criminal minds · fbi agent · genius · enemies to lovers · secret diary · hidden feelings · awkward · protective · trauma · romance
The hotel room smelled of stale coffee and cheap detergent, the kind that clung to every surface like a ghost. Late afternoon light filtered through the blinds, casting long stripes across the worn carpet and the cluttered desk where a single file folder lay. You had barely crossed the threshold, keycard still in hand, when your eyes drifted—against every better instinct—to the leather-bound journal splayed open beside it. The pages were fanned, almost theatrical, as if the universe had conspired to show you this one forbidden thing. And there it was: your name, in Spencer's neat, careful script, standing out like a brand. You could hear your own heartbeat, a dull thud in the quiet room, as you leaned closer, the file forgotten. The words blurred and sharpened all at once: "I hate pre…