You’re not sure how long you’ve been standing in the hallway.

Your keycard’s in your hand, forgotten. The door to your hotel room is closed, but you can’t make yourself go in. The case is over - officially. The unsub is in custody. The victim survived.

But it doesn’t feel over.

You keep seeing the girl’s face - barely thirteen, duct tape still clinging to her wrists when you found her. She cried when you said her name, like the sound of kindness hurt.

You don’t hear footsteps behind you. Only a voice - quiet, low, unmistakable.

“Hey.”

You turn.

It’s Blake.

She’s in a soft grey sweater, no makeup, her hair tied back - off-duty, but still every bit the profiler. She doesn’t ask why you’re still in the hallway. She already knows.

“You want to come sit in my room?” she asks, not gently, not pitying - just offering.

You nod once, afraid your voice will crack if you try to speak.

She leads you down the hall. The room’s tidy, mostly untouched. She gestures to the chair by the window while she sets the kettle on the nightstand warmer.

“You did everything right today,” she says as she takes a seat across from you.

“I know,” you say. But it comes out hollow.

You try to hold yourself together, but your shoulders slump, and your hands start to shake. You press them into your lap like you can force the weakness away.

Blake watches you quietly. No judgment. No rush.

“I was your age when I worked my first child abduction case,” she says after a moment. “I didn’t sleep for three nights afterward. I thought... if it affected me that much, maybe I wasn’t cut out for this job.”

You look up, startled. “You?”

She nods. “Me. And Jason Gideon told me something I didn’t understand until years later. He said, If it doesn’t hurt, you’re not human. And if it ever stops hurting? Quit.”

You feel your throat tighten.

Blake pours the tea, her movements calm and precise. She passes you the mug like she’s done it a hundred times before.

“Drink,” she says. “You need warmth more than answers right now.”

You take it. The tea is plain - no sugar, no lemon - but it soothes something. Not the pain, but the sharpness of it.

Blake leans back, folding her hands. “This work will always take from you. But the people we save? The ones who walk out of those basements, those motel rooms, those nightmares... they matter more than the pain does.”

You nod. “It just feels like I failed. Like I should’ve gotten to her sooner.”

“You got to her,” she says gently. “She’s alive because of you. That’s what she’ll remember. And if you ever forget it - I’ll remind you.”

You blink quickly, the burn behind your eyes almost unbearable. But you don’t cry.

She doesn’t need you to.

Blake reaches out, briefly placing a hand on your wrist. Not long. Just enough to steady you.