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cherryblossomfairyy · 8 days ago

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Bigger Than The Whole Sky.

Pairing: spencer reid x wife!reader

Summary: After a miscarriage, Spencer and Y/N navigate grief in silence—until a case involving a baby breaks Spencer’s composure. Through shared pain, quiet letters, and one long-overdue laugh, they begin to heal together. Along the lyrics of the song "Bigger Than the Whole Sky" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

CW: miscarriage, depression and suicidal ideation

The room was quiet—too quiet. The hum of the hospital machines had stopped hours ago. Y/N layed on the bed, a pale hospital gown laying over her body, hands cradling the soft roundness that had once held so much promise. Spencer stood nearby, his hand hovering above hers but not quite touching. He looked like a man who’d read every book in the world but couldn’t find a single page that could explain this.

Y/N finally broke the silence. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice thin and cracked. “I’m so sorry, Spence.” ‘’Salt streams out my eyes and into my ears’.”

His heart clenched. “No. No, sweetheart, you don’t have to say that. This is not your fault.” But she kept going, as if she hadn’t heard him. “It's not fair. Why not, why couldn't I carry our baby?” She gave a hollow laugh, her eyes distant. “Or is it just the cruelest kind of divine?” “Every single thing I touch becomes sick with sadness.��

Spencer sat down on the bed in front of her, taking her hands. “Y/N… please don’t do this to yourself.” Tears streamed silently down her cheeks as she met his gaze. “I never even got to meet them. But I loved them, Spence. I loved them so much. And now all I can do is cry.” Her voice shook.

Spencer felt something in him shatter. “You didn’t even have a chance,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her stomach. “Every single thing to come has turned into ashes…”

He pulled her into his arms then, holding her as she sobbed into his chest. “I don’t know what to say,” he murmured. “There’s nothing in all the languages I know that can make this okay.” “No words appear before me in the aftermath.”

“I had so much to live for,” she whispered. “So much to lose…” Spencer rocked them gently. “We lost them together. But we’ll grieve together, too. I promise I’m not going anywhere.” She closed her eyes against the pain, letting herself be held. For now, that was all either of them could do—breathe through the heartbreak and wait for the quiet to feel less heavy.

Day One. The hospital room echoed with silence long after the doctor left. Y/N stared at the ceiling, her arms empty. Spencer sat beside her, fingers laced with hers, his thumb brushing her knuckles in slow circles. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

That night, as Spencer helped her into bed at home, she finally said, “I don’t know what to do with all this time.” He paused. “What do you mean?” She looked down, eyes blank. “Time I was supposed to spend holding them… feeding them… watching you rock them to sleep.” Her throat caught. “Now it’s just… nothing.” “And I've got a lot to pine about.”

Spencer swallowed the lump in his throat and laid down beside her, whispering, “We’ll hold that time together.”

Week One. Grief settled like dust—coating everything. Y/N barely spoke. Spencer took time off work. He cooked food she didn’t eat, folded clothes she didn’t wear, sat beside her in bed while she stared out the window. One morning, she finally whispered, “Cause it's all over, it's not meant to be.”

Spencer didn’t know if she was talking about the baby or herself.

Week two. She began writing poetry for the baby. Something keep her busy and to try and focus all her emotions in. Spencer found the first one left on the coffee table beside a mug of untouched tea.

“Did some bird flap its wings over in Asia? Did some force take you because I didn't pray? Cause it's all over now, all out to sea.”

He read the whole letter with trembling hands, tears streaking silently down his face. That night, he brought her notebook to her room. “Do you want to read them to me?” he asked gently Y/N looked away, ashamed. “They’re just words. Useless ones.” “So I'll say words I don’t believe.”

“No,” he said. “They’re love.”

Month one. It started like all the hard days did—with not getting out of bed. The sun crept through the blinds, casting long lines across the room, but Y/N didn’t move. Her phone buzzed twice with texts from JJ and once from her sister. She ignored them all. Even the silence felt too loud. The grief was different today. Not sharp and aching, but dull and heavy—like she’d been filled with cement and left to dry.

