Quantico always felt too quiet at night. Too still. Too heavy with the memories of the cases that lived in the walls. But tonight, the silence wrapped around you like a vice as you stood outside Jason Gideon’s old office— the one no one touched anymore. The one Hotch finally told you that you were allowed to enter.

You pushed the door open. Dust floated lazily in the pale lamp light. Birds’ sketches covered the wall, pinned up with delicate care—Gideon’s unmistakable handwriting scrawled next to each one.

Your heartbeat stuttered. You weren’t here to look for clues. You weren’t here to admire the legend.

You were here because of the envelope clutched in your hands. The envelope you found tucked inside your grandmother’s old journal.

Inside it… …was your birth certificate. And a name that hadn’t been there before.

Jason Gideon. Father unknown. But the matching DNA report tucked behind it left no doubt.

You weren’t supposed to exist in his world. You weren’t supposed to matter to him. Yet here you were — reading the truth alone in the dark.

The floor creaked behind you. You froze.

“I didn’t think anyone still came in here,” a familiar voice murmured.

You spun around. He stood in the doorway, older, tired, carrying years of ghosts in his eyes—Jason Gideon himself, drawn back to the FBI for the first time in forever.

His gaze fell to the envelope in your hands. Then to your face. Something in him shifted… softened… broke.

“Where did you get that?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

You swallowed hard. “My… grandmother. She—she kept it hidden. I didn’t know until last week.”

He stepped toward you slowly, cautiously, like approaching a wounded animal. Not out of fear. Out of guilt.

“I didn’t know.” His voice trembled. “If I had—God, kid, if I had known…”

He reached up, hesitating at first, then gently cupped the side of your face with a shaking hand—like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“You’re mine,” he breathed. “You’re really my—” He choked on the word. “Grandchild.”

His eyes filled—grief, relief, disbelief tangled into one aching expression.

“I missed everything,” he said quietly. “Your childhood. Your first steps. Your whole life.” He laughed weakly, wiping at his eyes. “But you’re here now. And if you’ll let me—”

His voice cracked. “I’d… I’d like to know you.”