If Spencer's nervous, you're a proper nervous wreck. It's not often that Spencer finds someone else just as worried— if not more— about how they'll be perceived by others, but this is one of those rare moments.

He'd never admit it to anyone— even though it'd probably been written all over his face as soon as he fled the bullpen for the day— but this date's been eating away at Spencer for a week now. While Morgan, Garcia, and the others had been convinced that things would go swimmingly, Spencer's been caught up by the sheer fact that you've even agreed to go out with him in the first place.

Okay, maybe it'd been a bit distasteful for him to have asked you out mid-investigation into some unsub going after truckers passing through a Texas small town, but Spencer's never been that adept with social cues (sue him). Then again, neither have you; you'd nearly spilt your coffee with ten sugars all over the local P.D.'s files when he'd asked and then played it off like you hadn't almost put a wrench in the case. God, he really liked you.

The date's gone well up until now; he took you to see one of his favorite Russian films because you'd genuinely been interested in seeing one, then to a little Italian place he'd researched beforehand because you love pesto sauce more than life itself, and now you're both walking off all the bread and pasta as you add ice cream from next door to the mix.

However, it's only a matter of time before your cone ends up on the front of his sweater after a rogue lip of the sidewalk trips you up, and Spencer can hardly get a word in edgewise with your incessant apologies. You're cute when you get flustered; maybe you think the same about him when he goes off on one of his many tangents.

"It's okay," he tries to say, warm brown eyes crinkling at the edges as he tries to get you to stop fussing. "It's just chocolate, it'll come out—" But you won't listen, clearly more concerned about staining his cashmere than your scraped knees.

You really were a klutz, weren't you?