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The salsa club is a humid, rhythmic cavern in the heart of Atlanta, pulsating with a beat that Will Trent can feel in the soles of his polished shoes. It's winter, and the city outside is caught in a damp, clinging chill, but inside, the air smells of lime juice, expensive tequila, and the salt of hardworking bodies. Will sits at a low, sticky table in the corner, his posture characteristically stiff, though he’s trying—really, truly trying—to embody the relaxed persona his on-off girlfriend, Ava, has been encouraging. Not everything has to be a crime scene, she’d told him. Not everything needs a triple-check.
He’s wearing a new three-piece suit. To the untrained eye, it is just another iteration of the drab, utilitarian armor he wears to defend himself against the world. But to Will, it represents a daring leap into the unknown. Faith Mitchell is sitting across from him, her eyes scanning the room for their witness, her phone a glowing rectangle in her hand. She hasn’t looked at him once in ten minutes.
Will clears his throat, a sharp, precise sound. "So, you're not gonna say anything, hm?"
Faith doesn't even look up from her screen. Her thumb flicks upward, scrolling through a feed. "What?"
Will shifts in his seat, the silk lining of his vest rustling against his shirt. He feels exposed, like a bird that’s grown a single new, bright feather and is waiting for the flock to acknowledge the evolution. "Really? You don't notice anything... different about me?"
Faith finally looks up. Her expression is a mix of professional exhaustion and the mild irritation of a partner who has been dragged to a loud club on a Tuesday night. She squints, her gaze raking over his face, his hair, and then settling briefly on his shoulders.
"Oh," she says, her voice trailing off. "Did you get a haircut or something?"
Will’s heart sinks with the weight of a stone dropped in a well. He looks at her, his lips pressed into a thin, disappointed line, and then he turns his head to the side. He stares into the empty space in front of him, the spot where their witness—a skittish bartender—is supposed to appear. He looks at the air as if it might offer more observational prowess than his own partner. Faith catches the look. She sighs, putting her phone face down on the table. She starts to scan him more thoroughly, her brow furrowing as she realizes she’s missed a test she didn’t know she was taking.
"Oh! Oh, wait!" she exclaims, a note of realization hitting her voice. "The suit! You went from a green-brown—"
"To a brown-green!" Will interrupts, his face suddenly illuminated. The disappointment vanishes, replaced by a genuine, beaming pride that makes him look ten years younger. He smooths the lapel of the jacket with a trembling hand. "Yes. Yes, night and day difference, isn't it? The undertones are completely different. It changes the way the light hits the fabric."
Faith stares at him. A slow, mischievous grin starts to pull at the corners of her mouth. She leans back, crossing her arms. "Oh yeah," she says, her voice dripping with a light, airy sarcasm. "Yeah, and now that I see it, it's... It's big, Will. It’s huge." She leans in closer, her eyes wide with mock wonder, dialing the sarcasm up until it’s a physical force. "I mean, I'm looking at it, and it’s just—it’s a lot. It’s almost too big. Like, I might need a minute to adjust my internal settings. I might need a recovery period."
Will watches her. He sees the way her eyes dance, the way she’s enjoying the bit. He knows she thinks she’s being playful, that this is just the usual banter that keeps them grounded in a job that deals in death. But deep inside, something old and sharp twists. Suddenly, he isn't a Special Agent in a three-piece suit in a high-end club. He’s a boy in a drafty foster home, holding up a drawing or a found treasure, only to have the older kids laugh, or the adults look right through him. He’s the boy who learned that sharing what he loved was just providing people with ammunition to use against him. The "not so serious" lesson Ava taught him feels like a cruel joke now. He’d let his guard down, and Faith was stepping on the very thing he’d dared to be proud of.
Faith, oblivious to the shift in the internal weather, leans further into the joke. "It's just... It's a lot to process. I feel like my retinas are being overwhelmed by the sheer audacity of that specific shade of olive-taupe."