--- y/n’s inner monologue --- I wake up, but I don’t move. The sun’s on my face, but I don’t feel warm. I hear the birds outside, the soft sounds of life moving on without me. I hate them for it. I envy them for it. The world keeps spinning, and I’m still stuck in the same moment—four weeks ago, in that sterile hospital room, staring at the ceiling while my heart broke quietly beneath the sound of machines. Everyone says time helps. But they don’t say what to do in the meantime.

I look at the corner where the bassinet used to be. It’s empty now. Spencer moved it when I was asleep. I think he thought he was helping. Maybe he was. But God, the silence is worse. There are bottles in the cabinet I can’t bring myself to throw away. I still have the little socks. The ultrasound picture. The list of names.

“I’ve got a lot to live without.”

The beeping from all the hospital equipment echoes through me like a prayer I didn’t choose. A baby I never held. Laughter I’ll never hear. First steps. First words. First everything. All gone before the beginning. And I hate that I still breathe. That I still eat. That I still function in this half-life while our baby will never get the chance to even start one.

People say “you’ll feel normal again,” but what if I don’t want normal without them? What if I want them? I roll over and face the wall. I don’t cry today. I’m too tired for that. Today, I just carry the weight. Quietly. Alone.

--- end y/n's inner monologue --- Spencer peeked in the doorway around 10 a.m. “I made toast,” he said gently. “And tea. You should eat something.” She stared at the ceiling. He came closer. “Y/N?” Still nothing.

Her voice finally came, flat. “It doesn’t matter.” Spencer sat on the edge of the bed. “It does. You do.” Tears welled in her eyes, but they didn’t fall. “I was supposed to be different by now. Stronger. Better.” “You’re grieving,” he said softly. “There’s no timeline for that.” She turned her head toward the window. “I feel like a shell. Like I’m watching my life from the outside.” Spencer reached for her hand. “Do you want me to stay here with you?” She didn’t answer, but she didn’t pull away. He took that as a yes. So he lay beside her, shoes still on, head on the pillow next to hers. For a long time, they just breathed. Eventually, her voice came again, barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to feel like this forever.” He looked at her, his eyes soft but resolute. “You won’t. Not forever. But until then… I’ll keep showing up. Even on the heavy days.” She blinked slowly, her eyes finally meeting his. “Okay.” And it wasn’t fixed. Nothing was. But it was a beginning.

Because that’s what grief is sometimes. A heavy kind of surviving.

Month Two. Spencer started therapy first. Y/N followed a week later. Progress was slow—measured in small victories: putting on jeans, making toast, laughing once at a dumb documentary he insisted she’d hate. She cried after, the smile so foreign it scared her. “I feel I’m not supposed to smile,” she said. “I’m supposed to be crying.” “You’re allowed to do both,” he told her. “Grief’s not a straight line.”

The room was warm, softly lit, and smelled faintly of bergamot. A bookshelf lined the far wall. Two armchairs sat side by side, facing the therapist. Spencer sat stiffly, fingers laced tightly in his lap. Y/N sat next to him, curled slightly into herself, wearing his cardigan like armor.

The therapist—Dr. Hale—gave them a soft smile. “There’s no pressure to say anything until you’re ready. This is just space.” Silence.

Y/N stared at the floor. Spencer glanced at her, then at the books, then down. Dr. Hale spoke again, gently. “Maybe we start with a simple question. What does grief feel like today?” Y/N was the one to answer. “Like waiting for something that won’t come back,” she said. Her voice was rough. “Like I’m supposed to be someone else right now… a mother. But I’m not.”

Spencer shifted beside her. “For me… it’s like static. In my head. I keep analyzing it—statistically, biologically. I know how common it is. I know we did nothing wrong. But none of it helps.” His voice cracked. “I still feel like I failed her.” Y/N’s hand twitched toward his. He reached out and gently held it. Dr. Hale nodded. “You're both carrying guilt. That’s normal, but it’s also heavy.” Y/N finally looked at Spencer. “I don’t want us to get stuck in this. In the silence.” “I don’t either,” he said. “But sometimes I don’t know what to say that won’t hurt you more.” “You don’t have to say anything.” She leaned against him. “Just stay.”

