. There’s barely any space left, bare skin on bare skin, cotton bunched around your waists, but it’s still not close enough for him.
You feel him exhale, and his breath is shaky. Like he’s too tired to hide how badly he needs this.
“I can’t get close enough.” he whispers, almost embarrassed.
Your heart tugs.
You pull him in without a word, both arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, dragging him fully onto you until his chest presses flush to yours and your noses brush. His breath catches at the closeness. Then he melts.
His fingers curl into the hem of your shirt and stay there. Not moving. Not asking for more. Just needing to be there, under the fabric, on your skin.
He blinks slowly, lashes fluttering. “You’re warm,” he murmurs.
“So are you.”
He noses into your jaw, lips brushing there like a sigh. “M’tired,” he breathes. “Just… wanna stay here.”
“You don’t have to move,” you whisper. “Ever.”
That earns the softest smile, lazy and crooked. You press a kiss to his temple and feel him let go again. Another inch of tension disappears from his body.
Your hand slips under his shirt this time, resting over his ribs, and the moment you touch him, he shudders softly like he’s never been held like this before. He shifts again, tucking his arms around you so tight he’s practically under you now, your limbs so tangled there’s no telling where you end and he begins.
Minutes pass like that. Maybe longer.
Spencer starts drifting, body heavy against yours. Every now and then he whispers something, half sentences, nonsense phrases, things like “Don’t let go” and “Feels like home” and “Yours” and you don’t say much. You just hold him tighter. Letting him burrow deeper under your shirt, under your skin, under everything.
“I keep thinking…” he whispers, lips brushing your collar. “…you’re gonna wake up and decide I’m too much.”
You tighten your hold immediately, fingers threading through the curls at the base of his neck.
“You’re not too much,” you say. “You’re just… mine.”
He lets out a slow, shaky breath and buries his face in your chest again. And for the first time that night, you feel him let go completely.
You shift again, tucking his legs between yours, pulling the covers tighter over you both. He’s hot against you now, the weight of his body sinking into yours like gravity, like he belongs right here.
“I love you,” he mumbles against your skin, barely audible. Like he didn’t mean to say it, but sleep tugged it out.
You smile against his hair.
“I know,” you whisper, voice gentle. “I love you too.”
And he’s already asleep before you finish saying it.
His body doesn’t move. His arms don’t slacken. Even in sleep, Spencer clings to you like he’s afraid the world might take you away in the night.
But it won’t.
Not when you’re here, wrapped around each other, nowhere else to be.
Not when his hands are under your shirt, and yours are under his, and the only thing either of you wants is more of this closeness.
And even when sleep takes you, finally, you stay tangled. Breathing in sync. Holding on like the world stopped spinning, and this warm, skin-on-skin stillness is the only place it left behind.
summary = While going through a restricted room for files, Spencer and Reader are nearly caught. To protect what they’ve discovered, she whispers one impossible request "kiss me". And suddenly what starts as a cover becomes something far harder to fake.
content warning = kissing and making out but no smut. just touchy Spencer being needy without realisation.
The precinct air felt heavier at night. The room light was harsh and sterile, the kind that made everything feel more exposed than it should be. You were leaning over the conference table, palms flat against the surface, pulse a little too fast for how still you were trying to stay.
Hotch stood at the head of the room, arms folded, jaw tight. His gaze kept flicking between you and Spencer. He could sense it, not just the tension from the case, but something else. You hoped he didn’t name it. You couldn’t afford to have it named.
Spencer was next to you. Too close, honestly. You could feel the heat radiating from his arm, the light pressure of his sleeve brushing yours when he shifted. It was stupid. Three years in the BAU and you were still like this. Still ridiculously aware of every small movement he made, every time his voice dipped low when he was thinking out loud, every time he met your eyes like he didn’t mean to, like he couldn’t help it.
You were here to talk about the case. That was the whole point. And yet all you could think about was how it felt standing beside him, how the sharp scent of his aftershave mixed with the paper and dust and tension hanging in the room.
You tried to focus.
“There’s something they’re not telling us Hotch" you said, your voice sharper than intended.
Hotch raised an eyebrow. “Specifics?”
You hesitated, just long enough to feel Spencer’s eyes on you. His silence wasn’t passive, it never was. It was heavy. Calculated. A sign that he was either about to say something you’d been trying not to admit to yourself, or that he wanted you to be the one to say it first.
So you did. “Something's off not just about this case but this whole secrecy between the officers.” you said. “The way they’re handling this… they’re not just uncooperative. It’s like they’re trying to control what we see.”
Hotch didn’t answer right away. His eyes were locked on you, analytical, reading between the lines the same way he always did. You felt Spencer shift slightly beside you, hands in the pockets of his cardigan, brows drawn as he looked down at the files again.
“And there are gaps in every report,” Spencer said, his voice quiet but steady. “They’re too clean. Too consistent to be random. Like someone edited them before we even got access.”
He leaned in a little, fingers brushing lightly over the corner of the crime scene photo as he pointed to a timestamp. “This is the second scene. They said the footage was corrupted… but this mark.. see that? That’s from a recorder pause. Manual. Someone stopped the tape.”
You nodded, swallowing hard. It wasn’t fear exactly. It was pressure. The tight, growing weight in your chest that something about this case was much bigger than what was written in ink. Your heart was already pounding a little too fast, but not just because of the evidence. It was because of him.
The fluorescent light caught the soft angles of his face and the way his jaw tensed when he was concentrating, the small furrow in his brow. His hair had fallen slightly over his forehead again, and you felt that stupid, familiar ache start to crawl up your spine.
You’d liked him since the beginning truthfully. Since that awkward, rainy morning three years ago when you walked into Quantico for the first time and he offered you coffee without ever looking directly at you.
It had started slow with quiet admiration, long glances, late night case talks and his comforting words to make you feel better. He was in BAU for a few years before you joined, he knew how things worked and how badly it affects you in the beginning. Therefore he was always ready to show his support towards you. But it wasn't just calming words to you. It was something more.
Now, watching him piece together the parts of something dangerous, watching the way his brain worked through layers and lies, it hit you all over again. Hard.
You didn’t realize you were staring until he glanced up.
His eyes met yours.
Sharp. Soft. Curious.
There was a flicker of something behind them, something unreadable but far from indifferent. And suddenly the air between you felt different. Not heavy. Not cold.
Just… charged. And you wonder if he feels that same feeling inside your chest like butterflies are everywhere and for a second everything but his fades away.
Then Hotch’s phone buzzed. The moment snapped.
He answered with that clipped, professional tone, then tapped the screen to put the call on speaker. Garcia’s voice crackled through, bright but serious.
“Okay, boss. You’re not gonna like this. I did a bit of digging after you sent me those scans and guess what our sweet little department’s been hiding?”
Hotch looked at you and Spencer, jaw set. “What did you find?”
“A whole ass room, that’s what I found,” Garcia said. “It’s buried in the building’s floor plans, looks like a completely normal room. No surveillance, no active logins. Just… nothing. Like it’s locked off from everyone. But someone’s using it. And I've found out It’s where they’re keeping files that don’t show up in their regular system.”
Spencer looked up sharply. You could already see the wheels turning in his head.
“Someone doesn’t want us in there,” he said under his breath.
“Exactly,” Garcia replied. “Which means you have to get in. The door should be open right now until 5pm. Which means you better hurry up before they close it off for the night”
Hotch didn’t hesitate. “Reid. You’re going in. Take her with you.”
You blinked. Spencer looked over at you.
The weight of his eyes again. Not soft this time. Serious. And Something about the way Hotch said it felt heavier than it should’ve.
Spencer straightened his shoulders and nodded. “We’ll find it.”
You swallowed the nerves crawling up your throat. It wasn’t the hidden room that made your heart beat faster.
It was going in there with him.
The hallway beyond the main bullpen was poorly lit, lined with locked doors and empty desks that hadn’t seen use in years. You could still hear the low murmur of officers talking in the squad room a floor below. Too many bodies, too many eyes. But Hotch had bought you a window, and it wouldn’t last long.
Spencer walked ahead of you, quiet and quick. His posture was a little stiff, like he knew you weren’t supposed to be here but he was going anyway. That part didn’t surprise you. He always followed the rules… until he didn’t. You’d seen it more than once on cases like this when something about the math didn’t add up, when the facts refused to sit still. That’s when he changed. Still soft-spoken, still polite… but sharp. Focused. Unflinching.
The badge clipped to your hip swung slightly as you walked. It wouldn’t help you here. Not in this situation where everyone is hiding the reality of the case from agents.
“Wait,” you whispered, grabbing Spencer’s arm gently just before the corner.
He paused, turning his head just enough to hear you, and you could feel the warmth of his body even with the space between you. It was stupid, but your fingers tingled where they’d brushed his sleeve. You dropped your hand.
“Two officers coming down the west stairs,” you murmured.
Spencer nodded once, barely perceptible, then leaned in closer than necessary to point toward a side door you hadn’t noticed before. “Janitor’s closet. Connects to the file corridor. If we cut through, we can reach the archive wing from behind.”
You blinked. “You sure?”
He gave the faintest smile. “I memorized the blueprint Garcia sent.”
Of course he did.
