colbychu

[colbychu]

Hi angel!

I’m here for a request, but not a typical one. I want to request that you finish something you’ve been working on but maybe are nervous that people won’t want it. Something YOU have always wanted to write.

Okay that’s it love you bye 🖤

𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲

Summary: You tried to love Joel Miller the way he was. But eventually, the silence, the walls, the way he kept you at arm’s length… it broke something in you. So you let him go. || angst! fluff! smut! we got it all! MDNI 18+, Jackson!Joel, break up, joel is bad at feelings, makeup sex (eventually), pinv, love makin', lots of kissing cause I wanna kiss him, fingering, f!receiving oral, and yeah its a little corny idc, tiny mention of an age gap|| Inspired by Kacey Musgrave's song Space Cowboy a/n: taylorrrrrrr my angel girl I could cry ilysm. I’ve always had this thought that Joel Miller, at least at first, would be emotionally unavailable and like...not willing to really date. In p1, he’s constantly shutting Ellie down when she brings up Tess or Sam and Henry, Tommy when he offers him that photo of Sarah. Sure, by the end he’s more open, because Ellie made him feel something again. But I think being romantically involved would be hard for him at first. I've always wanted to explore that, and this been collecting dust in my wips since I wasn't sure how everyone would feel. so all this to say....here you go :')

For once, Joel Miller stayed the night.

Not by accident, not because he was drunk off his ass and you made him crash on your couch. No, you’d seen that version of him more times than you could count. But last night, after fucking you hard enough to leave dents in your drywall from sheer force of the headboard, he’d collapsed beside you, pulled you against his chest, and… stayed.

Almost like he meant to.

So god forbid you woke up the next morning with your cheek against his bare chest, your thigh slung over his hip, still foggy brained in the haze of sleep, and asked if he wanted to go grab breakfast at the dining hall.

You might as well have asked What are we?

Or worse: Will you be my boyfriend forever and ever, Joel?

Now he was out in your living room, shoving his boots on by the front door as sun poured in dusty light across the floorboards. You leaned against the archway in his flannel, bare legs out, nothing but the socks on your feet and silence in the air.

You watched him with narrowed eyes. To say you didn’t know what this was would be like saying the sky wasn’t  blue. And you weren’t a liar.

Because you saw it, saw the same pieces being shunted between you. He was building it up again. Brick by brick. That impenetrable wall was back high and tight.

“I don’t get it,” you said finally.

He didn’t answer, only grunted. 

Of course.

“You come here a few nights a week, we hookup and then…what? I don’t exist once your pants are back on? The one night you actually stay with me and I ask you to eat breakfast, I’ve suddenly crossed a line?”

“That’s enough,” Joel muttered, jaw clenched tight.

The way he said made your stomach twist something ugly.

“Yeah,” you said, letting out a long breath as your voice flattened into something stale, “You’re right. That’s enough.”

You stepped in front of where he was sitting, his chin tilting up to meet your eyes for once. His brows furrowed, but he didn’t back down. He just looked at you like he didn’t understand why you were standing in the way of his exit.

“What do you want, Joel?”

He shook his head and leaned down to finish tying his boots. “Don’t want nothin’ from you.”

That stung more than it should have. “Trust me,” you said scoffing. “I got that message a long time ago.”

He stood, slow but abrupt, towering over you as if it was easier to loom than feel anything at all. “What is it you want from me, girl?”

“I want you to admit there’s something here!” you finally snapped, your blood beginning to boil, “I want you to act like all these nights mean something! Like I’m not just a warm body you crawl to when you��re lonely.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“I want you to talk to me. I want something real. But you don’t even try.”

“I am tryin’,” he said, eyes squeezing shut once before looking at you under heavy brows.

“No, you’re not,” you said, and your voice cracked, not quite out of sadness, but rage. “You’re just—” your hand cut the air, motioning to all of him. “You’re existing, Joel. Going through the motions like you’re waiting for it all to be ripped away. You’re so damn scared of letting anything good happen that you’re choking the life out of it before it can even start.”

His jaw twitched, shoulders stiffening. That look in his eye—rage, grief, guilt—you weren’t sure which it was, but it burned cold and hard beneath the surface.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said quietly, but there was venom behind the words. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Then tell me.” You stepped closer, letting your voice drop to something soft and gentle as you lifted your hands to his chest. You looked up into his eyes, now dark as storm clouds above a forest as you whispered, “Let me in.”

He didn’t answer, only stood there, breathing slow through his nose, his body rigid like he was waiting to be hit.

You shook your head, your hands falling back down to your sides in fists, “You always talk about space,” you murmured. “Needing time.”

You turned on your heel and stomped toward the door, yanking it open with a loud creak. Cold autumn air rushed in, hitting your bare skin and stinging your eyes.

“Well,” you said, voice low and bitter. “Your prayers have been answered.”

You swung your arm out toward the open doorway.

“You can have your space, cowboy.”

Joel paused for a long moment. Because maybe for once he realized you meant it. Like maybe he’d expected you to cave, to give him the same grace you always did. But you were tired.

Tired of not knowing what this was. Tired of not knowing what you were to him. Tired of the way he’d shut down and pull away when you could feel the good in him, the gold buried under all that iron.

You knew he was a good man. He just wouldn’t show it to you.

Slowly, he started toward the door. Time dragged as he approached you, whether that was because every step looked like it cost him something or you were cataloging every movement he made to store in your memory.

He reached the threshold and stopped, the morning light catching the edge of his face, soft and golden. He looked back at you, but you didn’t lift your eyes.

Then softly, just a whisper, he said your name. As if he knew it was the last time.

Finally, you looked up at him, biting your lip to keep back the tears.

“I’ll see you around, Joel,” you said. “I know my place. And maybe it’s just not with you.”

You couldn’t quite make yourself regret being with Joel.

Not even for a second.

You told yourself a hundred times in the days that followed that what happened between you and him had been real. Maybe not enough, maybe not lasting, but real. And sometimes that was all you got.

Roads were made to go down. Some just didn’t have a way back.

And if you’d been smarter, you would’ve remembered what the movies always tried to teach: the good guys don’t run away.

But the broken ones sure as hell do.

And Joel Miller had always been a runner. Even if he showed signs of want, of connection only through the nights with your name on his lips like prayer and he took your body like it was his salvation. 

But when a horse wants to run, there’s no sense closing the gate.

In the weeks after you’d broken things off, you saw him everywhere. Yes, in the little things like the butcher’s stall that had a sign he’d made and the wooden figurines in your neighbor’s windowsill, but more than that, you actually saw him.

From across the market gathering whatever it was he needed one week, or the back of his head on horseback heading out with a patrol group, or his flannel at the edge of the community garden, nodding to someone like he was fine. Like nothing ever happened. He never looked your way, not once. But you looked at him.

And the days you didn’t see him were somehow worse.

You'd catch yourself worrying. Wondering if something went wrong on patrol, or…if he was holed up with another woman in a house that wasn’t yours, if he’d finally decided to try with someone easier.

Someone who didn’t ask him to talk. Someone who didn’t wear his t-shirts and expect breakfast the next morning.

Two months passed like that— slow and strange, like you were trudging through water. You kept to yourself, did your work, smiled at friends when they asked if you were okay. You told them you were tired, that you were busy. That you were fine.

But there was something about Joel that clung to you like smoke.

It didn’t matter how many days you went without seeing him. He was still everywhere. Whether it was in the smell of pine when it rained, the creak of your porch steps when you’d hoped it was him, or the ache of your thighs the first time you tried to be with someone else and couldn’t go through with it.

Because try you had. Over and over, you’d tried.

And on one stormy night, three sharp knocks slammed against your front door like warning shots.

You were curled up on the couch beside someone who was… fine. He was nice, respectful, said “please” and “thank you” and laughed at your lame jokes with his hand resting on your knee. You were trying, honest, to feel something. To find that spark again, to forget about the one you’d known all too well.

But you couldn’t force yourself to, could you? So when the knocks slammed into the wood of your front door, you were almost grateful, because the man on your couch had just been leaning in for what you were pretty sure was a kiss.

Eric? Aaron? Whatever his name was blinked, glancing toward the door. “You expecting someone?”

You shook your head slowly. “No.”

Another knock. More like a demand now.

“Let me just see who it is,” you said quietly as you crossed the room, your bare feet silent on the hardwood, and opened the door.

Joel nearly fell through it.

Rain clung to him, dripping from the hem of his jacket, pooling beneath his boots. Mud streaked up the sides of his jeans. His hair was soaked to his scalp, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. There was something feral about them.

He didn’t even say a word as he stepped forward, grabbed your face with both hands, and kissed you.

It was messy and sudden and rough, tasting hot with whiskey, his stubble scraping your skin as he tilted your chin up, as if he had the right. As if you were still his. You froze for a heartbeat, maybe two. Because you had missed him. Missed him in ways you hadn’t even let yourself feel yet. But this…this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. And the second that sick, hot twist of anger rose up in your gut, you shoved him.

“Joel—what the fuck—get off,” you snapped, trying to twist out of his cold, wet grip.

But he kept coming. Hands sliding to your hips, dragging you into him again, his mouth crashing against yours, slurring against your lips, “Missed you. I miss’d ya so fuckin’ bad, baby, I—”

You pushed harder this time, shoving at his chest until he stumbled back a step. He swayed, visibly disoriented, breath catching as he reached for the doorframe to steady himself. His eyes blinked slowly like the room was spinning. When he looked back at you, he looked confused. Like he didn’t understand why you were pushing him away.

Behind you, you heard the floor creak.

“Uh, what the hell is going on?”

Joel’s head jerked up at the voice.

The man stood from the couch, slow and cautious. His brows pulled tight, clearly trying to make sense of what he just walked into. Joel stared for a long moment. Then his whole body stiffened.

“What the fuck is this?” he asked, his voice lower now, that mean, Southern bite curling around the words.

You stepped into his eyeline immediately. “Joel—don’t.”

But he moved around you like you weren’t even there, sodden boots heavy on the floor as he stalked forward.

“Get the fuck out,” he said to the man.

The guy blinked, baffled. “Excuse me?”

“I said get the fuck outta her house.”

“She invited me—”

Joel began to move, an angry glower pinching his brows as he moved to get in his face, but you stepped between him, hands on his chest.

“Jesus, Joel,” you said, shoving him back again, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Joel’s breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling fast. He turned toward you, eyes wild and heartbroken and far too open, “Can I talk to you?” his eyes glowered briefly at the man behind you, “Alone?”

“Man, you need to leave,” your guest said, annoyed.

You held up a hand. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. Just… please go.”

He looked at you for a long second, then scoffed, shooting one last glare toward Joel as he stepped out the door.

The second it closed behind him, the silence in the room was deafening.

Joel stood there in the middle of your living room like something unholy. Soaked to the bone and chest heaving. His eyes were red and full of everything he refused to say for the last two months.

The silence stretched, long and heavy.

“Baby, I–” he began, but you shook your head.

“I don’t want to hear it, Joel.” you squeezed your eyes shut, bringing your hands up to rub your temples, “Whatever it is you want to say, I need to hear it when you’re sober.”

You should’ve screamed, should’ve been angry. Hell, you should’ve thrown him back out into the rain and locked the door behind him. 

But you didn’t. Instead, you stepped forward, carefully, slowly, wondering if he was just going to bolt again. 

“Let’s just…get this off,” you murmured. Your fingers found the collar of his jacket, trembling a little from the adrenaline coursing through you as you tugged it down his shoulders. The fabric clung to his arms, soaked and heavy, but he didn’t fight you. And you didn’t realize til after you’d gotten it off of him that his eyes never left your face. Not once.

You hung his jacket up by your door, the fabric freezing and soggy. Then your hands moved to his flannel. The buttons were half-undone already. You didn’t ask, you just kept going.

And still, he didn’t stop you.

You pushed the fabric apart, palms brushing down the front of his chest, and God—he was so cold. But he was still him, even if the cold had gotten to him, had sunken into his skin.

You sank to your knees.

Not for him, and not like that. You just crouched down in front of him and tugged at the laces of his boots. The knot was sloppy and rushed like he had rushed in a fury to put them on. You undid it anyway, peeling each boot off one at a time, your fingers clumsy from the cold and the tension.

Neither of you spoke.

Not until you stood again, eyes meeting his. Something passed between you in that moment, raw and wordless. Maybe a kind of truce. Not forgiveness, just a single thread of mercy, offered in silence just for tonight.

Joel swayed again, catching himself with a heavy hand against the wall. His voice came out low and ragged, like it hurt to speak.

“I… I fucked up, okay?”

You could’ve screamed at him. Could’ve thrown every angry word you’d swallowed these past few months in his face. But instead, you just reached for the hem of his shirt.

“Lift your arms.”

He blinked, confused, but obeyed, sluggish and slow.

You pulled the soaked fabric up and over his head, dropping it to the floor with a wet slap.

“I’m tryin’ t’talk to ya,” he slurred, more firmly this time. “Yer not… listenin’.”

You poked him hard in the chest, “Because I don’t,” you poked again, “want,” a third poke, “to hear it, Joel.”

You poked him one last, hard time, his face turning into a grimace as his fingers wrapped around your wrist, but you kept going.

“So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna take a shower, and I’m gonna make sure you don’t bust your head open on the tub. Then you’re drinking some damn water and sleeping it off on the couch.”

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off with a sharp look.

“If you still wanna talk after that? When you’re sober and not dripping all over my floor? Then maybe I’ll listen.”

He stared at you for a long moment, rainwater still clinging to his skin, chest rising and falling. Then he nodded. Just once, his face falling, his eyes wide.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

You draped the blanket over him, tucking it gently around his shoulders. He was half-asleep already, sunk deep into the couch cushions, still damp around the edges but warm now, finally. Clean shirt and a pair of sweatpants he left behind many nights ago, water by his side, the softest throw you owned wrapped snug to his chest.

Joel blinked up at you slowly, lids heavy and uneven. His hair was still a little wet, curling at his temples. That same whiskey glow lingered in his eyes, glassy and soft.

“Yer so pretty,” he mumbled, words slurred as he watched you tuck him in, “Really miss’d ya.”

“Okay, Joel,” you said halfheartedly, not believing a word of it.

He blinked again, slower this time. “Even when I was t’dumb to say it… I always wanted t’come back ‘ere. To you.”

You froze.

Your throat tightened, but you forced a smile anyway. Brushed a dark hair from his forehead with careful fingers.

“Okay, cowboy,” you said gently. “Drink your water and rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He hummed, the sound low and content. “M’kay.”

And as you turned to leave, his hand found the edge of the blanket again, clutching it close.

You were up before him the next morning, the sky still a pale and silvery grey through the kitchen window when you set the kettle on.

You’d saved the last of the good coffee grounds for this, maybe because some part of you hoped he’d come back. Maybe because opening the jar, running your fingers through the coarse grinds, breathing in the bitter scent… it helped when you missed him.

The rich smell filled the room as it brewed, creeping into the corners of the house like a memory. You heard the low groan from the couch before you saw him. The rustling of blankets and the sound of his hand rubbing against his beard.

You poured a mug and walked over slowly.

He was hunched over, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Bleary and still half-fogged. When he finally lifted his face, eyes squinting against the light, you held the mug out to him.

He blinked at it. Then at you.

“Thanks,” he said, voice rough with sleep and whatever was still left from the whiskey. He took it gingerly, careful to avoid your fingers.

You sat down in the corner of the couch, legs tucked under you, keeping a decent distance with your hands wrapped around your tea to ground you.

Joel took a sip from his mug, closing his eyes and exhaled a sigh, long and slow.

“Needed that,” he murmured, setting the mug on the table.

You nodded, watching him out of the corner of your eye. His beard was scruffier than usual, curling at the edges. Eyes rimmed in red, lashes still clumped from sleep. His face was carved in exhaustion, but even now, something about him still softened when he looked at you.

“I’m, uh…” he started, then shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m real sorry about last night. Feel awful.”

You gave a crooked smile. “Yeah, I figured the hangover’d be brutal.”

He shot you a look. “Not like that, smartass.”

Your smile deepened in spite of yourself. The silence between you hummed a little, something warm and bitter like old whiskey. You broke the gaze first, sighed, and stared down into your tea.

“So,” you said.

“So…” he echoed, rubbing at the corner of his jaw. His fingers rasped against the unshaven stubble. “I, uh… I ain’t so good at this.”

You nodded. That much, at least, didn’t need explaining.

“But I meant what I said,” he added quietly. “I’ve… ya know. Missed you.”

You lifted your mug again, stalling with a sip. You didn’t answer right away, and you didn’t plan to. The old version of you might’ve melted on the spot with so few words. Not this time. You needed more. Real words. The truth of it.

Joel watched you, waiting. Then waited some more.

The longer the silence stretched, the more agitated he looked. His mouth twitched, like he was finally coming to terms with the fact he was gonna have to work for your forgiveness.

He leaned back finally, one arm slung along the back of the couch, his eyes still fixed on you.

“Not gonna give me anythin’, huh?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, setting your mug down with a quiet clink on the coffee table, “I thought you came here with somethin’ to say.”

“I was drunk.”

“Drunk words, sober thoughts,” you said simply. “So let’s hear ’em.”

Joel let out a low groan, dragging his hand over his face again. “Okay,” he muttered into his palm before reaching for the coffee again.

He took another sip, holding the mug like it might shield him from what came next.

“I dunno all the shit I’m supposed to say,” he muttered finally. “It’s not…easy for me.”

You stayed quiet, letting him talk, even if the words came slow and uneven.

“I’m used to... keepin’ things in. Just dealin’ with whatever shit came my way. I never…never really had this before, someone who wanted to know what was goin’ on in here.” He glanced your way, tappin’ his temple.

“So when I started comin’ around here… and it felt good… felt, I dunno, safe… I think I got scared I’d fuck it up. Or that maybe I already had.”

You blinked slowly, processing the mess of it. His voice, low and gravelly, kept catching like it was tripping over things he didn’t know how to say. Like there were words he wanted to find but had never really practiced out loud.

“Joel,” you sighed, fingers fidgeting around your knees, “I just want to know…what it is you want. Because it seems like we want different things.”

His eyes found yours across the couch, setting his coffee down as he shook his head, and sat forward, leaning closer to you, “No, no. That ain’t it. I want this, I just…” he trailed off, rubbing his face into his hands. You almost felt bad, how hard this was for him. 

Then, his eyes looked up, and he sat back. “Can you come here?”

You weren’t sure if you were ready for this part. Because part of you knew how fast you’d give in if you touched him. Knew how easy it would be to fall back into his arms and forget everything you’d been hurting over. But your chest ached for it. And the way he was looking at you, so raw and cracked open, it made you move against your better judgement.

Slowly, you crawled over. He shifted to make room and when you tucked yourself beneath his chin, his arm came around you like he’d been waiting. Both hands found your arm, rubbing gently like he could feel the chill under your skin.

It was odd, almost. Most of the times he’d pulled you in like this were when you were both naked, the post coitus hormones running high, limbs tangled up and skin flushed.

“Missed this,” he murmured, his voice warm against your hair.

You swallowed. You missed it too, missed him, even when he made it impossible.

He shifted just enough to tilt your chin up, fingers brushing along your jaw. His eyes searched yours, darker now but softer. You saw something there you hadn’t seen in the light before. Not when he wasn’t trying to hide it.

Then his gaze dropped to your mouth, and he leaned in.

The kiss was soft and careful, the kind that said he was still learning how not to ruin things.

You kissed him back, breathing him in, your hand fisting in his shirt gently.

But then you caught yourself and pulled away, your hand untangling from the fabric to rub your eyes, “Joel–” 

“What do you need me to say?” he asked quietly. There was no bite, no sharpness in his tone. “What is it you want to hear?”

“I can’t just…tell you. I want to know what you want, not just…feeding me what I want to hear.”

His fingers stayed at your jaw, steady. He looked at you like he was searching for the right words, like he wanted to get them right this time.

“I want this,” he said. “I want you.”

His voice cracked slightly. He held your gaze, his hand still gentle on your face.

“I’m sorry I was an asshole before. I didn’t get it.”

You watched him closely as his brow pulled in. This time it wasn’t stubbornness, but something closer to pain.

“Let me try again.”

He must’ve taken your silence as hesitation, because he kept going, voice picking up like he was trying to get ahead of the panic building in his chest.

“I know how it looks, I know I’ve been—Jesus, I’ve been a fuckin’ wreck about this, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. With you. With what I feel when I’m around you. It’s not just… It’s not just wantin’ you in my bed, it’s everything.”

You didn’t move, didn’t blink. You just sat there listening, because holy shit, you’d never heard this man talk so damn much. Never heard him unravel like this, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. And it was pouring out of him now, fast and messy, as if trying to outrun the fear of messing it all up again.

“I wake up thinkin’ about you. I walk around Jackson wonderin’ what you’re doin’, what you’re thinkin’ about. I’d hear someone say your name and feel like an idiot ‘cause it’d make me smile. And then I’d remember I fucked it all up. That you were done with me. That you should be.”

His gaze dropped along with his hand from your face.

“But then I’d remember...what the hell do I think I’m doin’, bein’ with someone like you? You’ve got this whole life to live. You’ve still got time. Options. People your own age who can give you things I can’t.”

He looked at you again, and this time his eyes were pained and earnest.

“What happens in a few years when I hit sixty, and you still got your life ahead of you? What happens when I’m gone and you’re—”

You cut him off with a kiss.

You surged forward and grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him into you, kissing him hard again, and again, like you could stop his words with your mouth. Like maybe if you kissed him enough, it would undo the ache in his voice.

“I was tryin’ to talk to you, you know,” he murmured against your lips, breath warm, a hint of a smile breaking through.

You nodded, laughing through the tears you didn’t remember letting fall. Your face was wet, your throat tight.

He pulled back just a little, his hand back to cradling your cheek. His eyes searched yours.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” you smiled, “It’s just…I’m happy is all.”

And then he grinned back, and he was kissing you again and it was like something broke open in him. A dam cracked, all that restraint, all that aching hesitation he’d carried for months poured out in the way his hands slid into your hair, the way his mouth deepened against yours.

You barely had time to gasp before he was pressing into you, kissing you harder now, like he needed to make up for every second he’d spent staying away.

And he pushed you gently down onto the couch cushions, his palm cradling the back of your head as he guided you flat and braced himself above you. His body laid flush against yours, that familiar warmth of him enveloping you. 

You felt the heat of him, the weight of him, every line of him sinking into you like he’d finally allowed himself to kiss you in the daylight. 

You moaned softly against his lips, your thighs parting instinctively beneath him as he settled in the cradle of your hips. He dragged his mouth down your jaw, across your cheek, leaving heat in his wake, murmuring something low against your skin that you couldn’t quite catch—something desperate and grateful.

You arched into him, your hands sliding up his chest, and he caught one of them, threading his fingers between yours. He pulled back just enough to kiss your fingertips, slow and reverent, then your knuckles, one by one, all while holding your gaze.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, almost to himself, kissing the inside of your wrist this time, right over the spot where your pulse jumped.

Your skin burned under his gaze. You cupped his face with your free hand, thumb brushing his bottom lip slowly as your thighs lifted higher around his waist. You ground up against him, dragging friction against the hard outline of him beneath his sweatpants.

His eyes fluttered shut, breath catching. He exhaled like it had been held in his lungs for weeks.

“If you keep doin’ that,” he rasped, “I’m not gonna be able to take the time I wanna take with you.”

You smiled, warm and crooked. “Don’t want you to take your time,” you whispered, pulling him back down to your mouth.

His lips met yours again, deeper now, more urgent. One hand threaded through your hair, the other roaming your side as your tongue met his, soft and slick and hungry. He groaned into your mouth, kissing you deeper and deeper.

“Jesus,” he muttered against your skin, trailing kisses to your throat, “you feel so fuckin’ good beneath me, baby.”

“Missed you so much, Joel,” you breathed, eyes shutting as his teeth scraped your neck, the sting of it blooming hot under his tongue.

He was already fumbling with your shirt, pushing it up until you were bare to him, braless, chest rising and falling. His mouth latched onto your nipple without hesitation, all heat and need and reverence. You moaned, back arching, one hand gripping his hair.

“Missed you,” he echoed, voice rough, “Missed this.”

You looked down at him, gasping. He was so pretty like this—lashes low, mouth full, lips slick. Always so careful, making sure you felt good, that you were ready. That you wanted him.

He looked up at you, eyes dark with something that could only be described as devotion. “Wanna show you how much I missed it,” he said, kissing you hard on the lips before trailing back down your body. His tongue flicked out, slow, teasing, licking every inch he could get his mouth on until he reached the waistband of your pants.

Clothes disappeared fast, a blur of limbs and fabric. He hiked your legs up over his shoulders, settling between them like he belonged there. Because he did, after all.

“And don’t even get me started on her,” he said, voice playful now, pressing a kiss just above where you needed him most. “Missed her too.”

“Joeeel…” you mewled, already dizzy with how close he was.

He kissed the left side of your center, then the right, slow and careful. “Thought about her every night,” he murmured, mouth hot and close, “dreamed about how she tastes.”

And then he kissed your clit, and you jolted.

He moaned softly, like this was what he’d been starving for. His tongue flattened, dragging slow, wet strokes from your weeping entrance up to your clit, then back down again. When he pressed the tip inside you just a little, your hips rolled instinctively, your moan coming out sharp and breathless.

He let you move and grind against his mouth, his tongue, let you tangle your fingers in his hair and chase that growing pressure in your belly.

The sleep was gone now. Whatever haze he’d been in had burned off completely.

Joel moaned softly against your skin, tongue dragging another long stroke through your folds, savoring the taste of you like he’d been craving it since the second he left your bed two months ago. He kept going until your thighs trembled against his shoulders, your fingers twisting in his hair, breath stuttering out of your lungs in broken little gasps.

Then his mouth slowed. He pulled back just slightly, his lips brushing against your swollen center as he spoke, the tickle of his beard making you twitch.

“Goddamn,” he murmured, almost reverent. “She’s even sweeter than I remember.”

And then you felt his hand sliding up your leg, rough and broad, fingertips stroking the crease where your thigh met your heat. He watched you as he moved, mouth parted, eyes dark and focused, completely dialed in on the way your body writhed beneath him.

He pushed one finger in, nice and slow, and it felt like heaven and hell at once. That thick, slow pressure opening you, curling into that soft spot inside you with practiced ease. Like memory.

Your back arched off the couch. You whimpered, head rolling back. He’d always had the thickest fingers, one was all you needed to feel that tight stretch of him.

“Shit,” he groaned, watching your face as he moved it. “You feel that? How tight she still is for me?”

You could barely answer. You only moaned louder when he added a second finger, working you open, his knuckles brushing where your body fluttered around him. His fingers were so big and broad, callused, perfectly angled. They filled you so good it made your thighs shake.

He set a deep, unhurried rhythm that had the sounds of your wetness filling the room, obscene and beautiful as he brought his mouth back to your clit. He could feel the pulsing of your velvet walls around him as he continued pushing his fingers into you.

“There she is,” he said, pausing the flicking of his tongue, “Look at you, takin’ it so good, like always, baby,” 

His lips pursed around your clit and sucked hard, making your breath stutter and stomach tense. Within seconds, you were arching and clamping down on his fingers, your nails digging into his scalp as he moaned against you. 

Suddenly your whole body was locking up, thighs clamping around his head as you cried out, your release washing over you in a shudder that left you boneless and gasping. Joel kept moving through it, easing you down, letting you ride every last wave while he whispered against your skin.

“There you go. That’s my girl. Just like that.”

When your breath finally evened out, your eyes fluttered open and he was already moving up your body, slow and sure, kissing your skin as he went.

He pressed a kiss to your stomach, your ribs. Then up curve of your breast, all the way to your collarbone. Your throat.

And finally, your mouth.

Kissing you deep and full, he let you taste yourself on his lips. It was like honey and tang and the lingering taste of coffee on his tongue. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like there was no place else he'd rather be than between your thighs, tasting your breath and holding your face like it was something fragile, something his. His mouth moved slowly over yours, tongues sliding together, hands still trembling faintly with how badly he wanted you.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, voice frayed. “I missed you. Missed you so goddamn much.”

Your fingers trailed down his chest, down to his waistband, dragging the pair of sweatpants down over his hips, not caring how clumsy it was. You needed him. You needed him now. He helped, kicking them off without hardly breaking the kiss. Your hand wrapped around him, hard and flushed and aching against your thigh.

“Jesus—” he groaned, his hips jolting forward into your palm, his forehead pressing into yours as his breath came hot and shaky, “Been a minute, take it easy,”

Your own body was on fire, soaked, aching for him. His voice, his hands, the weight of him over you was too much and yet not enough.

“Joel,” you whispered, “please.”

“Tell me you want it,” he said, and it didn’t sound like teasing. It sounded like pleading. His voice broke like it physically hurt him to ask. “Tell me you still want me.”

You nearly sobbed with need, “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

He reached between you to line himself up, the thick head of him dragging through your folds. You were so wet it made both of you groan, the slick sound obscene in the quiet room. He rocked his hips forward, just the tip pressing against your entrance.

“You’re so wet for me,” he whispered, his voice thick, breathless. “So warm.”

You writhed under him, thighs spreading wider, needing more. You could barely think.

“Joel– Jesus– please, just fuck me already.”

He smiled at that and sank into you in one long, devastating thrust, burying himself deep. You cried out, hands clutching at the nape of his neck as your body stretched to take him. Thick, hot, perfect. He filled you like he never left. Like he’d been made to fit.

“Shit,” he breathed, eyes squeezing shut as he bottomed out. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven. Always have.”

He stayed there for a second, shaking with the effort to hold back, “I’m not gonna last,” he admitted, voice strained, “Christ, been a while, huh?”

“You didn’t–?” you blinked up at him, catching your breath.

He shook his head, jaw clenched, a shiver running through him as he twitched inside you. “No. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to.”

He paused, looked down at you, eyes searching. “Did you?”

You cupped his face in your hands like he was delicate beneath your touch.

“No,” you said softly. “No one’s like you, Joel.”

Something shifted behind his eyes, something aching and raw and beautiful. His mouth fell to yours, kissing you deep, as your hips lifted to meet his.

And then he started to move.

He was slow at first, deep and dragging, every stroke deliberate, like he was trying to memorize how you felt all over again. You moaned into his mouth, your nails digging into his hair, your breath catching with every roll of his hips.

He dropped his head into the crook of your neck, his breath hot on your skin.

And then you heard it—gasping, raw, like it ripped itself from his chest.

“I love you,” he groaned. “Fuck—I fucking love you.”

Everything felt like it slowed down.

Your bodies didn’t stop moving, not yet, but something inside your chest pulled tight. Like your heart was trying to brace for impact. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed to hear it until it was right there, spilling out of his mouth in that low, broken voice, rough with disbelief and months of silence.

Something woke up under your skin, hot and bleary eyed, the kind of heat that lives dormant, that fills your throat and makes your pulse race. It had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with how this man was looking at you. 

He was still inside you, still moving with that same steady rhythm, but his eyes were locked on yours now. Wide and dark and raw. His mouth hung open slightly like he was waiting for you to say something, anything, to tell him whether he’d just changed everything or ruined it.

Your hands came up slowly, almost in disbelief, and you touched his face, one palm to his cheek, the other curling into the back of his neck like you needed to feel he was real. Your voice caught in your throat before you could even speak, but somehow it pushed out.

“You love me?” you whispered, and the sound of your own voice didn’t even sound like yours.

“Yes,” he breathed.

Something cracked open inside you, something deep and hidden and too tired to be cautious anymore. You kissed him, harder than you meant to, your mouth catching his in a collision that felt like everything snapping. He groaned against you and kissed you back like it was instinct, like he’d been waiting for your permission to give in completely.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your lips brushing his, your body still pulsing around him, still stretched wide and full, still needing more. “Say it again,” you whispered, not because you doubted him, but because you needed to hear it again. Needed to feel him give it to you without fear.

His hand slid to your jaw, holding you there, and his voice came softer now, steadier. “I love you.”

The words landed different this time. Less like an accident, more like a promise.

Your chest ached. You felt it rise up and out of you, that thing you’d been holding back for so long. “I love you too,” you said, and you didn’t have to think about it, didn’t need to second guess. It had always been there.

His head dipped and he kissed you again, deeper this time, not frantic like before but slow and thorough, like he wanted to feel every part of your mouth. His thrusts never stopped. They grew more purposeful now, more measured, like he wasn’t afraid anymore of where this was going, only desperate to take you with him.

He shifted slightly, reaching down to pull your leg higher around his waist, and the new angle made your whole body tense. He sank even deeper, drawing a low sound from your throat you hadn’t meant to make. You felt the build starting again, that tightening low in your stomach, that ache rising in time with every thrust, your body greedy for it, your hands clawing at him like you needed to hold on to something solid while everything else inside you fell apart.

You buried your face against his shoulder, your mouth open, your breath catching, your body clenching tight around him. He groaned your name into your skin, over and over, like it was the only word left in the world.

And then you came. Hard. Full-body, all-consuming, a wave that knocked the breath from your lungs and made your vision white around the edges. Your whole body trembled, and he held you through it, never breaking rhythm, never letting go.

He followed a second later, with a sound that sounded something close to a sob. He thrust deep and stayed there, grinding into you as he spilled inside, his whole body shuddering with the release.

You felt him lift his head to press his forehead to yours, felt the weight of his breath, the warmth of his skin, the thudding of his heart trying to slow against your chest.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. There was nothing to say. Just the feel of him still inside you, the heat of him wrapped around you, the echo of those three words still settling into the space between your bodies.

You closed your eyes and let it all soak in.

Because this time, you believed him.

[colbychu]

Meeting Sarah.

soft!joel x f!reader

Summary: After months of dating, Joel finally introduced her to Sarah.

a/n: No outbreak, just fluff and all that ig

Joel Miller didn’t believe in second chances.

Not when it came to love.

After Sarah’s mother left them in the quiet shadow of dawn—nothing but a folded note on the kitchen table—Joel never let another woman close. He told himself he was too busy raising Sarah, working long hours with Tommy, fixing roofs, pouring concrete, hauling lumber.

Who would want a man with a kid anyway?

But then came her.

She wasn’t like the others he’d met in passing over the years. She didn’t mind the quiet way Joel spoke, or the tired circles under his eyes. She didn’t fill silences with needless chatter. Instead, she’d sit beside him on the porch swing, sipping sweet tea and watching the Texas sun bleed orange into the sky.

Joel waited three months before even thinking of introducing her to Sarah.

Because if Sarah didn’t like her—well, then she would be gone. Simple as that.

Tonight was the night.

Joel smoothed his hands over his jeans, feeling sweat gather at the small of his back. She stood beside him on the porch, looking calm, but he knew her heart was racing too.

“Relax,” Tommy muttered behind him, giving Joel a small nudge. “You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”

Joel shot him a glare. “Not helpin’, Tommy.”

The woman smiled gently. “It’s okay, Joel. I’m ready.”

He swallowed thickly. He hoped Sarah was.

The screen door creaked open.

There she was. Sarah Miller, eleven years old, wild curls pulled into a loose ponytail, wearing those worn-over jeans she refused to part with.

Her big brown eyes flicked from her daddy to the woman standing next to him. Then to Tommy, who gave her a little wink.

“Hey, kiddo,” Joel said softly, introducing the woman to his daughter.

Sarah crossed her arms, her small mouth pursing in suspicion. Joel felt his gut twist.

The woman squatted down to Sarah’s level. “Hey, Sarah. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Sarah cocked her head. “Like what?”

The older woman chuckled. “That you beat your dad at guitar all the time. And that you made him build a treehouse all by himself… with no instructions.”

Tommy snorted from behind them. Joel shot him another glare.

Sarah’s eyes softened. “He did mess up the ladder the first time.”

She laughed gently. “Yeah, he told me that too.”

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, feeling foolish.

Sarah stepped closer, inspecting the woman as if trying to solve a quiet puzzle. Then:

“Do you like dinosaurs?”

Joel blinked. Where the hell did that come from?

The woman didn’t miss a beat. “Love ‘em. Velociraptors are the coolest. But… I’d probably pick a triceratops if I had to ride one.”

Sarah smiled. “Wrong answer. It’s totally the T. rex.”

She gasped in mock horror. “No way. Too clumsy.”

Sarah giggled. Joel felt the knot in his chest start to loosen.

Tommy clapped him on the back. “Looks like she passed, brother.”

Joel allowed himself the smallest of smiles. “Yeah… looks like she did.”

The woman stood, glancing at him with a quiet warmth in her eyes. Sarah slipped her small hand into hers without a word and tugged her toward the living room.

“C’mon,” Sarah said. “I’ll show you my dino collection. You can learn which ones are best.”

The woman winked over her shoulder at Joel as she was led away.

He followed quietly, standing in the doorway as Sarah dragged her battered shoebox from under the couch. The one with the plastic dinosaurs, scratched and faded, treasures from birthdays and thrift stores. She didn’t even let Tommy touch that box.

But now she flipped the lid open for her daddy’s girlfriend without hesitation.

“This is Spike,” Sarah said, holding up a stegosaurus missing its tail. “And that’s Chomper. He’s the mean T. rex. He eats everybody.”

She took the toy, turning it gently in her hands. “I didn’t have many dinos when I was your age. But I had this old toy horse. Broke its leg once, but I kept fixing it with tape. Couldn’t throw it away.”

Sarah beamed. “You get it.”

Joel leaned against the doorframe, the knot in his chest finally coming undone. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The woman sat cross-legged on the floor beside Sarah, asking the right questions, listening like every answer mattered.

For the first time in years, the house didn’t feel so quiet. It felt warm. Full.

Sarah pressed close to the woman’s side without even thinking, chattering about raptors and stegosaur tails. She grinned, holding up each dino as if it were some rare museum find.

Joel settled onto the arm of the couch, sipping his cold coffee, just watching.

Tommy caught his eye from the kitchen and raised a brow.

“Guess you are allowed a second chance after all,” Tommy said, soft enough only Joel could hear.

Joel smiled—small, real.

“Maybe I am,” he murmured.

And for once, that felt like the truth.

