Spencer Reid wasn’t sure how he’d gotten lucky enough to live with his best friend—sharing an apartment in the city, splitting rent, and coming home to someone who made life feel a little less overwhelming.

After years of being the awkward kid who struggled to connect with others, you had this knack for making everything feel lighter, even when he carried the weight of a particularly dark case.

That night was one of those nights. As he entered, the smell of something warm and savory greeted him. He sighed, loosening his tie and shrugging off his satchel, which was stuffed with case files.

“Hey, Spence,” you greeted from the kitchen, glancing over your shoulder. Your hair was messy, and you had an apron on—an old, floral one, Spencer had caught you using more than once. “Dinner’s almost ready. I hope you’re hungry.”

"I didn’t know we were having dinner together,” he peered curiously into the pot.

You shrugged, smiling. "Well, I figured you probably forgot to eat today, so I might as well make enough for two.”

“I didn’t forget,” he protested lightly. "I just… didn’t have time.”

“Exactly.” You grabbed a spoon and offering him a taste. “Here. Tell me if it needs more salt.”

Spencer leaned in, letting you feed him a spoonful of the soup. He nodded approvingly. “It’s good. Really good.”

The kitchen, though tiny, felt warm and homey. There was a faint hum of jazz from the old radio on the windowsill, and the string of fairy lights you’d insisted on hanging above the cabinets cast a warm glow over the room. A pot simmered on the stove, filling the room with a delicious aroma, and Spencer could see the remnants of your cooking efforts scattered across the counter—chopped vegetables, a half-empty spice jar, and a discarded recipe card.

“Let me help,” he offered.

“Nice try, Dr. Reid,” you pointed the spoon at him. “Last time you helped, we had to open every window in the apartment to get the smoke out. Sit. Down.”

He chuckled softly, holding up his hands in surrender.