You slipped in behind him, pressing the door shut just as footsteps echoed down the hallway behind you. Inside, it smelled like bleach and old paper towels. Dark. Cramped. Close.
You could feel his breath. Hear the tiny inhale he tried to stifle when your shoulder accidentally brushed his chest.
You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
By the time you reached the sealed corridor Garcia mentioned, your pulse was back under control.. barely. The hallway here was silent. No cameras. No badge scanner, just an old room with a cracked door.
Spencer stepped forward, fingers gliding over the handle pushing it down slowly until the door creaked open.
Inside, it was dusty like nobody's entered it in weeks. Room reeking of poor insulation and secrets. Metal shelves lined the walls, stacked with unlabeled folders, worn tape reels, and scattered evidence boxes. At the side of the room, a waist-high counter stretched beneath a long strip of flickering fluorescent light.
“We won’t have much time,” you said, but your voice felt far away. You quickly started searching for the box of documents you needed to find.
Because the moment you stepped fully inside, something changed.
It was the silence. The proximity. The fact that you and Spencer were suddenly alone, surrounded by sealed truths and flickering shadows. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just another room, just another case, and that the flutter in your stomach was from adrenaline.
But it wasn’t.
"I found it." Spencer called out, his voice pulling you back to your feet as you make your way back to the front of the room.
You moved toward the counter, trying to shake it off. Focus. That’s all you had to do. You weren’t the type to swoon over someone just because they smelled like old books and stood too close in the dark. You weren’t seventeen.
You hoisted yourself up onto the counter, hoping your knees wouldn't feel so weak anymore. Boots thudding softly against the metal as you settled on the edge. Casual. Confident. Or so you hoped.
Spencer didn’t sit. He stood beside you, shoulder inches from your knee, fingers flipping carefully through the packet he’d pulled from the shelf.
“This is it,” he said, thumbing the corner of a faded document. “These files, none of them were scanned into the system. These are the originals.”
You leaned toward him without realizing it. The scent of his cologne, barely there, clean, something warm, hit you again, and you had to focus on the folder in your lap to keep from looking at him.
He kept reading, shifting a little closer without meaning to. His arm brushed your leg this time.
Neither of you moved.
The air felt heavier here. Not dangerous, just… charged. Like even though you were both focusing on the yet to be solved case, you understood there's unspoken words yet to be said.
You wondered if he noticed. If he felt it, too.
But Spencer was impossible to read. His eyes stayed on the files, mouth slightly parted in concentration. But there was a faint flush at the edge of his collar. Barely there. But real.
You turned a page, pretending not to notice. Pretending you weren’t thinking about how easy it would be to reach over. To tuck that curl behind his ear. To say something you couldn’t take back.
But instead, you cleared your throat.
“Anything useful?”
Spencer blinked, almost startled. Then nodded. “Very. Did you find anything?”
Still no distance between you. "Just the information we already have"
Still no words about it yet he hums in agreement.
The door had clicked shut behind you both just ten minutes ago. You and Spencer stood alone in the dim room, lit only by the buzzing fluorescents overhead.
“This is insane,” you muttered under your breath, flipping through one of the file boxes on the shelf. “I mean, this whole section’s been completely hidden from any reports.”
“Not just hidden,” Spencer said from beside you, pulling out another manila folder. “Look at this... These are from the original investigation. Some of these witness statements never made it into the official file we were given.”
You turned and leaned against the metal counter, trying to act unaffected trying to ignore how close he was to you now, how warm his voice was even when he was being clinical. "I can't believe they'd think that we wouldn't be able to find out about this."
He stood only a foot away. His eyes flicked over the page in his hands, jaw tensed, brows pulled tight. You’d known Spencer for three years now. Joined the BAU together. Watched him from the other side of glass, from across motel rooms, jet seats, crime scenes.
You wanted to say something, but you got distracted again just watching the way his lips moved while he read.
It wasn’t fair. You bottled up so many emotions towards him, of course sometimes there's gonna be cracks and you can't hold back.
But he was so focused. So serious. And all you could think about was how badly you wanted to run your thumb along the edge of his jaw. How your stomach kept flipping every time he looked at you for too long.
You were about to say something anything when footsteps echoed down the hallway.
You both froze.
Spencer’s hand tightened around the folder. You turned your head slowly toward the slightly ajar door — and that’s when you hear it.
An officer talking into a radio, his footsteps getting closer and closer with the keys dangling in his hand.
You didn’t even breathe.
His voice carried faintly as he muttered something into his mic maybe checking in with someone, maybe just stopping to listen.
The door was open enough that if he glanced in. if he took one step closer, he’d see everything.
The documents. The open drawers. You. Him.
Your pulse spiked hard in your ears. You looked at Spencer. His jaw was clenched, eyes wide but actions swift as he moved the documents behind the now closed box. As if not one document left that box in the first place.
But you both knew there's no excuse for you being there regardless of that closed box. There's no reason you could've went to a floor that's not in use, lights off, door barely open.
And then, without thinking, you grabbed his sleeve, pulling him between your legs and whispered:
“Spencer, kiss me.”
He turned so fast it was almost comical. “What?!”
“He’s gonna look in here,” you said in a rush. “We have no excuse, no way of leaving. Pretend we're- you know..”
Spencer’s mouth opened, stunned silent, eyes darting between your face and the doorway. “I-”
And then he moved.
He stepped forward, fast and sharp, and suddenly he was pressed up against you, hand braced against the counter beside your hip. The other one found your waist—awkward at first, but then steady.
Then his lips were on yours.
And just like that your brain short-circuited.
You hadn’t thought it through. Not the part where his breath would catch. Or the way his fingers tightened slightly, unsure, until you kissed him back. The heat of his chest against yours. The way his lips were soft but nervous, like he didn’t know how to fake this kind of thing, because maybe he’d never wanted to fake it.
You heard movement outside.
But you didn’t stop. Because his hands became greedy, pulling you closer by your waist. Your legs now wrapped around him, hand tugging on his perfect curls as he whimpers into your mouth from the feeling.
He leaned in more. Letting you touch him, letting you feel his soft hair as your other hand slid up his chest, curling lightly into the collar of his shirt.
And that’s when the door creaked wide open. Right when his hands fiddled with the top buttons on your shirt, completely forgetting about the officer, the case, the documents and where you were. His mind was filled with you.
“Oh—uh—whoa.”
You barely pulled away, still taking one last second of that kiss to cherish when you've cleared your head.
The officer stood in the doorway, blinking at the sight of you tangled together.
“Well… that’s one way to kill time on shift,” he said, laughing under his breath.
You broke the kiss and turned quickly, trying to hide your red face in Spencer’s shoulder. “Oh my god Spence I told you we were being reckless,” you said, feigning flustered giggles. Trying to hide the reality between what was actually going on.
Spencer stammered something like, “Sorry.. uh-we didn’t mean to-”
The officer held up a hand, shaking his head. “You agents are all the same. I’ll let it slide, but this room’s off limits. Go somewhere else and take your, uh… moment, somewhere else too.”
You laughed nervously again, until you felt Spencer's hand tighten on you, picking you up before placing you back on the ground and pulling your hand in his. “C'mon.”
Spencer managed a crooked, helpless smile. the worst actor you’d ever seen and while you pretend to fix your clothes, the officer obviously feeling the need to face the other way, Spencer slowly slid one of the folders to the side with his sleeve as you shifted off the counter. Your hand stayed casually on top of the incriminating file, sliding it smoothly under your jacket.
The officer didn’t seem to notice.
Didn’t even glance at either of you anymore, simply focusing on locking the door the second Spencer stepped out the door.
As you two walked out, shoulders brushing, you could feel Spencer vibrating with tension beside you.
You kept your expression calm, playful. But your heart was still racing.
And behind the flush on his cheeks and the scatter in his breath, Spencer Reid looked like a man who was never, ever, going to forget that kiss.
A/N = if you enjoyed please check out my other works, im new and it'd really help out to see if I should continue if people are interested :)
summary = He never saw how deeply she loved him, how much of herself she gave without asking for anything back. While he falls for someone new, she’s left choking on years of silence and unspoken feelings. One night alone in the office, the truth finally shatters between them… and nothing will ever be the same.
content warning = The original plot does not exist here, so Spencer and Maeve do meet and they go on the dates! Maeve does NOT appear as a character in the story therefore she is only referenced through mentions and conversations.
You had loved him for longer than you ever meant to.
Not in the dramatic way books describe it. Not in chaos or longing that tore through rooms. Your love had always been quiet. It lived in corners. In the space between his breath and your patience.
It started when you were twenty four. That was the year he kissed another woman in a pool in Los Angeles, and you smiled through it. You smiled even though your chest had gone still the second she leaned in. You told him he deserved it. That you were happy for him. And he believed you. Of course he did. Because that’s what you were to him. Steady. Supportive. The best friend. The one who never asked for anything.
Even back then you thought maybe you’d outgrow it. The ache. The need. The invisible thing between your ribs that refused to move on. But it didn’t fade. It just sank deeper.
You loved him through all of it. Through the years that blurred together in long flights and longer cases. Through the trauma and the pieces of him that broke off without warning. Through his silence. Through his withdrawal. Through the addiction that swallowed him whole and spat him back out smaller.
