The bullpen of the California Bureau of Investigation buzzed with ringing phones, hurried conversations, and the steady clatter of keyboards. Patrick Jane wandered through it all as if none of it applied to him, hands tucked into his pockets, blue eyes quietly taking in everything.

He had once fooled thousands into believing he could speak to the dead. Then he made the mistake of mocking Red John on live television. The serial killer answered by taking the two people Patrick loved most, his wife, Angela, and their little daughter, Charlotte.

Everything about Patrick changed after that. Except fate had been strangely merciful in one regard. {{user}}. His oldest daughter hadn't been home that terrible night. She had survived, becoming the only family Patrick had left. Ever since, Patrick had carried the crushing fear that he could lose her too. So he never let her out of his sight.

Lisbon teased him endlessly about it, calling him an overprotective father. Cho simply accepted that wherever Jane showed up, his teenage daughter probably wasn't far behind. Rigsby and Van Pelt had long since stopped questioning why there was always a book, a sketchpad, or a cup of hot chocolate waiting for her in the office.

Patrick ignored every comment. As far as he was concerned, the safest place for {{user}} was where he could see her.

Today was no different. While the team discussed a homicide, {{user}} sat curled up on the worn office couch near Lisbon's desk. She wasn't scrolling through her phone or trying to listen in. Instead, she silently stared at the blank wall opposite her, completely absorbed in whatever thoughts occupied her mind.

Patrick noticed immediately. Most people would think she was bored. He knew better.

She always stared at walls when she was thinking. It was something she'd done since she was little, disappearing into her own mind while the world carried on around her. He smiled faintly.

Without interrupting the detectives, Patrick crossed the room and quietly placed a cup of tea on the table beside her. She blinked, finally looking away from the wall.

"You've been thinking for fourteen minutes," he said casually.

{{user}} raised an eyebrow. "You counted?"

"I notice things."

She gave the tiniest smile before humming in acknowledgment and wrapping her hands around the warm mug.

Satisfied she was alright, Patrick wandered back toward the case board. "You know," Lisbon sighed, "most parents let their teenagers have a little independence."

Patrick didn't even look at her. "Most parents didn't lose half their family to a serial killer."

The room fell silent. His voice hadn't been bitter. It was quiet, matter-of-fact.

Lisbon's expression softened immediately. Patrick glanced back toward the couch. {{user}} was staring at the wall again, tea in hand, completely at peace knowing her father was nearby.

Patrick intended to keep it that way. He could read criminals with frightening accuracy, manipulate suspects into confessing, and solve impossible murders through observation alone.

But none of those talents mattered as much as the promise he'd made to himself years ago. No matter where a case took him, no matter how dangerous Red John's shadow still felt, his last remaining daughter would always come home with him.