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Fran opens the door before they even reach the top step. Arms outstretched, smile soft, just like Spencer remembers.
Only this time, her eyes land on him first.
“Spencer, baby,” she says, pulling him into a hug without hesitation. “It’s been too long.”
It has. Since 2006. Since the cold Chicago air and the case that almost cracked Derek in half. Since Spencer stood awkwardly in this very hallway, unsure of his place, eyes childishly drawn to the cake on the table instead of analysing the Morgan Home. He always regretted that, ever since he developed the feeling of wanting to devour every minuscule bit of Derek Morgan information.
This time is different.
This time, Spencer’s hand is still warm from where it was laced in Derek’s just moments before.
Fran pulls back to look at him, hands still on his arms. “I knew you were coming the second Derek called and asked if the house was clean” She laughed with a mock glare to her son. “I said, ‘This Spencer is special then, hm?’ And he said—” She drops her voice into a teasing imitation of Derek’s low growl. “‘Be cool, Ma.’”
Spencer lets out a startled laugh, and Derek groans behind him.
“Ma, c’mon—”
“You hush,” she says, shooing Derek inside. “I’ve been waiting on this moment for years.”
Spencer is still laughing when Fran wraps an arm around his shoulders and guides him through the house. The kitchen smells like baked apples and the walls are lined with photos — the kind of framed happiness Spencer always lingers on in other people’s homes. Derek in football gear. Fran with a toddler on her hip.
Family that never left. Family that stayed.
He lets out a shaky exhale, feeling Derek’s hand on the small of his back before he goes to help set the table.
“I always knew,” she says, opening a cabinet to pull down plates. “You had your hooks in him the day you arrived.”
Spencer blinks. “What?”
“Oh, don’t be modest. He came home talking about this genius kid who drank too much coffee and didn’t sleep. You were ‘annoying as hell’—” she grins, “—but then he started defending you before I even teased him about it.”
Spencer is quiet. Then… “You really meant it back then? He talks about me?”
Fran hums. “Honey, I knew you were the Spencer he went on about the minute you opened your mouth. I knew you better than I knew the ladies down the road.”
Something swells in Spencer’s chest, tight and warm and full. He looks over at Derek, who’s busy setting the table like he’s trying to stay busy, like maybe he’s the one blushing now.
Spencer can’t find words. So he just… nods.
They eat together like a real family—elbows bumping, Fran teasing, Derek pretending to be embarrassed by it all. Spencer barely tastes the food, but he eats every bite because Fran keeps refilling his plate without asking and calls him “sweetheart” when he tries to protest.
And for the first time in a very, very long time… Spencer doesn’t feel like a guest.
He feels kept.
Not tolerated or a punchline.
Kept.
There’s probably a better for word for it, but right now his genius brain was more focused on the hilarious childhood stories he was getting about Derek than anything else.
They move to the living room, some game show is on TV and Fran insisted, ‘it’s a crime to eat dessert without Jeopardy.’
They’re halfway through cake when Fran gets up to refill their coffees. Spencer shifts closer to Derek on the couch, and when their thighs touch, Derek’s hand slips instinctively onto Spencer’s knee, thumb tracing absentminded little circles.
It’s casual. Intimate. So normal.
Fran sits back down and says, like it’s nothing. “I always wanted more boys in this family. Girls are lovely, don’t get me wrong, but there’s something special about the way you boys look out for each other.”
Derek leans in to kiss her cheek. “Awh Ma! Don’t let Sarah hear you say that.”
Spencer thinks: Oh. This is what people grow up with.
Fran shrugs, smirking. “Sarah already knows I play favorites.”
Spencer is quiet again. There’s a warm, aching thing in his throat that won’t go away. He shifts, trying to hold it together, but Fran’s sharp eyes don’t miss a thing.
“You all right, baby?”
He nods quickly. “Yes. It’s just—” He bites his lip. “You have a lovely home.”
The hand on his knee squeezes at his words.
“I’m sure growing up in Vegas was lovely as well.”
“Yeah.” He said plainly, the words feel caught up in his vocal cords. “It was…It was different than this. I didn’t know it could be like…”
He trails off. The words fail him. As they often do, when the feelings are too big.
Fran’s face melts into something he can’t quite figure out, and Derek leans closer to his side, moving an arm to wrap around his waist.
Fran takes Spencer’s hand without hesitation. Her grip is firm. Maternal.
“Well,” she says, “now you know.”
Later, after Fran’s gone to bed and the house has gone quiet, Spencer leans into Derek on his childhood bed. The blanket they’re sharing is old and worn, knit decades ago, and smells like the house itself.
“Did you really talk about me that much?” Spencer whispers, just to break the quiet.
Derek pulls him closer. “You were the first thing I ever let myself care about in that job. I had to talk about you. Or I would’ve exploded.”
