clementineinn

[clementineinn]

everglow, a head full of dreams

abstract: after a long interpol liaison assignment overseas, Y/N finally returns to the BAU. the day is filled with warmth, laughter, and homecoming — but for spencer reid, there’s an ache that can’t be ignored any longer. he’s loved her from the moment before she left — and now that she’s back, he knows he can’t keep it buried. not for another second.

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

genre: fluff

note: i love yearning, slow burn spencer, so bear with me as i continuously churn out these fluffy stories. honestly not too sure how i feel about this one, maybe i'll continue the story? idk. i'm not really liking how it turned out but it might just be because i've reread it too many times, but i just wanted to post it bc i'm having writer's block!!!! kinda struggling with my writing rn, UGH! but anyways, as always, please enjoy, even though i just went on a pessimistic rant lol.

It was late morning, and the bullpen at Quantico hummed with a quiet, restless energy — the kind that filled the air when something was about to happen, though no one quite knew what.

Sunlight slanted in through the high windows, striping the desks in warm gold and shadow. The low murmur of conversation drifted through the space, broken now and then by the faint clatter of a mug being set down, the rustle of papers, the soft mechanical hum of the printer across the room.

Hotch had sent out a clipped message that morning — unexpected.

Conference. 10:30.

No urgent case file attached. No coded pre-brief from JJ. Nothing from Garcia’s terminal. Just that — cool and spare. Enough to spark curiosity like static.

Now, ten minutes before the hour, the bullpen had begun to subtly shift — that unspoken way the team always seemed to gather when the center of gravity tipped toward something new.

Coffee cups in hand, files forgotten, they found themselves orbiting naturally toward Spencer’s desk — the usual center point in moments like these.

Morgan leaned one hip against the edge of the desk, twirling a pen between his fingers. Emily settled nearby, her chair tipped back just slightly, one boot hooked around the leg. JJ arrived with a soft thump of her file folder, setting it down before crossing her arms in curiosity. Garcia, bright-eyed and colorful, perched on the corner with a rustle of fabric and the faint vanilla-sugar scent of her latest perfume.

And in the middle of it all — Spencer sat, cardigan sleeves pushed to his elbows, a familiar fountain pen resting idly between his fingers. His notebooks lay open before him — unscribbled, forgotten — as his gaze drifted, unfocused, somewhere far beyond the present conversation.

Above them, the second-story mezzanine stood quiet. No sign of Hotch yet.

The bullpen breathed with waiting — something in the stillness, in the shifting glances, in the undercurrent of soft voices and quiet anticipation, as if the room itself held its breath for whatever would come next.

Garcia, bright-eyed and luminous in a swirl of violet silk, leaned one hip with theatrical flair against the edge of Spencer’s desk, mirroring Morgan’s easy stance. In one hand she held a paper cup, its pale surface scattered with tiny pink hearts, steam curling lazily from the lid like the last breath of a spell.

“I’m telling you,” she declared, eyes wide with certainty, “this is definitely about new equipment. Or tech upgrades. Maybe he’s finally letting me overhaul the databases.”

Morgan let out a low chuckle, stretching back in his chair with casual grace, arms folded across his broad chest. A slow shake of his head, eyes gleaming.

“Come on, baby girl — Hotch wouldn’t be this mysterious over hard drives.”

Emily smirked over the rim of her coffee cup, shoulders relaxed, dark lashes catching the late-morning light.

“Maybe it’s a new recruit,” she mused, voice teasing. “Or budget talks. Or... mandatory wellness seminars.”

A collective groan rose from the little circle.

“If it’s more wellness training,” Rossi intoned dryly from his perch nearby — the morning’s Washington Post still folded under one arm — “I’m transferring to cybercrimes.” But the faint, knowing glint in his eyes gave him away.

JJ shook her head, blond waves falling over one shoulder as she gave a rueful smile. 

“He wouldn’t pull us all in just for that.”

Spencer listened — or seemed to — gaze flicking now and then to Morgan, to Garcia’s flurry of color, to Emily’s grin over her coffee. The low rhythm of voices surrounded him, bright and familiar. He heard each word, each teasing lilt — but it was as though the sound reached him through a thin layer of water, slow and distant.

Because beneath it all — beneath the warmth of the room, beneath the soft tap of heels on tile and the rustle of paper — his thoughts circled, always, to her.

Even now — especially now — everything seemed to spiral back to her.

How many months since she’d left? He’d counted them at first, marked the weeks in the margins of his calendar, tracked deployments and return dates like a ritual. Eventually, the numbers blurred — but the ache never dulled.

He caught himself doing it still — absent, distracted in moments like this — wondering what city she was in now. Whether she was safe. Whether she missed them.

Whether she thought of him.

A familiar weight settled in his chest — low and constant, the shape of missing her. He smoothed it down the way he always did, fingers tightening briefly on the pen.

At that moment, Garcia’s voice rang brightly through the air:  “If this is a team restructure meeting, I swear I will riot. Peacefully. In glitter.”

Spencer blinked — half-smiling despite himself. Without looking up from the pen, he murmured softly, voice low and dry: “I’m fairly certain the Bureau has policies against both glitter and riots.”

Morgan let out a low chuckle. “See? Even the good doctor’s ready to shut you down, baby girl.”

That pulled a faint, crooked smile from Spencer — the corners of his mouth lifting, then fading.

Garcia pressed a dramatic hand to her chest. “So much logic in one room. It’s exhausting.”

The conversation drifted on — light, easy.

Spencer leaned back in his chair, gaze resting somewhere beyond the curve of the room — past the windows, past the moment.

“Where is Hotch, anyway?” Morgan asked, glancing toward the mezzanine — one brow lifted, voice curling with curiosity.

The question hovered in the air — unanswered — as the little circle fell into a brief pause.

And then —

The elevator chimed.

Soft — an ordinary sound, easily lost in the low hum of the bullpen — but in that moment, it seemed to echo just a fraction longer than usual. A faint, suspended note, bright against the stillness.

No one moved at first. No one looked.

And then — footsteps.

Measured. Unhurried. The familiar cadence of heels on tile — a crisp, rhythmic sound that drifted through the open space with almost hypnotic clarity.

It was a sound they all knew — had known. A sound that once threaded through their days so easily it hardly registered at all.

Until it had been gone.

And now — now it returned — unmistakable.

Spencer’s breath caught.

Before he quite realized it, his gaze lifted — drawn instinctively across the bullpen, past the edge of his desk, toward the entryway — toward the source of that sound.

And there — framed in the soft wash of light from the corridor beyond — she stood.

For a moment, the entire bullpen seemed to still. The air shifted — the edges of the room blurring faintly, as though the world had drawn a breath and forgotten to release it.

She moved forward — unhurried, composed — the easy grace of someone who had walked this path a thousand times before.

Her hair — soft, undone, loose in a way that seemed both effortless and deliberate — brushed her shoulders in a gentle wave. The delicate planes of her face caught the light — the elegant slope of her nose, the soft curve of her cheek, the fullness of her mouth touched with the faintest flush of rose. Her lashes cast fine shadows against her skin.

And her eyes — God, her eyes — quiet and clear and steady, the kind of gaze that could both undo and anchor a man. There was a knowing there — something older, softer, as though she had seen too much and still chosen gentleness.

She wore simple, perfect lines — a fitted black knit top that framed her collarbones with spare elegance, sleeves pushed just past her wrists. Slate-gray slacks, soft in their drape, skimming long legs with easy movement. Black low heels, no louder than a sigh against the tile.

No badge, no blazer, no ostentation — just her.

And in that moment — her presence filled the room more fully than any arrival could.

The hum of the bullpen seemed to fall away — voices dimming, motion pausing, as if drawn into the quiet gravity of her entrance.

Spencer’s breath caught — sharp in his chest — and for one fragile second, he could do nothing but look.

She’s here.

She tilted her head faintly, one brow lifting in the subtlest tease — mouth curving with a flicker of amusement.

“You guys always this jumpy in the mornings?”

For a single breath — no one moved.

It was as if the air itself had thinned — caught somewhere between heartbeats.

Then — the spell broke.

A bright, delighted gasp: “Oh my god — Y/N!”

Garcia was the first to move — coffee nearly forgotten, her cup teetering dangerously on the edge of Spencer’s desk as she flew forward in a whirl of color and perfume.

Before anyone could so much as blink, she had Y/N wrapped in a fierce, breathless hug — arms tight, voice bubbling over.

“You didn’t tell us—!”

Emily was close behind, laughter rising as she caught Y/N’s other arm in a quick pull, drawing her in.

“How long— when— what—?” JJ’s voice chimed through the tangle of greetings, her smile wide and bright as she reached in mid-hug, the words tumbling over themselves in joy.

And then — Morgan.

A deep, familiar whoop split the air as he strode forward, easy grin wide, hands outstretched. Without hesitation, he swept Y/N off her feet — a half-spin, effortless and exuberant.

“Look who’s back in the big leagues!”

The bullpen rippled with warmth — the sound of it filling every corner.

Even Rossi — leaning back against the edge of a nearby desk, arms folded with casual grace — let a rare smile soften his features.

“It’s about time,” he said, voice low but warmly sincere.

The bullpen bloomed with joy — wide and irrepressible, the kind of warmth that filled a room from the inside out. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t polite. It was the deep, unguarded welcome reserved for one of their own — a missing piece returned to its place.

Voices overlapped, laughter spilling into the air. The small crowd folded around her in an instant — hands reaching, arms pulling her close, greetings tumbling over one another in the rush to be heard.

Everyone — except Spencer.

He stood more slowly — as though the very act of moving had weight. His legs felt strangely unsteady beneath him, breath caught somewhere in his chest. A wild, heady thrum of blood rushed in his ears — the rhythm of a heart that couldn’t quite catch up to the moment. For one long second, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. His mouth opened, then closed again — words crowding his throat, too many all at once, none of them enough.

She was here.

Not an echo through Garcia’s screen. Not a line of text in a quiet after-hours message. Not a passing update on some distant, classified case.

Here.

And for one dizzy, breathless beat — all he could do was stare. As though the very sight of her might dissolve if he blinked too fast — a trick of the light, too fragile to trust.

She glanced up — mid-hug with Garcia, arms still looped around her friend’s shoulders — a bright laugh just beginning to bloom at the corner of her mouth.

And then — her gaze caught his. Across the distance, across the bright scatter of voices, the blur of motion — her eyes found Spencer’s.

The shift was immediate.

Something in her expression gentled — softened at the edges, the brightness folding inward to something quieter, deeper. A warmth that seemed to bloom from beneath the surface. Her smile changed — not the easy grin she’d offered to the others, not the familiar humor of old camaraderie — but something softer. More fragile. The kind of smile meant for only one person in the room.

For a heartbeat, maybe longer, the space between them narrowed to nothing at all.

The background dissolved — voices falling away, color blurring at the edges. The bustling light of the bullpen dimmed to a quiet hum — as though the world itself had drawn in its breath, suspended between one moment and the next.

Just her. Just him.

And in her eyes: something unspoken.

I’m here. I came back.

Spencer’s heart wrenched. The force of it nearly staggered him.

He couldn’t look away.

Before he could so much as move — before breath returned to his lungs — another figure stepped into the frame: Hotch. Calm, composed, steady as a metronome — dark suit sharp against the light, file tucked under one arm. He came to stand at her side — his presence as grounding as it had always been — and with a faint nod, addressed the gathered team.

“Agent Y/N,” he said, voice low but carrying, “has officially requested reassignment back to the BAU.” A pause — the barest flicker of something like approval in his eyes — then, evenly: “She’ll be rejoining the team, effective today.”

For one suspended second — stillness. A collective breath.

And then — the room erupted.

“Finally!” Garcia all but squealed, hands clapping together, her whole face alight with joy.

Emily grinned wide, shaking her head with mock outrage. “And you were going to let us find out like this?”

JJ let out a bright laugh, bumping shoulders with Morgan. “Unbelievable. You’re sneaky.”

Morgan crossed his arms with a wide grin. “About time. We were getting boring without you.”

Even Rossi’s low chuckle threaded through the air: “Welcome home.”

Hotch, unmoved by the sudden swell of sound, allowed a small lift of his brow — the faintest suggestion of a smile — before turning his gaze toward Y/N once more.

“It’s good to have you back,” he said quietly.

But Spencer barely heard it.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear his gaze from hers.

As though some small, stubborn part of him feared that if he blinked — if he looked away for even a second — she might vanish once more into the space between then and now.

The day unfolded like sunlight through an open window — slow at first, golden, weightless — then all at once.

Outside, the early hours of spring had burned away to a mild, sunlit morning. Bright ribbons of light stretched long across the floor, spilling in from the tall windows, catching motes of dust in the air like tiny, drifting stars. The warmth of it soaked into the bones of the old building — rising from the tile, softening the edges of desks and chairs, gilding stray papers and forgotten coffee mugs with an amber sheen.

And within it all — threaded through light and shadow alike — there was something more.

A hum. A charge. The quiet, unmistakable thrum of happiness — of something righting itself after having tilted off balance for far too long.

She was back.

And with her — the whole rhythm of the day seemed brighter, lighter.

Laughter rose more easily. Conversations wove through the air in fluid threads. Even the usual shuffle of agents passing through the halls seemed softened — as though some unseen weight had lifted from the walls.

For Spencer — it was almost too much.

Too much brightness after too long in the dark. Too much warmth against the old familiar ache that lived in his ribs.

But he breathed it in all the same — heart unsteady, gaze drawn toward her again and again — as though some deep part of him still feared this might all dissolve if he dared look away.

Everywhere she moved, the team seemed to orbit her — drawn instinctively as if by some invisible current.

Wherever Y/N stood — at her desk, by the break room, pausing near a file cabinet — small constellations of conversation formed around her, shifting and bright.

JJ had practically whisked her away into the break room first — one arm looped through hers, mock-stern, laughing. “Alright — details. Now. We’ve been in the dark for months.”

Morgan kept appearing — popping around corners, leaning casually in doorframes — grinning wide, voice rich with teasing questions: “So what do those top-secret types eat for breakfast, huh? Bet it’s not the powdered eggs they give us here.”

Rossi, ever composed, had stepped in with a quiet smile — fingers curling easily around the handle of the old glass carafe — pouring her coffee as though it were ritual, timeless. “Thought you might want the real thing,” he’d said, eyes warm.

Garcia swept in and out like a breeze — a box of cupcakes balanced in one hand, her phone in the other — declaring to anyone who would listen that it was now an unofficial welcome-home party, and she expected attendance.

And Emily — bright and laughing — finally caught her in a loose side hug, her voice low and warm against the hum of the room: “You look good. International life suits you.”

Spencer lingered nearby — his notebook open in front of him, pen resting between his fingers — though the last entry on the page trailed off mid-sentence, the ink gone dry twenty minutes ago.

He hadn’t noticed.

She was here.

Not a name in passing. Not a quiet message on Garcia’s screen. Not a blurred update buried in Interpol case logs he shouldn’t have checked so often. Not a digital echo, a secondhand scrap of her voice carried through someone else’s words.

Just — here.

Breathing the same air. Moving through the light. Smiling — real, present — no longer half a world away.

And he — he could hardly breathe around it.

The bullpen seemed to glow at the edges — bright and diffuse — as though the sunlight itself had shifted toward her, drawn in quiet orbit by the warmth of her presence. It spilled across the floor in long, drowsy ribbons — catching the glint of polished nameplates, skimming across the soft grain of well-worn desks, gilding the corners of open files and stray paperclips with delicate threads of gold. Dust drifted lazily in the beams — small, weightless things that turned and tumbled as if the very air had changed its shape around her.

And through it all — winding between light and shadow — the low hum of voices moved like music. Familiar. Intimate. Soft with happiness. A language made not of words, but of glances and smiles and the deep, unspoken ease of being home again.

Spencer caught fragments of conversation as they wove past him, his gaze straying again and again toward where she stood — framed by the others, light in her hair.

“Yeah — Interpol Liaison Assignment. Mostly Europe. A lot of long-term cases, international consults... more airports than I care to remember.”

Her voice — the sound of it — sent a fresh ache through his ribs.

“It was good work,” she added after a pause, voice dipping quieter, smile softening. Her gaze drifted for a moment, something wistful in her expression.

“But…” A breath. “…I missed this. All of you.”

Across the circle, Morgan grinned — arms folded, voice warm with easy affection.

“Well — our gain,” he said. “You kept climbing the ladder — now we get to brag about you.”

Y/N laughed lightly. “Not much ladder left to climb. I just wanted to come home.”

Home. The word twisted something in Spencer’s chest.

He hadn’t spoken to her yet — not really.

Just that one glance — in the doorway, in the hush before the others had rushed forward — the quiet pull of her gaze catching his across the room. A single moment — fragile as spun glass — now tucked carefully away behind his ribs. Since then, with the bullpen alive around her, voices bright, old rhythms rekindled — he had kept to the edges. Watching. Wanting.

Too much, too soon — the ache of it caught behind his breath, impossible to name.

At one point, Y/N stepped out of the break room — a fresh coffee cradled between her palms, steam curling soft and white into the sunlit air. She moved with that same easy grace — loose-limbed, quietly self-possessed — a familiar rhythm that made Spencer’s chest ache. Without seeming to notice, her path angled toward his desk — a pause, a breath of stillness in the bright hum of the room.

Their eyes met. This time — it lingered. A second. A little more. Something deeper passed between them — not loud, not declarative — but certain all the same.

“Hey,” she said softly, voice warm — low enough that it seemed meant for only him.

Spencer looked up — breath catching, heart kicking against his ribs.

He opened his mouth — found it dry. He swallowed — forced a breath past the tightness in his chest. “Hey,” he managed, voice quiet. “Welcome back.”

Her smile tilted — slow, fond, something in it that caught and held. “Thanks.”

She looked — for one flicker of a moment — as though she might say more. Her gaze lingered, lips parting —

But just then, Garcia swept through the room in a swirl of bright fabric, trailing a thin tangle of ribbons in one hand, announcing something about cupcake displays — and the moment scattered like leaves in a breeze.

The ache settled deeper in Spencer’s ribs — warm and heavy, like sunlight pooling in a place long starved of light.

He knew this day was for them — for all of them. For the team, the laughter, the easy folding back into old rhythms. It wasn’t the time to pull her aside. Not yet. And yet —

The hours drifted by in waves of brightness — voices and footfalls and the soft hush of papers moving beneath careful hands — and all through it, he found himself looking up without meaning to. 

Again and again — as though the very air in the room carried her shape.

The sound of her laugh — low, rich, colored by something softer now. The shape of her voice weaving through conversations — a thread of familiar music. The curve of her mouth when she teased Morgan, the glint in her eye when she nudged Emily mid-joke. The easy tilt of her head, the slight catch of her hair at her shoulder as she moved.

The bullpen seemed to hum at the edges — bright with a different kind of light — as though her return had altered the very current of the space.

And Spencer — he remembered every version of her.

The sharp, brilliant one who could outthink anyone in the room. The quiet one, thoughtful between cases, always half-smiling over the rim of her mug. The steady presence by his side on late nights when the hours blurred.

And this — this new version now — was both familiar and new. Wiser. Sharper at the edges. But still — her.

And he — he was still him.

Still caught somewhere between the wanting and the fear — between the pull of everything unsaid and the weight of years carried alone.

The words pressed at him like a tide — slow and relentless.

I loved you before you left. I love you still. I waited.

But for now — he only watched.

The day drifted into late afternoon — the kind of soft, golden hour when the light slants lower and time seems to slow. 

Sunlight stretched long across the floor, warmer now — honeyed gold pooling between the desks, casting soft-edged shadows across the walls. The hum of conversation had quieted to something looser, more languid — voices dipping, movements slower in the mellow light. 

Files had been filed, coffee cups rinsed and set in neat rows along the counter.

JJ glanced at the clock with a reluctant sigh, gathering her things. “Henry’s got soccer this evening,” she said, looping her scarf around her neck. “But I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

Morgan slung his bag over one shoulder, lingering a beat longer than usual. “You sure you don’t want a ride?” he asked. “Gym can wait.”

Y/N smiled, warm. “I’m good. I’ve got a few things to finish up.”

Emily and Garcia hovered nearby, coats in hand — exchanging a glance that held more than a little protest.

“We could stay,” Garcia offered brightly. “Help you settle in — cupcakes and admin, a perfect pairing.”

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. “Go — really. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

Even Rossi, coming down the stairs from upstairs consults, paused with a glance toward her desk — a thoughtful nod.

And so, slowly, the bullpen began to empty — not with the usual rush of closing time, but with the unspoken warmth of a day well-spent, a missing piece restored.

And Spencer — he stayed, notebook still open before him. A file untouched beneath his hand.

But he wasn’t looking at the clock, nor at the quiet stacks of work still waiting. His gaze drifted — again and again — toward the far side of the bullpen. Toward her. He’d told himself it was to finish organizing some paperwork — but his stack of files remained exactly where it had been for the past hour. 

Y/N lingered after the others — a quiet, steady presence in the glowing hush of the near-empty bullpen. She moved with an easy rhythm — unpacking, resettling, reordering small pieces of her space that had been left behind. A drawer sliding open with a soft scrape. Papers shuffled into neat stacks. The quiet click of a pen against the rim of a ceramic mug.

The last spill of sunlight caught at her sleeves, gilding the fine movements of her hands, weaving a soft glow along the curve of her shoulder, the slope of her cheek.

And still — he stayed.

Spencer’s gaze drifted to the clock.

He could leave. He should leave. The hour had tipped toward evening — most of the building hushed now, shadows lengthening at the edges. But the thought of walking away — of leaving her to this space alone, on her first day back — pulled sharp beneath his ribs.

A quiet weight pressed into his chest — insistent.

So he hovered — notebook still open, the pen unmoving between his fingers, resting forgotten in the waning light.

Waiting.

Finally — after what felt to Spencer like an endless moment stretched thin with wanting — Y/N glanced up from her desk. A loose strand of hair had fallen near her temple; she brushed it back with an absent, graceful motion, fingertips trailing lightly against her cheek.

Her gaze lifted — slow, searching — and found him across the quiet bullpen.

Something in her expression softened — a warmth blooming there, quiet and sure.

Her smile unfurled — slow at first, as though drawn from somewhere deeper — the curve of her mouth lifting, high and soft at one corner, deepening into that familiar shape that never failed to undo him. A glimmer of mischief danced at the edges. The faintest hint of dimples appeared — fleeting, delicate — like a secret only just revealed. And then — her voice, low and warm, the words wrapped in that smile: “Are you waiting for me, Doctor Reid?”

The sound of it — the shape of her smile as she said it — struck him with such sudden force that he almost forgot to breathe.

Color rose to his ears — swift, helpless. He opened his mouth — faltered for half a second — then gave the smallest, surest nod.

“Yes.”

Her smile deepened — slow, knowing — the kind of smile that lived somewhere between affection and tease, the kind that could warm a man to his bones. Her dimples ghosted faintly at the corners, eyes bright beneath the soft spill of late afternoon light.

“Well,” she said — voice low, rich with quiet amusement — “if you help me put these away…” She tipped her head, letting the smallest pause hang in the air, just enough to draw him in. “… we’ll both get to leave faster. Sound fair?”

He was on his feet before thought could catch up with motion — breath quick in his chest.

“Fair,” he said — and even he could hear the faint, uneven edge in his voice.

Together — side by side now — they moved around her desk. Small, familiar motions — but softened somehow, slowed by something neither of them spoke aloud. They sorted through scattered files — fingers brushing the edges of well-thumbed pages. They slid books into place along low shelves, the gentle scrape of spines against wood the only sound between them.

Now and then — unintentional, but inevitable — their hands touched. Barely there at first — a passing graze of fingertips. Then again — the soft press of knuckles, warm skin meeting skin for a breath too long to be entirely accidental. Each contact sent a bright flicker through Spencer’s nerves — sharp, electric, as though every inch of him had tuned itself to her presence.

The quiet between them thrummed — not empty, not strained — but full, vibrant beneath the surface. Companionable. Steady. And beneath it all — something more.

When the last binder clicked softly into place on the shelf, Y/N exhaled a quiet breath — one of those small, wordless sounds that seemed to settle into the room like a finishing note. 

“Done,” she said, straightening with a little stretch — shoulders rolling back, arms loosening. She reached for her coat and bag, fingers brushing along the back of her chair as she gathered the last few things.

Spencer stood where he was — pulse thick in his throat, heart thudding hard enough that it seemed to echo in his ears.

The soft light had deepened around them now — long bands of gold stretching low across the bullpen, casting the floor in warm, drowsy glow.

She glanced at him — smile tugging faintly at her mouth. “Still keeping me company?” she teased gently, voice soft beneath the hush of the near-empty space.

He swallowed — words tangling.

“Of course,” he managed — and then, after a beat too long: “Didn’t want you to be the last one here.”

Her smile deepened, the kind that caught at the corners of her eyes. “Chivalrous,” she said — voice warm, amused. She slipped her coat on, the fabric falling clean against her frame, and adjusted the strap of her bag over one shoulder.

Spencer forced himself to breathe.

She moved toward the edge of the bullpen — glancing back once with a quiet tilt of her head. “Come on, Doctor,” she said lightly. “I’m officially calling it a day.”

His feet carried him before thought caught up — steps falling into an easy rhythm beside her as they crossed the room together. The hush of their movements echoed faintly in the open space — the last few murmurs from elsewhere in the building fading into quiet. 

At her side — so close now, every breath filled with her nearness — Spencer could feel the words pressing harder against his ribs. It had been building all day — rising with every glance, every soft word, every brush of her hand. He could feel it now — like a storm gathering just beneath his skin — sharp, bright, impossible to ignore.

And yet — beside him, Y/N seemed unaware — or if she noticed at all, only the faintest trace: the way his voice caught, the way his gaze drifted and returned too quickly.

She glanced up at him as they walked, brow lifting ever so slightly.

“You’re quiet,” she said softly — a question folded beneath the words.

He swallowed, pulse kicking hard.

“Just… tired,” he offered — voice thinner than he meant, pulse still racing beneath his skin.

She let the words drift for a beat, then smiled — soft, easy, gaze warm beneath the fall of her lashes.

“Yeah,” she murmured, voice low. “Me too.” A pause — her smile tilting slightly, something quieter beneath it. “But… I’m really glad to be back.”

The words settled into the air between them — warm, certain — and somehow it made the ache in Spencer’s chest bloom all the sharper.

They reached the elevator.

She pressed the call button — the soft chime rising in the quiet hallway, a bright sound against the hush.

Spencer’s breath caught — the weight of everything unsaid closing tight around him. He couldn’t hold it much longer.

The doors slid open — slow, smooth, with a soft mechanical sigh. They stepped inside, just the two of them now, the space small, quiet, close.

Spencer’s pulse pounded in his ears — hard, relentless, as though the very beat of his heart might give him away.

The words pressed higher in his throat — sharp, breathless — no longer some distant ache, but a rising tide he could barely contain.

Next breath. Next second.

He wouldn’t be able to hold them back.

The elevator doors closed — a hush of metal against metal — sealing them in.

The soft whir of machinery faded, leaving behind a silence so complete it seemed to thrum in the air between them.

They stood side by side — two familiar shapes cast against the brushed steel walls — the lines of their reflections blurred and mingling in the dim light.

The quiet pressed close — thicker with each passing second — as if the very air had shifted, grown heavier, charged with something unspoken.

Neither spoke.

Neither moved.

A breath held — stretched thin, trembling at the edges. Spencer’s throat worked. His chest rose, breath shallow and uneven. 

The words clawed their way higher — fierce, unstoppable — scraping at the back of his throat with each beat of his racing heart.

He could feel his hands trembling faintly at his sides — useless to stop it now.

He stared ahead — eyes fixed, jaw tight — knowing he was standing on the edge of something he could no longer step back from.

The ache had risen past longing, past reason — to the bright, unbearable verge of action.

Now, the thought pulsed through him, urgent, wild. Now, or not at all.

And then — impulse overtook thought.

Before he could second-guess himself — before logic could drag him back — Spencer moved.

Hand darting forward, fast, breathless — and pressed the small red button marked EMERGENCY STOP.

The elevator gave a soft shudder — a low, mechanical sigh — and halted mid-floor.

Stillness swept in — sudden, absolute.

Y/N blinked, the movement catching her off-guard, and turned toward him.

“Spencer?”

Her voice was quiet — touched with confusion, the faintest edge of surprise. Her brows drew in softly — a furrow between them, delicate and unguarded — as her gaze searched his face. Her lips parted — as though to ask, to steady the moment — but the words seemed to catch before they reached the air.

The shift in the room — in him — was too sharp, too immediate. Something was happening — something rising between them like a current — and she could feel it now.

The nerves in the air brushed against her skin — light, electric — pulling at her breath, at her heart.

He turned to face her fully — heart hammering so violently it felt as though it might tear free of his chest — nerves raw beneath skin that had gone too tight, too thin to hold any of it in.

Her brows were still faintly drawn — gaze searching, lips parted — the air between them charged and trembling.

“I can’t—”

His voice broke, the first word catching sharp against his throat.

He swallowed — breath ragged, chest rising too fast — tried again: “I can’t not say it anymore.”

Her eyes widened — something in them catching and deepening — but she said nothing. The moment held — bright, unbearable — as though the space itself had narrowed down to a single, burning point between them.

And then the words broke loose.

They came in a rush — raw, breathless, tumbling past restraint — too fast to stop now, too sharp to soften:

“I loved you before you left.”

His voice shook — low, frayed, as though dragged from the deepest part of him.

“I thought maybe— maybe if you were gone long enough, I’d move on. Forget. Or… or at least learn how to live with it.”

A harsh breath — head shaking once, fierce, broken.

“But I didn’t.”

Another breath — sharper now, ragged edges rising beneath the words: “I couldn’t.”

The confession twisted out of him — building, breaking: “I asked Garcia for updates every week — every single week — until even she started looking at me with pity.”

His hands had begun to shake — fingers flexing, useless at his sides.

“Every day, really— some days twice, three times— I just— I needed to know. I needed to know you were safe.”

A breathless laugh — hollow, aching:

“I made her hack into the Interpol Liaison logs. I knew what cities you were in even when I wasn’t supposed to. I memorized the dates of your deployments, your rotations. Every time you flew out — every time you landed — I knew.”

The words were tumbling faster now — heat rising in his face, in his chest — years of longing and restraint fracturing at the seams.

“I thought about you every morning,” he gasped, voice trembling. “Every night. Every time my phone buzzed I thought — maybe it’s her — maybe she’ll call—”

A sharp breath — and then the last broke from him, hoarse:

“I—”

But the words choked off, chest too tight to finish.

He stood trembling — gaze locked on hers — every muscle pulled taut, breath coming fast and uneven.

He had said it.

Finally.

All of it — ripped loose, bare and bleeding in the open space between them.

And Y/N —

She stared at him — lips parted, breath catching audibly now — as though the weight of what he’d given her had struck too deep to move. Something burned behind her eyes — deep, bright, unspoken — rising to the surface, fierce and fragile all at once.

The air between them cracked — the moment stretched to the breaking point — breathless, unbearable.

Her eyes — still locked on his — shone now, wide and burning, mouth parted on a breath that never quite formed a word.

And Spencer —

Something in him finally snapped.

A surge — a reckless, all-consuming need — rose up from somewhere deeper than thought, deeper than breath — a force that obliterated everything but the aching pull of her standing there before him.

He moved — fast, unstoppable — hands catching her shoulders, dragging her hard into him.

And then — his mouth was on hers.

No hesitation, no gentleness — just a crash of lips to lips, heat and breath and desperate, reckless want.

The force of it sent her stumbling back — but even as her spine hit the cool steel of the elevator wall, Spencer’s hand came up fast — cradling the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair to shield her from the impact — as though some fierce, protective part of him couldn’t bear for her to feel even the smallest hurt.

A faint gasp broke from her lips — not from pain, but from shock, from breathless surprise — from the wild, consuming heat of him.

And then — he was kissing her again — harder, deeper — no space, no air, nothing but this.

He swallowed the sound with his mouth — not daring to stop, not daring to let a single inch of space fall between them now that he had her.

His hands tangled in her hair — fingers twisting in the soft strands, pulling just enough to tip her face up beneath his — mouth slanting harder against hers, teeth grazing, lips parted wide.

Her hands came up in a rush — fisting in the front of his cardigan, dragging him closer — as though she would climb inside him if the laws of the world would only allow it.

Breath collided — hot, uneven, hungry — between kisses that deepened with every ragged pull.

Her lips — soft, swollen, trembling beneath his — moved with him, against him — gasps breaking loose only to be caught again, swallowed whole.

Their noses brushed — the angle of her jaw sharp beneath his palm, the shape of her mouth opening wider for him, breath shaking between every frantic meeting of lips and tongue.

Teeth caught — hers sinking sharply into the soft swell of his lower lip — not enough to break skin, but enough to tear a low, wrecked sound from deep in his chest.

A sound he didn’t know he could make — half gasp, half growl — ruined, desperate.

And then he was gone.

A surge of heat shot through him — blinding, primal — and in the next heartbeat, he slammed her harder against the wall — body pinning hers in full, no space left between them, the sheer force of it dragging a sharp gasp from her mouth.

But not pain — never pain — only shock, only wild, breathless want.

And he swallowed it — devoured the sound with a bruising kiss, lips crashing to hers again, open and hungry and without mercy.

The heat between them flared — burning now — a helpless, relentless tide.

His hands slid down — hard and possessive — gripping her waist, her hips, fingers digging in tight enough that he could feel the shape of her bones beneath the fabric.

Tighter — closer — more.

If he could have dragged her through the wall, he would have — anything to close the impossible ache of distance that still lived inside him.

She was gasping now — broken, high little sounds spilling between them — breath catching in her throat as her fingers clawed into his hair, fists tightening until the roots burned.

Every pull, every desperate grip only feeding the fire in him — pulling a fresh, wrecked sound from his throat.

Her head tipped back, mouth opening wider beneath his — trembling, hungry — letting him kiss her deeper, harder, until he was half-mad with the feel of her lips, her teeth, the breath she couldn’t catch.

“Spencer—”

The sound of his name — wrecked, high, barely shaped — shattered what little remained of his restraint.

He caught it with his mouth — crushed it — swallowing her voice in a kiss so deep, so savage it stole what little air remained between them.

Tongue sliding against hers — breath ragged — teeth scraping — hands everywhere now, sliding up, curling into her back, gripping her shoulder, burying again in her hair — anchoring her to him as though the sheer force of need alone might collapse the years they’d spent apart.

Their noses bumped, dragged sideways, breaths tearing loose, uneven and wild —

More.

He couldn’t stop.

He wouldn’t stop — not until he’d kissed her so deeply, so completely that the ache in his chest finally broke apart beneath it.

Not until she was gasping against his mouth — trembling in his arms — her nails dragging down the back of his neck with helpless, reckless need —

Not until there was nothing left of either of them but this — lips and teeth and breath and years of longing, burning wild and bright between the steel walls of the elevator.

Time fractured — the small space between them burning, pulsing with a heat neither could withstand.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was everything.

Every unspoken word. Every sleepless night. Every breathless moment spent wanting and waiting and knowing they could not have — until now.

Now, the dam had broken. And there was no going back.

When the kiss finally broke — if it could even be called a break — it wasn’t by choice.

It was because neither of them could breathe.

Because lungs burned and chests heaved and their bodies trembled so violently it was a wonder they were still standing.

Spencer’s forehead dropped to hers — too dizzy to hold himself upright — breath tearing ragged from his throat.

Her hands were still tangled in his hair — trembling, clutching — and her face, flushed and wet, tilted helplessly up to his.

They were both shaking — wrecked — skin damp with sweat, tears mingled where cheeks brushed, lips swollen and raw from the sheer violence of what had just passed between them.

Neither could move.

Neither could speak.

They stood there — locked against the cool steel of the elevator wall — heartbeats crashing wildly in their chests, breath gasping against each other’s skin.

Spencer’s hands were splayed against her back — fists still curled in her top, holding on as though if he let go for even a second, the world itself might split apart beneath them.

Her breath hitched — a high, shaking sound that caught in her throat.

Slowly — slowly — she dragged in a trembling gasp of air.

And then — voice so faint it barely rose above a whisper, broken and wrecked in the quiet space —

“Maybe…”

Another breath — another tremble — her cheek brushing against his, damp with tears, mouth still parted, lips flushed and swollen beneath the faintest catch of a breath.

“… maybe we should… get out of here…”

A soft, dazed sound slipped from her throat — a ghost of a laugh, breathless, half-wrecked —

“… before Garcia starts wondering why we’ve been stuck for twenty minutes.”

The words barely reached him — muffled, distant — lost in the blood still roaring in his ears, in the breath he couldn’t catch, in the wild rush still hammering through his chest.

For a moment he could only stare — blinking, dazed, heart crashing.

And then — the smallest breath of a laugh broke loose from him — sharp, wrecked, awed — as if he couldn’t quite believe any of this was real, couldn’t believe the feel of her still trembling beneath his hands.

The sound tangled with his next breath — jagged, uneven — as he leaned in again, lips brushing hers once more.

Not a kiss — not quite — just the barest press — soft, aching, impossibly full — as though he needed to feel her again, needed to be sure she was still there beneath him.

“I don’t care,” he whispered — voice hoarse, torn, shaking with the force of everything still rising in him.

And neither did she.

At last — with fingers that trembled faintly — Spencer reached out, releasing the small red button beneath his hand.

The elevator gave a soft jolt — a faint hum rising as the emergency stop disengaged.

The car began to descend once more — slow, smooth — but neither of them moved.

Not yet.

Spencer still stood close — chest barely lifting with shallow breath, hands resting at her waist, fingers splayed wide, reluctant to loosen their hold.

Y/N’s hands lingered in his hair — fingers soft now, slow, unhurried — as though neither of them could quite bear the thought of breaking the fragile space between them.

His forehead still leaned faintly against hers — breaths mingling in the small hush of the car, both of them flushed, damp with tears and sweat, trembling in the aftermath of something too large to name.

When he finally drew back — just barely, just enough to see her — his eyes were dark, soft, shining with a rawness she had never seen in him before.

Open — utterly unguarded.

Voice low, hoarse, still uneven:

“I missed you.”

The simple truth of it struck through her like a blade — sharp and bright, pulling a soft, helpless ache from her chest.

Her lips parted — breath catching — before her own voice broke free, quiet and full:

“I missed you, too.”

Spencer still hadn’t moved.

His hands remained at her waist — fingers curled tight, thumbs pressed deep into the sharp curve of her hip bones, as though if he loosened his grip by even a fraction she might simply slip away again.

She could feel it — the heat of him through the fabric, the strain in his hold — the faint tremor still running through his fingers.

A breathless sound caught in her throat — half a laugh, half a sigh — lips curving faintly despite the wreck of her heart.

And then — something shifted.

Spencer’s breath hitched — chest rising too fast — eyes flickering down to where his hands still gripped her. 

As though, in that moment, the full weight of what had just happened — the recklessness of it, the years of want breaking loose — crashed into him all at once.

The flush rose quick and high in his cheeks — the faintest spark of his old shyness rising beneath the wreckage of want.

Fingers trembling harder now, caught between holding and releasing, apology and need.

When he finally spoke — voice barely a rasp, breaking at the edges: “I don’t want to let go.”

She drew in a soft, uneven breath — heart thudding so hard it hurt. Her smile faltered — not fading, but shifting — something deeper flickering behind her eyes, pulling the breath from her lungs. Fingers still tangled in his hair, she leaned in just slightly — enough that her forehead brushed his again, lips near his ear.

“Then don’t,” she whispered — voice soft as breath, shaking with truth she couldn’t swallow.

For a moment — the smallest space of time — neither of them moved.

His hands remained tight at her hips — knuckles white — her body held fast against him, the tremble in his fingers betraying just how much he was still drowning in it.

Her breath broke against his neck — warm, damp, trembling.

And still — no part of him wanted to let go.

Not when it had taken this long.

Not after what had just passed between them.

The air hummed with it — that fragile, golden hush — both of them caught, undone, too lost in the aftermath to break away.

The soft chime broke through the quiet — a bright, sharp sound — followed by the slow, mechanical hiss of the elevator doors sliding open.

Cooler air brushed in — a sudden shift, a reminder of the world waiting just beyond.

Both of them blinked — as though surfacing from somewhere too deep, too far beneath the moment.

Spencer’s hands loosened at her hips — reluctantly, fingers still trembling.

Y/N let out a breathless little laugh — half dazed, half bright — voice low and warm against his ear.

“Well,” she murmured, lashes lifting as she glanced toward the open doors, “I guess we can’t exactly live in here.”

That tugged a rough, unsteady breath from his chest — something between a laugh and a groan, eyes dragging over her face like he couldn’t quite stop.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he managed — voice still wrecked, hoarse — but the faintest curve pulled at the corner of his mouth.

She grinned — still breathless, still flushed — one brow lifting, teasing soft and easy between them again.

“You’re going to get me into trouble, Doctor Reid,” she whispered, fingers brushing lightly against his chest as she eased back a fraction. “And it’s only my first day back.”

He huffed a quiet laugh — wrecked, bright-eyed — and stepped with her toward the open doors.

Together — breathless, still too close — they finally stepped out into the hall.

The world beyond the elevator was quiet — hushed, late — the light cooler here, shadows long against the floor.

But something had shifted between them — something that could never be pulled back now.

Spencer’s hand hovered at her lower back as they walked — not quite touching, but near enough that the heat of it ghosted against her spine.

Y/N glanced at him — lips curved, eyes still bright with everything unspoken.

“You know,” she said — voice low, teasing — “if anyone saw us right now…”

She trailed off — the grin in her voice unmistakable.

Spencer huffed a breath — half a laugh, half a groan — hand finally giving in, fingers brushing soft against the small of her back.

“Then I guess,” he murmured — eyes catching hers, dark and soft and wrecked — “they’d finally know.”

Her heart flipped — sharp and warm.

The teasing faltered, just for a breath — replaced by something deeper, something older and more certain.

She smiled — slow, bright — and let her hand slip into his, fingers twining there like it had always belonged.

They walked in silence for a few steps — breath still too fast, skin still tingling — neither quite ready to let the moment fade.

Then — quiet, low, voice still rough from everything he couldn’t say — Spencer spoke:

“Are you hungry?”

She looked at him — brows lifting faintly — that familiar spark rising in her gaze.

“Starving,” she whispered.

His mouth curved — soft, wrecked, utterly undone.

“Come over,” he said — no hesitation, no fear now. Just truth. Just wanting. “I’ll make something.”

Her fingers tightened in his — smile deepening — voice warm as the new light between them.

“Okay,” she said.

And together — hand in hand — they kept walking down the quiet hall, toward whatever waited next.

[clementineinn]

ahh this is the kindest thing 🥹💗 im so glad it found a place with you—thank you for reading

sometime in the mornin’

abstract: after a long case and a sleepless night, two BAU agents find quiet in each other’s arms — in soft shirts, slow mornings, and the kind of closeness that doesn’t need to be defined to be real.

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

genre: fluff, is a little mature but not very explicit

note: i tend to overexplain scenes and maybe run them into the ground so forgive me if i did here lol. that's also why i removed the word count description since i lowk felt like it was making me restrict how much i write, which i don't want to do bc i don't get the chance to write in school, so I NEED THIS LOL. long story short, blah blah, this fic is long. it does get steamy but nothing is explicitly stated, mostly because i'm still trying to figure out how to write heated scenes bc when i think back to my wattpad days, the embarrassment is real. ANYWAYS, as always, enjoy!

The parking lot outside the precinct still shimmered with leftover rain — shallow puddles stretched like fragments of fallen sky, catching the bruised orange flicker of tired streetlamps above. The asphalt glistened like it had been brushed with varnish, each crack and curve outlined in silvered shadow. Water clung to the edges of curbs, pooling in small, forgotten places.

The air had that particular kind of cold — the kind that didn’t just sting, but bit, sharp enough to steal your breath for a second before softening into something you could almost forget. It smelled like wet concrete, worn leather, and the lingering smoke of someone’s earlier cigarette, now long extinguished but still haunting the wind.

Y/N’s boots clicked faintly against the damp pavement, a rhythm out of step with the hush around her — too slow, too tired to echo fully. Each step sent a ripple through the puddles, spreading concentric rings outward until they faded into stillness again.

She looked wrung out. Not just tired — but spent.

Her hair was pulled back in a loose, uneven tie, strands slipping free and curling at her temples in the damp. Her coat was wrapped tighter than usual around her ribs, fingers clutched into the fabric like she needed it to hold her up. The posture of someone who’d done too much, said too little, and had no room left for either. The kind of tired that didn’t just sit behind your eyes — it lived there, echoing. Bone-deep. Soul-heavy. The kind of weariness that had nothing to do with hours or sleep.

The night pressed in gentle around her. Not cruel, not cold — just quiet. Like it understood.

Like it was waiting for something soft to break the silence.

Spencer saw it in the way her shoulders curved inward, like the night had finally settled its weight atop them and she was just too polite to complain. She stood at the edge of her car door, fingers hovering near the handle but never closing around it — like even that small gesture required more energy than she had left.

The air turned her breath to fog, delicate and ghostlike, curling around her face before vanishing into the cold.

“You okay?” Spencer asked, his voice soft, low — the kind of question that knew the answer already but offered itself anyway, just in case.

She turned toward him slowly, as though the sound of his voice had to travel through molasses to reach her. One hand still hovered over the handle, her fingers frozen mid-air. Her lashes were heavy, casting little shadows beneath her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said, after a beat.

But the word came out too flat. Too automatic. The kind of yeah that didn’t mean yes at all. Just a placeholder. Something you say when you’re too tired to explain all the reasons you’re not.

“Just...” she added, a half-breath later, “not in the mood for a forty-minute drive.”

Spencer’s hand slipped into his coat pocket, thumb grazing the edge of his keys like they might offer direction. He hesitated, the words caught between concern and something softer. Quieter.

“My place is ten minutes from here,” he said finally. Light, but not unmeant. “You can crash. Couch’s not bad.”

She blinked, slow and long, like she was still catching up to the suggestion. Her brow furrowed gently — not out of confusion, but surprise. Not because it was unwelcome, but because it was kind. And kindness always caught her off guard when she needed it most.

“I’m fine, Reid.”

The words came a little too quickly, too practiced. Like armor she didn’t realize she was still wearing — thin and fraying at the edges, but stubborn all the same.

“I know,” he said, and he meant it. Gently. Carefully. Like he was setting something delicate down between them. “Still.”

The silence between them thickened — not uncomfortable, just full. She looked at him, not fully, just out of the corner of her eye, then down again.

Her hand fell away from the door handle like it had lost its reason for being there.

“You sure?” she asked, softer now. Her voice thinned by hesitation, not doubt. “I don’t want to... intrude.”

She didn’t mean to sound so small when she said it. But the word lingered in the air like fog, curling between them.

He shook his head — not just a no, but something firmer. Quieter. Something closer to don’t even think that.

“You wouldn’t be.”

She exhaled, long and slow, her breath rising into the cold like steam off cooling tea. Her eyes flicked upward — not quite at the sky, but at the clouds where the stars should have been, where the night held its breath like it was listening.

Then she gave the smallest nod.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Just for the night.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — brief, quiet, almost too small to see — but it softened his whole face. Lit him from somewhere inside. And then it was gone, like it had never asked to be noticed in the first place.

“I’ll drive though,” she said softly, already rounding to the driver’s side. “I want to do something for you too.”

“You don’t have to,” he replied, immediate and gentle, like reflex. Then, with the faintest smile, “But fine.”

And that was it.

No argument. No protest. Just a quiet understanding passed between them like the keys themselves — weightless and warm from the press of her hand.

The drive unfolded in stillness.

No music. Just the low, steady hum of the engine and the occasional sigh of tires over damp pavement. Outside, the streetlights flickered past in slow succession — casting golden stripes across the windshield, across her hands on the wheel, across the soft curve of her cheekbone as she blinked too slowly at the road ahead.

She looked like something out of a memory in this light. The kind that faded at the edges. The kind you try to hold onto longer than you're supposed to.

Spencer sat in the passenger seat, his hands resting quietly in his lap, but his eyes barely left her.

He watched the way her fingers flexed on the steering wheel at every red light — not restless, just trying to stay awake. The way her eyes, rimmed in leftover eyeliner and the weight of too many hours, fluttered heavier and heavier with each block.

She was trying so hard. Still carrying the last fraying threads of the day like someone might need her again at any moment. Still holding herself upright when no one had asked her to.

He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to. That she could drop it — the composure, the endurance, the quiet strength she wore like second skin. That she didn’t always have to be the one who stayed steady.

But the words stayed behind his teeth.

Settled there. Safe, for now.

So instead, he said, “Turn left up here,” voice soft enough not to startle her.

And she nodded — not looking, just trusting.

His apartment welcomed them with the kind of warmth that didn’t just come from the heat — it came from history. From stillness, from the soft, steady presence of a life that had been lived carefully within its walls.

The light from the hallway drifted in behind them like fog, golden and thin, slipping across the hardwood and catching gently on the edges of furniture. The air inside smelled like old paper and something clean — not sharp, but soft, like the faint memory of soap in fabric, or a cotton shirt hung to dry near a window. Lived-in. Intimate.

Y/N stepped inside without a word, her shoulders folding slightly as the door clicked shut behind her. The quiet wrapped around her immediately, slow and deep, like a warm coat slipped onto her shoulders.

She toed off her boots near the wall — not rushed, just methodical, as if each movement had to travel through fog before reaching her limbs. Her coat slid from her shoulders a moment later, loose and limp with weariness, but she caught it one-handed before it could fall. Draped it neatly over the arm of the couch like she’d done it before. Like she’d been here. Like her presence had already been stitched into the space, quietly, without ever asking for permission.

Spencer moved past her without speaking, his footsteps nearly silent on the floor. He locked the door with a quiet snick, then dropped his keys into the small ceramic bowl on the entry shelf — the sound of them landing barely louder than breath.

He disappeared briefly into the kitchen, the glow of the under-cabinet light casting soft reflections onto the tile backsplash. The hush of drawers sliding open, the faint clink of ceramic and glass — it all sounded strangely soothing, like rain tapping on a roof. Familiar. Gentle.

Y/N stood still in the entryway, her body slowly catching up to the quiet. Her eyes blinked slowly as they adjusted to the dim light, and her hands hung limp at her sides. There was something about this kind of stillness — the kind that followed noise and chaos — that made everything feel heavier. Like she could finally feel her bones again.

She didn’t move yet.

Just let the warmth settle over her. Let herself be held by the quiet of it all.

“You want tea or anything?” he asked, voice low as he moved through the kitchen, back half-turned, the sound barely rising above the quiet hum of the apartment.

She shook her head, the movement slow, her voice softer still. “Too tired.”

Not just tired — spent. The kind of tired that settled behind her eyes and pressed gently at the back of her throat, where words usually lived.

He nodded like he’d already known — like he just wanted her to know he asked anyway. Still, he opened the cupboard without comment and took down a glass. Filled it with water from the tap, letting the stream run just long enough to cool.

When he turned and handed it to her, their fingers brushed — a fleeting touch. But it lingered. The soft part of his hand grazing the side of hers, a warmth that bloomed for just a second too long to be ignored. It sparked something small and quiet beneath her ribs. Something that flickered like light catching on the surface of still water.

She took the glass from him slowly, her fingers curling around the cool rim, and brought it to her lips. The first sip was barely a swallow. But it grounded her — the clean, clear taste of it, the way it caught the edges of her dry throat and soothed.

Her body leaned back gently against the arm of the couch, the glass still resting in her hands. She let her eyes drift around the room like she was revisiting a familiar dream — mapping the shape of it all as if it had changed while she was gone.

A few new books stacked by the window — titles turned outward, some already soft at the spine. A different lamp — softer, golden, the light barely kissing the floor. One of his cardigans hung over the back of a chair, like it had been shrugged off in thought and forgotten.

But otherwise, nothing had changed.

Still that quiet.

Still that warmth.

Still that feeling — the one she never let herself examine too closely, except maybe now, when her limbs were too heavy to lie, and the hush between them didn’t ask her to.

“You can take the bed,” he said, after a moment of silence that seemed to settle between them like dust in golden light. His voice was gentle — too gentle — the edges of it smoothed with something that sounded like care disguised as casual. “I’ll sleep out here.”

She blinked, the words catching her slightly off guard. Her brows pulled in, just a little. Not in irritation — in protest. In disbelief that he’d give something so quickly. So quietly.

“Spencer—no,” she said, already shaking her head. Her voice was soft but sure, the kind that didn’t leave room for argument. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“You’re not kicking me out,” he replied, even softer this time, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. “I’m offering.”

It was the kind of offer that didn’t ask for anything in return. The kind that came from someone who would never say you need it more, but knew anyway. Who would lie awake on the couch all night, thinking of her curled into his sheets, and still believe it was worth it.

She exhaled through her nose and folded her arms loosely across her chest. “And I’m declining.”

He opened his mouth, maybe to argue — gently, quietly — but she was already shaking her head again, a faint smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

“The couch is fine,” she said, lighter now. “I don’t need much.”

He didn’t push. He only nodded. But something shifted in his expression — subtle, but there. A tiny drop in the line of his shoulders, a quiet stillness in his eyes. Like something he hadn’t meant to show had slipped through anyway.

She saw it.

And maybe she felt it too — that same quiet ache, that wish to say I want to be close without sounding like she needed it.

Still, she only added, quieter now, almost sheepish, “I’ll be out cold in five minutes. I promise I won’t even notice.”

There was a pause. He didn’t look at her for a moment. Then he nodded once more, a little steadier this time, like the thought had been tucked away, folded carefully.

“I’ll grab you something to wear,” he said.

And then he turned toward the hallway, his steps quiet, measured — like even in that, he didn’t want to disturb the space between them.

When he returned, he held a neatly folded t-shirt and a pair of soft, worn-in plaid pajama pants — unmistakably his. The shirt had the faint scent of him still clinging to the cotton, clean and familiar, like soap and old books and warmth. He didn’t offer them with any ceremony, just held them out gently, like something delicate passed from one set of hands to another.

She took them without a word.

But her fingers lingered on the fabric — not accidentally. Not really. Her touch was slow, careful, almost reverent. Like she wasn’t just taking clothes. Like she felt, somewhere deep in her chest, that accepting them meant something more.

The weight of them made her throat tighten. It didn’t make sense, not entirely. But she didn’t fight it. She just swallowed around the feeling and looked up.

“The bathroom’s down the hall,” he said quietly, his voice carrying softer now, like he didn’t want to disturb the calm that had settled in the space between them. “First door on the left.”

She nodded once. “Thanks.”

And then she turned — socked feet brushing the wooden floor, his clothes pressed to her chest — and disappeared down the hallway with the kind of tired grace that didn’t ask to be watched but invited it anyway.

He stood there for a moment after she was gone, the hush folding in around him again like it had been waiting.

It wasn’t silence. It was presence. The kind that filled the room when someone had only just left — when their warmth still lingered in the air, in the folds of their coat on the couch, in the faint creak of the hallway floor.

Spencer exhaled through his nose, barely audible, and turned toward the couch. He unfolded the blankets one by one — carefully, quietly — smoothing the edges like it mattered.

Like it would somehow be enough.

When Y/N stepped out of the bathroom, the first thing she noticed was the light — a soft amber glow spilling from the cracked door at the end of the hallway. It pooled along the floor like syrup, rich and warm, brushing the edges of the baseboards and casting long, drowsy shadows across the wood. 

Spencer’s bedroom.

The rest of the apartment had dimmed with the hour — lights switched off, corners tucked into stillness — but that room glowed like something remembered. Like a place left gently open.

She padded down the hall slowly, bare feet silent on the cool floor. One hand tugged his too-long t-shirt a little lower over her thighs, the cotton worn soft with age, clinging here and there where her skin was still warm from the shower. The pajama pants he’d lent her sat low on her hips, cinched loosely at the waist — clearly made for someone taller, broader, his. She’d rolled the cuffs twice, but they still dragged the tiniest bit as she walked, trailing whispers behind her.

Her hair had come undone from the elastic, soft waves spilling free now, sleep-mussed and uneven in a way that somehow made her look more like herself. Like all the polish had fallen away and left only her, untouched and quiet and real.

She didn’t mean to stop at his door.

But the light was still on, golden and patient. And from within, she heard the muted sound of motion — the quiet hush of a drawer sliding shut, the gentle weight of something being placed on the nightstand.

Not rushed. Not loud. Just presence. Just him.

She stood there a moment longer, just outside the frame — bathed in the spill of light, listening to the small sounds of another person settling into night. Something about it felt so intimate it made her throat ache.

She leaned against the doorframe like it was muscle memory — like her body already knew how to belong there. One shoulder propped, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her weight resting easy against the wood as though this was always where the evening had meant to end.

The soft golden light from his room lit her from the side, warming the slope of her jaw, catching in her hair like firelight trapped in a dark bottle. The shirt hung long on her frame, brushing just past mid-thigh, and her silhouette looked almost delicate in the doorway — softened by sleep, by quiet, by him.

“You know,” she said, voice low and touched with amusement, “I’m starting to think you left the light on as bait.”

Spencer looked up, startled — clearly not expecting her, not like this. He froze where he stood, halfway to setting a book down on the nightstand, eyes wide and warm in the soft light, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and something unspoken.

“I—what?” he blinked. “No. I mean—no, I didn’t.”

She grinned, slow and sly and sleep-heavy, and stepped just a little closer into the room. Not fully — not yet. Just enough to cross that line between observer and invitation.

“You say that,” she murmured, “like you’re guilty.”

“I’m not,” he said too quickly, the words tripping over themselves.

Then, after a pause, softer—truth sneaking out beneath the breath:

“...Maybe a little.”

Her laugh slipped out in a hush — not loud, but close, and so familiar it tugged something loose in his chest. It sounded like the kind of secret you only share late at night. The kind of sound that folded into the air and stayed there.

“Busted,” she said.

And the space between them shimmered — lit not by tension, but by the unmistakable warmth of two people who felt it, finally, fully, and weren’t pretending not to anymore.

He tried to look away.

Really, he did — let his eyes drop to the book in his hand, the corner of the nightstand, the pattern in the wood grain that suddenly seemed very, very interesting.

But it didn’t help.

Because she was standing there like that — framed in the amber glow of his bedroom lamp, her body soft and half-silhouetted in the doorway, draped in his clothes like the night had conspired to undo him entirely.

The shirt hung off her shoulders in a way that felt almost cruel — stretched just enough to slide, slightly, exposing the smooth slope of one collarbone. The sleeves were too long, swallowed her hands in folds of worn cotton, but somehow that only made it worse. Or better. He couldn’t decide. 

The fabric skimmed her thighs, teasing the space just above her knees, brushing her skin like a whisper. The pajama pants had slipped low on her hips, cinched tight but still loose — and he could see the faint shape of her beneath them, the way her form curved gently under all that borrowed softness.

Familiar fabric — but completely transformed. Rewritten by the shape of her, the weight of her warmth inside it. It was like watching something private turned holy.

And the worst part — or maybe the best — was how utterly unaware she was of what she was doing to him.

She stood there, sleepy and beautiful, hair loose and tousled like she’d just stepped out of a dream. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, skin kissed by steam, lips still a little parted from the heat of her breath. She looked like something that didn’t belong in the real world — like a poem half-muttered into a pillow, or a photograph you only looked at in the quiet.

And Spencer —

Spencer ached.

His hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to touch her — not in any careless way, but just to confirm she was real. He wanted to step across the room and feel the press of his shirt against her back as he pulled her into him. He wanted to see how it would bunch under his palms, how the fabric would slip to the floor, how her skin would glow in this light, stretched out against the tangled mess of his sheets.

He wanted everything. All at once.

“You look...” His voice caught on the first word, breath snagging in his throat as he looked at her. He swallowed, lips parting slightly before he managed to push the words out. Quiet. Honest. “You look really good in that.”

Her brow lifted — one graceful arc, deliberate and knowing — and a smile bloomed slow across her lips. Not wide. Not sharp. But devastatingly effective. The kind of smile that knew its own power and wielded it gently, like a silk ribbon drawn tight around a secret.

“Yeah?” she murmured, voice laced with teasing sleepiness.

Then she stepped forward — barefoot on the hardwood, the faintest tap of her toes the only sound in the room. Her movements were unhurried, almost lazy in their confidence, but there was something unmistakable in the way she walked — like she knew exactly what he was seeing. Like she could feel the way his gaze curled over every line of her body beneath the soft cotton of his clothes.

“You like your fashion sense better when it’s on me?”

He exhaled through his nose — short, helpless.

“Significantly,” he said, because the truth was already out there and there was no pulling it back. His voice was lower than he meant it to be, rough around the edges with something warmer. Wilder.

She laughed, quiet and pleased, and then she twirled jokingly.

Spun in a slow, lazy circle with her arms lifted just slightly, palms up, like she was offering herself for review. The hem of the shirt flared around her thighs, catching the light as it rose, then fell again in soft waves. The fabric clung for a moment before drifting back into place, brushing the tops of her knees like a secret only he got to see.

“I feel like I’m drowning in it,” she said, half-mocking, but her voice curled at the edges, sleep-warmed and sweet.

He didn’t answer right away.

Because he was looking. And maybe he didn’t mean to — not entirely — but his eyes trailed the movement of her body like they couldn’t help it. 

She looked like a dream dressed in his life.

“You’re not,” he said at last, the words soft but unshakably certain. “It suits you.”

And it did.

It suited her in the way morning light suited sleeping faces, the way his name might sound if she said it against his skin — familiar, perfect, and entirely hers.

She smirked — slow and playful, lips curling just enough to betray how much she was enjoying this shift between them — then turned her attention to the room with a new kind of gaze. Not sharp. Not nosy. Just curious in that gentle, thoughtful way she had — like she was reading a story she already suspected the ending to, but still wanted to savor every line along the way.

Her eyes moved softly from corner to corner, taking in everything.

Framed photographs sat nestled along the upper shelf — not many, and none of them posed. Just quiet little snapshots of time. People frozen mid-laugh or mid-blink, caught in crooked frames and warm light. Most were older. Slightly faded. The kind of photos you don’t frame for beauty, but for belonging. Anchors to somewhere softer.

There was one of Garcia, beaming in neon glasses, flanked by Morgan doing his best to look unimpressed. Another of JJ and Prentiss sharing a plate of fries at some roadside diner, eyes squinting from the sun. Rossi with his sleeves rolled up and a drink in hand, smirking at whoever was behind the camera.

And then there were the ones of them.

Spencer and Y/N, in quieter corners of their lives. Not the field. Not the briefing room.

Him squinting into the wind on a ferry they’d taken up the coast, her arm thrown over his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. A blurry shot from a museum hallway, her laughing so hard she was doubled over and he was half-turned toward her, eyes crinkled in that way they always did when she was the one making him laugh. One at a book fair — she was holding up a ridiculous romance novel like it was a prize, and he looked at her like she was one.

None of the frames matched. Some tilted slightly. But they were arranged with a kind of care that didn’t need symmetry.

Just intention.

It was the kind of display that didn’t announce anything. But it felt like a love letter, if you knew how to read it. 

The books — of course — lined the shelves in tall, uneven stacks. Their spines were cracked and softened with love, pages filled with margin notes and crooked tabs, tiny flags of thought fluttering where his mind had once paused. She could picture him there, on quiet mornings, hunched over one with a hand in his hair and a furrow in his brow, the room humming with silence.

And there — tacked unevenly to the wall above his desk — a museum postcard, its edges slightly curled with time. The ink had softened from sun, the corners yellowed just enough to show it had lived there longer than it was meant to. Not pristine. Not decorative.

Kept.

The image was of a painting she couldn’t quite place — muted colors, a figure mid-motion, maybe something romantic in its brushwork. But that wasn’t what caught her breath.

It was the postcard.

From that museum.

The one they’d gone to together months ago, wedged between cases, on some rare free afternoon that hadn’t asked them to be anything but themselves. He’d bought it at the gift shop when she wasn’t looking, after she’d pointed out the piece in passing, said something about the color reminding her of old film and Sunday mornings.

And now it lived here — above his desk, above his thoughts.

Not framed. Not tucked into a drawer.

Just here.

As if he hadn’t wanted to forget it. As if he’d been anchoring her presence to this space ever since.

She didn’t say anything.

But her eyes lingered on it longer than she meant them to — and when she turned to look at him, she was smiling in that small, knowing way that said:

I see it. I remember, too.

She moved slowly, each barefoot step soundless on the floor, a whisper of motion. Her fingers drifted to the edge of his desk — knuckles brushing the surface, palm barely grazing the wood. There, in one neat stack, were papers. Carefully folded. Organized, but lived-in. The kind of order that came from someone who didn’t mind a little mess as long as he knew where it lived.

She let her hand rest there a moment, her thumb grazing the edge of a page, and said — lightly, but not without affection — “This where all the thinking happens?”

Spencer watched her from where he stood near the bed, his heart stuttering once in his chest. Not because she was touching his things, but because she wasn’t just touching them. She was seeing them. Seeing him.

He shrugged, a breath of a smile ghosting over his lips. “Sometimes,” he said. “Depends on the day.”

“And the bed?” she asked, turning to glance at him over her shoulder, her head tilted just slightly — playful, curious, that slow-blooming smile tugging at the corner of her lips like she already knew he wouldn’t survive the question. “Just for sleeping?”

He blinked, caught halfway through a thought, halfway through a breath. His gaze, which had been fixed somewhere safer — the spine of a book, the edge of the lamp — now locked helplessly onto her.

“Uh—yes?” he said, and it came out with the shaky precision of someone who wanted to sound sure and failed.

She grinned, soft and wicked and golden in the lamp light. A grin that unfolded slowly, deliberately, like silk unspooling across a hardwood floor.

“You say that like it’s negotiable.”

His breath hitched. His shoulders stiffened, just barely, like he was bracing for the impact of her voice — for the weight of her in his room, in his clothes, saying things like that with her bare feet on his floor.

“I—no, I just—” he tried again, floundering.

But whatever came next was swallowed by the sound of her walking.

She crossed the room in three slow, quiet steps. Not rushed. Not coy. Just present. Just herself — loose-limbed and sleep-soft and devastating. She moved like a daydream he’d been trying not to have.

And then — as if it were the most natural thing in the world — she sat.

Eased down onto the edge of his bed, one leg curling beneath her, the other swinging slightly where it dangled. The mattress gave beneath her, dipped gently with the weight of her, and for a moment he swore he felt the pull of gravity shift.

She didn’t look at him right away. She let the quiet sit between them like steam, let it gather.

Then, low and private and absolutely certain, she murmured:

“You’re fun when you’re flustered.”

His lips parted — then closed again, like a thought forgotten mid-sentence. A beat passed before he found his voice, and when he did, it was quiet and a little hoarse, laced with something too honest to be smooth.

“You make it extremely easy to be,” he muttered, eyes narrowed just enough to feign composure.

But they both knew better.

Because his heart was beating too hard.

Because his hands had curled slightly at his sides.

Because he hadn’t taken a full breath since she sat down.

And because even now, even then, he was looking at her like she was something breakable — not for fragility’s sake, but because he cared too much to touch her wrong.

The light from the lamp spilled across the room like honey — thick and golden, clinging to the edges of bookshelves and blanket folds, warming the corners where evening still lingered. It touched everything gently: her knees tucked beneath her, the faint sheen of the wood floor, the soft muss of his sheets where she sat like a secret the night didn’t want to share.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It breathed — slow and deep, like the space itself was expanding to hold them both without asking questions. The kind of quiet that didn’t beg to be filled. The kind that trusted its own weight.

Her hand moved lazily, almost thoughtless, fingers drifting across the book he’d left near the pillow. She traced the spine once, then again — not reading it, not even really seeing it. Just feeling it. Like the smooth press of paper against skin might tell her something about him she hadn’t learned yet.

“Are you actually going to sleep on the couch?” she asked, eventually — her voice low, unhurried. She didn’t look at him when she said it. Just let the words curl into the space between them and settle there like warmth steeping into tea.

“That was the plan,” he said softly.

His voice came from the far edge of the bed, where he still sat with perfect posture — like if he leaned too far in her direction he might fall right into her orbit and forget how to climb back out.

Her thumb moved along the book’s edge again. No reply. No protest. But she didn’t move either.

The book remained between them, forgotten now. A placeholder. A boundary. But not a real one.

Y/N shifted, the quiet motion of someone getting comfortable in a space she hadn’t intended to stay in. Her legs tucked tighter beneath her, one hand braced on the bed beside her hip, the other still grazing the cover. She leaned, just slightly, toward the center of the bed — not a decision, not quite. More like gravity had changed its mind about where it wanted her.

Spencer stayed still, but not comfortably. He was very aware of every inch of himself — the tension in his shoulders, the flutter in his stomach, the way his hand moved absently over the same book her fingers had just left. A trace. A memory. A nearly-there.

His other hand hovered in his lap, half-curled — twitching once like it meant to reach for something but didn’t know what. Or who.

“You should be tired,” she said at last, her voice softer than before — so low it felt like it had been folded into the space between them rather than spoken aloud. The words stretched lazily between breaths, brushed with sleep. “Aren’t you always the first to crash after a case?”

He glanced at her, his profile lit in soft gold.

“Not always,” he said. “Sometimes I just… wait for the quiet.”

She hummed, a slow, contented sound — somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Not quite agreement. Not quite anything. Just understanding.

Her fingers drifted toward the hem of the shirt she wore — his shirt — and caught absently on a loose thread. She didn’t tug. Just toyed with it, rolling the fabric between thumb and forefinger like it gave her something to do with the silence. Something to hold onto.

“It’s quiet now,” she murmured.

And it was. Not just in the room, but around them. The kind of hush that only came when the rest of the world had gone to sleep. The kind of hush that didn’t press, didn’t ask — just invited. The kind that made every glance feel louder. Every breath feel shared.

Spencer looked at her then. Fully.

No flicker. No half-turn.

Just looked.

Her face was different in this light. Softer. Not in the way light changes things — but in the way she had changed. Her shoulders had uncoiled, her hands were open, her whole presence less guarded. The edges of her had blurred, finally, like the end of a long-held breath.

She didn’t realize she was giving herself away. That her mouth was slightly parted, eyes half-lidded, voice thick with sleep. That she looked more like herself now than she did in the field, in the daylight, in all the places where sharpness was required.

And God, she was beautiful like this.

“It’s different with you here,” he said quietly. “The quiet.”

Her lips parted again, barely — not for a word, just for the breath she forgot to take. She didn’t look away. But something in her went still, like his words had touched a part of her she didn’t expect anyone else to notice.

She didn’t answer right away.

Just curled her legs in closer, tucking her knees beneath the oversized fabric of the borrowed shirt, and reached without thinking for the blanket at the foot of the bed. The motion was slow, almost absentminded, like her body was simply following instinct — like the need for warmth, for stillness, was stronger than any social pretense that said this is temporary.

Neither of them said the thing hanging between them.

Not you don’t have to go. Not I’m already staying.

But it was there. Settled like breath in the walls, like the hush of a room that didn’t want to be loud again.

The blanket settled over her lap in a soft cascade, and her hand smoothed it without looking. The edge of it draped near his knee — close enough to touch. Close enough to ask something wordless.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” she said finally, her voice barely more than breath. Her gaze didn’t lift. She didn’t press. She just let it hang there, soft and honest. “There’s room.”

He froze.

“Y/N…”

Just her name. Said like a warning, but softer. Said like please don’t tempt me, but please don’t stop.

She smiled gently, still facing away from him, but he saw it — the way it softened her cheek, the way her fingers curled more loosely in the blanket like she wasn’t holding anything back now.

“I’m not trying anything, Reid,” she said. “I’m just warm. And comfortable. And if you go back out there, you’ll probably fall asleep on the floor halfway to the couch.”

He let out a quiet huff — not a laugh, exactly. More like an exhale pulled straight from the center of his chest. Because she was right. And because the idea of falling asleep anywhere but here, with her like this, felt suddenly impossible.

She looked like gravity had already claimed her. Like the shape of his bed had opened just for her and she’d fit into it without even trying. Her body was soft now — no tension, no weight. Just warmth and breath and skin beneath fabric that used to be his.

He stayed frozen for a moment longer. Thinking. Feeling too much.

Then, quietly, still barely moving, he said — almost more to himself than to her:

“I’m scared I won’t be able to stop myself.”

Her head turned at that. Just slightly. Her eyes met his — warm and steady and unafraid.

Then—softly, surely:

“What if I don’t want you to?”

The words were barely above a whisper. But they landed like gravity.

And then she smiled.

Not teasing. Not coy.

Just soft.

Like she’d already known.

Like it didn’t scare her at all.

He let out another breath. Then, slowly, with a care that bordered on reverence, he reached for the lamp on the nightstand.

The click of the switch was soft, final.

And then the room dimmed to nothing but breath, and the quiet pulse of two hearts beating closer than either of them had meant for them to.

The mattress dipped softly as Spencer eased beneath the blanket, slow and cautious — like he was trying not to disturb something sacred. The hush in the room held him back a little, made each movement feel like it had weight. He didn’t want to shift the bed too much. Didn’t want to cross that invisible line unless she invited him to.

She was already nestled beneath the covers, turned toward him, her body curled like a comma — soft and tired and warm. One arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting between them, fingers barely curled. In the low glow spilling from the cracked hallway door, he could just make out the rise and fall of her breath, the shape of her mouth relaxed in sleep-heavy stillness.

In the dark, everything looked gentler.

No worry carved into her brow. No tension in her jaw. Just softness. Just quiet.

Just her, the version of her he only got glimpses of — when the world outside stopped asking her to be sharp.

“Cozy,” she murmured, voice low and near, like it belonged to the room and not just to her.

He huffed a laugh under his breath. “You stole the good side.”

“Snooze you lose, Doctor,” she whispered back, lazy and pleased with herself.

He turned his head toward her, barely able to make out the silhouette of her grin — the faint curve of her lips etched like moonlight across the pillow.

“You’re insufferable,” he said, not even trying to sound annoyed.

“And you love it.”

There was no hesitation this time.

No fumble. No nervous glance away.

Just the quiet truth, said like an exhale — like it had been sitting behind his ribs for longer than he knew how to name:

“I do.”

Her breath caught — not audibly, not sharply. Just a stillness. A pause between heartbeats.

She didn’t blink it away, didn’t deflect with a joke. She only looked at him, steady and quiet and close enough now to feel the warmth of his words where they’d landed.

He didn’t take it back.

Didn’t explain it. Didn’t rush to soften the edge of what he’d said.

He only looked back at her, eyes open and bare in the dim light, and let the words settle between them like something earned.

The quiet had deepened.

Not the kind that stretched thin and awkward, but the kind that settled — like dusk on a still lake, like the hush of snowfall outside a window. It wrapped around them beneath the blanket, warm and low and steady.

And then, slowly — like a thought forming — her fingers found his hand in the space between them.

She didn’t take it. Didn’t lace their fingers together or claim it as hers.

She just touched lightly.

The softest drift of fingertips along the back of his hand. Up and down. Slow circles. Wandering lines. Like she was memorizing him through skin, like she didn’t need anything more than this.

It wasn’t the kind of affection that asked for attention.

It was the kind that came after all the asking had already been done.

Spencer didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe, maybe — not properly. Not with the way his chest tightened at how deliberate it felt. How careful. 

The sort of care you don’t show someone you plan on forgetting.

Her fingers kept moving, aimless and tender.

“Does this bother you?” she asked softly, her voice almost lost in the blanket-warmed air. Still tracing. Still gentle.

His reply came too fast — unguarded, low, full of something that trembled just under the surface.

“No,” he said. “Not even a little.”

There was a pause, and then—

She smiled.

A real one. Small, tired, a little lopsided — but full. Lit from somewhere deep, like it had been waiting all night to make its way to the surface.

“Good,” she whispered, not letting go.

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It shimmered.

“I meant it, you know,” he added after a while. “What I said earlier. You look good in my clothes.”

She tilted her head, just enough that her nose almost touched his. “You sure you’re not just delirious from lack of sleep?”

“I’m delirious,” he said, “but not about that.”

A breath of laughter slipped from her — faint and breathless — soft as the dark around them. It barely rose between them, just warmed the air where their mouths almost met, then vanished like mist.

And then, neither of them moved. Not really.

Just closer. A slow, inevitable drift. Like gravity had quietly rewritten its rules in the space between their bodies.

His hand shifted beneath hers, the faintest scrape of skin on fabric. Turned palm-up — an offering, a question. Her fingers slipped into the open space like they were meant to be there. Fit like memory.

Their knees brushed under the blanket. Breath mingled. The quiet stretched long and low, full of want, of wonder, of something sacred and unfinished.

It would’ve been easy to stay there. To fall asleep with that quiet pulse between them, not quite touching, not quite apart. To pretend this edge didn’t hum beneath the surface.

But something pulled.

Something quiet and burning and hungry.

Her hand moved slowly — not tentative, not shy, just reverent. From the curve of his wrist, along the inside of his forearm, to the slope of his shoulder and the warmth of his neck. Her thumb found his jaw, traced the rough stubble there like she needed the confirmation of realness. Like she needed to feel him to believe he hadn’t vanished in the dark.

He exhaled — shaky, low, uneven — like the air leaving him had caught on the weight of her touch.

And then she was leaning in. Or actually, he was — because he couldn’t bear it, not one second longer. Not the breath between them. Not the stretch of space where her mouth wasn’t on his. Not the ache of her skin so close and not yet touched.

Their lips met like an echo — like something remembered before it was ever known. A hush, a question, a breath, an answer. All of it, all at once.

He kissed her like she was breakable — slow, reverent, as if the moment might splinter if he pushed too hard. Like he hadn’t kissed anyone in years, or maybe like he’d only ever been waiting to kiss her.

But then—

Then she made a sound.

Soft. Desperate.

The barest whimper against his mouth — and it undid something in him so completely, so deeply, that whatever careful structure he’d built to keep himself still collapsed without a sound.

His hand found the back of her neck, fingers threading into the warmth of her hair, like anchoring himself to her could keep the rest of him from falling apart. But it didn’t work. Not when she gripped the front of his shirt like she needed him closer — like she didn’t care what it looked like anymore. Not when she pressed into him and her mouth opened with a sigh that felt like it had been trapped behind her ribs for years.

They kissed like breath didn’t matter. Like time had folded itself into this one moment and refused to go on without them. Like the world had gone silent just to let them listen to each other breathe.

And it wasn’t innocent anymore.

Not with the way her body moved against his — slow, drawn by instinct, hips shifting just enough to make him feel it. Not with the way her hand curled into the space between his shoulder blades like she was afraid he’d pull away, like she needed to hold him there.

He breathed her name into her mouth again — not clearly, not fully, just the shape of it, half-broken, half-prayer. And she kissed him like she already knew what he meant.

His fingers trembled as they traced from her jaw down — a reverent path along the curve of her neck, to the place just beneath her ear where her pulse fluttered wild. His palm flattened there, over the column of her throat, gentle but unyielding, like he couldn’t help but feel the proof of her — alive, wanting, his.

A broken sound escaped her — not words, just breath — and he lost the last of his hesitation, if there was even any to lose.

He moved without thinking, without planning. One shift of weight and he was over her, slowly, carefully, but not gently anymore. The mattress dipped under his knees, hands braced on either side of her. Their eyes met only for a breath — hers wide, lips kiss-bitten and open, his gaze darker than she’d ever seen it — before he bent to her again.

He kissed her lips like they were the only answer he’d ever needed. Then her jaw — slow, open-mouthed, reverent — the stubble along his own chin brushing soft against her skin. Her head tilted instinctively, eyes fluttering shut, as his lips moved along the line of her neck, her pulse, the curve just below her ear.

Then back to her mouth.

Always back to her mouth.

She pulled him in like she was starving, and he let her — let himself.

Let himself feel her hands gripping his shoulders now, the rise and fall of her chest, the way she arched under him without meaning to, like her body was reaching for something she couldn’t name. His own body answered, helplessly — heart racing, blood humming, control slipping in slow spirals as he kissed her again, and again, and again.

The room was quiet except for their breath — hitched, shallow, wanting — and the faint rustle of sheets as they moved, as he pressed her down into the mattress like he couldn’t bear the thought of her slipping away.

The space between them had all but vanished — breath tangled with breath, warmth soaked into warmth. The blanket had slipped low over their hips, forgotten. And still, neither of them pulled away.

Spencer’s hand — the one resting beside her on the bed — moved without thinking. Just a shift at first. His fingertips brushed her waist, light as a whisper against the cotton of the shirt. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Only stilled.

And when his hand slipped beneath the hem — slow, unsure, achingly careful — her breath hitched.

The skin there was warm. Silken. The kind of soft he didn’t have words for.

He moved in delicate strokes — tracing the shape of her side, the gentle curve of her ribcage, the dip beneath it. Like he was mapping her. Like he couldn’t believe she was letting him.

And she was.

Her eyes fluttered, a quiet sound catching in her throat — something between a sigh and a gasp, held just for him. Her hips shifted slightly, not away, but toward him. An answer. A request.

He moved higher, fingers dragging the fabric up with each inch. Not hurried. Not demanding. Just wanting. His thumb traced a slow line beneath the swell of her breasts, the shape of her breathing changing under his touch.

She opened her eyes again, lashes heavy, lips parted in a way that made his heart trip.

“Spencer,” she murmured — nothing more than his name, but said like it meant something. Like she could feel everything he was trying to say through the reverence in his hands.

“I—” He swallowed, jaw tense with restraint, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t pull back. “I don’t want to rush this.”

“You’re not,” she said, voice hushed and certain. Her hand found his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “You couldn’t.”

And then she leaned forward, slow and unhurried, and kissed him again — deeper this time, more open. Her body curved into his, warm and pliant, and his hand pressed flatter against her chest, grounding himself in the realness of her.

She sighed into his mouth — soft and wrecked — and he felt it in every nerve ending. Like something opened in him at the sound. Like it shook something loose. His lips moved over hers again, slower now but deeper, fuller, until they weren’t kissing to find each other anymore — they were kissing because they already had.

And then he shifted.

His mouth found the edge of her jaw first — a ghost of a kiss, delicate and slow. Then lower. The slope of her neck. The spot just beneath her ear where her breath caught again, sharp and involuntary.

“Spencer—”

He hummed in response, the sound low against her throat.

And then he lingered.

Mouth brushing slowly, deliberately, across that warm stretch of skin. His lips parted — a kiss, then another, each one pressed with more intention, more need. Like he was learning her pulse with his mouth. Like he was writing something there she’d feel for hours after.

She shifted beneath him, her leg wrapping tighter around his hip, and the smallest sound — helpless, breathy — escaped her lips.

His teeth grazed her skin. Barely. Not a bite. Not quite.

Just enough to make her gasp.

Just enough to leave a mark.

His breath caught.

He hadn’t meant to — hadn’t planned it — but when he pulled back slightly and saw the soft flush blooming across her throat, the shape of him there on her, he couldn’t look away.

And she was looking back at him now, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, her expression somewhere between wonder and need.

“You’re...” he started, then stopped. Shook his head like he couldn’t find the words.

But she already knew.

So she pulled him back down — her hand curling around the back of his neck, her body arching into his like it couldn’t help itself — and kissed him like the night would never end.

His hand slid lower, slow as breath, fingers tracing the bare curve of her waist beneath the hem of his shirt — not hurried, not greedy. Just wanting. Just awed.

She felt impossibly warm beneath his touch. All soft skin and stammered breath and the quiet, electric give of her body against his. He pulled her closer until they fit, all lines pressed flush and trembling, and when her head tipped back slightly — that unspoken invitation written in the shape of her throat — he swore he could feel his heart stagger in his chest.

And then he kissed her there.

Right at the center of her throat — slow, open-mouthed, full of something more fragile than lust. Something aching. A murmur of devotion passed through his lips as they pressed against her pulse, like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of her from the inside out.

He didn’t stop there.

His mouth moved lower, finding the tender hollow at the base of her neck, then the curve of her collarbone — each kiss deeper now, less careful. More desperate. His hand still traced slow, reverent lines beneath the fabric of her shirt, but his mouth was leaving promises behind.

Soft marks bloomed where he lingered — not harsh, not bruised, but present. Little echoes of him pressed into her skin like he couldn’t stand the thought of morning washing her clean of him.

And she let him.

Her fingers wove into his hair, holding him there, like maybe she needed the same thing. A mark to carry through the quiet hours. A tether to keep the night from slipping away.

When he pulled back just slightly to look at her — lips parted, cheeks flushed, hair mussed where she’d held him — she met his gaze like it was the only light in the room.

“Spencer,” she breathed — not just a whisper, but a plea. Barely formed. Almost broken. His name in her mouth like something sacred.

“Please,” she said, voice catching in her throat. “I need—”

She didn’t finish. Couldn’t. But the way she looked at him said everything.

And it undid him.

A soft, aching sound slipped from his lips — somewhere between a groan and a promise — as he leaned in and kissed her again, deeper this time. Slower. Like he was trying to give her everything she asked for without making her say it.

His hand found her waist, steady and warm, drawing her closer. She melted into him, sighing against his mouth like she’d been holding it in forever.

And in that hush — between her breath and his hands and the soft, trembled ache of being known — he whispered, “I’ve got you, angel.”

His hand trembled where it touched her, as if he was holding something too precious — and maybe he was. Maybe he always had been.

Still, he didn’t rush.

His hand roamed gently, sliding over the dip of her hip, mapping the shape of her in slow, reverent passes. And then—

His fingers brushed lower. Grazing just beneath the waistband of the borrowed pajama pants. The fabric gave, loose and yielding. And then—

Lower still.

They slipped beneath.

Just barely. Just enough.

A hush broke between them.

Her breath stuttered — caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh — and she leaned into him like it was instinct, her leg tightening around his hip, her fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulder.

His touch paused there, just inside the edge of her underwear. Not moving further. Not pushing. Just there — skin to skin in a place that felt suddenly louder than words.

And still, his hand didn’t wander.

It rested. Gentle. Anchored. A confession more than a question.

His mouth moved slowly along the curve of her throat — not kissing, worshiping. Like she was something holy. Like her skin held scripture he’d waited his whole life to read.

“Spencer,” she whispered — not just a name, but a summons. A prayer drawn from the depths of her, aching and soft. And when he breathed it in, it wrecked him.

She arched into him, offering more. A tilt of her chin. A shift in her breath. An invitation.

And he answered.

Not with words. Not yet. But with lips that moved lower, reverent, tracing devotion in every press of his mouth against her skin. Her collarbone. The hollow where her pulse beat like a secret beneath his lips. She felt the shape of him tremble, the way his hands gripped her like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold something this sacred.

She gasped — not from shock, but recognition. Like he’d found some quiet altar hidden beneath her ribs.

He whispered her name again like it belonged in a psalm. Like it was the psalm.

She was the litany.

And when he kissed her again — slower now, with more reverence than heat — she let her hand drift to the back of his neck and murmured something only the night would ever hear.

A benediction. A vow.

And she let him. Head tilted, throat bared, fingers curling in the fabric at his back as if to anchor herself. As if she knew — knew in her bones — that she was being seen, and touched, and kept.

And through it all — the weight of him above her, the heat in his hands, the way she whispered his name like it was something sacred — he was still holding on to the last thread of restraint like it might break at any second.

Because he wanted more. So much more.

But he still wanted to be good.

Even now. Especially now.

So he kissed her like that was the only way left to tell her. 

That he wanted her. That he’d always wanted her. 

That this — this ache, this desperation, this us — had been building in the quiet edges of every look, every joke, every missed chance.

And finally, finally, they were no longer pretending not to feel it.

There was no space left between them.

Still lost in it — the slow press of lips, the drag of hands over fabric, the heat of breath between parted mouths. Spencer’s weight settled heavier over her now, no longer braced or hovering, but with her. Their bodies fit like conversation — like they'd always known how to move together, even before they ever had.

Like she belonged there. Like she was meant to pull him closer, and he was meant to follow.

His hand cupped her face as he kissed her again — slower this time. Softer. Like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth with his own. His thumb brushed beneath her eye, tender, reverent — like every blink she gave was something sacred.

Their mouths moved in rhythm now, gentler, languid — not from lack of want, but from the kind of exhaustion that settles in the bones after something long-awaited finally gives way. Like the tide rolling in, slow and full, finally touching the shore it had been reaching for all night.

His thumb drifted downward, tracing the curve of her cheek, then the corner of her mouth.

And then — gently — he ran it over her lower lip, slow and deliberate. Her breath caught.

He watched her.

Watched the way her lips parted instinctively beneath the touch, pink and kiss-swollen, eyes fluttering half-closed. And when his thumb slipped just barely past them, brushing against the warm inside of her mouth, she didn't pull away. She held his gaze and let him.

Her tongue grazed his skin — a whisper-soft drag, like a sigh.

It undid him.

Not because it was bold. But because it was intimate. Quiet. Trusting.

His pulse stammered. He leaned in again, kissed her like she was the only real thing in the world, and pulled her closer, deeper, like he needed her breath in his lungs to stay alive.

And still, they didn’t rush.

Even as their bodies stayed tangled. Even as sleep pulled at the corners of the room.

Even as their fingers curled tighter into each other, wordless and warm.

She sighed his name like it belonged in her mouth, like she’d been saving it for this moment.

And he answered with a kiss — slow and open, tasting of want and wonder. One that deepened until they forgot where the air ended and they began. Until her body arched again, drawn to him like tide to moon, and he followed, helpless to resist.

His hand slipped beneath her shirt again, this time with more certainty — fingertips tracing up the line of her back, warm and slow, until she gasped quietly into his mouth. Her skin bowed into his palm, and when he pressed closer, she let him, legs loosening and curling to cradle his hips like they’d done this before, like they’d always been made for this shape.

The room felt too still, like it was holding its breath for them.

She moved again, barely — just enough — and his own breath caught hard against her throat. A soft, broken sound escaped him, and then another, quieter, when her hands skimmed beneath his shirt and found skin.

Her name left his mouth like a prayer. Ragged. Dazed.

And he whispered something else then — something low, just for her — but it was too soft to catch. It didn’t matter. She heard it in the way his hands shook where they held her. In the way he kissed her like he was barely holding himself together.

Her hips tilted again, and he followed instinctively, forehead dropping to her shoulder as he groaned, muffled and aching, into the crook of her neck. His hand gripped at the curve of her thigh beneath the covers, anchoring himself there — trying not to move, not to lose himself.

But it was already happening.

Whatever carefulness he’d built, whatever lines he’d drawn, were gone now — softened at the edges, smudged by the weight of her breath, the taste of her sighs, the warmth of her under his hands, in his arms, against his heart.

And still, they didn’t name it.

They just felt it. Moved in it.

Soft gasps. Gentle pressure. The desperate, shivering closeness of two people falling apart in each other’s arms, trying to stay quiet, trying to stay slow, trying not to fall too far.

But they were already there.

And when she whispered his name again — broken and beautiful — he kissed her like he was saying me too.

She sighed his name like it was a lullaby.

And he kissed it from her mouth like a promise.

Somewhere between his mouth on her neck and her fingers sliding beneath the hem of his shirt, the layers between them began to fade. Not suddenly. Not all at once.

Just the quiet shift of cotton. The breathless drag of fabric against skin. The subtle give of a waistband easing lower, guided by hands that moved without hurry — only awe.

She didn’t stop him. Only watched him through the haze of moonlight and heat, her eyes dark and open, her breathing soft and shallow.

When her own hands found the hem of his shirt, he let her tug it upward, slow as a tide pulling away from the shore. He raised his arms for her without a word, without breaking her gaze, like offering.

And she took it.

The shirt joined the rest of the soft, crumpled fabric somewhere beneath them — forgotten. Not important.

What mattered was the way his skin felt beneath her palms. Warm. Trembling. Alive.

He leaned in again, kissed her once — and then again — slower this time, like he could feel the weight of the moment settling in the space between them. The gravity of being known like this. The hush of being seen.

Her legs shifted, curling around him like instinct, like memory — like she’d been waiting for this shape, this closeness, all along.

And when he pressed closer, skin to skin now, every inch of her answered without hesitation. Her breath hitched, her fingers tangled in his hair, and he clutched at her thighs — rough, enough for bruises to bloom like dusk, muted violets and honeyed indigo — tender, secret petals pressed into skin where memory met touch — like he needed her to anchor him. Like if he let go, he might come undone entirely.

His hands trembled where they gripped her, thumbs brushing over the soft curve of her skin, holding her like she was his and had always been. Soft sounds escaped his mouth, whimpers so dreamy they sounded angels singing down into Earth. Sharp gasps buried into the crook of her neck, warm breath heating the soft skin.

A sigh slipped from her mouth — wonder and want braided together — and he swallowed it with a kiss. Deeper. Quieter. A promise, sealed in breath and trembling hands.

And still, they stayed soft.

No rush. No sharp edges.

Only hands that explored reverently, like she was something precious he’d been entrusted to hold.

Only breath that stuttered and caught as the distance between them disappeared entirely.

Only the sound of hearts learning each other in the dark — steady and aching and close.

And then, later, the room had gone quiet again — not with absence, but with everything that remained. The hush of something sacred settling into skin.

Not empty. Not hollow. But full — with breath, with warmth, with the invisible weight of what had just passed between them.

They hadn’t spoken in minutes. There was nothing left to say. Not when everything was already written into the shape of their bodies — the curve of her leg around his, the slow sweep of his fingers along her spine, the ghost of his mouth at her shoulder.

Spencer’s hand never left her.

Even now, as their breathing slowed. Even now, as the rise and fall of her chest settled into something steadier — not from distance, but from peace.

His thumb traced idle, reverent shapes against the slope of her back. Little half-circles. Loops. A language only she would understand.

And she didn’t move.

Just stayed wrapped around him like gravity had claimed her. One arm tucked between their chests, the other tangled in his curls where her fingers had never let go.

She was warm. Too warm, probably. But she didn’t shift. Didn’t pull away. Only turned her face into his throat and exhaled slow, like she was letting go of something heavy she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.

He felt it, too — the unraveling of tension he didn’t know had lived in his ribs. The soft collapse of every line he’d drawn to keep from needing this too much.

His lips brushed her hairline. Not a kiss, not exactly. Just presence.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, voice hoarse and barely there.

Then a pause. A breath. Their movements slowed. His weight sank into hers, warm and heavy. Her hands ran up his back once more, fingertips tracing the dip of his spine, and then stilled.

Her eyes blinked open, just barely. “We’re gonna fall asleep like this,” she murmured, voice thick with warmth, words curling like smoke.

Spencer didn’t move. His lips were still pressed against her temple. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She huffed a lazy laugh. “We’ll wake up sore and sideways and probably on the floor.”

“Worth it,” he whispered.

Another smile bloomed slow and sleepy across her lips. She leaned up, brushed her nose against his throat, kissed him once more — a kiss that barely lasted, barely touched, but said everything.

His arms curled around her tighter.

They didn’t pull apart.

Not even as their bodies slackened. Not even as sleep began to pull at the edges of them, soft and thick and sweet.

Somewhere between breath and dream, she whispered, “Didn’t know you could be that gentle and still ruin me.”

And he smiled into her hair, voice almost gone with sleep. “I’ll try to keep ruining you, then.”

She was still smiling when she drifted off.

And so was he.

Morning didn’t come all at once.

It crept in slowly — a pale gold light easing through the slats of the blinds, feathering across the walls, the sheets, the curve of two bodies still wrapped in sleep. The air was quiet, still softened by the hush of early hours, like the whole world had paused to give them this.

Y/N woke first.

Not fully — not in the way you do when something jolts you up — but gently, like surfacing from the warmth of a deep, sweet dream. She blinked once, then again, lashes fluttering as the shape of the room came into focus. And then she felt him.

Spencer.

Still pressed to her, still wrapped around her like a second blanket. His arm lay heavy across her middle, skin to skin now — no cotton between them, just the warmth of his palm resting low against the curve of her waist, fingers splayed like he didn’t want to let go, even in sleep.

Their legs were tangled like roots beneath the sheets, her knee still hooked over his thigh, the arch of her foot tucked behind his calf. Every part of her seemed to fit there — inside the soft press of his body, the hollow of his chest, the shape of his hold.

She could feel his breath at the back of her neck — slow, even, steady. The kind of rhythm you only fall into when there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

She just lay there for a long moment, breathing him in. The scent of him. The warmth of skin against skin. The quiet, lingering ache of what they’d given each other in the dark.

Last night hadn’t vanished with sleep. It hadn’t dulled at the edges like a dream. It was still here — alive in the heat of his body pressed to hers, in the way his hand rested low on her waist like it remembered every place it had touched.

She could still feel it. The weight of his mouth on her skin — not just a memory, but something deeper, something etched. The way he’d said her name like a vow. Like a prayer meant only for her.

It lingered. In the hollow of her throat. At the curve of her lips. In the gentle ache that whispered down her spine — not pain, but existence. A hum in her muscles, in the space between breath and bone.

Her fingers moved instinctively, brushing the side of her neck with a kind of reverence. As if she could press the moment back into her skin. As if her own touch might still catch the echo of his. She lay quiet for a beat, wrapped in the hush of morning.

And then, slowly, she turned — just enough to face him.

His face was peaceful in sleep. His brow — so often tense with thought — was smooth now. Lips slightly parted. Hair soft and mussed from where she’d run her hands through it too many times to count. The sight of him like that — so open, so unguarded — did something to her chest she didn’t quite have words for.

She reached up, slow and careful, and brushed her fingers through a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He stirred at the touch, but didn’t wake.

Not until she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It was feather-light, more breath than contact, but it was enough.

He stirred again — this time a little more. Eyes fluttering open. Not all the way. Just enough to see her.

A faint, sleep-wrecked smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Hi.”

Her heart twisted.

“Hi,” she whispered back, barely audible, like the morning itself might startle if she spoke too loud. “You snore.”

“I do not,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

“You do.” Her fingers drifted along his jaw with the back of her knuckles — a lazy, reverent gesture, warm as the space between them. “It’s a soft snore. Almost endearing.”

His lips curved again, slow and lopsided, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat before opening again — slower this time, as if the light behind her was something worth savoring.

“If I do,” he said, voice like gravel wrapped in silk, “it’s because you wore me out.”

She grinned, lips twitching, and leaned in just enough for her forehead to rest against his. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

His fingers brushed the edge of her hip beneath the blanket — not with intent, just to anchor himself in the shape of her — and he let out a breath that felt more like a sigh of contentment than anything else.

She laughed quietly, and it curled between them like a ribbon. “You’re lucky you’re cute in the morning.”

“You’re lucky I’m still coherent,” he murmured, voice low and rough and ruined by sleep.

They didn’t move to get up. Neither of them even pretended to.

Instead, Spencer shifted just enough to press a kiss to her cheek. Then another to her temple. Then one to her collarbone, just beneath the edge of the fabric of the blanket.

Her fingers slid up the back of his neck, and she leaned into him like she could climb inside the quiet.

They stayed like that for a long while — pressed close, barely speaking, barely moving — sharing warmth and breath and the weightless, glowing hush of something undeniable. Something real.

No questions. No what now?

Just this.

Just them.

Still tangled. Still warm. Still smiling.

Eventually, they got up.

Not because they wanted to. Not because they were ready to leave the warmth of each other. But because Spencer’s stomach had let out a low, unmistakable growl and Y/N had laughed against his shoulder, murmuring something about him being lucky she found it adorable.

So now, they were in his kitchen.

Barefoot, still dressed in yesterday’s sleep and each other’s affection.

She wore only his shirt.

The one he’d handed her the night before — half-folded, worn soft with time — now draped over her like it belonged there. The hem skimmed just past the tops of her thighs, riding up ever so slightly as she moved, revealing the gentle curve of skin where the night still lived on her.

Her legs were bare, marked faintly where sheets had once twisted around them. The sleeves bunched at her elbows, too long and not rolled, like she’d pulled it on in a haze and hadn’t thought to fuss with it. And her hair — God, her hair — was a tumble of sleepy waves, half-tucked behind one ear, half falling into her face in that effortless way she never intended but he would never forget.

She moved around his kitchen like she’d done it before. Barefoot. Unhurried. One hand reaching for two mugs from the cabinet, the other brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with the kind of grace that didn’t know it was being watched.

He watched her from the other side of the counter, utterly ruined by the sight of her.

Because there was something devastatingly intimate about it — not loud, not demanding, but real. Like a future had already unfolded and left this moment behind as proof. Like this was what it might feel like, to be loved by her on an ordinary morning.

Just her. In his shirt. In his kitchen. Like it had always been meant to be.

“Coffee’s probably stronger than you remember,” he said, leaning on his elbows, voice still thick with sleep. “I may have used the wrong scoop.”

She gave him a lazy side-eye as she poured. “So what you’re saying is… this is revenge.”

