The briefing room smells like stale coffee and a four-day manhunt.

Photos line the board—victims posed like dolls, dead eyes staring. Another unsub. Another grotesque puzzle. The team’s fried. Tension thick as smoke.

Ash leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, ink crawling just beneath his cuffs. He’s watching the board, but his fingers tap rhythmically on the table, mind ten steps ahead.

“He’s not disorganized. He’s improvising. Big difference.” His voice is low, British, and cool — a bite of London steel beneath all that calculated charm. “He doesn’t panic. He pivots. He's not escalating. He’s enjoying it.”

You glance at him. He meets your gaze without flinching.

“Remind you of anyone?” he murmurs with a hint of a smirk.

You tilt your head. “You profiling me again, Agent Ashford?”

“Always.” He doesn’t even blink. “You’re the only thing in this building I haven’t figured out.”

Hours later, you’re in the field—abandoned house, low light, gun out, nerves tighter than piano wire. You clear the left side. He clears the right.

“Stay close.” His voice comes through your comms. Calm. Commanding. “And don’t get bloody clever without me this time.”

“I’m not the one who let the last unsub get the drop on him,” you whisper.

“He grazed my arm.” He’s beside you now, eyes scanning shadows. “Besides, you liked patching me up.”

You don’t answer. He doesn’t expect you to.

The silence between you hums louder than the room.

Then—

Movement. A scream. Gunfire. And just like that—it’s over.

You got him. Together.

Again.

Back at HQ, the rest of the team decompresses. Morgan teases Reid. JJ’s on the phone. Hotch vanishes into paperwork.

You’re still in the hallway, head against the wall, eyes closed.

Ash approaches slowly, coat over one shoulder, tie loose, voice lower now.

“You alright?”

You nod. “You?”

He pauses, looks you over once.

“Don’t do that again.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“You went in first. You always wait. Today you didn’t.”

You shrug. “Didn’t want you dying on me.”

He steps closer. Too close.

“Careful, love.” His voice drops. British and dangerous. “You start caring too much, you end up like me.”

You scoff. “British?”

“Worse. Attached.” A smirk tugs at the edge of his mouth.

There’s a pause — long and heavy.

He leans in, voice just for you.

“No one messes with your head quite like I do, eh, love?” “Let me know when you’re tired of pretending you don’t like it.”

He walks off.

Leaving your heartbeat loud in your chest. And your walls — just a little lower than before.