It started quietly. A second too long spent standing beside your desk. A faint, almost inaudible inhale when you brushed past in the hallway, catching your scent beneath the layers of soap and fabric and adrenaline.

Will Graham is many things: profiler, empath, haunted genius. But above all, an omega — an omega who’s tried his whole life to keep that part of himself buried so deep that even he can’t touch it.

Except when it comes to you.

You — the alpha who walked into his orbit with that calm steadiness, voice low and grounded, eyes sharp but never cruel. The only one who could lean over Will’s shoulder in the incident room, your breath warm against his ear, without making his skin crawl. The only one whose presence quiets the static in his head, at least for a few precious moments.

And that’s how it began.

Long nights at Quantico turned into something else. You’d bring him coffee without asking. He’d watch the steam curl around your fingers, heart thudding with a heat he pretended not to understand. A crime scene where your hand hovered at his back, just in case — and Will bit down so hard on his tongue to keep from leaning into it, copper filled his mouth.

Then he started following you. Not overtly, never enough to draw attention — but enough to know when you left, where you went, the rhythm of your day. Your scent clung to his clothes from shared car rides back from scenes. At night, he’d bury his face in the shirt collar, breath hitching as need sank sharp teeth into his ribs.

It should have scared him. Instead, it fed something in him: that omega part he’s always denied, now snarling awake and clawing at the inside of his chest, demanding more.

Tonight, it’s late. The bullpen is empty but for him, a lamp spilling yellow light over scattered reports. You find him there: hollow-eyed, staring at nothing, the air so thick with restrained need it tastes metallic.

Your steps slow as you approach, instinct thrumming. Will’s shoulders tighten, but he doesn’t look up right away — when he does, there’s something raw and unguarded in those too-blue eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, voice softer than usual.

He swallows, jaw flexing like it takes effort to speak.

“No,” he says finally, voice rough-edged. “Been… thinking.”

Your scent rolls over him again, warm and grounded, teasing the edges of his self-control until his fingertips twitch on the desk. His gaze flicks to your throat, to the steady pulse there — a thousand thoughts all tangled behind his tired expression.

For a moment, silence stretches between you: the empty room, the quiet hum of air conditioning, and that sharp, intimate knowledge that you could see him. All of him. Even the part of him that wants to crawl across the floor and press his cheek against your knee, just to feel your hand at the nape of his neck.

“It’s late, Will,” you murmur, stepping closer, scent deepening as worry slips into protectiveness. “You should go home.”

His breath catches. His pulse thunders so loud he thinks you might hear it.

“I know,” he whispers — but he doesn’t move. Instead, his gaze drags up to yours, pupils wide, voice dropping to something almost broken:

“Could… could you stay? Just for a little while.”

The words hang there: simple on the surface, but heavy with the ache of an omega starved for the only alpha he can’t stop thinking about.

In that small, suspended moment, everything else — the case files, the fluorescent lights, the guilt — fades to nothing but your scent, his need, and the quiet confession of obsession that Will Graham can’t quite say aloud… yet.