He smiled. “Mild retribution. You mocked my snoring.”

“You did snore.”

“Allegedly.”

She handed him a mug and kissed his cheek as she passed — casual, easy, like the thousandth time instead of the first.

He turned slightly toward her, eyes drifting down to her mouth before lifting again.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She looked at him — really looked — and something in her expression shifted. Just a breath. Just enough for softness to rise like sunlight warming the edges of sleep.

His curls were a mess, more unruly than usual — flattened on one side where her fingers had rested all night, wild and fluffed on the other like sleep had tangled itself into the strands. A piece stuck up near his temple, catching the light from the kitchen window in a way that made him look impossibly younger. Unbrushed. Unbothered. Barefoot in his own quiet world.

There was still a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. His shirt clung lopsided to one shoulder. His eyes, when they lifted to meet hers, were heavy-lidded with warmth — tired, maybe, but only in the way people are after something worth losing sleep over.

And her heart stuttered.

She smiled — soft, instinctive — and reached like she might tuck that one rogue curl back into place.

“I’m good,” she said. “Tired. A little sore.”

A smirk pulled at his mouth — slow, crooked, impossible to hide. The kind that curled more on one side, like his face couldn’t quite decide between mischief and awe. It started in his lips but reached his eyes a heartbeat later, lighting them with something softer — like laughter not yet spoken, like affection he wasn’t ready to name out loud.

It was a look that said I’m thinking something I’ll never say, and you make it really hard to be cool about this.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t try to hide it.

“Not like that,” she warned, pointing her mug at him.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his grin was wide and unguarded and a little boyish in the way that made her want to kiss it off his face.

“I’m good too,” he said, after a moment — too casually, like he was trying to play it cool but already failing.

A beat passed.

“Y’know… in case you were wondering.” 

The edge of his voice caught at the end — not nervous, exactly, just wry. Like he knew exactly how transparent he was and had decided to lean into it.

She blinked at him once, then laughed — that soft, surprised kind of laugh that crinkled her nose and made her shoulders shake slightly.

“Oh, I was wondering,” she grinned, taking a slow sip from her mug just to hide how wide her smile had gotten. “Believe me.”

His smirk returned — helpless now, brighter. Almost bashful.

“Just making sure,” he murmured, gaze dropping like he couldn’t quite hold hers without giving himself away completely.

They stood like that for a while. Quiet, holding hands over chipped ceramic and the scent of dark roast.

His fingers curled loosely around hers, thumb brushing slow arcs against her knuckle like he didn’t want to stop touching her even for this. The mug in her other hand had started to cool, but neither of them moved. The moment felt suspended — hung in that soft hush where night ends and morning hasn’t quite decided what to become yet.

The window behind him let in streaks of sun, lighting the dust in the air like gold. It caught the curve of her smile, the tousled edge of his curls, and made everything look touched by something holy.

Y/N swayed slightly on her feet. Her voice was quiet, but not afraid. “You think we’ll regret this?”

Spencer looked at her. Really looked — as if the question had carved a path straight through his chest.

Then he shook his head, slow. Certain. 

“No,” he said. “I think we’ll wonder why we waited.”

A beat.

Then her grin broke free — unfiltered, full of teeth and fond disbelief. “God, that was smooth.”

His brows lifted. “It was honest!”

“And smooth,” she said, sipping again, voice muffled behind the rim of the mug. “Which is new for you.”

“I’ve had practice,” he said, pretending offense. “You’re a very motivating subject.”

“Oh, I motivate you?”

“Endlessly.”

She giggled — actual, unguarded giggling — and leaned her forehead briefly against his shoulder, like she needed to hide from the way he made her feel.

He turned his face toward her hair, smiling against it — lazy, content, still a little dazed by the way she fit against him like she’d always been there.

Then he leaned in, brushing his lips to hers — slow and steady, one kiss, then two, then a third for good measure. “I’m making up for lost time,” he murmured, voice low and warm like honey in sunlight.

She kissed him back without hesitation — lips curling into a grin between kisses. “You’re behind, then,” she said. “Better get to work.”

His laugh was quiet, breathless against her mouth. “Is that a challenge?”

She hummed, pretending to think. “More of an invitation.”

Coffee long forgotten. Sunlight rising behind them in soft, golden streaks. And for the first time in a long time — they weren’t rushing anywhere. Just standing there in a borrowed morning, trading kisses and banter like it was the only language they knew.

The ringtone was muffled somewhere between the counter and Spencer’s coat pocket, but they both heard it. A distant buzz that cut through the stillness like a ripple across still water.

Y/N pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Her smile lingered, but it was laced with reluctant understanding.

Spencer sighed, pressing one last kiss to the corner of her mouth before reaching for his phone on the counter. He glanced at the screen and winced.

“Hotch,” he muttered. “We’re being called in.”

Y/N groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Spencer answered the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

Hotch’s voice came through, steady and to the point. “Case just came in. Briefing at the office. Wheels up in an hour.”

Spencer nodded, even though Hotch couldn’t see it. “I can be there in thirty.”

There was a pause. A small one.

Then Hotch added, dry as ever: “Is Y/N with you?”

Spencer blinked. “She is.”

Another pause. Barely a breath.

Then: “I’ll let you tell her.”

Click.

Spencer lowered the phone, trying not to smile. “He knows.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Oh shit.”

Spencer shrugged, helpless. “He said he’ll let me tell you.”

She buried her face in her hands. “He definitely knows.”

“He didn’t sound mad.”

“He never sounds mad. That’s the problem. He just sounds like... Hotch.”

Spencer grinned, stepping close again. “I think we’ll survive.”

She peeked at him through her fingers. “Maybe. If Morgan doesn’t beat us to it.”

He leaned in, lips brushing her forehead. “We’ve been through worse.”

She groaned again. “Yeah, but not while wearing your shirt and drinking your coffee.”

Spencer laughed, warm and unbothered. “You’re not making me regret it.”

He then turned toward her with that sheepish, crooked smile. “Guess our little bubble just popped.”

Y/N stretched, arms overhead, shirt riding up over her thighs with no shame at all. “I’m blaming you when I show up looking like I’ve just rolled out of—” she paused, grinned, “—well. You.”

He flushed. “You could, uh... borrow something else?”

She was already walking toward the bathroom, barefoot and smug.

“You saying I can’t wear your shirt to work?”

Spencer blinked. “I’m saying I won’t survive it.”

Her laughter echoed down the hallway.

“Then consider it a challenge.” 

She paused just before turning the corner, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “Lucky for you, I keep an extra go-bag in my car. Otherwise, you’d really be in trouble.”

And as Spencer stood barefoot in the middle of his kitchen, still in pajama pants and a sleep-soft tee, hair a tousled mess from her hands and her dreams, surrounded by cold coffee and warm streaks of light spilling through the blinds, he rested one hand on the counter — the other still holding her empty mug — and smiled like the day had already given him more than enough.

There was a stupid grin on his face. One he didn’t even try to hide.

Even with the case.

Even with the chaos.

Today already felt like a good day.

Because she was still here. Still wearing his shirt. Still laughing under her breath like she belonged to the morning.

And for once, the world didn’t feel quite so fast.

From down the hall came her voice — bright, teasing, soaked in laughter.

“Reid! Are you getting in the shower with me or what?”

Spencer blinked, glanced once at the mugs on the counter like they might matter — then bolted.

She shrieked when she heard his footsteps, the sound chasing him through the hallway like music.

He reached her just as the bathroom door swung open, and before she could quip again, he wrapped both arms around her waist and kissed along the column of her neck, slow and breathless, lips pressed to damp skin and heat and joy.

She threw her head back into his shoulder, laughing, breath caught between surprise and delight.

“Spencer—”

“Just trying to conserve water,” he murmured against her skin, grinning.

And in the middle of case-day chaos, mismatched pajamas, and the hum of the shower behind them — they were already both laughing too hard to say anything else.

And the morning, somehow, kept getting better.

[clementineinn]

eeeeek!!!! this made my whole week 🥹 honored and so grateful—thank you SO much for this!! ILY! xx

sometime in the mornin’

abstract: after a long case and a sleepless night, two BAU agents find quiet in each other’s arms — in soft shirts, slow mornings, and the kind of closeness that doesn’t need to be defined to be real.

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

genre: fluff, is a little mature but not very explicit

note: i tend to overexplain scenes and maybe run them into the ground so forgive me if i did here lol. that's also why i removed the word count description since i lowk felt like it was making me restrict how much i write, which i don't want to do bc i don't get the chance to write in school, so I NEED THIS LOL. long story short, blah blah, this fic is long. it does get steamy but nothing is explicitly stated, mostly because i'm still trying to figure out how to write heated scenes bc when i think back to my wattpad days, the embarrassment is real. ANYWAYS, as always, enjoy!

The parking lot outside the precinct still shimmered with leftover rain — shallow puddles stretched like fragments of fallen sky, catching the bruised orange flicker of tired streetlamps above. The asphalt glistened like it had been brushed with varnish, each crack and curve outlined in silvered shadow. Water clung to the edges of curbs, pooling in small, forgotten places.

The air had that particular kind of cold — the kind that didn’t just sting, but bit, sharp enough to steal your breath for a second before softening into something you could almost forget. It smelled like wet concrete, worn leather, and the lingering smoke of someone’s earlier cigarette, now long extinguished but still haunting the wind.

Y/N’s boots clicked faintly against the damp pavement, a rhythm out of step with the hush around her — too slow, too tired to echo fully. Each step sent a ripple through the puddles, spreading concentric rings outward until they faded into stillness again.

She looked wrung out. Not just tired — but spent.

Her hair was pulled back in a loose, uneven tie, strands slipping free and curling at her temples in the damp. Her coat was wrapped tighter than usual around her ribs, fingers clutched into the fabric like she needed it to hold her up. The posture of someone who’d done too much, said too little, and had no room left for either. The kind of tired that didn’t just sit behind your eyes — it lived there, echoing. Bone-deep. Soul-heavy. The kind of weariness that had nothing to do with hours or sleep.

The night pressed in gentle around her. Not cruel, not cold — just quiet. Like it understood.

Like it was waiting for something soft to break the silence.

Spencer saw it in the way her shoulders curved inward, like the night had finally settled its weight atop them and she was just too polite to complain. She stood at the edge of her car door, fingers hovering near the handle but never closing around it — like even that small gesture required more energy than she had left.

The air turned her breath to fog, delicate and ghostlike, curling around her face before vanishing into the cold.

“You okay?” Spencer asked, his voice soft, low — the kind of question that knew the answer already but offered itself anyway, just in case.

She turned toward him slowly, as though the sound of his voice had to travel through molasses to reach her. One hand still hovered over the handle, her fingers frozen mid-air. Her lashes were heavy, casting little shadows beneath her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said, after a beat.

But the word came out too flat. Too automatic. The kind of yeah that didn’t mean yes at all. Just a placeholder. Something you say when you’re too tired to explain all the reasons you’re not.

“Just...” she added, a half-breath later, “not in the mood for a forty-minute drive.”

Spencer’s hand slipped into his coat pocket, thumb grazing the edge of his keys like they might offer direction. He hesitated, the words caught between concern and something softer. Quieter.

“My place is ten minutes from here,” he said finally. Light, but not unmeant. “You can crash. Couch’s not bad.”

She blinked, slow and long, like she was still catching up to the suggestion. Her brow furrowed gently — not out of confusion, but surprise. Not because it was unwelcome, but because it was kind. And kindness always caught her off guard when she needed it most.

“I’m fine, Reid.”

The words came a little too quickly, too practiced. Like armor she didn’t realize she was still wearing — thin and fraying at the edges, but stubborn all the same.

“I know,” he said, and he meant it. Gently. Carefully. Like he was setting something delicate down between them. “Still.”

The silence between them thickened — not uncomfortable, just full. She looked at him, not fully, just out of the corner of her eye, then down again.

Her hand fell away from the door handle like it had lost its reason for being there.

“You sure?” she asked, softer now. Her voice thinned by hesitation, not doubt. “I don’t want to... intrude.”

She didn’t mean to sound so small when she said it. But the word lingered in the air like fog, curling between them.

He shook his head — not just a no, but something firmer. Quieter. Something closer to don’t even think that.

“You wouldn’t be.”

She exhaled, long and slow, her breath rising into the cold like steam off cooling tea. Her eyes flicked upward — not quite at the sky, but at the clouds where the stars should have been, where the night held its breath like it was listening.

Then she gave the smallest nod.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Just for the night.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — brief, quiet, almost too small to see — but it softened his whole face. Lit him from somewhere inside. And then it was gone, like it had never asked to be noticed in the first place.

“I’ll drive though,” she said softly, already rounding to the driver’s side. “I want to do something for you too.”

“You don’t have to,” he replied, immediate and gentle, like reflex. Then, with the faintest smile, “But fine.”

And that was it.

No argument. No protest. Just a quiet understanding passed between them like the keys themselves — weightless and warm from the press of her hand.

The drive unfolded in stillness.

No music. Just the low, steady hum of the engine and the occasional sigh of tires over damp pavement. Outside, the streetlights flickered past in slow succession — casting golden stripes across the windshield, across her hands on the wheel, across the soft curve of her cheekbone as she blinked too slowly at the road ahead.

She looked like something out of a memory in this light. The kind that faded at the edges. The kind you try to hold onto longer than you're supposed to.

Spencer sat in the passenger seat, his hands resting quietly in his lap, but his eyes barely left her.

He watched the way her fingers flexed on the steering wheel at every red light — not restless, just trying to stay awake. The way her eyes, rimmed in leftover eyeliner and the weight of too many hours, fluttered heavier and heavier with each block.

She was trying so hard. Still carrying the last fraying threads of the day like someone might need her again at any moment. Still holding herself upright when no one had asked her to.

He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to. That she could drop it — the composure, the endurance, the quiet strength she wore like second skin. That she didn’t always have to be the one who stayed steady.

But the words stayed behind his teeth.

Settled there. Safe, for now.

So instead, he said, “Turn left up here,” voice soft enough not to startle her.

And she nodded — not looking, just trusting.

His apartment welcomed them with the kind of warmth that didn’t just come from the heat — it came from history. From stillness, from the soft, steady presence of a life that had been lived carefully within its walls.

The light from the hallway drifted in behind them like fog, golden and thin, slipping across the hardwood and catching gently on the edges of furniture. The air inside smelled like old paper and something clean — not sharp, but soft, like the faint memory of soap in fabric, or a cotton shirt hung to dry near a window. Lived-in. Intimate.

Y/N stepped inside without a word, her shoulders folding slightly as the door clicked shut behind her. The quiet wrapped around her immediately, slow and deep, like a warm coat slipped onto her shoulders.

She toed off her boots near the wall — not rushed, just methodical, as if each movement had to travel through fog before reaching her limbs. Her coat slid from her shoulders a moment later, loose and limp with weariness, but she caught it one-handed before it could fall. Draped it neatly over the arm of the couch like she’d done it before. Like she’d been here. Like her presence had already been stitched into the space, quietly, without ever asking for permission.

Spencer moved past her without speaking, his footsteps nearly silent on the floor. He locked the door with a quiet snick, then dropped his keys into the small ceramic bowl on the entry shelf — the sound of them landing barely louder than breath.

He disappeared briefly into the kitchen, the glow of the under-cabinet light casting soft reflections onto the tile backsplash. The hush of drawers sliding open, the faint clink of ceramic and glass — it all sounded strangely soothing, like rain tapping on a roof. Familiar. Gentle.

Y/N stood still in the entryway, her body slowly catching up to the quiet. Her eyes blinked slowly as they adjusted to the dim light, and her hands hung limp at her sides. There was something about this kind of stillness — the kind that followed noise and chaos — that made everything feel heavier. Like she could finally feel her bones again.

She didn’t move yet.

Just let the warmth settle over her. Let herself be held by the quiet of it all.

“You want tea or anything?” he asked, voice low as he moved through the kitchen, back half-turned, the sound barely rising above the quiet hum of the apartment.

She shook her head, the movement slow, her voice softer still. “Too tired.”

Not just tired — spent. The kind of tired that settled behind her eyes and pressed gently at the back of her throat, where words usually lived.

He nodded like he’d already known — like he just wanted her to know he asked anyway. Still, he opened the cupboard without comment and took down a glass. Filled it with water from the tap, letting the stream run just long enough to cool.

When he turned and handed it to her, their fingers brushed — a fleeting touch. But it lingered. The soft part of his hand grazing the side of hers, a warmth that bloomed for just a second too long to be ignored. It sparked something small and quiet beneath her ribs. Something that flickered like light catching on the surface of still water.

She took the glass from him slowly, her fingers curling around the cool rim, and brought it to her lips. The first sip was barely a swallow. But it grounded her — the clean, clear taste of it, the way it caught the edges of her dry throat and soothed.

Her body leaned back gently against the arm of the couch, the glass still resting in her hands. She let her eyes drift around the room like she was revisiting a familiar dream — mapping the shape of it all as if it had changed while she was gone.

A few new books stacked by the window — titles turned outward, some already soft at the spine. A different lamp — softer, golden, the light barely kissing the floor. One of his cardigans hung over the back of a chair, like it had been shrugged off in thought and forgotten.

But otherwise, nothing had changed.

Still that quiet.

Still that warmth.

Still that feeling — the one she never let herself examine too closely, except maybe now, when her limbs were too heavy to lie, and the hush between them didn’t ask her to.

“You can take the bed,” he said, after a moment of silence that seemed to settle between them like dust in golden light. His voice was gentle — too gentle — the edges of it smoothed with something that sounded like care disguised as casual. “I’ll sleep out here.”

She blinked, the words catching her slightly off guard. Her brows pulled in, just a little. Not in irritation — in protest. In disbelief that he’d give something so quickly. So quietly.

“Spencer—no,” she said, already shaking her head. Her voice was soft but sure, the kind that didn’t leave room for argument. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“You’re not kicking me out,” he replied, even softer this time, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. “I’m offering.”

It was the kind of offer that didn’t ask for anything in return. The kind that came from someone who would never say you need it more, but knew anyway. Who would lie awake on the couch all night, thinking of her curled into his sheets, and still believe it was worth it.

She exhaled through her nose and folded her arms loosely across her chest. “And I’m declining.”

He opened his mouth, maybe to argue — gently, quietly — but she was already shaking her head again, a faint smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

“The couch is fine,” she said, lighter now. “I don’t need much.”

He didn’t push. He only nodded. But something shifted in his expression — subtle, but there. A tiny drop in the line of his shoulders, a quiet stillness in his eyes. Like something he hadn’t meant to show had slipped through anyway.

She saw it.

And maybe she felt it too — that same quiet ache, that wish to say I want to be close without sounding like she needed it.

Still, she only added, quieter now, almost sheepish, “I’ll be out cold in five minutes. I promise I won’t even notice.”

There was a pause. He didn’t look at her for a moment. Then he nodded once more, a little steadier this time, like the thought had been tucked away, folded carefully.

“I’ll grab you something to wear,” he said.

And then he turned toward the hallway, his steps quiet, measured — like even in that, he didn’t want to disturb the space between them.

When he returned, he held a neatly folded t-shirt and a pair of soft, worn-in plaid pajama pants — unmistakably his. The shirt had the faint scent of him still clinging to the cotton, clean and familiar, like soap and old books and warmth. He didn’t offer them with any ceremony, just held them out gently, like something delicate passed from one set of hands to another.

She took them without a word.

But her fingers lingered on the fabric — not accidentally. Not really. Her touch was slow, careful, almost reverent. Like she wasn’t just taking clothes. Like she felt, somewhere deep in her chest, that accepting them meant something more.

The weight of them made her throat tighten. It didn’t make sense, not entirely. But she didn’t fight it. She just swallowed around the feeling and looked up.

“The bathroom’s down the hall,” he said quietly, his voice carrying softer now, like he didn’t want to disturb the calm that had settled in the space between them. “First door on the left.”

She nodded once. “Thanks.”

And then she turned — socked feet brushing the wooden floor, his clothes pressed to her chest — and disappeared down the hallway with the kind of tired grace that didn’t ask to be watched but invited it anyway.

He stood there for a moment after she was gone, the hush folding in around him again like it had been waiting.

It wasn’t silence. It was presence. The kind that filled the room when someone had only just left — when their warmth still lingered in the air, in the folds of their coat on the couch, in the faint creak of the hallway floor.

Spencer exhaled through his nose, barely audible, and turned toward the couch. He unfolded the blankets one by one — carefully, quietly — smoothing the edges like it mattered.

Like it would somehow be enough.

When Y/N stepped out of the bathroom, the first thing she noticed was the light — a soft amber glow spilling from the cracked door at the end of the hallway. It pooled along the floor like syrup, rich and warm, brushing the edges of the baseboards and casting long, drowsy shadows across the wood. 

Spencer’s bedroom.

The rest of the apartment had dimmed with the hour — lights switched off, corners tucked into stillness — but that room glowed like something remembered. Like a place left gently open.

She padded down the hall slowly, bare feet silent on the cool floor. One hand tugged his too-long t-shirt a little lower over her thighs, the cotton worn soft with age, clinging here and there where her skin was still warm from the shower. The pajama pants he’d lent her sat low on her hips, cinched loosely at the waist — clearly made for someone taller, broader, his. She’d rolled the cuffs twice, but they still dragged the tiniest bit as she walked, trailing whispers behind her.

Her hair had come undone from the elastic, soft waves spilling free now, sleep-mussed and uneven in a way that somehow made her look more like herself. Like all the polish had fallen away and left only her, untouched and quiet and real.

She didn’t mean to stop at his door.

But the light was still on, golden and patient. And from within, she heard the muted sound of motion — the quiet hush of a drawer sliding shut, the gentle weight of something being placed on the nightstand.

Not rushed. Not loud. Just presence. Just him.

She stood there a moment longer, just outside the frame — bathed in the spill of light, listening to the small sounds of another person settling into night. Something about it felt so intimate it made her throat ache.

She leaned against the doorframe like it was muscle memory — like her body already knew how to belong there. One shoulder propped, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her weight resting easy against the wood as though this was always where the evening had meant to end.

The soft golden light from his room lit her from the side, warming the slope of her jaw, catching in her hair like firelight trapped in a dark bottle. The shirt hung long on her frame, brushing just past mid-thigh, and her silhouette looked almost delicate in the doorway — softened by sleep, by quiet, by him.

“You know,” she said, voice low and touched with amusement, “I’m starting to think you left the light on as bait.”

Spencer looked up, startled — clearly not expecting her, not like this. He froze where he stood, halfway to setting a book down on the nightstand, eyes wide and warm in the soft light, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and something unspoken.

“I—what?” he blinked. “No. I mean—no, I didn’t.”

She grinned, slow and sly and sleep-heavy, and stepped just a little closer into the room. Not fully — not yet. Just enough to cross that line between observer and invitation.

“You say that,” she murmured, “like you’re guilty.”

“I’m not,” he said too quickly, the words tripping over themselves.

Then, after a pause, softer—truth sneaking out beneath the breath:

“...Maybe a little.”

Her laugh slipped out in a hush — not loud, but close, and so familiar it tugged something loose in his chest. It sounded like the kind of secret you only share late at night. The kind of sound that folded into the air and stayed there.

“Busted,” she said.

And the space between them shimmered — lit not by tension, but by the unmistakable warmth of two people who felt it, finally, fully, and weren’t pretending not to anymore.

He tried to look away.

Really, he did — let his eyes drop to the book in his hand, the corner of the nightstand, the pattern in the wood grain that suddenly seemed very, very interesting.

But it didn’t help.

Because she was standing there like that — framed in the amber glow of his bedroom lamp, her body soft and half-silhouetted in the doorway, draped in his clothes like the night had conspired to undo him entirely.

The shirt hung off her shoulders in a way that felt almost cruel — stretched just enough to slide, slightly, exposing the smooth slope of one collarbone. The sleeves were too long, swallowed her hands in folds of worn cotton, but somehow that only made it worse. Or better. He couldn’t decide. 

The fabric skimmed her thighs, teasing the space just above her knees, brushing her skin like a whisper. The pajama pants had slipped low on her hips, cinched tight but still loose — and he could see the faint shape of her beneath them, the way her form curved gently under all that borrowed softness.

Familiar fabric — but completely transformed. Rewritten by the shape of her, the weight of her warmth inside it. It was like watching something private turned holy.

And the worst part — or maybe the best — was how utterly unaware she was of what she was doing to him.

She stood there, sleepy and beautiful, hair loose and tousled like she’d just stepped out of a dream. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, skin kissed by steam, lips still a little parted from the heat of her breath. She looked like something that didn’t belong in the real world — like a poem half-muttered into a pillow, or a photograph you only looked at in the quiet.

And Spencer —

Spencer ached.

His hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to touch her — not in any careless way, but just to confirm she was real. He wanted to step across the room and feel the press of his shirt against her back as he pulled her into him. He wanted to see how it would bunch under his palms, how the fabric would slip to the floor, how her skin would glow in this light, stretched out against the tangled mess of his sheets.

He wanted everything. All at once.

“You look...” His voice caught on the first word, breath snagging in his throat as he looked at her. He swallowed, lips parting slightly before he managed to push the words out. Quiet. Honest. “You look really good in that.”

Her brow lifted — one graceful arc, deliberate and knowing — and a smile bloomed slow across her lips. Not wide. Not sharp. But devastatingly effective. The kind of smile that knew its own power and wielded it gently, like a silk ribbon drawn tight around a secret.

“Yeah?” she murmured, voice laced with teasing sleepiness.

Then she stepped forward — barefoot on the hardwood, the faintest tap of her toes the only sound in the room. Her movements were unhurried, almost lazy in their confidence, but there was something unmistakable in the way she walked — like she knew exactly what he was seeing. Like she could feel the way his gaze curled over every line of her body beneath the soft cotton of his clothes.

“You like your fashion sense better when it’s on me?”

He exhaled through his nose — short, helpless.

“Significantly,” he said, because the truth was already out there and there was no pulling it back. His voice was lower than he meant it to be, rough around the edges with something warmer. Wilder.

She laughed, quiet and pleased, and then she twirled jokingly.

Spun in a slow, lazy circle with her arms lifted just slightly, palms up, like she was offering herself for review. The hem of the shirt flared around her thighs, catching the light as it rose, then fell again in soft waves. The fabric clung for a moment before drifting back into place, brushing the tops of her knees like a secret only he got to see.

“I feel like I’m drowning in it,” she said, half-mocking, but her voice curled at the edges, sleep-warmed and sweet.

He didn’t answer right away.

Because he was looking. And maybe he didn’t mean to — not entirely — but his eyes trailed the movement of her body like they couldn’t help it. 

She looked like a dream dressed in his life.

“You’re not,” he said at last, the words soft but unshakably certain. “It suits you.”

And it did.

It suited her in the way morning light suited sleeping faces, the way his name might sound if she said it against his skin — familiar, perfect, and entirely hers.

She smirked — slow and playful, lips curling just enough to betray how much she was enjoying this shift between them — then turned her attention to the room with a new kind of gaze. Not sharp. Not nosy. Just curious in that gentle, thoughtful way she had — like she was reading a story she already suspected the ending to, but still wanted to savor every line along the way.

Her eyes moved softly from corner to corner, taking in everything.

Framed photographs sat nestled along the upper shelf — not many, and none of them posed. Just quiet little snapshots of time. People frozen mid-laugh or mid-blink, caught in crooked frames and warm light. Most were older. Slightly faded. The kind of photos you don’t frame for beauty, but for belonging. Anchors to somewhere softer.

There was one of Garcia, beaming in neon glasses, flanked by Morgan doing his best to look unimpressed. Another of JJ and Prentiss sharing a plate of fries at some roadside diner, eyes squinting from the sun. Rossi with his sleeves rolled up and a drink in hand, smirking at whoever was behind the camera.

And then there were the ones of them.

Spencer and Y/N, in quieter corners of their lives. Not the field. Not the briefing room.

Him squinting into the wind on a ferry they’d taken up the coast, her arm thrown over his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. A blurry shot from a museum hallway, her laughing so hard she was doubled over and he was half-turned toward her, eyes crinkled in that way they always did when she was the one making him laugh. One at a book fair — she was holding up a ridiculous romance novel like it was a prize, and he looked at her like she was one.

None of the frames matched. Some tilted slightly. But they were arranged with a kind of care that didn’t need symmetry.

Just intention.

It was the kind of display that didn’t announce anything. But it felt like a love letter, if you knew how to read it. 

The books — of course — lined the shelves in tall, uneven stacks. Their spines were cracked and softened with love, pages filled with margin notes and crooked tabs, tiny flags of thought fluttering where his mind had once paused. She could picture him there, on quiet mornings, hunched over one with a hand in his hair and a furrow in his brow, the room humming with silence.

And there — tacked unevenly to the wall above his desk — a museum postcard, its edges slightly curled with time. The ink had softened from sun, the corners yellowed just enough to show it had lived there longer than it was meant to. Not pristine. Not decorative.

Kept.

The image was of a painting she couldn’t quite place — muted colors, a figure mid-motion, maybe something romantic in its brushwork. But that wasn’t what caught her breath.

It was the postcard.

From that museum.

The one they’d gone to together months ago, wedged between cases, on some rare free afternoon that hadn’t asked them to be anything but themselves. He’d bought it at the gift shop when she wasn’t looking, after she’d pointed out the piece in passing, said something about the color reminding her of old film and Sunday mornings.

And now it lived here — above his desk, above his thoughts.

Not framed. Not tucked into a drawer.

Just here.

As if he hadn’t wanted to forget it. As if he’d been anchoring her presence to this space ever since.

She didn’t say anything.

But her eyes lingered on it longer than she meant them to — and when she turned to look at him, she was smiling in that small, knowing way that said:

I see it. I remember, too.

She moved slowly, each barefoot step soundless on the floor, a whisper of motion. Her fingers drifted to the edge of his desk — knuckles brushing the surface, palm barely grazing the wood. There, in one neat stack, were papers. Carefully folded. Organized, but lived-in. The kind of order that came from someone who didn’t mind a little mess as long as he knew where it lived.

She let her hand rest there a moment, her thumb grazing the edge of a page, and said — lightly, but not without affection — “This where all the thinking happens?”

Spencer watched her from where he stood near the bed, his heart stuttering once in his chest. Not because she was touching his things, but because she wasn’t just touching them. She was seeing them. Seeing him.

He shrugged, a breath of a smile ghosting over his lips. “Sometimes,” he said. “Depends on the day.”

“And the bed?” she asked, turning to glance at him over her shoulder, her head tilted just slightly — playful, curious, that slow-blooming smile tugging at the corner of her lips like she already knew he wouldn’t survive the question. “Just for sleeping?”

He blinked, caught halfway through a thought, halfway through a breath. His gaze, which had been fixed somewhere safer — the spine of a book, the edge of the lamp — now locked helplessly onto her.

“Uh—yes?” he said, and it came out with the shaky precision of someone who wanted to sound sure and failed.

She grinned, soft and wicked and golden in the lamp light. A grin that unfolded slowly, deliberately, like silk unspooling across a hardwood floor.

“You say that like it’s negotiable.”

His breath hitched. His shoulders stiffened, just barely, like he was bracing for the impact of her voice — for the weight of her in his room, in his clothes, saying things like that with her bare feet on his floor.

“I—no, I just—” he tried again, floundering.

But whatever came next was swallowed by the sound of her walking.

She crossed the room in three slow, quiet steps. Not rushed. Not coy. Just present. Just herself — loose-limbed and sleep-soft and devastating. She moved like a daydream he’d been trying not to have.

And then — as if it were the most natural thing in the world — she sat.

Eased down onto the edge of his bed, one leg curling beneath her, the other swinging slightly where it dangled. The mattress gave beneath her, dipped gently with the weight of her, and for a moment he swore he felt the pull of gravity shift.

She didn’t look at him right away. She let the quiet sit between them like steam, let it gather.

Then, low and private and absolutely certain, she murmured:

“You’re fun when you’re flustered.”

His lips parted — then closed again, like a thought forgotten mid-sentence. A beat passed before he found his voice, and when he did, it was quiet and a little hoarse, laced with something too honest to be smooth.

“You make it extremely easy to be,” he muttered, eyes narrowed just enough to feign composure.

But they both knew better.

Because his heart was beating too hard.

Because his hands had curled slightly at his sides.

Because he hadn’t taken a full breath since she sat down.

And because even now, even then, he was looking at her like she was something breakable — not for fragility’s sake, but because he cared too much to touch her wrong.

The light from the lamp spilled across the room like honey — thick and golden, clinging to the edges of bookshelves and blanket folds, warming the corners where evening still lingered. It touched everything gently: her knees tucked beneath her, the faint sheen of the wood floor, the soft muss of his sheets where she sat like a secret the night didn’t want to share.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It breathed — slow and deep, like the space itself was expanding to hold them both without asking questions. The kind of quiet that didn’t beg to be filled. The kind that trusted its own weight.

Her hand moved lazily, almost thoughtless, fingers drifting across the book he’d left near the pillow. She traced the spine once, then again — not reading it, not even really seeing it. Just feeling it. Like the smooth press of paper against skin might tell her something about him she hadn’t learned yet.

“Are you actually going to sleep on the couch?” she asked, eventually — her voice low, unhurried. She didn’t look at him when she said it. Just let the words curl into the space between them and settle there like warmth steeping into tea.

“That was the plan,” he said softly.

His voice came from the far edge of the bed, where he still sat with perfect posture — like if he leaned too far in her direction he might fall right into her orbit and forget how to climb back out.

Her thumb moved along the book’s edge again. No reply. No protest. But she didn’t move either.

The book remained between them, forgotten now. A placeholder. A boundary. But not a real one.

Y/N shifted, the quiet motion of someone getting comfortable in a space she hadn’t intended to stay in. Her legs tucked tighter beneath her, one hand braced on the bed beside her hip, the other still grazing the cover. She leaned, just slightly, toward the center of the bed — not a decision, not quite. More like gravity had changed its mind about where it wanted her.

Spencer stayed still, but not comfortably. He was very aware of every inch of himself — the tension in his shoulders, the flutter in his stomach, the way his hand moved absently over the same book her fingers had just left. A trace. A memory. A nearly-there.

His other hand hovered in his lap, half-curled — twitching once like it meant to reach for something but didn’t know what. Or who.

“You should be tired,” she said at last, her voice softer than before — so low it felt like it had been folded into the space between them rather than spoken aloud. The words stretched lazily between breaths, brushed with sleep. “Aren’t you always the first to crash after a case?”

He glanced at her, his profile lit in soft gold.

“Not always,” he said. “Sometimes I just… wait for the quiet.”

She hummed, a slow, contented sound — somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Not quite agreement. Not quite anything. Just understanding.

Her fingers drifted toward the hem of the shirt she wore — his shirt — and caught absently on a loose thread. She didn’t tug. Just toyed with it, rolling the fabric between thumb and forefinger like it gave her something to do with the silence. Something to hold onto.

“It’s quiet now,” she murmured.

And it was. Not just in the room, but around them. The kind of hush that only came when the rest of the world had gone to sleep. The kind of hush that didn’t press, didn’t ask — just invited. The kind that made every glance feel louder. Every breath feel shared.

Spencer looked at her then. Fully.

No flicker. No half-turn.

Just looked.

Her face was different in this light. Softer. Not in the way light changes things — but in the way she had changed. Her shoulders had uncoiled, her hands were open, her whole presence less guarded. The edges of her had blurred, finally, like the end of a long-held breath.

She didn’t realize she was giving herself away. That her mouth was slightly parted, eyes half-lidded, voice thick with sleep. That she looked more like herself now than she did in the field, in the daylight, in all the places where sharpness was required.

And God, she was beautiful like this.

“It’s different with you here,” he said quietly. “The quiet.”

Her lips parted again, barely — not for a word, just for the breath she forgot to take. She didn’t look away. But something in her went still, like his words had touched a part of her she didn’t expect anyone else to notice.

She didn’t answer right away.

Just curled her legs in closer, tucking her knees beneath the oversized fabric of the borrowed shirt, and reached without thinking for the blanket at the foot of the bed. The motion was slow, almost absentminded, like her body was simply following instinct — like the need for warmth, for stillness, was stronger than any social pretense that said this is temporary.

Neither of them said the thing hanging between them.

Not you don’t have to go. Not I’m already staying.

But it was there. Settled like breath in the walls, like the hush of a room that didn’t want to be loud again.

The blanket settled over her lap in a soft cascade, and her hand smoothed it without looking. The edge of it draped near his knee — close enough to touch. Close enough to ask something wordless.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” she said finally, her voice barely more than breath. Her gaze didn’t lift. She didn’t press. She just let it hang there, soft and honest. “There’s room.”

He froze.

“Y/N…”

Just her name. Said like a warning, but softer. Said like please don’t tempt me, but please don’t stop.

She smiled gently, still facing away from him, but he saw it — the way it softened her cheek, the way her fingers curled more loosely in the blanket like she wasn’t holding anything back now.

“I’m not trying anything, Reid,” she said. “I’m just warm. And comfortable. And if you go back out there, you’ll probably fall asleep on the floor halfway to the couch.”

He let out a quiet huff — not a laugh, exactly. More like an exhale pulled straight from the center of his chest. Because she was right. And because the idea of falling asleep anywhere but here, with her like this, felt suddenly impossible.

She looked like gravity had already claimed her. Like the shape of his bed had opened just for her and she’d fit into it without even trying. Her body was soft now — no tension, no weight. Just warmth and breath and skin beneath fabric that used to be his.

He stayed frozen for a moment longer. Thinking. Feeling too much.

Then, quietly, still barely moving, he said — almost more to himself than to her:

“I’m scared I won’t be able to stop myself.”

Her head turned at that. Just slightly. Her eyes met his — warm and steady and unafraid.

Then—softly, surely:

“What if I don’t want you to?”

The words were barely above a whisper. But they landed like gravity.

And then she smiled.

Not teasing. Not coy.

Just soft.

Like she’d already known.

Like it didn’t scare her at all.

He let out another breath. Then, slowly, with a care that bordered on reverence, he reached for the lamp on the nightstand.

The click of the switch was soft, final.

And then the room dimmed to nothing but breath, and the quiet pulse of two hearts beating closer than either of them had meant for them to.

The mattress dipped softly as Spencer eased beneath the blanket, slow and cautious — like he was trying not to disturb something sacred. The hush in the room held him back a little, made each movement feel like it had weight. He didn’t want to shift the bed too much. Didn’t want to cross that invisible line unless she invited him to.

She was already nestled beneath the covers, turned toward him, her body curled like a comma — soft and tired and warm. One arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting between them, fingers barely curled. In the low glow spilling from the cracked hallway door, he could just make out the rise and fall of her breath, the shape of her mouth relaxed in sleep-heavy stillness.

In the dark, everything looked gentler.

No worry carved into her brow. No tension in her jaw. Just softness. Just quiet.

Just her, the version of her he only got glimpses of — when the world outside stopped asking her to be sharp.

“Cozy,” she murmured, voice low and near, like it belonged to the room and not just to her.

He huffed a laugh under his breath. “You stole the good side.”

“Snooze you lose, Doctor,” she whispered back, lazy and pleased with herself.

He turned his head toward her, barely able to make out the silhouette of her grin — the faint curve of her lips etched like moonlight across the pillow.

“You’re insufferable,” he said, not even trying to sound annoyed.

“And you love it.”

There was no hesitation this time.

No fumble. No nervous glance away.

Just the quiet truth, said like an exhale — like it had been sitting behind his ribs for longer than he knew how to name:

“I do.”

Her breath caught — not audibly, not sharply. Just a stillness. A pause between heartbeats.

She didn’t blink it away, didn’t deflect with a joke. She only looked at him, steady and quiet and close enough now to feel the warmth of his words where they’d landed.

He didn’t take it back.

Didn’t explain it. Didn’t rush to soften the edge of what he’d said.

He only looked back at her, eyes open and bare in the dim light, and let the words settle between them like something earned.

The quiet had deepened.

Not the kind that stretched thin and awkward, but the kind that settled — like dusk on a still lake, like the hush of snowfall outside a window. It wrapped around them beneath the blanket, warm and low and steady.

And then, slowly — like a thought forming — her fingers found his hand in the space between them.

She didn’t take it. Didn’t lace their fingers together or claim it as hers.

She just touched lightly.

The softest drift of fingertips along the back of his hand. Up and down. Slow circles. Wandering lines. Like she was memorizing him through skin, like she didn’t need anything more than this.

It wasn’t the kind of affection that asked for attention.

It was the kind that came after all the asking had already been done.

Spencer didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe, maybe — not properly. Not with the way his chest tightened at how deliberate it felt. How careful. 

The sort of care you don’t show someone you plan on forgetting.

Her fingers kept moving, aimless and tender.

“Does this bother you?” she asked softly, her voice almost lost in the blanket-warmed air. Still tracing. Still gentle.

His reply came too fast — unguarded, low, full of something that trembled just under the surface.

“No,” he said. “Not even a little.”

There was a pause, and then—

She smiled.

A real one. Small, tired, a little lopsided — but full. Lit from somewhere deep, like it had been waiting all night to make its way to the surface.

“Good,” she whispered, not letting go.

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It shimmered.

“I meant it, you know,” he added after a while. “What I said earlier. You look good in my clothes.”

She tilted her head, just enough that her nose almost touched his. “You sure you’re not just delirious from lack of sleep?”

“I’m delirious,” he said, “but not about that.”

A breath of laughter slipped from her — faint and breathless — soft as the dark around them. It barely rose between them, just warmed the air where their mouths almost met, then vanished like mist.

And then, neither of them moved. Not really.

Just closer. A slow, inevitable drift. Like gravity had quietly rewritten its rules in the space between their bodies.

His hand shifted beneath hers, the faintest scrape of skin on fabric. Turned palm-up — an offering, a question. Her fingers slipped into the open space like they were meant to be there. Fit like memory.

Their knees brushed under the blanket. Breath mingled. The quiet stretched long and low, full of want, of wonder, of something sacred and unfinished.

It would’ve been easy to stay there. To fall asleep with that quiet pulse between them, not quite touching, not quite apart. To pretend this edge didn’t hum beneath the surface.

But something pulled.

Something quiet and burning and hungry.

Her hand moved slowly — not tentative, not shy, just reverent. From the curve of his wrist, along the inside of his forearm, to the slope of his shoulder and the warmth of his neck. Her thumb found his jaw, traced the rough stubble there like she needed the confirmation of realness. Like she needed to feel him to believe he hadn’t vanished in the dark.

He exhaled — shaky, low, uneven — like the air leaving him had caught on the weight of her touch.

And then she was leaning in. Or actually, he was — because he couldn’t bear it, not one second longer. Not the breath between them. Not the stretch of space where her mouth wasn’t on his. Not the ache of her skin so close and not yet touched.

Their lips met like an echo — like something remembered before it was ever known. A hush, a question, a breath, an answer. All of it, all at once.

He kissed her like she was breakable — slow, reverent, as if the moment might splinter if he pushed too hard. Like he hadn’t kissed anyone in years, or maybe like he’d only ever been waiting to kiss her.

But then—

Then she made a sound.

Soft. Desperate.

The barest whimper against his mouth — and it undid something in him so completely, so deeply, that whatever careful structure he’d built to keep himself still collapsed without a sound.

His hand found the back of her neck, fingers threading into the warmth of her hair, like anchoring himself to her could keep the rest of him from falling apart. But it didn’t work. Not when she gripped the front of his shirt like she needed him closer — like she didn’t care what it looked like anymore. Not when she pressed into him and her mouth opened with a sigh that felt like it had been trapped behind her ribs for years.

They kissed like breath didn’t matter. Like time had folded itself into this one moment and refused to go on without them. Like the world had gone silent just to let them listen to each other breathe.

And it wasn’t innocent anymore.

Not with the way her body moved against his — slow, drawn by instinct, hips shifting just enough to make him feel it. Not with the way her hand curled into the space between his shoulder blades like she was afraid he’d pull away, like she needed to hold him there.

He breathed her name into her mouth again — not clearly, not fully, just the shape of it, half-broken, half-prayer. And she kissed him like she already knew what he meant.

His fingers trembled as they traced from her jaw down — a reverent path along the curve of her neck, to the place just beneath her ear where her pulse fluttered wild. His palm flattened there, over the column of her throat, gentle but unyielding, like he couldn’t help but feel the proof of her — alive, wanting, his.

A broken sound escaped her — not words, just breath — and he lost the last of his hesitation, if there was even any to lose.

He moved without thinking, without planning. One shift of weight and he was over her, slowly, carefully, but not gently anymore. The mattress dipped under his knees, hands braced on either side of her. Their eyes met only for a breath — hers wide, lips kiss-bitten and open, his gaze darker than she’d ever seen it — before he bent to her again.

He kissed her lips like they were the only answer he’d ever needed. Then her jaw — slow, open-mouthed, reverent — the stubble along his own chin brushing soft against her skin. Her head tilted instinctively, eyes fluttering shut, as his lips moved along the line of her neck, her pulse, the curve just below her ear.

Then back to her mouth.

Always back to her mouth.

She pulled him in like she was starving, and he let her — let himself.

Let himself feel her hands gripping his shoulders now, the rise and fall of her chest, the way she arched under him without meaning to, like her body was reaching for something she couldn’t name. His own body answered, helplessly — heart racing, blood humming, control slipping in slow spirals as he kissed her again, and again, and again.

The room was quiet except for their breath — hitched, shallow, wanting — and the faint rustle of sheets as they moved, as he pressed her down into the mattress like he couldn’t bear the thought of her slipping away.

The space between them had all but vanished — breath tangled with breath, warmth soaked into warmth. The blanket had slipped low over their hips, forgotten. And still, neither of them pulled away.

Spencer’s hand — the one resting beside her on the bed — moved without thinking. Just a shift at first. His fingertips brushed her waist, light as a whisper against the cotton of the shirt. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Only stilled.

And when his hand slipped beneath the hem — slow, unsure, achingly careful — her breath hitched.

The skin there was warm. Silken. The kind of soft he didn’t have words for.

He moved in delicate strokes — tracing the shape of her side, the gentle curve of her ribcage, the dip beneath it. Like he was mapping her. Like he couldn’t believe she was letting him.

And she was.

Her eyes fluttered, a quiet sound catching in her throat — something between a sigh and a gasp, held just for him. Her hips shifted slightly, not away, but toward him. An answer. A request.

He moved higher, fingers dragging the fabric up with each inch. Not hurried. Not demanding. Just wanting. His thumb traced a slow line beneath the swell of her breasts, the shape of her breathing changing under his touch.

She opened her eyes again, lashes heavy, lips parted in a way that made his heart trip.

“Spencer,” she murmured — nothing more than his name, but said like it meant something. Like she could feel everything he was trying to say through the reverence in his hands.

“I—” He swallowed, jaw tense with restraint, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t pull back. “I don’t want to rush this.”

“You’re not,” she said, voice hushed and certain. Her hand found his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “You couldn’t.”

And then she leaned forward, slow and unhurried, and kissed him again — deeper this time, more open. Her body curved into his, warm and pliant, and his hand pressed flatter against her chest, grounding himself in the realness of her.

She sighed into his mouth — soft and wrecked — and he felt it in every nerve ending. Like something opened in him at the sound. Like it shook something loose. His lips moved over hers again, slower now but deeper, fuller, until they weren’t kissing to find each other anymore — they were kissing because they already had.

And then he shifted.

His mouth found the edge of her jaw first — a ghost of a kiss, delicate and slow. Then lower. The slope of her neck. The spot just beneath her ear where her breath caught again, sharp and involuntary.

“Spencer—”

He hummed in response, the sound low against her throat.

And then he lingered.

Mouth brushing slowly, deliberately, across that warm stretch of skin. His lips parted — a kiss, then another, each one pressed with more intention, more need. Like he was learning her pulse with his mouth. Like he was writing something there she’d feel for hours after.

She shifted beneath him, her leg wrapping tighter around his hip, and the smallest sound — helpless, breathy — escaped her lips.

His teeth grazed her skin. Barely. Not a bite. Not quite.

Just enough to make her gasp.

Just enough to leave a mark.

His breath caught.

He hadn’t meant to — hadn’t planned it — but when he pulled back slightly and saw the soft flush blooming across her throat, the shape of him there on her, he couldn’t look away.

And she was looking back at him now, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, her expression somewhere between wonder and need.

“You’re...” he started, then stopped. Shook his head like he couldn’t find the words.

But she already knew.

So she pulled him back down — her hand curling around the back of his neck, her body arching into his like it couldn’t help itself — and kissed him like the night would never end.

His hand slid lower, slow as breath, fingers tracing the bare curve of her waist beneath the hem of his shirt — not hurried, not greedy. Just wanting. Just awed.

She felt impossibly warm beneath his touch. All soft skin and stammered breath and the quiet, electric give of her body against his. He pulled her closer until they fit, all lines pressed flush and trembling, and when her head tipped back slightly — that unspoken invitation written in the shape of her throat — he swore he could feel his heart stagger in his chest.

And then he kissed her there.

Right at the center of her throat — slow, open-mouthed, full of something more fragile than lust. Something aching. A murmur of devotion passed through his lips as they pressed against her pulse, like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of her from the inside out.

He didn’t stop there.

His mouth moved lower, finding the tender hollow at the base of her neck, then the curve of her collarbone — each kiss deeper now, less careful. More desperate. His hand still traced slow, reverent lines beneath the fabric of her shirt, but his mouth was leaving promises behind.

Soft marks bloomed where he lingered — not harsh, not bruised, but present. Little echoes of him pressed into her skin like he couldn’t stand the thought of morning washing her clean of him.

And she let him.

Her fingers wove into his hair, holding him there, like maybe she needed the same thing. A mark to carry through the quiet hours. A tether to keep the night from slipping away.

When he pulled back just slightly to look at her — lips parted, cheeks flushed, hair mussed where she’d held him — she met his gaze like it was the only light in the room.

“Spencer,” she breathed — not just a whisper, but a plea. Barely formed. Almost broken. His name in her mouth like something sacred.

“Please,” she said, voice catching in her throat. “I need—”

She didn’t finish. Couldn’t. But the way she looked at him said everything.

And it undid him.

A soft, aching sound slipped from his lips — somewhere between a groan and a promise — as he leaned in and kissed her again, deeper this time. Slower. Like he was trying to give her everything she asked for without making her say it.

His hand found her waist, steady and warm, drawing her closer. She melted into him, sighing against his mouth like she’d been holding it in forever.

And in that hush — between her breath and his hands and the soft, trembled ache of being known — he whispered, “I’ve got you, angel.”

His hand trembled where it touched her, as if he was holding something too precious — and maybe he was. Maybe he always had been.

Still, he didn’t rush.

His hand roamed gently, sliding over the dip of her hip, mapping the shape of her in slow, reverent passes. And then—

His fingers brushed lower. Grazing just beneath the waistband of the borrowed pajama pants. The fabric gave, loose and yielding. And then—

Lower still.

They slipped beneath.

Just barely. Just enough.

A hush broke between them.

Her breath stuttered — caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh — and she leaned into him like it was instinct, her leg tightening around his hip, her fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulder.

His touch paused there, just inside the edge of her underwear. Not moving further. Not pushing. Just there — skin to skin in a place that felt suddenly louder than words.

And still, his hand didn’t wander.

It rested. Gentle. Anchored. A confession more than a question.

His mouth moved slowly along the curve of her throat — not kissing, worshiping. Like she was something holy. Like her skin held scripture he’d waited his whole life to read.

“Spencer,” she whispered — not just a name, but a summons. A prayer drawn from the depths of her, aching and soft. And when he breathed it in, it wrecked him.

She arched into him, offering more. A tilt of her chin. A shift in her breath. An invitation.

And he answered.

Not with words. Not yet. But with lips that moved lower, reverent, tracing devotion in every press of his mouth against her skin. Her collarbone. The hollow where her pulse beat like a secret beneath his lips. She felt the shape of him tremble, the way his hands gripped her like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold something this sacred.

She gasped — not from shock, but recognition. Like he’d found some quiet altar hidden beneath her ribs.

He whispered her name again like it belonged in a psalm. Like it was the psalm.

She was the litany.

And when he kissed her again — slower now, with more reverence than heat — she let her hand drift to the back of his neck and murmured something only the night would ever hear.

A benediction. A vow.

And she let him. Head tilted, throat bared, fingers curling in the fabric at his back as if to anchor herself. As if she knew — knew in her bones — that she was being seen, and touched, and kept.

And through it all — the weight of him above her, the heat in his hands, the way she whispered his name like it was something sacred — he was still holding on to the last thread of restraint like it might break at any second.

Because he wanted more. So much more.

But he still wanted to be good.

Even now. Especially now.

So he kissed her like that was the only way left to tell her. 

That he wanted her. That he’d always wanted her. 

That this — this ache, this desperation, this us — had been building in the quiet edges of every look, every joke, every missed chance.

And finally, finally, they were no longer pretending not to feel it.

There was no space left between them.

Still lost in it — the slow press of lips, the drag of hands over fabric, the heat of breath between parted mouths. Spencer’s weight settled heavier over her now, no longer braced or hovering, but with her. Their bodies fit like conversation — like they'd always known how to move together, even before they ever had.

Like she belonged there. Like she was meant to pull him closer, and he was meant to follow.

His hand cupped her face as he kissed her again — slower this time. Softer. Like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth with his own. His thumb brushed beneath her eye, tender, reverent — like every blink she gave was something sacred.

Their mouths moved in rhythm now, gentler, languid — not from lack of want, but from the kind of exhaustion that settles in the bones after something long-awaited finally gives way. Like the tide rolling in, slow and full, finally touching the shore it had been reaching for all night.

His thumb drifted downward, tracing the curve of her cheek, then the corner of her mouth.

And then — gently — he ran it over her lower lip, slow and deliberate. Her breath caught.

He watched her.

Watched the way her lips parted instinctively beneath the touch, pink and kiss-swollen, eyes fluttering half-closed. And when his thumb slipped just barely past them, brushing against the warm inside of her mouth, she didn't pull away. She held his gaze and let him.

Her tongue grazed his skin — a whisper-soft drag, like a sigh.

It undid him.

Not because it was bold. But because it was intimate. Quiet. Trusting.

His pulse stammered. He leaned in again, kissed her like she was the only real thing in the world, and pulled her closer, deeper, like he needed her breath in his lungs to stay alive.

And still, they didn’t rush.

Even as their bodies stayed tangled. Even as sleep pulled at the corners of the room.

Even as their fingers curled tighter into each other, wordless and warm.

She sighed his name like it belonged in her mouth, like she’d been saving it for this moment.

And he answered with a kiss — slow and open, tasting of want and wonder. One that deepened until they forgot where the air ended and they began. Until her body arched again, drawn to him like tide to moon, and he followed, helpless to resist.

His hand slipped beneath her shirt again, this time with more certainty — fingertips tracing up the line of her back, warm and slow, until she gasped quietly into his mouth. Her skin bowed into his palm, and when he pressed closer, she let him, legs loosening and curling to cradle his hips like they’d done this before, like they’d always been made for this shape.

The room felt too still, like it was holding its breath for them.

She moved again, barely — just enough — and his own breath caught hard against her throat. A soft, broken sound escaped him, and then another, quieter, when her hands skimmed beneath his shirt and found skin.

Her name left his mouth like a prayer. Ragged. Dazed.

And he whispered something else then — something low, just for her — but it was too soft to catch. It didn’t matter. She heard it in the way his hands shook where they held her. In the way he kissed her like he was barely holding himself together.

Her hips tilted again, and he followed instinctively, forehead dropping to her shoulder as he groaned, muffled and aching, into the crook of her neck. His hand gripped at the curve of her thigh beneath the covers, anchoring himself there — trying not to move, not to lose himself.

But it was already happening.

Whatever carefulness he’d built, whatever lines he’d drawn, were gone now — softened at the edges, smudged by the weight of her breath, the taste of her sighs, the warmth of her under his hands, in his arms, against his heart.

And still, they didn’t name it.

They just felt it. Moved in it.

Soft gasps. Gentle pressure. The desperate, shivering closeness of two people falling apart in each other’s arms, trying to stay quiet, trying to stay slow, trying not to fall too far.

But they were already there.

And when she whispered his name again — broken and beautiful — he kissed her like he was saying me too.

She sighed his name like it was a lullaby.

And he kissed it from her mouth like a promise.

Somewhere between his mouth on her neck and her fingers sliding beneath the hem of his shirt, the layers between them began to fade. Not suddenly. Not all at once.

Just the quiet shift of cotton. The breathless drag of fabric against skin. The subtle give of a waistband easing lower, guided by hands that moved without hurry — only awe.

She didn’t stop him. Only watched him through the haze of moonlight and heat, her eyes dark and open, her breathing soft and shallow.

When her own hands found the hem of his shirt, he let her tug it upward, slow as a tide pulling away from the shore. He raised his arms for her without a word, without breaking her gaze, like offering.

And she took it.

The shirt joined the rest of the soft, crumpled fabric somewhere beneath them — forgotten. Not important.

What mattered was the way his skin felt beneath her palms. Warm. Trembling. Alive.

He leaned in again, kissed her once — and then again — slower this time, like he could feel the weight of the moment settling in the space between them. The gravity of being known like this. The hush of being seen.

Her legs shifted, curling around him like instinct, like memory — like she’d been waiting for this shape, this closeness, all along.

And when he pressed closer, skin to skin now, every inch of her answered without hesitation. Her breath hitched, her fingers tangled in his hair, and he clutched at her thighs — rough, enough for bruises to bloom like dusk, muted violets and honeyed indigo — tender, secret petals pressed into skin where memory met touch — like he needed her to anchor him. Like if he let go, he might come undone entirely.

His hands trembled where they gripped her, thumbs brushing over the soft curve of her skin, holding her like she was his and had always been. Soft sounds escaped his mouth, whimpers so dreamy they sounded angels singing down into Earth. Sharp gasps buried into the crook of her neck, warm breath heating the soft skin.

A sigh slipped from her mouth — wonder and want braided together — and he swallowed it with a kiss. Deeper. Quieter. A promise, sealed in breath and trembling hands.

And still, they stayed soft.

No rush. No sharp edges.

Only hands that explored reverently, like she was something precious he’d been entrusted to hold.

Only breath that stuttered and caught as the distance between them disappeared entirely.

Only the sound of hearts learning each other in the dark — steady and aching and close.

And then, later, the room had gone quiet again — not with absence, but with everything that remained. The hush of something sacred settling into skin.

Not empty. Not hollow. But full — with breath, with warmth, with the invisible weight of what had just passed between them.

They hadn’t spoken in minutes. There was nothing left to say. Not when everything was already written into the shape of their bodies — the curve of her leg around his, the slow sweep of his fingers along her spine, the ghost of his mouth at her shoulder.

Spencer’s hand never left her.

Even now, as their breathing slowed. Even now, as the rise and fall of her chest settled into something steadier — not from distance, but from peace.

His thumb traced idle, reverent shapes against the slope of her back. Little half-circles. Loops. A language only she would understand.

And she didn’t move.

Just stayed wrapped around him like gravity had claimed her. One arm tucked between their chests, the other tangled in his curls where her fingers had never let go.

She was warm. Too warm, probably. But she didn’t shift. Didn’t pull away. Only turned her face into his throat and exhaled slow, like she was letting go of something heavy she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.

He felt it, too — the unraveling of tension he didn’t know had lived in his ribs. The soft collapse of every line he’d drawn to keep from needing this too much.

His lips brushed her hairline. Not a kiss, not exactly. Just presence.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, voice hoarse and barely there.

Then a pause. A breath. Their movements slowed. His weight sank into hers, warm and heavy. Her hands ran up his back once more, fingertips tracing the dip of his spine, and then stilled.

Her eyes blinked open, just barely. “We’re gonna fall asleep like this,” she murmured, voice thick with warmth, words curling like smoke.

Spencer didn’t move. His lips were still pressed against her temple. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She huffed a lazy laugh. “We’ll wake up sore and sideways and probably on the floor.”

“Worth it,” he whispered.

Another smile bloomed slow and sleepy across her lips. She leaned up, brushed her nose against his throat, kissed him once more — a kiss that barely lasted, barely touched, but said everything.

His arms curled around her tighter.

They didn’t pull apart.

Not even as their bodies slackened. Not even as sleep began to pull at the edges of them, soft and thick and sweet.

Somewhere between breath and dream, she whispered, “Didn’t know you could be that gentle and still ruin me.”

And he smiled into her hair, voice almost gone with sleep. “I’ll try to keep ruining you, then.”

She was still smiling when she drifted off.

And so was he.

Morning didn’t come all at once.

It crept in slowly — a pale gold light easing through the slats of the blinds, feathering across the walls, the sheets, the curve of two bodies still wrapped in sleep. The air was quiet, still softened by the hush of early hours, like the whole world had paused to give them this.

Y/N woke first.

Not fully — not in the way you do when something jolts you up — but gently, like surfacing from the warmth of a deep, sweet dream. She blinked once, then again, lashes fluttering as the shape of the room came into focus. And then she felt him.

Spencer.

Still pressed to her, still wrapped around her like a second blanket. His arm lay heavy across her middle, skin to skin now — no cotton between them, just the warmth of his palm resting low against the curve of her waist, fingers splayed like he didn’t want to let go, even in sleep.

Their legs were tangled like roots beneath the sheets, her knee still hooked over his thigh, the arch of her foot tucked behind his calf. Every part of her seemed to fit there — inside the soft press of his body, the hollow of his chest, the shape of his hold.

She could feel his breath at the back of her neck — slow, even, steady. The kind of rhythm you only fall into when there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

She just lay there for a long moment, breathing him in. The scent of him. The warmth of skin against skin. The quiet, lingering ache of what they’d given each other in the dark.

Last night hadn’t vanished with sleep. It hadn’t dulled at the edges like a dream. It was still here — alive in the heat of his body pressed to hers, in the way his hand rested low on her waist like it remembered every place it had touched.

She could still feel it. The weight of his mouth on her skin — not just a memory, but something deeper, something etched. The way he’d said her name like a vow. Like a prayer meant only for her.

It lingered. In the hollow of her throat. At the curve of her lips. In the gentle ache that whispered down her spine — not pain, but existence. A hum in her muscles, in the space between breath and bone.

Her fingers moved instinctively, brushing the side of her neck with a kind of reverence. As if she could press the moment back into her skin. As if her own touch might still catch the echo of his. She lay quiet for a beat, wrapped in the hush of morning.

And then, slowly, she turned — just enough to face him.

His face was peaceful in sleep. His brow — so often tense with thought — was smooth now. Lips slightly parted. Hair soft and mussed from where she’d run her hands through it too many times to count. The sight of him like that — so open, so unguarded — did something to her chest she didn’t quite have words for.

She reached up, slow and careful, and brushed her fingers through a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He stirred at the touch, but didn’t wake.

Not until she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It was feather-light, more breath than contact, but it was enough.

He stirred again — this time a little more. Eyes fluttering open. Not all the way. Just enough to see her.

A faint, sleep-wrecked smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Hi.”

Her heart twisted.

“Hi,” she whispered back, barely audible, like the morning itself might startle if she spoke too loud. “You snore.”

“I do not,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

“You do.” Her fingers drifted along his jaw with the back of her knuckles — a lazy, reverent gesture, warm as the space between them. “It’s a soft snore. Almost endearing.”

His lips curved again, slow and lopsided, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat before opening again — slower this time, as if the light behind her was something worth savoring.

“If I do,” he said, voice like gravel wrapped in silk, “it’s because you wore me out.”

She grinned, lips twitching, and leaned in just enough for her forehead to rest against his. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

His fingers brushed the edge of her hip beneath the blanket — not with intent, just to anchor himself in the shape of her — and he let out a breath that felt more like a sigh of contentment than anything else.

She laughed quietly, and it curled between them like a ribbon. “You’re lucky you’re cute in the morning.”

“You’re lucky I’m still coherent,” he murmured, voice low and rough and ruined by sleep.

They didn’t move to get up. Neither of them even pretended to.

Instead, Spencer shifted just enough to press a kiss to her cheek. Then another to her temple. Then one to her collarbone, just beneath the edge of the fabric of the blanket.

Her fingers slid up the back of his neck, and she leaned into him like she could climb inside the quiet.

They stayed like that for a long while — pressed close, barely speaking, barely moving — sharing warmth and breath and the weightless, glowing hush of something undeniable. Something real.

No questions. No what now?

Just this.

Just them.

Still tangled. Still warm. Still smiling.

Eventually, they got up.

Not because they wanted to. Not because they were ready to leave the warmth of each other. But because Spencer’s stomach had let out a low, unmistakable growl and Y/N had laughed against his shoulder, murmuring something about him being lucky she found it adorable.

So now, they were in his kitchen.

Barefoot, still dressed in yesterday’s sleep and each other’s affection.

She wore only his shirt.

The one he’d handed her the night before — half-folded, worn soft with time — now draped over her like it belonged there. The hem skimmed just past the tops of her thighs, riding up ever so slightly as she moved, revealing the gentle curve of skin where the night still lived on her.

Her legs were bare, marked faintly where sheets had once twisted around them. The sleeves bunched at her elbows, too long and not rolled, like she’d pulled it on in a haze and hadn’t thought to fuss with it. And her hair — God, her hair — was a tumble of sleepy waves, half-tucked behind one ear, half falling into her face in that effortless way she never intended but he would never forget.

She moved around his kitchen like she’d done it before. Barefoot. Unhurried. One hand reaching for two mugs from the cabinet, the other brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with the kind of grace that didn’t know it was being watched.

He watched her from the other side of the counter, utterly ruined by the sight of her.

Because there was something devastatingly intimate about it — not loud, not demanding, but real. Like a future had already unfolded and left this moment behind as proof. Like this was what it might feel like, to be loved by her on an ordinary morning.

Just her. In his shirt. In his kitchen. Like it had always been meant to be.

“Coffee’s probably stronger than you remember,” he said, leaning on his elbows, voice still thick with sleep. “I may have used the wrong scoop.”

She gave him a lazy side-eye as she poured. “So what you’re saying is… this is revenge.”

He smiled. “Mild retribution. You mocked my snoring.”

“You did snore.”

“Allegedly.”

She handed him a mug and kissed his cheek as she passed — casual, easy, like the thousandth time instead of the first.

He turned slightly toward her, eyes drifting down to her mouth before lifting again.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She looked at him — really looked — and something in her expression shifted. Just a breath. Just enough for softness to rise like sunlight warming the edges of sleep.

His curls were a mess, more unruly than usual — flattened on one side where her fingers had rested all night, wild and fluffed on the other like sleep had tangled itself into the strands. A piece stuck up near his temple, catching the light from the kitchen window in a way that made him look impossibly younger. Unbrushed. Unbothered. Barefoot in his own quiet world.

There was still a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. His shirt clung lopsided to one shoulder. His eyes, when they lifted to meet hers, were heavy-lidded with warmth — tired, maybe, but only in the way people are after something worth losing sleep over.

And her heart stuttered.

She smiled — soft, instinctive — and reached like she might tuck that one rogue curl back into place.

“I’m good,” she said. “Tired. A little sore.”

A smirk pulled at his mouth — slow, crooked, impossible to hide. The kind that curled more on one side, like his face couldn’t quite decide between mischief and awe. It started in his lips but reached his eyes a heartbeat later, lighting them with something softer — like laughter not yet spoken, like affection he wasn’t ready to name out loud.

It was a look that said I’m thinking something I’ll never say, and you make it really hard to be cool about this.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t try to hide it.

“Not like that,” she warned, pointing her mug at him.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his grin was wide and unguarded and a little boyish in the way that made her want to kiss it off his face.

“I’m good too,” he said, after a moment — too casually, like he was trying to play it cool but already failing.

A beat passed.

“Y’know… in case you were wondering.” 

The edge of his voice caught at the end — not nervous, exactly, just wry. Like he knew exactly how transparent he was and had decided to lean into it.

She blinked at him once, then laughed — that soft, surprised kind of laugh that crinkled her nose and made her shoulders shake slightly.

“Oh, I was wondering,” she grinned, taking a slow sip from her mug just to hide how wide her smile had gotten. “Believe me.”

His smirk returned — helpless now, brighter. Almost bashful.

“Just making sure,” he murmured, gaze dropping like he couldn’t quite hold hers without giving himself away completely.

They stood like that for a while. Quiet, holding hands over chipped ceramic and the scent of dark roast.

His fingers curled loosely around hers, thumb brushing slow arcs against her knuckle like he didn’t want to stop touching her even for this. The mug in her other hand had started to cool, but neither of them moved. The moment felt suspended — hung in that soft hush where night ends and morning hasn’t quite decided what to become yet.

The window behind him let in streaks of sun, lighting the dust in the air like gold. It caught the curve of her smile, the tousled edge of his curls, and made everything look touched by something holy.

Y/N swayed slightly on her feet. Her voice was quiet, but not afraid. “You think we’ll regret this?”

Spencer looked at her. Really looked — as if the question had carved a path straight through his chest.

Then he shook his head, slow. Certain. 

“No,” he said. “I think we’ll wonder why we waited.”

A beat.

Then her grin broke free — unfiltered, full of teeth and fond disbelief. “God, that was smooth.”

His brows lifted. “It was honest!”

“And smooth,” she said, sipping again, voice muffled behind the rim of the mug. “Which is new for you.”

“I’ve had practice,” he said, pretending offense. “You’re a very motivating subject.”

“Oh, I motivate you?”

“Endlessly.”

She giggled — actual, unguarded giggling — and leaned her forehead briefly against his shoulder, like she needed to hide from the way he made her feel.

He turned his face toward her hair, smiling against it — lazy, content, still a little dazed by the way she fit against him like she’d always been there.

Then he leaned in, brushing his lips to hers — slow and steady, one kiss, then two, then a third for good measure. “I’m making up for lost time,” he murmured, voice low and warm like honey in sunlight.

She kissed him back without hesitation — lips curling into a grin between kisses. “You’re behind, then,” she said. “Better get to work.”

His laugh was quiet, breathless against her mouth. “Is that a challenge?”

She hummed, pretending to think. “More of an invitation.”

Coffee long forgotten. Sunlight rising behind them in soft, golden streaks. And for the first time in a long time — they weren’t rushing anywhere. Just standing there in a borrowed morning, trading kisses and banter like it was the only language they knew.

The ringtone was muffled somewhere between the counter and Spencer’s coat pocket, but they both heard it. A distant buzz that cut through the stillness like a ripple across still water.

Y/N pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Her smile lingered, but it was laced with reluctant understanding.

Spencer sighed, pressing one last kiss to the corner of her mouth before reaching for his phone on the counter. He glanced at the screen and winced.

“Hotch,” he muttered. “We’re being called in.”

Y/N groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Spencer answered the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

Hotch’s voice came through, steady and to the point. “Case just came in. Briefing at the office. Wheels up in an hour.”

Spencer nodded, even though Hotch couldn’t see it. “I can be there in thirty.”

There was a pause. A small one.

Then Hotch added, dry as ever: “Is Y/N with you?”

Spencer blinked. “She is.”

Another pause. Barely a breath.

Then: “I’ll let you tell her.”

Click.

Spencer lowered the phone, trying not to smile. “He knows.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Oh shit.”

Spencer shrugged, helpless. “He said he’ll let me tell you.”

She buried her face in her hands. “He definitely knows.”

“He didn’t sound mad.”

“He never sounds mad. That’s the problem. He just sounds like... Hotch.”

Spencer grinned, stepping close again. “I think we’ll survive.”

She peeked at him through her fingers. “Maybe. If Morgan doesn’t beat us to it.”

He leaned in, lips brushing her forehead. “We’ve been through worse.”

She groaned again. “Yeah, but not while wearing your shirt and drinking your coffee.”

Spencer laughed, warm and unbothered. “You’re not making me regret it.”

He then turned toward her with that sheepish, crooked smile. “Guess our little bubble just popped.”

Y/N stretched, arms overhead, shirt riding up over her thighs with no shame at all. “I’m blaming you when I show up looking like I’ve just rolled out of—” she paused, grinned, “—well. You.”

He flushed. “You could, uh... borrow something else?”

She was already walking toward the bathroom, barefoot and smug.

“You saying I can’t wear your shirt to work?”

Spencer blinked. “I’m saying I won’t survive it.”

Her laughter echoed down the hallway.

“Then consider it a challenge.” 

She paused just before turning the corner, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “Lucky for you, I keep an extra go-bag in my car. Otherwise, you’d really be in trouble.”

And as Spencer stood barefoot in the middle of his kitchen, still in pajama pants and a sleep-soft tee, hair a tousled mess from her hands and her dreams, surrounded by cold coffee and warm streaks of light spilling through the blinds, he rested one hand on the counter — the other still holding her empty mug — and smiled like the day had already given him more than enough.

There was a stupid grin on his face. One he didn’t even try to hide.

Even with the case.

Even with the chaos.

Today already felt like a good day.

Because she was still here. Still wearing his shirt. Still laughing under her breath like she belonged to the morning.

And for once, the world didn’t feel quite so fast.

From down the hall came her voice — bright, teasing, soaked in laughter.

“Reid! Are you getting in the shower with me or what?”

Spencer blinked, glanced once at the mugs on the counter like they might matter — then bolted.

She shrieked when she heard his footsteps, the sound chasing him through the hallway like music.

He reached her just as the bathroom door swung open, and before she could quip again, he wrapped both arms around her waist and kissed along the column of her neck, slow and breathless, lips pressed to damp skin and heat and joy.

She threw her head back into his shoulder, laughing, breath caught between surprise and delight.

“Spencer—”

“Just trying to conserve water,” he murmured against her skin, grinning.

And in the middle of case-day chaos, mismatched pajamas, and the hum of the shower behind them — they were already both laughing too hard to say anything else.

And the morning, somehow, kept getting better.

[clementineinn]

band on the run

abstract: a long drive to nashville, a playlist full of old favorites, five agents in one SUV, but somewhere between the music and the miles, something soft begins to shift between two people—hands brushing, glances held too long, a slow-burn affection neither of them can quite hide anymore.

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

genre: fluff!

note: just been writing like crazy lately because i’ve had so many ideas and i feel like i have to get them all out before they disappear — hence why i’m posting so much right now. thank you for reading, as always. enjoy!

Morning lay quiet over the Quantico parking lot, a breath caught between night and day. The sky hung low and uncertain, clouds stretched thin across a muted canvas of gray-blue. The air was cool, heavy with the hush of hours too early for conversation, too soft for anything hurried. Dew clung to the glass of parked cars, silvering the windshields, blurring the shapes beneath.

The black SUV sat waiting beneath it all, engine humming faintly in the stillness—windows glazed with the faint shimmer of dawn, the interior dim and untouched, as if the day itself hadn’t quite begun. The kind of morning where time seemed to move slower, as if the world was holding its breath for something yet to come.

Y/N approached first, travel mug in hand, her steps unhurried but assured. She wore a fitted black long-sleeve top that transitioned neatly into a pair of mid-rise bootcut jeans that hugged just right through the hips before flaring out at the ankle—faded denim with the kind of shape that made even a quiet morning look a little cinematic. Her hair was down, long and loose and just the slightest bit windswept, like she’d let it air-dry on the drive over. Just that low, effortless kind of pretty that always caught Spencer off guard.

She looked like she hadn’t slept much. None of them had.

Behind her, the quiet shuffle of boots on damp concrete signaled the others trickling in—low conversation floating on the cool air, the unspoken rhythm of teammates too used to early starts to complain. Morgan yawned loud enough to wake the birds, stretching his arms behind his head like he’d just rolled out of someone else’s dream. JJ trailed behind with her overnight bag slung casually over one shoulder, blonde hair tucked into the collar of her coat, eyes already scanning the sky like she could read the forecast. Emily walked beside her, clutching a folded file packet to her chest with both arms, as if the weight of it grounded her. She looked awake in that sharp, deliberate way she always did. Focus already coiled beneath her skin.

And Spencer was already there.

Leaning against the passenger door, half-silhouetted by the muted orange glow of the overhead light, curls slightly tousled from sleep. His scarf was a little uneven, like it had been pulled on in the dark, and the worn spine of a leather-bound book sat open in one hand—his thumb holding the place, even if he hadn’t turned the page in a while.

He looked up when he heard her footsteps.

“You’re early,” he said, voice soft and rough at the edges—like gravel smoothed under water.

She didn’t answer right away. Just stepped forward and handed him a coffee—still warm, cream already stirred in, three packets of sugar, just the way he always liked it. There was even a little “S” scribbled in black marker near the lid, the curve of the letter slightly smudged where her thumb had pressed.

She raised her eyebrows. “So are you.”

Spencer blinked down at the cup, then at her, caught somewhere between touched and mildly stunned. He didn’t smile exactly—not yet—but the corners of his mouth twitched like the thought was there, hovering just out of reach. He looked away first.

Then, without ceremony, Y/N twirled the keys once around her finger like she’d been waiting for the moment all morning. “I’m driving.”

Morgan froze mid-step, expression flat with disbelief. “You’re what?”

“She’s what?” Emily echoed, pulling her coat tighter as she caught up.

Y/N popped the driver’s door open with an easy grin. “I asked Garcia for the keys last night. Told her I didn’t want to die somewhere off I-40 in a fiery testosterone-fueled blaze.”

“That’s cold,” Morgan muttered.

JJ, stifling a laugh behind her coffee lid, chimed in gently, “She’s not wrong.”

“She’s absolutely not wrong,” Emily agreed, swinging her bag into the backseat.

Morgan scoffed, sliding in after them. “I’m an excellent driver.”

“You once reversed into a snowbank outside a diner in Wisconsin,” Spencer said, matter-of-fact, as he stepped toward the passenger door.

“That was a strategic maneuver,” Morgan said defensively. “Snow traction. Tire positioning. Physics.”

Spencer sighed, the soft kind of exhale that meant he’d already done the mental math and found everyone else ridiculous. “Statistically, flying is still safer.”

“Statistically,” Y/N said, shooting him a look as he climbed in beside her, “you say that every time we get in a car.”

“And yet,” he murmured, book now resting against his thigh, “you still drive like you’re trying to disprove it in real time.”

She reached for the console, fingers brushing lightly past his as she adjusted the temperature dial—just the faintest touch, skin to skin, gone almost before it happened. Neither of them acknowledged it. Not directly.

But he looked over at her as the engine came to life beneath them—soft hum, dashboard lights flickering on—and for a moment, it felt like something had already started.

“You’re navigating,” she said. “And no detours to see any Civil War battlegrounds, I’m serious.”

He smiled faintly and opened his book—not to read, but to hide the way her voice always managed to undo him just a little.

Outside, the sun began to edge over the horizon. The others chattered behind them, Morgan already giving Emily grief over her music taste, JJ passing around a pack of gum like a peace offering.

But for a moment, it was just them. Two people in the front seat, the road unwinding ahead.

And something between them neither of them had spoken aloud.

The highway stretched open in front of them—two slow lanes, a scattering of tractor-trailers, and nothing but miles of low fields and rising sun. Y/N had the windows cracked just enough for the breeze to sneak in, tugging at the ends of her hair and the cuff of her sleeve. She tapped the steering wheel once, then reached for her phone.

“Alright,” she said, glancing at Spencer. “We’re doing this properly.”

He didn’t look up from his book. “Doing what properly?”

“The music,” she said, unlocking her phone with one hand. “You’re not allowed to spend five hours in a car with your coworkers and not listen to the greats.”

In the back seat, Morgan leaned forward between them. “Did she just say the greats like we’re in a record store in 1978?”

Emily kicked the back of his seat lightly. “Be grateful she didn’t say ‘the canon.’”

Y/N ignored them, though the faint curve at the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement. Her thumb moved easily over the screen, queuing up the playlist. “Hits Only, curated by me, tested by JJ, and argued about for an entire flight to Portland once.”

“I remember that,” JJ said from the far side. “Emily almost threw your phone out the window when you played Cher three times in a row.”

“Justice for Believe,” Y/N muttered.

Morgan snorted. “What are we starting with? Marvin Gaye? Queen? Prince?”

“Actually,” Y/N said, glancing at Spencer with a mischievous little smile, “I thought we’d open with something digestible. Something he can’t dismiss as ‘structurally repetitive.’”

Y/N reached for the auxiliary cord tangled in the console. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she slid her phone into the cradle, thumb moving through a familiar list of playlists. The opening chords of Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered” burst through the speakers.

The first bright burst of sound filled the car, warm and full, notes spilling easily through the quiet like sunlight through glass.

Spencer startled, just slightly—a small jump in his seat, the book slipping from his hands to rest, forgotten, in his lap. He blinked, eyes flicking toward the stereo, brow drawing faintly.

“You’re going to play music this loud the entire drive?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep, a thread of disbelief woven beneath it.

Y/N only smiled, slow and unbothered, and with a casual twist of her fingers, nudged the volume up another notch—not enough to overwhelm, just enough to make her point. “Only the good stuff,” she said softly.

From the backseat, Morgan launched into song without shame, voice rich and theatrical as he sang along to the chorus. Emily joined in half a beat too late, purposely off-key, grinning behind her cup of coffee. JJ, still curled by the window, hummed the harmony beneath them, voice low and sweet.

And Spencer?

He folded his arms and turned toward the window, jaw set with practiced neutrality—like the very idea of rhythm had somehow slighted him on a personal level.

But the music carried on—steady, insistent, warm.

And after a few more measures, when the bridge came slipping in, his fingers—just two, quiet and deliberate—began to tap against the doorframe. Barely there. But there all the same.

And Y/N, eyes still on the road, caught the motion at the edge of her gaze.

She noticed. Of course she did.

The next track slipped in without pause, warm vocals spinning into a steady groove. In the back, JJ perked up, already leaning over to scroll through her own iPod.

“All right,” she said, voice light with mischief. “We’re adding Whitney. It’s not a road trip without Whitney.”

Morgan grinned. “Now you’re talking.”

Emily kicked the back of his seat lightly. “And Bowie. Don’t even start. We’re not making it to Tennessee without Heroes.”

“Prince,” Morgan countered, one hand already reaching for the spare aux cord. “I’m calling it now.”

Y/N laughed softly, a low, genuine sound that slipped easily into the hum of conversation. “You guys are ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head. “Good thing you’ve got me behind the wheel to keep this circus on the road.”

Spencer watched the exchange, arms still folded, fingers now idly tracing the fabric of his sleeve. The corner of his mouth twitched—just faintly, as if he couldn’t quite help himself.

“Should I be concerned that we haven’t defined any criteria for what qualifies as ‘the hits’?” he asked, voice light but edged with curiosity.

“That’s the beauty of it,” Y/N replied, eyes on the road. “Pure chaos. Group consensus. You’re just going to have to trust us.”

Morgan leaned forward again, arm draped across the seat. “You hear that, pretty boy? You trusting us yet?”

Spencer lifted a brow. “You’re asking me to place my auditory experience in the hands of a group that once argued for twenty minutes over whether ABBA was foundational.”

Emily, dry as ever: “Because it is.”

“Because it is,” JJ echoed, with a grin.

Y/N just shook her head, lips curving softly. “Don’t worry,” she said, glancing sidelong at him, voice pitched low so it barely rose above the music. “I’ll protect you from any egregious offenses.”

And there it was again—that flicker of warmth beneath her words. The quiet way she made space for him without making it obvious. The same way she’d handed him that coffee. The same way her fingers had brushed against his on more than one long flight or late night at the office.

Next up was Whitney Houston, followed by Bowie, then A Tribe Called Quest, The Supremes, and—just to keep things dynamic—Radiohead’s “Weird Fishes”, which JJ swore counted as a “modern classic.”

“You’re just making up categories now,” Spencer said as the track played.

“You’re just mad you’re enjoying it,” Y/N replied, smiling without looking at him.

And for a long moment, there was no arguing. Just the road humming beneath them, the music filling every corner of the SUV, and the faintest smile tugging at Spencer Reid’s mouth.

The sky had deepened to a soft pewter by the time they pulled off the highway—clouds thickening again, the light settling into that low gray that made colors look richer somehow, more lived-in. The road curved past a long stretch of empty fields before giving way to a gravel lot, half-swallowed by creeping weeds.

And there, at the edge of it all, stood the diner.

A squat little building washed in faded teal, its roofline sagging slightly at the corners, the windows fogged with years of grease and condensation. A battered neon sign buzzed weakly above the door, one letter flickering in a tired staccato rhythm—EAT. No more, no less. The kind of place that had once seen better days, but never minded the fact.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of coffee and frying butter, a faint undercurrent of burnt toast and something sweeter—maple syrup maybe, or old pie warming on a back counter. A jukebox sat dusty in the corner, its chrome edges dulled by fingerprints and time. The glass cover blinked erratically, caught somewhere between two tracks that would never play again.

The booths were cracked vinyl, deep red faded into a kind of bruised rose, the padding inside flattened and torn in places. Tabletops gleamed dully beneath their laminate, the surface worn smooth by countless elbows and coffee cups. An old ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, stirring the air in uneven waves.

A place that had existed long before them. The kind of place that would be there long after.

They slid into a booth by the window, the table still damp from a hurried wipe-down. Morgan first, sprawling out like he’d been here a hundred times, his back against the wall. JJ beside him, tucking her bag onto the seat and smoothing the sleeve of her sweater absently. Emily across from them, folding herself into the corner, long fingers curling around a chipped mug of coffee before the waitress had even taken their order.

And Spencer—

He hesitated for a breath longer than the others, then moved to the empty space beside Y/N, the faintest tug of some unspoken gravity pulling him there. She didn’t glance at him as he sat, but the smallest shift of her knee beneath the table brushed softly against his. No accident.

Above them, the buzz of a fluorescent light hummed low and steady, like a background note too familiar to notice.

Menus slid into their hands—laminated, smudged, corners curling at the edges. House Specials scrawled in faded marker over half the listings. Everything came with a side of hash browns. Everything seemed designed to be ordered without thinking too hard.

They hadn’t spoken much since getting out of the car. The long stretch of road had left them loose-limbed and a little quieter, words settling beneath the surface, easy in the way that only came after years of traveling together.

Morgan broke the silence first, tossing his menu down with a satisfied nod. “Okay, so real question—who actually changed music forever?”

Emily didn’t miss a beat. “Prince.”

“Wrong,” JJ said lightly, eyes flicking over the list of teas. “It’s Aretha. And it’s not even close.”

Spencer, who had been absently tracing the edge of his water glass with one long finger, spoke without looking up. “If you’re asking who statistically altered the trajectory of modern composition, both in terms of influence and cultural pervasiveness, the answer is The Beatles. Specifically their work post-1966.”

Morgan groaned, dropping his head back against the seat. “Oh man. You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

Y/N bit back a smile. “Define ‘altering the direction,’ genius.”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “Use of nonstandard instrumentation, complex harmonic structures, studio effects, genre fusion, and lyrical evolution. Their transition from formulaic pop to conceptual—”

“You just don’t like dancing,” Morgan cut in.

“I like dancing,” Spencer said defensively.

“You do not,” JJ and Emily said in unison.

Y/N laughed, soft and easy, her palm sliding up to rest beneath her chin. “He’s right. But also—he’s never going to admit that sometimes fun is the point.”

Spencer finally glanced at her then, something dry and faintly amused in his eyes. “Fun is… subjective.”

Emily raised an eyebrow. “You sound like a sociology paper.”

JJ, grinning, leaned across the table. “Come on, Spence. Admit it—you liked something on that playlist.”

He hesitated, fingers still at the rim of the glass, shoulders pulling slightly inward, as if considering the risk of agreement.

Y/N leaned in, close enough that the space between them narrowed, her voice a soft murmur. “Too smart not to enjoy it. You can’t fool me.”

And there—just the faintest shift in his expression. Not quite a smile. But something close.

Spencer flushed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m not judging anything.”

“You’re literally doing it right now,” Morgan said, pointing at him.

“I’m not judging,” Spencer repeated. “I’m just saying—statistically speaking—most pop music from the last three decades has been built on recursive chord progressions that—”

“Oh my god, let the man eat his toast,” Emily groaned.

The waitress appeared then, pen poised above her pad, looking only mildly interested in the debate at hand. “What can I get you folks?”

Menus folded closed. Orders went around the table in easy rhythm—coffee, eggs, extra toast. No one bothered with anything complicated.

When it was done and the waitress moved off again, conversation drifted. A little lighter. A little warmer. The way it always seemed to when she looked at him like that.

And under the low thrum of the old ceiling fan, Spencer let himself lean back into the booth—closer, just barely, to her shoulder beside him.

He picked up his coffee. Took a sip. Then, without looking at her, said quietly, “I don’t dislike all of it.”

Y/N blinked, caught off-guard. “What?”

“The music,” he said. “Some of it’s… better than I expected.”

She tilted her head, watching him carefully. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day.”

He shrugged. “I liked that Lauryn Hill track you played.”

Y/N softened. “You’re welcome.”

She didn’t say anything else. Just bumped her knee against his again. And this time, he didn’t pull away.

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting the world in honey.

They were somewhere between nowhere and Nashville, coasting along a two-lane highway that cut through stretches of quiet farmland and faded barns. The trees along the roadside blurred in and out of focus, tall shadows stretching long across the fields. Every few miles, the world dipped into silence—the radio static filling in the spaces between cell towers and signal loss.

The breeze was warm now—sticky with the kind of early spring air that clung to your skin. A cicada buzzed somewhere in the trees. Emily had nodded off with her sunglasses still on. JJ was half-asleep beside her, one hand curled around a crumpled receipt. Morgan had his earbuds in, iPod balanced on his knee, thumb sliding over the worn click wheel, pretending not to be singing quietly under his breath.

But Y/N didn’t seem to mind. She just drove.

One hand on the wheel, her posture easy, relaxed in a way that rarely surfaced when they were working. The wind threaded its way through the open windows and into her hair, lifting it in soft, tangled ribbons that caught the light like silk. The air smelled like warm grass and pavement and something sweeter—maybe whatever perfume clung faintly to the collar of her shirt.

Spencer sat beside her, turned just slightly in his seat, one knee bent up, elbow resting on the windowsill. His book sat forgotten on his lap, fingers curled loosely around the cover. He hadn’t read a single page in over an hour. The music playing was soft, low—a steady rhythm that didn’t ask for attention but settled into the space between words. Something mid-tempo and wistful. Maybe Sade. Maybe something older. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was this: Y/N’s hand on the steering wheel. The wind playing with her hair. The light catching on the curve of her cheek.

Spencer looked at her like he was trying to memorize it all. 

There was something about her in this light—in this hour—that made him ache in ways he hadn’t figured out how to name. The way her lashes brushed against her cheek when she blinked. The curve of her mouth, calm in concentration. The way her knuckles flexed just slightly on the wheel, how her shoulders moved when she shifted lanes, the way she hummed under her breath without realizing she was doing it. 

It was unbearable, the softness of it all.

Their hands rested close on the center console—close enough that Spencer could feel the warmth of her, steady and quiet like a heartbeat just beneath the surface. He wasn’t looking at her. Not directly. He didn’t need to. He felt her in every inch of space between them.

Then—

He noticed the way her fingers shifted. Just slightly.

She tapped her thumb once against the console, like she was thinking something over. Then, slowly, deliberately, she turned her hand palm-up beside his.

An offering. An unspoken question.

For a second, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. His heart pounded against his ribs, sudden and disorienting. His hand hovered above hers, fingers tense with the weight of the moment. And then—gently, reverently—he lowered it into hers.

Their palms touched. Her fingers curled. And he let himself hold on.

It wasn’t dramatic. No grand reveal. No sudden gasp or confession.

Just the simple, sacred truth of her hand in his. Her thumb brushed the side of his, soft and steady like she meant it.

And he—he turned his head back toward the window, chest tight with something he refused to examine.

Outside, the road stretched on beneath a sky blooming with color—sunlight pouring through the windows like something divine. Fields blurred past in soft golds and greens. A song played low on the radio, all rhythm and memory and longing.

Oh, how he wished he could press pause.

On the song. On the road. On the way she felt next to him.

He didn’t know the words for this. But he thought maybe it was love.

By the time the Nashville skyline began to rise in the distance—low-slung and luminous, a river of gold humming beneath the soft velvet haze of city lights—Spencer still hadn’t let go and neither had she. Their hands rested together on the console, fingers loosely twined, palm to palm in a hush of warmth that neither had spoken aloud but both had folded themselves into. A small, steady tether between them. A quiet defiance against the pull of the road, the hum of the world beyond the glass.

The music had faded to a slow undercurrent now—soft notes blooming and falling in the hush of the cabin, the playlist running long and low, almost forgotten. Neither of them reached to change it. They didn’t need to. There was no room for anything louder than this.

The breeze slipping in through the cracked window had cooled with the night—damp with the scent of rain on sun-warmed pavement, sweetened faintly with something green and living from the trees that lined the highway. It touched their skin with a softness that felt almost deliberate, almost human, like invisible fingers brushing past. The sky outside unfurled slow and syrup-thick in the deepening dark, clouds low and brushed in violet, stars held just out of sight. Far ahead, the city lights pooled across the horizon, blurred and shimmering like reflections in water, beckoning them closer.

Y/N eased the SUV into the hotel lot, tires gliding smooth across the slick, dark pavement. The headlights cut long, liquid streaks through the shallow puddles, painting ribbons of gold and silver that shimmered beneath the weight of the night. Overhead, the clouds hung low—brushed in deep gray, soft-edged, the sky still thick with the breath of rain not yet fallen.

The engine clicked softly as it settled into park, the hum of the drive dissolving into a deeper quiet. The dashboard lights faded one by one, casting them back into the hush of the cabin, broken only by the faint, distant echo of a passing car and the low thrum of the city beyond.

In the backseat, JJ stirred with a slow, catlike stretch, sweater sleeves pushed to her elbows, her voice still caught in the rasp of sleep. “Mmm… tell me there’s a real bed in there somewhere.”

Emily blinked hard against the weight in her eyes, the heels of her hands pressed to her temples. “Only if the hotel gods are kind,” she murmured.

Morgan yawned, deep and unbothered, already pushing his door open with one foot. “Forget the bed. I just want a burger and a bourbon.” He glanced toward the front seat, grin tugging lazy at the corners of his mouth. “Come on, Reid. You surviving back there? That playlist didn’t melt your brain?”

Spencer didn’t answer—not right away. He was still looking at Y/N, caught in the soft weight of her gaze as she glanced at him from beneath her lashes, her mouth curved in a quiet, knowing smile that belonged only to him.

And something in his chest—not logic, not analysis—answered for him.

Y/N’s voice came light and easy as the others shuffled out, her words pitched low between them. “Told you he’d make it.” A small flash of amusement in her eyes, warm and golden in the dim. “He’s tougher than he looks.”

“Debatable,” Emily teased, stepping out into the night.

“Completely debatable,” Morgan echoed.

The doors closed one by one behind them, boots scuffing against wet pavement, voices fading toward the lobby. The team moved ahead in a loose drift, half-tired, half-running on adrenaline and habit. Familiar in every way.

But Spencer and Y/N lingered a breath longer—still in that small pool of stillness the car seemed to hold around them.

When they finally stepped out into the night, the air met them like a sigh—warm and velvet-thick, heavy with the breath of rain yet to fall. The scent of wet pavement and spring-green leaves lingered beneath the streetlamps, whose soft halos wavered in the rising mist. The sky overhead pressed low and close, clouds stretched thin as silk, the distant hum of the city a steady thrum beneath it all—alive, breathing, waiting.

Ahead of them, the others had already drifted toward the lobby, boots scuffing over the slick concrete. Through the tall panes of glass, their voices rose in soft echoes—Emily laughing, low and wry; JJ murmuring something over her shoulder; Morgan gesturing broad with one arm as he held the door open for them both.

Even in the late hour, even in the weariness of a long day folded behind them, there was something warm at the heart of it. A rhythm. A comfort that ran deeper than words—woven through miles and years and the simple knowing of one another.

Spencer and Y/N trailed behind by a few slow steps—not for any reason they could name, only that neither of them seemed in a hurry to cross the distance.

The lot shimmered faintly beneath them, rain-beaded asphalt catching the light in soft dapples. As they passed beneath the low awning, the space between them narrowed—fingers brushing, deliberate now, no pretense of accident.

Without thinking, Spencer turned his palm up, an instinct older than thought. Her fingers slid into his—light, certain, as if they had always belonged there. For just a moment they held like that, warmth threading quietly between them, breath rising in the soft hush of the hour. And then, as they reached the lobby doors, her hand slipped free again, the touch lingering in its absence like the last note of a song.

The lobby greeted them with a hush of cool air, touched faintly with lemon polish and old carpet. Lamps glowed soft in the corners, their golden light caught in the glass of picture frames and long-forgotten travel brochures. The city’s hum fell away beneath the quiet here, wrapped in the thick stillness of the hour.

Morgan’s voice broke through first, low and warm as they stepped inside. “All right—bedtime for me. You two,” a glance between Spencer and Y/N, sly but not unkind, “don’t stay up all night reorganizing playlists.”

JJ smiled, soft and tired. “Breakfast at eight? Hotch said we’ll meet at nine to prep.”

Emily gave a mock salute, stifling a yawn behind her hand. “Tell him I’ll be awake in spirit.”

The group drifted toward the elevators, shoulders brushing, laughter light and easy in their weariness. Even at the edge of exhaustion, the fondness between them held—woven through the hours and the miles, steady beneath every glance and word.

In the small hush of the elevator car, they rode in easy quiet—companionship thick as velvet, no need for chatter. Morgan leaned against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, head tipped back. JJ rested lightly against Emily’s shoulder, half-asleep, her voice a low hum.

Spencer stood beside Y/N, close enough that their arms nearly touched, her warmth pulling at him like gravity. Too tired to think his way out of it. Too far gone to pretend he wasn’t drawn to her every breath, every small shift in her body beside his.

The weight of the day hung heavy between them—but underneath it: that steady thrum of something more, something that had only grown stronger on the road. A thing neither of them had spoken aloud, but both had carried between them like a secret note folded close to the heart.

When the elevator chimed and slid open onto their floor, Morgan called a low, “Night, kids,” before heading off down the hall, keys jangling in his hand. JJ and Emily followed, their quiet goodnights slipping back through the hush.

And then it was just the two of them—Spencer and Y/N—left standing alone in the gentle spill of light from the elevator, the hallway stretching soft and empty before them.

They walked side by side, footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Her shoulder brushed his once, a light touch that neither of them moved to correct.

Her room was the third door down, the keycard cool and thin between her fingers. But instead of unlocking the door straightaway, Y/N paused—leaning back lightly against the frame, the line of her body loose with exhaustion, eyes finding his in the dim, quiet hall.

A breath caught low in Spencer’s chest—tired, yes, but deeper than that. Something warm and fragile and painfully alive.

“Hey,” she said, voice soft, meant only for him. The hour had thinned their careful edges; there was no hiding in it now.

Spencer looked up, heart stumbling in his ribs, too full to answer quickly.

Y/N tilted her head, hair falling soft over her shoulder, a faint curve to her mouth that was nothing like her usual teasing—gentler, truer. “You know…” she breathed, eyes never leaving his, “you can come with me. If you want.”

The air between them tightened, sweet and breathless, the quiet humming beneath their skin like a second pulse. Neither of them pretending now—too late for that, too far past the moment when it might’ve been simple.

Spencer swallowed, pulse fluttering at the hollow of his throat. Words rose and caught there, unspoken. He stepped in closer, each inch deliberate, gaze caught fast in hers.

“You really want me to?” he asked, voice low, edged in rough warmth. Honest.

Y/N’s smile didn’t waver. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

And that was all it took.

A soft breath left him, shaky but sure. He reached out—slow, reverent—fingers brushing first at the hem of her shirt, knuckles grazing the soft dip of her waist. For a moment, he simply held there—light, testing, as if the world might still tilt beneath him. But when she didn’t move away—when she leaned, subtle and certain, into the space between them—he let his fingers curl more fully at her side, drawing her in until her body fit easy and close to his.

A laugh slipped out between them—quiet, breathless, rising from somewhere deeper than words. The kind of sound that came when something too long held finally cracked open, soft at the edges.

Spencer’s inhibitions, always his armor, lowered with her now—softened by the hour, by the warmth of her gaze, by the simple truth of her hand finding his side, fingers tracing lightly up beneath the edge of his jacket, catching faint at the fabric of his shirt.

He felt her breath against his jaw, her closeness dizzying and sharp, and still—still—he wanted more. Not rushed. Not hurried. Just more.

“Come on,” Y/N whispered, voice brushing against his ear like silk. “Before one of them circles back to find us out here.”

That earned a breath of laughter from him—soft and real, the sound warming his throat. “I’m not sure I care,” he managed, surprising even himself.

She grinned at that, brighter now, tugging him gently by the hand toward her door.

The click of the keycard. The soft push of the door swinging open on a quiet hush of air.

