Disclaimer: I dont own anything

Sara didn't expect the knock.

She had been sitting in the dark, the only light coming from the neon sign outside, casting a dull glow over the nearly empty bottle of beer on the table. She wasn't drunk, not yet, but she was hoping to be soon.

The knock came again, firmer this time.

She sighed, pushing herself up and opening the door.

Grissom.

Of course it was Grissom.

He stood there, studying her like he always did—like she was something to be examined, classified, understood. His gaze flicked briefly to the bottle on the table before settling back on her face.

"I heard what happened," he said.

Sara let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. "Did you? Well, that makes two of us." She turned and left the door open, an unspoken invitation.

He hesitated for only a second before stepping inside, closing the door behind him.

"I talked to Ecklie," he said, voice steady.

That got her attention. She crossed her arms. "And?"

"You're not fired."

Sara swallowed, throat tight. It was what she wanted to hear, wasn't it? Then why did it feel so hollow?

She nodded slowly, rubbing a hand over her face before walking back to the table and picking up her beer. She took a slow sip, stalling, before finally saying, "Must be nice."

Grissom frowned. "What?"

Sara let out a quiet, bitter laugh. "To have that kind of power. To be able to walk into a room and make decisions about people's lives like that." She glanced at him.

Grissom didn't answer right away, and she shook her head, exhaling sharply. "I deserve to be fired for what I said, it would probably be for the best if I was, then I could leave Vegas and put us out of our misery.

You know, for a long time, I thought that if I just worked hard enough—if I proved myself over and over again—you'd finally see me. That you'd finally—" She stopped herself, jaw tightening.

She set the bottle down with a thud.

Then she looked up, meeting his gaze head-on. "I heard you you know."

Grissom's expression shifted, the faintest flicker of something—shock, maybe, or confusion.

Sara swallowed. "In the observation room, after Debbie Marlins case. I was behind the glass, watching you talk to that murderer like it was easy for you. Telling him what you should have told me from the start."

She could still see it so clearly—the way he sat there in that sterile, fluorescent-lit room, voice calm, detached, saying the words that shattered her.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't risk everything for her.

She took a step closer, her voice quieter now. "You told a complete stranger how you felt about me, but you couldn't tell me." Her eyes burned. "You flirt with me, you keep me close, and then when I get too close, you push me away. Do you even realise what that does to me?"

Grissom's gaze flickered, but he didn't look away.

Sara shook her head. "I understand, I really do, you don't want me, Grissom, you have never been able to understand my temper or my emotions, I scare you, and it makes you want to study me. Like one of your damn insects in a jar."

Silence stretched between them.

Then Grissom said softly, "That's not true. I don't want to study you like a bug."

Sara let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking her head. "No? That's sure as hell what it feels like."

Grissom exhaled, stepping forward, his voice low but firm. "I want you to tell me why you're so angry. Why certain cases, specifically cases involving abuse, enrage you so much."

Sara's breath caught in her throat.

There it was. The one thing no one had ever really asked her. Not with this kind of patience. Not with this kind of care. She had a rule, dont ask dont tell.

Don't tell the teachers at school about home, don't tell the foster kids what she endured, they would only use it against you. Once her weaknesses were out there for people to see she would be vulnerable.

her reasons for being the way she is werent known to many, they fit snugly into a folder, only to be read by those who asked for it. If someone asked, they could read it, she would tell them, but only if there was trust.

Trust isnt something Sara was familiar with. She preferred to keep her personal life confidential, not letting others know where her armour was weak.

She could have lied. Could have deflected. Could have made some sarcastic remark and ended the conversation right there.

But he was waiting.

Not as her boss. Not as a scientist trying to classify her.

As Gil.

And for some reason, that undid her completely.

Her arms tightened around herself as she turned away, breathing hard through her nose. She grabbed the edge of the counter, gripping it like an anchor.

"You really want to know?" she asked, her voice uneven.

"Yes," he said simply.

Sara let out a slow, shaky breath. The words were like glass in her throat, sharp and painful, but she forced them out before she lost her nerve.

"I was ten," she started, and just saying it out loud made her stomach twist. "My mother—" She swallowed, her fingers digging into the counter. "She killed my father. Stabbed him seven times right in front of me."

She heard Grissom inhale sharply, but he didn't speak. He just listened.

"She knew i had seen it all, i had never seen her look so angry before, like i was the cause of all the problems she had ever experienced.

she tied me to the stove," she continued, her voice hollow. "She tried to burn me alive, but she stopped because… because the smell was too much for her."

Her grip on the counter was so tight her knuckles had gone white.

"She kicked his body down into the basement and put me down there with it," she said, her voice cracking for the first time. "I was alone with him for two weeks, i lived off frozen food out of the freezer."

She turned back to face him, and for the first time, she let him see the raw, unfiltered truth in her eyes. "I watched him decompose, Grissom. I mapped the process. I counted the bugs, the timeframes, the changes." A bitter, broken laugh escaped her lips. "I was doing forensics before I even knew what it was."

Grissom's expression hadn't changed. He hadn't recoiled, hadn't looked at her with pity or revulsion.

But his eyes—

His eyes were shattered.

Sara's throat tightened. "So yeah," she said, her voice rough. "That's why."

She let out a breath, turning away again.

"That's why I don't lose sleep over decomp cases." She laughed again, a dry, humorless sound. "And that's why when I see a woman with bruises on her face, or a kid who flinches when someone raises their voice, it makes me—" She swallowed hard, her hands shaking. "It makes me want to burn the whole damn world down."

She felt her chest rising and falling too fast, her body vibrating with emotion she didn't know how to process. She had never said these words aloud before. Never to anyone.

Not even to herself.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it, and she angrily wiped it away, cursing under her breath.

She expected Grissom to say something. Maybe try to comfort her. Maybe try to reason with her.

Instead, he moved.

Slowly. Carefully.

She felt the warmth of him before she felt his touch. His hand was tentative at first, barely brushing her arm, giving her time to pull away.

She didn't.

His fingers slid down to her wrist, wrapping around it gently—just enough for her to feel him, to know he was there.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sara let out a sharp exhale, closing her eyes. "Don't."

He didn't say anything else.

Didn't offer meaningless words. Didn't tell her it would be okay.

He just stood there, holding her wrist like it was the only thing keeping her from unraveling completely.

After a long moment, she turned her hand over, lacing her fingers with his.

And for the first time that night, she let herself breathe.