Teller’s Anarchy

It wasn't that you were annoying, particularly aggressive, or obsessed with being right, you just did your job to the best of your ability. Even if that meant being the villain of other people's stories and mentally going over every law to make sure it was obeyed.

The issue was that not everyone saw it the same way. In the workplace, where you managed, your exact memorization of the rules wasn't always appreciated if you were the one carrying the defense and doing everything to overthrow the other side's theories. For the same reason, you usually had to argue with cops, prosecutors, judges, and, on this occasion, even an FBI agent who wasn't happy with your presence.

You had in your hands an alleged confession of several murders delivered by your client under the coercion of the man who was interrogating her, without your presence there and with some pretty questionable methods to put her in an empty room without concrete evidence or an order from the judge. Unbelievably, it was a fairly common occurrence in your day-to-day work.

At least it was until the boss of the agent you were arguing with showed up and everything started to get complicated.

“What's going on here?”

The cross words and your intensity in emphasizing the injustice of the manipulation of the confession did not allow you to realize that there was someone else in the room. Much less that it was someone who looked exclusively at you until one of the police officers present cleared his throat.

“There has been a violation of the law.” You slowly turned to look behind you, and that's when you saw him.

Aaron stood stiffly, trying to look professional and serious, wearing a tie that matched your dress.

“There wasn't one, Hotch. We just got the confession.” Agent Morgan interjected into the silence provoked by the exchange of glances between you and his supervisor.

For the first time in the half hour you'd been there, you were completely silent. Even when two more agents showed up to try to defuse the situation, you didn't stop repeating the same arguments and insisting on your point. Now, however, you seemed to have lost the ability to speak.

There was a long pause before Aaron spoke carefully. “I'll take care of clarifying the situation.”

Trying to remain serious and stoic, he led you to one of the station's offices with the excuse that he wanted to talk about the case quietly so as not to attract the attention of his team. The strange thing was that he called you by name in front of everyone, without anyone having introduced you before. Maybe one of you two would have noticed if you had been a little less attentive to the other and more attentive to how the situation looked in the other's eyes.

“What are you doing here?” He asked as soon as he closed the door behind you, loosening the tension in his jaw a little, at least now it was just the two of you.

“Where's my 'Good to see you, sweetie. Please don't sue us' or anything like that?”

He raised an eyebrow at your comment, hoping you would take it seriously. Automatically and unconsciously, he had begun to move away from you and sat down on the other side of the desk, marking a distance between the two of you. Aaron had brought out his work side and you had hidden it at the mere sight of him.

“The woman your team pressured into confessing to a crime is my client.” You finally spoke in a serious tone, staring at him with some surprise. This wasn't the usual dynamic with him, you usually had a more relaxed side to him.

“Since when do you take cases like this?”

“Since it's been assigned to me.” You said, raising your shoulders. “One of the buffet partners is on vacation and left me to his clients, as I mentioned the other night.”

The other night when you were in his car, when he had his hand on your thigh as he drove home, when he smiled at you every chance he got to turn around and look at you. When the two of you weren't on completely different sidewalks and weren't supposed to act like strangers.

“This is pretty weird.” You said after watching him for a few seconds and noticing that he seemed lost in his memories. “I hope the agent I was arguing with isn't your friend. That would be awkward.”

Aaron looked at you, trying to figure out what could have happened before he showed up. He already knew you were a good lawyer, very capable and, above all, a good striker. It was too weird for him to think that you had been using your skills against his own team, against the friends he once wanted to introduce you to and that you had now met for the first time in the most unimaginable way.

“What?” You asked.

“Nothing.”

“You look at me like I'm a ghost.”

His brow furrowed again.

He didn't want to say out loud that everything related to his work had ended badly and was completely destroyed, just like his ex-marriage and any attempt to fix it. He had always felt comfortable with you because your work was just as demanding but less dangerous than his. You usually handled family cases, divorces, estates, and coordinating child care. You were away from the blood, the killers, and all the atrocities he lived with.

“I'm worried about you being in the middle of this. It can be dangerous.” He showed his concern for you and had to hold back from holding your hand.

“You should worry more about the lawsuit.” You pointed out in a tone somewhere between teasing and serious. You didn't like him worrying too much. “I'm very good.”

“This is serious.” He finally let his guard down and placed his hand on your knee from under the table, giving it a gentle touch.

That was the man you know and love.

“Me too, it's my job.”

“And you're making my job harder.” He pointed out with a small smile in response to yours.

What were the chances of your love life and work life crossing paths like this? You thought they were pretty slim, which is why you steered clear of talking about work when you were together.

You were just about to answer when you heard a tap on the door and one of the agents who had been watching you during your discussion came over to give Aaron some information about the profile. You couldn't understand him very well because he seemed to be speaking in code because of your presence.

“I'll be there in a moment, Rossi. Get the team together and we'll talk.” Hotchner finished earnestly. You could still feel the warmth of his touch on your knee. “I'm just finishing up here.”

As soon as he left the office, you looked at Aaron with surprise.

“Is he who you always mention?” You asked, and he nodded. “I thought it was 'Rosie,' not 'Rossi,' and that he was a woman.”

“Now I understand why you grimace when I mention his name.” He replied with some amusement. “You were jealous.”

Yes, especially when you found out that they'd shared a room once.

“Don't mock me, I'm about to sue you.” You advertiste in a fake threatening tone, pointing a finger at him. “And I don't care how handsome you look right now, I'll do my job.”

“Me too.” He replied, trying to ignore your compliment to keep a serious expression on his face. “And you look pretty too, I like that dress.”

The love between you seemed to be bubbling anyway, and it was impossible to hide it when you had breakfast together just a few hours ago. You went from making him coffee to offering him a lawsuit if he didn't agree with you.

“I know, I'll use this dress while I debunk your profile theory.” You got up from your seat suddenly after taking your phone out of your bag. It was then that you looked him in the eye. “Are you going to release my client now or should I call the judge?”

“You're not going to take a suspect in five murders. I'm not going to let her off the hook.” He copied your action.

“Give me the evidence then, love.”

Oh, to call him that at that point was a cheap shot, especially when you were the one who won because he had no concrete evidence, only theories and his complex profile.

“But stay away from her anyway, she can be dangerous. My agents will keep an eye on her.” He snorted after a few seconds, trying to find an argument, but failing.

At that moment, you gave him a little smile, proud of yourself and what you had accomplished. “See you at dinner?”

“Sure.” He replied without being able to help but give you a small smile in return. “But I'll pick the place.”

“Well, that's an argument I'll let you win.” You put your phone back in your bag and took a couple of steps towards the door, stopping when you saw him coming after you. “Can I kiss my opponent?”

“This is pretty unprofessional.” He said, putting a hand on your waist and leaning you against the door. Without hesitation, he kissed you firmly on the lips.

After a few minutes, the two of you walked out of the office as if nothing had happened, and the professional scene continued. Your heels clicked towards the exit with your client at your side, while Aaron met with his team, trying to find new ways to solve the case and refine the profile. The only problem was that he happened to be working with people who were very detail-oriented.

And, gosh, it was impossible not to notice the traces of your lipstick on his lips.

The hospital was far too bright for this time of night.

You stepped inside, and the fluorescent lights overhead felt like an assault on your already overwhelmed senses. The antiseptic scent of disinfectant, too sterile and sharp, burned the inside of your nose. Your fingers gripped your belly as though you could steady your heart through it, feel her little fluttering kicks, and ground yourself in the fact that she was still safe, still here. Unlike him.

Penelope’s voice still echoed in your ears.

“He collapsed. In the lab. He—he was exposed to anthrax, but…but they found him in time, sweetheart. He’s stable. They got to him, don’t worry.”

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or both. Instead, you ran.

Your name had barely finished leaving your lips at the front desk before you were directed to the ICU. Room 507. You repeated it under your breath like a mantra, one hand clutched over your heart.

Please be okay. Please be okay. Please—

When you reached the door, your fingers trembled on the handle. For one wild second, you didn’t want to open it. You weren’t ready to see what might be inside. But you owed it to him. You owed it to the man who had called you just to say goodbye and left behind a box full of his love in carefully written letters.

You pushed open the door.

And there he was.

Spencer. Your Spencer.

Pale as paper, sunken into starched white sheets, surrounded by beeping monitors and softly glowing machines. His curls were damp, stuck to his forehead. A clear nasal cannula looped gently over his ears, and his chest rose and fell—slowly, but steadily—under the pale blue hospital blanket.

You barely made it two steps before your knees weakened, and you grabbed the side of the bed as though anchoring yourself to him could stop the flood in your chest.

He’s here. He’s breathing. He came back to us.

You sank into the chair beside his hospital bed and gently brushed your fingertips along the back of his hand. His skin was cool, not cold, but not warm the way it usually was when he held you. You cupped his hand in both of yours, rubbing slow, soothing circles with your thumb, as if you could will your warmth into him, coax him back to you with touch alone. That’s when you noticed it, still wrapped snug around his wrist, just beneath the IV tape. The bracelet you had made for him at the baby shower. The one with the soft gray thread and the three little star charms, one smaller than the others. Your breath caught. He’d worn it every day since, without fail. A quiet promise in silver: you, him, and the tiny star still growing inside you.

“I told you not to scare me,” you whispered, brushing your fingertips over his.

No answer.

So you sat down.

And you waited.

You held his hand the way he liked it, your thumb tracing slow, familiar circles into his knuckles like a lullaby only the two of you knew. You rested your head near his hip, your cheek barely touching the edge of the blanket, and whispered soft, silly things to the quiet rise and fall of his chest. You told him how she’d kicked all day, as if she knew something was wrong, and how you tried to read one of his letters out loud, but your voice kept breaking every few lines. You told him how Garcia had cried when she called, her voice trembling through the phone, and how she stuffed your bag with so much of your favorite candy that the zipper nearly broke. How JJ had hugged you the second you walked through the doors, her arms strong and steady as she whispered again and again that everything would be okay. How Morgan had paced the hallway like a storm about to break, so restless the nurses nearly kicked him out twice. You told him everything—because if he could hear you, if his heart could feel even a fraction of your words—you wanted it filled with love, with family, with every reason to stay.

And then, just before dawn—

He stirred.

It started as the tiniest twitch of his fingers beneath yours. Then a slow furrow of his brows. A groggy sound escaped his throat.

You sat up so quickly that the water cup teetered dangerously on the bedside table, nearly spilling.

“Spencer?” Your voice trembled, caught between hope and fear, fragile as glass.

His lashes fluttered like a fragile curtain stirring in a soft breeze. Then his eyes slowly opened—brown, glassy, and confused—but unmistakably there.

He blinked once. Then again.

Your breath hitched, your chest tightening until he met your gaze.

A shaky smile lifted your lips, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “Hey.”

For a long, fragile moment, he stared at you as if trying to convince himself you were real. Then his cracked lips parted, and he rasped,

“…you’re here.”

It was the first and only thing that mattered to him.

“Of course I’m here.” Your thumb gently traced soft circles over the back of his hand. “You really thought I’d leave you alone? You’ve still got daddy duties to attend to.”

He let out a weak, rasping laugh that quickly caught in his throat and turned into a coughing fit. You reached for the water, your touch light and tender as you helped him sip slowly, careful not to overwhelm him.

“You scared the hell out of me, Spencer Reid.”

His lips parted in a faint, apologetic smile, the corners trembling. “I scared myself,” he admitted, voice rough and quiet. “But…you sounded so calm. On the phone.”

“I wasn’t.” You gently guided his hand back to your belly, settling it just where she liked to press her heels. Your voice softened. “I just didn’t want her to feel how terrified I was.”

As if on cue, she kicked.

Right under his palm.

His breath caught audibly, the sharp inhale almost too big for his still-recovering lungs. His fingers twitched instinctively, curling with wonder. His eyes dropped to your bump, wide and glassy, like he’d just felt proof of a miracle.

“She kicked…”

“She heard your voice,” you whispered, watching the awe bloom across his face. “And she’s been kicking all night. I think she missed you more than I did.”

“That’s not possible,” he murmured, his lips curving faintly despite how bone-tired he looked. “No one could miss me more than you do.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips across his forehead in a featherlight kiss, letting it linger there longer than usual.

“She read your letters,” you whispered against his skin.

His eyes fluttered closed like your touch was the only thing anchoring him. “You found the box?”

You nodded, tears catching in your lashes. “Oh, my love…they’re perfect. She’s going to grow up knowing exactly how much you love her. How much you love us.”

A tear traced a slow path down his temple and into the pillow, unnoticed by him, but not by you.

You reached up and wiped it away with the softest part of your thumb, your breath catching as he looked at you like he had something else to say, something more, but couldn’t quite find the strength.

“I wanted her to have them…just in case I—” His voice cracked mid-sentence, and he stopped, swallowing hard. His eyes drifted toward the ceiling like he could will the emotion back into place. “I wrote one for her first birthday. And one for when she learns to read. There’s even one for her first heartbreak.” A soft breath trembled from his chest. “I didn’t want her to go through anything without hearing from me.”

The ache that bloomed in your chest was sharp, deep, and so full of love it nearly knocked the air out of you. You looked at him, not just as the man you loved, but as someone who had poured every fiber of his soul into being the kind of father he never had.

“You’re going to read those to her yourself, Spencer,” you said, your voice quiet but steady, threading your fingers through his.

He gave you a small, crooked smile, the kind he used when he didn’t quite believe something but desperately wanted to.

“You think I’ll make it to the first heartbreak?”

You shook your head, eyes shimmering. “You’re going to make it to every heartbreak. And every ballet recital. And graduation. And…and tea parties. If she’s into that.” You smiled, pressing his hand gently back to your stomach. “And I’ll be right there with you. Watching you cry when she wears a little cardigan for the first time.”

He laughed, a hoarse, broken sound that somehow still managed to be the most beautiful thing you’d heard in days. The sound cracked open something soft between you both.

“You think she’ll wear cardigans?”

“She will wear cardigans,” you said with certainty. “You wore sweater vests. It’s genetically inevitable.”

He shook his head with a soft chuckle, then looked at you again, really looked at you, like he was trying to memorize your face for the thousandth time. His gaze was glassy, lashes damp with exhaustion and emotion, but the love behind it was steady and real.

“I want to marry you.”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t come with fanfare or flourish. Just a whisper, full of quiet conviction. A secret handed to you like something sacred.

Your breath hitched, heart fluttering in your chest. “You’re not allowed to propose with an IV in your arm,” you whispered, smiling through the emotion caught in your throat.

“It’s not a proposal,” he said, shaking his head slowly, carefully. “Just a fact.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek, warm and lingering, right where a tear had left its trail. “Well…fact or not…” You guided his hand back to your belly, where your daughter gave the softest kick beneath his palm. “Your girls are waiting for you to come home.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

The tears in his eyes said enough. So did the way he held your gaze. And the way his fingers instinctively curled around the shape of your bump, as if anchoring himself there: in love, in family, in hope.

And in the hush of that hospital room, surrounded by machines and fatigue and every ounce of unspoken fear, you held the man you loved. The father of your child. The one who had written her letters for a lifetime, just in case.

But he wasn’t gone.

He was here.

Breathing.

Healing.

And this time, he’d live to write her more.

Your phone rang somewhere in the room, but you had no idea where. In the distance, you could hear the classical symphony by Johannes Brahms that your boyfriend had chosen especially for you, with the excuse that it would calm you and the baby every time it played.

Unfortunately, this time it wasn't helping to calm you down.

After tossing and turning around the room several times, you sat up in bed, completely exhausted and hopeless. That's when you felt the noise nearby and realized that the phone under your pillow was vibrating nonstop. You were about to snort with stress from being so distracted lately, but an automatic smile appeared on your face when you saw that it was a call from Spencer. You hadn't heard from him in several hours, the last being his usual call to wish you a good morning every time he was away on a case.

“I think I'd lose my head if I didn't have it attached to my neck.” Was the first thing you said as you tried to tuck your pillow behind your neck to make yourself more comfortable.

“You've lost your phone again.” You heard him let out a small, weak laugh, followed by a cough that caught your attention and made you frown. “Sorry, I got stuck.” He quickly excused himself.

“Are you okay?”

In response to your question, he looked around the lab where he was confined, focusing on the broken vial of anthrax on the floor that had caused all his problems so far. Reid didn't know how to explain that an ordinary case had turned into a national problem that was taking over his life and future moments with you with every passing second.

And he certainly knew even less how to tell you that this would probably be the last time you would hear from him if the team didn't find a cure soon.

“I'm fine.” He lied immediately, feeling his breathing getting harder and harder. “Really, love.” He tried to reassure you, but he lost his balance and leaned heavily on the counter, his free hand gripping it hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

All you had to do was hear him call you that and your whole world would light up, you could even feel the baby in your belly kicking at the sound of his voice. You smiled as you realized that you were both happy to hear from Spencer after not seeing him for most of the day due to the demands of his job.

Although you've never said it out loud for fear of making him feel guilty, you miss him excessively, and you're always trying to multitask and be productive, so you don't think as much about how much you need him by your side. Especially when dinner time comes and his seat next to you is empty, or when night comes and his side of the bed is cold.

Perhaps it was the pregnancy hormones, but you seemed to have a stronger need for him than ever.

“And how did you feel today? How are my girls? Did she kick a lot today?” The usual questions he asked you every time he was on a long case began to appear. “I need to hear everything.”

“She just kicks a lot when she listens to you and you know it.” You replied, stroking your belly out of laziness. “She’s definitely a daddy's little princess.”

The lump in his throat and all of his fears became more intense and uncontrollable. The tears he had tried to keep from escaping to stay strong and focused began to flow unchecked down his cheeks. Hearing you talk like that, knowing it might be the last time, was killing him much faster than the anthrax itself.

“And what are you doing? All your agent stuff?” You spoke again at his silence, trying to ignore the bad feeling something was giving you. “Are you coming home soon?”

“I don't think that's possible, love.” He replied quickly, his voice hoarse and raspy, the lie slipping from his lips almost too easily. “I'm doing some paperwork, it'll take some time.”

It was the second time he had called you by that nickname in just a few minutes. Something seemed a little off, as he only used it when he wanted to calm you down. You knew him too well to miss it.

“Oh, okay.” You said it in a way that showed you were a little disappointed.

Spencer was about to try to comfort you when he suddenly felt the cough return to his throat and he put a hand over his mouth to stop it. It was no use, the cough shook his whole body, spinning him around and making him pant in between. He tried to cover the phone with his hand so that the sounds coming out of his mouth would not be heard, but it was useless. The hacking cough seemed to tear at his lungs, leaving him breathless, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, and he could only hope you didn't hear it, because the last thing he wanted to do was worry you. He knew it would hurt you and the baby.

“Are you sure you're okay? Maybe you should drink some water. It sounds pretty bad.”

He tried to answer you right away, but the cough took over and prevented him from speaking. He gripped the phone tightly, struggling to breathe, trying to force his lungs to stop spasming. And when he finally stopped coughing, he managed to speak, his voice cracking and rather hoarse.

“Yes, I'm fine. It's probably just a cold.” He lied again, breathing shakily. “But it’s nothing so bad.”

“Take care of yourself, don't let it get worse.”

If only you knew that there was no way to make it worse, that it was already at its worst point and unlikely to improve.

“I will, don't worry.” He tries to sound convincing, but his voice comes out rough and raw, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from coughing again. “Just focus on you and the baby, okay? I'll be fine.”

He spoke again so quickly that it was difficult to think of an appropriate response.

“Could you do something for me, love?”

“Of course, I'll do whatever you need.” You reply, feeling a little perplexed by the urgency in his voice.

There was a long, awkward silence after you answered, and you could feel your mind racing with worst-case scenarios. You had a feeling that Spencer was holding something back from you, and the thought of what it could be made your left leg start to twitch nervously. You didn't even bother trying to make yourself more comfortable in bed.

“Go to my part of the closet, to the top drawer. Open it and take out a box next to the socks.” Finally he spoke and began to give you instructions, which you followed as best you could. “Let me know when you have it, carefully. Don't rush or-”

“I've already got it.” You interjected.

“That was quick.” You heard the surprise in his voice as you looked at the box, curious to know what was inside, after having seen it several times and thinking it was just more socks.

You smiled before speaking again. “What should I do with this, love?”

The mere word coming out of your mouth made him tremble.

Love. Love. Love.

He was your love and you were his. He refused to accept that this would be completely shattered in a matter of minutes if he could not find a way to keep his eyes open and his heart still pumping blood.

“I need you to open it, but be careful. Take your time and don't rush. Don't make any sudden movements.” He said, trying to relax so that when he spoke again his voice would be calmer, softer. “And once you open it, I want you to imagine that I'm there with you, okay?”

You couldn't help but open the box quickly, even though you were careful. You were surprised to find a bunch of envelopes and papers inside. You left them on the bed, wondering what they were about. It had been five months since you knew you were pregnant, and all the envelopes and papers were the same age according to the dates in the top corner.

“Have you seen it yet?” Spencer asked.

“I'm sorry, I don't understand, could you explain what this is?” You asked, carefully running your hand through the neatly organized papers on the bed.

“Could you close your eyes and imagine I'm with you, like I told you before?” He asked, trying to keep a neutral tone as you complied with his request.

He needed you to see him there with you, he needed to say goodbye and at least touch you one last time.

“That's what I'm doing. I'm holding your hand right now.” You said with a small smile, feeling the warmth.

It was like feeling an automatic medicine with your name on it flow through his system and relieve a few aches and pains. His hands stopped shaking automatically as he imagined himself holding yours again.

“Okay…they are notes and letters.” His voice was soft, the intensity of his heartbeat gradually increasing as he remembered each time he wrote those words to you. “I started writing them when we found out you were pregnant. They're for our baby.”

He still remembered the day he found out you were expecting a baby, his baby. He recalled how he felt his whole world stop and turn a different color, his hand sliding down to your stomach, and his breath hitching in his chest as he held your face in his hands and kissed you lovingly, overwhelmed with joy and so in love that he hadn't known what to do with his own feelings.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I...I found myself writing frequently and my therapist said it was fine…I was inspired to write about my feelings for you and our baby."

From the moment he revealed to you that he had resumed therapy with the goal of healing the wounds of childhood and becoming the father he never had, it was clear that his dedication surpassed any commitment. Now you just added to the list of reasons why he was already an exemplary father, one that any child would be lucky to have.

“Spencer, this is so sweet.” You said, completely moved and on the verge of tears, as you noticed all the dedication I had put into each and every piece of paper. “Why didn't you tell me this before?”

He felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown on him at that moment. It was so hard to explain, to tell you that every thought and every dream he'd ever had included you and the baby now growing in your belly, and his great fear of not being able to be there for you someday.

“I-” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling a bit overwhelmed. “I just wanted you to know now how much you mean to me and how blessed I am that you gave this to me. I've spent the last few months trying to even talk to some kind of God, and I don't even know if exist...” He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, the words lost somewhere in his throat, making it burn and hurt. “I just...I need the baby to know what you and her mean to me, how I see you, how I feel when I wake up next to you. What I want, what I dream for her, what...”

I want to marry you.

The thought almost escaped his lips, his aching heart pounding hard against his aching chest. He felt as if a pair of strong hands were strangling him.

“I don't understand...Tell me what's going on.” You interrupted him with a shaking voice, knowing that there was definitely something more to all of this.

Oh, how you know him and his big, messy, troubled brain.

He closed his eyes and shook his head, though you couldn't see it, knowing that you already read him like an open book.

“Nothing...Nothing's wrong, love, just...” He tried to breathe deeply through the phone, his heart pounding in his chest and his mind racing too fast. “I love you so much. Don't forget that, okay?”

“Spencer—”

He always loved your voice calling his name, and now, in his weak, tired, fearful state, he couldn't stop the words from pouring out of his mouth.

“I want you to know that you'll be okay, that she'll be okay, that everything will be okay, and that I love you. I love you both very much. Please, please...” He kept going. He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't stop. His mind was racing, and his words came out like a confession.

He was an expert profiler, a genius with an eidetic memory and a sharp mind, but at that moment, with his body weakened and his head spinning, he found himself unable to contain himself. He was exposed, open, and experiencing discomfort. All of the things he wanted to tell you, all of the questions he wanted to ask, and all of the concerns, worries, and thoughts in his mind came pouring out, like a dam breaking. He sensed that you could feel it through the line, and he realized that he could no longer deny it any longer.

“I love you. I have to go now.”

“Wait.”

You had a feeling something wasn't quite right, and those letters seemed to confirm your suspicions. They were a precautionary measure, a way of ensuring that everything would be taken care of in case something happened to him.

“I have to go, I'm...I'm busy, love.” He tried to sound convincing, and he knew he was failing miserably, but if he stayed a moment longer, he would continue to talk and confess more. “I love you both.”