Will’s expression hardens. The light in his eyes doesn't just dim; it goes out. He masks the hurt with a cold, brittle annoyance, the kind of professional distance he uses when a suspect is getting under his skin. "Sarcasm," he says, his voice flat. "Subtlety and attention to detail never were your strongest currencies, Mitchell."
Faith’s grin vanishes instantly. She blinks, recoiling slightly as if he’d slapped her. "Excuse me?"
The tension between them is a taut wire, vibrating in the noise of the club. Faith looks ready to snap back, to defend her right to tease him, but the air suddenly shifts. A familiar figure moves through the crowd with the grace of someone who owns the floor. Bon Bon Chiffon, looking like a dream in sequins and sheer confidence, slides into the empty seat across from Will with a flourish. They smell like expensive jasmine and something spicy, a scent that cuts through the club's musk like a knife.
"Special Agent Trent," Bon Bon purrs, their eyes instantly locking onto Will’s. They don't look at his face first. They look at the fabric. They lean in, their nose almost touching the lapel of his jacket. "Oh! Did you go from greenish-brown to brownish-green?"
Will freezes. He looks at Bon Bon, then slowly cuts his eyes toward Faith. The validation is so sudden, so precise, that it feels like a physical warmth spreading through his chest. He feels a surge of gratitude so potent he could almost cry.
Bon Bon doesn't wait for an answer. They let out a genuine, breathless gush of air. "I love it! I absolutely love it. The depth of the earth tones? It makes your eyes absolutely pop, Will. You look like you belong in a forest, but like... a very expensive, very dangerous forest."
Faith looks between the two of them, her mouth slightly agape. "Bon Bon Chiffon," she says, her voice flat, acknowledging their arrival but clearly thrown by the sudden expert testimony.
Will, meanwhile, is practically vibrating. He sits up straighter, the "brown-green" suit catching the strobe lights of the dance floor. He gives Bon Bon a smile that is uncharacteristically wide and bright. "Thank you for noticing, Bon Bon. I thought the shift was significant, but apparently, some people require a magnifying glass to see what's right in front of them."
Bon Bon leans over the table, a flirty, knowing glint in their eyes. They reach out and adjust the set of Will’s tie, their fingers lingering for just a second too long on the silk.
"It's what I do, darling," Bon Bon says, their voice a low, melodic vibration. "I see the details. And honey, on you? Those details are doing all the work."
Will beams, finally feeling the "not so serious" joy Ava had promised him, tucked safely behind the armor of a perfectly chosen shade of brown. Or green. Depending on the light.
The salsa club is thinner now, the air cooler, but the energy more focused as the clock edges toward 2:00 AM. The frantic investigation that followed Bon Bon’s tip is over; the forensics have been processed, the suspect is in custody, and for once, the paperwork can wait until morning. Will returns to the club alone. He finds Bon Bon sitting at the same low, sticky table where they met up hours ago. They are alone, staring into the amber depths of a cocktail, their posture slightly slumped.
Will pauses in the shadows, watching them. He sees the way Bon Bon’s lips move as they talk to themselves in a low, mocking whisper. "How hard would it be for a 'thank you for helping us solve the case, Bon Bon'?" they mutter, swirling their glass so the ice clinks against the side like a funeral bell. "They could at least get me tickets to Cowboy Carter. But no, I have to hear about the case being solved second-hand. Can't be bothered to see Bon Bon unless they need something."
Will frowns, a sharp pang of recognition hitting him. He knows that tone. It’s the internal monologue of someone who feels like a tool rather than a person—a resource to be used and then shelved when the job is done. It’s the same insecurity he carries every time he walks into a room and wonders if people see the agent or the man who can’t read a menu. Rather than approaching immediately, Will turns and heads toward the back of the club. He ducks into the small, dimly lit restroom and pulls out his phone. His fingers, usually so steady, feel a bit clumsy as he taps the familiar SeatGeek icon.
"Eduardo," Will says into the microphone, his voice a low, urgent murmur. "Find me two tickets for Cowboy Carter."