[colbychu]

ꨄ Soft hands, steady heart — S.R

masterlist + navigation

genre: fluff/domestic word count: 675

pairing: soft!Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

warnings & summary: no warnings. You never had to ask Spencer to treat you right — he just did. Maybe that’s what made him different.

author’s note: this is my second one-shot in two days and I feel so fuzzy and warm after writing this <3. I am new to writing in tumblr format and in English, which isn't my first language, so please be kind. I will appreciate any input on how to improve my writing or other tips, but only in a respectful manner ! :)

The thing about Spencer was… he never acted like anything was beneath him.

Not the laundry he was folding right now—your laundry, by the way—or the groceries he helped you carry, or the way he always took the time to untangle the delicate necklaces you forgot in a bowl on your nightstand. He was the kind of man who remembered how you liked your tea and never needed to be reminded which side of the bed you liked best.

You leaned against the doorway of your living room, watching him sitting on the edge of your couch, a small pile of socks beside him. His long fingers moved with that careful, deliberate kind of patience as he sorted through the laundry pile—pairing socks, folding shirts, smoothing out corners like he’d done it a hundred times before. He didn’t make a show of it. He wasn’t even aware you were watching. He just did it, because it needed to be done, and because he loved you. He didn’t do it like a favor. He didn’t announce it or wait to be thanked. And that was the sort of man Spencer Reid was.

You’d dated before. Men who saw domesticity as a favor, not a shared rhythm. Men who weaponized their competence—who burned toast and bragged about it like it was charming. Men who wanted credit for being “good guys”, yet never actually were. Men who talked over you, over-explained things you already knew, and rarely, if ever, asked how your day went with the intent to really listen. Men who saw kindness as currency, not an instinct.

But Spencer?

Spencer brought you snacks when you were on your period and was never ashamed to buy feminine hygiene products. He recommended books he knew you’d like, not just ones that made him look smart. He remembered what brand of detergent you used and bought it without being asked. He helped you organize your things when you moved apartments without blinking when he came across your most personal items.

And he didn’t make you feel small for the things you didn’t know.

You were still standing there, warm and achey with the weight of all these thoughts, while Spencer was matching your socks with that little furrow in his brows like it was a math problem he wanted to get just right.

You smiled, a slow, heart-deep thing, before curling your arms around his neck from behind, resting your chin gently on his shoulder. He leaned back into you instinctively, tilting his head so your cheek could brush his temple.

“I love you,” you whispered. “You know that?”

Spencer turned his head slightly, looking up at you with a puzzled sort of warmth. “I love you too,” he said softly. “But… where did that come from?”

You kissed the crown of his head. “You’re just so thoughtful. So kind. You do things most people don’t even notice. I guess I just needed to say it.”

He smiled—one of those small, surprised ones that made the corners of his eyes crease.

“But thoughtful in a normal way? Or, like… in a ‘has three PhDs and organized your spice rack by volatility’ kind of way?”

You laughed and pressed your cheek against his hair. “No. I mean… you’re just different.”

“Different how?”

You didn’t answer at first, pausing. Your heart was swelling, mouth full of words that suddenly felt too small for the feeling. So instead, you let your thoughts flow.

You asked if you could kiss my cheek — while other men were already trying to get into my pants.

You sat beside me while I did my makeup and handed me my eyeliner, instead of telling me I didn’t need it because I looked “better natural.”

You listened like it was an act of love — like everything I said mattered, even when it didn’t.

Finally, you whispered, “Just… different. The good kind.”

And Spencer—bless him—didn’t ask again. He just reached back to squeeze your hand before going back to folding socks with the same concentration as before.

Thank you for reading ♥︎

[colbychu]

Nothing Else Matters

Pairing: (experienced) Eddie X (f virgin) Reader

WC: 4.3k

Summary: admitting to Eddie that you want him to be the one who takes your virginity

CW: /loss of virginity/fingering/oral(f receiving)/oblivious big dick Eddie/aftercare/pinv(wrap it up)/orgasms/talk of popping da cherry/I think that’s it??

A/N: inspired by Nothing Else Matters-Metallica; probably one of my all time favorite songs to exist. I only wish my first time went like this 🫣😮‍💨 (my vip taglist bestie here you go @justalotoffanfiction 🖤)

You weren’t sure what it was about tonight that had you wanting to confess this to Eddie.

Maybe it was the way he’s sitting cross legged on your bed, the old acoustic guitar balanced in his lap. His rings glint in the soft lamplight as his fingers move gently over the strings, coaxing a quiet melody out of them. He’s not playing anything specific.. just feeling it out, letting his hands wander. His hair is still a little damp from a shower he took before coming over, curling where it brushes his jaw. In his worn jeans and that soft and faded Sabbath shirt, he looks completely at home.

Or maybe it’s the way that you and him have been together for over six months and he’s never once pressured you to do anything more than a heated makeout session. Even knowing he’s more experienced than you.

You’re curled near the headboard, watching him. There’s something different about tonight. The way it’s quiet but not awkward, the way he looks at you sometimes like he’s not sure if you’re actually there. You’ve been sitting like this for a while, just talking about music, laughing low, occasionally leaning forward to tap a chord or brush your fingers against his wrist.

And now you can’t stop staring at his hands. Not just because of the way they move across the strings, but because you’ve imagined what it would feel like if he touched you like that. Careful. Focused. Like he’s playing a song he doesn’t want to mess up.

You swallow hard.

“Eddie?”

He glances up, his eyes soft and curious. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

You shift slightly, pulling your knees up a bit. The words are on the tip of your tongue. You feel them pushing at your chest, fluttering in your ribs like wings trapped under skin.

You inhale quietly but deep, and say it before you can talk yourself out of it.

“I want it to be you.”

He freezes. The strumming stops. His hand stills on the strings like the guitar itself just forgot how to breathe.

“What?” he says softly, not because he didn’t hear you, but like he’s not sure he should trust his ears.

You meet his eyes. “I want my first time… to be with you.”

His gaze flickers. Well, his whole body does, like the impact of it hit all at once. He puts his guitar aside carefully, and shifts to face you fully.

He doesn’t rush to speak. Just watches you with that wide, gentle awe in his eyes. “Sweetheart…” His voice is low, almost raspy. “You.. you sure?”

You nod once. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it. A lot.” You glance down, feeling your cheeks get hot. “And I’m not scared of it with you.”

You hear the way his breath catches. You lift your eyes to him again.

“I trust you, Eddie.”

His lips part, but no words come out at first. He drags a hand over his face, then drops it back into his lap, blinking like he’s trying to stay grounded.

“I don’t- fuck, I don’t even know what to say.” His voice wavers. “That you’d even want me like that… that you’d give me something that matters that much…”

You shift closer, and your hand finds his. His fingers twitch, then curl around yours tightly. “You matter to me,” you whisper.

He’s silent for a long minute, eyes locked on yours like he’s memorizing every detail in them. “If we do this,” he says slowly, “I don’t wanna rush anything. Not one second. I wanna take my time. I wanna… treat it like it’s the most important thing I’ve ever done. ‘Cause it would be.”

You nod again, and your thumb brushes over the back of his hand. “I don’t care about how long it lasts,” you say softly. “I just want it to be you.”

Eddie exhales, shaky and clearly overwhelmed, and then leans forward. He kisses your knuckles first, then presses his forehead gently to yours. His hands come up to cup your cheeks like you’re something fragile and irreplaceable.

“Nothing else matters,” he murmurs against your skin. “Not when it comes to you.”

And he kisses you- tender and slow. Like a promise. His lips linger against yours, soft and steady, until your fingers curl in the front of his shirt, holding him there. Not pulling. Just… keeping him close to you.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheek, and his eyes search yours, heavy lidded and full of something you’ve never seen aimed at you like this before.

Like warmth.. or want. And something else- like that same awe he wore when you first said the words.

Eddie’s voice is soft. “When were you thinking? Like… when do you wanna…?”

You bite the inside of your cheek for a second, then glance down at where your hands rest against his chest. Your voice is quiet when it comes out.

“Is tonight okay?”

You feel the way his breath stutters- see the way he blinks, once, twice, like he’s trying to reset his brain.

“Tonight?” he echoes, a little hoarse. “Like… now now?”

You nod.

His jaw works as he exhales, like he’s trying to suppress the thousand things racing through his head. “Shit.. yeah, I mean- yeah, of course it’s okay, I just… I didn’t bring anything. Like- I wasn’t expecting- I didn’t think you were gonna—”

You reach over to your nightstand, slide the drawer open slowly, and pull out a small box of condoms.

Eddie just stares. Then his lips part and he looks back at you like you just told him aliens were real and he was their prophecy in denim and leather.

“You planned this?” he breathes.

“Well, I planned on asking,” you murmur, setting the box gently on the blanket between you. “I didn’t know if I’d actually go through with it. But I figured… if I got the courage, I’d wanna be ready.”

Eddie makes a soft sound, something like a laugh cut off by disbelief. His hand covers his mouth for a second before dragging down his jaw. “You’re unreal, sweetheart. Fuck.”

You smile, small and a little shy. “What about you? You okay?”

He nods quickly, crawling closer until his knee bumps yours. “Yeah. More than okay. Just.. this matters so much to me. You matter so much to me. I don’t wanna mess this up.”

“You won’t,” you whisper. “You haven’t.”

He smiles, a little crooked. “Okay… well, then—” He pauses. “Wait. What about your parents? Are they—?”

“They’re gone for at least a few more hours,” you say gently. “They’re at the Harrington’s for some event.”

Eddie blinks again. His shoulders deflate in one big, quiet breath, and then he grins, “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Are you trying to ruin me?”

You giggle, and he leans in to kiss you again, but this time deeper, his hand sliding behind your neck.

“Alright,” he whispers, voice rough with emotion. “Then let me show you what it means to be wanted.”

Eddie kisses you again, slower. Not like he’s trying to start something, but like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. His hand curls around your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone as he leans in deeper, anchoring himself with the soft weight of your body under his touch.

You instantly melt into it. Not all at once. Just… piece by piece. Like every part of you has been waiting for this kind of kiss. For this kind of Eddie- the Eddie that’s quiet, gentle, and even a little overwhelmed. And completely yours.

When he finally pulls back, he’s breathless. His forehead rests against yours. You feel the way his fingers twitch where they’re resting at your waist as if he’s holding himself still, waiting for permission to keep going.

“You sure this is real?” he murmurs.

You nod, nudging his nose with yours. “Feels pretty real.”

He smiles against your lips, then exhales, long and shaky. “I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up on my shitty mattress with my neck all crooked and this’ll be some weird dream I tell Wayne about by accident over cereal.”

You laugh softly, eyes crinkling. “I’ll pinch you if you need proof.”

“Nah,” he murmurs, nose brushing your jaw as he kisses there too. “I’ve got all the proof I need.”

His hands slide slowly over your waist, fingertips just skimming beneath the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t push.. not yet. Just traces.

His voice drops, thick with something softer now. “We’ve got time, right?” Like he needs to remind himself again before he combusts.

You nod. “I promise.”

Eddie’s eyes flick to yours again, and this time he holds your gaze. “Then I’m gonna do this slow, honey. I wanna learn every piece of you… every sound you make, every place that makes you shiver. I don’t wanna miss a second of it.”

He brushes a thumb across your cheek softly. “Wanna make it so when you think about your first time, all you remember is how good it felt to be wanted right.”

You nod, breath catching a little. “Me too.”

There’s a long pause, but it’s not awkward. Just heavy. Full of the things that haven’t been said yet, the things that are about to be felt instead. And then Eddie shifts on the bed, just slightly, running a hand through his hair as he looks at you like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory.

He swallows hard, then crawls forward, slowly pushing you back against the pillows with the softest pressure, like he’s asking with every movement. Like he’s making sure you feel how cared for you are.

“Lemme just keep kissing you for a while,” he says, voice low and warm as he nudges your nose with his again. “Until you tell me you want more. And then I’ll give you everything.”

Eddie’s mouth finds yours again, and it feels like he’s savoring the way you sigh against him. He kisses you like you’re something rare. Something to be cherished. Like he still doesn’t quite believe he gets to have this moment, but he’s determined to make every second of it count.

His hand moves from your jaw to your ribs, skimming along the curve of your waist until his fingers brush the hem of your shirt again.

“Can I?” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He pushes it up slowly, eyes taking you in inch by inch as more of your skin is revealed. When he pulls it over your head and drops it to the floor, his breath catches in his throat.

Your bra’s nothing special, soft white cotton, and worn- but the way he stares at you, you’d think you were wearing lace and silk.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispers. “Look at you.”

Your cheeks flush, but you don’t look away.

His hands slide up your back, gentle as he unclasps your bra. It slips from your shoulders, and when you’re bare in front of him, Eddie just stares for a second.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “Seriously, sweetheart. You’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

You laugh a little, breathless. “Good.”

Eddie lowers his head to your chest, mouthing at your breast, tongue flicking softly over your nipple. You gasp, one hand tangling in his hair, and he groans into your skin like that’s what he was hoping you’d do.

He takes his time. Sucks one nipple gently, rolls the other between his fingers, switches sides. All the while murmuring things between kisses- so pretty, tastes so good, I could do this forever.

By the time he trails kisses down your stomach, you’re trembling.

“You’re doing okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “More than okay.”

He kisses your hipbones before hooking his thumbs into your shorts. “Gonna take these off, alright?”

You lift your hips in answer, and he peels them down your legs, eyes raking over every new inch of skin he uncovers.

He immediately catches the damp spot on your panties, moving his hand hesitantly to graze over it, causing your hips to jolt up.

“Already so wet, and I’ve barely touched you?” His voice full of awe.

“Is… is that bad?” Your voice barely above a whisper.

Eddie groans, “God, no. You’re just giving me a bigger ego than I need.”

You feel your face heat up as he continues to softly touch you over the cotton. When he finally hooks his fingers under the waistband, but looks up at you for silent confirmation- to which you answer with a soft, ‘Please’.

When you’re fully bare, his jaw clenches.

“Fuck.”

He kneels at the edge of the bed and just looks at you for a moment. “You’re an angel, y/n. I swear to God.”

And then he’s leaning in, kissing the inside of your thigh first slowly, leaving warm kisses that make your whole body ache. His hands slide up to hold your legs open as he settles between them, and you feel the hot exhale of his breath right before his mouth meets you.

He places one soft kiss onto your clit, causing you to gasp and your hips to twitch.

That reaction alone causes him to dive into you, licking on stripe up your folds- causing him to moan into you. “Ohhh, fuck me.. yeah, this is it.. this is heaven.”

His tongue moves slowly, teasing at first, then firm against your clit. He finds what makes you gasp again and again and stays there- flicking his tongue hard but slow, occasionally sucking with just enough pressure to make your toes curl.

Your hand slides into his curls, gripping tight, and he groans like he lives for that.

“Tastes so good, honey,” he pants. “So fuckin’ sweet.. God, I could stay down here forever—”

He slides one hand up, fingers teasing at your entrance.

“Can I?”

“Yes,” you gasp, hips arching toward him. “Please.”

He slides one thick finger in slowly, gently, and your walls flutter around him instantly. Then another. He curls them just right, mouth still moving against you, and the pressure builds fast.

Your body tenses up, and feels like it’s on fire. “Fuck, Eddie.. I think I’m gonna—“

He hums against your heat, and you break with a gasp, thighs shaking, vision going blurry as he works you through it- his fingers start pumping slower, tongue still gentle until you’ve come all the way down.

Eddie finally lifts his head, lips shiny, eyes wild and soft all at once. He kisses up your body, stopping at your mouth, and when you taste yourself on his tongue, something in you flares hotter.

“Holy shit,” you breathe. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

His grin is crooked, proud, and a little stunned. “That was the sexiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

You catch your breath, reaching for his shirt. “Can I see you now?”

He nods, and pulls his shirt over his head- his curls go wild, chest flushed. You let your hands explore, over the inked lines on his chest, the trail of hair down his stomach.

When your fingers drift to the waistband of his jeans, he stops you just briefly. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I wanna see you.”

He kisses you again, then reaches down and slowly unbuttons his jeans. Slides them off along with his boxers in one fluid movement.

And then he’s bare, and your eyes go wide.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

Eddie stills, a little self conscious. “What?”

You blink up at him. “You’re huge.”

He flushes, genuinely surprised. “I- really?”

You nod slowly, eyes dropping to him again. “Yeah. Like… Jesus, Eddie.”

He laughs softly, cheeks pink. “No one’s said that before.. Well… good thing I was planning on taking my time.”

He reaches for a condom, rips the foil open with shaky fingers, and rolls it on. Like he still can’t believe he’s being trusted with this. With you.

When he crawls back over you, he moves slow. Settles between your legs, his body heavy and warm and safe on top of yours. He braces one arm beside your head and kisses you again- deeply and more intense. His free hand strokes your cheek.

When he lines up with you, his voice drops to a whisper. “Tell me if you need me to stop, slow down, anything. I’m watching your face the whole time.”

You nod, breath trembling. “I trust you.”

He kisses your cheek, your temple. “Okay. Here we go, sweetheart. I’ll be gentle- every second.”

As he slowly begins sliding in, it’s a stretch- more than you expected- and he stills the second he sees your breath hitch.

“Hey. Hey, you’re okay,” he whispers, cupping your face. “You’re doing perfect. Just breathe for me.”

He stays still, just holding you- his forehead to yours, hand cupping your cheek, breath mingling in the quiet space between you.

You nod, just once, voice barely there. “You can move.”

He kisses you again, then shifts his hips, starting to pull back slowly.

But the moment he does by just a few inches, your whole body flinches. The stretch is almost more intense, sharper even now, a sudden pressure that knocks the air from your lungs.

“Wait—” you gasp, hand gripping his bicep.

Eddie freezes instantly.

“Okay, okay- stopping,” he breathes. His voice goes soft, soothing. His hand continues to rub your cheek. “You’re okay, I’ve got you. Not going anywhere.”

You nod, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you breathe through it. His thumb brushes your cheek, and he presses a gentle kiss to your temple.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

His eyes go wide, heart breaking. “No. Don’t be. You’re doing amazing, y/n. I mean that.”

He stays perfectly still, just holding you- letting you breathe, letting you settle. When you finally nod again, more sure this time, he kisses you once more before pulling back slowly, and easing in again.

This time, your body starts to adjust. Still full. Still stretching around him. But the pain fades more into pressure now. Then warmth. Then something more.

“That’s it,” Eddie murmurs. “You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart. Just like that.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough for a slow, steady thrust. You gasp softly, your fingers digging into his back as your legs wrap tighter around his waist.

Then you feel it- the subtle pause in him. A shift. His breath hitches.

He looks down, and freezes. There’s a faint smear of red at the base of him. A small bloom of blood between your bodies. Barely anything, but it’s there. Real. Unmistakable.

His face goes pale. “Shit,” he breathes, voice suddenly tight. “Y/n—”

You sit up a bit to look down too. And your heart stutters. “Oh,” you say softly. “I-, I’m sorry—”

“No. Hey- hey.” He cups your face again, pulling your gaze back to his. “Don’t apologize. Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, I’m okay. It was just… it’s just a little. I didn’t even feel it.”

He still looks concerned, eyes scanning your face like he’s checking every corner of it for discomfort. You see his throat work, jaw tight.

Then after a breath, he exhales and offers a lopsided, crooked smile.

“I swore they were just makin’ that up to scare us in sex ed,” he says softly.

You blink once, and then let out a startled laugh.

Eddie’s grin grows. “I mean, c’mon,” he adds, voice warm. “First time? Blood? Felt like they were describing a horror movie. Thought it was bullshit.”

You laugh again, easing into him, hands still on his back, your chest tightening with relief.

“Guess not,” you murmur.

He kisses your forehead. “Doesn’t matter. You’re okay. That’s all I care about.”

You nod, still smiling faintly, and he brushes his thumb along your jaw.

“Wanna keep going?” he asks gently. “But only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” you whisper.

He kisses you softly, body pressed to yours as he begins to move again carefully.

“So tight,” he groans, hips rolling into you. “God, you feel so fuckin’ good. Taking me so well, y/n.. so perfect for me.”

You tremble beneath him, clinging tighter, the ache replaced by something hotter and needier.

Eddie’s voice dips, rougher now. “Gonna make you cum again, sweetheart. Wanna feel you clench around me, wanna see it.”

And when he braces up just enough to rub soft circles over your clit while still rocking into you, deeper now, more insistent- your breath catches hard.

“Ah, ah, ah- gonna—”

“Yes,” he grits out. “Yes you are. I feel it- fuck, I feel it- you’re right there—”

You cry out his name as your body clamps around him, shaking and fluttering, your orgasm tearing through you like a wave- more intense than the first. Eddie curses, hips still moving, thrusts getting sloppier now as he fights to keep control.

“Jesus Christ, you’re so- fuck—” He growls, mouth pressed to your throat. “One more- just one more minute, I swear.. feels too good—”

He holds on as long as he can, but you’re still pulsing around him, and when you whisper his name again all broken and blissed out.. that’s it.

With a deep, guttural groan, he buries himself deep, stills, and lets go. He finishes inside the condom, body trembling above you, his hot breath catching in your ear.

“Fuck.. Y/n- oh my God—”

You wrap your arms around him, feeling him shudder as he rides it out- every twitch of his hips sending little aftershocks through you both.

When it’s over, he collapses onto you gently, chest to chest, lips pressed to your collarbone. You hold each other for a long time- just breathing. Letting the moment settle into your bones.

And then he pulls back just enough to look at you. Smiling, and all dazed.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, “I thought I couldn’t love music more than I already did…”

You blink up at him, still catching your breath. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He grins. “Then you moaned my name like that- and now I’ve got a new favorite sound.”

You laugh, covering your face, and he kisses your cheek, still beaming. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For trusting me with this.”

You lean in, nuzzling his nose. “I’m just glad it was you.”

After Eddie disposes of the condom and helps you clean up with quiet care which includes kisses to your temple, and soft murmurs of “You okay?” and “Still with me?” - he then gently brushes your hair back from your face.

“You’re shaking a little,” he says softly, fingers grazing along your arm.

“I’m okay,” you breathe. “Just… overwhelmed.”

He nods, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ll be right back.”

After he pulls on his boxers and shirt, he walks out of your room. You then hear the water turn on in the bathroom, the low creak of the faucet and the soft thud of cabinet doors. He’s gone only a few minutes, but when he returns, he has a towel draped over his shoulder.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs, offering his hand. “I drew you a bath.”

You blink up at him, startled. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he says gently, helping you sit up. “You gave me something tonight I’ll never deserve. ‘Least I can do is make sure you’re not as sore tomorrow.”

He leads you into the bathroom. The tub is already steaming, water cloudy with lavender bubbles- probably whatever bubble bath you left under the sink. He must’ve found it and figured it wouldn’t hurt.

You feel shy again suddenly, standing there bare under the soft overhead light, but Eddie just brushes your arm with a look so warm it melts through every last layer of tension.

“Take your time,” he says. “I’ll be right here.”

You step into the tub slowly, easing down into the water- the heat wrapping around you like a blanket. You exhale, shoulders sinking, eyes fluttering shut.

After a moment, you hear a soft rustle and open your eyes.

Eddie’s crouched beside the tub now, one knee down, chin resting on his forearm where it’s draped over the edge. He just watches you, curls falling in his face, lips parted slightly like he’s breathless all over again.

“You look like a fuckin’ angel, honey,” his voice full of awe.

“You’re biased,” you teased softly.

He gave you that crooked, cocky grin of his, “Damn right I am.”

You laugh softly, your heart aching in the best way.

He doesn’t move- just stays there, watching you with eyes full of quiet wonder. Every few seconds, his hand drifts into the water to skim against your shin or trace along your arm like he just needs to touch you, remind himself you’re real.

“You feel okay?” he asks again, quieter this time.

You nod. “I feel… really good. A little sore. But in a good way.”

His eyes flicker with something warm. “Good sore?”

“Yeah.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your damp shoulder above the waterline. “God, you are perfect.”

You reach out and run your fingers through his curls. “You’re being very sweet.”

He shrugs, lips brushing your skin again. “You trusted me with something huge, y/n. I don’t think I’ll ever get over that.”

You smile. “I don’t want you to.”

He lifts his eyes to meet yours- and the look there is so full, so open, it steals your breath.

He stays with you while you soak, whispering little things, brushing his fingers up and down your arm in the water. When the bath starts to cool, he helps you up, wraps you in a towel, dries your legs with slow care, like he’s trying to say a hundred things without words.

And then he brings you back to bed. He pulls the blankets back and lets you curl up on his chest, your head on his shirt, the sound of his heartbeat a steady drum in your ear.

“Sleep,” he whispers, stroking your hair. “I’ve got you.”

And you do- easily. You sleep, safe and warm, wrapped in the arms of the boy who touched you like you were sacred and made sure you felt everything.

Ty for the dividers- @saradika 🖤

Tagging some besties I think might enjoy this!!! @the-unforgivenn @28bohemianmoons @mugloversonly @streamafterlaughter

[colbychu]

Misty | Eddie Munson x You | 16.1

Word Count: ~5.7k

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: The summer before college, the future was supposed to belong to the two of you—music, escape, a city that never sleeps. But then Eddie says a few words that change everything: She’s pregnant. And it’s mine. Now, your dream looks different, and so does he.

Single Dad | Friends to Lovers

TW: Click here!

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 10.1 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 14.1 | 15 | 16 | 16.1 | B1 |

The light crept in slowly, filtering through the sun-faded curtains like honey. A soft, golden warmth stretched across the hardwood floor, brushing over stacks of old books piled against the walls, grazing a pair of worn jeans slung over a chair, and finally settling on the tangle of limbs beneath a thin ivory blanket.

You were the first to stir. Barely. The kind of movement that wasn’t really movement at all—just the slow, instinctive curl of fingers against a familiar chest. You felt the steady pulse beneath your palm before your mind fully remembered where you were.

With whom you were.

Eddie.

And then you remembered—not in a jolt, not like a wave crashing, but as a long-awaited whisper: you had kissed. No—you had kissed and then kept kissing until the world blurred into shadow and heat and the silent murmur of finally.

Last night, your heart had been live wire, every word exchanged sparking between old wounds and even older longing. You’d said it all. About the years, the fear, and all the ways you'd tried not to feel what maybe you’d always felt.

And then—you let go.

And now—this morning

The room smelled of warmth—of cotton sheets, of sleep, of skin, and faint traces of Eddie’s cologne.

"Are you watching me?" you murmured, not bothering to open your eyes.

"I’m not watching," Eddie whispered beside you. "I’m admiring. I’m adoring you silently—totally different thing."

You cracked one eye open, blinking at him. His curls were a complete mess, even wilder than usual, and his face carried that lazy grin—equal parts teasing and confession.

"You idiot."

"And yet," he propped himself up on one elbow, "last night you let this idiot—mmph."

Your hand flew to cover his mouth.

"And again around dawn," he added once you let him go, making you blush, "and probably again in the next thirty seconds if you don’t stop me." His voice dropped, playful, coaxing. But his gaze held something else—like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real. That you were his.

You understood. Still, you smacked his chest, only making his grin widen.

"You’re terrible," you said.

"I’m yours," he answered softly. "If you want me."

That stilled you for a moment. You turned your head to face him fully. His eyes gleamed in the morning light—not with tears, but with that quiet joy that wraps itself around your ribs like a warm scarf.

You had told each other you loved each other all night. And still, it felt like even a lifetime of whispering, shouting, and proving it would never be enough.

"I want you," you whispered. "Truly."

He kissed you then. Slow. Unhurried. Like there was nothing else you were meant to do for the rest of your lives.

And when you pulled apart, he smiled at you, mischievous once more.

"Behold, fair maiden," Eddie announced, sweeping the blanket over his shoulder like a cape, "the gallant knight returns to your chambers, bearing affection, idiocy, and—should you allow it—a second attempt to seduce you beneath the morning sun."

You burst into laughter, unable to hold it in, nudging him gently.

"You’re impossible."

"But charming."

You rolled your eyes.

"And completely naked."

"A tragic side effect of devotion," he sighed, pulling you closer by the waist. His hands found the small of your back, warm and steady. "Should I stop?"

The question hung there, sincere beneath the silliness.

You shook your head slowly, brushing your nose against his.

"Don’t. Don’t stop."

He kissed you again.

This time wasn’t rushed. It didn’t feel like a milestone, or a climax, or something that needed to be remembered in bold letters. It felt like the most natural thing two people could do in the hush of a spring morning. As if it wasn’t something new at all—but something that had always been waiting, patient, for you both to be ready.

Afterward, true to himself, he kept whispering absurdities into your ear.

"That was the Dawnlight Embrace spell," he murmured, smiling as he brushed your hair aside. "Passed down by the Elders of—ow!"

You had swatted him again.

"You’re unbearable."

"And yet, adored," he said, kissing your collarbone. "Worshiped, even."

You rolled your eyes but sighed, melting against him as he settled beside you again. Your legs tangled beneath the sheets, warm skin against warm skin. You traced lazy circles along the line of his spine, your heart beating like a lullaby inside your chest.

"You’re mine, aren’t you?" you whispered into his hair.

He looked up at you.

"I was yours before you even knew you wanted me."

Outside, the city kept breathing. Life carried on.

But inside that small bedroom, with sunlight spilling over the bed and Eddie inventing ridiculous names for your freckles, it felt like nothing else mattered.

And maybe—for once—that was exactly how it was supposed to be.

The apartment had never felt so big.

Without Misty's tiny footsteps or her cheerful humming as she pretended there were little people living inside the dresser drawers, the silence hit like a wave—sudden, surprising. A peaceful kind of quiet, the kind that made you realize just how loud love could be, even when it came in the shape of a little girl.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen, leaning sideways against the counter, a half-eaten cookie resting between your lips. The hem of Eddie’s Hellfire Club shirt hung loose over your body, slipping off one shoulder. Your hair was tousled from sleep, the ends curling slightly, and you hadn’t bothered with pants—just cotton underwear and the soft morning light around you.

Eddie was in shock.

He had frozen in the hallway, while you were holding the phone like after ending a call with Nancy. His mouth was slightly open. His brain? Gone. Vaporized. Completely atomized.

You caught his expression and raised an eyebrow, speaking around the cookie still dangling from your mouth.

“You're gonna start drooling, Munson.”

He blinked. “You—you can't just—stand there—like that.”

You plucked the cookie from your lips with two fingers, taking an exaggerated bite as you slowly crossed the kitchen. “Like what?”

“Like that,” he gestured helplessly. “In my shirt. With those legs. And that ‘I know I look good’ face.”

“I’ve got a cookie,” you said, chewing with a grin. “That’s the only thing that looks good.”

He stepped closer. “I’m gonna say this with the deepest respect and utmost reverence possible… you’re killing me, G.”

“Mm.” You turned and hopped up onto the counter, legs swinging lazily, cookie still in hand. “Nancy said she’ll bring Misty home tonight. So we’ve got the whole day. She said—” another bite—“we should enjoy it.”

Eddie moved toward you like a man under a spell, his hands bracing on either side of your hips against the counter.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low, “I don’t know if I’m more obsessed with how you look right now, or with the fact you still have crumbs on your cheek.”

“Get used to it,” you said, popping the last bit of cookie into your mouth.

He slid between your knees, palms still planted around you. Then he leaned in.

You raised an eyebrow, cookie still caught between your teeth.

And then he bit it—right from your lips.

The soft crunch of sugar was followed by your burst of uncontrollable laughter and his triumphant grin, both of you now wearing bits of cookie.

“You’re a mess,” you said between giggles.

Eddie shrugged, chewing happily.

The air shifted.

Something deeper warmed the edges of your playful rhythm, like honey thickening under sunlight. He brushed his nose against your cheek, lips barely grazing the corner of your mouth.

“Are you always gonna look at me like that while you eat cookies in my shirt?” he asked, softer now, his teasing tangled in something gentler.

“If you’re lucky,” you whispered.

Your fingers slid into his hair, threading at the base of his neck. You pulled—not hard, but enough to make him lose his breath for a second.

He exhaled against your mouth. “You know that should be illegal.”

You laughed again—bright, warm, like champagne bubbles rising from your chest—and kissed him before he could say anything else. Slower now. Steady. The kind of kiss that wasn’t a question anymore—it was an answer.

Eddie’s hands climbed your thighs, anchoring himself to you.

You stayed like that for a while—kissing in the kitchen, sunlight sliding across the old tiles, one or two crumbs still clinging to the edge of the counter.

Soon hunger pulled you apart, and the kitchen filled with the scent of sizzling bacon, cheap pancake batter, and the unmistakable warmth of something golden blooming between you.

You were standing by the stove, tending to the eggs and bacon.

Behind you, Eddie was on a mission.

A pancake mission.

“Pancake time, sacred time,” he sang in a terrible falsetto, whisking the batter in an old plastic bowl like it was a cauldron. “For those with love and butter in their hearts…”

“Eddie…”

“Oh Princess of the Sizzling Bacon, grant me your—”

You burst out laughing and interrupted his breakfast silly anthem. “What the hell is that?”

“A ritual song. To gain access to your maple syrup. Metaphorically.” He grinned mischievously.

You shot him a warning look over your shoulder. “Keep singing like that and I’m denying you access to everything.”

Eddie smirked but shut up—just long enough to flip the first pancake onto a plate with an exaggerated flourish.

Soon, the kitchen became a quiet symphony of domestic sounds: the clinking of utensils, the old building’s pipes humming softly, and that electric something in the way you moved around each other—effortless, almost choreographed, brushing elbows, stealing glances.

When everything was done, you hopped back onto the counter like it was your rightful place. Because it was. Your legs dangled lazily, still warm from the stove, and Eddie settled between them with two plates in hand.

You ate like that. Right there. Standing in the kitchen. You sitting, him nestled between your knees, both of you barefoot and ridiculously happy.

You tore off a piece of bacon and lifted it to his lips.

“Thank you, my lady.”

You laughed, soft and melodic. “You’re impossible.”

“I repent,” he said, mouth half full—but his words carried more weight than the teasing had all morning. “I’ll never pull that crap again. Never. That was, like, the worst week of my life.”

“You mean the past few months?”

He winced, swallowing. “Yeah, that too. Though honestly, I’d say years—I’ve messed things up with you for years.”

You tilted your head. “I wasn’t trying to be cold, you know. I just… I didn’t want it to hurt anymore. Plus, Wayne said I should make you suffer a little before forgiving you.”

“That old man,” he didn’t even pretend to be offended. “I deserved it, G. The whole polite-but-distant treatment,” he nodded. “You should never feel bad about that.” He sighed. “I just… I didn’t know what the rules were anymore. You weren’t talking to me like you used to—it was only about Misty. And I didn’t know if I was allowed to ask about you.”

You set your plate aside and took his face gently in your hands.

“There are no more rules,” you whispered. “It’s just us now.”

He leaned into your palms. “Good. Because if there were rules, I’d be breaking them. Constantly. Especially if it gets me food like this.”

You laughed again and tore off a piece of pancake, feeding it to him. He bit into it slowly, exaggeratedly, like it was some romantic gesture instead of sticky syrup and boxed batter.

Then something more serious flickered in your eyes.

“I got an offer. Yesterday, actually. But it felt weird bringing it up then. Everything was...”

“Exploding?”

“Yeah.” You hesitated, then let it all out in one breath. “A record label. Crux & Co. They want me to work as a songwriter. And producer. Mostly behind the scenes, but… it’s big, Ed.”

He blinked. “Crux? The real Crux & Co.? You’re kidding.”

“No. The director at the Brooklyn office is friends with my composition professor. He was at the recital. He always goes, says it’s for scouting fresh talent.”

He took a small step back, blinking hard, as if he needed to recalibrate you.

“You’re amazing,” he said, like it was just a fact. “I mean—shit, this is huge. This is like... elite.”

“I know. I mean… I think I want it.”

“You should want it. You should take it. I’ll personally shove you through the door if you hesitate.”

You smiled, but there was a slight tremble beneath it.

“It just scares me. What if I screw it up? I’ve never been… this close to something real. And it means less time for things like this.” You touched his chest, right over his heart.

Eddie wrapped his arms around you and kissed your forehead.

“You’ve always written music, G. Now you get to help build it from the bones up. That’s not fear. That’s a goddamn superpower.”

You leaned into him, exhaling slowly. “Are you really okay with it?”

“I’m in your corner, babe. Even if it means wearing a suit and clapping at meetings.”

You laughed into his shoulder. Then your smile softened, and your voice dropped, thoughtful.

“How do we tell Misty?” you asked, running your thumb along the rim of your coffee mug. “I mean… how do we explain this without making it sound like— I don’t know. Like this is some big change?”

Eddie pulled back slightly, rolling his eyes with exaggerated affection.

“She already calls you Mom. Shut up.”

You gasped.

“Hey! Don’t say that, you jerk!”

He just grinned mischievously and leaned in to kiss you, as if that settled everything.

And maybe it did.

The kiss was slow, familiar by now, like you’d been kissing each other for a thousand years and still weren’t finished discovering each other. He tasted like coffee and maple syrup. You tasted like home.

“You’re lucky I’m in love with you,” you whispered against his lips.

“I know,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours.

You stayed like that for a moment, swaying in the quiet hum of your little morning world.

“So,” you said as he absentmindedly traced shapes on your thigh, “class?”

He blinked, still half-dreaming.

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Listen to this: I passed all my finals!”

Your face lit up instantly, proud without hesitation.

“Eddie! That’s amazing!”

“I know! I’ve still got one final paper left, but I basically have it in my pocket. Nobody calls me a freak, or shoves me into lockers, or makes dumb jokes about how I’ll end up like my dad.”

You smiled proud, brushing his hair from his eyes.

“I told you you could do it.”

“Yeah, but you’re biased.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

He dropped his head, a youthful smile tugging at his lips.

“I was so sure I’d fail everything again. I still don’t get some stuff. A lot of things have always been… just do, don’t process, for me.”

“I know, it happens to all of us,” you nodded, feeding him another bite of pancake.

He chewed slowly, then leaned in to kiss the corner of your mouth.

“Do I get a reward for surviving my first year?”

“You’re getting it,” you said, lazily wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “Coffee, pancakes, a roommate who made bacon without burning the kitchen down.”

