You were just doing your job.

You had de-escalated the situation — calmly, thoroughly, with precision that didn’t come from luck or instinct, but from years of training and the sharp intuition only a BAU profiler carried. The unsub wasn’t even an adult, just a scared kid — barely fifteen, with trembling hands and wide, watery eyes. He had a weapon and a hostage, sure, but he was lost, not malicious. And you saw him for who he really was underneath the chaos and the fear. You laid down your gun — slowly, visibly — and walked to him, calm as dusk. You talked him down with your voice low, even, warm. Not once did you raise it. Not once did you flinch. He handed you the rifle like a child handing over a toy, and you walked him to safety. It wasn’t a miracle. It was the job.

But this time… it wasn’t just you, your team, and the danger. Reporters had swarmed the scene like locusts, tipped off too early about an active hostage situation involving a minor and the FBI. Cameras were everywhere — clicking, filming, broadcasting live — turning the tense negotiation into some kind of spectacle. You had no choice but to ignore it. You pushed the blinding flashes and the endless murmurs out of your mind. You had someone’s life on the line, and you did what needed to be done.

By the time the boy was safely inside an SUV and David Rossi was driving him to the nearest station, you thought that was it. Case closed. Adrenaline fading. Just another field day for the BAU. You were wrong.

“Uh… you’re trending,” Luke said, his voice hesitant as he stared at his phone screen.

You blinked. “I’m what?”

“Trending. On Twitter,” he clarified, turning his phone around for you — and for Spencer, who was standing just behind your shoulder — to see.

The pictures were everywhere. Dozens of snapshots captured in real-time: you, in your bulletproof vest, arms raised to the sky, calmly facing down the young unsub. Your jaw was set in concentration, your eyes soft but steady. You didn’t just look professional — you looked fierce. Brave. Commanding.

Beautiful.

Spencer didn’t say that out loud — of course he didn’t — but it rang so loudly in his head he almost flinched. Your name was trending alongside hashtags like FBIAngel, HostageHero, and HotFed. Thousands of comments flooded in, calling you everything from “incredibly brave” to “hot as hell” to “the FBI’s resident baddie.” Some wanted to know if you were single. Some were drawing fanart already. It was chaos.

You frowned. “Hero?” you echoed, brows furrowed. “I was just… doing my job.”

Spencer couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. His brain was working double-time — both racing through statistical analyses about internet virality and trying to suppress the visceral, twisting feeling in his chest.

“You do look good in the pictures, though,” he muttered, and immediately regretted it.

The words had slipped out before he could stop them. His ears went red, then the blush spread down his neck in a slow burn. He cleared his throat, mortified, but Luke — thankfully — chuckled and nodded in agreement. Even Tara, standing nearby, smirked in your direction.

You turned to look at Spencer — really looked — and the ghost of a smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t tease him. You didn’t brush it off. You just said, quietly: “Thanks.”

And that single word, so casual and soft, lodged itself somewhere inside Spencer’s ribcage and refused to leave.

He still hadn’t told you. About how he worried when you weren’t by his side, about the little things he noticed — the way you tied your hair, the way you clicked your pen when you were concentrating. But one day… he would. One day, when you weren’t in danger and cameras weren’t flashing and hearts weren’t beating loud enough to drown out sirens… he would.

Until then, he’d stay right here — watching you with stars in his eyes and something unspoken blooming between you.

“Wait,” said Luke, his brow raised as he scrolled. “There’s a post here about you and Spencer — the media caught a shot of him hugging you when you came back.”