You and your firefighting team were called because of an explosion at a warehouse — a big one. You didn't even ask about it, as usual, just quickly sliding your suit and boots in and hopping onto the truck. The ride was short, but in the way you learned that the blast happened and there were people inside the warehouse: fucking FBI agents, at that.

When you reached the place, the fire was strong and hot, lighting the dark night and licking some of the trees around the abandoned place. As three members of your team started to put out the fire, you and other two walked inside the place, since people were in there. Mask on, oxygen on your back, you made your way through the burning place, avoiding burning pieces of woods and parts of the roof that had fallen — or looked like they would fall, when you looked up — to the ground. The place being open, the smoke dissipated quickly, which helped you see (and worry less about the safety of whoever was inside). Your colleagues rescued two agents and you rescued one — he was awake, but coughing and something had clearly hit him in the head.

Finally outside, you sat the FBI agent down, away from the fire and the warehouse. And when you removed your mask, Spencer Reid, who had a small cut to his forehead, felt his breath go away — not because of fire nor smoke, but because you were breathtaking, stunning. You barely registered the way he stared at you, having knelt down in front of him to check the cut on his head, make sure it was clean and wouldn't need stitches. You removed your gloves, one hand coming up to check his pulse right on his neck.

Spencer felt like fainting, but not because of the explosion — you were... He had never believed in love at first sight, but, Jesus Christ.

"Agent." You spoke, tone firm and unwavering, but still somehow gentle. "Do you know your name?"

"Yeah." Reid answered, his voice coming out a little rough — both from the smoke and from being touched by you. "Spencer. Spencer Reid."