ABLOCATE ▇▇▇▇ VOLUME ONE
━━ ❛ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔 ❜

chapter no. 031!

❪ 𝚃𝚆 : 𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝙶𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙶. ❫

❝ MY DEAR CLEMENTINE. ❞
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     THE END OF THE BLADE GNAWED ITS WAY THROUGH THE CONCRETE WALL AS THE FORCE IT'D BEEN THROWN WITH DROVE IT FURTHER INTO THE SOLID SURFACE. Lowering her hand, Cara took in a deep breath and tried to keep her composure as stagnant as possible, but every inch of her was trembling with rage.

     It had been months in the making of negotiating over emails and correspondence with multiple investors, law firm employees, and eventually contacting the man in charge— the man himself— Dillion Richards. This was the deal of her trafficking career. If she could pull this off, the gates to Heaven would be unlocked, and she would receive the freedom she'd sought since two-thousand-and-seven. The opportunity to see her father— to talk to him.

     However, that opportunity had been snatched away right before her eyes, and she was furious. The stage of basic anger had long since passed. He screwed up everything she'd been working for, and it only took seven seconds for everything to crumble— seven seconds for the deal to be broken and for her to nearly blow her cover.

     The bunker was coated in a thick filter of silence as the sound of a door closing echoed loudly behind her. Placing her hands on her hips, Cara looked up at the ceiling. Every inch of her being wanted to turn on her heel and kill him right then and there, but she couldn't. Despite everything that had happened, she couldn't. As much as she hated it, he was one of the only people who could ever give her what she truly desired.

     Inhaling one last, deep breath, she placed her hands on her hips. "What the actual fuck, Owen?" she hissed, turning around to face the man she'd once found solace and happiness in. Now, what the blonde saw and dug up was contempt and reckless self-loathing.

     Pressing his lips together, Owen stared back at her sternly as she raised a brow, waiting for him to explain himself. "What?" he finally asked, throwing his hands out to his side, behaving like he hadn't just burned everything to the ground.

     "That was my client, my deal. I've been working with him and his company for months, and you just fucked it up in seconds. I lost a client because your self-righteous ass, for some unknown reason, decided to step in and pick a fight with him. You weren't even supposed to be here! And now, you just lost us five million dollars!" Cara shouted, gesturing above them to where the club resided. "Not to mention, I can't go and see my dad now!"

     Owen rolled his eyes and stepped forward. "Lyn, did you not see how he was looking at you?" he retorted.

     At his words, her mouth dropped. "Did you really just ask that?" she hissed, stepping forward as her eyes narrowed.

     "Yeah, I did," Owen snapped. "He was eyeing you like a piece of candy, Cara!"

     "So?! You aren't my boyfriend! You haven't been for a long time, so get your head out of your ass and stop acting like you are. I know he was staring at me like that! Shit, I'd look at me too if I was him, but that doesn't give you the right to interfere and fuck the deal up. I was doing what I'd been trained to do. I'm doing my fucking job. So, get off whatever high horse you're on and back the hell off of me and my business." Cara spat, her voice loud and commanding as her chest rose up and down laboriously. She was out of breath from talking without taking a moment to breathe and getting worked up.

     His hands clenched into visible fists, and he walked toward her. "The last time I checked, I was still one of the leaders of the Scorpions. Your boss," he growled, stopping once he was only inches away.

     "Well, can my boss take a step back and sober up? I can smell the alcohol radiating off of you, asshole."

     Suddenly, lightning crackled down out of nowhere. Neither of them could see its bright, illuminating light, but they could feel and hear its threatening presence. A door slammed from somewhere inside the bunker, and Cara turned around so quickly she could've gotten whiplash.

     The sight that awaited her brought on a wave of confusion as she saw she was back in her childhood home. Flashes of a hot, luminous white light shone through the windows, and a silver-plated baseball lay before her on the kitchen table. The power went out and left Cara in a cold dark that perched itself on her shoulders and clouded her vision. Then, someone yelped.

     "Lyn?"

     A heavy weight fell from Cara's hands, and she glanced down to see that the baseball bat had gone from the table to her hands and then to the floor. When did she pick it up? Before she had time to ponder that question, her feet were racing down the darkened hallways.

     "Owen."

     Her arms were thrown around a shadowy figure, and she found herself sobbing into their chest. An emotional floodgate had been opened, and she felt everything at once.

     "I heard what happened."

     "He's gone." A delicate kiss was pressed to the side of her head, and she buried her head into his chest. "He's gone." An involuntary whimper fell from her lips as Owen retracted, leaving a soft kiss on her forehead. He brushed away her tears while staring at her grimly, his left eyebrow twitching. He was hiding something. "What aren't you telling me, Owen?"

     "I don't—"

     Cara shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. "You should know better than to lie to me," she whispered, unable to stop the words from leaving her mouth. Why was she reliving the night of the Surrey Six? The night that changed everything? The night her best friends were murdered?

     "Kirk, Joseph, and I have been made the new leaders," Owen said quietly, and she could feel her blood boil. She could feel the anger she'd initially felt that night. It was just as solid and threatening. "Le was the one who ordered it. I had no choice."

     Cara scoffed, rolling her eyes. This shit again. Of course. Those four words always seemed to be coming from him. "You always have a choice. Whether or not you have the balls to make it is what matters." Someone grabbed her shoulder, and Cara peered over it to see Ace standing behind her. His piercing cold blue eyes stared into hers, silently telling her to breathe; he could see the anger radiating off her. Instead, she shoved him away and felt a piece of her heart break inside as she did so.

     Soon, a set of hands grabbed her hips and pulled her into them. Bringing her eyes up, Cara narrowed her stare when she saw how incredibly close Owen was. Her stare morphed into a glare when he rested his forehead against hers.

     "I don't want this. You know I don't. Being a leader means I must be violent, tough, and emotionless. Those are three things I never want to be when I'm with you." Owen whispered, wrapping his fingers around her waist.

     Blinking back tears she hadn't realized had formed, she shook her head. "And you being a leader is something I never wanted in this relationship. I want you, Owen. I want us just as we are." At the time, she had meant every word. Now? Now, she didn't even recognize the version of herself she was reliving. Let alone the words coming from her.

     "I want that too," Owen protested, but the blonde stepped back.

     "No, you don't. If you did, you would have said hell no and done something, but you accepted this revolting gift that should have never been given out in the first place." Cara began, but Owen stepped forward and kissed her roughly, trying to get her to stop talking. "No," she shoved his chest, "this isn't like our other fights. You can't just kiss me and expect things to be okay! Not this time. I'm not okay with this! If Le told me I was now one of the leaders, I would tell him that he could shove a crowbar right up his ass and pray to whatever God exists that I wouldn't kill him right then and there. I would tell him I choose my boyfriend over being a leader."

     More tears streamed down her cheeks, and she couldn't stop them. Her chest heaved up and down laboriously, and she nearly flinched when someone grabbed onto her hand. Head turning, her line of sight landed on Raine, and a supportive look shone in her eyes.

     A somber expression clouded Owen's face. "I'm sorry."

     Those two words, "I'm sorry," ruined everything. Those words snapped Cara out of whatever trance she'd been stuck in and made her scream, "NO!" at the top of her lungs. But it was too late.

