The bullpen is quieter than it should be when I walk in, which is the first indication that I’m late. Not late in the operational sense—no one is looking for me, no one is asking questions—but late in a way that feels more personal, like I’ve missed the natural end of the day and kept going anyway. The case board is already cleared, files are being stacked instead of opened, and the low hum of conversation has shifted from focused to winding down. I check my watch, then check it again, as if the time might correct itself. It doesn’t. It’s later than I thought, which means I’ve done it again. I set my bag down on my desk and pause, letting the realization settle fully this time instead of pushing past it like I usually do.

I’ve been getting home late a lot.

Not because I have to. Not because every case has required it. It’s just… happened. One report becomes two, one review becomes a second pass, and suddenly the day stretches longer than it should. Patterns form like that—quietly, without announcement—and once they’re established they become difficult to notice from the inside. I lean my hands against the edge of my desk and look around the bullpen again, taking inventory the way I do with everything else. Morgan is halfway through a conversation with JJ that clearly isn’t work-related anymore. Rossi is already leaving. Garcia is still at her screens, but even she’s easing out of the day instead of diving into something new. Everyone else is transitioning out of work.

Except me.

Seven years. The number arrives in my head without warning, precise and immovable. Cynthia and I have been married for seven years. That’s not insignificant. Statistically speaking, it’s well past the point where routines are formed, where couples settle into patterns that either strengthen the relationship or quietly erode it over time. I try to think of the last time I did something intentional for her—not incidental, not convenient, but deliberate—and the fact that I have to search for an answer at all makes something in my chest tighten. I can recall case details from years ago without hesitation, timelines, probabilities, outcomes—but this takes effort. That’s not a good sign.

I reach for my phone, unlocking it without thinking, and her name is already there at the top of my messages like it always is. I reread the last thing she sent me earlier in the day, something simple, something normal, and I realize I should have answered sooner. That realization isn’t dramatic. It’s quiet. Which somehow makes it worse. I type quickly before I can overanalyze it.

│ Hey honey, be home soon. │

I stare at the message for a second, then send it. It’s a small thing, objectively. But small things are how patterns start, and how they change. I slide the phone back into my pocket and straighten slightly, the decision forming with more clarity now. I don’t need a major shift. I need consistency. I need to be present. I need to choose something different than what I’ve been choosing.

Morgan glances over as I pick up my bag. “You leaving, pretty boy?” he asks, already smirking like he knows the answer.

“Yes,” I say simply.

“About time,” he replies, leaning back in his chair.

“I have somewhere I need to be.”

JJ looks up at that, catching something in my tone, and there’s a faint smile on her face. “Oh?”

“Home,” I say, because anything more complicated than that would be unnecessary.

Garcia swivels in her chair immediately, her attention snapping to me like I just triggered some kind of internal alert. “Okay wait, that felt important. Why did that feel important?” she asks, narrowing her eyes in a way that suggests she’s about to overanalyze this in a completely different direction.

“Because I’ve been late,” I say, adjusting the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “Repeatedly. And I’d like to correct that.”

Her expression softens almost instantly. “Oh,” she says quietly, and then more brightly, “oh, I love that. That’s good. We like that.”

I look over at Garcia as I walk out the door. “Where is the nearest flower shop that’s still open?”