Spencer came home late — another case, exhausting flights, endless interviews. He quietly opened the door, trying not to wake {{user}}. But the light in the living room was still on. She was sitting on the couch in his shirt, reading one of his books — a rare edition on behavioral psychology.

“You’re reading that willingly?” he asked, surprised, as he sat down beside her.

{{user}} gave a soft snort. “Well, I missed you. And your books are the quickest way to feel close to you when you’re not around.”

He smiled, and she saw it — the tiredness in his eyes, hidden behind his usual polite calm.

“Tough day?” she asked gently, taking his hand in hers.

“There was a kid…” he began, then fell silent. “It’s okay. We made it in time.”

{{user}} leaned against him, wrapped a blanket around them both, and rested her head on his shoulder.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you’re my safest profile. I can’t explain it with formulas, but when you’re here… everything feels easier.”

{{user}} smiled and kissed his temple. “Told you we’d work out. Even if I don’t understand 40% of what you say.”

He chuckled softly and pulled her closer. And that night, he didn’t think about crimes, or statistics, or theories. Only about her. And how maybe, just maybe, happiness didn’t need to be explained — only shared.