Au Revoir | Spencer Reid
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: Going to prison changes relationships, but you were determined to withstand it until Spencer broke up with you in a letter. His return changes things. Themes & Warnings: Prison!Reid, i am addicted to writing angst with happy ending
You were happy. You were so, so incredibly happy.
You met Spencer at the university where you taught forensic psychology. He was consulting on a case involving a former student, and his presence was magnetic. His voice -- soft, precise, laced with more knowledge than most tenured professors -- filled the lecture hall with calm authority. He quoted studies off the top of his head, spoke of human behavior like it was poetry, and didn’t so much walk as glide through conversation.
You’d never met anyone smarter. Honestly, you doubted anyone smarter existed. His genius IQ, his eidetic memory, and his multiple phD's made it evident.
He was awkward and sweet and a little too fast with his facts, but he never talked down to you. In fact, he always looked awed by you -- by your wit, your lectures, your stubbornness. He remembered your favorite tea after one conversation and quoted your syllabus back to you a week later.
It didn’t take long to fall for him. It was easy.
Within months, you practically lived at Spencer’s apartment. You had a routine, a quiet rhythm that made the chaos of the outside world feel far away. He came home from work, jacket half-shrugged off, his tie loosened. And you’d be there waiting. You always sat and talked first. Not because you had to. Because he needed to. His head was always full -- of cases, of trauma, of things he didn’t know how to say -- and you were the only person who ever made it all quiet enough to sort through.
While he showered, you made dinner. Simple meals he always claimed were better than anything in Quantico. You'd plate it for him just the way he liked -- never too much, everything not touching. You knew his quirks. You loved his quirks.
Afterward, you'd curl up on the couch, some old noir or classic foreign film playing, and he’d play with your hair absentmindedly while reciting the film’s trivia under his breath.
Then, you'd crawl into bed. Sometimes you'd talk until 2am, whispering nonsense between kisses and laughter. Sometimes you'd fall asleep immediately, tangled in each other, warm and safe and whole.
It didn't matter if he was on the brink of sleep or wide awake. Before you drifted off, Spencer always said, "I love you, darling." Never failed. Like clockwork.
You went to bed happy. Giggling. Overjoyed at yet another day of loving each other.
Sometimes, it was hard. Sometimes, Spencer was gone for a long time. And now, he'd been gone a while. But you stayed at his apartment, keeping it clean and tidy and warm with your presence for when he came back. He needed your presence right now. His mother was getting sicker by the day, cases were getting more brutal, and the only thing that made it better was that you were always there waiting for him.
You didn’t believe it at first.
The call came early in the morning -- a colleague, hushed and panicked, asking if you’d seen the news. You turned on the TV, bleary-eyed, your heart already tightening with dread before you even found the right channel.
Dr. Spencer Reid. FBI profiler. Arrested for drug possession and murder in Mexico.
You stared at the screen like it was playing a joke. Like any moment, Spencer himself would walk through the door, rambling about how the media misrepresents facts and how probability makes false accusations more likely in cross-border cases.
But he didn’t come home.
And it wasn’t a joke.
Spencer had been arrested in Mexico, alone, without authorization, without backup, trying to obtain medication for his mother. It didn’t matter that it was compassionate. It didn’t matter that it was Spencer. He was caught with narcotics and implicated in the death of a doctor who had tried to help him. A setup. Clearly. But it didn’t stop the trial. It didn’t stop the sentence.
And it didn’t stop him from being sent to prison.
The man who recited Baudelaire in the kitchen and alphabetized your spice rack for fun was now behind bars -- bruised, cornered, alone. The letters started coming then, short at first. Then longer. Then emotional. You read each one a hundred times, your fingers brushing over the creases like you could smooth away his pain.
You cried for him. His friends and colleagues comforted you. Penelope had been by with one too many casseroles and cupcakes decorated in pink glitter. JJ tried getting you out of the apartment, even just to sit on a park bench and talk in the fresh air.
Finally, you were taken by David Rossi to visit him. They said you wouldn't want to see him. Said he looked rough. But you never stopped asking until they gave in.
You remembered every step through that prison like a dream you couldn't wake from. The clink of doors. The sterile, suffocating scent of bleach and old paper. The fluorescent lights that made everything feel too sharp.
