10

Morgan and Karadec were back on the clock the next morning, driving out to South Pasadena to knock on the door of a local contractor whose name came up in a double-homicide case. The man was courteous, firm on his story, and, as far as alibis went, frustratingly airtight.

Karadec did most of the talking while Morgan observed, her usual unreadable expression giving nothing away. After fifteen minutes, they left with nothing more than a few vague impressions and a fresh sense of uncertainty.

"I don't like him," Morgan said as they walked back toward the car, heels crunching against the sidewalk.

"You don't like anyone we can't pin something on."

"That's not true." She glanced sideways at him. "I like you."

He looked over with a raised eyebrow. "You mean, you like annoying me."

"That is how I show affection."

He gave a small smirk as they approached the car, but then, without a word, Karadec stepped ahead and opened the passenger side door for her.

Morgan blinked, surprised. He had never done that before.

She paused for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly like she was trying to figure out if this was a setup or a joke. It wasn't. Karadec just stood there, holding the door open like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"...Thanks," she said, stepping in, her tone laced with suspicion she didn't bother to hide.

Karadec gave a simple nod, then closed the door gently behind her before circling around to the driver's side.

"So," she said, shifting gears back to the case, "his timeline puts him thirty miles out at the time of the murders. Client meeting, no one to confirm except a receptionist he apparently chats up every Tuesday. That smell fishy to you?"

"Like week-old tuna," Karadec muttered, turning the key in the ignition.

But before the engine could roll over, a ping sounded from his phone on the console.

He glanced at it instinctively, then froze.

Morgan tilted her head. "Soto?"

Karadec didn't answer immediately. He picked up the phone and opened the message:

Haven't heard from you this morning. Text me back when you can.

It was Liana.

Morgan didn't need to see the screen to know.

"Oh-ho," she said, her tone rising with interest. "Agent Liana strikes again."

Karadec didn't look up. "We're on the job."

Morgan smiled, slow and sharklike. "That never stopped anyone with a pulse."

"I'm not replying."

"Oh, I gathered," she said, leaning her elbow on the center console now, entirely too amused. "Poor woman. Must be checking her phone every five minutes. You should text her back. Just a little something. 'Sorry, solving crimes right now, but my heart's available after six.'"

Karadec gave her a long, pointed look. "No."

"Come on. That was a solid line."

"I don't do personal messages during work hours."

"Do you even do personal stuff at all?" she shot back.

He gave her a dry look, unimpressed. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Me? No. I live to annoy. Especially when it's you."

He sighed heavily, shaking his head. He can't believe he got to deal with this usual aggravation again.

Morgan kept going. "Come on. Just shoot her a little 'Busy but flattered' message. It's polite. Humane."

Karadec ignored her and started the car.

"Right. Typical Karadec," Morgan muttered. "Utterly devoted to duty, zero social life, always in black."

The drive back to the precinct was short, but not short enough to escape the teasing. Morgan launched a full campaign—casual suggestions, fake text drafts she read out loud, even an exaggerated impression of Liana's voice.

"Hi Adam," she said, pitching her voice high and breathy. "Just wondering if your heart is emotionally available or if it's locked behind some steely wall of unresolved trauma? Call me back!"

"Are you done?" he asked flatly.

"I haven't even gotten to the voicemail version."

When the elevator doors closed behind them back at the precinct, Morgan leaned against the mirrored wall with a sly smile. "You know, for someone so emotionally constipated, you get a lot of female attention."

Karadec sighed. "You've said five different versions of that in the past ten minutes."

"I mean, she's gorg," she said, casually adjusting her blazer. "In a professionally dangerous kind of way."

Karadec didn't respond.

"She's probably perfect for you. Loves rules, polished shoes, says things like 'Let's circle back on that.' It's a match made in federal heaven."

They stepped into the bullpen, the hum of keyboards and low voices a familiar backdrop. Morgan followed him to his desk, relentless.

"Do you think Liana's a texter or a caller type? Because I'm betting she's a midnight caller, lots of soft jazz in the background."

"Morgan—"

"Or maybe she's a morning texter. Like, 'Good morning, Adam, just thinking about you and crime scenes.'"

Karadec stopped walking, and so did she. His chair sat empty a few steps ahead. He didn't turn to her, just let out a long breath before finally facing her with something less than annoyance and more... weariness.

"Morgan," he said, voice even, "can you stop?"

She blinked. "It's just a joke."

"I know. And I usually don't mind when you mess with me, but..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Not about this."

Morgan tilted her head, waiting.

"The truth is," Karadec exhaled, lowering his voice, "the only place I ever put real attention, the only thing I let myself care about... is this job. These cases. This is where I go when I need clarity."

Morgan's expression shifted, something quiet pulling at her brows.

"And if there's anything else, something I haven't figured out yet..." Karadec added, slower this time, "it's not something I want pulled apart like a joke."

She didn't answer. Not right away.

He softened his tone then, gently. "So maybe just... focus on the case with me. Can you do that?"

Morgan nodded once, not angry, not even hurt—just... stilled.

"Yeah," she said, voice low. "Okay."

Karadec walked the last few steps to his desk and sat down. Morgan lingered where she was, then slowly turned toward her own desk right in front of his.

And that was it.

No more teasing. No more comments. But her chest felt tight, like something had curled up under her ribcage and refused to uncurl. She didn't know why exactly. Was it just the awkwardness of being called out? Or something else?

Something heavier.

She forced herself to focus on the case file, even as her gaze drifted back at him.

Karadec was already reviewing their suspect's financials. Steady. Controlled. The same as ever.

But Morgan couldn't stop wondering what he meant by "something I haven't figured out yet."

And more than that...

Why does it felt like it had something to do with her.