He smiled.

“Do you realize how hard I’m gonna flex this in all my classes next semester? Like: ‘What did you do this summer?’ Oh, you know… just spent every day making love to my best friend while eating pancakes in my T-shirt.”

You laughed. “You’re an idiot.”

Later the bathroom filled with steam in slow spirals. The chipped tiles held their own quiet secrets. The mirror had fogged up long ago, its reflections lost behind condensation and quiet breaths, and still neither of you had said much.

The water was warm. Gentle. Like everything between you now.

You stood beneath the spray, your back to him at first, skin gleaming under the light slipping through half-closed blinds. You reached for the shampoo bottle with a small, nervous shrug of your shoulders, trying not to think too hard about the fact that Eddie Munson—your best friend, your person—was naked behind you. And that he had seen you naked. In broad daylight. In the tiny shower of his Queens apartment, barely enough room to turn around.

You felt his hand brush softly against your back—just a graze—and you turned to glance at him over your shoulder.

His eyes were tender. There was no teasing in them, not this time. Only awe, like you were something that needed to be memorized.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, wrapped in steam.

You let out a breathy laugh and nodded, your cheeks flushed and wet.

“Yeah. It’s just... you know. It’s hard to pretend this is casual when you’re looking at me like that.”

He smiled—soft, crooked. A few drops clung to the edge of his jaw, gathering like pearls on the tip of his nose.

“I’m not trying to make it casual,” he said. “I’m trying to burn it into my memory.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands.

“Eddie...”

“I mean it.” He leaned in, brushing his nose against your temple. “You… seriously. You’re like the Chapel. And I am a sinner. I should be on my knees. Actually, I would be if this shower weren’t the size of a closet and if I wasn’t afraid I’d slip and break my spine.”

That made you laugh, and you turned fully, wrapping your arms around his damp waist.

“You’re ridiculous. Where do you even come up with this stuff?” you whispered.

“I’m a romantic,” he corrected, sliding his hands reverently down your back. “And one day—mark my words—we’re gonna have a huge shower. One of those fancy ones, with a bench, rain shower head, probably black tiles because you’re gothic and elegant and obviously in charge of the interior design.”

You tilted your head, amused.

“Oh yeah? You’re planning a life with me now, Munson?”

He cupped your cheek, his thumb warm against your damp skin.

“I’ve been planning it,” he said, suddenly sincere. “Since the first time you fell asleep on my shoulder watching Star Wars. Since the day Misty gave you that terrible unicorn drawing and you stuck it on the fridge like it was a Picasso. Since... I don’t know, probably since always.”

“You’re gonna make me cry in the shower,” you whispered, resting your forehead against his chest.

He pulled you tighter.

“Then cry. I’ll just kiss it better until it goes away.”

You smiled against him, then lifted your face.

“Turn around.”

“What?”

You pointed to the tiny corner shelf where the shampoos lived.

“Turn around. I’m washing your hair.”

He laughed but obeyed.

You squeezed shampoo into your hands, worked it into a lather, and then buried your fingers in his hair with practiced tenderness. He exhaled so hard it was almost a moan.

“Oh God... I’ve ascended,” he murmured. “Is this what heaven feels like?”

You laughed, massaging gently, your fingers sinking into his scalp.

“Stop being dramatic.”

“No, no. You don’t understand. This is the most loving thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“Well. You deserve it.”

He opened his eyes softly.

“And so do you.”

Your eyes met for a moment too long to be casual, too perfect to be anything but true.

You leaned down and kissed him, mouth soft and slow, your wet hair dripping onto his shoulders, water, soap, and love blending into one sacred thing.

Afterward, he helped you rinse, careful not to let shampoo get in your eyes, his fingers gliding over your arms like he was mapping them. You kept kissing, and at one point he lifted you by the hips, making you wrap your legs around him. And you returned to the bedroom.

And later the world seemed to pause around you, save for the faint ticking of the old kitchen clock down the hall and the muffled sounds of the city filtering through the cracked windows: the quiet hum of Queens waking up in the late afternoon. In his tiny bedroom, tangled in damp sheets and cooling skin, you and Eddie lay suspended in that rare kind of peace that only comes after total surrender.

He was curled behind you, his chest pressed to your back, one leg draped over yours as if still trying to get closer. His breath was warm in the hollow of your neck, his lips occasionally brushing that patch of skin, murmuring little things—too soft to catch, but sweet enough to make you smile.

Your fingers wandered aimlessly along his arm, the one draped over your waist. Eddie’s hand rested beneath the fabric clinging lightly to your still-damp skin—his T-shirt, now stuck slightly to your body—and cupped one of your breasts. Not with lust, not with urgency. Just... affection. A hint of possessiveness, but sleepy.

“You always get this cuddly after sex,” you whispered, your voice still hoarse, lazy with satisfaction.

Eddie let out a low hum, nuzzling behind your ear.

“Only with you, sweetheart.”

You smiled into the pillow.

His thumb traced slow, absent arcs across your skin. He was simply holding you… but the weight of his hand, the soft curve of his fingers, the way his palm cradled you like something fragile and beloved, made your chest ache with tenderness.

“You’re not going to fall asleep again, are you?” you asked.

“Not planning on it,” he rasped, still rough with sleep. “But you’re so warm and soft you’re making it really hard for me to act like a responsible adult right now.”

His hand slid lower, slow as honey, fingers gliding over your side, across your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. He went no further—just rested his fingers against the inside of your thigh, gently stroking, as though anchoring himself.

You inhaled deeply, your legs parting just slightly in an unconscious invitation. But he didn’t press further. He simply stayed like that—his hand against your bare skin, thumb drawing lazy little circles.

“You’re still trembling,” he murmured into your hair.

“I’m not,” you lied, biting back a smile.

“Yes, you are.” He kissed the top of your shoulder. “Good. You should be. What we just did was historic.”

You laughed, your body shaking with it.

Eddie smiled against you.

“Textbook level. Smithsonian-worthy.”

“You’re such an idiot,” you whispered, your laughter melting into something softer as you turned in his arms.

Now face to face, your hand brushed his cheek, thumb tracing along the line of his jaw where his stubble was beginning to return.

He looked at you like you were the most real thing he’d ever seen. Like you were light.

“Seriously,” he said quietly. “I still can’t believe you’re here. That we’re here.”

You kissed him gently, lips brushing like a secret.

“I’ve always been here, Eddie,” you whispered. “You just weren’t really looking.”

He kissed you back, longer this time.

“Then I’m gonna spend the rest of my life looking real close.” He opened his arms wider and pressed his face against your chest.

You laughed again, curling into him.

“You’re so corny.”

“A corny man who made you come twice before noon and again after that. Respect the duality.”

He slipped his hand back under your T-shirt, resting it low against your back, skin to skin. You tucked yourself closer to him, your thighs entwining with his, noses brushing softly in the small space between you.

“Do you think we’ve got time before Misty comes back?” you asked, sleepy.

Eddie glanced at the clock.

“…Barely. But I’m not moving.”

“Me neither.”

A moment of silence. Then, with a smile you could hear in his voice:

“Unless… you want a fourth round.”

You shoved him, laughing.

“I knew you were gonna say that.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, pulling you even closer, his hand still stroking your thigh. “The gods have blessed this day , and I—”

“Eddie.”

“Yes, my lady?”

You shook your head.

“Shut up and nap.”

“Only if I can keep holding your boob.”

“You already are.”

“I know. Best nap of my life starts right now.”

You napped curled up together, and by the time you finally got out of bed, the sun was already leaning westward, casting golden stripes across the floorboards like a kiss. The apartment smelled faintly of shampoo, coffee, and the two of you—warm skin, heat, and something faintly indecent lingering in the air.

You slipped into a pair of jeans, one leg at a time, balancing a lukewarm coffee in your hand, while Eddie—halfway through pulling on a black T-shirt that clung to his back—wasn’t helping at all.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you said without turning around.

“Like what?” His voice, all fake innocence and velvet gravel, floated behind you.

“Like you’re about to drag me back into bed.”

He smiled, stretching his arms above his head… and caught your gaze in the mirror.

“Can you blame me?” he said. “You’re walking around in my shirt, hair a little damp, smelling like heaven and sin.”

“You smell like sin,” you muttered, reaching for a scrunchie.

He slipped behind you before you could tie up your hair, wrapping his arms around your waist. His hands landed instinctively just beneath your ribs, thumbs grazing the base of your breasts.

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t pull away.

“We’re supposed to be getting dressed.”

“I am dressed. You’re the one tempting fate in jeans and my T-shirt. Good God.”

You leaned back into him, your cheek brushing his jaw. “You’re ridiculous.”

You stayed like that for a moment—his chin resting on your shoulder, your fingers lazily playing with his. You let out a sigh that was more of a hum.

“We should make the bed,” you murmured.

Eddie kissed your cheek. “Later.”

“Clean the kitchen.”

“We did that right before we did it,” he added, nipping your earlobe gently before letting go and walking toward his jeans on the floor.

You turned just in time to catch the curve of his back as he bent down, the tattoos shifting over muscle. The sight did things to you that you weren’t quite ready to admit out loud, so you cleared your throat and grabbed a clean T-shirt from the pile of clothes.

“Are you going to stop touching me every three seconds?” you teased as he zipped up his jeans.

“Nope,” he answered easily. “I’m gonna spend the rest of the day touching my girlfriend.”

You froze halfway through pulling the T-shirt over your head, then looked at him from beneath the neckline.

“Oh yeah? I’m your girlfriend now?”

He paused. Blinked.

And then his entire face softened, lit up in that boyish, sincere, utterly disarming way he had.

“Fuck, of course you are.”

You stared at him for a moment, unsure whether you wanted to laugh, kiss him, or cry. Maybe all three.

“Well, okay,” you said with a mock-casual tone. “Girlfriend. Fine.”

“Fiancée, eventually,” he muttered under his breath, then pretended he hadn’t said anything.

You frowned, raising your eyebrows.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing. I said we need more coffee, actually. We’re running low.”

“Mhm.” You brushed past him, letting your fingers slide under his T-shirt, cold enough to make him flinch.

“Hey!”

“You’re not the only one who knows how to sneak in little touches, Munson.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked, catching your wrist and pulling you toward him. You bumped into his chest, giving him a playful, daring look.

And just like that, your mouths found each other again—slow kisses, sticky like sugar melting between teeth. He pressed you up against the wall, his hands finding your waist, then sliding lower. Just resting there. Touching.

“Weren’t we supposed to be getting dressed?” you murmured against his lips.

He grinned.

“I lied.”

By late afternoon, the sun was casting lazy rays across the living room floor, golden and warm, as if everything had softened. The faint scent of bacon still lingered in the air, mingling with shampoo and Eddie’s cologne—something musky, worn down by time and affection. The windows were cracked open, letting in the Queens spring breeze: the hiss of bus brakes, children shouting on the sidewalk, the low hum of a world still turning while, for once, they didn’t have to rush.

Eddie sat cross-legged on the couch, the neck of his guitar resting against his thigh, an open notebook beside him. His fingers moved slowly, thoughtfully, pulling out a soft, melancholy melody that hadn’t yet fully taken shape—just bone, breath, and possibility. A song waiting to be born.

You were curled up next to him, legs tucked beneath you, your head resting just below his shoulder. You read an old Rolling Stone you’d found buried in the coffee table pile, but your eyes kept drifting back to his hands, to the chords, to the small crease between his brows.

You wore high-waisted jeans, frayed at the edges, and a pale yellow T-shirt tucked in—a shirt softened by too many washes. Your hair was loosely tied, with strands falling free to frame your face.

“Is that new?” you asked, nodding toward the notebook.

“Sort of,” he murmured without looking up. “Been playing with this riff for days now. Woke up with it stuck in my head.”

You smiled, gently closed the magazine, and set it aside.

“I like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s... soft. Thoughtful.” You watched his fingers move, your voice dropping into a whisper. “It’s beautiful.”

He glanced at you then, with an expression that was almost shy. Rare, for him.

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply.

You blinked slowly, warmth blooming across your cheeks. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but somehow it felt like it was.

Your hand slid to his knee, thumb brushing back and forth.

“I love you.”

The air held still around him.

Eddie’s guitar went quiet in his lap, his fingers leaving the strings. He turned fully toward you, forgetting the notebook altogether.

He didn’t smile—not at first. He just looked at you. Really looked.

And then, very softly, as if the words belonged only to you:

“I love you too.”

You exhaled, a quiet laugh woven into the breath, eyes suddenly glassy.

“Even when I’m wearing this old shirt and I’ve given up on brushing my hair for the fifth time?”

Now he smiled, that familiar mix of tenderness and mischief lighting his face.

“Are you kidding? Especially then.”

And you kissed him. Slow, close, warm, your foreheads resting together as you parted. The guitar remained silent. The world, distant.

Half an hour later, while you were both making dinner, a knock sounded at the door.

Misty burst into the apartment with all the grace of a three-year-old returning from an adventure. Her tiny sneakers thudded against the wooden floor, her backpack bounced awkwardly on her shoulders, and her beloved knitted bunny was clutched tight to her chest.

Of course, she greeted you first.

“Moooommy!”

You were already moving. You caught her mid-run, lifting her with a small instinctive sound of joy, spinning her through the air as she squealed.

Eddie stood nearby, watching—and feeling—as the scene bloomed deep in his chest. Misty’s little arms wrapped around your neck like nothing had changed. As if yesterday and today had been seamlessly stitched together.

Nancy followed behind her, calm and composed, but with a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she watched you both—watched all of you, truly.

You held Misty close, brushing curls from her forehead, murmuring, “Hi, sweetheart. Did you have fun?”

Misty nodded emphatically, still catching her breath, her bunny now squished between you. “I did puzzles! And we baked cookies! And—Auntie Nan has a huge cat, but he was asleep, and—Uncle Jon says I’m good at... good at—” She paused, thinking hard.

“Monopooly,” Nancy offered with a proud little smile.

You let out a quiet laugh. “Monopoly, huh?”

Eddie stepped closer, ruffling Misty’s curls as she turned slightly toward him. “Big day for the champion, huh?” he said softly, and Misty gave him a bright, gap-toothed smile before burrowing back into you.

Nancy watched. Her eyes met yours first, and something unspoken passed between you—a quiet, reassuring look of understanding.

Nancy smiled, small but full of meaning.

Everything was okay again. In truth, it was better than before.

Then her gaze shifted to Eddie.

He cleared his throat, running a hand through his curls, suddenly self-conscious beneath her eyes. Jonathan entered behind Nancy, resting a hand on her back.

There was no need to say it aloud.

But it hung clear in the air between them.

Don’t screw this up.

Yes, when Dustin said he’d called everyone to tell them what had happened, he hadn’t been exaggerating.

Eddie nodded. Barely perceptible. But it was there.

I won’t.

Still holding Misty against your hip, you turned toward them. “Thank you both for today.”

Nancy shrugged. “Anytime.”

And that was it—no lectures, no tension. Just the quiet strength of people who care enough to say the important things without saying them.

They stayed a few minutes longer, listening to Misty babble about her day, her tiny voice tumbling over the words as she tried to squeeze every detail into a single breath. Something about a purple cup, a Band-Aid that wasn’t needed, and Jonathan accidentally stepping on a crayon.

You gently set her down, and Misty settled between you on the couch, still chattering. Eddie took your hand as you listened, lacing his fingers through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then he leaned in and kissed your bare shoulder—soft, warm, familiar.

You didn’t stop smiling at Misty, but your fingers tightened around his.

Nothing had changed for the little girl. She saw what she had always seen—love, closeness, home.

But everything had changed. And Eddie... Eddie looked at you, then at Misty, and thought:

This is it. This is ours.

Tag list: @theladyhellfire @superlegend216 @moon-esque @blahox @daisy-munson @venuslayla23-blog @flashmountaindjo @ilovetaquitosmmmm @awkward00noodle @mugloversonly @hereforshmut @boebephridgers @javsan @emxxblog @chemicallady @scarlettrikstr @jjoppees @aol19 @mmmunson @hellfirehopeless @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @jeangeniex

[colbychu]

hello my love!!

i saw your requests were open so i hope im not imposing by asking for one? im so invested in the dilf!spence agenda that ive been kept awake at night thinking of the little family of three maybe visiting diana reid? maybe so they can meet, either for the first time or to meet up for a holiday of some kind? of course only if you’re okay with it! much love xx <3

like father, like son | s.r.

in which you and Spencer bring your son to meet his grandmother for the first time

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: alzheimers except diana's pretty lucid, boy dad!spencer word count: 1.18k a/n: my internet is fixed but at the cost of comfort in my own home but anyways spencer reid fluff will save me. surely. anyways. i'm so happy to finally be writing this request it caught my eye when you sent it and the day of reckoning has come. i hope you like it <3.

Unclipping your son’s car seat, you felt Spencer’s watchful eyes on you as you picked him up. The newborn scrunch was gone. You’d blinked, and suddenly Jamie was four months old, his curious brown eyes watching the leaves rustle around him. The infant was still groggy from his afternoon nap, but Spencer wanted him to be well rested, minimizing the number of variables.

You weren’t even sure if you’d be going in. There was a chance you’d gone through the chaos of getting your little family out of the house to get nothing in return, but every day since you’d become a mother, you found appreciation for the little things. His little gummy smiles brought you ridiculous amounts of joy, the contagion of his emotion spread to everyone who met him. 

“Hey,” Spencer said softly, keeping his voice level so he didn’t startle the baby. “Are you gonna be alright if I go in for a little bit?” 

Nodding, you bounced the baby on your hip, reaching into the car for a burp cloth. “Yeah,” you assured him, “I’ll just hang out with my guy.” 

Jamie gurgled in what you assumed was joy, resting his head on your shoulder before going back to kicking his legs. He cooed when Spencer leaned forward, pressing a small kiss to his head before leaving one on your lips. 

You watched him walk into the building, more nervous for this than he had been the day Jamie was born. Swaying in the parking lot with your son, you eyed the sign in the garden warily. For the most part, Diana was happy in Brookfield, and it was nice to know that she was so comfortable in a place you’d chosen for her. 

Today wasn’t the first time you’d brought him by to meet her, but three weeks ago Diana was having an adverse reaction to a change in her dosages and you had to leave Spencer to help her, taking James back home until Spencer called you to be picked up. He’d slept in the nursery that night, laying in the recliner and doing more watching than sleeping. You tried to convince yourself that the two events were unrelated, but nothing you told yourself had done any good. 

With every minute that passed, you grew slightly more anxious that today wasn’t going to work out either. Something would go wrong. Diana couldn’t see people or Jamie would have a blowout or something. 

Before you could work yourself into a complete tailspin, you looked at the door to see Spencer coming back outside. He had a soft smile on his face as he approached you, grabbing the diaper bag so all you had to worry about was carrying Jamie. “Come on,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of the door and holding it for you. 

You’d been here to visit enough times to know your way to Diana’s room, but something about today felt different, so you let Spencer lead the way through the facility. He made his way through, looking back to make sure you were following and smiling at the sight that met him every time. Jamie hummed at you, placing his hand on your cheek in a way that melted your heart, “We’re gonna go see Grandma.”

As soon as you turned the corner, your heart clenched. Diana was pacing in her room. You worried that something was wrong, but Spencer kept going and you kept following. “Mom?” Spencer said, trying to get her attention from the doorway, keeping you from view. 

“Oh, Spencer,” Diana said, “Megan told me you were here, but she didn’t…” Her voice trailed off when the baby cooed, revealing your presence even if she couldn’t see the two of you. “He’s here?” 

Your heart fluttered. If you hadn’t been holding the baby there was a chance you would’ve been elated enough to jump for joy. She remembered. Diana remembered you coming to see her while you were pregnant, and she remembered you and Spencer telling her the baby was a boy. “We brought him to see you,” Spencer informed her, nodding slightly and stepping out of the way so she could see you both. 

Her hands flew to her mouth, covering it as it gaped in shock. “You should have called first,” she insisted, waving you into the room and trying to get you to sit down, but James would get restless if you didn’t keep moving. He wasn’t old enough to start crawling yet, but he sure did want to move. 

At her insistence, you sat down and she took the spot next to you. Spencer stood over the three of you as a self-appointed bodyguard, smiling at the scene that was playing out in front of him. 

To your surprise, Diana first occupied herself with fussing over you, giving you a one-armed hug and using her free hand to lift your chin. “Oh, honey,” she hummed, studying your face and making note of the exhaustion on it. “You look so tired. He’s helping you, right?” 

You nodded in response, “Yes.” You adjusted the baby in your arms slightly, looking from your son to his father, “He’s a very good dad.” Your comment was pointed, making sure you said the words loud enough for Spencer to hear you. 

Diana smiled at your answer, taking the opportunity to get a better look at your son before looking at her own. “I always knew he would be,” she told you, her overflowing fondness for her own boy was prominent in her tone. “Did you stick with James for the name?” 

Spencer hummed a response, “We call him Jamie mostly.” 

“What a wonderful name,” she said, looking down at your son. There was something so special about it, watching the two of them meet for the first time. To be able to see Jamie’s curious brown eyes meet her blue ones made your heart sing, all of your anxieties about their meeting were immediately quelled by this moment alone. 

You smiled shyly, “Do you want to hold him?” 

Her smile broadened, “Well, maybe for just a little bit. I might be out of practice.” She straightened herself up, letting you hand Jamie off and taking him in her arms. Your son cooed up at his grandmother, reaching a hand up and gurgling when she provided her finger for him to wrap his hand around. 

Spencer was crouched in front of them. Ever the protective father, he was ready to help at any moment. It might not have been obvious to his mother, but you could see it in his expression. “What is it?” He asked her, watching as her expression changed into something he couldn’t read. 

“He looks just like you did,” she admitted, looking between her son and her grandson, marveling in the similarities between the two of them. 

Tears pricked your eyes at the scene in front of you, and you reached your hand out, laying your palm face up on your knee for Spencer to take while his mother started recounting stories of him as a child. 

[colbychu]

Polar Opposites | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: When you joined the team, it was very evident to the others that you and Spencer may not get along the best. You were water and he was oil — but when working on a team, the repelling can be dangerous. Themes & Warnings: Ummm violence, hurt/comfort with Reid!, enemies to lovers

You were raised in New York. Alone. No siblings or mother.

Learning independence was quick for you. By the time you were eight, you were walking yourself to school, a keychain with the apartment key and a bottle of pepper spray dangling from it. You were tough, bull-headed, but not completely absent of warmth.

Your father was a good man. A strong one. He was on the NYPD, a conductor of justice, yet a fair one. You idolized him, even when he came home with blood on his knuckles and exhaustion in his bones. You learned early that justice wasn't always clean, and rarely kind.

You quickly learned from him.

When you were old enough, he put you into self defense classes. It wasn't much of a surprise to him that you immediately excelled.

He watched proudly as you took down grown men twice your size in the ring, never once hesitating. “You fight like your mother,” he told you once. You didn’t remember her, not really, but something about the way he said it made your chest swell.

You lived by his rules. Protect others. Never back down. Trust your gut, even when it got you in trouble.

By the time you were a teenager, you were patrolling with a police scanner on in the background of your homework, studying both algebra and 10-codes. While other girls wore lip gloss and whispered about boys, you were memorizing the NY penal code and learning how to hold a Glock.

As soon as you could, you joined your father on the force. Not quite where he was. He was pretty far up. But you made him proud, which is all you wanted.

Every commendation, every collar, every time you kept your cool when things went sideways — he’d clap a firm hand on your shoulder and say, “That’s my girl.” And that was enough. It had always been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

The night he didn’t come home changed everything.

You were the one who got the call. Not the captain. Not some rookie liaison. You. Because you were his emergency contact. Because they knew you’d want to hear it straight, from the mouth of someone who cared.

Officer down. Ambush. Three men. Two with priors, one on a vendetta. He died fighting, they said. Died protecting his partner.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t speak for almost twenty-four hours.

Instead, you scrubbed his blood out of his badge chain, boxed up his medals, and sat for hours in his worn recliner with your service pistol in your lap, staring into nothing.

The grief didn’t crush you. It carved you.

By the time you left the NYPD, you weren’t the same person. And maybe that was the point. You needed something new. Somewhere that didn’t hold his shadow in every alley, every precinct, every call sign on the radio.

The BAU wasn’t your first choice. Behavioral analysis wasn’t your strength. You didn’t have three PhDs or a mind built for chess moves and statistics. But they recruited you anyway. Hotch said your field instincts were unmatched, that you had a gut that couldn't be taught.

You were strong. Your suffering had hardened you into a diamond. But you did have a flaw. Sometimes, you rushed into things without strategy, relying on strength and impulse. You were more physically lead than others on the team, opting for the take-down rather than the talk-down.

This was what made you so different from the team's boy genius, Spencer Reid.

He wasn't the softest anymore himself. He was hardened by his abduction by Tobias Hankel, his drug addiction, his prison time, the loss of his first lover. But he didn't let it change him completely. He was still warm, like he'd been before. Still sweet. And he still did his job the same; in the same calculating, analyzing Reid way. He was more logic based than aggression based.

And that’s where you clashed.

Where you were storm and instinct, Spencer was method and measure. He needed answers before action. You needed action before the body count climbed. He quoted psychological journals; you trusted a gut that had never failed you. It was oil and water from the very beginning.

The team noticed it immediately — the sharp way you challenged his statistics, the way his mouth drew tight every time you went off-book, the way both of you refused to yield. Rossi called it "professional tension." Morgan called it "foreplay." Hotch just warned you both not to let it interfere in the field.

Of course, it did anyway.

It had been a difficult case.

A serial killer, targeting women, as was typical. It was a sensitive situation, requiring delicate action and careful steps.

The investigation went fine — smooth actually. It was easy enough to profile and find the man, but the hostage situation needed to be handled much softer.

He was holding a young woman in a cage, down below his house in a bunker. You, Reid, Prentiss, and Morgan were sent to do the confrontation.

The four of you approached the property quietly. The woods surrounding the cabin were thick and silent, the late afternoon sun bleeding orange through the trees. Reid had his tablet out, blueprints of the house and rough sketches of the underground bunker on display. You barely glanced at it.

“We can’t spook him,” Prentiss said, voice low. “If he thinks he’s cornered—”

“He might kill her,” Reid finished grimly. “He’s already escalated twice. He’s unpredictable under pressure.”

That was Spencer’s way — anticipate the worst, measure every variable. Your jaw clenched.

“Then we don’t give him time to react,” you said, cocking your weapon. “He’s not expecting a full team yet. We move fast, controlled. Get in, get her out.”

Spencer’s head shot up. “No. We stick to the protocol. We make contact, distract him, and—”

“There is no protocol for a man holding a girl in a fucking cage, Reid.”

Your voice was sharper than it needed to be, but you didn’t care. The thought of that girl locked up like an animal made your skin crawl. Every second wasted was another scar, another trauma she’d carry forever.

“Exactly. Which is why we don’t risk charging in blind,” he snapped back, stepping in front of you. “You go in there guns blazing and he could slit her throat before you even get your second step down that ladder.”

Morgan’s hand landed on your shoulder, a warning. “Both of you — not the time.”

But you weren’t done.

“Then what? We just talk to him? Offer him therapy? Hope he suddenly sees the light?”

Reid’s eyes blazed. “No. But we don’t rush in and make it worse. You want to save her? Then don’t be the reason she dies.”

It hit harder than you expected. Maybe because deep down, you knew he was right. Maybe because you hated being wrong in front of him.

The plan went Spencer’s way. At first.

You reached them. The man was sweaty, eyes wild. The girl moaned quietly in front of him, wrestling around in the heavy chains she was bound by.

Reid and Prentiss attempted a talk-down.

The unsub paced behind the girl like a panicked animal, holding a long hunting knife inches from her throat. His eyes flicked between Prentiss and Reid, twitchy and erratic, the delusion already thick in the air.

“I didn’t hurt her!” he barked. “I fed her, didn’t I?! She’s mine now — I chose her!”

You could practically feel the tension radiating off Spencer. He stood just a step in front of Prentiss, hands raised, calm as ever — but you knew him well enough to see the strain in his jaw, the slight tremble in his fingers.

“You’re not in trouble,” Spencer said gently, voice even. “You’ve been through a lot. No one wants to hurt you, we just want to help her. Let her go. We can talk, just you and me.”

The unsub twitched. “She loves me,” he muttered, jabbing the blade toward the girl’s collarbone. She whimpered again, and your own hand inched toward your holster.

“Reid,” you said quietly. A warning.

But he held up one hand. Not yet.

“You’re right,” he said to the unsub. “You did choose her. You saw something in her. That’s important. That means you care about her, right?”

The man’s breathing hitched — confused. Hopeful.

Then it happened.

She whimpered again — too loud. Too broken. Something in her tone must have snapped the illusion in his head. Because suddenly he screamed, pulled her tighter, and raised the knife.

You moved before anyone else could.

Gun drawn, aim steady, you crossed the space in two steps and tackled him. Your shoulder collided with his ribs, knocking him clean off the girl. You wrestled the knife from his hand and had him on the ground in seconds, arm wrenched behind his back.

You barely heard the girl sobbing as Prentiss rushed to her side. Barely heard Morgan’s footsteps pounding down the stairs. All you could hear was the pounding of your own pulse.

“God damn it,” Reid muttered from behind you. Not angry. Not even frustrated.

Worried.

The rest was a blur.

Back at the precinct, the girl had been taken to the hospital. The unsub was in custody. Everyone was safe.

But Spencer didn’t say a word to you until you were alone.

The motel hallway was dim and quiet, carpet patterned with decades of wear. You turned when you heard his door click shut behind him.

“You weren’t supposed to go in,” he said. Quiet. Low.

You crossed your arms. “And if I hadn’t, she might be dead.”

“She might be,” he agreed. “Or you might be. We all might've been. You can’t keep putting yourself in the line like that without thinking. You don’t get to be the only one who carries the risk. Not to mention what risk it puts on the other teammates.”

You blinked. Something about the way he said it — like you'd selfishly put everyone in danger.

Your eyes narrowed.

"How come you're always shitting on my busts, Reid? You ever think that one of these times, you might wait too long and get someone killed?"

He swallowed, his face tightening.

"Don't turn this around on me. You continuously stray from protocol like you're above the rest of us. If you just followed directions, I wouldn't have to complain."

You felt the flare of heat in your chest — insult, frustration, maybe even guilt. But underneath all of it, something deeper: hurt.

"Above the rest of you?" you repeated, voice low. Dangerous. "Is that really what you think of me?"

Reid held your stare, but there was a flicker of regret in his eyes now. He hadn’t meant to cut that deep. Or maybe he had. Maybe it had built up between you for so long, he hadn’t realized the blade was that sharp.

“I think you act like you don’t need us,” he said. “Like you don’t trust anyone but yourself. And in this job, that’s not just frustrating, it’s fatal.”

You laughed once, dryly. “Well, maybe I don’t trust anyone else. Maybe I learned a long time ago that trust doesn’t keep you alive.”

That landed. His expression cracked. Because if there was one thing Spencer Reid understood, it was the cost of trusting the wrong people. Or worse, not trusting the right ones until it was too late.

"You need to ease up. Trusting someone besides yourself might keep you alive one day," He hissed, leaning into your face. "You act like a stubborn, impulsive fool."

You scoffed, a snide smirk curling onto your face.

"That's better than constant fear and anxiety. I'd rather be too quick than too slow, Reid," your cold voice biting into him. "You're so busy tucking back into your turtle shell that you don't realize how much time you waste being afraid."

His eyes darkened, a flicker of something fierce igniting behind the calm intellect you knew so well.

“Being cautious doesn’t mean I’m afraid,” he snapped back, voice low but sharp. “It means I’m trying to think. Something you never do until after the damage is done.”

You stepped closer, your breath mingling with his in the tight hallway. “Yeah, well maybe it’s better to act first and think later than to be paralyzed by what-ifs. At least I move.”

You stood face to face, a silent snarl shared between the two of you. Spencer took another breath to snap back, but you were interrupted.

"Guys. Enough. The jet is about to take off." Prentiss said, placing a hand on your shoulder. You shrugged her off, slinging your bag over it instead.

"It's cool. I was done being questioned about my successful take-down anyways." You muttered, walking away.

Spencer watched you go, the frustration still simmering beneath his calm exterior. His jaw clenched as he ran a hand through his hair, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on him. He wanted to say more; to tell you that beneath his caution was a desperate hope you’d be safe, that he cared more than he knew how to show.

But for now, he let the silence stretch, knowing this was just one battle in a longer war between you. And maybe, just maybe, there was a way to bridge the gap, if only you’d both lower your guards.

The jet ride was tense. You didn't even look at Spencer, opting to pretend he wasn't there. He couldn't help but glance at you, the brooding look always on your face no different than usual. He sighed, returning to his book.

Back at the office, you shoved your go-bag back into your locker. The photo of your father glinted at you, stuck to the back of the door. You knew what he would've said.

You traced the edges of the photo with a tired finger, the worn image of your father — a man who’d always been your anchor in chaos — reminding you of the rules he drilled into you:

"Protect others."

"Never back down."

"Trust your gut."

"I'm so proud of you, kid."

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat, the weight of those words settling deep inside you. You’d carried his lessons like armor all these years — tough, unyielding, sometimes too sharp to wield without cutting yourself.

You stared at his image for a few more seconds, before turning away.

You jumped. Morgan, standing behind you.

"Jesus." You said, taking a deep breath. "Don't sneak up on me like that, dude."

Morgan chuckled, his usual easy grin softening the tension in the room. “Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta keep you on your toes.”

He glanced at the photo taped inside your locker. “Your old man sounds like a hell of a guy.”

You nodded, voice quieter now. “He was. Still is… in a way.”

Morgan leaned against the lockers, folding his arms. “You know, you don’t always have to carry all that weight alone. Not here. Not with us.”

You met his eyes, the sincerity there catching you off guard. For a moment, the walls you’d built felt a little less necessary.

"... Thank you."

Morgan nodded, leaning against the lockers.

"I heard you and Reid had a little spat in the hotel earlier."

You rolled your eyes, grumbling. Of course, Prentiss would've squealed.

Morgan’s grin widened, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “Yeah, I heard. Something about Spencer getting a little too in your space?”

You sighed, crossing your arms. “He’s got a knack for pushing buttons. Doesn’t know when to quit.”

Morgan shook his head, chuckling low. “That guy’s all brain and nerves. Sometimes he forgets there’s a person behind all that genius.”

You glanced away, feeling a mix of irritation and something softer beneath it. “I get it, but I’m not exactly easy to handle either.”

He leaned against the locker beside yours, eyes steady. “Look, I get it. You did what you had to do back there. You saved that girl.”

Your jaw tightened. “You think I don’t know that?”

Morgan shook his head. “No, I’m saying I see it. You’re a damn good agent. One of the best. But sometimes being the best means knowing when to slow down.”

You scoffed, bitterness creeping into your voice. “Slowing down gets people killed.”

Morgan didn’t flinch. “It’s not about slowing down all the time. It’s about picking your moments. You got guts, no doubt. But guts without control? That’s a problem.”

You finally met his gaze, raw and honest. “So what am I supposed to do, Morgan? Wait around for the bad guy to slit her throat? Let the clock run out?”

He studied you for a beat, then responded slowly. “No. But you gotta trust the team. Not just yourself. We got your six. We all do. Even Reid. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

You swallowed hard. The weight of his words settled in your chest. It was easier said than done. You were used to standing on your own — had been for as long as you could remember.

Morgan clapped a hand on your shoulder, solid and reassuring. “Your dad taught you to protect others, right?”

Your eyes flickered to the photo taped inside your locker, the man who was everything steady in your world.

Morgan smiled softly. “Yeah. And that means sometimes you gotta step back, watch the angles, think a few moves ahead. That’s how you protect the team and yourself.”

The tension between you seemed to ease, just a little. You weren’t used to advice that didn’t come with judgment, but this was different. It was real.

Morgan gave you a wink. “You’re a hell of a cop. Don’t forget, sometimes the smartest move is patience. Not just power.”

You nodded, the edges of your defenses softening just enough for a flicker of respect. “Thanks, Morgan. I’ll try.”

“Try?” He grinned. “No try. You’ll do it.”

You smirked back. “Yeah? You confident in me?”

“Hell yeah. Just gotta let the team catch up sometimes. And don't forget,” he said, nudging your shoulder. "We could all learn some things from you too. Even Reid, when he decides to get his head out of his ass."

You snickered, rolling your eyes and turning back to your locker, shutting it.

“Thanks for the reality check.”

“Anytime,” he said, before turning and walking away, leaving you with something you didn’t realize you needed — a little hope.

The next case came quickly. You almost weren't ready for it.

Your headphones blared into your ears as you trained in the sparring room, sweating as you bounced around a punching bag. Your gloves squeaked with every moment you made, punching into the bag with preciseness and toughness.

Your phone rang.

You yanked a glove off with your teeth and fumbled for your phone, the sweat on your fingers making it harder to swipe. The name on the screen — Hotch — made your stomach tighten. You were still riding the edge of your last conversation with Morgan, and now, here came another case.

“Yeah?” you answered, a little breathless.

Hotch’s voice was calm, clipped. “Briefing room. Twenty minutes.”

You wiped your brow with the back of your forearm. “Copy that.”

He hung up without another word.

You stood there for a beat, the bass of your music still thumping in one ear. The punching bag rocked gently beside you, evidence of your focused aggression. But the tension in your shoulders hadn’t eased. If anything, it pulled tighter.

Another case. Another town. Another family ruined. You loved this job but sometimes, it felt like it never let you breathe.

With a grunt, you unwrapped your gloves, tossing them in your gym bag. As you pulled your hoodie over your damp sports bra and headed for the showers, Morgan’s words echoed back in your head:

“Sometimes the smartest move is patience. Not just power.”

You smirked faintly to yourself, voice muttering under your breath, “Yeah, well... I hope patience works on serial killers too.”

You had no idea what you were walking into, but you knew this much: you'd face it head-on.

Just like always.

You pulled your work clothes on quickly and headed for the bullpen, tossing your hair into a ponytail.

The rest of the team was already there, relieved to see you walk in.

"Sorry. I was training." You said quietly, joining them at the table.

