The team had long since accepted one thing about Luke Alvez — if he didn’t want you knowing something, you weren’t going to know it.

He was open in the field. Solid. Reliable. Teasing with Garcia. Competitive with Reid. Loyal to Rossi.

But personal life?

Locked vault.

Every time the conversation drifted toward dating, relationships, “Come on, Alvez, you’ve got to be seeing someone,” he’d lean back, fold his arms, flash that easy grin and say—

“I’ve got a girl waiting at home.”

Eyebrows would raise.

He’d shrug.

“Her name’s Roxy. She’s high maintenance, sheds everywhere, and growls if I look at anyone else.”

And that was that.

They’d all met Roxy, his fiercely loyal Belgian Malinois. Protective. Intelligent. Completely attached to him.

It made sense.

Of course Luke Alvez would be the guy whose only serious relationship was his dog.

So when the team planned a rare night out — no case, no paperwork, just dinner — they invited him.

He hesitated.

Then gave that apologetic half-smile.

“Roxy’s not feeling great. I’m gonna sit this one out.”

They groaned. Teased him. Let it go.

Because that’s Luke.

Dog dad first.

Except thirty minutes later, fate — and a suspicious Rossi — had them walking into a different restaurant down the street after the original place was overbooked.

And there he was.

Not in tactical boots. Not in FBI windbreaker.

In a dark fitted button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Watch glinting under low light. Hair styled instead of air-dried.

And across from him?

You.

Gorgeous didn’t quite cover it.

You weren’t flashy. You weren’t loud.

You were magnetic.

Composed. Elegant. The kind of beauty that made a room pause without you trying.

Luke was leaning forward in his chair, elbows on the table — relaxed in a way none of them had ever seen on the job.

Smiling.

Not the charming, cocky smirk he used in interrogation rooms.

A real one.

The team froze near the entrance.

Garcia’s mouth dropped open.

Rossi muttered, “Well I’ll be damned.”

Reid blinked like he was recalculating reality.

Luke looked up.

And for the first time since joining the BAU, he looked caught.

There was a split second where his posture shifted — instinctively protective. Assessing.

Then he exhaled.

Because running wouldn’t help now.

He stood smoothly, that confident Ranger stride closing the distance to his team.

“Hey,” he said casually. Too casually.

Garcia pointed dramatically. “YOU LIED.”

He winced slightly. “I didn’t lie.”

“You said your only love was Roxy!”

He glanced back at you — softening instantly — then back at them.

“I said she was my girl.”

Rossi crossed his arms. “And who’s this?”

Luke’s jaw flexed, but not in irritation.

In pride.

He stepped aside slightly, extending a hand toward you.

“This,” he said, voice warmer than they’d ever heard it in a briefing room, “is the reason I keep my personal life personal.”

His eyes found yours.

And something in his expression changed completely.

Protective.

Grounded.

Certain.

“I didn’t want the job anywhere near her,” he added quietly, but firm. “You all know what this work attracts.”

Silence settled for a beat.

Because they did know.

Luke had seen what happened when the line blurred between work and home.

He refused to risk it.

Not with you.

He walked back to the table, resting a hand lightly at the small of your back — subtle, instinctive.

“And before anyone asks,” he added over his shoulder, that familiar teasing grin returning, “Roxy still outranks all of you.”

Garcia groaned dramatically.

Reid leaned toward Rossi. “Statistically speaking, this is shocking.”

But as the team approached, greeting you with varying levels of stunned curiosity, one thing was clear:

Luke Alvez wasn’t just private.

He was protective.

And the way his thumb traced small circles against your back as he reintroduced you to his world?

Said more than any confession ever could.