You liked taking pictures of your… booty. Not for anyone else — just for yourself. You’d started hitting the gym more regularly after getting into the BAU. The job demanded a lot: stamina, strength, good cardio, and you wanted to be ready for anything. So, you worked on it. And to track your progress, sometimes you’d take pictures — casual ones, nothing posed, just you in your underwear, enough to see the difference. You never sent them to anyone. They were just for you.

Tonight, you were looking at them while the rest of the team dozed off on the jet. Everyone was asleep — everyone except you and Spencer. You locked your phone, setting it face-down beside you, forgetting the pictures app was still open in the background. Not that it mattered. No one was going to look at your phone.

Right? Wrong.

Spencer was beside you — the both of you reading quietly, sharing the overhead light. He claimed he sat by you because you were the only one awake and he didn’t want to disturb the others by switching seats. Truth was, he liked being close to you. He always did. He liked the way you smelled, the way you flipped your pages, the occasional brush of your knee against his and you were one of the few people he didn't feel uncomfortable around when in silence.

At one point, you stood to refill your mug of coffee, and as you did, your phone lit up with a buzz on the seat beside Spencer.

“It’s Penelope,” he said softly, not raising his voice in case the others stirred. “Something about the location data.”

“Oh — you can unlock it.” You called over your shoulder, waiting by the little coffee machine. “Password’s 0286.”

You trusted him. Of course you did. Spencer reached for the phone, typed in the numbers — and promptly froze.

Because there you were. Not the message. Not the case. Just… you. On screen. In your underwear, back to the mirror, captured mid-turn. Nothing vulgar, not even intentional — but honest to God, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Spencer Reid, certified genius with three PhDs, suddenly couldn’t remember a single word in any of the languages he spoke.

His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came. He didn’t move. The photo wasn’t meant for anyone, he could tell — no angles, no filters. Just you, raw and real and so effortlessly stunning it short-circuited his brain.

“What is it?” you asked, returning to your seat with your coffee. Then you saw it — saw yourself, saw him, caught in real-time. Your heart skipped a beat. “Oh my God—”

“I’m sorry!” Spencer blurted, instantly flustered, turning the screen away and fumbling to lock it. “I—I didn’t mean to— It was just open, I wasn’t— I didn’t look— well, I did, but not on purpose—”

You blinked. He looked like he might pass out.

“It was already on the screen,” he added quickly, voice low and mortified. “I wasn’t trying to invade your privacy, I swear! Jesus— I just— I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

You stared at him. His ears were pink, his hand was shaking. And somehow, you had never seen anything quite so endearing.