Hotch gave you a nod — his version of “no problem.” Reid glanced up from the file in his hands, his eyes catching yours for a moment before flicking back down. You weren’t sure what that look meant, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it.

“Victim number three was found this morning,” Hotch began, passing a photo across the table. “Female, early thirties. Same MO. Ligature marks, posed postmortem, and a red ribbon tied around the wrist.”

You leaned forward, studying the image. “Same as the others. No signs of forced entry?”

JJ shook her head. “Nothing. It’s like they let the killer in willingly.”

You crossed your arms, thoughts already sharpening like blades. “So he’s charming, disarming. Makes them feel safe… until he doesn’t.”

Morgan pointed at the map. “All victims lived alone, all in a five-mile radius. He’s hunting in a comfort zone.”

Spencer cleared his throat, hesitant but determined. “Geographical profiling supports that. He’s probably familiar with the area -- might even live or work nearby.”

You glanced at him again, this time holding the look for a second longer. “Then we start knocking on doors.”

Prentiss gave a wry smile. “I like it when you get fired up.”

You shrugged, grabbing a file. “Better than sitting on our hands.”

Hotch raised a brow. “Let’s keep it focused. Morgan, you and (Y/N) check in with local businesses. Reid, JJ, and Prentiss, canvass the neighborhood. I’ll coordinate with local PD.”

You nodded.

"I know that PD pretty well. My dad and I worked with them for a couple of years. I'll pitch in with the communications."

Hotch gave a curt nod, clearly appreciating the initiative. “Good. Familiarity could speed things up. Just make sure they loop everything back to me.”

You gave him a short, respectful salute. “You got it, boss.”

Morgan shot you a quick grin as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “You sure you’re not trying to take Hotch’s job?”

You smirked. “Please. I’d make a terrible brooding authority figure.”

Hotch didn’t even look up from the map he was marking. “I’m standing right here.”

You and Morgan exchanged a glance, both biting back laughter.

As the team filed out, Reid hesitated at the edge of the room. He glanced at you, like he wanted to say something, but then just gave a slight nod and walked away with JJ and Prentiss.

Your eyes lingered on his back for a second before you turned and fell into step beside Morgan.

“So,” he said as you headed for the SUV, “you and local PD go way back?”

You nodded. “Yeah. My dad and I used to consult on cases when I was younger. He was training me even before I joined the Bureau. Some of those officers were practically family for a while.”

Morgan nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth tugging up in a thoughtful smile. “That explains a lot.”

“What does?”

“You move like someone who’s been doing this their whole life. It’s in your blood.”

You paused at the passenger door, his words landing heavier than he probably intended.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “It is.”

Morgan didn’t push. He just clapped a hand on your shoulder. “Then let’s go show ‘em how it’s done.”

You gave him a small smile. “Hell yeah.”

You slid into the seat, heart steadier than it had been in days. Maybe the next few hours would be hell. Maybe this case would crack something raw in you. But with Morgan’s support at your side and your father’s instincts still pulsing through your veins, you weren’t going in blind.

You were ready to hunt.

No sooner had you and Morgan hit the pavement than the scent of tension in the air thickened, like something dark had just passed through and left its mark. The PD station felt different now than it did when you were younger. Familiar faces looked more worn, more guarded.

“Agent (L/N),” one of the lieutenants greeted you with a surprised smile. “Heard you were coming in. Damn, you look more and more like your old man every time I see you.”

You gave him a short nod, your voice quiet. “Thanks, Lieutenant. Wish it were under better circumstances.”

Morgan stood back slightly, letting you take the lead. He watched as you moved through the room with purpose; calm, steady, authoritative in your own way. You weren’t trying to be your father, but his legacy lingered around you like armor.

“We’ve already pulled security cam footage from nearby businesses,” the lieutenant explained. “We can have it queued up for you in five.”

“Perfect. Let’s get started.”

Morgan leaned over to you as they set things up in the back room. “You’ve got them listening to you like you’re already in charge.”

You gave a tired shrug. “My dad never tolerated anyone doing half a job. I guess that stuck.”

He studied your face for a moment — sharp, focused, a little worn around the eyes. Then he said, “You know, you don’t always have to be the one holding it all together.”

You glanced at him, surprised.

“You said that already,” you reminded him.

He shrugged. “You didn’t listen the first time.”

You laughed under your breath, but your eyes softened. “I’m listening now.”

Before either of you could say more, an officer called you over. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

The footage was grainy but clear enough: a figure pacing outside a bakery at midnight. Twitchy. Darting glances. Then dragging something — someone — down an alley.

Morgan muttered under his breath. “Looks like our guy.”

Your expression shifted instantly. Calm became alert. You pointed to the timestamp. “That’s two hours before the last body was found. He was still escalating.”

The lieutenant nodded grimly. “He’s getting bolder.”

Morgan stepped beside you, already scanning the angle, escape routes, signage. “What do you want to do?”

You took a breath, already forming a plan.

“We start there,” you said, pointing to the alley. “We follow the trail. And this time, we end it before he escalates again.”

Morgan gave a sharp nod. “Now that’s the kind of leadership I can get behind.”

You smirked faintly. “Don’t get used to it.”

He grinned back. “Too late.”

You quickly phoned the rest of the team, getting them in on it. It was decided.

You'd be bait — the youngest on the team. The prettiest, Prentiss had claimed. But it would take something you weren't exactly versed in.

Patience. Calculation. Thought before decision.

You, of course, had too look like less than an agent. That night, you had to get prepared, dressing down from your usual slacks and dress shirt and opting for a more.. casual.. look.

Garcia, JJ, and Prentiss just couldn't wait to get their hands on you. It was a once in a life time opportunity.

You barely made it into the hotel room before the ambush.

“There she is!” Prentiss announced, arms crossed with a smug grin. JJ was already holding up two hangers, each with an outfit. Garcia was seated cross-legged on the bed with a massive makeup bag splayed open in front of her like a battlefield.

You blinked. “Did you guys.. Were you waiting for me?”

JJ smirked. “Garcia brought supplies.”

Garcia didn’t even look up. “Sweet cheeks, I have been dreaming of this day since you joined the team. And now… finally…” She lifted a compact like a weapon forged in heaven. “The day has come.”

“This isn’t a makeover montage,” you muttered.

“Oh, but it is,” Prentiss said, grabbing your wrist and tugging you into the middle of the room. “You’re going undercover as vulnerable, off-duty eye candy. We’re making sure you sell it.”

“Guys,” you sighed. “This isn’t Clueless. I’m bait for a serial killer, not a Tinder date.”

“Exactly,” JJ said, tossing a pair of stockings onto the bed. “So you need to look like someone who doesn’t know she’s being watched. Not like someone who could break someone’s nose with two fingers.”

The scene was a bar. Wasting some time inside of it, sipping on a few prop drinks all alone, before stumbling out into the alley where he'd most likely take his chances on you.

You had to look the part. The mysterious, lonely temptress who would go quietly if grabbed.

You were forced into a short, red dress, one that hugged your curves and showed off the length of your smooth legs. Your hair was curled, natural makeup on your already pretty face.

You were gorgeous. Not that you weren't usually. But this was much different than your slick-back ponytail and business only outfit, a gun hanging from your holster.

Garcia let out a dramatic gasp when you stepped out of the bathroom.

“Oh. My. God.” she breathed, eyes widening. “You���re not just bait, you're irresistible temptation. Marry me.”

Prentiss gave a low whistle. “Remind me to never stand next to you in public again.”

JJ smirked. “He won’t stand a chance. Poor bastard.”

You tugged at the hem of the red dress, fidgeting. It was shorter than anything you usually wore. Hell, it was shorter than anything Garcia usually wore. “I feel like a walking target.”

“That’s the point,” Prentiss said, coming up behind you to fix a loose curl. “But don’t forget. You’re still the most dangerous one in the room.”

Garcia handed you a tiny clutch with your wire and phone inside. “And just in case he gets any ideas before the alley, Reid and Morgan will be watching from the bar. Hotch and I are set up in the surveillance van. You’re never alone.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror again. It was surreal, like staring at a version of yourself that only existed in smoke and mirrors. A version soft enough to lure in a killer. A version smart enough to trap him.

You took a breath. Deep. Steady.

“I can do this,” you muttered.

“You will do this,” JJ corrected firmly, her voice resolute. “And when you bring this guy down, I want my red dress back.”

You laughed softly, the nerves settling into something colder, more useful. “You got it.”

As the three women saw you off, Prentiss stopped you with a hand on your arm. “Hey. You’re more than bait. You’re the one drawing him out. That makes you the one in control.”

You stepped outside, meeting Morgan and Reid at the undercover vehicle, a sleek black SUV. They stood talking by the passenger's door, only noticing you approaching when you got close.

Morgan was the first to look up; and his reaction was immediate.

His brows rose, a low whistle slipping out as he took in your appearance. “Damn. Remind me what we’re trying to catch again? Because I think you just stunned me.”

Reid, less composed, blinked rapidly. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Y-You, uh, wow. You look…” His brain clearly short-circuited.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Careful, boys. I’m armed.”

Morgan laughed, clapping Reid on the back as if to snap him out of his stupor. “You good, pretty boy? Need a second to reboot?”

Reid cleared his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets and very intentionally looking at the SUV instead of you. “I’m fine. Let's move out.”

Without another word, Reid hopped into the car, leaving you and Derek in silence. You rolled your eyes as Derek opened the door to let you get in.

Morgan held the door open with a crooked grin. “You know, I’ve seen you break a man’s nose with the butt of your Glock… but somehow, this might be the most dangerous I’ve ever seen you.”

You scoffed, climbing into the SUV. “Save it for Garcia.”

In a few short minutes, you were at your destination. You got out, securing the wire into a hidden place as Reid and Morgan looked around. You tossed your curls behind your shoulder and cleared your throat.

"Alright. In the bar for fifteen minutes, twenty at most. If he approaches you, play coy. If he doesn't, we still have a chance to lure him in the back alley," Morgan explained, securing his own wire and tucking his gun. "We're more likely to see him out there. He's struck in that area quite a few times."

You nodded.

"Don't be afraid. We'll be right there with you, just at a distance. If you're ever too uncomfortable to stand it, call for us."

You made a gesture of agreement to Morgan before finally glancing at Reid, who cleared his throat.

"Just.. Don't jump the gun." He said. He somewhat failed to keep the entitlement in his voice. You wondered what was plaguing him, but nonetheless, you ignored it, rolling your eyes.

"I got it, Reid. Don't worry. Your teachings will be on my psyche the whole time."

Reid’s jaw ticked slightly, clearly unsatisfied with your response but unwilling to push further — at least not in front of Morgan.

Morgan, on the other hand, was watching the two of you like he was sitting court-side. “Alright, kids,” he said, breaking the tension with a raised brow. “Let’s not make this a pissing contest. We’ve got a predator to catch, not egos to babysit.”

You smirked, giving Morgan a thumbs up as you reached for the bar door. But before you could step out, Reid finally spoke again, softer this time, less sharp.

“Just… be careful. Please.”

You paused, turning slightly to look at him. There it was. Underneath all the attitude and irritation — the worry. The fear. The unspoken something that had been simmering between you both since that stupid hotel argument.

You gave a nod. “I will.”

And then you stepped out, heels clicking against the pavement, shoulders square, mask slipping into place.

You weren’t the agent now. You were the bait.

For a while, it was dead.

You sat at the bar, sipping on a "vodka soda," looking around. You tried your best to keep your emotions off from your face, opting for a more bored look. Your legs were crossed. People filtered in, people filtered out. The music changed. Drinks were poured, people surrounded you. A few approached, but not the one you needed.

You checked the time subtly, tilting your wrist just enough to catch the glint of the watch Garcia had modified for comms. Seventeen minutes. A little longer than planned, but not enough to call it yet. You could feel their eyes on you, Morgan’s and Reid’s from their respective vantage points, watching every shift of your posture like hawks.

The bartop was sticky, the lighting dim, casting sultry shadows that you knew looked calculated from afar. You took another slow sip, letting your eyes drift across the room again. A man at the end of the bar caught your gaze, held it for a beat too long.

But he turned away. Not him.

Your fingers tapped lightly against your glass, nails clicking in a slow rhythm.

Patience. Not just power.

You breathed out through your nose, subtle and quiet. You could play this game.

Just when your boredom began to feel a little too real, movement in your periphery made your eyes flick. A man near the jukebox — tall, late 30s, scruffy beard, not quite drunk but deliberately slow in his movements. Alone. Observing. Not playing music.

He looked at you.

You tilted your head slightly, uncrossing and recrossing your legs. Deliberate. Casual. Vulnerable.

He didn’t move.

But now you knew.

That was him.

And he was watching.

You cleared your throat, turning away and looking disinterested, until you felt his presence get closer and closer. Then, he was right beside you.

"Out here all alone?"

You didn’t look at him right away. You let the question hang for a beat, took a slow sip of your drink, kept your eyes ahead like someone unsure whether to entertain the voice or pretend they hadn’t heard it.

Then you turned, just a little. Just enough for your lashes to lift slowly, eyes finding his. Soft. Unassuming.

You gave a half-smile. “Depends who’s asking.”

He chuckled lowly, like he’d practiced it. Like he wanted it to sound charming but didn’t quite have the tone right. “Just someone who hates to see a pretty girl looking so bored.”

You glanced around the room lazily, then back at him. “Well. Not exactly a thrilling place to be alone.”

His eyes scanned you too thoroughly. It made your skin crawl, but you didn’t flinch.

He leaned on the bar beside you. “Maybe I could change that.”

You shifted, letting your knee graze his thigh — accidentally, on purpose. “Maybe you could.”

From the comms in your ear, you could barely catch Morgan’s low voice: “He’s on her. Stay ready.”

You gave the stranger one last smile before looking down into your glass. “Buy me a refill?”

He motioned to the bartender. “Vodka soda, right?”

You nodded. “Good memory.”

He grinned, and that time it reached his eyes. Just a flash. Something darker.

Bingo.

Your heart kicked up. But your face never betrayed it. You leaned in, just slightly, pretending to laugh at something he hadn’t said.

You held a conversation easily, as if you'd been doing this forever. You barely nursed your drink, immersing yourself into fooling him more than anything else. You crossed your fingers.

And soon, it came. The question you needed.

"You wanna get out of here?" He asked gruffly, a hand coming up to stroke your exposed collar bone. You wanted to throw up. You wanted to snap his arm, slam him to the floor and cuff him immediately.

But you thought about what Spencer had said.

Contemplation. Patience. The art of being cautious. It was just as useful as the fire you usually lit onto anyone you apprehended.

You took a slow breath through your nose, keeping your smile soft, a little shy. You let your eyes flick down, like you were considering it. Like you hadn’t just felt bile rise in your throat at the weight of his hand.

This was the moment. The danger curled just beneath your skin, thrumming like a second pulse.

“Yeah,” you said, voice a little breathier, like nerves. “I could use some air.”

He smiled — victory, hunger, maybe both — and slid off his stool, his hand brushing down your arm as if he had the right.

Morgan’s voice was calm but firm in your earpiece. “She’s moving. Everyone hold position. Reid, keep visual.”

You followed him toward the door, a little slower than necessary, stumbling just enough to play into it. “Sorry,” you muttered with a nervous laugh. “Maybe I had one too many.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured, holding the door open. “I’ll take care of you.”

The night hit you like a slap of reality — cold, quiet, real. Your heels clicked against pavement as he guided you down the sidewalk, toward the alley behind the bar.

Your breath hitched. Not from fear. From instinct. The part of you that was still an agent. Still ready to fight, to break him, to stop this before he could touch another woman.

But you stayed in character. You stayed the part.

“Reid,” Morgan’s voice came again. “Do you have eyes?”

There was a long beat before Spencer replied, voice low, strained. “Yes. He’s guiding her down the alley. Don’t move yet.”

You felt it in his voice. You'd felt it since your argument. The tension. The fear. The anticipation. There was something different about the way Reid talked to you, talked about you, ever since your moment in the hotel.

You turned to the man, letting yourself wobble just enough, brushing against him like you needed balance. His hand found your waist too easily.

“You okay?” he asked.

You gave him a soft laugh. “Yeah. Just… a little dizzy.”

“Don’t worry.” His grip tightened. “I’ve got you.”

And then, just like that, he started to lead you into the dark.

Any second now.

Then, moments later, his grip on you became stronger. More direct. Less friendly.

"What are you—"

Without another word, you were slammed up against the brick, his dirty hands all over you. Frantically searching for something. Pain echoed through your body as he continued ruffling your clothes, pulling at your hair.

You frowned, struggling.

"Please, don't—"

"Shut up, bitch! I know you're a cop." He snapped, jerking you slightly.

Your jaw dropped. You felt as though you had cold water thrown over you, dripping down your spine into your heels.

"But I'm not." You attempted meekly.

Cautious. Don't fight yet. Contemplate your choices.

He snickered snidely.

"Officer L/n. I know your father, sweetheart. Or knew him," He said, his clammy breath fanning into your face. "He got my friends put away for life. And then there you were, following right in his footsteps."

He dragged you away from the brick wall, grabbing you by your face. A knife glinted in his other hand.

The cold edge of the blade caught the faint glow of the alley light, flickering like a warning. Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands were still raised — not in surrender, but in precision. Timing.

"Where's the fuckin' wire? Tell me or I'm slitting your throat and dropping you right here."

You swallowed hard, keeping your voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. “I don’t have a wire on me.”

His eyes flashed with suspicion, narrowing dangerously. “Bullshit.”

"Please.." You muttered.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

"Where. Is. The. Wire?!" He snapped, pressing the knife into you.

You froze for a heartbeat as the knife pressed sharper against your skin, a searing line of cold fire that threatened to break through your calm. Your breath hitched but you forced it back down, steady and slow, every nerve screaming for you to act.

“Wait,” you whispered, eyes locking with his — steady, unflinching. “You want the wire? I'll give it to you. I'm begging you not to do this.”

His grip tightened, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, just a flash. Then, the knife pressed harder, enough to nick you, enough to cause a drop of blood to drizzle down. You hissed, tears collecting in your eyes.

Before the knife could press deeper, Reid sprang forward in a sudden burst of strength and precision — the kind of controlled force you usually wielded yourself.

He grabbed the man’s wrist, wrenching the knife away in one smooth motion. The blade clattered to the ground.

Without hesitation, Reid twisted the man’s arm behind his back and slammed him face-first against the brick wall with a sharp grunt.

The attacker struggled, but Reid’s grip was ironclad. He never did take-downs. He never felt like it was time. He valued a talk-down, a chance for the Unsub to see the light without an altercation. But something had snapped.

Reid’s breathing was heavier, eyes sharp and fierce — something you’d never seen in him before. The usual hesitation and quiet intellect gave way to raw, unyielding force. It was like watching a different side of him come alive, the side you’d been expecting all along but had never truly witnessed until now. The others had claimed to see it since he'd come home from prison, but it had never been revealed to you.

He hissed quietly, “Don’t move.”

You slumped against the wall, breathing heavily with a hand clutched to your neck. Blood flowed steadily, but not at a dangerous rate. Just enough to need a med team, but not enough to be scared. You stared up at the sky, frowning.

Morgan and Hotch came after, taking the Unsub from Reid, who was pressing him harder and harder against the wall every second as if he'd personally offended him with his existence.

Hotch immediately stepped in, his voice calm but authoritative. “Easy, Reid. Let him breathe.”

Morgan was already pulling out a medical kit, kneeling beside you quickly. “You good? That cut’s nasty, we can’t patch it up on-site.”

You gave a stiff nod, biting back the sting. “I’m fine. Just… keep him away.”

Reid’s jaw clenched, but he finally loosened his grip, stepping back reluctantly as the cuffs clicked shut around the Unsub’s wrists.

Your eyes met his, a quiet understanding passing between you both— raw tension still lingering, but also something deeper. You’d both taken a page from each other’s book tonight: your strength and resolve, his patience and calculated caution.

Morgan glanced at the three of you, breaking the moment with a grin. “Alright, bait and backup — that’s how we bring down monsters."

You rolled your eyes as you pressed the gauze to the side of your neck. "All in a day's work."

Morgan hummed.

"You need a hospital. I can drive—"

"I can do it." Reid interrupted quietly, looking at you more than he was Morgan.

You cleared your throat, nodding.

Reid’s eyes softened just a fraction as he reached out, carefully taking your hand to steady you. “Let’s get you patched up properly.”

Morgan gave you both a teasing smirk, but wisely kept his distance as Reid helped you into the SUV.

The ride was silent. The quick treatment in the hospital was silent, too. You allowed them to clean and stitch you up, flinching every few moments, before your eyes met Reid's again.

There was something different. There was no irritation or arrogance in his brown eyes like what he normally directed towards you. It was only softness. Just simply watching you, like it was a normal habit of his that he could do all day. Thick with tension. Words unsaid.

You couldn't lie. It made you blush. You looked away.

The conversation didn't ensue until the ride back to the hotel.

The engine hummed low as the SUV slipped down the dark road, headlights casting long, sweeping shadows across the pavement. Reid drove slower than usual: cautious, thoughtful. His fingers gripped the wheel with a quiet intensity, knuckles pale.

You sat beside him, your body angled slightly toward the window, but your eyes drifted, again and again, to his face. To the way his jaw tensed and relaxed like he was chewing on words. Like he couldn’t hold them in much longer.

He broke the silence.

"You did perfectly." He said quietly.

Your eyes flicked to him, surprised by the softness in his tone.

“Didn’t feel perfect,” you muttered, fingers brushing the gauze at your neck. “I let him get too close.”

“That was the point,” Reid said, glancing at you before returning his gaze to the road. “You had him completely. You waited. You didn’t react too soon. That’s what saved your life.”

You gave a small, dry laugh. “I thought I’d be the one snapping his wrist and pressing his face into the wall. Guess we traded roles.”

Reid’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, something more fragile. “You’ve always been better at brute force. I just never thought I’d actually need to use it.”

You leaned back in your seat, watching him. “So what changed?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept driving, eyes steady, lips parted slightly like the words were there, just hesitant to form.

Finally, he spoke, voice barely audible. “The second I saw him touch you, I didn’t think. I didn’t weigh the risk or the outcomes. I just… moved.”

Your throat tightened. “Why?”

He inhaled slowly. “Because if something had happened to you, if I had waited even a second longer, I wouldn’t have forgiven myself. It's hard enough to accept that you were hurt at all.”

You looked down at your lap, quiet for a beat. “I didn’t think you liked me that much.”

Reid frowned, squeezing the wheel.

"Name.. I don't dislike you." He said hoarsely. "I admire you, to be truthful. You're brave. Strong. Everything I want to be and have struggled to be my whole life," his voice was just above a whisper as he stole a glance your way.

"But I worry. All the time. I worry that something will go wrong and I'll lose another person. Another member of the team. And someone that I.." He trailed off.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

“Someone that you…?” you echoed gently, coaxing the rest out of him.

Reid’s jaw clenched. He exhaled shakily through his nose, like the truth physically hurt to say aloud.

“Someone that I like. Someone I care about,” he said at last, voice quiet but unwavering. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t want it to. You make me insane, half the time. You drive me completely up the wall.”

You smiled faintly, despite the tension thick in the car.

“But then I watch you work. Or I hear you laugh. Or you look at me like I’m not broken, like I’m not damaged goods. And I—I can’t unfeel it.”

Silence blanketed the car once more, but this time it was full of unsaid things that didn’t need words. It buzzed with the gravity of what had finally cracked open between you.

He pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, putting the car in park. His eyes slid over to yours again.

You reached out slowly, resting your fingers gently over his. He looked down at your hand, then up into your eyes, as if trying to make sure this was real.

You gave a soft, knowing smile. “Took you long enough to admit it.”

Reid huffed a breath, almost a laugh, though his eyes were still glassy with everything he hadn’t said before tonight. “I thought you hated me.”

“I thought you were too good for me.”

His gaze flicked to your neck, then back to your eyes. “No one’s too good for you.”

"You are." You snorted. "I'm mean. Closed off. I don't listen."

Reid shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re protective,” he corrected gently. “You carry the weight for everyone else so they don’t have to. And you listen more than you think — not always to words, but to people. To their actions, their patterns. That’s why you’re good at this.”

You looked away, swallowing hard, your throat tight. “Still. You’re… kind. And soft. And patient. You make people feel safe just by being in the room. I make people flinch.”

Reid’s hand turned beneath yours, his fingers slipping between yours with quiet certainty. “I don't flinch.”

Your eyes snapped back to his, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in his voice. There was no teasing, no hesitation, no irritation in his tone — just truth. Solid and unwavering.

You stared at him for a beat, breath shallow. “No,” you whispered. “You don’t.”

Reid tilted his head slightly, his gaze dipping to your lips for just a second before returning to your eyes. “I see you. All of you. And I don’t flinch.”

The weight of his words settled in your chest like an anchor: grounding, calming, terrifying in the best way. No one had ever looked at you like this. Not with fear. Not with judgment. But with… something gentler. Something that threatened to undo every wall you’d ever built.

“You’re not scared of me,” you said quietly, like you were still trying to convince yourself.

“I’m scared for you, every time you throw yourself into harms' way,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “But never of you.”

There was a pause. Heavy. Electric.

And then, in the dark hush of the SUV, with the sounds of the city and the glow of the streetlights casting soft shadows across his face, you leaned in.

"Reid?"

"Call me Spencer."

You snorted softly, rolling your eyes.

"Spencer?"

His name lingered on your tongue, warm and unfamiliar in that intimate kind of way, like a secret finally spoken aloud.

He gave the faintest nod, eyes flicking down to your lips again, and this time he didn’t look away.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice rough around the edges, like he already knew what you were going to say but needed to hear it anyway.

Your breath caught, lips parting slightly. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

He blinked. “What?”

You tilted your head, your smile barely there. “The staring. The tension. The way you act like I’m a walking risk assessment.”

Spencer’s lips tugged up, sheepish but unrepentant. “I didn’t want to cross a line.”

“You didn’t.” Your voice softened, fingers still tangled with his. “You didn’t cross anything.”

He leaned in a little closer, enough for his breath to ghost across your cheek.

“Then can I?” he whispered.

Your heart thudded once, hard, before you nodded.

“Yes. Please.”

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Intentional. Like he’d waited a lifetime for permission.

And you, well, for once, you didn’t think. You didn’t fight.

You just let yourself feel.

You knew your father would've liked him.

[colbychu]

Au Revoir | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: Going to prison changes relationships, but you were determined to withstand it until Spencer broke up with you in a letter. His return changes things. Themes & Warnings: Prison!Reid, i am addicted to writing angst with happy ending

You were happy. You were so, so incredibly happy.

You met Spencer at the university where you taught forensic psychology. He was consulting on a case involving a former student, and his presence was magnetic. His voice -- soft, precise, laced with more knowledge than most tenured professors -- filled the lecture hall with calm authority. He quoted studies off the top of his head, spoke of human behavior like it was poetry, and didn’t so much walk as glide through conversation.

You’d never met anyone smarter. Honestly, you doubted anyone smarter existed. His genius IQ, his eidetic memory, and his multiple phD's made it evident.

He was awkward and sweet and a little too fast with his facts, but he never talked down to you. In fact, he always looked awed by you -- by your wit, your lectures, your stubbornness. He remembered your favorite tea after one conversation and quoted your syllabus back to you a week later.

It didn’t take long to fall for him. It was easy.

Within months, you practically lived at Spencer’s apartment. You had a routine, a quiet rhythm that made the chaos of the outside world feel far away. He came home from work, jacket half-shrugged off, his tie loosened. And you’d be there waiting. You always sat and talked first. Not because you had to. Because he needed to. His head was always full -- of cases, of trauma, of things he didn’t know how to say -- and you were the only person who ever made it all quiet enough to sort through.

While he showered, you made dinner. Simple meals he always claimed were better than anything in Quantico. You'd plate it for him just the way he liked -- never too much, everything not touching. You knew his quirks. You loved his quirks.

Afterward, you'd curl up on the couch, some old noir or classic foreign film playing, and he’d play with your hair absentmindedly while reciting the film’s trivia under his breath.

Then, you'd crawl into bed. Sometimes you'd talk until 2am, whispering nonsense between kisses and laughter. Sometimes you'd fall asleep immediately, tangled in each other, warm and safe and whole.

It didn't matter if he was on the brink of sleep or wide awake. Before you drifted off, Spencer always said, "I love you, darling." Never failed. Like clockwork.

You went to bed happy. Giggling. Overjoyed at yet another day of loving each other.

Sometimes, it was hard. Sometimes, Spencer was gone for a long time. And now, he'd been gone a while. But you stayed at his apartment, keeping it clean and tidy and warm with your presence for when he came back. He needed your presence right now. His mother was getting sicker by the day, cases were getting more brutal, and the only thing that made it better was that you were always there waiting for him.

You didn’t believe it at first.

The call came early in the morning -- a colleague, hushed and panicked, asking if you’d seen the news. You turned on the TV, bleary-eyed, your heart already tightening with dread before you even found the right channel.

Dr. Spencer Reid. FBI profiler. Arrested for drug possession and murder in Mexico.

You stared at the screen like it was playing a joke. Like any moment, Spencer himself would walk through the door, rambling about how the media misrepresents facts and how probability makes false accusations more likely in cross-border cases.

But he didn’t come home.

And it wasn’t a joke.

Spencer had been arrested in Mexico, alone, without authorization, without backup, trying to obtain medication for his mother. It didn’t matter that it was compassionate. It didn’t matter that it was Spencer. He was caught with narcotics and implicated in the death of a doctor who had tried to help him. A setup. Clearly. But it didn’t stop the trial. It didn’t stop the sentence.

And it didn’t stop him from being sent to prison.

The man who recited Baudelaire in the kitchen and alphabetized your spice rack for fun was now behind bars -- bruised, cornered, alone. The letters started coming then, short at first. Then longer. Then emotional. You read each one a hundred times, your fingers brushing over the creases like you could smooth away his pain.

You cried for him. His friends and colleagues comforted you. Penelope had been by with one too many casseroles and cupcakes decorated in pink glitter. JJ tried getting you out of the apartment, even just to sit on a park bench and talk in the fresh air.

Finally, you were taken by David Rossi to visit him. They said you wouldn't want to see him. Said he looked rough. But you never stopped asking until they gave in.

You remembered every step through that prison like a dream you couldn't wake from. The clink of doors. The sterile, suffocating scent of bleach and old paper. The fluorescent lights that made everything feel too sharp.

Rossi kept a steady hand on your back, guiding you gently. He didn’t say much. Just, “Brace yourself.”

And you did. Until the moment Spencer walked in.

He looked nothing like the man you knew. His curls were wild, uneven, untamed. There was a cut on his cheek, a bruise blooming beneath one eye. His frame -- already lean -- seemed thinner. Clothes hung awkwardly on his bones. But it was his eyes that gutted you. Still the brown eyes you loved. But cold. Wounded.

They didn't light up when he saw you, like usual. But they did soften.

They softened until he got angry.

A fiery glare was directed at Rossi, one you'd never seen Spencer wield.

“I told you not to bring her here,” Spencer snapped, his voice low and ragged but edged in fury. “It's not safe for her here, these men are like animals, and I didn't want her to--”

Rossi didn’t flinch. “She asked. Repeatedly. You think I enjoy watching the two of you suffer?”

Spencer shoved back from the table slightly, the chair legs scraping loudly against the concrete. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn't have listened. I needed her to be safe, away from this. Away from me.”

You stepped forward before Rossi could respond, your voice softer than either of theirs -- but stronger, too. “You don’t get to make that choice for me, Spencer.”

His gaze snapped to you. Raw. Defensive. Cracked open. You glanced at Rossi, a look that told him it was finally okay to step out.

Spencer’s jaw tensed as he looked at you. “You don’t understand,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t want to be here.”

You moved closer anyway, heart aching. “I do. And I am. And I’m not leaving.”

His mouth opened like he wanted to argue -- like he had a hundred reasons why you should walk away and never look back, but nothing came out. His eyes dropped to the table between you, his hands curled into fists.

“You don’t know what this place does to people,” he finally whispered. “I'm not the same.”

You sat across from him, hands folding in front of you. “Then let me get to know this version of you, too. All of them. I’m not here because I want the perfect version of you, Spencer. I’m here because I love you.”

His breath hitched.

“You think I haven’t imagined this?” you asked. “What it would look like? Seeing you like this? I have. And it still doesn’t scare me off.”

Spencer’s eyes were red-rimmed now, and his voice cracked when he finally said, “I don’t deserve you.”

You exhaled, eyes softening at the tears developing in his.

“Spence..”

You thought the visit had gone well. You thought he was finally letting you in.

He'd squeezed your hands in his before you left, his eyelids squeezed shut as a tear dropped from his eye. Like he'd forgotten what it felt like to touch you. To talk to you and have you close to him.

When you went home, a few days passed before you received a letter from Spencer. You opened it eagerly, expecting to see how he'd changed his mind and he was happy you came. How he'd missed you and wanted to see you again. How he "loved you, darling," as he'd said to you for years.

But that wasn’t what the letter said. Not even close.

I need you to understand something very clearly: I’m not the man you think I am anymore. This place changes people and not for the better. I don’t want you anywhere near it, or me. You deserve better than the husk I’ve become. What we had was a mistake, a foolish hope in a situation that’s already lost. Holding on to me will only drag you down into a life of misery and pain. You’re stronger than that, and you don’t need me poisoning your future. Don’t come looking for me. Don’t send letters. Don’t wait. Forget me, because I’m gone. The man you loved died the day I walked through those gates. This is the last time you’ll hear from me. -- Spencer

You read it once. Then again. And again.

Each word like a hammer blow to your ribs.

Tears blurred your vision, and your fingers curled around the paper, threatening to crush it -- but you didn’t. You couldn’t. It was still his.

This wasn’t a breakup. It was a severing. A mercy killing of the most sacred thing you’d ever had.

He hadn’t signed it love, Spencer. Just Spencer.

And that alone shattered you.

You let the letter fall from your trembling hands, your knees buckling beneath you. The world blurred as tears spilled freely, raw and endless. Your chest heaved with sobs that clawed at your throat until your voice was stripped away, until your body convulsed with silent agony.

You curled in on yourself, the sharp sting of heartbreak twisting deep inside, and when your body could take no more, your pain spilled over, leaving you empty and broken on the cold floor.

You went through phases.

Awful depression was the first. All you did was sleep -- sometimes sleeping days away without eating. You'd lost a considerable amount of weight, but the sleep didn't help. All you did was dream of Spencer.

Your friends were concerned. Your mom was concerned. She began staying over at your apartment, forcing meals down your throat and waking you up every morning. She even held you while you cried, wiping your eyes and the snot from your face.

Next, you were angry.

Not just irritated -- furious. Blindingly, bitterly angry. At Spencer, at yourself, at the system that swallowed him whole and spit him back out as someone you barely recognized. You smashed a coffee mug when you re-read the letter. You ripped one of his old shirts out of the laundry basket and tore it in half with shaking hands. The quiet, aching grief hardened into something sharper, something that boiled behind your ribs like acid.

How dare he? How dare he shut you out, cut you off like you were nothing? Like what you had meant less than the pain of keeping you?

You’d stood by him. You’d waited. You’d believed in him when the world didn’t.

And he still left you bleeding with nothing but a letter. Just Spencer.

You didn’t cry that week. You paced. You snapped at people. You dug your nails into your palms just to feel something other than the sting of abandonment. Anger, at least, gave you control -- and control was the only thing you had left.

The anger stayed with you, burying the anguish. Until Spencer got out.

You saw it on the news first -- a quiet headline, a fleeting mention: Dr. Spencer Reid released after wrongful imprisonment. No fanfare. No apologies. Just a footnote in a week of chaos.

You stared at the screen, heart pounding, coffee forgotten in your hand.

He was free.

And he didn’t tell you.

Of course he didn’t.

That night, your rage came back in full force, but it was quieter now. Sharper. More refined. It didn’t explode -- it simmered. You cleaned your apartment top to bottom, tossing the last remnants of him into a trash bag. That scarf he always wore when you visited bookstores. The annotated copy of Lolita he left on your nightstand. A pair of mismatched socks. The tea he used to brew just right.

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

You just whispered to the empty room, “Don’t come back.”

And he didn't.

For weeks, you didn't see him. You didn't hear his name when you went shopping with Penelope, as if she knew you wouldn't want to. It was like your life before this evaporated into smoke. No mention, no sign of Spencer at all.

A month later, it was Luke's birthday. There was a party for him coming up, a little get together at his house. He begged you to come, and Penelope, and JJ, and Prentiss, until you finally caved. You could do it, right? You could withstand it, whether Spencer was there or not. You didn't care. It was in the past.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just a gathering. Just old friends. That you’d walk in, make polite conversation, maybe even laugh once or twice. You’d wear something nice, something that made you feel like you — not like the hollow ghost you’d been when Spencer vanished from your life.

Luke greeted you with a hug that lasted a beat too long, like he was bracing you. JJ’s smile faltered for just a second before she pulled you into her arms. Penelope beamed at you, glittery and brave, but her eyes scanned the room anxiously -- almost like she was trying to prepare you for something she couldn't say out loud.

"I'm so glad you're here." Luke smiled, trying to disarm the tension. "Wouldn't be a birthday without you."

“Yeah, well. I owed you a drink and an awkward hug, so here I am.”

Luke laughed softly, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think, you know.���

You rolled your eyes, giving him the first genuine grin you'd had in months.

"Don't bullshit me."

It was almost familiar. Almost comfortable and warm. A party with old friends who loved you.

And then you saw him.

Spencer.

Standing in the kitchen, hair trimmed now but still wild, wearing a soft gray sweater you hadn’t seen before. He was thinner still, but no longer fragile. He was composed. Collected. Familiar in all the worst ways.

And when his eyes met yours, they didn’t just soften -- they broke.

He looked like he’d stopped breathing. Like seeing you had hit him harder than any prison wall ever had.

You stood frozen in the doorway, one hand curled tightly around the strap of your purse.

You hadn’t prepared for this. Not for the way your stomach twisted. Not for the way your heart stuttered at the sight of him. Not for the way every inch of you remembered -- vividly -- how it felt to be loved by him. And left by him.