“We love you too.”

If he wasn't already weak and trembling, hearing your voice telling him that you loved him, in that soft tone, would have made him fall to the floor again. He closed his eyes again and leaned against the wall, his own trembling hand going to cover his mouth so he wouldn't say more, because he would tell you everything if you kept talking in that sweet tone.

He wasn't ready to say goodbye.

So it was that he thought of you and your kind way of loving him before he felt his head hit the floor and his eyes close.

Spencer Reid had always driven you completely mad.

Normally, it was the kind of madness that warmed your entire chest, the soft, ridiculous, and so lovesick kind. The kind that made you hum love songs while fixing your hair in the mirror or sigh dreamily when his name lit up your phone. He made you feel like you were walking through life wrapped in sunlight and soft blankets. Like you were the princess in a fairytale.

Normally, even the thought of having a baby with him filled you with that sweet anticipation, imagining tiny socks folded in drawers, his gentle hands supporting a newborn head, his voice lowering into that reverent hush he only used when he talked about the stars or something sacred. Oh, it was always perfect.

But today?

Today there was nothing normal or perfect about anything.

Today Spencer Reid was driving you mad in the worst possible way, the kind of way that made you want to grab him by his cardigan and shake him until his genius brain rebooted.

The hospital room was an assault on every sense you had.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead like they were powered by bees, an endless, vibrating drone that made your skull throb. Their cold glow washed everything in a pale, stark brightness that felt too sharp, too clinical, too unforgiving. It made the sweat on your skin shine, made every shadow too deep, made the room look like a set from a medical documentary you never asked to star in.

The air was over-filtered and dry, carrying a sterile chill that clung to your skin and scraped at your throat every time you sucked in a shaky breath. You tasted the faint tang of disinfectant at the back of your tongue, that metallic-clean smell that had no business mixing with the salt of your tears.

The bed beneath you was unforgiving, stiff in all the wrong places and too soft in the ones you needed firm. Each movement sent a jolt of pain radiating through your abdomen, wrapping around your spine like a tightening fist.

And the beeping—

God, the beeping.

The monitor to your right beeped in perfect, relentless rhythm, recording every contraction as a little mountain of agony on the screen. Every spike in the green line was another wave you had to ride, another breath you had to fight for, another reminder that labor was both miraculous and borderline sadistic.

Time had stopped behaving like time.

It stretched and warped, folding in on itself, disappearing and reappearing in uneven chunks. Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like centuries. You had the overwhelming sensation that you’d been here forever and might never leave.

But, apparently, that wasn’t accurate.

Because Spencer—your sweet and brilliant lover with a big brain—had informed you, with the calm and earnest seriousness of a man announcing the results of a peer-reviewed study, that you had been in labor for precisely two hours, forty-two minutes, and seventeen seconds.

He knew because he had told you.

Three times.

And counting.

He was hovering beside your bed like a nervous hummingbird, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, twisting his fingers together, a crease deepening and widening between his brows every time your face tightened in pain. His curls were a mess, falling into his eyes. His shirt sleeves were rolled too high and unevenly. His glasses had fogged twice already from his frantic pacing.

Normally, his anxiety made you want to soothe him.

But right now?

You were two seconds away from biting him.

Your hand was clamped around his so tightly that you could feel the bones beneath his skin, each slender metacarpal digging into your palm. He didn’t complain, of course. He wouldn’t have, even if you fractured something. But his breath did catch every time you squeezed during a contraction, and you could tell he was internally calculating the statistical probability of losing circulation.

Damn.

Another contraction began to coil low in your belly, a slow gathering of pressure that promised to become a full‑body tidal wave. You braced, sucking in a sharp breath through your teeth, and your hand tightened automatically around Spencer’s.

He immediately leaned closer.

“Okay, okay, that’s another one. Uh, based on the timing, that’s about four minutes apart again, which is well within the expected interval for active labor but not quite transition yet…well, unless you’re progressing unusually fast, which is possible given your—”

Your jaw locked.

Your nails dug deeper into his skin.

Spencer didn’t stop.

He never stopped.

“I mean, statistically speaking, first-time labor tends to be slower, but there are always outliers. Like in 2011, there was a documented case where a primiparous woman progressed from three to ten centimeters in under sixty minutes, which is incredibly rare but fascinating in terms of cervical elasticity—”

Your eyes burned, not with tears, but with the kind of primal fury only a woman in labor can feel toward the man who helped put her in this situation.

He didn’t notice.

He was too busy adjusting the edge of your blanket by exactly two centimeters, then pushing his glasses up his nose, then wiping his palms on his pants, then talking again because if Spencer Reid wasn’t speaking, he would spontaneously combust.

“The pain you’re feeling right now—uh, which is obviously significant—is actually due to both visceral and somatic components,” he said, voice trembling with sympathy and panic all at once. “Visceral pain comes from the uterine contractions and cervical dilation, but somatic pain—”

Your silence was not reassuring him.

It was making him talk more.

“—is transmitted through the pudendal nerve during the later stages of labor, which means the pressure you’re experiencing radiating to your lower back is completely expected and—ow—okay, I felt that squeeze. Yep, that’s strong…very strong—”

You squeezed harder.

He swallowed.

“Some women report feeling like their pelvis is being crushed,” he added quickly, “which is technically inaccurate because the pelvis actually expands at the joints, specifically the sacroiliac and pubic symphysis, thanks to the hormone relaxin, so it’s not—uh—crushing so much as…rearranging?”

You shot him a look.

The kind that could kill a lesser man.

He blanched.

Another contraction hit like a steel band tightening around your middle, dragging a cry out of your throat that you barely managed to swallow. Your eyes squeezed shut, sweat beading on your forehead. Every muscle from your ribs to your thighs locked in place.

Your fingers clenched around Spencer’s hand so fiercely that you felt the tendons shift.

He gasped so quietly and politely, because even in agony, he would rather die than upset you.

“Right, okay, this one looks…intense. Statistically peak intensity…did you know that during labor, the uterus exerts up to 397 Newtons of force? That’s equivalent to…okay, that doesn’t help, sorry, sorry—”

His voice went thin and frantic.

“Just keep breathing, sweetheart, you’re doing so well, so unbelievably well—honestly, based on your pain tolerance you could probably walk across a bed of hot coals without flinching—your resilience is astonishing, and—ah—yes, that’s my hand again, okay, yes—”

You still said nothing.

You couldn’t.

Your whole world had shrunk to the burning, tightening, stretching pain tearing through you in waves, building and peaking and crashing in a rhythm older than civilization. Every sound blurred except for the monitor’s relentless beeping and Spencer’s desperate whispering.

“Some cultures have rituals to help distract women during labor,” he said, breath speeding up. “For example, in parts of Japan, mothers grip a wooden rod called an ubushigatana—oh, but you’re using my hand instead, which is totally fine…just, yep, keep going—”

Your breath caught. Your entire spine arched. Your nails dug into his palm in a way that would leave marks tomorrow.

Spencer inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away.

“And…and elephants!” he blurted. “Elephants form protective circles around laboring females, did you know that? They stand guard and touch her with their trunks to comfort her—humans don’t do that enough, I think—though I guess I’m technically doing the human equivalent of an elephant trunk—”

You cracked one eye open. Barely.

Just enough to glare.

He gulped.

You lifted your head off the pillow an inch and whispered, voice ragged:

“Spencer?”

He leaned in instantly, eyes wide, eager, relieved.

“Yes? What do you need? Anything. Anything at all.”

You took one shallow breath, another, and then slowly—

“How many women in labor kill their partners?”

His face went utterly, perfectly blank.

And for the first time in two hours and forty-two minutes—

Spencer Reid stopped talking.

But your next contraction didn’t arrive so much as consume you.

It rose from somewhere deep inside your pelvis like a living force, a pressure so immense it felt like the air itself bent around it. The muscles in your abdomen tightened in a brutal, involuntary vise; your spine arched; your breath left you in a hoarse, guttural cry you barely recognized as your own.

The pain wasn’t sharp, it was massive. Continental. The kind that felt older than your body. Primal.

You crushed Spencer’s hand like it was a lifeline, knuckles grinding against bone, fingers trembling with effort. You felt him shudder with the force of your grip, but he didn’t complain, didn’t flinch, didn’t breathe too loudly. If you had shattered every bone in his hand in that moment, he would have thanked you for giving him something useful to do.

The nurse leaned forward, steady and focused.

“That’s exactly it,” she encouraged, voice honey-warm despite the intensity. “You’re right there. One more push.”

“One more push” sounded like a joke. A cruel one.

But before you could form a very clear opinion on that, Spencer spoke again.

“Well, technically speaking,” he started, voice pitched high with nerves, “the phrasing ‘one more’ is almost always inaccurate, because the mean number of pushes—”

You whipped your head toward him, sweat running down your temple.

“Spencer.”

Your voice was the warning bell of a collapsing dam.

“If you say one more number, I will—”

You didn’t even get to finish the threat.

The next contraction tore you away.

Your vision went white at the edges. Heat flared through your limbs. You felt pressure so intense it blurred the boundary between body and mind. Nurses murmured instructions, hands anchored you, Spencer whispered your name as a prayer.

And then—

Something shifted.

The pain peaked and abruptly, impossibly…released.

A sensation unlike anything you had ever known, indescribable in both relief and vulnerability.

And then the world broke open with sound.

A cry.

A perfect, furious scream that filled the sterile room like a flare of life.

Your head jerked up instinctively.

Spencer went utterly still. Not quiet. Still.

His whole body froze in place, shoulders rigid, chest barely rising. His rambling stopped mid-thought, mid-syllable, like someone had taken scissors to the thread of his brain. His mouth parted in a tiny, trembling O. His eyes widened behind fogged glasses, pupils blown huge, reflecting the shape of the child he hadn’t dared to picture too vividly until this second.

He stared at the doctor lifting your newborn with a look that didn’t belong to a genius or a profiler or even a man.

It belonged to a believer.

The nurses worked quickly—checking vitals, washing, wrapping—but Spencer couldn’t look away for even a half-second. His shoulders shook with each shaky breath he remembered to take. A tear clung to his lower lashes, trembling but refusing to fall.

You’d seen Spencer Reid outrun serial killers. You’d seen him solve impossible equations in seconds. You’d seen him cry, break, rebuild. But you had never seen his mind fall completely silent. Not until now.

“Dad?” a nurse said gently, turning with a small, swaddled bundle in her arms.

He startled like he’d been yanked from another world.

“Me?” His voice cracked. “I—I’m—yes. Yes.”

He stepped forward on unsteady legs. His hands hovered uncertainly, shaking so badly he had to clench them once before opening them again. The nurse placed the baby into his arms with practiced ease.

And Spencer—

He stopped breathing altogether.

The baby was impossibly small against his chest, wrapped in soft hospital cloth, face red and scrunched with leftover indignation. A tiny fist peeked out of the blanket, curled tight, trembling in the cool air.

Spencer looked down at that fist.

Then the tiny nose.

The miniature existence he had helped create.

His lips parted, trembling violently and he made a sound, barely audible.

A breath. A laugh. A sob.

A mix of all three. It didn’t matter which.

It felt like the universe cracked open.

His glasses slid even further down his nose, fogging again. He didn’t push them back up. Didn’t move. Didn’t try to speak.

He just stared.

You watched him—your genius, your love, your very complicated, very soft man—holding your baby like someone had handed him a star that could shatter if he exhaled too hard.

His voice, when he finally found it, wasn’t even a whisper.

It was smaller.

“Oh,” he breathed.

That was all.

Just oh.

Because Spencer Reid had no words.

Not a single one. Not for this. Not for the moment his world changed shape. Not for the miracle in his arms.

Only awe. Only trembling, staggering, bone-deep love. Only the impossible truth that the two of you had made something small and squalling and beautiful. Your family. Right there. In his shaking hands.

The nurse touched your shoulder gently.

“Do you want to hold your baby?”

Your chest tightened at the question.

Of course you did. Your arms ached for it.

But your body was still trembling, still trying to remember how to exist after being ripped open and remade.

“Spencer,” you whispered, voice ragged. “Bring them here.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t speak at all.

Just blinked, slow and reverent, like he had just woken from a dream so delicate he was afraid to move in case it shattered.

But he did walk toward you.

Very carefully.

He moved like the air was water and he was scared the currents around him might disturb the sleeping universe in his arms. His hands stayed curled protectively around the baby’s tiny body, elbows tucked, shoulders hunched instinctively like a shield.

When he reached your bedside, he hesitated.

Not because he didn’t want to give you the baby.

But because you could see him trying to memorize this moment—the first moment—before it passed. His eyes flicked between the baby’s face and your own, chest heaving.

Finally, with a breath that shook all the way down his spine, he leaned forward.

And placed your child into your arms.

Your world stopped and you exhaled in a trembling sigh you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Spencer watched your face like he was witnessing a celestial event. Something sacred. His hand hovered near your shoulder, unsure if he was allowed to touch you while you held something so infinitely precious.

Then, without deciding, he sank onto the chair beside your bed.

More like collapsed, really.

And that was when the silence broke.

“You—um—you should know that newborns have a natural instinct called the ‘rooting reflex.’ They…they’ll turn their head toward anything that brushes their cheek.” His voice quivered. “It…it’s a survival mechanism.”

You looked at him.

His hair was stuck to his forehead in sweaty curls. His glasses were crooked and fogged. His cheeks were streaked with tears he hadn’t even noticed shedding. His cardigan was wrinkled, one sleeve rolled higher than the other, and he looked like a man whose entire concept of reality had been rewritten in front of him.

And still he kept going, barely able to stop himself.

“They…they can also recognize your voice almost immediately. They’ve been listening to it for months, so the sound activates the same regions of their brain associated with comfort and—and—and—safety.” His lip wobbled. “You’re already their safest place.”

Your heart cracked open and reassembled itself in a new shape.

You reached out with your free hand.

Touched his cheek, then felt the dampness there.

Warm. Honest. Real.

His eyes fluttered closed like your touch reset him.

But then he opened them again, blinking rapidly, words bubbling up too fast for his throat to keep up.

“And…did you know—did you—” He swallowed hard, voice hitching. “Babies—babies can only see about eight to twelve inches clearly, and that’s—well—that’s basically the exact distance between your face and theirs when you hold them like that so they…they can imprint on you. Right now. In this exact moment.”

You smiled softly.

“Are you imprinting too, Spencer?”

His breath stuttered.

Then he nodded.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I think so.”

The baby made a tiny sound—a soft huff, a complaint about the cold air—and he immediately leaned forward, hands hovering, panic flickering in his eyes.

“Is that okay? Are they supposed to do that? Should we call a nurse? Should I—”

“Spencer,” you said gently. “They’re just…being a baby.”

He nodded, but it was the nervous nod of a man who had read eighteen books on newborn behavior and suddenly couldn’t remember a single word.

His eyes drifted back to the baby, gaze softening into something molten.

“I love them,” he said suddenly, voice so thin it nearly wasn’t sound. “I love them so much my ribs hurt. Is that…is that normal? Is that supposed to happen? I feel like my heart is—my heart is—”

He placed a shaky hand over his chest.

“Is pounding irregularly,” he finished, immediately slipping into medical panic mode. “It—it could be a cardiac arrhythmia caused by emotional overload or—”

You squeezed his hand. Very gently.

“My love,” you whispered. “You’re just overwhelmed. Not dying.”

He let out a breath that collapsed his whole body. Then he leaned his forehead against the edge of your pillow, eyes drifting to the baby again.

He looked at them like they were a miracle.

Because to him, they were exactly that.

David Rossi loved hosting dinners.

Not because he particularly enjoyed cooking—though he’d spend the entire evening pretending he did, shooing away anyone who wandered too close to the stove with the indignation of a Michelin-star chef—but because dinner was one of the rare occasions when the people he cared about gathered for reasons that had nothing to do with bloodstained crime scenes or the worst humanity had to offer. Around his dining table, they weren’t profilers or agents or supervisors carrying the weight of impossible decisions. They were simply friends. They laughed a little louder, lingered a little longer over dessert, argued about books instead of behavioral patterns, and, for a few precious hours, remembered what life looked like outside the Bureau.

At least for the first twenty minutes.

After that, someone inevitably mentioned a case.

“You realize,” Morgan announced as he reached across the kitchen island and shamelessly stole a piece of warm bread straight from the basket, “this is exactly how horror movies start.”

Rossi didn’t even bother looking over his shoulder. He merely stirred the sauce with practiced ease, entirely unfazed by the theft.

“The difference,” he replied smoothly, “is that my guests survive dessert.”

Morgan laughed, surrendering with an exaggerated nod before tearing into the bread anyway.

The house was already alive with familiar voices.

Soft jazz drifted through hidden speakers, blending with the rhythmic clatter of pots and the comforting aroma of garlic, rosemary, simmering tomatoes, and freshly baked bread. Warm light spilled from antique lamps, reflecting against framed photographs and shelves lined with decades of books and souvenirs collected from places Rossi rarely spoke about. Every room carried that unmistakable feeling of having been lived in, a home that had witnessed countless celebrations, quiet conversations over late-night whiskey, and the occasional impromptu team meeting when cases refused to stay at Quantico.

Emily wandered into the kitchen, accepting a glass of wine from Rossi before immediately rolling her eyes at something Morgan said.

Garcia was already circling the living room in complete admiration, pausing every few steps to gush over a painting, a sculpture, or an antique clock.

“Oh my God, Rossi,” she gasped dramatically, “this lamp is gorgeous. It’s giving wealthy Italian novelist who solves crimes in his free time.”

“It was just a lamp until you said that.”

JJ slipped toward the patio with Henry balanced comfortably on her hip, the little boy already fascinated by the garden lights beginning to glow outside. Will followed behind carrying an impressive collection of toys that looked capable of entertaining an entire daycare, smiling patiently as Henry reached for everything except the toys he’d brought.

Hotch, unsurprisingly, had arrived exactly on time.

Not a minute early. Not a minute late.

His jacket was already neatly folded over the back of a chair, a glass of sparkling water in one hand as he quietly observed the controlled chaos with the smallest hint of amusement softening his usually unreadable expression.

And, of course, Spencer’s attention had been on you from the moment the two of you stepped through Rossi’s front door.

Before anyone could greet you, Spencer was already helping you out of your coat with the quiet attentiveness that had become second nature over the past several weeks. His hands were careful as he eased the fabric from your shoulders, lingering for just a heartbeat as if making sure you were steady before draping both your coat and his neatly over the rack by the entrance. It was such a small gesture that no one else would have noticed it.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, leaning close enough that only you could hear him beneath the lively chatter filling the room.

You offered him a reassuring smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.

“Perfect.”

The word came automatically, polished by repetition until it sounded almost believable. You’d said it to your mother over the phone earlier that week. To your coworkers when they’d commented on how pale you’d been looking lately. To the cashier who had apologized after you’d abruptly abandoned a shopping cart halfway through the supermarket because someone nearby had opened a container of tuna. You were becoming remarkably good at pretending everything was normal.

Spencer, however, had never been particularly easy to fool.

His honey-colored eyes lingered on your face for another moment, quietly studying you with the same careful concentration he reserved for unsolved cases and impossible puzzles. He noticed everything: the faint shadows beneath your eyes despite the makeup you’d carefully applied that afternoon, the way your smile didn’t quite reach them, the almost invisible hesitation before you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. For a second, you watched concern flicker across his expression, followed by the unmistakable impulse to suggest going home instead. You knew him well enough to see the thought forming before he gently pushed it aside. You had insisted you wanted to come. You’d been looking forward to seeing everyone. If he asked again, you’d only reassure him again.

So instead, he simply intertwined his fingers with yours for the briefest moment and gave your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it, silently reminding you that if you needed to leave, even five minutes after arriving, you only had to say the word.

Because the truth was…you hadn’t exactly been perfect lately.

For nearly eleven weeks, your body had seemed determined to reinvent itself overnight, transforming familiar routines into unpredictable obstacles and ordinary sensations into impossible challenges. Pregnancy wasn’t anything like the books had described. It wasn’t the glowing skin and sentimental smiles people loved talking about. At least, not yet. Right now, it was exhaustion so profound it settled into your bones no matter how much you slept. It was waking up starving only to burst into tears because the toast you’d been craving suddenly smelled unbearable. It was dizziness when you stood too quickly, headaches that appeared without warning, and emotions that shifted so rapidly they often left you laughing one moment and crying the next.

And the smells were by far the worst.

It was as though someone had turned every scent in the world up to an impossible volume.

Coffee, the rich aroma you’d once relied on every morning, now seemed so overwhelmingly bitter it made your stomach twist before you even entered the kitchen.

Garlic lingered in the air like smoke.

Perfume clung to strangers in grocery stores so intensely that you found yourself instinctively holding your breath as they walked past.

Gasoline from passing cars seeped through open windows with startling force.

Fresh paint, cleaning products, scented candles, everything had become an enemy.

Even the earthy fragrance of Spencer’s favorite loose-leaf tea, a scent that had always reminded you of rainy afternoons spent reading together on the couch, had betrayed you. One quiet Saturday morning, he’d barely begun pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves before your stomach lurched violently. You hadn’t even managed to explain what was wrong. You’d simply clamped a hand over your mouth and hurried toward the bathroom, leaving Spencer frozen in confusion beside the kettle.

When he’d found you a few minutes later, you were sitting on the cool tile floor with your knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in one of his oversized cardigans because you hadn’t had the energy to put on your own sweater after climbing out of bed. Your eyes were watery, your face pale with exhaustion, and the half-steeped tea sat forgotten in the kitchen.

He’d knelt beside you immediately, rubbing slow circles against your back until your breathing steadied.

“I think,” he’d said carefully, as though presenting a well-researched hypothesis, “we should buy different tea.”

The absurd sincerity of the suggestion had broken something inside you.

You’d laughed, the kind that left tears streaming down your face and your stomach aching until Spencer began smiling too, still entirely unsure what had been so funny.

An hour later, you’d taken the pregnancy test.

You remembered sitting together on the edge of the bathtub, your shoulders pressed together so tightly they might as well have been one person, both pretending not to stare at the little plastic stick resting on the counter. Spencer’s knee bounced nervously the entire time, though he’d deny it if anyone ever asked. When the result finally appeared, neither of you moved.

Positive.

You’d looked at him, and he’d looked at you.

For a long moment, there had simply been silence, stunned, breathless silence, as though neither of you trusted your own eyes enough to speak first.

Then Spencer had whispered, almost reverently,

“We’re having a baby.”

The memory still settled warmly inside your chest every time you thought about it.

Only the two of you knew.

No one else.

Not the team, your parents, or his mother.

No one.

It wasn’t because you weren’t excited.

God, you had never loved someone you’d never met quite so fiercely. And you had never been so afraid.

At night, when the apartment had gone quiet and Quantico seemed impossibly far away, the two of you often found yourselves lying awake long after the lights were off, talking in hushed voices about a future that suddenly felt both unimaginably distant and frighteningly close. Spencer wondered aloud whether babies recognized music before they were born and whether reading aloud during pregnancy had any measurable effect on language development. You debated names neither of you was ready to admit you genuinely liked. You imagined tiny knitted sweaters, impossibly small socks, sleepy mornings, first birthdays, scraped knees, school concerts, and the possibility—one that made you laugh every single time—that Spencer might accidentally teach your future toddler quantum mechanics before the alphabet.

Other nights, words simply weren’t necessary.

You would lie tangled together beneath the blankets, your head resting against his shoulder while he absentmindedly traced slow circles over your arm. Eventually, almost without thinking, his hand would drift lower, settling with extraordinary care against your abdomen. There was hardly anything to feel yet. At eleven weeks, your stomach remained almost perfectly flat, your dresses fitting exactly as they always had. If someone didn’t know, they would never have guessed. But Spencer touched you as though the slightest movement might disturb the tiny life growing there, his palm resting so gently against you that it sometimes made your chest ache. He would smile into the darkness with an expression so impossibly soft it stole your breath every single time, as though he could already sense the little heartbeat hidden beneath his fingertips. Sometimes he whispered things you weren’t sure he realized he was saying: little observations about fetal development he’d memorized from medical journals, promises about museums he’d one day visit with your child, absentminded thoughts about buying children’s editions of classic literature. Other times, he simply stayed there, smiling quietly, overwhelmed by the astonishing reality that someone already existed. Someone who belonged entirely to the two of you.

Every ultrasound photograph had become a treasure.

The first one lived inside an ivory envelope that had already begun to soften at the edges because neither of you could stop taking it out to look at it. Realistically, there wasn’t very much to see. To anyone else, it was little more than a grainy black-and-white blur surrounded by indecipherable shadows and medical measurements. Yet the two of you had spent embarrassing amounts of time staring at it as though it were the most extraordinary piece of art ever created. Spencer, naturally, had analyzed it with the same enthusiasm he brought to everything else.

