They Think They’re Slick

by TheThirdChild

Summary:

Reid catches a whispered confession not meant for him—and suddenly, everything about Garcia and Alvez clicks into place. The rest of the team? They just needed the dance floor to see it.

Chapter 1: We Saw the Whole Thing

The bullpen was nearly empty when Spencer Reid returned late from an impromptu consult with the D.C. field office. The overhead lights had been dimmed to a low amber glow, casting elongated shadows across desks and walls. Everything felt suspended in a hush—an unusual stillness for a space usually thrumming with urgency and motion. The clock on the wall ticked past 10:30 PM, loud in the quiet.

He wasn’t expecting anyone else to be there. Most of the team had filtered out hours ago, chasing rest or routines, their cases closed for the moment. Spencer moved with quiet steps, heading for his desk only out of habit.

As he passed the last row of offices, a sound caught his attention—a low voice, warm and half-laughing. He paused, glancing toward the glass-paneled office near the back.

Luke Alvez was seated at his desk, his posture relaxed in a way that seemed unfamiliar. His chair was tilted slightly back, one foot propped on the edge of a drawer. His phone was cradled between his shoulder and ear, his hand tapping absently at the armrest. His face was soft, his expression open, unguarded in a way Spencer rarely saw.

It wasn’t the words that first held Spencer in place. It was the tone. Gentle. Familiar. The voice of someone speaking not out of obligation, but comfort.

Luke chuckled quietly, the sound low and affectionate. “Yeah,” he said, voice warm. “I know. I miss you, too… I’m sorry I’m working so late. That’s what I get for dodging paperwork all week just to get home to you faster. Now I’m playing catch-up.”

Spencer knew he should move on. Keep walking. Respect privacy, maintain boundaries. But something about the moment rooted him to the spot.

A pause. Then “Goodnight, mi amor.”

The words were tender, barely more than a breath. But they shimmered in the quiet like a secret being gently placed in the air. And the smile that curved Luke’s lips after he said them—it wasn’t the grin he wore during team banter, or the clipped, polite expression he used with strangers. This one was quiet and full of light. Private. Like it belonged to someone else entirely.

Spencer blinked, pulled suddenly from the moment by a pang he didn’t quite understand. He stepped back quickly, careful not to let his shoes squeak on the floor. As he passed the edge of the bullpen, he adjusted the strap on his satchel and slipped into the elevator, heart beating just a little too fast.

He told himself he hadn’t heard anything. That it was none of his business.

But the words echoed, anyway.

"Mi amor."

They followed him all the way home.

My love.

---

It wasn’t until three days later that Reid brought it up.

Luke was out, ferrying a reluctant witness from Quantico to Bethesda. Garcia was supposedly working from home, although the number of glittery GIFs she’d sent to the group chat in the last hour suggested she was more emotionally present than technically available.

Spencer stood at the round table in the briefing room, arms crossed, his expression somewhere between deep thought and vague concern. The late lunch lull had settled in like a fog—Prentiss was nursing her coffee with the tired grace of a commander in peacetime, JJ flipped casually through her case notes, and Rossi had just returned from the break room with what had to be his third espresso, judging by the familiar glint of self-satisfaction in his eyes.

The moment felt quiet. Safe. So Spencer spoke.

“I think Luke might be in a relationship,” Spencer said without preamble, like a hypothesis he’d been quietly running through a dozen mental simulations, each pointing toward the same inevitable conclusion. He didn’t sit—he hovered, arms crossed at the table’s edge, clearly waiting to be challenged.

Prentiss didn’t even look up from her coffee at first. She simply raised an eyebrow, her voice dry. “Okay… and why is that newsworthy? I thought we liked it when our team members had personal lives.”

JJ glanced up from her notes, mildly intrigued. “With someone in the FBI?”

Spencer hesitated, then shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Possibly.”

Now they were all paying attention.

He seemed to take that as permission to elaborate.

“It’s just—think about it,” he started, gesturing faintly with one hand as if visualizing a timeline in the air. “Luke spends the majority of his time either here in the office or out in the field with us. When he’s not working, he’s with Phil—running, hiking, whatever it is they do to exhaust each other. But that’s it. He doesn’t really go out. He’s not dating publicly. There’s no mention of anyone new. And yet…”

He paused, scanning their faces. “Three nights ago, I came back late from the D.C. field office—midnight-ish. I thought the bullpen was empty. But he was still here, lights dimmed, phone pressed to his ear. And he said—”

“Let me guess,” Rossi cut in, smirking over his espresso. “The classic: ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’”

Spencer didn’t even blink. “He said, ‘Goodnight, mi amor.’”

That earned an actual pause.

Prentiss leaned back slowly in her chair, brows rising now with genuine interest. “That’s… unexpectedly tender.”

JJ gave a soft laugh. “From Luke?”

“Exactly,” Spencer said, his voice a notch quieter now, like he wasn’t sure how to categorize what he’d seen—or heard. “It wasn’t just the words. It was the tone. Gentle. Private. Not like him at all when he’s around us. He sounded… happy.”

The room went still for a moment, as the thought settled between them. Luke Alvez. Reserved. Tough. Steady. Whispering Spanish endearments in the dark of the bullpen.

Prentiss tilted her head, studying Spencer. “So why do you think it’s someone in the Bureau?”

Spencer glanced at each of them, then said, “Because when would he meet someone outside of it?”

That earned a round of nods. A fair point.

“He’s here constantly,” Spencer continued. “He spends most of his waking hours with us, or buried in reports. He doesn’t date clients or civilians. And he’s too smart to mix with someone from the press or another agency—not unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life dodging HR paperwork and trust issues. So logically, if he’s seeing someone, and it’s serious enough to call them mi amor, it’s probably someone close. Someone he trusts. Someone who understands what he does.”

He paused, letting that sink in.

“Someone in the FBI,” he finished.

JJ raised both eyebrows, clearly intrigued now. “And that makes you think he has a secret girlfriend?”

Spencer tilted his head, as if carefully selecting a puzzle piece before dropping it into place. “No. I think it might be… Garcia.”

Silence fell over the room like a curtain.

JJ’s eyes widened. Prentiss stilled, coffee halfway to her mouth. Even Rossi raised an eyebrow, his third espresso forgotten in his hand.

It was Rossi who finally spoke. “Huh. You know… now that you mention it…”

JJ leaned in. “What makes you think it’s Penelope?”