You blinked once. Slowly.

Then, you turned away and headed straight for the liquor table.

Prentiss followed.

Shakily, you poured yourself a glass of whiskey, lifting it to your lips in a hurry. You hoped the liquor burning down your throat would arm you, hardening around you like a shell and making you impossible to break.

Prentiss didn’t say anything at first. Just stood beside you, watching you pour and drink like it was survival -- like this party was a battlefield and the whiskey was armor.

“You okay?” she finally asked, voice low.

You gave a humorless smile. “Peachy.”

Prentiss leaned a hip against the table. “You don’t have to talk to him.”

“I know.” You stared down into your glass.

“Ease into being around him. There's no rush.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing the next sip with a wince. “Yeah..”

Prentiss was quiet for a moment. Then, “Do you want me to stick around? Watch your six?”

You smirked faintly, heart pounding. “I think I can handle one skinny genius.”

She gave a soft snort. “Alright. But if you need backup…”

“I know,” you said, finally meeting her eyes. “Thanks, Emily.”

She squeezed your arm gently, then stepped away, giving you space.

You drank there silently for a while. It wasn't helping like you thought it would.

The burn in your throat faded too fast. The warmth in your chest settled into nothingness. You were still too aware of the room -- the quiet laughter, the conversation, the way people kept glancing toward the hallway like they were tracking someone.

Like they were tracking him.

You gripped the edge of the table until your knuckles ached, breathing slow through your nose. It wasn’t working. The whiskey wasn’t a shield. It wasn’t dulling the pain or the memory of his letter. Just Spencer. The cruelty of it. The cowardice.

And yet… you still felt him. Like gravity. Pulling at you even across the room.

You turned your head just slightly, and that’s when you saw him.

He was standing half-hidden near the archway to the kitchen, hands in his pockets, looking smaller than you remembered. His eyes were already on you. Not moving. Not blinking.

Like he’d been watching the entire time.

You almost looked away.

Almost.

But you didn’t.

You needed some air. You quickly walked towards the door, muttering apologies and promising to come back, before you reached the front porch. You sat on the porch chair, threading your hands through your hair and inhaling deeply.

You thought you could do this. Hell, you even thought it would be easy. But you just couldn't.

The dreaded tears came to your eyes before you noticed them, dripping down. You sniffled, looking up at the stars.

The stars blurred above you, gentle pinpricks of light in a sky that didn’t care how much your chest ached. You wiped at your face roughly, as if that could erase the entire last year: the prison, the silence, the letter. Him.

You’d told yourself you were over it. Over him.

But here you were, falling apart on someone else’s porch like the wound had never closed. Maybe it never had. Maybe it never would.

The screen door creaked behind you.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.

You knew it was him.

There was a long pause. Then footsteps, soft and hesitant, and the subtle rustle of fabric as Spencer slowly sat on the step beside your chair, not too close, not touching. Just there.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t comfortable. It was sharp, cutting, full of all the things that should have been said months ago.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said finally, his voice low, almost broken.

You laughed bitterly through your tears. “I shouldn't have.”

Another silence.

“I'm glad you did. I didn't even know if I'd talk to you.. I just wanted to look at you again.”

Spencer’s voice cracked on the last word, and when you glanced sideways at him, his profile was haloed in porchlight. Soft, tired, and somehow still beautiful in the way that only he ever was to you. His hands were folded tightly in his lap like he was afraid they’d shake if he let them move.

“I used to dream about this,” he admitted quietly. “Just… being near you again. Seeing your face. Hearing your voice.”

Another wave of tears washed over you. You just listened to his voice. Part of you hated him. Part of you missed his voice.

“I counted the minutes I was in there. One-hundred and thirty-nine thousand and six-hundred eighty minutes," He continued, looking across the lawn at the cars that occasionally passed on the street. “With every minute that passed, it got more probable that I wouldn't leave. After all, the statistics for false imprisonment are..”

He stopped himself with a tight, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m doing it again -- hiding behind numbers.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight with grief and memory and the ache of loving someone who had broken you in the name of protection.

Spencer glanced over at you, his expression open and fragile. “But I did count the minutes. I counted them because I was scared that you'd waste a good life waiting for me.”

“It wasn't your choice.” You hissed quietly, refusing to look at him. “But you made it your choice with that damn letter. Cruel.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. You could feel him flinch beside you, like your words had physically hit him, maybe harder than anything he’d taken inside those prison walls.

“I know,” he said eventually, the words barely more than breath. “I read it back a thousand times after I sent it. And every time, I thought: I hope she hates me enough to forget me. I kept a copy. To remind myself not to reach out. Not to pull you back to me.”

You laughed, bitter and wet. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. I hated you, but I couldn’t forget you. You don’t just forget the person you built a life around, Spencer.”

Finally, you looked at him. He was already staring at you, devastated, like he was watching something crumble that he could never put back together.

“I wrote that letter like I was dying,” he admitted. “Because I thought I was. Not physically. Just… everything that made me who I was, it was getting chipped away. I thought if I died to you then, at least I wouldn’t take you down with me.”

“It wasn't fair. What happened to you wasn't. But it wasn't fair of you to shove me away,” your voice began to wobble, tears coming down your face again. “I loved you, Spencer. Wasn't it enough?”

Spencer’s face crumpled -- not all at once, but in small, controlled fractures, like he was trying desperately to hold himself together for your sake, even now. Even after everything.

“It was,” he whispered. “God, it was more than enough. It was everything. That’s why I let it go.”

You shook your head, the ache blooming sharp again. “That’s not how love works. You don’t just… take someone’s heart and decide for them what’s best. You don’t destroy them to save them.”

“I know,” he choked out. “I know that now.”

You let out a trembling breath, wiping your face with the sleeve of your jacket. “I would’ve waited. I was waiting.”

“I know, baby,” he said softly, his voice watery with tears he was trying to force back. The pet name slipped -- he hadn't even noticed he'd used it. It was too natural for him. “But I didn't know if I was coming back. And I didn't know who I'd come back as.”

You exhaled, but your lungs felt punctured.

“God, I hate you, Spencer. I hate that I still..”

Spencer froze, his eyes wide and glistening. He didn’t speak, he couldn’t. Your confession seemed to punch the air from his lungs the same way it had yours.

You shook your head quickly, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, ashamed of how raw you sounded. “I hate that even after everything, the silence, the letter, the fucking goodbye, I still see you and my chest hurts in a way that feels like home.”

Spencer’s lips parted, but nothing came. Just another tear trailing down.

“I used to think if you ever came back, I’d slam the door in your face,” you said, laughing bitterly through your tears. “But I didn’t. I let you sit here. I let you look at me.”

“I don’t deserve it,” he murmured. “I don’t deserve you. But I love you more than anything in the world. All I did was pray to a God I don't believe in for you to heal.”

“Then how could you walk away? Like I was nothing?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles whitened.

“Because I was nothing in there,” he said hoarsely. “I was a number. A threat. A punching bag. Every day, I woke up wondering who I’d have to fight to stay alive. What part of myself I’d have to let die just to make it to the next hour. And the one thing that kept me going was you. The memory of you.”

You whimpered like the words had stabbed you.

“The only things I had in my cell were photos of you. That's all I wanted,” he said, his voice cracking with a fresh wave of tears. “When I felt human enough to read, I only read your favorite literature and poems.”

“Spencer--”

“I started with Jane Eyre. Because you said it was the first book that made you cry. I wanted to cry with you, even if you weren’t there.”

Your breath caught.

His voice was shaking, but steady enough to recite what he’d clearly read over and over, committing it to memory like a prayer.

“I have for the first time found what I can truly love -- I have found you. You are my sympathy -- my better self -- my good angel; I am bound to you with a strong attachment.”

He looked at you, his voice barely above a whisper now.

“I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you.”

Tears streamed down your face freely now. You remembered reading that line to him once, years ago, curled together in bed.

“I used to repeat that in my head just to fall asleep,” he admitted. “I read the book hundreds of times. It was your voice.”

You covered your mouth, shoulders trembling.

“I thought I could bury it. Bury you. But I couldn’t. I can’t. And if I never get to hold you again,” he said, crying entirely, “I needed you to know… you were never nothing. You were the only thing that made me anything at all.”

“Spencer, I'm begging you not--”

“Let me finish,” he pleaded, hands reaching out for you but not quite touching you. “If there's any chance at all, any chance you'd let me come home, I'd make it my mission to love you for the rest of our days on this doomed Earth.” He said, his words rushing out as if he couldn't control them.

You were silent. Shocked. Your jaw dropped, but lips still quivered.

“I'll go right now and buy a ring if that's what you want. I'll recite your favorite poetry every single night. I'll scratch your back without asking for it in return. I'll listen to your favorite song in the car on a loop every damn time we go anywhere even though I hate it.”

He was breaking open in front of you, pouring himself out in fragments: hopeful, desperate, all the pieces you never thought you'd get back.

“I’ll memorize every meal you’ve ever loved and learn how to cook it perfectly. I’ll fix the leaky sink. I’ll reorganize your bookshelf a hundred times until it makes sense to you again.” His voice wavered desperately, rising into something raw and aching. “Just -- please. Please give me the chance to make it right.”

You stared at him, stunned. That flood of emotion -- grief, fury, heartbreak, love -- came crashing down at once. Your body shook from it. You had waited for this moment for so long. You had dreamed of it. But now that it was here, you didn’t know if you could move.

Spencer inched forward on the porch step, slowly, as if afraid to scare you off. His hands trembled between you, still waiting for yours.

“I don’t want anyone else. I can’t want anyone else. You were it for me before prison. You were it every day in there. And you're it now. No matter what you say.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“What if you leave again if things get difficult?”

His breath hitched.

“I won’t,” he said, instantly but then gentler, more broken, “I can’t.”

You opened your eyes. He was looking at you like the question had gutted him, like he’d been waiting for it.

“I left because I thought it was the only way to protect you,” he continued, voice low and shaking. “But I see now -- God, I know now -- that hurting you to keep you safe wasn’t protection. It was fear. And I let it win.”

He leaned forward just enough for you to see how wrecked he was, eyes glassy and wide. “But I’ve lived through the worst thing imaginable. And it wasn’t prison. It wasn't Tobias Hankel. It wasn't Dilaudid, it wasn't those damn headaches, and it wasn't losing Maeve. It was the thought of you moving on, thinking I didn’t love you. It was living with the idea that I’d made you feel abandoned.”

His hand finally touched yours, featherlight. “So no. I won’t leave again. Not when things get difficult. Not when I’m scared. Not when I’m hurting. Because I’d rather face every nightmare in the world than ever look into your eyes again and see pain that I've caused.”

A pause.

“Please,” he whispered, “let me stay this time.”

You didn’t say anything at first. The silence was heavy, aching, filled with all the memories of the man he used to be and the one breaking before you now. His fingers were still barely touching yours, like he didn’t believe he deserved to hold your hand, only to beg for the chance.

Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. You had imagined this moment a hundred times. In the best versions, he came home with flowers, apologies, promises. In the worst, he never came at all.

But this raw, desperate truth from him was something else entirely.

“I don’t know if I can,” you whispered. “I want to. But I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Spencer closed his eyes, nodding like the words bruised but didn’t surprise him. “Then I’ll stay outside your door every day if I have to. I’ll write you letters I sign with love this time. I’ll sign my soul away to you if that's what it takes. It's yours now anyways.”

You looked at him, really looked, and saw him again. Not the hollow shell who’d walked out. Not the angry, scared man from prison. But the Spencer you’d loved. A little more broken. A little more changed. But still him. Still yours.

Your hand turned, slowly, fingers curling around his. He gasped quietly at the touch, like it shocked him.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you said softly.

His eyes met yours, glassy with hope. “Never again.”

And suddenly, you were yanked forward. A watery giggle, half laughing and half crying, escaped you as you were pulled into Spencer's chest, your cheek coming into contact with the gray threads of his sweater.

His arms wrapped around you like they were made for it: tight, trembling, like he couldn’t believe you were real. His face tucked into your neck, breath shuddering against your skin, and for a long moment, neither of you said a word.

You just held each other.

The night around you was quiet, broken only by the occasional hum of a passing car, the soft rustle of leaves, and the ragged breathing of two people who had survived too much.

“I missed you so much,” Spencer whispered into your shoulder, voice cracking. “More than I knew a person could miss someone.”

He smelled like memories. Like all the nights you'd spent cuddling on the couch watching old Russian romances that you didn't understand, but he translated for you in his soft, lovely voice. Like kissing in the rain, but being scolded for “common cold inducing behavior.” Like a long hug after an especially drawn out and difficult case.

He smelled like home. Your home.

You were so happy to be home.

[colbychu]

Discretion

pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader words: 2.0k summary: You and spencer are confident you are being discreet about your relationship (you are not) warnings: very raunchy making out in the elevator but otherwise it's fluffy like a freshly shampooed cow a/n: is three sugars too much for coffee? i have no idea how much is too much when i write spencer's coffee order. let's just say 3 is too much because this man drinks his coffee SWEET

To say that Penelope Garcia was a naturally curious woman would be underselling it by a criminal degree. And when it came to her friends— her team, her family— that curiosity was lovingly relentless.

Which is how (Y/n) found herself cornered in the tech room at exactly 8:32 a.m. by both Garcia and Emily, coffee in hand, nowhere to run.

“Okay,” Emily said, arms crossed, eyebrow cocked. “We’ve been patient.”

Garcia chimed in, “Painfully patient.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” (Y/n) said, sipping her coffee like she hadn’t heard them.

“Oh, please,” Emily scoffed. “You’ve mentioned your boyfriend a grand total of two times.”

“Three,” Garcia corrected. “But one of those was just ‘my boyfriend likes mango,’ which doesn’t even count.”

“I’m a private person.”

“You work with federal agents,” Emily deadpanned. “We find things for a living.”

(Y/n) sighed. “Fine. He’s... sweet. Thoughtful. Overly romantic, if I’m honest. In the best possible way.”

“Oh?” Garcia leaned in. “Like how?”

(Y/n) paused too long.

Garcia gasped. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not!”

“You are,” Emily grinned. “Spill.”

“Okay, once,” (Y/n) said reluctantly, “he emailed me a PDF file titled ‘just because.’ It had scanned pages from an annotated copy of my favourite book, with his notes in the margins. Like, handwritten. From when he first read it.”

“That’s actually disgustingly romantic,” Emily muttered.

Garcia blinked. “Who emails their girlfriend a PDF?”

(Y/n) smiled in sweet recollection of that memory, how it was so unapologetically him— precise, nerdy, and quietly sentimental. He hadn’t even said anything when he sent it, just a subject line that read “Thought of you while reading.” And the book? It was something she mentioned offhandedly during a debrief three months prior. Of course he remembered. He always did.

Meanwhile, across the bullpen, Derek Morgan nudged Spencer Reid with the edge of a manila folder.

“You’ve been annoyingly chipper lately,” Morgan said.

“I’m always chipper.”

“No, you’re twitchy and anxious. This”— he gestured vaguely at Reid’s face— “is new. You’ve been smiling like someone who’s gettin’ some.”

Spencer flushed but didn’t deny it. Just shrugged, soft and smug.

Morgan narrowed his eyes. “Pretty Boy has a secret.”

——————————————————————————————————

It was early— too early, by most of their standards. The bullpen still had that quiet, sleep-hazed hush to it, the kind that only ever lasted until the second pot of coffee kicked in.

Spencer was already at his desk, half-slouched over a file, tapping a pen against the paper in a steady rhythm. His brow was furrowed, curls slightly unkempt, cardigan sleeves already shoved up to his elbows like he hadn’t even noticed the chill in the air.

(Y/n) walked in, hair still damp from her shower, nursing her own cup of caffeine like it was oxygen. Without a word, she stopped beside him, set a second cup of coffee on his desk— black, three sugars, extra hot. Just how he liked it.

Spencer looked up, blinking. And then smiled.

Not the polite kind. Not the absentminded “thanks” he gave to Morgan when he handed him a report. This one was soft. Familiar. The kind of smile that landed a little too slow and lingered a little too long.

She smiled back— tiny, sleepy, warm— and kept walking.

From his desk, Morgan raised an eyebrow.

“You two telepathic now?” he called.

(Y/n) didn’t miss a beat. “He just looks like a three-sugar morning.”

Spencer flushed lightly. Tried very hard to look engrossed in his file.

Morgan tilted his head, amused, but said nothing else.

For now.

——————————————————————————————————

The post-briefing hallway was always a mess— agents filtering out in loose, staggered clusters, already juggling phone calls and folders and to-go cups. (Y/n) and Spencer walked side by side, shoulder to shoulder, debrief sheets tucked under their arms.

It was nothing new. They always walked like that. But someone turned the corner too fast— an intern, maybe— nearly colliding with (Y/n) in the narrow hallway.

Spencer’s arm was around her waist before she even had time to react, catching her with practiced ease.

“Careful,” he murmured, the word quiet and close, his eyes flicking over her quickly. Not panicked. Just... thorough. Like he had to be sure she was still in one piece.

She nodded, barely flustered. “I’m fine.”

But he didn’t move right away.

His hand stayed at the small of her back— gentle, warm, grounding— for just one second too long.

They started walking again like nothing had happened.

Except Emily had seen the whole thing.

She stopped mid-step, one brow raised, lips pursing in suspicion. Watched them disappear around the corner with narrowed eyes.

Then shook her head once and muttered under her breath, “Nah. No way.”

And kept walking.

——————————————————————————————————

It was supposed to be a routine systems check.

Garcia was combing through the security logs for the east wing elevators— standard operating procedure after a glitch flagged a potential breach. Ninety-nine percent of the time, this kind of thing amounted to someone forgetting their badge or JJ carrying Henry in through the staff entrance.

She wasn’t even paying that much attention. Fingers flying on autopilot, her mind already halfway on her lunch order, until the timestamp 22:41 popped up.

She blinked. Squinted. Paused. Rewound.

Her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

“Oh my god.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper. She rewound again. Yes. Still there. Not a hallucination. Not her mind playing tricks.

Definitely Spencer Reid.

And— holy shit— definitely (Y/n).

In an elevator.

Making out.

Not cute-office-romance making out.

No, this was pressed-up-against-the-wall, hands-everywhere, breathless and starved and feverish kind of making out. Spencer's hand was on her waist, then in her hair, then gripping her thigh as he practically lifted her off the ground. And (Y/n)? Her mouth was at his jaw, her fingers curling into the collar of his shirt like she was trying to burn the feel of it into her palms.

Garcia made a high-pitched, involuntary squeak.

Then slammed her hand on the desk phone.

“Derek Morgan. Tech room. Now.”

Morgan arrived first. Followed by Emily, who walked in brow furrowed. “You paged me? What’s the—?”

She cut herself off.

“... Is that the elevator?”

“It is,” Garcia nodded solemnly.

Emily leaned forward. “Wait— is that (Y/n)?”

“Is this— ?” Morgan started, but the words died in his throat as he looked closer.

His jaw dropped.

“Is that— ?”

“Oh, it is.”

A long beat of stunned silence.

Then, slowly, “Spencer?” Morgan said, voice incredulous.

“Oh, it gets better,” Garcia said, grinning wickedly as she hovered over her keyboard.

Morgan and Emily were already leaning in close, popcorn-level invested.

She hit play again.

The footage resumed.

At first, it was just (Y/n) and Spencer standing in the elevator, talking— innocent enough. Until Spencer said something— inaudible, but clearly effective— and (Y/n) rolled her eyes, stepped forward, grabbed him by the tie, and yanked him down into a kiss.

Morgan let out a low whistle.

But that wasn’t the part Garcia was talking about.

At around the 45-second mark, Spencer’s hands slid down (Y/n)’s back and landed firmly on her hips, then lower.

“Oh my God,” Emily said, eyes wide.

Then (Y/n)’s back hit the elevator wall, and Spencer didn’t even hesitate— one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding beneath her blazer, under her shirt, palm flat against her bare waist.

He kissed her like they were the only people in the world. Like it was muscle memory. Urgent. Confident. Completely un-Spencer.

And then she moaned. Audibly. In the security camera footage.

“Oh my God,” Garcia repeated, one octave higher.

Morgan just stared, stunned silent for once in his life.

Spencer pulled back for a breath in the footage, then leaned in again— kissing her jaw, her neck, his hand definitely not on her waist anymore.

Emily had to fan herself with a stray file.

“Spencer Reid,” she said, breathless. “Has game.”

“Game?” Morgan echoed. “That man is playing a whole ass league.”

“WAIT. OH MY GOD. SPENCER IS PDF GUY?!”

Morgan looked between them. “Wait. Who the hell is PDF guy?”

“Long story,” Emily muttered, eyes still glued to the screen. “Holy shit.”

They all watched in silence as the footage looped again.

Spencer leaned in, said something at her ear. Whatever it was, it made (Y/n) flush, then pull him in again, mouths meeting like it physically hurt to be apart. His hands— decidedly not where they should be— disappeared beneath the hem of her shirt just as the doors started to open.

Then they broke apart like nothing happened, like they weren’t seconds away from defiling federal property, both adjusting their clothes with the sort of casual precision that only came from lots of practice.

The video ended. Nobody said anything for a full five seconds.

Then Garcia breathed, “Our little genius is secretly a menace.”

Emily nodded. “Remind me to never underestimate Spencer Reid ever again.”

Morgan just whistled. “Damn. Pretty Boy really is full of surprises.”

——————————————————————————————————

It started innocently enough.

Spencer and (Y/n) were at their desks, quietly reviewing case files. Garcia strolled in, followed by Emily and Morgan, all three of them wearing suspiciously gleeful expressions. Spencer looked up first, sensing the shift in energy like a deer catching the scent of danger.

“Morning,” he said slowly.

Garcia beamed. “Oh honey. Don’t be coy.”

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow. “Coy about what?”

“Oh, just your scandalous elevator escapades.”

Spencer blinked. “I— what?”

Garcia spun her laptop around with a dramatic flourish. “Roll tape.”

On-screen, the infamous elevator footage began to play. There they were— Spencer and (Y/n)— barely waiting for the doors to shut before she grabbed him by the tie and pulled him into a kiss that could not, under any circumstances, be labelled work appropriate.

(Y/n)’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

Spencer’s eyes widened in horror. “Where did you— how did you—”

“I run the surveillance system, Doctor Love,” Garcia said, smug. “A glitch flagged the camera, and lo and behold, I find this cinematic masterpiece.”

Morgan leaned in, whistling low. “Spencer Reid, you sly bastard.”

Emily made an impressed sound. “Honestly? Respect.”

Spencer looked like he was about to pass out. “Please don’t show anyone else—”

Right on cue, JJ walked in holding a folder. “Show anyone else what—?”

Garcia spun the laptop before anyone could stop her.

JJ saw exactly three seconds of the video before she yelped and turned away. “NO! MY EYES! What the hell?!”

(Y/n) groaned, slumping forward into her desk. “This is great. This is all so great.”

Spencer reached over and shut the laptop with a decisive click. “Okay. We’re done. The video is gone now. That’s the end.”

Emily elbowed Garcia. “I’m not deleting that.”

Morgan grinned. “Pretty Boy’s been hiding a whole new playbook.”

Before either Spencer or (Y/n) could respond, Rossi strolled into the bullpen, sipping his coffee. He stopped briefly, looked around at the wide eyes and pink faces, clocked the shut laptop, and said calmly—

“Took you all long enough. Some profilers you are.”

Spencer looked up, shell-shocked. “Wh— You knew?”

Rossi shrugged. “There was palpable tension. I could taste it in the air.”

JJ, still blinking the trauma from her eyes, turned to Hotch as he passed by with a file in hand. “Hotch, did you know?”

Without missing a beat, Hotch said, “They filled out the disclosure forms nine months ago.”

"Nine months? You guys lied to us for NINE MONTHS?" Garcia was startled to say the least.

Hotch looks up briefly, expression unreadable, and mutters, “Next time, if you’re going to be subtle, try harder.”

(Y/n) made a noise that could only be described as a whimper and slowly began sinking into her chair like she hoped the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

Spencer leaned over, voice low and a little sheepish.

“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, “I’d do it all over again.”

(Y/n) looked at him, still half-hidden behind her hands.

“…Even the elevator?”

He gave a faint, conspiratorial smile. “Especially the elevator.”

[colbychu]

Dangerous Convictions

| Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (Historical AU)

Title: Dangerous Convictions

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader (Historical AU)

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Word count: ~11,500

Trope(s): Bodyguard romance |Regency/Historical AU

Summary: In a time where women’s voices are silenced and societal expectations bind them, you’ve always chosen conviction over conformity. But when a string of abductions threatens your community, a group unconventional investigators step into your life. One of them, a soft-spoken intellectual with a mind like no other, might just become the key to unraveling both the case and your heart.

Warning:Click here!

Author's note: This story was written under the combined influence of Jane Austen, a love for Spencer Reid, and too much tea. I'm sorry in advance if there's any inaccuracy, I wrote this in a few hours last night, and it is my first attempt to do something like this. Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated! Enjoy this mix of romance, mystery, and regency drama. 🌸

"Miss!" someone called out from the hallways of the grand house. "Miss!" Anne's voice grew closer and closer until the door to your room swung open, finding you standing before the mirror, adjusting your bonnet.

"Anne! How do I look?"

The young girl, her expression laced with unease, began nervously fidgeting with her hands.

"Miss, surely you are not intending to attend your literary meeting under these circumstances..."

You turned to her with a smile.

"My dear Anne, knowledge cannot be confined to something as trivial as a man who seems determined to abduct every opinionated young lady in this city."

"It is not trivial, and I daresay you seem overly certain of the suspect’s gender," she replied, her tone cautious.

You chuckled, smoothing your skirts as you made the final adjustments to your attire.

"It could hardly be a woman. What woman has the leisure to roam about narrating abductions left and right?"

Anne appeared even more distressed.

"Miss, you will put me in serious trouble if you leave now. The officers will arrive within the hour, and you cannot possibly venture out alone—you know this!"

Placing your hands gently on her shoulders, you sought to reassure her. "Anne, if you think I would allow Mrs. Harrison to dismiss you from this household, then all our long conversations have been for naught." You stepped back, offering her a playful smile. "I shall ride on horseback."

"That is not wise," she insisted with a touch more firmness as you exited the room.

You glanced back over your shoulder. "I promise I’ll return in time to meet our incredibly skilled officers, yes?"

Of course, that was a lie. Literary meetings at the village library often stretched far longer than an hour.

Derek could not fathom why he was wasting his time in such a place. Spencer, on the other hand, seemed far more invested in the situation than his companion. The contrast between the two men was striking and immediately caught your attention as you exchanged ideas with the women seated around you in the reading circle. Spencer observed you silently through the lenses of his glasses as you crouched to greet a young newcomer. She appeared to be complimenting you—her pale cheeks suddenly flushed pink, prompting you to wave off her words with modesty.

"Thank you kindly, but I merely share what others have taught me. Education," you said, your voice steady and clear, "should not be confined to a grand hall or a gilded ceiling. Our minds were given to us to be filled with ideas, to be shared and challenged, to think beyond what we are told is acceptable."

You straightened your posture, your dress a modest earthy hue adorned with elegant yet simple designs. You did not seem the sort to seek attention by appearances alone. Your hair, while neatly styled, bore a slightly freer arrangement than that of most young ladies, yet your presence exuded polish and care. Spencer had seen your home earlier that day upon arriving with Derek; they had not found you in the library your father had assured them was your usual haunt.

As the meeting concluded, you approached the two men. A demure smile graced your lips, but your eyes—oh, your eyes—Spencer recognized that look: confident, discerning, as though you held the entire situation firmly in hand. Spencer had encountered such personalities before and was confident a headstrong, self-assured, and reckless young lady would pose no challenge to him.

"Gentlemen," you greeted them with a polite nod.

"I am Derek Morgan, an officer with the Behavioral Department," Derek announced with a small bow, which you returned with an amused smile.⁵

"And this gentleman beside me is Agent Spencer Reid, my partner in handling your case."

"My case?" you murmured, your hand lightly touching your chest as though the notion amused you. "I must admit, I have never heard of a Behavioral Department."

"It is a pilot program. We remain under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Marshals Service," Spencer interjected, earning a curious glint from your eyes. "Our team, as we like to call it, is composed of individuals with diverse educations and skills that we believe are essential to national security."

A spark of amusement flickered in your gaze.

"Does that mean you gentlemen are to serve as my escorts until the person abducting young women across New York is apprehended?" you asked with an air of calm, lowering your voice to ensure only Derek and Spencer could hear you as the other women gradually left the library, exchanging trivial farewells.

"What are your areas of expertise, gentlemen? Surely you must have military backgrounds or the..."

"I served in the militia for several years. My expertise lies in tactical leadership," Derek offered, though he seemed slightly ill at ease, as if curbing some aspect of his personality in your presence.

"And you, Mr. Spencer? What are your qualifications?"

For reasons unknown, Spencer adjusted his glasses and glanced at Derek before clearing his throat.

"I have pursued studies in various disciplines, including philosophy, psychology, and criminology. My education has taken me to Berlin, the Sorbonne, and Edinburgh," Spencer replied.

Your attention sharpened.

"A young man like yourself, Mr. Reid?" you remarked, a note of admiration in your tone. "That is quite an impressive record." Smiling at both men, you added, "I suppose you have come to escort me home; I arrived on horseback."

"Your father dispatched a servant to retrieve your horse, which is now safely at your residence. We, on the other hand, arrived by carriage," Derek explained.

You nodded thoughtfully, taking care not to protest as you followed them outside the grand city library.

You had lived in Greenwich Village since birth. Your father, a man of means and ingenuity, had raised you in a uniquely unconventional manner. Your mother’s tragic passing during your early childhood had fostered a close bond between you and your father, who often indulged your lively intellect and progressive ideas. At twenty-five, your unwed status might have seemed pitiable to some, but you were in no rush. If marriage were ever to cross your path, it would be to a man extraordinary in his openness, intelligence, and modernity—a man untroubled by the notion of a woman exercising her reason. Until such a man appeared, you were content in your independence.

Your father did not mind; he delighted in your vivacity and challenged your ideas with the insight of a scholar, cultivating your intellect as few fathers would dare.

Upon arriving at your vast estate, Mrs. Harrison awaited you with a firm look of disapproval that you knew would not perturb you in the slightest. There, before you, stood the entire rest of Derek Morgan and Spencer Reid’s team, including their superior; a man of middle years, taciturn, and unlike the others, who seemed to have no opinion on your behavior or your way of life—something which appeared to be the very reason you were placed in such danger in the first place. This man was named Aaron Hotchner, and he intrigued you greatly.

There was an older man, David Rossi, who seemed to bring experience in his field and had a long career that transcended American culture, which struck you as most intriguing. But what most impressed you and captured your attention was, of course, the presence of women among this small group of investigators. They were not in the field, armed and fighting—an idea that seemed spectacular—but they were women whose skills were applied to something more than family and home, and that was remarkable. You dedicated yourself to interviewing them with an interest that was impossible to hide. And though they were there to ask you questions, they patiently answered yours while allowing the rest to converse with your father regarding the troubling situation at hand.

You seated Emily, Jennifer, and Penelope before you, sharing snacks and tea as they recounted how their presence was often relegated to mystery by others, although their colleagues treated them with much more respect and dignity than society would usually afford them.

Your father, though undoubtedly eccentric, seemed to be more sensible as Spencer observed. He was a man of elegance, enjoying a privileged social standing, and it seemed certain that it was this very standing that allowed others to overlook his peculiarities and respect him. He needed no further investigation to discover that you had him wrapped around your finger; he not only protected your ideas but also seemed to proudly promote them.

“Mr. Reid will be escorting his daughter in the coming days, he will be her shadow and her conscience, should it be required,” Aaron spoke, holding a glass of beer that your father had insisted on offering them when they gathered in his study, a more secluded part of the house.

The man looked at the young man; he was a bit older than his daughter, appeared healthy and agile, but your father was not sure these qualities would protect you if you were attacked as the other young women who had yet to be found. However, he did not question Aaron as he brought him up to speed on the protection and investigation plans.

“We need you to speak with your daughter; she will have to reduce her public interactions a little more, she is putting herself in great danger by participating in such gatherings,” Derek advised. “We suspect that whoever is behind the abductions has revolutionary ideals as motivation.”

The man took off his glasses to clean them and sat back in his office chair.

“Have you seen my daughter, Mr. Morgan?” he asked with a small laugh. “It is not as if I could do anything to reduce her activities. I have not been able to curtail her intentions for change since she became a young lady, and to be honest, I have no intention of doing so; this is how I raised her, and I expect nothing less.”

David Rossi, who had remained silent, enjoying his beer despite his preference for a good whiskey, spoke.

“Then it is fortunate you convince her to accept Doctor Reid’s assistance. If she cannot refrain from her activities, she must understand the importance of Spencer’s presence for her safety.”

Your father seemed to take a few seconds to think on this before nodding.

“I believe, Mr. Rossi, that this is a far better option.”

You did not like this option. You were unsure how good an idea it would be for the world to see you accompanied by another young man on your heels. The young and well-mannered doctor was only a couple of years older than you, and he was handsome with his wavy hair, brown eyes framed by his glasses, and simple academic attire. You could not seem to grow accustomed to his presence; he slept in the room next to yours, read a book wherever you were, and followed you closely even on your visits to the seamstress.

“What are your plans, my dear?” your father asked one evening as you dined. He had decided that if the investigative team responsible for the kidnapping cases were to stay in the city, they would not lodge anywhere but here, so they had been dining at your table every day since that fateful Monday when their presence had become permanent.

“Tomorrow, I have a meeting with my reading club, and if it is not too much trouble, I would like to attend one of your classes. Will you be teaching a course on modern political philosophy, I hear?” you inquired. Your father murmured an assent as he sipped his wine. “Mr. Hotchner, I understand you studied at Harvard. Make me happy and tell me, what did you study there?” you asked with curiosity.

The man calmly finished his soup and nodded.

“I studied law and political science.”

Spencer, who was sitting directly across from you, could recognize the gleam of curiosity and enthusiasm in your gaze.

“That is most interesting; I imagine all that knowledge must greatly contribute to your work,” you murmured freely, then looked to the ladies seated at the table. “I do not believe I asked before what your work is, and I apologize. I am, without a doubt, very interested to know. Miss Jennifer, please begin.”

She seemed to have no trouble answering.

“Well, as with you, I was encouraged and supported in my education. I received formal education in rhetoric, public speaking, and administration, which allows me to establish a more civilized connection with the communication involved in these types of investigations, the victims, and also the press.”

You furrowed your brow, surprised.

“That is fascinating,” you murmured without hiding your admiration. “And you, Miss Prentiss?”

Emily, who usually spoke only when addressed, preferring quiet and introspective study, wiped her face with a napkin before clearing her throat politely and answering.

“I spent my childhood in France and studied there, specializing in logic, linguistics, and philosophy. In fact, I once attended one of your father’s classes as an auditor.”

Your father seemed to smile, attentive to her comment.

“What do you do for this nation, Miss Prentiss?” your father inquired, curious.

“Sometimes we face cases that have gone unresolved for a long time. While Miss Penelope gathers all the data, I can analyze it, saving us the time of investigating the facts while simultaneously researching the data.”

Your eyes turned to Penelope.

“Miss Garcia, are you Mexican?” you asked, and she nodded.

“Just by name. My father is from the Spanish colony in California, he is a historian,” she commented, then frowned. “Your knowledge interests me, and I appreciate your curiosity; it is very refreshing.”

“Oh, no, the truth is I thank you for what you do. Women like you risk their reputation for causes far greater.”

“Well, issues like reputation, if I may say so,” Emily spoke, “are more of a cage.”

You nodded.

“I’ve always admired women who can articulate such bold ideas,” your father commented. “My wife was just as brave. No matter the fear, she would speak her mind.”

“Courage is not the absence of fear,” David Rossi commented as he cut a piece of the fish served to him. “It is acting despite it,” he added, receiving an approving nod from your father.

“We must discuss your safety matters,” Aaron spoke firmly, interrupting the pleasant conversation that seemed to also be agreeable to him but which seemed eager to address a more urgent topic. “I know you keep yourself busy and that your activities mean much to the community, but I do not think it would be a problem to reduce them a little.”

“Oh, must we have such a tedious conversation right at dinner?” you asked, clearly irritated by the topic. “I do not believe I can reduce them, Mr. Hotchner. I cannot sit idly while women in my community are being targeted. And surely, you understand the urgency of my stance being guided by resolve, not fear.”

“I understand, but I also understand the risks. You are a formidable woman, and that is undoubtedly true,” he admitted. “But, Miss, that does not make you invincible.”

Your gaze seemed to darken with seriousness.

“And yet, invincibility has never been a requirement to dispense justice,” you argued eloquently.

After a pause, Aaron could do nothing but nod. “No, it has not.”

“You speak with too much certainty, young lady,” Morgan dared to speak, seeming a little impatient with your stance, and it seemed to only amuse you. “You have no idea what a kidnapper is capable of doing. I shall not go into detail, but you ought not speak so insolently about an unknown person who has had the audacity to make young women vanish from society in the broad daylight,” he said firmly. Secretly, Spencer found the idea of someone putting you, even slightly, in your place rather intriguing.

You were intelligent and brave, no doubt, but at times, it seemed to him that you took it too far, to the point of crossing into the realms of irresponsibility regarding your own physical safety. As if you were so protected within your bubble of privilege that you could not grasp the danger you were in, nor the likelihood that you might emerge grievously injured from all of this. You lived in the illusion that your position had helped you to create.

“Women of society are generally meant to look pretty and not be heard. It does not surprise me that even though they may have screamed for help, no one heard them.”

Now the conversation seemed a little more tense, but your father continued to eat, uninterested in stopping the conversation, as if the discussion were a study of behavior for him.

“That is not in question, I am sure that all those victims endured a most unpleasant time trying to escape the clutches of this criminal. Let us not forget the weaknesses and fragility of their gender,” he reminded you with a frown, and that phrase did nothing but trigger an instinct to defend yourself.

“Excuse me?” you laughed. “I have traveled to Europe, where it seems we are left behind socially. I have seen women in the field of martial arts, I have seen women subdue male opponents with the ease of a wild beast.”

