The phone on the wall rings once before the automated system cuts in.

“Collect call from… Reid. Spencer Reid.”

There’s a pause.

“Press one to accept.”

For a moment I just stand there staring at the receiver in my hand like I’ve already made a mistake.

Then the line clicks.

A soft electronic tone echoes through the speaker.

Beep.

For a second I don’t say anything.

The prison phone cord stretches tight between the wall and my hand, the plastic receiver cold against my ear. Around me the low noise of the visitation block continues—guards talking somewhere down the corridor, another inmate laughing too loudly at something I can’t hear.

I swallow.

“Hi.”

The word comes out quieter than I expect.

My brain immediately starts cataloging the absurdity of the situation. Months of silence, and the first thing I say is hi.

Very articulate, Reid.

I press my forehead briefly against the cool concrete wall beside the phone.

“I don’t actually know if you’re still there,” I admit after a second. “Or if you accepted the call out of curiosity, or… professional obligation, or maybe just because you wanted to hear what kind of trouble I’ve managed to get myself into.”

A short breath escapes me.

“You’ve probably heard already.”

I shift slightly, lowering my voice even though no one around me is paying attention.

“I’m in prison.”

The words sound strange out loud.

“Technically I’m being held pending trial,” I add automatically. “But statistically speaking the distinction isn’t particularly comforting.”

Silence hums through the line.

Part of me wonders if you’re just holding the phone on the other end without saying anything.

Which, honestly, would be fair.

My thumb traces the edge of the receiver.

“I know I’m probably the last person you expected to hear from,” I continue. “And I’m aware that after the way things ended between us, calling you now is… not ideal.”

Another pause.

My mind drifts unwillingly to the memory that’s been circling my thoughts for weeks.

Your name lighting up my phone screen.

The message.

We need to talk Spence

I close my eyes.

“I should have answered you.”

The admission comes out softer this time.

“At the time I convinced myself I was too busy. The BAU was working a multi-state case, we were sleeping maybe three hours a night, and it felt like opening that conversation would be… complicated.”

A humorless breath leaves me.

“In retrospect, ignoring it was significantly worse.”

My grip tightens slightly around the receiver.

“I don’t actually know what you wanted to say,” I admit. “And I’ve spent a statistically unreasonable amount of time replaying that message in my head trying to figure out the most probable reasons.”

I glance down the hallway briefly before leaning closer to the phone again.

“But that’s not the only reason I called.”

The words hang there for a moment.

“I called because you’re one of the few people I know who understands how quickly situations can escalate when tactical decisions go wrong.”

I exhale slowly.

“And right now I’m in a situation where a lot of things have gone wrong.”

My voice lowers slightly.

“I’m not asking you to fix anything. Or even to respond.”

Another quiet pause stretches across the line.

“I just… needed to hear a voice that wasn’t echoing off concrete walls.”

For a moment the only sound between us is the faint static of the prison line.

Then I add quietly:

“And you’re the first person I thought of.”

I shift slightly against the wall, the phone cord pulling tight as I move. Somewhere down the corridor a guard calls for lights-out in another block, the sound echoing off concrete.

“I don’t know if you’re still listening,” I admit quietly,

“but if you are… thank you for not hanging up.”