     A gunshot went off, and Raine dropped to the wooden floor. Then another shot rang throughout the house, and Ace was the next to drop dead. Unlike before, someone did not wrap their arms around her, and a bag was not placed over her head. Rather, she collapsed to the floor as her vision blurred. She covered her mouth with the palm of her hand. Blood covered her clothes as she crawled over to Raine, grabbing at her desperately.

     "No, no, no. R-Raine, stay with me. Stay with me," she whispered, choking back sobs. Blindly reaching out to her right, Cara grasped the sleeve of Ace's shirt. "Ace, don't leave me. I'm right here." The words tumbled from her mouth, and she couldn't stop it. These were the pleas she never got to make to her friends. "Stay with me; I'm right here. Please... Ace... Raine..."

     "Raine? That's an interesting name." The familiar sound of Spencer Reid's voice flooded the atmosphere, and Cara whirled around, now on her feet. There were two mugs held within her grasp. Tears were still streaming down her face, but the blood previously covering her clothes was gone. They stood in the kitchen of her apartment.

     Her voice came out in a raspy tone, her breath unstable, "I-It's a variant of Raina and Rani, which are of Sanskrit origin with Hebrew ties. As well as Regina, which is Latin and translates to—"

     "—Queen. The name Raine can also mean she is singing."

     What was the meaning of these memories replaying? Why was her mind forcing her to relive one of the biggest tragedies in her life?

     Perhaps there was no meaning. Perhaps her long-term guilt and grief, which stemmed from the night of the Surrey Six, were coming full circle. Perhaps this was her subconscious's way of confronting two of her demons.

     Suddenly, her thoughts were cut short as she felt an unknown force yank her body back and into the air. Everything around her faded to black, and a high-pitched scream left her lips. She was free-falling with no destination in sight. Gusts of wind blew her platinum hair forward, disfiguring her vision.

     The cries leaving her didn't reach a single soul as she fell. There was nothing and no one around. There was nothing to grab at for support. It was just her, alone in the dark.

     All of this was just a nightmare. None of it was real. None of it is real, Cara, breathe. Just wake up.

     Cara squeezed her eyes shut tightly, willing herself to break free from this nightmare and wake up on the kitchen floor. But nothing happened. She was still falling and involuntarily screaming.

     "Cara, wake up. This isn't real. You're not plummeting to your death. So wake up!"

     She began to mutter those four sentences to herself in a desperate attempt to motivate her body to exit the black hole, but it wasn't helping. Tears descended upon her cheeks, the wind hitting against them felt like a slap to the face. Too much was happening, and she couldn't focus. That was probably why she hadn't been able to wake up.

     "Cara, wake up. This isn't real. You're not plummeting to your death. So wake up!"

     Black was replaced with red, and she abruptly slammed against a cold and hard surface. The back of her head hit the ground while the wind was simultaneously knocked out of her.

     Without warning, her body lurched forward, and she shot upward. Her chest rose up and down in a rapid fashion, her breath coming out in raspy wheezes as she blinked away the burning tears. Placing her hand over her heart, Cara gasped for air. Her deep blue eyes were wide with hysteria as they raced around her apartment. It didn't take three seconds for her to realize she was in her bed and not on the kitchen floor where she had been keeping watch that night.

     How had she made it to bed? She couldn't remember ever leaving the kitchen.

     Sweat dripped down the sides of her face, and she wiped it away, trying to calm her heartbeat. She was fine now. It was just a nightmare.

     It was just a nightmare.

     Those five words did nothing to ease the pit in her chest.

     A loud bang followed by objects falling could be heard somewhere in the apartment, and Cara tensed. First, she woke up in her bed, and now someone was in her apartment. Only Hotch and Cruz had a copy of her key, and there was no way they'd enter without her knowledge. This night just kept getting better.

     The sound of glass shattering echoed, and goosebumps spread across her arms as she held her breath. Nothing but intense panic raced through her veins, and she flinched as a slam came from somewhere in the apartment.

     Blindly reaching to the right, she smacked her hand against her nightstand in search of her phone. Wait. She'd last had it with her in the kitchen while surveilling. The only source of outside help was stationed in the space where the commotion was coming from. Squeezing her eyes shut, she internally groaned.

     Another bang reverberated.

     Pushing the covers to the side, she stood and swiftly grabbed the kitchen knife she'd stashed in the drawer of her nightstand. Paranoia had gotten the best of her recently, and she'd begun stashing weapons of defense around the apartment. Something that seemed like a good idea at the time but now worked against her.

     Silently exiting her room, Cara tip-toed toward the kitchen and living room. The grip on the handle of the knife tightened as the sound of hushed voices reached her ears.

     "How long until she wakes?"

     "Any minute now. My dear Clementine has never been one to sleep heavily."

     Cara's face fell, and all the hair on her body rose. It was him. It was Le. He had finally come for her; her time was up.

     Her brain had shut down at the simple nickname he'd groomed her into liking at such a young age. Now, the sound of it brought on a wave of nausea and guilt. A cold sweat coated her face as she remained frozen to the spot, unable to formulate a single, coherent thought.

     People tend to say that there is nothing to fear but fear itself, yet that wasn't true in Cara Valentine's world. It was never true. There was always something worse than fear in Cara Valentine's life. There was Quang Vinh Thang Le. Otherwise known as Michael Le.

     "Oh my darlin', Clementine... Thou art lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry, Clementine."

     Cara's chest heaved as she gulped, forcing down the lump in her throat. Shivers of panic ran down her spine. With her back pressed to the wall that separated the hallway from the living room and kitchen, she held her breath. The palms of her hands were sweaty and shaky, and her grip on the knife was beginning to slip. Fear was paralyzing her brain.

     A slap suddenly slammed against the wall she leaned on, inches above her head. Glancing up, an involuntary scream left her as deep blue met greedy green eyes.

     Again, without warning, her body lurched forward, and she shot upward. Her chest rose up and down in a rapid fashion, her breath coming out in raspy wheezes as she blinked away the burning tears. Placing her hand over her heart, Cara gasped for air. Her deep blue eyes were wide with hysteria as they raced around her apartment. This time it took her five seconds for her to realize she was in her bed, yet again, and not on the kitchen floor where she had been keeping watch that night.

     She'd been trapped in another nightmare.

     It wasn't real. The Founding Fathers weren't there. Micheal Le wasn't there.

     A heavy sigh of relief fell from her lips, and she ran her hands over her face. "Oh, my God," she groaned, shaking her head. Her dreams were getting worse.

     Suddenly, something shifted next to her.

     "Ara? Are you okay?" Spencer murmured, half awake. With his hands pushing against the bed's mattress, he sat up and reached for her.

     A familiar warmth curled around her left arm, and Cara lightly leaned into it without thinking.  "Mhm-hmm," she hummed, shoving her hair out of her face. It didn't once register in her mind that she was in bed with Spencer, something that had never happened.

     "Another nightmare?" he shifted closer and pulled her into his side, their fingers interlacing. Cara nodded weakly. All the energy in her had dissipated, and she didn't have it in her to mumble a half-assed lie. "Le? Raine?" Another nod. "Love, I'm sorry."

