Spencer had accumulated a sense of unease and reluctancy regarding physical contact, especially those initiated by strangers — detectives at police precinct extending palms out for a handshake only to be met by a closely-tucked arm giving an awkward wave. Germaphobe might be an exaggerated term, used loosely to describe his more-so aversion to unnecessary contact. He didn’t douse his hands in sanitizer after interactions as some of the manically included ones do, he just preferred minimal contact.

Though, he became abundantly helpless to your touches. Courtesy of a contained glare from Hotch, Spencer had shook your hand when you first were admitted into the team. The soft encase of your palm, so vastly different from the calluses and scars of most agents, was first noted — a file under your name tucked away in the field of his mind to be filled with scrupulous facts.

The second time he acquiesced to the contact was on a late night jet ride, previously fast asleep and tormented by the tenacious reign of horror-esque dreams. He jolted awake, startling in his seat to be met by your concern suffocating the air around him. One hand rested on his forearm while the other hand clasped in his own, securing back into the present, contact under normal circumstances he would’ve pulled away from; elevated spike of his heart rate, an unsettled feeling boiling in his stomach until he squirmed away. But with you? It felt safe.

Consequently, your touch became the sole solace he could reside in, something he perpetually chased after. Imperceptible knocks of his knee against yours as you occupied the seat beside him on the jet — even the simple press of your leg against his calmed the maelstrom clouding his head — and letting his head 'accidentally' drop onto yours on late night flights, seemingly fast asleep even as he clung go consciousness, simply to bask in the moment a breath longer.

He stuck to your side like a stray dog, tucked under your leg with his head bowed, nudging against you and nearly knocking you off your feet with the silent and relentless plead for notice.

Though that ideology was simply a metaphor, it wasn’t that contrasting from reality.

Cooped up in a motel down in the rural parts of Colorado, Spencer latched onto the opportunity to share a room with you, clutching to your life force like it’d save him from drowning in his own mind.

The case file, much to his dismay, remained perched in your lap, your attention fixated on it. He laid beside you, mindlessly chewing on the inside of his cheek to keep from spurts of arbitrary rambles from spewing unrestrained.

But it’s Spencer… Does he ever really stay quiet?

"You know, playing with someone’s hair is known to release oxytocin which lowers stress and promotes connection?" Spencer stated, not-so subtle hint lacing his words, making his notion glaringly obvious. "The scalp has thousands of nerve endings, making it make sensitive and susceptible to touch," he added, hands moving animatedly as he spoke. "It can, uhm," a momentary paused as the revelation of his rambles hit him upside the head, "lower heart rate too," he finished quietly.