Rossi kept a steady hand on your back, guiding you gently. He didn’t say much. Just, “Brace yourself.”
And you did. Until the moment Spencer walked in.
He looked nothing like the man you knew. His curls were wild, uneven, untamed. There was a cut on his cheek, a bruise blooming beneath one eye. His frame -- already lean -- seemed thinner. Clothes hung awkwardly on his bones. But it was his eyes that gutted you. Still the brown eyes you loved. But cold. Wounded.
They didn't light up when he saw you, like usual. But they did soften.
They softened until he got angry.
A fiery glare was directed at Rossi, one you'd never seen Spencer wield.
“I told you not to bring her here,” Spencer snapped, his voice low and ragged but edged in fury. “It's not safe for her here, these men are like animals, and I didn't want her to--”
Rossi didn’t flinch. “She asked. Repeatedly. You think I enjoy watching the two of you suffer?”
Spencer shoved back from the table slightly, the chair legs scraping loudly against the concrete. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn't have listened. I needed her to be safe, away from this. Away from me.”
You stepped forward before Rossi could respond, your voice softer than either of theirs -- but stronger, too. “You don’t get to make that choice for me, Spencer.”
His gaze snapped to you. Raw. Defensive. Cracked open. You glanced at Rossi, a look that told him it was finally okay to step out.
Spencer’s jaw tensed as he looked at you. “You don’t understand,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t want to be here.”
You moved closer anyway, heart aching. “I do. And I am. And I’m not leaving.”
His mouth opened like he wanted to argue -- like he had a hundred reasons why you should walk away and never look back, but nothing came out. His eyes dropped to the table between you, his hands curled into fists.
“You don’t know what this place does to people,” he finally whispered. “I'm not the same.”
You sat across from him, hands folding in front of you. “Then let me get to know this version of you, too. All of them. I’m not here because I want the perfect version of you, Spencer. I’m here because I love you.”
His breath hitched.
“You think I haven’t imagined this?” you asked. “What it would look like? Seeing you like this? I have. And it still doesn’t scare me off.”
Spencer’s eyes were red-rimmed now, and his voice cracked when he finally said, “I don’t deserve you.”
You exhaled, eyes softening at the tears developing in his.
“Spence..”
You thought the visit had gone well. You thought he was finally letting you in.
He'd squeezed your hands in his before you left, his eyelids squeezed shut as a tear dropped from his eye. Like he'd forgotten what it felt like to touch you. To talk to you and have you close to him.
When you went home, a few days passed before you received a letter from Spencer. You opened it eagerly, expecting to see how he'd changed his mind and he was happy you came. How he'd missed you and wanted to see you again. How he "loved you, darling," as he'd said to you for years.
But that wasn’t what the letter said. Not even close.
I need you to understand something very clearly: I’m not the man you think I am anymore. This place changes people and not for the better. I don’t want you anywhere near it, or me. You deserve better than the husk I’ve become. What we had was a mistake, a foolish hope in a situation that’s already lost. Holding on to me will only drag you down into a life of misery and pain. You’re stronger than that, and you don’t need me poisoning your future. Don’t come looking for me. Don’t send letters. Don’t wait. Forget me, because I’m gone. The man you loved died the day I walked through those gates. This is the last time you’ll hear from me. -- Spencer
You read it once. Then again. And again.
Each word like a hammer blow to your ribs.
Tears blurred your vision, and your fingers curled around the paper, threatening to crush it -- but you didn’t. You couldn’t. It was still his.
This wasn’t a breakup. It was a severing. A mercy killing of the most sacred thing you’d ever had.
He hadn’t signed it love, Spencer. Just Spencer.
And that alone shattered you.
You let the letter fall from your trembling hands, your knees buckling beneath you. The world blurred as tears spilled freely, raw and endless. Your chest heaved with sobs that clawed at your throat until your voice was stripped away, until your body convulsed with silent agony.
You curled in on yourself, the sharp sting of heartbreak twisting deep inside, and when your body could take no more, your pain spilled over, leaving you empty and broken on the cold floor.
You went through phases.
Awful depression was the first. All you did was sleep -- sometimes sleeping days away without eating. You'd lost a considerable amount of weight, but the sleep didn't help. All you did was dream of Spencer.
