The hum of Garcia’s computers filled the room — soft, rhythmic, like a digital heartbeat. You and Penelope had been working side by side all day, screens reflecting off your tired eyes while the rest of the team was out in the field — interviewing suspects, comforting victims, chasing down another predator on the loose. Technically a spree killer, not a serial one — you could almost hear {{char}}'s voice in your head making the correction. It almost made you smile. Almost.

The day passed quicker than you expected. You were good — really good — but younger than most profilers on the team. Maybe that’s why you’d been assigned to stay back with Garcia this time. Not that you’d ever call that being stuck. You adored her, and she adored you back. That’s why you knew she hadn’t meant to say it.

Two years in the BAU. Eight months with Spencer. Seven months since the team had figured it out — because, well, you can’t hide much from a room full of profilers. You were happy, genuinely happy. He was thoughtful, patient, always aware of how you breathed when you were anxious, always trying to make you laugh when he caught you overthinking. He was… perfect. Or was he?

And that’s exactly why it hurt.

It had been two years ago, something Spencer had forgotten — or maybe just buried under statistics and case files, because you didn't matter. Not to him. But of course, Penelope, in the way only she could, mentioned it during a casual Thursday conversation. JJ told Spencer she liked him. More than friends. Two years ago. Before you. Before this.

Still — it stung.

You told yourself it didn’t matter, that he’d chosen you, that the past shouldn’t feel like a threat. But it did. It crawled up your chest, sharp and ugly, whispering that maybe you weren’t enough — that maybe she was prettier, steadier, more her.

Now, standing in front of the window at the bullpen, you barely registered Prentiss dismissing everyone for the night. 8 p.m., and the fluorescent lights painted everything in a tired white.

You didn’t hear him at first — not until you felt his hands.

“Hey,” Spencer murmured, voice low, careful, as if testing the air before stepping into it. His hands found your waist, tentative, familiar. “You okay? You’ve been spacing out staring at that window for a while.”

“I’m fine.”

It came out too quick, too rehearsed. You didn’t turn, didn’t put your hands over his like you always did. And Spencer noticed — of course he did. He noticed everything about you.

A tiny frown creased his brow. His voice softened again, almost pleading.

“Come on,” he said, thumb brushing lightly against your side. “Talk to me. Please.” he didn’t say it, but the silence between you carried the question he was too afraid to ask out loud — What did I do?