Keyan Rudiniy

You were always there early.

Long before the crowds arrived.

Long before the heat settled heavy over the city.

Your stall sat near the center of the market square beneath faded fabric awnings that had survived more storms and wars than anyone could count. Fruits stacked carefully into neat pyramids, jars of dried herbs lining the back shelves, handwoven cloths folded with impossible precision.

Routine mattered here.

Routine meant normalcy.

Normalcy meant survival.

You were arranging figs into a basket when Farah appeared for the first time.

Not unusual on its own. Farah Karim visited often enough that most vendors knew her by name. People respected her. Trusted her. Some feared her a little too.

But that morning she wasn’t alone.

The tall foreign soldier walking beside her drew attention immediately.

He moved differently than the locals. Too aware. Too controlled. Like every alleyway, rooftop, and passing stranger had already been assessed for danger before he took another step.

Sunglasses hid his eyes despite the early hour, sleeves rolled to his elbows despite the dust and heat.

You noticed the scars first.

Then the rifle.

Then the way he stayed slightly behind Farah without ever seeming secondary to her.

Your gaze met his for half a second.

He looked away first.

Farah greeted you warmly in Arabic, already reaching for produce while explaining what she needed. Medical supplies were harder to acquire these days. Food had become expensive again after the latest fighting near the outskirts.

The foreigner stood nearby silently.

Watching.

Listening.

You caught him staring at the handwritten labels on the baskets.

Trying to understand them.

“You read Arabic?” you asked carefully in heavily accented English.

The man blinked slightly, almost surprised you addressed him directly.

“A little,” he answered.

The accent was American.

Rougher than expected.

You pointed toward the figs. “This says fresh.”

His eyes narrowed slightly as he sounded out the letters under his breath.

You smiled despite yourself.

“Not good?”

One corner of his mouth twitched faintly.

“Working on it.”

That was the first conversation you ever had with Alex Keller.

After that, he started appearing regularly beside Farah.

At first he barely spoke.

Mostly he carried supplies, scanned rooftops, or stood nearby while Farah negotiated prices with local merchants. Some people distrusted him immediately because he was foreign military. Others simply avoided looking at him altogether.

But Alex kept coming back.

And slowly, very slowly, things changed.

You learned he hated overly sweet tea.

He learned you added cardamom to nearly everything.

You learned he always positioned himself facing entrances automatically.

He learned your younger brother kept stealing oranges from your own stall when he thought you weren’t looking.

The language barrier made every interaction awkward in the beginning.

Your English consisted mostly of broken phrases and stubborn determination.

His Arabic was somehow even worse.

The first time he tried ordering something himself, he accidentally asked for “three kilos of sheep” instead of apricots.

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped an entire crate.

Alex stared at you for a solid five seconds before realizing what he’d said.

Then even he laughed.

Quietly.

Briefly.

But genuinely.

After that, learning became easier.

He picked up Arabic frighteningly fast. Enough to bargain poorly, ask directions, and understand when old women in the market gossiped about him thinking he couldn’t understand them.

You improved your English with equal stubbornness.

Sometimes he helped.

Sometimes he made it worse.

“Repeat,” he said one afternoon while leaning against the side of your stall.

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “You teach bad words again?”

“I would never.”

“You taught my brother how to say asshole.”

“In my defense,” Alex replied calmly, “he used it correctly.”

You shoved his shoulder lightly while trying not to smile.

He smiled first.

That became dangerous.

Because once Alex Keller smiled at you directly, it became increasingly difficult not to think about him afterward.

The city had seen worse days.

Everyone knew that.

Still, tension lingered in the air that morning like smoke before a fire.

Too many military vehicles moving through the streets.

Too few civilians outside.

Farah had warned people to stay alert.

Alex had looked distracted all morning.

Restless.

You noticed it immediately when he arrived near noon.

He approached your stall alone this time, tactical vest dusty, rifle slung across his back. His jaw looked tighter than usual.

“Everything okay?” you asked carefully.

His eyes moved across the square automatically before settling on you.

“Probably.”

Probably.

Not yes.

Not reassuring.

You frowned slightly.

Alex noticed.

“We’ve had reports of Al-Qatala movement nearby,” he admitted quietly. “Could be nothing.”

Nothing.

In Urzikstan, nothing still usually meant gunfire eventually.

You started packing some crates instinctively.

Alex watched you for a moment before stepping closer.

“You should head home early today.”

“So should you.”

A faint huff of amusement escaped him.

“Not really an option for me.”

Before you could answer, shouting erupted somewhere across the market.

Then gunfire.

The entire square exploded into chaos instantly.

People screamed.

Merchants abandoned stalls.

Glass shattered somewhere nearby while automatic rifle fire echoed violently through the narrow streets.

Alex moved before your brain fully processed what was happening.

One second he stood beside you.

The next he had grabbed your arm and pulled you downward behind the stall as bullets ripped through wooden beams overhead.

“Stay down!”

The explosion came almost immediately afterward.

Close enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

The ground shook violently beneath you.

Stone cracked.

People screamed louder.

Then the building beside the market collapsed.

You barely remembered the impact.

Only the deafening noise.

The feeling of falling.

Then darkness and crushing weight.

Pain arrived slowly.

Breathing hurt first.

Then your leg.

Then your ribs.

Dust coated your throat so thickly you could barely cough.

Everything around you was dark except for thin streams of sunlight breaking through cracks in the rubble above.

You tried moving.

Something heavy pinned your lower body instantly.

Panic hit hard enough to make your vision blur.

“Help!”

Your own voice sounded weak beneath the ringing in your ears.

No answer.

Only distant gunfire.

More screaming somewhere outside.

You shoved uselessly against broken concrete until pain shot through your side sharply enough to make you gasp.

Tears burned your eyes immediately.

You were trapped.

Completely trapped.

Minutes passed.

Or maybe longer.

Time stopped making sense beneath rubble and dust and fear.

Then somewhere nearby—

Your name.

Muffled.

Desperate.

You froze.

Again.

Closer this time.

“Hey! Hey, talk to me!”

Alex.

Relief hit so violently it almost hurt.

“I’m here!” you shouted hoarsely. “Alex—!”

Rubble shifted nearby.

Small pieces of concrete fell from above while light pushed through a widening gap.

Then finally—

His face appeared through the dust.

Blood ran from a cut along his forehead, one sleeve soaked dark red near the shoulder, dirt covering nearly every inch of him.

But his eyes found yours instantly.

Sharp.

Focused.

Alive.

“Oh thank God,” he breathed.

You had never heard Alex sound frightened before.

Not until then.

“I can’t move,” you whispered immediately, panic breaking through your voice despite trying to stay calm.

“I know.”

He crouched lower beside the opening, assessing the debris around you with quick trained movements.

Gunfire still echoed outside.

Closer now.

Alex ignored it completely.

“You hurt anywhere besides your leg?”

“My ribs,” you managed. “I—I can’t—”

“You’re breathing,” he interrupted firmly. “That’s good. Stay with me.”

Concrete groaned overhead.

Alex looked upward instantly.

The building wasn’t stable.

You could see it in his face immediately.

Still, he squeezed himself further into the narrow gap anyway.

“Alex—”

“I’ve got you.”

Simple.

Certain.

Like there had never been another outcome in his mind.

He shoved broken stone aside piece by piece despite the unstable structure around both of you. Dust coated his arms, blood dripping steadily from his injured shoulder every time he forced heavier debris away.

“Your arm—”

“Not important.”

“It’s bleeding.”

“I noticed.”

Even injured, sarcasm somehow survived.

You almost laughed.

Almost.

Another distant explosion shook the street violently.

The ceiling above you cracked louder.

Alex cursed sharply under his breath.

Your eyes widened slightly despite the situation.

He noticed immediately.

A tired grin crossed his face for half a second.

Then it vanished as he reached the slab pinning your leg.

The piece of concrete was enormous.

Far too heavy.

Alex stared at it once before setting his rifle aside completely.

“No,” you said instantly. “Alex, you can’t—”

“Yes, I can.”

His voice carried that same calm determination soldiers got right before doing something reckless.

You hated it immediately.

He braced himself beside the slab, injured arm trembling slightly already.

“Listen to me,” he said, breathing harder now. “The second this moves, you crawl toward that opening. Don’t stop. Understand?”

“You’re hurt.”

“Understand?”

Tears burned your eyes again.

“Yes.”

Alex nodded once.

Then lifted.

The sound that left him was half grunt, half strangled breath as muscles strained violently beneath the weight. Blood soaked faster through his sleeve instantly.

But the slab moved.

Barely.

Enough.

“Go!” he shouted.

You dragged yourself forward immediately despite pain screaming through your leg and ribs. Broken stone tore at your palms while dust choked your lungs.

Behind you, the concrete suddenly shifted dangerously.

Alex shoved harder.

A crack split through the ceiling above him.

“Alex!”

“Move!”

You reached the opening just as part of the structure collapsed behind him.

The noise was deafening.

Dust exploded outward.

For one horrifying second you couldn’t see him.

Couldn’t breathe.

Then Alex stumbled through the debris cloud coughing violently before dropping beside you onto the street.

Alive.

You grabbed him immediately without thinking.

His arms wrapped around you just as fast.

Both of you breathing too hard.

Too relieved.

Gunfire still echoed nearby.

The city still burned around you.

But for a few seconds beneath the smoke and dust and chaos, Alex simply held you against him like he needed physical proof you were still there.

“You okay?” he asked roughly against your hair.

You laughed weakly despite the tears finally spilling over.

“You look terrible.”

A breathless chuckle escaped him.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “You too.”

Then his hand moved carefully against the back of your head while soldiers shouted somewhere nearby and the world kept collapsing around you.

And despite everything—

content warnings ➔ MDNI 18+ Eventual Smut, YANDERE THEMESx10, cod writing = canon typical violence, potentially graphic depictions of injuries, mentions of death, TBA...

tags ➔ potential cringe, male reader, top male reader, taskforce 141 x male reader, REBOOT taskforce 141, doesn't follow canon AT ALL, like only thing in common is probably the fact they're against Konni operatives, poly141, John "Soap" MacTavish, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Captain John Price, reader can come off as an oc/comes off as an oc, established callsign, reader is described as Australian/comes from Australia, mlm content gang, potential (definite) ooc, more potential cringe, sexual innuendos, constant sexual banter, reader can and will call British people poms 🥀, TBA...

more to be added as more chapters are added...

00:00 ➔ prologue 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

Shinsou knew someone was at his door long before the knock came. Their scent always came first. It was usually filled with anxiety, guilt, and anger. Today was no different.

The smell came in a waft of rain, mould and fur, thick with despair and culpability. Shinsou didn’t mind the smell anymore. Anyone with half a heart that came looking for his services would be guilty. Though they wouldn’t take a life themselves, they were accountable. Lucky for him, Shinsou had lost that feeling long ago. It was just a job now.

He stared at the door from his place on the winding spiral stairs in the corner. He’d been waiting for them to knock for a while now. The rain pattered against the windows in a soft rhythm, the only thing letting Shinsou know that time was actually passing.