Spencer took a moment, as if organizing his thoughts like index cards. “Because… he’s been calling her every night when they’re not together.”

“That doesn’t mean much,” Rossi offered. “They’ve always been close.”

“Yes, but not like this,” Spencer said, voice measured. “It’s specific. Intentional. He’ll text her late in the day, and she’ll immediately leave the room. Not just answer the call—leave. And when she comes back, she’s... different. Quieter. Smiling to herself. Not in a performative way. It’s small, but it’s there.”

JJ gave a slow nod. “I’ve noticed she never teases him in public anymore. She used to give him a hard time constantly. Now she’s careful. Still warm, still her—but she pulls back like she’s editing herself.”

“And it’s mutual,” Prentiss added, thinking aloud. “Luke used to joke about her hacking all the time—call her his ‘resident cyber gremlin’ or whatever. Lately? He talks about her work like she’s a national asset. Like he’s genuinely in awe of what she does.”

“To be fair,” Rossi said, not missing a beat, “Penelope is a national treasure.”

JJ grinned. “Yeah, but he says it like he means it.”

Spencer nodded, encouraged. “Exactly. There’s this new… gentleness between them. It’s subtle. They don’t touch anymore; they touch less. But when they do? It lingers. The other day, he passed her a folder, and their hands brushed. It wasn’t accidental, but they both acted like it was.”

“I saw that,” JJ said, eyebrows raised. “And last week, when she laughed at something he said, he looked at her like he forgot anyone else was in the room.”

Rossi snorted softly. “That's either love or a stroke.”

Prentiss ignored him. “She also gave him the last bear claw the other morning. Without a single dramatic monologue. Just handed it over.”

There was a beat.

“That is suspicious,” JJ said, deadly serious.

“They’re trying not to draw attention,” Spencer concluded. “Which ironically makes it even more noticeable.”

Prentiss leaned forward, steepling her hands. “So, what do we do?”

JJ grinned. “Watch.”

---

The team turned into hawks.

Not subtly, either. They watched every interaction with the hyperfocus of seasoned profilers who had, for once, turned their powers toward a wholly unserious but deeply fascinating mystery.

Every word. Every glance. Every moment of tension that stretched half a second too long.

When Luke walked in with two coffees and handed one wordlessly to Garcia—a very specific caramel chai oat milk latte with a cinnamon stick and a sarcastic smiley face drawn on the lid—they mentally tallied a point.

When Garcia brought him a foil-wrapped homemade empanada and he murmured “Gracias, princesa” under his breath, barely loud enough for anyone to hear—but not quite quiet enough—two more points. (JJ nearly spit out her water.)

One particular morning, Garcia strolled into the bullpen with her usual confident flair—heels clicking, cardigan bright enough to require sunglasses, and coffee in hand like a scepter of caffeinated authority.

But something was… off.

A slight limp. Nothing dramatic. Just the kind of off-kilter gait that made perceptive eyes squint.

Prentiss was the first to clock it. “Hey, Penelope, you okay? You’re walking a little funny.”

Garcia waved her free hand breezily, her smile extra wide—maybe too wide. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just a late-night workout mishap. Got a little wild with the kettlebells. You know how it is.”

Tara raised an eyebrow from her desk. “Do you even own kettlebells?”

“Obviously. They’re teal and glittery. Like mermaid armor.”

The room exchanged a quick round of silent glances—the universal BAU language for this feels like a lie, but we’ll let it slide for now.

At the coffee machine, Luke took a long, calm sip of his latte, watching quietly. He was holding steady—until the next line.

JJ glanced over with a teasing smile. “Let me guess—swung too hard and pulled something?”

Garcia sighed dramatically, settling into her bullpen chair with a very delicate, very specific wince. “Let’s just say there was a deep lunge involved, and I may have underestimated my… flexibility.”

That’s when Luke choked. Not a polite cough.

A full-body, wide-eyed, please-let-the-earth-swallow-me choke. Coffee sprayed just short of the counter, and he turned away, coughing into his sleeve as his face went crimson.

JJ blinked. “You okay over there?”

“I’m—” cough “fine.” cough cough “Just… wrong pipe.”

Prentiss raised an eyebrow. “Funny. The coffee didn’t seem like a problem a second ago.”

Garcia didn’t even look up from her monitor. “He gets dramatic when the beans are too dark-roasted. Sensitive palate.”

Luke, still red and flustered, muttered, “I need some air,” and promptly abandoned his cup and fled down the hallway like it personally offended him.

Matt looked up from his tablet, amused. “Did he just evacuate over a kettlebell story?”

JJ tilted her head toward Garcia. “That’s… not the reaction of someone who believes a kettlebell story.”

Rossi walked by right on cue, espresso in hand, pausing just long enough to murmur, “I’m guessing that ‘workout mishap’ involved a lot more adrenaline and a lot less stretching.”

Garcia gasped in theatrical offense. “Sir! I will have you know, I am a professional.”

“Mm,” Rossi said, walking off. “So are contortionists.”

Tara grinned. “I’m just saying, if kettlebells start leaving bruises shaped like fingerprints, we’re gonna need to reevaluate.”

“Rude,” Garcia replied, smoothing down her cardigan. “It was one enthusiastic lunge. And possibly a slip.”

Matt chuckled. “You’re not helping your case.”

Garcia sniffed. “I will be filing an official HR complaint against gravity.”

JJ raised her mug in salute. “Maybe switch to yoga.”

“Yoga’s too intense,” Garcia replied. “Last time I did a headstand I pulled a muscle I didn’t even know I had.”

Tara smirked. “Was that before or after the glitter kettlebells?”

Garcia let out a dramatic sigh, clutching her tablet like a shield. “Monsters,” she repeated, then stood up with exaggerated dignity. “I’m going to Hotch’s office. At least he pretends to respect my journey.”

She turned on her heel and marched off, the swish of her skirt trailing behind her like a declaration of war—sparkly, fabulous war.

Prentiss nodded knowingly. “Yeah. Whatever Penelope did last night wasn’t yoga. And Luke knows it.”

Spencer, scribbling furiously in his notebook, added, “This is an interesting data point: when confronted with a potential ‘injury’ linked to Garcia, Luke’s physiological response—choking on coffee and abrupt exit—suggests surprise and possibly concern beyond casual coworker levels.”

