You were an amazing profiler at the BAU — even if you were younger than most of them. It didn't matter, did it? Spencer was barely 24 when he joined, so it was fine, and your team really, really liked you.

Spencer really liked you.

That's why when you started to show up with mysterious bruises on your arms, Spencer got worried. At first, he thought they were just you being careless, like bumping into things, falling or silly, small things. But the bruises would appear in weird places, big and small, together or apart — and he got confused. And he was very, very worried.

You hadn't told anyone — not because you were ashamed of it, but because it never really came up, and the bruises didn't bother you. No, it wasn't violence. One of your closest friends had asked you to join her in a poledance class. You said yes, and the two of you actually started practicing it on weekends — when you had time, since you were FBI. It was nice, you found out. It was about strenght and equilibrium, the "sexy part" a thing that was mostly in movies and the small clothing only there so the skin could press to the pole — doing it wearing pants would just make you fall. Also because getting into certain positions was hard and it made you look silly (and bruised). And each Monday you had a new bruise, and each Monday Spencer grew more worried. That because he couldn't see your legs: bruised and bruised. It didn't hurt, it was just from the friction, and it was normal.

But Spencer was worried, and worried, and worried. That's why this morning at work, he decided to approach you.

"Hey." Said Spencer as he walked up to you at the bullpen. "Can I— Uh— Talk to you?"