Spencer closes his eyes. Derek’s heartbeat is steady under his cheek.
Spencer turns, just enough to press a kiss into Derek’s jaw. He drifts off like that, wrapped in Derek’s arms, in a house full of love that somehow, impossibly, had always made room for him—even before he knew to ask.
The Chicago cold and the morning glow seeps in through the windows.
Spencer wakes up first, shivering immediately. Theres a clock ticking somewhere, and dust is spinning like stars above Derek’s bare shoulder, his arm still slung around Spencer like a promise kept.
When Derek stirs, it’s with a hum of satisfaction and a sleepy nuzzle against Spencer’s hair. He doesn’t open his eyes, just mumbles, “Morning baby, ready to see real Chicago?”
Spencer nods, laughing into Derek’s neck as the usual attack of morning kisses begins their journey all over his face.
They get up and start getting ready, Spencer shivering even though the heating hums away.
“Cold, huh?” Derek asks, hugging him from behind.
And Derek, without even thinking, says, “Hang tight, I got you.”
He bundles Spencer up like he’s made of glass.
Old football hoodie. Too big, worn soft. Spencer disappears into it, the hem falling past his hips, the sleeves swallowing his hands. Derek pulls the hood over his curls, ties a navy scarf loosely around his neck, and gently tugs gloves onto his too-cold fingers.
“Gloves under the sleeves,” Derek mutters. “Chicago rules.”
Spencer just watches him. Lets him fuss. He always does.
Outside, the air bites hard, but Spencer’s wrapped in heat that isn’t just from fabric. Derek keeps a hand in his coat pocket — Spencer’s hand, tucked safely in his own — and the wind can’t touch him.
They walk slow. The neighborhood is quiet but alive. Dogs bark. Kids chase each other between shoveled driveways. There’s a rhythm to it. A heartbeat.
Community.
Spencer notices how everyone seems to know each other. Mrs. Jefferson waves from her porch with a mug in her hand. The guy from the corner store shouts a greeting from across the street. A teenager with a shovel calls Derek “Coach” and blushes when Derek ruffles his hair.
“Were you a coach?” Spencer asks, soft.
Derek shrugs. “I used to help out. Summers mostly. Got too busy once I made the team full-time.”
Spencer files that away. Another piece of Derek no one ever talks about. The quiet parts. The giving ones.
The coffee shop is warm and smells like cinnamon and burnt espresso.
It’s small. Not trendy. There’s mismatched chairs and chipped mugs and a hand-painted chalkboard menu above the counter. Spencer’s eyes take in every detail.
The barista doesn’t even look up before saying, “Large black for Derek, no room. And—” She glances at Spencer. “Who’s this? New to the city?”
Derek laughs. “Not new. Just overdue.”
She smiles, already pulling a second mug. “What’s he like? Besides ‘a little cold and very pretty’?”
Spencer blushes so hard he feels it in his ears.
“Complicated order,” Derek says. “Extra hot, no dairy, a splash of hazelnut if you’ve got it, and two sugar packets. The brown kind.”
Spencer stares at him.
“Was that right, pretty boy?”
Spencer doesn’t answer. He just stares at him for a moment too long, until Derek starts to fidget.
The barista whistles low. “Y’all are in love, huh?”
Derek grins. “We are.”
Spencer’s heart stutters at the we.
They sit by the window, hands wrapped around mugs, legs tangled under the table. Spencer watches the city move past. There’s something alive in every corner. In the warmth of this shop. In the couple sharing a bagel. In the little kid trying to carry a snowball bigger than his head.
He turns to Derek.
“You haven’t been back in over a year,” he says. “But they all remember you.”
Derek lifts a brow. “Yeah?”
“They love you,” Spencer says. “They talk to you like they missed you. Like you’re part of the rhythm here.”
Derek takes a sip of his coffee and shrugs like it’s nothing. “I grew up here. I gave a shit. That sticks with people.”
Spencer is quiet for a long time.
“That’s what I want to be.”
Derek looks up.
Spencer’s voice is barely above a whisper. “You’ve got such a special presence here. I want that.”
Derek puts his mug down, reaches across the table, and takes Spencer’s hand again.
“You already have it,” he says.
And Spencer believes him.
Derek’s sisters arrive in a burst of cold air, boot scuffs, and too-loud laughter. Fran lets them in with a smile that’s already tired, but fond, and she gestures for them to kick off their shoes and come in. The hallway echoes with the sound of familiarity — bags dropped, coats shrugged off, voices overlapping.
And just like that, Spencer’s standing in the doorway, swallowed by something so alive it takes him a second to find his footing.
“Is that him?” one of the sisters says.
“Shut up, that’s him—”
“That’s Spencer?”
“Oh my God, Derek, he’s a baby—”
“Not a baby, just soft. Look at that cardigan. I love him.”
Spencer wants to sink into the floor.
