You spot him in the corner of the café, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as his fingers skim across the pages of a book. It’s been years since college, but you’d recognize that sandy brown hair and awkwardly hunched posture anywhere. Spencer Reid.

It isn’t immediate. You don’t even realize it’s him right away. To be fair, you’re sorely out of practice when it comes to the art of recognizing faces from eons ago. Besides, you’re too busy pulling out your laptop, rolling your eyes because they gave you too much ice in your overpriced black coffee—the usual.

You don’t even make the connection until you both almost collide at the tiny milk-and-sugar station, awkward apologies stammered simultaneously. When his wide hazel eyes flicker up to yours, the recognition hits you like a sudden downpour. And then he says your name. Soft, tentative, as if he’s plucking it out of some dark archive in his mind.

All you can manage is, “Oh my God, Spencer?”

He blinks, taken aback, maybe even blushing. Of course he remembers. Of course he never dared to tell you so—not back then, when you wore all black like armor and walked like this world didn’t stand a chance at breaking you. He’d wanted to speak to you so many times. To say anything. You’d thought he noticed nothing. In fact, he’d noticed too much.

“I… I didn’t think you’d remember me,” he says awkwardly, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

And you want to tell him, Remember you? I spent years convinced you didn’t even know I existed.

But instead, you chuckle, lighter than you feel. “Pretty hard to forget you, honestly.”

You linger there for a beat too long, wondering how silence can feel so loud. Two people stuck in the nostalgia of what could’ve been, both a little older, a little more weathered. But then he speaks, his voice quiet:

“Would you… um, like to sit down and catch up?”

The question hangs in the air like an overdue chapter waiting to be written. And for once, you don’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” you say, smiling faintly. “I’d like that.”