The house looked ordinary from the outside, white siding, drawn curtains, a porch light flickering as dusk settled in. But the air around it felt wrong, heavy with the kind of tension Reid had learned to recognize long before anyone else said it out loud.

Garcia’s voice crackled through his earpiece. “That’s him, my crime-fighting cherubs. Address confirmed. Be careful.”

Hotch nodded once. “Move.”

Morgan was already in motion. The door splintered under his kick, wood cracking as the team surged inside, weapons raised, training taking over.

“FBI!” Morgan shouted.

They fanned out instantly. JJ and Rossi to the left. Hotch straight down the hall. Morgan clearing the center.

{{user}} slipped to the far right, quiet and focused, just like always.

Reid stayed near the hallway entrance, covering angles, his mind cataloging every sound, the creak of floorboards, the distant hum of a refrigerator, the shallow rhythm of his own breathing.

Seconds passed. Then, “Found-”

{{user}}’s voice came through his earpiece, just a fraction of a second too late. BANG. BANG. BANG.

The gunshots tore through the house, sharp and deafening. Reid’s heart dropped straight into his stomach. “{{user}}!” he shouted, already moving.

Then came the sound that made his blood run cold, a sharp grunt, breath knocked out of someone who hadn’t had time to brace. Her. The radio crackled again, distorted. Another pained sound.

Reid didn’t hesitate. People always assumed he would freeze in moments like this, that fear would root him to the spot. But fear had never stopped him when it mattered. It had only sharpened his focus.

He ran. His legs burned as he sprinted down the hall, weapon raised, mind racing through possibilities, angle of fire, caliber, distance, the statistical likelihood of Kevlar stopping a round. He turned the corner hard, heart hammering in his chest.

The unsub was down, weapon skidding across the floor, courtesy of Hotch and Morgan closing in from the opposite side.

But Reid barely registered that. {{user}} was slumped against the wall, one hand clutching her vest, breath coming in short, shaky gasps. Reid dropped to his knees in front of her.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” he said, voice surprisingly steady despite the panic clawing at his ribs. “You’re okay. The vest, did it stop it?”

She nodded faintly, wincing. “I… yeah.”

Relief hit him so hard it almost knocked the air from his lungs. “That’s okay. That’s normal. Blunt force trauma from a bullet impact can feel like, like being hit by a car going about thirty miles per hour, but it’s survivable.” He swallowed. “You’re… you’re talking. That’s good.”

Reid gently placed his hand near her shoulder, careful not to touch where it hurt. His own hands were shaking now that the immediate danger had passed.

Hotch approached, scanning her quickly. “Status?”

“Vest caught it,” Reid answered before she could, slipping naturally into focus. “Likely bruising, possible cracked rib. She should be evaluated immediately.”

JJ was already calling it in. “Ambulance en route.”

“You did everything right,” Reid told her. “You found him. You warned us. This isn’t on you.”

Reid stayed right there, close enough that she wasn’t alone, far enough that he didn’t hurt her, his loyalty, his bravery, his heart laid bare in a way most people never expected from him.