Silver spring
Chapter IV
Patrick Jane x Reader
The world had long since stopped feeling like a gentle place to her not after he’d walked away, leaving nothing but silence and the jagged edges of what she’d thought was something. She’d spent years piecing herself back together, learning to step lighter, to trust less, to see the gaps between what people showed and what was true all that to start all over again.
Content Advisory: This narrative contains explicit sexual content, strong language, depictions of murder, graphic crime-scene details, and related mature subject matter. It is intended solely for 18+ audiences only. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
It had been two months since the death of my dearest friend, Shalom. The killer had been caught thanks to the CBI, and to him but that truth offered little comfort. Days had blurred into one long, hollow ache; I had no one left, not really, and the silence of my days pressed in from every side. All I could do was stare at the photograph of Shalom and me, her smile bright and unguarded, as grief folded around me sharp, unrelenting, tangled in denial. I told myself she would have wanted me to keep going, that she would have hated to see me crumble like this. But he… seeing him again, knowing what we were, what we had been and could never be, he made every thought heavier, every breath harder to find.
Slowly, I stood, brushing the back of my hand across my cheeks to wipe the tears away. Shalom wouldn’t want this. She wouldn’t want to see me undone. She had helped build me, piece by careful piece, had made me the woman I was strong, steady, unyielding. I’d turned away every commission, locked my shop’s doors for a full month.
A full month had passed since I’d closed the doors. Now, as I turned the sign to OPEN, I felt a quiet, steady pride rise in my chest people had waited. They hadn’t forgotten. Even after weeks of silence, my clients were still here, and the steady stream of orders that day was proof enough. I threw myself into the work, letting every hem, every seam, every carefully measured line become something to hold onto something to keep my mind from unraveling. I had employees, but I chose to do it all myself, my hands moving fast and sure, grateful for the exhaustion. By closing time, I’d finished seven suits. Seven. My shoulders ached, my shirt clung to me with sweat, but for the first time in months, I’d felt happy. Truly happy.
I was just wiping down the counter when the bell above the door chimed.
“I’m sorry, sir, we’re closed,” I said, still smiling, still breathless from the rush of the day.
No answer. Only the quiet shift of footsteps.
I looked up. The smile died on my lips.
“We’re closed,” I said again, colder this time, sharp and final.
Patrick Jane stood there, hands in his pockets, that familiar faint smile playing at his mouth. “So you said. Just thought I’d see how you’re doing.” He chuckled softly, but it died quickly when he met my eyes. “Actually look, I’m sorry. I wanted to—”
“Stop right there.” I didn’t look at him, just kept wiping the same spot on the counter, my movements sharp and deliberate. “We’re closed. My shop is for customers only. If you’re not here for work, there’s nothing to say.”
I walked past him toward the door, and he followed quiet, unhurried, like he knew I wouldn’t vanish. My hands trembled as I fumbled with the keys, the metal slipping against my fingers. I locked the door, every movement tight with effort, then turned to face him, my voice shaking but firm.
“Whatever you’re here for, whatever you want to say I don’t care. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t even want to see you. I’ve had enough of being miserable. Enough of all of it. So please just stay away.”
I didn’t wait for a reply. I walked straight to my car, got in, and drove away without a single glance in the rearview mirror.
But he didn’t leave. Not for days.
Every morning, there he wasleaning against the lamppost across the street, or standing near the door, waiting. He’d say something soft, something gentle—“I’m sorry, I just wanted…” and I’d shut it out before he could finish. Once, he brought flowers. Daisies, bright and simple, sitting on the step when I arrived. The sight of them made my chest ache with sudden, hot anger. Why now? Why here? Why act like nothing had ever broken between us? He made jokes sometimes, that easy, lopsided smile never quite leaving his face, as if we were still the same people we’d been before as if Shalom were still alive, as if I weren’t still bleeding from the loss of her and him both. It felt like he was erasing everything, treating my grief like a mood that would pass. It made me want to scream.
Then came the call. The CBI. They’d finished processing Shalom’s things, and her personal belongings were ready for collection items I’d requested weeks before. My stomach twisted. If I went, he might be there. But I had to go. They were hers. So I left early, driving fast, keeping my head down, half-hoping, half fearing I’d see him and half-expecting to find him leaning against the station wall, waiting.
But he wasn’t there.
“Good morning, ma’am. Here are the belongings of Ms. Mayfield,” Lisbon said gently, handing over a box. She walked me through the paperwork, the inventory, the formalities, and I nodded through it all, barely hearing the words, just desperate to be gone. “Thank you,” I said, clutching the box to my chest. “Thank you for everything.”