You stayed.
You stayed when everyone else backed away slowly. You stayed when he snapped at you for asking if he’d eaten. You stayed when he couldn’t sleep, when he’d call in the middle of the night because the silence was louder than the pain. You stayed even when he didn’t thank you.
He never had to.
Because it wasn’t about being seen. Not at first. It was about loving someone so much that being near them felt like enough.
And it was. For a while.
You learned how to live beside the ache. You learned to fold your feelings into the way you brought him coffee without him asking. Into the way you waited for him to finish his statistics rants even when no one else cared. Into the way you made sure to always be there, not just for the job but for him. Always him.
That was the hardest part. Knowing how easy it was for him to count on you. How naturally he leaned into your presence without thinking twice.
You weren’t a question. You were an answer. You were just never his.
And still you stayed.
Until her name entered the room like a match striking open air.
Maeve.
He said it the first time like he wasn’t sure he should. Like he was afraid you’d tease him or brush it off. You didn’t. You smiled. Asked questions. Acted the way you always had, because what else were you supposed to do?
You could tell she made him happy. You could see it before he even admitted it. The way he lingered over his phone, the way his tone shifted when he talked about her voice, her words, the way she understood him.
You pretended to be happy for him. You even believed it some days.
Because the truth was you had never been able to hold anything against him. You had never learned how to be angry with him for things he didn’t know.
And still, deep down, something in you hoped. Not for much. Just for something. A glance. A pause. Some small moment where he might look at you a little longer. Maybe not fully see it. But feel it.
That hope died in one sentence.
You hadn’t meant to overhear it. You weren’t trying to listen. You were passing by Blake’s office when you heard his voice through the cracked door. You froze. Something about his tone, softer than usual, pulled you to a stop.
He was talking about her.
You heard the words before you could prepare yourself.
“It doesn’t matter what she looks like. She’s already the most beautiful girl in the world to me.”
It was simple. Honest. Kind.
And it shattered you.
Not because he called someone else beautiful. Not because he loved her. But because he said it like it had never even crossed his mind that anyone else could be.
All those years. All those nights. All the ways you tried to hold him up when he was falling. All the versions of yourself you offered him without asking for anything in return.
And he never even considered you.
You stood there just long enough to memorize the ache. And then you walked away.
You didn’t cry. Not then.
Instead you got quieter.
It wasn’t revenge. It wasn’t even bitterness. It was self-preservation.
The next time he started one of his rants, something about paleontology and cognitive biases, you didn’t ask follow-ups. You didn’t lean forward like you usually did or nudge him when he started talking too fast.
You just listened for a second. Then turned back to your files.
He paused. You felt it.
But he didn’t say anything.
And you didn’t explain.
You stopped meeting him at the coffee machine. You left rooms earlier. You skipped dinners. You stopped asking what he was reading.
When he brought up Maeve, you nodded but didn’t speak.
The distance didn’t happen all at once. You just stopped reaching out, and he didn’t notice you slipping away.
That was what hurt the most.
Not the fact that he loved someone else. Not even the fact that he didn’t love you.
It was that it was so easy for him not to notice that you had ever been there at all.
You could always tell when he was nervous.
He never fidgeted like most people. He didn’t pace or stammer or shift around. Spencer had a quieter sort of restlessness. He’d straighten his tie too many times. Flip the same page back and forth in a book without reading it. Tap the lid of his coffee cup with his thumb like he was trying to solve something that had no equation.
That morning, he was doing all of it.
And it didn’t take much to guess why.
He was meeting her. Finally.
You weren’t supposed to know it was tonight. You didn’t ask, hadn’t asked in weeks. But you knew anyway. He had been humming under his breath all morning. His hands moved faster, his words lighter, his smile softer. You didn’t need confirmation. You had spent years learning the language of his body.
“Do I look like someone meeting a potential girlfriend or like someone attending a grad seminar?” he asked.
You didn’t want to laugh. But you did. Quietly.
You didn’t want to look at him either. But you did.
He was beautiful. He always had been.
You reached forward, gently fixed the collar of his shirt, and said, “You look good, Spence. She’s going to love you.”
He smiled. That real kind of smile, not the ones he gave to strangers or coworkers or local detectives. The ones he gave when he felt safe. When he trusted the person in front of him to hold it.
And it hurt. So much it made your throat tighten.
You pulled your hand away and forced a breath. “I’m happy for you,” you said.
And you meant it.
You hated that you meant it.
Because even with everything tearing through you, some part of you still believed he deserved to be loved the way he wanted.
Even if it wasn’t by you.
Even if he never knew you wanted it to be.
The rest of the team noticed the change in the air.
JJ kept glancing between you and Spencer, concern softening her features. She didn’t say anything. Neither did Morgan. Not like he usually would. No teasing, no nudging. He gave Spencer a subtle pat on the back before heading out, and when he passed you, he gave a small, understanding look.
Blake didn’t even bother pretending. She looked at you like she knew. Like she had known all along.
But no one said a word.
Because they all knew it wasn’t their place.
It was his.
And he never claimed it.
That night, you sat on your bed with a book you didn’t read and a phone you didn’t touch. You imagined what she looked like. How she spoke. What it sounded like when she made him laugh.
You tried not to picture the way he looked at her. You failed.
You imagined the way he probably leaned closer without realizing it. The way his hands moved when he got excited about a topic. The way he probably rambled. How she probably liked it.
You imagined her leaning across the table, smiling like she knew him already. You imagined her seeing the things you saw first. And loving them. And knowing what to do with them.
And when your chest felt too tight to breathe, you turned off the lamp, laid in the dark, and stared at the ceiling.
You didn’t cry.
You didn’t need to.
The ache was already stitched into your bones.
He came in the next morning glowing.
It wasn’t showy. It wasn’t loud. It was just him. Lighter. Fuller. His shoulders didn’t sag. His voice had a brightness to it that made something in your stomach turn.
“She’s…” He stopped mid-sentence, smiled to himself, and tried again. “She’s amazing.”
You didn’t turn your head. Just kept reading. You weren’t even sure what file you were holding.
“We talked for four hours,” he said. “Chess, poetry, physics… She’s the first person I’ve ever met who doesn’t blink when I talk about theoretical mathematics.”
You nodded slowly.
“That’s great, Spence.”
“She quoted Rilke,” he said, laughing softly. “In German. I didn’t even prompt her, she just knew it.”
You felt your jaw clench.
“I think I’m going to ask to see her again,” he added. “I just… I haven’t felt this seen in a long time.”
Your eyes were starting to sting. You blinked twice and forced a breath.
“You should.”
He finally turned to look at you.
“You okay?” he asked.
And you smiled. The smallest smile. Just enough to lie.
“Yeah,” you said. “Just tired.”
And then you stood up.
You didn’t give him time to ask anything else.
You didn’t want him to.
Because if he asked again, you would’ve shattered.
Few days later on a warm night, the bullpen was quiet. The lights were low, most of the team long gone. You and Spencer sat alone near the break area, the distant hum of a vending machine the only background sound.
You were both in your usual spots, opposite ends of the small table. The silence was soft at first. Comfortable. But then he started talking.
“We went to that used bookstore again. The one with the little poetry section near the back.” He smiled at the thought. “She remembered I mentioned that Neruda line. The one about love being born in silence. She found the book and highlighted it. Slipped it into my hand when I wasn’t looking.”
You gave a small nod. Your hands were wrapped around a mug that had gone cold thirty minutes ago.
Spencer kept going.
“She talks like she’s writing a novel. All her words feel intentional. She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. And the way she listens… like she sees things most people miss. I don’t know. I feel different around her. Calmer, maybe.”
You didn’t say anything. Your eyes were still on the rim of your mug. He didn’t notice.
“I think I could really fall for her. I mean, it’s scary, but it feels kind of right. Like maybe this is what it’s supposed to feel like.”
You inhaled slowly.
“Spencer.”
He stopped mid sentence, still smiling, still lit up.
“Yeah?”
“Can you just… stop for a second.”
His brows knit. “Stop?”
You finally looked at him. Really looked.
“Just stop talking. Please.”
The silence that followed was deafening. His mouth parted slightly but no words came out. You blinked a few times, trying to force back the sting behind your eyes, but it was too late.
“I have listened to you talk about everything. Every theory, every book, every ridiculous statistic. I have listened to you ramble about string theory at two in the morning while covered in blood. I have defended you when cops were cruel and when people called you names. I have sat by your side through every overdose scare, every nightmare, every hollow eyed morning. I have loved you through every version of yourself, even the ones that almost killed you.”
Your voice cracked but you didn’t stop. Eyes teary, hands shaky and your words coming out quietly but firm.
“And the worst part is.. All you ever thought of me as a friend who's good at comforting.”
Spencer leaned forward, confused. You could see his mind trying to make sense of the words but not fast enough.
“I was there when you kissed someone else. Do you remember that? We were twenty-four. It was raining. You had just saved someone and she kissed you like it was the most cinematic thing in the world. I stood there and watched. I clapped for you. And then I cried alone in the hotel bathroom.”
His expression changed, eyes searching yours now.
“I kept loving you. Through every woman you looked at, through every wound you never let me treat, through every time you shut me out and then pulled me back in like it was nothing. And I stayed. Because I thought one day you might see me.”