And then they were inside—warm light spilling low across the carpet, the door falling shut behind them with a muted thud.

She toed off her boots near the wall, shaking her hair loose with a small sigh. “So—still think flying’s safer?”

Spencer huffed a laugh, softer than before, tension gone from his shoulders as he watched her, eyes bright with something he couldn’t quite hide. “Not anymore.”

Another small laugh between them, easy and warm. He stepped in again, hand finding her waist once more—this time without hesitation, without a second thought.

And when she smiled at him, soft and certain, he knew: there was no going back from this.

[clementineinn]

HAHAHAHAHA no fr tho. spencer reid: secretly the most dangerous man alive 🤭🤭 thank you so much for reading lovely mwah!!!!! 💗

sometime in the mornin’

abstract: after a long case and a sleepless night, two BAU agents find quiet in each other’s arms — in soft shirts, slow mornings, and the kind of closeness that doesn’t need to be defined to be real.

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

genre: fluff, is a little mature but not very explicit

note: i tend to overexplain scenes and maybe run them into the ground so forgive me if i did here lol. that's also why i removed the word count description since i lowk felt like it was making me restrict how much i write, which i don't want to do bc i don't get the chance to write in school, so I NEED THIS LOL. long story short, blah blah, this fic is long. it does get steamy but nothing is explicitly stated, mostly because i'm still trying to figure out how to write heated scenes bc when i think back to my wattpad days, the embarrassment is real. ANYWAYS, as always, enjoy!

The parking lot outside the precinct still shimmered with leftover rain — shallow puddles stretched like fragments of fallen sky, catching the bruised orange flicker of tired streetlamps above. The asphalt glistened like it had been brushed with varnish, each crack and curve outlined in silvered shadow. Water clung to the edges of curbs, pooling in small, forgotten places.

The air had that particular kind of cold — the kind that didn’t just sting, but bit, sharp enough to steal your breath for a second before softening into something you could almost forget. It smelled like wet concrete, worn leather, and the lingering smoke of someone’s earlier cigarette, now long extinguished but still haunting the wind.

Y/N’s boots clicked faintly against the damp pavement, a rhythm out of step with the hush around her — too slow, too tired to echo fully. Each step sent a ripple through the puddles, spreading concentric rings outward until they faded into stillness again.

She looked wrung out. Not just tired — but spent.

Her hair was pulled back in a loose, uneven tie, strands slipping free and curling at her temples in the damp. Her coat was wrapped tighter than usual around her ribs, fingers clutched into the fabric like she needed it to hold her up. The posture of someone who’d done too much, said too little, and had no room left for either. The kind of tired that didn’t just sit behind your eyes — it lived there, echoing. Bone-deep. Soul-heavy. The kind of weariness that had nothing to do with hours or sleep.

The night pressed in gentle around her. Not cruel, not cold — just quiet. Like it understood.

Like it was waiting for something soft to break the silence.

Spencer saw it in the way her shoulders curved inward, like the night had finally settled its weight atop them and she was just too polite to complain. She stood at the edge of her car door, fingers hovering near the handle but never closing around it — like even that small gesture required more energy than she had left.

The air turned her breath to fog, delicate and ghostlike, curling around her face before vanishing into the cold.

“You okay?” Spencer asked, his voice soft, low — the kind of question that knew the answer already but offered itself anyway, just in case.

She turned toward him slowly, as though the sound of his voice had to travel through molasses to reach her. One hand still hovered over the handle, her fingers frozen mid-air. Her lashes were heavy, casting little shadows beneath her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said, after a beat.

But the word came out too flat. Too automatic. The kind of yeah that didn’t mean yes at all. Just a placeholder. Something you say when you’re too tired to explain all the reasons you’re not.

“Just...” she added, a half-breath later, “not in the mood for a forty-minute drive.”

Spencer’s hand slipped into his coat pocket, thumb grazing the edge of his keys like they might offer direction. He hesitated, the words caught between concern and something softer. Quieter.

“My place is ten minutes from here,” he said finally. Light, but not unmeant. “You can crash. Couch’s not bad.”

She blinked, slow and long, like she was still catching up to the suggestion. Her brow furrowed gently — not out of confusion, but surprise. Not because it was unwelcome, but because it was kind. And kindness always caught her off guard when she needed it most.

“I’m fine, Reid.”

The words came a little too quickly, too practiced. Like armor she didn’t realize she was still wearing — thin and fraying at the edges, but stubborn all the same.

“I know,” he said, and he meant it. Gently. Carefully. Like he was setting something delicate down between them. “Still.”

The silence between them thickened — not uncomfortable, just full. She looked at him, not fully, just out of the corner of her eye, then down again.

Her hand fell away from the door handle like it had lost its reason for being there.

“You sure?” she asked, softer now. Her voice thinned by hesitation, not doubt. “I don’t want to... intrude.”

She didn’t mean to sound so small when she said it. But the word lingered in the air like fog, curling between them.

He shook his head — not just a no, but something firmer. Quieter. Something closer to don’t even think that.

“You wouldn’t be.”

She exhaled, long and slow, her breath rising into the cold like steam off cooling tea. Her eyes flicked upward — not quite at the sky, but at the clouds where the stars should have been, where the night held its breath like it was listening.

Then she gave the smallest nod.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Just for the night.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — brief, quiet, almost too small to see — but it softened his whole face. Lit him from somewhere inside. And then it was gone, like it had never asked to be noticed in the first place.

“I’ll drive though,” she said softly, already rounding to the driver’s side. “I want to do something for you too.”

“You don’t have to,” he replied, immediate and gentle, like reflex. Then, with the faintest smile, “But fine.”

And that was it.

No argument. No protest. Just a quiet understanding passed between them like the keys themselves — weightless and warm from the press of her hand.

The drive unfolded in stillness.

No music. Just the low, steady hum of the engine and the occasional sigh of tires over damp pavement. Outside, the streetlights flickered past in slow succession — casting golden stripes across the windshield, across her hands on the wheel, across the soft curve of her cheekbone as she blinked too slowly at the road ahead.

She looked like something out of a memory in this light. The kind that faded at the edges. The kind you try to hold onto longer than you're supposed to.

Spencer sat in the passenger seat, his hands resting quietly in his lap, but his eyes barely left her.

He watched the way her fingers flexed on the steering wheel at every red light — not restless, just trying to stay awake. The way her eyes, rimmed in leftover eyeliner and the weight of too many hours, fluttered heavier and heavier with each block.

She was trying so hard. Still carrying the last fraying threads of the day like someone might need her again at any moment. Still holding herself upright when no one had asked her to.

He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to. That she could drop it — the composure, the endurance, the quiet strength she wore like second skin. That she didn’t always have to be the one who stayed steady.

But the words stayed behind his teeth.

Settled there. Safe, for now.

So instead, he said, “Turn left up here,” voice soft enough not to startle her.

And she nodded — not looking, just trusting.

His apartment welcomed them with the kind of warmth that didn’t just come from the heat — it came from history. From stillness, from the soft, steady presence of a life that had been lived carefully within its walls.

The light from the hallway drifted in behind them like fog, golden and thin, slipping across the hardwood and catching gently on the edges of furniture. The air inside smelled like old paper and something clean — not sharp, but soft, like the faint memory of soap in fabric, or a cotton shirt hung to dry near a window. Lived-in. Intimate.

Y/N stepped inside without a word, her shoulders folding slightly as the door clicked shut behind her. The quiet wrapped around her immediately, slow and deep, like a warm coat slipped onto her shoulders.

She toed off her boots near the wall — not rushed, just methodical, as if each movement had to travel through fog before reaching her limbs. Her coat slid from her shoulders a moment later, loose and limp with weariness, but she caught it one-handed before it could fall. Draped it neatly over the arm of the couch like she’d done it before. Like she’d been here. Like her presence had already been stitched into the space, quietly, without ever asking for permission.

Spencer moved past her without speaking, his footsteps nearly silent on the floor. He locked the door with a quiet snick, then dropped his keys into the small ceramic bowl on the entry shelf — the sound of them landing barely louder than breath.

He disappeared briefly into the kitchen, the glow of the under-cabinet light casting soft reflections onto the tile backsplash. The hush of drawers sliding open, the faint clink of ceramic and glass — it all sounded strangely soothing, like rain tapping on a roof. Familiar. Gentle.

Y/N stood still in the entryway, her body slowly catching up to the quiet. Her eyes blinked slowly as they adjusted to the dim light, and her hands hung limp at her sides. There was something about this kind of stillness — the kind that followed noise and chaos — that made everything feel heavier. Like she could finally feel her bones again.

She didn’t move yet.

Just let the warmth settle over her. Let herself be held by the quiet of it all.

“You want tea or anything?” he asked, voice low as he moved through the kitchen, back half-turned, the sound barely rising above the quiet hum of the apartment.

She shook her head, the movement slow, her voice softer still. “Too tired.”

Not just tired — spent. The kind of tired that settled behind her eyes and pressed gently at the back of her throat, where words usually lived.

He nodded like he’d already known — like he just wanted her to know he asked anyway. Still, he opened the cupboard without comment and took down a glass. Filled it with water from the tap, letting the stream run just long enough to cool.

When he turned and handed it to her, their fingers brushed — a fleeting touch. But it lingered. The soft part of his hand grazing the side of hers, a warmth that bloomed for just a second too long to be ignored. It sparked something small and quiet beneath her ribs. Something that flickered like light catching on the surface of still water.

She took the glass from him slowly, her fingers curling around the cool rim, and brought it to her lips. The first sip was barely a swallow. But it grounded her — the clean, clear taste of it, the way it caught the edges of her dry throat and soothed.

Her body leaned back gently against the arm of the couch, the glass still resting in her hands. She let her eyes drift around the room like she was revisiting a familiar dream — mapping the shape of it all as if it had changed while she was gone.

A few new books stacked by the window — titles turned outward, some already soft at the spine. A different lamp — softer, golden, the light barely kissing the floor. One of his cardigans hung over the back of a chair, like it had been shrugged off in thought and forgotten.

But otherwise, nothing had changed.

Still that quiet.

Still that warmth.

Still that feeling — the one she never let herself examine too closely, except maybe now, when her limbs were too heavy to lie, and the hush between them didn’t ask her to.

“You can take the bed,” he said, after a moment of silence that seemed to settle between them like dust in golden light. His voice was gentle — too gentle — the edges of it smoothed with something that sounded like care disguised as casual. “I’ll sleep out here.”

She blinked, the words catching her slightly off guard. Her brows pulled in, just a little. Not in irritation — in protest. In disbelief that he’d give something so quickly. So quietly.

“Spencer—no,” she said, already shaking her head. Her voice was soft but sure, the kind that didn’t leave room for argument. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“You’re not kicking me out,” he replied, even softer this time, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. “I’m offering.”

It was the kind of offer that didn’t ask for anything in return. The kind that came from someone who would never say you need it more, but knew anyway. Who would lie awake on the couch all night, thinking of her curled into his sheets, and still believe it was worth it.

She exhaled through her nose and folded her arms loosely across her chest. “And I’m declining.”

He opened his mouth, maybe to argue — gently, quietly — but she was already shaking her head again, a faint smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

“The couch is fine,” she said, lighter now. “I don’t need much.”

He didn’t push. He only nodded. But something shifted in his expression — subtle, but there. A tiny drop in the line of his shoulders, a quiet stillness in his eyes. Like something he hadn’t meant to show had slipped through anyway.

She saw it.

And maybe she felt it too — that same quiet ache, that wish to say I want to be close without sounding like she needed it.

Still, she only added, quieter now, almost sheepish, “I’ll be out cold in five minutes. I promise I won’t even notice.”

There was a pause. He didn’t look at her for a moment. Then he nodded once more, a little steadier this time, like the thought had been tucked away, folded carefully.

“I’ll grab you something to wear,” he said.

And then he turned toward the hallway, his steps quiet, measured — like even in that, he didn’t want to disturb the space between them.

When he returned, he held a neatly folded t-shirt and a pair of soft, worn-in plaid pajama pants — unmistakably his. The shirt had the faint scent of him still clinging to the cotton, clean and familiar, like soap and old books and warmth. He didn’t offer them with any ceremony, just held them out gently, like something delicate passed from one set of hands to another.

She took them without a word.

But her fingers lingered on the fabric — not accidentally. Not really. Her touch was slow, careful, almost reverent. Like she wasn’t just taking clothes. Like she felt, somewhere deep in her chest, that accepting them meant something more.

The weight of them made her throat tighten. It didn’t make sense, not entirely. But she didn’t fight it. She just swallowed around the feeling and looked up.

“The bathroom’s down the hall,” he said quietly, his voice carrying softer now, like he didn’t want to disturb the calm that had settled in the space between them. “First door on the left.”

She nodded once. “Thanks.”

And then she turned — socked feet brushing the wooden floor, his clothes pressed to her chest — and disappeared down the hallway with the kind of tired grace that didn’t ask to be watched but invited it anyway.

He stood there for a moment after she was gone, the hush folding in around him again like it had been waiting.

It wasn’t silence. It was presence. The kind that filled the room when someone had only just left — when their warmth still lingered in the air, in the folds of their coat on the couch, in the faint creak of the hallway floor.

Spencer exhaled through his nose, barely audible, and turned toward the couch. He unfolded the blankets one by one — carefully, quietly — smoothing the edges like it mattered.

Like it would somehow be enough.

When Y/N stepped out of the bathroom, the first thing she noticed was the light — a soft amber glow spilling from the cracked door at the end of the hallway. It pooled along the floor like syrup, rich and warm, brushing the edges of the baseboards and casting long, drowsy shadows across the wood. 

Spencer’s bedroom.

The rest of the apartment had dimmed with the hour — lights switched off, corners tucked into stillness — but that room glowed like something remembered. Like a place left gently open.

She padded down the hall slowly, bare feet silent on the cool floor. One hand tugged his too-long t-shirt a little lower over her thighs, the cotton worn soft with age, clinging here and there where her skin was still warm from the shower. The pajama pants he’d lent her sat low on her hips, cinched loosely at the waist — clearly made for someone taller, broader, his. She’d rolled the cuffs twice, but they still dragged the tiniest bit as she walked, trailing whispers behind her.

Her hair had come undone from the elastic, soft waves spilling free now, sleep-mussed and uneven in a way that somehow made her look more like herself. Like all the polish had fallen away and left only her, untouched and quiet and real.

She didn’t mean to stop at his door.

But the light was still on, golden and patient. And from within, she heard the muted sound of motion — the quiet hush of a drawer sliding shut, the gentle weight of something being placed on the nightstand.

Not rushed. Not loud. Just presence. Just him.

She stood there a moment longer, just outside the frame — bathed in the spill of light, listening to the small sounds of another person settling into night. Something about it felt so intimate it made her throat ache.

She leaned against the doorframe like it was muscle memory — like her body already knew how to belong there. One shoulder propped, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her weight resting easy against the wood as though this was always where the evening had meant to end.

The soft golden light from his room lit her from the side, warming the slope of her jaw, catching in her hair like firelight trapped in a dark bottle. The shirt hung long on her frame, brushing just past mid-thigh, and her silhouette looked almost delicate in the doorway — softened by sleep, by quiet, by him.

“You know,” she said, voice low and touched with amusement, “I’m starting to think you left the light on as bait.”

Spencer looked up, startled — clearly not expecting her, not like this. He froze where he stood, halfway to setting a book down on the nightstand, eyes wide and warm in the soft light, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and something unspoken.

“I—what?” he blinked. “No. I mean—no, I didn’t.”

She grinned, slow and sly and sleep-heavy, and stepped just a little closer into the room. Not fully — not yet. Just enough to cross that line between observer and invitation.

“You say that,” she murmured, “like you’re guilty.”

“I’m not,” he said too quickly, the words tripping over themselves.

Then, after a pause, softer—truth sneaking out beneath the breath:

“...Maybe a little.”

Her laugh slipped out in a hush — not loud, but close, and so familiar it tugged something loose in his chest. It sounded like the kind of secret you only share late at night. The kind of sound that folded into the air and stayed there.

“Busted,” she said.

And the space between them shimmered — lit not by tension, but by the unmistakable warmth of two people who felt it, finally, fully, and weren’t pretending not to anymore.

He tried to look away.

Really, he did — let his eyes drop to the book in his hand, the corner of the nightstand, the pattern in the wood grain that suddenly seemed very, very interesting.

But it didn’t help.

Because she was standing there like that — framed in the amber glow of his bedroom lamp, her body soft and half-silhouetted in the doorway, draped in his clothes like the night had conspired to undo him entirely.

The shirt hung off her shoulders in a way that felt almost cruel — stretched just enough to slide, slightly, exposing the smooth slope of one collarbone. The sleeves were too long, swallowed her hands in folds of worn cotton, but somehow that only made it worse. Or better. He couldn’t decide. 

The fabric skimmed her thighs, teasing the space just above her knees, brushing her skin like a whisper. The pajama pants had slipped low on her hips, cinched tight but still loose — and he could see the faint shape of her beneath them, the way her form curved gently under all that borrowed softness.

Familiar fabric — but completely transformed. Rewritten by the shape of her, the weight of her warmth inside it. It was like watching something private turned holy.

And the worst part — or maybe the best — was how utterly unaware she was of what she was doing to him.

She stood there, sleepy and beautiful, hair loose and tousled like she’d just stepped out of a dream. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, skin kissed by steam, lips still a little parted from the heat of her breath. She looked like something that didn’t belong in the real world — like a poem half-muttered into a pillow, or a photograph you only looked at in the quiet.

And Spencer —

Spencer ached.

His hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to touch her — not in any careless way, but just to confirm she was real. He wanted to step across the room and feel the press of his shirt against her back as he pulled her into him. He wanted to see how it would bunch under his palms, how the fabric would slip to the floor, how her skin would glow in this light, stretched out against the tangled mess of his sheets.

He wanted everything. All at once.

“You look...” His voice caught on the first word, breath snagging in his throat as he looked at her. He swallowed, lips parting slightly before he managed to push the words out. Quiet. Honest. “You look really good in that.”

Her brow lifted — one graceful arc, deliberate and knowing — and a smile bloomed slow across her lips. Not wide. Not sharp. But devastatingly effective. The kind of smile that knew its own power and wielded it gently, like a silk ribbon drawn tight around a secret.

“Yeah?” she murmured, voice laced with teasing sleepiness.

Then she stepped forward — barefoot on the hardwood, the faintest tap of her toes the only sound in the room. Her movements were unhurried, almost lazy in their confidence, but there was something unmistakable in the way she walked — like she knew exactly what he was seeing. Like she could feel the way his gaze curled over every line of her body beneath the soft cotton of his clothes.

“You like your fashion sense better when it’s on me?”

He exhaled through his nose — short, helpless.

“Significantly,” he said, because the truth was already out there and there was no pulling it back. His voice was lower than he meant it to be, rough around the edges with something warmer. Wilder.

She laughed, quiet and pleased, and then she twirled jokingly.

Spun in a slow, lazy circle with her arms lifted just slightly, palms up, like she was offering herself for review. The hem of the shirt flared around her thighs, catching the light as it rose, then fell again in soft waves. The fabric clung for a moment before drifting back into place, brushing the tops of her knees like a secret only he got to see.

“I feel like I’m drowning in it,” she said, half-mocking, but her voice curled at the edges, sleep-warmed and sweet.

He didn’t answer right away.

Because he was looking. And maybe he didn’t mean to — not entirely — but his eyes trailed the movement of her body like they couldn’t help it. 

She looked like a dream dressed in his life.

“You’re not,” he said at last, the words soft but unshakably certain. “It suits you.”

And it did.

It suited her in the way morning light suited sleeping faces, the way his name might sound if she said it against his skin — familiar, perfect, and entirely hers.

She smirked — slow and playful, lips curling just enough to betray how much she was enjoying this shift between them — then turned her attention to the room with a new kind of gaze. Not sharp. Not nosy. Just curious in that gentle, thoughtful way she had — like she was reading a story she already suspected the ending to, but still wanted to savor every line along the way.

Her eyes moved softly from corner to corner, taking in everything.

Framed photographs sat nestled along the upper shelf — not many, and none of them posed. Just quiet little snapshots of time. People frozen mid-laugh or mid-blink, caught in crooked frames and warm light. Most were older. Slightly faded. The kind of photos you don’t frame for beauty, but for belonging. Anchors to somewhere softer.

There was one of Garcia, beaming in neon glasses, flanked by Morgan doing his best to look unimpressed. Another of JJ and Prentiss sharing a plate of fries at some roadside diner, eyes squinting from the sun. Rossi with his sleeves rolled up and a drink in hand, smirking at whoever was behind the camera.

And then there were the ones of them.

Spencer and Y/N, in quieter corners of their lives. Not the field. Not the briefing room.

Him squinting into the wind on a ferry they’d taken up the coast, her arm thrown over his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. A blurry shot from a museum hallway, her laughing so hard she was doubled over and he was half-turned toward her, eyes crinkled in that way they always did when she was the one making him laugh. One at a book fair — she was holding up a ridiculous romance novel like it was a prize, and he looked at her like she was one.

None of the frames matched. Some tilted slightly. But they were arranged with a kind of care that didn’t need symmetry.

Just intention.

It was the kind of display that didn’t announce anything. But it felt like a love letter, if you knew how to read it. 

The books — of course — lined the shelves in tall, uneven stacks. Their spines were cracked and softened with love, pages filled with margin notes and crooked tabs, tiny flags of thought fluttering where his mind had once paused. She could picture him there, on quiet mornings, hunched over one with a hand in his hair and a furrow in his brow, the room humming with silence.

And there — tacked unevenly to the wall above his desk — a museum postcard, its edges slightly curled with time. The ink had softened from sun, the corners yellowed just enough to show it had lived there longer than it was meant to. Not pristine. Not decorative.

Kept.

The image was of a painting she couldn’t quite place — muted colors, a figure mid-motion, maybe something romantic in its brushwork. But that wasn’t what caught her breath.

It was the postcard.

From that museum.

The one they’d gone to together months ago, wedged between cases, on some rare free afternoon that hadn’t asked them to be anything but themselves. He’d bought it at the gift shop when she wasn’t looking, after she’d pointed out the piece in passing, said something about the color reminding her of old film and Sunday mornings.

And now it lived here — above his desk, above his thoughts.

Not framed. Not tucked into a drawer.

Just here.

As if he hadn’t wanted to forget it. As if he’d been anchoring her presence to this space ever since.

She didn’t say anything.

But her eyes lingered on it longer than she meant them to — and when she turned to look at him, she was smiling in that small, knowing way that said:

I see it. I remember, too.

She moved slowly, each barefoot step soundless on the floor, a whisper of motion. Her fingers drifted to the edge of his desk — knuckles brushing the surface, palm barely grazing the wood. There, in one neat stack, were papers. Carefully folded. Organized, but lived-in. The kind of order that came from someone who didn’t mind a little mess as long as he knew where it lived.

She let her hand rest there a moment, her thumb grazing the edge of a page, and said — lightly, but not without affection — “This where all the thinking happens?”

Spencer watched her from where he stood near the bed, his heart stuttering once in his chest. Not because she was touching his things, but because she wasn’t just touching them. She was seeing them. Seeing him.

He shrugged, a breath of a smile ghosting over his lips. “Sometimes,” he said. “Depends on the day.”

“And the bed?” she asked, turning to glance at him over her shoulder, her head tilted just slightly — playful, curious, that slow-blooming smile tugging at the corner of her lips like she already knew he wouldn’t survive the question. “Just for sleeping?”

He blinked, caught halfway through a thought, halfway through a breath. His gaze, which had been fixed somewhere safer — the spine of a book, the edge of the lamp — now locked helplessly onto her.

“Uh—yes?” he said, and it came out with the shaky precision of someone who wanted to sound sure and failed.

She grinned, soft and wicked and golden in the lamp light. A grin that unfolded slowly, deliberately, like silk unspooling across a hardwood floor.

“You say that like it’s negotiable.”

His breath hitched. His shoulders stiffened, just barely, like he was bracing for the impact of her voice — for the weight of her in his room, in his clothes, saying things like that with her bare feet on his floor.

“I—no, I just—” he tried again, floundering.

But whatever came next was swallowed by the sound of her walking.

She crossed the room in three slow, quiet steps. Not rushed. Not coy. Just present. Just herself — loose-limbed and sleep-soft and devastating. She moved like a daydream he’d been trying not to have.

And then — as if it were the most natural thing in the world — she sat.

Eased down onto the edge of his bed, one leg curling beneath her, the other swinging slightly where it dangled. The mattress gave beneath her, dipped gently with the weight of her, and for a moment he swore he felt the pull of gravity shift.

She didn’t look at him right away. She let the quiet sit between them like steam, let it gather.

Then, low and private and absolutely certain, she murmured:

“You’re fun when you’re flustered.”

His lips parted — then closed again, like a thought forgotten mid-sentence. A beat passed before he found his voice, and when he did, it was quiet and a little hoarse, laced with something too honest to be smooth.

“You make it extremely easy to be,” he muttered, eyes narrowed just enough to feign composure.

But they both knew better.

Because his heart was beating too hard.

Because his hands had curled slightly at his sides.

Because he hadn’t taken a full breath since she sat down.

And because even now, even then, he was looking at her like she was something breakable — not for fragility’s sake, but because he cared too much to touch her wrong.

The light from the lamp spilled across the room like honey — thick and golden, clinging to the edges of bookshelves and blanket folds, warming the corners where evening still lingered. It touched everything gently: her knees tucked beneath her, the faint sheen of the wood floor, the soft muss of his sheets where she sat like a secret the night didn’t want to share.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It breathed — slow and deep, like the space itself was expanding to hold them both without asking questions. The kind of quiet that didn’t beg to be filled. The kind that trusted its own weight.

Her hand moved lazily, almost thoughtless, fingers drifting across the book he’d left near the pillow. She traced the spine once, then again — not reading it, not even really seeing it. Just feeling it. Like the smooth press of paper against skin might tell her something about him she hadn’t learned yet.

“Are you actually going to sleep on the couch?” she asked, eventually — her voice low, unhurried. She didn’t look at him when she said it. Just let the words curl into the space between them and settle there like warmth steeping into tea.

“That was the plan,” he said softly.

His voice came from the far edge of the bed, where he still sat with perfect posture — like if he leaned too far in her direction he might fall right into her orbit and forget how to climb back out.

Her thumb moved along the book’s edge again. No reply. No protest. But she didn’t move either.

The book remained between them, forgotten now. A placeholder. A boundary. But not a real one.

Y/N shifted, the quiet motion of someone getting comfortable in a space she hadn’t intended to stay in. Her legs tucked tighter beneath her, one hand braced on the bed beside her hip, the other still grazing the cover. She leaned, just slightly, toward the center of the bed — not a decision, not quite. More like gravity had changed its mind about where it wanted her.

Spencer stayed still, but not comfortably. He was very aware of every inch of himself — the tension in his shoulders, the flutter in his stomach, the way his hand moved absently over the same book her fingers had just left. A trace. A memory. A nearly-there.

His other hand hovered in his lap, half-curled — twitching once like it meant to reach for something but didn’t know what. Or who.

“You should be tired,” she said at last, her voice softer than before — so low it felt like it had been folded into the space between them rather than spoken aloud. The words stretched lazily between breaths, brushed with sleep. “Aren’t you always the first to crash after a case?”

He glanced at her, his profile lit in soft gold.

“Not always,” he said. “Sometimes I just… wait for the quiet.”

She hummed, a slow, contented sound — somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Not quite agreement. Not quite anything. Just understanding.

Her fingers drifted toward the hem of the shirt she wore — his shirt — and caught absently on a loose thread. She didn’t tug. Just toyed with it, rolling the fabric between thumb and forefinger like it gave her something to do with the silence. Something to hold onto.

“It’s quiet now,” she murmured.

And it was. Not just in the room, but around them. The kind of hush that only came when the rest of the world had gone to sleep. The kind of hush that didn’t press, didn’t ask — just invited. The kind that made every glance feel louder. Every breath feel shared.

Spencer looked at her then. Fully.

No flicker. No half-turn.

Just looked.

Her face was different in this light. Softer. Not in the way light changes things — but in the way she had changed. Her shoulders had uncoiled, her hands were open, her whole presence less guarded. The edges of her had blurred, finally, like the end of a long-held breath.

She didn’t realize she was giving herself away. That her mouth was slightly parted, eyes half-lidded, voice thick with sleep. That she looked more like herself now than she did in the field, in the daylight, in all the places where sharpness was required.

And God, she was beautiful like this.

“It’s different with you here,” he said quietly. “The quiet.”

Her lips parted again, barely — not for a word, just for the breath she forgot to take. She didn’t look away. But something in her went still, like his words had touched a part of her she didn’t expect anyone else to notice.

She didn’t answer right away.

Just curled her legs in closer, tucking her knees beneath the oversized fabric of the borrowed shirt, and reached without thinking for the blanket at the foot of the bed. The motion was slow, almost absentminded, like her body was simply following instinct — like the need for warmth, for stillness, was stronger than any social pretense that said this is temporary.

Neither of them said the thing hanging between them.

Not you don’t have to go. Not I’m already staying.

But it was there. Settled like breath in the walls, like the hush of a room that didn’t want to be loud again.

The blanket settled over her lap in a soft cascade, and her hand smoothed it without looking. The edge of it draped near his knee — close enough to touch. Close enough to ask something wordless.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” she said finally, her voice barely more than breath. Her gaze didn’t lift. She didn’t press. She just let it hang there, soft and honest. “There’s room.”

He froze.

“Y/N…”

Just her name. Said like a warning, but softer. Said like please don’t tempt me, but please don’t stop.

She smiled gently, still facing away from him, but he saw it — the way it softened her cheek, the way her fingers curled more loosely in the blanket like she wasn’t holding anything back now.

“I’m not trying anything, Reid,” she said. “I’m just warm. And comfortable. And if you go back out there, you’ll probably fall asleep on the floor halfway to the couch.”

He let out a quiet huff — not a laugh, exactly. More like an exhale pulled straight from the center of his chest. Because she was right. And because the idea of falling asleep anywhere but here, with her like this, felt suddenly impossible.

She looked like gravity had already claimed her. Like the shape of his bed had opened just for her and she’d fit into it without even trying. Her body was soft now — no tension, no weight. Just warmth and breath and skin beneath fabric that used to be his.

He stayed frozen for a moment longer. Thinking. Feeling too much.

Then, quietly, still barely moving, he said — almost more to himself than to her:

“I’m scared I won’t be able to stop myself.”

Her head turned at that. Just slightly. Her eyes met his — warm and steady and unafraid.

Then—softly, surely:

“What if I don’t want you to?”

The words were barely above a whisper. But they landed like gravity.

And then she smiled.

Not teasing. Not coy.

Just soft.

Like she’d already known.

Like it didn’t scare her at all.

He let out another breath. Then, slowly, with a care that bordered on reverence, he reached for the lamp on the nightstand.

The click of the switch was soft, final.

And then the room dimmed to nothing but breath, and the quiet pulse of two hearts beating closer than either of them had meant for them to.

The mattress dipped softly as Spencer eased beneath the blanket, slow and cautious — like he was trying not to disturb something sacred. The hush in the room held him back a little, made each movement feel like it had weight. He didn’t want to shift the bed too much. Didn’t want to cross that invisible line unless she invited him to.

She was already nestled beneath the covers, turned toward him, her body curled like a comma — soft and tired and warm. One arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting between them, fingers barely curled. In the low glow spilling from the cracked hallway door, he could just make out the rise and fall of her breath, the shape of her mouth relaxed in sleep-heavy stillness.

In the dark, everything looked gentler.

No worry carved into her brow. No tension in her jaw. Just softness. Just quiet.

Just her, the version of her he only got glimpses of — when the world outside stopped asking her to be sharp.

“Cozy,” she murmured, voice low and near, like it belonged to the room and not just to her.

He huffed a laugh under his breath. “You stole the good side.”

“Snooze you lose, Doctor,” she whispered back, lazy and pleased with herself.

He turned his head toward her, barely able to make out the silhouette of her grin — the faint curve of her lips etched like moonlight across the pillow.

“You’re insufferable,” he said, not even trying to sound annoyed.

“And you love it.”

There was no hesitation this time.

No fumble. No nervous glance away.

Just the quiet truth, said like an exhale — like it had been sitting behind his ribs for longer than he knew how to name:

“I do.”

Her breath caught — not audibly, not sharply. Just a stillness. A pause between heartbeats.

She didn’t blink it away, didn’t deflect with a joke. She only looked at him, steady and quiet and close enough now to feel the warmth of his words where they’d landed.

He didn’t take it back.

Didn’t explain it. Didn’t rush to soften the edge of what he’d said.

He only looked back at her, eyes open and bare in the dim light, and let the words settle between them like something earned.

The quiet had deepened.

Not the kind that stretched thin and awkward, but the kind that settled — like dusk on a still lake, like the hush of snowfall outside a window. It wrapped around them beneath the blanket, warm and low and steady.

And then, slowly — like a thought forming — her fingers found his hand in the space between them.

She didn’t take it. Didn’t lace their fingers together or claim it as hers.

She just touched lightly.

The softest drift of fingertips along the back of his hand. Up and down. Slow circles. Wandering lines. Like she was memorizing him through skin, like she didn’t need anything more than this.

It wasn’t the kind of affection that asked for attention.

It was the kind that came after all the asking had already been done.

Spencer didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe, maybe — not properly. Not with the way his chest tightened at how deliberate it felt. How careful. 

The sort of care you don’t show someone you plan on forgetting.

Her fingers kept moving, aimless and tender.

“Does this bother you?” she asked softly, her voice almost lost in the blanket-warmed air. Still tracing. Still gentle.

His reply came too fast — unguarded, low, full of something that trembled just under the surface.

“No,” he said. “Not even a little.”

There was a pause, and then—

She smiled.

A real one. Small, tired, a little lopsided — but full. Lit from somewhere deep, like it had been waiting all night to make its way to the surface.

“Good,” she whispered, not letting go.

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It shimmered.

“I meant it, you know,” he added after a while. “What I said earlier. You look good in my clothes.”

She tilted her head, just enough that her nose almost touched his. “You sure you’re not just delirious from lack of sleep?”

“I’m delirious,” he said, “but not about that.”

A breath of laughter slipped from her — faint and breathless — soft as the dark around them. It barely rose between them, just warmed the air where their mouths almost met, then vanished like mist.

And then, neither of them moved. Not really.

Just closer. A slow, inevitable drift. Like gravity had quietly rewritten its rules in the space between their bodies.

His hand shifted beneath hers, the faintest scrape of skin on fabric. Turned palm-up — an offering, a question. Her fingers slipped into the open space like they were meant to be there. Fit like memory.

Their knees brushed under the blanket. Breath mingled. The quiet stretched long and low, full of want, of wonder, of something sacred and unfinished.

It would’ve been easy to stay there. To fall asleep with that quiet pulse between them, not quite touching, not quite apart. To pretend this edge didn’t hum beneath the surface.

But something pulled.

Something quiet and burning and hungry.

Her hand moved slowly — not tentative, not shy, just reverent. From the curve of his wrist, along the inside of his forearm, to the slope of his shoulder and the warmth of his neck. Her thumb found his jaw, traced the rough stubble there like she needed the confirmation of realness. Like she needed to feel him to believe he hadn’t vanished in the dark.

He exhaled — shaky, low, uneven — like the air leaving him had caught on the weight of her touch.

And then she was leaning in. Or actually, he was — because he couldn’t bear it, not one second longer. Not the breath between them. Not the stretch of space where her mouth wasn’t on his. Not the ache of her skin so close and not yet touched.

Their lips met like an echo — like something remembered before it was ever known. A hush, a question, a breath, an answer. All of it, all at once.

He kissed her like she was breakable — slow, reverent, as if the moment might splinter if he pushed too hard. Like he hadn’t kissed anyone in years, or maybe like he’d only ever been waiting to kiss her.

But then—

Then she made a sound.

Soft. Desperate.

The barest whimper against his mouth — and it undid something in him so completely, so deeply, that whatever careful structure he’d built to keep himself still collapsed without a sound.

His hand found the back of her neck, fingers threading into the warmth of her hair, like anchoring himself to her could keep the rest of him from falling apart. But it didn’t work. Not when she gripped the front of his shirt like she needed him closer — like she didn’t care what it looked like anymore. Not when she pressed into him and her mouth opened with a sigh that felt like it had been trapped behind her ribs for years.

They kissed like breath didn’t matter. Like time had folded itself into this one moment and refused to go on without them. Like the world had gone silent just to let them listen to each other breathe.

And it wasn’t innocent anymore.

Not with the way her body moved against his — slow, drawn by instinct, hips shifting just enough to make him feel it. Not with the way her hand curled into the space between his shoulder blades like she was afraid he’d pull away, like she needed to hold him there.

He breathed her name into her mouth again — not clearly, not fully, just the shape of it, half-broken, half-prayer. And she kissed him like she already knew what he meant.

His fingers trembled as they traced from her jaw down — a reverent path along the curve of her neck, to the place just beneath her ear where her pulse fluttered wild. His palm flattened there, over the column of her throat, gentle but unyielding, like he couldn’t help but feel the proof of her — alive, wanting, his.

A broken sound escaped her — not words, just breath — and he lost the last of his hesitation, if there was even any to lose.

He moved without thinking, without planning. One shift of weight and he was over her, slowly, carefully, but not gently anymore. The mattress dipped under his knees, hands braced on either side of her. Their eyes met only for a breath — hers wide, lips kiss-bitten and open, his gaze darker than she’d ever seen it — before he bent to her again.

He kissed her lips like they were the only answer he’d ever needed. Then her jaw — slow, open-mouthed, reverent — the stubble along his own chin brushing soft against her skin. Her head tilted instinctively, eyes fluttering shut, as his lips moved along the line of her neck, her pulse, the curve just below her ear.

Then back to her mouth.

Always back to her mouth.

She pulled him in like she was starving, and he let her — let himself.

Let himself feel her hands gripping his shoulders now, the rise and fall of her chest, the way she arched under him without meaning to, like her body was reaching for something she couldn’t name. His own body answered, helplessly — heart racing, blood humming, control slipping in slow spirals as he kissed her again, and again, and again.

The room was quiet except for their breath — hitched, shallow, wanting — and the faint rustle of sheets as they moved, as he pressed her down into the mattress like he couldn’t bear the thought of her slipping away.

The space between them had all but vanished — breath tangled with breath, warmth soaked into warmth. The blanket had slipped low over their hips, forgotten. And still, neither of them pulled away.

Spencer’s hand — the one resting beside her on the bed — moved without thinking. Just a shift at first. His fingertips brushed her waist, light as a whisper against the cotton of the shirt. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Only stilled.

And when his hand slipped beneath the hem — slow, unsure, achingly careful — her breath hitched.

The skin there was warm. Silken. The kind of soft he didn’t have words for.

He moved in delicate strokes — tracing the shape of her side, the gentle curve of her ribcage, the dip beneath it. Like he was mapping her. Like he couldn’t believe she was letting him.

And she was.

Her eyes fluttered, a quiet sound catching in her throat — something between a sigh and a gasp, held just for him. Her hips shifted slightly, not away, but toward him. An answer. A request.

He moved higher, fingers dragging the fabric up with each inch. Not hurried. Not demanding. Just wanting. His thumb traced a slow line beneath the swell of her breasts, the shape of her breathing changing under his touch.

She opened her eyes again, lashes heavy, lips parted in a way that made his heart trip.

“Spencer,” she murmured — nothing more than his name, but said like it meant something. Like she could feel everything he was trying to say through the reverence in his hands.

“I—” He swallowed, jaw tense with restraint, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t pull back. “I don’t want to rush this.”

“You’re not,” she said, voice hushed and certain. Her hand found his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “You couldn’t.”

And then she leaned forward, slow and unhurried, and kissed him again — deeper this time, more open. Her body curved into his, warm and pliant, and his hand pressed flatter against her chest, grounding himself in the realness of her.

She sighed into his mouth — soft and wrecked — and he felt it in every nerve ending. Like something opened in him at the sound. Like it shook something loose. His lips moved over hers again, slower now but deeper, fuller, until they weren’t kissing to find each other anymore — they were kissing because they already had.

And then he shifted.

His mouth found the edge of her jaw first — a ghost of a kiss, delicate and slow. Then lower. The slope of her neck. The spot just beneath her ear where her breath caught again, sharp and involuntary.

“Spencer—”

He hummed in response, the sound low against her throat.

And then he lingered.

Mouth brushing slowly, deliberately, across that warm stretch of skin. His lips parted — a kiss, then another, each one pressed with more intention, more need. Like he was learning her pulse with his mouth. Like he was writing something there she’d feel for hours after.

She shifted beneath him, her leg wrapping tighter around his hip, and the smallest sound — helpless, breathy — escaped her lips.

His teeth grazed her skin. Barely. Not a bite. Not quite.

Just enough to make her gasp.

Just enough to leave a mark.

His breath caught.

He hadn’t meant to — hadn’t planned it — but when he pulled back slightly and saw the soft flush blooming across her throat, the shape of him there on her, he couldn’t look away.

And she was looking back at him now, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, her expression somewhere between wonder and need.

“You’re...” he started, then stopped. Shook his head like he couldn’t find the words.

But she already knew.

So she pulled him back down — her hand curling around the back of his neck, her body arching into his like it couldn’t help itself — and kissed him like the night would never end.

His hand slid lower, slow as breath, fingers tracing the bare curve of her waist beneath the hem of his shirt — not hurried, not greedy. Just wanting. Just awed.

She felt impossibly warm beneath his touch. All soft skin and stammered breath and the quiet, electric give of her body against his. He pulled her closer until they fit, all lines pressed flush and trembling, and when her head tipped back slightly — that unspoken invitation written in the shape of her throat — he swore he could feel his heart stagger in his chest.

And then he kissed her there.

Right at the center of her throat — slow, open-mouthed, full of something more fragile than lust. Something aching. A murmur of devotion passed through his lips as they pressed against her pulse, like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of her from the inside out.

He didn’t stop there.

His mouth moved lower, finding the tender hollow at the base of her neck, then the curve of her collarbone — each kiss deeper now, less careful. More desperate. His hand still traced slow, reverent lines beneath the fabric of her shirt, but his mouth was leaving promises behind.

Soft marks bloomed where he lingered — not harsh, not bruised, but present. Little echoes of him pressed into her skin like he couldn’t stand the thought of morning washing her clean of him.

And she let him.

Her fingers wove into his hair, holding him there, like maybe she needed the same thing. A mark to carry through the quiet hours. A tether to keep the night from slipping away.

When he pulled back just slightly to look at her — lips parted, cheeks flushed, hair mussed where she’d held him — she met his gaze like it was the only light in the room.

“Spencer,” she breathed — not just a whisper, but a plea. Barely formed. Almost broken. His name in her mouth like something sacred.

“Please,” she said, voice catching in her throat. “I need—”

She didn’t finish. Couldn’t. But the way she looked at him said everything.

And it undid him.

A soft, aching sound slipped from his lips — somewhere between a groan and a promise — as he leaned in and kissed her again, deeper this time. Slower. Like he was trying to give her everything she asked for without making her say it.

His hand found her waist, steady and warm, drawing her closer. She melted into him, sighing against his mouth like she’d been holding it in forever.

And in that hush — between her breath and his hands and the soft, trembled ache of being known — he whispered, “I’ve got you, angel.”

His hand trembled where it touched her, as if he was holding something too precious — and maybe he was. Maybe he always had been.

Still, he didn’t rush.

His hand roamed gently, sliding over the dip of her hip, mapping the shape of her in slow, reverent passes. And then—

His fingers brushed lower. Grazing just beneath the waistband of the borrowed pajama pants. The fabric gave, loose and yielding. And then—

Lower still.

They slipped beneath.

Just barely. Just enough.

A hush broke between them.

Her breath stuttered — caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh — and she leaned into him like it was instinct, her leg tightening around his hip, her fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulder.

His touch paused there, just inside the edge of her underwear. Not moving further. Not pushing. Just there — skin to skin in a place that felt suddenly louder than words.

And still, his hand didn’t wander.

It rested. Gentle. Anchored. A confession more than a question.

His mouth moved slowly along the curve of her throat — not kissing, worshiping. Like she was something holy. Like her skin held scripture he’d waited his whole life to read.

“Spencer,” she whispered — not just a name, but a summons. A prayer drawn from the depths of her, aching and soft. And when he breathed it in, it wrecked him.

She arched into him, offering more. A tilt of her chin. A shift in her breath. An invitation.

And he answered.

Not with words. Not yet. But with lips that moved lower, reverent, tracing devotion in every press of his mouth against her skin. Her collarbone. The hollow where her pulse beat like a secret beneath his lips. She felt the shape of him tremble, the way his hands gripped her like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold something this sacred.

She gasped — not from shock, but recognition. Like he’d found some quiet altar hidden beneath her ribs.

He whispered her name again like it belonged in a psalm. Like it was the psalm.

She was the litany.

And when he kissed her again — slower now, with more reverence than heat — she let her hand drift to the back of his neck and murmured something only the night would ever hear.

A benediction. A vow.

And she let him. Head tilted, throat bared, fingers curling in the fabric at his back as if to anchor herself. As if she knew — knew in her bones — that she was being seen, and touched, and kept.

And through it all — the weight of him above her, the heat in his hands, the way she whispered his name like it was something sacred — he was still holding on to the last thread of restraint like it might break at any second.

Because he wanted more. So much more.

But he still wanted to be good.

Even now. Especially now.

So he kissed her like that was the only way left to tell her. 

That he wanted her. That he’d always wanted her. 

That this — this ache, this desperation, this us — had been building in the quiet edges of every look, every joke, every missed chance.

And finally, finally, they were no longer pretending not to feel it.

There was no space left between them.

Still lost in it — the slow press of lips, the drag of hands over fabric, the heat of breath between parted mouths. Spencer’s weight settled heavier over her now, no longer braced or hovering, but with her. Their bodies fit like conversation — like they'd always known how to move together, even before they ever had.

Like she belonged there. Like she was meant to pull him closer, and he was meant to follow.

His hand cupped her face as he kissed her again — slower this time. Softer. Like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth with his own. His thumb brushed beneath her eye, tender, reverent — like every blink she gave was something sacred.

Their mouths moved in rhythm now, gentler, languid — not from lack of want, but from the kind of exhaustion that settles in the bones after something long-awaited finally gives way. Like the tide rolling in, slow and full, finally touching the shore it had been reaching for all night.

His thumb drifted downward, tracing the curve of her cheek, then the corner of her mouth.

And then — gently — he ran it over her lower lip, slow and deliberate. Her breath caught.

He watched her.

Watched the way her lips parted instinctively beneath the touch, pink and kiss-swollen, eyes fluttering half-closed. And when his thumb slipped just barely past them, brushing against the warm inside of her mouth, she didn't pull away. She held his gaze and let him.

Her tongue grazed his skin — a whisper-soft drag, like a sigh.

It undid him.

Not because it was bold. But because it was intimate. Quiet. Trusting.

His pulse stammered. He leaned in again, kissed her like she was the only real thing in the world, and pulled her closer, deeper, like he needed her breath in his lungs to stay alive.

And still, they didn’t rush.

Even as their bodies stayed tangled. Even as sleep pulled at the corners of the room.

Even as their fingers curled tighter into each other, wordless and warm.

She sighed his name like it belonged in her mouth, like she’d been saving it for this moment.

And he answered with a kiss — slow and open, tasting of want and wonder. One that deepened until they forgot where the air ended and they began. Until her body arched again, drawn to him like tide to moon, and he followed, helpless to resist.

His hand slipped beneath her shirt again, this time with more certainty — fingertips tracing up the line of her back, warm and slow, until she gasped quietly into his mouth. Her skin bowed into his palm, and when he pressed closer, she let him, legs loosening and curling to cradle his hips like they’d done this before, like they’d always been made for this shape.

The room felt too still, like it was holding its breath for them.

She moved again, barely — just enough — and his own breath caught hard against her throat. A soft, broken sound escaped him, and then another, quieter, when her hands skimmed beneath his shirt and found skin.

Her name left his mouth like a prayer. Ragged. Dazed.

And he whispered something else then — something low, just for her — but it was too soft to catch. It didn’t matter. She heard it in the way his hands shook where they held her. In the way he kissed her like he was barely holding himself together.

Her hips tilted again, and he followed instinctively, forehead dropping to her shoulder as he groaned, muffled and aching, into the crook of her neck. His hand gripped at the curve of her thigh beneath the covers, anchoring himself there — trying not to move, not to lose himself.

But it was already happening.

Whatever carefulness he’d built, whatever lines he’d drawn, were gone now — softened at the edges, smudged by the weight of her breath, the taste of her sighs, the warmth of her under his hands, in his arms, against his heart.

And still, they didn’t name it.

They just felt it. Moved in it.

Soft gasps. Gentle pressure. The desperate, shivering closeness of two people falling apart in each other’s arms, trying to stay quiet, trying to stay slow, trying not to fall too far.

But they were already there.

And when she whispered his name again — broken and beautiful — he kissed her like he was saying me too.

She sighed his name like it was a lullaby.

And he kissed it from her mouth like a promise.

Somewhere between his mouth on her neck and her fingers sliding beneath the hem of his shirt, the layers between them began to fade. Not suddenly. Not all at once.

Just the quiet shift of cotton. The breathless drag of fabric against skin. The subtle give of a waistband easing lower, guided by hands that moved without hurry — only awe.

She didn’t stop him. Only watched him through the haze of moonlight and heat, her eyes dark and open, her breathing soft and shallow.

When her own hands found the hem of his shirt, he let her tug it upward, slow as a tide pulling away from the shore. He raised his arms for her without a word, without breaking her gaze, like offering.

And she took it.

The shirt joined the rest of the soft, crumpled fabric somewhere beneath them — forgotten. Not important.

What mattered was the way his skin felt beneath her palms. Warm. Trembling. Alive.

He leaned in again, kissed her once — and then again — slower this time, like he could feel the weight of the moment settling in the space between them. The gravity of being known like this. The hush of being seen.

Her legs shifted, curling around him like instinct, like memory — like she’d been waiting for this shape, this closeness, all along.

And when he pressed closer, skin to skin now, every inch of her answered without hesitation. Her breath hitched, her fingers tangled in his hair, and he clutched at her thighs — rough, enough for bruises to bloom like dusk, muted violets and honeyed indigo — tender, secret petals pressed into skin where memory met touch — like he needed her to anchor him. Like if he let go, he might come undone entirely.

His hands trembled where they gripped her, thumbs brushing over the soft curve of her skin, holding her like she was his and had always been. Soft sounds escaped his mouth, whimpers so dreamy they sounded angels singing down into Earth. Sharp gasps buried into the crook of her neck, warm breath heating the soft skin.

A sigh slipped from her mouth — wonder and want braided together — and he swallowed it with a kiss. Deeper. Quieter. A promise, sealed in breath and trembling hands.

And still, they stayed soft.

No rush. No sharp edges.

Only hands that explored reverently, like she was something precious he’d been entrusted to hold.

Only breath that stuttered and caught as the distance between them disappeared entirely.

Only the sound of hearts learning each other in the dark — steady and aching and close.

And then, later, the room had gone quiet again — not with absence, but with everything that remained. The hush of something sacred settling into skin.

Not empty. Not hollow. But full — with breath, with warmth, with the invisible weight of what had just passed between them.

They hadn’t spoken in minutes. There was nothing left to say. Not when everything was already written into the shape of their bodies — the curve of her leg around his, the slow sweep of his fingers along her spine, the ghost of his mouth at her shoulder.

Spencer’s hand never left her.

Even now, as their breathing slowed. Even now, as the rise and fall of her chest settled into something steadier — not from distance, but from peace.

His thumb traced idle, reverent shapes against the slope of her back. Little half-circles. Loops. A language only she would understand.

And she didn’t move.

Just stayed wrapped around him like gravity had claimed her. One arm tucked between their chests, the other tangled in his curls where her fingers had never let go.

She was warm. Too warm, probably. But she didn’t shift. Didn’t pull away. Only turned her face into his throat and exhaled slow, like she was letting go of something heavy she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.

He felt it, too — the unraveling of tension he didn’t know had lived in his ribs. The soft collapse of every line he’d drawn to keep from needing this too much.

His lips brushed her hairline. Not a kiss, not exactly. Just presence.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, voice hoarse and barely there.

Then a pause. A breath. Their movements slowed. His weight sank into hers, warm and heavy. Her hands ran up his back once more, fingertips tracing the dip of his spine, and then stilled.

Her eyes blinked open, just barely. “We’re gonna fall asleep like this,” she murmured, voice thick with warmth, words curling like smoke.

Spencer didn’t move. His lips were still pressed against her temple. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She huffed a lazy laugh. “We’ll wake up sore and sideways and probably on the floor.”

“Worth it,” he whispered.

Another smile bloomed slow and sleepy across her lips. She leaned up, brushed her nose against his throat, kissed him once more — a kiss that barely lasted, barely touched, but said everything.

His arms curled around her tighter.

They didn’t pull apart.

Not even as their bodies slackened. Not even as sleep began to pull at the edges of them, soft and thick and sweet.

Somewhere between breath and dream, she whispered, “Didn’t know you could be that gentle and still ruin me.”

And he smiled into her hair, voice almost gone with sleep. “I’ll try to keep ruining you, then.”

She was still smiling when she drifted off.

And so was he.

Morning didn’t come all at once.

It crept in slowly — a pale gold light easing through the slats of the blinds, feathering across the walls, the sheets, the curve of two bodies still wrapped in sleep. The air was quiet, still softened by the hush of early hours, like the whole world had paused to give them this.

Y/N woke first.

Not fully — not in the way you do when something jolts you up — but gently, like surfacing from the warmth of a deep, sweet dream. She blinked once, then again, lashes fluttering as the shape of the room came into focus. And then she felt him.

Spencer.

Still pressed to her, still wrapped around her like a second blanket. His arm lay heavy across her middle, skin to skin now — no cotton between them, just the warmth of his palm resting low against the curve of her waist, fingers splayed like he didn’t want to let go, even in sleep.

Their legs were tangled like roots beneath the sheets, her knee still hooked over his thigh, the arch of her foot tucked behind his calf. Every part of her seemed to fit there — inside the soft press of his body, the hollow of his chest, the shape of his hold.

She could feel his breath at the back of her neck — slow, even, steady. The kind of rhythm you only fall into when there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

She just lay there for a long moment, breathing him in. The scent of him. The warmth of skin against skin. The quiet, lingering ache of what they’d given each other in the dark.

Last night hadn’t vanished with sleep. It hadn’t dulled at the edges like a dream. It was still here — alive in the heat of his body pressed to hers, in the way his hand rested low on her waist like it remembered every place it had touched.

She could still feel it. The weight of his mouth on her skin — not just a memory, but something deeper, something etched. The way he’d said her name like a vow. Like a prayer meant only for her.

It lingered. In the hollow of her throat. At the curve of her lips. In the gentle ache that whispered down her spine — not pain, but existence. A hum in her muscles, in the space between breath and bone.

Her fingers moved instinctively, brushing the side of her neck with a kind of reverence. As if she could press the moment back into her skin. As if her own touch might still catch the echo of his. She lay quiet for a beat, wrapped in the hush of morning.

And then, slowly, she turned — just enough to face him.

His face was peaceful in sleep. His brow — so often tense with thought — was smooth now. Lips slightly parted. Hair soft and mussed from where she’d run her hands through it too many times to count. The sight of him like that — so open, so unguarded — did something to her chest she didn’t quite have words for.

She reached up, slow and careful, and brushed her fingers through a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He stirred at the touch, but didn’t wake.

Not until she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It was feather-light, more breath than contact, but it was enough.

He stirred again — this time a little more. Eyes fluttering open. Not all the way. Just enough to see her.

A faint, sleep-wrecked smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Hi.”

Her heart twisted.

“Hi,” she whispered back, barely audible, like the morning itself might startle if she spoke too loud. “You snore.”

“I do not,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

“You do.” Her fingers drifted along his jaw with the back of her knuckles — a lazy, reverent gesture, warm as the space between them. “It’s a soft snore. Almost endearing.”

His lips curved again, slow and lopsided, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat before opening again — slower this time, as if the light behind her was something worth savoring.

“If I do,” he said, voice like gravel wrapped in silk, “it’s because you wore me out.”

She grinned, lips twitching, and leaned in just enough for her forehead to rest against his. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

His fingers brushed the edge of her hip beneath the blanket — not with intent, just to anchor himself in the shape of her — and he let out a breath that felt more like a sigh of contentment than anything else.

She laughed quietly, and it curled between them like a ribbon. “You’re lucky you’re cute in the morning.”

“You’re lucky I’m still coherent,” he murmured, voice low and rough and ruined by sleep.

They didn’t move to get up. Neither of them even pretended to.

Instead, Spencer shifted just enough to press a kiss to her cheek. Then another to her temple. Then one to her collarbone, just beneath the edge of the fabric of the blanket.

Her fingers slid up the back of his neck, and she leaned into him like she could climb inside the quiet.

They stayed like that for a long while — pressed close, barely speaking, barely moving — sharing warmth and breath and the weightless, glowing hush of something undeniable. Something real.

No questions. No what now?

Just this.

Just them.

Still tangled. Still warm. Still smiling.

Eventually, they got up.

Not because they wanted to. Not because they were ready to leave the warmth of each other. But because Spencer’s stomach had let out a low, unmistakable growl and Y/N had laughed against his shoulder, murmuring something about him being lucky she found it adorable.

So now, they were in his kitchen.

Barefoot, still dressed in yesterday’s sleep and each other’s affection.

She wore only his shirt.

The one he’d handed her the night before — half-folded, worn soft with time — now draped over her like it belonged there. The hem skimmed just past the tops of her thighs, riding up ever so slightly as she moved, revealing the gentle curve of skin where the night still lived on her.

Her legs were bare, marked faintly where sheets had once twisted around them. The sleeves bunched at her elbows, too long and not rolled, like she’d pulled it on in a haze and hadn’t thought to fuss with it. And her hair — God, her hair — was a tumble of sleepy waves, half-tucked behind one ear, half falling into her face in that effortless way she never intended but he would never forget.

She moved around his kitchen like she’d done it before. Barefoot. Unhurried. One hand reaching for two mugs from the cabinet, the other brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with the kind of grace that didn’t know it was being watched.

He watched her from the other side of the counter, utterly ruined by the sight of her.

Because there was something devastatingly intimate about it — not loud, not demanding, but real. Like a future had already unfolded and left this moment behind as proof. Like this was what it might feel like, to be loved by her on an ordinary morning.

Just her. In his shirt. In his kitchen. Like it had always been meant to be.

“Coffee’s probably stronger than you remember,” he said, leaning on his elbows, voice still thick with sleep. “I may have used the wrong scoop.”

She gave him a lazy side-eye as she poured. “So what you’re saying is… this is revenge.”

He smiled. “Mild retribution. You mocked my snoring.”

“You did snore.”

“Allegedly.”

She handed him a mug and kissed his cheek as she passed — casual, easy, like the thousandth time instead of the first.

He turned slightly toward her, eyes drifting down to her mouth before lifting again.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She looked at him — really looked — and something in her expression shifted. Just a breath. Just enough for softness to rise like sunlight warming the edges of sleep.

His curls were a mess, more unruly than usual — flattened on one side where her fingers had rested all night, wild and fluffed on the other like sleep had tangled itself into the strands. A piece stuck up near his temple, catching the light from the kitchen window in a way that made him look impossibly younger. Unbrushed. Unbothered. Barefoot in his own quiet world.

There was still a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. His shirt clung lopsided to one shoulder. His eyes, when they lifted to meet hers, were heavy-lidded with warmth — tired, maybe, but only in the way people are after something worth losing sleep over.

And her heart stuttered.

She smiled — soft, instinctive — and reached like she might tuck that one rogue curl back into place.

“I’m good,” she said. “Tired. A little sore.”

A smirk pulled at his mouth — slow, crooked, impossible to hide. The kind that curled more on one side, like his face couldn’t quite decide between mischief and awe. It started in his lips but reached his eyes a heartbeat later, lighting them with something softer — like laughter not yet spoken, like affection he wasn’t ready to name out loud.

It was a look that said I’m thinking something I’ll never say, and you make it really hard to be cool about this.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t try to hide it.

“Not like that,” she warned, pointing her mug at him.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his grin was wide and unguarded and a little boyish in the way that made her want to kiss it off his face.

“I’m good too,” he said, after a moment — too casually, like he was trying to play it cool but already failing.

A beat passed.

“Y’know… in case you were wondering.” 

The edge of his voice caught at the end — not nervous, exactly, just wry. Like he knew exactly how transparent he was and had decided to lean into it.

She blinked at him once, then laughed — that soft, surprised kind of laugh that crinkled her nose and made her shoulders shake slightly.

“Oh, I was wondering,” she grinned, taking a slow sip from her mug just to hide how wide her smile had gotten. “Believe me.”

His smirk returned — helpless now, brighter. Almost bashful.

“Just making sure,” he murmured, gaze dropping like he couldn’t quite hold hers without giving himself away completely.

They stood like that for a while. Quiet, holding hands over chipped ceramic and the scent of dark roast.

His fingers curled loosely around hers, thumb brushing slow arcs against her knuckle like he didn’t want to stop touching her even for this. The mug in her other hand had started to cool, but neither of them moved. The moment felt suspended — hung in that soft hush where night ends and morning hasn’t quite decided what to become yet.

The window behind him let in streaks of sun, lighting the dust in the air like gold. It caught the curve of her smile, the tousled edge of his curls, and made everything look touched by something holy.

Y/N swayed slightly on her feet. Her voice was quiet, but not afraid. “You think we’ll regret this?”

Spencer looked at her. Really looked — as if the question had carved a path straight through his chest.

Then he shook his head, slow. Certain. 

“No,” he said. “I think we’ll wonder why we waited.”

A beat.

Then her grin broke free — unfiltered, full of teeth and fond disbelief. “God, that was smooth.”

His brows lifted. “It was honest!”

“And smooth,” she said, sipping again, voice muffled behind the rim of the mug. “Which is new for you.”

“I’ve had practice,” he said, pretending offense. “You’re a very motivating subject.”

“Oh, I motivate you?”

“Endlessly.”

She giggled — actual, unguarded giggling — and leaned her forehead briefly against his shoulder, like she needed to hide from the way he made her feel.

He turned his face toward her hair, smiling against it — lazy, content, still a little dazed by the way she fit against him like she’d always been there.

Then he leaned in, brushing his lips to hers — slow and steady, one kiss, then two, then a third for good measure. “I’m making up for lost time,” he murmured, voice low and warm like honey in sunlight.

She kissed him back without hesitation — lips curling into a grin between kisses. “You’re behind, then,” she said. “Better get to work.”

His laugh was quiet, breathless against her mouth. “Is that a challenge?”

She hummed, pretending to think. “More of an invitation.”

Coffee long forgotten. Sunlight rising behind them in soft, golden streaks. And for the first time in a long time — they weren’t rushing anywhere. Just standing there in a borrowed morning, trading kisses and banter like it was the only language they knew.

The ringtone was muffled somewhere between the counter and Spencer’s coat pocket, but they both heard it. A distant buzz that cut through the stillness like a ripple across still water.

Y/N pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Her smile lingered, but it was laced with reluctant understanding.

Spencer sighed, pressing one last kiss to the corner of her mouth before reaching for his phone on the counter. He glanced at the screen and winced.

“Hotch,” he muttered. “We’re being called in.”

Y/N groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Spencer answered the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

Hotch’s voice came through, steady and to the point. “Case just came in. Briefing at the office. Wheels up in an hour.”

Spencer nodded, even though Hotch couldn’t see it. “I can be there in thirty.”

There was a pause. A small one.

Then Hotch added, dry as ever: “Is Y/N with you?”

Spencer blinked. “She is.”

Another pause. Barely a breath.

Then: “I’ll let you tell her.”

Click.

Spencer lowered the phone, trying not to smile. “He knows.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Oh shit.”

Spencer shrugged, helpless. “He said he’ll let me tell you.”

She buried her face in her hands. “He definitely knows.”

“He didn’t sound mad.”

“He never sounds mad. That’s the problem. He just sounds like... Hotch.”

Spencer grinned, stepping close again. “I think we’ll survive.”

She peeked at him through her fingers. “Maybe. If Morgan doesn’t beat us to it.”

He leaned in, lips brushing her forehead. “We’ve been through worse.”

She groaned again. “Yeah, but not while wearing your shirt and drinking your coffee.”

Spencer laughed, warm and unbothered. “You’re not making me regret it.”

He then turned toward her with that sheepish, crooked smile. “Guess our little bubble just popped.”

Y/N stretched, arms overhead, shirt riding up over her thighs with no shame at all. “I’m blaming you when I show up looking like I’ve just rolled out of—” she paused, grinned, “—well. You.”

He flushed. “You could, uh... borrow something else?”

She was already walking toward the bathroom, barefoot and smug.

“You saying I can’t wear your shirt to work?”

Spencer blinked. “I’m saying I won’t survive it.”

Her laughter echoed down the hallway.

“Then consider it a challenge.” 

She paused just before turning the corner, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “Lucky for you, I keep an extra go-bag in my car. Otherwise, you’d really be in trouble.”

And as Spencer stood barefoot in the middle of his kitchen, still in pajama pants and a sleep-soft tee, hair a tousled mess from her hands and her dreams, surrounded by cold coffee and warm streaks of light spilling through the blinds, he rested one hand on the counter — the other still holding her empty mug — and smiled like the day had already given him more than enough.

There was a stupid grin on his face. One he didn’t even try to hide.

Even with the case.

Even with the chaos.

Today already felt like a good day.

Because she was still here. Still wearing his shirt. Still laughing under her breath like she belonged to the morning.

And for once, the world didn’t feel quite so fast.

From down the hall came her voice — bright, teasing, soaked in laughter.

“Reid! Are you getting in the shower with me or what?”

Spencer blinked, glanced once at the mugs on the counter like they might matter — then bolted.

She shrieked when she heard his footsteps, the sound chasing him through the hallway like music.

He reached her just as the bathroom door swung open, and before she could quip again, he wrapped both arms around her waist and kissed along the column of her neck, slow and breathless, lips pressed to damp skin and heat and joy.

She threw her head back into his shoulder, laughing, breath caught between surprise and delight.

“Spencer—”

“Just trying to conserve water,” he murmured against her skin, grinning.

And in the middle of case-day chaos, mismatched pajamas, and the hum of the shower behind them — they were already both laughing too hard to say anything else.

And the morning, somehow, kept getting better.

[clementineinn]

OMGGG you have me smiling like an idiot rn 💖💛 thank you SO MUCH!!!! xx

sometime in the mornin’

abstract: after a long case and a sleepless night, two BAU agents find quiet in each other’s arms — in soft shirts, slow mornings, and the kind of closeness that doesn’t need to be defined to be real.

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

genre: fluff, is a little mature but not very explicit

note: i tend to overexplain scenes and maybe run them into the ground so forgive me if i did here lol. that's also why i removed the word count description since i lowk felt like it was making me restrict how much i write, which i don't want to do bc i don't get the chance to write in school, so I NEED THIS LOL. long story short, blah blah, this fic is long. it does get steamy but nothing is explicitly stated, mostly because i'm still trying to figure out how to write heated scenes bc when i think back to my wattpad days, the embarrassment is real. ANYWAYS, as always, enjoy!

The parking lot outside the precinct still shimmered with leftover rain — shallow puddles stretched like fragments of fallen sky, catching the bruised orange flicker of tired streetlamps above. The asphalt glistened like it had been brushed with varnish, each crack and curve outlined in silvered shadow. Water clung to the edges of curbs, pooling in small, forgotten places.

The air had that particular kind of cold — the kind that didn’t just sting, but bit, sharp enough to steal your breath for a second before softening into something you could almost forget. It smelled like wet concrete, worn leather, and the lingering smoke of someone’s earlier cigarette, now long extinguished but still haunting the wind.

Y/N’s boots clicked faintly against the damp pavement, a rhythm out of step with the hush around her — too slow, too tired to echo fully. Each step sent a ripple through the puddles, spreading concentric rings outward until they faded into stillness again.

She looked wrung out. Not just tired — but spent.

Her hair was pulled back in a loose, uneven tie, strands slipping free and curling at her temples in the damp. Her coat was wrapped tighter than usual around her ribs, fingers clutched into the fabric like she needed it to hold her up. The posture of someone who’d done too much, said too little, and had no room left for either. The kind of tired that didn’t just sit behind your eyes — it lived there, echoing. Bone-deep. Soul-heavy. The kind of weariness that had nothing to do with hours or sleep.

The night pressed in gentle around her. Not cruel, not cold — just quiet. Like it understood.

Like it was waiting for something soft to break the silence.

Spencer saw it in the way her shoulders curved inward, like the night had finally settled its weight atop them and she was just too polite to complain. She stood at the edge of her car door, fingers hovering near the handle but never closing around it — like even that small gesture required more energy than she had left.

The air turned her breath to fog, delicate and ghostlike, curling around her face before vanishing into the cold.

“You okay?” Spencer asked, his voice soft, low — the kind of question that knew the answer already but offered itself anyway, just in case.

She turned toward him slowly, as though the sound of his voice had to travel through molasses to reach her. One hand still hovered over the handle, her fingers frozen mid-air. Her lashes were heavy, casting little shadows beneath her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said, after a beat.

But the word came out too flat. Too automatic. The kind of yeah that didn’t mean yes at all. Just a placeholder. Something you say when you’re too tired to explain all the reasons you’re not.

“Just...” she added, a half-breath later, “not in the mood for a forty-minute drive.”

Spencer’s hand slipped into his coat pocket, thumb grazing the edge of his keys like they might offer direction. He hesitated, the words caught between concern and something softer. Quieter.

“My place is ten minutes from here,” he said finally. Light, but not unmeant. “You can crash. Couch’s not bad.”

She blinked, slow and long, like she was still catching up to the suggestion. Her brow furrowed gently — not out of confusion, but surprise. Not because it was unwelcome, but because it was kind. And kindness always caught her off guard when she needed it most.

“I’m fine, Reid.”

The words came a little too quickly, too practiced. Like armor she didn’t realize she was still wearing — thin and fraying at the edges, but stubborn all the same.

“I know,” he said, and he meant it. Gently. Carefully. Like he was setting something delicate down between them. “Still.”

The silence between them thickened — not uncomfortable, just full. She looked at him, not fully, just out of the corner of her eye, then down again.

Her hand fell away from the door handle like it had lost its reason for being there.

“You sure?” she asked, softer now. Her voice thinned by hesitation, not doubt. “I don’t want to... intrude.”

She didn’t mean to sound so small when she said it. But the word lingered in the air like fog, curling between them.

He shook his head — not just a no, but something firmer. Quieter. Something closer to don’t even think that.

“You wouldn’t be.”

She exhaled, long and slow, her breath rising into the cold like steam off cooling tea. Her eyes flicked upward — not quite at the sky, but at the clouds where the stars should have been, where the night held its breath like it was listening.

Then she gave the smallest nod.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Just for the night.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — brief, quiet, almost too small to see — but it softened his whole face. Lit him from somewhere inside. And then it was gone, like it had never asked to be noticed in the first place.

“I’ll drive though,” she said softly, already rounding to the driver’s side. “I want to do something for you too.”

“You don’t have to,” he replied, immediate and gentle, like reflex. Then, with the faintest smile, “But fine.”

And that was it.

No argument. No protest. Just a quiet understanding passed between them like the keys themselves — weightless and warm from the press of her hand.

The drive unfolded in stillness.

No music. Just the low, steady hum of the engine and the occasional sigh of tires over damp pavement. Outside, the streetlights flickered past in slow succession — casting golden stripes across the windshield, across her hands on the wheel, across the soft curve of her cheekbone as she blinked too slowly at the road ahead.

She looked like something out of a memory in this light. The kind that faded at the edges. The kind you try to hold onto longer than you're supposed to.

Spencer sat in the passenger seat, his hands resting quietly in his lap, but his eyes barely left her.

He watched the way her fingers flexed on the steering wheel at every red light — not restless, just trying to stay awake. The way her eyes, rimmed in leftover eyeliner and the weight of too many hours, fluttered heavier and heavier with each block.

She was trying so hard. Still carrying the last fraying threads of the day like someone might need her again at any moment. Still holding herself upright when no one had asked her to.

He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to. That she could drop it — the composure, the endurance, the quiet strength she wore like second skin. That she didn’t always have to be the one who stayed steady.

But the words stayed behind his teeth.

Settled there. Safe, for now.

So instead, he said, “Turn left up here,” voice soft enough not to startle her.

And she nodded — not looking, just trusting.

His apartment welcomed them with the kind of warmth that didn’t just come from the heat — it came from history. From stillness, from the soft, steady presence of a life that had been lived carefully within its walls.

The light from the hallway drifted in behind them like fog, golden and thin, slipping across the hardwood and catching gently on the edges of furniture. The air inside smelled like old paper and something clean — not sharp, but soft, like the faint memory of soap in fabric, or a cotton shirt hung to dry near a window. Lived-in. Intimate.

Y/N stepped inside without a word, her shoulders folding slightly as the door clicked shut behind her. The quiet wrapped around her immediately, slow and deep, like a warm coat slipped onto her shoulders.

She toed off her boots near the wall — not rushed, just methodical, as if each movement had to travel through fog before reaching her limbs. Her coat slid from her shoulders a moment later, loose and limp with weariness, but she caught it one-handed before it could fall. Draped it neatly over the arm of the couch like she’d done it before. Like she’d been here. Like her presence had already been stitched into the space, quietly, without ever asking for permission.

Spencer moved past her without speaking, his footsteps nearly silent on the floor. He locked the door with a quiet snick, then dropped his keys into the small ceramic bowl on the entry shelf — the sound of them landing barely louder than breath.

He disappeared briefly into the kitchen, the glow of the under-cabinet light casting soft reflections onto the tile backsplash. The hush of drawers sliding open, the faint clink of ceramic and glass — it all sounded strangely soothing, like rain tapping on a roof. Familiar. Gentle.

Y/N stood still in the entryway, her body slowly catching up to the quiet. Her eyes blinked slowly as they adjusted to the dim light, and her hands hung limp at her sides. There was something about this kind of stillness — the kind that followed noise and chaos — that made everything feel heavier. Like she could finally feel her bones again.

She didn’t move yet.

Just let the warmth settle over her. Let herself be held by the quiet of it all.

“You want tea or anything?” he asked, voice low as he moved through the kitchen, back half-turned, the sound barely rising above the quiet hum of the apartment.

She shook her head, the movement slow, her voice softer still. “Too tired.”

Not just tired — spent. The kind of tired that settled behind her eyes and pressed gently at the back of her throat, where words usually lived.

He nodded like he’d already known — like he just wanted her to know he asked anyway. Still, he opened the cupboard without comment and took down a glass. Filled it with water from the tap, letting the stream run just long enough to cool.

When he turned and handed it to her, their fingers brushed — a fleeting touch. But it lingered. The soft part of his hand grazing the side of hers, a warmth that bloomed for just a second too long to be ignored. It sparked something small and quiet beneath her ribs. Something that flickered like light catching on the surface of still water.

She took the glass from him slowly, her fingers curling around the cool rim, and brought it to her lips. The first sip was barely a swallow. But it grounded her — the clean, clear taste of it, the way it caught the edges of her dry throat and soothed.

Her body leaned back gently against the arm of the couch, the glass still resting in her hands. She let her eyes drift around the room like she was revisiting a familiar dream — mapping the shape of it all as if it had changed while she was gone.

A few new books stacked by the window — titles turned outward, some already soft at the spine. A different lamp — softer, golden, the light barely kissing the floor. One of his cardigans hung over the back of a chair, like it had been shrugged off in thought and forgotten.

But otherwise, nothing had changed.

Still that quiet.

Still that warmth.

Still that feeling — the one she never let herself examine too closely, except maybe now, when her limbs were too heavy to lie, and the hush between them didn’t ask her to.

“You can take the bed,” he said, after a moment of silence that seemed to settle between them like dust in golden light. His voice was gentle — too gentle — the edges of it smoothed with something that sounded like care disguised as casual. “I’ll sleep out here.”

She blinked, the words catching her slightly off guard. Her brows pulled in, just a little. Not in irritation — in protest. In disbelief that he’d give something so quickly. So quietly.

“Spencer—no,” she said, already shaking her head. Her voice was soft but sure, the kind that didn’t leave room for argument. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“You’re not kicking me out,” he replied, even softer this time, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. “I’m offering.”

It was the kind of offer that didn’t ask for anything in return. The kind that came from someone who would never say you need it more, but knew anyway. Who would lie awake on the couch all night, thinking of her curled into his sheets, and still believe it was worth it.

She exhaled through her nose and folded her arms loosely across her chest. “And I’m declining.”

He opened his mouth, maybe to argue — gently, quietly — but she was already shaking her head again, a faint smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

“The couch is fine,” she said, lighter now. “I don’t need much.”

He didn’t push. He only nodded. But something shifted in his expression — subtle, but there. A tiny drop in the line of his shoulders, a quiet stillness in his eyes. Like something he hadn’t meant to show had slipped through anyway.

She saw it.

And maybe she felt it too — that same quiet ache, that wish to say I want to be close without sounding like she needed it.

Still, she only added, quieter now, almost sheepish, “I’ll be out cold in five minutes. I promise I won’t even notice.”

There was a pause. He didn’t look at her for a moment. Then he nodded once more, a little steadier this time, like the thought had been tucked away, folded carefully.

“I’ll grab you something to wear,” he said.

And then he turned toward the hallway, his steps quiet, measured — like even in that, he didn’t want to disturb the space between them.

When he returned, he held a neatly folded t-shirt and a pair of soft, worn-in plaid pajama pants — unmistakably his. The shirt had the faint scent of him still clinging to the cotton, clean and familiar, like soap and old books and warmth. He didn’t offer them with any ceremony, just held them out gently, like something delicate passed from one set of hands to another.

She took them without a word.

But her fingers lingered on the fabric — not accidentally. Not really. Her touch was slow, careful, almost reverent. Like she wasn’t just taking clothes. Like she felt, somewhere deep in her chest, that accepting them meant something more.

The weight of them made her throat tighten. It didn’t make sense, not entirely. But she didn’t fight it. She just swallowed around the feeling and looked up.

“The bathroom’s down the hall,” he said quietly, his voice carrying softer now, like he didn’t want to disturb the calm that had settled in the space between them. “First door on the left.”

She nodded once. “Thanks.”

And then she turned — socked feet brushing the wooden floor, his clothes pressed to her chest — and disappeared down the hallway with the kind of tired grace that didn’t ask to be watched but invited it anyway.

He stood there for a moment after she was gone, the hush folding in around him again like it had been waiting.

It wasn’t silence. It was presence. The kind that filled the room when someone had only just left — when their warmth still lingered in the air, in the folds of their coat on the couch, in the faint creak of the hallway floor.

Spencer exhaled through his nose, barely audible, and turned toward the couch. He unfolded the blankets one by one — carefully, quietly — smoothing the edges like it mattered.

Like it would somehow be enough.

When Y/N stepped out of the bathroom, the first thing she noticed was the light — a soft amber glow spilling from the cracked door at the end of the hallway. It pooled along the floor like syrup, rich and warm, brushing the edges of the baseboards and casting long, drowsy shadows across the wood. 

Spencer’s bedroom.

The rest of the apartment had dimmed with the hour — lights switched off, corners tucked into stillness — but that room glowed like something remembered. Like a place left gently open.

She padded down the hall slowly, bare feet silent on the cool floor. One hand tugged his too-long t-shirt a little lower over her thighs, the cotton worn soft with age, clinging here and there where her skin was still warm from the shower. The pajama pants he’d lent her sat low on her hips, cinched loosely at the waist — clearly made for someone taller, broader, his. She’d rolled the cuffs twice, but they still dragged the tiniest bit as she walked, trailing whispers behind her.

Her hair had come undone from the elastic, soft waves spilling free now, sleep-mussed and uneven in a way that somehow made her look more like herself. Like all the polish had fallen away and left only her, untouched and quiet and real.

She didn’t mean to stop at his door.

But the light was still on, golden and patient. And from within, she heard the muted sound of motion — the quiet hush of a drawer sliding shut, the gentle weight of something being placed on the nightstand.

Not rushed. Not loud. Just presence. Just him.

She stood there a moment longer, just outside the frame — bathed in the spill of light, listening to the small sounds of another person settling into night. Something about it felt so intimate it made her throat ache.

She leaned against the doorframe like it was muscle memory — like her body already knew how to belong there. One shoulder propped, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her weight resting easy against the wood as though this was always where the evening had meant to end.

The soft golden light from his room lit her from the side, warming the slope of her jaw, catching in her hair like firelight trapped in a dark bottle. The shirt hung long on her frame, brushing just past mid-thigh, and her silhouette looked almost delicate in the doorway — softened by sleep, by quiet, by him.

“You know,” she said, voice low and touched with amusement, “I’m starting to think you left the light on as bait.”

Spencer looked up, startled — clearly not expecting her, not like this. He froze where he stood, halfway to setting a book down on the nightstand, eyes wide and warm in the soft light, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and something unspoken.

“I—what?” he blinked. “No. I mean—no, I didn’t.”

She grinned, slow and sly and sleep-heavy, and stepped just a little closer into the room. Not fully — not yet. Just enough to cross that line between observer and invitation.

“You say that,” she murmured, “like you’re guilty.”

“I’m not,” he said too quickly, the words tripping over themselves.

Then, after a pause, softer—truth sneaking out beneath the breath:

“...Maybe a little.”

Her laugh slipped out in a hush — not loud, but close, and so familiar it tugged something loose in his chest. It sounded like the kind of secret you only share late at night. The kind of sound that folded into the air and stayed there.

“Busted,” she said.

And the space between them shimmered — lit not by tension, but by the unmistakable warmth of two people who felt it, finally, fully, and weren’t pretending not to anymore.

He tried to look away.

Really, he did — let his eyes drop to the book in his hand, the corner of the nightstand, the pattern in the wood grain that suddenly seemed very, very interesting.

But it didn’t help.

Because she was standing there like that — framed in the amber glow of his bedroom lamp, her body soft and half-silhouetted in the doorway, draped in his clothes like the night had conspired to undo him entirely.

The shirt hung off her shoulders in a way that felt almost cruel — stretched just enough to slide, slightly, exposing the smooth slope of one collarbone. The sleeves were too long, swallowed her hands in folds of worn cotton, but somehow that only made it worse. Or better. He couldn’t decide. 

The fabric skimmed her thighs, teasing the space just above her knees, brushing her skin like a whisper. The pajama pants had slipped low on her hips, cinched tight but still loose — and he could see the faint shape of her beneath them, the way her form curved gently under all that borrowed softness.

Familiar fabric — but completely transformed. Rewritten by the shape of her, the weight of her warmth inside it. It was like watching something private turned holy.

And the worst part — or maybe the best — was how utterly unaware she was of what she was doing to him.

She stood there, sleepy and beautiful, hair loose and tousled like she’d just stepped out of a dream. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, skin kissed by steam, lips still a little parted from the heat of her breath. She looked like something that didn’t belong in the real world — like a poem half-muttered into a pillow, or a photograph you only looked at in the quiet.

And Spencer —

Spencer ached.

His hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to touch her — not in any careless way, but just to confirm she was real. He wanted to step across the room and feel the press of his shirt against her back as he pulled her into him. He wanted to see how it would bunch under his palms, how the fabric would slip to the floor, how her skin would glow in this light, stretched out against the tangled mess of his sheets.

He wanted everything. All at once.

“You look...” His voice caught on the first word, breath snagging in his throat as he looked at her. He swallowed, lips parting slightly before he managed to push the words out. Quiet. Honest. “You look really good in that.”

Her brow lifted — one graceful arc, deliberate and knowing — and a smile bloomed slow across her lips. Not wide. Not sharp. But devastatingly effective. The kind of smile that knew its own power and wielded it gently, like a silk ribbon drawn tight around a secret.

“Yeah?” she murmured, voice laced with teasing sleepiness.

Then she stepped forward — barefoot on the hardwood, the faintest tap of her toes the only sound in the room. Her movements were unhurried, almost lazy in their confidence, but there was something unmistakable in the way she walked — like she knew exactly what he was seeing. Like she could feel the way his gaze curled over every line of her body beneath the soft cotton of his clothes.

“You like your fashion sense better when it’s on me?”

He exhaled through his nose — short, helpless.

“Significantly,” he said, because the truth was already out there and there was no pulling it back. His voice was lower than he meant it to be, rough around the edges with something warmer. Wilder.

She laughed, quiet and pleased, and then she twirled jokingly.

Spun in a slow, lazy circle with her arms lifted just slightly, palms up, like she was offering herself for review. The hem of the shirt flared around her thighs, catching the light as it rose, then fell again in soft waves. The fabric clung for a moment before drifting back into place, brushing the tops of her knees like a secret only he got to see.

“I feel like I’m drowning in it,” she said, half-mocking, but her voice curled at the edges, sleep-warmed and sweet.

He didn’t answer right away.

Because he was looking. And maybe he didn’t mean to — not entirely — but his eyes trailed the movement of her body like they couldn’t help it. 

She looked like a dream dressed in his life.

“You’re not,” he said at last, the words soft but unshakably certain. “It suits you.”

And it did.

It suited her in the way morning light suited sleeping faces, the way his name might sound if she said it against his skin — familiar, perfect, and entirely hers.

She smirked — slow and playful, lips curling just enough to betray how much she was enjoying this shift between them — then turned her attention to the room with a new kind of gaze. Not sharp. Not nosy. Just curious in that gentle, thoughtful way she had — like she was reading a story she already suspected the ending to, but still wanted to savor every line along the way.

Her eyes moved softly from corner to corner, taking in everything.

Framed photographs sat nestled along the upper shelf — not many, and none of them posed. Just quiet little snapshots of time. People frozen mid-laugh or mid-blink, caught in crooked frames and warm light. Most were older. Slightly faded. The kind of photos you don’t frame for beauty, but for belonging. Anchors to somewhere softer.

There was one of Garcia, beaming in neon glasses, flanked by Morgan doing his best to look unimpressed. Another of JJ and Prentiss sharing a plate of fries at some roadside diner, eyes squinting from the sun. Rossi with his sleeves rolled up and a drink in hand, smirking at whoever was behind the camera.

And then there were the ones of them.

Spencer and Y/N, in quieter corners of their lives. Not the field. Not the briefing room.

Him squinting into the wind on a ferry they’d taken up the coast, her arm thrown over his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. A blurry shot from a museum hallway, her laughing so hard she was doubled over and he was half-turned toward her, eyes crinkled in that way they always did when she was the one making him laugh. One at a book fair — she was holding up a ridiculous romance novel like it was a prize, and he looked at her like she was one.

None of the frames matched. Some tilted slightly. But they were arranged with a kind of care that didn’t need symmetry.

Just intention.

It was the kind of display that didn’t announce anything. But it felt like a love letter, if you knew how to read it. 

The books — of course — lined the shelves in tall, uneven stacks. Their spines were cracked and softened with love, pages filled with margin notes and crooked tabs, tiny flags of thought fluttering where his mind had once paused. She could picture him there, on quiet mornings, hunched over one with a hand in his hair and a furrow in his brow, the room humming with silence.

And there — tacked unevenly to the wall above his desk — a museum postcard, its edges slightly curled with time. The ink had softened from sun, the corners yellowed just enough to show it had lived there longer than it was meant to. Not pristine. Not decorative.

Kept.

The image was of a painting she couldn’t quite place — muted colors, a figure mid-motion, maybe something romantic in its brushwork. But that wasn’t what caught her breath.

It was the postcard.

From that museum.

The one they’d gone to together months ago, wedged between cases, on some rare free afternoon that hadn’t asked them to be anything but themselves. He’d bought it at the gift shop when she wasn’t looking, after she’d pointed out the piece in passing, said something about the color reminding her of old film and Sunday mornings.

And now it lived here — above his desk, above his thoughts.

Not framed. Not tucked into a drawer.

Just here.

As if he hadn’t wanted to forget it. As if he’d been anchoring her presence to this space ever since.

She didn’t say anything.

But her eyes lingered on it longer than she meant them to — and when she turned to look at him, she was smiling in that small, knowing way that said:

I see it. I remember, too.

She moved slowly, each barefoot step soundless on the floor, a whisper of motion. Her fingers drifted to the edge of his desk — knuckles brushing the surface, palm barely grazing the wood. There, in one neat stack, were papers. Carefully folded. Organized, but lived-in. The kind of order that came from someone who didn’t mind a little mess as long as he knew where it lived.

She let her hand rest there a moment, her thumb grazing the edge of a page, and said — lightly, but not without affection — “This where all the thinking happens?”

Spencer watched her from where he stood near the bed, his heart stuttering once in his chest. Not because she was touching his things, but because she wasn’t just touching them. She was seeing them. Seeing him.

He shrugged, a breath of a smile ghosting over his lips. “Sometimes,” he said. “Depends on the day.”

“And the bed?” she asked, turning to glance at him over her shoulder, her head tilted just slightly — playful, curious, that slow-blooming smile tugging at the corner of her lips like she already knew he wouldn’t survive the question. “Just for sleeping?”

He blinked, caught halfway through a thought, halfway through a breath. His gaze, which had been fixed somewhere safer — the spine of a book, the edge of the lamp — now locked helplessly onto her.

“Uh—yes?” he said, and it came out with the shaky precision of someone who wanted to sound sure and failed.

She grinned, soft and wicked and golden in the lamp light. A grin that unfolded slowly, deliberately, like silk unspooling across a hardwood floor.

“You say that like it’s negotiable.”

His breath hitched. His shoulders stiffened, just barely, like he was bracing for the impact of her voice — for the weight of her in his room, in his clothes, saying things like that with her bare feet on his floor.

“I—no, I just—” he tried again, floundering.

But whatever came next was swallowed by the sound of her walking.

She crossed the room in three slow, quiet steps. Not rushed. Not coy. Just present. Just herself — loose-limbed and sleep-soft and devastating. She moved like a daydream he’d been trying not to have.

And then — as if it were the most natural thing in the world — she sat.

Eased down onto the edge of his bed, one leg curling beneath her, the other swinging slightly where it dangled. The mattress gave beneath her, dipped gently with the weight of her, and for a moment he swore he felt the pull of gravity shift.

She didn’t look at him right away. She let the quiet sit between them like steam, let it gather.

Then, low and private and absolutely certain, she murmured:

“You’re fun when you’re flustered.”

His lips parted — then closed again, like a thought forgotten mid-sentence. A beat passed before he found his voice, and when he did, it was quiet and a little hoarse, laced with something too honest to be smooth.

“You make it extremely easy to be,” he muttered, eyes narrowed just enough to feign composure.

But they both knew better.

Because his heart was beating too hard.

Because his hands had curled slightly at his sides.

Because he hadn’t taken a full breath since she sat down.

And because even now, even then, he was looking at her like she was something breakable — not for fragility’s sake, but because he cared too much to touch her wrong.

The light from the lamp spilled across the room like honey — thick and golden, clinging to the edges of bookshelves and blanket folds, warming the corners where evening still lingered. It touched everything gently: her knees tucked beneath her, the faint sheen of the wood floor, the soft muss of his sheets where she sat like a secret the night didn’t want to share.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It breathed — slow and deep, like the space itself was expanding to hold them both without asking questions. The kind of quiet that didn’t beg to be filled. The kind that trusted its own weight.

Her hand moved lazily, almost thoughtless, fingers drifting across the book he’d left near the pillow. She traced the spine once, then again — not reading it, not even really seeing it. Just feeling it. Like the smooth press of paper against skin might tell her something about him she hadn’t learned yet.

“Are you actually going to sleep on the couch?” she asked, eventually — her voice low, unhurried. She didn’t look at him when she said it. Just let the words curl into the space between them and settle there like warmth steeping into tea.

“That was the plan,” he said softly.

His voice came from the far edge of the bed, where he still sat with perfect posture — like if he leaned too far in her direction he might fall right into her orbit and forget how to climb back out.

Her thumb moved along the book’s edge again. No reply. No protest. But she didn’t move either.

The book remained between them, forgotten now. A placeholder. A boundary. But not a real one.

Y/N shifted, the quiet motion of someone getting comfortable in a space she hadn’t intended to stay in. Her legs tucked tighter beneath her, one hand braced on the bed beside her hip, the other still grazing the cover. She leaned, just slightly, toward the center of the bed — not a decision, not quite. More like gravity had changed its mind about where it wanted her.

Spencer stayed still, but not comfortably. He was very aware of every inch of himself — the tension in his shoulders, the flutter in his stomach, the way his hand moved absently over the same book her fingers had just left. A trace. A memory. A nearly-there.

His other hand hovered in his lap, half-curled — twitching once like it meant to reach for something but didn’t know what. Or who.

“You should be tired,” she said at last, her voice softer than before — so low it felt like it had been folded into the space between them rather than spoken aloud. The words stretched lazily between breaths, brushed with sleep. “Aren’t you always the first to crash after a case?”

He glanced at her, his profile lit in soft gold.

“Not always,” he said. “Sometimes I just… wait for the quiet.”

She hummed, a slow, contented sound — somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Not quite agreement. Not quite anything. Just understanding.

Her fingers drifted toward the hem of the shirt she wore — his shirt — and caught absently on a loose thread. She didn’t tug. Just toyed with it, rolling the fabric between thumb and forefinger like it gave her something to do with the silence. Something to hold onto.

“It’s quiet now,” she murmured.

And it was. Not just in the room, but around them. The kind of hush that only came when the rest of the world had gone to sleep. The kind of hush that didn’t press, didn’t ask — just invited. The kind that made every glance feel louder. Every breath feel shared.

Spencer looked at her then. Fully.

No flicker. No half-turn.

Just looked.

Her face was different in this light. Softer. Not in the way light changes things — but in the way she had changed. Her shoulders had uncoiled, her hands were open, her whole presence less guarded. The edges of her had blurred, finally, like the end of a long-held breath.

She didn’t realize she was giving herself away. That her mouth was slightly parted, eyes half-lidded, voice thick with sleep. That she looked more like herself now than she did in the field, in the daylight, in all the places where sharpness was required.

And God, she was beautiful like this.

“It’s different with you here,” he said quietly. “The quiet.”

Her lips parted again, barely — not for a word, just for the breath she forgot to take. She didn’t look away. But something in her went still, like his words had touched a part of her she didn’t expect anyone else to notice.

She didn’t answer right away.

Just curled her legs in closer, tucking her knees beneath the oversized fabric of the borrowed shirt, and reached without thinking for the blanket at the foot of the bed. The motion was slow, almost absentminded, like her body was simply following instinct — like the need for warmth, for stillness, was stronger than any social pretense that said this is temporary.

Neither of them said the thing hanging between them.

Not you don’t have to go. Not I’m already staying.

But it was there. Settled like breath in the walls, like the hush of a room that didn’t want to be loud again.

The blanket settled over her lap in a soft cascade, and her hand smoothed it without looking. The edge of it draped near his knee — close enough to touch. Close enough to ask something wordless.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” she said finally, her voice barely more than breath. Her gaze didn’t lift. She didn’t press. She just let it hang there, soft and honest. “There’s room.”

He froze.

“Y/N…”

Just her name. Said like a warning, but softer. Said like please don’t tempt me, but please don’t stop.

She smiled gently, still facing away from him, but he saw it — the way it softened her cheek, the way her fingers curled more loosely in the blanket like she wasn’t holding anything back now.

“I’m not trying anything, Reid,” she said. “I’m just warm. And comfortable. And if you go back out there, you’ll probably fall asleep on the floor halfway to the couch.”

He let out a quiet huff — not a laugh, exactly. More like an exhale pulled straight from the center of his chest. Because she was right. And because the idea of falling asleep anywhere but here, with her like this, felt suddenly impossible.

She looked like gravity had already claimed her. Like the shape of his bed had opened just for her and she’d fit into it without even trying. Her body was soft now — no tension, no weight. Just warmth and breath and skin beneath fabric that used to be his.

He stayed frozen for a moment longer. Thinking. Feeling too much.

Then, quietly, still barely moving, he said — almost more to himself than to her:

“I’m scared I won’t be able to stop myself.”

Her head turned at that. Just slightly. Her eyes met his — warm and steady and unafraid.

Then—softly, surely:

“What if I don’t want you to?”

The words were barely above a whisper. But they landed like gravity.

And then she smiled.

Not teasing. Not coy.

Just soft.

Like she’d already known.

Like it didn’t scare her at all.

He let out another breath. Then, slowly, with a care that bordered on reverence, he reached for the lamp on the nightstand.

The click of the switch was soft, final.

And then the room dimmed to nothing but breath, and the quiet pulse of two hearts beating closer than either of them had meant for them to.

The mattress dipped softly as Spencer eased beneath the blanket, slow and cautious — like he was trying not to disturb something sacred. The hush in the room held him back a little, made each movement feel like it had weight. He didn’t want to shift the bed too much. Didn’t want to cross that invisible line unless she invited him to.

She was already nestled beneath the covers, turned toward him, her body curled like a comma — soft and tired and warm. One arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting between them, fingers barely curled. In the low glow spilling from the cracked hallway door, he could just make out the rise and fall of her breath, the shape of her mouth relaxed in sleep-heavy stillness.

In the dark, everything looked gentler.

No worry carved into her brow. No tension in her jaw. Just softness. Just quiet.

Just her, the version of her he only got glimpses of — when the world outside stopped asking her to be sharp.

“Cozy,” she murmured, voice low and near, like it belonged to the room and not just to her.

He huffed a laugh under his breath. “You stole the good side.”

“Snooze you lose, Doctor,” she whispered back, lazy and pleased with herself.

He turned his head toward her, barely able to make out the silhouette of her grin — the faint curve of her lips etched like moonlight across the pillow.

“You’re insufferable,” he said, not even trying to sound annoyed.

“And you love it.”

There was no hesitation this time.

No fumble. No nervous glance away.

Just the quiet truth, said like an exhale — like it had been sitting behind his ribs for longer than he knew how to name:

“I do.”

Her breath caught — not audibly, not sharply. Just a stillness. A pause between heartbeats.

She didn’t blink it away, didn’t deflect with a joke. She only looked at him, steady and quiet and close enough now to feel the warmth of his words where they’d landed.

He didn’t take it back.

Didn’t explain it. Didn’t rush to soften the edge of what he’d said.

He only looked back at her, eyes open and bare in the dim light, and let the words settle between them like something earned.

The quiet had deepened.

Not the kind that stretched thin and awkward, but the kind that settled — like dusk on a still lake, like the hush of snowfall outside a window. It wrapped around them beneath the blanket, warm and low and steady.

And then, slowly — like a thought forming — her fingers found his hand in the space between them.

She didn’t take it. Didn’t lace their fingers together or claim it as hers.

She just touched lightly.

The softest drift of fingertips along the back of his hand. Up and down. Slow circles. Wandering lines. Like she was memorizing him through skin, like she didn’t need anything more than this.

It wasn’t the kind of affection that asked for attention.

It was the kind that came after all the asking had already been done.

Spencer didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe, maybe — not properly. Not with the way his chest tightened at how deliberate it felt. How careful. 

The sort of care you don’t show someone you plan on forgetting.

Her fingers kept moving, aimless and tender.

“Does this bother you?” she asked softly, her voice almost lost in the blanket-warmed air. Still tracing. Still gentle.

His reply came too fast — unguarded, low, full of something that trembled just under the surface.

“No,” he said. “Not even a little.”

There was a pause, and then—

She smiled.

A real one. Small, tired, a little lopsided — but full. Lit from somewhere deep, like it had been waiting all night to make its way to the surface.

“Good,” she whispered, not letting go.

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It shimmered.

“I meant it, you know,” he added after a while. “What I said earlier. You look good in my clothes.”

She tilted her head, just enough that her nose almost touched his. “You sure you’re not just delirious from lack of sleep?”

“I’m delirious,” he said, “but not about that.”

A breath of laughter slipped from her — faint and breathless — soft as the dark around them. It barely rose between them, just warmed the air where their mouths almost met, then vanished like mist.

And then, neither of them moved. Not really.

Just closer. A slow, inevitable drift. Like gravity had quietly rewritten its rules in the space between their bodies.

His hand shifted beneath hers, the faintest scrape of skin on fabric. Turned palm-up — an offering, a question. Her fingers slipped into the open space like they were meant to be there. Fit like memory.

Their knees brushed under the blanket. Breath mingled. The quiet stretched long and low, full of want, of wonder, of something sacred and unfinished.

It would’ve been easy to stay there. To fall asleep with that quiet pulse between them, not quite touching, not quite apart. To pretend this edge didn’t hum beneath the surface.