Shinsou leaned his head on the rail. He wasn’t in his gear, he assumed he looked rather pathetic like this. Instead of slightly armoured and altered clothes, he simply had on a hooded cape over a white shirt. The top two buttons were slightly undone to purposely show off the expensive jewellery he’d stolen awhile ago. A pretty purple pendant, made entirely from magic instead of mining. One of a kind. He brought a hand up to tap it gently.

Shinsou had never been an impatient man, but the time this passerby was taking to tap on the door was starting to get to him. He had half a mind to walk up to the door and just open it. But he knew that would be bad for his cover deep down.

When the knock finally came it was small and timid, like the stranger was afraid one wrong move would make it come crashing down. Shinsou sighed in slight relief and stood up, making sure his hood stayed fully up as he approached the door and slightly pulled it open.

He recognised the posture instantly. Back arched, eyes down, tail tucked, ears pinned. A creature expecting punishment not refuge. Shinsou blinked for half a second before registering who he was seeing.

A Tabaxi.

Shinsou was usually a careful man. He knew to slightly interrogate and pressure people until they half paid and let him know about the majority of the job before he even let them step one foot inside. Today, he was not that man.

Met with a little yelp from the Tabaxi, he grabbed the boy roughly by the arm and tugged him inside. The door slammed heavily after them.

“Wh- hey! That hurt!” The Tabaxi rubbed his wrist where he’d been grabbed but was careful not to let both of his eyes stray away from Shinsou. Wary creature, always expecting the worst.

“What are you doing?” Shinsou muttered.

“I was… looking for help. You were the only one who answered their door so late, so I… here I am..?” The Tabaxi let a weak smile enter his face, now very uncertain he should’ve knocked on this door.

“I know-” Shinsou huffed, “I mean, what are you doing? With your ears and your tail, what are you doing?”

That comment earned Shinsou a blink and a blank stare. He wondered if there had ever been a thought between those eyes.

“I’m a-”

“I know. I know what you are, y- Do you know how dangerous that was? If anyone else had opened their doors, how unsafe you’d be? You’re in Ellesmere. Human kingdom, Cat. You’ll get yourself killed.”

“My name’s Y/N.”

Shinsou blinked. Suddenly, all emotion had twisted into annoyance. “That’s what you took from that?”

Y/N nodded gently, his head tilting to the side, “I mean… you smelt of Tabaxi so I thought you might have one in here… and be nice.”

Shinsou stilled for half a second and then grumbled, “Got no cats here.”

“Oh.”

The silence stretched for a while, long enough for Shinsou to get a good look at the stranger. His clothes were mostly clean despite the rain and mud around his feet. Ironed, straight, worn like he’d been taught how to dress instead of learning alone. His hair was well kept, his face soft and taken care of.

What stood out most was his teeth. Whiter than any Shinsou had ever seen, yes, but that wasn’t what had caught him. Tabaxi had mostly squared teeth, minus two K9’s on either side of their front mouth. They usually protruded from the top lip, especially on a runt like this one. Not only were his fangs small but, when Y/N licked his bottom lip anxiously, it became plainly obvious that the two bones had been shaved. Not enough to erase, but enough to dull. Shinsou doubted if he were a stray, which he plainly was not, he’d be able to hunt for himself at all.

Shinsou’s eyes darted to the collar on the boy's neck. That was hardly unusual to see on Tabaxi, not since the declaration on the King a few years ago. They were animals and less than. Meant for slavery and owning. A collar was the main form of showing they had an owner. It was the markings around the leather. Golden leaves on red. Not from here.

“What are you doing in Ellesmere?” Shinsou grunted and jerked his head at the collar, “That’s Isolden, right?”

“Hm?”

“Your collar.”

Y/N blinked and then nodded, “Oh, uh, Isolden. Yes, Sir. My Mistress is from Isolden.”

“Uh huh. Where’s she?”

Y/N shrunk slightly and took a step back, eyeing the room for danger at a record pace before answering. No other people. No other animals. No smell of magic. Just quiet plants drifting towards the sound of rain in hopes of the sun making a return soon. He looked back at Shinsou and dropped his voice slightly.

“Um.. she forgot?”

“Forgot?”

“She was here with my Master. But they accidentally… uh, forgot me. Here. And I know Mistress is worried sick about me.”

It was Shinsou’s turn to shrink, even if it was ever so slightly. Yes, it was a possibility that this Tabaxi’s Mistress had accidentally left him here and was looking for him. A very real possibility. But the likelihood? Almost zero.

“Your Mistress came to Ellesmere, all the way from Isolden. She brought you along, and accidentally left you - something so expensive regular folk could work 5 lives and never afford one - in the middle of the kingdom.”

Y/N thought for half a second and then nodded in agreement. “Yes.”

“Okay. And you knocked on my door because?”

The boy pointed at a window without looking at it and Shinsou just nodded.

“Yeah… we- you cats don’t like rain, huh?”

“No, Sir.”

“Drop the ‘Sir’, you’re probably the same age as me. How old?”

“5.”

Shinsou quickly translated that into human years, “18?”

“I guess.”

Shinsou nodded. “Yeah. Only a little younger, there’s no need for it.”

“Okay…”

“Alright. Time to go.”

Y/N’s ears shot up and his eyes widened. “What?”

“Time to go. I don’t take in the homeless and sickly. You’re not an exception to that.”

“But- but you just said how dangerous it is for me to-”

“It’s not my issue that your Mistress left you here, Cat. Find somewhere else to go. I have work I can’t have you interfering with.” With that, Shinsou again grabbed the boy's forearm and began leading him back to the door.

“Wait! Please, please, I really need help! I don’t know where I am or how- w-what if I get hurt? Please, Sir!” The boy whined, his tail swaying side to side in an agitated pace. Shinsou ignored him. “Please, please! The Guild is looking for me! I’ll die!”

Now, that stopped Shinsou. His hand tightened around both the doorknob and the wrist, “What?”

“T-the Guild! They found me when my Mistress left and tried to take me and when I ran away they were ch-chasing me!”

Shinsou let the boy go and turned to face him again, “Why would The Guild focus on you?”

“I-I don’t know, they were talking in a different language.. I can only speak this one.”

Shinsou frowns and shakes his head. “Shit..”

“Please..”

Shinsou walked right past the boy, who hesitated before following him further into the house. They walked past the windy stairs to a small doorway. Shinsou went inside and muttered for the other to stay outside. “Look, are you certain it was The Guild?”

“Yes.”

“One hundred percent certain?

“Yes, Sir..”

“Okay..” When Shinsou came out, the boy scrambled back and hit the wall. Shinsou had a long dagger in his hand. He lifted the polished blade up to the boy's neck as he approached. “Why would we want to kill you?”

“W-we?”

“Hitoshi Shinsou. Private assassin. Work for The Guild. What do you have that we want?”

By noon, the heat had evolved sentience and declared itself sheriff. The Nevada heat clung to everything like regret—sticky, unrelenting, and just a little personal.

Two murders in three days. Both victims were hitchhikers, both picked up near the I-80, both found stripped of ID, with matching bruises around their wrists and necks—suggesting a clear dominant/submissive dynamic between the killers.

The locals were out of their depth. Hotch was in an interview. JJ and Rossi were talking to truck stop staff. And Morgan?

Morgan needed tech backup. Now.

He stabbed the call button on the secure laptop connection, barely watching the screen flicker as the signal went through to Quantico.

Ring. Ring. Click.

“What’s up, baby girl?” Morgan said automatically, leaning one hip on the desk. His voice was smooth, familiar—pure muscle memory. “We’re out here baking in the sun with two vics in the morgue, and I need you to work your magic. See if you can pull anything from highway cams near the last truck stop they were seen at—mile marker 178. Also, if there's any pattern to the direction the victims were headed, maybe someone’s choosing their targets based on where they’re trying to go. Could mean the unsubs are mobile. I’m thinking truckers, maybe a couple? Something about the crime scenes says shared space. The bindings were too clean. It’s coordinated. Might be a dominant-submissive thing. Maybe sexual, maybe just control—either way, it’s intimate and practiced.”

He paused just long enough to breathe.

“You still with me, baby girl?”

A beat.

The voice on the other end was not high-pitched, not glittery, and absolutely not Penelope Garcia.

Then—

“…Excuse me?”

It was deep. Masculine. Smooth in that ‘voice actor for luxury car commercials’ kind of way, and currently laced with dry confusion and more than a little judgment.

Morgan blinked. “Wait—what?”

“It’s me. Not Garcia,” you said flatly, already typing away like this happened more often than it should. “You know—the other tech analyst? The one who’s been covering for her while she’s off presenting at that FBI coding retreat in Maryland? The guy who’s been patching your signals and processing your half-sent field requests all week?”

Morgan sat up straighter, suddenly aware of how much talking he’d done. “Oh. Oh, damn.”

“Yeah. That’s the correct response,” you said, amusement starting to creep into your voice. “You just called a grown-ass man ‘baby girl,’ listed four crimes, and didn’t even pause for breath. Honestly, I’m flattered. But also—deeply concerned.”

Morgan rubbed his forehead, suddenly feeling every degree of the desert heat. “I didn’t check the name—I just hit the line. It’s usually Garcia.”

“Yeah, well, today it’s me,” you said, matter-of-fact, fingers flying over your keys. “And for future reference? Maybe wait for the voice to talk before you start handing out nicknames like candy.”

Across the makeshift office, Reid coughed pointedly into his elbow, and Prentiss didn’t even pretend she wasn’t listening.

Morgan groaned, quietly and with soul. “She’s gonna hear about this, isn’t she?”

“Oh,” you said with a smirk he could feel through the phone. “She’s gonna make a slideshow.”

Two days after wrapping the Nevada case, you were elbows-deep in corrupted metadata, muttering darkly at your monitor like it had personally insulted your family line.

Your desk looked like a warzone: a battlefield of empty energy drink cans, half-eaten protein bars, and one worn notebook full of scribbled access codes and passive-aggressive post-its to yourself.

The door creaked open.

You didn’t look up.

"..You’re not Garcia," you grunted. "So unless you’ve got a sandwich, an apology, or the exact GPS coordinates of an unsub’s burner phone, I’m not interested."

There was a pause—then a familiar throat-clear.

"...Actually, I’ve got two outta three."

You looked up.

Derek Morgan stood in the doorway like a man approaching a trap he helped build. In his hands, a cardboard tray of two iced coffees—the sides slick with condensation—and a paper bag radiating "guilt muffin" energy.

One cup had your exact order written neatly across the lid.

The other just said: BRIBE.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but entertained. "This your version of groveling?"

"It’s a start," he said, stepping inside like the floor might reject him. "Also brought a blueberry muffin. I hear your kind can be appeased with carbs."

"...Garcia?"

"She may or may not have emailed me a PowerPoint titled ‘How to Apologize to the Other Hot Nerd.’"

You squinted. "Other hot nerd?"

"She wrote it. Not me."

You leaned back and crossed your arms. "So let me get this straight. You call a grown man ‘baby girl’ in the middle of a double homicide case, ignore three emails about the tech rotation, and now you think caffeine and a muffin are gonna fix it?"

