Okay! This Isn't My Usual Stuff (mainly Because I Can Never Sit Still Long Enough To Write Anything-)

Okay! This isn't my usual stuff (mainly because I can never sit still long enough to write anything-) But over the past week, I had sat down and randomly decided that Munch and Fin are my new endgame because im gonna be old and gray by the time bensler GET THEIR ACT TOGETHER- But anyway, I just wanted an exuse to add more munch and fin fics--because there bearly are any!! And I wanted to test the waters. So take a...Join..?? Like John and Fin..? Munola..? munch and tutuola?? Do they have a ship name?? can someone check that out for me?? Anyway, take a John and Munch fanfiction :) That will burn, oh so slow--because we all need that kinda tension in our lives.

And some John Munch Enjoyers that ill be tagging, that I think might enjoy this :) :

@mister-warmth

@cherishsscene

@theorangejuicecup

These are the first 7 chapters! Let me know what I should name this fic, and if I should keep it going :) ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 1: The Long Wait

(Seriously, its been years. Get these GILFS together already, damn-) 

Somewhere in Brooklyn, 2:43 a.m.

“You ever think about how this is probably just a decoy apartment?” Munch muttered, squinting through the foggy windshield.

Fin didn’t look up from his cup of burnt gas station coffee. “You ever not think about that?”

Munch sighed dramatically, settling deeper into his seat. “Fair. But come on, three hours of this surveillance and not even a twitch. I’ve had more exciting evenings clipping my toenails.”

“You’re nasty,” Fin said, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You bring the snacks?”

Munch wordlessly reached into his coat and pulled out a crinkled bag of off-brand cheese puffs, tossing it over.

“Man,” Fin said, grinning. “You always bring the worst snacks.”

“And yet you eat them every time.”

“‘Cause I’m polite.”

“Polite, huh. That why you nearly broke the vending machine last week tryin’ to get the last Snickers?”

Fin shot him a look, playful and exasperated. “You holdin’ grudges now?”

“I’m a Jew from Brooklyn. Holding grudges is our national pastime.”

The silence stretched comfortably. The heater buzzed softly. Streetlights flickered on the snow-dusted sidewalk, casting shadows that moved like ghosts.

Munch glanced sideways, more subtle than usual. Fin was staring ahead, one hand on the wheel, his profile calm and unreadable.

“You ever think about how long we’ve been partners?” Munch asked suddenly.

Fin didn’t flinch, but the stillness around him deepened. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

“Feels like decades.”

“Sometimes it feels like yesterday.”

Munch chuckled under his breath. “You always get poetic when you’re tired?”

Fin glanced at him then, a flash of something—something not quite teasing, not quite vulnerable. “You always get nostalgic when you’re lonely?”

Munch didn’t respond right away. His fingers tapped a soft rhythm on his knee.

“I’m never lonely,” he said, almost too fast. “I have… people.”

“You got conspiracy theorists in a Reddit group chat. Doesn’t count.”

“…You know what Reddit is?”

“Don’t dodge the point.”

That got a laugh out of Munch. Quiet, but real.

And then it was quiet again—this time heavier. Like the air was aware of something they hadn’t said out loud.

“You think we missed the window?” Munch asked finally, voice low.

Fin blinked. “For what?”

Munch tilted his head slightly. “I dunno. Something else. Something… different.”

Fin’s jaw tensed for a second, then loosened. “I don’t think we missed anything. I think some people just take longer to figure out what’s right in front of them.”

They looked at each other then—really looked.

Then radio crackled, spitting out static and boredom. 

They slipped into silence again.

Fin slouched in the driver’s seat, tapping a beat on the steering wheel with fingers half-numb from the cold. Munch, in the passenger seat, held a lukewarm coffee cup like it was a lifeline.

“Another thrilling Friday night on the force,” Munch muttered, voice thick with sarcasm. “Remind me again why we didn’t go into something more exciting, like accounting.”

Fin snorted. “Yeah, but then who’d babysit Manhattan’s worst creeps? You? Behind a desk? Please.”

They lapsed into silence again, not the comfortable kind, but not quite awkward either. They'd done a hundred of these stakeouts together—hours of stale air, greasy takeout, and waiting for nothing. But something about tonight felt… different. Maybe it was the way Munch kept sneaking glances at Fin when he thought he wasn’t looking. Or maybe it was the way Fin wasn’t pretending not to notice.