But something pulled.

Something quiet and burning and hungry.

Her hand moved slowly — not tentative, not shy, just reverent. From the curve of his wrist, along the inside of his forearm, to the slope of his shoulder and the warmth of his neck. Her thumb found his jaw, traced the rough stubble there like she needed the confirmation of realness. Like she needed to feel him to believe he hadn’t vanished in the dark.

He exhaled — shaky, low, uneven — like the air leaving him had caught on the weight of her touch.

And then she was leaning in. Or actually, he was — because he couldn’t bear it, not one second longer. Not the breath between them. Not the stretch of space where her mouth wasn’t on his. Not the ache of her skin so close and not yet touched.

Their lips met like an echo — like something remembered before it was ever known. A hush, a question, a breath, an answer. All of it, all at once.

He kissed her like she was breakable — slow, reverent, as if the moment might splinter if he pushed too hard. Like he hadn’t kissed anyone in years, or maybe like he’d only ever been waiting to kiss her.

But then—

Then she made a sound.

Soft. Desperate.

The barest whimper against his mouth — and it undid something in him so completely, so deeply, that whatever careful structure he’d built to keep himself still collapsed without a sound.

His hand found the back of her neck, fingers threading into the warmth of her hair, like anchoring himself to her could keep the rest of him from falling apart. But it didn’t work. Not when she gripped the front of his shirt like she needed him closer — like she didn’t care what it looked like anymore. Not when she pressed into him and her mouth opened with a sigh that felt like it had been trapped behind her ribs for years.

They kissed like breath didn’t matter. Like time had folded itself into this one moment and refused to go on without them. Like the world had gone silent just to let them listen to each other breathe.

And it wasn’t innocent anymore.

Not with the way her body moved against his — slow, drawn by instinct, hips shifting just enough to make him feel it. Not with the way her hand curled into the space between his shoulder blades like she was afraid he’d pull away, like she needed to hold him there.

He breathed her name into her mouth again — not clearly, not fully, just the shape of it, half-broken, half-prayer. And she kissed him like she already knew what he meant.

His fingers trembled as they traced from her jaw down — a reverent path along the curve of her neck, to the place just beneath her ear where her pulse fluttered wild. His palm flattened there, over the column of her throat, gentle but unyielding, like he couldn’t help but feel the proof of her — alive, wanting, his.

A broken sound escaped her — not words, just breath — and he lost the last of his hesitation, if there was even any to lose.

He moved without thinking, without planning. One shift of weight and he was over her, slowly, carefully, but not gently anymore. The mattress dipped under his knees, hands braced on either side of her. Their eyes met only for a breath — hers wide, lips kiss-bitten and open, his gaze darker than she’d ever seen it — before he bent to her again.

He kissed her lips like they were the only answer he’d ever needed. Then her jaw — slow, open-mouthed, reverent — the stubble along his own chin brushing soft against her skin. Her head tilted instinctively, eyes fluttering shut, as his lips moved along the line of her neck, her pulse, the curve just below her ear.

Then back to her mouth.

Always back to her mouth.

She pulled him in like she was starving, and he let her — let himself.

Let himself feel her hands gripping his shoulders now, the rise and fall of her chest, the way she arched under him without meaning to, like her body was reaching for something she couldn’t name. His own body answered, helplessly — heart racing, blood humming, control slipping in slow spirals as he kissed her again, and again, and again.

The room was quiet except for their breath — hitched, shallow, wanting — and the faint rustle of sheets as they moved, as he pressed her down into the mattress like he couldn’t bear the thought of her slipping away.

The space between them had all but vanished — breath tangled with breath, warmth soaked into warmth. The blanket had slipped low over their hips, forgotten. And still, neither of them pulled away.

Spencer’s hand — the one resting beside her on the bed — moved without thinking. Just a shift at first. His fingertips brushed her waist, light as a whisper against the cotton of the shirt. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Only stilled.

And when his hand slipped beneath the hem — slow, unsure, achingly careful — her breath hitched.

The skin there was warm. Silken. The kind of soft he didn’t have words for.

He moved in delicate strokes — tracing the shape of her side, the gentle curve of her ribcage, the dip beneath it. Like he was mapping her. Like he couldn’t believe she was letting him.

And she was.

Her eyes fluttered, a quiet sound catching in her throat — something between a sigh and a gasp, held just for him. Her hips shifted slightly, not away, but toward him. An answer. A request.

He moved higher, fingers dragging the fabric up with each inch. Not hurried. Not demanding. Just wanting. His thumb traced a slow line beneath the swell of her breasts, the shape of her breathing changing under his touch.

She opened her eyes again, lashes heavy, lips parted in a way that made his heart trip.

“Spencer,” she murmured — nothing more than his name, but said like it meant something. Like she could feel everything he was trying to say through the reverence in his hands.

“I—” He swallowed, jaw tense with restraint, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t pull back. “I don’t want to rush this.”

“You’re not,” she said, voice hushed and certain. Her hand found his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “You couldn’t.”

And then she leaned forward, slow and unhurried, and kissed him again — deeper this time, more open. Her body curved into his, warm and pliant, and his hand pressed flatter against her chest, grounding himself in the realness of her.

She sighed into his mouth — soft and wrecked — and he felt it in every nerve ending. Like something opened in him at the sound. Like it shook something loose. His lips moved over hers again, slower now but deeper, fuller, until they weren’t kissing to find each other anymore — they were kissing because they already had.

And then he shifted.

His mouth found the edge of her jaw first — a ghost of a kiss, delicate and slow. Then lower. The slope of her neck. The spot just beneath her ear where her breath caught again, sharp and involuntary.

“Spencer—”

He hummed in response, the sound low against her throat.

And then he lingered.

Mouth brushing slowly, deliberately, across that warm stretch of skin. His lips parted — a kiss, then another, each one pressed with more intention, more need. Like he was learning her pulse with his mouth. Like he was writing something there she’d feel for hours after.

She shifted beneath him, her leg wrapping tighter around his hip, and the smallest sound — helpless, breathy — escaped her lips.

His teeth grazed her skin. Barely. Not a bite. Not quite.

Just enough to make her gasp.

Just enough to leave a mark.

His breath caught.

He hadn’t meant to — hadn’t planned it — but when he pulled back slightly and saw the soft flush blooming across her throat, the shape of him there on her, he couldn’t look away.

And she was looking back at him now, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, her expression somewhere between wonder and need.

“You’re...” he started, then stopped. Shook his head like he couldn’t find the words.

But she already knew.

So she pulled him back down — her hand curling around the back of his neck, her body arching into his like it couldn’t help itself — and kissed him like the night would never end.

His hand slid lower, slow as breath, fingers tracing the bare curve of her waist beneath the hem of his shirt — not hurried, not greedy. Just wanting. Just awed.

She felt impossibly warm beneath his touch. All soft skin and stammered breath and the quiet, electric give of her body against his. He pulled her closer until they fit, all lines pressed flush and trembling, and when her head tipped back slightly — that unspoken invitation written in the shape of her throat — he swore he could feel his heart stagger in his chest.

And then he kissed her there.

Right at the center of her throat — slow, open-mouthed, full of something more fragile than lust. Something aching. A murmur of devotion passed through his lips as they pressed against her pulse, like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of her from the inside out.

He didn’t stop there.

His mouth moved lower, finding the tender hollow at the base of her neck, then the curve of her collarbone — each kiss deeper now, less careful. More desperate. His hand still traced slow, reverent lines beneath the fabric of her shirt, but his mouth was leaving promises behind.

Soft marks bloomed where he lingered — not harsh, not bruised, but present. Little echoes of him pressed into her skin like he couldn’t stand the thought of morning washing her clean of him.

And she let him.

Her fingers wove into his hair, holding him there, like maybe she needed the same thing. A mark to carry through the quiet hours. A tether to keep the night from slipping away.

When he pulled back just slightly to look at her — lips parted, cheeks flushed, hair mussed where she’d held him — she met his gaze like it was the only light in the room.

“Spencer,” she breathed — not just a whisper, but a plea. Barely formed. Almost broken. His name in her mouth like something sacred.

“Please,” she said, voice catching in her throat. “I need—”

She didn’t finish. Couldn’t. But the way she looked at him said everything.

And it undid him.

A soft, aching sound slipped from his lips — somewhere between a groan and a promise — as he leaned in and kissed her again, deeper this time. Slower. Like he was trying to give her everything she asked for without making her say it.

His hand found her waist, steady and warm, drawing her closer. She melted into him, sighing against his mouth like she’d been holding it in forever.

And in that hush — between her breath and his hands and the soft, trembled ache of being known — he whispered, “I’ve got you, angel.”

His hand trembled where it touched her, as if he was holding something too precious — and maybe he was. Maybe he always had been.

Still, he didn’t rush.

His hand roamed gently, sliding over the dip of her hip, mapping the shape of her in slow, reverent passes. And then—

His fingers brushed lower. Grazing just beneath the waistband of the borrowed pajama pants. The fabric gave, loose and yielding. And then—

Lower still.

They slipped beneath.

Just barely. Just enough.

A hush broke between them.

Her breath stuttered — caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh — and she leaned into him like it was instinct, her leg tightening around his hip, her fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulder.

His touch paused there, just inside the edge of her underwear. Not moving further. Not pushing. Just there — skin to skin in a place that felt suddenly louder than words.

And still, his hand didn’t wander.

It rested. Gentle. Anchored. A confession more than a question.

His mouth moved slowly along the curve of her throat — not kissing, worshiping. Like she was something holy. Like her skin held scripture he’d waited his whole life to read.

“Spencer,” she whispered — not just a name, but a summons. A prayer drawn from the depths of her, aching and soft. And when he breathed it in, it wrecked him.

She arched into him, offering more. A tilt of her chin. A shift in her breath. An invitation.

And he answered.

Not with words. Not yet. But with lips that moved lower, reverent, tracing devotion in every press of his mouth against her skin. Her collarbone. The hollow where her pulse beat like a secret beneath his lips. She felt the shape of him tremble, the way his hands gripped her like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold something this sacred.

She gasped — not from shock, but recognition. Like he’d found some quiet altar hidden beneath her ribs.

He whispered her name again like it belonged in a psalm. Like it was the psalm.

She was the litany.

And when he kissed her again — slower now, with more reverence than heat — she let her hand drift to the back of his neck and murmured something only the night would ever hear.

A benediction. A vow.

And she let him. Head tilted, throat bared, fingers curling in the fabric at his back as if to anchor herself. As if she knew — knew in her bones — that she was being seen, and touched, and kept.

And through it all — the weight of him above her, the heat in his hands, the way she whispered his name like it was something sacred — he was still holding on to the last thread of restraint like it might break at any second.

Because he wanted more. So much more.

But he still wanted to be good.

Even now. Especially now.

So he kissed her like that was the only way left to tell her. 

That he wanted her. That he’d always wanted her. 

That this — this ache, this desperation, this us — had been building in the quiet edges of every look, every joke, every missed chance.

And finally, finally, they were no longer pretending not to feel it.

There was no space left between them.

Still lost in it — the slow press of lips, the drag of hands over fabric, the heat of breath between parted mouths. Spencer’s weight settled heavier over her now, no longer braced or hovering, but with her. Their bodies fit like conversation — like they'd always known how to move together, even before they ever had.

Like she belonged there. Like she was meant to pull him closer, and he was meant to follow.

His hand cupped her face as he kissed her again — slower this time. Softer. Like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth with his own. His thumb brushed beneath her eye, tender, reverent — like every blink she gave was something sacred.

Their mouths moved in rhythm now, gentler, languid — not from lack of want, but from the kind of exhaustion that settles in the bones after something long-awaited finally gives way. Like the tide rolling in, slow and full, finally touching the shore it had been reaching for all night.

His thumb drifted downward, tracing the curve of her cheek, then the corner of her mouth.

And then — gently — he ran it over her lower lip, slow and deliberate. Her breath caught.

He watched her.

Watched the way her lips parted instinctively beneath the touch, pink and kiss-swollen, eyes fluttering half-closed. And when his thumb slipped just barely past them, brushing against the warm inside of her mouth, she didn't pull away. She held his gaze and let him.

Her tongue grazed his skin — a whisper-soft drag, like a sigh.

It undid him.

Not because it was bold. But because it was intimate. Quiet. Trusting.

His pulse stammered. He leaned in again, kissed her like she was the only real thing in the world, and pulled her closer, deeper, like he needed her breath in his lungs to stay alive.

And still, they didn’t rush.

Even as their bodies stayed tangled. Even as sleep pulled at the corners of the room.

Even as their fingers curled tighter into each other, wordless and warm.

She sighed his name like it belonged in her mouth, like she’d been saving it for this moment.

And he answered with a kiss — slow and open, tasting of want and wonder. One that deepened until they forgot where the air ended and they began. Until her body arched again, drawn to him like tide to moon, and he followed, helpless to resist.

His hand slipped beneath her shirt again, this time with more certainty — fingertips tracing up the line of her back, warm and slow, until she gasped quietly into his mouth. Her skin bowed into his palm, and when he pressed closer, she let him, legs loosening and curling to cradle his hips like they’d done this before, like they’d always been made for this shape.

The room felt too still, like it was holding its breath for them.

She moved again, barely — just enough — and his own breath caught hard against her throat. A soft, broken sound escaped him, and then another, quieter, when her hands skimmed beneath his shirt and found skin.

Her name left his mouth like a prayer. Ragged. Dazed.

And he whispered something else then — something low, just for her — but it was too soft to catch. It didn’t matter. She heard it in the way his hands shook where they held her. In the way he kissed her like he was barely holding himself together.

Her hips tilted again, and he followed instinctively, forehead dropping to her shoulder as he groaned, muffled and aching, into the crook of her neck. His hand gripped at the curve of her thigh beneath the covers, anchoring himself there — trying not to move, not to lose himself.

But it was already happening.

Whatever carefulness he’d built, whatever lines he’d drawn, were gone now — softened at the edges, smudged by the weight of her breath, the taste of her sighs, the warmth of her under his hands, in his arms, against his heart.

And still, they didn’t name it.

They just felt it. Moved in it.

Soft gasps. Gentle pressure. The desperate, shivering closeness of two people falling apart in each other’s arms, trying to stay quiet, trying to stay slow, trying not to fall too far.

But they were already there.

And when she whispered his name again — broken and beautiful — he kissed her like he was saying me too.

She sighed his name like it was a lullaby.

And he kissed it from her mouth like a promise.

Somewhere between his mouth on her neck and her fingers sliding beneath the hem of his shirt, the layers between them began to fade. Not suddenly. Not all at once.

Just the quiet shift of cotton. The breathless drag of fabric against skin. The subtle give of a waistband easing lower, guided by hands that moved without hurry — only awe.

She didn’t stop him. Only watched him through the haze of moonlight and heat, her eyes dark and open, her breathing soft and shallow.

When her own hands found the hem of his shirt, he let her tug it upward, slow as a tide pulling away from the shore. He raised his arms for her without a word, without breaking her gaze, like offering.

And she took it.

The shirt joined the rest of the soft, crumpled fabric somewhere beneath them — forgotten. Not important.

What mattered was the way his skin felt beneath her palms. Warm. Trembling. Alive.

He leaned in again, kissed her once — and then again — slower this time, like he could feel the weight of the moment settling in the space between them. The gravity of being known like this. The hush of being seen.

Her legs shifted, curling around him like instinct, like memory — like she’d been waiting for this shape, this closeness, all along.

And when he pressed closer, skin to skin now, every inch of her answered without hesitation. Her breath hitched, her fingers tangled in his hair, and he clutched at her thighs — rough, enough for bruises to bloom like dusk, muted violets and honeyed indigo — tender, secret petals pressed into skin where memory met touch — like he needed her to anchor him. Like if he let go, he might come undone entirely.

His hands trembled where they gripped her, thumbs brushing over the soft curve of her skin, holding her like she was his and had always been. Soft sounds escaped his mouth, whimpers so dreamy they sounded angels singing down into Earth. Sharp gasps buried into the crook of her neck, warm breath heating the soft skin.

A sigh slipped from her mouth — wonder and want braided together — and he swallowed it with a kiss. Deeper. Quieter. A promise, sealed in breath and trembling hands.

And still, they stayed soft.

No rush. No sharp edges.

Only hands that explored reverently, like she was something precious he’d been entrusted to hold.

Only breath that stuttered and caught as the distance between them disappeared entirely.

Only the sound of hearts learning each other in the dark — steady and aching and close.

And then, later, the room had gone quiet again — not with absence, but with everything that remained. The hush of something sacred settling into skin.

Not empty. Not hollow. But full — with breath, with warmth, with the invisible weight of what had just passed between them.

They hadn’t spoken in minutes. There was nothing left to say. Not when everything was already written into the shape of their bodies — the curve of her leg around his, the slow sweep of his fingers along her spine, the ghost of his mouth at her shoulder.

Spencer’s hand never left her.

Even now, as their breathing slowed. Even now, as the rise and fall of her chest settled into something steadier — not from distance, but from peace.

His thumb traced idle, reverent shapes against the slope of her back. Little half-circles. Loops. A language only she would understand.

And she didn’t move.

Just stayed wrapped around him like gravity had claimed her. One arm tucked between their chests, the other tangled in his curls where her fingers had never let go.

She was warm. Too warm, probably. But she didn’t shift. Didn’t pull away. Only turned her face into his throat and exhaled slow, like she was letting go of something heavy she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.

He felt it, too — the unraveling of tension he didn’t know had lived in his ribs. The soft collapse of every line he’d drawn to keep from needing this too much.

His lips brushed her hairline. Not a kiss, not exactly. Just presence.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, voice hoarse and barely there.

Then a pause. A breath. Their movements slowed. His weight sank into hers, warm and heavy. Her hands ran up his back once more, fingertips tracing the dip of his spine, and then stilled.

Her eyes blinked open, just barely. “We’re gonna fall asleep like this,” she murmured, voice thick with warmth, words curling like smoke.

Spencer didn’t move. His lips were still pressed against her temple. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She huffed a lazy laugh. “We’ll wake up sore and sideways and probably on the floor.”

“Worth it,” he whispered.

Another smile bloomed slow and sleepy across her lips. She leaned up, brushed her nose against his throat, kissed him once more — a kiss that barely lasted, barely touched, but said everything.

His arms curled around her tighter.

They didn’t pull apart.

Not even as their bodies slackened. Not even as sleep began to pull at the edges of them, soft and thick and sweet.

Somewhere between breath and dream, she whispered, “Didn’t know you could be that gentle and still ruin me.”

And he smiled into her hair, voice almost gone with sleep. “I’ll try to keep ruining you, then.”

She was still smiling when she drifted off.

And so was he.

Morning didn’t come all at once.

It crept in slowly — a pale gold light easing through the slats of the blinds, feathering across the walls, the sheets, the curve of two bodies still wrapped in sleep. The air was quiet, still softened by the hush of early hours, like the whole world had paused to give them this.

Y/N woke first.

Not fully — not in the way you do when something jolts you up — but gently, like surfacing from the warmth of a deep, sweet dream. She blinked once, then again, lashes fluttering as the shape of the room came into focus. And then she felt him.

Spencer.

Still pressed to her, still wrapped around her like a second blanket. His arm lay heavy across her middle, skin to skin now — no cotton between them, just the warmth of his palm resting low against the curve of her waist, fingers splayed like he didn’t want to let go, even in sleep.

Their legs were tangled like roots beneath the sheets, her knee still hooked over his thigh, the arch of her foot tucked behind his calf. Every part of her seemed to fit there — inside the soft press of his body, the hollow of his chest, the shape of his hold.

She could feel his breath at the back of her neck — slow, even, steady. The kind of rhythm you only fall into when there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

She just lay there for a long moment, breathing him in. The scent of him. The warmth of skin against skin. The quiet, lingering ache of what they’d given each other in the dark.

Last night hadn’t vanished with sleep. It hadn’t dulled at the edges like a dream. It was still here — alive in the heat of his body pressed to hers, in the way his hand rested low on her waist like it remembered every place it had touched.

She could still feel it. The weight of his mouth on her skin — not just a memory, but something deeper, something etched. The way he’d said her name like a vow. Like a prayer meant only for her.

It lingered. In the hollow of her throat. At the curve of her lips. In the gentle ache that whispered down her spine — not pain, but existence. A hum in her muscles, in the space between breath and bone.

Her fingers moved instinctively, brushing the side of her neck with a kind of reverence. As if she could press the moment back into her skin. As if her own touch might still catch the echo of his. She lay quiet for a beat, wrapped in the hush of morning.

And then, slowly, she turned — just enough to face him.

His face was peaceful in sleep. His brow — so often tense with thought — was smooth now. Lips slightly parted. Hair soft and mussed from where she’d run her hands through it too many times to count. The sight of him like that — so open, so unguarded — did something to her chest she didn’t quite have words for.

She reached up, slow and careful, and brushed her fingers through a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He stirred at the touch, but didn’t wake.

Not until she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It was feather-light, more breath than contact, but it was enough.

He stirred again — this time a little more. Eyes fluttering open. Not all the way. Just enough to see her.

A faint, sleep-wrecked smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Hi.”

Her heart twisted.

“Hi,” she whispered back, barely audible, like the morning itself might startle if she spoke too loud. “You snore.”

“I do not,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

“You do.” Her fingers drifted along his jaw with the back of her knuckles — a lazy, reverent gesture, warm as the space between them. “It’s a soft snore. Almost endearing.”

His lips curved again, slow and lopsided, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat before opening again — slower this time, as if the light behind her was something worth savoring.

“If I do,” he said, voice like gravel wrapped in silk, “it’s because you wore me out.”

She grinned, lips twitching, and leaned in just enough for her forehead to rest against his. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

His fingers brushed the edge of her hip beneath the blanket — not with intent, just to anchor himself in the shape of her — and he let out a breath that felt more like a sigh of contentment than anything else.

She laughed quietly, and it curled between them like a ribbon. “You’re lucky you’re cute in the morning.”

“You’re lucky I’m still coherent,” he murmured, voice low and rough and ruined by sleep.

They didn’t move to get up. Neither of them even pretended to.

Instead, Spencer shifted just enough to press a kiss to her cheek. Then another to her temple. Then one to her collarbone, just beneath the edge of the fabric of the blanket.

Her fingers slid up the back of his neck, and she leaned into him like she could climb inside the quiet.

They stayed like that for a long while — pressed close, barely speaking, barely moving — sharing warmth and breath and the weightless, glowing hush of something undeniable. Something real.

No questions. No what now?

Just this.

Just them.

Still tangled. Still warm. Still smiling.

Eventually, they got up.

Not because they wanted to. Not because they were ready to leave the warmth of each other. But because Spencer’s stomach had let out a low, unmistakable growl and Y/N had laughed against his shoulder, murmuring something about him being lucky she found it adorable.

So now, they were in his kitchen.

Barefoot, still dressed in yesterday’s sleep and each other’s affection.

She wore only his shirt.

The one he’d handed her the night before — half-folded, worn soft with time — now draped over her like it belonged there. The hem skimmed just past the tops of her thighs, riding up ever so slightly as she moved, revealing the gentle curve of skin where the night still lived on her.

Her legs were bare, marked faintly where sheets had once twisted around them. The sleeves bunched at her elbows, too long and not rolled, like she’d pulled it on in a haze and hadn’t thought to fuss with it. And her hair — God, her hair — was a tumble of sleepy waves, half-tucked behind one ear, half falling into her face in that effortless way she never intended but he would never forget.

She moved around his kitchen like she’d done it before. Barefoot. Unhurried. One hand reaching for two mugs from the cabinet, the other brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with the kind of grace that didn’t know it was being watched.

He watched her from the other side of the counter, utterly ruined by the sight of her.

Because there was something devastatingly intimate about it — not loud, not demanding, but real. Like a future had already unfolded and left this moment behind as proof. Like this was what it might feel like, to be loved by her on an ordinary morning.

Just her. In his shirt. In his kitchen. Like it had always been meant to be.

“Coffee’s probably stronger than you remember,” he said, leaning on his elbows, voice still thick with sleep. “I may have used the wrong scoop.”

She gave him a lazy side-eye as she poured. “So what you’re saying is… this is revenge.”

He smiled. “Mild retribution. You mocked my snoring.”

“You did snore.”

“Allegedly.”

She handed him a mug and kissed his cheek as she passed — casual, easy, like the thousandth time instead of the first.

He turned slightly toward her, eyes drifting down to her mouth before lifting again.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She looked at him — really looked — and something in her expression shifted. Just a breath. Just enough for softness to rise like sunlight warming the edges of sleep.

His curls were a mess, more unruly than usual — flattened on one side where her fingers had rested all night, wild and fluffed on the other like sleep had tangled itself into the strands. A piece stuck up near his temple, catching the light from the kitchen window in a way that made him look impossibly younger. Unbrushed. Unbothered. Barefoot in his own quiet world.

There was still a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. His shirt clung lopsided to one shoulder. His eyes, when they lifted to meet hers, were heavy-lidded with warmth — tired, maybe, but only in the way people are after something worth losing sleep over.

And her heart stuttered.

She smiled — soft, instinctive — and reached like she might tuck that one rogue curl back into place.

“I’m good,” she said. “Tired. A little sore.”

A smirk pulled at his mouth — slow, crooked, impossible to hide. The kind that curled more on one side, like his face couldn’t quite decide between mischief and awe. It started in his lips but reached his eyes a heartbeat later, lighting them with something softer — like laughter not yet spoken, like affection he wasn’t ready to name out loud.

It was a look that said I’m thinking something I’ll never say, and you make it really hard to be cool about this.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t try to hide it.

“Not like that,” she warned, pointing her mug at him.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his grin was wide and unguarded and a little boyish in the way that made her want to kiss it off his face.

“I’m good too,” he said, after a moment — too casually, like he was trying to play it cool but already failing.

A beat passed.

“Y’know… in case you were wondering.” 

The edge of his voice caught at the end — not nervous, exactly, just wry. Like he knew exactly how transparent he was and had decided to lean into it.

She blinked at him once, then laughed — that soft, surprised kind of laugh that crinkled her nose and made her shoulders shake slightly.

“Oh, I was wondering,” she grinned, taking a slow sip from her mug just to hide how wide her smile had gotten. “Believe me.”

His smirk returned — helpless now, brighter. Almost bashful.

“Just making sure,” he murmured, gaze dropping like he couldn’t quite hold hers without giving himself away completely.

They stood like that for a while. Quiet, holding hands over chipped ceramic and the scent of dark roast.

His fingers curled loosely around hers, thumb brushing slow arcs against her knuckle like he didn’t want to stop touching her even for this. The mug in her other hand had started to cool, but neither of them moved. The moment felt suspended — hung in that soft hush where night ends and morning hasn’t quite decided what to become yet.

The window behind him let in streaks of sun, lighting the dust in the air like gold. It caught the curve of her smile, the tousled edge of his curls, and made everything look touched by something holy.

Y/N swayed slightly on her feet. Her voice was quiet, but not afraid. “You think we’ll regret this?”

Spencer looked at her. Really looked — as if the question had carved a path straight through his chest.

Then he shook his head, slow. Certain. 

“No,” he said. “I think we’ll wonder why we waited.”

A beat.

Then her grin broke free — unfiltered, full of teeth and fond disbelief. “God, that was smooth.”

His brows lifted. “It was honest!”

“And smooth,” she said, sipping again, voice muffled behind the rim of the mug. “Which is new for you.”

“I’ve had practice,” he said, pretending offense. “You’re a very motivating subject.”

“Oh, I motivate you?”

“Endlessly.”

She giggled — actual, unguarded giggling — and leaned her forehead briefly against his shoulder, like she needed to hide from the way he made her feel.

He turned his face toward her hair, smiling against it — lazy, content, still a little dazed by the way she fit against him like she’d always been there.

Then he leaned in, brushing his lips to hers — slow and steady, one kiss, then two, then a third for good measure. “I’m making up for lost time,” he murmured, voice low and warm like honey in sunlight.

She kissed him back without hesitation — lips curling into a grin between kisses. “You’re behind, then,” she said. “Better get to work.”

His laugh was quiet, breathless against her mouth. “Is that a challenge?”

She hummed, pretending to think. “More of an invitation.”

Coffee long forgotten. Sunlight rising behind them in soft, golden streaks. And for the first time in a long time — they weren’t rushing anywhere. Just standing there in a borrowed morning, trading kisses and banter like it was the only language they knew.

The ringtone was muffled somewhere between the counter and Spencer’s coat pocket, but they both heard it. A distant buzz that cut through the stillness like a ripple across still water.

Y/N pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Her smile lingered, but it was laced with reluctant understanding.

Spencer sighed, pressing one last kiss to the corner of her mouth before reaching for his phone on the counter. He glanced at the screen and winced.

“Hotch,” he muttered. “We’re being called in.”

Y/N groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Spencer answered the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

Hotch’s voice came through, steady and to the point. “Case just came in. Briefing at the office. Wheels up in an hour.”

Spencer nodded, even though Hotch couldn’t see it. “I can be there in thirty.”

There was a pause. A small one.

Then Hotch added, dry as ever: “Is Y/N with you?”

Spencer blinked. “She is.”

Another pause. Barely a breath.

Then: “I’ll let you tell her.”

Click.

Spencer lowered the phone, trying not to smile. “He knows.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Oh shit.”

Spencer shrugged, helpless. “He said he’ll let me tell you.”

She buried her face in her hands. “He definitely knows.”

“He didn’t sound mad.”

“He never sounds mad. That’s the problem. He just sounds like... Hotch.”

Spencer grinned, stepping close again. “I think we’ll survive.”

She peeked at him through her fingers. “Maybe. If Morgan doesn’t beat us to it.”

He leaned in, lips brushing her forehead. “We’ve been through worse.”

She groaned again. “Yeah, but not while wearing your shirt and drinking your coffee.”

Spencer laughed, warm and unbothered. “You’re not making me regret it.”

He then turned toward her with that sheepish, crooked smile. “Guess our little bubble just popped.”

Y/N stretched, arms overhead, shirt riding up over her thighs with no shame at all. “I’m blaming you when I show up looking like I’ve just rolled out of—” she paused, grinned, “—well. You.”

He flushed. “You could, uh... borrow something else?”

She was already walking toward the bathroom, barefoot and smug.

“You saying I can’t wear your shirt to work?”

Spencer blinked. “I’m saying I won’t survive it.”

Her laughter echoed down the hallway.

“Then consider it a challenge.” 

She paused just before turning the corner, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “Lucky for you, I keep an extra go-bag in my car. Otherwise, you’d really be in trouble.”

And as Spencer stood barefoot in the middle of his kitchen, still in pajama pants and a sleep-soft tee, hair a tousled mess from her hands and her dreams, surrounded by cold coffee and warm streaks of light spilling through the blinds, he rested one hand on the counter — the other still holding her empty mug — and smiled like the day had already given him more than enough.

There was a stupid grin on his face. One he didn’t even try to hide.

Even with the case.

Even with the chaos.

Today already felt like a good day.

Because she was still here. Still wearing his shirt. Still laughing under her breath like she belonged to the morning.

And for once, the world didn’t feel quite so fast.

From down the hall came her voice — bright, teasing, soaked in laughter.

“Reid! Are you getting in the shower with me or what?”

Spencer blinked, glanced once at the mugs on the counter like they might matter — then bolted.

She shrieked when she heard his footsteps, the sound chasing him through the hallway like music.

He reached her just as the bathroom door swung open, and before she could quip again, he wrapped both arms around her waist and kissed along the column of her neck, slow and breathless, lips pressed to damp skin and heat and joy.

She threw her head back into his shoulder, laughing, breath caught between surprise and delight.

“Spencer—”

“Just trying to conserve water,” he murmured against her skin, grinning.

And in the middle of case-day chaos, mismatched pajamas, and the hum of the shower behind them — they were already both laughing too hard to say anything else.

And the morning, somehow, kept getting better.

[clementineinn]

okay fully melting at this, thank you so much for reblogging and saying that 💗💛 means the absolute world!!!! ily now btw mwah mwah

sometime in the mornin’

abstract: after a long case and a sleepless night, two BAU agents find quiet in each other’s arms — in soft shirts, slow mornings, and the kind of closeness that doesn’t need to be defined to be real.

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

genre: fluff, is a little mature but not very explicit

note: i tend to overexplain scenes and maybe run them into the ground so forgive me if i did here lol. that's also why i removed the word count description since i lowk felt like it was making me restrict how much i write, which i don't want to do bc i don't get the chance to write in school, so I NEED THIS LOL. long story short, blah blah, this fic is long. it does get steamy but nothing is explicitly stated, mostly because i'm still trying to figure out how to write heated scenes bc when i think back to my wattpad days, the embarrassment is real. ANYWAYS, as always, enjoy!

The parking lot outside the precinct still shimmered with leftover rain — shallow puddles stretched like fragments of fallen sky, catching the bruised orange flicker of tired streetlamps above. The asphalt glistened like it had been brushed with varnish, each crack and curve outlined in silvered shadow. Water clung to the edges of curbs, pooling in small, forgotten places.

The air had that particular kind of cold — the kind that didn’t just sting, but bit, sharp enough to steal your breath for a second before softening into something you could almost forget. It smelled like wet concrete, worn leather, and the lingering smoke of someone’s earlier cigarette, now long extinguished but still haunting the wind.

Y/N’s boots clicked faintly against the damp pavement, a rhythm out of step with the hush around her — too slow, too tired to echo fully. Each step sent a ripple through the puddles, spreading concentric rings outward until they faded into stillness again.

She looked wrung out. Not just tired — but spent.

Her hair was pulled back in a loose, uneven tie, strands slipping free and curling at her temples in the damp. Her coat was wrapped tighter than usual around her ribs, fingers clutched into the fabric like she needed it to hold her up. The posture of someone who’d done too much, said too little, and had no room left for either. The kind of tired that didn’t just sit behind your eyes — it lived there, echoing. Bone-deep. Soul-heavy. The kind of weariness that had nothing to do with hours or sleep.

The night pressed in gentle around her. Not cruel, not cold — just quiet. Like it understood.

Like it was waiting for something soft to break the silence.

Spencer saw it in the way her shoulders curved inward, like the night had finally settled its weight atop them and she was just too polite to complain. She stood at the edge of her car door, fingers hovering near the handle but never closing around it — like even that small gesture required more energy than she had left.

The air turned her breath to fog, delicate and ghostlike, curling around her face before vanishing into the cold.

“You okay?” Spencer asked, his voice soft, low — the kind of question that knew the answer already but offered itself anyway, just in case.

She turned toward him slowly, as though the sound of his voice had to travel through molasses to reach her. One hand still hovered over the handle, her fingers frozen mid-air. Her lashes were heavy, casting little shadows beneath her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said, after a beat.

But the word came out too flat. Too automatic. The kind of yeah that didn’t mean yes at all. Just a placeholder. Something you say when you’re too tired to explain all the reasons you’re not.

“Just...” she added, a half-breath later, “not in the mood for a forty-minute drive.”

Spencer’s hand slipped into his coat pocket, thumb grazing the edge of his keys like they might offer direction. He hesitated, the words caught between concern and something softer. Quieter.

“My place is ten minutes from here,” he said finally. Light, but not unmeant. “You can crash. Couch’s not bad.”

She blinked, slow and long, like she was still catching up to the suggestion. Her brow furrowed gently — not out of confusion, but surprise. Not because it was unwelcome, but because it was kind. And kindness always caught her off guard when she needed it most.

“I’m fine, Reid.”

The words came a little too quickly, too practiced. Like armor she didn’t realize she was still wearing — thin and fraying at the edges, but stubborn all the same.

“I know,” he said, and he meant it. Gently. Carefully. Like he was setting something delicate down between them. “Still.”

The silence between them thickened — not uncomfortable, just full. She looked at him, not fully, just out of the corner of her eye, then down again.

Her hand fell away from the door handle like it had lost its reason for being there.

“You sure?” she asked, softer now. Her voice thinned by hesitation, not doubt. “I don’t want to... intrude.”

She didn’t mean to sound so small when she said it. But the word lingered in the air like fog, curling between them.

He shook his head — not just a no, but something firmer. Quieter. Something closer to don’t even think that.

“You wouldn’t be.”

She exhaled, long and slow, her breath rising into the cold like steam off cooling tea. Her eyes flicked upward — not quite at the sky, but at the clouds where the stars should have been, where the night held its breath like it was listening.

Then she gave the smallest nod.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Just for the night.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — brief, quiet, almost too small to see — but it softened his whole face. Lit him from somewhere inside. And then it was gone, like it had never asked to be noticed in the first place.

“I’ll drive though,” she said softly, already rounding to the driver’s side. “I want to do something for you too.”

“You don’t have to,” he replied, immediate and gentle, like reflex. Then, with the faintest smile, “But fine.”

And that was it.

No argument. No protest. Just a quiet understanding passed between them like the keys themselves — weightless and warm from the press of her hand.

The drive unfolded in stillness.

No music. Just the low, steady hum of the engine and the occasional sigh of tires over damp pavement. Outside, the streetlights flickered past in slow succession — casting golden stripes across the windshield, across her hands on the wheel, across the soft curve of her cheekbone as she blinked too slowly at the road ahead.

She looked like something out of a memory in this light. The kind that faded at the edges. The kind you try to hold onto longer than you're supposed to.

Spencer sat in the passenger seat, his hands resting quietly in his lap, but his eyes barely left her.

He watched the way her fingers flexed on the steering wheel at every red light — not restless, just trying to stay awake. The way her eyes, rimmed in leftover eyeliner and the weight of too many hours, fluttered heavier and heavier with each block.

She was trying so hard. Still carrying the last fraying threads of the day like someone might need her again at any moment. Still holding herself upright when no one had asked her to.

He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to. That she could drop it — the composure, the endurance, the quiet strength she wore like second skin. That she didn’t always have to be the one who stayed steady.

But the words stayed behind his teeth.

Settled there. Safe, for now.

So instead, he said, “Turn left up here,” voice soft enough not to startle her.

And she nodded — not looking, just trusting.

His apartment welcomed them with the kind of warmth that didn’t just come from the heat — it came from history. From stillness, from the soft, steady presence of a life that had been lived carefully within its walls.

The light from the hallway drifted in behind them like fog, golden and thin, slipping across the hardwood and catching gently on the edges of furniture. The air inside smelled like old paper and something clean — not sharp, but soft, like the faint memory of soap in fabric, or a cotton shirt hung to dry near a window. Lived-in. Intimate.

Y/N stepped inside without a word, her shoulders folding slightly as the door clicked shut behind her. The quiet wrapped around her immediately, slow and deep, like a warm coat slipped onto her shoulders.

She toed off her boots near the wall — not rushed, just methodical, as if each movement had to travel through fog before reaching her limbs. Her coat slid from her shoulders a moment later, loose and limp with weariness, but she caught it one-handed before it could fall. Draped it neatly over the arm of the couch like she’d done it before. Like she’d been here. Like her presence had already been stitched into the space, quietly, without ever asking for permission.

Spencer moved past her without speaking, his footsteps nearly silent on the floor. He locked the door with a quiet snick, then dropped his keys into the small ceramic bowl on the entry shelf — the sound of them landing barely louder than breath.

He disappeared briefly into the kitchen, the glow of the under-cabinet light casting soft reflections onto the tile backsplash. The hush of drawers sliding open, the faint clink of ceramic and glass — it all sounded strangely soothing, like rain tapping on a roof. Familiar. Gentle.

Y/N stood still in the entryway, her body slowly catching up to the quiet. Her eyes blinked slowly as they adjusted to the dim light, and her hands hung limp at her sides. There was something about this kind of stillness — the kind that followed noise and chaos — that made everything feel heavier. Like she could finally feel her bones again.

She didn’t move yet.

Just let the warmth settle over her. Let herself be held by the quiet of it all.

“You want tea or anything?” he asked, voice low as he moved through the kitchen, back half-turned, the sound barely rising above the quiet hum of the apartment.

She shook her head, the movement slow, her voice softer still. “Too tired.”

Not just tired — spent. The kind of tired that settled behind her eyes and pressed gently at the back of her throat, where words usually lived.

He nodded like he’d already known — like he just wanted her to know he asked anyway. Still, he opened the cupboard without comment and took down a glass. Filled it with water from the tap, letting the stream run just long enough to cool.

When he turned and handed it to her, their fingers brushed — a fleeting touch. But it lingered. The soft part of his hand grazing the side of hers, a warmth that bloomed for just a second too long to be ignored. It sparked something small and quiet beneath her ribs. Something that flickered like light catching on the surface of still water.

She took the glass from him slowly, her fingers curling around the cool rim, and brought it to her lips. The first sip was barely a swallow. But it grounded her — the clean, clear taste of it, the way it caught the edges of her dry throat and soothed.

Her body leaned back gently against the arm of the couch, the glass still resting in her hands. She let her eyes drift around the room like she was revisiting a familiar dream — mapping the shape of it all as if it had changed while she was gone.

A few new books stacked by the window — titles turned outward, some already soft at the spine. A different lamp — softer, golden, the light barely kissing the floor. One of his cardigans hung over the back of a chair, like it had been shrugged off in thought and forgotten.

But otherwise, nothing had changed.

Still that quiet.

Still that warmth.

Still that feeling — the one she never let herself examine too closely, except maybe now, when her limbs were too heavy to lie, and the hush between them didn’t ask her to.

“You can take the bed,” he said, after a moment of silence that seemed to settle between them like dust in golden light. His voice was gentle — too gentle — the edges of it smoothed with something that sounded like care disguised as casual. “I’ll sleep out here.”

She blinked, the words catching her slightly off guard. Her brows pulled in, just a little. Not in irritation — in protest. In disbelief that he’d give something so quickly. So quietly.

“Spencer—no,” she said, already shaking her head. Her voice was soft but sure, the kind that didn’t leave room for argument. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“You’re not kicking me out,” he replied, even softer this time, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. “I’m offering.”

It was the kind of offer that didn’t ask for anything in return. The kind that came from someone who would never say you need it more, but knew anyway. Who would lie awake on the couch all night, thinking of her curled into his sheets, and still believe it was worth it.

She exhaled through her nose and folded her arms loosely across her chest. “And I’m declining.”

He opened his mouth, maybe to argue — gently, quietly — but she was already shaking her head again, a faint smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

“The couch is fine,” she said, lighter now. “I don’t need much.”

He didn’t push. He only nodded. But something shifted in his expression — subtle, but there. A tiny drop in the line of his shoulders, a quiet stillness in his eyes. Like something he hadn’t meant to show had slipped through anyway.

She saw it.

And maybe she felt it too — that same quiet ache, that wish to say I want to be close without sounding like she needed it.

Still, she only added, quieter now, almost sheepish, “I’ll be out cold in five minutes. I promise I won’t even notice.”

There was a pause. He didn’t look at her for a moment. Then he nodded once more, a little steadier this time, like the thought had been tucked away, folded carefully.

“I’ll grab you something to wear,” he said.

And then he turned toward the hallway, his steps quiet, measured — like even in that, he didn’t want to disturb the space between them.

When he returned, he held a neatly folded t-shirt and a pair of soft, worn-in plaid pajama pants — unmistakably his. The shirt had the faint scent of him still clinging to the cotton, clean and familiar, like soap and old books and warmth. He didn’t offer them with any ceremony, just held them out gently, like something delicate passed from one set of hands to another.

She took them without a word.

But her fingers lingered on the fabric — not accidentally. Not really. Her touch was slow, careful, almost reverent. Like she wasn’t just taking clothes. Like she felt, somewhere deep in her chest, that accepting them meant something more.

The weight of them made her throat tighten. It didn’t make sense, not entirely. But she didn’t fight it. She just swallowed around the feeling and looked up.

“The bathroom’s down the hall,” he said quietly, his voice carrying softer now, like he didn’t want to disturb the calm that had settled in the space between them. “First door on the left.”

She nodded once. “Thanks.”

And then she turned — socked feet brushing the wooden floor, his clothes pressed to her chest — and disappeared down the hallway with the kind of tired grace that didn’t ask to be watched but invited it anyway.

He stood there for a moment after she was gone, the hush folding in around him again like it had been waiting.

It wasn’t silence. It was presence. The kind that filled the room when someone had only just left — when their warmth still lingered in the air, in the folds of their coat on the couch, in the faint creak of the hallway floor.

Spencer exhaled through his nose, barely audible, and turned toward the couch. He unfolded the blankets one by one — carefully, quietly — smoothing the edges like it mattered.

Like it would somehow be enough.

When Y/N stepped out of the bathroom, the first thing she noticed was the light — a soft amber glow spilling from the cracked door at the end of the hallway. It pooled along the floor like syrup, rich and warm, brushing the edges of the baseboards and casting long, drowsy shadows across the wood. 

Spencer’s bedroom.

The rest of the apartment had dimmed with the hour — lights switched off, corners tucked into stillness — but that room glowed like something remembered. Like a place left gently open.

She padded down the hall slowly, bare feet silent on the cool floor. One hand tugged his too-long t-shirt a little lower over her thighs, the cotton worn soft with age, clinging here and there where her skin was still warm from the shower. The pajama pants he’d lent her sat low on her hips, cinched loosely at the waist — clearly made for someone taller, broader, his. She’d rolled the cuffs twice, but they still dragged the tiniest bit as she walked, trailing whispers behind her.

Her hair had come undone from the elastic, soft waves spilling free now, sleep-mussed and uneven in a way that somehow made her look more like herself. Like all the polish had fallen away and left only her, untouched and quiet and real.

She didn’t mean to stop at his door.

But the light was still on, golden and patient. And from within, she heard the muted sound of motion — the quiet hush of a drawer sliding shut, the gentle weight of something being placed on the nightstand.

Not rushed. Not loud. Just presence. Just him.

She stood there a moment longer, just outside the frame — bathed in the spill of light, listening to the small sounds of another person settling into night. Something about it felt so intimate it made her throat ache.

She leaned against the doorframe like it was muscle memory — like her body already knew how to belong there. One shoulder propped, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her weight resting easy against the wood as though this was always where the evening had meant to end.

The soft golden light from his room lit her from the side, warming the slope of her jaw, catching in her hair like firelight trapped in a dark bottle. The shirt hung long on her frame, brushing just past mid-thigh, and her silhouette looked almost delicate in the doorway — softened by sleep, by quiet, by him.

“You know,” she said, voice low and touched with amusement, “I’m starting to think you left the light on as bait.”

Spencer looked up, startled — clearly not expecting her, not like this. He froze where he stood, halfway to setting a book down on the nightstand, eyes wide and warm in the soft light, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and something unspoken.

“I—what?” he blinked. “No. I mean—no, I didn’t.”

She grinned, slow and sly and sleep-heavy, and stepped just a little closer into the room. Not fully — not yet. Just enough to cross that line between observer and invitation.

“You say that,” she murmured, “like you’re guilty.”

“I’m not,” he said too quickly, the words tripping over themselves.

Then, after a pause, softer—truth sneaking out beneath the breath:

“...Maybe a little.”

Her laugh slipped out in a hush — not loud, but close, and so familiar it tugged something loose in his chest. It sounded like the kind of secret you only share late at night. The kind of sound that folded into the air and stayed there.

“Busted,” she said.

And the space between them shimmered — lit not by tension, but by the unmistakable warmth of two people who felt it, finally, fully, and weren’t pretending not to anymore.

He tried to look away.

Really, he did — let his eyes drop to the book in his hand, the corner of the nightstand, the pattern in the wood grain that suddenly seemed very, very interesting.

But it didn’t help.

Because she was standing there like that — framed in the amber glow of his bedroom lamp, her body soft and half-silhouetted in the doorway, draped in his clothes like the night had conspired to undo him entirely.

The shirt hung off her shoulders in a way that felt almost cruel — stretched just enough to slide, slightly, exposing the smooth slope of one collarbone. The sleeves were too long, swallowed her hands in folds of worn cotton, but somehow that only made it worse. Or better. He couldn’t decide. 

The fabric skimmed her thighs, teasing the space just above her knees, brushing her skin like a whisper. The pajama pants had slipped low on her hips, cinched tight but still loose — and he could see the faint shape of her beneath them, the way her form curved gently under all that borrowed softness.

Familiar fabric — but completely transformed. Rewritten by the shape of her, the weight of her warmth inside it. It was like watching something private turned holy.

And the worst part — or maybe the best — was how utterly unaware she was of what she was doing to him.

She stood there, sleepy and beautiful, hair loose and tousled like she’d just stepped out of a dream. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, skin kissed by steam, lips still a little parted from the heat of her breath. She looked like something that didn’t belong in the real world — like a poem half-muttered into a pillow, or a photograph you only looked at in the quiet.

And Spencer —

Spencer ached.

His hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to touch her — not in any careless way, but just to confirm she was real. He wanted to step across the room and feel the press of his shirt against her back as he pulled her into him. He wanted to see how it would bunch under his palms, how the fabric would slip to the floor, how her skin would glow in this light, stretched out against the tangled mess of his sheets.

He wanted everything. All at once.

“You look...” His voice caught on the first word, breath snagging in his throat as he looked at her. He swallowed, lips parting slightly before he managed to push the words out. Quiet. Honest. “You look really good in that.”

Her brow lifted — one graceful arc, deliberate and knowing — and a smile bloomed slow across her lips. Not wide. Not sharp. But devastatingly effective. The kind of smile that knew its own power and wielded it gently, like a silk ribbon drawn tight around a secret.

“Yeah?” she murmured, voice laced with teasing sleepiness.

Then she stepped forward — barefoot on the hardwood, the faintest tap of her toes the only sound in the room. Her movements were unhurried, almost lazy in their confidence, but there was something unmistakable in the way she walked — like she knew exactly what he was seeing. Like she could feel the way his gaze curled over every line of her body beneath the soft cotton of his clothes.

“You like your fashion sense better when it’s on me?”

He exhaled through his nose — short, helpless.

“Significantly,” he said, because the truth was already out there and there was no pulling it back. His voice was lower than he meant it to be, rough around the edges with something warmer. Wilder.

She laughed, quiet and pleased, and then she twirled jokingly.

Spun in a slow, lazy circle with her arms lifted just slightly, palms up, like she was offering herself for review. The hem of the shirt flared around her thighs, catching the light as it rose, then fell again in soft waves. The fabric clung for a moment before drifting back into place, brushing the tops of her knees like a secret only he got to see.

“I feel like I’m drowning in it,” she said, half-mocking, but her voice curled at the edges, sleep-warmed and sweet.

He didn’t answer right away.

Because he was looking. And maybe he didn’t mean to — not entirely — but his eyes trailed the movement of her body like they couldn’t help it. 

She looked like a dream dressed in his life.

“You’re not,” he said at last, the words soft but unshakably certain. “It suits you.”

And it did.

It suited her in the way morning light suited sleeping faces, the way his name might sound if she said it against his skin — familiar, perfect, and entirely hers.

She smirked — slow and playful, lips curling just enough to betray how much she was enjoying this shift between them — then turned her attention to the room with a new kind of gaze. Not sharp. Not nosy. Just curious in that gentle, thoughtful way she had — like she was reading a story she already suspected the ending to, but still wanted to savor every line along the way.

Her eyes moved softly from corner to corner, taking in everything.

Framed photographs sat nestled along the upper shelf — not many, and none of them posed. Just quiet little snapshots of time. People frozen mid-laugh or mid-blink, caught in crooked frames and warm light. Most were older. Slightly faded. The kind of photos you don’t frame for beauty, but for belonging. Anchors to somewhere softer.

There was one of Garcia, beaming in neon glasses, flanked by Morgan doing his best to look unimpressed. Another of JJ and Prentiss sharing a plate of fries at some roadside diner, eyes squinting from the sun. Rossi with his sleeves rolled up and a drink in hand, smirking at whoever was behind the camera.

And then there were the ones of them.

Spencer and Y/N, in quieter corners of their lives. Not the field. Not the briefing room.

Him squinting into the wind on a ferry they’d taken up the coast, her arm thrown over his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. A blurry shot from a museum hallway, her laughing so hard she was doubled over and he was half-turned toward her, eyes crinkled in that way they always did when she was the one making him laugh. One at a book fair — she was holding up a ridiculous romance novel like it was a prize, and he looked at her like she was one.

None of the frames matched. Some tilted slightly. But they were arranged with a kind of care that didn’t need symmetry.

Just intention.

It was the kind of display that didn’t announce anything. But it felt like a love letter, if you knew how to read it. 

The books — of course — lined the shelves in tall, uneven stacks. Their spines were cracked and softened with love, pages filled with margin notes and crooked tabs, tiny flags of thought fluttering where his mind had once paused. She could picture him there, on quiet mornings, hunched over one with a hand in his hair and a furrow in his brow, the room humming with silence.

And there — tacked unevenly to the wall above his desk — a museum postcard, its edges slightly curled with time. The ink had softened from sun, the corners yellowed just enough to show it had lived there longer than it was meant to. Not pristine. Not decorative.

Kept.

The image was of a painting she couldn’t quite place — muted colors, a figure mid-motion, maybe something romantic in its brushwork. But that wasn’t what caught her breath.

It was the postcard.

From that museum.

The one they’d gone to together months ago, wedged between cases, on some rare free afternoon that hadn’t asked them to be anything but themselves. He’d bought it at the gift shop when she wasn’t looking, after she’d pointed out the piece in passing, said something about the color reminding her of old film and Sunday mornings.

And now it lived here — above his desk, above his thoughts.

Not framed. Not tucked into a drawer.

Just here.

As if he hadn’t wanted to forget it. As if he’d been anchoring her presence to this space ever since.

She didn’t say anything.

But her eyes lingered on it longer than she meant them to — and when she turned to look at him, she was smiling in that small, knowing way that said:

I see it. I remember, too.

She moved slowly, each barefoot step soundless on the floor, a whisper of motion. Her fingers drifted to the edge of his desk — knuckles brushing the surface, palm barely grazing the wood. There, in one neat stack, were papers. Carefully folded. Organized, but lived-in. The kind of order that came from someone who didn’t mind a little mess as long as he knew where it lived.

She let her hand rest there a moment, her thumb grazing the edge of a page, and said — lightly, but not without affection — “This where all the thinking happens?”

Spencer watched her from where he stood near the bed, his heart stuttering once in his chest. Not because she was touching his things, but because she wasn’t just touching them. She was seeing them. Seeing him.

He shrugged, a breath of a smile ghosting over his lips. “Sometimes,” he said. “Depends on the day.”

“And the bed?” she asked, turning to glance at him over her shoulder, her head tilted just slightly — playful, curious, that slow-blooming smile tugging at the corner of her lips like she already knew he wouldn’t survive the question. “Just for sleeping?”

He blinked, caught halfway through a thought, halfway through a breath. His gaze, which had been fixed somewhere safer — the spine of a book, the edge of the lamp — now locked helplessly onto her.

“Uh—yes?” he said, and it came out with the shaky precision of someone who wanted to sound sure and failed.

She grinned, soft and wicked and golden in the lamp light. A grin that unfolded slowly, deliberately, like silk unspooling across a hardwood floor.

“You say that like it’s negotiable.”

His breath hitched. His shoulders stiffened, just barely, like he was bracing for the impact of her voice — for the weight of her in his room, in his clothes, saying things like that with her bare feet on his floor.

“I—no, I just—” he tried again, floundering.

But whatever came next was swallowed by the sound of her walking.

She crossed the room in three slow, quiet steps. Not rushed. Not coy. Just present. Just herself — loose-limbed and sleep-soft and devastating. She moved like a daydream he’d been trying not to have.

And then — as if it were the most natural thing in the world — she sat.

Eased down onto the edge of his bed, one leg curling beneath her, the other swinging slightly where it dangled. The mattress gave beneath her, dipped gently with the weight of her, and for a moment he swore he felt the pull of gravity shift.

She didn’t look at him right away. She let the quiet sit between them like steam, let it gather.

Then, low and private and absolutely certain, she murmured:

“You’re fun when you’re flustered.”

His lips parted — then closed again, like a thought forgotten mid-sentence. A beat passed before he found his voice, and when he did, it was quiet and a little hoarse, laced with something too honest to be smooth.

“You make it extremely easy to be,” he muttered, eyes narrowed just enough to feign composure.

But they both knew better.

Because his heart was beating too hard.

Because his hands had curled slightly at his sides.

Because he hadn’t taken a full breath since she sat down.

And because even now, even then, he was looking at her like she was something breakable — not for fragility’s sake, but because he cared too much to touch her wrong.

The light from the lamp spilled across the room like honey — thick and golden, clinging to the edges of bookshelves and blanket folds, warming the corners where evening still lingered. It touched everything gently: her knees tucked beneath her, the faint sheen of the wood floor, the soft muss of his sheets where she sat like a secret the night didn’t want to share.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It breathed — slow and deep, like the space itself was expanding to hold them both without asking questions. The kind of quiet that didn’t beg to be filled. The kind that trusted its own weight.

Her hand moved lazily, almost thoughtless, fingers drifting across the book he’d left near the pillow. She traced the spine once, then again — not reading it, not even really seeing it. Just feeling it. Like the smooth press of paper against skin might tell her something about him she hadn’t learned yet.

“Are you actually going to sleep on the couch?” she asked, eventually — her voice low, unhurried. She didn’t look at him when she said it. Just let the words curl into the space between them and settle there like warmth steeping into tea.

“That was the plan,” he said softly.

His voice came from the far edge of the bed, where he still sat with perfect posture — like if he leaned too far in her direction he might fall right into her orbit and forget how to climb back out.

Her thumb moved along the book’s edge again. No reply. No protest. But she didn’t move either.

The book remained between them, forgotten now. A placeholder. A boundary. But not a real one.

Y/N shifted, the quiet motion of someone getting comfortable in a space she hadn’t intended to stay in. Her legs tucked tighter beneath her, one hand braced on the bed beside her hip, the other still grazing the cover. She leaned, just slightly, toward the center of the bed — not a decision, not quite. More like gravity had changed its mind about where it wanted her.

Spencer stayed still, but not comfortably. He was very aware of every inch of himself — the tension in his shoulders, the flutter in his stomach, the way his hand moved absently over the same book her fingers had just left. A trace. A memory. A nearly-there.

His other hand hovered in his lap, half-curled — twitching once like it meant to reach for something but didn’t know what. Or who.

“You should be tired,” she said at last, her voice softer than before — so low it felt like it had been folded into the space between them rather than spoken aloud. The words stretched lazily between breaths, brushed with sleep. “Aren’t you always the first to crash after a case?”

He glanced at her, his profile lit in soft gold.

“Not always,” he said. “Sometimes I just… wait for the quiet.”

She hummed, a slow, contented sound — somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Not quite agreement. Not quite anything. Just understanding.

Her fingers drifted toward the hem of the shirt she wore — his shirt — and caught absently on a loose thread. She didn’t tug. Just toyed with it, rolling the fabric between thumb and forefinger like it gave her something to do with the silence. Something to hold onto.

“It’s quiet now,” she murmured.

And it was. Not just in the room, but around them. The kind of hush that only came when the rest of the world had gone to sleep. The kind of hush that didn’t press, didn’t ask — just invited. The kind that made every glance feel louder. Every breath feel shared.

Spencer looked at her then. Fully.

No flicker. No half-turn.

Just looked.

Her face was different in this light. Softer. Not in the way light changes things — but in the way she had changed. Her shoulders had uncoiled, her hands were open, her whole presence less guarded. The edges of her had blurred, finally, like the end of a long-held breath.

She didn’t realize she was giving herself away. That her mouth was slightly parted, eyes half-lidded, voice thick with sleep. That she looked more like herself now than she did in the field, in the daylight, in all the places where sharpness was required.

And God, she was beautiful like this.

“It’s different with you here,” he said quietly. “The quiet.”

Her lips parted again, barely — not for a word, just for the breath she forgot to take. She didn’t look away. But something in her went still, like his words had touched a part of her she didn’t expect anyone else to notice.

She didn’t answer right away.

Just curled her legs in closer, tucking her knees beneath the oversized fabric of the borrowed shirt, and reached without thinking for the blanket at the foot of the bed. The motion was slow, almost absentminded, like her body was simply following instinct — like the need for warmth, for stillness, was stronger than any social pretense that said this is temporary.

Neither of them said the thing hanging between them.

Not you don’t have to go. Not I’m already staying.

But it was there. Settled like breath in the walls, like the hush of a room that didn’t want to be loud again.

The blanket settled over her lap in a soft cascade, and her hand smoothed it without looking. The edge of it draped near his knee — close enough to touch. Close enough to ask something wordless.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” she said finally, her voice barely more than breath. Her gaze didn’t lift. She didn’t press. She just let it hang there, soft and honest. “There’s room.”

He froze.

“Y/N…”

Just her name. Said like a warning, but softer. Said like please don’t tempt me, but please don’t stop.

She smiled gently, still facing away from him, but he saw it — the way it softened her cheek, the way her fingers curled more loosely in the blanket like she wasn’t holding anything back now.

“I’m not trying anything, Reid,” she said. “I’m just warm. And comfortable. And if you go back out there, you’ll probably fall asleep on the floor halfway to the couch.”

He let out a quiet huff — not a laugh, exactly. More like an exhale pulled straight from the center of his chest. Because she was right. And because the idea of falling asleep anywhere but here, with her like this, felt suddenly impossible.

She looked like gravity had already claimed her. Like the shape of his bed had opened just for her and she’d fit into it without even trying. Her body was soft now — no tension, no weight. Just warmth and breath and skin beneath fabric that used to be his.

He stayed frozen for a moment longer. Thinking. Feeling too much.

Then, quietly, still barely moving, he said — almost more to himself than to her:

“I’m scared I won’t be able to stop myself.”

Her head turned at that. Just slightly. Her eyes met his — warm and steady and unafraid.

Then—softly, surely:

“What if I don’t want you to?”

The words were barely above a whisper. But they landed like gravity.

And then she smiled.

Not teasing. Not coy.

Just soft.

Like she’d already known.

Like it didn’t scare her at all.

He let out another breath. Then, slowly, with a care that bordered on reverence, he reached for the lamp on the nightstand.

The click of the switch was soft, final.

And then the room dimmed to nothing but breath, and the quiet pulse of two hearts beating closer than either of them had meant for them to.

The mattress dipped softly as Spencer eased beneath the blanket, slow and cautious — like he was trying not to disturb something sacred. The hush in the room held him back a little, made each movement feel like it had weight. He didn’t want to shift the bed too much. Didn’t want to cross that invisible line unless she invited him to.

She was already nestled beneath the covers, turned toward him, her body curled like a comma — soft and tired and warm. One arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting between them, fingers barely curled. In the low glow spilling from the cracked hallway door, he could just make out the rise and fall of her breath, the shape of her mouth relaxed in sleep-heavy stillness.

In the dark, everything looked gentler.

No worry carved into her brow. No tension in her jaw. Just softness. Just quiet.

Just her, the version of her he only got glimpses of — when the world outside stopped asking her to be sharp.

“Cozy,” she murmured, voice low and near, like it belonged to the room and not just to her.

He huffed a laugh under his breath. “You stole the good side.”

“Snooze you lose, Doctor,” she whispered back, lazy and pleased with herself.

He turned his head toward her, barely able to make out the silhouette of her grin — the faint curve of her lips etched like moonlight across the pillow.

“You’re insufferable,” he said, not even trying to sound annoyed.

“And you love it.”

There was no hesitation this time.

No fumble. No nervous glance away.

Just the quiet truth, said like an exhale — like it had been sitting behind his ribs for longer than he knew how to name:

“I do.”

Her breath caught — not audibly, not sharply. Just a stillness. A pause between heartbeats.

She didn’t blink it away, didn’t deflect with a joke. She only looked at him, steady and quiet and close enough now to feel the warmth of his words where they’d landed.

He didn’t take it back.

Didn’t explain it. Didn’t rush to soften the edge of what he’d said.

He only looked back at her, eyes open and bare in the dim light, and let the words settle between them like something earned.

The quiet had deepened.

Not the kind that stretched thin and awkward, but the kind that settled — like dusk on a still lake, like the hush of snowfall outside a window. It wrapped around them beneath the blanket, warm and low and steady.

And then, slowly — like a thought forming — her fingers found his hand in the space between them.

She didn’t take it. Didn’t lace their fingers together or claim it as hers.

She just touched lightly.

The softest drift of fingertips along the back of his hand. Up and down. Slow circles. Wandering lines. Like she was memorizing him through skin, like she didn’t need anything more than this.

It wasn’t the kind of affection that asked for attention.

It was the kind that came after all the asking had already been done.

Spencer didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe, maybe — not properly. Not with the way his chest tightened at how deliberate it felt. How careful. 

The sort of care you don’t show someone you plan on forgetting.

Her fingers kept moving, aimless and tender.

“Does this bother you?” she asked softly, her voice almost lost in the blanket-warmed air. Still tracing. Still gentle.

His reply came too fast — unguarded, low, full of something that trembled just under the surface.

“No,” he said. “Not even a little.”

There was a pause, and then—

She smiled.

A real one. Small, tired, a little lopsided — but full. Lit from somewhere deep, like it had been waiting all night to make its way to the surface.

“Good,” she whispered, not letting go.

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It shimmered.

“I meant it, you know,” he added after a while. “What I said earlier. You look good in my clothes.”

She tilted her head, just enough that her nose almost touched his. “You sure you’re not just delirious from lack of sleep?”

“I’m delirious,” he said, “but not about that.”

A breath of laughter slipped from her — faint and breathless — soft as the dark around them. It barely rose between them, just warmed the air where their mouths almost met, then vanished like mist.

And then, neither of them moved. Not really.

Just closer. A slow, inevitable drift. Like gravity had quietly rewritten its rules in the space between their bodies.

His hand shifted beneath hers, the faintest scrape of skin on fabric. Turned palm-up — an offering, a question. Her fingers slipped into the open space like they were meant to be there. Fit like memory.

Their knees brushed under the blanket. Breath mingled. The quiet stretched long and low, full of want, of wonder, of something sacred and unfinished.

It would’ve been easy to stay there. To fall asleep with that quiet pulse between them, not quite touching, not quite apart. To pretend this edge didn’t hum beneath the surface.

But something pulled.

Something quiet and burning and hungry.

Her hand moved slowly — not tentative, not shy, just reverent. From the curve of his wrist, along the inside of his forearm, to the slope of his shoulder and the warmth of his neck. Her thumb found his jaw, traced the rough stubble there like she needed the confirmation of realness. Like she needed to feel him to believe he hadn’t vanished in the dark.

He exhaled — shaky, low, uneven — like the air leaving him had caught on the weight of her touch.

And then she was leaning in. Or actually, he was — because he couldn’t bear it, not one second longer. Not the breath between them. Not the stretch of space where her mouth wasn’t on his. Not the ache of her skin so close and not yet touched.

Their lips met like an echo — like something remembered before it was ever known. A hush, a question, a breath, an answer. All of it, all at once.

He kissed her like she was breakable — slow, reverent, as if the moment might splinter if he pushed too hard. Like he hadn’t kissed anyone in years, or maybe like he’d only ever been waiting to kiss her.

But then—

Then she made a sound.

Soft. Desperate.

The barest whimper against his mouth — and it undid something in him so completely, so deeply, that whatever careful structure he’d built to keep himself still collapsed without a sound.

His hand found the back of her neck, fingers threading into the warmth of her hair, like anchoring himself to her could keep the rest of him from falling apart. But it didn’t work. Not when she gripped the front of his shirt like she needed him closer — like she didn’t care what it looked like anymore. Not when she pressed into him and her mouth opened with a sigh that felt like it had been trapped behind her ribs for years.

They kissed like breath didn’t matter. Like time had folded itself into this one moment and refused to go on without them. Like the world had gone silent just to let them listen to each other breathe.

And it wasn’t innocent anymore.

Not with the way her body moved against his — slow, drawn by instinct, hips shifting just enough to make him feel it. Not with the way her hand curled into the space between his shoulder blades like she was afraid he’d pull away, like she needed to hold him there.

He breathed her name into her mouth again — not clearly, not fully, just the shape of it, half-broken, half-prayer. And she kissed him like she already knew what he meant.

His fingers trembled as they traced from her jaw down — a reverent path along the curve of her neck, to the place just beneath her ear where her pulse fluttered wild. His palm flattened there, over the column of her throat, gentle but unyielding, like he couldn’t help but feel the proof of her — alive, wanting, his.

A broken sound escaped her — not words, just breath — and he lost the last of his hesitation, if there was even any to lose.

He moved without thinking, without planning. One shift of weight and he was over her, slowly, carefully, but not gently anymore. The mattress dipped under his knees, hands braced on either side of her. Their eyes met only for a breath — hers wide, lips kiss-bitten and open, his gaze darker than she’d ever seen it — before he bent to her again.

He kissed her lips like they were the only answer he’d ever needed. Then her jaw — slow, open-mouthed, reverent — the stubble along his own chin brushing soft against her skin. Her head tilted instinctively, eyes fluttering shut, as his lips moved along the line of her neck, her pulse, the curve just below her ear.

Then back to her mouth.

Always back to her mouth.

She pulled him in like she was starving, and he let her — let himself.

Let himself feel her hands gripping his shoulders now, the rise and fall of her chest, the way she arched under him without meaning to, like her body was reaching for something she couldn’t name. His own body answered, helplessly — heart racing, blood humming, control slipping in slow spirals as he kissed her again, and again, and again.

The room was quiet except for their breath — hitched, shallow, wanting — and the faint rustle of sheets as they moved, as he pressed her down into the mattress like he couldn’t bear the thought of her slipping away.

The space between them had all but vanished — breath tangled with breath, warmth soaked into warmth. The blanket had slipped low over their hips, forgotten. And still, neither of them pulled away.

Spencer’s hand — the one resting beside her on the bed — moved without thinking. Just a shift at first. His fingertips brushed her waist, light as a whisper against the cotton of the shirt. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Only stilled.

And when his hand slipped beneath the hem — slow, unsure, achingly careful — her breath hitched.

The skin there was warm. Silken. The kind of soft he didn’t have words for.

He moved in delicate strokes — tracing the shape of her side, the gentle curve of her ribcage, the dip beneath it. Like he was mapping her. Like he couldn’t believe she was letting him.

And she was.

Her eyes fluttered, a quiet sound catching in her throat — something between a sigh and a gasp, held just for him. Her hips shifted slightly, not away, but toward him. An answer. A request.

He moved higher, fingers dragging the fabric up with each inch. Not hurried. Not demanding. Just wanting. His thumb traced a slow line beneath the swell of her breasts, the shape of her breathing changing under his touch.

She opened her eyes again, lashes heavy, lips parted in a way that made his heart trip.

“Spencer,” she murmured — nothing more than his name, but said like it meant something. Like she could feel everything he was trying to say through the reverence in his hands.

“I—” He swallowed, jaw tense with restraint, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t pull back. “I don’t want to rush this.”

“You’re not,” she said, voice hushed and certain. Her hand found his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “You couldn’t.”

And then she leaned forward, slow and unhurried, and kissed him again — deeper this time, more open. Her body curved into his, warm and pliant, and his hand pressed flatter against her chest, grounding himself in the realness of her.

She sighed into his mouth — soft and wrecked — and he felt it in every nerve ending. Like something opened in him at the sound. Like it shook something loose. His lips moved over hers again, slower now but deeper, fuller, until they weren’t kissing to find each other anymore — they were kissing because they already had.

And then he shifted.

His mouth found the edge of her jaw first — a ghost of a kiss, delicate and slow. Then lower. The slope of her neck. The spot just beneath her ear where her breath caught again, sharp and involuntary.

“Spencer—”

He hummed in response, the sound low against her throat.

And then he lingered.

Mouth brushing slowly, deliberately, across that warm stretch of skin. His lips parted — a kiss, then another, each one pressed with more intention, more need. Like he was learning her pulse with his mouth. Like he was writing something there she’d feel for hours after.

She shifted beneath him, her leg wrapping tighter around his hip, and the smallest sound — helpless, breathy — escaped her lips.

His teeth grazed her skin. Barely. Not a bite. Not quite.

Just enough to make her gasp.

Just enough to leave a mark.

His breath caught.

He hadn’t meant to — hadn’t planned it — but when he pulled back slightly and saw the soft flush blooming across her throat, the shape of him there on her, he couldn’t look away.

And she was looking back at him now, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, her expression somewhere between wonder and need.

“You’re...” he started, then stopped. Shook his head like he couldn’t find the words.

But she already knew.

So she pulled him back down — her hand curling around the back of his neck, her body arching into his like it couldn’t help itself — and kissed him like the night would never end.

His hand slid lower, slow as breath, fingers tracing the bare curve of her waist beneath the hem of his shirt — not hurried, not greedy. Just wanting. Just awed.

She felt impossibly warm beneath his touch. All soft skin and stammered breath and the quiet, electric give of her body against his. He pulled her closer until they fit, all lines pressed flush and trembling, and when her head tipped back slightly — that unspoken invitation written in the shape of her throat — he swore he could feel his heart stagger in his chest.

And then he kissed her there.

Right at the center of her throat — slow, open-mouthed, full of something more fragile than lust. Something aching. A murmur of devotion passed through his lips as they pressed against her pulse, like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of her from the inside out.

He didn’t stop there.

His mouth moved lower, finding the tender hollow at the base of her neck, then the curve of her collarbone — each kiss deeper now, less careful. More desperate. His hand still traced slow, reverent lines beneath the fabric of her shirt, but his mouth was leaving promises behind.

Soft marks bloomed where he lingered — not harsh, not bruised, but present. Little echoes of him pressed into her skin like he couldn’t stand the thought of morning washing her clean of him.

And she let him.

Her fingers wove into his hair, holding him there, like maybe she needed the same thing. A mark to carry through the quiet hours. A tether to keep the night from slipping away.

When he pulled back just slightly to look at her — lips parted, cheeks flushed, hair mussed where she’d held him — she met his gaze like it was the only light in the room.

“Spencer,” she breathed — not just a whisper, but a plea. Barely formed. Almost broken. His name in her mouth like something sacred.

“Please,” she said, voice catching in her throat. “I need—”

She didn’t finish. Couldn’t. But the way she looked at him said everything.

And it undid him.

A soft, aching sound slipped from his lips — somewhere between a groan and a promise — as he leaned in and kissed her again, deeper this time. Slower. Like he was trying to give her everything she asked for without making her say it.

His hand found her waist, steady and warm, drawing her closer. She melted into him, sighing against his mouth like she’d been holding it in forever.

And in that hush — between her breath and his hands and the soft, trembled ache of being known — he whispered, “I’ve got you, angel.”

His hand trembled where it touched her, as if he was holding something too precious — and maybe he was. Maybe he always had been.

Still, he didn’t rush.

His hand roamed gently, sliding over the dip of her hip, mapping the shape of her in slow, reverent passes. And then—

His fingers brushed lower. Grazing just beneath the waistband of the borrowed pajama pants. The fabric gave, loose and yielding. And then—

Lower still.

They slipped beneath.

Just barely. Just enough.

A hush broke between them.

Her breath stuttered — caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh — and she leaned into him like it was instinct, her leg tightening around his hip, her fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulder.

His touch paused there, just inside the edge of her underwear. Not moving further. Not pushing. Just there — skin to skin in a place that felt suddenly louder than words.

And still, his hand didn’t wander.

It rested. Gentle. Anchored. A confession more than a question.

His mouth moved slowly along the curve of her throat — not kissing, worshiping. Like she was something holy. Like her skin held scripture he’d waited his whole life to read.

“Spencer,” she whispered — not just a name, but a summons. A prayer drawn from the depths of her, aching and soft. And when he breathed it in, it wrecked him.

She arched into him, offering more. A tilt of her chin. A shift in her breath. An invitation.

And he answered.

Not with words. Not yet. But with lips that moved lower, reverent, tracing devotion in every press of his mouth against her skin. Her collarbone. The hollow where her pulse beat like a secret beneath his lips. She felt the shape of him tremble, the way his hands gripped her like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold something this sacred.

She gasped — not from shock, but recognition. Like he’d found some quiet altar hidden beneath her ribs.

He whispered her name again like it belonged in a psalm. Like it was the psalm.

She was the litany.

And when he kissed her again — slower now, with more reverence than heat — she let her hand drift to the back of his neck and murmured something only the night would ever hear.

A benediction. A vow.

And she let him. Head tilted, throat bared, fingers curling in the fabric at his back as if to anchor herself. As if she knew — knew in her bones — that she was being seen, and touched, and kept.

And through it all — the weight of him above her, the heat in his hands, the way she whispered his name like it was something sacred — he was still holding on to the last thread of restraint like it might break at any second.

Because he wanted more. So much more.

But he still wanted to be good.

Even now. Especially now.

So he kissed her like that was the only way left to tell her. 

That he wanted her. That he’d always wanted her. 

That this — this ache, this desperation, this us — had been building in the quiet edges of every look, every joke, every missed chance.

And finally, finally, they were no longer pretending not to feel it.

There was no space left between them.

Still lost in it — the slow press of lips, the drag of hands over fabric, the heat of breath between parted mouths. Spencer’s weight settled heavier over her now, no longer braced or hovering, but with her. Their bodies fit like conversation — like they'd always known how to move together, even before they ever had.

Like she belonged there. Like she was meant to pull him closer, and he was meant to follow.

His hand cupped her face as he kissed her again — slower this time. Softer. Like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth with his own. His thumb brushed beneath her eye, tender, reverent — like every blink she gave was something sacred.

Their mouths moved in rhythm now, gentler, languid — not from lack of want, but from the kind of exhaustion that settles in the bones after something long-awaited finally gives way. Like the tide rolling in, slow and full, finally touching the shore it had been reaching for all night.

His thumb drifted downward, tracing the curve of her cheek, then the corner of her mouth.

And then — gently — he ran it over her lower lip, slow and deliberate. Her breath caught.

He watched her.

Watched the way her lips parted instinctively beneath the touch, pink and kiss-swollen, eyes fluttering half-closed. And when his thumb slipped just barely past them, brushing against the warm inside of her mouth, she didn't pull away. She held his gaze and let him.

Her tongue grazed his skin — a whisper-soft drag, like a sigh.

It undid him.

Not because it was bold. But because it was intimate. Quiet. Trusting.

His pulse stammered. He leaned in again, kissed her like she was the only real thing in the world, and pulled her closer, deeper, like he needed her breath in his lungs to stay alive.

And still, they didn’t rush.

Even as their bodies stayed tangled. Even as sleep pulled at the corners of the room.

Even as their fingers curled tighter into each other, wordless and warm.

She sighed his name like it belonged in her mouth, like she’d been saving it for this moment.

And he answered with a kiss — slow and open, tasting of want and wonder. One that deepened until they forgot where the air ended and they began. Until her body arched again, drawn to him like tide to moon, and he followed, helpless to resist.

His hand slipped beneath her shirt again, this time with more certainty — fingertips tracing up the line of her back, warm and slow, until she gasped quietly into his mouth. Her skin bowed into his palm, and when he pressed closer, she let him, legs loosening and curling to cradle his hips like they’d done this before, like they’d always been made for this shape.

The room felt too still, like it was holding its breath for them.

She moved again, barely — just enough — and his own breath caught hard against her throat. A soft, broken sound escaped him, and then another, quieter, when her hands skimmed beneath his shirt and found skin.

Her name left his mouth like a prayer. Ragged. Dazed.

And he whispered something else then — something low, just for her — but it was too soft to catch. It didn’t matter. She heard it in the way his hands shook where they held her. In the way he kissed her like he was barely holding himself together.

Her hips tilted again, and he followed instinctively, forehead dropping to her shoulder as he groaned, muffled and aching, into the crook of her neck. His hand gripped at the curve of her thigh beneath the covers, anchoring himself there — trying not to move, not to lose himself.

But it was already happening.

Whatever carefulness he’d built, whatever lines he’d drawn, were gone now — softened at the edges, smudged by the weight of her breath, the taste of her sighs, the warmth of her under his hands, in his arms, against his heart.

And still, they didn’t name it.

They just felt it. Moved in it.

Soft gasps. Gentle pressure. The desperate, shivering closeness of two people falling apart in each other’s arms, trying to stay quiet, trying to stay slow, trying not to fall too far.

But they were already there.

And when she whispered his name again — broken and beautiful — he kissed her like he was saying me too.

She sighed his name like it was a lullaby.

And he kissed it from her mouth like a promise.

Somewhere between his mouth on her neck and her fingers sliding beneath the hem of his shirt, the layers between them began to fade. Not suddenly. Not all at once.

Just the quiet shift of cotton. The breathless drag of fabric against skin. The subtle give of a waistband easing lower, guided by hands that moved without hurry — only awe.

She didn’t stop him. Only watched him through the haze of moonlight and heat, her eyes dark and open, her breathing soft and shallow.

When her own hands found the hem of his shirt, he let her tug it upward, slow as a tide pulling away from the shore. He raised his arms for her without a word, without breaking her gaze, like offering.

And she took it.

The shirt joined the rest of the soft, crumpled fabric somewhere beneath them — forgotten. Not important.

What mattered was the way his skin felt beneath her palms. Warm. Trembling. Alive.

He leaned in again, kissed her once — and then again — slower this time, like he could feel the weight of the moment settling in the space between them. The gravity of being known like this. The hush of being seen.

Her legs shifted, curling around him like instinct, like memory — like she’d been waiting for this shape, this closeness, all along.

And when he pressed closer, skin to skin now, every inch of her answered without hesitation. Her breath hitched, her fingers tangled in his hair, and he clutched at her thighs — rough, enough for bruises to bloom like dusk, muted violets and honeyed indigo — tender, secret petals pressed into skin where memory met touch — like he needed her to anchor him. Like if he let go, he might come undone entirely.

His hands trembled where they gripped her, thumbs brushing over the soft curve of her skin, holding her like she was his and had always been. Soft sounds escaped his mouth, whimpers so dreamy they sounded angels singing down into Earth. Sharp gasps buried into the crook of her neck, warm breath heating the soft skin.

A sigh slipped from her mouth — wonder and want braided together — and he swallowed it with a kiss. Deeper. Quieter. A promise, sealed in breath and trembling hands.

And still, they stayed soft.

No rush. No sharp edges.

Only hands that explored reverently, like she was something precious he’d been entrusted to hold.

Only breath that stuttered and caught as the distance between them disappeared entirely.

Only the sound of hearts learning each other in the dark — steady and aching and close.

And then, later, the room had gone quiet again — not with absence, but with everything that remained. The hush of something sacred settling into skin.

Not empty. Not hollow. But full — with breath, with warmth, with the invisible weight of what had just passed between them.

They hadn’t spoken in minutes. There was nothing left to say. Not when everything was already written into the shape of their bodies — the curve of her leg around his, the slow sweep of his fingers along her spine, the ghost of his mouth at her shoulder.

Spencer’s hand never left her.

Even now, as their breathing slowed. Even now, as the rise and fall of her chest settled into something steadier — not from distance, but from peace.

His thumb traced idle, reverent shapes against the slope of her back. Little half-circles. Loops. A language only she would understand.

And she didn’t move.

Just stayed wrapped around him like gravity had claimed her. One arm tucked between their chests, the other tangled in his curls where her fingers had never let go.

She was warm. Too warm, probably. But she didn’t shift. Didn’t pull away. Only turned her face into his throat and exhaled slow, like she was letting go of something heavy she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.

He felt it, too — the unraveling of tension he didn’t know had lived in his ribs. The soft collapse of every line he’d drawn to keep from needing this too much.

His lips brushed her hairline. Not a kiss, not exactly. Just presence.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, voice hoarse and barely there.

Then a pause. A breath. Their movements slowed. His weight sank into hers, warm and heavy. Her hands ran up his back once more, fingertips tracing the dip of his spine, and then stilled.

Her eyes blinked open, just barely. “We’re gonna fall asleep like this,” she murmured, voice thick with warmth, words curling like smoke.

Spencer didn’t move. His lips were still pressed against her temple. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She huffed a lazy laugh. “We’ll wake up sore and sideways and probably on the floor.”

“Worth it,” he whispered.

Another smile bloomed slow and sleepy across her lips. She leaned up, brushed her nose against his throat, kissed him once more — a kiss that barely lasted, barely touched, but said everything.

His arms curled around her tighter.

They didn’t pull apart.

Not even as their bodies slackened. Not even as sleep began to pull at the edges of them, soft and thick and sweet.

Somewhere between breath and dream, she whispered, “Didn’t know you could be that gentle and still ruin me.”

And he smiled into her hair, voice almost gone with sleep. “I’ll try to keep ruining you, then.”

She was still smiling when she drifted off.

And so was he.

Morning didn’t come all at once.

It crept in slowly — a pale gold light easing through the slats of the blinds, feathering across the walls, the sheets, the curve of two bodies still wrapped in sleep. The air was quiet, still softened by the hush of early hours, like the whole world had paused to give them this.

Y/N woke first.

Not fully — not in the way you do when something jolts you up — but gently, like surfacing from the warmth of a deep, sweet dream. She blinked once, then again, lashes fluttering as the shape of the room came into focus. And then she felt him.

Spencer.

Still pressed to her, still wrapped around her like a second blanket. His arm lay heavy across her middle, skin to skin now — no cotton between them, just the warmth of his palm resting low against the curve of her waist, fingers splayed like he didn’t want to let go, even in sleep.

Their legs were tangled like roots beneath the sheets, her knee still hooked over his thigh, the arch of her foot tucked behind his calf. Every part of her seemed to fit there — inside the soft press of his body, the hollow of his chest, the shape of his hold.

She could feel his breath at the back of her neck — slow, even, steady. The kind of rhythm you only fall into when there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

She just lay there for a long moment, breathing him in. The scent of him. The warmth of skin against skin. The quiet, lingering ache of what they’d given each other in the dark.

Last night hadn’t vanished with sleep. It hadn’t dulled at the edges like a dream. It was still here — alive in the heat of his body pressed to hers, in the way his hand rested low on her waist like it remembered every place it had touched.

She could still feel it. The weight of his mouth on her skin — not just a memory, but something deeper, something etched. The way he’d said her name like a vow. Like a prayer meant only for her.

It lingered. In the hollow of her throat. At the curve of her lips. In the gentle ache that whispered down her spine — not pain, but existence. A hum in her muscles, in the space between breath and bone.

Her fingers moved instinctively, brushing the side of her neck with a kind of reverence. As if she could press the moment back into her skin. As if her own touch might still catch the echo of his. She lay quiet for a beat, wrapped in the hush of morning.

And then, slowly, she turned — just enough to face him.

His face was peaceful in sleep. His brow — so often tense with thought — was smooth now. Lips slightly parted. Hair soft and mussed from where she’d run her hands through it too many times to count. The sight of him like that — so open, so unguarded — did something to her chest she didn’t quite have words for.

She reached up, slow and careful, and brushed her fingers through a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He stirred at the touch, but didn’t wake.

Not until she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It was feather-light, more breath than contact, but it was enough.

He stirred again — this time a little more. Eyes fluttering open. Not all the way. Just enough to see her.

A faint, sleep-wrecked smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Hi.”

Her heart twisted.

“Hi,” she whispered back, barely audible, like the morning itself might startle if she spoke too loud. “You snore.”

“I do not,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

“You do.” Her fingers drifted along his jaw with the back of her knuckles — a lazy, reverent gesture, warm as the space between them. “It’s a soft snore. Almost endearing.”

His lips curved again, slow and lopsided, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat before opening again — slower this time, as if the light behind her was something worth savoring.

“If I do,” he said, voice like gravel wrapped in silk, “it’s because you wore me out.”

She grinned, lips twitching, and leaned in just enough for her forehead to rest against his. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

His fingers brushed the edge of her hip beneath the blanket — not with intent, just to anchor himself in the shape of her — and he let out a breath that felt more like a sigh of contentment than anything else.

She laughed quietly, and it curled between them like a ribbon. “You’re lucky you’re cute in the morning.”

“You’re lucky I’m still coherent,” he murmured, voice low and rough and ruined by sleep.

They didn’t move to get up. Neither of them even pretended to.

Instead, Spencer shifted just enough to press a kiss to her cheek. Then another to her temple. Then one to her collarbone, just beneath the edge of the fabric of the blanket.

Her fingers slid up the back of his neck, and she leaned into him like she could climb inside the quiet.

They stayed like that for a long while — pressed close, barely speaking, barely moving — sharing warmth and breath and the weightless, glowing hush of something undeniable. Something real.

No questions. No what now?

Just this.

Just them.

Still tangled. Still warm. Still smiling.

Eventually, they got up.

Not because they wanted to. Not because they were ready to leave the warmth of each other. But because Spencer’s stomach had let out a low, unmistakable growl and Y/N had laughed against his shoulder, murmuring something about him being lucky she found it adorable.

So now, they were in his kitchen.

Barefoot, still dressed in yesterday’s sleep and each other’s affection.

She wore only his shirt.

The one he’d handed her the night before — half-folded, worn soft with time — now draped over her like it belonged there. The hem skimmed just past the tops of her thighs, riding up ever so slightly as she moved, revealing the gentle curve of skin where the night still lived on her.

Her legs were bare, marked faintly where sheets had once twisted around them. The sleeves bunched at her elbows, too long and not rolled, like she’d pulled it on in a haze and hadn’t thought to fuss with it. And her hair — God, her hair — was a tumble of sleepy waves, half-tucked behind one ear, half falling into her face in that effortless way she never intended but he would never forget.

She moved around his kitchen like she’d done it before. Barefoot. Unhurried. One hand reaching for two mugs from the cabinet, the other brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with the kind of grace that didn’t know it was being watched.

He watched her from the other side of the counter, utterly ruined by the sight of her.

Because there was something devastatingly intimate about it — not loud, not demanding, but real. Like a future had already unfolded and left this moment behind as proof. Like this was what it might feel like, to be loved by her on an ordinary morning.

Just her. In his shirt. In his kitchen. Like it had always been meant to be.

“Coffee’s probably stronger than you remember,” he said, leaning on his elbows, voice still thick with sleep. “I may have used the wrong scoop.”

She gave him a lazy side-eye as she poured. “So what you’re saying is… this is revenge.”

He smiled. “Mild retribution. You mocked my snoring.”

“You did snore.”

“Allegedly.”

She handed him a mug and kissed his cheek as she passed — casual, easy, like the thousandth time instead of the first.

He turned slightly toward her, eyes drifting down to her mouth before lifting again.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She looked at him — really looked — and something in her expression shifted. Just a breath. Just enough for softness to rise like sunlight warming the edges of sleep.

His curls were a mess, more unruly than usual — flattened on one side where her fingers had rested all night, wild and fluffed on the other like sleep had tangled itself into the strands. A piece stuck up near his temple, catching the light from the kitchen window in a way that made him look impossibly younger. Unbrushed. Unbothered. Barefoot in his own quiet world.

There was still a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. His shirt clung lopsided to one shoulder. His eyes, when they lifted to meet hers, were heavy-lidded with warmth — tired, maybe, but only in the way people are after something worth losing sleep over.

And her heart stuttered.

She smiled — soft, instinctive — and reached like she might tuck that one rogue curl back into place.

“I’m good,” she said. “Tired. A little sore.”

A smirk pulled at his mouth — slow, crooked, impossible to hide. The kind that curled more on one side, like his face couldn’t quite decide between mischief and awe. It started in his lips but reached his eyes a heartbeat later, lighting them with something softer — like laughter not yet spoken, like affection he wasn’t ready to name out loud.

It was a look that said I’m thinking something I’ll never say, and you make it really hard to be cool about this.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t try to hide it.

“Not like that,” she warned, pointing her mug at him.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his grin was wide and unguarded and a little boyish in the way that made her want to kiss it off his face.

“I’m good too,” he said, after a moment — too casually, like he was trying to play it cool but already failing.

A beat passed.

“Y’know… in case you were wondering.” 

The edge of his voice caught at the end — not nervous, exactly, just wry. Like he knew exactly how transparent he was and had decided to lean into it.

She blinked at him once, then laughed — that soft, surprised kind of laugh that crinkled her nose and made her shoulders shake slightly.

“Oh, I was wondering,” she grinned, taking a slow sip from her mug just to hide how wide her smile had gotten. “Believe me.”

His smirk returned — helpless now, brighter. Almost bashful.

“Just making sure,” he murmured, gaze dropping like he couldn’t quite hold hers without giving himself away completely.

They stood like that for a while. Quiet, holding hands over chipped ceramic and the scent of dark roast.

His fingers curled loosely around hers, thumb brushing slow arcs against her knuckle like he didn’t want to stop touching her even for this. The mug in her other hand had started to cool, but neither of them moved. The moment felt suspended — hung in that soft hush where night ends and morning hasn’t quite decided what to become yet.

The window behind him let in streaks of sun, lighting the dust in the air like gold. It caught the curve of her smile, the tousled edge of his curls, and made everything look touched by something holy.

Y/N swayed slightly on her feet. Her voice was quiet, but not afraid. “You think we’ll regret this?”

Spencer looked at her. Really looked — as if the question had carved a path straight through his chest.

Then he shook his head, slow. Certain. 

“No,” he said. “I think we’ll wonder why we waited.”

A beat.

Then her grin broke free — unfiltered, full of teeth and fond disbelief. “God, that was smooth.”

His brows lifted. “It was honest!”

“And smooth,” she said, sipping again, voice muffled behind the rim of the mug. “Which is new for you.”

“I’ve had practice,” he said, pretending offense. “You’re a very motivating subject.”

“Oh, I motivate you?”

“Endlessly.”

She giggled — actual, unguarded giggling — and leaned her forehead briefly against his shoulder, like she needed to hide from the way he made her feel.

He turned his face toward her hair, smiling against it — lazy, content, still a little dazed by the way she fit against him like she’d always been there.

Then he leaned in, brushing his lips to hers — slow and steady, one kiss, then two, then a third for good measure. “I’m making up for lost time,” he murmured, voice low and warm like honey in sunlight.

She kissed him back without hesitation — lips curling into a grin between kisses. “You’re behind, then,” she said. “Better get to work.”

His laugh was quiet, breathless against her mouth. “Is that a challenge?”

She hummed, pretending to think. “More of an invitation.”

Coffee long forgotten. Sunlight rising behind them in soft, golden streaks. And for the first time in a long time — they weren’t rushing anywhere. Just standing there in a borrowed morning, trading kisses and banter like it was the only language they knew.

The ringtone was muffled somewhere between the counter and Spencer’s coat pocket, but they both heard it. A distant buzz that cut through the stillness like a ripple across still water.

Y/N pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Her smile lingered, but it was laced with reluctant understanding.

Spencer sighed, pressing one last kiss to the corner of her mouth before reaching for his phone on the counter. He glanced at the screen and winced.

“Hotch,” he muttered. “We’re being called in.”

Y/N groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Spencer answered the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

Hotch’s voice came through, steady and to the point. “Case just came in. Briefing at the office. Wheels up in an hour.”

Spencer nodded, even though Hotch couldn’t see it. “I can be there in thirty.”

There was a pause. A small one.

Then Hotch added, dry as ever: “Is Y/N with you?”

Spencer blinked. “She is.”

Another pause. Barely a breath.

Then: “I’ll let you tell her.”

Click.

Spencer lowered the phone, trying not to smile. “He knows.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Oh shit.”

Spencer shrugged, helpless. “He said he’ll let me tell you.”

She buried her face in her hands. “He definitely knows.”

“He didn’t sound mad.”

“He never sounds mad. That’s the problem. He just sounds like... Hotch.”

Spencer grinned, stepping close again. “I think we’ll survive.”

She peeked at him through her fingers. “Maybe. If Morgan doesn’t beat us to it.”

He leaned in, lips brushing her forehead. “We’ve been through worse.”

She groaned again. “Yeah, but not while wearing your shirt and drinking your coffee.”

Spencer laughed, warm and unbothered. “You’re not making me regret it.”

He then turned toward her with that sheepish, crooked smile. “Guess our little bubble just popped.”

Y/N stretched, arms overhead, shirt riding up over her thighs with no shame at all. “I’m blaming you when I show up looking like I’ve just rolled out of—” she paused, grinned, “—well. You.”

He flushed. “You could, uh... borrow something else?”

She was already walking toward the bathroom, barefoot and smug.

“You saying I can’t wear your shirt to work?”

Spencer blinked. “I’m saying I won’t survive it.”

Her laughter echoed down the hallway.

“Then consider it a challenge.” 

She paused just before turning the corner, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “Lucky for you, I keep an extra go-bag in my car. Otherwise, you’d really be in trouble.”

And as Spencer stood barefoot in the middle of his kitchen, still in pajama pants and a sleep-soft tee, hair a tousled mess from her hands and her dreams, surrounded by cold coffee and warm streaks of light spilling through the blinds, he rested one hand on the counter — the other still holding her empty mug — and smiled like the day had already given him more than enough.

There was a stupid grin on his face. One he didn’t even try to hide.

Even with the case.

Even with the chaos.

Today already felt like a good day.

Because she was still here. Still wearing his shirt. Still laughing under her breath like she belonged to the morning.

And for once, the world didn’t feel quite so fast.

From down the hall came her voice — bright, teasing, soaked in laughter.

“Reid! Are you getting in the shower with me or what?”

Spencer blinked, glanced once at the mugs on the counter like they might matter — then bolted.

She shrieked when she heard his footsteps, the sound chasing him through the hallway like music.

He reached her just as the bathroom door swung open, and before she could quip again, he wrapped both arms around her waist and kissed along the column of her neck, slow and breathless, lips pressed to damp skin and heat and joy.

She threw her head back into his shoulder, laughing, breath caught between surprise and delight.

“Spencer—”

“Just trying to conserve water,” he murmured against her skin, grinning.

And in the middle of case-day chaos, mismatched pajamas, and the hum of the shower behind them — they were already both laughing too hard to say anything else.

And the morning, somehow, kept getting better.

[clementineinn]

sometime in the mornin’

abstract: after a long case and a sleepless night, two BAU agents find quiet in each other’s arms — in soft shirts, slow mornings, and the kind of closeness that doesn’t need to be defined to be real.

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

genre: fluff, is a little mature but not very explicit

note: i tend to overexplain scenes and maybe run them into the ground so forgive me if i did here lol. that's also why i removed the word count description since i lowk felt like it was making me restrict how much i write, which i don't want to do bc i don't get the chance to write in school, so I NEED THIS LOL. long story short, blah blah, this fic is long. it does get steamy but nothing is explicitly stated, mostly because i'm still trying to figure out how to write heated scenes bc when i think back to my wattpad days, the embarrassment is real. ANYWAYS, as always, enjoy!

The parking lot outside the precinct still shimmered with leftover rain — shallow puddles stretched like fragments of fallen sky, catching the bruised orange flicker of tired streetlamps above. The asphalt glistened like it had been brushed with varnish, each crack and curve outlined in silvered shadow. Water clung to the edges of curbs, pooling in small, forgotten places.

The air had that particular kind of cold — the kind that didn’t just sting, but bit, sharp enough to steal your breath for a second before softening into something you could almost forget. It smelled like wet concrete, worn leather, and the lingering smoke of someone’s earlier cigarette, now long extinguished but still haunting the wind.

Y/N’s boots clicked faintly against the damp pavement, a rhythm out of step with the hush around her — too slow, too tired to echo fully. Each step sent a ripple through the puddles, spreading concentric rings outward until they faded into stillness again.

She looked wrung out. Not just tired — but spent.

Her hair was pulled back in a loose, uneven tie, strands slipping free and curling at her temples in the damp. Her coat was wrapped tighter than usual around her ribs, fingers clutched into the fabric like she needed it to hold her up. The posture of someone who’d done too much, said too little, and had no room left for either. The kind of tired that didn’t just sit behind your eyes — it lived there, echoing. Bone-deep. Soul-heavy. The kind of weariness that had nothing to do with hours or sleep.

The night pressed in gentle around her. Not cruel, not cold — just quiet. Like it understood.

Like it was waiting for something soft to break the silence.

Spencer saw it in the way her shoulders curved inward, like the night had finally settled its weight atop them and she was just too polite to complain. She stood at the edge of her car door, fingers hovering near the handle but never closing around it — like even that small gesture required more energy than she had left.

The air turned her breath to fog, delicate and ghostlike, curling around her face before vanishing into the cold.

“You okay?” Spencer asked, his voice soft, low — the kind of question that knew the answer already but offered itself anyway, just in case.

She turned toward him slowly, as though the sound of his voice had to travel through molasses to reach her. One hand still hovered over the handle, her fingers frozen mid-air. Her lashes were heavy, casting little shadows beneath her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said, after a beat.

But the word came out too flat. Too automatic. The kind of yeah that didn’t mean yes at all. Just a placeholder. Something you say when you’re too tired to explain all the reasons you’re not.

“Just...” she added, a half-breath later, “not in the mood for a forty-minute drive.”

Spencer’s hand slipped into his coat pocket, thumb grazing the edge of his keys like they might offer direction. He hesitated, the words caught between concern and something softer. Quieter.

