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Aug 13

⊹ ࣪ ˖ The Scientific Method of Flirting ─ Spencer Reid.

Dating apps are statistically inefficient as a method of finding love, according to Spencer Reid. His solution? Teach you how to flirt. His mistake? Practicing with you.

୨ৎ ──── flirting lessons. 6,4k. fem!reader. such a slow burn that it doesn’t even burn. flirty reid. english isn't my first language. main masterlist.

You had made the biggest mistake of your life by mentioning your dating life around Spencer Reid in the middle of breakfast at work.

It wasn’t even supposed to become a conversation. It was supposed to be one of those rare moments before the day inevitably descended into ringing phones, half-empty coffee cups, case files spread across every available surface, and Garcia announcing that someone had been murdered in a way that was somehow both horrifying and creatively disturbing. For now, though, the BAU was suspended in that brief pocket of normalcy that existed before the first case of the day. The bullpen was still relatively quiet, and the small break room smelled like burnt coffee, toasted bread, and whatever suspiciously sugary pastry Garcia had brought in that morning. You had been sitting at the table with your coffee warming your hands, enjoying the illusion that you might actually get to finish it while it was still hot.

Naturally, that illusion lasted approximately seven minutes.

It had started with Garcia complaining about the modern dating scene, which, considering her tendency to treat every minor inconvenience as a personal betrayal from the universe, had been fairly inevitable. She was halfway through describing the latest dating disaster of one of her friends when Morgan had decided to contribute his own entirely unsolicited expertise, proudly bragging about his ability to get numbers at bars as though he were presenting evidence before a jury. JJ had laughed at him, Rossi had offered some dry comment about how little had changed since his own dating days, and somehow, the attention had shifted toward you.

JJ had been the one to ask.

“So, are you seeing anyone now?”

You had shrugged, taking a sip of coffee as though the question didn’t deserve much thought.

“Not really.”

Morgan immediately looked offended on your behalf.

“Not really?” he repeated, stopping halfway through pouring sugar into his coffee just to turn toward you. “What does that mean?”

You glanced at him over the rim of your mug.

“It means I’ve gone on a few dates.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

Garcia gasped dramatically, a donut still in her hand.

“Nothing?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “They’re nice. They’re just…not exactly memorable.”

There was a collective murmur of sympathy around the table, although you suspected at least half of it was amusement. Morgan shook his head like you had personally disappointed him, while Garcia immediately began asking whether any of them had at least been attractive, and JJ was trying not to laugh into her coffee.

You were about to answer when a quiet voice came from beside you.

“That’s probably because you’re using dating applications.”

You slowly turned your head.

Spencer was sitting beside you, one leg tucked beneath the chair, a book open across his lap as if he hadn’t been listening to the conversation at all. He had one hand curled loosely around his coffee mug, the other resting against the edge of the book, and there was something almost absurdly innocent about his expression.

He hadn’t even realized he’d said anything particularly offensive.

You stared at him.

“I’m sorry?”

Spencer blinked and finally looked up from the page.

“Dating applications are statistically inefficient.”

Morgan’s eyebrows shot up, Garcia abandoned her donut entirely, JJ lowered her coffee and across the table, Rossi’s mouth twitched.

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Garcia murmured, settling back into her chair as though she’d just been handed front-row tickets to a show.

Spencer seemed to realize, belatedly, that he’d acquired an audience. His eyes moved from Garcia to Morgan, then briefly to JJ before settling back on you. There was a tiny crease between his eyebrows, the one that appeared whenever he was trying to determine why everyone was looking at him like he’d said something strange.

Instead of stopping, however, he elaborated.

“Most dating applications rely heavily on physical appearance and brief self-descriptions, which creates a significant selection bias. There’s also evidence that the abundance of potential partners can actually decrease satisfaction because people perceive alternatives as unlimited, which can make commitment more difficult.”

Spencer continued, completely unaware that he had just turned your perfectly harmless breakfast conversation into a dissertation on why your love life was apparently suffering from a flawed methodology.

“The paradox of choice is particularly relevant here. When people are presented with too many options, they can become less satisfied with the choice they eventually make because they’re more aware of the alternatives they rejected.”

You continued staring at him.

