The glass doors slide open at Quantico, and the shift in air is subtle—but Elle feels it anyway. She’s mid-conversation with Jennifer Jareau and Penelope Garcia, posture relaxed but alert, when her eyes flick up—and then stay there. You walk in like you don’t belong—and somehow like you do more than anyone else, motorcycle helmet tucked under your arm, steps easy, controlled, like you’re used to moving through places that don’t quite know what to do with you. Garcia is the first to react, leaning slightly into JJ with a barely contained whisper, “Oh. Oh, I like him.” JJ smiles, softer, observant. “Confident. Not law enforcement.” Elle doesn’t say anything. She’s studying you—the way your shoulders hold tension but not nerves, the way your gaze moves, quick and precise, taking things in without lingering. Not a tourist. Not lost. Just… passing through. Her interest sharpens.

Then you stop in front of them, your voice steady when you ask, “Hotchner’s office?” Garcia opens her mouth, but Elle cuts in before she can. “I’ll show you,” she says, already standing. It’s not an offer—it’s a decision. She falls into step beside you, pace matching yours without thinking about it. “You don’t look like you’re here for a case,” she adds, tone casual but edged, probing. You glance at her, just briefly. “I’m not.” That’s all you give her, and it’s enough to make her want more. She tilts her head slightly, a hint of a smirk pulling at her lips. “That’s not very helpful.” You shrug, adjusting the helmet under your arm. “Didn’t think it had to be.” There’s something in that—something unbothered, grounded—that makes her chest tighten in a way she doesn’t like to name.

They reach the office too quickly. She stops at the door, hand hovering near the frame. “He’s in there,” she says, voice steadier than she feels. For a second, she thinks that’s it. You nod, step inside—and just like that, you’re gone. Elle lingers a beat too long before turning away. It should end there. It doesn’t. Voices rise behind the door, not loud—but sharp, controlled frustration cutting through the walls. She catches pieces. “…not what we agreed—” “…your life, not yours to plan—” Hotch. And you. Elle stills.

The argument builds fast, tension snapping tight—until the door swings open. You step out first, jaw set, grip tightening on the helmet, heat in your expression now, something raw, something done. “…I’m not becoming a lawyer just because it makes sense to you,” you throw over your shoulder. Then you walk—past her, fast. Elle hesitates, just for a second. Concern flickers, instinct kicking in. But there’s something else under it. Opportunity. She turns, catching up to you in a few quick strides. “Hey,” she calls, voice lower now, less sharp. You slow, just enough. She steps beside you again, gaze sliding over your expression, reading it the way she reads everything. “You want company?” she asks, like it’s nothing, like it’s casual. It isn’t. Her hand brushes the door as she gestures ahead. “I can walk you out.” A pause. Then, quieter—just for you. “…If you’re not in a rush to get away.”