"...Yes?"

A beat.

You reached for the coffee and inspected the lid.

"I will accept this tribute," you said, taking a long sip. "Only because you spelled my name right. That’s rare."

Morgan exhaled. "Good. I was afraid I’d have to beg."

"Oh, don’t worry," you said, licking some foam from your lip. "I haven’t decided not to make you change your ringtone to ‘Oops I Did It Again.’"

He blinked. "As in... Britney?"

"You called me baby girl, Morgan. We’re past embarrassment. We’re in consequences now."

You turned back to your monitors. Morgan hovered nearby, unsure whether to sit or evaporate.

Then, with the faintest grin, he said, "For the record... your voice threw me off. I expected Garcia’s sparkle and jazz hands, and I got Morgan Freeman after two Red Bulls and a week without sleep."

You smirked. "Damn right. Now sit down if you wanna watch me reroute a VPN signal through six countries in under ten seconds."

He did.

Somehow, between the quiet clicks of the keyboard and the occasional slurp of coffee, the awkward began to smooth into something easier. Familiar. Not quite friendship, not quite anything else—but a start.

Almost.

Until you muttered, "Also... I am keeping the BRIBE cup. For legal leverage."

"Noted."

Just then, the sliding glass door to the tech office cracked open with the softest of squeaks.

Garcia peeked in—just her head at first, curls bobbing, glasses slightly askew. Her eyes scanned the room like a hawk on a sugar rush, pupils dilating the second they landed on the scene.

Morgan, sitting casually at the edge of your desk, coffee in hand, looking far too pleased with himself.

You, leaned back with his cup labeled “BRIBE,” one leg hooked under the other, sipping coolly mid-keystroke like this was just another Tuesday.

She froze.

Her eyes widened—comic book style, full saucers. Her mouth parted slightly, as if to gasp, but no sound came out.

She squealed—silently, violently, like her entire body had been possessed by the spirit of a thousand fangirls trying to behave in a museum. Shoulders shaking, hands clenched in excitement, every cell of her being vibrating at a frequency only dolphins could hear.

And then—

She turned on her heel and sprinted out of the room.

Just full cartoon physics. Gone.

You didn’t even blink. “She’s gonna turn this into a PowerPoint, isn’t she?”

Hotch paused a fraction too long. “No. It’s taken care of.”

And then he walked off. Like that was normal.

Except it wasn’t. Because since Haley’s death, every late-night or last-minute case came with a Hotchner-adjacent logistical flurry: scrambling for backup, adjusting for Jack. Jessica dropping everything. Garcia babysitting. Morgan teaching Jack how to throw a football in Quantico’s parking lot because nobody else was available.

But lately?

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

It kept happening. On Friday evenings. At 2 a.m. calls. Even once on a Saturday morning, which felt borderline blasphemous!!

Jack was always fine. Always “covered.” Always “already sorted.” And Hotch? He was weirdly relaxed about it. Not relaxed-relaxed, he was still Hotch, but in that quiet, steady way, like he was sleeping more than three hours a night. Like he wasn’t drowning anymore.

Naturally, the team spiraled.

It was Garcia who said it first.

She popped her head into the bullpen one morning, a pink thermos in one hand and her nails painted a dazzling electric blue. “Okay, question,” she said, “and this isn’t gossip, it’s concerned and loving observation, but… has anyone else noticed that our dear Unit Chief has stopped calling Jessica when we go wheels up?”

Reid looked up from his screen. “I have. It’s anomalous.”

“Exactly!” Garcia beamed, spinning in a slow, graceful circle like the drama demanded movement. “So I did some snooping—light snooping, just on the surface web, and Jessica hasn’t posted a photo of Jack in months. Which, I mean, okay, privacy, sure, but also.. why??”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “Wait. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

JJ chimed in, her voice quiet but curious. “He’s… seeing someone.”

“Oh my God.” Emily’s face lit up. “Hotch has a girlfriend.”

Reid frowned. “There’s no behavioral evidence to support that hypothesis. He hasn’t altered his routines, his scent is the same-”

“Scent?” Emily raised an eyebrow.

“I mean cologne. He hasn’t changed brands.”

“Thanks, Sherlock.”

“But it could still be someone,” JJ said thoughtfully. “He’s been… softer. Around the edges.”

“Softer,” Garcia repeated dreamily. “Like a stale marshmallow left out just long enough to get that perfect chew.”

Morgan grimaced. “Baby girl.. Why would you say that?”

You were elbow-deep in dinner prep when it happened; knife in one hand, sauce simmering low on the back burner, and Jack perched on a kitchen stool, legs swinging, rattling off planet facts between bites of sliced cucumber.

“The sun doesn’t count, right?” he asked, licking salt from his fingers.

You shook your head, amused. “Nope. Sun’s the center. Tell me again, what’s the biggest planet?”

“Jupiter!” he grinned. “Easy.”

“Starboy strikes again!”

The house smelled of garlic and sesame oil, warm light bleeding in through the kitchen window. You moved around the space with practiced ease—pan to counter, towel to hands, reaching above the sink for plates. It had been a long day, but the kind that settled into your bones without complaint. The kind that felt earned.

Then you heard the front door unlock.

You glanced at the time, Aaron said he’d be home early, and it tracked. You wiped your hands, already smiling, half-ready to tease him about forgetting the scallions.

But it wasn’t just one pair of footsteps.

The hallway creaked.

And then-

Six people stepped into your home like they were walking into a hostage situation.

Emily blinked first, frozen halfway into the room. “Oh,” she said faintly. “Um.”

Rossi stopped beside her, mouth half-open. Garcia’s glitter-coated eyes were huge. Reid hovered in the doorway like he wasn’t sure if this counted as breaking and entering. JJ gave you a polite, deeply confused smile.

You, barefoot in Aaron’s hoodie, holding a wooden spoon, said the only thing you could think of.

“Uh, hi?”

“Oh my God,” Garcia whispered, visibly short-circuiting.

Morgan stepped forward cautiously, like he was worried you'd vanish. “Hey. Sorry—uh. Are.. you the babysitter?”

“Family?” JJ guessed, tilting her head. “Uncle? Cousin?”

You blinked. “Well, um, not exactly…”

Aaron walked in behind them then, adjusting his tie like this wasn’t a sitcom moment from hell. Jack darted straight to him.

“You brought them!” he chirped, latching onto his dad’s side.

“I didn’t mean to bring them,” Aaron said, sighing.

“Wait.” Emily’s voice cut the air. “Wait, wait, wait.”

Reid’s eyes darted to you. “Wait. If he lives here, and Jack knows him, and he’s wearing your hoodie—”

“Holy shit,” Emily whispered, eyes wide. “You’re his boyfriend.”

You blinked. “I mean… I’m not the boyfriend. I’m his—well, I guess I am the boyfriend. But also like… Jack’s stepdad? In spirit. Or, you know, ..macaroni art.”

Morgan dragged a hand down his face. “Man. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Rossi looked around—the kid art on the fridge, the socks in the hallway, the way Jack had started humming to himself at the table again. He smiled, small and sure. “Well. I’ll be damned.”

Aaron stepped beside you, his hand brushing lightly against your back. “Everyone, this is my boyfriend.”

You gave a half-wave. “Nice to meet you, officially ..There’s food, if you want it?”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then Emily muttered, “I need to sit down.”

Jack popped his head out from behind Aaron’s hip. “Dad said they might find out.”

Hotch glanced at you. “He also said you’d panic.”

“I’m not panicking,” you said, calmly placing a wooden spoon into the sink. “I’m surprised. There’s a difference.”

Garcia squeaked. “You make dinner? Like, actual food? From scratch? With sauce and everything?”

You smiled sheepishly. “Yeah. I kind of… do most of the home stuff. Aaron works late, and I freelance from home, so it makes sense. And Jack—well, he’s easy to cook for. Kid likes sushi and peanut butter, so we’re golden.”

Morgan stepped in, still sizing you up like he was waiting for you to reveal your criminal record. “How long has this been going on?”

Aaron answered that one. “A little under a year since we met, we've been together for about.. 7 months, though. I didn’t want to introduce him too early—not until Jack was ready.”

“I was ready,” Jack said. “I told him to keep him.”

You reached over and ruffled his hair. “It’s true. I was basically adopted.”

Hotch let his hand rest lightly on your upper arm, casual and open in a way he rarely was around anyone else. “He’s the reason I’m still standing.”

That shut everyone up.

Later, after the team had accepted drinks and second helpings and Jack had shown each of them his solar system three times, you stood in the kitchen with Emily and Garcia as they washed dishes by hand.

Garcia dried a plate and gave you a side-eye. “So. Be honest. You cook, you clean, and you co-parent. But do you also bake?”

You laughed. “Sundays. Banana bread. Family tradition!”

Garcia made a strangled noise and collapsed into Emily’s side.

Emily just smirked. “You know you’ve ruined her, right?”

Across the room, Aaron stood with Morgan and Rossi, a glass of red wine in one hand and his other still resting lightly on Jack’s shoulder as the boy excitedly explained the rings of Saturn.

“He’s good with him,” Emily said, nodding at Jack.

You looked. Watched the way Aaron leaned in just enough to listen, the way his eyes crinkled when Jack said something silly.

“He’s better with him,” you said. “Not just good. Better than he was when he was alone.”

Garcia bumped your shoulder. “So are you gonna make it official or what? Rings? Vows? Doves?”

You grinned. “..Eventually. But for now? We’re good like this.”

The next morning at Quantico, Morgan stepped into Hotch’s office with a coffee and zero shame.

“Hey,” he said, sliding into the chair across from the desk. “So. Mystery solved.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to make this awkward, are you?”

Morgan grinned. “Absolutely I am.”

Hotch sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “What do you want to know?”

Morgan leaned forward. “You love him?”

Hotch didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

Morgan nodded, then held up the coffee like a toast.

You weren’t supposed to fall asleep.

That was the number one rule when you worked for the Bureau—always be alert, especially around the Behavioral Analysis Unit. The profilers noticed everything. The smallest glance. A twitch of a smile. The weight behind a silence. You’d known this. You’d warned yourself. And yet, exhaustion had its own gravitational pull, and sometime after wheels-up—you’d drifted.

Your head had found the slope of Aaron’s shoulder, warm and steady beneath your temple. Despite being the taller of the two of you, you'd folded down into his side like muscle memory—like gravity always knew where you belonged. The scent of him—clean, like pressed shirts and aftershave—had dulled your thoughts until everything else fell away.

Now, his cheek was nestled against the crown of your hair, his breathing deep and unhurried. One arm lay draped over the shared blanket stretched across both your laps, a quiet tether. Not clenched. Not possessive. But there. And undeniably intimate.

You didn’t realize you'd been caught until the jet’s engines shifted pitch, prepping for descent, and you blinked awake into a room saturated with knowing silence.

