Jail Bird

Stephie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer pulls back just enough to look at me, his pupils blown wide with desire. "Are you sure?" he asks, his voice rough and strained. He's always careful, always thinking about me first, even when every fiber of his being is telling him to lose control.

I nod, my voice barely a whisper. "I'm sure."

That's all the confirmation he needs. He kisses me again, harder this time, with a passion that makes my head spin. His hands roam my body, finding every sensitive spot that sends sparks shooting through me. I moan into his mouth, feeling the tension between us grow with every touch, every kiss.

I tug at his shirt, wanting to feel his skin, to erase the last few inches of space between us. He pulls it off in one fluid motion, his chest now bare against mine. The heat of his body is intoxicating, and I press myself into him, letting the warmth of his skin seep into mine.

His hands explore my body with a new kind of urgency, fingers tracing the curve of my hips, the swell of my breasts, lingering on the small bump that marks the life we're creating together. There's something raw and tender in the way he touches me, as though he's both claiming me and cherishing me all at once.

I gasp as his lips leave mine, trailing down the side of my neck, then lower, sending a thrill of electricity through me. Every kiss feels like a promise—of love, of devotion, of everything we've fought to hold on to. My body responds to him instinctively, arching and shifting under his touch, my breath coming faster as the tension coils tight in my core.

His hands slide beneath the waistband of my leggings, fingers teasing just enough to make me squirm beneath him. "Spence," I breathe, my voice coming out as more of a plea than I intended. I need him—desperately, fully.

The moment is interrupted by a knock on the door. You've got to be kidding me.

Both of us tense, exchanging a glance. We weren't expecting anyone. Spencer stands, throwing his shirt back on and moving cautiously toward the door, and I instinctively reach for the pillow beside me, holding it against my body as if that could somehow make me look less like I was about I have sex. And believe me I am pissed at whoever's at the door right now.

When Spencer opens the door, Hotch steps inside, his expression grim. He nods to me but focuses on Spencer. "We need to talk."

I sit up straighter, my pulse quickening. Whatever this is, it's not good. Hotch doesn't come to us unless it's serious, and by the look on his face, it's more than just a routine update.

"What's going on?" Spencer asks, his voice sharp with worry. He steps aside to let Hotch in, but his body remains stiff, his posture protective.

Hotch glances at me, then back at Spencer. "Cat Adams escaped custody last night."

The words hit like a physical blow, sucking the air from the room. My mind immediately races, and I feel the familiar panic building in my chest. Cat Adams—the woman who had almost outsmarted Spencer, the woman who had a gun to his head far more than I'd like.

Spencer's face goes pale, and for a moment, he looks like he might pass out. But then he straightens, jaw clenched, as though bracing himself for the inevitable. "How?" he demands, his voice barely above a whisper. "How did this happen?"

"We don't know all the details yet," Hotch replies, his tone steady but grim. "But what we do know is that she's already made contact with some of her old associates. We believe she's planning to come after you both, especially Stephie."

I feel my stomach drop, and suddenly the baby inside me feels like a fragile glass figurine, something that could be shattered at any moment. "Why me?" I ask, my voice shaking despite my effort to keep calm.

Hotch's eyes meet mine, full of unspoken understanding. "Because she wants Spencer. And she sees you as the obstacle."

The room falls silent again, the weight of the situation pressing down on us. I feel Spencer's hand on my shoulder, steady but trembling.

Hotch nods, but his expression is still dark. "I'd like for you both to pack a small bag and come to the office. She's unpredictable, and we can't take any chances."

I manage a nod, though my mind is spinning with possibilities, none of them good. What if she found us before the Hotch did? What if she took Spencer again? What if she hurt him—hurt the baby?

Spencer sits beside me, taking my hand in his. "It's gonna be okay," he whispers, but it feels more like he's trying to convince himself than me.

Hotch stays for a few more minutes, going over the details of the security plan. He reassures us that the team is doing everything possible to track Cat down, but I can't shake the feeling of dread that settles deep in my bones.

The gravity of Hotch's words settles heavily in the room. Spencer grips my hand so tightly I can feel his pulse through his fingertips. I squeeze back, needing the contact, needing to ground myself. But inside, I'm reeling. Cat Adams isn't just any criminal—she's relentless, manipulative, and, worst of all, obsessed with Spencer. And now she's free.

I glance at Spencer, his face pale but composed, his mind clearly racing a mile a minute. He's been through so much, and now this. I hate that he always seems to be in the crosshairs of someone dangerous, that our lives are never truly our own.

"We need to go," Hotch says, breaking the silence. "We've already increased security at the office, and we'll have a team stationed outside your apartment. But I don't want either of you staying here tonight. It's too risky."

Spencer nods, his eyes flickering to me. "Let's pack," he says, his voice tight, but steady. He pulls me gently to my feet, keeping one hand on my lower back as if afraid that if he lets go, I might disappear.

We make our way to the bedroom, the weight of the situation pressing down with every step. I grab a small duffel bag from the closet, and we start throwing in essentials—clothes, toiletries, my prenatal vitamins. My hands are shaking, but I focus on the task at hand, pushing down the rising tide of fear. I can't let myself spiral right now.

Spencer is silent as he packs, but I can feel the tension radiating off him. He moves with mechanical precision, folding his clothes, zipping the bag, like he's on autopilot. I know what's going through his mind—he's blaming himself. He always does. He thinks he should have seen this coming, should have found a way to prevent it.

I walk over to him, placing a hand on his arm. "Hey," I say softly, forcing him to stop and look at me. His eyes are stormy, dark with worry. "We'll get through this. We always do."

He swallows hard, his jaw clenching. "This is my fault, Stephie. She wouldn't be after you if it wasn't for me."

I shake my head, stepping closer to him. "No. This isn't your fault. This is Cat. She's twisted, Spencer. She's dangerous, and none of this is because of anything you did."

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated, but I can see that he's trying to hold it together for me, for the baby. He finally exhales, pulling me into a tight embrace. "I'm just so scared of losing you," he whispers into my hair, his voice breaking. "She's unpredictable. And..."

His words send a shiver down my spine, but I hold him tighter. I refuse to let Cat win. I refuse to let her take anything else from us. "She won't," I say firmly, though my voice wavers. I'm not sure what i'm saying she won't do, she won't what? I don't know, but i repeat it anyway. "She won't, Spence."

We finish packing in silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts, the tension thick between us. Once we're done, we return to the living room where Hotch is waiting. His eyes flick to the bags we're carrying, then back to our faces. "Good," he says, his voice steady but grim. "We've got a car waiting outside. Let's get you both to safety."

As we follow Hotch out the door, I can't help but feel a sense of finality, like this is just the beginning of something terrible. My mind keeps circling back to the baby, to the fragile life growing inside me. I instinctively place a hand on my belly, a protective gesture, but it does little to ease the fear gnawing at my insides.

We step into the hallway, and Spencer's hand slips into mine again, warm and reassuring. I glance up at him, and for a moment, our eyes lock, and I know we're thinking the same thing: We've been through hell before, and we've survived. But this—this feels different. Cat is out there, and she won't stop until she gets what she wants.

And right now, she wants us.

As we make our way to the car, I catch one last glimpse of our apartment—our home—and wonder when, or if, we'll be able to return. The door closes behind us with a quiet thud, sealing in the memories, the hopes, the plans for the future we thought we had.

Spencer pulls me closer, his arm around my waist as we walk. "We'll be okay," he whispers, as though saying it out loud will make it true.

But as the car pulls away from the curb, I can't shake the lingering thought: Cat Adams doesn't lose.

————————AN: who's ready for this plot twist next chapter!!!