Spencer blinked fast. “Always.” Dr. Hale smiled softly. “That—right there—is the beginning.” And for the first time in weeks, they both exhaled at the same time.

The therapist supported Y/N’s idea to keep writting for the baby. She recommanded that they should write letters. A way to get out all the emotions that have been botteling up. Y/N wrote everyday a little, Spencer after every case he had.

From Y/N My sweet love, I don’t know where you are now. Maybe you were only meant to be a whisper in this world, a flicker of a heartbeat. But you were mine. Ours. And that makes you real. There were so many things I wanted to show you—sunlight through our bedroom window, the way your dad reads books like they hold the universe. I wanted to hold you on my chest and hum lullabies. I wanted to hear you laugh, cry, call me "mama." But instead, I am left with silence. I think of you every second. I wonder who you would’ve become. Your favorite song. The first book you would’ve loved. If your eyes would’ve looked like his. “I’m never gonna meet what could’ve been, would’ve been, what should’ve been you.”

I’ll never stop wondering. But I’ll never stop loving you either. You were, and always will be, ‘bigger than the whole sky.’

Love, Mom.

From Spencer Dear Little One, You never got to open your eyes, but I saw you clearly. In the curve of your mother’s smile. In the quiet hope I carried every time I read about fetal development and thought, “That’s happening in our baby right now.” ”You were more than just a short time.”

I don’t know what I believe about the afterlife. But I believe in love. And mine for you was immediate—unshakable. I wanted to read to you before bed. I wanted to show you stars, recite facts you’d roll your eyes at, take you to your first library. I dreamed of your first words and how they’d sound in our home. Instead, I carry those dreams in my chest. Quiet. Unfinished. Precious. I’m so sorry for not making it past the start, And all the things I’ll never know about you… I miss you. And I will, for the rest of my life. But I’m grateful I got to love you, even for a moment. You were the beginning of everything.

With all my heart, Dad.

It had been three months since they lost the baby. Spencer wore grief like an old sweater—familiar, stretched, and clinging to his frame even when he tried to forget he was still wearing it. The BAU had given him time. Morgan had told him to take longer. JJ had hugged him without saying a word. But eventually, he returned. Because what else was he supposed to do?

Work was his refuge. It always had been. Statistics didn’t cry. Autopsy reports didn’t ask how he was doing. But today’s case broke through the numbness.

A missing infant. Four months old. Taken from a crib in the middle of the night. No forced entry. Parents devastated. A pink knitted blanket left on the floor, slightly damp from where the mother’s tears had fallen. Spencer stood in the nursery, the crib still warm. He stared at the mobile spinning slowly above it, stuffed clouds and stars turning lazily in the air. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink.

He saw their nursery—the one he and Y/N had painted together, her laugh echoing off the walls as he got mint-green paint on his nose. The bassinet they'd ordered. The books he'd stacked in quiet anticipation. The tiny pair of socks she'd cried over in Target. He had to leave the room.

He made it through the rest of the day like a ghost. Went through the motions. Profiled. Analyzed. Helped find the baby alive, thank God. But that didn’t stop the breakdown. “I'm never gonna meet what could've been, would've been, what should've been you.”

It hit him on the drive home. Somewhere between a red light and a radio commercial, the world cracked open. He walked into their apartment, dropped his go-bag by the door, and saw her—curled on the couch in his oversized cardigan, the one she’d started wearing every night. Their eyes met. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Y/N stood slowly. “Rough case?” she asked, her voice small. “Baby,” he choked. “She was just four months. The parents—” His voice cracked. “—they looked like us.” She walked to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and he broke. His arms clung to her tightly, his face buried in her shoulder as the sobs came, harsh and shuddering. “I miss them so much,” he whispered. “I know,” she said. “Me too.”