     Cara let out a shaky breath. "I fucking hate nightmares," she grumbled, a bitter edge in her tone.

     Frowning, Spencer's eyes traced the side of her face, taking note of the evident worrylines and her anxious biting of the lip. Her right thumb was rubbing against her left wrist. A habit that had come to be known as one of her tells. "Hey," he said softly, moving the arm over her shoulder and using his index finger to tilt her chin up and towards him. Their eyes locked, and his frown deepened. He didn't like seeing her this shaken.

     "I'll be okay," she whispered half-heartedly, relaxing the longer they maintained eye contact.

     "I know you will be," he cupped her cheek, "just remember that I'm here for you. I'm always here for you." Abruptly, with no warning, his lips were on hers, and Cara was taken aback.

     "What—" Her words were cut off by Spencer reconnecting their lips. "Spencer, what—" It was like he couldn't hear her as he tangled his fingers in her hair and added more pressure to the kiss. Cara inhaled sharply when she felt him pull her onto his lap and her hand shakily flew up, brushing against his cheek before landing in the crevice between his jaw and neck.

     What the hell was he doing?

     Gradually, her confusion and apprehension began to fade away, and Cara found herself starting to return the act. Being this close to him and feeling him on her was uncharted territory, but she didn't hate it. In fact, she found herself kissing back with just as much emotion and force. Emotion she didn't even realize she possessed.

     Spencer shifted slightly and slipped his hand under her shirt, roaming her back. Shivers ran down her spine, and goosebumps began to appear. However, she couldn't focus for too long on how it felt to have his hands pressed against her bare skin as his tongue traced her bottom lip. All logical thinking and rationale officially soared out the window as she tilted her head to the side and parted her lips.

     It wasn't until three minutes and four seconds later, when her back hit the mattress, that it finally dawned on her that something was wrong. Very wrong.

     Since when did Spencer stay the night in her apartment in her bed with her? Since when had he ever stayed the night? Since when had they become so physically comfortable with one another? And when did she tell him her nightmares now involved Le?

     Forcing him off of her, Cara scrambled to sit up. "Wait. Wait a minute, stop," she choked out, attempting to catch her breath and reduce her heart rate as she shoved him away again. He fell back against the pillows. "Spencer, w-what are you doing here?"

     Spencer's chest heaved up and down as he stared at her, completely and utterly confused. "What do you mean? I'm always here."

     Brows furrowing, the blonde shook her head. "No, what are you doing here? In my bed? In my apartment?" This wasn't right. None of this was right.

     "I'm always here," he repeated. This time, however, his voice had lost all emotion, and his face was a blank slate.

     A wave of ice-cold chills trickled down her spine, and she gulped. This wasn't real. She was still dreaming. She was still stuck in the nightmare.

     "Oh, fuck this." At that, she scrambled out of bed and sprinted out of her room and down the hall, turning left, rushing past the living room and toward the apartment door. There was no way she was staying around to see where the rest of this harrowing fantasy was going. She'd had her fill of nightmares that night alone to last a lifetime.

     Once she reached the living room, she darted for the front door. In one fell swoop, she unlocked it and threw it open. However, the doorknob slipped from her grasp as the door was slammed back shut. All the lights went out, and she gulped, her eyes roaming through the darkness.

     She couldn't just stand here.

     She would not allow the nightmare to catch up to her. So, she walked forward and began to search for the doorknob again. However, her search yielded no results. It was as if the door itself had disappeared.

     "No, no..." Cara mumbled, panic settling in. The comfort of her apartment faded away, and she was consumed in a black sphere of nothing. Her hand waved blindly in the air, looking for something to hold onto, but there was nothing. "Let me out, let me out."

     A grunt of frustration escaped her lips, and she felt her shoulders shake. There was nothing, and she was smothered in darkness. "Goddammit!" she screamed, choking back the sobs creeping up her throat.

     Cara Valentine was trapped in her own psychosis, a living nightmare made for one, tailored by her brain to prey on her deepest fears. And it was beginning to take control.

     The palm of her hand slammed against the smooth, cool door to her apartment. A breath of relief left her lips, and she grabbed the doorknob. She only managed to open it an inch before it slammed back shut. The lock flipped itself, and she heard it seal back up. Collapsing the right side of her body against the wood, she banged her fist against the door. "Let me out," she sobbed weakly, eyes shutting.

     Soon, her fist struck a rusty and steep claw-shaped object, and her eyes flashed open. The right side of her face was pressed to a wooden floor, and the world was sideways. Blinking slowly, she gave her vision a moment to adjust. Her breath was coming out in soft wheezes, and she could feel her ribcage opening and expanding against the ground.

     Blinking, a tear trickled over her nose and traveled down her cheek. Sweeping her gaze around the room, she saw that she'd fallen asleep on the floor of her kitchen while staring out the window, keeping watch as she always did. The hammer she used as her weapon of choice that night was beside her. That's what she'd hit.

     Slowly, Cara pushed herself off the ground, palms shaking. Her legs trembled beneath her, and she felt lightheaded as she stood.

     The apartment was deathly silent, and it took every ounce of courage she had left to inch her way to her room. As she walked, she turned on every light, ensuring she could see everything.

     Paranoia influenced every action, and she continuously checked over her shoulder as she moved. Once she reached her room, she immediately turned on the lights and grabbed the closest book to her. Then, she went to the bathroom. She needed to make sure she wasn't still dreaming. She couldn't tell reality from fiction anymore.

     The other day, she'd done research on how to tell when someone is still dreaming. With how frequent her nightmares were becoming, she didn't want to mistake the real world for being anything but real.

     The moment the fluorescent lights came on, Cara winced at how blinding they were to her extremely bloodshot eyes. She placed the book on the sink and closed the door, locking it. From there, she stripped out of her clothes and quickly met her reflection in the mirror.

     Reality check number one: In a dream state, your reflection won't look normal.

     Washing her gaze over her reflection, Cara inhaled deeply as she found nothing out of the ordinary. The long, deep scar that runs across the palm of her left hand was still there. The bruise on her right kneecap from running into a chair at the BAU earlier that week was there too.

     Reality check number two: If you have tattoos, look at them. They'll look different in a dream.

     Her focus swept to her left forearm and landed on the R.S. tattoo she'd been forced to get when she was twelve. It looked normal. Then she examined the word 'angel' that had been outlined in red on her upper left rib. It was fine. Next was the single angel wing that was positioned on the inside of her right hand, two inches below her thumb. Normal. Lastly was the Creation of Adam painting inked on the back of her neck. Pulling her hair up and with a hand-held mirror, she checked it to see that it was fine too.

     Reality check number three: Pinch your nose. You'll be able to breathe if you're in a dream.

     Cara pinched her nose. She couldn't breathe for five seconds before she let go.

     Reality check number four: Push your fingers against your opposite palm. If they pass through, you are dreaming.

     Holding out her left palm, she pushed the fingers on her right hand against it. They didn't pass through.

     Reality check number five: Read a book and look away from the text, then look back again. If you're dreaming, the text will change.

     She picked up the book she'd grabbed and opened it to a random page. Her eyes skimmed over the words on the page— she could read them. Looking away and then looking back at the page, she read back over the text. Her shoulders dropped, and she sighed.