JJ laughed. “In other words, he’s busted.”

Spencer started keeping an actual score in a notebook, which he labeled in the margin as “behavioral anomaly log (unofficial).” By day four, it had its own color-coded tab system and a running probability algorithm.

The notebook became a shared secret, passed between desks and inboxes like a middle school slam book. At one point, JJ scrawled “HE BLUSHED” in the margins in all caps and drew a tiny heart. Someone—probably Prentiss—responded beneath it with: “Did he blush, or was he warm from her proximity?” and circled it in red.

They were spiraling, and they knew it. But it was too much fun to stop.

Garcia, for her part, remained suspiciously bubbly. Suspicious in that everything she did was exactly what Garcia would do—but turned up half a notch. Her hair was woven into intricate braids threaded with tiny satin ribbons, coordinating with her outfit and her phone case. She wore lipstick in the exact shade of rosewood Luke always seemed to glance at and then immediately look away from, like it was too bright to stare at directly.

She flirted with Derek via text (still), teased Reid about his color-coded notebooks, poked fun at Prentiss for her “supervillain eyebrows”—but through it all, there was something… extra.

Something quieter.

When Luke walked into the room, her eyes always found him. Not dramatically. Not in a way that screamed for attention. Just a flick of focus, soft and instinctive.

And when she thought no one noticed?

They noticed.

---

When the team wrapped up a rough case, the unanimous decision was to decompress with drinks. It was tradition—a way to shake off the stress and remind themselves they were more than just colleagues. Even Garcia, who normally bowed out early and preferred quiet nights in front of her monitors, surprised everyone by showing up.

She was dressed in a sapphire-blue dress that hugged her curves just enough to catch attention without trying too hard. The deep color brought out the sparkle in her eyes, and she paired it with thigh-high black boots that made Luke Alvez nearly walk right into a door.

He caught himself at the last second and played it cool, though the slight widening of his eyes didn’t go unnoticed by anyone paying attention.

They were all experts at hiding their feelings—too expert, sometimes—but there was something different about tonight.

Luke didn’t hover around her, giving her space like he always did in public. Garcia didn’t flash him any flirtatious smiles or find excuses to touch his arm. To anyone watching, they were nothing more than coworkers—friendly, familiar, and perfectly professional.

But JJ noticed it first.

It wasn’t what they were doing. It was what they weren’t.

The usual easy banter between them—the teasing, the inside jokes—was just slightly… muted. Garcia was still Garcia, still glowing and vibrant, but her sparkle tonight felt more focused inward. Like she was guarding a secret behind her lashes.

By the time the second round of drinks arrived, the table had settled into a comfortable hum of laughter, half-finished stories, and teasing remarks.

That was when Derek strolled in—fashionably late, of course—like he owned the place. His coat still draped open, smile already in place, eyes scanning for one person only.

“Look who it is,” he announced, voice carrying over the noise like a spotlight. He moved with purpose, weaving through chairs and teammates, and slid in beside Garcia like he’d never left. His arm draped over her shoulders with the effortless confidence of a man slipping into an old groove.

“Tell me the truth, Baby Girl,” he said with a grin that could’ve sold sin wholesale, “ever consider giving up your throne in the tech kingdom and rejoining your favorite man in the private sector?”

Garcia laughed, soft and warm, head tipping toward his shoulder for just a moment. Just enough for the contact to feel real, but not too real.

Her bracelets jingled as she swirled her drink. “Only if I get a company car and your personal Netflix login,” she said with a teasing lilt, eyes dancing. “I have standards, Morgan.”

Derek chuckled, low and easy, the kind of laugh that used to fill an entire room and still had the power to turn heads.

But even as he laughed, his eyes flicked sideways—sharp, brief, instinctive. He caught it. That almost imperceptible glance Garcia sent in Luke’s direction.

Barely a second. No words. Just a flicker.

Like she needed to confirm something without saying a word.

Derek said nothing.

But he saw it.

And his smile, while still easy, curved just a touch slower as he leaned back in his seat, letting the moment settle.

The drink in his hand remained untouched. For now.

Derek leaned subtly toward JJ, who was nursing her cocktail and pretending not to watch. “They think they’re slick,” he murmured under his breath, eyes still on Garcia.

JJ smirked. “They are slick.”

He raised an eyebrow, grinning wider. “Challenge accepted.”

Turning back, Derek leaned into Garcia again, that mischievous glint in his eye cranked up to full wattage. He smoothed a hand along the table like he was lining up a pool shot, then cocked his head with a grin.

“You know,” he said, voice low and playful, “it’s not too late to run off with me. I’ve still got the better cheekbones.”

The table reacted with a soft chorus of chuckles, not surprised—never surprised—by Derek’s effortless flirtation. It was like the sun rising. Predictable. Endearing. Classic Morgan.

Garcia turned toward him slowly, the corners of her lips lifting in a sweet, knowing smile. Her eyes sparkled like she’d been handed the setup to a punchline she’d already rehearsed in front of a mirror.

Then, with perfect timing and a practiced lilt that sounded like velvet and victory, she said:

“How’s Savannah? And little Hank?” Derek froze—just for a second. His mouth opened. Closed again. JJ let out a snort so loud it turned heads at the next table. She nearly choked on her drink, recovering only long enough to press the rim to her lips and mutter, “Tactical strike.”

“Full-on surgical precision,” Tara added under her breath, hiding a grin behind her glass.

Derek blinked, then laughed, low and impressed. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, call off the snipers.”

Garcia’s smile widened into something more angelic than it had any right to be. She patted his arm gently—comforting and lethal all at once—as she said, “I’m just saying. You’ve already got your happily-ever-after, Derek Morgan. Let a girl dream about company cars and silent partners.”

There was a ripple of amusement around the table, but Derek didn’t fire back this time. No clever quip. No rebound flirtation.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair, letting her words hang in the air a beat longer than necessary. His expression shifted—not wounded, not offended. Just softer. Thoughtful. A little quiet around the edges.

Almost proud.

Because he knew her. The real her. And for all the glitter and color and banter, he could always tell when there was something beneath the surface.

He didn’t press. Never had to.

But as he reached for his drink and took a slow sip, his eyes flicked across the table once more. Toward Luke.

Toward the subtle way Luke shifted in his seat—not obviously, not enough to draw attention—but just enough to angle himself a bit closer to her. Not touching. Not even looking directly at her.