Rossi peered at you over the top of his novel, mouth quirked in that infuriating, all-knowing half-smile he reserved for gossip and grandchildren. JJ had one earbud out and both brows arched—half delighted, half scandalized. Spencer was gripping his book like it might anchor him, but you watched him turn the same page four times, eyes unfocused. And Emily—dear God, Emily Prentiss—sat across the aisle, arms crossed, lips pursed in a look that positively dripped with gleeful conspiracy.

Your blood turned to static.

You shifted slightly. Carefully. As if the whole scene might shatter if you moved too fast. But Aaron didn’t stir. His fingers—half-hidden under the edge of the blanket—brushed yours in a lazy, familiar glide that made your chest throb.

You tried, valiantly, for damage control. “We were just—”

“You’re dating,” Spencer blurted, too loudly. His voice cracked at the end. “You’re—together. That’s what this is.”

JJ blinked. “Wait, what? Who’s dating?”

Rossi didn’t look up from his page. “Hotch and the tall drink of sarcasm,” he said smoothly, flicking a page over. “Though apparently not just sarcasm. Man’s got enough leg to qualify for the NBA.”

Aaron stirred at last, eyelids heavy as he sat up with a soft groan, one hand rubbing at the base of his neck. He glanced at you first—still half-asleep—then looked around and froze.

“How long were we asleep?” he asked, voice low and scratchy.

Prentiss gestured at the two of you like she was presenting evidence to a jury. “Long enough for Reid to connect the dots, Rossi to make jokes, and JJ to quietly lose her mind.”

“I am losing my mind,” JJ admitted, leaning across the aisle. “Do you have any idea how domestic you looked?”

“I’m not spiraling,” Reid mumbled, defensive. “I’m processing. There's a difference.”

Aaron rubbed his temples, the weight of it all landing in his posture. “Well,” he muttered, “I suppose there’s no point in denying it now.”

“You think?” JJ said, laughing incredulously. “That was the most romantic use of a government-issued blanket I’ve ever seen.”

Aaron exhaled, already pulling back. His hand left yours beneath the blanket—and he straightened his tie with military precision. Not brusquely, but with intent. Practice. The same muscle memory he used to rebuild his walls.

You mirrored him, sitting upright and smoothing down the front of your shirt like it might erase the impression of his warmth from your skin.

No one said much after that.

The descent into Virginia was smooth, but the silence had a weight to it—less judgment, more curiosity. A new kind of attention. One you hadn’t prepared for.

By the time the jet touched down and the team filed off, you were no longer just Garcia’s occasional stand-in from Cyber Crimes. You were something else entirely now. Something… known.

You didn't talk about it. Neither did Hotch. Not in the car. Not in the elevator. Not even when he brushed his fingers against yours in parting outside the glass doors of Quantico, eyes soft and private in a way no one else ever got to see.

But the look he gave you said everything.

And the one you got the next morning?

That said you were screwed.

You were halfway through updating Garcia’s interface subroutines—tweaking her customized threat-detection algorithm to flag linguistic red flags in private message servers—when the rhythmic click-clack of combat boots struck the linoleum behind you like an incoming storm.

You didn’t even have time to turn around.

“…You absolute traitor.”

The voice was honey-dipped rage. Warm, theatrical, and furious. You froze, fingers still hovering over your keyboard as a familiar blur of pink, lemon, and rhinestones materialized at your side like a sequined banshee of justice.

Penelope Garcia stood over you, resplendent in a bubblegum-pink polka dot dress with a matching yellow cropped blazer, a glittering chaos of bangles jangling on both wrists. Her cat-eye glasses were framed by furious lashes, and her rhinestone barrettes—six of them—gleamed like the medals of a woman who had survived your betrayal.

You turned slowly, like someone facing down the executioner.

“Pen—”

She jabbed a manicured finger at your chest. “You were sneaking around with Hotch. Hotch.” The name landed like an accusation, syllables sharp. “You. You beautiful, lying, under-caffeinated Benedict Arnold—how long?! You’re six-foot-something and you still managed to sneak around behind my back?”

You blinked. “Since… San Diego. About six months.”

Garcia’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened. No sound came out.

Then—“SIX-!! SIX MONTHS?”

Her voice cracked like thunder in a library, echoing off the tech bullpen walls. Several heads turned. You winced.

She immediately dropped her volume to a hiss. “Six months?! You were literally canoodling while I was giving him spreadsheet updates and sending you both my little winky-face gifs with the hearts! Do you know how many times I’ve played accidental Cupid while you two were out there playing star-crossed lovers in FBI Kevlar?!”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. “..We noticed.”

Garcia let out a choked gasp. “Noticed?! You… vultures. Emotional vultures. I liked you. I trusted you. I let you into my precious baby databases! You helped me name the new server cluster and everything!”

“‘Clusterfluff,’” you murmured fondly.

“Don’t you dare weaponize our sacred in-jokes against me right now,” she snapped, spinning in a full circle, arms flailing dramatically. “You and Aaron Hotchner—Mister I-Don’t-Smile-At-Anyone-Unless-It’s-Jack—have been making googly eyes across agency lines while I’ve been out here thinking I was the one getting the secret winks?!”

“I mean,” you said, slowly raising your hands in mock surrender, “if it helps, he was the one who fell first.”

Silence.

Garcia froze mid-pace. Her head tilted, eyes narrowing like a cat who just spotted a thread out of place.

“…What?”

You nodded solemnly. “I was all professionalism. He was the one giving me extra coffee at 2 a.m. debriefs and calling me by my first name when no one else was around. I didn’t even realize until the San Diego case when he got jealous of the local liaison trying to flirt with me.”

Her eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Hotch got jealous? Like, clench-jaw, death-glare, micro-aggression jealous?”

“Oh yeah,” you said. “Classic ‘if looks could kill’ scenario. He adjusted his tie five times in one conversation.”

Garcia’s jaw dropped. Her betrayal cracked under the weight of new gossip. She stared at you like she was seeing the Mona Lisa blink.

Then she gasped.

A full, delighted, hands-to-her-chest gasp.

“Tell. Me. Everything.”

You grinned, spinning your chair to face her fully. “You want chronologically or thematically?”

She dropped into the chair beside you like a queen on a throne. “Give me the Netflix original limited series version. I want the drama. I want the angst. I want to know if he’s as brooding in bed as he is in briefings.”

You smirked, lightly flushed int the face at her words, dragging your keyboard closer to pause your work. “You’re going to need coffee.”

She grabbed your wrist. “I’m going to need a three-course meal and a glass of wine. And if you leave anything out, I will hack your inbox and read it for myself.”

Creak.

Derek’s eyes snapped open.

Creak. Again—slower this time, like someone was trying not to be heard.

At first, there was only the dark.

Not cozy, blanket-dark. No. This was the thick, swampy kind. Heavy across his chest, clinging to the walls, warping the shape of every coat hook and bookshelf into something not-quite-right. The curtains stirred slightly—no wind—and shadows from the tree outside jittered across the ceiling like restless fingers.

He held his breath.

Silence.

Too much of it.

The fridge wasn’t humming. The heater hadn’t kicked in. No faint upstairs pipes clanking in protest. It was the kind of silence that doesn’t soothe—it listens. That primal kind of quiet that precedes something awful.

Then— Creak.

The precise one outside the bathroom—that floorboard. The one that always squeaked unless you stepped on it just right.

Morgan hadn’t stepped on it.

You were still in bed. You’d dozed off curled into his chest, snoring like a kitten with allergies. If you were up, he would've felt it. And that step hadn’t been yours. Too heavy. Too slow.

That wasn’t the fridge. That wasn’t the neighbor’s cat. That wasn’t anything normal. That was a “get your ass stabbed” kind of sound.

He sat up fast, sheets hissing against the mattress, breath locked tight in his chest. Years of habit sent his hand flying toward the nightstand—

Gun? Gone. Badge? Not even close. All he found was a glass of water and the sad realization that this was the one night he’d let himself go off duty completely.

Hydrate or die-drate, you’d said with a grin. And now here he was—hydrated and about to square up with a ghost, barefoot and half-naked in his own damn house.

Another sound—a soft, almost polite shuffle. Then the quiet click of the bathroom door.

Derek froze.

Nah. Nope. You don’t just pick my house to rob. Not this house. Not with me in it. You think you’re gonna sneak in here, steal my TV, maybe grab a chocolate bar on the way out and leave like it’s DoorDash? Not happening.

He moved like instinct. Muscle memory. Silent, precise, deadly. His feet glided over hardwood. His breathing slowed. Even his heartbeat seemed to hold its rhythm.

I’ve tackled unsubs through barbed wire fences, strip malls, and once—once—during a bouncy castle birthday party. You think I won’t throw hands in my own damn hallway? In my socks?

As he moved, the fridge whined—a sudden mechanical sigh—and Derek nearly elbowed it on reflex.

He hissed under his breath.

God, I need to sleep more. Or maybe less.

A flash of a memory hit him—Chicago. An unsub had broken into a family’s home at 3 a.m., left the husband unconscious, and tied the mother up in her own bathroom. Morgan had shown up too late to stop the bruises from forming. That woman’s terrified eyes had been burned into his memory for years.

He wasn’t going to be late tonight.

The bathroom door creaked open.

A silhouette stepped out. Backlit. Slow. Unaware.

Gotcha, punk.

He surged forward in one flawless motion—tackle clean, grip tight, momentum precise. Years of FBI training kicked in as he brought the figure down, pinning them to the floor with a practiced hand and a sharp growl—

“Gotcha, punk—”

“THE HELL—?!”

There was a pause.

A beat of silence.

A very familiar groggy voice.

Your voice.

Derek blinked down, and sure enough—

There you were.

Hair sticking out in all directions, t-shirt bunched awkwardly around your waist, blinking slowly at him like a confused owl. You squinted up at him, one arm pinned, the other flopped dramatically beside you.

“…Babe?” you asked, voice hoarse from sleep, face squished against the tile. “Can we, I dunno… cuddle in bed and not on the bathroom floor?”

Derek froze.

Like a statue. Like a dumbass. Like a dumbass statue.

“…Oh my God,” he breathed, eyes wide, pupils dilating in horror. “Baby. Baby, I’m so sorry. I thought—I thought you were—Jesus, are you hurt? Are you okay?!”

You blinked up at him again, unimpressed.

“I woke up to pee, Derek.”

“I tackled you.”

“You tackled me.”

“I tackled my partner.”

“To the floor.”

“Yeah.”

A long pause.

“…Y’know what’s fun?” you said, eyes still mostly closed. “This tile is cold, and my spine hurts.”

That did it. Derek immediately scrambled to gather you into his arms like he’d just drop-kicked a newborn puppy.

“Nononono, come here—God, I’m such an idiot. I didn’t see—I wasn’t awake—fuck, I tackled you. Oh my God. You’re never sleeping over again.”

You let him scoop you up bridal-style, but your face was already pressed against his shoulder, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at your lips.

“I can’t wait to tell Garcia.”

That made him pause mid-carry. “You wouldn’t.”

You yawned. “Oh, I would. I’ll tell her you yelled ‘Gotcha, punk’ like a Saturday morning cartoon villain while I was barefoot and half-blind.”

Derek groaned. “You’re evil.”

