We go over to my place after work on the subway, a route I haven't taken in a few weeks. The old one is getting boring now, and I need to switch it up. Estelle and I have not been here long enough for things to feel familiar. I still am not sure where all her complex cooking utensils go, and only now does that make me nervous. Dr. Spencer Reid, the man who knows everything, will surely notice my lack of familiarity with my own space.

His feet must be freezing when we get back to the apartment. Reid's rainboots cannot insulate against the snow on the ground. He waddles more than walks once we are off the subway. I offer to take his bag, but he tells me it's fine. His breath hangs around in the air more than I do, hurrying through the streets to get back to the warmth of my apartment.

Finally, we get to the door. My fingers fumble for the key, frigid even inside my pocket. If I had more time to think about this before I offered to let him come over for the weekend, I might have better thought of the words to say when we got here. Researched or something, created scripts, practiced them in the mirror for hours until I wasn't stumbling over my own keys.

Fuck, I need to practice making up things.

"Estelle's not home," I tell him. "She actually likes you. And she isn't very sympathetic usually."

The door swings open and I step inside. I flick the light on, moving over slightly so Reid can step inside as well. He moves in beside me, and there is barely enough room for the two of us pressed in the doorway, backs brushing against the walls of the hallway, nearly nose to nose, as much as you can be when we have such different heights.

"I like Estelle," he agrees. "She's come to more of my guest lectures, you know."

My face flushes, "I'm sure she's given you a hard time. Sorry about her."

"No more than you do."

I look up at him. Behind me, I lean my back harder into the wall. I can feel the light switch against my shoulder blades. He's so close to me, and with this much fabric and the heat of my apartment, I suddenly feel like I'm sweating.

"Dinner?" he asks. "We can order in. I don't mind paying."

I nod, and he steps past me into the apartment. I wipe at my cheeks, brushing away the heat, or at least trying to transfer it to my icy fingers.

Inside, there aren't many takeout menus. Estelle prefers to cook anyway. Using my phone, we look up different places, settling on Thai food. I don't care either way. I show him to Estelle's room while I call for takeout. I've never really been the kind of person to get nervous when making phone calls, but I can't imagine doing it now. I don't know why I'm worried about getting his order right, or why it would even matter. Soon enough, the order is done.

I sneak into the office Estelle and I now share. I crawl under her desk, I sit, and I breathe in and out. It's fine. So close to the ground, the air feels fresher. My eyes dart to the doorway once, twice, before I stand up.

This is ridiculous. I'm having a colleague over. He's a colleague. Besides, he's been in my hotel room before. No one knew then. My stomach twists all the same.

Finally, I text Stéphane.

Not important, but my coworker is staying over for the weekend because his apartment is flooded. Telling you in case he murders me or something.

I crawl out of the desk and stand in the kitchen, running my hands through my hair. I take in a deep breath, once in and once out, before turning around.

Reid is sitting on the couch in the living room. I'm not sure how long he's been like this.

"If you don't want me here, I can leave," he says. "I can tell I'm stressing you out."

I can't feel my fingers. They should have warmed up by now.

"I'm not stressed," there is no use lying to him, but the reflex feels so natural.

Reid leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, "you only make mistakes in English when you're stressed out. You called Estelle sympathetic earlier. Prentiss said that meant friendly in French."

It shouldn't feel special, that comment. Reid remembers everything. He could tell you the day I started at the office. He probably could tell you what colour everyone was wearing that day, and what the weather was like. He could tell you that information about any other day we've spent together, I imagine. Really, he could tell you that about any day he spent with anyone, about any passerby on the subway, about all the days in his life before we met.

I try to remind myself of that while I avoid eye contact with him.

I'm so screwed.

My phone buzzes on the table next to me. I look at the caller ID. It's Stéphane.

I look at Reid, and only because it's an out of this conversation, do I answer.

"Hey, Cole," my brother says. Even through the phone I can hear him swallow. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," I answer him in French. "Sorry. I'm being paranoid."

"Well, I know he works for the FBI and all, but are you sure?" Stéphane asks back in our shared language. "I mean, you're speaking French. Is he listening?"

"I'm not worried about him," I correct. "Or me. Listen, I was being irrational. Sorry."

"Wait," Stéphane pauses. "Is this actually just a coworker? Or is there something else going on?"

"I'm hanging up bye," I pull the phone away, finally putting it down on the counter.

I turn back to look at Reid. He isn't watching me, or even in the spot where he just sat. Instead, he's at one of the shelves Estelle and I put together in the living room. There are trinkets from the different countries we've visited, but mostly books. The only souvenir I let myself keep are the patches I have stitched onto my bag. Everything else is hers. There are a few movies she really likes that she finally bought when we moved to the US because her PhD felt more permanent. The pictures are hers too, and the picture frames. Some of the textbooks are mine at least, and I'm sure he could read them all in seconds.

Reid leans over, bending to peer at the frame of Estelle and I with our cohort at Oxford.

"I can give you a copy," I manage, stepping up behind him and leaning against the opposite wall. "It's a good photo of me."