Of course, once the initial excitement had settled, he had immediately begun worrying about where to keep the photographs.

Not because he thought someone was going to steal them.

Because he wanted them safe.

You still remembered finding him standing in front of his bookshelf one afternoon, head tilted thoughtfully as though he were solving one of the Bureau’s most complicated cases. He had scanned hundreds of titles before finally pulling out one of the thickest mathematics textbooks you had ever seen.

“They’re going inside my copy of Differential Geometry,” he’d declared with complete confidence while carefully sliding the envelope between two chapters.

You had stared at him, blinking in complete confusion.

“…Why that one?”

Without so much as lifting his eyes from the pages, he’d answered with absolute certainty.

“Statistically speaking, no one voluntarily opens my copy of Differential Geometry.”

You had laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

Weeks later, the ultrasound photographs remained exactly where he’d hidden them, tucked safely between chapters discussing curved manifolds and tensor fields, untouched by anyone except the two of you. Every now and then, usually late at night, Spencer would quietly retrieve the envelope before climbing into bed beside you, and together you’d study the tiny image all over again, smiling as though seeing it for the very first time.

You weren’t keeping the pregnancy a secret because you were ashamed.

If anything, the secret had become almost impossible to contain.

You loved this baby already with a depth that surprised you daily. Sometimes you caught yourself resting your hand absentmindedly against your stomach while reading on the couch or waiting in line for coffee you could no longer stomach. Sometimes Spencer would catch your eye from across the apartment, and without either of you saying a single word, you’d both smile, remembering the extraordinary little secret that existed only between you. It felt like carrying a universe inside your chest, one that threatened to spill into every conversation, every laugh, every quiet glance exchanged across a room.

But eleven weeks still felt fragile.

Delicate.

As though happiness itself had become something you were afraid to hold too tightly.

You knew the statistics.

So did Spencer...perhaps better than anyone.

The first trimester carried uncertainties neither of you could ignore, no matter how desperately you wanted to celebrate. So you had made a quiet promise together. Just a little longer. One more week. Maybe two. Long enough for the fear to loosen its grip. Long enough for the joy to feel louder than the anxiety. Then you’d tell everyone. Properly. Surrounded by the people who loved you most.

Which was exactly why tonight needed to remain wonderfully, blissfully ordinary.

Smile.

Compliment Rossi’s cooking.

Laugh at Morgan’s increasingly terrible jokes.

Listen to Garcia declare herself emotionally attached to another one of Rossi’s antique decorations.

Eat dinner.

Go home.

And above all else, pretend that beneath the soft fabric of your dress, your entire world wasn’t quietly growing one tiny heartbeat at a time.

***

For the first few minutes, everything went exactly according to plan.

The conversation flowed effortlessly around the table, moving from travel stories to teasing remarks about Rossi’s inability to let anyone else near his kitchen. The warm glow of candlelight reflected against crystal glasses, silverware clinked softly against porcelain plates, and the rich aroma of roasted vegetables, fresh herbs, garlic, and homemade pasta drifted through the dining room. It was warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Exactly the kind of evening you’d hoped for.

Then Rossi appeared beside the table carrying a bottle of red wine.

With practiced ease, he moved from place to place, pouring generous servings into each waiting glass until he eventually reached yours. Deep ruby liquid swirled elegantly into the crystal, catching the candlelight before he continued around the table without another thought.

Your smile froze.

Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost felt like missing the last step on a staircase.

Of course. Wine.

You hadn’t thought about the wine.

For one long second, you simply stared at the glass sitting innocently beside your plate, your thoughts racing far faster than they should have. Refusing it outright would be strange. Claiming you weren’t in the mood might invite questions. Pretending to sip it was risky, especially with Rossi proudly watching everyone’s reactions to the bottle he’d undoubtedly spent far too much money on.

Across the table, Spencer had arrived at the exact same realization.

His eyes drifted from his own glass to yours.

Then to you.

You watched the understanding settle across his face almost instantly.

Without either of you exchanging so much as a glance, he quietly reached across the table toward your place setting, his movements so natural they might have gone completely unnoticed.

“I’ll take yours,” he said casually, lifting the untouched glass before anyone could question it.

Morgan blinked. “You stealing her wine already?”

The question earned a few amused smiles around the table.

Spencer answered so quickly it almost sounded rehearsed.

“She’s driving.”

For a single heartbeat, the entire table fell into that peculiar silence that followed an answer no one had expected. You turned your head slowly to look at him, your expression carefully composed despite the disbelief bubbling beneath it.

Driving? You hated driving.

Everyone at the table knew you hated driving. Morgan had teased you about it for years after you’d once admitted that parallel parking made you feel like you were diffusing a bomb. Garcia had jokingly offered to create a color-coded GPS system “for emotionally distressed drivers.” Even Rossi had learned long ago that inviting the two of you over automatically meant Spencer would be behind the wheel on the way home. If given the choice between navigating rush-hour traffic yourself or spending an hour on public transportation with three transfers, you’d choose the train without a second thought. Spencer knew that better than anyone. Which was precisely why, judging by the fleeting look of horror that crossed his face, he realized what he’d said the exact moment the words left his mouth.

Your eyes met across the table for the briefest instant.

He knew. You knew.

Neither of you dared acknowledge it.

Fortunately, Morgan simply shrugged, entirely unbothered.

“Fair enough.”

The conversation drifted elsewhere almost immediately, someone making a comment about Rossi’s pasta sauce before Garcia launched into a dramatic story about accidentally adopting another stray cat she absolutely insisted she hadn’t meant to bring home. Around the table, laughter resumed, forks scraped softly against porcelain plates, and the comfortable rhythm of dinner settled back into place. You released a slow breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, allowing yourself to believe, if only for a moment, that perhaps the obstacle had been overcome more easily than you’d feared.

Or so you thought.

Barely ten minutes later, Rossi reappeared beside your chair carrying the bottle of red wine in one hand, his attention immediately falling to the untouched glass still sitting exactly where he’d left it. His thick brows drew together in mild confusion before his expression softened into concern.

“Oh, bambina,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he gestured toward the glass. “You haven’t touched your wine.”

Your heart lurched.

For a fraction of a second, your mind raced desperately through possible explanations. You weren’t feeling like drinking. You were waiting until dinner. You had a headache. None of them felt convincing enough, particularly not with Rossi watching you so expectantly.

Before you could utter a single word, Spencer calmly reached across the table, lifted your untouched glass as though it had belonged to him all along, and took a generous sip.

“I did.”

Rossi looked between both of you.

“You finished two glasses already?”

“I was thirsty,” Spencer replied with complete sincerity, sounding as though that single sentence explained everything.

Rossi stared at him.

“You were thirsty.”

“Yes.”

“For wine.”

“Correct.”

For another beat, Rossi simply looked at him, clearly debating whether there was any point continuing the conversation. Eventually, with the resigned expression of a man deciding that Spencer Reid’s brain operated on principles beyond ordinary comprehension, he shrugged lightly and reached for the bottle once more.

“There.”

Deep red wine flowed smoothly back into your crystal glass until it sat nearly full again.

“There we go.”

“Thank you,” you offered with what you hoped was a perfectly natural smile.

Rossi nodded once before wandering toward the other end of the table to refill Morgan’s glass, already distracted by an entirely new discussion about baseball statistics.

The instant his back was turned, Spencer moved.

Without saying a word, without drawing attention to himself, he rested one hand casually beneath the edge of the tablecloth and, in one fluid movement, exchanged your freshly filled glass with his own half-empty one. The motion was so smooth it could have passed for absentmindedness, his fingers never fumbling despite the growing amount of alcohol already in his system. By the time Rossi looked back toward the two of you, Spencer was quietly lifting the newly acquired glass toward his lips while your place setting once again held one that appeared partially consumed.

No one noticed.

Well…almost no one.

Across the table, Emily’s conversation with JJ faltered for just a fraction of a second.

She didn’t say anything.

She simply took another sip of wine while her gaze lingered thoughtfully between the two of you before returning to her plate.

Another half hour slipped by beneath easy conversation and frequent bursts of laughter. Stories gave way to teasing, teasing turned into old Bureau memories, and before long the first bottle stood empty in the center of the table. Rossi noticed almost immediately.

“Well,” he announced proudly as he disappeared toward the kitchen, “that means it’s time for the good one.”

He returned carrying another bottle with the reverence of someone transporting a priceless family heirloom.

“This one’s from Tuscany,” he declared, carefully peeling away the foil. “I bought it during my last trip. You have to try it.”

The cork eased free with a satisfying pop.

You felt your stomach sink all over again.

One by one, Rossi circled the table, refilling each glass with generous enthusiasm.

Including yours.

Again.

You forced another smile.

“Thank you.”

Your glass remained untouched.

Again.

Spencer noticed before anyone else did.

Again.

Without hesitation, he reached over sometime during the next conversation, lifted your glass as naturally as though the two of you shared everything—which, technically, you did—and quietly added yet another serving to the growing collection he’d already consumed.

By now he’d finished one glass.

Then two.

Then three.

Now…four.

Under ordinary circumstances, four glasses of wine spread across an entire dinner might not have seemed particularly remarkable.

For Spencer Reid, it was becoming increasingly obvious.

A warm flush had spread across his cheeks, dusting the bridge of his nose with soft pink that somehow made him look several years younger. His posture remained perfectly straight, and his words retained the precise articulation that years of lecturing and endless reading had ingrained into him. If anything, he enunciated even more carefully than usual, each syllable pronounced with meticulous clarity. Spencer Reid, it seemed, was physically incapable of slurring his words.

Instead, he simply became significantly more talkative.

“Do you know,” he announced to absolutely no one in particular while thoughtfully examining his wineglass as though it were a fascinating scientific specimen, “that the average adult liver metabolizes approximately one standard alcoholic beverage per hour? Assuming average enzymatic activity and normal hepatic function, I’m currently operating at a significant biochemical disadvantage.”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, grinning so broadly it bordered on smug satisfaction.

“You drunk, pretty boy?”

Spencer looked genuinely offended by the suggestion.

“No.”

He paused.

Thought about it.

Then nodded once with complete seriousness.

“Probably.”

The table erupted into laughter.

Even Hotch lowered his gaze toward his plate to disguise the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You couldn’t help laughing too, though yours carried a distinct note of affection.

Spencer looked utterly adorable.

Hopelessly, undeniably adorable.

Across the table, however, Emily wasn’t laughing nearly as much.

She watched Spencer lift your glass instead of his own.

Again.

She watched you politely thank Rossi for every refill without drinking a single sip.

Again.

She watched Spencer volunteer to finish both glasses with increasingly enthusiastic determination.

Again.

Something about the evening refused to fit together.

Emily wasn’t quite sure what the answer was yet.

But she knew, with absolute certainty, that something wasn’t adding up.

***

By the time coffee replaced the wine, the evening had settled into that wonderfully unhurried stage that always followed one of Rossi’s dinners. Dessert plates had been pushed aside, empty bottles stood abandoned along the center of the table like evidence of a celebration well enjoyed, and the rich scent of freshly brewed espresso drifted through the dining room, mercifully replacing the overwhelming aroma of alcohol. Conversations had fractured into smaller ones, overlapping comfortably without anyone needing to follow every thread. Garcia and JJ were animatedly debating vacation destinations, Garcia insisting that every itinerary should be based entirely around bookstores and bakeries while JJ attempted, unsuccessfully, to convince her that beaches had their own merits. At the other end of the table, Morgan and Rossi had somehow wandered into a passionate disagreement over baseball statistics, each one accusing the other of remembering history incorrectly despite both sounding equally confident. Hotch sat quietly between them, one hand wrapped around his coffee cup, saying very little but wearing the faintest trace of amusement at the corners of his mouth as he watched the familiar chaos unfold around him.

Beside you, however, sat the true consequence of the evening.

Spencer Reid was undeniably drunk.

Not the loud, reckless kind of drunk that knocked over glasses or forgot people’s names. Spencer remained perfectly articulate. Every sentence emerged with the same impeccable diction he used while lecturing, every word carefully pronounced as though he were still delivering an academic presentation. If anything, the alcohol had only made him even more determined to enunciate correctly. His tie had been loosened somewhere between the second and third bottle, though neither of you remembered who had done it. His curls had escaped in every direction until they framed his flushed face in complete disarray. A warm blush stretched across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose, his eyes had taken on a dreamy softness you rarely saw, and he had developed the oddly adorable habit of pausing before every answer, nodding solemnly to himself as though consulting an invisible committee inside his own mind before reaching a unanimous decision.

Watching him was almost painfully endearing.

You couldn’t help smiling as your fingers found the middle of his back, rubbing slow, comforting circles through the fabric of his shirt.

“You okay?”

He turned toward you immediately, his entire face lighting up with such overwhelming affection that your heart threatened to melt on the spot.

“I love you.”

The words came so easily, so honestly, that several people around the table instinctively smiled.

You laughed quietly.

“I love you too.”

“No…” He shook his head with exaggerated seriousness, lifting one finger as though correcting an important scientific misconception. “I don’t think you understand the statistical magnitude of how much I love you.”

Morgan snorted into his coffee.

“Oh, this is priceless.”

Spencer didn’t even acknowledge him.

His complete attention remained fixed on you, his expression one of absolute sincerity as he searched painstakingly for the perfect description.

“You are…” He frowned thoughtfully, eyes drifting toward the ceiling for several long seconds before returning to you with visible satisfaction. “…my favorite person.”

Warmth spread through your chest so quickly it almost hurt.

God, he was going to destroy you.

“You’ve had enough wine,” you said gently, brushing one of his unruly curls away from his forehead.

“I have had…” He stopped speaking to count carefully on his fingers, restarting twice after apparently losing track somewhere around three. “…more wine than you.”

“Yes.”

He nodded proudly, pleased that you’d confirmed his calculation.

“Because you couldn’t.”

Every muscle in your body went rigid.

The smile disappeared from your face almost instantly.

“Spencer.”

He looked delighted with himself.

“I helped.”

Across the table, Emily glanced up from her coffee.

“So noble.”

“It was.” Spencer nodded once, completely accepting the compliment. “Because it’s a secret.”

Your stomach dropped so violently you were certain everyone could hear it.

Without thinking, you reached for his hand beneath the table, gently squeezing his fingers.

“Sweetheart—”

He leaned closer immediately, lowering his voice in what he clearly believed was an incredibly discreet whisper.

It wasn’t.

“We’re very good at secrets,” he confided with unmistakable pride.

The entire table continued talking.

No one seemed to notice.

Relief washed over you so suddenly you nearly laughed.

Then Spencer smiled thoughtfully, as though another important realization had just occurred to him.

“Although…”

Every instinct in your body screamed.

“Oh no.”

He looked around the entire table before announcing, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the dining room to hear with perfect clarity, “keeping a baby secret is significantly harder than I expected.”

Silence.

Morgan blinked once.

“A what?”

Garcia’s mouth slowly fell open.

JJ lowered her coffee cup so carefully it barely made a sound against the saucer.

At the far end of the table, Hotch’s eyes shifted from Spencer to you with the calm expression of a profiler mentally reorganizing every unusual observation he’d made over the previous several weeks: your sudden avoidance of coffee during morning meetings, Spencer’s increasingly protective behavior, the mysterious disappearances during cases to “find crackers,” the exhaustion, the nausea, the untouched wine.

Pieces quietly clicked into place.

Rossi simply stared.

His mouth opened slightly before closing again.

For perhaps the first time in anyone’s memory, David Rossi seemed completely incapable of finding words.

Emily, meanwhile, merely closed her eyes and a slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Oh,” she sighed, sounding more relieved than surprised. “I knew it.”

You buried your face in both hands.

“Spencer…”

He looked around the table with complete confusion, blinking at everyone’s expressions as though he genuinely couldn’t understand why the conversation had stopped.

“What?”

“You…” you whispered through your hands, shaking your head helplessly. “You just told them about our baby.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“I did?”

“Yes.”

A long pause.

He frowned thoughtfully.

“I wasn’t supposed to.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

He considered that information with remarkable seriousness, nodding slowly as though accepting constructive criticism.

For one suspended heartbeat, nobody moved.

Then Garcia exploded.

The delighted shriek that escaped her was so loud it probably startled every bird within a three-block radius. She launched herself out of her chair before anyone else had even processed what was happening, one hand already covering her mouth as tears filled her eyes.

“I can't believe it!” she squealed. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”

JJ was crying before she’d even reached you.

She wrapped her arms tightly around your shoulders, laughing and wiping away tears simultaneously.

“I am so happy for you,” she whispered.

Morgan shot to his feet with a bark of laughter, pointing triumphantly between the two of you.

“I knew something was going on!”

Emily looked at him flatly.

“You absolutely did not.”

“I suspected!”

She folded her arms.

“You spent the entire evening convinced Spencer had developed a drinking problem.”

Morgan hesitated.

“I was…close.”

Rossi finally recovered enough to laugh, a deep, warm laugh that echoed through the dining room as he crossed the room and pulled both you and Spencer into one of his characteristically overwhelming hugs.

“I’ve spent years trying to get this kid drunk,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief as he stepped back to look at Spencer with unmistakable affection. “Years.”

His eyes flickered toward you before returning to Spencer.

“I have to admit…”

He smiled.

“I didn’t expect this to be what finally loosened his tongue.”

Even Hotch stood.

He wasn’t particularly demonstrative, never had been, but the smile he offered the two of you was genuine enough to soften every sharp line in his face.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you leaned instinctively against Spencer’s shoulder, still half laughing and half hiding your burning face from everyone’s delighted attention.

Spencer looked down at you with sleepy affection, completely oblivious to the fact that he had single-handedly dismantled weeks of carefully orchestrated secrecy. He leaned over and pressed the gentlest kiss against the top of your head before sighing softly.

“I ruined the surprise.”

“You did.”

“I’m sorry.”

You looked up at him.

His expression was so genuinely remorseful, so heartbreakingly sincere despite the unmistakable haze of alcohol clouding his thoughts, that you couldn’t possibly stay embarrassed.

A smile spread across your face.

“I’ll forgive you.”

His eyes brightened immediately.

“You will?”

“Eventually.”

The relieved smile that followed was almost childlike.

“Good.”

He sat quietly for another few seconds, apparently satisfied that the crisis had been resolved.

Then he turned toward Rossi with complete seriousness.

“Can I have some water now?”

Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”

Your stomach flips. “Spence.”

He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”

You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.

“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”

The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.

“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”

Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”

“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”

“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.

She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”

“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”

Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”

You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”

Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”

“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”

“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”

He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.

You perform.

You scroll through dating profiles, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.

He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:

Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.

Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.

Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”

Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.

“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”

His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.

“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.

Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”

Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”

“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”

Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”

Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”

“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”

Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”

“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.

Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”

You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.

Not the team. You.

Your stomach twists.

That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.

Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.

“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”

He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.

His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—

“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.

You blink hard. “What?”

He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”

You frown. “I’m not—”

He gives you a look.

“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”

You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.

Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.

You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.

Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”

You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”

He hums. “Sure.”

“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”

He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.

“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”

He nods. “Good.”

You frown.

“I’m attempting corrective behavioural conditioning.”

Your eyes narrow. “By being annoying?”

“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.

You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.

The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.

In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.

To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.

Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.

You sigh. “Reid.”

“Hm?”

“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”

Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.

“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.

You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.

“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”

Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.

“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”

You frown slightly.

“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”

Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”

Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”

“What’s she right about?”

You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.

“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”

He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.

He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.

“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”

Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.

Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.

“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”

Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”

You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”

“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”

Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.

“Good girl,” he says absently.

Your entire nervous system short-circuits.

“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.

You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”

You finally blink. “What?”

“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”

You frown. “What are you—”

“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”

Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”

“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”

“Reid.”

“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”

You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”

“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”

He pauses, tilting his head.

“Very obviously your type.”

You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.

Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.

Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”

Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”

“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”

Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.

“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”

Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.

You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.

“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”

“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.

Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.

You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.

Your stomach flips.

God. That’s pathetic.

You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.

The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.

Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.

“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.

You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.

“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”

Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”

You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”

“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”

You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”

“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.

With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.

You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.

And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.

Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.

You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.

There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.

It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.

You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.

It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.

Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.

You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.

No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.

One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.

Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.

That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.

The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.

Twelve notifications.

You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.

After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.

But one of the messages catches your eye.

DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.

You snort, then type out a reply.

You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.

Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.

“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.

Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.

You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”

You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.

Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.

DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given. DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.

That answer comes a little too easily.

You: Workaholic. You? DCRunner00: I get bored easily. DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment. You: Sounds like a public safety issue. DCRunner00: Depends who you ask. DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.

You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.

You shake your head, typing quickly.

You: Yeah, I should. You: Night, Running Man.

Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.

TUESDAY 9:50AM

“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”

He’s wearing a grey suit today.

You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.

Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”

Hotch ignores him completely.

“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”

He glances once around the table.

“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”

Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.

The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.

Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.

“You should probably blink.”

Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”

He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.

Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.

You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.

You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.

Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.

You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”

“How late were you here last night?” he asks.

You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”

His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”

“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”

“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”

You blink. “Oh.”

His gaze holds yours for a second too long.

“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”

Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”

He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.

“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”

Your breath catches softly in your throat.

“Anytime, sir,” you manage.

He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.

You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.

By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.

You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.

Two new messages from DCRunner00.

DCRunner00: Running Man? DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.

You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.

You: Better than ‘Workaholic’. You: You read Stephen King?

“Hey, you busy?”

You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”

He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”

“I could be working.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”

You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”

“I could use your help.”

“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.

He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.

“Where do you want to start?”

“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”

You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”

Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?

“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.

Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”

You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”

“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”

He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”

You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.

“No, listen to me carefully.”

Both you and Reid glance up automatically.

Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.

“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”

He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.

“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”

He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.

“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”

Your stomach flips.

This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.

“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”

Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.

You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”

“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”

You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.

“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”

Your face heats.

“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”

Oh my God.

“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”

He stops.

Then slowly turns toward you.

“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”

You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”

He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.

You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—

Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.

You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.

When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.

DCRunner00: I’ve read a few. DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?

You type your reply as you step out of the building.

You: Work, mostly. You: And sleep.

By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.

“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.

You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”

Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.

DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like? DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person. You: Nah. That’s my boss. You: My schedule is chaos, though.

“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.

You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.

He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”

He straightens, brows drawing tighter.

“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”

You set the cup down in front of him.

“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.

“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”

Your face heats instantly.

“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.

You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.

Which is also when you finally check your messages again.

DCRunner00: Chaos how?

You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.

You: Long hours. You: Weird hours. You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.

Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.

Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.

You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.

DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people. You: Rude.

He replies almost immediately.

DCRunner00: Accurate, though? You: Unfortunately.

You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.

Ping!

DCRunner00: What do you actually do?

You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.

You: Mostly admin. You: Governmental stuff.

You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.

You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.

DCRunner00: Sounds boring. DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?

You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.

You: Sort of. You: But if my boss calls, I answer.

He replies instantly again.

DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked. You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.

You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.

DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy. You: Probably. What about you? What do you do?

You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.

He’s already replied by the time you log in.

DCRunner00: Run. DCRunner00: Read. DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally. You: That sounds made up.

You open your protein bar.

DCRunner00: It mostly is. DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?

You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.

You type out a vague response.

You: Sometimes. You: Occupational hazard, I guess. DCRunner00: And you always answer? You: Pretty much. You: He’d only call if it mattered.

His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.

DCRunner00: Hm. DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.

You almost choke on your tea.

That’s... weird.

Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.

You: Jealous already, Running Man? DCRunner00: Should I be?

You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.

You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online. DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: You still replied, though.

“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”

You: I’m going to sleep. You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.

His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.

DCRunner00: No promises.

WEDNESDAY 8:10AM

“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.

You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.

“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”

You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.

“Is Garcia in yet?”

He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”

You pull your laptop out of your bag.

“I just—I need her.”

You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—

“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”

His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.

You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”

His brows pull together slightly.

“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”

You nod slowly, already stepping around him.

“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”

You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.

It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.

She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”

“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”

“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”

You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.

“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”

She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”

You grimace. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”

You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.

“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”

She nods.

“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”

You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.

“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”

You wince.

“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”

You hesitate.

“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”

She squints at the screen.

DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.

“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”

You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”

She starts scrolling back through the messages.

“Have you told Hotch?”

“Nope.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”

“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.

“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”

You groan, dragging both hands over your face.

“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”

Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”

Garcia gives you a long look.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”

“Garcia.”

“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”

You point at the screen. “Focus.”

“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”

Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.

“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”

You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”

“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”

You frown. “In English?”

She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”

“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”

“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”

Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.

You: I thought I told you not to spiral.

He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.

DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke. DCRunner00: Mostly.

