Work Text:
The city had finally exhaled.
Outside Isobel’s apartment, the hum of traffic had quieted to the occasional passing car, headlights flickering across the far wall like slow-moving shadows. The open window let in the muted sounds of life below—a distant laugh, the echo of a barking dog, the soft metallic clang of someone dragging in trash bins for the night. But inside, everything had settled.
Warm, amber light spilled from a standing lamp in the corner, casting a soft glow across hardwood floors and a half-full bottle of red wine resting on the coffee table. Maggie sat curled up on the left side of the couch, legs tucked under her, sleeves swallowed by a borrowed sweatshirt two sizes too big. She hadn’t meant to stay so late, but the quiet had been too easy to fall into, too gentle to leave.
Isobel was across from her in the armchair, a glass of wine in one hand, her hair slightly mussed from where she’d run her fingers through it one too many times. Her shoes had been kicked off near the bookshelf, and a soft throw blanket was pooled over her knees. Maggie had never seen her like this before—unguarded, casual, still.
“You ever think about what your life would’ve looked like if you hadn’t joined the Bureau?” Maggie asked, her voice soft enough that it didn’t break the spell of the evening.
Isobel didn’t answer right away. She lifted her gaze to the ceiling, considering, as though she could trace the question in the swirls of plaster above them.
“I used to,” she said eventually. “Back in my twenties, before I had any real idea what this job would ask of me. I’d think about what I was giving up every time I said yes to a promotion. Or a transfer. Or staying late on a Friday when someone else’s world was ending.”
Maggie stayed quiet, listening, letting Isobel take her time. There was something sacred in this stillness—in hearing her speak without the weight of command in her voice.
“I think I would’ve ended up in law,” Isobel continued, tilting her wine glass slowly between her fingers. “Policy work, maybe. Advocacy. Something quieter. More controlled. I liked the idea of building something instead of constantly reacting to chaos.”
Maggie smiled faintly. “You’d have been good at that. But I can’t picture you in a quiet life.”
Isobel met her eyes with a smile of her own—wry, a little tired. “Me either. I think that ship sailed a long time ago.”
A soft breeze drifted in through the window, stirring the sheer curtains. The fabric danced lazily at the edge of Maggie’s vision, and for a moment, everything felt suspended in time—like they were inside a snow globe someone had forgotten to shake.
“I used to think I’d end up teaching,” Maggie said. “After Jason died, I needed something… gentler. I didn’t want to be around guns. Or grief. I wanted quiet mornings and structured routines and students who thought the worst thing in life was failing a test.”
Isobel’s expression softened, something unreadable passing through her eyes. “So what changed?”
“I realized that pretending I wasn’t angry didn’t make the anger go away.” Maggie shrugged, then pulled the sleeves of the hoodie further over her hands. “I wanted to face it. Make sure no one else ended up like he did.”
There was a silence between them, but not a hollow one. It felt full—heavy with understanding.
“You always seem so grounded,” Isobel said after a moment. “Even when you’re unraveling. It’s like… you know who you are.”
Maggie looked down at her tea, the ceramic still warm between her palms. “I think I’m still figuring that out.”
“I think we all are,” Isobel said. “But you—” She hesitated, then took a sip of wine before continuing, quieter now. “You make this job feel less impossible.”
The words caught Maggie off-guard. Her gaze lifted, and Isobel was still looking at her, steady and warm and vulnerable in a way Maggie rarely got to see. The moment hung in the air like fog, thick with something that wasn’t quite being said.
“Thanks,” Maggie said softly. Her throat felt tight. “That means more than you know.”
Outside, a taxi honked once—sharp, out of place. Inside, the air stilled again.
Isobel leaned back into the armchair, setting her wine aside and drawing her knees up slightly, blanket slipping to one side. “You ever get that feeling that you’re in the middle of a life you didn’t exactly choose, but somehow it fits you anyway?”
Maggie nodded slowly. “Every day.”
There was a long pause, and for the first time that night, Maggie let herself really look at her. The way the warm light caught the curve of Isobel’s cheekbone. The way her hair curled near her collarbone, no longer restrained by the usual tight twist she wore to work. She looked… real. Not untouchable or formidable or distant, but human. Beautiful, even in her exhaustion.
Maybe especially because of it.
“I like seeing you like this,” Maggie said before she could overthink it. Her voice was low, tentative. “Just… you.”
Isobel looked at her for a long moment, eyes soft and dark and unreadable. Her mouth parted slightly, like she might say something, then changed her mind.
Instead, she just said, “I’m glad you stayed.”
There it was again—that slight shift in tone. The way her voice dropped just enough to pull Maggie’s attention like a magnet. There was no flirtation, not exactly. No overt declaration. But something simmered beneath the surface, warm and quiet and deeply felt.
Maggie smiled, eyes holding hers. “Me too.”
The city went on outside their window—loud and messy and endless—but in here, they were somewhere else. Somewhere unspoken.
Isobel stood finally and crossed the room to refill her glass, moving slowly, as though afraid to startle the quiet that had wrapped around them. She hesitated by the counter, then turned back.
“You want to stay a little longer?” she asked, eyes flicking down to Maggie’s half-empty mug. “I was going to put on some music.”
Maggie didn’t even need to think about it.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’d like that.”
As Isobel reached for her speaker, her fingers brushed the edge of the countertop, lingering for just a second longer than necessary. Maggie wondered—hoped, maybe—that she’d felt it too. That quiet comfort, threaded with something more. Not urgent. Not defined. But growing.
And maybe, for tonight, that was enough.
The music Isobel chose was instrumental—nothing with lyrics, nothing demanding. Just soft piano and subtle strings flowing from a speaker tucked near the windowsill. It filled the room like water in a glass: quiet, calming, and just enough to carry the weight of the silence.
Maggie stayed on the couch. She should have left—she knew that. It was late, and she had laundry to do and emails to answer and a report she hadn’t finished. But none of that felt real here, in the golden quiet of Isobel’s apartment. Here, time bent in strange ways. Nothing was urgent. Everything could wait.
Isobel moved through the kitchen slowly, pouring water into the kettle, her back to Maggie. Her movements weren’t rushed or sharp. She looked like someone who hadn’t let herself relax in days. Maybe weeks. Maggie found herself watching her more than she meant to.
Noticing.
Noticing the curve of her shoulders now that they weren’t squared by authority. The way her hair fell just past her collarbone, no longer pinned back like armor. The way she leaned one hip against the counter when she waited, like she finally—finally—let herself take up space.
It wasn’t attraction, not exactly. Or maybe it was. Maggie didn’t know what to call it. All she knew was that being near Isobel like this—quiet, unguarded—felt like being let in on something rare.
“I’m making tea,” Isobel said over her shoulder. “Want another cup?”
Maggie smiled. “You’re trying to keep me here, aren’t you?”
Isobel glanced back, and for the first time that night, there was a flicker of something playful in her eyes. “Would it work if I said yes?”
Maggie blinked, caught off guard. There was no edge to her voice, no challenge—just a softness that made Maggie’s heart skip in a way she did not appreciate.
“I’ll stay for one more,” she said, trying to sound casual.
Isobel nodded like she already knew the answer. She always seemed to.
When she returned with the mugs—one for herself, one for Maggie—she sat on the couch this time. Not across the room. Not tucked into her usual armchair. Just… beside her. Not touching, not close enough to raise eyebrows. But closer than she had to be.
The quiet stretched out again, this time more intimate. Shared.
Maggie glanced at her from the corner of her eye. “You ever get scared it’s too much?” she asked suddenly. “The job, I mean.”
Isobel didn’t respond right away. She rested her mug on her knee and stared ahead, not quite looking at anything.
“All the time,” she said finally. “Not in the way people expect, though. I’m not afraid of violence. Or failure. I’m afraid of… becoming someone I don’t recognize. Of letting the weight of it all harden me.”
Maggie nodded, a strange ache in her chest. “Yeah.”
Isobel turned her head slightly. “Do you ever feel that?”
“Yeah,” Maggie repeated, quieter now. “Sometimes I worry I’ve already changed more than I meant to.”
Isobel looked at her for a long moment. “You haven’t,” she said. “Not in the ways that matter.”
The words hit something vulnerable and unspoken. Maggie looked down at her mug, hoping the heat would distract her from the flush creeping up her neck.
She didn’t know how Isobel did that—how she could cut through all of Maggie’s practiced detachment with a few carefully chosen words.
She didn’t know how she always seemed to see her.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because lately, Maggie had been seeing her, too. Not just as a supervisor or a colleague. Not even just as a friend. She saw Isobel’s tired eyes and steady hands. The way she held everything together even when she was barely holding herself up. The way she offered care in subtle, unsentimental ways—like leaving an extra charger on Maggie’s desk, or quietly intervening when Maggie needed space she couldn’t ask for.
She noticed all of it. And she wasn’t sure when noticing had turned into feeling.
The music shifted—something slower, aching in its restraint. Maggie felt her heartbeat tick up in time with the piano.
She glanced over again, and Isobel was already watching her. Not staring. Not intense. Just present.
“I forget to breathe sometimes,” Maggie admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “When it gets really bad.”
Isobel’s brow furrowed just slightly. “During cases?”
“No. After.” Maggie let out a breath, shaky. “When it’s quiet again. When I’m alone.”
Isobel didn’t hesitate. “You don’t have to be alone.”
The words were simple, but they hit like something heavier. Like a key being offered, slowly, carefully, wordlessly.
Maggie looked at her, eyes searching. “Isobel…”
Isobel set her tea down. Her hand brushed against Maggie’s on the couch—just a graze, barely a moment—and yet Maggie felt it like an imprint.
She didn’t pull away.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
“I know this is complicated,” Isobel said, her voice lower now. “I’m not trying to make it messier. But I meant it. I’m glad you stayed.”
There was something unsaid in her voice—something tentative, almost vulnerable. Like she was offering a piece of herself and didn’t know if it would be safe to let it go.
Maggie swallowed hard. “I’m glad I did too.”
The silence that followed was different. Heavier, charged. Like they’d walked to the edge of something and neither of them knew whether to jump.
But they didn’t have to—not yet.
So they sat there. Two agents. Two women who had learned to compartmentalize everything except this.
Not quite together.
Not quite apart.
Somewhere in the haze.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.
The apartment had gone almost completely dark by the time either of them noticed. The only light still burning came from the small lamp on the far side of the room, casting its muted golden glow across the floor, catching on the curve of Maggie’s jaw, the angle of Isobel’s shoulder. Outside, the rain had begun in earnest—not a storm, not even loud, just a steady, whispering rhythm against the windowpanes, like the night itself had settled into some kind of hush.
Neither of them moved.
Maggie had long since stopped pretending she wasn’t listening for the subtle changes in Isobel’s breathing, or watching the way her fingers shifted slightly on the cushion between them. Her own hands remained still, clasped loosely around a cooling mug she wasn’t drinking from anymore, more for the grounding weight of it than the taste. She knew—without fully understanding how she knew—that they were on the edge of something, standing just at the threshold of it, hearts pressed against the door.
Isobel finally spoke, her voice quiet, but not hesitant. “You haven’t looked at me since you said you’re glad you stayed.”
Maggie exhaled, slow and uneven, and turned her gaze toward her, only to find Isobel already watching her. Her expression was unreadable—not closed off, just careful. Always careful. There was something about the way Isobel looked at her in moments like this that made Maggie feel exposed, but not vulnerable. Seen, but not dissected. She had always been drawn to that quiet steadiness, even when she hadn’t had words for why.
“I didn’t know what you’d see,” Maggie said finally, her voice just above a whisper. “If I looked at you.”
Isobel didn’t look away. “Probably the same thing I’ve been seeing for a while now.”
There was a pause—just long enough for the moment to stretch, for the implication to settle. Maggie’s heart beat once, hard, and then again, a rhythm she couldn’t will into silence.
“I’ve tried not to cross this line,” she said after a beat. “Because I didn’t want to confuse anything. Because I respect you. Because I didn’t trust myself not to want something more.”
Isobel’s eyes softened, though her voice stayed steady. “You didn’t confuse me. If anything, you’ve been the only thing that’s made sense.”
There was no rush to the words, no plea, no pressure—just an offering. Just truth. The room felt smaller then, as though everything unnecessary had quietly folded itself away, leaving only the essential parts behind: breath and closeness, tension and trust, the quiet thread of something deeper weaving itself between them.
Maggie shifted, just enough to close the inch of space between their hands, her pinky brushing lightly against Isobel’s. The contact was featherlight, but it sent something sharp and soft all at once down her spine.
Isobel turned her hand, palm up.
An invitation.
Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just open.
Maggie slid her fingers into the offered space without thinking. Their hands fit together more easily than she’d expected—no fumbling, no second guessing, just the quiet sense of something righting itself.
“I think I’ve been waiting for the silence to tell me what to do,” Maggie murmured.
“And?” Isobel asked gently.
“It’s not telling me to leave.”
A beat passed. Two. And then Isobel leaned in—not quickly, not with hesitation, but with a kind of deliberate calm that told Maggie this wasn’t impulsive or uncertain. It was simply real.
Their lips met without urgency, a soft press more about grounding than claiming. It didn’t burn—it steadied. It didn’t ask—it understood. Isobel’s hand came to rest at Maggie’s jaw, fingers just barely brushing her skin, as though she was afraid too much pressure might break the moment. Maggie leaned into the touch like it was the first thing all day that made sense.
When they parted, neither of them moved far.
Their foreheads met in the space left between breaths, eyes closed, hands still joined, and the room around them held still, as though it understood that something sacred had just shifted into place.
“You okay?” Isobel asked, barely audible.
Maggie gave a soft exhale that was almost a laugh. “I think I’ve been okay for exactly one minute now.”
“That’s about when I kissed you,” Isobel said.
They both smiled, small and quiet and shared.
“This changes things,” Maggie said, not as a warning, but as a truth.
Isobel nodded. “It should.”
Neither of them let go.
And for once, Maggie didn’t feel the need to pull back, or explain, or brace herself for what came next. For once, the uncertainty didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like possibility.
Like maybe the space between them had never really been empty at all—just waiting to be filled.
———
Maggie woke slowly.
She wasn’t sure what time it was—early, maybe, or late enough for light to start nudging at the edges of the blinds. The soft gray of a cloudy Manhattan morning had pooled across the ceiling, casting everything in a pale blue hush.
She blinked once, and remembered where she was.
The couch beneath her had become more of a makeshift bed, blankets pulled around her sometime during the night. She remembered the quiet press of Isobel’s lips. The feeling of her hand resting gently at the curve of Maggie’s neck. She remembered the silence afterward, filled not with tension but with a strange, tentative calm.
And now—now it was morning, and Isobel wasn’t on the couch anymore.
She could hear soft movement from the kitchen: the faint hum of the kettle, the quiet clink of ceramic. No music this time. Just the domestic rhythm of someone trying not to wake the person sleeping nearby.
Except Maggie was already awake.
She sat up slowly, the blanket falling to her lap. Her body ached a little—long days, longer nights—but something about that ache felt easier to carry now. Less sharp.
Isobel turned just as Maggie walked into the kitchen, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She looked different in the morning light: not softer, exactly, but less guarded. Like the mask she wore for the world hadn’t been put on yet.
“You didn’t have to make breakfast,” Maggie said quietly.
“It’s just toast,” Isobel replied, placing a second mug on the counter between them. “And tea. But I figured we earned it.”
Maggie crossed her arms lightly, leaning against the counter. “We?”
Isobel glanced over, a wry smile in her voice. “Fine. You earned it. I just didn’t want to sit here alone.”
Maggie’s throat tightened slightly at that—how honest it was, how small and true. She reached for the tea, fingers brushing Isobel’s again, and the contact no longer startled her. It felt… expected. Familiar.
They stood in silence for a moment, letting the weight of the morning settle between them. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t tense. But it was real. And that mattered.
Eventually, Maggie spoke, her voice low and careful. “Does this mean something, or are we pretending it didn’t happen?”
Isobel didn’t answer right away. She poured the tea into her own cup, steam curling up into the quiet, before meeting Maggie’s gaze again—steadily, purposefully.
“It means something,” she said. “But I don’t want to define it in a way that makes it smaller than it is.”
Maggie nodded, letting the words sit with her for a long moment.
“Okay,” she said. “Then I won’t either.”
And there it was—an agreement, quiet and mutual. No labels. No declarations. Just trust. Just space.
They sat together at the small kitchen table, knees brushing beneath it. Isobel handed Maggie the butter without asking, and Maggie poured the tea when Isobel got distracted reading the back of the cereal box like it might hold national security secrets.
It was, somehow, the most intimate morning Maggie had had in years.
No one touched the kiss. No one needed to.
But something had shifted.
Later, when Maggie left with a soft promise to see her in the office, she paused at the doorway, her hand on the knob. Isobel stood a few feet back, arms loosely crossed, her expression unreadable—but Maggie had learned to see through that.
“We’ll be okay,” Maggie said, not a question, but something close.
Isobel met her eyes and gave the smallest nod. “We already are.”
The hum of the Joint Operations Center was the same as always — steady, clinical, punctuated by the low murmur of voices and the rapid-fire tap of keystrokes. Maggie stepped through the glass doors with a fresh cup of coffee and her hair still damp from a too-short shower, sliding smoothly back into the rhythm of the day like muscle memory.
No one looked twice at her entrance.
Which was a relief.
Because everything looked the same — the clatter of agents moving through reports, monitors flashing with maps and data feeds, the faint scrape of Jubal pacing with a tablet in one hand — but for Maggie, the center of gravity had shifted.
She passed by OA’s desk, dropping a file onto it with a little too much satisfaction. “You owe me twenty bucks.”
OA looked up, one brow arching. “What, because Elise pulled a last-minute data match on that robbery crew? That doesn’t count. You said we’d interview the ringleader by today.”
Maggie smirked, sipping her coffee. “I said we’d find the ringleader. She’s sitting in a holding cell in Midtown. Not my fault Elise is faster than you expected.”
“Or that you keep bribing our intel team with good coffee,” he muttered, flipping open the folder.
“Call it interdepartmental cooperation.”
OA rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, and for a second it felt good — grounding — to banter again. The job never stopped, not really, but mornings like this gave her just enough room to breathe.
Scola passed by with Tiffany in tow, both halfway through a briefing with a tech from Cyber. Maggie caught Tiffany’s glance — a nod of acknowledgment — and returned it with one of her own. Business as usual. No whispers, no sidelong looks. Just teammates. Just work.
But when Isobel stepped out of her office at 8:59 sharp, Maggie felt it. A flicker. A shift.
The room didn’t react — why would it? She did this every morning. Hair neatly pinned back, blazer sharp, tablet in hand. Focused. Commanding. Always two steps ahead.
But Maggie noticed the way Isobel’s eyes scanned the room just a second longer than usual, like checking for something. Or someone.
Their eyes met — briefly.
No smile. No secret glance. Just a pause, the kind no one else in the JOC would notice. But Maggie felt it, subtle as a touch between fingertips.
“All right, listen up,” Isobel said, voice crisp. “We’ve got two developments out of Brooklyn overnight. NYPD’s linking a string of smash-and-grab robberies to a crew operating near Sunset Park — same M.O. as what Elise flagged last week. And a separate narcotics investigation has turned up a possible trafficking pipeline through three construction sites.”
She tapped the screen behind her. Images flickered on: photos, maps, timestamps.
“Maggie, OA, you’re taking the robbery crew. Tiff and Scola are looping in with DEA task force on the trafficking case. Let’s divide and conquer.”
As the room dispersed, Maggie lingered by her workstation just long enough to catch Isobel heading back to her office. She followed, casually, tucking her file under her arm.
She knocked once before stepping inside. Isobel didn’t look up immediately — just gestured for her to close the door.
“I’ve got something for you,” Maggie said. “Elise pushed that license plate scan we flagged — but Kelly and Ian also cross-referenced local business permits near the targeted stores. One of the shell companies matches a holding account tied to a guy named Terrance Milos. Background in armed robbery. Paroled last year.”
Isobel’s eyes lifted — alert now. “That’s solid. Milos has been off radar for almost six months. If he’s surfaced again, it’s not by accident.”
Maggie offered her the file. “Already flagged it to Jubal. I figured you’d want the paper trail now, in case this escalates fast.”
Isobel took the file, fingers brushing Maggie’s as she did.
Neither of them flinched. But there was a beat — a half-second too long — before either of them spoke again.
“Thanks,” Isobel said. Her voice was even, but softer than usual. “This helps.”
Maggie nodded, then let the quiet stretch just slightly before turning for the door. “You’ll let me know if you need anything else.”
She didn’t mean it just about the case.
And Isobel didn’t reply right away. But as Maggie stepped out into the noise and light of the JOC again, she thought she heard it — low, steady.
“I will.”
The door clicked softly shut behind Maggie, and for a moment, Isobel didn’t move.
The office was quiet. Not silent—the buzz of voices beyond the glass still drifted in faintly, the soft whirl of the ventilation system, the distant ring of a desk phone—but in here, it was just enough stillness for her to feel the echo of Maggie’s presence.
And more than that: the echo of last night.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, one hand bracing against the edge of her desk, her eyes flicking over the folder Maggie had handed her.
Terrance Milos. Robbery, parole, a holding company routed through a dozen shell accounts. A clean lead, a valuable thread. But what lingered wasn’t the intel—it was how it had arrived. Maggie’s voice in her office. That steady calm she carried like armor, except now Isobel knew what lived under it. Knew how it felt when Maggie’s fingers curled into hers. When she leaned in like the space between them had never stood a chance.
