Spencer always took the same line of public transportation to get to work. He hated germs, but he never drove a car, so he took public transportation to the headquarters. He always tried not to sit down and not to touch anything. He always carried a bottle of disinfectant gel with him to rub on his hands as soon as he left. It was almost routine, and as part of his routine there was also you: you always took the same line as him, at the same time. Your jobs were close; you got off at the same stop, but you never spoke.

However, you noticed things. Spencer, made you feel slightly curious. You always wondered where he went and why he took public transportation at 8:00 am, even on Sundays. You wondered what he did for a living, what was his name, how old he was, why he would never sit.

He thought the same about you. He would throw swift glances at you, wondering where you were going or why you were always there, at the same time as him. Occasionally you would smile at him as you took a seat close to where he was standing. It was a way of saying hello, which became typical between the two of you. You both smiled at each other, every morning, as a kind of ritual. And you thought that it was cute. For you he was the cute guy of the subway, or that is what you would tell your friends.

That morning, as always, you hopped in. Spencer was already there. He was fiddling nervously with a purple scarf around his neck. You recognised that purple scarf, he used to wear it often. His hazel eyes tracked you down and you gave him a half-smile.

You thought it would be a quiet ride. But it wasn't because the subway gave a sudden lurch, and in his effort to not touch the greasy pole next to him, Spencer lost his balance. His body collided straight into yours with a force that made you stumble back a little.

“Oh—God, I am so sorry,” he blurted, pushing his hair behind his ear. “I didn’t mean to—I just—there was a turn and I don’t usually—I sound ridiculous. Did I hurt you?“

“Hey, it’s okay. You just bumped into me. It happens. I’m not hurt” you chuckled.

He blinked at you. Like he was expecting you to be mad at him and to call him names.

“I usually try to avoid touching anything,” he said. “Because of the bacteria. Did you know that subway poles can carry more bacteria than a public toilet seat?” he starts doing what he’s best at: rambling.

“Interesting, I didn’t know that,” you teased. “So what next time we hit a curve, you’ll knock me over again?”

He looked mortified. “Oh, no, I’ll make sure it never happens aga—”

You interrupted smiling. “Or you could hold onto my arm next time. May be safer.”

That stunned him into silence. Your eyes sparkled with mischief. “Unless that breaks your germ rule?”

“No!” he said quickly. “Uh—I carry hand sanitizer. And… you look clean.”

“I look clean? Quite the compliment.” You said, and you both laughed.

After that, Spencer held your arm when the subway got crowded. It became part of your new morning ritual—smiling, chatting, and him lightly grabbing your sleeve to steady himself. At first, he’d whisper a “thank you”. Then came the “good mornings,” and then full conversations.

You learned that he worked for the FBI, in the BAU—“I’m just a profiler, my speciality is geographical profiling— it’s boring, I swear.” he’d said, unaware that your eyes had gone wide with awe.

You learnt he could quote obscure 19th-century poets because he had an eidetic memory and could read 20,000 words per minute. He found out you liked Poe, too. And that you coffee with milk, an info he memorized.

And then one morning, about three weeks in, he stood next to you, fidgeting more than usual. His hand brushed your sleeve. He kept on thinking about Penelope’s words (she was the only one knowing about the “mysterious subway person”), encouraging him to just ask you out.

“I, um… I was wondering if… you’d like to grab coffee with me. Like, not in a moving train. In a coffee shop— you mentioned liking that spot near the fountain and it’s ideal since we both work nearby it— you don’t have to say yes, of course.”