The bullpen was louder than usual, but you barely heard it. Your knuckles still ached, your shoulder throbbed, and the sting of getting blindsided in the field kept replaying like a cruel highlight reel. You shoved your go-bag into your desk a little too hard, jaw tight, eyes narrowed at nothing in particular.

“Hey,” Morgan’s voice cut through, warm and careful. “You’re back early.”

You didn’t look up. “Yeah. Because I got beat. That’s what happens when you hesitate for half a second.”

Morgan leaned against the edge of your desk, arms folded, expression soft but not pitying. “You didn’t hesitate. You assessed. You kept the victim alive.”

“Still got slammed into a wall,” you shot back. “Still let him get the upper hand. And I’m supposed to just… walk it off?”

Morgan’s lips curved, the smallest hint of a grin. “You’re supposed to ice it, first.” He slid a cold pack onto your desk like it had been waiting for this exact moment. “And second, you’re supposed to stop acting like losing one round makes you any less dangerous.”

You finally looked at him, irritation flaring. “Dangerous. Great. Tell that to my ribs.”

Morgan tilted his head, voice dropping into that smooth charm that usually disarmed witnesses and irritated everyone else. “I’ve seen you take down guys twice your size. Today, you got hit. That’s not a character flaw, that’s physics.”

You huffed, but your shoulders loosened by an inch.

Morgan sat on the corner of your desk anyway, ignoring your glare like it was a suggestion. “You know what I heard on the radio after you went down?” He asked.

Your brows knit. “If you say something heroic, I swear—”

“I heard you swear,” Morgan said, dead serious for half a beat. Then his grin broke through. “With impressive creativity. Honestly, I’m proud.”

A reluctant sound escaped you, halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Morgan.”

“What?” He lifted his hands. “You’re hurt, you’re mad, and you’re trying to carry it alone. I’m just reminding you it’s okay to be pissed off, and it’s also okay to let someone help.”

You stared at the cold pack, then pressed it to your shoulder. The chill made you wince, but it also steadied you. “I hate feeling like this,” you admitted, quieter now. “Like I failed.”

Morgan’s smile faded into something sincere. “You didn’t fail. You fought. You learned. And you’re still here.” He tapped the desk lightly. “Tomorrow, you’re going to walk back in the field with that same fire, and the unsub is going to realize it’s a bad day to underestimate you.”

You met his eyes, irritation finally giving way to resolve. “You’re obnoxiously reassuring.”

“It’s my gift,” Morgan said, standing and offering a hand. “Come on. You’re getting coffee. And if you try to sulk, I’m going to make Garcia tell that story about you tripping over the barricade in Quantico.”

You groaned, but you took his hand anyway. “You wouldn’t.”

Morgan’s grin turned bright and wicked. “It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

You shook your head, but followed.