“My place is ten minutes from here,” he said finally. Light, but not unmeant. “You can crash. Couch’s not bad.”

She blinked, slow and long, like she was still catching up to the suggestion. Her brow furrowed gently — not out of confusion, but surprise. Not because it was unwelcome, but because it was kind. And kindness always caught her off guard when she needed it most.

“I’m fine, Reid.”

The words came a little too quickly, too practiced. Like armor she didn’t realize she was still wearing — thin and fraying at the edges, but stubborn all the same.

“I know,” he said, and he meant it. Gently. Carefully. Like he was setting something delicate down between them. “Still.”

The silence between them thickened — not uncomfortable, just full. She looked at him, not fully, just out of the corner of her eye, then down again.

Her hand fell away from the door handle like it had lost its reason for being there.

“You sure?” she asked, softer now. Her voice thinned by hesitation, not doubt. “I don’t want to... intrude.”

She didn’t mean to sound so small when she said it. But the word lingered in the air like fog, curling between them.

He shook his head — not just a no, but something firmer. Quieter. Something closer to don’t even think that.

“You wouldn’t be.”

She exhaled, long and slow, her breath rising into the cold like steam off cooling tea. Her eyes flicked upward — not quite at the sky, but at the clouds where the stars should have been, where the night held its breath like it was listening.

Then she gave the smallest nod.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Just for the night.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — brief, quiet, almost too small to see — but it softened his whole face. Lit him from somewhere inside. And then it was gone, like it had never asked to be noticed in the first place.

“I’ll drive though,” she said softly, already rounding to the driver’s side. “I want to do something for you too.”

“You don’t have to,” he replied, immediate and gentle, like reflex. Then, with the faintest smile, “But fine.”

And that was it.

No argument. No protest. Just a quiet understanding passed between them like the keys themselves — weightless and warm from the press of her hand.

The drive unfolded in stillness.

No music. Just the low, steady hum of the engine and the occasional sigh of tires over damp pavement. Outside, the streetlights flickered past in slow succession — casting golden stripes across the windshield, across her hands on the wheel, across the soft curve of her cheekbone as she blinked too slowly at the road ahead.

She looked like something out of a memory in this light. The kind that faded at the edges. The kind you try to hold onto longer than you're supposed to.

Spencer sat in the passenger seat, his hands resting quietly in his lap, but his eyes barely left her.

He watched the way her fingers flexed on the steering wheel at every red light — not restless, just trying to stay awake. The way her eyes, rimmed in leftover eyeliner and the weight of too many hours, fluttered heavier and heavier with each block.

She was trying so hard. Still carrying the last fraying threads of the day like someone might need her again at any moment. Still holding herself upright when no one had asked her to.

He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to. That she could drop it — the composure, the endurance, the quiet strength she wore like second skin. That she didn’t always have to be the one who stayed steady.

But the words stayed behind his teeth.

Settled there. Safe, for now.

So instead, he said, “Turn left up here,” voice soft enough not to startle her.

And she nodded — not looking, just trusting.

His apartment welcomed them with the kind of warmth that didn’t just come from the heat — it came from history. From stillness, from the soft, steady presence of a life that had been lived carefully within its walls.

The light from the hallway drifted in behind them like fog, golden and thin, slipping across the hardwood and catching gently on the edges of furniture. The air inside smelled like old paper and something clean — not sharp, but soft, like the faint memory of soap in fabric, or a cotton shirt hung to dry near a window. Lived-in. Intimate.

Y/N stepped inside without a word, her shoulders folding slightly as the door clicked shut behind her. The quiet wrapped around her immediately, slow and deep, like a warm coat slipped onto her shoulders.

She toed off her boots near the wall — not rushed, just methodical, as if each movement had to travel through fog before reaching her limbs. Her coat slid from her shoulders a moment later, loose and limp with weariness, but she caught it one-handed before it could fall. Draped it neatly over the arm of the couch like she’d done it before. Like she’d been here. Like her presence had already been stitched into the space, quietly, without ever asking for permission.

Spencer moved past her without speaking, his footsteps nearly silent on the floor. He locked the door with a quiet snick, then dropped his keys into the small ceramic bowl on the entry shelf — the sound of them landing barely louder than breath.

He disappeared briefly into the kitchen, the glow of the under-cabinet light casting soft reflections onto the tile backsplash. The hush of drawers sliding open, the faint clink of ceramic and glass — it all sounded strangely soothing, like rain tapping on a roof. Familiar. Gentle.

Y/N stood still in the entryway, her body slowly catching up to the quiet. Her eyes blinked slowly as they adjusted to the dim light, and her hands hung limp at her sides. There was something about this kind of stillness — the kind that followed noise and chaos — that made everything feel heavier. Like she could finally feel her bones again.

She didn’t move yet.

Just let the warmth settle over her. Let herself be held by the quiet of it all.

“You want tea or anything?” he asked, voice low as he moved through the kitchen, back half-turned, the sound barely rising above the quiet hum of the apartment.

She shook her head, the movement slow, her voice softer still. “Too tired.”

Not just tired — spent. The kind of tired that settled behind her eyes and pressed gently at the back of her throat, where words usually lived.

He nodded like he’d already known — like he just wanted her to know he asked anyway. Still, he opened the cupboard without comment and took down a glass. Filled it with water from the tap, letting the stream run just long enough to cool.

When he turned and handed it to her, their fingers brushed — a fleeting touch. But it lingered. The soft part of his hand grazing the side of hers, a warmth that bloomed for just a second too long to be ignored. It sparked something small and quiet beneath her ribs. Something that flickered like light catching on the surface of still water.

She took the glass from him slowly, her fingers curling around the cool rim, and brought it to her lips. The first sip was barely a swallow. But it grounded her — the clean, clear taste of it, the way it caught the edges of her dry throat and soothed.

Her body leaned back gently against the arm of the couch, the glass still resting in her hands. She let her eyes drift around the room like she was revisiting a familiar dream — mapping the shape of it all as if it had changed while she was gone.

A few new books stacked by the window — titles turned outward, some already soft at the spine. A different lamp — softer, golden, the light barely kissing the floor. One of his cardigans hung over the back of a chair, like it had been shrugged off in thought and forgotten.

But otherwise, nothing had changed.

Still that quiet.

Still that warmth.

Still that feeling — the one she never let herself examine too closely, except maybe now, when her limbs were too heavy to lie, and the hush between them didn’t ask her to.

“You can take the bed,” he said, after a moment of silence that seemed to settle between them like dust in golden light. His voice was gentle — too gentle — the edges of it smoothed with something that sounded like care disguised as casual. “I’ll sleep out here.”

She blinked, the words catching her slightly off guard. Her brows pulled in, just a little. Not in irritation — in protest. In disbelief that he’d give something so quickly. So quietly.

“Spencer—no,” she said, already shaking her head. Her voice was soft but sure, the kind that didn’t leave room for argument. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“You’re not kicking me out,” he replied, even softer this time, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. “I’m offering.”

It was the kind of offer that didn’t ask for anything in return. The kind that came from someone who would never say you need it more, but knew anyway. Who would lie awake on the couch all night, thinking of her curled into his sheets, and still believe it was worth it.

She exhaled through her nose and folded her arms loosely across her chest. “And I’m declining.”

He opened his mouth, maybe to argue — gently, quietly — but she was already shaking her head again, a faint smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

“The couch is fine,” she said, lighter now. “I don’t need much.”

He didn’t push. He only nodded. But something shifted in his expression — subtle, but there. A tiny drop in the line of his shoulders, a quiet stillness in his eyes. Like something he hadn’t meant to show had slipped through anyway.

She saw it.

And maybe she felt it too — that same quiet ache, that wish to say I want to be close without sounding like she needed it.

Still, she only added, quieter now, almost sheepish, “I’ll be out cold in five minutes. I promise I won’t even notice.”

There was a pause. He didn’t look at her for a moment. Then he nodded once more, a little steadier this time, like the thought had been tucked away, folded carefully.

“I’ll grab you something to wear,” he said.

And then he turned toward the hallway, his steps quiet, measured — like even in that, he didn’t want to disturb the space between them.

When he returned, he held a neatly folded t-shirt and a pair of soft, worn-in plaid pajama pants — unmistakably his. The shirt had the faint scent of him still clinging to the cotton, clean and familiar, like soap and old books and warmth. He didn’t offer them with any ceremony, just held them out gently, like something delicate passed from one set of hands to another.

She took them without a word.

But her fingers lingered on the fabric — not accidentally. Not really. Her touch was slow, careful, almost reverent. Like she wasn’t just taking clothes. Like she felt, somewhere deep in her chest, that accepting them meant something more.

The weight of them made her throat tighten. It didn’t make sense, not entirely. But she didn’t fight it. She just swallowed around the feeling and looked up.

“The bathroom’s down the hall,” he said quietly, his voice carrying softer now, like he didn’t want to disturb the calm that had settled in the space between them. “First door on the left.”

She nodded once. “Thanks.”

And then she turned — socked feet brushing the wooden floor, his clothes pressed to her chest — and disappeared down the hallway with the kind of tired grace that didn’t ask to be watched but invited it anyway.

He stood there for a moment after she was gone, the hush folding in around him again like it had been waiting.

It wasn’t silence. It was presence. The kind that filled the room when someone had only just left — when their warmth still lingered in the air, in the folds of their coat on the couch, in the faint creak of the hallway floor.

Spencer exhaled through his nose, barely audible, and turned toward the couch. He unfolded the blankets one by one — carefully, quietly — smoothing the edges like it mattered.

Like it would somehow be enough.

When Y/N stepped out of the bathroom, the first thing she noticed was the light — a soft amber glow spilling from the cracked door at the end of the hallway. It pooled along the floor like syrup, rich and warm, brushing the edges of the baseboards and casting long, drowsy shadows across the wood. 

Spencer’s bedroom.

The rest of the apartment had dimmed with the hour — lights switched off, corners tucked into stillness — but that room glowed like something remembered. Like a place left gently open.

She padded down the hall slowly, bare feet silent on the cool floor. One hand tugged his too-long t-shirt a little lower over her thighs, the cotton worn soft with age, clinging here and there where her skin was still warm from the shower. The pajama pants he’d lent her sat low on her hips, cinched loosely at the waist — clearly made for someone taller, broader, his. She’d rolled the cuffs twice, but they still dragged the tiniest bit as she walked, trailing whispers behind her.

Her hair had come undone from the elastic, soft waves spilling free now, sleep-mussed and uneven in a way that somehow made her look more like herself. Like all the polish had fallen away and left only her, untouched and quiet and real.

She didn’t mean to stop at his door.

But the light was still on, golden and patient. And from within, she heard the muted sound of motion — the quiet hush of a drawer sliding shut, the gentle weight of something being placed on the nightstand.

Not rushed. Not loud. Just presence. Just him.

She stood there a moment longer, just outside the frame — bathed in the spill of light, listening to the small sounds of another person settling into night. Something about it felt so intimate it made her throat ache.

She leaned against the doorframe like it was muscle memory — like her body already knew how to belong there. One shoulder propped, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her weight resting easy against the wood as though this was always where the evening had meant to end.

The soft golden light from his room lit her from the side, warming the slope of her jaw, catching in her hair like firelight trapped in a dark bottle. The shirt hung long on her frame, brushing just past mid-thigh, and her silhouette looked almost delicate in the doorway — softened by sleep, by quiet, by him.

“You know,” she said, voice low and touched with amusement, “I’m starting to think you left the light on as bait.”

Spencer looked up, startled — clearly not expecting her, not like this. He froze where he stood, halfway to setting a book down on the nightstand, eyes wide and warm in the soft light, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and something unspoken.

“I—what?” he blinked. “No. I mean—no, I didn’t.”

She grinned, slow and sly and sleep-heavy, and stepped just a little closer into the room. Not fully — not yet. Just enough to cross that line between observer and invitation.

“You say that,” she murmured, “like you’re guilty.”

“I’m not,” he said too quickly, the words tripping over themselves.

Then, after a pause, softer—truth sneaking out beneath the breath:

“...Maybe a little.”

Her laugh slipped out in a hush — not loud, but close, and so familiar it tugged something loose in his chest. It sounded like the kind of secret you only share late at night. The kind of sound that folded into the air and stayed there.

“Busted,” she said.

And the space between them shimmered — lit not by tension, but by the unmistakable warmth of two people who felt it, finally, fully, and weren’t pretending not to anymore.

He tried to look away.

Really, he did — let his eyes drop to the book in his hand, the corner of the nightstand, the pattern in the wood grain that suddenly seemed very, very interesting.

But it didn’t help.

Because she was standing there like that — framed in the amber glow of his bedroom lamp, her body soft and half-silhouetted in the doorway, draped in his clothes like the night had conspired to undo him entirely.

The shirt hung off her shoulders in a way that felt almost cruel — stretched just enough to slide, slightly, exposing the smooth slope of one collarbone. The sleeves were too long, swallowed her hands in folds of worn cotton, but somehow that only made it worse. Or better. He couldn’t decide. 

The fabric skimmed her thighs, teasing the space just above her knees, brushing her skin like a whisper. The pajama pants had slipped low on her hips, cinched tight but still loose — and he could see the faint shape of her beneath them, the way her form curved gently under all that borrowed softness.

Familiar fabric — but completely transformed. Rewritten by the shape of her, the weight of her warmth inside it. It was like watching something private turned holy.

And the worst part — or maybe the best — was how utterly unaware she was of what she was doing to him.

She stood there, sleepy and beautiful, hair loose and tousled like she’d just stepped out of a dream. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, skin kissed by steam, lips still a little parted from the heat of her breath. She looked like something that didn’t belong in the real world — like a poem half-muttered into a pillow, or a photograph you only looked at in the quiet.

And Spencer —

Spencer ached.

His hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to touch her — not in any careless way, but just to confirm she was real. He wanted to step across the room and feel the press of his shirt against her back as he pulled her into him. He wanted to see how it would bunch under his palms, how the fabric would slip to the floor, how her skin would glow in this light, stretched out against the tangled mess of his sheets.

He wanted everything. All at once.

“You look...” His voice caught on the first word, breath snagging in his throat as he looked at her. He swallowed, lips parting slightly before he managed to push the words out. Quiet. Honest. “You look really good in that.”

Her brow lifted — one graceful arc, deliberate and knowing — and a smile bloomed slow across her lips. Not wide. Not sharp. But devastatingly effective. The kind of smile that knew its own power and wielded it gently, like a silk ribbon drawn tight around a secret.

“Yeah?” she murmured, voice laced with teasing sleepiness.

Then she stepped forward — barefoot on the hardwood, the faintest tap of her toes the only sound in the room. Her movements were unhurried, almost lazy in their confidence, but there was something unmistakable in the way she walked — like she knew exactly what he was seeing. Like she could feel the way his gaze curled over every line of her body beneath the soft cotton of his clothes.

“You like your fashion sense better when it’s on me?”

He exhaled through his nose — short, helpless.

“Significantly,” he said, because the truth was already out there and there was no pulling it back. His voice was lower than he meant it to be, rough around the edges with something warmer. Wilder.

She laughed, quiet and pleased, and then she twirled jokingly.

Spun in a slow, lazy circle with her arms lifted just slightly, palms up, like she was offering herself for review. The hem of the shirt flared around her thighs, catching the light as it rose, then fell again in soft waves. The fabric clung for a moment before drifting back into place, brushing the tops of her knees like a secret only he got to see.

“I feel like I’m drowning in it,” she said, half-mocking, but her voice curled at the edges, sleep-warmed and sweet.

He didn’t answer right away.

Because he was looking. And maybe he didn’t mean to — not entirely — but his eyes trailed the movement of her body like they couldn’t help it. 

She looked like a dream dressed in his life.

“You’re not,” he said at last, the words soft but unshakably certain. “It suits you.”

And it did.

It suited her in the way morning light suited sleeping faces, the way his name might sound if she said it against his skin — familiar, perfect, and entirely hers.

She smirked — slow and playful, lips curling just enough to betray how much she was enjoying this shift between them — then turned her attention to the room with a new kind of gaze. Not sharp. Not nosy. Just curious in that gentle, thoughtful way she had — like she was reading a story she already suspected the ending to, but still wanted to savor every line along the way.

Her eyes moved softly from corner to corner, taking in everything.

Framed photographs sat nestled along the upper shelf — not many, and none of them posed. Just quiet little snapshots of time. People frozen mid-laugh or mid-blink, caught in crooked frames and warm light. Most were older. Slightly faded. The kind of photos you don’t frame for beauty, but for belonging. Anchors to somewhere softer.

There was one of Garcia, beaming in neon glasses, flanked by Morgan doing his best to look unimpressed. Another of JJ and Prentiss sharing a plate of fries at some roadside diner, eyes squinting from the sun. Rossi with his sleeves rolled up and a drink in hand, smirking at whoever was behind the camera.

And then there were the ones of them.

Spencer and Y/N, in quieter corners of their lives. Not the field. Not the briefing room.

Him squinting into the wind on a ferry they’d taken up the coast, her arm thrown over his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. A blurry shot from a museum hallway, her laughing so hard she was doubled over and he was half-turned toward her, eyes crinkled in that way they always did when she was the one making him laugh. One at a book fair — she was holding up a ridiculous romance novel like it was a prize, and he looked at her like she was one.

None of the frames matched. Some tilted slightly. But they were arranged with a kind of care that didn’t need symmetry.

Just intention.

It was the kind of display that didn’t announce anything. But it felt like a love letter, if you knew how to read it. 

The books — of course — lined the shelves in tall, uneven stacks. Their spines were cracked and softened with love, pages filled with margin notes and crooked tabs, tiny flags of thought fluttering where his mind had once paused. She could picture him there, on quiet mornings, hunched over one with a hand in his hair and a furrow in his brow, the room humming with silence.

And there — tacked unevenly to the wall above his desk — a museum postcard, its edges slightly curled with time. The ink had softened from sun, the corners yellowed just enough to show it had lived there longer than it was meant to. Not pristine. Not decorative.

Kept.

The image was of a painting she couldn’t quite place — muted colors, a figure mid-motion, maybe something romantic in its brushwork. But that wasn’t what caught her breath.

It was the postcard.

From that museum.

The one they’d gone to together months ago, wedged between cases, on some rare free afternoon that hadn’t asked them to be anything but themselves. He’d bought it at the gift shop when she wasn’t looking, after she’d pointed out the piece in passing, said something about the color reminding her of old film and Sunday mornings.

And now it lived here — above his desk, above his thoughts.

Not framed. Not tucked into a drawer.

Just here.

As if he hadn’t wanted to forget it. As if he’d been anchoring her presence to this space ever since.

She didn’t say anything.

But her eyes lingered on it longer than she meant them to — and when she turned to look at him, she was smiling in that small, knowing way that said:

I see it. I remember, too.

She moved slowly, each barefoot step soundless on the floor, a whisper of motion. Her fingers drifted to the edge of his desk — knuckles brushing the surface, palm barely grazing the wood. There, in one neat stack, were papers. Carefully folded. Organized, but lived-in. The kind of order that came from someone who didn’t mind a little mess as long as he knew where it lived.

She let her hand rest there a moment, her thumb grazing the edge of a page, and said — lightly, but not without affection — “This where all the thinking happens?”

Spencer watched her from where he stood near the bed, his heart stuttering once in his chest. Not because she was touching his things, but because she wasn’t just touching them. She was seeing them. Seeing him.

He shrugged, a breath of a smile ghosting over his lips. “Sometimes,” he said. “Depends on the day.”

“And the bed?” she asked, turning to glance at him over her shoulder, her head tilted just slightly — playful, curious, that slow-blooming smile tugging at the corner of her lips like she already knew he wouldn’t survive the question. “Just for sleeping?”

He blinked, caught halfway through a thought, halfway through a breath. His gaze, which had been fixed somewhere safer — the spine of a book, the edge of the lamp — now locked helplessly onto her.

“Uh—yes?” he said, and it came out with the shaky precision of someone who wanted to sound sure and failed.

She grinned, soft and wicked and golden in the lamp light. A grin that unfolded slowly, deliberately, like silk unspooling across a hardwood floor.

“You say that like it’s negotiable.”

His breath hitched. His shoulders stiffened, just barely, like he was bracing for the impact of her voice — for the weight of her in his room, in his clothes, saying things like that with her bare feet on his floor.

“I—no, I just—” he tried again, floundering.

But whatever came next was swallowed by the sound of her walking.

She crossed the room in three slow, quiet steps. Not rushed. Not coy. Just present. Just herself — loose-limbed and sleep-soft and devastating. She moved like a daydream he’d been trying not to have.

And then — as if it were the most natural thing in the world — she sat.

Eased down onto the edge of his bed, one leg curling beneath her, the other swinging slightly where it dangled. The mattress gave beneath her, dipped gently with the weight of her, and for a moment he swore he felt the pull of gravity shift.

She didn’t look at him right away. She let the quiet sit between them like steam, let it gather.

Then, low and private and absolutely certain, she murmured:

“You’re fun when you’re flustered.”

His lips parted — then closed again, like a thought forgotten mid-sentence. A beat passed before he found his voice, and when he did, it was quiet and a little hoarse, laced with something too honest to be smooth.

“You make it extremely easy to be,” he muttered, eyes narrowed just enough to feign composure.

But they both knew better.

Because his heart was beating too hard.

Because his hands had curled slightly at his sides.

Because he hadn’t taken a full breath since she sat down.

And because even now, even then, he was looking at her like she was something breakable — not for fragility’s sake, but because he cared too much to touch her wrong.

The light from the lamp spilled across the room like honey — thick and golden, clinging to the edges of bookshelves and blanket folds, warming the corners where evening still lingered. It touched everything gently: her knees tucked beneath her, the faint sheen of the wood floor, the soft muss of his sheets where she sat like a secret the night didn’t want to share.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It breathed — slow and deep, like the space itself was expanding to hold them both without asking questions. The kind of quiet that didn’t beg to be filled. The kind that trusted its own weight.

Her hand moved lazily, almost thoughtless, fingers drifting across the book he’d left near the pillow. She traced the spine once, then again — not reading it, not even really seeing it. Just feeling it. Like the smooth press of paper against skin might tell her something about him she hadn’t learned yet.

“Are you actually going to sleep on the couch?” she asked, eventually — her voice low, unhurried. She didn’t look at him when she said it. Just let the words curl into the space between them and settle there like warmth steeping into tea.

“That was the plan,” he said softly.

His voice came from the far edge of the bed, where he still sat with perfect posture — like if he leaned too far in her direction he might fall right into her orbit and forget how to climb back out.

Her thumb moved along the book’s edge again. No reply. No protest. But she didn’t move either.

The book remained between them, forgotten now. A placeholder. A boundary. But not a real one.

Y/N shifted, the quiet motion of someone getting comfortable in a space she hadn’t intended to stay in. Her legs tucked tighter beneath her, one hand braced on the bed beside her hip, the other still grazing the cover. She leaned, just slightly, toward the center of the bed — not a decision, not quite. More like gravity had changed its mind about where it wanted her.

Spencer stayed still, but not comfortably. He was very aware of every inch of himself — the tension in his shoulders, the flutter in his stomach, the way his hand moved absently over the same book her fingers had just left. A trace. A memory. A nearly-there.

His other hand hovered in his lap, half-curled — twitching once like it meant to reach for something but didn’t know what. Or who.

“You should be tired,” she said at last, her voice softer than before — so low it felt like it had been folded into the space between them rather than spoken aloud. The words stretched lazily between breaths, brushed with sleep. “Aren’t you always the first to crash after a case?”

He glanced at her, his profile lit in soft gold.

“Not always,” he said. “Sometimes I just… wait for the quiet.”

She hummed, a slow, contented sound — somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Not quite agreement. Not quite anything. Just understanding.

Her fingers drifted toward the hem of the shirt she wore — his shirt — and caught absently on a loose thread. She didn’t tug. Just toyed with it, rolling the fabric between thumb and forefinger like it gave her something to do with the silence. Something to hold onto.

“It’s quiet now,” she murmured.

And it was. Not just in the room, but around them. The kind of hush that only came when the rest of the world had gone to sleep. The kind of hush that didn’t press, didn’t ask — just invited. The kind that made every glance feel louder. Every breath feel shared.

Spencer looked at her then. Fully.

No flicker. No half-turn.

Just looked.

Her face was different in this light. Softer. Not in the way light changes things — but in the way she had changed. Her shoulders had uncoiled, her hands were open, her whole presence less guarded. The edges of her had blurred, finally, like the end of a long-held breath.

She didn’t realize she was giving herself away. That her mouth was slightly parted, eyes half-lidded, voice thick with sleep. That she looked more like herself now than she did in the field, in the daylight, in all the places where sharpness was required.

And God, she was beautiful like this.

“It’s different with you here,” he said quietly. “The quiet.”

Her lips parted again, barely — not for a word, just for the breath she forgot to take. She didn’t look away. But something in her went still, like his words had touched a part of her she didn’t expect anyone else to notice.

She didn’t answer right away.

Just curled her legs in closer, tucking her knees beneath the oversized fabric of the borrowed shirt, and reached without thinking for the blanket at the foot of the bed. The motion was slow, almost absentminded, like her body was simply following instinct — like the need for warmth, for stillness, was stronger than any social pretense that said this is temporary.

Neither of them said the thing hanging between them.

Not you don’t have to go. Not I’m already staying.

But it was there. Settled like breath in the walls, like the hush of a room that didn’t want to be loud again.

The blanket settled over her lap in a soft cascade, and her hand smoothed it without looking. The edge of it draped near his knee — close enough to touch. Close enough to ask something wordless.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” she said finally, her voice barely more than breath. Her gaze didn’t lift. She didn’t press. She just let it hang there, soft and honest. “There’s room.”

He froze.

“Y/N…”

Just her name. Said like a warning, but softer. Said like please don’t tempt me, but please don’t stop.

She smiled gently, still facing away from him, but he saw it — the way it softened her cheek, the way her fingers curled more loosely in the blanket like she wasn’t holding anything back now.

“I’m not trying anything, Reid,” she said. “I’m just warm. And comfortable. And if you go back out there, you’ll probably fall asleep on the floor halfway to the couch.”

He let out a quiet huff — not a laugh, exactly. More like an exhale pulled straight from the center of his chest. Because she was right. And because the idea of falling asleep anywhere but here, with her like this, felt suddenly impossible.

She looked like gravity had already claimed her. Like the shape of his bed had opened just for her and she’d fit into it without even trying. Her body was soft now — no tension, no weight. Just warmth and breath and skin beneath fabric that used to be his.

He stayed frozen for a moment longer. Thinking. Feeling too much.

Then, quietly, still barely moving, he said — almost more to himself than to her:

“I’m scared I won’t be able to stop myself.”

Her head turned at that. Just slightly. Her eyes met his — warm and steady and unafraid.

Then—softly, surely:

“What if I don’t want you to?”

The words were barely above a whisper. But they landed like gravity.

And then she smiled.

Not teasing. Not coy.

Just soft.

Like she’d already known.

Like it didn’t scare her at all.

He let out another breath. Then, slowly, with a care that bordered on reverence, he reached for the lamp on the nightstand.

The click of the switch was soft, final.

And then the room dimmed to nothing but breath, and the quiet pulse of two hearts beating closer than either of them had meant for them to.

The mattress dipped softly as Spencer eased beneath the blanket, slow and cautious — like he was trying not to disturb something sacred. The hush in the room held him back a little, made each movement feel like it had weight. He didn’t want to shift the bed too much. Didn’t want to cross that invisible line unless she invited him to.

She was already nestled beneath the covers, turned toward him, her body curled like a comma — soft and tired and warm. One arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting between them, fingers barely curled. In the low glow spilling from the cracked hallway door, he could just make out the rise and fall of her breath, the shape of her mouth relaxed in sleep-heavy stillness.

In the dark, everything looked gentler.

No worry carved into her brow. No tension in her jaw. Just softness. Just quiet.

Just her, the version of her he only got glimpses of — when the world outside stopped asking her to be sharp.

“Cozy,” she murmured, voice low and near, like it belonged to the room and not just to her.

He huffed a laugh under his breath. “You stole the good side.”

“Snooze you lose, Doctor,” she whispered back, lazy and pleased with herself.

He turned his head toward her, barely able to make out the silhouette of her grin — the faint curve of her lips etched like moonlight across the pillow.

“You’re insufferable,” he said, not even trying to sound annoyed.

“And you love it.”

There was no hesitation this time.

No fumble. No nervous glance away.

Just the quiet truth, said like an exhale — like it had been sitting behind his ribs for longer than he knew how to name:

“I do.”

Her breath caught — not audibly, not sharply. Just a stillness. A pause between heartbeats.

She didn’t blink it away, didn’t deflect with a joke. She only looked at him, steady and quiet and close enough now to feel the warmth of his words where they’d landed.

He didn’t take it back.

Didn’t explain it. Didn’t rush to soften the edge of what he’d said.

He only looked back at her, eyes open and bare in the dim light, and let the words settle between them like something earned.

The quiet had deepened.

Not the kind that stretched thin and awkward, but the kind that settled — like dusk on a still lake, like the hush of snowfall outside a window. It wrapped around them beneath the blanket, warm and low and steady.

And then, slowly — like a thought forming — her fingers found his hand in the space between them.

She didn’t take it. Didn’t lace their fingers together or claim it as hers.

She just touched lightly.

The softest drift of fingertips along the back of his hand. Up and down. Slow circles. Wandering lines. Like she was memorizing him through skin, like she didn’t need anything more than this.

It wasn’t the kind of affection that asked for attention.

It was the kind that came after all the asking had already been done.

Spencer didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe, maybe — not properly. Not with the way his chest tightened at how deliberate it felt. How careful. 

The sort of care you don’t show someone you plan on forgetting.

Her fingers kept moving, aimless and tender.

“Does this bother you?” she asked softly, her voice almost lost in the blanket-warmed air. Still tracing. Still gentle.

His reply came too fast — unguarded, low, full of something that trembled just under the surface.

“No,” he said. “Not even a little.”

There was a pause, and then—

She smiled.

A real one. Small, tired, a little lopsided — but full. Lit from somewhere deep, like it had been waiting all night to make its way to the surface.

“Good,” she whispered, not letting go.

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It shimmered.

“I meant it, you know,” he added after a while. “What I said earlier. You look good in my clothes.”

She tilted her head, just enough that her nose almost touched his. “You sure you’re not just delirious from lack of sleep?”

“I’m delirious,” he said, “but not about that.”

A breath of laughter slipped from her — faint and breathless — soft as the dark around them. It barely rose between them, just warmed the air where their mouths almost met, then vanished like mist.

And then, neither of them moved. Not really.

Just closer. A slow, inevitable drift. Like gravity had quietly rewritten its rules in the space between their bodies.

His hand shifted beneath hers, the faintest scrape of skin on fabric. Turned palm-up — an offering, a question. Her fingers slipped into the open space like they were meant to be there. Fit like memory.

Their knees brushed under the blanket. Breath mingled. The quiet stretched long and low, full of want, of wonder, of something sacred and unfinished.

It would’ve been easy to stay there. To fall asleep with that quiet pulse between them, not quite touching, not quite apart. To pretend this edge didn’t hum beneath the surface.

But something pulled.

Something quiet and burning and hungry.

Her hand moved slowly — not tentative, not shy, just reverent. From the curve of his wrist, along the inside of his forearm, to the slope of his shoulder and the warmth of his neck. Her thumb found his jaw, traced the rough stubble there like she needed the confirmation of realness. Like she needed to feel him to believe he hadn’t vanished in the dark.

He exhaled — shaky, low, uneven — like the air leaving him had caught on the weight of her touch.

And then she was leaning in. Or actually, he was — because he couldn’t bear it, not one second longer. Not the breath between them. Not the stretch of space where her mouth wasn’t on his. Not the ache of her skin so close and not yet touched.

Their lips met like an echo — like something remembered before it was ever known. A hush, a question, a breath, an answer. All of it, all at once.

He kissed her like she was breakable — slow, reverent, as if the moment might splinter if he pushed too hard. Like he hadn’t kissed anyone in years, or maybe like he’d only ever been waiting to kiss her.

But then—

Then she made a sound.

Soft. Desperate.

The barest whimper against his mouth — and it undid something in him so completely, so deeply, that whatever careful structure he’d built to keep himself still collapsed without a sound.

His hand found the back of her neck, fingers threading into the warmth of her hair, like anchoring himself to her could keep the rest of him from falling apart. But it didn’t work. Not when she gripped the front of his shirt like she needed him closer — like she didn’t care what it looked like anymore. Not when she pressed into him and her mouth opened with a sigh that felt like it had been trapped behind her ribs for years.

They kissed like breath didn’t matter. Like time had folded itself into this one moment and refused to go on without them. Like the world had gone silent just to let them listen to each other breathe.

And it wasn’t innocent anymore.

Not with the way her body moved against his — slow, drawn by instinct, hips shifting just enough to make him feel it. Not with the way her hand curled into the space between his shoulder blades like she was afraid he’d pull away, like she needed to hold him there.

He breathed her name into her mouth again — not clearly, not fully, just the shape of it, half-broken, half-prayer. And she kissed him like she already knew what he meant.

His fingers trembled as they traced from her jaw down — a reverent path along the curve of her neck, to the place just beneath her ear where her pulse fluttered wild. His palm flattened there, over the column of her throat, gentle but unyielding, like he couldn’t help but feel the proof of her — alive, wanting, his.

A broken sound escaped her — not words, just breath — and he lost the last of his hesitation, if there was even any to lose.

He moved without thinking, without planning. One shift of weight and he was over her, slowly, carefully, but not gently anymore. The mattress dipped under his knees, hands braced on either side of her. Their eyes met only for a breath — hers wide, lips kiss-bitten and open, his gaze darker than she’d ever seen it — before he bent to her again.

He kissed her lips like they were the only answer he’d ever needed. Then her jaw — slow, open-mouthed, reverent — the stubble along his own chin brushing soft against her skin. Her head tilted instinctively, eyes fluttering shut, as his lips moved along the line of her neck, her pulse, the curve just below her ear.

Then back to her mouth.

Always back to her mouth.

She pulled him in like she was starving, and he let her — let himself.

Let himself feel her hands gripping his shoulders now, the rise and fall of her chest, the way she arched under him without meaning to, like her body was reaching for something she couldn’t name. His own body answered, helplessly — heart racing, blood humming, control slipping in slow spirals as he kissed her again, and again, and again.

The room was quiet except for their breath — hitched, shallow, wanting — and the faint rustle of sheets as they moved, as he pressed her down into the mattress like he couldn’t bear the thought of her slipping away.

The space between them had all but vanished — breath tangled with breath, warmth soaked into warmth. The blanket had slipped low over their hips, forgotten. And still, neither of them pulled away.

Spencer’s hand — the one resting beside her on the bed — moved without thinking. Just a shift at first. His fingertips brushed her waist, light as a whisper against the cotton of the shirt. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Only stilled.

And when his hand slipped beneath the hem — slow, unsure, achingly careful — her breath hitched.

The skin there was warm. Silken. The kind of soft he didn’t have words for.

He moved in delicate strokes — tracing the shape of her side, the gentle curve of her ribcage, the dip beneath it. Like he was mapping her. Like he couldn’t believe she was letting him.

And she was.

Her eyes fluttered, a quiet sound catching in her throat — something between a sigh and a gasp, held just for him. Her hips shifted slightly, not away, but toward him. An answer. A request.

He moved higher, fingers dragging the fabric up with each inch. Not hurried. Not demanding. Just wanting. His thumb traced a slow line beneath the swell of her breasts, the shape of her breathing changing under his touch.

She opened her eyes again, lashes heavy, lips parted in a way that made his heart trip.

“Spencer,” she murmured — nothing more than his name, but said like it meant something. Like she could feel everything he was trying to say through the reverence in his hands.

“I—” He swallowed, jaw tense with restraint, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t pull back. “I don’t want to rush this.”

“You’re not,” she said, voice hushed and certain. Her hand found his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “You couldn’t.”

And then she leaned forward, slow and unhurried, and kissed him again — deeper this time, more open. Her body curved into his, warm and pliant, and his hand pressed flatter against her chest, grounding himself in the realness of her.

She sighed into his mouth — soft and wrecked — and he felt it in every nerve ending. Like something opened in him at the sound. Like it shook something loose. His lips moved over hers again, slower now but deeper, fuller, until they weren’t kissing to find each other anymore — they were kissing because they already had.

And then he shifted.

His mouth found the edge of her jaw first — a ghost of a kiss, delicate and slow. Then lower. The slope of her neck. The spot just beneath her ear where her breath caught again, sharp and involuntary.

“Spencer—”

He hummed in response, the sound low against her throat.

And then he lingered.

Mouth brushing slowly, deliberately, across that warm stretch of skin. His lips parted — a kiss, then another, each one pressed with more intention, more need. Like he was learning her pulse with his mouth. Like he was writing something there she’d feel for hours after.

She shifted beneath him, her leg wrapping tighter around his hip, and the smallest sound — helpless, breathy — escaped her lips.

His teeth grazed her skin. Barely. Not a bite. Not quite.

Just enough to make her gasp.

Just enough to leave a mark.

His breath caught.

He hadn’t meant to — hadn’t planned it — but when he pulled back slightly and saw the soft flush blooming across her throat, the shape of him there on her, he couldn’t look away.

And she was looking back at him now, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, her expression somewhere between wonder and need.

“You’re...” he started, then stopped. Shook his head like he couldn’t find the words.

But she already knew.

So she pulled him back down — her hand curling around the back of his neck, her body arching into his like it couldn’t help itself — and kissed him like the night would never end.

His hand slid lower, slow as breath, fingers tracing the bare curve of her waist beneath the hem of his shirt — not hurried, not greedy. Just wanting. Just awed.

She felt impossibly warm beneath his touch. All soft skin and stammered breath and the quiet, electric give of her body against his. He pulled her closer until they fit, all lines pressed flush and trembling, and when her head tipped back slightly — that unspoken invitation written in the shape of her throat — he swore he could feel his heart stagger in his chest.

And then he kissed her there.

Right at the center of her throat — slow, open-mouthed, full of something more fragile than lust. Something aching. A murmur of devotion passed through his lips as they pressed against her pulse, like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of her from the inside out.

He didn’t stop there.

His mouth moved lower, finding the tender hollow at the base of her neck, then the curve of her collarbone — each kiss deeper now, less careful. More desperate. His hand still traced slow, reverent lines beneath the fabric of her shirt, but his mouth was leaving promises behind.

Soft marks bloomed where he lingered — not harsh, not bruised, but present. Little echoes of him pressed into her skin like he couldn’t stand the thought of morning washing her clean of him.

And she let him.

Her fingers wove into his hair, holding him there, like maybe she needed the same thing. A mark to carry through the quiet hours. A tether to keep the night from slipping away.

When he pulled back just slightly to look at her — lips parted, cheeks flushed, hair mussed where she’d held him — she met his gaze like it was the only light in the room.

“Spencer,” she breathed — not just a whisper, but a plea. Barely formed. Almost broken. His name in her mouth like something sacred.

“Please,” she said, voice catching in her throat. “I need—”

She didn’t finish. Couldn’t. But the way she looked at him said everything.

And it undid him.

A soft, aching sound slipped from his lips — somewhere between a groan and a promise — as he leaned in and kissed her again, deeper this time. Slower. Like he was trying to give her everything she asked for without making her say it.

His hand found her waist, steady and warm, drawing her closer. She melted into him, sighing against his mouth like she’d been holding it in forever.

And in that hush — between her breath and his hands and the soft, trembled ache of being known — he whispered, “I’ve got you, angel.”

His hand trembled where it touched her, as if he was holding something too precious — and maybe he was. Maybe he always had been.

Still, he didn’t rush.

His hand roamed gently, sliding over the dip of her hip, mapping the shape of her in slow, reverent passes. And then—

His fingers brushed lower. Grazing just beneath the waistband of the borrowed pajama pants. The fabric gave, loose and yielding. And then—

Lower still.

They slipped beneath.

Just barely. Just enough.

A hush broke between them.

Her breath stuttered — caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh — and she leaned into him like it was instinct, her leg tightening around his hip, her fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulder.

His touch paused there, just inside the edge of her underwear. Not moving further. Not pushing. Just there — skin to skin in a place that felt suddenly louder than words.

And still, his hand didn’t wander.

It rested. Gentle. Anchored. A confession more than a question.

His mouth moved slowly along the curve of her throat — not kissing, worshiping. Like she was something holy. Like her skin held scripture he’d waited his whole life to read.

“Spencer,” she whispered — not just a name, but a summons. A prayer drawn from the depths of her, aching and soft. And when he breathed it in, it wrecked him.

She arched into him, offering more. A tilt of her chin. A shift in her breath. An invitation.

And he answered.

Not with words. Not yet. But with lips that moved lower, reverent, tracing devotion in every press of his mouth against her skin. Her collarbone. The hollow where her pulse beat like a secret beneath his lips. She felt the shape of him tremble, the way his hands gripped her like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold something this sacred.

She gasped — not from shock, but recognition. Like he’d found some quiet altar hidden beneath her ribs.

He whispered her name again like it belonged in a psalm. Like it was the psalm.

She was the litany.

And when he kissed her again — slower now, with more reverence than heat — she let her hand drift to the back of his neck and murmured something only the night would ever hear.

A benediction. A vow.

And she let him. Head tilted, throat bared, fingers curling in the fabric at his back as if to anchor herself. As if she knew — knew in her bones — that she was being seen, and touched, and kept.

And through it all — the weight of him above her, the heat in his hands, the way she whispered his name like it was something sacred — he was still holding on to the last thread of restraint like it might break at any second.

Because he wanted more. So much more.

But he still wanted to be good.

Even now. Especially now.

So he kissed her like that was the only way left to tell her. 

That he wanted her. That he’d always wanted her. 

That this — this ache, this desperation, this us — had been building in the quiet edges of every look, every joke, every missed chance.

And finally, finally, they were no longer pretending not to feel it.

There was no space left between them.

Still lost in it — the slow press of lips, the drag of hands over fabric, the heat of breath between parted mouths. Spencer’s weight settled heavier over her now, no longer braced or hovering, but with her. Their bodies fit like conversation — like they'd always known how to move together, even before they ever had.

Like she belonged there. Like she was meant to pull him closer, and he was meant to follow.

His hand cupped her face as he kissed her again — slower this time. Softer. Like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth with his own. His thumb brushed beneath her eye, tender, reverent — like every blink she gave was something sacred.

Their mouths moved in rhythm now, gentler, languid — not from lack of want, but from the kind of exhaustion that settles in the bones after something long-awaited finally gives way. Like the tide rolling in, slow and full, finally touching the shore it had been reaching for all night.

His thumb drifted downward, tracing the curve of her cheek, then the corner of her mouth.

And then — gently — he ran it over her lower lip, slow and deliberate. Her breath caught.

He watched her.

Watched the way her lips parted instinctively beneath the touch, pink and kiss-swollen, eyes fluttering half-closed. And when his thumb slipped just barely past them, brushing against the warm inside of her mouth, she didn't pull away. She held his gaze and let him.

Her tongue grazed his skin — a whisper-soft drag, like a sigh.

It undid him.

Not because it was bold. But because it was intimate. Quiet. Trusting.

His pulse stammered. He leaned in again, kissed her like she was the only real thing in the world, and pulled her closer, deeper, like he needed her breath in his lungs to stay alive.

And still, they didn’t rush.

Even as their bodies stayed tangled. Even as sleep pulled at the corners of the room.

Even as their fingers curled tighter into each other, wordless and warm.

She sighed his name like it belonged in her mouth, like she’d been saving it for this moment.

And he answered with a kiss — slow and open, tasting of want and wonder. One that deepened until they forgot where the air ended and they began. Until her body arched again, drawn to him like tide to moon, and he followed, helpless to resist.

His hand slipped beneath her shirt again, this time with more certainty — fingertips tracing up the line of her back, warm and slow, until she gasped quietly into his mouth. Her skin bowed into his palm, and when he pressed closer, she let him, legs loosening and curling to cradle his hips like they’d done this before, like they’d always been made for this shape.

The room felt too still, like it was holding its breath for them.

She moved again, barely — just enough — and his own breath caught hard against her throat. A soft, broken sound escaped him, and then another, quieter, when her hands skimmed beneath his shirt and found skin.

Her name left his mouth like a prayer. Ragged. Dazed.

And he whispered something else then — something low, just for her — but it was too soft to catch. It didn’t matter. She heard it in the way his hands shook where they held her. In the way he kissed her like he was barely holding himself together.

Her hips tilted again, and he followed instinctively, forehead dropping to her shoulder as he groaned, muffled and aching, into the crook of her neck. His hand gripped at the curve of her thigh beneath the covers, anchoring himself there — trying not to move, not to lose himself.

But it was already happening.

Whatever carefulness he’d built, whatever lines he’d drawn, were gone now — softened at the edges, smudged by the weight of her breath, the taste of her sighs, the warmth of her under his hands, in his arms, against his heart.

And still, they didn’t name it.

They just felt it. Moved in it.

Soft gasps. Gentle pressure. The desperate, shivering closeness of two people falling apart in each other’s arms, trying to stay quiet, trying to stay slow, trying not to fall too far.

But they were already there.

And when she whispered his name again — broken and beautiful — he kissed her like he was saying me too.

She sighed his name like it was a lullaby.

And he kissed it from her mouth like a promise.

Somewhere between his mouth on her neck and her fingers sliding beneath the hem of his shirt, the layers between them began to fade. Not suddenly. Not all at once.

Just the quiet shift of cotton. The breathless drag of fabric against skin. The subtle give of a waistband easing lower, guided by hands that moved without hurry — only awe.

She didn’t stop him. Only watched him through the haze of moonlight and heat, her eyes dark and open, her breathing soft and shallow.

When her own hands found the hem of his shirt, he let her tug it upward, slow as a tide pulling away from the shore. He raised his arms for her without a word, without breaking her gaze, like offering.

And she took it.

The shirt joined the rest of the soft, crumpled fabric somewhere beneath them — forgotten. Not important.

What mattered was the way his skin felt beneath her palms. Warm. Trembling. Alive.

He leaned in again, kissed her once — and then again — slower this time, like he could feel the weight of the moment settling in the space between them. The gravity of being known like this. The hush of being seen.

Her legs shifted, curling around him like instinct, like memory — like she’d been waiting for this shape, this closeness, all along.

And when he pressed closer, skin to skin now, every inch of her answered without hesitation. Her breath hitched, her fingers tangled in his hair, and he clutched at her thighs — rough, enough for bruises to bloom like dusk, muted violets and honeyed indigo — tender, secret petals pressed into skin where memory met touch — like he needed her to anchor him. Like if he let go, he might come undone entirely.

His hands trembled where they gripped her, thumbs brushing over the soft curve of her skin, holding her like she was his and had always been. Soft sounds escaped his mouth, whimpers so dreamy they sounded angels singing down into Earth. Sharp gasps buried into the crook of her neck, warm breath heating the soft skin.

A sigh slipped from her mouth — wonder and want braided together — and he swallowed it with a kiss. Deeper. Quieter. A promise, sealed in breath and trembling hands.

And still, they stayed soft.

No rush. No sharp edges.

Only hands that explored reverently, like she was something precious he’d been entrusted to hold.

Only breath that stuttered and caught as the distance between them disappeared entirely.

Only the sound of hearts learning each other in the dark — steady and aching and close.

And then, later, the room had gone quiet again — not with absence, but with everything that remained. The hush of something sacred settling into skin.

Not empty. Not hollow. But full — with breath, with warmth, with the invisible weight of what had just passed between them.

They hadn’t spoken in minutes. There was nothing left to say. Not when everything was already written into the shape of their bodies — the curve of her leg around his, the slow sweep of his fingers along her spine, the ghost of his mouth at her shoulder.

Spencer’s hand never left her.

Even now, as their breathing slowed. Even now, as the rise and fall of her chest settled into something steadier — not from distance, but from peace.

His thumb traced idle, reverent shapes against the slope of her back. Little half-circles. Loops. A language only she would understand.

And she didn’t move.

Just stayed wrapped around him like gravity had claimed her. One arm tucked between their chests, the other tangled in his curls where her fingers had never let go.

She was warm. Too warm, probably. But she didn’t shift. Didn’t pull away. Only turned her face into his throat and exhaled slow, like she was letting go of something heavy she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.

He felt it, too — the unraveling of tension he didn’t know had lived in his ribs. The soft collapse of every line he’d drawn to keep from needing this too much.

His lips brushed her hairline. Not a kiss, not exactly. Just presence.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, voice hoarse and barely there.

Then a pause. A breath. Their movements slowed. His weight sank into hers, warm and heavy. Her hands ran up his back once more, fingertips tracing the dip of his spine, and then stilled.

Her eyes blinked open, just barely. “We’re gonna fall asleep like this,” she murmured, voice thick with warmth, words curling like smoke.

Spencer didn’t move. His lips were still pressed against her temple. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She huffed a lazy laugh. “We’ll wake up sore and sideways and probably on the floor.”

“Worth it,” he whispered.

Another smile bloomed slow and sleepy across her lips. She leaned up, brushed her nose against his throat, kissed him once more — a kiss that barely lasted, barely touched, but said everything.

His arms curled around her tighter.

They didn’t pull apart.

Not even as their bodies slackened. Not even as sleep began to pull at the edges of them, soft and thick and sweet.

Somewhere between breath and dream, she whispered, “Didn’t know you could be that gentle and still ruin me.”

And he smiled into her hair, voice almost gone with sleep. “I’ll try to keep ruining you, then.”

She was still smiling when she drifted off.

And so was he.

Morning didn’t come all at once.

It crept in slowly — a pale gold light easing through the slats of the blinds, feathering across the walls, the sheets, the curve of two bodies still wrapped in sleep. The air was quiet, still softened by the hush of early hours, like the whole world had paused to give them this.

Y/N woke first.

Not fully — not in the way you do when something jolts you up — but gently, like surfacing from the warmth of a deep, sweet dream. She blinked once, then again, lashes fluttering as the shape of the room came into focus. And then she felt him.

Spencer.

Still pressed to her, still wrapped around her like a second blanket. His arm lay heavy across her middle, skin to skin now — no cotton between them, just the warmth of his palm resting low against the curve of her waist, fingers splayed like he didn’t want to let go, even in sleep.

Their legs were tangled like roots beneath the sheets, her knee still hooked over his thigh, the arch of her foot tucked behind his calf. Every part of her seemed to fit there — inside the soft press of his body, the hollow of his chest, the shape of his hold.

She could feel his breath at the back of her neck — slow, even, steady. The kind of rhythm you only fall into when there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

She just lay there for a long moment, breathing him in. The scent of him. The warmth of skin against skin. The quiet, lingering ache of what they’d given each other in the dark.

Last night hadn’t vanished with sleep. It hadn’t dulled at the edges like a dream. It was still here — alive in the heat of his body pressed to hers, in the way his hand rested low on her waist like it remembered every place it had touched.

She could still feel it. The weight of his mouth on her skin — not just a memory, but something deeper, something etched. The way he’d said her name like a vow. Like a prayer meant only for her.

It lingered. In the hollow of her throat. At the curve of her lips. In the gentle ache that whispered down her spine — not pain, but existence. A hum in her muscles, in the space between breath and bone.

Her fingers moved instinctively, brushing the side of her neck with a kind of reverence. As if she could press the moment back into her skin. As if her own touch might still catch the echo of his. She lay quiet for a beat, wrapped in the hush of morning.

And then, slowly, she turned — just enough to face him.

His face was peaceful in sleep. His brow — so often tense with thought — was smooth now. Lips slightly parted. Hair soft and mussed from where she’d run her hands through it too many times to count. The sight of him like that — so open, so unguarded — did something to her chest she didn’t quite have words for.

She reached up, slow and careful, and brushed her fingers through a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He stirred at the touch, but didn’t wake.

Not until she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It was feather-light, more breath than contact, but it was enough.

He stirred again — this time a little more. Eyes fluttering open. Not all the way. Just enough to see her.

A faint, sleep-wrecked smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Hi.”

Her heart twisted.

“Hi,” she whispered back, barely audible, like the morning itself might startle if she spoke too loud. “You snore.”

“I do not,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

“You do.” Her fingers drifted along his jaw with the back of her knuckles — a lazy, reverent gesture, warm as the space between them. “It’s a soft snore. Almost endearing.”

His lips curved again, slow and lopsided, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat before opening again — slower this time, as if the light behind her was something worth savoring.

“If I do,” he said, voice like gravel wrapped in silk, “it’s because you wore me out.”

She grinned, lips twitching, and leaned in just enough for her forehead to rest against his. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

His fingers brushed the edge of her hip beneath the blanket — not with intent, just to anchor himself in the shape of her — and he let out a breath that felt more like a sigh of contentment than anything else.

She laughed quietly, and it curled between them like a ribbon. “You’re lucky you’re cute in the morning.”

“You’re lucky I’m still coherent,” he murmured, voice low and rough and ruined by sleep.

They didn’t move to get up. Neither of them even pretended to.

Instead, Spencer shifted just enough to press a kiss to her cheek. Then another to her temple. Then one to her collarbone, just beneath the edge of the fabric of the blanket.

Her fingers slid up the back of his neck, and she leaned into him like she could climb inside the quiet.

They stayed like that for a long while — pressed close, barely speaking, barely moving — sharing warmth and breath and the weightless, glowing hush of something undeniable. Something real.

No questions. No what now?

Just this.

Just them.

Still tangled. Still warm. Still smiling.

Eventually, they got up.

Not because they wanted to. Not because they were ready to leave the warmth of each other. But because Spencer’s stomach had let out a low, unmistakable growl and Y/N had laughed against his shoulder, murmuring something about him being lucky she found it adorable.

So now, they were in his kitchen.

Barefoot, still dressed in yesterday’s sleep and each other’s affection.

She wore only his shirt.

The one he’d handed her the night before — half-folded, worn soft with time — now draped over her like it belonged there. The hem skimmed just past the tops of her thighs, riding up ever so slightly as she moved, revealing the gentle curve of skin where the night still lived on her.

Her legs were bare, marked faintly where sheets had once twisted around them. The sleeves bunched at her elbows, too long and not rolled, like she’d pulled it on in a haze and hadn’t thought to fuss with it. And her hair — God, her hair — was a tumble of sleepy waves, half-tucked behind one ear, half falling into her face in that effortless way she never intended but he would never forget.

She moved around his kitchen like she’d done it before. Barefoot. Unhurried. One hand reaching for two mugs from the cabinet, the other brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with the kind of grace that didn’t know it was being watched.

He watched her from the other side of the counter, utterly ruined by the sight of her.

Because there was something devastatingly intimate about it — not loud, not demanding, but real. Like a future had already unfolded and left this moment behind as proof. Like this was what it might feel like, to be loved by her on an ordinary morning.

Just her. In his shirt. In his kitchen. Like it had always been meant to be.

“Coffee’s probably stronger than you remember,” he said, leaning on his elbows, voice still thick with sleep. “I may have used the wrong scoop.”

She gave him a lazy side-eye as she poured. “So what you’re saying is… this is revenge.”

He smiled. “Mild retribution. You mocked my snoring.”

“You did snore.”

“Allegedly.”

She handed him a mug and kissed his cheek as she passed — casual, easy, like the thousandth time instead of the first.

He turned slightly toward her, eyes drifting down to her mouth before lifting again.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She looked at him — really looked — and something in her expression shifted. Just a breath. Just enough for softness to rise like sunlight warming the edges of sleep.

His curls were a mess, more unruly than usual — flattened on one side where her fingers had rested all night, wild and fluffed on the other like sleep had tangled itself into the strands. A piece stuck up near his temple, catching the light from the kitchen window in a way that made him look impossibly younger. Unbrushed. Unbothered. Barefoot in his own quiet world.

There was still a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. His shirt clung lopsided to one shoulder. His eyes, when they lifted to meet hers, were heavy-lidded with warmth — tired, maybe, but only in the way people are after something worth losing sleep over.

And her heart stuttered.

She smiled — soft, instinctive — and reached like she might tuck that one rogue curl back into place.

“I’m good,” she said. “Tired. A little sore.”

A smirk pulled at his mouth — slow, crooked, impossible to hide. The kind that curled more on one side, like his face couldn’t quite decide between mischief and awe. It started in his lips but reached his eyes a heartbeat later, lighting them with something softer — like laughter not yet spoken, like affection he wasn’t ready to name out loud.

It was a look that said I’m thinking something I’ll never say, and you make it really hard to be cool about this.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t try to hide it.

“Not like that,” she warned, pointing her mug at him.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his grin was wide and unguarded and a little boyish in the way that made her want to kiss it off his face.

“I’m good too,” he said, after a moment — too casually, like he was trying to play it cool but already failing.

A beat passed.

“Y’know… in case you were wondering.” 

The edge of his voice caught at the end — not nervous, exactly, just wry. Like he knew exactly how transparent he was and had decided to lean into it.

She blinked at him once, then laughed — that soft, surprised kind of laugh that crinkled her nose and made her shoulders shake slightly.

“Oh, I was wondering,” she grinned, taking a slow sip from her mug just to hide how wide her smile had gotten. “Believe me.”

His smirk returned — helpless now, brighter. Almost bashful.

“Just making sure,” he murmured, gaze dropping like he couldn’t quite hold hers without giving himself away completely.

They stood like that for a while. Quiet, holding hands over chipped ceramic and the scent of dark roast.

His fingers curled loosely around hers, thumb brushing slow arcs against her knuckle like he didn’t want to stop touching her even for this. The mug in her other hand had started to cool, but neither of them moved. The moment felt suspended — hung in that soft hush where night ends and morning hasn’t quite decided what to become yet.

The window behind him let in streaks of sun, lighting the dust in the air like gold. It caught the curve of her smile, the tousled edge of his curls, and made everything look touched by something holy.

Y/N swayed slightly on her feet. Her voice was quiet, but not afraid. “You think we’ll regret this?”

Spencer looked at her. Really looked — as if the question had carved a path straight through his chest.

Then he shook his head, slow. Certain. 

“No,” he said. “I think we’ll wonder why we waited.”

A beat.

Then her grin broke free — unfiltered, full of teeth and fond disbelief. “God, that was smooth.”

His brows lifted. “It was honest!”

“And smooth,” she said, sipping again, voice muffled behind the rim of the mug. “Which is new for you.”

“I’ve had practice,” he said, pretending offense. “You’re a very motivating subject.”

“Oh, I motivate you?”

“Endlessly.”

She giggled — actual, unguarded giggling — and leaned her forehead briefly against his shoulder, like she needed to hide from the way he made her feel.

He turned his face toward her hair, smiling against it — lazy, content, still a little dazed by the way she fit against him like she’d always been there.

Then he leaned in, brushing his lips to hers — slow and steady, one kiss, then two, then a third for good measure. “I’m making up for lost time,” he murmured, voice low and warm like honey in sunlight.

She kissed him back without hesitation — lips curling into a grin between kisses. “You’re behind, then,” she said. “Better get to work.”

His laugh was quiet, breathless against her mouth. “Is that a challenge?”

She hummed, pretending to think. “More of an invitation.”

Coffee long forgotten. Sunlight rising behind them in soft, golden streaks. And for the first time in a long time — they weren’t rushing anywhere. Just standing there in a borrowed morning, trading kisses and banter like it was the only language they knew.

The ringtone was muffled somewhere between the counter and Spencer’s coat pocket, but they both heard it. A distant buzz that cut through the stillness like a ripple across still water.

Y/N pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Her smile lingered, but it was laced with reluctant understanding.

Spencer sighed, pressing one last kiss to the corner of her mouth before reaching for his phone on the counter. He glanced at the screen and winced.

“Hotch,” he muttered. “We’re being called in.”

Y/N groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Spencer answered the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

Hotch’s voice came through, steady and to the point. “Case just came in. Briefing at the office. Wheels up in an hour.”

Spencer nodded, even though Hotch couldn’t see it. “I can be there in thirty.”

There was a pause. A small one.

Then Hotch added, dry as ever: “Is Y/N with you?”

Spencer blinked. “She is.”

Another pause. Barely a breath.

Then: “I’ll let you tell her.”

Click.

Spencer lowered the phone, trying not to smile. “He knows.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Oh shit.”

Spencer shrugged, helpless. “He said he’ll let me tell you.”

She buried her face in her hands. “He definitely knows.”

“He didn’t sound mad.”

“He never sounds mad. That’s the problem. He just sounds like... Hotch.”

Spencer grinned, stepping close again. “I think we’ll survive.”

She peeked at him through her fingers. “Maybe. If Morgan doesn’t beat us to it.”

He leaned in, lips brushing her forehead. “We’ve been through worse.”

She groaned again. “Yeah, but not while wearing your shirt and drinking your coffee.”

Spencer laughed, warm and unbothered. “You’re not making me regret it.”

He then turned toward her with that sheepish, crooked smile. “Guess our little bubble just popped.”

Y/N stretched, arms overhead, shirt riding up over her thighs with no shame at all. “I’m blaming you when I show up looking like I’ve just rolled out of—” she paused, grinned, “—well. You.”

He flushed. “You could, uh... borrow something else?”

She was already walking toward the bathroom, barefoot and smug.

“You saying I can’t wear your shirt to work?”

Spencer blinked. “I’m saying I won’t survive it.”

Her laughter echoed down the hallway.

“Then consider it a challenge.” 

She paused just before turning the corner, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “Lucky for you, I keep an extra go-bag in my car. Otherwise, you’d really be in trouble.”

And as Spencer stood barefoot in the middle of his kitchen, still in pajama pants and a sleep-soft tee, hair a tousled mess from her hands and her dreams, surrounded by cold coffee and warm streaks of light spilling through the blinds, he rested one hand on the counter — the other still holding her empty mug — and smiled like the day had already given him more than enough.

There was a stupid grin on his face. One he didn’t even try to hide.

Even with the case.

Even with the chaos.

Today already felt like a good day.

Because she was still here. Still wearing his shirt. Still laughing under her breath like she belonged to the morning.

And for once, the world didn’t feel quite so fast.

From down the hall came her voice — bright, teasing, soaked in laughter.

“Reid! Are you getting in the shower with me or what?”

Spencer blinked, glanced once at the mugs on the counter like they might matter — then bolted.

She shrieked when she heard his footsteps, the sound chasing him through the hallway like music.

He reached her just as the bathroom door swung open, and before she could quip again, he wrapped both arms around her waist and kissed along the column of her neck, slow and breathless, lips pressed to damp skin and heat and joy.

She threw her head back into his shoulder, laughing, breath caught between surprise and delight.

“Spencer—”

“Just trying to conserve water,” he murmured against her skin, grinning.

And in the middle of case-day chaos, mismatched pajamas, and the hum of the shower behind them — they were already both laughing too hard to say anything else.

And the morning, somehow, kept getting better.

[clementineinn]

casually filing this under things that rewired my brain because it literally had me kicking my feet and screaming!!!

FLATLANDS

Hotch sends you and Spencer to Iowa to conduct a death row interview with an inmate. Thing is, there's not much to do in Iowa but fuck.

pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader

tags/warnings: 18+, wc: 5.9k, whew, smut, porn w plot, piv sex, unprotected sex, drunk sex, oral sex (both receiving), fingering, soft-dom spencer ish, biting, praise kink, this is so self-indulgent muahahaha, discussions of a case, but nothing too bad it's canon typical stuff, iowa hate idgaf!!, drinking/getting drunk, i think that's it!

notes: this is likeeee. one of my first times writing longer smut. also i did in fact say i would re-upload old re-worked fics before posting anything new but alas! i am a liar! here is something brand new! i spent like. 9 straight hours on this yesterday. and it is currently almost 8 am and i just spent all night finishing it up instead of sleeping. ALSO i am in fact a philosophy major (future barista moment) and my fics get soooo. philosophy-esque. like. every single time. i'm sorry... i am who i am.

If you had to remove one state from the contiguous union, it would be Iowa. 

You’re standing in a rusty hotel room, which, according to Hotch, is the best they could do to accommodate you. And Spencer. He’s one room over. Your feet vibrate against the rug. You tell yourself it’s the thought of him, one wall over — thinking, sitting, reading, whatever he’s doing — and not some rare kind of bacteria you’re going to catch from the stink of this place.

Hotch sent you and Reid here for a death row interview. One of the inmates, having spent the past seventeen years as a self-proclaimed monk, decided he was done with silence. He answered the bureau’s request for an interview in a letter addressed to Hotch’s desk, written in red ink. It’s your first prison interview — you usually wear the bad guys down before they’re locked away forever — but Spencer has done one or two, he said. You think it might be more.

You’d never been to Iowa, never had a case here. You’re not great with time off, even worse with real vacations. You don’t look out your window for fear the corn fields have gotten closer since you last peeked through the curtains. You swear you can see twenty miles out; the flatness makes it easy to mistake the horizon for something that never, ever ends. 

You’re picking at the skin of your fingernails, toes curled as they still rest but resist against the carpet, when there’s a knock at your door. You don’t check, because you’re not really fearful. It might make you a shitty FBI agent, but you doubt anyone is tracking you down in Iowa. (Iowa. It gets worse each time you think it.)

“Hi,” Spencer says, lips pulled flat. Flat. You think of fields. Corn. Emptiness. Your stomach churns then lurches when you think of your own bed in your own home in a state that has real hills and mountains and trees. 

“Hi.” 

“Thought you might want to look over the file before tomorrow?” He frames it like a question, and you offer a soft smile at his hesitancy before opening the door to let him in. He turns his body to the left to avoid making contact with you as he accepts the invitation and walks on through.

Your bed is still made, your suitcase resting on top of it. He scrunches his nose before recovering.

“I’m not a germaphobe, like someone we both know,” you mock.

“Maybe you should be.” You laugh. You’ve been his teammate for three years now, and it still gets you when he decides he can lighten up and make a joke.

He looks around, still awkward in the yellow tint of the hotel lamp, then decides to sit in the desk chair in the corner.

“You look so ominous,” you say, shaking your head as you pull the file out of the nightstand. 

“Why is your casefile in there?”

“Where do you keep yours?”

“I never put it away.”

“Checks out,” you say, raising your eyebrows and sitting criss-crossed on the edge of your bed, facing him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Gary Foster,” you read off the top of the page, ignoring his bait. “Killed twenty-three women in his basement. His wife never knew.”

“Or claims she didn’t know,” Spencer corrects. 

“You think she did?”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”

You glance up at him to find him staring intently at the file in his hands. He’s gripping onto it like it’s all he knows. You store your observations away in your head under a tab titled Perhaps Ask Later. 

You’ve gone over this file a dozen times. It’s virtually seared into your memory. Still, you let him tack off the rest of the information to you, compile the intensive profile Hotch gave you into a bullet point list. 

“Do you think he’s gonna focus on me?” you ask once he reaches a lull in speech.

“Because you’re a woman?” he confirms. You nod. “Maybe.”

You tap the file a few times with your fingers as a yawn creeps up your throat, threatening to escape. Spencer seems to get the hint before you even let it out. 

“We’ve got a long day tomorrow,” he says before standing. He takes a step forward before turning around and tucking the chair back into the desk. You smile at the politeness. “See you tomorrow?”

“Is that a question?” you tease as you lead him to the door. “I promise I won’t jump out of the window.”

“There’s not much out there.”

“No, there isn’t.” He fumbles with the key for the door across the hall. You wait for him to open it before you start to close yours, the way you would after driving a friend at home. “Night.”

“Night,” he says, though the latter half of the word is muffled by the shut of the door. 

The room is barren again. You open the curtains now that it’s nearing total darkness outside.

It takes six more hours for you to drift off into sleep.

– 

Your hand is immediately on your temple when you awake, rubbing at the budding headache you know will consume you once you get up. This is the punishment you get for allowing yourself only three hours of sleep.

The sunlight hits your bed in fluttering intervals of perfect warmth and scorching heat. This time, when the hindmost rolls around, you force yourself up and place your feet on the ground. You hold your tongue to refrain from releasing a long string of fucks and shits and realize your hand is still refusing to move from its spot rubbing circles in your face. When you make your way to the bathroom, you realize the bed is so hard you’ve left no indent. 

The sting of the shower is pelting, boiling enough that it feels purifying. After a night spent in sheets you’re sure dozens have sweat through, it’s more than welcome. The heat is the perfect substrate for the anticipatory dread of today’s interview. Speaking to monsters as if there’s a hint of human behind the stitching has never pulled at you in the right way. 

If anything, it’s slowly pulled you apart.

The outlet in your bathroom is broken so you’re forced to dry your hair sitting on the carpet of the room, right next to that window that stares out into nowhere. You feel itchy just sitting on it. You swear the fibers are pressing into your skin, merging with your skin. 

The file is open on the floor in front of you, and you use your thumb to wipe the water falling from your damp hair. The pages already begin to curdle like the feeling in your stomach. 

You put your hair in a ponytail, then worry it’s too sexual — because you’ve absorbed the profile and you know what earns a check on this guys list —- so you take it down and let it rest on your shoulders again. Your knees crack when you stand up and your hip tenses up like it might, too, when you slip your legs into your pants. 

There’s a knock on your door and you mutter fuck as you balance your time between finishing the rest of the buttons on your blouse and stumbling to the door.

“I need a couple minutes,” you say, before you say hello. You leave the door open as you retreat farther into the room. “You can wait in here.”

You squeeze your feet into your heels — half a size too small, and in your head you call the saleslady who insisted on that being necessary for this brand a word that would make your grandmother sour — and peripherally watch him step into the room, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“You ready?” he asks. You can feel his eyes on your unmade bed. 

“Mhm.” You glance in the square mirror facing the bed and smooth out your clothes. 

“I mean for the interview,” he says after clearing his throat.

“My answer remains.”

“Cool.” He says it in the way that feels fraudulent, but is really just the way he speaks, you’ve come to realize.

“Are you ready?” you ask back, muffled by the file placed between your teeth as you fumble around your desk for your car keys and room card. You make eye contact with him as you head for the door.

“Don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”

“Stand up straight,” you say, holding the door open for him as you both step into the hallway.

“What?” he mutters. He does it anyway.

“He’s gonna zero in on you if you seem to lack confidence.”

“Right.”

It’s silence between you two in the hallway, the elevator, the lobby, and until you’re pulling out of the parking lot. There’s overgrown wheatgrass in the field to your left and plowed corn crop to your right. The furrows stretch on until the curve of the earth swallows them up.

The sky is dull, slate-colored, and bears striking resemblance to something that could wipe you clean. Grain silos whir by every couple of minutes. These people really own a lot of fucking land. Every few miles, a new one, along with a rusting tractor or collapsing barn or crop that looks about ready to dry up and blow away. It gets predictable after mile seven. 

The prison doesn’t appear so much as it settles into your vision. It’s low to the ground, sprawling, gray. A scar pressed into the ground. 

You feel like Spencer the way you’ve completely memorized the profile. You flash your badge at the gate, sign some kind of form and drive into a parking lot that feels as far from the prison as your hotel was.

Spencer lingers in the car two seconds after you get out. He’s nervous, and he’s trying not to show it. You don’t want to mention it, but you need to be on the same page, so you don’t stop your lips from unfurling.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The anxious math,” you say. “You’re calculating the probability of saying the wrong thing before we even walk in.”

“That’s-” He seems to think better than arguing and redirects his sentence. “That’s not entirely inaccurate.”

You give him one of those closed lip smiles. “He’ll spot it in five seconds. He feeds on nerves like that. First, he’ll comment on your hands, because you fidget when you’re trying not to.”

“You sound like Hotch.”

You scoff out a half-laugh and choose to ignore the comment otherwise. “And he’ll ask how long you’ve known me. If we’re sleeping together. He won’t say it like that, of course. He’ll be crude. He wants to gauge what version of you shows up when you’re off-balance.”

“Why would that knock me off balance?” he asks. The hesitancy has stolen his tone again.

“You fluster easily.”

“Do I?”

“Mhm. You blink three times, touch your collar, and then deflect with statistics. You did it the first time I challenged you during a case.”

He tuts then holds the door of the prison open for you. “You’re profiling me.”

“Of course I am,” you say, then turn your head over your shoulder, waiting for him to walk back up beside you again. He’s close behind you, so close you can almost feel his breath on you. It makes you feel warm. “So will he.”

You greet two more guards inside before shaking hands with the warden. He thanks you for coming with that grim look on his face that everyone in this field seems to have permanently etched into the creases of their skin. The prison is colder inside than it has any right to be, as if the concrete has learned to hold onto every winter it’s ever survived. 

“Still nervous?” you whisper to Spencer. 

He smiles, shakes his head no. 

Good, you mouth.

You pretend not to notice his eyes fixate for a beat longer than necessary on your lips. You lick them in response. When he meets your eyes again, you pretend not to notice that something undecipherable is hidden behind his lids, too. 

—

Foster smiles when you walk in. He doesn’t look at Spencer. You let Spencer pull your chair out for you, which immediately catches the guy’s attention. You think of still water, use it as a guide for being calm.

“Well,” Foster says. He hasn’t dropped the smile from his face. “They sent a good-looking one.”

“We, the FBI, are really grateful you chose to cooperate with us,” you say. “You know, in your final days.”

“Hm.” He turns to Spencer, finally. “She yours?”

You don’t look at him, and you will him to ignore him, to start asking him the standard questions. What’s your name? What year were you born? 

“She’s her own,” he says instead. It comes out even and flat. 

“You hesitated,” Foster says. His smile shows his teeth, now. “I suppose that’s not a crime.”

“No,” you agree. You open your file and lay a picture of his mugshot on the table. You can tell he was expecting photos of one of the women whose life he stole away. ��But murder is.”

Spencer clears his throat and nudges your ankle with the tip of his shoe. You give him no reaction, but the next time you reach for the file, you let your fingertips brush against his wrist. 

—

“That wasn’t awful,” Spencer says when you step out, though he says it like he’s releasing one big breath born out of a collection of accumulated air trapped in his lungs. 

Foster did say something crude. You’d prefer not to repeat it, mostly because you’re not sure if Spencer was blushing or if he was just hot. 

The prison was freezing, you remind yourself. Then you shove the thought back down. 

“It wasn’t great,” you say. “I wish I’d pushed him further about—”

“Stop,” he says. His hand is on your bicep now. “Don’t overthink it, you did great.”

“Okay,” you say. “Don’t profile me, now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The walk back to the car leaves you sticky and hot. You note, aimlessly, that Iowa gets hot enough if you let it — if you stay long enough to let it swelter.

“Our flight’s not till the morning,” you groan, slamming the car door shut.

“Not a fan of Iowa?”

“In how many languages do you know how to say fuck no?”

“Twelve," he says. His eyes flit to the ceiling. “No, fourteen.” 

“Ridiculous.” 

—

You crash as soon as you get back to your hotel room. You sleep for what feels like two hours but you know is way longer than that, and when you finally peel your eyes open you’re sweating. You’re clinging to your sheets, and you consider yourself bed-ridden as you roll over and check your phone. Hotch has sent you three messages asking for updates. Your stomach twinges with guilt for not answering, though you figure he probably moved on and texted Spencer.

Spencer.

You feel bad. You had ditched him, retreating to your hotel room the second you guys got back. You wonder what he did, if he got food, though there’s not much to do in Iowa. In fact, there’s nothing to do in Iowa. 

You slip out of your clothes and take a quick rinse-off in the shower. Your hair is still wet when you adorn yourself in a gray t-shirt and sleep shorts and creep over across the hall. Your fist raps against the door three times, then twice more for good measure. 

“Hi?”

“Hi,” you say, inviting yourself in as you push past him. It’s identical to yours, but everything’s on the opposite side. “Nice room.”

“Much nicer than yours.”

“Oh, for sure.” You clap your hands together, then flop down on the bed. “So, whatcha been up to?”

He nods his head at a book on the nightstand. You stretch over and pick it up. The History of Iowa’s Small Towns.

“Little on the nose, isn’t it, doctor?”

“It’s interesting.”

“Your mind amazes me,” you whisper, then place it back on the nightstand.

“Have you eaten?” he asks.

“I’m not really hungry,” you say. When he quirks his eyebrow, you add: “Really, I can’t eat for, like, at least two hours after I wake up.”

“You were asleep?”

You nod. “Couldn’t last night. You didn’t think I just ditched you, did you?”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

You place a hand over your heart. “Well, doctor, I’m just plain offended.”

He smiles, real, genuine. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How’d you mean it?” you ask. You move up on the bed, as if it’s your own, making space for him to sit next to you. 

He sighs, like he really doesn’t want to indulge in this conversation, but his lips pry open and you know he will. “Morgan always says I ramble too much.”

You shrug. “What’s much, anyway?”

“Well, if you’re not hungry,” he starts, lifting himself off the bed and over to the mini fridge, “are you thirsty?”

“My, my.” You smile, teeth and all. “I didn’t know you drank on the job.”

“Not technically on the job anymore, am I?” He holds up a little bottle. “It’s not exactly a martini, but it’s all I’ve got unless you want lukewarm ginger ale.”

You accept the bottle with mock ceremony and open it the second it’s in your hands. “Guess federal per diems only cover motel whiskey. Honestly, this is probably the classiest thing happening in Iowa tonight.”

He laughs softly, twisting open his own cap. “From what I’ve read, and seen, that’s a low bar.”

You raise yours. “To meeting the bar.”

He tilts his head, scrunches his nose. “To stepping over the bar with minimal effort.”

You both take a sip. It’s terrible. You make a face.

He sees it and raises an eyebrow. “Too refined for hotel whiskey?”

“Just surprised it didn’t come with a warning label,” you say, setting the bottle down on the nightstand. “Or a tetanus shot.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, taking another sip of his. “I’m sure the Iowa Department of Health is on it.”

You nod solemnly. “They’re probably just as fast as the Wi-Fi.”

That gets a small smile from him. He sits on the edge of the bed, a little closer than before, but still careful. He’s always so careful.

There’s a lull, full of quiet until the nighttime air-conditioning kicks on and you’re too tired to pretend anything really matters for a while.

“You ever drink from the mini bar before? Like, during a case?” you ask eventually.

“Only when I expect to be stranded somewhere like this.”

“Smart,” you say. 

He glances at you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t profile your way out of a cornfield without it.”

You hum in agreement. “I’m not sure if that’s depressing.”

He shrugs, taking another sip. “Probably.” His hand falls to his side, dangerously close to your thigh.

You accept another one. And then another one. You’re sure he’s going shot for shot with you, but you can’t really tell because your head is full and everything’s hazy and suddenly this bed is so, so comfortable. 

You lie back, legs still dangling off the edge, and stare up at the popcorn ceiling like it might reveal state secrets. “Did you know Iowa had one of the highest populations of covered bridges?”

Spencer blinks. “Iowa doesn’t.”

You squint. “It doesn’t?”

“No,” he says, amused. “That’s Madison County. Which is in Iowa. But it’s a specific — actually, nevermind. I’m not sure either of us are in a state for nuance.”

You wag a lazy finger at the ceiling. “I knew that.”

“Sure,” he says, and leans back beside you with a soft thud, hands crossed over his stomach. “Next you’ll tell me Iowa invented jazz.”

“It didn’t?” You cant your head to the side, a smile playing at your lips. 

“God, no.”

You sigh dramatically. “And here I thought this trip was educational.”

He turns his head just slightly toward you. His breath is hot, hotter than it was earlier, and his words are all slurred. You think you might sound the same but don’t keep yourself in line long enough to actually check. “You’ve learned a lot. For example, you’ve learned not to trust the minibar.”

“And that your idea of a good time is reading municipal histories.”

“I sensed you were captivated.”

You pull an arm over your face. “Do you always get this cocky after drinking?”

He tilts his head like he’s genuinely thinking about it. “I think I just feel safe knowing I’m not the only one embarrassing myself.”

You haul a leg up to bend into the bed with you and nudge him with your knee. “You’re not embarrassing. You’re weird. Like, in the good way.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you can hear the smile in his voice when he finally says: “Thanks. You’re weird too.”

“Weird and drunk.” You repeat the word drunk a few more times, drawing out a different syllable each time. “Spencer?” 

“Hm?”

“Don’t let me fall asleep here.”

“You say that like I have any control over you,” he murmurs. Your breath catches. Neither of you move.

You peek at him from under your arm. “Are you flirting with me?”

“What?” 

“Whatever. Then don’t speak with that— that tone. Or I’ll start to think you’re flirting with me.”

“I’m not really flirting with you.”

You let the arm drop, but not to the mattress; it finds its way to the sleeve of his shirt, playing with the fabric. “Not really or not yet?”

“That depends,” he says, voice dropped low to a whisper. “Would yet be a problem?”

You roll onto your elbow, looming over him. “Guess we’ll have to find out.”

It lands like a match.

“What are you doing?” he asks. Your lips are the closest they’ve ever been.

“I don’t know.” Your eyes move to where his hand has started to creep onto your thigh. “What are you doing?”

He moves first, but only barely. His head tilts up, lips parting like he’s about to ask a question. 

He gets his answer in the shape of your lips.

Your hand finds the edge of his jaw, fingers skimming up the side of his face. He’s warm. Still flushed from the whiskey or maybe just from you.

You’re kissing, you think. You. Spencer. Kissing. It should make you pull back. You work with him. This is strictly forbidden — that should definitely make you pull back.

But then his fingers press into your hips, grounding you, and you shift, and you’re straddling him before you’ve thought it through. It’s automatic, desperate, like the tension finally cracked open and all that’s left is the pull.

“Still not on the job?” you murmur between kisses, breath brushing his lips.

He shakes his head. “Not even a little.”

He starts to kiss you deeper, like he wants to memorize it. You wonder if he is. Your hands move up under his shirt, and his breath slips, just for a second. Just long enough to make you smile into his mouth.

There’s nothing quiet about any of this. Just heat. And want. And finally.

You roll your hips once as a test. When he tightens his grip on you, you have half the mind to do it again, and again, and again. 

Suddenly, all you can think of are your clothes on the ground and him inside you. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. You release his lips from yours.

“Fuck?”

“Shh,” he hushes, trying to silence you, but you’re already laughing.

“Oh my god, Dr. Spencer Reid, esteemed supervisory special agent, holder of three PhDs, just said fuck.” You whisper the last part, hand clutching at your chest.  

“Will you please resume what we were just doing?”

“My fucking pleasure.”

“Jesus,” he squeezes out. Your hands remove themselves from where they were resting under his shirt and head to the waist of his pants. You watch his chest rise a little quicker, fall with a little more readiness. His hands release your hips and come up to grip your wrists. “I say fuck one time and I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“Maybe we can put it in another context.” You unhook your legs from their desired place around his hips and scooch yourself down his body. Your fingers, which were just barely, ever so delicately toying with his waistband, curl into both the cotton of his pants and his boxers and tug down at once. He helps you, hips coming off the bed just enough for you to drop them both to his ankles. 

He’s already hard, and your mouth is already hollow, already anticipating something to fill a long-lasting void. You say his name, but it sounds off, because your mouth is already imagining itself wrapped around something far less innocent than words.

His hand comes up to your face, brushing your cheekbone, and the feeling is too soft to name but impossible to ignore. You feel as though all the heat in the room has gotten sucked between your legs, and it pools low, desire biting at the edges of restraint.

“You don’t have to,” he says, watching you spit in your hand. You roll your eyes before wrapping the newly wet hand around him. 

“I’m going to. Just stay like that.” 

You stroke him softly, just a few times before spitting on the tip and working it back down. He whispers your name like its wax, made to melt. You’re not thinking and your voice is velvet when you ask him how long it’s been since he’s been touched like this, the way he deserves to be. Too long, comes his response, and you vow to yourself to show him what he’s been missing.

The next time you bring your lips up to release more spit, you reach down and kiss it. Just the tip, and just ever-so-slightly. You’re not sure he noticed at first, so you do it again, this time more pronounced, and then he’s removing his hand from your face and bringing it up to your hair. His grip is firm enough to anchor, not enough to command. 

When you open your lips more, he tightens his grip. When you make your way down, syrup-slick and mouth dripping of sin, he coils his want at the nape of your neck and pulls. You moan around him, which earns you another tug. 

“That feels good,” he whispers. “So fucking good.”

You’re drunk enough that the praise feels more than trembling and temporary. You take it for more than it probably is and pick up your pace.

He lasts not a minute longer before he’s guiding you off of him, and you couch as you come up for air. 

“I don’t want to finish yet,” he mumbles.

“No?”

“No.” He pulls you up off the ground, one hand on your wrist and the other still in your hair. “Wanna take care of you too. Do you want that? Yeah? Lie down for me.”

You do as you're told, nodding along the way, agreeing fervently and with little free will. You’re drooling, enough that it slips past your lips. He brings his index finger up to your face, collecting it on the pad of his finger and pushing it back into your mouth. Instinctively, you suck. He groans, low, a noise you never would have expected to hear from him, and it makes you shut your legs, thighs rubbing together slightly as you try to fight the feeling festering around your limbs.

He kneels before you, the same way you had with him. “Is this what you want?” You nod. “No, use your words.” He pries your legs open, blows between them. 

Your back is coming up off the bed, enough for him to bring a hand up and grab your waist again. “Yes.”

He wastes little time attaching his mouth to you, tongue everywhere, while his fingers leave bruises in your side. One of your hands is gripping the sheets so hard you can feel your fingernails digging into your palm even through it. This can’t be real, you think, because nothing real feels this good. And this feels so, so good. 

You feel fucked out and he hasn’t even put anything inside of you. It’s just his tongue swiping against you, swirling around your clit, sucking your clit, kissing your clit. You can’t think. At some time you stop being aware of what he’s doing and just let him do it.

His hand leaves your hip and you feel it pulse, throbbing at the loss of harsh connection. Then, he forces your fist to open, to release the white fabric, and he locks your fingers together. It feels intimate, more intimate than his mouth on you, and if you were sober you might have shrugged him away. But you’re not. You’re drunk. Very drunk. So instead you hold his hand harder.

His free hand is trailing along your thigh, and when you glance down at him his eyes are closed, and he looks content, satisfied, and you’re not sure you ever want to unfold from this position. He uses his other hand to trail up and down your thigh before his errant fingers find their way farther up your legs. 

When he slips two inside you, both at once, no warning, you mewl.

He detaches his mouth from you, like he wants to focus solely on finger fucking you. When you glance down at him again, he gives you a perfunctory smile before focusing back at the task he’s chosen to take up. He’s practically gift-wrapping your orgasm. 

“Right there,” you choke out when his fingers curl at the exact right moment in the exact right spot. You don’t announce that you’re coming, but Spencer is a genius. You’re sure he can figure it out. Everything comes undone in waves, the way seafoam spits back into the sand before dissipating, carrying itself back out into a vaster part of the water. 

“Good job,” he says. He kisses you. You can taste your slick on his lips.

“Spencer.”

“You’ve said that already.” You’d laugh if you weren’t so unraveled. “I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?”

“Mhm.”

“What did we say about using our words?”

“To… use them?”

“You’re so smart,” he says, and you can hear him breathing in the way that means he’s trying not to laugh as he presses scattered kisses across your cheek, jaw, lips. “Can you speak up and show me how smart you are?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Knew you had it in you.” One of his hands is pressed into the mattress next to your head, and the other is absent from your body. When you finally open your eyes, you look down to see him lining himself up with you.

There’s a pinch in your throat as you feel him ease himself inside, slowly, deliberately, like he’s scared you might crumble and break beneath him. You won’t, which you assure him by using one hand to grab onto his bicep and the other to rest on his hip, guiding him all the way inside of you. 

"I got so mad, earlier," he says. "When he was talking about you like that."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he whispers. "Don't fucking apologize."

The heat is back, swirling in your stomach, rushing up your chest like every vein you have has replaced blood with feverish fire. Spencer throws more gasoline on it when he slides almost all the way out, then pushes himself back in. You’re quiet, and even the air around you seems to have hushed itself. 

When he finds a rhythm, he takes advantage of it. Fucks you a little harder, just enough that you can’t close your mouth, can’t quiet yourself even when you try. You’re trying to tread carefully, but you don’t have it in you to not tip your chin up and search for a kiss. You move your other hand to wrap around his forearm, the one right next to your head, and you can’t stop yourself from digging your nails into the skin when he gives you one particularly hard thrust.

“Do that again,” you whisper.

“This?” he asks, though it’s more of a mock. He does it again, this time a little slower. You feel like crying, because you have no other outlet for what exactly it is you’re currently feeling. When he does it again you have no choice but to squeeze your eyes shut. He kisses you again, idly, like you’ve got all the time in the world. You’re not sure you have more than five minutes in you before you pass out. “You feel so good.”

“Needed you.”

“Yeah?” he says. Your words seem to have made him snap his hips against yours a little harder. 

He uses one of his hands to grab under your thigh, then pushes your leg up. You let out a broken moan you don’t even register as your own until he stretches you farther apart and you do it again. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t clawing at an indescribable edge. You feel ripe. Nothing holy is coming for you. You arch your back like it might. 

"Mine." He says it while looking down at you. He says it with his chest. He says it like it's an absolute.

You bring your hand to the back of his neck and make him kiss you. Once for the thrill, twice just to feel the burn of it really settle in. 

Then you come. And everything else does, too. It’s unraveling. Not fingers but friction, not skin but static, not breath but flood. The room is slipping sideways, hips first, mouth second. you forget your name or maybe you give it away. There's no shape to anything, to the sting between your legs, only pulse — wet, reckless, existing in the hollows of your thighs. When he bends down and lets out a sound that sounds suspiciously like your name, your teeth catch on his shoulder like a warning. He doesn’t flinch. You bite down harder.

Nothing makes sense for a while except the sound of the air-conditioner. 

Spencer says something. Then again. Then, he taps your cheek twice, says your name until you come to.

“Hm?”

“You okay?”

“‘m okay. Are you okay?”

He laughs. It’s quiet and hoarse and still warm. “Yes ma’am.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Hmm what?’

“I like that. We’ll use that ‘nother time.” You let out a heavy sigh as he chuckles. He slips out of you and you suck in a breath that catches in the pockets of your teeth, cold and shocking against the roof of your mouth.

“Sorry.” You shake your head and hope it conveys that he has nothing to apologize for. He rolls over next to you. “You should pee.”

“Pee schmee.”

“I think I’m gonna retract my previous statements about your high level of intelligence now.” You smack him with your hand and laugh, hearty and probably too loud.

“I’m still drunk,” you say after a few more moments of silence.

“I think that’s how that whole drinking thing works, yeah.”

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” His answer comes quicker than you were expecting.

“Okay. Me neither. Just checking.” You blow hair out of your face, and when that doesn’t work you bring a palm up and use the strength of four fingers to wipe it away from the sweat gathering in satin sheets across your skin. “I hate this room.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t hate you,” you whisper.

“Well,” he whispers back. “I don’t hate you either.”

“Do you wanna maybe… I don’t know. Not be on the job tomorrow morning?”

It might just be the alcohol, but his expression is soft and lush, like when dawn’s light shudders through early morning fog. 

“I would like that.”

[clementineinn]

life in technicolor

abstract: after the BAU wraps up a case in chicago, what begins as an afternoon among paintings slowly becomes something more between two agents: a soft, golden thread of connection neither of them dares name out loud.

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

genre: fluff

word count: 7k

note: finals are over and i feel alive again, WOW!!1! i need fluff to defrost my brain from science, so enjoy an extremely sweet fic that will give you a toothache. enjoy! :)

The debrief was brief — a rare blessing.

Chicago cases had a way of stretching long — all elevated trains, gray skies, and cold corners — but this one had ended without blood, without press, without some last-minute twist that unraveled everything they thought they knew.

Just paperwork, quietly shuffled. Bad coffee. A muted television in the corner playing local news that, for once, wasn’t about them.

The conference room smelled like printer toner and faintly of someone’s winter cologne. Outside the windows, the city moved in slow motion — fogged breath on sidewalks, taxis bleeding into one another, the skyline still dipped in early haze.

Inside, the team moved slower. Calmer.

No adrenaline. No lingering crisis. Just the kind of hush that settles when the storm has passed — and for once, everyone had walked away intact.

Y/N leaned back in her chair, legs stretched out lazily beneath the hotel conference table, ankles crossed. She exhaled slowly, letting herself feel the kind of tired that only came after a case where nothing exploded, physically or emotionally.

A win.

Hotch closed his folder with a soft click and glanced around the table, his expression unreadable but settled. “Jet leaves tomorrow morning. 9 AM sharp. You’ve all earned the time — use it.”

There was the faintest flicker of something close to a smile. His version of good job — quiet, sincere, and understood.

Chairs scraped back as the tension finally broke.

Morgan stretched with a groan. “If I don’t get breakfast in the next thirty minutes, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

“Seconded,” Emily said, already slinging her coat over one arm. “Somewhere with real coffee. And actual chairs.”

Garcia’s voice crackled over the conference speaker one last time. “I want proof of life, people. Blurry photos, mismatched brunch plates, candid chaos — and at least one close-up of my favorite crime-fighting nerds so I can see your beautiful faces and pretend I’m not chained to this keyboard.”

JJ laughed. “We’ll message you from the table, promise.”

Spencer was still gathering his notes, meticulous even after no one would be reading them.

The team clustered by the door, jackets half-on, tossing around restaurant suggestions and trading half-hearted arguments about sweet versus savory breakfasts.

Hotch had already stepped aside to take a quiet call, giving them the space. No one rushed to leave.

Spencer hovered near the edge, watching the way Y/N leaned into the conversation — easy, smiling, alive in a way that felt rare after cases like this. He didn’t realize he was staring until she turned toward him and caught his eye. He looked away quickly, too quick to pretend like he wasn’t caught.

Y/N had glanced over at him, then at the gray skyline through the window, soft with early morning haze. The sun hadn’t quite decided whether to show up yet. The city felt like it was holding its breath.

She stood, stretching her arms overhead in a lazy arc. “If anyone’s looking for me this afternoon,” she said, mostly to herself, “I’m going to the Art Institute. Might as well get a little culture in before we crawl back into the jet.”

Spencer looked up sharply.

It was the kind of sharp that betrayed interest, not surprise. Like the words had reached out and tapped some old memory he’d been keeping close.

“You’re going?” he asked, more alert now than he’d been through most of the debrief. “They’ve got the Seurat right now. A Sunday on La Grande Jatte. It’s the centerpiece of their collection.”

Y/N turned to him with a soft smirk. “Color me shocked that you know exactly what’s hanging there.”

He flushed a little, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “I haven’t been in a while. Not since the last time we consulted with the field office here. I think the Magritte exhibit was up then.”

“Then come with me,” she said, casually. No big deal. Just an open door.

Spencer blinked. “I mean, if you don’t mind—”

“Spencer.” She grinned. “You just listed two exhibits and a painting. I think we both know I’d be disappointed if you didn’t come.”

He smiled — not wide, not dramatic — but it settled in slowly, like warmth finding its way back into cold fingers.

“Okay,” he said. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

There was a beat — just long enough for the words to settle — and then, from across the room, Morgan’s voice cut through the low hum of jackets rustling and coffee cups being gathered.

“Don’t let him info-dump you into a coma, sweetness,” he called, grinning like a man who absolutely knew what he was doing. 

Spencer made a faint choking sound in the back of his throat and ducked his head immediately, one hand twitching up like he might physically shield himself from the embarrassment.

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. “I’m counting on it,” she said, flashing a grin over her shoulder. “What’s a museum tour without unsolicited facts and slow emotional unraveling?”

Morgan barked a laugh. “That’s a date, pretty girl.”

Spencer stared very intently at the floor.

A flush bloomed high on his cheeks — not just pink, but rose-colored, warm and helpless, climbing the edge of his jaw like something painted in. He pressed his lips together, clearly trying not to smile, but failing in the quietest, most honest way.

And if he looked down to hide the color in his face — well. 

That was between him and the Seurat.

Spencer checked his watch for the third time.

10:47 a.m.

They’d said “around eleven.” He wasn’t early. Just… approximate. Prepared. Thorough.

He stood by the hotel’s coffee bar, quietly composed but visibly restless — all long limbs and soft restraint.

His cardigan was a charcoal gray, fine-knit and slightly loose through the sleeves, pushed to his elbows in absent-minded folds. The wool clung faintly at the crook of his arms, creased where he’d been fidgeting with the cuffs — not nervously, just habitually. His posture was neat in that unconsciously elegant way he always carried — all linear grace, like a line drawing from an anatomy textbook someone had sketched too delicately to be clinical.

Beneath the cardigan, his button-down was a pale, pearl-dusted blue — the collar open at the throat, just enough to reveal the clean slope of his neck. His skin was fair there, untouched by sun, and soft in that impossible way that suggested warmth and quiet vulnerability. His throat moved slightly as he swallowed, jaw tight beneath sculpted cheekbones, the edge of his profile cut sharp enough to be distracting — temple to jaw, jaw to chin. A scholar's face. A painter's favorite subject.

His coat was folded neatly over one arm — pressed and precise, dark wool with a structured collar. Tucked inside the inner pocket, a single folded sheet of museum notes. Of course.

His hair hadn’t fully dried from the shower. It curled gently at the ends now — unstyled, still damp at the nape — the kind of softness he never quite knew how to handle. A few strands clung just behind his ear, where the curve of his neck met his jaw with an almost boyish grace. He had tried to smooth it down earlier. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d simply run his hands through it a dozen times in the mirror, caught somewhere between preparation and preoccupation.

And now he was here. Waiting. Still. Composed in the way that only someone overthinking could be.

He ran a hand through it. Again. Or maybe that was the thirteenth time. Or maybe he just kept running his hands through it every time he remembered he was going on what might technically, maybe, be a date.

Or not a date. Just two colleagues visiting a museum. On a day off. Alone. Together.

He took a sip of coffee. Too hot. It burned, but he barely flinched.

Because just then — she walked in.

And the world tilted, quietly.

Y/N stepped out of the elevator with a casual, easy grace that Spencer couldn’t quite believe was accidental. She wasn’t trying to be ethereal — she just was.

She wore a cream knit cardigan — slightly oversized, buttons left undone, the sleeves ballooning softly at the wrists. Underneath it, a pale tank top clung gently to her figure, the neckline scooped low enough to hint at collarbones and warmth. Her jeans were dark and flared, the hem brushing over the tops of soft suede boots, and the whole look made her seem like she belonged somewhere between an old film reel and the middle of a love poem.

Her hair was tucked back loosely, a few strands coming undone like they’d made their own decision. There was something distinctly unbothered about the way she moved — like this had taken no effort, like she hadn’t even realized what she was doing to him.

He felt the words falling out of his head one by one.

She smiled when she saw him, and it wasn’t immediate, but slow, blooming across her face like morning sun cresting over a quiet rooftop, the kind of smile that unfolded rather than flashed — spreading from her eyes to her mouth in soft, golden increments. “Hey. You ready?”

He was still stuck on how the cardigan fell off her shoulders — like it had been draped there by accident, like it belonged more to a Sunday morning than a Chicago afternoon. The knit caught the light like soft wool fog, framing the pale tank beneath it — smooth, cream-colored, almost glowing against her skin.

She looked like something warm you’d reach for in winter. Familiar. Unrushed.

Spencer blinked.

He was still thinking about how the oatmeal knit looked against her — like fresh cream poured into coffee. Or the inside of a hardcover book cracked open for the first time. Or—

“Yeah,” he said quickly, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

She tilted her head, brow lifting with quiet amusement. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he said, far too fast.

She watched him a moment longer than necessary — then, mercifully, let him off the hook. She nodded toward the revolving doors. “Lead the way, Professor.”

He flushed again, but this time it curled into a smile. “I didn’t bring a syllabus.”

“You didn’t bring an umbrella either. What if it rains culture on us?”

He laughed softly, falling into step beside her.

The air outside was crisp — cold enough to bite at the edges of your breath, but not so sharp it made your nose sting. Winter light spilled across the pavement like watercolor left out to dry.

She pulled her coat tighter around herself — a deep, moss-toned green, the color of pressed leaves and antique velvet. It had a quiet elegance to it, cropped and rounded at the shoulders, buttons wide and black like vintage piano keys. The collar sat flat against her neckline, softening her frame, while the wool shifted gently with each step, catching the light in subtle brushstrokes. It looked like something pulled from an old photograph. Something worn by a girl who read poetry in public parks and painted with her sleeves rolled up. Practical, but romantic. Soft around the edges.

And without thinking, Spencer adjusted his pace to match hers; quietly, instinctively, like following a rhythm only the two of them could hear.

He didn’t know how this would go.

But he knew this: if she said nothing else all day, he’d still remember the way she looked walking beside him — dreamy and soft against the winter gray of the city, her pretty smile like something private he’d been lucky enough to witness.

The museum rose before them like a cathedral to memory.