She’d built her career on precision, on boundaries that didn’t bend for anyone. Leadership demanded distance—professionalism above personal attachment, clear lines drawn and held.
But then there was Maggie.
There had always been Maggie.
Not from the beginning, not in a thunderclap. It had been slower, more subtle. A quiet current beneath the work, beneath the late-night case reviews and early briefings and the way Maggie sometimes stayed behind just a few minutes longer than necessary, like she hadn’t finished thinking yet—or didn’t want to leave.
Isobel had ignored it at first. Not out of denial, but discipline. She’d kept herself steady. Until steady had started to feel like silence. And then last night—
Last night had asked for honesty.
This morning had answered it.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the folder again. Maggie had known exactly what she needed before she asked. That wasn’t new—but now, there was a softness behind it. Not weakness, not distraction—just… awareness. Recognition.
A shift.
She let herself sit, slowly, eyes drifting up toward the glass. From here, she could just make out Maggie walking across the bullpen, shoulder to shoulder with OA, her body relaxed in a way Isobel rarely got to see. There was a brief grin—probably something OA said, something smart and cocky that she’d pretend to roll her eyes at, but secretly enjoy.
Isobel looked away before Maggie glanced back.
Whatever this thing was between them—whatever it might become—it had to live in quiet spaces. In locked offices, in passing glances, in information exchanged not just for duty, but for trust. There was no room for recklessness. Not here. Not now.
But there could be something else.
Something careful.
Something real.
She turned back to the folder, her voice low but even as she keyed her mic. “Kelly, let’s get a full report on Milos’ recent contacts. Have Ian check local real estate records again—see if that shell company has purchased anything we missed.”
Her phone buzzed once: a short message.
[Maggie Bell]
OA thinks Milos might’ve stashed weapons in one of the back units near 43rd.
We’re heading there now. Will check in after.
Isobel stared at it for a moment, then typed quickly.
[Isobel Castille]
Good. Be careful.
She paused—then, almost without thinking, added a second message.
[Isobel Castille]
And thank you. For this morning.
No response came immediately. And that was fine.
She didn’t need one.
Not yet.
For now, it was enough to know that Maggie would read it, and understand.
“Let me drive,” OA said, already veering toward the driver’s side of the Bureau SUV with practiced confidence.
Maggie didn’t break stride. She angled smoothly in front of him, coffee in one hand, keys in the other.
“Nope,” she said lightly.
OA blinked. “Why not?”
“Because you drive like you’re auditioning for Fast & Furious: Federal Agents Edition, and I actually like this suspension.”
He huffed, amused. “We’re not even in a chase.”
“You say that now.”
Maggie climbed into the driver’s seat without another word, sliding her sunglasses on with casual finality. OA muttered something under his breath as he circled the SUV, but she could tell he was smiling.
They pulled out of the Hoover lot a few minutes later, the early traffic thicker than expected for a Tuesday but still manageable. Maggie kept one hand on the wheel and the other loosely curled near the gearshift. She didn’t say much. Neither did OA at first.
But the silence didn’t sit heavy. It was familiar. Companionable.
Still, OA eventually broke it.
“You’ve been different today.”
She gave him a side glance. “Define different.”
“Just… I don’t know. Calm.” He looked at her. “Not in a weird way. In a ‘did-you-sleep-for-once’ kind of way.”
Maggie let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh. “Yeah. I slept.”
She didn’t say more. Didn’t need to.
OA, to his credit, didn’t pry. He just nodded, like he’d clocked something and made peace with not knowing all of it.
They hit a red light, and Maggie took the chance to check the incoming alert on the dash display—Elise had sent updated metadata from the burner phone. Last ping placed it near a closed-down factory space a few blocks off 43rd.
“Think Milos is squatting?” OA asked.
“Or he’s stashing gear,” Maggie said. “The burner was clean—no texts, no call logs. But if we can get a location history from the signal tower Elise mapped…”
“…we might get eyes on wherever he’s moving next,” OA finished.
She nodded, satisfied they were thinking the same thing.
The light turned green, and Maggie eased them forward again. The streets thinned as they moved deeper into the industrial strip: storage yards, fencing, cracked concrete, and too many buildings that had been repurposed half-legally into something else.
OA tapped his knee idly. “You ever think about how weird it is, driving around the city knowing we’re always just a few turns away from something breaking open?”
Maggie gave a half-smile. “It’s the turns you don’t expect that get you.”
“Deep,” OA said with mock seriousness.
“Watch it,” she warned, grinning as she checked her mirrors. “You’re lucky I let you ride shotgun.”
“I’d be luckier if you’d let me put on my playlist.”
“Absolutely not.”
They reached the factory lot a few minutes later. Maggie slowed the SUV to a crawl as she surveyed the boarded windows and locked fencing.
She pulled them to a stop behind a faded delivery truck and leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
“There,” she said, pointing. “Back unit. New padlock. Doesn’t match the rest.”
OA was already reaching for his comm. “Calling it in. Let’s see if we can get uniforms on perimeter support.”
Maggie didn’t move yet. She kept her hand on the wheel, eyes trained on the building like it might twitch. But her thoughts, just for a second, drifted again.
Not to the case.
Not to the factory.
To something steadier. Something still lingering behind the quiet of the morning.
“Hey,” OA said, bringing her back. “You good?”
She nodded once. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
And they stepped out into the day.
From her spot overlooking the JOC floor, Isobel had a clear view of the whole operation — teams moving between workstations, digital maps flickering on the main screen, analysts pulling up files as fast as intel came in. There was no chaos, just momentum.
She liked that. Order. Purpose. She’d built her leadership on it.
Still, her eyes kept drifting back to one of the monitors in the center — a GPS overlay tracking two Bureau-issued signals as they slowed near the 43rd Street location.
Maggie and OA.
“Unit is stationary,” Kelly reported from his station nearby, his voice steady but alert. “Looks like they’ve parked at the edge of the lot. No movement yet.”
Isobel nodded once. “Loop in patrol units from the 68th Precinct. I want soft perimeter support in place but out of sight unless they call it.”
Jubal approached with a tablet in hand, his tie already half-loosened despite it still being before noon. “Elise found a second burner number in the duffel Maggie turned in. She’s triangulating with Ian now — might give us a second target if this one turns out empty.”
“Good,” Isobel said, accepting the tablet and skimming the new intel. “We might be looking at more than just Milos if these numbers are linked to a crew.”
Jubal leaned against the desk beside her. “You think this is the start of something bigger?”
“I think Milos doesn’t come out of hiding after six months just to knock over a few jewelry cases.” Her voice was quiet, but certain. “Something else is moving.”
Jubal nodded, then tilted his head slightly. “You’ve got a good read on this one.”
Isobel’s fingers paused briefly on the screen.
It wasn’t a pointed comment. Just Jubal being Jubal — noticing things, feeling them out without pushing too hard. But she still chose not to respond.
Instead, she looked back at the screen — the two blinking markers unmoving on the map, both inside the perimeter line.
“Tell me as soon as they breach,” she said.
Kelly nodded and relayed the instruction into comms.
Isobel stepped back from the edge of the mezzanine, but didn’t return to her office. She didn’t want the separation. Not now. She needed to be where she could see it.
Her phone buzzed on the desk behind her — just a short update from Elise about tower pings and timestamps — but she didn’t check it right away. Not because it wasn’t important, but because her attention was already anchored to something else.
She found herself staring at the screen again, the same two blips.
And though nothing in her posture gave it away, something low in her chest shifted — that same strange steadiness she’d felt in the quiet of the morning. A calm she hadn’t expected, but hadn’t resisted either.
It wasn’t distraction. It was something different.
Trust.
Which, in her world, was more radical than anything else.
“Perimeter’s secure,” Kelly said after a beat. “They’re moving in.”
Isobel straightened, voice firm. “Keep the line open. I want real-time audio on breach.”
She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to.
But as she watched the screen, tracking the slow movement of two agents into the unknown, she felt it again — a stillness, not from the absence of noise, but from the presence of something solid.
And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t scare her.
The air near the warehouse was thick with dust and the faint metallic bite of rusted siding. The kind of quiet that sat on the back of your neck, just before something moved.
Maggie crouched by the rust-flecked doorframe, glancing at OA as he positioned himself opposite. His eyes met hers—steady, clear—and she gave a nod.
They moved in sync.
“FBI!” OA’s voice cut through the quiet as Maggie pushed the door open, weapon raised, her breath even but held in suspension.
The interior was dim and wide, shadows stretching across forgotten pallets and stacked crates. Someone had used this place—recently. The smell of cigarettes lingered, and there were boot prints in the thin layer of dirt on the concrete floor.
Maggie swept right, OA to the left. Her heart stayed calm, steady in her chest, even as her body moved through the familiar choreography of clearance: check corners, sweep high, sweep low, breathe, listen.
Movement.
A flicker of motion near the back stairwell—someone ducking just out of view.
Maggie’s voice snapped low into her comm. “One moving, northwest stairwell. Possible male, mid-30s, white hoodie.”
OA was already cutting toward the far crates, flanking the stairwell from the other side.
Maggie moved fast and low, rounding the crates to find—
Empty.
No sound but the soft drip of something leaking behind the wall.
She turned again—and that’s when she heard it. A rustle above. Stairs.
“He’s moving to the catwalk,” OA said, voice crisp.
Maggie didn’t wait. She bolted up the narrow metal staircase, her boots ringing out against the steps, gun raised as she cleared the landing.
He was fast, but not trained. Stumbling through a half-closed office door at the far end, knocking over a chair in his panic.
“Milos!” she shouted. “Stop!”
No answer.
She surged forward, heart sharp now—not from fear, but from instinct—and kicked the door open.
He was halfway through a broken window on the other side.
“Don’t move!” Maggie ordered, weapon trained on his back.
Milos froze. His hands went up, shaky and slow.
OA reached her seconds later, covering the suspect with clean, practiced ease as Maggie moved in and cuffed him.
“Terrance Milos,” OA said as he secured him. “You’re under arrest for parole violation, armed robbery, and obstruction of justice.”
Milos muttered something under his breath, but Maggie barely registered it. Her focus had narrowed—breath still catching at the edges, hands steady but tight.
“You okay?” OA asked as they stepped out of the office, suspect in tow.
Maggie nodded once. “Yeah. He’s lighter than he looks.”
OA smirked. “Still not letting me drive back?”
“Not a chance.”
They moved down the stairs, the suspect grumbling between them.
And yet—beneath the adrenaline, beneath the weight of procedure—something else moved in Maggie’s chest. Quiet and certain.
This case wasn’t done. Milos was only the start of something wider, more intricate.
But for now? This part was handled.
And in the silence between steps, between words, she let herself feel it.
The control.
The closeness of partnership.
And the pull of something steady waiting in the wings.
———
The bullpen felt warmer than usual when Maggie stepped back inside, like the hum of computers and voices had softened into something almost familiar. The kind of fatigue that came after a solid win. Not a slam dunk, maybe — but enough.
OA walked beside her, his shirt untucked at the hip, Milos cuffed and sullen between them, still swearing under his breath as if that might change the fact he’d been caught.
“Hand-off’s happening in Interview Two,” Jubal called as they passed. He gave OA a nod and tossed Maggie a bottle of water. “Elise says good grab on the location ping. You saved us hours.”
Maggie caught the bottle and gave a short, grateful nod. “Tell her she’s a genius.”
“She already knows.”
OA smirked, nudging Milos toward the hallway with two agents from the white-collar team. “Try not to bite, Terrance. They just cleaned the rooms.”
Milos grumbled something unrepeatable as he was led away.
With the weight of the collar off her shoulders, Maggie rolled her neck once and took a sip of water. Then, without needing to signal it, she peeled off from the main traffic flow and walked toward the outer corridor. Away from the noise.
She didn’t expect to run straight into Isobel coming around the corner.
The SAC looked just as collected as she had that morning — coat unbuttoned, tablet in one hand, comms in her ear. But her eyes softened the moment they landed on Maggie.
“You’re back,” Isobel said, voice low. Not surprised — just quietly certain.
“Just walked in.”
“You good?”
It was more than just a procedural check-in, and they both knew it.
Maggie nodded, resting lightly against the wall, her shoulder brushing the cool surface. “He was panicking by the time we got to him. Not much of a strategist.”
“And you didn’t let him get away.”
Something in Isobel’s tone made Maggie glance up. There was approval in it, yes — but something quieter too. Like she’d been tracking more than just their location.
Maggie gave a small smile. “Would’ve made my report a lot messier.”
Isobel didn’t smile back, exactly, but her mouth twitched — that subtle half-curve Maggie had learned to read as something close to affection.
There was a pause then. Not heavy. Just still.
A hum in the air between them.
“I read your field notes on the duffel,” Isobel said after a moment. “Good instincts on splitting the search pattern.”
“Elise did the heavy lifting on the tower ping,” Maggie replied, brushing a loose curl behind her ear. “But the unit layout didn’t make sense unless Milos was alone. OA followed the rest.”
“Still,” Isobel said, “you called it.”
Another pause. One heartbeat longer.
People moved past them — techs, agents, admin staff — but neither woman flinched or stepped back. It was like they both trusted this sliver of hallway to stay theirs.
Maggie looked at her fully now. “You okay?”
It caught Isobel off guard, just slightly.
“I wasn’t the one climbing rusted stairs in an abandoned warehouse,” she said. But then — quieter — “Yeah. I’m good.”
Maggie nodded once, and it meant more than it sounded like.
A call came through on Isobel’s earpiece, breaking the silence. She listened, then tapped it off. “I’ve got to check in with Jubal. But—”
She hesitated, the briefest breath — a recalibration.
“You did good work today,” she said. “You always do, but… today especially.”
Maggie’s throat tightened just slightly. “Thanks.”
Isobel nodded and turned down the hall, her coat catching on the corner as she disappeared into the bullpen.
Maggie lingered for just another second. Long enough to breathe in the quiet space Isobel had left behind.
Then she pushed off the wall, stepped back into the light.
The room was cold by design. The table bolted, the overhead light too white, the walls too still.
OA leaned forward with that calm, patient weight he did so well, while Maggie stood near the back wall, arms crossed, watching Terrance Milos squirm in his seat like it might help.
“You’re wasting time,” OA said mildly. “We know the drop location. You give us the name, we can verify it within the hour. All you’re doing by staying quiet is putting your friends in deeper.”
Milos shook his head, jaw clenched. “I don’t talk. I already know how this goes.”
Maggie stepped forward, voice quieter. “You think they’re going to protect you? The guys you ran with six months ago? They’ve moved on. You’re the liability now.”
Silence.
He shifted again. His fingers twitched.
Maggie tilted her head. “Unless you’ve already talked to someone else.”
That landed.
His mouth opened, then closed again, but something broke in his expression. A split-second calculation—fear, doubt, ego. The cracks were there.
Before OA could push, the door opened and Elise slipped in with Ian behind her, both holding tablets.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Elise said, eyes flicking to Maggie. “We’ve got a hit on one of Milos’ old contacts. Goes by Drevko. Name showed up in encrypted threads tied to a weapons transfer. We’re checking if Milos had access.”
Milos cursed under his breath, shifting in his chair. That told Maggie plenty.
“We’ll talk later,” OA said evenly, and stepped back.
Maggie didn’t speak again until they were outside the room. She looked to Elise. “Weapons?”
Ian answered. “Preliminary chatter’s vague, but it’s more organized than street-level. Could be nothing. Could be bigger.”
She nodded, filed it away. Another thread. Another day.
———
*Maggie’s Apartment, Midtown Manhattan
9:12 PM*
The door closed behind her with a quiet thunk. Not dramatic, just final — the day slipping into the space between now and tomorrow.
Maggie kicked off her boots, dropped her keys in the ceramic dish by the door, and shrugged off her coat. The room was dim, city light seeping through the windows in bands, her living room softly lit by the glow of the overhead track light and the aquarium’s slow bubble hum in the corner.
She didn’t turn on music. Didn’t turn on the TV.
Just moved to the couch, curling up with a blanket, a bottle of water, and her phone.
For a while, she didn’t open it. Just let it sit on the table, screen down, as she let the quiet hold her.
The case wasn’t done — Drevko’s name would follow them into the next week — but there was a strange, gentle exhale in the stillness of her space.
She thought of OA. Of Elise. Of the things that hadn’t gone wrong today.
And then, quietly, of Isobel.
The way she’d looked at her in the hallway. Calm. Sure. A flicker of something personal just behind the eyes.
Eventually, Maggie reached for her phone.
One text.
Isobel Castille. Sent 23 minutes ago.
[Isobel - 7:49 PM]
Good work today. I know I said it already, but I meant it.
Get some sleep. You’ve earned it.
Maggie stared at the screen a moment, thumb hovering.
She typed. Deleted. Tried again.
[Maggie - 8:14 PM]
Thanks. You too. Hope you let yourself slow down at least a little.
Sent.
She set the phone back down. Didn’t expect an immediate reply.
But when it buzzed five minutes later, she wasn’t surprised.
[Isobel - 8:19 PM]
Trying. Still thinking about that stairwell you climbed. Be careful tomorrow, okay?
Maggie smiled, small but genuine. She didn’t respond right away. Just looked out the window, city lights flickering across her reflection in the glass.
Something about tonight felt different.
Not louder. Not brighter.
Just… softer.
Like something real had finally started moving beneath the surface.
*Isobel’s Apartment, Upper West Side
10:18 PM*
The city had a different sound up here.
High enough that the sirens blurred into a hum, low enough that she could still hear the traffic when the window was open an inch. That had always suited her — the nearness without the noise.
Isobel’s jacket hung by the door, and the softest light spilled from the lamp in the corner of the room — just enough to keep the shadows at bay.
She’d turned her phone face-down twenty minutes ago and left it that way. A small resistance.
But not a full one.
Her laptop sat open on the dining table, case notes glowing in a half-finished report. She’d promised Jubal she’d send it by midnight, but the cursor had been blinking on the same line since 21:47.
There’d been something about today. Not dramatic. Not even surprising. Just… noticeable.
The hallway.
Maggie.
The steadiness in her voice, the weight behind her words. The way she’d asked, “You okay?” without fanfare.
Most people didn’t ask her that. Not because they didn’t care. But because they assumed she always was.
Sometimes, even she believed it.
Isobel leaned back in her chair, one hand resting against the curve of her neck. Her body ached in familiar places — a low, persistent tension she’d grown used to ignoring.
But tonight she didn’t ignore it. Just breathed through it.
Her eyes flicked to her phone.
Still face-down.
She reached out and turned it over.
The screen lit up instantly.
Maggie’s reply glowed up at her:
[Maggie - 8:14 PM]
Thanks. You too. Hope you let yourself slow down at least a little.
Isobel stared at the words. There was nothing dramatic about them — nothing that broke rules or blurred lines.
But something in her chest softened.
She tapped a reply.
[Isobel - 8:18 PM]
Trying. Still thinking about that stairwell you climbed. Be careful tomorrow, okay?
She hit send, and that should’ve been it. But her thumb hovered again, almost without permission.
She didn’t send another message.
Instead, she leaned forward, opened a new document window, and typed the first two lines of her report. The words came slower than usual, but cleaner, somehow.
Maggie would be in early tomorrow. She always was after a big arrest. Organized. Sharp.
Isobel would see her.
And maybe — not all at once, but gradually — she’d stop pretending she didn’t look forward to that.
She closed her laptop.
Left the case notes for morning.
And turned off the light.
———
The shower had already gone cold once. Maggie didn’t notice until the sharp chill jolted her from the trance she’d fallen into — water tracing the curve of her back, hair soaking against her shoulder blades.
She turned the knob off and stood for a second longer, eyes closed.
Then: breath in, breath out, towel around her, back into the rhythm.
Getting ready was muscle memory now. Undereye concealer, half a cup of coffee she never finished, hair still a little damp when she pulled it into a ponytail. The sleeves of her navy blouse were rolled just once, cuffs angled at her forearms.
Her apartment was still dark except for the golden edge of sunrise bleeding in at the windows.
As she locked the door behind her, she glanced at her phone.
No new messages.
But the one from Isobel — Be careful tomorrow, okay? — was still open in her mind.
She slid her phone into her bag and headed for the train.
———
Isobel didn’t rush. She never did.
Her apartment was already clean, organized, quiet — the kind of space that reflected the woman who kept it. Still, she’d let her coffee sit too long and now it had gone lukewarm, swirling with the memory of cinnamon from the cupboard she rarely used.
Her heels echoed softly on the hardwood as she crossed to her bedroom. A gray blazer hung on the back of the closet door. She chose a black one instead. Familiar. Unreadable.
In the mirror, she adjusted the collar once. Then again. She paused. Left it.
The morning briefing would be short — just a follow-up on Milos and the potential Drevko lead. She could already feel her mind reaching ahead, counting the steps between now and noon, between names and choices.
She slid her phone from her pocket. No messages. She hadn’t expected any.
But the reply from Maggie — Hope you let yourself slow down — was still there.
She hadn’t deleted it.
As she stepped outside, the sun caught the edge of a glass building across the street, scattering pale gold into the sidewalk cracks.
She let herself look up at it for one long second.
Then she moved.
*JOC – 7:41 AM*
Maggie walked through the scanner with three coffee cups balanced in a cardboard tray, the aroma rising in warm, steady curls that reminded her more of quiet mornings at home than federal investigations. The elevator ride had been short, but her fingers were already warm against the sleeves of her coat.
OA glanced over from where he was leaning against the JOC vending machine, phone in one hand, case files in the other.
“You get promoted to barista without telling me?”
She grinned. “Two minutes ago. Full benefits, cinnamon stock options.”
He stepped over and plucked one of the cups. “This mine?”