Derek steps in like a shield. “Y’all, stop.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Desiree says, elbowing him. “You’ve been talking about this boy since forever. We’re just saying hi.”
“But with teeth,” Derek mutters, pulling Spencer close like an anchor. “Spence, you remember Sarah and Desiree.”
Spencer offers a small, nervous wave. “Hi.”
“Hi,” they all chorus back, but softer now.
The living room becomes a crash zone of blankets and snacks. Fran makes a pot of spiced cider. Derek’s sprawled on the carpet, back against the couch, legs stretched long. Spencer ends up in the corner of the sectional, cardigan sleeves tugged over his hands, sipping cider and quietly watching.
And what he sees…
Is Derek relaxed.
He’s laughing so hard at one point he slaps the floor. He teases Desiree until she throws a pillow at him. He lets Sarah braid a tiny section of his hair. He reaches for Spencer’s ankle, just once, and tugs it playfully until Spencer lets it rest over his own.
He’s lighter here. Younger. Like part of him never had to leave this house.
Even though a painful part of his heart reminds him that no, Derek was the man of the house at the same age Spencer was.
Spencer doesn’t say much, but they don’t make him.
Sarah asks what he does and when he tells her, she whistles. “Damn. That’s some real FBI stuff.”
Desiree makes him explain the chessboard in his head. “Okay but how, though?”
Sarah brings him a blanket without asking.
They don’t make him prove he belongs. They just let him… stay.
Later, Derek is helping Fran in the kitchen, and the sisters are half-watching a romcom rerun when Sarah nudges Spencer with her foot.
“You know,” she says, “he hasn’t brought anyone home since high school.”
Spencer looks up.
“He always says he’s too busy. Or tired. Or out in the field.” She pauses, gives him a once-over, but it’s not unkind. “But I think he was waiting to feel safe.”
Spencer swallows. “I’m not— I don’t think I’m—”
“Hey,” Desiree interrupts gently. “You’re here. That’s enough.”
Sarah adds from the armchair, “You’re already ours, pretty boy.” A chorus of stifled giggles from the sisters erupts at that. “Sorry. No take-backs.”
Spencer doesn’t cry, but he wants to, he smiles so big his cheeks feel tight.
Not because he’s overwhelmed or scared, but because something soft is settling into his chest. A place he didn’t know was empty is filling up.
He wraps the blanket tighter around himself and watches Derek laugh in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, shoulders loose, eyes bright.
Spencer thinks:
I want to stay here forever.
The house has gone still.
The laughter, the romcom, the clatter of mugs in the kitchen — all of it has ebbed into memory. Upstairs, Fran has gone to bed. Derek’s sisters are tucked into the guest room down the hall, whispering in hushed tones.
And Spencer is in Derek’s childhood bedroom, lying beneath a quilt that smells like cedar and clean laundry, heart thudding slow and full.
He shifts when Derek comes in, towel slung over his shoulder, curls still damp from the shower. He’s in old sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee, barefoot, warm-looking, real.
“You okay?” Derek asks softly, closing the door behind him.
Spencer nods. “Yeah.”
But Derek sees him — really sees him — and after a beat, crosses the room to sink down beside him on the bed.
“Too much?”
Spencer shakes his head. “No. Just…” He swallows. “It’s a lot. In a good way.”
Derek brushes a hand through his hair. “They liked you.”
“I noticed.”
Derek grins. “I think Sarah wants to steal you.”
Spencer lets out a breath of laughter, but it comes out watery. Derek’s hand is still in his hair, warm and grounding.
“I didn’t expect it,” Spencer says, voice smaller. “I didn’t know I… I could just be in something like that. Part of something.”
Derek leans in closer, sensing the weight behind the words. “You didn’t have to prove anything, baby. You were already theirs. Hell, you’ve been mine long before you knew it.”
Spencer closes his eyes.
“That scares me,” he says. “How much I want that. How fast it all hit me.”
There’s silence for a moment. Then Derek pulls the quilt up around both of them and tucks Spencer against his chest.
“You’re not gonna lose it,” Derek says. “I know you think you will, because you’ve lost too much already. But…My family’s yours now, Spence.”
Spencer presses his face to Derek’s collarbone, breathing him in — warmth, cedar, a little of that drugstore soap he always uses on the road.
“I saw you with them,” Spencer murmurs. “You always take care of everyone.”
Derek’s arms tighten around him. “That’s not a weight, sweetheart. That’s love. I’d do it a thousand times over.”
Spencer looks up.
And Derek is right there, eyes soft in the low light, mouth parted and hands reaching up to cup his cheeks.
The kiss is slow.
Their lips melt together like they always do. Spencer could kiss this man forever and ever.
Spencer’s hand curls in the fabric of Derek’s shirt.
“Stay like this?” he whispers.
“For as long as you want,” Derek says. “Forever, if you let me.”