“You ever think about quitting?” Munch asked after a long pause, voice lower than usual. “Not like retiring. Just… walking away.”

Fin shrugged, eyes on the building across the street. “Sometimes. But what else would I do? This job’s all I’ve known for twenty years.”

“Exactly.” Munch turned slightly, facing him. “You ever think that’s… the problem?”

Fin finally looked at him. Really looked. And there was something there—tiredness, yeah. But also something softer. Warmer. Something that had nothing to do with the job.

“You good, man?” he asked, not unkindly. “You sound like you’re trying to tell me something.”

Munch laughed under his breath. “Nah. I just think about it sometimes. All the stuff we never did. The people we never got to be.”

The silence returned, but now it was loaded. Electric. Fin didn’t say anything for a long time, then quietly muttered, “Yeah. Me too.”

Outside, the suspect never showed. But inside that car, something cracked open. Just a little.

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Chapter Two: Almost Normal 

Location: SVU Precinct, 9:46 AM

Fin walked into the precinct wearing the same clothes from last night and a fresh layer of “don’t ask.” The only difference? The faintest shift in his usual chill exterior. Not enough for anyone else to clock it. But Munch… Munch would know.

And of course, Munch was already there. Sitting at his desk, reading the paper, pretending like he hadn’t been up all night sitting next to Fin in a parked car where feelings definitely almost happened.

Their eyes met for a split second. Just long enough. Too long.

“You look like hell,” Munch said, not looking up from his paper.

“Good morning to you too,” Fin replied, tossing his jacket over the back of his chair. “Coffee?”

“Already had three. But go ahead and try to catch up.”

Fin walked off toward the break room, mumbling something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “smartass.” His fingers twitched around the coffee pot. He hated this feeling—the one that made him second-guess every glance, every breath between them last night.

When he came back, Munch was already standing, tossing a manila folder onto Fin’s desk.

“Cragen wants us on that Bronx case,” Munch said. “Couple of pervs luring girls online. Real feel-good story.”

Fin grunted. “Can’t wait.”

“You sure you’re up for it?” Munch asked, and it sounded way too casual. “Didn’t get much sleep.”

Fin looked up sharply. “I’m fine.”

Munch raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”

Olivia chose that exact moment to walk by, holding her phone and looking suspiciously amused. “You two fighting or flirting? Hard to tell before ten a.m.”

They both froze.

Munch recovered first, snapping the paper open again like a shield. “Please. Flirting implies interest. I’m just too tired to insult him properly.”

“Right,” Liv said, smirking as she walked off. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Fin watched her go, then glanced at Munch. “You always been this bad at hiding your crap?”

Munch didn’t look at him. “You always been this bad at recognizing it?”

Their eyes locked again—just a moment. But it felt heavier than it should’ve.

Then, as if on cue, Cragen’s door opened. “Munch. Fin. Let’s go.”

Whatever that was? Buried. Again. For now.

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Chapter Three: The Moment It Breaks 

Location: Abandoned warehouse, Queens. 11:06 PM.

“Units in position,” Fin said into the radio, his voice steady despite the cold wind cutting through his jacket. “On your word, Cap.”

“Copy that,” Benson’s voice crackled through. “Go.”

They moved fast. Olivia and Rollins through the front. Fin and Munch circling the back. Standard entry. Easy sweep. Except it wasn’t.

The second they stepped inside, a figure bolted from the shadows.

“Hey—!” Munch barely got the word out before the guy shoved him hard—then pulled a gun.

Shots rang out. One. Two.

“MUNCH!”

Fin was on him in seconds, but it felt like forever. The suspect was tackled by ESU, but Fin didn’t care.

Because Munch was on the ground.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” Fin said, breath ragged. He dropped to his knees, hands checking for blood, for a bullet wound, anything.

Munch groaned, blinking up at him. “Didn’t know you cared this much,” he rasped, and even half-conscious, the sarcasm was still there.

Fin’s jaw clenched. “Don’t joke. You could’ve—” His voice cracked. “You could’ve died, man.”

Munch stared at him like he was seeing something he wasn’t ready to look at yet.

“I’m fine,” he whispered, softer this time. “I’m fine.”

