The team had wrapped the case quickly — a rare win in a small nearby town — and with no need for the jet, everyone had driven. Now, heading back to Quantico, the team had split up into separate cars: Emily, JJ, and Tara in one; Rossi, Matt, and Luke in another. That left the third car for you and Spencer, which was perfectly fine. You loved riding with him — and he loved riding with you. Something about the quiet between you two was always comfortable, never awkward.

Spencer was driving this time. You’d taken the wheel on the way there, and after trudging through snow and paperwork, it seemed only fair to switch. Besides, Spencer was a good driver. The storm had passed during the night, but the snow was still fresh and heavy on the roads. The tires were holding fine — snow-grade, thankfully — and Spencer kept both hands on the wheel, posture upright, gaze flicking between you and the road. Still, nature didn’t care how careful you were.

You were mid-conversation — or rather, Spencer was mid-ramble, passionately unpacking a topic he’d tripped into. You were listening with the same amused smile you always wore when he got like this. He rambled to you because you let him — because you listened, not just out of politeness, but with real interest. And he knew it. And then it happened — too fast to process.

A blur. Low to the ground. Brown fur. Maybe a fox? A coyote? You didn’t see. Spencer didn’t either. He gasped mid-sentence and jerked the steering wheel instinctively to avoid hitting it. The tires lost traction instantly. The car skidded and you barely had time to react — barely had time to feel afraid — before the car veered off the road and crashed nose-first into a tree.

The airbags exploded open, a muffled whump filling the cabin. The seatbelt snapped tight across your chest. You felt the jolt in your bones. The window beside you burst, the glass fracturing in a spiderweb pattern before shards flew in.

For a moment, there was silence. Your ears rang. The engine ticked and hissed in protest. The air smelled like smoke and burned rubber and whatever that smell is from airbags — metallic, artificial, choking.

Then Spencer’s voice: small, breathless. "Are you okay?"

He twisted in his seat fast enough that the airbag deflated awkwardly against his chest. His hands trembled as they reached for you, hesitating just shy of touching your face. Your breathing was quick but steady. You blinked, then reached up instinctively to touch your temple. Your fingers came back red.

Spencer’s eyes widened. His jaw clenched. "You're bleeding," he said, and it was more a statement to himself than to you — like his brain had to say it aloud to accept it. His voice was tight. Controlled. But his hands were shaking. He leaned closer, peering through the blood, trying to spot the source. His fingers brushed your skin so delicately it almost didn’t register. But then he saw it.

"I think... there's a shard of glass still in the wound," he murmured, quieter now. His brows drew together, a crease forming between them. His hazel gaze was focused, clinicall but his heart pounded hard against his ribs — so loud it echoed in his ears. Guilt swelled in his chest, icy and sharp. He had swerved. He had overreacted. He should’ve been more composed. Thirty-seven years old, multiple PhDs, years behind the wheel — he should’ve handled it better.

But instincts had taken over. And now you were hurt.

"I’m going to grab the kit from the glove compartment, okay?" he rambled, but his voice was low and purposeful — trying to stay grounded, trying to sound steady for you. “Don’t move too much. It’s— it’s a shallow cut, I think, but there’s still glass. I’ll fix it. I’ve got you.”