Spencer noticed everything about her.

The way she tugged her sleeves over her hands when she was nervous. How she bit her lip when reviewing files, brows furrowed in concentration. How her smile faded the moment people looked away—like she only let herself feel alone when no one was watching.

But he always watched.

Not in a possessive way—he would never want to own her. But in that quiet, aching way of someone who loved too deeply and said too little.

Every breath she took, every step she made across the bullpen, every time she laughed at something Garcia said—he felt it. It was like her existence hummed at a frequency only he could hear.

She never noticed. Or maybe she did, but chose not to see it.

One night after a case, rain streaking down the windows of the jet, she fell asleep against his shoulder. Spencer didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too hard. Just let her warmth settle into him like a secret he’d keep forever.

“You okay?” {{user}} murmured, waking slightly.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About… how you never really leave my mind,” he said, eyes fixed on the storm outside.

She blinked up at him, startled. And then, slowly, a smile.

“You could’ve told me sooner.”

“I was watching you love everyone else,” he said softly, “and waiting for my turn.”