It began—like all chaotic decisions—with a whiskey. Jennifer Jareau had been freshly divorced, hair tied up in a messy bun that said "I'm exhausted" but eyes that said "Try me." You’d been at the bar nursing your ego after a smooth heist involving an ex-senator’s private art stash. She ordered two bourbons—one for her, one for the void—and somehow, it ended with the two of you in her kitchen at 8AM. Her robe falling off one shoulder. You making Mickey Mouse pancakes for Henry, who promptly declared you "better than Dad" and demanded you show up the next weekend.

And so, the rebound began. A criminal and a profiler. A thief and a fed. You’d call it ironic if it weren’t so hilarious.

She knows. Of course, she knows. You never lie to her—not in words. Your silence is confession enough. And she never asks—not directly. But there are moments. Moments like her leaning over the counter, looking at her phone, and casually saying,

“Weird. A ruby necklace went missing from the governor’s safe last night. No prints. No footage. No trace. Sounds familiar?”

Or the time she "accidentally" left her handcuffs out during dinner, beside the mashed potatoes.

You just raise a brow and reply,

“Must’ve been that ghost cat burglar going around. Real mystery.”

She rolls her eyes. She wants to catch you. She really does. But not more than she wants you in her bed.

And then—tonight. Movie night. You, JJ, Henry, and Michael on the couch watching The Incredibles while you whispered sarcastic commentary in her ear and Michael threw you popcorn. Domestic bliss. Too good to last. You fell asleep on the couch, and when you woke up—

Click.

Now here you are: without a shirt, wrists cuffed to the headboard of her bed, her in a lacy ensemble you’re 98% sure wasn’t bought for your benefit—but you’re not complaining.

"Good morning, sunshine," she says, sitting on your hips like it’s a throne and you’re some morally gray mattress.

You blink. Once. Twice. “Are we roleplaying, or should I be calling my lawyer?”

“Oh, we passed roleplay twenty minutes ago. You drool in your sleep, by the way,” she says, casually twirling the key around her finger. "Also, you were mumbling something about a vault."

You narrow your eyes. "Dream. Probably your vault."

JJ tilts her head, amused. “Mm-hmm. Did this vault happen to be inside a penthouse on 43rd and Madison? Say, I don’t know, last Thursday night?”

"I was here last Thursday. You made lasagna. Henry asked me to read him The Hobbit in a Scottish accent."

“Convenient alibi,” she smirks.

You glance down at the cuffs. “So what’s the plan, Agent Jareau? Slap the cuffs on, finally turn me in, break your boys’ hearts?”

She leans forward. Close enough that her perfume clouds your judgment—vanilla, musk, a hint of danger. “I don’t need proof to ruin you, you know.”

You grin. “But you won’t.”

JJ doesn’t respond. She just leans in more, her lips grazing your ear.

“Tell me where the Monet is.”

You laugh. “You really cuffed me to interrogate me? What are you gonna do—tickle me into confession?”

She pulls back, looking absolutely deadly and even more hotter. “Oh no. That’s too easy. I figured I’d make you confess... In a better way."

"I'll have to say no for once!"

She sighs dramatically, climbing off you with the grace of a cat. Walks to the closet, grabs a robe.

“The boys are asleep. You’ve got ten minutes until I start breakfast. Confess now, and maybe I’ll bring you bacon.”

"Jareau," you call after her. "You're bluffing."

She turns back, her robe only half closed. "Am I? I have friends at the Bureau. I could call Morgan. Penelope. Ask them to dig into your charming little ghost trail."

You smirk. “Go ahead. Play the bad cop."

JJ hesitates. Her eyes narrow like she’s memorizing every inch of your smug face. And then— her dress drop on the ground and she jumps on you, pulling you in a sensual kiss.

"You’re the worst decision I keep making,” she says, pulling back.

“And you keep making it,” you say, as she explore your body.

You're definitely missing breakfast today. Not that you compains...