Your friends were concerned. Your mom was concerned. She began staying over at your apartment, forcing meals down your throat and waking you up every morning. She even held you while you cried, wiping your eyes and the snot from your face.
Next, you were angry.
Not just irritated -- furious. Blindingly, bitterly angry. At Spencer, at yourself, at the system that swallowed him whole and spit him back out as someone you barely recognized. You smashed a coffee mug when you re-read the letter. You ripped one of his old shirts out of the laundry basket and tore it in half with shaking hands. The quiet, aching grief hardened into something sharper, something that boiled behind your ribs like acid.
How dare he? How dare he shut you out, cut you off like you were nothing? Like what you had meant less than the pain of keeping you?
You’d stood by him. You’d waited. You’d believed in him when the world didn’t.
And he still left you bleeding with nothing but a letter. Just Spencer.
You didn’t cry that week. You paced. You snapped at people. You dug your nails into your palms just to feel something other than the sting of abandonment. Anger, at least, gave you control -- and control was the only thing you had left.
The anger stayed with you, burying the anguish. Until Spencer got out.
You saw it on the news first -- a quiet headline, a fleeting mention: Dr. Spencer Reid released after wrongful imprisonment. No fanfare. No apologies. Just a footnote in a week of chaos.
You stared at the screen, heart pounding, coffee forgotten in your hand.
He was free.
And he didn’t tell you.
Of course he didn’t.
That night, your rage came back in full force, but it was quieter now. Sharper. More refined. It didn’t explode -- it simmered. You cleaned your apartment top to bottom, tossing the last remnants of him into a trash bag. That scarf he always wore when you visited bookstores. The annotated copy of Lolita he left on your nightstand. A pair of mismatched socks. The tea he used to brew just right.
You didn’t cry. Not this time.
You just whispered to the empty room, “Don’t come back.”
And he didn't.
For weeks, you didn't see him. You didn't hear his name when you went shopping with Penelope, as if she knew you wouldn't want to. It was like your life before this evaporated into smoke. No mention, no sign of Spencer at all.
A month later, it was Luke's birthday. There was a party for him coming up, a little get together at his house. He begged you to come, and Penelope, and JJ, and Prentiss, until you finally caved. You could do it, right? You could withstand it, whether Spencer was there or not. You didn't care. It was in the past.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just a gathering. Just old friends. That you’d walk in, make polite conversation, maybe even laugh once or twice. You’d wear something nice, something that made you feel like you — not like the hollow ghost you’d been when Spencer vanished from your life.
Luke greeted you with a hug that lasted a beat too long, like he was bracing you. JJ’s smile faltered for just a second before she pulled you into her arms. Penelope beamed at you, glittery and brave, but her eyes scanned the room anxiously -- almost like she was trying to prepare you for something she couldn't say out loud.
"I'm so glad you're here." Luke smiled, trying to disarm the tension. "Wouldn't be a birthday without you."
“Yeah, well. I owed you a drink and an awkward hug, so here I am.”
Luke laughed softly, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think, you know.”
You rolled your eyes, giving him the first genuine grin you'd had in months.
"Don't bullshit me."
It was almost familiar. Almost comfortable and warm. A party with old friends who loved you.
And then you saw him.
Spencer.
Standing in the kitchen, hair trimmed now but still wild, wearing a soft gray sweater you hadn’t seen before. He was thinner still, but no longer fragile. He was composed. Collected. Familiar in all the worst ways.
And when his eyes met yours, they didn’t just soften -- they broke.
He looked like he’d stopped breathing. Like seeing you had hit him harder than any prison wall ever had.
You stood frozen in the doorway, one hand curled tightly around the strap of your purse.
You hadn’t prepared for this. Not for the way your stomach twisted. Not for the way your heart stuttered at the sight of him. Not for the way every inch of you remembered -- vividly -- how it felt to be loved by him. And left by him.
You blinked once. Slowly.
Then, you turned away and headed straight for the liquor table.
Prentiss followed.
Shakily, you poured yourself a glass of whiskey, lifting it to your lips in a hurry. You hoped the liquor burning down your throat would arm you, hardening around you like a shell and making you impossible to break.