“Double shot, no sugar. The same thing you get every Monday.”
“You remembered,” he said, mock touched. Then his eyes flicked to the remaining two cups. “Wait—who’s the third for? You planning on a caffeine emergency?”
Maggie didn’t answer right away. She just raised an eyebrow.
OA followed her gaze — through the glass wall of the conference room, to where Isobel stood, back to the door, posture already set to command.
His smile curved with a knowing tilt. “Ah.”
Maggie didn’t rise to it. “She drinks it black, little cinnamon. Just seemed like one of those mornings.”
OA looked down at his coffee, then back at her. “You know, if I didn’t know you, I’d say this looks suspiciously like flirting.”
Maggie rolled her eyes and started walking. “Then it’s a good thing you do know me.”
He followed, quiet for a moment. Then: “Still doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
She shook her head, but her smirk gave her away.
When she stepped into the conference room, Isobel didn’t turn — not until Maggie was already inside and holding out the familiar cup.
“You’re early,” Isobel said, reaching for it, fingers brushing Maggie’s for half a second longer than necessary.
“So are you,” Maggie returned.
OA hovered briefly at the door, took in the scene — and, wisely, stayed quiet.
Maggie raised her left eyebrow subtly. “OA, are you loitering or working?”
“Guess I’m caffeinated enough to do both.” He replied.
He disappeared, and the room stilled again.
Isobel took a sip, eyes on Maggie now. “You guessed the cinnamon again.”
Maggie’s voice lowered slightly. “It’s not guessing when it’s habit.”
A breath passed between them, just long enough to acknowledge that.
“Briefing in ten,” Isobel said, professional tone restored — but her gaze lingered.
Maggie nodded, but her voice was softer than usual when she answered, “Got it.”
She turned to go, the door whispering open and shut behind her.
Isobel stood still in the middle of the room, cup warm between her hands.
Outside, Maggie walked back to her desk. OA was already seated, typing. He didn’t look up when he said, “So, cinnamon.”
Maggie sighed, then smiled.
“Don’t start,” she said.
But her eyes drifted — once, just briefly — toward the glass wall.
And OA saw it.
*JOC Conference Room – 7:55 AM*
The digital clock on the wall ticked to 07:55 exactly as Isobel stepped to the front of the conference room.
Behind her, the big screen displayed two side-by-side surveillance stills of Milos Novak and a second, grainy figure leaving a storage unit the night before.
OA, Maggie, Elise, Ian, and two analysts took their seats. A steady hush fell over the room like the shift from second gear into third.
Isobel didn’t waste time.
“Milos is in federal custody, being interviewed now. He’s being tight-lipped, but based on what OA and Maggie found at the scene—” her eyes flicked to them briefly “—we believe he was one layer removed from a larger arms distribution ring. Possibly working as a runner.”
“Secondary figure in the frame?” Elise asked, pointing at the still.
“We’re working facial recognition through NYPD’s Joint Ops database,” Isobel replied. “But it’s low res. Best lead right now is location-based.”
Maggie cleared her throat and leaned forward slightly. “That storage unit was registered to a shell company flagged in an SEC tipline eighteen months ago. Kelly cross-referenced with a batch of dormant LLCs and came up with two other sites. Same pattern. One of them in Queens, another in Stamford.”
Isobel nodded, impressed — but didn’t say it aloud. “We’ve got field teams checking both, but we want a deep dive on the digital side. Elise, Ian, I want you looking at movement logs, telecoms, burner pings—if these drop sites were activated again recently, I want to know how and when.”
Ian gave a crisp nod. “Already in progress. I flagged a cell tower hit from 3:12 this morning within a half-mile radius.”
OA leaned back in his chair. “Think Drevko’s behind this?”
Isobel looked at Maggie again, this time just a beat longer. “Could be. The timeline tracks with chatter Elise pulled last night. But Drevko usually deals in volume, not compartmentalization.”
Maggie added, “Which makes me think this isn’t just about weapons. Could be movement. Could be people. Something Milos wouldn’t even need to know.”
Isobel folded her arms, thoughtful. “Which makes his silence logical, not personal.”
The room stilled for a beat. That kind of clarity was rare this early.
“Alright,” Isobel said finally, snapping back into motion. “Maggie, OA — I want you at the Stamford site by 9:30. Take uniforms if necessary. Elise, keep feeding them anything new as it comes in. We need to get ahead of this before it flips.”
Everyone nodded, chairs scraping quietly as they stood.
The meeting was already dissipating when Maggie stepped past Isobel on her way to the door. Their shoulders nearly brushed.
Isobel didn’t say anything. Just lifted her coffee again.
She didn’t need to say thank you this time.
Maggie’s half smile said she’d heard it anyway.
*Stamford – 9:33 AM*
The site was exactly as bleak as Maggie expected — another corrugated steel storage facility set between a scrapyard and a shuttered laundromat. The sky was a flat slab of gray overhead, sun nowhere to be found.
OA pulled the crowbar from the back of the SUV and handed it off with a look. “You’re sure this is the one?”
“Matches the LLC Elise flagged. Same shell company as the Queens unit. Lease paid in cash, quarterly.” Maggie knelt by the door. “Locks changed two days ago.”
“Professional job?”
“Too clean not to be.”
OA nodded, backing up slightly. “Alright. Let’s see what they didn’t want us to find.”
The lock broke with a snap and a grunt.
Inside, it was cold and quiet — the stale scent of lubricant and old wood hanging in the air. Plastic crates lined the walls. Unmarked. Some stacked. Some open. Maggie moved fast, gloved hands pulling one bin open, then the next.
“Medical supplies,” she muttered. “High-end. Military grade.”
OA opened a second bin. “No serials. This looks like surplus off-the-books.”
Maggie stood up, brows furrowed. “They’re not just trafficking weapons. They’re building whole supply lines.”
He exhaled, stepping back. “That’s bigger than Milos. That’s coordinated.”
Her phone buzzed.
She pulled it from her pocket and read the message from Isobel:
[Isobel]
Any movement?
She typed quickly:
[Maggie]
Medical-grade gear. Might’ve found their backchannel.
Isobel’s reply was almost instant:
[Isobel]
Good work. Be careful.
Maggie didn’t smile. Not quite.
But something in her chest went warm.
*Federal Plaza – 1:31 PM*
The debrief was fast and focused. Maggie walked OA through the inventory while Ian dumped new tower data into their shared file system.
Isobel, for her part, barely looked up as she flipped through the photo logs.
But Maggie could feel the way her presence shifted slightly when she entered the room. Could sense, as she always did, that Isobel listened harder when her voice was the one talking.
Once it wrapped, OA tapped Maggie’s arm lightly. “I’ve got to check in with Jubal about next steps. You good?”
“Yeah,” she said, distracted. “Go.”
OA gave her a curious glance, but didn’t push. He left, door swinging shut behind him.
And for a moment, it was just her and Isobel again.
Maggie hesitated. Then stepped closer.
“Hey.”
Isobel looked up.
“Long morning,” Maggie said, voice a touch softer than usual. “You, uh… already have lunch plans?”
A pause.
Isobel blinked once. “No.”
Maggie kept her tone easy. “There’s a place on Baxter that does decent sandwiches. Could grab something quick. Nothing fancy.”
Another pause — one beat longer than necessary.
Then Isobel set down the file in her hand and nodded once.
“Okay,” she said. Quiet, but certain.
Maggie smiled — small, unspoken victory glowing behind her eyes.
“I’ll grab my coat.”
As she stepped out of the room, she didn’t turn around. But she could feel Isobel watching her leave.
*Corner of Baxter & Mott – 1:57 PM*
They didn’t go far. Just a small sandwich shop tucked between a bookstore and a nail salon, with uneven tile floors and condensation fogging the windows. Isobel had passed it a dozen times without noticing. Maggie had clearly been here before.
“Best turkey club in lower Manhattan,” she said, sliding her coat off and folding into a chair across from her.
Isobel sat slowly, her own movements more measured, as always. “I’ll take your word for it.”
It was quiet, the kind of place where people came to breathe in the middle of long days. The radio was low. The woman behind the counter had barely blinked when Isobel walked in — no second glances, no recognition. It was… disarming.
Their food came quickly. Isobel’s club sandwich was warm, a little too full, balanced with a side of kettle chips. Maggie had gotten something pressed and melty — mozzarella, tomato, basil, something that smelled like comfort.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
They just ate.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was rare. Soft.
About halfway through her sandwich, Isobel spoke.
“You always bring OA here?”
Maggie blinked. Then smiled — a little crooked. “Nope. OA’s a food truck guy. Street noodles, breakfast tacos, the works.”
“And you?”
“I usually eat at my desk. But—” she glanced up, meeting Isobel’s gaze without flinching “—I figured you’d like somewhere low-key.”
That pulled something out of Isobel she didn’t expect. Not quite a smile. Something quieter.
She looked down at her plate. “Well… you figured right.”
A pause stretched between them, not uncomfortable. Outside, a pair of teenagers passed the window, laughing about something one of them said. Inside, Isobel found herself relaxing in ways she rarely did during daylight hours.
She looked at Maggie again. The younger woman’s hair was slightly wind-mussed, her jacket slung over the back of her chair, her hands curled around a glass of water she wasn’t drinking.
There was something settled in her — something steady. Isobel had relied on it for years without naming it.
“You’ve been good this week,” she said finally. “Sharp. Focused.”
Maggie didn’t look flattered. She looked curious. “I’m always focused.”
“You are. But this week, it’s felt different. Lighter, maybe.”
That gave Maggie pause.
She looked down, then back up, tone softer now. “It’s been a long year.”
“Yeah,” Isobel said quietly. “It has.”
Another silence — this one heavier.
Then Maggie picked up a chip, held it thoughtfully between her fingers, and said, without looking at her, “I’m glad we did this.”
And Isobel, who never answered sentiment directly, surprised herself by saying:
“Me too.”
They finished their food in companionable quiet. Not quite a date. Not quite just lunch.
Something in between.
And when they stepped outside into the winter-brushed wind, Maggie held the door for her, hand hovering just briefly near Isobel’s back — not touching, not quite.
But it was enough.
*JOC – 4:46 PM*
The rest of the day moved in muted rhythms — phone calls, reports, digital leads dribbling in. The Stamford site had been cleared, inventoried, and handed off to an ATF liaison. Elise uploaded a full cross-reference file before three. OA touched base with Scola and Tiff about overlapping trafficking patterns. Maggie passed her three times in the bullpen.
Each time, Isobel looked up.
Each time, Maggie offered that quiet, understated smile — the one that meant I see you without saying a word.
By five, the energy in the office was thinning out. Phones didn’t ring as often. Chairs were pushed back. Agents packed up slowly, with the unspoken relief of a day that didn’t end in a crisis.
Isobel stood at the window of her office, looking out over lower Manhattan as the sky bled from gray into bruised lavender. She sipped from the same coffee Maggie had handed her that morning — it was cold now, but she hadn’t thrown it away.
Her phone buzzed on the desk beside her.
A text. From Maggie.
[Maggie - 5:15 PM]
Leaving in 10 unless you need anything?
Isobel didn’t respond right away. She looked at the message for a long moment, then down at the nearly-empty bullpen.
Then she typed:
[Isobel - 5:17 PM]
You still hungry?
Three dots. Then:
[Maggie - 5:18 PM]
Could be.
And then, before she could think too hard about it:
[Isobel - 5:18 PM]
Come over. I’ll order something.
There was no pause.
Maggie’s response came almost immediately.
[Maggie - 5:18 PM]
I’ve been over yours, come to mine.
Isobel’s reflection caught in the glass — a faint smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. Almost involuntarily.
She closed the blinds.
⸻
*Maggie’s Apartment – 6:32 PM*
It wasn’t fancy — just clean, calm, well-lit in a way that felt deliberate. There were books in stacks, a half-filled decanter on the sideboard, soft music playing low from a speaker on the shelf. The couch was firm. The lighting warm.
Isobel walked in like she’d been there once before, even though she hadn’t.
“Nice place,” she said, setting her jacket on the hook without asking. “Kind of exactly how I pictured it.”
“Is that a compliment?” Maggie asked, amused.
Isobel looked over her shoulder, smiling. “It’s a neutral observation with affectionate undertones.”
“I’ll take it.”
They sat near each other on the couch, close enough for the armrest between them to feel optional. Mexican food arrived twenty minutes later. They didn’t talk much at first. The TV played something muted and forgettable in the background — a crime documentary they both half-watched, mostly for the rhythm of it.
Eventually, Isobel leaned back, drink in hand, and said, “You ever let anyone just sit here with you and not say anything?”
Maggie looked at her over the rim of her glass. “Not usually.”
Isobel nodded, thoughtful. “Feels easy. You know?”
Maggie didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
The quiet between them was easy.
And that, more than anything, felt new.
———
The food was mostly gone. The drinks were half-finished. The documentary on the TV had given way to something ambient and forgettable, like the city had collectively decided to exhale.
Maggie had kicked off her boots. Her legs were curled beneath her on the couch, a throw blanket half-draped over one knee. She hadn’t meant to let Isobel stay this long — she never did, not when it came to bosses — but the time had crept forward without friction.
Across from her, Isobel was silent.
She wasn’t reading. Wasn’t typing. She was just… sitting, wineglass in hand, gaze loosely trained on the muted screen but clearly somewhere else.
Maggie watched her for a moment, her own chest strangely quiet.
“You always this still when you’re off the clock?”
Isobel blinked once. Slowly. “Not always. Sometimes I just… forget how to stop moving.”
“Yeah,” Maggie said. “I get that.”
The silence between them stretched again — not awkward, not tense. Just weighted. Heavy with everything that hadn’t been said in the bullpen, in the JOC hallway, during that brief moment outside the sandwich shop door when their eyes had held too long.
Maggie glanced at her, then looked down into her glass.
“I didn’t ask you here to talk about the case,” she said.
Isobel’s heartbeat picked up, but her voice stayed steady. “I know.”
“I didn’t mean for it to be a line.”
“It wasn’t.”
Another pause. Deeper now.
Isobel set her glass down and leaned back against the couch, her posture still poised but something in her edges softening. Her arm stretched out across the back cushion — not touching Maggie, but close enough to change the temperature of the room.
Maggie swallowed. Her pulse kicked behind her ribs like a steady knock.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said slowly, “about how easy it is to pretend nothing’s there, if you’re both too tired or too afraid to call it by name.”
Isobel turned to face her more fully.
“And if we call it?”
Maggie met her gaze. “Then we don’t have to pretend.”
The quiet that followed was the kind that pulsed — the kind that bent the air.
Isobel shifted, just slightly, hand sliding down the back of the couch, her knuckles brushing the hem of Maggie’s sweater. Maggie leaned in without thinking.
When their foreheads touched, it was slow. Intentional. Her nose grazed Isobel’s. A shared breath passed between them, warm and unsure and full of something they’d both held off for too long.
And then, Isobel kissed her.
Not hesitant. Not rushed.
Just… real.
Maggie’s hand found her shoulder. Isobel’s fingers curled just barely at her hip.
It was steady. Soft. Like opening a door neither of them could close anymore.
When they pulled apart — just by inches — Maggie exhaled, eyes half-lidded, heart pounding.
“Still feel easy?” Isobel asked, her voice low, almost teasing.
Maggie smiled, cheeks flushed in a way she hadn’t let herself feel in years.
“Yeah,” she said. “More than ever.”
The kiss deepened slowly, like neither of them wanted to break the spell.
Isobel’s hand traced lightly up Maggie’s side, tentative but sure, fingers brushing the fabric of her sweater like she was learning a language by touch. Maggie’s palm slid along the inside of Isobel’s thigh, grounding herself, letting the contact say what she couldn’t yet find words for.
She broke the kiss for a breath and leaned her forehead against Isobel’s. “You kiss like you’ve thought about it.”
“I have,” Isobel murmured. Her thumb dragged just beneath the hem of Maggie’s shirt, slow and measured. “More than I should’ve.”
Maggie let out a soft laugh, husky with surprise. “God. That’s almost unfair.”
Isobel tilted her head slightly, her mouth brushing just under Maggie’s jaw. “You’re the one who invited me here.”
“That’s funny,” Maggie said, drawing her in again, lips ghosting along her neck. “You’re the one who showed up here looking like ever bad decision I want to make.”
Isobel hummed in response — a sound that lived somewhere between frustration and need — and Maggie felt it pulse beneath her skin. There was a hand now at her lower back, pressing, anchoring. Their bodies had closed the space their words never could.
“I should stop,” Maggie whispered against her skin, voice low and warm.
“You don’t sound like you want to,” Isobel murmured, teeth grazing her collarbone. “Tell me to go, and I will.”
There was a beat — a breath — where Maggie almost did. But she didn’t.
Instead, she looked up at Isobel with something unguarded in her eyes. Something rare.
“Stay,” she said.
That single word held more than permission — it held trust.
Maggie pulled her closer, and they tumbled slowly into one another. The couch dipped beneath them, heat building in fingertips and half-laughed sighs. There was no urgency. Just discovery. Clothes shifted. Bare skin brushed. Soft gasps filled the quiet between words, between glances, between confessions too soon to name.
And when Maggie finally paused, hand resting over the steady beat of Isobel’s heart, she whispered:
“You still feel easy?”
Isobel’s smile was slow and reverent.
“No,” she said, lips brushing Maggie’s cheek. “You feel right.”
*Maggie’s Apartment – 6:14 AM*
The first thing she registered was warmth.
Not just from the late spring sunlight creeping through the sheer curtains, but from the way Isobel’s arm was looped around her waist, her forehead tucked lightly against the curve of Maggie’s shoulder.
They hadn’t fallen asleep like that — Maggie remembered starting off with more distance, careful not to make the morning feel too much.
But now, in the pale light of early dawn, they were closer than she expected. Skin to skin. Breath to breath.
Maggie blinked, letting her eyes adjust. Her bedroom looked the same — slightly cluttered dresser, worn copy of a Patricia Cornwell paperback on the nightstand, a water glass still mostly full. But the room felt different, changed by the fact that someone else had been let in — not by accident, but by choice.
And not just anyone.
Her.
Isobel stirred faintly against her, a soft breath against Maggie’s collarbone. Her fingers flexed once before settling again.
Maggie didn’t move.
She didn’t want to break the moment. Didn’t want to make it into anything heavier than it already was. But there was something about the way Isobel fit beside her that made Maggie feel… known. Like all the shields and measured professionalism had slipped overnight, and what was left was something rawer. Truer.
Isobel let out a small sigh and lifted her head slightly. “Is this… okay?”
Maggie looked over at her, a hint of sleep still in her smile. “Yeah. You?”
Isobel nodded. Her voice was rough, low. “More than.”
Neither of them said much for a while. The clock ticked. A car horn echoed distantly outside. Maggie’s neighbor upstairs dropped something heavy on the floor.
It felt like real life again.
Isobel shifted, one arm still draped across Maggie’s stomach, her eyes scanning the room.
“This your space,” she murmured. “I didn’t think I’d ever see it.”
“You’ve been welcome for a while,” Maggie said, brushing her fingers lightly along Isobel’s wrist. “You just didn’t knock.”
That got the smallest smirk out of her.
“Well,” Isobel said, settling back in a little closer, “I’m knocking now.”
Maggie leaned over, kissed her slowly — not with urgency, but with gratitude. With recognition.
She pulled back just enough to whisper, “You want coffee?”
Isobel considered. “Only if I get to sit here while you make it.”
“Deal.”
But Maggie didn’t move yet. She let Isobel stay close, her heartbeat even and steady under her palm.
For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t thinking ahead. Wasn’t rehearsing the fallout or framing the next move. She was just here. With her.
And when Isobel’s fingers curled slightly into her side, the contact soft and easy, Maggie let herself believe — just for now — that this could last longer than a single night.
*Maggie’s Apartment – 6:38 AM*
Maggie padded barefoot into the kitchen, Isobel’s oversized button-down — hers now, technically — hanging off one shoulder. The floor was cold against her feet, but the air still held the lingering warmth from the night before, as if it hadn’t fully cooled down from the way Isobel had kissed her, slow and sure, like a truth she’d finally decided to tell out loud.
She reached for the French press automatically, still half on muscle memory. The familiar rhythm grounded her: scoop the coffee, boil the water, wait. Her fingers moved through it without thinking, but her thoughts were somewhere else entirely — specifically, in the bedroom, where Isobel was still curled up against her pillows, hair a little messy, one bare leg tangled in the sheet.
A sleepy voice floated in from the hallway. “That smells dangerously good.”
Maggie glanced over her shoulder and smiled as Isobel appeared, barefoot and sleepy-eyed in one of Maggie’s old NYU t-shirts.
“You don’t even know if I brew it right.”
Isobel leaned against the doorframe, eyes scanning the kitchen, then lingering on Maggie. “You seem like someone who gets her ratios right.”
“I do,” Maggie said, trying to play it cool even as Isobel’s presence was doing something weird to her pulse. “Former chem major. It’s basically applied science.”
Isobel chuckled, walking in slowly. She moved closer, her shoulder brushing Maggie’s as she reached up into the cabinet and pulled down two mugs — like she’d done it a hundred times before.
“You know,” Maggie said as she poured, “this is the part where you’re supposed to be awkward. Or at least pretend you don’t remember how last night went.”
“I remember it exactly,” Isobel said, eyes meeting hers. “And I’m not going to pretend anything.”
Maggie inhaled slowly, steadying herself.
“Good,” she murmured, handing her a mug.
Isobel took it, their fingers brushing. “You always drink yours black?”
“Usually. Unless it’s a terrible morning. Then I give in and add hazelnut.”
