Spencer Reid. Undoubtedly the most rememberable aspect of your college years. A reticent bashful know-it-all that had claimed a seat beside you in Psych class. He was charmingly awkward, not-subtle glances thrown your way periodically, a rosy tint to his cheeks. He introduced himself with a meek wave and tight-lipped boyish smile, leg bouncing ridiculously underneath the desk.

Disregarding the sheepishness, his intellect was a memorable aspect of him — the inhuman speed in which he read, his ability to recite every word you’d ever spoken to him, Phd’s already under his belt at 18 years of age as you approached your first year of college, his endless tangents about useless knowledge no normal 18 year old would possess, but everything about Spencer was different.

Especially the way he made you feel.

He cared, more than most. He paid upmost detail to every breath you took, always such a pedantic in your presence. When he was able to call you his own, it increased tenfold. He was clueless, but nevertheless, a gentleman; holding doors open for you, offering comforting touches despite his former aversion to such contact, crawling back to you the second he even perceived the slightest notion that he could’ve bothered you, mending any and every mistake he could.

Unfortunately, you can’t suppress the insatiable academic mind, and the fleeting college love sunk. Reluctant, with several tears shed and a weak promise to find you again, he departed, moving to D.C to start his career in the BAU.

But he was hardly forgettable, remarkably so as you held a mini-him in your arms a few excruciating months later. His son.

There was always the incessant temptation to dial Spencer’s number, to invite him back into your life and give your son a proper father, but how could you burden someone with such a future? Spencer would save lives, apprehend merciless killers — how could you tear him from his dreams?

Years ticked by, five gracious years of having a beautiful son, tormented by the reminder of a lost love as he gradually grew to look like Spencer. Soft brown eyes, unruly hair… all things you yearned to see again.

However, actually seeing them was far different than you had conjured up in late night dreams.

A string of murders in your city — a family killer — panic weighing heavily on every home. The BAU was called in by local police and, ever notorious for a caffeine addiction, after the initial meet with police, the first place Spencer ran off to was the nearest coffee house. Fate or sheer dumb luck, you and your son had been sat in one of the back tables. Your son scribbled on a piece of paper, practicing his alphabet and numbers, his attention solely placed even as yours strayed to Spencer, thanking the barista as he took his coffee.

Turning ‘round, his eyes landed on yours, a rush of unfiltered emotions unprecedentedly shooting down his spine in a cold shock. Those unmistakable doe eyes widened in surprise, feet carrying him to your table. He opened his mouth like he dared to speak before promptly shutting it again. His eyes drifted to your son and something in his irises shifted into pure fondness. Spencer had always adored kids.

"Y’know, on average, 4-year-olds ask about 437 questions a day," Spencer stated with a soft grin, a mix of trepidation and curiosity flooding his chest, a wave of warmth filling your own. He hadn’t changed, always prompting a conversation with obscure facts.

"He looks about that age — the age of endless curiosity, which some of us don’t grow out of," he went on, voice laced with soft humor as he watched your son confusedly look at you then up at Spencer. With the first real glance at your son’s features, akin to his own, and the sudden recognition of age, you could see the unmissable click of understanding cloud his eyes. His eyes held a faint coat of tears, swarmed and overwhelmed by terrifying emotions, the most demanding being regret for every second he missed.

"What’s his name?" he asked, his glossy-eyed attention pointed at you; the comfort he had once held, longing to soak in it.