“And you love it.”

He deposited you onto the bed like you were made of glass and his own unrelenting shame. He fussed over you—pulling the blanket up, tucking it beneath your chin, running his hands over your arms like he expected to find bruises.

“You sure you’re okay? Your back? Your neck? Baby, I could’ve—God, I didn’t mean to—”

You silenced him with a kiss. Lazy, warm, still sleep-drenched but affectionate.

“I’m fine,” you murmured. “Though…” You tugged him down beside you, a teasing glint in your eyes. “That was kinda hot.”

He blinked. “Hot?”

You grinned. “I mean, you did tackle me to the floor with surgical precision. Bit much for a midnight cuddle, but the form? Chef’s kiss. Nine outta ten.”

“...Nine?”

“Lost a point for trying to arrest me.”

Derek buried his face in your hair with a groan. “I hate how much you’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, come on, babe. We’ve had like two fights and neither involved a full-body takedown before tonight. Milestone achieved.”

“You’re never letting me live this down.”

“Top three most dramatic Morgan moments. Number one: tackling your half-naked partner. Number two: yelling ‘Gotcha, punk’ like you’re on an old cop show. No, I'm not letting you live this down.”

A long beat. You were drifting now, warm and safe in his arms, your breathing slowing.

Then, quietly, casually:

“…If you do wanna pin me down again though…”

Derek pulled the blanket over your head. “Go to sleep.”

Your muffled voice replied from beneath it:

“Love you, too.”

.

.

.

CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE

RECKLESS ABANDON BLURBS

BEDAZZLED MIGRAINE BRACELET

The beep of a heart monitor is constant background noise over the course of the next week.  Constant.  Rhythmic as the ticking of the clock across the empty, sterile hospital room, and just as annoying as the fluorescent lights above your head.  If it weren't for the throbbing pain of a concussion in your skull and the debilitating ache of dark bruises, you'd be restless in the quiet silence, but right now—all you really have the energy to do is sleep and think.

Think think think.

You only remember bits and pieces of what happened after Soap found you both.  You recall, vaguely, Price's countless apologies upon getting ushered back into another helicopter, the warmest hug you’ve ever received and a quick once over for any bad injuries.  You remember Gaz looking rather worse for wear as he limps down a runway—a twisted arm positioned carefully over Soap's shoulder.  Pale, dazed, jaw tight with pain.  You remember wrestling out of Ghost’s grasp to greet him, tearful and hyperventilating.

“Happens every time,” he had managed with a tight smile and a thumbs up, once you calmed down enough to breathe properly.

"Nice eye,"  you remember blearily telling Soap from where your cheek is pressed to Ghost's back later on.  A nasty bruise blooming across his face where flesh is nearly swollen shut, you had almost forgotten you punched him.  The front of his shirt is speckled with blood but considering he and Price the only ones relatively uninjured, you figure you don't want to know its source. 

"Nice brain,"  he snaps back immediately, eyes flitting across the dried blood that soaks your hair and the side of your sweater.  "Y'lose the last half of it in the crash, Mutt?"

Gaz chuckles deliriously at the comment.  For some reason, it makes you laugh too, and soon enough all three of you are laughing—relieved and hurting.  Even Price shakes his head, somewhat of a smile twitching across his face.  The Captain’s hand doesn't leave your shoulder once Ghost carefully slides you off his back.  Even he seems reluctant to let you go.

You remember throwing up in a bucket in the back of some SUV, then getting put in a hospital bed with painkillers, stitches, and orders not to look at anything too closely.  You aren't even allowed to have the TV on, but you do so sometimes anyway, even if the sight of your father's face on the news makes you nauseous all over again.

Things are quiet.  Too quiet.  For days after the talk with Price you don't get any visitors.  Just a few vague texts from Laswell and a call from Price that pretty much only consists of him dodging your questions.

You think a lot.  

Most of the sparse times you are awake are spent on the floor where all your father's letters are laid out at your feet.  Blue and black ink smudged across delicate, wrinkled, damp paper as you wait for them to dry completely before even daring to move them.  You've reread them all what feels like fifty times—looking for clues of his plans at the time, hints of Ghost, Nikolai, Laswell…anyone, really.  Dates.  Numbers.  Maybe a code hidden in the words?  You work at it every day, only stopping when you feel like you might vomit again.  You find yourself hoping Price will come through the door with orders to move somewhere—or maybe Ghost with more answers to quell your racing mind.  You want to know if Gaz is okay.  Hell, you'd be happy with Soap's presence if it meant conversation or something.

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.

There’s a knock at your door, about a week in.

Startled, you nearly jump at the disturbance in the silence, having dozed off on the floor.  Letters and neat cursive signatures swirling in your eyes before you blink the bleariness away.  You grunt as you push yourself up, stumble to the door.  Open it slowly.

You blink when your eyes meet a stubbled, tan face.  "Soap?"  

The soldier in question straightens himself.  He's not in fatigues, for once.  Instead, he's got a dark hoodie on—the hood pulled up over his head and sunglasses to hide the bruise around his eye.  

"Aye,"  The Scott replies, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding your gaze.  "You…free to talk?"

Your mouth opens and shuts again.  Suddenly everything you wanted to say, everything you thought would come flooding out the second you had a visitor flies from your mind.  Really, he was the last person you expected to come knocking.

"I’m due for surgery in an hour.”

A beat of silence passes and his brow furrows.  "Actually?" 

"No.  Joking."

"Cunt,"  he spits with a scoff,  then he straightens himself a little with a steadying breath.  "I owe ya' an apology, kid."

You blink for a second, more surprised than you ever expected yourself to be.  A part of you pegged him as too prideful to ever even toy with the idea, and you find yourself slightly shocked.  You shake it off quick, though, and lean against the doorframe.  "You owe me a little more than that."

"Can y'just…be serious?"  He insists, exasperated.  "For two seconds?"

You chew the inside of your cheek, feigning thoughtfulness as you consider his words.  Watch him purse his lips.  He looks a little worse for wear—stubble thicker than usual and mohawk not nearly as perfect as it usually is.  Instead, it sits on his forehead, sad and flat. 

You push yourself away from the side of the door.

"Alright,"  you say, gesturing for him to step inside your sterile little room.  "Come in."

He pads in after you, eyeing the paper scattered across the floor and the still-damp backpack that sits spread out on the bedside table—along with the lighter and a few multi-colored clumps of what used to be handfuls of string.  

"Watch your step.  You rip any of those letters, I'll kill you."

He huffs, shuffling over to the chair on the far side of the room.  "Aye."

You take a seat on your bed as he fidgets with his bandaged hands and the room feels suddenly awkward.  There's too much to talk about—so much that neither of you can really pinpoint where to start, what to touch on first.  In the end, it's Soap who clears his throat, fidgeting with his hands.  He’s got a tattoo, you notice.  A symbol you don’t recognize.

"So…"  he says.  "You and L.T…"

You, still, have no idea who knows that your dad was friends with Ghost.  You're sure Price does, considering everything, but you're beginning to think you overestimated how close Ghost is with anyone.  You think nobody really knows who Ghost is; what he's been through, why he's here.  You also like to think that, maybe, your dad did.

"Yeah,"  you nod.  "He's not that scary once he saves your life.”

He huffs in reluctant agreement,  "Aye.  Tell me about it."

"He's saved you before?"

Soap sits back in the seat.  Hands clasped in his lap, his leg bounces as he takes a breath.

"Kinda in the job description, Mutt…to save each other's lives,"  he explains with a shrug.  "But yeah.  I owe 'em, especially for all the times he’s saved my arse.”

You bring your legs up on the bed.  Cross them and grab your ankles.  Nod and purse your lips together before you ask sheepishly: “could you…tell me about it?”

He tilts his head, “about what?”

“One of the times.”

He huffs a breath, tilts his head and looks up like he might have more than a few examples to tell.  A moment passes before he sighs and sits back, settling on one.

“About two years ago, whenever I was first assigned 141.  Was returning to base from the scariest OP I’ve had so far whenever somethin’ came up.  Got ambushed, shot at, separated from the group,”  he says, threatening a smile like it might’ve been a good memory.  “Ghost kept my head on while I stumbled through a city floodin’ with mercs, bleedin’ out and everything.  All while shooting and running away from pursuers of his own. Never thought his stupid fuckin’ jokes would ever give him such a tactile advantage.”

You huff, “never expected him to care so much.”

That pulls a chuckle from Soap.

“Damn right,”  he agrees, crossing his arms.  “But anyone who levels that many Shadows in one night is a good man, in my eyes.”

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.  The heart monitor to your right fills the silence for a few moments before you speak up again.

"How is…everything?"  You say.  "With the others."

Soap's lips purse together.  For once, he seems nervous, eyes darting out the window next to you and brow furrowing tight.  Immediately, you tense, your heart rate picking up in your chest.

"It's Gaz, isn't it?"  You press, sitting up straighter.  "Did he die?"

"What?"  Soap chuckles, appalled, and he shakes his head.  "No—no, Christ almighty, Gaz didn't die.  He's fine.  They're all fine.  It's just…"

He clears his throat and gestures uselessly with his hands.

"...It's need-to-know."

You blink at him like he's got four heads.  Panic fades away to confusion as you raise an eyebrow at him, shoulders dropping.

"'Need-to-know'?" You echo.  "The fuck's that mean?"

Soap sighs, looks away again.

"'Means you're getting shipped back to the states, kid."

You think he might-as-well have dumped a bucket of ice water over your head.  Your mind goes blank, swirling questions and what-ifs sucked completely from your brain.  

"Price was supposed to break the news today,"  he explains further.  "'Figured I should stop by before he picked you up to clear the air, y’know?  Leave no bad blood.”

You’re too stunned by his words to really listen, too caught up in the thought that you failed.  You don’t have the codes.  You don’t have training or experience or any of the skills required to be anything more than just another body to protect.  A liability.  A name on a mortuary, if you don’t leave, hide, and stay hidden.  You’ve run out of time and failed.

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.

When you don’t reply, Soap lets out a breath and stands to his feet.

“It was nice knowing ya’,” He places a hand on your shoulder, gently squeezing.  “And I’m sorry.”

Your hands ball into fists, staring at the floor as you clutch the fabric of your sweatpants in your hands.  Your eyes sweeps across the countless letters and birthday cards that litter the ground—soiled, ruined by freezing water and snow.  Pen ink bled out and ruined.  Too late.  Your eyes land on the one he sent just before he disappeared as Soap’s hand disappears from your shoulder; a birthday card signed with the date.  

Beep.  Beep. Beep.

Soap closes the door gently behind him without another word.

Slowly, you slide off the bed.  You reach out and take the birthday card in your hands, still damp from the lakewater.  Six digits.  Circled in red ink.  Shaky handwriting.  There’s zeros after every digit.

Holy fucking shit.

Your feet move before you can even comprehend that you're up and out the door.  The IV track is ripped from your arm before you stumble out into the sterile hallway, alarms beeping in your wake.  Bare feet slide against the hospital floors.  You barely notice how someone yells for you at the counter as you pass, or the raging footsteps behind you.  Nurses, more than likely, that you ignore completely.