But Fin didn’t move. Didn’t let go.

By the time the EMTs arrived, Fin’s hand was still curled around Munch’s wrist, checking his pulse like he didn’t believe it was really there.

No one said anything in the moment. But later— In the hospital. In the waiting room. After Benson had gently told him to go home and rest—

Munch turned to him and said, “Why do you care that much?”

And for the first time in twenty years, Fin didn’t have a comeback.

Just a look. Raw. Real.

And something in Munch’s expression broke open.

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Chapter Three: The Usual Spot

 Location: O’Malley’s Bar, Friday night, 10:42 PM

The bar was loud enough to ignore your own thoughts and dim enough that you didn’t have to look at them if you tried. SVU had unofficially claimed a booth in the back corner—half-shadowed, half-propped up with duct tape and denial. It was tradition.

Also partly because it was always the only one open-

Munch nursed a whiskey, watching the condensation on the glass more intently than the conversation swirling around him. Fin sat across the booth, laughing at something Rollins had said, relaxed in a way he only ever was off duty.

That laugh. Goddamn. It had no right being that contagious.

“You okay?” Benson asked, sliding into the booth beside him, tone suspiciously casual. “You’ve been staring holes into Fin’s skull for ten minutes.”

“I haven’t,” Munch lied.

Benson gave him a look that screamed do not test me.

“I’m just wondering how someone that oblivious made it this far in law enforcement,” Munch muttered, sipping his drink.

As if on cue, a tall woman in a tight red dress leaned against the side of their booth, clearly already halfway through her third cosmo. “Hey,” she purred, eyes locked on Fin. “You a cop?”

Fin blinked up at her. “Uh. Yeah. Why?”

She smiled, leaning closer. “I always feel safe around strong men in uniforms.” Her hand rested on his arm, trailing down like she’d done this move a hundred times before.

Fin chuckled, clueless. “Thanks. But, uh, I’m not wearing a uniform.”

The woman giggled. “Doesn’t matter. You still look like you could arrest me any day.”

Across the booth, Munch’s eye twitched. He took a very long sip of whiskey.

Rollins bit her lip to keep from laughing. Benson didn’t bother. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Fin, ever the socially graceful tank, just smiled politely and said, “So, uh… you from around here?”

Munch set his glass down—firmly. “You know, there’s a line between flirty and thirsty, and I think we passed it about five sentences ago.”

The woman blinked at him, then looked him up and down with a slow, unimpressed sweep. “And you are?”

“The guy who was enjoying a peaceful drink before you turned this into a rerun of Sex and the City.”

She scowled. “Wow. Bitter much?”

“Only on Tuesdays,” Munch shot back, cool as ice. “And nights when someone hits on my…” he caught himself. “…partner. Poor taste, that.”

The woman’s lips twisted. “Whatever. Your loss, honey.” She flounced off, leaving a cloud of perfume and wounded pride behind her.

Fin turned to Munch, eyebrows raised. “Damn, man. You didn’t have to roast her like that.”

“She was interrupting our night,” Munch said, focusing very deliberately on the table. “Also, she had the personality of a dishrag.”

Rollins leaned in. “Mmm. Someone’s testy tonight.”

Munch deadpanned, “Must be the company.”

Fin just shook his head, sipping his beer. “I don’t get why she came over anyway. I was just sitting here.”

“You’re an idiot,” Benson said sweetly.

“What?”

“You look like a cop. You act like a cop. You sit in a dark booth brooding over a drink and you’re built like a fridge. It’s like moth to a flame.”

Munch scoffed. “If the flame was completely oblivious and had no idea it was on fire.”

Fin gave him a look. “You good?”

“Fine,” Munch replied quickly, too quickly. “Just ready to get back to real work.”

“Right,” Fin said, still squinting at him, trying to decode the sharp edge in his voice.

But before he could push, Cragen called from the other end of the bar, holding up a round of drinks. “One more for the team before we all go back to our depressing lives!”

Fin grinned and stood. “You want your usual?”

Munch waved him off. “I’m good.”

As Fin disappeared into the crowd, Rollins leaned across the table and said lowly, “You know, for a guy who sees every conspiracy in the world, you suck at hiding the one going on in your own chest.”

Munch stared at her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She smiled. “You will.”