He opened his mouth again. You shook your head.
“No. You don’t get to talk.”
Tears fell freely now. You didn’t bother wiping them.
“You told Blake that she was the most beautiful girl in the world. That it didn’t matter what she looked like. And that hurt Spencer. Because I always knew you didn’t love me but hearing it like that… like it was final… like it was real…"
Spencer’s face was pale now. His hands were clasped tightly together, knuckles white.
“I started pulling back because I didn’t know how else to protect myself. I couldn’t keep waiting for you to look at me. And every time you opened your mouth to talk about her, I felt like I was being stabbed. So yeah, I shut you out. And I’m sorry if that hurt you. But I've loved you for years. You never saw it and acknowledged anything I did for you as more than a friendly gesture.”
You finally stopped speaking. It felt like the air had been ripped from your lungs.
Spencer leaned toward you, his mouth parting as if he had something to say. But then something shifted behind you. A sound.
You turned around slowly.
Morgan and Garcia stood frozen just a few feet away, wide eyed and silent. They must have come back for something and walked straight into the wreckage.
You blinked. Your heart sank deeper than you thought possible.
You stood up.
Spencer reached out instinctively but didn’t move fast enough.
You walked away. Pushing through Morgan, Out the doors. Down the hall.
summary = He never saw how deeply she loved him, how much of herself she gave without asking for anything back. While he falls for someone new, she’s left choking on years of silence and unspoken feelings. One night alone in the office, the truth finally shatters between them… and nothing will ever be the same.
content warning = The original plot does not exist here, so Spencer and Maeve do meet and they go on the dates! Maeve does NOT appear as a character in the story therefore she is only referenced through mentions and conversations.
part ONE , masterlist
You don’t remember the walk to the elevator. You don’t remember pressing the button or stepping inside. You only remember the weight in your chest, the kind that feels like your body is holding its breath for you because you can’t.
You left without a coat even though it was cold, and the chill outside was sharp enough to make your skin sting, but you welcomed it. It felt real. It felt like something that could keep you grounded when everything inside you was splintering.
All you wanted was distance and enough space for your heartbeat to slow down, for the echo of your own voice to stop replaying in your skull.
You stood on the sidewalk, the city lights blurring into thin streaks of colour, and waited for the tears to come. They didn’t. You weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.
When you got home, you didn’t bother turning on the lights. You kicked your shoes off somewhere near the door and sank into bed still wearing your work clothes. You stared up at the ceiling, replaying every moment you wished you could take back. You expected your phone to buzz, half-dreading it, half-needing it… but nothing happened. The silence that followed was a cruel thing. It meant he wasn’t reaching for you, not even out of confusion or regret. And that, somehow, hurt more than anything you had said.
You didn’t sleep. Hours passed in slow, suffocating inches, and when the sun finally rose, you felt no different. Just tired. Just empty. Just done pretending.
You walked into the BAU that morning like someone wearing your skin. People looked at you differently, too softly, too carefully. Garcia’s greeting was fragile around the edges, and you bypassed her with an apology that never reached your tongue. Morgan didn’t give you his usual grin. He just nodded once, a look in his eyes that said I heard more than I ever wanted to. Blake gave you a sympathetic smile before looking away, and it was possibly the kindest way she could have acknowledged you without making everything worse.
Hotch noticed you the moment you stepped into the bullpen. He didn’t approach, didn’t pry but instead just watched you long enough to see the change, the way you carried your heartbreak like a shield.
"Briefing in five,” was all he said, voice low, like he was afraid if he spoke too loudly you might break.
And then Spencer walked in.
Late. Disheveled. Unsteady in a way you had never seen from him without pain somewhere behind it. His eyes were rimmed with the kind of red that only sleepless nights could paint. His tie was crooked like he’d put it on while his hands shook. When he saw you, he stopped. Not dramatically, instead just a small, startled pause, the kind that said he had already imagined this moment a hundred different ways and none of them prepared him for the real thing.
He didn’t walk toward you.
For the first time in years, he didn’t. And something inside you recognised that as a new kind of loss.
But you knew his intention was out of kindness. He knew there was space needed between the both of you, or else the tension would’ve felt suffocating throughout the room.
You sat through the briefing with your eyes fixed on the folder in front of you, pretending that every word wasn’t floating past unheard. Spencer spoke once, his voice cracking on a number he’d normally say without thinking. You didn’t react. You didn’t look up. But every second that passed between his question and your refusal to acknowledge him rang louder than any statistic ever could.
Work carried on, as it always did. You threw yourself into paperwork, focusing so hard you could almost pretend nothing inside you hurt. But every breath felt like a reminder that pretending wasn’t working anymore.
You waited to make coffee until you were sure he wasn’t around.
Except he was.
He stood a few feet away from the machine, holding a cup he clearly wasn’t drinking, staring at the floor like it had the answers he couldn’t find. When he noticed you approach, he looked up too fast, eyes wide with something that might have been fear or guilt or both. For a second, neither of you moved. It was painful, how familiar this place was and how strange you suddenly felt in it.
You stepped around him carefully, like he was something fragile and you couldn’t risk touching it.
“Excuse me,” you whispered your first words to him since last night and the way his breath hitched made your heart twist violently. His sleeve barely brushed yours as you turned away, and that tiny contact burned more than any confession ever could.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to apologise. Didn’t try to fill the void. He just stood there, silently unraveling, and you kept your eyes on the coffee stream as if staring hard enough could block out memories of every time you’d filled a second mug for him.
The day moved on, but nothing felt normal. The team walked on eggshells, everyone speaking softer, moving slower, terrified of pushing either of you over an edge you both hovered dangerously close to. You stayed quiet, forcing your face into calm you didn’t feel, and Spencer kept his head down, hands shaking whenever they weren’t busy.
It was awful.
It was necessary.
At some point in the late afternoon, you caught him staring. Not the casual way he used to glance over when he needed grounding, but a quiet, almost desperate stare like he was studying the person he’d known for years and suddenly couldn’t recognise anymore. His eyes held questions he didn’t dare ask. Yours held answers he would never want.
That was the shift.
The moment you understood that whatever you had been to each other; confidant, safe haven and constant was gone. Replaced by a silence thick enough to suffocate.
You wondered how long it’ll take until things are back to normal, back to how they were when you sat next to each other casually, knees touching, eyes locking, feelings unravelling naturally. Was it even possible for it to be normal again? Probably not, you think. Not with Maeve around anyway.
And the rest of the afternoon passes like that. In fragments. A question answered without thought. A file closed. A pen clicked absentmindedly against the desk until JJ gently reaches over and stills your hand with two fingers, offering a look that asks are you okay? without forcing you to answer.
You nod. Of course you do.
You’ve always been good at nodding.
It’s strange, the things you notice when you stop orbiting someone. The way the bullpen sounds different when you’re not listening for his voice. The way time stretches when you’re no longer waiting for a glance, or a shared look that says did you hear that too? You hadn’t realised how much of your day had been built around him until you removed yourself from the equation.
Spencer doesn’t come near you again. Not deliberately. Not accidentally. When he moves through the space, it’s like he’s learned a new geometry, one that bends around where you stand. You catch glimpses of him in reflections, in glass, in the periphery of your vision, but never directly in front of you. He speaks when necessary, keeps his tone careful, measured. Professional.
It shouldn’t hurt.
But it does.
Not sharply. Not the way it used to.
It’s duller now. Heavier. Like a bruise you keep pressing just to make sure it’s still there.
At some point, you realise something else too: you’re not bracing yourself anymore. Not for his footsteps, not for his voice, not for the inevitable way he used to lean toward you without realising it. Your body isn’t anticipating him the way it always has. And that realisation leaves you feeling unsteady in a way you can’t quite name.
When Hotch dismisses everyone for the evening, you don’t wait. You gather your things quickly, efficiently. No lingering. No unnecessary goodbyes. You’re halfway to the elevators when you hear your name. Soft. Careful.
You stop a few feet from the elevator, close enough that the brushed metal doors reflect a version of you that looks intact. Your hand lifts, hesitates, then falls back to your side. Your body doesn’t feel like it belongs to you anymore. It feels like something you’re borrowing until the weight in your chest decides what to do.
Behind you, footsteps slow. Not rushed. Not abrupt. Careful. Like he’s afraid even the sound of them might push you further away.
“Hey.” Spencer says quietly. Just one word. Soft. Unarmed.
You don’t turn around.
“I’m-” He exhales, the sound uneven. “I’m sorry.”
The word lands differently than you expect. Not sharp. Not relieving. Just heavy. You close your eyes for a moment, letting it pass through you without reacting.
“You didn’t do anything.” you say quietly. It isn’t forgiveness. It isn’t absolution. It’s just a fact.
“I know,” he says quickly. Then, slower, like he’s choosing honesty even though it scares him, “But intent doesn’t really change the outcome…”
That makes you turn. Just slightly. Enough to see him standing there with his hands clasped together, knuckles pale, shoulders drawn inward like he’s bracing for impact. His eyes flick up to yours and then away again, like holding your gaze for too long might hurt you more.