They sank to the floor together, holding each other as the quiet surrounded them—no mobile spinning overhead, no baby monitor crackling, just the sound of their grief colliding and folding into love. Eventually, Y/N whispered, “We never got to hold them. But we carry them everywhere.”

Spencer nodded, forehead against hers. “Always. Bigger than the whole sky.”

Month four. They visited the cemetery on a rainy afternoon. The tiny plaque read only one word: "Loved." Y/N stood there for a long time. “What could’ve been, would’ve been,” she whispered. “What should’ve been you and us…” Spencer took her hand. “They were ours. Still are.” She nodded through the tears. “And I’ll miss them forever, like they were here forever.”

“Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.”

Five months and thirteen days. That’s how long it had been since they lost the baby. Y/N counted in the quiet moments. Spencer counted in pages read and mornings survived.

They were both still healing. Some days were heavier than others. Today had been one of the quieter ones. It was raining softly, tapping against the windows like a lullaby. Spencer had made tea—chamomile for her, something stronger for himself—and they’d settled on the couch with an old worn blanket and no words. Y/N was flipping through a photo album—one they hadn’t touched since before. It was filled with small memories: messy hair and sleepy mornings, museum trips, random polaroids of their feet, Spencer asleep with a book open on his chest. She paused on one picture.

Spencer was holding a stuffed elephant at a bookstore, grinning awkwardly at the camera. In the background, she was visibly pregnant—only barely—but her smile was soft, eyes squinting with laughter.“I forgot about this,” she murmured, showing him the photo. He leaned in. “Oh,” he said, a soft chuckle catching in his throat. “You told me not to buy that elephant, said it was overpriced and weird-looking.” “You bought it anyway.” “I hid it in the closet like a criminal,” he said.

Y/N let out a small, surprised laugh. She hadn’t expected it—but it came easily, and for a moment, it felt real. Spencer looked at her like she’d just returned from a long, faraway place. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh in… I don’t even know how long.” She blinked, then smiled again—tentative, but there. “It felt weird. Good. But weird.” He reached out, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “You can smile,” he said gently. “We’re allowed.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, but she was still smiling. “So are you.” He kissed her then, slow and tender. The elephant still sat on the shelf behind them, dusty but present—like grief, like love, like the baby they would always remember. Outside, the rain kept falling. But inside, just for a moment, there was light.

Month six. They planted a tree in the backyard. It wasn’t to forget. It was to remember without drowning. Y/N pressed her hand to the young bark. “This is for you,” she whispered. “For everything I’ll never get to know about you.” Later, she stood in the kitchen with Spencer, a hand resting over her heart. “It’s not better,” she said. “But… I’m still here.” He kissed her temple. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

One Year. They didn’t throw a party. Didn’t host anyone. They just sat together under the tree, arms around each other, Y/N’s head on his chest. As the breeze moved through the leaves, Y/N whispered one last time, “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye�� You were bigger than the whole sky.” And in the quiet, Spencer whispered back, “And you always will be.”

#spotify #spencer reid #taylor swift #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #spencer x reader #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #bau #taylor swift midnights

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cherryblossomfairyy · 1 month ago

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Bejeweled

Pairing : spencer reid x bau!reader

Summary : y/n finally breaks up with her boyfriend. He caused her to dim her light. Now single and feeling great, she goes to the FBI’s annual gala. Where she has her bejeweled moment and dances with Spencer. Maybe he will stay the night with her? Along the lyrics of the song "Bejeweled" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

You used to dim your light for him. Not on purpose—not really. It was more subtle, like the way the moon fades a bit when clouds pass by. You didn’t stop being you. You just got…quieter. Less “bejeweled,” as your best friend had so perfectly put it one evening over wine.

“You used to shine,” she said, swirling her glass with a pitying tilt of her head. “You were diamonds. Lately, you’re costume jewelry. Cheap stuff. Plastic. Why?”

You didn’t answer her. You didn’t want to say that the reason you’d dulled yourself was you (insecure) boyfiend—or more accurately, the way his behaviour made you feel around him. It wasn’t your fault, not really. You felt trapped and his promises made you feel better momentaraly. The man was brilliant, soft-spoken, and kind when he wanted to.