Prentiss didn’t say anything at first. Just stood beside you, watching you pour and drink like it was survival -- like this party was a battlefield and the whiskey was armor.
“You okay?” she finally asked, voice low.
You gave a humorless smile. “Peachy.”
Prentiss leaned a hip against the table. “You don’t have to talk to him.”
“I know.” You stared down into your glass.
“Ease into being around him. There's no rush.”
You nodded slowly, swallowing the next sip with a wince. “Yeah..”
Prentiss was quiet for a moment. Then, “Do you want me to stick around? Watch your six?”
You smirked faintly, heart pounding. “I think I can handle one skinny genius.”
She gave a soft snort. “Alright. But if you need backup…”
“I know,” you said, finally meeting her eyes. “Thanks, Emily.”
She squeezed your arm gently, then stepped away, giving you space.
You drank there silently for a while. It wasn't helping like you thought it would.
The burn in your throat faded too fast. The warmth in your chest settled into nothingness. You were still too aware of the room -- the quiet laughter, the conversation, the way people kept glancing toward the hallway like they were tracking someone.
Like they were tracking him.
You gripped the edge of the table until your knuckles ached, breathing slow through your nose. It wasn’t working. The whiskey wasn’t a shield. It wasn’t dulling the pain or the memory of his letter. Just Spencer. The cruelty of it. The cowardice.
And yet… you still felt him. Like gravity. Pulling at you even across the room.
You turned your head just slightly, and that’s when you saw him.
He was standing half-hidden near the archway to the kitchen, hands in his pockets, looking smaller than you remembered. His eyes were already on you. Not moving. Not blinking.
Like he’d been watching the entire time.
You almost looked away.
Almost.
But you didn’t.
You needed some air. You quickly walked towards the door, muttering apologies and promising to come back, before you reached the front porch. You sat on the porch chair, threading your hands through your hair and inhaling deeply.
You thought you could do this. Hell, you even thought it would be easy. But you just couldn't.
The dreaded tears came to your eyes before you noticed them, dripping down. You sniffled, looking up at the stars.
The stars blurred above you, gentle pinpricks of light in a sky that didn’t care how much your chest ached. You wiped at your face roughly, as if that could erase the entire last year: the prison, the silence, the letter. Him.
You’d told yourself you were over it. Over him.
But here you were, falling apart on someone else’s porch like the wound had never closed. Maybe it never had. Maybe it never would.
The screen door creaked behind you.
You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.
You knew it was him.
There was a long pause. Then footsteps, soft and hesitant, and the subtle rustle of fabric as Spencer slowly sat on the step beside your chair, not too close, not touching. Just there.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t comfortable. It was sharp, cutting, full of all the things that should have been said months ago.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said finally, his voice low, almost broken.
You laughed bitterly through your tears. “I shouldn't have.”
Another silence.
“I'm glad you did. I didn't even know if I'd talk to you.. I just wanted to look at you again.”
Spencer’s voice cracked on the last word, and when you glanced sideways at him, his profile was haloed in porchlight. Soft, tired, and somehow still beautiful in the way that only he ever was to you. His hands were folded tightly in his lap like he was afraid they’d shake if he let them move.
“I used to dream about this,” he admitted quietly. “Just… being near you again. Seeing your face. Hearing your voice.”
Another wave of tears washed over you. You just listened to his voice. Part of you hated him. Part of you missed his voice.
“I counted the minutes I was in there. One-hundred and thirty-nine thousand and six-hundred eighty minutes," He continued, looking across the lawn at the cars that occasionally passed on the street. “With every minute that passed, it got more probable that I wouldn't leave. After all, the statistics for false imprisonment are..”
He stopped himself with a tight, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m doing it again -- hiding behind numbers.”
You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight with grief and memory and the ache of loving someone who had broken you in the name of protection.
Spencer glanced over at you, his expression open and fragile. “But I did count the minutes. I counted them because I was scared that you'd waste a good life waiting for me.”
“It wasn't your choice.” You hissed quietly, refusing to look at him. “But you made it your choice with that damn letter. Cruel.”
Spencer didn’t respond right away. You could feel him flinch beside you, like your words had physically hit him, maybe harder than anything he’d taken inside those prison walls.