     This wasn't a dream— this was real.

────

     MARCELLO'S DAILY QUOTE, WRITTEN BY THE FIRST CUSTOMER OF THE DAY, DID NOT MEET HER EYES. For the first time since moving to Quantico, Cara skipped straight over the white-chalked words. Instead, she got her usual order, left her change in the tip jar, and slipped back outside. Spencer mimicked her actions, nodding in appreciation when she held the door for him.

     From there, the walk to the Bureau was filled with uneasy silence as Cara kept her eyes straight ahead, off in her own world. Meanwhile, Spencer glanced over at her every few seconds. Something was off. He could feel it. She hadn't spoken once that morning, not even to Marcello. The most she offered was a half-smile when she received her coffee. Nothing more, nothing less.

     Cara Valentine had always been a quiet being, but something about this particular silence concerned Spencer.

     There were dark circles under her eyes, shining through her makeup. They'd been there a few weeks ago, but now they were darker, and the skin around her eyes was sunken. Spencer frowned. So far that morning, her physical mannerisms contradicted the sleep-deprived state the dark circles indicated. Rather, there was a still, stoic, blank, and emotionless expression on her face, and she was walking with perfect posture. As for her behavior, it aligned with her sleep-deprived state. The silence and being withdrawn— both signs of exhaustion.

     Again, he couldn't pinpoint what exactly was off other than that, and it was beginning to bother him.

     While Spencer surveyed her, Cara kept her attention forward.

     From the moment she'd figured out she was finally awake and broke down in a flood of tears, Cara Valentine had decided that today would be just another day. Nothing was afoot. Her night had not been plagued by numerous mind-boggling nightmares. She was just as sleep-deprived as usual and spent her night keeping watch with her hammer. Nothing was afoot.

     That determination was promptly ruined, however, when she went to open the door to her apartment and had a flashback to one of the many nightmares she had. Screams that had ripped through her vocal cords echoed in her mind and caused the hair on her arms to rise. It took fifty-seven seconds for Cara to snap out of it and exit the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

     With a collective breath, she managed to pull herself together and prepare for the day ahead. Every movement she made was intentional and precise in its purpose. She monitored her breathing to guarantee Spencer never once entertained the idea that something was amiss, and she kept her signature blank expression displayed. Everything was done with complete consciousness, for she couldn't help but feel like those familiar set of camouflaged eyes were watching everything she did again. Every breath she breathed and every word she spoke. Observed and noted.

     The next seventeen minutes and three seconds consisted of the two walking to the train station, getting on, and then getting off, and then taking a three-minute walk to the F.B.I. Headquarters. Never did they speak.

     It was only a minute after they'd gotten off the train, though, that Spencer noticed how Cara started rubbing her wrist. His eyebrows knitted together, but he didn't say a word.

     When they arrived at headquarters, the pair went through security and weaved between workers until they reached the elevators. With a soft ding, the doors opened, and everyone poured inside. Other employees shoved their way between Cara and Spencer, desperate to squeeze in so they wouldn't have to wait for the next one or take the stairs.

     When the elevator doors shut, Cara anxiously tapped her foot against the floor while simultaneously rubbing her right thumb harshly against her left wrist. Another ding sounded as the shaft finally arrived on the sixth floor, and she slipped out, ignoring the sliver of unwarranted panic swimming down her spine.

     Everything was fine. She was fine.

     Behind her, Spencer was still watching with diligent eyes as he kept track of how long she'd been rubbing her thumb against her wrist. This was the first time she'd gone over two minutes doing it. The skin of her wrist was bright pink, and from what he could tell, she was beginning to rub it raw.

     The doors to the bullpen were already open, and Cara entered, wordlessly walking to her desk. The rest of the team had yet to arrive.

     Spencer watched from the entrance as she slid her freshly packed go-bag underneath her desk and sat down. She began sorting out all the paperwork on her desk, and his eyes narrowed an inch. What was going on?

     "Morning, Reid," Rossi greeted, briefcase in hand. Silence answered him and he stopped in his tracks. "Reid?"

     Spencer's line of sight didn't sway from the blonde when he spoke. "I..." he paused, unsure if he should say anything to Rossi. Perhaps he should, just in case. "I think something is wrong."

     Rossi blinked. "Wrong?"

     "With Cara." Spencer clarified. The skin below his eyebrows was triangulated and the inner corner of his eyes was pressed together lightly; he was trying to get a read on her. It wasn't working.

     Rossi furrowed his brows and followed where the doctor was staring. Cara Valentine had just finished sorting through her files and was setting aside the three she hadn't finished filling out. She stood up and scooped the finished ones into her arms, and began delivering them to their designated areas. Her face was a blank slate, as usual. However, she was sporting noticeable dark circles under her eyes.

     Other than that, nothing was hiding beneath the surface from what Rossi could tell. Not a shred of emotion was present in those deep blue eyes. He couldn't find any signs of concern. At most, she looked slightly fatigued.

     "Something is off," Spencer murmured, frowning.

     "All right, kid. I'll keep an eye on her," Rossi said, watching as the brown-haired man barely nodded. His worry was enough to convince the man that he should pay attention. After all, the doctor knew that woman better than anyone else.

     And Rossi did keep an eye on Cara. All throughout the day, he consistently watched the ex-convict from his office. At first, nothing caught his eye. She operated as emotionlessly as she always did. Every move was precise and she kept to herself. Then, he saw it— he saw a cause for concern. It was subtle, but he had caught it.

     Only eleven minutes were left of that day's shift. Everyone was restless and rushing around to finish up their work so they could be the first ones out the door. Everyone except for Spencer Reid and Cara Valentine. Neither of them had inched away from their desks.

     The first of the two had spent his entire day diligently working while continually glancing over at the ex-convict. The unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach had not faded. He was certain that something was amiss. Then, the latter of the pair had spent her entire day robotically filling out paperwork and replying to consulting emails regarding drug trafficking and suspicious local gang activity. Every move she made was exact and calculated but also conducted with a preoccupied mind and lifeless fingers. Presently, she was in the bullpen of the BAU. Mentally, she was drowning in waves of red.

     Throughout the day, nothing but silence engulfed Cara regardless of the noise and chatter of the room. It took up every available space. The only thing that she could hear was the digital clock on her desk ticking and the sound of her steady breathing.

     She usually didn't mind the silence all that much; it was what she'd known for the bulk of her life, but today, it was eating at her. Seven hours, fifty minutes, and thirty-eight seconds had passed since she'd sat down at her desk. And nearly eight hours of filling out paperwork and emailing while listening to memories of the past was enough to push her to the edge of restlessness.

     "Even in the face of God himself, we stay strong. Do you hear me? Never once show your fear or true emotions to anyone. If you do, you're as good as dead." Marcus Karbovanec's words suddenly floated around the bullpen, and Cara's entire body tensed. The pen moving across the paper stopped.

     It'd been a while since she'd heard his voice, and her stomach tightened.

     That was the moment Rossi caught.

     Ignore it, Cara. Ignore it, she thought to herself. Blinking for the first time in seven minutes and six seconds, she pushed Karbovanec into the dark corners of her brain. He wasn't there. She was fine. She was fine.

