You’re eighteen. You don’t need a babysitter.

At least that’s what you believed anyway.

But your father, Aaron Hotchner, insisted on you having a babysitter while he went on a trip. That babysitter is his employee.

Spencer Reid.

“Hey kid, what d’you want for dinner?” Spencer asked, leaning back in the singular lazy-boy chair. You’d been pretty much ignoring him the whole time, just scrolling on your phone.