She always waited.

Late-night texts left on read, empty promises spun between pages of old books and half-hearted smiles. And still, she waited. Because Spencer Reid had a way of speaking that made silence feel like music, and even his absence felt intentional, like he meant to come back.

She watched him—brilliant, distant, always somewhere just out of reach. He never meant to hurt her. That’s the thing. He never said, “I love you,” but he never said, “I don’t.” Instead, he’d talk about string theory or Dostoevsky, and she’d sit there, pretending those words meant something more.

Spencer was kind. That was the trap. He cared—just not in the way she needed. And she clung to every small gesture like a breadcrumb trail back to hope. He’d smile at her across the BAU bullpen, maybe bring her coffee if he remembered how she liked it. And she, the foolish one, would mistake kindness for love, habit for promise.

When he finally started seeing someone else—someone more direct, someone who didn’t wait—she smiled and said she was happy for him. dumb. Then she went home and cried in the dark, rewriting every moment in her head, trying to find where she’d misunderstood.

But months passed. Seasons changed. She learned to stop waiting. The pain dulled, though the memory didn’t.

And one day, Spencer stood outside her apartment, hands in his pockets, regret in his eyes. “I think I made a mistake,” he said.