Warning: smut🔥 (finally, I know)
Word count: 2,400
It was 9:14 a.m. and you still weren't at your desk diagonal to Spencer. You'd never been in later than 9:05, and that was on a bad day. The weather wasn't bad, traffic was at its usual horribleness, your alarm had never failed to wake you up before. Spencer knew all of these things and was scrounging for any logical reason you'd be 14– now 15 minutes late. If it was bad, you would've called him, right? You're friends. He checked, no notifications. So why were you so late?
Spencer finally got too antsy and attempted to call you. It rang for thirty seconds and timed out to your voicemail. You were glued to your phone, there was no way you wouldn't have seen him calling. He swiveled in his chair to look up at Hotch in his office through the slitted blinds. He wanted to check in and see if you had called in sick or something, but didn't want to subsequently rat out your tardiness if you hadn't.
He pushed himself up and briskly walked to Hotch's office, giving the door a soft knock, still watching the elevator for you to arrive any second. He poked his head through, greated by Hotch glancing up from his computer.
"Hey, um, has (Y/L/N) called you?"
Hotch peered through the window towards your empty desk. The office phone had no missed calls or voicemails displayed. He pulled out his cell, seeing that it was now 9:20 and he had no messages. "No. You haven't heard from her either?"
Spencer worriedly nodded, fiddling with his sleeves. "She didn't answer just now."
Hotch stared for a moment, picking up on Spencer's obvious worry. He gave you a quick call on his cell too for good measure—no answer. "That's very unlike her. If you don't mind, drive out to her apartment. Update me."
Spencer nodded again and hurriedly scooped up his bag on his way out. Your apartment was fifteen minutes away. He managed to get there in ten.
Throwing his car into park and twisting the key to kill the engine, Spencer noticed your car still in the parking lot. He didn't know if that made him more or less anxious. He hopped out and made his way to the third floor, out of breath after jogging up the flight of stairs. He scanned the small signs on the wall and numbers on the doors. Apartment 3104.
"(Y/N)?" he called, knocking loud enough to wake you up if you'd been asleep. He waited, but no response. Jiggling the doorknob, he felt a small wave relief in the fact that it was locked, only to be interrupted by thoughts of other possible events. He fished out an emergency key you gave everyone on the team, swearing you would have their necks if they dared to kick down your door in any situation because you wanted your deposit back. Spencer took a step forward, hand hovering on the gun nestled against his hip.
He peaked around every corner as he made his way to your bedroom. Knocking on the cracked door, he repeated your name. No response. He pushed it forward. The lights were on, bed empty and unmade. His eyes followed the light flowing in from the ensuite bathroom doorway. He carefully stepped towards it, taking in his surroundings. Nothing looked particularly out of place. Humid air brushed against his face.
He called out again, no response. So he pushed the door, peering inward. And that is where he found you, on the floor of your shower, slumped against the wall. He hurriedly crossed the small room to swing the shower door open, plucking the towel off of the rack. Your skin was still flushed, though the water was off. He placed the towel on you as his slid one hand under the back of your head, and the other on your cheek.
A breath escaped your lips in a slight groan, and Spencer finally took a breath of his own. It came out more as a gasp, and he felt his legs grow weak.
