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The air inside the abandoned paper mill is a thick, stagnant soup of industrial decay and the sharp, metallic tang of late autumn. Portland is living up to its reputation; outside, a relentless drizzle turns the gravel lots into a slurry of grey mud. Inside, the silence is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic plink-plink-plink of rainwater hitting rusted machinery. Monroe stands near a skeletal assembly line, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his heavy wool cardigan. He’s wearing three layers, including a thermal that’s seen better decades, but the damp cold still finds its way into his bones. He checks his watch—a vintage mechanical piece that he obsessively maintains—and sighs so hard his breath mists in front of him.
"I had a root vegetable tagine on the stove, Nick," Monroe mutters as a familiar silhouette breaks through the fog of the doorway. "A slow-simmered, hand-chopped masterpiece. Parsnips, heirloom carrots, chickpeas—the whole nine yards. We were supposed to be watching The Daily Show and eating like civilized adults, not playing 'detective in a condemned building' at ten o'clock at night."
Nick Burkhardt approaches with that specific gait—half-exhausted cop, half-predatory Grimm. His leather jacket is slick with rain, reflecting the weak beam of his flashlight. He’s been a Grimm for a few months now, and while the world is still terrifyingly new, the man standing in front of him is the one constant he’s had for three years. Since he started dating Monroe, Nick’s diet has leaned heavily toward the pescatarian—mostly out of respect, but also because Monroe is a terrifyingly good cook—and the lack of heavy grease in his system seems to have sharpened his own senses.
However, he doesn't look like a monster hunter right now; he looks like a man who knows exactly how to push Monroe's buttons. "Mellifers, Monroe," Nick says, his voice low and raspy. He stops just inches from Monroe, the heat radiating off him a cruel temptation. "The case is weird. Even for Portland."
Monroe rolls his eyes, though his pupils dilate slightly as he catches Nick’s scent—rainwater, gunpowder, and the specific cedar-scented soap they both use. "Mellifers. Right. Look, they’re the gossip of the Wesen world, okay? They’re the town criers, the human-switchboards, the... I don't know, the Twitter of the creature population. If something is happening in the woods or the city, they’re the ones humming about it. But they’re also extremely organized and extremely protective of their Queen."
Nick tilts his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Twitter? Really?"
"It’s 2011, Nick, social media is a thing. Keep up," Monroe snaps, though there’s no real heat in it. "Point is, they communicate through the hive mind. If you've found a dead one here, you're poking a very large, very angry metaphorical nest."
Nick reaches out, his thumb catching the edge of Monroe’s jaw, a casual, intimate gesture that makes Monroe’s breath hitch. "Which is why I don't need you for what you know right now. I need your nose."
Monroe scoffs, pulling back just enough to maintain his facade of annoyance. "Oh, I get it. So little Timmy’s stuck in a well, you need Lassie to come find him. You really know how to butter a guy up for a favor. 'Hey, honey, leave the warm house and the dinner you spent an hour prepping so you can track a giant bee through a tetanus hazard.'"
Nick’s smirk turns into a full-blown, shameless flirtatious grin. He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "I’ve got a '77 Bordeaux in my truck. It’s been sitting in the cellar waiting for a special occasion. I figure 'not getting stung to death' qualifies."
Monroe freezes. He tries to look stoic. He tries to remember the organic parsnips. But a '77 Bordeaux is a low blow, even for Nick. He lets out a long, defeated groan, his shoulders slumping. "You are a deeply manipulative human being. You know that, right? It's a dark stain on your badge." He pauses, his nostrils flaring as he instinctively begins to sample the air. "I can maybe catch a scent..."
The flirtation evaporates into professional focus. Monroe shifts. His posture straightens, his head tilting back as he filters through the smells of wet sawdust, oil, and rodent droppings. He catches a thread of something else—something floral but heavy, like rotting nectar.
"This way," Monroe whispers.
He leads Nick deeper into the mill, navigating around rusted vats and piles of collapsed timber. They reach a small, detached structure built within the main floor—an old foreman’s house or office. It’s a dark, jagged shadow against the corrugated metal walls. As they cross the threshold, the floorboards groan under Monroe’s boots. The darkness here feels intentional, like a physical weight. Monroe’s inner Blutbad is screaming at him.