The AI's voice is crisp in the small room. "Searching for Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter tour at the Mercedes-Benz Stadium. I have found two floor seats, Section A, Row 4. Would you like to proceed with the purchase at the current market price?"
Will doesn’t hesitate. He doesn't even look at the total. He thinks of the way Bon Bon noticed the "brown-green" of his suit when no one else did. "Yes. Confirm the purchase."
With the digital tickets secured in his Apple Wallet, Will tucks the phone into his breast pocket and straightens his jacket. He returns to the floor, his heart doing a strange, syncopated rhythm against his ribs. When he reaches the table, Bon Bon’s seat is empty. A brief, sharp spike of alarm hits him—the fear that he was too slow, that the moment had passed—but then he sees them emerging from the bar, carrying two condensation-slicked cocktails.
Will steps into their path, attempting a relaxed lean against a pillar that feels more practiced than natural. He gestures at the two drinks. "Did you sense I was coming?"
Bon Bon stops, their eyebrows shooting up toward their hairline. They look at the drinks, then back at Will, a slow, perplexed smile forming. "No, I... are you flirting with me, Special Agent?"
Will feels the heat rise to his collar, but he doesn't look away. "Maybe," he admits, his voice rough. "I'm not exactly good at it. May I sit?"
"Please," Bon Bon says, sliding into their seat and pushing the second drink toward him. "What brings you back here, Special Agent Will Trent? Did we leave a piece of evidence under the table?"
"I'd like to ask you to accompany me to an event," Will says. He’s back to being stiff, but there’s a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. "As a thank you for helping us solve the case. We couldn't have closed it tonight without you."
Bon Bon leans back, their expression shifting from curiosity to something more guarded, yet hopeful. "You want me to go on a date with you?"
Will swallows hard. He thinks of Faith’s sarcasm and Ava’s advice. He decides to lean into the discomfort. "If you would be... amenable. Yes."
Bon Bon’s eyes sparkle with mischief. "Let me guess. Some sort of law enforcement convention? A lecture on blood spatter? Or maybe we’re going salsa dancing so you can show me those stiff hips actually move?"
"Not quite," Will says.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He unlocks it and slides it across the sticky table. The screen is bright, displaying the two digital tickets, the iconic imagery of the Cowboy Carter tour shimmering under the club's neon lights. Bon Bon freezes. Their hand goes to their mouth, their eyes widening until they look like saucers. They reach out, their fingers hovering over the screen as if they're afraid the image might vanish if they touch it. They nearly drop the phone in the process.
"Will Trent," Bon Bon whispers, their voice stripped of its usual bravado. "Section A? Row four?"
"I'm told it's a good show," Will says, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his reserve.
Bon Bon looks up at him, and for the first time, the flirtation is gone, replaced by a raw, startled appreciation. "I am learning all sorts of things about you tonight. You actually listen, don't you?"
"I try," Will says softly. "So. Is that a yes?"
Bon Bon grabs the phone, holding it like a sacred relic, and gives him a look that is purely, dazzlingly bright. "Yes. Yes, I would love to accompany you. But Will? You’re definitely wearing the brown-green suit."
Will laughs, a short, relieved sound that feels like a weight lifted. "Deal."
Two nights later, Will stands in his hallway, checking his reflection in the mirror for the tenth time. The brown-green suit is immaculate, the creases sharp enough to draw blood.
"Will, come on, you’re seriously going in a suit?" Nico calls out from the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe with a bowl of cereal in one hand. They look at Will with a grin that is purely affectionate, the kind of teasing reserved for a sibling or a father who hasn't quite figured out how to be "cool." To Nico, Will is a guardian, a brother, and a bit of a project all rolled into one. They gesture with their spoon toward Will’s reflection. "It’s a Beyoncé concert. Not a GBI briefing. You're gonna be the only person in the stadium with a waistcoat, and people are gonna ask you for directions to the VIP lounge."
Will adjusts his cufflink, his face tight with concentration. "I am comfortable in a suit, Nico. It’s... appropriate."
