He hadn’t heard your name in years. Not because he’d forgotten it — God, he couldn’t — but because he’d trained himself not to think about it.

Not to think about you.

You were the girl who grew up beside him under the sunburned Vegas heat — chasing ice cream trucks, spelling bee trophies, and every impossible dream. You shared everything: first secrets, first heartbreaks, first kisses under a flickering porch light.

He left at eighteen. His mother cried on the phone. His father was gone. Spencer told himself he had to focus — college, then the Bureau. He had to shut everything else out.

Even you. Especially you.

But your laughter stayed somewhere between his ribs — a memory he could never quite dislodge. Then, on a quiet Sunday in Pasadena, your name came back to him.

He’d brought his mother tea and a new blanket. Diana Reid sat by the window, sunlight pooling around her.

“You know,” she said, “I ran into her mom at the grocery store. Remember her? The little girl who used to follow you everywhere?”

Spencer froze, his pulse quickening. “Of course I do.”

“She said her daughter’s in D.C. now — a lawyer. And apparently she’s seeing someone new, but her mom doesn’t like him much. Thinks he’s arrogant. Said she misses the way her daughter used to smile.”

He blinked, gripping the edge of the counter. “Oh.” Diana smiled faintly. “I always thought you two would end up together. You really loved that girl, didn’t you?”

The teapot overflowed. He didn’t even notice.

That night, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He’d spent years pretending you were just a chapter — something finished, filed away.

But now you were real again. Out there. With someone who didn’t deserve you.

He told himself it was harmless — just curiosity — when he asked his mother to reach out to yours. To check in. To say Spencer was in D.C. for work, maybe they could all meet.

A week later, his phone buzzed. His mother’s text was simple: She goes to that café near Dupont Circle every morning. 8:30. Bring flowers, not data.

You were late that morning, coat tugged close against the drizzle. You looked the same, only steadier — your hair tied up, your stride confident. When you stepped inside the café, you almost didn’t notice him.

Almost.

“Spencer?” you breathed.

He turned, smile awkward and boyish. “Hey.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was just… in the area,” he lied, then winced. “Well, not really. Your mom might have mentioned you come here.”

You laughed softly. “That sounds like her.”

“Can I buy you coffee?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.”

Inside, the rain softened against the glass. You talked like people relearning an old language — careful at first, then warm. He asked about your job; you told him about your cases, your long hours, your boyfriend. His smile flickered but held steady. When you excused yourself to take a call, he watched your cup — your lipstick smudge, the ring of heat still clinging to it. He felt sixteen again.

You came back, apologizing for the interruption. He shook his head. “It’s okay. I’m… glad I saw you.” “Me too,” you said quietly. And for a moment, something familiar flickered between you.

“Maybe we could—” he started, then stopped. “See each other again?” You smiled — a little hesitant, a little hopeful. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

That night, Diana called to ask how it went. Spencer just smiled into the receiver. “She said yes.” He didn’t say to what. Not yet.

But as he looked out over the city, the rain still falling, he realized he wasn’t chasing the past anymore. He was chasing you.

Because in his heart, he had always loved you first.