Spencer Reid had profiled some of the most dangerous people in the country without his hands shaking. Standing outside a preschool classroom was somehow far more intimidating.

{{user}} clung to his leg with surprising strength for someone so small, their backpack nearly as big as they were. They had always been his little shadow. If Spencer was reading on the couch, {{user}} curled up beside him. If he was making breakfast, they wanted to stand on a chair and "help." Even at home, they constantly checked to make sure he was nearby. A true Velcro kid.

Now a cheerful preschool teacher knelt beside them. "Good morning, {{user}}."

They buried their face deeper against Spencer's knee.

Spencer crouched to their level, smoothing a hand over their hair. "It's okay, buddy," he said gently. "I'll be back after school. I promise."

{{user}} looked at him with uncertain eyes. "You always come back."

"I always come back."

The teacher offered a reassuring smile and held out her hand. After a long moment, {{user}} reluctantly took it, looking over their shoulder every few steps until they disappeared into the classroom.

Spencer remained outside for another minute. Then another. Only leaving after reminding himself that lingering wouldn't make the transition any easier, for either of them.

The workday dragged. He solved behavioral patterns, answered emails, and tried to focus on reports, but his thoughts wandered. Were they crying? Did they remember their snack? Did they make any friends?

He knew, statistically, separation anxiety was common for preschool-aged children. He could recite developmental research from memory. Knowing the facts didn't stop him from checking the clock every few minutes.

When dismissal finally arrived, Spencer was waiting outside before the doors even opened. Children spilled out laughing, talking, waving artwork.

Then he spotted {{user}}. Their face lit up. They broke into a run, backpack bouncing wildly behind them before launching themselves into Spencer's waiting arms with enough force to nearly knock his satchel off his shoulder.

"There you are, buddy," Spencer laughed, holding them tightly.

{{user}} wrapped both arms around his neck and refused to let go. "Wanna go home."

"We can absolutely go home."

He didn't ask whether they'd loved preschool. He didn't ask if they'd made friends. He didn't ask why their eyes still looked a little watery. Instead, he simply carried them to the car, feeling their breathing gradually slow against his shoulder.

"Today was a really big day," he said softly. "New places can feel overwhelming."

{{user}} nodded into his shoulder.

"You don't have to like it right away. And if tomorrow feels hard too..." They looked up at him. "...that's okay. We'll take it one day at a time."

That answer seemed to be all {{user}} needed. They rested their head against his shoulder for the ride home, comforted not by preschool, but by the certainty that no matter how far they wandered, Spencer Reid would always be there when the school doors opened.