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Chapter Four: The Interrogation

 Location: SVU Squad Room, Tuesday, 11:03 AM

It was a quiet morning at the 16th—no new cases (yet), no victims waiting (yet), and the coffee machine actually worked (a miracle). The squad was taking full advantage of the rare lull.

Munch sat at his desk with a manila folder, pretending to read. He’d been on the same page for fifteen minutes. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked toward Fin, who was leaning against the file cabinets, talking to Carisi and laughing over something dumb.

He looked too good when he laughed. Which was unfair. And uncalled for.

“You keep looking at him like that and I’m gonna have to call HR,” Benson said, dropping into the chair beside him without warning.

Munch startled slightly. “Excuse me?”

Rollins plopped down on his other side. “Don’t play dumb, Munch. We were at the bar. We saw your face when Red Dress Barbie tried to climb Fin like a jungle gym.”

Benson grinned. “It was somewhere between ‘disgusted’ and ‘one restraining order away from snapping.’”

“I was annoyed,” Munch muttered, “because she was loud and disrespectful and had the subtlety of a freight train.”

Rollins raised an eyebrow. “And because she had her hand all over your partner.”

Munch blinked at her. “He’s not— He’s my— We’re partners, yes. Professionally.”

“Uh-huh,” Benson said, sipping her coffee like it was tea. “Professionally. You wanna try that again with a straight face?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to either of you,” Munch replied, voice clipped.

“No, but you do have to explain why you nearly bit her head off like a jealous boyfriend,” Rollins said sweetly.

Benson leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You like him, don’t you?”

Munch stared at her. “This feels like entrapment.”

“It is,” Rollins chirped. “And it’s also obvious. I mean, c’mon, Munch. You watch Fin like he’s a limited edition vinyl and someone’s about to scratch it.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” both women said in unison.

Munch dropped the folder on his desk with a sigh. “Even if I did, it’s irrelevant. He’s not— He wouldn’t…” He waved a hand vaguely. “You’ve met him. He’s Fin. Cool. Straight. Confident. Not exactly the type to fall for an old conspiracy theorist with two failed marriages and a bunker full of paranoia.”

Benson softened. “He’s also loyal. Smart. And not as clueless as you think.”

Rollins scoffed. “He’s exactly as clueless as we think. But that doesn’t mean he’d shut you down.”

Munch rubbed his eyes. “This is why I don’t talk to people.”

Benson patted his shoulder. “You do like him.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Rollins said, standing. “Your face says it every time he smiles at you.”

Munch looked down at his hands.

From across the room, Fin glanced up from whatever Carisi was saying and caught Munch’s eye. He gave a half-smile, easy and warm, like it was only for him.

Munch’s heart flipped traitorously.

Rollins leaned in close and whispered, “Just tell him before someone else does.”

Then she and Benson walked away, smug and victorious, leaving Munch alone at his desk—emotionally compromised and very much aware of it.

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Chapter Five: Seeing It Now

 Fin’s POV

 Location: SVU Precinct, Wednesday, 6:32 PM

Fin wasn’t dumb. People thought he was sometimes—usually the ones who underestimated him because he played it cool. But he saw things. Read people. That was half the job.

Which is why it was starting to bug the hell out of him that he couldn’t read Munch lately.

The guy had always been a little grumpy, a little intense, but he was different now. Fidgety. Quiet in a way that felt loaded. Weirdly protective all of a sudden. And last night at the bar? He damn near snapped at that woman for touching Fin’s arm.

Fin had brushed it off at the time, but now? Now it was itching at him. Something was off. And Munch wouldn’t say a word about it.

So when Rollins passed by his desk with a smirk and said, “Mornin’, hot stuff,” in that way, he didn’t let her get far.

“Yo. Amanda.”

She turned, innocent as sin. “Yeah?”

“You know something I don’t?”

Her smile widened. “About what?”

He gave her a look.

“Oh,” she said, pretending to think. “You mean about Munch being all weird around you lately? Like a high schooler with a crush?”

Fin blinked. “What?”

“Oh, I didn’t say it,” she said quickly, hands raised. “Liv said it. I just agreed. And watched it happen.”

“You’re serious?” Fin asked, arms crossing. “You think… Munch is into me?”

Rollins tilted her head. “I know Munch is into you. The man looked like he was gonna stab that woman with a cocktail straw when she flirted with you.”