She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”

You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”

Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”

“No.”

She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”

You nod.

“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”

You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.

“You’re the best, Pen.”

“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”

By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.

Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.

“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.

His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”

You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”

Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.

You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.

“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.

You glance at him. “Why?”

“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”

You roll your eyes. “Spence—”

“Something must be seriously wrong.”

You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.

“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”

His brows shoot up. “A guy—”

“Online,” you add quickly.

He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”

You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”

“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”

You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”

“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”

“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”

His forehead creases. “Have you told—”

“No.”

“Maybe you should—”

“I said no.”

“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”

You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.

“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”

You stare at him.

“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”

He pauses, frowning faintly.

“That was supposed to be reassuring.”

“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”

When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.

You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.

You: You’re weird.

He replies just as fast as usual.

DCRunner00: You disappear a lot. You: Workaholic, remember. You: I told you my schedule was chaos.

You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.

Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.

You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.

You: Trust me, that’s not the reason. Garcia: So there IS a reason? You: Shh. I’m working. Garcia: Boo!

You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.

It doesn’t work.

Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.

You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?

It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.

If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.

An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.

One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.

DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me? DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.

Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”

You immediately call Garcia back.

She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”

“You saw me this morning.”

“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”

You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”

“No.”

“Are you insane?”

“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”

Garcia goes quiet for a second.

“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”

“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”

“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”

You press your free hand against your forehead.

“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

Garcia scoffs loudly.

“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”

The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.

“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”

“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”

She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”

Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”

“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”

You nearly choke. “What?”

“Non-negotiable.”

“Penelope, that’s insane.”

“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”

“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.

“Mm-hm.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”

You frown. “…Morally complicit?”

“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”

You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”

She hums, satisfied.

“I need to reply to him again.”

“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”

“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”

“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”

“Absolutely not.”

You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”

“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”

You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.

You: Lucky guess.

The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.

At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.

When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.

By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.

At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”

You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”

You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.

“See who soon?” Reid asks.

You glance at him. “Garcia.”

He tilts his head.

“She’s staying over tonight.”

His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”

“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”

His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”

You scoff. “About me? Never.”

You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.

“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”

You pause mid-motion.

“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”

“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”

He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—

“Agent.”

You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.

You force a small smile. “Sir.”

His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”

You nod once. “Of course.”

He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”

Your breath catches.

He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.

“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.

You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”

Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.

You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.

“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”

You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”

You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then—

“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”

You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”

“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”

You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.

And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.

The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.

“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”

Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.

Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.

“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.

You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”

She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.

DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.

You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.

You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.

Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.

“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”

You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”

“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”

Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”

You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.

DCRunner00: Refreshing DCRunner00: Most people hide too much. You: Depends what they’re trying to hide. DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide? You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing. DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight. You: Long day. DCRunner00: I noticed. You: How was yours?

You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.

Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.

“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”

“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”

You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.

THURSDAY 6:45AM

You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.

Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.

The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.

Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.

“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”

You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”

Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”

Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”

“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”

Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”

“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”

Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”

Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.

“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”

“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”

You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”

“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”

Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”

“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”

Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”

Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—

Someone clears their throat behind you.

Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.

“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”

Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.

Very slowly, you turn in your chair.

Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.

“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.

Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.

You want to die.

The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.

“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.

Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.

“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.

You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.

Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.

It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.

“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”

Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.

But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.

“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.

You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”

He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”

You glance up at him hopefully.

“Morgan definitely is, though.”

You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.

The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.

It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.

From: Aaron Hotchner Subject: Wallace Interview You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.

Your stomach flips.

“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”

You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”

“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”

You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.

“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.

You turn back to him, frowning.

He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”

You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.

You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.

Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.

You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.

DCRunner00: [Image attachment] DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?

The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.

Ice floods your bloodstream.

You stop breathing.

“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.

You don’t answer him. You can’t.

The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.

Until—

“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”

She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.

Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”

Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”

“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”

You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.

Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.

“What’s going on?”

His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.

“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.

Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.

Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.

Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.

“Who sent this?”

Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.

It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.

Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.

“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”

Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.

Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.

“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”

You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”

“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”

Could this day get any worse?

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.

“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”

“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”

You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”

There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.

“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”

Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”

You grimace. “Fantastic.”

“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”

“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”

You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”

The room goes still for half a second.

“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”

Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.

“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”

“Or angry,” Morgan adds.

“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”

You sink lower in your chair.

“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”

“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.

You elbow him immediately.

“Ow.”

Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”

Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”

Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.

“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”

“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”

Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.

“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”

Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”

“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”

Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.

“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”

Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.

“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”

“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

You open your mouth to argue.

“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.

“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.

“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”

Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.

“I’m taking her home.”

The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.

Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.

Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.

“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.

You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.

“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.

Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.

Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.

“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.

He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.

He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.

“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”

The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.

Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”

You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”

He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.

Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.

Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.

“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”

Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.

Your eyes go wide.

Traitor.

Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.

Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?

He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.

You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.

The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.

Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.

If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.

Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.

But this?

This feels dangerously close to being found out.

The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.

Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.

Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.

And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.

By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.

“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.

Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.

“I’m fine.”

You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”

He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”

You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.

“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”

His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.

“You think this is nothing?”

His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.

“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”

Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.

Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.

He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.

That’s all.

You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”

He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”

“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”

His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.

Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.

You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.

If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.

“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”

He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.

“Alright. Keep me updated.”

He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.

“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”

Your stomach tightens.

“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”

The name hits you immediately.

“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.

Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”

You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.

“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”

“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”

Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”

“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”

He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.

He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”

The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.

“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”

The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.

Except this time Hotch does pause.

“Why do you do that?”

You frown. “Do what?”

“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”

You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”

“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”

Your pulse stutters.

“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”

“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”

But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.

“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”

Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.

“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”

“Leave Leia out of this.”

“She doesn’t like strangers.”

“She likes you.”

The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.

“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”

Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.

“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”

Oh God.

“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”

He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.

“You track me.”

The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.

“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”

Your breath stutters.

And Hotch notices immediately.

His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.

“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.

He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.

“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”

Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.

“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”

His eyes lock onto yours.

“You redirect.”

You can barely breathe now.

He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.

And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.

You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.

“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.

He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.

The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.

His throat shifts slightly.

And then—

His phone rings.

He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.

“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.

You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.

Because holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

What the hell just happened?

“They got him.”

Your head snaps up. “They what?”

Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.

“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”

“Oh.”

“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”

A cold shiver slips down your spine.

“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”

He pauses, then looks at you.

“But they got him.”

“Good,” you say quietly.

Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.

“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”

You nod. “Okay.”

Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.

“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”

“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”

Hotch stills.

Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.

“Babysitting?” he repeats.

“You know what I mean.”

He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”

“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”

He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.

“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”

His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.

“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.

But you can’t.

All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.

You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.

Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.

His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.

But the restraint doesn’t last long.

Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.

Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.

His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.

Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.

“Aaron—”

“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”

FRIDAY 6:15AM

Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—

Oh God.

The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.

Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.

Your stomach swoops.

You slept with your boss last night.

With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.

You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.

“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.

“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.

Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.

“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”

He hums, breath warm against your skin.

“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”

“Oh, he notices.”

Your stomach flips. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”

Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”

“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”

“Oh my God.”

You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.

“And the red bra,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”

You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.

“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Mm, sure.”

You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.

“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”

You feel his lips curve.

“Good thing I’m the boss.”

10:35AM

You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.

The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.

That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.

Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.

“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”

You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.

“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”

Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”

You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”

Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”

“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”

Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.

“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.

“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.

You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”

Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.

You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.

“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.

You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”

“I was.”

Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.

“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”

You frown. “Hotch, I—”

“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”

Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.

“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”

Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.

“…Huh.”

You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.

He tilts his head.

Then—

“Oh my God.”

You close your eyes. “Spencer… don’t.”

“we’re not really . . . i mean — he’s just over here the same time as us, they’re in the same complex as us and everything. but yeah, he basically offered to walk me home.”

your mum hummed on the other end of the phone, scanning the outside from the kitchen sink. “well . . that was awfully nice of him. i really appreciate him doing that for you.”

“i know. it was very nice.”

“and were you ok on your own? you weren’t scared staying by yourself?”

“yeah, it was fine. we got some food together and i just watched some tv when i got back . . yeah, it was fine.”

balancing your phone on your shoulder, you couldn’t stop the grin on your face as you spoke to your mum, updating her on how your trip was going and filling her in on plans when heading home. you’d been telling her about last nights antics when she questioned why you hadn’t stayed with the girls, and told her how there’d been a bit of a fallout, but nothing major. it was basically a bunch of drunk nonsense and that you’d be friends when they all woke up.

“alfie didn’t keep you company?” you could hear the teasing in her voice.

“you allowing a boy in my apartment?”

“not what i said.”

“that’s what i’m hearing,” you sang.

“you dare.”

you chuckled, eyes drifting down to the pool. it was almost nine and the place was still quiet — perfectly expected for a holiday morning, everyone still pinned to their beds from the weight of last night - their hangover would undoubtedly wake them before they could themselves. it was the first morning you’d woken up feeling fresh, clear-headed, awake. no pounding behind your eyes, no dry mouth, no fog to shake off or anxiety to battle against. just a soft, unfamiliar lightness in your chest.

too light.

giddy almost, whether it was from the appropriate amount of sleep you got last night or lack of drink and other substances in your body—

or maybe it was something entirely different.

who knew.

you eyed the empty pizza box on your table, the grin tugging your lips as your mum continued to ramble down the phone, organising your own airport pick-up conditions.

“do you want pizza?”

you looked up from your feet, to your left where you saw the small pizzeria with a bright neon sign outside it. your stocks grumbled at the very thought, and alfie was already side-stepping towards it, his eyes still on you awaiting confirmation.

“hm, yeah. i’m happy with pizza.”

he nodded and lead the way, well, a step ahead, not wanting you to fall short of two steps out of his sight. “i actually don’t even like pizza.”

you froze, mid-step up the curb. “what?”

“i don’t like pizza,” he half-laughed, half-coward with embarrassment in his steps.

“how do you not like pizza? who doesn’t t like pizza?” your thoughts spoke out loud. “it’s—it’s pizza?”

he shrugged his shoulders, hands in his pockets. “saucy, innit.”

“saucy?”

“don’t like red sauce.”

you stared at him with that face you knew was using all the muscles in your face. “i don’t like red sauce but i still eat pizza?”

he shook his head at you. “you’re a fraud.”

you just stood at him, your mouth basically agape with surprise. “ . . . you’re so odd.”

he shrugged, laughing at himself. “told you i’m a fussy eater.”

“no, there’s fussy eater, alfie, and then there’s you.”

he raised his shoulder again.

you watched him, standing up onto the curb and stepping towards the counter. “i’ll ask without sauce?”

“what?! no, no it’s ok,” he stepped in, confusing you a little. “don’t do that.”

“why? they won’t mind?”

“that’s so embarrassing,” he mumbled between you, standing so close you could smell the faint scent of beer on his breath. not in a turnful way, but in a . . musky, manly-scented way — and if kind of made you go what the fuck.

“no it’s not,” you smiled slightly, reassuring him with your eyes before approaching the counter. you felt him grab your wrist you assumed to pull you back but he let go and stepped back, hands in his hair. you didn’t get why he’d be so embarrassed. you didn’t care. you were sure the guy didn’t care so long as you placed that €10 in his hands. “hi! can i get a plain margarita please?”

he nodded, and you eyed the menu, your eyes lighting up as you spotted an even better solution. “oh! alfie, how about garlic bread?” you looked over your shoulder and he looked up from behind you, agreeing. “and a garlic bread as well, please.”

you sat down on the curb with both boxes on your lap, your coins rattling in your hand before you stuffed it back in your pocket. “i didn’t ask for a sauceless pizza . . not that it would’ve mattered,” you handed him his box.

“thanks,” he sheepishly smiled. “i just feel like . . i mean i go to subway and i order ham and cheese . .” he looked at you unashamed but acting like he should be. “i just know they’re judging me hard behind the counter.”

“i wouldn’t care . .” you shook your head. “you think too much of what people care about you — well, unimportant people. i mean you’re never gonna see that guy again,” you nodded to the man in the stall. “and i’m sure he’s seen worse things on this street than a guy ordering a cheese bread.”

alfie nodded, opening his lid. “yeah, you’re right. i dunno, i do care about what unimportant people think. and i usually don’t care what people think.”

“yeah,” you flipped open the top and grabbed a slice, the cheese thick and stringy. your mouth was watering. “thank you, by the way.”

“i fuckin’ love garlic bread,” alfie mumbled before lifting it to his mouth. two seconds later, a sharp gasp left his lips. “AH! FUCK!” he covered it, “fucking scalding!”

you laughed unexpectedly, trying to hold your food in your mouth mid-bite while your eyes closed, chuckling deeply at his stupidity.

“ooowwww,” he continued, looking at you with an amusement in his eyes but a pain - eyes glossy, like if he didn’t laugh right now, he could probably cry. it was very sweet.

“aw,” you shared sympathy, your own eyes glossy from the subtle tears of laughter. “you alright?”

“yeah,” he breathed, wiping his eye, “that fucking burned.”

you laughed again, hunching over slightly, covering your mouth, your chewing on hold.

he could be so funny without trying to be.

you thought of how he’d reached over and tapped his card before you could pay, how he walked on the outside of the pavement without even thinking, how he tried to play off when cheese burned the roof of his mouth when really you knew he was hurt.

your mum could hear the soft snickering on the line. “what are you laughing at?”

“nothing,” you shook your head, “something stupid.”

“hmph . . alright. what’s your plans for today? last night and all that.”

you let out a breath, sipping your bottle of water. “i don’t know. probably go hard tonight.”

“y/n don’t say that!” she groaned. “i don’t want you back in a body bag! nor a bone out of place!”

“mum calm down . . i got holiday insurance.”

“my nerves are away with you, girl. i’m going.”

you laughed over the phone. “alright. i’ll text you later. i miss you.”

“i know, but you’re doing alright. this time tomorrow you’ll be getting ready for the airport.”

“i know. that’s true,” you looked down at the pool again, hearing a slide door open. it was so early you could hear all the weird bugs cricketing and humming about, the birds chirping faintly in the trees. they all went into hiding when the apartment blocks came to life. “alright, i love you. talk to you later.”

“i love you more. please don’t go too crazy.”

“i won’t. love you. bye!”

“bye honey.”

you dropped your phone on your chest, not knowing how to cope with the feeling in your chest. it was almost overwhelming how ticklish it felt, like it wasn’t supposed to feel this relieved.

you were still in the top from last night, the material comfy and more than likely to be a sleep shirt when you got back to the uk.

“should we go in and get you a new top?”

you smiled and shook your head as he took a step towards the one of many identical shops you passed by on the daily when on holiday. the type of shop that sold clothes from flowey tops to swimshorts, bikinis that were trendy back in 2014 to t-shirts with dirty sayings. sunglasses, towels, beach bags, hats, inflatables. it had magnets, snow globes, pens, mirrors, toys like the little robotic walking dogs and designer handbags for a tenth of the price.

“come on, let just go in,” he nodded his head encouragingly, already up the first step.

you fought to roll her eyes although you weren’t entirely mad. you followed him in the cramped space and didn’t know where to look first. scanning for a pretty bracelet or keyring. you plucked three magnets while you were there incase you missed your chance tomorrow for your relatives. alfie nudged your arm and you looked to find him pointing out a lighter with a pair of tits on it.

“what the fuck,” you laughed, picking it up. “maybe i should get this for my nan.”

“was thinking the same thing, you know.” he looked at you, watching a smile break out on your face. you both laughed at the image.

“these are kinda sick,” you tried on a nice pair of shades, liking how they framed your face.

you looked to alfie who handed you the same pair in a better colour. you chose them instead.

“do i look like a dad with these?” he tried on a rectangular pair of 2000s themed, surprisingly pulling them off. “yeah!” you placed a cap on his head, “you look like you’re about to host a barbecue.”

you looked at yourselves in the skinny mirror, taking a moment to realise you were getting carried away with all the gadgets, more than likely not even going to use them back home.

you held up a set with mirrored lenses, and he took his off, letting you slide them on for him. you were then just staring at yourself in them, impressed by the quality. “wow. do not wear those to a poker game.”

alfie smiled, watching your eyes dart across his face, getting a real good look at your eyes without feeling weird about it. “right, let me find a top.”

the shop had some nice pieces you would actually wear, and not all just neon t-shirts with writing like ‘free blowjobs’ or ‘old pussy is better than no pussy’. “i think this will do,” you held up a white bandeau top that was frilly at the end, knotted at the bust. “or this one,” a red one in the other. they were €8.

“that one.”

you held up the white. “this one?”

“yeah, that’s more you.”

your cheeks warmed unexpectedly. “ok.”

you were at the till, paying for your things when he was still messing around with things, trying wicker hates on. “i think i’m gonna buy this.”

he had an odd looking hat on his head, but you just let him be. “whatever you want, babe.”

you paused at the till, grimacing at yourself for the pet name and freaked at our easily it slipped out. you tried to play it off as a patronising joke, but really you were horrified at yourself. alfie noticed it though, and laughed, looking at himself in the mirror. “i do look sick.” he looked over at you.

you rolled your eyes, amused by his antics.

“hey.”

you jumped at the unexpected voice, seeing faye standing at the slide doors of the balcony.

her hair was a nest, recently waken from her slumber. her makeup was still half on, her tiny pyjamas twisted. she looked like she came out of a coma.

“hey.”

she stepped out cautiously, her arms folded into herself. you faced out to the view.

“i just wanted to talk about last night . . apologise for my behaviour.”

you pulled a face, still viewing the scenery. “to be honest, i don’t want to. i don’t care, faye. i accept your apology and i appreciate your maturity for recognising your wrongdoing, but respectfully, you need to stay away from me today. all of you, until i feel like talking to you,” you confessed, your tone plain. “you’re lucky i wasn’t drunker than i was or i would have literally smashed your face in. all your faces in. and partly i still want to, so please just steer clear of me and go back to bed.”

you could feel the tension spawn in as the words left your mouth although your tone wasn’t aggressive. her movements slowed and any sense of easiness, vanished. she no longer felt invited out onto the balcony as she realised you were still upset.

she swallowed, and slowly nodded her head. “ok.”

“thanks.”

she backtracked into the room, leaving you alone again with a exhausting wave of agitation.

you always did try to avoid fights as a whole, especially when anyone was drunk, you know how people get. you never wanted to fight your friends - and you’d never want to hurt them - but when they got in that mood, you had to challenge yourself to not give in - because it’s an unfair fight to begin with, nevermind drunk you.

last night caught you off guard. you felt you didn’t really have a chance to react because you were so goddamn confused — trying to make sense of what was actually happening and what you’d done wrong.

you guess that’s what hurt: you’re friends should’ve recognised your innocence instead of painting it as fakeness . . which again, was confusing on your behalf because when had you ever been fake to your friends?

that was the whole point of a friendship, you weren’t fake with one another?

you tried to settle yourself, to not think of last night and think happy thoughts! and things to look forward to!

beth said the girls were going to go shopping this morning for souvenirs and such to bring home, but you’d declined the invite, explaining you’d already gotten yours last night and was going to spend the morning down at the pool. she didn’t push, and went on to get ready, telling you to enjoy it.

the pool was empty at this time of day, you were the only one down this early, the sun thankfully blasting on full heat as the UV hit a new high of 10.

you put on your tiniest bikini — well, ok, not your tiniest, but one that wouldn’t leave mad tannins nor feel like it was agitating you with tightness or loose strings. you didn’t plan on wearing it at all, but with no one around and the sun at its highest, you thought why not.

your hair was up and out of your way as you tottled on down to the best placed sundeck there was, laying your towel down and placing your belongings beside it.

you were taking it easy today, from start ‘til finish. you took out your kindle and enjoyed the silence after costing some SPF over you, not trying to catch wrinkles before 25, and relaxed. you didn’t even think about last night, nor wondered what the girls were up to. you just zoned in on your book while sweat began to puddle on your stomach, cooking your skin softly.

you’re 20 pages in when you hear footsteps approaching. your eyes lift above the screen to see none other than your companion last night, sunglasses on and a pharmacy bag in his hands, nike sliders scraping the ground.

“oh . . hey.”

“hey,” you shuffle up a little, not wanting your chins to be on show.

“how’s things?” he slows towards you, standing at the side of you, at a distance. he feels like you’ve seen enough of him, like he might be suffocating you a bit with his presence these last few days.

“they’re . . alright. no bad blood but . . space is needed today,” you nod, squinting up at him. his shades are dark, you can’t see his eyes, but even without them, he’s going his best to not acknowledge the absolute scene in front of him which is you entirely oiled up from head to toe; your stomach glistening in a way he almost feels sick. “why were you at the chemist?”

he senses your concern, and opens the bag, looking down at it, “it’s for carter. he’s so burnt, i actually offered to go get him a certain cream that will help. he’s the only one that came home last night. i actually feel a bit bad for him, i know he’s in pain.”

“at least it’s the last day, he should stay in the shade today.”

“yeah, i think that’s the plan. we can’t really leave anyway, the other two have the only keycard, so . . if we go out, we can’t get back in,” he shares, stepping back.

“that’s a bit annoying. you should just stay by the pool today anyway, it’s too warm to be doing anything, i think,” you slide back down, arm over your head.

“yeah. feel like i been up your arse though, you not sick of me?” he makes fun of himself, and you smile, his expression tickling you. “i stick you 5 days a week, buddy, this is nothing new,” you grin.

he still watches you from his door, knocking for carter to answer with a smile on his face before it opens. “i’ll be back out then.”

“UV’s 10. you might as well.”

“dunno what that means.”

you roll your eyes, “it means you’ll get a really good tan today.”

“oh sick.”

you continue sunbathing, book in hand, trying to fight the urge to get in the pool when your front half of your body is thudding like its own heartbeat. you need to flip over, but you need your back protected.

“poor guy’s a lobster.”

“yeah?” you set your book down as alfie comes to sit next to you.

“yeah. i told him to call me if he needs anything else though,” he lays his towel down, taking off his cap. “jesus, it is hot today.”

“i know,” you watch him, eyes scanning his back as he adjusts his things and takes off his watch. “make sure you put suncream on . . especially on your moles.”

he looks at you over his shoulder and smiles, “you sound like my mum.”

“i know but . . i know with my cousin, he has moles and my auntie prioritised them being protected in the sun so just — make sure you’re covered. you’ll still tan.”

he finds it endearing, and reaches for his bottle to squeeze a generous amount in his hand. you watch him until you’re satisfied he’s ok.

he runs it across his chest, around his neck, and even at the sides of his head where his hair is shaven down. he does a good job, but you’re still staring at his back, the little dots along his spine he has no chance of reaching, even with all that muscle. you have to point it out. “your back, alf.”

he looks at you, and in response, holds out the bottle.

you take it, because you know it’s physically impossible for him to do it himself. “move up.”

he’s smiling, because you both know this is cliché, but he knows you’re too cautious for his health to give a fuck. he shuffles up and faces his back to you as you move to his seat and sit behind him, your legs folded.

“i could just put two dots on your back . . .” you say, rubbing it into your hands so it’s not cold, “but i’m just going to cover everywhere because it’s so hot, okay?” you don’t touch him until he give you his permission.

“ok.”

you place your hands on his shoulders, and alfie tries not to flinch. your hands start at his broad shoulder blades, coating them in the protective coconut scent and glide down and around them. already, you’re squeezing more in to cover the base of his back, his muscles like bumps under your palms.

he inhales sharply through his nose.

you don’t say anything.

you move lower, dragging the suncream down either side of his spine, palms flattening, smoothing the liquid out evenly. you were suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were — your knees almost brushing his hips, your shadow falling over him. he fidgets when you reach the dip in his back, his shoulders tensing.

“you’re gonna miss bits if you keep fidgeting.”

“sorry,” he muttered, and he didn’t move. if anything, he went still.

you continued, making sure to leave a slightly heavy dollop on top of the moles for extra protection. “if i do your sides, are you going to be ticklish?”

alfie breathed a laugh, his fingers pinching his head like he was in deep concentration, or fighting a pain, almost. “yeah.”

you smile a bit, “. . so . . you want me to leave it then?”

“no, just do it, i’ll hold my breath.”

you pull a face even though he can’t see it. you let out a loud giggle. “alfie that won’t do anything.”

“i know, just do it!” he laughs, bracing himself.

you ease into it, following the natural slope of his back until your fingers reached his sides and skim his ribs, careful and not hurried. the air feels thicker, as you run the ridges of his his ribcage, feeling muscle there.

the way your hands moulded to the shape of his body, almost gently gripping him when doing his sides—

alfie felt like he was fighting for his life.

it shouldn’t feel like this, he told himself. it was suncream, nothing else, but the slow drag of your hands, the way you were working carefully instead of rushing it —sent a strange, tight sensation through his chest.

don’t be weird, don’t be weird, don’t be weird. he told himself.

he tried to be normal, tried to act as nonchalant as a guy did when a girl —you— sat behind him in a bikini that with everything shining and on show, bare, with fingers as slow and deliberate as they worked over him like it was routine.

he hated to be a pervert — but you had the set pair of tits he’d ever seen - and a girl from school had got a boob job in your year.

