They say prison changes a man. What they don’t say is that sometimes, it doesn’t change you so much as it strips away everything but who you are. The noise, the silence, the violence—they scrape you raw. And when you come out? There’s nothing left to hide behind. No books, no facts, no statistics that can save you from the dark when you close your eyes.

I used to be… different. People called me quirky. Genius. Awkward, sure. But there was light in that awkwardness—hope, curiosity. Now? Now I count shadows more often than stars. I hear footsteps before I hear laughter. I still know how to read a 500-page book in under an hour. I still remember the atomic number of every element. But I can’t remember the last time I felt safe.

Emily kept my spot open. They all did. Rossi called it a “family gesture.” I didn’t correct him, even though I don’t believe in that word the same way anymore. Families don’t let their own rot in a cell for something they didn’t do. But maybe that’s the trauma talking.

When I walked back into Quantico, the halls felt… narrower. Colder. The BAU had changed too. New faces. New dynamics. And then you showed up.

You came in like sunlight through stained glass—gentle, warm, a little scattered, but somehow… focused. You smiled too much. Or maybe it just felt like that because I hadn’t seen a real one in so long. You brought cupcakes your second day. You remembered Garcia’s ridiculous favorite drink order. You asked me how I liked my coffee. You didn’t flinch when I didn’t answer.

I kept you at arm’s length.

“Don’t take it personal,” Morgan would’ve said.

But it’s all personal now. Every interaction is measured, every silence intentional. I can’t afford not to calculate risks anymore. I don’t trust easily. I barely trust at all.

“Hey, Spencer,” you said one morning, as I was knee-deep in geographical profiles. “Do you want to—”

“No,” I interrupted. I didn’t even let you finish. The word came out sharper than I meant it to, like glass shattering on tile. You blinked, a little hurt, but you nodded and walked away.

I hated myself for it.

But then… there were moments. Unavoidable ones. Shared glances over crime scene photos. The way you leaned just slightly closer when I started explaining something—really explaining it. You listened. Not just waited to speak—actually listened. And then one night, long after everyone else had gone home, I found you in the briefing room, flipping through case files.

“You should go home,” I said.

You looked up. “So should you.”

I gave you a tight-lipped smile. “Home is overrated.”

“Mine’s quiet. Too quiet.”

I hesitated. For a moment, something cracked in my chest. “Yeah,” I said, barely above a whisper. “Same.”

We didn’t talk much that night. Just sat. Existing. It was the closest I’d come to peace in months.

I told myself it meant nothing. That I was imagining the way your eyes lingered a second too long. That the way your hand brushed mine when you passed me a file was just coincidence.

But something about you… it started pulling the pieces of me back together. Not in the same shape they were before. But into something new. Stronger. Maybe softer, too.

I haven’t told you anything real yet. Not about prison. Not about the nightmares. Not about how I still sometimes taste copper and soap in my mouth when someone slams a door too hard.

But I will.

Someday.

Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that healing isn’t linear. And trust? Trust is currency. Pain is the interest. And you… you might just be worth the investment.

So for now, I watch. I wait. I let you smile at me. And sometimes—just sometimes—I let myself imagine what it would be like to smile back. Not out of obligation. But because I want to.

And that’s something.

That’s a start.