There was something almost surreal about hearing Spencer discuss your dating life in the language of behavioral economics. You’d complained about bad dates plenty of times. It wasn’t unusual. Over the past few months, you’d mentioned—more than once, admittedly—that you were probably going to delete the application you had been using because every man on it seemed to possess the exact same three photographs, the same aggressively vague profile, and the same inexplicable fascination with hiking.

You hadn’t expected anyone to actually remember.

Certainly not Spencer.

And yet, somehow, without you even realizing how much attention he’d been paying to those conversations, Spencer Reid had apparently taken every complaint you’d made, filed it away somewhere in that frighteningly enormous brain of his, and connected it to an entire body of psychological research. So now he was explaining the possible causes of your romantic misfortunes as though he had been invited to present his findings at an academic conference.

Finally, he paused.

“What?”

You blinked slowly.

“You’ve thought about this.”

Spencer’s expression softened into immediate confusion, his eyebrows drawing together ever so slightly. For a second, his gaze dropped toward the open book on his lap, as though perhaps the answer could be found somewhere between the pages.

“I’ve read about it.”

“Of course you have.”

There was a beat of silence.

He frowned slightly, clearly unable to understand the particular tone you’d used. He glanced at you again, his eyes moving carefully over your face as though he were looking for some indication that you were joking.

“Why is that surprising?”

“Because most people don’t research why dating apps are statistically inefficient before breakfast.”

“I wasn’t researching dating applications specifically.”

“You weren’t?”

“No.” He glanced down at his book again, thumb slipping between the pages to hold his place. “I was reading an article about decision-making and behavioral economics, and it referenced several studies on modern courtship.”

You stared at him for another moment.

Of course he hadn’t searched for statistics about bad first dates or relationship satisfaction or the psychological consequences of swiping through hundreds of strangers. He had simply been reading something completely unrelated, stumbled across a study about courtship, remembered it, and somehow managed to retrieve the information at exactly the right moment.

You didn’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.

Eventually, you sighed.

“Somehow that’s worse.”

Morgan laughed from across the table, the sound escaping him before he could quite disguise it behind his coffee. He shook his head, eyes dropping toward the cup as though he had suddenly found something fascinating in it.

Spencer looked between the two of you.

“I don’t understand.”

There was no sarcasm in his voice. No defensiveness. He genuinely didn’t understand why everyone seemed to find his explanation funny, and that somehow made it even more difficult to keep a straight face.

“Don’t worry,” Rossi said dryly, reaching for his coffee. “You will eventually.”

Spencer looked at Rossi for a moment, apparently trying to determine whether that was an actual answer or simply another example of the older man’s tendency to make deliberately cryptic observations. Whatever conclusion he reached, he didn’t ask. Instead, his attention returned to you.

You turned toward him fully, narrowing your eyes slightly, although by then you weren’t entirely sure whether you were annoyed or simply amused by the fact that he had managed to transform a casual conversation over coffee into an impromptu lecture on human behavior. He hadn’t meant to embarrass you or to criticize your choices. If anything, he seemed genuinely interested in solving what he had apparently identified as a problem.

“What?” he asked.

The question was so genuinely confused that you almost laughed.

“Nothing,” you said, perhaps a little too quickly.

Spencer didn’t answer.

You turned back toward your paperwork instead, deliberately giving him your back in the universal language of conversation over. You picked up your pen and dragged the tip across a sentence you’d already highlighted, pretending to reread it with considerably more interest than it deserved. Behind you, Spencer remained still for another second. You could practically feel his gaze on the back of your head, his mind undoubtedly running through the possible meanings of your expression and tone.

But eventually, whatever conclusion he’d reached seemed sufficient.

He lowered his eyes to the book resting against his thigh and turned the page with one finger.

The room slowly settled back into its familiar rhythm. Morgan’s spoon scraped softly against the bottom of his coffee cup, followed by the quiet clink as he set it down. Garcia unwrapped another piece of pastry, the crinkling paper sounding unusually loud in the lull before she took a bite. Somewhere near the corner, the vending machine hummed continuously, its mechanical vibration blending with the muffled sounds drifting in from the bullpen.

And, just for a few seconds, you managed to convince yourself that the conversation was actually over.