“Guess I’ll learn your tells.”
Maggie took a slow sip, eyes flicking up over the rim of her cup. “Are you planning on learning my coffee tells?”
Isobel didn’t answer immediately. She just walked to the little table in the corner of the kitchen, sat down, and looked at her with that quiet, level gaze that always said more than her words.
“I think I already am.”
Something in Maggie’s chest tugged — a soft, impossible pull that had nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the woman sitting across from her.
They sat there for a while, both nursing their coffee, the sounds of the city waking up outside the windows. No one was rushing to leave. No one was panicking over clocks or emails. Not yet.
Eventually, Isobel leaned back, stretching slightly. “We’re going to have to figure out what this looks like in daylight.”
Maggie nodded, thoughtful. “You still want to?”
Isobel looked at her like the answer was obvious.
“Yes,” she said simply.
And somehow, that was enough.
Maggie took another slow sip of her coffee and leaned back in the chair, watching Isobel from across the kitchen. The way she curled one leg beneath her, shoulders still relaxed, hair soft and out of place — it was a version of her Maggie hadn’t seen before. Off-duty, unguarded. It made her want to ask all the quiet questions she’d never had the right to.
“You always this disheveled in the morning?” Maggie asked, lifting a brow, voice light.
Isobel looked up over the rim of her mug, not missing the grin tugging at Maggie’s mouth.
“I was promised coffee, not judgment.”
“Oh, there’s no judgment,” Maggie said, standing to refill her cup. “Just an observation. You’ve got a very… charming just-rolled-out-of-bed energy happening right now.”
Isobel smirked. “Says the woman wearing my shirt.”
Maggie glanced down at the oversized button-down still hanging open over her tank top and shrugged. “You left it here. It’s mine now. Finders keepers.”
“I didn’t leave it,” Isobel countered, standing and following her to the counter. “You practically peeled it off me.”
Maggie raised a brow as she poured the second round of coffee. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”
“Didn’t say I was.”
There was a beat of silence between them, not awkward, just warm and knowing. Then Isobel reached for her mug again, this time brushing her hand lightly against Maggie’s side as she passed.
“You always this smug in the morning?”
“Only when I’ve had good company,” Maggie said, setting down the pot.
Isobel gave a quiet laugh, and for a second Maggie just stood there, soaking it in — the ease of this, the comfort layered beneath the flirtation. It felt new, but not fragile. It felt like something they’d both wanted for a while but hadn’t let themselves reach for.
“Do I get a hoodie for the commute?” Isobel asked casually, eyeing the nearby coat rack. “Or should I wear the walk of shame look proudly?”
Maggie smirked, already crossing the room to her closet. She grabbed the softest navy zip-up she owned — the one she usually wore on early morning stakeouts — and tossed it to her.
“Here. It’ll smell like me all day. Consider it a gift.”
Isobel caught it with a raised brow. “Generous.”
“Don’t say I never give you anything.”
Isobel pulled it on, zipping it halfway. It was a little too big on her, which only made Maggie more smug.
“I’ll drop it off later,” she said, smoothing the sleeves.
Maggie tilted her head. “Or you could keep it. You know. In case you’re ever here again.”
Isobel’s expression softened. Her answer was quiet, but certain.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’d like that.”
And for once, neither of them needed to say anything more.
Maggie leaned against the counter, watching as Isobel zipped the hoodie up the rest of the way and tugged the sleeves over her hands. It was a little too long on her, a little too soft, and Maggie didn’t think she’d ever look at that hoodie again without remembering this exact moment — Isobel barefoot in her kitchen, hair still sleep-ruffled, fingers curled around a coffee mug like it was the only thing tethering her to the real world.
“You’re stalling,” Maggie said quietly, though there was no edge to it. She wasn’t in any hurry either.
Isobel gave her a look, dry and fond. “You say that like I’m not allowed to.”
“I didn’t say that,” Maggie murmured.
She pushed off the counter, closing the small space between them. Isobel didn’t move — just looked up at her, steady and expectant. No masks. No distance. Just this.
Maggie reached out and gently tugged on the zipper of the hoodie, pulling her a little closer.
“Isobel,” she said softly, her voice almost lost in the low hum of the city starting to wake outside.
“Maggie,” Isobel replied, half-smiling.
Their kiss was quiet — not urgent, not dramatic — just a confirmation. A quiet agreement between them that whatever last night had been, it wasn’t going to vanish with the sunrise.
Isobel’s hand found Maggie’s waist, fingertips brushing lightly against the hem of the tank top she still wore. Maggie let the kiss linger for a second longer before pulling away just enough to whisper:
“I like this.”
“I know,” Isobel said. “I do too.”
Maggie rested her forehead lightly against hers. “Come on. We’ll beat the worst of traffic if we leave now.”
Isobel sighed like she’d forgotten the outside world existed, but stepped back.
⸻
*Commute – 7:02 AM
Maggie’s Car, Midtown*
They drove mostly in silence, the good kind. The kind where music filled in the gaps and there was no pressure to talk. Maggie let Isobel pick the playlist, and it surprised her a little when Isobel chose something acoustic — soft harmonies, slow guitar.
Isobel sat angled slightly toward her, elbow resting on the door, her hand loosely curled in her lap.
At a red light, Maggie glanced over.
“You okay?”
Isobel looked at her and nodded. “Yeah.”
Maggie watched her for a beat longer. “We don’t have to define anything yet.”
“I know,” Isobel said, voice low. “But we will. When it’s time.”
And that was enough.
*JOC – 7:46 AM*
The bullpen was already humming when they stepped off the elevator — agents moving between desks, early reports being cross-referenced on overhead screens, the steady clack of keys and clipped voices filling the space with the usual rhythm of controlled urgency.
But for Maggie, something felt… different.
Not in the work. That hadn’t changed. But in the way Isobel moved beside her — calm, steady, confident as ever — and the quiet pulse of memory that lingered beneath Maggie’s collar, where Isobel had kissed her before they left the apartment.
They hadn’t touched again after that. Not in the car. Not in the elevator. And now, with eyes around them, it was back to normal — almost.
Except it wasn’t.
Maggie peeled off toward her desk just as OA rounded the corner with a file in hand. He clocked her instantly — the slightly crooked ponytail, the faintest hint of a smile she hadn’t meant to wear.
“You’re early,” he said.
“So are you,” she countered.
He held up the file. “Scola and Tiff sent this through. New development on the Jackson case. Two more flagged accounts and a guy in Astoria who might’ve been laundering cash.”
Maggie took the file, scanning the first page. “I’ll dig into it after the briefing.”
OA narrowed his eyes just slightly. “You bring coffee?”
“Already drank it,” she replied, heading toward the table.
His gaze followed her — not suspicious, exactly, but thoughtful.
At the head of the room, Isobel stood with her tablet already open, stylus in hand. She glanced up once when Maggie entered, but her expression didn’t change. Her posture was poised, as always. Her voice was cool, steady, direct.
“Morning,” she said, nodding to the room. “Let’s start with the update from Tiffany and Scola, then move into the coordination calls with ATF.”
Maggie took her seat, pretending her heart wasn’t doing that ridiculous skip when Isobel met her eyes, just for a second, while she adjusted the screen.
OA slid into the seat beside her, whispering, “You’re smiling again.”
She didn’t answer.
But she didn’t stop, either.
———
Maggie packed up her notes as the room gradually emptied, agents peeling off into task groups or returning to their desks. OA lingered beside her, flipping through the same folder he’d walked in with earlier.
“Looks like we’ve got the start of a paper trail,” he said, tapping one of the printed bank statements. “Assuming Tiff’s lead pans out, this guy’s not just a one-time mule — he’s been washing cash for months.”
Maggie nodded, her eyes flicking across the monitors as she processed it all. “Let’s start with the accounts flagged by FinCEN. If he’s got help, we’ll see movement there.”
OA looked over. “You in analyst mode or something else on your mind?”
Maggie raised a brow. “I am capable of multitasking.”
“Sure,” he said, grinning. “But you’ve got that slight smile again. The one you only wear when something’s—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” she warned, grabbing her tablet and standing.
OA laughed under his breath and followed her out of the room.
⸻
*Field – 11:34 AM – Queens, NY*
The two of them spent most of the morning canvassing around the suspected storefront laundering the money — a dingy, half-boarded bodega with minimal foot traffic and just enough overhead cameras to look legitimate. Maggie took point on interviewing the nearby deli owner while OA kept an eye on the alley out back.
By the time they regrouped, they’d already confirmed at least two shell businesses under the same LLC.
OA leaned against the SUV. “Isobel’s gonna love this.”
“Yeah,” Maggie said, texting the update to the JOC. “We’ll need Elise or Kelly to trace the registration paperwork. If it all comes back to Milos’s crew, this might be bigger than we thought.”
She closed her phone and glanced sideways at him. “Hungry?”
OA blinked. “Depends. Is this one of those Maggie Bell I-brought-protein-bars-so-we-don’t-stop kind of days, or…?”
“I was actually thinking real food. I need ten minutes to reset.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You trying to sneak off and get coffee again?”
Maggie smirked. “Lunch. And no, I’m not telling you who I’m eating with.”
He sighed dramatically, rounding the SUV. “Just bring me something with bacon.”
⸻
*Downtown – 12:17 PM*
The café was tucked into a quiet block near One Police Plaza — nothing flashy, but private enough for two federal agents to eat without running into half their department. Maggie got there first, grabbed a small table by the window, and waited.
Isobel arrived five minutes later, sunglasses in one hand, her coat folded neatly over her arm. She looked effortlessly composed — but her eyes softened when she saw Maggie already waiting.
“Hey,” she said, voice lower than necessary, like the space between them still felt personal.
“Hey.”
They both sat.
*Café Lucette – 12:19 PM
Downtown Manhattan*
The waitress dropped off two waters and a pair of laminated menus, retreating quickly with a practiced smile. Maggie barely glanced at the food — her eyes had already drifted back to Isobel, who sat across from her in that crisp gray blazer, sleeves rolled up just enough to look effortless.
They’d done this kind of thing before — lunch meetings, midday check-ins — but this time felt… closer. Quieter.
More real.
“I thought you were a salad-and-black-coffee kind of lunch person,” Maggie said lightly, running a fingertip along the condensation on her glass.
Isobel smirked. “I am, on days where the world isn’t full of men laundering cash through fake bodegas.”
Maggie laughed softly. “Fair.”
They both went quiet, eyes flicking to the menus just for something to look at. The space between them felt careful.
“You sleep okay?” Isobel asked, like she hadn’t been there for part of that night. Like it wasn’t her body pressed alongside Maggie’s under the covers just hours ago.
Maggie nodded slowly. “Better than I have in a while.”
She meant it. But the words felt a little heavier than she expected once they were out there.
Isobel’s hand rested on the table, her thumb running over the edge of the menu. “I didn’t mean for any of this to complicate things.”
There it was.
That tight little twist in Maggie’s chest again.
“I know,” Maggie said after a second. “You didn’t.”
She looked out the window, watching a couple pass with takeout cups and windblown hair. She thought about all the years she’d spent protecting her heart by keeping people out. All the months of watching Isobel lead from a distance — efficient, brilliant, untouchable. And how suddenly all of that had become this — intimate, delicate, real.
“But it kind of does,” Maggie said, voice quieter now. “Doesn’t it?”
Isobel didn’t deny it. She looked down, brow drawn slightly, mouth pressed into a contemplative line.
“It does,” she finally said. “But I don’t regret it.”
Maggie glanced back at her.
There was something unspeakably vulnerable in that admission — not dramatic, not performative — just Isobel, stripped of everything but truth.
“You will,” Maggie said, and hated the way it sounded. “When it gets messy. When someone notices. When you can’t compartmentalize anymore.”
Isobel met her gaze. “I haven’t regretted you once.”
It wasn’t a defense. It wasn’t even romantic. It was just honest.
Maggie looked down at her water, suddenly unsure of what she was trying to protect: her job, her heart, or Isobel’s.
The food came then — sandwiches, nothing remarkable — and for a few minutes, they let the moment settle, unspoken things passing between bites and sips of cold water.
But the ache stayed.
Not bad. Not unbearable.
Just the weight of caring about someone you could never afford to lose.
*Back at the SUV – 1:03 PM*
Maggie drove them back in silence. The kind that didn’t feel heavy, exactly — just full.
Isobel hadn’t said much after the waitress cleared their plates. She’d sipped her water, checked her phone when a JOC update came through, and offered Maggie a quiet “thanks for lunch” as they walked out.
And Maggie had nodded. Smiled even. But that smile hadn’t made it past her cheeks.
Now, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, she kept her eyes on the road, jaw tight. Her body moved on autopilot — checking mirrors, signaling turns, watching for pedestrians — but her head was replaying the same thing over and over:
“You will. When it gets messy.”
She hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. Not with that edge.
But it was already out there. In the air. Between them.
OA was waiting on the sidewalk outside the field office when she pulled up. He leaned in, knocked on the passenger window.
Isobel opened the door without hesitation. “OA.”
“Got a hit from Ian — shell corp tied to a storage unit out in Bushwick,” he said. “You want us to—”
“Run it down,” Isobel said, already stepping back. “Loop in Scola. Keep me posted.”
OA nodded, then slid into the passenger seat beside Maggie, barely glancing her way before diving into the file.
Isobel didn’t say anything more. Just shut the door. No wave, no look back.
She didn’t have to.
Maggie felt the absence anyway.
⸻
*Storage Facility – 3:12 PM*
It was a bust.
The unit was clean — too clean. Recently vacated, security footage erased. Another breadcrumb on a trail that was already fraying.
OA was annoyed. “They’re scrubbing behind us. We’re close, and they know it.”
Maggie nodded tightly, arms folded across her chest as they walked back toward the SUV. She barely felt the heat, or the weight of her vest, or the edge of worry gnawing at the base of her spine.
Mostly, she just felt… fogged. Distant.
She didn’t text Isobel the update. She let OA send it instead.
⸻
*Later – Maggie’s Apartment – 7:44 PM*
The apartment was dark when she stepped inside.
She didn’t turn on the lights.
She leaned back against the closed door, kicked off her boots, and finally exhaled.
There was a text from Isobel waiting on her phone:
[Isobel - 6:39 PM]
Let me know when you’re home safe.
Maggie stared at it for a long time.
Then turned the phone face-down on the counter.
She poured herself a glass of wine she didn’t really want and sat down in silence, the weight of too much affection and too much fear pressing down on her all at once.
Because if she let herself fall any deeper into this, she wasn’t sure she’d know how to get back out.
That night, Maggie fell asleep staring at her ceiling.
———
*FBI JOC - 9:15AM*
The team had been working the money laundering angle tied to Milos’s crew. Kelly flagged a new lead: a string of low-level shell companies, one of which traced back to a warehouse rental in Queens. Elise got a burner ping from the vicinity, and Scola confirmed someone connected to the crew was moving cash and weapons through the site.
Isobel, keeping things focused and professional, broke the team into pairs. OA and Maggie were assigned the Queens location, expected to quietly surveil and confirm occupancy before ESU could move in. Maggie had been distant all morning — efficient, clipped, and colder than usual — but still sharp.
OA noticed.
He didn’t say anything.
Not yet.
⸻
*Late Morning – 11:48 AM – Stakeout Near Queens Industrial Lot*
Maggie and OA circled the building. It looked abandoned from the front, but there were signs of movement — a van parked behind the warehouse, tire tracks, and an open back gate.
Maggie took the rear, silent on comms.
OA monitored from the alley.
When the suspect exited the building and spotted her, it escalated fast. He ran. She pursued.
The shot happened less than 90 seconds later — single fire, quick response.
By the time OA reached her, Maggie had neutralized the threat but was bleeding — a shallow graze along her upper arm, where the guy had clipped her as she moved for cover.
She hadn’t called it in immediately. She hadn’t asked for help.
OA knew why — and it wasn’t just stubbornness.
It was everything she wasn’t saying.
———
*Industrial Lot – 1:23 PM
Queens, NY*
They’d been chasing down a third-tier associate — a name flagged in the financials Kelly had cross-referenced with a burner recovered at the bodega. It wasn’t supposed to be high-risk. Maggie and OA had split the block: Maggie circling the back, OA taking the alley.
He heard the shots before he even got to the end of the fence.
Two.
Clean.
Controlled.
No panic on comms.
Nothing but static.
His heart slammed into overdrive. “Maggie, what’s your twenty?”
A beat.
Then her voice came through, tight. “Suspect down. I need a medic.”
OA sprinted.
⸻
*Two Minutes Later*
He found her kneeling behind a rusted-out dumpster, blood slick along her arm, left hand pressing into the wound, her jaw clenched.
The guy — early thirties, dead in the dirt — had a Glock still in his hand.
“I’m fine,” Maggie said immediately. “It’s a graze. I got the shot off first.”
OA crouched beside her. “You’re bleeding, Maggie.”
“I know.”
She didn’t snap. But it was close.
He pressed gauze from his med kit into her hand, helped her wrap the worst of it while they waited for backup.
“You wanna tell me why you didn’t call it in faster?” he asked quietly. “Or why you’re out here running solo when you’re not 100 percent?”
Maggie just shook her head. “I didn’t miss the shot.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She looked away.
And that told him everything.
⸻
*Federal Field Office – 2:10 PM*
Isobel was waiting when they brought Maggie in.
Her arms were folded. Her expression unreadable. But her eyes flicked to the gauze, the blood on Maggie’s shirt, the unspoken weight behind OA’s silence.
Maggie refused to meet her gaze.
“She needs stitches,” OA said. “Doc said she’s lucky it didn’t tear deeper.”
Isobel nodded tightly. “I’ll make sure she gets home after. I’ll debrief you later.”
Maggie stiffened at that — barely — but said nothing.
OA hesitated, glancing between them. Then finally stepped away.
Whatever was happening between them, it wasn’t his place.
But damn if it didn’t feel like watching a slow burn snuff itself out.
⸻
*Med Bay – 5:42 PM*
The antiseptic burned worse than the wound.
Maggie sat stiffly on the exam table, jaw clenched, watching the nurse thread a needle like none of this mattered.
Isobel stood just outside the curtain. Still. Quiet. Holding herself together like a structure built entirely out of tension.
“You’re lucky,” she said eventually.
Maggie didn’t respond.
“I read the report. You should’ve waited.”
Still silence.
“Was it just about the case,” Isobel asked softly, “or were you trying to prove something?”
Maggie looked up finally. Her voice was low, raw. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I’m not trying to be one.”
“Then stop treating me like someone you regret trusting.”
Isobel flinched — just barely — and that was the end of the conversation.
Neither of them said another word until the nurse finished and Maggie walked herself out.
*Federal Field Office – 7:40 PM
SAC’s Office*
The paperwork was done. The scene processed. The suspect ID’d.
Everything moved forward the way it always did after an incident — controlled, methodical, clinical. The kind of order Isobel had made a career out of creating, especially when things got messy. She knew how to keep things running. She knew how to be calm.
But she’d watched Maggie walk out of the med bay earlier that evening, jaw tight, not sparing her more than a glance, and Isobel hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.
She hadn’t said anything — not after that last exchange, not when she saw the bandage, or the flecks of dried blood near the collar of Maggie’s tactical shirt. She hadn’t followed her out of the room. She hadn’t asked her to stay behind.
She hadn’t done a damn thing.
And that was bothering her more than she cared to admit.
Her office was quiet now. Everyone else had cleared out or gone home. The overhead lights buzzed softly. A leftover coffee sat cold near her elbow.
She was staring at her screen, watching the blinking cursor in the incident log, when she heard the knock.
It was OA. He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed.
“She’s gone,” he said, reading the question she didn’t ask.
Isobel sat back in her chair. “Home?”
“I think so.”
A pause.
Then OA tilted his head slightly, not unkindly. “You want to talk about it?”
Isobel blinked. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
He gave her a look that said bullshit without saying it.
“She’s off,” he said. “You see it too.”
Isobel didn’t answer.
“Maggie’s not reckless,” OA continued. “She doesn’t take shots unless she’s sure. But she ran blind today. She didn’t wait for me to cover the perimeter. And when I found her, she was bleeding and acting like it was a scratch on a training course.”
Still, Isobel didn’t speak.
OA let a beat pass.
Then: “She doesn’t let herself break protocol unless something’s breaking her.”
That cracked something open.
Just a little.
“I tried to talk to her,” Isobel said quietly. “Back at the café. It didn’t go anywhere.”
“Did you want it to?”
Isobel met his eyes for the first time.
And in that moment, she didn’t answer like a supervisor. She didn’t answer like someone trying to keep control of a narrative. She just looked tired. And stuck. And gutted.
“I wanted it to go back to how it was,” she admitted. “Before. When it was just glances and passing comments and pretending it didn’t mean anything.”
OA nodded once. “But it does.”
She exhaled, slow and brittle. “Yeah. It does.”
⸻
*Maggie’s Apartment – 8:19 PM*
She didn’t know if Maggie would answer.
But she typed the text anyway:
[Isobel - 8:20 PM]
You home?
No response.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
She stared at the screen. Debated saying something else.
[Isobel - 8:41 PM]
You should’ve waited for backup.
You scared me.
I haven’t stopped thinking about the look on your face when I asked if you were trying to prove something.
She erased them all.
Eventually, she powered off the phone and set it on her desk, facing down.
Outside, Manhattan pulsed on like nothing had happened.
Inside, Isobel sat at her desk in the dark, listening to the faint hum of traffic, her fingers curled loosely around the edge of her chair, trying to find the balance between everything she couldn’t say out loud and everything she already knew too well:
That Maggie was pulling away.