“alright,” you slowed, and alfie let out the breath he’d been holding, chest rising fully. you smiled.

he turned before you’d properly finished, muscles moving when he adjusted, stomach flexing, and your eyes landed on the faint trail of darker hair disappeared beneath his swim shorts.

you pulled your hands away, too quickly.

you wiped them on your towel, eyes deliberately averted now. “let it dry before you lie down. it’ll only take a few minutes.”

he nodded, still not trusting his voice, fingers still pinching the top of his nose.

you didn’t question it. just got up and moved back to your original seat.

“thanks.”

“you’re welcome.”

it grows quiet as alfie sits there, doing as you’d told to let his cream dry in.

he watches you next to him. “ so you actually reading or just pretending?”

“i am reading.”

“what you reading?”

“a book?”

he throws his hat at you and you laugh a little, sitting up a bit. “it’s a thriller with a bit of romance going on. i think she’s actually just killed the guy.”

“oh. fitting.”

you glance at him again, catching the line of his jaw, the way his hair seems lighter at the tips, even the solidness of his neck made you wonder how much he actually pushed himself in the gym.

you looked away quickly, heart acting up.

the birthmark near his collarbone caught your eye before you turned. “did you cover that?” you said, deflecting.

“offering your services again?”

“please just put some on it so i can sunbathe in peace. please.”

he smirked, and reached for the bottle anyway.

ᯓ ✈︎

remember you said you were taking it easy?

yeah, well, that was out the window.

you haven’t paid for a single drink all night, every time your cup’s empty, there’s another one shoved into your hand: vodka lemonade; something blue; something pink that tastes like sweets and nothing else - you can’t taste the alcohol, and you know the servers fill the glass half way. it’s dangerous. you know it’s.

you take a sip anyway.

juice. genuinely just juice.

it felt like you just teleported to the strip. getting ready in the apartment was fine, being in the company with the girls was ok too. they came back with a handbag (fake, but a damn good dupe) of the one you’d said you’d hunt down and find the next time you guys went abroad. they presented it to you, saying it was a peace offering and an apology, telling you how they’d all pitched in to buy it for you. you accepted it, wearing it out tonight.

you’re in a floaty state, the drink moving quick, pulling you into that state of perfect drunk.

at least you’re laughing.

the girls are back in your orbit, arms linked, hands around the other, screaming lyrics at the top of their lungs like the song was written for them personally. faye keeps pulling you in for hugs that last too long, pressing her forehead to yours and shouting apologies you can’t quite make out.

courtney grabs your hands and spins you under the lights. the floor is sticky and wet, your feet slide. you nearly go down and all of you shriek, collapsing into each other in hysterics.

everything’s funny.

everything’s loud.

everything feels okay.

your head buzzes, pleasantly empty, like there’s fuck all behind your eyes. just the drink you’ve been consuming, swishing around in your head.

the boys played a drinking game before they came out. it was supposed to be an easy game, something to help pass the time; to play in the back while they all got ready, waiting their turn for the shower and for jay to finish ironing their shirts for tonight. it got to the point where alfie had stepped out of the shower to complete his go and dylan helped jay take his shot without him needing to lift his hand off the ironing board.

they were wonky by the time they’d walked down the street, laughing like lunatics and acting like animals with their rough play and running and jumping into things.

you were at the table, sipping your straw, moving your body casually to the music while the girls prepared themselves for a photo, rustling bags for lip liners, fluffing hair. you clocked the other group among the shuffling about 10 feet away.

the place was packed, and the instant joel clocked you, you knew they were coming to join your table.

he hadn’t even set his cup down when courtney had shoved her camera in his hand. apparently digital cameras were the coming trend. “jo-wel take—take our photo please,” the sound of her slurring made you all laugh.

your eyes drifted, eyeing the crowd when you saw the others, two approaching, two still at the bar. alfie looked at you knowingly.

his expression was flat, his eyes still, glancing at your table; zoned on faye in her cheap cropped jacket, cold on courtney in her stupid feathered top, looking up beth and that tacky necklace around her neck.

you caught it, even when he glanced around the room afterward to play it casual; in his navy polo, fitting him perfectly with where it emphasised him where he wanted it most - catching his slim waist but tight around his biceps, complimenting his skin tone and the tan he’d accomplished this trip. the top button was undone, promising eyes the smallest sight of the start of his chest, not that you didn’t know what it looked like already. his hair was styled effortlessly, not an inch of stubble on his face, clean shaven, his skin glowing.

your eyes trailed down his arms, catching the thickness of his forearms, the faint faint running along it down to his wrist where a heavy watch sat; signet ring on his pinky.

your heart was thumping with the base anyway, the heat sending your head to a floaty place, the sun kicking your ass in the way it knocked any sense out of your head, especially with the company of drink in your system.

you watched him making his way forward like it was against his own will, not mad, just . . disappointed . . uncomfortable almost, like, his face might have been blank but you knew it read ‘for fuck’s sake, not here’ — and selfishly, you didn’t care —

because he looked so fucking sexy.

FUCK! THAT FELT GOOD TO ADMIT TO YOURSELF.

fuck, he did.

he was so fucking sweet.

and he looked so good.

you weren’t even going to hide it, you were tired of acting, the sun leaving you loose - your face was nearly like a kicked puppy, almost as if you could sense his irritated towards you for being back with your mates he’d basically recused you from the night before.

you could feel it in your eyebrows, how they were raised with shame and guilt.

fuck. you were so drunk.

he met your eyes, and one look and he knew how you felt — and he physically couldn’t keep up an act. he dropped his tense attitude upon seeing your knowing stare, and subtly, softly, you could see the tension ease in his face. his eyes falling gentle, the fucking smallest, tiniest lift in the corner of his lip as he circled around to you, still not speaking a word.

he stopped next to you, a step behind, not saying a word. you stood with a sloppy grin on your face.

“Y/N GET IN THE PICTURE!”

you stumbled as jess threw her arm around your neck, pulling you into the end of the photo, your smile so unbelievably drunk, eyes growing heavy, your body weight thrown onto your friend for the small lense to capture. yet, the digi cam was big enough to capture your hand clasped around the bicep in the back for stability, holding you up.

you stepped back onto your feet, looking for your bag, moving your hair from your face as you crouched, however, a hand came to take your own and pull you up slow and steadily, the bag around their arm.

you looked at alfie with your 90s style shoulder bag on his shoulder, your eyes asking the question.

“it was on the floor,” he quietly dropped your hand.

you looked to the handbag.

“it was open.”

your head shot up to his eyes.

suddenly, your drowsy state was alert.

he stared at you.

alfie still had your bag on his shoulder when he leaned down and slowly slipped it down his arm, mouth close to your ear so you could hear over the noise.

“do you want to go to the bathroom?”

you pulled back to look at him, for some reason, feeling like this was a trap. like, there was no way he was actually . . getting at . . doing what you think you were both going to do . . with that . . stuff still sitting in your bag.

he answered for you and lead the way, nodding to the toilets and guided you with a hand on your back, keeping you close in the crowds but carrying the authority to manoeuvre you both through it.

you had some balls still carrying that packet about with the amount of police surrounding the area lately. all the popular holiday destinations had so many law enforcement casually standing around party destinations in full gear: heavy black boots, bulletproof vests, massive guns occupying their hands. you’d become used to it as the nights carried on, but tonight seemed to be the first night you felt actually paranoid with the sexy cops standing about.

waiting on a free stall felt like eternity. standing with your arms crossed, head tilted, leaning on the wall; alfie mirroring you from the wall opposite, both your eyes on each other. it was quieter but still loud with the multiple voices, the air thick and warm, you could almost bite into it.

the girls was jam packed. alfie nodded when he felt the men’s was emptier, and you hesitantly followed, partly ashamed to be heading in with him when you knew exactly what everyone was thinking when seeing you.

hoots and hollers emerged from deep voices as you entered the stall, alfie’s tall frame hiding you mostly from eyes as he shot warning stares at those watching, even so much as pausing before following you in with his hand on the door, his unimpressed face saying it all.

he turned to see big, doe eyes looking up at him from the closed toilet seat, hands clutching both ends of your handbag.

“are you judging me?”

his face screwed up in response.

“do you think i’m a skank?”

alfie’s features deepened further. “what?”

“i don’t even know what it is.”

alfie’s eyes widened at that. “wha—” he looked at your handbag like it was a bomb, “y/n that’s dangerous.”

“well it’s either ket or ‘DMA.”

he swallowed down at you.

not because he was scared, but because as much as much as he slagged the shit out of girls who did drugs on a weekly basis, turned his nose up at and even used as ammo in silly weekend debates -

it was the hottest fucking thing coming from you.

“have you done any of them?”

his shoulders relaxed.

you were asking if he was comfortable.

alfie crouched down so he was eye-level with you, a soft, reassuring smile on his face as he took your handbag from you and grinned. “have you?”

you watched him unzip your bag before snatching it back, holding it to your chest. “be honest — you think i’m a skank.”

his head hit the door of the cubicle, an annoyed look taking his face now. “y/n, i’d never and have never thought of you as skank. i don’t think you’re a dirty . . disgusting, ratty . . sniffing scumbag.”

you were so worried this was the last thing you were going to do with this weird holiday bond you’d formed whilst away before you jetted off home and he told everyone how much of a sleazy, waster, piece of shit you were sticking your nose in a pack of powder every night. you’d be ruined. so unbelievably ruined.

“i think you’re funny. you’ve the biggest fucking nerve talking about everyone else doing it on a monday fucking morning,” he snickers a laugh, and then is unable to hold it back, letting his cackles out.

you joined.

“you fuckin’ bitch!”

you laughed harder, rocking back in your seat as alfie let himself drop onto the floor, holding his stomach.

and just like that, your nerves were gone. you lay against the tiled wall, looking down at him across from him in that stupid, sexy, navy polo top.

“have you had a good night?” he asks.

you watch him, brain going smoosh. “yeah. they’ve been ok.”

he lifts his head in acknowledgment.

“i’m glad you guys came though.”

he just smiles.

you reach for the zip of your bag after watching for a minute, the littlest bit of hesitation numbing in your fingers, for the simple fact that, you felt like you didn’t need it. you were content how you were, happy with the buzz you had rocking with the drink alone - but - alfie was already here, you were here, he was here for one reason and one reason only and you weren’t going to let him down.

besides, when you were left with the girls, you’d be thankful for the hit.

alfie watched your fingers pop open the bag, drowning out the noise in the room as you both became hyper-focused on the task at hand. you looked from the packet to him, your heart racing a little, your cheek beginning to flush.

why was this so embarrassing???

“you first,” you tilted it to his direction.

alfie shuffled forward until he was infront of you. his hand curled around your wrist, keeping it steady while the other felt for something in his pocket.

upon patting himself down, he swore under his breath, and looked to the side in thought. “. . . joel has my key . . .”

without missing a beat, you scooped your acrylic, pinky nail into the bag of powder and held it out under his right nostril.

alfie tried to hide his amusement in this serious situation, and dipped his head ever so slightly, locking his eyes with yours.

he stayed with you after few minutes after you’d snorted your share up your nose, the embarrassment and shame still hanging heavy while looking at him afterward.

you still half-expected that certain look from him. the one where his eyes held that unavoidable judgement in them. a smugness to him that said ‘you’re just like the rest of them.’ you were ready for him to leave, to snicker and walk away, to fill the boys in on what he’d just got up to with you in the stall and maybe even add his own little spin to it.

but he didn’t.

he watched you tip your head back while patting down your nose, placing the tiny baggie in your handbag with the smallest twitch in your hand. “you alright?”

his voice spooked you despite its monotone, and you looked at him, nodding, tucking your hair behind your ear that kept falling forward. you sat on the toilet lid while he remained on the floor in front of you, waiting for you to make the move that reassured him — you were okay.

you could hardly look at him, waiting for the high to kick in so you could get on with your night.

but when you stole a glance at him, alfie was already watching you — no judgement. no smugness. no amusement. nothing.

he reached forward and moved the hair out of your face again, his fingers sliding smoothly behind the shel of your ear, making sure it didn’t move.

you stared at him.

the bathroom door kicked open and you both spilled back out into the club like nothing had happened, like you hadn’t just flipped the night sideways, and how from there it all blurred into one long, messy memory.

alfie getting weirdly fascinated by the hand dryer and announcing it was “actually mad how powerful these are.” jay immediately trying to fight a traffic cone outside and losing. joel insisting he could hear the music echoing inside his bones. you laughing so hard at absolutely nothing that alfie had to steady you by the elbow while telling everyone you were ‘just overwhelmed by the vibes.’ the strip feeling brighter and louder than usual, police sirens popping up somewhere that sent everyone running purely on instinct, you and alfie sprinting for half a street before realising no one was chasing you and crouching behind a shuttered shop crying with laughter. jay reappearing out of nowhere and asking if anyone had ‘seen his dignity.’ alfie buying water and pressing it into your hands every ten minutes like he’d decided it was his job to keep you alive. you remember sitting on a curb debating whether the moon looked fake tonight, or sharing crisps with strangers who told you they loved you, or alfie leaning in to tell you something important and then completely losing the thought halfway through which sent you both into hysterics.

you couldn’t stay off him. arms brushing stood next to each other; legs pressed together sat on the curb. his body was always close enough, the warmth never left. he’d been glued to you all night, and you, him. you both began to lose your friends when taking too long in the bathroom or down a quiet alleyway, each one breaking off throughout the night it felt as you were in and out of your handbag, combining packets, losing lip liners and dropping phones.

not that it affected either of you. your company was the only one that mattered, considering everyone else wasn’t on your upbeat level.

talking fast. moving faster. giggling loud. practically jumping in your steps, you were wide-eyed and ready for the night to be yours.

it was hard to stay still.

you watched a fight break out from the inside of a club, your arm tangled with alfie’s as your cheek hovered at his back, initially going to tell him something, and instead become fascinated by the sight in front of you. alfie was watching it too. even the bar tender making your drink was watching.

you broke out of it when, eventually, someone did try to break them up, and the smallest of strands from alfie’s cotton shirt brushed the tip of your nose, unaware of how close you were leaning into him.

you wanted to melt right into his bones.

especially when the girl next to him started sharing a giggle with him at the bar, and you can’t remember if you did pull her long, curled ponytail or just badly want to. you don’t remember having a long face, but you recall alfie turning around and backing you up as you refused to take so many steps away from him, seeing his lips pulled in that loud smirk, like he knew something was up as he carried both your glasses.

“what’s the matter?” he leaned down to speak in your ear.

“nothin’.”

“yeah there is.”

“there’s not,” your eyes shot to the side to look at him, faces so close, you could see individual hairs at the start of his eyebrows.

he tried to make you laugh, pressing his forehead to the side of your head like the rhino he was which made break instantly. his arm snuck around the front of you in a somewhat hug as he squeezed you tight, your body moulding perfectly against his.

whether it was the bass of the music and the multicoloured lights, the endless drinking, or the entire packet of whatever you’d bought rewiring your insides — your legs felt lighter, your arms looser, your heart racing at the same time it slowed down, and when you didn’t drop your hands from around alfie’s neck after pointing out some guy to the right, when you stayed there swaying with him instead - you started to realise how frighteningly in control and out of control you were of both your body and mind. how close he was, how warm and heavy his hands felt at your ribcage, how comfortable the position was for both of you.

your hand curled into the nape of his neck when a group of girls shoved past, teeth sinking into your tongue as he instinctively pulled you closer, close enough that you had to lift one leg slightly to make room for them to squeeze through. loud and squeaky, wedges stomping into the ground that they’d end up 6ft under if the brushed your baby toe.

he was fixed on your side profile, even with the scowl on your face that said you were two seconds away from punching someone, and he couldn’t look away when you turned back to him. he wanted to see every detail. the curl of your lashes. the softness of your skin, even the faint acne scars along your jaw that only made you more real to him. the tiny crease between your brows, the baby hairs by your ear - he kept dragging his eyes back to your mouth, only to get trapped again by the compelling masterpiece that were your eyes.

he loved seeing the many changes over the past week: in the sun, in the moonlight, under bright multicoloured lights or the reflection of water. he wished he could slam the colour in the palm of his hand and use it as his preference for all future belongings.

“we should go,” he said suddenly, voice low, almost careful.

“go where?”

he blinked like the answer was obvious. “home.”

you tilted your head, squinting at him, grin still pulling at your mouth. “why?”

“pool,” he added after a second. like it was the most natural next step in the world.

and it was.

it seemed like an amazing idea.

the strip was too loud, too bright, too crowded anyway — things were starting to annoy you, unless it was the steady pressure of his hand guiding you through bodies, unless it was the way he kept glancing back to make sure you were still there, still smiling, still upright, still with him.

it felt like you reached the apartment block in 2 seconds thanks to a speedy tuktuk, the giddiness kicking in when dropped mere meters from your complex. a new wave of thrill and excitement shot through you, lighting every nerves with a new reckless and exhilarating blaze. you kicked your heels off in the street, abandoned carelessly by a palm tree and bolted to the pool, bare foot, laughing while you ran, jumping in not five seconds before alfie did, sending a massive wave of a splash everywhere.

you surfaced spluttering, hair in your face, still laughing when you felt him reach for you underwater, lifting you up just to throw you under again in the deep end, and doing it over and over again until your stomach hurt with laughter, struggling to breathe.

he had the sense to quit, chuckling to himself as he reached for you to pull you back to the shallow end, inhabiting a surge of confidence to pull your your arm up over his shoulder, the other following in your own consciousness.

you looked like a drowned rat. you know you did. you sputtered more water, scraping your hair back, knowing your eyelashes were probably clumped together and your makeup beginning to wash off whether it was waterproof or not.

you laughed in his face when seeing his eyes dance over yours, knowing you probably looked scary.

you quickly fell to silence, chests rising heavily under the water, droplets falling from both your hair and lashes — alfie’s annoyingly looking longer and thicker than yours ever would, you couldn’t quit looking at them.

it was only when you realised you couldn’t move your body any physically closer that you noticed how tangled you actually were — both of your legs hooked loosely around his waist, just above his hips to keep while your your chest brushing his every time the water lifted you. his hands sat firm on your hips, holding you without daring drop lower.

the realisation hit all at once, sharp and dizzying, the laughter drying up in your throat as the air between you changed.

thick and sharp, suddenly very aware of itself.

alfie seemed to clock it at the exact same time.

his grip shifted slower. more deliberate. his eyes flicked down, then back up to your face, and something darkened there, something heated that made your stomach flip.

“do you actually hate me?”

his question catches you off guard.

your break your gaze off his lips and look at him in the eyes, pulling back ever so slightly, you place a hand on his shoulder with a confused look that always comes across passive-aggressive.

he continues. “i just feel like you hate me too much to . . .” his gaze falters, pulling his own confused gaze looking off behind your shoulder.

“to what?” you try to block his view.

“i dunno.”

you stare at him.

thirty seconds pass.

you cross your arms behind his neck. “whether i hate you or not, does that matter right now?”

he glances up.

your smile is loud.

“you’re gonna blame me for this in the morning.”

“i know.”

there was no time to waste.

with fingers curling into his wet hair, you dragged him down to meet you, lips crashing together hard enough that he made a sound you felt in your chest more than heard.

the water sloshed around you as he stumbled beneath the water, hands tightening like instinct had taken over, like he’d been waiting for permission he hadn’t realised he was holding his breath for. his hands dropped to your ass as you opened your mouth, allowing him full access as your tongues met each other for the first time.

you were starving for him. you couldn’t help but almost eat him, forcing your tongue to taste every inch of him. he couldn’t breathe, trying to keep up with your needy, eager pace.

“fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, and you laughed quick once, eyes still closed before kissing him again.

this one slower. deeper. even messier.

he moved you both until your back hit the pool wal, your teeth catching his lip by accident and he groaned: low, startled, pleased, pulling you impossibly closer in the water.

every nerve felt lit up, electrifying, the pool suddenly too small – too full of him.

your arms slipped from his hair to your skirt, thumbs tucking down the sides before tugging them down.

“wait-wait—wait,” alfie pulled away just enough so that your nose were still brushing. “ . . . i don’t think i can do this in a pool . .”

your brows furrowed instinctively.

the door to his apartment slammed against the wall as he carries you both in, kicking it closed as a trail of water soaked the floorboards in your steps.

he lifts you without warning — just hooks his arms under your thighs and hauls you up against him like you weigh nothing — and you gasp, instinctively clinging to him, legs locking around his waist as he stumbles toward the steps, still kissing you like he’s scared if he stops for even a second you’ll change your mind.

your mouths moved in sync, your body tingling every second you guys touch, an inexplainable feeling of warmth and familiarity consuming you despite this being your first time with one another. there’s relief the same time there is an aching amount of impatience.

his hands slide from your back to your ass to your hips where he grips you, hauling your against his, the ache is unbearable between your legs. your hands pull at his shirt before you guide his wrist in the direction of your soaked, see-through skirt. “alfie, please.”

he answers with what you want, peeling his heavy shirt off before throwing it to the side an pushing down your skirt along, his hand sliding into your wet thong not a second after.

a moan escapes you at the contact and alfie stutters a breath of air, like, he can’t believe this is happening. that he’s the one making you like this. “you ok?”

“yes, please, hurry up,” you whine, holding his wrist, the wall keeping you upright for now. you can’t even look at him in his shirtless state or you might combust.

you struggle to kiss him as his fingers stroke you at first, his palm covering your mound whole as he rubs you slow and torturously before sliding a finger between your lips.

your moan loudly, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue back in your mouth, now taking control as you melt into him.

he’s fast to add another finger, pumping them into you slowly at first until you’re used to their intrusion, your nails digging into his bare shoulder blade. “oh my god, quick,” you beg, lips brushing his as he fastens his pace.

you don’t know if it’s the drugs that makes the experience of him fingering you so incredibly or if it’s just alfie in general, but you’re embarrassed by how good his fingers alone are. long and thick and familiar with what they’re doing, “fuck, i’m gonna come already,” you whisper pathetically, voice hoarse, your head dropping as he keeps going, his lips finding your jaw as he sucks and nips.

you remember coming hard, his fingers pumping in and out of you at an ungodly pace through it until you could feel your own release on your legs.

your mouth hung open, a string of breathless, whiney sounds leaving them as he slowed his moments until you gave his shoulder the smallest push, the pleasure teetering overstimulation, you needed a moment to collect yourself.

although it really was a moment, because in your bambi-like stance, your stumble towards him with your hands pulling at your top, peeling off with your bra unbuckling after. alfie stumbled back also, his eyes flying from your face to your tits: his mouth filled with saliva.

your hands gripped his face while his grabbed your thighs, hoisting you up on him with ease as you wrapped your legs around him.

you could feel how hard he was. how badly he wanted you. if his dick didn’t give it away, his actions did; large hands exploring your body, mouth attacking your own, legs tripping backwards as he couldn’t think straight. “fuck me.”

you remember your back on his bed, and him dropping his torso rolling on yours, careful not to crush you with his body weight. your fingernails traced his back, his sides and his stomach, feeling the muscle everywhere but you couldn’t leave his arms alone.

boxing you in, you gripped his biceps, waiting for him to shuffle his shorts off while waiting for him, legs spread, ready and eager.

you hated when he pulled his mouth away, chasing his lips every second they parted from yours.

even in your frenzied state, when both your eyes were blown and seeing things, you saw the attentiveness in his green and the hesitance when he paused above you, boxers off, cock standing proud in all it’s glory, surprising you — but not really.

you knew alfie was a big boy. you’d be more surprised if he had been any different.

“it’s ok,” you assured, eyes trained on him in his hand.

you were so wet, he slid right in with ease.

“aw fuck—alfie!” you cried out, feeling him inch in bit by bit. he was big. the stretch burned in a way you couldn’t breathe with how good it felt. you wanted to cry with pleasure, you hadn’t experienced anything like this. your hands gripped his hips, nail digging into them, ushering him to keep going.

“fuck,” he swore, watching himself slide into you. he was already light-headed, trying not to bust.

with a final push, you moaned, eyes screwed shut, mouth wide open, feeling every inch of him push into you, every vein stroking your walls before he quickly started to move: you felt like dynamite.

your whole body was tingling. buzzing. the overbearing thrill of him skin on skin with you sending every nerve, every hormone into its own little delightful party of fireworks.

the wet sound of skin slapping built on top, the feeling of alfie’s lips trailing down your neck to your chest sending your head spinning. you opened your eyes to watch him approach your breast, watching his tongue come out to lick your nipple before taking it in his warm mouth, sucking hardly and biting delicately, your back arched for more.

your arms locked around his neck as he moved his mouth to the other, sucking it into his hot, warm mouth while his hand palmed the left, squeezing hard while his hips continued to rock into you.

