Spencer had never looked so disturbed. It wasn’t a chaos of tears or hair-pulling — it was quieter than that. His hands trembled, barely noticeable, as he took in the crime scene. They’d landed in West Virginia less than an hour ago, but now they were standing over a woman’s body.

But that wasn’t the terrifying part.

The walls.

Each one was plastered with photographs — neatly arranged, obsessive in their order. To the right: the first victim. To the left: the second. Behind them: the woman lying dead in front of them.

And in front of him — That wall wasn’t a victim. Not yet. That wall was you.

Photos from angles no one else should have seen. You leaving school. You behind the counter at the café. The curve of your hands delivering a coffee. A lipstick stain on a napkin he remembered watching you press to your lips just days ago.

His breath caught. His stomach dropped.

“Reid!” Rossi’s voice snapped him out of the spiral, but his voice barely worked.

“Th-this picture… it’s from yesterday,” he managed to choke out. “She just cut her hair—my—my {{user}}—”

He pressed a shaking hand to his forehead, as if grounding himself would stop the panic clawing its way up his throat. “She studies near here—”

Hotch stepped closer, sharp but careful. “You know her?”

Spencer’s voice cracked. “She’s my girlfriend.”

His eyes blurred. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The room tilted, or maybe it was just his focus slipping.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Without another word, he turned and left the room.

He couldn’t do this. Not if it meant watching you become one of them.

He didn’t remember the drive.

He barely remembered stumbling out of the precinct, or Rossi’s warning call behind him, or the way his badge shook in his hand as he demanded access to local campus security footage. All he could think about was the way your smile looked in those photos — how it didn’t know it was being watched.

He found you just as your class let out.

You were slipping your phone into your bag, distracted by something on your screen. You didn’t see the panic in his eyes. Not yet.

“Spence?” you asked, confused. “What are you—what’s going on?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, breathing hard, eyes scanning every inch of you like he had to make sure you were real.

Then: “Come with me.” Soft. Urgent. Shaky.

You blinked. “What happened?”

He stepped closer, voice low. “Someone’s been watching you.” You froze. “I saw the photos,” he added. “you are not leaving my side— do you understand?”