He looks wrecked. Not in a dramatic way. In a quiet, unraveling one.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
The question is barely above a whisper. He already knows the answer. You can hear it in the way his voice cracks around the word okay, like he’s hoping you’ll lie so he doesn’t have to sit with the truth.
You give a small, tired breath. “I don’t think that’s a fair question right now.”
He nods immediately, like he deserves that. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just-” He stops himself, frustration flashing across his face before softening into something closer to helplessness. “I don’t know how to fix this. And I know that saying that doesn’t help.”
It doesn’t. But it hurts differently than dismissal would have.
“I don’t need you to fix it. There is nothing to fix to be honest..” you say quietly. “I just needed you to know.”
“I do,” he says. Too fast. Too earnest. “I do know. I just… I wish I’d realised sooner. I wish I’d been less oblivious.”
That word makes something twist inside you.
Oblivious.
You look back at the elevator doors, at the way your reflection fractures slightly where the metal bends. “I didn’t tell you.” you say. “You can’t blame yourself for not seeing something I kept hidden.”
“But you shouldn’t have had to hide it…” he replies.
There’s no argument in his voice. Just grief.
The elevator dings softly behind you, doors sliding open like an interruption neither of you asked for. You step back without thinking, the space between you widening again, safer that way.
“I need to go.” you say.
“I know,” he answers. Then, after a beat, “I’ll give you space. But… I’m here. If you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or yell at me. Statistically, yelling can be cathartic.”
You almost smile. Almost.
“Goodnight, Spencer.”
“Goodnight.” he says, barely audible.
The doors close between you, cutting him off mid-breath. As the elevator descends, you finally let your shoulders sag, the tension draining just enough to leave you exhausted.
He didn’t chase you.
But he didn’t let you leave unseen either.
And neither of you spoke about it since.
He stands there long after the elevator doors have slid shut, staring at the cold metal in front of him, though he doesn’t really see it. His hands are loosely clasped in front of him, then fall to his sides, then he fiddles with the edge of his tie as if the movement could untangle something knotting inside. He knows the team won’t notice. The hallway is empty. It’s quiet. Safe. And yet he can’t move. He’s frozen in the way you get when you realise a moment has shifted, irreversibly, and all you can do is watch it slip through your fingers.
Her words echo in his head, repeating themselves, rearranging into patterns he’s desperate to solve. “You can’t blame yourself for not seeing something I kept hidden.” And he feels a tightness behind his sternum he hasn’t felt before, not like this. Not this sharp, precise, and unfamiliar. He thinks maybe he could memorise the exact cadence of how she said it, how the syllables curved into the quiet acceptance, and somehow keep it safe. Or maybe he just wants to stop feeling it altogether because it’s unbearable.
He takes a slow, uneven breath. He hates the way his chest tightens when he thinks about how close he was to saying the wrong thing. Or worse, the thing that would make her feel worse. He hates that he even has to think about it at all. He should have said more. He should have… done something. But what? What could have fixed it? Words feel meaningless now, and yet they are all he has ever had. He knows the difference between empty apologies and measured truths, and he hates that both of them feel inadequate.
Eventually, he moves. Not because the feeling has resolved, but because routine has always been the thing that carries him when he can’t. He gathers his bag, straightens his coat, and heads out into the cold with the practiced awareness that he has somewhere to be, someone waiting for him. Maeve. The name settles into him with familiarity, with comfort, with something that should feel steady. As he unlocks his door later, steps into the warm, familiar quiet of her presence, he tells himself that this is where he belongs tonight. And yet, as he listens to her voice and answers when spoken to, a small part of him remains standing in that hallway, staring at an elevator door that closed a little too cleanly, holding the shape of a feeling he doesn’t yet have a name for.
Three months pass.
Time doesn’t announce itself when it’s healing something or when it’s burying it. It just moves forward, pulling everyone with it. Whatever tension once lingered in the bullpen fades into something less sharp, less noticeable. People stop glancing between the two of you. Conversations resume their usual rhythm. The night that once felt like a fracture becomes a quiet, unspoken thing, tucked away where no one touches it anymore.
Including you.
On the surface, very little changes.
Spencer never stopped talking to you, whether it was about the case or conversations on the flight about how you’re gonna spend the weekend, he continued a flow which eventually got casual again. Now he jokes, rambles and still forgets himself mid sentence when he’s excited. He doesn’t avoid you, doesn’t treat you like something fragile he’s afraid to break. If anything, he seems relieved to fall back into the familiar pattern you’ve always shared; easy conversation, shared looks, mutual understanding that doesn’t require explanation.
He’s been more careful, especially in the beginning but not distant. Never distant.
And yet you still notice the difference between now and to before.
He keeps a respectful space now, just enough that it never feels accidental when you’re close. He doesn’t linger beside you after briefings the way he once might have. His gestures are thoughtful rather than instinctive, offering help verbally instead of reaching for you, standing beside you instead of leaning in.
It’s subtle but you don't miss it.
What remains completely is his gentleness. The way he still listens like what you’re saying matters, even when the room is loud and busy. The way his smile softens when you speak, familiar and easy, never lingering too long. It’s the same Spencer you’ve always known and that almost hurts more than if he’d changed at all.
You still love him.
That truth hasn’t shifted, no matter how much time has passed. It’s quieter now, tucked deeper inside you, but it’s there all the same. You feel it in the smallest moments, in the instinctive way your attention gravitates toward him, in how his kindness still lands somewhere tender inside your chest.
And you’re not stupid.
You notice the things he doesn’t realise he gives away. The faint smiles that appear when his phone lights up. The mornings he comes in with his tie crooked, hair slightly mussed, collar just a little off as if he dressed in a hurry, distracted, hands not entirely steady. Once, you catch the faint mark along his neck when he leans down to pick up a file. It’s not obvious. Anyone else would miss it.
You don’t.
Other days, it’s the opposite. His tie is perfectly knotted, symmetrical down to the millimetre. Probably mixed by her. His sleeves are crisp. His posture rigid. Those are the days he’s trying harder, you think. Trying to compartmentalise. Trying to be who he’s supposed to be at work,.
Both versions tell you the same thing.
They’re still together.
The knowledge doesn’t surprise you. It doesn’t knock the air from your lungs the way it once might have. It simply settles, familiar and heavy, a constant presence you’ve learned to carry. You don’t ask him about her. You don’t let yourself wonder what their nights look like, what his laughter sounds like when he’s with her.
You already know enough.
And yet, sometimes late at night, when the day has finally loosened its grip on you, the thought slips in uninvited: Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the shape your life takes; loving someone quietly, steadily, knowing he will never choose you, and loving him anyway.
The idea doesn’t feel dramatic anymore.
It feels possible.
And maybe that’s the hardest part of all.
It happens on a night that doesn’t feel important at first.
There’s no case pressing down on your shoulders, no adrenaline still buzzing under your skin. Just paperwork that ran longer than expected and the soft hum of the bullpen lights, dimmed low enough to make everything feel almost private. JJ is there with you both, leaning against a desk, shoes kicked off under her chair, talking about something inconsequential Henry, maybe, or a failed attempt at baking that made Spencer ask too many earnest follow-up questions.
He’s himself tonight. That’s what strikes you first.
Not careful. Not withdrawn. Not heavy.
He’s rambling a little, hands moving as he talks, spiralling from one thought into another the way he always does when he forgets to monitor himself. He interrupts JJ once, apologises immediately, then does it again without realising. You catch yourself smiling before you can stop it, and when he notices, he smiles back; automatic, familiar, gentle.
Like nothing ever cracked between you.
JJ checks her watch eventually and groans, standing up with a stretch. “I should go before Will starts thinking I’ve been kidnapped.”
She squeezes your shoulder as she passes, then gives Spencer a look that’s fond and knowing and just a little too perceptive. “Don’t stay too late.”
When the doors close behind her, the quiet shifts but not in a bad way. It settles.
You don’t move farther away from each other. You don’t move closer either. You’re just… there. Sitting at neighbouring desks, shoulders angled in without thinking, sharing the same small pocket of space like you’ve done a thousand times before.
Spencer exhales, rolling his shoulders once. “She’s right, you know. About staying too late. Statistically speaking, prolonged work hours significantly increase the likelihood of cognitive errors and—” He stops, glancing at you. “—or we could just… ignore that entirely.”
You smile, small but real. “You usually do.”
“That’s because the data is… inconvenient,” he says, deadpan.
You laugh, soft and warm, and it’s enough to make him grin automatically, the way he always does. Before you realise it, the conversation slips into something easy and familiar.
You notice him now; the slight tilt of his head as he talks, the way his hands move as though they can’t help illustrating every thought, the way he forgets himself in the middle of a sentence. And you feel it, that same pull you always feel when he’s like this, the same heart-thrum that’s lived quietly under your ribs for years. You haven’t allowed yourself to feel it fully in months. Not since the confession. But now, watching him unravel slightly, immersed in what he loves, it’s like time has folded over itself and you’re back there, before anything changed.
He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping on the desk. “I watched this documentary last night. About-well, it was… um… about medieval monks and memory palaces, sort of a-no, it was more than that, it was specifically about how they used complex visualisations to memorise entire texts and there was this segment on how-wait, I think I’m saying this wrong-they, um… they mapped physical spaces to abstract concepts? Something like that. And they had this rule, which I found fascinating, that if you-oh!-you’re supposed to… no, the way they describe it is that if you want to remember a scripture, you visualise it as part of a room, or a series of rooms, and then each object in the room correlates with a concept or… yes, never mind, that’s not quite right, but it’s something along those lines.”
