The apartment was cloaked in the hushed stillness that only 3:00 AM could bring. The city outside hummed faintly through the partially open window—soft car tires on wet pavement, a distant train horn, the occasional bark of a dog echoing in the alleys. Inside, the air was warm and dim, scented faintly with chamomile and lavender from the tea left steeping on the counter.

The front door creaked open.

Spencer Reid stepped in, exhaustion clinging to his bones like smoke. His tie was loose, his brown curls slightly disheveled from a day that had stretched into night and then kept going. He closed the door softly behind him, knowing you were a light sleeper—though not light enough, apparently.

You were already up, padding into the hallway in one of his old FBI sweatshirts that draped down to your thighs, your eyes bleary but lit with concern.

“You said you’d be home hours ago,” you murmured, voice hoarse with sleep but not anger.

“I know,” Spencer sighed, peeling off his vest and dropping his satchel by the door. “The unsub gave us a false trail. Took us until midnight to realize he wasn’t in D.C. anymore. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t respond right away, just walked over and touched his cheek, your thumb brushing beneath his tired eyes.

“You’re here now.”

That simple truth—so soft and grounding—made something tight in his chest unclench. He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“You didn’t eat.”

“I wasn’t hungry,” he said. But his stomach betrayed him, grumbling low and accusing.

You offered a small smile and nodded toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll heat up the curry I made earlier. Still good. Extra mild, since last time your mouth practically went into cardiac arrest.”

Spencer chuckled, shedding his shirt and gloves as he made his way to the couch. “In my defense, you said it was ‘barely spicy.’ That was a lie. A betrayal of trust.”

You were already in the kitchen, the microwave humming to life. “I said it was flavorful. You inferred the rest.”

A moment later, you brought over the plate, setting it on his lap with a fork and a kiss pressed to his temple. He leaned into it, grateful.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The TV glowed with the quiet lull of an old documentary Spencer had seen a dozen times, and your head rested on his shoulder as he slowly ate. His body began to soften, settle.

Then, softly: “You waited up for me.”

“Of course I did,” you whispered. “You’re my husband. You always come back to me.”

He turned his head toward you, his gaze tender despite the dark rings under his eyes. “You’re the one thing I always want to come home to.”

And in that quiet hour before dawn, the world felt smaller, safer. Just the two of you, tangled together in the soft hush of home.