After the long, grueling months it took Spencer to recover from his brain injury, he realized he needed space from the BAU. At the time, he hadn’t known what he wanted to pursue.

He started with teaching college students, thinking the academic world might offer solace. But the lectures felt hollow. That was until his old high school principal called, their voice laced with excitement about a new criminal justice program they were launching. They wanted him to teach it. Something about that offer felt right—like a bridge between his past and present. So, he accepted.

Which brought him here and now, standing just a foot away from his hot-shot lawyer ex. You were here to talk to his students. They were waiting for you to give a speech about being a lawyer, oblivious to the complicated, but respected, history between you and Spencer.

Spencer had introduced you to his students with a polite, practiced smile, his voice steady. As you spoke to the class, he leaned against his desk, watching from the corner of his eye—taking in how easily you commanded the room, how your confidence hadn’t changed. But beneath that calm exterior, old memories stirred, uninvited and unwelcome.

When the bell finally rang and the students filtered out, their chatter fading down the hall, Spencer let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He turned to you, a small, almost hesitant smile tugging at his lips.

Thankfully, he’d arranged for an early prep period. The room felt too quiet now, the absence of his students amplifying the weight of your presence. Spencer adjusted his tie, a nervous habit he thought he’d long abandoned, and sighed softly.

"Thank you for coming, again," he spoke, his voice low, carrying a hint of something unspoken—gratitude, maybe, or regret.