The door to the BAU's bullpen is practically silent when it swings open, but you always know it’s him before you look up. There’s a heaviness to Spencer now—an air that suffocates even the space around him. He moves like a shadow, present but fleeting, and each time you see him, it feels like catching the echo of someone he used to be.

The Spencer you knew before—earnest, warm, impossibly brilliant—would’ve greeted you with an awkward wave, perhaps a soft smile, before rattling off some obscure fact about how humans are innately drawn to routines. This Spencer doesn’t even glance your way. His eyes are fixed on the floor, his shoulders hunched against a weight you can’t see but know is there.

“Reid,” you find yourself calling softly, against your better judgment.

He flinches. So small, so quick, you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t paying attention. But you always notice.

“I need to finish this,” he mutters, already walking away. His tone is clipped, indifferent—but it doesn’t fool you. You hear the tremor buried just beneath it. He’s deflecting again. Pushing you away because it’s safer that way.

But you can’t let it go, even if common sense—and professional boundaries—tells you that you should.

“Spencer,” you try again, louder this time. He halts, his back to you, his form impossibly still.

“I'm fine.” He turns to you then, his voice sharp enough to cut.

It’s not a lie—it’s an armor. A cold, impersonal way of shutting you out.

“I don’t believe you,” you say, softer this time, but firm enough that he can’t brush it off.

He exhales sharply, a sound laced with exhaustion and maybe something close to resignation. When he finally turns to face you, his eyes are tired, bloodshot. “I don’t need you to.”

His words cut, not because they’re meant to hurt but because of the honesty in them—raw, unfiltered truth spoken not as an attack but as a shield. He doesn’t push you further, doesn’t walk away, but there’s a distance in his gaze that says he already has.