But present. Tuned in.

Watching her the way you watch something that belongs to you—but you don’t dare reach for it in public.

They weren’t giving anything away. No hand-holding. No stolen looks. No whispers. But they were giving enough. A pause in the banter here. A soft smile there. A ripple of tension that anyone outside the team would miss.

But he didn’t miss it.

Derek said nothing else about it. Didn’t need to.

He just leaned back, let the conversation move on, and smiled to himself as the others filled the silence.

Because sometimes, when you know someone well enough, all it takes is one glance to see the whole story.

And whatever it was Garcia and Alvez thought they were hiding?

It was already speaking volumes.

---

It wasn’t until the music shifted—low, slow, and bass-heavy—that it happened.

The kind of track that didn’t ask for attention—it commanded it. The beat pulsed like a heartbeat, sultry and deliberate, coaxing bodies from their chairs without fanfare. Lights dimmed a shade, washed in soft red and violet, and the energy in the bar shifted with it. Conversations slowed. Movements softened. Everyone felt it.

And that’s when Garcia stood. No announcement. No warning. Just a quiet decision.

She rose from her seat, untouched drink still in hand, and walked toward the dance floor. Alone.

Not with JJ, who was mid-laugh with Prentiss.

Not with Tara, who was half-listening to a story Rossi was telling.

Garcia didn’t tug anyone along for moral support or theatrical flair—not like she usually would, grinning and dragging them with a grand twirl. There was no shimmy, no wink, no “ladies, let’s go cause a scene.”

She just went. Unbothered. Unapologetic.

The hem of her skirt shimmered as it caught the light, swaying around her legs like it had its own pulse. Her curls bounced with each step, but there was a calm focus to her movements. Like she wasn’t walking to the dance floor—she belonged to it, and was merely returning home.

And her hips… they were already moving.

Not flashy. Not forced.

Just fluid. Subtle. Like her body was listening to something secret in the rhythm that no one else could hear.

The crowd parted slightly as she slipped between bodies, her presence commanding without needing to demand. She moved through them like water, graceful and grounded, the music rippling through her spine and down her legs.

She never looked back.

Never checked to see if anyone was following.

She closed her eyes for a beat as she reached the center of the floor, one hand still holding her glass loosely at her side, the other resting lightly on her hip. Then she began to sway, deeper now, rolling her shoulders and drawing out every beat with measured elegance. Each motion deliberate, like her body was painting something only she understood.

No choreography. No partner.

Just rhythm and presence.

Around her, others danced—but it was like she was moving in a different current. Untouched. In her own gravity.

And from the table, the team watched. Conversations faded, drinks lowered midair. She had all of their attention—and didn’t even know it.

Or maybe she did.

Maybe that was the point.

But Garcia? She just danced. Letting the music tell its story through the way her body moved with it, unhurried and completely her own. She didn’t need backup.

Not tonight. That, in itself, was telling. The team clocked it instantly.

And then Luke stood. No hesitation. No searching glance. No dramatic pause.

Just a quiet, automatic movement—like gravity had shifted, and following her was as natural as breathing.

He slid his drink aside without looking and stepped away from the table, already weaving through the crowd with the ease of a man who knew exactly where he was going.

Because he did.

The swirl of bodies didn’t slow him. Didn’t faze him. The strobe of lights overhead caught the lines of his jaw, the easy roll of his shoulders, the quiet certainty in his stride. He didn’t push or announce himself—he simply fit. Like he’d always belonged in that rhythm. Like he’d been moving toward her this whole time.

They met in the center of the floor without a word.

No nervous laughter. No awkward fumbling. No performative gestures for whoever might be watching.

There was nothing new about this.

Not to them.

Because this wasn’t their first time dancing—not under flickering bar lights maybe, but in other places. In kitchens at midnight with socked feet on tile. In dim living rooms lit only by the glow of a TV. In the silence of early mornings when the rest of the world was still asleep, and movement was just another way to say I’m here. With you.

Garcia’s back found his chest effortlessly, her body folding into the curve of his like it was second nature. Like she was made to fit there.

Luke’s hand slid along her waist, slow and sure, his fingertips brushing the seam of her dress, anchoring there without hesitation. Not possessive. Not hesitant. Just there—like his hand had always belonged exactly in that spot.

She leaned into it with a soft, subtle exhale. Something between a sigh and a smile.

The music thrummed around them—slow, rich, and heavy—and they moved in sync, hips swaying, their steps not big or flashy but close. Intimate.

Then his lips dipped, just once, brushing her temple in a kiss so gentle, so instinctual, it barely registered as movement. It wasn’t for show. It wasn’t planned.

It was reflex.

Her hand came up—slow and sure—curling around the back of his neck, her fingers pressing lightly into his skin. But she didn’t stop there.

She threaded her fingers into his hair, dragging lightly through it in a deliberate, possessive little pull that made Luke’s breath catch.

He didn’t flinch.

His eyes closed for a beat. A slow, salacious grin curved at the edge of his mouth.

Then his other hand found her hip. Gripping. Guiding. Drawing her in closer. Closer still.

Until there was barely an inch of space between them—just enough for breath, just enough for heat to pass between their bodies in silent, charged pulses.

They didn’t look at each other.

They didn’t need to.

Their bodies spoke every word.

And in the dim haze of the dance floor, surrounded by strangers and teammates and low amber lights, they weren’t hiding anymore.

But they weren’t announcing it, either. They were just… them.

They moved like water, like gravity only applied to them when they allowed it. Every sway, every roll of Garcia’s hips against him was met with Luke’s smooth, grounded response. They weren’t just dancing—they were communicating, breathing in sync, moving in sync, daring the other to take it one step further with every beat.

Around them, the dance floor swelled with bodies, a sea of motion and pulsing lights. But none of them moved like these two. Others danced together. They danced as one. Their connection hummed, thick and heavy in the air, magnetic in a way that turned heads even in the middle of a packed room.

It was sensual without being crude, intimate without being explicit. But no one watching could mistake it for anything other than foreplay.

Every touch lingered. Every slide of her body against his felt charged, like memory and longing and promise were all being spoken in the language of movement. She arched, just slightly, and Luke responded with a lazy drag of his palm up her side, fingers splayed, stealing a moment just shy of daring. Her fingers tightened in his hair, and his grin returned, darker now, something low and dangerous and delighted.

