The warehouse door was a heavy, rusted slab of iron. You stood back, arms crossed, tapping your foot with a rhythmic, impatient clack-clack-clack against the pavement.
Rigsby and Van Pelt were parked two blocks out, hidden in a "dead zone" to ensure no radio frequencies tipped off the suspect’s scanners. They were waiting for the signal—a silent panic button in your pockets—but until then, you and Jane were entirely on your own.
"I'm just saying, Sergio," you snapped, using his undercover name with a bite that made Jane’s eyebrows jump. "If this 'Artisan' doesn't have the velvet ottomans, I am leaving. I have a 1:00 PM at the club and I will not be late because you have a fetish for mid-century dust."
Jane—or 'Sergio'—let out a dramatic, wounded sigh. "Art takes time, darling. And vision! You lack the vision."
He hammered on the door. After a tense moment, a small sliding panel opened. A pair of cold, suspicious eyes peered out.
"We’re closed to the public."
"The public? Heavens," Jane scoffed, waving a hand as if shooing a fly. "I’m not 'the public.' I’m the man who’s about to buy your entire inventory of 1958 Eames chairs if you’d stop hiding behind a piece of scrap metal. My designer here is already threatening to flee to San Francisco, and quite frankly, her temper is much shorter than her hemlines."
You shot Jane a look that would have vaporized a lesser man.
"Open the door," you growled at the guard. "Before I decide this building is a safety hazard and call the fire marshal myself."
The interior was a cavernous maze of crates and shrouded furniture. It was silent, save for the distant hum of a generator. A man in a grease-stained jumpsuit—the "Alpha’s" lackey—stood by a forklift, watching you both with a hand resting near his waistband.
Jane immediately began wandering, touching things he shouldn't. "Oh, look at this! Is this teak? It’s hideous. I must have it."
You trailed behind him, your eyes scanning the rafters for the "spotter" vantage point Van Pelt had mentioned.
"It’s a knock-off, Sergio. Move on. We’re looking for the storage unit in the back, remember?"
"You're so focused on the 'back,'" Jane murmured, pausing by a large mahogany wardrobe. He leaned in close, pretending to inspect the wood, but his breath hitched against your ear. "Always so eager to get to the finish line."
The tension in your chest tightened like a coiled spring. You stepped into his space, shoving him back slightly under the guise of "correcting" his path. "I’m focused on the job, Sergio. Which you would be, too, if you weren't so distracted by your own... appetite."
His eyes darkened, the playful undercover mask slipping for a fraction of a second to reveal the man who had held you against the marble only hours ago.
"My appetite is fine," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your mouth for a heartbeat before snapping back to yours with a predatory sparkle. "But I've always found that the most exquisite things require a little... extra work to uncover. Wouldn't you agree?"
He leaned in even closer, the scent of him—now mixed with the dry, ancient dust of the warehouse—overwhelming the professional space between you.
"I don't mind the labor," he added, his voice dropping into that dangerous, velvety register. "As long as the reward is as sweet as it was this morning."
A sharp voice echoed from the mezzanine. A man in a tailored charcoal suit descended the stairs. He was lean, with predatory eyes and a smile that didn't reach them. This was Julian Vane, the suspected logistics architect for the bridge shooter.
"Mr. Sergio, I presume?" Vane said, smoothing his lapels. "And his... lovely designer?"
"I'm starving, Julian," you snapped, leaning into the role. "And this place smells like engine oil and regret. Do you have the Eames collection or are we wasting our time?"
Vane chuckled, a dry, papery sound. "I apologize. This is merely the transit hub. The true treasures—the pieces a man of your taste deserves—are currently being staged for our private gala."
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out two thick, cream-colored invitation cards. "Tomorrow evening. Our flagship showroom in the Hills. It’s a very exclusive guest list. Security is... tight. But for a man willing to buy out my entire 1958 inventory, I think we can make an exception."
Jane took the cards, his thumb brushing yours as he handed one over. "A gala. How delightful. Will there be champagne? My designer only works when she's properly lubricated with expensive bubbles."
"Only the best," Vane promised.
As soon as the heavy iron door slammed shut behind you, the "aggrieved designer" mask fell away. You marched toward the SUV, Jane trotting along behind you, looking immensely pleased with himself.
"We had him," you hissed, turning to face him. "We could have signaled the team, brought him in for questioning—"
"And he would have walked in twenty minutes," Jane interrupted, waving the invitation like a trophy. "Vane is careful. He doesn't keep the encrypted servers here. He keeps them where he feels safest—surrounded by his 'exclusive' friends and enough security to make a direct raid a bloodbath."