I turned toward the doors, already stepping out, already planning my escape.until someone stepped into my path, blocking the way.
“Ah, Miss L/N.”
I stopped. My heart sank.
“Good to see you,” Patrick Jane said, that familiar, unshakable smile in place, warm and maddeningly calm. “Are you here to finally talk to me?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t look at him. I just shifted the box higher in my arms, stepped around him, and walked away fast, steady, eyes forward leaving him standing there, unanswered.
The drive home passed in a blur, my vision blurring and clearing, blurring and clearing again, until I finally pulled into the driveway and stumbled inside. The house felt too quiet, too empty, so I went straight to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of something warm to steady my hands, and sat there staring at the box sitting on the table like it held both a blessing and a wound. Every few minutes I glanced at it, my heart thrumming half afraid, half longing, certain whatever lay inside would steal my sleep tonight, and maybe the next, and the nights after that. But I had to look. I had to see.
Slowly, I lifted the lid.
There they were the things that were her, the ordinary, wonderful pieces of Shalom’s life I knew so well. Her favorite silver locket, the one she never took off. The crumpled receipts she always kept in her purse. That bright red lipstick she wore like a badge of honor. And there, tucked beneath it all, was a photograph of the two of us grinning, faces close, caught in some perfect, unguarded moment with a letter written on the back in her bold, looping handwriting.
I lifted it gently, traced the familiar curves of her words, and began to read.
My dearest Y/N,
If you’re reading this, something terrible has happened maybe I was just having a truly terrible day, or something worse. But whatever it is, I need you to promise me one thing don’t you dare stop being you. Don’t close up. Don’t let the world harden that soft, beautiful heart of yours. You sew things back together, Y/N you’ll sew yourself back together, too.
A small, shaky laugh escaped me at first—so like her, to be light even here, to make me smile when I thought I never would again. But by the end, tears were streaming down my face, hot and steady and cleansing, and I didn’t wipe them away. I cried, but my heart felt lighter, too grateful, and happy for her, and for the time we had. She was at peace now. I could feel it. And slowly, softly, I let myself accept it she was in a better place, and I would carry her with me always.
I folded the letter carefully, tucked it back with her things, and drew the box close, holding it against my chest like a hug. I sat there a long time, just breathing it in, remembering every laugh, every secret, every moment that was us.
Days passed in a blur of thread and fabric, my hands never still. Jane seemed to have finally taken the hint no more waiting by the lamppost, no more flowers on the step and I found a quiet, fragile happiness in the peace. The shop hummed with life again, my assistants moving through the space like old friends, and for the first time in months, I could work without feeling his eyes on me from across the street.
“Good afternoon, Y/N,” my assistant said, poking her head through the workroom door. “Someone’s been asking for you.”
“Who is it?” I didn’t look up from the draft in front of me an intricate pattern for a new suit, every line calculated, every stitch planned.
“A client. Said he wanted to personally ask about a commission.”
I nodded, not breaking my focus. “Let him in, then. Close the door after.”
I heard the click of the latch, the soft shuffle of footsteps on the wooden floor. “Hello, sir,” I began, already reaching for my measuring tape. “I’m—you.”
I stopped.
He was leaning against the worktable, hands in his pockets, that familiar lopsided smile playing at his mouth. He laughed a light, easy sound that made my chest tighten despite myself.
“Well, I’m not you, that’s for sure. Though I’ll admit, I’d probably make a terrible tailor. I can barely tie my own tie half the time.”
It felt like every serious moment, every wound, every tear was just a joke to him. Like none of it had mattered. “What do you want, Jane? Why are you here?”
“Why, I’m a client. I’d like you to take my measurements. For a suit. A very important one, I promise.” He gestured to himself with a flourish. “Can’t show up to a CBI party looking like I got dressed in the dark.”
He’d never stop, I realized. Never give up. So I just sighed, grabbed my tape, and walked over to him, trying to keep my hands steady. I started with his shoulders, then his chest, moving around him with practiced efficiency.
“Nice office you’ve got here,” he said, his voice low, following me with his eyes as I circled him. “Made quite a name for yourself, haven’t you? Shalom would be—”
I cut him off with a sharp look, but he just kept talking, casual as if we were chatting over coffee. “—proud. She always said you’d do great things. Said you had a gift for making broken things look whole again.”