Grand stone steps spilled out toward the street like something out of a dream, worn smooth by a century of visitors and ghosts. The lions stood guard at either side of the entrance — patient, frost-dusted, watching over Michigan Avenue with the eternal stillness only marble could master. Above them, a white banner fluttered sharply in the wind — Special Exhibition: The Impressionists — This Week Only. The edges rippled like parchment. Like an invitation.

Y/N tilted her head back, face upturned to the cold like it didn’t bite at her, but kissed instead. The wind swept softly beneath her hair, lifting the finer strands and weaving them across the collar of her pale cardigan — a whispering halo of motion around her. Her lips, gently parted, were flushed the color of winter berries, full and wind-touched. A soft bloom of pink tinged her cheeks, the kind that came not from makeup, but from air crisp enough to sting and sunlight gentle enough to make it worth it.

Her lashes, dark against the pale gleam of her skin, blinked slowly as her gaze climbed the face of the building before them. The tip of her nose, slightly reddened, twitched faintly as she exhaled, and a single lock of hair caught against the slope of her cheek, brushing near the corner of her mouth before falling free again.

She looked up like the architecture had been waiting for her. Like some quiet part of her had been waiting to meet it in return.

“Okay,” she breathed, and the smile that followed wasn’t for show. It tugged at her lips in that effortless way she smiled when she didn’t think anyone was looking. “That’s impressive.”

Beside her, Spencer stood just a little taller. His hands stayed at his sides, but his fingers curled faintly — like they’d almost reached for her without permission. Pride rose in him, but it wasn’t just pride. It was something gentler. Quieter. Like he was watching someone fall in love with a place he already adored — like the stone lions might bow their heads in approval, just for her.

And maybe, if she looked close enough, she’d see it in him too — not just the awe for the building.

“The original structure opened in 1893,” he said softly, his voice barely louder than the breeze. “World’s Columbian Exposition. Though technically,” he added, glancing over with the faintest glint of mischief, “the lions weren’t added until ‘94.”

Y/N turned to look at him.

The cold had deepened the color in his cheeks, and the light caught at the curl of his hair where it had dried unevenly at the nape of his neck — a soft, unguarded place beneath all that sharpness and spine. He looked out of place in the modern city — but only because he fit better here. Among archives. Architecture. Memory.

She had the sudden, unshakable urge to reach for him. To slip her fingers into that damp curl, press her hand to the back of his neck, and kiss him right there — where he was warm and real and too beautiful to be untouched.

The thought startled her.

But instead, she smiled — folded the want into something lighter — and laughed, the sound carried off in the wind like a ribbon loosened from her sleeve. 

“And we’re off.”

He glanced at her quickly, worried he’d already gone too far – quick, instinctive, like the movement had been pulled from him by gravity. But her smile was easy, teasing. 

The wind lifted the hem of her cardigan as she climbed, catching the fabric in little half-spirals like it had been waiting to perform. Her hair shifted across her cheek, gold-touched in the pale morning light. The city moved on around them — cars, wind, people — but she moved as if none of it could touch her.

She bumped her shoulder against his — light, playful — and it was the smallest thing in the world. But it landed like thunder in his chest.

“I’m counting on you to tell me things I wouldn’t learn on the plaques,” she said, her voice lilting like a smile.

He blinked, a little stunned by the softness of her. “Like what?”

“Secret history,” she said, eyes skimming the carved stone lions. “Hidden brushstrokes. Artist gossip.”

He huffed a laugh. “Gossip?”

She nodded solemnly, lips curving. “Scandalous nineteenth-century painter drama. Don’t pretend it’s not your niche.”

Spencer ducked his head, a strand of hair falling forward as he smiled — sheepish and quiet. “I might know a few stories.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Couldn’t.

Because she was sunlight in motion — golden and effortless — all soft fabrics brushing in rhythm with the wind, breath rising in quiet harmony beside him. She carried warmth without trying, like the sky might bend just slightly to follow her. And he didn’t dare look too long; not because it hurt, but because it didn’t.

Because the moment felt suspended in amber, and if she turned and caught him in the quiet act of memorizing her — the curve of her smile, the wind-kissed lift of her hair — he didn’t know how he’d explain why he was always watching her like someone witnessing something sacred.

They reached the top step together.

Inside, warmth met them like a hush.

The doors gave way with a whisper, and the museum swallowed them whole.

The city disappeared the moment they stepped inside — traded away for something older, quieter, suspended in time.

The lobby rose around them like a cathedral built for memory. Vaulted ceilings arched high above, pale stone climbing like the inside of a seashell, every curve echoing with breath and the soft tap of distant footsteps. Warm light filtered in through tall paned windows, not golden, but dusted — soft as flour, like the room had been sifted gently through time.

The floor gleamed beneath them in long, honey-colored ribbons of polished wood and marble — their reflections barely visible, like ghosts who had almost caught up with their shadows.

Somewhere, a docent's voice drifted — low, reverent, like prayer. A door creaked open three galleries away. A child laughed, and then the sound was gone again.

The air smelled faintly of clean stone, old paper, and something else — something intangible. Like varnish. Like wood smoke caught in linen. Like history clinging to the edges of the room.

And somehow, it wasn’t silent. Just quiet.

The kind of quiet that felt alive — like the walls themselves were listening, like every painting might breathe if you just gave it enough stillness.

Spencer paused just inside the threshold, letting the air settle around him. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He just stood there for a moment, hands in his coat pockets, head tilted back ever so slightly as if reacquainting himself with something sacred.

Y/N paused, blinking at the grandeur. “Wow.”

Spencer looked at her instead.

She always looked good. But here — with the cold still clinging to her cheeks, hair tucked into her coat, eyes wide in wonder — she looked like she belonged in one of the frames. Something painted in soft pastels, captured in light.

He cleared his throat. “I’ve got our tickets.”

“You bought them already?”

“I thought... it might be faster.” He offered them out — printed, neatly folded. His fingers brushed hers when she took one.

He pretended not to feel it.

She tucked the ticket into her coat pocket, the edges just barely peeking out. “Efficient and charming,” she said, with that smile of hers — the slow, teasing kind that curved gently at one corner before it reached the other. “Be still my heart.”

Spencer froze for half a second, the line hitting him square in the chest.

When he looked at her, it was instinctive — a flick of the eyes, quick, uncertain — but she was already watching him, amused and radiant, like she’d been waiting for him to notice she was joking and maybe a little bit not.

Her expression was all soft amusement, head tilted slightly, eyes lit with that impossible mixture of affection and irony that always made it hard to tell where her jokes ended and her honesty began. And God — her cheeks were still pink from the cold. Or maybe from the heat inside. Or maybe it was just him.

He met her gaze. Just for a moment. Then dropped his eyes to his shoes.

The flush climbed his neck before he could stop it — warm and obvious, settling high on his cheekbones like a secret that had just been exposed. He cleared his throat, shifting slightly, fingers tightening around the folded edge of his coat.

They moved through security and up the wide staircase, into the galleries proper.

As soon as they stepped through the arched entrance, Spencer seemed to shift — not visibly, not in any showy way. Just a subtle relaxing. Like his spine straightened naturally here. Like the hush of canvas and soft light restored something in him that the job had slowly stripped away.

Y/N noticed.

She smiled softly to herself. “You know,” she murmured, “it’s kind of cute, watching you walk through this place like it’s your natural environment.”

He glanced at her, amused. “You mean the museum?”

“No. The early 1900s.”

That earned a real laugh — quiet, quick, and golden. He shook his head. “I walked into that one.”

“Like a Monet into fog.”

Spencer glanced at her sidelong. “That metaphor barely works.”

“Maybe not,” she said, shrugging. “But it sounded smart, so I’m counting it as a win.”

He was smiling again.

That small, quiet kind of smile that didn’t ask to be seen — the one that curled at the edges of his mouth like something he couldn’t quite contain. The kind that made you feel like you were the only person in the world he’d ever looked at like that.

She caught it mid-rise — that flicker of unguarded joy breaking through all the soft worry he usually carried like armor.

And for a second, it felt like the light shifted just for him.

She couldn’t stop looking at him when he did that, and she didn’t even try.

There was something impossibly gentle about it — the way his eyes went soft, the way his lashes caught the overhead glow like brushstrokes, the way his dimples barely surfaced but still made her heart skip in that ridiculous, irretrievable way.

They didn’t rush.

The museum didn’t ask them to — and Spencer wouldn’t have, even if it had. He walked slowly, not with hesitation, but with intent. As if every piece of art deserved time. Silence. Reverence.

Y/N followed beside him, their footsteps cushioned by the low carpet and the echoing hush that museums always carried — the kind of quiet that made you feel like you were inside someone’s memory.

Spencer paused in front of a small Degas. Soft brushstrokes. A dancer mid-practice, her foot barely skimming the floor.

“She’s not posed,” he murmured. “He didn’t paint her for beauty. He painted her in motion. Between grace and imperfection.”

Y/N looked over at him, not the painting.

“You talk softer when you love something,” she said.

His breath caught — not enough to be heard, but enough to be felt.

He turned toward her, caught mid-thought, half-exposed in the golden light. “I—do I?”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling slightly. “It’s like you’re afraid the words might disturb it.”

Spencer looked away. Not out of embarrassment — not exactly. Just shyness. The kind that came from being seen and not quite knowing what to do with it.

They continued on.

He spoke here and there — not performing, not overwhelming. Just gently offering things. Context. Composition. Which pigments had fallen out of use. Which painters went blind. Which ones had fallen in love with the subjects of their work.

Y/N soaked it in.

It wasn’t the facts that held her.

Though they were always interesting — rich with context, full of detail, each one delivered in that careful, melodic cadence of his. But no, it wasn’t the dates or the pigments or the movements that anchored her.

It was him.

The way his hands moved as he spoke — slow and deliberate, as if sculpting each idea in the air between them. His fingers would linger just a second longer than necessary, drawing invisible lines between brushstrokes, between eras, between thoughts he hadn’t spoken aloud. It was precise, yes — but it was tender, too. Like he believed the art deserved softness.

There was a slight crease that formed between his brows when something moved him — not frustration, but feeling. That quiet kind of reverence that belonged to people who didn’t just see beauty, but recognized it. 

She watched the way his gaze lingered on texture, on shadow, on the quiet margins of each piece — the parts most people passed by. He was most alive in those spaces, the ones no one else slowed down long enough to notice.

He didn’t just fit in museums, but it was like the walls breathed easier with him in them.

She stopped walking somewhere between Monet and Morisot, in a gallery where the light filtered through the windows like watercolor — pale gold on stone, shifting quietly across the floor. The hush around them deepened, but not in a lonely way — in that tender, stretched-out kind of silence reserved for things too lovely to speak over.

Spencer took a few more steps before realizing she wasn’t beside him anymore. He turned back.

“Something wrong?”

She shook her head slowly, lips parting like she might say more, then didn’t. Her eyes were on him — not the paintings. Not the room, but him. Like he'd become part of the exhibit. Like he belonged under glass and frame.

“No,” she said, looking at him like he was the painting now. “Just watching you.”

He blinked — startled, caught in the act of simply being.

“What?”

“You’re kind of… luminous when you talk about things like this.”

He blinked again, slower this time.

The word landed somewhere in his chest like a dropped petal — beautiful, weightless, entirely unexpected. He fumbled with the edge of his sleeve, fingers folding into the soft fabric like it might anchor him to something real.

“I think that’s the first time anyone’s called me luminous,” he murmured, flushed but trying to play it down.

She smiled — not teasing this time. Not deflecting. Just warm and full of something soft and quiet and deeply her.

“You’ll survive,” she said gently.

And it felt like the kind of moment that might tuck itself away in both of them — a little velvet secret, still glowing in the dark long after it passed.

They turned a corner into a more modern section — bold lines, abstract shapes, shadows creeping across minimal white walls. The lighting shifted, colder now. The hush felt different here. Less sacred. More contemplative. Like the art was asking questions instead of giving answers.

Spencer lingered in front of a muted Kandinsky — all fractured color and unfinished language — eyes tracing a jagged line that broke the canvas into uneven halves.

The painting was bold, restless. But he was still.

Y/N watched him instead of the piece, again.

The gallery light caught in his hair and settled along the curve of his cheekbone, casting soft shadows beneath his lashes. He stood with one hand loosely tucked in his coat pocket, the other ghosting toward the painting as if to trace it in the air, his fingers pausing mid-thought.

There was a hush that settled over him when he looked at art. Not silence, but stillness — like something inside him had gone very, very quiet just to listen more closely.

She didn’t know what he was thinking.

And yet — she did.

He wasn’t just looking. He was cataloging. Interpreting.  Carrying this shape, this line, this feeling into some quiet corner of himself — the same way he did with poetry, or patterns, or people. Something he’d sit with later. Not because he needed to, but because he couldn’t not.

She felt it like gravity.

He turned to her again, his eyes softer than the painting behind him, voice low — like the moment had changed the pitch of everything inside him.

“I could spend all day in here,” he said.

She smiled, something tender catching at the edge of it. “Good,” she said, like it was a promise. “Because we are.”

They found themselves alone for the first time in what felt like forever.

The gallery had thinned to a hush — emptied of footsteps, of commentary, of anything that didn’t belong to just the two of them. A long, echoing corridor stretched out before them, the ceilings arched high and white, the walls spare and clean. Cold light bled through narrow skylights like it had been filtered through frost. It landed sharp against the polished floor, as if even illumination here had to be curated.

Everything in this wing was quieter. Sharper. The air itself felt thinner — the kind that made you breathe differently just by entering it.

A Rothko hung at the far end.

Its surface was all wound tension — dark crimson layered over black like something burning out from the inside. No detail. No distraction. A single horizon line — just color and ache.

Y/N drifted forward until she found the bench — low, wooden, meant for quiet reckoning — and lowered herself onto it with slow, deliberate ease. Her coat folded softly at her sides, one hand smoothing the fabric like it might quiet the thrum beneath her skin.

The stillness was different here. Not reverent, not sterile — just… suspended.

Like the entire gallery had paused, holding its breath for a moment that hadn’t happened yet.

Spencer sat beside her without a word.

He didn’t shift. Didn’t adjust. Just sat with his knees slightly apart, hands resting on his thighs, elbows bent with the kind of gentleness that seemed afraid to leave fingerprints on the moment.

And for a while — they didn’t move.

Not much. Not more than a breath.

The painting began to do what paintings only do when you let them: it stopped being paint and canvas, and started becoming a feeling. The kind that crawled up the back of your neck. The kind that made your heart echo in strange places.

And sitting there, beside him, Y/N couldn’t tell if the ache came from the Rothko or from him.

She turned her head, slow, and found that Spencer was already looking at her.

Not dramatically — not in some cinematic sweep of motion. He just was. Like he had been for a while. Like maybe he always had been. Like the weight of her presence was something he never entirely stopped noticing.

The light fell soft across his cheekbone, catching at the hollow beneath his eye. His hair had curled faintly at the ends again, unruly in the most gentle way, and there was something undone about the line of his mouth — a tension there, soft and terrified. Like he was standing on the edge of something beautiful and didn’t know how to fall without breaking.

Her voice was quiet when she spoke. “I think I like watching you more than the paintings.”

His lips parted slightly, as if to speak — but no sound came at first. Just breath. Just that delicate flicker of something being handed over — raw and wordless — like a glass vessel across a too-wide space. Just the trace of something held too long behind his ribs.

“That’s funny,” he said finally, so softly it almost disappeared. “Because I’ve spent the whole afternoon trying not to stare.”

Her chest fluttered.

The hush between them stretched thin. Thinner than silence. The kind of quiet that holds a decision.

They weren’t touching — not even close — but something electric curled in the air like static, like the atmosphere waiting for a spark.

Spencer’s gaze flicked to her mouth.

Once.

It was quick. But no less devastating.

Like something in him had slipped — and in that single glance, she felt the entire weight of his wanting.

And then, he leaned in.

It was subtle. A tilt, a shift — nothing overt. But it was enough; enough to change the air, enough to tip the silence between them from patient to electric.

The movement wasn’t planned. It wasn’t even brave. It was surrender — the kind that doesn’t ask permission because the need is too old, too full, too known.

He was close now. Closer than he’d ever been.

Close enough for her to see the faintest freckle at the curve of his jaw.

Close enough to watch his lashes tremble when he blinked — soft, uneven things that gave him away more than he realized.

His breath hitched — just slightly — a quiet, unsteady inhale that never quite made it back out. It hung in his chest like a held note, suspended between caution and hope.

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

His expression was bare — not open, not confident, stripped.

Every wall gone. Every defense melted. All that wonder and ache he’d kept folded behind facts and silence now rising to the surface, exposed and impossibly real.

His eyes dipped again — to her mouth, then back to hers — and it was a question, though he didn’t ask it aloud. He didn’t need to.

He looked at her like she was something sacred and just beyond reach, like he couldn’t believe he’d been allowed this close, like he wasn’t sure if kissing her would save him or undo him completely.

Y/N didn’t move away. Didn’t breathe, didn’t do anything at all except exist exactly where he needed her to be.

It would’ve happened then. Right there.

Everything they’d circled, tiptoed, nearly said — held, breath-warm and trembling, between one heartbeat and the next.

But a burst of sound broke through the corridor. A small group — three tourists, camera bags jangling, footsteps loud — turned the corner behind them, voices bouncing off the walls like dropped marbles.

The moment shattered.

Spencer blinked. Pulled back like waking from a dream. His hand fumbled for his knee.

Y/N laughed softly — not at him. Just at the timing. Just at the absurdity of closeness never quite catching fire.

“Well,” she said, gently teasing, “so much for that sacred modern art silence.”

He exhaled a breath that almost sounded like relief. Or regret. Or both.

“We should probably… move on,” he said.

She nodded. But when they stood — their shoulders brushing — her hand found the hem of his sleeve and lingered there. Just for a second. Just long enough to say what she hadn’t had the chance to.

She let go before he could ask.

But he felt it all the same.

The gift shop was tucked near the exit — all warm wood, quiet jazz, and that faint scent of glossy pages and worn leather.

Y/N trailed her fingers over stacks of postcards. Tiny prints of everything they’d seen. Everything they almost said.

She picked one up — the Rothko. The same deep red that had filled the silence between them like water rising.

Spencer hovered a few feet away, staring at a shelf of slim poetry chapbooks, though his eyes weren’t really reading.

She glanced at him. “Tell me, do you always end museum visits with modernist heartbreak and the gift of literature?”

He turned, smiling softly. “Only when I’m with someone who sees the art the way I do.”

Something fluttered in her chest again. That same thread of tension. Familiar now. Like gravity.

She held up the postcard. “I’m getting this. So I can remember that time we almost kissed in front of color fields and emotional devastation.”

Spencer’s eyes widened — just slightly.

She said it like a joke. But didn’t laugh.

And he didn’t correct her. He just stepped closer, holding out a small navy-bound book with pale cream pages. “Here,” he said, too gently, “for you.”

She looked down at the cover — a bilingual edition of Neruda poems. Spanish on the left, English on the right. A quiet, devastating collection.

Her fingers brushed his as she took it. “Are you trying to woo me with poetry?”

A pause.

He tilted his head. “Is it working?”

She blinked, thrown — not by the line, but by the earnestness beneath it.

It was working.

It had been working for months.

She flipped the book open on instinct — a habit — and a folded paper fell out from the first page. A receipt. But something was circled beneath it. A line in small, neat handwriting.

“I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”

She swallowed. Looked up at him.

Spencer’s hands were buried in his coat pockets. His ears were pink. But he held her gaze like it meant something. Like he was saying all the things he couldn’t say aloud.

Y/N blinked down at the poem again. The line glowed like a heartbeat.

“I like spring,” she said.

He smiled. “Me too.”

They walked out of the museum shoulder to shoulder, into the thick, honeyed light of golden hour. The city had softened around them — shadows long and watercolor-soft, buildings glassy with reflected sky, the sidewalks quieter now, like even Chicago was catching its breath.

Spencer adjusted his coat against the cold, his fingers brushing hers by accident. Or not.

“You didn’t even get to show me the manuscripts,” she said, glancing over at him.

He smiled. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you. One handwritten 14th-century prayer scroll and it’s all downhill from there.”

“Oh, absolutely. You’d lose me to the illuminated margins.”

“I do tend to fall for the margins,” he said — and then blinked, like he hadn’t meant to say it quite like that.

She bumped his shoulder gently with hers. “Careful, Dr. Reid. That almost sounded poetic.”

“It was Neruda’s fault,” he murmured, ears pink.

“Sure,” she said, eyes warm. “Blame the dead poet.”

They turned a corner where the wind picked up again — not biting, but enough to pull at her scarf, catching one end and lifting it behind her like a ribbon. Spencer reached for it reflexively, catching the edge before it flew too far, and tucked it back gently near her collar.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Anytime.”

They kept walking.

And then — without fanfare — halfway down Michigan Avenue, she slid her arm through his.

Not tentative. Not dramatic. Just there. Like it had always belonged.

Spencer looked down at the place where she touched him — not just touching, but holding, her hand curled gently in the crook of his arm like she’d always known it would fit there.

It was casual in the way that meant everything, like it had been a choice made long ago and only just now realized.

His eyes followed the curve of her fingers, the way her hand softened against the wool of his coat, the way her thumb brushed once — barely a movement, barely a breath — but intentional. Grounded. Warm.

He looked at her.

She didn’t look back.

Just kept walking, her eyes on the golden wash of evening ahead, like it didn’t mean anything. Like it wasn’t changing everything.

But Spencer felt it.

He felt it in the quiet thrill low in his chest. Felt it in the way his breath faltered for half a second before finding its rhythm again. Felt it in the shape of her — pressed against his side, steady and near, like her presence had stitched itself into the moment without asking permission.

He was too busy memorizing it — the hush of the street, the sun setting behind glass towers, the way her touch made the whole world feel suddenly, achingly real.

“You’re quiet,” she said after a beat, not quite teasing. “Still thinking about color theory?”

“No,” he said, his voice a little rougher now. “Just… letting things sink in.”

She smiled — slow and warm, the kind that lit her from the inside out. It wasn’t a casual smile, not this time. It was soft and real and steeped in something she hadn’t dared name just yet.

“I’m glad you came with me,” she said.

Spencer looked at her — really looked.

At the way the streetlight haloed in her hair. At the curve of her mouth still caught in that impossibly tender smile. At the expression on her face — open, unguarded, and shining like he was the only person in the world who had ever been invited to see her like this.

And this time, she looked back.

No teasing. No disguise. Just her. Soft and golden and looking at him like he mattered.

“I’m glad you asked,” he said, his voice hushed and honest in the way only twilight allows.

And the air between them shifted — not abruptly, but slowly, like a curtain drawing open or a blossom turning its face toward the sun. Like the moment had taken a breath of its own.

Something bloomed there — not a confession, not yet, but something warm and luminous and aching to be held.

The night folded in around them like a secret, and beneath it, whatever this was — whatever it was becoming — glowed quietly between them, waiting to be touched.

The next morning, the team boarded the jet just after sunrise.

Everything was quiet. The kind of quiet that came after a good case — after a night of real rest, real silence. That rare stillness when no one was haunted, for once.

Spencer took his usual seat. Window. Left side. He had a book open — one he wasn’t reading.

Y/N walked up the steps with her usual ease, coffee in one hand, scarf tucked into her coat. She looked a little sleep-soft, a little windblown. Unbothered. Lovely.

She sat across from him without saying a word.

For a few minutes, the cabin settled into motion — JJ yawning, Emily scrolling through her phone, Morgan already asleep, Rossi reading something old and heavy.

Spencer felt it again — that ache in his ribs, low and steady, the kind that didn’t hurt so much as hollowed. That quiet, unbearable fondness he had carried for her in silence, the way some people carry poems folded in their coat pockets — worn soft from rereading, hidden but always close.

It had been building slowly, impossibly — like snow accumulating in a place where it never quite melted. Like every moment she’d ever given him — every glance, every shoulder brush, every half-laugh just for him — had added another line to a story he hadn’t meant to start writing.

But he had.

Without meaning to and without planning it: she was in every page now.

And the ache? It was just the space where all the words hadn’t gone yet.

He looked up.

Y/N was flipping through the book he’d given her — the Neruda. She didn’t look at him, not yet. Just found the poem again. The one with the line he’d underlined.

She didn’t smile.

But she reached into her bag and pulled something out: the postcard.

The Rothko. That endless red.

She slid it between the pages of the book and closed it gently.

Then — as if it were nothing, as if it were everything — she looked up and met his gaze and held it.

No smirk or teasing.

Just warmth. Just knowing.

Morgan cracked one eye open across the aisle. “Museum date, huh?”

Spencer looked away. “It wasn’t a date.”

“Sure.” Morgan smirked. “You two just had coincidentally romantic art-induced revelations at the same time.”

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. She looked up from the book in her lap, eyes amused. “What can I say? He knows how to sweep a girl off her feet with pigment chemistry and tragic painter backstories.”

Morgan laughed. “Reid, man, I told you the right girl would be into that.”

Spencer flushed, tugging slightly at his sleeve. “It wasn’t like that.”

Y/N turned to him then, gaze soft, unhurried. She held it — just long enough for something to pass between them like a shared secret.

She gave the smallest smile, just crooked enough to count as trouble.

“I’ve always had a thing for slow burns,” she said — lightly, like it meant nothing.

Spencer’s breath caught.

He didn’t answer. He just smiled — small, hopeful, the kind that stayed tucked in the corners of his mouth long after she’d looked away.

Outside the window, the clouds stretched like watercolor.

And somewhere in the stillness of the cabin, something new had begun.

Spencer’s smile didn’t fade — soft and stunned and just barely.

It didn’t have to be a kiss yet.

Some things bloomed slowly.

[clementineinn]

your writing always feels like it’s just casually reaching into my chest and rearranging things 🙂‍↕️ effortlessly gorgeous, as always (i literally reread every line at least twice) 💛💗

𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐲 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: knock knock knock in the middle of the night — two suitcases (plus a vanity case and a handbag) at the door, and not a request, but an announcement—you're moving in. when your dumb neighbor floods your apartment and the renovation will take at least two weeks, you find a very effective way to make it spencer reid’s problem.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, flatmates yay, lots of domestic scenes with them just watching movies etc, but they also talk about murdering each other once (just once, impressive for them), teasing so hard im not sure a single sentence goes by without it, reference to them getting married in vegas, CAT, reader wearing make up, spencer being a weirdo in one scene, spencer and nightmares...hope y'all not bored with one bed trope

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 6k

𝐚/𝐧: request | this has a chance to be my favorite fic from this WHOLE series PERIOD masterlist

Spencer wasn’t asleep when the sound of the doorbell rang.

The time on the clock showed such a late hour that he could almost, without any blame directed at himself, ignore it. He didn’t do that, though, because of a passing thought that it might be one of his friends. Maybe in trouble, maybe wanting to share some sudden terrible news (said his fatal side), or on the contrary, something truly wonderful (a weak trembling voice of optimism).

He put the book aside, got up from the bed, and after a moment, suspiciously yet inquisitively looked through the peephole. He held his eye to it for four seconds, then pulled his head back.  A disbelieving snort from his mouth.

He was dreaming, and this dream was really starting to approach the border of absurdity. Lately, nightmares had been happening to him more and more often—that is, they had always accompanied him, but sometimes their frequency was rare, and sometimes they celebrated their renaissance in a truly sick and twisted form. He was currently in the era of such a renaissance, and he had plenty of reasons to suspect that the moment he opened that door, the woman standing behind it would grow fangs, turn into a monster-woman, and push him against one of the walls, in which he would grow like mold into a fresh fruit and remain in it forever, screaming for someone to free him, but no words would come out of his mouth, because it would turn out he didn’t have one.

He stepped a pace away from the door, ready to return to his bedroom.

That was a very sober thought for someone in the middle of a dream, right? Usually, one doesn’t have that much awareness in them — in most cases, one has none at all, is a video game character controlled by fears, but experiencing everything vividly.

He opposed the nightmare. Cool. But why, then, was something so strongly pushing him toward that door and making it impossible to walk away? The doorbell rang once more, and then again in short intervals, and Spencer already knew — this wasn’t a dream. With a heavy sigh, he rubbed his face and opened the door—only to come face to face with the woman’s fist, which had been just about to (firmly) knock on it. When his person appeared in the doorway, her hand froze in mid-air, then dropped onto the handle of one of the two suitcases with a leopard print.

And then, unfazed—despite the fact that she had just nearly punched him in the face—she spoke in an overly cheerful voice.

“Oh, you’re not asleep. How wonderful.”

Spencer briefly clenched his eyelids shut. Her facial expression, her tone of voice, and literally the suitcases at her feet made it obvious what this was about. A favor. One he would either agree to right away, feeling small about it, or agree to after several (dozen) minutes of her persuasive game, which he somehow never managed to resist despite being a profiler. Feeling even smaller in the process.

“I’m not asleep because someone is pounding on my door. There’s nothing wonderful about that.”

“Me visiting you at night. What about that isn’t wonderful?”

Spencer looked at her from under raised eyebrows, but she bore it with dignity. Silence had never been the cure for her brazen behavior—he had to approach it differently. He slightly relaxed his posture and nodded toward her suitcases.

“Quite a bit of luggage for a one-night visit,” he observed.

She shrugged.

“Just the essentials. What I managed to grab after my entire apartment got completely flooded by my stupid neighbor and now needs a deep renovation.”

He nodded with exaggerated, fake sympathy. He already knew what she was doing at his place at this hour, which didn’t mean he intended to be all meek about it. Besides, with people like her, sometimes it’s healthy to show them, to remind them, that you’re not at their beck and call.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “What are you planning to do now?”

She gave the handle of her suitcase a casual pat.

“Stay in the home of my generous friend,” she said, giving him a meaningful look. “Who doesn’t mind me disturbing him just a tiny bit for the next…hmm, not sure, let’s say two weeks.”

With those words, she confidently stepped forward, as if he had at least invited her in. As if he had said go ahead, make yourself at home. But Spencer didn’t move an inch, still blocking the entrance with his body, causing her to bump into him and take a half-step back. Frustration flickered across her face, but she swallowed it quickly, looking at him with fake confusion, continuing their little silly game.

“Your friend,” Reid pointed out, now standing about half as close to her as before, which forced him to clear his throat slightly so that his voice would remain steady. “Sounds like a really nice guy.”

The corners of her lips really wanted to lift. Instead, she nodded with full agreement.

“He is a nice guy,” she confirmed, looking straight at his face, directly into his eyes. “Although, if I had to list his flaws, we’d probably be standing here for at least another fifteen minutes—which of course we don’t want. But deep down, he is a nice guy. And besides…”

She paused for a moment, leaning her face a little closer to his.

“He’s my husband. And it’s his civic duty to let me in.”

He didn’t blink under the force of her gaze, surprised she even chose that weapon in their argument. Their marriage which—oh, man—should’ve been annulled ages ago, but at this point they’d both kind of forgotten about it.

Anyway, focused on her lips as they slowly and precisely pronounced the word husband, he completely missed the moment she slipped swiftly under the arm he had resting against the doorframe, leaving all her luggage in the hallway.

The thought crossed his mind to leave it there, just to make a point. But then he remembered he’d never really trusted his neighbors, so with a loud sigh of protest he grabbed her two suitcases, what turned out to be a small trunk behind them, and a handbag resting on top—so tiny he genuinely wondered what could fit in there besides lipstick.

Even the plastic evidence bags from crime scenes were way more spacious.

He carried the bags inside—her silhouette had already vanished somewhere deep into the apartment, which was a little weird considering she’d never (okay, except for that one time ages ago) actually been here before. His brain slowed for a second as he felt the weight of her suitcases in his hands. There was no way she was settling in here for the next two weeks! The fact that they were a pair of idiots who’d gotten married in Vegas didn’t obligate him to anything!  He had to find a way to get rid of her. He’d let her stay the night, sure, but after that…

“Oh, and my baby is here!” Her high, delighted voice rang out, and a moment later he found her in his living room, clutching a black cat tightly to her chest. “Mommy. Missed. You. So. Much.”

With each word, she planted a kiss on Marie’s tiny head.

Spencer generally avoided anthropomorphizing animals or assigning them emotions, but he could not shake the impression that the cat was staring at him in full-blown panic. And yet she stayed in her arms, even curling her tail up in contentment.

He shook his head, realizing he’d been standing still for too long, just staring at the scene. He cleared his throat to get her attention—not that it worked even in the slightest.She was still fully immersed in kissing their cat. Still, he decided to assume she was listening.

“How exactly do you see this playing out?” he asked, more seriously this time. “You’re planning to live on my couch for two weeks?”

She raised her brows at him, like he’d just said something worthy of divine punishment.

“Who said anything about the couch? You have a bed.”

“Just one.”

She sighed, like the whole conversation was exhausting.

“You know, I think savoir vivre has some thoughts about offering your bed to a guest.”

“Maybe it does. But a guest is usually someone you invite. Not someone who invites themselves.”

“I always thought you were a gentleman, Spencer. Don’t ruin that image.”

“Wait, seriously, you thought I—No. No, I’m not falling for that. You can call me whatever you want, I’m not giving up my bed. Listen, I’m tall, you have no idea how much my neck hurts after just one night on that couch…”

“In that case, we can take turns,” she said finally, with open displeasure in her voice. Spencer paused, genuinely surprised at the offer—and even more surprised it came from her. Then his eyes fell on her clothes, clearly the same ones she’d worn all day, and her makeup, still in place, suggesting she’d had a long—very long—day and probably just wanted to crash, no matter the terms. “My eternal need for comfort will be halfway satisfied. Your neck will be equally safe. Thoughts?”

He ran it through his head for a moment. He wasn’t used to compromising with her. Wow, sleep deprivation really did do unimaginable things to a (wo)man. Finally, he nodded—just a little. It actually sounded pretty fair. Besides, the idea of her sleeping on his couch for two weeks didn’t sit right with him.And it had nothing to do with her calling him a gentleman…

“But as for tonight… rock, paper, scissors?”

She shook her head quickly.

 “No. No way. Not with you. You probably know the exact probability of me throwing paper and you’ll use it against me. So—no.” 

Spencer stared at her for a beat, silently urging her to come up with a better tie-breaker. Not that they had straws in the apartment to draw from. Suddenly, the corner of her mouth tugged upward. 

At first, he agreed—hesitantly, but he did. She was already about to set the cat down at the far end of the room when a warning light suddenly went off in his brain.

 “Marie will decide,” she announced, shifting her gaze to the cat in her arms.

“Whichever one of us she walks up to gets the bed tonight.”

“You’re not, by any chance, hiding cat treats in your pockets, don’t you?” he asked, suspicious.

He wasn’t teasing. He was genuinely considering the possibility.

She let out a disbelieving huff.

“I barely even have pockets in this outfit,” she declared.

Spencer didn’t change his expression. To him, that sounded suspiciously like a deflection.

She closed her eyes for a second, visibly holding herself back from yelling at him—then suddenly threw her arms out wide.

“You don’t believe me? Fine. Be my guest. You can search me. FBI style. I’m sure you’ve had plenty of practice with that, don’t you?”

For a moment, he looked into her eyes—challenging, teasing.Then his gaze slid over her clothes, tightly clinging to her body, and the body itself—every curve highlighted by the fabric. Admittedly, there weren’t many places to hide anything in that outfit.

They managed to convince Marie to stay in one place while they both crouched on opposite sides of the room, each calling the cat to themselves. Her black paws went tap tap tap (a moment of hesitation) then tap tap tap ended in her arms. Spencer sighed, but he didn’t really have a reason to be annoyed, since he had agreed to the terms himself. The couch wasn’t that bad anyway, not as bad as he always claimed.

“Let’s not be ridiculous,” he suggested, finding it unexpectedly difficult to swallow.

He caught the mocking glint in her eyes and ignored it—just like he ignored the brief flicker of embarrassment that washed over him. “It’s late. Just…put Marie down and let’s see what happens.”

“That’s only because you haven’t seen each other in a while and she missed you,” he justified it.

What hurt him the most was the betrayal from his own child.

How could he have raised a Brutus?

“Mhm,” she nodded dismissively and adjusted the cat in her arms the way you’d shift a child on your hip, and a genuine smile, not part of any game, appeared on her lips. “Or maybe she just loves her mama more.”

🐾

That night when she decided to show up at his apartment and disturb him just a tiny bit for the next… hmm, not sure, let’s say two weeks, Spencer had assumed her moving in would be a lot more invasive. But somehow, they quickly fell into a rhythm that allowed them to mostly stay out of each other’s way.

The biggest differences were the chaos that overtook the bathroom (but more on that later), and the fact that every other night, he was forced to sleep on the couch. In that regard, when he agreed to her arrangement, he completely overlooked one surprisingly obvious thing. After just one night of her sleeping in his bed, it completely absorbed her scent.

He should’ve predicted it—it was pleasant, a blend of body lotion and other cosmetics, with a trace of her tying it all together. Because of his germophobia, he had always been a little more sensitive to smells than most, but this wasn’t germophobic Spencer talking, repulsed by her scent and finding it disruptive to the point of sleeplessness.

This was a different kind of Spencer. One who felt under some strange spell every time he laid his head on the pillow, his thoughts drifting in a direction he had no intention of exploring.

He couldn’t change the sheets every single night—she would notice, and he wouldn’t be able to explain himself. Not without completely combusting from embarrassment, assuming he even told her the truth.

So on the second night of her stay, when he was supposed to sleep in the bed marked by her presence and it all became too overwhelming…he accidentally spilled coffee on it, just to have an excuse to change the bedding.

He never drank coffee in bed. But they had never lived together before—she didn’t know his habits—so it went unnoticed. Still, just to make it more believable, he actually started drinking coffee in bed, even though he hated it.

But of course, he couldn’t keep doing that every time.

So eventually, he just forced himself to get used to it as quickly as possible.

It was a bit like the first time he let the cat sleep in his bed—foreign and strange at first, but over time, he even started to appreciate it. Especially when it began to ease his nightmares.

🐾

That night, it was his turn on the couch again, but he decided to delay falling asleep. Seriously delay it, dedicating the entire time to binge-watching several episodes of Doctor Who.

She was a bit of a night owl—it wasn’t unusual for her to come home very late—but that evening, she was around and constantly moving about the apartment.

He didn’t mind the sound of her footsteps (in fact, he found it rather endearing, especially when it was followed by a tap tap tap… the sound of tiny paws). He’d already gotten used to not living alone anymore, and besides, he was far too absorbed in the show.

He was pulled out of his absorption by a scoff from behind him. He turned around to see his flatmate, dressed in a satin pajama set with short shorts and a short-sleeved top. Her hair was freshly washed, and she was leaning on his kitchen island with her elbows, eyes fixed on the TV with a not-very-convinced expression.

“What is this supposed to be?” she asked.

“Doctor Who,” he replied shortly, not intending to get into a discussion about his favorite show—which was his favorite for reasons that were not up for debate.

“Easy there, Reid. I was just asking.”

“I can now subconsciously sense when one of your snide remarks is approaching. Thank yourself for moving in.”

“Snide remark right away? Maybe I just wanted to share my constructive criticism.”

“In your dictionary snide remark and constructive criticism are synonyms.”

“That all depends on your sensitivity level. For example, to me, saying this show is lame isn’t mean at all. It’s just how I feel.”

He rolled his eyes. She thought Doctor Who was lame, yet she kept cutting through the living room surprisingly often—just as often as she glanced toward the screen. And she was even engaged enough to form an opinion. Interesting.

He shook his head mockingly. “Good thing no one’s forcing you to watch. You have free will and can just…” he made a little walking-man gesture with his fingers.

She made a face that landed somewhere between a cynical smile and a grimace nonverbal way to say very funny. Then she pointed at the box of tea sitting right beneath her hand, which she must have forgotten about, so not at all focused on his lame show.

“There’s no other place I can make tea. So, in a way, I am being forced to watch and I can’t just…” She mimicked his earlier gesture to cap off her far-fetched explanation.

Spencer let out a dismissive laugh and turned back to watching. But it was hard to focus—there were constant noises coming from behind him: a mug being taken out, water being boiled. He caught himself glancing back discreetly more than once. Only to catch her staring at the TV screen.

Their eyes would usually meet then, and instead of looking away bashfully, she would just nod, as if doubling down on her opinion.

Uhm, lame.

Her large mug of green tea was ready, and he wondered what she would do next. Whether she would just head to her room or...

“I bought ice cream,” she announced, pulling a liter-sized tub from the freezer. She grabbed two spoons and walked over to the couch, handing him one over the backrest.

“No, I’ll pass,” he said. 

She shoved the spoon into his hand and took a seat beside him on the couch, close enough that their shoulders brushed with each unsynced breath, and sharing one tub of ice cream became easier.

“You said you wouldn’t watch my show,” he noted, turning the spoon in his hands.

The surface of the ice cream was so frozen she had to stab it with force to get the spoon in.

“I’m not watching,” she said with a shrug. “I’m just enjoying my tea. And sharing ice cream with you, like a good flatmate should. Give me some blanket, I’m freezing ‘cause of that ice creams” 

She lifted the tub slightly, giving him room to throw the blanket over her bare legs and smooth it down around her waist to keep the warmth in.

“Are you gaslighting me into thinking you’re not watching Doctor Who when you clearly haven’t taken your eyes off the screen since the episode started?” he asked, glancing up at her.

She didn’t answer—too focused on the screen, spoon resting against her bottom lip in total concentration. She might not have even heard him.

Spencer shook his head in disbelief. “You’re unbelievable.”

He watched her for a moment longer, trying to figure out whether the faint trace of a smile was truly forming on her lips or if he was just imagining it.

Two episodes of Doctor Who later, the ice cream tub was empty, so was her mug of tea, and her shoulder wasn’t just brushing against his anymore—it had fully settled there. His teasing about her hidden nerdy side and her totally-not-real fondness for the show had been met with the kind of patient silence only she could pull off, but that didn’t stop him from indulging in it with growing—by now no longer internal—satisfaction. Another episode ended and Spencer held off on starting the next one, the living room fell into a brief silence, broken only by his roommate’s yawn.

Sleepiness didn’t keep her from throwing him an expectant look toward the remote in his hand.

He raised an eyebrow.

“You’re out of tea and ice cream. What’s your excuse this time?”

Right on cue, their black cat jumped up onto her lap, curling into a nest. He gave the creature a look of betrayal. The woman let out a theatrical sigh and sank deeper into both the couch and his arm, sliding just slightly against them both. “I’m not heartless. I’m not going to make her move.”

"I’d argue with that," he muttered, referring to the first part of her statement. He reached for his traitorous cat, scratching behind her ear, only to find something else besides soft black fur—her fingers, brushing against his. His hand froze for a moment before he pulled it back, deciding that two people petting the cat at once might be a bit much. “All this just to avoid admitting that Doctor Who is actually a captivating show.”

“Oh my sweet baby loves when mama rubs her belly?” preoccupied with showering the cat with affection, she completely ignored his words.

“Pretending you don’t hear me, huh?”

In the meantime, the next episode had already begun, and her eyelids looked heavy, lazily half-closed.

“But I think it’s time to clip those claws, look at yourself Marie, when was your last little mani-pedi?”

"A bit hypocritical, don’t you think?" he remarked, nodding toward her own long nails. He realized he wasn’t paying any attention to the episode that had just started and was barely aware a few minutes had already passed. What he was very aware of was how late it had gotten—and how much heavier her temple was pressing against his shoulder.

"Well, I’ve never accidentally scratched anyone, unlike this little missy. On purpose, once or twice, I’ll admit. Be a dear and lean further into the corner of the couch, I’m figuring out how to get comfy here..."

Spencer let out a quiet sigh.

"I don’t get it. You fought so hard for my bed, and now that it’s your turn, you’d rather fall asleep on me?"

Her gaze slowly settled on him, and there was something searching in it. And that’s when it hit Spencer—their closeness, the position they had somehow ended up in, and the surprising comfort that came with it, one neither of them had questioned for even a second. He swallowed nervously, and she nodded thoughtfully.

 “You know what, you’re right,” she said slowly. “It would be a shame to waste my turn in the bed. Enjoy the episode.”

She kept her eyes on his face for a moment longer before setting the blanket aside, her bare feet carrying her toward his bedroom. Soft paw steps followed behind her, leaving him alone on the couch.

Spencer watched her go before fixing his gaze on his lame show. This was what he wanted, technically—catching up on a few episodes in peace. And yet, deep down, he really regretted not just keeping his mouth shut and letting her fall asleep.

🐾

A small excerpt from the bathroom chronicles.

It was the one room where Spencer always managed to maintain the greatest order, a near-sterile state. Mostly because he didn’t store books or documents there, and toilet paper and a toothbrush didn’t change their place on their own. Since she had moved in, the cosmetics cabinet looked more confusing than an overfilled bookshelf. Every morning he wondered how those shelves managed to withstand their weight. Once, he made a calculation in his head, added up the estimated weight of each of those cosmetics, assumed a certain shelf durability. He concluded that if he ever made a mistake and put the soap there instead of on the sink, everything would collapse.

A small assumption he had also made at the very beginning of their living together was that the woman would get up earlier than him. After all, she had to get the time to use all those cosmetics from somewhere, right? It turned out to be the opposite. They got out of bed at roughly the same time, and it always came down to an exciting race to the bathroom door, which she often won by resorting to tactics like grabbing the fabric of his shirt.

That morning, both of them had a solid chance of being late, so in response to one of his increasingly impatient knocks, she simply opened the bathroom door, letting him in while she finished doing her makeup.

The focus on her face as she traced the shape of her lips with a lip liner seemed sacred. While brushing his teeth, Spencer watched the process from the corner of his eye, considering two things in his mind. Why they hadn’t previously thought of simply sharing the bathroom instead of fighting over it, and why she even did that, since the shape of her lips was already so pretty. Then a silly comparison came to his mind — that as an occasional consumer who valued factory settings, he should only appreciate any enhancements.

Her fingers slowly lifted the lipstick and gently pressed its active side to her lower lip, spreading it. Oh, and now he probably understood the purpose of the lip liner — the two cosmetics created a very fitting combination on her bottom lip. Her eyes, focused on her reflection and her face, completely unexpectedly caught his, in the mirror.

Caught in such an inelegant act of staring, Spencer wanted to return to brushing his teeth, but he was doing that already, so he tried to do it more — which only resulted in his long arm with its long elbow knocking against the shelf and sending two creams tumbling down.

She smudged the lipstick outside the edge of her lips and turned toward him, ready to scream. Spencer was prepared to take a defensive stance and shift the blame onto—well, he didn’t know what yet—but it turned out the containers had landed on the floor intact. He quickly bent down to pick them up and set them back on the shelf, straightening up and raising a calming (yet simultaneously nervous) hand in her direction.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it, it’s fine…”

“You’re lucky. You and your big clumsy paws are very lucky.”

“There’s no need to overreact, seriously.”

“Oh, I’m overreacting?” she raised her eyebrows at him, hands on her hips, and her serious expression looked absurd with that red lipstick going well beyond the edge of her lips. He tried to point it out to her somehow, but she silenced him with a look, so he gave up. “Should I remind you how you reacted when I almost broke your mug?” she asked.

He shook his head side to side, smoothly deflecting the argument.

“It had sentimental value. Did your cream?”

She just looked at him in silence, for a long moment.

“It cost $300.”

Spencer blinked. Okay, a totally justified crash out. He really should control his clumsiness better… he leapt back suddenly when both her hands moved toward his neck.

“What are you doing?” he almost squeaked.

She widened her eyes at him like he was a complete lunatic, even shook her head in disbelief.

“I was going to tie your tie, you idiot,” she snorted. He looked down, stunned. Sure enough, his tie was hanging loosely around his neck.“You thought what? That I was going to strangle you right away?”

“Well…yes?”

She shook her head again. In fact, she hadn’t really stopped.

 “And I’m the one who overreacts,” she muttered to herself. Louder, she added, “This job is seriously messing with your head, you realize that, right?”

Still pulling himself together, he shrugged. It wasn’t exactly a new opinion. Before he could get any kind of response out, her hands — this time slower, more controlled — reached for the two ends of his tie hanging loosely on either side of his neck.

That required a step in his direction; her elbows brushed his chest once or twice in the process, and on her face, in her lowered gaze, Spencer saw the same concentration she’d had while putting on her lipstick.

”We literally spent two weeks on a case where a wife strangled her husband,” he offered. He just needed to say something — anything — to break the silence that had fallen over the bathroom and cover the intrusive sound of him swallowing a bit too loudly.

Her gaze lifted to meet his, eyebrows raised.

“I’d be tying my husband’s tie if I planned to kill him?” she asked. Her fingers were just now folding one end of the tie over the other; looking up at him made the knot uneven. Spencer noticed, but said nothing.

Instead, he gave a small shrug.

 “Lulling him into a false sense of security?”

“First the tie, then cyanide in the coffee?”

“Exactly. Though, for future reference, maybe don’t say your plans out loud. Especially not around an FBI agent.”

“And the husband in question, while you’re at it. You can’t leave that part second.”

Spencer couldn’t stop the reply that slipped from his mouth.

 “I’m starting to suspect you really enjoy bringing that up.”

“I do. ’Cause it’s funny,” she said, giving his tie a pat with something that looked suspiciously like pride. “Done.”

He’d almost forgotten she was tying it at all. She stepped back, watching his reaction as he finally looked down at the tie. He frowned. Moving past her to stand closer to the mirror, he checked his reflection, just in case his eyes were playing tricks on him.

Only then did he let out a short laugh.

 “This is the worst tied tie I’ve ever seen.”

She crossed her arms with an offended scoff. “What exactly is wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it?” He turned to her, pointing at the crooked knot like it was offensive. “Just look at it.”

Spencer just huffed at her stubbornness and started undoing it. He hadn’t said it to be cruel—the knot really was terrible. She watched him retie it properly, something close to wounded pride flickering in her eyes.

She shook her head, completely unbothered.

“It’s a decently tied tie.”

“You should let me try again, then,” she said.

“I’d like to remind you we’re almost late.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

His fingers were still on the tie, about to let it fall loosely back against his shirt when her words made them pause. He glanced at her expression—no teasing this time. The first few sounds he made barely qualified as speech; he had to clear his throat to make the words come out properly.

“Tomorrow, then.”

🐾

He opened the door slowly, careful not to make too much noise. Not just because it was the middle of the night—or really, the early hours of the morning by now—but also to spare his aching, exhausted head from any sound that might make it throb harder. The apartment, of course, was silent and dark. Spencer turned on only as many lights as necessary to find his way to the bed.

First, though, he headed to the bathroom. He didn’t have the energy for a full shower—he’d take one after at least a short nap—but he had to wash his hands. He needed to rinse the entire day off them. The last few days, really. The whole case they’d finally managed to close. He had to make sure that none of it lingered on his skin or fingers when he touched his blankets, when he reached into the cupboard for his favorite mug to make coffee, or when he scratched the cat behind the ear.

Only after that small ritual drag his body to the bedroom. On autopilot, he approached the bed and was even ready to lie down when he suddenly froze in place.

There was already someone in his bed. And it wasn’t just his cat, who was normally curled up on the pillow like a single mom who works two jobs.

Spencer was so sleepy that he forgot he had a flatmate for almost two weeks now. A flatmate who first turned restlessly in her sleep, then her eyes lit up in the darkness, awakened. It didn’t have to be bright for him to notice that she flinched.

“God, you scared me,” she said. Her voice still sleepy, hoarse. There was a chance that if he had left without a word, she would’ve fallen asleep again and wouldn’t remember the interaction in the morning, or that she had even been woken up. “I didn’t expect you guys to be back so soon,” she added.

Spencer nodded slightly, barely able to make any use of his mouth and form a sentence. He wiped his face with his hand, trying to shake himself out of that state.

“Me neither,” he mumbled.

Silence between them. He realized he’d have to go to the couch. That wasn’t a problem for him, all he cared about was sleep.

“I-I’ll move Marie, okay? I just want to take the pillow and go to the couch.”

She shook her head.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.

Confused, he didn’t understand what she meant, and silently watched as she moved the cat to her side of the bed and pulled the blanket back on the other side.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch tonight,” her voice, though quiet and gentle, had a lot of command in it.

“I’m not?” he repeated uncertainly.

Only then did it register, and he scratched his nose, shaking his head.

“No, seriously. Just give me the pillow—”

“Just lie down.”

He was probably too tired to insist, so he just sighed softly and rolled onto the mattress. He didn’t even manage to grab the edge of the blanket to cover himself when her hand did it for him, pushing it up almost to his nose.

A quiet snort escaped Spencer, and he adjusted the fabric so it ended just below his ribs.

There was a soft sound of impact — he recognized it instantly as the thump of cat paws hitting the floor as she jumped off the bed.

“She’s probably mad I took her spot,” he muttered.

“Mhm, likely. But her sulks don’t last long. You’ll wake up with her tail on your face,” she said, and Spencer liked how her voice adapted to the surroundings and the quiet. Even though she was lying right next to him, on her side, he didn’t feel like she was speaking directly into his ear. She fell silent for a moment, but didn’t fall asleep. “What kind of case was it?”

In the way he immediately shook his head, there was a surprising amount of force.

“Not something you’d want to hear about right now,” he assured her. “At night. In bed. Before sleep. Trust me on this one.”

She exhaled through her nose.

“Maybe you’re right,” she murmured in agreement. “Goodnight then.”

He replied, but without even a hint of conviction in the words. Suddenly, slides of all the nightmares that had been keeping him company the past few nights flashed through his mind. He closed his eyes, trying to push them away, but it only made them more vivid. Suddenly, it felt like something was pressing down on his chest, making it harder to take the next breath.

“Goodnight,” he repeated, though it felt a little strange.

Just to say something. The words left his mouth, so did the air, at least partially imitating a regular, healthy breath. It didn’t help lift the weight off his chest, but at least he didn’t look like his whole body was slowly being flattened.

He squeezed his eyelids shut too tightly, then tried to relax them, ready to fall asleep with that unpleasant feeling. I mean, it wasn’t like he hadn’t done that before.

Only then did he feel a certain weight actually settle on his chest. Not imagined, not vague, and not ominous.It was real, in the shape of a hand, resting on him softly— connecting him to the person lying next to him, and making him aware of her presence, and of her calm—unlike his—breathing.

Both the sound and the feeling were grounding in their own way, making him relax his tightly shut eyelids.

He woke up with a cat’s tail on his face and the slow realization dawning on him that he hadn’t had a nightmare that night.

[clementineinn]

Oh this is just-

[clementineinn]

call me on the line

abstract: when the BAU investigates a string of disappearances in the forgotten logging town of Stillwater, Washington, two agents are sent to question a possible lead — deep in the woods, where a storm is rising, and the line between hunter and hunted begins to blur.

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

genre: angst / fluff

word count: deadass, you don't want to know. but it's long.

note: did i make this longer than it had to be? 1,000 percent yes. but finals are lowk kicking my ass so i let myself just go off on this. writing angst is kind of hard for me bc i love fluff, so if it's cringe SORRY LOL. also, it's not really proofread so, ignore any misspelled words. enjoy :)

The case had the air of something unfinished. Not cold, exactly—but quiet. Unsettling.

Stillwater, Washington wasn’t a town you stumbled into—it was a place you had to mean to find. Tucked between jagged peaks and black-needled evergreens, the logging town had once thrived on sawdust and sweat, its heartbeat synced to the drone of machinery and the scent of fresh-cut pine. But that was decades ago. Now the mills were silent, the tracks rusted over. Paint peeled in long, curling strips from shuttered storefronts, and hand-painted For Sale signs clung stubbornly to rotting fences.

It had the kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful.

It felt like watching eyes. Like a breath held just behind the trees.

Four disappearances in under eight weeks hadn’t made it past the usual bureaucratic filters—until one of them had a last name that opened doors. The niece of the mayor had vanished without a trace, and the calls went higher. Stillwater finally showed up on someone’s desk. That’s when the Bureau had been called in.

Now, the BAU team was crowded into the back room of the sheriff’s office, where the walls were stained an old tobacco yellow and a ceiling fan turned in slow, listless circles overhead. The air smelled of mildew, old paper, and coffee gone to burn.

A radio crackled somewhere in the front office, too far away to catch words. The rain had picked up again—sharp now, rhythmic, like fingernails tapping against the tin roof. It filled the silences between breaths, between theories.

A map of Stillwater was pinned to the far wall, dotted with pushpins and red-thread lines. Property boundaries faded at the edges, roads narrowing into nothing. The forest swallowed everything beyond a certain point.

And that’s where they were headed.

Soon.

Hotch stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn’t like unknowns. Didn’t like how much of the town seemed to exist in whispers and folklore.

Reid’s fingers moved restlessly against the file in his lap, flipping pages he’d already memorized. Morgan leaned against a cabinet, the tension in his shoulders more visible than he thought. Emily paced, silent, her boots creaking on warped linoleum.

And Y/N sat still—too still—in the corner, her gaze fixed on the map, brows furrowed just slightly. As if she’d already seen something there the rest hadn’t.

“We’re working on the assumption that the unsub is someone local,” Hotch said, voice low but unwavering, the kind of tone that cut clean through the hum of bad coffee machines and rain-heavy silence. His hand swept across the makeshift evidence board—grainy photos, hand-drawn maps, weather-stained documents clipped under yellowing light. “None of the victims traveled far from home. No forced entry, no signs of struggle. Whoever this is… they’re moving through the cracks. Operating in the blind spots.”

The storm outside clawed at the edges of the sheriff’s office, wind rattling the single-pane windows. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead.

Garcia’s voice crackled over the speakerphone, the brightness of her tone oddly eerie against the static interference from the rain: “I did some digging on anyone who might’ve had a reason to watch those woods closely, and a name came up—Walter Massey. Sixty-eight, retired forest ranger, lives alone near Deadman’s Ridge. He filed multiple complaints with Fish and Wildlife about unregistered hunting trails about three weeks before the first disappearance. That’s a breadcrumb if I’ve ever seen one.”

JJ flipped open a manila folder, brows furrowed. “Massey was also the last confirmed person to speak with one of the missing women. No phone record, but she was seen heading in his direction on a convenience store camera the day she vanished.”

“He has a cabin out past the old ridge road,” she added. “Next nearest neighbor is two miles downhill. Closest cell reception’s even farther.”

Emily leaned forward, arms crossed. “Could be nothing. He could’ve just seen something—or someone—he didn’t know how to explain. Or he might be too scared to come forward.”

“Or he’s a link to someone who is,” Rossi muttered, eyes never leaving the board.

Hotch gave a tight nod, arms crossed as his gaze swept the photos pinned to the board, then flicked toward the map spread across the center table. The rain outside hammered the windows in steady rhythm, underscoring every word.

“Either way, we talk to him,” he said. “Quietly. No flashing badges. No tactical presence. If Massey’s involved, we don’t want him running. If he’s just a frightened old man…” His jaw tightened. “We don’t want him shutting down.”

He turned, addressing the team with that low, clipped authority that didn’t invite questions — just motion.

“Emily, JJ — keep working the geographical profile. Focus on any repeat paths near Deadman’s Ridge. If he’s stalking the victims beforehand, he’s walking terrain he knows.”

He looked next to Morgan. “Coordinate with the sheriff. I want a list of locals with military backgrounds and hunting violations within the last ten years. Start with rangers. Forestry. Anyone who knows the woods well enough to vanish inside them.”

Then Hotch turned back to the table. To Spencer—then Y/N beside him.

“You two take the Massey interview.”

Spencer straightened slightly, nodding once. Y/N didn’t move, but her posture shifted — alert, coiled like she was already halfway in the field. The weight of the assignment passed between them like a silent current.

Hotch’s gaze lingered a beat longer. “No pressure. Just a conversation. If anything feels off, you pull back. Clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Y/N said, steady.

The room moved around them again — chairs scraping, files opening, murmured replies. But Spencer only glanced sideways, eyes catching hers just briefly.

No pressure.

Just a cabin in the woods.

Spencer dipped his head in a silent nod, already flipping the page in his notebook, though his hand paused briefly on the paper in front of him—just for a second, a flicker of tension behind his eyes.

Not fear. Just the quiet knowledge that something about this wasn’t sitting right.

But Y/N didn’t say anything. Just squared her shoulders, voice level. “We’ll head out now.”

Spencer glanced at her as they rose—catching that flicker again. Just long enough to feel it echo.

Morgan leaned forward in his chair, the legs creaking faintly beneath him. His arms were folded tight across his chest, the sleeves of his jacket pushed up just enough to show the tension in his forearms. Rain hammered the roof above them in steady pulses, the storm pressing harder against the windows with every gust.

“That cabin’s deep,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “Trees out there are old. Thick. Signal won’t last long once you hit the ridgeline.”

He wasn’t scaremongering, just stating facts. The kind of facts that only came from years of walking into places no one came back from easily.

“We’ll stay in range,” Spencer said, nodding as he adjusted the settings on the handheld GPS unit. The small screen flickered in the dim light.

But Morgan didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted, settling on Y/N.

He dropped his voice.

“Just… be careful out there,” he said.

There wasn’t a joke in it. No usual smirk. Just a quiet weight, something steady and weather-worn, like he’d seen too many people walk into places like this thinking they were fine—until they weren’t.

His gaze held hers.

“This feels like the kind of case that turns on you when you stop looking.”

For a moment, the room fell quiet but for the scratch of JJ’s pen and the whisper of the storm.

Y/N tried for a smile, soft and crooked. One corner of her mouth lifted just enough to pass for ease.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

Morgan stepped closer, his boots quiet on the worn linoleum. He stopped just beside her, voice dropping low—meant only for her and Spencer.

“I know you like to play calm,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to prove anything. Not to us. Just come back in one piece.”

Y/N blinked—slow, measured. For a second, her eyes flicked away.

And then, true to form, she bumped his elbow gently with hers.

“You’re getting soft on me, Morgan.”

He snorted under his breath. “You wish.”

They shared a look—mocking on the surface, playful even—but there was something else beneath it. Something older than the case, older than the moment. Trust carved out of too many nights watching each other’s backs in godforsaken places.

Morgan stepped back. Spencer shifted beside her, glancing down at the map again.

Hotch handed over the file without ceremony, the folder already creased at the edges from too many hands. His expression didn’t shift—still carved in quiet stone—but there was something in the way his eyes held theirs, a flicker of weight that went unsaid.

“According to county records,” he said, his voice low and even over the soft rumble of rain, “Massey’s property has one road in.”

Y/N took the folder, her fingers brushing briefly against Spencer’s as he leaned in to glance at the top page. The map was crude. Hand-drawn annotations. The kind that didn’t inspire confidence.

Hotch continued. “Narrow. Gravel. Unmaintained.”

He looked to them both.

“Use the Jeep.”

There was no room for argument in his tone—only the practiced cadence of someone who’d seen too many search parties stall because the wrong car bottomed out before the trailhead.

The overhead lights flickered once as the storm deepened, shadows slanting across the faded floorboards. Y/N gave a single nod, sharp and controlled, and tucked the file under her arm. Spencer followed, the weight of the assignment already settling between them like mist.

One road in. No promises about getting back out.

Y/N zipped her coat — a tailored dove-gray trench that framed her silhouette like it had been made for her. The collar stood slightly askew, catching the light with the faintest sheen of rain-soft wool. Beneath it, a blouse in the softest shade of lilac peeked through — silk, high-necked, and delicately ruched at the shoulders. It tucked seamlessly into crisp white slacks, expertly pressed, the hem brushing just above pale suede boots that clicked softly on the concrete floor.

She looked like she belonged in a courtroom or a gallery opening — not a muddy precinct hallway. But somehow, she always managed both. A study in contrast. Formidable. Graceful.

Spencer watched as she lifted her arms and swept her hair back — slow, efficient, thoughtless in its elegance. Her fingers worked easily, pulling the strands into a low knot at the base of her skull. Her hair, even when gathered, fell in wispy waves around the edges. Loose strands curled around her ears, temple, neck — impossibly soft, like the inside of a flower petal.

One wisp curled across her cheek, fine as a brushstroke, and rested just at the edge of her lips.

He couldn’t help it — he stared.

Not inappropriately. Just quietly. Like his eyes couldn’t quite let go.

He desperately wanted to reach out and tuck that loose strand behind her ear — the one that danced every time she turned her head, feather-light against the curve of her cheek. It would’ve taken barely a movement. Just two fingers. A breath of courage.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he swallowed the impulse, let the ache lodge quietly beneath his ribs, and cleared his throat like it might shake something loose.

His eyes dropped back to the map in his hands — too fast, too pointed — as if they hadn’t just been tracing the delicate fall of her hair, the light pooling in it like water catching sun.

As if he hadn’t almost reached for her at all.

Then, against his better judgment — against the quiet thrum of logic that always tried to keep him grounded — he looked up again.

Just for a second.

But it was enough.

The curve of her jaw, the way her lashes kissed the top of her cheekbone when she glanced down, the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her shoulders as she settled her coat more squarely around them — he took it all in like a man starved for something he couldn’t name.

There was a steadiness to her, a kind of elegant gravity that drew his gaze whether he meant to or not. She didn’t just walk into a room — she inhabited it, quiet but certain, the way a candle settles into flame.

And for a breath — a single, weightless breath — he let himself look.

Y/N caught the movement, just barely.

Her eyes flicked toward him — not sharp, not teasing, but knowing. A soft glance, almost accidental, that met his and held it just long enough to say I saw that.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she turned her head, adjusting her holster with practiced precision, her expression smoothing into something steady and composed.

The moment passed. Filed away between them.

Then it was gone — smoothed over with the practiced ease of someone who knew when to draw the line between charm and duty.

Her voice cut cleanly through the low hum of the room—measured, even, with just enough lift to draw attention without sounding urgent.

“Anything else we should know?”

Y/N didn’t look directly at anyone in particular, though her question angled toward Hotch. Her posture remained composed, the press of her palm against the grip of her holster casual but intentional—like muscle memory. Her other hand smoothed a slight crease in her light wool coat, the pale fabric catching dull gold light beneath the ceiling fan’s slow, uneven spin.

Garcia’s voice crackled over the line, bright and tinny through the static. “Only that Massey hasn’t answered his landline in over a week — but that’s not exactly uncommon. He’s more tree than man at this point.”

There was a short pause. A raindrop struck the window with a hollow tap.

Y/N’s brow arched, mouth quirking—not a full smile, but enough to show she was still listening, still present.

“Excellent,” she murmured, deadpan.

The room shifted faintly around her—Morgan exhaling through his nose, Emily’s mouth twitching in restraint. Spencer glanced at her, caught between fondness and concern, but she was already sliding the safety of her sidearm back into place. Calm. Professional. Sardonic, even when the air was thick with something heavier.

The storm outside groaned louder. But Y/N just reached for her coat collar and adjusted it with a practiced flick, already moving.

Spencer tucked the folder under his arm and followed her out into the drizzle. The air was sharp with the smell of pine needles and wet earth. Cold enough to sting, not enough to snow.

Y/N moved ahead of him without a word, boots scuffing lightly against the wet pavement, keys already in hand. Her coat caught the wind as she moved, the hem lifting just slightly before falling back in place. Her hair, still pinned into a smooth low knot, gleamed faintly under the lot’s overhead lights, rain-softened tendrils escaping to cling along her cheek and temple.

The Jeep door gave a low creak as she swung into the driver’s seat, motion fluid, practiced. She adjusted the mirrors like she’d done it a hundred times before, fingers moving with quiet assurance, sleeves pushed up just far enough to reveal a thin silver bracelet at her wrist — the only bit of ornamentation she ever wore in the field.

Spencer slid into the passenger seat, his coat damp where it clung to his shoulders. The door closed behind him with a muted thud. Inside, the air felt still. Sheltered. The faint scent of lavender and leather and coffee grounds clung to the cab like memory.

He glanced sideways.

Y/N was buckling her seatbelt one-handed, the other brushing droplets of rain from the cuff of her sleeve. Her jaw was set, lashes still wet, the curve of her mouth unreadable as she turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, a low, steady purr beneath them.

Outside, the trees swayed against a sky that hadn’t quite let go of the storm.

Spencer’s voice came quiet. Careful. “Think he’ll talk?”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. Her hand turned the key, and the engine stirred to life beneath them — a low, steady rumble that filled the hush like a second heartbeat. Her gaze lingered on the road ahead, eyes narrowing slightly as the rain skated across the windshield in whispering arcs.

And then — something softer.

She glanced over at him.

Spencer sat with one hand loosely curled in his lap, the other resting near the passenger-side door. His coat — charcoal gray, collar turned up just slightly from the weather — was still damp around the shoulders, drops clinging like glass beads to the fabric. A soft blue oxford peeked from beneath, the edge of his tie tucked neatly down, a shade somewhere between plum and midnight.

His hair was drying in unruly curls, the kind that always sprang free no matter how many times he tried to flatten them with nervous fingers. One lock in particular hung just above his brow — curled and dark and boyish in a way that made her heart catch for reasons she didn’t often name.

But it was his face she lingered on.

The angle of his jaw — elegant, sloped like a sculpture just slightly unfinished. High cheekbones flushed faintly from the cold. His skin, pale but not sickly, with the kind of delicate texture that caught every shadow and turned it poetic.

And his throat — she didn’t know why that part always struck her — but the long, clean column of it moved as he swallowed, Adam’s apple shifting subtly under skin. A tension there. A thought not yet spoken.

Then his eyes — always his eyes.

That soft, impossible shade: somewhere between warm hazel and the color of honey in shadow. Eyes that could go wide with childlike wonder one second, and dark with knowledge the next. Now, they watched her carefully, the way he always did — not intrusive, not pressing. Just waiting. Open.

Still, she didn’t answer.

Just studied him in the silence, her fingers unconsciously tightening around the steering wheel like they were holding something else in place.

And then — she smiled. Just a little. Just to herself.

“If he’s who we think he is? Yeah,” Y/N said, her voice steady — not clipped this time, but level. Assured, because Spencer had asked.

She didn’t take her eyes off the road — it was narrowing now, damp earth darkened by the rain, pines arching overhead like ribs. But she glanced his way just enough to let him know she was listening. That she always did.

Then her hands tightened slightly on the wheel — not fear, but anticipation. Her shoulders didn’t tense, but something in her posture shifted. Focused. Alert.

“But if something’s off out there,” she added, “we’ll feel it before it hits.”

She paused, only long enough to exhale — a breath that filled the space where silence might’ve gone. Then she continued, voice lower now, but still laced with that dry, familiar wit he’d come to memorize.

“And we’ll deal with it. Like we always do.”

Spencer glanced sideways at her. The road curved ahead, shadows crowding the edge of the tree line, but her expression hadn’t changed. Calm. Sharp. The kind of calm you could lean on if the world cracked in half.

He didn’t respond right away — didn’t need to. She’d already answered the part of him that hadn’t made it into words.

Then she added, almost too casually, “And if I get shot, I’m haunting this Jeep. You’re never playing jazz in here again.”

Spencer glanced over at her, brow raised. “I don’t play jazz.”

“Exactly,” she said, with a little smirk. “It’d be a tragedy. Think of the acoustics.”

He let the corner of his mouth twitch, but the worry didn’t leave his eyes. “Don’t say that,” he said softly. “I worry about you.”

Her smile flickered, just for a heartbeat.

Then, without looking, she reached over and gave his knee a gentle squeeze — not quick, not rushed, just soft and familiar, like it was second nature. “You’re cute when you’re concerned. All furrowed brows and fidgety hands.”

Spencer blinked.

Twice.

And then sat up just a little straighter in his seat, hands fidgeting with the folder in his lap as though the paper had suddenly become very complicated.

“I—uh,” he started, clearing his throat like it might help him form a coherent sentence. “I don’t… do that. Exactly.”

But his ears told a different story — the pink rising fast beneath the ends of his hair, climbing like a confession he couldn’t quite swallow.

Y/N didn’t look over, but the corner of her mouth curved just slightly knowingly.

Outside, the trees loomed closer—still and watchful.

Inside the Jeep, the air was warmer. Charged. Quiet.

Not safe, but close.

The tires crunched over gravel as they pulled away from the sheriff’s station, the sound sharp and hollow beneath the growing hush of the woods. The world beyond the windshield blurred in shades of green and gray—fir branches heavy with rain, trunks slick with moss and time. Water clung to the windows in thin, trembling streaks, catching light like veins of glass.

Y/N kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other shifting gears with a smooth, practiced touch. Her eyes were fixed ahead—alert, but calm. The low clouds muted the light across her features, softening the curve of her jaw, casting pale shadows beneath her cheekbones. Again, a single strand of hair had slipped loose from behind her ear, curling along her temple, but still, she didn’t seem to notice.

Spencer watched her in that quiet way he always did, half out of habit, half out of awe. The shape of her profile had become familiar in the way only long hours and quiet car rides could make it — the slope of her nose, the way her mouth twitched slightly when she was thinking, the calm stillness she wore like armor.

She looked relaxed. Or—she had, until the forest deepened and the gravel began to thin beneath them.

It was subtle. Barely there.

But Spencer always noticed when it came to Y/N.

He noticed when she was happy, when her laughter hit a little higher in her chest. He noticed when she was tired, the way she rubbed at her temple with the back of her hand. And he noticed now—how her fingers tightened just slightly around the steering wheel. Not tense, not afraid. Just anchoring.

Her shoulders had crept a little higher, her posture shifting with the faintest trace of something coiled. Her breathing changed too—not loud, not shaky, but quieter. Calibrated.

Her eyes flicked toward the blur of evergreens passing the window, landing on something between the trees that he couldn’t see—but she could. Her jaw had settled tighter, not clenched exactly. Just bracing.

And that was all it took.

Spencer’s gaze didn’t leave her. He didn’t ask yet. Didn’t press. But he knew her. Every mood. Every flicker of emotion she didn’t want to show. 

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her from the corner of his eye as they bumped along the narrowing road, the Jeep swaying gently with each dip and rise.

The forest pressed in thicker now—trunks close, shadows dense, branches arcing overhead like a tunnel built from dusk. The sky had dimmed to a washed-out gray-blue, streaked with low, restless clouds. The kind of light that made everything look slightly unreal. Suspended.

Beside him, Y/N’s focus hadn’t wavered. But he could see the change in her.

He’d watched her do this a dozen times before—lock herself in, pull steady, stay quiet. And once, not so long ago, she’d noticed it in him.

Had reached over and tried to pull him back to center with nothing more than a quiet touch and a crooked smile.

Now he did the same.

As they rounded a bend and the cabin finally came into view—half-shadowed, still, like a smear of darkness at the end of the trail—Spencer reached over.

His hand settled on her knee. Gently. Warm and steady through the soft fabric of her pale slacks.

He didn’t say anything. Just let the contact speak.

She blinked, just once, and turned her head slightly toward him. Not enough to take her eyes off the road — just enough for him to see the flicker of surprise soften into something smaller. Something quiet.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low. Careful.

Her answer came after a beat — a breath. She nodded once and offered him a smile. Easy, almost light.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Probably just cold.”

But it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

And he knew her well enough to see it. The way she carried unease like a private secret — tucked neatly beneath her professionalism, beneath the steady hands and quiet confidence. He gave her knee the faintest squeeze, then let his hand fall back to his lap.

She didn’t say anything else. Just kept her eyes on the road, that smile fading to something quieter. More thoughtful.

When they finally reached the property, it emerged without warning — a jagged clearing carved into the forest like a scar, sudden and jarring beneath the darkening sky. The last sliver of daylight had already given up the fight, swallowed by the storm clouds pressing low and mean above the trees. What little light remained was the dull, coppered sheen of dying sun behind a curtain of gray, thickening by the minute as the rain picked up again — steady, cold, and relentless.

The cabin sat hunched in the middle of the clearing like it was trying to disappear into itself. Sagging at the roofline, its edges blurred in the mist, it didn’t look like it had been built so much as abandoned mid-thought and left to rot. Water streaked down the wood siding, gray and splintered, veins of moss threading between the boards like old scars. Shingles peeled from the roof like curling bark, flapping weakly in the wind. Ivy clung to one side of the structure, wet and slick, gripping like desperate fingers.

A rusted pickup truck leaned just off the gravel, half-sunk into the earth. One tire had collapsed entirely, and the windshield was filmed with grime. Moss clung thick across the hood, glinting damp in the half-light. The rear bumper was hanging loose, barely attached. An old blue tarp lay crumpled nearby, water pooling in its folds, its color leeched pale as bone.

Near the porch stood a battered rain barrel, the metal sides dented inward like something had struck it hard once and never cared to fix it. It was brim-full with black water, still and viscous. Leaves floated on the surface, already turning to pulp.

The porch itself looked no better. Boards bowed and cracked under years of rot, the whole frame tilting just enough to be unsettling. A mesh screen door hung half-off its hinges, the bottom corner torn, tapping irregularly in the wind like a slow, reluctant metronome. Thunder growled somewhere in the distance, low and constant.

Inside, the windows showed nothing. No movement. No glow. Just pale curtains stirring faintly — or maybe not at all — behind glass long gone cloudy. It didn’t feel empty.

It felt like it was waiting.

And the storm, as if answering that silent promise, surged harder around them — wind pressing against the car, the trees creaking in warning.

Y/N eased the Jeep to a stop, the tires crunching softly over damp gravel. Her hand slipped from the wheel and dropped into her lap, slow and deliberate, like something inside her had stalled with it.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Her eyes were fixed on the cabin just ahead—at the crooked front steps, the sagging roofline, the stillness that pressed against the windows like a held breath.

Spencer looked at her, not the house.

“You’re quiet,” he said gently. “What, nothing smart to say about the murder shack in the woods?”

That earned him a ghost of a smile.

But it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She inhaled slowly, eyes still on the porch.

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “Something just feels… off.”

The wind moved through the trees then — not in a rush, but in a long, drawn-out exhale. It slipped between the trunks of the evergreens like a ghost, brushing needles aside with soundless fingers. It twisted around the Jeep in thin, spectral threads, pressing against the windows like it was trying to peer inside. A shiver of motion stirred the underbrush and carried the scent of rain-drenched soil and wood gone soft with rot.

It wasn’t stillness. Not really. It was silence with intent. A hush that hummed with something just beneath it — like the forest itself had stopped to listen.

Spencer felt it in the hollow beneath his ribs. A pressure that wasn’t pain, but wasn’t peace either. He shifted slightly in his seat, hand hovering near the door handle, fingers flexing once before curling tight. His eyes lingered on her — not the cabin. Never the cabin.

Y/N sat rigid in the driver’s seat, posture straight, every line of her body coiled with purpose. The faint light through the windshield brushed her features in silver — sharp across the line of her cheek, soft at the curve of her jaw. Her gaze had narrowed. Not alarmed. Just focused. Sharpened.

She felt it too.

Then, without a word, she moved.

The door creaked open, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the hush outside. The cabin lights flickered and died as the wind caught the door’s edge and pulled it wider — a breathless kind of opening. She stepped out with quiet precision, boots meeting the soft, saturated forest floor and sinking half a step into moss and old needles. Her coat flared slightly behind her in the gust, dark fabric whipping once around her legs before settling. Her hand slipped beneath the lapel of her blazer, fingers brushing the grip of her weapon — not drawn, but near.

The air around them felt dense. Drenched. Cold enough to cling to the skin.

Spencer followed, slower. The door closed behind him with a quiet thud, more final than it had any right to be. He slipped the GPS into the inner pocket of his coat, his fingers pale at the edges from how tight they gripped it. His eyes moved over the clearing with care — from the twisted vines along the base of the trees, to the rust-streaked pickup hunched by the treeline, to the warped wooden steps that led to the cabin.

Each one sagged with age, dark with moisture and furred in places with moss. The porch looked as if it would groan beneath a whisper of weight.

The clearing was still — painfully so.

No birdsong. No snap of twigs. Not even the distant hum of insects.

Just the soft rattle of the mesh screen door, its bottom corner torn, banging irregularly against the frame like a warning. The solid door behind it stood shut. 

Unmoved. Unreadable.

Faded paint curled from the panels, flaking like dry skin, as if the house was trying to peel itself away from whatever lingered behind it.

And above it all — the clouds pressed heavier. Storm-wet. Thunder rolled low and slow in the distance like something circling. Watching and waiting. 

Spencer stepped up beside her. Neither of them spoke.

But both of them felt it.

“Walter Massey?” Y/N called out, her tone firm but even, just loud enough to carry through the trees. “This is Agent Y/L/N with the FBI. I’m here with my partner, Dr. Spencer Reid. We just want to ask you a few questions.”

Nothing.

No footsteps creaking across old floorboards. No shadow shifting behind the warped lace of the curtains. 

No sound at all—except the wind.

It threaded through the trees like a murmured secret, brushing past the cabin with delicate, eerie intent. A breath against the siding. A whisper through the loose gutter. It rustled pine boughs and dead leaves on the porch in soft, spiraling motions—as if it knew something they didn’t. As if it had been waiting for this.

The mesh screen door swayed once, clicking faintly against the wood. Beyond it, the heavy main door stood silent and still, paint cracked in jagged lines like old scars. Just watching.

Spencer stepped up beside her, frowning as he scanned the shadowed windows. “Maybe he’s around back,” he said, though the uncertainty in his voice gave him away.

Y/N called out again, projecting just enough to reach through the stillness.

“Mr. Massey? We’re not here to arrest you. We just need to speak with you. If you’re inside, could you come to the door?”

Silence.

Not the kind that felt accidental.

The kind that felt chosen.

Y/N glanced at Spencer, then eased the screen door open with the back of her hand, careful not to smudge the handle. The hinges creaked softly, the sound swallowed by the mist-thick air.

Spencer stepped up beside her, eyes scanning the porch, the roofline, the stillness pressed into every crack of the old wood.

“This doesn’t feel right,” he murmured.

Y/N gave a small nod, more to herself than to him, her hand tightening instinctively around the grip of her gun.

With a sharp breath, she drew her weapon—fluid, practiced, no hesitation—but her posture shifted in a way Spencer rarely saw. Not just alert. Guarded. Protective.

She stepped in front of him before he could speak, placing her body squarely between him and the door. One hand briefly touched his chest—not forceful, just enough pressure to guide him back. Her fingers lingered there for a beat too long.

It wasn’t protocol. 

“I’ll take point,” she said, voice low and steady, but softer than usual. “You stay behind me.”

She didn’t turn to look at him, but she didn’t need to. The tension in her shoulders said it all. The subtle tremor in her breath. The way her body shifted like a shield between him and whatever was waiting inside.

She joked a lot. Always had.

But not now.

Now, she was dead quiet.

And she was ready to take the hit before it ever got to him.

Spencer opened his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to offer something else—but the set of her jaw made him pause.

He just nodded—once, tightly. The motion small, but sure. There was a gravity to it. The kind that came from knowing there was no turning back.

His hand brushed against the fabric of her sleeve as he stepped forward, barely a touch—but enough to tether him to the moment, to her.

And then he followed.

Whatever was waiting inside the cabin had already started listening. There was a gravity to it. The kind that came from knowing there was no turning back.

Y/N stepped ahead, boots pressing softly into the damp wood of the porch, her body angled with trained precision. The mesh screen door creaked as she eased it further back, and in the same breath, her hand came up — steady, firm — guiding the barrel of her gun to the door’s edge.

The main door gave way with a low groan. Wood strained against rusted hinges as it swung open, slow and grudging, like the house itself was reluctant to let them in.

It wasn’t locked.

That alone rooted something cold and shapeless in the pit of her stomach — a sense that curled low and tight behind her ribs.

Spencer felt it too. He didn’t have to say it.

Cabins like this didn’t stay unlocked. Not in towns like Stillwater. Not with four people missing.

The door swung inward on a breath of cold air, and immediately, the smell hit her.

Pinewood, sharp and resinous—what should have been comforting—but laced now with something metallic and wet. The bitter, iron-wrought scent of something that had bled too long into the floorboards.

And beneath that, something older.

A rot that didn’t belong to nature. Stale carpet. Damp mold. The cloying, sour note of a refrigerator long left without power. It wrapped around them like old breath, like something exhaled by a house that hadn’t seen life in weeks—but still remembered the shape of it.

Y/N stepped inside first, every footfall deliberate. The floor creaked beneath her boots, the sound echoing too loud in a space that felt like it had been holding its breath.

The air was thick. Heavy. It clung to her coat, her skin, the back of her tongue. Wrong. Not empty or abandoned. Just waiting.

Y/N slipped through the doorway first, silent as a shadow, her weapon raised and steady. Her eyes swept left to right in quick, surgical passes, cataloguing the space in layers. The sharp angles of furniture. The thin shaft of gray light cutting through a crack in the boarded window. Dust spiraling in the beam like falling ash.

Her body stayed close to the wall, a breath away from the peeling paneling, boots placed with deliberate care on the worn floorboards to avoid giving herself away.

Spencer followed, just behind her—close enough to match her rhythm, but not close enough to disrupt her line of movement. His hand hovered near the grip of his firearm, fingers curled just shy of drawing it, every nerve thrumming with silent urgency. The weight of the weapon was grounding, familiar—but the air around him felt anything but. Cold. Pressurized. Like the storm outside had seeped in through the walls and settled beneath his skin. The air inside the cabin was colder than it had any right to be, clinging damply to his skin, to his throat. Like the house had its own lungs and was breathing around them.

A small table lay overturned just inside the entryway, its legs twisted at awkward angles like they’d been kicked or dropped. Two mugs lay beside it—one intact, the other shattered into a fan of ceramic shards, edges dulled by dust. Liquid long since dried had stained the floor beneath them a dark, reddish-brown. It wasn’t blood. It might’ve been tea. But it looked like a spill no one had cleaned up; like someone had planned to and then never got the chance.

Spencer crouched for a closer look, fingers tracing the uneven trail of footprints smeared into the dirt between the broken pieces.

“This wasn’t recent,” he whispered. His voice barely carried, but it pressed into Y/N’s spine all the same.

She didn’t answer. Just nodded once, jaw set tight.

They moved forward together—past the narrow hallway, where the faded wallpaper had begun to peel at the edges, curling like old parchment. The floor creaked beneath their weight, long and low, like something waking up beneath them.

They entered the den.

It was darker here. The light didn’t reach as far. The room felt sunken somehow, like the cabin had settled too deep into the earth. The ceiling sloped low above them, pressing down like a held breath.

Hunting gear lined the walls—bows, empty gun racks, a mounted buck’s head with glassy, dust-covered eyes. The fireplace beneath it was cold and lifeless, filled with half-burnt logs and ash long gone damp. A copper kettle sat off to the side, untouched.

Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust.

Except for one thing.

A single trail of muddy boot prints.

They cut across the wooden floor—messy, staggered, the pattern uneven. They led toward the far archway where the kitchen opened up, shadowed and still.

Spencer’s eyes tracked the prints. Something about the weight distribution was wrong. The left boot dragged just slightly. A limp?

Y/N moved ahead, muzzle of her gun rising with each slow step.

Then—

A crash. Not loud. Sharp. Sudden.

Metal against wood. The sound of something falling, something moving.

Then silence.

A birdshot of adrenaline spiked through Spencer’s chest. Y/N whipped her gun toward the sound, shoulders tight, finger ghosting the trigger.

They both froze.

In the stillness, every sound grew louder: the tick of something dripping in the next room, the groan of the wind outside, the faint electrical buzz of a dying bulb overhead.

Spencer’s breath caught.

Then—a door slammed open.

Hard.

The edge of it cracked into Y/N’s temple with a sickening thud, sending her stumbling backward into the wall. Her head snapped sideways, blood already welling where the wood had split her skin. The world tilted around her—sharp and white-hot—but she didn’t fall.

She didn’t even hesitate.

Her body jerked forward on instinct, staggering back into the hallway, gun half-raised, breath heaving, vision already blurring around the edges.

That’s when he came.

The figure burst from the bedroom like a wrecking force—tall, gaunt, clothes hanging loose over sharp shoulders, eyes blown wide with manic rage. A shotgun was clutched in both hands, its muzzle swinging like a compass needle toward chaos.

Y/N threw herself forward, arm reaching toward Spencer—

But she was a second too late.

The butt of the shotgun slammed into the side of Spencer’s head, full force, a brutal crack of bone on bone.

His body crumpled immediately, knees buckling. He collapsed in a heap beside her, eyes glassy, breath shuddering.

“Spence—!” Y/N shouted, the sound strangled by pain, voice cracking through the cabin like a whip, raw and full of alarm.

Her gun was up in a breath.

The motion was smooth—reflex, born from training and repetition—but what followed was anything but automatic.

The world sharpened around her. The air seemed to crystallize. Every sound pulled inward: the creak of wood beneath shifting weight, the faint tick of the cabin cooling in the silence, the whisper of breath between her teeth.

And then—Spencer, on the floor.

Still.

The sight knocked the air from her lungs.

Blood curled from the side of his head in a slow, serpentine trail — dark, too dark, in stark relief against the pale, fragile stretch of his skin. It traced the curve of his temple, threading through the fine strands of his hair before pooling at the edge of his jaw, where it soaked quietly into the collar of his shirt. The fabric was already turning crimson, blooming with it, blooming with him.

His lashes fluttered once.

Barely.

Then stilled again.

The room seemed to tilt. Or maybe that was her.

Her stomach dropped — a violent plunge, like the floor had disappeared beneath her feet. She could feel it then, the rise of something hot and nauseating in the back of her throat, clawing up as her eyes locked on the wound. It wasn’t just blood. It was his blood. Spencer’s.

And he wasn’t moving.

His face was slack — not peaceful, not asleep, just vacant. The faintest crease still lingered between his brows, like the pain had caught him mid-thought. There was something deeply wrong about it, about him lying there like that. Off-center. Unanchored. Dizzy, disoriented, even in stillness. Like someone had unplugged the world’s sharpest mind and left it flickering.

Her body locked down—every instinct bracing to protect, to react, to end this now.

Then the shotgun shifted.

The barrel snapped toward her chest with sudden, jolting force.

“Drop it!” the man barked, the words mangled and ragged—voice gone to gravel, each syllable trembling with something unstable. His lips curled back from his teeth, not in a snarl, but something worse—something uncertain, like he didn’t know if he was threatening or pleading.

His hands trembled around the shotgun stock—not from fear, but from how tightly he was clinging to control. The kind of trembling that came right before the trigger was pulled.

Y/N’s gaze didn’t waver.

Her arms held steady, the muzzle of her gun pointed square at his chest. Her breath slowed, deliberately measured, as if even the air between them might shift the balance.

She didn’t blink.

She took in everything: the angle of the barrel, the taut twitch of his jaw, the half-step he’d taken forward, the glint of something flickering in his eyes—resolve, maybe. Or desperation. There was no time. No room for fear. Only calculation. Only timing.

Her finger tightened over the trigger.

She could make the shot.

She was sure of it.

But Spencer was still down. And if she missed—if he flinched—if the recoil shifted his aim—

She didn’t lower the gun.

But she didn’t fire either.

The room held its breath with her.

The man shifted again—barely a step, but it was enough.

His boots scraped over the worn floorboards as he moved toward Spencer’s crumpled form, the barrel of the shotgun lowering, inch by inch, until it hovered just above Spencer’s head like a verdict already decided.

“One second longer,” the man growled, voice cracking like splintered wood, “and I’ll blow his fucking head off.”

Y/N didn’t move.

But something inside her shifted.

A full-body stillness snapped into place — not the poised quiet of control, but the rigid, sickened kind that hit when reality dropped too fast, too sharp. Her heart didn’t race. It slammed. Once. Hard. Then again. Every beat ringing in her ears like the tick of a detonator.

She had played this carefully, clinically — willing to risk herself, willing to bleed if it kept the attention off Spencer. She could take it. Had taken it. But this—

This was different.

Now it was him.

And the gun was angled down, close enough to his skull that she could see the reflection of blood in the barrel. Spencer lay curled against the warped floorboards, disoriented and dazed, his breath fogging faintly at the edge of the wood. His lashes fluttered. His mouth parted, like he was trying to speak but couldn’t find the thread of it. There was blood smeared along his hairline, drying now, catching in the curve of his ear and soaking down his collar. His pulse was there — visible, trembling in his throat. Too exposed. Too human.

The sight of it — him — nearly undid her.

Her whole body locked into place, a machine with too many variables flooding the system. Her brain calculated trajectories, angles, impact velocities. But no combination ended without risk to him. Every outcome cost him something— and that, she could not accept.

Her hands shook.

She could have made the shot if it were her life on the line. Could’ve gambled with her own ribs, her own skin. She’d taken worse. But not this. Not when it was his blood on the floor. Not when she’d promised — not him.

The weight of that promise settled in her arms like iron, and it took everything she had to keep from shaking apart beneath it.

Her throat burned. She swallowed against it.

And then, with a precision that felt like peeling skin from bone, she began to lower her weapon.

Inch by inch.

Slow.

Controlled.

Deliberate.

Her fingers ached as she loosened them from the grip. Her shoulders screamed with the effort it took to obey the moment’s demand.

Every cell in her body recoiled.

But she did it anyway.

“Alright,” Y/N said at last, her voice low, level—scraped clean of anything but clarity. Each word fell with weight, not surrender.

Her fingers loosened from the grip, slow and deliberate, knuckles pale as she uncurled them.

She didn’t drop the gun.

Instead, Y/N began to lower herself — inch by inch — until one knee touched the warped wooden floor. The boards creaked beneath her weight, the sound barely more than a breath. Her hands moved with careful precision, every motion telegraphed and measured.

She set the gun down flat on the floor. Not a toss. Not a surrender.

A choice.

The cold barrel met the wood with a muted clink. No ricochet. No chance of it firing by accident. Just the sound of something vital being set aside.

The silence that followed was cavernous.

But Y/N didn’t look at the weapon.

Her eyes stayed locked on his.

Unblinking. Unflinching.

Not begging. Not pleading.

Just there—steady and grounded in the storm of his breathing, reading every flicker in his grip, every tremor running down the barrel aimed squarely at her chest.

“Kick it away,” the man barked.

She didn’t hesitate.

She shifted her foot forward, slow enough not to startle him. The toe of her boot met the side of the pistol.

One push—measured, mechanical—and it scraped across the floorboards with a sound that felt too loud. Too final.

But her eyes never moved.

Not once.

He moved fast—faster than she anticipated, with a kind of jittery violence that didn’t follow logic, only impulse.

Before she could fully register it, his hand was on her—gripping her arm and yanking it behind her back, fingers digging in just above the elbow. The coarse scrape of rope unfurled from his belt with a harsh, leathery hiss.

She twisted against his grip, tried to shift her weight—anything to make it harder for him to drag her.

Her boot skidded against the floor.

She shoved backward once—elbow clipping his side, sharp and purposeful.

But the shotgun.

It was too close.

Even without looking, she knew it was hovering just to her left, the cold presence of it looming like a second heartbeat. Her brain echoed with the imagined sound of the blast. Too loud. Too final.

So she stilled.

Not from fear, but control.

She let him drag her toward the fireplace post, every muscle coiled and burning, her breath tight behind her ribs.

He slammed her back against the wood.

Her spine jolted.

Then came the rope—rough, thick, unyielding. It bit into her wrists as he yanked it tighter than he needed to, the fibers already cutting into raw skin.

Y/N clenched her jaw, head bowed slightly, refusing to make a sound.

But then—he cinched the last knot.

Too tight.

The pressure bit deep.

And before she could stop it—a small, involuntary whimper slipped past her lips.

It wasn’t loud.

But it was real.

Spencer flinched where he lay on the floor.

The unsub didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did—and liked it.

“You’re both just more of them,” the man spat, pacing in short, sharp bursts. “Spies. Liars. Think you’re gonna dig around in my head and tell me what I am.”

His voice cracked at the end—too high, too jagged, like the thoughts were unraveling faster than he could speak them. His eyes flicked between them with the wild precision of someone looking for betrayal in shadows.

Then he lunged straight for Spencer.

He grabbed him by the arm and yanked him up with violent force—fingers digging in, dragging him across the floor like dead weight.

Spencer groaned, a smear of blood trailing along his cheekbone like a brushstroke. His limbs lagged behind him—slack, dazed, his knees buckling as he was thrown down hard beside her.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

“Don’t touch him,” she growled, low and raw.

There wasn’t room for rage. Only instinct.

But the man laughed—a high, manic sound, half-breath, half-breakdown. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Instead, he dropped to one knee and cinched the rope tighter around Spencer’s wrists—too tight, sharp enough to bite skin. Y/N jerked against her own bonds, but the rope held fast, burning against her raw skin.

She could hear Spencer's breathing now—shallow, wet, just inches from her.

The man stood again, chest heaving, eyes bright with something slick and poisonous.

Then—stillness.

He looked down at them, head tilted just slightly to the side, as if studying insects under glass.

“Let’s see what you’re really here for.”

Time moved differently inside the cabin.

Minutes passed like hours. The air hung heavy—thick with moisture and decay. It reeked of damp wood, mildew, and something more feral. Sweat. Fear. Old blood gone to rust. Each breath felt like swallowing the underside of a storm.

The ropes around Y/N’s wrists had long since burned their mark into her skin. Coarse and waterlogged, they bit into the delicate ridges of bone and tendon with each twitch of movement, the fibers soaked red where her skin had broken. Her fingers tingled—numb at the edges, aching down to the knuckles. She kept them still.

Beside her, Spencer sat slumped but conscious, his body curled slightly toward her. His head hung low, curls matted dark where blood had dried into them, crusting in uneven lines along his temple and jaw. A single streak of red had reached the collar of his shirt, staining it like a slow bloom. His breathing was shallow but even, lips parted just enough for each exhale to pass through. His lashes fluttered now and then—not from sleep, but from pain. Dizziness. That half-lost place between awareness and dark.

Across the room, the man paced in slow, uneven circuits—like an animal trapped in a cage of its own design. He hadn’t given a name. Not once. Just circled, muttered, barked at things neither of them could see. His footsteps creaked against the warped floorboards, syncopated by the occasional clatter of the shotgun being picked up, set down, picked up again. It never stayed far from his grip. Even when he spoke to the shadows, it was there—his anchor, his threat.

The windows were dark. Not because of nightfall, but because the storm still pressed against them in sheets, casting the room in the kind of gray that felt less like light and more like breath.

And then—Spencer’s voice. Quiet. Threadbare.

“What you’re experiencing—it’s not uncommon. Prolonged isolation can create patterns in the brain that reinforce a heightened sense of danger. It’s a survival response. You’re not crazy. Your mind is just trying to protect you.”

The man turned slowly.

Not with the casual movement of someone listening—but like a storm cloud gathering mass. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, pupils dilated so far they nearly swallowed the color. His breath dragged in through flared nostrils, ragged and wet, as if each inhale hurt. The barrel of the shotgun dipped slightly, but didn’t lower.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he hissed. His voice cracked halfway through, but it didn’t make him sound weak—only volatile.

Spencer stayed still. Perfectly still.

His eyes found the man’s, steady despite the pulse jackhammering behind his ribs.

“I think you’re scared,” he said softly. “And I think no one’s listened to you in a long time.”

Something shifted.

The man didn’t move, not visibly. But his shoulders dropped just enough to notice. His jaw flexed. One foot shifted back on the floorboard. The storm rumbled outside, low and distant, as if even the sky was holding its breath.

And Y/N—reading the moment like a fault line ready to split—spoke too. Her voice slid in beside Spencer’s, quiet but deliberate, threaded with caution and calm.

“We’re not here to take anything from you,” she said. “But the people who disappeared—”

“They were spies!” he snapped. The words broke out of him like shrapnel. “Government plants. They came to silence me. To bury me in my own house.”

The shotgun lifted a fraction. His hands shook with it. Not from hesitation, but from the force of his belief.

Spencer’s voice didn’t rise. If anything, it softened.

“You don’t have to hurt anyone else,” he said. “You’ve already proven you can outsmart all of them. You’ve stayed hidden for months. That takes skill. Foresight.”

For a heartbeat, the silence returned—tight, watchful.

Then the man exploded.

“Don’t patronize me!” he bellowed, the sound reverberating off the cabin walls like a gunshot. His body jerked forward, wild-eyed, the shotgun twitching like an extension of his nerves.

Y/N flinched—but barely. Her eyes flicked toward Spencer, the smallest movement, like a tether tightening between them. He didn’t speak again. Not yet. But his breath hitched, and Y/N could feel it—not just the air between them, but the weight of everything unspoken. 

The unsub had been pacing for minutes, muttering under his breath like the words were boiling over faster than he could contain them. His boots scuffed the warped floorboards in erratic steps, his fingers twitching at his sides. One hand dragged roughly along his arm—scratching, clawing—like there was something under his skin he couldn’t reach. Couldn’t dig out.

Y/N kept her gaze angled downward—not submissive, but steady. Controlled. Her breaths came in slow pulls through her nose, paced like clockwork. She was counting. The distance to the nearest window. The time between his steps. The angle of his shoulder when he turned.

And then, without meaning to, her eyes drifted sideways, toward him.

