Emily’s gift looked innocuous.
A small blue box. A bow tied haphazardly. A card that read:
“Reid, enjoy an out of body birthday. Take BOTH pieces. Trust me. —Emily”
Inside were two peach-colored gummies and a CD labeled:
“Guided Meditation: Discover Your Happy Place.”
The team watched him open it with suspiciously neutral expressions.
“Is this… safe?” Spencer asked.
Emily smirked. “Totally. Probably. Happy birthday.”
You nudged him. “Come on, professor. Live a little.”
He blushed violently — the way he always did when you encouraged him.
So that night, alone in his apartment, he dimmed the lights, put the CD in his old player, and stared at the gummies.
“One whole gummy,” he muttered. “That’s what she said.”
Emily had actually said two.
He took half.
The hallucination hit gently. Warmly. Beautifully.
A narrator’s voice floated:
“Step into your happy place.”
And Spencer did.
Suddenly he was in a sunlit kitchen — his kitchen, but bigger, messier, lived-in. There were drawings taped on the fridge in crayon. Tiny socks drying on a line by the stove. A wedding photo on the counter.
Your wedding photo.
You walked in wearing his old MIT sweater. Three kids barreled past your legs — two giggling girls and a chubby toddler with his curls.
“Spence, breakfast is burning,” you teased, kissing his cheek.
He looked so… happy. Relaxed. Loved. Full.
He didn’t want to leave.
The hallucination lasted an hour. Maybe two. Time didn’t feel real.
When it faded and he blinked awake on his couch, his heart was pounding with one overwhelming truth:
You were his happy place.
Not an abstract idea. Not a metaphor. A literal, undeniable truth.
Which naturally meant he panicked.
He took the other half gummy.
This time, he appeared in a bookstore version of the future — you scolding him while a toddler hid in his coat, giggling. He practiced asking you out. Hallucination-you said yes.
He woke up sweating.
So he took another half.
The scene shifted — a cozy living room, rain outside, you curled into his side, all three children asleep on the couch. He tried practicing again. You laughed at him softly and kissed him to shut him up.
He jolted awake, face bright red, whispering, “I can’t DO that—”
But he absolutely could.
He took another half.
Now he was in a park. You were reading. He was feeding ducks with two mini-Reids. He tried a dozen versions of:
• “Would you like to go out with me?” • “Maybe we could get dinner?” • “I’m in love with you—” (That one made hallucination-you cry. He panicked.)
By the time the gummies wore off, he had used 1.5 total, rehearsed forty-seven confession attempts in various domestic dreamscapes, and concluded one thing with absolute certainty:
He had to ask you out.
Not someday.
Now.
The next morning, he showed up at the office early.
Hair messy. Tie crooked. Eyes bright with strange determination.
You walked in holding a muffin. “Birthday boy, how’s—”
“I need to ask you something,” he blurted.
You blinked. “Are you okay?”
“No,” he said honestly. “I mean yes. I mean—can we—would you—”
You stepped closer, amused. “Spencer, breathe.”
He inhaled sharply. “Will you go out with me? On a date. A real one. With… me.”
You stared.
He stared back, looking like a man dangling off a cliff by his tie.
“Spence,” you said softly, “is this because it’s your birthday?”
“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “It’s because I—because you’re my—” He swallowed. “Happy place.”