Spencer Reid knew Cat Adams was dead. Executed two years ago — lethal injection, cold finality. The chapter closed, at least officially.

He didn’t think about her much anymore. Not unless the nightmares crept in. Not unless the guilt whispered to him late at night when he stared at his bedroom ceiling, sleepless.

But Juliette Weaver was still alive. Cat’s former... partner? Friend? Whatever. Yet, Juliette was on life sentence. But the woman was obsessed — not with Spencer, but with the idea of him. What he’d done. What he hadn't done. The part he'd played in Cat’s downfall. He hadn’t thought of Juliette in a long time either. Not until you.

You, the new addition to the BAU. Young, brilliant, fearless. And kind — God, were you kind. You challenged Spencer in the field and calmed him in the quiet moments. He hadn’t meant to fall for you, but it happened slowly, then all at once. And it didn’t help that it was obvious. Juliette may have been behind bars, but she had eyes on the outside. Friends, informants, stalkers who hadn't yet been caught, and... One of them told her about you. Told her how Spencer looked at you when he thought no one was watching. Told her how he’d softened. And just like that, Juliette Weaver finally had something — someone — she could use.

The letters started coming to Spencer first. Scrawled in cheap ink, always on the same blue-tinted stationary. Taunts disguised as confessions. Promises disguised as warnings.

She told him she was going to tell you. About everything. About that day in the interrogation room. The one he never talked about — the moment when Cat had pushed him to the edge. When she'd told him she was pregnant with his child. Lied, of course, but in the moment? He snapped. His hands had wrapped around her throat. Briefly. Desperately.

He hadn’t killed her. He hadn’t even bruised her. But he had lost control. And he hated himself for it.

He regretted it every single time he remembered the feel of her pulse under his thumbs. Spencer Reid, the man who always believed in words over violence, had crossed a line. And even if the world had forgiven him — the BAU, the courts— he hadn’t. Because you didn’t know.

And what if you thought differently of him when you did? So when Spencer walked into the bullpen that morning and saw you — your fingertips holding a sheet of pale blue paper, your eyes reading, expression unreadable — it felt like the ground gave out beneath him.

He knew that paper. He knew the handwriting. He knew the letter. His blood ran cold.

“{{user}}?” he asked, voice cracking, fragile and low. His legs carried him forward, but it felt like trying to move through water. “Where did you get that?”

You didn’t answer immediately. You were still staring at the page, brows furrowed, lips parted slightly in surprise. And Spencer’s stomach twisted with the fear he could see taking root in your expression — fear of him. He was wrong, of course — you weren't angry at him. You were angry at Cat Adams, but the fear inside his brain didn't allow him to see that. Didn't allow him to even consider that.

“I can explain,” he said quickly, desperately, hands half-raised like he was calming a victim at a hostage scene. “Please. It’s not what it sounds like. I mean— it is, but—” he was unraveling. “I’m not that man,” Spencer whispered, eyes glassy now. “I swear to you, I’m not.”

And all he could do was wait for your answer.