"I don't sleep the first night in any new place."

Garcia looks at you, wide-eyed and horrified. The brightly colored pajamas she's donned are all part of the slumber party aesthetic she seems to be aiming for, complete with mismatched fuzzy socks. She had all but used her body weight to wrestle the second room key out of Emily's hand, insisting she wanted to spend time one-on-one with you, the newbie, despite FBI protocol suggesting partners and spouses room separately when possible.

"What do you mean, you don't sleep?" she asks, eyes darting between you and the bags of snacks she's laid out on the bed.

You shrug casually, knowing you've already confused her. "In humans and many animals, it's called the 'first-night effect.' It means that during the first night in an unfamiliar environment, one hemisphere of the brain—usually the left—stays more alert while the other half is in slow-wave sleep. It's an evolutionary response. My brain is on guard, so if I'm going to wake up more tired than when I started, I might as well stay awake."

Garcia's face scrunches in confusion. "What?"

You press on, not quite registering that you've lost her completely. "It was a protective measure for early humans. Sleeping in unfamiliar or unsafe places triggered heightened awareness, to avoid predators or other dangers. Even though we get less sleep than our ancestors, since we developed communal sleeping patterns."

"How… how do you even know all of this?" she asks, shaking her head in disbelief, though a smile starts to creep across her lips. She's clearly amused, even if you've baffled her.

"My roommate is a paleoanthropologist. She finds that sort of thing fascinating and loves to tell me random facts about ancient humans."

Garcia's eyes light up. "Oh, your weirdness just got better," she says, her voice a mixture of surprise and approval. "I mean, not sleeping and knowing all this first-night-effect-evolution-stuff is peak weirdo vibes, but I dig it. I'm kinda weird too." She gestures to the pajama-clad, snack-laden scene she's set for your impromptu slumber party.

You give her a half-smile, appreciating the effort she's gone to in making you feel welcome. It's been a long time since anyone tried this hard to connect with you. Most people at work or school just saw your oddities and moved on, and it's almost jarring how Garcia is embracing them.

"So, what's the plan then?" Garcia asks, hopping onto her bed and patting the space next to her. "Since you're not planning to sleep, I say we take advantage of this time. Snacks, horror movies, maybe even a little truth or dare? Though, I feel like the truth from you might involve more science facts."

You smile at her. Despite yourself, you're really starting to like the blonde tech. She had rubbed you the wrong way in the car earlier, but now you realize it's not intentional. She just has no filter, no real barrier between her thoughts and the words she speaks. You know something about that.

"How about a horror movie? I feel like you already know enough about me."

Garcia pouts, just a little, clearly disappointed that you won't indulge in her high school-esque game. Her expression is playful, but it's a reminder of how curious she is about everyone. You can't imagine what more she could possibly want to know about you—Emily and JJ must have already filled her in on more than enough. That thought alone sends a fresh wave of discomfort through you.

Did she know about how much you liked being degraded during sex? Did she know about the sweet words they whispered in aftercare, when the harshness of the scene gave way to tenderness? Did she know your hard limits?

Your mind keeps spinning. Does Garcia know that your Mistress likes interrogation roleplay? Or that Miss J likes to hold you up against the wall, forearm pressed between your shoulder blades, hand fisted in your hair as she takes control? All those little things that made up your play now suddenly feel tainted.

The things you like feel…disgusting. The idea of someone else who knows you knowing these things makes you feel like you want to crawl out of your own skin.

At least no one knew about the traumas that caused those hard limits.

No one.

That was why, when you were spiraling, those hard limits seemed to vanish—a way to punish yourself on a psychological level. A way that caused you to dissociate until it was over. But JJ and Emily had always been firm on respecting your limits from the very first time. They were never the ones you could punish yourself with by reliving trauma.

"Doc... Doc," Garcia's voice cuts through your thoughts, and you blink, startled to see her waving a hand in front of your face.

You shake your head, trying to clear the memories. "Sorry, let's just watch that movie."

It takes her approximately one hour into the second movie before she's fast asleep, snuggled into the blankets, surrounded by a pile of Raisinets and Twizzlers. You glance at her, grateful for the brief reprieve from conversation, but your mind refuses to shut off. The thoughts, the spiraling, it's all too loud.

Restless, you slip out of bed, quietly pulling on a pair of running shoes. It's three in the morning, but you need to feel the blood pumping through your veins, something physical to drown out the noise in your head.

Maybe it's because you feel so bad inside that you decide to do something a little dangerous. Hotch had made it clear that agents needed to stay in pairs while working this case—safety was paramount. Working alone could mean confronting the unsub unexpectedly by yourself, and that was unsafe.

But this was different, you tell yourself. You just need to clear your head.