"Soap!"  You yell, waving the waterlogged card in your hand as your eyes catch the dark of his hoodie in the elevator.  Your legs burn and your head is pounding so hard from the sudden movement that your vision is dark around the edges, but you press on anyway until you slide into the elevator.  Soap grunts, reaching out to steady you when your legs give and your head swims.

“Jesus, Mutt, what—”

“Take me to Price.”

He blinks, squeezing your upper arms tight, “Price?”

“The code,”  you breathe.  “I know the fucking code.”

There’s a beep.  The elevator opens to the ground floor of the hospital, and suddenly you’ve got guns trained on you from all directions.  Black gear, dark helmets, riot shields and tactical vests.  You barely have time to freeze before Soap jumps in front of you and all hell breaks loose.

Langley’s operations wing always smelled like something vaguely scorched — ozone, cheap toner, the acidic bite of overworked electronics — layered with the bitter ghost of day-old coffee left to stew in a burner-stained pot. The kind of place that hummed with fluorescent fatigue, every corner buzzing with the relentless rhythm of classified churn. Ceiling lights flickered like they were seconds from giving out. Shadows moved along the walls like they were trying to crawl free.

Your heels clicked down the corridor with too much self-assurance for someone still wet behind the ears. You knew it. You could feel it in the way analysts glanced up from their screens as you passed — a mix of amusement and unease, like they couldn’t decide whether to roll their eyes or salute. And maybe you hadn’t earned that kind of strut yet. Not officially. But swagger came easier than humility, and confidence — real or faked — was half the job.

Your badge bounced against your left breast, the hard plastic flash of it catching the overhead light like a flare. Your name glared back in all caps, black ink on laminate, printed above the seal of the Central Intelligence Agency. A symbol meant to invoke order, control, gravity. But it didn’t feel like any of those things on your skin.

Three months since you’d been field-cleared. Sixty-something days since you’d swapped paperwork and internal memos for burnt-out safehouses and eyes in the back of your skull. Two high-stakes operations, both risky, both successful, both the kind that turned heads. You could still hear what the ops guys murmured when they thought you were out of earshot — “She’s green, but fuck me, she gets results. Dangerous combo.” Someone had called you a prodigy. Someone else had called you a ticking clock.

The director’s door was open by the time you reached it, cracked just wide enough to invite or intimidate — maybe both. You didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate.

The office was quiet as a confession booth. Dust hung in slats of pale gold where sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across the threadbare carpet. Everything inside was brown or brass or beige — like the room had been frozen in time somewhere around the Cold War. The air carried the scent of varnish and aging leather, a hint of cigar smoke clinging to the walls like a memory.

Director Halvorsen didn’t look up. He sat with his shoulders hunched in his chair like the weight of the country lived between his blades, hands folded over a manila file so thick it could’ve doubled as a brick. Red stamps bled across the top corner like a warning.

You opened your mouth, ready with something sharp — a joke, maybe, or just a little needle to pop the tension.

And then you saw him.

Phillip Graves.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t even twitch. Just watched you enter with the kind of impassive, razor-flat expression that said he’d made ten separate judgments about you before you’d crossed the threshold — and none of them were good. The aviators tucked into the front of his vest were just icing on the cake. Indoors. No need for them. But of course he had them anyway. It was the kind of cocky, performative shit you recognized instantly — because you’d done it yourself in a dozen different ways. You knew posturing when you saw it.

Phillip Fucking Graves.

Oh, you’d heard of him. Who hadn’t?

Even in the sanitized, windowless bowels of Langley, his name floated through the air like cordite after a blast — sharp, acrid, undeniable. He was the kind of man passed around in stories over too-hot coffee and too-long night shifts, his reputation stitched together by grainy photos, after-action reports, and the grim, knowing looks exchanged between field agents who’d seen the wreckage Shadow Company left behind.

Private military. Privately dangerous.

Graves had a dossier as thick as a Bible and twice as bloody. Ex-Force Recon. Decorated. Discharged. Built an empire of black ops and gray morality, answering to contracts instead of flags. His men were ghosts in the field — brutal, exacting, loyal only to their own, each of them molded in the image of the man who led them: efficient, ruthless, and just clean enough to be useful.

And there he was, in the flesh.

Leaning against Halvorsen’s wall like he owned the place. Like the room had been waiting for him.

He looked like war made flesh — lean and wide-shouldered, all hard edges and military symmetry. Black fatigues hugged his frame like a second skin, sleeves rolled to the elbows to expose scarred forearms, veins like tension wires beneath sun-worn skin. His sidearm — holstered, but unmistakably live — sat heavy at his hip like it belonged there.

The Shadow Company patch on his shoulder was unmistakable: that stark, rook emblem embroidered over black and grey, silent proof that he didn’t answer to any flag you did.

His hair was neat, and his jaw bore the kind of stubble that looked purposeful. His face was handsome in a brutal way — not soft, not inviting, but angular and sharp, with a pouty little mouth made for bad news and worse deals. Eyes blue and unreadable, like crashing waves. Cold. Trained.

And still — all of him wrapped in that unbearable, unmistakable Southern drawl you’d already heard in leaked audio clips, in grainy body cam footage no one was supposed to have.

The kind of voice that could talk a foreign informant into flipping — or folding.

So yeah. You’d heard of him.

You couldn’t decide if you wanted to punch him, impress him, or set him on fire.

Maybe all three.

“You’re late,” Halvorsen said flatly, not lifting his eyes from the file.

“No, sir,” you answered smoothly, smile tucked just behind your teeth as you strode in. “Your clock’s fast.”

It wasn’t a great line, but you delivered it with enough charm to pass. Or maybe not.

Halvorsen sighed like he regretted the entire idea of your existence.

Graves didn’t so much as blink.

His gaze tracked you from the second you entered, dark and steady, like he was trying to determine whether you were a threat, a joke, or just another mess he was going to have to clean up. There was no amusement in it. No flicker of curiosity or recognition.

You let it hang there between you. The tension, the judgment, the heat of being stared at like a gnat on a windshield. Let it hang, because you refused to be the one to break.

Halvorsen didn’t waste time with niceties. His hand made a lazy gesture toward the figure still parked by the far wall like a statue carved out of discipline and disdain. “Commander Phillip Graves,” he said, voice bone-dry. “Shadow Company. He’ll be handling security for your operation in Tbilisi.”

You turned toward Graves with exaggerated slowness, letting the silence stretch just long enough to register as attitude. Your gaze slid over him from head to toe, all six-something feet of regulation-grade menace wrapped in matte black and dark tactical gear. Your smile curled like honey left out in the sun — golden, sweet, and just starting to rot at the edges.

“Overseeing me, huh?” you said, sugar in your voice like it cost nothing. “Lucky you.”

There was a twitch. Just a flicker in his brow, the kind of minute response that said you’d gotten under his skin — barely, but enough. It almost made you grin.

But his reply was sharp, exact. Like a knife drawn clean across a whetstone.

“Not you,” he said, voice low and clipped, like he’d rehearsed this kind of correction a hundred times. “The op. Let’s get something straight, sweetheart — I don’t babysit.”

The word hit like a slap. You blinked. Once. Then let out a laugh — not loud, but sharp and incredulous. You turned your head toward Halvorsen like you couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

“Sweetheart?” you echoed, tone cutting now, edges gleaming. “You serious? This is the guy?”

Your tone walked the line between insult and entertainment, but Graves was already moving. He stepped off the wall with the slow, purposeful motion of a man who knew he didn’t have to rush to make a point. Heavy. Grounded. The kind that rearranged the atmosphere in a room just by standing in it.

“This guy,” he drawled, steel beneath the Southern lilt, “has been cleaning up shitshows like yours since you were still figuring out how to spell ‘covert.’ And I don’t have time to waste on mouthy little analysts with something to prove.”

Your smile vanished, gone like a switch flipped.

You took a step toward him, the air between you sharpening like glass dust in your throat. “I’m not an analyst,” you said, voice flint-hard. “I pulled intel from three wet sources in fourteen days. Two of them walked in wearing vests — I still got what we needed. The third one? Your people didn’t even know he existed until I bled it out of him. So yeah, I earned this op. And I’m not interested in measuring dicks in a briefing room.”

Graves’s eyes tracked you slowly. A scan. Not the kind that undressed — no, this was colder. More precise. He was calculating threat level, liability, maybe wondering what it would take to shut you up — permanently or otherwise.

“I’m interested in keeping you alive,” he said, so quiet it almost didn’t register at first. “Even if you make that real goddamn difficult.”

It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t even a warning. It was a fact, stated like mission protocol. Your heart kicked once — not out of fear, but adrenaline. You were used to control. You weren’t used to men like him trying to snatch it from you mid-stride.

You were already reaching for a comeback — something sharp, barbed, tipped with just enough venom to leave a mark — when Halvorsen finally cut through the tension with a groan like he had a migraine blooming behind both eyes.

“Enough,” he said, flattening a palm against the thick manila file on his desk. “Both of you.”

The room quieted, but the heat lingered.

“We don’t have the luxury of backup on this,” Halvorsen went on. “It’s the two of you, a few Shadows, a stripped-down convoy unit, and one goddamn window of contact. The source was crystal clear — he talks to her, or he doesn’t talk at all. That makes her the priority. Graves, I want her breathing until we get what we need.”

He paused, eyes like twin pins behind his glasses.

“Preferably longer.”

Graves exhaled through his nose. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. Bone-dry. Almost bored.

Halvorsen turned his attention to you next, and the shift in his gaze was like a sudden drop in temperature. “And you,” he said slowly, the warning in his voice thick as smoke. “If you want to keep playing with the big boys, you’d better learn when to shut the hell up.”

You gave a little salute, two fingers pressed to your temple in mocking compliance.

“Sir, yes sir.”

Graves muttered something under his breath. You didn’t catch the exact words, but the tone said it all — disdain, mostly. A touch of disbelief. But it was the look he gave you that really spoke. Like you were some pampered show dog barking in the middle of a warzone — and he was already planning how to muzzle you.

You’d seen that look before. Usually on hardened operators who thought degrees and dialects didn’t mean a damn thing if you’d never dragged a buddy out of a burning alley. Men who believed intelligence was something that came in brass casings and hard kills, not whispered confessions and coded drop points. Men who didn’t think your kind bled the same.

And yet, you didn’t flinch. Not even a breath.

You met his eyes. Let the tension settle between you like a loaded chamber.

“Don’t worry, Commander,” you said, voice all silk and static, just enough mockery to turn the knife. “I can play nice.”

Halvorsen rubbed a hand over his face.

“God help me,” he muttered. “You two are gonna get along just fine.”

⟡

The safehouse was falling apart in the way old things do when time forgets them. A skeleton of gray concrete perched on the city’s bleeding edge, its cracked foundation veined with creeping moss and spiderweb fractures that snaked across the walls like old scars. Rebar jutted from broken corners like rusted ribs, skeletal fingers clawing at the air. The windows — or what was left of them — were jagged holes lined with splinters and dust, long since abandoned by glass, left open to the stink of the city and the press of the night.