Morgan then laughed.

“Well, my intention is not to cast aspersions, but I do not know how agile a young lady can be, with or without knowledge of defense, or unguarded in the arrangements and garments you ladies wear these days.”

You observed your attire, which, though sober, was clearly inconvenient and a hindrance to agile movement.

“Listen, I do not wish to offend you. And out of respect for the presence of my companions, I must be honest about this; I am not saying that you are not intelligent or capable, only that maintaining calm in situations of pressure, like in surgeries or on the battlefield… that requires a certain type of courage and nerve that the daily life in which women are accustomed does not teach,” he explained.

“Oh, and that is our fault?” you commented sarcastically. “The only reason we have not been able to show nerve, as you so eloquently put it, on the battlefield or in an operating room is not because we do not wish to be there. For years, for centuries, we have been where you have wanted us,” you reminded him candidly. “Do you truly think that women… women like us, like me, lack nerve?”

“That is not it, it is just that we are more conditioned for it.”

Right then, it happened. Spencer could see the change in your gaze. It was more powerful than witnessing an electrical storm forming. The dark clouds of opinion clouded your irises, and the stormy presence of argumentative lightning threatened to strike in the brilliance of your pupils.

You let out another chuckle, but you no longer seemed amused. You lifted your chin and never took your eyes off him. The rest of the table was silent, and if Spencer did not know Emily, Jennifer, and Penelope well enough, he would have sworn they were holding their breath in interest.

“Conditioned for it?” you asked. “Mr. Morgan, have you ever had the privilege of witnessing a woman giving birth?” you inquired curiously. “Because I assure you, there is no greater test for calm than being under the extreme stress of bringing a life into this world.”

“Well… hum,” Derek surely had more to say, but you interrupted him, beginning to rise from your seat with an apology in your gaze but certainty in your words.

“And while we are on this subject, women are perfectly capable of learning medicine. We might even bring a level of care and compassion that some men lack,” you muttered the last part under your breath, apologizing as you excused yourself and left the table.

Yes, this was not how Spencer had imagined the conversation would go, and he had to admit that a certain form of regret overcame him, especially when he saw the confused look on Derek’s face and the defeated expression on yours when you left the dining room. A few minutes later, after excusing himself as well, he found you. You were sitting on a comfortable sofa in the library, looking out the window, bathed in the fading colors of the sunset. You held a book in your hands, but you were not reading it. Spencer understood your posture. Countless times, in the unrest of thought, his concern had been so great that even the best and most captivating book had not been able to soothe his mind.

“I did not come here to bring the dining room discussion into the library,” was the first thing you said, without looking at him. “I have no intention of wasting words on ideas that others are unwilling to consider. That is not my idea of pleasant conversation.”

Spencer adjusted his gray jacket, which gave him an air of scholar, and stepped into the library.

“I did not come here to argue with you, unless we are to discuss your copy of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, because I might have a few ideas to make the conversation more enlightening,” Spencer spoke, finally earning your gaze.

The sparkle in your eyes still carried the mark of the passion you had shown, but now it seemed more contained, as if the spark that had driven you was beginning to extinguish in the stillness of the room. Spencer leaned slightly against a nearby table, looking at you with a gaze that left no room for misunderstanding.

“I do not believe you wish to win my trust with a conversation about Mary Wollstonecraft, though I am surprised you know of her, or perhaps not… you look and behave like someone who always knows what you are talking about.”

Spencer took the softness in your voice as a sign to move forward. With his hands behind his back and a meditative posture, he began to speak.

“I know it is not easy to understand what Mr. Morgan was trying to tell you,” he began in a soft but firm voice, trying to convey something he had not managed to do in the dining room. “And I know that perhaps he did not say it right, but it was not his intention to question your ability or determination. Our concern is not in your bravery, but in what this... matter means, and in what you could risk.”

You turned toward him, but there was no longer the same hardness in your gaze. The tone Spencer had adopted surprised you, a mix of empathy and firmness that seemed to call for a deeper understanding.

“Mr. Reid, I know it does not seem so, but I am aware that my insistence on the matter may sound tiresome. I know very well that the only reason the ton does not show disdain or embarrassment over my often controversial opinion is my social position, something over which I have neither merit nor control,” you admitted. “But you must understand that my argumentative nature and my insistence on defending my position and my contribution to the world is not for mere whim. My education has been anything but conventional, and my opinion is not held up by air. You must know that what I say is something I believe fervently and will not stop thinking, no matter how much I am attempted to be censored,” you added. “It is not about who my father is, nor about who my mother is. It is about what I believe, about my conviction, and I do not play with that.”

“And that is admirable,” Spencer added in a peaceful tone, gently tugging a curl behind his ear to look at you attentively. “What I am trying to explain,” he continued, “is that it is not about what you should do as a woman, nor what is expected of you for being who you are. This is not a matter of social expectations, it is a matter of survival. This threat, this person who hides in the shadows of our society, does not understand gender or titles. He acts without remorse, without rules. And we need you, your intelligence and your bravery, but also with a sense of caution.”

You crossed your arms, but this time not defensively, but contemplatively. Spencer’s posture, so different from what you had received before, invited you to listen. His gaze was warmer, no disdain nor impatience, only a desire for you to understand what was at stake.

“It is not about your position, nor the place society has assigned to you, but about the necessity for us to work within certain limits in order to bring this to a successful conclusion. For while your bravery is indisputable, this situation is not a stage to prove how bold you may be. It is a battlefield where each misstep can result in consequences we are not prepared to allow.”

A sigh escaped your lips, and for the first time in the conversation, it seemed as though you were beginning to understand the weight of his words. He did not speak thus to belittle what you represented, nor to question your abilities, but because he understood how fragile the line between success and failure could be.

“What I mean,” he continued, his words slower now but laden with sincerity, “is that your cooperation is not merely a request made for the sake of protocol. It is a vital necessity. If we do not act with caution, if we do not take into account the real threats that lurk, not only will you be in danger, but the women of your community will remain vulnerable.”

The silence between you both stretched, but it was not uncomfortable. Spencer was not asking you to change; he merely wished for you to comprehend the magnitude of the situation, to view cooperation not as a restriction of your autonomy, but as an act of safety.

“I want you to know that I value your courage,” he said at last, his tone softer now, almost a whisper. “And I do not ask you to lose it. What I ask is that, for the good of all, you momentarily pause that unyielding determination, so we may find a safe way to proceed. It is not for your sake alone. It is for all those who depend on you.”

He looked at you, with a sincerity you had never before seen in him. Something had changed in his gaze; he was no longer merely a professional concerned with the case, but a man who understood the importance of your struggle, yet who wished to see you out of harm’s way.

“I do not ask you to submit to an authority you do not deserve,” he concluded, “only that we work together on this. I, with you.” His words were different from what he had thought.

The gentleness of his words lingered in the air, and for a moment, the inner struggle you had carried began to subside. It was not submission he requested, but collaboration. An alliance. And for the first time, you realized that his words were not meant to intimidate you, but to protect you. He earned your admiration and your trust with his sincere words.

You accepted them and treasured them even as the days passed. Most of all because Spencer had become your companion almost every moment of the day. Sometimes, you even found yourself longing for his presence during nights when the anxiety about your situation kept you awake. There came a time when you could no longer hide how pleasant it was to have him by your side, exchanging ideas, sometimes academic, artistic, or simply novel. Suddenly, even the most mundane domestic topics had ceased to be burdensome.

“It is a beautiful garden,” Spencer murmured, hands clasped behind his back as you both walked through the garden and greenhouse in your backyard, bathed in the fullness of the afternoon.

“Father and mother owned another estate out in the countryside which we still possess. However, there was no other place my mother favored more than this garden,” you confided. “Since her passing, our gardener, Paul, has taken care of it; sometimes I tend to the vegetables and herbs that help my father with his blood pressure,” you said with a playful smile. “I suppose it’s something that relaxes me.”

“Do you miss your mother?” he asked, and immediately seemed to regret it. “I apologize; perhaps it is my role to know.”

“Do not worry, Mr. Reid,” you attempted to calm him with a relaxed tone. “I would not be offended, even if you were to write my answer down in that notebook you keep hidden in your pocket, which you carry with you everywhere,” you pointed out, making him smile.

You made him smile because you observed and noticed things in him, things you knew even without his telling you.

“I miss the concept I’ve created of a mother,” you admitted. “I have never lacked the presence of a woman, but the affection I imagine only a mother can provide is what I miss.” You paused, then asked, “Do you have a good relationship with your mother, Mr. Reid?” trusting that he would feel as free to respond to you as you had been with him.

“My mother suffers from dementia,” he confessed, his gaze lowering to the ground.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Reid. I understand that it is a delicate matter, and I understand if you do not wish to speak of…”

“She lives in the house where I was raised,” he interrupted, his response quick. “It is a modest study where she is well cared for. She suffers from hallucinations that prevent her from leading a normal life. I do what I can.”

Your hair, now loose around your face, framed it and made you appear younger as you leaned forward to meet his gaze.

“I believe what you do is noble,” you said with intensity. “And any man who feels affection and compassion freely is deserving of respect.” You gently touched the sleeve of his coat, your touch soft and shy, but he seemed to welcome it.

He nodded, accepting your breath as he sought something from the leather bag he had brought with him, revealing a thick tome of a book.

“I thought you might appreciate this; Elements of Botany. It is the first volume. The author, Elizabeth Blackwell, made exquisite illustrations of plants in detail. I believe it may complement your essays on the natural world and women in the field.”

Genuinely excited by the gesture, you took the book into your hands, opening it and quickly flipping through the pages, admiring the illustrations.

“This is lovely. Did you truly bring it because you think I can use it for my essays?” you asked with curiosity.

“I believe you can actually surpass yourself even more,” he replied.

You had noticed that he possessed a sharpness of mind that was uncommon among his contemporaries. You had heard that his extraordinary memory allowed him to easily store all the details he observed, remembering even the images and scenes with astonishing clarity, as if he could visualize a book he had read over and over. This prodigious memory almost seemed superhuman, for, as you had heard your father say, he never forgot the smallest details of what he had seen or heard.

As for his reading abilities, you had noticed that he read with admirable speed, with such skill that the words seemed to jump off the pages, absorbed in the blink of an eye. His skill allowed him to devour the essays you had written and permitted him to read them just a few afternoons ago in the library.

It was no surprise, then, that those around him saw him as a man of exceptional abilities, perhaps touched by divine grace, or as some might suggest in more academic circles, gifted with a mind superior to that of ordinary mortals.

Observing these qualities made you admire him even more. He had abilities that could turn the best of men into despots, but Mr. Reid did not let himself be carried away by flattery or notoriety. On the contrary, he seemed to be more sensitive than most. And that, more than any intelligent word that left his lips, was what caught your attention.

You had little idea of what that team was planning, but your father trusted them, and Spencer, whom you had gotten to know a little better over time, was an important part of it. So you had the assurance that by cooperating with them, your life would not be put in jeopardy, and you would help prevent another woman from being put in danger. You had been told that what seemed to motivate the abductor were women like you, who were actively involved in revolutionary activities or held controversial opinions. You had heard Mr. Rossi say that the suspect seemed to have a strong opinion against women who threatened the established order, and that opinion drove him to seek to eliminate such threats. You, more than anyone, wanted that vile man to be caught.

As the days passed, the tension between you and Derek Morgan seemed to dissipate. Both of you had hastily defended your beliefs and seemed embarrassed by how quickly you had taken offense to each other’s opinions. And though you were not friends, you could recognize that by learning other sides of him, and with Spencer’s help, you had begun to respect him, just as you had come to know the rest of the team more deeply, even enjoying profound conversations with David Rossi.

One day, while having tea, you were told that you reminded him of a writer he once met in Florence—high-spirited, uncommitted, and a little infuriating.

“Only a little?” you had asked in a playful tone. “I must be losing my touch,” you remarked, earning a mild but not overly serious correction from your father.

Rossi had laughed. “Do not worry, you have plenty of fire for the world.”

If only you felt that way all the time. Especially in contexts where neither your command of writing nor your knowledge could save you—like the balls and parties you were obliged to attend with your father, for example.

The candlelight flickered gently on the vanity as Anne adjusted the laces of your corset with precise but delicate movements. The fabric of the cream dress, embroidered with blue flowers, fell gracefully over your figure. While you could not deny that the attire was beautiful, you hated with every fiber of your being the process it took to wear it. Anne’s patience, however, always managed to ease your frustration.

“I do not understand how you can read so quickly, Anne,” you commented while watching your reflection, allowing her to place the embroidered bodice in its place. “Last week it was Jane Eyre, and now I find you with Pride and Prejudice.”

Anne smiled, her hands working swiftly as she adjusted the puffed sleeves.

“It is thanks to you, miss, that I can enjoy these stories. If you had not taught me how to read, how could I know that Mr. Darcy is so ill-tempered at first? Though, I must admit, I do not understand how anyone can change so much for love.”

A laugh escaped your lips easily, a momentary relief from the tension of the evening that awaited you.

“Well, Anne, perhaps Darcy needed someone to tell him that his pride was not a virtue. Isn’t that something you always say to me?”

Anne blushed and lowered her gaze, but not without replying with a smile.

“With all due respect, miss, sometimes your opinion is so strong that it frightens some. But I admire you for it. Though...” Her voice softened, as if she were revealing a secret. “I do want to marry and start a family one day. I do not know if I have the strength to face the world as you do.”

You turned to her, placing a hand over hers.

“Who says I do not wish to marry as well?”

She seemed surprised.

“Is that so, miss?”

Suddenly, shyness overtook you. “Well… it is not something I think about persistently all the time, but I have considered it... the idea does not seem like a punishment if it is for the right person,” you admitted. “Anne, the important thing is that it is your choice. There is nothing wrong with wanting to marry and have children, as long as it is what you desire. It is as respectable as a woman deciding to remain alone or pursue a controversial profession. The key lies in the freedom to choose.”

A soft knock on the door interrupted the conversation. You both turned your heads just as Spencer Reid entered, dressed in an impeccable blue suit that complemented his tall, slender figure. His demeanor, though always elegant, seemed different that night, as if the weight of his mission gave him an added gravity.

Upon seeing you, Spencer stopped dead in his tracks. His gaze swept over your figure, and for a moment, the air seemed to vanish from the room. There was something in the way the dress accentuated your bearing, in the glow the candles cast on your face, that unsettled him. A fleeting, irrational thought crossed his mind: it was better if you did not dress like this often. The idea of seeing you so exquisite every day—and knowing others could too—was too much for him. Feeling the heat rise to his face, he quickly looked away, trying to regain his composure.

“Everything is ready for the evening,” he said, his voice firmer than expected. “The carriage is waiting for you.”

You moved closer, accepting the arm he offered, and you both began walking toward the door. The shadows of the house enveloped you comfortably, creating an intimate atmosphere that made conversation easier.

“I must confess, Mr. Reid, that such soirées do not entice me or leave me breathless,” you admitted while walking, perhaps gripping his arm a little more tightly than necessary. “Perhaps it is the lack of a maternal presence in my life, but I always feel uncertain in contexts where neither my intellect nor my conversation seem appealing.”

He seemed flattered by the trust you showed in sharing such a thought.

“Sometimes I also have difficulties in social contexts; I was always a strange little boy, and everyone knew it since my childhood. The only way to understand what motivated people to engage in sometimes mundane or domestic conversations was by reading books about it,” he confessed. “Perhaps I can help you by pretending to be in one of those romance novels I’ve seen in your library. You’ll just have to play the game.”

At once, your cheeks flushed.

“Variety makes the reader form their own opinion,” you said with a slight smile.

He smiled.

“It is not a criticism, more of an observation.” Spencer moved towards the carriage stationed at the entrance of your house, and one of the servants opened the door for you both to enter. As Spencer offered his hand to assist you up, he continued speaking. “I am surprised that someone with such a marked inclination toward progressive ideas enjoys novels that seem to relegate women to the same traditional roles as always,” Spencer remarked with genuine curiosity.

You smiled at his observation.

“That is precisely why I read them; many of those women have strong, controversial opinions, and they find love regardless. Some stories have a transformative power, even when framed in ideas that seem to limit us. And also, if I am to be honest, there is something delightful about losing myself in a well-written romance. It makes me conclude that true love and freedom are not incompatible as they are often portrayed.”

Spencer nodded slowly, as if processing your words while the carriage began its journey.

“That makes sense. Although I must admit, it sounds contradictory, it also seems... balanced.”

“Thank you, Mr. Reid. Your opinion always fascinates me,” you replied, allowing a warm smile to rest on your lips. “Though I have noticed that Edgar Allan Poe has held, if not for hours, your attention in the library,” you observed with a playful smile. “I must admit, I enjoy his stories as well, though they can be somewhat morbid.”

He responded with a laugh and a clever remark about it.

Halfway there, Spencer spoke again.

“Rossi, Hotchner, and Morgan should already be in the salon. Everything is prepared, but it is important that you remain calm. We believe the man behind these crimes will be present tonight.”

A shadow crossed your face as the conversation shifted to a more serious tone, but Spencer gently squeezed your arm as a sign of support.

“His objective is clear: He is charismatic and well-regarded in society, but beneath that façade lies a dangerous man. But fear not, I will not allow anything to happen to you.”

You nodded, trying to control the slight tremble in your hands as you climbed into the carriage, determined to face whatever the night had in store for you.

“And if something happens to you?” you asked in a trembling voice. Suddenly, the very idea of anything taking Spencer from your side felt like a true agony.

“I have faced more difficult positions than a university elite ball,” he assured you with a half-smile. Then, as the carriage came to a stop, he offered his hand, which you took through your glove. You both silently exchanged a glance. Inside, it was a bit difficult to see; there wasn’t much light, and the streetlamps barely provided enough clarity.

It was as if he wanted to say something, something that could not easily be expressed with common words.

“Spencer,” you murmured, for the first time calling him by his name.

For him, it felt like torture. It was as if his name belonged to your lips. He did not want to hear it from any other voice or in any other tone. He did not want you to say anything else with those beautiful lips but his name.

Then the door of the carriage opened, and both of you regained your composure, remembering where you were and why you were there.

“Ready, my lady?” Spencer asked before you were led to the crowd gathered in the grand ballroom, and you nodded, uncertain but trusting in his guidance.

The grand ballroom was illuminated by dozens of crystal chandeliers, each with candles that cast golden glimmers upon the walls adorned with ivory and gold wallpaper. The fluted columns that rose at every corner were draped with garlands of fresh flowers, filling the air with a light scent of jasmine and lavender. An orchestra was set up on a platform at the far end of the room, playing a lively contradance that filled the space with vibrant energy.

The ladies, with their dresses of muslin and silk in pastel hues, move gracefully, their skirts brushing the floor as they converse in groups or wait to be asked for a dance. The gentlemen, attired in fine woolen tailcoats and perfectly knotted cravats, hold glasses of champagne or engage in animated discussions near the refreshment tables. These tables are laden with delicacies: fruit tarts, almond pastries, pitchers of lemonade with ice, and platters of cold meats accompanied by artisan breads.

“Mr. Reid, allow me to introduce you to some of the most distinguished gentlemen in our society,” you say in a measured and cordial voice, intertwining your arm with his. Your smile is impeccable, that of a lady accustomed to navigating the complexities of social gatherings. It is the result of years of practice, years of submitting to occasions such as this.

The first to be introduced is Doctor Ambrose Whitaker, an older man with gray hair swept back and a demeanor reminiscent of a wise owl. A professor of classics at the local university, he speaks passionately of his recent essay on the influence of Cicero on modern politics. His gestures are broad, and you notice how Spencer nods politely, asking precise questions that cause Whitaker to look at him with an approving expression.

Next comes Robert Langston, a wealthy merchant and patron of the arts. He is a robust man, with rosy cheeks and a laugh that resonates through the hall whenever he finds an opportunity for a witty remark.

“Ah, Mr. Spencer! I fear I am a simple man, but even I recognize talent when I see it,” he says, giving him a friendly pat on the arm and then glancing at you. “I see that your father has a good eye for his protégés—how has that experience been for you, Mr. Spencer?”

Spencer responds with an affable smile, something in his tone revealing that he is accustomed to handling flattery without losing composure. You notice how his words are carefully measured, leaving Langston satisfied but not committed.

Finally, Charles Abernathy approaches. Tall and handsome, with a face marked by a firm chin and eyes that seem to evaluate every detail around him. Immaculately dressed in a black tailcoat and a dark green satin waistcoat, his presence is charismatic.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Spencer,” says Abernathy, with a courteous bow of his head. He then directs his attention toward you. “May I have the honor of a conversation, my lady?”

You agree, though your smile becomes more strained as the conversation progresses. Charles speaks of the progress in local politics and his projects to reform property laws, but his words, though seemingly benign, are imbued with an intensity that is unsettling. There is something in the way he looks at you, a gleam in his eyes that sends a shiver down your spine. You find yourself searching for Spencer with your eyes, and his presence, just a few steps away, seems to be an invisible anchor.

When you finally excuse yourself, claiming the need for a breath of fresh air, Spencer follows you, his brow barely furrowed but alert.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, leaning toward you. His eyes scrutinize you carefully, as though trying to read what you do not say, as if he were covering you with a blanket simply through his gaze.

“Yes,” you reply, but your tone lacks conviction. You briefly glance toward where Abernathy stands before turning your attention to Spencer. “I just… I think I need a bit of air.”

Spencer nods, though the gesture does not dissipate the shadow of concern on his face. In an attempt to distract you, he guides you back to the center of the room, knowing that you must not lose sight of the primary reason you were there.

Along the way, several acquaintances greet you. Lady Beatrice Hawthorne, a widow known for her sharp tongue, comments, “Oh, my dear, it seems you’ve found a gentleman willing to endure the rigors of the waltz! And what a gentleman…” she whispers, casting you a playful glance.

You blush, but Spencer simply smiles, responding with a respectful bow. “Lady Hawthorne, I fear it is I who am fortunate enough to share this moment,” he adds, extending his arm toward you and offering his hand.

He was inviting you to dance.

The music shifts to a waltz, and as he leads you toward the floor, the hustle and bustle of the hall seems to fade away. You notice how Spencer adjusts his posture, his hand firm on your waist and the other holding yours with a precision that speaks of experience. His eyes meet yours, and for an instant, the connection between you transcends any words. You had always felt nervous while dancing, having had excellent dance instructors but never being a good pupil. It simply wasn’t natural for you, and you knew it. You had always had to keep your gaze fixed on your feet to avoid stepping on your poor and unfortunate dance partner. However, right now, any hint of nervousness had yet to make an entrance. You simply didn’t feel it.

The first beats of the waltz are measured, and soon, both of you are moving in perfect synchrony, spinning gracefully among the other couples. Each step flows effortlessly, as if you had practiced this dance for weeks. The way he leads you, firmly but without imposing strength, makes you feel light, almost as if you were floating.

“You have a natural talent for this,” he murmurs, bowing slightly so that only you can hear him. His breath brushes your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine that you cannot avoid.

“Perhaps it is your skill at leading that makes it easier,” you reply, trying to keep the tone light, though even you notice the faint tremor in your voice.

As the music intensifies, so does the connection between you two. In a particularly tight turn, you feel the pressure of his hand on your waist adjust briefly to keep you steady. His eyes never leave yours, and for a moment, the rest of the hall disappears. The laughter, the conversations, even the music become a distant murmur. It is as though time has stopped, leaving only the two of you trapped in this moment.

When the music finally stops, both of you remain still for a second longer, breathing slightly agitated. Spencer releases you with a calculated movement, stepping back while regaining his neutral expression. But his eyes, though briefly, reveal something deeper, something he does not dare speak.

A murmur of applause fills the hall, bringing you back to reality. Several familiar faces smile at you knowingly, while Lady Hawthorne passes by and murmurs, “Well, my dear, had I known this young man was so charming, I would have made sure to introduce myself sooner!”

Spencer responds with a bow, but you can only give them a half-smile. Something stirs within you, a feeling you cannot name but which, nevertheless, clings to you like a persistent shadow.

You let go of each other, as if suddenly afraid of catching a plague. Spencer excuses himself with the excuse of going to fetch a drink, but you watch as he approaches David and Morgan on the other side of the hall, leaving you at the mercy of Lady Hawthorne and other curious women who begin asking you questions.

Spencer stood leaning against one of the columns in the hall, the tension visible in his posture as he watched the couples continue dancing without interruption. He had excused himself from your side with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and had moved to a corner where Derek Morgan and David Rossi chatted carelessly. But nothing in his voice betrayed tranquility when he arrived beside them.

As he spoke with his companions, he could not help but seek you out across the hall. He saw you laughing softly as another lady spoke to you, and then turn your head slightly to observe the dance. The light from the chandelier fell upon you as if it were made to illuminate your figure, enhancing the delicate tone of your dress and the natural elegance of your movements. It was impossible not to admire you. Spencer surprised himself by recognizing that what he felt went beyond simple interest. He had known many attractive ladies, but none had awakened such a visceral, profound feeling in him. It was unsettling, yet impossible to ignore.

“Everything’s fine so far. What have you found?” Rossi asked with curiosity, sipping his whisky and observing the crowd discreetly over the rim of his glass.

“There’s something off with Abernathy,” Spencer began, glancing toward you out of the corner of his eye, as if he wanted to make sure you were safe in the center of the hall. The concern in his voice was palpable. “I noticed how he looked at her, and it wasn’t just social interest. It was... something else.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his broad chest. His voice, always direct but not without warmth, broke the silence:

“Reid, I’m not saying you’re wrong, but are you sure this has nothing to do with... other things? We’ve all noticed how you looks at her too. And while there’s nothing wrong with that... right now, it’s not the time to let those feelings guide your judgment.”

Spencer furrowed his brow, clearly uncomfortable with the insinuation.

“This isn’t...! Morgan, this isn’t about that! I’m talking about behavior patterns. Abernathy acts like someone who...” Spencer trailed off, running a hand through his hair, a gesture that betrayed his frustration. “There’s something about him that sets me on edge. And when she excused herself from the conversation, I noticed he was upset, though he tried to hide it.”

Rossi, who had remained silent, nodded gravely.

“Let’s listen to him. Spencer rarely gets these things wrong. But, Reid, make sure what you’re feeling doesn’t cloud your vision. We know you care.”

Meanwhile, you found yourself near one of the large windows overlooking the garden, watching the flickering light of the torches that illuminated the outer paths. A mix of emotions swirled within you, emotions that you could scarcely understand. Spencer’s coldness in excusing himself had left a void, a feeling of abandonment that you were unwilling to admit. Perhaps he had noticed how much his actions had affected you, and that discomforted him. After all, how could a man like him be attracted to a woman like you? You knew that your independence, your ideas, and your manner of living were seen as a threat by most men of your time.

No one wanted to be associated with a woman like you, not even for all the money you possessed.

You decided to step out into the garden, seeking fresh air to calm the whirlwind in your mind. The gravel paths crunched beneath your steps, and the night breeze caressed your face as you wandered among the bushes and trees that surrounded the ballroom. So absorbed were you in your thoughts that you did not notice Charles Abernathy’s presence until his voice broke the silence.

"A charming evening, don't you think?" he said, his polite tone coupled with a gleam in his eyes you could not quite decipher.

"Mr. Abernathy," you replied, striving to maintain your composure as he drew near. "Yes, indeed, it is."

"Though, I must admit, the company makes it all the more pleasant," he continued, leaning slightly towards you. His smile was courteous, but there was something in his gaze that put you on edge.

The conversation went on, but as he spoke, each word seemed laden with hidden meaning. He spoke of the importance of maintaining social order, the dangers of overly progressive ideas, and though he never stated it outright, you felt his remarks were a veiled attack on your own beliefs.

"Mr. Abernathy, while I admit I enjoy the stimulating exchange of ideas, I must ask that we return to the ballroom," you were honest. "I am sure a respectable man such as yourself understands the impropriety of finding oneself alone with you in such a place."

You tried to remain calm, but your heart raced when he stepped closer, his voice lowering to a whisper.

"You are a very special woman," he began, his words dripping with insinuation. "But do not expect me to believe for a moment your speech on what is or is not appropriate. Someone like you constantly prides herself on being above protocols or the bounds of decency, would you not agree?"

You furrowed your brow, attempting to free yourself from his grip when his hand wrapped around your bare arm.

"Excuse me?" you asked. "Mr. Abernathy, do not think that because of my open mind and free opinions, I will tolerate insolence. There is a difference between speaking freely and being disrespectful."

He ignored your remark, muttering something under his breath, his jaw tightening as his expression turned almost diabolical.

"Do you know how beautiful the world would be if certain things simply… stayed in their place?" he asked, shaking your body roughly, causing you pain. Suddenly, he pulled something shiny from his pocket and brought it dangerously close to your face, the sharp blade of the knife grazing your lips. "Such full, beautiful lips, how lovely they would be when they can no longer speak."

You could not deny it: you were terrified, feeling the coldness of the metal against you. But if he wanted to silence you, you would give him reasons to regret it.

"Is that what you’ve done to the other women?" you asked, your voice steady despite the terror. "Silenced them?" You added, "You cannot do that, Abernathy, not even if you kill me. They will write about me, and in years to come, when our ideas are accepted, what you find offensive will seem revolutionary to humanity." You tried to add salt to the wound while buying time, knowing they would soon notice your absence and come looking for you.

Before he could respond, you heard hurried footsteps approaching. Spencer appeared in the distance, followed by Derek and Rossi. His face was pale, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and determination. When he saw you, his expression changed to pure relief, though that relief quickly faded when he saw Abernathy holding your arm and pressing the knife against your skin.

"Release the lady!" Derek ordered, advancing toward you. But before he could reach you, Abernathy swiftly struck him, wounding him with a quick motion, causing Morgan to fall to the ground with a grunt of pain.

Spencer took a step forward, his hands raised in a gesture of calm, though his voice trembled slightly as he spoke.

"Charles, listen. This doesn’t have to end like this. We can talk, resolve this civilly. Please, put down the knife."

Abernathy let out a bitter laugh, his gaze turning more dangerous.

"Shut up, boy! What do you know about how the world works? This woman needs to learn her place."

You tried to free yourself from his grasp, but he tightened his hold, the blade of the knife grazing your skin. You looked at Spencer, your eyes filled with tears but also with silent determination. You thought that if this was your last night, at least you would die knowing what it was to love, even if it was unrequited.

At that moment, a shot rang through the air. Abernathy let out a strangled cry and fell to the ground, the knife slipping from his hand. Rossi lowered his Colt, his expression one of cold determination, while Aaron Hotchner arrived, his gaze equally severe.

Spencer ran toward you, his hands trembling slightly as he took you by the shoulders.

"Are you alright? Did he hurt you?" he asked, his voice shaky, his eyes scanning you as if he needed to be certain you were whole.

You nodded, unable to speak as tears finally ran down your face. Spencer drew you into a protective embrace, whispering words of comfort as chaos erupted around you, not caring that people were watching, not caring what they would say about it in response. Neither of you cared. He didn’t because you were alive, breathing with him by your side. And you didn’t, because you were in his arms.

Derek howled in pain. He had refused to go to the hospital, where Abernathy had been escorted by police officers, who would treat him enough for him to be able to admit his crimes and reveal what he had done with the more than eight women he had abducted. Now, he was being attended to in the kitchen by Mrs. Harrison.

"This hurts like the devil," the poor man could not contain himself, blushing at the flood of profanities that followed.

Mrs. Harrison kept her composure, unlike the rest of the team who surrounded the scene, suppressing laughter more than showing concern, except for Penelope, who looked on with horror.

"It will pass," she murmured, adjusting the bandage around his leg where Abernathy had struck him.

In front of him, with your arms crossed alongside your father and Spencer, you decided to speak.

"And yet, here you are. Still breathing. Perhaps you'd prefer I fetch a woman giving birth to show you what true fortitude looks like?" you asked with innocent candor, earning you a look from Morgan.

"Alright, miss, I got the point," he replied.

You laughed, pouring some whiskey into a glass and handing it to him, patting him on the back.

You could not sleep that night, though the silence that filled the house spoke only of the quiet rest of those who stayed there that evening. You should have been able to sleep. The suspect who had brought all these investigators to your home had finally been found and neutralized. No one else was in danger, and your life would return to normal. But tomorrow, they would head back to Washington after their long journey to save you, and with them, Spencer. And you could not explain how conflicted that thought made you feel. You were restless, and you decided that you would not make better use of your life by staying in bed sleeping. So you dressed early, made yourself some tea, trying not to wake Mrs. Harrison, who would surely get up to do everything that you were perfectly capable of doing, and went to the library to write some reflections. Every now and then, disturbed by your unease, you’d rise to fiddle with the daguerreotype your father had brought from Europe and waste time. That’s how Spencer found you.

The library was dim, lit only by the flicker of the oil lamp on the desk. Spencer entered silently, closing the door behind him, and paused for a moment, watching you as though afraid of breaking something fragile. His eyes softened when he saw you, and with measured steps, he approached until he was only a few feet away.

"I did not wish to disturb you…" he murmured, breaking the silence. His voice, low and restrained, resonated in the space like a confession.

"You do not," you replied, setting the artifact down. Your hands intertwined in front of you as though needing something to hold onto. "I suppose you cannot sleep either."

"No, I could not. Not after tonight." Spencer lowered his gaze, a flash of remorse crossing his face. "I must apologize for what happened. For… losing my composure. I should not have held you like that. I understand if you felt I crossed a boundary."

His sincerity was bewildering. You had felt his embrace after the confrontation with Abernathy, and far from considering it inappropriate, it had offered you a comfort you had not known you needed. But here he was, apologizing as if he had committed an unforgivable offense.

"You do not need to apologize, Mr. Reid," you replied, using his name intentionally. "Under those circumstances, anyone would have reacted the same or worse. If anything, your presence was a comfort to me."

For a moment, his eyes met yours, and something inscrutable passed between you. Then, he looked away, as though the intensity of the moment was too much.

"Thank you," he said at last, adjusting his glasses in a nervous gesture. "Although I suppose it’s not easy to trust someone like me. I am not… particularly brave. I just do my job the best I can."

“Nonsense,” you replied, stepping forward a pace. “Tonight was frightening, but you had the composure to stand firm. That is bravery. Though… if you wish to make amends for something, explain to me how you arrived at the conclusion that Abernathy was the suspect.”

Spencer seemed relieved by the change in topic, his posture relaxing as he began to explain.

“The profile was clear,” he began, his voice adopting that confident tone he used when speaking of matters he mastered. “Abernathy is a man who firmly believes in the established order. He considers women who defy the norms a threat to be eliminated. He enjoys good reputation and he knew how to play that game.”

You grimaced upon hearing these words, the weight of what had transpired falling upon you once more.

“It is chilling to think that someone could act with such cruelty under the pretense of protecting the order.”

Spencer nodded. “What is most disturbing is that people like him are often seen as pillars of the community, allowing them to act without suspicion until it is far too late. But… thanks to you, and your cooperation, we managed to stop him before he could cause more harm.”

A sad smile formed on your lips. “I hope that means no one else will have to go through what those women suffered. Though, I cannot shake the feeling that perhaps I was too reckless.”

Spencer stepped closer to you, his voice dropping a tone.

“It was not recklessness, it was courage. The same courage I have seen in you from the very first day. You are an exceptional woman, and though that may intimidate some, to me… it inspires.”

You stood silent, taken aback by the intensity of his words. But he did not stop there.

“And now that this case has concluded, I must prepare for my departure.” His words were calm, yet there was a trace of melancholy in them. “I shall return to Washington, and though the work there is stimulating, I must admit I shall miss the conversations we have had. They have been… a true delight.”

You tried to take it with humor, though you felt a lump in your throat. “Well, at least you won’t have to be associated with such a scandalous woman like me anymore. I’m sure that will be a relief.”

However, Spencer did not smile. Instead, his expression grew more serious, more intense.

“No, it will not be a relief. It will be torment.” He took another step towards you, closing the distance until only a few inches separated you. His voice dropped, lower, more laden with emotion. “I cannot pretend that something has not changed within me since I met you. I admire your mind, your bravery, your indomitable spirit. You have made me question things I once took for granted, and for the first time in my life, I feel that I have found someone who truly understands me. Because since I met you, my life has changed in ways I cannot ignore. You have ignited something in me that I have never felt before: a desperation for your presence, a longing that consumes me even in the quietest moments. You have made me understand what it is to live in the torment of uncertainty, wondering if I will ever have the chance to say this to you.”

His eyes sought yours, and when they found them, his voice quivered slightly, but not from a lack of certainty—rather, from the intensity of his feelings.

“You are the reason the world, with all its imperfections, suddenly feels full of possibilities. With you, every idea makes sense, every theory seems incomplete without hearing your opinion. I have lived among books and thoughts, but you are the first person who has transformed those concepts into something alive. Something real. You are like a storm that sweeps all before it, yet leaves behind a clear sky, full of promises.”

He took another step, so close that you could feel the warmth of his presence. His voice lowered to a whisper.

“I cannot imagine a future without you in it. The thought of leaving, of you continuing on without knowing how I feel, is a burden I cannot bear. I know I am not a man of wealth or titles, but what I have, what I am, is yours if you accept it. I want to build a world with you, where you never have to apologize for being who you are, where your ideas and courage can flourish without restrictions.”

He took a deep breath, as if every word had come straight from his soul.

“Perhaps marriage is not the epitome of freedom, but if you are willing, I wish to offer you a shared life. A life full of intellectual challenges, endless conversation, and a love without limits. I want to raise children with you, children who, hopefully, will live in a world shaped by the ideas we now defend. But more than that, I want to spend each day by your side, admiring the strength that makes you so unique.” He concluded, his voice trembling, his eyes wide open, so transparent that you could see the rawness of his emotions.

“I love you. I love you with a madness I never thought I would find, a madness of which I never thought I would be proud. You are the reason why men may lose their sanity and the cure for a heart I did not know was ill until I saw you and heard you for the first time. Just by saying my name, you have me in your hands.”

Tears filled your eyes, but they were not tears of sadness. They were tears of such deep emotion that you could hardly contain them.

