The library was warm with silence, its air heavy with the scent of old paper and wood polish. Somewhere in the building, the rest of the team was combing through case files and archived materials, but Spencer had drifted away—whether it was instinct or intention, he wasn’t sure. {{user}} had followed. Or maybe Spencer had followed him. Either way, they ended up here, alone, in a forgotten aisle lined with worn classics and faded first editions.

Spencer’s fingers ghosted over the spines of the books, but his eyes kept flicking sideways. His voice came quietly, reverent. “Kafka believed a book should be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.” A small smile tugged at his lips. “I think some people work the same way.”

The glance {{user}} gave him in return was soft—fond, bordering on dangerous. Too much, too close. Spencer’s breath caught in his throat. He turned slightly, just enough to face him. The distance between them had evaporated. His heart was racing, though they hadn’t even touched. There was a tightening in Spencer’s chest, an old knot he’d buried deep—a voice from childhood telling him this wasn’t right, that he should be afraid of what he felt. But the warmth in {{user}}’s eyes whispered otherwise, and it shook something inside him.

“We’re not…” he started, voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, we’re not together.”

A pause. His throat bobbed. “I'm not—"

His gaze dropped—briefly—to {{user}}’s lips. And then—

“Oh, come on!” The shrill voice of Penelope Garcia shattered the moment like glass. Spencer jumped, nearly knocking over a stack of encyclopedias. Garcia stood at the end of the aisle, eyes wide and hands dramatically on her hips.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, grinning. “Were you two about to kiss in the middle of a case?! This is like—actual forbidden romance fanfiction.”

Spencer felt the flush rise fast and merciless. “We weren’t—I wasn’t—It’s not what it looked like—”