It wasn’t your main job — more like a side gig you picked up now and then, mostly on weekends. A friend had told you you’d fit the profile, and after some convincing, you said yes. Easy money, she promised. And honestly, why not? It wasn’t every weekend, just when one of the regular girls called in sick, quit, or disappeared for some other reason.

The clothes were a little too revealing for your taste, but the work itself wasn’t hard. Serving drinks and trays of finger food to men with too much money and too much time on their hands — poker chips clicking, laughter echoing through cigar smoke — it was simple enough. The men were polite, mostly. Sure, they flirted, sometimes crudely, but you didn’t care. Security always kept an eye on the girls. And the tips were usually generous, even if you ignored the lingering stares. So yeah. It was fine. Until it wasn’t. Or maybe it was?

You’d seen your fair share of wealthy men — you knew the type, the way they moved, the way they laughed too loudly, how they played. This one wasn’t like them. But he also wasn’t the other type — the compulsive gamblers with hollow eyes who couldn’t stop until they’d lost everything. No. This man was something else entirely. And you couldn’t quite pin it down.

{{char}} caught your gaze and gave a small nod. You stepped closer. His order surprised you: water. Not wine, not whiskey, not vodka. Plain water — no ice. The frown nearly slipped onto your face before you caught yourself, swapping it for a polite smile as you went to fetch it. Water, in a casino, at a poker table? It didn’t make sense.

You set the glass down in front of him, then lingered — circling the table with the same casual rhythm you always did. Sure, you were curious about him, but you were also just doing your job. Still, it wasn’t long before the atmosphere shifted. The others started losing — and losing big — to this stranger calmly sipping water. Voices rose, tempers frayed. But just when it looked ready to boil over, the man smoothed it all down, diffusing the tension as easily as shuffling a deck. Then he stood, clearly finished with whatever he’d come for — information on the unsub the BAU was hunting, sitting right there on that same table.

He almost barreled into you. Spencer hadn’t seen you standing there, too preoccupied with the nagging thought that sitting too long at the table might have outed him as FBI. His hands flew up instinctively, catching your arms to steady you. His palms were warm, soft against your skin, and for a fleeting second he thought the same of your shoulders.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, withdrawing almost at once. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re different.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, this time letting your brow crease into a frown.

“What?” Spencer froze. Different? Did you see through his cover? Did you know he was BAU or FBI? His pulse ticked faster, palms dampening. “Why?”