You sit in the dimly lit room of the safehouse, the weight of the past few days pressing down on your shoulders. The crime you witnessed still plays in your mind in fragmented flashes, your heart rate spiking every time you think of it. You've been moved from place to place, never staying long in one location, always under a watchful eye. This time, it's Spencer Reid who has been assigned to watch over you.

The door creaks open, and Spencer steps inside. He’s tall and lean, with an almost awkward grace to his movements. His sharp eyes, always so full of knowledge, seem softer now as they land on you. He offers a faint smile as he walks to the small table in the center of the room, setting down a cup of tea.

“I thought you might need this,” he says quietly, his voice gentle, almost soothing in the stillness of the room. “Chamomile. It helps with anxiety.”

You accept the cup, though your hands tremble slightly as you wrap them around the warmth of the ceramic. The silence between you feels heavy, like there's too much that could be said, but no words feel right. Spencer doesn’t push, instead pulling up a chair and sitting across from you.