Four seconds passed.

Then Spencer spoke again.

“You could try meeting people in person.”

Your pen stopped halfway through the sentence and a short laugh escaped you before you could stop it, and you turned toward him again.

Spencer was still looking at his book.

He’d said it so casually, so matter-of-factly, that you almost wondered whether he’d forgotten that he was talking to you at all. His thumb rested against the edge of the page, keeping it from turning, while his eyes moved across the text with the same concentration he’d had before. He looked completely unaware that he’d just offered what sounded suspiciously like romantic advice.

“Okay, Spencer,” you said, turning your chair slightly in his direction. “Our king of social skills. And where exactly am I supposed to meet people?”

He blinked at you.

“Social environments.”

“Very helpful.” You said, then rolled your eyes and turned back toward your paperwork, but he had already begun considering the question more seriously. You heard the faint rustle of his clothes as he shifted in his chair, and when you glanced sideways again, his book had been lowered slightly.

“Bars, bookstores, museums, academic conferences, community events—”

“Do you hear yourself?” you interrupted, turning toward him again, genuinely offended now.

“Yes.”

“And you’re still talking?”

“Yes.”

The answer came without hesitation.

Spencer didn’t even seem to understand that there was supposed to be a different answer. He simply looked at you over the top of his glasses, completely serious. There was no trace of embarrassment in his face, no realization that he’d just walked directly into the joke you were making. If anything, he seemed mildly confused by your continued amusement, as though he’d provided a perfectly reasonable answer and was now waiting for you to explain why that wasn’t sufficient.

There was a tiny pause.

Then you smiled because you couldn’t help it, it was like something about him made it impossible not to.

“I just mean,” he added after a moment, his voice quieter now, “that real-life interactions provide more reliable behavioral data.”

“Behavioral data?”

“Yes.”

You leaned closer, lowering your voice as though you were sharing some great secret with him, despite the fact that everyone else at the table was still within easy listening distance.

“So you’re saying I should stop using dating apps and start profiling men in bars?”

“No.” Spencer immediately frowned. “Profiling is different.”

“Right.”

“It would be inappropriate to profile someone recreationally.”

Morgan snorted so violently into his coffee that he had to set the cup down before he choked on it. Garcia immediately covered her mouth with one hand, her shoulders shaking as she fought against the laugh threatening to escape. Even JJ had to look down at the table, biting the inside of her cheek in a futile attempt to compose herself.

You lasted only a second longer.

Then you laughed too, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair.

“Of course it would.”

Spencer looked around at everyone.

His gaze moved from Morgan, who was still recovering, to Garcia, whose eyes had begun to water from trying not to laugh, and then to JJ, who was suddenly very interested in the coffee sitting between her hands.

“What?”

“Nothing,” JJ said, far too innocently.

He looked unconvinced but eventually returned his attention to you.

There was something almost endearing about the way he approached everything with absolute sincerity. Spencer could explain criminal behavior, statistical anomalies, linguistic patterns, and the psychological effects of trauma without blinking, but put him in a conversation about something as ordinary as flirting and suddenly he seemed to be operating from a textbook that had been written for an entirely different species.

And, unfortunately for him, that made you want to tease him.

“You know what, Spencer?”

His eyes flicked toward you immediately.

“Maybe you’re right.”

He straightened slightly.

The movement was subtle, but you caught it. His shoulders lifted a fraction, his posture becoming a little more attentive, and something about the reaction made you smile. Spencer always seemed to become more animated whenever someone accepted one of his conclusions. It wasn’t arrogance. If anything, it was the opposite. He simply liked knowing that something he’d explained had been useful.

“About what?”

“Dating apps.”

Something shifted in his expression.

“Really?”

There was a quiet note of interest in his voice that made you almost laugh.

“Yeah.” You nodded thoughtfully, pretending to give the matter considerably more consideration than it deserved. “Maybe I should learn how to flirt in real life.”

Spencer nodded almost immediately and you could practically see his brain rearranging the problem into something he could analyze, something with identifiable variables and a measurable outcome.

“That would probably increase your chances of establishing a meaningful connection.”

You bit the inside of your cheek because you knew if you didn’t, you were going to laugh.

