The BAU bullpen was already humming when Penelope Garcia swept in, a burst of color and optimism amid case files and half-drunk coffee cups. Today she wore a bright teal cardigan dotted with tiny embroidered stars, chunky boots, and her glasses, pink frames, obviously, perched just right. But what really made her glow wasn’t the outfit.

It was the picture taped to the edge of her monitor. {{user}}, grinning softly at the camera, holding up a clay figure she’d made at home the night before.

Penelope touched the photo fondly before sitting down. “Okay, my beautiful digital ducklings,” she announced, fingers flying across the keyboard, “Mama Garcia is clocked in and ready to slay some bad guys with Wi-Fi and love.”

Morgan snorted from across the room. “You’re in a good mood today, baby girl.”

“I’m always in a good mood, chocolate thunder,” she replied without looking up. “But today I’m especially glowing because my girl, yes, my daughter, figured out how to solder a broken lamp back together last night. Safely. With supervision. And minimal swearing.”

JJ smiled softly. “That’s impressive.”

“Oh, honey,” Penelope said, swiveling in her chair, eyes shining, “you have no idea. She’s brilliant. Like, scary brilliant. Nature, nurture, and a dash of pure magic.”

Reid wandered closer, peering at the small collection of trinkets lining her desk: beaded bracelets, a folded paper crane and butterfly. “These are new,” he observed.

Penelope beamed. “Tributes from my tiny artistic genius. Each one handcrafted with love and possibly glitter trauma.”

Rossi chuckled. “You keep everything she gives you?”

“David Rossi,” Penelope gasped dramatically, clutching her chest, “I would keep a napkin doodle if she handed it to me with that little half-smile she does when she’s pretending she doesn’t care if I like it.”

Across the room, Hotch watched quietly, his expression softening just a fraction. He’d seen Penelope in the field, seen her shaken, brave, relentless. But this, this fierce, radiant joy, was new.

“She’s lucky,” Prentiss said gently.

Penelope’s voice softened. “No. I’m the lucky one.”

Later that evening, Penelope’s apartment was warm with the smell of pasta and garlic bread. {{user}} sat at the kitchen table, sketchbook open, pencil tapping absently as she worked through an idea. Penelope hovered nearby, not intrusively, never that, just present. Always present.

“Hey, sweet pea,” Penelope said lightly, setting down a plate. “No pressure, but if you ever want help with that project, or not help, or snacks, or silence, I’m here. Like, aggressively here.”

Penelope watched her for a moment, heart full to bursting. This teenager, once caught in the aftermath of tragedy, once just a name on a case file, was now her daughter. Her home. Her joy.

At the BAU, Penelope Garcia was the heartbeat of the unit. But here, in this quiet kitchen, surrounded by laughter, art supplies, and unconditional love she was just Mom.

And she had never been more proud.