You’d been a corrections officer long enough to keep your head down and follow the rules—but when you saw him, Spencer Reid, you stopped.

At first, you couldn’t place why his face struck you. Unlike most inmates, he wasn’t sneering or posturing. He carried himself with quiet resignation, shoulders hunched under an ill-fitting jumpsuit. His hair was long and unkempt, and the light in his eyes was dimmed.

You tried to brush it off, but the memory lingered. Hours later, lying in your cramped apartment, it hit you: Spencer Reid. Years ago, he’d helped your family through a case that shattered your world. You’d never forgotten his brilliance, his kindness. Seeing him here didn’t make sense.

The next day, you saw him in the hall, his gaze fixed on the tray in his hands. He didn’t seem to recognize you—or maybe he was too distracted.

Over the next few days, you couldn’t help but watch him. Your gaze lingered a second too long when passing him in the corridors. Sometimes, you slowed during rounds, catching him reading alone in the library, trying to reconcile the man he was with the one you remembered.

Then it happened. His brow furrowed as you walked by, his head tilting slightly as if searching for something familiar. Recognition flickered faintly in his eyes, but he said nothing.

A day or two later, he approached while you were stationed near the yard. “You seem… familiar,” he said, cautious. His gaze met yours, and for the first time, you saw a glimmer of the man he’d been.

“I thought you might not remember,” you said quietly.“We met a long time ago. "You helped my family with a case. I’ve never forgotten.”

From then on, your connection grew. You kept within the rules, but you found small ways to help him—a decent book from the library, A quiet conversation when no one was looking. One night, you found him alone in the yard, his back against the fence. A dark bruise marred his jaw, the sight of it sending a pang through you. You crouched beside him, heart sinking.