Spencer prided himself on his intellect. With an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and three PhDs by the age of 24, he had long grown used to being the smartest person in any room. It was a fact—undeniable, immutable. Until you.

From the moment you joined the BAU, everything changed. You weren’t just intelligent; you were his equal. Where Spencer dissected crime scenes with logic and mathematical precision, you unraveled minds through language, history, and philosophy. If he was an unstoppable force, you were an immovable object. Every case became a battleground, every briefing a war of intellect.

“You’re wrong,” you’d say, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“No, you’re wrong,” he’d counter, voice sharper than intended, pulse inexplicably quickening.

The team saw it—how could they not? The tension between you was thick enough to cut. Morgan would exchange knowing glances with Prentiss, while JJ and Garcia made bets on how long it would take before the inevitable happened. Even Hotch, ever composed, had once sighed in exasperation after yet another argument had derailed a meeting.

And yet, Spencer loathed you. Or, at least, he told himself he did. He hated the way you challenged him, the way your wit kept him on edge. He hated the smug satisfaction in your eyes whenever you got the upper hand. But most of all, he hated the way his mind betrayed him—how his thoughts lingered on you long after you were gone, how his breath hitched when you leaned in too close, how the fire of your rivalry felt dangerously close to something else.

Something neither of you was willing to name.