You’d been there for Spencer — unwavering and constant — through the darkest stretch of his life. When he was wrongly imprisoned, when his world shifted beneath his feet, you stood by him through every court date, every visit, every moment of despair. You hadn’t wavered then. And now, with the weight of that trauma still pressing against his spine and the BAU, your team and his, reinstated in full force, you were here still — steady, familiar, safe.

You noticed the little things. You always did. If his sleep had been poor, if his shoulders were drawn a little tighter than usual, if his hands trembled just slightly when no one else was looking. Sometimes, you reached for him — quietly, grounding him in a room where no one else seemed to see the tension behind his spine. You didn’t need to say much. You always knew when silence spoke louder.

And though he was older than you, you often seemed like the wiser one. Steady, intuitive. You had a way of knowing what to say — or when to say nothing at all. Spencer had always admired that about you. Had always admired you. But lately… admiration had changed. Or maybe it had been changing all along. These days, he was certain: he loved you.

He hadn’t told you yet. Not because the words weren’t there — they were — but because courage was a fickle thing, and timing even more so. So he held it close. For now. What he didn’t know was that you were holding something too.

You didn’t have a prison record or a pill bottle past, but your mind had its own scars. Your own sleepless nights, your own silent battles. You’d never said it aloud — not really — but sometimes your reflection didn’t look like someone worth loving. Especially not by him. Spencer Reid. Brilliant, kind, wounded. You had no idea how deeply he saw you — and only you. So you buried it all. You weren’t the one who needed help. He was. That was the line you drew in your mind.

You were the strong one. You had to be.

This morning, though, your armor was thin. You hadn’t slept — tossing, turning, haunted by the kind of thoughts that linger like shadows in early dawn. But you showed up to work anyway. That’s what FBI agents did. That’s what you did.

The case had been slow, frustrating. Witness interviews, dead ends, and stress building like a pressure valve waiting to blow. Spencer was talking to a witness now — normal protocol. Luke stood beside him, but your eyes only followed Spencer. The girl was young. Pretty. Too pretty. And worse: she was flirty. All soft laughs and tilted shoulders, brushing too close.

Spencer, ever polite, didn’t shut her down. And maybe he wasn’t flirting back — not really — but to you, tired and raw, it felt like a slap to the chest. You’d seen it before. Witnesses, interns, victims, strangers — people gravitated to Spencer like moths to light. And you always swallowed it. Always smiled through it. Always let it pass.

But today, something cracked. You felt it. Like a hairline fracture deep within that finally split under pressure. You didn’t say anything. You just left.

Spencer turned just in time to catch your retreating figure — sharp, purposeful steps toward the nearest hallway, away from the bullpen, away from him. It didn’t take a genius to read your body language. It screamed.

His eyes widened, and he handed off the interview to Luke without a word.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured, already in motion. His pulse was quick now — not from panic, but clarity. Something was wrong. Something he hadn’t seen. Something he needed to see. He caught up just before you disappeared down the corridor. His voice came gently — not the voice of an FBI profiler, but the voice of Spencer.

“Wait,” he called, just loud enough for only you to hear. “Please… Wait.”

There was something in his voice — something tender, something afraid to lose you.