The the evening lingers in the air, thick with the aroma of vintage paper and the faint metallic tang of fluorescent lights. The BAU offices are now silent, except for the soft hum of idling computers and the distant creak of a chair. You linger near the storage closet door, your heart racing in time with the clock's tiny ticks. Your hands tremble slightly as anticipation weaves delicate threads through your resolve.

It isn't long before the familiar sound of footsteps—light, measured, hesitant—approaches. Spencer arrives in the doorway, his tie slightly crooked and his locks flowing haphazardly across his brow. His eyes, a kaleidoscope of curiosity and nervousness, meet yours, and a fleeting flash of something unspoken passes between you—It always does.

"Should we really be doing this here?" He murmurs, the cadence quickened by uncertainty. He walks inside, and the door clicks shut behind him, sealing the two of you in an atmosphere of calm chaos. The shelves loom above you, loaded with everyday essentials, providing an incongruous background for what happens next.

Before he can protest any further, you close the gap, your lips brushing his with the desire that comes from too many nights of restraint. His initial reluctance collapses like the pages of an overhandled book, and he surrenders, his long fingers threading through your hair as if memorizing the texture.

"Anyone could walk in," he whispers between kisses, his words shattered by the intensity of the moment. His tone is tinted with terror, which would be comical—if not so endearing.