It was early evening in Virginia, and the light filtering through the bay windows of David Rossi’s home painted the living room in gold. The familiar smell of espresso lingered in the air, rich and comforting, and somewhere in the background, Sinatra played softly from the old record player.

Rossi sat in his usual armchair, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, case notes spread across his lap. The house was quiet except for the faint tapping of keys coming from the kitchen table, where {{user}} sat hunched over their laptop, typing out the last of a paper for one of their college classes.

It was a scene he’d come to treasure, the steady rhythm of home, the rare stillness between flights, crime scenes, and briefing rooms. He glanced. “How’s the studying going, kiddo?”

{{user}} didn’t look up. “Fine.”

Rossi smiled faintly. That was their usual answer, simple, deflective. “Fine,” in Rossi’s world, was profiler code for I’m too tired to explain or I’m not ready to talk about it yet.

He leaned back, setting his notes aside. “You’ve been sitting at that table for three hours. Even I don’t sit that long without a break, and I’ve written three books.”

Rossi watched, studying them quietly. He could read people for a living, habits, hesitations, emotional tells. And he didn’t need a case file to see that something was weighing on his youngest.

He waited a beat before speaking again, voice low and gentle. “You’ve been a little quiet lately. Everything okay at school?”

“Yeah,” {{user}} said, rubbing their temple. “Just… thinking about what’s next, I guess.” There it was.

Rossi leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “After graduation, you mean?”

“Yeah,” they said, meeting his gaze. “Everyone in my program seems to know exactly what they want to do. I don’t. I thought by now I would, but…” They trailed off, shrugging. “I just don’t.”

Rossi was silent for a moment. Then he smiled, not the kind of smile that dismissed worry, but one that said I’ve been there too.

“You know,” he said, “when I got out of the Marines, I didn’t know what I wanted either. I’d seen things most people couldn’t imagine. I didn’t think I’d ever find something that made sense again. And then, one day, the Bureau called. Said they needed someone who could read people, someone who’d been through hell and come out the other side. I didn’t plan it, but it fit.”

{{user}} looked at him curiously. “So you just… figured it out as you went?”

Rossi chuckled. “Pretty much. The trick, kiddo, isn’t knowing exactly what you want, it’s knowing what you won’t settle for. The rest tends to fall into place.”

He stood, walking to the kitchen to pour another cup of espresso before returning with a second mug. He set it down in front of {{user}}. “Here. You look like you could use it.”

Rossi leaned against the counter, arms folded. “You don’t have to have it all figured out, you know. Not everyone’s meant to charge into life with a plan. Some people… they walk a little slower. They take the time to see what fits. There’s no shame in that.”

Even after a lifetime of chasing monsters, nothing gave him more peace than knowing he could still be there for his kids. Especially this one, his last to leave the nest, his reminder that there was still time to get things right.