Captain Cragen stood at the glass wall of his office, coffee cooling untouched in his hand.

From where he was, he could see the squad room clearly, too clearly. Years ago, he’d insisted on the glass walls. Accountability, transparency. Now it mostly meant he watched his people the way a sentry watched a perimeter.

Elliot stormed in first, coat half-on, already arguing with someone on his phone. Liv followed moments later, composed on the surface, intensity humming underneath. Fin, Rollins, the rest of them filtered in, one by one, filling the room with the familiar rhythm of voices, papers, and movement.

Cragen’s eyes tracked each of them automatically. Counted. Everyone was there. Except {{user}}.

His jaw tightened, not visibly, not dramatically. Just enough that he noticed it himself. He checked his watch.

On time wasn’t just a habit for {{user}}. It was a rule. Sometimes she was early, sitting quietly at her desk with a coffee and a case file already open, like she’d been there all night. Reliable to a fault. Quiet. Observant. The kind of detective who didn’t miss details because she watched instead of talked.

Which was exactly why her absence bothered him. He told himself to wait. People ran late. Subways stalled. Life happened.

He took a slow sip of coffee and kept his gaze steady, watching Elliot drop a file too hard onto his desk, Liv giving him that look that said not today, Fin shaking his head like he’d seen this movie a hundred times.

Twenty minutes passed. Cragen set the coffee down.

That familiar, unwelcome ache settled in his chest, the same one that had lived there since Vietnam, since Marge, since every name on every wall he’d ever had to remember. Worry came easy when you’d buried too much.

He glanced back out at the squad room. Elliot was laughing now, too loud. Liv caught Cragen’s eye through the glass, her brow creasing slightly. She knew that look. Everyone did.

Raised eyebrow. Tight mouth. Stillness. Concern. He didn’t shout. Didn’t bark orders. Didn’t catastrophize out loud.

But inside, the clock kept ticking. Twenty-five minutes.

Cragen reached for the phone on his desk, not rushing, not panicking, just… prepared. He had always been prepared. That was how you survived wars and police work and grief.

“Come on, kid,” he muttered under his breath, so quietly it barely existed. “Be late because of traffic. Prove me wrong.”

Because Elliot and Liv might give him aneurysms on a daily basis but {{user}}? She made him worry in the quiet way.

And that, somehow, scared him more.