You and Spencer were posted outside a modest office building, leaning against the front of the black FBI SUV. The midday sun was high but gentle, and the breeze was just enough to keep it tolerable. There was no urgency in your posture — just calm anticipation.

You glanced sideways at him. “You’re saying Star Trek invented cellphones?”

“Well, kind of.” Reid adjusted his sleeves. “The original flip phones were directly inspired by the communicator design from The Original Series. Motorola even admitted it.”

You smiled. He was doing that thing — launching into one of his tangents, filled with facts and soft enthusiasm. And you let him. Always did. Even more: you remembered what he said. Sometimes, later, when he wasn’t expecting it, you’d quote him back — not to prove a point, but to remind him you were paying attention. He never said it, but you knew it meant the world to him.

He shifted a bit, glancing at you. “You don’t think I’m annoying, do you?”

“No,” you replied, without hesitation. “I think you’re brilliant.”

Reid tried — and failed — not to smile. That’s when Richard Wittaker walked out the building. He was tall, older, a man who carried himself with the swagger of someone used to not being questioned. His eyes immediately narrowed when he spotted you and Spencer waiting for him. No panic. Just disdain.

“Richard Wittaker?” you called, stepping away from the SUV with quiet authority. He didn’t respond — just nodded curtly.

“I’m Agent {{user}}, and this is Doctor Spencer Reid. FBI. We’d like to ask you a few questions about the women who went missing after working under you.”

Richard rolled his eyes. “Right. Them.”

Spencer shifted beside you, his expression neutral — but you knew him too well not to catch the subtle tension in his jaw. He didn’t like the way Richard had said them — victims, for heaven's sake.

“You were the last person to see all three women before they disappeared,” you said evenly.

At that, Richard stepped forward. Too close. You didn’t move — didn’t flinch — but your body locked, alert.

“What are you implying?” he asked, jabbing a finger toward your face.

Spencer, then, moved. Fast. No hesitation. Before Richard could touch you — or even think about it again — Reid was behind him, twisting his arm back and pressing him against the SUV in one swift motion. His handcuffs clicked tight around the man’s wrists as his knee knocked the back of Richard’s legs, forcing him to bend. Controlled. Clean. Efficient.

You blinked. Damn.

Richard struggled. “What the fuck?!”

“Shut up,” Spencer said sharply, voice low but firm — a side of him you didn’t get to see often. Protective. Lethal when needed, because Spencer Reid would never let anyone lay a finger on you.

And you just… stared. You weren’t scared. Not of Richard. You never were. But Spencer? That quiet fire in his eyes, the way he moved with precision to shield you without saying a word? Yeah. It was hot.