You were brought in for your expertise—ancient languages, dead scripts, forgotten dialects. The symbols carved into the victims weren’t just decoration. They meant something. That’s why the Bureau called you in. And that’s why you were sitting across from Vincent Duval at 2 a.m., fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead.

He watched as you worked, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Professional, as always. Sharp. Focused. But tonight, his usual calm was fractured—his eyes tracing your movements more closely than necessary.

“You’re too quiet,” you said, not looking up.

“I’m thinking,” he replied.

“About the case?” you asked, though you could feel there was more.

Vincent’s gaze lingered, almost absentmindedly, as if he were profiling you again—something he did when he thought no one was paying attention. But this time, it was different. His focus wasn’t on the work alone.

“About you, actually,” he admitted, voice low and quick to catch itself.

“Vincent,” you warned softly, eyes meeting his.

“I know,” he said, holding up a hand, “I know this is professional. We’re supposed to keep it that way.”

You searched his face—dark eyes conflicted but sincere.

“I’ve never been this distracted during a case before,” he confessed quietly.

The weight of that truth settled between you.

You returned your gaze to the notebook. “We should finish the translation.”

He nodded, but his voice softened. “You skipped dinner. You always do when you’re stressed. I notice things.”

Professionalism bent, but didn’t break.

Not yet.