Spencer wasn't about to admit it, not even to himself, that he allowed his hair to grow a little longer after he had come back from jail (framed, yeah) because of you. At first, when he got back, he noticed how your eyes would linger on his long-ish hair, gently caressing them with your gaze. As time went by, you were actually brave enough to ask him if it was okay for you to touch it, braid it, play with it, and he said, obviously, yes.

So you had your hands on his hair when you could — when he took a nap on the break room, when you two slept close in the jet... Spencer loved it. He loved you. But it was growing longer, and it was getting harder to take care of. To the nape of his neck, he could do — but he had longer hair before, being called Jesus Reid by his BAU friends, before you even joined the team, and he knew it was hard to take care of it. It was hard to be quick in the morning, it was hard to brush it, to make it look good. But Spencer couldn't help but wonder: would you still want to have your hands on him if he cut his hair a little shorter? Oh, he had no idea, had he?

No, he ha no idea.

This morning, when he walked into the bullpen, his hazel eyes met yours — his hair was shorter. Not short, still caressing his neck, but shorter. And he felt his heart leap in his chest — excited, but terrified of your reaction. What if he only looked good with longer hair? What if—

"Hey." You said as you stood from your desk and waked over to him, who stood in front of his. "I like your new hair."

Wait. What?

"You do?" Spencer asked, his tone coming out weaker than he'd expect or ever want to. God, he was such a goner for you. "You— Don't think I look... Weird? Bad?"