You looked at the card: The Vane Collection : A Night of Mid-Century Mastery.
"He thinks we're just another pair of rich, bickering idiots," you noted, your heart finally slowing down.
"Precisely," Jane said, leaning against your car door, effectively trapping you between him and the metal. "Which means tomorrow night, we don't go in with tactical vests and battering rams. We go in as the most captivating people in the room."
His gaze softened, drifting over your face with a slow, deliberate focus. "Though, for you, that’s hardly a performance, is it?"
"I can handle 'captivating' without the extra flair, Jane," you said, though your voice lacked its usual bite.
As his fingers ghosted near your jawline to brush away a speck of warehouse dust, you instinctively stiffened, your eyes darting toward the perimeter. You scanned the tinted windows of the unmarked units down the block and the shadowed corners of the loading docks, checking for the glint of a lingering pair of FBI or CBI eyes. The last thing you needed was a formal inquiry into "unprofessional conduct" before the paperwork for the day was even filed.
The sound of heavy boots crunching on gravel made you jump nearly six inches. You spun around, smoothing your blazer with frantic efficiency as Rigsby jogged toward you, looking remarkably disheveled in a jumpsuit that was indeed a size too small.
"Oh, Agent Rigsby," you said, your voice a pitch higher than usual. "You're... still in that."
"Don't remind me. I think I’ve lost circulation in my left leg," he grumbled, stopping a few feet away and wiping sweat from his forehead.
He looked between you and Jane, his expression curious but thankfully oblivious to the spark that had been hanging in the air seconds ago.
"Boss is wrapping up with the feds. We were thinking of heading to that dive bar near the office later for a round of drinks to wash the warehouse dust out of our throats. You guys in?"
Jane tilted his head, his eyes flicking to you with a look that said he knew exactly how much you wanted to say no just to avoid him. "A drink with the team? Sounds delightful. I could certainly use something cold. What about you, Agent?"
You felt the heat rising in your neck. "I have a lot of paperwork....but one drink probably won't kill me."
"Great!" Rigsby beamed, already turning back toward the van, his gait slightly stiff from the restrictive jumpsuit. "First round's on Cho! He just doesn't know it yet!"
The transition from the cold, sterile warehouse to the dim, amber-lit interior of the "Rusty Nut" was jarring. The air here didn't smell like river salt and engine oil; it smelled of stale popcorn, cheap bourbon, and the weary satisfaction of a team that had survived another day of Jane’s "plans."
"I’m just saying," Rigsby said, his voice carrying over the background music’s low hum as he slid into the cracked leather booth. He had thankfully changed back into his suit, though he was still nursing a red mark on his shoulder. "If we’re going to do a furniture sting again, I want to be the buyer. Why does Jane always get to be the eccentric millionaire?"
"Because you have the 'poker face' of a cereal mascot," Cho deadpanned, staring at the glass in front of him. "You’d try to negotiate the price of a chair and end up apologizing to the seller for taking up their time."
"I would not!" Rigsby protested, reaching for a bowl of pretzels.
"You would," Van Pelt chimed in, smiling as she took a sip of her cider. "And you’d probably ask if they had any in 'blueberry' to match your jumpsuit."
"It was navy," Rigsby muttered through a mouthful of pretzels.
You sat at the end of the booth, feeling Jane’s presence like a physical heat where he leaned against the bar stool right behind you. He hadn't joined the booth, preferring to hover in your orbit, his hand occasionally brushing the back of your chair as he gestured with a glass of sparkling water.
"And what about our 'Designer'?" Jane asked, leaning down so his voice was a private note beneath the team's banter. "She was quite the firebrand today, wouldn't you say, Lisbon?"
"She was convincing. Maybe a little too convincing. I particularly liked the part where you threatened to call the fire marshal. That was a nice touch of bureaucratic spite."
"I was just channeling my inner Agent Lisbon," you said, taking a much-needed sip of your drink.
"Hey," Lisbon feigned a bit of pain. "I am not that mean."
"You are when Jane suggests hiding in a crate," Cho noted without looking up.
"Thank you, Cho," Jane said brightly. "See? I’m the catalyst for everyone’s personal growth. I bring out the hidden depths. For instance, I never knew our Agent here had such a... passionate dislike for mid-century dust. Or such a talent for looking me in the eye and telling me I’m 'appalling' while her heart is beating like a hummingbird."
