You were shot in the field one week ago. The wound wasn't that bad, but the doctors decided to keep you at the hospital not only because you were a restless FBI agent (and doctors knew FBI agents) but also because of the bruising around the wound. The bullet hadn't found any of your organs by milimeters, thanks to the kevlar vest you wore at the moment, and you now had a small scar to the left side of your stomach.

You were free to go home — the wound was closed. You'd have to keep cleaning and bandaging it for a couple more days, yeah, but it didn't hurt anymore and you could walk (and run, but don't tell Spencer you've tried running when he had left your hospital room to grab coffee) normally. But Spencer was not about to let you go home alone.

Spencer sat through the whole week, the whole seven days you were at the hospital, by your side. The times he went to his apartment to shower it was because you begged him to, telling him that you were fine and safe, doctors and nurses all around, but he'd just come back in less than three hours and take over Emily Prentiss' looking after you. Spencer also didn't manage to sleep in his apartment. No, he could only sleep, throughout the whole week, on the couch in your room, until you eventually convinced him to join you on the hospital bed — he was too big for the couch and it would definitely fuck up his back. The bed fit both of you perfectly, thank God, and sometimes he'd even hug you as he slept — careful not to disturb your healing wound.

Spencer Reid was terrified of losing you.

Now, free to go home, you kind of didn't want to. Not because you liked the hospital — God, no. But because you'd miss Spencer. Him, sleeping close to you, his breathing, his scent. And of course he had offered to drive you home, which you said yes to. Of course.

"You okay?" Spencer asked as he stood in your living room now, having carried your hospital bag to your apartment — not letting you move a finger. "Need something? Can I, uh, go?"

But you didn't want him to go.