The situation has stabilized, which technically means my attention should be focused on the operational briefing currently unfolding across the staging area.
Instead, my brain is doing something extremely unhelpful.
It’s watching Cynthia.
She’s standing about twenty yards away near the tactical vehicles, vest on, radio clipped at her shoulder, speaking with two members of the Hostage Rescue Team while pointing toward the warehouse entrance. The movement is controlled, precise—someone used to issuing commands that people follow immediately.
Statistically speaking, she’s very good at this.
Everyone around her shifts slightly when she talks. Not dramatically, just enough to indicate the room has accepted her authority.
It’s fascinating.
Also deeply distracting.
Because the same woman currently coordinating tactical movements is the woman who kissed me three nights ago in the parking garage outside the Bureau.
My girlfriend.
The phrase still feels statistically improbable.
Morgan leans against the SUV beside me, arms crossed, watching the same scene unfold.
“You’re staring again.”
“I’m observing.”
“Uh huh.”
I adjust my glasses slightly.
“It’s objectively interesting.”
Morgan snorts.
“What part?”
“Well,” I say thoughtfully, “there’s a very unique psychological contrast occurring.”
Morgan sighs.
“Here we go.”
“She’s extremely intimidating during operations,” I continue, nodding toward her. “Her command presence is measurable. Even experienced tactical agents adjust their posture when she enters a space.”
“Reid.”
“Yes?”
“You’re describing your girlfriend like a National Geographic documentary.”
I pause.
“…that’s not inaccurate.”
Morgan shakes his head.
“Boy is gone.”
Across the staging area Cynthia says something into the radio clipped to her vest.
My brain registers several things simultaneously.
The way she stands.
The way she speaks.
The fact that she likes me.
That last variable still hasn’t fully integrated into my understanding of reality.
Three nights ago she kissed me.
On purpose.
Which logically implies a mutual romantic interest.
Morgan nudges my shoulder.
“You’re doing the face again.”
“What face?”
“That one where you look like your brain just rebooted.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Oh I know.”
I glance back toward Cynthia.
She finishes giving instructions and one of the HRT operators nods before moving off toward the building.
Morgan follows my gaze again.
“Man…”
He shakes his head.
“You’re down bad.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re staring at her like she invented gravity.”
I hesitate.
“That’s not an entirely unreasonable comparison.”
Morgan laughs under his breath.
“Let me guess.”
“What?”
“You’re already thinking about proposing.”
I pause.
“…hypothetically.”
Morgan turns his head slowly.
“Reid.”
“Yes?”
“How long have y’all been officially dating?”
“Four days.”
Morgan stares at me.
“Four.”
“Days.”
“Well,” I say carefully, “that’s why I’m trying to determine an appropriate timeline.”
Morgan rubs his face.
“You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
“Reid, normal people don’t calculate engagement timelines like case statistics.”
“But there must be an average,” I argue. “A socially acceptable threshold. There are cultural norms for these things.”
Morgan points toward Cynthia across the lot.
“That woman right there is clearing buildings with a tactical team and you’re over here planning a wedding.”
“I’m not planning a wedding.”
Morgan raises an eyebrow.
“You just said engagement timeline.”
“That’s preliminary analysis.”
He leans back against the SUV, shaking his head.
“Pretty boy…”
“Mm?”
“You know you don’t have to marry every woman who kisses you.”
“That’s not what’s happening.”
“Then what is happening?”
I glance back toward Cynthia again.
She’s listening to a report now, arms folded, expression focused.
The sunlight catches the edge of her hair.
And my brain immediately produces a very simple conclusion.
“…I just think she’s incredible.”
Morgan watches me for a second.
Then sighs dramatically.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You’re serious.”
“I am.”
"I'll marry her."