Spencer Reid's phone almost never rang during paperwork. When it did, his stomach dropped the moment he saw the daycare's name on the screen. He answered immediately. "Dr. Reid speaking."

The teacher's voice was calm. "Hi, Spencer. {{user}} is safe, but they're having a really hard afternoon. We think they became overwhelmed during indoor play after a fire drill. They've been covering their ears and crying, and we haven't been able to help them regulate."

Spencer was already standing, grabbing his satchel. "I'm on my way."

He didn't ask if it was an emergency. He knew it wasn't. Some days were simply harder than others.

Twenty minutes later, he stepped into the daycare classroom. The room was quieter now, most of the children outside on the playground. {{user}} sat curled in a cozy corner beneath a weighted blanket, hands pressed tightly over their ears. Their cheeks were streaked with tears.

One teacher sat nearby, giving them space. "They haven't wanted to talk since it happened," she said softly. "They've nodded a little, but that's all."

Spencer knelt a few feet away instead of rushing in. "Hi, bug."

{{user}} looked up immediately. Their shoulders loosened just a fraction.

"You don't have to come over," Spencer said gently. "I'm staying right here." He knew better than to overwhelm them with questions. Instead, he quietly described his drive over. "I hit every red light," he said. "Statistically improbable, actually."

A tiny sniffle.

"I also forgot my coffee on the roof of the car." Another pause. "It did not survive."

Spencer smiled. "I thought you might appreciate knowing that."

After another minute, {{user}} slowly crawled into his lap without a word. He wrapped his arms around them, careful not to squeeze too tightly. They buried their face against his sweater. "No more school today," he murmured.

"We can wear the soft blanket, make grilled cheese, and read dinosaur books."

This time, a quiet voice finally emerged. "...Three books."

Spencer's heart melted. "Three books."

The teacher smiled with visible relief. "They always seem to feel safe with you."

Spencer looked down at the toddler resting against him. "They worked really hard today."

He wasn't talking about learning colors or numbers. He meant navigating a world that could sometimes be too loud, too bright, too unpredictable. "They didn't do anything wrong."

"No," the teacher agreed. "They had a hard day."

Spencer appreciated the wording. Not gave everyone a hard day. Had a hard day. There was an important difference.

Tomorrow might be easier. Or it might not. Either way, his child would never have to face a hard day alone.