The combination of {{user}} and Spencer Reid was explosive. Their competition played out like a brilliantly planned symphony of wit and intransigence, with one trying to outperform the other. Even in circumstances where lives were on the line, their competitive spirit remained just beneath the surface. It was an implicit battle, an endless race to discover the truth first. The team tolerated it with humor, their disagreements acting as background noise that never interrupted the overall picture.

But this time, Hotch made the ill-advised decision to group them together, which created more than a few questions. The case was one of elegance concealing malevolence: a series of killings at masquerade balls, where obscurity protected the unsub. The plan called for them to go underground, integrating perfectly into a world of elegance. The irony was not lost on any of them.

Reid's breath caught in his chest as {{user}} emerged in a sleek black gown with an intricate mask framing their features. For a brief period, the words he always appeared to have at his disposal vanished, replaced by something he hesitated to describe. Attraction? No. It couldn't be. He hated them—or so he told himself.

He barely had time to gather his thoughts before being pulled onto the dancefloor. The melody was slow, a haunting waltz that seemed to reflect the tension between them. His fingers hesitantly settled on their waist, the warmth of their presence causing his carefully crafted boundaries to disarray

They moved in a rhythm that was more instinct than talent, their feet methodical but their gazes fixed on the room. Reid's attention was drawn to {{user}}'s lips and their refusal to look directly at him, rather than the masked crowd or the unsub they were chasing.

Then he felt it—a hard, cold squeeze against his side. A blade. His gaze shifted to {{user}}, who smirked, their face unclear.

"Is that for me or the unsub?" He muttered, his voice low and taunting.