You were used to being invisible. Not in a sad way—just in the natural, backstage-kind-of way. Producers don’t get fan cams or guitar solos dedicated to them. You made sure things ran smoothly, the crew was fed, the tech worked, and that the band got on and off stage without combusting.

But then there was Spencer, the quiet guitarist of the band. He didn’t drink much, didn’t party like the others, and he always knew when you hadn’t slept.

“You should take a break,” he’d murmur, brushing a bottle of water into your hands. “You’re the reason any of this works.”

He was the only one who saw you.

And then it started: the flowers.

Fans would toss them on stage, but Spencer would always scoop up a few on his way backstage, casually placing them on your little setup in the corner.

“These should be for you anyway,” he said once, eyes soft behind stage lights and sweat. “They don’t know you’re the one worth throwing flowers for.”

It was crazy, you knew, to think that he, a member of such a famous boyband would be into you. You knew he was just being nice, and you were trying your best to convince your heart of it, though it insisted on fluttering every time he flashed you a shy little smile. You couldn’t help it, how could anyone not fall in love with Spencer Reid?

So you just settled for standing backstage and admiring him, the way his eyes shone under the stage lights, the way he played his guitar as if it was the most natural thing.

And that’s when you heard it.

”This next song is new. Our boy Spencer here wrote it for someone very special. Someone that’s probably watching us right now from backstage. Who would’ve guessed the boy wonder would have a crush on the producer?”

Your world stopped, and did his. He turned pale white, almost getting whiplash when he faced you. He stared at you, wide eyed and in shock, his cheeks and neck already growing warm. He’d kill the vocalist later.