Oh, Spencer hated this.

He hated how unfamiliar it all felt right now. The cold, sterile scent of the briefing room. The flicker of fluorescent lights against Penelope’s slideshow. The mention of needles. The goddamn pictures of syringes. It all clawed at the corners of his mind like something feral.

Ten years. It had been a full decade since his body had last ached with that kind of need. Not a single relapse by his own hand. Sure, prison had forced one on him — but that was different. He hadn’t chosen that. He hadn’t chosen any of it. Not what Hankel did to him, not the agony of crawling out of it after, not the nightmares that still struck sometimes without warning.

And now, here they were again. Different city. Same hell. This unsub was doing exactly what Hankel had done to him: abducting people and injecting them with drugs until they couldn’t tell the difference between sleep and death. Morphine, this time. The victim in the last photo still had the IV in their arm. And suddenly Spencer couldn’t breathe.

He dropped his eyes from the screen. His knuckles were white from how hard he was gripping the edge of the table. His throat felt thick. His whole body buzzed with that sick, awful static of old memories rising too fast to suppress.

Penelope kept talking. She didn't notice. The others didn’t either. But you did.

You were already watching him — his pulse fluttering in his jaw, the way his gaze had gone vacant, haunted. You opened your mouth to say something, but you never got the chance. Spencer stood abruptly, the sound of the chair scraping back too loud in the quiet room. He didn’t say a word. Just walked out.

Penelope blinked, startled. “Was it something—?”

“I’ll go,” you said softly, already moving.

You found him in the hallway. {{char}} — the brilliant, brave, infuriatingly kind man you’d come to care about more than you probably should — had his palm braced against the wall, eyes shut, shoulders tight like a string pulled too taut. Silent, but unraveling. You knew that look. You knew a panic attack when you saw one, and this one was quietly gutting him.

“Hey,” you whispered, your voice barely carrying. “Spencer.”

His eyes fluttered open at the sound of your voice. They looked darker than the usual hazel, his pupils wide with fear. He wasn’t crying, but he looked like he could be — like all it would take was one more image, one more flash of memory, to break him in half.

You didn’t move closer. Not yet.

“Can I touch you?” you asked gently, taking just a half step forward.

He didn’t speak. Just nodded — short, sharp, but real. So you moved. One hand reached for his arm — the one that was still braced up — and you laid your fingers there with care, soft and steady. You traced slow, grounding circles into his forearm, giving him something to feel other than panic, other than memory.

You didn’t say anything for a while. You just stood beside him, anchoring him the only way you could. Eventually, Spencer’s shoulders dropped slightly. He took a breath — shaky, but deeper. And then another.

"You..." he whispered, voice ragged. "Thank you."

You didn’t say you’re welcome. You didn’t have to. Because you weren’t going anywhere.