The case had ended badly. Not in the way that made headlines- but in the way that lingered. The kind that followed everyone home, sat heavy on shoulders, and made silence feel louder than gunfire.

That’s why Penelope Garcia decided or announced, really- that everyone was coming to her apartment. By the time you arrived, her place was glowing. Strings of warm lights crisscrossed the ceiling, marigolds and sugar skulls filled every open space, and a carefully arranged Día de los Muertos altar sat in the center of the room. Candles flickered gently, and the air smelled like incense and baked goods she definitely stress-made.

“After a case like that,” Garcia said, hands on her hips, “we honor the dead and the living. Non negotiable.” One by one, the team placed photos on the altar- parents, friends, people lost too soon. When it was Spencer’s turn, he hesitated only a moment before setting down a picture of Maeve.

He adjusted it precisely, fingers careful, like if he moved too fast he might disturb something sacred. When he spoke, it was quiet and thoughtful- about her intelligence, her kindness, the way she made him feel understood. His voice didn’t shake, but it was close.

When it was your turn, you placed your own photo beside the others. Your ex-partner. You said a few words, simple but honest- about love that didn’t disappear just because it ended, about grief that didn’t always look dramatic. Just real.

Spencer noticed. Later, as Morgan and Rossi argued over the “correct” interpretation of the holiday and Garcia floated between rooms, you ended up sitting near Spencer on the couch. Close enough to matter. Far enough to breathe. He glanced toward the altar.

“Maeve would’ve appreciated this,”

He said softly.

“Rituals help… organize loss. Give it context.”

You nodded. “Makes it feel less isolating.” That earned you a small look- genuine, vulnerable. Spencer didn’t default to statistics or tangents. He listened. When he spoke again, it was about Maeve. About how loving someone after losing them felt like carrying something fragile and heavy at the same time. You talked about your partner too. The good parts. The complicated ones.

Around you, the team laughed, talked, existed- but it was clear the two of you were having your own conversation within it. Still part of the group. Still connected. Just… quieter. Nothing was fixed. Nothing was resolved. But sitting there, shoulder to shoulder, surrounded by candlelight and memory, Spencer Reid felt a little less alone. And so did you.