"It's 'Agent on a Stakeout at a Gala' chic," Nico says, bumping Will’s shoulder playfully as they walk past. It’s a comfortable, domestic kind of mocking, the way Angie is with Crystal—a bond forged in the fires of not having a traditional family to lean on. "You look great, honestly. Just... very you."
Crystal, who had been curled up on the sofa with Betty, looks up and offers a supportive, if slightly chaotic, intervention. Since moving in with Angie and Seth, she’s become a permanent fixture in Will's orbit—another soul who knows what it’s like to have no roots and find safety in the most unlikely people.
"Leave him alone, Nico. He looks nice. "Besides," she adds, her eyes dancing with a hint of dark humor, "it could be worse." He could be going in a honeybee suit. Yellow is definitely not your color, Will."
Will winces at the mental image. "Thank you, Crystal. I think."
The doorbell rings, a sharp, upbeat sound that cuts through the domestic banter. Will checks his watch, frowning. "I was supposed to pick them up," he mutters, heading for the door. "They're early. And here."
He opens the door to find Bon Bon standing on the porch, and for a second, the air in the hallway seems to catch fire. Bon Bon is dressed to the nines—a dizzying, gorgeous construction of denim, silver, and fringe that screams High-Fashion Rodeo. It’s a masterpiece of spontaneity and style.
"I decided I couldn't wait for the GBI sedan," Bon Bon chirps, stepping past Will before he can even find his voice.
"Whoa," Crystal says, sitting up straight. "That outfit is... everything."
Bon Bon turns in a slow circle, letting the light catch the metallic threads of their jacket. "Thank you, darling! Half of it is my own creation, and the other half is... borrowed with permission from a very talented friend in the Wardrobe Union."
Nico whistles, genuinely impressed. They step closer, scanning the intricate work with a critical eye. "Seriously? You made half of that? The detail on the sleeves is insane. Will, you're being outclassed in your own house."
Crystal leans forward, her eyes narrowing on the hem of Bon Bon's skirt. "The fringe," she says, her voice full of a sudden, sharp recognition. "It looks exactly like the ones on the waitresses at Slaughter House. The way it hangs? It’s perfect."
Bon Bon beams, pointing a manicured finger at her. "Yes! Exactly! I love that you noticed. Attention to detail is a rare gift in this world."
Crystal smiles with a genuine, soft expression. She works at the pub now, and that eye for detail is what keeps her grounded. Betty, sensing the high energy, trots over and lets out a series of happy barks, her tail thumping against Will’s leg. Bon Bon immediately drops to a crouch, their fringe swaying as they offer Betty a scratch behind the ears.
"And who is this beautiful lady?" Bon Bon coos.
Crystal watches them, her hand resting on the dog’s head. "That's Betty. She's basically a therapy dog," she explains quietly. "She’s the only thing that stops the shaking when the PTSD gets bad."
The trauma of her past—the shadows of her stepfather’s abuse—is always there, but in the chaos of this living room, it feels manageable. Will stands by the door, watching the scene. He watches Bon Bon with the dog, watches Crystal finding a moment of peace, and watches Nico—usually so restless—actually being quiet for once as they admire the craftsmanship of the outfit. His mind is a whirl of complicated thoughts—about how much space Bon Bon takes up, about how they fit into this strange, broken family he's built, about how he still feels like he's vibrating in this suit.
"You look..." Will starts. He wants to say something about the architecture of the outfit, or the way they’ve brightened the room, or how much he appreciates that they showed up at his door. But when Bon Bon looks up, their eyes bright and expectant, he just lets the simplest truth out. "You look beautiful," he says.
He hadn't meant for it to be that direct. It isn't a "Will Trent" thing to say—it isn't guarded or analytical. But as he says it, and as he sees the way Bon Bon’s smile softens into something truly warm, he’s glad he said it anyway.
"Well," Bon Bon says, standing up and smoothing their fringe. "I suppose we shouldn't keep the Queen waiting. And Will?" They reach out, tapping his lapel. "The suit is working. I think the brown-green is growing on me."
Will smiles, feeling a rare, genuine sense of ease. "Let's go."