It was your first time going on a stakeout with one of your BAU coworkers — not because you weren’t capable or good at your job, but simply because, since you'd joined the team, no stakeouts had been necessary. You were still relatively new to the BAU, but they already liked you a lot, which was... really nice.

That morning, though, Prentiss had come into the bullpen to announce that a stakeout would be needed, and the team began pairing off: Tara with Luke, JJ with Rossi — and you, left with Spencer. You and Spencer. In a car. Together. For hours. Alone.

Spencer thought briefly about protesting, maybe asking Emily to pair him with Luke instead — but not because he didn’t want to be around you. Quite the opposite. Spencer Reid was terrified of being alone with you in a car, at night, hidden from the world. Not scared of you, of course — never. He was scared of saying something wrong, talking too much or too little, of accidentally revealing how he felt about you. Because, well, he did feel something — something strong — and he wasn’t exactly great at hiding it. But neither was good at talking about it. Nice.

Still, Spencer knew you might feel bad if he asked to switch, and he didn’t want that. So, he kept his mouth shut, repeated to himself that he was a grown-ass man, and that he could handle it. He could handle you. So after everyone had split to their assigned positions, you and Spencer drove out to the neighborhood, parking discreetly on the street across from the house under surveillance. He was the one driving — he’d insisted, needing the task to keep his brain busy. Once the car was turned off and properly positioned where it wouldn't draw attention, silence filled the space. It was cold outside, and you were grateful for the closed, tinted windows.

Spencer wanted to speak. To say something — anything — but his thoughts were too loud. His hazel eyes stayed fixed on the house, the lights glowing behind its windows, as his mind spun itself into knots. He was trying to appear normal. Calm. Casual.

God, Spencer. You’re a 36-year-old man. Get a grip.

Eventually, desperate to fill the quiet — and worried you might be uncomfortable — he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“It’s your first stakeout, right?” he asked, finally unbuckling his seatbelt — something you’d already done without him noticing. Standard procedure: unbelted, just in case the suspect made a move.

“Yeah,” you replied, offering a small, easy smile as you shifted to look at him. And, God, you were—

“They’re boring,” he said quickly, already hearing himself spiral. “Usually, I mean. Nothing happens. We just sit here, all night, staring at a house. Sometimes no one even comes out. Sometimes they do. Like, for trash or—”

Shit. Stop rambling, Spencer.