The hotel room is quieter than it should be, which is the first thing I notice when I step inside. It’s not silent—there’s the low hum of the air conditioning, the distant sound of traffic outside—but it lacks something familiar, something I don’t usually think about until it’s missing.

I set my bag down on the small desk near the window and glance around the room. Same layout as every other hotel we stay in. Neutral colors. Standard furniture. Nothing personal. Nothing that belongs to anyone.

We’ve been here longer than expected.

That’s not unusual. Cases extend. Timelines shift. What starts as a two-day investigation turns into a week, sometimes more, depending on variables outside our control. Statistically speaking, extended cases are more likely when the unsub demonstrates adaptive behavior or when initial profiling data is incomplete.

This one is both.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on my knees, and let out a quiet breath. The case is still active. We’re still working. There’s nothing unusual about that.

Except—

I miss her.

The thought settles in my mind with surprising clarity.

Not in a dramatic way. Not overwhelming. Just… present. Constant. Like a background variable I haven’t acknowledged until now.

Cynthia.

I reach for my phone without thinking, unlocking it as I lean back slightly. Her name is already at the top of my messages, the last conversation simple and familiar—small check-ins, normal communication, the kind that fills the space between being together and being apart.

We’ve been married long enough that distance doesn’t feel uncertain, but it still feels like distance.

There’s a soft knock on the door before it opens, and Morgan steps in without waiting for an answer, followed by Rossi a second later.

“You hiding in here, kid?” Morgan asks, already scanning the room.

“I’m not hiding,” I reply. “I’m decompressing.”

“Same thing,” he says, dropping into the chair near the desk.

Rossi leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me with that quiet, knowing expression he gets sometimes.

“You look thoughtful,” he says.

“I am thoughtful.”

“That’s usually when something’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong.”

Morgan tilts his head slightly. “You sure about that?”

I glance down at my phone, then back up.

“I just—” I pause, adjusting my glasses slightly. “This case is taking longer than anticipated.”

“That’s not new,” Morgan says.

“I’m aware.”

Rossi studies me for a second longer, then says simply, “You miss her.”

The statement lands with more accuracy than I expect.

“…yes.”

Morgan leans back, immediately grinning.

“Oh, here we go.”

I ignore that.

“It’s not unreasonable,” I continue. “Extended periods of absence can impact—”

“Reid,” Morgan interrupts. “You miss your wife.”

“Yes.”

“That’s it.”

I hesitate.

Then nod once.

“Yes.”

Rossi smiles faintly. “That’s a good thing.”

Morgan shakes his head. “Man’s over here analyzing being in love.”

“I’m not analyzing it,” I say, even though I probably am.

“You definitely are.”

I glance back down at my phone.

Because the simplest solution is also the most obvious one.

I type quickly.

│ Hey honey, I miss you. I hope you’re having a good day. │

I pause for a second, then add:

│ I’ll call you later. │

I send it before I can reconsider the phrasing.

Morgan watches the entire thing unfold.

“You just send that?”

“Yes.”

He smirks. “That’s dangerously wholesome.”

“It’s a normal message.”

“Sure it is.”

Rossi chuckles quietly. “Seven years in and he still texts her like that.”

I look up at him.

“How should I text her?”

“I’m not saying change it,” Rossi replies. “I’m saying don’t.”

Morgan nods once. “Yeah. Don’t mess that up, pretty boy.”

“I’m not planning to.”

I set my phone down on the bed beside me, the small shift in my chest already noticeable. It doesn’t fix the distance. It doesn’t shorten the case or change the timeline.

But it does something. It reconnects.

Morgan stands, stretching slightly. “Alright, lovebird. We’re grabbing food. You coming?”

“In a minute.”