“Oh, Spencer,” you began, your voice trembling but firm. “If there is one thing I have learned in this life, it is that what truly matters is not names, nor wealth, nor even the opinion of others. What matters is finding someone who sees the world as you do, and who is willing to walk beside you, no matter how difficult the road. If you accept me as I am, if you love me as I deserve, that is exactly what I will give you in return.”

Tears filled your eyes, but not from sorrow. They were tears of such profound emotion that you could barely hold them back. And then, before words could cross your lips again, you took a step towards him.

Your movement was resolute, and Spencer seemed caught between surprise and relief when your hands found his face, holding it delicately but also with an urgency you could not repress. His eyes, filled with emotion, closed for the briefest of moments before your lips met his.

The kiss was intense, a torrent of contained emotions finally finding release. Spencer responded immediately, wrapping his arms around you and drawing you closer, as if he feared this moment might vanish. There was passion in the way his lips moved against yours, but there was also tenderness, as though he wished to reassure you that everything he had said was true, and more.

When they finally parted, just enough to look into each other’s eyes, his hands remained on your waist, and yours did not leave his face. Both of you breathed rapidly, as if the world had shifted in that instant.

“Spencer,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

“I love you,” he replied without hesitation, and you knew those words were as inevitable as the dawn.

[colbychu]

Misty | Eddie Munson x You | Pt.1

Word Count: ~2.4k

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: The summer before college, the future was supposed to belong to the two of you—music, escape, a city that never sleeps. But then Eddie says a few words that change everything: She’s pregnant. And it’s mine. Now, your dream looks different, and so does he.

Single Dad | Friends to Lovers

1 | 2 |

The cicadas were screaming—just like they always did when the sun dipped and the heat finally settled.

You slid into the passenger seat of Eddie’s van. The leather burned from baking in the sun too long.

The Columbia letter was crushed in your hand like maybe if you held it any looser, it would vanish.

You’d already read it a dozen times.

"Dear Applicant, we are pleased to inform you…"

This was real life.

Every word felt like the start of a fairytale.

But this wasn’t a fairytale.

Eddie leaned his shoulder against the driver’s side door like he was ready to bolt. A cigarette dangled from his lips, fingers twitching around his lighter in that jittery rhythm he always had. He hadn’t said much since you showed him the envelope. Just stared out at the woods across from your house, like the trees might whisper him an answer he couldn’t find in his own head.

Finally, you broke the silence.

“You’re not gonna say anything?”

He shrugged, dragging slow and exhaling slower.

“What do you want me to say?”

You frowned. “I don’t know… ‘Congratulations, I’m proud of you’ maybe?” You hugged the letter to your chest. “Wasn’t that the plan? You and me takin’ on New York?”

“Yeah, well…” He flicked ash out the window. “Plans change.”

And then he said it.

The thing about the waitress from The Hideout.

And the baby.

Your heart stuttered.

And then the silence fell—not awkward, not empty.

It was mourning.

“Jesus, Eddie.” Your voice was a whisper. “You’re not coming to New York with me.”

He finally looked over, brow furrowed.

Not like you really thought he would.

Not anymore.

But you needed to say it.

Needed the sting of it.

“I knocked up a married waitress from The Hideout, and that’s what you’re worried about? New York?”

The words clogged your throat. None made it out—not right away.

Where could you even start?

Your best friend—your person—the one you’d spent your whole life dreaming of escaping Hawkins with…

…had gotten someone pregnant.

But you didn’t pry. Didn’t want the details.

You’d always known Eddie wasn’t celibate.

You knew about the girls.

Not always the best choices.

The fewer you knew, the less your heart had to picture.

You didn’t want to know what the boy who held your heart in his hands did with other women.

And now… he was having a baby with one.

“I’m sorry, you’re right—but can you blame me?” you murmured. “We’ve been dreaming about getting out of here since we were kids, and now, right before the finish line, you—”

“I know,” he said, finally meeting your eyes. They were red, swollen. Sleepless.

You didn’t want to blame him.

You knew he blamed himself enough.

Fear. Regret.

“I can’t,” he added, licking his bottom lip. “There’s a kid coming, school’s a disaster, and I’m probably not gonna graduate anyway, so…”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, sharp and short.

“You said we were gonna get out of here, you—”

“I know.”

“You promised.”

It wasn’t meant to guilt him.

But it slipped out like a curse you’d already made peace with.

“I know,” he said again.

Full of pain.

Full of goodbye.

The words were losing their shape.

A baby.

Your best friend was having a baby.

And that night was going to shape not only his life—but yours.

With a one-night stand from the grimiest bar in Hawkins.

After a half-assed show.

Probably in a bathroom stall that didn’t lock.

And a baby’s.

“What did the guys say?” you asked. But you didn’t just mean the band. You meant everyone.

“I don’t know. I just came from Diane’s. You’re the first person I told.”

Jesus.

You sank back in your seat.

“So Wayne—?”

“No one. Just me, you, and Diane,” he said, jaw tight, like the words hurt to say.

“Her husband then…” you murmured. “Christ, Eddie. She’s married.”

The fear hit you then. Sharp. Cold.

A 19-year-old getting a 34-year-old married woman pregnant—that was enough scandal to set Hawkins on fire. Even after the lab incident.

A husband.

A probably-angry one.

They weren’t going to let him forget it.

You reached out and hugged him.

Not just for him.

But for you, too.

You couldn’t promise it would be okay.

But you could promise you’d stay.

Your plans still had to move forward.

At least until graduation.

Until summer ended.

That year, Eddie Munson didn’t walk across the stage.

Instead, he stood in the very back of the gym—wrinkled button-up, hands stuffed in his pockets, wearing a look that didn’t fit the celebration.

His name wasn’t called.

No diploma handed over.

No frame to hang on the wall.

While you stepped up to accept your diploma.

Your smile was tearful.

He knew you deserved it.

He’d seen you bust your ass.

And how you’d made him bust his, too.

And now…

It stung a little.

You’d tutored him all year just for him to miss the finish line.

A baby.

Your eyes scanned the crowd until they found him.

They always did.

Later, behind the gym, you sat on the back steps.

You still had your gown on, cap in your lap. He held a cigarette between his fingers.

“I always thought it’d be you,” you said quietly. “Leaving first.”

“That was the plan.” He muttered. “Supposed to go a year ahead of you, set things up in the big city, but…” He snorted bitterly. “Guess my fairy godmother got wasted and passed out behind The Hideout.”

You smiled, but it didn’t touch your eyes.

“You’re still gonna try though? Graduate next year?”

“I’ll try,” he said, with a shrug. “I mean… kid’s gonna need a dad with a diploma, right?”

You bumped his shoulder. “You’re gonna do great.”

He looked at you like you were a painting he couldn’t touch.

“You always say that.”

And this time, your smile did reach your eyes.

“Because it’s true.”

Here’s the thing about you—

You took the Diane-and-baby news better than he did.

Better than anyone would’ve.

You weren’t the one having panic attacks in parking lots thinking about diapers and fevers and why-the-hell-didn’t-I-use-a-condom 3am crises.

Maybe it was because you always carried a kind of grace Eddie couldn’t quite name.

Like a song written in a key he couldn’t read.

Her husband, Bob, was deployed. She hadn’t been with anyone else but Eddie—that one night.

Diane found out she was pregnant a month in.

And of course it was Eddie’s.

Since the day he told you, you hadn’t left his side.

You were there—for him, for her—even when Diane couldn’t look you in the eye.

You went to every appointment.

Held Diane’s hand when Eddie couldn’t bear it.

Spoke to the little bump beneath her shirt like it was yours to protect.

You called yourself Aunt GG.

Like this was an adventure, not a slow-motion train wreck.

GG.

Short for Giggle G.

Eddie gave you the name the day you met.

He was ten. You were eight.

All wild hair, sunshine, and laughter.

And Eddie read a music theory book just to understand what that meant.

Your laugh was in G Major.

That’s what Wayne said.

Two birds, one stone, Wayne had joked.

You’d always be Giggle G to Eddie.

And now, Aunt G.

Thank God for you.

If it hadn’t been for you the day Wayne found out about the baby…

Who knows what might’ve happened.

The man took the news like it punched him in the throat.

He just nodded.

White-knuckled the beer he’d cracked open after a long, hot day—like the bitter taste could drown the truth.

But you were there.

Beside him.

Hand on his arm.

Steady.

Soft.

Eddie thought about telling you then—how he loved you in that quiet, stupid way that ruins guys like him.

You didn’t flinch.

Didn’t run.

But all he managed was:

“Thanks, G.”

said:

And you—God, you—

with those soft, kind eyes…

“You don’t have to thank me, Eds. We’re a team. Always have been.”

[colbychu]

Misty | Eddie Munson x You | Pt.3

Word Count: 2,330

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: The summer before college, the future was supposed to belong to the two of you—music, escape, a city that never sleeps. But then Eddie says a few words that change everything: She’s pregnant. And it’s mine. Now, your dream looks different, and so does he.

Single Dad | Friends to Lovers

1 | 2 | 3 | 4

It was snowing the next time you came back to Hawkins.

You’d picked Christmas over Thanksgiving. You couldn’t afford that many trips home in a single year, and Christmas just made more sense—winter break was longer, and it lined up with the baby’s due date.

Eddie was doing well in school; Robin had made sure of it. Things were starting to settle now, now that everyone had finally come to terms with the fact that reality was about to shift.

She came into the world right between Christmas and New Year’s—December 28th.

You were standing in the hallway, arms crossed tight, burrowed deep into your oversized coat. Your parents were there. Wayne, Robin, Steve, Gareth, and Dustin too. Your hair had grown out and you’d dyed the ends. Little changes, subtle shifts—just enough to remind Eddie that you had a new life now. And it scared him a little, seeing you. Your face had thinned out, matured—your cheeks catching the warm glow of Christmas lights spilling in from the street. You wore a new perfume. Your college roommate had gotten you hooked on it, and eventually, you bought your own bottle.

When Eddie stepped out of the room, dressed in scrubs and a surgical cap, he was crying. Of course he was.

Baby Misty was clean and bundled, wrapped snug in her blanket, cradled in her dad’s arms when the others rushed in with wide eyes and louder awws.

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Eddie’s eyes left his daughter’s face and found yours. He walked toward you slowly, like he was afraid he might break something just by moving.

“She’s here, G,” he whispered, smiling with relief for the first time in nine months. “She’s so small.”

Your eyes drifted to the baby. You stepped closer. Her dark brown hair peeked out from under the cotton cap your mom had bought for Christmas. The smell of antiseptic and wonder surrounded you.

You looked again, smiling, even though the baby barely opened her eyes. You couldn't tear your gaze away. She was perfect. Her upturned nose, tiny, imperceptible freckles surrounding it. Her tiny white nails peeking out at the tips of her fingers. Her hands were so small that just holding her in your arms was terrifying, but at the same time, you could never let go.

“She really is tiny,” you whispered. Then, soft as a breeze, you brushed her cheek with your fingertip.

“Hey there, little bean,” you cooed. “It’s me. Aunt G.”

The baby gave something that maybe wasn’t quite a smile—but then, she giggled.

A small, soft, brand-new giggle, right there in the middle of a hospital hallway, during a snowstorm.

A giggle that made you believe in magic. A giggle that could create fairies.

Eddie’s breath caught, like a snapped guitar string.

“She’s got your nose,” you said, eyes glistening. “She’s half Munson.” You smiled through it. “Congrats.”

And you meant it.

No matter how hard it had shattered your heart when you left for college alone, no matter how alone you’d felt arriving in New York—no rock lullabies from across the hall, no stealing his coffee even when it tasted like motor oil, no finding your shirts stretched out from where he’d worn them because he liked how they looked on him.

“Don’t say that,” Steve cut in, nose scrunched, stepping closer to peek at Misty. “She can’t look like this goon.”

Then he sighed. “Damn, I want one.”

Robin snorted. “You can’t even land a girlfriend. How do you think babies happen?”

“Eddie can explain it to you,” Dustin added, earning a jab from Robin’s elbow.

Gareth laughed hard.

“Too soon, man. She’s, like, ten minutes old,” Robin said.

“Shit, Robin, let us handle this trauma our own way.”

“Swear jar,” Steve muttered, pointing at Dustin.

But you and Eddie didn’t hear them.

You were both too deep in Misty’s orbit to pay attention to anything else.

Starting your life in New York without him had been hard. You were just starting to recover. Which made the next challenge even harder to process.

“She won’t hold her, G,” Eddie said quietly the next morning. “She won’t even look at her.”

“She’s awake?”

He nodded. “Bob’s with her.”

You exhaled and started toward Diane’s hospital room, your hands trembling. When you knocked, it was Bob who opened the door. You knew him—he was the gas station owner's son, across from your dad’s shop. He used to have kind eyes and a friendly smile. Now, his face was stone. Maybe it was the military, or maybe it was being stuck in a hospital room with his wife after she’d just delivered someone else’s baby.

“She’s giving her up,” he said, no warmth in his voice. “We can’t start over with that baby in the picture.”

You looked at Diane. Her eyes weren’t cold. Just… empty.

You walked to her, then looked back at Bob.

“She’s not a used car, Bob. You don’t just get rid of her like that.”

Then you turned to Diane, gently placing your hand on her shoulder.

“What do you think?” you asked softly.

“I don’t feel like she’s mine,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I thought I would. But I don’t.”

You closed your eyes for a moment and shook your head.

“You won’t see her grow up. You won’t hear her first words, or be there for her first recital. You know you don’t have to do this, right?” You crouched to her level, steadying your voice.

“The decision’s already been made,” Bob muttered.

You ignored him. You kept your eyes on Diane. She looked fragile—like she might break.

"She's beautiful, Diane," you told her, your words coming out agitated. "She's perfect. I know your thing with Eddie was a complete mess, but if anything good came out of all that, it's Misty." You added. "Diane...please."

She’d just given birth to the most beautiful baby in the world, and her husband thought the only way to fix their marriage was to pretend that baby didn’t exist.

“Take care of her,” she whispered, tears spilling silently down her cheeks.

“God, Diane…” you murmured.

“You’re always there, G,” she said, and for the first time, her voice wasn’t cold. It was soft. Honest. “Even when I was awful to you… you showed up. You’re always there.”

“I’m not you,” you said, biting your lip.

She smiled, watery and true.

“Good.”

“Diane…” you sighed. “I’m not her mom. I live in New York. I’m just his best friend.” Your voice cracked.

“I know. But you’re something else too—you’re a woman of your word,” she said, lips tight with emotion. “You’ll be there when it matters. I won’t.”

Bob stepped in, hand on her shoulder, offering some quiet comfort.

Your heart broke for the second time that year. Not for the same reason.

But it still shattered.

And you—who’d never broken a promise in your life—numbly nodded, the weight of it all slamming against your chest as you walked out.

“She what?” your dad thundered, slamming his paper down at the lunch table the next day. Eddie was at the hospital to pick Misty up. Your mom served the food, her usual careful hands fussing over the little things.

“She signed away her rights to Misty,” you said quietly, across the table. “Eddie’s gonna raise her alone. She told me about this yesterday. She made me promise…”

“Jesus Christ,” your dad cut in. “And what the hell gives her the right to make you promise anything?” His disdain was sharp. “You’ve got nothing to do with this. You need to get on a plane and head back to college right now, and let Eddie Munson fix his own damn mess for once.”

“She’s a baby, Dad. And Eddie’s my friend.”

“He blew it,” your dad growled, using your full name. He never used your full name unless it was serious. Your mom noticed too, resting a calming hand on his shoulder.

But you didn’t budge.

“So did you,” you said softly. “When Mom got pregnant with me, and you didn’t know the first damn thing about being a father. And you were way older than Eddie. But you figured it out. You both did.”

Silence.

Your dad blinked, slow.

“You love Eddie,” you reminded him gently. “You and Wayne taught him to fish together. You gave him summer jobs, taught him how to fix a carburetor because Wayne was working double shifts just to make ends meet after his mom died and his dad bailed. So don’t act like he’s not family now just because he screwed up.”

Your dad stayed put, elbows on the table, rubbing his face with both hands.

“You can’t raise a baby that isn’t yours,” he muttered. “Your mom and I worked too damn hard to give you a future.”

“I know,” you said. “And I’m grateful. I’ve worked my ass off too, Dad. I earned that scholarship.” You took a breath. “And I’m not saying I’ll raise her. I’m not Misty’s mom.”

“We can’t raise her either, sweetheart,” your mom added gently.

You shook your head.

“You don’t have to. Eddie’s not asking you to. But I’m asking you to help him.” Your voice cracked as tears welled in your eyes. “Please.” You clenched your silverware like it would anchor you.

Your mom sighed, hands smoothing over her apron, looking at your dad. They had one of those silent conversations that only long-married couples can have.

Then she nodded. “We’ll help. We’ll be here for Misty.”

You stared at her in disbelief.

“I mean it,” she said softly. “You go back to New York. Focus on school. Be the artist you were meant to be. When you visit, you can help Eddie all you want. You know that.”

You wanted to hug her right then and there, but you waited—waited for your dad’s final word.

He let out a long breath, like steam hissing from old brakes.

“I’ll give him a job,” he said. “Part-time. Nothing fancy. But if he’s serious, I’ll keep him busy.”

“Dad,” you whispered, rising to wrap your arms around him. He hugged you back, a little gruff, a little grumpy—but that was just him making peace with his own decision. “Thank you.”

“But you have to be responsible,” he added. “This isn’t your job. I know you want to help, and I know you love that baby. But you’ve got your own life to build. And that boy’s got to learn to be a man—to be a father. If you’re far away, and you don’t come running every time he screws up… that is helping him.”

He looked at you, steady and serious.

“Promise me.”

You nodded, making your second forever promise that Christmas.

“I promise.”

And you meant it.

Tag list: @superlegend216

[colbychu]

Misty | Eddie Munson x You | Pt.4

Word Count: ~2.0k

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: The summer before college, the future was supposed to belong to the two of you—music, escape, a city that never sleeps. But then Eddie says a few words that change everything: She’s pregnant. And it’s mine. Now, your dream looks different, and so does he.

Single Dad | Friends to Lovers

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

1986, baby.

The year of Eddie Munson.

Three years overdue, with a pacifier tucked like a secret in the back pocket of his jeans. Twenty years old and, at long last, a high school graduate. But hey—better late than never.

He strode across the stage with the swagger of a rock god accepting his crown, seizing his diploma as if it were a trophy forged just for him. The crowd erupted. His grin stretched wider as he scanned the sea of faces. Wayne’s whistle cut through the air like a gunshot. Dustin looked one cheer away from somersaulting out of his seat, clapping and whooping like a kid on Christmas morning.

But Eddie?

He wasn’t looking at them.

He was looking beyond them.

Up in the bleachers—at you.

Back from New York. One year of college under your belt, conquered with the same effortless brilliance that defined you.. Like a sunbeam in denim and lipstick, holding a beautiful six-month-old baby like she’d been born in your arms and not someone else’s.

Misty giggled when she saw her dad blow her a kiss from the stage.

“Miss Misty, is that your dad?” Steve asked the baby sitting beside you.

You let out another cheer as Nancy Wheeler crossed the stage—last of your circle, her diploma clutched in triumphant fingers. Jonathan Byers, flown in from California, waited at the foot of the stage with flowers and a kiss. Robin made her way through the crowd in her gown, diploma in hand, eyes shining. She pulled you into a hug and kissed Misty on the temple, murmuring something that made you laugh. Steve handed her a tidy little gift box and made her promise not to open it until later.

Then Eddie was walking toward you. Cap. Gown. Hair neatly tied back. A picture of improbable redemption.

“There’s our graduate,” you smiled, your eyes never leaving him.

He stopped there for a moment, just to look at you both.

Frozen.

Misty tried to reach for him with her tiny hands, and you helped her wave. Eddie’s heart collapsed in on itself.

He didn’t cry. Not yet. But his lip twitched with a little tremble. He smiled at you.

That smile you’d known since you were eight.

You shook your head.

No, you mouthed—but it was too late.

He’d already turned and flipped off the school principal.

When he finally got close enough to you, everyone swarmed him. Dustin, Lucas, and Mike crushed him in a group hug full of loud congratulations. Steve tried to act cool but failed so spectacularly it was adorable. You knew he was proud of Eddie. Wayne, in his always-stoic way, clapped his back and said he was proud of him—and that alone left Eddie breathless for a second.

And then—

You.

You walked up to him slow and steady. To him, it felt like one of those dreams where you showed up just to torment him, the ones that haunted him since you left for college. Your hair caught the light, wild and golden and perfect. Misty wriggled in your arms, chanting da-da-da-da! like a spell.

“You didn’t tell me you’d come,” he murmured, brushing a kiss across his daughter’s palm, eyes locked on you like you were the only real thing in the world.

“My semester ended early,” you replied. “I knew you’d try to talk me out of it.”

“You drove all the way from—”

“I flew,” you interrupted, smiling. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. What was I gonna do? Stay in New York all summer? Miss seeing my family?”

Family.

You didn’t need to list names. He knew who you meant.

And he knew you meant him, too.

He stared at you for a moment. Really looked. At the girl who’d never stopped showing up. The girl he didn’t deserve. Never had.

“It’s a big deal, GG,” he said, voice catching just a little on the nickname.

You handed him Misty, who nearly leapt into his arms. He held her like he’d always known how—one arm tucked beneath her, the other wrapped around everything he was afraid to lose.

“You did it,” you whispered. That proud little smile—the one that wrecked him—curved your lips. “You really did.”

Eddie looked around. At his friends. At his daughter. At the piece of paper in his hand that meant more than he expected it to.

Then back at you.

“Nah,” he said. “We did.”

And for one fleeting second, he let himself imagine it.

You in some half-lit kitchen, barefoot, brewing coffee. Misty toddling after you in fuzzy pajamas. Lazy Sunday mornings soundtracked by Wayne’s old records. The three of you—messy, imperfect, whole.

Not a dream.

Not a fantasy.

Just… life.

But he shook the vision away.

Because you were you—made for melodies and bright city lights. You were here on borrowed time. Just the summer. Just this moment. Nothing more.

So he grinned. Nudged your shoulder.

“Thanks for coming, Columbia.”

“Thanks for giving me a reason to.”

And when Misty reached one chubby hand between you, clutching at both your shirts like she couldn’t tell where one of you ended and the other began—

Neither of you had the heart to pull away.

Steve had lent his parents’ house for the graduation party.

It’s not like they were around to stop him anyway.

It wasn’t one of Steve’s usual, classic parties—where couples would sneak into one of the many bedrooms to have a quickie before getting caught, or some drunk guy would puke in the pool while Steve held his head in horror.

This one felt different.

Maybe because that’s what they were now—a patched-up family. Maybe it was because Dustin, Lucas, Will, El, Mike, and Max were still under 18.

Or maybe it was Misty, finally asleep in a bassinet in Steve’s living room, next to a baby monitor.

It had taken two lullabies, one formula bottle, a bath, and a wildly dramatic reading of The Hobbit to get her to sleep. You’d laughed watching Eddie do the voices, and that laugh had almost woken Misty.

Now everything was quiet.

The grill where Steve had cooked earlier was nothing more than a warm decorative object in the backyard. Nancy and Jonathan were swimming, while Steve and Robin sat on the edge of the pool, their calves dipped in the water, engaged in some late-night philosophical conversation.

The kids were still around, hovering, owners of the last bits of noise yet to die out.

A soft summer breeze blew as you stepped out from Steve’s living room through the wide glass doors. Eddie sat down on a lounge chair, offering you a beer as you settled across from him.

The baby monitor blinked with a steady green light; the silence it carried confirmed that—for now—everything was okay.

He turned to look at you. Just look.

“Do you miss it already?” Eddie asked after a pause. “New York?”

You blinked slowly. “Yeah… kinda. The pizza’s really good.”

He smiled.

“But I mean… the university. Not just the city—the music classes. All that Columbia stuff.”

You stretched out on the lounge chair in your summer dress, taking a sip of your beer before answering.

“It’s overwhelming. Sometimes a little brutal. Brilliant. I have this professor who looks like a raven and throws chalk at us when someone is not paying attention. ”

He snorted. “What a legend.”

“Totally,” you nodded. “I’ve learned so much, Eds. Not just about music—about people. About… myself, I think.”

He nodded too, now staring at the chipped black polish on his nails.

“Haven’t you thought about just… staying there?”

You looked at him. “I did stay, Eddie. All year.”

“Yeah, but like—really stay. Not coming back for graduations or weekends that are barely long enough to justify the trip. I mean… living your life out there, full-time.”

You looked at him, and Eddie almost regretted saying it. You looked like he’d punched the breath out of you.

“You think I’d just leave you?"

You said it softly, almost fragilely.

He shook his head.

“No,” he said quickly. “I think you’d do what’s right. You always do what’s right. Even when it costs you sleep, sanity, time. Even when it hurts.”

A pause.

“But there you are, assuming I’d rather have my life in New York than here in Hawkins.”

Eddie exhaled through his nose.

Yeah. It was a pretty shitty assumption. But you had always wanted out of Hawkins. So had he. Both of you.

And it didn’t feel fair—this idea that you came back just because of him. He knew you loved your parents, but they weren’t broke. Not rich, but they could afford to fly out for Christmas or Thanksgiving. It didn’t have to be you bending your schedule all the time. And yet—you did. For him. For Misty.

“It’s just… I wonder what it’s like, y’know? Dorm parties. Subway musicians. Midnight rehearsals. The guys.”

Ah.

There it was.

The guys.

You laughed. “What guys?”

He shrugged and took a sip of his beer, trying to act cooler than he felt.

It was like picking at a scab. He knew it would hurt, but it itched. He had to scratch.

“I dunno. I’m sure there’s at least one tortured jazz major with a tragic mustache and an even more tragic poem with your name on it.”

You laughed again, pulling your legs up on the lounger to avoid the splash when Max shoved Lucas into the pool.

“There is a guy in my music theory class who smells like clover and writes sonnets.”

“Knew it,” he muttered, but it didn’t sound like a win. It didn’t feel like one either.

“But we’re not… together,” you added quickly. “He tried. Took me to this pretentious café where they serve iced coffee in mason jars and pretend it’s revolutionary.”

You giggled.

Eddie tried to smile, but he didn’t even know why he bothered. It wasn’t like you didn’t know him well enough to see right through it.

He just looked at you, as though memorizing the way your mouth moved when you talked about someone else.

“I think I just try to picture it,” he said. “You out there, doing your thing—with… someone else.”

“Why?” Your voice softened.

He shrugged again—third time, maybe? But this one felt heavier.

“Because sometimes I think… maybe I’m the reason you keep coming back. Even when you don’t say it.”

“Eddie,” your voice was so gentle, like you were afraid of breaking him, “you don’t keep me here. Misty doesn’t keep me here. I come here. I choose to come.”

He looked down at his beer, then at his feet resting on the lounger.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Silence pooled between you.

And then—because you couldn’t help yourself—“Are you seeing anyone?”

Eddie laughed, genuinely this time. “What, between changing diapers and failing algebra? Sure. I’ve got groupies lined up around the block.”

“Could be,” you shrugged with a teasing smile. “I mean, you did sleep with a married waitress once sooo…”

“Jesus H. Christ,” he groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “Can we never talk about Diane again?”

You laughed and smacked his arm lightly.

“Well. Just saying, you could date now. Y’know, now that you’re attractive.”

He froze. “Now?”

You nodded, clearly joking. “I mean, you were always kind of cute in a weird, slightly sinister way,” he rolled his eyes, “but now? With this whole single-dad, mechanic, guitar-teacher, wears-his-heart-on-his-sleeve thing? Kind of hot.”

“Holy shit, G—”

“You asked.”

Eddie looked at you slowly.

Your eyes met his.

Neither of you looked away.

The baby monitor blinked. Steady. Green.

The moment hovered.

And then—like always—that precious smile of yours reached your eyes, soft and safe.

“Don’t worry, Munson. Still not my type,” you said, sipping your beer again.

Worried that your voice meant something else entirely.

Tag list: @theladyhellfire @superlegend216 @moon-esque @blahox @daisy-munson

[colbychu]

Misty | Eddie Munson x You | Pt.5

Word Count: ~2.2k

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: The summer before college, the future was supposed to belong to the two of you—music, escape, a city that never sleeps. But then Eddie says a few words that change everything: She’s pregnant. And it’s mine. Now, your dream looks different, and so does he.

Tw: click here!

Single Dad | Friends to Lovers

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

The air in Hawkins had that sticky kind of heat—the kind that made you feel languid and desperate all at once.

Inside your house, your mom had all the doors open, the fans spinning in rhythmic protest. She was in her favorite armchair, knitting something lavender with coral undertones—her hands moving with muscle memory, her eyes flicking from the TV to her yarn only occasionally.

Robin pushed the door open like she lived there—which, in spirit, she kind of did—her sunglasses perched on her head, a can of hairspray in one hand (for you) and a popsicle in the other.

“She done yet or still getting ready like it’s the freakin’ Met Gala?”

“She’s in her room,” your mom said, needles clicking away. “Probably trying to find the perfect tee that screams ‘I don’t care’ even though…”

Your mom glanced at Robin but didn’t finish the sentence.

“…she totally does,” Robin finished for her with a crooked grin. “She’ll go with the one with polka dots. I’m calling it.”

“You wanna know a secret, Robin?” your mom said, lifting her eyes just enough to meet hers. “You girls might not know this yet, but it's not about the shirt. It's the right bra.”

Robin laughed. “Noted.”

Robin plopped onto the other end of the couch, picking up the tail end of the yarn to play with it between her fingers.

“You think this’ll fit her for winter?” your mom asked to Robin, holding up a half-finished beanie.

Robin blinked, raised an eyebrow. “G?”

Your mom laughed. “No, the hat’s for Misty. Think it'll fit?”

Robin shrugged. “Yeah, her head’s done growing anyway.”

Your mom rolled her eyes, giving Robin a mock-glare over the rim of her glasses. “Evil. That’ll come in handy in New York.”

“Good. I plan to insult at least five toddlers a day on the subway.”

Robin was headed to Columbia too, which meant you’d be sharing a few classes and professors. Nancy would be in New York as well—accepted into NYU for journalism.

It means that life goes on.

It means more people leaving Hawkins.

From upstairs came the creak of a door, followed by your footsteps and the hum of a Smiths song. Because of course.

You came down from the third step behind Robin, making her laugh and your mom shout a warning not to knock over Grandma’s vase on the side table.

You were not wearing the polka dots t-shirt.

You kissed Robin on the cheek.

“Ugh, Buckley, you’re my savior,” you said, grabbing the can of hairspray she’d left next to the vase and dousing your freshly done hair. “Are the guys here yet?” you asked, brandishing the can like a weapon.

Right then, the screech of brakes echoed from the street.

Robin got up and peered out the window.

“Yup. Steve’s in the car with the A/C blasting, trying not to melt.”

You caught your reflection in the mirror and checked yourself—for no reason.

That was a lie. You knew exactly why.

You looked over at your mom, who was watching you like she could read the entire book of you in one glance. You blew her a kiss.

“Not later than midnight,” you promised.

Robin opened the door to the wall of summer heat—and there he was.

Eddie.

He looked at you. And you, his absolute downfall, made it hard to breathe as always.

You were wearing that loose sleeveless tee tied at the side and a denim skirt that short-circuited his brain every damn time. Your hair was perfect.

And him?

Black jeans even though it was a hundred degrees. Chains. A vest. A band tee full of intentional holes. His hair clean, tied back in a ponytail that made your knees feel like jelly. He looked sleep-deprived, and somehow that made him hotter. Misty was strapped to his chest in a ridiculous pink baby carrier.

“What is that?” you asked, grinning in a voice made for baby giggles. Misty squealed, flashing her first tiny teeth. “Nice carrier—it totally matches your dark aura,” you teased at Eddie, lifting her out. “Your dad looks like a grumpy marsupial, huh, right, M&Ms?” Your eyes stuck with Misty.

You kissed Misty’s cheeks and she leaned into you, eyes darting between your face and Eddie’s.

Oh, hell. Eddie couldn't look at that without wanting to cry.

“She—” He cleared his throat after his voice came out too high. “She cried every time I tried to take her out. I think it’s her favorite.”

“You’re like her personal heater,” Robin laughed, tickling Misty’s tiny hands until she giggled and tucked her face into your neck.

Eddie unclipped the carrier and hung it on the coat rack by the door.

You pressed your nose to Misty’s hair and inhaled deeply. She smelled like baby powder, shampoo, and Eddie’s cologne. You vanished for a moment.

“You know what?” you said, still breathing her in. She’d gone still, curled against your shoulder. “You guys go ahead. I’ll just… stay here with her.”

Eddie gave you a look. “You say that every time. Come on, G. We wanna see the movie. We got the tickets.”

You rubbed her back, feeling her settle deeper against you. “She’s so soft, though.”

“You can take Misty’s blankie to the movie,” Robin suggested. “Totally normal.”

“Go on, already,” your mom said, getting up to gently pry Misty from your arms. You handed her over reluctantly. “We’re gonna have a fantastic time—long nap, and I’m watching Dirty Dancing for the thousandth time.”

You laughed but felt hollow as soon as Misty was gone. How did Eddie do this every day?

Steve honked the horn outside.

Robin rolled her eyes. “God, he’s so punctual when popcorn’s involved.”

“You coming or what?” Steve’s voice rang through the window as he leaned out, hair catching the sunset.

“’Scuse me,” Eddie said to your mom, sticking his hand out the door to flip Steve off.

Your mom hid a smile behind a look of mock disapproval no one believed.

“We’re going!” you called.

Eddie pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to your mom. “Here’s the number of the theater, just in case…”

“Nothing’s gonna happen,” your mom cut in, but she took the paper for Eddie’s peace of mind.

“We won’t be late. Thank you for watching her,” he said, eyes softening the way they only did when he looked at Misty.

You’d never seen that look before—not on Eddie. Not for anyone but his daughter.

“We can stay—” you started, but Robin steered you toward the door.

“Let’s go, Mother Goose,” she said, waving to your mom while Eddie kissed Misty’s forehead.

“Tell Steve to ease up on the turns,” your mom said, already hypnotized by the baby in her arms. “I don’t care if he started driving his dad’s car at twelve—he still drives like it’s goddamn King of the Mountain.”

“We’ll be fine,” Eddie said with a smile.

Robin always had shotgun. That was the unspoken arrangement. Steve already had The Cure blasting from the stereo even before Robin picked them out and played them on the speakers.

“M’lady. Sir Harrington awaits.” Eddie said dramatically, holding the car door open for you like a knight of old.

“I don’t know how you do it, Eddie,” you murmured, sliding into the leather seat. “Hey, Steve.”

“Separation anxiety with M?” Steve asked, glancing at you both in the rearview as he started the engine.

“She’s just so small.”

Eddie smiled. “So were we. And look how great we turned out.”

Robin, adjusting her red sunglasses, turned to Eddie deadpan. “Debatable.”

You laughed, smoothing your skirt. “She’s got a point,” you said, earning a mock glare from Eddie.

You noticed his hand gripping the door handle tight, though it was locked.

“You’re having a hard time too, huh?”

“Do you know I haven’t gone anywhere without her except for work? The only ones who’ve babysat her are your parents or Wayne—if he’s recovered from his night shift.”

He smiled thinly. You bumped your knee against his.

“You’re a great dad.”

“Not debatable,” Robin added, tapping his knee to the beat.

You laughed and looked back at him. “Misty’s my favorite person,” you suddenly said, nudging him with your elbow.

“Like I don’t know that already.”

The ride to the theater was soaked in golden hour—light pouring through the windows, tinting your skin in honey and shadow. Hawkins looked softer bathed in that glow, almost like it was offering forgiveness.

Steve parallel parked with unnecessary flair, earning a sarcastic clap from Robin.

“Bravo. Truly a man of many talents,” she deadpanned, hopping out and adjusting her sunglasses like she was about to walk onto the set of Miami Vice.

Inside, the A/C hit you like salvation. Goosebumps bloomed across your arms. The smell of popcorn, cola syrup, and industrial carpet felt oddly comforting—familiar in that lived-in kind of way.

“Snacks?” Steve asked, already beelining for the counter.

“Always,” Robin and Eddie replied in unison. You smiled. There was a rhythm to them now—less like clashing cymbals, more like orchestrated chaos.

You watched Eddie scan the place like he didn't belong there. He kept reaching for his back pocket, only to remember there were no crumpled wipes there. No teether.

“You good?” you asked, voice low, stepping closer so the others wouldn’t hear.

He blinked at you, like the question had brought him back to earth.

“Yeah. Just… feel like I forgot something.” He patted his chest. “Phantom baby syndrome.”

You laughed—quiet and fond.

“She’s with my mom. You know my mom raised me, you and almost Robin. Misty’s in excellent hands.”

He nodded, but didn’t look fully convinced.

The four of you crammed into a sticky red booth by the snack bar—Robin calculating your candy-to-popcorn ratio, Steve arguing that Reese’s Pieces were non-negotiable, you insisting on the largest slushie possible, and Eddie?

Eddie was watching you.

Not like a creep. Not even like a friend.

He was looking at you the way people stare at miracles.

He was never going to understand why you were in his life.

Beautiful, brilliant, with slushie-stained lips wrapped around a straw like it was nothing.

You were laughing at something Steve said, head tipped back, hair catching the light like spun sugar. Something hit Eddie in the ribs—hard.

There it was again. That unbearable, unshakable, bone-deep truth:

A reminder.

He was in love with you.

Hopelessly. Wildly. All-consumingly.

And it was only halfway through the summer.

He had no idea what he’d do with the rest of the time you were in Hawkins.

He wondered if this was worse—or better—than when you were gone. When he was rocking Misty to sleep in the same trailer he’d grown up in, wondering if you were out drinking expensive wine at some restaurant with that disheveled but weirdly-hot British TA.

Not that he even knew if there was a British TA.

He turned away so fast it blurred his vision. Fixed his eyes on a The Fly poster like it held all the answers.

The popcorn in his hands? Forgotten.

Inside the theater, you all found your seats—Robin and Steve on one side, Eddie and you on the other. When the lights dimmed and the trailers started to roll, you tucked your legs under you and curled slightly toward him, stealing his popcorn and resting your head lightly on his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Eddie barely breathed.

