The first time you did it was during an especially boring shift at the BAU. Spencer was hunched over his laptop, typing a report at lightning speed, while you lounged on the couch behind him, bored out of your mind.

“You’ve got hair in your eyes,” you noted casually.

“Yeah? I think I’ve… gotten used to it,” he replied, not even glancing up from the screen.

You sat up behind him and gently gathered a strand of his hair.

“Hold still. I can’t just sit here while you type like some kind of genius woodpecker.”

He let out a soft laugh, and a few minutes later, he realized you were braiding his hair. One braid. Then a second.

“You know,” he said without turning around, “braiding is one of the oldest forms of hair decoration, dating back over 5,000 years in Africa.”

“And you know that if you turn your head right now, I’m starting over.”

“…Got it. Staying still.”

And that’s how it began. Every time you were bored — in the office, on the jet, in hotel rooms between cases — you’d approach him with an innocent look, and he’d just sigh:

“Again?”

“Quiet, professor. Your hair is gorgeous.”

Sometimes you’d give him a tiny braid tucked behind his ear — “for luck.” Sometimes a neat little ponytail, and he’d be mildly surprised to realize he could suddenly see better — nothing falling into his eyes anymore.

He never admitted it, but on the days you didn’t touch his hair, something felt missing. A bit of comfort. A bit of you.