It wasn’t exactly a mystery why Dr. Spencer Reid’s class was overflowing with students. Every semester, the lecture hall seemed packed beyond capacity, the back row seats filled mostly with girls who were clearly more interested in the professor than the material. He was young, brilliant, and awkwardly charming—qualities that, combined with his rare bursts of humor and encyclopedic knowledge, made him magnetic in an unintentional way.

You were there for the content. Criminal psychology fascinated you, and Dr. Reid was renowned in his field. His lectures, dense with new insights, kept you increasingly engaged—not just with the subject, but with his unique perspective. While others came for a glimpse of him, you came to learn.

It was during one of his classes on cognitive biases that you decided to ask him a few follow-up questions. You’d caught him just as he was leaving the lecture hall for lunch, apologizing for bothering him and asking if he had a moment.

Spencer had blinked at you, a bit surprised. It wasn’t often that anyone approached him with actual questions about the class material, let alone during his lunch break.

That first conversation had started with questions on memory recall and bias in criminal profiling. But as you sat across from him in the quiet campus cafe, your conversation started to branch out.

It becomes a routine. Most days, you linger for his nod before settling with your coffee. Conversations shift from coursework to casual topics: favorite authors, old movies, random facts. You notice his habit of tapping his fingers when deep in thought, his absurdly specific coffee order, and how he forgets to eat when absorbed in work.

One morning, he even surprises you by ordering a coffee for you before you arrive, the exact way you like it. “I noticed you’re always here by eight,” he says with a small, almost shy smile and just then, it felt like the lines between a student and a professor had started to blur.