“—fuuuck, alfie,” your head hit the pillows as he came back up, mouth nudging your own.

“how are you real?” he spoke against your mouth, “it’s a sick joke,” he kissed you slow, capturing your lips with his own as his hands gripped your tits, the most beautiful set of tits he’d ever laid his eyes on; the softest skin he’d ever ran his hands across.

“faster,” your breathed, mouth falling open as your noses brushed together, your nails scraping down the dip of his back. alfie quickened his pace with a swear, pulling out a little further each time before rutting back into you; pussy clinging to him tighter and tighter each time he pulled away.

“fuck, i’m not gonna last,” he admitted, your hands falling as he rose to his knees.

you gasped as his hands grip your thighs and pull you down the bed, closer to him, legs risen in a way that allows him to hit at a deeper angle. “oh—FUCK!” you yelp as he begins to ram into you, your whole body jolting with each one of his heavy thrusts.

you never want it to end.

an hour passes. maybe two. you can’t remember.

all you know is that alfie is scarily skilled at least when it comes to you both as one, because your throat hurts with the noise coming from it all night, your legs burn from the positions they’ve been flipped in and the feeling between your legs — she hurts with a greedy satisfaction, yearning for more but knowing she can only take so much.

alfie makes you come at least three times as much as you can remember — with his fingers, with his dick, and with his mouth – which he told you he was ‘winging’ ‘cause he’d never done it before upon diving in.

you found that very hard to believe when your juices quite literally shot out of you, body wriggled with intensity, you’d never been so loud in your life in that moment.

you were spent. completely and utterly spent — to your utter dismay.

the bed was soaked. your hair was tatted. and sweat glistened your forehead. alfie’s muscles burned, sweat coated his back and abs, his hair messily sprawled across his forehead. he felt on cloud 9, nerves still dancing around with giddiness at its accomplice.

your bodies were miraculous together.

there was something about this particular match-up that would make others envious for what they didn’t know they lacked.

everything clicked. hips, hands, mouths, the rhythm you kept finding without speaking. every movement landed exactly where it was meant to, like neither of you had to adjust or second-guess or search for what the other wanted. like each move seemed to slot into place like muscle memory neither of you had learned yet.

it was fucking exhilarating. you didn’t know how to describe it as you lay there. it was the kind of fit that made your head spin, that made heat rush through you faster than your brain could keep up. messy and breathless and electric and just — perfect.

you knew you’d never experience anything like to again, and as sleep began to take over you, you wondered if it was the MDMA or ket or whatever that made you feel like that, or if it was just alfie.

you questioned it.

you tried to work out where the drugs ended and alfie began — told yourself it had to be the ket: the floaty warmth, the way everything felt unreal and too intense to trust.

but then he shifted in his sleep an pulled you closer without thinking - and your heart lept.

you waited for the regret.

for the panic.

for that familiar crash of what have i done?

but it never came . . which began to weird you out more even in your sleepy state.

however, in your safe state of security and comfort, you allowed yourself to drift, knowing there was no answers needed as of right now and no rush to run from it.

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yourusername random selection cus i’m dead this morn 🫠 can’t believe it’s the last night, don’t want to go home 🧡🌅🪩 though i do miss my toastie machine xxx

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bffcase_yxx my fav influencer

yourmum can’t wait until your home ❤️

BEING IN A couple since day one was … good. You think. You weren’t too sure how to feel about it. On one side it was consistently stable, on the other side, you were wondering whether you were too quick to settle down.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried to explore connections with the other boys, because you had, it was just that none of them were particularly your cup of tea.

Alfie was lovely, he really was, you just wished sometimes that he’d try a little bit harder. You were starting to think that he was growing too comfortable in your couple and thought it was okay to start slacking.

It had only been a week and a half, so maybe you were just being a little dramatic, but it didn't change how you felt by any means.

The morning was chill. Nothing dramatic apart from a bowl of sliced fruits slid your way and refilling your water bottle numerous times whenever you asked him too.

When your phone chimed with a message, you shot up from your place on the day beds, reading the message over before gasping and squealing.

“Oh my God!”

“What?” Hannah asked, grabbing onto your wrist to pull your hand down and read the message.

“She got a message?” Morgan muttered from beside Alfie.

“‘Reader and Oscar, Marcus and Emma are waiting to take you on a date. Please go and get ready’!”

“No way!” Hannah screamed before beginning to jump up and down with you out of excitement.

“Shit.” Alfie muttered, rubbing his bottom lip.

“Why’s she so excited?” Morgan frowned, “Bit weird.”

“Nah, ‘s alright.”

All of the girls helped you get ready, Holly curling your hair while you did your makeup and Mehreen stood to the side, showing you your different outfit options.

You didn’t have long to pick, so you just threw on the most put-together-looking combination she threw your way and stumbled to put your wedged heels on as you went down the stairs.

“Ooo, look at you!” You awed at Oscar, who was wearing a white button-up top open with some black shorts. “Bye, Alfie!”

“No hug? The fuck, girl?” He scoffed playfully.

“Aw, come here.” You grinned, wrapping your arms around his neck and pecking his cheek.

“Don’t miss me too much.” He hummed, patting your ass lightly as you let go.

“Cocky, you.”

“Duh.”

Pulling away from him, you interlocked your arm with Oscar’s and made your way out of the villa and to the cars that would be taking you to your date area.

The boys and Alfie shared a bit of a knowing, worried look before the doors closed and they were blocked off from the outside world.

Marcus was a nice guy.

The date was a little across-the-table scene with a thin vase of flowers between you and a fruity mocktail to share.

You got to learn a bit about him, finding out that he was semi-pro footballer at 29 and had three siblings, consisting of two brothers and one sister. You made a comment about how big his family was, which then prompted him to respond with ‘Yeah, makes me want an even bigger one when I get the chance’.

The remark took you aback a little, not expecting him to be so forward about the possibility of creating a family on the first date.

He was different to Alfie — more bold, more straightforward — and you couldn’t decipher as to whether you liked it or not.

Marcus had good chat, you’d give him that. He didn’t talk about himself too much, and he seemed genuinely interested in getting to know you as a person. Across the patio, you could see Oscar getting along with Emma pretty swimmingly as well.

By the time you made it back to the villa, the sun had set and everyone was in their ‘glam’ outfits. It was kind of perfect, to be honest, because your outfit fit the vibe and it saved you having to change again.

“We’re back!” You exclaimed, hand still locked in Marcus’.

“Yay!” Hannah cheered, waddling over to you the best she could in her maxi dress and heels, “Hi, my love!”

“Hi!” You grinned, hugging her tightly.

“Were they holding hands?” Archie grasped Alfie’s shoulder as they walked off.

“Fuck.” He replied in a mutter, “Am I fucked?”

“Nah, nah, nah. Just be cool.”

You greeted Alfie when he joined, but he didn’t seem too excited to see you again, which put you off a little. You were expecting a grand gesture of sorts, maybe a spinning hug or an offer to go and chat, but all you received was ‘Hi, y’alright? How was it?’.

The girls pulled you to the side, sitting around the mini fire pit so that Emma could introduce herself properly and then you could both debrief the details of your date.

They all seemed really stoked for you, sensing that this was a man who might be willing to put a bit more effort in than Alfie.

“Wait, how old is he?” Mehreen double-checked.

“29.”

“Girl!” She scoffed out laughter, “Age gap much?”

“I know, I know!” You pressed your hands to your cheeks, “But he’s so fit.”

“He is gorge.” Holly nodded in agreement, “More than Alfie?”

You sighed heavily, pursing your lips before speaking, “I don’t know— No, I do. Alfie is definitely more my type, but he’s just been lacking in the effort department, and that’s not something I appreciate. Like, if you want me, please let it be known to the world.” You dramatically threw your hands up to the sky.

“I remember you saying.” Lana noted, “He’s just too comfortable, babe. Hopefully this’ll give him a kick in the bollocks.”

“Yeah.”

On the other side of the villa, the boys were having a much similar conversation, except Alfie was keeping quiet, watching Marcus speak with ego.

“I think the date went really well. She’s a lovely girl, stunning, seemed to take my flirting well and all, so, yeah. Pretty chuffed.”

James glanced at Alfie momentarily before barking out in laughter, “Alfie’s fuming.”

“What?” Alfie blinked, “Nah, nah I’m not. It’s fine. I understand, she’s a proper looker. No hard feelings.”

“I’m gonna go and pull her now, actually.” Marcus said before departing from the boys and making his way over to you.

You beamed at the sight of him, meanwhile Alfie was muttering under his breath, “Y’just spent 3 hours with her, what else could you possibly have to say?”

“And you wanna say you’re not fuming?” Archie cackled, slapping his thigh.

“I’m not fuming, I’m just … Argh, lads, don’t.” Alfie’s fingers came up to dig into the corners of his eyes as he laughed through his ‘tantrum’.

“You’re jealous.” Christian shrugged.

“Yeah, but you’ve got every right to be. You’ve been coupled up since day one. I’d be more concerned if you weren’t arsed, to be honest mate.” Morgan gave his two pence.

“Look look look look look!” Archie gasped, and all the boys heads snapped in the direction he was looking at.

Marcus had his arm around your shoulders as he guided you toward the seating area under the terrace.

“Cheeky bastard!”

“You reckon he’s trying to get a rise out of you?” Morgan asked, looking at Alfie.

“I dunno … If he is, that’s just a bit pathetic. Like, you’re in here to find love and you’re dedicating all of your time to pissing off some random guy?”

“To be fair, on the date, he didn’t ask about you at all.” Oscar explained.

“Is that worse, though?” James but in, “Like, is that more inconsiderate?”

“You lot are scrambling with my head, man.” Alfie groaned, running a hand through his hair, “Bare stressing me out. Chill.”

“We’ve just got your back, mate.” Christian patted him on the shoulder.

Your chat with Marcus was going well.

He was sitting rather close to you, fingers skimming the edge of your thigh mindlessly. He asked how you felt about the date, and whether or not you were still willing to get to know him having now been put in an environment with both him and Alfie. You told him that you were, and Alfie being there didn’t change anything for you because you weren’t closed off by any means.

Speaking of, he seemed to be making his way over to you both pretty purposefully.

“You okay?” You hummed once he was close enough.

“Yeah, do you wanna go chat?” He nodded to the side.

“Yeah, ‘course.” You agreed, nudging Marcus’ hand off your thigh and making the move to stand up, until he stopped you.

“It’s okay, you two stay here, I’ll go get a drink.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Cheers, mate.” Alfie nodded, taking his place beside you and getting extremely comfortable.

He took your legs, slinging them over his lap and threw his arm over your shoulders, keeping you tucked nice and tight into his side. You loved it. This was the type of treatment and behaviour you wanted to receive from him, not passive touch and barely meaningful conversations.

Your fingers found the hand that was dangling beside your head, interlocking with his perfectly and letting your thumb stroke over his first finger.

“Y’alright, beautiful?” He started.

“Oh, so now I’m beautiful?”

He frowned, “You’re always beautiful.”

You hummed, acknowledging his words but not giving him half as much attention as you would’ve done had you been a bit more happier with his treatment towards you.

“What?” He nudged your knee with his lightly, “Talk to me.”

“Just …” You huffed, picking your head up and turning to look at him, “You haven’t even been giving me the time of day recently, and now that someone wants me, you’re like a territorial dog.”

“Am I? I don’t think I am.”

You raised your eyebrows, a light smile on your face, “Alfie.”

“What?”

“Don’t be stupid, ‘coz you’re not. You haven’t pulled me for a chat in days, and now Marcus takes me for a date and has a little cuddle with me, you’re all over me again.”

“Is that what the issue is? We don’t talk?”

“I just …” You rested your head back on his arm, “I’d appreciate a bit more effort.”

He hummed, bringing his other hand down to rest on your shin, rubbing up and down.

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” You clicked your tongue.

“I am.” He nodded, “Tomorrow, I will bring you breakfast and a coffee, oat milk not normal,”

You laughed at the detail.

“And then I will hog you the whole day. Anyone tries to pull you for a chat and I will fight them off. Sound good?”

“Mmm … I might get a bit annoyed with you after a while.” You joked, “Or maybe you’ll get annoyed with me.”

“Reader, I could never get annoyed with you.”

“How’d you know? You haven’t spent more than fifteen minutes with me alone in the past four days.”

“Oh, c’mon.” He groaned, rolling his eyes and resting his head to the side, leaning it on yours, “I’ll make it up to you.”

“What if Marcus wants to talk to me all day tomorrow?” You quipped.

“He can fuck right off.” Alfie murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple casually.

“Alfie.” You tutted, slapping his thigh.

“I’m serious. Gonna super glue our hands together tonight.”

“Oh, no, don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“‘Coz then I can’t use them.” You teased, smirking in a way that had his brain short circuiting and trying to come up with a response to your innuendo.

“What you gettin’ at, girl?” He grinned.

“No, nothing.” You shrugged, feigning innocence.

“You proper mess with my head, you know that?”

You turned your head, keeping eye contact with him as you beamed.

“Good or bad?”

“Oh, good. But, only ‘coz it’s you. Anyone else and it would be a nightmare.” He replied, blinking excessively in a way that told you he was nervous, but he didn’t want to seem like a pussy for refusing to maintain eye contact.

“I feel the same about this protectiveness.”

“Really? Is it doing it for you?”

“Mmm maybe a little bit.”

“Yeah?” He smirked, leaning in a little.

You nodded, poking your head forward the rest of the way until your lips were interlocked with his.

His arm tightened around your shoulders, keeping your head in place as one of yours came up to cup his cheek.

It was perfect, soft but passionate in all the right ways. It wasn’t all about the tongue, but he let it be known how much he wanted you through the glides of his against yours.

Hannah gasped, “They’re snogging.”

Mehreen nearly broke her neck with the speed in which she turned around to glance.

“Aw, yay.” Holly whispered, clapping quietly with small movements so it wouldn’t be audible.

When you pulled back, he came in for another, this time offering you light pecks rather than a full, tongue-in-mouth debacle.

“Happy now?” He chimed.

“No. You can rub my feet before bed.”

“Fuck sake.” He huffed, puffing his cheeks out and leaning his head on your chest.

You giggled, wrapping your arms around him properly and kissing the top of his head.

“God, you are so clingy when you wanna be, aren’t you?”

“Sorry, you just whinged at me for not being clingy enough!” He scoffed.

“I did not whinge!” You exclaimed through laughter.

“You fuckin’ did!”

“Oi!” You shoved him back.

“No, no, I’m playing,” He grinned, his hands finding your waist, “I kinda like when you put me in my place.”

“Okay, chill.” You snorted before reaching out and running your thumbs over his shockingly sharp canines, “Also, I like these.”

“Yeah? They’re sharp, ennit?”

“Mm, you’ve got proper fangs.”

“Good for biting.” His lips upturned, pressing his lips to yours again.

You grinned into it, happily clasping your hands at the back of his head and keeping him close.

The only thing that was able to pull you off of each other was the sound of production alerting you that it was time for bed.

Reluctantly, you dragged your lips off of his and sighed.

“C’mon, big boy.” You patted his pecs.

“Do I get a cuddle in bed?”

“No.”

“No?!”

Getting him to agree had been easy. One kiss to his pouty lips and he caved. Garrett never needs much convincing when it comes to you. If you asked him to jump, he’d probably ask how high.

Which is exactly why he’d agreed to your mysterious “lip balm challenge” without so much as a question. 

So now you’re sitting on his lap on the desk chair in his room, your phone propped up on a stack of textbooks and random notebooks. Various flavoured lip balms are scattered across the desk between his laptop with the unfinished essay he’d been working on before you barged in and distracted him.

Not that he seemed to mind.

“What are we doing again?” Garrett murmurs against the shell of your ear, his voice low.

One arm is wrapped loosely around your waist, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles against your side beneath your shirt while his other hand rests possessively on your thigh, giving it an occasional squeeze. He’s buried his face in your neck, clearly much more interested in kissing you than filming anything.

You laugh softly.

“I bought some lip balms and you have to guess the flavour,” you explain, trying—and failing—not to smile at the thought of the reaction you know is coming.

“Hm, okay.”

He presses a lingering kiss beneath your ear with a content sigh, his chin resting on your shoulder while he waits patiently for you to start.

You hit record and brighten immediately, holding up the collection of colorful tubes.

“So, I’ll be testing these flavoured lip balms and my current boyfriend, Garrett, has to guess the flavour,” you say smoothly, feeling the way he freezes beneath you. “They’re pretty wacky flavors, so we’ll see how well he does.”

For a moment, he’s completely silent. But then, without a word, Garrett reaches around you and presses stop to the recording.

“I’m sorry,” he says slowly, his eyebrows drawing together. “What did you just say?”

You roll your eyes in mock annoyance. “Baby, I already explained the trend to you. Keep up.”

His expression somehow becomes even more offended when you ignore him and press record again, popping open one of the lip balms.

“Here,” you say, turning toward him after applying it.

But, to your surprise, he dodges your kiss.

“Garrett, come on,” you whine, puckering your lips.

“I’m not kissing you if you think I’m your ‘current boyfriend’.”

His pout is ridiculous.

“It’s just a saying,” you huff, desperately trying not to laugh.

“Well, I don’t like it.” He removes his hands from you and crosses his arms dramatically. “Do you have a list somewhere? Future boyfriends lined up for when you get tired of your ‘current’ one?”

You nearly lose it.

Instead, you bite the inside of your cheek and turn further in his lap, your phone continuing to record in the background, utterly forgotten.

“It was a joke, baby.”

“Don’t call me that,” he mutters.

His eyes soften immediately afterward, though, because apparently even fake indignation has limits when he’s looking at you.

“Only my forever partner gets to call me that.”

“Aww,” you coo, heart melting at his words. You wrap your arms around his neck and press a kiss to the tip of his nose.

He watches you carefully, his expression suspicious but completely helpless when you smile at him.

“It was a prank,” you whisper, your lips brushing his.

“Not a very funny one,” Garrett grumbles.

“No, like, that's the only reason we’re recording something.”

You nod toward your phone with a grin, which is when understanding dawns on his face.

“I knew you were being sneaky,” he whispers back, shaking his head fondly.

Garrett smiles, and it isn’t one of his cocky grins or the easy smile he gives reporters and teammates. It’s the smile that only ever belongs to you, the one reserved for quiet moments and whispered confessions, and it makes your heart squeeze because you know you’re one of the very few people who get to see it. 

“There’s nothing current about us,” you confess softly, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I hope you know that.”

“Oh, I know that.” He then smirks. “Already bought a ring, so you can’t get rid of me now.”

“What?!” Your shriek echoes through the room, earning a burst of laughter from him when you smack his shoulder with a little too much force.

“Yeah, but since you already told everyone I’m your ‘current boyfriend’, I guess I’ll have to take it back…”

You stare at him. “I can’t tell if you're joking.”

“Guess you’ll have to find out.”

His grin widens at your expression, leaning forward and reaching past you to stop the recording. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in your hair as he finally kisses you.

And apparently, he’s been waiting. Because the second your lips touch, he deepens the kiss, pulling you flush against him with a pleased hum.

The chair squeaks beneath the two of you as he stands, effortlessly lifting you along with him.

By the time he finally pulls away, you’re slightly breathless and staring at him with flushed cheeks.

“Hm,” he says thoughtfully.

“What?” You murmur, watching as his tongue darts out to lick his lips.

“Cherry cola?”

“Huh?”

“The lip balm.”

Your brows furrow for a second before realization dawns on you. Right, the stupid challenge. The whole reason you'd dragged Garrett away from his homework and set your phone up in the first place had almost completely slipped your mind after he'd kissed you senseless. 

“Um, yeah,” you answer after a beat. “It was.”

“It’s nice,” he says, his eyes sparkling mischievously. And before you can even process it, he tosses you onto the bed with a laugh. 

The playful look on his face—and the unmistakable glint in his eyes—tell you that he definitely hasn't forgotten your little “current boyfriend” comment just yet. 

You open Alfie’s texts first, it’s really just a play by play of his day so far.

Alfie🩷- I packed you some of them electrolyte packets, make sure you have one when you get up x

Alfie🩷- also, if you’d listened to me about those creatine gummies they’d help too, My Protein, code AB x 

Then an hour later, a voice note. 

“Oi, guess what!” He’s buzzing, there’s the rustling of something in the background, “passport came, flight’s booked, by the time you wake up I should be half way over the ocean.” 

Thank God! Although you had the best time yesterday, you know how much Alfie just wanted to be here with everyone else. He wanted so badly to be in NYC for the Knicks game. 

Alfie🩷- Fucked up the flight times, thought I was on the 1pm flight, booked the 3pm flight x 

Alfie🩷- Landing at 6.30 NY time, Knicks game at 8.30, gonna be like Gotham x 

Alfie🩷- I’m so fucking gassed x

You smile reading his texts, he’s like a child at Christmas. It’s just past 10.30am Boston time, so he should have taken off already. Not quite half way across the ocean, but plenty of time for you to book a last minute flight to New York to surprise him

Alfie🩷- took off, got wifi, FaceTime me when you’re up so I know you’re alive, love you x 

You push yourself up out of bed, quickly brushing your teeth to get rid of the taste of beer, wash the remainder of your day-old makeup off and mix up one of the electrolyte packets Alfie had packed. He’s so sweet and caring in a way that he doesn't realise because it's just natural to him. 

Even just brushing your teeth and downing the bottle of water with the lemon and lime electrolytes has made you feel better. A shower and an iced white mocha from Starbucks, and you’ll feel right as rain. 

You plop down onto the couch and ring Alfie, waiting on his perfect face popping up on your screen. 

There he is, so effortlessly handsome even if he is a little blurry thanks to the in flight WiFi. 

“Hey, handsome,” you rasp, throat still aching, voice nearly gone. 

He actually blushes and covers his eyes with his free hand as he chuckles to himself. “I can’t, I actually can’t.” 

He has his airpods in and he’s keeping his voice low so as not to disturb anyone, but his reaction to your voice is priceless. You know his text after the voice note last night wasn’t a joke, but the fact he finds your voice so sexy like this when you feel like you’ve swallowed glass. 

“I need your voice to be like this in Texas, I swear,” he mutters. Then, he shakes his head as if to clear it from those less than suitable thoughts, “how- how’re you feeling?”

“I’m alright, you know,” you shrug, “a shower, a starbucks, I’ll be fine. You buzzing?” 

“I’m so gassed!” He looks like a little kid, trying to keep his excitement quiet. “Should get there in time for the Knicks motive, catch up with the boys, and if the Knicks win it’s gonna be mad. What you doing today?”

“Probably just edit the vlog,” you reply, grabbing your laptop off the coffee table with your free hand. “Nothing too crazy. A lot of the fans are going back out to like, tidy up the park and stuff since a lot of them were only here for the first game, so I might end up out there helping and that.”

The flight to New York from Boston is like an hour and a half, so hopefully you can get there, drop your case off at the house there, and get to the pub where Cal, Chip and them will be before Alfie gets there. 

“Boston is loving you lot, to be fair.” 

“Yeah, we went round putting traffic cones on every statue we saw yesterday, pub ran out of beer too.” 

The two of you chat for a bit, but you have to slyly get him off the phone so you can book the soonest flight to New York and get to the airport asap. 

-

You send him snaps on your way to the airport as if you’re just going about Boston for the day. One of them a snap of a 7-Eleven with the caption; “Gonna go get a can of white monster since I can’t have your white monster.” 

To which you got a simple reply. “Freak.” 

You get to the airport and onto the budget flight as soon as physically possible, texting Cal to get the address for the house and telling him your plan. You hope he doesn’t look at your maps and see you somewhere in between Boston and New York.

Eventually, you get to the house in NYC at around half five, plenty of time to get yourself ready for the pub, make sure you don’t look absolutely hanging for seeing Alfie.

He’d said he’d arrive about twenty to eight, but it’s now ten to nine and there’s no sign of him. Usually, you wouldn’t worry too much, it’s Alfie, he’s perfectly capable of getting from the airport to the house, but he doesn’t have any data on his phone right now so his location hasn't been updated since the airport. 

You head out with the group to the pub only for Cal and Chip to tell you that Alfie got an Uber to a place with the same street name but in Brooklyn. He has no data so he had to ask some guy in a restaurant for help, thank God the guy was kind enough to book him an Uber so he could get to the right place safely! 