And this time, she might not come back
*Maggie’s Apartment – 9:07 PM*
The apartment was dim when Maggie got home. She didn’t bother with the lights — just tossed her keys onto the counter and dropped her bag with a dull thud onto the floor.
Her arm ached. Not sharply — just a deep, dragging throb where the stitches pulled against her skin every time she moved. The kind of pain she was used to by now. The kind that reminded her she’d made it out. Again.
She shrugged out of her jacket, winced slightly as it tugged against the bandage, and went to the kitchen. Half a bottle of cabernet sat on the counter from earlier in the week. She poured herself a glass and took it to the couch, curling one leg beneath her.
She didn’t turn on the TV. Didn’t put on music.
Just sat there.
Letting the quiet settle around her like fog.
Her phone buzzed once — the screen lighting up from where it lay facedown on the end table.
She didn’t check it.
Didn’t have to.
She knew it was Isobel.
Because of course it was.
And she couldn’t decide what hurt more — the fact that she wanted it to be, or the fact that it didn’t change anything.
You okay?
You home?
It was probably something like that. Neutral. Professional, maybe. A breadcrumb of concern disguised as nothing at all. Maggie had gotten good at reading between the lines. That used to mean something.
Now, she wasn’t sure it meant anything but heartache.
She took a long sip of the wine, the bitterness familiar.
She’d been reckless today — not because she didn’t care, but because she cared too much and didn’t know where to put it. She couldn’t keep standing next to Isobel every day, pretending it hadn’t shifted, hadn’t crept in under her skin and stayed there.
You’re pulling away.
Isobel hadn’t said it, but Maggie saw it in her eyes. Heard it in the careful cadence of her voice during the briefing, in the way she hadn’t followed her out of the med bay, hadn’t pushed — hadn’t reached.
And Maggie had let her.
Because it was easier than the alternative: saying something that couldn’t be unsaid.
She hadn’t looked at the message yet, but eventually she picked up her phone and unlocked the screen.
[Isobel - 8:20 PM]
You home?
That was it. Two words. Simple.
Safe.
She stared at it for a long time, her thumb hovering over the screen. Then slowly typed back:
[Maggie - 9:30 PM]
Yeah. Just got in.
Then:
Arm’s fine.
Then, after a pause:
Thanks.
She didn’t send anything else.
Didn’t expect a reply.
Instead, she set the phone down again, drained the rest of her glass, and leaned back into the silence.
She was tired.
Not the kind sleep could fix — but the kind that comes from holding yourself too tightly for too long.
And tonight, even the stillness felt like a bruise.
*Maggie’s Apartment – 6:28 AM*
The bandage was tighter than it needed to be. She could feel it pulling across her bicep as she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, twisting slightly to check the edges.
It didn’t hurt much anymore.
Or maybe she was just used to it.
She ran water over her hands, let the steam rise up around her face, then braced her palms on the edge of the sink and stared at herself for a second too long. There were shadows under her eyes. A tightness around her mouth she hadn’t noticed before.
She hadn’t slept well.
Not because of the pain — not exactly.
It was the quiet.
The way it had stretched out across her apartment like a sheet of glass, and how she hadn’t been sure if breaking it would make things better or worse.
The text from Isobel — You home? — still sat in her phone, unanswered beyond that brief, safe response. Maggie hadn’t followed up. Hadn’t invited more.
But still, it sat there. Like a hand held out across a gap.
And this morning, for the first time in 24 hours she found herself wanting to reach back.
⸻
*Federal Field Office – 7:58 AM*
OA was already at his desk when Maggie walked in. He raised an eyebrow at the coffee tray in her hand — three cups, like usual.
“Triple again?” he asked, nodding toward the extra. “Either you’ve decided I need double the caffeine or you’re playing favorites.”
Maggie smiled — a small one, but real. “I’m not carrying four, OA.”
OA took his and gave her a sideways glance. “You’re in a better mood than yesterday.”
She shrugged. “It’s just coffee.”
He gave her a look but didn’t push. “You headed to the briefing room?”
“Yeah. Isobel in yet?”
He gave her that look again, less teasing now. “She’s been in since six.”
Maggie nodded, already turning toward the conference room.
The coffee in her left hand was still hot. She could feel the warmth seeping through the cardboard sleeve.
And for the first time all week, she didn’t hesitate at the door.
⸻
*Briefing Room – 8:01 AM*
Isobel stood at the head of the room, flipping through files as agents shuffled in. She was calm, polished, her posture sharp — but Maggie noticed the small things: the slight flex of her jaw, the way her thumb tapped against the manila folder, rhythmic and unconscious.
When their eyes met, something unspoken passed between them.
A flicker.
Recognition.
Then Maggie walked up to her, handed over the third coffee without saying a word.
Isobel took it — and didn’t let her hand fall away immediately.
Their fingers brushed.
It was nothing.
It was everything.
Isobel’s voice stayed even as she addressed the room, laying out the follow-up from yesterday’s takedown. Maggie sat beside OA, taking notes, nodding when she was supposed to — but her attention wasn’t entirely on the case.
It was on the warmth still lingering in her hand.
And the way, every so often, she could feel Isobel’s eyes drifting back to her.
Like maybe the space between them had stopped growing.
Like maybe it was slowly starting to close.
*SAC’s Office - 8:41 AM*
Isobel didn’t expect the knock.
Most agents filtered out of the briefing room straight to their tasks — field prep, follow-ups, conference calls. She usually had a good hour to herself after one of these. It was her time to recalibrate. Shift out of the public face and into the private pressure of managing everything from behind the glass.
But when she called for whoever it was to come in, Maggie stepped through the door.
Isobel blinked — not surprised exactly, but caught off guard nonetheless.
Maggie closed the door behind her. Gently. Like she wasn’t here to fight, or even question. Just… to exist in the same space for a little longer.
“I didn’t get a chance to ask how you’re doing,” Isobel said, gesturing toward her arm. “And I know that’s ironic, considering the number of people who have already asked you this morning.”
“It’s fine,” Maggie said. Her tone was casual, but she didn’t drop eye contact. “The pain’s mostly dull now.”
“I read the medical report. You downplayed it.”
Maggie didn’t argue.
Isobel leaned back slightly against the edge of her desk, folding her arms. “OA said you were faster than usual on the breach. That you didn’t wait for him to clear the rear before you went in.”
There was a pause. A flicker of tension between them.
Then Maggie, softly: “It was a judgment call.”
“And you don’t usually make ones that compromise your safety.”
“I’m not compromised.”
“You were shot.”
“It grazed me.”
“You bled.”
That quieted things. Not because Maggie had nothing to say — but because there was too much in the air now. Unspoken guilt. Concern. That long thread of something more personal than either of them had been willing to name these last few weeks.
Isobel looked down at the coffee cup Maggie had handed her earlier. The sleeve still smelled faintly of cinnamon — hers, always — and something in her chest softened.
“I wasn’t going to text you last night,” she said quietly. “I told myself you didn’t want to hear from me.”
Maggie tilted her head slightly. “Why did you?”
“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you walking away from the med bay without looking back.”
Maggie’s expression didn’t change. But she didn’t look away, either.
“I’m not walking away,” she said finally. “Not really.”
“It feels like it.”
“I know.”
A longer silence this time. But it didn’t stretch painfully. It folded into something slower. Something warmer.
Maggie stepped a little closer.
“Do you think we’ve gone too far to go back?” she asked.
Isobel’s breath caught. She hadn’t expected the question to be spoken aloud. She hadn’t expected the honesty.
“No,” she said, almost before the word had fully formed. “No, I don’t.”
Maggie gave the barest hint of a smile. “Then maybe we stop pretending it’s nothing.”
Isobel looked at her — really looked. Tired eyes, bandaged arm, chin tilted slightly like she was ready for whatever came next. But beneath it all: a steadiness.
A choice.
And suddenly, it felt like the line between them wasn’t quite so heavy anymore.
“I don’t want to lose this,” Isobel said.
Maggie nodded, stepping close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. “Then don’t.”
Isobel didn’t say anything. She just let the warmth between them bloom quietly in the stillness of the office.
Because for the first time in a long time… neither of them needed to fill the silence.
They were in it together.
———
*Midtown – 2:45 PM*
The apartment was quiet. That particular hush of a place left too quickly — dishes still in the sink, blinds left open just enough to cast fractured light across the hardwood. Maggie stepped in first, gun drawn, OA just behind her, clearing corners in practiced sync.
They’d been chasing leads on the financial angle of a trafficking case — the same one Isobel had briefed them on earlier. Elise had passed along intel from Cyber that one of the key players had a Midtown safehouse linked to a dummy LLC. It had taken Maggie less than an hour to piece the rest together with Kelly and Ian’s input.
Now here they were — floor five, unit 507, barebones but not empty.
OA motioned toward a closed bedroom door.
Maggie nodded and moved silently, muscle memory kicking in. She was sharp again, focused. No more flinching, no more second-guessing.
The breach was clean.
The man inside didn’t resist. He barely blinked — a tired, wiry accountant type who looked more scared than guilty. He had three burner phones on the nightstand and a notepad filled with numbers Maggie didn’t recognize off the top of her head — but Isobel probably would.
Once the cuffs were on, OA raised a brow at her as they walked him out.
“Back to form, Maggie”
She gave a quick shrug, eyes scanning the hallway. “Just had to reset.”
OA didn’t press, but she knew he understood. He always did.
⸻
*FBI Field Office – 5:36 PM*
The suspect had been processed. Elise and Kelly were combing through his electronics. Maggie stood outside the bullpen, watching the rest of the team shuffle through the last stretch of their day.
She didn’t expect to see Isobel appear beside her. But she did.
And she didn’t say anything — not at first. Just leaned slightly against the desk beside her, sipping what had to be her fourth coffee of the day. The kind Maggie had brought her that morning.
“How’s your arm?” Isobel asked softly.
“Better,” Maggie said. Then, after a breath: “Thanks for asking.”
Another beat.
Then Isobel glanced at her, like she’d been building to something all day.
“You eat yet?”
Maggie blinked. “No.”
“Good.” Isobel pushed off the desk and handed off her empty coffee cup. “Let’s fix that.”
⸻
*Local Mexican Spot – 6:18 PM*
They took a booth in the back, far from the after-work crowd. It wasn’t their usual bar or diner. Something quieter. Not fancy, but deliberate. Maggie couldn’t decide if that meant something or if she just wanted it to.
They didn’t talk about the case much.
Instead, it was small things — Maggie telling a dry story about Tiff’s face when the guy in custody asked for his lawyer “and also an iced matcha,” and Isobel smirking over her glass of wine.
There was a comfort to it. Unrushed. Like the current between them had softened into something steady. Like neither of them was pretending anymore.
Maggie glanced at her halfway through the meal, catching the way Isobel tossed her salad absentmindedly, how her eyes lingered when Maggie laughed.
“I missed this,” Maggie said suddenly, not sure where it came from — only that it had been sitting at the back of her throat all day.
Isobel looked up.
“I did too,” she said, quiet and clear. “More than I realized.”
And that was it — no grand declarations. No deep dive into what they were or weren’t yet.
Just two people slowly, quietly letting the space between them turn into something shared again.
*7:02 PM – West Village*
The streets were still damp from the earlier rain, though the clouds had started to break open into a soft, dusky blue. They walked side by side, not quite brushing shoulders but close enough that the space between them felt deliberately kept — and not because either of them wanted it that way.
Dinner had ended naturally. No awkward lull, no forced goodbye. Just a mutual, unspoken agreement that they weren’t ready to part ways yet.
Isobel held her coat closed with one hand. Maggie had hers tucked under her arm, warmth still in her limbs from the wine and the laughter. They didn’t talk much at first. But it wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was peaceful.
It had been a long time since Maggie felt like quiet could mean something good.
“You’re not the take-a-walk-after-dinner type,” Maggie said eventually, glancing over.
Isobel smiled, glancing sideways. “Neither are you.”
Maggie shrugged. “You asked.”
“You didn’t say no.”
“I wanted to say yes.”
That pulled a real smile from Isobel. Not the small one she wore at the office, or the sharp kind she used in interrogation — this was warmer. Quieter.
Real.
They crossed onto a quieter street, passing a line of trees that still clung to the last of their late-spring green. A few brownstones had porch lights glowing already. The city around them moved, but not fast. It was a lull in the rhythm. A pause between the beats.
“Back in D.C.,” Isobel said, “I used to take the long way home from Quantico. Just… so I didn’t go straight from intensity to silence.”
Maggie nodded. “Sometimes the silence is worse.”
Isobel looked at her. “Is that what it’s been for you lately?”
Maggie hesitated. Then: “It’s been a lot of things.”
The air between them shifted.
“I’ve been trying not to make this complicated,” Maggie continued, her voice low now, like the sound might carry too far otherwise.
“You haven’t.”
“I think I have,” Maggie said, then added, quieter, “But I don’t want to anymore.”
Isobel stopped walking.
So Maggie did too.
There was barely a foot between them now.
Isobel’s eyes searched hers — not for control, or command, but for understanding.
Maggie gave it.
“I’m not going to run,” she said. “I’m not scared of what this is.”
Isobel’s breath hitched, like she hadn’t expected that much honesty all at once. But she didn’t pull away.
She stepped forward instead.
And just as a breeze tugged gently at the hem of Maggie’s coat, Isobel’s fingers brushed against hers. Tentative. Testing.
Maggie turned her palm up, and Isobel’s hand slipped into it — easy. Natural.
Like it had always been meant to fit there.
Neither of them said anything.
They didn’t need to.
The rest of the walk was slow, and quiet, and full of all the things they hadn’t said before — spoken now in the way they moved together. No distance. No tension.
Just forward.
*7:24 PM – Just Outside Maggie’s Apartment*
They’d walked the last five blocks in a hush that felt less like silence and more like understanding — the kind that settles over two people when the words don’t need to fill the space anymore.
Isobel hadn’t meant to walk her all the way to the front stoop, but once they reached the corner, she didn’t want to turn off. Maggie didn’t mention it either — she simply slowed her steps as they approached the familiar brick front of her building, the porch light casting a honeyed glow over the steps.
Neither of them reached for the door yet.
Isobel’s hands were in her coat pockets, fingers curled slightly. She felt more open than she had in weeks — and more exposed, too. Like every breath might say something she wasn’t ready to spell out.
But Maggie didn’t seem to mind. She leaned against the railing, facing Isobel like she wasn’t in a rush to end the night.
“So,” Maggie said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “tomorrow night — a few of us from the JOC are doing this informal team-building thing.”
Isobel raised a brow. “Informal team building?”
“At the club on 14th. You know, music, drinks, people trying to pretend we’re not all exhausted by our jobs.”
Isobel smiled, warm and a little surprised. “That sounds… dangerous.”
“It’s mostly just OA trying to out-dance Scola again. Elise claims she’s going to DJ from her phone if the house music’s bad.”
“And you?”
Maggie shrugged. “I usually supervise from the bar. I’m a responsible adult.”
Isobel chuckled. “And what made you decide to tell me about it?”
Maggie hesitated. But just for a second.
“I thought maybe you could use something less structured than a debrief or a case file,” she said softly. “Something that doesn’t come with paperwork.”
There it was — the invitation, tucked inside something casual. But Isobel felt the sincerity in it. The gentle shift in tone. The unspoken offering: you’re part of us, too. You’re not just the one holding it all together from the glass walls.
Isobel looked at her for a long moment.
“I’ll come,” she said. “If only to see if OA actually has rhythm.”
Maggie laughed — full and unguarded — and the sound stayed with Isobel longer than it should have.
“Fair warning,” Maggie added, “He doesn’t.”
They lingered a beat longer. Maggie’s hand brushed lightly against the railing, and for one suspended second, Isobel thought she might reach out again. But she didn’t.
And that was okay.
“Good night, Maggie,” Isobel said softly.
Maggie met her eyes. “Good night.”
Isobel leaned in and gently kissed Maggie’s lips before she stepped back slowly, not turning until she reached the sidewalk. But when she glanced over her shoulder, Maggie was still there.
Watching.
And smiling.
*FBI Field Office - 10:13 AM*
The bullpen was busy in that low-level, caffeine-fueled kind of way. Phones ringing, keys clacking, a few chuckles from somewhere near Elise’s desk — the team combing through surveillance reports while the case took its usual bureaucratic breath between bursts of action.
Maggie sat with OA at their usual corner workstation, a half-drunk coffee between them and a whiteboard half-covered in red marker sketches of timelines and faces. They were waiting on a warrant — which meant, for now, they were just… waiting.
“I still can’t believe you invited Isobel to the club,” OA said, low enough not to carry.
Maggie gave him a look over her shoulder. “It’s team building.”
“It’s something.”
She shook her head, a smile tugging despite herself. “I invited everyone. She just said yes.”
OA leaned back, folding his arms. “I’m just saying, if this turns into some kind of slow-burn workplace romance thing, I expect to be credited in the wedding toast.”
Maggie swatted a file in his direction. “Go read the case notes, Sherlock.”
“You got it, Watson.”
She rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the screen, but her pulse had picked up — just a little.
Across the office, Isobel stood outside the briefing room, reviewing something with Scola and Ian. She wore a navy blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers, hair loosely near her shoulders, one hand braced on her hip. Focused. Composed.
But when Maggie glanced up, Isobel’s gaze caught hers. Held it.
Not a long look. Just a second.
But it was enough.
Enough to recall the sidewalk from last night, her fingers brushing Maggie’s. The flicker of something almost spoken. The invitation that hadn’t just been professional.
Maggie looked down again, cheeks warm.
She’d get through the day. The usual rhythms. The updates. The paperwork.
But she knew, deep in her chest, that tonight might not be just another night.
And maybe… she didn’t want it to be.
*9:12 PM – Club Onyx, 14th Street*
The bass vibrated faintly through the floor, but not enough to drown out the sound of OA arguing with Tiffany near the bar over who got credit for their last arrest. Maggie leaned on the counter beside them, a drink in hand and a low, amused smile tugging at her lips as she watched Elise try to plug her phone into the club’s Bluetooth speaker system. Ian hovered nearby, half-helping, half-offering unsolicited playlist suggestions.
“Tell me again how this qualifies as team-building?” Tiffany asked dryly.
“Because,” OA said, lifting his drink in mock toast, “it builds morale.”
“By forcing us to listen to Ian’s taste in music?” she deadpanned.
Maggie chuckled and shook her head. She didn’t come out often — not like this — but tonight felt easy in a way she hadn’t expected. No pressure. No expectations. Just everyone off the clock, not pretending they weren’t still who they were, but allowing room for more than the weight of the job.
She spotted Isobel a moment later.
She wasn’t dressed dramatically different — slacks, a black sweater, heels she’d worn in the office more than once — but the softness in her posture was unfamiliar. Her hair slightly curled, a small crossbody bag slung casually over one shoulder. She looked… relaxed.
And slightly unsure of where to land.
Maggie slipped away from the bar, weaving through the crowd.
“You made it,” she said, smiling as she reached her.
Isobel’s lips curved in return. “I wasn’t sure I would. Then I remembered I promised to witness OA’s dance moves.”
“Oh, don’t worry. The night’s still young and his ego’s fully hydrated.”
Maggie gestured toward their group, where Scola was now demonstrating what looked like a very misguided attempt at a spin.
Isobel followed her, laughing — quiet, but unguarded — and Maggie felt something shift. Not between them, but inside her. A settling. A click.
Like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
They stayed near the others for a while — talking, teasing, leaning in to be heard over the music. At one point, Elise successfully hijacked the playlist with 2000s throwbacks, and everyone booed and cheered in equal measure. Maggie saw Isobel sip her drink and smile to herself at the chaos.
Later, Maggie drifted toward the edge of the crowd, needing a little space from the noise. She found herself by the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked 14th, the city moving on without them below. The glass was cool against her back. The music muffled slightly from this far.
She wasn’t alone long.
Isobel joined her without fanfare, shoulder just brushing hers. They stood in the soft light, two drinks in hand, nothing said at first. Just silence. Comfortable again.
“This wasn’t what I expected,” Isobel murmured eventually.
Maggie tilted her head. “What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Something louder. More forced. Less… real.”
Maggie looked at her, their faces close enough now that she could see the faint trace of shimmer near Isobel’s eyes — not makeup, just light catching something soft.
“It’s real,” Maggie said. “Even if it’s messy sometimes.”
Isobel nodded, her gaze lingering.
There was a pause. A beat. A subtle breath of closeness between them.
Neither leaned in.
Neither pulled back.
Not yet.
But Maggie felt the question hanging there. Not just what are we doing? but are you ready for this — for me?
And for once, she didn’t feel afraid of the answer.
Isobel had just opened her mouth — maybe to make a joke, maybe to say something real — when the volume of the night surged suddenly behind them.
“Found them!” Elise’s voice rang out, unmistakably gleeful, followed by the thud of her heels and the chaos that was the rest of the team spilling toward the corner of the lounge.
OA arrived first, grinning like a man on a mission, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows and a beer in one hand. “You two hiding over here like introverts or plotting a hostile takeover?”
“We’re people-watching,” Maggie answered smoothly, sipping her drink. “Some of us don’t need to embarrass ourselves on the dance floor to bond.”
“Please,” Tiffany said, appearing next to Elise. “Like watching Scola try to body roll isn’t team bonding in its purest form.”
“Excuse you,” Scola cut in, mock-offended. “This body rolls exactly as God intended.”
Ian groaned, Elise cackled, and somehow within thirty seconds, Isobel and Maggie found themselves engulfed in warmth and movement — the team loosely circling them, laughing, teasing, someone passing off another drink.