You raise an eyebrow, smiling, letting him continue. But truthfully you did not understand what he was going on about, “You stayed up watching monks organise their imaginary rooms?”
“Technically, yes,” he says, nodding quickly, “but it’s not what it sounds like! It was academically rigorous. And also, they had to memorise texts in Latin, which is not trivial-um, and their training apparently improved recall by something like 37% over standard rote memorisation, which is-well, it’s statistically significant, at least from the data I could find. Oh! And there was a comparison with modern memory champions who use similar techniques, though I might have missed a step in the method they actually use-wait, that’s not exactly right either. The point is-well, I found it fascinating.”
You shake your head, quietly laughing. “I can’t believe you stayed up for that.”
“It’s not about staying up,” he protests, raising one hand in mock indignation. “It’s about the pursuit of knowledge and also, the historical context is remarkable. I mean, to memorise entire texts and retain them decades later without writing them down! It’s… extraordinary. Though I suppose the monks themselves-” He pauses, noticing your expression. “-well, maybe they wouldn’t be impressed by my… uh, binge-watching habits.”
You laugh again, softly, and he grins, eyes lighting up. The sound is familiar, comfortable, like the last three months of distance never happened. You realise you’ve been holding your breath without knowing it, and now you can’t stop noticing him, every detail, every habitual twitch, every small motion that always made your chest tighten in ways that were impossible to rationalise.
It’s not romantic, not yet. Not officially. And still, your heart aches quietly, a steady rhythm under your ribs, pulling your gaze to him as he rambles, as he waves his hands to explain something you only half understand, as he fumbles mid thought in the way that makes him impossibly, painfully human. You see him, really see him, and the love you’ve carried for months and years, shines in your eyes. It’s soft, unspoken, and completely undeniable.
When he pauses, catching himself mid rant, you lean back slightly, smiling softly, and for the first time in months, it feels like the two of you are exactly where you used to be: safe in the same orbit, a little closer than strangers but far enough apart to breathe.
And you notice it: the old, effortless rhythm, the small laughter, the way he trusts you to follow him even through tangents that make no sense. The way he always has. And for a moment, it’s almost too much. Almost enough to make you forget everything else, everything that’s hurt, everything you promised yourself you’d contain.
In the moment, sitting there, laughing at something small, gentle, and familiar, the feeling is unmistakable: for the first time in months, it feels like it used to. Like before everything broke, like before confessions, like before pain.
And then it starts again. A small joke. A playful jab at something Spencer said, and he laughs, low and quiet at first, but it builds. He counters, teasing, making a ridiculous face, mimicking one of Garcia’s quirks, and you can’t help but burst out laughing, loud and unrestrained.
He’s sitting slightly angled toward you, you toward him, knees almost touching, shoulders brushing lightly without either of you realizing it. He tells a ridiculous hypothetical about the weirdest case he’s ever read, you counter with a more ridiculous one of your own, and the laughter builds until it’s uncontainable.
Your shoulders brush now. The faint warmth of him is unmistakable. And for a heartbeat, just a fleeting, suspended heartbeat, everything outside that small bubble of air between you fades.
Then his phone buzzes sharply against the desk. He glances down, face tightens slightly. Maeve.
He exhales, almost reluctantly, and mutters, “I… should take this,” standing abruptly, breaking the moment.
You nod, heart sinking slightly, forcing your features into neutral calm, though every fibre of your body remembers the closeness, the warmth, the laughter, the way his presence has always felt like home.
He answers the call, stepping a little away, glancing at you apologetically over his shoulder before disappearing into the hall. The room suddenly feels emptier, quieter, the laughter and shared joy hanging like a fragile echo.
And in that silence, you can’t help but think that no matter what happens, no matter how far apart you feel, these moments, these small bursts of closeness, are the ones you’ll keep holding onto.
A/N = Here it is... I hope you enjoyed reading and I'm so sorry it took so long! I lost the first part 2 that I've written so I had to rewrite it fully by memory :(
Regardless I hope you guys had an amazing Christmas if you celebrate! I myself spent it with my family and been enjoying the breaks I get.
Let me know your thoughts and ask me questions in my inbox !!
The morning sunlight spilled softly across the bed, the golden rays stretching across the tangled sheets that smelled faintly of coffee and the faint musk of old paper. Spencer’s arm was wrapped loosely around you, his fingertips resting on your wrist as if counting the pulse there, steady and alive. His breathing was slow, the kind of rhythm that came only after the long nights when neither of you wanted to close your eyes because talking felt too good to stop.
The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside. You could hear the gentle creak of the floorboards when the air shifted, and somewhere in the distance a siren wailed before fading into nothing. You tilted your head slightly and watched Spencer’s face. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and there was a faint crease on his cheek from where he had pressed into the pillow. He looked young like this. Soft. Nothing like the profiler who carried the weight of a thousand horrors behind his tired brown eyes.
You brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead and whispered, “You’re drooling on my pillow again.”
He stirred, a sleepy grin forming before his eyes even opened. “That is a baseless accusation,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “I do not drool. I merely… distribute hydration.”
You laughed quietly, feeling warmth rise in your chest. He finally opened his eyes, blinking slowly, still fighting the line between sleep and waking. When he saw you smiling, his own expression softened into something you could never quite put into words.
“Morning,” he murmured.
“Morning.”
He tightened his arm around you and pulled you closer, burying his face in your shoulder for a moment. “We should get up,” you said, though you made no effort to move.
He only hummed. “You first.”
“Not a chance.”
There was a comfortable silence. The kind that lived only between two people who had learned every corner of each other’s lives. He started tracing little shapes on your skin, absent-mindedly. Numbers. Letters. Probably fragments of something he was memorizing. You never asked. You liked the feeling too much.
Eventually you managed to get out of bed, but not before Spencer tried to convince you to stay just ten more minutes. You were halfway to the kitchen when he called out, “Do you know that statistically, people who spend an extra ten minutes cuddling in the morning are reported to have better moods throughout the day?”
You turned back, smiling at him. “Is that real, or are you just trying to get me back in bed?”
He tilted his head. “Would you believe me if I said both?”
You rolled your eyes, grabbing two mugs from the counter. “Coffee first, Doctor Reid.”
By the time the coffee machine finished sputtering, Spencer had already joined you, still in his old pajama shirt with his hair pointing in impossible directions. He leaned against the counter, watching you pour. His gaze was always intense, even when he was just looking at you in silence. It used to make you nervous. Now it just made you feel safe.
He took a sip from his mug and said, “We have the weekend off.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Since when does that happen?”
He smiled faintly. “Since Hotch decided we should all remember what sunlight looks like.”
You leaned back against the counter, pretending to think. “So, what does one do with two entire days off?”
His lips quirked into a small grin. “I thought maybe we could drive somewhere. Somewhere quiet. Maybe that little cabin near the lake.”
You blinked in surprise. “You’re suggesting a trip? Voluntarily?”
He shrugged, pretending to act casual. “I might have already booked it last night.”
Your heart warmed immediately. You could imagine it already. The quiet of the forest. The sound of water lapping against the dock. Spencer reading beside you with his glasses slipping down his nose while you curled up next to him under a blanket.
“Spencer Reid, are you secretly romantic?”
The drive was long, but peaceful. He had one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, and every time you hit a red light you'd absentmindedly draw patterns on his knuckles. The trees blurred past, and the sky stretched endlessly ahead.
When you reached the cabin, the air smelled of pine and rain. The lake shimmered like glass, and you could see the reflection of clouds drifting lazily above. Spencer carried the bags inside, though he complained about how poorly the cabin was insulated and how mosquitoes were the deadliest animal on Earth. You kissed him mid-sentence just to shut him up.
Inside, the place was cozy. Wooden walls, a small fireplace, and a soft-looking couch. You could almost imagine the quiet nights you’d spend there.
Spencer unpacked a few books before doing anything else. “I brought something for us,” he said. He pulled out a worn, leather-bound volume and handed it to you. “It’s a collection of poetry I used to read in college. I thought we could take turns reading.”
You smiled, running your fingers over the spine. “You know, most couples watch movies. You bring poetry.”
He shrugged again. “Movies end. Words stay.”
You stared at him for a moment, heart full. “You really are something else.”
He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.
That night, after the fire had burned low and the air was thick with warmth and woodsmoke, Spencer rested his head in your lap while you read aloud. His eyes were closed, but you knew he was listening to every syllable. You could see the tiny smile that flickered when your voice softened at certain lines.
When you stopped reading, he opened his eyes and looked up at you. “You make everything sound beautiful." he said quietly.
“Maybe because I’m reading it to you."you replied.
He reached up and brushed his fingers against your cheek. “You know, for someone who spends their life studying the human mind, I still don’t fully understand how someone can make me feel this way.”
You leaned down and kissed him, slow and lingering, the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn’t.
Outside, the lake rippled under the moonlight, and somewhere in the trees an owl called out. Inside, everything was still. You both stayed like that for a long time. No profiling. No work. No monsters. Just the quiet hum of something soft and real.
