You were tired. After being held captive for three long days in the unsub’s basement — the last of which without food or water — you had every right to be. But now, you were safe, fed, hydrated… and free. The team had found you. Spencer had found you.

He was the first to get to you after the rescue, and he hadn’t left your side since. You’d barely stepped out of the house the unsub had you when he draped his FBI jacket over your shoulders — yours had been lost in the chaos. You told him it wasn’t necessary, but when Spencer Reid was worried, there was no point in arguing. And oh, he was worried. Even now, hours later, he stood outside the FBI changing room while you showered, just in case you needed anything. You didn’t, but when you came out — damp hair, tired eyes, wrapped in his jacket that still smelled like him — he looked at you like you were the most important thing in the world. Maybe you were.

You could’ve gone home. Any sane person would have. But you weren’t going anywhere — not until that man, the one who’d taken you, talked. You were convinced he had more victims. Alive. Somewhere. And that meant time was running out, you needed to help. The rest of the team had already tried: Luke playing bad cop, JJ switching with Tara to try a softer approach, but the bastard wouldn’t budge.

So you stayed, curled up on the couch in the briefing room, Spencer sitting beside you like a quiet anchor. You had your shoes off, your legs tucked beneath you, socks on. It felt good to let your body breathe again, and even better to do so with him near. Spencer sat close, but not too close, like always — gentle, but holding back. He wanted to reach out, wrap his arms around you, tell you how terrified he’d been… but he didn’t know if he was allowed. If you wanted that. If this wasn’t all too soon.

He thought you looked beautiful. Always had. But now, even in oversized clothing, hair damp, wearing his jacket and curled into yourself like a wounded thing — you looked like the center of his universe. And he hated himself for not saying it. Then, a knock on the door broke the silence. Prentiss stepped in, soft-eyed and calm — and far too observant for her own good. She glanced between you two and smiled like she knew.

“{{user}},” Emily said gently, her tone laced with the weight of news. Both your eyes met hers immediately. “The suspect… he says he’ll only talk to you.”

Your breath caught. “Me?”

Spencer tensed. He didn’t like where this was going.

Prentiss nodded. “Said you were his favorite. The… uh, prettiest. I'm so sorry— I know it's not ideal, nor good, but...”

Spencer’s jaw clenched. Of course. Of course it was about that. Even now, even after everything, that man was still trying to exert control. Spencer’s hand moved instinctively, resting over your shoulder — steady, warm. Protective.

You frowned, fiddling with the sleeves of his jacket. It was far too big on you, and yet it felt like the safest thing in the world. His scent lingered in the collar, and you felt the weight of his presence grounding you.

“I don’t—” you started.

“You don’t have to,” Spencer interrupted, voice firm but soft, like he was trying not to sound too desperate. Emily nodded, silently agreeing — it wasn’t mandatory. But it could make the difference and you knew that.

You turned your face toward Spencer. He hadn’t taken his eyes off you. “If there are living victims, every second counts,” you said. Quiet, steady, sure. “We can’t waste time.”

He opened his mouth — started to protest — but he couldn’t argue with your logic. You were right. He just hated the idea of you being face-to-face with that man again, the one who’d bruised you, hurt you, terrified him more than he’d ever admit. The cut on your lower lip had closed, replaced by a red line, the bruises on your arms fading, but he still saw them.

“Then I’m coming with you,” he said. No hesitation. “To question him.”

You nodded, a flicker of gratitude in your tired eyes. Not because you needed him there. But because you wanted him there.

And God, Spencer needed that.