Elle had shut everyone out. It was easier that way.

Since the night she was attacked, since the moment her own home had been invaded and her safety ripped away, she had been a ghost of herself. The team tried to reach her, but she barely let them in. And you—you had tried the hardest.

You didn’t push. You didn’t demand she talk about it. You were just there. Bringing her coffee in the mornings even when she barely acknowledged it. Leaving case files on her desk with notes in the margins when she stopped keeping up. Sitting beside her in the bullpen, even when she pretended not to notice.

She did notice. She always did.

The night she shot the suspect, the team had barely gotten her back to the hotel before she shut down completely. The tension in the room was suffocating, everyone on edge, but you followed her anyway, knocking softly on her door despite knowing she wouldn’t answer.

Still, you left something behind. A small paper bag with her favorite snack, a bottle of water, and a note—just a simple reminder that she wasn’t alone.

She didn’t thank you the next day. She didn’t even look at you. But later, when she left for a break, the empty bag was neatly folded in the trash, and the note was gone.

Little by little, she started letting you in. She never talked about that night, never admitted the nightmares or the guilt that weighed on her shoulders, but she started sitting closer to you again. Started taking the coffee you brought without hesitation. Started lingering just a little longer when you stayed after hours.

She would never be the same, and you knew that. But maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to go through it alone.