“Well,” you said slowly, turning the pen between your fingers, “if you’re such an expert…”

His eyebrows rose.

The change in his expression was almost imperceptible, but you saw it. His attention sharpened, the hand holding his book became still, and he looked at you with the cautious curiosity of someone who had suddenly realized there might be something hidden beneath your words.

You leaned back in your chair, watching him.

For perhaps the first time since the conversation began, Spencer seemed to understand that he had walked himself directly into a trap.

“You should teach me you how to flirt in real life.”

Silence.

Morgan’s head turned so quickly that his chair gave a quiet squeak against the floor. Garcia’s mouth actually fell open, the piece of pastry she’d been holding forgotten halfway between the plate and her lips. JJ stopped with her coffee halfway to her mouth, her eyes widening as she looked over the rim of the cup. Somewhere near the doorway, Rossi had been lingering with a file tucked beneath one arm, but he took one look at the expressions around the table and apparently made a very deliberate decision that he wanted no part in whatever was about to happen. Without saying a word, he turned around and walked away.

Even Hotch glanced up from across the bullpen.

Spencer, however, seemed completely oblivious to everyone else.

“Me?”

You nodded, fighting the smile threatening to give you away.

“Yes, you.”

He looked genuinely alarmed now.

“I don’t think I’m qualified to teach you that.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“You just gave me a ten-minute lecture on human mating behavior.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.”

“That wasn’t about mating behavior.” His response came much faster this time. His eyebrows drew together, and he shifted slightly in his chair as though physically repositioning himself might somehow make the distinction more convincing. “It was about the psychological implications of digital courtship environments.”

You smiled.

“See? You’re already an expert.”

Spencer opened his mouth and closed it.

For once, he seemed genuinely at a loss.

His gaze dropped slowly to the book in his lap, and he stared at the page as though the answer to this particular problem might be hidden somewhere in the text.

“I suppose I could…”

You laughed before he could finish.

“I was joking.”

“Oh.”

It was only one syllable, but it landed differently than you expected. You were still smiling, already turning back toward your paperwork, so you didn’t notice the subtle change in his expression. You didn’t see the way his eyes remained on you for another second, or how the faint anticipation that had appeared in them disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived. You didn’t notice the small breath he let out before lowering his gaze to the book again, his fingers absently smoothing the corner of the page.

You certainly didn’t notice that, for the briefest moment, Spencer Reid looked disappointed.

Anyway, you should have.

Because the following morning, you found him standing beside your desk with a notebook.

Not a normal notebook, either.

A genius notebook.

It was one of those narrow black notebooks with slightly worn corners, the kind he carried everywhere because apparently having an eidetic memory wasn’t sufficient reason not to keep written records. Several colored tabs protruded neatly from the side, each one labeled in his impossibly precise handwriting. The pages were already crowded with notes, diagrams, underlined phrases, and tiny references written in the margins.

He held it against his chest with one hand while the other rested lightly against the edge of your desk. His posture was perfectly straight, his expression so serious that for a moment you genuinely thought something had happened.

You looked from him to the notebook.

Then back at him.

“What’s that?”

“My notes.”

You blinked.

“Your notes?”

“Yes.” He said it as though the answer were completely self-explanatory.

You glanced at the notebook again, then at him.

“About what?”

Spencer hesitated for half a second before opening it.

“Flirting.”

You stared at him and he stared back.

There wasn’t even the slightest trace of embarrassment on his face. If anything, he looked almost expectant, like someone who had spent the previous evening preparing for an exam and had now arrived with all his materials neatly organized and ready to be graded.

“You actually took notes?”

“You told me I should teach you.”

“I was kidding.”

“I know.”

The answer came so matter-of-factly that it briefly left you without anything to say.

Spencer didn’t seem bothered by the distinction between a joke and a serious suggestion. If anything, he seemed to have filed your comment away somewhere in that impossible mind of his, alongside approximately seven thousand other pieces of information he’d apparently decided were worth remembering. He simply turned the notebook around and held it out for you.

You looked down.

At the top of the first page, written in Spencer’s precise, almost unnervingly tidy handwriting, was:

REAL-LIFE FLIRTATION: A PRACTICAL GUIDE

Underneath, in smaller letters:

Objective: Increase probability of romantic interest through appropriate interpersonal behavior.