Fin ran a hand over his face. “He’s never said anything.”

“Of course not,” Rollins said. “Because he’s Munch. He’d rather fake his own death than admit he has feelings.”

Fin didn’t know what to say to that.

Because… it was insane. Right?

Except it wasn’t.

Except now he was seeing it everywhere. The way Munch always paid attention to where he was. The way he relaxed a little when they were alone. The way he’d look at Fin like—hell, like he mattered in some way Fin couldn’t name.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

“You okay?” Rollins asked, suddenly a little softer.

Fin shrugged. “I don’t know. I never thought about it like that.”

“Maybe you should,” she said, voice gentler now. “Just ‘cause it never crossed your mind doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

He glanced over toward Munch’s desk. The guy wasn’t there—probably in the records room, dodging everyone. Classic.

But the idea wouldn’t leave his head now. Munch. Munch. Looking at him like that. Being into him. Maybe for a while now.

Fin shook his head. “I swear, if y’all been running bets on this—”

“Oh, Carisi’s got a whole bracket,” Rollins grinned.

“I hate this place.”

“You love this place.”

“…Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes drifting toward the hall where Munch had gone. “I guess I do.”

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Chapter Six: Gay Is Not A Dirty Word

 Location: Fin’s Apartment, Thursday Night, 10:01 PM

Fin had never been afraid of much.

Not gangs. Not guns. Not perps twice his size or ten years younger. Not even walking into rooms where the air was still hot with violence and the echo of screams.

But this?

This had him pacing his living room like a man about to jump out of his own skin.

He’d been avoiding it. The thoughts. The memories. The way Munch looked at him like he meant something—and the way it made Fin feel like he wanted to.

He’d buried the feelings under banter and bad jokes and years of no, not me. Because it wasn’t supposed to be him. He wasn’t that guy. He’d told himself that for decades.

But then there was John. Goddamn John.

Smart-ass, paranoid, grumpy-as-hell John Munch who always had his back, who knew how to make him laugh when he shouldn’t, who looked at him like he saw him. And for the first time, Fin realized it wasn’t just affection or comfort or some late-night stakeout bond—

It was love. The kind that crept in quietly and took root somewhere deep, deep down before he ever had the language for it. And now it was blooming all at once, and it hurt.

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t even know who he was with this truth in his chest.

And so—God help him—he called the only person he could think of.

The phone rang twice before a surprised voice answered: “Dad?”

Fin swallowed. “Hey, Ken.”

A pause. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Fin said, pacing again. “Just… I know it’s late. I needed to ask you something. Talk to you. Whatever.”

Ken sounded wary but not unkind. “Alright. What’s up?”

Fin sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. “This is gonna sound weird. And maybe messed up. But… you’re the only gay guy I know.”

Ken let out a breath that might’ve been part laugh. “Okay…”

“And I’m not saying that to be funny,” Fin said quickly. “I just… I don’t know how to say this out loud to anyone else. And we’re still figuring things out, you and me, but—hell, you’re still my kid. And I trust you.”

The silence stretched.

“Alright,” Ken said gently. “I’m listening.”

Fin exhaled, tried to find words.

“I think I’m in love with a man.”

He said it. And it felt like the ground shifted.

Ken was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “Okay.”

“I mean, I don’t know when it started. It’s been years, maybe. I just kept telling myself it wasn’t real. I’ve never even thought about a guy like that before, you know? Not like this. But I can’t stop thinking about him. And now I’m wondering if I’ve been lying to myself this whole time.”

Ken’s voice stayed steady. “Are you scared?”

“Yeah,” Fin admitted. “A lot. Of what it means. Of how I missed it. Of what people’ll think. I spent my whole life thinking I was one thing. But now…”

“Now it doesn’t fit anymore,” Ken said. “I know what that’s like.”

Fin felt something in his throat tighten.

“I don’t want this to be a phase,” he said. “I don’t want it to be a fluke. I don’t want it to be something I run from like a coward.”

Ken’s voice was warm now. “It’s not cowardly to be scared, Dad. Especially when you’ve been taught your whole life not to even look at this kind of love. But it is real. And if it’s Munch—”

Fin’s head snapped up. “Wait, how—?”

“Rollins texted me three weeks ago and said ‘your dad is helplessly in love with his weird coworker.’ I assumed she meant Munch.”

