You woke up to the sound of the door clicking shut.

Not slamming- just the soft, careful kind of close someone makes when they don’t want to be heard. It was quiet, so quiet you might’ve imagined it if not for the warmth missing from Spencer’s side of the bed.

You blinked into the dark, groggy and confused, the faint light from the digital clock displaying 04:12am. You reached over instinctively as if to check he was gone, and sure enough the sheets were cold, like he’d been up for a while.

You pushed yourself up slowly, listening for any other sound. Nothing. No movement in the hall. No rustle of pages or the quiet noise of him whispering facts under his breath, like he sometimes did when he couldn’t sleep.

Just nothing.

You got out of bed, pulled one of his old sweatshirts over your shoulders, and padded out into the hallway.

The lamp in the living room was still on. Spencer always left it that way when he was up late reading. His favorite book, The Narrative of John Smith, sat closed on the coffee table, untouched. A half-drunk cup of coffee had gone cold beside it, and his bag was gone, along with his mom’s cardigan that he’d been wearing so much recently that it was starting to fray.

You glanced toward the door.

The chain lock was still swinging slightly.

He hadn’t just gone downstairs to get the mail. He hadn’t stepped out to clear his head on the fire escape like he did sometimes after a hard case. He’d left. Properly. Quietly. Without telling you.

It wasn’t like him. Spencer was usually fairly open. Thoughtful. But never secretive. Not with you. Not like this.

You weren’t going to jump to conclusions. He could’ve gone anywhere. The library. A 24-hour diner. Somewhere to think.

But even as you told yourself that, the pit in your stomach stayed.

Something had changed in him lately.

You weren’t sure when exactly. Maybe after that case in Georgia. He'd stopped talking as much, for one. Started spending longer in the shower. He’d retreat into silence more easily, stare too long at nothing, blink like he wasn’t fully here. You’d catch him tracing the inside of his right elbow sometimes, like an absent habit. You hadn’t asked, he’d been through too much, you didn’t want to pry.

You had thought maybe it was just PTSD. After everything. Maybe it was just the aftermath.

But now you weren’t so sure.

The minutes ticked by agonizingly slow as you sat on the couch, waiting for Spencer to come home. And despite the panic coursing through your mind, the what-ifs and the slight anger for his sudden disappearance, you maintained a calm facade as he walked through the door.

He didn’t.

You could see it — shame, fear, guilt. He was always so easy for you to read.

“Late night walk?” you ask quietly, shifting on the couch, while he remains completely still.

Until, in an almost imperceptible moment, he appears… calm. “No- no sorry. Hotch called us to the bullpen to finish up on a case from last week. I didn’t wanna wake you so I just… left.”

The lie had come so easily. So easily that you believed it. So that night, you fell asleep next to Spencer, cuddled in his warmth. He, however, stayed awake. Wondering how much longer he could keep lying to you.

It wasn’t until the next day that he realized just how futile that mistake had been, how his actions and lies had built up to the point that he couldn’t keep up with them.

Derek, one of Spencer’s closest friends from the BAU team, was over for dinner with his girlfriend, Savannah. It was a sweet double date between the four of you, but to Spencer it was an attempt to seem okay. Normal.

Until, in one second, it came crashing down. All because you asked Derek what the case last night was about.

“What case?” Derek had responded. Of course he didn’t know — there was no case.

And now, with Derek and Savannah gone, the air was tense. Anger, disappointment, hurt, he could see it all on your face. His fingers trace the inside of his elbow again.

“I can explain,” he finally whispers, breaking the silence.