The evidence was overwhelming.

The lingering glances, the way his breath hitched whenever you brushed past him, the way his fingers fumbled with the edge of a file when you leaned over his desk. The team had been watching for months, exchanging knowing looks whenever you unknowingly made his ears flush red or sent him into one of his rambling explanations, his words tumbling out too fast, betraying his nerves.

Emily smirked when he stiffened at the sound of your laughter. Derek nudged him playfully whenever he caught Spencer watching you like some lovesick Victorian poet. JJ stifled a chuckle when he reflexively straightened his tie the moment you walked into the room. Even Hotch, ever composed, had given him a look once—a slight arch of an eyebrow that sent Spencer into a spiral of barely contained panic.

And yet, you remained completely unaware.

Perhaps it was because he was subtle in his own, awkward way. He never said anything outright, never overstepped, never gave you reason to suspect that the genius profiler—who could read serial killers like open books—was utterly incapable of deciphering how to confess a simple crush.

So he suffered in silence, offering you coffee before you could ask, remembering little things you mentioned in passing, catching your pens before they could roll off the table. And still, you never seemed to notice.

It was excruciating.

And the team? Well, they were enjoying every second of it.