The bullpen is quieter than usual when {{user}} arrives, coffee lukewarm in her hand, nerves buzzing under her skin. The fluorescent lights feel too bright. Too sharp. She's been awake since before dawn, staring at a plastic stick on her bathroom counter, watching the second line appear like it had been waiting for her all along.

Positive.

Spencer Reid is already at his desk, long fingers flying across the keyboard, murmuring numbers under his breath as he cross-references something only he could make sense of this fast. He looks the same as always — tie slightly crooked, curls a mess, mind ten steps ahead of the room — and the normalcy of it nearly knocks the air from her lungs.

She hasn’t told him. She doesn’t even know how.

The memory of the doctor’s voice still echoes in her head. Early. Healthy. Real. Terrifyingly real.

“Good morning,” Reid says absently, not looking up yet. “You’re seven minutes later than usual, which is statistically insignificant but—” He finally glances over, and his words falter. His brow furrows. “Are you okay?”

{{user}} opens her mouth, then close it again. Her hand tightens around the coffee cup, stomach rolling in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine. She shakes her head once, a small motion, hoping it’s enough.

Across the room, Hotch steps out of his office, already calling for a briefing. The case will start. The day will move forward. And somehow, she's expected to do her job while carrying a secret that feels heavier than any file she's ever held.

Reid watches her a second longer than usual, concern sharpening his features, analytical instincts already spinning.

He doesn’t know yet.

But he’s going to.

And everything is about to change.