You make your way down to the front desk and ask about nearby running trails. The clerk gives you a strange look but points you toward a few well-lit streets with a lot of bar activity nearby. You have your gun strapped to the small of your back, concealed beneath your jacket, and your badge sits against your hip. You tell yourself you're prepared, even if it feels like you're running more from yourself than anything else.

The rhythmic pounding of your feet on the pavement drowns out everything else for a while. You push your body harder, faster, needing to feel the burn in your chest, the ache in your legs. Two and a half hours later, you find yourself standing in front of the police station, chest heaving, sweat running down your back. You hadn't meant to come here, but something about running has always helped you clear your head, and now you've got an idea forming. Something about the case that might or might not lead somewhere. You just need to check.

But before you can slip inside unnoticed, headlights sweep across the lot as a car pulls in. You freeze, caught in the beams, just as Deputy Marlowe steps out of the vehicle.

"Well, well," she says with a teasing grin, walking toward you. "What's the FBI doing here this early? Can't sleep?"

You can't help but notice the way her eyes linger on you, especially as your legs wobble slightly from the exertion of your run. Before you can answer, your legs falter again, more from exhaustion than anything else, and Deputy Marlowe's hand is suddenly on your waist, steadying you.

"Whoa there, baby girl," she says, her voice low and slightly amused as she steadies you for the second time in twenty-four hours. Her hands linger a little longer than necessary on your waist, and she seems to pull you in closer this time. You can feel the firmness of her chest pressing against yours, her touch radiating warmth that spreads through you in a way that makes your head spin.

"I'm not used to pretty girls swooning for me so easily. Normally, I have to work for it," she murmurs, her lips curving into a smirk as her eyes sweep over your flushed face.

You're a blushing mess, and you know it. The deputy's smirk deepens as she clearly notices, her gaze dipping down and then back up again in a way that sends a new wave of heat to your cheeks. When she finally lets go of your waist, you clear your throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

"So… what has you up so early? Eager to see me?" Deputy Marlowe's thumbs hook through her belt loops, her hips cocked slightly toward you, her posture relaxed but teasingly suggestive. Your psychology textbook would call that a classic mating signal, though it feels far more intense when you're the one on the receiving end of it.

"I had an idea about the case," you manage to stammer out, though it comes out sounding more like a question than the confident statement you'd intended.

She laughs, a low, throaty sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "Want some help?"

You hesitate, glancing toward the station's entrance as if it could somehow save you from the predicament you've gotten yourself into. You've never been great at handling flirtation, especially when it's as direct as this. But you're not here for distractions—you're here because the case is gnawing at your mind and running wasn't enough to shake it.

"I… think I've got it," you say, your voice a little steadier this time, though you can still feel your heart hammering in your chest.

Deputy Marlowe steps back, her eyes twinkling with amusement as if she's well aware of the effect she's having on you. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me," she says, her voice still teasing but with a hint of something more in it.

You don't respond, just nod and make your way toward the entrance of the station, trying to ignore the warmth that still lingers where her hands had been on your waist. You can feel her eyes on you as you walk away, and you force yourself to keep your steps steady, even though your legs still feel shaky.

Once inside, you take a deep breath, leaning against the cool wall for a moment to gather yourself. The encounter with Marlowe still lingers in your mind, the way her touch had felt both grounding and far too intimate. You're supposed to be focused on the case, but your mind is tangled between the investigation and the weight of everything else that's been unraveling since you met the team.

You shake your head, trying to clear the thoughts. You came here to work, not to get lost in more distractions.

You pull out one of the team's tablets and start reviewing the case notes, piecing together the little bits of information that have been swirling in your mind since your run. The first dump site, the second, the timing, the patterns—it's all there, but something is missing. You can feel it, like a piece of the puzzle just waiting to be placed.

The reports detail the victims' lives—school, work, family—but nothing had jumped out before. The team had already combed through the obvious connections. No shared neighborhoods, no shared hangouts, no overlapping social circles. You swipe through the pages, hoping to spot something that had been overlooked.

It's when you reach the digital forensics report that something starts to tug at your subconscious. You go over the victims' phone records again, reading the list of the thousand or so websites they had visited the month before they went missing. There are no obvious patterns—no shared gaming sites or social media groups that would link them. But then, as you scroll through the browser histories again, something odd catches your eye.

Each victim had visited websites about retro technology a few days before their disappearance. One of them had only looked it up on wikipedia. Another had searched it on ChatGPT. It didn't seem relevant at first, and that's probably why no one, not even Garcia, had flagged it. They had all used different wording so algorithms wouldn't find it. But now, looking at the timestamp, you realize something: the victims weren't just browsing for fun. They all cared about rare, discontinued pieces of tech equipment used by old-school radio stations and music enthusiasts.