You slowly looked up at him.

“Spencer.”

“Yes?”

“This is insane.”

His eyes dropped briefly to the notebook before returning to you.

“I thought it was organized.”

You stared at him for another second.

“It is terrifyingly organized.”

That didn’t discourage him. If anything, the faintest hint of satisfaction appeared at the corner of his mouth, as though terrifyingly organized was, in his mind, a fairly impressive compliment. He glanced down at the open notebook again, turning it slightly so the pages faced him, and for a moment you had the distinct impression that he was considering whether he should write your assessment down as well.

Instead, he simply said, “I started with eye contact.”

You stared at the page.

“You started with eye contact?”

“Yes.”

He turned the page.

At the top, beneath a neatly underlined heading, was the first entry:

1. Eye Contact — Maintain for approximately 3–5 seconds.

You pointed at it.

“Why three to five seconds?”

“According to several studies, prolonged eye contact can increase perceived intimacy, although context is important. Too little can communicate disinterest, while excessive eye contact can be perceived as aggressive or uncomfortable.”

You looked at him, and he looked completely serious.

“You researched how long you’re supposed to look at someone?”

“Yes.”

“For flirting.”

“Yes.”

You slowly nodded.

“Okay.”

Spencer seemed satisfied with the response and turned the page.

2. Compliments — Specificity appears to increase perceived sincerity.

Another page.

3. Light Touching — Situational. Must be reciprocated.

Another.

4. Smiling — Apparently important.

You stopped reading and looked at him.

“Apparently?”

Spencer’s eyebrows pulled together.

“I don’t smile very often.”

“I’ve noticed.”

He gave you a mildly offended look, the kind that suggested he wasn’t sure whether you’d just insulted him.

“I don’t think that’s necessarily a negative.”

“No,” you said, letting your smile widen. “It’s adorable.”

Spencer froze.

It was almost comical how completely still he became.

His fingers stopped moving against the notebook, his shoulders stiffened, his eyes widening just slightly behind his glasses. For a second, he looked as though he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. Then, slowly, a faint flush began creeping across his cheeks.

“See?”

His ears turned pink and you laughed.

“That was a compliment.”

“I know.” His voice was quieter than before.

“And you survived.”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations.”

He looked down at his notebook, seemingly uncertain what to do with the information. His thumb traced the edge of the page once, twice, before he glanced at the section he’d just written.

“Should I write that down?”

You laughed so hard you had to cover your mouth.

“What?” he asked.

“You cannot make a field note every time someone says something nice to you.”

“Why not?”

“Because then your notebook is going to be seventy pages long by lunch.”

He considered that.

“That’s possible.”

You shook your head, still laughing.

“God, you’re impossible.”

He looked down at his notebook again and you did the same, noticing how there were already more tabs than you’d initially noticed.

You narrowed your eyes.

“Spencer.”

He looked up.

“Yes?”

“How much of this did you write?”

His expression remained perfectly innocent.

“I stayed up until approximately two forty-three.”

What?

Then, after a moment, added, almost as an afterthought, “But I did sleep for three hours afterward.”

***

The first experiment happened two days later.

You were standing by the coffee machine, waiting impatiently for it to finish producing a cup that had already taken far too long, watching the last few drops fall. The machine hummed and clicked behind the counter, occasionally making a concerning gurgling sound that suggested it was one inconvenience away from breaking down completely. You had one hand wrapped around your mug, the other resting against the edge of the counter, when Spencer approached from somewhere behind you with his notebook tucked securely beneath one arm.

You noticed him from the corner of your eye but didn’t immediately look over.

By now, you had learned that Spencer had developed a very particular way of appearing beside you whenever he’d decided something needed to be tested. There was always the notebook, that thoughtful expression, and the faintly expectant look that told you he’d been thinking about something for far longer than you had.

“Can I try something?” he asked.

You glanced at him suspiciously.

There was something about the careful way he’d phrased the question that made you instinctively straighten. Your fingers tightened around your coffee mug as you turned toward him, studying his face.

“Why does that sound threatening?”

“It isn’t.”

“You’re holding the notebook.”

Spencer looked down at it as though he’d genuinely forgotten it was there.