They forgot anyone was watching. Or maybe they just didn’t care.

Because whatever weight they’d been carrying—about timing, about secrecy, about playing it safe—was gone. It dissolved somewhere between the bass line and the heat of Garcia’s body pressed flush against Luke’s. Between the slide of her fingers into his hair and the way he pulled her in like she was gravity itself.

And the team? They noticed.

JJ, mid-sip of her cocktail, froze as her straw audibly slurped against the bottom of her glass. Her eyes widened to cartoon proportions, and she gasped, hand flying up to cover her mouth. “Oh my God.”

Tara blinked like she wasn’t sure she was actually seeing what she was seeing. Her glass hovered mid-air, forgotten. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath, drawing out the word like it had too many syllables.

Prentiss just stared. Lips parted. Eyebrows raised. One hand still half-resting on the table like she meant to grab something, except she didn’t. She was frozen. Short-circuited. Like a server crash.

No reboot in sight.

Even Rossi, who had seen everything, actually leaned back in his chair. Slowly. Almost reverently. He sipped his drink, one brow arching in amusement as the tiniest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. And then he said, under his breath—dry, bemused, and just loud enough for the others to hear:

“Well, hell.”

For a moment, no one moved.

No one could.

Because on that dance floor, surrounded by strangers and swirling lights, Garcia and Luke weren’t just dancing.

They were declaring. Not loudly. Not obviously. Not in so many words.

But in the way his hand stayed firm on her hip. The way she leaned back into his touch. The way their bodies moved like they’d memorized each other long ago and were just now letting the rest of the world in on the secret.

Prentiss finally managed to speak—barely. “Are we… are we seeing this?”

JJ nodded wordlessly, eyes still locked on the scene like she couldn’t decide whether to be delighted or horrified that her years-long suspicion was very much confirmed.

Tara let out a slow breath. “I feel like I just opened someone’s diary by accident.”

Rossi, still reclined, lifted his glass lazily. “They’ve been dancing around it for months. Now they’re just dancing through it.”

A beat passed.

Then JJ let out a quiet laugh. “Hotch is gonna lose it.”

“Only if Garcia doesn’t crash the network first,” Tara added.

They all nodded, slowly, like they were bearing witness to the exact moment a rumor becomes fact—and a secret becomes something real.

And still, Garcia and Luke danced.

Oblivious.

Or maybe not.

Maybe just brave enough, finally, not to care.

---

The music faded with a pulse of bass and a final roll of percussion, the club’s energy dipping into a breathless hush as the last beat echoed through the floorboards. For a split second, the world stood still.

Garcia’s hands were still laced behind Luke’s neck, his palms resting lightly at her waist, warm and possessive, when she glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of Reid’s face first—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, stunned like he’d just solved an equation with no known solution and was questioning every constant he’d ever trusted.

Then she noticed the rest of the team.

Frozen.

JJ’s drink hovered inches from her lips, her eyes wide as saucers. Prentiss stood stock-still, one brow arched so high it could’ve passed into sarcasm’s upper atmosphere. Derek had leaned back in his seat with his arms folded across his chest, grinning like the cat that not only ate the canary, but also wrote a review about how delicious it was. And Rossi—Rossi looked like he was physically restraining himself from slow-clapping, his fingers twitching against the rim of his glass.

A beat passed. Then another.

“Oh… boy,” Luke muttered under his breath, instinctively stepping back a half-step—though his fingers didn’t leave Garcia’s waist.

Prentiss was the first to break the silence. “So.” Her voice was bone-dry, slicing through the tension like a scalpel. “Just how long has this been happening?”

Garcia, to her credit, lifted her chin like a queen addressing her court. She brushed a curl from her cheek with studied elegance and replied coolly, “Define this.”

“Don’t play innocent,” JJ said, recovering enough to laugh, her voice lilting with amusement and just a hint of exasperation. “We’ve been watching you two orbit each other like a pair of over-caffeinated satellites.”

“More like magnets,” Reid added absently, still blinking like he wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t hallucinated the entire thing. “Unusually charged ones.”

JJ tilted her head, narrowing her eyes at the couple. “Weeks?”

“Months,” Reid corrected quickly, eyes never leaving them. “Definitely months.”

Luke rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, as if accepting the inevitable. “Four.”

Without missing a beat, Garcia said airily, “Six.”

Every head turned. They stared at each other.

Luke’s brows drew together in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?” His voice pitched just enough to sound wounded, which only made it funnier. “You said we were keeping it casual!”

Garcia grinned, unapologetically smug as she leaned in close enough for only him to hear—but she spoke just loud enough for the others to catch it. “I lied, sugarplum.”

There was a beat of stunned silence, then—

“Of course she did,” Derek snorted, laughing as he shook his head like a proud older brother who’d just watched his favorite sibling land the unlandable plane. “God, I love this woman.”

Rossi stepped forward, his scotch sloshing slightly as he clapped a hand on Luke’s shoulder firmly. A little too firmly.

“Ahh, so this is the poor fool who fell for our Penelope.” His grin was wicked, his eyes twinkling with amusement and warning in equal measure. “You better have a lawyer, a backup lawyer, and a dog-walking schedule color-coded by breed. Welcome to the family, mi amor.”

Luke gave a small wince under the weight of Rossi’s hand, cheeks blooming the faintest shade of pink as the older man’s words fully registered. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’ll learn,” Prentiss muttered dryly, taking a sip of her beer.

“Wait.” Reid suddenly sat up straighter, eyes narrowing like he’d just solved a puzzle that had been bugging him for years. He pointed between Luke and Garcia. “That night in Portland—outside the hotel—you were pacing back and forth and whispering into your phone…”

He blinked, scandalized. “You were talking to her.”

Garcia frowned. “What night in Portland?”

“The one where he claimed he was on hold with Delta for twenty minutes,” Reid said, incredulous. “Only he kept smiling and saying things like ‘you hang up first.’”

Garcia gasped. “Spencer!”

JJ burst out laughing. “Oh my god, that was *real*?”

“I didn’t name names,” Reid said innocently, “but his pacing radius was exactly ten feet. Tight spiral. Very focused. Highly suspicious.”

He looked at Garcia, head tilted. “Honestly, it was kind of sweet. You’ve always had this… effect on people.”