I ignored him, focusing on his collar, my fingers fumbling slightly with the tape. That’s when our eyes met his dark and steady, mine wide with surprise. He leaned in just a little, so close I could feel the warmth of his breath, and I turned my head away fast, ready to step back. But his hand closed gently around mine, stopping me.
“Go away,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
He was quiet then no more jokes, no more lightness. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost hesitant, the way it only ever was when he was being honest. “Y/N. I’m sorry. About what I did. I was… I was a fool. A selfish, stupid fool. I wish I could take back every word, every look, every moment that made you feel like—”
“Like I was something to be ashamed of?” I finished for him, my voice hard now, sharp with all the anger I’d been holding in. “Yes, I know you were grieving. I respected that. I gave you space. But you didn’t have to make me feel like that kiss our kiss was something disgusting. Like I was disgusting.”
“I know,” he said, his grip on my hand loosening but not letting go. “That’s why I’m here. To fix it. I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have taken that kiss. You were so young, and I was so—” He stopped, his brow furrowing, and I could see the moment he realized how wrong that sounded. Even the smartest man in the room could put his foot in his mouth sometimes.
“What?” I said, a small, bitter laugh escaping me. “You don’t get to decide that. Yes, I was young but I was old enough to know what I wanted. Old enough to choose you. What do you even want from me, Jane? For me to say it’s okay? To pretend it never happened? We’re done. We’ve been done.”
He looked at me then, and I saw it, the fear in his eyes, raw and unguarded. “I was afraid,” he said, his voice breaking just a little. “I’d already lost my family. My wife. My daughter. All because of my selfishness. I didn’t want to lose you too. You were my friend my only real friend, after everything.”
“Friends don’t look at each other the way we looked at each other,” I said, and the tears came then, hot and fast, tracing paths down my cheeks. “I knew you’d break my heart. I knew it from the start. But a part of me… a part of me hoped you wouldn’t. God damn it, Jane I wanted it to be you. I wanted everything to be you. And it’s not your fault you didn’t love me back. It’s mine. Mine for falling for a man who was already lost to the past.”
He took a step forward, his arms opening as if to hug me, but I held up a hand to stop him.
“No. Just go.”
He didn’t argue. He just looked at me for a long moment, his face full of something I couldn’t name regret, maybe, or sorrow and then he turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.
I stood there alone in the workroom, the measuring tape still in my hand, and cried. Cried for Shalom, and for the girl I’d been, and for the love I’d wanted so badly that I’d ignored every sign it would never be mine.
The air inside the shop felt too tight, too thick with everything I could not bring myself to say. I turned the lock, stepped out into the evening, and walked fast at first, then slower, letting the cool wind brush against my face. I needed fresh air. I needed to get away from the walls that still echoed with every hurtful word.
I had gone several blocks before I saw him. Standing near the corner, hands in his coat pockets, watching the street with that quiet, unshakable focus I had come to recognize. Kimball Cho. One of the CBI agents who had worked Shalom’s case.
He saw me and gave a short, respectful nod. No smile, no pretense. Just calm acknowledgment.
“Miss Y/N.”
I slowed my steps, surprised to see him. “Agent Cho. Finished work for the day?”
“Just about,” he said, his voice steady and low. He glanced at me, his dark eyes seeing more than I wanted them to. “You look like you could use some air.”
I let out a quiet breath. “That obvious?”
He gave the faintest hint of a shrug. “To me. Walked away from something, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Something like that."
He fell into step beside me, keeping a respectful distance not too close, never crowding. “ About Shalom. I’m sorry.”
He said it plainly, simply, no flowery words, no empty sympathy. And because he had been there, because he knew exactly what had happened and didn’t need me to explain, my throat tightened and I found myself nodding instead of speaking.
“It’s hard,” I managed to say at last. “Some days I don’t know how to keep going.”
He was quiet for a moment, his stride steady beside mine. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I’ve seen grief. I know what it looks like. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”
It was such a plain, uncomplicated thing to say, and coming from him, quiet and serious and sincere, it felt like a weight lifting just a little. We walked on, and he told me, without making a big deal of it, that if I needed anything if anyone bothered me, if I needed help, anything at all I could call him. He gave me his number, written neatly, and said, “I answer.”
After that, he started showing up. Not in a pushy way, never demanding. He would stop by the shop late in the afternoon, standing quietly in the doorway until I noticed him, rarely saying much, just… there. He could seem cold to anyone watching he didn’t smile often, he didn’t make small talk, he didn’t say soft things. But I learned quickly that his kindness was in what he did, not what he said.