Fin groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Jesus.”

“I think it’s kinda sweet,” Ken said, teasing now. “Two old dudes finally figuring it out.”

Fin chuckled despite himself. “We’re not that old.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Ken said. Then he sobered. “But seriously… if you love him, you should tell him. Or at least let yourself feel it. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Least of all to yourself.”

Fin nodded slowly. “I’m trying, kid. I really am.”

Ken smiled through the line. “You’re doing better than you think.”

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Later that night, Fin sat in the dark, phone still in his hand, heart a little lighter. Still scared. Still unsure.

But for the first time in maybe ever, he wasn’t denying it.

He was in love with John Munch.

And maybe—just maybe—that was worth everything.

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Chapter Seven: Testing The Conspirital Waters

 Location: Squad Room & Coffee Run Territory 

Fin’s POV

 Friday Morning, 9:12 AM

Fin got in early.

Not on purpose. At least, that’s what he told himself. But he’d barely slept, and showing up before the squad meant he didn’t have to answer any questions about the very real, very big realization that had wrecked his sleep like a brick through a window.

He was in love with John Munch. And now that the words had formed in his mind, they wouldn’t go away.

He thought maybe it’d be like other feelings—things he could push down, drink away, laugh off.

It wasn’t.

It sat heavy in his chest. Constant. Present.

And it had him glancing up way too fast when the elevator doors opened and Munch walked in, coat flapping, coffee in hand.

“Morning,” Munch said, blinking at him. “You here before nine? Did I time-travel?”

Fin shrugged. “Didn’t sleep.”

Munch’s eyes softened, just a fraction. “Something wrong?”

Fin almost said everything, but instead he said, “Nah. Just thinking too much.”

Munch nodded and sat down at his desk, groaning a little. Fin watched him lower himself into the chair like his bones were made of antique furniture. God, he was such a grump. And Fin adored him for it.

He hated how easy it was to get used to the way Munch looked when he wasn’t performing—quiet and real and worn-in.

He also hated that now he wanted to be near him all the damn time.

“You eat?” Fin asked suddenly.

Munch looked up, surprised. “No. Why?”

“Gonna walk down to get a bagel. You want one?”

There was a pause. Not long. Just enough to tell Fin that Munch had noticed the change. He almost never offered.

“…Everything. Toasted. Cream cheese,” Munch said slowly, watching him like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Fin nodded. “Cool.”

He walked out like it was no big deal. But his heart was hammering.

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They ate at their desks. The rest of the squad trickled in around them—Benson with her “Captain face” on, Rollins smirking knowingly, Carisi complaining about the vending machine eating his dollar.

But Fin barely noticed. He was too busy watching Munch eat like he hadn’t had a real meal in three days.

“Didn’t realize you were this easy to please,” Fin said, tone light.

“You should’ve figured that out by now,” Munch replied, licking cream cheese off his thumb in a way that should not have short-circuited Fin’s brain but absolutely did.

Fin looked away. Jesus.

He felt like he was fourteen again, noticing his friend’s hands and then hating himself for it.

Only now, he wasn’t a kid. He knew what this was.

Munch stood to throw away his napkin. “Coffee machine’s broken again,” he muttered, like this was personally offensive.

Fin stood too. “Come on. I’ll get you a real one.”

Munch blinked. “You’re being weird.”

“You’re being ungrateful.”

Munch’s mouth twitched. “Fair point.”

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They walked to the corner bodega together. It wasn’t far, maybe three minutes. But it felt like a lifetime.

Fin caught himself brushing against Munch’s arm once. He didn’t apologize.

Munch didn’t move away.

They didn’t talk much, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that felt like something. Not tension, exactly—but weight.

On the way back, Munch asked, “So… what’s really going on with you?”

Fin sipped his coffee. “Why you think something’s up?”

“Because I know you,” Munch said. “And you keep looking at me like you’re gonna say something and then don’t.”

Fin hesitated. “Maybe I will. Just… not yet.”

Munch gave him a long look. “Okay.”

Fin didn’t miss the way his voice softened.

Back at the precinct, Rollins leaned over her desk and whispered to Benson, “He brought him a bagel and coffee. That’s basically a proposal.”

Benson grinned. “Give it three more chapters.”

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