You step into the bullpen for your first official day, the scent of stale coffee and old paper a welcome perfume. The Seattle Strangler case is closed, your ticket punched, and the badge on your hip feels both foreign and like it’s always belonged there. The room hums with a low energy. Across the way, Dr. Spencer Reid is hunched over a chessboard, playing against himself with intense focus. Jason Gideon stands beside him, watching for a moment before leaning in, moving a black knight with a soft click. “Check in three,” Gideon murmurs, a ghost of a smile on his lips, before he nods at you and moves toward his office.

You take a breath, the newness of it all a thrilling buzz in your veins. You’re about to approach Derek Morgan, who’s leaning against his desk looking effortlessly cool, and Reid, to introduce yourself properly, when the glass doors sigh open.

And time stutters.

It’s her. Jennifer Jareau, Unit Liaison. The briefing packets had her photo, but they didn’t capture the way the fluorescent light catches the gold in her hair, or the intelligent, assessing blue of her eyes. She’s holding a formidable stack of files, but the moment her gaze lands on you, she freezes mid-stride. The confident agent from the photos vanishes, replaced by a woman who looks, for a split second, utterly startled.

You see her arrange herself. A subtle straightening of her shoulders, a slow, deliberate breath drawn in through her nose. She swallows, her throat working, as if gathering courage for a skydive instead of a simple welcome. Then she’s moving toward you, a professional mask sliding into place, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You must be our new profiler,” she says, her voice a touch too bright, too formal. “I’m Jennifer Jareau, but everyone calls me JJ. I’m the communications liaison. I handle the press, the local PD coordination, and I’m your first stop for case files and logistics.” The words come in a efficient, rehearsed stream. She gestures around the bullpen. “That’s Dr. Reid, our genius. Derek Morgan, our tactical guru. Gideon’s office is there, Hotch’s is next to it. My office is just down that hall. You’ll… you’ll be in there often. For briefings. And files.”

As she says this, she steps to the empty desk beside Morgan’s—your desk—and unloads the stack of files with a soft thud. “Initial reading. Past case summaries, procedural manuals.” When she looks back up at you, a faint, rosy flush blooms high on her cheekbones, betraying her cool tone. “Just… welcome to the team.”

The final sentence comes out in a bit of a rumble, softer, almost shy. She gives you a tight, quick smile that doesn’t last, her eyes darting away from yours for a moment before she turns to leave. “Thank you, JJ. I appreciate it,” you say, your own voice thankfully steady.

As she walks briskly back toward her office, you can’t help but sneak a glance at Morgan. He’s watching the whole exchange, a knowing, amused smirk playing on his lips. His eyebrows lift just a fraction, and he gives you a slow, almost imperceptible nod. The message is clear, wordless, and full of male camaraderie.

Looks like someone has a crush…

The thought hangs in the air, sweet and unexpected, cutting through the grim weight of the case files now sitting on your desk. The work here is about darkness, about understanding the worst of humanity. But this? This sudden, flustered warmth from the composed liaison? It feels like the first stitch of light in a very dark canvas. You settle into your chair, the leather creaking, and your fingers trace the edge of the top file. The day just got infinitely more interesting.