Fine. You had been wrong — and you knew it. You didn’t need Spencer to spell it out for you. But he was angry. Not the sharp, reactive kind of anger, but the quiet, heavy kind that simmered just beneath the surface. Spencer Reid had carried more of that in him since prison. You knew that. And you loved him anyway — just as he loved you, even if, in moments like this, he forgot how to show it.

Sometimes, he didn’t even realize he was angry. Jail had carved rougher edges into him, forced him to raise his voice to be heard, to harden his tone just to survive. The trauma hadn’t faded — not really. And you understood that. You didn’t pity him; you had empathy. You stayed, supported, adjusted. But tonight… this was different. Tonight, Spencer crossed a line.

Yes, your decision had slowed the team down. The unsub had slipped away. But you had done it to protect him. And no one blamed you — not really. Prentiss had pulled you aside, voice firm but not unkind, and reminded you not to do it again. Reid can take care of himself, she said. You were already feeling the weight of guilt and that should have been enough.

But Spencer started the fight. It happened in the empty briefing room, the tension settling thick between the two of you. He turned to you, arms crossed, eyes cold.

“I don’t need babysitting,” he said flatly.

You exhaled, slow and tired. “Yes, Spencer, I know,” you replied. “But I just wanted to make sure you were safe. Is that really so awful?”

“It is,” he snapped, voice cutting in a way that made your chest tighten. He didn’t even notice his tone. “Yeah, it is when an unsub gets away because you’re too busy playing bodyguard. I’m not a kid, {{user}}. I’m older than you. I know how—”

“I know,” you said again, sharper this time. “I know, Spencer. Can we just drop it now?”

“No!” he snapped — louder. Sharper. That made you stop. He had never snapped like that before. “No, we can’t! I don’t need you to protect me!”

But he did. “I don’t want you to protect me!”

But he did. He just couldn’t bear to admit it. “I don’t need you making reckless calls. Don’t be—” he stopped, just a second too late, “—a stupid idiot!”

Oh. You blinked. The words hit like a slap. You stared at him, stunned — not angry, just hurt. And it showed. You could see the shift in his eyes, the immediate regret crashing into him like a wave.

He hadn’t meant it, not for you. Maybe he had been the idiot before, for putting himself in danger to catch an unsub. But, oh, God, not you. Of all people. Memories of inmates yelling, degrading, berating him — they came flooding back in an instant. He had sworn he’d never do that to anyone else. But he had. He’d yelled. He’d insulted you. You. Of all people. The person he loved most.

His voice broke the silence, softer now — fragile.

“Say something,” he whispered, pleading.