Inside, the air was thick. Close. It smelled of old sweat and diesel fumes, the tang of coppery blood hanging heavy near the far wall, and something deeper — something fungal and sour blooming in the rotting plaster. It clung to your skin, wormed its way into your hair and your throat, made every breath feel like it carried grit. This wasn’t shelter. It was a last resort. The kind of place you hoped didn’t collapse before your exfil came through.

Outside, the city simmered. Tbilisi after dark was a different creature altogether — jagged and sharp, purpled by twilight and bruised with smoke. Stray dogs barked in alleyways like they were mourning something lost. Somewhere far off, a car backfired — or maybe it didn’t — and the pop-pop echoed between the buildings like an old wound reopening. This wasn’t just a city with teeth.

It was already chewing on you.

Inside, the stillness wasn’t peace. It was pressure. Like the air itself had crouched low, waiting for the next burst of violence.

Graves sat in the far corner, hunched slightly in a rust-bitten folding chair beneath the single hanging bulb that swung like a pendulum in the stagnant air. The light cast him in harsh slices — bright across his jaw, then swallowed in shadow again, like he was only half real. His right arm was stripped bare to the shoulder, the shredded sleeve of his fatigues lying in a bloodied heap on the floor beside him. The wound was a raw, ugly stripe across the meat of his bicep, black-red and crusted with dust. A graze, but deep enough to throb. Deep enough to scar.

You were still standing.

Back to the far wall, arms crossed, shoulders tight and burning. The adrenaline was still alive in you, coiled beneath your ribs like a nest of hornets, buzzing and twitching with every shallow breath. You couldn’t sit. Couldn’t relax. Not with the memory still clawing behind your eyes — vivid and brutal.

The meet.

The contact’s body snapping back like a marionette with its strings cut.

The way his head had cracked open against the pavement, blood running in fast little rivers between the cobblestones. The staccato of gunfire. The whine of ricochet.

The flash of Graves in your periphery, barreling into you like a freight train, knocking the air from your lungs before your brain could even catch up. You’d hit the ground hard. You could still feel the bite of concrete in your spine. Still hear the grit in Graves’s voice barking orders through the chaos, the sheer velocity of him moving on top of you — louder than instinct, faster than fear.

And now here you both were. Bloody. Breathing. Fucked.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he looked up.

His eyes met yours beneath the low light. Pale and sharp, the kind of look that cut through skin and muscle and pride alike. His mouth twitched — almost a smirk, but it didn’t quite make it. Too tired. Too raw.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, drawl rough and edged with gravel, “I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’re worried.”

You blinked once. Your jaw tightened.

“I’m trying to decide if you’re a complete idiot.”

He huffed through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching again. This time it hurt — he winced, his shoulder shifting as he rolled it, and the pain must’ve crested because his body went still for a beat. One of his Shadows — Corporal Ives, maybe — stood near the window, scanning the dark street below, rifle held loose but ready. The other three cleaned their weapons around the small wooden table in the corner with methodical precision, calm like men who’d spent half their lives waiting to be shot at.

Graves reached for the half-empty bottle of antiseptic on the crate beside him. He uncapped it one-handed, poured it straight onto the wound. His hiss at the contact filled the silence, sharp and sudden, before he leaned back against the wall and let the burn ride out.

“You looked like a deer in the damn headlights,” he muttered, shaking a few drops of disinfectant from his fingers. “Wasn’t gonna let you get your pretty little head turned into confetti.”

The words lit a fire under your skin.

“Don’t patronize me.” You stepped forward without thinking, boots scuffing the cracked tile with a hard scrape. “You didn’t have to take the fucking hit.”

Graves didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

“Didn’t plan on it, sweetheart,” he said, finally glancing at the bloody rag on the floor, already brown with drying red. “But hell, you weren’t movin’. Just standin’ there like you forgot what the fuck kind of job this is.”

The words landed. Hard.

Your throat clenched around the reply that tried to crawl out, but you swallowed it down, jaw aching from the force of it. He was right. That’s what made it sting worse. You had frozen. Just for a second — but in this work, in that moment, a second was long enough to die.

And instead of you, it had been him.

A bullet that could’ve ended your career, your life, had skimmed the side of his arm instead. The graze wasn’t going to kill him. But the guilt? That was going to go deep.

The silence between you turned heavy, the kind that buzzed in your bones and filled your lungs until it suffocated you. Outside, a dog barked once. Then another. The city groaned. Somewhere close, a car door slammed.

You barely noticed.

“You should’ve let me get shot,” you said, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “Would’ve been easier for everyone.”

Graves gave a low scoff — a sound with no real humor in it, just disbelief. “Yeah? Well lucky for you, I don’t make it a habit to let my assets eat lead.”

“I’m not your asset,” you snapped, the words out before you could think them through. “And I didn’t ask for your damn heroics.”

His brows lifted, slow and unimpressed, like he was watching a toddler throw a tantrum in the cereal aisle.

“No, you didn’t,” he said, tone edging toward dryness. “You just froze like a fuckin’ rookie and damn near got your head blown off. I stepped in because I had two choices: pull you out of the line of fire, or scrape you off the street with a damn shovel. Don’t act like you earned that bullet.”

Your stomach twisted. You clenched your jaw so tight you thought something might crack. You hated that you had choked. Hated more that he’d seen it. But what you hated most — deep down, in the center of your chest where all the worst truths lived — was that he was right.

Still, you couldn’t let him have the last word.

“God,” you said, pacing two steps away, hands curled into fists at your sides. “You’re such a fucking martyr.”

Graves let out a low breath and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, injured arm loose and bleeding again where he’d moved too fast. His voice followed you, calm and cutting.

“I’m not a martyr. I’m a professional. Something you oughta work on bein’ if you wanna stay alive long enough to graduate past being a paper-pusher with attitude.”

You whirled back toward him. “I’ve done two field ops without a hitch—”

“Yeah, and this one went sideways the second boots hit pavement,” he cut in, standing now. The chair scraped back across the floor with a rusty shriek. “Contact dead. Intel lost. And you — damn near getting yourself killed over not payin’ attention.”

He was too close now, not touching but there, his voice dropping low as he stared you down. “You think those suits back at Langley are gonna give a shit about how cute your mission reports read if your body’s rotting in some side street?”

Your pride flared again, too loud and too fast.

“I didn’t ask you to step in!” you snapped, the guilt twisting into heat, into something mean and bratty and breathless. “You wanna chew someone out? Chew out your little Shadows for not spotting the tail earlier. Maybe if your guys were half as good as you think they are, we wouldn’t be holed up in this moldy fucking tomb waiting for a ride home with blood in our fucking shoes.”

You regretted it the moment it left your mouth.

The silence hit like a fist. Even the men in the corner paused. Glowered.

Graves didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

“You don’t get to talk about my men,” he said, voice cold and razor-clean. “They followed protocol. They did their jobs. And I’d bleed for any one of ‘em without thinkin’ twice.”

He took another step toward you, jaw clenched, breath shallow.

“Which is exactly what I did for you.”

You stared up at him, heart hammering, throat dry.

His wound was still bleeding.

Your fingers itched to move, to help, to do something — but you stayed where you were, arms still crossed like they could shield you from the sheer weight of what he'd done.

“You don’t get to pull that card,” you said, quieter now, but still sharp around the edges. “You don’t get to act like I owe you something because you jumped in like a good little soldier.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Don’t owe me a damn thing. But you’re actin’ like I shoulda let you take the round.”

“I’m saying it would’ve made this easier.” Your voice cracked on that last word — just barely. You hated how raw it felt.

Graves looked at you for a long moment, like he was seeing straight through the bravado. Like he recognized the fear curling underneath it, the shame hiding in your teeth. His voice softened — not gentle, but steady.

“Would it really?” he asked.

You swallowed.

“I don’t like being in anyone’s debt,” you muttered. “Especially not yours.”

He smiled then. Just a little. Tired and amused and vaguely triumphant.

“There she is,” he murmured. “There’s the brat.”

You bristled. “Fuck off.”

He chuckled low in his chest, rolling his shoulder again with a wince. “You sure talk a big game for someone who damn near got ventilated.”

“Yeah, and you’re still bleeding, so maybe don’t puff your chest too hard, cowboy.”

He grinned wider now, a glint of something almost feral in his eyes.

“I’m startin’ to think you like the way I bleed for you.”

Your mouth opened. Closed. Your brain stalled, caught between indignation and something much, much worse.

You turned away fast, trying to hide the heat crawling up your throat. “You’re delirious.”

“Mm,” he drawled, settling back into the chair like he’d just won something. “Maybe.”

He leaned his head back against the wall and looked up at the swaying bulb above, light pooling over the sweat on his neck, the curve of his throat, the way the shadows cut across his scarred cheek.

“We’ll be outta here by morning,” he said. “Then you can go back to pretendin’ I didn’t take a bullet for you.”

You stood in the doorway to the next room, trying not to think too hard about what he’d said. Or how your heart was still racing. Or how, in the quiet hours that followed, you found yourself listening for his breathing.

Just to make sure it hadn’t stopped.

⟡

The interior of the Shadow Company transport was utilitarian and loud — all gunmetal paneling, exposed rivets, and the low, constant drone of the engines humming through the floor and into your bones. No real seats. Just a long row of harnessed webbing along each wall and a narrow aisle down the middle. Everything smelled like sweat, old oil, and the rubber tang of combat boots that hadn’t seen rest in weeks.

No windows. No fucking peace and quiet.

You sat with your back to the hull, strapped in by rough military-grade harnesses you’d only half-fastened, legs spread just enough to keep your balance, fingers gripping the underside of your seat. Every jostle of turbulence vibrated straight up your spine.

Across from you: Graves.

Arms crossed. Vest still on. Legs wide. The gauze at his bicep was freshly changed but already spotted through with blood, the dark stain creeping like ivy beneath the white. His Shadows were scattered nearby — silent, checking gear, dozing, pretending they weren’t listening to you two snap at each other for the third time since wheels up.

You hadn’t spoken for the first hour of the flight. Tension thick as tar between you. Until you made the mistake of sighing too loud when he shifted in his seat.

“Jesus,” you muttered, “could you not bleed so dramatically?”

Graves looked up slowly, like you’d interrupted his nap. “You want me to drip quieter? My bad.”

You rolled your eyes. “You didn’t have to come back with us. I’m sure there’s a hospital bed in Bucharest with your name on it.”

“I came back because I have work to do,” he said, dry. “Unlike some people, I don’t get to write one disaster report and vanish into Langley’s glass tower to lick my wounds.”

“Disaster?” you scoffed. “I’m sorry, did you walk out of there with your source still breathing? Oh, wait—”

“You want a medal for failure, sweetheart?” His tone was a quiet growl now. “’Cause you’re sure fuckin’ itching for one.”

Your mouth dropped open.

“I swear to God—”

He leaned forward a little, resting his forearms on his knees, voice dipping low. “You know what your problem is? You’re a cocky little bitch. Always been the smartest in the room, right? Bet you killed it in training. Bet you had instructors wrapped around your finger.”