Before Garcia could respond, Luke leaned in behind her, his hand grazing the small of her back in that familiar, easy way that made it clear there were no secrets left to keep.

“Still does,” he said quietly, his voice low and warm.

Garcia turned to him, mock-affection in her eyes. “And yet, you’re still not sleeping over tonight. The dogs are shedding, and I refuse to spend another morning lint-rolling your eyebrows.”

“Oof,” Morgan snorted. “Way to nuke the mood, mama.”

“God, no visuals,” Prentiss groaned. “Some of us just came for nachos and beer, not Chewbacca and pillow talk.”

JJ lifted her glass high, smirking. “To Garcia and Alvez. May your future secret hookups be slightly less visible to the dance floor.”

Garcia grinned, tossing her curls over her shoulder. “Absolutely no promises.”

“None at all,” Luke echoed, and with the kind of confidence that made it obvious he’d done this a dozen times in private—but never in public—he dipped his head and pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head.

It was subtle. Sweet. And final.

An audible sigh floated from someone—possibly JJ, maybe Emily. Possibly all of them.

Rossi, ever the dramatist, took a slow sip of his scotch and muttered with deep theatrical weariness, “This is why I drink.”

Garcia’s smirk was sharp as glass. “That and the four ex-wives.”

“Three,” he corrected without missing a beat, lifting his glass in a wry toast. “But who’s counting?”

“I am,” Derek said, grinning wide. “Every time you start a sentence with ‘Back in Naples…’ it ends with a wedding or an arrest.”

“Sometimes both,” Prentiss chimed in.

As the laughter rolled through the group, Luke leaned down, his hand still resting on the small of her back, and murmured in that low, familiar rasp that sent a quiet thrill down her spine:

“Eres mi lugar favorito.”

Her breath caught, just a little. She looked up at him, all glittering eyes and softened edges, thumb brushing the stubble on his jaw like she’d done it a thousand times before.

With a smile that curved slow and certain, she whispered back:

“Y tú eres mi paz.”

For a heartbeat, the world around them dimmed.

No teasing. No laughter. Just truth.

It wasn’t just the words.

It was how they said them. Like a conversation they’d had a hundred times before. Like a promise.

The team didn’t speak. Not right away.

But no one needed to.

Because it was official now.

And somehow… it had always been.

Chapter 2: I Am Deeply Betrayed by My Own Mouth

Notes:

just a silly little follow-up

"How long until she breaks and tells us everything?" JJ whispered the question into her drink, eyes glinting over the rim of her glass as she watched Garcia throw her head back in laughter at something Savanah had just said. The laugh was genuine, effervescent—classic Penelope—but it had that telltale pitch that meant she was trying just a little too hard not to seem like she had a secret.

Emily smirked, swirling her wine slowly before taking a sip. The lighting in the lounge cast golden halos around their heads, shadows flickering across the dark velvet of the booth. The low thrum of music—smooth jazz layered under the quiet hum of other conversations—set a cozy backdrop to their hard-earned girls’ night. The cases this week had been brutal. They all needed this.

“She’ll crack before round three,” Tara said confidently, settling back in her seat with a knowing smile. She clinked her glass against JJ’s in a casual toast. “That woman talks in emojis. She needs to be asked.”

“She’s practically begging for it,” JJ agreed with a smirk, flicking a glance at Garcia, who was now dramatically recounting something using hand gestures, her rings catching the light. “She’s glowing. Like, suspiciously glowing.”

“You know what would get her talking faster?” Emily leaned forward, eyes gleaming mischievously. “A little harmless truth-or-dare.”

JJ rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her grin. “Too obvious. She’d spot the trap a mile away and dodge it like a pro.”

Emily chuckled. “I don’t know. I think the wine’s doing half the work for us already.”

“I vote twenty questions,” Tara offered, raising an eyebrow as she took a long sip of her bourbon. “But drunk. Classic. Subtle. Deadly.”

JJ laughed. “Ooh, I like it. We start light—'What's your favorite color?'—and then slide straight into, ‘So how long have you been sleeping with Alvez?’”

Emily grinned wide. “See? Subtle as a sledgehammer.”

“I prefer the term efficient,” Tara said, deadpan.

They all laughed quietly, conspiratorial and warm, their drinks clinking together under the soft lighting as Garcia obliviously continued chatting, completely unaware that the countdown to her confession had already begun.

---

Garcia finally noticed their conspiratorial huddle. She’d been leaning in close to Savannah, giggling over something on her phone—probably a filtered selfie or a cat in a tiny FBI vest—but now her attention shifted, one perfectly arched brow lifting with suspicion.

“Ladies. Why do I feel like I’m about to be lovingly interrogated?”

“Because you are,” JJ said sweetly, sliding a fresh shot glass across the table toward her. “Drink up, sweetheart.”

Garcia narrowed her eyes, lips twitching. “You know I’m fragile.”

“You’re buzzed and glowing,” Emily said dryly. “Don’t play delicate now.”

With a dramatic sigh and a theatrical roll of her eyes, Garcia raised the shot in mock resignation. “Fine. Hit me with your best shot—figuratively. And literally.”

She downed the tequila with practiced flair, then slammed the glass upside down on the table like a woman preparing for battle.

“Proceed.”

Tara grinned. “Oh, we plan to.”

---

“Alright,” Tara began, swirling her cocktail slowly, her tone casual but eyes gleaming with mischief. “Question one: Are you or are you not dating Luke Alvez?”

JJ and Emily let out twin squeals, both smacking at Tara’s arm in scandalized betrayal.

“Tara!” JJ hissed, laughing despite herself. “That was not the plan! We were easing her in!”

“Zero chill,” Emily said, shaking her head but grinning. “You skipped the appetizer and went straight for the main course.”

Garcia widened her eyes dramatically, setting her glass down with an audible clink. “Bold start,” she said, lips pursed like she was trying very hard not to smile. “Aggressive. I respect it.”

“Answer the question,” Emily said, leaning forward with her elbows on the table and waggling her brows in mock intensity.

Garcia tilted her head, playful. “Mmm... define dating.”

JJ gasped, nearly choking on her drink. “Oh my God, that’s not a no! That is a capital-Y Yes in Penelope Garcia language.”

Garcia took a long, slow sip of her cocktail, eyes locked on them over the rim. She set it down delicately. “Next.”

Tara smirked, already prepping her next strike.