Spencer sat just inches away, his wrists still bound, shoulders drawn tight with tension. But it wasn’t that that made her stomach drop.

It was the blood.

A dried trail of it streaked along his temple, curling into his hairline—matted in soft, uneven strands. The edges of the gash were clotted now, crusted and angry red against the pale cast of his skin. His jaw was tight, lips parted just slightly, breathing carefully—like even that took effort.

His eyes weren’t on her. They were scanning the room with clinical precision, flicking from shadow to shadow, reading danger the way he read case files—quietly, methodically. But she saw the way his brows were pinched. The faint tremble in the line of his throat. The sharp, inward hold of his breath when the unsub moved too fast.

Her heart twisted at the sight of him—gentle and brilliant and so obviously in pain—and the ache that bloomed in her chest had nothing to do with the bruises blooming across her own head.

And everything to do with the blood on his skin.

The kind that shouldn’t have been there.

Not his.

Not ever.

Spencer sat still beside her, hands bound, blood still dried at his temple. His lips parted just slightly, not in fear—but focus. His eyes flicked toward the far wall, the boarded window, the crackling fireplace. Listening.

Beep.

Faint. Almost imperceptible beneath the restless creak of the old cabin and the wind pressing against the windows like a warning.

Beep… beep.

It wasn’t loud. No louder than a watch alarm. But in the silence that followed the shouting—in the dense, static-charged quiet—it may as well have been a scream.

The unsub froze mid-step.

His shoulders jerked to a halt, spine locking with an almost mechanical stiffness. His eyes snapped upward, scanning the room with twitchy, animalistic precision.

Then his head turned. Sharply.

“What the hell is that?”

The words came low, clipped, scraped raw at the edges with suspicion. Not curiosity—alarm. His gaze sharpened like a blade, eyes narrowing into slits as he started to pivot in place.

Y/N stiffened.

Not a flinch. Not a twitch. Just a subtle hardening of her frame, like a wire being pulled taut beneath her skin.

Her pulse stuttered once. Then leveled. But her mind was already racing—calculating how long it had been since the last team update, how close backup might be now, if the signal had already pinged—

Beep.

Spencer’s breath caught.

It was nearly silent—but she heard it. Felt it, even. The way his ribs expanded slightly beside her, the shallow edge of air slicing into lungs held too tight for too long.

Beep.

The sound was steady now.

A small, rhythmic pulse.

The unsub took a step backward, turning in a slow, tight circle—eyes scanning floor to ceiling, nostrils flared, the pipe still trembling in his grip.

Spencer stayed still.

Too still.

The tracker was close. Too close.

And they both knew it.

The green LED blinked softly beneath the hem of his coat pocket.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Like a countdown. Like the signal of rescue—or exposure.

Y/N’s breath ghosted across her lip. Barely a shift in her chest, but she felt it burn in her throat like static. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t dare turn toward the sound.

But the unsub heard it.

And worse—he understood it.

His eyes narrowed, head tilting with the eerie focus of a predator locking on. The shotgun rose a few inches, uncertain now—not who to point at, but what was coming. His jaw clenched, teeth bared just enough to show the ragged edge of molars grinding.

“Where’s that coming from?” he hissed. “What the hell is that?”

No one answered.

The storm outside raged harder, wind driving against the cabin in gusts that rattled the loose windowpanes and hissed beneath the warped doorframe. Rain lashed the roof in waves, a cold percussion over the mounting tension.

Y/N’s fingers flexed slowly in the ropes behind her back—blood slicking the coarse fibers where they bit into her skin.

She didn’t look at Spencer. But she felt him beside her. Breathing faster now.

The noise wasn’t loud. But it was loud enough.

A steady pulse, mechanical and unrelenting, threading through the cabin like a fuse being lit.

Rhythmic. Unmistakable.

Coming from somewhere on Spencer’s side—muffled beneath his coat or wedged between the folds of his satchel, but there all the same. A beacon. A countdown.

The unsub’s head snapped toward him.

His eyes went wide—too wide.

The whites stark in the dim cabin light, the pupils blown and darting. Something behind them gave way, cracked clean down the middle. That dangerous shift from suspicion to certainty. From unease to revelation.

“You’re tagged,” he spat. 

A whisper at first—horrified. Then louder, venomous, full of rage: “You sons of bitches—you led them here.”

Y/N didn’t breathe.

Spencer froze, spine rigid, his limbs still sluggish from blood loss and shock—but his gaze locked on the man.

The unsub moved like lightning after a coil—storming toward the fireplace, shoving aside a battered chair and knocking over a rusted floor lamp in the process. The bulb burst in a brittle flash—shards of glass scattering across the warped floorboards with the sharp crack of splintered light.

Sparks flashed, brief and bright, then vanished.

His boots crushed the debris beneath him as he spun back toward them, shotgun raised, his breath sawing in and out in uneven gasps. Every step vibrated the floor like a war drum. His finger tightened on the trigger—his face carved into something raw and volcanic.

Y/N opened her mouth—tried to intercept, to redirect, to deflect him back toward her—

But it was too late.

He lunged, grabbing Spencer by the front of his coat and yanking him forward with a violence that cracked through the air like a snapped bone. Spencer’s breath left him in a choked sound—sharp, involuntary—as his body pitched forward under the unsub’s grip, knees scraping the wood.

Then came the hands—rough, frantic, clawing through layers of fabric like a man possessed. Fingers tearing at the buttons, wrenching open the coat with jerking movements, searching for proof with the blind desperation of someone who already knew what he’d find.

Y/N strained against the ropes, breath caught behind her teeth, her wrists burning against the binding.

And then—

He found it.

A small black device, tucked just inside the inner lining. No bigger than a matchbox. Sleek. Silent. The unsub ripped it free, holding it up in a trembling hand.

It blinked.

Once. Green.

Steady. Alive.

A heartbeat in plastic casing.

Hope, caught in circuitry.

The unsub stared at it like it had just condemned him—like it had always been there, whispering in the dark, waiting to betray him. His breathing hitched, deepened, then turned ragged, fury igniting behind his eyes like fuel to flame.

“You think you can track me?” he hissed, his voice trembling with rage and disbelief. His grip tightened on Spencer’s collar. “You think you’re smarter than me?”

The GPS blinked again.

And somewhere in the woods beyond the cabin, help was coming.

But inside—

Inside, time had just started ticking faster.

Beep.

The unsub stared at the device—frozen, pupils blown wide, chest heaving like a cornered animal.

Then, without warning, the fury broke loose.

He snarled—a guttural, full-body sound that ripped up from somewhere beneath language, raw and unfiltered, more beast than man—and in the same motion, hurled the GPS unit to the floor. It hit the boards with a sharp crack, the plastic casing skidding across the grain and coming to rest by Y/N’s boot.

His foot came down a second later—hard—a stomping blow that sent a sickening crunch through the room. Sparks shot out in jagged arcs, tiny bursts of light skittering like electric fireflies into the shadows beneath the table, the edges of the walls.

The blinking stopped.

So did everything else.

The cabin fell still in the aftermath, as if recoiling—its very air taut with held breath, the storm outside now muffled by the weight of what had just been destroyed. Smoke curled faintly from the shattered casing, wires frayed and twitching like exposed nerves.

Spencer didn’t move. Y/N didn’t breathe.

It hit like a drop in barometric pressure—

the tilt in the unsub’s posture, 

the wild shine in his eyes,

the shift from suspicion to certainty to rage.

“You lying little shit.”

The words burst from him like a snapped wire.

Spencer’s mouth parted—instinct, an attempt at reason, at reach—but nothing came. No room for logic. No space for calm. Just static behind his ribs.

The man’s hand shot out, snatching a rust-flecked pipe from the clutter near the hearth—three feet of old steel, cold and cruel in his grip. His fingers twitched as he raised it, knuckles pale, tendons straining like they wanted to break free from the skin.

“You came here wired,” he spat, his voice cracking at the edges. “You fed them my location. You think you can dissect me? Turn me into a case file? Break me down into numbers and symptoms and—notes?”

His voice rose with every word, nearly feral now. Each syllable was jagged with betrayal. The pipe lifted—shoulder drawn back, locked and ready.

Spencer didn’t flinch.

He tensed instead, a small shift in his spine, a tilt of his head—not from fear, but readiness. Bracing not for pain, but for the rhythm of it, the moment to move, to shield.

But before the blow could fall—

“It was me.”

Her voice cut through the room like a scalpel.

Sharp. Deliberate. A clean slice through the thick, rancid air that hung heavy with sweat, dust, and old wood smoke.

The unsub froze—mid-motion, mid-breath—the rusted pipe still raised high in his trembling grip. His chest heaved under the weight of adrenaline, sweat painting dark patches across his collar. His eyes, rimmed red and ringed in sleepless mania, flicked between the two of them—Spencer on the floor, unmoving, and Y/N upright, bloody, but burning steady.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

She held his gaze with the precision of a knife thrower lining up a kill shot. Her wrists bled where the rope bit into raw skin, her breath shaky from pain—but her posture never wavered.

And then—a chuckle.

Low. Dry. The kind of sound that slipped from the edge of a cracked smile—not amused, but knowing. Cold. Calculated.

She leaned forward slightly, enough to shift the tension in the room.

“You want the truth?” she said, her voice now wrapped in something quieter. Meaner. Intentional. “You’re right. You were always right.”

The unsub’s grip flexed around the pipe. He twitched—not from fear, but recognition.

“I’m the one they sent,” she continued, tone sinking deeper, silk over steel. “Not him.”

She jerked her chin toward Spencer without looking. Didn’t dare. Couldn’t see the expression on his face—the confusion, the betrayal, the heartbreak—because if she did, she’d fall apart.

“The kid?” Her voice dripped disdain. “He’s nothing. Still green. He’s read the textbooks but he hasn’t seen the dirt under the floorboards yet. He thinks we’re here to help you.”

She let out another soft, bitter laugh. “That’s cute, isn’t it?”

Spencer stirred beside her. His breathing hitched. But she didn’t look. Couldn’t. She was too deep now—buried in it. And this wasn’t about him. Not right now. This was survival. This was the only hand she had left to play.

“I’ve been inside this operation for weeks,” she said. “Studying your patterns. Cross-referencing your routines, your history, your trauma. I’ve read your medical records. Your military discharge. I’ve talked to the people who used to know you—before.”

She tilted her head, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving the unsub’s face.

“Before you woke up.”

He was breathing faster now. Mouth slightly parted. Sweat trickling down the side of his temple, collecting in the notch of his jaw. His eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t need to. He was locked on her.

“Everything you’ve been feeling? The eyes? The pressure? The sense that you’re being dissected in real time?”

Her voice dropped.

“That’s me.”

His fingers twitched. His grip on the pipe slipped a little before snapping back tighter than before.

“I was sent to infiltrate. Quietly. Completely. Not to arrest you. To study you. To peel you open. Reduce you to variables. Numbers. Labels. Paranoid. Unstable. Prone to violence.”

He twitched again. A sick little shiver of something that looked far too close to understanding.

“I was meant to map your entire psyche without you ever knowing,” she said. “To catalog your impulses, your threats, your breaking points. Not just to control you—but to reconstruct you.”

Another beat. Her voice dipped, softer now. Like a lullaby made of glass shards.

“We build the cage from the inside.”

And she smiled.

Not wide. Not cruel.

Just enough to make him believe it.

The unsub staggered back—just half a step, but it landed like a blow. As if her words had struck something inside his chest, something hollow and long-rotting, and rattled it hard enough to sound.

The pipe in his hand dipped slightly.

Spencer was staring at her now—wide-eyed, frozen, a single streak of dried blood tracking toward the edge of his jaw. He didn’t look dazed anymore. He looked like he was witnessing a slow-motion train crash with someone he loved still standing on the tracks.

“Y/N—” he choked out, voice cracked and raw at the edges.

But she cut him off. Fast. Sharp. Surgical.

“I made the call to come here,” she said, and her tone had changed again—now clinical, ruthless, the voice of someone who’d been hiding in plain sight. “I brought him with me because no one looks twice at the rookie. That’s how I got so close.”

The unsub’s breath hitched. The kind of breath you take before deciding to kill someone.

Y/N pressed forward.

“While he asked you polite questions, I was the one watching. Recording. Cataloging every blink, every tremor, every tell. The way your hand twitched when we said the word ‘discharge.’ The way your pupils shrank when I stepped too close.”

The unsub’s fingers flexed around the pipe—bone-white and twitching, the metal trembling just slightly in his grip.

His face contorted. Slowly. Not in confusion. Not in disbelief.

But in recognition.

Like something had finally snapped into place.

“You lied to me,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. But it held teeth. The kind of whisper that precedes a scream.

Y/N nodded once. Slow. Deliberate.

“Every word.”

The room shifted around them. The air grew heavier. The shadows deeper. The hunter had found his traitor—and now, the line between predator and prey was gone.

His jaw clenched hard enough to tick. His nostrils flared. He blinked once—a muscle twitch of betrayal—and then something darker flooded his eyes.

Rage.

“So you admit it,” he spat.

“I do.”

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t tremble.

Didn’t look at Spencer—not even for a second.

“I told them I’d draw you out,” she said. “Told them I could build the perfect bait. I designed the plan. I volunteered to come in first. And I brought him with me to play innocent, so you’d never look twice at me.”

The man stared at her like she’d just changed form—like every feature of her face was shifting into something monstrous, into the villain he’d been waiting for all along. The hand holding the pipe twitched again. The muscles in his arm drew taut.

He saw her now.

Not as someone in his house.

But as the one who’d built the trap.

And walked in willingly.

And Spencer—God, he knew.

Knew exactly what she was doing.

He could see it—unfolding in real time, like one of those impossibly slow Rube Goldberg machines, every gear turning, every trigger rigged, every step more dangerous than the last. Y/N wasn’t just improvising. She was sacrificing. Building the narrative. Crafting the role she knew he’d buy.

The villain. The infiltrator. The enemy.

Spencer’s heart thudded so loud it drowned out everything else. Not from the pain in his temple, not from the rope biting into his wrists—but from the sheer, gut-wrenching certainty of it.

She was painting a target on herself.

Not just with words—but with the precision of someone who knew exactly where to stand so that when the shot came, it would hit her and not him.

And he couldn’t stop it.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t reach for her. Couldn’t say her name the way he wanted to—not the warning, not the plea, but the real way. The way that meant don’t do this. Please.

His eyes flicked over her—sweat at her hairline, blood dry, hands trembling just barely where they rested behind her. But her face?

Stone.

The kind of stillness that came just before collapse. The kind that broke you from the inside out.

He felt sick.

Because Spencer knew this wasn’t just a bluff.

She wasn’t just buying time. She was making a deal. And she hadn’t yet figured out how she was going to get out of it.

The unsub’s knuckles tightened on the pipe.

And this time, he turned toward her.

The unsub stood in front of her, hovering like a storm about to break. His chest heaved, his breath fast and uneven, the sound wet at the edges—like he was choking on fury. His eyes shimmered, bloodshot and wide, and behind them was nothing but chaos: betrayal, humiliation, the raw ache of someone who believed he’d finally uncovered the truth—and wanted someone to bleed for it.

Y/N didn’t flinch.

She lifted her chin. Her wrists still burned from the rope, the skin there already raw, but she sat taller. Straighter. Not defiant— but anchored. She wasn’t trying to fight him. She was trying to pull him in. Away from Spencer. Away from anyone who couldn’t take what was coming.

“You want to dissect me?” the unsub hissed, spittle catching in the corner of his mouth. “You want to peel me open and write me down like some—some experiment?”

Y/N’s throat was bone-dry. Her breath felt thin. But her eyes didn’t waver.

“Yes,” she said.

The pipe arced through the air like lightning.

The first blow cracked across her ribs.

A sickening thud—deep and solid, metal against bone—and it knocked the air from her lungs like she’d been punched by the sky. Her body snapped sideways, collapsing onto her hip, rope barely catching her before she hit the floor completely. The sound that left her mouth wasn’t a scream. It was sharper. Shorter. Like breath torn in half.

Spencer’s voice broke behind her, sharp and helpless. “Stop—!”

Y/N didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. She didn’t risk shifting her gaze or moving even an inch toward him—didn’t dare let the unsub sense where Spencer’s voice had come from.

She kept her eyes locked on the man in front of her. Kept the weight of his rage squarely on her shoulders.

“It’s nothing,” Y/N gasped, her voice splintered at the edges like cracked porcelain.

The words weren’t for him—not really.

But they were said loud enough to reach the unsub, to thread into the air like a challenge. Flat. Dismissive. Designed to taunt.

And yet, there was something beneath it. A note of softness buried inside the brokenness—so subtle only Spencer would catch it.

She glanced at him. Just once. Barely more than a flicker. But it was there. Not a cry for help. Maybe an apology.

A warning. A reassurance. Don’t move. Don’t speak. I’m still here. Let me do this.

Spencer's throat constricted. He couldn’t breathe. His whole body screamed to reach for her, to throw himself between them, but he stayed frozen—because she was protecting him, even now, even like this.

The unsub didn’t catch the shift.

He was too deep in it now—

Too tangled in the scent of blood and sweat, in the heat of betrayal clinging to his skin like a second layer.

His gaze flicked to Spencer again—not with doubt, but with a kind of furious clarity. A moment of recognition between predator and prey.

“You see?” he rasped, voice hoarse and shaking with conviction. “She used you. Just like they all do.”

Spencer didn’t speak. Couldn’t. But his jaw twitched. His fingers curled slightly where they’d been slack.

“She’s one of them,” the man hissed, his eyes blazing now. “Wrapped you around her finger so you wouldn’t see it. Made you feel safe. Needed. Like you mattered.”

He took a step closer. The pipe shook in his grip.

“But it was a lie. And now you brought them to me.”

His head cocked sharply to the side, a grotesque mimicry of sympathy. “I’ll solve it for both of us,” he whispered, too calm now. Too sure. “You don’t have to suffer anymore. Neither of us do.”

His gaze was locked on Spencer—but his knuckles flexed around the pipe as he turned toward Y/N.

“They’re the poison,” he spat. “She’s the worst of them.”

He looked at her like he was seeing something grotesque and glorious all at once.

And then—

The rage twisted. Broke open.

With a jagged, animal sound caught somewhere between a sob and a snarl, the unsub howled and wrenched the pipe backward—

Only to throw it.

The metal spun from his hand, sailing across the room in a flash of rust and fury. It struck the floor with a brutal, echoing clang, the sound ricocheting off the cabin walls like a gunshot. The pipe rolled once, twice—then stilled in the dust.

Not mercy.

Not remorse.

Just escalation.

His shoulders rose and fell like a wave crashing, chest heaving with the strain of restraint. He ran a shaking hand down his face, smearing sweat and blood together, jaw locked tight like he was chewing on bone.

“No,” he growled, low and guttural, voice thick with the weight of too many nights spent talking to ghosts. “That’s too easy.”

He took a step forward.

Then another towards her.

“I want it real,” he seethed. “I want to look in your eyes and see it. I want you to know what it’s like—to feel hunted. Dissected. Reduced.”

His voice rose with each word, fraying at the edges.

“You think you’re clever. You think I didn’t see it. But I saw you the second you walked in.”

Spencer shifted beside her—slow, deliberate—but didn’t speak. He knew. Any wrong sound, any motion now could tip this into blood.

Y/N didn’t move either.

But her pulse thundered in her throat.

The unsub’s boots thudded against the warped floorboards, closing the space between them inch by inch. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers twitching like they still held the weapon.

“I want you to beg,” he said. “Not for you. For him. So he knows what you really are before it’s too late.”

His breath was ragged. Wild.

And his eyes—locked on hers—were lit with the glow of delusion, of violence waiting for permission.

Y/N didn’t have time to move.

His fist came down hard across her jaw.

Her head snapped sideways, a sharp gasp breaking from her throat as blood flew in an arc across the floor. Her body recoiled instinctively, but she had nowhere to go—arms bound, knees failing.

Another hit.

Knuckles against cheekbone.

Crack.

She didn’t cry out this time. Just a low, wet sound from deep in her chest. One eye squeezed shut. The other barely tracked.

Spencer shouted her name—screamed it—but she couldn’t look at him.

The next blow hit her temple, dazing her. Her limbs jerked once, then sagged, and she started to tip—eyes fluttering.

He grabbed her by the front of her shirt and hauled her up, letting her head loll against his shoulder for a split second before slamming her back down against the post.

She choked on her own breath. Blood pooled in the corner of her mouth.

Still, she tried to speak. Tried to draw his focus back—keep him off Spencer.

“Go ahead,” she gasped, voice shredded. “You’ve already lost.”

Spencer’s voice cracked wide open. “Stop! You’re going to kill her!”

“I’m supposed to!” the unsub roared. “You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know how this ends?”

He wiped his knuckles, hands shaking, and reached for the knife on the table.

“No—no—” Spencer’s voice rose, frantic now. “Listen to me, just—just wait—”

But the unsub was already behind Y/N, cutting the ties loose with the knife. 

She hit the floor hard, shoulder slamming into the boards, the air knocked from her lungs in a sharp wheeze. Blood was smeared across her chin, a glint of it now soaking into the collar of her shirt. Her arms shook as she tried to push herself up.

The unsub stood over her, chest rising and falling with erratic, animal rhythm. He saw the flicker of her hand as she reached—slow, shaky—toward the knife that had fallen nearby during the struggle. Fingers grazed the hilt.

He kicked it away.

Hard.

The blade skidded across the floor and disappeared under the edge of a cabinet.

Y/N didn’t react fast enough to hide the effort.

He saw it and laughed. It was a jagged, broken sound—half snarl, half thrill. Then he stepped forward and crushed her hand beneath his boot.

Y/N’s cry was small and raw—closer to a breath than a scream. Her eyes squeezed shut. Her other hand curled into the floor.

Spencer strained against the ropes again, his voice hoarse with panic. “Don’t touch her!”

The unsub didn’t even glance back.

He knelt.

Slowly. Like he was savoring it.

He flipped her over, one knee pressed into Y/N’s stomach as he leaned forward, one hand pinning her shoulder down, the other hovering just over her throat.

“I want to see it,” he murmured. “The moment you realize you’re not the one in control anymore.”

Y/N coughed—barely able to lift her head. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts now. Each one sounded like it scraped the inside of her chest.

Then his hand wrapped around her throat, and squeezed. 

She clawed at his arm, both hands wrapping around his wrist, trying to pry him off, her grip slick with sweat and trembling with effort.

A low, pained sound escaped her throat—part snarl, part choke—as she gritted her teeth and fought back, muscles straining against the weight of him. She twisted beneath his grip, her nails biting into his skin, but he only squeezed harder, knuckles white, lips pulled back in something that might’ve been a grin or a grimace.

Spencer’s mind was racing. Every second like a blade in his chest. Every flash of her body jerking beneath the unsub’s grip chiseled deeper into him.

“Stop!” Spencer shouted, voice raw. “Hey—look at me!”

The unsub didn’t flinch. His grip only tightened.

Y/N’s body arched slightly beneath the pressure, her fingers still scrabbling against his arm, trying to peel his hand away from her throat.

Do something. Think. Think, think, think—

And then—

He found it.

A fracture in the man’s mind. A mirror.

Spencer’s voice dropped an octave, fast and sharp now, like the sound itself might wedge into the fracture. “You were right. You were right, okay?”

The unsub didn’t stop—but his grip faltered. Fractionally.

Spencer lunged toward that moment like it was oxygen.

“You knew they were watching you. You knew they were lying. That they wanted to control you, label you, shut you up. But you were smarter than them. That’s why you’re still here. You saw the truth and no one believed you, and you made it anyway.”

Y/N gasped—one desperate breath into her bruised lungs—and coughed, chest heaving.

The unsub’s hand wavered. Confusion clouded his eyes.

Spencer’s words poured out now, urgent and unrelenting. “You didn’t lose it. You adapted. You survived. You outmaneuvered everyone trying to cage you. That’s not a breakdown. That’s brilliance. That’s strength.”

The fingers at Y/N’s throat loosened. Barely—but enough.

Spencer’s voice softened, but the tempo stayed fast. Intent. Begging. Calculating. Focused.

“Don’t give them what they expect,” he breathed. “Don’t let them turn you into the thing they’re afraid of. You’re better than that. You know you are. Don’t let your story end in their headlines. Don’t become the monster they want to write about.”

Y/N coughed again—sharp, alive—and Spencer’s heart crashed against his ribs like it wanted out of his chest.

The unsub’s shoulders dropped. Just an inch.

Silence.

The unsub’s breathing hitched.

His hands fell away.

And just then—the door exploded open.

Boots stormed the cabin.

Voices shouting.

The unsub turned, disoriented—eyes wild, breath coming in short, confused bursts as the front door burst open in a hail of shouting and boots.

But he didn’t even have time to reach for the shotgun.

Morgan was on him in an instant.

Not tactical, not measured, but angry.

He slammed into the unsub like a wrecking ball, driving him back with a crash that shook the floor. They hit the boards hard—shoulder to ribs, elbow to throat—Morgan pinning him down with every ounce of fury in his body.

“You son of a bitch!” he roared, his voice pure, guttural violence.

His fist cracked against the unsub’s jaw once—twice—before Hotch grabbed him from behind, pulling him back.

“Morgan!” Hotch barked. “That’s enough!”

But Morgan’s eyes were locked on the blood smeared across the floor—on Y/N, curled on her side near the fireplace, gasping.

Her throat was mottled red, fingerprints blooming dark against her skin, and her face—her cheekbone already purple and raw, lips split.

She coughed again, ragged and wet, and blinked through the sting of light and dust as boots thundered toward her.

Rossi dropped to his knees beside her. “Y/N,” he said, voice taut. “Are you—can you hear me?”

Her hand wavered slightly, lifting from the floor with a tremble that shook down her whole arm. And then—miraculously, impossibly—she gave him a shaky thumbs up.

“Madonna santa,” Rossi muttered, relief crumpling across his face. 

Morgan was still breathing hard, knuckles white, even as the rest of the team moved in—cuffs, weapons, orders flying like a storm around them.

“You don’t touch her,” he spat, voice shaking as the unsub was hauled to his knees. “You don’t get to touch her.”

And then he was on his feet, already rushing to her side.

Hotch’s voice echoed like thunder. “CLEAR!”

But Spencer barely heard it.

He was already crawling across the floor, knees scraping wood slick with blood, hands shaking as he pulled himself toward her.

“Y/N,” he choked out.

She was curled on her side near the hearth, one hand limp across her stomach, the other barely twitching. Her body looked too small, too still. Blood matted her hair, smeared across her jaw, soaking into the collar of her shirt. Her breathing was shallow—thin—but there.

“Y/N,” he said again, softer now, breath catching.

His hands hovered just inches above her. He didn’t know where to touch—what not to hurt.

She turned her head slowly, her face a map of pain and resilience. A small, broken smile curled at the corner of her mouth, tugging against dried blood.

“Still here,” she rasped, trying to catch her breath, voice barely above a whisper. “Told you it was nothing.”

And then her eyes fluttered shut—not from unconsciousness, but relief. Like she finally believed she was safe.

Spencer’s chest caved inward, his hand finally settling gently against her shoulder.

“Stay with me,” he murmured. “Please.”

A pair of hands touched his arm.

JJ.

“Spence—Spencer, you’re bleeding. Let us—”

He shook his head without looking at her.

“I’m fine. Help her.”

Emily dropped to her knees beside JJ, composure cracking the moment she saw her.

“God—Y/N,” she breathed, her voice tight with panic she didn’t bother to hide. Her hands hovered over the bruises, the blood, the torn fabric, unsure where to touch without making it worse. Her eyes flicked rapidly from Y/N’s face to her ribs to the blood trailing down her temple, cataloging everything, but none of it fast enough.

“Talk to me, okay? Just—keep talking.”

But Morgan was already there too, hitting the floor hard on the other side of her, breath still ragged from the fight, jaw clenched like he wanted to throw another punch.

He didn’t say anything at first.

He just looked at her.

Then he reached out, gently brushing a matted strand of hair from her face with the back of his knuckle—fingers trembling.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly. “You’re okay now. We’ve got you.”

But Spencer never let go of her hand.

Her voice was the first thing to break the silence.

“Well,” Y/N croaked, barely above a whisper, “that went great.”

Spencer let out a sound that hitched in his throat — somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

She winced as she tried to push herself up, breath catching sharply in her throat. “Oof—okay, okay, maybe I should’ve opened with a knock-knock joke instead.”

“Y/N—don’t,” Morgan muttered, crouched beside her, one arm braced behind her back to steady her as she shifted upright. “You’re barely standing.”

“I’m hilarious,” she argued through grit teeth, her voice rough with blood and pride. “You’re just not in the mood.”

“Damn right I’m not,” Emily snapped gently, crouching in front of her, eyes wide with worry that she didn’t bother to hide. “You look like you went twelve rounds with a semi. Sit your ass down.”

Y/N tried to grin. Failed. Winced instead.

But she stayed upright. Just to prove she could.

Emily shook her head, but her eyes shone. “You scare the hell out of me, you know that?”

“Mutual,” Y/N rasped, and finally let her weight rest back into Morgan’s arm.

Spencer moved in quickly, his hands gentle but firm as he helped guide her into a seated position. “You shouldn’t move yet.”

She glanced at him, eyes still glassy, one brow arching faintly. “If I wait for your approval, I’ll die waiting instead.”

Morgan huffed—less annoyed, more relieved.

Spencer didn’t argue. He simply shifted to support her weight as she slowly—agonizingly—got to her feet. She swayed, hissed, nearly buckled again, but he caught her. Both arms steady around her as he drew her into his side.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

“I know,” she whispered back.

The air outside hit like a wall.

Cold, wet, alive with stormlight. It smelled like moss and mud and gunmetal, and Spencer didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until it stung his lungs on the way in.

Behind them, the cabin was alive with noise. Paramedics rushed past. JJ gave orders into her radio. The unsub writhed on the ground beneath the knee of a state trooper, snarling, face twisted, voice hoarse from screaming.

“You don’t know what they do,” he shouted after them. “You don’t know!”

Y/N flinched slightly at the sound, but didn’t look back. Spencer angled his body in front of hers, shielding her from the view.

She let him.

Morgan followed close behind, jaw tight, eyes still burning. “Let him scream,” he muttered. “He’s got nothing left.”

The ambulance came into view—doors open, floodlights painting everything in harsh yellow. Emily waited by the entrance, but her face softened when she saw Y/N walking under her own strength.

Barely. But still.

Spencer helped her up the step, one arm still wrapped firmly around her.

“You’re okay,” he murmured again, more to himself than to her.

“I know.”

“Almost there,” he murmured, voice barely audible above the wind.

Y/N gave a rough, rattling chuckle. “You said that five steps ago.”

He looked down at her—at the blood dried in the corner of her mouth, the bruises blossoming along her jaw, the torn skin on her knuckles—and felt something fracture in his chest again.

“You shouldn’t be talking.”

“I’ve earned the right,” she rasped. “Pretty sure I just out-profiled you.”

Spencer huffed, incredulous. “You’re making jokes?”

“You’re the one who talked a man off my windpipe with behavioral theory. We’re even.”

Her knees buckled suddenly. Spencer caught her with a sharp inhale, adjusting his grip and pulling her tighter against his side. She didn’t fight it—just leaned in, forehead briefly pressing against his shoulder, blood smudging the fabric of his coat.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

“Know you do.”

The ambulance doors were open now, floodlights casting harsh gold light over the clearing. JJ ran toward them first, her eyes wide with horror when she saw the state of them both—but mostly Y/N.

The paramedics helped ease her onto the gurney, moving fast but careful. Spencer started to step back, but her hand caught his.

“Don’t go far,” she said, her voice going soft now. “I don’t want to wake up alone.”

He squeezed her fingers gently. “I won’t.”

And as the ambulance doors closed — sealing her from view with a dull metallic finality — Spencer remained frozen in place.

Rain streaked down his face in thin, icy threads, soaking through his shirt and coat until the fabric clung to him like a second skin. His curls lay plastered to his forehead, water dripping steadily from his lashes, from the sharp line of his jaw. The cut on his temple had gone from a sharp burn to a dull throb, blood mingling with rain and trailing down the side of his face in a diluted red smear.

The paramedics circled him now, gloved hands brushing over his injuries with clinical care — gentle, practiced — but he barely registered them. The world felt muffled, as if the storm had pulled a veil over everything. All he could hear was the sound of her voice echoing in his mind, hollow and brave and unbearably steady:

It’s okay. I can take it.

He hadn’t believed her — not really. Not in the way she meant it. And now the weight of that moment sat like stone in his chest, pressing against his ribs, caught somewhere between the cracked floorboards of that cabin and the way her eyes had locked onto his. Not pleading. Not scared. Just herself. Fierce and unwavering and hurt. So deeply hurt.

Spencer blinked, slow and stinging, and for a heartbeat he thought he could still feel her fingers curled around his, warm and trembling, as she told him not to go far.

His heart hadn’t moved since.

It was still there — with her — wherever they were taking her now.

And for the first time since it all began, he realized: 

She had taken it. 

But he hadn’t.

Not really.

The apartment was dark when he stepped inside.

Not silent — the rain still fell against the windows in a steady whisper, and the old radiator creaked with every shift in temperature. But still, it felt like stepping into a vacuum. Like his body hadn’t caught up with him yet. Like a part of him was still in that cabin, still on the floor, watching her bleed.

He dropped his go-bag by the door and stood there for a long time, wet curls dripping onto the hardwood. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Not badly, just enough that he noticed. Enough that he wrapped them around a mug he didn’t remember filling and stared into space.

He didn’t even hear the knock at first.

Just the rhythm — soft, then urgent. Three beats. A pause. Two more. Like she didn’t want to wake the neighbors, but she couldn’t not be there.

Spencer crossed the room in a daze. When he opened the door—

She was standing there.

Coat wrapped tight around her. Hair pulled back but messy, the bandage above her temple visible under the porch light. She looked small. Pale. But she was on her feet.

He stared at her for a heartbeat too long. 

Then stepped aside without a word and let her in.

Spencer took her coat carefully—more gently than she expected. Like she might break if he touched her wrong. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, lowering herself onto the edge of his couch with a hiss between her teeth. “You’re gonna make me think I actually look as bad as I feel.”

He didn’t answer. Just folded her coat neatly over the armrest and crouched down in front of her, eyes scanning her face like he could take inventory of every bruise, every cut.

Before he could speak, she reached out—fingers brushing his jaw, then cradling the side of his face with both hands, steady and careful. Her thumbs skimmed just beneath his cheekbones as her eyes flicked up to the angry stitches near his temple, expression darkening with concern.

“Spence,” she said, voice low and earnest. “How do they feel?”

He blinked, startled slightly by the question—by the way she always noticed, even when she was the one who nearly didn’t make it out. 

“Sore,” he admitted quietly. “But manageable.”

Her brow pinched as her thumb hovered just shy of the wound, like she could soothe it just by being near.

“Good,” she murmured. “Because if they botched it, I’m filing a complaint.”

He huffed a faint laugh. But his eyes never left hers.

She glanced down at herself — the clean bandages wrapped snug around her hands, pale against the faint shadow of bruises blooming at her wrists. The ache in her ribs pulled with every breath, dulled by medication but still present, a quiet reminder. Then she looked back up at him, her smile crooked and dry.

“I mean, it’s not my best look,” she said. “But I’ve definitely worn worse on surveillance gigs. Remember that one time Garcia put me in a wig and said I looked like a discount Loretta Lynn?”

Spencer blinked. His mouth opened, then closed again. He looked like he wanted to laugh, but couldn’t remember how.

She nudged his knee gently with her hand. “Come on, Spence. I’m okay. See? Talking. Breathing. Being obnoxious.”

“You’re not okay.” His voice came out quiet, hoarse. “You were—he was—”

She cut him off gently. “You were there. I know.”

A pause. She softened.

“But you were also the reason I got to walk out.” She reached out, brushed her fingers lightly across his wrist. “So maybe I’m not as okay as I usually am. But I’m still here. That counts for something, right?”

He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in.

“I thought I was gonna lose you,” he whispered.

Y/N’s smile faded. Just a little.

Then, with a lopsided grin: “Are you kidding? After all that? You really think I’d let some backwoods psycho have the last word?”

He huffed out a laugh. It sounded broken. Real.

“Besides,” she added, settling back into the couch with a wince, “I like your couch too much to die. I mean—this thing is weirdly comfortable, right?”

Spencer looked at her like she was made of glass and gravity and everything that could undo him. But he smiled.

And for the first time all night, she knew he believed her.

The apartment hummed quietly around them — the radiator ticking, the rain soft against the windows. Spencer moved to sit beside her on the couch, but not too close. Just near enough that their knees touched lightly, unspoken reassurance pulsing in that one point of contact.

Y/N leaned her head back against the cushions. Eyes closed. Breathing slow.

Then, without opening her eyes:

“You’re doing that thing again.”

Spencer looked over. “What thing?”

She cracked one eye open and gave him a look. “The thing where you spiral quietly and blame yourself for everything within a hundred-mile radius.”

“I’m not—”

“Spencer,” she cut in, gentle but firm. “Don’t lie to me. Especially not when I look like this.”

He swallowed hard, gaze dragging up despite himself.

The bruises along her cheekbone had deepened into dusk-colored blooms — stark against the bandage at her temple. A fainter one curled near the corner of her jaw, half-hidden beneath the fall of her hair. Even cleaned and stitched up, she looked like she’d been through hell. And she had.

His eyes dropped to her hands — wrapped in clean gauze — then to the faint rise of bandages under her shirt, just visible at the edge of her coat. Her throat bore the worst of it: a scatter of red and violet where the pressure had been, ugly and fresh.

“I shouldn’t have let you—”

“You didn’t let me do anything.”

Her voice was quiet, but clear now. Unapologetic.

“I made a choice. I saw what was going to happen. I knew what he was going to do, and I made a call.”

He didn’t speak. Just stared at his hands in his lap like they might have done something different, if only they’d moved faster.

“I would do it again,” she said simply.

That got his attention. His head snapped up.

“No—Y/N—”

“Yes,” she said, unwavering. “Every time. If it’s between me or you, I’m choosing me. Every time.”

“You could’ve died.”

Her expression softened. “So could you.”

His throat tightened. “But I didn’t.”

“Because I was there.” She turned to him then, fully. Her voice dropped. “And because you distracted him. You did exactly what I hoped you would.”

“I didn’t know if it would work,” he admitted, voice breaking slightly.

“But it did.”

He looked at her for a long moment. There were tears in his eyes, unshed, and he wasn’t even trying to blink them away anymore.

“I hate that you got hurt,” he whispered.

“I hate that I had to,” she said, not unkindly. “But I don’t regret it.”

He reached out then — tentative — and let his fingers brush lightly over the back of her hand. Just enough to let her pull away if she needed to.

She didn’t.

His hand shifted from hers — slowly, carefully — until it hovered just beneath her chin. When she didn’t move away, he let his fingers graze the edge of her jaw. Gentle as breath. Like she was made of something more fragile than bone.

Y/N blinked once, then closed her eyes.

And leaned into the touch.

His thumb brushed gently across the curve of her cheek, over skin still tender and faintly swollen. His touch lingered—careful, reverent—as if memorizing the shape of her face one fragile line at a time. Like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

She let out the softest breath — not pained, just tired. Trusting.

Her hand came up and wrapped around his.

Just that.

Soft. Steady. Real.

Spencer shifted forward before he could think better of it. Just enough to bring his face close, so close he could feel her breath fan lightly against his mouth. But he didn’t kiss her there — not yet.

Instead, he pressed his lips to her temple. A barely-there touch. Then the other side. Her eyelid, warm beneath him. The bridge of her nose. Her cheekbone.

Tiny, aching acts of reverence.

He paused at the corner of her mouth.

Stopped there, hovering.

Her lashes fluttered open, and she didn’t pull away.

But she didn’t lean in either.

Her thumb ran across the back of his hand, slow. “Spence,” she murmured, voice low, a little raw. “You don’t have to be careful.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But I want to be.”

They stayed like that for a moment — her fingers curled around his, his palm resting against the side of her face like he couldn’t quite let go.

Then Y/N exhaled a slow breath and pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Her voice was quieter now, but still laced with that familiar edge — dry, wry, undeniably her.

“So…” she began, dragging out the word like it weighed something, “I was thinking I might crash here tonight. You know, if the offer’s still on the table.”

Spencer blinked, lips parting — caught somewhere between surprised and relieved. “Of course.”

She nodded, pretending to consider. “Good. Because I’m not entirely convinced my legs still work, and if I try to drive, I’ll probably end up in Delaware by accident.”

He almost smiled. “You’re welcome to the bed.”

“Tempting,” she said, already shifting her weight with a small wince. “But if you give me the bed, you’re just gonna sleep out here on the couch like some noble, long-suffering martyr, and then I’ll feel guilty and it’ll be this whole thing.”

“You won’t feel guilty.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Spence, I feel bad leaving voicemails. I will feel guilty.”

That pulled a real laugh from him — short, breathy, almost startled. The kind of sound that cracked something open.

She smiled at that, but it faded slower this time. Her eyes dropped to where their hands were still joined — his fingers curled carefully around hers, the pulse at his wrist still quick beneath her touch.

Then her gaze flicked up again, quieter now. Sharper.

“And stop looking at me like that,” she said. “Like it’s your fault. I swear, if you keep blaming yourself, I really will be mad at you.”

He opened his mouth — to protest, to explain, he didn’t even know — but she was already lifting his hand gently to her lips and kissing it. Soft. Steady. Like a promise.

“Just… stay close, okay?” she asked. “I don’t want to wake up and think I imagined all of this. You being here. Us getting out.”

His reply was immediate. Steady.

“I’ll be right here.”

She nodded, swallowing whatever else she might’ve said. Then, quieter:

“And if I start snoring, you’re not allowed to mock me until at least after breakfast.”

His eyes crinkled faintly. “Deal.”

[clementineinn]

thank you for validating my belief that spencer reid would absolutely flirt like he’s in a brontë novel 🙂‍↕️ i write him like he’s been in love for six years and can only express it via 19th century literature and poorly timed eye contact lol thank you again lovely 💛💗

listen to the bookman!

abstract: two BAU agents find themselves caught in a different kind of tension — not the kind that cracks cases, but the kind that lingers in glances and slips between the lines of shared quotes.

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

genre: fluuuuuff

word count: 8.5k

note: i've been writing sm, but i haven't posted anything bc lowk i feel like my stories suck lol, but i'm just gonna pull the trigger and post this one. it is fluffy, which, sorry, i can't help myself, but i do have some angsty pieces in the works! enjoy!

The rain had started just after nine.

Not with thunder, not with fanfare. No lightning stitched across the sky, no windswept leaves gathering like whispers in the gutter. Just the quiet insistence of it — that slow, silver curtain descending from nowhere in particular. It arrived without urgency, as if it had always meant to come, as if it had only been waiting for the world to quiet down enough to notice it. A soft percussion, delicate and steady, like fingers drumming idly along a windowsill — not to fill the silence, but to settle into it.

Each drop struck the windshield with the hush of intention, tiny cymbals against glass. They gathered at the edges of the wiper blades, collecting into trembling rivulets before slipping downward in uncertain paths, distorting the view beyond until the whole street looked underwater — houses sagging in reflection, lamplight warping into golden haze. Time itself seemed to slow beneath the weightless repetition of it. Not stopping. Just stretching, the way long nights tend to do when nothing moves and everything matters.

The wipers stirred only now and then, slow as breath, like they too had fallen under the spell of the storm. Each sweep was reluctant — a lazy gesture through the fogged glass that cleared a temporary view before the rain returned, gentler still, like it meant to stay. Outside, the town had curled into itself: porches darkened, curtains drawn, the world behind doors gone still. What little light remained flickered in warm, amber pools across wet pavement, refracted in puddles that looked deep enough to fall into and dream.

Inside the car, the rain made a kind of silence that had nothing to do with sound. A hush that lived beneath the noise, pressing in close, like a held breath waiting to be released.

Their SUV sat parked along a narrow, tree-lined street — the kind where the sidewalks cracked in quiet places and the air still carried the faint scent of cut grass and wet bark. The federal government plate gleamed dully beneath a film of rain and road grit, a muted badge among leaves clinging to the bumper like the last breath of autumn. The vehicle itself had become part of the scenery now: quiet, unmoving, patient.

The Bureau had been called in days earlier, summoned like a needle to thread together the frayed edge of a town unraveling. A string of disappearances — ordinary people, vanished in the soft blind spots of routine. No witnesses. No patterns that held. No certainty. Only shadows, and the kind of silence that pressed too close to the bone. And so tonight: surveillance. One house under suspicion. Two agents in the field. Spencer and Y/N, seated side by side in the long, slow hush of a stakeout that had yielded nothing but hours and the strange intimacy of shared breath.

It had been hours already — the kind of time that stopped meaning anything. The kind that crept into your bones and curled there.

Across the street, the suspect’s house sat inert, draped in a stillness that felt almost deliberate. Its windows were dim behind gauzy curtains, pale rectangles of nothing. No movement. No flicker of motion behind glass. Only a single porch light humming softly in the rain, casting its weak yellow glow over the sagging porch steps and the glint of wet shingles. A weathervane spun once above the roof — a slow, indecisive turn, more gesture than warning — then stilled again, as if it too had grown bored of waiting.

The rest of the neighborhood had long since folded into sleep. Porch lights clicked off, one by one. Televisions flickered behind drawn blinds, scenes playing to no one. Cars glistened in parked rows like resting beasts, their hoods wet and gleaming. Everything had gone hushed. Held.

At the far end of the block, a lone red bulb blinked on a motion sensor, pulsing faintly against the damp concrete of a driveway slick with rain. It flared, then dimmed, then flared again, like a slow heartbeat echoing down the empty street.

Somewhere deeper in the neighborhood — faint, almost imagined — a wind chime stirred. Not with wind, but with memory. A sound delicate and eerie in the stillness, like the echo of something forgotten.

It was the kind of street that, on nights like this, made even trained minds question what was real. The kind of quiet that softened the shape of fear. That made the air feel too gentle for anything to go wrong.

And yet.

They watched. Because danger never did ask permission. It simply waited, like they did now — cloaked in rain and silence, eyes fixed forward, hearts just a little louder in the quiet.

Inside the car, the air held the slow warmth of people who had stopped pretending they weren’t tired. It was the kind of warmth that built over hours — gathered from breath, from body heat, from shared silence that had nowhere else to go. It clung faintly to the glass, fogging in soft curves around the edges of the windshield, curling up along the side windows where no one had spoken for a while. The scent was a mix of things that didn’t quite belong together but somehow fit: the faint sharpness of old paper, the damp wool of Spencer’s sweater sleeves, and the thin, bitter ghost of gas station coffee steeping in the bottom of two stainless steel travel mugs in the console.

The dashboard lights glowed a dim green, casting soft geometric shadows over the interior — across the grain of the steering wheel, the uneven crease of Spencer’s slouched coat, the glint of rainwater still clinging to the doorframe. The SUV felt like its own small world now, floating somewhere just outside of real time.

Spencer sat in the driver’s seat, his posture relaxed in that very particular way of someone who never truly let his guard down. A worn paperback was open across his knee, its spine softened from too many readings, the corners curled. His fingers moved absently along the edge of the page, not turning it yet, just holding the weight of it. A pen was tucked behind his ear — not needed but always there. The sleeves of his cardigan were shoved to the crook of his elbows, revealing the pale, fine angles of his wrists, the delicate bones that made him look more scholar than federal agent. His coat was balled up behind him, crushed into the space between his seat and the door. It looked like insulation. Or a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed.

Y/N sat sideways in the passenger seat, curled toward the window like she’d grown into that shape — one leg folded beneath her, the other stretched lazily out, her socked foot resting against the center console in a quiet, unconscious nudge. Her boots were somewhere on the floor, long forgotten. The rhythm of her breath fogged the glass just slightly. Her head tilted, chin propped in her hand as she followed the rain across the windowpane — not watching the house, not really watching anything. Just letting the storm draw soft, meandering shapes down the glass, like an artist sketching something only she could see.

Outside, time moved on without them — steady, indifferent, marked by the soft blink of porch lights switching off and the deepening hush of a town folding itself into sleep. The world beyond the windshield turned in its usual way, unaware that anything was waiting.

Spencer turned a page.

The sound was nearly silent — just the faint rasp of paper moving against paper, the quietest breath of motion in a space that had forgotten what sound was. The overhead light remained off — too conspicuous, too artificial — but the dashboard cast a low, steady glow across his lap, enough for his eyes to follow the words without strain. In that dimness, he looked almost like a ghost of himself: all sharp planes and soft lines, caught somewhere between thought and presence.

He looked oddly comfortable for a man halfway through a ten-hour surveillance shift. But then again, Spencer Reid had never needed comfort to look at ease — only stillness. And this night, at least on the surface, had given him plenty of it.

Across from him, in the passenger seat, Y/N shifted.

It was the kind of movement that drew the eye without trying — slow, unhurried, the kind of stretch you made only when your body had started to mold itself into the shape of a seat. She drew her knees up onto the leather, curling into herself, not out of tension but out of familiarity. One hand rested lightly at the base of her neck; the other dangled off her knee, fingers relaxed, half-curled.

Her gaze still followed the long, translucent trails the rain carved down the glass — eyes tracking them like someone reading a foreign language slowly, line by line. Outside, the world blurred into shape and color: yellow porch light, dark trees, the soft distortion of reflections in wet pavement. But her eyes didn’t flinch from the blur. She just watched, quiet and still, like she might stay that way until morning.

They hadn’t spoken in some time.

But silence, here, was not a gap to be filled — it was a rhythm. A heartbeat. A third presence in the car, curling around them, holding everything that hadn’t been said.

Until—

“Any movement?” she asked, voice low — not tense, not expectant, just soft, like a thread being tugged out of habit more than hope.

Spencer didn’t answer right away. He glanced toward the house across the street, his gaze cutting through the layers of fog on the windshield and the distortion of raindrops sliding down the glass in lazy, luminous streaks.

Nothing.

No lights. No shift behind the curtains. No silhouettes pacing in backlit windows. Just the soft, constant hush of the storm and a porch that had grown too still to feel natural.

He shook his head, eyes drifting back to his page. “Nope. Not since the cat around eight-forty.”

That pulled a sound from her — not quite a laugh, more like a small, amused exhale. A puff of disbelief softened by affection. She turned toward him, one brow arched in gentle accusation.

“You logged the cat?”

Spencer didn’t look up. Just flipped a corner of the page with the back of his knuckle, as if this were the most obvious response in the world.

“He was orange. Limped on the right paw. Could be important.”

She smiled then — faint, but real. Not at the cat. Not even really at the joke.

At him.

At the way he said it with no trace of irony. At the way he watched the world like every detail might hold the thread that could unravel everything. At the way his voice had settled low for the night, mellow and worn like the spine of the book in his hands.

It was barely anything.

And still, she found herself holding on to it.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

But it wasn’t the kind of silence that demanded explanation. It wasn’t brittle or impatient. It simply stretched between them, soft and steady, the way old friends might fall into rhythm without needing to fill it with sound. The rain had become a background hum — steady, hypnotic — wrapping the SUV in a cocoon of warmth and fog. Every so often, the wipers traced a slow arc across the windshield, a half-hearted attempt at clarity.

Spencer flipped a page with the careful precision of someone who didn’t just read — someone who studied, who inhabited, who listened to the echo of every sentence long after it was gone. The movement was unhurried, like time didn’t touch him here.

Y/N leaned her head back against the seat, the curve of her neck exposed in the dashboard’s low green glow. Her eyes slipped closed, lashes brushing the skin beneath her brow. Not sleep. Just stillness. The kind that only found her when the storm outside was louder than the one inside her mind.

Then — a pause, a breath, a beat too long.

Her voice broke the hush like a pebble tossed into a still lake.

“What are you reading?”

Spencer didn’t glance up. Just lifted the book slightly, eyes still scanning the page.

“Persuasion. Austen.”

That made her lift her head again, brow raised, an amused spark catching behind her gaze.

“Seriously? I pegged you more as a Brontë man.”

“I like the Brontës,” he said easily. “But Austen’s prose is more psychologically nuanced. And Anne Elliot is arguably one of the most emotionally complex heroines in English literature.”

Y/N blinked once, slowly.

“Okay, but does she walk across moors dramatically in the rain?”

Spencer arched a brow at that, finally looking up, mouth twitching at the edge.

“You do know it’s raining right now, right?”

She smiled — wide this time, unguarded, the kind of smile that curled at the corners and didn’t rush away. She stretched her legs out, shifting in her seat until her sock-clad foot nudged his knee lightly — a small, familiar touch that didn’t feel like much until it did.

“Fine. Read me something.”

He hesitated, thumb holding his place on the page.

“From this?”

She gave him a look, dry and warm.

“No, from your weather log. Yes, from that.”

He didn’t ask why.

Didn’t smirk or prod or ask if she was serious. He just flipped back a few pages, slow and unhurried, his thumb dragging lightly over the paper as though reacquainting himself with the rhythm of the words before they even met the air. A quiet breath slipped past his lips — not a sigh, not nervous — something centered. Then he cleared his throat gently, and began to read.

“My idea of good company is the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation.”

His voice was softer when reading — less clinical, less tightly wound than usual. Like the cadence of someone telling a story they remembered too well. It slipped easily into the space between them, filling it with something light but tangible. Familiar. Almost fond.

She smiled again, but this time it was smaller — quieter. The kind of smile that tugged at one side of her mouth, just enough to mean something, just enough to give her away. It wasn’t for him, not fully. It was for the moment. For the sound of his voice. For the line.

“And is that why you’re stuck in a car with me?”

Spencer looked over at her, gaze steady, not blinking. Not teasing.

“It certainly doesn’t hurt.”

Y/N gave him a look — half-amused, half-skeptical, but undeniably warm — then turned back toward the window with a faint shake of her head, lips still curled. Her breath touched the cold glass in front of her, fogging it just enough to leave a small, crescent bloom where her exhale had landed.

For a while, the only sound was the rain — a steady hush against the roof, soft and constant. Like the sky had decided to whisper all night and had no plans of stopping.

Time passed like that — not fast, not particularly slow, but in that strange, viscous way time has when nothing moves and everything feels like it might. The kind of time that didn't announce itself, only lingered in the stillness, tucking itself into corners: the curve of a seatbelt, the soft click of a shifting jaw, the rhythmic sweep of wipers.

Outside, the street held its breath. Inside, the car did too.

Spencer had already read two chapters. Probably more, if she was being honest. His eyes flicked across the pages with that impossibly fast rhythm she’d grown used to, but still found quietly bewildering. He turned each one with the same reverent calm, the motion so habitual it was almost unconscious — as if his hands knew the story before his eyes did. Not a single sentence read aloud since the last one she’d asked for. But the air still felt full of his voice.

The silence had begun to thicken. Not unpleasantly. Just noticeably. The kind of quiet that made you suddenly aware of the sounds your own body made — the shallow pull of breath through your nose, the slow shift of fabric over your knee, the faint, traitorous beat of your pulse.

It was sometime past ten.

Y/N had already counted the porch lights on the block — seven, two dimmer than the rest. She’d played a mental guessing game with the silhouettes behind living room curtains: game show, drama, rerun of something laugh-tracked. She’d reorganized the snack bag in the backseat by color, then by noise level, then by expiration date. Her left sock was bunched and bothering her, but not enough to fix. Her boot had begun to tilt inward from where it sat abandoned under the dash.

Meanwhile, Spencer remained exactly as he’d been: spine straight, expression unreadable, a small vertical crease between his brows — not from stress, but from focus. That peculiar kind of stillness that only sharpened his edges.

And it was all just a little too much.

She couldn't take it anymore.

“Okay,” she said at last, her voice slicing softly through the quiet — not a jolt, but a ripple. Like a pebble skipping across still water, breaking the surface just enough to catch his attention. “Let’s play a game.”

Spencer glanced up from his book. The low green light from the dash slid across the lenses of his glasses, catching on the faint smudge of a fingerprint. His pen was still poised between his fingers, tucked neatly into the crease of the page like a placeholder he hadn’t meant to use. He blinked once, slow, thoughtful.

“What kind of game?”

Y/N turned toward him more fully now, folding her leg up beneath her, sock brushing the console. She narrowed her eyes with a mock-serious squint, the dramatic tension undercut by the small smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Quote battle. You read a line, I name the book, and vice versa.”

Spencer tilted his head — that precise, birdlike angle she’d come to recognize as curiosity. He looked at her as if analyzing the strategic value of her challenge, weighing outcomes and probabilities in real time.

“What do I get if I win?”

Her grin widened, sharp and playful, lighting her face like something just a little dangerous. “What do you want?”

He blinked once — visibly computing, as if she’d just asked him to solve something unexpectedly complex. His eyes darted slightly, then settled.

“Control of your iPod on the jet for a week.”

“Deal,” she said immediately, hand flicking outward like she was signing a contract in the air. “And if I win, you buy me coffee every morning until next Friday.”

Spencer considered this with the seriousness of a man preparing to enter diplomatic negotiations.

“So… eight days?”

Her brows arched, delighted. “You already did the math?”

His mouth twitched — just slightly. “You challenged me.”

She gestured toward the book in his lap, chin tilted like a dare.

“Go on then. Hit me.”

He flipped a few pages back, fingertips grazing the dog-eared edges with the ease of someone who had memorized the landscape of a book — its weight, its breath, the way the spine folded in his palm like it belonged there. His eyes moved fast, scanning the text like wind moving through leaves. Then he found it. He cleared his throat quietly, a low sound that somehow deepened the stillness between them, and read aloud:

“She had the kind of beauty that hurt to look at—sharp, aching, and likely fatal if mishandled.”

His voice dipped naturally into the rhythm of the line — not performative, not dramatic, just soft and sure, shaped by memory and admiration. The words seemed to hang in the warm air of the car long after he stopped speaking.

Y/N squinted, angling her head toward him like she was turning a puzzle over in her mind.

“That’s not Austen.”

“No,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, equal parts pleased and impressed. “It’s Tana French.”

She hummed, a low sound of appreciation, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Well played.”

“My turn?” she asked, already shifting her weight, her voice curling with anticipation.

He nodded once, resting the book lightly against his knee. “Hit me.”

She didn’t hesitate.

Her voice was steady, quiet, but carried the weight of something familiar — a line so worn it gleamed like glass:

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”

Spencer blinked. Once. Then again — not out of surprise, but recognition.

“Jane Eyre.”

“Too easy,” she sighed, the corners of her mouth twitching with mock disappointment. “Fine. You go.”

He thumbed through another page, slow and deliberate now, though his eyes still moved with that rapid, uncanny rhythm — like he wasn’t just reading but indexing, cataloging, selecting the perfect thread to pull. His fingers paused near the middle of a chapter, pressed gently to the margin like he needed to feel the weight of the words before he let them leave his mouth.

When he read, his voice was casual — too casual. That smooth, practiced kind of nonchalance that only ever meant someone was trying very hard not to reveal too much.

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

The words drifted out into the warm hush of the car like smoke — slow and curling, heavy with implication. And for a beat, they just hung there. Not long. Not really.

But it pressed.

Pressed into the stillness. Pressed into her.

Y/N turned to look at him — slowly, like she already knew what she’d find. Her lips curved upward just enough, not a full smile but something sly and edged with disbelief.

“Are you quoting Pride and Prejudice at me right now?”

Spencer kept his gaze trained on the page in front of him, but the corner of his mouth twitched — a single, unspoken tell.

“Would it be weird if I was?”

“Only if you keep using Mr. Darcy’s lines on me.” She nudged his knee with her socked foot — not hard, just enough to feel him there, solid and warm beside her in the dark. “That man proposed like he was submitting a complaint to management.”

That did it.

Spencer finally looked up — really looked — and smiled in a way he rarely did. Wide, teeth showing, the kind of grin that cracked across his usually composed face like sunlight through drawn curtains. His dimples appeared, sharp and genuine, softening the angles of him until he looked startlingly young. He wasn’t trying to hide it. Not tonight. Not from her.

“And yet,” he said, tone rich with mock solemnity, “he’s one of the most beloved romantic heroes of all time.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, letting the words tumble out on a half-laugh, half-breath, “everyone loves a man who can’t express emotion without sounding like he’s about to faint.”

Spencer tilted his head, still smiling, eyes never leaving hers.

“That likely depends on whether you’re Elizabeth or Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

She let out a laugh — not loud, not sharp, but quiet. Contained. The kind of sound that stayed close to the chest. The kind that wasn’t just amusement, but recognition. Affection. A small flare of something bright held carefully in her hands.

“You know,” she said, nudging his knee again — gentler this time — “this whole thing is starting to feel suspiciously like flirting.”

Spencer looked up slowly.

His smile stretched wider this time — all teeth and dimples, that rare, utterly unguarded kind of grin he only seemed to wear around her. It softened everything. His posture, his face, the ever-present weight between his brows. He looked… happy. Genuinely so. And that alone made the moment tip slightly, like the air around them had taken one breath too deep.

“Only suspiciously?”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in exaggerated thoughtfulness.

“Well, if it is,” she said, her tone lilting with amusement, “you’re doing it very… academically.”

“That’s the only way I know how.”

“I figured.” Her lips quirked, but there was affection behind it now — warmer, quieter. She shifted in her seat again, drawing her knees back up beneath her, curling into the corner like she meant to stay there. Her shoulder bumped the inside of the door; the toe of her sock pressed softly to the edge of the console.

“Next quote, Doctor Reid.”

He turned another page, but this time his fingers slowed at the edge — like they were no longer moving just to move. His eyes flicked down the page, scanning, not quickly now, but deliberately. He stopped halfway down, and when he spoke, his voice was lower. Smoother.

“There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison.”

The quote settled in the warm dark between them like smoke. Light, but dense. Fragrant with intention.

She didn’t guess this one.

Didn’t even try.

Instead, she watched him — not startled or shy, just there with him in the moment, fully. Her gaze held steady on his face for a second too long, her expression unreadable but soft, like she was seeing something she hadn’t let herself look at before. Then she turned her head slightly, eyes drifting out the windshield toward the still-dark house.

Her voice followed a moment later — quieter now, but not hesitant.

“You always pick the romantic ones when it’s just me.”

Spencer didn’t reply.

Didn’t have to.

The words didn’t need answering. They weren’t a question. They were something else entirely — a thread unspooling gently in the hush between them, tying things together she hadn’t named until now.

They hung in the air — not heavy, not awkward, just suspended. Like a truth neither of them had to rush to touch.

And still, it pulsed there. Quiet. Unspoken. Real.

Outside, the rain picked up.

Not all at once. Not with drama or force. Just a slow thickening — a soft insistence in the air, the kind of weight that settled gently over rooftops and sidewalks until the world seemed wrapped in water. The drops came heavier now, tracing long, uninterrupted streaks down the windshield like tears that didn’t know they’d fallen. The rhythm changed — not frantic, but full. A lullaby in another room, low and constant, the sound of the earth exhaling.

Thunder murmured somewhere in the distance, too far to startle, too soft to fear. It rolled low and wide, more suggestion than presence — a storm that circled like a thought you couldn’t quite finish.

Inside the car, the change was quieter still.

But it was there — the kind of shift you felt more than saw. In the way her hands stilled completely in her lap. In the way his thumb lingered on the edge of a page, but never turned it. In the way he closed the book softly, without ceremony, and let it rest across his thigh like something that had given him all it could for the night.

The space between them wasn’t wide. It hadn’t been for hours. But now it felt different — a kind of nearness that didn’t ask for attention, only acknowledgment. A quiet hum building beneath the sound of rain, shaped like something waiting to be named.

Y/N stretched again, slow and languid, like the warmth of the car had melted into her bones. Her jacket was folded between her seat and the door, a makeshift pillow that carried the faint scent of wet wool and worn leather. One leg tucked beneath her, the other lazily extended until her knee nudged against Spencer’s on the console — light, casual, but not accidental.

“You look comfortable,” he said, voice low and edged with something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close. The corner of his mouth tilted up, that soft glint in his eyes reserved only for her.

She shrugged, gaze still half on the glass, where the rain stitched silver threads across the surface.

“We’ve been here for hours. I’m adapting. Survival of the fittest and all that.”

Spencer glanced toward the house again, letting the moment breathe.

Still no movement.

“It’s not like you to go stir-crazy,” he said, voice soft, shaped around the edge of a smile.

Y/N turned her head toward him, slow and deliberate, the overhead glow catching the curve of her cheek. Her voice was quieter now, touched with teasing, but threaded through with something gentler.

“Yeah, well,” she murmured, mouth curving, “you’ve been reading Austen aloud like it’s bedtime, and frankly, I’m beginning to feel a little wooed.”

Spencer blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and mild academic protest.

“Austen is statistically one of the most romantic authors in the Western canon.”

She grinned, shifting her weight just enough for her knee to bump against the console again — light and unthinking, like contact was instinct by now.

“That’s what I’m saying. I feel like I should be fanning myself.”

He turned slightly in his seat, angling toward her without seeming to think about it — the space between them closing in degrees, subtle and slow. His hands rested in his lap, but his focus was fully hers now.

“Would you prefer I quote something less romantic?” he asked. “Something clinical?”

She narrowed her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching as she stared him down.

“If you quote a math theorem at me, I’m getting out of the car.”

“In this weather?” he deadpanned, glancing meaningfully toward the rain-streaked glass.

“Dramatic exits don’t wait for ideal conditions.”

That pulled another smile from him — unguarded, his dimples deepening as his features softened in the glow of it. He looked younger that way. Brighter. Like someone who had just been handed permission to be seen.

And then, quieter:

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Her brows pulled together immediately, the shift in tone catching her with something almost like concern.

“You didn’t.”

Spencer looked down briefly, then back up, his voice a little steadier now — like it mattered to say it right.

“I just… wasn’t sure if the quoting thing was crossing a line.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, eyes still on his face, watching him with the kind of attention that always made him feel like she saw more than he said. The light from the dashboard cut softly across his features — caught the edge of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the almost imperceptible movement as he swallowed.

And still, her gaze didn’t waver.

She caught the flicker in his eyes — the way his gaze dropped for a beat too long, as if a thought had slipped loose before he could catch it. Just a brief shift, but enough. Enough to feel the weight behind the silence. Enough to see that he was second-guessing something, maybe everything.

So she leaned in. Not dramatically, not to close a distance, just slightly. The kind of movement you made when you didn’t want to startle a bird. Her voice was low when it came, warm and unhurried — teasing in that familiar, sideways way that made space instead of closing it.

“Relax, Romeo,” she murmured, the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth easy, natural, hers. “If I didn’t like it, I would’ve made you switch to case reports an hour ago.”

That earned his attention.

Spencer glanced over at her — and this time, he didn’t just look. He saw. Really saw her. Not as the agent beside him. Not as the person he’d been sitting with for hours. But as something else. Something specific.

It was the kind of gaze he usually reserved for the rare things — uncrackable ciphers, strange celestial maps, pages too dense for most to decipher. But it was softer now. Focused. Unflinching.

And all of it was hers.

Y/N held his gaze, still smiling, still pretending — barely — that her heart wasn’t crashing against her ribs like it had just realized it had skin to break through. She didn’t drop her eyes. Didn’t tease further. Just let the quiet bloom around them.

And then, a little quieter, more honest than before:

“You don’t do it with anyone else. Just me.”

The pause that followed wasn’t long.

But it held.

Not because he didn’t have something to say — but because she’d already said enough.

Then she huffed a breath and leaned back again, her body folding into the curve of the seat like she was trying to retreat from the tension she’d just sewn into the air. She reached for levity — not to deflect, but to steady the moment, to give it room to breathe. Her voice dropped just enough to sound offhanded, even as something more trembled just beneath the surface.

“You’re going to make someone very confused one day, Spencer. Using Austen as a flirtation tactic is very dangerous.”

He turned to her fully now, one brow arching with exaggerated skepticism, the edge of his mouth fighting a smile.

“Dangerous?”

“Highly.” She waved a hand vaguely in the space between them, her tone mock-serious, but her gaze held steady on his face. “All this charm and intellect and emotional repression—it’s a lot.”

Spencer laughed — really laughed. The sound burst out of him light and breathless, and it startled even him a little. He tipped his head back, shoulders shaking for a beat, that rare, beautiful sound filling the car like light through fogged glass.

“That’s… an interesting interpretation.”

She smiled too, lopsided and knowing. A little crooked, a little fond. The kind of smile that came from watching someone unravel gently, willingly.

“I’m just saying,” she said, voice softer now but still playfully edged, “if you keep quoting Persuasion at girls in the dark, someone’s gonna fall in love with you.”

This time, he didn’t laugh.

But the smile lingered — soft and shaped with something quieter. Something he didn’t need to dress up in humor or hide behind logic. It tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth like a secret wanting out.

He just looked at her.

And said, voice barely above a whisper:

“You say that like it hasn’t already happened.”

That was when the air changed.

Not in a loud, crashing way — but in the way the atmosphere does before a storm rolls in. The kind of shift you feel before you see. Pressure dropping. Something pulling low and deep in your chest. The hush before lightning splits the sky.

Her heart stuttered once — a quiet, startled rhythm behind her ribs.

But she didn’t move.

Neither did he.

They just sat there.

Knees brushing. Shoulders angled slightly toward each other. Breath held just below the surface. The thunder rolled again, low and blooming in the distance, but it felt closer now — not in the sky, but in the space between them.

And the silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was brimming with everything they hadn’t said. Everything they almost had.

They didn’t speak for a while after that.

Not because there was nothing left to say — but because whatever had just passed between them was still in the room, still in the air, like dust lit by a headlight beam. It hovered. It clung. It needed space to settle.

And when the quiet returned, it wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t companionable or easy. It was charged. Dense with possibility. Like a radio dial turned just off-center — all static and hum, vibrating with the shape of words that hadn’t been spoken but still somehow filled the space.

Neither of them moved.

Not at first.

The rain whispered steadily against the windows, carving glass into trembling river lines. The cabin of the SUV had grown warmer, breath-fog softening the edges of the world beyond it. The outside was blurred. The inside was bright with everything they weren’t saying.

Eventually, Y/N shifted — slowly, like she didn’t want to startle the moment. Like she was wading through it. A deer through tall grass.

She stretched her legs down from the seat, her sock brushing the base of the console as she moved. Not restless — just closer. Her spine curved slightly inward, instinctive, unconsciously tilted in his direction. Her hand dropped into her lap, fingers tapping out a rhythm that didn’t match the rain, didn’t match anything at all — except maybe the quick, uneven beat of her pulse.

She glanced sideways, not quite meeting his eyes, her voice soft — but edged with mischief, like a spark under velvet.

“So,” she said, drawing the word out like a thread between her fingers, the kind that unraveled slowly just to see where it led, “how long have you been using Regency-era romance as a seduction technique?”

Spencer blinked — once, then again, as though her question had short-circuited some internal circuit he’d previously thought infallible.

“Excuse me?”

She smirked, lips curling with the satisfaction of someone who’d just set off a particularly elegant trap. Her gaze slid sideways, head tilted, playful but precise — like she was enjoying watching him squirm just a little.

“You heard me. You’re weaponizing Austen, Reid.”

“I’m not—” He stopped, mid-breath, brows drawing together in a furrow of genuine confusion. His tone shifted, caught somewhere between defense and self-doubt, like he was suddenly evaluating all his life choices. “I’m not weaponizing anything.”

“You say that,” she murmured, voice softer now, eyes narrowing with mock scrutiny. She leaned in just enough to make it feel like a secret. “But you’ve been sitting over there all night quoting Anne Elliot like it’s nothing.”

Spencer’s hands lifted slightly, as if ready to explain himself with a logical breakdown and supporting footnotes.

“It was relevant to our conversation.”

“Mhm. Sure.” She nodded, slowly, exaggerating the motion like she was humoring him. “Totally casual. Just a normal thing you do with coworkers during a federal surveillance op.”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again — the movement small but visible, the rhythm of a man realizing too late that he’d walked right into a thesis statement he hadn’t prepared for. He looked at her, a little wide-eyed, somewhere between horrified and completely disarmed.

And she was still smiling.

That same knowing smile that always made him feel like she could see straight through him — not in a threatening way, but like a flashlight through fog.

She leaned forward slightly, elbow resting on the console between them like she was settling into a chess match she already knew she was winning. The space narrowed — not dramatically, just enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, see the faintest shift in his expression as she moved closer.

Her voice dropped, teasing and low, her words brushed with deliberate mischief.

“Be honest—do you quote Virginia Woolf to Hotch when you’re trying to butter him up?”

Spencer blinked at her, visibly startled — then gave her a look so affronted, so utterly scandalized, it made her laugh under her breath. It was the kind of expression he reserved for things like inaccurate statistics or poorly alphabetized books.

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay,” she said, pressing now, enjoying the way the tips of his ears turned just a shade darker in the dim light. “So what’s my category?”

Her eyes gleamed as she listed them off, slow and deliberate, watching the way he tried not to react.

“Austen? Brontë? Bit of Plath if I’m cranky?”

He was trying not to smile. She could see it — the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the fight behind his eyes, the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly like holding in laughter required muscle.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being thorough,” she corrected, tapping the side of her temple like it was all part of a formal diagnostic process. “Profiling, remember?”

He shook his head once, but it was hopeless now — the shape of his mouth gave him away. That soft, helpless curve he only wore when it was her.

And then, quieter. So quiet she almost missed it, but not quite:

“You say that like it’s a theory,” he murmured, “but it sounds a lot like hope.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Not loudly. Not visibly. But it caught — sharp and low in her chest — and her whole body stilled for just a fraction too long, like something delicate had been named.

The space between them had grown impossibly small.

Inches. Maybe less. The console between their seats felt like a formality now — a boundary that had once meant something, back when lines were clearer. But those lines had smudged hours ago, and now the air between them pulsed with everything that had risen in the silence.

Every glance. Every quote. Every moment of not looking away.

Y/N blinked — just once — suddenly uncertain of her footing, like the room had tilted and she wasn’t quite sure what her next step would do. So she did what she always did when the ground started to shift beneath her.

She reached for levity.

“Alright, then. If you were going to write me a love letter, would it be annotated?”

Spencer huffed out a breath — something between a laugh and a sigh of relief, like she’d just let the air back in.

“Only lightly,” he said, the corners of his mouth curving again. “A few citations. Footnotes. Maybe a reference table.”

“Oh, good,” she breathed, the smile tugging at her lips returning with a softness that hadn’t been there before. “I love when romance comes with appendices.”

He turned toward her fully now — not just his head, but his whole body, his knees brushing hers again, their shoulders angled like a conversation only they could hear.

“You joke,” he said, voice lower now, intimate in a way that made the walls of the SUV feel smaller, closer, “but I could quote you half a dozen passages from 19th century literature that remind me of you.”

She blinked once. Quick. Like her breath had caught behind her ribs.

“…Name one.”

But he didn’t.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for the book. Didn’t chase the question back with logic or wit.

He just looked at her.

And the look was a thing unto itself — unguarded and direct, like a thought that had lived too long in the dark and was finally stepping into the light. His mouth parted slightly, like he might speak, but no words came. His fingers curled tighter around the edge of his seat, as if he needed something solid to hold onto.

The silence between them swelled, not awkward, not unsure — just full. Brimming. Close enough to touch.

And neither of them moved.

Because if they did — if even one of them leaned closer — it wouldn’t be silence anymore.

It would be everything.

Because the truth of it—that aching, unnamed thing that had stretched and shimmered between them all night—was louder than anything he could have quoted.

It hung in the air now, full and real, vibrating like a string pulled too tight.

The windows had begun to fog.

Not completely. Just at the corners, where their breath mingled in the air, warm and quiet. The edges of the world blurred out, as if even the SUV had started to breathe slower. Everything inside the car felt thick with weight—with them—their bodies no longer separated by anything that mattered.

Outside, the street was still. No footsteps. No shadows in the house across the way. Just the hush of rain, soft and constant, and the low purr of the engine like a heartbeat they’d both forgotten to hear.

It was too much. Too quiet. Too full.

So Y/N broke it—because she had to. Because it was either that, or let it swallow her whole.

“So,” she said lightly, trying for teasing but not quite reaching it, the word catching slightly at the edges, “was that the part where you were going to kiss me or just emotionally devastate me with more well-placed metaphors?”

Spencer turned his head.

Slowly.

Like he’d been waiting for permission.

Like he’d been still all this time not out of hesitation, but out of reverence—like he knew this wasn’t something you rushed.

“You talk a lot when you’re nervous,” he said, so softly it nearly dissolved into the air between them.

She blinked.

“I’m not—” she started, but her voice caught—right on the edge of certainty. She cleared her throat and tried again, masking the tremble with a crooked smile. “I’m not nervous. I just didn’t want to ruin your perfectly curated quote-to-eye-contact ratio.”

Spencer’s lips twitched.

But the look in his eyes didn’t shift.

It stayed steady. Bare. The kind of gaze that didn’t flinch from the truth anymore. It held her without demand, like he was showing her the most vulnerable part of himself and trusting her not to look away.

And she didn’t.

Couldn’t.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t dodge. Didn’t retreat into metaphor or distraction or some clever turn of phrase.

He just looked at her.

The kind of look that reached deeper than words. The kind that unraveled things. The kind that said I see you — and always have.

“I’ve been in love with you,” he said, quiet as a breath, “since your first case.”

No dramatic pause. No swelling music. Just a soft truth offered in the smallest of spaces. No less earth-shaking for its gentleness.

Outside, the rain kept falling — slow and constant, threading silver down the windshield like time deciding not to move.

The windows continued to fog, blurring the world beyond them until it was gone entirely. Only the inside remained now. Only this space. Only them.

Inside the car, the world stilled.

Y/N felt it in her chest first — a quiet catch of breath that slipped beneath her ribs and stayed there, trembling. Something had shifted — tectonic, deep beneath the surface — and everything realigned around it.

Her pulse fluttered. Her fingers curled in her lap, grounding her in the fabric of her jeans, the grain of the seat beneath her. But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t look down.

She didn’t ask if he meant it.

She didn’t joke. Didn’t tease.

She just looked at him.

And the silence between them wasn’t silence anymore.

It was something whole.

She moved towards him, unhurried and certain, as though the moment had long since been ordained. There was no fanfare in the gesture, no trembling flourish — only the quiet conviction of a woman who had made up her mind. Her hand came to rest at his neck, her fingers light and reverent, and then — with the gentleness of breath and the steadiness of affection long harboured — her lips found his.

It was not a kiss of passion unbridled, nor of haste or vanity. It was a confession, tender and unspoken, offered in the only language she could summon. And he received it as such — returning the kiss with the astonishment of a man long denied happiness, scarcely daring to trust that it had come at last.

When they parted — for breath, for sense, for the sweet necessity of drawing nearer still — her hand lingered at his jaw, thumb brushing the fine curve of it with something very near reverence.

His eyes opened slowly, as though waking from some long, aching dream.

“I wasn’t planning on saying it like that,” he whispered, breathless.

A smile touched her lips — quiet, wry, and altogether disarming. “How were you planning to say it?”

He shrugged slightly. “I was… maybe going to write it in the margin of a book and pretend you found it by accident.”

Her laugh then was soft and genuine, surprised by joy. It caught in the air like a lark in morning light.

“You still can,” she said. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it. For dramatic effect.”

They remained there, foreheads pressed together in the hush that follows great change — the kind of silence that no longer feels empty, but earned. Rain murmured against the glass. The world around them faded to stillness.

And though neither dared to say more in that moment, it was understood between them — wholly and without embellishment — that the waiting was over.

And then — through the fogged glass, through the hush that had wrapped itself around them like a secret — a light blinked on across the street.

They both turned, instinct kicking in hard and fast, muscle memory overriding everything else. Adrenaline over romance. Duty over daydream.

Spencer reached for the binoculars. Y/N grabbed the radio. Their movements overlapped — smooth, practiced, nearly synchronized.

It was like slipping back into step. The rhythm of a thousand stakeouts before. The urgency. The protocol. The clarity of purpose. Familiar. Rehearsed.

But when her shoulder brushed his— 

when her fingers lingered just a moment too long on the gear shift— 

when he looked at her and couldn’t help the way his smile pulled, unbidden, real—

It wasn’t the same.

Not even close.

The rain had finally let up by the time they made it back to the precinct.

It was early — the kind of early that belonged more to the night than the day, sky still a gray-blue smear above the rooftops, low and hesitant. The pavement glistened, slick with the memory of rain, and steam curled in lazy tendrils from the sewer grates. Every surface gleamed like it had just woken up. So had they.

Y/N still felt the ghost of his lips on hers.

They walked side by side, steps in quiet sync. A little too close.

Their shoulders bumped once. Neither of them moved away.

She glanced up at him, trying — and failing — to bite down a smile. “You’re being weird.”

Spencer blinked, eyes wide in theatrical offense. “I’m being weird?”

“You keep doing that soft smile thing.”

“I always smile.”

“You smile in footnotes. This is new.”

He tried to school his face into something neutral. Failed miserably.

“Okay,” he admitted, voice low. “I don’t know how to do this yet.”

“Me neither.”

And then, grinning: “It’s kind of fun watching you short-circuit.”

He opened the precinct door for her with a small shake of his head, but his cheeks were unmistakably pink.

Inside, the station was half-asleep. Fluorescent lights hummed low. Agents drifted through the bullpen like ghosts with paperwork — coffee in hand, conversations murmured over case files, the scrape of chairs against tile. It smelled like burnt espresso and printer toner.

Emily looked up from her laptop as they stepped in, her brow immediately furrowing. 

“You two look… suspiciously chipper for a stakeout,” she said slowly, tone sharp with amusement.

From behind her, Morgan appeared with a mug in hand. “Right? You catch the unsub or just catch up on some really good conversation?”

Y/N paused mid-step. Spencer made a sound that could only be described as an intellectual cough.

“We—uh,” he started, eyes darting toward the coffee station like it might offer rescue.

“Read Austen,” Y/N said quickly, deadpan. “He read. I listened. Riveting stuff.”

Emily narrowed her eyes.

Morgan lifted a brow. “Austen, huh?”

Spencer nodded. “She likes the metaphors.”

Y/N shrugged. “They hold up.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy with implication.

JJ passed them on her way to the coffee pot, casting a glance sharp enough to cut paper.

“Cute,” she murmured, just loud enough to be heard — and kept walking.

Spencer looked like he might spontaneously combust. Y/N just smiled, hands in her pockets, a quiet glow still tucked behind her eyes.

Maybe they were terrible at hiding it.

Maybe they never really stood a chance.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t want to hide anything at all.

[clementineinn]

YOU GET ITT he’s so accidentally romantic it hurts, like of course he would confess like that 😭😭 thanks for reading, seriously 💛💖

listen to the bookman!

abstract: two BAU agents find themselves caught in a different kind of tension — not the kind that cracks cases, but the kind that lingers in glances and slips between the lines of shared quotes.

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

genre: fluuuuuff

word count: 8.5k

note: i've been writing sm, but i haven't posted anything bc lowk i feel like my stories suck lol, but i'm just gonna pull the trigger and post this one. it is fluffy, which, sorry, i can't help myself, but i do have some angsty pieces in the works! enjoy!

The rain had started just after nine.

Not with thunder, not with fanfare. No lightning stitched across the sky, no windswept leaves gathering like whispers in the gutter. Just the quiet insistence of it — that slow, silver curtain descending from nowhere in particular. It arrived without urgency, as if it had always meant to come, as if it had only been waiting for the world to quiet down enough to notice it. A soft percussion, delicate and steady, like fingers drumming idly along a windowsill — not to fill the silence, but to settle into it.

Each drop struck the windshield with the hush of intention, tiny cymbals against glass. They gathered at the edges of the wiper blades, collecting into trembling rivulets before slipping downward in uncertain paths, distorting the view beyond until the whole street looked underwater — houses sagging in reflection, lamplight warping into golden haze. Time itself seemed to slow beneath the weightless repetition of it. Not stopping. Just stretching, the way long nights tend to do when nothing moves and everything matters.

The wipers stirred only now and then, slow as breath, like they too had fallen under the spell of the storm. Each sweep was reluctant — a lazy gesture through the fogged glass that cleared a temporary view before the rain returned, gentler still, like it meant to stay. Outside, the town had curled into itself: porches darkened, curtains drawn, the world behind doors gone still. What little light remained flickered in warm, amber pools across wet pavement, refracted in puddles that looked deep enough to fall into and dream.

Inside the car, the rain made a kind of silence that had nothing to do with sound. A hush that lived beneath the noise, pressing in close, like a held breath waiting to be released.

Their SUV sat parked along a narrow, tree-lined street — the kind where the sidewalks cracked in quiet places and the air still carried the faint scent of cut grass and wet bark. The federal government plate gleamed dully beneath a film of rain and road grit, a muted badge among leaves clinging to the bumper like the last breath of autumn. The vehicle itself had become part of the scenery now: quiet, unmoving, patient.

The Bureau had been called in days earlier, summoned like a needle to thread together the frayed edge of a town unraveling. A string of disappearances — ordinary people, vanished in the soft blind spots of routine. No witnesses. No patterns that held. No certainty. Only shadows, and the kind of silence that pressed too close to the bone. And so tonight: surveillance. One house under suspicion. Two agents in the field. Spencer and Y/N, seated side by side in the long, slow hush of a stakeout that had yielded nothing but hours and the strange intimacy of shared breath.

It had been hours already — the kind of time that stopped meaning anything. The kind that crept into your bones and curled there.

Across the street, the suspect’s house sat inert, draped in a stillness that felt almost deliberate. Its windows were dim behind gauzy curtains, pale rectangles of nothing. No movement. No flicker of motion behind glass. Only a single porch light humming softly in the rain, casting its weak yellow glow over the sagging porch steps and the glint of wet shingles. A weathervane spun once above the roof — a slow, indecisive turn, more gesture than warning — then stilled again, as if it too had grown bored of waiting.

The rest of the neighborhood had long since folded into sleep. Porch lights clicked off, one by one. Televisions flickered behind drawn blinds, scenes playing to no one. Cars glistened in parked rows like resting beasts, their hoods wet and gleaming. Everything had gone hushed. Held.

At the far end of the block, a lone red bulb blinked on a motion sensor, pulsing faintly against the damp concrete of a driveway slick with rain. It flared, then dimmed, then flared again, like a slow heartbeat echoing down the empty street.

Somewhere deeper in the neighborhood — faint, almost imagined — a wind chime stirred. Not with wind, but with memory. A sound delicate and eerie in the stillness, like the echo of something forgotten.

It was the kind of street that, on nights like this, made even trained minds question what was real. The kind of quiet that softened the shape of fear. That made the air feel too gentle for anything to go wrong.

And yet.

They watched. Because danger never did ask permission. It simply waited, like they did now — cloaked in rain and silence, eyes fixed forward, hearts just a little louder in the quiet.

Inside the car, the air held the slow warmth of people who had stopped pretending they weren’t tired. It was the kind of warmth that built over hours — gathered from breath, from body heat, from shared silence that had nowhere else to go. It clung faintly to the glass, fogging in soft curves around the edges of the windshield, curling up along the side windows where no one had spoken for a while. The scent was a mix of things that didn’t quite belong together but somehow fit: the faint sharpness of old paper, the damp wool of Spencer’s sweater sleeves, and the thin, bitter ghost of gas station coffee steeping in the bottom of two stainless steel travel mugs in the console.

The dashboard lights glowed a dim green, casting soft geometric shadows over the interior — across the grain of the steering wheel, the uneven crease of Spencer’s slouched coat, the glint of rainwater still clinging to the doorframe. The SUV felt like its own small world now, floating somewhere just outside of real time.

Spencer sat in the driver’s seat, his posture relaxed in that very particular way of someone who never truly let his guard down. A worn paperback was open across his knee, its spine softened from too many readings, the corners curled. His fingers moved absently along the edge of the page, not turning it yet, just holding the weight of it. A pen was tucked behind his ear — not needed but always there. The sleeves of his cardigan were shoved to the crook of his elbows, revealing the pale, fine angles of his wrists, the delicate bones that made him look more scholar than federal agent. His coat was balled up behind him, crushed into the space between his seat and the door. It looked like insulation. Or a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed.

Y/N sat sideways in the passenger seat, curled toward the window like she’d grown into that shape — one leg folded beneath her, the other stretched lazily out, her socked foot resting against the center console in a quiet, unconscious nudge. Her boots were somewhere on the floor, long forgotten. The rhythm of her breath fogged the glass just slightly. Her head tilted, chin propped in her hand as she followed the rain across the windowpane — not watching the house, not really watching anything. Just letting the storm draw soft, meandering shapes down the glass, like an artist sketching something only she could see.

Outside, time moved on without them — steady, indifferent, marked by the soft blink of porch lights switching off and the deepening hush of a town folding itself into sleep. The world beyond the windshield turned in its usual way, unaware that anything was waiting.

Spencer turned a page.

The sound was nearly silent — just the faint rasp of paper moving against paper, the quietest breath of motion in a space that had forgotten what sound was. The overhead light remained off — too conspicuous, too artificial — but the dashboard cast a low, steady glow across his lap, enough for his eyes to follow the words without strain. In that dimness, he looked almost like a ghost of himself: all sharp planes and soft lines, caught somewhere between thought and presence.

He looked oddly comfortable for a man halfway through a ten-hour surveillance shift. But then again, Spencer Reid had never needed comfort to look at ease — only stillness. And this night, at least on the surface, had given him plenty of it.

Across from him, in the passenger seat, Y/N shifted.

It was the kind of movement that drew the eye without trying — slow, unhurried, the kind of stretch you made only when your body had started to mold itself into the shape of a seat. She drew her knees up onto the leather, curling into herself, not out of tension but out of familiarity. One hand rested lightly at the base of her neck; the other dangled off her knee, fingers relaxed, half-curled.

Her gaze still followed the long, translucent trails the rain carved down the glass — eyes tracking them like someone reading a foreign language slowly, line by line. Outside, the world blurred into shape and color: yellow porch light, dark trees, the soft distortion of reflections in wet pavement. But her eyes didn’t flinch from the blur. She just watched, quiet and still, like she might stay that way until morning.

They hadn’t spoken in some time.

But silence, here, was not a gap to be filled — it was a rhythm. A heartbeat. A third presence in the car, curling around them, holding everything that hadn’t been said.

Until—

“Any movement?” she asked, voice low — not tense, not expectant, just soft, like a thread being tugged out of habit more than hope.

Spencer didn’t answer right away. He glanced toward the house across the street, his gaze cutting through the layers of fog on the windshield and the distortion of raindrops sliding down the glass in lazy, luminous streaks.

Nothing.

No lights. No shift behind the curtains. No silhouettes pacing in backlit windows. Just the soft, constant hush of the storm and a porch that had grown too still to feel natural.

He shook his head, eyes drifting back to his page. “Nope. Not since the cat around eight-forty.”

That pulled a sound from her — not quite a laugh, more like a small, amused exhale. A puff of disbelief softened by affection. She turned toward him, one brow arched in gentle accusation.

“You logged the cat?”

Spencer didn’t look up. Just flipped a corner of the page with the back of his knuckle, as if this were the most obvious response in the world.

“He was orange. Limped on the right paw. Could be important.”

She smiled then — faint, but real. Not at the cat. Not even really at the joke.

At him.

At the way he said it with no trace of irony. At the way he watched the world like every detail might hold the thread that could unravel everything. At the way his voice had settled low for the night, mellow and worn like the spine of the book in his hands.

It was barely anything.

And still, she found herself holding on to it.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

But it wasn’t the kind of silence that demanded explanation. It wasn’t brittle or impatient. It simply stretched between them, soft and steady, the way old friends might fall into rhythm without needing to fill it with sound. The rain had become a background hum — steady, hypnotic — wrapping the SUV in a cocoon of warmth and fog. Every so often, the wipers traced a slow arc across the windshield, a half-hearted attempt at clarity.

Spencer flipped a page with the careful precision of someone who didn’t just read — someone who studied, who inhabited, who listened to the echo of every sentence long after it was gone. The movement was unhurried, like time didn’t touch him here.

Y/N leaned her head back against the seat, the curve of her neck exposed in the dashboard’s low green glow. Her eyes slipped closed, lashes brushing the skin beneath her brow. Not sleep. Just stillness. The kind that only found her when the storm outside was louder than the one inside her mind.

Then — a pause, a breath, a beat too long.

Her voice broke the hush like a pebble tossed into a still lake.

“What are you reading?”

Spencer didn’t glance up. Just lifted the book slightly, eyes still scanning the page.

“Persuasion. Austen.”

That made her lift her head again, brow raised, an amused spark catching behind her gaze.

“Seriously? I pegged you more as a Brontë man.”

“I like the Brontës,” he said easily. “But Austen’s prose is more psychologically nuanced. And Anne Elliot is arguably one of the most emotionally complex heroines in English literature.”

Y/N blinked once, slowly.

“Okay, but does she walk across moors dramatically in the rain?”

Spencer arched a brow at that, finally looking up, mouth twitching at the edge.

“You do know it’s raining right now, right?”

She smiled — wide this time, unguarded, the kind of smile that curled at the corners and didn’t rush away. She stretched her legs out, shifting in her seat until her sock-clad foot nudged his knee lightly — a small, familiar touch that didn’t feel like much until it did.

“Fine. Read me something.”

He hesitated, thumb holding his place on the page.

“From this?”

She gave him a look, dry and warm.

“No, from your weather log. Yes, from that.”

He didn’t ask why.

Didn’t smirk or prod or ask if she was serious. He just flipped back a few pages, slow and unhurried, his thumb dragging lightly over the paper as though reacquainting himself with the rhythm of the words before they even met the air. A quiet breath slipped past his lips — not a sigh, not nervous — something centered. Then he cleared his throat gently, and began to read.

“My idea of good company is the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation.”

His voice was softer when reading — less clinical, less tightly wound than usual. Like the cadence of someone telling a story they remembered too well. It slipped easily into the space between them, filling it with something light but tangible. Familiar. Almost fond.

She smiled again, but this time it was smaller — quieter. The kind of smile that tugged at one side of her mouth, just enough to mean something, just enough to give her away. It wasn’t for him, not fully. It was for the moment. For the sound of his voice. For the line.

“And is that why you’re stuck in a car with me?”

Spencer looked over at her, gaze steady, not blinking. Not teasing.

“It certainly doesn’t hurt.”

Y/N gave him a look — half-amused, half-skeptical, but undeniably warm — then turned back toward the window with a faint shake of her head, lips still curled. Her breath touched the cold glass in front of her, fogging it just enough to leave a small, crescent bloom where her exhale had landed.

For a while, the only sound was the rain — a steady hush against the roof, soft and constant. Like the sky had decided to whisper all night and had no plans of stopping.

Time passed like that — not fast, not particularly slow, but in that strange, viscous way time has when nothing moves and everything feels like it might. The kind of time that didn't announce itself, only lingered in the stillness, tucking itself into corners: the curve of a seatbelt, the soft click of a shifting jaw, the rhythmic sweep of wipers.

Outside, the street held its breath. Inside, the car did too.

Spencer had already read two chapters. Probably more, if she was being honest. His eyes flicked across the pages with that impossibly fast rhythm she’d grown used to, but still found quietly bewildering. He turned each one with the same reverent calm, the motion so habitual it was almost unconscious — as if his hands knew the story before his eyes did. Not a single sentence read aloud since the last one she’d asked for. But the air still felt full of his voice.

The silence had begun to thicken. Not unpleasantly. Just noticeably. The kind of quiet that made you suddenly aware of the sounds your own body made — the shallow pull of breath through your nose, the slow shift of fabric over your knee, the faint, traitorous beat of your pulse.

It was sometime past ten.

Y/N had already counted the porch lights on the block — seven, two dimmer than the rest. She’d played a mental guessing game with the silhouettes behind living room curtains: game show, drama, rerun of something laugh-tracked. She’d reorganized the snack bag in the backseat by color, then by noise level, then by expiration date. Her left sock was bunched and bothering her, but not enough to fix. Her boot had begun to tilt inward from where it sat abandoned under the dash.

Meanwhile, Spencer remained exactly as he’d been: spine straight, expression unreadable, a small vertical crease between his brows — not from stress, but from focus. That peculiar kind of stillness that only sharpened his edges.

And it was all just a little too much.

She couldn't take it anymore.

“Okay,” she said at last, her voice slicing softly through the quiet — not a jolt, but a ripple. Like a pebble skipping across still water, breaking the surface just enough to catch his attention. “Let’s play a game.”

Spencer glanced up from his book. The low green light from the dash slid across the lenses of his glasses, catching on the faint smudge of a fingerprint. His pen was still poised between his fingers, tucked neatly into the crease of the page like a placeholder he hadn’t meant to use. He blinked once, slow, thoughtful.

“What kind of game?”

Y/N turned toward him more fully now, folding her leg up beneath her, sock brushing the console. She narrowed her eyes with a mock-serious squint, the dramatic tension undercut by the small smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Quote battle. You read a line, I name the book, and vice versa.”

Spencer tilted his head — that precise, birdlike angle she’d come to recognize as curiosity. He looked at her as if analyzing the strategic value of her challenge, weighing outcomes and probabilities in real time.

“What do I get if I win?”

Her grin widened, sharp and playful, lighting her face like something just a little dangerous. “What do you want?”

He blinked once — visibly computing, as if she’d just asked him to solve something unexpectedly complex. His eyes darted slightly, then settled.

“Control of your iPod on the jet for a week.”

“Deal,” she said immediately, hand flicking outward like she was signing a contract in the air. “And if I win, you buy me coffee every morning until next Friday.”

Spencer considered this with the seriousness of a man preparing to enter diplomatic negotiations.

“So… eight days?”

Her brows arched, delighted. “You already did the math?”

His mouth twitched — just slightly. “You challenged me.”

She gestured toward the book in his lap, chin tilted like a dare.

“Go on then. Hit me.”

He flipped a few pages back, fingertips grazing the dog-eared edges with the ease of someone who had memorized the landscape of a book — its weight, its breath, the way the spine folded in his palm like it belonged there. His eyes moved fast, scanning the text like wind moving through leaves. Then he found it. He cleared his throat quietly, a low sound that somehow deepened the stillness between them, and read aloud:

“She had the kind of beauty that hurt to look at—sharp, aching, and likely fatal if mishandled.”

His voice dipped naturally into the rhythm of the line — not performative, not dramatic, just soft and sure, shaped by memory and admiration. The words seemed to hang in the warm air of the car long after he stopped speaking.

Y/N squinted, angling her head toward him like she was turning a puzzle over in her mind.

“That’s not Austen.”

“No,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, equal parts pleased and impressed. “It’s Tana French.”

She hummed, a low sound of appreciation, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Well played.”

“My turn?” she asked, already shifting her weight, her voice curling with anticipation.

He nodded once, resting the book lightly against his knee. “Hit me.”

She didn’t hesitate.

Her voice was steady, quiet, but carried the weight of something familiar — a line so worn it gleamed like glass:

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”

Spencer blinked. Once. Then again — not out of surprise, but recognition.

“Jane Eyre.”

“Too easy,” she sighed, the corners of her mouth twitching with mock disappointment. “Fine. You go.”

He thumbed through another page, slow and deliberate now, though his eyes still moved with that rapid, uncanny rhythm — like he wasn’t just reading but indexing, cataloging, selecting the perfect thread to pull. His fingers paused near the middle of a chapter, pressed gently to the margin like he needed to feel the weight of the words before he let them leave his mouth.

When he read, his voice was casual — too casual. That smooth, practiced kind of nonchalance that only ever meant someone was trying very hard not to reveal too much.

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

The words drifted out into the warm hush of the car like smoke — slow and curling, heavy with implication. And for a beat, they just hung there. Not long. Not really.

But it pressed.

Pressed into the stillness. Pressed into her.

Y/N turned to look at him — slowly, like she already knew what she’d find. Her lips curved upward just enough, not a full smile but something sly and edged with disbelief.

“Are you quoting Pride and Prejudice at me right now?”

Spencer kept his gaze trained on the page in front of him, but the corner of his mouth twitched — a single, unspoken tell.

“Would it be weird if I was?”

“Only if you keep using Mr. Darcy’s lines on me.” She nudged his knee with her socked foot — not hard, just enough to feel him there, solid and warm beside her in the dark. “That man proposed like he was submitting a complaint to management.”

That did it.

Spencer finally looked up — really looked — and smiled in a way he rarely did. Wide, teeth showing, the kind of grin that cracked across his usually composed face like sunlight through drawn curtains. His dimples appeared, sharp and genuine, softening the angles of him until he looked startlingly young. He wasn’t trying to hide it. Not tonight. Not from her.

“And yet,” he said, tone rich with mock solemnity, “he’s one of the most beloved romantic heroes of all time.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, letting the words tumble out on a half-laugh, half-breath, “everyone loves a man who can’t express emotion without sounding like he’s about to faint.”

