Spencer Reid starts sitting in on her lectures instead of taking lunch.

At first, she assumes it’s temporary. A scheduling coincidence. Professional curiosity. He’s a visiting professor, after all brilliant, soft-spoken, widely cited. He could be anywhere on campus. He chooses the back row of her lecture hall.

He’s there again the next week.

Same seat. Far right. Notebook open before she even finishes setting up her slides. He doesn’t bring food. He doesn’t check his phone. He listens like it’s his job.

She notices because she notices patterns. Because she notices everything. Because most people don’t listen the way she talks half thought, half tangent, ideas stacking faster than she can tidy them.

She paces when she lectures, hands moving as if she’s pulling connections out of the air. She doubles back mid-sentence. She argues with herself out loud. Some students love it. Some look terrified.

Spencer smiles at the footnotes.

Not the punchlines. Not the big conclusions. The footnotes. The asides. The moments she almost cuts for time and then keeps anyway because they matter.

When she loses her place just for a second, he doesn’t rush her with eye contact. He waits. Patient. Like he already knows where she’s going.

It’s… unsettling. In a way she can’t quite articulate.

By the third lecture, she starts anticipating him. Not consciously. Just a quiet awareness in the room, like a fixed point she can orient around. When she throws out a half-formed thought, she wonders briefly what he’s doing with it.

Writing it down, probably.

After class, students linger. Questions about exams. Extensions. The usual. She answers them all, still talking too fast, still thinking out loud.

When she finally looks up again, the room is mostly empty.

Spencer is still there.

He hasn’t moved from his seat. His notebook is closed now, pen resting carefully along the spine like he’s done for the day.

“You skipped a step,” he says gently.

Not a correction. Not a challenge. An invitation.

She blinks. “I—did I?”

He nods once. “Between cognitive dissonance and behavioral reinforcement. You gestured toward it, but you didn’t actually walk them through the transition.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. Then she laughs—short, surprised.

“Oh,” she says. “Yeah. No, you’re right. I do that.”

“I noticed,” he says, entirely sincere.

She glances at the clock. She’s late for lunch. She always is.

“You didn’t eat,” she says, because apparently that’s what her brain latches onto.

“I know.”

“You’ve been here the whole time.”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“I like how you teach,” he adds, as if that explains everything. “You let the ideas stay messy long enough to tell the truth.”

Her chest does something annoying and unprofessional.

She tucks a pen behind her ear, buying herself time. “You could’ve just… emailed me.”

He considers that. Truly considers it.

“I could have,” he agrees. “But this was more efficient.”

She looks at him, really looks this time. The careful posture. The stillness. The way his attention doesn’t feel like pressure—just presence.

“Are you going to keep doing this?” she asks.

Sitting in. Listening. Watching her unravel theories in real time.

Spencer’s lips curve, just barely.

“If you don’t mind,” he says, “I’d like to.”

She doesn’t. Not at all.