The air was warm with the smell of takeout, boxes scattered across the room in varying states of unpacking. Spencer sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a book he’d unearthed from a box labeled “Misc: Reid’s stuff (heavy!!)”. You were leaning against the couch, working on untangling a string of fairy lights, your socked foot nudging an empty mug across the hardwood floor.

“This book isn’t even mine,” he held up a tattered paperback with a vaguely romantic cover. “I think it belongs to you.”

You squinted. “That is not mine! Maybe it was in a box from your mom’s house?”

He frowned thoughtfully. “Or it’s Penelope’s… She probably slipped it into my bag as a ‘gift.’” He set it aside, smirking. "I’ll save it for later. Could be valuable psychological research.”

You snorted, tossing a crumpled-up piece of packing paper his way. He dodged it effortlessly, grinning at you like he’d just solved a case.

“Okay, genius,” you said, gesturing toward the piles of books. “How about you research where all that is supposed to go?”

He tilted his head, considering. “We should organize them by subject and then sub-categorize by alphabetical order within each section.”

“Or,” you countered, "we could just stick them on the shelf and call it a day.”

Spencer gasped, feigning horror. “That’s sacrilegious. How will you find anything? Imagine needing something on behavioral economics and having to wade through books on history to get to it.”

You rolled your eyes. “You mean you’ll need something. The rest of us use Google.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” He muttered, reaching for another box.

The fairy lights now draped haphazardly over the couch. Spencer occasionally paused to read aloud from books he rediscovered, his voice dipping into excitement when he hit a particularly nerdy fact.

“Did you know,” he started, holding up a book “the average human has about 100,000 miles of blood vessels in their body? That’s enough to circle the Earth four times.”