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Spencer had just zoned in on the intricacies of a case file—deep in the weeds of geographic profiling and victimology—when a bright, glittering voice pulled him out.
“Spencerrrrr!”
Garcia appeared at his desk like a sequined fever dream. She was decked out in a red Valentine’s Day cardigan covered in far too many embroidered hearts. Her grin was radiant. Dangerous.
He didn’t even bother sighing. “Penelope,” he said in the calm tone of a man who could see the avalanche coming and had made peace with it.
“So. Valentine’s Day.”
Spencer leaned back, arms folded. “Yes?”
Garcia’s grin widened, her eyes dancing with mischief. “I know you’re planning something special for Lola,” she sing-songed, her whole face lit up with anticipation. “Because it’s your first Valentine’s Day together. That’s a big deal.”
Spencer sighed, equal parts amused and resigned. “Is it, though? Valentine’s Day is mostly a modern commercial construct. A 2019 study even showed that—”
“Nope.” She held up a finger like a traffic cop. “You are not getting out of this by hiding behind sociology.”
“Behavioral economics, actually.”
She shot him her full “don’t start with me” glare, and he relented, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth.
Penelope crossed her arms. “Let me rephrase. How long had it been since your last relationship before Lola?”
“...A while.”
“Exactly,” she said triumphantly. “Which means you’re overdue for some totally shameless romantic fluff. Don’t tell me you’re not even going to do something symbolic?”
Spencer couldn’t help but grin at her enthusiasm. “We’re doing something the night before. Lola has a show on Thursday, so we agreed to keep it simple. Pizza, movies, that kind of thing.”
“Oh, how quaint,” Penelope said, rolling her eyes. “You’re already compromising your romantic gestures for the grind. This is worse than I thought.”
“It’s not compromising,” he replied with a chuckle. “It’s respecting her schedule. And Lola isn’t really into big public romantic gestures anyway.”
“Said every man ever.”
He lifted his pen. “Direct quote.”
“Be still, my heart.” Penelope actually placed a hand over her chest.
“She said—and I quote again—she’d rather eat pizza in pajamas and debate whether Casablanca qualifies as a romance or a tragedy than go out to a restaurant with overpriced heart-shaped food.”
Garcia squinted at him like he’d grown a second head. “You mean…you two talked about what you both wanted and made a plan that fits your schedules and preferences?”
“Radical, I know.” Spencer put the pen down and turned to her fully. “How long are you planning to give me relationship advice, exactly?”
She shrugged, grinning. “Until further notice. Possibly forever. Especially since I have to live vicariously through you.”
He looked up, a little mischievous. “You know, it’s pretty obvious Luke would volunteer if you’d give him a shot.”
“Who?” she said instantly, far too loudly. "Luke? Luke Alvez? I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s absolutely nothing going on there, and nothing ever will be.”
As if summoned by divine comedic timing, Luke walked past, raising an amused eyebrow as he caught the tail end of the exchange. “Good to know, Garcia!”
She turned bright red. “OH HUSH, YOU,” she called after him, before muttering, “This office has terrible acoustics.”
Luke just shook his head and wandered off toward the kitchenette, tossing Spencer a knowing smirk as he went. “Right. Well, I’m just here for coffee.”
Spencer leaned in, stage-whispering, “You can’t avoid him forever.”
“Watch me,” Penelope whispered back defiantly. “Now, back to you and Lola—just promise me you'll think about doing something a little more, I don’t know, whimsical.”
"Whimsical?"
"Love notes. A flower in her dressing room. Maybe a little serenade.”
Spencer squinted. “You’ve heard me sing. I don't think that could count as a gift.”
“Okay, so maybe not that whimsical,” she conceded, then perked up again. “Ooh! What about a record? One of those swoony old crooners. Ella? Frank? Maybe even a cheeky French chanson?”
He paused. That one hit.
“Actually… that’s a really good idea.” He smiled to himself. “She’s got a record player. Collects vinyl. She’d love that.”
Penelope’s eyes lit up, victory shining on her face. “See? That’s perfect! Classic. Personal. Who’s the romantic now?”
“Still you,” he said without hesitation.
She just beamed. “But you’re catching up. I can already see it. Soft jazz, twinkling lights, a single red rose...”
"I don't know if Lola's a rose person."
“Okay. A carnation. A tulip. Something poetic and vaguely suggestive.”
He laughed under his breath. “That’s a pretty tall order.”
