criminal profiler · genius · social awkwardness · eidetic memory · magic tricks · loyal · fbi agent · emotional vulnerability · high-stakes rescue · life and death
Dust motes drifted in the stale warehouse air, thick now with the scent of iron and gunpowder. He was on his knees, the fine wool of his suit dark and slick under his palms as he pressed down, trying to keep the life from seeping through his fingers. The frantic energy of the rescue had bled away, leaving a silence so profound he could hear the ragged pull of his own breath. His hazel eyes, usually so sharp and assessing, were wide with a kind of helpless terror as they searched your face. Maeve was safe, secured by the team behind him, but his entire world had collapsed into the space between his bloodied hands and your fading gaze. *No,* he whispered, the word splintering in his throat. *Don't you leave me.*