“That doesn’t make it threatening.”

“With you, it does.”

He opened his mouth, presumably to argue the point, then seemed to reconsider. His lips pressed together for a moment before he simply nodded and stepped closer. But not close enough to be inappropriate, just close enough that you became suddenly, acutely aware of him standing there.

You noticed details you hadn’t been paying attention to a moment earlier: the faint scent of coffee lingering on his breath, the clean smell of laundry and paper that always seemed to cling to his clothes, the soft rustle of his shirt as he shifted his weight. His fingers curled more securely around the notebook beneath his arm, and his shoulders squared slightly as though he were preparing himself for an important task.

You watched him expectantly.

Spencer looked directly into your eyes.

One second.

Two. Three. Four. Five.

You raised an eyebrow.

Six. Seven. Eight.

By the time he reached eight, you were beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

Not because his expression was threatening, quite the opposite. Spencer looked intensely focused, his hazel eyes fixed on yours with the same concentration he usually reserved for difficult puzzles, complicated equations, or the face of a suspect whose behavior he was trying to understand. There was nothing flirtatious about his expression, nothing overtly suggestive.

And somehow, that almost made it stranger.

There was something deeply intimate about being looked at for that long without either of you saying anything. You could feel yourself becoming increasingly aware of the distance between you, of the quiet surrounding the coffee machine and the fact that neither of you had looked away.

He didn’t seem to notice any of it, he was busy counting. His mind was somewhere else entirely, measuring seconds and observing your reaction as though you were a variable in an experiment.

“Spencer.”

He didn’t look away.

“Yes?”

“You can stop staring at me now.”

He blinked, as though he’d forgotten you were an actual person rather than a particularly cooperative participant in his research.

“Oh.”

He immediately looked down and you laughed.

“What was that?”

“Eye contact.”

“That was not eye contact.” You shook your head, still laughing. “That was an interrogation.”

“I was testing the upper limit.”

“The upper limit?”

“Yes. I wanted to determine how long prolonged eye contact could be maintained before it became uncomfortable.”

You stared at him.

“You almost saw my soul.”

Spencer’s mouth twitched.

“I don’t think that’s scientifically possible.”

He wrote something down and you leaned over.

Five seconds appears socially acceptable. Eight seconds causes discomfort.

You stared at the sentence for a moment, then slowly lifted your eyes to Spencer, who was standing beside you with the most serious expression imaginable, as though he’d just recorded the findings of an important psychological study.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Oh.”

You laughed again, unable to help yourself. There was something so completely sincere about the way he accepted everything you said that it made it almost impossible not to laugh. Spencer watched you for a moment, his head tilting slightly as though he were trying to solve another small mystery. His eyes followed the movement of your face, lingering on your smile with a quiet curiosity, and you had the distinct impression that he was trying to understand why your laughter seemed to happen so often whenever he spoke. He didn’t ask, though. Instead, after another second, his attention returned to you.

Only this time, something was different in his gaze.

It happened gradually enough that you almost didn’t notice the change. The intense concentration he’d worn while counting seconds softened, the slight tension around his eyes disappearing as his gaze settled on yours. There was no notebook between you now, no pen poised to record another observation, no stopwatch, no invisible scale measuring the appropriate duration of eye contact. He wasn’t counting anymore.

His gaze moved briefly over your face—the curve of your cheek, the corner of your mouth, the loose strand of hair near your temple—before returning to your eyes.

Three seconds.

Four. Five.

And suddenly you forgot what you had been about to say.

You swallowed and he noticed.

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asked.

“No.”

He studied your face for another moment.

“Your heart rate increased.”

There were several possible responses to that observation. You could have laughed, told him he was being ridiculous or just pointed out that announcing someone’s physiological responses in the middle of a conversation was perhaps the least effective way of making them feel less self-conscious.

Instead, you simply looked at him.

“You cannot say things like that.”

His forehead creased further.

“Why?”

“Because you’re making me nervous.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“I’m making you nervous?”

“Yes.”

The realization moved slowly across his face, and for a moment, Spencer looked genuinely surprised, as though the possibility had never occurred to him. His lips parted slightly, his eyes remaining fixed on yours while his brain apparently worked through the information. You could almost see the moment he replayed the last few seconds in his head, searching for the exact thing he’d done that had caused your reaction.