“Luckily, you’re a tall man,” she countered with a wink.
He just raised an eyebrow.
“Now get romantic, Spencer. I expect updates.”
"All I'm saying is tomorrow is just another Thursday. You shouldn't need a calendar to remember you have feelings for someone."
“Aw,” Tara didn't even look at him, busy erasing the last of a profile from the whiteboard. “Tell me you're single without telling me you're single.”
The bullpen was emptying out. Chairs squeaked. A mug clinked into the sink. The low hum of end-of-day chatter settled into something softer—one of those rare, uneventful days where nobody was dead, and the paperwork was blissfully boring.
Luke smiled. “Hey, I’m not knocking love. I’m just saying I don’t need red foil to prove I’m capable of emotion.”
“Spoken like a man planning to spend the evening with his dog.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” he asked, all mock indignation. “Roxy’s getting the good kibble. I’m grilling a steak. We’ll take a long run, then fall asleep watching The Mandalorian. Frankly, she’s better company than most people.”
"Awww," Tara shook her head, amused. “Do you whisper sweet nothings to her about her macros and tail-wag metrics?”
“She’s very emotionally intelligent,” Luke said. “Unlike some people I work with.”
"Is this about that time I set your desktop background to a slideshow of Ryan Gosling photos?"
"I am never leaving my computer unattended again."
“And you shouldn't,” she smirked. “Cybersecurity is everyone’s responsibility.”
He pointed his coffee mug at her. “I will get you back.”
“You’ve been saying that for three months.”
Before he could reply, Garcia breezed into the bullpen in a flash of red and glitter, cradling a Tupperware container of aggressively frosted cupcakes.
“Alright, team,” Penelope announced, setting the container down on Matt's desk. “It’s Valentine’s Eve, and I’m officially declaring this bullpen a shame-free zone of compulsory over-sharing.”
Emily, perched nearby, didn’t even look up from her tablet. “You get worse every year.”
“It’s not my fault the rest of you are emotionally constipated,” Garcia shot back, already unsealing the lid. “Now take a cupcake and share your Valentine’s Day plans like grown-ups.”
Matt was the first to cave, grabbing one with red sprinkles. “Kristy and I always do a Valentine’s weekend, just the two of us. My sister takes the kids, and we get 48 hours of uninterrupted peace and quiet.”
“You romantic bastard,” Emily deadpanned.
“Gross,” Luke muttered, but smiled.
“You’re just jealous,” Matt said. “Sleeping in and drinking coffee while it's still hot? That’s basically foreplay when you have as many kids as we do.”
“Okay, now it’s gross.”
The laughter rolled again. Emily smirked. “Honestly, I’m jealous. I’d kill for two days without notifications.”
“You don’t even have kids,” JJ pointed out.
“No, but I have you people.”
Tara snorted into her coffee. “Touché.”
“JJ?” Garcia prompted, eyes already twinkling.
JJ gathered her bag. “Will’s cooking. We’re staying in. Henry’s officially in the stage where he cares more about texting girls than hanging out with us, so…”
Spencer blinked. Henry had a crush? Henry was texting girls now? He wondered if JJ found that sweet or terrifying. Probably both. Time was weird.
“Aww,” Garcia cooed. “Young love!”
“Texting is for amateurs,” Rossi said, taking a cupcake. “I used to handwrite notes. Much riskier. No take-backs.”
“You also once sent roses to three women on the same day,” Emily said, arching an eyebrow.
Rossi smirked like a man with no regrets. “Time management is a skill.”
There was laughter—good-natured, familiar. Spencer glanced up just long enough to catch the flicker behind Rossi’s eyes. The smile didn’t quite reach them. It had been nearly two years since Krystall died. Rossi never brought her up, but the absence hung around the edges of him, like static. Not grief, exactly. Just... shape.
Garcia, ever the cruise director, clapped again. “Tara? Rebecca?”
“We’re going out,” Tara said with a small smile. “Rebecca made a reservation at this little Italian place with terrible lighting and amazing tiramisu. We might dance. Depends how much pasta happens.”
“That’s adorable. You’re disgusting,” Garcia said fondly, passing her a cupcake.
She swiveled to Spencer next. “And you, my gangly little genius. Tell the class."
Spencer adjusted a file on his desk, more for something to do than any real need for tidying, then gave up pretending he wasn't amused. “We’re keeping it simple. Lola’s performing tomorrow night—Valentine’s is busy season at the club—and then she's off to Baltimore for a weekend of gigs, so we’re doing our thing tonight. Pizza and old movies.”
