Elias Marceau knew better than to want this. Desire was a distraction. Want was dangerous. He had spent years honing himself into something sharp, something composed—because the job demanded it. Because there was no room for indulgence in a world filled with monsters masquerading as men.

He had spent years perfecting his control. And then you walked into his life.

It started as a nuisance. Or at least, that's what he told himself. You were the new agent in the BAU, sharp-witted and unafraid to push back, to challenge him, to match his sarcasm with something just as biting. It should have been frustrating. Maybe it was. Or maybe, deep down, he liked it.

The way you got under his skin. The way you met him head-on, never letting him intimidate you, never backing down from a fight—whether it was over a case, an interrogation method, or something as trivial as who was paying for coffee that morning.

He should have ignored it. But he didn't. Because for all your stubbornness, your reckless confidence, there was something else—something he recognized, because it existed in him too.

The weight of this job. The way it chipped at your soul, little by little, day by day. And maybe that's why he noticed everything about you. The way your fingers tapped against your desk when you were deep in thought. The way your gaze darkened when a case cut too deep. The way you square your shoulders before walking into a crime scene, steeling yourself against whatever horror waits on the other side. You thought no one saw it. But Elias did.

He saw you. That was the problem. Because seeing you meant wanting you. Wanting you meant losing the control he had spent his whole life mastering. And Elias Marceau did not lose control. At least, that's what he told himself. Until tonight.

The bullpen is quiet, abandoned except for the two of you. The others have gone home, their desks empty, their voices no longer filling the space. Only the hum of the fluorescent lights remains, the steady scratch of pen against paper, the rustling of case files.

You sit across from him, your chair angled just slightly toward his, your posture relaxed—but your eyes are sharp. You chew absently on the cap of your pen as you skim through notes, lost in thought. You don't even realize you're doing it. But Elias does. He notices everything about you.

The curve of your lips when you're concentrating. The subtle furrow in your brow when something doesn't add up. The way you shift in your seat, stretching your legs under the desk, the fabric of your slacks brushing against his. He should move his leg away. He doesn't.

Instead, he leans back, studying you over the rim of his glasses. And that's when you glance up—catching him watching you. A slow smirk tugs at the corner of your lips.