"Baby love, I think I've been a little too kind."

The clock ticks. Rain hums outside. You stands in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped tightly around her. James lounges on the couch like he’s already over the conversation.

y/n quietly said, with silent tears in her eyes “I just want to talk about what happened at the party. You completely ignored me all night, and when I tried to say something, you laughed in my face.”

“Jesus, you’re still on that?”James answered her, without looking up.

“Yes. Because it hurt. And you still haven’t acknowledged it.”

He sighs dramatically before speaking. “You’re too sensitive. I was talking to people. Networking. You want me glued to your hip all night like a child?”

y/n, shocked by his reaction, trying tos peak calmly. “I never said that. I just wanted to feel like I existed to you.”

James let out a big laugh, still not looking at her. “Wow. Drama queen much?”

A frown appeared on y/n’s face.“Why do you always do that? Make fun of me when I try to be honest?”

“Because you're always making up these stories in your head. You twist everything into some attack. It’s exhausting.” James tells her, fort he first time looking up from his phone.

"Sadness became my whole sky."

“I’m not making anything up,” she said, voice firm but shaking slightly. “I’m telling you how I feel.”

He crossed his arms, his tone turning cold. “No, you’re making a scene out of nothing. Again. You do this all the time — create problems that don’t exist just so you can play the victim.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare call me the victim. I’ve put up with your gaslighting for months, and I’ve tried to make this work.”

He let out a laugh, dripping with mock innocence. “Gaslighting? Oh my god. You really think you’re being abused just because I don’t agree with your little fantasy version of things?”

“It’s not a fantasy when I live it every day,” she snapped. “You lie. You deflect. You deny things that I know happened. I bring up real issues and you make me feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“BECAUSE YOU ARE ACTING CRAZY RIGHT NOW!” he shouted, voice booming. “You’re blowing everything out of proportion! You always do this when you don’t get your way!”

"Baby boy, I think I've been too good of a girl."

Y/N spoke calmly, almost too calm. Like she was used tot his type of reaction. “And now you’re screaming. Again. Like that’s gonna fix anything.”

“I’m screaming because YOU DON’T LISTEN!”

The sound of bruising knuckles echos throught the living room as James slams his fist into the wall.

“I’m fcking drowning here trying to keep this together, and you just—walk away from everything like it's nothing!”*

She stepped back, her expression unreadable. “Wow. There it is. I finally see it. You don’t love me — you just love having someone to blame everything on.”

Her voice cracked slightly, but she didn’t flinch. “I don’t even know what we’re doing anymore. Every conversation turns into a fight.”

He threw his hands up, frustrated. “Because you keep picking at me! Every little thing I do becomes a problem.”

“I’m not picking,” she said sharply. “I’m asking for basic respect. Like not disappearing for two days and then acting like it’s completely normal.”

He fell silent for a beat. His chest rose and fell, shallow and fast. His jaw clenched. There was rage in his eyes — but something else too. Desperation. Fear.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he muttered. “You’re emotional and paranoid, like always. Go take a walk or something. You’ll come back and realize you’re overreacting.”

She stared at him, calm and certain now. “No. I’m not coming back.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh please. You say that every time. You’ll be texting me by morning.”

“Not this time,” she said, voice soft but solid as stone. “I finally believe myself more than I believe you.”

She grabbed her keys. Her heart pounded in her chest, but her hands didn’t shake. He didn’t move. Just sat there, watching her like he still expected her to sit back down.

“So what,” he said bitterly, “you’re just gonna walk out like everyone else? Coward.”

Y/N with a deep sadness in her voice, but staying strong. “No. It takes strength to walk away from someone you love who keeps hurting you. You want to scream and blame me? Fine. Scream into an empty room.”

She grabs her coat from the hook, hands trembling.

James voice breaking as he realised that this time she’s serieus about leaving him

“y/n… wait. Please

After a silence that lasted no more then five seconds, his anger came roaring back.

“You’re nothing without me.” He muttered.

