Prided on intellect and pedantry, daunting and intimidating IQ, inhuman reading speed, and an eidetic memory alongside his overly scrupulous way of reading even the most cryptic and enigmatic killers; Spencer was undeniably a genius. Brighter than traditionally deemed fathomable and miraculously humble regarding it — though the apathetic voice in which he explained it often delivered false impressions that he was underwhelmed with such achievements.

However, profiling veiled and reserved UnSubs was easier than navigating the rough terrain of love.

His mind was analytical, set to track tics and cues in the most minute twitches of expressions, scrutinizing the flow of speech and patterned behaviour until the suspect list honed on one lone — with the occasional pair or group — UnSub.

Understanding emotional signals was a vital aspect of his job, relating to stressors and possible triggers into sprees or harmful behaviour. He comprehended them logistically, straight from textbooks onto the field. But understanding how to ask someone out? It’d be easier to try and convince the sun not to rise.

Spencer had stumbled across your book store, on the corner in a section of buildings, a quaint and secluded place that provided momentary solace from chaotic streets and bustling crowds. Enticed by new reads, he’d spent nearly an hour wandering, filing unrecognized book titles into his mind, slipping the occasional off the shelf.

As he returned to the register, a neat stack of four books piled perfectly in his arms, that was his first moment of comprehension regarding feeling butterflies. Blindly and haphazardly, he set his books precariously close to the edge of the counter before hastily pushing them forward, sparing them from a fall, diverting his attention from the sight before him — you.

Stumbling into your store night after night, only taking absences as his work demanded, his routine became habitual. Purchase a small clutter of books with rosy cheeks and boyish smiles, the occasional stutter or fault to his words as he futilely attempted to not look so entranced.

The ritual repeated for a month, the time he spent in your space increasingly growing to drawn out talks — majority represented by his incessant rambling and your admirable will to listen. Could you blame him for falling?

Friday evening, mere minutes from your shop’s closing time, Spencer stepped in. A colorful assortment of flowers clutched in his grasp, poorly hidden behind his back as he took anxious steps towards the counter. With bated breath, he approached, trembled nerves twitching his fingertips against the stem of the flowers, inadvertently rustling the plastic encasing them.

"Hello-" too formal "uh, hi, uhm…" he started, a nervous lick of his lips, brows pinching together in exaggerated thought as his eyes briefly averted from yours as if it’d dissipate the nerves. "I don’t really know how to.. do this,” he chuckled nervously, the sound nearly imperceptible. A feigned smile quickly gave way to the former anxious mask, eyes darting across the counter as though it possessed more interest than the topic of conversation.

"I think I like you — I suppose I’ve hypothesized that I do based on a vast number of given variables and factors. Different reactions, chemicals, ones that correlate with feelings of attraction and attachment; oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin, all of which, although common, are often very specific reactions in response to certain stimuli. They were also all recently experienced, therefore-" he abruptly cut himself off, animated speech dying down as his eyes refocused on yours, a rosy color painting his cheeks. "I’m rambling, aren’t I?"