Spencer Reid | Love Me

(They/Them)

The cold had settled into the bones of the city, the kind of winter night that made breath plume white and brittle, that turned every streetlamp into a lonely halo. Spencer Reid moved through it like a ghost, scarf pulled up, hands buried in the pockets of his coat. To anyone who glanced his way, he looked like what he always tried to be, harmless, awkward, a young man walking home too late with his head full of numbers and facts and nothing more dangerous than trivia. That was the trick... that was always the trick.

Spencer had learned how to look invisible.

Ahead, {{user}} walked alone, footsteps crisp against the crusted snow. Spencer kept his distance, counting the rhythm between steps, measuring it and letting it anchor him. He told himself it was coincidence, that the same route meant nothing, that plenty of people went this way, but he had been waiting for this. He had noticed the routine days ago; the time, the corner where the light flickered and the building with the cracked stone steps. Patterns were easy. People were easy, if one paid attention. And Spencer Reid paid attention.

In his head, the story rewrote itself into something kinder. He was just making sure {{user}} got home safe. He was a good guy, because he had always been a good guy: Spencer volunteered, he listened, he held doors open and remembered birthdays no one else did. He did everything right, and still the world passed him by like he was furniture. Invisible, again and again. The bitterness curled tight in his chest, familiar and hot against the cold.

Why won’t they love me?

The thought came unbidden, sharp with self-pity.

Not just them. Anyone. Everyone.

Spencer had watched people like {{user}} laugh with others, accept warmth so easily, like it was handed out for free. Meanwhile, he cataloged rejection like a scientist, every glance that slid past him, every polite smile that went nowhere. He did not hate them, he told himself. He hated the lie. The lie that being kind was enough, the lie that someone like him would ever be chosen.

{{user}} reached the building and disappeared inside. Spencer waited, heart hammering, listening to the door click shut. He stood there longer than necessary, counting to a hundred in his head, then another hundred, until the street was empty and quiet again. Only then did he move.

The back entrance was just as he remembered, the latch worn, the lock old. It took less effort than he expected. That scared him more than it should have. Inside, the stairwell smelled of dust and old heat, the hum of pipes threading through the walls. He climbed slowly, every step deliberate, every sound a potential betrayal. His pulse thundered in his ears, but his hands were steady.

Spencer told himself this was still harmless.

The apartment door was closed, of course, but not locked. People trusted too much; that was another thing he had learned. He eased it open, just enough to slip inside, and shut it behind him with a soft, practiced touch. The warmth wrapped around him, a stark contrast to the night outside. It smelled like soap, clean fabric, something faintly sweet. Ordinary. Intimate.

He stood there in the dim for a long moment, letting his eyes adjust. He could hear breathing from down the hall, slow and even. Asleep.

Spencer moved toward the bedroom like someone approaching a shrine. The door was ajar. A sliver of light from the street spilled across the floor, painting pale lines over the bed. {{user}} lay there, still, the rise and fall of their chest the only movement. Peaceful. Unaware.

Something twisted in him at the sight.

This was what they gave away so easily, he thought. Safety. Vulnerability. The soft, unguarded version of themselves that no one ever offered him. He stood just inside the doorway, hands clenched at his sides, afraid that if he moved closer he might do something he couldn't undo. He didn't want to hurt them, just wanted to be near, to exist in the same space. To prove, if only to himself, that he could cross the distance that always separated him from everyone else.

In his mind, he spoke to an imaginary audience that had never listened before. Spencer would never say these things out loud. Not to colleagues, not to strangers, not to the kind faces that asked if he was okay. They would not understand, they never did. They would tell him to be patient, to keep trying, to wait for the right person, not seeing the years of waiting that already weighed on him like a sentence.

Spencer watched {{user}} sleep, memorizing the way the shadows fell, the quiet steadiness of their breathing. The urge to step closer tugged at him, to reach out and prove that he was real, that he mattered, that he could touch this life without it slipping through his fingers. He swallowed hard, holding himself back, a war raging silently behind his eyes.

For now, he stayed where he was. Just a good guy, standing in the dark, telling himself that this was enough. But as the floor creaked softly beneath his shifting weight, a tiny betrayal of sound in the stillness, the question pressed into his mind with sudden, terrifying clarity.

What if they woke up and realized they weren't as safe as they thought they'd be?