When Spencer finally fell asleep beside you, his hand found yours beneath the blanket. He didn’t let go once.
TAG LIST = @eliscannotdance @tokalotashiz @book-nerd-fan-girl @cupidletterss @summerobertsvariant
A/N = I'm sorry for abandoning so suddenly... I've been working on a lot, so the posts are coming up again!
And incase you were wondering about unrequited love, I completely lost the entire finished piece around 3 weeks ago.. so I've been relying on my fish memory to get everything back the same which is why it took super long. Sorry for making you guys wait so long.
ok so hear me out, genius!reader x spencer. so they’ve been best friends for about two years since reader joined the bau (also lowkey but not really lowkey in love with each other) . one night when they’re sharing a bed (it can be like a regular occurrence or they can just be sharing a hotel room during a case) but anyways they’re just talking and stuff and they get to talking about relationships and how neither one of them really got to have a normal relationship growing up since they were both child prodigys. then, somehow one of them ends up revealing they’re still a virgin and the other reveals that so are they. then reader is all self conscious and she’s talking about how losing it now would feel all weird cause everyone else knows what they’re doing and she’d just feel weird. then spencer is like agreeing with her and everything and he’s like yeah but i wouldn’t mind losing mine to you and perhaps some confessions and smut happen from there? idk it’s up to you.
SLOWLY, CAREFULLY - Spencer Reid
It’s just past ten at night, and the hotel room smells faintly of cocoa from the little chocolate wrappers scattered across the bed. You’re sitting cross legged in your sweatpants and an oversized BAU hoodie, nibbling on a square of dark chocolate.
Spencer’s beside you, legs crossed too, in grey joggers and a loose button up shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair sticking up like he forgot it existed for the day.
You’re both laughing over something absurd-Spencer trying, and failing, to mimic Rossi’s dramatic “in my day” story voice and it’s loud enough to bounce off the walls.
“-and then he actually pulled a shoe off a chair to hit the guy!” Spencer snorts, pointing at you. “I swear, the man thinks he’s in a spaghetti Western!”
You giggle, chocolate melting on your tongue. “He would! Honestly, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t have tried the same thing if someone was about to steal your lunch.”
“I probably would’ve calculated the trajectory first,” he says, grinning, clearly proud of his nerdy logic.
You roll your eyes, shoving another piece of chocolate in your mouth. “Please, you’d still miss and end up embarrassing yourself. Like that time you-"
“-broke the plane model in the conference room?” He groans dramatically. “I still say it was a structural flaw!”
You laugh so hard you almost snort.
After a beat, you both settle, chocolate crumbs littering the bed. Spencer leans back against the headboard, and you do the same, shoving your feet under the covers. “Hey,” you say suddenly, voice softer now, still smiling, “do you ever think about… normal stuff?”
He blinks, tilts his head, and raises an eyebrow. “Normal stuff?”
“Yeah,” you shrug, chocolate forgotten. “Dating. Relationships. Hanging out without everyone knowing your GPA by age twelve. You know… human stuff.”
Spencer’s eyes widen slightly, but there’s no judgment in them, only that spark of curiosity that always makes you feel safe talking. “Ah,” he murmurs, grinning. “I do think about it… in, uh, theoretical scenarios.”
You nudge him playfully. “Don’t you dare say ‘statistically’.”
He laughs, that soft, warm laugh that makes your chest flutter. “But for me it is statistically. But sometimes… not statistically.”
You tilt your head, smirking. “I like that. Not statistically. Sounds… manageable.”
“Manageable is good,” he says, eyes locking on yours with that tilt of seriousness that always gets you. “Especially if it’s with someone you trust.”
You nibble your lip, a little shy. “I feel like I missed it,” you admit, voice dropping just enough that it’s intimate. “Like… everyone else figured it out younger. Now, if I tried, it would just feel awkward. Like everyone else knows things I don’t.”
He frowns softly. “I don’t think that makes you behind.”
“Yeah, you’d say that,” you counter, grinning.
“No, I mean it,” he says earnestly.
You glance at him, caught between amusement and warmth. “Have you… had that normal experience?” you ask quietly, almost hesitant.
Spencer hesitates, and you can practically see him calculating before he finally admits, “No.”
Your eyes widen. “Wait… really?”
He nods, sheepish but honest. “Really.”
Something twists in your chest—relief, disbelief, a strange warmth. “Okay… that makes me feel slightly less like an alien,” you confess.
He laughs softly. “Good. I thought you already knew-me and you grew up the same.”
You pause, then whisper, “I think I’d hate it if I was with… someone who knew what they were doing and I didn’t. I’d just feel… dumb.”
“You wouldn’t,” he assures you immediately, hand hovering near yours on the bed. “Not with me.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Be honest.”
“I am.” he says. “You wouldn’t feel dumb. You’d just be… learning. And the person worth it wouldn’t make you feel anything else.”
You swallow, chocolate forgotten in your lap, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel heavy but not uncomfortable. Spencer shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing yours in that quiet, familiar way.
“Spencer…” you start, voice low, hesitant. “Do you want that for yourself too? Like, dating… or just… I don’t know… being with someone?”
He blinks, then smiles softly. “Sometimes,” he says, almost shyly. “I imagine… how it would be, I guess. Not like a case, not like… everything else. Just… normal.”
You nod slowly. “Yeah. That’s exactly it. Normal… I don’t even know what that’s like.” You shrug, cheeks warming. “Everyone else seems to know what they’re doing. I’d just… mess it up.”
“I don’t think you would,” he says quietly. “Not really. You’d just…nfigure it out. And with the right person… it wouldn’t feel weird.”
You glance at him, caught off guard by how serious he sounds, how soft his eyes are. “The right person… huh?”
He shrugs, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Yeah. Someone who… actually cares.”
You bite your lip, trying to hide the flutter in your chest. “I… I don’t even know if I’d want to try it with anyone else. It’d feel… wrong. But with someone you trust… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”
Spencer exhales, that soft nervous sound that makes your stomach twist in anticipation. “I… I think I’d want it to be with you,” he says, words slow, deliberate.
Your eyes widen, heart hammering. “You… really?”
He nods, almost painfully earnest. “Yeah. With you.”
A breath escapes you, shaky and small. “I… I wouldn’t mind either.”
Silence settles, but it’s not empty. It’s charged, thick, warm. He leans a fraction closer, hand brushing yours lightly. You don’t pull away.
Fingers lace naturally, knees brushing, warmth radiating between you. The chocolate wrappers, the dim lamp, the quiet hum of the hotel room; all of it fades.
It’s just the two of you, suspended in that slow, thrilling moment where nothing else matters, and the world feels impossibly small and perfect.
You stay like that for a moment, just holding hands, letting the warmth of him seep through your fingers. Spencer’s thumb brushes over the back of your hand slowly, tentatively, like he’s testing how it feels. You bite your lip, trying not to make a noise, heart hammering.
“So,” you murmur, barely above a whisper, “does this mean… we’re… experimenting?”
He chuckles softly, a nervous, airy laugh that makes your chest tighten. “I… don’t know,” he admits, eyes flicking down to your joined hands. “I guess… whatever feels right. Slowly. Carefully.”
“Careful is good,” you say, grin tugging at your lips. “I like careful.”
He smiles faintly, and the corner of his mouth quirks in that way that always makes your stomach flip. “I like you,” he blurts suddenly, voice soft but firm. “A lot. More than… probably I should.”
You freeze for a second, then laugh quietly, the sound shaking a little from nerves. “I was gonna say the same thing,” you confess. “Way more than I… I should, maybe.”
He swallows, blinking at you with that guarded, wide-eyed expression that always makes him seem impossibly vulnerable. “Really?”
“Really,” you nod, heart pounding. “I… I like everything about this. About us. Even… this.” You squeeze his hand gently.
Spencer’s breath hitches slightly. His other hand moves, hovering near yours, hesitant, then brushing against your wrist. “Even if… it’s… new?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” you whisper, leaning a fraction closer. “Especially if it’s new. With you.”
His eyes soften, and he swallows audibly, lips parting as if he wants to say something else but isn’t sure how. “I think… I like this,” he says finally. “I like… us.”
You smile, cheeks hot, and inch just a little closer, knees brushing more intentionally now. “Me too,” you whisper.
For a moment, the room is still except for the quiet sound of your breathing and the faint hum of the hotel AC. You can feel his warmth, the subtle weight of him leaning slightly toward you, his fingers still entwined with yours. Every small touch, every accidental brush sends sparks that make your chest flutter uncontrollably.
Spencer shifts a fraction closer, and you do too, almost imperceptibly. “Can I…” he starts, voice soft and careful, “can I kiss you?”
Your heart nearly stops, but all you can do is nod, barely. “Yes.”
He leans in, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull back. You don’t. His lips brush yours lightly at first, testing, gentle, soft. Your hand tightens around his, pulling him closer just a fraction. The kiss deepens slowly, carefully, neither rushing, savouring the moment, the warmth, the trust.
When you finally pull back just enough to look at each other, both of you are breathless, cheeks flushed. He rests his forehead against yours, smiling softly.
“You’re… amazing,” he whispers.
“You’re pretty good yourself.” you tease, laughing quietly, still caught in the dizzying closeness.
