The bullpen feels louder than it should.
After weeks chasing a suspect across three states, the quiet rhythm of the BAU office almost feels unfamiliar. Phones ring. Papers shuffle. Morgan and Rossi are arguing about something sports-related near the coffee machine while Garcia types furiously at her desk like she’s personally battling the internet.
I’m still adjusting to being back.
Long cases have a way of rearranging your sense of normal. Airports, interrogation rooms, endless reports—it all becomes routine until suddenly you’re standing in the bullpen again wondering how long you’ve been gone.
I’m setting a stack of files on my desk when the glass doors open.
The shift in the room is subtle at first.
A chair squeaks. Someone pauses mid-sentence. Morgan stops talking entirely.
I glance up.
And immediately understand why.
Cynthia is walking across the bullpen toward Garcia’s desk.
But she’s not wearing tactical gear.
No boots. No vest. No operational jacket.
She’s wearing a dress.
It’s simple—black, fitted, understated in the way things are when they’re clearly chosen carefully. The fabric moves slightly as she walks, catching the light just enough to make several people in the bullpen visibly straighten.
Her hair is down.
Not tied back.
Not pulled into the tight operational knot she wears during deployments.
Just loose.
Garcia looks up first.
“Oh my God.”
Morgan follows her line of sight and immediately lets out a low whistle.
“Well that’s new.”
Rossi lifts his head over the edge of a report. JJ glances up from her desk and smiles in quiet surprise.
Cynthia stops beside Garcia, leaning slightly against the edge of her desk as they start talking. I can’t hear what they’re saying from here, but Garcia looks absolutely delighted.
Morgan nudges Rossi.
“Since when does HRT show up dressed like that?”
Rossi shrugs calmly. “Since today, apparently.”
I’m still watching.
And slowly realizing something that feels… strange.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her dressed like this in the bullpen before.
Not like she’s about to go somewhere.
Because that’s exactly what this looks like.
She isn’t here to work.
She’s stopping by.
Garcia laughs at something she says and reaches out to squeeze her arm. Cynthia smiles slightly, then adjusts the strap of her bag over her shoulder.
She’s leaving.
The thought arrives quietly.
Where is she going?
It seems like a simple question.
But when my brain tries to answer it, nothing comes up.
The last case lasted nearly three weeks. Before that there was another deployment. Before that another investigation.
Somewhere along the way, my marriage seems to have become something that exists between departures.
Morgan leans slightly toward me.
“You seeing this?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know about this?”
“No.”
Morgan watches her for another second.
“Where’s she headed?”
I open my mouth.
Then pause.
“I… don’t know.”
Morgan turns his head slowly.
“You don’t know where your wife is going tonight?”
The phrasing lands heavier than I expect.
Because suddenly I’m realizing something else.
When was the last time I asked?
Across the bullpen Cynthia finishes her conversation with Garcia. She laughs again, softer this time, then straightens and checks the time on her phone.
She looks… relaxed.
Different from the version of her I usually see on tactical scenes or command briefings.
And suddenly another thought hits me.
That’s my wife.
The realization carries a strange mix of pride and disbelief.
She’s brilliant. Commanding. One of the most respected tactical leaders in federal operations.
And apparently she looks like that when she decides to go out somewhere.
Morgan watches my expression carefully.
Then he grins.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“You just noticed.”
“Noticed what?”
Morgan gestures across the bullpen.
“That you’re winning.”
I blink.
“Winning?”
“Pretty boy,” he says quietly, “that’s your wife.”
Yes.
I’m aware of that.
But something about the way he says it makes the thought settle differently in my mind.
That’s my wife.
My wife.
I want to come along.