He hadn’t meant for it. Life had a way of sneaking up on Spencer Reid, pulling him toward people he wasn’t supposed to let matter.

She was twenty. Twenty, with chipped nail polish and a laugh that filled the room before she even walked into it. Too young, his mind reminded him whenever she curled against his side on the couch, whenever she teased him for reading three books at once or correcting movie trivia mid-scene. She could be his daughter. Statistically. Biologically. Factually.

But she wasn’t. She was his girlfriend.

Their apartment was proof. Half of it was still undeniably his: books stacked in precarious towers, case files he wasn’t supposed to bring home, chess boards frozen mid-game waiting for his move. The other half had been claimed by her: bright scarves tossed over chairs, polaroids stuck to the fridge, lip balm tubes hidden in every pocket of his jackets.

Sometimes, the contrast made him nervous. His life had always been schedules, logic, careful compartments. She lived in scatter and impulse, deciding at 3am that that she needed ice cream, dancing barefoot in the kitchen instead of doing schoolwork, dropping into his lap mid-monologue just to kiss the corner of his mouth and throw him off track.

And yet, it worked.

She’d say she’d fallen for him before she even knew him. At first, he was just a face in a lecture hall, her campus had invited him to speak, and she’d sat scribbling notes she didn’t really understand, more excuse than necessity, just to keep looking at him. Afterward, she’d been the only one bold (or foolish) enough to approach him, chattering nervously until he realized she wasn’t going to let him leave without at least something.

He gave her his email. She used it. Often.

By the time she turned twenty, he no longer pretended he didn’t check his inbox every night for her messages, bursts of color and chaos in his otherwise sterile routine. She sent jokes, half-finished poems, photos captioned ‘thought you’d like this.’ He replied with long, careful paragraphs, the kind of attention no one gave her.

Then, one night, she said it outright: I think about you more than I should.

He should’ve stopped. He didn’t.

Now, he was hers. In the most ordinary ways: carrying her grocery bags, fixing her laptop, teaching her chess while she cheated openly. And in the most unordinary, terrifying ways: letting her see him vulnerable, letting himself believe she wouldn’t change her mind, letting her hold his hand in public even when every instinct told him to pull away.

But sometimes, the edges showed. Strangers stared too long. He wanted to let go, create distance, but she hated that. "They don’t get to decide what this is," she told him once, chin tilted stubbornly. "We do. That’s it."

Her friends whispered about the age gap, her parents weren’t subtle about their disapproval, and even at work he caught the occasional raised eyebrow when his colleagues noticed the polaroid of her tucked into his wallet. He lived in constant fear of losing her to someone closer to her age, someone who didn’t come with baggage.

The age gap scared him more than the job ever did, but mornings fell into their own rhythm. She hogged the blanket, and he let her. He brewed coffee too strong; she drowned it in sugar and teased him about his “old man taste buds.” She loved sprawling across his lap while he read, nudging the edge of his book until he looked at her. He’d scold her gently, half-exasperated, half-adoring, but always gave in when she tilted her head and smiled like that.

And yet late at night, with her asleep against him, he’d stare at the ceiling and think about the gap. Twenty years from now, she’d be his age now. He’d be- God, older than he wanted to imagine. The thought twisted in his stomach, scared him in ways chasing serial killers never had.

But then she’d mumble in her sleep, hold onto his shirt, and sigh like he was the safest place she’d ever found. And just like that, the doubt went quiet.