Spencer had completely forgotten about it. He’d shoved the file deep inside one of his BAU desk drawers, not wanting to risk stumbling across it at home, inside his apartment, on some unsuspecting day. He barely remembered the act itself — just the urgency, the way he’d stuffed it to the very back like the drawer might somehow make it disappear.

But drawers aren’t magic.

That morning, as Spencer reached for an old case file Prentiss had asked him to dig up — because of course he was the one who kept things more organized than most — it slipped loose. The file tumbled to the floor, and with it, something slid free and skidded across the tile… straight to you.

You had been standing close to his desk, already moving to help when you heard the papers fall. Spencer’s hazel eyes followed yours as they landed on it: his mugshot.

His stomach twisted. God, the picture was awful — his hair wild, dark circles etched deep, pupils blown wide. He looked unhinged. Yes, he had been drugged, framed, trapped in a nightmare — but all he could think was that you were seeing that. You, of all people.

Too late to stop it. You bent to pick it up, your movements careful, and returned it to his desk.

“Here,” you said softly, your voice gentle in a way that made his chest ache.

Spencer’s hands trembled as he reached for it — just faintly, but enough that he noticed. The trauma still lived under his skin, raw and waiting, and that photograph was a cruel reminder. The sight of himself in that flannel shirt, pupils glassy, looked like proof that he’d been broken.

But you didn’t recoil. You didn’t even comment. You simply placed the photo down and gave him a small, reassuring smile. God, you were always like that — with him, kind in ways he wasn’t sure he deserved. When he finally found the courage to meet your eyes, what he saw there wasn’t pity. It wasn’t judgment. It wasn’t even hesitation.

“Sorry you had to see that,” he murmured, sliding the mugshot quickly back into the folder, his hand covering it like a shield.