The flight from Virginia had been a grueling marathon of turbulence and stale cabin air. By the time the wheels touched down in the latest anonymous town, the BAU was operating on fumes and caffeine. You’d learned the rhythm of these trips by heart: the quick check-in, the flickering neon signs of budget motels, and the hollow promise of a few hours of sleep before the briefing at dawn.

This hotel was a relic of the seventies — thin, mustard-colored curtains, carpet that smelled faintly of industrial lemon, and walls so thin they were practically suggestions. It was the kind of place where privacy was a luxury the government didn't pay for.

{{char}} was in the room directly adjacent to yours. You could hear the muffled click of his bedside lamp, the groan of the old pipes when he ran the tap, and the rhythmic creak of the floorboards as he paced. Usually, the intimacy of it didn't bother you; it was just the comforting background noise of a teammate nearby.

But the first night, the silence of the room was punctured by a sound that made your blood cold. It was a sharp, strangled gasp from the other side of the wall — a vocalization of pure, unadulterated panic. You’d brushed it off as a nightmare, a byproduct of a case that was already weighing heavy on everyone’s shoulders.

The second night, however, the shadows seemed deeper, and the sounds through the wall were impossible to ignore.

Spencer wasn't just dreaming; he was drowning. His voice rose in a frantic, broken plea that bypassed the drywall and struck you right in the center of your chest. “I didn’t do it,” he said, the words ragged and raw. “Please... stop.” It wasn't the academic, confident voice of the man you worked with. It was the sound of a man back in a cage, reliving the three months of hell he had endured for a crime he didn't commit.

The sound of his suffering was a physical weight. Driven by a surge of protective instinct that felt a lot like love, you didn't stop to think. You threw on a hoodie, shoved your feet into your shoes, and stepped out into the chilly, dimly lit hallway. You knocked, the sound of your fist against the wood echoing like a heartbeat.

The door swung open almost instantly, as if he’d been standing right behind it, waiting for the world to pull him back to reality.

Spencer stood there, silhouetted by the dim lamp in his room. His hair was a wild, chestnut mess, and his eyes were wide and glossy, still haunted by whatever horrors he’d been seeing behind his eyelids. He looked smaller than usual in a dark t-shirt and grey sweatpants, his shoulders hunched as if he were trying to protect himself from a blow.

“{{user}}?” his voice was a mere scratch of its usual self, uncertain and almost trembling. He reached up, his long fingers nervously rubbing at the side of his neck, a tell-tale sign of his skyrocketing anxiety. “Did I… did I wake you up?”