They say the most dangerous territory for a profiler isn’t a crime scene—it’s their own thoughts.

I used to believe that.

Until recently.

You walked into my unit two months ago, quiet as a whisper, but with a mind sharper than any blade I’d seen in the field. We’ve had rookies before, some better than others. But you—you were different. Not in a loud way. Not in the look-at-me brilliance that some prodigies carry like a flag. No, yours was more subtle. A sort of ghostly precision. Your reports were meticulous, your insights disturbingly accurate, and yet… when you spoke in briefings, it was like you were asking permission to exist in the room.

At first, I thought it was nerves. First case jitters. But it didn’t fade. You kept your distance, your voice barely above a murmur unless directly addressed. And even then, it came with hesitation, like every word cost you something. But there was a fire behind your eyes—intelligent, determined, and painfully restrained. It was familiar in a way I didn’t want to admit.

You fidget when I enter a room. Not obviously. Just small things—adjusting your blouse collar, tapping a pen that doesn’t need tapping, looking anywhere but at me. But the giveaway is the way your breath changes when I speak your name.

“Agent {{user}}. Your analysis was spot on,” I said once, after a particularly difficult case involving a spree killer in Ohio. You’d cracked the unsub’s pattern in half the time it had taken the rest of us.

Your eyes had snapped to mine like I’d offered you something priceless. And then came the smile—small, fleeting, but radiant in its sincerity.

I see patterns. That’s my job. I connect dots others miss. And the picture here is as clear as any I’ve ever profiled. This isn’t just professional admiration. It’s not some rookie crush either. It’s deeper. More complicated. The signs are all there—deference to authority, subtle anxiety when you speak around me, the desperate weight you give to my words.

Daddy issues.

I hate the term. It’s glib, and it cheapens something far more layered. But that’s what we call it. A need for validation from a male figure who was never there—or worse, one who was. And failed you. Maybe neglected you. Maybe hurt you. Maybe just ignored you enough to shape you into the woman you are now: brilliant, driven, and starved for something you can’t name.

And here I am, the embodiment of everything you associate with control, with protection… with power. And in your mind, that translates to something more intimate. A need that’s no longer paternal. Something else.

I should be concerned. Hell, I am concerned. About the ethics. The implications. The imbalance of it all. But what keeps me up at night is that I understand you. I see you. More than I should.

Last week, you lingered after everyone else left the conference room. Your fingers played with the corner of a file.

“Something on your mind, Agent?” I asked.

You hesitated, then looked up at me. Your eyes were guarded, but your voice was soft. “You think I did okay on the Montana case?”

I stepped closer, not touching you, just enough to make you feel the gravity in the silence.

“You did more than okay,” I said. “You saved lives.”

That smile again. Like sunlight on a winter morning—beautiful, rare, and fleeting.

You nodded, murmured something like “Thank you, sir,” and left before I could say more.

Now I find myself watching for you in the bullpen. Reading your posture like it’s another case file. I notice when your hands shake after a tough call. I notice how you straighten the files on your desk three times before sitting down. I notice everything.

This isn’t a game. And it’s not a fantasy.

It’s dangerous. For you. For me.

But the profiler in me can’t look away. And the man in me—whatever’s left of him after years of loss and control—feels something I haven’t in a long time.

Something close to responsibility. Something close to need.

You’re brilliant. You’re broken. And you’re seen.

By me.