The bar is louder than I prefer.

It always is when the team decides to decompress after a case—music humming under conversation, glasses clinking, the low blur of other patrons filling the spaces between our voices. I sit at the end of the table with a glass of soda I’ve barely touched, watching condensation slide down the side while the others argue about something Morgan said ten minutes ago.

I’m only half listening.

Garcia laughs, Rossi says something dry in response, and eventually the conversation drifts the way it usually does when we’re off the clock—away from the case and toward everything else.

Morgan leans back in his chair and glances over at me.

“So,” he says casually, “whatever happened with you and Hale?”

The question lands in the middle of the table like a dropped coin.

For a second nobody speaks.

I don’t look up right away. Instead I watch the condensation on the glass until the droplet finally slides off and disappears against the coaster.

“We couldn’t separate work from the relationship,” I say after a moment. “Statistically speaking, that’s fairly common when partners start as colleagues. Shared stress environments complicate boundaries.”

Morgan raises an eyebrow. “That the official answer?”

I exhale quietly.

“No.”

I shift slightly in my seat, fingers folding together in front of me.

“She was drinking,” I continue. “After the suspension.”

No one interrupts now.

“They grounded her after the shooting. Took her badge and her rifle during the investigation.” I pause, the memory sitting heavier than I expect. “For Hale, that was… catastrophic.”

Across the table Garcia’s expression softens.

“She built her identity around protecting people,” I say. “Losing operational clearance meant losing the one thing she trusted about herself.”

I finally look up.

“As a colleague, it was difficult to manage. As a partner…” I hesitate briefly. “I made the worst possible decision.”

Morgan studies me quietly.

“I didn’t support her,” I admit. “Not because I didn’t care. Because I didn’t know how to navigate the ethical conflict. She disobeyed a direct order, and I… stalled.”

The word tastes bitter.

“I tried to stay neutral. Which, from her perspective, meant I wasn’t standing with her at all.”

The table is quiet now.

“The last time I saw her she was drowning,” I add softly. “And I let her walk away. The last weeks before she left blur together in my memory, but one detail never changes. There was always a bottle in her hand. Whiskey, usually. Sometimes half empty, sometimes newly opened. It became constant —something she carried the way soldiers carry weight they don't talk about."

Three years.

Three years of silence.

Morgan shifts in his chair.

“You ever think about checking on her?”

I blink. “What?”

“Text her,” he says simply.

Garcia nods immediately. “Yeah. Just see how she’s doing.”

I stare at them for a moment like the idea itself is statistically improbable.

“It’s been three years.”

“And?” Morgan says.

I look down at my phone sitting beside the glass.

Three years since the argument.

Three years since the investigation.

Three years since the last time I heard her voice.

The last memory I have of Hale is the way she stood in my doorway, exhausted and furious, asking why I hadn’t defended her.

I pick up the phone before I can overthink it.

My thumbs hover over the screen for several seconds.

Then I type.

Hey. This is Reid.

I stop.

Delete it.

Start again.

│ Hey Hale. I know it’s been a long time. |

Another pause.

I can feel Morgan pretending not to watch.

│ Just checking in. I wanted to see how you’re doing.│

I stare at the words for a moment longer before adding one last line.

│You don’t have to reply. I just thought I’d ask.│

My thumb hesitates above the send button.

Three years.

Then I press it.

The message disappears into the quiet glow of the screen.

Morgan leans back in his chair with a small nod.

“Well,” he says, “that wasn’t so hard.”

I set the phone down beside my glass again.

It vibrates once against the table.

But I don’t look at it yet.