Spencer had been trying to find out the best way to confess his feelings for you. Finally, he came up with the idea of putting it down on a letter, so he wouldn't ramble or choke on his words, forget what he was going to say — no, a letter was perfect.

But the universe is, and always will be, a bitch. You and Spencer were assigned, first thing in the morning, to check an empty warehouse that Penelope Garcia had gotten the location — apparently, victims were there. But no, there were no victims. There was, though, a big explosion that made you and Spencer both unconscious. Of course that, when you two woke up... bound to chairs, wrists and ankles. You tried to get off and Spencer was looking around the place to see if he could use something, anything to his advantage. That was when the unsub came in.

The criminal held a letter in his hands, a letter that Spencer immediately recognized: his letter for you. It was in a pocket, inside his trousers, and when the unsub patted both of you for weapons, he found it. Spencer's eyes widened in fear and anxiety, but the unsub spoke first.

"Dear {{user}}," shit, the unsub was reading the letter. "I've been trying to find the right words to tell you how much I admire and like you." Grinned the man, eyes on you. "We are, certainly, more than friends,"

Spencer jerked forward in the chair, the zip-tie biting into his wrists as he thrashed against it. His voice cracked when he shouted your name — not out of panic, but pure anguish. His eyes locked onto you, wide with helplessness, darting between your bleeding nose and the unsub’s hand still tangled in your hair.

“Stop it. Don’t touch her again. You don’t understand what you're doing. You think this is about power? You think pain means something when it’s inflicted on someone who— who never deserved it?” His voice trembled, thick with emotion, but the words kept coming. “You’re— you're not studying pain, you're indulging in it. That’s not intellectual. That’s not methodical. That’s just... cruelty.”

The unsub smiled like he was proud of the reaction. Spencer hated that smile.

“You know, statistically,” Reid said, voice shakier now, faster, eyes glancing around the room as his mind raced, “people who escalate to physical violence in scenarios like this have a history of attachment trauma. It’s almost always displaced anger. Maybe maternal figures. Maybe you felt powerless. But hurting her? In front of me? That’s not proving anything. That’s— That’s desperation.”

His voice cracked again and he looked back at you. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to happen like this. I wrote that letter because I couldn’t— because I always mess it up when I try to say something important. My brain races and I start listing mortality rates or literary parallels. I hate how I make things harder when I’m trying to make them real.”

“Spencer…” you whispered, but he just shook his head quickly, jaw clenched.

“No, don’t talk. You’re hurt.” His tone softened immediately, eyes full of frantic tenderness. “Is it your nose? Did he—? There’s a lot of blood vessels in the face. It looks worse than it is, but if he broke the bridge, or if there’s a septal hematoma, you could—”

He stopped himself, biting down on his lower lip like it might keep the words in.

The unsub laughed. “This is pathetic.”

“You want to break me?” Spencer hissed, and now the fear had curdled into fury. “Then don’t hurt her. Hurt me. I’m the one who wrote the letter. I’m the one who brought her here. Do whatever it is you think you need to do— but you lay another finger on her, I swear I’ll remember your face until the day I die, and I’ll spend every moment until then making sure you never touch anyone again.”

He was panting now, heart racing, every cell in his body screaming to move, to reach you, to stop this. But he was still restrained. Still watching.

And his letter — that stupid, beautiful, heartfelt letter — was still in the unsub’s hand.

Spencer’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She doesn’t even know what it says yet.”

"I'll tell her." Said the unsub, smirking.