     Until she wasn't.

     "Taunt them... Mock them... Distract them..." Those were the last whispered words she heard from Jarrod Bacon over the phone the night before she'd been taken into custody months ago. And those were the same words she was hearing now, clear as day.

     Her grip on the pen tightened and her knuckles faded to white. Again, she was fine.

     "Sometimes I wish Dante's Hell was real."

     "Why?"

     "The way Milton describes it is ethereal. Imagine Hell being on Earth... I don't know why but the idea of that fascinates me. Also, how you get to the gates of Hell seems pretty cool too. When you die and get there, you arrive in the dark woods in front of this gate made of sticks, but between you and the gate, there's a river that you must drink from before you can cross over. Once you cross over, you essentially find out that there are two circles of Hell: Limbo and then Hell. The whole process is so ritualistic. It kind of reminds me of the Surrey Six killings."

     Goddammit, why couldn't her subconscious leave her alone?

     "You always were the black sheep of the Red Scorpions. I knew that one day you would eventually follow in the steps of your dead-beat father and betray us. What's that saying? Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it?"

     It was Kirk. That was Kirk Farell's voice now.

     Cara could feel her stomach tightening. The pen in her left hand began to shake. She was going to be sick. Swallowing down the bile crawling up her throat, she squeezed her eyes shut.

     "You had so much potential. It's such a shame that you had to go and waste it, but it was only a matter of time, I suppose. Ross Valentine raised you with a little bit too much of a pure heart—which is exactly what brought you to where you are now, my dear Clementine."

     It was Joseph Arthur's voice that made her drop the pen and press her lips together.

     What started as a contortion of her stomach quickly became a feeling of being smothered by an invisible hand; the sound of her breathing went from quiet and deep, to shallow. Her muscles were frozen in place but filled with a tingling pressure that made her want to sprint until her body was empty— to put as much distance between herself and her mind as possible. But she couldn't.

     "There's no need to get defensive, Cara, we're all just having a friendly chat."

     Her insides were screaming at her, begging her, to allow them to shut down, but she couldn't. She couldn't shut down. Not again; not right now.

     "Sometimes I forget how brilliant that mind of yours is."

     There was a river of inescapable panic whirling in her stomach and Cara felt as if she could barely breathe. She could physically feel the tension boiling up into her limbs and face while her mind kept replaying those words; her breathing becoming more rapid and shallow.

     "God, I wish Le was here to see how petrified you look. You can count to ten as many times as you please, darling, but the truth will remain the same. We won."

     A painful lump rested in her throat as tears began to form gradually. Time seemed to slow as her breathing became more shallow, her lungs beginning to scream for air.

     "Don't worry, your boyfriend will never know this happened."

     That was it.

     She couldn't do this anymore.

     Standing from her desk as inconspicuously as possible, the blonde forced her feet forward. None of her team members suspected anything, each of them was off in their own world. No one noticed a damn thing, and she needed it to stay that way.

     The glass doors of the BAU soon closed behind her and she turned right, walking down the hallway. The women's restroom was in-sight and she picked up her pace as the world became muddled.

     Only a few more feet, and then, she'd be able to breathe.

     Finally, after what felt like a decade's worth of time had passed, Cara stepped into the bathroom. Her vision immediately blurred with tears. It was deathly silent. All she could hear was the sound of her wheezing, which didn't ease the anxiety she was experiencing in the slightest.

     Luckily, she was alone; she had better privacy here than the office provided her.

     With a blind hand, she searched for the last bathroom stall in the back left corner. By the time she entered and locked herself in, she could feel every inch of her body shaking. Everything around her was obscure and she could no longer depict anything in her range of vision. She felt her legs give out and she collapsed against a smooth surface, likely the wall.

     In any other circumstance, she would have acknowledged the burning sensation scrapping against her pants and kneecaps when she made contact with the floor, but she didn't. Instead, all she felt was a hollow pit in her chest and a lump so large in her throat that it threatened to suffocate her.

      Blinking, she gulped down the mass to hinder the waterworks, but her actions failed. Feeling tears running down her cheeks, she licked her lips and wiped them away. Then, her chest began to rise up and down rapidly as she was quickly losing control. It was all catching up to her— the nightmares, the memories, the voices— all of it.

     Raspy breaths fell from her lips, and she placed a hand over her heart, gasping for air. A heavy sob echoed and she hastily brought a trembling hand to her mouth, covering it. She didn't want anyone to hear anything and get too nosy for their own good.

     It felt as if the walls were closing in on her. The never-ending memories of pain and suffering were more than overwhelming. A river of inescapable panic whirled in her stomach, and she felt as if she could scarcely breathe. The memories were suffocating every inch of her as she involuntarily sobbed silently. Her lungs no longer contained the capability to let out a single noise.

     Spencer. I need Spencer.

     He was the only person who'd figured out how to bring her out of a panic attack.

     Words, however, were restricted, and she couldn't utter a thing. It was left to her to pull herself out of this state.

     Hands pressed against the cold floor, she scooted until every inch of her was pressed to the wall. She needed something to hold onto or feel so she knew that this was real and that she was physically safe for the time being. Or as safe as she could be.

     It took thirteen minutes and twenty-four seconds, but her breathing began to even out. She allowed herself to feel the beat of her heart against the bare bones of her ribcage and how anxious she felt. She allowed herself to feel all of it until there was nothing left. A hollow pit overtook the bundle of nerves in her chest and she slumped.

     Cara began to curl in on herself but shortly stopped when her eyes landed on her abdomen. Crimson-red blood was gushing from her lower torso where a shard of glass had plunged straight through her. Brows creasing, her breath caught for a moment in confusion.

     What the hell? This had to be another hallucination... surely. A leftover side effect of the panic attack.

     Before her thoughts could run rampant again, the door to the bathroom opened and a familiar voice called her name.

     "Valentine?"

     Cara blinked and the shard of glass and blood staining her clothes and hands was gone. Her chest tightened. It wasn't real.

     "I'd recognize those black high-heeled boots anywhere, kid," Rossi continued, making his way to the stall she'd hidden herself away in. Silence answered him. "Everything all right?"

     Hands shaking again, the blonde swallowed harshly. "I..." her voice cracked, giving away her emotional state instantly. There goes lying her way out of this. "Don't... Don't make me lie to you, Rossi." This was the first time she'd spoken all day.

     Outside the stall, Rossi slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "The team headed out for the night," he said, a frown tugging at his lips. "I told Reid I'd drive you back to the apartment." At the mention of the good doctor, he swore he heard her sniffle.

      Minutes of rigid silence flew by as the blonde sat frozen to the spot on the bathroom floor. Everything was still as the Italian man gave her the time and space she needed. It didn't matter what was going on. The only thing that mattered what that she got to process and collect herself in her own time, on her terms. He just wanted her to know he was there in the midst of the quiet.

     Soon, with closed eyes, Cara sunk against the wall. Her grip on her legs relaxed and she gradually unraveled herself. She was okay.

     She was okay.

     A slow and steady breath left her lips and her shoulders dropped.

     She was okay.

