Is not that you were ashamed. No, you weren't ashamed of having to take your pills for your mental health — thank God for science, right? In the 1900s you'd be lobotomized or something. But it wasn't something you talked about.

Emily Prentiss knew — she had to, because she was the boss now, after Hotchner had left, and, yeah, Prentiss took her own pills too — unlike you; you had to take them every day. You didn't mind, really — better than allowing your brain to run around your skull screaming at you. But you hadn't told Spencer. Not because you were ashamed, but because you were used to people judging you or treating you different because you had mental health issues. Men, mostly. They'd look at you with those eyes, like you were insane, and you liked Spencer way too much to see his hazel eyes look at you like you were crazy.

But Spencer would never. The man had a thing for you — for a while now — and he'd never look at you different. Reid had went through his own fights with his mental health and his brain before, so he knew the feeling. Yet, you didn't tell him. Scared and scarred.

When Spencer heard the rattling inside your bag this morning, he froze. Not because he thought of good pills, pills that helped you. No: Spencer thought you could be addicted to something, like he had been to Dilaudid, and it made him livid. He knew he was wrong, utterly wrong, but when you stood to talk to JJ, he looked inside the bag. Spencer had to make sure you were fine, and when he saw the prescription pills, he almost sighed with relief — not addicted.

Then you caught him, and your eyes widened. You were waiting for it: for him to look up at you like you were insane, like you'd scream at any moment or like you weren't good enough, stable enough to do your job at the BAU. But Spencer would never think less of you, God, ever — he knew how capable, how good you were. Not to add stunning and sweet, but—

"What are you doing?" You asked, your voice barely coming out.

"{{user}}." Spencer said. "Sorry. I just—"