Then his gaze dropped toward the notebook.

“No, don’t you dare.”

He had already reached for his pen.

You reacted on instinct, catching the notebook before he could open it properly and pulling it toward yourself.

“Stop documenting my suffering.”

“But this is useful data.”

“Spencer, you’re impossible.”

And then he smiled.

It was so small you might have missed it if you hadn’t been looking directly at him.

The corner of his mouth lifted first, followed by the faintest softening around his eyes, and suddenly there was something almost boyish about his expression.

You paused.

“There.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“You smiled.”

The smile disappeared almost immediately.

“Oh.”

“And that one actually worked.”

His eyebrows pulled together.

“Worked?”

“You’re supposed to smile when you’re flirting.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

“You were.”

“I was conducting an experiment.”

“You were flirting experimentally.”

“That isn’t a recognized category.”

“It is now.”

He looked down, apparently finding the notebook suddenly very interesting, but you caught the tiny movement at the corner of his mouth. He was trying not to smile again.

And somehow, that was even more endearing.

For a second, neither of you said anything. You watched him attempt to compose himself, his thumb moving absently along the edge of the notebook while he seemed to consider your argument with far more seriousness than it deserved.

Then, very quietly, said, “I suppose I should test it again.”

Before you could answer, he looked up and smiled.

Not the polite smile he gave strangers or the awkward, slightly crooked one he used whenever Morgan teased him. This one was different, more soft and real.

Your brain promptly stopped functioning and his smile faded.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“You’re staring.”

“I know.”

The admission came out before you could soften it, and something about that seemed to catch his attention. His gaze moved slowly over your face, lingering on your expression as though he were piecing together a particularly interesting puzzle. Then his eyes settled on your cheeks, and his eyebrows lifted slightly.

“You’re blushing.”

You looked away for half a second, suddenly fascinated by the coffee machine, even though you’d already been staring at it for the better part of five minutes.

“I know.”

When you looked back, his face was still faintly pink from the compliment you’d given him earlier, but now his expression had shifted into genuine curiosity. He tilted his head slightly, studying you with the same fascinated attention he’d shown when you’d been the subject of his experiment, except this time there was something softer beneath it.

“Is that a positive response?”

You stared at him for a beat.

“Unfortunately.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Unfortunately?”

“Because now you’re going to become insufferable.”

A tiny smile returned to his mouth, and you immediately regretted admitting that you’d noticed.

“I don’t think that’s statistically likely.”

“You have a notebook about flirting.”

His gaze dropped toward the notebook still trapped in your hand.

“That is fair.”

You finally handed it back to him, shaking your head as you reached for your coffee. Spencer accepted it without protest, slipping the pen behind his ear with an absentminded little motion before tucking the notebook securely beneath his arm. You thought that might finally be the end of the experiment, but when you lifted your mug, you caught him still watching you. His attention remained fixed on you, thoughtful and strangely intent, as though he’d reached another conclusion while you’d been distracted.

“There’s another technique.”

You narrowed your eyes over the rim of your coffee.

“What technique?”

“Compliments.”

“No.”

The answer came so quickly that Spencer blinked. You immediately took a small step backward, and his forehead creased in confusion.

“I haven’t tried it yet.”

“Spencer.”

“I need a control for you.”

“You are not running a clinical trial on me.”

He looked genuinely confused by your objection, his eyebrows drawing together as though you’d just introduced an entirely unreasonable complication into an otherwise perfectly straightforward experiment.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a person.”

“I know you’re a person.”

“You’re treating me like a lab rat.”

“I would never do that.”

The sheer sincerity of his answer almost made you laugh. He wasn’t joking. He genuinely seemed offended by the comparison, his expression earnest and slightly perplexed as though the ethical distinction between you and a laboratory animal was so obvious that he couldn’t understand why you’d brought it up in the first place.

You folded your arms.

“Fine. One compliment.”

Spencer nodded immediately, apparently relieved to have reached an agreement. He shifted the notebook beneath his arm and looked at you.

And then he thought.

