Chantelle's Fic Recs

“I cannot be photographed like this,” Fenwick huffs, gesturing animatedly at the fat lip he received at last night’s game. The vain bastard.

“Fenz, please. You’re just as handsome as ever,” you contend through the door.

Fenwick scoffs, shooting the door a disbelieving look. “Well, duh. That was never up for discussion.”

“Where’s Black?” Remus ventures helpfully. “He’s usually all about the social media presence.” 

“Team’s entire feed is Black already,” Krum grumbles. “Asshole is pretty, but not that pretty.” 

“Fenwick,” you call out.

The player in question eyes the door warily. “Yes?”

Your question echoes like a death toll. “Who else is in there with you?” 

With this, the remainder of the locker room freezes; four professional six-plus foot hockey players hold their breath like terrified rabbits in the face of a prowling mountain lion. 

“Fenwick,” Woods hisses. “Don’t you fucking-”

“Lupin, Krum, and Woods,” Benji rapid fires, wincing contritely in the face of his three teammates groaning in betrayal. 

“Fenwick, you’re off the hook if you open this door right now,” you promise. 

“Benji Fenwick, if you open that door-” Remus starts, only to be cut off by Krum.

“I will string you by testicals to rafters, Fenwick.”

“Guys, I love you, you’re my entire world, I would take 83 slapshots to the ribs for all of you-”

“Fenwick…” Remus pleads again.

“-I cannot be photographed like this.” 

Benji—in his final act of betrayal—swings the door open and flies out into the hallway behind you, using your smaller frame like a human shield. And while Remus is surprised by the show of restraint from Krum and Woods, there was never any chance that Remus was going to go shoving past you to get to Fenwick. 

No matter how badly he wanted to throttle the sod. 

“Förbannada skit,” (translation: fucking shithead) Remus curses under his breath, though even he can hear the resignation in his voice.

You have the grace to smile apologetically at the three remaining players, holding your camera up in one hand and the other in a universal sign of surrender. “Any chance one of you is willing to smile for the camera? I’ll be so quick.” 

“No. Russians do not do this,” Krum announces, earning him a glance from Woods.

“Russians don’t what? Smile?”

“Da.” 

“Woodsy, you’ve got a nice smile,” Remus hedges cautiously, cautious of drawing attention to himself by pointing it in someone else's direction.

“You do,” you agree, flashing a smile in the assistant captain's direction. “But we’ve got lots of the team captains already.”

Woodsy’s smile is victorious. 

“Well, then,” he hums happily, offering the last two players in the locker room a smarmy salute. “Lady, gentlemen.” 

Krum mutters Russian profanity under his breath as he finishes up in his own stall. 

“Just a picture,” you all but beg, and Remus’ traitorous heart squeezes at how desperate you sound.

It doesn’t squeeze enough for him to willingly place himself in front of your camera lens, though. 

“Is never just a picture with you, l’vyónak,” (Львёнок: lionet/little lion, lion cub) Krum argues, but his use of a Russian epithet belittles whatever ire he has with you.

That’s the danger of the team's favourite social media team member. While they all make a point of avoiding you like the plague, there’s something about you that has wiggled its way into the heart of every player on the team. You even managed to win over the prickly Russian goalie and the notoriously aloof Remus.

Especially the notoriously aloof Remus.

Perhaps that’s part of the reason he avoids you so resolutely; he doesn’t want to do anything to draw attention to the fact that he’s really quite smitten with you. 

Honestly, when you’re not waving a camera or phone in his face, you may very well be his favourite person on the team’s support staff. 

And that’s saying a lot, considering that their PT, Lars, has magic fingers and turns Remus into a certified pile of goo twice a week during their therapeutic massages. 

“It must be Loops,” Krum decides, earning him a strangled sound of disbelief from Remus.

“Why must it be Loops?”

Krum shrugs as if it’s really quite simple. “Because, Russians do not do this.”

“Russians smile, Krum. You have a lovely smile,” you argue sweetly, and—dammit—even Krum softens. 

“Paper, rock, scissors me,” Krum announces. 

“I beg your pardon?”

Krum doesn’t bother responding, merely steps up to Remus with one palm raised flat and facing upwards, the other held above it in a fist. 

“Paper, rock, scissors. Da? Scissors me, Loops.”

“Never say that again,” Remus tells him emphatically.

“Why won’t scissors me?” 

“Krum, please stop asking me to scissor you.” 

Remus loses the stand-off with his starting goalie when he’s distracted by your laughter. Dammit, he wishes Swedes didn’t smile either. 

“Okay, it all comes down to a game of rock, paper, scissors,” you announce, holding up your damn camera to capture the moment between teammates. Krum was right; it’s never just a picture with you. 

Remus—against all his better judgement—mirrors Krum’s posture and does, indeed, play a round of rock, paper, scissors. 

He loses when Krum crushes Remus’ scissors with his rock.

“Best two out of three?” Remus all but begs. 

“Net,” Krum declines, slinging his bag over his shoulder and striding from the room. “Smile for camera like good little Swede.”

“Bye, Viktor!” you call out after him.

Krum replies from some distance down the hall. “Goodbye, Львёнок.” 

“I’m really sorry, Lupin.” You sound so apologetic, look even more so when Remus removes his glare from the now empty hallway his teammates have abandoned him in to face you. “I know no one likes to get stuck with me, we can be quick.”

And well, now doesn’t Remus feel like the biggest prick. “I love being stuck with you.”

Too honest, dial it back, Loops. 

“It’s that” He points at the camera like it might bite. “that I struggle with.”

You laugh good naturedly at him. “Fair enough. Come sit, we’ll be quick.” 

It is not, in fact, quick, because apparently all of Remus’ smiles look like pained grimaces. 

“You look like you just ate something sour.”

“I don’t look like anything,” Remus argues.

“Yes you do.”

“This is just my face.”

“Your face is usually nicer than this,” you counter.

“Well, now you’re just being hurtful.”

You laugh and look up from your camera; Remus smiling in victory at eliciting it. 

“See! Like that. Why can’t you smile like that for me?” 

I did just smile like that for you, Remus thinks grimly. It’s the camera I’m not fond of. 

You sigh. “Fine.”

“Fine?” 

You hum thoughtfully, scrolling through the viewfinder on your camera. You’re silent for so long that he thinks you’re going to dismiss him before you carry on. “What do you think you’d do for work if you were more athletic?” 

Remus pauses, his mind like a record, scratching and skipping and trying desperately to feed the needle back onto the thread. 

“What?”

“If you were more athletic,” you repeat, still not looking up. “What do you think you’d be doing? Like, a sport, or something.” 

“What sport?” Remus clarifies. “If I was…”

“More athletic,” you confirm. 

Remus is staring at you open mouthed, confused as to how he’s not possibly missing something in translation here. 

“Can you repeat that?” 

You’re still looking down at your camera, but your lips purse as if you’re fighting off a smile. 

“What kind of sport would you be playing, or job would you be doing, if you were more athletic?”

“More athletic?” Remus balks, disbelief colouring his tone. “I’m an athlete!”

“Well, yeah, sure.” Sure, you say! Like Remus hasn’t dedicated the majority of his life to perfecting his skill, strength, and body to elite levels. “But like, if you were more.”

Remus lets out a startled laugh, and then you finally look up at him.

Your eyes shine with mirth, silent laughter shaking your shoulders as you smirk triumphantly at Remus. 

It’s over for Remus then; he dissolves into delighted laughter which only picks up when you join him. 

“Unbelieveable,” Remus huffs with a shake of his head.

“That’s me,” you agree triumphantly, lowering your camera until it hangs from your neck. “That’ll be all.”

You don’t end up showing Remus what you managed to capture of him while you made him question all of his life’s work and choices; the picture you ended up posting on the team’s social media was of him and Krum playing rock, paper, scissors, plus one of Remus throwing his head back in defeat and Krum smirking (though certainly not smiling) triumphantly. 

It’s only (much) later that Remus finally sees the picture you took of him that day—one of him laughing at your chirping—used as his contact image on your phone. 

He’s glad that’s where it stayed; he looks entirely too love sick for that to be posted onto the team’s account.

It goes on until the two of you become relative strangers. As if you don’t know the way he organizes his underwear drawer. As though you weren’t the one who helped him pull out loose teeth. As if it wasn’t your window that he’d crawl through when his parents weren’t home – or, sometimes, because they were home – to camp out on the floor of your bedroom when the two of you outgrew sharing your twin-sized bed.

You always knew you loved Steve, your best friend; a seemingly permanent fixture in your quiet life in Hawkins. But you knew that you were undoubtedly in love with Steve – your best friend – one night in middle school after the two of you and a few other classmates went to the theatre to see the new release The Billion Dollar Hobo. 

You all felt quite grown being allowed to go to the movies without parental supervision. But you were all gangly and more than a little awkward, and Steve had just finished his latest growth spurt which meant he didn’t always know which way his feet were going; he tripped, and spilt his drink all over you. He felt awful, wouldn’t stop apologizing, and followed you into the women’s bathroom, insisting you change out of your wet shirt. He handed you his sweater over the bathroom stall and spent the whole night sitting in the theatre in nothing but a thin t-shirt riddled with goosebumps, but he never complained, not once. 

The childhood crush took root and bloomed. You loved him. You were in love with him. 

But you loved him and your friendship enough to keep that to yourself. And honestly, it hadn’t been that hard; you were used to being his friend, used to loving him. Very little changed. 

Whatever crush you had on him slowly melted away with the distance, a gentle reprieve seeing as his reign of King Steve saw him parading countless girls around. None bothered you, not until Nancy Wheeler. 

From the distance, you could see the childlike excitement in him again. He was closer to the Steve in your memories – your Steve – than whatever this new version was that Tommy H had carved out of him. You could tell he wanted to get it right, even if that didn’t always translate into effort. Nancy managed to forgive moments that should’ve been deal breakers, and by the end you’d be lying if you said you didn’t end up holding a little bit of hope for the two of them.

It didn’t last, though. And whatever strife seeing him and Nancy Wheeler together in no way outweighed the pity you felt for him when it ended; when he blew it. 

But his descent as King of Hawkins High was anything but humble, and it came with not only shaking off the dead weight that was Tommy H and losing Nancy Wheeler, but also saw the ascension of a new King.

Graduation couldn’t come soon enough. 

Except life isn’t simply lockers slamming and bells ringing and hallway gossip anymore; it’s monsters and telekinetic children and alternate dimensions and Steve fucking Harrington every where you look. It’s exhausting, dizzying. 

Suddenly the two of you are back-to-back swinging at creatures that seem to have crawled from the darkest depths of Hell determined to make a meal out of you. It’s survival, it’s racing hearts and pounding feet, it’s shouts of direction and circling back to make sure no one is left behind.

It’s passing out on the floor of the Byers’ living room instead of going back home. It’s setting up camp at Steve’s perpetually empty house to map out plans. It’s falling asleep on opposite ends of the sofa and waking up sweaty from shared body heat when you ultimately migrate towards one another, not unlike opposite poles of a magnet desperate to drag each other back into the other’s orbit. 

Suddenly you want it back; the minds you had, riding bikes down midnight streets, sharing beds like little kids, and laughing ‘til your ribs get tough. You walk through countless houses chock-full of people – parents, the fucking chief of police, adults, recent high school grads, teens who are exactly the age you were when you ultimately fell in love with your best friend – and you’ve never felt more alone. 

“It feels so scary getting old,” Steve murmurs one night from the opposite end of the couch after the rest of the house has fallen silent. He’s got one arm folded behind his head while his opposite hand rests on his chest. He remains quiet, even slowing his breathing as though willing to let the comment – and moment – slide if you decide not to respond. 

“That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” you reply, craning your neck to look at him. He tilts his head to do the same. “There’re monsters running around town and you’re afraid of getting old?” 

He’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah.” 

You laugh. “Weirdo.”

“Well, that’s not all I’m thinking about,” he admits. “I was thinking about that time we were racing home on our bikes and you took the short cut through that gravel path and wiped out.”

You hiss at the memory, phantom pains stinging the palms of your hands. “So glad to hear that replays in your mind, Harrington.”

“You would’ve won.”

“Damn right, I would’ve.” 

“And then you were afraid of your parents finding out, ‘cause you were supposed to be grounded. So we rushed home and I had to pull stones out of your hands and knees-”

“And my bottom lip,” you add with a grimace. 

“-and patch you up, hoping they wouldn’t find out.”

“I think they knew,” you let out on an exhale. 

He sits up further. “Did you get in trouble?”