Isobel didn’t retreat. But the pocket of quiet she’d shared with Maggie now felt like something sealed off — private, even in memory.
Still, she stayed close.
Even when Elise dragged Ian to the dance floor. Even when Tiffany tried to convince OA to teach her the steps to a line dance he swore he didn’t know. Even when Maggie leaned in to say something sarcastic under her breath, and her shoulder pressed into Isobel’s.
For just a second.
Isobel didn’t move away.
She hadn’t expected this night to feel like anything. She’d told herself it would be a brief appearance. A box checked. A way to prove she could still be part of the team without needing to be in control of the room.
But standing there now — her drink half-forgotten, her gaze drifting more often to Maggie’s mouth than to the conversations around her — it felt like something was changing.
Not all at once.
Not loudly.
But in those glances. Those pauses.
Those seconds too long between a joke and a smile.
Eventually, the music picked up again and Elise waved them toward the floor. Maggie laughed, but shook her head. “I’ve hit my limit.”
Isobel didn’t say anything.
She wasn’t dancing either.
But she wasn’t leaving.
And neither was Maggie.
They stood close enough for it to mean something.
Even if they weren’t quite saying it yet.
“I swear to God, if you don’t come out here, I will embarrass you both,” Jubal declared, hands on his hips as he stood at the edge of the lounge area, flanked by a very amused OA and a not-at-all reluctant Tiffany.
Maggie lifted a brow. “That sounds like a threat.”
“Oh, it is,” Jubal grinned. “I’ve got moves from the early-2000s that I’m not afraid to resurrect.”
“You really don’t have to—” Isobel began, trying for that calm, reasonable voice that worked wonders in briefing rooms and nowhere in nightclubs.
Too late.
Elise surged forward, grabbed both of their hands, and gave a dramatic little gasp. “You’re coming with me, ladies. The floor needs energy and female FBI representation.”
OA snorted into his beer. “Isobel, you might as well surrender.”
Maggie caught the brief glance Isobel shot her — amused, a little resigned, but not altogether displeased — and let herself laugh. “Alright,” she said. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Within seconds, they were pulled into the swell of bodies and sound. The beat was pulsing now — something danceable, bright, just shy of cheesy — and Scola was already attempting some combination of finger guns and dad-style footwork.
Maggie was laughing too hard to correct him.
Tiffany took the lead with Elise, both of them completely unbothered by rhythm, and OA tried to keep up while insisting he could in fact dance. Ian was swaying in a deliberately uncoordinated way, clearly doing it on purpose to crack everyone up. Kelly joined him.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, Maggie turned to find Isobel dancing.
Not wildly — she wasn’t flailing or letting loose like Elise — but she was moving, smiling, one hand tucked lightly into her hip as she half-swayed to the beat. There was a looseness in her shoulders Maggie hadn’t seen in ages out in public.
And something in her eyes — that brief flicker of happiness, real and unguarded — sent a tug straight to Maggie’s chest.
“Look at her,” OA whispered in Maggie’s ear as he passed by. “She’s actually having fun. What did you do?”
Maggie shook her head, flushed and laughing, but the question stayed with her. She hadn’t done anything, not really.
They just… kept gravitating toward each other.
At some point, the song shifted — something lighter, smoother — and Elise called out a joking, “Group sway!” that had everyone half-circling up. There was no choreography, just movement and rhythm and laughter as Scola tried to lip-sync dramatically and Ian mock-dipped Tiffany.
Isobel ended up next to Maggie again, their shoulders brushing now and then as the group moved with the music.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Maggie asked quietly, her voice just loud enough to carry over the beat.
Isobel turned to her. “I am.”
There was a pause — warm, charged.
“I didn’t think I would,” she admitted. “But I am.”
Maggie smiled. “Good.”
*11:17 PM – Club Onyx, 14th Street*
The music was still playing, but it had dropped to a mellow rhythm — something with less punch, more atmosphere. The dance floor had thinned. Elise was perched on a barstool now, hair slightly messy and grinning like she was still riding the high of the group sway. Tiffany was deep in a laughing conversation with OA over someone’s horrific dance moves (Isobel suspected Ian’s), and Scola had disappeared, possibly in pursuit of late-night fries.
The energy had shifted — not gone, just slower. Comfortable.
Isobel stood at the edge of it all, a fresh glass of water in hand, watching as her team scattered slightly — still buzzing but no longer needing the thrum of the music to carry them.
Her gaze inevitably drifted sideways.
Maggie was sitting now, halfway into one of the low lounge chairs near the corner, head tipped back slightly, eyes closed for a moment like she was just letting the night soak in. Her jacket was draped over the back of the chair, her boots crossed at the ankles. She looked at peace in a way Isobel didn’t see often. Still and soft and beautiful in a way that snuck up on her sometimes — always when she wasn’t bracing for it.
Isobel moved to sit beside her.
Maggie opened her eyes as she approached and smiled — just a small curve of her lips, but warm. A little sleepy. A little knowing.
“Still alive?” Maggie asked.
“Barely,” Isobel said, settling next to her. “I think Elise might be powered by pure sugar and adrenaline.”
“She lives for nights like this.”
“I can see that.”
They sat quietly for a few beats, letting the moment stretch. Isobel’s shoulder brushed Maggie’s again — casually this time, not deliberately — and neither of them shifted away.
The conversation hummed around them. Elise’s laughter. Tiffany swearing about someone stealing her drink. Ian announcing he was calling a rideshare.
And then a small quietness fell just between them.
Maggie nudged Isobel lightly with her knee. “Thanks for coming.”
“I almost didn’t,” Isobel admitted. “I told myself I’d just show my face and leave after twenty minutes.”
Maggie turned slightly, looking at her.
“What changed your mind?”
Isobel’s lips curved again. She didn’t look away.
“You.”
Maggie didn’t say anything for a second. But the air between them shifted — not charged exactly, but settled. Open. Honest.
“I’m glad you stayed,” she said finally. Her voice was softer now, all the teasing stripped away.
So was Isobel’s when she replied: “Me too.”
They didn’t need to say more.
Eventually, Elise declared they were calling it. OA herded half the team toward the door while the others lagged, lingering over last sips and half-eaten baskets of fries.
Maggie stood and stretched, jacket in hand, and looked to Isobel. “You walking?”
“Yeah.”
They didn’t say goodnight just yet.
They didn’t need to.
The walk was still ahead — and maybe a little more.
*11:42 PM – Outside Club Onyx*
The city was quieter out here, the hum of passing cars and far-off horns dull compared to the pulsing energy they’d left behind. The sidewalk glowed under a yellow streetlamp, scattered with the laughter of Elise and Tiffany still arguing playfully a few paces down the block.
Maggie stood beside Isobel, both of them watching as the group broke off in pairs. Ian waved as his ride pulled up, Scola jogged ahead to flag down his, and OA was somewhere mid-text with a rideshare driver who’d apparently gotten lost on 14th.
Maggie tugged her jacket tighter around herself, then glanced at Isobel, who stood with one hand in the pocket of her coat, chin tilted up slightly to meet the cool night air. She looked relaxed. Maybe even a little reluctant to leave.
Maggie shifted her weight and said casually, “I can call a car for us, if you want. Mine’s already on the way.”
Isobel glanced over. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Maggie said, a little too quickly, then softened it with a smile. “Besides, it’s late. And cold. And I think Elise might’ve given you shin splints from that one group sway.”
That earned her a quiet laugh. “Only mild damage.”
Maggie lifted her phone and tapped in the ride request, the glow of the screen lighting her face. “Should be here in five.”
For a moment, they just stood there.
Neither of them filled the silence.
Maggie could feel the question hanging in the air between them — was this just a ride? was it a way to stay together longer? were they going to pretend nothing shifted tonight, or were they going to let it keep unfolding?
She didn’t ask any of it out loud.
But she felt it.
And when Isobel’s shoulder brushed hers again, just lightly, and neither of them moved away — she figured maybe the answers didn’t need to come yet.
Maybe it was okay to just… stay in it.
The car rolled up with a quiet hum.
Maggie opened the back door and stepped aside. “After you.”
Isobel met her eyes for a beat — something softer there, open — and slid in without a word.
Maggie followed, the door clicking shut behind them.
The driver asked for her address, and she gave it.
No one said anything else for a while.
But in the silence, something warm was taking root.
*12:09 AM – Maggie’s Apartment, Lower Manhattan*
The hallway outside Maggie’s apartment was dim and still, the kind of hush that only happened after midnight, when even the city seemed to hold its breath.
Isobel trailed just behind her as Maggie unlocked the door, the soft click of the deadbolt giving way to the familiar creak of hinges. Maggie stepped inside first, flicking on the low lamp near the kitchen counter, casting a pool of golden light over the living space.
“Make yourself at home,” she said, voice quiet but easy, like they did this all the time.
Maybe they were starting to.
Isobel stepped in and let the door fall shut behind her. She stood there for a moment, letting the quiet wrap around her — the muted hum of the fridge, the faint scent of coffee grounds and something warm beneath it. Cedar, maybe. Or the shampoo Maggie used.
She hadn’t planned on ending her night here but she wasn’t looking for a way out either.
Maggie tossed her keys in the little ceramic dish near the sink, then moved to the kitchen, grabbing two glasses and filling one with water. She held it out wordlessly, and Isobel took it.
Their fingers brushed.
It lingered.
“Thanks,” Isobel murmured, taking a small sip. The water was cold. Grounding. But the tension in her chest didn’t quite ease.
Maggie leaned back against the counter, watching her, like she was waiting to see which way this would go.
“I had fun tonight,” Isobel said after a beat.
Maggie smiled, soft and a little tired. “Me too.”
There wasn’t much space between them — physically or otherwise — but neither of them moved to close it. Not yet.
Instead, Maggie looked down at her hands, then back up. “You don’t have to stay,” she said gently. “But… you can. If you want.”
Isobel didn’t answer right away.
She didn’t need to.
She just stepped a little closer.
And Maggie didn’t move.
Just that small shift — one person stepping forward, the other staying still — that changed the shape of the room completely.
“I’ll stay.”
Isobel didn’t know if it would come out steady — but it did. Clear, no hesitation. And the moment she said it, something in her chest loosened, like she’d been bracing for a decision she’d already made hours ago.
Maggie’s expression softened in a way that made Isobel’s breath catch.
Not surprised. Not smug.
Just… warm.
Safe.
“Okay,” Maggie said simply.
And then she stepped forward and pulled Isobel into a hug.
It wasn’t rushed or tight, not frantic or overwhelmed — it was slow and real and certain. Maggie’s arms wrapped around her back, hands resting just below her shoulder blades, and Isobel let her forehead drop lightly to Maggie’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of her — clean soap and lavender and something just unmistakably Maggie.
Her own arms came up around her, loosely at first, then firmer. She didn’t hold back. Didn’t need to.
They stood like that for a long moment — just breathing.
No past to chase.
No future to define.
Just here.
Now.
When they finally pulled apart, it was slow. Maggie smiled at her, eyes still half-lidded from tiredness but open in a way that made Isobel feel like she was being seen — not as the boss, not as the composed woman in heels and black suits, but as a person Maggie genuinely wanted close.
“I was about to make some tea,” Maggie said, turning toward the stove. “Unless you’d rather crash now.”
“No,” Isobel said quickly. “Tea sounds perfect.”
Maggie grinned and turned to fill the kettle. “You’re a chamomile kind of person, right?”
Isobel leaned against the counter, more relaxed than she could remember being in weeks. “Is it that obvious?”
“You have a ‘winding-down’ face.”
Isobel raised an eyebrow. “I do not.”
“You do,” Maggie teased, pulling two mismatched mugs from the cabinet. “It’s very dignified.”
Isobel laughed, letting her body lean into the moment.
They moved easily around each other in the small kitchen. Maggie dropped a tea bag into each mug, flicked on the stove, and rummaged around in a drawer for honey. Isobel set two napkins on the counter and found herself smiling at the ridiculousness of how ordinary it felt.
It shouldn’t have been this easy — this comfortable.
But maybe some things didn’t need to be complicated.
When the tea was ready, they curled up on the couch — legs tucked under themselves, mugs warming their hands, a throw blanket folded between them. Maggie scrolled through the TV menu halfheartedly while Isobel just… sat there. Rested. Let herself be still.
Eventually, Maggie found a rerun of The Office and pressed play. They weren’t really watching, but the low murmur of it in the background filled the quiet nicely.
And sometime around the second episode, Isobel let her head drop softly to Maggie’s shoulder.
Maggie didn’t move.
She just leaned her head lightly against Isobel’s, a quiet, unsaid promise in the gesture.
You’re not alone tonight.
You can stay.
You’re safe here.
And in the lull of warmth and flickering light, Isobel closed her eyes.
*6:53 AM – Maggie’s Apartment*
The apartment was dim, the morning light still stretching tentative fingers through the blinds. Pale gray-blue pooled in corners, casting the room in soft shadows. Maggie blinked slowly awake to the faint warmth of someone next to her — not just warmth, but weight, presence.
Isobel was still asleep beside her on the couch, curled slightly inward, one hand resting over her stomach, her breathing slow and even.
Maggie didn’t move. Again.
She didn’t want to break the quiet just yet.
She watched the rise and fall of Isobel’s chest, the way a single strand of hair had fallen over her cheek. Maggie almost reached to brush it away, but stopped herself. Instead, she stayed still, stillness settling over her like a second blanket.
And yet her mind, as always, refused to match the calm.
The thoughts crept in anyway — slow and heavy.
All the close calls. The teammates lost. The way everything good felt temporary. Fragile. She thought of how often she’d come home with someone else’s blood on her jacket, how often she’d tried to keep that line between personal and professional sharp enough to protect herself — and how lately, it had begun to blur in ways she couldn’t ignore.
A low breath slipped past her lips before she realized she was even holding one in.
Isobel stirred slightly.
Not fully awake yet, but closer.
Maggie looked away, down at her own hands where they rested on her lap. Her thumb was still faintly bruised from yesterday’s breach. Another mark.
“Mags?” Isobel’s voice was rough from sleep, a little confused but soft.
“I’m here,” Maggie murmured.
Isobel sat up slowly, blinking. “What time is it?”
“Just before seven. You’ve got time.”
They sat in the gray morning silence for a beat longer.
Maggie reached for the mug on the coffee table — yesterday’s tea, long gone cold — then set it back down. Her fingers flexed once. Twice. Then:
“Do you ever…” She hesitated, unsure if it was a mistake to say it. But the words pressed up behind her ribs like they needed air. “Do you ever feel like maybe… you’re bad luck?”
Isobel turned to her fully now, brows knitting. “Maggie…”
“I mean it.” She didn’t look at her. Just kept her eyes fixed on her hands. “Wherever I go, something goes sideways. People get hurt. I—OA almost got shot two weeks ago. And the informant from Jersey? She trusted me and she’s dead. It’s like…” She swallowed. “Like I bring the worst with me.”
A beat passed. Stillness. Breathing.
Then Isobel’s voice came, quiet but steady.
“You don’t bring the worst with you, Maggie.”
“I know. I mean—I know logically,” she said quickly, pressing her palms against her thighs. “But it doesn’t feel like that. Sometimes it feels like I should keep people at arm’s length just in case.”
“You mean me?” Isobel asked gently.
Maggie’s throat tightened.
She didn’t answer.
Not with words.
Just the way she finally looked over, eyes rimmed with something unshed. She didn’t cry. She never cried first. But she didn’t look away, either.
And that silence said enough.
Isobel reached out and gently rested her hand over Maggie’s. “You don’t bring bad luck,” she said, firmer this time. “You bring yourself. Your instincts. Your heart. And yeah, it’s a hard job, and sometimes it all falls apart. But you’re not the reason for the chaos. You’re the one who steps into it and tries.”
Maggie let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.
Isobel gave her hand a small squeeze.
“I wouldn’t be here,” she said softly, “if I thought you were a jinx.”
Maggie looked down at their joined hands.
The knot in her chest loosened — not gone, not magically solved, but eased.
“Thanks,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “For not pulling away.”
“I wouldn’t even know how,” Isobel replied, just as quietly.
And in that quiet kitchen, with the morning still unfolding around them, it felt like maybe neither of them needed to run.
Not today.
Maggie stood slowly, her hand sliding gently out from under Isobel’s. Her eyes lingered for just a second before she gave a small, almost apologetic smile.
“I should get dressed,” she said. Her voice was soft again, still wrapped in sleep and something heavier. “I’ll be quick.”
Isobel nodded. “Take your time.”
She watched Maggie disappear down the hallway and into the bedroom, the soft click of the door marking her exit.
And then… it was quiet.
Still.
The kind of quiet that settled in your bones and made you hear your own heartbeat.
Isobel leaned forward, elbows on her knees, staring at the cold tea on the table. She didn’t pick it up. Didn’t move at all. Just sat there, surrounded by someone else’s apartment, someone else’s quiet vulnerability — and now her own, circling her like smoke.
Do you ever feel like a jinx?
The question echoed in her mind, but now it wore her voice.
Because the truth — the one she didn’t often let herself touch — was that Maggie wasn’t the only one who felt haunted by patterns she couldn’t outrun.
All of them left.
Every boyfriend she’d had, every man she’d let past her walls — they had taken something and walked away. Some with sharp exits, others slow and eroding. She could still hear one of them saying she was too “emotionally remote,” another scoffing at her hours, her job, her standards. One had gone so far as to accuse her of being addicted to control.
Maybe he wasn’t wrong.
Maybe she only felt safe when everything around her was compartmentalized and predictable — so she could feel steady. Unshaken. Less likely to be blindsided again.
And still, it hadn’t protected her.
Not once.
She’d thought each time that maybe it would be different. That this person might see her, know her. That if she gave just enough — never too much, never too little — it would work.
But it never had.
And now here she was, sitting on Maggie Bell’s couch, in Maggie Bell’s t-shirt, in the quiet aftermath of a night that felt… real. Steady. Safe.
And terrifying.
Because what if she messed this up, too?
What if Maggie got tired of her?
What if Maggie saw the flaws and the caution and the endless measuring of emotion and—
What if this was the time it mattered, and she couldn’t fix it when it cracked?
The floor creaked lightly — the door opening again — and Isobel blinked, breathing in deeply as she sat up straighter.
Maggie reappeared, hair brushed out, jeans and a loose sweater on, and socks that didn’t match.
She looked effortlessly put together in a way that made Isobel’s chest ache.
“You good?” Maggie asked, crossing toward the kitchen again, glancing over her shoulder.
Isobel gave her a soft smile — automatic. Trained.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m good.”
And maybe she was.
Maybe not.
But she was still here.
*7:41 AM – Inside Maggie’s Car, Lower Manhattan*
The city moved past the windows in early morning blur — yellow light slanting through tall buildings, glinting off windshields and high-rises. Maggie’s car hummed beneath them, quiet music playing low from the stereo — something acoustic and barely there.
Isobel sipped from the to-go coffee Maggie had made — oat milk, a little cinnamon. Thoughtful. Just right.
“You okay over there?” Maggie asked, glancing sideways with a small smile.
“Yeah.” Isobel gave a half-smile back. “Just… thinking.”
“Thinking as in ‘I should’ve taken the train,’ or thinking as in ‘Reynolds is going to say something about us walking in together’?”
Isobel smirked. “I wasn’t aware we were walking in together.”
“Hmm.” Maggie’s tone was playful, but light. “Sure felt like it last time. Especially when you adjusted my collar.”
Isobel gave a soft laugh and sipped her coffee to hide it. “I was making sure you didn’t look like a disaster.”
“You say that like it’s not affection.”
They stopped at a red light, and for a moment, Isobel let herself look over — really look.
The way the morning sun hit Maggie’s face. The crease between her brows when she was thinking, the quiet confidence that settled on her like second skin. It did feel like affection. It felt like something she hadn’t let herself believe she could have. Not in this job. Not in this world.
And still—here they were.
But what they didn’t see — couldn’t see — was a window three floors above them, blinds slightly cracked, high enough that it usually went unnoticed.
*26 FED – Third Floor*
Assistant Director in Charge Reynolds watched from the end of the hallway, coffee in hand, eyes trained on the street below.
He hadn’t intended to stop here. Not really.
But habits die hard, and he always liked to see which agents actually arrived early, who came solo, who didn’t.
So when he spotted Isobel—black coat, straight posture, familiar—and Agent Bell, with her easy stride and relaxed shoulders, walking side by side from the parking garage entrance, coffee cups in hand, something in him went still.
Not just proximity.
Not just timing.
There was something there.
Something that said closer than colleagues — subtle, maybe, but real.
He watched just long enough to see Isobel glance over at Maggie and smile — not the practiced professional kind. Something else. Something warmer.
His lips curled into something close to a smirk.
He turned away from the window, took a long sip of his lukewarm coffee, and walked toward his office.
He had no intention of reporting it. Not yet.
But a detail like that? Between two agents who knew better?
That was leverage.
And he never let that kind of thing go to waste.
⸻
*7:55 AM – FBI NYO, 26 FED*
Isobel could feel it the moment she stepped into the bullpen. The usual bustle, the low hum of agents and analysts — but there was a subtle shift in energy. Something off. Like someone had stepped just a little too close to a pressure point she’d tried to hide.
She shook it off. Adjusted her jacket. Met Maggie’s eyes briefly across the JOC.
But the hairs on the back of her neck still rose.
And when she got the message from Reynolds’s assistant — “ADIC Reynolds would like to speak with you briefly. 8:15. His office.” — she didn’t even blink.
Of course he did.
*8:14 AM – ADIC Reynolds’s Office, 26 FED*
The outer office was empty, except for Reynolds’s assistant, who barely looked up from her screen as she buzzed her in.
