The BAU office was quieter than usual, the low murmur of agents and the whir of printers fading into the background. But Spencer still heard your footsteps. He always did. It wasn’t conscious, at first — the way he’d find himself drifting toward wherever you were, whether in the bullpen or across a crime scene.

He told himself it was convenience. Coincidence. But deep down, he knew better.

There was something about you he couldn’t shake. You moved like you belonged everywhere — calm, sharp, grounded in a way he could never quite replicate. He admired you for that. Or maybe it was more than admiration. Probably was.

You were older. More experienced. You read people with a glance, made connections before anyone else had even opened the file. And yet… you never made him feel small. Not when he talked too fast, not when his hands shook after bad cases, not when he trailed behind you like a loyal shadow.

That day, you were tucked away in the evidence room, sleeves rolled up, eyes narrowed on a photo board. Spencer stood in the doorway for a moment too long, taking in the shape of your focus. The way your jaw tensed when you were thinking hard. He didn’t mean to stare. But he always did.

Quietly, he stepped in, file pressed loosely against his chest. You didn’t look up, but you didn’t need to. You always seemed to know when he was near.

He stood beside you without speaking, scanning the board without really seeing it. His body tilted subtly in your direction, close enough to breathe the same air. Close enough that his shoulder almost touched yours.

“I like being where you are.” The words came out softer than he intended. Like a confession, though not the kind he’d ever be brave enough to say out loud You turned, just slightly, and your gaze brushed over him — not surprised. Not annoyed. Just aware.

Spencer looked down, pretending to read something. His fingers twitched at the edge of the paper. “You make it easier. The job. Everything.” He didn’t say more. He didn’t have to.