“I think they felt bad enough for me with my fat lip,” you surmise. “Besides, it’s not like I snuck out again after that. They probably figured I learnt my lesson.” 

He lets that sit in the air, reclining again to return his gaze to the ceiling. 

“Why were you thinking about that?”

“I was thinking about that because there used to be a little knick in your chin after that. And on your knees.”

You don’t respond. 

“Are they still there?” he asks. 

“Are what still there?”

“The scars.” 

You join him in looking at the ceiling. “I…don’t know. I think maybe a small one on my knee. Not my chin.” 

He hums in acknowledgement. It's a sad sound; disheartened. “I used to know these kinds of things.”

You laugh. “What? What various injuries have marred my skin?”

“Yeah,” he agrees earnestly. “And how you got them and where it happened and what you had to eat last night and the last time your parents got into a fight and what book you currently have on your night stand. I used to know these kinds of things.” 

“And that bothers you?”

“Yeah!” He flings out one of his hands as though he can see the fact before him and he’s shouting at it. “It’s…it’s not right.”

“It’s just how these things go, Steve,” you sigh. 

“It wasn’t supposed to go like that,” he disagrees. “Not with you. I-” 

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

“It’s really not.” 

You don’t know what to say to him; don’t know where this is coming from or what prompted this line of thought.

“If losing you was a side effect of getting old, it blows and I want nothing to do with it,” he announces. “We should’ve just stayed little.”

“We had it pretty good, didn’t we?” you murmur into the quiet room.

“We had it best,” he responds in kind. “I want it back.”

“Steve…”

“All the nights we had. Sharing beds and laughing ‘til our stomachs hurt.”

“We’re sort of half-doing that right now,” you tell him, kicking him with your leg from your end of the sofa. 

“Can we keep doing that?” he asks, sounding smaller somehow. “When the gates are closed and the monsters are gone and the dust has settled, can we- can we have it back?”

“What exactly are you asking me, Steve?” 

“I want you back.” Your heart is pulled in two different directions, yearning to soar and sink simultaneously. “I was…such a douche.”

The two of you share a chuckle. 

“I would’ve been way better off if I’d known back then that you’re the only friend I need.”

You hum noncommittally. “Certainly would’ve been better for you than Tommy H.”

Steve groans. “Yeah, that’s putting it lightly.” 

The two of you fall into silence, the exposed beams of the Harrington living room apparently the most interesting thing to look at. 

“You never answered my question.”

“What?” you play dumb. 

“If we can be friends again.”

You let out a great heaving sigh that’s only half performative, fighting back the tears that settle in your sinuses. 

“Yeah, Steve,” you offer, hoping you don’t sound as hesitant as you feel. “Yeah, we- we can be friends.” 

You can feel from your end of the sofa how he deflates into the cushions with relief. You swallow around the lump in your throat, glad – if nothing else – to have your best friend back.

Because you love him, are probably a little bit in love with him. So, he can be your friend, if that’s what he’d like.

You’re not sure it’ll ever be enough. 

“I’ll take it, thanks.” Finnick states, managing to pay the clerk and accept your purchase with one hand, his other arm pinning your legs held to his chest by the back of your knees and holding the basket of groceries, before he turns and begins making his way out of the crowded market. 

“I think you can put me down now.” You grumble, eliciting one loud ‘HA’ from Finnick beneath you.

“I don’t think I can, actually.”

“And why’s that?”

The two of you make it out of the boundary of the market; the sea of bodies petering out until the two of you were the only one’s walking in the direction of the village. It’s only then that Finnick finally opts to release you from air jail. 

Your feet barely hit the ground before he’s dropping the basket of groceries and the bag with your trinket in favour of gripping each side of your face in his strong hands; eyes earnest though gentle as he looks down at you.

“You freak me out when you disappear on me like that.” He admits, and the soft tone of his voice gives way to how nervous you had made him before. “And I know it’s not your fault; you’re petite and you disappear into the crowd but I-”

His exhale is almost shaky as his hold on you strengthens.

“I’m sorry.”

He’s quick to shake his head. “It’s my worry, not yours. I know you don’t mean to, I just…you disappear and I’m suddenly convinced that every person in that market is a tribute and-” you watch as he seems to swallow around his gag reflex “-and I just wish I could keep you in the palm of my hand and make sure nothing bad ever happens to you.”

“I’m sorry.” You repeat, placing your hands atop of Finnick’s as they loosened their hold and trailed down to your jaw. “The market’s not the arena; I’m okay.”

He lets out another breath and closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to yours as he tries to relax. 

“With the way Marella was haggling the clam guys, it kind of felt like the arena.” He murmurs after a few moments of silence.

You lean back just far enough to see his smirk; his dimple and the corners of his eyes an olive branch, lightening the mood and your heart alike. 

“Does that make us the victors, then?” You venture, earning you a few breathy laughs followed by a lingering kiss to the space between your brows. 

“As long as I get to leave with you, I’ll always be a winner.” 

“What’d you pick up?” You ask, reaching a hand out to take the basket from him only for him to switch the basket to the other hand in order to free his for yours. 

“They had some good shrimp this week.” 

You make an appreciative humming sound. “Can I make shrimp scampi for dinner tonight? Would be nice with a glass of white.”

Finnick is smiling, face pointed in the direction of the victor’s village as he swings your joined hands in the space between you, making a sound as though he’s considering your offer. 

“Or” he draws out “I’ll make the shrimp scampi while you sit on the counter and keep me company.”

“I think I’d like a job.”

“Can’t your job be to sit there and look pretty?”

“Well, you see,” you begin, “I would, but I already do that everyday for free.”

Finnick laughs before he pretends to reconsider. “How about you taste test the different bottles of wine we have to decide which will pair best with dinner?” 

You halt your steps and force Finnick to turn back to look at you. “Whatever you want, handsome.” 

The last bit of anxiety lifts from Finnick’s shoulders; his smile officially beaming, his eyes a brilliant green as a result. “Thank you, honey. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever felt like such a winner.”

You do what he says (you always do, in the end), crawling onto the bed and laying down beside him. James shuts off his phone, setting it down in favor of sliding his hand between your waist and the mattress, big palm coming to rest at your navel as he tugs your back closer to his front. You don’t know about the sun, but James is certainly warm. 

“Your arm’s gonna fall asleep,” you point out. 

“Don’t care,” he says, already sounding drowsier. 

“Don’t we have to be up to meet Remus and Sirius in a couple hours?” 

“We will be.” 

You’re out of protests, and not unhappy for it. James’ palm is warm and comforting on your stomach, his other hand reaching over you to rest just below your sternum. His breathing evens out quickly, and it’s that steady rhythm that eventually lulls you into sleep with him. 

You wake, an indeterminable amount of time later, because something feels odd. You rouse slowly, aware first of the pleasant warmth at your back, then of the fact that you’re fully clothed in James bed, and finally of his hands on your boobs. 

He’s squeezing them, feeling about with curious but sure hands, one tit in each. You lie there motionlessly, unsure if James is awake, or honestly, if you are. His touch is oddly comforting, and while your best friend is a very tactile person, this level of intimacy is unusual enough that you almost wonder if you might be dreaming. Then he squeezes too hard, and you’re sure you’re not. 

“Ow!” you flinch back into James, hand coming up to grip his wrist. “What, are you trying to get milk to come out?”

“Hm?” James’ voice is sleepy, less so as he realizes the placement of his hands. His grip loosens. “Oh, shit. Sorry, love, I was half-asleep. Didn’t realize I was doing that.” 

He doesn’t sound nearly as embarrassed as you would be in his situation, but that’s James. “It’s okay,” you say (really, it’s more than okay). “Just, it hurts when you squeeze that hard. They’re sensitive, Jamie.” 

You feel him nod against the back of your head. “M’sorry, sweetheart, didn’t mean to hurt ya.” He doesn’t move his hands, though, and you make no move to encourage him to. “They’re just really warm and soft, y’know?”

You do know. The thing poking into your back is warm too, though not so soft. 

“I mean, I don’t mind,” you say, glad you’re facing away so he can’t see the intense blush spreading over your face like a blight. “It’s sort of nice. Just…don’t squeeze so hard, okay?” 

“Nothing bad!” you reassure him, maybe a bit too quickly.

Remus exhales through his nose and steps forward, calm and deliberate. “Can we please have this conversation inside?” he murmurs, gently placing a guiding hand on the small of your back as he nudges everyone away from the cold and toward the warmth of the flat.

The three of you drift into the living room. Remus moves with you, all soft hands and gentle touches. Sirius hangs back, arms crossed now, the tilt of his head saying I’m watching you.

You angle your body towards the hallway, intent on slipping off towards the spare room. Maybe it’d be easier to just show them, you think.

But you don’t make it two steps before Sirius catches on.

His hand clamps gently but firmly down on your shoulder. Not rough, not angry, but there’s no mistaking the intention behind it.

You're turned around before you can say a word, and Sirius plants himself right in front of you, eyes narrowed with mock authority and a little too much amusement for your liking.

“Start talking, trouble.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. Sirius’s expectant stare makes the words feel heavier, like they’re all tangled inside your throat. You start, haltingly at first.

“Well, it’s just–um–okay, so, you know how I said I wanted to get a pet? And we’ve been talking about it on and off for ages, but I wasn’t sure if you would be–”

“Dove,” Remus interrupts gently, his hand reaching out to still your restless fingers trying to calm the panic that's spilled into your voice, “just breathe. We’re not angry. We just want to know what's going on.”

You nod quickly, swallowing hard, the words still darting away from you. “It’s not what you think. I mean, it is, but it’s not like I–” You trail off, exhaling nervously.

Sirius sighs, running a hand over his hair. “You’re killing me here, doll. Can you just say whatever it is? Please?”

You feel yourself flush and without another word, you turn on your heel and start walking down the hallway, shoulders slightly hunched.

“Baby, where are you going?” Sirius calls out, voice soft but laced with exasperation.

You don’t answer Sirius and just lift your hand in a vague “wait” motion as you shuffle down the hallway, heart hammering away in your chest.

You hear the soft creak of the sofa as Remus sinks down into it and the familiar thudding of Sirius pacing across the rug. There's some low murmuring that for the most part sounds light and teasing. The sound releases some of the worry gripping your chest.

You disappear into the spare room for a moment. There’s a beat of silence.

Then the softest sound,  a muffled mrrp.

And another, louder this time, Mrrrrow!

You return a moment later, carefully cradling a tiny black and white kitten against your chest. The cat is all oversized ears and twitchy little whiskers, with a splotch of ink-dark fur right over one eye and the kind of round, sleepy face that could melt even the coldest heart.

Not that your boyfriends are particularly known for their coldness. Thankfully.

Sirius stops pacing mid-step. His whole body sort of freezes as he takes in the image of you holding this tiny kitten. You watch the way he softens, as his eyes sweep over you. 

“What the fuck?” he breathes, eyes wide and unguarded. He’s already walking towards you before he even realises it. “You didn’t say it was cute.”

You press your lips together in a barely restrained smile as the cat blinks up at him, completely unbothered, then noses into your arm like she’s settling in for a nap.

“I did say it wasn’t bad,” you offer meekly, while trying to see around Sirius to gauge Remus’ reaction. His silence is concerning. 

Sirius gives a delighted little huff as he gently scratches under the kitten’s chin. “Hello, darling,” he coos, his voice turned embarrassingly soft. “Aren’t you just–bloody hell, look at you. Rem, look at her.”

You glance over at Remus, who is still seated on the couch, his expression unreadable. He’s got that pinched, thoughtful line between his brows that’s usually a telltale sign his thoughts are running at a mile a minute.

“She’s small,” he says at last, which is neither a compliment nor a complaint.

He’s still sitting on the couch, long fingers laced together between his knees, watching everything unfold with an expression that's far too neutral.

“She’s really small,” he says again, when you don't respond.

You raise an eyebrow at him, slowly lowering the kitten to the floor. She gives a soft, confused chirp at the movement, but doesn’t protest much. 

“She’s healthy. Just little,” you say, tone gentle, coaxing. “She was the runt. The rescue said nobody else wanted her.”

Remus’s mouth tightens minutely, and you can see the way that gets under his skin. Predictably. Of course it does. He’s always been softest for the ones no one else picks.

You’re already padding across the room toward him, ready to reach for him as if your touch can do all the convincing for you. Sirius just watches on, but it’s obvious he’s already convinced by this new addition by the way he keeps looking down at the cat, eyes full of affection.

 “I didn’t do it just to be impulsive,” you say. “I saw her when I was walking by and when I went in she came straight to me and I just–Remus, I couldn’t just leave her. She picked me.”

