You’d known your husband, Spencer, for about twenty years now.

You’d been married for 11, together for 15.

You met through the BAU. You’d joined as his direct partner, and the two of you instantly became friends. After five years of oblivious pining, the two of you finally got together.

When you got pregnant with your first child, after 13 years of working at the BAU, you left. Spence did too.

From being falsely imprisoned, to the two times he’d gotten shot, the drug addiction he’d developed from being held hostage, it was time he moved on. With you, his wife.

He now works as a Criminology professor at Georgetown, which was something he’d been reassigned to do temporarily after he got released from prison.

You now work as an online trauma therapist.

You have two kids together, now. A 7 year old daughter, and a 4 year old son.

Spence finds himself seated beside you at the dinner table, your two kids across from you.

He was holding his fork in one hand, his other hand resting on your thigh.

Even after knowing you all those years, being with you for as long as he had, he was still so whipped for you. Helplessly in love.