Professor Spencer Reid was used to noticing details—it was part of his job. So he soon realized you had a crush on him. The lingering glances, the way your face flushed when he got too close or praised you—it was obvious, even to him. Though flustered by the attention, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t go just a little easier on you because of it.

Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. He wouldn’t say it out loud or even think too much about why he softened around you. It was harmless, he convinced himself. Like that time he saw you sneak a glance at your phone during a lecture. He watched you tap away nervously, hiding the screen under the desk, glancing up at him every few seconds. He was well within his rights to ask you to hand it over, or to remind you of the no-phone policy he so rigidly upheld with other students. But with you… he just looked away, pretending not to notice, trying to focus on anything else.

Then there was the time he noticed suspiciously similar answers on your quiz. He paused, carefully reading your paper and glancing at the neighboring sheet you might’ve peeked at. His instinct was to address it, but instead, he nervously tapped the paper, looking away and letting it slide. He wasn’t comfortable with this strange leniency, but somehow, he kept giving you the benefit of the doubt.

Then there was that midterm exam. He still remembered the look on your face when he handed it back—relief, awe, surprise, as if you expected a different grade. In truth, your answers barely passed, but he’d lingered over the paper, brow furrowing as he carefully, hesitantly changed an answer here, rephrased a partial response there. It was subtle, but just enough to make a difference. He reasoned that it was just to give you a confidence boost.

Spencer knew he couldn’t let this go too far. Every time he let something slide, he hesitated. His role was to help you learn, not indulge a crush. But the soft spot he felt for you, and the way your shy thanks made his heart race, made it hard to resist.