     Once she was back on her feet, she reluctantly unlocked the bathroom stall and opened it. With her head down, she made a beeline for the sinks, feeling deeply disgusted with herself for crying on the bathroom floor at the BAU. This might be the lowest she'd been in years.

     Rossi went to speak but stopped upon seeing her reflection in the mirrors. Her eyes were puffy, red-rimmed, and bloodshot; all of her mascara and eyeliner was smeared and rested on top of her dark circles. Her cheeks were also puffy and painted bright pink. She'd been crying.

     That realization brought him to a pause. For Cara Valentine, the definition of cold, calculated, stoic, and apathetic, to cry— something profound must have happened.

     As he processed her stance and gave her space, she was beginning to wash off her makeup. With clean hands, she scrubbed and scrubbed until every pore was makeup-free. It didn't erase the self-disgust she was experiencing and how dirty she felt, though, and she heaved a sigh.

     After drying her face with paper towels, she proceeded to wash her hands again.

     "Can uh," she began, aware of the set of eyes on her. "Can this stay between us?"

     Rossi nodded. "I've got you, kid." She didn't need to ask.

     Cara pressed her lips together. I've got you, kid. Those four words brought on another wave of salty tears, and she bit the inside of her cheek. It took seven seconds for her to recover from his statement, and she forced herself to ignore the ache in her chest. Switching off the sink, she dried her hands.

     "Gin rummy?"

     The blonde turned around, tossing a paper towel into the nearby trash can. "Gin rummy?" she echoed, leaning against a wall. The tears were still fresh in her eyes.

     "Follow me."

     Nodding wordlessly, Cara trailed after Rossi. They exited the bathroom and went down the hallway toward the glass doors, walking straight through. The bullpen was completely bare, they were the only ones there. Surprisingly, Hotch was gone for the day before six, which was rare.

     Soon, they reached the ten-by-eleven-foot office. Inside, the Italian man turned on the lights and shut the door. "Sit," he instructed, motioning to the five-foot-long brown leather couch positioned against the wall across from his desk. To the left of it was a matching brown leather club chair.

     Inhaling deeply, she reluctantly walked forward and sat down. Before she had the chance to do anything, Rossi spoke.

     "Chinese or Greek?"

     Cara blinked. "Sorry?"

     "For dinner," he clarified, phone in hand. "Chinese or Greek?"

     She shrugged. "Chinese."

     As he called his favorite Chinese restaurant, Rossi studied the blonde closely. She held a fixated stare on the coffee table in front of her with an empty expression. Just as this morning, she appeared fine. Not a shred of emotion was present in those deep blue eyes. She was good at hiding her feelings and what she was thinking. He had to give her that. She wasn't going to show him how she felt. She intentionally made it difficult for anyone to read her.

     All he knew was that her physical state contradicted the emotionless character she was sporting. And it was unnerving— seeing her in this way. This was a side of her that he, nor the rest of the team, had ever witnessed before. All of them aside from, potentially, Reid.

     Time slipped by slowly as Rossi put in a delivery order and called security to send the food up once it arrived. Cara hadn't paid attention to any of it. It wasn't until a playing card was placed face-down in front of her that she snapped out of her frozen state.

     Rossi was now sitting in the club chair to her right, a deck of cards in his hands. A pencil and piece of paper were off to the side and he dealt them each ten cards. After that was done, he turned the rest of them into a stack on the table and turned over the first one.

     "You want the upcard?"

     "What?"

     "You know how to play gin rummy, right?"

     Cara gave him a deadpan expression. The corners of his lips quirked up.

     Without picking up and looking at her cards, she took the upcard. And so the game began.

     The two played silently and continued to do so after their food arrived. Through mouthfuls of chow mein and egg foo young, they played. It wasn't until they were in the middle of game number nine that the peaceful silence was broken.

     "Ketchup or mustard?" Rossi asked, taking a sip of his drink.

     Cara blinked, in the midst of chewing. "Huh?"

     Rossi placed a card down. "Which one: ketchup or mustard?"

     "Neither," she mumbled, gaze darting from the cards on the table to the ones she held. "Hot sauce." She took a new card from the deck, catching the man staring expectantly at her. "What?"

     "This is the part where you ask me a question," he said.

     He was trying to get to know her. The random question wasn't so random, and Cara could see his true intentions immediately. However, she didn't entirely mind it. In a way, his actions made sense.

     Just as Spencer had, Rossi was attempting to get to know her better through random questions and inquiries. Their relationship was surface-level, which she preferred to keep with everyone.

     It was still odd having someone show an interest in her that was innocent and pure, with no ill intentions. Yet at the same time, it was becoming more and more comforting.

     "Hot dog or hamburger?" she returned, deciding that going back and forth with simple questions did no harm.

     Rossi smirked, drawing a card. "Neither. I prefer a nicely cooked steak." Cara snorted, putting a card down. "French fries or onion rings?"

     "Neither. Fried pickles." Cara mumbled, brows creasing as she debated on her next move. "Breakfast or dinner?"

     Rossi waited for her next play. "Dinner. Pasta or pizza? And answer carefully."

    David Rossi's love for pasta and all things pasta-related was infamously known. To say pizza would be inherently blasphemous, so Cara went with the safest answer: "Pasta."

     There was a gleam in his eyes. "'Atta girl."

     A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she placed a card on the table. "Bagel or donut?"

     "Donut," he answered immediately, "more flavors. Coke or Pepsi?"

     Cara shrugged. "I don't like soda all that much. Red wine or white?"

     "Trick question," they locked eyes, "both." They each cracked a smile, and the blonde found herself chuckling quietly. "Beer or vodka?"

     "Neither. Whiskey," she replied, tilting her head at the slightly surprised look crossing Rossi's face. He wasn't expecting that to be her preference. It wasn't the first time she'd gotten that reaction before. "Cake or ice cream?"

     Rossi drew a card. "Ice cream cake." Cara almost smirked. "Day or night?"

     "Day," she said without hesitation. "Light or dark?"

     "Light," Rossi said with no hesitation either. "Sunshine or rain?"

      The pair was nearly two hours away from the oceanfront when it began to pour. The rain hit and kicked at the windows of the car so violently that it was nearly impractical to hear their own thoughts. The world had turned into a black-and-white film with a never-ending soundtrack, filled with the sound of water cursing at the world.

     Cara's tiny fingers drew squiggles on the fogged-up window, lips morphing into a smile. "Daddy?" she turned her head to the left; her deep blue eyes filled with wonder.

     "Yeah, Starlight?" Ross Valentine asked, reaching over and tucking her hair behind her ears. They'd been stuck in traffic for nearly half an hour, with only two more hours to go until they reached the beach.

     With a wide smile, the small girl took a moment to treasure the alert and non-bloodshot eyes staring back at her. His pupils were at a normal size. This was the longest she'd seen him sober. It'd only been five days, but it was five more than she could remember ever having. "Do you think the clouds can hear us?" she gestured to the thunderstorm outside.

     Ross hummed, processing her question. "Perhaps. Do you think the clouds can hear us?"

     Shrugging, she turned back to the window. She exhaled deeply, her breath fogging up the window some more. Then, she drew a cloud with her left index finger. "I think they hear us when we're sad," she said, pointing to the cloud she drew. Ross smiled at the puffy oval. "I think clouds come from our inability to feel cheer and serenity."

