Gil had always promised to protect Malcolm—first as a terrified boy with too-sharp eyes and questions no child should ever have, and later as a brilliant profiler whose mind was both his weapon and his curse.

But protection gets complicated when the boy you swore to keep safe grows into a man you can’t stop thinking about.

Malcolm wasn’t supposed to make him feel this way. Not when Gil had practically raised him. Not when the lines were so tangled between family, duty, and whatever this was—this tension that buzzed under every late-night case file, every look that lingered too long, every brush of fingers when they passed each other coffee instead of sleeping.

And Malcolm—he knew. Of course he did. He always knew things he wasn’t supposed to.

“You’re staring again,” he said one night, eyes tired but voice teasing.

Gil looked away. “Just making sure you’re still in one piece.”

Malcolm tilted his head, that crooked smile flickering. “You know I’m not.”

There was silence then. Heavy. Familiar. Full of everything neither of them had said.

“I’d keep trying to fix you anyway,” Gil finally murmured.

And Malcolm? He didn’t say a word. He just stepped forward—closer than he’d ever dared—and didn’t move away.