“I know,” he said eventually, the words barely more than breath. “I read it back a thousand times after I sent it. And every time, I thought: I hope she hates me enough to forget me. I kept a copy. To remind myself not to reach out. Not to pull you back to me.”
You laughed, bitter and wet. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. I hated you, but I couldn’t forget you. You don’t just forget the person you built a life around, Spencer.”
Finally, you looked at him. He was already staring at you, devastated, like he was watching something crumble that he could never put back together.
“I wrote that letter like I was dying,” he admitted. “Because I thought I was. Not physically. Just… everything that made me who I was, it was getting chipped away. I thought if I died to you then, at least I wouldn’t take you down with me.”
“It wasn't fair. What happened to you wasn't. But it wasn't fair of you to shove me away,” your voice began to wobble, tears coming down your face again. “I loved you, Spencer. Wasn't it enough?”
Spencer’s face crumpled -- not all at once, but in small, controlled fractures, like he was trying desperately to hold himself together for your sake, even now. Even after everything.
“It was,” he whispered. “God, it was more than enough. It was everything. That’s why I let it go.”
You shook your head, the ache blooming sharp again. “That’s not how love works. You don’t just… take someone’s heart and decide for them what’s best. You don’t destroy them to save them.”
“I know,” he choked out. “I know that now.”
You let out a trembling breath, wiping your face with the sleeve of your jacket. “I would’ve waited. I was waiting.”
“I know, baby,” he said softly, his voice watery with tears he was trying to force back. The pet name slipped -- he hadn't even noticed he'd used it. It was too natural for him. “But I didn't know if I was coming back. And I didn't know who I'd come back as.”
You exhaled, but your lungs felt punctured.
“God, I hate you, Spencer. I hate that I still..”
Spencer froze, his eyes wide and glistening. He didn’t speak, he couldn’t. Your confession seemed to punch the air from his lungs the same way it had yours.
You shook your head quickly, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, ashamed of how raw you sounded. “I hate that even after everything, the silence, the letter, the fucking goodbye, I still see you and my chest hurts in a way that feels like home.”
Spencer’s lips parted, but nothing came. Just another tear trailing down.
“I used to think if you ever came back, I’d slam the door in your face,” you said, laughing bitterly through your tears. “But I didn’t. I let you sit here. I let you look at me.”
“I don’t deserve it,” he murmured. “I don’t deserve you. But I love you more than anything in the world. All I did was pray to a God I don't believe in for you to heal.”
“Then how could you walk away? Like I was nothing?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles whitened.
“Because I was nothing in there,” he said hoarsely. “I was a number. A threat. A punching bag. Every day, I woke up wondering who I’d have to fight to stay alive. What part of myself I’d have to let die just to make it to the next hour. And the one thing that kept me going was you. The memory of you.”
You whimpered like the words had stabbed you.
“The only things I had in my cell were photos of you. That's all I wanted,” he said, his voice cracking with a fresh wave of tears. “When I felt human enough to read, I only read your favorite literature and poems.”
“Spencer--”
“I started with Jane Eyre. Because you said it was the first book that made you cry. I wanted to cry with you, even if you weren’t there.”
Your breath caught.
His voice was shaking, but steady enough to recite what he’d clearly read over and over, committing it to memory like a prayer.
“I have for the first time found what I can truly love -- I have found you. You are my sympathy -- my better self -- my good angel; I am bound to you with a strong attachment.”
He looked at you, his voice barely above a whisper now.
“I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you.”
Tears streamed down your face freely now. You remembered reading that line to him once, years ago, curled together in bed.
“I used to repeat that in my head just to fall asleep,” he admitted. “I read the book hundreds of times. It was your voice.”
You covered your mouth, shoulders trembling.
“I thought I could bury it. Bury you. But I couldn’t. I can’t. And if I never get to hold you again,” he said, crying entirely, “I needed you to know… you were never nothing. You were the only thing that made me anything at all.”
“Spencer, I'm begging you not--”
“Let me finish,” he pleaded, hands reaching out for you but not quite touching you. “If there's any chance at all, any chance you'd let me come home, I'd make it my mission to love you for the rest of our days on this doomed Earth.” He said, his words rushing out as if he couldn't control them.
You were silent. Shocked. Your jaw dropped, but lips still quivered.
