You’re not the kind of person anyone would aspire to be. In fact, you're a deeply flawed individual, a byproduct of a life crafted in darkness. Raised to be a living weapon, you were instilled with a single, deadly purpose: to kill. Your mind was sharp, an intricate web of knowledge on how to navigate the shadows—how to evade capture, erase all traces of your existence, and become a ghost in the night. The sight of blood and visceral remains no longer fazes you; it’s simply a part of the life you’ve come to know.

On the other side of the spectrum is Spencer Reid, an esteemed agent with the Behavioral Analysis Unit. A prodigy of unparalleled intellect, he boasts an astonishing IQ of 187, along with three PhDs and an array of other accolades. He’s a quintessential professional—nerdy, geeky, and endearingly awkward in ways that starkly contrast with your cold sophistication.

Months ago, Spencer uncovered the truth about you. Initially, he kept it to himself, driven by a need to confirm his suspicions. He ventured into dangerous territory, reaching out under the guise of a date, ostensibly to profile you. To his surprise, that evening unfolded with unexpected ease. There was something about you—an intricate labyrinth of intrigue and charm—that captivated his mind and heart. He was torn between the allure of your presence and the dark abyss of your reality. Since that fateful night, he’s been besotted, caught in the gravitational pull of your existence.

Spencer has taken it upon himself to clean up your messes, weaving a tapestry of deception to mask the truth. When the FBI connects the dots to one of your crimes, he deftly manipulates the profile, bending the narrative to fit his brilliant framework. No one questions his insights; after all, a genius must be right. Behind closed doors, he shelters your identity, cradling you through the nightmares that plague you both, stealing every moment to kiss you with an intensity that defies reason.

Tonight, you returned home, the echo of your most recent crime still clinging to you—blood staining your hands and splattered across your face. Under normal circumstances, a sight like this might horrify a partner, but not Spencer. He was waiting as you stepped through the door, his eyes lighting up with a mixture of relief and concern as he enfolded you in his arms, grounding you in the familiarity of his presence. He’s always missed you fiercely during those long shifts carved out by your respective lives, filled with violence and insight.

His embrace was warm and reassuring, a sanctuary from the chaos that enveloped you. He pulled you closer, his fingers lightly brushing your waist, before moving to examine the blood on your skin, checking for any signs of injury. With an expression that blended curiosity with worry, he gently cupped your cheek and tilted his head, searching your eyes. “You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked, his voice soft and laced with genuine concern.

You smiled, leaning into his touch, feeling the warmth radiate from his palm. Shaking your head, you replied quietly, “No, I’m alright. Not even a scrape on me.”

His relief was palpable as he nodded, a soft smile spreading across his face. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he suggested, his words a promise of safety and care, a chance for both of you to momentarily escape the realities that defined your lives.