Rossi’s house glowed with warm, golden light, the kind that bounced off garlands and glass ornaments and made even seasoned FBI agents look softer around the edges. Laughter drifted from the living room, where Morgan and Garcia were attempting to outdo each other with increasingly ridiculous Christmas-themed dance moves. JJ and Prentiss were deep in earnest conversation about holiday traditions; Hotch actually looked relaxed for once, holding a mug of cider like it was a rare evening off, which it was.

Spencer Reid stood near the entryway for a moment, scanning the room with a kind of analytical fondness. He liked these gatherings. They were loud, chaotic, human, everything the job often wasn’t. But tonight his attention wasn’t on the laughter or the stories.

It was on the missing presence. Or rather, the missing quiet. It took him less than thirty seconds to realize where she’d gone.

{{user}}, who rarely inserted herself into social circles unless absolutely necessary, had disappeared from the main room not long after arriving.

He found her exactly where he expected: in Rossi’s kitchen, standing near the wide marble counter with a drink in hand, using the hum of the refrigerator as background noise instead of the party chatter.

She didn’t notice him at first. She was staring into her cup.

Reid stepped inside quietly, leaning against the doorway. “You know,” he started, voice soft so he wouldn’t startle her, “statistically speaking, most people at parties retreat to kitchens at least once. It’s considered a social ‘breather space.’”

{{user}} looked up, startled for only a second before her shoulders relaxed. “Reid,” she breathed. “I’m not hiding.”

Reid lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t say you were hiding. I said you were… breathing.”

He stepped further into the room, hands slipping into his pockets. “You know, he doesn’t mean anything by calling you a hermit. It’s just his way of… acknowledging you.”

After a moment, she exhaled. “I’m just not good at parties. I never have been.”

“That’s okay,” Reid said simply. “Most people assume socializing is a fixed skill, but actually, it’s affected by temperament, environment, and cognitive processing.” He shrugged slightly. “Some people recharge by being around others. Some… don’t.”

Reid didn’t push, he never would, but he extended a hand, palm open, fingers patient.

“No pressure,” he murmured, “but it’s okay if you want to join them. And it’s okay if you want to stay here. I just… didn’t want you to be alone unless you chose to be.”