One of his eyebrows arches with the barest hint of skepticism. “Did she?”

You’re almost in front of him now. Your hand is halfway out, about to reach for his, when there’s a sudden, high-pitched mew at his feet.

Remus blinks down.

The kitten has followed you, trotted right up to where he’s sitting and is now circling his legs with a soft purr and a flick of her tiny tail. She mews again, louder this time, and then rises slightly on her hind legs, placing one little paw on the denim of his knee.

Your breath catches, and you can feel Sirius trying not to laugh behind you.

Remus’s brows draw together, not in frustration but puzzlement. He hesitates for a second, then reaches down – slow and careful – and curls one large hand under the kitten’s belly.

She makes a triumphant little chirp as he lifts her into his lap.

And Remus softens.

His shoulders relax, mouth easing out of its tight line as he carefully adjusts the tiny body, letting her settle against the crease of his arm. She stretches, gives a tiny sigh, and begins to purr loudly.

He looks down at her, then up at you, and something in his face shifts. All of his features become warmer and softer.

“Oh,” he says, barely more than a breath as he looks back down. “You are very sweet.”

Before you can say anything, a rough arm slings around your shoulders, and Sirius is suddenly there, pulling you close against his side.

“You’re such a little shit,” he says cheerfully, voice full of admiration disguised as complaint. And then he presses a big, obnoxious kiss to your cheek, loud and messy.

You laugh, trying and failing to squirm away. “Sirius!”

“Don’t Sirius me. You knew this would happen,” he says, nuzzling your temple with affection. “You walked in here with that face and a sob story about being ‘the runt,’ and you knew he’d fold like a wet paper towel.”

“I didn’t know,” you protest – but you’re smiling, warmth blooming in your chest. “I just had my suspicions.” 

You gasped; it felt as if the air had been stolen from your lungs. You managed to grab his ankle, slowing him just enough for Hotch to close the distance.

Thirty seconds later, the unsub was cuffed, his face pressed into the ground with an officer on top of him, but the damage had already been done. You lay there, clutching your arm, the world tilting as pain radiated from your ribs and forearm. You tried to move, to push yourself up, but the sharp, grinding agony in your arm told you something was broken—badly.

Hotch was at your side in an instant, his voice cutting through the haze of pain running through you. “Stay still,” he ordered, his hand hovering over your shoulder, his eyes scanning you, trying to assess your injuries without touching you and potentially making it worse. “Medics are on the way.”

You nodded weakly, the effort of speaking too much as you focused on breathing through the pain. Willing your thoughts not to think about the potential of a collapsed or a punctured lung.

The last thing you saw before the paramedics arrived was Hotch’s face, steady but pale—clearly knowing more about your condition than you—his jaw tight with worry.

Hours later, you were propped up in a hospital bed, the sterile scent of antiseptic and the rhythmic beep of a monitor filling the silence in your room. Your left arm was encased in a cast from wrist to just below your elbow, the result of a clean fracture in your radius. Your ribs, bruised but mercifully not broken, were wrapped tightly in a compression bandage that made every breath feel like a negotiation.

Your hip and thigh were splattered with deep purple and blue bruises, as well as what felt like a ball of scar tissue already forming beneath your skin. You felt a dull, throbbing pain pulsing through your entire body, only partially dulled by the IV drip feeding you a steady stream of mild painkillers.

Hotch stood at your bedside. He’d shed his jacket hours ago, leaving it draped over a chair in the corner, and his tie hung loose around his neck, the knot undone. His hand rested lightly on the bedrail, fingers brushing the edge of your blanket.

His eyes were soft with concern as they met yours. “You ready to get out of here? The nurse mentioned that they were getting ready to discharge you soon,” he asked, his voice low and gentle.

You nodded, wincing as the movement tugged at your bruised ribs. “As long as you promise not to demand paperwork out of me for the next couple of days,” you said, managing a faint smile despite the ache.

“Not a chance,” he replied, as a ghost of a smile touched his lips, softening the lines of worry etched into his face. "I'll do it for you."

The nurse bustled in with your discharge papers an hour later, her demeanor brisk but kind as she adjusted the sling supporting your injured arm. “You’ll need to keep this on for at least six weeks,” she said, gesturing to the cast. “No weight-bearing, no heavy lifting. And those ribs... take it easy. No sudden movements. You’ve got a prescription for morphine for the worst of it, but use it sparingly.”

You nodded, the weight of her instructions settling over you. You were glad Hotch was there; you weren't sure if you truly were paying attention to what she was saying.

Hotch listened intently though, his profiler’s mind cataloging every little thing as if it were a detail in a case file. When the nurse stepped out, he crouched beside your bed, his eyes level with yours.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he murmured, sliding one arm carefully behind your back and the other beneath your knees.

“Everything hurts,” you said, your voice caught between a groan and a laugh, the pain making you feel like a ragdoll held together by sheer stubbornness.

“I meant more than it already does,” he clarified, his tone gentle but firm. He lifted you effortlessly, his arms steady under you, careful not to jostle your ribs or bump the cast. You let out a small gasp, more from the sudden shift than from pain, and leaned into his chest, the warmth of him grounding you in the sterile chaos of the hospital.

The drive back to your apartment was quiet, the hum of the SUV’s tires against the road a soothing contrast to the hospital’s sterile silence. Hotch had insisted you sit in the back seat, where it was easier for him to keep an eye on you through the rearview mirror, and you didn’t argue, too tired to protest. You leaned your head against the window, the sling cradling your arm against your chest, and let the rhythm of the car lull you into a light doze.

You stirred once, mumbling, “You’re too good at this,” your voice thick with exhaustion.

He glanced over at you, his expression unreadable in the reflection. “At what?”

“Carrying broken things,” you said softly, your eyes fluttering shut again.

He didn’t respond, not entirely sure if you were aware of what you were saying.

By the time Hotch pulled into the parking lot of your apartment building, you were half-awake, the painkillers wearing off just enough to make every movement ache. He climbed out of the driver’s seat and rounded the car, opening your door and crouching to lift you again. “Hold on to me,” he said, his voice a low murmur as he slid his arms under you once more.

You looped your good arm around his neck, wincing as he lifted you, carefully. He carried you up the stairs to your apartment, his steps slow, measured, and deliberate, as if you were made of glass—which, right now, you probably were.

When he reached your door, he shifted you slightly to push the door open, his shoulder brushing against the frame as he entered.

Inside, the warm glow of your living room revealed the team waiting like a concerned family unit. JJ, Emily, Rossi, and Morgan were clustered around your coffee table while Garcia stood in your kitchen steeping a teabag.

Takeout containers and bottles of water were scattered across your coffee table. The air smelled faintly of soy sauce and noodles. Their eyes all snapped to you as Hotch carried you in.

“Oh no,” JJ said, already halfway to tears when she saw the cast and bandages.

“She’s in a lot of pain,” Hotch added, shifting you gently in his arms, “but we’ve got a prescription for morphine. Small doses. Only when it’s bad.”

“She looks like a cooked noodle,” Emily said quietly, not unkindly but trying to lighten the mood.

“She feels like a cooked noodle,” Hotch replied dryly. “And I don’t want to jostle the splint, so if someone could clear a path to the couch—”

The team sprang into action, their movements quick but careful. Morgan shoved the coffee table aside, sending a few napkins fluttering to the floor. Rossi cleared a pile of jackets from the couch, while Emily tucked a stray takeout bag out of the way. JJ hovered nearby, clutching a bottle of water like it was a lifeline, her eyes glistening with worry.

Hotch carried you to the couch, lowering you gently. He adjusted a throw pillow behind your back, ensuring your sling was supported, and only then did he step back, though his hand lingered near your shoulder, ready to catch you if you shifted too much and fell over.

You winced as you settled, the movement sending a sharp twinge through your ribs, but you managed a weak smile for the team’s benefit.

Morgan crouched beside you, his eyes scanning the cast and bandages. “You’re gonna be okay, right, kid?” he asked, his voice softer than usual.

“Apparently, I’m made of slightly defective glass,” you said, your voice hoarse but teasing, trying to make light of the situation. “But I’ll mend. Eventually.”

Rossi, leaning against the arm of the couch, shook his head. “You took down an unsub with a broken arm and bruised ribs to show for it. That’s not glass, bambina. That’s steel.”

JJ stepped forward, unscrewing the cap on the water bottle and pressing it into your good hand. “Drink this,” she said, her tone maternal as she fussed over you. “You need to stay hydrated.”

Emily placed a container of chicken noodle soup within reach, her fingers brushing yours as she gave you a small, encouraging smile. “It’s from that deli you like. Figured you’d need something easy, given... You know.” She nodded toward your sling

You nodded. "I probably couldn't cook even if I tried to." You smiled. The warmth of their concern wrapped around you. Although you appreciated their presence, the weight of the day was starting to pull at you, and your eyelids started feeling heavier with each passing second.

Hotch picked up on it immediately.

“She’s exhausted,” he said, his voice gentle but carrying the authority that he usually only used when relaying a profile. “You’ve seen she’s okay. Let’s give her some quiet to rest.”

Rossi gave a slow nod, his eyes warm but understanding. “Call if you need anything, both of you.”

Emily squeezed your uninjured hand gently. JJ brushed a hand over your hair, her fingers lingering for a moment before she stepped back, blinking rapidly to keep her tears at bay. Morgan was the last to move, his gaze shifting from you to Hotch, a silent exchange passing between them.

“She’s in good hands,” he said, clapping Hotch on the shoulder before heading for the door.

One by one, they filed out, leaving behind a quiet that settled over the apartment like a soft blanket. The door clicked shut, and the world shrank to just you and Hotch.

Hotch moved around quietly, gathering the essentials from around your apartment. He retrieved the prescription bag from the hospital, setting the morphine bottle on the coffee table and exchanging the bottle of water for a glass.

He pulled the throw blanket from the arm of the couch, draping it over your legs. Crouching beside you, he checked the sling, his fingers brushing the edge of the cast to ensure it was secure.

“You’re sure you’re comfortable here?” he asked, his voice low, his eyes searching yours. “I can move you to the bedroom if it’s better.”

“Couch is fine,” you murmured, your voice heavy with exhaustion. “Easier to get up if I need the bathroom.”

“Then couch it is,” he said, straightening. He undid his tie completely, tossing it over the back of a chair, and you watched him with a tired smile.

“You’re good at this,” you said, your words slightly slurred as sleep tugged at you.

He gave a quiet, almost shy huff of a laugh, his hands pausing as he adjusted the blanket. “I’ve had practice. Just not with someone this hurt before.”

Your heart ached at the tightness in his voice, the unspoken guilt you knew he carried. “I’m sorry,” you said softly, your good hand reaching for his.

“Don’t be,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. His eyes softened, but there was a shadow in them—a flicker of the fear he hadn’t voiced, the wish that he could have shielded you from the unsub’s boot, from the fall, from all of it.

You tightened your grip on his hand, your fingers weak but insistent. “I’m okay. And I'm guessing there's no chance of you going home tonight. Am I right?”

His fingers curled around yours, warm and steady. “Not a chance,” he said, and the certainty in his voice was enough to carry you into sleep.

Your fiancé of 4 months now, Aaron knew all about your battle with endometriosis and yet he still had stuck by you all this time and had even gotten down on one knee.

Previous relationships had always failed because of the knowledge that endometriosis means there's a low chance of having a baby. Aaron chose to stay, though.

"I have Jack and I have you. What more could I need?" You remember Aaron telling you.

"Fuck." You swore as another cramp tore through your happy thoughts.

You had been on the way to get a shower, but even that seemed like too much of a task now thanks to the pain. You sat at the bottom of the stairs in your house, back to the wall as you closed you eyes and breathed through the pain.

Your phone started ringing.

But it was ringing from another room.

Your face scrunched in frustration as you cursed yourself for leaving your phone out of reach. There was no way you were moving from this spot for at least half an hour - you physically couldn't.

<.><.>

On the other side of the city Hotch was pacing in his office.

He sighed as he pulled his phone away from his ear as he heard your voicemail click again.

A knock on the door pulled him away from his internal panic.

"You okay?" Morgan asked.

Hotch sighed again, tucking his phone into his blazer pocket. "Y/N won't answer her phone."

Morgan frowned, "That's not like her."

"No, I know. That's what worries me." Hotch ran his hand over is jaw as he contemplated the next step.

"It's her day off right? She could be out with a friend." Morgan tried to reason with his stressed boss.

"No, it's... She..." Hotch frowned. He couldn't exactly explain why he knew you weren't out with a friend without explaining your condition - something you hadn't told the team and it wasn't his news to spread.

