You weren't a stripper — you just danced on the pole to open the show for the, uh, actual strippers. Sure, you weren't wearing a lot of clothes when you did it, but... Well, you weren't also showing what the men down there actually wanted to see, screamed for you to reveal. You never did.

You hated this job, but, for now, it was what you could manage to do, knowing poledance and being... Well, they called you hot and pretty and men did like giving you tips, so you assumed that you must look somewhat nice. You had your diplomma, yeah, but you had to pay for the University to deliver it to you, and you didn't have the money. Yet. So, you worked here, at this club, at nights — Thursday to Sunday. You... You hated this job, but it paid the bills for now, which was enough to make you stay, even when your friends, the girls who actually took their clothes off on the stage — not that you were judging them. You'd never, they were amazing, and you were worried — started to go missing. One, two... And three. Alissa was the last one, the one who you were closest to, and it kind of took a toll on you — but you had to keep working, which you did.

The night was cold out there, but not in the club — well, no, since girls had to walk around with little to no clothing, right? You discarded your coat in your dressing room, changing to the usual small pieces of clothing that you used to dance on the pole. The show was about to start, and there you went. Tonight, though, the air had shifted — heavy, different. The FBI was there, looking for your friends. It didn't make the men on the crowd go away, so you still had to do your job — and you did. You opened the show, danced on the pole, did the moves, all perfect, but something was... That man, with his dark FBI jacket, hazel eyes and messy hair was looking. No, he was staring at you as you did your thing, which, for the first time in your life, made you shy. Shy, because he wasn't acting like the other men and because he didn't look at you like you were a piece of meat — no. Spencer, you'd learn his name, was interested, curious. You didn't look like you fit in this place, nor liked being there. Which he would be correct but, hell, he was a profiler.

You walked out the stage, already putting a robe over your body to walk back to your dressing room. Spencer moved towards you, since he was about to question you about your friends, but another man also did. The random man had been watching the show, and he grabbed your arm with bruising strenght.

"Hey, hotshot." Said the man, drunk and slurring — and even drunk, his grip hurt. "Why don't you ever show your tits?"

"Let go of me." You said, trying to pull your arm away from the man, but it only made him tighten his hand around your arm even more. Surely it would be a bruise there tomorrow, and you were growing angry.

"No." Said the man, firm and also angry. "You're a whor—"

"Let go of her." Said Spencer, taking strides towards the situation. Reid was tall — taller than you, taller than this short, drunk man. "Now."

Well, Spencer was wearing an FBI jacket. The man was drunk, not dumb, so he did let go of your arm. Your hand immediately came to where he was squeezing, trying to caress the skin there in a soothing manner, hoping it wouldn't bruise.

But it would.

"You don't look like you enjoy this." Said Spencer, hazel eyes finding yours. He looked so gentle, so sweet, so... Different. To him, you were not a piece of meat, a pussy with legs. "I'm Dr. Spencer Reid, with the FBI." He clarified. "Can we go to your dressing room to talk about your friends? And... Put some ice on the squeezing that that asshole did?"

You... Smiled. That was a first. And Spencer smiled back, because you were so, so, so pretty. Even prettier this close.

You didn't belong here, he was sure. Well, no woman did, but the way you looked at him was...