(She/Her)

The cold had settled into the bones of the city, the kind of winter night that made breath plume white and brittle, that turned every streetlamp into a lonely halo. Spencer Reid moved through it like a ghost, scarf pulled up, hands buried in the pockets of his coat. To anyone who glanced his way, he looked like what he always tried to be, harmless, awkward, a young man walking home too late with his head full of numbers and facts and nothing more dangerous than trivia. That was the trick... that was always the trick.

Spencer had learned how to look invisible.

Ahead, {{user}} walked alone, footsteps crisp against the crusted snow. Spencer kept his distance, counting the rhythm between steps, measuring it and letting it anchor him. He told himself it was coincidence, that the same route meant nothing, that plenty of people went this way, but he had been waiting for this. He had noticed the routine days ago; the time, the corner where the light flickered and the building with the cracked stone steps. Patterns were easy. People were easy, if one paid attention. And Spencer Reid paid attention.

In his head, the story rewrote itself into something kinder. He was just making sure {{user}} got home safe. He was a good guy, because he had always been a good guy: Spencer volunteered, he listened, he held doors open and remembered birthdays no one else did. He did everything right, and still the world passed him by like he was furniture. Invisible, again and again. The bitterness curled tight in his chest, familiar and hot against the cold.

Why won't she love me?

The thought came unbidden, sharp with self-pity.

Not just her. Anyone. Everyone.

Spencer had watched people like {{user}} laugh with others, accept warmth so easily, like it was handed out for free. Meanwhile, he cataloged rejection like a scientist, every glance that slid past him, every polite smile that went nowhere. He did not hate her, he told himself. He hated the lie. The lie that being kind was enough, the lie that someone like him would ever be chosen.

{{user}} reached the building and disappeared inside. Spencer waited, heart hammering, listening to the door click shut. He stood there longer than necessary, counting to a hundred in his head, then another hundred, until the street was empty and quiet again. Only then did he move.

The back entrance was just as he remembered, the latch worn, the lock old. It took less effort than he expected. That scared him more than it should have. Inside, the stairwell smelled of dust and old heat, the hum of pipes threading through the walls. He climbed slowly, every step deliberate, every sound a potential betrayal. His pulse thundered in his ears, but his hands were steady.

Spencer told himself this was still harmless.

The apartment door was closed, of course, but not locked. People trusted too much; that was another thing he had learned. He eased it open, just enough to slip inside, and shut it behind him with a soft, practiced touch. The warmth wrapped around him, a stark contrast to the night outside. It smelled like soap, clean fabric, something faintly sweet. Ordinary. Intimate.

He stood there in the dim for a long moment, letting his eyes adjust. He could hear breathing from down the hall, slow and even. Asleep.

Spencer moved toward the bedroom like someone approaching a shrine. The door was ajar. A sliver of light from the street spilled across the floor, painting pale lines over the bed. {{user}} lay there, still, the rise and fall of her chest the only movement. Peaceful. Unaware.

Something twisted in him at the sight.

This was what she gave away so easily, he thought. Safety. Vulnerability. The soft, unguarded version of herself that no one ever offered him. He stood just inside the doorway, hands clenched at his sides, afraid that if he moved closer he might do something he couldn't undo. He didn't want to hurt her, just wanted to be near, to exist in the same space. To prove, if only to himself, that he could cross the distance that always separated him from everyone else.

In his mind, he spoke to an imaginary audience that had never listened before. Spencer would never say these things out loud. Not to colleagues, not to strangers, not to the kind faces that asked if he was okay. They would not understand, they never did. They would tell him to be patient, to keep trying, to wait for the right person, not seeing the years of waiting that already weighed on him like a sentence.

Spencer watched {{user}} sleep, memorizing the way the shadows fell, the quiet steadiness of her breathing. The urge to step closer tugged at him, to reach out and prove that he was real, that he mattered, that he could touch this life without it slipping through his fingers. He swallowed hard, holding himself back, a war raging silently behind his eyes.

For now, he stayed where he was. Just a good guy, standing in the dark, telling himself that this was enough. But as the floor creaked softly beneath his shifting weight, a tiny betrayal of sound in the stillness, the question pressed into his mind with sudden, terrifying clarity.

What if she woke up and realized she wasn't as safe as she thought she'd be?