You watched his eyes move briefly toward your hair, then your face, then back to your eyes. His lips pressed together as he considered his options, and there was something almost absurdly serious about the concentration on his face. He looked like he was trying to solve a particularly difficult equation rather than tell someone something nice.

You raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“I want to make it specific.” he explained.

“Okay.”

“You have…”

He paused and you watched him struggle.

Spencer Reid, who could recall obscure facts after hearing them once, who could identify patterns other people didn’t even notice, who could explain the statistical probability of almost anything, was apparently incapable of producing a compliment on demand.

Finally, he said, “You have very nice hair.”

You laughed and he immediately frowned.

“That wasn’t effective.”

“No, no, it was.” You quickly reassured him, still smiling. “It was just…”

“You laughed.”

“Because you’re nervous.”

“I am not nervous.”

“You’re turning red.”

“I have naturally high peripheral circulation.”

You stared.

“That’s the excuse you’re going with?”

“Yes.”

You smiled into your coffee.

“Try again.”

He swallowed and this time, he didn’t look at his notebook.

“You have a really nice laugh.”

Your smile faltered and Spencer continued.

“I like hearing it.”

Oh, that was different.

For a second, the bullpen seemed to recede into the background: the distant voices, the ringing phones, the hum of the coffee machine. You simply stared at him, suddenly far too aware of the warmth rising beneath your skin.

Spencer seemed to realize what he’d said at exactly the same moment and his face went crimson.

“I—”

“That one worked.”

He nodded quickly.

“Good.”

His hand went for the notebook almost automatically, and you watched as he opened it to the page he’d been using throughout the morning. For once, his movements weren’t quite as precise as usual. His fingers fumbled slightly with the cover, and when he finally took up the pen, the neat, controlled strokes you’d become accustomed to were replaced by hurried lines, just a little messier around the edges. Spencer seemed to notice it too, because his mouth tightened briefly as he looked down at what he’d written, as though he were silently judging his own handwriting.

You leaned closer, curiosity getting the better of you.

“What did you write?”

He hesitated.

It was barely a second, but you noticed. His thumb remained pressed against the edge of the page before, with a small sigh, he turned the notebook toward you.

Specific compliments: effective.

You looked at the line, then you noticed the sentence he’d added underneath in smaller handwriting.

Particularly when sincere.

Your eyes lifted slowly to his but Spencer was already looking at you.

Neither of you said anything. The bullpen seemed to fade into the background for just a moment, leaving only the quiet hum of the coffee machine and the faint rustle of paper between you. There was something different in his expression now, more uncertain than usual, as though even he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d written that second line.

Then, quietly, he closed the notebook.

“I think that’s enough research for today.”

You smiled, watching him tuck the pen between his fingers.

“Why?”

“Because I’m beginning to think this experiment has a confounding variable.”

“What variable?”

His eyes lifted to yours.

For once, Spencer didn’t have a scientific explanation ready. No statistic, no psychological theory, no carefully memorized study that could rescue him from the question. He simply looked at you, his expression suddenly softer and his fingers tightening slightly around the notebook.

“You.”

Your heart skipped.

He seemed to realize what he’d said at exactly the same moment. His eyes widened, and a faint flush immediately returned to his cheeks.

“I mean—you’re the subject, so obviously—”

You laughed softly.

“Spencer.”

“Yes?”

He looked at you cautiously, almost suspiciously, as though he wasn’t sure whether you’d caught him saying something he hadn’t meant to say.

“You're good at this.”

He blinked.

“At flirting?”

“Yeah,” you said, letting your smile widen. “At flirting.”

For a moment, he didn’t answer and just looked at you.

You watched the realization settle over his features, followed by something almost shyly pleased. His mouth curved into the smallest smile, one that he seemed unable to suppress despite himself, and his eyes dropped briefly toward the floor before returning to yours.

“Oh.”

You shook your head, laughing quietly.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Why not?”

“Because, statistically speaking, my previous experience would suggest that—”

You groaned.

“Spencer.”

He stopped immediately, his lips pressing together as though he’d just realized he was doing exactly what he always did whenever a conversation became too personal: turning it into a statistic.

Then, after a beat, he smiled again.

“Sorry.”

And somehow, much to your own annoyance, he was suddenly the most attractive person in the room.

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