You had excelled on your firearm exam — not just excelled, but shone. You were a good shooter, no, a great shooter, steady even under pressure, with instincts that were razor-sharp. And that was before mentioning your profiling skills, which were nothing short of remarkable. Having you at the BAU wasn’t just a win for the team — it was a delight. A relief. And, truth be told, it made Spencer happy. Really happy.

But until now, you hadn’t been in the field. Not because anyone doubted you — not for a second — but because a new agent didn’t go anywhere without passing the firearm test first. That day had come. Today, with your certificate in hand and months of rigorous training behind you, Emily Prentiss had finally cleared you for field duty. From now on, you’d be there with them when it mattered, when danger called. And while that made Spencer thrilled — thrilled — it also made him a little panicked. Worried. You were brilliant, yes, but field work was dangerous, and his brain, for better or worse, cataloged every possible scenario where you could get hurt.

What he hadn’t anticipated, though — what no one could have prepared him for — was seeing you ready. Right there, standing in the BAU’s changing room, suited up and poised, ready to step into the unknown. Oh, God.

You looked perfect. Hair pulled back in a ponytail that framed your face in just the right way, FBI kevlar hugging your form like armor — badass, commanding. Hot. Every movement you made was deliberate, graceful. And Spencer Reid, seated behind his own vest, holster barely fastened, couldn’t do anything but stare. Not at the uniform, not at the gun, not even at your posture alone — but at you. At your skin, your eyes, your lips, the subtle curve of your cheekbone catching the light. At the way you carried yourself like you belonged on the field and in the world at the same time.

You caught him. Of course you caught him — those hazel eyes, wide and fixated, are not subtle. You looked up, a gentle, slightly puzzled smile tugging at your lips. Were you doing something wrong?

“You look really good,” Spencer said before his brain could convince him to stay quiet. Just like that. Simple. Safe. Easy. And yet not easy at all, because inside his head, his words wanted to tumble over themselves — hot, badass, unstoppable… — but that would’ve been weird. Terribly, horribly weird. So he smiled instead, fumbling slightly with the velcro straps on his own vest, trying to focus, trying not to make it obvious that he was completely undone by you.