"Okay, well, uh, I'm sure Rossi and the rest of us can hold down the fort if you wanna go check on her." Morgan suggested.

Hotch just gave a meaningful nod in return and didn't waste another minute before leaving his office.

<.><.>

You felt yourself come around as the front door opened.

You hadn't even realised you'd gone to sleep until your eyes reopened. It was hard to know how long you'd been sat on the stairs for now without a clock nearby, but judging by how cold you were you'd say it had been a while.

When Aaron rounded the front door you could tell he was readying to bellow your name, until he saw you sat there.

His heart nearly broke seeing you.

It was so unfair that you had to go through this every month for over half of the month. He would never be able to comprehend how you were so strong to carry on through it.

"Hey sweetheart." Aaron spoke softly.

He came and crouched down in front of where you were still sat on the bottom step. One of his hands came to rest on your knee, whilst the other checked your temperature against your forehead.

"Hi." Your eyes were still heavy. Your arms remained wrapped around yourself as if that would somehow lessen the pain.

"How long have you been here for?"

"How long ago did you leave for work?" You joked.

Aaron smiled along with you but it you could tell it was out of pity more than anything.

Aaron quickly shuffled off his blazer and moved your body slightly so he could wrap it around you. You shivered under the new found warmth, the remanence of his heat still lingered on his jacket.

"You taken any medication?" He asked more seriously.

"No."

"Honey..." Aaron's frown shifted to one of disappointment.

"Don't give me that look." You sighed.

"It's only 'cause I care about you. You know that." Aaron leaned forwards so he could delicately kiss your forehead, careful not to knock you in any way that would hurt you.

"I hate this." You said quietly, tears forming in the corners of your eyes.

"I know." Aaron said, knowing that trying to say anything positive to fill in the sadness was worse than saying nothing at all. You hated it when people tried to spin a positive on this, because there really wasn't one. All you needed was someone to hold your hand through it and you were lucky that that someone was Aaron.

"Thank you for being here."

"Anytime, sweetheart."

<.><.>

It was hours later and you were in your happy place.

Aaron had helped you up the stairs and into the shower. He'd helped you shower and then get into bed without any troubles.

You were enveloped in a large hoodie of his, hood pulled up over your head as you laughed at something Aaron had just said. Both of you were nestled in your bed under the warm light of your salt lamp.

Aaron laid beside you, watching you closely, one arm draped across your waist whilst his fingertips traced soothing patterns against your skin.

You know he hates seeing you in pain, but Aaron knows that distraction—especially his laughter—can sometimes help more than anything else.

“You know, for an FBI unit chief, you’re a surprisingly good nurse.”

A cup of peppermint tea was still warm on your bedside table. You could tell that Aaron was keeping a mental note on how long the tea had left before he would need to go an re-warm it for you. He was too sweet. Your meds were stacked on the side too next to a fresh glass of water.

Aaron chuckled at your silliness, “I'm going to take that as a compliment.”

You turned your head to look at him better, wincing when the movement created a flare up in your lower tummy, “You shouldn’t. You have the same energy as a dad who's trying to help but is just holding out a bottle of ibuprofen like, ‘This fixes everything, right?’”

Aaron shook his head at you, but knowing he had no leverage on reprimanding you right now.

“I am a dad.”

“Jack probably gives you the same ‘you tried’ look I’m giving you right now.” You gave him a deadpan look - trying your best not to laugh.

“Not true. Jack thinks I know everything.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

As if you could move anywhere even if you did want to, you thought to yourself.

“That’s because you’re warm and I refuse to give up my human heating pad.” You brought his hand from your waist to push it down just above your panties.

Aaron knew what to do immediately. He spread his hand over the skin there and it immediately felt like you had a secondary heating pad on - it was magical. There was something so intimate about the situation that was more personal than any sort of sexual act.

The moment was ruined seconds later, “So you’re only using me for my body?” Aaron asked.

You were currently holed up on your dorm, covered in a bunch of blankets as you internally screamed and panicked. One would wonder, why were you in this state of hysteria? Because you had a dream. But not just any dream. A dream about kissing someone. And that someone was...

"REGGIE?" Dorcas yelled in disbelief, throwing her arms around the mound that was created by your body underneath the covers.

You mumbled something, but it was muffled by the blankets. "Honey, we can't hear you." Marlene said, sitting next to you.

You reluctantly poked your head out of the mound, immediately resting your head in her lap.

"What the hell am I supposed to do? I can't even look at Regulus..." you repeated, your eyes fluttering shut as Marlene gently played with your hair.

"Oh, come on. Yeah, it's embarrassing, but I bet it's not that bad." Dorcas quipped, playfully poking your cheek.

"Today, in potions class, he asked me to hand him a vial of something," you began, cringing at your actions.

"And?" Marlene asked.

"I started coughing uncontrollably and pretended like I need to go to the infirmary. And when he offered to take me, I just....ran out of the room..." you admitted, covering your face with your hands.

"Ooh, yeah, that's bad." Dorcas said, earning herself a smack on the thigh from her girlfriend. "What? What did i say?"

"Ignore Dorcas. I'm sure if you just go and explain-!" You immediately cut Marlene off, a slight look of horror forming on your face.

"You want ME to tell THE Regulus Black that I had a dream about kissing him? Oh, yeah. 'Hey Reggie. Sorry I've been so awkward around you lately. I just had a dream about sucking face and swapping spit with you.'" you said sarcastically. "Do you know how embarrassing that would be?"

"If you would let me finish, bub," Marlene said, glancing over at a giggling dorcas then back at you.

"Obviously, you're not gonna tell him you dreamt about kissing him. Just tell him....you've been having....thoughts about him." "That's even worse!" you exclaimed, sitting up out of her lap.

"Then what do you suggest-" Just then, a wicked little smirk found its way onto Marlene's lips. Youou knew that look and you did not like it.

The blonde leaned over and whispered something into her girlfriend's ear, the two of them exchanging the same mischievous expression.

"Whatever you two are planning, leave me out of it." "Honey, you're the main character of what we're planning." Dorcas giggled, making you curl up into your blanket mound once again.

It had been three days since your "talk" with Dorcas and Marlene. And things weren't getting even the slightest bit better. You were avoiding the poor boy like the plague. Walking in the opposite direction when you saw him in the halls, making up excuses to leave early when you had to work together, even hiding behind a couch in the common room when he'd walk in. Yet again, the girls tried to urge you to take some action, but you obviously refused. So, they had no choice but to take matters into their own hands.

It was a quiet afternoon and you were chilling with the others in the Slytherin common room. Barty and Evan were lounging on the couch talking about god knows what, Regulus looking up from his book to shoot them a judgmental side eye. Dorcas and Marlene were talking by the window and you sat with Pandora and Lily, complaining about whatever classes you had next.

Your conversation was interrupted by Marlene and Dorcas walking over and taking Lily's and Pandora's hands into their own.

"Sorry to interrupt, but it's time for us to go. We have things to do." Marlene said, pulling lily along.

"What things?" Pandora asked, earning herself a sharp look from Dorcas.

"You know: the thing and that other thing." she said, sounding completely confident. It took a few seconds for Pandora and Lily to get the picture.

"Ah, the thing! Yeah, we gotta go do that! Uh, Barty, Evan. Could you two come help us?" Lily asked, opening the door. The two boys were obviously in on whatever this was, giggling like little children as they followed the girls out.

"Uh, Regulus and I can help-!" "Nope, no need! I mean, six people should be able to deal with it! Byeeeee!" Marlene yelled, slamming the door shut.

You were completely dumbfounded as you stared at the door, jumping out of your skin as you heard the dark haired slytherin speak behind you.

"I knew that lot of idiots was up to something." he sighed, sinking back into the couch. You bit back a laugh, trying to ignore your clammy palms and the ever growing knot in your stomach as you sat next to him, a few feet between you two.

"Yeah, they're....always up to something...." you muttered, your heart hammering so loudly in your ears, you didn't even realize Regulus had been telling you something till he nudged your arm.

"Hm?" you muttered, widening your eyes a little to signal you were listening this time.

"What is going on with you? You've been acting strangely lately-" No, you did not want to have this conversation. You needed to get out of here. Now.

"You know, they might need some help," you said, moving to get up. As you did, Regulus caught your wrist, a frown on his lips.

"You're not going anywhere until you explain yourself. I know you've been avoiding me on purpose." Ah, shit.

You reluctantly sat back down, fidgeting with your fingers as you avoided eye contact. "Promise you won't think i'm weird?"

Regulus raised an eyebrow, finally nodding his head and muttering a quick "Promise."

"Recently I had a dream-"

"So you've been avoiding me....because of a dream you had?" Regulus cut you off and you could already see his ears turning red.

"W-wait, it's not like that!" you exclaimed, covering your face with your hands and groaning.

Regulus blinked as he watched you crumble in embarrassment, a slight smile forming on his lips. "Well....then what was the dream about?"

You took a breath, looking away from him, your hands now gripping the cushions of the couch. "It was about...us. We were....we were kissing, okay?"

There was a moment of silence between the two of you, Regulus obviously taken aback. "Kissing?"

"Yeah. You...you leaned in and kissed me and...it felt so real. I almost wished it was." you admitted, finally turning your head to look him in the eyes. "I like you, Regulus Black. And I want to kiss you...for real."

Regulus felt like his heart would burst, his eyes shaking a little as he coughed awkwardly, looking at his lap, then back at you. "You really want to kiss me?"

"Right now....more than anything." Before you could even get another breath out, Regulus was in your space, hand cupping your cheek. the cold touch of his silver rings against your cheek made you shiver a little. Your breath hitched, your eyes gazing into his pretty gray ones.

"Glad to hear it. because I," he leaned in a bit closer, his lips hovering over yours. "Want to kiss you too."

The kiss was short and sweet, lasting a few seconds before Regulus pulled away, your eyes locking. You felt a warmth flood your heart, the way he looked at you making your lips curve up into a smile. You wordlessly leaned back in, your fingers knotting into his curly forest of hair. This time, the kiss was slow and slightly passionate, jolts of joy and pleasure running through your body.

When the two of you separated again, you were both smiling like idiots, a hue of pink coloring Regulus's cheeks. "Looks like their plan worked after all." you murmured, causing Regulus to raise an eyebrow.

"What plan?" he mused as a bit of laughter left your lips.

"Don't worry about it." you hummed, closing the gap between you two once more. You'd definitely have to thank Dorcas and Marlene later. 💋

It’s against your better judgement to give in to him, but you stop talking anyway. It’s nice to look at him too, even though he laughs when you tell him so. It’s not as nice as it usually is right now - there’s still flecks of dried blood under his nose from the nosebleed that had only just cleared up, and a nasty bruise forming on the bridge. You wince and he sighs again.

“I’d rather you speak than look at me like that,” he says, finding your hip with his free hand.

“You shushed me,” you argue and he pinches your hip, “I just- you’re an idiot. A silly man.”

“You said that already, my darling girl.”

You scrunch up your nose at the endearment. He always thinks he can talk his way out of anything with you. It’s because he always can.

“I still think you could have pulled me out of the way without getting hit yourself.”

“I had to think on my feet,” he argues, but his tone is passive and his thumb is rubbing circles around your hipbone, “My favourite face was in danger.”

You shake your head at him.

“So pull me towards you, dork. Don’t jump into the path of a bludger.”

“A small sacrifice,” he murmurs, reaching up to trace a featherlight line down the slope of your nose, over your cupid’s bow, lips, then tapping your chin twice.

“A silly sacrifice,” you push, but your heart isn’t in it anymore either. He’s so pretty, nosebleed or no, and he thinks you’re pretty enough to take a bludger to the face for you. Lovely man.

“Okay, I’m silly,” he says lazily, “Very very silly for you. Mad for you, stupid for you. A total fool.”

“Remus,” you mumble to stop him, pulling his face upwards towards yours to plant a chaste kiss to his lips. You don’t want him to hurt any more than he is already. You’re ever so fond of him.

“Sweetheart,” he says, millimetres from you, “I’m feeling awful better now. Think I could kiss you properly?”

“I think you should count your lucky stars that I’m kissing you at all, handsome.”

And with that you step out of his reach, because otherwise he’ll most certainly convince you. He reaches for you but comes up short as you move to throw away the bloody tissues. His arm hangs limp in the air between you.

“I do feel lucky,” he affirms, “Look at that face. All perfect and everything. I did that.”

“Yes you did. Thank you, by the way. My hero.”

You decide to let him have this one. He’s too genuine to tease much more.

