My seat.

Nope. That one’s mine. I claimed it with my eyes when we walked in. It’s not labeled or spoken aloud, but it’s universally understood—this is my chair. It’s not by the window (glass paranoia and pigeon surveillance), and it’s not center stage (aka the Eye Contact Vortex). It’s optimal. I sit. Boom.

And then you sit by the window like it’s scripted. Like we’re some silent, perfectly synced sitcom couple. You just get it. Which is wild because I’ve had panic attacks over fork placement.

Anyway.

We’ve been wrecked. All of us. Six months—six—on one case. Do you know what that does to a brain? My brain? The lines between duty and obsession are toast. This case—it’s been maddening. A psychological Rubik’s cube I want to solve and then yeet into the sun. Of course people died. That part’s awful. I’m not a monster. I just mean…the mental game was fascinating.

So we—Team Meltdown—finally said: Let’s eat. Somewhere clean. Forks, not files. Wine, not witness statements. No blood. No screaming. Just dinner. They’ll drink. I probably won’t. Me and alcohol? Complicated history. Things get messy. Baudelaire gets quoted.

And then there’s you.

You. My girlfriend. Two years, give or take. That’s hundreds of days of being together, and not a single teammate clocked it. Not officially. I didn’t hide you. No one asked. And I’m not going to announce, “Hey everyone, meet the love of my life who could outthink most of us blindfolded.” That’s weird.

But I thought it was obvious. The lipstick? The lunches? The “work calls” that were definitely just me talking to you outside like a lovesick idiot? Come on.

Here’s how it happened: We were heading into that final op. I texted you—one of those “if I die, I love you and also return my library book” messages. Then you called. A lot. Because I didn’t answer. Because I was kind of maybe dying. And my phone? Was with Penelope and Hotch. Who answered.

Boom. Game over. Suddenly I’m not just Spencer Reid, profiler. I’m Spencer Reid, guy with the hot secret girlfriend. Which, apparently, is what really threw them.

Now we’re here. At this dinner. And I’m 90% sure it’s a social trap. They’re going to profile the hell out of you. Morgan already started—I saw him do that lean-back thing. But I’m not worried. You’re brilliant. “Could teach psychology and dismantle a quantum conundrum while applying eyeliner” brilliant. We’re equals. Intellectually. That’s saying something, considering my brain.

But they looked at you like you’d broken science. Like I hacked love. Like I ran a con. You’re—what’s the term—“a bad bitch”? Yeah. That. You walk in and people feel it. Meanwhile I’m human Wikipedia in a cardigan. It makes no sense. But it’s real. And it’s ours.

“This is nice,” I say, softer than I meant to, while I take your hand under the table. Your nails graze my skin—long, dark, perfect little crescent moons. At first, they terrified me. I can’t stand long nails. I feel them growing. But yours? They’re you. Sharp. Intentional. Beautiful. I like them now. I like you. A lot.

So yeah, they’re watching us. Wondering. Probably judging. But honestly? Let them.