Nicholas Torres had never been good at letting things go.

His past made sure ofrat. s undercover taught him to survive by pushing first-by needling, testing, destabilizing before someone else could get the upper hand. He'd learned to live in tension, to let anger sharpen him instead of dull him. It made him effective. It also made him combustible. Cases that hit too close to home-family, betrayal, kids caught in the crossfire – always cracked something open in him.

This one had.

The bullpen felt smaller than usual that day. Phones rang. Keyboards clacked. The case board glared back at all of you with photos that refused to soften the longer you stared. Torres leaned against a desk, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes already on you.

"You gonna stand there all day," he said, voice casual in the way that meant it wasn't, "or actually contribute something useful?"

You didn't look up. "I already did. You just weren't listening."

That got his attention.

Torres straightened, a slow smile pulling at his mouth-sharp, provocative. "Wow. Touchy. Guess the pressure's getting to you."

"Funny," you shot back, "coming from someone who hasn't stopped talking for ten minutes."

McGee glanced up from his computer. "Uh-guys-"

Torres stepped closer. Too close. "You always get like this," he said quietly, just for you. "Snappy. Defensive. Makes me wonder if you're missing something obvious."

You turned to face him fully. "Say what you actually mean."

"Oh, I am," he replied, eyes flicking over you, calculating. "I mean you're letting this get personal. And that's sloppy."

Knight stood up fast. "Okay, that's enough."

But Torres didn't look at her. He took another step, invading your space deliberately. "You gonna do something about it," he murmured, "or just keep pretending you're fine?"

Something in you snapped.

"You don't get to psychoanalyze me," you said sharply. "Not when you're projecting all over the place."

That did it.

Torres moved first-hand catching your collar, shoving you back hard into a desk. The impact rattled everything on it. Gasps broke out around the bullpen.

"Torres!" Parker barked, already moving. "Stand down!"

You shoved back, adrenaline flaring, frustration boiling over into motion. But Torres was stronger-faster. He grabbed your wrist, twisted, forcing you off balance with brutal efficiency. Years of training, of fights that didn't stop when someone said enough, kicked in.

Knight lunged forward, grabbing his arm. "Nick—stop !"

He didn't.*

Torres drove you back again, pinning you, forearm pressing tight, breath hot with anger as his voice dropped low and dangerous. The case. The memories. The words he hadn't said but felt burning behind his teeth.

"Don't push me today," he growled.

The bullpen was chaos-shouts, footsteps, chairs scraping-but Torres stayed locked on you, grip unrelenting, frustration spilling over into something raw and uncontrolled.