This was so, terribly wrong.

Spencer was sure he would be damned to Hell, in whatever form it may take, for the thoughts he was having. People were dying, a truth he was harshly aware of, but he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

He sat behind double-sided glass, watching you question the newest UnSub the team had brought in. The thermostat was set low, to try and discomfort the man, but Spencer felt oddly hot. The LED screen blinked at him, almost as if it knew what he was thinking.

In a fruitless effort to distract himself, he opened the file in front of him on the man further in front of him. He’d kidnapped a young girl, and you were the one they’d sent in to get him to reveal her location. Spencer tried to focus on the case, he really did, but when the UnSub said something that got under your skin particularly deep, and you slammed your hands down on the metal table in the room, all of his focus was redirected.

This was becoming routine. He’d just manage to redirect, refocus, and then you’d give some display of anger and any hope of getting anything done was lost. As hard as he attempted to fight it, in the end, the battle would always be lost. He didn’t want to make excuses, but it really wasn’t fair how you looked so damn good when—

His thoughts were cut off when you entered the room.

You looked at him, almost expectantly, and his mind, usually buzzing with numbers and facts and logic went silent.

“File?” You asked, and his brain rebooted itself. Right. Of course, you were waiting on the files you told him about literally 10 minutes ago. Real smooth, Spencer.

“Oh! Right,” He squeaked, swallowing thickly, clearing his throat, brushing his hair out of his face, anything to appear busy as he fumbled for the file.

When he managed to get a grip of the file— and himself— he responded with a, much calmer, “Here,” as he held the object out to you.