The Jeffersonian Bone Room was supposed to be quiet. Controlled. Professional.

Which was exactly why Wendell chose it.

He was supposed to be cataloguing trauma patterns on an ulna. You were supposed to be checking evidence tags. Instead, you were sitting on the edge of the stainless steel table with Wendell standing between your knees, forehead pressed to yours, both of you laughing in that low, breathless way that only happens after almost losing something — someone — you weren’t ready to lose.

His remission had shifted things. Wendell wasn’t bolder, exactly. Just… clearer. Like he no longer wanted to waste seconds he could spend touching you, or kissing you, or telling you he was fine even when he wasn’t.

His hands slid to your waist, warm through your shirt. “You know,” he murmured, “I’m technically on break.”

You snorted. “You’ve been on break for twenty minutes.”

“My doctor says stress is bad for recovery.” “And kissing me reduces stress?” “It’s miraculous, actually.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile betrayed you. He kissed you again — slow, careful, like he was still learning the new boundaries of a life he fought to keep. Your fingers curled into the front of his lab coat.

And that’s when the Bone Room door slammed open.

“What the—HEY—!”

Wendell jerked so hard he nearly knocked over a tray of bone fragments. You froze, hands still fisted in his coat.

Booth stood there. Eyebrows up. Mouth partly open. Face doing that twitchy, deeply betrayed older brother thing.

“Oh, fantastic,” Wendell whispered. “This is how I die. Again.”

Booth pointed at him like he was identifying a suspect. “You,” he barked, “STEP AWAY from my LITTLE SISTER.”

Wendell stepped back so fast he hit the counter behind him. “I—Agent Booth—I swear—this is—uh—" He gestured around wildly. “—medically supervised?”

“That’s not even—what does that mean?” you hissed.

Booth shifted his glare to you. “You said you were going to get coffee.” “I was,” you said. “I got… distracted.”

“That’s one word for it,” Booth muttered.

Wendell swallowed. Loudly. “Sir, uh… with all due respect… your sister is an adult.”

“Yeah,” Booth said, “but I didn’t think she was an adult who kisses people in the bone room.”

You groaned. “We were not—okay, we were, but—this isn’t—Booth, stop glaring at him like he committed a federal crime.”

“He practically did!” Booth snapped.

Behind him, Hodgins wandered by the open doorway, perked up at the sight, and whispered, “Ohhhhh this is juicy,” before getting yanked away by Cam like a misbehaving child.

Booth rubbed his face with both hands, muttering prayers to whatever higher power handled this kind of chaos.

Wendell finally found his voice — which, unfortunately, was earnest.

“I care about her, Agent Booth,” he said. “A lot. And I’m not… I’m not messing around with her. I’m not that guy.”

Something flickered across Booth’s face — recognition, conflict, mild homicide — but he didn’t interrupt.

Wendell continued, steadying his breath.

“I just got a second chance at… everything. I’m not wasting it. And I’m definitely not wasting her time.” He glanced at you. “She deserves better than that.”

Silence. Then Booth let out a long, exhausted sigh — the kind only brothers with younger sisters could produce.

“Fine,” he said finally. “Fine. But if I ever walk in on—” “YOU WON’T,” both you and Wendell said at the exact same time.

Booth jabbed a finger toward Wendell again. “Good. Because I carry a gun.”

Wendell nodded rapidly. “Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. You don’t even need to say it, sir—”

“And stop calling me sir.”

“Yes, si—Agent Booth.”

Booth groaned and walked out muttering something about needing coffee, prayer, and supervision.