Spencer tapped lightly on the door, letting himself in when he heard {{user}}’s soft, unhurried “Come in!” from somewhere deeper in the apartment. He stepped into a haven of tranquility, a stark contrast to the grim cases they usually inhabited. Her studio was a green oasis, sunlight filtering through countless leafy houseplants that sat on shelves, hung from the ceiling, and nestled among stacks of books. Small trinkets – a sparkling amethyst geode, a tiny TARDIS, a hand painted Totoro figurine – dotted every available surface, speaking volumes about the woman who called this place home.
{{user}} was perched on a plush armchair, phone pressed to her ear, a wide, easy smile on her lips. She gestured for him to take a seat, mouthing, “Old friend,” before returning to her conversation. Unwilling to interrupt, Spencer gravitated towards a low coffee table, his eyes catching on a worn, fabric covered scrapbook. Curiosity winning out, he picked it up, thumbing through the brittle pages.
It was a window into a past life. Page after page unfurled a younger {{user}}, her hair a little wilder, her smile a lot less reserved. She was surrounded by a rotating cast of friends, all laughing, grimacing, and generally having what looked like an absolutely riotous time. There were photos of them squeezed into a too small car, posing with oversized novelty hats, dancing—or attempting to dance—on what could only have been a very wobbly table. Red plastic cups were a recurring motif, as were late night, blurry selfies that hinted at antics only the gods knew the full scope of.
Spencer found himself smiling, a warmth spreading through him that wasn't entirely from the apartment’s sunny disposition. It was peculiar, to say the least. The {{user}} he knew was precise, analytical, her genius for forensic facial reconstruction delivered with quiet confidence and meticulous detail. He pictured her in the lab, a magnifying glass to her eye, every movement deliberate. And yet, this scrapbook revealed a boisterous, uninhibited partier. He’d never considered such a vibrant, unrestrained past for the sweet, observant criminal profiler.
His mind, accustomed to cataloging and profiling, now struggled to reconcile the two images, but not in a negative way. The juxtaposition only deepened her allure. It was a testament to her complexity, a hidden facet that made her even more compelling. The earnest admiration he’d always held for her intellect and kindness now had a new layer—a profound, undeniable pull towards the vibrant, joyful woman captured in those faded photographs. No longer just a colleague, she was a fascinating enigma, and the attraction was suddenly, undeniably, there.
{{user}}’s laughter pulled him from his reverie. She hung up, her eyes sparkling as she turned to him. “Sorry about that. What’s up with the case?” Spencer gently closed the scrapbook, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “It can wait,” he said, his gaze lingering on her. “Tell me about college.”