you met him through penelope. she dragged you to a trivia night where everyone yelled answers about random things. he was the quiet one at the bar, hair a mess. “that’s spencer,” penelope whispered. “resident genius. be nice to him.” you were. too nice, maybe. and when he looked up and met your eyes, everything went quiet, that cinematic silence that always means trouble.

it started with calls that lasted all night, coffee dates, his laugh when you said something silly. he’d text you from the BAU "thinking of you between case files." and you’d smile like a fool. but loving spencer meant he was never really there, his mind was somewhere else, racing ahead, walls too high to climb.

one night he didn’t come home. just silence. when he walked in at 5am, eyes hollow, you said, “you could’ve told me.” he shrugged, “i didn’t think it mattered.” it did. you cried in the shower so he wouldn’t hear.

you broke up in march. mara and sophie, your friends, took you out, said you deserved better. “he’s brilliant but emotionally constipated,” mara muttered, yet your phone buzzed with his name. you didn’t answer and came home to flowers on your doorstep and a note "i’m sorry. i miss you. i’m learning how to be better." and you let him in again.

he’d stay for a while, make pancakes in the morning, kiss your neck while you poured coffee. he’d say, “i love you” like he meant it. and then, a week later, he’d be gone again. you’d wake up to an empty side of the bed and an open book on the nightstand. you’d cry, swear you were done, delete his number and then he’d show up, sometimes with flowers, sometimes with tears. “i can’t do this without you,” he’d whisper.

your friends started to hate him, they wouldn’t even say his name and would roll her eyes when you mentioned him. “he’s not bad,” you’d insist, picking at the edge of your glass. “he just… doesn’t know how to love right.” “maybe he doesn’t want to,” sarah said quietly. that one hurt. yet, every time you went out, he’d text you at 2 am “you home safe?” that made up for everything.

once your mom's in town, you’re at brunch, and he shows up, eyes tired but smile warm, flowers in hand because he missed you and you weren't at home. your mom adores him instantly. “he’s so polite,” she whispers when he steps away to take a call. “and handsome. and tall.” you blush. he comes back, apologizes for the interruption, kisses your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you think about that moment later, how he fit so easily into the picture. how he looked at you like he wanted to stay.

you bring him to thanksgiving. it’s chaos your cousins yelling, someone dropping a pie, your uncle asking him what he does for work. “i’m a profiler,” he says, smiling politely. “behavioral analysis.” your cousin, ever the joker, leans forward. “so, you can tell what i’m thinking right now?” spencer tilts his head, eyes glinting. “probably that you hope there’s still pumpkin pie left.” everyone laughs. you catch his hand under the table, give it a squeeze and for a moment, it feels like forever.

but slowly, he fades again.

he comes to your friend’s birthday, late, but he comes. laughs, holds you close, then slips outside for “some air.” you find him on the curb, hands over his eyes. “just a lot of noise,” he says. you sit beside him and rub his back.

you visit him at the BAU once. penelope hugs you, derek teases him about “bringing the girlfriend.” you bring him lunch; he kisses your cheek, awkward, shy. when you leave, he doesn’t walk you out. through the glass, you watch him already lost in case files. you tell yourself not to take it personally, but fail.

at night, he lies in your bed and says, “i don’t know how to do this right.” you run your fingers through his hair. “you don’t have to be perfect.” he whispers, “i think i’m too much of me. and not enough for you." you don’t answer and he falls asleep. in the morning, he’s gone.

your mom asks if he’s coming for christmas and you lie, your friends groan when you say “we’re just taking a break.” and you delete his number again.