“Go on back.”
Isobel adjusted the lapel of her blazer out of habit. Smoothed the line of her sleeve. Knocked once before pushing the door open.
“Isobel Castille,” Reynolds said, not looking up right away. He was still standing by the window. The blinds were cracked slightly. Just like earlier.
He finally turned, his expression unreadable. Not overtly friendly, but not cold either. Something else. The kind of calm you learn to fear.
“Thanks for coming up.”
“You asked for me,” she said simply, closing the door behind her.
He gestured to the seat across from his desk. “Have a seat.”
She did.
He stayed standing.
“I like to keep track of patterns,” he said, conversational. “The little things that slip by unnoticed.”
Isobel didn’t move. “I’m sure that’s served you well.”
“Oh, it has. Over and over. Especially in leadership.”
He crossed to his desk, finally sitting. “You know, when I was an SSA, we had a term for it. ‘Peripheral tells.’ Background noise that tells you more than the subject ever says out loud.”
Isobel raised an eyebrow. “Is there a point to this, sir?”
He leaned forward just slightly. “The point is, appearances matter. Especially in your position.”
“Are you suggesting something’s appeared inappropriate?”
He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Not yet.”
That silence stretched, heavy.
“You’ve earned a lot of respect here, Isobel,” he said finally. “It would be a shame if something… complicated that.”
There it was.
Not an accusation. Not a threat.
Just enough ambiguity to make sure she heard it.
And she did.
Perfectly.
She sat straighter. “I take my position seriously. If you have a concern, Director, you can put it on paper.”
He smiled again — wider this time, and just a touch amused.
“No need. Just a friendly reminder. Optics are everything.”
She rose from the chair. “Then perhaps we should both be careful with them.”
His eyes flashed — just briefly.
But she didn’t flinch.
“Have a good day, sir.”
She walked out without another word.
⸻
*8:26 AM – JOC, FBI NYO*
The hum of the room hit her like static — voices, monitors, alerts in the background. Business as usual. She scanned the space automatically, eyes landing on Maggie where she stood by OA and Elise, reviewing something on one of the shared screens.
Isobel didn’t move toward her.
Not right away.
Because Reynolds had made it clear: this wasn’t about rules. It was about control. Perception. And power.
And the worst part?
He hadn’t lied.
Optics were everything.
But maybe what he didn’t know — what he couldn’t factor in — was that Isobel had survived bigger threats than his smug innuendos. She hadn’t clawed her way to the SAC just to be steered off course by someone else’s projections.
Still, as she crossed to her office, the taste of it lingered — like a storm in the distance.
* 8:41 AM – JOC, Isobel’s Office*
The briefing packet in front of her was already half-read. At least, she thought it was.
Her eyes skimmed the lines, but none of the words landed with any real weight. A string of details, too sharp in some places and blurry in others, passed through her mind like fog across glass. She blinked and tried again.
Suspect profile. Movement timeline. Digital leads. Elise’s field notes.
Isobel highlighted the same line twice without realizing.
Out in the JOC, someone laughed — probably Kelly. Maggie’s voice followed, low and familiar, layered into the soundscape like a harmony she’d gotten used to tuning into even when she wasn’t trying.
Isobel closed the file and leaned back, her eyes drifting up to the glass wall.
She could see Maggie now, just faintly through the reflection. The curve of her arm, the angle of her posture, the subtle way her hand rested on her hip while she talked with OA. Confident, open, magnetic in a way that made it easy to pretend things were simple.
But they weren’t. Not anymore.
Maybe they never had been.
Isobel’s throat tightened, not quite pain, not quite guilt — just something in between.
Optics are everything.
Reynolds had said it without saying it. Had seen just enough to let her know he was watching. Measuring. Waiting for a misstep.
And the worst part?
He wasn’t wrong.
No matter how many lines she’d drawn in her head, no matter how careful they’d both been — there were cracks now. Cracks Reynolds could push open with just the right pressure.
She turned back toward her desk, eyes landing on the photo she kept tucked near the back corner. A few years old. Her parents’ anniversary party. Everyone smiling. Normal. The last time she remembered feeling like she wasn’t carrying too many roles at once.
She hadn’t lied to Maggie that morning. She had felt like a jinx before. Still did, sometimes.
But she’d never admitted that she feared it most when it came to the people who mattered. The ones she let in. The ones she couldn’t afford to lose.
A soft knock broke the quiet.
She glanced up.
Elise. Clipboard in hand. A concerned, slightly hesitant look on her face.
“Sorry,” Elise said gently. “You good for a quick rundown on the data off Milos’s burner? Kelly’s working through the metadata, but there’s something weird in the timestamps.”
Isobel nodded, already moving to stand.
“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go take a look.”
She could fall back into the rhythm. Lead. Decipher. Push forward.
That’s what she did. That’s who she was.
But still — as she stepped into the buzz of the JOC, the drift inside her remained.
Quiet. Steady.
A current she wasn’t sure she could fight forever.
*12:17 PM – JOC, outside Isobel’s office*
The update from Elise had come and gone — some discrepancies in Milos’s travel history, flagged calls that didn’t line up with his reported movement. The task force was picking at the edges of it now, and OA had just returned from tracking down an off-grid burner address. Maggie was briefing him with her usual focus, clipped and clear, her hands moving slightly as she spoke.
Isobel kept her eyes on the documents in front of her.
She didn’t need to watch Maggie to track the rhythm of her voice. She knew the shape of it, the steadiness it carried. Just as she knew when it shifted.
A light knock at her office door made her glance up.
Maggie.
Casual in the way she leaned slightly on the doorframe, but something careful in her eyes. Something guarded.
“You’ve eaten?” she asked, not immediately stepping inside.
Isobel blinked. “I had a granola bar midmorning.”
“That’s not food,” Maggie said with a crooked smile. “OA and I are heading down to that Thai place on Fulton. Figured I’d ask before we go.”
It was simple. Routine. The kind of question they’d asked a hundred times before.
But it felt different now. Like a hand extended across an invisible line.
Isobel hesitated too long.
“I’ve got two briefings this afternoon,” she said. “And I need to finish redlining Jubal’s threat assessment. It’s probably better if I just stay up here.”
Maggie didn’t react immediately. Just nodded once.
“Okay. Yeah. Makes sense.”
She gave a faint smile, unreadable, and turned to go.
“Thanks for asking,” Isobel added, softer, already regretting how clinical her voice had sounded.
Maggie paused in the doorway, hand resting on the frame. She looked back just long enough to meet her eyes.
“Of course.”
And then she was gone.
Isobel sat still for a beat. Then another. Only when she heard the elevator doors shut did she let her shoulders sag.
It would’ve been easy to say yes. Easier still to pretend like nothing had changed. But that wasn’t true anymore.
She could feel Reynolds’s presence like a shadow just out of frame. Watching. Waiting. Measuring each of her choices like a potential headline.
And it wasn’t just her job on the line.
It was Maggie’s too.
So she stayed.
Alone.
Lunch break forgotten, hunger dulled by the slow burn of restraint.
The quiet between them, once comforting, now felt like punishment.
And she wasn’t sure who it was really for.
*12:42 PM – Downtown Thai, Fulton Street*
The restaurant was warm and busy, the scent of lemongrass and chili oil clinging to the air, and OA was halfway through telling a story about a joint op he did in Brooklyn when Maggie finally tuned back in.
“…and so this guy just grabs the fire escape and swings himself up like he’s starring in a Mission: Impossible reboot. I’m standing there thinking, great, now I’m the one who has to jump.”
Maggie blinked, managing a smile. “And you did?”
“Of course I did,” OA said, grinning. “I had to beat him to the roof. Pride was on the line.”
She stabbed a piece of tofu with her chopsticks and forced another smile, but her mind wasn’t really on rooftop chases.
OA paused, studying her for a second. “You’re quiet.”
“Just thinking.”
“About the case?”
She nodded, almost automatically. “Yeah. Milos’s comms don’t make sense. And the cell tower hits—”
OA leaned back in the booth, folding his arms. “Maggie.”
Her eyes flicked up to him. He gave her a look that was all partner — no badge, no protocol, just concern.
“What happened upstairs?”
She didn’t answer right away. Just stirred the noodles around on her plate, watching the steam rise and curl before dissipating into the space between them.
“I invited Isobel to come with us,” she said finally. “She turned me down.”
OA frowned. “That’s not unheard of. She’s busy. She’s always—”
“It wasn’t the no,” Maggie interrupted, voice low. “It was the way she said it. Like she had to remind herself not to sound too soft. Like it meant more than it should.”
OA was quiet for a beat, and then said carefully, “Did something happen between you two?”
Maggie didn’t flinch — not visibly — but the knot in her stomach tightened all the same.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “We’re not—It’s complicated.”
He exhaled slowly, nodding. “Yeah. Complicated sounds about right.”
They lapsed into silence, the kind that wasn’t quite uncomfortable, but wasn’t restful either.
Maggie pushed her food around. The hum of the restaurant surrounded them — the clang of silverware, laughter from a table near the window, the rush of someone’s phone ringing a few booths down.
Finally, OA spoke again.
“You know,” he said, voice quiet, “whatever it is, I’m not judging. But… if she’s pulling back, maybe it’s not about you.”
Maggie looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, sometimes people push you away because they’re scared. Not because they don’t care.”
She blinked once. “You’re not talking about me anymore, are you?”
OA gave a wry smile. “Maybe not.”
A silence passed between them again, but this time, Maggie let it stay.
Because if she let herself admit it — truly admit it — she had felt it this morning. The hesitation in Isobel’s eyes. The pull of duty weighing heavier than it should.
And now, all she could do was wonder who or what was making her question something that had only just started to feel like it could be real.
*4:38 PM - Isobel’s Office, FBI NYO*
The knock was too sharp to be Jubal. Too late in the day for an analyst. Isobel looked up from her monitor, expecting someone junior — maybe even Maggie.
But when she opened the door and saw Reynolds standing there, she didn’t let her surprise show. Just a subtle lift of her brow.
“Assistant Director.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “Won’t keep you long.”
She closed the door behind him, slowly. “You’ve been keeping tabs.”
He smiled, amused. “Not personally. But certain patterns catch the right eyes.”
She stood straighter, letting the weight of command settle back on her shoulders. “If you’re here to discuss operations, I’d prefer to have that conversation on the record.”
He chuckled. “Always so formal.”
But then his tone dropped — not unkind, but unmistakably firm.
“I need you to shuffle resources away from the RFD task force,” he said. “Temporarily.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why? We’re days away from a breakthrough. Maggie and OA are closing in.”
“That’s precisely why,” he replied, stepping closer to her desk. “The brass upstairs want the Westchester op prioritized. You’ll draft the memo, reassign field coverage, keep it quiet.”
“That’s not a decision that comes from you.”
His expression hardened. “Isobel.”
And just like that, her title was gone.
He folded his hands behind his back and glanced toward the blinds — open just enough for the JOC lights to shimmer through.
“You think I didn’t notice? You leaving 26 Fed in the same car. You grabbing coffee before sunrise. You standing just a little too close to your senior agent at the bar the other night.”
She felt the air go thin.
Reynolds didn’t smile this time.
“You want to protect her?” he asked. “Then make this pivot. Quietly. Cleanly. And don’t make me have to explain optics to anyone else.”
Reynolds turned to go, then paused, hand on the doorknob.
“I’m not your enemy, Isobel. But you’d be smart to remember that no one’s irreplaceable. Not even you.”
Then he walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.
⸻
She stood there for a long time after.
Just breathing.
Her hands rested flat on the desk to ground her. But nothing felt stable.
She wasn’t just being watched. She was being leveraged.
And worst of all, it wasn’t her future he was using to play the game.
It was Maggie’s.
*5:09 PM – Isobel’s Office, FBI NYO*
The cursor blinked at the top of the memo template, perfectly timed, rhythmic, expectant.
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard.
“Per recent directives from the Assistant Director in Charge…”
Isobel typed the words as if she were watching someone else do it. As if her bones weren’t humming with unease, her stomach churning with the guilt of each keystroke.
She had done harder things in this job — told families their loved ones weren’t coming home, stood between civilians and a blast radius, made life-or-death calls in seconds flat. But this?
This was quiet damage. Surgical.
She backspaced the sentence and started again.
“Effective immediately, the RFD Joint Task Force will reallocate tactical and surveillance personnel…”
Maggie’s name wasn’t in it. Neither was OA’s. But the shift would gut their team mid-investigation. It would undermine three weeks of work. It would undo everything they were close to breaking open.
And Maggie would know.
She’d see through it in a heartbeat. She always did.
Isobel stared at the screen, her pulse a steady ache in her throat.
You want to protect her?
Reynolds’s voice echoed, not loud, but loud enough.
He wasn’t wrong. The moment the Bureau caught wind of anything inappropriate, the fallout would start with Maggie. Not just because she was junior — but because she was visible. A rising star. A target.
This — this memo — was Reynolds’s way of pressing a thumb into her rib cage. Not enough to bruise, but just enough to remind her who had the upper hand.
And still, her fingers moved.
“All reassignment orders are effective COB Friday and will remain in place pending further directive.”
She saved the file.
But she didn’t send it.
Instead, she sat back in her chair, eyes dry, throat tight, hands still hovering — as if they could undo the damage they’d just done.
A knock came at the door.
She didn’t move.
Only when Elise’s voice came through — soft and uncertain — did she stir.
“Boss? Maggie and OA are back. Maggie said she wanted to catch you before she left.”
Isobel closed her eyes.
And for a moment, she almost called her in.
Almost.
But then she opened her mouth and said, “Tell her I left for the night.”
———
Elise stood just outside Isobel’s office, one hand still holding a tablet, the other curled slightly at her side like she wasn’t sure what to do with it.
She glanced over her shoulder at the bullpen — Maggie and OA were just stepping in, still shaking off the adrenaline from the field. Maggie had a thin cut on her cheekbone, barely worth noting, but Elise clocked it instantly.
Maggie caught her gaze. “Hey. Is Isobel free?”
Elise hesitated. “She said she left for the night.”
Maggie blinked. “Left?”
“Yeah. I knocked but…” Elise frowned, lowering her voice. “her office door’s still closed. And I can hear the printer. So…”
Maggie’s brows drew together. “She’s still in there?”
Elise gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know.” She didn’t like lying, especially not to Maggie.
OA glanced at Maggie and wisely said nothing.
Maggie took a breath, then nodded. “Thanks, Elise.”
Maggie turned, walking slowly toward her desk — not in a hurry anymore. She didn’t even glance at the closed office door as she passed it.
She sat down at her workstation and rubbed a hand across her forehead. The cut stung. She didn’t care.
OA dropped into the chair across from her. “You okay?”
“Peachy.”
He didn’t press. They both knew what that tone meant.
Maggie opened a file on her screen without reading it. Then closed it again.
She could feel it happening — the emotional equivalent of a draft in a sealed room. The chill of being shut out. The silence that wasn’t absence but intention.
This morning, it had been coffee. Laughter. Something unspoken and gentle.
And now?
She didn’t know what it was.
Just that it wasn’t the same.
* 8:43 PM – Maggie’s Apartment, East Village*
The city outside her window was humming. Horns in the distance, the rhythmic swish of tires on wet asphalt. Summer rain had passed through earlier — quick and petulant — but the scent of it still lingered on the breeze slipping through her cracked window.
Maggie stood barefoot in her kitchen, spooning peanut butter straight from the jar, pretending it was dinner. Her phone sat silent on the counter.
She hadn’t heard from Isobel. Not a single text since the clipped reply Elise had passed along earlier.
She said to tell you she left for the night.
Only she hadn’t. She was still there. Still behind that closed office door.
Hiding, maybe.
From what, Maggie didn’t know. But she knew the feeling of a wall going up. She’d been on the receiving end of it more times than she could count — in relationships, in grief, in friendship.
She just hadn’t expected it from Isobel. Not again.
Not after—
Maggie dropped the spoon into the sink and leaned forward on her palms, staring out the window. Steam curled up from a subway grate below. The glow of the corner bodega’s neon sign flickered in and out.
She picked up her phone. Opened their thread. Scrolled.
There it was: the last message.
ISOBEL: Get home safe. Text me when you’re in.
MAGGIE: Home. You okay?
No reply.
That was two nights ago.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She could send something harmless.
You good?
Rough day?
Want me to bring you one of those crime scene coffees tomorrow and pretend it’s a peace offering?
But none of them felt right. None of them felt like enough. And worse — they all felt like she was chasing something that had already started to pull away.
She sighed and backed out of the thread.
She didn’t delete it. She wouldn’t. But she did put her phone face down on the counter and walked away.
She didn’t want to be someone who waited for the other shoe to drop.
But right now, she had the awful feeling it already had — and no one had bothered to tell her.
* 9:12 PM – Isobel’s Apartmenti
The lights were low, but Isobel hadn’t turned them off completely.
She wasn’t tired — not really — but her body had settled into that quiet post-adrenaline tremble, like her muscles hadn’t gotten the memo that the day was over.
The memo was still sitting in her drafts folder.
She hadn’t sent it.
It had sat there in the open window as she powered down her monitor, pulled on her coat, and slipped out of the JOC without another word. Avoiding Maggie had felt like a temporary fix. Now, it felt like a slow incision — deep and deliberate.
Her phone buzzed once on the kitchen counter.
Work.
She didn’t check it.
Her eyes skimmed the apartment. The same apartment that had once held quiet laughter and takeout boxes just two weeks ago. Maggie had stood barefoot in this same kitchen, stealing one of her beers and smirking over her shoulder like she belonged.
Because for a moment, she had.
And now?
Now there was just this dull ache in Isobel’s chest, this pressure that never seemed to let up. She had thought if she could just keep it professional — if she could take the heat, make the call, do what Reynolds asked — she could protect Maggie from the blowback. From whispers. From consequences.
But she hadn’t protected her.
She’d hurt her.
Again.
And it hadn’t even taken an accusation. Just silence. Just retreat.
The worst part was that it was so familiar. This was her pattern. Pull back. Contain. Avoid. Protect by disappearing.
But Maggie didn’t want a shield. Maggie wanted honesty. Proximity. A shoulder, not a barricade.
Isobel sat down on the couch, elbows on her knees, fingers pressed to her temple.
She could still see the look on Maggie’s face in the JOC this afternoon — not angry. Not even surprised. Just… disappointed.
She didn’t know how to fix that. She didn’t even know if she should.
All she knew was that everything she was doing — it didn’t feel like strength anymore.
It just felt like hiding.
And it wasn’t working.
* 11:17 AM – 26 Fed, Upstairs Corridor, One Floor Above the JOC*
Maggie hadn’t meant to overhear anything.
She hadn’t even meant to be up here — just chasing down a misrouted file that IA had accidentally left at the satellite office. Elise had flagged it, and since Maggie was already heading back from a field check-in, she volunteered to run it up herself.
The elevator opened with a quiet ding, and she stepped out, envelope in hand, turning down the side hallway just past the east conference room.
She was mid-scroll through her inbox when a voice froze her in place.
Reynolds.
“…You think I won’t use it, Isobel? I will. You want to protect Agent Bell? You’re running out of plausible deniability.”
Her lungs pulled tight. Her body went still.
Isobel’s voice followed — quiet, low, almost hoarse. “This is between you and me. She’s not involved.”
“Oh, she is involved. The second you made her more than just a subordinate, she became part of the equation.”
Maggie took a step back.
The conference room door wasn’t shut all the way. The hallway was quiet. And her heart was thudding so loud she could barely hear the rest of what Reynolds said.
“…You either bury the RFD task force like I asked, or I go upstairs and let the brass draw their own conclusions. About both of you.”
Silence.
Then Isobel, sharp but shaken: “You’re bluffing.”
A dry laugh. “Try me.”
Maggie’s fingers clenched around the envelope in her hand. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until her lungs burned for air.
This was it.
This was the missing piece.
The dodged glances. The unsent texts. The memo Jubal had mentioned Isobel was drafting but never circulated.
The distance.
It hadn’t been about cold feet or regret. It had been about pressure. Power.
Control.
And now it wasn’t just Isobel being punished for proximity — it was both of them.
Maggie took another step back, silent and slow.
Whatever came next, she knew two things with absolute certainty:
Reynolds had crossed a line.
And Isobel had been bleeding quietly under the weight of protecting them both.
* 11:42 AM – Isobel’s Office*
Maggie didn’t knock.
She pushed the door open quietly, shutting it behind her with a soft click. Isobel was at her desk, reading something on her screen, posture stiff — the way it always got when she was trying not to let anything show.
The moment she looked up and saw Maggie, something flickered across her face. Guilt. Fear. Maybe both.
“Maggie—”
“I heard you.”
Isobel went still.
Maggie took one step closer. “In the hallway. Upstairs. You and ADIC Reynolds.”
She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t throw anything. The calm in her tone was the kind that came after a storm — not before one. And somehow that made it worse.
Isobel’s mouth parted, searching for the right lie or the least-damaging truth. “That wasn’t—”
“Don’t,” Maggie said softly. “Please don’t insult me.”
A long silence hung between them.
Finally, Isobel stood slowly. Her hands rested lightly on the edge of her desk — like she needed the grounding. “I didn’t want you involved.”
“I am involved,” Maggie said, voice steady. “I’ve been involved since the first time you looked at me like you wanted to tell me something but didn’t.”
Isobel’s shoulders sagged, her jaw tightening like she was biting back the apology that wouldn’t be enough. “He’s trying to box me in. Make me choose between protecting the team and protecting you.”
“And your solution was shutting me out?”
“I was trying to protect you.”
