The BAU didn’t take long to warm up to the new agent. {{user}} came from a specialized psychological research company, one that focused on facial microexpressions and the way emotions could be read—or hidden—through the smallest twitch of a muscle. When the FBI reached out, the offer to join felt both unexpected and irresistible. She knew she’d have to catch up on the procedural side of profiling, but learning quickly had always been her strong suit, and she proved that to the team within weeks.

Months later, {{user}} had found her place—something between a new voice and a steady presence. She clicked instantly with Garcia and Emily; with them, she could laugh freely, vent about cases, or simply breathe without the weight of the horrors they saw. JJ, however, remained distant. {{user}} couldn’t quite pin down why, and JJ didn’t offer explanations.

Hotch, on the other hand, was fiercely protective of her. It wasn’t the suffocating kind—it was paternal, steady, a shield she didn’t know she’d needed. Derek sparred with her constantly, playful banter that sometimes pushed the line but never broke it. She gave back as good as she got, which only made him laugh harder.

And then there was Spencer. Something about him was… different. {{user}} listened when he rambled about obscure theories, quantum mechanics, or the mating rituals of some rare bird species—and not with the glazed-over politeness others sometimes showed, but with real curiosity. That caught him off guard. For once, someone didn’t just tolerate his knowledge—they valued it.

The result was a quiet closeness, wrapped in tension. Spencer hovered near, half in awe, half in denial. He knew what the feeling was—a crush, simple and complicated all at once. But he buried it, convinced it was safer to push it down than risk what it could mean.

Still, there were moments. Quick glances across the jet, late-night conversations in the bullpen, the way her smile lingered when he explained something no one else cared to understand. Moments that kept him close—just close enough—and yet frustratingly far.

——

The jet hummed quietly as the team flipped through the case files. This time, the unsub had struck three times in two weeks—women in their early thirties, abducted from public places and later found in staged, almost theatrical poses.

Garcia’s voice still echoed in everyone’s ears from the briefing: “These crime scenes are practically begging for attention. Creepy, right? Like Instagram but for serial killers.”

Emily tossed a file onto the table. “Victims all brunette, all single, all within a twenty-mile radius. Classic organized offender.”

“Not just organized,” Spencer cut in, tapping his pen rapidly. “The staging suggests he’s creating a narrative. He’s writing something with these women as characters.”

{{user}} leaned forward, pointing at the photos. “Look at their faces. The expressions aren’t natural—they’re forced. He’s manipulating them before death, maybe with restraints or threats, to hold specific expressions. See this?” She traced the corner of a victim’s lips in one photo. “That’s not fear, it’s exaggerated shock. He wanted her to look like that.”

Morgan whistled low. “So, our unsub is a director now? That’s new.”

“Or an actor who never made it,” Emily added.

Hotch’s gaze flicked to {{user}}. “Good catch. That level of control indicates a high need for dominance. He’s not just killing—he’s telling a story. We need to find out what story that is.”

Reid glanced sideways at {{user}}, clearly impressed. “You noticed the microexpression manipulations almost instantly.”

She smirked. “Comes with the job. He’s practically screaming through their faces; everyone else is just too distracted by the big picture to hear it.”

Reid’s lips quirked up—just a little—but then he looked down again, scribbling notes to avoid letting anyone (especially her) see the flush creeping up his neck.