You nearly choked on your drink. You didn't look back at him, but you could feel his smirk.
"It’s called adrenaline, Jane," you said, your voice remarkably steady. "Most people get it when they’re in a room full of armed suspects."
"Is that what it was?" he whispered, leaning just an inch closer so his scent drifted over you. "I could have sworn it was something much more... intense."
"Can we talk about Vane?" Van Pelt asked, oblivious to the subtext. "If we’re going to this gala tomorrow, we need a solid plan for the server room. The security at the Hills showroom is top-tier. Biometrics, the whole works."
"Don't worry about the biometrics," Jane said, finally turning his attention to the group, though his hand remained on the back of your chair. "Vane is a man of ego. And men of ego always leave the back door unlocked for someone they think is beneath them."
"I'll handle the tech," Van Pelt said, nodding.
"Cho, Rigsby, you’re the 'unobtrusive security' for our VIP buyers," Lisbon added.
"Great," Rigsby sighed. "Back to being the muscle. Can I at least get a suit that fits this time?"
"I'll check the budget," Lisbon said, though she looked like she'd rather buy a new set of handcuffs. She looked at you and Jane, her gaze lingering a second too long. "And you two? Maybe... dial back the 'bickering.' "
"We’ll be the picture of professional harmony," Jane promised, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror behind the bar. "Won't we, Agent?"
You just looked at your drink. "I'm going to need another one of these."
The conversation at the booth flowed easily, a chaotic blend of Rigsby complaining about the structural integrity of his jumpsuit and Van Pelt debating the best way to bypass Vane’s firewall. Through it all, Jane remained anchored in your orbit. While the rest of the team was distracted by their own banter, you were hyper-aware of him. Every now and then, his hand would graze the back of your chair, or his shoulder would brush yours as he leaned in to hear a joke. They were lingering, feather-light touches—completely oblivious to the others, but screamingly loud to you.
Finally, you eventually got up to get another drink.
As you reached the mahogany bar, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a well-tailored denim shirt turned around, nearly bumping into you.
He froze, his eyes widening in shock. "Wait... is that really you?"
"Leo?" You gasped, the name surfacing from a decade of old memories.
"I don't believe it!" he laughed, a warm, booming sound. Before you could say another word, he pulled you into a tight, familiar hug.
Across the room, the atmosphere at the table shifted instantly.
"Who’s the guy?" Rigsby asked, his pretzel hovering mid-air. "He looks like he stepped out of a catalog."
Jane, who had been mid-smirk while watching you walk away, suddenly looked as if someone had drained the color from the room. He didn't move. He didn't crack a joke. He just watched Leo’s hand rest on your arm, and then saw the way Leo tucked a stray hair behind your ear—a gesture so familiar it made Jane’s jaw tighten into a hard, sharp line.
"Actually," Jane said, his voice unusually flat, "I think I’m done for the night."
"You're leaving?" Lisbon asked, surprised by the lack of his usual theatrical exit. "We haven't even finished the round."
"Yeah," Jane replied, casting one brief, unreadable glance toward the bar where Leo was still holding your hand. "I’ve got nothing left in the tank. I'll see you tomorrow."
He turned and walked out the door, his shoulders slightly hunched, disappearing into the night just as Leo squeezed your hand and said his goodbyes.
You walked back to the booth, a fresh drink in hand and your mind a whirlwind of memories.
"You guys won't believe it," you said, sliding back into your seat. "That was my ex. We dated in high school. I haven't seen him since—"
You cut yourself off, looking at the empty space.
"Where'd he go?" you asked, looking around the dim bar.
"He left," Rigsby said, sounding genuinely concerned. "He seemed really wiped out. He just said he was tired and didn't have anything left in the tank."
"He looked exhausted," Van Pelt added, nodding. "He didn't even make a joke about the bill."
You took a slow sip of your new drink, but it tasted sharp and hollow.
The team continued to chatter around you—Rigsby's laugh boomed as he finally won a point in whatever argument he was having with Cho.
"Everything okay?" Lisbon asked quietly, her eyes searching yours over the rim of her glass.
"Fine," you lied, forcing a small smile as you set your drink down. "Just thinking about tomorrow. The gala.'"
Lisbon nodded, though the look in her eyes suggested she knew the mission was the last thing on your mind.
And as the background music transitioned into a slow, melancholy blues track, you looked at the empty glass Jane had left behind.
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