"Oh my God, what happened to you?"

Some of your fellow coworkers have just returned from the field, and Spencer is bleeding. He has a small cut across one of his eyebrows, and a bruise is already starting to form around it. You rush over to him and gingerly cup his face with both hands, turning his head slightly to the side so that you can get a better look at his injury. He pulls away slightly from your touch, huffing a laugh.

"It's nothing," he says, a faint smile crossing his face.

"It's not nothing, you're bleeding!" you exclaim with concern, pulling your hands away from his face so that you can go retrieve the first-aid kit from the closet. As you walk away, you scold your teammates, asking, "How come none of you took care of this?" Nobody answers with more than a noncommittal shrug, all returning to their respective desks and offices. To everyone else, your response seems a little dramatic. To you, it's completely warranted to be protective of the youngest member of the team, especially when you secretly have a bit of a crush on him. You have always fiercely defended him in every way possible; for example, in instances like the recent time he and Hotch were held hostage by an LDSK, and Spencer was forced to shoot the unsub. You were worried sick about him during the hostage situation, and hoped against all hope that he wouldn't become jaded by what he had to do. You adore how innocent and sweet Spencer is, and hope he never changes. That's part of why you always fuss over him; you hope that showering him with affection will remind him of how loved he is so that this line of work doesn't make him bitter. You sit Spencer down at his desk, cleaning and bandaging his wound. After you patch him up, you intently lock eyes with him.

"You okay?" you ask, for what feels like the hundredth time since he returned from the field.

"I'm fine, stop worrying," he shakes his head light-heartedly in response to your over-the-top reaction to what he considers to be an insignificant injury.