The bullpen was quieter than it should have been at nine in the morning. No phones ringing. No hurried footsteps. Just the low hum of the coffee machine and the distant murmur of a TV somewhere down the hall.

Derek Morgan stood just inside the glass doors, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, jaw tight. He'd been gone three weeks. The case in Detroit had been brutal—two children, a basement, and a suspect who'd smiled through the whole interrogation.

The only person at their desk was Y/n. The rest of the team was either in a briefing or hadn't come in yet. Derek dropped his bag by his chair and didn't sit. His shoulders were still braced, like he was waiting for someone to swing at him.