And just like that, everything changes; small, tender, irreversible, but perfect.
The next morning, the sunlight sneaks lazily through the hotel blinds, painting stripes across the bed. You stir first, tangled in the sheets, and notice Spencer still asleep beside you, hair tousled, chest rising and falling steadily.
For a moment, you just watch him, heart fluttering. Somehow, last night feels even more surreal in the soft morning light. Fingers still lightly intertwined, you let your hand rest there, warm and comforting.
Spencer stirs, mumbling something incoherent, eyes half opening. He blinks at you, then smiles that shy, vulnerable smile you’ve come to know so well. “Morning,” he whispers.
“Morning,” you reply softly, voice husky from sleep and last night’s excitement.
He shifts closer, just enough that your shoulders touch, but still careful, as if testing boundaries even in the quiet. “Did… did everything feel… okay?” he asks, voice small, earnest.
You nod, brushing your thumb over his hand. “Yeah. Perfect, actually.”
His lips twitch into a tentative grin. “Good… I wasn’t sure.”
You laugh quietly, tilting your head to look at him. “You really overthink everything, don’t you?”
“Maybe,” he admits, cheeks heating. “But only about… important things.”
“Important things?” you tease, voice soft. “Like… me?”
His gaze drops to your hands, then back to your eyes, and he swallows. “Yeah,” he admits. “Like… you.”
Your chest tightens, and you can’t resist leaning a fraction closer. “I like… you too,” you whisper, letting your forehead brush against his.
He exhales, fingers squeezing yours gently. “I think… I’ve liked you for a long time. Even before… last night.”
Your heart stutters. “Me too,” you confess, smiling despite the warmth rushing to your cheeks. “I just… didn’t know how to say it.”
For a long moment, you both just stay like that, foreheads touching, hands clasped, sharing the quiet intimacy of a space that feels suspended in time.
Then Spencer moves his hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek. You lean into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for a second, savouring the softness, the care, the gentle electricity.
“You’re… incredible,” he murmurs.
“You’re the incredible one.” you tease again, your lips twitching into a grin.
He laughs softly, the sound like a warm melody filling the small space between you. “I could get used to this,” he says.
You smile, leaning a little closer, just enough that your shoulders press together. “Me too,” you whisper. “Me too.”
And just like that, morning stretches into quiet laughter, small touches, and whispered confessions. The rest of the world fades away; planes, cases, everything but the two of you remain, suspended in this slow, perfect closeness that neither of you want to end.
summary = Spencer leaves for a case right before your small argument and you spend two days missing him and calling to hear his voice. Later the night, Agent Jareau calls with unexpected news.
Spencer packed like he was preparing for impact.
Everything had a place. Everything had weight. He pressed his palm flat against the inside of the suitcase before zipping it, testing the distribution as if turbulence might rearrange the laws of physics mid-flight.
The bedroom light was too warm. You’d mentioned it before. It cast a honey-colored glow over the walls and made the space feel smaller than it was. He didn’t change it. He rarely changed small discomforts. He endured them.
You stood near the dresser, arms folded loosely, watching him move.
Three days, he’d said earlier. Possibly four.
Possibly.
He adjusted the strap on his satchel and paused, a small motion that betrayed his nerves. He hadn’t looked at you yet, but you knew him well enough to feel the weight of that silence.
“You didn’t tell me it was solo,” you said, low and careful.
He finally looked at you. “It was decided this afternoon.”
Information delivered in fragments. Clean. Efficient. Minimal.
“You’ll be alone with local PD?”
“Yes.”
You nodded, but something tight coiled in your chest.
Cases had been heavier lately. You could see it in him. The way he lingered in the doorway before coming inside. The way he washed his hands longer than necessary. The way he stared at nothing while you spoke, then blinked back into the room.
He hadn’t been cruel. Not distant in any obvious, dramatic way.
Just thinner.
Like parts of him were being rationed.
The quiet stretched.
“Spence,” you said softly.
He looked at you, fully. That guarded layer was there. Not cold. Not unloving. Just protected.
“You’ve been somewhere else lately." you said.
His jaw shifted slightly. “Work has been intense.”
“I know,” you said. And you did. You always knew when the cases were bad.
“I just,” You hesitated. “I don’t want to feel like I only get what’s left.”
That landed.
He straightened slightly. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“I’m not saying it is on purpose,” you whispered.
Silence.
“You think I care more about the job,” he said quietly.
“I think the job takes more from you than you admit,” you said.
He swallowed. His shoulders tightened.
“I don’t know how to do this differently,” he admitted.
Your chest ached.
You stepped closer, close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes. “I don’t need you to be different. I just need you to let me see you.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “I am letting you see me.”
“Not the hard parts,” you said.
A long pause stretched between you.
“I leave at six,” he said softly. Not leaving yet. Just stating the fact. But not facing the full truth.
“I’ll be back in a few days,” he murmured.
You nodded.
He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your temple.
The air between you held the shape of words neither of you spoke.
You went to bed together later, the weight of unspoken things hanging heavy but familiar.
He pulled you close, arm around your shoulders. You fit against him, hand resting lightly on his chest.
You held each other to sleep.
And for now, that was enough.
Tomorrow, at six, he would leave.
But tonight, you were here. Together.
It had been two days since Spencer left. Two days since he stepped out at six in the morning leaving you with a kiss on the forehead and left the apartment feeling impossibly empty.
You sat on the edge of the bed, a stack of his folded sweatshirts in your lap. Each one carried the faint scent of him. Soap, his cologne, the warmth of his body lingering in the fabric. You pressed one to your cheek and closed your eyes, letting memories drift through you like pages in a book.
The night before he left, the quiet weight of the apartment had been different. You remembered the way he’d kissed your temple softly, how he’d murmured he’d call when he landed.
You remembered holding him to sleep afterward, the familiar press of his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing against your hand.
And then he left.
You tried not to think about him. Tried to keep busy. But every folded sweatshirt pulled you back to him. One was soft, stretched slightly at the sleeves from where he tugged at it when he was thinking. Another smelled faintly of his shampoo from the shower.
You pressed them to your face, smiling despite yourself, thinking of quiet mornings, shared coffees, his careful explanations of obscure statistics, the way he’d brush hair out of his eyes when he was nervous.
You sighed.
You couldn’t wait for him to call. There were days you weren't able to contact him during cases, you knew that. But you couldn’t let this drift. Not when your chest ached for him, not when your mind rewound every word you’d left unsaid.
You stood, stretching, sweatshirts still in your hands.
“I’m going to call him,” you whispered to the empty apartment. “I’m going to fix this. I have to. Because I love him too much to wait.”
You dialed. Your fingers shook slightly as the line rang.
The sound of his voice when he answered made your heart stutter.
“Hey.” he said, quiet, tired.
“Hi.” you breathed.
“Are you okay?”
You smiled, a little sad, a little relieved. “I’m better now. I missed you.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then his voice, soft, careful, like he was trying to measure every word so he wouldn’t break. “I missed you too. I’ve been thinking about you so much.”
You sank back onto the bed, holding the phone close. The world had fallen away. It was just you and him.
“I’ve been thinking too.." you said, voice low. “I don’t want us to drift like that again. Especially not before your cases.”
“I don’t either. I hate leaving you with bad thoughts about us,” he murmured. There was a faint smile in his voice you could hear, a warmth that made your chest ache and lighten all at once.
You laughed softly, relieved, your hand pressed to your chest. “I love you, Spencer.”
“I love you too,” he whispered. “More than anything.”
And for the first time since he’d left, the knot of worry in your stomach loosened, just slightly. You could picture him on the other end of the line, sitting somewhere alone, probably holding his own hand over his heart, thinking of you too.
The call was spent softly and carefully, laughing over tiny jokes, reminding each other of moments only the two of you shared, and it mattered more than anything.
By the time you hung up, the apartment felt fuller again, alive with his presence even though he was miles away.
And you were still worried. How could you not? But you felt closer than you had in days. You felt ready to fight for this, for him, for the quiet love that held you both together even when the world tried to pull you apart.
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The absence of Spencer made every sound sharper. The hum of the fridge, the creak of the floor, even the shadows felt heavier.
You moved through the room lightly, almost embarrassed at how much hearing his voice had lifted you. Even over the phone, it lingered in your chest. His soft tone. The careful cadence. That faint laugh you could still hear in your head.
You replayed it while brushing your teeth. The tilt of his head. His fingers fidgeting. You smiled, fragile but real. Relief that was temporary, but enough.
Back in bed, for the first time in two days, you slept without waking every hour. Without counting minutes. Without imagining him alone. You felt comforted.
Then the phone rang at 2am.
It wasn’t him.
Your heart stopped.
“Hello?”
“Is this…?”
It was Agent Jareau.
She never called you directly. Not at this hour.
Your stomach dropped.
“There’s been an incident,” she said carefully.
Your chest tightened.
“What kind of incident?” you asked.
“An explosion at the site they were investigating,” she explained.
While you slept. While you dreamed. While you were thinking of him.
“He’s missing."
A/N = sorry for no posts...
TAG LIST = @eliscannotdance @tokalotashiz @book-nerd-fan-girl @cupidletterss @summerobertsvariant
