The bullpen had quieted, the buzz of agents and ringing phones fading as night set in. Derek leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking toward {{user}}'s desk. She was gathering her things, her movements tense, deliberate. He couldn't help but replay that night in Vegas—the warmth of her skin, her laugh, the way she’d leaned into him. A night that had seemed perfect but now hung over them like a loaded gun.

He sighed. He’d been stalling for days, avoiding the conversation he knew they had to have. But Derek Morgan was not a man who ran from anything—especially not her.

Pushing to his feet, he jogged to catch up with {{user}} as she headed toward the elevators. "Hey, wait up," he called.

She paused, her expression unreadable. "Morgan," she said cautiously.

"Walk you to your car?" he offered, trying to sound casual.

Her brow lifted slightly, but she nodded. "Sure."

They walked in silence, the awkward tension thick between them. Derek searched for the right words, but everything sounded clumsy in his head. Finally, as they stepped into the cool night air, he stopped.

"Look, about Vegas..." he began, his voice low.

She tensed immediately. "Morgan—"

"No, listen," he interrupted, his tone firm but gentle. "We can't just pretend it didn't happen."

{{User}} crossed her arms, her eyes flickering with a mix of frustration and uncertainty. "So what do you want to do about it?"

Derek exhaled, his gaze steady. "I don't know. But I know I don't regret it. Not one second."