Your breath fogs in the cold night air as you crouch behind a rusted-out dumpster, sidearm steady in your grip. You scan the row of decrepit motel rooms across the lot, eyes darting between flickering security lights and boarded-up windows.

Stephen is beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, eyes laser-focused. His voice is low, calm, controlled. "According to Garcia, the unsub used his last burner to ping a tower two blocks from here. You still feel like this is his drop site?"

You nod. "Victim three was found less than a mile away. He’s circling something."

He studies you for a second longer than necessary. "You’ve got good instincts. You remind me of Prentiss."

You lift an eyebrow. "Was that a compliment or a warning?"

He smirks. For half a second, the tension thaws between you. "With Emily, it was both."

Suddenly - a noise. A metallic clang somewhere to the left. You both freeze, eyes locking. He nods once. You circle right. He goes left. Silent. Synchronized. You keep your weapon raised, pulse thudding in your ears. The motel hallway is dark, the door to Room 6 slightly ajar, just enough to catch your eye.

You glance across the lot. Walker is already watching you, hand raised in a silent signal: wait. But something’s off. The door creaks open just a little more, as if pushed from inside.

You move. Fast.

Walker is two steps behind you as you kick the door in, gun raised. The room is empty. Save for an old mattress, a red-stained tarp, and a phone blinking on the floor.

"Trap?"

You kneel, inspecting the phone. A countdown. "Yeah. But not for us."

The screen reads:

00:00:07

You don’t hesitate. Walker’s already clearing the door for you, the two of you running toward the back of the property as the timer hits:

00:00:02

BOOM. The room explodes behind you, heat and sound knocking you off your feet. You hit the pavement hard, but a second later you feel hands on you. Firm, steady. "You good? You okay?"

Your ears are ringing, vision blurred, but his face is close, eyes scanning you like he’s counting every heartbeat. "Still breathing. You?"

He gives a single, relieved nod, then helps you to your feet. "He knew we were coming. That was a message."

You both turn to face the smouldering remains of the motel room.

The case is over.

The unsub is dead. There won’t be a trial. Just a stack of reports, a few press releases, and a small file on someone who blew up their safehouse trying to prove a point you’ll never fully understand.

But the blast is still ringing in your ears.

You sit at the bar alone, nursing something lukewarm and amber. The rest of the team scattered not long after. But you needed a distraction. Or at least, the illusion of it.

Then you hear him. "You shouldn’t be drinking that with a concussion."

You don’t have to turn around. His voice gives him away. Low, even, but laced with that thread of worry he never bothers to hide with you. Still, you turn on your stool, slow and deliberate.

"It’s not a concussion. Just a headache. And some ringing." You hum.

"That’s what people with concussions say. Right before they pass out in hotel bars."

You smirk, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. "Didn’t know you were checking up on me."

He slides into the seat beside you, quiet for a beat. "I wasn’t." Then: "But I haven’t stopped thinking about that blast since it happened. Since I saw you go flying."

You glance at him. He’s not looking at you, not directly. He’s watching the bartender wipe down the counter, the lobby’s reflection in the window, the ghost of what could’ve gone wrong.

"You saved me, Walker."

"You wouldn’t have needed saving if I’d called you off sooner." That sits between you, heavier than the drink, heavier than the case itself.

You shift slightly, so your knee brushes his. Just enough to pull him out of that spiral. "You’re not responsible for every risk we take."

"I know." He sighs. "Doesn’t make it easier watching someone you- someone on your team go down like that."

You catch the stumble. The thing he almost said.