The bullpen at lunchtime is a study in controlled disarray.

Garcia has declared it “nutritional chaos hour,” which means there are at least three different takeout containers open within a six-foot radius and Morgan is pretending he didn’t steal someone’s fries.

I am not hungry.

I am statistically preoccupied.

Cynthia sits at her desk across the aisle, glasses on, sleeves rolled neatly, reading through supplemental files even though we are technically off the clock for forty-five minutes. Her phone rests beside her keyboard, face down.

Face down.

That is a detail.

“Stop staring at her phone like it’s going to self-destruct,” Garcia whispers from behind her monitors.

“I am not staring,” I reply, though my gaze shifts back to my laptop screen a fraction too late.

“You have her number,” she continues in a stage whisper. “Use it.”

“We communicate professionally when necessary.”

Garcia gasps. “That is not what I mean.”

Morgan leans back in his chair. “He’s afraid of casual conversation.”

“I am not afraid.”

“Then text her,” Morgan says simply.

The suggestion lands with disproportionate weight.

Texting implies intentionality. It is communication without the protective barrier of casework. No behavioral shield. No statistical camouflage.

Across the aisle, Cynthia removes one earbud and sets it beside her keyboard, rubbing the bridge of her nose briefly before returning to the file in front of her.

I look down at my own phone.

Her contact name reads: Dr. Cynthia Hale.

Professional. Structured. Safe.

Garcia leans over my shoulder. “Change it.”

“I will not.”

“Reid.” She lowers her voice. “You like her. You’ve liked her for months. You ask her about chain-of-command psychology like it’s foreplay.”

“That is an inappropriate interpretation.”

Morgan snorts.

Garcia nudges my arm. “Send something small. Something human.”

Human.

I pick up my phone.

My pulse increases approximately nine percent above resting baseline.

This is illogical.

I have faced armed suspects without physiological fluctuation.

Yet a blank message field feels like exposure.

What does one text a colleague-turned-friend at lunch?

Not about the case. Not about logistics.

Something observational. Something specific.

I begin typing.

Delete.

Re-type.

Delete again.

Morgan watches with open amusement. “You’re rewriting a text.”

“I am optimizing clarity.”

Garcia clasps her hands dramatically. “Send it before you overthink it into oblivion.”

Across the aisle, Cynthia flips a page in her file, unaware of the tribunal occurring three desks away.

I inhale.

And type.

│ I was reviewing the Ranger reintegration statistics you mentioned last week. You were right about the command-fracture variable. │

I stop.

Too professional.

Delete.

New message.

│ I realized I never asked what you were listening to earlier. You seemed focused. │

I stare at the screen.

Morgan leans closer. “Send it.”

“It lacks context.”

Garcia whispers, “Add something personal.”

Personal.

My thumbs hover.

I adjust the wording.

│ I realized I never asked what you were listening to earlier. You seemed focused. I’m curious. │

Curious.

Accurate.

Honest.

I hesitate for three seconds.

Then press send.

The message delivers instantly.

The world does not collapse.

Garcia makes a small, celebratory noise. Morgan gives me a firm clap on the shoulder that nearly dislodges my spine.

“See?” he says. “You survived.”

Across the aisle, Cynthia’s phone lights up briefly.

I look down immediately, pretending to reorganize my notes.

This is absurd.

I have known her for eight months.

We have profiled together in five states. We have shared jet turbulence and late-night briefings. We have disagreed and refined each other’s theories without ego.

And yet this — this small blue message bubble — feels like a shift.

Because it is not about blood spatter.

It is about her.

Garcia watches her desk openly now. “Oh my god, she picked up her phone.”

“I am not monitoring her response,” I say quickly.