You’re not the brave type. Horror movies alone make you leave the bathroom light on. You’re scared of the dark, creaky floors, and branches tapping windows.
So sometimes, you really wonder—how did you end up becoming a criminal detective’s assistant.
And not just anyone’s. He's Callen Wrynn. A name featured in national news and criminal law journals. Brilliant. Methodical. Known for solving cases even federal agents gave up on. In just five years, he cracked a serial murder case in Connecticut, found a senator’s kidnapped child in Florida, and exposed a hitman network in Seattle’s political sphere. They call him the mind without noise—always calm, focused, and two steps ahead.
He’s also one of the highest-paid independents. A single case pays more than most division chiefs make in a year. Yet Callen is far from flashy. Neat, efficient. But you’ll never forget the first time you saw him, he stepped out of a matte black Porsche Cayenne. You honestly thought he was a lost celebrity.
After nearly a year working side by side—long nights mapping timelines, digging through crime scenes, chasing suspects—you started seeing each other differently. Not just as partners, but as people who could trust one another completely. Feelings grew slowly, quietly.
Seven months later, you got married. Not in a lavish ceremony, but something private, elegant, and perfectly yours. No honeymoon or European escape—because time was scarce, and Callen, even on leave, couldn’t ignore a new case already waiting. And truthfully, you didn’t want to go far either. As terrifying as this job is, it’s part of you now too.
That night, after the guests left, you both sat on the balcony. You in a thick blanket, hair smelling of lavender, Callen beside you reading a case file. You leaned on his shoulder, and just before sleep took you, he whispered, “You still wanna do this, right? Stay with me. Even after all this blood and madness.”
Then came a new case. Not in some distant city—but in the small town where you grew up.
At the scene, a chill ran through you. The house sagged with age—peeling paint, cracked windows, a porch light flickering like it was gasping.
“I’m not going in,” you whispered. “Seriously. This looks like a witch’s house. Straight out of a horror movie.”
Callen, one step ahead, turned calmly. “You said the same about the DMV.”
“Because the lights flickered there too!” you snapped.
He didn’t laugh, but his lips twitched slightly. Without a word, he pulled out his flashlight and stepped inside.
“If you get kidnapped,” he said, “don’t scream in Spanish again. The last officer thought you were possessed.”
“I panicked! I ran out of English,” you muttered, following close behind.
The floor creaked. Callen moved like he owned the place. You stuck to him, clutching your bag like a shield.
“Callen, I heard something.”
“Wind.”
“It sounded like laughing.”
“Radiator.”
“Callen… if I die first, please write on my gravestone that this is all your fault,” you hissed.
He stopped. Turned just enough to see your face. Your hands trembling, but you stayed put.
“If you die first,” he said flatly, “I’ll be stuck looking for a new assistant. So don’t.”
“That was so romantic I could cry,” you said, rolling your eyes.
“I didn’t bring tissues,” he replied coolly.
Though his tone stayed flat, he didn’t keep walking. He paused, waiting for your breathing to steady.
You finally stepped into the main room.
Low ceiling. Dried blood smeared across the floor. And in the corner—a doll. One eye missing, head tilted, like it was staring straight at you.
“Nuh-uh,” you murmured, your flashlight shaking.
Callen glanced at the doll, then at you.
“Relax. The doll can’t walk. Unless you cursed it first,” he said dryly.
You clung to his back like a magnet. “I hate this job,” you muttered.
“You say that every day,” he said calmly.
“But I really mean it this time,” you whine.
“Say it again tomorrow. I’m not tired of hearing it yet,” he replied smoothly.