As y/n paused in the doorway, she said, in a low, final tone “I was nothing with you.”

“No, wait—y/n, don’t do this. Don’t you dare—”

She shuts the door behind her. And for once — she doesn’t look back.

"And by the way, I'm going out tonight."

The whole team knew of your difficult relationship with him. They offered their help and advise, but you didn't want to hear it back then. You told them little lies, about how you two were doing better now and that they didn't have to worry.

"Didn't notice you walking all over my peace of mind."

But Spencer had a knack for seeing through things—especially you.

Spencer saw how hard you tried. How often you dressed up, hoping maybe one day your boyfriend would notice how great you actually were. You were always just a friend. A teammate. The girl he wanted to ask for dinner, but was too afraid.

But tonight was going to be different. after a short screaming match, only him. You officially broke up with him, now he's just one of your exes. No longer a man that slowly started to break you down.

Tonight was for you.

You slipped on the dress you’d buried in the back of your closet. The one that shimmered like starlight and hugged you like it missed you. You painted your lips red and lined your eyes with defiance. You slid on heels that clicked like a warning.

You were going to the FBI’s annual gala looking like the woman you had once been before you started hiding behind subtle smiles and quiet loyalty.

You were going to sparkle.

''Best believe I'm still bejeweled."

"When I walk in the room, I can still make the whole place shimmer."

The room was full of light—chandeliers glittered overhead, and the BAU looked stunning in tuxes and gowns. You caught JJ’s eye first. Her jaw dropped. “Y/N…you look incredible.”

You smiled. “I know.”

"What's a girl gonna do? A diamond's gotta shine."

Confidence wasn’t cocky. It was truth. And you had earned the right to own it.

You passed by Hotch, Rossi, even Morgan, all of whom gave you compliments or double-takes. And then, finally, you saw him.

Spencer.

He was at the bar, nervously twirling a glass of soda water in his hand, wearing a deep navy suit that made his brown eyes darker, more intense. His tie was crooked, of course. You always liked that about him.

He turned—and stopped.

His eyes widened.

“Y/N…” His voice was soft, almost reverent. “You look…”

You raised an eyebrow, lips curved. “Bejeweled?”

"I can reclaim the land."

He blinked, caught off guard. Then he smiled, and it was slow, shy, and so Spencer it almost hurt.

“Yeah,” he said. “Exactly that.”

But you didn’t stop. Not yet.

You walked past him, hips swaying to the rhythm of your own self-worth, giving him a wink as you grabbed a glass of champagne. You chatted with Luke, laughed at one of Penelope’s wild stories, danced with Morgan to a song that had too much bass and not enough subtlety. You lit up the room.

The music pulses through the floor, low and heady. Colored lights spin lazily over a packed dance floor. You’re standing by the bar, laughing at something Penelope said, when two guys, agents from a different branch, approach — confident, smooth, probably a little too charming for their own good.

One leans in with a grin. “You look like you’re having a boring night. Wanna change that?”

You arch a brow, amused. “Depends on your definition of fun.”

The other nudges his friend. “We’re not bad dancers, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You glance toward the dance floor.

So you smile. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The music shifts to something sultry, bass-heavy. They’re decent dancers, easygoing, clearly trying to impress. One twirls you around. The other steps in too close, then laughs it off. You laugh with them,

"And when I meet the band. They ask, "Do you have a man?" I can still say, "I don't remember"

And Spencer watched.

It wasn’t until the fourth song in—a slow, sparkling tune that sounded like it had been written by stars—that he approached you.

“May I?” he asked, holding out his hand.

You hesitated, just long enough for him to worry, then took it.

"And we're dancin' all night."

His touch was tentative. But his eyes? They were clear. Finally seeing you. "Diamonds in my eyes."

“You know,” he murmured, swaying with you, “I think I’ve been waiting for too long.”

You tilted your head. “You think?”

“I’ve always known you were beautiful,” he said honestly. “But tonight… I see a version of you i have missed for so long. The real you, the one who shines. A friend told me to stop hiding from my feelings.”

