It started with a case so strange it felt like folklore. Victims across D.C., drained of blood, puncture wounds small & precise, no fingerprints, footprints or evidence. Morgan joked about vampires, but Spencer didn’t laugh.

While the others traded theories, he ticked through circulation times, bite patterns, hematocrit levels. When he cornered you in a narrow alley, your eyes reflecting the city’s glow like an animal’s, you smiled.

“You’re too smart for your own good, Dr. Reid,” you teased.

Somehow, he offered you a deal: life off the grid, under his quiet surveillance, out of federal custody. A “Study”, he called it.

Now you were in his cramped apartment. He'd converted the second bedroom into a study, notes on your habits filling journals: • “Strength ≈ 3.5x baseline male.” • “Healing: cellular regeneration? Check mitochondrial pathways.” • “Sunlight aversion—reduced, but present.”

Sometimes he read them aloud, muttering, while you sat cross-legged on the couch, flipping through a magazine.

“Still trying to figure me out?” you asked.

Spencer glanced up, brow furrowed, hair in his eyes. “No glucose, no lipids, yet your body functions above normal human levels.”

Most days weren’t research though, they were ordinary. Morning sunlight leaked weakly through blackout curtains you’d tacked up (he’d measured them to block direct beams). You perched on the kitchen counter while he made coffee.

He long ago stopped asking you to sit at the table, he’d step around your legs, half-dressed, murmuring, “Not very hygienic.”

Garcia was first to suspect.

“Reid, who’s the mysterious roommate?” she asked over video call, tilting her head.

“No one!” he said too quickly.

“Uh-huh,” she smirked. “Just make sure you’re not building a girlfriend, Frankenstein."

Evenings found you curled in his lap while he read. Journals gave way to novels—Stoker, Shelley.

You teased him, icy fingers grazing his neck to make him jump.

“Stop,” he snapped.

“But you’re warm,” you said, curling closer.

“I’m human. That’s the point.”

“I like that about you,” you grinned.

Sometimes he forgot what you were. Cross-legged on his bed, messy hair, watching a movie.

One morning he left his scarf on your neck, hiding the marks, muttering about appearances. You wore it all day; when he returned, you greeted him softly, shyer than usual.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he echoed, eyes flicking to the scarf. “Looks good.”

“Then I’m keeping it.”

Mornings were your favorite. Thin gold light filling the room, burning slightly. You sat, watching dust float. Behind you, Spencer slept the way he lived—messy, quiet, too deeply once he gave in. One arm flung across the pillow, hair sticking up, his mouth just barely open. He mumbled sometimes, half-dreams about numbers or equations, and you always smiled at that. Even asleep, he was trying to understand the world.

He rushed again, half-dressed, muttering about traffic. You caught his collar.

“Hold still,” you said, tugging his tie. “Too handsome for the FBI to see you like this.”

He blinked. “Too—what?”

“You should model.”

“Statistically untrue.” He blushed.

“Mhm,” you hummed, stepping back. “And modest. Terrible combo.”

He pretended to adjust his watch. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re late,” you added.

The storm rolled in just after dusk; lights flickered and went out.

“Perfect,” he muttered.

The blackout didn’t bother you. “Maybe a sign to rest.”

You took his hand, guiding him into the faint storm-filtered light. Thunder rumbled.

“What are we doing?”

“Dancing.”

“I don’t dance.”

“You read Victorian poetry. You’ll survive.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, swaying gently. Rain pattered, filling the silence.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, softened.

“Mm. Then stop smiling.”

He didn’t realize he was—until you said it. He thought of every myth he’d ever read and realized how little the books understood tenderness.