Spencer tilted his head, still smiling, eyes never leaving hers.

“That likely depends on whether you’re Elizabeth or Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

She let out a laugh — not loud, not sharp, but quiet. Contained. The kind of sound that stayed close to the chest. The kind that wasn’t just amusement, but recognition. Affection. A small flare of something bright held carefully in her hands.

“You know,” she said, nudging his knee again — gentler this time — “this whole thing is starting to feel suspiciously like flirting.”

Spencer looked up slowly.

His smile stretched wider this time — all teeth and dimples, that rare, utterly unguarded kind of grin he only seemed to wear around her. It softened everything. His posture, his face, the ever-present weight between his brows. He looked… happy. Genuinely so. And that alone made the moment tip slightly, like the air around them had taken one breath too deep.

“Only suspiciously?”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in exaggerated thoughtfulness.

“Well, if it is,” she said, her tone lilting with amusement, “you’re doing it very… academically.”

“That’s the only way I know how.”

“I figured.” Her lips quirked, but there was affection behind it now — warmer, quieter. She shifted in her seat again, drawing her knees back up beneath her, curling into the corner like she meant to stay there. Her shoulder bumped the inside of the door; the toe of her sock pressed softly to the edge of the console.

“Next quote, Doctor Reid.”

He turned another page, but this time his fingers slowed at the edge — like they were no longer moving just to move. His eyes flicked down the page, scanning, not quickly now, but deliberately. He stopped halfway down, and when he spoke, his voice was lower. Smoother.

“There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison.”

The quote settled in the warm dark between them like smoke. Light, but dense. Fragrant with intention.

She didn’t guess this one.

Didn’t even try.

Instead, she watched him — not startled or shy, just there with him in the moment, fully. Her gaze held steady on his face for a second too long, her expression unreadable but soft, like she was seeing something she hadn’t let herself look at before. Then she turned her head slightly, eyes drifting out the windshield toward the still-dark house.

Her voice followed a moment later — quieter now, but not hesitant.

“You always pick the romantic ones when it’s just me.”

Spencer didn’t reply.

Didn’t have to.

The words didn’t need answering. They weren’t a question. They were something else entirely — a thread unspooling gently in the hush between them, tying things together she hadn’t named until now.

They hung in the air — not heavy, not awkward, just suspended. Like a truth neither of them had to rush to touch.

And still, it pulsed there. Quiet. Unspoken. Real.

Outside, the rain picked up.

Not all at once. Not with drama or force. Just a slow thickening — a soft insistence in the air, the kind of weight that settled gently over rooftops and sidewalks until the world seemed wrapped in water. The drops came heavier now, tracing long, uninterrupted streaks down the windshield like tears that didn’t know they’d fallen. The rhythm changed — not frantic, but full. A lullaby in another room, low and constant, the sound of the earth exhaling.

Thunder murmured somewhere in the distance, too far to startle, too soft to fear. It rolled low and wide, more suggestion than presence — a storm that circled like a thought you couldn’t quite finish.

Inside the car, the change was quieter still.

But it was there — the kind of shift you felt more than saw. In the way her hands stilled completely in her lap. In the way his thumb lingered on the edge of a page, but never turned it. In the way he closed the book softly, without ceremony, and let it rest across his thigh like something that had given him all it could for the night.

The space between them wasn’t wide. It hadn’t been for hours. But now it felt different — a kind of nearness that didn’t ask for attention, only acknowledgment. A quiet hum building beneath the sound of rain, shaped like something waiting to be named.

Y/N stretched again, slow and languid, like the warmth of the car had melted into her bones. Her jacket was folded between her seat and the door, a makeshift pillow that carried the faint scent of wet wool and worn leather. One leg tucked beneath her, the other lazily extended until her knee nudged against Spencer’s on the console — light, casual, but not accidental.

“You look comfortable,” he said, voice low and edged with something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close. The corner of his mouth tilted up, that soft glint in his eyes reserved only for her.

She shrugged, gaze still half on the glass, where the rain stitched silver threads across the surface.

“We’ve been here for hours. I’m adapting. Survival of the fittest and all that.”

Spencer glanced toward the house again, letting the moment breathe.

Still no movement.

“It’s not like you to go stir-crazy,” he said, voice soft, shaped around the edge of a smile.

Y/N turned her head toward him, slow and deliberate, the overhead glow catching the curve of her cheek. Her voice was quieter now, touched with teasing, but threaded through with something gentler.

“Yeah, well,” she murmured, mouth curving, “you’ve been reading Austen aloud like it’s bedtime, and frankly, I’m beginning to feel a little wooed.”

Spencer blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and mild academic protest.

“Austen is statistically one of the most romantic authors in the Western canon.”

She grinned, shifting her weight just enough for her knee to bump against the console again — light and unthinking, like contact was instinct by now.

“That’s what I’m saying. I feel like I should be fanning myself.”

He turned slightly in his seat, angling toward her without seeming to think about it — the space between them closing in degrees, subtle and slow. His hands rested in his lap, but his focus was fully hers now.

“Would you prefer I quote something less romantic?” he asked. “Something clinical?”

She narrowed her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching as she stared him down.

“If you quote a math theorem at me, I’m getting out of the car.”

“In this weather?” he deadpanned, glancing meaningfully toward the rain-streaked glass.

“Dramatic exits don’t wait for ideal conditions.”

That pulled another smile from him — unguarded, his dimples deepening as his features softened in the glow of it. He looked younger that way. Brighter. Like someone who had just been handed permission to be seen.

And then, quieter:

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Her brows pulled together immediately, the shift in tone catching her with something almost like concern.

“You didn’t.”

Spencer looked down briefly, then back up, his voice a little steadier now — like it mattered to say it right.

“I just… wasn’t sure if the quoting thing was crossing a line.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, eyes still on his face, watching him with the kind of attention that always made him feel like she saw more than he said. The light from the dashboard cut softly across his features — caught the edge of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the almost imperceptible movement as he swallowed.

And still, her gaze didn’t waver.

She caught the flicker in his eyes — the way his gaze dropped for a beat too long, as if a thought had slipped loose before he could catch it. Just a brief shift, but enough. Enough to feel the weight behind the silence. Enough to see that he was second-guessing something, maybe everything.

So she leaned in. Not dramatically, not to close a distance, just slightly. The kind of movement you made when you didn’t want to startle a bird. Her voice was low when it came, warm and unhurried — teasing in that familiar, sideways way that made space instead of closing it.

“Relax, Romeo,” she murmured, the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth easy, natural, hers. “If I didn’t like it, I would’ve made you switch to case reports an hour ago.”

That earned his attention.

Spencer glanced over at her — and this time, he didn’t just look. He saw. Really saw her. Not as the agent beside him. Not as the person he’d been sitting with for hours. But as something else. Something specific.

It was the kind of gaze he usually reserved for the rare things — uncrackable ciphers, strange celestial maps, pages too dense for most to decipher. But it was softer now. Focused. Unflinching.

And all of it was hers.

Y/N held his gaze, still smiling, still pretending — barely — that her heart wasn’t crashing against her ribs like it had just realized it had skin to break through. She didn’t drop her eyes. Didn’t tease further. Just let the quiet bloom around them.

And then, a little quieter, more honest than before:

“You don’t do it with anyone else. Just me.”

The pause that followed wasn’t long.

But it held.

Not because he didn’t have something to say — but because she’d already said enough.

Then she huffed a breath and leaned back again, her body folding into the curve of the seat like she was trying to retreat from the tension she’d just sewn into the air. She reached for levity — not to deflect, but to steady the moment, to give it room to breathe. Her voice dropped just enough to sound offhanded, even as something more trembled just beneath the surface.

“You’re going to make someone very confused one day, Spencer. Using Austen as a flirtation tactic is very dangerous.”

He turned to her fully now, one brow arching with exaggerated skepticism, the edge of his mouth fighting a smile.

“Dangerous?”

“Highly.” She waved a hand vaguely in the space between them, her tone mock-serious, but her gaze held steady on his face. “All this charm and intellect and emotional repression—it’s a lot.”

Spencer laughed — really laughed. The sound burst out of him light and breathless, and it startled even him a little. He tipped his head back, shoulders shaking for a beat, that rare, beautiful sound filling the car like light through fogged glass.

“That’s… an interesting interpretation.”

She smiled too, lopsided and knowing. A little crooked, a little fond. The kind of smile that came from watching someone unravel gently, willingly.

“I’m just saying,” she said, voice softer now but still playfully edged, “if you keep quoting Persuasion at girls in the dark, someone’s gonna fall in love with you.”

This time, he didn’t laugh.

But the smile lingered — soft and shaped with something quieter. Something he didn’t need to dress up in humor or hide behind logic. It tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth like a secret wanting out.

He just looked at her.

And said, voice barely above a whisper:

“You say that like it hasn’t already happened.”

That was when the air changed.

Not in a loud, crashing way — but in the way the atmosphere does before a storm rolls in. The kind of shift you feel before you see. Pressure dropping. Something pulling low and deep in your chest. The hush before lightning splits the sky.

Her heart stuttered once — a quiet, startled rhythm behind her ribs.

But she didn’t move.

Neither did he.

They just sat there.

Knees brushing. Shoulders angled slightly toward each other. Breath held just below the surface. The thunder rolled again, low and blooming in the distance, but it felt closer now — not in the sky, but in the space between them.

And the silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was brimming with everything they hadn’t said. Everything they almost had.

They didn’t speak for a while after that.

Not because there was nothing left to say — but because whatever had just passed between them was still in the room, still in the air, like dust lit by a headlight beam. It hovered. It clung. It needed space to settle.

And when the quiet returned, it wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t companionable or easy. It was charged. Dense with possibility. Like a radio dial turned just off-center — all static and hum, vibrating with the shape of words that hadn’t been spoken but still somehow filled the space.

Neither of them moved.

Not at first.

The rain whispered steadily against the windows, carving glass into trembling river lines. The cabin of the SUV had grown warmer, breath-fog softening the edges of the world beyond it. The outside was blurred. The inside was bright with everything they weren’t saying.

Eventually, Y/N shifted — slowly, like she didn’t want to startle the moment. Like she was wading through it. A deer through tall grass.

She stretched her legs down from the seat, her sock brushing the base of the console as she moved. Not restless — just closer. Her spine curved slightly inward, instinctive, unconsciously tilted in his direction. Her hand dropped into her lap, fingers tapping out a rhythm that didn’t match the rain, didn’t match anything at all — except maybe the quick, uneven beat of her pulse.

She glanced sideways, not quite meeting his eyes, her voice soft — but edged with mischief, like a spark under velvet.

“So,” she said, drawing the word out like a thread between her fingers, the kind that unraveled slowly just to see where it led, “how long have you been using Regency-era romance as a seduction technique?”

Spencer blinked — once, then again, as though her question had short-circuited some internal circuit he’d previously thought infallible.

“Excuse me?”

She smirked, lips curling with the satisfaction of someone who’d just set off a particularly elegant trap. Her gaze slid sideways, head tilted, playful but precise — like she was enjoying watching him squirm just a little.

“You heard me. You’re weaponizing Austen, Reid.”

“I’m not—” He stopped, mid-breath, brows drawing together in a furrow of genuine confusion. His tone shifted, caught somewhere between defense and self-doubt, like he was suddenly evaluating all his life choices. “I’m not weaponizing anything.”

“You say that,” she murmured, voice softer now, eyes narrowing with mock scrutiny. She leaned in just enough to make it feel like a secret. “But you’ve been sitting over there all night quoting Anne Elliot like it’s nothing.”

Spencer’s hands lifted slightly, as if ready to explain himself with a logical breakdown and supporting footnotes.

“It was relevant to our conversation.”

“Mhm. Sure.” She nodded, slowly, exaggerating the motion like she was humoring him. “Totally casual. Just a normal thing you do with coworkers during a federal surveillance op.”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again — the movement small but visible, the rhythm of a man realizing too late that he’d walked right into a thesis statement he hadn’t prepared for. He looked at her, a little wide-eyed, somewhere between horrified and completely disarmed.

And she was still smiling.

That same knowing smile that always made him feel like she could see straight through him — not in a threatening way, but like a flashlight through fog.

She leaned forward slightly, elbow resting on the console between them like she was settling into a chess match she already knew she was winning. The space narrowed — not dramatically, just enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, see the faintest shift in his expression as she moved closer.

Her voice dropped, teasing and low, her words brushed with deliberate mischief.

“Be honest—do you quote Virginia Woolf to Hotch when you’re trying to butter him up?”

Spencer blinked at her, visibly startled — then gave her a look so affronted, so utterly scandalized, it made her laugh under her breath. It was the kind of expression he reserved for things like inaccurate statistics or poorly alphabetized books.

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay,” she said, pressing now, enjoying the way the tips of his ears turned just a shade darker in the dim light. “So what’s my category?��

Her eyes gleamed as she listed them off, slow and deliberate, watching the way he tried not to react.

“Austen? Brontë? Bit of Plath if I’m cranky?”

He was trying not to smile. She could see it — the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the fight behind his eyes, the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly like holding in laughter required muscle.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being thorough,” she corrected, tapping the side of her temple like it was all part of a formal diagnostic process. “Profiling, remember?”

He shook his head once, but it was hopeless now — the shape of his mouth gave him away. That soft, helpless curve he only wore when it was her.

And then, quieter. So quiet she almost missed it, but not quite:

“You say that like it’s a theory,” he murmured, “but it sounds a lot like hope.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Not loudly. Not visibly. But it caught — sharp and low in her chest — and her whole body stilled for just a fraction too long, like something delicate had been named.

The space between them had grown impossibly small.

Inches. Maybe less. The console between their seats felt like a formality now — a boundary that had once meant something, back when lines were clearer. But those lines had smudged hours ago, and now the air between them pulsed with everything that had risen in the silence.

Every glance. Every quote. Every moment of not looking away.

Y/N blinked — just once — suddenly uncertain of her footing, like the room had tilted and she wasn’t quite sure what her next step would do. So she did what she always did when the ground started to shift beneath her.

She reached for levity.

“Alright, then. If you were going to write me a love letter, would it be annotated?”

Spencer huffed out a breath — something between a laugh and a sigh of relief, like she’d just let the air back in.

“Only lightly,” he said, the corners of his mouth curving again. “A few citations. Footnotes. Maybe a reference table.”

“Oh, good,” she breathed, the smile tugging at her lips returning with a softness that hadn’t been there before. “I love when romance comes with appendices.”

He turned toward her fully now — not just his head, but his whole body, his knees brushing hers again, their shoulders angled like a conversation only they could hear.

“You joke,” he said, voice lower now, intimate in a way that made the walls of the SUV feel smaller, closer, “but I could quote you half a dozen passages from 19th century literature that remind me of you.”

She blinked once. Quick. Like her breath had caught behind her ribs.

“…Name one.”

But he didn’t.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for the book. Didn’t chase the question back with logic or wit.

He just looked at her.

And the look was a thing unto itself — unguarded and direct, like a thought that had lived too long in the dark and was finally stepping into the light. His mouth parted slightly, like he might speak, but no words came. His fingers curled tighter around the edge of his seat, as if he needed something solid to hold onto.

The silence between them swelled, not awkward, not unsure — just full. Brimming. Close enough to touch.

And neither of them moved.

Because if they did — if even one of them leaned closer — it wouldn’t be silence anymore.

It would be everything.

Because the truth of it—that aching, unnamed thing that had stretched and shimmered between them all night—was louder than anything he could have quoted.

It hung in the air now, full and real, vibrating like a string pulled too tight.

The windows had begun to fog.

Not completely. Just at the corners, where their breath mingled in the air, warm and quiet. The edges of the world blurred out, as if even the SUV had started to breathe slower. Everything inside the car felt thick with weight—with them—their bodies no longer separated by anything that mattered.

Outside, the street was still. No footsteps. No shadows in the house across the way. Just the hush of rain, soft and constant, and the low purr of the engine like a heartbeat they’d both forgotten to hear.

It was too much. Too quiet. Too full.

So Y/N broke it—because she had to. Because it was either that, or let it swallow her whole.

“So,” she said lightly, trying for teasing but not quite reaching it, the word catching slightly at the edges, “was that the part where you were going to kiss me or just emotionally devastate me with more well-placed metaphors?”

Spencer turned his head.

Slowly.

Like he’d been waiting for permission.

Like he’d been still all this time not out of hesitation, but out of reverence—like he knew this wasn’t something you rushed.

“You talk a lot when you’re nervous,” he said, so softly it nearly dissolved into the air between them.

She blinked.

“I’m not—” she started, but her voice caught—right on the edge of certainty. She cleared her throat and tried again, masking the tremble with a crooked smile. “I’m not nervous. I just didn’t want to ruin your perfectly curated quote-to-eye-contact ratio.”

Spencer’s lips twitched.

But the look in his eyes didn’t shift.

It stayed steady. Bare. The kind of gaze that didn’t flinch from the truth anymore. It held her without demand, like he was showing her the most vulnerable part of himself and trusting her not to look away.

And she didn’t.

Couldn’t.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t dodge. Didn’t retreat into metaphor or distraction or some clever turn of phrase.

He just looked at her.

The kind of look that reached deeper than words. The kind that unraveled things. The kind that said I see you — and always have.

“I’ve been in love with you,” he said, quiet as a breath, “since your first case.”

No dramatic pause. No swelling music. Just a soft truth offered in the smallest of spaces. No less earth-shaking for its gentleness.

Outside, the rain kept falling — slow and constant, threading silver down the windshield like time deciding not to move.

The windows continued to fog, blurring the world beyond them until it was gone entirely. Only the inside remained now. Only this space. Only them.

Inside the car, the world stilled.

Y/N felt it in her chest first — a quiet catch of breath that slipped beneath her ribs and stayed there, trembling. Something had shifted — tectonic, deep beneath the surface — and everything realigned around it.

Her pulse fluttered. Her fingers curled in her lap, grounding her in the fabric of her jeans, the grain of the seat beneath her. But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t look down.

She didn’t ask if he meant it.

She didn’t joke. Didn’t tease.

She just looked at him.

And the silence between them wasn’t silence anymore.

It was something whole.

She moved towards him, unhurried and certain, as though the moment had long since been ordained. There was no fanfare in the gesture, no trembling flourish — only the quiet conviction of a woman who had made up her mind. Her hand came to rest at his neck, her fingers light and reverent, and then — with the gentleness of breath and the steadiness of affection long harboured — her lips found his.

It was not a kiss of passion unbridled, nor of haste or vanity. It was a confession, tender and unspoken, offered in the only language she could summon. And he received it as such — returning the kiss with the astonishment of a man long denied happiness, scarcely daring to trust that it had come at last.

When they parted — for breath, for sense, for the sweet necessity of drawing nearer still — her hand lingered at his jaw, thumb brushing the fine curve of it with something very near reverence.

His eyes opened slowly, as though waking from some long, aching dream.

“I wasn’t planning on saying it like that,” he whispered, breathless.

A smile touched her lips — quiet, wry, and altogether disarming. “How were you planning to say it?”

He shrugged slightly. “I was… maybe going to write it in the margin of a book and pretend you found it by accident.”

Her laugh then was soft and genuine, surprised by joy. It caught in the air like a lark in morning light.

“You still can,” she said. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it. For dramatic effect.”

They remained there, foreheads pressed together in the hush that follows great change — the kind of silence that no longer feels empty, but earned. Rain murmured against the glass. The world around them faded to stillness.

And though neither dared to say more in that moment, it was understood between them — wholly and without embellishment — that the waiting was over.

And then — through the fogged glass, through the hush that had wrapped itself around them like a secret — a light blinked on across the street.

They both turned, instinct kicking in hard and fast, muscle memory overriding everything else. Adrenaline over romance. Duty over daydream.

Spencer reached for the binoculars. Y/N grabbed the radio. Their movements overlapped — smooth, practiced, nearly synchronized.

It was like slipping back into step. The rhythm of a thousand stakeouts before. The urgency. The protocol. The clarity of purpose. Familiar. Rehearsed.

But when her shoulder brushed his— 

when her fingers lingered just a moment too long on the gear shift— 

when he looked at her and couldn’t help the way his smile pulled, unbidden, real—

It wasn’t the same.

Not even close.

The rain had finally let up by the time they made it back to the precinct.

It was early — the kind of early that belonged more to the night than the day, sky still a gray-blue smear above the rooftops, low and hesitant. The pavement glistened, slick with the memory of rain, and steam curled in lazy tendrils from the sewer grates. Every surface gleamed like it had just woken up. So had they.

Y/N still felt the ghost of his lips on hers.

They walked side by side, steps in quiet sync. A little too close.

Their shoulders bumped once. Neither of them moved away.

She glanced up at him, trying — and failing — to bite down a smile. “You’re being weird.”

Spencer blinked, eyes wide in theatrical offense. “I’m being weird?”

“You keep doing that soft smile thing.”

“I always smile.”

“You smile in footnotes. This is new.”

He tried to school his face into something neutral. Failed miserably.

“Okay,” he admitted, voice low. “I don’t know how to do this yet.”

“Me neither.”

And then, grinning: “It’s kind of fun watching you short-circuit.”

He opened the precinct door for her with a small shake of his head, but his cheeks were unmistakably pink.

Inside, the station was half-asleep. Fluorescent lights hummed low. Agents drifted through the bullpen like ghosts with paperwork — coffee in hand, conversations murmured over case files, the scrape of chairs against tile. It smelled like burnt espresso and printer toner.

Emily looked up from her laptop as they stepped in, her brow immediately furrowing. 

“You two look… suspiciously chipper for a stakeout,” she said slowly, tone sharp with amusement.

From behind her, Morgan appeared with a mug in hand. “Right? You catch the unsub or just catch up on some really good conversation?”

Y/N paused mid-step. Spencer made a sound that could only be described as an intellectual cough.

“We—uh,” he started, eyes darting toward the coffee station like it might offer rescue.

“Read Austen,” Y/N said quickly, deadpan. “He read. I listened. Riveting stuff.”

Emily narrowed her eyes.

Morgan lifted a brow. “Austen, huh?”

Spencer nodded. “She likes the metaphors.”

Y/N shrugged. “They hold up.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy with implication.

JJ passed them on her way to the coffee pot, casting a glance sharp enough to cut paper.

“Cute,” she murmured, just loud enough to be heard — and kept walking.

Spencer looked like he might spontaneously combust. Y/N just smiled, hands in her pockets, a quiet glow still tucked behind her eyes.

Maybe they were terrible at hiding it.

Maybe they never really stood a chance.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t want to hide anything at all.

[clementineinn]

listen to the bookman!

abstract: two BAU agents find themselves caught in a different kind of tension — not the kind that cracks cases, but the kind that lingers in glances and slips between the lines of shared quotes.

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

genre: fluuuuuff

word count: 8.5k

note: i've been writing sm, but i haven't posted anything bc lowk i feel like my stories suck lol, but i'm just gonna pull the trigger and post this one. it is fluffy, which, sorry, i can't help myself, but i do have some angsty pieces in the works! enjoy!

The rain had started just after nine.

Not with thunder, not with fanfare. No lightning stitched across the sky, no windswept leaves gathering like whispers in the gutter. Just the quiet insistence of it — that slow, silver curtain descending from nowhere in particular. It arrived without urgency, as if it had always meant to come, as if it had only been waiting for the world to quiet down enough to notice it. A soft percussion, delicate and steady, like fingers drumming idly along a windowsill — not to fill the silence, but to settle into it.

Each drop struck the windshield with the hush of intention, tiny cymbals against glass. They gathered at the edges of the wiper blades, collecting into trembling rivulets before slipping downward in uncertain paths, distorting the view beyond until the whole street looked underwater — houses sagging in reflection, lamplight warping into golden haze. Time itself seemed to slow beneath the weightless repetition of it. Not stopping. Just stretching, the way long nights tend to do when nothing moves and everything matters.

The wipers stirred only now and then, slow as breath, like they too had fallen under the spell of the storm. Each sweep was reluctant — a lazy gesture through the fogged glass that cleared a temporary view before the rain returned, gentler still, like it meant to stay. Outside, the town had curled into itself: porches darkened, curtains drawn, the world behind doors gone still. What little light remained flickered in warm, amber pools across wet pavement, refracted in puddles that looked deep enough to fall into and dream.

Inside the car, the rain made a kind of silence that had nothing to do with sound. A hush that lived beneath the noise, pressing in close, like a held breath waiting to be released.

Their SUV sat parked along a narrow, tree-lined street — the kind where the sidewalks cracked in quiet places and the air still carried the faint scent of cut grass and wet bark. The federal government plate gleamed dully beneath a film of rain and road grit, a muted badge among leaves clinging to the bumper like the last breath of autumn. The vehicle itself had become part of the scenery now: quiet, unmoving, patient.

The Bureau had been called in days earlier, summoned like a needle to thread together the frayed edge of a town unraveling. A string of disappearances — ordinary people, vanished in the soft blind spots of routine. No witnesses. No patterns that held. No certainty. Only shadows, and the kind of silence that pressed too close to the bone. And so tonight: surveillance. One house under suspicion. Two agents in the field. Spencer and Y/N, seated side by side in the long, slow hush of a stakeout that had yielded nothing but hours and the strange intimacy of shared breath.

It had been hours already — the kind of time that stopped meaning anything. The kind that crept into your bones and curled there.

Across the street, the suspect’s house sat inert, draped in a stillness that felt almost deliberate. Its windows were dim behind gauzy curtains, pale rectangles of nothing. No movement. No flicker of motion behind glass. Only a single porch light humming softly in the rain, casting its weak yellow glow over the sagging porch steps and the glint of wet shingles. A weathervane spun once above the roof — a slow, indecisive turn, more gesture than warning — then stilled again, as if it too had grown bored of waiting.

The rest of the neighborhood had long since folded into sleep. Porch lights clicked off, one by one. Televisions flickered behind drawn blinds, scenes playing to no one. Cars glistened in parked rows like resting beasts, their hoods wet and gleaming. Everything had gone hushed. Held.

At the far end of the block, a lone red bulb blinked on a motion sensor, pulsing faintly against the damp concrete of a driveway slick with rain. It flared, then dimmed, then flared again, like a slow heartbeat echoing down the empty street.

Somewhere deeper in the neighborhood — faint, almost imagined — a wind chime stirred. Not with wind, but with memory. A sound delicate and eerie in the stillness, like the echo of something forgotten.

It was the kind of street that, on nights like this, made even trained minds question what was real. The kind of quiet that softened the shape of fear. That made the air feel too gentle for anything to go wrong.

And yet.

They watched. Because danger never did ask permission. It simply waited, like they did now — cloaked in rain and silence, eyes fixed forward, hearts just a little louder in the quiet.

Inside the car, the air held the slow warmth of people who had stopped pretending they weren’t tired. It was the kind of warmth that built over hours — gathered from breath, from body heat, from shared silence that had nowhere else to go. It clung faintly to the glass, fogging in soft curves around the edges of the windshield, curling up along the side windows where no one had spoken for a while. The scent was a mix of things that didn’t quite belong together but somehow fit: the faint sharpness of old paper, the damp wool of Spencer’s sweater sleeves, and the thin, bitter ghost of gas station coffee steeping in the bottom of two stainless steel travel mugs in the console.

The dashboard lights glowed a dim green, casting soft geometric shadows over the interior — across the grain of the steering wheel, the uneven crease of Spencer’s slouched coat, the glint of rainwater still clinging to the doorframe. The SUV felt like its own small world now, floating somewhere just outside of real time.

Spencer sat in the driver’s seat, his posture relaxed in that very particular way of someone who never truly let his guard down. A worn paperback was open across his knee, its spine softened from too many readings, the corners curled. His fingers moved absently along the edge of the page, not turning it yet, just holding the weight of it. A pen was tucked behind his ear — not needed but always there. The sleeves of his cardigan were shoved to the crook of his elbows, revealing the pale, fine angles of his wrists, the delicate bones that made him look more scholar than federal agent. His coat was balled up behind him, crushed into the space between his seat and the door. It looked like insulation. Or a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed.

Y/N sat sideways in the passenger seat, curled toward the window like she’d grown into that shape — one leg folded beneath her, the other stretched lazily out, her socked foot resting against the center console in a quiet, unconscious nudge. Her boots were somewhere on the floor, long forgotten. The rhythm of her breath fogged the glass just slightly. Her head tilted, chin propped in her hand as she followed the rain across the windowpane — not watching the house, not really watching anything. Just letting the storm draw soft, meandering shapes down the glass, like an artist sketching something only she could see.

Outside, time moved on without them — steady, indifferent, marked by the soft blink of porch lights switching off and the deepening hush of a town folding itself into sleep. The world beyond the windshield turned in its usual way, unaware that anything was waiting.

Spencer turned a page.

The sound was nearly silent — just the faint rasp of paper moving against paper, the quietest breath of motion in a space that had forgotten what sound was. The overhead light remained off — too conspicuous, too artificial — but the dashboard cast a low, steady glow across his lap, enough for his eyes to follow the words without strain. In that dimness, he looked almost like a ghost of himself: all sharp planes and soft lines, caught somewhere between thought and presence.

He looked oddly comfortable for a man halfway through a ten-hour surveillance shift. But then again, Spencer Reid had never needed comfort to look at ease — only stillness. And this night, at least on the surface, had given him plenty of it.

Across from him, in the passenger seat, Y/N shifted.

It was the kind of movement that drew the eye without trying — slow, unhurried, the kind of stretch you made only when your body had started to mold itself into the shape of a seat. She drew her knees up onto the leather, curling into herself, not out of tension but out of familiarity. One hand rested lightly at the base of her neck; the other dangled off her knee, fingers relaxed, half-curled.

Her gaze still followed the long, translucent trails the rain carved down the glass — eyes tracking them like someone reading a foreign language slowly, line by line. Outside, the world blurred into shape and color: yellow porch light, dark trees, the soft distortion of reflections in wet pavement. But her eyes didn’t flinch from the blur. She just watched, quiet and still, like she might stay that way until morning.

They hadn’t spoken in some time.

But silence, here, was not a gap to be filled — it was a rhythm. A heartbeat. A third presence in the car, curling around them, holding everything that hadn’t been said.

Until—

“Any movement?” she asked, voice low — not tense, not expectant, just soft, like a thread being tugged out of habit more than hope.

Spencer didn’t answer right away. He glanced toward the house across the street, his gaze cutting through the layers of fog on the windshield and the distortion of raindrops sliding down the glass in lazy, luminous streaks.

Nothing.

No lights. No shift behind the curtains. No silhouettes pacing in backlit windows. Just the soft, constant hush of the storm and a porch that had grown too still to feel natural.

He shook his head, eyes drifting back to his page. “Nope. Not since the cat around eight-forty.”

That pulled a sound from her — not quite a laugh, more like a small, amused exhale. A puff of disbelief softened by affection. She turned toward him, one brow arched in gentle accusation.

“You logged the cat?”

Spencer didn’t look up. Just flipped a corner of the page with the back of his knuckle, as if this were the most obvious response in the world.

“He was orange. Limped on the right paw. Could be important.”

She smiled then — faint, but real. Not at the cat. Not even really at the joke.

At him.

At the way he said it with no trace of irony. At the way he watched the world like every detail might hold the thread that could unravel everything. At the way his voice had settled low for the night, mellow and worn like the spine of the book in his hands.

It was barely anything.

And still, she found herself holding on to it.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

But it wasn’t the kind of silence that demanded explanation. It wasn’t brittle or impatient. It simply stretched between them, soft and steady, the way old friends might fall into rhythm without needing to fill it with sound. The rain had become a background hum — steady, hypnotic — wrapping the SUV in a cocoon of warmth and fog. Every so often, the wipers traced a slow arc across the windshield, a half-hearted attempt at clarity.

Spencer flipped a page with the careful precision of someone who didn’t just read — someone who studied, who inhabited, who listened to the echo of every sentence long after it was gone. The movement was unhurried, like time didn’t touch him here.

Y/N leaned her head back against the seat, the curve of her neck exposed in the dashboard’s low green glow. Her eyes slipped closed, lashes brushing the skin beneath her brow. Not sleep. Just stillness. The kind that only found her when the storm outside was louder than the one inside her mind.

Then — a pause, a breath, a beat too long.

Her voice broke the hush like a pebble tossed into a still lake.

“What are you reading?”

Spencer didn’t glance up. Just lifted the book slightly, eyes still scanning the page.

“Persuasion. Austen.”

That made her lift her head again, brow raised, an amused spark catching behind her gaze.

“Seriously? I pegged you more as a Brontë man.”

“I like the Brontës,” he said easily. “But Austen’s prose is more psychologically nuanced. And Anne Elliot is arguably one of the most emotionally complex heroines in English literature.”

Y/N blinked once, slowly.

“Okay, but does she walk across moors dramatically in the rain?”

Spencer arched a brow at that, finally looking up, mouth twitching at the edge.

“You do know it’s raining right now, right?”

She smiled — wide this time, unguarded, the kind of smile that curled at the corners and didn’t rush away. She stretched her legs out, shifting in her seat until her sock-clad foot nudged his knee lightly — a small, familiar touch that didn’t feel like much until it did.

“Fine. Read me something.”

He hesitated, thumb holding his place on the page.

“From this?”

She gave him a look, dry and warm.

“No, from your weather log. Yes, from that.”

He didn’t ask why.

Didn’t smirk or prod or ask if she was serious. He just flipped back a few pages, slow and unhurried, his thumb dragging lightly over the paper as though reacquainting himself with the rhythm of the words before they even met the air. A quiet breath slipped past his lips — not a sigh, not nervous — something centered. Then he cleared his throat gently, and began to read.

“My idea of good company is the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation.”

His voice was softer when reading — less clinical, less tightly wound than usual. Like the cadence of someone telling a story they remembered too well. It slipped easily into the space between them, filling it with something light but tangible. Familiar. Almost fond.

She smiled again, but this time it was smaller — quieter. The kind of smile that tugged at one side of her mouth, just enough to mean something, just enough to give her away. It wasn’t for him, not fully. It was for the moment. For the sound of his voice. For the line.

“And is that why you’re stuck in a car with me?”

Spencer looked over at her, gaze steady, not blinking. Not teasing.

“It certainly doesn’t hurt.”

Y/N gave him a look — half-amused, half-skeptical, but undeniably warm — then turned back toward the window with a faint shake of her head, lips still curled. Her breath touched the cold glass in front of her, fogging it just enough to leave a small, crescent bloom where her exhale had landed.

For a while, the only sound was the rain — a steady hush against the roof, soft and constant. Like the sky had decided to whisper all night and had no plans of stopping.

Time passed like that — not fast, not particularly slow, but in that strange, viscous way time has when nothing moves and everything feels like it might. The kind of time that didn't announce itself, only lingered in the stillness, tucking itself into corners: the curve of a seatbelt, the soft click of a shifting jaw, the rhythmic sweep of wipers.

Outside, the street held its breath. Inside, the car did too.

Spencer had already read two chapters. Probably more, if she was being honest. His eyes flicked across the pages with that impossibly fast rhythm she’d grown used to, but still found quietly bewildering. He turned each one with the same reverent calm, the motion so habitual it was almost unconscious — as if his hands knew the story before his eyes did. Not a single sentence read aloud since the last one she’d asked for. But the air still felt full of his voice.

The silence had begun to thicken. Not unpleasantly. Just noticeably. The kind of quiet that made you suddenly aware of the sounds your own body made — the shallow pull of breath through your nose, the slow shift of fabric over your knee, the faint, traitorous beat of your pulse.

It was sometime past ten.

Y/N had already counted the porch lights on the block — seven, two dimmer than the rest. She’d played a mental guessing game with the silhouettes behind living room curtains: game show, drama, rerun of something laugh-tracked. She’d reorganized the snack bag in the backseat by color, then by noise level, then by expiration date. Her left sock was bunched and bothering her, but not enough to fix. Her boot had begun to tilt inward from where it sat abandoned under the dash.

Meanwhile, Spencer remained exactly as he’d been: spine straight, expression unreadable, a small vertical crease between his brows — not from stress, but from focus. That peculiar kind of stillness that only sharpened his edges.

And it was all just a little too much.

She couldn't take it anymore.

“Okay,” she said at last, her voice slicing softly through the quiet — not a jolt, but a ripple. Like a pebble skipping across still water, breaking the surface just enough to catch his attention. “Let’s play a game.”

Spencer glanced up from his book. The low green light from the dash slid across the lenses of his glasses, catching on the faint smudge of a fingerprint. His pen was still poised between his fingers, tucked neatly into the crease of the page like a placeholder he hadn’t meant to use. He blinked once, slow, thoughtful.

“What kind of game?”

Y/N turned toward him more fully now, folding her leg up beneath her, sock brushing the console. She narrowed her eyes with a mock-serious squint, the dramatic tension undercut by the small smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Quote battle. You read a line, I name the book, and vice versa.”

Spencer tilted his head — that precise, birdlike angle she’d come to recognize as curiosity. He looked at her as if analyzing the strategic value of her challenge, weighing outcomes and probabilities in real time.

“What do I get if I win?”

Her grin widened, sharp and playful, lighting her face like something just a little dangerous. “What do you want?”

He blinked once — visibly computing, as if she’d just asked him to solve something unexpectedly complex. His eyes darted slightly, then settled.

“Control of your iPod on the jet for a week.”

“Deal,” she said immediately, hand flicking outward like she was signing a contract in the air. “And if I win, you buy me coffee every morning until next Friday.”

Spencer considered this with the seriousness of a man preparing to enter diplomatic negotiations.

“So… eight days?”

Her brows arched, delighted. “You already did the math?”

His mouth twitched — just slightly. “You challenged me.”

She gestured toward the book in his lap, chin tilted like a dare.

“Go on then. Hit me.”

He flipped a few pages back, fingertips grazing the dog-eared edges with the ease of someone who had memorized the landscape of a book — its weight, its breath, the way the spine folded in his palm like it belonged there. His eyes moved fast, scanning the text like wind moving through leaves. Then he found it. He cleared his throat quietly, a low sound that somehow deepened the stillness between them, and read aloud:

“She had the kind of beauty that hurt to look at—sharp, aching, and likely fatal if mishandled.”

His voice dipped naturally into the rhythm of the line — not performative, not dramatic, just soft and sure, shaped by memory and admiration. The words seemed to hang in the warm air of the car long after he stopped speaking.

Y/N squinted, angling her head toward him like she was turning a puzzle over in her mind.

“That’s not Austen.”

“No,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, equal parts pleased and impressed. “It’s Tana French.”

She hummed, a low sound of appreciation, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Well played.”

“My turn?” she asked, already shifting her weight, her voice curling with anticipation.

He nodded once, resting the book lightly against his knee. “Hit me.”

She didn’t hesitate.

Her voice was steady, quiet, but carried the weight of something familiar — a line so worn it gleamed like glass:

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”

Spencer blinked. Once. Then again — not out of surprise, but recognition.

“Jane Eyre.”

“Too easy,” she sighed, the corners of her mouth twitching with mock disappointment. “Fine. You go.”

He thumbed through another page, slow and deliberate now, though his eyes still moved with that rapid, uncanny rhythm — like he wasn’t just reading but indexing, cataloging, selecting the perfect thread to pull. His fingers paused near the middle of a chapter, pressed gently to the margin like he needed to feel the weight of the words before he let them leave his mouth.

When he read, his voice was casual — too casual. That smooth, practiced kind of nonchalance that only ever meant someone was trying very hard not to reveal too much.

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

The words drifted out into the warm hush of the car like smoke — slow and curling, heavy with implication. And for a beat, they just hung there. Not long. Not really.

But it pressed.

Pressed into the stillness. Pressed into her.

Y/N turned to look at him — slowly, like she already knew what she’d find. Her lips curved upward just enough, not a full smile but something sly and edged with disbelief.

“Are you quoting Pride and Prejudice at me right now?”

Spencer kept his gaze trained on the page in front of him, but the corner of his mouth twitched — a single, unspoken tell.

“Would it be weird if I was?”

“Only if you keep using Mr. Darcy’s lines on me.” She nudged his knee with her socked foot — not hard, just enough to feel him there, solid and warm beside her in the dark. “That man proposed like he was submitting a complaint to management.”

That did it.

Spencer finally looked up — really looked — and smiled in a way he rarely did. Wide, teeth showing, the kind of grin that cracked across his usually composed face like sunlight through drawn curtains. His dimples appeared, sharp and genuine, softening the angles of him until he looked startlingly young. He wasn’t trying to hide it. Not tonight. Not from her.

“And yet,” he said, tone rich with mock solemnity, “he’s one of the most beloved romantic heroes of all time.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, letting the words tumble out on a half-laugh, half-breath, “everyone loves a man who can’t express emotion without sounding like he’s about to faint.”

Spencer tilted his head, still smiling, eyes never leaving hers.

“That likely depends on whether you’re Elizabeth or Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

She let out a laugh — not loud, not sharp, but quiet. Contained. The kind of sound that stayed close to the chest. The kind that wasn’t just amusement, but recognition. Affection. A small flare of something bright held carefully in her hands.

“You know,” she said, nudging his knee again — gentler this time — “this whole thing is starting to feel suspiciously like flirting.”

Spencer looked up slowly.

His smile stretched wider this time — all teeth and dimples, that rare, utterly unguarded kind of grin he only seemed to wear around her. It softened everything. His posture, his face, the ever-present weight between his brows. He looked… happy. Genuinely so. And that alone made the moment tip slightly, like the air around them had taken one breath too deep.

“Only suspiciously?”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in exaggerated thoughtfulness.

“Well, if it is,” she said, her tone lilting with amusement, “you’re doing it very… academically.”

“That’s the only way I know how.”

“I figured.” Her lips quirked, but there was affection behind it now — warmer, quieter. She shifted in her seat again, drawing her knees back up beneath her, curling into the corner like she meant to stay there. Her shoulder bumped the inside of the door; the toe of her sock pressed softly to the edge of the console.

“Next quote, Doctor Reid.”

He turned another page, but this time his fingers slowed at the edge — like they were no longer moving just to move. His eyes flicked down the page, scanning, not quickly now, but deliberately. He stopped halfway down, and when he spoke, his voice was lower. Smoother.

“There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison.”

The quote settled in the warm dark between them like smoke. Light, but dense. Fragrant with intention.

She didn’t guess this one.

Didn’t even try.

Instead, she watched him — not startled or shy, just there with him in the moment, fully. Her gaze held steady on his face for a second too long, her expression unreadable but soft, like she was seeing something she hadn’t let herself look at before. Then she turned her head slightly, eyes drifting out the windshield toward the still-dark house.

Her voice followed a moment later — quieter now, but not hesitant.

“You always pick the romantic ones when it’s just me.”

Spencer didn’t reply.

Didn’t have to.

The words didn’t need answering. They weren’t a question. They were something else entirely — a thread unspooling gently in the hush between them, tying things together she hadn’t named until now.

They hung in the air — not heavy, not awkward, just suspended. Like a truth neither of them had to rush to touch.

And still, it pulsed there. Quiet. Unspoken. Real.

Outside, the rain picked up.

Not all at once. Not with drama or force. Just a slow thickening — a soft insistence in the air, the kind of weight that settled gently over rooftops and sidewalks until the world seemed wrapped in water. The drops came heavier now, tracing long, uninterrupted streaks down the windshield like tears that didn’t know they’d fallen. The rhythm changed — not frantic, but full. A lullaby in another room, low and constant, the sound of the earth exhaling.

Thunder murmured somewhere in the distance, too far to startle, too soft to fear. It rolled low and wide, more suggestion than presence — a storm that circled like a thought you couldn’t quite finish.

Inside the car, the change was quieter still.

But it was there — the kind of shift you felt more than saw. In the way her hands stilled completely in her lap. In the way his thumb lingered on the edge of a page, but never turned it. In the way he closed the book softly, without ceremony, and let it rest across his thigh like something that had given him all it could for the night.

The space between them wasn’t wide. It hadn’t been for hours. But now it felt different — a kind of nearness that didn’t ask for attention, only acknowledgment. A quiet hum building beneath the sound of rain, shaped like something waiting to be named.

Y/N stretched again, slow and languid, like the warmth of the car had melted into her bones. Her jacket was folded between her seat and the door, a makeshift pillow that carried the faint scent of wet wool and worn leather. One leg tucked beneath her, the other lazily extended until her knee nudged against Spencer’s on the console — light, casual, but not accidental.

“You look comfortable,” he said, voice low and edged with something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close. The corner of his mouth tilted up, that soft glint in his eyes reserved only for her.

She shrugged, gaze still half on the glass, where the rain stitched silver threads across the surface.

“We’ve been here for hours. I’m adapting. Survival of the fittest and all that.”

Spencer glanced toward the house again, letting the moment breathe.

Still no movement.

“It’s not like you to go stir-crazy,” he said, voice soft, shaped around the edge of a smile.

Y/N turned her head toward him, slow and deliberate, the overhead glow catching the curve of her cheek. Her voice was quieter now, touched with teasing, but threaded through with something gentler.

“Yeah, well,” she murmured, mouth curving, “you’ve been reading Austen aloud like it’s bedtime, and frankly, I’m beginning to feel a little wooed.”

Spencer blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and mild academic protest.

“Austen is statistically one of the most romantic authors in the Western canon.”

She grinned, shifting her weight just enough for her knee to bump against the console again — light and unthinking, like contact was instinct by now.

“That’s what I’m saying. I feel like I should be fanning myself.”

He turned slightly in his seat, angling toward her without seeming to think about it — the space between them closing in degrees, subtle and slow. His hands rested in his lap, but his focus was fully hers now.

“Would you prefer I quote something less romantic?” he asked. “Something clinical?”

She narrowed her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching as she stared him down.

“If you quote a math theorem at me, I’m getting out of the car.”

“In this weather?” he deadpanned, glancing meaningfully toward the rain-streaked glass.

“Dramatic exits don’t wait for ideal conditions.”

That pulled another smile from him — unguarded, his dimples deepening as his features softened in the glow of it. He looked younger that way. Brighter. Like someone who had just been handed permission to be seen.

And then, quieter:

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Her brows pulled together immediately, the shift in tone catching her with something almost like concern.

“You didn’t.”

Spencer looked down briefly, then back up, his voice a little steadier now — like it mattered to say it right.

“I just… wasn’t sure if the quoting thing was crossing a line.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, eyes still on his face, watching him with the kind of attention that always made him feel like she saw more than he said. The light from the dashboard cut softly across his features — caught the edge of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the almost imperceptible movement as he swallowed.

And still, her gaze didn’t waver.

She caught the flicker in his eyes — the way his gaze dropped for a beat too long, as if a thought had slipped loose before he could catch it. Just a brief shift, but enough. Enough to feel the weight behind the silence. Enough to see that he was second-guessing something, maybe everything.

So she leaned in. Not dramatically, not to close a distance, just slightly. The kind of movement you made when you didn’t want to startle a bird. Her voice was low when it came, warm and unhurried — teasing in that familiar, sideways way that made space instead of closing it.

“Relax, Romeo,” she murmured, the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth easy, natural, hers. “If I didn’t like it, I would’ve made you switch to case reports an hour ago.”

That earned his attention.

Spencer glanced over at her — and this time, he didn’t just look. He saw. Really saw her. Not as the agent beside him. Not as the person he’d been sitting with for hours. But as something else. Something specific.

It was the kind of gaze he usually reserved for the rare things — uncrackable ciphers, strange celestial maps, pages too dense for most to decipher. But it was softer now. Focused. Unflinching.

And all of it was hers.

Y/N held his gaze, still smiling, still pretending — barely — that her heart wasn’t crashing against her ribs like it had just realized it had skin to break through. She didn’t drop her eyes. Didn’t tease further. Just let the quiet bloom around them.

And then, a little quieter, more honest than before:

“You don’t do it with anyone else. Just me.”

The pause that followed wasn’t long.

But it held.

Not because he didn’t have something to say — but because she’d already said enough.

Then she huffed a breath and leaned back again, her body folding into the curve of the seat like she was trying to retreat from the tension she’d just sewn into the air. She reached for levity — not to deflect, but to steady the moment, to give it room to breathe. Her voice dropped just enough to sound offhanded, even as something more trembled just beneath the surface.

“You’re going to make someone very confused one day, Spencer. Using Austen as a flirtation tactic is very dangerous.”

He turned to her fully now, one brow arching with exaggerated skepticism, the edge of his mouth fighting a smile.

“Dangerous?”

“Highly.” She waved a hand vaguely in the space between them, her tone mock-serious, but her gaze held steady on his face. “All this charm and intellect and emotional repression—it’s a lot.”

Spencer laughed — really laughed. The sound burst out of him light and breathless, and it startled even him a little. He tipped his head back, shoulders shaking for a beat, that rare, beautiful sound filling the car like light through fogged glass.

“That’s… an interesting interpretation.”

She smiled too, lopsided and knowing. A little crooked, a little fond. The kind of smile that came from watching someone unravel gently, willingly.

“I’m just saying,” she said, voice softer now but still playfully edged, “if you keep quoting Persuasion at girls in the dark, someone’s gonna fall in love with you.”

This time, he didn’t laugh.

But the smile lingered — soft and shaped with something quieter. Something he didn’t need to dress up in humor or hide behind logic. It tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth like a secret wanting out.

He just looked at her.

And said, voice barely above a whisper:

“You say that like it hasn’t already happened.”

That was when the air changed.

Not in a loud, crashing way — but in the way the atmosphere does before a storm rolls in. The kind of shift you feel before you see. Pressure dropping. Something pulling low and deep in your chest. The hush before lightning splits the sky.

Her heart stuttered once — a quiet, startled rhythm behind her ribs.

But she didn’t move.

Neither did he.

They just sat there.

Knees brushing. Shoulders angled slightly toward each other. Breath held just below the surface. The thunder rolled again, low and blooming in the distance, but it felt closer now — not in the sky, but in the space between them.

And the silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was brimming with everything they hadn’t said. Everything they almost had.

They didn’t speak for a while after that.

Not because there was nothing left to say — but because whatever had just passed between them was still in the room, still in the air, like dust lit by a headlight beam. It hovered. It clung. It needed space to settle.

And when the quiet returned, it wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t companionable or easy. It was charged. Dense with possibility. Like a radio dial turned just off-center — all static and hum, vibrating with the shape of words that hadn’t been spoken but still somehow filled the space.

Neither of them moved.

Not at first.

The rain whispered steadily against the windows, carving glass into trembling river lines. The cabin of the SUV had grown warmer, breath-fog softening the edges of the world beyond it. The outside was blurred. The inside was bright with everything they weren’t saying.

Eventually, Y/N shifted — slowly, like she didn’t want to startle the moment. Like she was wading through it. A deer through tall grass.

She stretched her legs down from the seat, her sock brushing the base of the console as she moved. Not restless — just closer. Her spine curved slightly inward, instinctive, unconsciously tilted in his direction. Her hand dropped into her lap, fingers tapping out a rhythm that didn’t match the rain, didn’t match anything at all — except maybe the quick, uneven beat of her pulse.

She glanced sideways, not quite meeting his eyes, her voice soft — but edged with mischief, like a spark under velvet.

“So,” she said, drawing the word out like a thread between her fingers, the kind that unraveled slowly just to see where it led, “how long have you been using Regency-era romance as a seduction technique?”

Spencer blinked — once, then again, as though her question had short-circuited some internal circuit he’d previously thought infallible.

“Excuse me?”

She smirked, lips curling with the satisfaction of someone who’d just set off a particularly elegant trap. Her gaze slid sideways, head tilted, playful but precise — like she was enjoying watching him squirm just a little.

“You heard me. You’re weaponizing Austen, Reid.”

“I’m not—” He stopped, mid-breath, brows drawing together in a furrow of genuine confusion. His tone shifted, caught somewhere between defense and self-doubt, like he was suddenly evaluating all his life choices. “I’m not weaponizing anything.”

“You say that,” she murmured, voice softer now, eyes narrowing with mock scrutiny. She leaned in just enough to make it feel like a secret. “But you’ve been sitting over there all night quoting Anne Elliot like it’s nothing.”

Spencer’s hands lifted slightly, as if ready to explain himself with a logical breakdown and supporting footnotes.

“It was relevant to our conversation.”

“Mhm. Sure.” She nodded, slowly, exaggerating the motion like she was humoring him. “Totally casual. Just a normal thing you do with coworkers during a federal surveillance op.”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again — the movement small but visible, the rhythm of a man realizing too late that he’d walked right into a thesis statement he hadn’t prepared for. He looked at her, a little wide-eyed, somewhere between horrified and completely disarmed.

And she was still smiling.

That same knowing smile that always made him feel like she could see straight through him — not in a threatening way, but like a flashlight through fog.

She leaned forward slightly, elbow resting on the console between them like she was settling into a chess match she already knew she was winning. The space narrowed — not dramatically, just enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, see the faintest shift in his expression as she moved closer.

Her voice dropped, teasing and low, her words brushed with deliberate mischief.

“Be honest—do you quote Virginia Woolf to Hotch when you’re trying to butter him up?”

Spencer blinked at her, visibly startled — then gave her a look so affronted, so utterly scandalized, it made her laugh under her breath. It was the kind of expression he reserved for things like inaccurate statistics or poorly alphabetized books.

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay,” she said, pressing now, enjoying the way the tips of his ears turned just a shade darker in the dim light. “So what’s my category?”

Her eyes gleamed as she listed them off, slow and deliberate, watching the way he tried not to react.

“Austen? Brontë? Bit of Plath if I’m cranky?”

He was trying not to smile. She could see it — the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the fight behind his eyes, the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly like holding in laughter required muscle.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being thorough,” she corrected, tapping the side of her temple like it was all part of a formal diagnostic process. “Profiling, remember?”

He shook his head once, but it was hopeless now — the shape of his mouth gave him away. That soft, helpless curve he only wore when it was her.

And then, quieter. So quiet she almost missed it, but not quite:

“You say that like it’s a theory,” he murmured, “but it sounds a lot like hope.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Not loudly. Not visibly. But it caught — sharp and low in her chest — and her whole body stilled for just a fraction too long, like something delicate had been named.

The space between them had grown impossibly small.

Inches. Maybe less. The console between their seats felt like a formality now — a boundary that had once meant something, back when lines were clearer. But those lines had smudged hours ago, and now the air between them pulsed with everything that had risen in the silence.

Every glance. Every quote. Every moment of not looking away.

Y/N blinked — just once — suddenly uncertain of her footing, like the room had tilted and she wasn’t quite sure what her next step would do. So she did what she always did when the ground started to shift beneath her.

She reached for levity.

“Alright, then. If you were going to write me a love letter, would it be annotated?”

Spencer huffed out a breath — something between a laugh and a sigh of relief, like she’d just let the air back in.

“Only lightly,” he said, the corners of his mouth curving again. “A few citations. Footnotes. Maybe a reference table.”

“Oh, good,” she breathed, the smile tugging at her lips returning with a softness that hadn’t been there before. “I love when romance comes with appendices.”

He turned toward her fully now — not just his head, but his whole body, his knees brushing hers again, their shoulders angled like a conversation only they could hear.

“You joke,” he said, voice lower now, intimate in a way that made the walls of the SUV feel smaller, closer, “but I could quote you half a dozen passages from 19th century literature that remind me of you.”

She blinked once. Quick. Like her breath had caught behind her ribs.

“…Name one.”

But he didn’t.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for the book. Didn’t chase the question back with logic or wit.

He just looked at her.

And the look was a thing unto itself — unguarded and direct, like a thought that had lived too long in the dark and was finally stepping into the light. His mouth parted slightly, like he might speak, but no words came. His fingers curled tighter around the edge of his seat, as if he needed something solid to hold onto.

The silence between them swelled, not awkward, not unsure — just full. Brimming. Close enough to touch.

And neither of them moved.

Because if they did — if even one of them leaned closer — it wouldn’t be silence anymore.

It would be everything.

Because the truth of it—that aching, unnamed thing that had stretched and shimmered between them all night—was louder than anything he could have quoted.

It hung in the air now, full and real, vibrating like a string pulled too tight.

The windows had begun to fog.

Not completely. Just at the corners, where their breath mingled in the air, warm and quiet. The edges of the world blurred out, as if even the SUV had started to breathe slower. Everything inside the car felt thick with weight—with them—their bodies no longer separated by anything that mattered.

Outside, the street was still. No footsteps. No shadows in the house across the way. Just the hush of rain, soft and constant, and the low purr of the engine like a heartbeat they’d both forgotten to hear.

It was too much. Too quiet. Too full.

So Y/N broke it—because she had to. Because it was either that, or let it swallow her whole.

“So,” she said lightly, trying for teasing but not quite reaching it, the word catching slightly at the edges, “was that the part where you were going to kiss me or just emotionally devastate me with more well-placed metaphors?”

Spencer turned his head.

Slowly.

Like he’d been waiting for permission.

Like he’d been still all this time not out of hesitation, but out of reverence—like he knew this wasn’t something you rushed.

“You talk a lot when you’re nervous,” he said, so softly it nearly dissolved into the air between them.

She blinked.

“I’m not—” she started, but her voice caught—right on the edge of certainty. She cleared her throat and tried again, masking the tremble with a crooked smile. “I’m not nervous. I just didn’t want to ruin your perfectly curated quote-to-eye-contact ratio.”

Spencer’s lips twitched.

But the look in his eyes didn’t shift.

It stayed steady. Bare. The kind of gaze that didn’t flinch from the truth anymore. It held her without demand, like he was showing her the most vulnerable part of himself and trusting her not to look away.

And she didn’t.

Couldn’t.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t dodge. Didn’t retreat into metaphor or distraction or some clever turn of phrase.

He just looked at her.

The kind of look that reached deeper than words. The kind that unraveled things. The kind that said I see you — and always have.

“I’ve been in love with you,” he said, quiet as a breath, “since your first case.”

No dramatic pause. No swelling music. Just a soft truth offered in the smallest of spaces. No less earth-shaking for its gentleness.

Outside, the rain kept falling — slow and constant, threading silver down the windshield like time deciding not to move.

The windows continued to fog, blurring the world beyond them until it was gone entirely. Only the inside remained now. Only this space. Only them.

Inside the car, the world stilled.

Y/N felt it in her chest first — a quiet catch of breath that slipped beneath her ribs and stayed there, trembling. Something had shifted — tectonic, deep beneath the surface — and everything realigned around it.

Her pulse fluttered. Her fingers curled in her lap, grounding her in the fabric of her jeans, the grain of the seat beneath her. But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t look down.

She didn’t ask if he meant it.

She didn’t joke. Didn’t tease.

She just looked at him.

And the silence between them wasn’t silence anymore.

It was something whole.

She moved towards him, unhurried and certain, as though the moment had long since been ordained. There was no fanfare in the gesture, no trembling flourish — only the quiet conviction of a woman who had made up her mind. Her hand came to rest at his neck, her fingers light and reverent, and then — with the gentleness of breath and the steadiness of affection long harboured — her lips found his.

It was not a kiss of passion unbridled, nor of haste or vanity. It was a confession, tender and unspoken, offered in the only language she could summon. And he received it as such — returning the kiss with the astonishment of a man long denied happiness, scarcely daring to trust that it had come at last.

When they parted — for breath, for sense, for the sweet necessity of drawing nearer still — her hand lingered at his jaw, thumb brushing the fine curve of it with something very near reverence.

His eyes opened slowly, as though waking from some long, aching dream.

“I wasn’t planning on saying it like that,” he whispered, breathless.

A smile touched her lips — quiet, wry, and altogether disarming. “How were you planning to say it?”

He shrugged slightly. “I was… maybe going to write it in the margin of a book and pretend you found it by accident.”

Her laugh then was soft and genuine, surprised by joy. It caught in the air like a lark in morning light.

“You still can,” she said. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it. For dramatic effect.”

They remained there, foreheads pressed together in the hush that follows great change — the kind of silence that no longer feels empty, but earned. Rain murmured against the glass. The world around them faded to stillness.

And though neither dared to say more in that moment, it was understood between them — wholly and without embellishment — that the waiting was over.

And then — through the fogged glass, through the hush that had wrapped itself around them like a secret — a light blinked on across the street.

They both turned, instinct kicking in hard and fast, muscle memory overriding everything else. Adrenaline over romance. Duty over daydream.

Spencer reached for the binoculars. Y/N grabbed the radio. Their movements overlapped — smooth, practiced, nearly synchronized.

It was like slipping back into step. The rhythm of a thousand stakeouts before. The urgency. The protocol. The clarity of purpose. Familiar. Rehearsed.

But when her shoulder brushed his— 

when her fingers lingered just a moment too long on the gear shift— 

when he looked at her and couldn’t help the way his smile pulled, unbidden, real—

It wasn’t the same.

Not even close.

The rain had finally let up by the time they made it back to the precinct.

It was early — the kind of early that belonged more to the night than the day, sky still a gray-blue smear above the rooftops, low and hesitant. The pavement glistened, slick with the memory of rain, and steam curled in lazy tendrils from the sewer grates. Every surface gleamed like it had just woken up. So had they.

Y/N still felt the ghost of his lips on hers.

They walked side by side, steps in quiet sync. A little too close.

Their shoulders bumped once. Neither of them moved away.

She glanced up at him, trying — and failing — to bite down a smile. “You’re being weird.”

Spencer blinked, eyes wide in theatrical offense. “I’m being weird?”

“You keep doing that soft smile thing.”

“I always smile.”

“You smile in footnotes. This is new.”

He tried to school his face into something neutral. Failed miserably.

“Okay,” he admitted, voice low. “I don’t know how to do this yet.”

“Me neither.”

And then, grinning: “It’s kind of fun watching you short-circuit.”

He opened the precinct door for her with a small shake of his head, but his cheeks were unmistakably pink.

Inside, the station was half-asleep. Fluorescent lights hummed low. Agents drifted through the bullpen like ghosts with paperwork — coffee in hand, conversations murmured over case files, the scrape of chairs against tile. It smelled like burnt espresso and printer toner.

Emily looked up from her laptop as they stepped in, her brow immediately furrowing. 

“You two look… suspiciously chipper for a stakeout,” she said slowly, tone sharp with amusement.

From behind her, Morgan appeared with a mug in hand. “Right? You catch the unsub or just catch up on some really good conversation?”

Y/N paused mid-step. Spencer made a sound that could only be described as an intellectual cough.

“We—uh,” he started, eyes darting toward the coffee station like it might offer rescue.

“Read Austen,” Y/N said quickly, deadpan. “He read. I listened. Riveting stuff.”

Emily narrowed her eyes.

Morgan lifted a brow. “Austen, huh?”

Spencer nodded. “She likes the metaphors.”

Y/N shrugged. “They hold up.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy with implication.

JJ passed them on her way to the coffee pot, casting a glance sharp enough to cut paper.

“Cute,” she murmured, just loud enough to be heard — and kept walking.

Spencer looked like he might spontaneously combust. Y/N just smiled, hands in her pockets, a quiet glow still tucked behind her eyes.

Maybe they were terrible at hiding it.

Maybe they never really stood a chance.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t want to hide anything at all.

[clementineinn]

AHHH thank you so much!! you’re so sweet, this means the world <3 thank you for reading xx

the door into summer

abstract: on a warm summer evening, under the hush of string lights and the flicker of fireflies, something quiet begins to shift. what starts as laughter among friends becomes a night of near-confessions and stolen glances, where the air is thick with memory and want.

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

genre: tooth-rotting fluff

word count: 7.5k

note: thinking about summer and spencer reid has me in a daydream all day long. writing this out in my uni's library was one of the best feelings ever, how could you ever explain that to a man?? anyways, as always, enjoyy!!

Quantico, BAU Bullpen – Late Afternoon

The late-day hum of keyboards and rustling case files filled the BAU bullpen, a soft chorus of exhaustion and focus that clung to the fluorescent light like static. Coffee cups sat half-empty beside piles of reports, and the air buzzed with the quiet fatigue that came at the end of a case—the kind that settled into shoulders and softened voices.

And then, breaking through it like a glittering firework in a library, came the familiar chiming of bracelets and the unmistakable voice of Penelope Garcia.

She didn’t enter so much as burst in—arms full of color, bangles clinking with every dramatic step, sunglasses perched on her head despite being indoors. Her dress was a swirl of citrus hues and soft ruffles, and her heels clicked like punctuation across the tile.

Hotch looked up from his office doorway with a faint smile that read: here we go again.

“Attention, my beautiful crime-fighting weirdos!” she declared, hands raised like a ringmaster about to announce the main act. “We are officially T-minus six hours until the most important event of the month—nay, the summer. And if any of you bail, I will hack into your iTunes libraries and replace every playlist with accordion covers of Nickelback.”

A few chuckles rippled through the bullpen.

“I’ve already RSVP’d yes like, four times,” Prentiss said, spinning in her chair. “I’m mostly going for the themed cocktails and the regret.”

JJ chimed in from behind her desk. “Will there be karaoke again?”

Garcia winked. “There will be redemption.”

Rossi emerged from the break room with a steaming mug. “I’ll bring wine, as tradition dictates.”

As conversations resumed, Morgan turned from his desk and caught sight of Spencer, who was absently twisting a paperclip into a helix. His eyes weren’t on Garcia. They were drifting—softly, unconsciously—toward the far corner of the room.

Toward her.

Y/N was leaning against the edge of JJ’s desk, talking animatedly with her, Prentiss, and Garcia, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Something about the way she stood—loose-limbed, relaxed, laughing with her head tilted—made the air feel just a little warmer.

Morgan didn’t miss it.

“Yo,” he said, voice low and teasing as he leaned toward Reid. “You going tonight?”

Reid blinked, snapping out of his trance. “What?”

“To Garcia’s,” Morgan said, nudging him. “The party. First night of summer. That thing she’s been planning since Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh. I don’t know. I might.”

Morgan’s grin was slow and knowing. “You should.”

Spencer glanced at him warily. “Why?”

Morgan tilted his head toward the corner, where Y/N was laughing at something JJ just whispered. “Because she’s going.”

Spencer’s jaw twitched—just barely. His eyes flicked down, then back up again. “So?”

“So,” Morgan said, slapping a hand on his shoulder, “wear something that doesn’t look like it’s from a calculus textbook. Maybe tonight’s the night you stop staring from across the room.”

Spencer opened his mouth to protest—but then Y/N looked over.

She didn’t say anything. Just caught his gaze and smiled—small, quiet, real.

And Spencer’s heart forgot its rhythm entirely.

Garcia’s Backyard – Early Evening

The sun was still clinging to the edges of the sky in long, golden ribbons when Y/N stepped onto Garcia’s lawn, a coil of twinkle lights looped around her arm like a garland spun from stars. Her brown boots pressed softly into the grass, each step sinking just slightly into the earth, grounding her in the hush of early summer.

The air was velvet-warm and fragrant—lavender, honeysuckle, and the faintest trace of citrus from a glass left on the railing. Wind chimes stirred above the porch in slow, dreamy tones, their silver song fluttering through the breeze like a lullaby meant only for summer’s beginning.

Her dress fluttered at the hem—white and lacy, soft as breath, catching the golden light like it had been made to glow. It clung to the curves of her hips in motion, the delicate fabric shifting with every step she took between lantern poles and flower beds. She looked like something from a story whispered at twilight—half-real, half-lantern light.

Garcia watched her from the porch, barefoot herself, a bundle of citronella candles tucked under one arm like potions.

“Okay, moonflower,” Garcia called from the patio steps, hands on her hips, surveying the backyard like a general readying for battle. “We’ve got exactly one hour to make this place look like a midsummer dream crossed with a Stevie Nicks fever vision. Let’s summon the party gods.”

Y/N laughed as she reached for the nearest fence post, beginning to wind the twinkle lights around it. “You’re mixing metaphors again.”

“I contain multitudes,” Garcia said dramatically, then gestured to a crate of vintage glassware, solar lanterns, and fake moss. “And you contain the only sense of symmetry I trust right now.”

The two of them moved in a quiet, easy rhythm—Garcia orchestrating with flair, Y/N adjusting the delicate twinkle lights with careful hands, her touch light as breath on glass. The strands draped between fence posts like constellations, catching the last of the sun as it dipped behind the trees. Mismatched candle holders lined the long table, flickering already as if they couldn’t wait for dusk.

Y/N’s brown knee boots whispered through the grass as she stepped back to admire their work, the worn leather grounding the soft sway of her white dress—a contrast of strength and softness that somehow suited her perfectly.

Eventually, Garcia stepped back, let out a long, theatrical sigh, fanning herself with a flamingo-shaped paddle. “You look like a Renaissance painting. Like if Botticelli painted summer in boots.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips was warm. “You picked the outfit, technically,” she said, looping the last coil of lights around the edge of the pergola. “You threatened to withhold music recommendations unless I wore something ‘solstice-worthy.’”

“I did no such thing,” Garcia said, gasping. “I merely suggested that if you wore that dress, certain individuals might experience temporary cardiac distress. No names. No pressure.”

Y/N arched a brow. “You mean Spencer?”

Garcia feigned innocence poorly. “Did I say that?”

“I like him,” Y/N said simply, not able to help the smile blooming on her face, smoothing her palms down the fabric of her dress. “Not exactly a government secret.”

Garcia’s expression softened, all glitter and truth. “He likes you too, honey. Has for ages. The man practically blinks in Morse code when you walk into a room.”

A hush fell between them—not awkward, but full, like a breath held between pages of a story just beginning to turn.

Y/N let out a soft, breathy giggle—light and a little dazed, the kind that escaped without asking permission. She ducked her head slightly, as if even the breeze might overhear. A touch of rose bloomed in her cheeks, blooming even deeper when Garcia grinned knowingly.

Around them, the garden hummed in gold and green. Fireflies blinked lazily along the hedges, slow and deliberate, like sparks from a match that never quite catches. The sky above had begun its slow descent into dusk, shifting from the faintest robin’s egg blue into soft mauve, a color only seen when you were still long enough to notice it—quiet enough to be changed by it.

And for a moment, the whole world felt paused on the edge of something beautiful.

Y/N tied the last ribbon to the pergola, fingers lingering on the knot, and turned to Garcia. “Well… let’s see if he shows up.”

Garcia smiled, eyes twinkling. “Oh, he’ll be here. And when he sees you—” she made a theatrical explosion gesture with her fingers, “—brain. Gone.”

They both giggled, the sound delicate and light, like wind chimes stirring on a summer breeze—bright, private, and gilded by the last amber blush of day, as if the dusk itself had leaned in to listen.

By the time the citronella candles were flickering in full force and the fairy lights blinked to life overhead, the backyard had begun to swell with familiar voices.

The first to arrive was JJ, with Will at her side and Henry tucked on his hip, already sleepy-eyed from the car ride over. Y/N swooped in for hugs, cooing over Henry’s shark-print pajamas, her colorful counterpart offering him a cup of apple juice in a sparkly tumbler.

Rossi strolled through the gate next, holding a bottle of red wine in one hand and a Tupperware of something suspiciously gourmet in the other. “I figured someone had to bring a dish that didn’t involve glitter or gummy worms.”

“Rossi!” Garcia squealed. “You brought carbs and judgment—just what I needed.”

Hotch didn’t stay long—he swung by just long enough to hand Garcia a summer bouquet and promise he’d attend next year’s party for more than fifteen minutes. He exchanged a few quiet words with Y/N at the edge of the lawn before heading out to catch Jack’s game.

Then came Emily, in cutoffs and a vintage band tee, holding a six-pack and shouting something about missing her punk phase. She immediately pulled Y/N into a hug, murmuring something with a grin that made her laugh and swat at her arm.

The backyard filled slowly, in the best way—people drifting in with half-finished drinks and easy laughter, staking claims to folding chairs and porch steps. Music hummed low from the speakers Garcia had tucked near the herb garden, soft enough to let conversations overlap like waves. Fireflies blinked in and out along the grass line, pulsing gently like they had nowhere else to be.

Near the far edge of the yard, someone set up a folding table and started arranging red cups. A round of beer pong had begun. Prentiss immediately accused JJ of stacking the teams, both unable to contain the ringing laughter that escaped their lips.

And through it all, Y/N moved like the center of gravity—refilling drinks, catching up with JJ and Emily, swaying slightly to the rhythm of the music as the wind played with her hair.

Every now and then, her eyes flicked toward the gate.

Garcia noticed. Of course she noticed.

“He’ll come,” she murmured, passing Y/N a glass of sangria and a soft look. “You know he will.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She just took the glass and nodded once, fingers tightening around the stem.

And then—

The gate creaked open.

No one looked up right away. The music had mellowed into something slow and warm, weaving through the laughter and low conversation scattered across Garcia’s backyard. String lights blinked into gold overhead. Prentiss was accusing Rossi of cheating at beer pong again, Garcia was convincing Henry that fireflies were tiny fairies and not bugs, and someone popped open a beer with the hiss of summer behind it.

Spencer hovered just inside the gate, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of a slate-blue shirt that Garcia had all but bullied him into wearing. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows—he wasn’t sure if it looked intentional or just like he’d gotten too warm and panicked.

He didn’t know where to go, exactly. Or how to move. Or breathe.

Because there—at the far edge of the patio, half-turned toward the light—stood Y/N.

And she looked like every thought he’d ever tried not to have about her, wrapped in dusk and light and lace.

Her hair—soft with waves from the heat of the day—cascaded down her back like sun-warmed silk, catching the last of the golden light in a way that made his breath catch. The white dress—short, delicate, almost too fragile for this world—fluttered at the hem, shifting with the breeze like it had a mind of its own. It danced against her thighs in fleeting, whispering touches, revealing glimpses of skin so soft and bare it made something in him ache. His eyes followed the line of her leg down to the top of her boots, the worn leather hugging her calves like they’d been made just for her.

She stood with one hand cradling a half-glass of dark sangria, its deep red glinting like garnet in the porchlight; her fingers, long and elegant, curled delicately around the stem—a contrast against the wine-dark swirl, the rim of the glass catching light like a prism, throwing faint glimmers onto the lace of her dress. Her lips—stained the same ripe shade as the drink—parted slightly as she laughed at something JJ said, the sound soft and bright, like a bell in warm fog, and all he could think about was how dangerously, heartbreakingly kissable her mouth looked in that moment.

The gentle curve of her throat. The soft sweep of collarbone exposed by the neckline of her dress. He could almost imagine what her skin would feel like if he touched it—warm from the sun, velvet-smooth, like something meant to be memorized slowly.

She moved slightly, hair falling across her shoulder, and the light shifted with her, gilding her in gold.

She didn’t know.

That was the worst part.

She didn’t know how breathtaking she looked. How she was standing there, half-tucked into the last light of day, looking like a wish someone else had made.

His throat tightened.

Of course he noticed. He noticed her like the stars must notice gravity.

And still, he didn’t move—jaw slack, breath stalled in his throat, frozen in the kind of silent awe that only came from long-held want finally staring back at him in the flesh. She was a vision carved from light and memory, and he stood there like a ghost haunting the edge of something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch.

He might have stayed rooted there forever if she hadn’t turned.

Just a small, unconscious shift of her shoulders, the tilt of her head—like she felt him before she saw him.

Her eyes found his.

And something in him fractured—quietly, like glass under slow pressure.

She smiled—small, tentative, a curve of her lips that seemed to ask more than it answered. There was uncertainty in it, like maybe she wasn’t sure he was real. Like maybe she wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

And then—her hand lifted, the stem of her wine glass catching the fading light as she raised it just slightly in greeting.

That was all it took.

Spencer began walking, though his body felt distant and slow, like he was moving through warm honey, like the air between them had thickened with everything he hadn’t said.

He had no idea what expression his face was making—probably something strange and wide-eyed. His heart was racing, an echo of footsteps pounding against the inside of his ribs. Every cell in him was tuned to her.

And by the time he reached her, she had turned fully—her back to the sunset, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair, the wind tugging playfully at the lace hem of her dress. Her hair shimmered around her shoulders like dusk had decided to follow her down.

She looked at him like she wasn’t sure what to say next.

And then she smiled again, this time a little steadier.

“Hey, stranger,” she said—voice soft and warm, threaded through with something quieter beneath it. Hope, maybe. Or doubt. “I was starting to think you bailed.”

Spencer blinked. “I, uh... circled the block once.”

She laughed, her teeth catching the rim of her glass before she took a sip. “That sounds about right.”

“I had to... psychologically prepare,” he added, a little too honestly.

“For Garcia’s yard?”

“For... people. And string lights. And themed drinks.”

She grinned. “Yeah, the sangria’s lethal. Pretty sure the fruit in mine is just decoration at this point.”

Spencer’s lips curved into a half-smile. “You make it look manageable.”

She raised a brow. “Is that your way of saying I’m handling sangria better than you’d expect?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Not at all. I just meant—you seem. Comfortable. In this.”

She gave a small shrug, gaze flicking away, words trailing out of her mouth in a joking tone. “I’m faking it, obviously. I’ve got a whole internal monologue running.”

Spencer smiled softly. “Does it include a tactical exit strategy?”

“Only if someone spills on me.” She tilted her head toward Garcia, who was dramatically flailing over a plastic cup. “Or if Garcia tries to get me to dance.”

Spencer glanced over and nodded, solemn. “That does seem like a legitimate threat.”

Y/N’s smile quirked again, but her eyes flicked back toward the ground—lingering on the tip of her boot as it pressed into the grass. She swirled her glass absently, watching the fruit float in slow spirals.

There was a pause. Light. But charged.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, not looking at him this time.

Spencer shifted slightly. “Yeah. I... wasn’t sure I would either.”

Her brow ticked up. “But here you are.”

He glanced sideways at her. “Here I am.”

Their eyes met again, and this time something stayed there. Something quiet. Fragile.

Y/N took another sip of her sangria and tried to smile like her heart wasn’t fluttering a little. Like his presence didn’t change the temperature around her.

She tapped the rim of her glass once, then said, “I didn’t think this dress was a good idea.”

Spencer’s breath caught.

It took everything in him not to say the thousand things that filled his head at once.

It’s perfect. You look unreal. You’re the only person I’ve looked at since I got here.

Instead, he said, gently, “Why not?”

She shrugged again, self-conscious. “I don’t know. Felt like maybe it was trying too hard.”

His brows drew together just slightly. “It doesn’t.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard.

“It doesn’t try too hard,” he said again. “It just... works. On you.”

It wasn’t a compliment exactly—not the kind that made it obvious. But it was close. Close enough that her cheeks went warm.

She looked away again, biting her lip like maybe she hadn’t expected even that much.

Spencer stuffed his hands back in his pockets, fighting the itch to reach for her, to say what he really meant.

You look like summer made flesh. Like I’ve spent months trying not to say your name.

Instead, he nodded toward the game table. “Are you playing?”

“I was about to,” she said, glancing toward the house with a smile. “Garcia claimed me for her team, but then someone spilled sangria on the playlist notes and she went full crisis mode. I got ditched for DJ triage.”

He smiled. “Sounds terrifying.”

“You have no idea.” She turned toward the table, then paused. “Wanna join me?”

Spencer hesitated for half a breath too long.

She laughed under her breath. “Too much social exposure?”

He shook his head. “No. Just calculating the risk of complete emotional collapse.”

Her eyes sparkled at that—surprised, a little fond. And something inside her flickered.

Say something, she thought. Look at me like you mean it.

“You’re cute when you panic,” she offered, softer than she meant to.

His mouth opened—like maybe he would say something, anything—but then closed again.

And that was it.

A heartbeat. A pause. Nothing more.

He still wasn’t looking at her the way she ached for.

Not the way she’d imagined, just once, in the mirror before leaving the house—when she smoothed the hem of her dress with trembling fingers and let Garcia braid gold into her hair like a spell. When she told herself she didn’t need him to notice.

But God, she wanted him to.

Just one look. One moment that said he saw her—not the agent, not the friend, but the girl in the white dress who only wore it because some fragile part of her hoped it might make him stay a little longer when the night ended.

She took a step back anyway, smile still intact, the hem of her dress catching in the breeze and dancing around her thighs as she turned.

“Come on, Doctor,” she called lightly over her shoulder. “I’ll save you a cup.”

And Spencer—blinking once, heart stumbling to keep up—followed her into the lights.

From the table, Morgan’s voice rang out: “Reid! You better get in on this next round. We need a math guy to calculate our odds!”

She moved ahead of him, boots pressing gently into the grass, the worn leather hugging her calves like they’d been shaped to her stride. The hem of her dress—a weightless slip of white cotton and lace—fluttered with the breeze, just brushing the tops of her thighs with every step. The fabric floated more than it fell, sheer in places where the light passed through, stitched with the softest panels of embroidery and ruffled tulle, like something borrowed from a midsummer dream.

The flutter of her cap sleeves kissed her shoulders, exposing the golden curve of skin beneath. The dress swayed when she moved, catching the warm light of the lanterns and casting faint shadows against her legs, as if the night itself couldn’t help but follow her.

She looked like a painting left out in the sun—all soft edges and pale ivory, leather and lace and a hint of something wild beneath it all. Her silhouette moved through the garden like smoke—blurred at the edges, kissed by lamplight, and edged in warm shadow. She looked untouchable in that moment. Like a page torn from some pastoral painting—cream and pale honey, dusk-blushed skin and vintage leather.

And Spencer—he watched her, helpless.

His eyes traced the flutter of the skirt, the soft dip of her collarbone, the barest glint of skin beneath the gauzy fabric. She was light and movement, softness and summer and something impossible to name.

He was sure—painfully sure—that he would never recover from this.

Spencer followed, heart caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat, and wondered if it was possible to ache for something that had never truly been yours.

He wanted to stare. He wanted to memorize every detail—the shift of her hair against her back, the dip of her waist, the soft line of her neck where it disappeared into lace. She looked like warmth itself, like summer captured in motion, like every unspoken sentence that had ever sat on the edge of his tongue.

He tried not to trip. Tried not to breathe too hard. Tried not to want.

But he did. With a fierceness that frightened him.

And she didn’t even know.

She was right there—right there, laughing with a glass in her hand and the stars beginning to crown her shoulders—and she had no idea how badly he wanted to reach for her. Not to pull her in or steal anything. Just to rest his fingers at the edge of her wrist and feel what it was like to be allowed.

She stopped at the folding table set up near the flower beds, already half-surrounded by red Solo cups and friendly heckling.

“We’re going, we’re going,” she giggled, glancing over her shoulder at him.

He nodded, a beat late. “Only if you’re willing to lose.”

Her eyes narrowed playfully. “Wow. Confidence and reverse psychology. You’ve clearly been studying the classics.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he said, then immediately regretted how that sounded.

Y/N grinned, setting her drink on the edge of the table. “Good. Because I plan on carrying this team, and I need you to look smart while I do it.”

Spencer exhaled a laugh. “I can do ‘look smart.’ That’s my default setting.”

“Perfect,” she said, and tossed him a ping pong ball.

He caught it with both hands, awkwardly. “Right. Okay. How hard can this be?”

“Okay, Doctor,” Y/N said, nudging Spencer toward the table with a grin. “Lesson one: aim like you mean it, but pretend you don’t care.”

Spencer stood beside her stiffly, clearly calculating something in his head—trajectory, angle, wrist rotation. His brows furrowed as he watched the other team set up the triangle of cups. The table was slightly uneven, leaning just enough to skew his probability models.

“This feels like a trap,” he murmured.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “That’s because it is.”

Across the table, Prentiss and JJ lined up with devilish smiles. “No pressure, Reid,” Emily said. “Just know I’ve already decided to take this personally.”

“Ignore them,” Y/N said, laughing under her breath, stepping closer so her arm brushed his. “They thrive on intimidation”

He blinked. “Like sharks.”

“Exactly,” she whispered, eyes narrowing in fake conspiracy. “Sharks with eyeliner.”

He smiled again—small and warm—and turned back to the game at hand.

Y/N watched him, eyes flicking between the ball and his profile.

There was something incredibly endearing about the way he concentrated—the tip of his tongue just barely touching his bottom lip, his brow furrowed like he was solving a math equation instead of figuring out how to play.

“Let’s see if you can outdrink me, genius,” Emily called out, tossing the ball from hand to hand.

“I’m not actually drinking,” Spencer replied, adjusting his stance like that would somehow help.

“Even better,” she said, already lining up her shot. “Means you’ll remember losing.”

The ball bounced once, then veered off the rim and rolled away into the grass.

Y/N raised her glass and called out, grinning, “That was bold, Prentiss.”

Emily gave her a look. “I’ve had three of these,” she said, gesturing to her drink. “Cut me some slack.”

Y/N sipped hers. “I’d cut you some if you hadn’t talked such a big game.”

Emily grinned. “I had plans, you know. You and me? Dream team. But someone got kidnapped by Garcia’s event-planning vortex.”

Y/N laughed. “I didn’t stand a chance. She handed me a box of votives and said, ‘make it whimsical.’”

Emily shrugged, unbothered. “Still feels like abandonment.”

“You’ve known me for five years,” Y/N said, amused. “If I had a choice, I’d be yelling over a plastic table with you right now.”

She raised her drink. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

Y/N laughed and turned back to Spencer, nudging his arm. “See? Tensions are high. The bar is low. Just aim for the middle and don’t overthink it.”

Spencer glanced at her, clearly overthinking it anyway.

She leaned in, voice dropping just enough for only him to hear. “You got this. You’ve out-logic’ed serial killers. A ping pong ball doesn’t stand a chance.”

He nodded slowly, trying not to focus on the way her shoulder brushed his.

Spencer’s hand tightened around the ping pong ball, holding it between his fingers with a kind of reverence that made Y/N bite back a smile. “Okay. But just so we’re clear, the average success rate in beer pong for a non-athlete is—”

“Spencer.”

He turned toward her.

She stepped close.

Close.

“Relax,” she said, voice soft, teasing at the edges. She reached out and gently adjusted his elbow. “You’re not diffusing a bomb. You’re just trying to sink a ball into a cup. Less nuclear physics, more carnival game.”

His lips twitched, a breath of a smile starting to form, though the proximity of her was doing more to scramble his brain than any probability curve.

Her hand stayed on his elbow, light but anchoring. She smelled faintly of rose water and lemon—bright, clean, summer. And the way her hair brushed his arm when she leaned just a bit closer made it nearly impossible to think clearly.

“You’re in your head,” she murmured.

“That’s where I live,” he replied, his voice quieter now.

She laughed under her breath. “Not tonight.”

Her fingers brushed his—soft, slow, a spark caught in passing. He held perfectly still.

“Use your fingertips,” she whispered. “Aim for the center. Gentle arc. Like tossing a paper plane.”

He nodded slowly. “Right. Paper plane.”

He pulled his arm back, exhaled, and released.

The ball bounced once on the rim—clink—and landed squarely in a center cup.

Cheers erupted from the bystanders. Someone whooped. Morgan yelled out something that sounded like, “That’s my boy!”

Y/N let out a delighted laugh, the sound bubbling up from her chest like it had been waiting for a moment just like this.

Without thinking, she reached out and grabbed Spencer’s arm—a quick, excited clutch of his bicep, her fingers curling instinctively as if her body had moved faster than her mind. “Yes!” she breathed, beaming up at him.

Spencer blinked, stunned by the sudden contact—and then his face broke into something rare and unguarded.

He laughed.

Not the quiet, polite kind of laugh he gave when he didn’t know what to say—but something real and bright, boyish and warm, catching even him by surprise. His eyes crinkled, his posture loosened, and his whole body felt lighter somehow.

“You made that look easy,” she said, still holding onto his arm for a second longer than necessary before letting go. Her fingers trailed off his sleeve like the last note of a song.

He smiled, wide and a little breathless. “That was mostly luck.”

“Mm.” She reached for the next ball, weighing it in her hand. “I don’t believe in luck. Just pattern recognition and good instincts.”

Spencer looked at her—not at the ball, or the cups, or the table—but her.

“I think yours are better than mine,” he said softly.

She smirked as she lined up her throw, not looking at him but clearly hearing every word. “Only in beer pong.”

She flicked her wrist. The ball sailed, bounced, rimmed—and dropped in.

Another low ripple of reaction from the small crowd behind them. Morgan and Garcia exchanged a glance from their seats on the grass, something amused and speculative in their expressions, slightly covered by her beaming into her glass. Rossi took a slow sip of wine. 

Y/N stepped back beside Spencer as they waited for their opponents’ turn. Her shoulder brushed his, just slightly, her body humming with easy energy.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured, watching her from the corner of his eye.

“I told you,” she whispered back, eyes on the table. “You just needed the right partner.”

He didn’t say anything—but he didn’t look away either.

The next round began. They refocused, watching the ball bounce harmlessly off the rim on the other side. The energy picked up again, the table glowing under the canopy of string lights.

They played on—a quiet rhythm building between them, hands brushing now and then, quiet glances exchanged between shots, a slow, sweet unraveling of tension that felt unspoken but understood.

And no one said anything.

But a few eyes lingered.

The music had faded into something distant and dreamy, like a memory playing through a closed door. Crickets chirped in the hedges. The party, for the most part, had tucked itself in—warm laughter behind windows, faint clinking of glasses, someone calling goodnight from the front lawn.

Y/N sat on the low stone bench at the edge of the garden, half-tucked beneath the gentle sway of ivy and moonlight. Her boots were still on—worn brown leather, scuffed just enough to tell stories, heels resting lightly in the grass as she crossed one ankle over the other. The soft hush of the party drifted somewhere behind her—faint music, murmured voices, the occasional burst of laughter like it had forgotten to fade.

She cradled her glass of sangria between both hands, fingers loose around the stem, the melted ice glimmering faintly in the amber light spilling from the kitchen window. A single slice of lime floated lazily near the rim, catching the glow like stained glass. Her dress—still bright even in the blue hush of night—pooled in gentle folds against her thighs, the lace catching moonlight in its edges like frost on petals.

And her hair—loose, softly wavy, weightless in the way it moved—cascaded down her back like dusk. A few strands clung to her collarbone, caught on the rim of her glass, or lifted in the breeze like they were drawn toward something unseen.

The air was cooling now, sweet with honeysuckle and grass. The lights above flickered faintly in the stillness.

She looked like part of the night itself—quiet, waiting, unknowingly luminous.

And still—despite the quiet, despite the beauty of the evening settling around her like silk—there was a weight in her chest she couldn’t quite name.

Not sadness. Not loneliness.

Just something waiting.

She let her head tip back, eyes tracing the lattice of branches above her. Her hair, wilder now from the humidity, curled down her back in soft, careless waves. Her dress had wrinkled at the hem, lace crushed from the hours of movement.

She looked beautiful, and didn’t know it.

Which was the hardest part.

Spencer stood just a few feet away, watching her through the soft shadows.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

Which wasn’t unusual, because what she also didn’t know—what she never seemed to know—was just how often he looked at her like this. Like she was the fixed point everything else revolved around. Like he didn’t know how to breathe unless he was quietly aware of her in the room.

And tonight, it was starting to hurt a little. Because she hadn’t looked at him once like she knew.

Y/N let out a sigh, took a slow sip of her drink, and whispered to no one in particular, “I should stop doing this.”

“Doing what?” came a voice—low, familiar.

She jumped slightly, her glass wobbling in her hand.

“Jesus,” she breathed out, laughing as she turned her head. “You always show up like a ghost in the dark.”

Spencer hovered just a step away, half-shadowed by the porchlight. “Sorry,” he said, quiet and earnest. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

She waved a hand, cheeks flushing a little—not from the surprise, but from the warmth in his voice, the way it softened when it was just the two of them. “It’s fine. I was just... thinking out loud.”

His brows pulled together gently. “About?”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers curling a little tighter around the stem of her glass. The lime floated lazily in the deep pink of her drink, spinning like it was stalling for her.

“Nothing important,” she said after a beat.

Spencer moved to sit beside her on the stone bench. Not quite close enough to touch, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the quiet presence he carried like a wool coat in winter—heavy, steady, protective.

She didn’t look at him. Just stared ahead, into the hum of porchlight and fireflies.

“I think I’m an idiot,” she said suddenly.

He blinked, taken aback. “You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

She let out a laugh—soft, short, not entirely happy. “That’s sweet. But also—possibly a sign that you’re terrible at reading subtext.”

“I’m actually pretty good at subtext,” he said, glancing over at her, his voice light but careful. “I’m just... less confident about translating it out loud.”

Y/N bit her lip, eyes still forward. Her glass tilted slightly in her hand.

“I just thought...” She paused, then looked down. “You didn’t say anything tonight.”

Spencer tilted his head, confused. “About what?”

She looked at her lap, at the pale lace bunched gently around her thighs, how the dress fluttered when the breeze passed through—like it was trying to float away from her, to disappear before she could take the words back. Her fingers twisted the stem of her glass in slow, anxious circles.

“About how I looked,” she murmured. “I just—I don’t know. Garcia said... Never mind.”

Spencer stared at her, stunned into silence.

She still wouldn’t look at him.

The blush had risen high on her cheeks now, blooming across her skin like the first touch of dawn, delicate and uncontainable. Her eyes stayed fixed on her glass, and even that seemed to tremble slightly in her grasp, looking like she wanted to gather her words back one by one and fold them away inside herself.

“I think that’s the sangria talking,” she said, softer now, trying for lightness, laughing a breathy laugh, but her voice caught just slightly—like a string pulled too tight.

“You thought I didn’t notice you?” he asked softly.

She shrugged, eyes fixed on the glass. “I mean… not like that.”

Because she truly didn’t know.

Didn’t know that from the moment she stepped into the yard—boots in the grass, lace fluttering like light through water—he hadn’t seen a single other thing. That every time she tucked her hair behind her ear or tilted her head to laugh with someone else, he felt like he was losing seconds of breath.

As if he hadn’t been drowning in her presence all evening, caught between awe and silence, reverence and restraint. As if his body didn’t go still whenever she leaned in. As if he hadn’t been biting his tongue every time she smiled in his direction, trying not to hand her every thought he’d ever had about her all at once.

His chest tightened.

He leaned forward just slightly, voice barely more than a breath, like anything louder might startle the moment away.

“Y/N.”

Something in his voice—low, rough, almost fractured—made her finally look up.

Her eyes met his.

And before she could say another word, he reached for her—all restraint finally snapping like a thread pulled too tight.

Spencer’s hands came up fast—urgent, almost shaking—and then stilled as they found her face, cupping her with a tenderness that almost didn’t match the storm in his chest. His fingers threaded gently into the waves of her hair, his thumbs brushing beneath her cheekbones like she was something precious he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch.

And then—he kissed her.

Hard. Messy. Absolutely wrecked with need.

It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t smooth.

It was desperate. Starved. Raw.

Like he’d spent the entire evening trying not to want this—trying not to imagine how her mouth would taste, how her body would move into his, how soft her breath might catch if he finally let himself have her.

And now that he had, there was no holding it back.

He kissed her like he’d been waiting a lifetime for her to feel it.

Y/N froze, startled—just for a heartbeat.

Then her hands curled into the front of his shirt—gripping, grounding—and she kissed him back, just as fiercely.

Her glass slipped from her hand, landing silently in the grass below, forgotten.

The world narrowed to the rush of heat between them—his mouth moving against hers like a man unraveling, her body drawn tight into his, lace brushing against cotton, breath shared in ragged pieces.

And still, his hands stayed gentle on her face. Still, his touch trembled with reverence even as his kiss turned rough—contradiction carved into motion. Want and worship. Need and fear.

Their foreheads remained pressed together as their lips pulled apart, their breath mingling in the hush between them—hers still catching, his uneven and warm against her lips, as if neither of them had quite remembered how to breathe without the other. Her eyes were half-lidded, lashes casting delicate shadows over flushed cheeks, and her lips—kiss-bitten and trembling—parted slightly, as if waiting for a question neither of them needed to ask.

Spencer was still holding her face—carefully, reverently—as though she were something too precious to risk letting go. His thumbs rested against the curve of her cheekbones, but his hands trembled slightly, as if overwhelmed by the nearness of her.

“I notice you,” he whispered, the words cracked open and bare. “Every single time.”

She let out a soft, shivering breath. A smile pulled at her mouth—not teasing, not light, but full of something ancient and full of ache.

“Took you long enough,” she murmured, voice catching like silk on thorns.

He smiled—barely, just a flicker of something broken and full—and then leaned in again.

This time, the kiss was slower.

But no less ruined with longing.

Their mouths met like a promise—tentative at first, almost unsure of how gentle to be, as if the world might tilt off its axis if they moved too quickly. But then she breathed his name into the space between their lips, and he lost whatever restraint he had left.

His hand slid from her cheek—slowly, reverently—trailing along the curve of her jaw before finding the delicate slope of her throat. He rested his palm there, his fingers curling around the side of her neck, grounding her, worshipping her. And she arched into him like she’d been waiting for that single point of contact all her life.

She whimpered against his mouth—soft, desperate, involuntary—and he responded with a sound low in his chest, a near-growl swallowed between kisses.

Her hands, trembling, found the line of his jaw—fingertips brushing over stubble, then curling at the hinge of it, like she needed to hold onto him or fall apart entirely. She kissed him deeper now, unafraid, her body pressed to his like something unfolding all at once.

Their teeth clashed—just barely, enough to draw a gasp, a stumble, a half-smile against lips that didn’t want to stop. His breath hitched, and she felt it in the cradle of his mouth, the way he held her tighter like he’d burn up if she ever stepped back.

And yet—even in all the desperation, his hands were still gentle. Still full of wonder. Like he couldn’t believe she was real. Like he didn’t know how to hold something he'd only ever dreamed of.

When they finally broke apart, their noses brushed, breathless and stunned.

The garden stayed quiet around them—the stars above them blinking like candlelight, the world soft and golden and impossibly still.

Like it had stopped to watch them fall in love.

They didn’t move—not right away.

Spencer’s hands were still cupped around her face like a man holding something holy. Like if he let go, she might vanish, and he’d wake up alone with only the ghost of her kiss left on his mouth.

Y/N’s hands stayed curled into the soft fabric of his shirt—not gripping anymore, just resting there, quiet and intimate, as if her body hadn’t yet told her it could step back. The air between them shimmered with all the things they weren’t saying, but didn’t need to.

Their foreheads touched again—softly, gently, like the afterthought of a prayer.

The garden exhaled around them. Fireflies pulsed along the hedges. The world had gone quiet, as if some spell had been cast over the lawn and they were the only ones left inside of it.

Y/N’s breath tickled against his lips as she spoke, eyes still closed.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

Spencer let out a laugh, low and breathless, brushing the tip of his nose against hers. “I didn’t think I would either.”

She opened her eyes then—and the look she gave him was soft, steady, devastating. A little dazed. A little in love. Like he was something rare she wasn’t sure she was allowed to keep.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Eventually, she glanced down and spotted her glass tipped over in the grass. She let go of him reluctantly, bending down to retrieve it. “Tragic,” she murmured, holding it up and inspecting the lone slice of lime that had escaped and now lay abandoned among the blades.

Spencer smiled faintly, still stunned. “We’ll mourn appropriately.”

She gave him a quiet laugh, then stood and brushed her dress down with both hands. Stray leaves clung to the lace. His fingers itched to brush them off for her.

They moved together, slowly—like gravity had shifted just enough to keep them tethered. As they turned back toward the house, her hand drifted near his.

He didn’t think. He just found her fingers. Brushed knuckles. A soft, silent anchor.

She didn’t pull away.

The porch came into view again through the hedges—still glowing with soft golden light, like something out of a story told just before sleep. Inside, Garcia twirled in the kitchen with JJ, both of them laughing over something they clearly found hysterical. Prentiss sat cross-legged on the counter, miming what looked like a very dramatic retelling of a car chase, hands flying with flair. Rossi moved calmly through it all, espresso in hand like it was two in the afternoon instead of close to midnight. Morgan leaned against the fridge, grinning as he sipped a beer, occasionally tossing in commentary that made the whole kitchen erupt louder. He looked utterly at ease, like the night had been built just for this—friends, laughter, warmth humming in the floorboards.

It was the same as it had always been. Familiar. Comfortable.

And yet—

Spencer glanced sideways at Y/N, walking beside him. Her hair swayed lightly down her back, catching little flecks of gold from the porch lights. Her eyes were bright even in the dark.

Everything felt different now.

Not louder. Not bigger. Just undeniable.

At the base of the steps, she slowed. Her hand—still faintly linked to his—tugged ever so slightly. Not pulling him back, just holding him there for a second longer.

He looked at her, chest tight.

She leaned in, lips brushing the edge of his cheek, just beneath the line of his jaw—a kiss barely there, but somehow more grounding than the one before it. Her voice was quiet, just for him.

“Don’t go disappearing on me tomorrow.”

His chest rose with the breath he took before answering. “I won’t.”

And when she smiled—soft, real, a little tired from the day and full from the moment—she pulled the screen door open and stepped inside.

Spencer followed.

Their hands brushed again.

And this time, they didn’t let go.