"I like the one of you and your siblings more," Reid points out. "You have it as one of the rotating photos on your desk. You got rid of the ones that had you in a pixie cut, but the newer ones from your trip in November are still there."

I roll my eyes, avoiding looking at my stomach. The ache of regret settling in my intestines, twisting them. I did what I had to do, leaving my siblings for so many years. I wonder how many more photos there could have been though. Maybe I would've put one of them up on this shelf.

"I'm sure there are some ugly photos of you as a teenager," I laugh. "You wouldn't want them hanging around the office."

"I didn't say you were ugly," Reid furrows his brow.

A smile plays at my lips, "I don't think I'd go back to it though. The pixie cut, I mean."

Reid shrugs. He filters through another shelf, looking at the few games we have. There are one or two that we played while drinking at uni, but nothing he likes. No chess, at least. I don't get the feeling he is pressured to find something to do. I mean, I'm no profiler. I think he's trying to find something fun to do with me.

I pull off the wall, stepping in closer to him. Just next to Reid, I bend over and I grab a book off the shelf. It's one I read during my master's, a pop science book explaining violent crime. Estelle violently hates it.

"Read this," I pass it to him. "Let me know when you're done. I think you'll like it. We can discuss when you're done."

Reid looks at the cover. He's open the book before I've even found a spot on the couch. He sits next to me. I watch as he flips the pages, one after the other, so very quickly. I can't believe it. He seems like a fake character in a shitty tv show. The layman's idea of a genius. As he flips, and flips, I think about the first day we met. The day Prentiss said I used sympathetic incorrectly.

He said he thought I had an inferiority complex. Maybe he was right. It might explain my insistence on independence, my rejection of psychoanalysis of others since I'm no good at it. Why even try?

Here, now, as he's halfway through a book I gave him ten minutes ago, I don't know that I agree. All I can do is sit in awe.

He's not quite finished the book when dinner arrives. I set up the table, and he wanders through the room, still reading. Reid manages to maneuver through the space with his nose in a book, and still doesn't bump into anything. With a memory like his, he establishes routine so quickly. During dinner, he finally finishes the book.

"You thought I would like that?" he asks.

I laugh. Just like Estelle, he rants about how terrible it is. I nod along, giggling over my red curry. I explain it was for a class, that Estelle picked a different book because she hated mine so much. He can't stop rambling, and I can't stop joining in on his laughter.

"Don't get me wrong, I hate it too," I shake my head. "It's easier to write a critical essay on something you despise. Talking about things that are terrible is easier than things that are great."

He stops moving for just a second, looking up at me.

"What?" I ask.

Reid shrugs, "you really think that?"

I shrug, "I'm more interested in critical criminology. What, you think it's easier to talk about things you like?"

Reid stares at me. I feel my breath catch in my throat.

"I could talk about things I love for hours," Reid says.

That makes me laugh.

Conversation falls naturally between us. We dig through more office drama, through funny stories about his adventures working with Rossi, about travelling all around the country and never sitting still.

"So, are you doing the PhD?" he asks, looking at me.

I sigh, "it's a lot of commitment. I'm still not even doing the best I can at work."

Reid wipes the corners of his mouth with a serviette. He puts down his cutlery and looks at me, "are you happy here?"

I look around at the white walls of our rental apartment, expecting an answer.

"Estelle likes it," I shrug. "She came with me to France for a year. It's my turn to pay her back, and I guess I like making her happy. Besides, I like doing research. I like being closer to my siblings."

"So, you're happy?" he asks.

I shrug. It's a loaded question.

"You, with all your intellect, are here too," I point out. "You're happy too, right?"

He swallows, even though his plate is empty. He has the tinge of a smile on his lips, even when he looks down at his lap, "I'm the happiest I've ever been."

I collect his plate, having done mine, and I wash them in the sink. There aren't many English movies here, and I don't really like television anyway, so I end up putting on the radio. Spencer makes a makeshift chess board out of some paper from Estelle's desk. I'm not any good at chess.

He tries to teach me. It's math, he explains. Formulaic. I may have a master's in mathematics, but it wasn't something that came to me with ease. If it weren't for help centres on campus, I don't know that I would even have it. He can talk while we play, but I can't. I'm too focused on the moves. Every time he beats me. And every time, I laugh when it happens because of a foolish move.

"We have to do something I'm actually good at next time," I roll my eyes.

"Magic tricks," he chuckles.

I have to force myself to glare at him, biting back my grin, "I was thinking more like a puzzle. I do exchanges with them sometimes, so I don't have any here now."

"I should've bought you a puzzle," his smile is so contagious. Everything about him I feel like I'm catching. It's a virus. It's infectious.

I actually am happy.

Soon enough, he can't stop yawning and neither can I. It's late in the evening, past two in the morning, and we both called it a night. I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Even though I'm so tired, all the anxious energy that had been building in my body all evening won't let me go to sleep for hours.

~~~~~

I've written like two dozen books, and like, I think very few of the characters have this level of chemistry. Like, maybe I'm wrong, but the pair of them just do something so magical in my brain. Urgh.