The day Spencer met you, he decided you were the most beautiful piece of artwork he had ever seen — and his eidetic memory and vast knowledge meant he knew a lot of beautiful artwork. But none as beautiful as you.

He had met you on a case, one of the dancers at your studio had gone missing, and he was one of the agents sent to talk to you and your peers. And it was you he’d taken a liking to. God you were perfect, and Derek had obviously realized the way he somehow stutter and blushed more around you than he did with others.

After that, when he’d asked for your number and almost tripped on his way out of the studio, the two of you went on dates. So, so many dates — Spencer learned that you were often at the studio, and you learned that he worked most of the time. That mutual understanding was something Spencer never thought he’d find as an FBI agent.

And later, you began officially dating. And then you moved in together. It had progressed fairly quickly, but it was perfect for both of you — with Spencer at work a lot, and going out of state for cases, and you at the studio a lot of the time, living together just made sense. Being able to see each other at home instead of having to plan meetups whenever you both were miraculously free.

You also tended to be taking care of each other… a lot. He got far more injuries from his job as an FBI agent than the average person, and your dancing left you bruised and in pain almost as much as him. You’d once had matching ankle sprains, which wasn’t very fun to deal with together, but you made it bearable.

Tonight is one of those nights that you’ve gotten home before Spencer, your studio bags dropping down onto the floor next to the couch just before you plopped down onto the couch yourself. Your leotard was digging into your thighs, rights far too tight to be comfortable even after hours of wearing them. The bun pulled at your scalp, bobby pins digging in, makeup and sweat making you feel gross. Your feet and knees burned, ankle aching.

But you had no energy to get up and fix those things, and your eyes drift shut.

A few hours later, you were woken up by the soft dipping of the couch cushion next to you, and suddenly long, slender fingers were pulling bobby pins out of your bun. You hum lightly in contentment.

“Morning sleepyhead,” Spencer whispers, his voice soft and caring. It pretty much always sounded like that when he was with you. “How long have you been home?”

“Mm… what time is it?” you murmur, rubbing your eyes and slowly sitting.

Spencer’s fingers stay working on your bun, lips planting a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Almost one in the morning.”

“Oh… I’ve been home a couple hours then,” you say quietly.

Eventually, your hair is falling from its bun, and his fingers thread through your hair to gently massage your scalp. “How about you go take a shower and I’ll make us some dinner?”

You nod, although the idea of getting up and doing anything sounded absolutely awful to you, and you stand up. But as you take a couple steps, a small wince forms on your face. It’s no surprise that Spencer catches it immediately.

“Woah— hey. Did you hurt yourself at rehearsal?” He asks, hands on your shoulders in an instant. “Is it your feet again? I told you you needed a break or to start wearing new toe pads, you won’t be able to walk by the time you’re 40—“