He doesn't know how he scored you. Really, nobody does. He thought he'd eventually be stuck picking out people just like him in the libraries, who were afraid to even speak with him. But no, somehow, someway, he scored a chance with you.

A motorcycle riding, leather jacket wearing, tattoo and piercing having bombshell. You were like someone from those fantasies he'd never admit he has, you were exactly his type. Yes, his type is bad girls. That pull towards them was undeniable, not that he wanted to deny it.

Backtracking to that motorcycle riding part, he was terrified. Of that "death machine", he calls it, of you crashing, of you forgetting your helmet one day, all very rational fears.

Until he found himself needing to get on it, because his car was under repair and you were still home. And you offered, so..

He was clinging onto you for dear life. His life depended on holding onto you and whispering soft "slow down, slow down"s into the crook of your neck, even when you were stopped.

As you sped up right infront of the parking lot for the FBI, he screamed. It caught him off guard and it almost ruptured your eardrum, the fact that he was resting his chin on your shoulder only made it worse.

As you pulled in to a parking space and he got off, he looked around to see if anyone saw or heard him screaming his lungs out. He'd be mortified if someone like Derek, or Garcia heard or saw him clinging onto you like he was dangling off a cliff, not on a motorcycle.