“Your boyfriend is so stupid, man,” Cal laughs, leading the group towards the pub. 

“Eh, how?” You whip your head around to glare at him. 

How is it Alfie’s fault when he used the address that Cal put in the group chat. It’s not like he’s been to New York before. 

“Because why would he go to Brooklyn?

“How is it his fault when you’re the one who pinned the address and he just copied that into Uber?” You fire back. 

You don’t want to argue with Cal, but it’s that same feeling you had when Alfie spoke about those ‘friends’ in school who were pricks to him and he’s still mates with them now. That protectiveness that kicks in when someone tries to come for him. You know Cal’s just taking the piss and the two of you argue like brother and sister, but you also know Alfie will be in a fucker of a mood. 

He hasn’t text you yet, probably won’t until he knows he’s at the gaff and he doesn’t have to worry you with his detour. 

“He is just an idiot though.” Cal baits, knowing it annoys you.

“And you’re a lanky giraffe, fuck off.” You bite. 

-

You don’t really know much about basketball but the pub is bouncing. 

Alfie had text you a bit ago to say he’d made it to the house, he’d had a walk about and went into a dispensary and got four pre-rolls. He didn’t come out straight away since Chip had told him there wasn’t a guarantee he’d get into the pub, so he’d decided not to come out until the end of the game. 

You’ve only had a couple drinks, still a bit rough from the game, but you’re shouting and cheering along with everyone in the pub when the Knicks win. Unreal scenes. 

The streets begin filling with what seems like the entire population of New York City. Everyone’s cheering, car horns beeping, people climbing scaffolding and lamp posts. Sheer madness. 

You follow behind Cal and Chip out of the pub as Alfie lets them know he’s near. You try to stay back out of the way, let him think it’s just the boys and then surprise him. 

You spot him straight away, like your eyes just know exactly where he is. Plus, he’s wham and leng so it’s easy to spot him amongst the crowd. 

Reev and Cal greet him first, hugging him and shouting to be heard over the noise. Chip runs at him, hugging him like he’s just come back from war, which with how dramatic Alfie is, it’s not actually far off. 

You wait until his back is turned before you make your move. You walk up behind him, grab a handful of his ass and put on a deeper voice. “Oi, you’re the ‘yo, family’ guy.” 

He jumps about a foot away from you, whipping around so quick and you can see his brain working to comprehend that you’re here. He just looks at you for a moment as if you’re some mad NPC spawning out of nowhere. 

“What the fuck?!” Every emotion is playing out on his face, confusion, surprise, happiness, shock, excitement. 

“What?” You reply as if you were meant to be here the entire time. 

“How- What- What?!” 

“Are you just gonna look at me or…?” You reply, struggling to speak over the noise. 

He still doesn’t look like he quite believes that you’re here. You’d reiterated that you’d meet them all in Texas in a couple days, not wanting too much of your time here to be spent in airports or dealing with the security queues. 

He finally makes a move and scoops you into his arms, squeezing you tight and lifting you off the ground. 

“You’re mad, you know that?” He says, letting your feet back on the ground, but keeping his arms wrapped around you. 

The others aren’t bothered, too busy celebrating down the street to rip into you both for being sappy. 

“Just really wanted your white monster,” you tease, arms looped around his neck. 

“Tart.” 

“Says the one who sent me a script for a voice note last night, and sent me video proof of how much you loved it.” 

“Not even joking about that, girl, it was unreal.” 

“You’re so weird.” You shake your head affectionately. 

“I don’t care,” he laughs, “as soon as we’re done here, I’m getting you back to the gaff and hearing it in person. Word for word. Phone sex worker voice right in my ear like, ‘oh, Alfie, it's too big. Oh Alfie, harder’.” He does that over exaggerated high pitched voice that he does whenever he’s taking the piss out of how vocal you can get. 

“Freak,” you snort, playfully swatting his chest. 

“Oi, are you two shagging already?” Cal shouts from down the street. 

Alfie being Alfie just doesn’t know what to say. “Bro! What- no.” 

“Not yet, exhibitionism isn’t really our thing,” you call back, laughing at the look on Alfie’s face. 

The boy is a freak, but not in the way where he’ll just casually chat about it in public. Neither of you are overly big on PDA, not wanting a video of you making out in public being shared online. You’re both much more comfortable with casual affection in public, always holding hands or Alfie having his arm over your shoulders. But when Cal tries to get a bite out of either of you like this, you don’t shy away from it. Most of those types of conversations are for yours and Alfie's ears only.

“Fuck sake,” Alfie sighs, smirk tugging at his lips because he knows you’re a lot more chill about it than him. 

“You love me,” you grin. 

“Yeah,” he sighs loudly, as if it’s the worst thing in the world, “I’m stuck with you, haven’t got the receipt to return you.” 

After your little moment, you end up in the middle of the celebrations. Every so often you’ll whisper something utterly filthy in Alfie’s ear just to see him blush and look at you like you’ve grown an extra head or something. Honestly, you just want to get back to the house, smoke one of the pre-rolls and see his reaction to your ‘sex worker voice’ in real time. 

Then there were the issues with the Visa. The interviews at the embassy in the city centre, waiting hours in the roasting heat, and now the wait for your passports to be returned to you. For whatever reason, yours had come fairly quickly, Alfie’s had not. It meant that one person had to be in at all times to sign for the delivery which in turn was just chaos for Alfie who got bored so quick and hated being stuck in. It was one thing if he chose to stay in, but he had to stay in, it drove him insane.

He stayed in to let you go out and do your prep for your trip; eyebrows, lashes, nails, tan, clothes, toiletries etc. He’d ended up sending you Snaps when you were out, looking like he was slowly descending into madness being stuck inside basically stalking the postman. He’d go to the gym when you were home, nip out to grab dinner or whatever, but it wasn’t the same as just being able to leave and do whatever he wanted. He was sick of TV series, he couldn’t just pick one thing to watch, sick of games even though he tried to get into some Batman game. The vlog he’s filming is just… fucked. Like, bro has genuinely lost his mind. Doing kickflips in the kitchen as if you don’t have downstairs neighbours and pull ups on the stairs, acting as if he’d discovered fire for the first time. You love him dearly, but he’s driving you mental. 

Your own suitcase was next to Alfie’s on the floor, almost fully packed and a hell of a lot neater than his own. Your clothes were folded neatly, shoes in the right bit, makeup and hair stuff together, clothes organised into outfits, Scotland flag packed proudly on top. Alfie’s was half packed, still no clue when he’d even get to fly out. 

Your own flight to Boston was booked. You were all working over there, vlogging, podcasts, and the likes. You had tickets to Scotland's opening game, then you’d be travelling down to Texas to meet up with everyone else, Alfie and the Fellas, the Sidemen and the Bov Boys. At least you and Beano would be in the same boat, surrounded by English fans and supporting anyone but England.

“It’s just not fair though, is it?” Alfie complains, slouched at his desk, the Batman game left paused as you double check your case. “We go to the embassy on the same day, we live in the same gaff, and you get your passport back before I do.” 

“It’s cause I’m Scottish, babe,” you tease, holding up one of your Scotland tops to ‘re-fold’ it just to wind him up, “Americans like us lot better than you.”

“You’re gonna be out there, living it up, Americans loving you just cause of your accent.” He puts on an American accent, “‘Oh, say this,’ or ‘what’s Irn-Bru like?’ and ‘my grandad’s cousin’s  mum’s hamster was Scottish’. Proper flirting with you and everything, and I’m stuck here stalking the fuckin’ postman.” 

He’s pouting like a child and you know if he sees you laughing he’ll just end up in a worse mood. He’s having serious FOMO, and honestly if the roles were reversed you would be too. At least he has a little more time before England’s first game, you leave tomorrow morning and then have Friday to settle in, vlog, whatever, and then Scotland’s first game is Saturday. 

“You think that’s how Americans are gonna flirt with me? ‘What does Irn-Bru taste like?” You chuckle, giving him a look across the room. 

“I think,” he sits up straight in his chair, looking at you deadly seriously, “they’re gonna see some fit, Scottish rocket walking about and try to pull you.” 

You know those kinds of situations where you’re not supposed to laugh but that just makes it funnier? Yeah, you’re struggling not to laugh at him. 

“Alfie,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face to try and suppress the smile, “love of my life, please, for the love of God, shut up. I’m not going to have my head turned by some random American man in Boston when I’ve got a ‘wham and leng ting’ who will be waiting for me in Texas, preferably with a cowboy hat on.”

You drop the top you’re folding and cross the room, sitting yourself down on his lap.  

“I’m going to vlog, and call you, and send you videos of things I think are cool and that I think you’ll like. I’ll probably cry during the national anthem at the Scotland game and get back to my AirBnB and FaceTime you.” 

He wraps his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder. He’s still pouting, even if his passport comes he’ll still be missing you for nearly a week which considering you live together is ages for both of you. 

You hadn’t told him, but if he gets to New York over the weekend, you’ll take the short flight from Boston to NYC to spend the few days he’ll be there before going to Texas together. A lot of travelling, but fuck it, why not? 

“Just not fair though, is it?”

“You know what’s not fair?” You turn in his arms, shifting to be side on and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, “you can’t drop me off at the airport tomorrow. I have to get a boring uber and I can’t admire you when you look fit driving.” 

“You are bare weird sometimes, how is me driving fit?” He looks at you like he can’t comprehend how something so mundane can be attractive.

“Arms, hands, the steering wheel thing.” You mimic turning the wheel with the palm of your hand. Such a silly, non sexual thing that just gets you with Alfie. Although, just Alfie in general gets you. 

He just shakes his head at you, a fond smile on his face for the first time today. “Come on, you fuckin’ rocket.” He pats your ass so you stand up, “I’ll help you finish packing. You can take my charity match shirt so they know your AB’s girl. Spray everything in your suitcase with my aftershave like a dog marking its territory.” 

-

Alfie did spray everything in your suitcase with his aftershave, down to the toiletries bag, so not only are you walking around sunny Boston smelling like a bloke (a very nice smelling bloke), your toothbrush got it as well. 

Yesterday was a pretty boring day, you’d vlogged the journey to Boston, sent Alfie updates and Snap videos. You’d gone out to a pub full of Scotland fans, met a group of people who were from near your hometown, one of them went to school with your mum, which is wild, coming all the way to Boston and meeting people who lived five minutes down the road from you. You’d gone out on a boat ride full of Scots, nothing but singing and beer. The only thing missing was the Buckfast and DJ Bad Boy - Friday Nite playing through the speakers. 

Today’s the day though. 

Scotland v Haiti. Gillette stadium. A cheeky snap of Kieran Tierney warming up with the caption “If you ever leave me, I’ve found the replacement”. 

He nibbles every time. Every single time. It’s too easy and you haven’t given him his daily dose of rage bait. It’s bullshit, you’d never replace Alfie, not even with some fancy footballer. He knows that, but still, he bites every time. 

“I’m more wham than him, he’s not throwing you about like I can.” 

True, but it’s more funny to rage bait him. 

“He works out legs though. Look at those thighs.” You send with a video, dramatically zooming in on the football player stretching on the pitch. 

“Wasn’t saying that when you were riding mine like a bucking bronco.” 

“Could be doing with that now, to be fair.” 

“Tart.” 

“As if you haven’t gooned already since I left.” 

“Weren’t even an hour, whipped out the videos from the last time we were at the grotto.” 

“Tart.” 

You go back and forth on Snap for a bit taking the piss out of each other, but as it nears kick off, Alfie tells you to have fun, be safe, and let him know when you’re back at the AirBnB safe. He might be on the other side of the ocean, but he still has your location and the location of your AirBnb so he knows where you’re supposed to be. You know he just worries about your safety. He’s not a fighter but his size is enough to make someone think before bothering you. 

-

The stadium literally erupts when the teams walk out for kick off, and when Flower of Scotland starts, it’s like every single Scot around the world can be heard singing it with every fibre of their being. 

You’re no exception, vlogging camera out to record the scenes, the audio will probably be terrible with how loud it is. Arm in arm with strangers around you, nothing short of belting out the words. It just makes you want to tan a bottle of Irn Bru, watch Braveheart and hate on the royal family. Patriotic shit, you know?

And if people thought the national anthem was loud, it was nothing compared to the 28th minute when John McGinn scored. You’re sure you won’t have a voice tomorrow, or the next day. 

There’s strangers hugging strangers, shouting, and singing. Any anxiety you had about coming alone is gone. You’re with your people and Boston loves you. You’ll be gutted to leave to go to Texas, but everyone else will be there and you’ll definitely have to get Alfie on board with a little Boston motive at some point. 

Full time whistle, more shouting, more singing, more pints and hugs from strangers. When you leave the stadium and head back towards the city, you’re in a train carriage full of happy, drunk Scots,kilts everywhere, and back in the city? You go from pub to pub, drink after drink, on the way back to the AirBnb. 

By the time you’re back at the cute little apartment, you’re well and truly hammered in the absolute best way. 

It’s 8am back home so you FaceTime Alfie. 

He picks up almost instantly and fuck he looks so good. Laying in bed shirtless, soft glow from the bedside lamp highlighting every bit of muscle in his shoulders and chest, messy hair from the amount of times he’s run his hands through it during the day. 

You, however, look like the best drunken, happy mess he’s ever seen. Hair messed from jumping around and the breeze whipping it around, mascara smudged from when you got emotional during the national anthem and the goal… and at the final whistle, eyes glassy, with a dopey smile on your face. 

“Jesus Christ,” he chuckles, “you look battered.”

“I am,” you rasp, laying in a heap on the bed, “had the best time though. Boston’s class.” 

“Oh my days.” He looks genuinely giddy, “nah, nah, you need to send me a sexy voice note, girl. You sound like one of them phone sex girls.” 

“Fuck off,” you laugh, rolling over to lay on your side, trainers still on and all. “Don’t take the piss, I’m on cloud nine.” 

“I am not taking the piss,” he says seriously, sitting up straighter, “that’s bare sexy. I swear, send me a voice note with the filthiest shit you’ve ever said in your life. I’m getting bricked up thinking about it, fuck sake.” 

He’s ridiculous. Horny and ridiculous. But he’s yours, and it’s way past the 30 day return policy. 

“What d’you want me to say? ‘Oh, Alfie, let me give you the sloppiest of slops and ride you til the sun rises in the west and sets in the east’?” 

“Nah, I want you to say all the horny shit you say when you’re ovulating and proper horny.” He’s not even teasing, not like he usually would when you’re overly needy and say the filthiest things. “I’m texting you what I want to hear. Nah, not a want, a need, girl. It’s a need.” 

“You’re so fucking horny,” you laugh as he types away. 

“For you, always.” 

You spend ages on FaceTime together, he reminds you to check the door and windows are locked, reminds you to at least use a makeup wipe to get the majority of your makeup off and change into something more comfy to sleep in, in Alfie’s words “just strip off for me, girl”.

When you eventually hang up and say goodnight, you send him the voice note. There’s nothing like your man making you feel so sexy. 

You get a text back, “About to have the best goon of my life. I love you x”

you sit on the edge of the crinkling paper of the examination table in exam room 4, a dull, throbbing ache radiating down the left side of your neck. every time you try to tilt your head, a sharp reminder of the sudden impact flashes through your muscles. a minor fender-bender on the way home from your daughter's hockey practice left you with a stiff, aching neck, but thankfully, nothing more. next to you, your twelve-year-old daughter is swinging her legs off a plastic chair, her hockey gear bag resting by her feet. she’s still wearing her team jersey and, next to her, your five-year-old son is entirely unbothered by the clinical surroundings, happily coloring on a piece of scrap paper. the minor accident had sent your heart into your throat, but as you look at your children, the overwhelming wave of maternal relief keeps you grounded.

"it seems to be nothing more than a little muscle strain," dr shen says softly, his gloved hands expertly palpating the base of your skull, his expression a soothing balm to the lingering adrenaline in your veins. shen steps back, charting something on his tablet with a soft, reassuring smile. "the kids are completely clear, not a single mark or tender spot on either of them. i’m going to order a mild anti-inflammatory for you and then you are free to go home and rest."

"thank goodness," you sigh, reaching down to ruffle your son's hair. "i just wanted to be absolutely sure they were okay."

outside the glass doors of the exam room, jack is walking fast, clipboard in hand, listening to an intern rattle off a patient's vitals. 

“send for dr. fitz, he’ll know what to do. and call me when you get the results. what’s the state of the girl in bay one?”

jack turns then towards the intern as she starts listing the latest lab results on the young patient that just arrived a few minutes ago. he is in full doctor mode. focused, distant, and professional. 

that is, until he passes the curtain of your bay, a sudden movement catching his eye. it’s a high, dark auburn ponytail swinging back and forth. a very specific, familiar ponytail.

the same one he usually fights with on his days off as he helps his daughter get ready for practice, earnestly trying to avoid any bumps or stay hairs hanging from the ponytail. jack stops dead in his tracks, causing the intern to almost crash into his back.

jack looks through the pale curtain, eyes widening. the clipboard in his hand feels suddenly too heavy. and it only gets worse once he notices a second head poking though the curtain, this time his baby boy. his entire world is sitting right now in exam room 4. 

he abandons the intern mid-sentence, pulling the curtain aside, his usual collected demeanor completely evaporating.

"jack?" shen looks up, surprised by his sudden entrance.

but jack isn't looking at him. he rushes straight to the side of the table, his eyes scanning you from head to toe, wide with a rare, raw panic. "what happened? are you okay? are the kids okay?"

"hey, breathe," you say instantly, reaching out to catch his hand. your fingers lace into his, and the grounding touch immediately lowers his shoulders, though his chest is still heaving. "we're okay. i promise. just a stupid little bumper-to-bumper on the way home from the rink. someone short-braked ahead of us."

your daughter rolls her eyes playfully. "mom took the hit like a champ, dad. you should be proud."

"daddy!" your five-year-old chirps, abandoning his coloring page to scramble off the chair and throw his arms around jack’s leg.

jack immediately drops to one knee, wrapping his strong arms around your son, burying his face in the boy's hair for a brief, fiercely protective second. he looks up at your daughter, reaching out to squeeze her knee. "you're sure you're both okay? nothing hurts?"

"we're totally fine, dad," she reassures him, giving him a warm smile.

only then does jack stand back up, turning his attention fully to you, eyes glowing with adoration and relief. his hand cups your cheek, his thumb gently brushing across your cheekbone.  "and you? your neck?"

"just a little stiff," you murmur, leaning into his touch, completely accustomed to how deeply he cares for his family, even if he keeps it hidden from the rest of the world. "dr. shen was just checking me out. he says we’re good to go."

speaking of which… the room is entirely silent as four sets of eyes turn to the doctor.

you look past jack’s shoulder and notice that dr shen is standing there, his jaw slightly slack. on the other side of the curtain, the intern who had been following jack is staring open-mouthed, and a bunch of other nurses, including lena, have paused in the hallway, completely transfixed by the scene.

the great private dr. abbot is currently looking at you with a softness none of them knew he possessed, his hand resting tenderly on your waist while a local little league hockey player calls him dad.

jack blinks, finally realizing the audience he has gathered. he straightens up, but he doesn't let go of your hand, the other one resting on top of your son’s head. he clears his throat, the faint trace of a rare, boyish smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he looks at his stunned colleague.

"john," jack says, his voice regaining its usual steady cadence, though it's much warmer now. "i believe you've met my wife. and these are our kids."

shen blinks, a massive grin suddenly breaking across her face. "your kids? jack, you have a whole family!”

“i do,” he says, smiling softly.

“and you didn’t think of sharing that information with the group.”

"i like my privacy," jack defends himself. he looks down at his kids, then back to you, the sheer relief of knowing you are all safe overtaking any awkwardness about his secret being out. he leans down, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to your lips right in front of the entire observation window. " i'm glad you're all safe."

"we are," you whisper, smiling against his lips. "now, can you sign our discharge papers, dr. abbot? we want to go home."

"consider it done," jack says softly. he turns to the staring interns outside with a mock-stern raise of his eyebrows, and they instantly scramble back to work, whispering excitedly among themselves.

Your stomach drops, and you’re like Jack in letting the fear overtake you enough that you almost forget you’re at the cash register. 

“Cute baby.”

The cashier smiles at you. Your hands tighten on the stroller. “Thank you.”

“She’s got perfect cheeks.”

“Yes, she does.” It’s true, and as her mother, you have every right to talk about her perfect, fat cheeks until the sun explodes.

“I'm very proud of them.”

But you’re too busy trying to convince yourself that you’re a little crazy. It’s a small store. People are allowed to buy only one thing, and awkward moments where your glance catches someone else’s happen all the time. 

By the time you look back to where the stranger was checking out, he’s gone. By the time you get to the parking lot, you’ve convinced yourself that you are ridiculous. Your nervous system has just been heightened by the beauty of motherhood.

There’s a beauty in that, even if it’s the reason you’ve been googling ‘is my baby choking or discovering she has saliva?’ recently. You have to find the silver linings. 

You load the bags and buckle Chubby in. You get behind the wheel. 

Your stomach turns when you see the man in denim near the cart return area, and you don’t think it’s your fear clocking that he’s watching you. 

But you don’t…you don’t panic. You see no need to peel out or to call Jack, because that would mean him asking a million questions that could turn a relatively good day cold.

If you were to even just slightly mention being uncomfortable because a weird man has decided to stare at you, he’d probably abandon his shift, and that would mean probably abandoning a patient. Poor, hypothetical patient. 

Calling or texting him your worries wouldn’t do anything but give a gruff n’ tough fear to a beautiful, thick, freckled body.

Yeah, let’s make it about it being for Jack’s sake instead of yours. That’s much easier. 

The park’s for kids, but it really does calm you down. Compare that to Chubby, who might excite herself in the swings so much that it’s not going to be hard to put her down for her nap later.

You press your mouth into the warm, sweet smell of your daughter’s hair. Inhaling all her sweetness is enough to cancel the sourness crawling along your nerves, and you’re just so, so enamoured by the squeaky-bellied laughs she gives every time you push her.

You hope it’ll always be this easy to entertain her.

“Are you having fun, my little tax deduction?”

Chubby kicks both feet, and your smile drops when you see that one is only socked. 

“Where did your shoe go?”

Just as she grins suspiciously proud with her gums, you look past the swing set to see a car you’re not supposed to recognize.

You don’t know why you do. It’s not like recognition in the way of seeing something you’ve seen 1,000 times before.

It’s an older, dark car. You don’t know how long it’s been parked. It gives you nothing as you watch it for ten to fifteen seconds. The windshield’s reflecting a blur, you’re not even sure if there’s anyone inside. 

..But you’re sure you’re recognizing it in the way of recognizing something you’ve just seen. 

You’re scaring yourself, but pretending it’s nothing won’t stop you from being scared. Time to go home. 

The thought comes with Jack’s voice, except Jackie would never tell you you’re scaring yourself. You take Chubby out of the swing, cooing when she fusses and not giving a damn about finding her shoes. Her dad would buy her every pair if she wanted. 

“Sorry, sweetheart. We gotta go.”

You drive home while checking the rearview mirror more times than you can count, but even as every dark car becomes that one, you’re selfish in the safety you feel as you walk through the door, past the plants you keep forgetting to water.

At least Jack keeps watering them without comment. He’s against plant murder. You can only try to be.

The camera Jack installed when Chubby was born watches you go inside. You remember rolling your eyes when he kept lecturing you on home invasions and the statistically unlikely but not impossible chance of some “freaky fuck” trying to get near you while he’s not home. 

You’re certainly not rolling them now, are you?

You lock the door. Then the deadbolt. Then the chain. You set your chubby baby down in her playpen, and you can’t even give a shit about the way your hands tremble once you’re not holding her.

Your phone buzzes. It’s Jack. 

You home?

You text back.

yes ❤️all good. Chubs kept kicking off her shoes in public and i think she's taken to trying to do the same with her socks

The dots appear immediately.

Send proof of life.

You laugh despite the day. You're home. You're safe. The both of you are safe.

You enter the playpen to take a picture of Chubby on her back, both fists around her bare foot. She looks innocent, like she's never committed the crime of wasting shoes in her life.

You send it. Jack answers immediately. Duh.

Sockless and disgraceful. That's my girl. You okay?

...You know what? For the sake of you both, you can take to half-truths.

yeah, just tired.

Eat something.

You smile faintly and look down to find your daughter has managed to take off her other sock.

You hunch over to kiss her baby belly.

"I think your dada's teaching me how to be a worry wart, are you gonna grow up to be a worry wart---"

A knock on the door interrupts your tease.

You nearly drop your phone as Chubby startles. After she decides to not care, she blinks up at you with mild interest. You do not move.

The knock comes again.

"Ma'am?"

It's the voice of a man through the door.

