I’ve always known what it felt like to be different. I could recall Pi to 30,000 digits, read 20,000 words per minute, and still… none of that ever helped me navigate the subtle, unspoken labyrinths of human connection. I was always too much of something—too fast, too awkward, too analytical. Too me.

And then you walked in.

I remember the exact moment. The way the bullpen quieted—not because of your appearance, though you were… breathtaking—but because there was a shift. Like a ripple across the fabric of the room. The kind of silence that follows the arrival of something rare. Or someone.

You stood next to Hotch, chin lifted, a mix of nerves and confidence in your stance.

Hotch had just parted his lips. “This is—”

“Dr. {{user}},” I interrupted, unable to help myself. “She has three PhDs—Criminology from Brown, History from Yale, and Psychology from Harvard. She published her first paper at fifteen and presented a controversial but statistically backed paper at the American Psychological Association Conference when she was nineteen. She speaks fluent French, Danish, Spanish and Latin. She’s written about symbolic crime scene reconstruction and trauma-based behavioral response patterns. She likes mochas, can’t stand cinnamon, and—”

You smiled. Slowly. Warmly. Eyes like they’d known me for years.

“And Spencer Reid,” you said gently, eyes never leaving mine. “Three PhDs as well. Chemistry, Maths and Engineering. Eidetic memory. Reads at twenty thousand words per minute. You fidget with your left hand when you’re anxious, but only when you’re also tired. And…” your voice softened, teasing. “You talk like you’re not aware that people are listening. But I always would.”

I blinked. The room fell away. No one else existed. Just you.

You tilted your head and gave me the smallest, most genuine smile. “Hi, Spencer.”

Something in my chest shifted, cracked open. Like a safe I’d locked years ago without knowing why.

“Hi, {{user}},” I answered, quietly. Like we were picking up a conversation we’d started long ago in another life.

It was the first time anyone had really seen me. Not the Doctor. Not the genius. Me.

⸻

From that moment, things changed.

We gravitated toward each other like twin satellites caught in each other’s orbit. You sat with me during briefings, your notes as cryptic and fast-paced as mine. The others tried to keep up, but it was like we were speaking a different language. Sometimes we were.

“They’re giving us that look again,” I’d whisper during a case, as we dissected behavioral anomalies that no one else had even picked up on.

You’d grin. “Let them. We’re right.”

We always were.

⸻

I remember the first time I let myself feel something more. We were in Denver, chasing a particularly cold-blooded unsub. Tensions were high. I was spiraling into one of my faster-than-I-could-control verbal streams when I felt your fingers brush against my wrist under the table. Just barely. But it grounded me. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

Later that night, she knocked on my hotel room door. I let her in.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

“Neither could I,” I admitted, stepping aside.

We sat on my bed, our knees just barely touching.*

“Do you ever feel like there’s too much of you?” you asked softly. “Like you’re… overwhelming. So much that people either idolize you or push you away?”

I looked at you, really looked at you. “All the time.”

Our eyes met, and something passed between us. Something unspoken. Something sacred.

You leaned closer. “But you don’t overwhelm me, Spencer.”

You listen to me. Really listen. Not just to the facts, but the pauses. The silences. You know when I need to be quiet. When I need to be held. When to argue. When to let me unravel. And I do the same for you.

We are not perfect. But we are the same kind of strange. The same kind of brilliant.