Tara nodded. “Classic. Cozy. Good call.”
Penelope nudged Spencer, an eyebrow raised. “But you are planning something, right?”
“Yes, Garcia. I have something planned,” he said with the dry patience of a man who had long ago accepted she would never not meddle.
She leaned back, satisfied. “Good. Just making sure my investment in you wasn’t in vain.”
Luke cleared his throat, trying to suppress a smirk. “Look at you. All grown up.”
Penelope ignored him, glancing at Emily with a raised brow. “What about you, boss lady?”
“Takeout and a good movie,” Emily replied, not missing a beat. “I like my dates quiet and low-maintenance.”
"No hot date?"
“Depends on the temperature of the curry.”
“What about that Interpol friend you brought to Rossi’s for New Year’s?” JJ asked, curious.
“She travels too much,” Emily said lightly, biting into a cupcake. “Bad for scheduling. Great cheekbones, though.”
Rossi raised an eyebrow. Emily ignored it.
Then Luke asked, “And you, Garcia?”
Penelope twirled one of her earrings. “I’m treating myself to champagne, a new bath bomb, and cupcakes with unreasonable amounts of frosting. Alone.”
“That actually sounds kind of perfect,” Emily said.
“It is,” Garcia replied. “Love is everywhere. Including in my own excellent company.”
“You also have, like, ten rom-coms queued up, right?” Emily said.
“That's just called taste, Emily.”
Luke gave her a glance—a beat too long to be entirely casual. “You deserve a good night.”
She didn’t meet his eye, busying herself with napkins. “Damn right I do.”
But Spencer caught it. Garcia, naturally, had her back turned. Reid had a feeling she knew anyway. Garcia noticed everything—she just pretended not to.
He watched the swirl of chatter and remembered the previous year's Valentine’s Day, spent alone in a hotel room after a guest seminar. He hadn’t even noticed the date. This year, he’d ordered Lola’s favorite pizza in advance.
That had to mean something.
Matt clapped his hands, brushing crumbs from his jacket. “Right. I’m hitting the road before traffic. Happy Valentine’s, people.”
Rossi followed. “Enjoy the holiday. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“So... nothing?” Tara asked.
“Exactly,” he said, and disappeared into the elevator.
One by one, the team began packing up, voices softening, laughter echoing faintly as chairs rolled back and coats were shrugged on.
Garcia lingered at her desk, rearranging things that didn’t need rearranging.
Spencer glanced toward her and hesitated. Then he walked over and said, quietly, “You know, cupcakes and champagne doesn't sound like a bad night.”
“I do make a very good date,” she said. “Especially for myself.”
“You okay?”
She looked up, her expression soft. “Yeah. I’ll be fine. It’s just…” She paused, searching. Then: “I like watching other people be happy.”
Spencer nodded. “You deserve that too, you know.”
“I know,” she said, and smiled, but there was a shadow in it.
He smiled back. “Thanks for rooting for me.”
“Always.” She nudged him with her elbow, voice light again. “Now go. I’ve got champagne and Moonstruck waiting.”
“Happy Valentine’s, Garcia.”
“You too, lovebug.”
Spencer stopped just outside his door, his eyes catching on a little red envelope stuck to it. There was only one person he could imagine leaving a note like this. He slid the card free, already bracing for whatever mischief Lola had dreamed up.
There, written in her playful script, was a simple question:
Will you be my Valentine?
☐ Yes
☐ No
☐ Maybe
(Pick one)
He ticked “Yes” with a pen fished out of his messenger bag, then tucked the card into his pocket as he stepped inside.
The soft glow of lamps and a faint trace of music greeted him. Lola was perched cross-legged on his couch, dressed in leggings and an oversized leopard-print sweater that looked so comfortable—and so her—it made him want to kick off his shoes and sink in beside her for the next five hours. She looked up from her phone, eyes warm and knowing, and he had to lean against the doorframe, trying not to grin.
“Hey, Doc. Did you get my note?” she asked, already diving into the kitchen to grab two large pizza boxes and set them on the coffee table.
He nodded, stepping in to kiss her. “I did. For the record, I checked ‘Yes.’”
“Well then,” she said with a shrug of mock nonchalance, “I guess you get a prize.” She handed him a small gold-wrapped package.
“What’s this?” he asked, unwrapping it under her suspiciously innocent gaze.