Your blood goes as frozen as you are.

...He sounds polite.

"...Yes?"

You try putting on your nurse voice, but it's cracked.

"Sorry to bother you, but I think you dropped something. At the park. Your baby dropped something. I didn't want you to lose it."

You slap your hand to your mouth.

Oh. What the fuck? What the actual hell?

You think you might black out, everything within your line of sight stretches and blurs with the beat of your heart harsh against your bones.

"...What is it?"

"A shoe."

At that, your heart just might lurch out of you and turn you into a screaming mess.

"I---thank you," You can hear yourself becoming smaller, even though you want to ask him if he followed you all the fucking way home to give you your daughter's shoe. "You can leave it where you now."

Being harmless might make this situation easier. Maybe not. Maybe you should scream at him to leave. Maybe you should call the police.

But you don't know how many windows are locked, and making him angry might make him want to figure it out.

“I don’t want it to blow away. It's pretty windy. I can hand it to you.”

“It won’t. Please, leave.”

Leave, weirdass! Leave---

You almost drop your phone when it buzzes again. Again.

What’s going on?

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard as the man knocks again.

“You there?”

You type fast.

Nothing

...Jack's reply comes so impossibly quickly that it feels more like his fingers pinching the back of your neck than an actual text.

Nothing is the man at the door?

You freeze. Again.

Move away from the door. Now.

...You had forgotten that he'd be able to see everything through the app on his phone, the one linked to all the cameras around the house. He can see the man.

He can see your lie.

And you practically jump when you hear his voice come through the speaker outside. It's low, rough in the gravel of his beautiful throat. Too calm.

“Step away from the door and leave.”

You can hear a scuffle outside, maybe the man shuffling back as he gives a nervous laugh.

"I'm just returning something. She dropped---"

"No."

Jack's decided not to yell or get loud, which is worse. You hate the voice he uses when he doesn't want to ask people for compliance more than once. It's usually with residents. Or drunk patients.

It's funnier with them.

You can hear scraping against the porch.

“Look, man, I was just trying to help.”

“You followed my wife to my house? How else would you have my daughter's shoe?”

“I didn’t follow her.”

The man sounds genuine, at least. Like, he actually believes that. You imagine Jack at the hospital, his shoulders high and tight, and face emptied out to let rage in. He's watching the camera feed, the man with Chubby's little shoe in his hand.

...But Jack, seeing that, calling him out on that, tells you he does have her shoe. Isn't that a perfect excuse to stalk you for miles?

“...You’re on camera, fucker. Leave."

Jack's voice puts the chill in you. Chubby starts fussing.

You back away from the door and hurry to the playpen, scooping her up. She's offended by the suddenness and tells you that with another fuss, but she just presses her warm cheek against your collarbone.

Not afraid like you, thank God.

Your phone rings. Jack's name flashes on the screen. You answer instantly.

"Jack—"

"Bedroom. Lock the door."

"Jack, I’m sorry—"

His voice is now in your ear. You can hear his clipped breath.

"Bedroom. Lock it. Take the baby."

"I have her."

You hear him swallow.

"Good. Good girl. Go."

You move down the hall with Chubby clutched to your chest. She grabs a fistful of your shirt and chews on the neckline.

You get into the bedroom and scramble to lock the door.

"I'm in the bedroom, it's locked. Is he gone?"

You can hear movement on Jack's end now, the sound of the Pitt before a demand leaves him, away from the phone and controlled.

"Robby. Take my rooms." A pause, a muffle. "No, I’m not asking. I'm supposed to be leaving here, anyway."

A muffled, distant voice sounds out. Robby, probably. The sound of footsteps, Jack's, are what become the forefront of noise.

"There’s a man at my house. I have to go."

"Jack, I’m locked in. He’s probably gone. You can't just leave. I'll call the police if you want---"

Jack's voice drops when he decides he's having none of your excuses.

"You lied to me."

You feel your spit caught in your throat. Chubby nuzzles.

"You were scared, and you lied to me."

"I didn’t want you to---"

"What?" ...He's snapping. "To know? React like anyone would? Come home? Keep you alive? Pick one."

Your throat might close up on you. It makes for the rushing silence that sits between you and him, just until you hear him inhale.

"Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m not---kid, I’m not mad at you. I'm just out of my fucking mind."

His apology comes out angry, really. Ironic. Like he can still find ways to be mad at himself in this situation.

"I saw him at the store, then I thought--I thought I saw his car at the park. But I didn't know. I didn't want to be dramatic---"

"You saw him at the store. And at the park. And you came home?"

...Jack might as well be swallowing the knives in the kitchen with how he sounds. You stutter things that are barely words, bouncing Chubby.

"I didn’t know what else to do, Jack."

I did. But I didn't want to deal with this on top of everything else.

"You call me!"

"I didn’t want you to scare me more!"

That's your and Jack's talent. Escalating. You regret your words when the lines go quiet.

When Jack's voice returns, it sounds stripped. It's quiet, and you'd rather he'd yell like he just did.

"Yeah. Okay. That makes sense."

"...Did I hurt you?"

There's a breath with a hmph. That's an answer enough. You hold in your breath, only letting it go against Chubby's hair.

"You did. And that doesn’t matter right now. Stay where you are. I'm going to hang up to call the police. I'll be there soon, Sleepy."

Jack hangs up. You start crying then, and your baby lifts her head and stares at you with confusion, even more offended than before.

You don't know how long you cry, but you're finished when Jack's truck tears into the driveway. He gets home before the police do. The distance between here and the Pitt...him getting home so quickly shouldn't be possible.

But shouldn't be one to not believe in him.

The front door opens, and you think it's okay to disobey his demand and leave the bedroom.

You find him pale with a jaw locked down so hard that you want to tease him and tell him that he's going to eat his lip. He looks at you, then at Chubby, then at every window in the room.

Chubby lights up.

"Da bah bahhhhh!"

He crosses the room, and you want this to be something you can tease later so badly, even though you're sputtering and reaching for him, because he looks like he could be called Dr. Violence right about now. Violence got himself a medical degree and scrubs and beautiful, silver hair.

Dr. Violence. Papa Bear. Jackie.

"Jack."

His arms come around you and your baby. One hand cradles the back of your head as you instantly fall into his stern, stoic body. He holds you too tightly. Never too tightly. Never tight enough.

"I’m sorry I lied."

He slips his fingers to your neck, squeezing there with the rough tumble of his voice against your skin.

"Don’t apologize yet. I’m deciding how mad I’m allowed to be without becoming fucked about this.”

Call the progress, baby. He's trying.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

"You’re shaking."

"I watched a man stand on my porch with our daughter’s shoe in his hand. It's there. I can't touch it. I need to...I need to check the locks. The police should be here soon."

"Jack...let's just...let's just talk about this---"

"I need to check the locks. And the windows. And I'm getting more cameras tomorrow. And motion lights. I don't know why I didn't get motion lights before. That fucking...that fucking bastard. You don’t know what it was like seeing him there and knowing you told me nothing. Knowing there was a whole day of you being afraid that I wasn’t inside. I wasn’t there. I didn’t know. I didn’t---"

"Jack, let's get you sitting down---"

"You’re not going anywhere alone for a while."

...You should've guessed that's what would be the answer to this at some point. You swallow, voice softening carefully.

"We can talk about that."

Jack blinks. He rubs your neck. He only looks slightly helpless when he glances at Chubby.

He kisses her perfect, tubby cheek.

“She sleeps between us half the time. The body heat of two parents and enough blankets to suffocate a horse works well to keep her warm. But sweetheart, listen to your mother—”

When he sets his prosthetic against the nightstand, Chubby stops trying to crawl away. She sits between the pillows and looks at Jack’s residual limb. The sudden stillness gets your attention first. 

When Jack notices, his hand moves to rest over the end of his thigh, as if there’s something indecent about her seeing too much of the part of him that she has literally helped you clean before. 

She tilts her head. 

“Dada, where leg go?”

Jack glances at his prosthetic, propped up. “Right there.”

“No. That’s Leggy. Other leg. Where it go?”

You lower her pajama shirt into your lap as you know Jack too well to understand that the muscles in his jaw settle in a way that tells you he doesn’t want to answer the question. That he’s arranging his body around her question, and you can’t stop him. 

Even if you could, you wouldn’t, because if you know your daughter well enough, too, she’ll know how to charm the hurt into something beautiful. 

“I don’t have it anymore. I lost it. You know that.”

He’s been better than good about his leg long before you. He’s let Chubby knock on the socket like it was a door.

...He pretended to answer. But this ain’t a joke. His daughter is looking at him and realizing that his body is different. 

He goes still, but he doesn’t stop her when she reaches out and presses a hand to his thigh. 

“Does it hurt?”

“No, not right now.”

She plops down next to him, criss-cross-applesauce style. Jack looks at you, but not to plead, which is obvious. He’d probably chew off his other leg rather than ask to be rescued from a conversation with his little girl. But…you see the clear uncertainty, because you’re so good at making big things fit inside small, soft words. 

You just nod. 

Go on. Tell her there was a world where you existed without either of us and almost stopped existing altogether. Maybe leave the parts that still visit you in your dreams for when she’s older. All she knows is that you kiss me too much and sometimes uses a scary voice when I accidentally leave the door unlocked. 

“My leg got hurt pretty badly.”

“Mommy fix with Leggy?”

Oh. That’s a heartkiller. Jack looks at you again, swallowing. 

“No, baby. I didn’t know Mommy yet.”

Chubby turns to stare at you. She’s disturbed by this. You understand totally. A world in which you and Jack did not know each other feels unreal to you, too.

“Mommy not there? Who fix you?”

“Doctors helped me. They tried to fix the hurt leg, but it was hurt too badly. So they had to take it away to help the rest of me get better.”

Chubby stares down at the rounded end of his thigh, her small fingers curling into his shirt.

“You were sick like me? Like Mommy when she cough?”

“Sicker than that. I was in the hospital for a while.”

“You cry?”

…Oop. That is also a heartkiller, the way she says it. The way Jack sighs.

“Probably.” 

“You were scared?”

Jack lowers his eyes at Chubby’s question. He feels as much as he feels he should lie. He could easily…well, not easily, but he could tell her that Dada knew everything would be okay and that he was brave. 

But she deserves more than that. She may be too small for the truth of fear, but she doesn’t deserve some false version of her dad. That’ll make the truth harder to take down the line. He doesn’t know if he could handle that. 

“Yeah, I was scared.”

Chubby’s face goes blank before it twists at the fact she’s just learned that her father can hurt. Of course, you should expect a tantrum or a wail for her dada, the immovable object of her life. The broad chest runs into, and the deep voice that makes the monsters beneath her bed dumb for even trying. 

Her eyes begin to tear up. Her lips begin to pout. You instinctively shift closer, but Jack rubs her back first. 

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.”

Anyway, Jack should think it beautiful and flattering that his being scared is harder for her to understand than his having one leg…considering it’s the most his heart can do before it dies on itself at her cries. 

…The way yours is right now. 

“Dada scared!”

“I was, but that was a long time ago.”

Her lip trembles as she sniffles.

“Your leg gone, you almost gone?”

…You’re not sure if Chubby even knows what she’s asking. Gone to her usually means work, or when you have to use the bathroom, and she can’t handle it. Or when she throws bun-bun under the couch. 

But, apparently, she’s put enough of the pieces together, and when you look at Jack, you think he’s the man that must’ve been in that hospital bed. 

You lay your hand over his before your tearducts can follow your daughter’s.

“I’m here now, baby—”

“No! Don’t go Dada! No Dada go!”

Chubby scrambles into him and locks her arms around his neck. Jack hugs her, which is too easy considering how tiny she is. 

“I’m right here, baby.”

“No go.”

“I’m not going anywhere right now.”

You hear the care he takes with the last two words, because Jack never promises forever, not with the future that he watches like a hawk. And as annoying as it is, you understand his point. 

But when your baby girl lifts her head and looks into his eyes, you understand the way he breaks in on himself. 

“Stay, Dada.”

And jeez, how can he not at that? You, though? Breaking inward—silently, that’s not your style. 

“...Dada’s not going anywhere. Can’t. I’ve got two girls to take care of.”

A labored breath escaped him, along with another rivulet seeping through his shirt. His free hand itched for the cell phone lying beside him on the cement. Backup was on the way, taking a bit long though.

Time was always the question and the challenge. The decisions in between were what he was usually good at, even in moments like these.

He picked up the phone. He ignored the shake in his hand as his thumb pressed a series of digits he’d long ago memorized, just in case he ever had to call you from a phone that wasn’t his, on a line that couldn’t be traced. This was one of those times.

The line rang so long, he was losing hope that you’d answer.

Until your voice finally greeted him, with a raspy clearing of your throat and sleep-laden confusion.

“Hello?”

His lips raised toward a smile. “Hey, sweetheart. Sorry I woke you.”

“Russ? Hey…what’s this number you’re calling me from? You okay?” you asked. He heard the shifting of fabric.

He could imagine you sitting up in bed, leaning on your elbow as the sheets slid down your body a little. He closed his eyes. He could pretend he was there with you, sliding in from behind and burying his face in the familiar hollow of your neck and shoulder. Your hair would tickle his forehead, but he’d get the flowery mix of your soap and body lotion stuck in his nose, rather than the copper tang of blood.

“Yeah, everything’s cool,” Russell said. He bit the inside of his lip as the gray ceiling momentarily turned charcoal in his vision. There was numbness in his fingertips. “Just had a minute, wanted to check up on you.”

“I’m good,” you said. “Miss you though.”

He was trying to keep his breathing shallow, but he needed a deeper one then.

“Miss you too, baby.”

“When will you be home?”

“Soon as I can,” he said, stifling another pained grunt as he shifted against the wall. “Keep the lights on for me.”

“Yeah? Last time you said that, you were held up for three weeks," you said wryly. "Think I need to collab with Dory and invent a virtual lie detector."

“You know what, maybe you should just tell me what you’re wearing. Give me some ideas on how to make it up to you when I get home,” he teased, though it ended on a shallow cough.

His gaze wandered the warehouse. It looked like it hadn’t been in use for a while, but he could smell the remnants of sawdust and mildew in the air. The only light came from the slivers filtering in through the closed exit doors, and a small window for ventilation near the ceiling.

He didn’t think he’d go out in a fucking backwoods middle of nowhere place like this, but it was as decent as any he could expect in this line of work. Good enough, if he got to talk to you first.

But you didn’t laugh like he expected.

“Baby,” you said. Concern crept back in. “For real, are you okay? You don’t sound right.”

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just a little tired. Waiting on someone to get here, so we can get this show on the damn road.”

Just then, he heard the sound of wide tires pulling to a stop outside the warehouse. Russell didn’t relax just yet. That could've either been his backup, or his target's delayed reinforcements. He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder on his right side, wincing at the pain the movement caused as he reached for his gun.

“Actually, they just got here. Gotta let you go,” he said.

“Russ, wait.”

“I love the sound of your voice, you know that?” he said, flickering at a smile. “And I love you.”

“…I love you too,” you said, on a slightly unsteady breath.

He knew he hadn’t convinced you that everything was fine. You were too smart, knew him too well by now.

Regardless, he had to hang up. Then he raised his gun at an angle that still kept his elbow steady, resting against his side.

The door scraped against the ground as it opened. The man’s tall gait came in swiftly, then picked up speed. Russell’s vision might've been blurring on the edges, but he recognized that blonde head. He was able to relax, lowering his gun.

“Russ,” Colter said, grabbing his brother’s shoulder that didn’t have a hole shot through it, just inches below. “Hey, you with me?”

“Mhmm,” Russell said, as his eyes closed on him for a second. He forced himself to stay awake through sheer willpower. “Not goin’ anywhere, little brother.”

“That’s right,” Colter said more firmly. The worry was clear in his brown eyes, but he smiled anyway, digging into the small duffel he brought with him. He went for the antiseptic and the bandages first, then the pliers. “You’re lucky I wasn’t too far.”

He moved back Russell’s jacket, then tore at the collar of his grimy, blood-stained shirt.

“Who me? I’m fine,” Russell said. “I’ve had way worse than this.”

“You don’t look fine,” Colter said, trying to gently pry Russell’s hand away from the wound. “Here, let me see.”

“I’m good.”

“No, you’re not. Move your hand so I can see?”

Russell smirked. “So bossy.”

Despite himself, Colter shook his head in amusement.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. You should see the other guy.”

“Right. That’s why you called me, because you have this all handled.”

Russell’s body seized up with a flinch at Colter’s pliers seeking the fat piece of bullet still lodged inside his chest.

“Hey, have a heart, huh?" Russell complained. "Some anesthetic, please.”

It was another 18 hours before Russell’s Chevelle Malibu crossed the threshold of Wyoming’s state line, and another two before he stopped in the driveway outside the modest house he now called home.

He was slow moving as he hefted his duffel bag. Every step was a calculated trudge up the wide, white stones of the pathway. The neighborhood was quiet after dark, but the porch light was on. It was his target, and his beacon.

He unlocked the front door with his keys and found mostly darkness, except for the warm glow of the hallway light. He didn’t have time to make it there though—not when you were already hurrying out from the master bedroom to meet him.

He smiled at the sight of you in a tank-top and your most well-worn sweatpants, but you looked more relieved than happy. The kind of relief that wasn’t calm, even when your hands were on him, gripping his leather jacket like you were making sure he was actually there. He let his duffel fall those few inches to the hardwood floor.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, though he stiffened and grunted in pain when your hands landed on his shoulders. Specifically, his left.

You pulled back on reflex, gasping softly. You stared up at him in worry. He looked so pale...

“It’s okay,” he said, holding you by your waist. “It’s just—”

You didn’t wait for his inevitable lie. You were verging on angry as you carefully pulled down the zipper of his jacket.

“Uh, wait a minute,” Russell said, but you couldn’t be placated. You wouldn’t let him stop you from finding whatever he didn’t want you to see.

Soon, you almost wish you had.

“Oh my God,” you breathed, though it was choked by tears as you took in the blood covering the entire left side of his gray plaid.

He had a red-tinged bandage covering the area just above his heart. It was held in place by medical tape and stretchy gauze that wrapped around his shoulder and under his arm. His chest and stomach were stained with crimson blotches leading from the wound. He smelled like rust and antiseptic, grime and sweat.

He watched every shade of your reaction, from shock to dismay. In hindsight, he should've at least tossed the shirt.

“Russell, what the fuck?” you said shakily.

His hand raised to cradle your cheek, earning your attention back up to his face rather than his body. His thumb caressed your skin, brushed away some tears.

“It looks worse than it is,” he said.

You shook your head. “You need to go to a hospital."

“I already got patched up. It’s okay, just need to sleep it off,” he replied. Colter had stabilized him enough to take him to the closest ER for the stitches. Colt even stuck with him until the doctor was done, probably to make sure Russell actually sat through the whole process.

“It’s not okay,” you snapped. “It’s not fucking okay.”

You stepped away from him and retreated back into the bedroom, holding a trembling hand to your mouth as you went.

He didn’t exactly know if he was welcome, but he really needed a shower and a solid night’s sleep, and he never slept better than when he was beside you.

But you avoided looking at him as you got ready for bed, haphazardly ripping off throw pillows and pulling back the comforter. Russell noticed your laptop on the nightstand, no less than three half-drunk mugs of coffee pushed back by the lamp, as well as a small hoard of candy wrappers and a bowl of popcorn on the floor. It was near four in the morning, and you hadn’t even tried to go to sleep. Or more likely, you couldn’t.

Russell carried the weight of that guilt into the adjoining bathroom, where he started by slowly trying to take off his jacket. He got halfway through peeling the sleeve off his left shoulder before the sharp pull of his wound forced a hiss from between his teeth.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. There were more grunts and struggles, though he tried to keep it quiet. Once the jacket was a useless pile on the floor, he got a better look at his tattered shirt and released a steadying breath, almost shrugging at himself. All right, here goes.

He pulled back the collar of his shirt, but dried blood had adhered the fabric to the sensitive skin around his wound.

“Goddamn it,” he said lowly.

The bathroom door slid open. You paused in the entryway and crossed your arms, taking in every ridiculous part of this.

For once, Russell didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to upset you (anymore), and he had a feeling you’d appreciate a you should see the other guy joke even less than Colter had.

“Sit,” you said, pointing at the closed toilet lid.

“I got this,” Russell said. But you pinned him with a sharp look.

“Russell, sit down.”

He quirked his head. “Okay. Yes, ma’am.”

Your lips almost curved upward, but you remained firm. Your hands were gentle though; they grasped his arm and helped him sit. You started with the easiest part, kneeling down on the tile floor to unlace his boots.

Russell wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to do it, but he also didn’t want to rile you up again. Instead, he steadied himself by grabbing the edge of the counter. Guilt twinged more heavily in his heart as he watched you slide off his left boot. He tried to help you with the right one, hooking his foot behind the heel, but you laid a hand on his knee.

“I’ll do it,” you said, your gaze flicking up to his. “Just stay still.”

Russell paused, but he conceded. Soon you’d worked off his boots and socks, then slowly, his shirt. He held you to him afterward, by your hips. You saw that even his hands were stained pink. Either he’d scrubbed them raw or hadn’t scrubbed them hard enough.

“What happened?” you asked.

“Just…you know, got clipped,” he said. “It’s no big deal. As you can see, I’m fine.”

You shot him a flat look. “How did it happen?”

He sighed. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

That you did, but you hated it anyway. Your gaze once again drew to the web of bandages wrapped around his right shoulder. Your fingertips landed just beside the thickest padding above his heart. Russell’s hand covered yours.

“Thank you...and I’m sorry,” he said at last. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”

Your lips pursed. You took his face in your hands, a touch softer as you stroked his bearded cheeks. He was still too pale, but nonetheless, unfairly handsome.

“Please don’t do this to yourself anymore,” you said. “Don’t do this to me. You promised you’d be done with Horizon by now.”

Russell nodded. “I know.”

“You know?” Your brows rose. “Do you know what the past 24 hours were like for me since you called me in the middle of the night like that? I could hear it in your voice. You weren’t sure you were going to make it home.”

Your voice wavered as tears welled up in your eyes again, despite your attempts to blink them away with a sniff.

Russell didn’t have a clever retort this time. No way to downplay or tease. He had come back with a few scrapes and sprains before, but this was different. That look on your face when you opened his jacket, saw the blood and bandages, probably picturing a horror show underneath...

He wasn't ever going to forget that look. And it was better he didn't. He had to remind himself that you were a civilian. You weren't used to all this shit, the hazards of the job.

“You’re right. It’s not fair to you,” he said. “Just uh…give me a month or so to wrap things up. I already signed on for a couple more contracts.”

“You better mean it, Russ,” you said. You tilted his face upward, making sure he met your eyes. “You gave me your word.”

“I know, and I’m gonna keep it,” he said, squeezing your hips. He smiled. “To prove it, how about we reseal the deal, huh?”

You stared down at him, heaving a more exasperated sigh.

“Come on,” he said, biting his lip on a smirk. “We both know you wanna kiss the hell out of me.”

You wanted to slap him, more like.

You shook your head and pressed his face between your hands, grunting in sheer annoyance. But you still bowed your head and kissed him.

He smiled against your lips. His arms slid around your waist and trapped you against his body. He hummed at the feeling of you, of every soft curve that fit just right against him.

Your fingers slipped through his hair, gently at first. But you reminded him of your resolve with a tighter grip.

“I'm serious,” you warned, between kisses. Each one meant something different—relief, fear, yearning, passion, love, and long-suffering all at once.

He nodded, though he groaned, palming your ass as your tongue slipped against his.

“I got it, sweetheart,” he said. "Not happening again."

His hands then wandered down your back, dipping under the waistband of your sweatpants. He found you bare underneath, no panties. He was pleased at the thought as he pressed a line of open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, earning your soft moan. His fingers trailed under your tank top next, pushing the fabric up higher and raising goosebumps in his wake.

“Take a shower with me?” he asked, with lips pressed to your skin.

“Hmph. You definitely need a shower,” you said through slightly panting breaths. You helped him stand so you both could work on getting off his jeans.

He grinned. “So that’s a yes?”

Your lips threatened a smile in return.

“That’s a, get your ass in there,” you said, but you grabbed his elbows to steady him when his broad frame teetered on his feet. “Be careful.”

His hand fell to your shoulder gratefully.

“Yes, ma’am.”

AN: lol what are we gonna do with him? 😅 I think this helps make even more sense why reader's so mad at him in Part 1 of Breaking Point.

And I seriously hope Russell comes back more regularly for season 4. That twist at the end of 3x22 is more interesting than any other episode/arc in S3 imo. Until then, hope you enjoy some angsty hurt/comfort!

Let me know what you think in the reblogs/comments! 💙🩵💛

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