“Anytime. You just shout, gorgeous.”

You bark out a laugh as you return to him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, then another.

“You’re such a flirt,” you speak into his hair, pulling back to look at him and unable to keep yourself from smiling.

Sirius Black.

The disgraced heir, blood traitor, the run-away who burned too brightly for the cold halls he was raised in.

He was wildfire in human form—untamed, untethered, always on the verge of consuming everything around him. Fire is never safe. And Sirius Black had never once tried to be.

He was shameless in the way only someone truly unrepentant could be.

Defiance lived in his bones. In every choice he made, every rule he broke with that easy grin. In the way he carved out freedom with bare hands and bleeding knuckles, daring the world to punish him for it. He would not kneel. Not for his mother. Not for their pureblood rot. Not for anyone.

He wore rebellion like a second skin.

There was no hesitation in the way he looked at people—like he had the right to. Like he wanted you to know you were being watched. Desired. Picked apart by eyes that never pretended to be subtle. Sirius never mastered the art of pretending, not when it came to impulse, not when it came to you.

Regal, in the way a blade is regal—sleek and polished, but built to cut. You were every inch the legacy they praised in whispers and expected in silence: one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, born with history in your bones and expectations curled like silk around your throat. You wore your pedigree like a cloak, but never let it chain you.

Poised, deliberate and sharp, like you’d studied how to command a room before you ever learned to walk.

Sharp eyes that missed nothing, mouth even sharper, and a presence that made people step aside without quite knowing why. Slytherin suited you like a whispered secret.

You knew the weight of your name, but you wore it on your own terms. And that, perhaps, made you more dangerous than any of them. Because you saw the system for what it was—and still moved through it boundlessly.

A truly captivating sight to behold. Never in the way that begged for attention, but in the way that demanded it. Like art in a gallery too expensive to touch. People looked, they always did, and then they looked away—because looking too long felt like trespassing.

Except Sirius never looked away.

Eyes endless in their following, stalking—almost hungry in the way they lingered.

When he looked at you, which was almost always, it felt like being scorched—burning holes into your from ever angle, as if he could set your soul alight with nothing but his gaze.

Truthfully, it used to anger you—made your lips purse into a tightline, grip onto your fork a bit harder, when you felt his eyes on you from across the Great Hall. The infamy that surrounded him was nothing positive, and each time his sights helplessly drifted to you, you couldn’t help but feel like a target had been placed on you back.

So unbareably brazen in the way he scanned over your figure, that same smirk smeared across his face, when you’d enter Charms—settling into your seat with a roll of your eyes as he quickly abandoned his one beside James, in exchange for the one beside you.

You hide to fight the urge to openly scrowl, calming yourself with a deep breath—you didn’t even spare him a glance as you flicked through the textbook and began delicately scratching into parchment with you quill. Though, unfortunately for you, Sirius didn’t miss the small reaction his meer presence had earned him, scooting slightly closer with an eagerness that almost had your eyes flickering over to him.

Perching his elbow on his empty desk, chin on his hand, he watched you for a few moments—very obviously—before he leaned in, too close for you liking. So close infact that you could smell him, leather and warm sandalwood and cinnamon, maybe. His head was ducked, trying to catch your gaze—*and failing—*then his voice, low dripping with a uncalled for casual tone.

“I’m Sirius, by the way,”

Gods, was he distracting—it had you pressing your quill unforgivingly harder into the blameless parchment. Pausing, before you accidently broke your quill, slow and reluctantly your gaze shifted over to him.

Wide smirk and wild eyes.

You blinked at him, eyes doing a once over his slouched form—unimpressed before turning back to your work, and to your shock and horror. Sirius all but melted into his seat beside you—grinning like the cat that got the cream.

What a peculiar reaction.

You didn’t know what you expected after that, you were hoping for silence. Maybe for him to get bored and slink back to Potter, tail between his legs.

But Sirius Black didn’t take silence as rejection. He took it as encouragement.

“Not much of a talker, huh?” he asked, voice warm with amusement as if this were all a game and you were the shiny new toy he’d decided to break. “That’s alright. I like a bit of mystery.”

You didn’t dignify him with a response, moving your quill purposefully, though the words you were writing made less and less sense as his presence curled around you like smoke—thick and cloying and difficult to ignore.

Most would be completely deterred by your lack of acknowledgement, but it was becoming more and more apparent that Sirius wasn’t like most. Unbeknownest to you, you were quickly becoming the object of his affection.

Sirius felt like he was drowning in something he didn’t understand.

He shouldn’t have been looking at you like that—should’ve shrugged it off, moved on, found someone else to bat their lashes and giggle at him. He could’ve. Merlin knew he had options. There was always someone willing to chase the fire.

But you didn’t chase. You endured.

And gods, he couldn’t look away.

There was something in the way you held yourself—shoulders straight, chin lifted, gaze sharp enough to draw blood—that made his pulse trip. You weren’t just beautiful. You were untouchable. Unbothered. And it drove him mad.

You were infuriating. And he was fascinated. Completely, utterly wrecked by the quiet fury behind your eyes, the way you made him feel loud and messy just by being near you. He didn’t know why. He didn’t even like Slytherins. But he watched you, like you might disappear if he blinked. Like you were something from a half-forgotten dream he’d been trying to recall his whole life.

The push and pull went on for ages.

Sirius never stopped. Not really. He pestered, prodded, flirted, lingered—always with that maddening gleam in his eye, always circling like a star caught in your orbit. He made it a point to sit near you in every class he could. Made himself a nuisance in libraries and corridors, at assignment meetings and Quidditch stands.

But you remained ever the picture of composed indifference, met him with narrowed eyes and razor-edged retorts. You had mastered the art of dismissing him without ever quite telling him to leave. And perhaps that’s what kept him hooked.

Because despite everything—your scorn, your status, your silence—Sirius liked the chase. He shouldn’t have. Especially not after he finally put the pieces together.

One of the Twenty-Eight Sacred. One of them.

The very type of pureblood he was raised to despise. To dismantle. To escape from.

But you were different. You always had been. Not cruel, not bigoted. Not brainwashed. Just…sharp. Steely. Independent in a way that made his chest ache. You hadn’t chosen your name—but you had chosen what to do with it. And Sirius had never seen anything braver than that.

And he was infatuated. Still. Helplessly.

He couldn’t say when it started. And you couldn’t say when it changed.

Somewhere between the sarcastic quips and biting glances, something shifted. It was subtle at first. A twitch at the corner of your mouth, a less scornful scrowl, a slightly delayed response. The way you didn’t move away quite as fast when he leaned too close. A pause where there had once only been dismissal.

And then, one day, it happened.

Charms class again. Seventh year. The classroom warm with late autumn sun, shadows stretching across parchment and desks. You had arrived early, as usual, and settled into your usual seat without fanfare. Sirius slid in beside you, as he always did, far too casual, far too smug.

“Good morning, your majesty,” he said with a grin, dragging the words like silk between his teeth. “Gracing us with your presence again, I see.”

Normally, you’d roll your eyes. You’d sigh or pointedly ignore him. But that morning…something in his tone was especially absurd, and something in you—maybe the soft air, maybe the way he looked at you like you hung the bloody moon—broke the routine.

Your lips twitched.

It shocked you even, you didn’t mean to. Not really. But they did. Just enough.

A small, restrained thing. Barely there. Gone in an instant.

But he saw it.

And Sirius Black lit up like the bloody sun.

His mouth parted slightly, blinking as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d witnessed. Then—slowly, irrepressibly—a grin spread across his face, wide and utterly boyish, delight pouring from him in a way you hadn’t expected. Not cocky. Not flirtatious. Rather radiant, actually.

Proud.

“Was that—?” he whispered, hand pressed to his chest in mock-shock. “Was that a smile, princess?”

As always, you rolled your eyes, but not with the same exasperation as before. It didn’t have the same venom. In fact, there was something dangerously close to amusement in the way you turned back to your notes. Sirius leaned back in his chair, the beam on his face entirely uncontainable.

He didn’t even care that Professor Flitwick had started lecturing. Didn’t care that James shot him a confused glance from the row behind.

He’d seen it. He’d earned it. After years.

And if there was one thing Sirius Black had learned about you, it was that you didn’t give your softness freely.

From that moment—that damned smile—something shifted between you.

The icey exterior had began to melt, and you dont know when it had started, only that it did. Slowly. Reluctantly.

Sirius, for all his insufferable grins and arrogant charm, somehow started to feel less like a thorn in your side and more like a…habit. One you hadn’t meant to form. One you couldn't shake.

Letting him sit closer without side-eyes and sighs. Sometimes even answering his questions when he poked at your homework or made some snide remark about Slughorn’s newest “favourites.” You’d begun meeting his teasing with deadpan sarcasm instead of silence. And occasionally—very occasionally—you didn’t hide the way your lips curled at something he said.

You weren’t sure why it happened. Maybe it was the persistence. Maybe the way he never pretended to be anything but infatuated, even when it was inconvenient, even when it would’ve been easier for him to stop. Maybe it was because you saw something in him—beneath the bravado and leather and grins—that reminded you of yourself. A recklessness born from rebellion—hunger to be known.

And Sirius? He was too far gone to pull back.

He’d always watched you, but now he read into everything. The way you no longer flinched when he leaned in, how you didn’t swat his hand away when he nudged your quill out of your grip. How, sometimes, your eyes lingered on his profile when you thought he wasn’t looking.

So when Saturday rolled around and he hadn’t seen you all day—not at breakfast, not in the common areas, not even passing through the library—a strange itch clawed at him. He told himself it wasn’t a big deal, but he couldn’t help it, he felt deprived of nutrience, of your presence. Maybe you were just sleeping in or studying or avoiding the Gryffindor rabble.

But by evening, he cracked.

Against every instinct, against everything in his brain that told him this was probably a very bad idea, Sirius reached for the Marauder’s Map.

And there you were.

A tiny dot, alone in an empty classroom on the fourth floor. Probably studying. Probably buried in books and ink and the smell of parchment.

He couldn’t help it, he went.

…

The door creaked open with a reluctant groan, and you startled, head snapping up from your book.

You hadn’t expected anyone. Least of all him.

And there he stood—framed in the doorway with a grin too wide, too smug, like he'd just stumbled across treasure.

“Well, funny seeing you here,” Sirius said, like this was all pure coincidence and not the result of him committing several minor breaches of privacy.

You blinked at him. “Did you follow me?”

He placed a hand to his chest, faux-offended. “Follow you? Please. I’m just a curious soul drawn to light. And look—here you are, all lit up and studious.”

You rolled your eyes, but your voice held less bite than usual. “I think you just came to distract me.”

“Distract you?” He was already halfway across the room, dropping into the chair beside you with the sort of lazy ease only he could pull off. His knee bumped yours, and you didn’t move. “You think I’m distracting?”

He leaned in close, far too close. You barely had time to process the proximity—the warm scent of him, like spice and mischief, the way his voice dropped just low enough to slip down your spine—before you tilted your head toward him.

Eyes locked with his, sharp and steady, with a confidence that made his grin stretch visibly.

“That is your one goal in life?” you asked, tone silken and mocking. “Or am I mistaken?”

Sirius froze—not visibly, not in a way anyone else would notice—his pulse sounding loudly in his ears. But you were so observant, even if you hadn’t been looking at him, you would have felt it. The flicker of breath caught—the way his grin twitched, lips parting just slightly as his gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth.

And lingered.

The tension that knotted between you was painfully palpable, the air gone suddenly too thick. He leaned in—just a fraction—and you swore the space between you crackled. His hand flexed on the table beside yours, struggling to stay in place—twitching as though if it had it’s own mind, it would already be on you. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and for a moment, you thought—

In that split second, something like hesitation crossed his face. Regret, maybe—or fear. His smirk faltered.

He pulled back.

Barely. But enough.

And he looked at you like maybe he’d ruined something by not doing it.

You didn’t say anything.

Not because you were disappointed—though maybe you were, a little—but because you didn’t trust yourself to ask. To question if this was real or just a long game he’d been playing, entertained by the chase, by the idea of an untouchable prize. Like you were just something to be worn down, after all.

Your gaze stayed on him, unreadable. And he almost shrunk under it, second passing like hours as your eyes practically punctured his skull. Stare too cool. Too neutral.

Wordlessly, you turned back to your book, fingers brushing over the forgotten text, you couldn’t remember a single word you'd just read—mind feeling scattered—disrupted. He always had that affect on you, more than you cared to admit, inwardly scolding yourself for being so soft, so naive.

