I'VE GOT YOU.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ●ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ S. REID
SUMMARY ৎ୭ when spencer leaves you alone in his apartment for the day, the last thing you expect is someone trying to break in. scared and hiding, you call him—and he does everything he can to keep you calm until he gets home to wrap you in his arms
WARNINGS ಇ. panic/fear, attempted break-in, mentions of anxiety, comfort after distress, established relationship, spencer being soft and protective
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 2,071
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Spencer’s apartment always smelled like old books, coffee, and something distinctly him. A mix of cedarwood and laundry detergent that clung to the furniture and lingered in your hair long after you left. You weren’t planning on leaving anytime soon, though.
The rain tapped gently against the windows, a soothing rhythm that matched the quiet rustle of pages turning in your lap. Spencer’s favorite worn-out quilt was draped over your legs, the one he pretended he didn’t care about but always reached for first on colder nights. It smelled like home.
You were curled up on his couch, your feet tucked beneath you, a half-empty mug of tea on the coffee table—his mug, of course, because it was bigger and the handle fit your fingers just right. A book lay open in your hands, but your eyes weren’t on the words. Not really. You were too wrapped up in the stillness, in the comfort of this space that had slowly become yours as much as his. You stood up to get Spencer's copy of "In Cold Blood". The book was not the kind of book you'd read on such a cozy day, but the annotations Spencer did on the margins always made you amused.
As you walked through the apartment, you noticed the way it was filled with quiet signs of him. Stacks of books organized in that peculiar Spencer way—alphabetical but with side categories only he understood. A chessboard paused mid-game on the shelf. Notes in tiny, cramped handwriting stuck to the fridge with magnets shaped like planets. One of your sweaters was hanging over the back of a chair, and your favorite slippers sat beside the door, right next to his well-worn dress shoes.
You glanced at the clock. Almost time.
Spencer had texted you hours ago that he’d be home late, some case running over again. But knowing him, he’d be apologetic the moment he walked through the door, even though you never minded. You liked being here. Liked knowing he’d come home to you, liked the way it felt to exist in his space, to feel safe in the silence between moments.
You grabbed the book from the nightstand when something made you freeze. A soft sound.
Not the comforting kind—the door-click you knew by heart, the one Spencer always made when he came home late with tired eyes and soft apologies. This one was different. Slower. Uneven.
Like someone was struggling with the lock.