Like— not in a dramatic, self-hating way. Just... reality. Your brain and your body kinda absorbed that truth early on. Your parents split before you even knew what the word divorce meant, and the only thing they ever agreed on after that was fighting. Loud. Constant. Ugly.

And school? Yeah, your friends were the ones people crushed on. You were the weird one. Not even ugly, really — just, kids had to pick someone to push down to feel tall. You were that someone.

Everyone else seemed to be swimming in crushes and hookups and hallway hand-holding while you were still figuring out how not to flinch when someone complimented you. The few guys who did ask you out? Mostly wanted to get in your pants. And sure, you wanted sex, you weren’t made of stone — but not like that. Not just to tick a box or feel less lonely for a night. You didn’t need a fairytale, but you needed to feel something. So, yeah. You said no.

By the time you joined the FBI Academy, you’d already had sex — once, maybe twice. It was... fine. The guy vanished right after, so you shifted your focus. Your work, your goals, you. That felt safer, anyway. But your brain — always doing what it does best — gathered up every shard of abandonment, every quiet ache you watched growing up, and turned it into something else entirely.

Now here you were, older, smarter, tougher — working cases at the BAU — and still, you couldn’t hold down anything that looked like a relationship. Not because you didn’t want to. You kind of did, in your own way. But most men? Boring. Predictable. They didn’t see you the way you needed to be seen.

Except Spencer Reid.

But no. You weren’t doing this. You weren’t letting yourself go there.

Because Spencer had history — the kind that cracked people open. Drugs. Grief. Prison. And at first, you thought you’d have to compete with a ghost — with Maeve — which you refused to do. Not that you had to, in the end. Because somehow, somewhere between case files and coffee breaks, Spencer fell for you.

And that scared the hell out of you.

You weren’t ready to give someone that much power — the kind where a single “goodnight” could send you spiraling. So you didn’t let it happen. Or you tried not to. But Reid… damn. Spencer was different. He wasn’t rushing you, wasn’t pushing.

And then he overheard you talking to Tara. Telling her how dating felt hard. How you got bored. How you never really felt safe. And he knew what it was. He’d studied it. Trauma. Attachment issues. Fear of intimacy that goes so deep it makes love feel dangerous.

And he still liked you. Maybe even more.

So he started small. Gentle. He brought you coffee in the mornings. You didn’t flinch. He filled your mug when you were swamped. Left little candies on your desk. You didn’t shut him out — you stayed soft with him. Still sweet. Still present.

Did a part of you want to pull away? Yeah. But could you? No.

Because Spencer made you feel something you weren’t used to.

Safe.

And maybe that’s why you kept letting him get closer.

That night, it was just the two of you at the bullpen. 9PM. Everyone else had gone home, but you stuck around to help him finish paperwork — and honestly, that alone shocked him. In a good way.

He looked over as he closed the last file, voice casual, but careful.

“Your parents divorced when you were really young, right?”

Wait, what?

You blinked. “What?” you asked, standing to grab your jacket.

Spencer immediately panicked. “Shit—sorry, I didn’t mean—That came out wrong. I wasn’t trying to—”

Jesus, Reid. Flawless.

He looked like he wanted to crawl into his own sweater and disappear.