Sirius watched you for another long second—jaw tense, eyes searching—like he’d just watched all his efforts spoil right before his eyes, watched the wall go back up in realtime.

“Right,” he said softly—more to himself than anything—before leaning back in his seat with a forced exhale.

The silence stretched again. But this time, it was different. Colder, almost dismissive, begging to be unravelled—understood.

Sirius stormed into the Gryffindor common room with the energy of a brewing storm—quick, loud steps echoing in the corridors, hair wild from his fingers raking through it too many times. By the time he slammed the dormitory door behind him, he was already pacing like a madman.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

He didn’t notice the quiet creak of the door opening again behind him.

Didn’t see James and Remus freeze on the threshold, their eyes wide as they watched him stalk across the room like he might combust.

James gave a silent what the fuck look to Remus, who just raised a brow, waiting for an opening.

It didn’t come.

“Sirius,” Remus said, voice slow and cautious. “Did something happen?”

No answer. Just a ragged sigh as Sirius ran a shaking hand through his already-wrecked hair. His face was taut, jaw clenched.

He looked up like the words physically hurt. “I—I don’t know what I’m doing.”

James, ever calm when Sirius wasn’t, moved to the windowsill and perched there. “Alright, mate. Pause. Just breathe.”

Sirius obeyed, if only because he didn’t know what else to do.

“Try again,” James said.

Sirius exhaled, long and sharp. “I ruined it.”

“Ruined what?” Remus asked.

“Everything,” Sirius said, dropping onto his bed like gravity had finally caught up to him. “I could’ve kissed her. She was right there and I could’ve. And I didn’t.”

James blinked. “Why the hell not?”

Sirius scrubbed a hand down his face and then—quietly, bitterly—voice just above whisper, stained with shame, “Because she’s exactly the kind of girl my parents would want me with.”

A short silence shrouded the room, thick and overbearing before Remus stepped forward, slowly. “Wait…what?”

“She’s regal. Poised. Slytherin. Perfect! One of them—” Sirius bit out, like the words tasted like ash. “And fuck, I’ve never wanted anything less than to make my parents proud. But she—” His voice cracked, frustration bubbling up. “She’s not like them. She’s not like them at all. But they’d love her. And what does that say about me?”

James stared. “You didn’t kiss the girl you’ve been obsessed with for years because your mum might approve? Because she’s a pureblood? That’s—actually insane.”

“You don’t get it,” Sirius snapped. “I’ve spent years trying to tear their world apart. Burn every expectation. Every rule. And then she walks in, and I can’t stop looking, and it makes me sick because it feels like they’d win.”

He didn’t need to look at him to know there was a frown etched on to Remus’ face. “Sirius—”

“It’s not her fault,” Sirius said quickly, defensively. “She’s not them. She’s sharp, and brilliant, and she knows what she is, and she still doesn’t play their game. But that’s what makes it worse. Because I look at her and I want her. Not out of spite. Not to rebel. Not to destroy anything. Just—because I do. And that makes me feel like I’ve already lost.”

James sat back, arms crossed. “So you let her think you’re toying with her. Because that’s better?”

Sirius looked up sharply. “Of course not—”

“But that’s what it looks like,” James said, gentler now. “You think she doesn’t know exactly what she is? Exactly how she’s seen? She probably assumed you were interested just long enough to mock her, to make a statement. And when you didn’t kiss her—after all this time—you proved her right.”

Sirius swallowed the lump in his throat, and the guilt settling in the form of an unforgiving weight, like a stone heavy in his stomach. Remus moved closer, voice low. “Is this really about her? Or are you scared that if you like her for the right reasons, it means maybe they got something right?”

Sirius didn’t answer, eyes wide and hollow

Because fuck.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe he was a coward.

…

For two whole days, Sirius acted like nothing had happened.

He still greeted you with that infuriatingly easy grin, still dropped into the seat beside you in class like it was habit, like it hadn’t once meant something more. He cracked jokes at the same tempo, still leaned too close when he spoke—but something was off.

Forced. Brittle.

And you? You didn’t even look at him. Not once. Not when he spoke, not when he laughed a little too loudly trying to get your attention, not when he lingered beside your chair a bit longer than necessary.

You sat there, eyes focused and face composed, ice sliding beneath your skin. Where once your silence had been cutting, now it was impenetrable.

He was unraveling, and he knew it. He’d been so close—so painfully close—to something real. The memory of you in that quiet classroom haunted him: your voice smooth and laced with quiet confidence, the heat of your gaze holding his without flinching, the way your words had wrapped around his chest like a fist and squeezed.

You would have kissed him—let him in, he’d felt it.

But he’d foolishly let it slip right through his fingers—just as it entered his grasp. And now you were gone. Not physically—you still walked the same halls, shared the same spaces—but the shift was irreversible. Whatever thread had tied you to him had snapped.

So when he spotted you in the side corridor, alone and unreadable, he didn’t think. His body moved faster than his doubt. He caught up in seconds, slipping a hand gently around your sleeve, tugging you into the empty class room nearby. “Stop,” he said, breath already short. “Please. Just give me a second—”

You ripped your arm back like he’d burned you, and for a second, the flash in your eyes looked lethal.

“Don’t.”

It wasn’t loud, but it cracked between you like that of a lightning strike, harsh and cold and burning. Sirius was frozen, fingers still half-curled in the empty air. His stomach churned when it caught your gaze, full of ice and fury and a rare kind of heartbreak that didn’t scream—it seethed.

“I just—please,” dripping in his voice as he spoke again, hands open, pleading. “Let me say this. Just let me explain. I know what you’re thinking—”

“You don’t know anything,” you snapped, tone suddenly louder. Fiercer. “You don’t know what I’m thinking, Sirius. You never did. You just assumed, and I let you.” cutting him off so sharply it knocked the air out of him.

He almost flinched away from the biting cadance of your words, and yet his eyes still remained soft, swimming with a quiet desperation that made your stomach turn, that made you want to run away—hide from the weight of his affections.

“Did you even for a second think about how it feels?” you continued, voice tight and trembling with anger. “To feel like some…experiment in your rebellion. One of the sacred twenty-eight, right? How thrilling for you. How poetic.” The venom in it had him fightly every urge in his body that screamed retract.

“It’s not like that,” he said quickly, breath hitching. “I didn’t mean for it to come across that way. I wasn’t using you—”

“No?” you cut in, a hollow laugh slipping from your lips. “Because that’s exactly what it felt like. Just another way for you to stick it to your family. Another line crossed.”

He stepped forward, almost desperate now. “I promise—I wasn’t meant to be like that, just—”

But with each step closer he took, in return, you backed away, putting more distance between you; shielding yourself, as if even the idea of his explanation made your skin crawl. “I don’t care anymore, Sirius.”

That hit harder than any spell.

“I don’t need to tolerate this,” you said, quieter now—vulnerable. “Not when I already have parents breathing down my neck, pushing names and suitors and with titles lined up—expectations. They want someone who’d take me seriously.”

His expression cracked. It happened all at once—something behind his eyes just broke.

He looked lost, like he was being peeled open slowly and painfully. Hands dropping to his sides, one twitching like he still wanted to reach for you. Even though he shouldn’t—couldn’t—because you had already slipped passed him. And the last look on your face made him shiver, the controlled, polished fury—that had flashed like a flame frozen mid-burn, had vanished.

Instead your eyes swam with a dejected, gloom that he knew all too well, your usually untouchable exterior cracked under the pressure of empty promises, under the weight of hope you didn’t know you were holding.

Hope that had already gone.

The silence that stretched in your absence was brittle and cold, and Sirius just stood there—silent, stunned, and aching wishing he’d done more as the door clicked shut behind you with finality that burned.

Sirius wasn’t going to hesitate—not anymore.

He stormed through the castle like a man possessed, fury and desperation curling hot beneath his skin. His chest was tight, thoughts snarled and tangled, and before he even fully registered it, he was standing in front of Regulus’ dorm.

Twisting the handle with a vigour that made the hinges whine.

“Regulus!” he barked, pounding on the door with a flat palm. “Oi, Regulus!”

A beat. Then another. Then the wall began to shift with a groan, and there, in all his , unimpressed glory, stood his younger brother. Cloaked in his usual composed disdain, book in hand, and a brow already lifted.

“What in Merlin’s name—how the hell did you even get in here?” Regulus asked, eyeing his brother like he’d dragged in mud behind him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sirius snapped. “I waited.” He pushed past him into his room without permission, pacing immediately, eyes wild. Regulus blinked, still holding his book open, voice dripping with disinterest.

“Charming as ever.”

“I need to know something,” Sirius said, turning back to him sharply. “Now. What’s going on with the—you know, the pureblood lot. Events. Ceremonies. Matches. L/N’s.”

Regulus’s expression didn’t change, but he slowly closed his book with a soft thud. “L/N’s?” he repeated, flatly.

“Yes,” Sirius snapped again, running a hand though his hair, with such tightness his brows raised involuntarily. “She said her parents already have suitors lined up. Lined up, Reg. What the fuck is going on?”

Regulus tilted his head. “You really don’t read the letters they send you, do you?”

Sirius scowled, rolling his eyes as if even that was even a possiblity, “Of course not,” he muttered. “I’d set them on fire to see what the delightful expectations they’ve dreamed up this week smell like.”

“Well,” Regulus said, crossing the room to set his book on his desk, “then it’s no surprise you’re completely out of the loop.”

“Loop?” Sirius echoed, exasperated. “I didn’t even know there was a loop.”

“There’s an event,” Regulus said, tone clipped. “Soon. A ceremony, more or less—each of the Sacred Twenty-Eight hosting, rotating through their estates like some grotesque little social carousel. A chance to flaunt heritage, to parade eligible heirs and daughters like prized livestock, and, of course, to sniff out the most suitable matches. To keep the lines pure.”

Sirius stared at him like he’d been slapped. “You’re joking.”

“Am I ever?” Regulus replied dryly, arms crossed now, gaze neutral.

“And she has to be there?” Sirius asked, voice low now, more to himself than anything. “They’re forcing her to—”

“They aren’t forcing anyone,” Regulus said. “They’re expecting it. Same thing, really.”

Sirius was quiet for a moment, jaw clenched, fingers twitching like he didn’t know where to put them. Then—“Are you going?” he asked.

Regulus tilted his head again, slightly.

“I was requested, Sirius. Not all of us can run away from our obligations and burn bridges on a whim.”

That earned a deep, heaving sigh. Sirius dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “I didn’t come here for a lecture, Reg. Just—just tell me when it is.”

Regulus blinked slowly, a curious note in his eyes. “Why?”

Sirius turned toward the door, not looking at him.

“Next time you write home,” he said over his shoulder, “tell them to send an extra suit.”

And with that, he was gone—black robes flaring, boots echoing down the stone corridor, fury and purpose trailing behind him like a storm.

Regulus remained in place, staring at the empty doorway for a long beat. Then, slowly, he walked back to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and retrieved a fresh piece of parchment. He uncapped his ink bottle, dipped the quill with a practiced hand, and began to write.

Once finished, he folded the parchment neatly, sealed it with deep green wax embossed with the Black family crest—and held it in the candlelight just long enough to watch the wax catch fire at the edge and curl to a close.

…

The estate was bathed in gold and candlelight—opulence hanging in the air like perfume, rich and cloying, too heavy to breathe in properly. Everything gleamed. The walls, the glasses, the laughter. It was a curated thing—pure, controlled, a dance of lineage and power dressed in silk and arrogance.

The guests were already gathering in clusters—family names floating in the air like ghosts, ancestral ties whispered behind fans, strategic glances exchanged beneath low chandeliers.

And then the room shifted. Subtly.

It wasn’t his name that announced him. It was his presence. A current, a tension, like something electric slipping beneath polished marble.

Sirius stepped through the entrance—alone.

Manovering through the room like he belonged there, which only added to the stir. No parents in sight, just him in a sharply cut black suit with silver-threaded detailing that caught the light when he moved. His hair, often untamed and wild, was tied back at the nape of his neck, loose strands framing his features. There was something about him that looked sculpted and regal—yet defiantly unbothered. Untouchable.

Undeniably Black.

And people noticed.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd like wind brushing over a pond—soft and hushed, as if the very idea of Sirius showing up was somehow offensive, even as it made them all crane their necks to get a better look. Some turned their heads quickly, unwilling to acknowledge him at all. Others simply watched—too curious, too scandalized.

He didn’t glance at a single one of them.

Eyes set like steel, Sirius beelined across the room, moving between clusters of witches and wizards dressed in robes worth more than cottages, heading straight for the two familiar figures near the drinks.

