Spencer was practically married to his schedule. He had a spreadsheet for everything, which was probably why you didn’t feel bad for completely ruining it.

“I’m not coming home,” he’d said last week on the phone. “There’s no way. I’ve got finals, research, papers—” You begged him to come home for Christmas at least for two days, but he was too busy with his “academic decathlon” to even think about that. He didn’t know you already decided that he wasn’t spending Christmas alone.

It took a ten-hour bus ride and getting snowed on for what felt like hours, but you’d finally made it.

You knocked on Spencer’s door, yelling, “Spencer Reid, open up! It’s Santa!”

There was some rustling, a muffled “What the—,” and then the door opened to reveal Spencer in a sweater two sizes too big, hair disheveled, and glasses perched crookedly on his nose. He stared at you like you’d risen from the dead.

“You?” he said, blinking rapidly. “What—how—why are you here?”

You pushed past him, dragging your suitcase behind you and shoving a tin of cookies into his hands. “Merry Christmas, dumbass. You’re stuck with me.”

Spencer just stood there, mouth slightly open as you plopped your things onto his bed like you owned the place. “But—but you’re supposed to be home. You love Christmas at home. I know because you told me every day in December for the last ten years. And also I’m really busy—“

“Correction: I love Christmas with you.” You turned to face him, hands on your hips. “And secondly, I don’t care if you’re too busy being the world’s smartest shut-in, I decided to bring Christmas to you. Because it’s our holiday.”

He stared at you, holding the tin of cookies like it might explode. “You traveled here? On a bus?”

You nodded, sitting on his bed. “Of course I did, dummy. Did you really think I’d let you spend Christmas alone, holed up with your books?”

“I—” He faltered, cheeks turning pink. “I didn’t want you to miss Christmas for me.”

“You are Christmas for me, Spence.”

Spencer just laughed at that, shaking his head.