"This is so the part of the horror movie where the sidekick gets it!" Monroe hisses, his eyes darting toward the rafters. "Seriously, Nick. This is where the guy with the sweater vest dies so the hero can have a dramatic third-act realization."
"Just stay close," Nick says, his hand finding the small of Monroe’s back, guiding him forward. It’s a protective gesture, but Nick’s fingers linger a second too long to be purely professional.
"Tell me we are not going upstairs," Monroe pleads, staring at a rickety wooden staircase that looks like it’s being held together by cobwebs and prayer.
Nick doesn't say a word. He just keeps walking, his flashlight beam cutting through the dust motes toward the first step.
"Oh, we’re going upstairs!" Monroe throws his hands up in a silent gesture of exasperation but follows anyway, his footsteps light and wary.
The second floor is a labyrinth of open-plan offices and shattered glass. The smell here is overwhelming to Monroe; it’s thick enough to taste. He leads Nick toward a corner office where the door hangs off a single hinge. Monroe stops in the center of the room, his eyes glowing a faint, involuntary red for a split second before he settles.
"Oh yeah," he says, his voice gaining a bit of its usual confidence. "I’m definitely getting a female scent here. Undeniable."
Nick stiffens. The playful flirtation from moments ago vanishes, replaced by a sharp, possessive edge that he hasn't quite learned to hide yet. Jealousy looks different on a Grimm; it’s more primal. "You that sure?" he asks, his voice clipped.
Monroe looks over his shoulder, seeing the tension in Nick’s jaw. He can't help himself; he lets a small, teasing smile play on his lips. "No, her perfume. It’s called 'Undeniable'. My aunt used to wear it. It’s very... aggressive."
Nick blinks, the tension draining out of him as he realizes he’s been had. "Right. Aggressive. Got it." He starts to move past Monroe to inspect a desk, but Monroe is already moving toward the back of the room, his nose leading the way. "Hey, wait up," Nick calls out.
Monroe doesn't stop. "Don’t you dare say 'heel'," he warns over his shoulder.
"Name’s Melissa Wincroft," Nick says suddenly.
Monroe stops dead and turns around, his eyes wide. "Whoa. Did you just, like, Grimm that? Some kind of telepathic way? Did her soul speak to you through the veil of the Wesen world?"
Nick holds up a discarded, cream-colored envelope, tapping it with his flashlight. "No, I read it off an envelope. Melissa Wincroft, owner and CEO. Must have been her office."
Monroe stares at the envelope, then at Nick’s smug face. "That’s cheating. I literally sniffed her out through layers of industrial grime and you just... you use your eyes? That’s cheap, Burkhardt. Highly unsportsmanlike."
Nick steps into Monroe’s personal space, the envelope tucked away. He reaches out, ruffling Monroe’s hair just enough to be annoying. "Good boy," he murmurs, his eyes dancing with mischief.
Monroe glares, his lip curling in a mock-snarl, but the heat in his chest has nothing to do with anger. Nick’s gaze softens, the "policeman" mask dropping entirely. He leans in, his breath warm against Monroe’s cheek, his intent clear. He’s going for the kiss, the apology for the cold night, and the wasted tagine. Just as their lips are about to brush, Nick’s gaze flickers. The flashlight in his left hand catches something on the floor.
He pulls back, the romantic moment dying an abrupt death. "Monroe, look."
He tilts the light down. The floor, which they had assumed was just covered in dark debris, is actually carpeted in a thick, shimmering layer of dead honeybees. Thousands of them, wings translucent and brittle, forming a macabre rug that leads toward the back of the office.
Monroe pouts, a genuine, frustrated sound vibrating in his throat. "Of course. Heaven forbid we have ten seconds of romance without a pile of animal carcasses."
Nick doesn't apologize this time. His Grimm instincts have taken the wheel. He stands up straight, his eyes tracking a dark, viscous trail that leads out of the office and toward the main industrial staircase—a grand, rusted structure that climbs toward the very top of the mill. From somewhere high above, a heavy, golden liquid begins to drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. It hits a metal railing with a thick, sticky sound that echoes through the hollow building.
"Nick," Monroe says softly, his annoyance shifting back into genuine concern.
"I know," Nick replies, his hand already on his holster as he starts toward the stairs. "Stay close."
Monroe sighs, adjusting his cardigan and following him into the dark. "Better be a very big bottle of Bordeaux, Nick. Very big."