The room wasn’t loud. That was the problem. Derek Morgan was used to noise—sirens, yelling, gunfire, even his own breath pounding in his ears when things got out of control. But silence? Silence was when the real shit crept in.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, jaw tight. The lights were dimmed low, one lamp casting a soft amber circle across the floor. It should have felt intimate, calming. It didn’t. It felt like waiting for something to hit. Something he asked for.

His thumb rubbed over the calloused pad of his opposite hand. A nervous habit. One he’d never admit to. Not even to you, who was somewhere behind him now—close, quiet, and watching in that way you always did. The kind of gaze Derek had spent his whole damn life avoiding.

He told himself he wasn’t scared. That was a lie.

It wasn’t the room, or the idea of sex, or even being with a man. That door had cracked open a long time ago—back in Chicago, maybe. Back in those years when his body was the only thing that felt real, and the streets taught him that power was about performance. Never softness. Never need.

But this wasn’t about impulse or control.

This was him choosing something vulnerable. Something true.

And that scared the hell out of him.

He shifted slightly, finally looking over his shoulder. You hadn’t moved—still leaning against the wall, calm as ever. That steady presence made Derek’s stomach twist. Not because of fear. Because it was real.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, mostly to himself, but loud enough to be heard. “You always this patient, or is it just me you’re waiting on?”

His smile didn’t hold for long. He dropped his gaze again.

The truth was, he didn’t know how to be in this. He knew how to fight, how to lead, how to take a bullet and get back up. He knew how to hold his teammates through trauma, how to confront monsters that wore human faces. But letting someone else see him—not the agent, not the man carved from muscle and grit—that was different.

He let out a breath. Shaky. Quiet.

When you stepped forward, the floor creaked slightly beneath your weight. Derek didn’t flinch, but his shoulders locked up for half a second before he forced them to relax.

Then, a hand—firm, warm—touched his back. Right between his shoulder blades. No pushing. Just resting there. That single point of contact made his throat tighten.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him like that. Like they wanted to steady him, not strip him down.

He stayed still, eyes closed. His own hand reached back instinctively, brushing over your wrist, but not grabbing. Just... acknowledging.

He could smell you now—clean soap, a faint trace of sweat. Real. Tangible. The kind of scent that would linger if Derek let himself be pulled under.

He didn’t pull away.

“I’ve thought about this more times than I should probably admit,” he said quietly. “Not just the sex. The... letting go part. Not having to be the one with the answers. Not having to be in control.”

He laughed once, dry, humorless.

“But I don’t know how to shut that part off. Not completely. It’s like it’s hardwired.”

The hand on his back moved slowly, sliding to his waist. Derek let it. Tensed, then eased. His breathing shifted—quieter now, but not calmer. Like something tightly wound was beginning to fray at the edges.

When you leaned in, lips grazing along his shoulder, Derek’s whole body responded—subtle but immediate. His thighs tensed. His hands clenched in the sheets. He tilted his head slightly, baring his throat without even thinking.

A shiver ran through him.

Then, fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt—calloused, slow. It wasn’t possessive. It was exploratory. Asking.

Derek gave a soft nod, teeth catching against his bottom lip as his shirt was drawn upward. You took your time, peeling it off like a layer Derek didn’t realize he’d been suffocating under.

When the shirt dropped to the floor, Derek stayed facing forward, body tight with tension. Not from resistance—but from restraint. The kind of restraint that came from being on the edge of something uncharted.

The next touch was to his side, trailing over ribs and muscle and the scar from a knife fight in Baton Rouge. He wanted to say something—wanted to explain the marks, the way his body told stories he never put into words—but he stayed silent. Let you map them without commentary.

He finally turned his head, eyes meeting yours. There was no pressure there. No hurry. Just patience and something deeper—something steady.

Derek’s voice was rough when he spoke again, barely above a whisper.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”

He meant it as a joke. Mostly.

But there was real vulnerability beneath the words. A flicker of doubt, of fear that maybe this would unravel him more than he could handle. That once he let go, there’d be no putting the walls back up.

Fingers slipped around his hips, thumbs grazing the waistband of his jeans. Not unbuttoning. Not rushing. Just there.

Derek swallowed hard, eyes fluttering shut.

He turned, finally, body shifting toward you in a silent yes. Their mouths met—messy, sudden, not gentle—but honest. Derek kissed like he fought: all instinct and tension, not yet trusting the softness underneath. But it was a beginning. A crack in the armor.

When they broke apart, both breathless, he let his forehead rest against yours.

Still on the edge. Still afraid.

Still not pulling away.

His voice was quieter this time. Barely audible. Raw.

“...Don’t let me run.”