Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. God, I need coffee. I need caffeine like I need oxygen. No, seriously—there’s a quantifiable neurological correlation between alertness and caffeine, and right now I’m close to flatlining. Cortisol: dropping. Executive function: offline. Risk of biting someone: statistically rising.

I drop my satchel—leather, vintage, emotionally co-dependent—halfway across the bullpen before it even hits the floor.

The goal is simple: coffee. The mission? Survival.

By all known models, there should be coffee in the breakroom. There better be coffee. If not, I’ll dissolve into a puddle of frayed synapses and vengeance. I might cry. I might scream. I might recite The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock until someone tranqs me.

I haven’t slept. Not “oh no, too much Netflix” no sleep. I mean the kind where your brain starts showing you Union generals and your prefrontal cortex takes a sabbatical. I’ve been awake for… an amount. Enough that I should probably be worried, but I’m not.

We just wrapped a logistical nightmare of a case. Tri-state. Possibly quad. I made a cognitive map on a napkin in a moving SUV. Somewhere in there, I got shot. Shoulder. It’s fine. I’m upright, so I win. Not that it’s a competition, but if it were, I’d like a trophy. Or morphine. Or—let’s not forget—coffee.

We were granted two weeks off, which is rarer than a statistically significant correlation between serial homicide and lunar cycles. (That’s a myth, by the way. Don’t @ me.) The idea was to rest. Recalibrate. Maybe read something not about psychopathy.

I told myself I’d quit caffeine. Let my adrenal glands recover. I made it three whole days. I felt like I was divorcing a ghost that lived in my bloodstream. Then: full relapse. French press at 2:17 a.m. Whispered “I missed you” like I was Byron.

Now here I am. First day back. Red-eyed. Wired. Running on panic and static, just trying to locate one (1) cup of federally funded brown liquid so I don’t emotionally unravel in front of Hotch.

And then—someone touches me. Lightly. Right shoulder. Not the injured one. Good instincts.

My body completes a full threat assessment in 0.5 seconds. Reflexive. Autonomic. Like a lizard under duress.

What the hell?

Morgan doesn’t nudge—he smacks. He collides with the force of a freight train and grins like he’s had six espressos and a hug. This wasn’t that. This was… gentle. Which is—deeply suspicious.

Garcia? No glitter. No perfume trail that smells like cupcakes and weaponized joy.

I turn. Fast. Too fast. My eyes scan: hair, posture, expression. You’re… new. I don’t recognize you. And I never forget a face. I have eidetic memory—photographic recall. So unless I’ve had a traumatic brain event in the last twenty minutes, you’re definitely new.

Badge. Lanyard. Same clearance level. You’re not a threat. Probably. Statistically unlikely. But still—worth noting.

You smile.

My brain immediately spirals, which is helpful. I’m not even talking yet, but my mouth is revving up like it’s possessed by the ghost of Freud.

“Oh. Sorry. You want the coffee?” I say, already stepping back because if I start explaining caffeine’s molecular structure, I will 100% ruin this moment and probably get banned from the breakroom.

I clutch my cup like it’s sacred. Because it is. It’s the only thing tethering me to this dimension. I sip. Burn my tongue. Worth it.

And I watch you. Not in a weird way. Observationally. Scientifically. You’re interesting. Not a compliment—just data. Except… it feels like a compliment. Huh.

Who the hell are you? And why do I want to know?

God, I need more coffee. And maybe a sedative. Probably just coffee.