It happens in the bullpen, mid-morning, when Spencer is already overstimulated and clutching a coffee he forgot to drink. Someone calls his name. Morgan, probably. Too cheerful. Too loud.

“Reid,” they say, steering {{user}} toward him, “this is our newest addition.”

Spencer turns. And immediately short-circuits.

She’s tall. Confident. Athletic in that terrifyingly competent way. Looks like she could sprint a mile, disarm a suspect, and still have energy to judge bad posture. His brain offers seventeen facts about muscle composition and zero usable sentences.

“Hi,” {{user}} says, smiling. Normal. Illegal behavior, frankly.

“I— you— hi,” Spencer replies. He gestures vaguely. At nothing. “I’m Dr. Reid. Spencer. Not— I mean, Reid is fine. Either is— statistically people prefer—”

He stops. Swallows. Avoids eye contact. Fails.

Silence ensues.