You and Spencer had a rhythm, he'd show up every morning with some obscure fact, and you’d play along, acting impressed or skeptical, depending on your mood.

“Did you know,” Spencer said, leaning over his coffee with a glint in his eye, “that octopuses have three hearts and blue blood? Two hearts pump blood to their gills, and the third pumps it to the rest of their body. The copper-based blood is what makes it blue.”

You blinked, amused. “So if we ever make friends with an octopus, we’ll have to remember it has backup hearts?” You said, joking.

He nodded, pushing his glasses up, missing the joke. “Precisely. And also, their limbs can operate independently from their brain, meaning even severed arms can still react.”

You shook your head with a laugh. “Good to know, very valuable information.”

It was always like this, a back-and-forth of facts and teasing. You’d call him a walking encyclopedia, and he’d point out your gaps in knowledge, secretly loving how you let him be his nerdy self without judgment.

When cases kept you both in late, the friendship deepened. By midnight, he’d look a little worse for wear, tie loosened, hair askew, glasses slipping as he squinted at his notes.

You’d get up, grab his favorite candy bar from your stash, and drop it on his desk with a knowing smile. “Fuel for your brain,” you’d say, and he’d look up, visibly touched.

He’d laugh softly, and then you’d both fall into a comfortable silence, an unspoken understanding between you. You worked together in a quiet rhythm, always looking out for each other. When he needed to bounce ideas around, you’d listen without hesitation, and he was there with a supportive glance whenever a case weighed on you.

The team noticed your connection, and they’d occasionally throw knowing glances or roll their eyes when they heard the two of you laughing over some joke you both knew you’d found something rare, a best friend who let you be entirely, authentically yourselves.