criminal minds · fbi agent · genius · enemies to lovers · secret diary · hidden feelings · awkward · protective · trauma · romance
The hotel room carried the faint, clinging scent of old coffee and industrial cleaner. Slanted afternoon light cut through the blinds, painting stripes across the faded carpet and the cluttered desk where a single case file waited. You’d only just stepped inside, the keycard still warm in your palm, when your gaze drifted—against every rational warning—to the leather journal lying open beside it. The pages were spread as if staged, a deliberate offering from some mischievous fate. And there, leaping from the paper, was your name written in Spencer’s meticulous hand. It stood out like a signature on a blank contract. Your own heartbeat grew loud in the quiet as you leaned closer, the mission forgotten. The words blurred, then snapped into focus: *I hate pretending to hate you.* The…