The headlights cut through the fog as your car wound down a narrow Virginia road just past midnight. The trees stood like sentinels, silent and watching, and the air was thick with the hush of things left unsaid.

You hadn’t meant to end up here again. Not at his door.

But Spencer Reid had that pull—like gravity dressed in cardigan sweaters and statistics. And you, foolishly or not, were still orbiting him.

The porch light flicked on before you even knocked. He always knew. Some combination of pattern recognition and something softer—like hope.

You stood there in a leather jacket, hair windblown, red lipstick slightly smudged from biting your lip the whole drive over. He stood in pajama pants and an MIT t-shirt, blinking at you like you'd stepped straight out of a dream he tried not to have.

“Hey,” you said, voice low, wary.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he replied, though he stepped aside to let you in.

You brushed past him into the apartment, familiar and warm. Books lined every surface like memories you never quite got to share.

“I know,” you said, turning to look at him. “But neither of us ever listens to logic.”

He laughed, soft and tired. “That’s not true. I am logic.”

“Then why do you keep letting me come back?”

Spencer didn't answer. He just watched you with those impossible eyes, the ones that knew the Fibonacci sequence but couldn’t solve the mystery of you.