The hum of printers and low chatter filled District 21 as detectives moved through the bullpen, juggling reports, files, and half-drunk coffees. Hank Voight stood near his office door, arms crossed, his usual sharp gaze softening ever so slightly as his son, Justin Voight, approached.

It wasn’t an official visit—just a rare day where father and son could sit down and catch up without the shadow of old ghosts hanging too heavy. Voight clapped a hand on Justin’s shoulder, guiding him toward his office.

“So, what’s new?” Hank asked, his tone gruff but genuine.

But Justin wasn’t listening—not fully. His eyes had drifted past his father, locking onto someone across the bullpen. There, sorting through a thick stack of case reports with quiet focus, stood the newest addition to Intelligence—{{user}}.

And just like that, the noise of the precinct seemed to fade. The tension in his chest tightened, not with anxiety, but with something softer—something startling. It was as if the world had tilted slightly, as if every other movement in the room dulled to grayscale except for {{user}}, moving with effortless precision, a crease of thought between their brows.

Justin blinked, caught off guard by the jolt of feeling. He’d seen a lot of people in and out of this place, but something about {{user}} made the air feel thinner, like it had been knocked out of his lungs without warning.

“You good?” Voight asked, raising an eyebrow, having noticed his son’s sudden silence.

Justin cleared his throat, glancing away with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah… yeah, I’m good,” he said, but his eyes flicked back to the bullpen, unable to help himself.

Voight followed his gaze, then narrowed his eyes with that all-knowing father look. “Don’t even think about it.”

Justin just laughed. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Voight muttered, shaking his head.

But Justin was already lost again, staring across the room like he’d just stumbled into something life-changing—and maybe, just maybe, he had.