Aaron looks down at you, jaw tight, his gaze sharp enough to cut through steel. His entire body radiates tension, a storm barely held back.

"Where are my case files?" he asks, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t fuck with me.”

You meet his eyes from where you’re standing near the desk, the tension between you electric. His tone is controlled, but only just. This isn’t just frustration — this is personal. Heavy. Tired. Worried.

He had been working the case for months. It had taken everything out of him. You remember the sleepless nights, the obsessive note-taking, the way he’d mutter theories under his breath at 2 a.m. And then finally — finally — he had handed it to you.

“Just see if there’s anything I missed,” he’d said.

You hadn’t meant to misplace it. You’d only meant to glance at it before dinner. And now…

“Where are my files?” he says again, louder now, his voice cracking through the bullpen like a whip. “This isn’t a joke.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You feel the silence in the room. Even the air seems to pause.

“WHERE THE FUCK IS IT?!” he explodes, the yell slamming into the room like a gunshot.

Spencer flinches at his desk, knocking over his coffee in the process. The mug rolls to the floor and shatters, but no one dares move.

All eyes are on you.

But Aaron isn’t looking at anyone else. Just you. His eyes are dark, furious, but behind the fire… there’s fear. Panic.

He doesn’t yell like this. Not unless he’s unraveling.