You stiffened. “And what, you’re mad you weren’t one of them?”

He grinned — sharp and wolfish. “I don’t fall for attitude wrapped in a tight little suit, sugar. You’re not special.”

“You took a bullet for me.”

“That was tactical,” he snapped, too fast. “I’d take one for my dog if he were in the blast zone.”

You made a face. “You comparing me to your dog now?”

“No,” he said, voice settling into something more clipped, more serious. “My dog listens.”

You barked a laugh. “Do you rehearse these in the mirror, or is the drawl part of the charm you think you have?”

One of the Shadows two seats down muttered something under his breath. You didn’t catch it. Graves did. His jaw flexed.

“Keep runnin’ that mouth,” he said, leaning back again. “Eventually you’re gonna say something that costs you.”

You stared at him. “And you’ll be right there, waiting to charge interest, huh?”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Damn straight.”

Another patch of silence fell, stretched taut between the roar of the engines and the tension in your chest.

You shifted in your seat, stared at the metal floor between your boots. “You think I don’t care that the contact’s dead?”

Graves didn’t answer at first. When you looked up, his eyes were already on you.

“Sure, I think you care,” he said. “But only how it reflects on you.”

That landed harder than it should have.

You looked away. Let the silence settle again. Let it say everything you couldn’t.

He didn’t press. But he didn’t look away, either.

When the light overhead blinked amber — two hours from landing — you pulled the strap tighter across your chest, throat raw, hands aching from how hard you were clenching them.

Graves adjusted his own harness without a word.

⟡

Hell was waiting for you when you got back to Langley.

Word had traveled fast. Of course it had. By the time your boots hit the floor, you knew the story was already being rewritten — not as a near-miss, not as a compromised op, but as your failure. The golden girl with the smart mouth and the shiny clearance, chewed up and spit out after one bad run.

No one said it to your face. They didn’t have to. It was in the eyes. In the silence. In the way no one asked if you were okay.

You hadn’t even made it to your locker before Halvorsen dragged you in for your first debrief. Then the next. Then another. By the third retelling, your voice had gone scratchy. By the fifth, you were sick of hearing yourself talk. The same story, again and again — your contact dead mid-sentence, blood on the pavement, bullets carving up concrete while Graves dragged you to cover and barked orders that still echoed in your skull. You replayed it all until it felt like fiction. Until you weren’t sure if you were remembering or just rehearsing from a script.

The shame hit slow. Clogged up your chest and sat behind your ribs like wet cement. You knew you’d been thrown in the deep end — everyone had warned you — but it didn’t stop the guilt from crawling under your skin and settling there. Didn’t stop you from wondering, every goddamn second, what you should have done. Who you should have been in that moment.

You hadn’t seen Graves since the plane touched down. Figured he’d written up his report and ghosted the way contractors do — clean hands, clean conscience. He did his job. He kept you breathing. You were the one who was supposed to bring something back.

And you hadn’t.

When they finally gave you a bathroom break, it felt like parole. You walked slow. Mechanical. Hands heavy at your sides. The mirror above the sink was too clean and too honest. You didn’t look at it. Just ran the water cold and let it sting the fatigue out of your face. Tried to scrub the shame off your hands even though you knew it was under the skin by now. Permanent. Yours.

You weren’t going to cry. Not in this building. Not in front of them. You swallowed it all — the embarrassment, the exhaustion, the anger — until your throat ached and your stomach burned and the only thing you had left was spite keeping you upright.

You pulled yourself together. Just enough. Straightened your shirt. Flattened the line of your mouth.

Then you went back.

And stopped cold in the doorway.

Graves was in Halvorsen’s office.

Just — there. Like this was casual. Like he hadn’t disappeared for a full day and let you twist in the wind while every analyst and overseer picked apart your actions like a carcass. He stood near the desk, arms folded, shoulders loose, mouth set in that neutral, unreadable line that somehow still managed to say I know something you don’t.

Halvorsen was talking. You couldn’t hear what. You didn’t care.

Your spine locked up. The heat behind your eyes came back fast and hard — not tears, but fury. Pure and clean. You opened your mouth, ready to let something sharp fly. Something that would make him blink, make him feel any part of what he left you to carry—

But Graves turned his head. Met your eyes.

And smiled.

Oh, you were going to kill him.

Halvorsen, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair like this was just another Thursday. One hand rubbing absently at his temple, the other already halfway through the motion of gesturing to you.

“You’re one lucky rookie,” he said, voice bone-dry. “Graves here just saved your fucking ass.”

You blinked. The words didn’t land at first — didn’t make sense.

“What?” you said, the word slipping out too flat, too quiet.

Halvorsen didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to. He reached to the side of his desk and plucked something small off a manila folder — a flash of red between his fingers — then held it up between thumb and forefinger.

A thumb drive.

Small. Unassuming.

You stared at it, pulse ticking louder in your ears.

“Grabbed it off your source’s body,” he said, like he was explaining the weather. “Figured it was what he’d meant to hand off to you before he got his brains redecorated all over the street.” He let the drive fall gently to the desk with a muted tap. “Figured right.”

Your mouth opened slightly — not for a word, but just to breathe. Your skin prickled. Something inside your chest twisted.

“You—” You looked at Graves then, sharp and sudden. “You had that this whole time?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even shift his weight. “Didn’t feel like announcing it until it was safe,” he said, voice level. “Didn’t know what was on it. Could’ve been bait. Could’ve been worthless.”

“Could’ve told me,” you snapped, heat rising before you could check it. “You let me think the mission was a complete failure!”

His jaw moved — a slight clench, a flicker of something behind his eyes that might’ve been smug or just tired.

“That’s ‘cause it fuckin’ was.”

Your breath caught — just a second, just enough to rattle you. Halvorsen didn’t speak. His chair creaked faintly as he shifted, watching both of you.

Graves’s expression didn’t change. Calm. Irritatingly calm.

“You think I needed to be humbled?” Your voice dropped, low and taut. “That what this was?”

“I think you’ve been told you’re hot shit your entire life,” he replied, “and maybe you are. But being smart doesn’t stop bullets. It doesn’t keep assets alive. And it doesn’t mean a damn thing when you choke on your fucking mission, kid.”

The words hit like gravel in your throat.

You said nothing.

For a long, long second, the office felt too quiet. The air too still.

Then Halvorsen exhaled, long and slow, and picked up the thumb drive again.

“We’ll get our analysts to run it. If it’s legit, we may have just salvaged something from this mess. Could be a lead on the Sokolov pipeline. Could be garbage. We’ll know by tonight.” He set the drive down again, almost reverently. “But if it’s real, Graves just bought you another shot at doing this job.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry, still staring at the flash drive like it might sprout legs and walk away. That shame you’d been carrying all day — the weight of it shifted. Not lighter. Just different now. More complicated.

Graves pushed off from the desk, brushing past you with the quiet presence of a man who didn’t need to linger.

But you turned.

And followed.

Graves was already halfway down the hall, boots solid against the linoleum, shoulders squared beneath the weight of that cocky indifference he wore like a bulletproof vest. You watched him for a second, jaw clenched, spine bristling. He moved like someone who didn’t know what it meant to doubt himself. Or worse — someone who did, and just didn’t give a damn.

Your fingers curled at your sides.

Then you stepped after him, fast and sharp.

“Hey!” you called, voice slicing through the corridor. “Asshole!”

He didn’t stop walking.

You picked up your pace, boots echoing like gunfire across the tile until you caught up to him and planted yourself square in his path. His mouth twitched — not quite a smirk, not quite annoyance. Just the faintest ripple of amusement that made your blood run hotter.

“You’ve got a hell of a nerve,” you snapped, chin tilted high. “Letting me think I’d walked us into a dead op. That the contact got himself killed for nothing.”

His gaze swept over you, slow as a match strike. That stormy, unbothered blue — the kind of look that had no business settling in the pit of your stomach the way it did.

“You’re welcome,” he said simply.

“Fuck off,” you muttered, jabbing your finger squarely into his chest, accusatorily. “Don’t pretend this was some noble sacrifice. You didn’t do this for me. You did it to save your own ass.”

That earned you the full weight of his attention. He stepped in closer — not enough to touch, but enough to shift the air between you. His voice dropped.

“Darlin’, if I was worried about saving my ass, I wouldn’t have taken a round for yours.”

The words hit low. Smug and warm and smug again.

You hated how fast your breath caught. Hated the flush that crept up your neck like a traitor. You’d come here to yell at him — to drag him for the humiliation, the arrogance, the casual way he toyed with you like this was all some game. And yet—

God, he smelled like worn leather and gun oil and something sharp beneath it, something hot that curled under your skin and made your legs feel too aware of themselves. He still had blood on the cuff of his rolled sleeve. A pink halo dried into the edge of the gauze. He didn’t flinch when he moved.

You swallowed thickly. Glared harder.

“You’re an asshole.”

He smiled then — small, crooked, and too pleased with himself. “Yeah. You’ve mentioned.”

“And you think you’re so fucking clever.”

“Not clever,” he said. “Just right.”

You stared at him. At that maddening confidence. At the crease of laughter lines near his eyes, the faint scar on his cheek that disappeared into his stubble. Every inch of him was carved from war stories and bad habits, and he looked at you like you were next on his list.

It should’ve made you want to slap him.

The way he stood there, full of smug Southern stillness — like he’d just laid down a royal flush and didn’t even need to look. That little crook in his mouth, the one that always seemed one breath away from something cruel or charming, and you were never sure which one would land. You should’ve wanted to wipe that look right off his face.

You didn’t.

Instead, your voice dipped lower. Tighter. Something heat-slick and mean curling just under your ribs.

“You’re enjoying this,” you said, stepping into his shadow. “Aren’t you?”

There was a beat.

Then—

“Yeah,” he said, voice deep and slow. “I really am.”

God.

It hit you like the slide of silk over bare skin — unexpected, intimate, infuriating. Your breath caught, a single hitch that gave you away before you could reel it back in. Just enough for him to notice. Just enough for his eyes to narrow slightly, for the air between you to shift like something had cracked open.

The silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt thick. Like honey poured too slow. Like breath held too long. You became acutely aware of how close you were standing, how the scent of him — sweat and leather and heat — coiled in your lungs like smoke.

Fluorescents buzzed weakly overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed. Neither of you moved.

You should’ve walked away. Should’ve said nothing. But then he leaned in — just a fraction, just enough — and let it drop, soft and warm and awful.

“Maybe next time, sweetheart,” he said, “you’ll thank me properly.”

Your spine lit up.

In your mind, for a brief second, you saw the flash of his hand braced against a wall, his mouth too close to yours. You saw what “proper” might look like, and the thought slid somewhere behind your navel and burned.

You stepped back — not far, just enough. Just enough to breathe again, just enough to make sure he didn’t see how your pulse jumped beneath your skin.

“You wish,” you said, and your voice wasn’t steady. It was silk pulled taut, sharp at the edges.

Graves gave a quiet laugh — low and knowing and entirely too pleased with himself. Not loud enough to echo. Just enough to linger.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.