He walked me home when it got dark. He brought me coffee exactly the way I liked it, as if he’d paid attention when I wasn’t even speaking. He sat with me when I was quiet, and listened when I needed to talk, never rushing me, never trying to fix it with clever words. He knew everything about the case, about the loss, about the pain I was carrying and he never made me explain it. He just understood.
He was blunt, quiet, and sometimes distant. But he was sweet in his own way. He stood a little closer when I looked tired. He made sure I was safe before he left. He looked at me clearly, openly, without fear or hesitation or ghosts standing between us. He didn’t make me guess how he felt. He didn’t push me away one moment and pull me back the next. He was steady. He was reliable. He was safe.
Slowly, I found myself looking forward to his visits. I found myself breathing easier when he was near. And slowly, day by day, the heavy, aching weight in my chest began to lighten replaced by something quiet, something steady, something that felt like peace.
Two months had passed since that evening walk, since I had asked Kimball Cho for his number and he had given it to me simply, without hesitation or unnecessary words. In that time, we had become friends quiet, steady friends, the kind who didn’t need to speak every minute to understand each other. He was exactly the same man I had met that night, calm, reserved, a man of few words, but always true to them. He would stop by the shop after work, standing in the doorway until I noticed him, and if I was busy, he would wait in silence, never rushing me. If I looked tired, he would tell me plainly to sit down and rest. If I was sad, he wouldn’t try to cheer me up with jokes or empty promises, he would just sit beside me, and somehow, that was enough. He was steady ground beneath my feet when everything else still felt like shifting sand.
And the most surprising thing of all Patrick Jane had not bothered me once.
For two months, no flowers left on the step. No one waiting across the street. No quiet knocks on the door. He was gone. Completely gone. At first, I told myself I didn’t mind. I told myself it was what I wanted peace, quiet, a chance to heal without his ghost standing in every doorway. But as the weeks slipped by, I realized what had happened. Lisbon had spoken to him. She had gotten the message I had never said out loud but that must have been clear enough, leave me alone. And for once, Jane had listened.
I thought about it sometimes, late at night wondering if he had finally taken the hint, or if he had realized there was nothing left to say. Wondering if he missed me at all, or if I had truly been so easy to walk away from. But then Cho would be there the next morning, bringing me coffee exactly the way I liked it, his dark eyes steady and calm, and I would push those thoughts away. Cho was here. Cho was real. Cho didn’t make me guess where I stood or wonder if he would stay. He didn’t carry ghosts between us. He was just… there. Reliable. Consistent. Kind in his quiet, unspoken way.
He never pushed me to talk about Jane. Never asked why I sometimes went quiet or looked toward the street with a heavy heart. He just walked beside me at my own pace, patient and sure, letting me heal in my own time. And slowly, day by day, I began to breathe easier. I began to believe that maybe peace was what I deserved after all.
I was searching for my shoes one morning, moving things aside with slow, careful hands, when something else caught my eye resting on the edge of the table, glinting softly in the light. It was a watch. Plain, sturdy, classic. I recognized it immediately. It must have slipped from his wrist the last time he had been here.
I picked it up and called him.
“Cho? You left your watch at my place,” I said when he answered.
“Oh. Right. Sorry about that,” he replied, his voice calm and steady as always. “I’ll swing by later to pick it up. Or maybe—”
“No, it’s quite alright,” I cut in quickly, before he could make the trip. “I can bring it to you today. I’ll come by the CBI office.”
I spoke without hesitation, without a single moment of doubt. It felt strange, almost how completely unbothered I was at the thought of walking in there. I didn’t stop to wonder who might be there. I didn’t spare a thought for him. It was just a watch, just a friend, just an errand to run.
“Thank you,” Cho said simply.
I got ready and drove over. But halfway there, something shifted. My heart began to beat faster, steady and unhurried at first, then quicker, fluttering against my ribs like a bird. I frowned at the road, confused by my own reaction. What am I nervous about? I asked myself. It was just an office. Just people I knew. But the closer I got, the heavier that quiet, unnameable flutter became.
I walked through the doors and was met by Grace Van Pelt, standing near the reception desk. She looked up, surprised, then broke into a warm, knowing smile.
“Miss Y/N! Are you here for something?”
I nodded, clutching the watch gently in my palm. “Yes. I just… I wanted to return Cho’s watch. He left it.”
