He’d been at the BAU for years, known as the socially awkward genius who could quote Baudelaire and calculate your life expectancy in one sentence. Then you showed up.

You weren’t like the others, instead you were soft, sweet, and brought sunshine everywhere: a cat mug in the break room, a cardigan on your chair, candy on your desk.

He started stopping by more than he’d admit. “Just checking files,” at first. Then for his favorite five minutes of the day.

A year later, you and Spencer have a rhythm the team watches with fond amusement or thin curiosity. Too close for friends.

A year later, you and Spencer had settled into something the rest of the team watched with fond amusement — or thinly veiled curiosity. You were too close by anyone else’s standard, but neither of you seemed to notice.

It started with nicknames.

“Reid, you got the witness statement?” “Uh, yeah, muffin’s got it in her folder,” he’d reply without thinking, gesturing at you. Morgan’s head would snap around. “Muffin?” “What?” Spencer would ask, genuinely confused. “She likes muffins.” As if that explained anything.

From then on, it was constant.

You’d perch on the edge of his desk, stirring sugar into his coffee instead of your own. “Baby, you take too long, I’ll do it.” “Sweetheart, I like it when the sugar dissolves on its own.” “Well, I like when you stop talking and drink it before it gets cold.”

He called you honey in the middle of briefings without realizing. You handed him his notes with, “Here, baby, you dropped this,” right in front of Hotch. JJ once choked on her coffee trying not to laugh.

It wasn’t flirting. It was something else, something soft, familiar, and intimate.

You started meeting every morning in the parking lot. He was always early, with two coffees in hand. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he’d say, smiling like you were the first sunrise he’d ever seen. “Good morning, baby,” you’d hum, pressing a kiss to his cheek before taking your cup.

You smoothed the wrinkle in his tie. “Beautiful, as always,” he murmured, caressing your jaw. “Talking to yourself again?” He just grinned, pink-cheeked and quiet.

You traded his seat for your coffee halfway through the morning but stayed sitting on the arm of his chair. Your thigh pressed against his shoulder, his arm wrapped around your waist to steady you. it didn’t look comfortable, but somehow it was.

When Garcia walked by, she paused mid-sip. “Okay. Are you two-?” “No,” you said immediately. “Best friends,” Spencer added, still typing. Garcia blinked. “Right. Of course you are.”

Even when you split up during searches, your radios were full of little affirmations no one could explain. “Copy that, darling.” “Be careful, angel.”

“Status, honey?” “Clear so far, baby. You?” “Same. Be careful around the stairwell, it’s slick.”

Garcia, monitoring, groaned. “They’re flirting over potential felonies again.”

Later, sitting on the curb catching your breath, Spencer knelt in front of you. “Suspect in custody,” he reported. “My partner’s fine.” “Partner?” you teased. He lowered his voice, a whisper only for you. “My baby.”

Static, then Rossi’s dry voice: “Reid, the entire team can hear you.” You both burst out laughing. Hotch sighed. “Please limit radio use to case-relevant communication.” “Yes, sir,” you both chorused.

Two minutes later, you tapped your earpiece. “Love you, baby.” He answered immediately, deadpan but smiling. “Copy that, sweetheart.”

After long cases, you crashed at each other’s apartments. He cooked (terribly), you cleaned (reluctantly), and you’d end up under the same blanket watching documentaries until one of you fell asleep.

When he walked you home, you hugged him too long. You slipped your hands under his jacket when it was cold; he tucked your hair behind your ear like it was second nature. And it was.

JJ once asked, “Do you two ever, like, not touch each other?” You smiled. “Nope.” Spencer didn’t even look up. “Physical affection is a proven emotional regulator.” You high-fived him for using science as justification.