You whispered something about the soundtrack—how it sounded like that band you’d played for him last week—but he didn’t catch it. He couldn’t hear anything over the roar in his own ears.

You were warm beside him. Too warm. Close enough that he could feel your heartbeat. Or maybe was his. Your knee was brushing against his. Your perfume—coconut lotion and something sweeter—was going to haunt his clothes for days. Your hand touched his when you both reached for the last Milk Dud.

And that was it. He couldn’t take it anymore.

He turned to look at you.

You were focused on the screen, smile lazy and content. You were beautiful, sure. But it was the way you were real that wrecked him.

You were here. With him. In Hawkins.

Laughing. Sharing popcorn.

Hair still perfect. Skin still summer-soft and glowing.

The girl who helped him write his first real song.

The one who watched Star Wars and cried when Darth Vader sacrificed himself to save Luke.

The girl who loved Misty—even when she had no reason to.

You.

And all Eddie could think was:

I fucking love you. I love you so much I can’t breathe.

But he said nothing.

Because what right did he have?

What right did a guy like him have to you?

You were sunlight and chances.

Late-night songs and early-morning ambition.

You were a future filled with open doors, cities, and music.

And him? He had Hawkins.

A High school Diploma he’d barely scraped by with.

A daughter who deserved better.

A past heavy with loud regrets.

So he bit his tongue. Turned back to the screen.

You’ve already messed up a lot, Munson, he thought grimly.

You’re not gonna mess up her. Not her life. Not her future. She deserves the world, and all you’ve got is a broken map.

You glanced at him then, eyes soft and unknowing. “You okay?”

Eddie smiled. Forced it. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

That made him laugh—a hoarse, uneven sound.

“Want some slushie?” you asked, holding your cup out to him.

He leaned in, took a sip from your straw, and caught the ghost of your lipstick on the rim. When he pulled back, your eyes lingered just a second too long on his.

You can’t have her.

You’ll always want her.

You’ll never deserve her.

He repeated as he looked away again.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

And you smiled, happy to share.

Don't hate me.

Tag list: @theladyhellfire @superlegend216 @moon-esque @blahox @daisy-munson @venuslayla23-blog @flashmountaindjo @ilovetaquitosmmmm @awkward00noodle @mugloversonly

[colbychu]

Misty | Eddie Munson x You | Pt.6

Word Count: ~2.1k

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: The summer before college, the future was supposed to belong to the two of you—music, escape, a city that never sleeps. But then Eddie says a few words that change everything: She’s pregnant. And it’s mine. Now, your dream looks different, and so does he.

Single Dad | Friends to Lovers

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

Eddie’s car engine gave a low grumble as it shut off outside your parents’ house. It was one of the more obvious changes in his life before Misty arrived that past winter—he’d gotten rid of his beloved van. A painful but necessary goodbye. It just wasn’t baby-compatible. The car purred one last time before falling silent. It was past 7:30 in the morning, the sun still stretching its way into the sky. Still casting that soft, rose-gold haze over the sleepy street. Dew clung to the grass like the morning wasn’t quite ready to let go of its chill—before the day could offer the heat of a summer still refusing to take its final bow. She understood that.

You stepped out onto the porch in a loose Guns N’ Roses tee and mid-thigh shorts, hair tamed only halfway by a scrunchie, a warm mug of coffee cradled in your hands. Misty’s giggles reached you before Eddie even rounded the car with her in his arms.

“She is wild today,” he called with a lopsided smile, adjusting the diaper bag on his shoulder. Misty squirmed on his hip, blowing raspberries, her sticky little fingers tangled around a toy ring.

“I can handle wild,” you said with a smile meant just for him and Misty as they climbed the steps.

He hesitated—just for a heartbeat—his eyes brushing over hers in that way that always twisted your insides. Then, wordless, he passed Misty into your arms with the kind of care you’d never seen him use for anything else. Not even his guitar. Not even his precious D&D board.

“Thanks for this, G,” he murmured.

You kissed Misty’s crown, then the tip of her nose, with something close to reverence. Then you nodded.

“Always, Eds.”

He lingered a second longer—as if he might say something—but then stepped back.

“I’ll be back around five. Maybe earlier if that damn car I’m working on finally gives up the ghost.”

“You mean when,” you teased, bouncing Misty gently on your hip.

He snorted, pressed a kiss to the baby’s head, and looked at you like maybe—

He could do it.

He wouldn't

No.

So he stepped back.

He smiled goodbye and jogged back to the car. You watched him pull away, the mug forgotten in your hand. Looking down at Misty gnawing on her toy, you smiled.

“Alright, little saboteur. Say bye-bye to Daddy,” you told her, lifting her hand, which she waved on her own, like she knew.

“Bye-bye, Daddy.”

Eddie blew her a kiss, and you pressed one to her temple. “Let’s make the most of the day.”

Your mom, just stirring awake, shuffled over and smothered Misty’s face in kisses. The little one giggled at the affection, clearly not feeling ambushed.

“Eddie already left?” she asked. You nodded, setting the diaper bag on the couch and laying Misty on a soft blanket in the living room. She immediately flipped onto her belly, pushed up with her tiny hands, and carefully sat upright—trying to stand, but only making it halfway before plopping back down.

You laughed, sitting cross-legged beside her, handing her the little bunny Robin had crocheted when she was born.

“Hey, you’re not walking solo just yet. You only think you can.”

Misty squealed in protest, then sat again, arms stretched out for balance, before collapsing back onto her diapered butt. The toy was quickly abandoned in favor of your toes, which became her latest obsession.

Your mom chuckled as she picked up the bunny and cleaned it off, more from habit than any real need. “We won’t tell Auntie Robin about this.”

Later, after breakfast and another diaper change, the house welcomed the morning warmth with a rhythm soaked in nostalgia. Summer of ’86 was fading fast, and it stung—not sharply, but like the low hum of a plane overhead, barely heard but always there.

You’d be leaving again in a few days. Back to New York. Back to Columbia. Back to long study nights—and longer nights missing this. Missing her.

You sat with Misty in your lap, both of you in front of the old upright piano your grandmother gave you as a child. It was a little out of tune, especially in the higher notes, but you didn’t mind. This wasn’t a recital.

“Your daddy and I are pretty different,” you told her, fingers gently pressing the first note of a song you knew by heart: E♭maj7. Always soft and warm, like a cushion of sound. You rolled it delicately, letting the top note linger, remembering the way Ella held the word Look…

“Your daddy’s always been a rocker,” you added, right on cue as Misty launched into a da-da-da-da chorus of her own, chewing on her finger with teething gums.

“Yeah, Da-da,” you nodded in agreement, shaping the chords into a verse-like intro.

“The first song I ever played at a recital was this one,” you smiled at her.

Your left hand shifted not sharp, just enough tension to make the next note feel like a breath let go.

“He’ll never say it out loud, Misty, but your dad loves this song. He used to roll his eyes and groan, but he always let it play all the way through in the car,” you said, thinking of all those early morning rides to school.

“Sometimes I catch him humming it,” you added, fingers still moving. “And he’ll deny it, swear it’s from some Hobbit poem or whatever.” You rolled your eyes. “Maybe it’s a cute coincidence, you know?”

And you kept playing, the melody wrapping around your heart like sun-warmed blankets. Memories of lake summers, jumping from ropes into tepid water. Winters with your mom’s hot chocolate and Eddie staying over because Wayne worked hellish night shifts.

Your fingers caressed the keys like silk, occasionally pressing the pedal. Misty shifted in your lap, finding a cozier spot. You smiled down at her and let the music carry you.

“Walk my way. And a thousand violins begin to play…” you sang softly to the air, eyes closed. “Or it might be the sound of your hello… That music I hear…” your voice trembled. “I get misty, the moment you're near…”

You kept playing, carried by muscle memory. “On my own, would I wander through this wonderland alone…” you sang, your voice steady now. “Never knowing my right foot from my left, my hat from my glove… I’m too misty, and too much in love…”

Misty giggled, pulling her hand from her mouth and reaching for your face. You kissed her tiny fingers.

“Too misty… and too much… in love…”

She squealed and flung a leg onto the keys, hitting a sharp D with surprising force. You laughed.

“Best duet partner I’ve ever had, huh?”

“I love that song,” your mom said as she came downstairs holding a box. “Your dad pulled out your baby toys from the attic yesterday. Figured since Misty’s growing, it might be nice to give them a second life.”

You scooped Misty into your arms, kissing her temple. “That’s so sweet. I bet she’ll love some of them.”

“I gave them a wash,” your mom said, settling into her favorite chair as you let Misty explore the box’s contents.

“She’s growing way too fast,” she murmured, watching Misty grab an old rubber harlequin with a bell inside. “She’s starting to have that same independent air Eddie always had.”

You paused. There was something in your mom’s eyes—like a memory rising uninvited.

You’d never stopped to think how much this had impacted them too. They didn’t have to help Wayne with Eddie when he first came to live with him—after Eddie’s mom died and his dad was locked away. Back then, Wayne worked with your dad at the auto shop, and your mom had taken pity on the ten-year-old kid in hand-me-downs and worn-out sneakers. She’d offered to watch him after school till Wayne finished work.

You’d never really thought about how it might’ve hurt your parents to watch Eddie flounder in school—not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t believe in himself enough to try.

That day, eight months ago, even if you hadn’t asked them to help Eddie with Misty… they would’ve done it anyway. Because they loved him, too. Maybe in ways you’d never fully grasp. You loved him differently.

“I don’t like it when you leave,” your mom admitted. “Didn’t want to say it, in case it sounded like I was trying to make you stay.”

You lifted your gaze. Your mom didn’t say things like this often. She saved the deep talks for meaningful moments. But today—it was just an ordinary summer morning. The washer hummed downstairs. The fans turned in lazy circles overhead. Nothing felt big enough for a conversation like that.

“I know,” you said softly.

Her eyes wandered around the room, like she was trying to memorize it—the piano, the bassinet, the blanket on the floor. Sheet music scattered everywhere. The half-drunk, cold mug of coffee. You knew she was picturing you at sixteen again, Robin at fifteen, blasting Tears for Fears on the turntable while you both dreamed of being famous.

It had only been four years. But it felt like a lifetime.

“Well, Steve’ll keep coming around, that I can promise.”

She laughed lightly.

“I’ll miss Robin, too. Even after you moved to New York, she still came here to raid the fridge. Said she couldn’t think with all her siblings yelling at home,” your mom chuckled. “Steve shows up with something he doesn’t know how to cook or jeans that need patching.” She rolled her eyes. “Always makes a mess and leaves the sink dripping.”

It didn’t sound like a complaint. Not at all.

Your mom shook her head, her gaze distant. “And Eddie…”

His name hung in the air.

She played with her fingers, nervous. “He’s different when you’re here,” she said at last. “Sometimes I catch myself watching him, just to make sure the boy he used to be is still in there. The one from before…” Her eyes dropped to Misty, who was now pulling herself up using your knees for balance. You helped her with both hands, and she concentrated hard, her tongue poking between her lips in determination.

You didn’t say anything for a while. Your throat was tight.

“You bring him back, just a little,” your mom said.

You blinked. Your eyes were already stinging.

“And then I leave again.”

“And you have to. That’s life, sweetheart,” she said, kneeling to encourage Misty to walk without your help. “It’s just… when you go, I have to get used to it all over again. Missing the version of ourselves that we are when you’re home.”

"I didn’t think this would be so hard," you breathed in short, shaky bursts through your nose, like maybe you could inhale the tears before they fell. "I didn’t expect to love Misty this much."

"Well… she’s part of Eddie, isn’t she?" your mom said gently. "That makes a big difference."

It was strange—talking about it with the truth so fully assumed that it was already out there, without ever really being said.

"He’s my… best friend," you said, and it was true. "And Misty… I love her so much it hurts. Is that normal?"

You looked at your mom, and she nodded, not for a second making you feel like you were overreacting.

"And I’m gonna miss so much when I leave."

"You can love them and still go," your mom said, guiding Misty into her arms and helping her turn toward you, steady on her feet. "Love isn’t about standing still. Sometimes it’s the very reason we move forward."

You frowned, thoughtful.

"I always thought love meant staying. Like… that’s what it was supposed to mean."

Your mom nodded slowly, her hands hovering near Misty without holding her, watching the little girl wobble as she tried to balance herself—until she managed to stand on her own. You opened your arms, and Misty started toddling toward you, unsteady but determined. In just a few wobbly steps, she reached you and threw herself into your arms with a huge smile, earning a round of applause from both of you.

"It’s not always like that," your mom said after Misty’s big moment. "But it will happen to you. When the right time comes, when things settle… if there’s love, you’ll stay. You’ll see," she promised. "That time just isn’t here yet."

Silence followed—not heavy, but full.

Full of your promises.

To be there for Misty’s important moments.

To finish college.

To always support Eddie.

Then the oven beeped, announcing lunch. Misty let out a little happy squeal and clung to your shirt.

There wasn’t anything particularly special about that day.

In the living room, as your attention drifted back to the toy box, three generations shared a moment:

One just starting to walk through life,

One getting ready to leave,

And one learning how to let go.

I needed to write this one, like, my heart needed it.

Tag list: @theladyhellfire @superlegend216 @moon-esque @blahox @daisy-munson @venuslayla23-blog @flashmountaindjo @ilovetaquitosmmmm @awkward00noodle @mugloversonly

[colbychu]

Misty | Eddie Munson x You | Pt.7

Word Count: ~1.9k

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: The summer before college, the future was supposed to belong to the two of you—music, escape, a city that never sleeps. But then Eddie says a few words that change everything: She’s pregnant. And it’s mine. Now, your dream looks different, and so does he.

Single Dad | Friends to Lovers

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

There’s a truth no one says out loud: Wayne was way better at barbecues than your dad. You’d hate to admit it—because you loved your dad, and you knew how happy it made him to wear that old “Kiss the Cook” apron your mom gave him ages ago, back when it still had color and shape. Wayne knew. He knew neither you nor Eddie had the heart to say anything, so in his quiet, practical way, he’d just step in next to your dad at the grill, helping flip the meat or adjusting the grate so the heat would hit just right. Your dad never noticed. He was just happy to spend an hour or two with his best friend, talking shop and reminiscing about when Wayne still worked with him at the shop.

There’s charcoal and hickory in the air, a slow-cooked kind of goodbye everyone feels—but no one names it.

Summer is almost over, and your mom decided to throw a little farewell barbecue for you, Robin, and Nancy.

Robin is sprawled out on the grass next to Steve, playing with Misty, who’s bouncing on his lap with both her hands wrapped around his thumbs. He’s half-whining about college classes he hasn’t even started yet—because, apparently, taking a gap year and then jumping into college was a great idea. Your mom’s setting the table with Nancy and Jonathan, trying to keep the potato salad fly-free. Jonathan pauses now and then to snap pictures of everyone with his camera.

Eddie watches it all from the table, his foot tapping dirt in time with some old song crackling from the radio. He searches for you across the yard—you’re handing Wayne a fresh can of beer. Wayne slings an arm around your shoulders with that quiet, fatherly warmth he rarely showed, not because he wasn’t a loving man, but because feelings never came easy to him.

The light catches the ends of your hair, soft and curling around your face in that way that always ties Eddie’s gut into a knot.

He doesn’t know when you’ll be back—maybe Christmas, just in time for Misty’s first birthday. Either way, it feels far. It always does.

You sense his eyes on you—or maybe you just know him that well—because you turn your head from your conversation with Wayne and your dad, and your eyes meet. It’s nothing dramatic, just a look. But it lingers.

“I don’t know if it’s such a great idea. What do I even know about business, anyway?” Steve says from the table, now crowded with paper plates and sun-warmed soda cans.

“Oh, you are definitely ready for college,” Robin deadpans through a mouthful of salad, smirking sideways.

Misty, perched in her little baby seat, bravely grabs a mushy bit of potato and shoves it in her mouth, nose wrinkled in doubt at the flavor. She’d finally let go of Steve’s wallet after Eddie placed her plate—carefully mashed and bite-sized—on the tray in front of her.

“Oh,” Eddie says, handing over the drool-slicked wallet with unmistakable front-tooth marks. “My daughter was eating your wallet, just FYI.”

Steve rolls his eyes, stuffing it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Well, she’s got expensive taste.”

You laugh, wiping Misty’s mouth with a damp wipe as she fusses, clearly done with food. Standing, you scoop her up. “There we go, M&M.”

Misty squeals in delight and promptly drools on your shoulder.

“She’s gonna miss you,” Steve says, glancing around the table with a sigh. “We’re all gonna miss you guys. It’s gonna be weird. Not just without G—but without you and Nance and Robin too.”

Nancy offers a soft smile.

“We’ll be back,” she promises.

“Just… make sure Misty doesn’t grow up too much. Emotionally, I don’t think I can handle it,” Robin says, faux-serious.

Wayne smirks. “No promises.”

“This is really good,” Jonathan mutters through a bite of burger.

“Thanks, hon,” your mom says, patting your dad on the back.

You catch Wayne’s eye across the table, and he smiles at you, tapping his index finger to his lips, asking for complicity. You smile back.

“Yeah… thanks, Dad.”

Later, after the food’s picked over and everyone’s sunk into that sugar-sun haze, Misty is out cold in her bassinet—post diaper change and a well-performed lullaby by Uncle Steve—when Eddie slips away. Just for a bit. It’s after Nancy and Jonathan announced they were heading out to spend the evening alone before Nancy’s early morning flight to New York.

“Where’s Eddie?” you ask, having come back from waving them off in the front yard.

“Ghosted?” Steve mutters.

“Not his style,” you say with a sigh. “He doesn’t ghost. Maybe he broods. Dramatically.”

Eddie hears that and can’t help but smile a little.

“Yeah,” Robin says, popping a baby carrot into her mouth. “You know where the brooding goblin usually hides when things get too sentimental.”

You’re already walking toward the treehouse.

It’s quieter up there. The smell of grilled corn and bug spray fades as you climb the ladder wrapped around the old oak in your parents’ yard. You hesitate halfway up—wood splintered, one rung missing—but it still feels familiar beneath your hands.

At the top, Eddie’s sitting cross-legged at the far end, one arm resting on his knee, the other holding a half-drunk beer. He’s watching the sky—orange fading into lavender.

“Knew you’d find me,” he murmurs, without turning around.

You sit down across from him. “You really hate goodbyes, huh?”

“I’m a near-dropout with a trailer full of amps and bills to pay. Not exactly movie farewell material.”

You lean against the wall, fingers brushing over the old carving: still here. You smile a little.

It’s been years since you climbed up here.

He watches you trace the barely visible Giggle G + Munson were here, beside the horns he carved as decoration.

Eddie snorts. “Kind of tragic, don’t you think?”

You shake your head slowly, smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “No. Kind of sweet.”

Eddie let it hang in the air for a second before he spoke again.

“I didn’t come up here to hide.”

You raised an eyebrow silently.

“Okay—fine. I did. But also… this place—” he gestured around vaguely, “it’s one of the last things that still feels like ours, untouched. Before everything. Before Misty was born. Before you left for New York last year.”

You swallowed hard. “I almost didn’t come. Thought maybe you needed space.”

“I always think I want space—you know me—but that doesn’t mean I should have it.”

He took a swig from his beer and offered it to you. You gently declined.

“I hate that you’re leaving again. It’s gonna suck every time you visit,” he admitted, because the thought had been gnawing at him since the moment you arrived. He was already keeping one truth from you, and he couldn’t stand to keep another. So he let go of the smaller one—the one that might leave less wreckage in its wake.

You both went quiet after that, just for a while, watching the sun finally dip behind the trees. The sounds of your friends drifted up from the yard—Steve laughing at something dumb Robin said.

“Though, I’m handling it better now than I did last year. I was a wreck.” His voice dropped. “But you were right. About all of it. I was dealing with everything like an idiot. And I never said thank you—shit—for sticking around. For dragging me to that doctor’s appointment, because apparently I had the balls to get someone pregnant but not enough to look her in the eye after. You didn’t let me disappear. I think about it every time Misty kicks me in the face at 3AM—how you stopped me from falling apart.”

“Well, that’s kind of what it looked like was happening.”

“It still is,” he laughed quietly. “I’m just better at pretending I’ve got this whole dad thing under control.”

God, it still felt weird to say it.

“You’ve done a damn good job so far.”

“Barely,” he chuckled, dry. “Wayne’s the real MVP.”

“Wayne’s a saint.”

“He’s not the only one. I’ve had help,” Eddie said, glancing toward your parents’ house. “All of them—Wayne, your folks. Even Steve. Can you believe that?” He looked at you, almost boyish for a second. “Steve Goddamn Harrington. If you’d told me back in high school that one day I’d ask the King of Hawkins High to be my kid’s godfather, I’d have called a priest and asked for a full-on exorcism.”

You laughed because it was ridiculous—in the most Munson kind of way.

“You’re better than you give yourself credit for.”

He shrugged. “I’ve got a long way to go.”

“Well, you’ve already come a long way.”

“But yeah… thanks for not giving up on me. Even when I was being a major pain in the ass.”

You gave him a crooked smile. “Still are… but mostly you were just lost. And scared as hell. Which I totally got.”

Another pause. But this one was softer. Shared.

“Remember that night we slept up here during the thunderstorm?” you asked.

“Yeah,” Eddie chuckled. “You brought Twinkies and like, five blankets.”

“I remember that day we watched Alien when we weren’t supposed to, and you spent the whole time worrying about the cat.”

“Only passenger worth saving.”

There was a beat of quiet.

“Promise me something, G?” he said, and something shifted in his tone.

You looked at him.

Damn it. Another promise.

“Yeah,” you said.

What else could you say?

"I know I said I didn't want to be the one who forced you back to Hawkins. The one who tied you down to this shitty town, but..." he paused and looked at you. " Come back here. Even if it hurts. Even if saying goodbye sucks every time. Just… come back."

His brown eyes shone. He hugged his knees, and you found yourself doing the same, for entirely different reasons. Yours were shaking.

“I will. If you promise to pay the damn phone bill on that landline at the trailer and call me, so I can hear Misty babble.”

He let out a laugh—half-growl, half-relief—and leaned his forehead against your shoulder.

“Deal,” he murmured, setting his beer down on the wood-planked floor of the treehouse.

Below, voices rose and fell. Misty’s squeal announced she was very much awake now and utterly engaged with someone.

“You like Uncle Steve better than all of them, huh? I mean, I get it. I am tall and handsome,” floated up.

You both laughed.

Eddie didn’t move, though.

“He’s doing that dumb voice again,” he muttered, and you smiled.

“You’re gonna miss that voice when you’re not seeing him every day.”

“I’ll miss you more,” Eddie said.

It slipped out.

You bit your lip.

“You’ve gotten better at saying stuff.”

“I’ve had practice. Your mom makes me talk about my ‘feelings’ because apparently I’ll thank her once Misty hits her teenage years—which I do not wanna think about.”

You both laughed again.

“You’ve grown.”

“Kinda hard not to, when there’s a mini version of me about to start running around and looking at Steve like he hung the damn stars.”

“My dad said she once threw a pacifier at Dustin when she first started sitting up on her own.”

“Definitely my kid,” Eddie replied with a tired but genuine smile.

“I’ll miss you too,” you said then, softly—because you were afraid the moment might slip away, and with it, the chance to just say it.

The sun was already gone. A soft haze of indigo stretched across the dark horizon, like the echo of something leaving without a sound.

And for a few minutes, you stayed there. Same position. Suspended between the past and whatever’s coming next.

Neither of you said goodbye.

Not yet.

Tag list: @theladyhellfire @superlegend216 @moon-esque @blahox @daisy-munson @venuslayla23-blog @flashmountaindjo @ilovetaquitosmmmm @awkward00noodle @mugloversonly @hereforshmut @boebephridgers @javsan

[colbychu]

Misty | Eddie Munson x You | Pt.8

Word Count: ~2.9k

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: The summer before college, the future was supposed to belong to the two of you—music, escape, a city that never sleeps. But then Eddie says a few words that change everything: She’s pregnant. And it’s mine. Now, your dream looks different, and so does he.

Single Dad | Friends to Lovers

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

The air had that edge again—wet and sharp, creeping through fabric and into bone.

Winter had arrived.

He loved winter. Always had his reasons. His mother had given him his first Tolkien book one snowy December. Later, after the tragedy and the rough adjustment to life in Hawkins, winter became the season when they’d hole up in Gareth’s garage for long D&D campaigns.

In winter, Wayne let him stay over at your parents’ house, and your mom would bake red velvet muffins and make the thickest, richest hot chocolate he’d ever tasted.

In winter, Misty came into the world.

He adjusted Misty’s jacket—too big, but she’d grow into it—and pulled down the knit hat your mother had made, tucking it gently over her tiny ears. She giggled, looking up at him with those beautiful eyes, cheeks rosy, brown hair beginning to curl—wild and warm with the lingering scent of baby shampoo.

“I’ll come get you this afternoon,” he murmured, lifting her out of her car seat and shutting the door as he walked up toward your parents’ house. “You ready to give grandma hell?” he asked under his breath.

She laughed excitedly.

“Jesus, kid. Good thing you can’t repeat that to Nana.”

November was a busy month at your dad’s auto shop. Everyone brought their cars in for tune-ups ahead of the first snow, which had come early this year.

The garage was packed. Some days passed in a blur; others dragged. Today had been the latter—three hours lost to a stubborn ’76 Chevy that fought him every step of the way. He wiped grease from his hands with a rag as he headed to the inventory shelves to double-check they had the spark plugs he needed.

In the pockets of his worn-out jeans: Misty’s socks. Little pink cotton ones, part of a mountain of baby clothes gifted in bulk by Dustin’s mom. God bless Claudia Henderson.

Eddie hadn’t had the heart to take them out when he found them there that morning, reaching for spare change to buy a coffee. It was ridiculous—sentimentally ridiculous—but that’s the kind of guy he’d turned into, wasn’t it?

The town freak. The kid from the wrong side of the tracks. The D&D weirdo. The single dad who smelled like motor oil and bought hypoallergenic detergent from the one store in Hawkins that didn’t irritate his daughter’s perfect skin.

His days had slowly molded into this routine. He didn’t complain. It fed his daughter and made him feel, if only slightly, like less of a failure every time she smiled at him.

“Long day?” asked Josie, the receptionist from the front office.

She was twenty-five, maybe thirty. Sweet, the kind of girl who wore office makeup to a job in a mechanic’s garage.

Eddie shrugged. “Long week,” he answered politely.

She leaned in the doorway to the stockroom, smiling. “There’s this great spot in Indianapolis,” she said. “You should come check it out sometime.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” she said, casually twirling a strand of her hair. “You could use a little fun, don’t you think? Lord knows you’ve earned it.”

It was subtle. Not exactly a proposition, but not not one, either.

Eddie looked at her—really looked at her. She was kind. Single (which, given his own record, was a definite plus). She wore perfume that reminded him of department stores.

And for a breath—a small one—he considered it.

Fun.

A couple of drinks. Maybe dancing to music, he wouldn’t be caught dead listening to unironically. Maybe a kiss. Maybe a little more—God knew it had been forever since Diane.

But in that breath, that one second of possibility, his life played out like a movie reel.

He’d go. Maybe they’d hook up. Maybe they’d have a decent couple of months. Maybe it would turn into something fast, something small.

But he couldn’t do that. Not again.

Misty—God, he loved that little girl—was the result of a mistake he could never regret.

But Diane? That one-night stand of a choice?

That part… he’d regret for the rest of his life.

He scratched his chin—there was some stubble now—and looked at Josie.

“I appreciate it, Josie,” he said gently. “But I’ve got a bedtime story to tell and a mountain of laundry waiting for me.”

She laughed, like maybe she’d expected that answer. “Well… if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

He wouldn’t.

But it was kind of her to ask.

When he got home with Misty, Wayne was already there.

The trailer smelled like chicken soup and freshly laundered clothes—his two favorite things to do the minute he got off work.

The TV was mumbling something harmless in the background, not that Wayne was really listening.

Sometimes Eddie thought the old man got more joy out of whatever lullaby was playing in his own head than anything they ever broadcast on television.

A high-pitched squeal from Misty snapped Wayne out of his trance. He turned from the kitchen, crossed the room in two long strides, and pressed a kiss to the baby’s cheek, making her giggle at the tickle of his beard.

It was impossible not to trade her off for the wooden spoon in Wayne’s hand. Misty lit up at the swap, cooing and babbling nonsense—nonsense that would someday mean something.

Without much need for words, they both settled at the table.

In her high chair, Misty held her own little concert, banging her tray with a spinach-smeared fist, decorating her face like a tiny soldier going full camo for jungle warfare.

Eddie slumped into his chair with a sigh, dragging a hand through his already wild hair.

Wayne, across from him, watched over the rim of his chipped coffee mug—black coffee with a splash of cheap whiskey, his usual.

That one raised eyebrow meant he had something to say.

“So,” Wayne started, casual as ever. “You turned down that girl from the shop, huh?”

Eddie turned his head slowly, like he’d misheard.

So your dad had seen that. And apparently ran off to gossip with Wayne right after.

“Oh, so that’s what we’re doing now?” Eddie asked. “You two forming the Neighborhood Sewing Circle? What, Giggle’s dad showed up and you let him in, brewed some tea, and talked about the youth of today over dessert?”

Wayne let out a dry chuckle, then got serious.

“Maybe you should date someone. I can take care of Misty. Little granddaughter–grandpa bonding time.”

Eddie stared like he’d just suggested juggling knives.

“You don’t remember what happened last time?” he said, pointing at Misty—who, at that moment, shoved a handful of mush into her mouth, her chin, her nose, and one cheek for good measure.

Wayne watched. At some point, Misty looked up from her green-smeared fist and glanced between the two of them before bursting into a squeal of laughter.

Both men cracked up too—caught in that small, sharp, honest joy that split your chest open just to fill it again.

But Wayne, without missing a beat, leaned in and lowered his voice.

“I’d like to think you’d be smarter this time. Use a—”

He clapped his hands gently over Misty’s ears. The baby immediately wriggled in protest, cheeks puffed out like a tiny revolutionary whose freedoms were under threat.

“—damn condom,” Wayne finished quickly.

Eddie snorted.

“I don’t wanna date right now, Wayne. Especially not someone I have to see every damn day at work. That’d be awkward. And honestly, I’ve managed to complicate my own life just fine these past twenty years, thanks.”

He offered a lopsided smile. “I’m good. Can we drop it?”

Wayne nodded, accepting the terms.

His eyes wandered to Misty again, now bored with her food and drumming her rubber spoon against the tray like it was a snare drum.

“You thought about what you’re gonna do with your life?” he asked, casual—too casual. Like he wasn’t planting the real question right there at the center of the table.

Because yeah. That’s where this was going.

Eddie laughed dryly, dragged both hands down his face, and stood to wipe Misty’s face.

“AAAAAH!” she shrieked in protest, her little face flushed red.

Eddie raised his brows. “Jesus, kid. What’s with the attitude? Come on, not with Dad. You’re breaking my heart here.”

Wayne chuckled, that deep kind that came from the chest.

“Wonder where she gets it from.”

Eddie shot him a look, then finished wiping Misty’s cheeks and chin. He kissed her nose, then scrunched his face like he’d smelled something foul.

“Ugh. You smell like spinach,” he muttered, blowing raspberries on her cheeks and earning another round of giggles.

“There. That’s better.”

“So?” Wayne asked again, a little more insistent. “What now?”

Eddie dropped the rag on the table.

“I dunno—be her dad? Doesn’t that count as a life plan?” he asked, gesturing toward Misty.

“Sure it does. But it can’t be the whole plan. Shouldn’t be.”

Silence fell like a weight.

Eddie knew this conversation wasn’t going anywhere. Not unless he died first.

“What do you suggest?”

“Don’t laugh,” Wayne warned. “I don’t need your smarta—your smart remarks.” He caught himself just in time, censoring for little ears.

“Have you thought about college?”

Eddie looked at him like he’d just been asked to run for Pope.

“You high off something from the plant? Or you having an aneurysm?”

“Da-da.”

Eddie took Misty’s hand, giving her his attention.

Wayne ignored the comment. He’d been raising Eddie too long to get derailed that easy.

“Eddie.”

“Da-da-da-da.” Eddie grabbed Misty’s other hand.

“I graduated high school at twenty.”

“So what? What matters is why. Why you pulled it off. Because you decided to. When you, Eddie Munson, set your mind to something and work for it—you do it. Robin helped you. You studied with her. And before that, with G. Remember that song you two won the school talent show with?”

Eddie squinted, like the memory stung.

“It was… fun,” he admitted.

“I’ve never seen you happier than when you were onstage with a guitar in your hands—well, except for Misty.”

Right on cue, another scream.

“DAAAA-DAAAA!”

Eddie blinked at her, wide-eyed again. “Alright, kiddo, this ain’t an Iron Maiden recording studio. Let’s bring it down a few decibels.”

“Jesus, those lungs,” Wayne muttered as Eddie scooped her out of the chair and into his lap. Misty immediately went for his hair, tugging and grabbing for the tiny stud in his nose—he’d gotten it pierced a month ago, maybe two.

“When’s the last time you wrote something, son?” Wayne asked, leaning in.

Eddie dodged Misty’s hand. “I play guitar sometimes—”

“Not play. Not ripping Sabbath solos or humming some ballad to get her to sleep.”

Wayne pinned him with a look—firm, not cruel. The kind of voice that belonged to someone who’d watched life pass people by one hesitation at a time.

“When’s the last time you wrote something that came from you?”

He paused.

“Before Misty. Before Diane?”

Silence.

Eddie looked down, swallowed hard, kissed Misty’s palm—anything to avoid being read like an open book.

Wayne sighed.

“You know G has to submit a graduation project soon? Her dad says it’s gotta be an original composition. The song’s called Misty.”

He let that sink in.

“Diane’s pregnancy shut you down. But G? I bet what happened hurt her just as much. And all it did was inspire her.”

Eddie turned his head toward his daughter, who was now watching him with a rare stillness, wide-eyed and intent, like she knew—somehow—that she was the center of the conversation. Her face still had traces of spinach, but her eyes… those big brown eyes held an entire universe.

A universe he hadn’t written a single verse for.

Not one song.

Not one line.

Nothing.

He had spent the last year living for her. Changing diapers, working double shifts, graduating, learning to soothe fevers and decode cries.

But he had never written her name in music.

And all of a sudden, the silence inside his chest weighed heavier than all the questionable choices he’d ever made in his life.

“Maybe it’s time,” Wayne murmured as he stood from the table. “Your most important audience is sitting right there in your lap. And one day, she’ll understand.”

Eddie looked down at Misty, who was now playing with the button on his jacket with an enviable kind of seriousness. He studied her thin brown eyebrows, her curly hair, her milk-soft cheeks and little pink lips. He kissed her forehead, and she smiled at him.

Like she already knew.

Like she was already waiting.

Eddie sat on the edge of his bed with the rotary phone cradled in his lap.

Please pick up. Please. Pick up. Pick up. Pick—

Finally, a breathless, bright voice.

“Hello? If this is anyone but Bryan Neal, hi. If it is Bryan Neal, you can go FUCK yourself”

Eddie frowned, trying to search his memory for any conversations you and he might’ve had about a Bryan Neal.

“Laura Dean, right?”

A gasp.

“You’re the hot metalhead with a kid,” she said, laughing.

“That’s what Giggle calls me?” Eddie asked, eyebrows raised.

“Awww, you call her Giggle?” she replied in a syrupy tone. “No, she doesn’t call you that. We saw your picture on her nightstand and just started calling you that. I assume you wanna talk to her?”

“Please.”

“Well, since you asked nicely.”

Shuffling sounds. Then laughter in the background. A pause.

“OOOOOOOh, Giggle,” the girl sing-songed. “It’s your long-haired hot baby daddy—ow! It hurt!”

Eddie exhaled and rolled his eyes, trying not to let that phrase get under his skin. And then—your voice. Sleepy, warm, achingly familiar.

“Eds?”

He closed his eyes. “Hey.”

“Is everything okay? Is Misty okay?”

Eddie smiled and glanced at his daughter, dressed in Care Bears pajamas Wayne had bought, sleeping soundly with her tiny fists curled and her lips parted in the middle of the bed.

“She’s perfect,” he said. “Out like a rock.”

He heard your soft laugh. “God, I can’t wait for her birthday so I can see her. I miss her so much.”

“She misses you too,” Eddie whispered. Then his eyes swept across your room—frozen in time—and he sighed. “Whenever I pick up the phone, she lifts her little hands and starts fussing. Thinks she’s gonna hear your voice every time.”

Silence.

“That’s adorable,” you murmured, like it hurt. “Did you wanna talk about something?”

Eddie realized that lately, when they called, it was mostly Misty who got your voice—though she couldn’t say much back yet. You and he hadn’t had much time for just… talking.

“I just wanted to hear you,” he said, quiet.

A pause. Then, gently: “Are you okay, Eds?”

“I am now,” he murmured. “How’s it going over there?”

“Well, still working on the recital project. They changed things up on us—it was supposed to be an original, but now that’s for later. The professor wants us to start it early and polish it until our last year’s performance,” you explained.

“Your dad was so proud he told Wayne, and Wayne told me,” he grumbled, making you laugh. “The song’s about Misty, right?”

There was a small silence, then a smile in your voice.

“She makes everything better.”

“She does.”

Eddie’s hand tightened around the phone.

“G, I haven’t written a song. Not even for her,” he admitted. “Can you believe that? Me. I haven’t written anything for her.”

“Well, you made her. That’s… one hell of a gift,” you whispered.

“Still,” he said. “Maybe it’s time I try. That I go do what we talked about. Something more.”

“You’d be amazing,” you said, instantly. "Really, wonderful.”

He chuckled, a little breathless. “You always say that like it’s obvious.”

“Because it is.”

“Like I could just—”

“You can.”

He didn’t say I love you.

You didn’t either.

But Eddie felt it there—thick and golden, stretching between New York and Hawkins.

That night, he began.

No one had ever made him want to be better just by existing—until Misty.

No one had ever believed in him the way you do.

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