Inside was a key, adorned with a keychain—a small black cat with golden eyes. It looked remarkably like Zelda, and he chuckled as he held it up, the tiny black cat swinging between his fingers.
“A Zelda keychain?”
“Figured you’d appreciate the realism. And, well, it’s a key, which I guess kind of says ‘here’s my trust, please don’t lose it—or the cat,’” she said, only half-joking.
He looked at her, gaze softening, and clipped it onto his own keyring with a quiet thrill. “Thank you. I’ll do my best to live up to Zelda’s standards." He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. "And hey, now I can be there when you come back from Baltimore. To welcome you home, if you don’t mind.”
It sounded sappy. He didn’t care. Lola's eyes lit up, but no words came. So instead, she leaned up and kissed him, fingers threading through his hair as she took her time. He responded in kind, pulling her closer and letting the warmth linger.
When they broke apart, he cleared his throat, a little breathless. “Alright, speaking of gifts…” He crossed to the bookshelf and returned with a slim, wrapped package. She opened it slowly to reveal a vintage vinyl record—a collection of old standards by Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald.
“Wow,” she breathed, turning it over in her hands. “This is… incredible. You know, I think we might actually be a little sappy.”
“Is that so terrible?” he asked, and she leaned up to kiss his cheek—just a brush, but it lingered.
“No,” she murmured. “Not with you.”
They shared another smile, and she gestured toward the coffee table, where two pizza boxes and a stack of actual physical DVDs waited. “I hope you’re in the mood for greasy food and sentimental romance movies,” she said, tilting her head. “Because I have no shame tonight.”
“Pizza and romance sounds perfect.” He took off his jacket and glanced at the titles she’d brought—Roman Holiday, The Thin Man, His Girl Friday. His hand paused over The Thin Man.
“This one? I don’t think I’ve ever watched it with anyone before,” he asked, glancing at her.
“Good choice, me neither,” she said, flopping down onto the couch and patting the spot next to her. “Grab some napkins, and we’re set.”
They settled together, and after a few bites of pizza, the film began. Spencer quickly found himself laughing at the deadpan wit and chaotic charm of the leads. Somewhere between the quips and Lola’s laughter, she curled closer, resting her head on his shoulder. He tilted slightly to accommodate her, arm loosely around her back, and felt a quiet kind of ease settle into the room.
As the credits rolled, he absently ran his fingers through her hair, thinking about how startlingly natural and good it felt to share a night like this with her.
“So, Valentine’s Day sorted,” he said, setting his plate aside. “But your birthday’s coming up, right?”
She nodded, almost seeming embarrassed, and turned her attention to the movie case in her lap. “Yeah, on the nineteenth.”
“Are we celebrating?”
She shrugged, mouth quirking with something between amusement and defensiveness. “I don’t know. I never made a big deal out of birthdays. I mean—I don’t hate them or anything. I just… it always felt weird, I guess. Like I was demanding attention I didn’t earn.”
Spencer raised an eyebrow. “Everyone deserves a little celebration, don’t you think?”
She laughed softly, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “Maybe. But I guess I feel… strange, you know? Like I’m making people go out of their way. On stage, sure, I can make myself a big deal. But privately… I don’t know, I’d rather keep it small.”
He tilted his head, intrigued. “Well, then maybe we don’t make a big deal out of it,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t celebrate, either. Just… us.”
She glanced at him sidelong, eyes soft. “I suppose that wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
They lapsed into comfortable quiet. Then she asked, “So when’s your birthday, anyway? I realize I never asked. I mean—I probably should know that by now, huh?”
Spencer looked at her, a small, almost boyish smile creeping onto his face. “Oh, in October.”
Her eyes widened. “Wait, really? Did I miss it?”
"Technically, no. You actually gave me a pretty good present." He chuckled at the sight of her furrowed brow. "It's on October twelfth. It was the day I asked you to dinner."
Her eyes went wide. “Are you serious? That was your birthday?”
“Yep,” he confirmed. “Kind of hard to top, honestly.”
“Wow, no pressure or anything,” she said, bumping his shoulder.
He thought of the Zelda keychain, then looked over at Lola, curled beside him and shamelessly helping herself to his last slice of pizza.
“I might’ve made a strategic error,” he said. “You didn’t say anything about food theft in the Valentine contract.”
She snorted. “Too late. You already checked 'yes'.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Can I amend my answer?”
She stole another bite and grinned. “Nah. No take-backs.”