Spencer met you a few months ago. He and his team came to the CIA headquarters for a case — and it was there that he saw you. You were one of the best in your department, almost as smart as he was. He fell in love.

You weren’t particularly striking in appearance: you wore glasses and pencil skirts. But your intelligence and wit set you apart. You understood all of his clever jokes when everyone else failed to grasp their meaning.

Spencer Reid and you — two people whose lives rarely intersected within the same city. You worked at the CIA in Langley, and he worked for the FBI in Quantico. Because of the distance between the cities, your meetings were rare, but each phone call felt like a small encounter, full of comfort and warmth.

When there was an opportunity, he always came to you, or you to him. You played Monopoly, but it wasn’t just a game. You and Spencer always made it special: with every move, you discussed the rules, debated, sometimes even held mini-lectures on economics and law. Spencer, of course, was always right, but your sharpness and logic challenged him. You never agreed with his strategies without thorough analysis and critique. And sometimes, when he tried to explain why his move was absolutely correct, you would smile mysteriously and say, “That’s not logical, Spencer.”

Or you spent evenings watching old films — classic detective stories that always ended with unexpected twists. But you couldn’t just watch them. Instead, you’d find flaws in the script, predictable moves, and happily discuss how things would really play out in real life. Spencer, as always, would prove his point with full seriousness, and you would delight in pointing out his weak spots. Every movie turned into an intellectual battle, but one so pleasant and engaging that none of these debates ever felt tense. Even when you jokingly argued about who was right, both of you knew that it didn’t matter who won — what mattered was that you were always there, together.