A Sip Before Sunrise // Spencer Reid Fanfiction

Flicker of Trust

The neon sign hums softly outside, casting that familiar pinkish glow across the rain-slicked streets. Upstairs, I wake in my tiny apartment above Ava's corner—the city's quiet hours filtering in through my cracked window. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, tug on my paint-splattered overalls, and tuck a stray brush through my hair in a not in lack of hair ties, before heading downstairs.

The metal stairs creak beneath my feet as I make my way behind the counter, fingers brushing the cool steel railing. Even before I reach the floor, the rich smell of fresh coffee hits me—comfort in a cup. The café is still dark, except for the neon sign and the soft amber light I flick on behind the counter.

I pull up the metal shutter on the front window, arrange pastries on a chipped plate by the register, and get the shop ready for the night. Paint flecks—blue and ochre—cling to my hands, a stubborn reminder that I'm always halfway between art and caffeine.

The bell jingles, and in walks Mr. Whitaker, his cane tapping gently as he settles into his usual corner. His scarf flutters in the cold air.

"Hey, Mr. W," I say, wiping my hands on my apron.

"Evening, Ava," he replies. "The usual?"

"Of course." I smile. Can't imagine starting the night without him.

Before I can pour his coffee, the door bursts open again. Wheels clatter on the tile floor—Sarah, the teenage girl with wild curls and that worn hoodie, skates in like she owns the place. She grins, breath fogging the cold air.

"Still open, Ava? I need a double shot espresso to survive group."

This is her third group home this year.

I laugh and start making their drinks. We fill the tiny café with soft chatter and warmth, a small refuge from the rain outside.

But as midnight creeps closer, the voices fade. Mr. Whitaker checks his watch, Sarah slips off her skates, and they both disappear into the wet streets with quick goodnights. The shop falls quiet, leaving only the neon's soft glow humming above me.

I stay behind the counter, the amber light catching the paint on my hands. I cradle a warm mug, the rich coffee scent mixing with the faint smell of turpentine still clinging to my skin.

Then the bell rings again.

A tall man steps inside, wrapped in a heavy coat. His eyes scan the empty café before landing on me.

"Are you still open?" His voice is low and tired.

I don't look up. "I don't sleep well. So, yes."

He orders a black coffee. I pour it, then finally meet his gaze. There's exhaustion etched in the sharp lines of his face, a weight I recognize even if I don't know him.

He takes the cup and moves to a small table by the window, staring out at the rain like he's trying to make sense of something beyond these walls.

I watch him from behind my sketchbook, pencil moving without thought—tracing the curve of his jaw, the way his fingers curl around the mug, the tension in his shoulders that doesn't fade in the dim light.

He doesn't notice.

Outside, the city holds its breath beneath the rain, the neon sign flickers softly, and here I am—an artist sketching a stranger who's already starting to feel like something more.

The rain taps a steady rhythm against the window, a kind of soundtrack I've come to rely on when the world feels too loud. I tuck my pencil behind my ear and set the sketchbook down for a moment, watching the man trace invisible patterns on the glass with his finger. His eyes are distant, heavy—like he's carrying more than just the night's weariness.

I wipe my hands on my apron again, glancing around the shop. Empty. Silent. Except for the soft hum of the neon sign and the steady drip from the leaky faucet in the back.

"Coffee's on me," I say, surprising myself more than him. His head snaps up, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he nods slowly.

"You don't have to," he murmurs.

"I do," I reply softly. "Sometimes a stranger's company is the only thing that keeps the night from swallowing you whole."

He studies me for a moment, like he's trying to decide if I'm a threat or a friend. Then he takes a slow sip of the coffee, his eyes closing briefly as the warmth spreads.

"You're not like anyone I know," he says finally, voice low.

"That's probably a good thing," I say with a small smile.

"So," I say, leaning a little closer. "What brings you here so late? Besides the insomnia."

He hesitates, then meets my gaze with something raw and unguarded.

"Sometimes the night's the only time the pieces make sense," he admits. "When the noise fades, and the chaos slows down, I can finally think."

I nod. "I get that. The quiet can be loud sometimes."

For the first time, a real smile brushes his lips. It's small, but it reaches his eyes.