---

“Okay,” JJ said, leaning forward with narrowed eyes and a sly grin, “how long has whatever this is been going on?”

Penelope barely glanced up from her drink, her mouth moving before her brain caught up. “Since he almost got blown up on that cartel case.” The words slipped out so fast, so casually, it took her a full two seconds to realize what she’d just admitted. Her eyes went wide—cartoon-wide—and she froze, her glass still hovering mid-air.

“Damn it.” The word came out as a whisper, pained and horrified.

Tara’s jaw dropped. “Seven months?!”

Penelope slapped a hand over her mouth like she could physically shove the confession back in. “No—wait—six and a half, technically!” she backpedaled, arms flailing, eyes darting around like a trapped animal. “Oh my god, I didn’t mean to—Ugh. That was reflex. Reflex! I’ve been in denial mode for so long I forgot I wasn’t supposed to say it out loud.”

Emily was already doubled over laughing.

“I cannot believe you just blurted that out,” she gasped. “You folded in one question.”

“I panicked!” Penelope groaned, dramatically flopping against the back of the booth and covering her face. “You’re all witches. You tricked me.”

JJ was grinning like a cat with a secret. “Or maybe you just wanted to tell us.”

“I didn’t! Not like that!” Penelope peeked through her fingers. “Can we rewind time, please? Like five seconds? I’ll lie. I’ll say it was just a flirt. Or a dream. Or a hallucination brought on by emotional trauma and tequila.”

“Nope,” Tara said smugly. “We have it. Locked in. Official record.”

Emily clinked her glass to Penelope’s. “Bless your impulsive little heart.”

Penelope let out a groan. “I hate me.”

“We don’t,” JJ said sweetly. “But we are going to keep going.”

Emily let out a full-bodied howl, head thrown back in disbelief. “Reid was so proud of himself for catching on a week ago! He was doing that smug little nod thing!”

Penelope groaned louder, slumping even farther down in her seat like she might disappear into the cushions. “That sweet little robot. I hope he short-circuits from excitement when he finds out I was ahead of the curve. Someone warn him not to fry his brain trying to process human feelings.”

JJ covered her mouth, trying and failing to muffle her laughter. “He’s going to lecture you about not disclosing to the team. He has a chart somewhere, I guarantee it.”

“Oh, he’s definitely building a flowchart as we speak,” Tara added. “With color-coded timelines.”

Penelope pointed at them all, mock-glowering. “If he sends me a PowerPoint, I’m blaming you people.”

Emily grinned. “I hope it has animations.”

Penelope’s eyes widened in mock horror. “If it has a transition sound, I’m throwing my phone in a lake.”

JJ raised her glass. “To secrets, spilled tequila, and Spencer Reid’s inevitable TED Talk.”

They all clinked glasses, laughing as Penelope muttered, “I’m never drinking with any of you again.”

---

Later that night, and many drinks in, the girls had dissolved into a lazy sprawl of limbs and half-empty glasses, cheeks flushed and laughter still lingering in the warm air. The questions had gotten bolder. Softer. More telling.

“Is he a good kisser?” JJ asked casually, swirling the melting ice in her glass like she hadn’t just dropped a bomb.

Penelope’s expression shifted instantly—eyes unfocusing, lips parting just slightly.

“Oh no,” Emily said, snorting as she sat back against the booth. “She’s in the kiss-thought zone.”

“It’s… ridiculous,” Penelope muttered, almost to herself, her voice low and slow. “The man kisses like a slow song. Like his lips are in love with you. It’s unfair.”

“Damn,” Tara said under her breath, eyebrows shooting up.

Penelope blinked like she was waking from a dream. But then she leaned forward, hands moving as she spoke, more animated now, voice edged with a tipsy awe. “And he does this thing—God, you guys—he presses his hand right here—” she touched just below her ribcage, fingers splaying out, “—like he’s trying to remind me where my heart is. And somehow it works. Like suddenly I can feel it again.”

JJ clutched at her own chest and sighed dreamily. “Okay, I need to go flirt with Will right now.”

“I love how he never lets me open my own doors,” Penelope continued, a soft smile curling at her lips. “Like—it actually annoys him if I try. He’s just… quietly fierce about that kind of thing. Like, ‘I have you. Let me show you.’”

There was a pause, the kind that held weight and warmth in equal measure.

“And he always looks for me first when he walks into a room,” she added, her voice almost a whisper now. “Even if we’re with the whole team. He always finds me first.”

Tara and Emily exchanged a look across the table—something between amusement and a quiet kind of awe.

“You’re gone,” Emily said, half-laughing, half-accusing.

Penelope didn’t even argue. She just shrugged, dreamy and content, her fingers loosely wrapped around her glass. “I was gone the second he started texting me every night. Like… we couldn’t fall asleep without checking in. Just—‘Are you okay? Goodnight, mi amor.’ Every single night.”

Her voice was soft, almost reverent, like she was replaying the texts in her head—the comfort of them, the steady heartbeat of that routine. JJ tilted her head slightly, watching her, something thoughtful in her gaze. She leaned in, her voice gentler now, the teasing long gone. “Do you say it back?”

Penelope blinked, the question catching her off-guard. “What?”

“Mi amor.”

The words hung in the air like something sacred.

Penelope didn’t speak right away. Her expression shifted—shoulders drawing in slightly, lips parting like she meant to laugh it off. But then… she didn’t.

A flush bloomed across her cheeks, deeper than the wine stain already painting them. She glanced down at her drink, staring into it like it might offer a graceful way out. Her fingers tapped once, nervously, against the side of the glass.

She smiled—not her usual technicolor grin, but something small and real and warm.

“Every time,” she said quietly.

The table stilled, a breath caught between four women who suddenly weren’t just tipsy and laughing and nosy.

They understood.

Tara set her glass down carefully. Emily leaned back, her expression unreadable but her eyes saying plenty. JJ smiled, a quiet thing full of knowing.

No one made a joke, no one wanted to. Because that was it. That was love.

“Damn,” Emily murmured, finally breaking the silence, her voice softer now. “You’re really gone.”

Penelope just nodded, eyes still on her drink, her smile lingering like a secret she didn’t mind them knowing anymore.

Then Tara raised her glass. “To men who ruin us in the best way.”

They all clinked glasses again, laughter bubbling up, even as something tender lingered beneath it all.