     Ross blinked. "Where in the world did you learn those words?"

     "What words?" Cara met his puzzled stare.

     "Inability and serenity," he clarified, brows drawing in.

     "Oh! From the dictionary Uncle Michael gave me!" she beamed, bending over in her seat to get her blue, sparkling backpack. With a grunt, she heaved it up and unzipped the second pocket. She dug around for a moment, picking through the books and small stuffed animals Michael had gifted to her. Finally, her fingertips brushed against the navy blue leather, and she let out an excited squeal. "Here it is!" In her tiny grasp, her arms wobbled from the book she was now holding in the air.

     Double-checking to ensure traffic hadn't started moving, Ross reached over and took the leatherbound book. He opened it up to the first page, a cluster of black-inked words catching his attention.

     "To my dear Clementine, I hope you continue to read and explore all the words you have yet to learn. Now you'll finally understand some of the nicknames I've given you. Love, Uncle Michael."

     A wave of confusion washed over Ross and he glanced at the dirty-blonde-haired eleven-year-old. "Uncle Michael gave this to you?" he questioned, handing it back to her.

     A dictionary? How random.

     Cara nodded happily. "Yeah! Isn't he so cool?!"

     Ross nodded in agreement, relieved that his daughter thought so highly of one of his best friends. "Yeah, he is," he cracked a smile, ruffling her hair.

     Then, as if it were magic, the rain stopped. The storm stopped and everything was silent. The world was silent.

     Unable to help herself, Cara said, "Rain."

     Ever since that trip with her father decades ago, she fell in love with the rain. Despite the memory being tainted by Michael Le's invisible presence.

     "Calls or texts?" Cara kept her line of sight on the playing cards in her hands.

     Rossi didn't notice her slight change in tone, too engrossed in the game. "Calls. I don't see half the damn texts Penelope sends me." Cara nearly snorted. "Dreamer or realist?"

     "Realist," the woman breathed, placing her cards face-down on the coffee table. She brought her hands up and pulled her curled blonde hair into a high ponytail. "Winter or spring?"

     "Spring. Hot or cold?"

     "Cold. Sunrise or sunset?"

     "Sunrise. Cats or dogs?"

     "Cats. I had a cat named "Blue" when I was a kid."

     Rossi paused. "Blue?"

     Cara nodded. "My favorite color."

     "I didn't think retired drug traffickers had a favorite color."

     "I don't know how you got to that conclusion, but hilarious." Smirking, Rossi shook his head lightly. "Board game or card game?"

     Gesturing to the current game, he answered: "Card game. TV shows or movies?"

     This time, it was Cara who paused. She was unsure. "I don't really watch much media. Only what Bubblegum forces me to watch." Rossi chuckled. "Cars or airplanes?"

     "Airplanes. Passenger or driver?"

     Eyebrows flickering up, the blonde lightly scoffed in a playful manner. "No one trusts me enough to drive a car around here, so passenger."

     "Tell you what," Rossi started, sitting up, "I'll let you drive us back tonight."

     "You will?" Those two words were filled with genuine shock, and she wore a look of disbelief.

     He nodded. "As long as you don't speed or hit a curb. I just got new wheels."

     Cara rolled her eyes, silently agreeing to his terms. All emotion fell from her face, but there was a small glimmer in her eyes that Rossi took note of. So far, Gin rummy and good food had taken her mind off earlier today. As far as he could tell, which wasn't much, but that's all he wanted.

────

     THE INSIDE OF CARA'S BRAIN WAS AS MUCH OF A CLUTTERED MESS AS SHE CLIMBED UP THE STAIRS. The conversations she'd had with Rossi that night had left her feeling a little lighter. Nothing they talked about was personal or deep, per se, but it was simple and to the point. Two things she preferred.

     They continued the This or That? game, and shared arbitrary facts about themselves. It was pleasant because Cara could tell they were equally engaged in the conversation. It reminded her of the conversations she would occasionally have with Spencer.

     Spencer.

     As his name crossed her mind, she felt her chest tighten. He'd been worried about her, she knew that, and yet, she closed the world out. She closed him out. It wasn't without reason, but she was aware that her actions had affected him to an extent that day.

     Coming to a stop outside of the genius's apartment, Cara stared solemnly at the scratchy light brown paneling. A strong urge to knock on the door and talk to him came over her, and she let out a quiet huff. Why did she, all of sudden, want to talk to him so badly? Maybe it was because of the small shred of guilt she felt for today.

     There was a lump rising in her throat, and her eyes stung. Blinking quickly, she shook her head and went to walk away but hesitated. She twisted her head and looked at the door again.

     Could some part of her make up their mind already?

     Instead of second-guessing her emotions, she acted without thinking, inhaled deeply, and knocked on the door three times. Rocking on the backs of her heels, she waited impatiently. The longer she stood there, the more she regretted not going straight back to her apartment.

     From where she stood outside the door, Cara could soon hear the sound of approaching footsteps. Taking in a deep breath, she exhaled shakily as the door swung open to reveal Spencer.

     "Cara?" he asked, curious about why she was standing outside his apartment this late at night. Sure, they lived across the hall, but late-night visits never occurred between them. He was right, then. Something was wrong.  "Did Rossi drop you off? Are you okay?"

     Unable to meet his gaze, she cleared her throat. "I um," she inhaled sharply, readjusting the bag on her shoulder. "I'm aware this is beyond my typical behavior, but I just felt... drawn to come here. See you. I don't know. In full transparency, today hasn't been the greatest. The last few days, really, but that's beside the point," she rambled, becoming flustered. "You radiate this warm and calming energy, which I've pointed out before, and right now, I-I need warm and calm."

     Usually, her nervous rambling made him smile, but this time he was concerned. She wasn't just nervous, she was being vulnerable with him again by reaching out. So, Spencer nodded without hesitation, shuffling to open the door wider. He needed to be there for her. "Come in."

     Cara walked in, being met with a dimly lit kitchen and living room. There was a lamp on in the corner of the room, illuminating only part of the space. The rest, she could scarcely see. She made a mental note to request a full tour on their next day off.

     Closing the door, Spencer locked it and made his way to her side. He reached over and curled his fingers around her arm, bringing her attention to him. With a nod of his head, he motioned for her to follow.

     The two walked to the living room, and he sat them down on the leather brown couch. "Can I uh, can I get you anything?"

     Cara shook her head, "No, I'm okay. Thank you, though."

     He nodded and quickly noticed the anxious tapping of her foot against the wooden floors. With wandering eyes, he found himself observing her behavior and trying to get a read on her, as he usually did. Traditionally, he would either conclude that she was being truthful with him or he had absolutely no idea what she was thinking or feeling.

     What he found this time, though, made him freeze. This was the second time in less than a month that profiling her right now was the easiest it'd ever been.

     A sense of panic began to set in but was soon replaced by worry when he saw the distressed expression on her face. The walls she always held up began lowering, and he saw her bottom lip begin to quiver. "Hey," he murmured, noticing the subtle glimmer in her eyes as she stared ahead.

     No response.