Maggie stepped closer. Her voice cracked, just barely. “Do you honestly think I need protecting from you?”
“No,” Isobel whispered. “From them.”
A pause. A heartbeat.
Maggie nodded once. “Okay. Then let’s fight them. Together.”
Isobel looked up, eyes wide and wet — surprised. Like it hadn’t occurred to her that Maggie would still want to stand beside her after all of this.
Maggie shook her head gently. “Don’t do this alone, Isobel. Don’t push me away so it hurts less when you lose control of the fallout. I’m here. I’ve been here.”
She reached across the desk, covering Isobel’s hand with hers. Warm. Steady.
And this time, Isobel didn’t pull away.
*3:12 PM – Isobel’s Office*
The rest of the day went by as normally as possible. Maggie and OA chased a few leads, Scola and Tiff interrogated one of the main case suspects and Jubal held the JOC together. Before long, the afternoon crept up on the New York Field Office.
The blinds were drawn in Isobel’s office. The door locked. Maggie sat across from Isobel, one foot tucked under her thigh, eyes dark with focus.
“So what’s the worst-case scenario if we go over his head?” she asked.
Isobel exhaled, fingers laced on her desk. “He leaks the relationship — frames it as misconduct. Uses it to discredit every leadership decision I’ve made. Possibly pulls you into an OPR review, depending on how far he wants to go.”
Maggie nodded, processing. “And the best-case?”
“We expose him. Show a pattern of intimidation and abuse of authority. You corroborate. Elise might back us up, if she heard enough. We go to AD Piccini directly — she doesn’t like Reynolds.”
“But it’ll be a gamble.”
Isobel nodded. “A big one.”
Maggie stood and started to pace. “Then we stack the deck. I’ll dig into anything questionable he’s pushed down through tasking. Ian can help. I can even loop in Kelly quietly.”
Isobel looked up, admiration softening her expression despite the tension. “You always move like the floor’s already on fire.”
Maggie glanced over her shoulder. “And you always pretend you don’t feel the heat.”
That earned the smallest of smiles. “We’ll get ahead of him.”
They both believed it. For a moment, the room was thick with solidarity — hard-earned, tempered in silence, now quietly burning with resolve.
⸻
*6:09 PM – 26 Fed, JOC*
Isobel had just returned from briefing an internal affairs liaison when her desk phone buzzed.
“Isobel Castille.”
“This is ADIC Reynolds’ office. Please send SSA Maggie Bell to 27C immediately for reassignment paperwork.”
Isobel froze.
“I’m sorry—what?”
The line clicked dead.
She stood, blood pulsing in her ears, and turned—just in time to see Maggie approaching, already confused by the expressions shifting around the JOC.
“Elise just got a ping,” Maggie said. “Something about a reassignment?”
Isobel felt the words in her mouth and hated how small they sounded. “He’s transferring you.”
Maggie blinked. “What?”
“New York to Pittsburgh,” Elise called from her station, brow furrowed. “Effective end of week. Says it was requested internally for ‘resource alignment.’”
OA stood from his chair, already striding forward. “That’s bullshit. Who the hell requested that?”
Isobel’s stomach dropped.
She didn’t have to guess. She knew.
Maggie stared at her, jaw tight. “He knows I overheard him.”
Isobel’s voice was quiet, strained. “He’s isolating you. So I’ll stop pushing back.”
OA glanced between them. “What do you want me to do?”
Maggie didn’t blink. “Stall him. Buy us time.”
Isobel nodded, already moving toward her office. “We’re not letting him win.”
* Tuesday – 8:31 AM, 26 FED – OPR Suite*
Isobel stood in front of the long glass table, hands steady, even as her heart beat thunderously in her chest.
Across from her sat two Office of Professional Responsibility investigators, a representative from Legal Affairs, and Assistant Director Piccini herself.
To their right: Reynolds.
Stiff, cold-eyed. But his mouth was twitching at the corners. Nervous.
Good.
Piccini tapped a pen against her notepad. “Let’s go ahead and get started.”
Maggie was seated beside Isobel. She hadn’t said much, but her presence was loud — the kind of silence that draws attention, not deflects it.
The kind that means I’m not moving.
Isobel cleared her throat. “We’re submitting a formal complaint against ADIC Reynolds. The attached evidence includes audio recordings, corroborating witness testimony, and a six-month audit trail of manipulative tasking orders designed to suppress accountability, redirect field resources, and undermine my command decisions.”
Reynolds shifted in his seat, brow arched. “You mean to tell me this is because of your relationship with SSA Bell?”
Piccini leaned forward. “Watch your tone.”
Maggie slid forward a crisp document. “The so-called relationship was never part of our complaint. The abuse of power? That is.”
Reynolds scoffed. “You have no proof of coercion.”
Isobel didn’t blink. “You threatened to derail a counterintelligence task force unless I complied. You rerouted Maggie to Pittsburgh without consulting chain of command. You used our personal proximity — which you suspected, not confirmed — as leverage. You counted on silence. You don’t have that luxury anymore.”
Piccini’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll review everything. Thoroughly. But I’ll tell you now, Reynolds — if even half of what’s here holds, you’re done.”
Reynolds stood, voice tight. “This is career sabotage.”
“No,” Isobel said flatly. “This is accountability.”
⸻
*Three Weeks Later – 7:22 PM – Maggie’s Apartment*
The news came in quietly: Reynolds had been placed on administrative leave pending formal dismissal. His office was cleared out within forty-eight hours. The reassignment order was rescinded.
And now, here they were — Maggie in a hoodie, curled against the arm of the couch, and Isobel standing near the window, phone just set down.
“It’s over,” Isobel said softly.
Maggie looked up. “I know.”
Isobel turned toward her, the last vestige of tension in her shoulders finally breaking. “You stayed.”
Maggie gave a tired but real smile. “You didn’t ask me to.”
“I thought it would protect you.”
“You keep trying to do that,” Maggie said, standing slowly. “When all I’ve ever wanted is for you to let me stand beside you.”
She crossed the room — stopped just a breath away.
And this time, there was no fear. No JOC. No fallout hanging overhead.
Just two women, bruised by the system, but not broken.
Isobel touched Maggie’s cheek, thumb brushing gently along her jaw.
“I’m not letting go,” she whispered.
“You’re not supposed to,” Maggie said, and kissed her — soft, sure, like a promise.
*Maggie’s Apartment – 9:46 PM*
Isobel stood barefoot in Maggie’s kitchen, hair loose around her shoulders, a glass of wine in one hand and the other resting on the counter as she watched Maggie pull a skillet from the cabinet like it was a weapon in a field op.
“You don’t have to cook,” she said, sipping. “We could just order from that ridiculous place you pretend you don’t like.”
Maggie arched a brow over her shoulder. “You mean the overpriced organic taco place with pretentious guac?”
“That’s the one.”
“I hate it,” Maggie said, but she was smiling — the soft kind that came from knowing she was loved anyway. “Also, we’re out of guac.”
Isobel leaned into the counter. “What a tragedy.”
Maggie looked up, and for a long beat, the air between them changed. Slowed. Softened.
The skillet clinked gently onto the stove, but Maggie didn’t turn the burner on.
Instead, she walked over, slow and easy, and reached for the wine glass in Isobel’s hand. Took it. Set it aside. Then curled one hand around Isobel’s waist, the other lifting gently to her cheek.
“You’re not still waiting for the other shoe to drop, are you?”
Isobel’s breath caught.
“A little,” she admitted. “It’s habit.”
Maggie nodded, her voice low. “Then let’s make new ones.”
She leaned in and kissed her — a little deeper than necessary, a little slower than innocent. And when Isobel responded, Maggie smiled against her mouth.
There was no rush. No urgency.
Just the feel of fingers sliding under cotton. The low hum of a record playing from the speaker across the room. The warmth of Maggie’s lips trailing just under Isobel’s jaw, her breath catching as she whispered, “Stay tonight.”
“I was going to,” Isobel breathed, her hands already slipping beneath the hem of Maggie’s tee.
“Then don’t overthink it.”
She didn’t.
They moved through the apartment like they’d been doing this for years — laughing quietly when they nearly tripped over the cat toy near the couch, Maggie pressing kisses down Isobel’s shoulder as she unzipped her dress, Isobel pulling Maggie toward the bed by her belt loops, eyes locked, reverent.
There was no proving anything here. No walls to climb. Just skin and breath and the simple, solid truth of I want you, and I’m not afraid anymore.
Later, tangled under the sheets, Isobel lay with her head on Maggie’s chest, fingers brushing lazy circles just above her hip.
“You cooked nothing,” she murmured.
Maggie smiled against her hair. “You didn’t seem to mind.”
The lamp on the nightstand cast a soft gold wash across the room, flickering slightly in the low air conditioning hum. The city was hushed behind the windows — not silent, never silent, but far enough away that it couldn’t touch them.
Isobel’s bare shoulder shifted slightly as she rolled onto her side, hand drifting down Maggie’s arm like she was tracing the memory of her skin more than the surface.
“I didn’t think we’d get here,” she murmured.
Maggie lifted her hand to cup Isobel’s cheek. “We fought for it.”
Isobel leaned into her. “I keep thinking you’ll wake up and wonder what you were doing with someone like me.”
“I already did that,” Maggie said quietly. “It only made me want you more.”
There was a flicker of something unguarded in Isobel’s eyes — vulnerability, raw and reverent — and then she kissed her.
Slower this time.
Longer.
Maggie felt herself melt into it. There was no hesitation anymore — no waiting for someone to call, no interruption, no fear.
Only the way Isobel’s hands explored her with knowing grace, fingers skating down her spine, lips brushing along her throat as she whispered her name like it was something precious.
Maggie arched beneath her, breath catching. “You always this focused, SAC Castille?”
Isobel smirked against her skin. “Only when I know I have limited jurisdiction.”
“Mm,” Maggie sighed, nails dragging lightly down Isobel’s back. “You’ve got full clearance tonight.”
That made Isobel laugh — that quiet, open kind of laugh Maggie rarely heard and always craved. And then she leaned in again, kissing her slower this time, deeper, until Maggie forgot every name, every city, every mission she’d ever been sent on.
The rest of the night unfolded like that — a series of soft gasps and whispered words, fingers clutching, bodies curved close and warm. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t a climax for the sake of tension.
It was two women who had clawed their way through silence, power plays, and fear, now clinging to the one thing they could finally have:
Each other.
And when they finally stilled — breaths tangled, hands clasped, legs woven together under the sheets — Isobel pressed her forehead to Maggie’s and whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Maggie kissed the corner of her mouth, drowsy and aching with affection. “You’d better not.”
*Saturday Morning – Maggie’s Apartment – 7:53 AM*
The first thing Isobel noticed was how quiet it was. Not the eerie kind — not the silence of suppressed panic or waiting bad news — but the kind of stillness that came with safety. The kind that wrapped around her like the softness of Maggie’s sheets.
The sunlight poured in through the half-drawn blinds in soft golden bands, illuminating a faint dusting of freckles on Maggie’s bare shoulder, the curve of her back rising and falling in an easy rhythm.
Isobel shifted slightly, propped up on one elbow.
Maggie blinked awake slowly, eyes finding hers. “You’re staring.”
“I’m allowed,” Isobel murmured.
Maggie gave a half-smile, lazy and warm. “Only if you make coffee.”
“I made you very happy last night,” Isobel deadpanned. “I feel like I earned coffee in bed.”
That earned her a soft laugh, and Maggie rolled onto her back, stretching. The sheet slipped down, and Isobel couldn’t help the appreciative glance — or the faint blush it stirred in both of them.
“You’re smug this morning,” Maggie said.
“I’m relaxed,” Isobel replied, tucking a lock of hair behind Maggie’s ear. “You’re a terrible influence.”
“You love it.”
“I do.”
The admission hung between them for a beat. Not a slip. Not impulsive. Just true.
Maggie leaned in and kissed her, slow and easy. “I’ll make the coffee. You want scrambled eggs or poached?”
Isobel arched an eyebrow. “You’re poaching eggs now?”
“I’m trying,” Maggie said with exaggerated seriousness. “I want us to have at least one domestic weekend before the next briefing ruins everything.”
That got a real laugh from Isobel — light, low, and real. “Scrambled,” she said, brushing her lips over Maggie’s once more. “And toast, if you’re feeling brave.”
“Feeling lucky.”
⸻
Isobel leaned against the counter, oversized NYPD academy sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, a steaming mug in hand.
Maggie handed her a plate with eggs and toast — only slightly burnt — and looked proud.
“Chef Bell at your service.”
Isobel grinned, accepting it. “I’m going to marry you just for the effort.”
Maggie flushed and muttered, “That’s not the worst offer I’ve had.”
They sat across from each other at the tiny kitchen table, knees brushing. The food was imperfect. The coffee was strong. And for once, everything felt right.
Outside, the city was already waking up. But in here, time was still.
And neither of them wanted to move.
———
Maggie lay sprawled across the couch, legs stretched out, a blanket half-pulled over her lap, and an open book resting on her stomach. The TV was playing something vaguely familiar — a rerun of Friends, muted. Just enough background noise to keep the world at bay.
From the kitchen, she could hear the soft shuffle of Isobel’s feet on tile, the clink of a mug being set in the sink. No urgency. No phone calls buzzing them into action. Just the kind of Saturday morning people forget to treasure until they don’t get them anymore.
She felt the couch dip and smiled without opening her eyes.
“Book good?” Isobel asked, voice soft, her fingers brushing a light path along Maggie’s arm.
“It was,” Maggie said, opening her eyes slowly. “Then I realized I was reading the same sentence six times and mostly thinking about you in my shirt.”
Isobel glanced down at herself. She was wearing one of Maggie’s NYU sweatshirts — oversized and worn thin from years of washing — and little else. Her smirk was faint but amused. “Well, you picked a distraction.”
“Regret nothing.”
Isobel settled beside her, pulling Maggie’s legs into her lap and running her hands absentmindedly along her calves. “You always like this on Saturdays?”
“Only the ones where I’m not dodging bullets,” Maggie teased. “But I could get used to this.”
There was a quiet between them again — not awkward, but full. Easy. Like the silence of people who didn’t need to fill every space.
Isobel broke it with a question so soft it barely registered. “What would we do… if we had a whole weekend like this?”
Maggie blinked, tilted her head. “You mean no cases, no Reynolds, no Bureau drama?”
“No nothing,” Isobel said. “Just you and me.”
Maggie grinned. “We’d sleep in. Eat pancakes too late. Maybe go for a walk around Battery Park. Come back. Make dinner. Play music. Probably dance in the kitchen.”
“Dance?”
“I’d lead.”
Isobel laughed. “You’re shorter.”
“I’d still lead.”
They smiled at each other, something unspoken passing between them — the shape of a maybe, the echo of a hope.
“Tell me that future’s possible,” Isobel said after a beat, her voice low, nearly a whisper.
Maggie reached out and cupped her cheek. “It’s not just possible, Isobel. It’s waiting for us.”
And that was all the permission either of them needed.
Because the next kiss wasn’t urgent. It was warm and slow and steady. Not about claiming — about staying. About telling each other, I’m not going anywhere.
Outside, the world spun on. But inside this apartment, it was nothing but golden light, soft laughter, and the kind of peace they’d both almost stopped believing in.
*Saturday – Lower Manhattan – 2:04 PM*
It wasn’t often Isobel got to walk the city without a purpose. No federal vehicle idling at the curb, no Bureau ID clipped inside her coat, no bulletproof vest beneath her layers. Just a light scarf, a navy peacoat, and Maggie’s hand casually brushing hers as they strolled past a row of bookshops and cafés.
The wind tugged at her hair. Maggie reached up, smoothed a strand behind her ear.
“You’re smiling,” Maggie said, bumping her shoulder lightly. “It’s throwing off your whole intimidating boss aesthetic.”
Isobel arched a brow. “Maybe I’m trying something new.”
“New looks good on you.”
The compliment was light, but something in Isobel’s chest stuttered anyway. She glanced sideways at Maggie, who was sipping a chai latte from a little corner café they’d both immediately fallen in love with. Her cheeks were pink from the wind, hair tucked under a beanie, and there was a kind of ease in her that made something inside Isobel ache in the best way.
They reached Battery Park by instinct. The water shimmered under the afternoon sun, and a few tourists were taking photos of the Statue of Liberty in the distance.
Isobel leaned against the railing, folding her arms. “You ever think about leaving it all behind?”
Maggie tilted her head. “The Bureau?”
Isobel nodded. “The politics. The pressure. The constant second-guessing.”
Maggie stepped in beside her, quiet for a moment. “I think about it sometimes. Not in a running away kind of way. Just…” She exhaled. “There’s a version of life out there that’s a little quieter. I don’t know if I want it forever, but I wouldn’t mind sampling it for a while.”
Isobel turned her head slightly, watching her. “With anyone in particular?”
Maggie looked at her then. A small, certain smile.
“I like the idea of Saturday mornings with you. That quiet life? It starts to look a little more real when you’re in it.”
Isobel’s throat tightened, but she didn’t look away.
Instead, she reached out, fingers curling around Maggie’s. They were holding hands and it felt…normal.
They stood like that for a while, the city buzzing softly around them, and for once, neither of them felt the need to move.
*Saturday Evening – Maggie’s Apartment – 6:48 PM*
The apartment was warm by the time they stepped back inside, jackets shrugged off and tossed over the backs of chairs, the scent of crisp fall air still clinging to them. Maggie turned on a few soft lights, then padded barefoot into the kitchen, Isobel trailing just behind her.
It was the kind of easy rhythm she’d always imagined but never quite had — cooking with someone without it turning into a power struggle or a performance. Isobel took the lead this time, sleeves rolled up, wristwatch set aside on the counter as she chopped onions with practiced precision.
Maggie leaned against the counter, a glass of wine in hand, watching the way the corners of Isobel’s mouth quirked when she focused, the little crease in her brow when she reached for the garlic.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” Maggie said softly.
Isobel glanced at her, smiling. “That’s because I’ve spent years letting people believe I’m too busy to bother.”
“And yet here you are.”
Isobel shrugged, brushing the chopped garlic into the pan. “Turns out, the right company changes the equation.”
The sizzle of olive oil hit the air, and for a while the only sounds were the quiet bubbling of pasta on the stove, the gentle clink of utensils, the soft hum of music playing from Maggie’s phone in the corner.
Maggie set the table, lit a candle out of instinct, and when they finally sat down to eat, it wasn’t fancy — just penne tossed with sautéed vegetables and herbs, a slice of warm bread each — but it tasted like comfort. Like home.
After dinner, they left the dishes where they were and sank into the couch together. Maggie curled into Isobel’s side, her head on her shoulder, Isobel’s arm draped across her back.
They didn’t talk for a while. The TV flickered quietly in the background, some old nature documentary neither of them was really watching. Outside, the city moved on without them.
“I forgot what this felt like,” Isobel said after a long pause.
Maggie looked up, her voice a whisper. “What?”
“Stillness.”
Maggie turned, pressing a kiss to the curve of Isobel’s collarbone. “You deserve it.”
Isobel’s breath caught. “So do you.”
And they sat there like that — long into the night — legs tangled, the scent of garlic still faint in the air, the weight of everything unspoken softened by the fact that it no longer had to be hidden.
They didn’t need fireworks.
They just needed this.
*Sunday Morning – Fort Tryon Park – 9:37 AM*
The city hadn’t quite woken up yet — or maybe it was just that they’d found one of the few corners where it never felt like it had to.
Leaves rustled gently above them, golden sunlight slipping through bare branches, casting slow-moving shadows across the cobbled paths. The breeze was brisk but soft, scented faintly with earth and the last breath of autumn.
Isobel sat on a park bench, coffee in hand — Maggie’s choice of oat milk latte in a paper cup beside her, still hot. Maggie had wandered off to snap a photo of the view near the overlook, something about the light hitting the Hudson just right. Isobel didn’t mind waiting. Not anymore.
Waiting wasn’t empty now. It was space.
She took a sip of her own drink and let herself just be for a moment. No phone buzzing in her pocket. No memo needing her signature. No pressure sitting squarely on her shoulders. Just the sound of birds in the trees, a distant dog bark, and the faint laugh that floated back from where Maggie was standing.
There’d been a time — not that long ago — when she didn’t think this was allowed.
She thought love had to be stolen in slivers. That softness had to be hidden. That letting someone all the way in meant losing something essential in the process.
And then Maggie showed her how wrong she’d been.
“Hey.” Maggie’s voice cut gently into the quiet, and Isobel looked up to find her walking back over, cheeks pink from the cold, phone in one hand and a folded newspaper in the other.
“Found you a crossword,” she said, handing it over as she sat. “The Sunday one. Extra brutal.”
Isobel smiled, taking it. “You trying to humble me?”
“I’d never win,” Maggie said, nudging her. “But I like watching you try.”
They sat in easy silence for a while, Maggie leaning her head on Isobel’s shoulder, Isobel tapping the edge of her pen against the paper, both of them content to exist just like this.
When Maggie finally spoke again, it was soft.
“Do you ever think about… what we would’ve missed if we’d stayed scared?”
Isobel glanced at her. “All the time.”
“I used to think love meant running toward someone with your heart on fire. But this?” Maggie reached over and laced their fingers together. “This feels like finally standing still. And letting yourself be seen.”
Isobel nodded. “I used to think love was red. But this…”
She looked around. At the trees. At Maggie’s hand in hers. At the life they were building quietly, without spectacle — but with intention.
“…This feels like daylight.”
And Maggie kissed her then — slow and certain, nothing rushed about it — the kind of kiss that doesn’t need an ending because it’s already home.