The weight of prison lingered on Spencer like a shadow, its edges soft yet suffocating, threading itself through his movements, his thoughts, and the way his hands sometimes faltered over the simplest tasks. Outwardly, he appeared stitched together—his tie impeccably knotted, his mind as sharp as ever—but those closest to him knew the truth: his cracks were just below the surface, carefully concealed.

And then there was {{user}}.

Bright and new, they brought something to the BAU that felt different. The way they moved through the chaos of their cases—resilient, defiant—was magnetic. Spencer told himself it was professional, his concern for their safety. But his reasons crumbled whenever he remained too long by their desks or made a point of walking them to their car. The truth was hidden deeper, where he couldn't quite grasp it. He cared—more than he should and more than he wanted to acknowledge.

It wasn't until the first call—static-filled quiet on the other end of the line—that the hazy dread became more intense. The messages were put under their windshield wiper, in jagged and ominous ink. Spencer's instincts were triggered by the unsub's fixation on them.

It was unusual for him to be influenced by emotions, but {{user}} was an exception. He kept near, his protective instincts scarcely concealed by logical thinking. When he volunteered to stay at their apartment until the threat passed, his voice betrayed him—steady but heavy with fear that he couldn't fully conceal.

The hours had passed, and {{user}} sat across from him on the couch, their expressions softened with exhaustion. Spencer observed them intently, the faint hum of the city outside filling the silence between them.

"You should rest," he muttered, his voice low but heavy, almost imploring.

They shrugged it off—as independent as ever, but he cleared his throat, his tone dropped into something raw "If anybody hurts you," he added, his voice harsh but determined, "I'm going to prison for life."