The overclouded cement sky brings his eyelids to close, to shut down and turn into a safe mode, where no harming words can enter, no disturbing images or unwanted thoughts, only poorly painted white wall of semi-sleep.
He doesn't even need coffee: it'll wake him to the dull periodicity of slightly diverse events chained to one endless routine. He'd be longing but not given, asking but not receiving, and what good does it do to show off like a brainy little motherfucker, if he never ever pays a flicker of attention.
He's angsty and blames it on winter (February to be specific) which is known to be the most depressive month of the year (if there were any statistics on the matter Reid was pretty sure it'd be it).
And then a tiny brush of a warm hand over the tissue of his shirt from wrist to the inside of the elbow and almost whispered words: "I miss your rolled up sleeves".
"Interesting", murmurs Dr. Reid coming out into the strong spring wind, holding on to a cup of coffee. His feels all muscles on his face forming into an unintentional smile. He have to check on the statistics. February was definitely deserving a better reputation.