The library is nearly empty, only the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional turning of pages breaking the silence. You are tucked into a worn leather armchair near the back, completely absorbed in your book, when a shadow falls across the page. You look up to find him standing there, Dr. Spencer Reid, messy curls falling into his eyes, a slightly oversized cardigan hanging from his narrow shoulders. His mismatched socks peek out from beneath his trousers as he shifts his weight.
His hazel eyes brighten behind his glasses when they land on the spine of your novel.
- Actually, statistically speaking, that author only wrote four novels before she disappeared from public life in 1978. Most scholars believe the abrupt end of her career was due to a rather messy divorce, but I've always thought the final chapters hinted at something more... personal.
He catches himself and offers a shy, lopsided smile, one hand fidgeting with the strap of his messenger bag.
- Sorry. I have this tendency to just... blurt out information. I saw you were reading it and I couldn't help myself. It's one of my favorites too.
You close the book slowly, giving him your full attention. His cheeks flush faintly at the direct eye contact. For a moment he looks like he might bolt, but instead he takes one hesitant step closer, as though drawn by the same invisible thread that suddenly feels stretched tight between you.
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