Your heart skips a beat. It's a small detail, easily dismissed as random internet browsing, but the fact that all of the victims had visited articles about radio equipment—it's too much to be a coincidence.

You quickly dig deeper into the site's traffic logs, cross-referencing the articles with the victims' known activity. Sure enough, the timestamps line up perfectly. Each victim had spent at least thirty minutes on a page, reading the articles in detail days before their disappearance.

"Why would they all be reading about outdated radio equipment?" you mutter to yourself, your fingers flying across the tablet as you search for more details on the articles. The thought crosses your mind that perhaps they were all using some sort of radio frequency to communicate. You're not an expert on radio technology, but you know enough to guess this might be a key connection. If only Garcia were here, she could probably pull more out of the data in minutes.

Before you can process the implications fully, the door creaks open, and Deputy Marlowe steps inside, her eyes catching yours with a curious tilt of her head. "Everything alright? You look like you just solved the case."

You glance up, feeling a buzz of excitement mixing with the realization that you've been at the station far too long. "I think I found something," you say, your voice tinged with urgency. "The victims—they all visited websites about radio equipment. I think they must be connected somehow through that."

Marlowe steps closer, leaning over your shoulder to peer at the screen. Her brow furrows in concentration as she reads the details. "That's... strange. How'd you catch that?"

"I don't know," you admit, the disbelief still fresh in your voice. "I was just looking for anything they had in common that wasn't obvious, and this popped up."

Marlowe lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed. "Well, looks like you've got something."

Before you can respond, your phone buzzes in your hand. Penelope's name flashes on the screen, and you answer eagerly, ready to ask her some tech-related questions.

"Hey, Penelope—"

"Where are you?" Emily's voice cuts in instead, worried and rushed. You blink in confusion, glancing down at your phone again. Did you mislabel the name in your phone?

"Uh… Emily? Is this Penelope's phone?"

"Yes," she replies tersely. "We came over to wake you two up since you were late for breakfast. Turns out someone didn't set their alarm and is now running around frantically getting ready. But your bed hasn't been slept in, and none of your stuff's been touched. So, where the hell are you?"

You wince, glancing at Marlowe, who's watching you with mild curiosity. She can obviously hear the other side of the conversation. "I couldn't sleep. I came to the station," you say, keeping your voice neutral, though your heart pounds.

"We'll be there in twenty. Just be glad we didn't tell Hotch you were missing yet," Emily snaps.

"I think I've found something," you start, hoping to explain the discovery.

"Twenty minutes," she repeats firmly.

You sigh, running a hand through your still-sweaty hair. "Yes, ma'am."

There's a beat of silence on the line, and you immediately regret your word choice. You didn't mean to say it like that. The tone you used is one reserved for scenes—calling Emily "ma'am" outside the dungeon was somethingnew. Not that you had ever thought you'd ever see the woman you had known as Mistress outside of the club.

Emily's voice drops a few notches, now far more intense. You can't tell if it's because of the slip or her growing frustration. "Wearegoing to talk about this."

The line goes dead, leaving you staring at your phone. "Fuck."

Marlowe raises an eyebrow, an amused look playing across her lips. "For someone who seemed on top of the world a second ago, you're looking pretty down, pumpkin."

You groan, slumping against the desk. "The team's going to be here in twenty minutes, and I'm sweaty, in running clothes, with no work attire. There's no way I can make it back to the hotel, change, and get back here in time."

Marlowe looks at you for a moment, then offers a sly smile. "You could always wear some of my extra stuff, or…" She trails off, walking out of the room before you can protest. When she returns, she's holding a crisp button-up shirt, black jeans, and a pair of low-heeled boots—similar to the ones JJ wears. It's all surprisingly acceptable for fieldwork, even if it's not your usual attire.

"Whose are those?" you ask, eyeing the boots warily.

Marlowe grins. "A couple of chips leave stuff behind when they come to visit the late-night shifters. Trust me, you do not want to know what those emergency cots have been used for."

You raise an eyebrow at her, still confused. "Chips?"

She chuckles, holding up the clothes with a smirk. "You know, side pieces. Like, you've got your main sandwich—wife, girlfriend, whatever—and then you've got your side chips."

You groan, rubbing your temples. "So, those clothes are…"

"Yep," she confirms with a grin. "But I figured my clothes would make you look even younger than you already do, which, by the way, can't be more than…?"

You narrow your eyes at her, half-amused and half-annoyed. "Are you checking to make sure I'm legal before you flirt with me again?"

Marlowe laughs, the sound deep and throaty. "Just covering all my bases, baby girl."