Regulus stood poised as ever in black and green dress robes, brows lifting slightly at his brother’s approach.

Narcissa stood beside him in a floor-length silver gown that shimmered with every subtle turn, hair twisted into a perfect knot of braids and twist, chin tilted at just the right angle. She saw Sirius first, and while her expression didn’t falter, her fingers stilled around her glass.

Well,” she said, voice low and dry as Sirius came to a stop before them. “I see the rumors of your arrival were not exaggerated.”

“Hello to you too, Cissy,” Sirius said, voice smooth as sin, eyes scanning the room with bored calculation. “You look like you're about to gut someone with a compliment.”

She hummed. “And you look like you’ve come to start a war.”

He smirked faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Regulus, beside her, sipped his drink. “Nice of you to grace us with your presence. I trust you remembered the name of the family hosting?”

“Of course,” Sirius replied airily. “I even wore their colors—look.” He gestured lazily to the subtle detailing in his suit. “Silver for virtue. Or was it for vanity? I forget.”

“You’re impossible,” Regulus muttered, though his eyes flicked down the hall—searching. Sirius followed the glance instinctively. He hadn’t seen you yet.

But he would.

And when he did, he knew the room would fall away.

Because despite the suit, despite the defiant way he held his head high like this was all some elaborate game he didn’t care to be apart of—he wasn’t here for theatrics.

He was here for you.

But yyou didn’t notice him, not at first.

Not until the weight of his gaze sank into your skin, unmistakable—cutting through the sea of eyes that had lingered on you all night. People always stared, their glances clung to you, your family, the expectations woven into the hem of your gown. But his gaze was different.

It sought you, nothing more.

So when you finally looked up and caught it—caught him—your breath faltered. Lips parted in shock, only to snap shut again as your eyes narrowed. He looked good. Too good—untouchable in the dim glow of the chandeliers, all shadows and silk and the sharp cut of that smirk he wore so well.

The tilt of his brow was smug, a silent challenge. But you held his gaze a moment too long, just long enough for the swell of something warm to flutter between you.

But then, just like that, someone called your name.

An you turned away quickly, heart knocking against your ribs, and let the swell of polite conversation sweep you off before your reaction could be noted. But the look…it stayed with you. Beneath your ribs. In the corner of your mind.

You didn't expect to seek him out. Not really. But at some point in the evening, after doing your dutiful rounds—smiling, nodding, tolerating—you found yourself wandering towards the drinks table with the precise kind of detachment that made you feel normal again.

Like you hadn’t grown up learning how to smile through marriage negotiations. Like you didn’t know exactly which families your parents wanted you to charm.

Hands reaching for a drink when you felt it. That familiar warmth. The subtle hum of chaos wrapped in silk.

He was beside you before you could stop it. And even though you didn’t look at him, your lips twitched upward the moment he said, smooth as ever, “Funny seeing you here.”

Reaching past a crystal decanter, voice casual as you picked up a flute of something pale and effervescent. “Black.”

He grinned—not his usual roguish grin, but something smaller, almost boyish—relieved. “You’re not fleeing in the opposite direction. That’s progress.”

Taking a small sip, you tried to ignore how warm your face suddenly felt, heat curling beneath your cheeks in a way you couldn’t escape. “Wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”

His eyes didn’t leave you. You could feel it. That slow, indulgent drag of his gaze from the curve of your neck to the subtle shimmer in your gown. Like he couldn’t tear his eyes away even if he tried, gaze overflowing with want—something craven even he couldn’t name.

“If you stare any harder,” you murmured, setting your drink down with a soft clink, “I might disintegrate.”

He laughed low, leaning in just enough for you to feel the pull of him. “Just the clothes though, right?”

A startled gasp left you as you choked on your drink, coughing delicately behind your hand. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here you are,” He picked up a glass, holding it between his fingers with idle grace. “You look bewitching, by the way.”

You always found your eyes rolling in his presence, but it was the smirk—that tugged at the corners of your lips no matter how hard you tried to push it down that betrayed you. “Thank you for the assessment, Black.”

“I can assess more if you want.”

“Sirius.” You hissed his name like a reprimand, but it lacked real venom. He heard that softness, low and creeping as it slipped through, and he wore it like a badge, hand rising in mock surrender.

Conversation blurred around you, background noise as the two of you drifted towards the edge of the room. A whisper of unspoken understanding passed between you—no need to say anything. The glittering, gold-drenched facade of the ballroom fell away with each step, until you were sliding through tall glass doors onto a balcony bathed in night.

The air was cooler out here. Cleaner. A balm against the perfume and pressure, the prying eyes and scrutiny.

Sirius leaned against the stone railing, gazing out at the dark gardens below, moonlight catching the silver thread in his suit. You didn’t mean to stare—but your eyes lingered, studying the shape of his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, displayed without the usual cloak of his dark curls—the wild softness of the strands that had escaped the hair tied at the nape of his neck.

He turned slightly, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What was that you said about staring earlier?”

You shrugged, scanning him more brazenly, unapologetic as you sipped your drink, “You scrub up nicely,” words so matter of fact, light.

He looked at you then, eyes that usually swam with unadultered mischief, lips that held a smirk so well—free from it all. And for a long while he didn’t say anything, just held your gaze hostage under its unfair tenderness.

No mischief, no smirk—just him, with that maddeningly fond expression that made your stomach twist. You looked away first for once, cracking under the pressure, looking down to your half-empty glass.

Voice soft. Quiet.

“I appreciate that you came—despite everything.”

When he spoke, his voice was low, just above a whisper—and it didn’t need to be any louder, because he was already so close. Word earnest, confessional—sincere in a way that made your breath catch. “I’d do it again for you.”

It made you gulp, throat dry despite the lingering chill of your drink. He was close—too close now—and yet not nearly close enough, heat radiating off of him like it was set on defending you from the harsh bite of the night’s air. Eyes were fixed on yours, unreadable but intense, like he was waiting for something, for permission or a sign or maybe just a heartbeat where you didn’t pull away.

“I really do like you,” he murmured, voice quieter now, all velvet and gravity. There was a kind of raw sincerity bleeding through his words—none of the cocky theatrics, no grin or drawl.

Just Sirius.

“I mean it.”

Your chest rose and fell, slow and unsure. The teasing edge in your voice was brittle when you managed to speak, trembling at the edges. “Really?” Your gaze flicked between his eyes, searching. “How much do you ‘like’ me?”

The question lingered in the air like a challenge—half jest, half dare.

But he didn’t laugh, didn’t smirk. He only exhaled, like the weight of every unsaid word had been pressing on his ribs, and leaned in slowly. Palm coming up to brace against the cold stone wall beside your head, the other brushing feather-light against your waist as he tilted toward you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips.

“This much,” he whispered.

And then there was no space between you—his lips soft and warm against yours—holding you in an embrace so delicate that you could mistake his touch for the wind.

It was gentle at first—like he was still afraid you might change your mind. Like the moment itself might collapse beneath the weight of history, your families, the thousand things neither of you had dared say. His lips still hesitant, just ghosting over yours, testing, asking.

But you didn’t pull away.

You leaned into it.

And Sirius needed no more invitation, his palms slid from the wall to cradle your jaw, tilting your face to his with such reverent care he could surely feel your heart hammering beneath your ribcage. The kiss deepened—not rushed, but aching.

Starved.

Months of lingering glances, of holding back, of almosts and maybes spilled out all at once in that kiss. Clutching the fabric of his jacket, gripping him like a lifeline, and he groaned softly into your mouth, like he’d been holding this in too long and it was finally—finally—unraveling.

Kissing like you were trying to memorise each other with your lips alone. Like it was the first time, and the last, and everything in between.

When he finally broke away, barely pulling back—lips still tempted over yours—both of you breathless, his forehead rested against yours. His hand stayed at your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your ear as if to capture you both there, in the small moment, just a fraction of solace, of something warm and real.

“I would’ve gone mad if I hadn’t kissed you tonight,” he whispered, his breath shaky, brushing across your lips.

Your grip loosened slightly in his lapel, voice barely above a whisper. “I think you already have.”

Sirius huffed a chuckle—soft, hoarse, breathless—but he didn’t move away, smile fading slight as he stared at you, gaze dark and so full of feeling it nearly shattered you.

“I’m not playing games,” he said, voice low and rough. “Not with you. I never was.”

“No” Barty whines as you disentangle your limbs from his. As you leave the warmth of the blankets laid over his bed, you’re met with a breeze that has you shiver slightly.

Barty tugs at your arm as you swing your legs over the bed and lean to grasp your wand, “Come back to bed” he mumbles as he tries to pull you back under his green bedsheets.

It’s earlier than you would normally wake up, around 4AM you’d assume, given the dark sky you can see from the window to the left of Barty’s bed.

Barty and yourself both knew that the consequence of spending the night in his dorm meant that you’d have to sneak out the following morning before anyone else woke up.

It was one of the worst parts of keeping your relationship a secret. Barty hated sneaking around, not being able to tell anyone how much he adored you or having to reign in his possessive and jealous nature.

He had to grit his teeth and stand by as some brave – or rather stupid – Gryffindors tried their luck with you in hopes of asking you to Hogsmeade. Barty however found relief in being able to hex them in the corridors which was expected from students in Slytherin.

“You know I can’t stay” You whisper into the quiet of the room and Barty only gives a grumbled response, his dark hair framed across his pillow as he blinks open his eyes to pout at you.

“I’ll hex anyone that says anything, just come back to bed” he says again and although you roll your eyes, you can’t help the little flutter within your heart at the sentiment.

“You also know it’s not about the Hogwarts student body” you say pointedly as you reach for an old long sleeve quidditch jersey of Barty’s  to lay over your pyjamas to shield you from the cold.

Barty’s irritated groan is louder than it needs to be for this early in the morning, though you can’t help the small laugh that leaves you as he throws what can only be described as a small tantrum.

“I’m going to kill my father one day” Barty swears, and you snort before gathering the rest of your clothes, kissing Barty sweetly before hurriedly making your way to your own common room.

Interhouse relationships within Hogwarts weren’t necessarily looked down upon, It often fostered unity within the Hogwarts community and was sometimes even encouraged.

Although, with that knowledge also came the understanding of house rivalries. Gryffindor and Slytherin’s house rivalry was one of the most well known rivalries within the school.

Tensions only grew  higher as house loyalties filtered into external loyalties, as pureblood Slytherin students’  families affiliated themselves with Voldemort and the dark arts and as Gryffindor families chose to walk the line of the light.

Therefore, it was only reasonable to assume that your relationship with Barty, if public knowledge, would cause somewhat of a hysteria among students.

Not only that, considering that Barty Crouch Sr. was known to be intolerant politically of any support of Voldemort and his little cult, he was also equally intolerable of his own son.

One was more publicly known than the other however Barty knew full well, should news of his relationship with you reach the media, Barty would soon be associated with Voldemort and his fathers campaign would be in jeopardy.

So, therefore. A secret relationship between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin bloomed under moonlit skies and abandoned corridor kisses.

As you reached your common room, you made quick work of sneaking into your dorm as the rest of your roommates laid sleeping. Under the covers you close your eyes to allow yourself a couple hours of more sleep.

The following morning, as you sit at the Gryffindor table, slowly eating your breakfast as you try to rub the sleep out of your eyes, you can hear the loud chatter of the marauders to your left and Marlene’s grumbling to your right.

Your seat allows you to view the Slytherin table and you can make out the figures of Barty, Evan and Regulus all sitting huddled together. Barty meets your eyes over the tables and gives you a slight wink which has your cheeks warming.

You look down and continue to eat your breakfast as you converse with Lily about your classes for the day.

You’re disrupted by the sound of glasses shattering and gasps, a small wail cuts through the air and before you know it, you’re on your feet looking frantically at the Slytherin table.

Barty has his hands on Mulciber’s robes, his gaze angry and his form trembling. You can see Evan trying to talk him down and Regulus watching curiously. Barty seems to be yelling and you bring yourself out of your shocked daze to hear his voice.

“-SAY THAT AGAIN ABOUT HER, I DARE YOU!, I’LL CURSE YOUR ENTIRE FUCKING BLOODLINE, YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING TWAT!” Barty yells and gasps filter around the dining hall as Barty shakes Mulciber mercilessly.

Mulciber smirks menacingly before whispering something to Barty that has his nostrils flaring, he pulls back one of his arms to punch the living daylights out of the other Slytherin, however before he can he’s met with a curse from Avery that has his flying back into a wall.

Your heart stops as Barty’s head thuds against the wall, his form laying limp against the concrete. Your eyesight blurs at your tears but you can see the figures of Evan and Regulus standing up, wands at the ready as they throw spell after spell at Mulciber and Avery.

