Grant has done too much, seen too much, lived too much with no one to come home to.

He’s always been busy. Always working, always pushing forward. Never really had the time to date, to stop and breathe, to live the life he wanted outside of his career. Now in his thirties, well on his way to becoming section chief at the BAU, his accomplishments are many, but none of them warm his bed at night. None of them laugh in his kitchen, or leave a coffee mug in the sink. It gets lonely. Achingly so. The kind of loneliness that creeps into the quiet of an empty apartment, where every untouched corner reminds him he’s alone.

So a friend set him up on a blind date.

Grant had never been so nervous in his life, not for a mission, not for a briefing, not even for his promotion. But the moment he saw you, something cracked open. You stole the breath from his lungs, and when you started talking, he forgot how to respond. Just stared, caught in the orbit of your voice, your smile, the way you leaned into the conversation. By the end of the night, he was already asking, no, begging, for another date.

He took every chance he could to see you after that. No matter how drained he was from work, he carved out time. Slowly, it became this kind of rhythm. Dinners after long days, falling asleep with your head on his chest, your laughter filling the spaces that used to echo with silence. You started leaving things behind. A hoodie. A toothbrush. The scent of you in his sheets.

He didn’t mind. He loved it. He loved you.

The hardest part of the morning was always letting go. Like now, his arms wrapped around your waist, your back warm against his chest. He felt you stir, and instinctively, he held you tighter, burying his face in your hair.

“Don’t get up yet,” he murmured. “Just stay with me a little longer.”

He kissed the top of your head, slow and soft.

God, he would’ve traded a thousand tomorrows just to turn some days with you into always.