Her eyes went wide, eyebrows lifting in that bright, teasing way that said she knew something I didn’t. She bit back a smile and gestured toward the bullpen.
“Oh well, come on in then.”
I followed her inside, my footsteps quiet on the floor. Van Pelt walked ahead, calling out in a voice that carried just a hint of playful delight, loud enough for everyone to hear:
“Cho? Someone’s here to see you!”
Around the room, heads turned. Agents exchanged quick, amused glances, quiet smiles passing between them like a secret. And I stood there, watch in hand, suddenly very aware of every eye in the room and the one pair of eyes I had told myself I wouldn’t mind at all.
From the far side of the room, Cho stood up. He didn’t rush. He didn’t look flustered or surprised. He just walked over with that same steady, unhurried stride, his expression calm and unchanged, as if people came to visit him every day and it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
He stopped in front of me, his dark eyes meeting mine. "You didn't have to come all the way here," he said, his voice quiet but clear, no trace of embarrassment, just sincere gratitude. "I could have picked it up later."
"It was no trouble," I told him, holding the watch out. "I was heading out anyway."
He took it from my palm, his fingers brushing mine briefly warm, firm, gentle. He slipped it onto his wrist, checking the time almost as a habit, then looked back at me. "Thank you. I appreciate it."
Around us, the quiet amusement lingered. Van Pelt was still smiling, trying to pretend she wasn't looking. Another agent gave Cho a small, knowing nod. But Cho paid none of it any mind. He stood beside me, calm and solid, unbothered by the attention, unbothered by the whispers.
Then, slowly, I became aware of someone else.
Seated at the round table near the window, legs stretched out comfortably, was Patrick Jane. He hadn't stood. He hadn't looked over. He sat there flipping casually through a file, his movements slow and easy, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. But I felt his gaze all the same heavy and quiet, watching me from beneath his lashes, watching the way Cho stood close, watching the way I looked at him. He said nothing. He didn't smile, didn't frown, didn't make a single remark. He just watched, and then looked back down at his papers, as if he had already seen everything he needed to see.
Cho seemed to notice where my attention had drifted. He didn't turn to look. He just shifted slightly, standing a little more squarely beside me, quiet and protective in his own unspoken way.
"I should go," I said, suddenly needing fresh air.
Cho nodded. "I'll walk you out."
He walked beside me to the entrance, hands in his pockets, his pace matching mine. When we reached the doors, he paused and looked at me, his expression serious. "Thank you for bringing it. And… don't mind them. They like to make a big deal out of nothing."
I gave him a small smile. "I know. Thank you, Cho."
He gave a short, respectful nod. "Drive safe."
As I walked to my car, my heart was still beating fast not from the attention, and not from Cho. But because I knew, with absolute certainty, that Jane had been watching the whole time. And I had no idea what he was thinking.
Inside the bullpen, the doors had barely clicked shut behind you before Jane turned the page of his file slow, deliberate, never once lifting his eyes. But everyone in the room knew he hadn’t read a single word.
Van Pelt leaned across the desk, barely holding back a smile. "She drove all the way here just to return a watch? That’s… awfully thoughtful, Cho."
Cho adjusted the strap around his wrist, calm and steady. "She’s being polite. That’s all."
Rigsby chuckled. "Polite people don’t drive across town, Cho. You’re kidding no one."
Cho didn’t flinch. "We’re friends. Friends do favors."
Then Jane spoke. His voice was light, almost conversational, but there was a quiet edge beneath it sharp and knowing, the kind that made everyone else fall quiet instantly.
"Interesting choice of accessory," Jane said, still tracing the edge of the page with one finger. "A watch. Practical. Solid. Reliable.… something that tells time. Something that keeps track of every second." He finally lifted his gaze, his eyes clear and bright and unsettlingly perceptive. "Very you, Cho. And very… what she needs right now."
Cho met his gaze without wavering. "She needs peace. She needs someone who doesn’t make her guess what comes next."
Jane nodded slowly, a faint, sad smile touching his mouth. "Yes. She does." He leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together, his expression shifting playful no longer, just quiet and heavy with things he wouldn’t say. "And you gave her exactly that. Didn’t you? Steady. Dependable. Always there. No surprises. No ghosts standing in the way."
He paused, glancing toward the doors you had walked through, his voice dropping so low it was almost to himself.
"I suppose I was too busy being a ghost to notice she needed someone to stay."
He picked up his tea cup, took a slow sip, and turned back to his file. But his hand tightened around the porcelain, and he didn’t turn another page for a very long time.