“I'll go right now and buy a ring if that's what you want. I'll recite your favorite poetry every single night. I'll scratch your back without asking for it in return. I'll listen to your favorite song in the car on a loop every damn time we go anywhere even though I hate it.”
He was breaking open in front of you, pouring himself out in fragments: hopeful, desperate, all the pieces you never thought you'd get back.
“I’ll memorize every meal you’ve ever loved and learn how to cook it perfectly. I’ll fix the leaky sink. I’ll reorganize your bookshelf a hundred times until it makes sense to you again.” His voice wavered desperately, rising into something raw and aching. “Just -- please. Please give me the chance to make it right.”
You stared at him, stunned. That flood of emotion -- grief, fury, heartbreak, love -- came crashing down at once. Your body shook from it. You had waited for this moment for so long. You had dreamed of it. But now that it was here, you didn’t know if you could move.
Spencer inched forward on the porch step, slowly, as if afraid to scare you off. His hands trembled between you, still waiting for yours.
“I don’t want anyone else. I can’t want anyone else. You were it for me before prison. You were it every day in there. And you're it now. No matter what you say.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
“What if you leave again if things get difficult?”
His breath hitched.
“I won’t,” he said, instantly but then gentler, more broken, “I can’t.”
You opened your eyes. He was looking at you like the question had gutted him, like he’d been waiting for it.
“I left because I thought it was the only way to protect you,” he continued, voice low and shaking. “But I see now -- God, I know now -- that hurting you to keep you safe wasn’t protection. It was fear. And I let it win.”
He leaned forward just enough for you to see how wrecked he was, eyes glassy and wide. “But I’ve lived through the worst thing imaginable. And it wasn’t prison. It wasn't Tobias Hankel. It wasn't Dilaudid, it wasn't those damn headaches, and it wasn't losing Maeve. It was the thought of you moving on, thinking I didn’t love you. It was living with the idea that I’d made you feel abandoned.”
His hand finally touched yours, featherlight. “So no. I won’t leave again. Not when things get difficult. Not when I’m scared. Not when I’m hurting. Because I’d rather face every nightmare in the world than ever look into your eyes again and see pain that I've caused.”
A pause.
“Please,” he whispered, “let me stay this time.”
You didn’t say anything at first. The silence was heavy, aching, filled with all the memories of the man he used to be and the one breaking before you now. His fingers were still barely touching yours, like he didn’t believe he deserved to hold your hand, only to beg for the chance.
Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. You had imagined this moment a hundred times. In the best versions, he came home with flowers, apologies, promises. In the worst, he never came at all.
But this raw, desperate truth from him was something else entirely.
“I don’t know if I can,” you whispered. “I want to. But I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”
Spencer closed his eyes, nodding like the words bruised but didn’t surprise him. “Then I’ll stay outside your door every day if I have to. I’ll write you letters I sign with love this time. I’ll sign my soul away to you if that's what it takes. It's yours now anyways.”
You looked at him, really looked, and saw him again. Not the hollow shell who’d walked out. Not the angry, scared man from prison. But the Spencer you’d loved. A little more broken. A little more changed. But still him. Still yours.
Your hand turned, slowly, fingers curling around his. He gasped quietly at the touch, like it shocked him.
“Don’t make me regret this,” you said softly.
His eyes met yours, glassy with hope. “Never again.”
And suddenly, you were yanked forward. A watery giggle, half laughing and half crying, escaped you as you were pulled into Spencer's chest, your cheek coming into contact with the gray threads of his sweater.
His arms wrapped around you like they were made for it: tight, trembling, like he couldn’t believe you were real. His face tucked into your neck, breath shuddering against your skin, and for a long moment, neither of you said a word.
You just held each other.
The night around you was quiet, broken only by the occasional hum of a passing car, the soft rustle of leaves, and the ragged breathing of two people who had survived too much.
“I missed you so much,” Spencer whispered into your shoulder, voice cracking. “More than I knew a person could miss someone.”
He smelled like memories. Like all the nights you'd spent cuddling on the couch watching old Russian romances that you didn't understand, but he translated for you in his soft, lovely voice. Like kissing in the rain, but being scolded for “common cold inducing behavior.” Like a long hug after an especially drawn out and difficult case.
He smelled like home. Your home.
You were so happy to be home.