And you smiled. Because you weren’t doing this for your now ex-boyfriend. Not anymore. But for yourself. It felt good to be seen again. And it felt right that it was him.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” you said.

“I know,” he replied, and his voice cracked just slightly. “But if you’ll let me…I’d like to start making up for that. One dance at a time.”

You let your head rest against his chest, just for a moment.

Because tonight, you were glowing.

Not for anyone else.

Just for you.

But maybe, just maybe, you’d let him bask in the light too.

The car ride back to your apartment was quiet. Not awkward—just thick with unspoken things. Spencer sat beside you in the backseat of the Bureau-issued black car, his hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes flicking to you when he thought you weren’t looking.

But you saw him. You always saw him. The difference now? He knew it.

When you reached your place, you expected him to say goodnight. But when you turned to do the goodbye-smile thing, he just said:

“Can I come up? Just for a little while?” "And you can try to change my mind."

You hesitated—not because you didn’t want to. God, you wanted to. But you weren’t sure if your heart could handle Spencer Reid in your space, with his hands maybe brushing yours, with that look in his eyes that said this is new, but I’m not going to pretend anymore.

But you nodded.

Upstairs, you kicked off your heels and dropped your clutch on the entry table. Spencer lingered in the doorway until you waved him in, watching him as he scanned the apartment with those observant eyes. He took everything in—your books, the throw blanket on your couch, the framed photo of the team—but it was you he looked at the longest.

You moved to the kitchen and grabbed two glasses of wine. When you turned back, he was closer. Not touching. But closer.

“You’re still glowing,” he said softly. “Even in this light.”

"I polish up real, I polish up real nice."

You let out a breathy laugh, taking a sip of wine to steady your nerves. “It’s just makeup and good lighting.”

“No, it’s not,” he replied, setting his untouched glass down. “It’s you. It always has been.”

"Sapphire tears on my face."

Your eyes met his. He didn’t flinch away this time.

“I feel like I missed out on you,” he continued. “Like you dissapeared and I didn't know how to help and I… I was too wrapped up in my own head.”

You walked toward him slowly, standing close enough to smell the faint scent of cologne and vintage paper—Spencer always smelled like old books and warmth.

“You didn’t miss it,” you said. “I was just hiding.”

He looked down at you, hands still at his sides, every inch of him buzzing with restraint.

“You don’t have to hide anymore.”

You reached up, fingers grazing his tie to straighten it—a habit you’d always wanted an excuse for. “So what now, Spencer?”

His breath hitched. “Now I stop pretending I don’t want you.”

Then he kissed you.

It was slow at first—hesitant, testing. Like he didn’t believe you’d kiss him back. But you did. And then you did again, deeper this time, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging gently until he groaned against your mouth.

He backed you into the wall, hands cupping your face like you were a piece of something sacred. It was messy, breathless, years of wanting packed into each desperate brush of lips and teeth.

When you pulled back, your lipstick smudged and eyes hazy, he whispered, “Tell me to stop.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

And once the door shut behind you, there was no more hesitation.

He undressed you like he was solving a puzzle—carefully, reverently. His hands memorized the shape of you, his mouth tracing a soft path along your collarbone, down your chest, making you gasp and arch and feel. You watched his brain click into overdrive—not analyzing, just worshiping.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured between kisses. “I should’ve told you every damn day.”

You pulled his shirt over his head, pressing your palms to his chest, fingers splayed over his heart. “Then start now,” you said, voice breathless. “Make up for it.”

And he did.

With every touch, every moan, every whispered I see you now, he rewrote the silence you’d endured. You weren't just shining—you were on fire, and he let himself burn in you.

Afterward, tangled in sheets and sweat and laughter, he whispered something against your bare shoulder.

“I don’t want to go back to the way we were. I want to know you—every part. Not just when you’re glowing. Even when you’re dim.”

You turned in his arms, touched his cheek, and kissed him slow and sweet.

“You’ve got me now, Spencer. All of me.”

And in the soft light of morning, you weren’t hiding.

You were bejeweled—and finally loved for it.

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