You hear commotion as Sirius and James both call out worried as a stray spell hits Regulus which has him down for a count before he stands up again, his gaze cold and unflinching.

You’re moving before you know it, running across the dining hall, away from Lily’s worried “Y/N don’t!-”, as you watch as Snape’s disgusted expression looks at Barty’s still slumped over figure.

Barty has a trail of blood running down his forehead, he stirs a bit as he looks up to be met with the end of Snape’s wand.

Snape stares at him boredly before he starts, “Sectum-”

“Don’t you fucking touch him” you hiss as you grasp your wand, hissing out a powerful ‘Expelliarmus’ that has Snape being thrown back towards Mulciber and Avery.

They both look at Snape in shock before they turn to your blazing form, your eyes manic as you stand protectively in front of Barty. Evan and Regulus both walk to stand at your sides as the three of you look towards Mulciber and Avery.

“Walk away Mulciber” you say coldly as the Slytherin’s eyes light up before he smirks lazily, “And the little bitch returns to her owner” Avery drawls.

Before you can reply, a strong stinging hex hits Avery that has him cursing as tears rise in his eyes.

“Watch your mouth Avery.” Evan says with his wand being held out in front of him. You look at him in shock and he only shrugs and gives you a small smirk, “You’re one of us.”

You nod softly, you catch the glimpse of a red light heading your way before Regulus moves in front of you to defend you. You hear James and Sirius cursing him out as they also run towards you three as Peter and Remus are instructed to call a professor.

“It’s ill etiquette to curse someone behind their back Mulciber, did your whore of a mother teach you nothing?” Regulus hisses as he hexes Mulciber with a body-binding spell.

Barty’s groaning distracts you from everything as he opens his eyes, confused as he looks around to see you, Evan and Regulus duelling Avery, Mulciber and what looks like Snape’s hunched over form.

“What?” he asks confused as he lifts his hand to touch the top of his head where his wound lies.

You quickly look at Barty’s form before throwing another body bind to Avery as you stomp towards their limp forms.

The first punch has Mulciber howling in pain as blood gushes from his nose, “You come anywhere near my boyfriend again, I will kill you.” You say, gaze unflinching.

Avery struggles under the spell before you kick him in his ribs, “Stop fucking squirming. It’s good to know when one has been bested, yes?” you say with a cold smile as you meet both of their angry yet scared gazes.

“If I see either of you near him again, I will hold true to my promise” you hiss, turning around to the amused yet proud looks of Evan and Regulus who have Barty between them, his form slighting leaning on Evan’s taller figure.

You walk a couple steps before you lift your leg to stomp it down into the middle of Mulciber’s legs which has Evan, Regulus and Barty wincing.

You nod and smile at the pained groan before walking swiftly to Barty, “You okay Bee?” you whisper softly as you look worriedly into his eyes before lifting your hand to lift his hair to get a better look at his wound.

You hiss at the blood before looking at Barty with worry, “We need to get you to the infirmary-”

“You’re so fucking hot” Barty says with a wicked smile.

You splutter and Evan groans to your left, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Regulus says disgusted from your right.

He’s distracted by  Sirius and James sprinting towards him with worry in their eyes. You drown out the sound of what sounds like Regulus being looked over and cursed for being idiotic for just blindly jumping into a fight.

Barty just smirks and looks at you, “Cat’s out of the bag then?” he asks with a hopeful look. You’re confused for a second before you bite your bottom lip with a small shrug, embarrassed.

“Yeah, sorry” you mumble before Barty tsks and pulls you into him, kissing you deeply. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this” he says against your lips.

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered.

“That’s not the point,” Rossi interjected. “You don’t get a gold star for playing martyr. Go get checked out.”

“I don’t need to be checked out.”

“You do,” JJ said firmly, glancing toward Morgan for backup.

“Look, man, I get it,” Morgan added. “Hospitals suck. But this one’s twenty minutes away, and we will drag you there if we have to. Besides Savannah will kill me if I don't take you to a hospital.”

Hotch visibly hesitated. He opened his mouth to argue again, but then, clamped it shut. It wasn’t fear in his eyes. Not pain. Not stubbornness.

It was something else entirely.

And Garcia, who’d been quietly observing from the sidelines, narrowed her eyes. “Wait a second,” she said slowly. “You’re not avoiding the hospital because you hate doctors… You’re avoiding it because you’re married to one.” Garcia had snooped.

The room went quiet.

JJ’s jaw dropped. Emily turned on her heel. “Wait... wait. You mean the reason you’re refusing medical attention is because your wife works there?”

Hotch didn’t respond. He just wiped his brow and winced.

“Oh my God,” Garcia gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. “You’re scared she’ll scold you.”

“I’m not scared of my wife,” Hotch said flatly, and Morgan snorted.

“You sure about that, boss man? ‘Cause you look like you’re about to march to the principal’s office or dig your own grave.”

“She just… worries,” Hotch muttered.

“I bet she does,” Emily said with a grin. “Considering how often you get shot at work.”

“Enough,” Hotch sighed. “If it’ll get you all to stop badgering me, fine. I’ll go.”

“Excellent,” Garcia chirped, already pulling up directions on her phone. “Because I would very much like to witness your wife read you the riot act.”

The emergency department at Bethesda General Hospital was bustling with the usual chaos: trauma codes being called over intercoms, gurneys wheeled past in a blur, and nurses moving with the speed and focus of people who knew lives were at stake if they didn't run faster than a cheetah.

And in the center of it all—calm, commanding, and terrifyingly efficient—was Dr. Hotchner.

“Prep O.R. 3,” you instructed without looking up from the chart in your hands. “Page ortho, and tell Dr. Li I need her on consult.”

“Yes, Doctor,” your intern said quickly, practically sprinting to do your bidding.

You turned just in time to see your husband walk through the sliding doors, flanked by six BAU agents who all looked like they’d come for the show.

And Aaron... oh, Aaron... looked guilty as hell.

You spotted the blood at his side immediately and froze. “Oh my God,” you said, voice sharp. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly.

You blinked. “You’re bleeding through a towel, Aaron.”

The use of his name earned you a few surprised looks from the team. Hotch winced.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your shift,” he said, tone low, which only made your eyes narrow.

“Uh oh,” Emily muttered under her breath in a sing-song tone. “He’s in trouble.”

“Is this from the case?” you asked, already stepping forward to pull the towel away. Your fingers were gentle, but your eyes were assessing his injury, no-nonsense. “How long ago?”

“About two hours.”

“Two hours!? You’ve been walking around like this for two hours!?”

He shifted under your gaze. “It wasn’t that bad. I kept pressure on it.”

You exhaled slowly and turned to the nurse behind the intake desk. “I need a bay prepped now.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“I’m walking. Not being wheeled,” Hotch added stubbornly.

You didn’t even look at him. “We’ll see.”

The team shuffled awkwardly, clearly trying not to smirk too much.

“You can wait here,” you told them over your shoulder. “I’ll patch him up and return him in one piece. No promises on whether or not he’s limping.”

Hotch gave them a long-suffering look as you led him down the hall, your hand at his back. “I told you this would happen.”

“You let it happen,” Rossi called after him.

Ten minutes later, Hotch was perched on a trauma bay bed with his dress shirt peeled off, the deep graze on his left side now cleaned and being carefully stitched.

You worked in silence for a moment, your hands steady even as your brows furrowed.

“I wasn’t trying to worry you,” he said softly.

You didn’t respond right away. When you finally looked up, your expression was softer, but no less serious. “Aaron,” you murmured, “you came in bleeding. I’m your wife. I deserve to know when you’ve been hurt.”

He looked down. “I didn’t want to interrupt your work.”

“This is my work. You’re my husband, and also, in case you forgot, I’m one of the best trauma physicians in this hospital.” You tied off a stitch and gave him a pointed look. “Do you think I wouldn’t notice if you walked into the bedroom tonight trying to pretend you hadn’t been shot while leaving a trail of blood on the floor?”

He sighed. “I wasn’t shot.”

“You were grazed. Close enough.” You stepped back to dispose of the gauze and gloves. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit anything major.”

“I know.”

You softened again as you returned to him, brushing a hand along his shoulder. “I’m not mad. I’m just… worried. Every time you walk out that door, I worry. So when you come back hurt and don’t tell me? Yeah, I get upset.”

His hand came to rest over yours. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven. But next time? You don’t delay treatment because you’re afraid of a scolding.”

He huffed a laugh. “It was a very convincing scolding.”

You smiled, leaned in, and kissed his temple. “You deserved it.”

When the two of you returned to the waiting area, Hotch was in clean clothes, a set of hospital scrubs, his wound bandaged, and a list of care instructions tucked under his arm.

The team perked up at the sight of you.

“Well?” JJ asked.

“He’ll live,” you said dryly. “No thanks to his decision-making.”

Garcia grinned. “Did you give him The Look? The whole 'I married you, not your death wish' thing?”

“I may have included a variation,” you replied with a smirk.

Hotch sighed, resigned. “Can we go now?”

“Nope,” Emily chirped, handing him a coffee. “Not until we get a photo of you in those scrubs. For the file.”

“What file?”

“The ‘Hotch Gets Owned by His Wife’ file,” Morgan said.

“It’s getting thick and we just started it,” Rossi added, sipping his espresso. "It was nice meeting you."

You chuckled, brushing a hand through Aaron’s hair. “He’ll behave now. Doctor’s orders.”

Hotch muttered something under his breath, but you swore you caught the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

The car ride home was mostly quiet, apart from the occasional hiss from Hotch when the seatbelt shifted against his bandage.

You didn’t say anything, but your hand rested on his knee the whole way.

By the time you walked into the house, the familiar rhythm of your shared space slowly began to dissolve the lingering tension. You took your shoes off by the door; Hotch placed his bag down a little more heavily than usual.

“You need to sit,” you said, already toeing into the kitchen.

“I’m fine.”

“Aaron.”

He exhaled. “I’m sitting.”

When you returned with a glass of water, two Advil, and the strict instructions for how often he could take them, he was in the living room exactly as you’d ordered, but not without the smugness of someone who was used to giving the orders, not taking them.

You handed him the water. “You’ll need to stay on the pain meds at least through tomorrow. No stairs. And I swear if I catch you trying to answer a single email tonight...”

“You’ll what?” he said, raising a brow.

“I’ll forward them all to Strauss and tell her you’re delirious and talking to ghosts with an attached doctor's note.”

That made him chuckle, and you hated how handsome he looked doing it, bruised, and still somehow making you feel like the one who’d just lost a battle.

You sighed, sinking down onto the couch beside him. “I mean it, Aaron. You can’t keep doing this.”

He looked at you then, really looked, quiet guilt spread across his features from the way his brows furrowed.

“I know.”

“I’m not just your doctor, you know. And it’s like you forget how terrifying it is to see you walk in with blood on your shirt and a towel shoved under your ribs like that’s normal.”

“I don’t forget,” he said softly. “I just… sometimes convince myself it’s easier not to worry you.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw, gentler now. “I’d rather be worried than kept in the dark. That’s not how this works. We’re a team. You get to yell at me for missing lunch or losing sleep during a thirty-six-hour shift, and I get to yell at you for treating bullet grazes with paper towels.”

His lips tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close enough. “Okay,” he said. “Deal.”

You let out a breath, leaned forward, and kissed his temple, then his cheek, then the edge of his mouth. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I thought I was ‘infuriatingly reckless.’”

“You can be both,” you said, settling your weight against him carefully so you didn’t bump the injury. “But right now, you’re a patient. So that means feet up, water, meds, and...”

He groaned. “A heat pack.”

“Yes, a heat pack,” you repeated, shooting him a look. “You know the protocol. Don’t test me, Agent Hotchner.”

He muttered something about bossy doctors and curled further into the couch.

You disappeared for a moment, returning with the hot pack and a blanket and the remote already queued up to one of those slow-burn crime shows he liked but pretended not to enjoy because they were painstakingly inaccurate.

You placed the heat pack gently against his side, then draped the blanket over both your legs. “Anything else I can get for you, Mr. Hotchner?”

“Just this, Mrs. Hotchner,” he said quietly, curling an arm around your waist and pulling you in close.

You let yourself melt into his chest, sighing as your cheek found his heartbeat.

“Next time,” you whispered, “you come to me the minute you’re hurt. No detours. No delays.”

“I promise.”

You didn’t look up. “Swear it.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I swear.”

"And I want to meet your team properly, without having to patch you or them up!"

"Deal."