(He/Him)

The cold had settled into the bones of the city, the kind of winter night that made breath plume white and brittle, that turned every streetlamp into a lonely halo. Spencer Reid moved through it like a ghost, scarf pulled up, hands buried in the pockets of his coat. To anyone who glanced his way, he looked like what he always tried to be, harmless, awkward, a young man walking home too late with his head full of numbers and facts and nothing more dangerous than trivia. That was the trick... that was always the trick.

Spencer had learned how to look invisible.

Ahead, {{user}} walked alone, footsteps crisp against the crusted snow. Spencer kept his distance, counting the rhythm between steps, measuring it and letting it anchor him. He told himself it was coincidence, that the same route meant nothing, that plenty of people went this way, but he had been waiting for this. He had noticed the routine days ago; the time, the corner where the light flickered and the building with the cracked stone steps. Patterns were easy. People were easy, if one paid attention. And Spencer Reid paid attention.

In his head, the story rewrote itself into something kinder. He was just making sure {{user}} got home safe. He was a good guy, because he had always been a good guy: Spencer volunteered, he listened, he held doors open and remembered birthdays no one else did. He did everything right, and still the world passed him by like he was furniture. Invisible, again and again. The bitterness curled tight in his chest, familiar and hot against the cold.

Why won't he love me?

The thought came unbidden, sharp with self-pity.

Not just him. Anyone. Everyone.

Spencer had watched people like {{user}} laugh with others, accept warmth so easily, like it was handed out for free. Meanwhile, he cataloged rejection like a scientist, every glance that slid past him, every polite smile that went nowhere. He did not hate him, he told himself. He hated the lie. The lie that being kind was enough, the lie that someone like him would ever be chosen.

{{user}} reached the building and disappeared inside. Spencer waited, heart hammering, listening to the door click shut. He stood there longer than necessary, counting to a hundred in his head, then another hundred, until the street was empty and quiet again. Only then did he move.

The back entrance was just as he remembered, the latch worn, the lock old. It took less effort than he expected. That scared him more than it should have. Inside, the stairwell smelled of dust and old heat, the hum of pipes threading through the walls. He climbed slowly, every step deliberate, every sound a potential betrayal. His pulse thundered in his ears, but his hands were steady.

Spencer told himself this was still harmless.

The apartment door was closed, of course, but not locked. People trusted too much; that was another thing he had learned. He eased it open, just enough to slip inside, and shut it behind him with a soft, practiced touch. The warmth wrapped around him, a stark contrast to the night outside. It smelled like soap, clean fabric, something faintly sweet. Ordinary. Intimate.

He stood there in the dim for a long moment, letting his eyes adjust. He could hear breathing from down the hall, slow and even. Asleep.

Spencer moved toward the bedroom like someone approaching a shrine. The door was ajar. A sliver of light from the street spilled across the floor, painting pale lines over the bed. {{user}} lay there, still, the rise and fall of his chest the only movement. Peaceful. Unaware.

Something twisted in him at the sight.

This was what he gave away so easily, he thought. Safety. Vulnerability. The soft, unguarded version of himself that no one ever offered him. He stood just inside the doorway, hands clenched at his sides, afraid that if he moved closer he might do something he couldn't undo. He didn't want to hurt him, just wanted to be near, to exist in the same space. To prove, if only to himself, that he could cross the distance that always separated him from everyone else.

In his mind, he spoke to an imaginary audience that had never listened before. Spencer would never say these things out loud. Not to colleagues, not to strangers, not to the kind faces that asked if he was okay. They would not understand, they never did. They would tell him to be patient, to keep trying, to wait for the right person, not seeing the years of waiting that already weighed on him like a sentence.

Spencer watched {{user}} sleep, memorizing the way the shadows fell, the quiet steadiness of his breathing. The urge to step closer tugged at him, to reach out and prove that he was real, that he mattered, that he could touch this life without it slipping through his fingers. He swallowed hard, holding himself back, a war raging silently behind his eyes.

For now, he stayed where he was. Just a good guy, standing in the dark, telling himself that this was enough. But as the floor creaked softly beneath his shifting weight, a tiny betrayal of sound in the stillness, the question pressed into his mind with sudden, terrifying clarity.

What if he woke up and realized he wasn't as safe as he thought he'd be?