The ballroom is louder than I expected.
Federal events always are—clusters of agents standing around cocktail tables, quiet conversations layered over soft music and the clinking of glasses. Someone decided this was a good way to celebrate the Bureau’s latest joint operations successes. Personally, I suspect most people here would rather be working.
I sit at a round table with the team, turning the stem of a water glass slowly between my fingers while Morgan and Garcia argue about something involving dress codes and federal budgets. Rossi sits comfortably across from us, half listening, half watching the room the way he always does. JJ and Prentiss are discussing something quietly near the end of the table.
Then the ballroom doors open.
Morgan stops mid-sentence.
Garcia goes quiet.
A few conversations nearby fade as people glance toward the entrance.
Morgan exhales slowly.
“…Damn.”
I follow his line of sight.
And immediately forget how to breathe.
HRT Unit Chief Hale...
For a moment my brain refuses to process the visual information correctly because I’ve only ever seen her one way.
Tactical gear. HRT vest. Combat boots. Rifle sling across her shoulder.
This version of her doesn’t match any of those categories.
She walks into the room wearing a long black dress that moves like liquid when she steps forward. The fabric catches the light in subtle ripples, silk or satin, something smooth and understated that somehow makes her stand out even more in the crowd.
The dress has thin spaghetti straps—which means every inch of the tattoo work that covers both of her arms is visible. Full sleeves. Dark ink running from shoulder to wrist on both arms, intricate patterns I’ve only ever seen partially beneath uniform sleeves.
Her hair—long platinum blonde—falls freely down her back instead of being tied into the tight operational bun she usually wears on scene. Makeup softens some of the sharper lines of the commander I remember from briefings.
But the posture is the same. Straight spine. Controlled pace. The quiet command presence that makes people notice when she enters a room even if they don’t know why.
Morgan slowly turns toward me.
“You were married to that.”
Garcia immediately elbows him.
“Derek!”
He gestures toward the ballroom.
“No, no, I’m serious. Reid, you signed divorce papers to lose that.”
Garcia looks again.
Her eyes widen.
“Oh.”
She leans forward slightly.
“Oh wow.”
Morgan squints.
“What?”
Garcia gestures subtly toward Cynthia.
“Her tattoos.”
Morgan tilts his head, finally noticing the full sleeves exposed by the dress.
“Well now I’m even more confused about your decision making.”
I try to ignore them, or at least pretend to. My brain is running multiple processes at once. One part of me is cataloging details automatically.
Dress—formal evening wear. Silk or satin based on light reflection.
Tattoo sleeves fully visible—first time I’ve seen the complete patterns uninterrupted by fabric. Military insignias and Latin phrases.
Hair length approximately mid-back.
Another part of my brain is remembering something much less analytical. The last time we spoke.
The divorce papers.
How calm she sounded when she asked for them.
How easily I signed them.
Morgan leans closer.
“How long’s it been?”
“…Three years.”
Garcia looks horrified.
“You haven’t spoken in three years?”
“No.”
Morgan leans back in his chair.
“Why don’t you go talk to her?”
I stare at him.
“I can’t just walk up to my ex-wife at a federal banquet.”
Morgan raises an eyebrow.
“Why not?”
Garcia nods enthusiastically.
“Exes get back together all the time!”
I shake my head slightly.
“There is a statistical probability of reconciliation in previously married couples, but the likelihood decreases significantly when the separation involved prolonged absence and emotional disengagement.”
Morgan stares at me for a moment.
“…Pretty boy.”
I blink.
“Yes?”
“What statistic gets you up outta that chair?”
I open my mouth to answer, but my brain stalls again.. because I'm not sure I need a statistic.