“I mean— it’s just not the right time, Spencer,” you stress to the man standing in the doorway, pacing the length of your bathroom. Where, just a few feet away, lays a tiny piece of plastic, face down on the marble counter.

You don’t want to look at it.

Not that you’re opposed to the idea of having kids with him at all, but there’s certainly much more ideal timing for something like this: not an hour before you and him are supposed to be attending Garcia’s farewell party, and certainly not barely a month after he almost died! You love this job, obviously, and you wouldn’t trade it for the world, but it definitely isn’t known for its safety.

And, to bring a baby into that? It certainly wouldn’t be picture-perfect.

Even Spencer’s reassurances can’t completely quell your anxieties, however much you appreciate him for doing it, and the timer you set on your phone to indicate when to check the results feels more like a ticking time bomb by the second.

Eventually, you just decide to force him to look at it first, which he doesn’t protest. You know he wants kids, and that’s enough to ease your worry, albeit not by much.

You, quite literally, turn away, facing towards the now closed door. As much as you wish you could just put it off, and tell yourself you’d deal with it tomorrow, or next week, or next month, you know that isn’t rational. Even if you swear you can hear your own heart beat, even if the lights in the bathroom seem to be burning into you, even if everything else becomes white noise to you as you hear Spencer walk over and flip over the test.

The room goes silent for a moment. A brief pause, yet one that seems to drag on for hours.

“Do you want to know what it says?” He asks, and you can hear the slightest of smiles in his voice, in the way you’d become so accustomed with in the time you’ve been together.