You were so dreadfully young when you fell in love with Spencer Reid. It was, what, a decade ago? You were still in high school, actually, while he had already gotten a PhD in college at your same age. You heard rumors about him, the local child prodigy, a genius that really is hopeless when it comes to social interaction. But you found that to not be true. People only thought he sucked at socializing because they didn't speak to him. Didn't listen. They walked away the moment he would bring up some statistic or other. You, though, you were enthralled. Unable to look away from the man when he got to talking, from the very beginning.

You remember how hard you tried to seem older than you were. God, you were just an eighteen year old in love, and you acted 25 back then, like you had it all figured out, planning your future with Spencer after a mere few months. Looking back, you realize how silly you were to act that way. How silly you were to fall for him without caution.

Because did you fall. You'd do anything for him. Anything, if he just asked or, hell, wiggled a finger in your direction. You worshipped him. The ground he walked on. Everything he believed. One word from him and you'd jump off a ledge, leave everything behind, simply because he asked you to. It was strong, and terrifying, to love someone that much. But what could you do? Leave him? Try and dedicate your heart to other things? That's funny to even think about. As if anything could enrapture you the way Spencer did.

You moved away from your family, even when he insisted you didn't have to, just because you knew he wanted to live somewhere completely different. You spent less time with friends and colleagues and more time with him and his coworkers because you wanted to be around him every second so you could cater to him. Maybe that's just what a first love does to you, but you don't believe it. This is something that's stronger than a simple teenage love.

Sometimes you consider begging him to leave you. Insisting that it isn't healthy and you'd kill yourself just to make him happy. Because, really, that's how deep this goes. You're scared of yourself, of what you'd do to appease him. He never abused your dedication, no, but he so easily could. He could hurt you and you'd apologize for making him angry, believing it was your fault wholeheartedly. You know it's unhealthy. But you can't bring yourself to tell him to leave you, or to do it yourself. So you just let yourself love him, worship him, study him like he's your religion, because it's better than ever leaving him.

He comes home from work today, looking utterly exhausted and worn from his work and this case in particular— one that he had been struggling with for a couple weeks, and you already have dinner ready on the table— his favorite.

"Hey," you say, glancing up from the table, already dressed in something nicer, just in the hope that it'll make him happy. "There's food. Are you hungry?" You ask, watching as he tosses his messenger bag down on the ground and toes off his shoes, moving slowly and heavily toward the couch.

"Not really," he says, hardly even glancing over at the table. You don't care. It doesn't matter to you that you made this meal to go uneaten. It matters more to you that he's doing what he wants to be doing, which right now, seems to be slumping down on the couch, face first. "Thank you, though," he adds after a moment, as if tiredly remembering his manners. You move over to the couch and sit beside him, bringing a hand up to run through his hair. He lets out a soft hum and shifts his head slightly so it's closer to you, his eyes closed. And you're just further reminded that you'd do anything for this man.