Echos of a Genius | Spencer Reid

Jail Bird

Stephie

While most of my symptoms are back under control, I still have my moments. But anything is better than how it was a few weeks ago. I couldn't even bear to leave my bed, feeling too exhausted and nauseated to function. Now, I'm at least able to sleep through the night without waking up every hour, drenched in sweat or tangled in sheets from tossing and turning.

Spencer hovers near the kitchen table, pretending to read one of his books, but I can tell he's watching me. Always watching me. His eyes flicker to my every movement, as if one wrong step will send me spiraling. I get it; he's still traumatized from everything we've been through—the miscarriages, my breakdowns, the job that nearly cost me my life. He's been patient, waiting for me to come back to myself.

But today, I feel almost normal. I stretch out on the couch, my hands resting on my belly. The small bump is just beginning to show, but even that feels like a victory. After everything, it's hard to believe there's actually a baby growing inside me. The thought brings me a bittersweet sense of joy.

Spencer glances up again, this time catching my gaze. "How are you feeling?" he asks, setting his book down as if it had been a prop all along.

I smile softly. "Better. A lot better, actually. I might even be able to eat something besides saltines today."

His lips quirk up, but there's an undercurrent of concern in his eyes. "That's good. You've been looking pale, even with the extra rest."

"I know," I admit, "but I'm doing okay. I promise."

There's a brief silence between us, the kind where you know everything's calm, but you're both waiting for the next storm. Spencer breaks it first, moving from his chair to sit beside me on the couch. He places his hand on my belly, a small gesture that's become more meaningful than words lately.

"I still can't believe it sometimes," he says quietly, his thumb brushing over the fabric of my shirt. "I thought maybe we'd given up on this, after everything."

I swallow hard, my throat tightening at the memory of how close we came to losing each other. "Me too," I whisper. "But we're here now. We're doing this."

He leans down, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "We're doing this," he repeats, his voice filled with quiet determination. It feels like a promise.

I reach for his face to pull him in for a kiss, the warmth of his lips grounding me. At first, it's soft, the kind of kiss we've exchanged a hundred times before. But then something shifts. Maybe it's the relief of feeling normal again, of being able to enjoy this moment without the constant ache of nausea or the looming fear that's been clouding everything for weeks. I deepen the kiss, my fingers tangling in his hair as I pull him closer.

Spencer responds instantly, the hand on my belly tightening slightly before sliding up to my waist, drawing me into him. His lips move with more urgency now, like he's been holding back for too long, afraid to push too hard. But I don't want him to hold back anymore. I want to feel every ounce of his need, his love, his desperation for us to be okay again.

My heart pounds as I feel the familiar heat rise between us, the spark that's never really faded despite everything we've been through. I shift beneath him, turning to press my body more fully against his. His breath catches as I move, and I feel a surge of satisfaction knowing I can still have that effect on him, even now.

His hands slip under my shirt, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of my back as he pulls me even closer. The feel of his skin on mine sends shivers down my spine, and I arch into him, wanting more. It's been so long since we've been like this, so long since I've felt like myself, that the need for him—his touch, his presence—becomes overwhelming.