You can't help the flush that creeps up your neck at the nickname, and Marlowe's smirk only grows. You don't have the energy to argue with her, so you take the offered clothes and head toward the locker room, your nerves a jumble of exhaustion, frustration, and… something else entirely.

As you step inside the station's locker room, you glance around, hoping no one else is there. The room is thankfully empty, the hum of the fluorescent lights the only sound as you peel off your sweaty running clothes. The cold air hits your skin, making you shiver as you turn on the shower. The water is lukewarm, but it feels good against your aching muscles, the steam rising around you as you let out a long, tired sigh.

You try to clear your mind, focusing on the case, but it's hard to shake the feeling that things are spiraling out of control. The thought of Emily and JJ finding out that you'd spent the night at the station, of them piecing together the weirdness of it all, makes your chest tighten.

And then there's Marlowe.

Her touch still lingers on your skin, and you can't help but replay the way she'd looked at you, the way her hand had lingered just a little too long on your waist. You shake your head, trying to push the thought away. You don't have time for distractions like that. Even if you firmly believe the best way to get over someone—not that you need to get over Emily and JJ, or so you tell yourself—is to get under someone else.

When you finally step out of the shower, the air is cool against your damp skin, and you quickly pull on the clothes Marlowe gave you. The button-up shirt is a little snug across your shoulders, and the jeans are a bit too long, but they'll do. You slip on the boots, which fit surprisingly well, and glance at yourself in the mirror.

Not bad, considering the circumstances.

As you finish up, the locker room door creaks open, and you hear Marlowe's voice behind you. "How's it feel? A little more comfortable than joggers?"

You turn around, and there she is, leaning casually against the doorframe, her arms crossed, eyes trailing down your figure. The way she's looking at you sends a shiver down your spine, and you suddenly feel very aware of the fact that you're alone in the locker room with her.

"Better, thanks," you mumble, trying to keep your voice steady.

Marlowe steps closer, her eyes glinting with mischief. "I think you're pulling it off pretty well. Though, I've got to say, I liked the joggers look, too."

You clear your throat, trying to focus on anything other than the heat of her gaze. "I appreciate the clothes. I'd better get back to the others."

Before you can move, Marlowe reaches out and gently touches your arm, her fingers brushing your skin. The touch is soft, but it's enough to send your heart racing again.

"You know," she says, her voice low and teasing, "you could always stick around here for a bit longer. Everyone is just getting set up. I wouldn't mind the company."

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself before stepping back, putting some much-needed distance between you and Marlowe. "No, I should really get back," you say, your voice firmer this time.

Marlowe raises an eyebrow, her smirk widening just a little as if she's enjoying the game. "Is it because of the blonde in the car earlier? JJ, right?"

You hesitate for just a moment, but it's enough for her to pick up on. You nod slowly, deciding honesty is the best way out of this situation. "Yeah."

Marlowe lets out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. "Are you two… together?" she asks, though there's a playful curiosity in her voice.

"No," you say quickly, but even to your own ears, it sounds complicated.

Marlowe studies your face, her head tilting slightly, a knowing glint in her eyes. "But there's something there," she presses, not unkindly, just with the kind of persistence that makes you squirm a little.

You shrug, trying to remain nonchalant, though the way your chest tightens tells you it's anything but casual. "I don't know. It's complicated. She's married. And it's not just her that I'm…"

"Mm-hmm," Marlowe hums, stepping back slightly, her gaze flicking over you once more. "You sure you don't want to make her a little jealous? Just for fun?"

You laugh nervously, shaking your head. "No, no, that's not— I'm not into that."

But Marlowe isn't backing down. She saunters over to her locker, opening it and pulling out a small bottle of perfume. With a mischievous glint in her eye, she turns back to you. "Trust me, doll," she says softly, stepping close once again.

Before you can react, Marlowe leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek, her lips lingering just enough to make you catch your breath. You can feel the warmth of her breath against your skin for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then she steps back, holding up the perfume bottle and giving you a wink. "Just a little insurance."

She sprays the perfume in the air, and the scent envelops you—a soft, sensual fragrance that feels far too intimate for the situation. You blink, caught off guard by the boldness of it all, and Marlowe's smirk only deepens as she watches your reaction.

"There," she says, stepping back with a satisfied nod. "Now, go knock 'em dead."

You can still feel the ghost of her kiss on your cheek as you stare at her, your heart pounding for reasons you can't quite explain. The scent of the perfume clings to you, and as much as you hate to admit it, part of you wonders if she's right.

Without another word, you turn and head toward the door, your mind racing, knowing you're about to face Emily and JJ looking like you just walked out of some encounter with Marlowe—because in a way, you did.