     A moment later, Cara flinched when she felt Spencer touch her hand. Averting her gaze from the lamp, she glanced down. Their fingers were stretched and loosely wrapped around the other's, and she'd subconsciously stopped tapping her foot. Just like in their last case.

     The bundle of distress in his chest lessened when he saw the tapping had ended. He'd been successful in easing her anxiety again. Skin-on-skin contact proved to be the solution to the repetition of her anxious mannerisms.

     Cara watched as he ran his thumb along the side of her hand and a tear fell from her eye. She quickly wiped it away with her free hand.

     Immediately, Spencer scooted over until the sides of their legs were touching. Much to his surprise, she leaned into the left side of his body. His eyes widened at the gesture. It was still rare that Cara took it upon herself to initiate any form of physical contact.

     Allowing herself to sink into his touch, Cara then dropped her head onto his shoulder. Another tear fell and traveled down her cheek. She licked her lips, swallowing harshly. Not a second later, she felt Spencer slowly spread her fingers apart, overlapping them with his.

     It was quiet.

     Cara squeezed her eyes shut and gripped Spencer's hand a little tighter. The lump in her throat rose higher, and she could feel it clogging her airways. She pressed her lips together, trying to keep it together as best she could.

     "Nightmares?"

     One word was all it took for Cara to let out an involuntary whimper. Luckily it was barely audible, and she knew he didn't hear it because he didn't react. And for that, she was grateful.

     "Mmm."

     "You don't have to tell me anything..." Spencer said softly, finally resting his head on top of hers. "Unless you want to. You can always talk to me."

     Cara gulped, forcing a nod. "I know," she whispered.

     Now that she was inside his apartment, the urge to talk to him had faded and all she wanted was to sit there with his hand in hers. So, that's exactly what she did.

     They sat in the near dark of the night in peaceful silence, fingers intertwined. For thirty-four minutes and ten seconds, not a word was exchanged.

     Cara found herself getting drowsy, her eyes fluttering shut every few minutes before she'd snap them back open. She didn't want to fall asleep again. Not with the Founding Fathers potentially still being out there and because of the nightmares she had last night. It was too dangerous for her to sleep.

     But what if sleeping in someone else's company helped, though? Perhaps she could sleep on Spencer's couch. She could possibly get a few hours of decent sleep knowing there was someone else there who would keep her safe. And maybe she wouldn't have any nightmares because she knew she was safe.

     She couldn't believe she was even considering it.

     "Could I stay the night?"

     And yet, she asked anyway.

     Her soft-spoken words brought the brown-haired man back to reality, and he froze.

     Feeling his body tense against her, Cara squeezed her eyes shut. That was a horrible question to ask. She should have just let them sit there in silence. Allowing him to hold her hand and vice versa and placing her head on his shoulder was one thing, but her inquiry was undoubtedly pushing the limits of their relationship. Especially if he took it the wrong way, which she didn't believe he would, but his bodily reaction implied otherwise.

     It was quiet for eight seconds before Cara forced herself to lift her head and scoot away. "Never mind. I shouldn't have asked. That was incredibly intrusive of me. I'm sorry." Tucking strands of fallen hair from her ponytail behind her ears, she rose from the couch and looked anywhere but at Spencer. She should have kept her mouth shut.

     Telling that he'd made a mistake by keeping quiet for too long, Spencer stood up clumsily. "No, no, it's okay," he rushed out, following her as she headed towards the door. "Cara, wait."

     In three seconds, he'd reached out and grabbed her hand, spinning her around. Tripping over her feet, Cara stumbled from the sudden pull backward before Spencer caught her, instinctively wrapping his arm around her waist. The two looked up, and their noses brushed. Her eyes widened at how close they were while his cheeks burned red.

     It was deathly silent between them as neither knew what to do next.

     Spencer was unsure of what to do as they'd never been this close before, while Cara knew what usually occurred whenever she was in this position. Though this was different, this was Spencer, and she had a gut feeling that nothing further would happen.

     But did a part of her want something to happen?

     That question crept into the back of her mind, and she did her best to ignore it as their eyes remained locked. However, she couldn't ignore it for long because images of her nightmare from last night came back to haunt her.

     "I was uh..." Spencer gulped nervously, suddenly intimidated by her stare. Cara blinked. "You can uh..."

     It was apparent that he was struggling to speak and felt uncomfortable. It was more than apparent to her, and she quickly shook her head. She'd gone too far; she'd overstepped. "You don't have to say anything, genuinely," she whispered; her heart felt like it was being clenched to death, and she inhaled sharply. "I shouldn't have asked. I'm sorry."

     As she stepped back, his face fell. "Cara..."

     Forcing a small, reassuring smile on her lips, Cara grabbed the doorknob. "I'll see you at work. Again, I apologize." Her stare downcasted, and she turned, slipping out the door.

     Everything was silent once again, and Spencer squeezed his eyes shut. Why did he have to freeze up like that? She worked up the courage to be vulnerable with him and asked to stay there, and he could tell it was because she needed to feel safer than she did in her own apartment.

     But what did he do? He froze. Like an idiot.

𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒆  ───  ❪ CRIMINAL MINDS ❫
act one:     𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝚂𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙿𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂,      ¹
╱ ✹      ▬▬      ❛ © CARDIIAC     2023. ❜
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𓄹 ━━ 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭,   𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙 ࿐ ໋₊ ˖

     hey everyone!! i hope you all enjoyed the thirty-first chapter!

     HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYONE!!! (YES, I KNOW IT'S FEBRUARY, SHUT UP. IT TOOK ME AGES TO FINISH THIS.) I HAVEN'T UPDATED IN FOREVER, BUT 2023 IS GOING TO BE DIFFERENT! I PROMISE!

     annnnddddd here we are with another insanely long filler chapter! well, filler-ish. (it was so cool to bring back that memory of cara's from chapter four. hopefully, that little flashback gives you some more insight into cara's childhood and le's early stages of grooming her that she told spencer about.) it was necessary for the plot, character building, and the relationships between characters. (rossi and cara's relationship is explored a lot more in the later half of the book, and i just love their connection.)

     this is officially the longest chapter i have ever written for any of my books on this app. it's over 11.9k words... you're welcome.

     ONLY FOUR MORE CHAPTERS UNTIL VOLUME TWO!! I'M SO EXCITED!!!!

     the next chapter is already written and edited, so it'll be out a few days after people have caught up and read this chapter. i'm very, very excited about what's coming.

     (p.s. ━━ sorry for the fake #spara kiss!! the real one isn't happening for a long time, but at least we know that the thought has crossed cara's mind + dreams now! progress is progress.)

     thank you to everyone who is still reading and supporting this story! you are very appreciated, and i adore you. <3

     here are two little cute edits i made out of boredom:

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˒⠀𝑹𝑬𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑹. . . ▬⠀⤸

Thank you all for taking the time out of your day to comment on this story. It means a lot and helps the story be spread to a broader audience &&& allows me to grow as an author. All I ask is that people vote on each chapter, please. As a creator, it takes time to write and develop stories. Especially ones such as this that take a while to write and dedicate time to. So please, vote on every chapter. It means a lot more than I could ever express.

Don't forget to vote & comment!

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˒⠀𝑪𝑶𝑷𝒀𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻. . . ▬⠀⤸

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