You were having a shit day. Not just the mild-inconvenience kind — the world-is-conspiring-against-you kind.

Your shift at the library had been endless: a printer jammed, a toddler screamed in the archives, and someone spilled coffee over three borrowed poetry anthologies. When you finally clocked out, you realized — too late — that your umbrella was still propped against the counter behind the returns desk.

It started raining the moment you stepped off campus.

A true, unrelenting downpour — the kind that blurred city lights and soaked through your shoes in seconds. The bus stop near you was closed for construction, of course, because why not? So you trudged the four blocks to the next one, rain pelting your face, your bag heavier by the second.

That’s when you saw it: a house glowing gold from the inside, laughter spilling through open windows. You figured you could duck in until the worst passed.

Sticky floors. Warm beer. Bass vibrating through your ribs. It was the kind of party that smelled like sweat, tequila, and poor decisions. You lasted three minutes before slipping back into the rain.

You kept walking.

By the time you spotted the small bar tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore, you were drenched to the bone. But it was quiet — mellow jazz, soft amber light, a refuge from the storm. You stepped inside, dripping and tired, and found an empty stool at the counter.

“Can I have a warm tea?” you asked the bartender. “And… maybe a candle?”

He blinked at you, confused, but nodded.

At a nearby table, Spencer Reid nearly forgot how to breathe.

He was there with his best friend, Derek Morgan, who had spent the last thirty minutes lecturing him about talking to people.

“You can’t live off books and coffee forever, pretty boy,” Derek teased. “You need to socialize. Maybe find a girl who doesn’t exist in a research paper.”

“I don’t need to ‘find a girl,’” Spencer protested. “Relationships are statistically inefficient at this age. I’m focusing on my PhD.”

“Uh-huh. You’re twenty-five, Spence. Live a little.”

“I am living. I just prefer it indoors.”

And then you walked in — rain-soaked, shivering, eyes tired but soft. You asked for tea like it was a prayer.

And just like that, Spencer stopped mid-sentence.

Morgan saw the look on his face and nearly choked on his drink. “Oh my God,” he whispered, grinning. “That’s it. That’s the look. Go talk to her.”

“What? No— absolutely not—”

“Spence.” Derek’s grin was wolfish. “Act normal.”

“I am normal.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m calculating probabilities.”

“Just go.”

So Spencer stood up, heart pounding like a badly tuned metronome, and walked toward you. Every synapse screamed abort mission, but something deeper — something ancient — pulled him forward.

And before he could stop himself, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind:

“Come home with me?”

You froze, mid-sip, staring at him. “Excuse me?”

He blinked. “Oh no. That wasn’t— I didn’t mean—”

“Who are you?”

Spencer, panic spiking, did the only thing his mouth would allow: doubled down.

“The man who’s gonna marry you.”

You blinked once. Twice. “…What?”

“I just— I think— You’re— I didn’t mean to sound— I’m Spencer. Reid. I’m— um, a doctor.” He hesitated. “Kind of. The PhD kind. From MIT.”

Your lips twitched. “Okay, Doctor Kind Of.”

“I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” he said quickly, words tripping over each other. “I just— you walked in, and you asked for tea, and nobody ever asks for tea here, and I like tea, and I thought you were— I mean, you are— very pretty, and you look like someone who reads before bed, and— oh no, I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

You stared at him for a long second. Then, finally — softly — you laughed.

It wasn’t mocking. It sounded like forgiveness.

“You’re something else, Spencer Reid.”

He flushed. “That’s… good?”

“Depends,” you said, scribbling your number on a napkin. “On whether you call.”

He did.

And from then on, Spencer Reid — socially anxious, brilliant, hopelessly sincere Spencer — took the train from MIT to Harvard almost every day.