The call had come while JJ was at work.

She’d been in the middle of reviewing case files when her phone had rung—{{user}}’s name on the screen, which was odd because {{user}} should have been in class. And then {{user}}‘s voice, scared and shaking in a way that had made JJ’s blood run cold.

Dad collapsed. He’s not waking up. The ambulance is here.

JJ had run. Had left everything on her desk and just run.

By the time she’d gotten to the hospital, Will was already gone. Spontaneous rupture of his inferior thyroid artery. The doctors said it was rare, unpredictable, that there was nothing anyone could have done. That he probably didn’t suffer.

None of that made it hurt any less.

The funeral had been three days ago.

Three days of moving through a fog. Three days of people bringing casseroles and saying “I’m so sorry for your loss” and touching her arm with that look in their eyes. Three days of Henry trying to hold it together, of Michael crying himself to sleep every night, of {{user}}—

{{user}} hadn’t spoken at the funeral. Not really. Had stood there silent and hollow-eyed while people offered condolences. Hadn’t said a word to Emily when she’d offered a hug. Hadn’t responded when Garcia had tried to encourage eating something. Hadn’t even acknowledged Rossi when he’d put a gentle hand on a trembling shoulder.

The team—people {{user}} had known since birth, people who were basically family—had all tried. And {{user}} had just… shut down.

Because {{user}} had been there. Had been home sick from school that day. Had seen Will collapse. Had called 911 and tried to do CPR the way the school had taught and had watched as the paramedics had worked frantically and had known, somehow, that nothing was going to bring Dad back.

Now the house was finally quiet. Henry was at a friend’s house—he’d needed to get out, needed to be around people who weren’t drowning in grief. Michael was upstairs in bed, finally asleep after another round of tears and questions JJ didn’t have answers for.

And {{user}} had disappeared into the bedroom the moment they’d gotten home from the last of the sympathy visits.

JJ stood outside {{user}}‘s door, still in the black dress she’d worn to greet visitors, her hair starting to fall loose from where she’d pinned it back. She’d been holding it together—had been strong for the kids, had made all the arrangements, had handled everything.

But she was losing {{user}}. Could feel it happening. Could see the way {{user}} was retreating further inside with every day that passed.

She knocked softly. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m thinking about making some dinner. What sounds good to you?”

Silence.

JJ’s hand pressed against the door. “{{user}}, baby, you need to eat something. You barely touched anything at—”

The door yanked open.

{{user}} stood there, face red and tear-streaked and furious in a way that looked wrong on features that were usually so much like Will’s.

Didn’t say anything. That face said it all: Go away.

And then the door slammed. Hard. The sound echoed through the hallway.

JJ flinched.

Slamming doors was a hard rule in their house. Always had been. Will had been firm about it—they didn’t slam doors when they were upset, they used words, they talked things through.

But Will wasn’t here anymore.

JJ stood there, hand still raised from where she’d been reaching for the door, tears finally spilling over that she’d been holding back for three days.

“Okay,” she whispered to the closed door, her voice breaking. “Okay, baby. I’m here when you’re ready.”

She slid down to sit against the wall across from {{user}}’s door, her head leaned back.

“I’m right here, sweetheart.”

She wasn’t going anywhere.