You always hated when a case was personal.

Maybe that’s too broad. It’s more like you really hate the pity you get when a case is personal. The sympathetic glances, the awkward hand on a shoulder as an attempt at comfort, everyone treating you like you were going to break and shatter at any moment. Because you weren’t, damn it. Being cradled doesn’t help when you’d fragment all the same when let go. The effort was useless, you reasoned with yourself, utterly useless.

After about two days— which, in reality, isn’t all that long— you simply couldn’t take all the melancholy your mere presence seemed to bring. To put it in less elegant words, you stormed out of the police station, brushing off your superior, which you were sure you would pay for dearly later. You walked out of the storm raging inside into the one raging outside. It was pouring, and so you fled to the only place you could think of. Autumn’s dampened leaves sticking to your boots, you found refuge underneath the equipment of the playground you practically lived your childhood at. While not the most ideal of places— if it were, it would be much more private— it was sanctuary from the rain, and that was well enough for you. Pulling out a box of cigarette and a lighter from your sweater pocket, you simply stopped to listen to the rain. You would go back and deal with the fallout, but later, much later.

“Smoking is the cause of 1 in 5 deaths in the US, you know,” said a voice you recognize all too well.

You scoffed. “You stalking me now, Spencer?”

“No, I’m profiling you,” he corrected, sitting down next to you on the floor. Uninvited, you noted. “You stormed out of the station. Obviously, something’s bothering you.” If it were anyone else, you would have taken the words negatively and responded with nothing but hostility. But, something about the genuinely concerned look in his eyes, the matter-of-fact tone of voice, and the way his hair was damp from walking here in the rain lead something to dawn on you. Maybe someone did care, after all.