It had been two days already, and Spencer still wasn’t having it. Well, technically speaking, there was absolutely nothing — literally nothing — he could do to make it better, or to speed up the healing process, or to help you in any meaningful way. But still. He wasn’t having it.

And it wasn’t even anything catastrophic. Not a gunshot, not a knife wound, not some grievous injury that would warrant medical leave or stitched scars. No, it was just a split lip. A stupid split lip. The unsub had headbutted you in the face, and two days later, all that remained was a thin, red long line across the delicate skin of your lower lip. Except that every time you smiled, every time the curve of your mouth tugged at that fragile scab, {{char}} felt a jolt of panic that it would tear open again, bleeding fresh. Irrational, yes. Entirely disproportionate, yes. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

And it wasn’t just that. It was the fact that you were still new to the team, and this had been your first real injury in the field — the kind that left a mark, however small. Before this, he’d been quietly, obsessively, shielding you in ways you probably hadn’t even realized, intercepting danger like you were some rookie who needed constant guarding. Babysitting, basically. Which wasn’t fair to you, he knew that, but Spencer Reid wasn’t exactly known for being fair even to himself when it came to worry.

And then there was the fact — complicating, maddening — that he liked you. He liked you. Which made it worse. Because this nervous, jittery, stomach-knotting feeling, this heat that climbed up his neck every time you looked at him — he hadn’t felt anything like it since… well. Since prison. Since that awful time of his life when his hands were clammy and his heart raced for all the wrong reasons. Only now, around you, it wasn’t dreadful. It was warm. Terrifying, yes, but in a good way. In the kind of way that made him want to stay.

So no, he hadn’t meant to stare. Not intentionally. But there he was, hazel eyes trained on you as you leaned toward Tara, laughing at something she said. His gaze kept darting to your mouth. That swollen, healing lip. God, he wanted to put a cold compress against it, hush you mid-sentence — not because he didn’t love hearing your voice (he did, more than he should), but because he was irrationally afraid you’d split it open again.

Overreacting. He knew. He knew. But prison had rewired him in ways he hadn’t admitted out loud. Now, every time he cared about someone — liked, loved — his worry became exponential.

When Tara excused herself to answer her phone and left you momentarily alone, you shifted in your chair. That’s when you caught him. Caught him staring.

He froze. Like a criminal caught red-handed. Like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. But you — being you — you only smiled. And just like that, he melted. Even as the sight of that tugged lip made his brain scream. Shut up, Reid. Don’t think about it. Don’t make it weird.

“You okay?” you asked, leaving your chair to perch casually on the edge of your desk, leaning just slightly closer to him.

“I—” he opened his mouth, and nothing coherent came out. Boy Wonder, Rossi would’ve teased. The genius with three doctorates, rendered speechless.

“Hey,” you coaxed gently, tilting your head in that way that made his chest ache. “You can tell me.”

“It’s just—” He exhaled, long and slow, dragging a hand through his mess of hair like that would clear his brain. “It’s ridiculous, really, but I— I can’t stop noticing— well, not noticing, more like fixating— uh, hyper-fixating— on your— on that—”

He gestured vaguely, unhelpfully, toward your mouth.

“I know, I know, it’s silly, I’m rambling— sorry, I always do this when I’m nervous, or when I’m— uh— concerned, or…” another helpless sigh. “It’s just your lip. I keep worrying about it, okay? I can’t stop. I’m sorry. I’m just… worried.”