---

By the time they’d worked their way through tapas, wine, and a poorly judged shared martini flight that had left them all a little dizzy and glowing, the girls spilled out onto the curb outside the lounge. The city lights flickered softly against the night sky, and a cool breeze ruffled their hair as they waited for their respective rides. Laughter bubbled up easily between them, their words tumbling over one another in a haze of tipsy camaraderie.

Penelope was slightly apart, absorbed in her phone, her fingers swiping through messages with a gentle smile playing on her lips.

Tara nudged her with an elbow, grinning. “Is he picking you up?”

Penelope glanced up, eyes sparkling. She smiled into her screen before looking back at Tara. “He insisted.”

Emily smirked, arms crossed but amused. “How chivalrous.”

JJ, leaning casually against a parking meter, tilted her head and raised an eyebrow in that trademark teasing way. “Does he buckle your seatbelt too?”

Penelope’s eyes twinkled as she gave a mock-serious nod. “Only when I’m distracted—”

She paused dramatically, and the air hung between them.

Tara’s voice dropped to a scandalized whisper. “Garcia.”

“What?” Penelope said, feigning innocence with wide eyes and a sheepish smile.

Emily clapped her hands softly, clearly living for the moment. “I am living for this. What else does he do when you’re distracted?”

Penelope opened her mouth—ready to dish out some more cheeky detail—but just then, Luke’s sleek black truck pulled smoothly up to the curb.

Every head swiveled in unison like they’d rehearsed it. The driver’s side window rolled down, revealing Luke’s unmistakable five o’clock shadow and that effortless, just-rolled-out-of-a-cologne-ad look. His black t-shirt stretched snug over strong biceps, hinting at quiet strength beneath the casual. He looked like the poster boy for “FBI: Dangerous and Domestic.”

“Ladies,” Luke greeted them with a polite nod, his voice low and steady.

The team lost it. Tara let out a sharp whistle. JJ actually gave a wolf-like howl that caught a few startled glances from passersby. Emily couldn’t help herself and shouted, “Be gentle with her knees, Alvez!”

Luke smirked—his expression cool but clearly amused—yet didn’t respond to the banter. Instead, he stepped out of the truck with that confident, quiet presence he always carried and moved to open the passenger door for Penelope.

Penelope, cheeks flushed from the mix of alcohol, laughter, and total chaos, threw them a dramatic, deep curtsy as if she were onstage accepting an award. Then, with a mock regal smile, she climbed into the car.

“Shut up,” she called out the window before it slid up, the smile still tugging at her lips.

Emily wiped away tears of laughter, shaking her head. “We are never letting her live this down.”

Tara grinned. “Seriously. Not ever.”

JJ sighed, still grinning. “This is going in the official team lore.”

The truck pulled away, the tail lights fading into the night as the girls lingered on the curb, giggling and exchanging knowing looks, warmed by the night’s revelry and the sweet, chaotic ties that bound them all.

---

The door closed with a soft click.

Luke set her bag down gently on the entry bench, like he always did now. He’d memorized her apartment’s layout. Her rhythms. Her scent.

Penelope kicked off her boots and turned to face him—and for a moment, there was a quiet beat of eye contact.

Something shifted.

He stepped forward, but she was already moving. Lips crashing into his, fingers tangled in the collar of his shirt as she backed him against the wall.

“You looked so good tonight,” she breathed, kissing down his jaw. “I couldn’t say anything in front of them—”

“You didn’t say anything in front of them,” he chuckled, pulling her hips into his.

She groaned as he lifted her slightly, just enough to press her against the wall. “That dress is illegal,” he murmured against her throat. “You know what that color does to me.”

“Then arrest me,” she whispered, breath hitching as he bit lightly at her earlobe.

He carried her toward the couch, lips never leaving her skin. Her fingers worked at his belt with practiced desperation. The way he groaned when she tugged his shirt off—it was reverent. Raw.

He chuckled, voice thick with arousal, hands gliding up the backs of her thighs as she straddled him. “You want public? I’ll pin a photo of us to the BAU’s corkboard. Caption it: ‘Taken. Don’t try me.’”

“Luke—”

“I’ll change my lock screen to your face in those boots. Only the boots.”

She gasped, half-laughing, half-scandalized. “Shut up and kiss me.”

And he did. Deep, slow, possessive—like he was claiming her all over again.

Somewhere in the kitchen, her phone buzzed. A group chat lighting up with emojis and teasing from the girls.

Penelope ignored it completely as Luke lifted her shirt over her head, then his voice turned hoarse with affection.

“God, you’re everything.”

She stilled.

The fire between them didn’t dim, but it shifted—into something deeper. Something that settled into her bones.

Her smile turned soft, almost shy. She cupped his face, brushing her thumb along his cheek.

“And you,” she whispered, “are mine.”

He kissed her again, not out of hunger this time, but devotion.

---

The Next Morning – Group Chat

[JJ]: Did you make it home alive or did you spontaneously combust in the truck??

[Lewis]: Or did Agent Tall-Dark-and-Dangerously-Built destroy your dress?

[Prentiss]: Please tell me he physically carried you through the door. Bridal style. Biceps flexing. Slow motion. Music swelling.

[Garcia]: I am filing an emotional harassment complaint against this entire group.

[Garcia]: Also.

[Garcia]: Yes. To literally everything.

[JJ]: OMG YOU MINX

[Lewis]: Someone get me a fan. I’m sweating.

[Prentiss]: This is better than every romance novel I own and I own a lot.

[JJ]: I can’t believe you’re out there living our collective dream 😩

[Garcia]: I’m blocking all of you.

[Garcia]: Just as soon as he finishes making me pancakes. In sweatpants. 😏

[Lewis]: I want to scream but I’m in public.

[Prentiss]: You’re not blocked. You’re BLESSED.

[JJ]: I am going to print this chat and frame it above my desk.

[Garcia]: DELETE IT OR I’M FILING A CEASE AND DESIST

[Morgan]: wait. he cooks too??

man. even I’m thinking about kissing him now.

[Garcia]: DEREK!?

[JJ]: OH MY GOD HE WAS HERE THE WHOLE TIME

[Lewis]: I’m actually crying

[Prentiss]: I’m never recovering from this

Notes:

Eres mi lugar favorito = “You are my favorite place.”
Y tú eres mi paz = “And you are my peace.”